CHAPTER LIII
IN WHICH I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES
The room had a prodigious sense of change about it. That came over me with something of a shock, since the moment before I had it settled that I was in Marlboro' Street. The bare branches swaying in the wind outside should belong to the trees in Freshwater Lane. But beyond the branches were houses, the like of which I had no remembrance of in Annapolis. And then my grandfather should be sitting in that window. Surely, he was there! He moved! He was coming toward me to say: "Richard, you are forgiven," and to brush his eyes with his ruffles.
Then there was the bed-canopy, the pleatings of which were gone, and it was turned white instead of the old blue. And the chimney-place! That was unaccountably smaller, and glowed with a sea-coal fire. And the mantel was now but a bit of a shelf, and held many things that seemed scarce at home on the rough and painted wood,—gold filigree; and China and Japan, and a French clock that ought not to have been just there. Ah, the teacups! Here at last was something to touch a fibre of my brain, but a pain came with the effort of memory. So my eyes went back to my grandfather in the window. His face was now become black as Scipio's, and he wore a red turban and a striped cotton gown that was too large for him. And he was sewing. This was monstrous!
I hurried over to the tea-cups, such a twinge did that discovery give me. But they troubled me near as much, and the sea-coal fire held strange images. The fascination in the window was not to be denied, for it stood in line with the houses and the trees. Suddenly there rose up before me a gate. Yes, I knew that gate, and the girlish figure leaning over it. They were in Prince George Street. Behind them was a mass of golden-rose bushes, and out of these came forth a black face under a turban, saying, "Yes, mistis, I'se comin'."
"Mammy—Mammy Lucy!"
The figure in the window stirred, and the sewing fell its ample lap.
"Now Lawd'a mercy!"
I trembled—with a violence unspeakable. Was this but one more of those thousand voices, harsh and gentle, rough and tender, to which I had listened in vain this age past? The black face was hovering over me now, and in an agony of apprehension I reached up and felt its honest roughness. Then I could have wept for joy.
"Mammy Lucy!"
"Yes, Marse Dick?"
"Where—where is Miss Dolly?"
"Now, Marse Dick, doctah done say you not t' talk, suh."
"Where is Miss Dolly?" I cried, seizing her arm.
"Hush, Marse Dick. Miss Dolly'll come terectly, suh. She's lyin' down, suh."
The door creaked, and in my eagerness I tried to lift myself. 'Twas Aunt Lucy's hand that restrained me, and the next face I saw was that of Dorothy's mother. But why did it appear so old and sorrow-lined? And why was the hair now of a whiteness with the lace of the cap? She took my fingers in her own, and asked me anxiously if I felt any pain.
"Where am I, Mrs. Manners?"
"You are in London, Richard."
"In Arlington Street?"
She shook her head sadly. "No, my dear, not in Arlington Street. But you are not to talk."
"And Dorothy? May I not see Dorothy? Aunt Lucy tells me she is here."
Mrs. Manners gave the old mammy a glance of reproof, a signal that alarmed me vastly.
"Oh, tell me, Mrs. Manners! You will speak the truth. Tell me if she is gone away?"
"My dear boy, she is here, and under this very roof. And you shall see her as soon as Dr. Barry will permit. Which will not be soon," she added with a smile, "if you persist in this conduct."
The threat had the desired effect. And Mrs. Manners quietly left the room, and after a while as quietly came back again and sat down by the fire, whispering to Aunt Lucy.
Fate, in some inexplicable way, had carried me into the enemy's country and made me the guest of Mr. Marmaduke Manners. As I lay staring upward, odd little bits of the past came floating to the top of my mind, presently to be pieced together. The injuries Mr. Marmaduke had done me were the first to collect, since I was searching for the cause of my resentment against him. The incidents arrived haphazard as magic lanthorn views, but very vivid. His denial of me before Mr. Dix, and his treachery at Vauxhall, when he had sent me to be murdered. Next I felt myself clutching the skin over his ribs in Arlington Street, when I had flung him across the room in his yellow night-gown. That brought me to the most painful scene of my life, when I had parted with Dorothy at the top of the stairs. Afterward followed scraps of the years at Gordon's Pride, and on top of them the talk with McAndrews. Here was the secret I sought. The crash had come. And they were no longer in Mayfair, but must have taken a house in some poorer part of London. This thought cast me down tremendously.
And Dorothy! Had time changed her? 'Twas with that query on my lips I fell asleep, to dream of the sun shining down on Carvel Hall and Wilmot House; of Aunt Hester and Aunt Lucy, and a lass and a lad romping through pleasant fields and gardens.
When I awoke it was broad day once more. A gentleman sat on the edge of my bed. He had a queer, short face, ruddy as the harvest moon, and he smiled good-humouredly when I opened my eyes.
"I bid you good morning, Mr. Carvel, for the first time since I have made your acquaintance," said he. "And how do you feel, sir?"
"I have never felt better in my life," I replied, which was the whole truth.
"Well, vastly well," says he, laughing, "prodigious well for a young man who has as many holes in him as have you. Do you hear him, Mrs. Manners?"
At that last word, I popped up to look about the room, and the doctor caught hold of me with ludicrous haste. A pain shot through my body.
"Avast, avast, my hearty," cries he. "'Tis a miracle you can speak, let alone carry your bed and walk for a while yet." And he turned to Dorothy's mother, whom I beheld smiling at me. "You will give him the physic, ma'am, at the hours I have chosen. Egad, I begin to think we shall come through.
"But pray remember, ma'am, if he talks, you are to put a wad in his mouth."
"He shall have no opportunity to talk, Dr. Barry," said Mrs. Manners.
"Save for a favour I have to ask you, doctor," I cried.
"'Od's bodkins! Already, sir? And what may that be?"
"That you will allow me to see Miss Manners."
He shook with laughter, and then winked at me very roguishly.
"Oh!" says he, "and faith, I should be worse than cruel. First she comes imploring me to see you, and so prettily that a man of oak could not refuse her. And now it is you begging to see her. Had your eyes been opened, sir, you might have had many a glimpse of Miss Dolly these three weeks past."
"What! She has been watching with me?" I asked, in a rapture not to be expressed.
"'Od's, but those are secrets. And the medical profession is close-mouthed, Mr. Carvel. So you want to see her? No," cries he, "'tis not needful to swear it on the Evangels. And I let her come in, will you give me your honour as a gentleman not to speak more than two words to her?"
"I promise anything, and you will not deny me looking at her," said I.
He shook again, all over. "You rascal! You sad dog, sir! No, sir, faith, you must shut your eyes. Eh, madam, must he not shut his eyes?"
"They were playmates, doctor," answers Mrs. Manners. She was laughing a little, too.
"Well, she shall come in. But remember that I shall have my ear to the keyhole, and you go beyond your promise, out she's whisked. So I caution you not to spend rashly those two words, sir."
And he followed Mrs. Manners out of the room, frowning and shaking his fist at me in mock fierceness. I would have died for the man. For a space—a prodigious long space—I lay very still, my heart bumping like a gun-carriage broke loose, and my eyes riveted on the crack of the door. Then I caught the sound of a light footstep, the knob turned, and joy poured into my soul with the sweep of a Fundy tide.
"Dorothy!" I cried. "Dorothy!"
She put her finger to her lips.
"There, sir," said she, "now you have spoken them both at once!"
She closed the door softly behind her, and stood looking down upon me with such a wondrous love-light in her eyes as no man may describe. My fancy had not lifted me within its compass, my dreams even had not imagined it. And the fire from which it sprang does not burn in humbler souls. So she stood gazing, those lips which once had been the seat of pride now parted in a smile of infinite tenderness. But her head she still held high, and her body straight. Down the front of her dress fell a tucked apron of the whitest linen, and in her hand was a cup of steaming broth.
"You are to take this, Richard," she commanded. And added, with a touch of her old mischief, "Mind, sir, if I hear a sound out of you, I am to disappear like the fairy godmother."
I knew full well she meant it, and the terror of losing her kept me silent. She put down the cup, placed another pillow behind my head with a marvellous deftness, and then began feeding me in dainty spoonfuls something which was surely nectar. And mine eyes, too, had their feast. Never before had I seen my lady in this gentle guise, this task of nursing the sick, which her doing raised to a queenly art.
Her face had changed some. Years of trial unknown to me had left an ennobling mark upon her features, increasing their power an hundred fold. And the levity of girlish years was gone. How I burned to question her! But her lips were now tight closed, her glance now and anon seeking mine, and then falling with an exquisite droop to the coverlet. For the old archness, at least, would never be eradicated. Presently, after she had taken the cup and smoothed my pillow, I reached out for her hand. It was a boldness of which I had not believed myself capable; but she did not resist, and even, as I thought, pressed my fingers with her own slender ones, the red of our Maryland holly blushing in her cheeks. And what need of words, indeed! Our thoughts, too, flew coursing hand in hand through primrose paths, and the angels themselves were not to be envied.
A master might picture my happiness, waking and sleeping, through the short winter days that came and went like flashes of gray light. The memory of them is that of a figure tall and lithe, a little more rounded than of yore, and a chiselled face softened by a power that is one of the world's mysteries. Dorothy had looked the lady in rags, and housewife's cap and apron became her as well as silks or brocades. When for any reason she was absent from my side, I moped, to the quiet amusement of Mrs. Manners and the more boisterous delight of Aunt Lucy, who took her turn sewing in the window. I was near to forgetting the use of words, until at length, one rare morning when the sun poured in, the jolly doctor dressed my wounds with more despatch than common, and vouchsafed that I might talk awhile that day.
"Oh!" cries he, putting me as ever to confusion, "but I have a guess whom my gentleman will be wishing to talk with. But I'll warrant, sir, you have said a deal more than I have any notion of without opening your lips."
And he went away, intolerably pleased with his joke.
Alas for the perversity of maiden natures! It was not my dear nurse who brought my broth that morning, but Mrs. Manners herself. She smiled at my fallen face, and took a chair at my bedside.
"Now, my dear boy," she said, "you may ask what questions you choose, and
I will tell you very briefly how you have come here."
"I have been thinking, Mrs. Manners," I replied, "that if it were known that you harboured one of John Paul Jones's officers in London, very serious trouble might follow for you."
I thought her brow clouded a little.
"No one knows of it, Richard, or is likely to. Dr. Barry, like so many in England, is a good Whig and friend to America. And you are in a part of London far removed from Mayfair." She hesitated, and then continued in a voice that strove to be lighter: "This little house is in Charlotte Street, Mary-le-Bone, for the war has made all of us suffer some. And we are more fortunate than many, for we are very comfortable here, and though I say it, happier than in Arlington Street. And the best of our friends are still faithful. Mr. Fox, with all his greatness, has never deserted us, nor my Lord Comyn. Indeed, we owe them much more than I can tell you of now," she said, and sighed. "They are here every day of the world to inquire for you, and it was his Lordship brought you out of Holland."
And so I had reason once more to bless this stanch friend!
"Out of Holland?" I cried.
"Yes. One morning as we sat down to breakfast, Mr. Ripley's clerk brought in a letter for Dorothy. But I must say first that Mr. Dulany, who is in London, told us that you were with John Paul Jones. You can have no conception, Richard, of the fear and hatred that name has aroused in England. Insurance rates have gone up past belief, and the King's ships are cruising in every direction after the traitor and pirate, as they call him. We have prayed daily for your safety, and Dorothy—well, here is the letter she received. It had been opened by the inspector, and allowed to pass. And it is to be kept as a curiosity." She drew it from the pocket of her apron and began to read.
"THE TEXEL, October 3, 1779
"MY DEAR Miss DOROTHY: I would not be thought to flutter y'r Gentle Bosom with Needless Alarms, nor do I believe I have misjudged y'r Warm & Generous Nature when I write you that One who is held very High in y'r Esteem lies Exceeding Ill at this Place, who might by Tender Nursing regain his Health. I seize this Opportunity to say, my dear Lady, that I have ever held my too Brief Acquaintance with you in London as one of the Sacred Associations of my Life. From the Little I saw of you then I feel Sure that this Appeal will not pass in Vain. I remain y'r most Humble and Devoted Admirer,
"JAMES ORCHARDSON."
"And she knew it was from Commodore Jones?" I asked, in astonishment.
"My dear," replied Mrs. Manners, with a quiet smile, "we women have a keener instinct than men—though I believe your commodore has a woman's intuition. Yes, Dorothy knew. And I shall never forget the fright she gave me as she rose from the table and handed me the sheet to read, crying but the one word. She sent off to Brook Street for Lord Comyn, who came at once, and, in half an hour the dear fellow was set out for Dover. He waited for nothing, since war with Holland was looked for at any day. And his Lordship himself will tell you about that rescue. Within the week he had brought you to us. Your skull had been trepanned, you had this great hole in your thigh, and your heart was beating but slowly. By Mr. Fox's advice we sent for Dr. Barry, who is a skilled surgeon, and a discreet man despite his manner. And you have been here for better than three weeks, Richard, hanging between life and death."
"And I owe my life to you and to Dorothy," I said.
"To Lord Comyn and Dr. Barry, rather," she replied quickly. "We have done little but keep the life they saved. And I thank God it was given me to do it for the son of your mother and father."
Something of the debt I owed them was forced upon me.
They were poor, doubtless driven to make ends meet, and yet they had taken me in, called upon near the undivided services of an able surgeon, and worn themselves out with nursing me. Nor did I forget the risk they ran with such a guest. For the first time in many years my heart relented toward Mr. Marmaduke. For their sakes I forgave him over and over what I had suffered, and my treatment of him lay like a weight upon me. And how was I to repay them? They needed the money I had cost them, of that I was sure. After the sums I had expended to aid the commodore with the 'Ranger' and the 'Bon homme Richard', I had scarce a farthing to my name. With such leaden reflections was I occupied when I heard Mrs. Manners speaking to me.
"Richard, I have some news for you which the doctor thinks you can bear to-day. Mr. Dulany, who is exiled like the rest of us, brought them. It is a great happiness to be able to tell you, my dear, that you are now the master of Carvel Hall, and like to stay so."
The tears stole into her eyes as she spoke. And the enormity of those tidings, coming as they did on the top of my dejection, benumbed me. All they meant was yet far away from my grasp, but the one supreme result that was first up to me brought me near to fainting in my weakness.
"I would not raise your hopes unduly, Richard," the good lady was saying, "but the best informed here seem to think that England cannot push the war much farther. If the Colonies win, you are secure in your title."
"But how is it come about, Mrs. Manners?" I demanded, with my first breath.
"You doubtless have heard that before the Declaration was signed at
Philadelphia your Uncle Grafton went to the committee at Annapolis and
contributed to the patriot cause, and took very promptly the oath of the
Associated Freemen of Maryland, thus forsaking the loyalist party—"
"Yes, yes," I interrupted, "I heard of it when I was on the Cabot. He thought his property in danger."
"Just so," said Mrs. Manners, laughing; "he became the best and most exemplary of patriots, even as he had been the best of Tories. He sent wheat and money to the army, and went about bemoaning that his only son fought under the English flag. But very little fighting has Philip done, my dear. Well, when the big British fleet sailed up the bay in '77, your precious uncle made the first false step in his long career of rascality. He began to correspond with the British at Philadelphia, and one of his letters was captured near the Head of Elk. A squad was sent to the Kent estate, where he had been living, to arrest him, but he made his escape to New York. And his lands were at once confiscated by the state."
"'Then they belong to the state," I said, with misgiving.
"Not so fast, Richard. At the last session of the Maryland Legislature a bill was introduced, through the influence of Mr. Bordley and others, to restore them to you, their rightful owner. And insomuch as you were even then serving the country faithfully and bravely, and had a clean and honourable record of service, the whole of the lands were given to you. And now, my dear, you have had excitement enough for one day."
CHAPTER LIV
MORE DISCOVERIES
All that morning I pondered over the devious lane of my life, which had led up to so fair a garden. And one thing above all kept turning and turning in my head, until I thought I should die of waiting for its fulfilment. Now was I free to ask Dorothy to marry me, to promise her the ease and comfort that had once been hers, should God bring us safe back to Maryland. The change in her was little less than a marvel to me, when I remembered the wilful miss who had come to London bent upon pleasure alone. Truly, she was of that rare metal which refines, and then outshines all others. And there was much I could not understand. A miracle had saved her from the Duke of Chartersea, but why she had refused so many great men and good was beyond my comprehension. Not a glimpse of her did I get that day, though my eyes wandered little from the knob of the door. And even from Aunt Lucy no satisfaction was to be had as to the cause of her absence.
"'Clare to goodness, Marse Dick," said she, with great solemnity, "'clare to goodness, I'se nursed Miss Dolly since she was dat high, and neber one minnit obher life is I knowed what de Chile gwine t' do de next. She ain't neber yit done what I calcelated on."
The next morning, after the doctor had dressed my wounds and bantered me to his heart's content, enters Mr. Marmaduke Manners. I was prodigiously struck by the change in him, and pitied him then near as much as I had once despised him. He was arrayed in finery, as of old. But the finery was some thing shabby; the lace was frayed at the edges, there was a neat but obvious patch in his small-clothes, and two more in his coat. His air was what distressed me most of all, being that of a man who spends his days seeking favours and getting none. I had seen too many of the type not to know the sign of it.
He ran forward and gave me his hand, which I grasped as heartily as my weakness would permit.
"They would not let me see you until to-day, my dear Richard," he exclaimed. "I bid you welcome to what is left of our home. 'Tis not Arlington Street, my lad."
"But more of a home than was that grander house, Mr. Manners."
He sighed heavily.
"Alas!" said he, "poverty is a bitter draught, and we have drunk deep of it since last we beheld you. My great friends know me no more, and will not take my note for a shilling. They do not remember the dinners and suppers I gave them. Faith, this war has brought nothing but misery, and how we are to get through it, God knows!"
Now I understood it was not the war, but Mr. Marmaduke himself, which had carried his family to this pass. And some of my old resentment rekindled.
"I know that I have brought you great additional anxiety and expense, Mr. Manners," I answered somewhat testily. "The care I have been to Mrs. Manners and Dorothy I may never repay. But it gives me pleasure to feel, sir, that I am in a position to reimburse you, and likewise to loan you something until your lands begin to pay again."
"There the Carvel speaks," he cried, "and the true son of our generous province. You can have no conception of the misfortunes come to me out of this quarrel. The mortgages on my Western Shore tobacco lands are foreclosed, and Wilmot House itself is all but gone. You well know, of course, that I would do the same by you, Richard."
I smiled, but more in sadness than amusement. Hardship had only degraded Mr. Marmaduke the more, and even in trouble his memory was convenient as is that of most people in prosperity. I was of no mind to jog his recollection. But I wanted badly to ask about his Grace. Where had my fine nobleman been at the critical point of his friend's misfortunes? For I had had many a wakeful night over that same query since my talk with McAndrews.
"So you have come to your own again, Richard, my lad," said Mr. Marmaduke, breaking in upon my train. "I have felt for you deeply, and talked many a night with Margaret and Dorothy over the wrong done you. Between you and me," he whispered, "that uncle of yours is an arrant knave, whom the patriots have served with justice. To speak truth, sir, I begin myself to have a little leaning to that cause which you have so bravely espoused."
This time I was close to laughing outright. But he was far too serious to remark my mirth. He commenced once more, with an ahem, which gave me a better inkling than frankness of what bothered him.
"You will have an agent here, Richard, I take it," said he. "Your grandfather had one. Ahem! Doubtless this agent will advance you all you shall have need of, when you are well enough to see him. Fact is, he might come here."
"You forget, Mr. Manners, that I am a pirate and an outlaw, and that you are the shielder of such."
That thought shook the pinch of Holland he held all over him. But he recovered.
"My dear Richard, men of business are of no faction and of no nation. Their motto is discretion. And to obtain the factorship in London of a like estate to yours one of them would wear a plaster over his mouth, I'll warrant you. You have but to summon one of the rascals, promise him a bit of war interest, and he will leave you as much as you desire, and nothing spoken."
"To talk plainly, Mr. Manners," I replied, "I think 'twould be the height of folly to resort to such means. When I am better, we shall see what can be done."
His face plainly showed his disappointment.
"To be sure," he said, in a whining tone, "I had forgotten your friends, Lord Comyn and Mr. Fox. They may do something for you, now you own your estate. My dear sir, I dislike to say aught against any man. Mrs. Manners will tell you of their kindness to us, but I vow I have not been able to see it. With all the money at their command they will not loan me a penny in my pressing need. And I shame to say it, my own daughter prevents me from obtaining the money to keep us out of the Fleet. I know she has spoken to Dulany. Think of it, Richard, my own daughter, upon whom I lavished all when I had it, who might have made a score of grand matches when I gave her the opportunity, and now we had all been rolling in wealth. I'll be sworn I don't comprehend her, nor her mother either, who abets her. For they prefer to cook Maryland dainties for a living, to put in the hands of the footmen of the ladies whose houses they once visited. And how much of that money do you suppose I get, sir? Will you believe it that I—" (he was shrieking now), "that I, the man of the family, am allowed only my simple meals, a farthing for snuff, and not a groat for chaise-hire? At my age I am obliged to walk to and from their lordships' side entrances in patched clothes, egad, when a new suit might obtain us a handsome year's income!"
I turned my face to the wall, completely overcome, and the tears scalding in my eyes, at the thought of Dorothy and her mother bending over the stove cooking delicacies for their livelihood, and watching at my bedside night and day despite their weariness of body. And not a word out of these noble women of their sacrifice, nor of the shame and trouble and labour of their lives, who always had been used to every luxury! Nothing but cheer had they brought to the sickroom, and not a sign of their poverty and hardship, for they knew that their broths and biscuit and jellies must have choked me. No. It remained for this contemptible cur of a husband and father to open my eyes.
He had risen when I had brought myself to look at him. And as I hope for heaven he took my emotion for pity of himself.
"I have worried you enough for one day with my troubles, my lad," said he. "But they are very hard to bear, and once in a while it does me good to speak of them."
I did not trust myself to reply.
It was Aunt Lucy who spent the morning with me, and Mrs. Manners brought my dinner. I observed a questioning glance as she entered, which I took for an attempt to read whether Mr. Marmaduke had spoke more than he ought. But I would have bitten off my tongue rather than tell her of my discoveries, though perhaps my voice may have betrayed an added concern. She stayed to talk on the progress of the war, relating the gallant storming of Stony Point by Mad Anthony in July, and the latest Tory insurrection on our own Eastern Shore. She passed from these matters to a discussion of General Washington's new policy of the defensive, for Mrs. Manners had always been at heart a patriot. And whilst I lay listening with a deep interest, in comes my lady herself. So was it ever, when you least expected her, even as Mammy had said. She curtseyed very prettily, with her chin tilted back and her cheeks red, and asked me how I did.
"And where have you been these days gone, Miss Will-o'the-Wisp, since the doctor has given me back my tongue?" I cried.
"I like you better when you are asleep," says she. "For then you are sometimes witty, though I doubt not the wit is other people's."
So I saw that she had tricked me, and taken her watch at night. For I slept like a trooper after a day's forage. As to what I might have said in my dreams—that thought made me red as an apple.
"Dorothy, Dorothy," says her mother, smiling, "you would provoke a saint."
"Which would be better fun than teasing a sinner," replies the minx, with a little face at me. "Mr. Carvel, a gentleman craves the honour of an audience from your Excellency."
"A gentleman!"
"Even so. He presents a warrant from your Excellency's physician."
With that she disappeared, Mrs. Manners going after her. And who should come bursting in at the door but my Lord Comyn? He made one rush at me, and despite my weakness bestowed upon me a bear's hug.
"Oh, Richard," cried he, when he had released me, "I give you my oath that I never hoped to see you rise from that bed when we laid you there. But they say that love works wondrous cures, and, egad, I believe that now. 'Tis love is curing you, my lad."
He held me off at arm's length, the old-time affection beaming from his handsome face.
"What am I to say to you, Jack?" I answered. And my voice was all but gone, for the sight of him revived the memory of every separate debt of the legion I owed him. "How am I to piece words enough together to thank you for this supreme act of charity?"
"'Od's, you may thank your own devilish thick head," said my Lord Comyn. "I should never have bothered my own about you were it not for her. Had it not been for her happiness do you imagine I would have picked you out of that crew of half-dead pirates in the Texel fort?"
I must needs brush my cheek, then, with the sleeve of my night-rail.
"And will you give me some account of this last prodigious turn you have done her?" I said.
He laughed, and pinched me playfully.
"Now are you coming to your senses," said he. "There was cursed little to the enterprise, Richard, and that's the truth. I got down to Dover, and persuaded the master of a schooner to carry me to Rotterdam. That was not so difficult, since your Terror of the Seas was locked up safe enough in the Texel. In Rotterdam I had a travelling-chaise stripped, and set off at the devil's pace for the Texel. You must know that the whole Dutch nation was in an uproar—as much of an uproar as those boors ever reach—over the arrival of your infamous squadron. The Court Party and our ambassador were for having you kicked out, and the Republicans for making you at home. I heard that their High Mightinesses had given Paul Jones the use of the Texel fort for his wounded and his prisoners, and thither I ran. And I was even cursing the French sentry at the drawbridge in his own tongue, when up comes your commodore himself. You may quarter me if wasn't knocked off my feet when I recognized the identical peacock of a sea-captain we had pulled out of Castle Yard along with you, and offered a commission in the Royal Navy."
"Dolly hadn't told you?"
"Dolly tell me!" exclaimed his Lordship, scornfully. "She was in a state to tell me nothing the morning I left, save only to bring you to England alive, and repeat it over and over. But to return to your captain,—he, too, was taken all aback. But presently he whipt out my name, and I his, without the Jones. And when I told him my errand, he wept on my neck, and said he had obtained unlimited leave of absence for you from the Paris commissioners. He took me up into a private room in the fort, where you were; and the surgeon, who was there at the time, said that your chances were as slim as any man's he had ever seen. Faith, you looked it, my lad. At sight of your face I took one big gulp, for I had no notion of getting you back to her. And rather than come without you, and look into her eyes, I would have drowned myself in the Straits of Dover.
"Despite the host of troubles he had on his hands, your commodore himself came with us to Rotterdam. Now I protest I love that man, who has more humanity in him than most of the virtuous people in England who call him hard names. If you could have seen him leaning over you, and speaking to you, and feeling every minute for your heart-beats, egad, you would have cried. And when I took you off to the schooner, he gave me an hundred directions how to care for you, and then his sorrow bowled him all in a heap."
"And is the commodore still at the Texel?" I asked, after a space.
"Ay, that he is, with our English cruisers thick as gulls outside' waiting for a dead fish. But he has spurned the French commission they have offered him, saying that of the Congress is good enough for him. And he declares openly that when he gets ready he will sail out in the Alliance under the Stars and Stripes. And for this I honour him," added he, "and Charles honours him, and so must all Englishmen honour him when they come to their senses. And by Gads life, I believe he will get clear, for he is a marvel at seamanship."
"I pray with all my heart that he may," said I, fervently.
"God help him if they catch him!" my Lord exclaimed. "You should see the bloody piratical portraits they are scattering over London."
"Has the risk you ran getting me into England ever occurred to you,
Jack?" I asked, with some curiosity.
"Faith, not until the day after we got back, Richard," says he, "when I met Mr. Attorney General on the street. 'Sdeath, I turned and ran the other way like the devil was after me. For Charles Fox vows that conscience makes cowards of the best of us."
"So that is some of Charles's wisdom!" I cried, and laughed until I was forced to stop from pain.
"Come, my hearty," says Jack, "you owe me nothing for fishing you out of Holland—that is her debt. But I declare that you must one day pay me for saving her for you. What! have I not always sworn that she loved you? Did I not pull you into the coffee-room of the Star and Garter years ago, and tell you that same?"
My face warmed, though I said nothing.
"Oh, you sly dog! I'll warrant there has been many a tender talk just where I'm sitting."
"Not one," said I.
"'Slife, then, what have you been doing," he cries, "seeing her every day and not asking her to marry you, my master of Carvel Hall?"
"Since I am permitted to use my tongue, she has not come near me, save when I slept," I answered ruefully.
"Nor will she, I'll be sworn," says he, shaken with laughter.
"'Ods, have you no invention? Egad, you must feign sleep, and seize her unawares."
I did not inform his Lordship how excellent this plan seemed to me.
"And I possessed the love of such a woman, Richard," he said, in another tone, "I think I should die of happiness. She will never tell you how these weeks past she has scarce left your side. The threats combined of her mother and the doctor, and Charles and me, would not induce her to take any sleep. And time and time have I walked from here to Brook Street without recognizing a step of the way, lifted clear out of myself by the sight of her devotion."
What was my life, indeed, that such a blessing should come into it!
"When the crash came," he continued, "'twas she took command, and 'tis God's pity she had not done so long before. Mr. Marmaduke was pushed to the bottom of the family, where he belongs, and was given only snuff-money. She would give him no opportunity to contract another debt, and even charged Charles and me to loan him nothing. Nor would she receive aught from us, but" (he glanced at me uneasily)—"but she and Mrs. Manners must take to cooking delicacies—"
"Yes, yes, I know," I faltered.
"What! has the puppy told you?" cried he.
I nodded. "He was in here this morning, with his woes."
"And did he speak of the bargain he tried to make with our old friend, his Grace of Chartersea?"
"He tried to sell her again?" I cried, my breath catching. "I have feared as much since I heard of their misfortunes."
"Yes," replied Comyn, "that was the first of it. 'Twas while they were still in Arlington Street, and before Mrs. Manners and Dorothy knew. Mr. Marmaduke goes posting off to Nottinghamshire, and comes back inside the duke's own carriage. And his Grace goes to dine in Arlington Street for the first time in years. Dorothy had wind of the trouble then, Charles having warned her. And not a word would she speak to Chartersea the whole of the dinner, nor look to the right or left of her plate. And when the servants are gone, up gets my lady with a sweep and confronts him.
"'Will your Grace spare me a minute in the drawing-room?' says she.
"He blinked at her in vast astonishment, and pushed back his chair. When she was come to the door, she turns with another sweep on Mr. Marmaduke, who was trotting after.
"'You will please to remain here, father,' she said; 'what I am to say is for his Grace's ear alone.'
"Of what she spoke to the duke I can form only an estimate, Richard," my Lord concluded, "but I'll lay a fortune 'twas greatly to the point. For in a little while Chartersea comes stumbling down the steps. And he has never darkened the door since. And the cream of it is," said Comyn, "that her father gave me this himself, with a face a foot long, for me to sympathize. The little beast has strange bursts of confidence."
"And stranger confidants," I ejaculated, thinking of the morning, and of
Courtenay's letter, long ago.
But the story had made my blood leap again with pride of her. The picture in my mind had followed his every sentence, and even the very words she must have used were ringing in my ears.
Then, as we sat talking in low tones, the door opened, and a hearty voice cried out:
"Now where is this rebel, this traitor? They tell me one lies hid in this house. 'Slife, I must have at him!"
"Mr. Fox!" I exclaimed.
He took my hands in his, and stood regarding me.
"For the convenience of my friends, I was christened Charles," said he.
I stared at him in amazement. He was grown a deal stouter, but my eye was caught and held by the blue coat and buff waistcoat he wore. They were frayed and stained and shabby, yet they seemed all of a piece with some new grandeur come upon the man.
"Is all the world turning virtuous? Is the millennium arrived?" I cried.
He smiled, with his old boyish smile.
"You think me changed some since that morning we drove together to
Holland House—do you remember it after the night at St. Stephen's?"
"Remember it!" I repeated, with emphasis, "I'll warrant I can give you every bit of our talk."
"I have seen many men since, but never have I met your equal for a most damnable frankness, Richard Carvel. Even Jack, here, is not half so blunt and uncompromising. But you took my fancy—God knows why!—that first night I clapped eyes on you in Arlington Street, and I loved you when your simplicity made us that speech at Brooks's Club. So you have not forgotten that morning under the trees, when the dew was on the grass. Faith, I am glad of it. What children we were!" he said, and sighed.
"And yet you were a Junior Lord," I said.
"Which is more than I am now," he answered. "Somehow—you may laugh —somehow I have never been able to shake off the influence of your words, Richard. Your cursed earnestness scared me."
"Scared you?" I cried, in astonishment.
"Just that," said Charles. "Jack will bear witness that I have said so to Dolly a score of times. For I had never imagined such a single character as yours. You know we were all of us rakes at fifteen, to whom everything good in the universe was a joke. And do you recall the teamster we met by the Park, and how he arrested his salute when he saw who it was? At another time I should have laughed over that, but it cut me to have it happen when you were along."
"And I'll lay an hundred guineas to a farthing the fellow would put his head on the block for Charles now," cut in his Lordship, with his hand on Mr. Fox's shoulder. "Behold, O Prophet," he cried, "one who is become the champion of the People he reviled! Behold the friend of Rebellion and 'Lese Majeste', the viper in Britannia's bosom!"
"Oh, have done, Jack," said Mr. Fox, impatiently, "you have no more music in your soul than a cow. Damned little virtue attaches to it, Richard," he went on. "North threw me out, and the king would have nothing to do with me, so I had to pick up with you rebels and traitors."
"You will not believe him, Richard," cried my Lord; "you have only to look at him to see that he lies. Take note of the ragged uniform of the rebel army he carries, and then think of him 'en petite maitre', with his cabriolet and his chestnuts. Egad, he might be as rich as Rigby were it not for those principles which he chooses to deride. And I have seen him reduced to a crown for them. I tell you, Richard," said my Lord, "by espousing your cause Charles is become greater than the King. For he has the hearts of the English people, which George has not, and the allegiance of you Americans, which George will never have. And if you once heard him, in Parliament, you should hear him now, and see the Speaker wagging his wig like a man bewitched, and hear friends and enemies calling out for him to go on whenever he gives the sign of a pause."
This speech of his Lordship's may seem cold in the writing, my dears, and you who did not know him may wonder at it. It had its birth in an admiration few men receive, and which in Charles Fox's devoted coterie was dangerously near to idolatry. During the recital of it Charles walked to the window, and there stood looking out upon the gray prospect, seemingly paying but little attention. But when Comyn had finished, he wheeled on us with a smile.
"Egad, he will be telling you next that I have renounced the devil and all his works, Richard," said he.
"'Oohs, that I will not," his Lordship made haste to declare. "For they were born in him, and will die with him."
"And you, Jack," I asked, "how is it that you are not in arms for the
King, and commanding one of his frigates?"
"Why, it is Charles's fault," said my Lord, smiling. "Were it not for him I should be helping Sir George Collier lay waste to your coast towns."
CHAPTER LV
"THE LOVE OF A MAID FOR A MAN"
The next morning, when Dr. Barry had gone, Mrs. Manners propped me up in bed and left me for a little, so she said. Then who should come in with my breakfast on a tray but my lady herself, looking so fresh and beautiful that she startled me vastly.
"A penny for your thoughts, Richard," she cried. "Why, you are as grave as a screech-owl this brave morning."
"To speak truth, Dolly," said I, "I was wondering how the commodore is to get away from the Texel, with half the British navy lying in wait outside."
"Do not worry your head about that," said she, setting down the tray; "it will be mere child's play to him. Oh but I should like to see your commodore again, and tell him how much I love him.
"I pray that you may have the chance," I replied.
With a marvellous quickness she had tied the napkin beneath my chin, not so much as looking at the knot. Then she stepped to the mantel and took down one of Mr. Wedgwood's cups and dishes, and wiping them with her apron, filled the cup with fragrant tea, which she tendered me with her eyes sparkling.
"Your Excellency is the first to be honoured with this service," says she, with a curtsey.
I was as a man without a tongue, my hunger gone from sheer happiness—and fright. And yet eating the breakfast with a relish because she had made it. She busied herself about the room, dusting here and tidying there, and anon throwing a glance at me to see if I needed anything. My eyes followed her hither and thither. When I had finished, she undid the napkin, and brushed the crumbs from the coverlet.
"You are not going?" I said, with dismay.
"Did you wish anything more, sir?" she asked.
"Oh, Dorothy," I cried, "it is you I want, and you will not come near me."
For an instant she stood irresolute. Then she put down the tray and came over beside me.
"Do you really want me, sir?"
"Dorothy," I began, "I must first tell you that I have some guess at the sacrifice you are making for my sake, and of the trouble and danger which I bring you."
Without more ado she put her hand over my mouth.
"No," she said, reddening, "you shall tell me nothing of the sort."
I seized her hand, however it struggled, and holding it fast, continued:
"And I have learned that you have been watching with me by night, and working by day, when you never should have worked at all. To think that you should be reduced to that, and I not know it!"
Her eyes sought mine for a fleeting second.
"Why, you silly boy, I have made a fortune out of my cookery. And fame, too, for now am I known from Mary-le-bone to Chelsea, while before my name was unheard of out of little Mayfair. Indeed, I would not have missed the experience for a lady-in-waiting-ship. I have learned a deal since I saw you last, sir. I know that the world, like our Continental money, must not be taken for the price that is stamped upon it. And as for the watching with you," said my lady, "that had to be borne with as cheerfully as might be. Since I had sent off for you, I was in duty bound to do my share toward your recovery. I was even going to add that this watching was a pleasure,—our curate says the sense of duty performed is sure to be. But you used to cry out the most terrifying things to frighten me: the pattering of blood and the bumping of bodies on the decks, and the black rivulets that ran and ran and ran and never stopped; and strange, rough commands I could not understand; and the name of your commodore whom you love so much. And often you would repeat over and over: 'I have not yet begun, to fight, I have not yet begun to fight!'"
"Yes, 'twas that he answered when they asked him if he had struck,"
I exclaimed.
"It must have been an awful scene," she said, and her shoulders quivered.
"When you were at your worst you would talk of it, and sometimes of what
happened to you in London, of that ride in Hyde Park, or—or of
Vauxhall," she continued hurriedly. "And when I could bear it no longer,
I would take your hand and call you by name, and often quiet you thus."
"And did I speak of aught else?" I asked eagerly.
"Oh, yes. When you were caliper, it would be of your childhood, of your grandfather and your birthdays, of Captain Clapsaddle, and of Patty and her father."
"And never of Dolly, I suppose."
She turned away her head.
"And never of Dolly?"
"I will tell you what you said once, Richard," she answered, her voice dropping very low. "I was sitting by the window there, and the dawn was coming. And suddenly I heard you cry: 'Patty, when I return will you be my wife?' I got up and came to your side, and you said it again, twice."
The room was very still. And the vision of Patty in the parlour of
Gordon's Pride, knitting my woollen stocking, rose before me.
"Yes," I said at length, "I asked her that the day before I left for the war. God bless her! She has the warmest heart in the world, and the most generous nature. Do you know what her answer was, Dorothy?"
"No." 'Twas only her lips moving that formed the word. She was twisting absently the tassel of the bed curtain.
"She asked me if I loved her."
My lady glanced up with a start, then looked me searchingly through and through.
"And you?" she said, in the same inaudible way.
"I could answer nothing. 'Twas because of her father's dying wish I asked her, and she guessed that same. I would not tell her a lie, for only the one woman lives whom I love, and whom I have loved ever since we were children together among the strawberries. Need I say that that woman is you, Dorothy? I loved you before we sailed to Carvel Hall between my grandfather's knees, and I will love you till death claims me."
Then it seemed as if my heart had stopped beating. But the snowy apron upon her breast fluttered like a sail stirring in the wind, her head was high, and her eyes were far away. Even my voice sounded in the distance as I continued:
"Will you be the mistress of Carvel Hall, Dorothy? Hallowed is the day that I can ask it."
What of this earth may excel in sweetness the surrender of that proud and noble nature! And her words, my dears, shall be sacred to you, too, who are descended from her. She bent forward a little, those deep blue eyes gazing full into my own with a fondness to make me tremble.
"Dear Richard," she said, "I believe I have loved you always. If I have been wilful and wicked, I have suffered more than you know—even as I have made you suffer."
"And now our suffering is over, Dorothy."
"Oh, don't say that, my dear!" she cried, "but let us rather make a prayer to God."
Down she got on her knees close beside me, and I took both of her hands between my own. But presently I sought for a riband that was around my neck, and drew out a locket. Within it were pressed those lilies of the valley I had picked for her long years gone by on my birthday. And she smiled, though the tears shone like dewdrops on her lashes.
"When Jack brought you to us for dead, we did not take it off, dear," she said gently. "I wept with sorrow and joy at sight of it, for I remembered you as you were when you picked those flowers, and how lightly I had thought of leaving you as I wound them into my hair. And then, when I had gone aboard the 'Annapolis', I knew all at once that I would have given anything to stay, and I thought my heart would break when we left the Severn cliffs behind. But that, sir, has been a secret until this day," she added, smiling archly through her tears.
She took out one of the withered flowers, and then as caressingly put it back beside the others, and closed the locket.
"I forbade Dr. Barry to take it off, Richard, when you lay so white and still. I knew then that you had been true to me, despite what I had heard. And if you were to die—" her voice broke a little as she passed her hand over my brow, "if you were to die, my single comfort would have been that you wore it then."
"And you heard rumours of me, Dorothy?"
"George Worthington and others told me how ably you managed Mr. Swain's affairs, and that you had become of some weight with the thinking men of the province. Richard, I was proud to think that you had the courage to laugh at disaster and to become a factor. I believe," she said shyly, "twas that put the cooking into my head, and gave me courage. And when I heard that Patty was to marry you, Heaven is my witness that I tried to be reconciled and think it for the best. Through my own fault I had lost you, and I knew well she would make you a better wife than I."
"And you would not even let Jack speak for me!"
"Dear Jack!" she cried; "were it not for Jack we should not be here,
Richard."
"Indeed, Dolly, two people could scarce fall deeper in debt to another than are you and I to my Lord Viscount," I answered, with feeling. "His honesty and loyalty to us both saved you for me at the very outset."
"Yes," she replied thoughtfully, "I believed you dead. And I should have married him, I think. For Dr. Courtenay had sent me that piece from the Gazette telling of the duel between you over Patty Swain—"
"Dr. Courtenay sent you that!" I interrupted.
"I was a wild young creature then, my dear, with little beside vanity under my cap. And the notion that you could admire and love any girl but me was beyond endurance. Then his Lordship arrived in England, brimming with praise of you, to assure me that the affair was not about Patty at all. This was far from making me satisfied that you were not in love with her, and I may say now that I was miserable. Then, as we were setting out for Castle Howard, came the news of your death on the road to Upper Marlboro. I could not go a step. Poor Jack, he was very honest when he proposed," she added, with a sigh.
"He loved you, Dorothy."
She did not hear me, so deep was she in thought.
"'Twas he who gave me news of you, when I was starving at Gordon's."
"And I—I starved, too, Richard," she answered softly. "Dearest, I slid very wrong. There are some matters that must be spoken of between us, whatever the pain they give. And my heart aches now when I think of that dark day in Arlington Street when I gave you the locket, and you went out of my life. I knew that I had done wrong then, Richard, as soon as ever the door closed behind you. I should have gone with you, for better for worse, for richer for poorer. I should have run after you in the rain and thrown myself at your feet. And that would have been best for my father and for me."
She covered her face with her hands, and her words were stifled by a sob.
"Dorothy, Dorothy!" I cried, drawing her to me. "Another time. Not now, when we are so happy."
"Now, and never again, dear," she said. "Yes, I saw and heard all that passed in the drawing-room. And I did not blame, but praised you for it. I have never spoken a word beyond necessity to my father since. God forgive me!" she cried, "but I have despised him from that hour. When I knew that he had plotted to sell me to that detestable brute, working upon me to save his honour, of which he has not the smallest spark; that he had recognized and denied you, friendless before our house, and sent you into the darkness at Vauxhall to be murdered, then he was no father of mine. I would that you might know what my mother has suffered from such a man, Richard."
"My dear, I have often pitied her from my soul," I said.
"And now I shall tell you something of the story of the Duke of Chartersea," she went on, and I felt her tremble as she spoke that name. "I think of all we have Lord Comyn to thank for, next to saving your life twice, was his telling you of the danger I ran. And, Richard, after refusing you that day on the balcony over the Park, I had no hope left. You may thank your own nobility and courage that you remained in London after that. Richard," she said, "do you recall my asking you in the coach, on the way from Castle Yard, for the exact day you met my father in Arlington Street?"
"Yes," I replied, in some excitement, "yes." For I was at last to come at the bottom of this affair.
"The duke had made a formal offer for me when first we came to London. I think my father wrote of that to Dr. Courtenay." (I smiled at the recollection, now.) "Then his Grace persisted in following me everywhere, and vowed publicly that he would marry me. I ordered him from our house, since my father would not. At last one afternoon he came back to dine with us, insolent to excess. I left the table. He sat with my father two hours or more, drinking and singing, and giving orders to the servants. I shut my door, that I might not hear. After a while my mother came up to me, crying, saying that Mr. Manners would be branded with dishonour and I did not consent to marry his Grace,—a most terrible dishonour, of which she could not speak. That the duke had given my father a month to win my consent. And that month was up, Richard, the very afternoon you appeared with Mr. Dix in Arlington Street."
"And you agreed to marry him, Dolly?" I asked breathlessly.
"By the grace of Heaven, I did not," she answered quickly. "The utmost that I would consent to was a two months' respite, promising to give my hand to no one in that interval. And so I was forced to refuse you, Richard. You must have seen even then that I loved you, dear, though I was so cruel when you spoke of saving me from his Grace. I could not bear to think that you knew of any stain upon our family. I think—I think I would rather have died, or have married him. That day I threw Chartersea's presents out of the window, but my father made the servants gather them all which escaped breaking, and put them in the drawing-room. Then I fell ill."
She was silent, I clinging to her, and shuddering to think how near I had been to losing her.
"It was Jack who came to cheer me," I said presently.
"His faith in you was never shaken, sweetheart. But I went to Newmarket and Ampthill, and behaved like the ingrate I was. I richly deserved the scolding he had for me when I got back to town, which sent me running to Arlington Street. There I met Dr. James coming out, who asked me if I was Mr. Carvel, and told me that you had called my name."
"And, you goose, you never suspected," says she, smiling.
"How was I to suspect that you loved a provincial booby like me, when you had the choice of so many accomplished gentlemen with titles and estates?"
"How were you to perceive, indeed, that you had qualities which they lacked?"
"And you were forever vowing that you would marry a nobleman, my lady. For you said to me once that I should call you so, and ride in the coach with the coroneted panels when I came home on a visit."
"And I said, too," retorted Dolly, with mischief in her eyes, "do you remember what I told you the New Year's eve when we sat out by the sundial at Carvel Hall, when I was so proud of having fixed Dr. Courtenay's attentions? I said that I should never marry you, sir, who was so rough and masterful, and thrashed every lad that did not agree with you."
"Alas, so you did, and a deal more!" I exclaimed.
With that she broke away from me and, getting to her feet, made me a low curtsey with the grace that was hers alone.
"You are my Lord and my King, sir," she said, "and my rough Patriot squire, all in one."
"Are you happy, Dolly?" I asked, tremulous from my own joy.
"I have never been happy in all my life before, Richard dear," she said.
In truth, she was a being transformed, and more wondrous fair than ever. And even then I pictured her in the brave gowns and jewels I would buy her when times were mended, when our dear country would be free. All at once, ere I could draw a breath, she had stooped and kissed me ever so lightly on the forehead.
The door opened upon Aunt Lucy. She had but to look at us, and her black face beamed at our blushes. My lady threw her arms about her neck, and hid her face in the ample bosom.
"Now praise de good Lawd!" cried Mammy; "I knowed it dis longest time.
What's I done tole you, Miss Dolly? What's I done tole you, honey?"
But my lady flew from the room. Presently I heard the spinet playing softly, and the words of that air came out of my heart from long ago.
"Love me little, love me long,
Is the burthen of my song.
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
Still, I would not have thee cold,
Nor too backward, nor too bold.
Love that lasteth till 'tis old
Fadeth not in haste."