To my astonishment they halted. The skirts of the crowd were now come to the foot of the little porch. I faced them with my hand on Mr. Stewart"s arm, without a thought of what to do next, and expecting violence. There was a second"s hush. Then some one cried out:
"Three cheers for Richard Carvel!"
They gave them with a will that dumfounded me.
"My friends," said I, when I had got my wits, "this is neither the justice nor the moderation for which our province is noted. You have elected your committee of your free wills, and they have claims before you."
"Ay, ay, the committee!" they shouted. "Mr. Carvel is right. Take him to the Committee!"
Mr. Stewart raised his hand.
"My friends," he began, as I had done, "when you have learned the truth, you will not be so hasty to blame me for an offence of which I am innocent. The tea was not for me. The brig was in a leaky and dangerous state and had fifty souls aboard her. I paid the duty out of humanity--"
He had come so far, when they stopped him.
"Oh, a vile Tory!" they shouted. "He is conniving with the Council.
"Twas put up between them." And they followed this with another volley of hard names, until I feared that his chance was gone.
"You would best go before the Committee, Mr. Stewart," I said.
"I will go with Mr. Carvel, my friends," he cried at once. And he invited me into the house whilst he ordered his coach. I preferred to remain outside.
I asked them if they would trust me with Mr. Stewart to Church Street.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Carvel, we know you," said several. "He has good cause to hate Tories," called another, with a laugh. I knew the voice.
"For shame, Weld," I cried. And I saw McNeir, who was a stanch friend of mine, give him a cuff to send him spinning.
To my vast satisfaction they melted away, save only a few of the idlest spirits, who hung about the gate, and cheered as we drove off. Mr.
Stewart was very nervous, and profuse in his grat.i.tude. I replied that I had acted only as would have any other responsible citizen. On the way he told me enough of his case to convince me that there was much to be said on his side, but I thought it the better part of wisdom not to commit myself. The street in front of the committee rooms was empty, and I was informed that a town meeting had been called immediately at the theatre in West Street. And I advised Mr. Stewart to attend. But through anxiety or anger, or both, he was determined not to go, and drove back to his house without me.
I had got as far as St. Anne"s, halfway to the theatre, when it suddenly struck me that Mr. Swain must be waiting for news. With a twinge I remembered what Mr. Chase had said about the barrister"s condition, and I hurried back to Gloucester Street, much to the surprise of those I met on their way to the meeting. I was greatly relieved, when I arrived, to find Patty on the porch. I knew she had never been there were her father worse. After a word with her and her mother, I went up the stairs.
It was the hour for the barrister"s nap. But he was awake, lying back on the pillows, with his eyes half closed. He was looking out into the garden, which was part orchard, now beginning to shrivel and to brown with the first touch of frosts.
"That is you, Richard?" he inquired, without moving. "What is going forward to-day?"
I toned down the news, so as not to excite him, and left out the occurrence in Hanover Street. He listened with his accustomed interest, but when I had done he asked no questions, and lay for a long time silent. Then he begged me to bring my chair nearer.
"Richard,--my son," said he, with an evident effort, "I have never thanked you for your devotion to me and mine through the best years of your life. It shall not go unrewarded, my lad."
It seemed as if my heart stood still with the presage of what was to come.
"May G.o.d reward you, sir!" I said.
"I have wished to speak to you," he continued, "and I may not have another chance. I have arranged with Mr. Carroll, the barrister, to take your cause against your uncle, so that you will lose nothing when I am gone. And you will see, in my table in the library, that I have left my property in your hands, with every confidence in your integrity, and ability to care for my family, even as I should have done."
I could not speak at once. A lump rose in my throat, for I had come to look upon him as a father. His honest dealings, his charity, of which the world knew nothing, and his plain and una.s.suming ways had inspired in me a kind of worship. I answered, as steadily as I might:
"I believe I am too inexperienced for such a responsibility, Mr. Swain.
Would it not be better that Mr. Bordley or Mr. Lloyd should act?"
"No, no," he said; "I am not a man to do things unadvisedly, or to let affection get the better of my judgment, where others dear to me are concerned. I know you, Richard Carvel. Scarce an action of yours has escaped my eye, though I have said nothing. You have been through the fire, and are of the kind which comes out untouched. You will have Judge Bordley"s advice, and Mr. Carroll"s. And they are too busy with the affairs of the province to be burdened as my executors. But," he added a little more strongly, "if what I fear is coming, Mr. Bordley will take the trust in your absence. If we have war, Richard, you will not be content to remain at home, nor would I wish it."
I did not reply.
"You will do what I ask?" he said.
"I would refuse you nothing, Mr. Swain," I answered. "But I have heavy misgivings."
He sighed. "And now, if it were not for Tom, I might die content," he said.
If it were not for Tom! The full burden of the trust began to dawn upon me then. Presently I heard him speaking, but in so low a voice that I hardly caught the words.
"In our youth, Richard," he was saying, "the wrath of the Almighty is but so many words to most of us. When I was little more than a lad, I committed a sin of which I tremble now to think. And I was the fool to imagine, when I amended my life, that G.o.d had forgotten. His punishment is no heavier than I deserve. But He alone knows what He has made me suffer."
I felt that I had no right to be there.
"That is why I have paid Tom"s debts," he continued; "I cannot cast off my son. I have reasoned, implored, and appealed in vain. He is like Reuben,--his resolutions melt in an hour. And I have pondered day and night what is to be done for him."
"Is he to have his portion?" I asked. Indeed, the thought of the responsibility of Tom Swain overwhelmed me.
"Yes, he is to have it," cried Mr. Swain, with a violence to bring on a fit of coughing. "Were I to leave it in trust for a time, he would have it mortgaged within a year. He is to have his portion, but not a penny additional."
He lay for a long time breathing deeply, I watching him. Then, as he reached out and took my hand, I knew by some instinct what was to come. I summoned all my self-command to meet his eye. I knew that the malicious and unthinking gossip of the town had reached him, and that he had received it in the simple faith of his hopes.
"One thing more, my lad," he said, "the dearest wish of all--that you will marry Patty. She is a good girl, Richard. And I have thought," he added with hesitation, "I have thought that she loves you, though her lips have never opened on that subject."
So the blow fell. I turned away, for to save my life the words would not come. He missed the reason of my silence.
"I understand and honour your scruples," he went on. His kindness was like a knife.
"No, I have had none, Mr. Swain," I exclaimed. For I would not be thought a hypocrite.
There I stopped. A light step sounded in the hall, and Patty came in upon us. Her colour at once betrayed her understanding. To my infinite relief her father dropped my fingers, and asked cheerily if there was any news from the town meeting.
On the following Wednesday, with her flag flying and her sails set, the Peggy Stewart was run ash.o.r.e on Windmill Point. She rose, a sacrifice to Liberty, in smoke to heaven, before the a.s.sembled patriots of our city.
That very night a dear friend to Liberty pa.s.sed away. He failed so suddenly that Patty had no time to call for aid, and when the mother had been carried in, his spirit was flown. We laid him high on the hill above the creek, in the new lot he had bought and fenced around. The stone remains:
HERE LIETH
HENRY SWAIN, BARRISTER.
BORN MAY 13, 1730 (O.S.); DIED OCTOBER 19, 1774.
Fidus Amicis atque Patrice.
The simple inscription, which speaks volumes to those who knew him, was cut after the Revolution. He was buried with the honours of a statesman, which he would have been had G.o.d spared him to serve the New Country which was born so soon after his death.