CHAPTER L. FAREWELL TO GORDON'S
I cannot bear to recall my misery of mind after Mr. Swain's death. Onehope had lightened all the years of my servitude. For, when I examinedmy soul, I knew that it was for Dorothy I had laboured. And every letterthat came from Comyn telling me she was still free gave me new heartfor my work. By some mystic communion--I know not what--I felt that sheloved me yet, and despite distance and degree. I would wake of a morningwith the knowledge of it, and be silent for half the day with someparticle of a dream in my head, lingering like the burden of a song withits train of memories.
So, in the days that followed, I scarce knew myself. For a while (Ishame to write it) I avoided that sweet woman who had made my comforther care, whose father had taken me when I was homeless. The good in mecried out, but the flesh rebelled.
Poor Patty! Her grief for her father was pathetic to see. Weeks passedin which she scarcely spoke a word. And I remember her as she sat inchurch Sundays, the whiteness of her face enhanced by the crape shewore, and a piteous appeal in her gray eyes. My own agony was nighbeyond endurance, my will swinging like a pendulum from right to wrong,and back again. Argue as I might that I had made the barrister nopromise, conscience allowed no difference. I was in despair at the trickfate had played me; at the decree that of all women I must love herwhose sphere was now so far removed from mine. For Patty had characterand beauty, and every gift which goes to make man's happiness and tokindle his affections.
Her sorrow left her more womanly than ever. And after the first sharpsting of it was deadened, I noticed a marked reserve in her intercoursewith me. I knew then that she must have strong suspicions of herfather's request. Speak I could not soon after the sad event, but Istrove hard that she should see no change in my conduct.
Before Christmas we went to the Eastern Shore. In Annapolis fife anddrum had taken the place of fiddle and clarion; militia companies weredrilling in the empty streets; despatches were arriving daily from theNorth; and grave gentlemen were hurrying to meetings. But if the war wasto come, I must settle what was to be done at Gordon's Pride with allpossible speed. It was only a few days after our going there, that Irode into Oxford with a black cockade in my hat Patty had made me, andthe army sword Captain Jack had given Captain Daniel at my side. ForI had been elected a lieutenant in the Oxford company, of which PercySingleton was captain.
So passed that winter, the darkest of my life. One soft spring day, whenthe birds were twittering amid new-born leaves, and the hyacinths andtulips in Patty's garden were coming to their glory, Master Tom rodeleisurely down the drive at Gordon's Pride. That was a Saturday, the29th of April, 1775. The news which had flown southward, night and dayalike, was in no hurry to run off his tongue; he had been lolling on theporch for half an hour before he told us of the bloodshed between theminute-men of Massachusetts and the British regulars, of the rout ofPercy's panting redcoats from Concord to Boston. Tom added, with thebrutal nonchalance which characterized his dealings with his mother andsister, that he was on his way to Philadelphia to join a company.
The poor invalid was carried up the stairs in a faint by Banks andRomney. Patty, with pale face and lips compressed, ran to fetch thehartshorn. But Master Tom remained undisturbed.
"I suppose you are going, Richard," he remarked affably. For he treatedme with more consideration than his family. "We shall ride together,"said he.
"We ride different ways, and to different destinations," I replieddryly. "I go to serve my country, and you to fight against it."
"I think the King is right," he answered sullenly.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," I remarked, and rose. "Then you have studiedthe question since last I saw you."
"No, by G-d!" he cried, "and I never will. I do not want to know yourd--d principles--or grievances, or whatever they are. We were living aneasy life, in the plenty of money, and nothing to complain of. You takeit all away, with your cursed cant--"
I left him railing and swearing. And that was the last I saw of TomSwain. When I returned from a final survey of the plantation; and a talkwith Percy Singleton, he had ridden North again.
I found Patty alone in the parlour. Her work (one of my own stockingsshe was darning) lay idle in her lap, and in her eyes were the unshedtears which are the greatest suffering of women. I sat down beside herand called her name. She did not seem to hear me.
"Patty!"
She started. And my courage ebbed.
"Are you going to the war--to leave us, Richard?" she faltered.
"I fear there is no choice, Patty," I answered, striving hard to keep myown voice steady. "But you will be well looked after. Ivie Rawlinson isto be trusted, and Mr. Bordley has promised to keep an eye upon you."
She took up the darning mechanically.
"I shall not speak a word to keep you, Richard. He would have wishedit," she said softly. "And every strong arm in the colonies will beneeded. We shall think of you, and pray for you daily."
I cast about for a cheerful reply.
"I think when they discover how determined we are, they will revoketheir measures in a hurry. Before you know it, Patty, I shall be backagain making the rounds in my broad rim, and reading to you out ofCaptain Cook."
It was a pitiful attempt. She shook her head sadly. The tears were comenow, and she was smiling through them. The sorrow of that smile!
"I have something to say to you before I go, Patty," I said. The wordsstuck. I knew that there must be no pretence in that speech. It must betrue as my life after, the consequence of it. "I have something toask you, and I do not speak without your father's consent. Patty, if Ireturn, will you be my wife?"
The stocking slipped unheeded to the floor. For a moment she sattransfixed, save for the tumultuous swelling of her breast. Then sheturned and gazed earnestly into my face, and the honesty of her eyessmote me. For the first time I could not meet them honestly with my own.
"Richard, do you love me?" she asked.
I bowed my head. I could not answer that. And for a while there was nosound save that of the singing of the frogs in the distant marsh.
Presently I knew that she was standing at my side. I felt her hand laidupon my shoulder.
"Is--is it Dorothy?" she said gently.
Still I could not answer. Truly, the bitterness of life, as the joy ofit, is distilled in strong drops.
"I knew," she continued, "I have known ever since that autumn morningwhen I went to you as you saddled--when I dreaded that you would leaveus. Father asked you to marry me, the day you took Mr. Stewart from themob. How could you so have misunderstood me, Richard?"
I looked up in wonder. The sweet cadence in her tone sprang from apurity not of this earth. They alone who have consecrated their days toothers may utter it. And the light upon her face was of the same source.It was no will of mine brought me to my feet. But I was not worthy totouch her.
"I shall make another prayer, beside that for your safety, Richard," shesaid.
In the morning she waved me a brave farewell from the block where shehad stood so often as I rode afield, when the dawn was in the sky.The invalid mother sat in her chair within the door; the servants weregathered on the lawn, and Ivie Rawlinson and Banks lingered where theyhad held my stirrup. That picture is washed with my own tears.
The earth was praising God that Sunday as I rode to Mr. Bordley's. Andas it is sorrow which lifts us nearest to heaven, I felt as if I were inchurch.
I arrived at Wye Island in season to dine with the good judge and hisfamily, and there I made over to his charge the property of Patty andher mother. The afternoon we spent in sober talk, Mr. Bordley giving memuch sound advice, and writing me several letters of recommendation togentlemen in Congress. His conduct was distinguished by even more ofkindness and consideration than he had been wont to show me.
In the evening I walked out alone, skirting the acres of Carvel Hall,each familiar landmark touching the quick of some memory of other days.Childhood habit drew me into the path to Wilmot House. I came upon itjust
as the sunlight was stretching level across the Chesapeake, andburning its windows molten red. I had been sitting long on the stonesteps, when the gaunt figure of McAndrews strode toward me out of thedusk.
"God be gude to us, it is Mr. Richard!" he cried. "I hae na seen ye'rebonny face these muckle years, sir, sync ye cam' back frae ae sight o'the young mistress." (I had met him in Annapolis then.) "An' will ye beaff to the wars?"
I told him yes. That I had come for a last look at the old place beforeI left.
He sighed. "Ye're vera welcome, sir." Then he added: "Mr. Bordley'sgi'en me a fair notion o' yere management at Gordon's. The judge isthinking there'll be nane ither lad t' hand a candle to ye."
"And what news do you hear from London?" I asked, cutting him short.
"Ill uncos, sir," he answered, shaking his head with violence. He hadindeed but a sorry tale for my ear, and one to make my heart heavierthan it was. McAndrews opened his mind to me, and seemed the better forit. How Mr. Marmaduke was living with the establishment they wrote ofwas more than the honest Scotchman could imagine. There was a countryplace in Sussex now, said he, that was the latest. And drafts werecoming in before the wheat was in the ear; and the plantations oftobacco on the Western Shore had been idle since the non-exportation,and were mortgaged to their limit to Mr. Willard. Money was even loanedon the Wilmot House estate. McAndrews had a shrewd suspicion thatneither Mrs. Manners nor Miss Dorothy knew aught of this state ofaffairs.
"Mr. Richard," he said earnestly, as he bade me good-by, "I kennt Mr.Manners's mind when he lea'd here. There was a laird in't, sir, an' afortune. An' unless these come soon, I'm thinking I can spae th' en'."
In truth, a much greater fool than McAndrews might have predicted thatend.
On Monday Judge Bordley accompanied me as far as Dingley's tavern, andshowed much emotion at parting.
"You need have no fears for your friends at Gordon's Pride, Richard,"said he. "And when the General comes back, I shall try to give him agood account of my stewardship."
The General! That title brought old Stanwix's cobwebbed prophecy into myhead again. Here, surely, was the war which he had foretold, and I readyto embark in it.
Why not the sea, indeed?