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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 51537
   :PG.Title: The Tory Lover
   :PG.Released: 2016-03-23
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Sarah Orne Jewett
   :DC.Title: The Tory Lover
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1901
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE TORY LOVER
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   .. _`Mary Hamilton`:

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      :alt: Mary Hamilton

      Mary Hamilton

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      THE TORY LOVER

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      BY

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      SARAH ORNE JEWETT

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

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

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      TO
      T. J. E.

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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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`_

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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                              ARTIST                  PAGE

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`Mary Hamilton`_ . . . *Marcia O. Woodbury*  . . . *Frontispiece*

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`The Ranger`_ . . . *Charles H. Woodbury*

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`Hamilton House`_ . . . *Charles H. Woodbury*

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`Along the Dike`_ . . . *Charles H. Woodbury*

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.. _`THE SEA-WOLF`:

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   THE TORY LOVER


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   \I

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   THE SEA WOLF

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

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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.





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.. _`THE PARTING FEAST`:

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   \II

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   THE PARTING FEAST

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

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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.

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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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A CHARACTER OF HONOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \III

.. class:: center medium bold

   A CHARACTER OF HONOR

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

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

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FLOWERING OF WHOSE FACE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \IV

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FLOWERING OF WHOSE FACE

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CHALLENGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CHALLENGE

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THE CAPTAIN SPEAKS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CAPTAIN SPEAKS

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SAILING OF THE RANGER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \VII

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   THE SAILING OF THE RANGER

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

"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!"

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MAJOR'S HOSPITALITIES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MAJOR'S HOSPITALITIES

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`BROTHER AND SISTER`:

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   \IX

.. class:: center medium bold

   BROTHER AND SISTER

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

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

.. vspace:: 2

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!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AGAINST WIND AND TIDE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \X


.. class:: center medium bold

   AGAINST WIND AND TIDE

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THAT TIME OF YEAR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XI

.. class:: center medium bold

   THAT TIME OF YEAR

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BETWEEN DECKS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XII

.. class:: center medium bold

   BETWEEN DECKS

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

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

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

"'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?'"

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. _`THE RANGER`:

.. figure:: images/img-098.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: THE RANGER

   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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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!"

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MIND OF THE DOCTOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MIND OF THE DOCTOR

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TO ADD MORE GRIEF`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XIV

.. class:: center medium bold

   TO ADD MORE GRIEF

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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!)"

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THE COAST OF FRANCE`:

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   \XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE COAST OF FRANCE

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   "They goe very neer to ungratefulnesse."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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.. _`IT IS THE SOUL THAT SEES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XVI

.. class:: center medium bold

   IT IS THE SOUL THAT SEES

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   "When good and faire in one person meet—"

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE REMNANT OF ANOTHER TIME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XVII

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE REMNANT OF ANOTHER TIME

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

"'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."

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





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.. _`OH HAD I WIST!`:

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   \XVIII

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   OH HAD I WIST!——

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BEST LAID PLANS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XIX

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BEST-LAID PLANS

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NOW ARE WE FRIENDS AGAIN?`:

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   \XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   NOW ARE WE FRIENDS AGAIN?

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   "My altar holds a constant flame."

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CAPTAIN GIVES AN ORDER`:

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   \XXI


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   THE CAPTAIN GIVES AN ORDER

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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.. _`THE GREAT COMMISSIONER`:

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   \XXII

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   THE GREAT COMMISSIONER

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   "The Philosopher showeth you the way."

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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."

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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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SALUTE TO THE FLAG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XXIII

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SALUTE TO THE FLAG

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHITEHAVEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XXIV

.. class:: center medium bold

   WHITEHAVEN

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A MAN'S CHARACTER`:

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   \XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A MAN'S CHARACTER

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THEY HAVE MADE PREY OF HIM`:

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   \XXVI

.. class:: center medium bold

   THEY HAVE MADE PREY OF HIM

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

"Implacable hate, patient cunning, and a sleepless refinement of
device to inflict the extremest anguish on an enemy, these things are
evil."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PRISONER AND CAPTIVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XXVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A PRISONER AND CAPTIVE

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NEWS AT THE LANDING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XXVIII

.. class:: center medium bold

   NEWS AT THE LANDING

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PEGGY TAKES THE AIR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XXIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   PEGGY TAKES THE AIR

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "And now that an over-faint quietnes
   Should seem to strew the house,—"

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. _`HAMILTON HOUSE`:

.. figure:: images/img-248.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: HAMILTON HOUSE

   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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

"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!"

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MADAM GOES TO SEA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XXX

.. class:: center medium bold

   MADAM GOES TO SEA

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

"The paths to a true friend lie direct, though he be far away."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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.. _`THE MILL PRISON`:

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   \XXXI

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MILL PRISON

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   "Lackyng my love, I goe from place to place."

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   "'Twixt every prayer he says, he names you once
   As others drop a bead."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THE GOLDEN DRAGON`:

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   \XXXII

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   THE GOLDEN DRAGON

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"Give where want is silently clamorous, and men's necessities, not
their tongues, do loudly call for thy mercies."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





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.. _`THEY COME TO BRISTOL`:

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   \XXXIII

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   THEY COME TO BRISTOL

.. vspace:: 1

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"The wise will remember through sevenfold births the love of those
who wiped away their falling tears."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

"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?"





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.. _`GOOD ENGLISH HEARTS`:

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   \XXXIV

.. class:: center medium bold

   GOOD ENGLISH HEARTS

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

"'T is all an old man can do, to say his prayers for his country."

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

"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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A STRANGER AT HOME`:

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   \XXXV


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   A STRANGER AT HOME

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"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!"

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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?"





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.. _`MY LORD NEWBURGH's KINDNESS`:

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   \XXXVI


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   MY LORD NEWBURGH's KINDNESS

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"Thus says my King: Say thou to Harry of England, though we
seemed dead, we did but sleep."

.. vspace:: 2

"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!"

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





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.. _`THE BOTTOM OF THESE MISERIES`:

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   \XXXVII


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   THE BOTTOM OF THESE MISERIES

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"Let us pray that our unconscious benefactions outweigh our
unconscious cruelties!"

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`FULL OF STRAYING STREETS`:

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   \XXXVIII


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   FULL OF STRAYING STREETS

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"Nona ne souffrons quo dans la mesure où nous co-opérons à nos
souffrances."

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"His age saw visions, though his youth dream'd dreams."

.. vspace:: 2

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!"

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`MERCY AND MANLY COURAGE`:

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   \XXXIX

.. class:: center medium bold

   MERCY AND MANLY COURAGE

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   \                          "Look on his honour!
   That bears no stamp of time, no wrinkles on it;
   No sad demolishment nor death can reach it."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "O my dear better Angel and my star,
   My earthly sight needs yours, your heavenly, mine!"

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THE WATCHER'S LIGHT`:

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   \XL

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   THE WATCHER'S LIGHT

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"There's no deep valley but near some great hill."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`AN OFFERED OPPORTUNITY`:

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   \XLI


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   AN OFFERED OPPORTUNITY

.. vspace:: 1

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   \            "Neither man nor soldier.
   What ignorant and mad malicious traitors!"

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "License, they mean, when they cry Liberty."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THE PASSAGE INN`:

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   \XLII


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   THE PASSAGE INN

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

"The Runlet of Brandy was a loving Runlet and floated after us
out of pure pity."

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





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.. _`THEY FOLLOW THE DIKE`:

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   \XLIII

.. class:: center medium bold

   THEY FOLLOW THE DIKE

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "There's not a fibre in my trembling frame
   That does not vibrate when thy step draws near."

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. _`ALONG THE DIKE`:

.. figure:: images/img-388.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: ALONG THE DIKE

   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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ROAD'S END`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XLIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ROAD'S END

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

"In sum, such a man as any enemy could not wish him worse than
to be himself."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "I found him in a lonely place:
   Long nights he ruled my soul in sleep:
   Long days I thought upon his face."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WITH THE FLOOD TIDE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XLV

.. class:: center medium bold

   WITH THE FLOOD TIDE

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   "Swift are the currents setting all one way."

.. vspace:: 2

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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   The Riverside Press
   Electrotyped and printed by \H. \O. Houghton & Co,
   Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   Books by Sarah Orne Jewett

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THE TORY LOVER. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $1.50.

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THE QUEEN'S TWIN AND OTHER STORIES. 16mo, $1.25.

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THE COUNTRY OF THE POINTED FIRS. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.

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DEEPHAVEN. 18mo, gilt top, $1.25.
*Holiday Edition*. With 52 Illustrations. Attractively bound.
Crown 8vo, $2.50.

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OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 18mo, $1.25.

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COUNTRY BY-WAYS. 18mo, $1.25.

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THE MATE OF THE DAYLIGHT, AND FRIENDS ASHORE. 16mo, $1.25.

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A COUNTRY DOCTOR. A Novel. 16mo, $1.25.

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A MARSH ISLAND. A Novel. l6mo, $1.25.

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A WHITE HERON AND OTHER STORIES. 18mo, $1.25.

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THE KING OF FOLLY ISLAND, AND OTHER PEOPLE. 16mo, $1.25.

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STRANGERS AND WAYFARERS. 16mo, $1.25.

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A NATIVE OF WINBY, AND OTHER TALES. 16mo, $1.25.

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THE LIFE OF NANCY. 16mo, $1.25.

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TALES OF NEW ENGLAND. In Riverside Aldine Series.
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PLAY-DAYS. Stories for Girls. Square 16mo, $1.50.

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BETTY LEICESTER. A Story for Girls. 18mo, $1.25.

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BETTY LEICESTER'S CHRISTMAS. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00.

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   HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
   BOSTON AND NEW YORK

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