Three days after that I was at sea, in the Norfolk packet, with the
farewells of my loyal English friends ringing in my ears. Captain
Graham, the master of the packet, and his passengers found me but a poor
companion. But they had heard of my misfortune, and vied with each other
in heaping kindnesses upon me. Nor did they intrude on my walks in the
night watches, to see me slipping a locket from under my waistcoat--ay,
and raising it to my lips. 'Twas no doubt a blessing that I had lesser
misfortunes to share my attention. God had put me in the way of looking
forward rather than behind, and I was sure that my friends in Annapolis
would help me to an honest living, and fight my cause against Grafton.
Banks was with me. The devoted soul did his best to cheer me, tho'
downcast himself at leaving England. To know what to do with him gave
me many an anxious moment. I doubted not that I could get him into
a service, but when I spoke of such a thing he burst into tears, and
demanded whether I meant to throw him off. Nor was any argument of mine
of use.
After a fair and uneventful voyage of six weeks, I beheld again my
native shores in the low spits of the Virginia capes. The sand was very
hot and white, and the waters of the Chesapeake rolled like oil under
the July sun. We were all day getting over to Yorktown, the ship's
destination. A schooner was sailing for Annapolis early the next
morning, and I barely had time to get off my baggage and catch her. We
went up the bay with a fresh wind astern, which died down at night.
The heat was terrific after England and the sea-voyage, and we slept on
the deck. And Banks sat, most of the day, exclaiming at the vast scale
on which this new country was laid out, and wondering at the myriad
islands we passed, some of them fair with grain and tobacco; and at the
low-lying shores clothed with forests, and broken by the salt marshes,
with now and then the manor-house of some gentleman-planter visible on
either side. Late on the second day I beheld again the cliffs that mark
the mouth of the Severn, then the sail-dotted roads and the roofs of
Annapolis.
We landed, Banks and I, in a pinnace from the schooner, and so full was
my heart at the sight of the old objects that I could only gulp now and
then, and utter never a word. There was the dock where I had paced up
and down near the whole night, when Dolly had sailed away; and Pryse the
coachmaker's shop, and the little balcony upon which I had stood with
my grandfather, and railed in a boyish tenor at Mr. Hood. The sun cast
sharp, black shadows. And it being the middle of the dull season, when
the quality were at their seats, and the dinner-hour besides, the
town might have been a deserted one for its stillness, as tho' the
inhabitants had walked out of it, and left it so. I made my way, Banks
behind me, into Church Street, past the “Ship” tavern, which brought
memories of the brawl there, and of Captain Clapsaddle forcing the
mob, like chaff, before his sword. The bees were humming idly over the
sweet-scented gardens, and Farris, the clock-maker, sat at his door, and
nodded. He jerked his head as I went by with a cry of “Lord, it is Mr.
Richard back!” and I must needs pause, to let him bow over my hand.
Farther up the street I came to mine host of the Coffee House standing
on his steps, with his hands behind his back.
“Mr. Claude,” I said.
He looked at me as tho' I had risen from the dead.
“God save us!” he shouted, in a voice that echoed through the narrow
street. “God save us!”
He seemed to go all to pieces. To my bated questions he replied at
length, when he had got his breath, that Captain Clapsaddle had come
to town but the day before, and was even then in the coffee-room at his
dinner. Alone? Yes, alone. Almost tottering, I mounted the steps, and
turned in at the coffee-room door, and stopped. There sat the captain at
a table, the roast and wine untouched before him, his waistcoat thrown
open. He was staring out of the open window into the inn garden beyond,
with its shade of cherry trees. Mr. Claude's cry had not disturbed his
reveries, nor our talk after it. I went forward. I touched him on the
shoulder, and he sprang up, and looked once into my face, and by some
trick of the mind uttered the very words Mr. Claude had used.
“God save us! Richard!” And he opened his arms and strained me to his
great chest, calling my name again and again, while the tears coursed
down the furrows of his cheeks. For I marked the furrows for the first
time, and the wrinkles settling in his forehead and around his eyes.
What he said when he released me, nor my replies, can I remember now,
but at last he called, in his ringing voice, to mine host:
“A bottle from your choicest bin, Claude! Some of Mr. Bordley's. For he
that was lost is found.”
The hundred questions I had longed to ask were forgotten. A peace stole
upon me that I had not felt since I had looked upon his face before.
The wine was brought by Mr. Claude, and opened, and it was mine host who
broke the silence, and the spell.
“Your very good health, Mr. Richard,” he said; “and may you come to your
own again!”
“I drink it with all my heart, Richard,” replied Captain Daniel. But he
glanced at me sadly, and his honest nature could put no hope into his
tone. “We have got him back again, Mr. Claude. And God has answered our
prayers. So let us be thankful.” And he sat down in silence, gazing at
me in pity and tenderness, while Mr. Claude withdrew. “I can give you
but a sad welcome home, my lad,” he said presently, with a hesitation
strange to him. “'Tis not the first bad news I have had to break in my
life to your family, but I pray it may be the last.” He paused. I knew
he was thinking of the black tidings he had once brought my mother.
“Richard, your grandfather is dead,” he ended abruptly.
I nodded wonderingly.
“What!” he exclaimed; “you have heard already?”
“Mr. Manners told me, in London,” I said, completely mystified.
“London!” he cried, starting forward. “London and Mr. Manners! Have you
been to London?”
“You had my letters to Mr. Carvel?” I demanded, turning suddenly sick.
His eye flashed.
“Never a letter. We mourned you for dead, Richard. This is Grafton's
work!” he cried, springing to his feet and striking the table with his
great fist, so that the dishes jumped. “Grafton Carvel, the prettiest
villain in these thirteen colonies! Oh, we shall hang him some day.”
“Then Mr. Carvel died without knowing that I was safe?” I interrupted.
“On that I'll lay all my worldly goods,” replied Captain Daniel,
emphatically. “If any letters came to Marlboro' Street from you, Mr.
Carvel never dropped eyes on 'em.”
“What a fool was I not to have written you!” I groaned.
He drew his chair around the table, and close to mine.
“Had the news that you escaped death been cried aloud in the streets,
my lad, 'twould never have got to your grandfather's ear,” he said, in
lower tones. “I will tell you what happened, tho' I have it at second
hand, being in the North, as you may remember. Grafton came in from Kent
and invested Marlboro' Street. He himself broke the news to Mr. Carvel,
who took to his bed. Leiden was not in attendance, you may be sure, but
that quack-doctor Drake. Swain sent me a message, and I killed a horse
getting here from New York. But I could no more gain admittance to your
grandfather, Richard, than to King George the Third. I was met in the
hall by that crocodile, who told me with too many fair words that I
could not see my old friend; that for the present Dr. Drake denied him
everybody. Then I damned Dr. Drake, and Grafton too. And I let him know
my suspicions. He ordered me off, Richard--from that house which has
been my only home for these twenty years.” His voice broke.
“Mr. Carvel thought me dead, then.”
“And most mercifully. Your black Hugo, when he was somewhat recovered,
swore he had seen you killed and carried off. Sooth, they say there was
blood enough on the place. But we spared no pains to obtain a clew of
you. I went north to Boston, and Lloyd's factor south to Charleston. But
no trace of the messenger who came to the Coffee House after you could
we find. Hell had opened and swallowed him. And mark this for consummate
villany: Grafton himself spent no less than five hundred pounds in
advertising and the like.”
“And he is not suspected?” I asked. This was the same question I had put
to Mrs. Manners. It caused the captain to flare up again.
“'Tis incredible how a rogue may impose upon men of worth and integrity
if he but know how to smirk piously, and never miss a service. And then
he is an exceeding rich man. Riches cover a multitude of sins in the
most virtuous community in the world. Your Aunt Caroline brought him
a pretty fortune, you know. We had ominous times this spring, with the
associations forming, and the 'Good Intent' and the rest being sent
back to England. His Excellency was at his wits' end for support. It was
Grafton Carvel who helped him most, and spent money like tobacco for the
King's cause, which, being interpreted, was for his own advancement. But
I believe Colonel Lloyd suspects him, tho' he has never said as much to
me. I have told Mr. Swain, under secrecy, what I think. He is one of
the ablest lawyers that the colony owns, Richard, and a stanch friend
of yours. He took your case of his own accord. But he says we have no
foothold as yet.”
When I asked if there was a will the captain rapped out an oath.
“'Sdeath! yes,” he cried, “a will in favour of Grafton and his heirs,
witnessed by Dr. Drake, they say, and another scoundrel. Your name does
not occur throughout the length and breadth of it. You were dead. But
you will have to ask Mr. Swain for those particulars. My dear old friend
was sadly gone when he wrote it, I fear. For he never lacked shrewdness
in his best days. Nor,” added Captain Daniel, with force, “nor did he
want for a proper estimation of Grafton.”
“He has never been the same since that first sickness,” I answered
sadly.
When the captain came to speak of Mr. Carvel's death, the son and
daughter he loved, and the child of his old age in the grave before
him, he proceeded brokenly, and the tears blinded him. Mr. Carvel's last
words will never be known, my dears. They sounded in the unfeeling ears
of the serpent Grafton. 'Twas said that he was seen coming out of his
father's house an hour after the demise, a smile on his face which he
strove to hide with a pucker of sorrow. But by God's grace Mr. Allen had
not read the prayers. The rector was at last removed from Annapolis, and
had obtained the fat living of Frederick which he coveted.
“As I hope for salvation,” the captain concluded, “I will swear there is
not such another villain in the world as Grafton. The imagination of a
fiend alone could have conceived and brought to execution the crime he
has committed. And the Borgias were children to him. 'Twas not only the
love of money that urged him, but hatred of you and of your father. That
was his strongest motive, I believe. However, the days are coming, lad,
when he shall have his reward, unless all signs fail. And we have had
enough of sober talk,” said he, pressing me to eat. “Faith, but just
now, when you came in, I was thinking of you, Richard. And--God forgive
me! complaining against the lot of my life. And thinking, now that you
were taken out of it, and your father and mother and grandfather gone,
how little I had to live for. Now you are home again,” says he, his eyes
lighting on me with affection, “I count the gray hairs as nothing. Let
us have your story, and be merry. Nay, I might have guessed you had been
in London, with your fine clothes and your English servant.”
'Twas a long story, as you know, my dears. He lighted his pipe and laid
his big hand over mine, and filled my glass, and I told him most of that
which had happened to me. But I left out the whole of that concerning
Mr. Manners and the Duke of Chartersea, nor did I speak of the
sponging-house. I believe my only motive for this omittance was a
reluctance to dwell upon Dorothy, and a desire to shield her father for
her sake. He dropped many a vigorous exclamation into my pauses, but
when I came to speak of my friendship with Mr. Fox, his brow clouded
over.
“'Ad's heart!” he cried, “'Ad's heart! And so you are turned Tory, and
have at last been perverted from those principles for which I loved you
most. In the old days my conscience would not allow me to advise you,
Richard, and now that I am free to speak, you are past advice.”
I laughed aloud.
“And what if I tell you that I made friends with his Grace of Grafton,
and Lord Sandwich, and was invited to Hichinbroke, his Lordship's seat?”
said I.
His honest face was a picture of consternation.
“Now the good Lord deliver us!” he exclaimed fervently. “Sandwich!
Grafton! The devil!”
I gave myself over to the first real merriment I had had since I had
heard of Mr. Carvel's death.
“And when Mr. Fox learned that I had lost my fortune,” I went on, “he
offered me a position under Government.”
“Have you not friends enough at home to care for you, sir?” he said,
his face getting purple. “Are you Jack Carvel's son, or are you an
impostor?”
“I am Jack Carvel's son, dear Captain Daniel, and that is why I am
here,” I replied. “I am a stouter Whig than ever, and I believe I might
have converted Mr. Fox himself had I remained at home sufficiently
long,” I added, with a solemn face. And, for my own edification, I
related how I had bearded his Majesty's friends at Brooks's, whereat he
gave a great, joyful laugh, and thumped me on the back.
“You dog, Richard! You sly rogue!” And he called to Mr. Claude for
another bottle on the strength of that, and we pledged the Association.
He peppered me with questions concerning Junius, and Mr. Wilkes, and Mr.
Franklin of Philadelphia. Had I seen him in London? “I would not doubt
a Carvel's word,” says the captain, “(always excepting Grafton and his
line, as usual), but you may duck me on the stool and I comprehend why
Mr. Fox and his friends took up with such a young rebel rapscallion as
you--and after the speech you made 'em.”
I astonished him vastly by pointing out that Mr. Fox and his friends
cared a deal for place, and not a fig for principle; that my frankness
had entertained rather than offended them; and that, having a taste for
a bit of wild life and the money to gratify it, and being of a tolerant,
easy nature withal, I had contrived to make many friends in that set,
without aiming at influence. Whereat he gave me another lick between the
shoulders.
“It was so with Jack,” he cried; “thou art a replica. He would have made
friends with the devil himself. In the French war, when all the rest of
us Royal Americans were squabbling with his Majesty's officers out of
England, and cursing them at mess, they could never be got to fight with
Jack, tho' he gave them ample provocation. There was Tetherington,
of the 22d foot,--who jeered us for damned provincials, and swaggered
through three duels in a week,--would enter no quarrel with him. I can
hear him say: 'Damn you, Carvel, you may slap my face and you will, or
walk in ahead of me at the general's dinner and you will, but I like you
too well to draw at you. I would not miss your company at table for all
the world.' And when he was killed,” Captain Daniel continued, lowering
his voice, “some of them cried like women, Tetherington among 'em,--and
swore they would rather have lost their commissions at high play.”
We sat talking until the summer's dusk grew on apace, and one thing this
devoted lover of my family told me, which lightened my spirits of the
greatest burden that had rested upon them since my calamity befell me.
I had dwelt at length upon my Lord Comyn, and upon the weight of his
services to me, and touched upon the sum which I stood in his debt. The
captain interrupted me.
“One day, before your mother died, she sent for me,” said he, “and
I came to Carvel Hall. You were too young to remember. It was in
September, and she was sitting on the seat under the oak she loved so
well,--by Dr. Hilliard's study.
“The lace shawl your father had given her was around her shoulders,
and upon her face was the smile that gave me a pang to see. For it had
something of heaven in it, Richard. She called me 'Daniel' then for the
second time in her life. She bade me be seated beside her. 'Daniel,' she
said, 'when I am gone, and father is gone, it is you who will take care
of Richard. I sometimes believe all may not be well then, and that he
will need you.' I knew she was thinking of Grafton,” said the captain.
“'I have a little money of my own, Daniel, which I have saved lately
with this in view. I give it into your charge, and if trouble comes to
him, my old friend, you will use it as you see fit.'
“It was a bit under a thousand pounds, Richard. And when she died I put
it out under Mr. Carroll's direction at safe interest. So that you
have enough to discharge your debt, and something saved against another
emergency.”
He fell silent, sunk into one of those reveries which the memory of my
mother awoke in him. My own thoughts drifted across the sea. I was again
at the top of the stairs in Arlington Street, and feeling the dearest
presence in the world. The pale oval of Dorothy's face rose before me
and the troubled depths of her blue eyes. And I heard once more the
tremble in her voice as she confessed, in words of which she took no
heed, that love for which I had sought in vain.
The summer dusk was gathering. Outside, under the cherry trees, I
saw Banks holding forth to an admiring circle of negro 'ostlers. And
presently Mr. Claude came in to say that Shaw, the town carpenter, and
Sol Mogg, the ancient sexton of St. Anne's, and several more of my old
acquaintances were without, and begged the honour of greeting me.