Perchance, my dears, if John Paul and I had not been cast by accident
in a debtor's prison, this great man might never have bestowed upon
our country those glorious services which contributed so largely to
its liberty. And I might never have comprehended that the American
Revolution was brought on and fought by a headstrong king, backed by
unscrupulous followers who held wealth above patriotism. It is often
difficult to lay finger upon the causes which change the drift of a
man's opinions, and so I never wholly knew why John Paul abandoned his
deep-rooted purpose to obtain advancement in London by grace of the
accomplishments he had laboured so hard to attain. But I believe the
beginning was at the meeting at Windsor with the slim and cynical
gentleman who had treated him to something between patronage and
contempt. Then my experience with Mr. Manners had so embedded itself
in his mind that he could never speak of it but with impatience and
disgust. And, lastly, the bailiff's hotel contained many born gentlemen
who had been left here to rot out the rest of their dreary lives by
friends who were still in power and opulence. More than once when I
climbed to our garret I found the captain seated on the three-legged
chair, with his head between his hands, sunk in reflection.
“You were right, Richard,” said he; “your great world is a hard world
for those in the shadow of it. I see now that it must not be entered
from below, but from the cabin window. A man may climb around it, lad,
and when he is above may scourge it.”
“And you will scourge it, captain!” I had no doubt of his ability one
day to do it.
“Ay, and snap my fingers at it. 'Tis a pretty organization, this
society, which kicks the man who falls to the dogs. None of your fine
gentlemen for me!”
And he would descend to talk politics with our fellow-guests. We should
have been unhappy indeed had it not been for this pastime. It seems
to me strange that these debtors took such a keen interest in outside
affairs, even tho' it was a time of great agitation. We read with
eagerness the cast-off newspapers of the first-floor gentlemen. One poor
devil who had waddled (failed) in Change Alley had collected under his
mattress the letters of Junius, then selling the Public Advertiser as
few publications had ever sold before. John Paul devoured these attacks
upon his Majesty and his ministry in a single afternoon, and ere long
he had on the tip of his tongue the name and value of every man in
Parliament and out of it. He learned, almost by heart, the history of
the astonishing fight made by Mr. Wilkes for the liberties of England,
and speedily was as good a Whig and a better than the member from
Middlesex himself.
The most of our companions were Tories, for, odd as it may appear, they
retained their principles even in Castle Yard. And in those days to be a
Tory was to be the friend of the King, and to be the friend of the King
was to have some hope of advancement and reward at his hand. They had
none. The captain joined forces with the speculator from the Alley, who
had hitherto contended against mighty odds, and together they bore down
upon the enemy--ay, and rooted him, too. For John Paul had an air about
him and a natural gift of oratory to command attention, and shortly the
dining room after dinner became the scene of such contests as to call
up in the minds of the old stagers a field night in the good days of
Mr. Pitt and the second George. The bailiff often sat by the door, an
interested spectator, and the macaroni lodgers condescended to come
downstairs and listen. The captain attained to fame in our little
world from his maiden address, in which he very shrewdly separated
the political character of Mr. Wilkes from his character as a private
gentleman, and so refuted a charge of profligacy against the people's
champion.
Altho' I never had sufficient confidence in my powers to join in these
discussions, I followed them zealously, especially when they touched
American questions, as they frequently did. This subject of the wrongs
of the colonies was the only one I could ever be got to study at King
William's School, and I believe that my intimate knowledge of it gave
the captain a surprise. He fell into the habit of seating himself on
the edge of my bed after we had retired for the night, and would hold
me talking until the small hours upon the injustice of taxing a people
without their consent, and upon the multitude of measures of coercion
which the King had pressed upon us to punish our resistance. He
declaimed so loudly against the tyranny of quartering troops upon a
peaceable state that our exhausted neighbours were driven to pounding
their walls and ceilings for peace. The news of the Boston massacre had
not then reached England.
I was not, therefore, wholly taken by surprise when he said to me one
night:
“I am resolved to try my fortune in America, lad. That is the land for
such as I, where a man may stand upon his own merits.”
“Indeed, we shall go together, captain,” I answered heartily, “if we are
ever free of this cursed house. And you shall taste of our hospitality
at Carvel Hall, and choose that career which pleases you. Faith, I could
point you a dozen examples in Annapolis of men who have made their way
without influence. But you shall have influence,” I cried, glowing
at the notion of rewarding him; “you shall experience Mr. Carvel's
gratitude and mine. You shall have the best of our ships, and you will.”
He was a man to take fire easily, and embraced me. And, strange to say,
neither he nor I saw the humour, nor the pity, of the situation. How
many another would long before have become sceptical of my promises! And
justly. For I had led him to London, spent all his savings, and then
got him into a miserable prison, and yet he had faith remaining, and to
spare!
It occurred to me to notify Mr. Dix of my residence in Castle Yard,
not from any hope that he would turn his hand to my rescue, but that
he might know where to find me if he heard from Maryland. And I penned
another letter to Mr. Carvel, but a feeling I took no pains to define
compelled me to withhold an account of Mr. Manners's conduct. And
I refrained from telling him that I was in a debtor's prison. For I
believe the thought of a Carvel in a debtor's prison would have killed
him. I said only that we were comfortably lodged in a modest part of
London; that the Manners were inaccessible (for I could not bring myself
to write that they were out of town). Just then a thought struck me with
such force that I got up with a cheer and hit the astonished captain
between the shoulders.
“How now!” he cried, ruefully rubbing himself. “If these are thy
amenities, Richard, Heaven spare me thy blows.”
“Why, I have been a fool, and worse,” I shouted. “My grandfather's ship,
the Sprightly Bess, is overhauling this winter in the Severn. And unless
she has sailed, which I think unlikely, I have but to despatch a line to
Bristol to summon Captain Bell, the master, to London. I think he will
bring the worthy Mr. Dix to terms.”
“Whether he will or no,” said John Paul, hope lighting his face, “Bell
must have command of the twenty pounds to free us, and will take us
back to America. For I must own, Richard, that I have no great love for
London.”
No more had I. I composed this letter to Bell in such haste that my hand
shook, and sent it off with a shilling to the bailiff's servant, that it
might catch the post. And that afternoon we had a two-shilling bottle of
port for dinner, which we shared with a broken-down parson who had been
chaplain in ordinary to my Lord Wortley, and who had preached us an
Easter sermon the day before. For it was Easter Monday. Our talk was
broken into by the bailiff, who informed me that a man awaited me in the
passage, and my heart leaped into my, throat.
There was Banks. Thinking he had come to reproach me; I asked him rather
sharply what he wanted. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other
and looked sheepish.
“Your pardon, sir,” said he, “but your honour must be very ill-served
here.”
“Better than I should be, Banks, for I have no money,” I said, wondering
if he thought me a first-floor lodger.
He made no immediate reply to that, either, but seemed more uneasy
still. And I took occasion to note his appearance. He was exceeding neat
in a livery of his old master, which he had stripped of the trimmings.
Then, before I had guessed at his drift, he thrust his hand inside his
coat and drew forth a pile of carefully folded bank notes.
“I be a single man, sir, and has small need of this. And and I knows
your honour will pay me when your letter comes from America.”
And he handed me five Bank of England notes of ten pounds apiece. I took
them mechanically, without knowing what I did. The generosity of the
act benumbed my senses, and for the instant I was inclined to accept the
offer upon the impulse of it.
“How do you know you would get your money again, Banks?” I asked
curiously.
“No fear, sir,” he replied promptly, actually brightening at the
prospect. “I knows gentlemen, sir, them that are such, sir. And I will
go to America with you, and you say the word, sir.”
I was more touched than I cared to show over his offer, which I scarce
knew how to refuse. In truth it was a difficult task, for he pressed me
again and again, and when he saw me firm, turned away to wipe his eyes
upon his sleeve. Then he begged me to let him remain and serve me in the
sponginghouse, saying that he would pay his own way. The very thought of
a servant in the bailiff's garret made me laugh, and so I put him off,
first getting his address, and promising him employment on the day of my
release.
On Wednesday we looked for a reply from Bristol, if not for the
appearance of Bell himself, and when neither came apprehension seized us
lest he had already sailed for Maryland. The slender bag of Thursday's
letters contained none for me. Nevertheless, we both did our best to
keep in humour, forbearing to mention to one another the hope that had
gone. Friday seemed the beginning of eternity; the day dragged through I
know not how, and toward evening we climbed back to our little room,
not daring to speak of what we knew in our hearts to be so,--that the
Sprightly Bess had sailed. We sat silently looking out over the dreary
stretch of roofs and down into a dingy court of Bernard's Inn below,
when suddenly there arose a commotion on the stairs, as of a man
mounting hastily. The door was almost flung from its hinges, some one
caught me by the shoulders, gazed eagerly into my face, and drew back.
For a space I thought myself dreaming. I searched my memory, and the
name came. Had it been Dorothy, or Mr. Carvel himself, I could not have
been more astonished, and my knees weakened under me.
“Jack!” I exclaimed; “Lord Comyn!”
He seized my hand. “Yes; Jack, whose life you saved, and no other,” he
cried, with a sailor's impetuosity. “My God, Richard! it was true, then;
and you have been in this place for three weeks!”
“For three weeks,” I repeated.
He looked at me, at John Paul, who was standing by in bewilderment,
and then about the grimy, cobwebbed walls of the dark garret, and then
turned his back to hide his emotion, and so met the bailiff, who was
coming in.
“For how much are these gentlemen in your books?” he demanded hotly.
“A small matter, your Lordship,--a mere trifle,” said the man, bowing.
“How much, I say?”
“Twenty-two guineas, five shillings, and eight pence, my Lord, counting
debts, and board,--and interest,” the bailiff glibly replied; for he had
no doubt taken off the account when he spied his Lordship's coach. “And
I was very good to Mr. Carvel and the captain, as your Lordship will
discover--”
“D--n your goodness!” said my Lord, cutting him short.
And he pulled out a wallet and threw some pieces at the bailiff, bidding
him get change with all haste. “And now, Richard,” he added, with a
glance of disgust about him, “pack up, and we'll out of this cursed
hole!”
“I have nothing to pack, my Lord,” I said.
“My Lord! Jack, I have told you, or I leave you here.”
“Well, then, Jack, and you will,” said I, overflowing with thankfulness
to God for the friends He had bestowed upon me. “But before we go a
step, Jack, you must know the man but for whose bravery I should long
ago have been dead of fever and ill-treatment in the Indies, and whose
generosity has brought him hither. My Lord Comyn, this is Captain John
Paul.”
The captain, who had been quite overwhelmed by this sudden arrival of a
real lord to our rescue at the very moment when we had sunk to despair,
and no less astonished by the intimacy that seemed to exist between the
newcomer and myself, had the presence of mind to bend his head, and that
was all. Comyn shook his hand heartily.
“You shall not lack reward for this, captain, I promise you,” cried he.
“What you have done for Mr. Carvel, you have done for me. Captain, I
thank you. You shall have my interest.”
I flushed, seeing John Paul draw his lips together. But how was his
Lordship to know that he was dealing with no common sea-captain?
“I have sought no reward, my Lord,” said he. “What I have done was out
of friendship for Mr. Carvel, solely.”
Comyn was completely taken by surprise by these words, and by the
haughty tone in which they were spoken. He had not looked for a
gentleman, and no wonder. He took a quizzical sizing of the sky-blue
coat. Such a man in such a station was out of his experience.
“Egad, I believe you, captain,” he answered, in a voice which said
plainly that he did not. “But he shall be rewarded nevertheless, eh,
Richard? I'll see Charles Fox in this matter to-morrow. Come, come,”
he added impatiently, “the bailiff must have his change by now. Come,
Richard!” and he led the way down the winding stairs.
“You must not take offence at his ways,” I whispered to the captain. For
I well knew that a year before I should have taken the same tone with
one not of my class. “His Lordship is all kindness.”
“I have learned a bit since I came into England, Richard,” was his sober
reply.
“'Twas a pitiful sight to see gathered on the landings the poor fellows
we had come to know in Castle Yard, whose horizons were then as gray as
ours was bright. But they each had a cheery word of congratulation for
us as we passed, and the unhappy gentleman from Devonshire pressed my
hand and begged that I would sometime think of him when I was out under
the sky. I promised even more, and am happy to be able to say, my dears,
that I saw both him and his wife off for America before I left London.
Our eyes were wet when we reached the lower hall, and I was making for
the door in an agony to leave the place, when the bailiff came out of
his little office.
“One moment, sir,” he said, getting in front of me; “there is a little
form yet to be gone through. The haste of gentlemen to leave us is not
flattering.”
He glanced slyly at Comyn, and his Lordship laughed a little. I stepped
unsuspectingly into the office.
“Richard!”
I stopped across the threshold as tho' I had been struck. The late
sunlight filtering through the dirt of the window fell upon the
tall figure of a girl and lighted an upturned face, and I saw tears
glistening on the long lashes.
It was Dorothy. Her hands were stretched out in welcome, and then I had
them pressed in my own. And I could only look and look again, for I was
dumb with joy.
“Thank God you are alive!” she cried; “alive and well, when we feared
you dead. Oh, Richard, we have been miserable indeed since we had news
of your disappearance.”
“This is worth it all, Dolly,” I said, only brokenly.
She dropped her eyes, which had searched me through in wonder and
pity,--those eyes I had so often likened to the deep blue of the
sea,--and her breast rose and fell quickly with I knew not what
emotions. How the mind runs, and the heart runs, at such a time! Here
was the same Dorothy I had known in Maryland, and yet not the same. For
she was a woman now, who had seen the great world, who had refused both
titles and estates,--and perchance accepted them. She drew her hands
from mine.
“And how came you in such a place?” she asked, turning with a shudder.
“Did you not know you had friends in London, sir?”
Not for so much again would I have told her of Mr. Manners's conduct. So
I stood confused, casting about for a reply with truth in it, when Comyn
broke in upon us.
“I'll warrant you did not look for her here, Richard. Faith, but you are
a lucky dog,” said my Lord, shaking his head in mock dolefulness; “for
there is no man in London, in the world, for whom she would descend a
flight of steps, save you. And now she has driven the length of the town
when she heard you were in a sponging-house, nor all the dowagers in
Mayfair could stop her.”
“Fie, Comyn,” said my lady, blushing and gathering up her skirts; “that
tongue of yours had hung you long since had it not been for your peer's
privilege. Richard and I were brought up as brother and sister, and you
know you were full as keen for his rescue as I.”
His Lordship pinched me playfully.
“I vow I would pass a year in the Fleet to have her do as much for me,”
said he.
“But where is the gallant seaman who saved you, Richard?” asked Dolly,
stamping her foot.
“What,” I exclaimed; “you know the story?”
“Never mind,” said she; “bring him here.”
My conscience smote me, for I had not so much as thought of John Paul
since I came into that room. I found him waiting in the passage, and
took him by the hand.
“A lady wishes to know you, captain,” I said.
“A lady!” he cried. “Here? Impossible!” And he looked at his clothes.
“Who cares more for your heart than your appearance,” I answered gayly,
and led him into the office.
At sight of Dorothy he stopped abruptly, confounded, as a man who sees a
diamond in a dust-heap. And a glow came over me as I said:
“Miss Manners, here is Captain Paul, to whose courage and unselfishness
I owe everything.”
“Captain,” said Dorothy, graciously extending her hand, “Richard has
many friends. You have put us all in your debt, and none deeper than his
old playmate.”
The captain fairly devoured her with his eyes as she made him a
curtsey. But he was never lacking in gallantry, and was as brave on such
occasions as when all the dangers of the deep threatened him. With an
elaborate movement he took Miss Manners's fingers and kissed them, and
then swept the floor with a bow.
“To have such a divinity in my debt, madam, is too much happiness for
one man,” he said. “I have done nothing to merit it. A lifetime were all
too short to pay for such a favour.”
I had almost forgotten Miss Dolly the wayward, the mischievous. But she
was before me now, her eyes sparkling, and biting her lips to keep down
her laughter. Comyn turned to fleck the window with his handkerchief,
while I was not a little put out at their mirth. But if John Paul
observed it, he gave no sign.
“Captain, I vow your manners are worthy of a Frenchman,” said my Lord;
“and yet I am given to understand you are a Scotchman.”
A shadow crossed the captain's face.
“I was, sir,” he said.
“You were!” exclaimed Comyn, astonished; “and pray, what are you now,
sir?”
“Henceforth, my Lord,” John Paul replied with vast ceremony: “I am an
American, the compatriot of the beautiful Miss Manners!”
“One thing I'll warrant, captain,” said his Lordship, “that you are a
wit.”
Volume 5.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE PART HORATIO PLAYED
The bailiff's business was quickly settled. I heard the heavy doors
close at our backs, and drew a deep draught of the air God has made for
all His creatures alike. Both the captain and I turned to the windows
to wave a farewell to the sad ones we were leaving behind, who gathered
about the bars for a last view of us, for strange as it may seem, the
mere sight of happiness is often a pleasure for those who are sad. A
coach in private arms and livery was in waiting, surrounded by a crowd.
They made a lane for us to pass, and stared at the young lady of queenly
beauty coming out of the sponging-house until the coachman snapped his
whip in their faces and the footman jostled them back. When we were
got in, Dolly and I on the back seat, Comyn told the man to go to Mr.
Manners's.
“Oh, no!” I cried, scarce knowing what I said; “no, not there!” For the
thought of entering the house in Arlington Street was unbearable.
Both Comyn and Dorothy gazed at me in astonishment.
“And pray, Richard, why not'?” she asked. “Have not your old friends the
right to receive you.”
It was my Lord who saved me, for I was in agony what to say.
“He is still proud, and won't go to Arlington Street dressed like a
bargeman. He must needs plume, Miss Manners.”
I glanced anxiously at Dorothy, and saw that she was neither satisfied
nor appeased. Well I remembered every turn of her head, and every curve
of her lip! In the meantime we were off through Cursitor Street at a
gallop, nearly causing the death of a ragged urchin at the corner of
Chancery Lane. I had forgotten my eagerness to know whence they had
heard of my plight, when some words from Comyn aroused me.
“The carriage is Mr. Horace Walpole's, Richard. He has taken a great
fancy to you.”
“But I have never so much as clapped eyes upon him!” I exclaimed in
perplexity.
“How about his honour with whom you supped at Windsor? how about the
landlord you spun by the neck? You should have heard the company laugh
when Horry told us that! And Miss Dolly cried out that she was sure it
must be Richard, and none other. Is it not so, Miss Manners?”
“Really, my Lord, I can't remember,” replied Dolly, looking out of the
coach window. “Who put those frightful skulls upon Temple Bar?”
Then the mystery of their coming was clear to me, and the superior
gentleman at the Castle Inn had been the fashionable dabbler in arts and
letters and architecture of Strawberry Hill, of whom I remembered
having heard Dr. Courtenay speak, Horace Walpole. But I was then far
too concerned about Dorothy to listen to more. Her face was still turned
away from me, and she was silent. I could have cut out my tongue for my
blunder. Presently, when we were nearly out of the Strand, she turned
upon me abruptly.
“We have not yet heard, Richard,” she said, “how you got into such a
predicament.”
“Indeed, I don't know myself, Dolly. Some scoundrel bribed the captain
of the slaver. For I take it Mr. Walpole has told you I was carried off
on a slaver, if he recalled that much of the story.”
“I don't mean that,” answered Dolly, impatiently. “There is something
strange about all this. How is it that you were in prison?”
“Mr. Dix, my grandfather's agent, took me for an impostor and would
advance me no money,” I answered, hard pushed.
But Dorothy had a woman's instinct, which is often the best of
understanding. And I was beginning to think that a suspicion was at the
bottom of her questions. She gave her head an impatient fling, and, as I
feared, appealed to John Paul.
“Perhaps you can tell me, captain, why he did not come to his friends in
his trouble.”
And despite my signals to him he replied: “In truth, my dear lady, he
haunted the place for a sight of you, from the moment he set foot in
London.”
Comyn laughed, and I felt the blood rise to my face, and kicked John
Paul viciously. Dolly retained her self-possession.
“Pho!” says she; “for a sight of me! You seamen are all alike. For
a sight of me! And had you not strength enough to lift a knocker,
sir,--you who can raise a man from the ground with one hand?”
“'Twas before his tailor had prepared him, madam, and he feared to
disgrace you,” the captain gravely continued, and I perceived how futile
it were to attempt to stop him. “And afterward--”
“And afterward?” repeated Dorothy, leaning forward.
“And afterward he went to Arlington Street with Mr. Dix to seek
Mr. Manners, that he might be identified before that gentleman. He
encountered Mr. Manners and his Grace of Something.”
“Chartersea,” put in Comyn, who had been listening eagerly. “Getting out
of a coach,” said the captain.
“When was this?” demanded Dorothy of me, interrupting him. Her voice was
steady, but the colour had left her face.
“About three weeks ago.”
“Please be exact, Richard.”
“Well, if you must,” said I, “the day was Tuesday, and the time about
half an hour after two.”
She said nothing for a while, trying to put down an agitation which was
beginning to show itself in spite of her effort. As for me, I was almost
wishing myself back in the sponginghouse.
“Are you sure my father saw you?” she asked presently.
“As clearly as you do now, Dolly,” I said.
“But your clothes? He might have gone by you in such.”
“I pray that he did, Dorothy,” I replied. But I was wholly convinced
that Mr. Manners had recognized me.
“And--and what did he say?” she asked.
For she had the rare courage that never shrinks from the truth. I think
I have never admired and pitied her as at that moment.
“He said to the footman,” I answered, resolved to go through with it
now, “'Give the man a shilling.' That was his Grace's suggestion.”
My Lord uttered something very near an oath. And she spoke not a word
more until I handed her out in Arlington Street. The rest of us were
silent, too, Comyn now and again giving me eloquent glances expressive
of what he would say if she were not present; the captain watching her
with a furtive praise, and he vowed to me afterward she was never so
beautiful as when angry, that he loved her as an avenging Diana. But I
was uneasy, and when I stood alone with her before the house I begged
her not to speak to her father of the episode.
“Nay, he must be cleared of such an imputation, Richard,” she answered
proudly. “He may have made mistakes, but I feel sure he would never turn
you away when you came to him in trouble--you, the grandson of his old
friend, Lionel Carvel.”
“Why bother over matters that are past and gone? I would have borne an
hundred such trials to have you come to me as you came to-day, Dorothy.
And I shall surely see you again,” I said, trying to speak lightly; “and
your mother, to whom you will present my respects, before I sail for
America.”
She looked up at me, startled.
“Before you sail for America!” she exclaimed, in a tone that made me
thrill at once with joy and sadness. “And are you not, then, to see
London now you are here?”
“Are you never coming back, Dolly?” I whispered; for I feared Mr.
Marmaduke might appear at any moment; “or do you wish to remain in
England always?”
For an instant I felt her pressure on my hand, and then she had fled
into the house, leaving me standing by the steps looking after her.
Comyn's voice aroused me.
“To the Star and Garter!” I heard him command, and on the way to Pall
Mall he ceased not to rate Mr. Manners with more vigour than propriety.
“I never liked the little cur, d--n him! No one likes him, Richard,” he
declared. “All the town knows how Chartersea threw a bottle at him, and
were it not for his daughter he had long since been put out of White's.
Were it not for Miss Dolly I would call him out for this cowardly trick,
and then publish him.”
“Nay, my Lord, I had held that as my privilege,” interrupted the
captain, “were it not, as you say, for Miss Manners.”
His Lordship shot a glance at John Paul somewhat divided between
surprise, resentment, and amusement.
“Now you have seen the daughter, captain, you perceive it is
impossible,” I hastened to interpose.
“How in the name of lineage did she come to have such a father?” Comyn
went on. “I thank Heaven he's not mine. He's not fit to be her lackey. I
would sooner twenty times have a profligate like my Lord Sandwich for
a parent than a milk and water sop like Manners, who will risk nothing
over a crown piece at play or a guinea at Newmarket. By G--, Richard,”
said his Lordship, bringing his fist against the glass with near force
enough to break the pane, “I have a notion why he did not choose to see
you that day. Why, he has no more blood than a louse!”
I had come to the guess as soon as he, but I dared not give it voice,
nor anything but ridicule. And so we came to the hotel, the red of
departing day fading in the sky above the ragged house-line in St.
James's Street.
It was a very different reception we got than when we had first come
there. You, my dears, who live in this Republic can have no notion of
the stir and bustle caused by the arrival of Horace Walpole's carriage
at a fashionable hotel, at a time when every innkeeper was versed in
the arms of every family of note in the three kingdoms. Our friend the
chamberlain was now humility itself, and fairly ran in his eagerness to
anticipate Comyn's demands. It was “Yes, my Lord,” and “To be sure, your
Lordship,” every other second, and he seized the first occasion to make
me an elaborate apology for his former cold conduct, assuring me that
had our honours been pleased to divulge the fact that we had friends
in London, such friends as my Lord Comyn and Mr. Walpole, whose great
father he had once had the distinction to serve as linkman, all would
have been well. And he was desiring me particularly to comprehend that
he had been acting under most disagreeable orders when he sent for the
bailiff, before I cut him short.
We were soon comfortably installed in our old rooms; Comyn had sent
post-haste for Davenport, who chanced to be his own tailor, and for the
whole army of auxiliaries indispensable to a gentleman's make-up; and
Mr. Dix was notified that his Lordship would receive him at eleven on
the following morning, in my rooms. I remembered the faithful Banks with
a twinge of gratitude, and sent for him. And John Paul and I, having
been duly installed in the clothes made for us, all three of us sat down
merrily to such a supper as only the cook of the Star and Garter, who
had been chef to the Comte de Maurepas, could prepare. Then I begged
Comyn to relate the story of our rescue, which I burned to hear.
“Why, Richard,” said he, filling his glass, “had you run afoul any
other man in London, save perchance Selwyn, you'd have been drinking the
bailiff's triple-diluted for a month to come. I never knew such a brace
of fools as he and Horry for getting hold of strange yarns and making
them stranger; the wonder was that Horry told this as straight as he
did. He has written it to all his friends on the Continent, and had he
not been in dock with the gout ever since he reached town, he would
have told it at the opera, and at a dozen routs and suppers. Beg pardon,
captain,” said he, turning to John Paul, “but I think 'twas your peacock
coat that saved you both, for it caught Horry's eye through the window,
as you got out of the chaise, and down he came as fast as he could
hobble.
“Horry had a little dinner to-day in Arlington Street, where he lives,
and Miss Dorothy was there. I have told you, Richard, there has been
no sensation in town equal to that of your Maryland beauty, since Lady
Sarah Lennox. You may have some notion of the old beau Horry can be when
he tries, and he is over-fond of Miss Dolly--she puts him in mind of
some canvas or other of Sir Peter's. He vowed he had been saving this
piece de resistance, as he was pleased to call it, expressly for her,
since it had to do somewhat with Maryland. 'What d'ye think I met at
Windsor, Miss Manners?' he cries, before we had begun the second course.
“'Perhaps a repulse from his Majesty,' says Dolly, promptly.
“'Nay,' says Mr. Walpole, making a face, for he hates a laugh at his
cost; nothing less than a young American giant, with the attire of Dr.
Benjamin Franklin and the manner of the Fauxbourg Saint Germain. But he
had a whiff of deer leather about him, and shoulders and back and legs
to make his fortune at Hockley in the Hole, had he lived two generations
since. And he had with him a strange, Scotch sea-captain, who had
rescued him from pirates, bless you, no less. That is, he said he was
a sea-captain; but he talked French like a Parisian, and quoted
Shakespeare like Mr. Burke or Dr. Johnson. He may have been M. Caron de
Beaumarchais, for I never saw him, or a soothsayer, or Cagliostro the
magician, for he guessed my name.'
“'Guessed your name!' we cried, for the story was out of the ordinary.
“'Just that,' answered he, and repeated some damned verse I never heard,
with Horatio in it, and made them all laugh.”
John Paul and I looked at each other in astonishment, and we, too,
laughed heartily. It was indeed an odd coincidence.
His Lordship continued: “'Well, be that as it may,' said Horry, 'he was
an able man of sagacity, this sea-captain, and, like many another, had
a penchant for being a gentleman. But he was more of an oddity than
Hertford's beast of Gevaudan, and was dressed like Salvinio, the monkey
my Lord Holland brought back from his last Italian tour.'”
I have laughed over this description since, my dears, and so has John
Paul. But at that time I saw nothing funny in it, and winced with him
when Comyn repeated it with such brutal unconsciousness. However, young
Englishmen of birth and wealth of that day were not apt to consider the
feelings of those they deemed below them.
“Come to your story. Comyn,” I cut in testily.
But his Lordship missed entirely the cause of my displeasure.
“Listen to him!” he exclaimed good-naturedly. “He will hear of nothing
but Miss Dolly. Well, Richard, my lad, you should have seen her as Horry
went on to tell that you had been taken from Maryland, with her head
forward and her lips parted, and a light in those eyes of hers to make
a man fall down and worship. For Mr. Lloyd, or some one in your Colony,
had written of your disappearance, and I vow bliss Dorothy has not been
the same since. Nor have I been the only one to remark it,” said he,
waving off my natural protest at such extravagance. “We have talked of
you more than once, she and I, and mourned you for dead. But I am off
my course again, as we sailors say, captain. Horry was describing how
Richard lifted little Goble by one hand and spun all the dignity out
of him, when Miss Manners broke in, being able to contain herself no
longer.
“'An American, Mr. Walpole, and from Maryland?' she demanded. And the
way she said it made them all look at her.
“'Assurement, mademoiselle,' replied Horry, in his cursed French;
and perhaps you know him. He would gladden the heart of Frederick of
Prussia, for he stands six and three if an inch. I took such a fancy to
the lad that I invited him to sup with me, and he gave me back a message
fit for Mr. Wilkes to send to his Majesty, as haughty as you choose,
that if I desired him I must have his friend in the bargain. You
Americans are the very devil for independence, Miss Manners! 'Ods
fish, I liked his spirit so much I had his friend, Captain something or
other--'and there he stopped, caught by Miss Manners's appearance, for
she was very white.
“'The name is Richard Carvel!' she cried.
“'I'll lay a thousand it was!' I shouted, rising in my chair. And the
company stared, and Lady Pembroke vowed I had gone mad.
“'Bless me, bless me, here's a romance for certain!' cried Horry; 'it
throws my “Castle of Otranto” in the shade' (“that's some damned book he
has written,” Comyn interjected).
“You may not believe me, Richard, when I say that Miss Dolly ate but
little after that, and her colour came and went like the red of a stormy
sunset at sea. 'Here's this dog Richard come to spill all our chances,'
I swore to myself. The company had been prodigiously entertained by the
tale, and clamoured for more, and when Horry had done I told how you had
fought me at Annapolis, and had saved my life. But Miss Manners sat very
still, biting her lip, and I knew she was sadly vexed that you had not
gone to her in Arlington Street. For a woman will reason thus,” said his
Lordship, winking wisely. “But I more than suspected something to have
happened, so I asked Horry to send his fellow Favre over to the Star and
Garter to see if you were there, tho' I was of three minds to let you
go to the devil. You should have seen her face when he came back to say
that you had been for three weeks in a Castle Yard sponging-house! Then
Horry said he would lend me his coach, and when it was brought around
Miss Manners took our breaths by walking downstairs and into it, nor
would she listen to a word of the objections cried by my Lady Pembroke
and the rest. You must know there is no stopping the beauty when she has
made her mind. And while they were all chattering on the steps I jumped
in, and off we drove, and you will be the most talked-of man in London
to-morrow. I give you Miss Manners!” cried his Lordship, as he ended.
We all stood to the toast, I with my blood a-tingle and my brain awhirl,
so that I scarce knew what I did.