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Title: The Tory Lover

Creator: Sarah Orne Jewett

Illustrator: Charles H. Woodbury
        Marcia Oakes Woodbury

Release date: March 23, 2016 [eBook #51537]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TORY LOVER ***




Produced by Al Haines.





[Illustration: Mary Hamilton]




                            *THE TORY LOVER*


                                   BY

                          *SARAH ORNE JEWETT*



                          BOSTON AND NEW YORK
                     HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
                     The Riverside Press, Cambridge
                                  1901




                 COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT
                      AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.




                                   TO
                                T. J. E.




                               *CONTENTS*

CHAPTER

      I. The Sea-Wolf
     II. The Parting Feast
    III. A Character of Honor
     IV. The Flowering of whose Face
      V. The Challenge
     VI. The Captain speaks
    VII. The Sailing of the Ranger
   VIII. The Major’s Hospitalities
     IX. Brother and Sister
      X. Against Wind and Tide
     XI. That Time of Year
    XII. Between Decks
   XIII. The Mind of the Doctor
    XIV. To add More Grief
     XV. The Coast of France
    XVI. It is the Soul that sees
   XVII. The Remnant of Another Time
  XVIII. Oh had I wist!
    XIX. The best laid Plans
     XX. Now are we Friends again?
    XXI. The Captain gives an Order
   XXII. The Great Commissioner
  XXIII. The Salute to the Flag
   XXIV. Whitehaven
    XXV. A Man’s Character
   XXVI. They have made Prey of him
  XXVII. A Prisoner and Captive
 XXVIII. News at the Landing
   XXIX. Peggy takes the Air
    XXX. Madam goes to Sea
   XXXI. The Mill Prison
  XXXII. The Golden Dragon
 XXXIII. They come to Bristol
  XXXIV. Good English Hearts
   XXXV. A Stranger at Home
  XXXVI. My Lord Newburgh’s Kindness
 XXXVII. The Bottom of these Miseries
XXXVIII. Full of Straying Streets
  XXXIX. Mercy and Manly Courage
     XL. The Watcher’s Light
    XLI. An Offered Opportunity
   XLII. The Passage Inn
  XLIII. They follow the Dike
   XLIV. The Road’s End
    XLV. With the Flood Tide




                        *LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*

                              ARTIST                  PAGE

Mary Hamilton . . . _Marcia O. Woodbury_  . . . _Frontispiece_

The Ranger . . . _Charles H. Woodbury_

Hamilton House . . . _Charles H. Woodbury_

Along the Dike . . . _Charles H. Woodbury_




                            *THE TORY LOVER*

                                  *I*

                             *THE SEA WOLF*

            "By all you love most, war and this sweet lady."


The last day of October in 1777, Colonel Jonathan Hamilton came out of
his high house on the river bank with a handsome, impatient company of
guests, all Berwick gentlemen.  They stood on the flagstones, watching a
coming boat that was just within sight under the shadow of the pines of
the farther shore, and eagerly passed from hand to hand a spyglass
covered with worn red morocco leather.  The sun had just gone down; the
quick-gathering dusk of the short day was already veiling the sky before
they could see the steady lift and dip of long oars, and make sure of
the boat’s company.  While it was still a long distance away, the
gentlemen turned westward and went slowly down through the terraced
garden, to wait again with much formality by the gate at the garden
foot.

Beside the master of the house was Judge Chadbourne, an old man of
singular dignity and kindliness of look, and near them stood General
Goodwin, owner of the next estate, and Major Tilly Haggens of the Indian
wars, a tall, heavily made person, clumsily built, but not without a
certain elegance like an old bottle of Burgundy.  There was a small
group behind these foremost men,—a red cloak here and a touch of dark
velvet on a shoulder beyond, with plenty of well-plaited ruffles to
grace the wearers.  Hamilton’s young associate, John Lord, merchant and
gentleman, stood alone, trim-wigged and serious, with a look of
discretion almost too great for his natural boyish grace.  Quite the
most impressive figure among them was the minister, a man of high
ecclesiastical lineage, very well dressed in a three-cornered beaver
hat, a large single-breasted coat sweeping down with ample curves over a
long waistcoat with huge pockets and lappets, and a great white stock
that held his chin high in air.  This was fastened behind with a silver
buckle to match the buckles on his tight knee breeches, and other
buckles large and flat on his square-toed shoes; somehow he looked as
like a serious book with clasps as a man could look, with an outward
completeness that mated with his inner equipment of fixed Arminian
opinions.

As for Colonel Hamilton, the host, a strong-looking, bright-colored man
in the middle thirties, the softness of a suit of brown, and his own
hair well dressed and powdered, did not lessen a certain hardness in his
face, a grave determination, and maturity of appearance far beyond the
due of his years.  Hamilton had easily enough won the place of chief
shipping merchant and prince of money-makers in that respectable group,
and until these dark days of war almost every venture by land or sea had
added to his fortunes.  The noble house that he had built was still new
enough to be the chief show and glory of a rich provincial neighborhood.
With all his power of money-making,—and there were those who counted him
a second Sir William Pepperrell,—Hamilton was no easy friend-maker like
that great citizen of the District of Maine, nor even like his own
beautiful younger sister, the house’s mistress.  Some strain of good
blood, which they had inherited, seemed to have been saved through
generations to nourish this one lovely existence, and make her seem like
the single flower upon their family tree.  They had come from but a
meagre childhood to live here in state and luxury beside the river.

The broad green fields of Hamilton’s estate climbed a long hill behind
the house, hedged in by stately rows of elms and tufted by young
orchards; at the western side a strong mountain stream came down its
deep channel over noisy falls and rapids to meet the salt tide in the
bay below.  This broad sea inlet and inland harborage was too well
filled in an anxious year with freightless vessels both small and great:
heavy seagoing craft and lateen-sailed gundalows for the river traffic;
idle enough now, and careened on the mud at half tide in picturesque
confusion.

The opposite shore was high, with farmhouses above the fields.  There
were many persons to be seen coming down toward the water, and when
Colonel Hamilton and his guests appeared on the garden terraces, a loud
cry went alongshore, and instantly the noise of mallets ceased in the
shipyard beyond, where some carpenters were late at work.  There was an
eager, buzzing crowd growing fast about the boat landing and the wharf
and warehouses which the gentlemen at the high-urned gateway looked down
upon.  The boat was coming up steadily, but in the middle distance it
seemed to lag; the long stretch of water was greater than could be
measured by the eye.  Two West Indian fellows in the crowd fell to
scuffling, having trodden upon each other’s rights, and the on-lookers,
quickly diverted from their first interest, cheered them on, and wedged
themselves closer together to see the fun.  Old Cæsar, the majestic
negro who had attended Hamilton at respectful distance, made it his
welcome duty to approach the quarrel with loud rebukes; usually the
authority of this great person in matters pertaining to the estate was
only second to his master’s, but in such a moment of high festival and
gladiatorial combat all commands fell upon deaf ears.  Major Tilly
Haggens burst into a hearty laugh, glad of a chance to break the
tiresome formalities of his associates, and being a great admirer of a
skillful fight.  On any serious occasion the major always seemed a
little uneasy, as if restless with unspoken jokes.

In the meantime the boat had taken its shoreward curve, and was now so
near that even through the dusk the figures of the oarsmen, and of an
officer, sitting alone at the stern in full uniform, could be plainly
seen.  The next moment the wrestling Tobago men sprang to their feet,
forgetting their affront, and ran to the landing-place with the rest.

The new flag of the Congress with its unfamiliar stripes was trailing at
the boat’s stern; the officer bore himself with dignity, and made his
salutations with much politeness.  All the gentlemen on the terrace came
down together to the water’s edge, without haste, but with exact
deference and timeliness; the officer rose quickly in the boat, and
stepped ashore with ready foot and no undignified loss of balance. He
wore the pleased look of a willing guest, and was gayly dressed in a
bright new uniform of blue coat and breeches, with red lapels and a red
waistcoat trimmed with lace.  There was a noisy cheering, and the
spectators fell back on either hand and made way for this very elegant
company to turn again and go their ways up the river shore.

Captain Paul Jones of the Ranger bowed as a well-practiced sovereign
might as he walked along, a little stiffly at first, being often vexed
by boat-cramp, as he now explained cheerfully to his host.  There was an
eager restless look in his clear-cut sailor’s face, with quick eyes that
seemed not to observe things that were near by, but to look often and
hopefully toward the horizon.  He was a small man, but already bent in
the shoulders from living between decks; his sword was long for his
height and touched the ground as he walked, dragging along a gathered
handful of fallen poplar leaves with its scabbard tip.

It was growing dark as they went up the long garden; a thin white mist
was gathering on the river, and blurred the fields where there were
marshy spots or springs.  The two brigs at the moorings had strung up
their dull oil lanterns to the rigging, where they twinkled like setting
stars, and made faint reflections below in the rippling current.  The
huge elms that stood along the river shore were full of shadows, while
above, the large house was growing bright with candlelight, and taking
on a cheerful air of invitation.  As the master and his friends went up
to the wide south door, there stepped out to meet them the lovely figure
of a girl, tall and charming, and ready with a gay welcome to chide the
captain for his delay.  She spoke affectionately to each of the others,
though she avoided young Mr. Lord’s beseeching eyes.  The elder men had
hardly time for a second look to reassure themselves of her bright
beauty, before she had vanished along the lighted hall.  By the time
their cocked hats and plainer head gear were safely deposited, old Cæsar
with a great flourish of invitation had thrown open the door of the
dining parlor.




                                  *II*

                          *THE PARTING FEAST*

             "A little nation, but made great by liberty."


The faces gathered about the table were serious and full of character.
They wore the look of men who would lay down their lives for the young
country whose sons they were, and though provincial enough for the most
part, so looked most of the men who sat in Parliament at Westminster,
and there was no more patrician head than the old judge’s to be seen
upon the English bench.  They were for no self-furtherance in public
matters, but conscious in their hearts of some national ideas that a
Greek might have cherished in his clear brain, or any citizen of the
great days of Rome.  They were men of a single-hearted faith in Liberty
that shone bright and unassailable; there were men as good as they in a
hundred other towns. It was a simple senate of New England, ready and
able to serve her cause in small things and great.

The next moment after the minister had said a proper grace, the old
judge had a question to ask.

"Where is Miss Mary Hamilton?" said he.  "Shall we not have the pleasure
of her company?"

"My sister looks for some young friends later," explained the host, but
with a touch of coldness in his voice.  "She begs us to join her then in
her drawing-room, knowing that we are now likely to have business
together and much discussion of public affairs.  I bid you all welcome
to my table, gentlemen; may we be here to greet Captain Paul Jones on
his glorious return, as we speed him now on so high an errand!"

"You have made your house very pleasant to a homeless man, Colonel
Hamilton," returned the captain, with great feeling.  "And Miss Hamilton
is as good a patriot as her generous brother.  May Massachusetts and the
Province of Maine never lack such sons and daughters!  There are many of
my men taking their farewell supper on either shore of your river this
night.  I have received my dispatches, and it is settled that we sail
for France to-morrow morning at the turn of tide."

"To-morrow morning!" they exclaimed in chorus. The captain’s manner gave
the best of news; there was an instant shout of approval and
congratulation. His own satisfaction at being finally ordered to sea
after many trying delays was understood by every one, since for many
months, while the Ranger was on the stocks at Portsmouth, Paul Jones had
bitterly lamented the indecisions of a young government, and regretted
the slipping away of great opportunities abroad and at home.  To say
that he had made himself as vexing as a wasp were to say the truth, but
he had already proved himself a born leader with a heart on fire with
patriotism and deep desire for glory, and there were those present who
eagerly recognized his power and were ready to further his best
endeavors. Young men had flocked to his side, sailors born and bred on
the river shores, and in Portsmouth town, who could serve their country
well.  Berwick was in the thick of the fight from the very beginning;
her company of soldiers had been among the first at Bunker’s Hill, and
the alarm at Lexington had shaken her very hills at home.  Twin sister
of Portsmouth in age, and sharer of her worldly conditions, the old ease
and wealth of the town were sadly troubled now; there was many a new
black gown in the parson’s great parish, and many a mother’s son lay
dead, or suffered in an English prison.  Yet the sea still beckoned with
white hands, and Paul Jones might have shipped his crew on the river
many times over.  The ease of teaching England to let the colonies alone
was not spoken of with such bold certainty as at first, and some late
offenses were believed to be best revenged by such a voyage as the
Ranger was about to make.

Captain Paul Jones knew his work; he was full of righteous wrath toward
England, and professed a large readiness to accept the offered
friendliness of France.


Colonel Jonathan Hamilton could entertain like a prince.  The feast was
fit for the room in which it was served, and the huge cellar beneath was
well stored with casks of wine that had come from France and Spain, or
from England while her ports were still home ports for the colonies.
Being a Scotsman, the guest of honor was not unmindful of excellent
claret, and now set down his fluted silver tumbler after a first deep
draught, and paid his host a handsome compliment.

"You live like a Virginia gentleman, sir, here in your Northern home.
They little know in Great Britain what stately living is among us.  The
noble Countess of Selkirk thought that I was come to live among the
savages, instead of gratifying my wishes for that calm contemplation and
poetic ease which, alas, I have ever been denied."

"They affect to wonder at the existence of American gentlemen," returned
the judge.  "When my father went to Court in ’22, and they hinted the
like, he reminded them that since they had sent over some of the best of
their own gentlefolk to found the colonies, it would be strange if none
but boors and clowns came back."

"In Virginia they consider that they breed the only gentlemen; that is
the great pity," said Parson Tompson.  "Some of my classmates at
Cambridge arrived at college with far too proud a spirit.  They were
pleased to be amused, at first, because so many of us at the North were
destined for the ministry."

"You will remember that Don Quixote speaks of the Church, the Sea, and
the Court for his Spanish gentlemen," said Major Tilly Haggens, casting
a glance across at the old judge.  "We have had the two first to choose
from in New England, if we lacked the third."  The world was much with
the major, and he was nothing if not eager spoken.  "People forget to
look at the antecedents of our various colonists; ’t is the only way to
understand them.  In these Piscataqua neighborhoods we do not differ so
much from those of Virginia; ’tis not the same pious stock as made
Connecticut and the settlements of Massachusetts Bay.  We are children
of the Norman blood in New England and Virginia, at any rate.  ’T is the
Saxons who try to rule England now; there is the cause of all our
troubles.  Norman and Saxon have never yet learned to agree."

"You give me a new thought," said the captain.

"For me," explained the major, "I am of fighting and praying Huguenot
blood, and here comes in another strain to our nation’s making.  I might
have been a parson myself if there had not been a stray French gallant
to my grandfather, who ran away with a saintly Huguenot maiden; his
ghost still walks by night and puts the devil into me so that I forget
my decent hymns.  My family name is Huyghens; ’t was a noble house of
the Low Countries.  Christian Huyghens, author of the Cosmotheoros, was
my father’s kinsman, and I was christened for the famous General Tilly
of stern faith, but the gay Frenchman will ever rule me.  ’Tis all
settled by our antecedents," and he turned to Captain Paul Jones.  "I’m
for the flower-de-luce, sir; if I were a younger man I’d sail with you
to-morrow!  ’T is very hard for us aging men with boys’ hearts in us to
stay decently at home. I should have been born in France!"

"France is your country’s friend, sir," said Paul Jones, bowing across
the table.  "Let us drink to France, gentlemen!" and the company drank
the toast.  Old Cæsar bowed with the rest as he stood behind his
master’s chair, and smacked his lips with pathetic relish of the wine
which he had tasted only in imagination.  The captain’s quick eyes
caught sight of him.

"By your leave, Colonel Hamilton!" he exclaimed heartily.  "This is a
toast that every American should share the pleasure of drinking.  I
observe that my old friend Cæsar has joined us in spirit," and he turned
with a courtly bow and gave a glass to the serving man.

"You have as much at stake as we in this great enterprise," he said
gently, in a tone that moved the hearts of all the supper company.  "May
I drink with you to France, our country’s ally?"

A lesser soul might have babbled thanks, but Cæsar, who had been born a
Guinea prince, drank in silence, stepped back to his place behind his
master, and stood there like a king.  His underlings went and came
serving the supper; he ruled them like a great commander on the field of
battle, and hardly demeaned himself to move again until the board was
cleared.

"I seldom see a black face without remembering the worst of my boyish
days when I sailed in the Two Friends, slaver," said the captain
gravely, but with easy power of continuance.  "Our neighbor town of
Dumfries was in the tobacco trade, and all their cargoes were unloaded
in Carsethorn Bay, close by my father’s house.  I was easily enough
tempted to follow the sea; I was trading in the Betsey at seventeen, and
felt myself a man of experience.  I have observed too many idle young
lads hanging about your Portsmouth wharves who ought to be put to sea
under a smart captain.  They are ready to cheer or to jeer at strangers,
and take no pains to be manly.  I began to follow the sea when I was but
a child, yet I was always ambitious of command, and ever thinking how I
might best study the art of navigation."

"There were few idlers along this river once," said General Goodwin
regretfully.  "The times grow worse and worse."

"You referred to the slaver, Two Friends," interrupted the minister, who
had seen a shadow of disapproval on the faces of two of his parishioners
(one being Colonel Hamilton’s) at the captain’s tone. "May I observe
that there has seemed to be some manifestation of a kind Providence in
bringing so many heathen souls to the influence of a Christian country?"

The fierce temper of the captain flamed to his face; he looked up at old
Cæsar who well remembered the passage from his native land, and saw that
black countenance set like an iron mask.

"I must beg your reverence’s kind pardon if I contradict you," said Paul
Jones, with scornful bitterness.

There was a murmur of protest about the table; the captain’s reply was
not counted to be in the best of taste.  Society resents being disturbed
at its pleasures, and the man who had offended was now made conscious of
his rudeness.  He looked up, however, and saw Miss Hamilton standing
near the open doorway that led into the hall.  She was gazing at him
with no relic of that indifference which had lately distressed his
heart, and smiled at him as she colored deeply, and disappeared.

The captain took on a more spirited manner than before, and began to
speak of politics, of the late news from Long Island, where a son of old
Berwick, General John Sullivan, had taken the place of Lee, and was now
next in command to Washington himself. This night Paul Jones seemed to
be in no danger of those fierce outbursts of temper with which he was
apt to startle his more amiable and prosaic companions. There was some
discussion of immediate affairs, and one of the company, Mr. Wentworth,
fell upon the inevitable subject of the Tories; a topic sure to rouse
much bitterness of feeling.  Whatever his own principles, every man
present had some tie of friendship or bond of kindred with those who
were Loyalists for conscience’ sake, and could easily be made ill at
ease.

The moment seemed peculiarly unfortunate for such trespass, and when
there came an angry lull in the storm of talk, Mr. Lord somewhat
anxiously called attention to a pair of great silver candlesticks which
graced the feast, and by way of compliment begged to be told their
history.  It was not unknown that they had been brought from England a
few summers before in one of Hamilton’s own ships, and that he was not
without his fancy for such things as gave his house a look of rich
ancestry; a stranger might well have thought himself in a good country
house of Queen Anne’s time near London.  But this placid interlude did
not rouse any genuine interest, and old Judge Chadbourne broke another
awkward pause and harked back to safer ground in the conversation.

"I shall hereafter make some discrimination against men of color.  I
have suffered a great trial of the spirit this day," he began seriously.
"I ask the kind sympathy of each friend present.  I had promised my
friend, President Hancock, some of our Berwick elms to plant near his
house on Boston Common; he has much admired the fine natural growth of
that tree in our good town here, and the beauty it lends to our high
ridges of land.  I gave directions to my man Ajax, known to some of you
as a competent but lazy soul, and as I was leaving home he ran after me,
shouting to inquire where he should find the trees.  ’Oh, get them
anywhere!’ said I, impatient at the detention, and full of some
difficult matters which were coming up at our term in York.  And this
morning on my return from court, I missed a well-started row of young
elms, which I had selected myself and planted along the outer border of
my gardens.  Ajax had taken the most accessible, and they had all gone
down river by the packet.  I shall have a good laugh with Hancock by and
by.  I remember that he once praised these very trees and professed to
covet them."

"’T was the evil eye," suggested Mr. Hill, laughing; but the minister
slowly shook his head, contemptuous of such superstitious.

"I saw that one of our neighbor Madam Wallingford’s favorite oaks was
sadly broken by the recent gale," said Mr. Wentworth unguardedly, and
this was sufficient to make a new name fairly leap into the
conversation,—that of Mr. Roger Wallingford, the son of a widowed lady
of great fortune, whose house stood not far distant, on the other side
of the river in Somersworth.

General Goodwin at once dropped his voice regretfully. "I am afraid that
we can have no doubt now of the young man’s sympathy with our
oppressors," said he.  "I hear that he has been seen within a week
coming out of the Earl of Halifax tavern in Portsmouth, late at night,
as if from a secret conference. A friend of mine heard him say openly on
the Parade that Mr. Benjamin Thompson of old Rumford had been unfairly
driven to seek Royalist protection, and to flee his country, leaving
wife and infant child behind him; that ’t was all from the base
suspicions and hounding of his neighbors, whose worst taunt had ever
been that he loved and sought the company of gentlemen.  ’I pity him
from my heart,’ says Wallingford in a loud voice; as if pity could ever
belong to so vile a traitor!"

"But I fear that this was true," said Judge Chadbourne, the soundest of
patriots, gravely interrupting. "They drove young Thompson away in hot
haste when his country was in sorest need of all such naturally
chivalrous and able men.  He meant no disloyalty until his crisis came,
and proved his rash young spirit too weak to meet it.  He will be a
great man some day, if I read men aright; we shall be proud of him in
spite of everything.  He had his foolish follies, and the wrong road
never leads to the right place, but the taunts of the narrow-minded
would have made many an older man fling himself out of reach.  ’T is a
sad mischance of war.  Young Wallingford is a proud fellow, and has his
follies too: his kindred in Boston thought themselves bound to the King;
they are his elders and have been his guardians, and youth may forbid
his seeing the fallacy of their arguments.  Our country is above our
King in such a time as this, yet I myself was of those who could not
lightly throw off the allegiance of a lifetime."

"I have always said that we must have patience with such lads and not
try to drive them," said Major Haggens, the least patient of all the
gentlemen. Captain Paul Jones drummed on the table with one hand and
rattled the links of his sword hilt with the other. The minister looked
dark and unconvinced, but the old judge stood first among his
parishioners; he did not answer, but threw an imploring glance toward
Hamilton at the head of the table.

"We are beginning to lose the very last of our patience now with those
who cry that our country is too young and poor to go alone, and urge
that we should bear our wrongs and be tied to the skirts of England for
fifty years more.  What about our poor sailors dying like sheep in the
English jails?" said Hamilton harshly.  "He that is not for us is
against us, and so the people feel."

"The true patriot is the man who risks all for love of country," said
the minister, following fast behind.

"They have little to risk, some of the loudest of them," insisted Major
Haggens scornfully.  "They would not brook the thought of conciliation,
but fire and sword and other men’s money are their only sinews of war.
I mean that some of those dare-devils in Boston have often made matters
worse than there was any need," he added, in a calmer tone.

Paul Jones cast a look of contempt upon such a complaining old soldier.

"You must remember that many discomforts accompany a great struggle," he
answered.  "The lower classes, as some are pleased to call certain
citizens of our Republic, must serve Liberty in their own fashion. They
are used to homespun shirt-sleeves and not to lace ruffles, but they
make good fighters, and their hearts are true.  Sometimes their instinct
gives them to see farther ahead than we can.  I fear indeed that there
is trouble brewing for some of your valued neighbors who are not willing
to be outspoken.  A certain young gentleman has of late shown some
humble desires to put himself into an honorable position for safety’s
sake."

"You mistake us, sir," said the old judge, hastening to speak.  "But we
are not served in our struggle by such lawlessness of behavior; we are
only hindered by it.  General George Washington is our proper model, and
not those men whose manners and language are not worthy of
civilization."

The guest of the evening looked frankly bored, and Major Tilly Haggens
came to the rescue.  The captain’s dark hint had set them all staring at
one another.

"Some of our leaders in this struggle make me think of an old Scottish
story I got from McIntire in York," said he.  "There was an old farmer
went to the elders to get his tokens for the Sacrament, and they
propounded him his questions.  ’What’s your view of Adam?’ says they:
’what kind of a mon?’ ’Well,’ says the farmer, ’I think Adam was like
Jack Simpson the horse trader.  Varra few got anything by him, an’ a
mony lost.’"

The captain laughed gayly as if with a sense of proprietorship in the
joke.  "T is old Scotland all over," he acknowledged, and then his face
grew stern again.

"Your loud talkers are the gadflies that hurry the slowest oxen," he
warned the little audience.  "And we have to remember that if those who
would rob America of her liberties should still prevail, we all sit here
with halters round our necks!"  Which caused the spirits of the company
to sink so low that again the cheerful major tried to succor it.

"Shall we drink to The Ladies?" he suggested, with fine though
unexpected courtesy; and they drank as if it were the first toast of the
evening.

"We are in the middle of a great war now, and must do the best we can,"
said Hamilton, as if he wished to make peace about his table.  "Last
summer when things were at the darkest, Sam Adams came riding down to
Exeter to plead with Mr. Gilman for money and troops on the part of
their Rockingham towns.  The Treasurer was away, and his wife saw
Adams’s great anxiety and the tears rolling down his cheeks, and heard
him groan aloud as he paced to and fro in the room.  ’_O my God!_’ says
he, ’_and must we give it all up!_’  When the good lady told me there
were tears in her own eyes, and I vow that I was fired as I had never
been before,—I have loved the man ever since; I called him a stirrer up
of frenzies once, but it fell upon my heart that, after all, it is men
like Sam Adams who hold us to our duty."

"I cannot envy Sam Curwen his travels in rural England, or Gray that he
moves in the best London society, but Mr. Hancock writes me ’tis thought
all our best men have left us," said Judge Chadbourne.

"’T is a very genteel company now at Bristol," said John Lord.

"I hear that the East India Company is in terrible difficulties, and her
warehouses in London are crammed to bursting with the tea that we have
refused to drink. If they only had sense enough to lift the tax and give
us liberty for our own trade, we should soon drink all their troubles
dry," said Colonel Hamilton.

"’T is not because we hate England, but because we love her that we are
hurt so deep," said Mr. Hill. "When a man’s mother is jealous because he
prospers, and turns against him, it is worst of all."

"Send your young men to sea!" cried Captain Paul Jones, who had no
patience with the resettling of questions already left far behind.
"Send me thoroughbred lads like your dainty young Wallingford!  You must
all understand how little can be done with this poor basket of a Ranger
against a well-furnished British man-of-war.  My reverend friend here
has his heart in the matter.  I myself have flung away friends and
fortune for my adopted country, and she has been but a stingy young
stepmother to me.  I go to fight her cause on the shores that gave me
birth; I trample some dear recollections under foot, and she haggles
with me all summer over a paltry vessel none too smart for a fisherman,
and sends me to sea in her with my gallant crew.  You all know that the
Ranger is crank built, and her timbers not first class,—her thin sails
are but coarse hessings, with neither a spare sheet, nor stuff to make
it, and there ’s not even room aboard for all her guns.  I sent four
six-pounders ashore out of her this very day so that we can train the
rest.  ’T is some of your pretty Tories that have picked our knots as
fast as we tied them, and some jealous hand chose poor planking for our
decks and rotten red-oak knees for the frame.  But, thank God, she ’s a
vessel at last! I would sail for France in a gundalow, so help me
Heaven! and once in France I shall have a proper man-of-war."

There was a chorus of approval and applause; the listeners were deeply
touched and roused; they all wished to hear something of the captain’s
plans, but he returned to the silver tumbler of claret, and sat for a
moment as if considering; his head was held high, and his eyes flashed
with excitement as he looked up at the high cornice of the room.  He had
borne the name of the Sea Wolf; in that moment of excitement he looked
ready to spring upon any foe, but to the disappointment of every one he
said no more.

"The country is drained now of ready money," said young Lord
despondently; "this war goes on, as it must go on, at great sacrifice.
The reserves must come out,—those who make excuse and the only sons, and
even men like me, turned off at first for lack of health.  We meet the
strain sadly in this little town; we have done the best we could on the
river, sir, in fitting out your frigate, but you must reflect upon our
situation."

The captain could not resist a comprehensive glance at the richly
furnished table and stately dining-room of his host, and there was not a
man who saw it who did not flush with resentment.

"We are poorly off for stores," he said bitterly, "and nothing takes
down the courage of a seaman like poor fare.  I found to-day that we had
only thirty gallons of spirits for the whole crew."  At which melancholy
information Major Haggens’s kind heart could not forbear a groan.

General Goodwin waved his hand and took his turn to speak with much
dignity.

"This is the first time that we have all been guests at this hospitable
board in many long weeks," he announced gravely.  "There is no doubt
about the propriety of republican simplicity, or our readiness to submit
to it, though our ancient Berwick traditions have taught us otherwise.
But I see reason to agree with our friend and former townsman, Judge
Sullivan, who lately answered John Adams for his upbraiding of President
Hancock’s generous way of doing things. He insists that such open
hospitality is to be praised when consistent with the means of the host,
and that when the people are anxious and depressed it is important to
the public cheerfulness."

"’T is true.  James Sullivan is right," said Major Haggens; "we are not
at Poverty’s back door either. You will still find a glass of decent
wine in every gentleman’s house in old Barvick and a mug of honest cider
by every farmer’s fireside.  We may lack foreign luxuries, but we can
well sustain ourselves.  This summer has found many women active in the
fields, where our men have dropped the hoe to take their old swords
again that were busy in the earlier ways."

"We have quelled the savage, but the wars of civilization are not less
to be dreaded," said the good minister.

"War is but war," said Colonel Hamilton.  "Let us drink to Peace,
gentlemen!" and they all drank heartily; but Paul Jones looked startled;
as if the war might really end without having served his own ambitions.

"Nature has made a hero of him," said the judge to his neighbor, as they
saw and read the emotion of the captain’s look.  "Circumstances have now
given him the command of men and a great opportunity. We shall see the
result."

"Yet ’t is a contemptible force of ship and men, to think of striking
terror along the strong coasts of England," observed Mr. Hill to the
parson, who answered him with sympathy; and the talk broke up and was
only between man and man, while the chief thought of every one was upon
the venison,—a fine saddle that had come down the week before from the
north country about the Saco intervales.




                                 *III*

                         *A CHARACTER OF HONOR*

"Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load!
The comforter hath found me here
Upon this lonely road!"


"Your friend General Sullivan has had his defamers but he goes to prove
himself one of our ablest men," said Paul Jones to Hamilton.  "I grieve
to see that his old father, that lofty spirit and fine wit, is not with
us to-night.  Sullivan is a soldier born."

"There is something in descent," said Hamilton eagerly.  "They come of a
line of fighting men famous in the Irish struggles.  John Sullivan’s
grandfather was with Patrick Sarsfield, the great Earl of Lucan, at
Limerick, and the master himself, if all tales are true, was much
involved in the early plots of the old Pretender.  No, sir, he was not
out in the ’15; he was a student at that time in France, but I dare say
ready to lend himself to anything that brought revenge upon England."

"Commend me to your ancient sage the master," said the captain.  "I wish
we might have had him here to-night.  When we last dined here together
he talked not only of our unfortunate King James, but of the great
Prince of Conti and Louis Quatorze as if he had seen them yesterday.  He
was close to many great events in France."

"You speak of our old Master Sullivan," said Major Haggens eagerly,
edging his chair a little nearer.  "Yes, he knew all those great
Frenchmen as he knows his Virgil and Tally; we are all his pupils here,
old men and young; he is master of a little school on Pine Hill; there
is no better scholar and gentleman in New England."

"Or Old England either," added Judge Chadbourne.

"They say that he had four countesses to his grandmothers, and that his
grandfathers were lords of Beare and Bantry, and princes of Ireland,"
said the major.  "His father was banished to France by the Stuarts, and
died from a duel there, and the master was brought up in one of their
great colleges in Paris where his house held a scholarship.  He was
reared among the best Frenchmen of his time.  As for his coming here,
there are many old stories; some say ’t was being found in some
treasonable plot, and some that ’t was for the sake of a lady whom his
mother would not let him stoop to marry.  He vowed that she should never
see his face again; all his fortunes depended on his mother, so he fled
the country.

"With the lady?" asked the captain, with interest, and pushing along the
decanter of Madeira.

"No," said the major, stopping to fill his own glass as if it were a
pledge of remembrance.  "No, he came to old York a bachelor, to the farm
of the McIntires, Royalist exiles in the old Cromwell times, and worked
there with his hands until some one asked him if he could write a
letter, and he wrote it in seven languages.  Then the minister, old Mr.
Moody, planted him in our grammar school.  There had been great lack of
classical teaching in all this region for those who would be college
bred, and since that early year he has kept his school for lads and now
and then for a bright girl or two like Miss Mary Hamilton, and her
mother before her."

"One such man who knows the world and holds that rarest jewel, the
teacher’s gift, can uplift a whole community," said the captain, with
enthusiasm.  "I see now the cause of such difference between your own
and other early planted towns.  Master Sullivan has proved himself a
nobler prince and leader than any of his ancestry.  But what of the
lady?  I heard many tales of him before I possessed the pleasure of his
acquaintance, and so heard them with indifference."

"He had to wife a pretty child of the ship’s company, an orphan whom he
befriended, and later married.  She was sprightly and of great beauty in
her youth, and was dowered with all the energy in practical things that
he had been denied," said the judge. "She came of plain peasant stock,
but the poor soul has a noble heart.  She flouts his idleness at one
moment, and bewails their poverty, and then falls on her knees to
worship him the next, and is as proud as if she had married the lord of
the manor at home.  The master lacked any true companionship until he
bred it for himself.  It has been a solitary life and hermitage for
either an Irish adventurer or a French scholar and courtier."

"The master can rarely be tempted now from the little south window where
he sits with his few books," said Hamilton.  "I lived neighbor to him
all my young days.  Not long ago he went to visit his son James, and
walked out with him to see the village at the falls of the Saco.  There
was an old woman lately come over from Ireland with her grandchildren;
they said she remembered things in Charles the Second’s time, and was
above a hundred years of age.  James Sullivan, the judge, thinking to
amuse his father, stopped before the house, and out came the old
creature, and fell upon her knees.  ’My God! ’t is the young Prince of
Ardea!’ says she.  ’Oh, I mind me well of your lady mother, sir; ’t was
in Derry I was born, but I lived a year in Ardea, and yourself was a
pretty boy busy with your courting!’  The old man burst into tears.
’Let us go, James,’ says he, ’or this will break my heart!’ but he
stopped and said a few words to her in a whisper, and gave the old body
his blessing and all that was in his poor purse.  He would listen to her
no more.  ’We need not speak of youth,’ he told her; ’we remember it
only too well!’  A man told me this who stood by and heard the whole."

"’Twas most affecting; it spurs the imagination," said the captain.  "If
I had but an hour to spare I should ride to see him once more, even by
night. You will carry the master my best respects, some of you.

"One last glass, gentlemen, to our noble cause! We may never sit in
pleasant company again," he added, and they all rose in their places and
stood about the table.

"_Haud heigh_, my old auntie used to say to me at home.  Aim high’s the
English of it.  She was of the bold clan of the MacDuffs, and ’t is my
own motto in these anxious days.  Good-by, gentlemen all!" said the
little captain.  "I ask for your kind wishes and your prayers."

They all looked at Hamilton, and then at one another, but nobody took it
upon himself to speak, so they shook hands warmly and drank their last
toast in silence and with deep feeling.  It was time to join the ladies;
already there was a sound of music across the hall in a great room which
had been cleared for the dancing.




                                  *IV*

                     *THE FLOWERING OF WHOSE FACE*

"Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream,
*      *      *      *      *
Therefore thou wak’dst me wisely; yet
My dream thou breakest not, but continuest it."


While the guests went in to supper, Mary Hamilton, safe in the shelter
of friendly shadows, went hurrying along the upper hall of the house to
her own chamber. The coming moon was already brightening the eastern
sky, so that when she opened the door the large room with its white
hangings was all dimly lighted from without, and she could see the
figure of a girl standing at one of the windows.

"Oh, you are here!" she cried, with sharp anxiety, and then they leaned
out together, with their arms about each other’s shoulders, looking down
at the dark cove and at the height beyond where the tops of tall pines
were silvered like a cloud.  They could hear the men’s voices, as if
they were all talking together, in the room below.

Mary looked at her friend’s face in the dim light. There were some who
counted Miss Elizabeth Wyat as great a beauty as Miss Hamilton.

"Oh, Betsey dear, I can hardly bear to ask, but tell me quick now what
you have heard!  I must go down to Peggy; she has attempted everything
for this last feast, and I promised her to trim the game pie for its
proud appearing, and the great plum cake. One of her maids is ill, and
she is in such a flurry!"

"’T was our own maids talking," answered Betsey Wyat slowly.  "They were
on the bleaching-green with their linen this morning, the sun was so
hot, and I was near by among the barberry bushes in the garden.
Thankful Grant was sobbing, in great distress. She said that her young
man had put himself in danger; he was under a vow to come out with the
mob from Dover any night now that the signal called them, to attack
Madam Wallingford’s house and make Mr. Roger declare his principles.
They were sure he was a Tory fast enough, and they meant to knock the
old nest to pieces; they are bidden to be ready with their tools; their
axes, she said, and something for a torch.  Thankful begged him to feign
illness, but he said he did not dare, and would go with the rest at any
rate.  She said she fronted him with the remembrance how madam had paid
his wages all last summer when he was laid by, though the hurt he got
was not done in her service, but in breaking his own colt on a Sunday.
Yet nothing changed him; he said he was all for Liberty, and would not
play the sneak now."

"Oh, how cruel! when nobody has been so kind and generous as Madam
Wallingford, so full of kind thought for the poor!" exclaimed Mary.
"And Roger"—

"He would like it better if you thought first of him, not of his
mother," said Betsey Wyat reproachfully.

"What can be done?  It may be this very night," said Mary, in a voice of
despair.

"The only thing left is to declare his principles. Things have gone so
far now, they will never give him any peace.  Many have come to the
belief that he is in close league with our enemies."

"That he has never been!" said Mary hotly.

"He must prove it to the doubting Patriots, then; so my father says."

"But not to a mob of rascals, who will be disappointed if they cannot
vex their betters, and ruin an innocent woman’s home, and spoil her
peace only to show their power.  Oh, Betsey, what in the world shall we
do?  There is no place left for those who will take neither side.  Oh,
help me to think what we shall do; the mob may be there this very night!
There was a strange crowd about the Landing just now, when the captain
came.  I dare not send any one across the river with such a message but
old Cæsar or Peggy, and they are not to be spared from the house.  I
trust none of the younger people, black or white, when it comes to
this."

"But he was safe in Portsmouth to-day; they will watch for his being at
home; it will not be to-night, then," said Betsey Wyat hopefully.  "I
think that he should have spoken long ago, if only to protect his
mother."

"Get ready now, dear Betty, and make yourself very fine," said Mary at
last.  "The people will all be coming for the dance long before supper
is done. My brother was angry when I told him I should not sit at the
table, but I could not.  There is nobody to make it gay afterward with
our beaux all gone to the army; but Captain Paul Jones begged hard for
some dancing, and all the girls are coming,—the Hills and Rights, and
the Lords from Somersworth.  I must manage to tell my brother of this
danger, but to openly protect Madam Wallingford would be openly taking
the wrong side, and who will follow him in such a step?"

"I could not pass the great window on the stairs without looking out in
fear that Madam’s house would be all ablaze," whispered Betsey Wyat,
shuddering. "There have been such dreadful things done against the
Tories in Salem and Boston!"

"My heart is stone cold with fear," said Mary Hamilton; "yet if it only
does not come to-night, there may be something done."

There was a silence between the friends; they clung to each other; it
was not the first time that youth and beauty knew the harsh blows of
war.  The loud noise of the river falls came beating into the room,
echoing back from the high pines across the water.

"We must make us fine, dear, and get ready for the dancing; I have no
heart for it now, I am so frightened," said Mary sadly.  "But get you
ready; we must do the best we can."

"You are the only one who can do anything," said little Betsey Wyat,
holding her back a moment from the door.  They were both silent again as
a great peal of laughter sounded from below.  Just then the moon came
up, clear of the eastern hill, and flooded all the room.




                                  *V*

                            *THE CHALLENGE*

             "Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe."


An hour later there was a soft night wind blowing through the garden
trees, flavored with the salt scent of the tide and the fragrance of the
upland pastures and pine woods.  Mary Hamilton came alone to a great
arched window of the drawing-room.  The lights were bright, the house
looked eager for its gayeties, and there was a steady sound of voices at
the supper, but she put them all behind her with impatience.  She stood
hesitating for a moment, and then sat down on the broad window seat to
breathe the pleasant air.  Betsey Wyat in the north parlor was softly
touching the notes of some old country song on the spinet.

The young mistress of the house leaned her head wearily on her hand as
she looked down the garden terraces to the river.  She wished the long
evening were at an end, but she must somehow manage to go through its
perils and further all the difficult gayeties of the hour.  She looked
back once into the handsome empty room, and turned again toward the
quiet garden.  Below, on the second terrace, it was dark with shadows;
there were some huge plants of box that stood solid and black, while the
rosebushes and young peach-trees were but a gray mist of twigs.  At the
end of the terrace were some thick lilacs with a few leaves still
clinging in the mild weather to shelter a man who stood there, watching
Mary Hamilton as she watched the shadows and the brightening river.

There was the sharp crying of a violin from the slaves’ dwellings over
beyond the house.  It was plain to any person of experience that the
brief time of rest and informality after the evening feast would soon be
over, and that the dancing was about to begin.  The call of the fiddle
seemed to have been heard not only through the house, but in all its
neighborhood.  There were voices coming down the hill and a rowboat
rounding the point with a merry party.  From the rooms above, gay voices
helped to break the silence, while the last touches were being given to
high-dressed heads and gay-colored evening gowns.  But Mary Hamilton did
not move until she saw a tall figure step out from among the lilacs into
the white moonlight and come quickly along the lower terrace and up the
steps toward the window where she was sitting. It was Mr. Roger
Wallingford.

"I must speak with you," said he, forgetting to speak softly in his
eagerness.  "I waited for a minute to be sure there was nobody with you;
I am in no trim to make one of your gay company to-night.  Quick, Mary;
I must speak to you alone!"

The girl had started as one does when a face comes suddenly out of the
dark.  She stood up and pushed away the curtain for a moment and looked
behind her, then shrank into a deep alcove at the side, within the arch.
She stepped forward next moment, and held the window-sill with one hand
as if she feared to let go her hold.  The young man bent his head and
kissed her tense fingers.

"I cannot talk with you now.  You are sure to be found here; I hoped
that you were still in Portsmouth. Go,—it is your only safety to go
away!" she protested.

"What has happened?  Oh, come out to me for a moment, Mary," he
answered, speaking quietly enough, but with much insistence in his
imploring tone.  "I must see you to-night; it is my only chance."

She nodded and warned him back, and tossed aside the curtain, turning
again toward the lighted room, where sudden footsteps had startled her.

There were several guests coming in, a little perplexed, to seek their
hostess, but the slight figure of Captain Paul Jones in his brilliant
uniform was first at hand.  The fair head turned toward him not without
eagerness, and the watcher outside saw his lady smile and go readily
away.  It was hard enough to have patience outside in the moonlight
night, until the first country dances could reach their weary end.  He
stood for a moment full in the light that shone from the window, his
heart beating within him in heavy strokes, and then, as if there were no
need of prudence, went straight along the terrace to the broad grassy
court at the house’s front.  There was a white balustrade along the
farther side, at the steep edge of the bank, and he passed the end of it
and went a few steps down.  The river shone below under the elms, the
tide was just at the beginning of its full flood, there was a short hour
at best before the ebb.  Roger Wallingford folded his arms, and stood
waiting with what plain patience he could gather.  The shrill music
jarred harshly upon his ear.

The dancing went on; there were gay girls enough, but little Betsey
Wyat, that dear and happy heart, had only solemn old Jack Hamilton to
her partner, and pretty Martha Hill was coquetting with the venerable
judge.  These were also the works of war, and some of the poor lads who
had left their ladies, to fight for the rights of the colonies, would
never again tread a measure in the great room at Hamilton’s.  Perhaps
Roger Wallingford himself might not take his place at the dancing any
more.  He walked to and fro with his eyes ever upon the doorway, and two
by two the company came in turn to stand there and to look out upon the
broad river and the moon.  The fiddles had a trivial sound, and the slow
night breeze and the heavy monotone of the falls mocked at them, while
from far down the river there came a cry of herons disturbed in their
early sleep about the fishing weirs, and the mocking laughter of a loon.
Nature seemed to be looking on contemptuously at the silly pleasantries
of men.  Nature was aware of graver things than fiddles and the dance;
it seemed that night as if the time for such childish follies had passed
forever from the earth.

There must have been many a moment when Mary Hamilton could have slipped
away, and a cold impatience vexed the watcher’s heart.  At last, looking
up toward the bright house, his eyes were held by a light figure that
was coming round from the courtyard that lay between the house and its
long row of outbuildings. He was quickly up the bank, but the figure had
already flitted across the open space a little way beyond.

"Roger!" he heard her call to him.  "Where are you?" and he hurried
along the bank to meet her.

"Let us go farther down," she said sharply; "they may find us if they
come straying out between the dances to see the moon;" and she passed
him quickly, running down the bank and out beyond the edge of the
elm-trees’ shadow to the great rock that broke the curving shore.  Here
she stood and faced him, against the wide background of the river; her
dress glimmered strangely white, and he could see the bright paste
buckle in one of her dancing-shoes as the moonlight touched her.  He
came a step nearer, perplexed by such silence and unwonted coldness, but
waited for her to speak, though he had begged this moment for his own
errand.

"What do you want, Roger?" she asked impatiently; but the young man
could not see that she was pressing both hands against her heart.  She
was out of breath and excited as she never had been before, but she
stood there insistent as he, and held herself remote in dignity from
their every-day ease and life-long habit of companionship.

"Oh, Mary!" said young Roger, his voice breaking with the uncertainty of
his sorrow, "have you no kind word for me?  I have had a terrible day in
Portsmouth, and I came to tell you;" but still she did not speak, and he
hung his head.

"Forgive me, dear," he said, "I do not understand you; but whatever it
is, forgive me, so we may be friends again."

"I forgive you," said the girl.  "How is it with your own conscience;
can you find it so easy to forgive yourself?"

"I am ashamed of nothing," said Wallingford, and he lifted his handsome
head proudly and gazed at her in wonder.  "But tell me my fault, and I
shall do my best to mend.  Perhaps a man in such love and trouble as I"—

"You shall not speak to me of love," said Mary Hamilton, drawing back;
then she came nearer with a reckless step, as if to show him how little
she thought of his presence.  "You are bringing sorrow and danger to
those who should count upon your manliness. In another hour your
mother’s house may be in flames. Do not speak to me of your poor
scruples any more; and as for love"—

"But it is all I have to say!" pleaded the young man.  "It is all my
life and thought!  I do not know what you mean by these wild tales of
danger.  I am not going to be driven away from my rights; I must stand
my own ground."

"Give me some proof that you are your country’s friend and not her foe.
I am tired of the old arguments! I am the last to have you cry upon
patriotism because you are afraid.  I cannot tell you all I know, but,
indeed, there is danger; I beg you to declare yourself now; this very
night!  Oh, Roger, _it is the only way!_" and Mary could speak no more.
She was trembling with fright and passion; something shook her so that
she could hardly give sound to her voice; all her usual steadiness was
gone.

"My love has come to be the whole of life," said Roger Wallingford
slowly.  "I am here to show you how much I love you, though you think
that I have been putting you to shame.  All day I have been closeted
with Mr. Langdon and his officers in Portsmouth.  I have told them the
truth, that my heart and my principles were all against this war, and I
would not be driven by any man living; but I have come to see that since
there is a war and a division my place is with my countrymen.  Listen,
dear!  I shall take your challenge since you throw it down," and his
face grew hard and pale.  "I am going to sail on board the Ranger, and
she sails to-morrow.  There was a commission still in Mr. Langdon’s
hands, and he gave it me, though your noble captain took it upon himself
to object.  I have been ready to give it up at every step when I was
alone again, riding home from Portsmouth; I could not beg any man’s
permission, and we parted in a heat.  Now I go to say farewell to my
poor mother, and I fear ’t will break her heart.  I can even make my
peace with the commander, if it is your pleasure.  Will this prove to
you that I am a true American?  I came to tell you this."

"To-morrow, to sail on board the Ranger," she repeated under her breath.
She gave a strange sigh of relief, and looked up at the lighted house as
if she were dreaming.  Then a thought came over her and turned her sick
with dread.  If Paul Jones should refuse; if he should say that he dared
not risk the presence of a man who was believed to be so close to the
Tory plots!  The very necessities of danger must hold her resolute while
she shrank, womanlike, from the harsh immediateness of decision.  For if
Paul Jones should refuse this officer, and being in power should turn
him back at the very last, there lay ready the awful opportunity of the
mob, and Roger Wallingford was a ruined man and an exile from that time.

"You shall not give one thought to that adventurer!" cried the angry
lover, whose quick instinct knew where Mary’s thoughts had gone.  "He
has boldness enough, but only for his own advance.  He makes light jokes
of those"—

"Stop; I must hear no more!" said the young queen coldly.  "It would ill
befit you now.  Farewell for the present; I go to speak with the
captain.  I have duties to my guests;" but the tears shone in her eyes.
She was for flitting past him like a fawn, as they climbed the high bank
together.  The pebbles rattled down under their hurrying feet, and the
dry elm twigs snapped as if with fire, but Wallingford kept close at her
side.

"Oh, my darling!" he said, and his changed voice easily enough touched
her heart and made her stand still.  "Do not forgive me, then, until you
have better reason to trust me.  Only do not say that I must never
speak.  We may be together now for the last time; I may never see you
again."

"If you can bear you like a man, if you can take a man’s brave part"—and
again her voice fell silent.

"Then I may come?"

"Then you may come, Mr. Wallingford," she answered proudly.

For one moment his heart was warm with the happiness of hope,—she
herself stood irresolute,—but they heard heavy footsteps, and she was
gone from his vision like a flash of light.

Then the pain and seizure of his fate were upon him, the break with his
old life and all its conditions.  Love would now walk ever by his side,
though Mary Hamilton herself had gone.  She had not even given him her
dear hand at parting.




                                  *VI*

                          *THE CAPTAIN SPEAKS*

"The Hous of Fame to descrive,—
Thou shalt see me go as blyve
Unto the next laure I see
And kisse it, for it is thy tree."


At this moment the drawing-room was lively enough, whatever anxieties
might have been known under the elms, and two deep-arched windows on
either side of the great fireplace were filled with ladies who looked on
at the dancing.  A fine group of elderly gentlewomen, dressed in the
highest French fashion of five years back, sat together, with nodding
turbans and swaying fans, and faced the doorway as Miss Hamilton came
in.  They had begun to comment upon her absence, but something could be
forgiven a young hostess who might be having a thoughtful eye to her
trays of refreshment.

There was still an anxious look on many faces, as if this show of finery
and gayety were out of keeping with the country’s sad distresses.
Though Hamilton, like Nero, fiddled while Rome was burning, everybody
had come to look on: the surrender of Burgoyne had put new heart into
everybody, and the evening was a pleasant relief to the dark
apprehension and cheerless economies of many lives.  Most persons were
rich in anticipation of the success of Paul Jones’s enterprise; as if he
were a sort of lucky lottery in which every one was sure of a handsome
prize.  The winning of large prize money in the capture of richly laden
British vessels had already been a very heartening incident of this most
difficult and dreary time of war.

When Mary Hamilton came in, there happened to be a pause between the
dances, and an instant murmur of delight ran from chair to chair of
those who were seated about the room.  She had looked pale and downcast
in the early evening, but was rosy-cheeked now, and there was a new
light in her eyes; it seemed as if the charm of her beauty had never
shone so bright.  She crossed the open space of the floor, unconscious
as a child, and Captain Paul Jones stepped out to meet her.  The pink
brocaded flowers of her shimmering satin gown bloomed the better for the
evening air, and a fall of splendid lace of a light, frosty pattern only
half hid her white throat.  It was her brother’s pleasure to command
such marvels of French gowns, and to send orders by his captains for
Mary’s adorning; she was part of the splendor of his house, moreover,
and his heart was filled with perfect satisfaction as she went down the
room.

The simpler figures of the first dances were over, the country dances
and reels, and now Mr. Lord and Miss Betsey Wyat took their places with
Mary and the captain, and made their courtesies at the beginning of an
old French dance of great elegance which was known to be the favorite of
the old Judge.  They stood before him in a pretty row, like courtiers
who would offer pleasure to their rightful king, and made their
obeisance, all living color and fine clothes and affectionate intent.
The captain was scarcely so tall as his partner, but gallant enough in
his uniform, and took his steps with beautiful grace and the least fling
of carelessness, while Mr. John Lord moved with the precision of a
French abbé, always responsible for outward decorum whatever might be
the fire within his heart.

The captain was taking his fill of pleasure for once; he had danced many
a time with Mary Hamilton, that spring, in the great houses of
Portsmouth and York, and still oftener here in Berwick, where he had
never felt his hostess so charming or so approachable as to-night.  At
last, when the music stopped, they left the room together, while their
companions were still blushing at so much applause, and went out through
the crowded hall.  There was a cry of admiration as they passed among
the guests; they were carried on the swift current of this evident
delight and their own excitement.  It is easy for any girl to make a
hero of a gallant sailor,—for any girl who is wholly a patriot at heart
to do honor to the cordial ally of her country.

They walked together out of the south door, where Mary had so lately
entered alone, and went across the broad terrace to the balustrade which
overhung the steep bank of the river.  Mary Hamilton was most exquisite
to see in the moonlight; her dress softened and shimmered the more, and
her eyes had a brightness now that was lost in the lighted room.  The
captain was always a man of impulse; in one moment more he could have
dared to kiss the face that shone, eager, warm, and blooming like a
flower, close to his own.  He was not unskilled in love-making, but he
had never been so fettered by the spell of love itself or the royalty of
beauty as he was that night.

"This air is very sweet after an arduous day," said he, looking up for
an instant through the elm boughs to the moon.

"You must be much fatigued, Sir Captain," said Mary kindly; she looked
at the moon longer than he, but looked at him at last.

"’No, noble mistress, ’t is fresh morning with me,’" he answered gently,
and added the rest of the lovely words under his breath, as if he said
them only to himself.

"I think that you will never have any mistress save Glory," said Mary.
She knew The Tempest, too; but this brave little man, this
world-circling sailor, what Calibans and Ariels might he not have known!

"This is my last night on land," he answered, with affecting directness.
"Will you bid me go my lonely way unblest, or shall I dare to say what
is in my heart now, my dear and noble mistress?"

Mary looked at him with most straightforward earnestness as he spoke;
there was so great a force in her shining eyes that this time it was his
own that turned away.

"Will you do a great kindness, if I ask you now?" she begged him; and he
promised with his hand upon his heart.

"You sail to-morrow?"

"Yes, and your image shall go always with me, and smile at me in a
thousand gloomy hours.  I am often a sad and lonely man upon the sea."

"There has been talk of Mr. Wallingford’s taking the last commission."

"How have you learned what only a few trusted men were told?" the
captain demanded fiercely, forgetting his play of lover in a jealous
guarding of high affairs.

"I know, and by no man’s wrongful betraying.  I give you my deepest
proof of friendship now," said the eager girl.  "I ask now if you will
befriend our neighbor, my dear friend and playmate in childhood. He has
been much misjudged and has come to stand in danger, with his dear
mother whom I love almost as my own."

"Not your young rascal of a Tory!" the captain interrupted, in a
towering rage.  "I know him to be a rascal and a spy, madam!"

"A loyal gentleman I believe him in my heart," said Mary proudly, but
she took a step backward as they faced each other,—"a loyal gentleman
who will serve our cause with entire devotion since he gives his word.
His hesitations have been the fault of his advisers, old men who cannot
but hold to early prejudice and narrow views.  With you at sea, his own
right instincts must be confirmed; he will serve his country well.  I
come to you to beg from my very heart that you will stand his friend."

She stood waiting for assurance: there was a lovely smile on her face;
it would be like refusing some easy benefaction to a child.  Mary
Hamilton knew her country’s troubles, great and small; she had listened
to the most serious plans and secret conferences at her brother’s side:
but the captain forgot all this, and only hated to crush so innocent a
childish hope.  He also moved a step backward, with an impatient
gesture; she did not know what she was asking; then, still looking at
her, he drew nearer than before.  The captain was a man of quick
decisions.  He put his arm about her as if she were a child indeed.  She
shrank from this, but stood still and waited for him to speak.

"My dear," he said, speaking eagerly, so that she must listen and would
not draw away, "my dear, you ask an almost impossible thing; you should
see that a suspected man were better left ashore, on such a voyage as
this.  Do you not discern that he may even turn my crew against me?  He
has been the young squire and benefactor of a good third of my men, and
can you not see that I must always be on my guard?"

"But we must not distrust his word," begged Mary again, a little shaken.

"I have followed the sea, boy and man, since I was twelve years old.  I
have been a seafarer all my days," said Paul Jones.  "I know all the sad
experiences of human nature that a man may learn.  I trust no man in war
and danger and these days of self-advancement, so far that I am not
always on the alert against treachery.  Too many have failed me whom I
counted my sure friends.  I am going out now, only half trusted here at
home, to the coasts where treason can hurt me most.  I myself am still a
suspected and envied man by those beneath me.  I am given only this poor
ship, after many generous promises.  I fear a curse goes with it."

"You shall have our hopes and prayers," faltered Mary, with a quivering
lip.  The bitterness of his speech moved her deepest feelings; she was
overstrung, and she was but a girl, and they stood in the moonlight
together.

"Do not ask me again what I must only deny you, even in this happy
moment of nearness," he said sadly, and watched her face fall and all
the light go out of it.  He knew all that she knew, and even more, of
Wallingford’s dangerous position, and pitied her for a single moment
with all the pity that belonged to his heart.  A lonely man, solitary in
his very nature, and always foreboding with a kind of hopelessness the
sorrows that must fall to him by reason of an unkindness that his nature
stirred in the hearts of his fellows, his very soul had lain bare to her
trusting look.

He stood there for one moment self-arraigned before Mary Hamilton, and
knowing that what he lacked was love.  He was the captain of the Ranger;
it was true that Glory was his mistress.  In that moment the heavens had
opened, and his own hand had shut the gates.

The smile came back to Mary’s face, so strange a flash of tenderness had
brightened his own.  When that unforgettable light went out, she did not
know that all the jealousy of a lonely heart began to burn within him.

"I have changed my mind.  I will take your friend," he said suddenly,
with a new tone of authority and coldness.  "And I shall endeavor to
remember that he is your friend.  May I win your faith and patience, ’t
is a hard ploy."

Then Mary, of her own accord, put her hand into the captain’s and he
bent and kissed it.

"I shall watch a star in the sky for you every night," she told him,
"and say my prayers for the Ranger till you come sailing home."

"God grant I may tread the deck of another and a better ship," said the
captain hastily.  Now he was himself again, and again they both heard
the music in the house.

"Will you keep this ring for me, and give me yours?" he asked.  "’T will
be but a talisman to keep me to my best.  I am humble, and I ask no
more."

"No," said the girl, whose awakened feeling assured her of his own.  She
was light-headed with happiness; she could have thrown herself into the
arms of such a hero,—of a man so noble, who had done a hard and
unwelcome thing for her poor asking.  She had failed to do him rightful
honor until now, and this beautiful kindness was his revenge.  "No," she
entreated him, "not your own ring; you have done too much for me; but if
you wish it, I shall give you mine.  ’T is but a poor ring when you have
done so great a kindness."

She gave it as a child might give away a treasure; not as a woman gives,
who loves and gives a ring for token.  The captain sighed; being no
victor after all, his face grew sombre.  He must try what a great
conqueror might do when he came back next year with Glory all his own;
and yet again he lingered to plead with her once more.

"Dear Mary," he said, as he lifted her hand again, "you will not forget
me?  I shall be far from this to-morrow night, and you will remember
that a wanderer like me must sometimes be cruel to his own heart, and
cold to the one woman he truly loves."

Something stirred now in Mary Hamilton’s breast that had always slept
before, and, frightened and disturbed, she drew her hand away.  She was
like a snared bird that he could have pinched to death a moment before:
now a fury of disappointment possessed him, for she was as far away as
if she had flown into the open sky beyond his reach.

"Glory is your mistress; it is Glory whom you must win," she whispered,
thinking to comfort him.

"When I come back," he said sadly, "if I come back, I hope that you will
have a welcome for me."  He spoke formally now, and there was a haggard
look upon his face.  There had come into his heart a strange longing to
forget ambition.  The thought of his past had strangely afflicted him in
that clear moment of life and vision; but the light faded, the dark
current of his life flowed on, and there was no reflection upon it of
Mary Hamilton’s sweet eyes.  "If I carry that cursed young Tory away to
sea," he said to himself, "I shall know where he is; not here, at any
rate, to have this angel for his asking!"

They were on their way to the house again.

"Alas," said Paul Jones once more, with a sad bitterness in his voice,
"a home like this can never be for me: the Fates are my enemies; let us
hope ’t is for the happiness of others that they lure me on!"

Mary cast a piteous, appealing glance at this lonely hero.  He was no
more the Sea Wolf or the chief among pleasure-makers ashore, but an
unloved, unloving man, conscious of heavy burdens and vexed by his very
dreams.  At least he could remember this last kindness and her grateful
heart.


Colonel Hamilton was standing in the wide hall with a group of friends
about him.  Old Cæsar and his underservants were busy with some
heavy-laden silver trays.  The captain approached his host with
outstretched hands, to speak his farewells.

"I must be off, gentlemen.  I must take my boat," said he, in a manly
tone that was heard and repeated along the rooms.  It brought many of
the company to their feet and to surround him, with a new sense of his
high commission and authority.  "I ask again for your kind wishes,
Colonel Hamilton, and yours, Mr. Justice, and for your blessing on my
voyage, reverend sir;" and saluting those of the elder ladies who had
been most kind, and kissing his hand to some younger friends and
partners of the dance, he turned to go. Then, with his fine laced hat in
hand, the captain waved for silence and hushed the friendly voices that
would speak a last word of confidence in his high success.

"These friends of his and mine who are assembled here should know that
your neighbor, Mr. Wallingford, sails with me in the morning.  I count
my crew well, now, from your noble river!  Farewell, dear ladies;
farewell, my good friends and gentlemen."

There was a sudden shout in the hushed house, and a loud murmur of talk
among the guests, and Hamilton himself stepped forward and began to
speak excitedly; but the captain stayed for neither question nor answer,
and they saw him go away hurriedly, bowing stiffly to either hand on his
way toward the door. Mary had been standing there, with a proud smile
and gentle dignity in her look of attendance, since they had come in
together, and he stopped one moment more to take her hand with a low and
formal bow, to lift it to his lips, and give one quick regretful look at
her happy face.  Then Hamilton and some of the younger men followed him
down through the gardens to the boat landing.  The fleet tide of the
river was setting seaward; the captain’s boat swept quickly out from
shore, and the oars flashed away in the moonlight. There were ladies on
the terrace, and on the broad lookout of the housetop within the high
railing; there were rounds upon rounds of cheers from the men who stood
on the shore, black and white together.  The captain turned once when he
was well out into the river bay and waved his hand.  It was as if the
spectators were standing on the edge of a great future, to bid a hero
hail and farewell.

The whole countryside was awake and busy in the moonlight.  So late at
night as this there were lights still shining in one low farmhouse after
another, as the captain went away.  The large new boat of the Ranger was
rowed by man-of-war’s men in trim rig, who were leaving their homes on
the river shores for perhaps the last time; a second boat was to join
them at Stiles’s Cove, heaped with sea chests and sailors’ bags.  The
great stream lay shining and still under the moon, a glorious track of
light lay ready to lead them on, and the dark pines stood high on the
eastern shore to watch them pass.  The little captain, wrapped in his
boat cloak, sat thoughtful and gloomy at the stern. The gold lace
glittered on his hat, and the new flag trailed aft.  This was the first
reach of a voyage that would go down in history.  He was not familiar
with many of his men, but in this hour he saw their young faces before
him, and remembered his own going from home.  The Scottish bay of
Carsethom, the laird’s house at Arbigland, the far heights of the
Cumberland coast, rose again to the vision of a hopeful young adventurer
to Virginia and the southern seas.

They could still hear the music, faint and far away; perhaps the girls
were dancing again, and not weeping for poor Jack, the sailor; but as
the men pulled at their oars, light in the channel’s flow, and looked
back at the bright house, they saw a fire shining on the shore at
Hamilton’s.  Word had been passed that the captain was going down; the
crowd had gathered again; they were cheering like mad, and the boys in
the boat yelled themselves hoarse, while some one drifting in a skiff
near by fired a heavy pistol, which roused all the river birds and
echoed in the river pines from shore to shore.  Huzza! they were
bringing refuse from the shipyard now, and piling it on the flame!  The
bonfire towered high, and lighted the shipping and the reefed sails of
the gundalows.  The steep roof of the house with its high dormer
windows, the leafless elms, were all like glowing gold against the blue
height of the sky.  The eagles waked, and flew crying above the river in
the strange light.  Somebody was swinging a lantern from the roof of
Hamilton house, and then there came a light to an upper window that had
been dark before, and another, and another, till all the great house was
lit and seemed to tower into the skies.  The boat’s crew leaned upon
their oars, drifting and losing way as they tried to shout back. It
cheered their brave hearts, and sent them gayly on their dark journey; a
moment before they had thought heavily that some could play and dance
ashore while others must go off into the night, leaving all but the
thought of Glory behind them.

The whole river country was up.  The old Piscataqua plantations had not
been so stirred since the news came, many months before, of the peril of
Boston and the fight at Lexington, when a company had started from Saco
and marched across country, gathering like a rolling snowball on its
way, and with Eben Sullivan and Nathan Lord’s Berwick men had reached
the great Bunker Hill fight in good season.  Captain Moulton’s company
had taken the post road out of old York to join them; there was running
to and fro in the country then, and a frenzy of haste, of bawling
orders, of piteous leavetakings, of noisy drums and fifes and all the
confusion of war.  But this was felt to be almost as great a moment, and
to mark a still bolder challenge to the foreign foe.  There were
bonfires on all the river points, and hardly a farmer whose beacon did
not answer to his neighbor’s.  There were shadowy groups of women
standing on the high banks against the dim sky, and crying shrill
farewells to the boys in the boats: "God speed the Ranger!  God bless
you, Captain Paul!" and one voice after another took up the cry.
"Good-by, boys!  Good-by, boys!" they heard the girls calling after them
all down the river, and saw new firelights brighten as they came.

The boat now felt the swift seagoing current more and more; they had
passed High Point and the Devil’s Reach and the old Hodgdon Farm and the
mouth of Dover River, and at Hodgdon’s Landing they had taken off young
Humphry Lord with his little chest, and his mother’s tears wet upon his
coat; they swept faster still down past Dover Point and the mouth of
Great Bay, where a new current caught them again like a mill race.  The
fires were bright along the Kittery shore, and the sound of old
Portsmouth bells came up along the water, and soon they saw the lights
at Rice’s Ferry and all the leafless forest of idle shipping, and came
at last to the dark crank-looking hull of the Ranger lying in midstream.




                                 *VII*

                      *THE SAILING OF THE RANGER*

"Go you with your Don Quixote to your adventures, and leave us to our
ill fortunes!  God will better them for us if we deserve it!"


It was a gray, cold morning, windy and wet after the mild southerly airs
of the night before.  When the day broke and the heavy clouds changed to
a paler hue, there were already many persons to be seen waiting on the
Portsmouth wharves.  There was a subdued excitement as the crowd
gathered, and the hull and heavy spars of the Ranger out in the gray
river were hardly imposing enough to be the centre of such general
interest.  She might have been one of the less noticeable merchantmen of
that busy port, well used to its tugging tides and racing currents, and
looked like a clumsy trading-vessel, until one came near enough to see
that she was built with a gun deck, and that her ports were the many
shrewd eyes of a warship, bent upon aggression as well as defense.

At that early hour there was a continual coming and going between the
frigate and the shore, and an ever increasing cluster of boats
surrounded her.  There was loud shouting on the river and from the pier
heads, and now and then a round of cheers from some excited portion of
the admiring multitude.  There were sad partings between the sailors and
their wives and mothers at the water’s edge, and there were sudden gusts
of laughter among the idle lookers-on. The people had come out of the
houses on Badger’s Island, while from Newington and upper Kittery the
wherries were coming down in a hurry, most of them strongly rowed by
women with the short cross-handed stroke that jerked such boats steadily
ahead against the wind, or through any river tide or set of current.
The old market women bound for the Spring Market in Portsmouth, with
their autumn freight of geese and chickens and high-priced eggs, rested
on their crossed oars, and waited in midstream to see what came of this
great excitement.  Though they might be late to catch the best of their
early traffic, some of them drove a thriving trade, and their hard red
apples were tossed from boat to boat by rollicking customers, while
those that missed their aim went bobbing, gay and shining on the cold
water, out to sea.

The tide had now turned, and the noise of voices grew louder; there was
a cold waft of air from the rising northerly wind, and suddenly
everybody heard a shrill whistle on the ship and a cheer, and there was
a yell from the tangled boats, before those on shore could see that the
Ranger’s men were lying out along the yards, and her sails were being
spread.  Then there were cheers indeed; then there were handkerchiefs
and hats a-waving; then every boy and every man who wished in his heart
to go and fight Great Britain on her own coasts split his throat with
trying to cheer louder than the rest, while even those who had counseled
prudence and delay felt the natural joy of seeing a great ship spread
her wings to go to sea.

Almost every man and woman who looked on knew some lad or man who was
sailing, and now there was great shouting and running near the slip
where a last boat was putting off in haste.  There was a young man
aboard her, and many persons of dignity and position were bidding him
farewell.  The cheering grew louder; at that moment the slow bells began
to ring in St. John’s steeple and the old North Church; there was not a
man who knew his story who did not honor young Mr. Wallingford for his
bold and manly step. Word had been passed that he had taken a commission
and was sailing with the rest, but few believed it.  He was bound by
family ties, he was endangering all future inheritance from old Loyalist
relatives who would rather see him in jail than bent upon this thing:
the only son of his mother, and she a Tory widow, there were reasons
enough to keep any hero back upon the narrow neutral ground that still
remained.  And Roger Wallingford was not a hero,—only a plain gentleman,
with a good heart and steady sense of honor.

He talked soberly with his old friends, and listened to Mr. Langdon’s
instructions and messages to France, and put some thick letters safely
into the pockets of his uniform, which, having been made on a venture,
with those for other officers, fitted him but awkwardly. As he stood in
the boat nearing the frigate’s side, there could hardly be a more
gallant-looking fellow of his age.  There was in his face all the high
breeding and character of his house, with much personal courage and
youthful expectancy.  A handsome sword that had been his grandfather’s
hung heavy from the belt that dragged at his thin waist, and furrowed
deep the stiff new cloth of his coat.  More than one rough-cheeked
market woman, in that bitter morning air, felt an unwonted slackening in
her throat, and could not speak, but blessed him over and over in her
warm heart, as her tears sprung quick to blur this last sight of young
Wallingford going to the wars.  Here was a chapter of romance, though
some things in the great struggle with England were prosaic enough;
there was as much rebellion now against raising men and money as there
had ever been against the Stamp Act or the hated duties.  The states
were trying to excuse themselves, and to extort from one another; the
selfish and cold-hearted are ever to be pushed forward to their public
duties, and here in Portsmouth the patriots had many a day grown
faint-hearted with despair.

The anchor broke ground at last; the Ranger swung free and began to
drift; the creak of the cables and the chanty that helped to wind them
mingled now with the noise of church bells and the firing of guns on the
seaward forts at Newcastle.  As Wallingford went up the vessel’s side
and stepped to the deck, it happened that the Ranger fired her own
parting gun, and the powder smoke blew thick in his face.  When it
cleared away he saw the captain close beside him, and made his proper
salute.  Then he turned quickly for a last glimpse of his friends; the
boat was still close under the quarter, and they waved to him and
shouted last words that he could not hear.  They had been his father’s
friends, every one,—they wished to be going, too, those good gentlemen;
it was a splendid errand, and they were all brave men.

"Mr. Langdon and his friends bade me say to you and to Lieutenant
Simpson that they meant to come aboard again, sir; they were sorry to be
too late; they would have me take breakfast and wait while they finished
these last dispatches which they send you for Mr. Franklin and Mr.
Adams.  I was late from home; it has been a sudden start for me," said
the young man impulsively.  "I thank you for your welcome message, which
I got at two o’clock by the courier," he added, with a wistful appeal in
the friendliness of his tone, as one gentleman might speak with another
in such case.

"I had further business with them!" exclaimed the superior officer.
"They owed it to me to board me long ago, instead of dallying with your
breakfast. Damn your breakfast, Mr. Wallingford!" he said angrily, and
turned his back.  "I left them and the shore at three in the morning; I
have been at my affairs all night.  Go below, sir!" he commanded the new
lieutenant fiercely.  "Now you have no gray-headed pomposities to wait
upon and admire you, you had best begin to learn something of your
duties.  Get you down and fall to work, sir!  Go to Simpson for orders!"

Wallingford looked like an icicle under the droop of the great mainsail;
he gazed with wonder and pity at the piqued and wearied little man; then
his face grew crimson, and, saluting the captain stiffly, he went at
once below.  There was many a friendly greeting and warm handshake
waiting for him between decks, but these could please him little just
then; he made his way to the narrow cabin, cluttered and piled high with
his sea kit and hasty provisionings, and sat there in the dim light
until right-mindedness prevailed. When he came on deck again, they were
going out of the lower harbor, with a following wind, straight to sea.
He may have gone below a boy, but he came on deck a man.

Sir William Pepperrell’s stately gambrel-roofed house, with the deer
park and gardens and row of already decaying warehouses, looked drowsy
with age on Kittery Point, and opposite, hiding away in Little Harbor,
was the rambling, huge old mansion of the Wentworths, with its fine
council chamber and handsome card-rooms, where he had danced many a
night with the pretty Portsmouth girls.  All Roger Wallingford’s youth
and pleasantries were left behind him now; the summer nights were ended;
the winter feasts, if there were any that dreary year, must go on
without him.  The Isles of Shoals lay ahead like pieces of frozen drift
ill the early morning light, and the great sea stretched away to the
horizon, bleak and cold and far, a stormy road to France.

The ship, heading out into the waste of water, took a steady movement
between wind and wave, and a swinging gait that seemed to deny at every
moment the possibility of return.  The gray shore sank and narrowed to a
line behind her.  At last the long blue hill in Northwood and the three
hills of Agamenticus were seen like islands, and long before noon these
also had sunk behind the waves, and the Ranger was well at sea.




                                 *VIII*

                      *THE MAJOR’S HOSPITALITIES*

"But see how merciful Heaven sends relief in the greatest distresses,
for now comes Don Gayferos!"


The Haggens house, with its square chimneys, and a broad middle-aged
look of comfort, like those who were sheltered under its roof, stood
facing the whole southern country just where the two roads joined from
the upper settlements.  A double stream of travel and traffic flowed
steadily by this well-known corner, toward the upper and lower landings
of the tide river. From the huge square stone that floored a pointed
porch of severely classic design could be seen a fine sweep of land from
the Butlers’ Hill on the left, over the high oak woods of a second
height to the deep pasture valleys.  Major Hight’s new house and huge
sentinel pines stood on a ridge beyond, with the river itself showing a
gleam of silver here and there all along the low lands toward
Portsmouth.  Across the country westward was the top of Garrison Hill at
Dover; to the south was the dark pine-forested region of the Rocky
Hills.  It was a wide and splendid prospect even on a bleak autumn day,
and Major Haggens, the socially minded master of the house, was trying
hard to enjoy it as he sat in the morning wind, wrapped in his red cloak
and longing for proper companionship. He cast imploring glances across
the way to the habitation of his only near neighbor, Mr. Rogers, but he
could see the old gentleman sitting fast asleep at that ridiculous hour
of the morning, behind a closed window.  There was no one to be seen up
the road, where Mr. Jenkins’s place of business was apt to attract the
idle, especially in the harvest time of his famous early apples.  These
were dull days; before the war there were few mornings of the year when
the broad space before the major’s house lacked either carriages or
foot-travelers for half an hour.  In winter the two roads were blocked
as far as a man could see with the long processions of ox teams laden
with heavy timber, which had come from fifty or even a hundred miles
back in the north country.  There were hundreds of trees standing yet in
the great forests of the White Hills that were marked with the deeply
cut King’s arrow, but the winter snows of many years to come were likely
to find these timber pines for the King’s shipyards still standing.

The busy, quick-enriching days of the past seemed to be gone forever,
and poverty and uncertainty had replaced them.  There was no such market
anywhere for Berwick timber as England had always been; the Berwick
merchants would be prosperous no more; the town must live long now upon
their hoarded gains, and then seek for some other means of living.  The
gay-hearted old major looked downcast, and gave a deep sigh.  He had no
such remembrance of the earlier wars, when Old England and New England
had fought together against a common enemy.  Those battles had been
exciting enough, and a short and evident path to glory, where his fellow
colonists had felt something of the happy certainties of the Old
Testament Jews, and went out boldly to hew Agag in pieces and to smite
the Amalekites hip and thigh. It appeared now as if, with all its
hardships, war had been a not unwelcome relief to a dull level of
prosperity and the narrowness of a domestic horizon.  War gave a man the
pleasures of travel, it was a man’s natural business and outlet of
energy; but war with moral enemies, and for opinion’s sake, lacked the
old color, and made the faces of those who stayed at home grow sullen.
They were backbiting Hamilton in many a pious household, that morning,
for giving a farewell feast to Paul Jones.  ’T was all of a piece with
Roundhead days, and christening a child by such names as must have
depressed Praise-God Barebones, and little Hate-Evil Kilgore who was a
neighbor of the major’s, down the Landing hill.

The major’s sound but lately unpracticed head was a little heavy from
the last night’s supper, and the world seemed to him badly out of joint.
He was a patriot at heart, but one who stood among the moderates.  He
seemed uneasy in his wooden armchair, and pushed the ferule of his stout
old ivory-headed cane angrily into a crevice below one of the Corinthian
pillars of the porch.  His tall sister, who, by virtue of two years’
precedence in age, resolutely maintained the position of superior
officer, had already once or twice opened the door behind to advise him
to come in out of the cold wind; the chill might very well send him an
attack of gout in the stomach.

"I ’ve got no gout to send, nor any stomach to send it to," returned the
major angrily.  "What’s the use of a stomach, when a man can get nothing
decent to put into it, and has not even a dog to keep him company?  I’d
welcome even a tax gatherer!"  The great door was shut again with
decision enough to clack the oval brass knocker, and the major finished
some protests against fate deep in his own disparaged interior, and
punctuated his inarticulate grumbles by angry bobs of the head.  He was
really too cold, but he would not submit to Nancy, or let her think that
she could rule him, as she seemed to wish.

Suddenly there was something moving down at the end of the street; it
came up quickly over the slope into the full appearance of a horse and
rider, and hope filled the major’s once sorrowful mind.

"Jack Hamilton, by zounds!" laughed the old gentleman.  "He ’s late on
his way up country.  I ’ll stretch a point: we ’ll make it an hour
earlier, and have our toddy now; it must be after ten."

Hamilton presently declared that he was too much belated; he must go to
the far regions of Tow-wow, where he owned great tracts of woodland; he
really must not vex his conscience by loitering.

"Here, you, Cuffee! here, ’Pollo, you lazy dog!" the major called,
merely turning his head, so that his voice might reach round the house
through the long yard to his barns; and after a moment’s consideration,
Hamilton dismounted unwillingly.  The gay creature he had ridden sidled
away, and whinnied fretfully, as if she also objected to such an
interruption of their plans.

"Keep her here; I shall not stop long," said the colonel to a black
namesake of the great god Apollo, who was the first to arrive, and,
although breathless, began to walk to and fro sentry fashion, as if by
automatic impulse.  The already heated young mare was nosing his
shoulder with an air of intimacy, and nipping at the edge of his frayed
hat.

"You ’ll be just far enough from both dinner and breakfast now,"
insisted the major, stamping along through the handsome cold hall of the
house, with its elaborate panelings of clear, uupainted pine.  "You ’ll
get to Tow-wow, or Lebanon, as the new folks want to call it, all the
sooner for this delay.  You ’ve pounded the first wind out of that colt
already; you ’d have had her sobbing on Plaisted’s Hill.  What we can’t
find in eatables we ’ll make up in drinkables. Nancy, Nancy, where ’s my
spirit case?  You ’re so precise I never can find anything where I leave
it!"

"The case is on the top of the sideboard, directly in the middle,
brother Tilly," said Miss Nancy, politely coming out of the room on the
right, and looking after him, with her knitting in hand.

Mr. Hamilton turned, and she dropped a somewhat informal curtsy.  She
wore a plain turban which gave her a severe but most distinguished air.
Miss Haggens was quite the great lady, and even more French in her
appearance than the major himself.

"I was sorry to miss the gayeties last night," she said.  "The major is
boyish enough for anything, and can answer every beck and call, but I
felt that I must not venture.  I was sorry when it proved so fine an
evening."

"No becks and calls to answer in these days," insisted the busy host.
"’T would do you good, Nancy, as it did all the rest of us.  Let’s have
it in the breakfast-room; I left a good fire there.  If there’s no hot
water, I ’ll heat some quick enough in a porringer."

Hamilton, following, seated himself slowly in an armchair by the
fireplace.  The processes of hospitality would be swifter if quietly
acquiesced in, and now that the slim decanter of Santa Cruz was opened
the odor was not unwelcome.  He bad been busy enough since daybreak, but
wore an amused look, though somewhat tired and worried, as the major
flew about like a captive bumblebee.  Miss Nancy’s prim turban got
shifted over one ear, and one white and two black handmaidens joined her
in the course of such important affairs.  At last the major reappeared,
victorious and irate, with a steaming porringer which had just begun to
heat in the kitchen fireplace, and splashed it all the way along the
floor.  He went down stiffly on his knees in the breakfast-room to blow
the coals, with such mighty puffs that a film of ashes at once covered
the water and retarded its rise of temperature. Miss Nancy and Colonel
Hamilton looked at each other across his broad back and laughed.

"There, there, major!  The steam ’s rising, and ’t will do already,"
urged the colonel.  "I’d rather not take my drink too hot, and go out
again to face the wind."

"I felt the wind myself," acknowledged the major, looking up pleasantly.
"My fore door, where I like to sit, is well sheltered, but I felt the
wind."  Miss Nancy so far descended from her usual lofty dignity as to
make a little face, which Hamilton, being a man, did not exactly
understand.

"I like to have the water boiling hot; then you can let it cool away,
and the flavor ’s well brought out," explained the major.  Phoebe, the
old slave woman who looked over his shoulder, now pronounced with
satisfaction that the water was minnying, with the steam all in it, to
which her master agreed.  Miss Nancy put out a strong hand and helped
him to his feet.

"You ’ve set your turban all awry, sister," the major remarked politely
by way of revenge, and the little company burst into a hearty laugh.
Miss Nancy produced a gay china plate of pound cakes from the cupboard,
and sat by in silence, discreetly knitting, until the toddy was not only
made, but half gone down the gentlemen’s throats.

"And so Roger Wallingford ’s gone to sea, and those who would burn him
in his house for a Tory are robbed of a great pleasure," she said at
last.  "I wonder what their feelings are to-day!  My heart aches for his
mother; ’t will be a deathblow to all her pride."

"It will indeed," said Hamilton seriously.

"I was sore afraid of his joining the other side only yesterday," said
the major, "but this news has lain heavy as lead on me all the morning.
There are those aboard the Ranger who will only have him for a spy. I
heard a whisper of this last night, before we parted. I was even glad to
think that the poor boy has plenty of old family friends in England, who
can serve him if worst comes to worst."

"’T was in my mind, too," agreed the colonel. "John Lord was hinting at
trouble, in my counting-room, this morning early.  I fancied him more
than half glad on his own account that Wallingford is gone; the lads
have looked upon each other as rivals, and I have suspected that ’t was
Roger who was leading in the race."  The colonel’s wind-freshened cheeks
brightened still more as he spoke, and looked up with an expectant smile
at Miss Nancy, who did not reply except by giving two or three solemn
nods of her turbaned head.

"Everybody loves the boy," she said presently, "but ’t is of his dear
mother I am thinking most. ’T is a sad heart alone in her great house to
front the winter weather.  She told me last week that she had a mind not
to make the usual change to her house in town.  There were like to be
disturbances, and she had no mind for anything but quiet.  I shall
write, myself, to her young cousins in Boston, or to the Sherburnes, who
are near friends, and beg them to visit her; ’tis none so cheerful in
Boston either, now.  We were always together in our youth, but age makes
us poor winter comrades.  Sit ye down," said Miss Nancy Haggens
affectionately, as Hamilton rose and put by his empty glass.  "And how
is our dear Mary?" she asked, as she rose also, finding him determined.
There was an eager look in the old lady’s eyes.

"I have not seen my sister," answered Hamilton, looking grave.  "I was
very early by the riverside with my old brig Pactolus going downstream,
and everything and everybody tardy.  I shall lay her up for the winter
by Christian Shore; but, as things look now, I fear ’t is the last
voyage of the good old vessel. I stood and watched her away, and when
she made the turn past Pine Point it seemed as if her old topmasts were
looking back at me wishfully above the woods."

The major made a sound which was meant for sympathy; he was very warm
and peaceful now before the fire.

"My sister will not be long seeking such a friend as you," said
Hamilton, with sudden change of tone, and looking at Miss Nancy with an
unwonted show of sentiment and concern in his usually impassive face. "I
slept but little last night, and my fears, small and great, did not
sleep at all.  ’T is heavy news from the army, and I am perplexed as to
Mary’s real feelings. The captain counts upon success; as for the step
that Roger Wallingford has taken, it has no doubt averted a very real
danger of the moment."

"She must go at once to see his mother.  I wish that she might go
to-day.  You may tell Mary this, with the love of an old friend," said
Miss Nancy warningly.  "She has great reserve of feeling with all her
pretty frankness.  But young hearts are not easy reading."

"I must be gone all day," said Hamilton gravely.

For once the major listened and had no opinion ready.  All the troubles
of life had been lifted in the exercise of such instant hospitality.

"We must leave all to Time," he announced cheerfully. "No man regrets
more than I our country’s sad situation.  And mark ye both: the captain
of the Ranger’s got all the makings of a hero.  Lord bless me," he
exclaimed, as he followed Hamilton along the hall, "I could have shed
tears as I caught his fire, at thinking I was too old and heavy to ship
with him myself!  I might be useful yet with his raw marines and in the
land attacks.  I felt last night, as our talk went on, that I should be
as good for soldiering as ever."

"Brother Tilly!" Miss Nancy was crying from the breakfast-room in
despair.  "Oh, don’t go out into the wind, and you so warm with your
toddy!  Wait, I command you, Tilly!  Phoebe ’s coming with your hat and
cloak!"  But the old campaigner was already out beyond the lilacs in the
front yard, with the rising northwester lifting his gray locks.




                                  *IX*

                          *BROTHER AND SISTER*

"All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame."


That same afternoon of the first of November, one might have thought
that the adventurers on board the Ranger had taken all the pleasant
weather away with them, and all the pleasure and interest of life; only
endurance and the bleak chilliness of autumn seemed to be left ashore.
The wind changed into the east as night drew on, and a cold fog,
gathered along the coast, came drifting up the river with the tide,
until rain began to fall with the early dark.  The poplars and elms
looked shrunken about the gardens at Hamilton’s, and the house but ill
lighted.  The great rooms themselves were cold and empty.

Colonel Hamilton, gloomy with further bad news from the army on Long
Island, sat alone reviewing some accounts, shaking his head over a great
ledger which had been brought up from the counting-house, and lay before
him on a table in the west room.  The large Russian stove was lighted
for the first time that year, and the tiny grate glowed bright in its
tall prison-like front, which was as slow to give out any heat as a New
England winter to give place to spring. The pair of candles gave a dull
yellow light, and the very air of the west room looked misty about them
in a sort of halo, as Mary Hamilton opened the door. She was rosy with
color from an afternoon ride, while her brother looked tired and dull.
All the long day she had been so much in his anxious thoughts that he
glanced over his shoulder with apprehension.  In spite of his grave face
and unyielding temper, he had a quick imagination, and, for the few
persons whom he loved, a most tender heart.

To his blank surprise, his young sister had never worn a more spirited
or cheerful look.  She was no lovelorn maiden, and had come to him for
neither pity nor anxious confidence.  She came instead to stand close
beside him, with a firm warm hand on his shoulder, and smiling looked
into his upturned face.

"Well, sir, have you made the most of a bad day?" she asked, in the tone
of comradeship which always went straight to Hamilton’s heart, and made
him feel like a lover.  "They must have had a good offshore wind for
many hours," she added before he could answer.  "The Ranger must be safe
off the coast by this time, and out of this hindering fog."

"She must indeed," answered Hamilton, lending himself comfortably to her
mood.  "The wind was free all day out of the northwest until this
easterly chill at sundown.  They will not like to drift in a long calm
and easterly fog."

"Come, you look miserable here; you are pale with cold yourself, Jack,"
she urged kindly.  "Let us poke this slow contrivance for a fire!  I
like to see a broad blaze.  Cæsar kept me a fine hoard of pitch-pine
roots when they cleared that thicket of the upper pasture, and I made a
noble heat with them just now in my own room.  I told him to look after
your stove here, but he was sulky; he seems to think ’t is a volcano in
a box, and may wreck the house and all his happiness. See, it was full
of ashes at the draught.  Sir, may I ask what you are laughing at?"

"I thought you would be like Niobe, all tears," he answered boldly,
giving her a half amused, half curious glance.  "And here you praise the
wind that blows your lover seaward, and make yourself snug ashore."

The firelight flashed in Mary’s face at that moment, and something else
flashed back to meet it.  She was kneeling close to the small iron door,
as if she were before a confessional; but she looked over her shoulder
for a moment with a quick smile that had great sweetness and power to
charm.

"Let us be happy together, my dear," she said. "They go to serve our
country; it should be a day for high hopes, and not for mourning.  I
look for great gallantry on board the Ranger!"

She stood facing her brother a moment later, and looked straight in his
face, as if she had no fears of any curious gaze, simply unconscious of
self, as if no great shock had touched her heart in either new-found
happiness or sense of loss.  It seemed as if her cheerful
self-possession were putting a bar to all confidence.

"I cannot understand you!" he exclaimed sharply.

"You are cold and tired, my poor old man!  Come, I shall have no more
figuring," and she slid away the ledger beyond his reach on the smooth
polished oak of the table top.  "Let us make a bit of hot drink for so
cold a man!" and was swiftly gone across the hall to the great kitchen,
leaving the doors wide open behind her.  It seemed warmer at once, and
presently the sound of laughter and a coaxing voice made Hamilton’s
heart a little gayer.  Old Peggy and her young mistress were in the
midst of a lively encounter, and presently a noise of open war made him
cross the hall with boyish eagerness to see the fray.

Peggy was having a glorious moment of proud resistance, and did not
deign to notice the spectator. The combatants stood facing each other in
front of the huge fireplace, where there was a high heap of ashes and
but faint glow of fire.  The old woman’s voice was harsh, and she looked
pale and desperate; there was always a black day for the household after
such a masterpiece of a feast as Peggy had set before her master’s
guests the night before.  The fire of energy was low in her gaunt frame,
except for a saving spark that still moved the engines of her tongue.
She stood like a thin old Boadicea with arms akimbo, and Mary Hamilton
faced her all abloom, with a face full of laughter, and in exactly the
same attitude; it was a pleasing sight to Hamilton at the door of the
side hall. The usually populous kitchen was deserted of all Peggy’s
minions except Cæsar, and there were no signs of any preliminaries of
even the latest supper.

"Oh, Peggy, what a cross old thing you are!" sighed Mary, at the end of
Peggy’s remarks upon the text of there being nobody in the house to do
anything save herself.  "I should really love to stay and have a good
battle to warm us up, except that we should both be near to weeping when
it was done, and you would be sorrier than you need, and cook something
much too nice for supper, tired as you are."  Then she dropped her hands
and relaxed her mocking pose. "Come, Peggy dear, the colonel’s here, and
he’s ridden the whole length of Beech Ridge and the Tow-wow woods since
morning with his surveyors; he ’s very cold and down-hearted, and I only
want a spatter of mulled wine for him.  Come, find me a little skillet
and we ’ll heat it here on the coals.  See, they ’re winking bright
under that hill of ashes.  Where are all the maids?"

"In their beds, I suppose, black and white alike, and getting their
first sleep like ladies," grumbled Peggy.  "I told them the master would
be late, and would sup at Pine Hill, as he said this morning.  ’T is no
matter about me; Cæsar and me, we ’re old and tough," and the stern
features relaxed a little.  "Why did n’t you tell me ’t was for the
master, an’ he’d no supper after such a day, with the clock far past
seven, and you yourself with nothing but bread and milk to stay you?
Truth to tell, I was asleep in the corner of the settle here, and a
spark ’s burnt me a hole in this good apron and spoilt my temper.  You
have too much patience with poor old Peggy," she muttered, bending over
the ashes and raking them open to their bright life with her hard brown
hand.

Mary stood watching her for a moment; a quick change came over her face,
and she turned away silently, and went toward the window as if to look
up the river.

"What was you designin’ to get for supper?" old Cæsar humbly inquired at
this auspicious moment. "I mought be a-layin’ of the table."  But Peggy
did not notice him.  He was still in a place of safety behind the
settle, his gray head just appearing over the high back.

"We might finish the pigeon pie," the young mistress suggested; "the
colonel will like a bit of cheese afterward and plenty of bread.  Mind,
Peggy, ’tis only a cold supper!"

"Was you es-pectin’ any of the quality aside yo’selves, missy?" politely
demanded Cæsar, in the simple exercise of his duty.

"Don’t you keep a-askin’ questions; ’t ain’t no way to converse with
human creatur’s!" said Peggy severely.

"Laws, Peggy, I feels an int’rist!" said poor Cæsar humbly.

"No, you don’t neither; you ’re full to bu’stin’ of cur’osity, an’ it’s
a fault that grows by feedin’ of it.  Let your mind dwell on that, now,
next Sabbath mornin’ up in your gallery, ’stid o’ rollin’ your eyes at
the meetin’ folks an’ whisp’rin’ with Cato Lord!" and Peggy laughed in
spite of herself.  "Come out from there, an’ fetch me some dry pine
chips, if ’t won’t demean your dignity.  I ’ll ax you some questions you
don’t know no answers to, if you be an Afriky potentate!"

The master of the house had tiptoed back across the hall like a pleased
schoolboy, and was busy with the ledger when his sister came back, a few
minutes later, with a steaming porringer.  She proceeded to mix a most
fragrant potion in a large gayly flowered glass, while Hamilton
described his morning entertainment by the major; then an old dog came
loitering in, and watched his master enviously, as he drank, and stirred
again, and praised the warm drink, and grew every moment more cheerful.

Mary Hamilton stood leaning against the Russian stove.  "It is just
getting warm now, this dull old idol of yours," she said, "and we cannot
cool it before spring.  We ’ll sit in the dining parlor to-night after
supper; you shall smoke your pipe there, and I can see the good
firelight.  We are lonesome after a gay day and night like yesterday; we
have had no word of gossip yet about our ball.  I have many things to
tell you."

Hamilton nodded amiably; the color had come back into his face, and
driven away the worn and worried look that had fallen on him before his
time.  He had made so light of care that care made light of him, and was
beginning to weigh his spirit down early in middle life.

"I came across the river at the Great Falls," he said, not without
effort, and looking at his young sister, "the roads were so heavy
through the woods by Cranberry Meadow."

"So you did n’t stop to give Granny Sullivan the money?" asked Mary, as
if she were disappointed.

"Yes, on my way this morning.  She knew more about last night than I
could sweep together to tell her if I had stayed an hour."

"The birds tell granny everything," said Mary, laughing.  "She gave me a
handsome scolding the other day because Peggy’s rack of spiced hams had
fallen in the ashes that very morning.  How was the master?"

"Very absentminded, and reading his Horace as if the old poet were new.
He did not even look up while she thanked me for the money the judge had
sent.  ’I’m knitting every minute I’m not working or eating, for my poor
lame lad Jamie,’ she said. ’Now, he has nothing to do but read his law
books, an’ tell others what’s in them, and grow rich!  ’T is all because
his father ’s such a gentleman!’"

"How proud she is, the dear old woman!" said Mary warmly.

"Yes, and they have the sense to be proud of her," said Hamilton,
settling into his chair more comfortably and putting his empty glass
aside.

"I rode to the Rocky Hills myself late this afternoon.  I heard that
Elder Shackley had been ill.  I liked the fresh wind and wet after last
night’s warmth and a busy morning here in the house.  I meant at first
to ride north to meet you; but it was better not, since you crossed at
the Falls."

"I thought you would go another way," said Hamilton seriously.  There
were moments when he seemed old enough to be her father; there were,
indeed, many years between them.  "There is a sad heart and a lonely one
across the river to-night, while we seem gay enough together."

Mary’s face changed quickly; she stepped toward him, and seated herself
on the broad arm of the chair, and drew her brother’s head close against
her side.

"What is it that you wish to say to me?" she asked. "I have been
thinking of dear Madam Wallingford all day long," and Hamilton could
feel her young heart beating quick like a bird’s, close to his ear.

"She was in my mind, too.  I came down that side of the river to see
her, but it grew so rainy and late that I gave up my thought of stopping
except to leave a message.  My mare was very hot and spent," he
explained, in a matter-of-fact way.  "As I came toward the house I saw
my lady standing at a window, and she beckoned me.  She came herself to
the door, and the wind blew her to and fro like a flag.  She had been
weeping terribly.  ’I longed to see a friend,’ she told me, and could
say no more....  I feared that she might bear us much ill will."

Hamilton was so full of feeling that his own voice failed him, and Mary
did not speak at first.

"Well, dear brother?" she asked a moment later, knowing that he had more
to say.

"She wished to send you a message; ’t was her reason for calling me in.
She asked if you would not come to see her to-morrow, late in the
afternoon. Earlier she has business of the estate to manage, in place of
her son.  There are men coming down from the Lake."

"Oh yes, yes, I shall go!" said Mary, with a sob. "Oh, I am so glad; I
feared that her heart was broken, and that she would only hate us!"

"I was afraid, too," returned Hamilton, and he took his sister’s hand
gently in his own, and would have spoken something that she could not
bear to hear.

She moved away quickly.  "Come, dear man," she said, "you must throw off
these muddy clothes; you are warm again now, and they will soon be
calling us to supper."

He sighed, and looked at her in bewilderment as he obeyed.  She had gone
to the window and pushed the shutter back, and was gazing out into the
dark night. He looked at her again as he was going out of the room, but
still she did not speak.  Was it the captain, after all, who had gone
away with her heart?  She had not even mentioned his name!

She was not always so silent about her lovers; they had been many, and
she sometimes spoke frankly enough when he and she were alone together
like this, and the troubles and veils of every-day intercourse were all
put aside.  But who could read a woman’s heart?  Certainly not a poor
bachelor, who had never yet learned to read his own!




                                  *X*

                        *AGAINST WIND AND TIDE*

"Whose daughters ye are as long as ye do well and are not afraid with
any amazement."


Late the next afternoon Mary Hamilton appeared at the north door of the
house, and went quickly down the steep garden side toward the water.  In
the shallow slip between two large wharves lay some idle rowboats, which
belonged to workmen who came every morning from up and down the river.
The day’s short hurry was nearly over; there was still a noise of heavy
adzes hewing at a solid piece of oak timber, but a group of men had
begun to cluster about a storehouse door to talk over the day’s news.

The tide was going out, and a birch canoe which the young mistress had
bespoken was already left high on the shore.  She gave no anxious glance
for her boatman, but got into a stranded skiff, and, reaching with a
strong hand, caught the canoe and dragged it down along the slippery mud
until she had it well afloat; then, stepping lightly aboard, took up her
carved paddle, and looked before her to mark her course across the swift
current.  Wind and current and tide were all going seaward together with
a determined rush.

There was a heavy gundalow floating down the stream toward the lower
warehouse, to be loaded with potatoes for the Portsmouth market, and
this was coming across the slip.  The men on board gave a warning cry as
they caught sight of a slender figure in the fragile craft; but Mary
only laughed, and, with sufficient strength to court the emergency,
struck her paddle deep into the water and shot out into the channel
right across their bow.  The current served well to keep her out of
reach; the men had been holding back their clumsy great boat lest it
should pass the wharf.  One of them ran forward anxiously with his long
sweep, as if he expected to see the canoe in distress like a drowning
fly; but Miss Hamilton, without looking back, was pushing on across the
river to gain the eddy on the farther side.

"She might ha’ held back a minute; she was liable to be catched an’
ploughed right under!  A gal’s just young enough to do that; men that’s
met danger don’t see no sport in them tricks," grumbled the boatman.

"Some fools would ha’ tried to run astarn," said old Mr. Philpot, his
companion, "an’ the suck o’ the water would ha’ catched ’em side up
ag’in’ us; no, she knowed what she was about.  Kind of scairt me,
though.  Look at her set her paddle, strong as a man! Lord, she ’s a
beauty, an’ ’s good ’s they make ’em!"

"Folks all thinks, down our way, she ’ll take it master hard the way
young Wallin’ford went off, ’thout note or warnin’.  They ’ve b’en
a-hoverin’ round all ready to fall to love-makin’, till this objection
got roused ’bout his favorin’ the Tories.  There’d b’en trouble a’ready
if he’d stayed to home.  I misdoubt they’d smoked him out within half a
week’s time. Some o’ them fellows that hangs about Dover Landin’ and
Christian Shore was bent on it, an’ they’d had some better men ’long of
’em."

"Then ’t would have been as black a wrong as ever was done on this
river!" exclaimed the elder man indignantly, looking back over his
shoulder toward the long house of the Wallingfords, that stood peaceful
in the autumn sunshine high above the river. "They ’ve been good folks
in all their generations. The lad was young, an’ had n’t formed his
mind.  As for Madam,—why, women folks is natural Tories; they hold by
the past, same as men are fain to reach out and want change.  She ’s
feeble and fearful since the judge was taken away, an’ can’t grope out
to nothin’ new.  I heared tell that one o’ her own brothers is different
from the rest as all holds by the King, an’ has given as much as any man
in Boston to carry on this war.  There ain’t no Loyalist inside my skin,
but I despise to see a low lot o’ fools think smart o’ theirselves for
bein’ sassy to their betters."

The other man looked a little crestfallen.  "There’s those as has it
that the cap’n o’ the Ranger would n’t let nobody look at young miss
whilst he was by," he hastened to say.  "Folks say they ’re good as
promised an’ have changed rings.  I al’ays heared he was a gre’t man for
the ladies; loves ’em an’ leaves ’em.  I knowed men that had sailed with
him in times past, an’ they said he kept the highest company in every
port.  But if all tales is true"—

"Mostly they ain’t," retorted old Mr. Philpot scornfully.

"I don’t know nothin’ ’t all about it; that’s what folks say," answered
his mate.  "He’s got the look of a bold commander, anyway, and a voice
an’ eye that would wile a bird from a bush."  But at this moment the
gundalow bumped heavily against the wharf, and there was no more time
for general conversation. Mary Hamilton paddled steadily up river in the
smooth water of the eddy, now and then working hard to get round some
rocky point that bit into the hurrying stream.  The wind was driving the
ebbing tide before it, so that the water had fallen quickly, and
sometimes the still dripping boughs of overhanging alders and oaks swept
the canoe from end to end, and spattered the kneeling girl with a cold
shower by way of greeting.  Sometimes a musquash splashed into the water
or scuttled into his chilly hole under the bank, clattering an untidy
heap of empty mussel shells as he went.  All the shy little beasts,
weasels and minks and squirrels, made haste to disappear before this
harmless voyager, and came back again as she passed.  The great
fishhawks and crows sailed high overhead, secure but curious, and harder
for civilization to dispossess of their rights than wild creatures that
lived aground.

The air was dry and sweet, as if snow were coming, and all the falling
leaves were down.  Here and there might linger a tuft of latest frost
flowers in a sheltered place, and the witch-hazel in the thickets was
still sprinkled with bright bloom.  Mary stopped once under the shore
where a bough of this strange, spring-in-autumn flower grew over the
water, and broke some twigs to lay gently before her in the canoe.  The
old Indian, last descendant of the chief Passaconaway, who had made the
light craft and taught her to guide it, had taught her many other things
of his wild and wise inheritance.  This flower of mystery brought up
deep associations with that gentle-hearted old friend, the child of
savagery and a shadowy past.

The river broadened now at Madam’s Cove.  There was a great roaring in
the main channel beyond, where the river was vexed by rocky falls;
inside the cove there was little water left except in the straight
channel that led to the landing-place and quaint heavy-timbered
boat-house.  From the shore a grassy avenue went winding up to the house
above.  Against the northwestern sky the old home of the Wallingfords
looked sad and lonely; its windows were like anxious eyes that followed
the river’s course toward a dark sea where its master had gone
adventuring.

Mary stood on land, looking back the way she had come; her heart was
beating fast, but it was not from any effort of fighting against wind or
tide.  She did not know why she began to remember with strange vividness
the solemn pageant of Judge Wallingford’s funeral, which had followed
the water highway from Portsmouth, one summer evening, on the flood
tide. It was only six years before, when she was already the young and
anxious mistress of her brother’s house, careful and troubled about many
things like Martha, in spite of her gentler name.  She had looked out of
an upper window to see the black procession of boats with slow-moving
oars come curving and winding across the bay; the muffled black of
mourning trailed from the sides; there were soldiers of the judge’s
regiment, sitting straight in their bright uniforms, for pallbearers,
and they sounded a solemn tap of drum as they came.

They drew nearer: the large coffin with its tasseled pall, the long
train of boats which followed filled with sorrowing friends,—the
President of the Province and many of the chief men,—had all passed
slowly by.

The tears rushed to Mary’s eyes, that day, when she saw her brother’s
serious young head among the elder gentlemen, and close beside him was
the fair tear-reddened face and blond uncovered hair of the fatherless
son.  Roger Wallingford was but a boy then; his father had been the kind
friend and generous founder of all her brother’s fortunes.  She
remembered how she had thanked him from a grateful heart, and meant to
be unsparing in her service and unfailing in duty toward the good man’s
widow and son.  They had read prayers for him in the Queen’s Chapel at
Portsmouth; they were but bringing him to his own plot of ground in
Somersworth, at eventide, and Mary Hamilton prayed for him out of a full
heart as his funeral went by.  The color came in her young cheeks at the
remembrance.  What had she dared to do, what responsibility had she not
taken upon her now?  She was but an ignorant girl, and driven by the
whip of Fate.  A strange enthusiasm, for which she could not in this
dark moment defend herself, had led her on.  It was like the moment of
helpless agony that comes with a bad dream.

She turned again and faced the house; and the house, like a great
conscious creature on the hillside, seemed to wait for her quietly and
with patience. She was standing on Wallingford’s ground, and bent upon a
most difficult errand.  There was neither any wish for escape, in her
heart, nor any thought of it, and yet for one moment she trembled as if
the wind shook her as it shook the naked trees.  Then she went her way,
young and strong-footed, up the long slope. It was one of the strange
symbolic correspondences of life that her path led steadily up the hill.


The great door of the house opened wide before her, as if the whole
future must have room to enter; old Rodney, the chief house servant,
stood within, as if he had been watching for succor.  In the spacious
hall the portraits looked proud and serene, as if they were still
capable of all hospitalities save that of speech.

"Will you say that Miss Hamilton waits upon Madam Wallingford?" said
Mary; and the white-headed old man bowed with much ceremony, and went up
the broad stairway, still nodding, and pausing once, with his hand on
the high banister, to look back at so spirited and beautiful a guest.  A
faithful heart ached within him to see her look so young, so
fresh-blooming, so untouched by sorrow, and to think of his stricken
mistress.  Yet she had come into the chilly house like a brave, warm
reassurance, and all Rodney’s resentment was swift to fade.  The quick
instincts of his race were confronted by something that had power to
master them; he comprehended the truth because it was a simple truth and
his was a simple heart.

He disappeared at the turn of the staircase into the upper hall, and
Mary took a few impatient steps to and fro.  On the great moose antlers
was flung some of the young master’s riding gear; there was his rack of
whips below, and a pair of leather gloves with his own firm grasp still
showing in the rounded fingers. There were his rods and guns; even his
old dog leash and the silver whistle.  She knew them all as well as he,
with their significance of past activities and the joys of life and
combat.  They made their owner seem so close at hand, and the pleasures
of his youth all snatched away.  Oh, what a sharp longing for the old
lively companionship was in her heart!  It was like knowing that poor
Roger was dead instead of gone away to sea.  He would come no more in
the winter evenings to tell his hunter’s tales of what had happened at
the lakes, or to plan a snowshoe journey up the country.  Mary stamped
her foot impatiently; was she going to fall into helpless weakness now,
when she had most need to be quiet and to keep her steadiness? Old
Rodney was stepping carefully down the stairs again; she wore a paler
look than when they had parted.  Somehow, she felt like a stranger in
the familiar house.

Once Rodney would have been a mere reflection of his mistress’s ready
welcome, but now he came close to Miss Hamilton’s side and spoke in an
anxious whisper.

"You ’ll be monst’ous gentle to her dis day, young mistis?" he asked
pleadingly.  "Oh yis, mistis; her heart’s done broke!"

Then he shuffled away to the dining-room to move the tankards on the
great sideboard.  One could feel everything, but an old black man, born
in the jungle and stolen by a slaver’s crew, knew when he had said
enough.




                                  *XI*

                          *THAT TIME OF YEAR*

"Come, Sorrow! put thy sweet arms round my neck,
For none are left to do this, only thou."


The low afternoon sun slanted its rays into the stately chamber, and
brightened the dull East Indian red of some old pictured cottons that
made the tasseled hangings.  There were glowing coals in the deep
fireplace, and Madam Wallingford sat at the left, in one of those great
easy-chairs that seem to offer refuge to both illness and sorrow.  She
had turned away so that she could not see the river, and even the
wistful sunshine was all behind her.  There was a slender light-stand
with some white knitting-work at her side, but her hands were lying idle
in her lap.  She had never been called beautiful; she had no great
learning, though on a shelf near by she had gathered a little treasury
of good books.  She had manner rather than manners; she was plainly
enough that unmistakable and easily recognized person, a great lady.
They are but few in every generation, but the simplicity and royalty of
their lovely succession have never disappeared from an admiring world.

"Come in, Mary," said Madam Wallingford, with a wan look of gentleness
and patience.  "’Here I and Sorrow sit!’"

She motioned toward a chair which her attendant, an ancient
countrywoman, was placing near.  Mary crossed the room quickly, and took
her appointed place; then she clasped her hands tight together, and her
head drooped.  At that moment patriotism and all its high resolves may
have seemed too high; she forgot everything except that she was in the
presence of a lonely woman, sad and old and bereft.  She saw the woeful
change that grief had made in this Tory mother of a Patriot son.  She
could but sit in silence with maidenly self-effacement, and a wistful
affectionateness that was like the timidest caress,—this young creature
of high spirit, who had so lately thrown down her bold challenge of a
man’s loyalty.  She sat there before the fire, afraid of nothing but her
own insistent tears; she could not conquer a sudden dumbness that had
forgotten speech.  She could not bear to look again at the piteous
beloved face of Madam Wallingford. The march of events had withered the
elder woman and trampled her underfoot, like a flower in the road that
every wheel went over; she had grown old in two short days, while the
girl who sat before her had only changed into brighter bloom.

"You may leave us now, Susan," said Madam Wallingford; and with many an
anxious glance the old serving woman went away.


Still there fell silence between the two.  The wind was droning its
perpetual complaining note in the chimney; a belated song sparrow lifted
its happy little tune outside the southern windows, and they both
listened to the very end.  Then their eyes turned to each other’s faces;
the bird had spoken first in the wintry air.  Then Mary Hamilton, with a
quick cry, took a hurried step, and fell upon her knees at the mother’s
side, and took her in her arms, hiding her own face from sight.

"What can I say?  Oh, what can I say?" she cried again.  "It will break
my heart if you love me no more!"

The elder woman shrank for a moment; there was a quick flash in her
eyes; then she drew Mary still nearer and held her fast.  The comfort of
a warm young life so close to her shivering loneliness, the sense of her
own weakness and that Mary was the stronger, kept her from breaking now
into the stern speech of which her heart was full.  She said nothing for
a long time but sat waiting; and now and then she laid her hand on the
girl’s soft hair, until Mary’s fit of weeping had passed.

"Bring the little footstool here and sit by me; we must talk of many
things together," she gave command at last; and Mary, doing the errand
like a child, lingered by the window, and then returned with calmness to
her old friend’s side.  The childish sense of distance between them had
strangely returned, and yet she was conscious that she must take a new
charge upon herself, and keep nearer than ever to this sad heart.

"I did not know his plans until that very night," she said to Madam
Wallingford, looking bravely and sweetly now into the mother’s face.  "I
could not understand at first why there was such excitement in the very
air.  Then I found out that the mob was ready to come and ruin you, and
to drag him out to answer them, as they did the Loyalists in Boston. And
there were many strangers on our side of the river.  I heard a horrid
humming in the crowd that gathered when the captain came; they kept
together after he was in the house, and I feared that they were bent
upon a worse errand.  I was thankful to know that Roger was in
Portsmouth, so nothing could be done that night.  When he came to me
suddenly a little later,"—the girl’s voice began to falter,—"I was angry
with him at first; I thought only of you.  I see now that I was cruel."

"My son has been taught to honor and to serve his King," said Madam
Wallingford coldly.

"He has put his country above his King, now," answered Mary Hamilton,
who had steadied herself and could go on: yet something hindered her
from saying more, and the wind kept up its steady plaint in the chimney,
but in this difficult moment the little bird was still.

"To us, our King and country have been but one. I own that the colonies
have suffered hardship, and not alone through willfulness; but to give
the reins of government to unfit men, to put high matters into the hands
of rioters and lawbreakers, can only bring ruin. I could not find it in
my heart to blame him, even after the hasty Declaration, when he would
not join with English troops to fight the colonies; but to join the
rebels to fight England should shame a house like this. Our government
is held a high profession among the wise of England; these foolish
people will bring us all upon the quicksands.  If my son had sailed with
officers and gentlemen, such"—

"He has sailed with a hero," said Mary hotly, "and in company with good
men of our own neighborhood, in whom he can put his trust."

"Let us not quarrel," answered the lady more gently. She leaned her head
against the chair side, and looked strangely pale and old.  "’T is true
I sent for you to accuse you, and now you are here I only long for
comfort.  I am the mother of an only son; I am a widow,—little you know
what that can mean,—and my prop has gone.  Yet I would have sent him
proudly to the wars, like a mother of ancient days, did I but think the
quarrel just.  I could but bless him when he wakened me and knelt beside
my bed, and looked so noble, telling his eager story.  I did not think
his own heart altogether fixed upon this change until he said his
country would have need of him.  ’All your country, boy!’ I begged him
then, ’not alone this willful portion of our heritage.  Can you forget
that you are English born?’

"Then he rose up and stood upon his feet, and I saw that I had looked my
last upon his boyish days.  ’No, dear mother,’ he told me, ’I am
beginning to remember it!’ and he stooped and kissed me, and stood
between the curtains looking down at me, till I myself could see his
face no more, I was so blind with tears. Then he kissed me yet again,
and went quick away, and I could hear him sobbing in the hall.  I would
not have him break his word though my own heart should break instead,
and I rose then and put on my double-gown, and I called to Susan, who
wept aloud,—I even chid her at last for that, and her foolish questions;
and all through the dead of night we gathered the poor child’s hasty
plenishings.  Now I can only weep for things forgotten.  ’T was still
dark when he rode away; when the tide turned, the river cried all along
its banks, as it did that long night when his father lay dead in the
house.  I prayed; I even lingered, hoping that he might be too late, and
the ship gone to sea.  When he unpacks the chest, he will not see the
tears that fell there.  I cannot think of our parting, it hurts my heart
so....  He bade me give his love to you; he said that God could not be
so cruel as to forbid his return.

"Mary Hamilton!" and suddenly, as she spoke, all the plaintive bewailing
of her voice, all the regretful memories, were left behind.  "Oh, Mary
Hamilton, tell me why you have done this!  All my children are in their
graves save this one youngest son.  Since I was widowed I have gathered
age even beyond my years, and a heavy burden of care belongs to this
masterless house.  I am a woman full of fears and weak in body.  My own
forefathers and my husband’s house alike have never refused their loyal
service to church and state.  Who can stand in my son’s place now?  He
was early and late at his business; the poor boy’s one ambition was to
make his father less missed by those who look to us for help.  What is a
little soldiering, a trading vessel sunk or an English town affrighted,
to the service he could give at home?  Had you only thought of this, had
you only listened to those who are wiser than we, had you remembered
that these troubles must be, in the end, put down, you could not have
been unjust.  I never dreamed that the worst blow that could fall upon
me, except my dear son had died, could be struck me by your hand.  Had
you no pity, that you urged my boy to go?  Tell me why you were willing.
Tell me, I command you, why you have done this!"

Mary was standing, white as a flower now, before her dear accuser.  The
quick scarlet flickered for one moment in her cheeks; her frightened
eyes never for one moment left Madam Wallingford’s face.

"You must answer me!" the old mother cried again, shaken with passion
and despair.

"Because I loved you," said the girl then, and a flash of light was on
her face that matched the thrill in her voice.  "God forgive me, I had
no other reason," she answered, as if she were a prisoner at the bar,
and her very life hung upon the words.

Madam Wallingford had spent all the life that was in her.  Sleepless
nights had robbed her of her strength; she was withered by her grief
into something like the very looks of death.  All the long nights, all
the long hours since she had lost her son, she had said these things
over to herself, that she might say them clear to those who ought to
listen.  They had now been said, and her poor brain that had shot its
force of anger and misery to another heart was cold like the firelock
that has sped its ball.  She sank back into the chair, faint with
weakness; she put out her hands as if she groped for help.  "Oh, Mary,
Mary!" she entreated now; and again Mary, forgetting all, was ready with
fond heart to comfort her.

"It is of no use!" exclaimed Madam Wallingford, rousing herself at last,
and speaking more coldly than before.  "I can only keep to one
thought,—that my son has gone.  ’T is Love brings all our pain; this is
what it means to have a child; my joy and my sorrow are one, and the
light of my life casts its shadow! And I have always loved you; I have
wished many a time, in the old days, that you were my own little girl.
And now I am told that this adventurer has won your heart,—this man who
speaks much of Glory, lest Glory should forget to speak of him; that you
have even made my son a sacrifice to pride and ambition!"

Mary’s cheeks flamed, her eyes grew dark and angry; she tried to speak,
but she looked in her accuser’s face, and first a natural rage, and then
a sudden pity and the old love, held her dumb.

"Forgive me, then," said Madam Wallingford, looking at her, and into her
heart there crept unwonted shame.

"You do me wrong; you would wrong both your son and me!" and Mary had
sprung away next moment from her side.  "I have told only the truth. I
was harsh to Roger when I had never known him false, and I almost hated
him because he seemed unsettled in his course.  I even thought that the
rising against the Loyalists had frighted him, and I hated him when I
thought he was seeking shelter.  He came that very night to tell me that
he was for the Patriots, and was doing all a brave man could, and
standing for Liberty with the rest of us.  Then I knew better than he
how far the distrust of him had gone, and I took it upon myself to plead
with the captain of the Ranger. I knew too well that if, already
prejudiced by envious tales, he turned the commission down, the mob
would quick take the signal.  ’T was for love of my friends I acted;
something drove me past myself, that night.  If Roger should die, if
indeed I have robbed you of your son, this was the part I took.  I would
not have done otherwise.  He has taken a man’s part for Liberty, and I
thank God.  Now I have told you all."

They were facing each other again.  Mary’s voice was broken; she could
say no more.  Then, with a quick change of look and with a splendid
gesture, Madam Wallingford rose from her place like a queen. Her face
shone with sudden knowledge of new happiness; she held out her arms,—no
queen and no accuser, but only a bereft woman, a loving heart that had
been beggared of all comfort.  "Come, my darling," she whispered; "you
must forgive me everything, and love me the more for my poor weakness;
you will help me to have patience all these weary months."


The sun broke out again from behind a thick, low-hanging cloud, and
flooded all the dark chamber. Again the Indian stuffs looked warm and
bright; the fire sprang on the hearth as if upon an altar: it was as if
Heaven’s own light had smiled into the room. Poor Mary’s young pride was
sore hurt and distressed, but her old friend’s wonted look of kindness
was strangely coming back; she showed all her familiar affectionateness
as if she had passed a great crisis.  As for the lad whom they had wept
and quarreled over, and for whose sake they had come back again to each
other’s hearts, he was far out upon the gray and tumbling sea; every
hour took him farther and farther from home.

And now Madam Wallingford must talk of him with Mary, and tell her
everything; how he had chosen but two books,—his Bible and an old volume
of French essays that Master Sullivan had given him when he went to
college.  "’T was his copy of Shakespeare’s plays," said she, "that he
wanted most; but in all our hurry, and with dull candlelight, we could
find it nowhere, and yesterday I saw it lying here on my chest of
drawers.  ’T is not so many days since he read me a pretty piece of The
Tempest, as we sat together.  I can hear his voice now as he read: ’t
was like a lover, the way he said ’_my noble mistress_!’ and I could but
smile to hear him.  He saw the great Garrick in his best characters,
when he was in London. Roger was ever a pretty reader when he was a boy.
’T is a gift the dullest child might learn from Master Sullivan."

The mother spoke fondly between smiles and tears; the old book lay open
on her knee, and something dropped to the floor,—a twig of faded
witch-hazel blossoms that her son had held in his fingers as he read,
and left between the leaves for a marker; a twig of witch-hazel, perhaps
from the same bough that Mary had broken as she came.  It were easy to
count it for a message where some one else might think of but a pretty
accident.  Mary stooped and picked the withered twig of blossoms from
the floor, and played with it, smiling as Madam Wallingford talked on,
and they sat together late into the autumn twilight.  The poor lady was
like one who, by force of habit, takes up the life of every day again
when death has been in the house.  The familiar presence of her young
neighbor had cured her for the moment of the pain of loneliness, but the
sharp words she had spoken in her distress would ache for many a day in
Mary’s heart.

Mary could not understand that strange moment when she had been
forgiven.  Yet the hardest soul might have compassion for a poor woman
so overwrought and defeated; she was still staggering from a heavy blow.

It was dark when they parted, and Madam Wallingford showed a strange
solicitude after her earlier reproaches, and forbade Mary when she would
have crossed the river alone.  She took a new air of rightful command,
and Rodney must send two of the men with their own boat, and put by the
canoe until morning.  The stars were bright and quick as diamonds
overhead, and it was light enough on the water, as they crossed.  The
candlelight in the upper chamber on the hill looked dim, as if there
were illness in the house.

Indeed, Madam Wallingford was trembling with cold since her young guest
had gone.  Susan wrapped her in an old cloak of soft fur, as she sat
beside the fire, and turned often to look at her anxiously, as she piled
the fagots and logs on the hearth until their flame towered high.

"Dear child, dear child," the poor lady said over and over in her heart.
"I think she does not know it yet, but I believe she loves my son."


That night old Susan hovered about her mistress, altering the droop of
the bed curtains and untwisting the balls of their fringe with a
businesslike air; then she put some heavy knots of wood on the fire for
the night, and built it solidly together, until the leaping lights and
shadows played fast about the room.  She glanced as often as she dared
at the tired face on the pillow.

"’T is a wild night, Susan," said Madam Wallingford. "I thought the wind
was going down with the sun.  How often I have watched for my dear man
such nights as this, when he was kept late in Portsmouth!  ’T was well
we lived in town those latest winters.  You remember that Rodney always
kept the fire bright in the dining parlor (’t is a cosy place in
winter), and put a tankard of mulled wine inside the fender; ’t would
bring back the color to his face all chilled with winter rain, and the
light into his eyes. And Roger would come in with him, holding his
father’s hand; he would ever run out bareheaded in the wet, while I
called to them from the door to come in and let the horse go to stable,
and they laughed at me for my fears.  Where is Roger to-night, I wonder,
Susan?  They cannot be in port for a long time yet. I hate to think of
him on the sea!"

"Maybe ’t is morning there, and the sun out, madam."

"Susan," said Madam Wallingford, "you used to sing to him when he was a
baby; sit near the fire awhile,—there is no more for you to do.  Sing
one of your old hymns, so that I may go to sleep; perhaps it will quiet
his heart, too, if we are quiet and try to be at peace."

The very shadows grew stiller, as if to listen, as the patient old
handmaiden came and sat beside the bed and began to sing, moving her
foot as if she still held the restless baby who had grown to be a man.
There were quavering notes in her voice, but when she had sung all her
pious verses of the Cradle Hymn to their very end Madam Wallingford was
fast asleep.




                                 *XII*

                            *BETWEEN DECKS*

"’But when shall I see Athens and the Acropolis again?’

"’Wretched man! doth not that satisfy thee which thou seest every day?
Hast thou aught better or greater to see than the sun, the moon, the
stars, the common earth, the sea?’"

"Who would Hercules have been if he had sat at home?"


The Ranger was under full sail, and ran like a hound; she had cleared
the Banks with all their snow squalls and thick nights, without let or
hindrance.  The captain’s boast that he would land his dispatches and
spread the news of Burgoyne’s surrender in France in thirty days seemed
likely to come true.  The men were already beginning to show effects of
constant vigilance and overwork; but whatever discomforts might arrive,
the splendid seamanship of Paul Jones could only be admired by such
thorough-going sailors as made up the greater portion of his crew.  The
younger members of the ship’s company were full of gayety if the wind
and work eased ever so little, and at any time, by night or day, some
hearty voice might be heard practicing the strains of a stirring song
new made by one of the midshipmen:—

    "That is why we Brave the Blast
    To carry the news to Lon-don."


There were plenty of rival factions and jealousies. The river men were
against all strangers; and even the river men had their own divisions,
their warm friendships and cold aversions, so that now and then some
smouldering fire came perilously near an outbreak.  The tremendous
pressure of work alow and aloft, the driving wind, the heavy tumbling
seas, the constant exposure and strain in such trying duty and incessant
service of the sails, put upon every man all that he could well bear,
and sent him to his berth as tired as a dog.

It takes but little while for a good shipmaster to discover who are the
difficult men in his crew, the sea lawyers and breeders of
dissatisfaction.  The captain of the Ranger was a man of astonishing
readiness both to blame and praise; nobody could resist his inspiriting
enthusiasm and dominating presence, but in absence he was often proved
wrong, and roundly cursed, as captains are, with solid satisfaction of
resentment. Everybody cheered when he boldly declared against flogging,
and even tossed that horrid sea-going implement, the cat, lightly over
the ship’s side.  Even in this surprising moment, one of the old seamen
had growled that when you saw a man too good, it was the time to look
out for him.

"I dasen’t say but it’s about time to get a fuss going," said one of
these mariners to a friend, later on. "Ginerally takes about ten days to
start a row atween decks, ’less you ’re extra eased off with good
weather."

[Illustration: THE RANGER]

"This bad weather’s all along o’ Dickson," ventured his comrade; "if
they’d known what they was about, he ’d been the fust man they’d hasted
to set ashore.  I know him; I ’ve knowed him ever since he was a boy. I
see him get a black stripe o’ rage acrost his face when he seen Mr.
Wallin’ford come aboard, that mornin’. Wallin’ford’s folks cotched him
thievin’ when he had his fat chance o’ surveyor up country, after the
old judge died.  He cut their growth on his own account and done a sight
o’ tricks, and Madam dismissed him, and would ha’ jailed him but for
pity of his folks.  I always wished she’d done it; ’t would ha’ stamped
him plain, if he’d seen the inside o’ old York jail for a couple o’
years.  As ’t was, he had his own story to tell, and made out how he was
the injured one; so there was some o’ them fools that likes to be on the
off side that went an’ upheld him.  Oh, Dickson ’s smart, and some calls
him pious, but I wish you’d seen him the day Madam Wallin’ford sent for
him to speak her mind!  That mornin’ we was sailin’ out o’ Porchmouth, I
see him watch the young man as if he was layin’ for him like a tiger!
There he is now, comin’ out o’ the cabin.  I guess the cap’n ’s been
rakin’ him fore an’ aft.  He hates him; an’ Simpson hates him, too, but
not so bad.  Simpson don’t jibe with the cap’n hisself, so he demeans
himself to hark to Dickson more ’n he otherwise would.  Lord, what a
cur’ous world this is!"

"What’s that n’ise risin’ out o’ the fo’c’s’le now, Cooper?  Le’ ’s go
see!" and the two old comrades made haste to go below.


Paul Jones gave a hearty sigh, as he sat alone in his cabin, and struck
his fist into the empty air.  He also could hear the sound of a loud
quarrel from the gun deck, and for a moment indulged a fierce hope that
somebody might be well punished, or even killed, just to lessen the
number of citizens in this wrangling village with which he had put to
sea.  They had brought aboard all the unsettled rivalries and jealousies
of a most independent neighborhood.

He looked about him as he sat; then rose and impatiently closed one of
his lockers where there was an untidy fold of crumpled clothing hanging
out.  What miserable surroundings and conditions for a man of inborn
fastidiousness and refinement of nature!

Yet this new ship, so fast growing toward the disgusting squalor of an
old one; these men, with their cheap suspicions and narrow ambitions,
were the strong tools ready to his hand.  It was a manly crew as crews
go, and like-minded in respect to their country’s wrongs.

"I feel it in my breast that I shall some day be master in a great sea
fight!" said the little captain as he sat alone, while the Ranger
labored against the waves, and the light of heroic endurance came back
to his eyes as he saw again the splendid vision that had ever led him
on.

"Curse that scoundrel Dickson!" and his look darkened.  "Patience,
patience!  If I were a better sleeper, I could face everything that can
come in a man’s day; I could face the devil himself.  The wind’s in the
right quarter now, and the sea’s going down. I ’ll go on deck and give
all hands some grog,—I ’ll give it them myself; the poor fellows are
cold and wet, and they serve me like men.  We ’re getting past the
worst," and again Paul Jones fell to studying his charts as if they were
love letters writ by his lady’s hand.


Cooper and Hanscom had come below to join the rest of their watch, and
still sat side by side, being old shipmates and friends.  There was an
easy sort of comfort in being together.  Just now they spoke again in
low voices of young Mr. Wallingford.

"Young master looks wamble-cropped to me," said Hanscom.  "Don’t fancy
privateerin’ so well as ridin’ a blood horse on Porchmouth Parade, and
bein’ courted by the Tory big-bugs.  Looks wintry in the face to me."

"Lord bless us, when he’s old ’s we are, he ’ll l’arn that spring al’ays
gets round again long’s a creatur’ ’s alive," answered Cooper, who
instinctively gave a general turn to the discussion.  "Ary thing that’s
livin’ knows its four seasons, an’ I ’ve long maintained that after the
wust o’ winter, spring usu’lly doos come follerin’ right on."

"I don’t know but it’s so," agreed his mate politely. Cooper would have
these fanciful notions, while Hanscom was a plain-spoken man.

"What I’d like to know," said he, "yes, what I ’d like to ascertain, is
what young Squire Wallin’ford ever come for; ’t ain’t in his blood to
fight on our side, an’ he’s too straight-minded to play the sneak.
Also, he never come from cowardice.  No, I can’t make it out noway.
Sometimes folks mistakes their duty, and risks their all.  Bain’t spyin’
round to do no hurt, is he?—or _is_ he?"

There was a sharp suggestion in the way this question was put, and
Cooper turned fiercely upon his companion.

"Hunscom, I be ashamed of you!" he said scornfully, and said no more.
There was a dull warmth of color in his hard, sea-smitten face; he was
an elderly, quiet man, with a round, pleasant countenance unaltered in
the worst of weather, and a look of kindly tolerance.

"There’s b’en some consid’able changin’ o’ sides in our neighborhood, as
you know," he said, a few moments later, in his usual tone.  "Young
Wallin’ford went to school to Master Sullivan, and the old master l’arnt
everybody he could l’arn to be honest an’ square, to hold by their word,
an’ be afeard o’ nothin’."

"Pity ’t was that Dickson could n’t ha’ got a term o’ such schoolin’,"
said Hanscom, as they beheld that shipmate’s unwelcome face peering down
the companion.

"Sometimes I wish I was to home again," announced Cooper, in an
unexpected fit of despondency.  "I don’ know why; ’tain’t usual with me
to have such feelin’s in the outset of a v’y’ge.  I grow sicker every
day o’ this flat, strivin’ sea.  I was raised on a good hill.  I don’
know how I ever come to foller the sea, anyway!"


The forecastle was a forlorn abiding-place at best, and crowded at any
hour almost past endurance.  The one hint of homeliness and decency was
in the well-made sea chests, which had not been out of place against a
steadier wall in the farmhouses whence most of them had come.  They were
of plain wood, with a touch of art in their rude carving; many of them
were painted dull green or blue.  There were others with really handsome
escutcheons of wrought iron, and all were graced with fine turk’s-heads
to their rope handles, and every ingenuity of sailors’ fancywork.

There was a grumbling company of able seamen, their owners, who had no
better place to sit than the chest tops, or to stretch at idle length
with these treasuries to lean against.  The cold sea was nearer to a man
than when he was on deck and could reassure himself of freedom by a look
at the sky.  The hammocks were here and there sagging with the rounded
bulk of a sleeping owner, and all jerked uneasily as the vessel pitched
and rolled by turns.  The air was close and heavy with dampness and
tobacco smoke.

At this moment the great sea boots of Simon Staples were seen descending
from the deck above, and stumbling dangerously on the slippery straight
ladder.

"Handsomely, handsomely," urged a spectator, with deep solicitude.

"She ’s goin’ large now, ain’t she?  How’s she headin’ now?" asked a man
named Grant.

"She’s full an’ by, an’ headin’ east by south half east,—same ’s we
struck out past the Isles o’ Shoals," was the mirthful answer.  "She
can’t keep to nothin’, an’ the cap’n ’s got to make another night on’t.
But she ’s full an’ by, just now, all you lazy larbowlines," he repeated
cheerfully, at last getting his head down under decks as ’his foot found
the last step.  "She ’s been on a good leadin’ wind this half hour back,
an’ he ’s got the stu’n’sails set again; ’tis all luff an’ touch her,
this v’y’ge."

There was a loud groan from the listeners.  The captain insisted upon
spreading every rag the ship could stagger under, and while they admired
his persistent daring, it was sometimes too much for flesh and blood.

Staples was looking ruefully at his yarn mittens. They were far beyond
the possibility of repair, and he took off first one and then the other
of these cherished reminders of much logging experience, and, sitting on
his sea chest, began to ravel what broken gray yarn was left and to wind
it into a ball.

"Goin’ to knit you another pair?" inquired Hanscom.  "That’s clever;
empl’y your idle moments."

"Mend up his stockin’s, you fool!" explained Grant, who was evidently
gifted with some sympathetic imagination.

"I wish they was thumbs up on the stakes o’ my old wood-sled," said
Staples.  "There, when I’m to sea I wish ’s how I was lumberin’, an’
when I’m in the woods I’m plottin’ how to git to sea again; ain’t no
suitin’ of me neither way.  I al’ays wanted to be aboard a fast sailer,
an’ here I be thrashin’ along, an’ lamentin’ ’cause my mittins is wore
out the fust fortnight."

"My!  I wish old Master Hackett that built her could see how she runs!"
he exclaimed next moment, as if a warm admiration still had power to
cheer him. "I marked her lines for a beauty the day I see her launched:
’t was what drove me here.  There was plenty a-watchin’ her on Lungdon’s
Island that hoped she’d stick in the stays, but she took the water like
a young duck."

"He’d best not carry so much sail when she’s clawin’ to wind’ard close
hauled," growled James Chase, an old Nantucket seaman, with a warning
shake of the head.  "’T won’t take much to lay her clear down, I can
tell him!  I never see a ship drove so, in my time.  Lord help every
soul aboard if she wa’n’t so weatherly!"

Fernald and Sherburne, old Portsmouth sailors, wagged their sage heads
in solemn agreement; but William Young, a Dover man, with a responsible
look, was waiting with some impatience for Chase to stand out of the
poor supply of light that came down the narrow hatchway.  Young was
reading an old copy of the New Hampshire Gazette that had already been
the solace of every reading man aboard.

"What in time ’s been the matter amongst ye?" Staples now inquired, with
interest.  "I heard as how there was a fuss goin’ down below; ain’t ary
bully-raggin’ as I can see; dull as meetin’!"  Hanscom and Cooper looked
up eagerly; some of the other men only laughed for answer; but Chase
signified that the trouble lay with their messmate Starbuck, who
appeared to be surly, and sat with his back to the company.  He now
turned and displayed a much-disfigured countenance, but said nothing.

"What’s the cap’n about now?" Chase hastened to inquire pointedly.

"He’s up there a-cunnin’ the ship," answered Staples.  "He ’s workin’
the life out o’ Grosvenor at the wheel.  I just come from the maintop;
my arms aches as if they’d been broke with a crowbar.  I lost my holt o’
the life line whilst we was settin’ the stu’n’s’l there on the
maintops’l yard, an’ I give me a dreadful wrench.  He had n’t ought to
send them green boys to such places, neither; pore little Johnny Downes
was makin’ out to do his stent like a man, but the halyards got fouled
in the jewel blocks, an’ for all he’s so willin’-hearted the tears was
a-runnin’ down his cheeks when he come back.  I was skeert the wind’d
blow him off like a whirligig off a stick, an’ I spoke sharp to him so
’s to brace him, an’ give him a good boxed ear when I got him in reach.
He was about beat, an’ half froze anyway; his fingers looked like the
p’ints o’ parsnips.  When he got back he laid right over acrost the cap.
I left him up there a-clingin’ on."

"He worked as handsome a pair o’ man-rope knots as I ever see, settin’
here this mornin’," said Cooper, compassionately.  "He ’ll make a good
smart sailor, but he needs to grow; he’s dreadful small to send aloft in
a spell o’ weather.  The cap’n don’t save himself, this v’y’ge, nor
nobody else."

"Come, you’d as good ’s hear what Starbuck’s b’en saying," said Chase,
with a wink.  He had been waiting impatiently for this digression to
end.

"That spry-tempered admiral o’ yourn don’t know how to treat a crew!"
Starbuck burst forth, at this convenient opportunity.  "Some on us gits
a whack ivery time he parades the deck.  He’s re’lly too outdacious for
decent folks.  This arternoon I was a-loungin’ on the gratin’s an’ got
sort o’ drowsin’ off, an’ I niver heared him comin’ nor knowed he was
there.  Along he come like some upstropelous poppet an’ give me a cuff
side o’ my head.  I dodged the next one, an’ spoke up smart ’fore I
knowed what I was doin’.  ’Damn ye, le’ me be!’ says I, an’ he fetched
me another on my nose here; most stunded me.

"’I ’ll l’arn ye to make yourself sca’ce!  Keep to the port-hand side
where ye belong!  Remember you ’re aboard a man-o’-war!’ says he,
hollerin’ like a crowin’ pullet.  ’’T ain’t no fishin’ smack!  Go
forrard!  Out o’ the way with ye!’ says he, same ’s I was a stray dog.
I run to the side, my nose was a-bleedin’ so, an’ I fumbled arter
somethin’ to serve me for a hankicher.

"’Here ’s mine,’ says he, ’but you ’ve got to understand there’s
discipline on this frigate,’ says he. Joseph Fernald knows where I was,"
continued the sufferer; "you see me, Joseph, when you come past.
’Twa’n’t larboard nor starboard; ’twas right ’midships, ’less I may have
rolled one way or t’other. I could ha’ squinched him so all the friends
he’d ever needed ’d be clargy an’ saxon, an’ then to pass me his linning
handkicher ’s if I was a young lady!  I dove into my pockets an’ come
upon this old piece o’ callamink I’d wropped up some ’baccy in.  I never
give a look at him; I d’ know but he gallded me more when he was
pleasant ’n when he fetched me the clip. I ketched up a lingum-vitæ
marlinspike I see by me an’ took arter him.  I should ha’ hit him good,
but he niver turned to look arter me, an’ I come to reason. If I’d had
time, I’d ha’ hit him, if I’d made the rest o’ this v’y’ge in irons."

"Lord sakes! don’t you bluster no more!" advised old Mr. Cooper
soothingly, with a disapproving glance at the pleased audience.
"Shipmasters like him ain’t goin’ to ask ye every mornin’ how seafarin’
agrees with ye.  He ain’t goin’ to treat hisself nor none on us like
passengers.  He ain’t had three hours sleep a night sence this v’y’ge
begun.  He’s been studyin’ his charts this day, with his head set to ’em
on the cabin table ’s if they showed the path to heaven. They was
English charts, too, ’long by Bristol an’ up there in the Irish Sea.  I
see ’em through the skylight."

"I ’ll bate he’s figurin’ to lay outside some o’ them very ports an’ cut
out some han’some prizes," said Falls, one of the gunners, looking down
out of his hammock.  Falls was a young man full of enthusiasm, who
played the fiddle.

"You ’ll find ’t will be all glory for him, an’ no prizes for you, my
young musicianer!" answered Starbuck, who was a discouraged person by
nature. Now that he had a real grievance his spirits seemed to rise.
"Up hammocks all!  Show a leg!" he gayly ordered the gunner.

"Wall, I seldom seen so good a navigator as the cap’n in my time,"
insisted Staples.  "He knows every man’s duty well’s his own, an’ that
he knows to a maracle."

"I ’ll bate any man in this fo’c’s’le that he ’s a gre’t fighter; you
wait an’ see the little wasp when he ’s gittin’ into action!" exclaimed
Chase, who had been with Paul Jones on the Alfred.  "He knows no fear
an’ he sticks at nothin’!  You hold on till we ’re safe in Channel, an’
sight one o’ them fat-bellied old West Injyinen lo’ded deep an’ headed
up for London. Then you ’ll see Gre’t Works in a way you niver
expected."

This local allusion was not lost upon most members of the larboard
watch, and Starbuck’s wrongs, with the increasing size of his once
useful nose, were quite disregarded in the hopeful laughter which
followed.

"Hand me the keerds," said one of the men lazily. "Falls, there, knows a
couple o’ rale queer tricks."

"You keep ’em dowsed; if he thinks we ain’t sleepin’ or eatin’, so ’s to
git our courage up," said Staples, "he ’ll have every soul on us aloft.
Le’ ’s set here where ’t ’s warm an’ put some kecklin’ on Starbuck; the
cap’n ’s ’n all places to once, with eyes like gimblets, an’ the wind ’s
a-blowin’ up there round the lubber holes like the mouth o’ hell."

Chase, the Nantucket sailor, looked at him, with a laugh.

"What a farmer you be," he exclaimed.  "Makes me think of a countryman,
shipmate o’ mine on the brig Polly Dunn.  We was whaling in the South
Seas, an’ it come on to blow like fury; we was rollin’ rails under, an’
I was well skeert myself; feared I could n’t keep my holt; him an’ me
was on the fore yard together.  He looked dreadful easy an’ pleasant. I
thought he’d be skeert too, if he knowed enough, an’ I kind o’ swore at
the fool an’ axed him what he was a-thinkin’ of.  ’Why, ’t is the 20th
o’ May,’ says he; ’all the caows goes to pastur’ to-day, to home in
Eppin’!’"

There was a cheerful chuckle from the audience. Grant alone looked much
perplexed.

"Why, ’t is the day, ain’t it?" he protested. "What be you all
a-laughin’ at?"

At this moment there was a strange lull; the wind fell, and the Ranger
stopped rolling, and then staggered as if she balked at some unexpected
danger. One of the elder seamen gave an odd warning cry. A monstrous
hammer seemed to strike the side, and a great wave swept over as if to
bury them forever in the sea.  The water came pouring down and flooded
the forecastle knee-deep.  There was an outcry on deck, and an instant
later three loud knocks on the scuttle.

"All the larboard watch ahoy!" bawled John Dougall. "Hear the news,
can’t ye?  All hands up! All hands on deck!"




                                 *XIII*

                        *THE MIND OF THE DOCTOR*

"Or rather no arte, but a divine and heavenly instinct, not to be gotten
by labour and learning, but adorned by both."


There was one man, at least, on board the Ranger who was a lover of
peace: this was the ship’s surgeon, Dr. Ezra Green.  With a strong and
hearty crew, and the voyage just beginning, his professional duties had
naturally been but light; he had no more concern with the working of the
ship than if he were sitting in his office at home in Dover, and eagerly
assented to the captain’s proposal that he should act as the Ranger’s
purser.

The surgeon’s tiny cabin was stuffed with books; this was a good chance
to go on with his studies, and, being a good sailor and a cheerful man,
the whole ship’s company took pleasure in his presence.  There was an
amiable seriousness about his every-day demeanor that calmed even the
activities of the captain’s temper; he seemed to be surgeon and purser
and chaplain all in one, and to be fit, as one of his calling should be,
to minister to both souls and bodies.  It was known on board that he was
unusually liberal in his views of religion, and was provided with some
works upon theology as well as medicine, and could argue well for the
Arminian doctrines against Dickson, who, like many men of his type, was
pretentious of great religious zeal, and declared himself a Calvinist of
the severest order.  Dickson was pleased to consider the surgeon very
lax and heretical; as if that would make the world think himself a good
man, and the surgeon a bad one, which was, for evident proof and reason,
quite impossible.

On this dark night, after the terrible sea of the afternoon had gone
down, and poor Solomon Hutchings, the first victim of the voyage, had
been made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances of a badly
broken leg, the surgeon was sitting alone, with a pleasant sense of
having been useful.  He gave a sigh at the sound of Dickson’s voice
outside.  Dickson would be ready, as usual, for an altercation, and was
one of those men who always come into a room as if they expect to be
kicked out of it.

Green was writing,—he kept a careful journal of the voyage,—and now
looked over his shoulder impatiently, as if he did not wish to be
interrupted.

Dickson wore a look of patient persistence.

The surgeon pointed to a seat with his long quill, and finished the
writing of a sentence.  He could not honestly welcome a man whom he
liked so little, and usually treated him as if he were a patient who had
come to seek advice.

"I only dropped in for a chat," explained the visitor reprovingly, as
his host looked up again. "Have you heard how the captain blew at young
Wallingford, just before dark?  Well, sir, they are at supper together
now.  Wallingford must be a tame kitten.  I suppose he crept down to the
table as if he wanted to be stroked."

"He is a good fellow and a gentleman," said Ezra Green slowly.  "The
captain has hardly left the deck since yesterday noon, when this gale
began."  The surgeon was a young man, but he had a grave, middle-aged
manner which Dickson’s sneering smoothness seemed always to insult.

"You always take Jones’s part," ventured the guest.

"We are not living in a tavern ashore," retorted the surgeon.  "The
officer you speak of is our captain, and commands an American
man-of-war.  That must be understood.  I cannot discuss these matters
again."

"Some of the best sailors vow they will desert him in the first French
port," said Dickson.

"Then they make themselves liable to be shot for desertion whenever they
are caught," replied Green coolly, "and you must take every opportunity
to tell them so.  Those who are here simply to make a little dirty money
had better have stayed ashore and traded their country produce with the
British ships.  They say there was a fine-paying business on foot, out
at the Isles of Shoals."

This advice struck home, as the speaker desired. Dickson swallowed hard
once or twice, and then looked meek and stubborn; he watched the surgeon
slyly before he spoke again.

"Yes, it is a very difficult crew to command," he agreed; "we have
plenty of good loyal men aboard, but they want revenge for their
country’s wrongs, as you and I do, I hope!"

"War is one thing, and has law and order to dignify it; common piracy
and thievery are of another breed.  Some of our men need education in
these matters, not to say all the discipline they can get. The captain
is much wronged and insulted by the spirit that has begun to spread
between decks.  I believe that he has the right view of his duty; his
methods are sometimes his own."

"As in the case of Mr. Wallingford," blandly suggested Dickson, swift to
seize his opportunity.  "Even you would have thought the captain
outrageous in his choice of words."

"The captain is a man easily provoked, and has suffered certain
provocations such as no man of spirit could brook.  I believe he was
very wrong to vent his spite on Mr. Wallingford, who has proved as
respectful of others and forgetful of himself as any man on board.  I
say this without knowing the present circumstances, but Wallingford has
made a nobler sacrifice than any of us."

"He would have been chased to his own kind among the Tories in another
week," sneered the other.  "You know it as well as I.  Wallingford
hesitated just as long as he dared, and there’s the truth!  He’s a good
mate to Ben Thompson,—both of ’em courtiers of the Wentworths; and both
of ’em had to hurry at the last, one way or the other, whichever
served."

"Plenty of our best citizens clung to the hope that delay would bring
some proper arbitration and concession. No good citizen went to war
lightly and without a pang.  A man who has seen carnage must always
dread it; such glory as we win must reckon upon groans and weeping
behind the loudest cheers. But war once declared, men of clear
conscience and decent character may accept their lot, and in the end
serve their country best," said the doctor.

"You are sentimental to-night," scoffed Dickson.

"I have been thinking much of home," said the surgeon, with deep
feeling.  "I may never see my home again, nor may you.  We are near
shore now: in a few days this ship may be smeared with blood, and these
poor fellows who snarl and bargain, and discuss the captain’s orders and
the chance of prize money, may come under my hands, bleeding and torn
and suffering their last agony.  We must face these things as best we
may; we do not know what war means yet; the captain will spare none of
us.  He is like a creature in a cage now, fretted by his bounds and all
their petty conditions; but when the moment of freedom comes he will
seek action.  He is fit by nature to leap to the greatest opportunities,
and to do what the best of us could never dream of.  No, not you, sir,
nor Simpson either, though he aims to supplant him!" grumbled the
surgeon, under his voice.

"Perhaps his gift is too great for so small a command as this," Dickson
returned, with an evil smile. "It is understood that he must be
transferred to a more sufficient frigate, if France sees fit," he added,
in a pious tone.  "I shall strive to do my own duty in either case."  At
which Dr. Green looked up and smiled.

Dickson laughed back; he was quick to feel the change of mood in his
companion.  For a moment they were like two schoolboys, but there was a
flicker of malice in Dickson’s eyes; no one likes being laughed at.

"Shall we take a hand at cards, sir?" he asked hastily.  "All these
great things will soon be settled when we get to France."

The surgeon did not offer to get the cards, which lay on the nearest
shelf.  He was clasping his hands across his broad breast, and leaning
back in a comfortable, tolerant sort of way in his corner seat.  They
both knew perfectly well that they were in for a long evening together,
and might as well make the best of it.  It was too much trouble to fight
with a cur. Somehow, the current of general interest did not set as
usual toward theological opinions.

"I was called to a patient down on Sligo Point, beyond the Gulf Road,
just before we sailed," said Green presently, in a more friendly tone.
"’T was an old woman of unsteady brain, but of no common-place fancy,
who was under one of her wildest spells, and had mounted the house roof
to sell all her neighbors at auction.  She was amusing enough,—’t is a
pretty wit when she is sane; but I heard roars of laughter as I rode up
the lane, and saw a flock of listeners at the orchard edge.  She had
knocked off the minister and both deacons, the lot for ninepence, and
was running her lame neighbor Paul to seventy thousand pounds."

"I heard that they called the minister to pray with her when her fit was
coming on, and she chased him down the lane, and would have driven him
into the river, if there had not been some men at fall ploughing in a
field near by.  She was a fixed Calvinist in her prime, and always
thought him lax," said Dickson, with relish, continuing the tale.  "They
had told the good man to come dressed in his gown and bands, thinking it
would impress her mind."

"Which it certainly seemed to do," agreed the doctor.  "At any rate, she
knocked him down for nine-pence.  ’T was a good sample of the valuation
most of us put upon our neighbors.  She likes to hear her neighbor Paul
play the fiddle; sometimes he can make her forget all her poor
distresses, and fall asleep like a baby.  The minister had somehow vexed
her. Our standards are just as personal here aboard ship. The Great Day
will sum up men at their true value,—we shall never do it before; ’t
would ask too much of poor human nature."

Dickson drummed on the bulkhead before he spoke. "Some men are taken at
less than their true value."

"And some at more, especially by themselves. Don’t let things go too far
with Simpson.  He ’s a good man, but can easily be led into making
trouble," said the surgeon; and Dickson half rose, and then sat down
again, with his face showing an angry red.

"We must be patient," added the surgeon a moment later, without having
looked again at his companion.  "’T is just like a cage of beasts here:
fierce and harmless are shut in together.  Tame creatures are sometimes
forced to show their teeth.  We must not fret about petty things,
either; ’t is a great errand we have come out upon, and the honest doing
of it is all the business we have in common."

"True, sir," said Dickson, with a touch of insolent flattery.  "Shall we
take a hand at cards?"




                                 *XIV*

                          *TO ADD MORE GRIEF*

"O garlands, hanging by these doors, now stay,
Nor from your leaves too quickly shake away
My dew of tears.  (How many such, ah me!
            A lover’s eyes must shed!)"


Captain Paul Jones was waiting, a most affable and dignified host, to
greet his guest.  Wallingford stood before him, with a faint flush of
anger brightening his cheeks.

"You commanded me, sir," he said shortly.

"Oh, come, Wallingford!" exclaimed the captain, never so friendly
before, and keeping that pleasant voice and manner which at once claimed
comradeship from men and admiring affection from women.  "I ’ll drop the
commander when we ’re by ourselves, if you ’ll consent, and we ’ll say
what we like.  I wanted you to sup with me.  I ’ve got a bottle of good
wine for us,—some of Hamilton’s Madeira."

Wallingford hesitated; after all, what did it matter? The captain was
the captain; there was a vigorous sort of refreshment in this life on
shipboard; a man could not judge his associates by the one final test of
their being gentlemen, but only expect of each that he should follow
after his kind.  Outside society there lies humanity.

The lieutenant seated himself under the swinging lamp, and took the
glass that was held out to him. They drank together to the flag they
carried, and to their lucky landfall on the morrow.

"To France!" said the captain gallantly.  It was plainly expected that
all personal misunderstandings should be drowned in the good wine.
Wallingford knew the flavor well enough, and even from which cask in
Hamilton’s cellar it had been drawn.  Then the captain was quickly on
his feet again, and took the four steps to and fro which were all his
cabin permitted.  He did not even appear to be impatient, though supper
was slow in coming.  His hands were clasped behind him, and he smiled
once or twice, but did not speak, and seemed to be lost in thought.  As
for the guest, his thoughts were with Mary Hamilton. The flavor of wine,
like the fragrance of a flower, can be a quick spur to memory.  He saw
her bright face and sweet, expectant eyes, as if they were sitting
together at Hamilton’s own table.

The process of this evening meal at sea was not a long one; and when the
two men had dispatched their food with businesslike haste, the steward
was dismissed, and they were left alone with Hamilton’s Madeira at
better than half tide in the bottle between them, a plate of biscuit and
some raisins, and the usual pack of cards.  Paul Jones covered these
with a forbidding hand, and presently pushed them aside altogether, and
added a handful of pipes to the provisioning of the plain dessert.  He
wished to speak of serious things, and could not make too long an
evening away from his papers.  It seemed incredible that the voyage was
so near its end.  He refilled his own glass and Mr. Wallingford’s.

"I foresee much annoyance now, on board this ship. I must at once post
to Paris, and here they will have time to finish their machinations at
their leisure, without me to drive them up to duty.  Have you long known
this man Dickson?" asked the captain, lowering his voice and fixing his
eyes upon the lieutenant.

"I have always known him.  He was once in our own employ and much
trusted, but was afterward dismissed, and for the worst of reasons,"
said Wallingford.

"What reputation has he borne in the neighborhood?"

"He is called a sharp man of business, quick to see his own advantage,
and generous in buying the good will of those who can serve his purpose.
He is a stirring, money-getting fellow, very close-fisted; but he has
been unlucky in his larger ventures, as if fortune did not much incline
to favor him."

"I despised the fellow from the first," said the captain, with engaging
frankness, "but I have no fear that I cannot master him; he is much
cleverer than many a better man, yet ’t is not well to forget that a
cripple in the right road can beat a racer in the wrong. He has been
sure these last days that he possesses my confidence, but I have made
him serve some good turns.  Now he is making trouble as fast as he can
between Simpson and me.  Simpson knows little of human nature; he would
as soon have Dickson’s praise as yours or mine.  He cannot wait to
supplant me in this command, and he frets to gather prizes off these
rich seas.  There ’s no harm in prizes; but I sometimes think that no
soul on board has any real comprehension of the larger duties of our
voyage, and the ends it may serve in furthering an alliance with France.
They all begin, well instructed by Dickson, to look upon me as hardly
more than a passenger. ’T is true that I look for a French frigate very
soon, as Dickson tells them; but he adds that it is to Simpson they must
look for success, while if he could rid himself of Simpson he would do
it.  I must have a fleet if I can, and as soon as I can, and be master
of it, too.  I have my plans all well laid!  Dickson is full of plots of
his own, but to tell such a man the truth about himself is to give him
the blackest of insults."

Wallingford made a gesture of impatience.  The captain’s face relaxed,
and he laughed as he leaned across the table.

"Dickson took his commission for the sake of prize money," he said.  "A
pirate, a pirate, that’s what he is, but oh, how pious in his speech!

    "’Unpitying hears the captive’s moans
    Or e’en a dying brother’s groans!’


"There ’s a hymn for him!" exclaimed the captain, with bitter emphasis.
"No, he has no gleam of true patriotism in his cold heart; he is full of
deliberate insincerities; ’a mitten for any hand,’ as they say in
Portsmouth.  I believe he would risk a mutiny, if he had time enough;
and having gained his own ends of putting better men to shame, he would
pose as the queller of it.  A low-lived, self-seeking man; you can see
it for yourself, Mr. Wallingford."

"True, sir.  I did not need to come to sea to learn that man’s
character," and Wallingford finished his glass and set it down, but
still held it with one hand stretched out upon the table, while he
leaned back comfortably against the bulkhead.

"If our enterprise has any value in the sight of the nations, or any
true power against our oppressors, it lies in our noble cause and in our
own unselfishness," said Paul Jones, his eyes kindling.  "This man and
his fellows would have us sneak about the shores of Great Britain,
picking up an old man and a lad and a squalling woman from some
coastwise trading smack, and plundering what weak craft we can find to
stuff our pockets with ha’pennies.  We have a small ship, it is true;
but it is war we follow, not thievery.  I hear there ’s grumbling
between decks about ourselves getting nothing by this voyage.  ’T is our
country we have put to sea for, not ourselves.  No man has it in his
heart more than I to confront the enemy: but Dickson would like to creep
along the coast forever after small game, and count up by night what he
has taken by day, like a petty shopkeeper.  I look for larger things, or
we might have stopped at home.  I have my plans, sir; the Marine
Committee have promised me my proper ship.  One thing that I cannot
brook is a man’s perfidy.  I have good men aboard, but Dickson is not
among them.  I feel sometimes as if I trod on caltrops.  I am outdone,
Mr. Wallingford.  I have hardly slept these three nights.  You have my
apology, sir."

The lieutenant bowed with respectful courtesy, but said nothing.  The
captain opened his eyes a little wider, and looked amused; then he
quickly grew grave and observed his guest with fresh attention.  There
was a fine unassailable dignity in Wallingford’s bearing at this moment.

"Since you are aware that there is some disaffection, sir," he said
deliberately, "I can only answer that it seems to me there is but one
course to follow, and you must not overrate the opposition.  They will
always sit in judgment upon your orders, and discuss your measures, and
express their minds freely.  I have long since seen that our natural
independence of spirit in New England makes individual opinion appear of
too great consequence,—’t is the way they fall upon the parson’s sermon
ashore, every Monday morning.  As for Lieutenant Simpson, I think him a
very honest-hearted man, though capable of being influenced.  He has the
reputation in Portsmouth of an excellent seaman, but high-tempered.
Among the men here, he has the advantage of great powers of
self-command."

Wallingford paused, as if to make his words more emphatic, and then
repeated them: "He has the mastery of his temper, sir, and the men fear
him; he can stop to think even when he is angry.  His gifts are perhaps
not great, but they have that real advantage."

Paul Jones blazed with sudden fury.  He sprang to his feet, and stood
light and steady there beyond the table, in spite of the swaying ship.

"Forgive me, sir," said Roger Wallingford, "but you bade us speak
together like friends to-night.  I think you a far greater man and
master than when we left Portsmouth; I am not so small-minded as to
forget to honor my superiors.  I see plainly that you are too much vexed
with these men,—I respect and admire you enough to say so; you must not
expect from them what you demand from yourself.  In the worst weather
you could not have had a better crew: you have confessed to that.  I
believe you must have patience with the small affairs which have so
deeply vexed you.  The men are right at heart; you ought to be able to
hold them better than Dickson!"

The captain’s rage had burnt out like a straw fire, and he was himself
again.

"Speak on, Mr. Lieutenant; you mean kindly," he said, and took his seat.
The sweat stood on his forehead, and his hands twitched.

"I think we have it in our power to intimidate the enemy, poorly fitted
out as we are," he said, with calmness, "but we must act like one man.
At least we all pity our countrymen, who are starving in filthy prisons.
Since Parliament, now two years agone, authorized the King to treat all
Americans taken under arms at sea as pirates and felons, they have been
stuffing their dungeons with the innocent and guilty together.  What man
seeing his enemy approach does not arm himself in defense?  We have made
no retaliation such as I shall make now.  I have my plans, but I cannot
risk losing a man here and a man there, out of a crew like this, before
I adventure a hearty blow; this cuts me off from prize-hunting.  And the
commander of an American man-of-war cannot hobnob with his sailors, like
the leader of a gang of pirates.  I am no Captain Kidd, nor am I another
Blackboard.  I can easily be blocked in carrying out my purposes.
Dickson will not consent to serve his country unless he can fill his
pockets.  Simpson cannot see the justice of obeying my orders, and lets
his inferiors see that he resents them.  I wish Dickson were in the
blackest pit of Plymouth jail.  If I were the pirate he would like to
have me, I’d yard-arm him quick enough!"

"We may be overheard, sir," pleaded Wallingford. "We each have our
ambitions," he continued bravely, while his father’s noble looks came to
his face. "Mine are certainly not Dickson’s, nor do I look forward to a
life at sea, like yourself.  This may be the last time we can speak
together on the terms you commanded that we should speak to-night.  I
look for no promotion; I am humble enough about my fitness to serve; the
navy is but an accident, as you know, in my career.  I beg you to
command my hearty service, such as it is; you have a right to it, and
you shall not find me wanting.  I know that you have been very hard
placed."

And now the captain bowed courteously in his turn, and received the
pledge with gratitude, but he kept his eyes upon the young man with
growing curiosity. Wallingford had turned pale, and spoke with much
effort.

"My heart leaps within me when I think that I shall soon stand upon the
shore of France," Paul Jones went on, for his guest kept silence.
"Within a few days I shall see the Duke of Chartres, if he be within
reach.  No man ever took such hold of my affections at first
acquaintance as that French prince.  We knew each other first at Hampton
Roads, where he was with Kersaint, the French commodore.  My only
thought in boarding him was to serve our own young navy and get
information for our ship-building, but I was rewarded by a noble gift of
friendship.  ’T is now two years since we have met, but I cannot believe
that I shall find him changed; I can feel my hand in his already.  He
will give our enterprise what help he can.  He met me on his deck that
day like a brother; we were friends from the first.  I told him my
errand, and he showed me everything about his new ship, and even had
copies made for me of her plans.  ’T was before France and England had
come to open trouble, and he was dealing with a rebel, but he helped me
all he could.  I had loaded my sloop with the best I had on my
plantation; ’t was May, and the gardens very forward.  I knew their
vessels had been long at sea, and could ship a whole salad garden.  I
would not go to ask for favors then without trying to make some pleasure
in return, but we were friends from the first. He is a very noble
gentleman; you shall see him soon, I hope, and judge for yourself."

Wallingford listened, but the captain was still puzzled by a look on the
young man’s face.

"I must make my confession," said the lieutenant. "When I hear you speak
of such a friend, I know that I have done wrong in keeping silence, sir.
I put myself into your hands.  When I took my commission, I openly took
the side of our colonies against the Crown.  I am at heart among the
Neutrals: ’t is ever an ignominious part to take.  I never could bring
myself to take the King’s side against the country that bore me.  I
should rather curse those who insisted, on either side, upon this
unnatural and unnecessary war. Now I am here; I put myself very low; I
am at your mercy, Captain Paul Jones.  I cannot explain to you my
immediate reasons, but I have gone against my own principles for the
sake of one I love and honor.  You may put irons on me, or set me ashore
without mercy, or believe that I still mean to keep the oath I took.
Since I came on board this ship I have begun to see that the colonies
are in the right; my heart is with my oath as it was not in the
beginning."

"By Heaven!" exclaimed the captain, staring. "Wallingford, do you mean
this?"  The captain sprang to his feet again.  "By Heaven!  I could not
have believed this from another, but I know you can speak the truth!
Give me your hand, sir!  Give me your hand, I say, Wallingford!  I have
known men enough who would fight for their principles, and fight well,
but you are the first I ever saw who would fight against them for love
and honor’s sake.  This is what I shall do," he went on rapidly.  "I
shall not iron you or set you ashore; I shall hold you to your oath. I
have no fear that you will ever fail to carry out my orders as an
officer of this ship.  Now we have indeed spoken together like friends!"

They seated themselves once more, face to face.

There was a heavy trampling overhead.  Wallingford had a sudden fear
lest this best hour of the voyage might be at an end, and some
unexpected event summon them to the deck, but it was only some usual
duty of the sailors.  His heart was full of admiration for the great
traits of the captain.  He had come to know Paul Jones at last; their
former disastrous attempts at fellowship were all forgotten.  A man
might well keep difficult promises to such a chief; the responsibilities
of his life were in a strong and by no means unjust hand.  The
confession was made; the confessor had proved to be a man of noble
charity.

There was a strange look of gentleness and compassion on the captain’s
face; his thought was always leading him away from the past moment, the
narrow lodging and poor comfort of the ship.

"We have great dangers before us," he reflected, "and only our poor
human nature to count upon; ’t is the shame and failures of past years
that make us wince at such a time as this.  We can but offer ourselves
upon the altar of duty, and hope to be accepted. I have kept a promise,
too, since I came to sea.  I was mighty near to breaking it this very
day," he added simply.

The lieutenant had but a dim sense of these words; something urged him
to make a still greater confidence.  He was ready to speak with utter
frankness now, to such a listener, of the reasons why he had come to
sea, of the one he loved best, and of all his manly hopes; to tell the
captain everything.

At this moment, the captain himself, deeply moved by his own thoughts,
reached a cordial hand across the table.  Wallingford was quick to grasp
it and to pledge his friendship as he never had done before.

Suddenly he drew back, startled, and caught his hand away.  There was a
ring shining on Paul Jones’s hand, and the ring was Mary Hamilton’s.




                                  *XV*

                         *THE COAST OF FRANCE*

                "They goe very neer to ungratefulnesse."


Next day, in the Channel, every heart was rejoiced by the easy taking of
two prizes, rich fruit-laden vessels from Madeira and Malaga.  With
these in either hand the Ranger came in sight of land, after a quick
passage and little in debt to time, when the rough seas and the many
difficulties of handling a new ship were fairly considered.

The coast lay like a low and heavy cloud to the east and north; there
were plenty of small craft to be seen, and the Ranger ran within short
distance of a three-decker frigate that looked like an Englishman.  She
was standing by to go about, and looked majestic, and a worthy defender
of the British Isles.  Every man on board was in a fury to fight and
sink this enemy; but she was far too powerful, and much nobler in size
than the Ranger.  They crowded to the rail.  There was plenty of
grumbling alow and aloft lest Captain Paul Jones should not dare to try
his chances.  A moment later he was himself in a passion because the
great Invincible had passed easily out of reach, as if with insolent
unconsciousness of having been in any danger.

Dickson, who stood on deck, maintained his usual expression of
aggravating amiability, and only ventured to smile a little more openly
as the captain railed in greater desperation.  Dickson had a new
grievance to store away in his rich remembrance, because he had been
overlooked in the choice of prize masters to bring the two merchantmen
into port.

"Do not let us stand in your way, sir," he said affably.  "Some
illustrious sea fights have been won before this by the smaller craft
against the greater."

"There was the Revenge, and the great San Philip with her Spanish fleet
behind her, in the well-known fight at Flores," answered Paul Jones, on
the instant. "That story will go down to the end of time; but you know
the little Revenge sank to the bottom of the sea, with all her men who
were left alive.  Their glory could not sink, but I did not know you
ever shipped for glory’s sake, Mr. Dickson."  And Dickson turned a
leaden color under his sallow skin, but said nothing.

"At least, our first duty now is to be prudent," continued the captain.
"I must only fight to win; my first duty is to make my way to port,
before we venture upon too much bravery.  There ’ll be fighting soon
enough, and I hope glory enough for all of us this day four weeks.  I
own it grieves me to see that frigate leave us.  She’s almost hull down
already!" he exclaimed regretfully, with a seaward glance, as he went to
his cabin.

Presently he appeared again, as if he thought no more of the
three-decker, with a favorite worn copy of Thomson’s poems in hand, and
began to walk the deck to and fro as he read.  On this fair winter
morning the ship drove busily along; the wind was out of the west; they
were running along the Breton coast, and there was more and more
pleasure and relief at finding the hard voyage so near its end.  The men
were all on deck or clustered thick in the rigging; they made a good
strong-looking ship’s company. The captain on his quarter-deck was
pacing off his exercise with great spirit, and repeating some lines of
poetry aloud:—

    "With such mad seas the daring Gama fought,
    For many a day and many a dreadful night;
    Incessant lab’ring round the stormy Cape
    By hold ambition led"—

    "The wide enlivening air is full of fate."


Then he paused a moment, still waving the book at arm’s length, as if he
were following the metre silently in his own mind.

    "On Sarum’s plain I met a wandering fair,
    The look of Sorrow, lovely still she bore"—


"He’s gettin’ ready to meet the ladies!" said Cooper, who was within
listening distance, polishing a piece of brass on one of the guns.  "I
can’t say as we ’ve had much po’try at sea this v’y’ge, sir," he
continued to Lieutenant Wallingford, who crossed the deck toward him, as
the captain disappeared above on his forward stretch.  Cooper and
Wallingford were old friends ashore, with many memories in common. The
lieutenant was pale and severe; the ready smile that made him seem more
boyish than his years was strangely absent; he had suddenly taken on the
looks of a much-displeased man.

"Ain’t you feelin’ well, sir?" asked Cooper, with solicitude.  "Things
is all doin’ well, though there’s those aboard that won’t have us think
so, if they can help it.  When I was on watch, I see you writin’ very
late these nights past.  You will excuse my boldness, but we all want
the little sleep we get; ’t is a strain on a man unused to life at sea."

"I shall write no more this voyage," said Wallingford, touched by the
kindness of old Cooper’s feeling, but impatient at the boyish relation
with an older man, and dreading a word about home affairs.  He was an
officer now, and must resent such things. Then the color rushed to his
face; he was afraid that tears would shame him.  With a sudden impulse
he drew from his pocket a package of letters, tied together ready for
sending home, and flung them overboard with an angry toss.  It was as if
his heart went after them.  It was a poor return for Cooper’s innocent
kindness; the good man had known him since he had been in the world.
Old Susan, his elder sister, was chief among the household at home.
This was a most distressing moment, and the lieutenant turned aside, and
leaned his elbow on the gun, bending a little as if to see under the
sail whether the three-decker were still in sight.

The little package of letters was on its slow way down through the pale
green water; the fishes were dodging as it sank to the dim depths where
it must lie and drown, and tiny shells would fasten upon the
slow-wasting substance of its folds.  The words that he had written
would but darken a little salt water with their useless ink; he had
written them as he could never write again, in those long lonely hours
at sea, under the dim lamp in his close cabin,—those hours made warm and
shining with the thought and promise of love that also hoped and waited.
All a young man’s dream was there; there were tiny sketches of the
Ranger’s decks and the men in the rigging done into the close text.
Alas, there was his mother’s letter, too; he had written them both the
letters they would be looking and longing for, and sent them to the
bottom of the sea.  If he had them back, Mary Hamilton’s should go to
her, to show her what she had done.  And in this unexpected moment he
felt her wondering eyes upon him, and covered his face with his hands.
It was all he could do to keep from sobbing over the gun.  He had seen
the ring!

"’Tis ashore headache coming on with this sun-blink over the water,"
said Cooper, still watching him. "I’d go and lie in the dark a bit."  It
was not like Mr. Wallingford, but there had been plenty of drinking the
night before, and gaming too,—the boy might have got into trouble.

    "The Lusitanian prince, who Heaven-inspired
    To love of useful Glory roused mankind."


They both heard the captain at his loud orations; but he stopped for a
moment and looked down at the lieutenant as if about to speak, and then
turned on his heel and paced away again.


The shore seemed to move a long step nearer with every hour.  The old
seafarers among the crew gave knowing glances at the coast, and were
full of wisest information in regard to the harbor of Nantes, toward
which they were making all possible speed.  Dickson, who was in command,
came now to reprimand Cooper for his idleness, and set him to his duty
sharply, being a great lover of authority.

Wallingford left his place by the trunnion, and disappeared below.

"On the sick list?" inquired Dickson of the captain, who reappeared, and
again glanced down; but the captain shrugged his shoulders and made no
reply. He was sincerely sorry to have somehow put a bar between himself
and his young officer just at this moment.  Wallingford was a
noble-looking fellow, and as good a gentleman as the Duke of Chartres
himself. The sight of such a second would lend credit to their
enterprise among the Frenchmen.  Simpson was bringing in one of the
prizes; and as for Dickson, he was a common, trading sort of sneak.

The dispatches from Congress to announce the surrender of Burgoyne lay
ready to the captain’s hand: for the bringing of such welcome news to
the American commissioners, and to France herself, he should certainly
have a place among good French seamen and officers.  He stamped his foot
impatiently; the moment he was on shore he must post to Paris to lay the
dispatches in Mr. Franklin’s hand.  They were directed to Glory herself
in sympathetic ink, on the part of the captain of the Ranger; but this
could not be read by common eyes, above the titles of the Philadelphia
envoy at his lodgings in Passy.

After reflecting upon these things, Paul Jones, again in a tender mood,
took a paper out of his pocketbook, and reread a song of Allan
Ramsay’s,—

    "At setting day and rising moon,"

which a young Virginia girl had copied for him in a neat, painful little
hand.

"Poor maid!" he said, with gentle affectionateness, as he folded the
paper again carefully.  "Poor maid! I shall not forget to do her some
great kindness, if my hopes come true and my life continues.  Now I must
send for Wallingford and speak with him."




                                 *XVI*

                       *IT IS THE SOUL THAT SEES*

               "When good and faire in one person meet—"


Every-day life at Colonel Hamilton’s house went on with as steady
current as the great river that passed its walls.  The raising of men
and money for a distressed army, with what survived of his duties toward
a great shipping business, kept Hamilton himself ceaselessly busy.
Often there came an anxious company of citizens riding down the lane to
consult upon public affairs; there was an increasing number of guests of
humbler condition who sought a rich man’s house to plead their poverty.
The winter looked long and resourceless to these troubled souls.  There
were old mothers, who had been left on lonely farms when their sons had
gone to war.  There was a continued asking of unanswerable questions
about the soldiers’ return, while younger women came, pale and
desperate, with little troops of children pulling at their skirts.  When
one appealing group left the door, another might be seen coming to take
its place.  The improvident suffered first and made loudest complaint;
later there were discoveries of want that had been too uncomplainingly
borne.  The well-to-do families of Berwick were sometimes brought to
straits themselves, in their effort to succor their poorer neighbors.

Mary Hamilton looked graver and older.  All the bright elation of her
heart had gone, as if a long arctic night were setting in instead of a
plain New England winter, with its lengthening days and bright January
sun at no great distance.  She could not put Madam Wallingford’s sorrow
out of mind; she was thankful to be so busy in the great house, like a
new Dorcas with her gifts of garments, but the shadow of war seemed more
and more to give these days a deeper darkness.

There was no snow on the ground, so late in the sad year; there was
still a touch of faded greenness on the fields.  One afternoon Mary came
across the flagstoned court toward the stables, tempted by the milder
air to take a holiday, though the vane still held by the northwest.
That great wind was not dead, but only drowsy in the early afternoon,
and now and then a breath of it swept down the country.

Old Peggy had followed her young mistress to the door, and still stood
there watching with affectionate eyes.

"My poor darlin’!" said the good soul to herself, and Mary turned to
look back at her with a smile. She thought Peggy was at her usual
grumbling.

"Bless ye, we ’ve all got to have patience!" said the old housekeeper,
again looking wistfully at the girl, whose tired face had touched her
very heart.  As if this quick wave of unwonted feeling were spread to
all the air about, Mary’s own eyes filled with tears; she tried to go
on, and then turned and ran back. She put her arms round Peggy, there in
the doorway.

"I am only going for a ride.  Kiss me, Peggy,—kiss me just as you did
when I was a little girl; things do worry me so.  Oh, Peggy dear, you
don’t know; I can’t tell anybody!"

"There, there, darlin’, somebody ’ll see you!  Don’t you go to huggin’
this dry old thrashin’ o’ straw; no, don’t you take notice ’bout an old
withered corn shuck like me!" she protested, but her face shone with
tenderness.  "Go have your ride, an’ I’m goin’ to make ye a pretty cake;
’t will be all nice and crusty; I was goin’ to make you one, anyway.  I
tell ye things is all comin’ right in the end.  There, le’ me button
your little cape!"  And so they parted.

Peggy marched back into the great kitchen without her accustomed looks
of disapproval at the maids, and dropped into the corner of the settle
next the fire. She put out her lame foot in its shuffling shoe, and
looked at it as if there were no other object of commiseration in the
world.

"’T is a shame to be wearin’ out, so fine made as I was.  The Lord give
me a good smart body, but ’tis beginnin’ to fail an’ go," said the old
woman impatiently.  "Once’t would ha’ took twice yisterday’s work to
tire foot or back o’ me."

"I’m dreadful spent myself, bein’ up ’arly an’ late. We car’ied an
upstropelous sight o’ dishes to an’ fro. Don’t see no vally in feedin’ a
whole neighborhood, when best part on ’em ’s only too lazy to provide
theirselves," murmured one of the younger handmaidens, who was languidly
scouring a great pewter platter. Whereat Peggy rose in her wrath, and
set the complainer a stint of afternoon work sufficient to cast a heavy
shadow over the freshest spirit of industry.


The mistress of these had gone her way to the long stables, where a
saddle was being put on her favorite horse, and stood in the wide
doorway looking down the river.  The tide was out; the last brown leaves
of the poplars were flying off some close lower branches; there was a
touch of north in the wind, but the sun was clear and bright for the
time of year.  Mary was dressed in a warm habit of green cloth, with a
close hood like a child’s tied under her chin; the long skirt was full
of sharp creases where it had lain all summer in one of the brass-nailed
East Indian chests, and a fragrance of camphor and Eastern spices blew
out as the heavy folds came to the air.  The old coachman was busy with
the last girth, and soothed the young horse as he circled about the
floor: then, with a last fond stroke of a shining shoulder, he gave Mary
his hand, and mounted her light as a feather to the saddle. "He ’s
terrible fresh!" said the old master of horse, as he drew the riding
skirt in place with a careful touch.  "Have a care, missy!"

Mary thanked the old man with a gentle smile, and took heed that the
horse walked quietly away.  When she turned the corner beyond the
shipyard she dropped the curb rein, and the strong young creature flew
straight away like an arrow from the bowstring. "Mind your first wind,
now.  ’T is a good thing to keep!" said the rider gayly, and leaned
forward, as they slackened pace for a moment on the pitch of the hill,
to pat the horse’s neck and toss a handful of flying mane back to its
place.  Until the first pleasure and impulse of speed were past there
was no time to think, or even to remember any trouble of mind.  For the
first time in many days all the motive power of life did not seem to
come from herself.

The fields of Berwick were already beginning to wear that look of
hand-shaped smoothness which belongs only to long-tilled lands in an old
country.  The first colonists and pilgrims of a hundred and fifty years
before might now return to find their dreams had borne fair fruit in
this likeness to England, that had come upon a landscape hard wrung from
the wilderness. The long slopes, the gently rounded knolls that seemed
to gather and to hold the wintry sunshine, the bushy field corners and
hedgerows of wild cherry that crossed the shoulders of the higher hills,
would be pleasant to those homesick English eyes in the new country they
had toiled so hard to win.  The river that made its way by shelter and
covert of the hilly country of field and pasture,—the river must for
many a year have been looked at wistfully, because it was the only road
home.  Portsmouth might have been all for this world, while Plymouth was
all for the next; but the Berwick farms were made by home-makers,
neither easy to transplant in the first place, nor easy now to uproot
again.

The northern mountains were as blue as if it were a day in spring.  They
looked as if the warm mist of April hung over them; as if they were the
outposts of another world, whose climate and cares were of another and
gentler sort, and there was no more fretting or losing, and no more war
either by land or sea.

The road was up and down all the way over the hills, winding and turning
among the upper farms that lay along the riverside above the Salmon
Fall.  Now and then a wood road or footpath shortened the way, dark
under the black hemlocks, and sunshiny again past the old garrison
houses.  Goodwins, Plaisteds, Spencers, Keays, and Wentworths had all
sent their captives through the winter snows to Canada, in the old
French, and Indian wars, and had stood in their lot and place for many a
generation to suffer attacks by savage stealth at their quiet ploughing,
or confront an army’s strength and fury of firebrand and organized
assault.

There was the ford to cross at Wooster’s River,—that noisy stream which
can never be silent, as if the horror of a great battle fought upon its
bank could never be told.  Here there was always a good modern moment of
excitement: the young horse must whirl about and rear, and show horror
in his turn, as if the ghosts of Hertel and his French and Indians stood
upon the historic spot of their victory over the poor settlers; finally
the Duke stepped trembling into the bright shallow water, and then
stopped midway with perfect composure, for a drink.  Then they journeyed
up the steep battleground, and presently caught the sound of roaring
water at the Great Falls, heavy with the latter rains.

On the crest of the hill Mary overtook a woman, who was wearily carrying
a child that looked large enough to walk alone; but his cheeks were
streaked with tears, and there were no shoes on his little feet to tread
the frozen road: only some worn rags wrapped them clumsily about.  Mary
held back her horse, and reached down for the poor little thing, to take
him before her on the saddle.  The child twisted determinedly in her
arms to get a look at her face, and then cuddled against his new friend
with great content.  He took fast hold of the right arm which held him,
and looked proudly down at his mother, who, relieved of her extra
burden, stepped briskly alongside.

"Goin’ up country to stay with my folks," she answered Mary’s question
of her journey.  "Ain’t nothin’ else I can do; my man’s with the army at
Valley Forge.  ’God forbid you ’re any poorer than I be!’ he last sent
me word.  ’I ’ve got no pay and no clothes to speak of, an’ here’s
winter comin’ right on.’ This mornin’ I looked round the house an’ see
how bare it was, an’ I locked the door an’ left it.  The baby cried good
after his cat, but I could n’t lug ’em both.  She ’s a pretty creatur’
an’ smart.  I don’t know but she ’ll make out; there’s plenty o’
squirrels.  Cats is better off than women folks."

"I ’ll ride there some day and get her, if I can, and keep her until you
come home," offered Mary kindly.

"Rich folks like you can do everything," said the woman bitterly, with a
look at the beautiful horse which easily outstepped her.

"Alas, we can’t do everything!" said Mary sadly; and there was something
in her voice which touched the complainer’s heart.

"I guess you would if you could," she answered simply; and then Mary’s
own heart was warmed again.

The road still led northward along the high uplands above the river; all
the northern hills and the mountains of Ossipee looked dark now, in a
solemn row. Mary turned her horse into a narrow track off the highroad,
and leaned over to give the comforted child into his mother’s arms.  He
slipped to ground of his own accord, and trotted gayly along.

"Look at them pore little feet!  I wisht he had some shoes; he can’t git
fur afore he ’ll be cryin’ again for me to take an’ car’ him," said the
mother ruefully. "You see them furthest peaks?  I’ve got to git there
somehow ’n other, with this lo’d on my back an’ that pore baby.  But I
know folks on the road; pore’s they be, they ’ll take me in, if I can
hold out to do the travelin’.  War ’s hard on pore folks.  We ’ve got a
good little farm, an’ my man didn’t want to leave it. He held out ’count
o’ me till the bounty tempted him. We could n’t be no porer than we be,
now I tell ye!"

"Go to the store on the hill and get some shoes for the baby," said Mary
eagerly, as if to try to cheer her fellow traveler.  "Get some warm
little shoes, and tell the storekeeper ’t was I who bade you come."  And
so they parted; but Mary’s head drooped sorrowfully as she rode among
the gray birches, on her shorter way to the high slopes of Pine Hill.

This piece of country had, years before, furnished some of the noblest
masts that were ever landed on English shores.  The ruined stump of that
great pine which was the wonder of the King’s dockyards, and had loaded
one of the old mastships with its tons of timber, could still be seen,
though shrunken and soft with moss.  A fox, large in his new winter fur,
went sneaking across the way; and the young horse pranced gayly at the
sight of him, while Mary noticed his track and the way it led, for her
brother’s sake, and turned aside across the half-wooded pasture, until
she had a sportsman’s satisfaction in seeing the fox make toward a
rough, ledgy bit of ground, and warm thicket of underbrush at a spring
head.  This would be good news for poor old Jack, who might take no time
for hunting, but could dream of it any night after supper, like a happy
dog before his own fire.

On the heights of the great ridge some of the elder generation of trees
were still standing, left because they were crooked and unfit for the
mastships’ cargoes. They were monarchs of the whole landscape, and waved
their long boughs in the wintry wind.  Mary Hamilton had known them in
her earliest childhood, and looked toward them now with happy
recognition, as if within their hard seasoned shapes their hearts were
conscious of other existences, and affection like her own.  She stopped
the fleet horse on the top of the hill, and laid her hand upon the bark
of a huge pine; then she looked off at the lower country.  The sight of
it was a challenge to adventure; a great horizon sets the boundaries of
the inner life of man wider to match itself, and something that had
bound the girl’s heart too closely seemed to slip easily away.

She smiled and took a long breath, and, turning, rode down the rough
pasture again, and along the field toward the river.  Her heavy riding
dress filled and flew with the cold northwest wind, and a bright color
came back to her cheeks.  To stand on the bleak height had freed her
spirit, and sent her back to the lower countries of life happier than
she came: it was said long ago that one may not sweep away a fog, but
one may climb the hills of life and look over it altogether.

She leaped the horse lightly over some bars that gave a surly sort of
entrance to a poor-looking farm, and rode toward the low house.
Suddenly from behind a thorn bush there appeared a strange figure,
short-skirted and bent almost double under a stack of dry beanstalks.
The bearer seemed to have uprooted her clumsy burden in a fury.  She
tramped along, while the horse took to shying at the sight, and had to
be pacified with much firmness and patience.

The bean stack at last ceased its angry progress, and stood still.

"What’s all that thromping?  Keep away wit’ yourself, then, whoiver ye
are!  I can only see the ground by me two feet.  Ye ’ll not ride over
me; keep back now till I’m gone!" screamed the shrill voice of an old
woman.

"It is I, Mary Hamilton," said the girl, laughing. "You ’ve frightened
the Duke almost to death, Mrs. Sullivan!  I can hold him, but do let me
get by before you bob at him again."

There was a scornful laugh out of the moving ambush.

"Get out of me road, then, the two of ye!" and the bean stack moved
angrily away, its transfixing pole piercing the air like a disguised
unicorn.  The two small feet below were well shod and sturdy like a
boy’s; the whole figure was so short that the dry frost-bitten vines
trailed on the ground more and more, until it appeared as if the tangled
mass were rolling uphill by its own volition.

Mary went on with the trembling horse.  A moment later she walked
quickly up the slope to the gray wooden house.  There was the handsome
head of a very old man, reading, close to the window, as she passed; but
he did not look up until she had shut the door behind her and stood
within the little room.

Then Master Sullivan, the exile, closed his book and sprang to his feet,
a tall and ancient figure with the manners of a prince.  He bent to kiss
the hand of his guest, and looked at her silently before he spoke, with
an unconscious eagerness of affection equal to her own.

"A thousand welcomes!" he said at last.  "I should have seen you coming;
you have had no one to serve you.  I was on the Sabine farm with Horace;
’t is far enough away!" he added, with a smile.

"I like to fasten my horse myself," answered Mary. "’T is best I should;
he makes it a point of honor then to stand still and wait for me, and
resents a stranger’s hand, being young and impatient."

Mary looked bright and smiling; she threw back her close green hood, and
her face bloomed out of it like a flower, as she stood before the
gallant, frail old man.  "There was a terrible little bean stack that
came up the hill beside us," she went on, as if to amuse him, "and I
heard a voice out of it, and saw two steady feet that I knew to be Mrs.
Sullivan’s; but my black Duke was pleased to be frightened out of his
wits, and so we have all parted on bad terms, this dark day."

"She will shine upon you like a May morning when she comes in, then!"
said Master Sullivan.  "She ’s in a huge toil the day, with sure news of
a great storm that’s coming.  ’Stay a while,’ I begged her, ’stay a
while, my dear; the wind is in a fury, and to-morrow’"—

"An’ to-morrow indeed!" cried the master’s wife, bursting in at the
door, half a wild brownie and half a tame enough grandmotherly old soul.
"An’ to-morrow! I ’ve heard nothing but to-morrow from ye all my life
long, an’ here ’s the hand of winter upon us again, an’ thank God all me
poor little crops is under cover, an’ no praise to yourself."

The old man held out his slender hand; she did not take it, but her face
began to shine with affection.

"Thank God, ’t is yourself, Miss Mary Hamilton, my dear!" she exclaimed,
dropping a curtsy.  "My old gentleman here has been sorrowing for a
sight of your fair face these many days.  ’T is in December like this we
do be sighing after the May.  I don’t know, have ye brought any news yet
from the ship?"

"Oh no, not yet," said Mary.  "No, there is no news yet from the
Ranger."

"I have had good dreams of her, then," announced the old creature with
triumph.  "Listen: there ’s quarrels amongst ’em, but they ’ll come safe
to shore, with gold in everybody’s two hands."

She crossed the room, and drew her lesser wheel close to her knee and
began to spin busily.




                                 *XVII*

                     *THE REMNANT OF ANOTHER TIME*

"Simple and true I share with all
       The treasures of a kindly mind;

And in my cottage, poor and small,
       The great a welcome find.

"I vex not Gods, nor patron friend,
       For larger gifts or ampler store;

My modest Sabine farm can lend
       All that I want, and more."


They sat in silence,—it was pleasure enough to be together,—and Mary
knew that she must wait until Master Sullivan himself made opportunity
for speaking of the things which filled her heart.

"Have I ever told you that my father was a friend, in his young days, of
Christopher Milton, brother to the great poet, but opposite in
politics?" he asked, as if this were the one important fact to be made
clear. "A Stuart partisan, a violent Churchman, and a most hot-headed
Tory," and the old master laughed with sincere amusement, as Mary looked
up, eager to hear more.

"Voltaire, too, had just such a contradiction of a brother, credulous
and full of superstitions,—a perfect Jansenist of those days.  Yes, I
was reading Horace when you came, but for very homesickness; he can make
a man forget all his own affairs, such are his polite hospitalities of
the mind!  These dark autumn days mind me every year of Paris, when they
come, as April weather makes me weep for childhood and the tears and
smiles of Ireland."

"The old days in your Collége Louis-le-Grand," Mary prompted him, in the
moment’s silence.  "Those are your Paris days I love the best."

"Oh, the men I have known!" he answered.  "I can sit here in my chair
and watch them all go by again down the narrow streets.  I have seen the
Abbé de Châteauneuf pass, with his inseparable copy of Racine sticking
out of his pocket; I often hid from him, too, in the shadow of an
archway, with a young boy, his pupil and my own schoolfellow, who had
run away from his tasks.  He was four years younger than I.  _Le petit
Arouet_ we called him then, who proves now to be the very great
Voltaire!  Ah, ’t was an idle flock of us that ranged the old cloisters
in cap and gown; ’t was the best blood in France!  I have seen the
illustrious Duke de Boufflers handsomely flogged for shooting peas at
dull old Lejay, the professor.  (We were the same age, Monsieur de
Boufflers and I; we were great friends, and often flogged in company for
our deviltries.)  He was a colonel of the French army in that moment,
and bore the title of Governor of Flanders; but on the day of the
pea-shooting they flogged him so that I cried out at the sight, and
turned to the wall, sick at heart.  As for him, he sobbed all night
afterward, and caught his breath in misery next morning while we read
our Epictetus from the same book.  We knelt together before the high
altar and vowed to kill Lejay by dagger or poison before the month’s
end.  ’T was a good vow, but well broken."

The old man laughed again, and made a gay French gesture.  Mary laughed
with him, and they had a fine moment together.

"You were not always like that,—you must have learned your lessons; it
was not all idleness," Mary protested, to lead him on.

"The old fathers taught us with all their power to gain some skill in
the use of words," reflected the master soberly.  "Yes, and I learned to
fence, too, at the college.  A student of Louis-le-Grand could always
speak like a gentleman, but we had to play with our words; ’t was the
most important of all our science.  ’Les sottises, toujours les
sottises,’" grumbled the old man.  "Yes, they made a high profession
then of talking nonsense, though France was whipped at Blenheim and lost
the great fight at Malplaquet. They could laugh at the ruined convent of
Port Royal and the distresses of saintly souls, but they taught us to
talk nonsense, and to dress with elegance, and to be agreeable to
ladies.  The end is not yet; the throne of France will shake, some day,
until heads fall in the dust like fruit that nobody stoops to gather."

The master fell a-whispering to himself, as if he had forgotten that he
had a listener.

"I saw some signs of it, too.  I knew there, when I was a lad, Le
Tellier, the King’s confessor, who was the true ruler of France.  I rode
to St. Denis myself, the day of the old King’s funeral, and it was like
a fair: people were singing and drinking in the booths, and no one all
along the way but had his gibe at Le Tellier, whose day was over, thank
God!  Ah, but I was a gay lad then; I knew no country but France, and I
cannot but love her yet; I was only a Frenchman of my gay and reckless
time.  There was saving grace for me, and I passed it by; for I knew the
great Fénelon, and God forgive my sins, but I have been his poor
parishioner from those days to these.  I knew his nephew, the Abbé de
Beaumont, and I rode with him in the holidays to Cambrai,—a tiresome
journey; but we were young, and we stayed in the good archbishop’s
house, and heard him preach and say mass. He was the best of Christians:
I might have been a worse man but for that noble saint.  Yes, I have
seen the face of the great Fénelon," and Master Sullivan bent his head
and blessed himself.  The unconscious habit of his youth served best to
express the reverence which lay deep in his aged heart.

"I think now, as I look back on those far days, that my good archbishop
was the greatest prince and saint of them all, my dear child," said the
old teacher, looking up gently from his reverie into Mary Hamilton’s
face.

"You belong to another world, mon maître," said the girl affectionately.
"How much you could teach us, if we were but fit to learn!"

The old man gave an impatient fling of his hand.

"I am past eighty years old, my darling," he answered.  "God knows I
have not been fit to learn of the best of men, else I might now be one
of the wisest of mankind.  I have lived in the great days of France, but
I tell you plain, I have lived in none that are fuller of the seeds of
greatness than these.  I live now in my sons, and our Irish veins are
full of soldier’s blood.  ’T is Tir-nan-Og here,—the country of the
young.  My boys have their mother’s energy, thank God!  As for me, my
little school is more alive than I.  There is always a bright child in
every flock, for whose furthering a man may well spend himself. ’T is a
long look back; the light of life shone bright with me in its beginning,
but the oil in the old lamp is burning low.  My forbears were all
short-lived, but the rest of their brief days are added to the length of
mine."

"’T is not every man has made so many others fit to take their part in
life," said Mary.  "Think of your own sons, master!"

"Ay, my sons," said the old man, pleased to the heart, "and they have
their mother’s beauty and energy to couple with their sad old father’s
gift of dreams.  The princes of Beare and Bantry are cousins to the
Banshee, and she whispers me many things.  I sometimes fear that my son
John, the general, has too much prudence.  The Whisperer and Prudence
are not of kin."

There was a new silence then; and when Master Sullivan spoke again, it
was with a sharp, questioning look in his eyes.

"What said your little admiral at parting?  I heard that he was fretted
with the poor outfitting of his ship, and sailed away with scant thanks
to the authorities.  Prudence cannot deal with such a man as that.  What
of our boy Roger?  How fares the poor mother since she lost him out of
her sight? ’T was anxious news they brought me of his going; when my
first pride had blazed down, you might have seen an old man’s tears."

Mary looked up; she flushed and made as if she would speak, but remained
silent.

"You ’ll never make soldier or sailor of him, boy or man; the Lord meant
him for a country gentleman," said the master warningly; and at this
moment all Mary’s hopes of reassurance fell to the ground.

"My son John is a soldier born," he continued coldly; "he could tell you
where the troops were placed in every battle, from old Troy down to the
siege of Louisburg."

Mary began to speak, and again something ailed her throat.  She turned
and looked toward the fireside, where the old housemother was knitting
now, and humming a strange old Irish tune to herself; she had left them
to themselves as much as if she were miles away.

"Incipit vita nova," said the master under his breath, and went on as if
he were unobservant of Mary’s startled look.

"Captain Paul Jones is a man of the world, and Wallingford is a country
gentleman of the best sort," he continued; "they may not understand each
other at these close quarters.  I mind me of pushing adventurers in my
old days who came from the back corner of nowhere, and yet knew the
worst and the best of Paris.  How they would wink at their fellows when
some noble boy came to see the world, from one of the poor and proud
châteaux of Brittany or the far south!"

"Roger is college-bred, and you have called him your own best scholar of
these later days," insisted Mary, with a touch of indignation.  "With
such kindred in Boston, and the company of his father’s friends from
childhood, he is not so new to the world."

"Ecce Deus fortior me qui veniens dominabitur mihi," the old man
repeated softly, as if he were saying a short prayer; then glanced again
at the girl’s beautiful young face and pleading eyes.  "Well, the
gallant lads have sailed!" he exclaimed, with delighted eagerness, and
no apparent concern for his listener’s opinion.  "They’ll be in good
season, too, in spite of all delays.  What say the loud Patriots now,
who are so full of fighting, and yet find good excuse for staying at
home?  They are an evil-minded chorus! but the young man Wallingford
will serve them for a text no more.  His father was a man of parts, of
the same type as Washington himself, an I mistake not that great leader,
though never put to the proof by so high a summonsing of opportunity.
Our Roger is born out of his father’s clear brain rather than his fiery
heart.  I see in him the growing scholarliness and quiet authority of
the judge’s best days upon the bench, not the strong soldier of the
Indian wars.  And there is something in the boy that holds by the past;
he may be a persuaded Patriot, but a Tory ghost of a conscience plucks
him by the sleeve. He does not lack greatness of soul, but I doubt if he
does any great things except to stand honestly in his place, a scholar
and a gentleman; and that is enough."

Mary listened, with her eyes fixed upon Master Sullivan’s face.

"God bless the poor lads, every one!  We must send our prayers after
them.  Wallingford will fall upon evil days; ’t will try him in blood
and bone when they suspect him, as they surely will.  God help an old
ruin like me!  If I were there, and but a younger man!" and the master
clenched the arms of his chair, while something Mary never had seen
before flashed in his eyes.

"I have seen much fighting in my time," he said the next moment to Mary,
falling to a gentler mood. "My mind is often with those lads on the
ship."  And the startled girl smiled back at him expectantly.

"I am glad when I think that now Roger will see France again, as a grown
man.  He will remember many things I have told him.  I wish that I might
have seen him ere he went away so suddenly.  Wherever he is, he has good
thoughts in his head; he always loved his Latin, and can even stumble
through the orchard ground and smell the trodden thyme with old
Theocritus.  I wish I had been there at your parting feast.  ’T was a
glory to the house’s mistress, and that merchant prince, the good master
of the river."

"Peggy has another opinion of me.  ’Go you an’ deck the tables, an it
please you, child,’ she says, ’an’ leave me to give my orders;’ but we
hold some grave consultations for all that," insisted Mary modestly.
"She is very stern on feast days with us all, is Peggy."

"Lenient in the main," urged Master Sullivan, smiling.  "She found
convoy for a basket of her best wares only yesterday, with a message
that she had cooked too much for Portsmouth gentlemen, guests who failed
in their visit.  Margery and I feasted in high hall together.  There was
a grand bottle of claret."

"My brother chose it himself from the cellar," said Mary, much pleased,
but still there was a look of trouble in her eyes.

"You will give him my thanks, and say that it made a young French
gallant of me for a pleasant hour.  The only fault I found was that I
had not its giver to drink share and share with me.  Margery, my wife,
heard tales from me which had not vexed the air these fifty years, and,
being as warm as a lady abbess with such good cheer, she fell asleep in
the middle of the best tale, over her worsted knitting! ’Sure,’ she
waked to tell me, ’if these be true, ’t was time you were snatched out
of France like a brand from the burning, and got the likes o’ poor me to
straighten ye!’" and the old man looked at Mary, with a twinkle in his
eyes.

"They said you danced all night with the little captain, and that he
spoke his love on the terrace in the sight of more than one of the
company," said the master gayly.  "’T is another heart you ’ve broke, I
suppose, and sent him sad away.  Or was it his uniform that won ye?"
They both laughed, but Mary blushed, and wished she were away herself.

"I have no right to ask what passed between ye," he said then, with
grave sweetness that won her back to him.  "I find him a man of great
power.  He has the thoughts and manners of a gentleman, and now he goes
to face his opportunity," added the old Irish rebel.


"’Tis said everywhere that your great captain is an earl’s son," said
Margery unexpectedly, from the fireside.  But Master Sullivan slowly
shook his head. The old wife was impatient of contradiction at the best
of times, and now launched forth into an argument.  He treated her, in
these late days, as if she were a princess; but ’t was a trying moment
to him now, and luckily the old volume of Horace fell from his lap to
the floor.

Mary picked it up quickly, and old Margery’s withered cheeks flushed
crimson at this reminder of the sad day when she had thrown one of his
few dear books to the flames, in furious revenge for what she thought
his willful idleness and indifference to their poverty, and her
children’s needs.  "_Himself cried_," she always mourned in passionate
remorse, when anything reminded her of that black day.  She fancied even
yet, when she saw the master stand before his little bookshelf, that he
was missing the lost volume. "_Himself cried_," she muttered new, and
was silent; and the old man saw her lips moving, and gave her one of
those looks of touching affection that had kept her for fifty years his
happy slave.

"He is a bold adventurer, your little captain," he went on, "but a man
of very marked qualities."

"I believe that he will prove a great captain," said Mary.

"Yes, he is all that; I have seen much of men," and the master turned to
look out of the window, far down the winter fields.

"His heart is set upon the future of our country," said Mary, with
eagerness.  "He speaks with eloquence of our wrongs.  He agrees ’t is
the hindering of our own natural development, and the forbidding of our
industries in the past, that has brought all these troubles; not any
present tyranny or special taxes, as some insist.  He speaks like a New
Englander, one of ourselves, and he has new ideas; I heard him say that
every village should govern itself, and our government be solely for
those necessities common to all, and this would do away with tyranny.
He was very angry when Major Haggens laughed and pounded the table, and
said that our villages must keep to the same laws, and not vex one
another."

"Your captain has been reading that new writer, Monsieur Rousseau," said
the master sagaciously, and with much interest.  "Rousseau is something
of a genius.  My son James brought me his book from Boston, and I sat up
all night to read it.  Yes, he is a genius at his best, but at his worst
no greater fool ever sneaked or flaunted along a French road.  ’T is
like the old donkey in Skibbereen, that was a lion by night with his
bold braying, and when the sun shone hung his head and cried to
everybody, ’_Don’t beat me!_’  I pray God that no pupil of mine makes
the mistake of these people, who can see no difference between the
church of their own day and Christianity itself.  My old Voltaire has
been his master, this Rousseau.  There have been few greater men in the
world than le petit Arouet, but ’t was a bit of a rascal, too!  My son
James and I have threshed these subjects lately, until the flails came
too near our own heads.  I have seen more of the world than he, but my
son James always held the opinions of a gentleman."

"These subjects are far too large for me," Mary acknowledged humbly.

"’T is only that our opinions are too small for the subjects,—even mine
and those of my son James," said Master Sullivan, smiling; "yet every
man who puts his whole heart into them helps to bring the light a little
nearer.  Your captain is a good French scholar; we had some good talk
together, and I learned to honor the man.  I hope he will be friendly to
our lad at sea, and be large-hearted in such a case. I have much pity
for the Loyalists, now I am an old man that was a hot enough rebel in my
youth.  They have many true reasons on their side for not breaking with
England, and they cling to sentiment, the best of them, without which
life is but a strange machine. Yet they have taken the wrong side; they
will find it out to their sorrow.  You had much to do with Roger’s
going, my child; ’t was a brave thing to start him in the right road,
but I could wish he and his mother had been a sorrowing pair of that
eleven hundred who went out of Boston with the English troops. They
would have been among their fellows then, and those who were
like-minded.  God help me for this faint-heartedness!"

To this moment had the long talk come; to this clear-spoken anxiety had
Mary Hamilton herself led the way.  She could not part from so wise a
friend until he spoke his mind, and now she stood piteous and dismayed
before his searching look.  It was not that the old man did not know how
hard his words had been.

"I could not bear that he should be disloyal to the country that gave
him birth, and every low soul be given the right to sneer at him.  And
the mob was ready to burn his mother’s house; the terror and danger
would have been her death," said Mary.  "All this you know."

"The boy has talked much with me this summer," answered the
schoolmaster, "and he put me questions which I, a rebel, and the son of
rebels against England, could not answer him.  I am an exile here, with
my birthright gone, my place among men left empty, because I did not
think as he thinks now when I was young, and yet I could not answer him.
’I could as soon forsake my mother in her gathering age as forsake
England now,’ he told me, one day in the summer.  He stood on this floor
before me, where you stand now, and looked every inch a man.  Now he has
changed his mind; now he puts to sea in an American man-of-war, with
those to whom the gentle arts of piracy are not unknown, and he must
fain be of their company who go to make England suffer.  He has done
this only that he may win your heart."

The master’s blue eyes were black and blazing with excitement, and Mary
fronted him.

"You cannot think him a rascal!" she cried.  "You must believe that his
very nature has changed.  It has changed, and he may fight with a heavy
heart, but he has come to think our quarrel just.  I should break my own
heart did I not think this true.  Has he not sworn his oath?  Then you
must not blame him; you must blame me if all this course was wrong. I
did push him forward to the step.  God help me, master, I could not bear
we should be ashamed of him.  You do not mean that ’t were better he had
fled with the Loyalists, and thrown his duty down?"

She fell to her knees beside the old man’s chair, and her hot forehead
was touching his thin hand.  He laid his right hand on her head then as
if in blessing, but he did not speak.

At last he made her rise, and they stood side by side in the room.

"We must not share this anxious hour with Margery," he told her gently.
"Go away, dear child, while she still sleeps.  I did not know the sword
of war had struck your heart so deep.  You must wait for much time to
pass now; you must have patience and must hear bad news.  They will call
Roger Wallingford a spy, and he may even flinch when the moment of trial
comes.  I do not think he will flinch; ’t is the woe of his own soul
that I sorrow for; there is that in him which forbids the traitor’s act.
Yet either way life looks to him but treacherous.  The thought of his
love shines like a single star above the two roads, and that alone can
succor him.  Forgive the hardness of my thoughts, yes, and keep you
close to his poor mother with all patience.  If the boy gets into
trouble, I have still some ancient friendships that will serve him, for
my sake, in England.  God grant me now to live until the ship comes
back!  I trust the man he sails with, but he has his own ends to serve.
I fear he is of the _Brevipennes_, the short-winged; they can run better
for what wings they have, but they cannot win to fly clear of the
earth."


"I could tell you many a tale now that I have shut close in my heart
from every one for more than sixty years," said Master Sullivan slowly,
with an impulse of love and pity that he could not forbid.  "I was a
poor scholar in some things, in my young days, but I made sure of one
lesson that was learnt through pain.  The best friends of a human soul
are Courage and her sister Patience!"

The old man’s beautiful voice had a strange thrill in it.  He looked as
if he were a king, to the girl who watched him; all the mystery of his
early days, the unexplained self-denial and indifference to luxury,
seemed at this moment more incomprehensible than ever.  The dark little
room, the unequal companionship with the wife who slept by the fire, the
friendship of his heart with a few imperial books, and the traditions of
a high ancestry made evident in the noble careers and present standing
of his sons, were enough to touch any imagination.  And Mary Hamilton,
from her early childhood, had found him the best and wisest man she
knew.  He had set the humblest Berwick children their copies, and taught
them to read and spell, and shared his St. Augustine and Homer and
Horace with those few who could claim the right.  She stood beside him
now in her day of trouble; she turned, with a look of deep love on her
face, and kissed him on the brow.  Whatever the cause had been, he had
taken upon himself the harsh penalty of exile.

"Dear friend, I must be gone," said Mary, with beautiful womanliness and
dignity.  "You have helped me again who have never failed me; do not
forget me in these days, and let us pray for Roger Wallingford, that he
may be steadfast.  Good-by, dear master."

Then, a minute later, the old man heard the horse’s quick feet go away
down the hill.

It was twilight in the room.  "I believe she will love the boy,"
whispered the old schoolmaster to himself.  "I thought the captain might
wake her heart with all his gallantry.  The springs of love are living
in her heart, but ’t is winter still,—’t is winter still! Love frights
at first more than it can delight; ’t will fright my little lady ere it
comes!"

The heavy book slipped unheeded to the floor again. The tired old woman
slept on by the dying fire, and Master Sullivan was lost in his lonely
thoughts, until Hope came again to his side, bright shining in a dream.




                                *XVIII*

                           *OH HAD I WIST!——*

"You need not go into a desert and fast, a crowd is often more lonely
than a wilderness and small things harder to do than great."


The ship had run between Belle Isle and the low curving shores of
Quiberon.  The land was in sight all along by St. Nazaire, where they
could see the gray-green of winter fields, and the dotted fruit trees
about the farmhouses, and bits of bushy woodland. Out of the waste of
waters the swift way-wise little Ranger came heading safely in at the
mouth of the Loire.  She ran among all the shoals and sand banks by
Paimboeuf, and past the shipyards of the river shores, until she came to
harbor and let her anchor go.

There was something homelike about being in a river.  At first sight the
Loire wore a look of recent settlement, rather than of the approach to a
city already famous in old Roman times; the shifting sand dunes and the
empty flats, the poor scattered handfuls of houses and the works of
shipbuilding, all wore a temporary look.  These shiftless, primitive
contrivances of men sparsely strewed a not too solid-looking shore, and
the newcomers could see little of the inland country behind it.  It was
a strange contrast to their own river below Portsmouth, where gray
ledges ribbed the earth and bolted it down into an unchangeable
permanence of outline.  The heights and hollows of the seaward points of
Newcastle and the Kittery shore stood plain before his mind’s eye as
Wallingford came on deck, and these strange banks of the Loire seemed
only to mask reality and confuse his vision.  Farther up the stream they
could see the gray walls of Nantes itself, high over the water, with the
huge towered cathedral, and the lesser bulk of the castle topping all
the roofs.  It was a mild day, with little air moving.

Dickson came along the deck, looking much displeased.  That morning he
had received the attention of being kicked down the companion way by the
captain, and nothing could soften such an event, not even the suggestion
from his conscience that he had well deserved the insult.  It seemed
more and more, to those who were nearest him, as if Dickson were at
heart the general enemy of mankind,—jealous and bitter toward those who
stood above him, and scornful of his inferiors.  He loved to defeat the
hopes of other people, to throw discredit upon sincerity; like some
swift-creeping thing that brings needless discomfort everywhere, and
dismay, and an impartial sting.  He was not clever enough to be a maker
of large schemes, but rather destructive, crafty, and evil-minded,—a
disturber of the plans of others. All this was in his face; a fixed
habit of smiling only added to his mean appearance.  What was worst of
all, being a great maker of promises, he was not without influence, and
had his following.

The fresh air from the land, the frosty smell of the fields, made
Wallingford feel the more despondent. The certainty had now come to his
mind that Paul Jones would never have consented to his gaining the
commission of lieutenant, would never have brought him, so untried and
untrained, to sea, but for jealousy, and to hinder his being at Mary
Hamilton’s side. This was the keenest hurt to his pride; the thought had
stabbed him like a knife.  Again he made a desperate plunge into the sea
of his disasters, and was unconscious even of the man who was near by,
watching him.  He was for the moment blind and deaf to all reality, as
he stood looking along the water toward the Breton town.

"All ready to go ashore, sir?" asked Dickson, behind him, in an
ingratiating tone; but Wallingford gave an impatient shrug of his
shoulders.

"’T is not so wintry here as the shore must look at home," continued
Dickson.  "Damn that coxcomb on the quarter-deck! he ’s more than the
devil himself could stand for company!"

Wallingford, instead of agreeing in his present disaffection, turned
about, and stood fronting the speaker. He looked Dickson straight in the
eye, as if daring him to speak again, whereat Dickson remained silent.
The lieutenant stood like a prince.

"I see that I intrude," said the other, rallying his self-consequence.
"You have even less obligation to Captain Paul Jones than you may
think," he continued, dropping his voice and playing his last trump. "I
overheard, by accident, some talk of his on the terrace with a certain
young lady whom your high loftiness might not allow me to mention.  He
called you a cursed young spy and a Tory, and she implored him to
protect you.  She said you was her old playmate, and that she wanted you
got out o’ the way o’ trouble.  He had his arm round her, and he said he
might be ruined by you; he cursed you up hill and down, while she was
a-pleadin’.  ’Twas all for her sake, and your mother’s bein’ brought
into distress"—

Dickson spoke rapidly, and edged a step or two away; but his shoulder
was clutched as if a panther’s teeth had it instead of a man’s hand.

"I’ll kill you if you give me another word!" said Roger Wallingford.
"If I knew you told the whole truth, I should be just as ready to drop
you overboard."

"I have told the truth," said Dickson.

"I know you are n’t above eavesdropping," answered Wallingford, with
contempt.  "If you desire to know what I think of your sneaking on the
outside of a man’s house where you have been denied entrance, I am
willing to tell you.  I heard you were there that night."

"You were outside yourself, to keep me company, and I’m as good a
gentleman as Jack Hamilton," protested Dickson.  "He went the rounds of
the farms with a shoemaker’s kit, in the start of his high fortunes."

"Mr. Hamilton would mend a shoe as honestly in his young poverty as he
would sit in council now. So he has come to be a rich merchant and a
trusted man."  There was something in Wallingford’s calm manner that had
power to fire even Dickson’s cold and sluggish blood.

"I take no insults from you, Mr. Lieutenant!" he exclaimed, in a black
rage, and passed along the deck to escape further conversation.

There had been men of the crew within hearing. Dickson had said what he
wished to say, and a moment later he was thinking no less highly of
himself than ever.  He would yet compass the downfall of the two men
whom he hated.  He had already set them well on their way to compass the
downfall of each other. It made a man chuckle with savage joy to think
of looking on at the game.

Wallingford went below again, and set himself to some work in his own
cabin.  Character and the habit of self-possession could carry a man
through many trying instances, but life now seemed in a worse confusion
than before.  This was impossible to bear; he brushed his papers to the
floor with a sweep of his arm.  His heart was as heavy as lead within
him. Alas, he had seen the ring!  "Perhaps—perhaps"—he said next moment
to himself—"she might do even that, if she loved a man; she could think
of nothing then but that I must be got away to sea!"

"Poor little girl!  O God, how I love her!" and he bent his head
sorrowfully, while an agony of grief and dismay mastered him.  He had
never yet been put to such awful misery of mind.

"’T is my great trial that has come upon me," he said humbly.  "I’ll
stick to my duty,—’tis all that I can do,—and Heaven help me to bear the
rest. Thank God, I have my duty to the ship!"




                                 *XIX*

                         *THE BEST-LAID PLANS*

"Artists have come to study from these marbles ... Boys have flung
stones against the sculptured and unmindful devils."


As soon as the Ranger was at Nantes, and the formalities of the port
could be left in the hands of his officers, Captain Paul Jones set forth
in haste toward Paris to deliver his despatches.  He was only sixty
hours upon the road, passing over the country as if he saw it from a
balloon, and at last had the supreme disappointment of finding that his
proud errand was forestalled.  He had driven himself and his ship for
nothing; the news of Burgoyne’s surrender had been carried by a
messenger from Boston, on a fast-sailing French vessel, and placed in
the hands of the Commissioners a few hours before his own arrival.  It
was understood some time before, between the Marine Committee of the
colonies and Captain Paul Jones, that he was to take command of the fine
frigate L’Indien, which was then building in Amsterdam; but he received
no felicitations now for his rapid voyage, and found no delightful
accumulations of important work, and was by no means acknowledged as the
chief and captain of a great enterprise.  As the Ranger had come into
harbor like any ordinary vessel from the high seas, unheralded and
without greeting, so Paul Jones now found himself of no public
consequence or interest in Paris.  What was to be done must all be done
by himself.  The Commissioners had their hands full of other affairs,
and the captain stood in the position of a man who brought news to deaf
ears.  They listened to his eager talk and well-matured plans with some
wonder, and even a forced attention, as if he were but an interruption,
and not a leader for any enterprise they had in hand.  To him, it had
almost seemed as if his great projects were already accomplished.

It was in every way a most difficult situation.  The ownership of the
Indien frigate had been carefully concealed.  Paul Jones himself had
furnished the plans for her, and the Commissioners in France had made
contracts under other signatures for her building in the neutral port of
Amsterdam.  It was indispensable that the secret of her destiny should
be kept from England; but at the moment when she was ready to be put
into commission, and Paul Jones was on the sea, with the full
expectation of finding his ship ready when he came to France, some one
in the secret had betrayed it, and the British officials at Amsterdam
spoke openly to the government of the Netherlands, and demanded that the
frigate should be detained for breach of neutrality, she being destined
for an American ship of war.  There was nothing to be done.  The
Commissioners had made some efforts to hold the frigate, but in the end
France had come forward and stood their friend by buying her, and at a
good price.  This had happened only a few days before, so Captain Paul
Jones must hear the sorry tale when he came to Paris and saw the three
American Commissioners.

He stood before them, a sea-tanned and weary little hero, with his eyes
flashing fire.  One of the three Commissioners, Arthur Lee, could not
meet his aggrieved and angry looks.  To be sure, the money was in hand
again, and they could buy another ship; but the Indien, the Indien was
irrecoverable.

"If I had been there, gentlemen," cried Paul Jones, with a mighty oath,
"nothing would have held me long in port!  I’d have sailed her across
dry ground, but I’d have got her safe to sea!  She was ours in the sight
of Heaven, and all the nations in the world could not prevent me!"

Mr. Franklin looked on with approval at so noble and forgivable a rage;
the others wore a wearied and disgusted look, and Mr. Arthur Lee set
himself to the careful mending of a pen.  It was a sorry hour for good
men; and without getting any definite promise, and having bestowed many
unavailing reproaches, at last Paul Jones could only fling himself out
of Paris again, and in black despair post back to the Ranger at Nantes.
He had the solitary comfort, before he left, of a friendly and
compassionate interview granted by Mr. Franklin, who, over-burdened
though he was, and much vexed by a younger man’s accusations, had yet
the largeness of mind to see things from the captain’s side.  There was
nothing for it but patience, until affairs should take a turn, as the
Commissioner most patiently explained.

All the captain’s high hopes and ceaseless industry in regard to his own
plans were scattered like straws in the wind.  He must set his mind now
to the present possibilities.  Worst of all, he had made an enemy in his
quick mistrust and scorn of Mr. Arthur Lee, a man who would block many
another plan, and hinder him in the end as a great sea captain and hero
had never been worse hindered since the world began.

Dickson stood on the deck of the Ranger, by the gangway, when the
captain came aboard, fatigued and disappointed; it might be that some
creature of Lee’s sending had already spoken with Dickson and prepared
him for what was to come.  He made a most handsome salutation, however,
and Lieutenant Simpson, hoping for news of his own promotion, stepped
forward with an honest welcome.

"Gentlemen, I have much to tell you, and of an unwelcome sort," said the
captain, with unusual dignity of bearing.  "There is one blessing: our
defeat of Burgoyne has brought us France for an ally.  I hoped for good
news as regards ourselves, but we have been betrayed by an enemy; we
have lost the frigate which I have had a hand in building, and of whose
command I was altogether certain for more than a year past.  We must now
wait for further orders here, and refit the Ranger, and presently get to
sea with her instead.  I own that it is a great disappointment to us
all."

Dickson wore no look of surprise; he was too full of triumph.
Lieutenant Simpson was crestfallen.  The other officers and men who were
near enough to hear looked angry and disturbed.  They had been persuaded
that they must be rid of the captain before they could follow their own
purposes.  ’Twas a strange and piteous condition of things aboard the
Ranger, and an example of what the poison of lies and a narrow-minded
jealousy can do to set honest minds awry.  And Paul Jones had himself to
thank for much ill will: he had a quick temper, and a savage way of
speaking to his fellows.  The one thing he could not bear was perfidy,
and a bland and double disposition in a man seemed at once to deserve
the tread of his angry heel.

The captain was hardly to be seen for a day or two after his return,
except in occasional forays of fault-finding.  Wallingford was
successful in keeping out of his way; the great fact that all his own
best hopes had been destroyed dulled him even to feelings of resentment.
While suffering his great dismay he could almost forget the cause whence
it came, and even pitied, for other reasons, the man who had worn the
ring.  The first stroke of a bullet only benumbs; the fierceness of pain
comes later.  Again and again he stood before Mary Hamilton, and lived
over the night when he had stood at the window and dared to meet her
beautiful angry eyes; again and again he reviewed those gentler moments
by the river, when her eyes were full of their old affection, though her
words were stern.  He had won her plain promise that some day, having
served their country, he might return to her side, and clung to that
promise like a last hope.

It already seemed a year since the night when Wallingford and the
captain had dined together.  The steward had interrupted them just as
the lieutenant sprung to his feet.

"Must we say good-night, then?" said Paul Jones, protesting.  "As for
me, I ought to be at my papers. Send me William Earl to write for me,"
he told the steward.  "Thank you for your good company, Mr. Wallingford.
I hope we may have many such evenings together."

Yet he had looked after his guest with a sense that something had gone
wrong at this last moment, though the steward had found them hand in
hand.

The sight of the ring among his possessions, that day when he made ready
for the journey to Paris, had given him a moment of deep happiness; he
had placed it on his finger, with a certain affectionate vanity. Yet it
was a token of confidence, and in some sense a reward.  He had been
unjust in the beginning to the young lieutenant; he had now come to like
and to trust him more than any other man on board the ship.  In the
exciting days that had followed, rings, and lieutenants, and even so
lovely a friend and lady as Miss Mary Hamilton had been forgotten.

Yet at most unexpected moments Paul Jones did remember her, and his
heart longed for the moment when they should meet once more, and he
might plead his cause.  "L’absence diminue les petits amours et augmente
les grandes, comuie le vent qui éteint les bougies et rallume la feu."


The captain at once began to hasten the work of refitting the Ranger for
sea.  He gave no explanations; he was more surly in temper, and
strangely uncompanionable.  Now that they could no longer admire his
seamanship in a quick voyage, the sailors rated him for the ship’s
idleness and their long detention in port.  This was not what they had
signed for. Dickson now and then let fall a word which showed that he
had means of information that were altogether his own; he was often on
shore, and seemed free with his money.  Lieutenant Wallingford and the
surgeon, with some of the other officers, became familiar with the
amusements of Nantes; but the lieutenant was observed by every one to be
downhearted and inclined to solitary walks, and by night he kept his
cabin alone, with no inclination toward company.  He had been friendly
with every one in the early part of the voyage, like a man who has no
fear of risking a kind word.  The surgeon, after making unwonted efforts
to gain his old neighbor’s confidence, ignored him with the rest, until
he should come to himself again.

This added to the constraint and discomfort on board the Ranger.  She
was crowded with men eager enough for action, and yet kept in idleness
under a needlessly strict discipline.  Simpson, the senior lieutenant,
willingly received the complaints of officers and crew, and Dickson’s
ceaseless insistence that Simpson was their rightful leader began to
have its desired effect.




                                  *XX*

                      *NOW ARE WE FRIENDS AGAIN?*

                   "My altar holds a constant flame."


Some dreary days, and even weeks, passed by, and one evening Wallingford
passed the captain’s cabin on his way to his own.  It had lately been
rough, windy weather in the harbor, but that night the Ranger was on an
even keel, and as steady as if she were a well-built house on shore.

The door was open.  "Is that you, Mr. Wallingford? Come in, will you?"
The captain gave his invitation the air of a command.

Wallingford obeyed, but stood reluctant before his superior.

"I thought afterward that you had gone off in something of a flurry,
that night we dined together, and you have avoided any conversation with
me since my return from Paris.  I don’t like your looks now. Has
anything come between us?  Do you repent your confidence?"

"No, I do not repent it," said the lieutenant slowly.

"Something has touched your happiness.  Come, out with it!  We were like
brothers then.  The steward caught us hand in hand; it is long since I
have had so happy an evening.  I am grateful for such friendship as you
showed me, when we were together that night.  God knows I have felt the
lack of friendship these many days past.  Come, sir, what’s your
grievance with me?"

"It is nothing that I should tell you.  You must excuse me, sir."

The captain looked at him steadily.  "Had I some part in it?  Then you
are unjust not to speak."

There was great kindness, and even solicitude, in Paul Jones’s tone.
Wallingford was moved.  It was easier to find fault with the captain
when his eyes were not upon one; they had great power over a man.

"Come, my dear fellow," he said again, "speak to me with frankness; you
have no sincerer friend than I."

"It was the sight of the ring on your finger, then. I do not think you
meant to taunt me, but to see it was enough to rob me of my hope, sir:
that was all."

The captain colored and looked distressed; then he covered his eyes,
with an impatient gesture.  He had not a guilty air, or even an air of
provocation; it struck Wallingford at the moment that he wore no look,
either, of triumphant happiness, such as befitted the accepted lover of
Mary Hamilton.

"You knew the ring?" asked the captain, looking up, after some moments
of perplexing silence.

"I have always known it," answered Roger Wallingford; "we were very old
friends.  Of late I had been gathering hope, and now, sir, it seems that
I must wish another man the joy I lived but to gain."

"Sit ye down," said the captain.  "I thought once that I might gather
hope, too.  No man could wish for greater happiness on earth than the
love of such a lady: we are agreed to that."

Then he was silent again.  The beauty of Mary Hamilton seemed once more
before his eyes, as if the dim-lighted cabin and the close-set timbers
of the ship were all away, and he stood again on the terrace above the
river with the pleading girl.  She had promised that she would set a
star in the sky for him; he should go back, one day, and lay his
victories at her feet.  How could a man tell if she really loved this
young Wallingford?  In the natural jealousy of that last moment when
they were together, he had felt a fierce delight in bringing Wallingford
away; she was far too good for him,—or for any man, when one came to
that! Yet he had come himself to love the boy.  If, through much
suffering, the captain had not stood, that day, at the very height of
his own character, with the endeavor to summon all his powers for a new
effort, the scale at this moment would have turned.

"My dear lad, she is not mine," he said frankly. "God knows I wish it
might be otherwise!  You forget I am a sailor."  He laughed a little,
and then grew serious.  "’T is her ring, indeed, and she gave it me, but
’t was a gift of friendship.  See, I can kiss it on my finger with you
looking on, and pray God aloud to bless the lovely giver.  ’T will hold
me to my best, and all the saints know how I stand in need of such a
talisman!"

"You do not mean it, sir?" faltered Roger.  "Can you mean that"—

"Now are we friends again?  Yes, I mean it!  Let us be friends,
Wallingford.  No, no, there need be nothing said.  I own that I have had
my hopes, but Miss Hamilton gave me no promise.  If you go home before
me, or without me, as well may happen, you shall carry back the ring.
Ah no, for ’t is my charm against despair!" he said.  "I am sore vexed;
I am too often the prey of my vulgar temper, but God knows I am sore
vexed.  Let us be friends.  I must have some honest man believe in me,
among these tricksters."  The captain now bent to his writing, as if he
could trust himself to say no more, and waved the lieutenant to be gone.
"God help me, and I ’ll win her yet!" he cried next moment, when he was
alone again, and lifted his face as if Heaven must listen to the vow.
"Women like her are blessed with wondrous deep affections rather than
quick passion," he said again softly.  "’T is heaven itself within a
heart like that, but Love is yet asleep."

The lights of Nantes and the lanterns of the shipping were all mirrored
in the Loire, that night; there was a soft noise of the river current
about the ship.  The stars shone thick in the sky; they were not looking
down on so happy a lover the world over as Roger Wallingford.  He stood
by the mainmast in the cold night air, the sudden turn of things
bewildering his brain, his strong young heart beating but unsteadily.
Alas, it was weeks ago that a single, stiffly phrased letter had gone
home to his mother, and Mary’s own letter was at the bottom of the sea.
There was a swift homeward-bound brig just weighing anchor that had
ventured to sea in spite of foes, and taken all the letters from the
Ranger, and now it might be weeks before he could write again.  Oh,
distance, distance! how cruel are the long miles of sea that separate
those who love, and long to be together!

Later that night, before they turned in, the officers and crew beheld
Captain Paul Jones and his lately estranged lieutenant pacing the deck
together.  They were looked upon with pleasure by some who honored them
both, but next day a new whispering was set forward; there was need of
suspicion, since this new alliance might mean concerted betrayal, and
Paul Jones himself was not above being won over to the Tories, being but
an adventurer on his own account. Dickson was as busy as the devil in a
gale of wind. His own plots had so far come to naught; he had not set
these officers to hate each other, or forced them to compass each
other’s downfall.  On the contrary, they had never really been fast
friends until now.

The only thing was to rouse public opinion against them both.  It were
easy enough: he had promised to meet again the man whom he had met in
the tavern the day before,—that messenger of Thornton, who had given
hints of great reward if any one would give certain information which
was already in Dickson’s keeping.  That night he shook his fist at the
two figures that paced the quarter-deck.

"One of you came out of pride and ambition," he muttered, "and the other
to please his lady!  We men are here for our own rights, and to show
that the colonies mean business!"




                                 *XXI*

                      *THE CAPTAIN GIVES AN ORDER*

"But see how they turn their backs and go out of the city, and how
merrily and joyfully they take the road to Paris."


The captain was dressed in his best uniform, fresh from its tailor’s
wrappings, with all his bright lace and gilt buttons none the worse for
sea damp.  With manners gay enough to match, he bade good-morning to
whoever appeared, and paced his twelve steps forward and back on the
quarter-deck like the lucky prince in a fairy story.  Something had
happened to make a new pleasure; at any rate, Mr. Paul Jones was high
above any sense of displeasure, and well content with the warm
satisfaction of his own thoughts.

Presently this cheerful captain sent a ship’s boy to command the
presence of Mr. Wallingford, and Mr. Wallingford came promptly in answer
to the summons. There was so evident a beginning of some high official
function that the lieutenant, not unfamiliar with such affairs, became
certain that the mayor and corporation of Nantes must be expected to
breakfast, and lent himself not unwillingly to the play.

"You will attend me to Paris, sir," announced the commander.  "I shall
wait the delays of our Commissioners no longer.  ’If you want a good
servant, go yourself,’ as our wise adviser, Poor Richard, has well
counseled us.  I mean to take him at his word. Can you be ready within
the hour, Mr. Wallingford? ’T is short notice for you, but I have plenty
left of my good Virginia money to serve us on our way.  The boat awaits
us."

Wallingford made his salute, and hastened below; his heart beat fast
with pleasure, being a young heart, and the immediate world of France
much to its liking. The world of the Ranger appeared to grow smaller day
by day, and freedom is ever a welcome gift.

When the lieutenant reached his berth the captain’s arrangements had
preceded him: there was a sailor already waiting with the leather
portmanteau which Wallingford had brought to sea.  The old judge, his
father, had carried it on many an errand of peace and justice, and to
the son it brought a quick reminder of home and college journeys, and a
young man’s happy anticipations.  The sight of it seemed to change
everything, stained though this old enchanter’s wallet might be with sea
water, and its brasses green with verdigris.  The owner beheld it with
complete delight; as for the sailor, he misunderstood a sudden gesture,
and thought he was being blamed.

"Cap’n ordered it up, sir; never demeaned hisself to say what for,"
apologized Cooper.

"Take hold now and stow these things I give you," said the excited
lieutenant.  "Trouble is, every man on board this ship tries to be
captain.  Don’t wrap those boots in my clean linen!"

"I ain’t no proper servant; takes too much l’arnin’," protested Cooper
good-naturedly, seeing that the young squire was in a happy frame.  "Our
folks was all content to be good farmers an’ live warm on their own
land, till I took up with follerin’ the sea. Lord give me help to get
safe home this time, an’ I won’t take the chances no more.  A ship ’s no
place for a Christian."

Wallingford’s mind was stretched to the task of making sudden provision
for what might not be a short absence; he could hear the captain’s
impatient tramp on the deck overhead.

"I expect old Madam, your lady mother, and my sister Susan was the last
ones to pack your gear for you?" ventured this friend of many years, in
a careful voice, and Wallingford gave him a pat on the shoulder for
answer.

"We ’ll speed matters by this journey to Paris, if all goes well," he
replied kindly.  "Keep the men patient; there are stirrers-up of trouble
aboard that can do the crew more harm than the captain, if they get
their way.  You ’ll soon understand everything. France cannot yet act
freely, and we must take long views."

"Wish ’t I was to home now," mourned Cooper gloomily.

"Don’t fear!" cried Wallingford gayly, though ’t was but a pair of days
since he himself had feared everything, and carried a glum face for all
the crew to see.  "Good-day, Cooper.  If anything should happen to me,
you must carry back word!" he added, with boyish bravado.

"Lord bless you!" said Cooper.  "I figur’ me darin’ to go nigh the gre’t
house with any bad tidin’s o’ you!  Marm Susan’d take an’ scalp me, ’s
if I ’d been the fust to blame."  At which they laughed together, and
hurried to the deck.

"’T is high time!" blustered the captain; but once in the boat, he
became light-hearted and companionable. It was as if they had both left
all their troubles behind them.

"There ’s Simpson and Sargent and that yellow-faced Dickson leaning over
the side to look after us and think how well they can spare us both,"
grumbled Paul Jones.  "I can see them there, whether I turn my head or
not.  I ’ve set them stints enough for a fortnight, and named this day
week for our return. Lay out! lay out!" cried the captain.  "Give way,
my lads!" and settled himself in the boat.

The wind was fresh; the waves splashed into the gig as they toiled
steadily up the river.  The walls of the old castle looked grim and
high, as they came under the city.  In the cathedral abode the one thing
that was dear to Wallingford’s heart in this strange place,—the stately
figure of Anne of Brittany, standing at her mother’s feet by the great
Renaissance tomb.  She wore a look like Mary Hamilton when she was most
serious, so calm and sweet across the brow.  The young officer had
discovered this lovely queen, and her still lovelier likeness, on a dark
and downcast day, and had often been grateful since for the pleasure of
beholding her; he now sent a quick thought into the cathedral from the
depths of his fond heart.

The two travelers, in their bright uniforms, hurried up through the busy
town to a large inn, where the captain had ordered his post horses to be
ready. Bretons and Frenchmen both cheered them as they passed the market
place: the errand of the Ranger was well known, and much spending-money
had made most of her ship’s company plenty of friends ashore. They took
their seats in the post chaise, not without disappointment on
Wallingford’s part, who had counted upon riding a good French horse to
Paris instead of jolting upon stiff springs.  There was more than one
day, however; the morning was fresh and bright, and there were too many
mercies beside to let a man groan over anything.

The thought now struck Wallingford, as if he were by far the elder man,
that they might well have worn their every-day clothes upon the journey,
but he had not the heart to speak.  The captain wore such an innocent
look of enjoyment, and of frankly accepting the part of a proven hero
and unprotested great man.

"I must order a couple of suits of new uniform from one of their best
tailors," said Mr. Paul Jones, only half conscious of his listener.  One
moment the hardened man of affairs and rough sea bully, at the next one
saw him thus; frank, compassionate of others, and amused by small
pleasures,—the sentimental philosopher who scattered largess of alms
like a royal prince all along the white French roads.

"I go north by Rennes and Vitré, and to Paris by Alençon.  I am told the
roads are good, and the worst inns passable, while the best are the
best," said the little captain, dropping the last of his lofty manner of
the quarter-deck, and turning to his companion with a most frank air of
good-fellowship.  "We can return by the Loire.  I hear that we can come
by barge from Orleans to Nantes in four days, lying in the river inns by
night.  I have no love for the road I was so sorry on last month, or the
inns that stood beside it."

The young men sat straight-backed and a little pompous in the post
chaise, with their best cocked hats bobbing and turning quickly toward
each other in the pleasures of conversation.  Was this the same Paul
Jones who so vexed his ship with bawling voice and harsh behavior, this
quiet, gay-hearted man of the world, who seemed to play the princely
traveler even more easily than he crowded sail on the Ranger all across
the stormy seas,—the flail of whose speech left nobody untouched?  He
was so delightful at that moment, so full of charming sympathy and
keenest observation, that all private grievances must have been
dissolved into the sweet French air and the blue heaven over their
heads.

"There were others of my officers who might well go to Paris, but I
wanted the right gentleman with me now," explained the captain with
frankness.  "’T is above all a gentleman’s place when court matters are
in hand.  You have some acquaintance with their language, too, which is
vastly important.  I blessed Heaven last time for every word I knew; ’t
was most of it hard learnt in my early days, when I was a sailor before
the mast, and had but a single poor book to help me.  No man can go much
in the world over here without his French.  And you know Paris, too, Mr.
Wallingford, while I am almost a stranger in the streets.  I cared not
where I was, in my late distresses, though I had longed to see the
sights of Paris all my life!  My whole heart is in the journey now,
tiresome though we may find many a day’s long leagues."

"’T is some years since I lived there for a month," said Wallingford
modestly; but a vision of all the pleasure and splendor of the great
city rose to his mind’s eye.

"I have suffered unbelievable torture on that petty ship!" exclaimed
Paul Jones suddenly, waving his hand toward the harbor they were fast
leaving out of sight.  "Now for the green fields of France and for the
High Commissioners at Paris!  I wish to God my old auntie Jean MacDuff,
that was fain to be prood o’ me, could see me with my two postilions on
the road, this day."  And such was the gayety of the moment, and the
boyish pride of the little sailor, that his companion fairly loved him
for the wish, and began to think tenderly of his own dear love, and of
his mother waiting and watching by the riverside at home.

"’Vitré,’" he repeated presently, with fresh expectation,—"’t is a name
I know well, but I cannot call to mind the associations; of the town of
Rennes I do not remember to have heard."

"I wish that I could have fallen in with their great admiral, Bailli
Suffren," said the captain, leaning back in the post chaise, and heaving
a sigh of perfect content.  "We know not where he sails the sea; but if
it chanced that he were now on his way to the fleet at Brest, or going
up to Paris from the sea, like ourselves, and we chanced to meet at an
inn, how I should beg the honor of his acquaintance!  The King ought to
put a sailor like that beside him on his throne; as for Bailli Suffren,
he has served France as well as any man who ever lived.  Look, there are
two poor sailors of another sort, fresh from their vessel, too!  See how
wide they tread from balancing on the decks; they have been long at sea,
poor devils!" he grumbled, as the post chaise overtook a forlorn pair of
seamen, each carrying a loose bundle on his back. They were still young
men, but their faces looked disappointed and sad.  Seeing that the
captain fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, Wallingford did the same, and
two bright louis d’or flew through the morning air and dropped at the
sailors’ feet.  They gave a shout of joy, and the two young lords in the
post chaise passed gayly on.

"They’ll sit long at the next inn," said Captain Paul Jones.  "They were
thin as those salt fish we shipped for the voyage, at Newcastle."

"A prime dun fish is a dainty not to be despised," urged Wallingford,
true to his local traditions.

"’T is either a dainty, or a cedar shingle well preserved in brine,
which is eatable by no man," pronounced the captain, speaking with the
authority of an epicure.  "We must now deal with their best French
dishes while we stay in Paris.  Mr. Franklin will no doubt advise us in
regard to their best inns.  I was careless of the matter in my first
visit."

"’T was Poor Richard himself said, ’A fat kitchen makes a lean will,’"
laughed Wallingford, "but he is a great man for the proprieties."




                                 *XXII*

                        *THE GREAT COMMISSIONER*

                 "The Philosopher showeth you the way."


The heads of the high Vitré houses nodded together above their narrow
streets, as if to gossip about two unexpected cocked hats that passed
below.  This uniform of the Continental navy was new enough, but old
Vitré had seen many new and strange things since she herself was young.
The two officers had an air of proud command about them, and seemed to
expect the best rooms at the inn, and the best wines.

"’T was here the famous Marchioness de Sévigné dwelt!" exclaimed
Wallingford, with triumph.  "My mother often read a book of her letters
to my father, on a winter evening.  I thought them dull then, but I know
now ’t was most pretty reading, with something of fresh charm on every
page.  She had her castle here at Vitré; she was a very great lady,"
continued the lieutenant, explaining modestly.  "She spoke much in her
letters about her orange trees, but I think that she was ill at ease, so
far from Paris."

"We could visit her to-night, if she were still in Vitré," said the
captain.  "’T would pass our time most pleasantly, I dare say.  But I
take it the poor lady is dead, since we have her memoirs.  Yes, I mind
me of the letters, too; I saw them in a handsome binding once at
Arbigland, when I was a lad.  The laird’s lady, Mrs. Craik, read the
language; she had been much in France, like many of our Scottish
gentlefolk. Perhaps ’t was her very castle that we observed as we came
near the town, with the quaint round tower that stood apart."

"’T was the chapel of Madame," said the old French serving man on a
sudden, and in good English. "Messieurs will pardon me, but my
grandfather was long ago one of her head foresters."

The gentlemen turned and received this information with a politeness
equal to that with which it was given.

"’T is a fine country, France," said the little captain handsomely.
"Let us fill our glasses again to the glory of France and the success of
our expedition." Then, "Let us drink to old England too, Mr.
Wallingford, and that she may be brought to reason," he added
unexpectedly, when they had drunk the first toast.  "There is no such
soldier-breeder as England; and as for her sailors, they are the
Northmen of old, born again for the glory of a later time."


The next day but two they came into the gate of Paris, and saw the dark
prison of the Bastille, the Tour St. Jacques, and the great cathedral of
Notre Dame.  It was late afternoon, and Paris looked like a greater
Vitré, but with higher houses that also nodded together, and a busier
world of shops and palaces and churches.  Wallingford returned with
older eyes to see much that had escaped him as a boy.  And to Captain
Paul Jones there was a noble assurance in finding the capital city of
his adopted country’s allies so rich and splendid; above all, so frankly
gay.  There was none of the prim discretion of those English and
Scottish towns with which he was most familiar.  Paris was in her prime,
and was wholly independent of trifles, like a fine lady who admitted
these two admiring strangers to the hospitality of her house, with the
unconcern of one whose dwelling was well furnished and well served.  The
old French kings had gone away one by one, and left their palaces behind
them,—the long façades of the Louvre, and the pleasant courts of the
Palais Royal, and many another noble pile. Here in Paris, Mr. Benjamin
Franklin, the Bon Homme Richard, was bearing his difficult honors as
first citizen of a new republic, and living on good terms with the best
gentlemen of France.  His house, which he had from Monsieur Le Ray de
Chaumont, was at the other end of Paris, at Passy, a village beyond the
suburbs of the great town; and next morning, the young men, well
mounted, rode thither with a groom behind them, and alighted at the
Commissioner’s door.


Mr. Benjamin Franklin was in the midst of his morning affairs.  He was
dressed in a suit of reddish-brown velvet, with white stockings, and had
laid his white hat beside him on a table which was covered with papers
and a few serious-looking books.  It was a Tuesday, and he had been to
court with the rest of the diplomats, having lately been presented, with
the two American Commissioners, his fellows, to his majesty the King.

He rose with a courteous air of welcome, as the young men entered, and
looked sharply at them, and then at their uniforms with much indulgent
interest.

"You are the representatives of our navy.  ’T is a very dignified dress;
I am glad to see it,—and to receive its wearers," he added, smiling,
while the officers bowed again gravely.

"I was in a poor enough undress at my first visit, and fresh from travel
in the worst of weather," said Paul Jones, lowering his voice at the sad
remembrance.

"Mr. Wallingford!" and the old Commissioner turned quickly toward the
younger guest.  "I remember you as a lad in Portsmouth.  As for my good
friend your honored father, he will be unforgettable to those who knew
him.  You begin to wear his looks; they will increase, I think, as you
gather age. Sit ye down, gentlemen, sit ye down!" and he waved them to
two straight chairs which stood side by side at some distance down the
room, in the French fashion. Then he seated himself again behind his
table, and gave audience.

Captain Paul Jones was occupied for a moment in placing his heavy sword.
Wallingford was still looking eagerly toward their host.

"You are very good to remember me, sir," he said. "I counted it a great
honor that my father let me attend him that day, at Mr. Warner’s dinner.
You will be pleased to know that the lightning conductors are still in
place on the house, and are much shown to strangers in these days as
being of your planning."

The philosopher smiled at his young friend’s warmth; there was something
most homely and amiable mingled with his great dignity.

"And my friend Mr. John Langdon?  I have deeply considered our
dispatches from him, and especially the letter from Robert Morris, which
agrees in the main with your own ideas, sir," and he bowed to Captain
Paul Jones.  "And my friend Langdon?" he repeated, looking for his
answer to the lieutenant. "Mr. Langdon was very well, sir, though much
wearied with his cares, and sent his best remembrances and respects in
case I should be so honored as to see you.  And also Mr. Nicholas
Gilman, of Exeter, who was with him, beside many Portsmouth gentlemen,
your old friends."

"Our men at home carry the heaviest burdens," said Mr. Franklin,
sighing, "yet I wish every day that I might be at home, as they are."

"My first lieutenant, Mr. Simpson, is the brother-in-law of Major
Langdon," said Captain Paul Jones, flushing like a boy as he spoke.  He
could not help a somewhat uncomfortable sense of being on the
quarter-deck of a commander much greater than himself, and an uncertain
feeling about their relations that tried him very much, but he wore a
manly look and kept to his quietest manners.  He had parted from the
Commissioner, at their last interview, in deep distress and a high
passion.

"You have found Lieutenant Simpson an excellent officer, no doubt, with
the large experience of a Portsmouth shipmaster," observed Mr. Franklin
blandly.  He cast a shrewd look at the captain; but while his firm mouth
set itself a little more firmly, there was a humorous gleam of half
inquiry, half indulgence, in his wide-set eyes.

"You have spoken him, sir," acknowledged Captain Paul Jones, while with
equal self-possession and a touch of deference he waited for the
Commissioner to lead the conversation further, and thereby did not
displease Mr. Franklin, who had feared an interview of angry accusation
and indignant resentment. Wallingford, too, was conscious of great
pleasure in his captain’s bearing.

There was a pause, and Mr. Franklin looked again at the captain, and
bowed slightly from his chair.

"You may say what you have come to say to me, Captain Paul Jones.  You
can no doubt trust Mr. Wallingford, you see that I have for the moment
dismissed my secretary."

"I can trust Mr. Wallingford," answered the captain, holding himself
steady, but rising from the chair unconsciously, and taking a step
nearer to the table. His new cocked hat was crushed under his arm, and
Wallingford could see that the whole figure of the man was in a nervous
quiver.

"I can trust Mr. Wallingford," he repeated sternly, "but I am sorry that
I cannot say the same of Lieutenant Simpson.  I have suffered too much
already at his hands through his endeavors to supplant me as commander
of the Ranger.  He has descended to the poor means of disputing my
authority before my crew, and stimulating them in their rebellion and
surly feelings.  A crew is easily prejudiced against its superiors.  You
must be well aware, sir, how difficult a proper government may become at
sea; ’t is a hard life at best for crew or captain, and its only safety
is in wise control and decent obedience."

"Do you desire to make formal complaint of your lieutenant?  It is
hardly my province," said the Commissioner.  The amused look had left
his eyes, and they were as firm now as if he were a great judge on the
bench.

"I respect your anxieties," he added next moment, when he saw that he
held the captain in check.  "I am not unaware of your high aims, your
great disappointment, or your most difficult conditions of the present.
But these conditions and the varieties of human nature among so large a
ship’s company were not unknown to you.  The uncongenial man and the
self-seeking, unwilling assistant must always be borne with patience,
among our fellows.  Besides, we pardon anything to those we love, and
forgive nothing to those we hate.  You may go on, sir."

"The trouble has come in great measure from an open understanding, long
before we set sail out of Portsmouth, that I was to be given another
frigate immediately upon my arrival, and that Simpson was to take
command of the Ranger in my stead," said Paul Jones.  "Now that all is
over in regard to the Indien, he can fret under the long delay no worse
than I, but shows his impatience of my orders at times and seasons when
it ill befits him, and most wrongs and debases me; he behaves, on the
slightest provocation, as if I had deeply injured him, and gives no
reason why.  He is my senior in age, which has added much to the
difficulty between us.  He loses no chance to hint that I am bent on
selfish ends; even, I believe, that my principles, my character, may be
questioned in this matter.  My crew have become sensitive to the fear
that I cannot be trusted, owing to my Scottish birth and early life
spent upon British vessels,—as if they were any of them of a very
different blood and descent!  There is a worse man on board than
Simpson, a man named Dickson, who, to further his own ends, furthers the
lieutenant’s.  He has insisted from the first that Mr. Wallingford is a
Tory spy, and that the Ranger should be in the hands of those who could
fill their pockets with prize money.  He, and perhaps Simpson himself,
bewail their disappointment at discovering that a man-of-war is not the
same as a privateer.  Their ignorance of statecraft and the laws of
naval science and duty seems to make them smile with derision at all
proper discipline as if at some pompous horseplay."

The captain’s face was red now, and his voice sharpening to undue
loudness; but at an anxious gesture from Wallingford he grew quiet
again.

"I come to ask you, Mr. Commissioner, if by any means I can further this
business and hasten my transfer to another ship; but I must first do
what I can with the Ranger.  She is unfit for any great action, but we
can make a pretty showing in small matters.  My head is full of ideas
which I should be glad to lay before you.  I desire to strike a smart
blow at the English coast, to counteract the burnings of our towns at
home, and the interference with our shipping, and to stop the prisoning
of our sailors.  I can light a fire in England that will show them we
are a people to be feared, and not teased and laughed at. I ask you now
how far France is ready to help me."

"We have good friends in England still," said the Commissioner slowly.
"Some of the best minds and best characters among Englishmen see our
question of the colonies with perfect fairness; the common people are in
great part for us, too, and I have not yet lost hope that they may win
the day.  But of late things have gone almost too far for hope. Mr.
Wallingford," and he turned abruptly toward the lieutenant, "I must not
forget to ask you for your mother’s health.  I have thought of her many
times in her widowhood; she would ill bear the saddest loss that can
fall upon any of us, but she would bear it nobly."

The captain felt himself silenced in the very gathering and uplift of
his eloquence, when he was only delayed out of kind consideration.
Roger Wallingford answered the kind old man briefly and with deep
feeling; then the conference went on.  The captain was in full force of
his honest determination.

"Since I cannot have the Indien, as we well know, what ship can I have?"
he demanded.  "Shall I do what I can with the Ranger?  ’T were far
better than such idleness as this.  When I have seen my friend the Duke
of Chartres again, things may take a turn."

"He can do much for you," answered Franklin. "I have been told that he
speaks of you everywhere with respect and affection.  These things count
like solid gold with the indifferent populace, ready to take either side
of a great question."

"I feel sure, sir, that the blow must be struck quickly, if at all,"
urged the captain.  "If nothing is to be expected from France, I must do
the best I can with the means in my hand.  I must make some use of the
Ranger; we have already lost far too much time.  They hampered and
delayed me in Portsmouth for month upon month, when I might have been
effective here."

"When you are as old as I, Captain Paul Jones, you will have learned
that delays appear sometimes to be the work of those who are wiser than
we.  If life has anything to teach us, it is patience; but patience is
the hardest thing to teach those men who have the makings of a hero in
their breasts."  And again he fell into expectant silence, and sat
behind his table looking straight at the captain.  Wallingford’s heart
was touched by a recognition of Paul Jones’s character, which had been
so simply spoken; but that man of power and action took no notice
himself, except to put on a still more eager look, and shift his footing
as he stood, doing honor from his heart to Mr. Franklin.

"Will you not sit, captain?  We have much talk before us.  It astonishes
me that you should have gained so warm a love for your adopted country,"
said the Commissioner.

"I have to confess that England has been to me but a cruel stepmother.
I loved her and tried to serve her, boy and man," answered the other.
"When I went to live in Virginia, I learned to love my new country as a
lover loves his mistress.  God forgive me if I have sometimes been rash
in my service, but Glory has always shone like a star in my sky, and in
America a man is sure of a future if it is in his own breast to make
one.  At home everything is fixed; there are walls that none but the
very greatest have ever climbed.  Glory is all my dream; there is no
holding back in me when I think of it; my poor goods and my poor life
are only for it.  Help me, sir, help me to get my opportunity.  You
shall see that I am at heart a true American, and that I know my
business as a sailor.  Do not join with those who, with petty quibbles
and excuses, would hold me back!"

The passion of Paul Jones, the fire and manly beauty in his face, his
look of high spirit, would have moved two duller hearts than belonged to
his listeners. Mr. Franklin still sat there with his calm old face, and
a look of pleasant acceptance in his eyes.

"Yes, you are willing to go forward; the feet of young men are ever set
toward danger," he said.  "I repeat that we must sometimes be heroes at
waiting. To your faith you must add patience.  Your life of effort, like
mine, must teach you that, but I have had longer to learn the lesson.  I
shall do all that I can for you.  I respect your present difficulties,
but we have to live in the world as it is: we cannot refashion the
world; our task is with ourselves."

"Quel plaisir!" said the little captain bitterly, under his breath.

The pleasant French room, with its long windows set open to the formal
garden, was so silent for a time that at last all three of the men were
startled by a footstep coming out of the distance toward them, along the
loose pebbles of the garden walk.  They could not help the feeling that
a messenger was coming from the world outside; but as the sound
approached the window they recognized the easy clack of a pair of wooden
shoes, and the young gardener who wore them began to sing a gay little
French song.  Captain Paul Jones moved impatiently, but Mr. Franklin had
taken the time for thought.

"My friend Mr. David Hartley, a member of Parliament, who has been my
willing agent in what attempts could be made to succor our prisoned
sailors, begs me to have patience," he said reflectively. "He still
thinks that nothing should persuade America to throw herself into the
arms of France; for times are sure to mend, and an American must always
be a stranger in France, while Great Britain will be our natural home
for ages to come.  But I recalled to him, in my answer, the fact that
his nation is hiring all the cutthroats it can collect, of all countries
and colors, to destroy us.  It would be hard to persuade us not to ask
or accept aid from any power that may be prevailed with to grant it, for
the reason that, though we are now put to the sword, we may at some
future time be treated kindly!

"This expects too much patience of us altogether," he continued.
"Americans have been treated with cordiality and affectionate respect
here in France, as they have not been in England when they most deserved
it.  Now that the English are exasperated against us we have become
odious as well as contemptible, and we cannot expect a better treatment
for a long time to come.  I do not see why we may not, upon an alliance,
hope for a steady friendship with France.  She has been faithful to
little Switzerland these two hundred years!"

"I cannot find it in my heart to think that our friendship with our
mother country is forever broken," urged Wallingford, speaking with
anxious solicitude. "The bond is too close between us.  It is like the
troubles that break the happiness of a family in a day of bad weather;
it is but a quarrel or fit of the sulks, and when past, the love that is
born in our hearts must still hold us together."

"You speak truly, my young friend," said the old Commissioner; "but we
have to remember that the lives of nations are of larger scope, and that
the processes of change are of long duration.  I think that it may be a
century before the old sense of dependence and affection can return, and
England and America again put their arms about each other."

Paul Jones fretted in his gilded chair.  The carved crest of Monsieur de
Chaumont was sharp against his back, and the conversation was becoming
much too general.

"Our country is like a boy hardly come to manhood yet, who is at every
moment afraid that he will not be taken for a man of forty years," said
Mr. Franklin, smiling.  "We have all the faults of youth, but, thank
God, the faults of a young country are better than the faults of an old
one.  It is the young heart that takes the forward step.  The day comes
when England will love us all the better for what we are doing, but it
provokes the mother country now, and grieves the child.  If I read their
hearts aright, there have been those who thought the mother most deeply
hurt, and the child most angry.  You will have seen much of the
Loyalists, Mr. Wallingford, if I mistake not?"

Wallingford colored with boyish confusion.  "It would seem most natural,
sir, if you take my mother’s connection into account," he answered
honestly.  "She and her family are among those who have been sure of
England’s distress at our behavior.  She is of those who inherit the
deepest sentiments of affection toward the Crown."

"And you have been her antagonist?"

The question was kindly put, but it came straight as an arrow, and with
such force that Paul Jones forgot his own burning anxiety for the French
frigate, and turned to hear Wallingford’s answer.  All his natural
jealousy of a rival in love, and deep-hidden suspicion of a man who had
openly confessed himself a conservative, were again roused.

"I have taken oath, and I wear the uniform of our American navy, sir,"
replied Wallingford quietly. "My father taught me that a gentleman
should stand by his word.  I was not among those who wished to hasten so
sad a war, and I believe that our victory must be the long defeat of our
prosperity; but since there is war and we have become independent, my
country has a right to claim my service.  The captain knows the
circumstances which brought me here, and I thank him for giving me his
confidence."  The young man blushed like a girl, but Captain Paul Jones
smiled and said nothing.

"You have spoken like your father’s son,—and like the son of Madam
Wallingford," added Mr. Franklin.  "I must say that I honor your
behavior. I trust that your high principle may never fail you, my young
friend, but you are putting it to greater strain than if you stood among
the Patriots, who can see but one side."  The sage old man looked at the
lieutenant with a mild benevolence and approval that were staying to the
heart.  Then a shrewd, quick smile lighted his eyes again.

"You should be one of the knights of old come out on his lady’s quest,"
said Mr. Benjamin Franklin; and the young man, who might have blushed
again and been annoyed at the jest, only smiled back as he might have
smiled at his own father, whose look had sometimes been as kind, as wise
and masterful, as this of the old Commissioner.

Captain Paul Jones was in no mind that this hour should be wasted, even
though it was a pleasant thing to see an old man and a young one so
happily at home together.  He wished to speak again for himself, and now
rose with a formal air.

"Sir, I pray you not to condemn me without hearing me.  I have my
enemies, as you have come to know.  I am convinced that at least one of
Mr. Lee’s secretaries is a British spy.  I do not blame England for
watching us, but I accuse Mr. Lee.  If his fault is ignorance, he is
still guilty.  I desire also to lay before you my plans for a cruise
with the Ranger."

Mr. Roger Wallingford left his own chair with sudden impulse, and stood
beside his captain.  He was a head taller and a shoulder-breadth
broader, with the look of an old-fashioned English country gentleman, in
spite of his gold lace and red waistcoat and the cocked hat of a
lieutenant of marines.

"I have already reminded you, sir, and the other honorable
Commissioners," the captain continued, speaking quickly, "that I have
the promise of a better ship than the Ranger, and that my opportunities
of serving the Congress must wait in great measure upon the event of
that promise being fulfilled.  I have also to make formal complaint of
the misdemeanors of some members of my present crew.  I have fixed upon
the necessity of this, and the even greater necessity for money, as our
men lack clothes, and we are running short in every way.  Our men are
clamorous for their pay; I have advanced them a large sum on my own
account.  And we are already short of men; we must soon take action in
regard to the exchange of prisoners toward this end."

"Wait a few moments, Captain," said the Commissioner. "Mr. Deane and Mr.
Adams should listen to your reasonable requests and discuss these
projects. With your permission, we can dispense with the advice of Mr.
Lee.  I have here under consideration some important plans of the French
Minister of Marine."

There was a happy consciousness in the hearts of both the younger men
that they had passed a severe examination not wholly without credit, and
that the old Commissioner would stand their friend.  There were still a
few minutes of delay; and while the captain hastily reviewed his own
thick budget of papers, Wallingford glanced often at Mr. Franklin’s worn
face and heavy figure, remembering that he had lately said that his life
was now at its fag-end, and might be used and taken for what it was
worth.  All the weight of present cares and all the weariness of age
could not forbid the habit of kindly patience and large wisdom which
belonged to this very great man.

..vspace:: 2

"You are a dumb gentleman!" exclaimed the captain as they came away.
"You sat there, most of the time, like an elder of the kirk, but you and
Mr. Franklin seemed to understand each other all the better.  The higher
a man gets, the less he needs of speech.  My Lord Selkirk and his mates
and my dear Duke of Chartres, they do it all with a nod and a single
word, but poor folks may chatter the day through.  I was not so
garrulous myself to-day?" he said, appealing for approval; and
Wallingford, touched by such humility, hastened to assure him that the
business of the Ranger had been, in his opinion, most handsomely
conducted.  The captain’s fiery temper might well have mounted its war
chariot at certain junctures.

"Listen!" said Paul Jones, as they climbed the long slopes toward Paris
and their good horses settled into a steady gait.  "I have often been
uncertain of you since we came to sea; yet I must have a solid knowledge
that you are right at heart, else I could not have had you with me
to-day.  But you have been so vexingly dumb; you won’t speak out, you
don’t concern yourself!" and the captain swore gently under his breath.

Wallingford felt a touch of hot rage; then he laughed easily.  "Poor
Dickson will be disappointed if I do not prove a spy in the end," he
said.  "Look, captain; Mr. Franklin gave me these letters.  The packet
came for us by the last ship."

The lieutenant had already found time to take a hasty look at two
letters of his own; his young heart was heating fast against them at
that moment.  His mother’s prim and delicate handwriting was like a
glimpse of her face; and he had seen that Mary Hamilton had also written
him in the old friendly, affectionate way, with complete unconsciousness
of those doubts and shadows which so shamed his own remembrance.




                                *XXIII*

                        *THE SALUTE TO THE FLAG*

"Nor deem that acts heroic wait on chance,
*      *      *      *      *
The man’s whole life preludes the single deed
      That shall decide if his inheritance
Be with the sifted few of matchless breed."


In midwinter something happened that lifted every true heart on board.
There had been dull and dreary weeks on board the Ranger, with plots for
desertion among the crew, and a general look of surliness and reproach
on all faces.  The captain was eagerly impatient in sending his
messengers to Nantes when the Paris post might be expected, and was ever
disappointed at their return.  The discipline of the ship became more
strict than before, now that there was little else to command or insist
upon.  The officers grew tired of one another’s company, and kept to
their own quarters, or passed each other without speaking.  It was easy,
indeed, to be displeased with such a situation, and to fret at such an
apparently needless loss of time, even if there were nothing else to
fret about.

At last there was some comfort in leaving Nantes, and making even so
short a voyage as to the neighboring Breton port of L’Orient, where the
Ranger was overhauled and refitted for sea; yet even here the men
grumbled at their temporary discomforts, and above all regretted Nantes,
where they could amuse themselves better ashore.  It was a hard, stormy
winter, but there were plenty of rich English ships almost within hand’s
reach.  Nobody could well understand why they had done nothing, while
such easy prey came and went in those waters, from Bordeaux and the
coast of Spain, even from Nantes itself.

On a certain Friday orders were given to set sail, and the Ranger made
her way along the coast to Quiberon, and anchored there at sunset,
before the bay’s entrance, facing the great curve of the shores. She had
much shipping for company: farther in there lay a fine show of French
frigates with a convoy, and four ships of the line.  The captain scanned
these through his glass, and welcomed a great opportunity: he had come
upon a division of the French navy, and one of the frigates flew the
flag of a rear admiral, La Motte Piqué.

The wind had not fallen at sundown.  All night the Ranger tossed about
and tugged at her anchor chains, as if she were impatient to continue
her adventures, like the men between her sides.  All the next day she
rode uneasily, and clapped her sailcloth and thrummed her rigging in the
squally winter blast, until the sea grew quieter toward sundown.  Then
Captain Paul Jones sent a boat to the King’s fleet to carry a letter.

The boat was long gone.  The distance was little, but difficult in such
a sea, yet some of the boats of the country came out in hope of trading
with the Ranger’s men.  The poor peasants would venture anything, and a
strange-looking, swarthy little man who got aboard nobody knew how,
suddenly approached the captain where he stood, ablaze with impatience,
on the quarter.  At his first word Paul Jones burst with startling
readiness into Spanish invective, and then, with a look of pity at the
man’s poverty of dress in that icy weather, took a bit of gold from his
pocket.  "Barcelona?" said he.  "I have had good days in Barcelona,
myself," and bade the Spaniard begone.  Then he called him back and
asked a few questions, and, summoning a quartermaster, gave orders that
he should take the sailor’s poor gear, and give him a warm coat and cap
from the slop chests.

"He has lost his ship, and got stranded here," said the captain, with
compassion, and then turned again to watch for the boat.  "You may roll
the coat and cap into a bundle; they are quaint-fashioned things," he
added carelessly, as the quartermaster went away. The bay was now alive
with small Breton traders, and at a short distance away there was a
droll little potato fleet making hopefully for the Ranger.  The headmost
boat, however, was the Ranger’s own, with an answer to the captain’s
letter.  He gave an anxious sigh and laid down his glass.  He had sent
to say frankly to the rear admiral that he flew the new American flag,
and that no foreign power had yet saluted it, and to ask if his own
salute to the Royal Navy of France would be properly returned.  It was
already in the last fluster of the February wind, and the sea was going
down; there was no time to be lost. He broke the great seal of his
answer with a trembling hand, and at the first glance pressed the letter
to his breast.

The French frigates were a little apart from their convoy, and rolled
sullenly in a solemn company, their tall masts swaying like time-keepers
against the pale winter sky.  The low land lay behind them, its line
broken here and there by strange mounds, and by ancient altars of the
druids, like clumsy, heavy-legged beasts standing against the winter
sunset.  The captain gave orders to hoist the anchor, nobody knew why,
and to spread the sails, when it was no time to put to sea.  He stood
like a king until all was done, and then passed the word for his gunners
to be ready, and steered straight in toward the French fleet.

They all understood now.  The little Ranger ran slowly between the
frowning ships, looking as warlike as they; her men swarmed like bees
into the rigging; her colors ran up to salute the flag of his most
Christian Majesty of France, and she fired one by one her salute of
thirteen guns.

There was a moment of suspense.  The wind was very light now; the powder
smoke drifted away, and the flapping sails sounded loud overhead.  Would
the admiral answer, or would he treat this bold challenge like a
handkerchief waved at him from a pleasure boat?  Some of the officers on
the Ranger looked incredulous, but Paul Jones still held his letter in
his hand.  There was a puff of white smoke, and the great guns of the
French flagship began to shake the air,—one, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight, _nine_; and then were still, save for their echoes
from the low hills about Carnac and the great druid mount of St.
Michael.

"Gardner, you may tell the men that this was the salute of the King of
France to our Republic, and the first high honor to our colors," said
the captain proudly to his steersman.  But they were all huzzaing now
along the Ranger’s decks,—that little ship whose name shall never be
forgotten while her country lives.

"We hardly know what this day means, gentlemen," he said soberly to his
officers, who came about him.  "I believe we are at the christening of
the greatest nation that was ever born into the world."

The captain lifted his hat, and stood looking up at the Flag.




                                 *XXIV*

                              *WHITEHAVEN*

"The only happiness a man ought to ask for is happiness enough to get
his work done."


Early in April the Ranger was still waiting to put to sea.  She had been
made ready and trained for action like a single gun, in her long weeks
at Brest. The captain had gone away on a mysterious errand, afterward
reported to be a visit to Amsterdam directed by Mr. Franklin, who wished
for information regarding the affairs of the Commissioners and the loss
of their frigate.  Paul Jones carried with him the poor dress of that
Spanish seaman who had hoarded him at Quiberon, and made good use of the
Basque cap and his own sufficient knowledge of the Spanish language.  To
Wallingford only he gave any news of the journey, and it was only
Wallingford whom he made his constant companion in frequent visits to
the Duke of Chartres and his duchess, at their country house near the
city.

The Sailor Prince had welcomed this American captain and friend with all
the affection with which he had said farewell in Virginia, and hastened
to present him to his wife, who was not only one of the most charming of
French ladies, and a great-grand-daughter of Louis Quatorze, but
granddaughter of the great Count of Toulouse, that sailor son of the
King, who had won the famous sea fight off Malaga against the Dutch and
English fleets, seventy years before.  The beautiful duchess was quick
to recognize a hero.  She was most proud of her seafaring ancestor, and
listened with delight to Paul Jones as he spoke with some French
officers of the Malaga victory, and showed his perfect acquaintance with
its strategy.  She found him handsome, spirited, and full of great
qualities, and at once gave her warmest friendship to him and to his
cause.

All the degrading side of a sailor’s life and hardships, all the
distresses that Paul Jones and Roger Wallingford had known on board the
Ranger, faded away like bad dreams when they stood in her presence. They
were both true gentlemen at heart; they were also servants of their own
country in France; and now every door flew open before their wishes; the
future seemed but one long triumph and delight. Paul Jones, the poor
Scottish lad who had steadily followed his splendid vision, had come at
last very near to its reality, and to the true joys of an unfailing
friendship.


The Ranger sailed out of Brest on the 10th of April.  There had been an
attempt at mutiny on board, but the captain had quelled that, and
mastered the deep-laid plot behind it.  Once at sea, everything seemed
to be at rights again, since the ship was heading toward the English
coast.  The captain was silent now, as if always brooding upon great
affairs, and appeared to have fallen into a calm state of
self-possession; his eyes looked unconscious of whatever minor objects
were reflected in their quick mirrors. All his irascibility was for the
moment gone; his face was thoughtful and even melancholy, with a look as
if at last he possessed some secret happiness and assurance.  Glory
herself had become strangely identified with a beautiful French
princess, and he had made a vow to high Heaven that he would some day
lay an English frigate at her feet, and show himself worthy of her
confidence and most inspiriting sympathy.  The captain had spoken to her
of all his hard and hopeful life as he had never spoken to any one; she
even knew the story of Wallingford, and their relations to Mary Hamilton
and to each other.  The Duchess of Chartres had listened eagerly, and
next day said a word to the lieutenant that made his young heart fairly
quiver at such exquisite understanding; to the captain she had spoken
only of Glory as they both understood it, and of a hero’s task and
sacrifice.

The Ranger headed past the Channel and into the Irish Sea.  At last she
stood over from the Isle of Man until the shores of England were close
at hand, behind a shifting veil of fog, and even those among the
Ranger’s crew whose best dreams were of prizes were not unsatisfied with
their prospects.  When the gusty wind beat back the fog, they could see
the mountains of Cumberland; and the shapes of those solid heights
looked well to the eye, after the low lines of the French coast they had
left behind.  They passed St. Bees Head, keeping well at sea; and the
captain did some petty trading with poor fishermen, to learn how things
stood now at Whitehaven, and whether there might be frigates in those
waters, or any foe too great for so bold a venturer.  They were beating
against the easterly winds, and steadily nearing the shore.  They could
see no large-looking ships when the fog lifted, though it was a region
where much shipping went and came.  There was possible danger of alarm,
and that their sailing from Brest had been heralded by treachery.  The
captain was alive in every nerve, and held himself steady, like a tiger
in the night, whose best weapons must be speed and silence.

Wallingford stood long on deck in the late afternoon, leaning against
the gun in his wonted place, and troubled by the persistent reluctance
of his heart. These were the shores of England, and he was bound to do
them harm.  He was not the first man who found it hard to fight against
the old familiar flag which a few months earlier had been his own.  He
had once spent a few months in the old country, after his college course
had ended,—a boy of eighteen, who looked on at life admiringly, as if it
were a play. He had been happy enough in London then, and in some
country houses, where old family friends of both his father and his
mother had shown him much kindness, and the days had gone by not so
unlike the fashion of life at home.  The merchants and gentlefolk of New
England had long been rich enough to live at ease, and Boston and
Portsmouth, with Salem and the harbor towns between, were themselves but
tiny Londons in those happier days before the war.  Each had a few men
of learning and women of the world, and were small satellites that
borrowed their lesser light from a central sun. Wallingford knew enough
of the solid force and dignity of England to wince at the ignorant talk
of the crew about so formidable an enemy, and again his heart grew heavy
with regret that this mother and child among the nations had been so
rashly drawn into the cruelties of war.  The King and those who
flattered him were wrong enough, God forgive them!  But the great Earl
of Chatham, and Mr. Fox, and many another man of authority and power had
stood for the colonies.  For a moment this heavy young heart grew even
heavier with the thought of being the accomplice of France in such a
short-sighted business, but next moment Wallingford angrily shook
himself free from such fears as these.  They were the thoughts that had
been born in him, not his own determination: he had come to fight for
the colonies, and would trample down both his fears and his opinions
once for all on the Ranger’s deck.  The lieutenant looked down at the
solid deck planks where he stood,—they had grown out of the honest
ground of his own neighborhood; he had come to love his duty, after all,
and even to love his ship.  Up went his head again, and his heart was
once more hot within him; the only question now was, what did the
captain mean to do?

The light began to fade, and evening to fall.  The men were heaving the
lead, and the captain watched them, listening anxiously as they told
their soundings with the practiced drawl and quaint phrases that old
seamen use.  They could now and then catch a glimpse of small houses on
the shore.  The ship was evidently in shoal water, and the fog lifted
and parted and thickened again, as if a skyful of clouds had dropped
upon the sea.

Presently the word was passed to let go the anchor; and the storm of
oaths and exclamations which this involved, owing to some unexpected
hindrance, grew so tiresome to the lieutenant that he left the place
where he had been standing, to go below again.

"Look, look, mon ami!" urged the captain eagerly; and Wallingford turned
to see that the fog had driven away, while Paul Jones pointed toward a
large town, and a forest of vessels lying in the bay before it,—a huge
flock of shipping for such a port.  The Irish Sea had emptied itself
into Whitehaven, and the wind had gone down; not a sloop or a snow, and
not a little brig in a hurry, could put to sea again that April night.

"’T is old Whitehaven," said Paul Jones.  "Now I ’ll show them that they
have made an enemy!  Now they ’ll know we are to be feared, not laughed
at!  I ’ll put an end to all their burnings in America.  I ’ll harry
their own coasts now, and frighten them back into their hills before I’m
done.  I ’ll sweep them off their own seas!  My chance is in my hand!"

Dickson presented himself at this moment.  The captain would not have
had him listening, and turned upon him angrily to hear what he had to
say.

"Thick as coasters in Portsmouth lower harbor in a northeast blow,"
commented the unwelcome officer, "but that’s no such handsome town as
ours."

"’T is a town of three hundred ships, mostly in the coal trade, and
ranks close to Newcastle in Northumberland; ’t is a town large enough to
be charged with six hundred men for his Majesty’s navy," and the captain
scowled.  "We need not take it for a poor fishing village till we have
seen it better.  A more uncertain coast, from the shifting sands, I do
not remember to have known; but I can keep the main channels well enough
through long acquaintance," he added, in a lower voice.  "Now we are out
of this dungeon of fog, thank God, and I shall creep in still and steady
as a snail when I get ready."

They could see the gleam of white cliffs now, as the fog rolled up the
hills.

"’T is full of poor miners there, burrowing like moles in the dark
earth," said the captain pityingly,—"a wretched life for a Christian!"
Then he went to his cabin, and called his officers about him, and gave
orders for the night’s work.


"I loved Britain as a man may only love his mother country; but I was
misjudged, and treated with such bitter harshness and contempt in my
younger days that I renounced my very birthright!" said Paul Jones,
turning to Wallingford with a strange impulse of sadness when the other
men had gone.  "I cannot help it now; I have made the break, and have
given my whole allegiance to our new Republic, and all the strength of
me shall count for something in the building of her noble future.
Therefore I fight her battles, at whatever cost and on whatever soil.
Being a sailor, I fight as a sailor, and I am here close to the soil
that bore me.  ’T is against a man’s own heart, but I am bent upon my
duty, though it cost me dear."

Wallingford did not speak,—his own reluctance was but hardly overcome;
he could not take his eyes off the captain, who had grown unconscious of
his presence.  It was a manly face and bold look, but when at rest there
was something of sad patience in the eyes and boyish mouth,—something
that told of bafflings and disappointments and bitter hardness in a life
that had so breathlessly climbed the steep ladder of ambition.  The
flashing fire of his roused spirit, the look of eager bravery, were both
absent now, leaving in their places something of great distinction, but
a wistfulness too, a look hungry for sympathy,—that pathetic look of
simple bewilderment which sometimes belongs to dreamers and enthusiasts
who do not know whither they are being led.

The wind was down, so that there was no hope, as at first, of the
Ranger’s running in closer to the harbor, with all her fighting force
and good armament of guns.  There was still light enough to see that no
man-of-war was standing guard over so many merchantmen. The Ranger
herself looked innocent enough from shore, on her far anchorage; but
when darkness fell they hove up the anchor and crept in a little way,
till the tide turned to go out and it was too dangerous among the
shoals.  They anchored once more, yet at too great a distance.  Hours of
delay ran by, and when the boats were lowered at last there was
hindrance still.  Some preparations that the captain had ordered were
much belated, to his great dismay; discipline was of no avail; they were
behindhand in starting; the sky was clear of clouds now, and the night
would be all the shorter.

The officers were silent, wrapped in their heavy boat-cloaks, and the
men rowed with all the force that was in them.  The captain had the
surgeon with him in one boat, and some midshipmen, and the other boat
was in charge of Lieutenant Wallingford, with Dickson and Hall.

There were thirty picked seamen, more or less, in the party; the boats
were crowded and loaded to the gunwale, and they parted company like
thieves in the night to work their daring purposes.  The old town of
Whitehaven lay quiet; there was already a faint light of coming dawn
above the Cumberland Hills when they came to the outer pier; there was a
dim gleam of snow on the heights under the bright stars, and the air was
bitter cold.  An old sea was running high after the late storms, and the
boats dragged slowly on their errand.  The captain grew fierce and
restless, and cursed the rowers for their slowness; and the old town of
Whitehaven and all her shipping lay sound asleep.

The captain’s boat came in first; he gave his orders with sure
acquaintance, and looked about him eagerly, smiling at some
ancient-looking vessels as if they were old friends, and calling them by
name.  What with the stormy weather of the past week, and an alarm about
some Yankee pirates that might be coming on the coast, they had all
flocked in like sheep, and lay stranded now as the tide left them.
There was a loud barking of dogs from deck to deck, but it soon ceased.
Both the boats had brought what freight they could stow of pitch and
kindlings, and they followed their orders; the captain’s boat going to
the south side, and Wallingford’s to the north, to set fires among the
shipping.  There was not a moment to be lost.

On the south side of the harbor, where the captain went, were the larger
ships, many of them merchantmen of three or four hundred tons burthen;
on the north side were smaller craft of every sort, Dutch doggers and
the humble coast-wise crafts that made the living of a family,—each poor
fish boat furnishing the tool for a hard and meagre existence.  On few
of these was there any riding light or watch; there was mutual
protection in such a company, and the harbor was like a gateless
poultry-yard, into which the captain of the Ranger came boldly like a
fox.

He ran his boat ashore below the fort, and sent most of her crew to set
fires among the vessels, while he mounted the walls with a few
followers, and found the sentinels nothing to be feared: they were all
asleep in the guardhouse, such was the peace and prosperity of their
lives.  It was easy enough to stop them from giving alarm, and leave
them fast-bound and gagged, to find the last half of the night longer
than the first of it.  A few ancient cannon were easily spiked, and the
captain ran like a boy at Saturday-afternoon bird-nesting to the fort
beyond to put some other guns out of commission; they might make
mischief for him, should the town awake.

"Come after me!" he called.  "I am at home here!"  And the men at his
heels marveled at him more than ever, now that they were hand to hand
with such an instant piece of business.  It took a man that was half
devil to do what the captain was doing, and they followed as if they
loved him.  He stopped now in a frenzy of sudden rage.  "They have had
time enough already to start the burning; what keeps them?  There should
be a dozen fires lit now!" he cried, as he ran back to the waterside.
The rest of the boat’s crew were standing where he had left them, and
met his reproaches with scared faces: they had their pitch and tar with
them, and had boarded a vessel, but the candles in their dark lanterns,
which were to start the blaze, had flickered and gone out. Somebody had
cut them short: it was a dirty trick, and was done on purpose.  They
told in loud, indignant whispers that they had chosen an old deserted
ship that would have kindled everything near her, but they had no light
left.  And the sky was fast brightening.

The captain’s face was awful to look at, as he stood aghast.  There was
no sight of fire across the harbor, either, and no quick snake of flame
could be seen running up the masts.  He stood for one terrible moment in
silence and despair.  "And no flint and steel among us, on such an
errand!" he gasped.  "Come with me, Green!" he commanded, and set forth
again, running like a deer back into the town.

It took but a minute to pass, by a narrow way, among some poor stone
houses and out across a bit of open ground, to a cottage poorer and
lower than any, and here Paul Jones lifted the clumsy latch.  It was a
cottage of a single room, and his companion followed hastily, and stood
waiting close behind oil the threshold.

"Nancy, Nancy, my dear!" said the captain, in a gentle voice, but
thrusting back a warning hand to keep the surgeon out.  "Nancy, ye ’ll
not be frightened; ’t is no thief, but your poor laddie, John Paul, that
you wintered long ago with a hurt leg, an’ he having none other that
would friend him.  I ’ve come now but to friend you and to beg a light."

There was a cry of joy and a sound of some one rising in the bed, and
the surgeon heard the captain’s hasty steps as he crossed the room in
the dark and kissed the old creature, who began to chatter in her feeble
voice.

"Yes, here’s your old tinder box in its place on the chimney," said the
captain hastily.  "I’m only distressed for a light, Mother Nancy, and my
boat just landing.  Here ’s for ye till I get ashore again from my
ship," and there was a sound of a heavy handful of money falling on the
bed.

"Tak’ the best candle, child," she cried, "an’ promise me ye ’ll be
ashore again the morn’s morn an’ let me see your bonny eyes by day!  I
said ye’d come,—I always said ye’d come!"  But the two men were past
hearing any more, as they ran away with their treasure.

"Why in God’s name did you leave the door wide open?" said the surgeon.
"She ’ll die of a pleurisy, and your gold will only serve to bury her!"

There was no time for dallying.  The heap of combustibles on one old
vessel’s deck was quick set afire now and flung down the hatches, and a
barrel of tar was poured into the thick-mounting flames; this old brig
was well careened against another, and their yards were fouled.  There
was no time to do more; the two would easily scatter fire to all their
neighborhood when the morning wind sprung up to help them, and the
captain and his men must put off to sea.  There were still no signs of
life on the shore or the fort above.

They all gathered to the boat; the oarsmen were getting their places,
when all at once there was a cry among the lanes close by, and a crowd
of men were upon them.  The alarm had been given, and the Ranger’s men
were pressed hard in a desperate, close fight.  The captain stood on the
end of the little pier with his pistol, and held back some of the
attacking party for one terrible minute, till all his men were in. "Lay
out, lay out, my boys!" he cried then from his own place in the stern.
There were bullets raining about them, but they were quick out of harm’s
way on the water.  There was not a man of that boat’s company could
forget the captain’s calmness and daring, as they saw him stand against
the angry crowd.

The flames were leaping up the rigging of the burning ship; the shore
was alive with men; there were crowds of people swarming away up among
the hills beyond the houses.  There had been a cannon overlooked, or
some old ship’s gun lay upon the beach, which presently spoke with
futile bravado, bellowing its hasty charge when the captain’s boat was
well out upon the bay.  The hills were black with frightened folk, as if
Whitehaven were a ruined ant-hill; the poor town was in a terror.  On
the other side of the harbor there was no blaze even yet, and the
captain stood in his boat, swaying to its quick movement, with anxious
eyes set to looking for the other men.  There were people running along
the harbor side, and excited shapes on the decks of the merchantmen;
suddenly, to his relief of mind, he saw the other boat coming out from
behind a Dutch brig.

Lieutenant Hall was in command of her now, and he stood up and saluted
when he came near enough to speak.

"Our lights failed us, sir," he said, looking very grave; "somebody had
tampered with all our candles before we left the ship.  An alarm was
given almost at once, and our landing party was attacked. Mr. Dickson
was set upon and injured, but escaped. Mr. Wallingford is left ashore."

"The alarm was given just after we separated," said Dickson, lifting
himself from the bottom of the boat. "I heard loud cries for the guard,
and a man set upon me, so that I am near murdered.  They could not have
watched us coming.  You see there has been treachery; our fine
lieutenant has stayed ashore from choice."

"That will do, sir!" blazed the captain.  "I must hear what you have
done with Wallingford.  Let us get back to our ship!"  And the two boats
sped away with what swiftness they could across the great stretch of
rough water.  Some of the men were regretful, but some wore a hard and
surly look as they bent to their heavy oars.




                                 *XXV*

                          *A MAN’S CHARACTER*

"Yet have they still such eyes to wait on them
As are too piercing; that they can behold
And penetrate the Inwards of the Heart."


The men left on board the Ranger, with Lieutenant Simpson in command,
who had been watching all these long hours, now saw clouds of smoke
rising from among the shipping, but none from the other side of the
town, where they knew the captain had ordered many fires to be set among
the warehouses.  The two boats were at last seen returning in company,
and the Ranger, which had drifted seaward, made shift with the morning
breeze to wear a little nearer and pick them up. There was a great smoke
in the harbor, but the town itself stood safe.

The captain looked back eagerly from the height of the deck after he
came aboard; then his face fell.  "I have been balked of my purpose!" he
cried.  "Curse such treachery among ye!  Thank God, I ’ve frightened
them, and shown what a Yankee captain may dare to do!  If I had been an
hour earlier, and no sneaking cur had tampered with our lights"—

He was pale with excitement, and stood there at first triumphant, and
next instant cursing his hard luck.  The smoke among the shipping was
already less; the Ranger was running seaward, as if the mountains had
waked all their sleepy winds and sent them out to hurry her.

There was a crowd on deck about the men who had returned, and the
sailors on the yards were calling down to their fellows to ask
questions.  The captain had so far taken no notice of any one, or even
of this great confusion.

"Who’s your gentleman now?" Dickson’s voice suddenly rang triumphant,
like a cracked trumpet, above the sounds of bragging narrative that were
punctuated by oaths to both heaven and the underworld. "Who ’s a traitor
and a damned white-livered dog of a Tory now?  Who dropped our spare
candles overboard, and dirtied his pretty fingers to spoil the rest? Who
gave alarm quick ’s he got his boat ashore, and might have had us all
strung up on their English gallows before sunset?"

Dickson was standing with his back against the mast, with a
close-shouldered audience about him, officious to give exact details of
the expedition.  Aloft, they stopped who were shaking out the sails, and
tried to hear what he was saying.  At this moment old Cooper lowered
himself hand over hand, coming down on the run into the middle of the
company before he could be stopped, and struck Dickson a mighty blow in
the breast that knocked him breathless.  Some of Dickson’s followers set
upon Cooper in return; but he twisted out of their clutch, being a man
of great strength and size, and took himself off to a little distance,
where he stood and looked up imploringly at the captain, and then
dropped his big head into his hands and began to sob.  The captain came
to the edge of the quarter-deck and looked down at him without speaking.
Just then Dickson was able to recover speech; he had nearly every man
aboard for his audience.

"You had ten minutes to the good afore Mr. Wallingford follered ye!"
bellowed Hanscom, one of the Berwick men who had been in the same boat.

"I saw nothing of the judge’s noble son; he took good care of that!"
answered Dickson boldly; and there was a cry of approval among those who
had suspected Wallingford.  They were now in the right; they at last had
proof that Wallingford deserved the name of traitor, or any evil name
they might be disposed to call him.  Every man in the lieutenant’s boat
was eager to be heard and to tell his own story. Mr. Hall had
disappeared; as for Wallingford, he was not there to plead for himself,
and his accusers had it all their own way.

"I tell ye I ain’t afraid but he’s all right!  A man’s character ought
to count for something!" cried Hanscom.  But there was a roar of
contempt from those who had said from the first that a Tory was a Tory,
and that Wallingford had no business to be playing at officer aboard the
Ranger, and making shift to stand among proper seamen.  He had gone
ashore alone and stayed ashore, and there had been a sudden alarm in the
town: the black truth stared everybody in the face.


The captain’s first rage had already quieted in these few minutes since
they had come aboard, and his face had settled into a look of stolid
disappointment and weariness.  He had given Whitehaven a great
fright,—that was something; the news of it would quickly travel along
the coast.  He went to his cabin now, and summoned Dickson and Hall to
make their statements. Lieutenant Hall had no wish to be the speaker,
but the fluent Dickson, battered and water-soaked, minutely described
the experience of the boat’s company.  It certainly seemed true enough
that Wallingford had deserted.  Lieutenant Hall could contradict nothing
that was said, though the captain directly appealed to him more than
once.

"After all, we have only your own word for what happened on shore," said
the captain brutally, as if Dickson were but a witness in court before
the opposing attorney.

"You have only my word," said Dickson.  "I suppose you think that you
can doubt it.  At least you can see that I have suffered.  I feel the
effects of the blows, and my clothes are dripping here on your cabin
floor in a way that will cause you discomfort.  I have already told you
all I can."

"I know not what to believe," answered Paul Jones, after a moment’s
reflection, but taking no notice of the man’s really suffering
condition.  The captain stood mute, looking squarely into Dickson’s
face, as if he were still speaking.  It was very uncomfortable.
"Lieutenant Wallingford is a man of character. Some misfortune may have
overtaken him; at the last moment"—

"He made the most of the moments he had," sneered Dickson then.  "The
watch was upon us; I had hard work to escape.  I tried to do my best."

"_Tried!_" roared the captain.  "What’s _trying_? ’Tis the excuse of a
whiner to say he _tried_; a man either does the thing he ought, or he
does it not.  I gave your orders with care, sir; the treachery began
here on hoard.  There should have been fires set in those spots I
commanded.  ’T was the business of my officers to see that this was
done, and to have their proper lights at hand.  Curse such incompetence!
Curse your self-seeking and your jealousy of me and one another!" he
railed.  "This is what you count for when my work is at the pinch!  If
only my good fellows of the Alfred had been with me, I might have laid
three hundred ships in ashes, with half Whitehaven town."

Dickson’s face wore a fresh look of triumph; the captain’s hopes were
confessedly dashed to ground, and the listener was the better pleased.
Hall, a decent man, looked sorry enough; but Dickson’s expression of
countenance lent fuel to the flames of wrath, and the captain saw his
look.

"I could sooner believe that last night’s villain were yourself, sir!"
he blazed out suddenly, and Dickson’s smug face grew a horrid color.
The attack was so furious that he was not without fear; a better man
would have suffered shame.

"I take that from nobody.  You forget yourself, Captain Jones," he
managed to say, with choking throat; and then the viper’s instinct in
his breast made him take revenge.  "You should be more civil to your
officers, sir; you have insulted too many of us.  Remember that we are
American citizens, and you have given even Mr. Wallingford good reason
to hate you.  He is of a slow sort, but he may have bided his time!"

The bravery of the hypocrite counted for much. Paul Jones stared at him
for a moment, wounded to the quick, and speechless.  Then, "You sneaking
thief!" he hissed between his teeth.  "Am I to be baited by a coward
like you?  We ’ll see who’s the better man!"  But at this lamentable
juncture Lieutenant Hall stepped between, and by dint of hard pushing
urged the offending Dickson to the deck again.  Such low quarrels were
getting to be too common on the Ranger, but this time he was not
unwilling to take the captain’s part.  Dickson was chilled to the bone,
and his teeth were chattering; the bruises on his face were swelling
fast.  He looked like a man that had been foully dealt with,—first well
pounded and then ducked, as Hall had once seen an offender treated by
angry fishwives in the port of Leith.

There was much heaviness among those Berwick men who stood bravely for
Roger Wallingford; one of them, at least, refused to be comforted, and
turned his face to the wall in sorrow when the lieutenant’s fate was
discussed.  At first he had boldly insisted that they would soon find
out the truth; but there were those who were ready to confute every
argument, even that of experience, and now even poor Cooper went sad and
silent about his work, and fought the young squire’s enemies no more.




                                 *XXVI*

                      *THEY HAVE MADE PREY OF HIM*


"Implacable hate, patient cunning, and a sleepless refinement of device
to inflict the extremest anguish on an enemy, these things are evil."


While Wallingford insisted that he must carry out the captain’s plain
instructions to the letter, the moment their boat touched the landing
steps Dickson leaped over the side and ran up the pier.  He had said,
carelessly, that it was no use to risk several lives where one might
serve; it was possible that they had been seen approaching, and he would
go and play the scout, and select their buildings for firing.  Both the
lieutenants, Wallingford and Hall, took this breach of discipline
angrily; there seemed to be an aggravating desire in Dickson’s heart to
put himself first now when it would count to his own gain.  Their orders
had been to leave the boat in his charge while the landing party was
away; and in the next few moments, when he had disappeared into the
narrow street that led up from the small pier, Wallingford grew uneasy,
and went ashore himself.  He climbed to the top of the pier, and then
heard Dickson’s voice calling at no great distance as if for help.  As
he started to run that way, he shouted to the men below to follow him.

His voice was lost in the noise of waves lapping and splashing about
them against the pier; they heard his cry, but could not tell what it
meant, or whether they should stay or go.  The captain’s orders had been
strict that all three of the elder officers should not leave the boat at
once.  Young Hill, the midshipman, a fine brave fellow, now landed; but
in the dim light he could see nobody, and returned.  The discovery was
then made that they had all their kindlings and tar in readiness, but
there were no candles left in the two lanterns, and the bag of spare
candles and tinder box which the midshipman had in charge was no longer
to be found in the boat.  It had been laid next the thwart, and in
crossing some rough water might have fallen overboard, though nobody
could understand the accident.

They could only wait now, in mortification and distress, for
Wallingford’s return, and some minutes passed in a grievous uncertainty.

The lieutenant had much resented Dickson’s show of authority, and feared
the ill success of his errand; although he had no liking for the man, it
was no time to consider personalities; they were all on duty, and must
report to their commander.  It was certainly dangerous for a man to
venture ashore alone, and the first distant outcry set him running at
the top of his speed, expecting the landing party to follow.

Wallingford was light-footed, and as he ran he plainly heard Dickson’s
voice once more, and then all was silent.  He hurried along, keeping
close to the walls of warehouses, and came next into a street of common,
poor dwellings of the seafaring folk.  Then he stopped and listened, and
whistled a call familiar enough to Dickson or any man of the Somersworth
and Berwick neighborhoods, as if they had strayed from each other
hunting in the old York woods. There was no answer, and he turned to go
back; he must rejoin his men and attend to duty, and Dickson must take
care of himself.  There were dark alleys that led from this narrow
thoroughfare to the water side; he heard footfalls, and again stood
listening in the shelter of a deep doorway, when a group of half-dressed
men burst out of a side lane, armed, and with a soldier or two among
them.  They ran down the street toward the shore, and took a short way
round a corner.  Wallingford heard a word or two which made him sure
they had been given warning; it flashed through his brain that this was
Dickson’s business and plan for revenge.  If their own men were still in
the boat or near it,—which seemed likely, since they had not followed
him,—they would be safe enough, but danger threatened them all. There
was a sound of gathering voices and frightened outcries and slamming
doors beyond in the town, as if the whole place were astir, and the
morning light was growing fast in the sky, and making a new day in the
dark little street.  There was nothing for Wallingford to do but to
hurry back to the boat as best he might. In some of the neighboring
houses they had heard the guard go by, and sleepy heads were appearing
to learn the news.  The lieutenant made haste.  Just as he passed the
side passage whence the men had come, Dickson himself appeared through
an archway just beyond, and stopped to call, "Watch!  Watch!  The
Yankees are in the town to set it burning!  _Watch! Watch!_" he was
crying at the top of his lungs, instead of that faint "_Help!  Help!_"
which had seemed to cry for mercy in Wallingford’s ears, and had enticed
him into peril of his life.

With one bound Wallingford leaped upon the scoundrel and caught him in a
mighty clutch. There was the look of a fiend in Dickson’s face, in the
dim light, as he turned and saw the man he hated most, and the two
clinched in a fury.  Then Dickson remembered the straight knife in his
belt, and as they fought he twisted himself free enough to get it in his
hand and strike; next moment Wallingford was flat on the cobblestones,
heavily fallen with a deep cut in his shoulder.

There were men running their way, and Dickson fled before them.  He had
been badly mauled before the trick of stabbing could set him free; the
breath was sobbing out of his lungs from the struggle, but he ran
unhindered to the pier end, past the gaping townsfolk, and threw himself
into the water, striking out for the boat, which had drawn well away
from shore.  There was a loud shout at his escape, but he was a good
swimmer.  They were watching from the boat, and when they saw that
Dickson lagged, they drew nearer and dragged him in.  It was all in a
moment; there was firing at them now from the shore.  Hall and the
midshipman were at the very worst of their disappointment; they had
failed in their errand; the whole thing was a fiasco, and worse.

Then Dickson, though sick and heavy from such an intake of salt water,
managed to speak and tell them that Wallingford had waked the town; he
must have found the guardhouse at once, for the watch was out, and had
even set upon himself as he returned. He had reconnoitred carefully and
found all safe, when he heard a man behind him, and had to fight for his
life.  Then he heard Wallingford calling and beating upon the doors.
They might know whether they had shipped a Tory, now!  Dickson could
speak no more, and sank down, as if he were spent indeed, into the
bottom of the boat.  He could tell already where every blow had struck
him, and a faintness weakened his not too sturdy frame.

Now they could see the shipping all afire across the harbor as they drew
out; the other boat’s party had done their work, and it was near to
broad day.  Now the people were running and crying confusion, and boats
were putting out along the shore, and an alarm bell kept up an incessant
ringing in the town.  The Ranger’s men rowed with all their might.
Dickson did not even care because the captain would give the boat a
rating; he had paid back old scores to the lofty young squire, his enemy
and scorner; the fault of their failure would be Wallingford’s.  His
heart was light enough; he had done his work well.  If Wallingford was
not already dead or bleeding to death like a pig, back there in the
street, the Whitehaven folk were like to make a pretty hanging of him
before sunset. There was one pity,—he had left his knife sticking in the
Tory’s shoulder, and this caused a moment of sharp regret; but it was a
plain sailor’s knife which he had lately got by chance at Brest, and
there were no witnesses to the encounter; his word was as good as
Wallingford’s to most men on their ship.  He began to long for the
moment when the captain should hear their news.  "He ’s none so great a
hero yet," thought Dickson, and groaned with pain as the boat lurched
and shifted him where he lay like ballast among the unused kindlings.
Wallingford had given him a fine lasting legacy of blows.




                                *XXVII*

                        *A PRISONER AND CAPTIVE*

"Close at thy side I walk unseen,
And feel thy passion and thy prayer.
Wide separation doth but prove
The mystic might of human love."


The poor lieutenant was soon turned over scornfully by a musket butt and
the toe of a stout Whitehaven shoe.  The blood was steadily running from
his shoulder, and his coat was all sodden with a sticky wetness. He had
struck his head as he fell, and was at this moment happily unconscious
of all his woes.

"Let him lie, the devil!" growled a second man who came along,—a citizen
armed with a long cutlass, but stupid with fear, and resenting the loss
of his morning sleep and all his peace of mind.  They could see the
light of the burning vessel on the roofs above. "Let’s get away a bit
further from the shore," said he; "there may be their whole ship’s
company landed and ranging the town."

"This damned fellow ’ll do nobody any mischief," agreed the soldier, and
away they ran.  But presently his companion stole back to find if there
were anything for an honest man and a wronged one in this harmless
officer’s pockets.  There were some letters in women’s writing that
could be of no use to any one, and some tobacco.  "’T is the best
American sort," said the old citizen, who had once been a sailor in the
Virginia trade.  He saw the knife sticking fast, and pulled it out; but
finding it was a cheap thing enough, and disagreeable just now to have
in hand, he tossed it carelessly aside.  He found a purse of money in
one pocket, and a handsome watch with a seal like some great
gentleman’s; but this was strangely hooked and ringed to the fob
buttons, and the chain so strong that though a man pulled hard enough to
break it, and even set his foot on the stranger’s thigh to get a good
purchase, the links would not give way.  The citizen looked for the
convenient knife again, but missed it under the shadow of the wall.
There were people coming.  He pocketed what he had got, and looked
behind him anxiously: then he got up and ran away, only half content
with the purse and good tobacco.

An old woman, and a girl with her, were peeping through the dirty panes
of a poor, narrow house close by; and now, seeing that there was such a
pretty gentleman in distress, and that the citizen, whom they knew and
treasured a grudge against, had been frightened away, they came out to
drag him into shelter.  Just as they stepped forth together on the
street, however, a squad of soldiers, coming up at double-quick,
captured this easy prisoner, whose heart was beating yet.  One of them
put the hanging watch into his own pocket, unseen,—oddly enough, it came
easily into his hand; and after some consideration of so grave a matter
of military necessity, two of them lifted Wallingford, and finding him
both long and heavy called a third to help, and turned back to carry him
to the guard-house.  By the time they reached the door a good quarter
part of the townsfolk seemed to be following in procession, with angry
shouts, and tearful voices of women begging to know if their husbands or
lovers had been seen in danger; and there were loud threats, too, meant
for the shaming of the silent figure carried by stout yeomen of the
guard.

After some hours Wallingford waked, wretched with the smart of his
wounds, and dazed by the first sight of his strange lodging in the town
jail.  There were no friends to succor him; he had not even the resource
of being mistaken for a Tory and a friend of the Crown.  There were at
least three strutting heroes showing themselves in different quarters of
the town, that evening, who claimed the honor of giving such a dangerous
pirate his deathblow.

Some days passed before the officer in charge of this frightened seaport
(stricken with sincere dismay, and apprehensive of still greater
disaster from such stealthy neighbors on the sea) could receive the
answer to his report sent to headquarters.  Wallingford felt more and
more the despair of his situation.  The orders came at last that, as
soon as he could be moved, he should be sent to join his fellow rebels
in the old Mill Prison at Plymouth.  The Whitehaven citizens should not
risk or invite any attempt at his rescue by his stay.  But, far from
regretting his presence, there were even those who lamented his
departure; who would have willingly bought new ribbons to their bonnets
to go and see such a rogue hanged, wounded shoulder and all, on a
convenient hill and proper gallows outside the town.


None of the heavy-laden barley ships or colliers dared to come or go.
The fishing boats that ventured out to their business came home in a
flutter at the sight of a strange sail; and presently Whitehaven was
aghast at the news of the robbery of all my Lady Selkirk’s plate, and
the astonishing capture of his Majesty’s guardship Drake out of
Carrickfergus, and six merchantmen taken beside in the Irish Sea,—three
of them sunk, and three of them sent down as prizes to French ports.
The quicker such a prisoner left this part of the realm, the better for
Whitehaven. The sheriff and a strong guard waited next morning at the
door of the jail, and Wallingford, taken from his hard bed, was set on a
steady horse to begin the long southward journey, and be handed on from
jail to jail.  The fresh air of the spring morning, after the close
odors of his prison, at first revived him. Even the pain of his wound
was forgotten, and he took the change gladly, not knowing whither he
went or what the journey was meant to bring him.

At first they climbed long hills in sight of the sea. Notwithstanding
all his impatience of the sordid jealousies and discomforts of life on
board the Ranger, Roger Wallingford turned his weak and painful body
more than once, trying to catch a last glimpse of the tall masts of the
brave, fleet little ship.  A remembrance of the good-fellowship of his
friends aboard seemed to make a man forget everything else, and to put
warmth in his heart, though the chill wind on the fells blew through his
very bones.  For the first time he had been treated as a man among men
on board the Ranger.  In early youth the heir of a rich man could not
but be exposed to the flatteries of those who sought his father’s
favors, and of late his property and influence counted the Loyalists far
more than any of that counsel out of his own heart for which some of
them had begged obsequiously.  Now he had come face to face with life as
plain men knew it, and his sentiment of sympathy had grown and doubled
in the hard process.  He winced at the remembrance of that
self-confidence he had so cherished in earlier years. He had come near
to falling an easy prey to those who called him Sir Roger, and were but
serving their own selfish ends; who cared little for either Old England
or New, and still less for their King.  There was no such thing as a
neutral, either; a man was one thing or the other.  And now his head
grew light and dizzy, while one of those sudden visions of Mary
Hamilton’s face, the brave sweetness of her living eyes as if they were
close to his own, made him forget the confused thoughts of the moment
before.

The quick bracing of the morning air was too much for the prisoner; he
felt more and more as if he were dreaming.  There was a strange longing
in his heart to be back in the shelter and quiet of the jail itself;
there began to be a dull roaring in his ears.  Like a sharp pain there
came to him the thought of home, of his mother’s looks and her smile as
she stood watching at the window when he came riding home.  He was not
riding home now: the thought of it choked his throat.  He remembered his
mother as he had proudly seen her once in her satin gown and her laces
and diamonds, at the great feast for Governor Hutchinson’s birthday, in
the Province House,—by far the first, to his young eyes, of the fine
distinguished ladies who were there.  How frail and slender she stood
among them!  But now a wretched weakness mastered him; he was afraid to
think where he might be going.  They could not know how ill and helpless
he was, these stout men of his guard, who sometimes watched him angrily,
and then fell to talking together in low voices.  The chill of the
mountain cloud they were riding into seemed to have got to his heart.
Again his brain failed him, and then grew frightfully clear again; then
he began to fall asleep in the saddle, and to know that he slept,
jolting and swaying as they began to ride faster.  The horse was a
steady, plodding creature, whose old sides felt warm and comfortable to
the dreaming rider.  He wished, ever so dimly, that if he fell they
would leave him there by the road and let him sleep.  He lost a stirrup
now, and it struck his ankle sharply to remind him, but there was no use
to try to get it again; then everything turned black.

One of the soldiers caught the horse just as the prisoner’s head began
to drag along the frozen road.

"His wound’s a-bleeding bad.  Look-a-here!" he shouted to the others,
who were riding on, their horses pressing each other close, and their
cloaks held over their faces in the cold mountain wind.  "Here, ahoy!
our man ’s dead, lads!  The blood’s trailed out o’ him all along the
road!"

"He ’s cheated justice, then, curse him!" said the officer smartly,
looking down from his horse; but the old corporal, who had fought at
Quebec with Wolfe, and knew soldiering by heart, though he was low on
the ladder of promotion by reason of an unconquerable love of
brandy,—the old corporal dropped on his knees, and felt Wallingford’s
heart beating small and quick inside the wet, stained coat, and then
took off his own ragged riding cloak to wrap him from the cold.

"Poor lad!" he said compassionately.  "I think he ’s fell among thieves,
somehow, by t’ looks of him; ’t is an honest face of a young gentleman’s
iver I see. There’s nowt for ’t now but a litter, an’t’ get some grog
down his starved throat.  I misdoubt he ’s dead as t’ stones in road ere
we get to Kendal!"

"Get him a-horse again!" jeered another man.  "If we had some alegar
now, we mought fetch him to! Say, whaar er ye boun’, ye are sae dond out
in reed wescut an’ lace?" and he pushed Wallingford’s limp, heavy body
with an impatient foot; but the prisoner made no answer.




                                *XXVIII*

                         *NEWS AT THE LANDING*

"What, have the heralds come,
To tell this quiet shore of victories?—
*      *      *      *      *
There is a mother weeping for her son!
Like some lean tree whose fruit has dropt, she gives
Her all, to wither in autumnal woe."


There were several low buildings to the east of Colonel Hamilton’s
house, where various domestic affairs were established; the last of
these had the large spinning room in the second story, and stood
four-square to the breezes.  Here were the wool and flax wheels and the
loom, with all their implements; and here Peggy reigned over her
handmaidens one warm spring afternoon, with something less than her
accustomed severity.  She had just been declaring, in a general way,
that the idle clack of foolish tongues distressed her ears more than the
noise of the loom and wheels together.

There was an outside stairway, and the coveted seat of the young maids
who were sewing was on the broad doorstep at the stairhead.  You could
look up the wide fields to the long row of elms by General Goodwin’s,
and see what might pass by on the Portsmouth road; you could also
command the long green lane that led downhill toward the great house;
also the shipyard, and, beyond that, a long stretch of the river itself.
A young man must be wary in his approach who was not descried afar by
the sentinels of this pretty garrison.  On a perfectly silent afternoon
in May, the whole world, clouds and all, appeared to be fast asleep; but
something might happen at any moment, and it behooved Hannah Neal and
Phebe Hodgdon to be on the watch.

They sat side by side on the doorstep, each reluctantly top-sewing a new
linen sheet; two other girls were spinning flax within the room, and old
Peggy herself was at the loom, weaving with steady diligence.  As she
sat there, treading and reaching at her work, with quick click-clacks of
the shuttle and a fine persistence of awkward energy, she could look
across the river to Madam Wallingford’s house, with its high elms and
rows of shuttered windows.  Between her heart and old Susan’s there was
a bond of lifelong friendship; they seldom met, owing to their
respective responsibilities; they even went to different places of
worship on Sunday; but they always took a vast and silent comfort in
watching for each other’s light at night.

It was Peggy’s habit to sing softly at her work; once in a while, in her
gentlest mood, she chanted aloud a snatch of some old song.  There was
never but one song for a day, to be repeated over and over; and the
better she was pleased with her conditions, the sadder was her strain.
Now and then her old voice, weak and uncertain, but still unexpectedly
beautiful, came back again so clear and true that the chattering girls
themselves were hushed into listening. To-day the peace in her heart was
such that she had been singing over and over, with plaintive cadences, a
most mournful quatrain of ancient lines set to a still more ancient
tune.  It must have touched the chords of some inherited memory.

    "O Death, rock me asleep"

sang Peggy dolefully;—

    "O Death, rock me asleep,
      Bring me to quiet rest;
    Let pass my weary, guiltless ghost
      Out of my care-full breast!"


The girls had seldom heard their old tyrant forget herself and them so
completely in her singing; they gave each other a sympathetic glance as
she continued; the noisy shuttle subdued itself to the time and tune,
and made a rude accompaniment.  One might have the same feeling in
listening to a thrush at nightfall as to such a natural song as this.
At last the poignancy of feeling grew too great for even the singer
herself, and she drew away from the spell of the music, as if she
approached too near the sad reality of its first occasion.

"My grandmother was said to have the best voice in these Piscataqua
plantations, when she was young," announced Peggy with the tone of a
friend.  "My mother had a pretty voice, too, but ’t was a small voice,
like mine.  I ’m good as dumb beside either of them, but there is n’t no
tune I ever heard that I can’t follow in my own head as true as a bird.
This one was a verse my grandmother knew,—some days I think she sings
right on inside of me,—but I forget the story of the song: she knew the
old story of everything."  Peggy was modest, but she had held her
audience for once, and knew it.

She stopped to tie a careful weaver’s knot in the warp, and adjust some
difficulty of her pattern. Hitty Warren, who was spinning by the door,
trilled out a gay strain, as if by way of relief to the gloom of a song
which, however moving and beautiful, could not fail to make the heart
grow sad.

    "I have a house and lands in Kent,"

protested Hitty’s light young caroling voice,—

      "And if you ’ll love me, love me now,
    Two pence ha’penny is my rent,
      And I cannot come every day to woo!"

Whereupon Hannah Neal and Phebe, who sang a capital clear second, joined
in with approval and alacrity to sing the chorus:—

    "Two pence ha’penny is his rent,
      And he cannot come every day to woo!"


They kept it going over and over, like blackbirds, and Peggy clacked her
shuttle in time to this measure, but she did not offer to join them;
perhaps she had felt some dim foreboding that her own song comforted.
The air had suddenly grown full of spring-time calls and cries, as if
there were some subtle disturbance; the birds were in busy flight; and
one could hear faint shouts from the old Vineyard and the neighboring
falls, where men and boys were at the salmon fishing.

At last the girls were done singing; they had called no audience out of
the empty green fields.  They began to lag in their work, and sat
whispering and chuckling a little about their own affairs.  Peggy
stopped the loom and regarded them angrily, but they took no notice.
All four had their heads close together now over a piece of gossip; she
turned on her narrow perch and faced them.  Their young hands were idle
in their laps.

"Go to your wheel, Hitty Warren, and to your work, the pack of you!  I
begretch the time you waste, and the meals you eat in laziness, you
foolish hussies!" cried Peggy, with distinctness.  "Look at the house so
short of both sheeting and table gear since the colonel took his great
boatload of what we had in use to send to the army!  If it wa’n’t for me
having forethought to hide a couple o’ heaping armfuls of our best
Russian for the canopy beds, we’d been bare enough, and had to content
the gentlefolk with unbleached webs.  And all our grand holland sheets,
only in wear four years, and just coming to their softness, all gone now
to be torn in strips for them that’s wounded; all spoilt like common
workhouse stuff for those that never slept out o’ their own clothes.  ’T
was a sad waste, but we must work hard now to plenish us," she gravely
reproached them.

"Miss Mary is as bad as the Colonel," insisted Hannah Neal, the more
demure of the seamstresses, who had promptly fallen to work again.  The
handsome master of the house could do no wrong in the eyes of his
admiring maids.  They missed his kind and serious face, eyen if
sometimes he did not speak or look when he passed them at their sewing
or churning.

"A man knows nowt o’ linen: he might think a gre’t sheet like this sewed
its whole long self together," said Phebe Hodgdon ruefully, as she
pushed a slow needle through the hard selvages.

"To work with ye!" commanded Peggy more firmly. "My eye ’s upon ye!"
And Hitty sighed loud and drearily; the afternoon sun was hot in the
spinning room, and the loom began its incessant noise again.

At that moment the girls on the doorstep cheerfully took notice of two
manly figures that were coming quickly along the footpath of the spring
pasture next above the Hamilton lands on the riverside.  They stooped to
drink at the spring in the pasture corner, and came on together, until
one of them stood still and gave a loud cry.  The two sewing girls
beckoned their friends of the spinning to behold this pleasing sight.
Perhaps some of the lads they knew were on their way from the Upper
Landing to Pound Hill farms; these river footpaths had already won some
of the rights of immemorial usage, and many foot travelers passed by
Hamilton’s to the lower part of the town. A man could go on foot to
Rice’s Ferry through such byways across field and pasture as fast as a
fleet horse could travel by the winding old Portsmouth road.

The two hurrying figures were strangers, and they came to the knoll
above the shipyard.  They were both waving their hats now, and shouting
to the few old men at work below on the river bank.

Peggy was only aware of a daring persistence in idleness, and again
began to chide, just as the eager girls dropped their work and clattered
down the outer stair, and left her bereft of any audience at all.  She
hurried to the door in time to see their petticoats flutter away, and
then herself caught sight of the excited messengers.  There was a noise
of voices in the distance, and workmen from the wharves and warehouses
were running up the green slopes.

"There’s news come!" exclaimed Peggy, forgetting her own weaving as she
stumbled over the pile of new linen on the stair landing, and hurried
after the girls.  News was apt to come up the river rather than down,
but there was no time to consider.  Some ill might have befallen Colonel
Hamilton himself,—he had been long enough away; and the day before there
had been rumors of great battles to the southward, in New Jersey.

The messengers stood side by side with an air of importance.

"Our side have beat the British, but there’s a mort o’ men killed and
taken.  John Ricker ’s dead, and John Marr and Billy Lord’s among the
missing, and young Hodgdon ’s dead, the widow’s son; and there’s word
come to Dover that the Ranger has made awful havoc along the British
coast, and sent a fortin’ o’ prizes back to France.  There’s trouble
’mongst her crew, and young Mr. Wallingford ’s deserted after he done
his best to betray the ship."

The heralds recited their tale as they had told it over and over at
every stopping-place for miles back, prompting each other at every
sentence.  From unseen sources a surprising crowd of men and women had
suddenly gathered about them.  Some of these wept aloud now, and others
shouted their eager questions louder and louder.  It was like a tiny
babel that had been brought together by a whirlwind out of the quiet
air.

"They say Wallingford ’s tried to give the Ranger into the enemy’s
hands, and got captured for his pains. Some thinks they ’ve hung him for
a spy.  He ’s been watching his chance all along to play the traitor,"
said one news-bringer triumphantly, as if he had kept the best news till
the last.

"’T is false!" cried a clear young voice behind them.

They turned to front the unexpected presence of Miss Hamilton.

"Who dared to say this?"  She stood a little beyond the crowd, and
looked with blazing eyes straight at the two flushed faces of the rustic
heralds.

"Go tell your sad news, if you must," she said sternly, "but do not
repeat that Roger Wallingford is a traitor to his oath.  We must all
know him better who have known him at all.  He may have met misfortune
at the hand of God, but the crime of treachery has not been his, and you
should know it,—you who speak, and every man here who listens!"

There fell a silence upon the company; but when the young mistress
turned away, there rose a half-unwilling murmur of applause.  Old Peggy
hastened to her side; but Miss Hamilton waved her back, and, with
drooping head and a white face, went on slowly and passed alone into the
great house.


The messengers were impatient to go their ways among the Old Fields
farms, and went hurrying down toward the brook and round the head of the
cove, and up the hill again through the oak pasture toward the houses at
Pound Hill.  They were followed along the footpath by men and boys, and
women too, who were eager to see how the people there, old Widow Ricker
especially, would take the news of a son’s captivity or death.  The very
torch of war seemed, to flame along the footpath, on that spring
afternoon.

The makers of the linen sheets might have been the sewers of a shroud,
as they came ruefully back to their places by the spinning-room door,
and let the salt tears down fall upon their unwilling seams.  Poor Billy
Lord and Humphrey Hodgdon were old friends, and Corporal Ricker was a
handsome man, and the gallant leader of many a corn-husking.  The clack
of Peggy’s shuttle sounded like the ticking clock of Fate.

"My God! my God!" said the old woman who had driven the weeping maids so
heartlessly to their work again.  The slow tears of age were blinding
her own eyes; she could not see to weave, and must fain yield herself to
idleness.  Those poor boys gone, and Madam’s son a prisoner, or worse,
in England!  She looked at the house on the other side of the river,
dark and sombre against the bright sky.  "I ’ll go and send Miss Mary
over; she should be there now. I ’ll go myself over to Susan."

"Fold up your stents; for me, I can weave no more," she said
sorrowfully.  "’T is like the day of a funeral."  And the maids, still
weeping, put their linen by, and stood the two flax wheels in their
places, back against the wall.




                                 *XXIX*

                         *PEGGY TAKES THE AIR*

"And now that an over-faint quietnes
Should seem to strew the house,—"


That evening, in Hamilton House, Mary felt like a creature caged against
its will; she was full of fears for others and reproaches for herself,
and went restlessly from window to window and from room to room. There
was no doubt that a great crisis had come.  The May sun set among heavy
clouds, and the large rooms grew dim and chilly.  The house was silent,
but on the river shores there were groups of men and boys gathering, and
now and then strange figures appeared, as if the news had brought them
hastily from a distance.  Peggy had gone early across the river, and now
returned late from her friendly errand, dressed in a prim bonnet and
cloak that were made for Sunday wear, and gave her the look of a
dignitary in humble disguise, so used to command was she, and so
equipped by nature for the rule of others.

[Illustration: HAMILTON HOUSE]

Peggy found her young mistress white and wan in the northwest parlor,
and knew that she had been anxiously watching Madam Wallingford’s house.
She turned as the old housekeeper came in, and listened with patience
as, with rare tact, this good creature avoided the immediate subject of
their thoughts, and at first proceeded to blame the maids for running
out and leaving the doors flying, when she had bidden them mind the
house.

"The twilight lasts very late to-night; you have been long away," said
Mary, when she had finished.

"’T is a new-moon night, and all the sky is lit," exclaimed Peggy
seriously.  "It will soon be dark enough."  Then she came close to Mary,
and began to whisper what she really had to say.

"’T is the only thing to do, as you told me before I went.  Cæsar abased
himself to row me over, and took time enough about it, I vowed him.  I
thought once he’d fetched himself to the door of an apoplexy, he puffed
an’ blowed so hard; but I quick found out what was in his piecemeal
mind, before I heared folks talking on t’ other bank.  The great
fightin’ folks that stayed at home from the war is all ablaze against
Mr. Roger; they say they won’t have no such a Tory hive in the
neighborhood no longer!  ’Poor Madam! poor Madam!’ says I in my mind,
and I wrung my hands a-hearin’ of it.  Cæsar felt bad when he was
tellin’ of me, the tears was a-runnin’ down his foolish ol’ black face.
He ’s got proper feelings, if he is so consequential.  Likes to strut
better ’n to work, I tell ’em, but he’s got his proper feelin’s; I
shan’t never doubt that no more," asserted Peggy, with emphatic
approval.

"Yes," assented Mary impatiently, "Cæsar is a good man, but he is only
one.  What shall we do now?"  Her voice was full of quivering appeal;
she had been long alone with her distressful thoughts.

Peggy’s cheeks looked pink as a girl’s in her deep bonnet, and her old
eyes glittered with excitement.

"You must go straight away and fetch Madam here," she said.  "I’d
brought her back with me if it had been seemly; but when I so advised,
Susan ’d hear none o’ me, ’count o’ fearin’ to alarm her lady. ’Keep her
safe an’ mistaken for one hour, will ye, so’s to scare her life out
later on!’ says I; but Susan was never one to see things their proper
size at first.  If they know Madam ’s fled, ’t will be all the better.
I want to feel she’s safe here, myself; they won’t damage the colonel’s
house, for his sake or your’n neither; they’d know better than to come
botherin’ round my doors.  I’d put on my big caldron and get some water
het, and treat ’em same fashion’s they did in old Indian times!" cried
Peggy, in a fury. "I did hear some men say they believed she’d gone to
Porchmouth a’ready; and when they axed me if ’t was true, I nodded my
head and let ’em think so."

Mary listened silently; this excited talk made her know the truth of
some fast-gathering danger.  She herself had a part to play now.

"I shall go at once," she insisted.  "Will you bespeak the boat?"

"Everything’s all ready, darlin’," said the good soul affectionately, as
if she wished to further some girlish pleasure.  "Yes, I ’ve done all I
could out o’ door.  The best boat’s out an’ layin’ aside the gre’t
warehouse.  Cæsar ’s stopped down there to mind it, though he begun to
fuss about his supper; and there’s our own watermen ready to row ye
over.  I told ’em you was promised to the Miss Lords at the Upper
Landing for a card party; I ’ve let on to no uneasiness. You ’ll
consider well your part; for me there ’s enough to do,—the best chamber
warmed aright for Madam, for one thing; an’ Phebe’s up there now,
gettin’ over a good smart scoldin’ I give her.  I ’ll make a nice gruel
with raisins an’ a taste o’ brandy, or a can o’ mulled port, an’ have
’em ready; ’t will keep poor Madam from a chill.  You’ll both need
comfort ere you sleep," she muttered to herself.

"I wonder if she will consent to come?  She is a very brave woman," said
Mary doubtfully.

"Darlin’, listen to me; she must come," replied Peggy, "an’ you must
tell her so.  You do your part, an’ I’ll be waitin’ here till you get
back."


The large boat which was Hamilton’s river coach and four in peaceful
times lay waiting in the shadow of the warehouse to do its errand.  The
pairs of rowers were in their places: Peggy may have had a sage desire
to keep them out of mischief.  They were not a vigorous crew, by reason
of age; else they would have been, like other good men, with the army.
With her usual sense of propriety and effect, Peggy had ordered out the
best red cushions and tasseled draperies for the seats.  In summer, the
best boat spread a fine red and green canopy when it carried the master
and mistress down to Portsmouth on the ebb tide.  The old boatmen had
mounted their liveries, such was Peggy’s insistence and unaccountable
desire for display, but a plainer craft, rowed by a single pair of oars,
was enough for any errand at nightfall, and the old fellows grumbled and
shivered ostentatiously in the spring dampness.

Old Cæsar handed Miss Hamilton to her seat with all the more deference.
She was wrapped in a cloak of crimson damask, with a hood to it, which
her brother loved to see her wear in their gayer days. She took her
place silently in the stern, and sat erect there; the men stole a glance
at her now and then, and tugged willingly enough at their oars.  There
were many persons watching them as they went up the stream.

"’T will be a hard pinch to land ye proper at the upper wharves," said
the head boatman.  "The tide’s far out, miss."

"I go to Madam Wallingford’s," said Mary; and in the dusk she saw them
cast sidewise glances at each other, while their oars lost stroke and
fouled.  They had thought it lucky that there should be a card party,
and their young mistress out of sight and hearing, if the threats meant
anything and there should be trouble that night alongshore.  Miss
Hamilton said nothing further,—she was usually most friendly in her
speech with these old servants; but she thanked them in a gentle tone as
she landed, and bade them be ready at any moment for her return.  They
looked at her with wonder, and swore under their breath for mere
astonishment, as she disappeared from their sight with hurrying steps,
along the winding way that led up to the large house on the hill.  As
Mary passed the old boathouse, and again as she came near the
storehouses just beyond, she could see shadowy moving figures like
ghosts, that were gone again in an instant out of sight, crouching to
the ground or dodging behind the buildings as they saw her pass.  Once
she heard a voice close under the bank below the road; but it ceased
suddenly, as if some one had given warning.  Every dark corner was a
hiding place, but the girl felt no fear now there was something to be
done. There was no light in the lower story of the great house, but in
Madam Wallingford’s chamber the firelight was shining, and by turns it
darkened and brightened the windows.  For the first time Mary felt weak
at heart, but there was that within her which could drive out all fear
or sense of danger.  As she stood on the broad doorsteps, waiting and
looking riverward, she smiled to see that Peggy had lighted their own
house as if for some high festival.  It had a look of cheerfulness and
security there beyond the elms; she gave a sigh of relief that was like
a first acknowledgment of fear.  She did not remember that one person
might have come safely from the boat, where two could not go back.

Again she struck the heavy knocker, and this time heard Rodney’s anxious
voice within, whispering to ask whether she were friend or foe before he
timidly unbarred the door.


"They tell me there is some danger of a mob, my child."  Madam
Wallingford spoke calmly, as if this were some ordinary news.  Mary had
found her sitting by the fire, and kissed her cheek without speaking.
The room was so quiet, and its lady looked so frail and patient,
unconscious that danger already hemmed them in on every side.

"I fear that this house may be burnt and robbed, like the Salem houses,"
she said.  "Poor Rodney and the women are afraid, too.  I saw that they
were in a great fright, and forced the truth from them.  I think my
troubles have robbed me of all my strength. I do not know what I must
do.  I feel very old, Mary, and my strength fails me," she faltered.  "I
need my son—oh, I have had dreadful news"—

"I have come to take you home with me to-night, dear," answered Mary.
"Come, I shall wrap you in my warm red cloak; the night is chilly.
These are Peggy’s orders, and we must follow them.  She would not have
you frighted ever so little, if there is any danger.  She is making you
some hot drink this very minute, and I have brought our steady boat with
the four old rowers.  They are waiting for us below."

"Good Peggy!" exclaimed Madam Wallingford, who saw the bright smile that
lighted Mary’s face, and was now rallying all her forces.  "She was here
herself this afternoon; I wish that I had seen her.  We shall not obey
her this once; you see that I cannot go.  If there is an attack, I must
be here to meet it,—the men may hear to reason; if there is no real
danger, I am safe to stay," and she cast a fond look about the room.

Mary saw it with compassion; at the same moment she heard cries outside,
as if some fresh recruits were welcomed to the gathering fray.

"My safety and the safety of our house lies in my staying here," said
the lady, sitting straight in her great chair.  "I am not easily made
afraid; it is only that my strength failed me at the first.  If God
sends ruin and death this night, I can but meet it.  I shall not go
away.  You were a dear child to come; you must make my kind excuses to
Peggy.  Go, now, my dear, and Rodney shall put you in your boat."  There
was a proud look on Madam Wallingford’s face as she spoke.

"I shall stay with you," answered Mary.  "Alas, I think it is too late
for either of us to go," she added, as her quick ears were aware of
strange noises without the house.  There was a sharp rapping sound of
stones striking the walls, and a pane of glass fell shattering into the
room.

"In Salem they took an old man from his dying bed, and destroyed his
habitation.  He had been a judge and a good citizen.  If these be our
own neighbors who think me dangerous, I must follow their bidding; if
they are strangers, we must be in danger. I wish that you had not come,
Mary!"

Mary was already at the window; the shutters were pushed back, and the
sweet night air blew through the broken pane upon her face.  The heavy
sliding shutter caught as she tried to stir it, and she saw that the
moving crowd had come close about the house. At the sight of her they
gave an angry roar; there were musket shots and a great racket of noise.
"Come out, come out," they cried, "and take the oath!"

"So the mob has come already," said Madam Wallingford calmly, and rose
from her seat.  "Then I must go down.  Is it a great company?"

"I could not have believed so many men were left," answered Mary
bitterly.  "They should be fighting other battles!" she protested,
trembling with sudden rage.  "Where go you, Madam?" for Madam
Wallingford was hurrying from the room.  As she threw open the door, all
the frightened people of the household were huddled close outside; they
fell upon their knees about her and burst into loud lamentations. They
pressed as near their mistress as they could; it was old Rodney and
Susan who had kept the others from bursting into the room.

"Silence among ye!" said Madam Wallingford. "I shall do what I can, my
poor people.  I am going down to speak to these foolish men."

"They have come to rob us and murder us!" wailed the women.

"Rodney, you will go before me and unbar the door!" commanded the
mistress.  "Susan shall stay here.  Quiet this childishness!  I would
not have such people as these think that we lack courage."

She went down the wide staircase as if she were a queen, and Mary her
maid of honor.  Rodney was for hanging back from those who pounded to
demand entrance, and needed an angry gesture before he took the great
bar down and flung the door wide open. Then Madam Wallingford stepped
forward as if to greet her guests with dignity, and Mary was only a step
behind.  There was a bonfire lit before the house, and all the portraits
along the paneled hall seemed to come alive in the blazing light that
shone in, and to stand behind the two women like a guard.

"What do you wish to say to me?" asked Madam Wallingford.

"The oath! the oath!" they cried, "or get you hence!" and there was a
shaking of firebrands, and the heads pressed closer about the door.

"You are Sons of Liberty, and yet you forbid liberty to others," said
the old gentlewoman, in her clear voice.  "I have wronged none of you."
For very sight of her age and bravery, and because she was so great a
lady, they fell silent; and then a heavy stone, thrown from the edge of
the crowd, struck the lintel of the door, beside her.

"Is there no man among you whom you will choose to speak fairly with me,
to tell your errand and whence you come?"

"We are some of us from Christian Shore, and some are Dover men, and
some of us are men of your own town," answered a pale, elderly man, with
the face of a fanatic; he had been a preacher of wild doctrines in the
countryside, and was ever a disturber of peace.  "We want no Royalists
among us, we want no abettors of George the Third; there ’s a bill now
to proscribe ye and stop your luxury and pride. We want no traitors and
spies, neither, to betray the cause of the oppressed.  You and your son
have played a deep game; he has betrayed our cause, and the penalty must
fall."

There was a shout of approval; the mob was only too ready to pour into
the house.

"My son has put his name to your oath, and you should know that he has
not broken it, if some of you are indeed men of our own town," said the
mother proudly, and they all heard her speak.  "I can promise that this
is true.  Cannot you wait to hear the truth about him, or is it only to
rob us and make a night of revel you have come?  Do not pay sin with
sin, if you must hold those to be sinners who are Loyalists like me!"

"Burn the old nest!" cried an impatient voice. "She may be hiding some
King’s men,—who knows? Stop her prating, and let’s to business; we are
done with their Royalties," and the crowd pushed hard. They forced the
two women and old Rodney back into the hall; and at the sound of heavy
trampling, all the women on the stair above fell to shrieking.

Mary put herself before Madam Wallingford for safety’s sake, and held up
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.

A moment later, her faithful friend, Mr. John Lord, opened the door
softly, and came in also.  His eyes looked troubled, but he said nothing
as he stood a little way behind the others in the low room; the rain
dropped heavily from his long coat to the floor. The Sullivans stood at
either side the fireplace watching the pale lady who was their guest.
John Sullivan himself it was who unclasped her wet riding cloak and
threw it back upon the chair; within she wore a pretty gown of soft
crimson silk with a golden thread in it, that had come home in one of
her brother’s ships from Holland.  The rain had stained the breast of it
where the riding cloak had blown apart; the strange living dyes of the
East were brightened by the wet.  The two old people started back, they
believed that she had sought them because she was hurt to death.  She
lifted her hand forbiddingly; her face grew like a child’s that was
striving against tears.

"Dear friends, it is not so bad as you think; it is because I am so full
of hope that I have come to you," she said to the anxious, kind old
faces.  There was such a sweetness in the girl’s voice, and her
beautiful dress was so familiar, so belonging to the old quiet times and
happy hospitalities, that the two men felt a sharp pain of pity, and
because there was nothing else to do they came nearer to her side.
Master Sullivan looked questioningly at young Mr. Lord, but old Margery
found instinctive relief in a low, droning sort of moan, which sometimes
lifted into that Irish keening which is the voice of fear and sorrow.
She was piling all her evening fagots at once upon the fire.

"Speak now!" said the master.  "If my old heart knows the worst, it can
begin to hope the best. What is it that could not wait for the morning
of such a night as this?"

"There is bad news," replied Mary; "there are letters come from the
Ranger.  They have attacked a large seaport town on the coast of
England, and spread great alarm, though their chief projects were
balked. They have fought with an English frigate in the Irish Sea, and
taken her captive with some rich prizes. Roger Wallingford was left
ashore in Whitehaven. They believe on the ship that he tried to betray
his companions and warned the town; but he was badly wounded ashore, and
thrown into prison.  There is a great rising of the Patriots against
Madam Wallingford, who is warned to leave the country.  They threatened
her very life last night."  Mary was standing now, and the quick
firelight, sprung afresh, made her look like a bright flame.  The master
made a strange outcry, like a call for hidden help, and looked hastily
at the walls of the room about him, as if he sought some old familiar
weapons.

"I am going away with her for a time," said Mary, speaking now without
any strain or quiver in her voice.  "My brother does not need me, since
he is with the army, and Mr. Lord knows our business here, if any be
left.  Peggy can stand bravely for me in the house.  Dear master!" and
she came close to the old man’s side; her young slender body was almost
as tall as his; she put her arm about his neck and drew down his head so
that he must look into her upturned face.  "Dear master," she said, in a
low voice, "you told me once that you still had friends in England, if
the worst should come to Roger, and I think now that the worst has
come."

"You may bring the horses at once," said the master, turning quickly to
Mr. Lord.  "Stay, Margery; you must light your old lantern and give it
him; and I would wrap you well and hold it for him to rub them off with
a wisp of thatch, and let them have a mouthful of corn to satisfy their
minds."

Mary felt for that one moment as if Hope were like an old frail friend
with eyes of living fire; she had known no other father than the master,
when all was said.  He put her hand gently away from its unconscious
clinging hold of his shoulder, and, with a woman’s care, took the wet
cloak, as he placed her again in his own chair, and spread its dry inner
folds to the fire, so that they might warm a little.

Then, without speaking, he went to the shelf of books, and took from one
of them a thin packet of papers.

"I am an old man," he said gently.  "I have been fearful of all this,
and I made ready these things, since it might some day please God to let
me die.  I have heard of the fray last night, but you will find letters
here that will be of service.  Come, warm you now by the fire, and put
them in the bosom of your gown.  I think you will find them something
worth; but if you keep their words in your heart or near it, ’t will be
far the best.  And burn them quick if there is need; but you shall read
them first, and send their messages by word of mouth, if need be.
Listen to me now; there are a few things left for me to say."

The girl’s face was full of a sweet relief; she did not thank him, save
with one long look, and put the packet where he had bidden her.  She
looked into the fire as she listened to his counsels, and suddenly was
afraid of tears, the errand being safely done.

"Forgive me, sir, for this new trouble!"

She spoke with a different impulse and recognition from any she had
known before, and looked brave as a young soldier.  This was a friend
who knew indeed the world whither she was going.

"Why should you not come to me?" asked the master.  "’Men were born for
the aid and succor of men,’" he added with a smile.  "You do not know
your Rabelais, my little lady."

The horses had come up; they trod the ground outside impatiently.  She
knelt before the old man humbly, and he blessed her, and when she rose
she kissed him like a child, and looked long in his face, and he in
hers; then she put on her heavy cloak again, and went out into the rainy
night.


Next day, in Portsmouth, Madam Wallingford, pale and stately, and Susan,
resolute enough, but strangely apathetic, put off into the harbor from
Langdon’s wharf.  They were accompanied to the shore by many friends,
whose hearts were moved at so piteous a sight. When the mistress and
maid were safe on the deck of the Golden Dolphin, Mary Hamilton stood
there before them; the beauty of her young face was like some heavenly
creature’s.

"I know that you said last night, when I was for bidding you farewell,
that you should see me again. I have been thinking all this morning that
you had been prevented," whispered Madam Wallingford tenderly.  They
were long in each other’s arms.  "I have a few things left to say; it is
impossible to remember all proper messages, at such short warning.  Let
them keep the boat for Miss Hamilton, until the last moment before we
sail," she said to the captain.

"They are heaving up the anchor now," the captain answered.  "I must not
lose this fair wind to get us out of the river."

Mary was impatient to speak; she cast a smiling glance at Susan, who
wore a timid look, not being used to plots, or to taking instructions
from any but her mistress.

"Dear friend," cried Mary then, "you must let me have my way!  I could
not let you go alone.  I tried to think as you bade me, but I could not.
I am going with you wherever you may go: I think it is my right. You
have short time now to give Susan your last charges, as I have given
mine to Peggy.  I stay with you and Phebe with me, and Susan goes
ashore. Please God, some short weeks or months may see us sailing home
again up the river, with our errand well done!"

"I could not stand against them, Madam," and Susan looked more
apprehensive than triumphant, though she was grateful to Heaven to be
spared a voyage at sea.  Her mistress was not one to have her own plans
set aside.  "I listened well, Madam, to all you said to Rodney and the
maids.  They are good girls, but they need a head over them.  And I
could do nothing against Miss Mary; for Peggy, that has a love for great
ploys to be going on, and the world turned upside down, has backed her
from the first."




                                 *XXXI*

                           *THE MILL PRISON*

"Lackyng my love, I goe from place to place."

"’Twixt every prayer he says, he names you once
As others drop a bead."


One morning late in spring the yellow primroses were still abloom on the
high moorlands above Plymouth; the chilly sea wind was blowing hard, and
the bright sunshine gave little warmth, even in a sheltered place.  The
yard of the great Mill Prison was well defended by its high stockade,
but the wind struck a strong wing into it in passing, and set many a
poor half-clad man to shivering.  The dreary place was crowded with
sailors taken from American ships: some forlorn faces were bleached by
long captivity, and others were still round and ruddy from recent
seafaring.  There was a constant clack of sharp, angry voices.  Outside
the gate was a group of idle sightseers staring in, as if these poor
Yankees were a menagerie of outlandish beasts; now and then some
compassionate man would toss a shilling between the bars, to be
pitifully scrambled for, or beckon to a prisoner who looked more
suffering than the rest.  Even a south-westerly gale hardly served to
lighten the heavy air of such a crowded place, and nearly every one
looked distressed; the small-pox had blighted many a face, so that the
whole company wore a piteous look, though each new day still brought new
hopes of liberty.

There were small groups of men sitting close together.  Some were
playing at games with pebbles and little sticks, their draughts board or
fox-and-geese lines being scratched upon the hard trodden ground. Some
were writing letters, and wondering how to make sure of sending them
across the sea.  There were only two or three books to be seen in hand;
most of the prisoners were wearily doing nothing at all.

In one corner, a little apart from the rest, sat a poor young captain
who had lost his first command, a small trading vessel on the way to
France.  He looked very downcast, and was writing slowly, a long and
hopeless letter to his wife.

"I now regret that I had not taken your advice and Mother’s and remained
at home instead of being a prisoner here," he had already written, and
the stiff, painfully shaped words looked large and small by turns
through his great tears.  "I was five days in the prison ship.  I am in
sorrow our government cares but little for her subjects.  They have
nothing allowed them but what the British government gives them.
Shameful,—all other nations feels for their subjects except our Country.
There is no exchange of prisoners. It is intirely uncertain when I
return perhaps not during the war.  I live but very poor, every thing is
high.  I hope you have surmounted your difficulties and our child has
come a Comfort to imploy your fond attention.  It is hard the loss of my
ship and difficult to bare.  God bless you all.  My situation is not so
bad but it might be worse.  This goes by a cartel would to God I could
go with it but that happiness is denied me.  It would pain your tender
heart to view the distressed seamen crowded in this filthy prison, there
is kind friends howiver in every place and some hours passed very
pleasant in spite of every lack some says the gallows or the East Indias
will be our dreadful destiny, ’t would break a stone’s heart to see good
men go so hungry we must go barefoot when our shoes is done.  Some eats
the grass in the yard and picks up old bones, and all runs to snatch the
stumps of our cabbage the cooks throws out.  Some makes a good soup they
say from snails a decent sort that hives about the walls, but I have not
come to this I could not go it.  They says we may be scattered on the
King’s ships.  I hear the bells in Plymouth Town and Dock pray God ’t is
for no victory—no I hear in closing ’t is only their new Lord Mayor
coming in"—

As this was finished there was another man waiting close by, who caught
impatiently at the thrice-watered ink, and looked suspiciously to see if
any still remained.

"Harbert said ’s how I should have it next," grumbled the fellow
prisoner, "if so be you ’ve left me any.  Who ’ll car’ our letters to
the cartel?  They want to send a list o’ those that’s dead out o’ the
Dolton, an’ I give my promise to draw up the names."

There were many faces missing now from the crew of the Dolton
brigantine, taken nearly a year and a half before, but there were still
a good number of her men left in the prison.  Others had come from the
Blenheim or the Fancy; some from the Lexington; and the newest resident
was a man off The Yankee Hero, who had spent some time after his capture
as sailor on a British man-of-war.  He was a friendly person, and had
brought much welcome news, being also so strong and well fed that he was
a pleasant sight to see.  Just now he sat with Charles Herbert, of
Newbury, in Massachusetts, whom they all called the scribe.  For once
this poor captive wore a bright, eager look on his scarred face, as he
listened to the newcomer’s talk of affairs; they had been near neighbors
at home.  The younger man had been in prison these many months.  He was
so lucky as to possess a clumsy knife, which was as great a treasure as
his cherished bottle of ink, and was busy making a little box of cedar
wood and fitting it neatly together with pegs.  Since he had suffered
the terrible attack of small-pox which had left his face in ruins, and
given him a look of age at twenty, his eyesight had begun to fail; he
was even now groping over the ground, to find one of the tiny dowels
that belonged to his handiwork.

"’T is there by your knee; the rags of your trouser leg was over it,"
said Titcomb, the new man-of-war’s man, as he reached for the bit of
wood.

"Who ’s this new plant o’ grace, comin’ out o’ hospit’l?" he asked
suddenly, looking over Herbert’s shoulder, with the peg in his fingers.
"’T is a stranger to me, and with the air of a gentleman, though he lops
about trying his sea legs, like an eel on ’s tail."

"No place for gentlemen here, God help him!" said the young scribe
sadly, trying to clear his dull eyes with a ragged sleeve as he turned
to look.  "No, I don’t know who it is.  I did hear yisterday that there
was an officer fetched here in the night, from the nor’ard, under guard,
and like to be soon hanged. Some one off of a Yankee privateer, they
said, that went in and burnt the shipping of a port beyond Wales.  I
overheared the sentinels havin’ some talk about him last night.  I
expect ’t was that old business of the Ranger, and nothin’ new."

There was a rough scuffling game going on in the prison yard, which made
all the sick and disabled men shrink back against the walls, out of
danger.  The stranger came feebly from point to point, as the game left
space, toward the sunny side where the two Newbury men were sitting.  As
they made room for him, they saw that he was dressed in the remains of a
torn, weather-stained uniform; his arm was in a sling, and his shoulder
fast bound with dirty bandages.

"You ’re a new bird in this pretty cage," said poor Herbert, smiling
pleasantly.  He was a fellow of sympathetic heart, and always very
friendly with new-comers.

The stranger returned his greeting, with a distressed glance toward
their noisy companions, and seated himself heavily on the ground,
leaning back against the palisade.  The tumult and apparent danger of
finding himself trodden underfoot vexed and confused him in his
weakness; presently he grew faint, and his head dropped on his breast.
His last thought was a wish to be back in the wretched barracks, where
at least it was quiet.  At that moment two men pushed their way out of
the middle of a quarreling group of playmates, and ran toward him.

"’Tain’t never you, sir!" cried one.

"’Tis Mr. Roger Wallingford, too!  Don’t you think I ’ve got sense
enough to know?" scolded the other, both speaking at once, in tones
which conveyed much pity and astonishment to the Newbury men’s ears.

"By God! it is, an’ he ’s a dyin’ man!"

Gideon Warren was a Berwick sailor of the old stock, who had known the
lieutenant from a child, and was himself born and reared by the river.
"What ’ve them devils used him such a way for?" he demanded angrily.
"He looks as ancient as the old judge, his father, done, the week afore
he died.  What sort of a uniform’s this he’s got on him?"

The other men looked on, and, any excitement being delightful in so dull
a place, a crowd gathered about them quickly, pushing and jostling, and
demanding to know what had happened.  Warren, a heavily built,
kind-faced old mariner, had fallen on his knees and taken the sick man’s
head on his own ample shoulder, with all the gentleness of a woman.
There was more than one old Berwick neighbor standing near  The general
racket of noise began to be hushed.

"Git him some water, can’t ye?" commanded Warren.  "I misdoubt we ’ve
got no sperits for him. Stand to t’ other side, there, some on ye
caw-handed cutters, an’ keep the sun off’n him!"

"’T ain’t no British fightin’ gear, nor French neither, that’s on him,"
said Ichabod Lord, as he leaned forward to get a better view of the red
waistcoat, and, above all, the gilt buttons of the new prisoner’s coat.

"’T is an officer from one o’ our own Congress ships; they ’d keep such
news from us here, any way they could," said young Earl angrily.

"Looks to me different," said the Newbury man who was with Herbert.
"No, I ’ll begretch it’s anything more ’n some livery wear and relic o’
fashion. ’T is some poor chap they ’ve cotched out’n some lord’s house;
he mought be American-born, an’ they took him to be spyin’ on ’em."

"What d’ you know o’ them high affairs?" returned Warren with
indignation.  "Livery wear?  You ain’t never been situated where you’d
be like to see none! ’T is a proper uniform, or was one, leastways;
there’s a passel o’ anchors worked on him, and how he ever come here
ain’t for me to say, but ’tis our young Squire Wallin’ford, son an’ heir
o’ the best gentleman that was ever on the old Piscataqua River.

"When we come away, folks was all certain they had leanin’s to the wrong
side: his mother’s folks was high among the Boston Tories," explained
Ichabod Lord wonderingly.  "Yet he must ha’ been doin’ some mischief
’long o’ the Patriots, or he’d never been sent here for no rebel,—no,
they’d never sent him here; this ain’t where they keep none o’ their
crown jew’ls!  Lord!  I hope he ain’t goin’ to die afore he tells some
news from the old Lower Landin’ an’ Pound Hill, an’ how things was goin’
forrard, when he left home, all up along the Witchtrot road!"

These last words came straight from the depths of an exile’s heart, and
nobody thought it worth while to smile at the names of his localities;
there was hardly a man who was not longing for home news in the same
desperate way.  A jail was but a jail the world over, a place to crowd a
man lower down, soul and body, and England was not likely to be anxious
about luxuries for these ship’s companies of rebels and pirates, the
willful destroyers of her commerce; they were all thought guilty of
treason, and deserved the worst of punishment.


There was a faint flicker of color now on the stranger’s cheeks, and
Charles Herbert had brought some water, and was fanning him with a poor
fragment of headgear, while some one else rubbed his cold hands. They
were all well enough used to seeing men in a swoon; the custom was to
lay them close to the wall, if they were in the way, to recover
themselves as best they could, but this man with the stained red
waistcoat might have news to tell.

"I ’ll bate my head he ’s been on the Ranger with Paul Jones," announced
Ichabod Lord solemnly, as if he were ready to suffer for his opinions.
"That’s what ’t is; they may have all been taken, too, off the coast."

"Why, ’tis the uniform of our own Congress navy, then!" exclaimed young
Herbert, with his scarred cheeks gone bright crimson like a girl’s, and
a strange thrill in his voice.  He sprang to his feet, and the men near
him gave the best cheer they could muster.  Poor Wallingford heard it,
and stirred a little, and half opened his eyes.

"I’ve above two shillings here that I’ve airnt makin’ of my workboxes:
some o’ you fellows run to the gates and get a decent-looking body to
fetch us some brandy," begged Herbert hastily.

"I’m all right now," said Wallingford aloud; and then he saw whose stout
arms were holding him, and looked into a familiar face.

"Good God! we had news at home long ago that you were dead, Warren!" he
said with wide-eyed bewilderment.

"I bain’t then, so now," insisted the honest Gideon indignantly, which
amused the audience so that they fell to laughing and slapping one
another on the shoulder.

"Well, I bain’t," repeated Warren, as soon as he could be heard.  "I ’ve
been here in this prison for seven months, and it’s a good deal worse ’n
layin’ at home in Old Fields bur’in’ ground, right in sight o’ the river
’n all’s a-goin’ on.  Tell us where you come from, sir, as soon ’s you
feel able, and how long you are from Barvick!  We get no sort of news
from the folks.  I expect you can’t tell me whether my old mother ’s
livin’?"  The poor man tried hard to master his feelings, but his face
began to twitch, and he burst out crying suddenly, like a child.

"Looks like they’ve all gone and forgot us," said a patient, pale-faced
fellow who stood near. Wallingford was himself again now, and looked
with dismay at those who looked at him.  Their piteous pallor and
hungry-eyed misery of appearance could give but little sense of welcome
or comfortable reassurance to a new captive.  He was as poor as they,
and as lacking in present resource, and, being weak and worn, the very
kindness and pity of the arms that held him only added to his pain.

"If I had not come the last of my way by sea," he told them, trying to
speak some cheerful hope to such hopeless souls, "I might have got word
to London or to Bristol, where I can count upon good friends," but some
of the listeners looked incredulous and shook their heads doubtfully,
while there were those who laughed bitterly as they strolled away.

"Have you any late news from Captain Paul Jones?" he asked, sitting
straight now, though Warren still kept a careful arm behind him.  "I was
at Whitehaven with him; I belong on the frigate Ranger," and his eyes
grew bright and boyish.

"They say that one of her own officers tried to betray the ship,"
sneered a young man, a late comer to the Mill Prison, who stood looking
straight into poor Wallingford’s face.

"’T was true enough, too," said Roger Wallingford frankly; "it is by no
fault of mine that you see me here.  God grant that such treachery made
no other victim!"

"They say that the Ranger has taken a mort o’ prizes, and sent them back
to France," announced the Newbury sailor.  "Oh, Lord, yes, she’s scared
’em blue ever sence that night she went into Whitehaven! She took the
Drake sloop o’ war out o’ Carrickfergus that very next day."

"I knew there was business afoot!" cried the lieutenant proudly; but he
suddenly turned faint again, and they saw a new bright stain strike
through the clumsy bandages on his shoulder.




                                *XXXII*

                          *THE GOLDEN DRAGON*

"Give where want is silently clamorous, and men’s necessities, not their
tongues, do loudly call for thy mercies."


The less said of a dull sea voyage, the better; to Madam Wallingford and
her young companion their slow crossing to the port of Bristol could be
but a long delay.  Each day of the first week seemed like a week in
passing, though from very emptiness it might be but a moment in
remembrance; time in itself being like money in itself,—nothing at all
unless changed into action, sensation, material.  At first, for these
passengers by the Golden Dolphin, there was no hope of amusement of any
sort to shorten the eventless hours.  Their hearts were too heavy with
comfortless anxieties.

The sea was calm, and the May winds light but steady from the west.  It
was very warm for the season of year, and the discouragements of early
morning in the close cabin were easily blown away by the fresh air of
the quarter-deck.  The captain, a well-born man, but diffident in the
company of ladies, left his vessel’s owner and her young companion very
much to themselves.  Mary had kept to a sweet composure and
uncomplainingness, for her old friend’s sake, but she knew many
difficult hours of regret and uncertainty now that, having once taken
this great step, Madam Wallingford appeared to look to her entirely for
support and counsel, and almost to forget upon how great an adventure
they had set forth.  All Mary’s own cares and all her own obligations
and beliefs sometimes rose before her mind, as if in jealous arraignment
of her presence on the eastward-moving ship. Yet though she might think
of her brother’s displeasure and anxiety, and in the darkest moments of
all might call herself a deserter, and count the slow hours of a
restless night, when morning came, one look at Madam Wallingford’s pale
face in the gray light of their cabin was enough to reassure the bravery
of her heart.  In still worse hours of that poor lady’s angry accusation
of those whom she believed to be their country’s enemies, Mary yet found
it possible to be patient, as we always may be when Pity comes to help
us; there was ever a final certainty in her breast that she had not done
wrong,—that she was only yielding to an inevitable, irresistible force
of love. Love itself had brought her out of her own country.

Often they sat pleasantly together upon the deck, the weather was so
clear and fine, Mary being always at Madam Wallingford’s feet on a stout
little oaken footstool, busy with her needle to fashion a warmer
head-covering, or to work at a piece of slow embroidery on a strip of
linen that Peggy had long ago woven on their own loom.  Often the hearts
of both these women, who were mistresses of great houses and the
caretakers of many dependents, were full of anxious thought of home and
all its business.

Halfway from land to land, with the far horizon of a calm sea unbroken
by mast or sail, the sky was so empty by day that the stars at night
brought welcome evidence of life and even companionship, as if the great
processes of the universe were akin to the conscious life on their own
little ship.  In spite of the cruelty of a doubt that would sometimes
attack her, Mary never quite lost hold on a higher courage, or the
belief that they were on their way to serve one whom they both loved, to
do something which they alone could do.  The thought struck her afresh,
one afternoon, that they might easily enough run into danger as they
came near land; they might not only fall an easy prey to some Yankee
privateer (for their sailing papers were now from Halifax), but they
might meet the well-manned Ranger herself, as they came upon the English
coast.  A quick flush brightened the girl’s sea-browned cheeks, but a
smile of confidence and amusement followed it.

Madam Wallingford was watching her from the long chair.

"You seem very cheerful to-day, my dear child," she said wistfully.

"I was heartened by a funny little dream in broad daylight," answered
Mary frankly, looking up with something like love itself unveiled in her
clear eyes.

"It is like to be anything but gay in Bristol, when we come to land,"
answered Madam Wallingford. "I had news in Halifax, when we lay there,
that many of their best merchants in Bristol are broken, and are for a
petition to Parliament to end these troubles quickly.  All their once
great trade with the colonies is done.  I spent many happy months in
Bristol when I was young.  ’T was a noble town, with both riches and
learning, and full of sights, too; it was a fit town for gentlefolk.  I
sometimes think that if anything could give back my old strength again,
’t would be to take the air upon the Clifton Downs."

"You will have many things to show me," said Mary, with a smile.  "You
are better already for the sea air, Madam.  It does my heart good to see
the change in you."

"Oh, dear child, if we were only there!" cried the poor lady.  "Life is
too hard for me; it seems sometimes as if I cannot bear it a moment
longer.  Yet I shall find strength for what I have to do.  I wonder if
we must take long journeys at once?  ’T is not so far if Roger should be
at Plymouth, as they believed among the Halifax friends.  But I saw one
stranger shake his head and look at me with pity, as I put my questions.
He was from England, too, and just off the sea"—

"There is one thing I am certain of,—Roger is not dead," said Mary.  "We
are sure to find him soon," she added, in a different tone, when she had
spoken out of her heart for very certainty.  The mother’s face took on a
sweet look of relief; Mary was so strong-hearted, so sure of what she
said, that it could not help being a comfort.

"Our cousin Davis will be gathering age," Madam Wallingford continued,
after a little while.  "I look to find her most sadly changed.  She had
been married two years already when I made my first voyage to England,
and went to visit her."

Mary looked up eagerly from her work, as if to beg some further
reminiscences of the past.  Because she loved Madam Wallingford so well
it was pleasant to share the past with her; the old distance between
them grew narrower day by day.

"I was but a girl of seventeen when I first saw Bristol, and I went
straight to her house from the ship, as I hope we may do now, if that
dear heart still remains in a world that needs her," said the elder
woman.  "She is of kin to your own people, you must remember, as well as
to the Wallingfords.  Yes, she was glad of my visit, too, for she was
still mourning for her mother.  Being the youngest child, she had been
close with her till her marriage, and always a favorite.  They had never
been parted for a night or slept but under the same roof, until young
Davis would marry her, and could not be gainsaid.  He had come to the
Piscataqua plantations, supercargo of a great ship of his father’s; the
whole countryside had flocked to see so fine a vessel, when she lay in
the stream at Portsmouth.  She was called the Rose and Crown; she was
painted and gilded in her cabin like a king’s pleasure ship.  He
promised that his wife should come home every second year for a long
visit, and bragged of their ships being always on the ocean; he said she
should keep her carriage both on sea and on land.  ’T was but the
promise of a courting man, he was older than she, and already very
masterful; he had grown stern and sober, and made grave laws for his
household, when I saw it, two years later.  He had come to be his
father’s sole heir, and felt the weight of great affairs, and said he
could not spare his wife out of his sight, when she pleaded to return
with me; a woman’s place was in her husband’s house. Mother and child
had the sundering sea ever between them, and never looked in each
other’s face again; for Mistress Goodwin was too feeble to take the
journey, though she was younger than I am now. He was an honest man and
skillful merchant, was John Davis; but few men can read a woman’s heart,
which lives by longing, and not by reason; ’t is writ in another
language.

"You have often heard of the mother, old Mistress Goodwin, who was taken
to Canada by the savages, and who saw her child killed by them before
her eyes? They threatened to kill her too because she wept, and an
Indian woman pitied her, and flung water in her face to hide the tears,"
the speaker ended, much moved.

"Oh, yes.  I always wish I could remember her," answered Mary.  "She was
a woman of great valor, and with such a history.  ’T was like living two
lifetimes in one."  The girl’s face shone with eagerness as she looked
up, and again bent over her needlework. "She was the mother of all the
Goodwins; they have cause enough for pride when they think of her."

"She had great beauty, too, even in her latest age, though her face was
marked by sorrow," continued Madam Wallingford, easily led toward
entertaining herself by the listener’s’ interest, the hope of pleasing
Mary.  "Mistress Godwin was the skillful hostess of any company, small
or great, and full of life even when she was bent double by her weight
of years, and had seen most of her children die before her.  There was a
look in her eyes as of one who could see spirits, and yet she was called
a very cheerful person.  ’T was indeed a double life, as if she knew the
next world long before she left this one.  They said she was long
remembered by the folk she lived among in Canada; she would have done
much kindness there even in her distress.  Her husband was a plain, kind
man, very able and shrewd-witted, like most Goodwins, but she was born a
Plaisted of the Great House; they were the best family then in the
plantation. Oh yes, I can see her now as if she stood before me,—a small
body, but lit with flame from no common altar of the gods!" exclaimed
Madam Wallingford, after a moment’s pause.  "She had the fine dignity
which so many women lack in these days, and knew no fear, they always
said, except at the sight of some savage face.  This I have often heard
old people say of her earlier years, when the Indians were still in the
country; she would be startled by them as if she came suddenly upon a
serpent.  Yet she would treat them kindly."

"I remember when some of our old men still brought their guns to church
and stood them in the pews," said Mary; "but this year there were only
two poor huts in the Vineyard, when the Indians came down the country to
catch the salmon and dry them.  There are but a feeble few of all their
great tribe; ’t is strange to know that a whole nation has lived on our
lands before us!  I wonder if we shall disappear in our own turn?  Peggy
always says that when the first settlers came up the river they found
traces of ancient settlement; the Vineyard was there, with its planted
vines all run to waste and of a great age, and the old fields, too,
which have given our river neighborhoods their name.  Peggy says there
were other white people in Barvick long ago; the old Indians had some
strange legends of a folk who had gone away.  Did Mistress Goodwin ever
speak of her captivity, or the terrible march to Canada through the
snow, when she was captured with the other Barvick folk, Madam?" asked
Mary, with eagerness to return to their first subject.  "People do not
speak much of those old times now, since our own troubles came on."

"No, no, she would never talk of her trials; ’t was not her way,"
protested Madam Wallingford, and a shadow crossed her face.  "’T was her
only happiness to forget such things.  I can see her sitting in the sun
with a fescue in her hand, teaching the little children.  They needed
bravery in those old days; nothing can haunt us as their fear of sudden
assault and savage cruelty must have haunted them."

Mary thought quickly enough of that angry mob which had so lately
gathered about her old friend’s door, but she said nothing.  The Sons of
Liberty and their visit seemed to have left no permanent discomfort in
Madam’s mind.  "No, no!" said the girl aloud.  "We have grown so
comfortable that even war has its luxuries; they have said that a common
soldier grows dainty with his food and lodging, and the commanders are
daily fretted by such complaints."

"There is not much comfort to be had, poor fellows!" exclaimed Madam
Wallingford rebukingly, as if she and Mary had changed sides.  "Not at
your Valley Forge, and not with the King’s troops last year in Boston.
They suffered everything, but not more than the rebels liked."

Mary’s cheeks grew red at the offensive word. "Do not say ’rebels’!" she
entreated.  "I do not think that Mistress Hetty Goodwin would side with
Parliament, if she were living still.  Think how they loved our young
country, and what they bore for it, in those early days!"

"’T is not to the purpose, child!" answered the old lady sharply.  "They
were all for England against France and her cruel Indian allies; I meant
by ’rebels’ but a party word.  Hetty Goodwin might well be of my mind;
too old to learn irreverence toward the King.  I hate some of his
surrounders,—I can own to that!  I hate the Bedfords, and I have but
scorn for his Lord Sandwich or for Rockingham.  They are treating our
American Loyalists without justice.  Sir William Howe might have had
five thousand men of us, had he made proclamation. Fifty of the best
gentlemen in Philadelphia who were for the Crown waited upon him only to
be rebuffed."

She checked herself quickly, and glanced at Mary, as if she were sorry
to have acknowledged so much. "Yes, I count upon Mr. Fox to stand our
friend rather than upon these! and we have Mr. Franklin, too, who is
large-minded enough to think of the colonies themselves, and to forget
their petty factious and rivalries.  Let us agree, let us agree, if we
can!" and Madam Wallingford, whose dignity was not a thing to be lightly
touched, turned toward Mary with a winning smile.  She knew that she
must trust herself more and more to this young heart’s patience and
kindness; yes, and to her judgment about their plans. Thank God, this
child who loved her was always at her side.  With a strange impulse to
confess all these things, she put out her frail hand to Mary, and Mary,
willingly drawing a little closer, held it to her cheek.  They could
best understand each other without words.  The girl had a clear mind,
and had listened much to the talk of men.  The womanish arguments of
Madam Wallingford always strangely confused her.

"Mr. Franklin will ever be as young at heart as he is old in years,"
said the lady presently, with the old charm of her manner, and all
wistfulness and worry quite gone from her face.  She had been
strengthened by Mary’s love in the failing citadel of her heart. "’Tis
Mr. Franklin’s most noble gift that he can keep in sympathy with the
thoughts and purposes of younger men.  Age is wont to be narrow and to
depend upon certainties of the past, while youth has its easily gathered
hopes and quick intuitions. Mr. Franklin is both characters at once,—as
sanguine as he is experienced.  I knew him well; he will be the same man
now, and as easy a courtier as he was then content with his thrift and
prudence.  I trust him among the first of those who can mend our present
troubles.

"I beg you not to think that I am unmindful of our wrongs in the
colonies, Mary, my dear," she added then, in a changed voice.  "’T is
but your foolish way of trying to mend them that has grieved me,—you who
call yourselves the Patriots!"

Mary smiled again and kept silence, but with something of a doubtful
heart.  She did not wish to argue about politics, that sunny day on the
sea.  No good could come of it, though she had a keen sense that her
companion’s mind was now sometimes unsettled from its old prejudices and
firm beliefs.  The captain was a stanch Royalist, who believed that the
rebels were sure to be put down, and that no sensible man should find
himself left in the foolish situation of a King’s antagonist, or suffer
the futility of such defeat.

"Will Mistress Davis look like her mother, do you think?"  Mary again
bethought herself to return to the simpler subject of their
conversation.

"Yes, no doubt; they had the same brave eyes and yet strangely timid
look.  ’T is a delicate, frail, spirited face.  Our cousin Davis would
be white-headed now; she was already gray in her twenties, when I last
saw her.  It sometimes seems but the other day. They said that Mistress
Goodwin came home from Canada with her hair as white as snow.  Yes,
their eyes were alike; but the daughter had a Goodwin look, small
featured and neatly made, as their women are. She could hold to a
purpose and was very capable, and had wonderful quickness with figures;
’t is common to the whole line.  Mistress Hetty, the mother, had a
pleasing gentleness, but great dignity; she was born of those who long
had been used to responsibility and the direction of others."

Mary laughed a little.  "When you say ’capable,’ it makes me think of
old Peggy, at home," she explained.  "One day, not long ago, I was in
the spinning room while we chose a pattern for the new table linen, and
she had a child there with her; you know that Peggy is fond of a little
guest.  There had been talk of a cake, and the child was currying favor
lest she should be forgotten.

"’Mrs. Peggy,’ she piped, ’my aunt Betsey says as how you ’re a very
capering woman!’

"’What, what?’ says Peggy.  ’Your aunt Betsey, indeed, you mite!  Oh, I
expect ’t was capable she meant,’ Peggy declared next moment, a little
pacified, and turned to me with a lofty air.  ’Can’t folks have an
English tongue in their heads?’ she grumbled; but she ended our high
affairs then, and went off to the kitchen with the child safe in hand."

"I can see her go!" and Madam Wallingford laughed too, easily pleased
with the homely tale.

"Ah, but we must not laugh; it hurts my poor heart even to smile," she
whispered.  "My dear son is in prison, we know not where, and I have
been forgetting him when I can laugh.  I know not if he be live or dead,
and we are so far from him, tossing in the midseas.  Oh, what can two
women like us do in England, in this time of bitterness, if the
Loyalists are reckoned but brothers of the rebels?  I dreamed it was all
different till we heard such tales in Halifax."

"We shall find many friends, and we need never throw away our hope,"
said Mary Hamilton soothingly. "And Master Sullivan bade me remember
with his last blessing that God never makes us feel our weakness except
to lead us to seek strength from Him. ’T was the saying of his old
priest, the Abbé Fénelon."

They sat silent together; the motion of the ship was gentle enough, and
the western breeze was steady. It seemed like a quiet night again; the
sun was going down, and there was a golden light in the thick web of
rigging overhead, and the gray sails were turned to gold color.

"It is I who should be staying you, dear child," whispered Madam
Wallingford, putting out her hand again and resting it on Mary’s
shoulder, "but you never fail to comfort me.  I have bitterly reproached
myself many and many a day for letting you follow me; ’t is like the
book of Ruth, which always brought my tears as I read it.  I am far
happier here with you than I have been many a day at home in my lonely
house.  I need wish for a daughter’s love no more. I sometimes forget
even my great sorrow and my fear of our uncertainty, and dread the day
when we shall come to land.  I wish I were not so full of fears. Yet I
do not think God will let me die till I have seen my son."

Mary could not look just then at her old friend’s fragile figure and
anxious face; she had indeed taken a great charge upon herself, and a
weakness stole over her own heart that could hardly be borne.  What
difficulties and disappointments were before them God only knew.


"Dear child," said Madam Wallingford, whose eyes were fixed upon Mary’s
unconscious face, "is it your dreams that keep your heart so light?  I
wish that you could share them with the heavy-hearted like me!  All this
long winter you have shown a heavenly patience; but your face was often
sad, and this has grieved me.  I have thought since we came to sea that
you have been happier than you were before."

"’T was not the distresses that we all knew; something pained me that I
could not understand.  Now it troubles me no more," and Mary looked at
the questioner with a frank smile.

"I am above all a hater of curious questions," insisted the lady.  But
Mary did not turn her eyes away, and smiled again.

"I can hold myself to silence," said Madam Wallingford. "I should not
have spoken but for the love and true interest of my heart; ’twas not a
vulgar greed of curiosity that moved me.  I am thankful enough for your
good cheer; you have left home and many loving cares, and have come with
me upon this forced and anxious journey as if it were but a holiday."

Mary bent lower over her sewing.

"Now that we have no one but each other I should be glad to put away one
thought that has distressed me much," confessed the mother, and her
voice trembled.  "You have never said that you had any word from Roger.
Surely there is no misunderstanding between you?  I have sometimes
feared—  Oh, remember that I am his mother, Mary!  He has not written
even to me in his old open fashion; there has been a difference, as if
the great distance had for once come between our hearts; but this last
letter was from his own true heart, from his very self!  The knowledge
that he was not happy made me fearful, and yet I cannot brook the
thought that he has been faithless, galling though his hasty oath may
have been to him. Oh no, no!  I hate myself for speaking so dark a
thought as this.  My son is a man of high honor."  She spoke proudly,
yet her anxious face was drawn with pain.

Mary laid down her piece of linen, and clasped her hands together
strongly in her lap.  There was something deeply serious in her
expression, as she gazed off upon the sea.

"It is all right now," she said presently, speaking very simply, and not
without effort.  "I have been grieved for many weeks, ever since the
first letters came.  I had no word at all from Roger, and we had been
such friends.  The captain wrote twice to me, as I told you; his letters
were the letters of a gentleman, and most kind.  I could be sure that
there was no trouble between them, as I feared sometimes at first," and
the bright color rushed to her face.  "It put me to great anxiety; but
the very morning before we sailed a letter came from Roger.  I could not
bring myself to speak of it then; I can hardly tell you now."

"And it is all clear between you?  I see,—there was some
misunderstanding, my dear.  Remember that my boy is sometimes very
quick; ’t is a hasty temper, but a warm and true heart.  Is it all clear
now?"

Mary wished to answer, but she could not, for all her trying, manage to
speak a word; she did not wish to show the deep feeling that was moving
her, and first looked seaward again, and then took up her needlework.
Her hand touched the bosom of her gown, to feel if the letter were there
and safe.  Madam Wallingford smiled, and was happy enough in such a
plain assurance.

"Oh yes!" Mary found herself saying next moment, quite unconsciously,
the wave of happy emotion having left her calm again.  "Oh yes, I have
come to understand everything now, dear Madam, and the letter was
written while the Ranger lay in the port of Brest.  They were sailing
any day for the English coast."

"Sometimes I fear that he may be dead; this very sense of his living
nearness to my heart may be only—  The dread of losing him wakes me from
my sleep; but sometimes by day I can feel him thinking to me, just as I
always have since he was a child; ’t is just as if he spoke," and the
tears stood bright in Madam Wallingford’s eyes.

"No, dear, he is not dead," said Mary, listening eagerly; but she could
not tell even Roger Wallingford’s mother the reason why she was so
certain.




                                *XXXIII*

                         *THEY COME TO BRISTOL*

"The wise will remember through sevenfold births the love of those who
wiped away their falling tears."


Miss Mary Hamilton and the captain of the Golden Dolphin walked together
from the busy boat landing up into the town of Bristol.  The tide was
far down, and the captain, being a stout man, was still wheezing from
his steep climb on the long landing-stairs. It was good to feel the
comfort of solid ground underfoot, and to hear so loud and cheerful a
noise of English voices, after their four long weeks at sea, and the
ring and clank of coppersmiths’ hammers were not unpleasant to the ear
even in a narrow street.  The captain was in a jovial temper of mind; he
had some considerable interest in his cargo, and they had been in
constant danger off the coast.  Now that he was safe ashore, and the
brig was safe at anchor, he stepped quickly and carried his head high,
and asked their shortest way to Mr. Davis’s house, to leave Mary there,
while he made plans for coming up to one of that well-known merchant’s
wharves.

"Here we are at last!" exclaimed the master mariner. "I can find my way
across the sea straight to King’s Road and Bristol quay, but I’m easy
lost in the crooked ways of a town.  I ’ve seen the port of Bristol,
too, a score o’ times since I was first a sailor, but I saw it never so
dull as now.  There it is, the large house beyond, to the port-hand
side.  He lives like a nobleman, does old Sir Davis.  I ’ll leave ye
here now, and go my ways; they ’ve sarvents a plenty to see ye back to
the strand."

The shy and much occupied captain now made haste toward the merchant’s
counting-room, and Mary hurried on toward the house, anxious to know if
Madam Wallingford’s hopes were to be assured, and if they should find
Mistress Davis not only alive and well, but ready to welcome them.  As
she came nearer, her heart beat fast at the sight of a lady’s trim head,
white-capped, and not without distinction of look, behind the panes of a
bowed window.  It was as plain that this was a familiar sight, that it
might every day be seen framed in its place within the little panes, as
if Mary had known the face since childhood, and watched for a daily
greeting as she walked a Portsmouth street at home.  She even hesitated
for a moment, looking eagerly, ere she went to lift the bright knocker
of the street door.

In a minute more she was in the room.

"I am Mary Hamilton, of Berwick," said the guest, with pretty eagerness,
"and I bring you love and greeting from Madam Wallingford, your old
friend."

"From Madam Wallingford?" exclaimed the hostess, who had thought to see
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.

"I ’ll change with you, my dear, as we ride toward home; I see you are
so competent a rider," offered Mr. Davis heartily.  "Lightfoot is a
steady beast, though I must own you found him otherwise this morning;
this chestnut is younger and freer-gaited."  He had a strange sense, as
he spoke, that Mary was no longer in good spirits.  Perhaps the heavy
horse had tired her strength, though Lightfoot was as good a creature as
any in Bristol, and much admired for his noble appearance.

Mary eagerly protested, and patted the old horse with still greater
friendliness and approval as they went riding on toward the town.  The
alderman sighed at the very sight of her youth and freshness; it would
be pleasant to have such a daughter for his own.  A man likes young
company as he grows older; though the alderman might be growing clumsy
on his own legs, the good horse under him made him feel like a lad of
twenty.  This was a fine day to ride out from Bristol, and the weather
of the best.  Mr. Davis began to mind him of an errand of business to
Westbury on Trym, beyond the Clifton Downs, where, on the morrow, he
could show Miss Hamilton still finer prospects than these.

They stopped at last before a handsome lodging in the middle of the town
of Bath.  Mr. George Fairfax was a Virginian, of old Lord Bryan
Fairfax’s near kindred, a man of great wealth, and a hearty Loyalist;
his mother, a Cary of Hampton, had been well known to Madam Wallingford
in their early years.  He was at home this day, and came out at once to
receive his guests with fine hospitality, being on excellent terms of
friendship with the old merchant.  They greeted each other with great
respect before Miss Hamilton’s presence was explained; and then Mr.
Fairfax’s smiling face was at once clouded.  He had been the hope and
stay of so many distressed persons, in these anxious days of war, that
he could only sigh as he listened. It was evident enough that, however
charming this new sufferer and applicant might be, their host could but
regret her errand.  Yet one might well take pleasure in her lovely face,
even if she must be disappointed, as most ladies were, in the hope of
receiving an instant and ample pension from the Ministers of His Majesty
George the Third.

Mr. Fairfax, with great courtesy, began to say something of his regrets
and fears.

"But we do not ask for these kind favors," Mary interrupted him, with
gentle dignity.  "You mistake our present errand, sir.  Madam
Wallingford is in no need of such assistance.  We are provided with what
money we are like to need, as our good friend here must already know.
The people at home"—and she faltered for one moment before she could go
on. "It was indeed thought best that Madam Wallingford should be absent
for a time; but she was glad to come hither for her son’s sake, who is
in prison.  We have come but to find him and to set him free, and we ask
for your advice and help.  Here is her letter," and Miss Hamilton
hesitated and blushed with what seemed to both the gentlemen a most
pretty confusion.  "I ought to tell you, Mr. Fairfax—I think you should
know, sir, that I am of the Patriots.  My brother was with General
Washington, with his own regiment, when I left home."

Mr. George Fairfax bowed ceremoniously, but his eyes twinkled a little,
and he took instant refuge in reading the letter.  This was evidently an
interesting case, but not without its difficulties.

"The young gentleman in question also appears to be a Patriot," he said
seriously, as he looked up at Mr. Davis.  "In Miss Hamilton’s presence I
must drop our usual term of ’rebel.’  Madam Wallingford professes
herself unshaken in her hereditary allegiance to the Crown; but as for
this young officer, her son, I am astonished to find that he has been on
board the Ranger with that Paul Jones who is the terror of all our ports
now, and the chief pest and scourge of our commerce here in England.  ’T
is a distressed parent, indeed.

"You have the right of it," said the old British merchant, with great
eagerness and reproach. Mr. Davis was not a man who found it easy to
take the humorous point of view.  "It seems that he was left ashore,
that night of the attack upon Whitehaven, in the north, which you will
well remember.  He was caught by the town guard.  You know that we
captured one of the Ranger’s men?  ’Twas this same young officer, and,
though badly wounded, he was ordered to the Mill Prison, and is said to
have arrived in a dying state.  For his mother’s sake (and her face
would distress any man’s heart), I try to believe that he is yet alive
and lies there in the jail; but ’t is a sorry house of correction that
he has come to through his own foolishness.  They say he is like to have
been hanged already."

"Good God! what a melancholy story, and all England thinking that he
deserves his fate!" exclaimed Fairfax.  "I cannot see how anything can
be done."

"There is but one gleam of hope," said Mr. Davis, who had not sat among
the Bristol magistrates in vain.  He spoke pompously, but with some
kindness for Miss Hamilton, who was listening sadly enough, the eager
bravery of her face all gone; their last words had been very hard to
bear.  "There is one thing to add.  The story reached America, before
these good friends left, that young Mr. Wallingford was suspected by
many persons on board the Ranger of still holding to his early Loyalist
principles.  They openly accused him of an effort to betray the ship
into our hands.  If this is true"—

"It is not true!" interrupted Miss Hamilton, and both the gentlemen
looked a little startled.  "No, it is not true," she repeated more
calmly.  "It is not a proper plea to make, if he should never be set
free."

"We must think of his mother; we are only reviewing the situation in our
own fashion," said the elder man, frowning a stern rebuke at her.  But
she would have her way.

"Mr. Davis has been very kind in the matter," she continued.  "When we
were speaking together, last night, he told me that Lord Mount Edgecumbe
was now in Bath, and would have great influence about the American
prisoners."

"That is true," said Mr. Fairfax politely; "but I do not possess the
honor of his lordship’s acquaintance, and I fear that I have no means of
reaching him.  He is in bad health, and but lately arrived in Bath to
take the waters."

"Miss Hamilton has brought letters"—

"I have some letters, given me by an old friend at home," acknowledged
Mary.  "The writer was very sure that they would be of use to us.  Do
you happen to know anything of Lord Newburgh, sir, and where he may be
found?"

"Lord Newburgh?" repeated the Virginian eagerly, with a quick shake of
his head and a sudden frown, though there was again a twinkle of
merriment in his eyes.  Mary’s best hopes suddenly fell to the ground.
She was aware as she had not been before upon how slight a foundation
these best hopes might have been built.  She had always looked up to
Master Sullivan with veneration; the mystery of his presence was like an
enchantment to those who knew him best.  But he had been a long lifetime
in America; he might have written his letters to dead men only; they
might be worth no more than those withered oak leaves of last year that
were fluttering on the hedges, pierced by a new growth.

There was a pause.  Mr. Fairfax’s face seemed full of pity.  Miss
Hamilton began to resent his open show of sympathy.

"I am strangely inhospitable!" he exclaimed.  "We were so quick at our
business that I forgot to offer you anything, sir, and you, Miss
Hamilton, after your morning’s ride!  No, no, it is no trouble.  You
will excuse me for a moment?  I am like to forget my good bringing up in
Virginia, and my lady is just now absent from home."

Mr. Fairfax quickly left the room.  The alderman sat there speechless,
but looking satisfied and complacent.  It certainly did make a man
thirsty to ride abroad on a sunshiny morning, and his ears were
sharp-set for the comfortable clink of glasses.  The heavy tray
presently arrived, and was put near him on a card table, and the old
butler, with his pleasant Virginian speech, was eager in the discharge
of hospitality; Mr. Fairfax being still absent, and Mary quite at the
end of her courage.  She could not take the cool draught which old Peter
offered her with respectful entreaties, as if he were Cæsar, their own
old slave; she tried to look at the hunting pictures on the wall, but
they blurred strangely,—there was something the matter with her eyes.

"What noble Jamaica spirits!" said Mr. John Davis, looking at the
ceiling with affected indifference as his glass was being replenished.
"Did your master grow these lemons on his own plantations in Virginia?
They are of a wondrous freshness," he added, politely, to repeat his
approval of such an entertainment.  "Miss Hamilton, my dear, you forget
we must take the long ride back again to Bristol.  I fear you make a
great mistake to refuse any refreshment at good Peter’s hands."


The door was thrown open and Mr. Fairfax made a handsome, middle-aged
gentleman precede him into the room.

"I was afraid that I should miss this noble friend," he said gayly; "he
might have been taking advantage of so fine a morning, like yourselves.
Here is my Lord Newburgh, Miss Hamilton; this is Lord Newburgh himself
for you!  You must have heard of the Honorable Mr. Davis, of Bristol, my
lord?—one of their great merchants.  I have told you already that Miss
Hamilton brings you a letter, and that she hopes for your interest with
my Lord Mount Edgecumbe. My dear Miss Hamilton, this gives me great
pleasure! When you said that you had brought such a letter, I was sure
at last that there was one thing I could do for you."

Lord Newburgh gravely saluted these new acquaintances, taking quick
notice of the lady’s charm, and smiling over his shoulder at Mr.
Fairfax’s excited manner.  He waved his hand in kind protest to check
Peter’s officious approach with the tray of glasses.

"So you have a letter for me, from America, Miss Hamilton?" he asked
bluntly; and she put it into his hand.

Lord Newburgh gave a curious look at the carefully written address, and
turned the folded sheet to see the seal.  Then he flushed like a man in
anger and bit his lip as he looked at the seal again, and started back
as he stood close by the window, so that they all saw him.  Then he tore
open Master Sullivan’s letter.

"It is dated this very last month!" he cried.  "My God! do you mean to
tell me that this man is still alive?"




                                *XXXVI*

                     *MY LORD NEWBURGH’s KINDNESS*

"Thus says my King: Say thou to Harry of England, though we seemed dead,
we did but sleep."


"What man?" asked Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Davis, with eager curiosity,
seeing such astonishment upon his face; but Lord Newburgh made them no
answer until he had read the letter and carefully folded it again.  They
saw his hands tremble.  He stood looking blankly at the two men and Miss
Hamilton, as if he were in doubt what to say.

"’T is like one risen from the dead," he told them presently, "but what
is written here is proof enough for me.  There are some things which
cannot be spoken of even after all these years, but I can say this: ’t
was a friend of my poor father, Charles Radcliffe, and of his brother,
Darwentwater,—one of their unlucky company sixty years ago.  There are
high reasons, and of State too, why, beyond this, I must still keep
silence.  Great heavens, what a page of history is here!" and he opened
the letter to look at it once more.

"Mount Edgecumbe will not believe me," he said, as if to himself.
"Well, at least he knows something of those old days, too; he will be
ready to do what he can for such a petitioner as this, but we must be
careful.  I should like to speak with Miss Hamilton alone, if you will
leave us here together, gentlemen," said Lord Newburgh, with quiet
authority; and Mr. Fairfax and the alderman, disappointed, but with
ready courtesy, left them alone in the room.

"Do you know the writer of this letter, madam?" demanded Lord Newburgh;
and he was so well aware of the girl’s beauty that, while he spoke, his
eyes scarcely left her face.  "’T is true he speaks your name here and
with affection, but I cannot think his history is known."

Mary smiled then, and answered gently to her life-long acquaintance with
the master and her deep love for him, but that his early life was a
matter of conjecture to those who had longest been his neighbors. Lord
Newburgh saw with approval that she knew more than she was ready to
confess.

"He has followed the great Example,—he has given his life for his
friend," said Lord Newburgh, who showed himself much moved, when she had
finished speaking.  "They should know of this among our friends in
France; by God’s truth, the King himself should know but for his present
advisers!  I must say no more; you can see how this strange news has
shaken me.  He asks a thing difficult enough; he has broken his long
silence for no light reason. But Mount Edgecumbe will feel as I
do,—whatever he asks should be promised him; and Mount Edgecumbe has
power in Plymouth; even with Barrington reigning in the War Office he is
not likely to be refused, though Barrington is a narrow soul, and we can
give no reasons such as make our own way plain. Your man shan’t stay in
the Mill Prison, I can promise you that, Ranger or no Ranger!"

Lord Newburgh smiled now at Miss Hamilton, as if to bring a look of
pleasure to so sweet a face, and she could not but smile back at him.

"I shall do my part of this business at once," he said, rising.  "I
passed Mount Edgecumbe on my way here; he ’ll swear roundly at such a
request. He fears again that his great oaks must go down, and his temper
is none of the best.  The Earl is an old sailor, my dear Miss Hamilton,
and has a sailor’s good heart, but this will stagger him well.  You say
that Madam Wallingford, the young man’s mother, is now in Bristol?" and
again he looked at the letter. "Stay; before I speak with the Earl I
should like to hear more of these interesting circumstances.  I must say
that my own sympathies are mainly with your party in the colonies.  I
believe that the King has been made a tool of by some of his ministers.
But I should not say this if you are one of the Loyalist refugees.  Why,
no, my dear!"  He checked himself, laughing.  "’T is a strange
confusion.  I cannot think you are for both hound and hare!"


It was near an hour later when Mr. Fairfax fumbled at the latch to see
if he might be of service, and was politely though not too warmly
requested to enter. Mr. John Davis had grown fretful at their long
delay, but Miss Hamilton and Lord Newburgh were still deep in their
conversation.  The young lady herself had been close to her brother’s
confidence, and was not ignorant of causes in this matter of the war.
Lord Newburgh struck his fist to the table with emphatic approval, as he
rose, and told the two gentlemen who entered that he had learned at last
what all England ought to know,—the true state of affairs in America.

The Virginia Loyalist looked disturbed, and showed some indifference to
this bold announcement.

"Come, Fairfax," cried the guest gayly, "I shall have arguments enough
for ye now!  I can take the Patriot side with intelligence, instead of
what you have persisted in calling my ignorant prejudice."

"’T is your new teacher, then, and not your reasoning powers," retorted
Fairfax; and they both fell to laughing, while Mary fell to blushing and
looking more charming than before.

"Well, Miss Hamilton, and is your business forwarded?  Then we must be
off; the day is well squandered already," said John Davis.

"I shall first take Miss Hamilton to our good housekeeper for a dish of
tea before she rides home," protested the host kindly.  "I am grieved
that my lady is not here; but our housekeeper, Mrs. Mullet, can offer
the dish of tea, if so stern a Boston Patriot does not forbid.  You will
try the Jamaica spirits again yourself, sir?  A second glass may be
better than the first, Mr. Alderman!"

"I shall speak with my friends as to these Plymouth affairs, and do my
best for you," Lord Newburgh kindly assured Miss Hamilton, as they
parted. "You shall see me in Bristol to-morrow.  Ah, this letter!" and
he spoke in a low voice.  "It has touched my heart to think that you
know so well our sad inheritance.  My poor father and poor Darwentwater!
Every one here knows their melancholy fate, their ’sad honors of the axe
and block;’ but there were things covered in those days that are secrets
still in England.  _He speaks of the Newgate supper to me! ... ’Twas he
himself who saved ... and only a lad_" ... But Mary could not hear the
rest.

"I must see you again," he continued, aloud.  "I shall have a thousand
questions to put to you, and many messages for your old Master Sullivan
(God bless him!) when you return.  I offer you my friendship for his
sake," and Lord Newburgh stood with bared head beside the horse when
Miss Hamilton had mounted.  "We have pleasant Dilston Hall to our home
no more these many years; we Radcliffes are all done, but at Slindon you
shall be very welcome. I shall wait upon Madam Wallingford to-morrow,
and bring her what good comfort I can."


The alderman was warmed by Mr. Fairfax’s hospitalities, and rode beside
his young guest as proudly as if he were the lord mayor on high holiday.
The streets of Bath were crowded with idle gentlefolk; it was a lovely
day, and many people of fashion were taking the air as well as the
famous waters.  This was a fine sight for a New England girl, and Mary
herself was beheld with an admiration that was by no means silent.
Their horses’ feet clacked sharply on the cobblestones, as if eager to
shorten the homeward road, and the young rider sat as light as her heart
was, now the errand was done.  It was a pretty thing, her
unconsciousness of all admiration: she might have been flitting along a
shady road under the pines at home, startling the brown rabbits, and
keeping a steady hand on the black Duke’s rein to be ready for sudden
freaks.  She did not see that all along by the pump room they were
watching her as she passed.  She was taking good news to Bristol; Lord
Newburgh had given his word of honor that Roger Wallingford should be
pardoned and set free.  Was not his mother a great lady, and heartily
loyal to the Crown? Was there not talk of his having been suspected of
the same principles on board the American privateer? It must be
confessed that Lord Newburgh’s face had taken on a look of amused
assurance when these facts were somewhat unwillingly disclosed; they
were the last points in the lieutenant’s history which Mary herself
woidd have willingly consented to use, even as a means of deliverance
from captivity, but, unknown to her, they had won an easy promise of
freedom.

"She ’s a rebel indeed, but God bless me, I don’t blame her!" laughed
the noble lord, as he reflected upon their conversation.  It was not in
his loyal heart to forget his heritage.  Whatever might fall out in the
matter of those distressed seamen who now suffered in the Mill Prison,
no man could fail of pleasure in doing service for such sweet eyes as
Miss Mary Hamilton’s.  There were some private reasons why he could go
boldly to ask this great favor, and Lord Mount Edgecumbe was as good as
master of the town of Plymouth, both by land and sea, and responsible
for her concerns.  "I ’ll make him ride with me to Bristol to-morrow to
see these ladies," said Lord Newburgh from a generous heart.  "’T will
be a sweet reward, he may take my word for it!"




                                *XXXVII*

                     *THE BOTTOM OF THESE MISERIES*

"Let us pray that our unconscious benefactions outweigh our unconscious
cruelties!"


The order for Lieutenant Wallingford’s release was soon in hand, but the
long journey across country from Bristol to Plymouth seemed almost as
long as all the time spent in crossing the sea.  From the morning hour
when the two elder ladies had watched Miss Hamilton and her kind old
cavalier ride away down the narrow Bristol street, with a stout man
servant well mounted behind them, until the day they were in sight of
Plymouth Hoe, each minute seemed slower than the last.  It was a pretty
journey from inn to inn, and the alderman lent himself gayly to such
unwonted holidays, while Mary’s heart grew lighter on the way, and a
bright, impatient happiness began to bloom afresh in her cheeks and to
shine in her eyes.

They reached Plymouth town at nightfall, and Mary was for taking fresh
horses and riding on to the Mill Prison.  For once her face was dark
with anger when the landlord argued against such haste.  He was for
their taking supper, and assured the travelers that not even the mayor
of Plymouth himself could knock at the jail gate by night and think to
have it opened.

Miss Hamilton turned from such officious speech with proud indifference,
and looked expectantly at her companion.

"It is not every night they will have a pardon to consider," she said in
a low voice to Mr. Davis.  "We carry a letter from my Lord Mount
Edgecumbe to the governor of the prison.  We must first get speech with
the guard, and then I have no fear."

The innkeeper looked provoked and wagged his head; he had already given
orders for a bountiful supper, and was not going to let a rich Bristol
merchant and two persons beside ride away without paying for it.

"We shall not be long away," said Mary, pleading. If she had known of
the supper, she would have added that they might bring back another and
a hungrier guest than they to sit at table.  The alderman was
irresolute; he was ready to succor a distressed prisoner, being a good
Christian; but he was hungry now, and they had been riding all day at a
quicker pace than he might have followed if alone.  His man servant,
just come into the inn parlor to wait for orders, stole a meaning glance
at him; and they were two against one.

"No, no, my dear; ’t is a good bit further, and most likely we should
have our ride in vain.  I know the rules of such places, from our
Bristol laws at home.  The governor will most likely be here in the
town.  Rest you now, and let us make a good supper, and start again
betimes in the morning."  Then, seeing how disappointed and even
determined her face grew, and that she looked very tired, "I am an old
man, you must remember," he added kindly.  "I fear that I am spent
to-night, and can do no more without resting."

She was silent then, and crossed the room to stand by the window.  There
was a voice in her heart that begged her to persist, to go on alone, if
need be, and not let herself be hindered in her quest.  It was still
light out of doors; the long twilight of the English summer was making
this last step of her great adventure a possibility.  She sighed; the
voice within still warned and pleaded with her.  "Who are you?" the girl
said wonderingly.  "Who are you that comes and helps me?  You are not my
own thought, but some one wiser than I, who would be my friend!"  It was
as if some unseen ministering spirit were face to face with her,
bringing this insistent thought that she hardly dared refuse to take for
guidance.

She gazed out of the window.  Sunset clouds were brightening the whole
sky; an afterglow was on the moorland hills eastward above the town.
She could hear the roar of the ocean not far away; there were cheerful
voices coming up the street, and the citizens were all abroad with their
comfortable pipes and chatter.

"Get me a fresh horse and a man to follow," said Miss Hamilton, turning
again to face the room.  The landlord himself was laying the white cloth
for supper.  Matthew, their old groom, was stiffly kneeling and pulling
off his master’s riding boots, and they all three looked at her in
dismay.

"Our own horses are done, miss," said Matthew, with decision.

"I have none I can let you to-night from my stable," the landlord
seconded.  "There was a review to-day of our raw recruits for America,
and I had to empty every stall.  The three best horses are returned with
saddle galls from their clumsy ignorance," he protested boldly.

Mary glanced at Mr. Davis, and was still unconvinced; but all her
determination was lost when she saw that the old man was really
fatigued.  Well, it was only one night more, and she must not insist.
Perhaps they were right, and her ride would be in vain.  At least she
could send a messenger; and to this proposal the landlord readily
acceded, since, useless or not, it would be a shilling in his pocket,
and a slow boy could carry the letter which the young lady made such
haste to write.

She stopped more than once, with trembling fingers and trembling heart.
"Dearest Roger," and the written words made her blush crimson and hold
her face closer to the paper.  "Dearest Roger, I would that I might come
to you to-night; but they say it is impossible.  Your mother is in
Bristol, and awaits you there.  Mr. John Davis has brought me hither to
the Crown Inn.  In the morning we shall open the prison door for you.
Oh, my dear Roger, to think that I shall see you at last!"

"When can we have the answer back?" she asked; and the landlord told
her, smiling, that it would be very late, if indeed there were any
answer at all, and reminded her, with insolent patience, that he had
already told her they would not open their prison gates, for Lords or
Commons, to any one who came by night.

"You may send the answer by one of your maids to the lady’s room,"
commanded the Bristol magnate, in a tone that chased the servile smile
from the inn-keeper’s face.


When Mary waked, the morning sun was pouring in at her window, and there
was no word of any answer.  Old Matthew had spoken with the young
messenger, and brought word that he had given the letter to one of the
watch by the gate, who had taken the money, and promised to do his best
to put the message into Mr. Wallingford’s hands that night when they
changed guard.


"We might have been here last night; why, ’t is but a step!" said John
Davis, as they drew near the dismal prison next morning; but his young
companion made no answer.  He could not guess what happy fear mingled
with her glad anticipation now, nor how her certainties and
apprehensions were battling with each other.

Matthew’s own horse and another that he led for Mr. Wallingford were
weighted with provisions, so that he trudged afoot alongside.  It was
easy to hear in Plymouth town how the American prisoners lacked such
things, and yet Mary could hardly wait now to make the generous purchase
which she had planned. She could not know all that Matthew had learned,
and told his master in whispers in the stable yard.

As they rode nearer to the prison a flaw of wind brought toward them all
the horrible odors of the crowded place, like a warning of the distress
and misery within.  Though it was so early, there were many persons
standing outside the gates: some of them were jeering at the sad
spectacle, and some talking in a friendly way with the men who stood
within. Happily, it was not only a few compassionate Americans who had
posted themselves here to give what they could of food and succor, but
among the Plymouth folk themselves many a heart was wrung with pity, and
one poor old body had toiled out of the town with a basket of food to
smuggle through the bars; cakes and biscuit of a humble sort enough, but
well flavored with love.  Mary saw her take thread and needles out of
her pocket, and sit down on the ground to mend some poor rags of
clothing.  "My own lad went for a sailor," she said, when they thanked
her and called her "mother."

There was long delay; the guards pushed back the crowd again and again;
one must stand close to see the sights within.  All at once there was a
cry and scuffling among the idlers, as some soldiers came riding up, one
of them bringing an old horse with a man thrown across the saddle and
tied down.  As they loosed him he slid heavily to the ground as if he
were dead, and the spectators closed about him.

Mary Hamilton could only look on in horror and apprehension.  Her
companion was in the midst of the pushing crowd.

"’T was a prisoner who escaped last night and has been retaken," he said
hastily, as he returned to her side.  "You may stay here with Matthew,
my dear, while I take our letters and go in.  I see that it is no place
for you; they are like wild beasts."

"I must go, too," said Mary; "you will not forbid me now.  Good
heavens!" she cried aloud.  "Now that they stand away from the gate I
can see within. Oh, the poor prisoners!  Oh, I cannot bear their sick
faces!  They are starving, sir!  These must be the men who had the fever
you told me of.  I wish we had brought more wine and food to these poor
fellows!  Let us go in at once," she cried again, and was in a passion
of pity and terror at the sight.

"Let us go in!  Let us go in!" she begged.  "Oh, you forget that they
are my own countrymen!  I cannot wait!"

The guard now returned with a message, and the alderman gave his bridle
to the groom.  Mary was afoot sooner than he, and had run to the gate,
pushing her way among the idle sightseers to the heavy grating. They
were calling from both sides of the gate to old Matthew, who was
standing with the horses, to come up and give them what he had brought.
Mary Hamilton felt as if she were among wolves: they did not listen;
they did not wait to find what she had to say. "For love of God, give me
a shilling for a little ’baccy, my lady," said one voice in her ear.  "I
’ll fetch them the ’baccy from the town, poor boys; they lack it most of
anything, and he ’ll drink the money!" protested an old beggar woman at
her side.  "Go in? They ’ll let no ladies in!" and she gave a queer
laugh. "And if you ’re once in, all you ’ll pray for is to be out again
and forget the sight."


The governor was in his room, which had a small grated window toward the
prison yard; but there was a curtain before it, and he looked up
anxiously to see if this were close drawn as his early guests entered.
This task of jailer was a terrible duty for any man, and he swore under
his breath at Lord Mount Edgecumbe for interfering with what at best was
an impossible piece of business.  If he had seen to it that they had
decent supplies for the prison, and hanged a score of their purveyors
and contractors, now, or had blown the whole rotten place into the air
with his fleet guns, ’t were a better kindness!

The clerk stood waiting for orders.

"Show them in, then, these people," he grumbled, and made a feint of
being busy with some papers as Miss Hamilton and her escort appeared.
The governor saw at once that the honorable Mr. Davis was a man of
consequence.

"My Lord Mount Edgecumbe writes me that you would make inquiries for a
prisoner here," said the old soldier, less roughly because the second
guest proved to be a lady and most fair to see.  She looked very pale,
and was watching him with angry eyes.  As she had crossed the prison
yard, she had seen fewer miseries because her tears had blinded her.
There had been one imploring voice calling her by her own name.  "Stop,
Miss Hamilton, stop, for God’s sake!" some one had cried; but the guard
had kept the poor prisoners off, and an attendant hurried her along by
force when she would gladly have lingered.  The horror of it all was too
much for her; it was the first time she had ever been in a jail.

"I am fearful of your sad disappointment, madam," said the governor of
the prison.  "You wished to see Lieutenant Roger Wallingford.  I grieve
to say"—He spoke kindly, but looked to ward Mary and stopped, and then,
sighing heavily, turned his eyes toward Mr. Davis with a kind of relief.

"He is not dead, I hope, sir?" asked the old man, for Mary could not
speak.  "We have the order for his release."

"No, he is not dead to any certain knowledge," explained the governor,
more slowly than before, "but he was one of a party that made their
escape from this prison last night; ’t was through one of their silly
tunnels that they dig.  They have some of them been shot down, and one,
I hear, has just been taken and brought in alive; but Wallingford’s name
is not among any of these."  He turned to some records, and then went to
the grated window and looked out, but pulled the curtain across it
impatiently as he came away. "You brought his pardon?" the governor then
asked brusquely.  "I should think he would be the last man for a pardon.
Why, he was with Paul Jones, sir; but a very decent fellow, a gentleman,
they tell me.  I did not see him; I am not long here.  This young lady
had best go back to the inn," and he stole a look at Mary, who sat in
despairing silence.  A strange flush had replaced her first pallor.  She
had thought but a moment before that she should soon look again into
Roger Wallingford’s face and tell him that he was free.  On the end of
the governor’s writing table lay the note that she had written with such
a happy heart only the night before.




                               *XXXVIII*

                       *FULL OF STRAYING STREETS*

"Nona ne souffrons quo dans la mesure où nous co-opérons à nos
souffrances."

"His age saw visions, though his youth dream’d dreams."


The town of Bristol was crowded with Loyalist refugees: some who had
fled the colonies for honest love of their King, and some who believed
that when the King’s troops had put down the rebellion they should be
well rewarded for holding to his cause. They were most of them cut off
from what estates they may have had, and were begging for pensions from
a government that seemed cruelly indifferent.  Their sad faces fairly
shadowed the Bristol streets, while many of them idled the day through,
discussing their prospects with one another, and killing time that might
have been lived to some profit.  The disappointment of their hope was
unexpected, and an England that showed them neither sympathy nor honor
when they landed on her shores, glowing with self-sacrifice, was but a
sad astonishment.  England, their own mother country, seemed fallen into
a querulous dotage, with her King’s ministers so pompous in their stupid
ignorance and self-consequence, and her best statesmen fighting hard to
be heard.  It was an age of gamester heroes and of reckless living; a
poor page of English history was unfolded before their wistful eyes.
These honest Loyalists were made to know the mortified feelings of
country gentlefolk come unheralded to a city house that was busy with
its splendors on a feast day, and impatient of what was inopportune.
Worse than this, though Judge Curwen and other loyal Americans of his
company were still hopeful of consideration, and of being warmly
received by England as her own true children, they were oftener held
guilty of the vexing behavior of their brothers, those rebels against
English authority whom they had left behind.  Something to Mary’s
wonder, Madam Wallingford would have few of them to friend.  She was too
great a person at home to consent even now to any social familiarity on
the score of political sympathies. She was known to have brought much
money, and it was made easy for her to share this with one and another
distressed acquaintance or friend’s friend; but while this was done with
generosity, she showed herself more and more impatient of their
arguments, even of those plaints which were always ready, and the story
of such grievances as had led them into exile.

"I am too ill and sad to listen to these things," she said often, even
to her friends the Pepperrells, who came from London to visit her.  "I
only know my country’s troubles through my own sorrow."  She begged them
at last to find poor Roger’s grave, so she might go there to pray for
him; ’t was all that she could do.  "Oh no," she would say mournfully to
those who looked for her assent to their own views of the great
situation, "do not expect me to understand you.  I am only a mother, and
all my life is done!"


The Bristol streets were busy as Miss Hamilton came walking through the
town, and the bells were ringing for a holiday.  She was deep in anxious
thought, and kept steadily on her way toward the abbey church, without
even a glance at a tradesman’s window or a look at the people she met.
Life was filled with new anxieties.  Since the day when they had left
Plymouth they could find no trace of Roger Wallingford, beyond the
certainty that he had made his escape with some fellow prisoners through
a tunnel which they had been for many days digging under the prison
wall.  There had been a light near the opening in the field outside, and
a guard set, but six men had gone out of the narrow hole and crawled
away.  It was a windy night, and the lantern light and shadows wavered
on the ground and hid them.  Two were shot and killed, but two were
captured and brought back at once, while another was shot and got away,
stumbling and falling often, and bleeding like a slaughtered creature,
as the watch could see next morning by daylight.  This poor fellow had
escaped to the moors; there was a pool of blood in a place where he must
have hidden for some hours among the furze bushes. There was so large a
bounty paid for any escaped traitors and felons like these, who might be
brought back alive to the Mill Prison, that the poor moorland folk back
of Plymouth were ever on the quest.  Roger Wallingford might have been
that bleeding man. They would not dare to keep together; his companion
might have left him dying or dead somewhere in the lonely waste country
that stretched miles away above the prison.  His fate was sure if he
should be captured; he was not a man to yield his life too easily. There
were some carefully worded notices posted,—broadsides which might easily
reach the eyes of such fugitives if they ventured into any of the Devon
towns near by; but they might well have starved to death by this time in
the deserts of Dartmoor.  One sailor beside the lieutenant had succeeded
in making his escape.


Mary Hamilton had left her lady pale and in tears that morning, and all
her affectionate solicitude had been in vain.

There was some relief in finding herself afoot in the fresh air.  For
the first time she wondered if they must yield all their hopes and think
of going home. It must be so if they should come to know that Roger was
really dead, and her heart stopped as if with a sudden shock.  Alas,
next moment she remembered that for poor Madam Wallingford there was no
safe return; her son was not yet disproven of Tory crimes. If there were
any chance of sailing, the poor lady was far too ill and feeble in these
last days.  The summer, the little that was left of it, looked long and
dreary; the days were already growing short.  There had not come a word
from home since they sailed.

There was no longer much use in riding abroad on futile quests, and in
these last days most persons had ceased to ask if there were any news of
the lieutenant. Week after week had gone by, and his mother’s proud
courage was gone, while her bodily strength was fast failing.  Lord
Newburgh and Mr. Fairfax, even Lord Mount Edgecumbe himself, had shown
very great kindness in so difficult a matter, and Mary never let them go
away unthanked for any favors which it could only be a happiness for any
man to bestow. The gift and spell of beauty were always hers, and a
heart that was always ready to show both gratitude and affection.  She
might not speak these things, but she was instant in giving the sweetest
recognition to the smallest service that she might discover.

The abbey church of St. Augustine was cool and dim as Mary Hamilton went
in, with a drooping head and a heavy heart.  Her courage had never
before seemed so utterly to fail.  She had passed two forlorn Royalists
at the gatehouse who were talking of their pensions, and heard one of
them say, "If I were safe home again I’d never leave it, principles or
no principles!" and the words rang dull and heavy in her ears.  She sat
down on an old stone bench in the side aisle; the light came sifting
down to the worn stone pavement, but she was in shadow, behind a great
pillar that stood like a monstrous tree to hold the lofty roof. There
was no one in sight.  The lonely girl looked up at a familiar old
Jacobean monument on the wall, with the primly ruffed father and mother
kneeling side by side with clasped hands, and their children kneeling in
a row behind them down to the very least, in a pious little succession.
They were all together there in comfortable safety, and many ancient
tablets covered the walls about them with the names and virtues of
soldiers and sailors, priests and noblemen, and gallant gentlemen of Old
England with their children and their good wives.

"They have all won through," whispered Mary to herself.  "They have all
fought the long battle and have carried care like me, and they have all
won through.  I shall not be a coward, either," and her young heart
rose; but still the tears kept coming, and she sat bowed in the shadow
and could not lift her head, which until lately had faced the sun like a
flower.  She sat there, at last, not thinking of her present troubles,
but of home: of old Peggy and the young maids who often sang at their
pleasant work; the great river at full tide, with its wooded shores and
all its points and bays; the fishing weirs in the distance; the slow,
swaying flight of the eagles and the straight course of the herons
overhead.  She thought of the large, quiet house facing southward, and
its rows of elms, and the slender poplars going down the garden
terraces; she even heard the drone of the river falls; she saw the house
standing empty, all the wide doors shut to their old hospitality.  A
sense of awful distance fell upon her heart.  The responsibility and
hopelessness of her errand were too heavy on her young heart.  She
covered her face and bent still lower, but she could not stop her tears.

There came the sound of footsteps up the nave: it might be the old
verger in his rusty gown, or some sightseer stopping here and there to
read an inscription. Poor Mary’s tears would have their way: to one of
her deep nature weeping was sad enough in itself; to cry for sorrow’s
sake was no common sorrow.  She was safe in her dim corner, and thought
little of being seen; she was only a poor girl in sore trouble, with her
head sunk in her hands, who could not in any way concern a stranger.
The wandering footsteps stopped near by, instead of going on and
entering the choir.  She noticed, then, in a dull way, the light echo of
their sound among the arches overhead.

"My God!" said a man’s voice, as if in great dismay.

The speaker stepped quickly to Mary’s side, and laid his hand gently on
her shoulder.  She looked up into the face of Captain Paul Jones of the
Ranger.




                                *XXXIX*

                       *MERCY AND MANLY COURAGE*

                          "Look on his honour!
That bears no stamp of time, no wrinkles on it;
No sad demolishment nor death can reach it."

"O my dear better Angel and my star,
My earthly sight needs yours, your heavenly, mine!"


The captain’s eyes were full of tears; it was no sign that he lacked
manliness.  To find Miss Hamilton in England, to find her alone and in
piteous despair, was the opportunity of his own heart.  He could not but
be startled into wondering silence; the event was too astonishing even
for one so equal to emergencies; but he stood ready, with beating heart
and sure sense of a man’s abundant strength, to shelter her and to fight
against the thing that troubled her, whatever it might be.  Presently he
seated himself by Mary’s side, and took her hand in his and held it
fast, still without speaking.  She was the better for such friendliness,
and yet wept the more for his very sympathy.

The captain waited until her passion of tears had spent itself.  It was
a pity she could not watch his compassionate face; all that was best and
kindest in the man was there to see, with a grave look born of conflict
and many grievous disappointments.  To see Paul Jones now, one could not
but believe him capable of the sternest self-command; he had at least
the unassuming and quiet pride of a man who knows no master save
himself.  His eyes were full of womanly tenderness as he looked down at
the pathetic bowed head beside him.  Next moment they had a keen
brightness as he caught sight of a tablet on the abbey wall to some
Bristol hero long dead,—the gallant servant, through many perils by sea
and land, of Anne his Queen: it was a record that the captain’s heart
could perfectly understand.

"Calm yourself now, my dearest girl," he said at last, with gentle
authority.  "I must not stay long beside you; I am always in danger
here.  I was not unknown in Bristol as a younger man."

Mary lifted her head; for a moment the sight of his face helped to put
her own miseries quite out of mind.  Her ready sympathy was quickly
enough roused when she saw how Paul Jones had changed. He had grown much
older; years might have passed instead of months since that last evening
he had spent in America, when she had seen him go away with his men by
moonlight down the river.  Now more than ever he might easily win the
admiration of a woman’s heart!  She had half forgotten the charm of his
voice, the simple directness of his eyes and their strange light, with
something in his behavior that men called arrogance and willful rivalry,
and women recognized as a natural royalty and irresistible, compelling
power. To men he was too imperious, to women all gentleness and
courtesy.

"You are in disguise!" she exclaimed, amazed at his courage.  "How do
you dare, even you, to be here in Bristol in broad day?" and she found
herself smiling, in spite of her unchecked tears.  The captain held a
rough woolen cap in his hand; he was dressed in that poor garb of the
hungry Spanish sailor of Quiberon, which had so often done him good
service.

"Tell me what has brought you here," he answered. "That is by far the
greatest wonder.  I am no fit figure to sit beside you, but ’t is the
hand of God that has brought us here together.  Heaven forbid that you
should ever shed such bitter tears again!" he said devoutly, and sat
gazing at her like a man in a day dream.

"Sometimes God wills that we shall be sorry-hearted; but when He sends
the comfort of a friend, God himself can do no more," answered the girl,
and there fell a silence between them.  There was a sparrow flying to
and fro among the pillars, and chirping gayly under the high roof,—a
tiny far-fallen note, and full of busy cheer.  The late summer sunshine
lay along the floor of that ancient house of God where Mary and the
captain sat alone together, and there seemed to be no other soul in the
place.

Her face was shining brighter and brighter; at last, at last she could
know the truth, and hear what had happened at Whitehaven, and ask for
help where help could be surely given.

"But why are you here?  You must indeed be bold, my lord captain!" she
ventured again, in something very like the old gay manner that he knew;
yet she still looked very white, except for her tear-stained eyes.
"There were new tales of your seafaring told in the town only yesterday.
I believe they are expecting you in every corner of England at once, and
every flock of their shipping is dreading a sight of the Sea Wolf."

"I do my own errands,—that is all," replied the captain soberly.  "My
poor Ranger is lying now in the port of Brest.  I am much hampered by
enemies, but I shall presently break their nets....  I was for a look at
their shipping here, and how well they can defend it.  There is a
well-manned, able fish-boat out of Roscoff, on the Breton coast, which
serves me well on these expeditions.  I have a plan, later, for doing
great mischief to their Baltic fleet.  I had to bring the worst of my
ship’s company with me; ’t is my only discomfort," said Paul Jones, with
bitterness. "I have suffered far too much," and he sighed heavily and
changed his tone.  "I believe now that God’s providence has brought me
to your side; such happiness as this makes up for everything.  You
remember that I have been a sailor all my life," he continued, as if he
could not trust himself to speak with true feeling.  "I have been
acquainted since childhood with these English ports."

"You did not know that I had come to Bristol?" said Mary.  "Oh yes, we
have been here these many weeks now," and she also sighed.

"How should I know?" asked Paul Jones impatiently. "I am overwhelmed by
such an amazing discovery.  I could burst into tears; I am near to being
unmanned, though you do not suspect it.  Think, dear, think what it is
to me!  I have no discretion, either, when I babble my most secret
affairs aloud, and hardly know what I am saying.  I must leave you in a
few short moments.  What has brought you here?  Tell me the truth, and
how I may safely manage to see you once again.  If you were only in
France, with my dear ladies there, they would love and cherish you with
all their kind hearts!  ’T is the Duchess of Chartres who has been my
good angel since I came to France, and another most exquisite being whom
I first met at her house,—a royal princess, too.  Oh, I have much to
tell you!  Their generous friendship and perfect sympathy alone have
kept me from sinking down.  I have suffered unbelievable torture from
the jealousy and ignorance of men who should have known their business
better, and given me every aid."

"I am thankful you have such friends as these ladies," said Mary, with
great sweetness.  "I am sure that you have been a good friend to them.
Some knowledge of your difficulties had reached us before we left home;
but, as you know, intercourse is now much interrupted, and we were often
uncertain of what had passed at such a distance.  We hear nothing from
home, either," she added mournfully.  "We are in great distress of mind;
you could see that I was not very cheerful....  I fear in my heart that
poor Madam Wallingford will die."

"Madam Wallingford!" repeated the captain. "You cannot mean that she is
here!" he exclaimed, with blank astonishment.  His tone was full of
reproach, and even resentment.  "Poor lady!  I own that I have had her
in my thoughts, and could not but pity her natural distress," he added,
with some restraint, and then burst forth into excited speech: "There is
no need that they should make a tool of you,—you who are a Patriot and
Hamilton’s own sister!  This is arrant foolishness!"

He sprang to his feet, and stood before Miss Hamilton, with his eyes
fixed angrily upon her face.  "If I could tell you everything!  Oh, I am
outdone with this!" he cried, with a gesture of contempt.

"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."

He kissed her hand and let it go; his old hope went with it; there must
be a quick ending now.  A man must always resent pity for himself, but
his heart was full of most tender pity for this overburdened girl.
There had been few moments of any sort of weakness in all the course of
her long bravery,—he was sure enough of that,—and only loved her the
more.  She had been the first to show him some higher things: it was not
alone her charm, but her character, her great power of affection, her
perfect friendship, that would make him a nobler lover to his life’s
end.

She watched him as he went away down the nave toward the open door; the
poverty of such disguise and the poor sailor’s threadbare dress could
not hide a familiar figure, but he was alert no more, and even drooped a
little as he stood for one moment in the doorway.  He did not once look
back; there were people in the church now, and his eyes were bent upon
the ground.  Then he lifted his head with all the spirit that belonged
to him, stepped out boldly from the shadow into the bright daylight
beyond, and was gone.

The old verger crossed over to speak with Mary; he had learned to know
her by sight, for she came often to the abbey church, and guessed that
she might be one of the exiles from America.

"’T was some poor sailor begging, I misdoubt. There ’s a sight o’
beggars stranded in the town.  I hope he would not make bold to vex you,
my lady?" asked the dim-eyed old man, fumbling his snuffbox with
trembling hands.  "I fell asleep in the chapter room.

"’T was some one I had known at home," Miss Hamilton answered.  "He is a
good man."  And she smiled a little as she spoke.  It would be so easy
to cause a consternation in the town.  Her head was steady now, but she
still sat where the captain left her.

"’T is a beautiful monyment,—that one," said the verger, pointing up to
the kneeling figures in their prim ruffs.  "’T is as beautiful a
monyment as any here.  I ’ve made bold to notice how you often sits here
to view it.  Some o’ your Ameriky folks was obsarvin’ as their forbears
was all buried in this abbey in ancient times; ’t would be sure to make
the owd place a bit homely."

The bells were still chiming, and there were worshipers coming in.  Mary
Hamilton slipped away, lest she should meet some acquaintance; she felt
herself shaken as if by a tempest.  Paul Jones had gone into fresh
danger when he left her side; his life was spent among risks and
chances.  She might have been gentler to him, and sent him away better
comforted.

She walked slowly, and stood still once in the street, startled by the
remembrance of her frank confession of love; the warm color rushed to
her pale face.  To have told the captain, when she had never told Roger
himself, or his mother, or any but her own heart! Yet all her sorrows
were lightened by these unconsidered words: the whole world might hear
them now; they were no secret any more.

There were busy groups of people about the taverns and tobacco shops, as
if some new excitement were in the air; it might be that there was news
from America.  As Mary passed, she heard one man shout to another that
John Paul Jones, the pirate, had been seen the day before in Bristol
itself.  An old sailor, just landed from a long voyage at sea, had known
him as he passed.  There was word, too, that the Ranger had lately been
sighted again off Plymouth, and had taken two prizes in the very teeth
of the King’s fleet.




                                  *XL*

                         *THE WATCHER’S LIGHT*

           "There’s no deep valley but near some great hill."


Late that night Mary Hamilton sat by the window in her sleeping closet,
a quaint little room that led from the stately chamber of Madam
Wallingford. Past midnight, it was still warm out of doors, and the air
strangely lifeless.  It had been late before the maid went away and
their dear charge had fallen asleep; so weak and querulous and full of
despair had she been all the long day.

The night taper was flickering in its cup of oil, but the street outside
was brighter than the great room. The waning moon was just rising, and
the watcher leaned back wearily against the shutter, and saw the
opposite roofs slowly growing less dim.  There were tall trees near by
in the garden, and a breeze, that Mary could not feel where she sat, was
rustling among the poplar leaves and mulberries.  She heard footsteps
coming up the street, and the sound startled her as if she had been
sitting at her window at home, where footsteps at that time of night
might mean a messenger to the house.

The great town of Bristol lay fast asleep; it was only the watchman’s
tread that had startled the listener, and for a moment changed her weary
thoughts. The old man went by with his clumsy lantern, but gave no cry
nor told the hour until he was well into the distance.

There was much to think about at the end of this day, which had brought
an unexpected addition to her heart’s regret.  The remembrance of Paul
Jones, his insistence upon Wallingford’s treachery, a sad mystery which
now might never be solved, even the abruptness of the captain’s own
declaration of love, and a sense of unreality that came from her own
miserable weakness,—all these things were new burdens for the mind.  She
could not but recognize the hero in this man of great distinction, as he
had stood before her, and yet his melancholy exit, with the very poverty
of his dress, had somehow added to the misery of the moment.  It seemed
to her now as if they had met each other, that morning, with no thoughts
of victory, but in the very moment of defeat.  Their hopes had been so
high when last they talked together. Again there came to her mind the
anxiety of that bright night when she had stood pleading with Roger
Wallingford on the river shore, and had thrown down her challenge at his
feet.  How easy and even how happy it all seemed beside these dreadful
days!  How little she had known then!  How little she had loved then!
Life had been hardly more than a play beside this; it was more dramatic
than real.  She had felt a remote insincerity, in those old days, in
even the passionate words of the two men, and a strange barrier, like a
thin wall of glass, was always between her heart and theirs.  Now,
indeed, she was face to face with life, she was in the middle of the
great battle; now she loved Roger Wallingford, and her whole heart was
forever his, whether he was somewhere in the world alive, or whether he
lay starved and dead among the furze and heather on the Devon moors.
She saw his white face there, as if she came upon it in the shadows of
her thoughts, and gave a quick cry, such was the intensity of her grief
and passion; and the frail figure stirred under its coverlet in the
great room beyond, with a pitiful low moan like the faint echo of her
own despair.

The sad hour went by, and still this tired girl sat by the window, like
a watcher who did not dare to forget herself in sleep.  Her past life
had never been so clearly spread before her, and all the pleasant old
days were but a background for one straight figure: the manly,
fast-growing boy whom she played with and rebuffed on equal terms; the
eager-faced and boyish man whom she had begun to fear a little, and then
to tease, lest she should admire too much.  She remembered all his
beautiful reticence and growing seriousness, the piety with which he
served his widowed mother; the pleading voice, that last night of all,
when she had been so slow to answer to his love. It was she herself now
who could plead, and who must have patience!  How hard she had been
sometimes, how deaf and blind, how resistant and dull of heart!  ’T was
a girl’s strange instinct to fly, to hide, to so defeat at first the
dear pursuer of her heart’s love!

Again there was a footstep in the street.  It was not the old watchman
coming, for presently she heard a man’s voice singing a country tune
that she had known at home.  He came within sight and crossed the
street, and stood over the way waiting in shadow; now he went on softly
with the song.  It was an old Portsmouth ballad that all the river knew;
the very sound of it was like a message:—

    "The mermaids they beneath the wave,
    The mermaids they o’er my sailor’s grave,
    The mermaids they at the bottom of the sea,
    Are weeping their salt tears for me.

    "The morning star was shining still,
    ’T was daybreak over the eastern hill"—

He began the song again, but still more softly, and then stopped.

Mary kept silence; her heart began to beat very fast.  She put her hand
on the broad window-sill where the moonlight lay, and the singer saw it
and came out into the street.  She saw the Spanish sailor again. What
had brought the captain to find her at this time of night?

She leaned out quickly.  "I am here.  Can I help you?  Is there any
news?" she whispered, as he stood close under the window, looking up.
"You are putting yourself in danger," she warned him anxiously. "I heard
the people saying that you have been seen in Bristol, this morning as I
came home!"

"God be thanked that I have found you awake!" he answered eagerly, and
the moon shone full upon his face, so that she could see it plain.  "I
feared that I should have to wait till daylight to see you.  I knew no
one to trust with my message, and I must run for open sea.  I have
learned something of our mystery at last.  Go you to the inn at Old
Passage to-morrow night,—do you hear me?—to the inn at Old Passage, and
wait there till I come.  Go at nightfall, and let yourself be unknown in
the house, if you can.  I think—I think we may have news from
Wallingford."

She gave a little cry, and leaned far out of the window, speaking
quickly in her excitement, and begging to hear more; but the captain had
vanished to the shadows whence he came.  Her heart was beating so fast
and hard now that she could not hear his light footsteps as he hurried
away, running back to the water-side down the echoing, paved street.




                                 *XLI*

                        *AN OFFERED OPPORTUNITY*

            "Neither man nor soldier.
What ignorant and mad malicious traitors!"

"License, they mean, when they cry Liberty."


The Roscoff fishing smack lay in the Severn, above Avon mouth, and it
was broad day when Captain Paul Jones came aboard again, having been
rowed down the river by some young Breton sailors whom he had found
asleep in the bottom of their boat.  There would be natural suspicion of
a humble French craft like theirs; but when they had been overhauled in
those waters, a day or two before, the owner of the little vessel, a
sedate person by the name of Dickson, professed himself to be an
Englishman from the Island of Guernsey, with proper sailing papers and
due reverence for King George the Third.  His crew, being foreigners,
could answer no decent Bristol questions, and they were allowed to top
their boom for the fishing grounds unmolested, having only put into
harbor for supplies.

The Roscoff lads looked at their true captain with mingled sleepiness
and admiration as he took the steersman’s place.  He presently opened a
large knotted bundle handkerchief, and gave them a share of the rich
treat of tobacco and early apples within; then, seeing that they kept
their right course, he made a pillow of his arm and fell sound asleep.

As they came under the vessel’s side the barking of a little dog on
board waked him again with a start. He looked weary enough as he stood
to give his orders and watch his opportunity to leap from the boat, as
they bobbed about in the choppy sea.  All was quiet on deck in the
bright sunlight; only the little French dog kept an anxious lookout.
The captain gave orders to break out their anchor and be off down
channel, and then turned toward the cabin, just as Dickson made his
appearance, yawning, in the low companion way.


Dickson had found such life as this on the fisherman very dull, besides
having a solid resentment of its enforced privations.  None of the crew
could speak English save Cooper and Hanscom, who had come to hate him,
and would not speak to him at all except in the exercise of duty.  He
knew nothing of the Breton talk, and was a man very fond of idle and
argumentative conversation.  The captain had been ashore now for
thirty-six long hours, and his offended colleague stood back, with a
look of surly discontent and no words of welcome, to let the tyrant
pass.  The captain took a letter out of his pocket and gave it to him,
with a quick but not unfriendly glance, as if half amused by Dickson’s
own expression of alarm as he turned the folded paper and looked at its
unbroken seal.  He mumbled something about a tailor’s bill, and then
insisted that the letter could not be meant for him.  He did not seem to
know what it would be safe to say.

"Come below; I wish to speak with you."  The captain spoke impatiently,
as usual, and had the air of a kingbird which dealt with a helpless
crow.  "We are in no danger of being overheard.  I must speak with you
before you read your letter.  I have chanced upon some important
information; I have a new plan on foot."

"Certainly, sir," replied Dickson, looking very sour-tempered, but
putting a most complaisant alacrity into his voice.

"The news was given me by a man who succeeded in making his escape from
the Mill Prison some months since, and who came to Bristol, where he had
old acquaintances; he is now at work in a coppersmith’s shop," explained
the captain.  "He has been able to help some of his shipmates since
then, and, under the assumed character of an American Loyalist, has
enjoyed the confidence of both parties.  ’T will be a dangerous fellow
to tamper with; I have heard something of him before.  I doubt if he is
very honest, but he turns many a good sound penny for himself.  Lee
believes that all his spies are as trusty as Ford and Thornton, but I
can tell you that they are not."  The captain’s temper appeared to be
rising, and Dickson winced a little.  "I know of some things that go on
unbeknownst to him, and so perhaps do you, Mr. Dickson; this man has
advised me of some matters in Bristol this very night, about which I own
myself to be curious.  He says that there are two men out of the Mill
Prison who may be expected in, and are hoping to get safe away to sea.
It would be a pretty thing to add a pair of good American sailors to our
number without the trouble of formal exchange.  So I must again delay
our sailing for France, and I shall leave you here to-night, while I go
to inspect the fugitives. There are special reasons, too, why I wish to
get news from the prison."

The captain seemed excited, and spoke with unusual frankness and
civility.  Though Dickson had begun to listen with uneasiness, he now
expressed approval of such a plan, but ventured at the same time to give
an officious warning that there might be danger of a plot among the
Bristol Loyalists.  They would make themselves very happy by securing
such an enemy as John Paul Jones.  But this proof of sagacity and
unselfishness on Dickson’s part the captain did not deign to notice.

"I shall pass the day in fishing, and toward night take another
anchorage farther up the channel," he continued.  "There are reasons why
prudence forbids my going into the Avon again by boat, or being seen by
day about the Bristol quays.  I shall run farther up the Severn and land
there, and ride across by Westbury, and over the downs into Bristol, and
so return by daybreak.  I have bespoken a horse to wait for me, and you
will see that a boat is ready to take me off in the morning."

Dickson received these instructions with apparent interest and an
unconscious sigh of relief.  He understood that the captain’s mind was
deeply concerned in so innocent a matter; there was probably no reason
for apprehension on his own part.  The next moment his spirits fell, and
his face took on that evil color which was the one sign of emotion and
animosity that he was unable to conceal.  There was likely to be direct
news now from the Mill Prison; and the grievous nightmare that haunted
Dickson’s thoughts was the possible reappearance of Roger Wallingford.

Once or twice he swallowed hard, and tried to gather courage to speak,
but the words would not come. The captain passed him with a scowl, and
threw himself into the wretched bunk of the cabin to get some sleep.

"Captain Jones," and Dickson boldly followed him, "I have something
important which I must say"—

"Will not you read your letter first?" inquired the captain, with
unaccustomed politeness.  "I am very much fatigued, as you might see.  I
want a little sleep, after these two nights."

"We are alone now, sir, and there is something that has lain very heavy
on my mind."  The man was fluent enough, once his voice had found
utterance.

The captain, with neither an oath nor a growl, sat up in his berth, and
listened with some successful mockery of respect, looking him straight
in the face.

"That night,—you remember, sir, at Whitehaven? I have come to be
troubled about that night.  You may not recall the fact that so
unimportant a person as I stood in any real danger on such an occasion
of glory to you, but I was set upon by the town guard, and only escaped
with my life.  I returned to the Ranger in a suffering condition.  You
were a little overset by your disappointment, and by Mr. Wallingford’s
disappearance and your suspicions of his course. But in my
encounter,—you know that it was not yet day,—and in the excitement of
escaping from an armed guard, I fear that I fought hand to hand with
Wallingford himself, taking him for a constable.  He was the last of
them to attack me, when I was unable to discriminate,—or he, either,"
added Dickson slyly, but with a look of great concern.  "The thought has
struck me that he might not have been disloyal to our cause, and was
perhaps escaping to the boat, as I was, when we fell into such desperate
combat in that dark lane.  It would put me into an awful position, you
can see, sir....  I may be possessed of too great a share of human
frailty, but I have had more than my share of ill fortune.  I have
suffered from unjust suspicions, too, but this dreadful accident would
place me"—

"You thought to save your life from an unknown enemy?" the captain
interrupted him.  "You struck one of your own party, by mischance, in
the dark?" he suggested, without any apparent reproach in his voice.

"Exactly so, sir," said Dickson, taking heart, but looking very
mournful.

"Yet you told us that Mr. Wallingford alarmed the guard?"

"I could suspect nothing else, sir, at the time; you heard my reasons
when I returned."

"Never mind your return," urged Paul Jones, still without any tone of
accusation.  "’T was long after the gray of the morning, it was almost
broad day, when I left the shore myself at Whitehaven, and a man might
easily know one of his shipmates.  ’T was a dark lane, you told me,
however," and his eyes twinkled with the very least new brightness.  "If
we should ever see poor Wallingford again, you could settle all that
between you.  I can well understand your present concern.  Do you think
that you did the lieutenant any serious damage before you escaped?  I
recall the fact that you were badly mauled about the countenance."

"I fear that I struck him worst in the shoulder, sir," and Dickson
shifted his position uneasily, and put one hand to the deck timber above
to hold himself steady, now that they were rolling badly with the anchor
off ground.  "I know that I had my knife in my hand.  He is a very
strong fellow, and a terrible man to wrestle with,—I mean the man whom I
struck, who may have been Wallingford.  I thought he would kill me
first."

"I wish you had bethought yourself to speak sooner," said the captain
patiently.  "’T is a thing for us to reflect upon deeply, but I can hear
no more now. I must sleep, as you see, before I am fit for anything. Do
not let the men disturb me; they may get down channel to their fishing.
If they succeed as well as yesterday, we shall soon make the cost of
this little adventure."

He spoke drowsily, and drew the rough blanket over his head to keep the
light away.

Dickson mounted to the deck.  If he had known how easy it would be to
make things straight with the captain, how much suffering he might have
spared himself!  You must take him in the right mood, too. But the
captain had an eye like a gimlet, that twisted into a man’s head.

"Wallingford may never turn up, after all.  I wish I had killed him
while I was about it," said Dickson to himself uneasily.  "It may be all
a lie that he was sent to Plymouth; it would be such a distance!"  There
was something the matter with this world.  To have an eye like Paul
Jones’s fixed upon you while you were trying to make a straight story
was anything but an assistance or a pleasure.

The captain was shaking with laughter in the cabin as Dickson
disappeared.  "What a face he put on the smooth-spoken hypocrite!  His
race is run; he told me more than he needed," and Paul Jones’s face grew
stern, as he lay there looking at the planks above his head.  "He ’s at
the bottom of the hill now, if he only knew it.  When a man ’s character
is gone, his reputation is sure enough to follow;" and with this sage
reflection the captain covered his head again carefully, and went to
sleep.

Unaware of this final verdict, Dickson was comfortably reading his
letter on the deck, and feeling certain that fortune had turned his way.
His mind had been made up some days before to leave the Ranger as soon
as he got back to France, even if he must feign illness to gain his
discharge, or desert the ship, as others had done.  He had already a
good sum of money that had been paid him for information useful to the
British government, and, to avoid future trouble, proposed to hide
himself in the far South or in one of the West Indian Islands.  "My poor
wife would gain by the change of climate," said the scoundrel, pitying
himself now for the loss of friendship and respect from which he felt
himself begin to suffer, and for those very conditions which he had so
carefully evolved.

He started as he read the brief page before him; the news of the letter
was amazingly welcome.  It was written by some one who knew his most
intimate affairs.  The chance had come to give up the last and best of
those papers which he had stolen from the captain’s desk.  For this
treasure he had asked a great price,—so great that Thornton would not
pay it at Brest, and Ford’s messenger had laughed him in the face.  Now
there was the promise of the money, the whole noble sum.  Word of his
being with Paul Jones had somehow reached Bristol.  The crafty captain
had been unwise, for once, in speaking with this make-believe
coppersmith, and the play was up!  The writer of the letter said that a
safe agent would meet Mr. Dickson any night that week at seven o’clock,
at the inn by Old Passage, to pay him his own price for certain papers
or information.  There was added a handsome offer for the body of Paul
Jones, alive or dead, in case he should not be in custody before that
time.  The letter was sealed as other letters had been, with a device
known among Thornton’s errand runners.

"Old Passage!" repeated the happy Dickson.  "I must now find where that
place is; but they evidently know my present situation, and the inn is
no doubt near!"

He stepped softly to the cabin hatchway, and looked down.  The captain’s
face was turned aside, and he breathed heavily.  The chart of that coast
was within easy reach; Dickson took it from the chest where it lay,
since it was an innocent thing to have in hand. There was all the shore
of the Severn and the Bristol Channel, with the spot already marked
nearest Westbury church where the captain was likely to land; and here
beyond, at no great distance, was Old Passage, where a ferry crossed the
Severn.  He should have more than time enough for his own errand and a
good evening ashore, while Paul Jones was riding into Bristol, perhaps
to stay there against his will.  For the slight trouble of ripping a few
stitches in his waistcoat seams and taking out a slip of paper, Dickson
would be rich enough at that day’s end.

"Yes, I ’ll go to the southward when I reach America, and start anew,"
he reflected.  "I ’ve had it very hard, but now I can take my ease.
This, with the rest of my savings, will make me snug."

He heard the captain move, and the planks of the berth creak in the
stuffy cabin.  They were running free before the east wind, and were
almost at the fishing grounds.




                                 *XLII*

                           *THE PASSAGE INN*

"The Runlet of Brandy was a loving Runlet and floated after us out of
pure pity."


Just before nightfall, that same day, two travel-worn men came riding
along a country road toward Old Passage, the ancient ferrying-place
where travelers from the south and west of England might cross over into
Wales.  From an immemorial stream of travel and the wear of weather, the
road-bed was worn, like a swift stream’s channel, deep below the level
of the country.  One of the riders kept glancing timidly at the bushy
banks above his head, as if he feared to see a soldier in the thicket
peering down; his companion sat straight in his saddle, and took no
notice of anything but his horse and the slippery road.  It had been
showery all the afternoon, and they were both spattered with mud from
cap to stirrup.

As they came northward, side by side, to the top of a little hill, the
anxious rider gave a sigh of relief, and his horse, which limped badly
and bore the marks of having been on his knees, whinnied as if in
sympathy.  The wide gray waters of the Severn were spread to east and
west; the headland before them fell off like a cliff.  Below, to the
westward, the land was edged by a long line of dike which walled the sea
floods away from some low meadows that stretched far along the coast.
Over the water were drifting low clouds of fog and rain, but there was a
dull gleam of red on the western sky like a winter sunset, and the wind
was blowing.  At the road’s end, just before them, was a group of gray
stone buildings perched on the high headland above the Severn, like a
monastery or place of military defense.

As the travelers rode up to the Passage Inn, the inn yard, with all its
stables and outhouses, looked deserted; the sunset gust struck a last
whip of rain at the tired men.  The taller of the two called impatiently
for a hostler before he got stiffly to the ground, and stamped his feet
as he stood by his horse. It was a poor tired country nag, with a kind
eye, that began to seek some fondling from her rider, as if she harbored
no ill will in spite of hardships.  The young man patted and stroked the
poor creature, which presently dropped her head low, and steamed, as if
it were winter weather, high into the cool air.

The small kitchen windows were dimly lighted; there was a fire burning
within, but the whole place looked unfriendly, with its dark stone walls
and heavily slated roof.  The waters below were almost empty of
shipping, as if there were a storm coming, but as the rider looked he
saw a small craft creeping up close by the shore; she was like a French
fishing boat, and had her sweeps out.  The wind was dead against her out
of the east, and her evident effort added to the desolateness of the
whole scene.  The impatient traveler shouted again, with a strong,
honest voice that prevailed against both wind and weather, so that one
of the stable doors was flung open and a man came out; far inside the
dark place glowed an early lantern, and the horses turned their heads
that way, eager for supper and warm bedding.  There seemed to be plenty
of room within; there was no sound of stamping hoofs, or a squeal from
crowded horses that nipped their fellows to get more comfort for
themselves.  Business was evidently at a low ebb.

"Rub them down as if they were the best racers in England; give them the
best feed you dare as soon as they cool,—full oats and scant hay and a
handful of corn: they have served us well," said Wallingford, with great
earnestness.  "I shall look to them myself in an hour or two, and you
shall have your own pay. The roan’s knees need to be tight-bandaged.
Come, Hammet, will you not alight?" he urged his comrade, who, through
weariness or uncertainty, still sat, with drooping head and shoulders,
on his poor horse. "Shake the mud off you.  Here, I ’ll help you, then,
if your wound hurts again," as the man gave a groan in trying to
dismount.  "After the first wrench ’t is easy enough.  Come, you ’ll be
none the worse for your cropper into soft clay!"  He laughed cheerfully
as they crossed the yard toward a door to which the hostler pointed
them.

The mistress of the inn, a sharp-looking, almost pretty woman, suddenly
flung her door open, and came out on the step to bid them good-evening
in a civil tone, and in the same breath, as she recognized their forlorn
appearance, to bid them begone.  Her house was like to be full, that
night, of gentlefolk and others who had already bespoken lodging, and
she had ceased to take in common wayfarers since trade was so meagre in
these hard times, and she had been set upon by soldiers and fined for
harboring a pack of rascals who had landed their run goods from France
and housed them unbeknownst in her hay barn.  They could see for
themselves that she had taken down the tavern sign, and was no more
bound to entertain them than any other decent widow woman would be along
the road.

She railed away, uncontradicted; but there was a pleasant smile on
Wallingford’s handsome face that seemed to increase rather than diminish
at her flow of words, until at last she smiled in return, though half
against her will.  The poor fellow looked pale and tired: he was some
gentleman in distress; she had seen his like before.

"We must trouble you for supper and a fire," he said to the landlady.
"I want some brandy at once for my comrade, and while you get supper we
can take some sleep.  We have been riding all day.  There will be a
gentleman to meet me here by and by out of Bristol," and he took
advantage of her stepping aside a little to bow politely to her and make
her precede him into the kitchen.  There was a quiet authority in his
behavior which could not but be admired; the good woman took notice that
the face of her guest was white with fatigue, and even a little
tremulous in spite of his calmness.

"If he ’s a hunted man, I ’ll hide him safe," she now said to herself.
It was not the habit of Old Passage Inn to ask curious questions of its
guests, or why they sometimes came at evening, and kept watch for boats
that ran in from mid-channel and took them off by night.  This looked
like a gentleman, indeed, who would be as likely to leave two gold
pieces on the table as one.

"I have supper to get for a couple o’ thieves (by t’ looks of ’em) that
was here last night waiting for some one who did n’t come,—a noisy lot,
too; to-night they ’ll get warning to go elsewhere," she said, in a loud
tone.  "I shall serve them first, and bid them begone.  And I expect
some gentlefolk, too. There ’s a fire lit for ’em now in my best room;
it was damp there, and they’d ill mix with t’ rest.  ’T is old Mr.
Alderman Davis a-comin’ out o’ Bristol, one o’ their great merchants,
and like to be their next lord mayor, so folks says.  He ’s not been
this way before these three years," she said, with importance.

"Let me know when he comes!" cried Wallingford eagerly, as he stood by
the fireplace.  There was a flush of color in his cheeks now, and he
turned to his companion, who had sunk into a corner of the settle.
"Thank God, Hammet," he exclaimed, "we ’re safe! The end of all our
troubles has come at last!"

The innkeeper saw that he was much moved; something about him had
quickly touched her sympathy. She could not have told why she shared his
evident gratitude, or why the inn should be his place of refuge, but if
he were waiting for Mr. Davis, there was no fault to find.

"You ’ll sleep a good pair of hours without knowing it, the two of you,"
she grumbled good-naturedly. "Throw off your muddy gear there, and be
off out o’ my way, now, an’ I ’ll do the best I can.  Take the left-hand
chamber at the stairhead; there’s a couple o’ beds.  I ’ve two suppers
to get before the tide turns to the ebb.  The packet folks ’ll soon be
coming; an’ those fellows that wait for their mate that’s on a fishing
smack,—I may want help with ’em, if they ’re ’s bad ’s they look.  Yes,
I ’ll call ye, sir, if Mr. Davis comes; but he may be kept, the weather
is so bad."

Hammet had drunk the brandy thirstily, and was already cowering as if
with an ague over the fire. Wallingford spoke to him twice before he
moved. The landlady watched them curiously from the stair-foot, as they
went up, to see that they found the right room.

"’T is one o’ the nights when every strayaway in England is like to come
clacking at my door," she said, not without satisfaction, as she made a
desperate onset at her long evening’s work.

"A pair o’ runaways!" she muttered again; "but the tall lad can’t help
princeing it in his drover’s clothes.  I ’ll tell the stable to deny
they ’re here, if any troopers come.  I ’ll help ’em safe off the land
or into Bristol, whether Mr. Alderman Davis risks his old bones by night
or not.  A little more mercy in this world ain’t goin’ to hurt it!"




                                *XLIII*

                         *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.

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."


No modern inventions of signals of any kind, or fleet couriers, could
rival in swiftness the old natural methods of spreading a piece of
welcome news through a New England countryside.  Men called to each
other from field to field, and shouted to strangers outward bound on the
road; women ran smiling from house to house among the Berwick farms.  It
was known by mid-morning of a day late in October that Madam
Wallingford’s brig, the Golden Dolphin, had got into Portsmouth lower
harbor the night before. Madam Wallingford herself was on board and
well, with her son and Miss Mary Hamilton.  They were all coming up the
river early that very evening, with the flood tide.

The story flew through the old Piscataqua plantations, on both sides of
the river, that Major Langdon himself had taken boat at once and gone
down to Newcastle to meet the brig, accompanied by many friends who were
eager to welcome the home-comers. There were tales told of a great
wedding at Hamilton’s within a month’s time, though word went with these
tales, of the lieutenant’s forced leave of absence, some said his
discharge, by reason of his wounds and broken health.

Roger Wallingford was bringing dispatches to Congress from the
Commissioners in France.  It was all a mistake that he had tried to
betray his ship, and now there could be no one found who had ever really
believed such a story, or even thought well of others who were so
foolish as to repeat it.  They all knew that it was Dickson who was
openly disgraced, instead, and had now escaped from justice, and those
who had once inclined to excuse him and to admire his shrewdness
willingly consented to applaud such a long-expected downfall.

The evening shadows had begun to gather at the day’s end, when they saw
the boat come past the high pines into the river bay below Hamilton’s.
The great house was ready and waiting; the light of the western sky
shone upon its walls, and a cheerful warmth and brightness shone
everywhere within.  There was a feast made ready that might befit the
wedding itself, and eager hands were waiting to serve it.  On the
terrace by the southern door stood Colonel Hamilton, who was now at home
from the army, and had ridden in haste from Portsmouth that day, at
noon, to see that everything was ready for his sister’s coming. There
were others with him, watching for the boat: the minister all in silver
and black, Major Haggens, with his red cloak and joyful countenance, the
good old judge, and Master Sullivan, with his stately white head.

Within the house were many ladies, old and young. Miss Nancy Haggens had
braved the evening air for friendship’s sake, and sat at a riverward
window with other turbaned heads of the Berwick houses, to wait for
Madam Wallingford.  There was a pretty flock of Mary Hamilton’s friends:
Miss Betsey Wyat and the Lords of the Upper Landing, Lymans and Saywards
of old York, and even the pretty Blunts from Newcastle, who were guests
at the parsonage near by. It was many a month since there had been
anything so gay and happy as this night of Mary’s coming home.

Major Langdon’s great pleasure boat, with its six oarsmen, was moving
steadily on the flood, and yet both current and tide seemed hindering to
such impatient hearts.  All the way from Portsmouth there had been
people standing on the shores to wave at them and welcome them as they
passed; the light was fast fading in the sky; the evening chill and thin
autumn fog began to fall on the river.  At last Roger and Mary could see
the great house standing high and safe in its place, and point it out to
Madam Wallingford, whose face wore a touching look of gratitude and
peace; at last they could see a crowd of people on the lower shore.

The rowers did their best; the boat sped through the water.  It was only
half dark, but some impatient hand had lit the bonfires; the company of
gentlemen were coming down already through the terraced garden to the
water-side.

"Oh, Mary, Mary," Roger Wallingford was whispering, "I have done nothing
that I hoped to do!"  But she hushed him, and her hand stole into his.
"We did not think, that night when we parted, we should be coming home
together; we did not know what lay before us," he said with sorrow.
"No, dear, I have done nothing; but, thank God, I am alive to love you,
and to serve my country to my life’s end."

Mary could not speak; she was too happy and too thankful.  All her own
great love and perfect happiness were shining in her face.

"I am thinking of the captain," she said gently, after a little silence.
"You know how he left us when we were so happy, and slipped away alone
into the dark without a word....

"Oh, look, Madam!" she cried then.  "Our friends are all there; they are
all waiting for us!  I can see dear Peggy with her white apron, and your
good Rodney!  Oh, Roger, the dear old master is there, God bless him!
They are all well and alive. Thank God, we are at home!"

They rose and stood together in the boat, hand in hand.  In another
moment the boat was at the landing place, and they had stepped ashore.



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