'Twas about candlelight when I awoke, and Dorothy was sitting alone
beside me. Her fingers were resting upon my arm, and she greeted me with
a smile all tenderness.
“And does my Lord feel better after--after his excitement to-day?” she
asked.
“Dorothy, you have made me a whole man again. I could walk to Windsor
and back.”
“You must have your dinner, or your supper first, sir,” she answered
gayly, “and do you rest quiet until I come back to feed you. Oh, Richard
dear,” she cried, “how delightful that you should be the helpless one,
and dependent on me!”
As I lay listening for the rustle of her gown, the minutes dragged
eternally. Every word and gesture of the morning passed before my mind,
and the touch of her lips still burned on my forehead. At last, when
I was getting fairly restless, the distant tones of a voice, deep and
reverberating, smote upon my ear, jarring painfully some long-forgotten
chord. That voice belonged to but one man alive, and yet I could not
name him. Even as I strained, the tones drew nearer, and they were mixed
with sweeter ones I knew well, and Dorothy's mother's voice. Whilst I
was still searching, the door opened, the voices fell calm, and Dorothy
came in bearing a candle in each hand. As she set them down on the
table, I saw an agitation in her face, which she strove to hide as she
addressed me.
“Will you see a visitor, Richard?”
“A visitor!” I repeated, with misgiving. 'Twas not so she had announced
Comyn.
“Will you see Mr. Allen?”--
“Mr. Allen, who was the rector of St. Anne's? Mr. Allen in London, and
here?”
“Yes.” Her breath seemed to catch at the word. “He says he must see you,
dear, and will not be denied. How he discovered you were with us I know
not.”
“See him!” I cried. “And I had but the half of my strength I would
fling him downstairs, and into the kennel. Will you tell him so for me,
Dorothy?”
And I raised up in bed, shaken with anger against the man. In a trice
she was holding me, fearfully.
“Richard, Richard, you will open your wound. I pray you be quiet.”
“And Mr. Allen has the impudence to ask to see me!”
“Listen, Richard. Your anger makes you forget many things. Remember that
he is a dangerous man, and now that he knows you are in London he holds
your liberty, perhaps your life, in his hands.”
It was true. And not mine alone, but the lives and liberty of others.
“Do you know what he wishes, Dorothy?”
“No, he will not tell us. But he is greatly excited, and says he must
see you at once, for your own good. For your own good, Richard!”
“I do not trust the villain, but he may come in,” I said, at length.
She gave me the one lingering, anxious look, and opened the door.
Never had I beheld such a change in mortal man as there was in Mr.
Allen, my old tutor, and rector of St. Anne's. And 'twas a baffling,
intangible change. 'Twas as if the mask bad been torn from his face,
for he was now just a plain adventurer that need not have imposed upon
a soul. The coarse wine and coarse food of the lower coffee-houses of
London had replaced the rich and abundant fare of Maryland. The next
day was become one of the terrors of his life. His clothes were of poor
stuff, but aimed at the fashion. And yet--and yet, as I looked upon
him, a something was in his face to puzzle me entirely. I had seen many
stamps of men, but this thing I could not recognize.
He stepped forward with all of his old confidence, and did not regard a
farthing my cold stare.
“'Tis like gone days to see you again, Richard,” he cried. “And I
perceive you have as ever fallen into the best of hands.”
“I am Mr. Carvel to my enemies, if they must speak to me at all,” I
said.
“But, my dear fellow, I am not your enemy, or I should not be here this
day. And presently I shall prove that same.” He took snuff. “But first
I must congratulate you on coming alive out of that great battle off
Flamborough. You look as though you had been very near to death, my lad.
A deal nearer than I should care to get.”
What to say to the man! What to do save to knock him down, and I could
not do that.
“There can be no passing the time of day between you and me, Mr. Allen,”
I answered hotly. “You, whose machinations have come as near to ruining
me as a man's can.”
“And that was your own fault, my dear sir,” said he, as he brushed
himself. “You never showed me a whit of consideration, which is very
dear to men in my position.”
My head swam. Then I saw Dolly by the door regarding me curiously, with
something of a smile upon her lips, but anxiety still in her eyes. With
a “by your leave, ma'am,” to her, Mr. Allen took the chair abreast me.
“You have but to call me when you wish, Richard,” said she.
“Nay, Dorothy, Mr. Allen can have nothing to say to me that you may not
hear,” I said instantly. “And you will do me a favour to remain.”
She sat down without a word, where I could look at her. Mr. Allen raised
his eyebrows at the revelation in our talk, but by the grace of God he
kept his mouth shut.
“And now, Mr. Allen,” I said, “to what do I owe the pain of this visit?”
“The pain!” he exclaimed, and threw back his head and gave way to a fit
of laughter. “By the mass! your politeness drowns me. But I like
you, Richard, as I have said more than once. I believe your brutal
straight-dealing has more to do with my predilection than aught else.
For I have seen a deal of rogues in my day.”
“And they have seen a deal of you, Mr. Allen.”
“So they have,” he cried, and laughed the more. “Egad, Miss Dorothy,
you have saved all of him, I think.” Then he swung round upon me, very
careless. “Has your Uncle Grafton called to express his sympathies,
Richard?” he asked.
That name brought a cry out of my head, Dolly seizing the arm of her
chair.
“Grafton Carvel in London?” I exclaimed.
“Ay, in very pretty lodgings in Jermyn Street, for he has put by enough,
I'll warrant you, despite the loss of his lands. Your aunt is with him,
and his dutiful son, Philip, now broken of his rank in the English army.
They arrived, before yesterday, from New York.”
“And to what is this an introduction?” I demanded.
“I merely thought it strange,” said Mr. Allen, imperturbably, “that he
had not called to inquire after his nephew's health.”
Dolly was staring at him, with eyes wide open.
“And pray, how did he discover I was in London, sir?” I said. “I was
about to ask how you knew of it, but that is one and the same thing.”
He shot at me a look not to be solved.
“It is not well to bite the hand that lifts you out of the fire,
Richard,” said he.
“You had not gained admission to this house were I not on my back, Mr.
Allen.”
“And that same circumstance is a blessing for you,” he cried.
'Twas then I saw Dorothy making me mute signals of appeal.
“I cannot think why you are here, Mr. Allen,” I said. “When you consider
all the harm you have done me, and all the double-dealing I may lay at
your door, can you blame me for my feelings?”
“No,” he answered, with more soberness than he had yet used; “I honour
you for them. And perchance I am here to atone for some of that harm.
For I like you, my lad, and that's God's truth.”
“All this is neither here nor there, Mr. Allen,” I exclaimed, wholly out
of patience. “If you have come with a message, let me have it. If not, I
beg you get out of my sight, for I have neither the will nor the desire
for palavering.”
“Oh, Richard, do keep your temper!” implored Dorothy. “Can you not see
that Mr. Allen desires to do us--to do you--a service?”
“Of that I am not so sure,” I replied.
“It is his way, Miss Manners,” said the rector, “and I hold it not
against him. To speak truth, I looked for a worse reception, and came
steeled to withstand it. And had my skin been thin, I had left ere
now.” He took more snuff. “It was Mr. Dix,” he said to me slowly, “who
informed Mr. Carvel of your presence in London.”
“And how the devil did Mr. Dix know?”
He did not reply, but glanced apprehensively at Dorothy.
And I have wondered since at his consideration.
“Miss Manners may not wish to hear,” he said uneasily.
“Miss Manners hears all that concerns me,” I answered.
He shrugged his shoulders in comprehension.
“It was Mr. Manners, then, who went to Mr. Dix, and told him under the
pledge of secrecy.”
Not a sound came from Dorothy, nor did I dare to look at her face. The
whole matter was clear to me now. After his conversation with me, Mr.
Marmaduke had lost no time in seeing Mr. Dix, in order to raise money on
my prospects. And the man of business had gone straight to Grafton with
the intelligence. The suspicion flashed through me that Mr. Allen had
been sent to spy, but his very next words disarmed it.
“And now, Richard,” he continued, “before I say what I have come to
say, and since you cannot now prosecute me, I mean to confess to you
something which you probably know almost to a certainty. I was in the
plot to carry you off and deprive you of your fortune. I have been paid
for it, though not very handsomely. Fears for my own safety alone kept
me from telling you and Mr. Swain. And I swear to you that I was sorry
for the venture almost before I had embarked, and ere I had received a
shilling. The scheme was laid out before I took you for a pupil; indeed,
that was part of it, as you no doubt have guessed. As God hears me, I
learned to love you, Richard, in those days at the rectory. You were all
of a man, and such an one as I might have hoped to be had I been born
like you. You said what you chose, and spoke from your own convictions,
and catered to no one. You did not whine when the luck went against you,
but lost like a gentleman, and thought no more of it. You had no fear
of the devil himself. Why should you? While your cousin Philip, with his
parrot talk and sneaking ways, turned my stomach. I was sick of him, and
sick of Grafton, I tell you. But dread of your uncle drove me on, and I
had debts to frighten me.”
He paused. “Twas with a strange medley of emotions I looked at him. And
Dorothy, too, was leaning forward, her lips parted and her eyes riveted
upon his face.
“Oh, I am speaking the truth,” he said bitterly. “And I assume no virtue
for the little justice it remains in my power to do. It is the lot of my
life that I must be false to some one always, and even now I am false to
your uncle. Yes, I am come to do justice, and 'tis a strange errand
for me. I know that estates have been restored to you by the Maryland
Legislature, Richard, and I believe in my heart that you will win this
war.” Here he fetched a memorandum from his pocket. “But to make you
secure,” said he, “in the year 1710, and on the 9th of March, old style,
your great-grandfather, Mr. George Carvel, drew up a document entailing
the lands of Carvel Hall. By this they legally pass to you.”
“The family settlement Mr. Swain suspected!” I exclaimed.
“Just so,” he answered.
“And what am I to pay for this information?” I asked.
Hardly were the words spoken, when Dorothy ran to my bedside, and
seizing my hand, faced him.
“He--he is not well, Mr. Allen,” she cried.
The rector had risen, and stood gazing down at us with the whole of his
life written on his face. That look was fearful to see, and all of
hell was expressed therein. For what is hell if it is not hope dead and
buried, and galling regret for what might have been? With mine own great
happiness so contrasted against his torture, my heart melted.
“I am not well, indeed, Mr. Allen,” I said. “God knows how hard it is
for me to forgive, but I forgive you this night.”
One brief instant he stared at me, and then tumbled suddenly down into
his chair, his head falling forward on his arms. And the long sobs
by which his frame was shaken awed our very souls. Dorothy drew back
against me, clasping my shoulder, the tears wet upon her cheeks. What we
looked on, there in the candlelight, was the Revelation itself.
How long it, endured none of us might say. And when at last he raised
his face, it was haggard and worn in truth, but the evil of it seemed to
have fled. Again and again he strove to speak. The words would not obey.
And when he had mastered himself, his voice was shattered and gone.
“Richard, I have sinned heavily in my time, and preached God's holy word
with a sneer and unbelief in my heart. He knows what I have suffered,
and what I shall yet suffer before His judgment comes for us all. But I
beg it is no sin to pray to Him for your happiness and Miss Dorothy's.”
He stumbled there, and paused, and then continued with more steadiness:
“I came here to-night to betray you, and might have gone hence to your
uncle to claim my pieces of silver. I remain to tell you that Grafton
has an appointment at nine with his Majesty's chief Secretary of State.
I need not mention his motives, nor dwell upon your peril. For the
King's sentiments toward Paul Jones are well known. You must leave
London without delay, and so must Mr. Manners and his family.”
Is it the generations which decide? When I remember bow Dorothy behaved
that night, I think so. Scarce had the rector ceased when she had
released me and was standing erect before him. Pity was in her eyes, but
in her face that courage which danger itself begets in heroic women.
“You have acted a noble part this day, Mr. Allen,” she said, “to atone
for the wrongs you have done Richard. May God forgive you, and make you
happier than you have been!”
He struggled to his feet, listening as to a benediction. Then, with
a single glance to give me confidence, she was gone. And for a minute
there was silence between us.
“How may you be directed to?” I asked.
He leaped as out of a trance.
“Just 'the world,' Richard,” said he. “For I am adrift again, and not
very like to find a harbour, now.”
“You were to have been paid for this, Mr. Allen,” I replied. “And a man
must live.”
“A man must live!” he cried. “The devil coined that line, and made it
some men's history.”
“I have you on my conscience, Mr. Allen,” I went on, “for I have been at
fault as well as you. I might have treated you better, even as you have
said. And I command you to assign a place in London whence you may be
reached.”
“A letter to the Mitre coffee-house will be delivered,” he said.
“You shall receive it,” I answered. “And now I bid you good-by, and
thank you.”
He seized and held my hand. Then walked blindly to the door and turned
abruptly.
“I do not tell you that I shall change my life, Richard, for I have said
that too many times before. Indeed, I warn you that any money you may
send will be spent in drink, and--and worse. I will be no hypocrite to
you. But I believe that I am better this hour than I have been since
last I knelt at my mother's knee in the little Oxfordshire cottage where
I was born.”
When Dorothy returned to me, there was neither haste in her step nor
excitement in her voice. Her very coolness inspired me.
“Do you feel strong enough for a journey, Richard?” she asked.
“To the world's end, Dolly, if you will but go with me.”
She smiled faintly. “I have sent off for my Lord and Mr. Fox, and pray
that one of them may be here presently.”
Scarcely greater were the visible signs of apprehension upon Mrs.
Manners. Her first care, and Dorothy's, was to catechise me most
particularly on my state. And whilst they were so occupied Mr. Marmaduke
entered, wholly frenzied from fright, and utterly oblivious to his own
blame in the matter. He was sent out again directly. After that, with
Aunt Lucy to assist, they hurriedly packed what few things might be
taken. The costly relics of Arlington Street were untouched, and the
French clock was left on the mantel to tick all the night, and for days
to come, in a silent and forsaken room; or perhaps to greet impassively
the King's officers when they broke in at the door. But I caught my lady
in the act of wrapping up the Wedgwood cups and dishes.
In the midst of these preparations Mr. Fox was heard without, and was
met at the door by Dorothy. Two sentences sufficed her to tell him
what had occurred, and two seconds for this man of action to make his
decision.
“In an hour you shall have travelling chaises here, Dorothy,” he said.
“You must go to Portsmouth, and take ship for Lisbon. And if Jack does
not arrive, I will go with you.”
“No, Charles, you must not!” she cried, her emotion conquering her for
the nonce. “That might be to ruin your career, and perchance to lose
your life. And suppose we were to escape, what would they say of you!”
“Fish!” Charles retorted, to hide some feelings of his own; “once our
rebel is out of the country, they may speak their minds. They have never
lacked for names to call me, and I have been dubbed a traitor before
now, my dear lady.”
He stepped hastily to the bed, and laid his hand on me with affection.
“Charles,” I said, “this is all of a piece with your old recklessness.
You were ever one to take any risk, but I will not hear of such a
venture as this. Do you think I will allow the hope of all England to be
staked for a pirate? And would you break our commander of her rank? All
that Dorothy need do at Portsmouth is to curtsey to the first skipper
she meets, and I'll warrant he will carry us all to the antipodes.”
“Egad, but that is more practical than it sounds,” he replied, with a
glance of admiration at my lady, as she stood so tall before us. “She
has a cool head, Richard Carvel, and a long head, and--and I'm thinking
you are to come out of this the best of all of us. You cannot get far
off your course, my lad, with her at the helm.”
It was there his voice belied the jest in his words, and he left us with
precipitation.
They lifted me out of my sheets (I was appalled to discover my
weakness), and bundled me with tender care in a dozen shawls and
blankets. My feet were thrust into two pairs of heavy woollen stockings,
and Dorothy bound her own silk kerchief at my throat, whispering anxious
questions the while. And when her mother and mammy went from the room,
her arms flew around my neck in a passion of solicitude. Then she ran
away to dress for the journey, and in a surprising short time was back
again, with her muff and her heavy cloak, and bending over me to see if
I gave any signs of failure.
Fifty and five minutes had been registered by the French clock, when the
rattle of wheels and the clatter of hoofs sounded below, and Charles Fox
panted up the stairs, muffled in a huge wrap-rascal. 'Twas he and Aunt
Lucy carried me down to the street, Dorothy walking at my side, and
propped me up in the padded corner of one of the two vehicles in
waiting. This was an ample travelling-carriage with a lamp hanging from
its top, by the light of which my lady tucked me in from head to foot,
and then took her place next me. Aunt Lucy filled most of the seat
opposite. The baggage was hoisted up behind, and Charles was about to
slam the door, when a hackney-chaise turned the corner at a gallop and
pulled up in the narrow street abreast, and the figure of my Lord
Comyn suddenly leaped within the compass of the lanthorn's rays. He was
dressed as for a ball, with only a thin rain-cloak over his shoulders,
for the night was thick with mist. He threw at us a startled look that
was a question.
“Jack, Richard is to be betrayed to-night by his uncle,” said Charles,
shortly. “And I am taking them to Portsmouth to get them off for
Lisbon.”
“Charles,” said his Lordship, sternly, “give me that greatcoat.”
It was just the one time that ever I saw uncertainty on Mr. Fox's face.
He threw an uneasy glance into the chaise.
“I have brought money,” his Lordship went on rapidly; “'Twas that kept
me, for I guessed at something of this kind. Give me the coat, I say.”
Mr. Fox wriggled out of it, and took the oiled cape in return.
“Thank you, Jack,” he said simply, and stepped into the carriage. “Who
is to mend my waistcoats now?” he cried. “Faith, I shall treasure this
against you, Richard. Good-by, my lad, and obey your rebel general.
Alas! I must even ask your permission to salute her.”
And he kissed the unresisting Dorothy on both her cheeks. “God keep the
two of you,” he said, “for I love you with all my heart.”
Before we could answer he was gone into the night; and my Lord, standing
without, had closed the carriage door. And that was the last I saw of
this noble man, the true friend of America, who devoted his glorious
talents and his life to fighting the corruption that was rotting the
greatness of England. He who was followed by the prayers of the English
race was ever remembered in our own humble ones.