CHAPTER XXVIII. ARLINGTON STREET
The sun having come out, and John Paul not returning by two,—being ogling, I supposed, the ladies in Hyde Park,—I left him a message and betook myself with as great trepidation as ever to Dorothy's house. The door was opened by the identical footman who had so insolently offered me money, and I think he recognized me, for he backed away as he told me the ladies were not at home. But I had not gone a dozen paces in my disappointment when I heard him running after me, asking if my honour were Mr. Richard Carvel.
“The ladies will see your honour,” he said, and conducted me back into the house and up the wide stairs. I had heard that Arlington Street was known as the street of the King's ministers, and I surmised that Mr. Manners had rented this house, and its furniture, from some great man who had gone out of office, plainly a person of means and taste. The hall, like that of many of the great town-houses, was in semi-darkness, but I remarked that the stair railing was of costly iron-work and polished brass; and, as I went up, that the stone niches in the wall were filled with the busts of statesmen, and I recognized among these, that of the great Walpole. A great copper gilt chandelier hung above. But the picture of the drawing-room I was led into, with all its colours, remains in the eye of my mind to this day. It was a large room, the like of which I had never seen in any private residence of the New World, situated in the back of the house. Its balcony overlooked the fresh expanse of the Green Park. Upon its high ceiling floated Venus and the graces, by Zucchi; and the mantel, upon which ticked an antique and curious French clock, was carved marble.
On the gilt panels of the walls were wreaths of red roses. At least a half-dozen tall mirrors, framed in rococos, were placed about, the largest taking the space between the two high windows on the park side. And underneath it stood a gold cabinet, lacquered by Martin's inimitable hand, in the centre of which was set a medallion of porcelain, with the head in dark blue of his Majesty, Charles the First. The chairs and lounges were marquetry,—satin-wood and mahogany,—with seats and backs of blue brocade. The floor was polished to the degree of danger, and on the walls hung a portrait by Van Dycke, another, of a young girl, by Richardson, a landscape by the Dutch artist Ruysdael, and a water-colour by Zaccarelli.
I had lived for four months the roughest of lives, and the room brought before me so sharply the contrast between my estate and the grandeur and elegance in which Dorothy lived, that my spirits fell as I looked about me. In front of me was a vase of flowers, and beside them on the table lay a note “To Miss Manners, in Arlington Street,” and sealed with a ducal crest. I was unconsciously turning it over, when something impelled me to look around. There, erect in the doorway, stood Dolly, her eyes so earnestly fixed upon me that I dropped the letter with a start. A faint colour mounted to her crown of black hair.
“And so you have come, Richard,” she said. Her voice was low, and tho' there was no anger in it, the tone seemed that of reproach. I wondered whether she thought the less of me for coming.
“Can you blame me for wishing to see you before I leave, Dolly?” I cried, and crossed quickly over to her.
But she drew a step backward.
“Then it is true that you are going,” said she, this time with a plain note of coldness.
“I must, Dorothy.”
“When?”
“As soon as I can get passage.”
She passed me and seated herself on the lounge, leaving me to stand like a lout before her, ashamed of my youth and of the clumsiness of my great body.
“Ah, Richard,” she laughed, “confess to your old play mate! I should like to know how many young men of wealth and family would give up the pleasures of a London season were there not a strong attraction in Maryland.”
How I longed to tell her that I would give ten years of my life to remain in England: that duty to John Paul took me home. But I was dumb.
“We should make a macaroni of you to amaze our colony,” said Dolly, lightly, as I sat down a great distance away; “to accept my schooling were to double your chances when you return, Richard. You should have cards to everything, and my Lord Comyn or Mr. Fox or some one would introduce you at the clubs. I vow you would be a sensation, with your height and figure. You should meet all the beauties of England, and perchance,” she added mischievously, “perchance you might be taking one home with you.”
“Nay, Dolly,” I answered; “I am not your match in jesting.”
“Jesting!” she exclaimed, “I was never more sober. But where is your captain?”
I said that I hoped that John Paul would be there shortly.
“How fanciful he is! And his conversation,—one might think he had acquired the art at Marly or in the Fauxbourg. In truth, he should have been born on the far side of the Channel. And he has the air of the great man,” said she, glancing up at ms, covertly. “For my part, I prefer a little more bluntness.”
I was nettled at the speech. Dorothy had ever been quick to seize upon and ridicule the vulnerable oddities of a character, and she had all the contempt of the great lady for those who tried to scale by pleasing arts. I perceived with regret that she had taken a prejudice.
“There, Dorothy,” I cried, “not even you shall talk so of the captain. For you have seen him at his worst. There are not many, I warrant you, born like him a poor gardener's son who rise by character and ability to be a captain at three and twenty. And he will be higher yet. He has never attended any but a parish school, and still has learning to astonish Mr. Walpole, learning which he got under vast difficulties. He is a gentleman, I say, far above many I have known, and he is a man. If you would know a master, you should see him on his own ship. If you would know a gentleman, you have been with me in his mother's cottage.” And, warming as I talked, I told her of that saddest of all homecomings to the little cabin under Criffel's height.
Small wonder that I adored Dorothy!
Would that I could paint her moods, that I might describe the strange light in her eyes when I had finished, that I might tell how in an instant she was another woman. She rose impulsively and took a chair at my side, and said:—
“'Tis so I love to hear you speak, Richard, when you uphold the absent. For I feel it is so you must champion me when I am far away. My dear old playmate is ever the same, strong to resent, and seeing ever the best in his friends. Forgive me, Richard, I have been worse than silly. And will you tell me that story of your adventures which I long to learn?”
Ay, that I would. I told it her, and she listened silently, save only now and then a cry of wonder or of sympathy that sounded sweet to my ears,—just as I had dreamed of her listening when I used to pace the deck of the brigantine John, at sea. And when at length I had finished, she sat looking out over the Green Park, as tho' she had forgot my presence.
And so Mrs. Manners came in and found us.
It had ever pleased me to imagine that Dorothy's mother had been in her youth like Dorothy. She had the same tall figure, grace in its every motion, and the same eyes of deep blue, and the generous but well-formed mouth. A man may pity, but cannot conceive the heroism that a woman of such a mould must have gone through who has been married since early girlhood to a man like Mr. Manners. Some women would have been driven quickly to frivolity, and worse, but this one had struggled year after year to maintain an outward serenity to a critical world, and had succeeded, tho' success had cost her dear. Each trial had deepened a line of that face, had done its share to subdue the voice which had once rung like Dorothy's; and in the depths of her eyes lingered a sadness indefinable.
She gazed upon me with that kindness and tenderness I had always received since the days when, younger and more beautiful than now, she was the companion of my mother. And the unbidden shadow of a thought came to me that these two sweet women had had some sadness in common. Many a summer's day I remembered them sewing together in the spring-house, talking in subdued voices which were hushed when I came running in. And lo! the same memory was on Dorothy's mother then, half expressed as she laid her hands upon my shoulders.
“Poor Elizabeth!” she said,—not to me, nor yet to Dorothy; “I wish that she might have lived to see you now. It is Captain Jack again.”
She sighed, and kissed me. And I felt at last that I had come home after many wanderings. We sat down, mother and daughter on the sofa with their fingers locked. She did not speak of Mr. Manners's conduct, or of my stay in the sponging-house. And for this I was thankful.
“I have had a letter from Mr. Lloyd, Richard,” she said.
“And my grandfather?” I faltered, a thickness in my throat.
“My dear boy,” answered Mrs. Manners, gently, “he thinks you dead. But you have written him?” she added hurriedly.
I nodded. “From Dumfries.”
“He will have the letter soon,” she said cheerfully. “I thank Heaven I am able to tell you that his health is remarkable under the circumstances. But he will not quit the house, and sees no one except your uncle, who is with him constantly.”
It was what I expected. But the confirmation of it brought me to my feet in a torrent of indignation, exclaiming:
“The villain! You tell me he will allow Mr. Carvel to see no one?”
She started forward, laying her hand on my arm, and Dorothy gave a little cry.
“What are you saying, Richard? What are you saying?”
“Mrs. Manners,” I answered, collecting myself, “I must tell you that I believe it is Grafton Carvel himself that is responsible for my abduction. He meant that I should be murdered.”
Then Dorothy rose, her eyes flashing and her head high.
“He would have murdered you—you, Richard?” she cried, in such a storm of anger as I had never seen her. “Oh, he should hang for the thought of it! I have always suspected Grafton Carvel capable of any crime!”
“Hush, Dorothy,” said her mother; “it is not seemly for a young girl to talk so.”
“Seemly!” said Dorothy. “If I were a man I would bring him to justice, and it took me a lifetime. Nay, if I were a man and could use a sword—”
“Dorothy! Dorothy!” interrupted Mrs. Manners.
Dorothy sat down, the light lingering in her eyes. She had revealed more of herself in that instant than in all her life before.
“It is a grave charge, Richard,” said Mrs. Manners, at length. “And your uncle is a man of the best standing in Annapolis.”
“You must remember his behaviour before my mother's marriage, Mrs. Manners.”
“I do, I do, Richard,” she said sadly. “And I have never trusted him since. I suppose you are not making your accusation without cause?”
“I have cause enough,” I answered bitterly.
“And proof?” she added. She should have been the man in her family.
I told her how Harvey had overheard the bits of the plot at Carvel Hall near two years gone; and now that I had begun, I was going through with Mr. Allen's part in the conspiracy, when Dorothy startled us both by crying:
“Oh, there is so much wickedness in the world, I wish I had never been born!”
She flung herself from the room in a passion of tears to shock me. As if in answer to my troubled look, Mrs. Manners said, with a sigh:
“She has not been at all well, lately, Richard. I fear the gayety of this place is too much for her. Indeed, I am sorry we ever left Maryland.”
I was greatly disturbed, and thought involuntarily of Comyn's words. Could it be that Mr. Manners was forcing her to marry Chartersea?
“And has Mr. Lloyd said nothing of my uncle?” I asked after a while.
“I will not deny that ugly rumours are afloat,” she answered. “Grafton, as you know, is not liked in Annapolis, especially by the Patriot party. But there is not the slightest ground for suspicion. The messenger—”
“Yes?”
“Your uncle denies all knowledge of. He was taken to be the tool of the captain of the slaver, and he disappeared so completely that it was supposed he had escaped to the ship. The story goes that you were seized for a ransom, and killed in the struggle. Your black ran all the way to town, crying the news to those he met on the Circle and in West Street, but by the mercy of God he was stopped by Mr. Swain and some others before he had reached your grandfather. In ten minutes a score of men were galloping out of the Town Gate, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Singleton ahead. They found your horse dead, and the road through the woods all trampled down, and they spurred after the tracks down to the water's edge. Singleton recalled a slaver, the crew of which had been brawling at the Ship tavern a few nights before. But the storm was so thick they could not see the ship's length out into the river. They started two fast sloops from the town wharves in chase, and your uncle has been moving heaven and earth to obtain some clew of you. He has put notices in the newspapers of Charlestown, Philadelphia, New York, and even Boston, and offered a thousand pounds reward.”
CHAPTER XXIX. I MEET A VERY GREAT YOUNG MAN
The French clock had struck four, and I was beginning to fear that, despite my note, the captain's pride forbade his coming to Mr. Manners's house, when in he walked, as tho' 'twere no novelty to have his name announced. And so straight and handsome was he, his dark eye flashing with the self-confidence born in the man, that the look of uneasiness I had detected upon Mrs. Manners's face quickly changed to one of surprise and pleasure. Of course the good lady had anticipated a sea-captain of a far different mould. He kissed her hand with a respectful grace, and then her daughter's, for Dorothy had come back to us, calmer. And I was filled with joy over his fine appearance. Even Dorothy was struck by the change the clothes had made in him. Mrs. Manners thanked him very tactfully for restoring me to them, as she was pleased to put it, to which John Paul modestly replied that he had done no more than another would under the same circumstances. And he soon had them both charmed by his address.
“Why, Richard,” said Dorothy's mother aside to me, “surely this cannot be your sea-captain!”
I nodded merrily. But John Paul's greatest triumph was yet to come. For presently Mr. Marmaduke arrived from White's, and when he had greeted me with effusion he levelled his glass at the corner of the room.
“Ahem!” he exclaimed. “Pray, my dear, whom have you invited to-day?” And without awaiting her reply, as was frequently his habit, he turned to me and said: “I had hoped we were to have the pleasure of Captain Paul's company, Richard. For I must have the chance before you go of clasping the hand of your benefactor.”
“You shall have the chance, at least, sir,” I replied, a fiery exultation in my breast. “Mr. Manners, this is my friend, Captain Paul.”
The captain stood up and bowed gravely at the little gentleman's blankly amazed countenance.
“Ahem,” said he; “dear me, is it possible!” and advanced a step, but the captain remained immovable. Mr. Marmaduke fumbled for his snuff-box, failed to find it, halted, and began again, for he never was known to lack words for long: “Captain, as one of the oldest friends of Mr. Lionel Carvel, I claim the right to thank you in his name for your gallant conduct. I hear that you are soon to see him, and to receive his obligations from him in person. You will not find him lacking, sir, I'll warrant.”
Such was Mr. Marmaduke's feline ingenuity! I had a retort ready, and I saw that Mrs. Manners, long tried in such occasions, was about to pour oil on the waters. But it was Dorothy who exclaimed:
“What captain! are you, too, going to Maryland?”
John Paul reddened.
“Ay, that he is, Dolly,” I cut in hurriedly. “Did you imagine I would let him escape so easily? Henceforth as he has said, he is to be an American.”
She flashed at me such a look as might have had a dozen different meanings, and in a trice it was gone again under her dark lashes.
Dinner was got through I know not how. Mr. Manners led the talk, and spoke more than was needful concerning our approaching voyage. He was at great pains to recommend the Virginia packet, which had made the fastest passage from the Capes; and she sailed, as was no doubt most convenient, the Saturday following. I should find her a comfortable vessel, and he would oblige me with a letter to Captain Alsop. Did Captain Paul know him? But the captain was describing West Indian life to Mrs. Manners. Dorothy had little to say; and as for me, I was in no very pleasant humour.
I gave a deaf ear to Mr. Marmaduke's sallies, to speculate on the nature of the disgrace which Chartersea was said to hold over his head. And twenty times, as I looked upon Dolly's beauty, I ground my teeth at the notion of returning home. I have ever been slow of suspicion, but suddenly it struck me sharply that Mr. Manners's tactics must have a deeper significance than I had thought. Why was it that he feared my presence in London?
As we made our way back to the drawing-room, I was hoping for a talk with Dolly (alas! I should not have many more), when I heard a voice which sounded strangely familiar.
“You know, Comyn,” it was saying, “you know I should be at the Princess's were I not so completely worn out. I was up near all of last night with Rosette.”
Mr. Marmaduke, entering before us, cried:—
“The dear creature! I trust you have had medical attendance, Mr. Walpole.”
“Egad!” quoth Horry (for it was he), “I sent Favre to Hampstead to fetch Dr. Pratt, where he was attending some mercer's wife. It seems that Rosette had got into the street and eaten something horrible out of the kennel. I discharged the footman, of course.”
“A plague on your dog, Horry,” said my Lord, yawning, and was about to add something worse, when he caught sight of Dorothy.
Mr. Walpole bowed over her hand.
“And have you forgotten so soon your Windsor acquaintances, Mr. Walpole?” she asked, laughing.
“Bless me,” said Horry, looking very hard at me, “so it is, so it is. Your hand, Mr. Carvel. You have only to remain in London, sir, to discover that your reputation is ready-made. I contributed my mite. For you must know that I am a sort of circulating library of odd news which those devils, the printers, contrive to get sooner or later—Heaven knows how! And Miss Manners herself has completed your fame. Yes, the story of your gallant rescue is in all the clubs to-day. Egad, sir, you come down heads up, like a loaded coin. You will soon be a factor in Change Alley.” And glancing slyly at the blushing Dolly, he continued:
“I have been many things, Miss Manners, but never before an instrument of Providence. And so you discovered your rough diamond yesterday, and have polished him in a day. O that Dr. Franklin had profited as well by our London tailors! The rogue never told me, when he was ordering me about in his swan-skin, that he had a friend in Arlington Street, and a reigning beauty. But I like him the better for it.”
“And I the worse,” said Dolly.
“I perceive that he still retains his body-guard,” said Mr. Walpole; “Captain—”
“Paul,” said Dolly, seeing that we would not help him out.
“Ah, yes. These young princes from the New World must have their suites. You must bring them both some day to my little castle at Strawberry Hill.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Walpole, Mr. Carvel finds that he must return to America,” Mr. Marmaduke interjected. He had been waiting to get in this word.
Comyn nudged me. And I took the opportunity, in the awkward silence that followed, to thank Mr. Walpole for sending his coach after us.
“And pray where did you get your learning?” he demanded abruptly of the captain, in his most patronizing way. “Your talents are wasted at sea, sir. You should try your fortune in London, where you shall be under my protection, sir. They shall not accuse me again of stifling young genius. Stay,” he cried, warming with generous enthusiasm, “stay, I have an opening. 'Twas but yesterday Lady Cretherton told me that she stood in need of a tutor for her youngest son, and you shall have the position.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I shall not have the position,” said John Paul, coolly. And Horry might have heeded the danger signal. I had seen it more than once on board the brigantine John, and knew what was coming.
“Faith, and why not, sir? If I recommend you, why not, sir?”
“Because I shall not take it,” he said. “I have my profession, Mr. Walpole, and it is an honourable one. And I would not exchange it, sir, were it in your power to make me a Gibbon or a Hume, or tutor to his Royal Highness, which it is not.”
Thus, for the second time, the weapon of the renowned master of Strawberry was knocked from his hand at a single stroke of his strange adversary. I should like to describe John Paul as he made that speech,—for 'twas not so much the speech as the atmosphere of it. Those who heard and saw were stirred with wonder, for Destiny lay bare that instant, just as the powers above are sometimes revealed at a single lightning-bolt. Mr. Walpole made a reply that strove hard to be indifferent; Mr. Marmaduke stuttered, for he was frightened, as little souls are apt to be at such times. But my Lord Comyn, forever natural, forever generous, cried out heartily:—
“Egad, captain, there you are a true sailor! Which would you rather have been, I say, William Shakespeare or Sir Francis?”
“Which would you rather be, Richard,” said Dolly to me, under her breath, “Horace Walpole or Captain John Paul? I begin to like your captain better.”
Willy nilly, Mr. Walpole was forever doing me a service. Now, in order to ignore the captain more completely, he sat him down to engage Mr. and Mrs. Manners. Comyn was soon hot in an argument with John Paul concerning the seagoing qualities of a certain frigate, every rope and spar of which they seemed to know. And so I stole a few moments with Dorothy.
“You are going to take the captain to Maryland, Richard?” she asked, playing with her fan.
“I intend to get him the Belle of the Tye. 'Tis the least I can do. For I am at my wits' end how to reward him, Dolly. And when are you coming back?” I whispered earnestly, seeing her silent.
“I would that I knew, Richard,” she replied, with a certain sadness that went to my heart, as tho' the choice lay beyond her. Then she changed. “Richard, there was more in Mr. Lloyd's letter than mamma told you of. There was ill news of one of your friends.”
“News!”
She looked at me fixedly, and then continued, her voice so low that I was forced to bend over:
“Yes. You were not told that Patty Swain fell in a faint when she heard of your disappearance. You were not told that the girl was ill for a week afterwards. Ah, Richard, I fear you are a sad flirt. Nay, you may benefit by the doubt,—perchance you are going home to be married.”
You may be sure that this intelligence, from Dorothy's lips, only increased my trouble and perplexity.
“You say that Patty has been ill?”
“Very ill,” says she, with her lips tight closed.
“Indeed, I grieve to hear of it,” I replied; “but I cannot think that my accident had anything to do with the matter.”
“Young ladies do not send their fathers to coffee-houses to prevent duels unless their feelings are engaged,” she flung back.
“You have heard the story of that affair, Dorothy. At least enough of it to do me justice.”
She was plainly agitated.
“Has Lord Comyn—”
“Lord Comyn has told you the truth,” I said; “so much I know.”
Alas for the exits and entrances of life! Here comes the footman.
“Mr. Fox,” said he, rolling the name, for it was a great one.
Confound Mr. Fox! He might have waited five short minutes.
It was, in truth, none other than that precocious marvel of England who but a year before had taken the breath from the House of Commons, and had sent his fame flying over the Channel and across the wide Atlantic; the talk of London, who set the fashions, cringed not before white hairs, or royalty, or customs, or institutions, and was now, at one and twenty, Junior Lord of the Admiralty—Charles James Fox. His face was dark, forbidding, even harsh—until he smiled. His eyebrows were heavy and shaggy, and his features of a rounded, almost Jewish mould. He put me in mind of the Stuarts, and I was soon to learn that he was descended from them.
As he entered the room I recall remarking that he was possessed of the supremest confidence of any man I had ever met. Mrs. Manners he greeted in one way, Mr. Marmaduke in another, and Mr. Walpole in still another. To Comyn it was “Hello, Jack,” as he walked by him. Each, as it were, had been tagged with a particular value.
Chagrined as I was at the interruption, I was struck with admiration. For the smallest actions of these rare men of master passions so compel us. He came to Dorothy, whom he seemed not to have perceived at first, and there passed between them such a look of complete understanding that I suddenly remembered Comyn's speech of the night before, “Now it is Charles Fox.” Here, indeed, was the man who might have won her. And yet I did not hate him. Nay, I loved him from the first time he addressed me. It was Dorothy who introduced us.
“I think I have heard of you, Mr. Carvel,” he said, making a barely perceptible wink at Comyn.
“And I think I have heard of you, Mr. Fox,” I replied.
“The deuce you have, Mr. Carvel!” said he, and laughed. And Comyn laughed, and Dorothy laughed, and I laughed. We were friends from that moment.
“Richard has appeared amongst us like a comet,” put in the ubiquitous Mr. Manners, “and, I fear, intends to disappear in like manner.”
“And where is the tail of this comet?” demanded Fox, instantly; “for I understood there was a tail.”
John Paul was brought up, and the Junior Lord of the Admiralty looked him over from head to toe. And what, my dears, do you think he said to him?
“Have you ever acted, Captain Paul?”
The captain started back in surprise.
“Acted!” he exclaimed; “really, sir, I do not know. I have never been upon the boards.”
Mr. Fox vowed that he could act: that he was sure of it, from the captain's appearance.
“And I, too, am sure of it, Mr. Fox,” cried Dorothy; clapping her hands. “Persuade him to stay awhile in London, that you may have him at your next theatricals at Holland House. Why, he knows Shakespeare and Pope and—and Chaucer by heart, and Ovid and Horace,—is it not so, Mr. Walpole?”
“Is not what so, my dear young lady?” asked Mr. Walpole, pretending not to have heard.
“There!” exclaimed Dolly, pouting, when the laughter had subsided; “you make believe to care something about me, and yet will not listen to what I say.”
I had seen at her feet our own Maryland gallants, the longest of whose reputations stretched barely from the James to the Schuylkill; but here in London men were hanging on her words whose names were familiarly spoken in Paris, and Rome, and Geneva. Not a topic was broached by Mr. Walpole or Mr. Fox, from the remonstrance of the Archbishop against masquerades and the coming marriage of my Lord Albemarle to the rights and wrongs of Mr. Wilkes, but my lady had her say. Mrs. Manners seemed more than content that she should play the hostess, which she did to perfection. She contrived to throw poisoned darts at the owner of Strawberry that started little Mr. Marmaduke to fidgeting in his seat, and he came to the rescue with all the town-talk at his command. He knew little else. Could Mr. Walpole tell him of this club of both sexes just started at Almack's? Mr. Walpole could tell a deal, tho' he took the pains first to explain that he was becoming too old for such frivolous and fashionable society. He could not, for the life of him, say why he was included. But, in spite of Mr. Walpole, John Paul was led out in the paces that best suited him, and finally, to the undisguised delight of Mr. Fox, managed to trip Horry upon an obscure point in Athenian literature. And this broke up the company.
As we took our leave Dorothy and Mr. Fox were talking together with lowered voices.
“I shall see you before I go,” I said to her.
She laughed, and glanced at Mr. Fox.
“You are not going, Richard Carvel,” said she.
“That you are not, Richard Carvel,” said Mr. Fox.
I smiled, rather lamely, I fear, and said good night.
CHAPTER XXX. A CONSPIRACY
“Banks, where is the captain?” I asked, as I entered the parlour the next morning.
“Gone, sir, since seven o'clock,” was the reply. “Gone!” I exclaimed; “gone where?”
“Faith, I did not ask his honour, sir.”
I thought it strange, but reflected that John Paul was given to whims. Having so little time before him, he had probably gone to see the sights he had missed yesterday: the Pantheon, which was building, an account of which had appeared in all the colonial papers; or the new Blackfriars Bridge; or the Tower; or perhaps to see his Majesty ride out. The wonders of London might go hang, for all I cared. Who would gaze at the King when he might look upon Dorothy! I sighed. I bade Banks dress me in the new suit Davenport had brought that morning, and then sent him off to seek the shipping agent of the Virginia packet to get us a cabin. I would go to Arlington Street as soon as propriety admitted.
But I had scarce finished my chocolate and begun to smoke in a pleasant revery, when I was startled by the arrival of two gentlemen. One was Comyn, and the other none less than Mr. Charles Fox.
“Now where the devil has your captain flown to?” said my Lord, tossing his whip on the table.
“I believe he must be sight-seeing,” I said. “I dare swear he has taken a hackney coach to the Tower.”
“To see the liberation of the idol of the people, I'll lay ten guineas. But they say the great Mr. Wilkes is to come out quietly, and wishes no demonstration,” said Mr. Fox. “I believe the beggar has some sense, if the—Greek—would only let him have his way. So your captain is a Wilkite, Mr. Carvel?” he demanded.
“I fear you run very fast to conclusions, Mr. Fox,” I answered, laughing, tho' I thought his guess was not far from wrong.
“I'll lay you the ten guineas he has been to the Tower,” said Mr. Fox, promptly.
“Done, sir,” said I.
“Hark ye, Richard,” said Comyn, stretching himself in an arm-chair; “we are come to take the wind out of your sails, and leave you without an excuse for going home. And we want your captain, alive or dead. Charles, here, is to give him a commission in his Majesty's Navy.”
Then I knew why Dorothy had laughed when I had spoken of seeing her again. Comyn—bless him!—had told her of his little scheme.
“Egad, Charles!” cried his Lordship, “to look at his glum face, one might think we were a couple of Jews who had cornered him.”
Alas for the perversity of the heart! Instead of leaping for joy, as no doubt they had both confidently expected, I was both troubled and perplexed by this unlooked-for news. Oak, when bent, is even harder to bend back again. And so it has ever been with me. I had determined, after a bitter struggle, to go to Maryland, and had now become used to that prospect. I was anxious to see my grandfather, and to confront Grafton Carvel with his villany. And there was John Paul. What would he think?
“What ails you, Richard?” Comyn demanded somewhat testily.
“Nothing, Jack,” I replied. “I thank you from my heart, and you, Mr. Fox. I know that commissions are not to be had for the asking, and I rejoice with the captain over his good fortune. But, gentlemen,” I said soberly, “I had most selfishly hoped that I might be able to do a service to John Paul in return for his charity to me. You offer him something nearer his deserts, something beyond my power to give him.”
Fox's eyes kindled.
“You speak like a man, Mr. Carvel,” said he. “But you are too modest. Damn it, sir, don't you see that it is you, and no one else, who has procured this commission? Had I not been taken with you, sir, I should scarce have promised it to your friend Comyn, through whose interest you obtain it for your protege.”
I remembered what Mr. Fox's enemies said of him, and smiled at the plausible twist he had given the facts.
“No,” I said; “no, Mr. Fox; never that. The captain must not think that I wish to be rid of him. I will not stand in the way, though if it is to be offered him, he must comprehend that I had naught to do with the matter. But, sir,” I continued curiously, “what do you know of John Paul's abilities as an officer?”
Mr. Fox and Comyn laughed so immoderately as to bring the blood to my face.
“Damme!” cried the Junior Lord, “but you Americans have odd consciences! Do you suppose Rigby was appointed Paymaster of the Forces because of his fitness? Why was North himself made Prime Minister? For his abilities?” And he broke down again. “Ask Jack, here, how he got into the service, and how much seamanship he knows.”
“Faith,” answered Jack, unblushingly, “Admiral Lord Comyn, my father, wished me to serve awhile. And so I have taken two cruises, delivered some score of commands, and scarce know a supple jack from a can of flip. Cursed if I see the fun of it in these piping times o' peace, so I have given it up, Richard. For Charles says this Falkland business with Spain will blow out of the touch-hole.”
I could see little to laugh over. For the very rottenness of the service was due to the miserable and servile Ministry and Parliament of his Majesty, by means of which instruments he was forcing the colonies to the wall. Verily, that was a time when the greatness of England hung in the balance! How little I suspected that the young man then seated beside me, who had cast so unthinkingly his mighty powers on the side of corruption, was to be one of the chief instruments of her salvation! We were to fight George the Third across the seas. He was to wage no less courageous a battle at home, in the King's own capital. And the cause? Yes, the cause was to be the same as that of the Mr. Wilkes he reviled, who obtained his liberty that day.
At length John Paul came in, calling my name. He broke off abruptly at sight of the visitors.
“Now we shall decide,” said Mr. Fox. “Captain, I have bet Mr. Carvel ten guineas you have been to the Tower to see Squinting Jack (John Wilkes) get his liberty at last.”
The captain looked astonished.
“Anan, then, you have lost, Richard,” said he. “For I have been just there.”
“And helped, no doubt, to carry off the champion on your shoulders,” said Mr. Fox, sarcastically, as I paid the debt.
“Mr. Wilkes knows full well the value of moderation, sir,” replied the captain, in the same tone.
“Well, damn the odds!” exclaimed the Junior Lord, laughing. “You may have the magic number tattooed all over your back, for all I care. You shall have the commission.”
“The commission?”
“Yes,” said Fox, carelessly; “I intend making you a lieutenant, sir, in the Royal Navy.”
The moment the words were out I was a-tremble as to how he would take the offer. For he had a certain puzzling pride, which flew hither and thither. But there was surely no comparison between the situations of the master of the Belle of the Wye and an officer in the Royal Navy. There, his talents would make him an admiral, and doubtless give him the social position he secretly coveted. He confounded us all by his answer.
“I thank you, Mr. Fox. But I cannot accept your kindness.”
“Slife!” said Fox, “you refuse? And you know what you are doing?”
“I know usually, sir.”
Comyn swore. My exclamation had something of relief in it.
“Captain,” I said, “I felt that I could not stand in the way of this. It has been my hope that you will come with me, and I have sent this morning after a cabin on the Virginia. You must know that Mr. Fox's offer is his own, and Lord Comyn's.”
“I know it well, Richard. I have not lived these three months with you for nothing.” His voice seemed to fail him. He drew near me and took my hand. “But did you think I would require of you the sacrifice of leaving London now?”
“It is my pleasure as well as my duty, captain.”
“No,” he said, “I am not like that. Yesterday I went to the city to see a shipowner whose acquaintance I made when he was a master in the West India trade. He has had some reason to know that I can handle a ship. Never mind what. And he has given me the bark 'Betsy', whose former master is lately dead of the small-pox. Richard, I sail to-morrow.”
In Dorothy's coach to Whitehall Stairs, by the grim old palace out of whose window Charles the Martyr had walked to his death. For Dorothy had vowed it was her pleasure to see John Paul off, and who could stand in her way? Surely not Mr. Marmaduke! and Mrs. Manners laughingly acquiesced. Our spirits were such that we might have been some honest mercer's apprentice and his sweetheart away for an outing.
“If we should take a wherry, Richard,” said Dolly, “who would know of it? I have longed to be in a wherry ever since I came to London.”
The river was smiling as she tripped gayly down to the water, and the red-coated watermen were smiling, too, and nudging one another. But little cared we! Dolly in holiday humour stopped for naught. “Boat, your honour! Boat, boat! To Rotherhithe—Redriff? Two and six apiece, sir.” For that intricate puzzle called human nature was solved out of hand by the Thames watermen. Here was a young gentleman who never heard of the Lord Mayor's scale of charges. And what was a shilling to such as he! Intricate puzzle, indeed! Any booby might have read upon the young man's face that secret which is written for all,—high and low, rich and poor alike.
My new lace handkerchief was down upon the seat, lest Dolly soil her bright pink lutestring. She should have worn nothing else but the hue of roses. How the bargemen stared, and the passengers craned their necks, and the longshoremen stopped their work as we shot past them! On her account a barrister on the Temple Stairs was near to letting fall his bag in the water. A lady in a wherry! Where were the whims of the quality to lead them next? Past the tall water-tower and York Stairs, the idlers under the straight row of trees leaning over the high river wall; past Adelphi Terrace, where the great Garrick lived; past the white columns of Somerset House, with its courts and fountains and alleys and architecture of all ages, and its river gate where many a gilded royal barge had lain, and many a fine ambassador had arrived in state over the great highway of England; past the ancient trees in the Temple Gardens. And then under the new Blackfriars Bridge to Southwark, dingy with its docks and breweries and huddled houses, but forever famous,—the Southwark of Shakespeare and Jonson and Beaumont and Fletcher. And the shelf upon which they stood in the library at Carvel Hall was before my eyes.
“Yes,” said Dolly; “and I recall your mother's name written in faded ink upon the fly-leaves.”
Ah, London Town, by what subtleties are you tied to the hearts of those born across the sea? That is one of the mysteries of race.
Under the pointed arches of old London Bridge, with its hooded shelters for the weary, to where the massive Tower had frowned for ages upon the foolish river. And then the forest of ships, and the officious throng of little wherries and lighters that pressed around them, seeming to say, “You clumsy giants, how helpless would you be without us!” Soon our own wherry was dodging among them, ships brought hither by the four winds of the seas; many discharging in the stream, some in the docks then beginning to be built, and hugging the huge warehouses. Hides from frozen Russia were piled high beside barrels of sugar and rum from the moist island cane-fields of the Indies, and pipes of wine from the sunny hillsides of France, and big boxes of tea bearing the hall-mark of the mysterious East. Dolly gazed in wonder. And I was commanded to show her a schooner like the Black Moll, and a brigantine like the John.
“And Captain Paul told me you climbed the masts, Richard, and worked like a common seaman. Tell me,” says she, pointing at the royal yard of a tall East Indiaman, “did you go as high as that when it was rough?”
And, hugely to the boatman's delight, the minx must needs put her fingers on the hard welts on my hands, and vow she would be a sailor and she were a man. But at length we came to a trim-built bark lying off Redriff Stairs, with the words “Betsy, of London,” painted across her stern. In no time at all, Captain Paul was down the gangway ladder and at the water-side, too hand Dorothy out.
“This honour overwhelms me, Miss Manners,” he said; “but I know whom to thank for it.” And he glanced slyly at me.
Dorothy stepped aboard with the air of Queen Elizabeth come to inspect Lord Howard's flagship.
“Then you will thank me,” said she. “Why, I could eat my dinner off your deck, captain! Are all merchantmen so clean?”
John Paul smiled.
“Not all, Miss Manners,” he said.
“And you are still sailing at the ebb?” I asked.
“In an hour, Richard, if the wind holds good.”
With what pride he showed us over his ship, the sailors gaping at the fine young lady. It had taken him just a day to institute his navy discipline. And Dolly went about exclaiming, and asking an hundred questions, and merrily catechising me upon the run of the ropes. All was order and readiness for dropping down the stream when he led us into his cabin, where he had a bottle of wine and some refreshments laid out against my coming.
“Had I presumed to anticipate your visit, Miss Manners, I should have had something more suitable for a lady,” he said. “What, you will not eat, either, Richard?”
I could not, so downcast had I become at the thought of parting. I had sat up half the night before with him in restless argument and indecision, and even when he had left for Rotherhithe, early that morning, my mind had not been made. My conscience had insisted that I should sail with John Paul; that I might never see my deaf grandfather on earth again. I had gone to Arlington Street that morning resolved to say farewell to Dorothy. I will not recount the history of that defeat, my dears. Nay, to this day I know not how she accomplished the matter. Not once had she asked me to remain, or referred to my going. Nor had I spoken of it, weakling that I was. She had come down in the pink lutestring, smiling but pale; and traces of tears in her eyes, I thought. From that moment I knew that I was defeated. It was she herself who had proposed going with me to see the Betsy sail.
“I will drink some Madeira to wish you Godspeed, captain,” I said.
“What is the matter with you, Richard?” Dolly cried; “you are as sour as my Lord Sandwich after a bad Newmarket. Why, captain,” said she, “I really believe he wants to go, too. The swain pines for his provincial beauty.”
Poor John Paul! He had not yet learned that good society is seldom literal.
“Upon my soul, Miss Manners, there you do him wrong,” he retorted, with ludicrous heat; “you, above all, should know for whom he pines.”
“He has misled you by praising me. This Richard, despite his frank exterior, is most secretive.”
“There you have hit him, Miss Manners,” he declared; “there you have hit him! We were together night and day, on the sea and on the road, and, while I poured out my life to him, the rogue never once let fall a hint of the divine Miss Dorothy. 'Twas not till I got to London that I knew of her existence, and then only by a chance. You astonish me. You speak of a young lady in Maryland?”
Dorothy swept aside my protest.
“Captain,” says she, gravely, “I leave you to judge. What is your inference, when he fights a duel about a Miss with my Lord Comyn?”
“A duel!” cried the captain, astounded.
“Miss Manners persists in her view of the affair, despite my word to the contrary,” I put in rather coldly.
“But a duel!” cried the captain again; “and with Lord Comyn! Miss Manners, I fondly thought I had discovered a constant man, but you make me fear he has had as many flames as I. And yet, Richard,” he added meaningly, “I should think shame on my conduct and I had had such a subject for constancy as you.”
Dorothy's armour was pierced, and my ill-humour broken down, by this characteristic speech. We both laughed, greatly to his discomfiture.
“You had best go home with him, Richard,” said Dolly. “I can find my way back to Arlington Street alone.”
“Nay; gallantry forbids his going with me now,” answered John Paul; “and I have my sailing orders. But had I known of this, I should never have wasted my breath in persuading him to remain.”
“And did he stand in need of much persuasion, captain?” asked Dolly, archly.
Time was pressing, and the owner came aboard, puffing,—a round-faced, vociferous, jolly merchant, who had no sooner got his breath than he lost it again upon catching sight of Dolly.
While the captain was giving the mate his final orders, Mr. Orchardson, for such was his name, regaled us with a part of his life's history. He had been a master himself, and mangled and clipped King George's English as only a true master might.
“I like your own captain better than ever, Richard,” whispered Dolly, while Mr. Orchardson relieved himself of his quid over the other side; “how commanding he is! Were I to take passage in the Betsy, I know I should be in love with him long before we got to Norfolk.”
I took it upon myself to tell Mr. Orchardson, briefly and clearly as I could, the lamentable story of John Paul's last cruise. For I feared it might sooner or later reach his ears from prejudiced mouths. And I ended by relating how the captain had refused a commission in the navy because he had promised to take the Betsy. This appeared vastly to impress him, and he forgot Dorothy's presence.
“Passion o' my 'eart, Mr. Carvel,” cried he, excitedly,
“John Paul's too big a man, an' too good a seaman, to go into the navy without hinflooence. If flag horfocers I roots of is booted haside to rankle like a lump o' salt butter in a gallipot, 'ow will a poor Scotch lieutenant win hadvancement an' he be not o' the King's friends? 'Wilkes an' Liberty,' say I; 'forever,' say I. An' w'en I see 'im goin' to the Tower to be'old the Champion, 'Captain Paul,' says I, 'yere a man arfter my hown 'eart.' My heye, sir, didn't I see 'im, w'n a mere lad, take the John into Kingston 'arbour in the face o' the worst gale I hever seed blowed in the Caribbees? An' I says, 'Bill Horchardson, an' ye Never 'ave ships o' yere own, w'ich I 'ope will be, y'ell know were to look for a marster.' An' I tells 'im that same, Mr. Carvel. I means no disrespect to the dead, sir, but an' John Paul 'ad discharged the Betsy, I'd not 'a' been out twenty barrels or more this day by Thames mudlarks an' scuffle hunters. 'Eave me flat, if 'e'll be two blocks wi' liquor an' dischargin' cargo. An' ye may rest heasy, Mr. Carvel, I'll not do wrong by 'im, neither.”
He told me that if I would honour him in Maid Lane, Southwark, I should have as many pounds as I liked of the best tobacco ever cured in Cuba. And so he left me to see that the mate had signed all his lighter bills, shouting to the captain not to forget his cockets at Gravesend. Dolly and I stood silent while the men hove short, singing a jolly song to the step. With a friendly wave the round figure of Mr. Orchardson disappeared over the side, and I knew that the time had come to say farewell. I fumbled in my waistcoat for the repeater I had bought that morning over against Temple Bar, in Fleet Street, and I thrust it into John Paul's hand as he came up.
“Take this in remembrance of what you have suffered so unselfishly for my sake, Captain Paul,” I said, my voice breaking. “And whatever befalls you, do not forget that Carvel Hall is your home as well as mine.”
He seemed as greatly affected as was I. Tears forced themselves to his eyes as he held the watch, which he opened absently to read the simple inscription I had put there.
“Oh, Dickie lad!” he cried, “I'll be missing ye sair three hours hence, and thinking of ye for months to come in the night watches. But something tells me I'll see ye again.”
And he took me in his arms, embracing me with such fervour that there was no doubting the sincerity of his feelings.
“Miss Dorothy,” said he, when he was calmer, “I give ye Richard for a leal and a true heart. Few men are born with the gift of keeping the affections warm despite absence, and years, and interest. But have no fear of Richard Carvel.”
Dorothy stood a little apart, watching us, her eyes that faraway blue of the deepening skies at twilight.
“Indeed, I have no fear of him, captain,” she said gently. Then, with a quick movement, impulsive and womanly, she unpinned a little gold brooch at her throat, and gave it to him, saying: “In token of my gratitude for bringing him back to us.”
John Paul raised it to his lips.
“I shall treasure it, Miss Manners, as a memento of the greatest joy of my life. And that has been,” gracefully taking her hand and mine, “the bringing you two together again.”
Dorothy grew scarlet as she curtseyed. As for me, I could speak never a word. He stepped over the side to hand her into the wherry, and embraced me once again. And as we rowed away he waved his hat in a last good-by from the taffrail. Then the Betsy floated down the Thames.