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.”