“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 gratitude. 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?”