“Who the devil is this John Paul, and what is to become of him?” asked
Comyn, as I escorted him downstairs to a chair. “You must give him two
hundred pounds, or a thousand, if you like, and let him get out. He
can't be coming to the clubs with you.”
And he pulled me into the coffee room after him.
“You don't understand the man, Comyn,” said I; “he isn't that kind, I
tell you. What he has done for me is out of friendship, as he says, and
he wouldn't touch a farthing save what I owe him.”
“Cursed if he isn't a rum sea-captain,” he answered, shrugging his
shoulders; “cursed if I ever ran foul of one yet who would refuse a
couple of hundred and call quits. What's he to do? Is he to live like a
Lord of the Treasury upon a master's savings?”
“Jack,” said I, soberly, resolved not to be angry, “I would willingly be
cast back in Castle Yard to-night rather than desert him, who might have
deserted me twenty times to his advantage. Mr. Carvel has not wealth
enough, nor I gratitude enough, to reward him. But if our family can
make his fortune, it shall be made. And I am determined to go with him
to America by the first packet I can secure.”
He clutched my arm with an earnestness to startle me.
“You must not leave England now,” he said.
“And why?”
“Because she will marry Chartersea if you do. And take my oath upon it,
you alone can save her from that.”
“Nonsense!” I exclaimed, but my breath caught sharply.
“Listen, Richard. Mr. Manners's manoeuvres are the talk of the town, and
the beast of a duke is forever wining and dining in Arlington Street.
At first people ridiculed, now they are giving credit. It is said,” he
whispered fearfully, “it is said that his Grace has got Mr. Manners in
his power,--some question of honour, you understand, which will
ruin him,--and that even now the duke is in a position to force the
marriage.”
He leaned forward and searched me with his keen gray eyes, as tho'
watching the effect of the intelligence upon me. I was, indeed, stunned.
“Now, had she refused me fifty times instead of only twice,” my Lord
continued, “I could not wish her such a fate as that vicious scoundrel.
And since she will not have me, I would rather it were you than any man
alive. For she loves you, Richard, as surely as the world is turning.”
“Oh, no!” I replied passionately; “you are deceived by the old liking
she has always had for me since we were children together.” I was deeply
touched by his friendship. “But tell me how that could affect this
marriage with Chartersea. I believe her pride capable of any sacrifice
for the family honour.”
He made a gesture of impatience that knocked over a candlestick.
“There, curse you, there you are again!” he said, “showing how little
you know of women and of their pride. If she were sure that you loved
her, she would never marry Chartersea or any one else. She has had near
the whole of London at her feet, and toyed with it. Now she has been
amusing herself with Charles Fox, but I vow she cares for none of them.
Titles, fame, estates, will not move her.”
“If she were sure that I loved her!” I repeated, dazed by what he was
saying. “How you are talking, Comyn!”
“Just that. Ah, how I know her, Richard! She can be reckless beyond
notion. And if it were proved to her that you were in love with Miss
Swain, the barrister's daughter, over whom we were said to have fought,
she would as soon marry Chartersea, or March, or the devil, to show you
how little she cared.”
“With Patty Swain!” I exclaimed.
“But if she knew you did not care a rope's end for Patty, Mr. Marmaduke
and his reputation might go into exile together,” he continued, without
heeding. “So much for a woman's pride, I say. The day the news of your
disappearance arrived, Richard, she was starting out with a party to
visit Lord Carlisle's seat, Castle Howard. Not a step would she stir,
though Mr. Marmaduke whined and coaxed and threatened. And I swear to
you she has never been the same since, though few but I know why. I
might tell you more, my lad, were it not a breach of confidence.”
“Then don't,” I said; for I would not let my feelings run.
“Egad, then, I will!” he cried impetuously, “for the end justifies it.
You must know that after the letter came from Mr. Lloyd, we thought you
dead. I could never get her to speak of you until a fortnight ago. We
both had gone with a party to see Wanstead and dine at the Spread Eagle
upon the Forest, and I stole her away from the company and led her out
under the trees. My God, Richard, how beautiful she was in the wood
with the red in her cheeks and the wind blowing her black hair! For the
second time I begged her to be Lady Comyn. Fool that I was, I thought
she wavered, and my heart beat as it never will again. Then, as she
turned away, from her hand slipped a little gold-bound purse, and as I
picked it up a clipping from a newspaper fluttered out. 'Pon my soul, it
was that very scandalous squib of the Maryland Gazette about our duel!
I handed it back with a bow. I dared not look up at her face, but stood
with my eyes on the ground, waiting.
“'Lord Comyn,' says she, presently, with a quiver in her voice, 'before
I give you a reply you must first answer, on your word as a gentleman,
what I ask you.'
“I bowed again.
“'Is it true that Richard Carvel was in love with Miss Swain?' she
asked.”
“And you said, Comyn,” I broke in, unable longer to contain myself, “you
said--”
“I said: 'Dorothy, if I were to die to-morrow, I would swear Richard
Carvel loved you, and you only.'”
His Lordship had spoken with that lightness which hides only the deepest
emotion.
“And she refused you?” I cried. “Oh, surely not for that!”
“And she did well,” said my Lord.
I bowed my head on my arms, for I had gone through a great deal that
day, and this final example of Comyn's generosity overwhelmed me. Then
I felt his hand laid kindly on my shoulder, and I rose up and seized it.
His eyes were dim, as were mine.
“And now, will you go to Maryland and be a fool?” asked his Lordship.
I hesitated, sadly torn between duty and inclination. John Paul could,
indeed, go to America without me. Next the thought came over me in a
flash that my grandfather might be ill, or even dead, and there would
be no one to receive the captain. I knew he would never consent to spend
the season at the Star and Garter at my expense. And then the image of
the man rose before me, of him who had given me all he owned, and gone
with me so cheerfully to prison, though he knew me not from the veriest
adventurer and impostor. I was undecided no longer.
“I must go, Jack,” I said sadly; “as God judges, I must.”
He looked at me queerly, as if I were beyond his comprehension, picked
up his hat, called out that he would see me in the morning, and was
gone.
I went slowly upstairs, threw off my clothes mechanically, and tumbled
into bed. The captain had long been asleep. By the exertion of all the
will power I could command, I was able gradually to think more and more
soberly, and the more I thought, the more absurd, impossible, it seemed
that I, a rough provincial not yet of age, should possess the heart of
a beauty who had but to choose from the best of all England. An hundred
times I went over the scene of poor Comyn's proposal, nay, saw it
vividly, as though the whole of it had been acted before me: and as I
became calmer, the plainer I perceived that Dorothy, thinking me dead,
was willing to let Comyn believe that she had loved me, and had so eased
the soreness of her refusal. Perhaps, in truth, a sentiment had sprung
up in her breast when she heard of my disappearance, which she mistook
for love. But surely the impulse that sent her to Castle Yard was not
the same as that Comyn had depicted: it was merely the survival of the
fancy of a little girl in a grass-stained frock, who had romped on the
lawn at Carvel Hall. I sighed as I remembered the sun and the flowers
and the blue Chesapeake, and recalled the very toss of her head when she
had said she would marry nothing less than a duke.
Alas, Dolly, perchance it was to be nothing more than a duke! The
bloated face and beady eyes and the broad crooked back I had seen that
day in Arlington Street rose before me,--I should know his Grace of
Chartersea again were I to meet him in purgatory. Was it, indeed,
possible that I could prevent her marriage with this man? I fell asleep,
repeating the query, as the dawn was sifting through the blinds.
I awakened late. Banks was already there to dress me, to congratulate me
as discreetly as a well-trained servant should; nor did he remind me
of the fact that he had offered to lend me money, for which omission
I liked him the better. In the parlour I found the captain sipping his
chocolate and reading his morning Chronicle, as though all his life he
had done nothing else.
“Good morning, captain.” And fetching him a lick on the back that nearly
upset his bowl, I cried as heartily as I could:
“Egad, if our luck holds, we'll be sailing before the week is out.”
But he looked troubled. He hemmed and hawed, and finally broke out into
Scotch:
“Indeed, laddie, y'ell no be leaving Miss Dorothy for me.”
“What nonsense has Comyn put into your head?” I demanded, with a stitch
in my side; I am no more to Miss Manners than--”
“Than John Paul! Faith, y'ell not make me believe that. Ah, Richard,”
said he, “ye're a sly dog. You and I have been as thick these twa months
as men can well live, and never a word out of you of the most sublime
creature that walks. I have seen women in many countries, lad, beauties
to set thoughts afire and swords a-play,--and 'tis not her beauty alone.
She hath a spirit for a queen to covet, and air and carriage, too.”
This eloquent harangue left me purple.
“I grant it all, captain. She has but to choose her title and estate.”
“Ay, and I have a notion which she'll be choosing.”
“The knowledge is worth a thousand pounds at the least,” I replied. “I
will lend you the sum, and warrant no lack of takers.”
“Now the devil fly off with such temperament! And I had half the
encouragement she has given you, I would cast anchor on the spot, and
they might hang and quarter me to move me. But I know you well,” he
exclaimed, his manner changing, “you are making this great sacrifice
on my account. And I will not be a drag on your pleasures, Richard, or
stand in the way of your prospects.”
“Captain Paul,” I said, sitting down beside him, “have I deserved this
from you? Have I shown a desire to desert you now that my fortunes have
changed? I have said that you shall taste of our cheer at Carvel Hall,
and have looked forward this long while to the time when I shall take
you to my grandfather and say: 'Mr. Carvel, this is he whose courage
and charity have restored you to me, and me to you.' And he will have
changed mightily if you do not have the best in Maryland. Should you
wish to continue on the sea, you shall have the Belle of the Wye,
launched last year. 'Tis time Captain Elliott took to his pension.”
The captain sighed, and a gleam I did not understand came into his dark
eyes.
“I would that God had given me your character and your heart, Richard,”
he said, “in place of this striving thing I have within me. But 'tis
written that a leopard cannot change his spots.”
“The passage shall be booked this day,” I said.
That morning was an eventful one. Comyn arrived first, dressed in a suit
of mauve French cloth that set off his fine figure to great advantage.
He regarded me keenly as he entered, as if to discover whether I had
changed my mind over night. And I saw he was not in the best of tempers.
“And when do you sail?” he cried. “I have no doubt you have sent out
already to get passage.”
“I have been trying to persuade Mr. Carvel to remain in London, my
Lord,” said the captain. “I tell him he is leaving his best interests
behind him.”
“I fear that for once you have undertaken a task beyond your ability,
Captain Paul,” was the rather tart reply.
“The captain has a ridiculous idea that he is the cause of my going,” I
said quickly.
John Paul rose somewhat abruptly, seized his hat and bowed to his
Lordship, and in the face of a rain sallied out, remarking that he had
as yet seen nothing of the city.
“Jack, you must do me the favour not to talk of this in John Paul's
presence,” I said, when the door had closed.
“If he doesn't suspect why you are going, he has more stupidity than I
gave him credit for,” Comyn answered gruffly.
“I fear he does suspect,” I said.
His Lordship went to the table and began to write, leaving me to the
Chronicle, the pages of which I did not see. Then came Mr. Dix, and
such a change I had never beheld in mortal man. In place of the would-be
squire I had encountered in Threadneedle Street, here was an unctuous
person of business in sober gray; but he still wore the hypocritical
smirk with no joy in it. His bow was now all respectful obedience. Comyn
acknowledged it with a curt nod.
Mr. Dix began smoothly, where a man of more honesty would have found the
going difficult.
“Mr. Carvel,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I wish first to express my
profound regrets for what has happened.”
“Curse your regrets,” said Comyn, bluntly. “You come here on business.
Mr. Carvel does not stand in need of regrets at present.”
“I was but on the safe side of Mr. Carvel's money, my Lord.”
“Ay, I'll warrant you are always on the safe side of money,” replied
Comyn, with a laugh. “What I wish to know, Mr. Dix,” he continued, “is
whether you are willing to take my word that this is Mr. Richard Carvel,
the grandson and heir of Lionel Carvel, Esquire, of Carvel Hall in
Maryland?”
“I am your Lordship's most obedient servant,” said Mr. Dix.
“Confound you, sir! Can you or can you not answer a simple question?”
Mr. Dix straightened. He may have spoken elsewhere of asserting his
dignity.
“I would not presume to doubt your Lordship's word.”
“Then, if I were to be personally responsible for such sums as Mr.
Carvel may need, I suppose you would be willing to advance them to him.”
“Willingly, willingly, my Lord,” said Mr. Dix, and added immediately:
“Your Lordship will not object to putting that in writing? Merely a
matter of form, as your Lordship knows, but we men of affairs are held
to a strict accountability.”
Comyn made a movement of disgust, took up a pen and wrote out the
indorsement.
“There,” he said. “You men of affairs will at least never die of
starvation.”
Mr. Dix took the paper with a low bow, began to shower me with
protestations of his fidelity to my grandfather's interests, which
were one day to be my own,--he hoped, with me, not soon,--drew from his
pocket more than sufficient for my immediate wants, said that I should
have more by a trusty messenger, and was going on to clear himself of
his former neglect and indifference, when Banks announced:
“His honour, Mr. Manners!”
Comyn and I exchanged glances, and his Lordship gave a low whistle. Nor
was the circumstance without its effect upon Mr. Dix. With my knowledge
of the character of Dorothy's father I might have foreseen this visit,
which came, nevertheless, as a complete surprise. For a moment I
hesitated, and then made a motion to show him up. Comyn voiced my
decision.
“Why let the little cur stand in the way?” he said; “he counts for
nothing.”
Mr. Marmaduke was not long in ascending, and tripped into the room as
Mr. Dix backed out of it, as gayly as tho' he had never sent me about
my business in the street. His clothes, of a cherry cut velvet, were as
ever a little beyond the fashion, and he carried something I had never
before seen, then used by the extreme dandies in London,--an umbrella.
“What! Richard Carvel! Is it possible?” he screamed in his piping voice.
“We mourned you for dead, and here you turn up in London alive and well,
and bigger and stronger than ever. Oons! one need not go to Scripture
for miracles. I shall write my congratulations to Mr. Carvel this day,
sir.” And he pushed his fingers into my waistcoat, so that Comyn and
I were near to laughing in his face. For it was impossible to be angry
with a little coxcomb of such pitiful intelligence.
“Ah, good morning, my Lord. I see your Lordship has risen early in
the same good cause, I myself am up two hours before my time. You will
pardon the fuss I am making over the lad, Comyn, but his grandfather
is my very dear friend, and Richard was brought up with my daughter
Dorothy. They were like brother and sister. What, Richard, you will not
take my hand! Surely you are not so unreasonable as to hold against
me that unfortunate circumstance in Arlington Street! Yes, Dorothy has
shocked me. She has told me of it.”
Comyn winked at me as I replied:--
“We shan't mention it, Mr. Manners. I have had my three weeks in prison,
and perhaps know the world all the better for them.”
He held up his umbrella in mock dismay, and stumbled abruptly into a
chair. There he sat looking at me, a whimsical uneasiness on his face.
“We shall indeed mention it, sir. Three weeks in prison, to think of
it! And you would not so much as send me a line. Ah, Richard, pride is a
good thing, but I sometimes think we from Maryland have too much of
it. We shall indeed speak of the matter. Out of justice to me you
must understand how it occurred. You must know that I am deucedly
absentminded, and positively lost without my glass. And I had somebody
with me, so Dorothy said. Chartersea, I believe. And his Grace made me
think you were a cursed beggar. I make a point never to have to do with
'em.”
“You are right, Mr. Manners,” Comyn cut in dryly; “for I have known them
to be so persistently troublesome, when once encouraged, as to interfere
seriously with our arrangements.”
“Eh!” Mr. Manners ejaculated, and then came to an abrupt pause, while I
wondered whether the shot had told. To relieve him I inquired after Mrs.
Manners's health.
“Ah, to be sure,” he replied, beginning to fumble in his skirts; “London
agrees with her remarkably, and she is better than she has been for
years. And she is overjoyed at your most wonderful escape, Richard, as
are we all.”
And he gave me a note. I concealed my eagerness as I took it and broke
the seal, to discover that it was not from Dorothy, but from Mrs.
Manners herself.
“My dear Richard” (so it ran), “I thank God with your dear
Grandfather over y'r Deliverance, & you must bring y'r Deliverer,
whom Dorothy describes as Courtly and Gentlemanly despite his
Calling, to dine with us this very Day, that we may express to him
our Gratitude. I know you are far too Sensible not to come to
Arlington Street. I subscribe myself, Richard, y'r sincere Friend,
“MARGARET MANNERS.”
There was not so much as a postscript from Dolly, as I had hoped.
But the letter was whole-souled, like Mrs. Manners, and breathed the
affection she had always had for me. I honoured her the more that she
had not attempted to excuse Mr. Manners's conduct.
“You will come, Richard?” cried Mr. Marmaduke, with an attempt at
heartiness. “You must come, and the captain, too. For I hear, with
regret, that you are not to be long with us.”
I caught another significant look from Comyn from between the window
curtains. But I accepted for myself, and conditionally for John Paul.
Mr. Manners rose to take his leave.
“Dorothy will be glad to see you,” he said. “I often think, Richard,
that she tires of these generals and King's ministers, and longs for
a romp at Wilmot House again. Alas,” he sighed, offering us a pinch of
snuff (which he said was the famous Number 37), “alas, she has had a
deal too much of attention, with his Grace of Chartersea and a dozen
others would to marry her. I fear she will go soon,” and he sighed
again. “Upon my soul I cannot make her out. I'll lay something handsome,
my Lord, that the madcap adventure with you after Richard sets the
gossips going. One day she is like a schoolgirl, and I blame myself for
not taking her mother's advice to send her to Mrs. Terry, at Campden
House; and the next, egad, she is as difficult to approach as a crowned
head. Well, gentlemen, I give you good day, I have an appointment at
White's. I am happy to see you have fallen in good hands, Richard. My
Lord, your most obedient!”
“He'll lay something handsome!” said my Lord, when the door had closed
behind him.