Richard Carvel — Complete

  CHAPTER XXVIII. ARLINGTON STREET

  The sun having come out, and John Paul not returning by two,--beingogling, I supposed, the ladies in Hyde Park,--I left him a message andbetook myself with as great trepidation as ever to Dorothy's house. Thedoor was opened by the identical footman who had so insolently offeredme money, and I think he recognized me, for he backed away as he toldme the ladies were not at home. But I had not gone a dozen paces in mydisappointment when I heard him running after me, asking if my honourwere Mr. Richard Carvel.

  "The ladies will see your honour," he said, and conducted me back intothe house and up the wide stairs. I had heard that Arlington Street wasknown as the street of the King's ministers, and I surmised that Mr.Manners had rented this house, and its furniture, from some great manwho had gone out of office, plainly a person of means and taste. Thehall, like that of many of the great town-houses, was in semi-darkness,but I remarked that the stair railing was of costly iron-work andpolished brass; and, as I went up, that the stone niches in the wallwere filled with the busts of statesmen, and I recognized among these,that of the great Walpole. A great copper gilt chandelier hung above.But the picture of the drawing-room I was led into, with all itscolours, remains in the eye of my mind to this day. It was a large room,the like of which I had never seen in any private residence of the NewWorld, situated in the back of the house. Its balcony overlooked thefresh expanse of the Green Park. Upon its high ceiling floated Venus andthe graces, by Zucchi; and the mantel, upon which ticked an antique andcurious French clock, was carved marble.

  On the gilt panels of the walls were wreaths of red roses. At leasta half-dozen tall mirrors, framed in rococos, were placed about, thelargest taking the space between the two high windows on the park side.And underneath it stood a gold cabinet, lacquered by Martin's inimitablehand, in the centre of which was set a medallion of porcelain, withthe head in dark blue of his Majesty, Charles the First. The chairs andlounges were marquetry,--satin-wood and mahogany,--with seats and backsof blue brocade. The floor was polished to the degree of danger, andon the walls hung a portrait by Van Dycke, another, of a young girl, byRichardson, a landscape by the Dutch artist Ruysdael, and a water-colourby Zaccarelli.

  I had lived for four months the roughest of lives, and the room broughtbefore me so sharply the contrast between my estate and the grandeur andelegance in which Dorothy lived, that my spirits fell as I looked aboutme. In front of me was a vase of flowers, and beside them on the tablelay a note "To Miss Manners, in Arlington Street," and sealed witha ducal crest. I was unconsciously turning it over, when somethingimpelled me to look around. There, erect in the doorway, stood Dolly,her eyes so earnestly fixed upon me that I dropped the letter with astart. A faint colour mounted to her crown of black hair.

  "And so you have come, Richard," she said. Her voice was low, and tho'there was no anger in it, the tone seemed that of reproach. I wonderedwhether she thought the less of me for coming.

  "Can you blame me for wishing to see you before I leave, Dolly?" Icried, and crossed quickly over to her.

  But she drew a step backward.

  "Then it is true that you are going," said she, this time with a plainnote of coldness.

  "I must, Dorothy."

  "When?"

  "As soon as I can get passage."

  She passed me and seated herself on the lounge, leaving me to stand likea lout before her, ashamed of my youth and of the clumsiness of my greatbody.

  "Ah, Richard," she laughed, "confess to your old play mate! I shouldlike to know how many young men of wealth and family would give upthe pleasures of a London season were there not a strong attraction inMaryland."

  How I longed to tell her that I would give ten years of my life toremain in England: that duty to John Paul took me home. But I was dumb.

  "We should make a macaroni of you to amaze our colony," said Dolly,lightly, as I sat down a great distance away; "to accept my schoolingwere to double your chances when you return, Richard. You should havecards to everything, and my Lord Comyn or Mr. Fox or some one wouldintroduce you at the clubs. I vow you would be a sensation, with yourheight and figure. You should meet all the beauties of England, andperchance," she added mischievously, "perchance you might be taking onehome with you."

  "Nay, Dolly," I answered; "I am not your match in jesting."

  "Jesting!" she exclaimed, "I was never more sober. But where is yourcaptain?"

  I said that I hoped that John Paul would be there shortly.

  "How fanciful he is! And his conversation,--one might think he hadacquired the art at Marly or in the Fauxbourg. In truth, he should havebeen born on the far side of the Channel. And he has the air of thegreat man," said she, glancing up at ms, covertly. "For my part, Iprefer a little more bluntness."

  I was nettled at the speech. Dorothy had ever been quick to seize uponand ridicule the vulnerable oddities of a character, and she had allthe contempt of the great lady for those who tried to scale by pleasingarts. I perceived with regret that she had taken a prejudice.

  "There, Dorothy," I cried, "not even you shall talk so of the captain.For you have seen him at his worst. There are not many, I warrant you,born like him a poor gardener's son who rise by character and abilityto be a captain at three and twenty. And he will be higher yet. Hehas never attended any but a parish school, and still has learning toastonish Mr. Walpole, learning which he got under vast difficulties. Heis a gentleman, I say, far above many I have known, and he is a man.If you would know a master, you should see him on his own ship. If youwould know a gentleman, you have been with me in his mother's cottage."And, warming as I talked, I told her of that saddest of all homecomingsto the little cabin under Criffel's height.

  Small wonder that I adored Dorothy!

  Would that I could paint her moods, that I might describe the strangelight in her eyes when I had finished, that I might tell how in aninstant she was another woman. She rose impulsively and took a chair atmy side, and said:--

  "'Tis so I love to hear you speak, Richard, when you uphold the absent.For I feel it is so you must champion me when I am far away. My dear oldplaymate is ever the same, strong to resent, and seeing ever the best inhis friends. Forgive me, Richard, I have been worse than silly. And willyou tell me that story of your adventures which I long to learn?"

  Ay, that I would. I told it her, and she listened silently, save onlynow and then a cry of wonder or of sympathy that sounded sweet to myears,--just as I had dreamed of her listening when I used to pace thedeck of the brigantine John, at sea. And when at length I had finished,she sat looking out over the Green Park, as tho' she had forgot mypresence.

  And so Mrs. Manners came in and found us.

  It had ever pleased me to imagine that Dorothy's mother had been in heryouth like Dorothy. She had the same tall figure, grace in its everymotion, and the same eyes of deep blue, and the generous but well-formedmouth. A man may pity, but cannot conceive the heroism that a woman ofsuch a mould must have gone through who has been married since earlygirlhood to a man like Mr. Manners. Some women would have been drivenquickly to frivolity, and worse, but this one had struggled year afteryear to maintain an outward serenity to a critical world, and hadsucceeded, tho' success had cost her dear. Each trial had deepened aline of that face, had done its share to subdue the voice which had oncerung like Dorothy's; and in the depths of her eyes lingered a sadnessindefinable.

  She gazed upon me with that kindness and tenderness I had alwaysreceived since the days when, younger and more beautiful than now, shewas the companion of my mother. And the unbidden shadow of a thoughtcame to me that these two sweet women had had some sadness incommon. Many a summer's day I remembered them sewing together in thespring-house, talking in subdued voices which were hushed when I camerunning in. And lo! the same memory was on Dorothy's mother then, halfexpressed as she laid her hands upon my shoulders.

  "Poor Elizabeth!" she said,--not to me, nor yet to Dorothy; "I wish thatshe might have lived to see you now. It is Captain Jack a
gain."

  She sighed, and kissed me. And I felt at last that I had come home aftermany wanderings. We sat down, mother and daughter on the sofa with theirfingers locked. She did not speak of Mr. Manners's conduct, or of mystay in the sponging-house. And for this I was thankful.

  "I have had a letter from Mr. Lloyd, Richard," she said.

  "And my grandfather?" I faltered, a thickness in my throat.

  "My dear boy," answered Mrs. Manners, gently, "he thinks you dead. Butyou have written him?" she added hurriedly.

  I nodded. "From Dumfries."

  "He will have the letter soon," she said cheerfully. "I thank HeavenI am able to tell you that his health is remarkable under thecircumstances. But he will not quit the house, and sees no one exceptyour uncle, who is with him constantly."

  It was what I expected. But the confirmation of it brought me to my feetin a torrent of indignation, exclaiming:

  "The villain! You tell me he will allow Mr. Carvel to see no one?"

  She started forward, laying her hand on my arm, and Dorothy gave alittle cry.

  "What are you saying, Richard? What are you saying?"

  "Mrs. Manners," I answered, collecting myself, "I must tell you thatI believe it is Grafton Carvel himself that is responsible for myabduction. He meant that I should be murdered."

  Then Dorothy rose, her eyes flashing and her head high.

  "He would have murdered you--you, Richard?" she cried, in such a stormof anger as I had never seen her. "Oh, he should hang for the thought ofit! I have always suspected Grafton Carvel capable of any crime!"

  "Hush, Dorothy," said her mother; "it is not seemly for a young girl totalk so."

  "Seemly!" said Dorothy. "If I were a man I would bring him to justice,and it took me a lifetime. Nay, if I were a man and could use a sword--"

  "Dorothy! Dorothy!" interrupted Mrs. Manners.

  Dorothy sat down, the light lingering in her eyes. She had revealed moreof herself in that instant than in all her life before.

  "It is a grave charge, Richard," said Mrs. Manners, at length. "And youruncle is a man of the best standing in Annapolis."

  "You must remember his behaviour before my mother's marriage, Mrs.Manners."

  "I do, I do, Richard," she said sadly. "And I have never trusted himsince. I suppose you are not making your accusation without cause?"

  "I have cause enough," I answered bitterly.

  "And proof?" she added. She should have been the man in her family.

  I told her how Harvey had overheard the bits of the plot at Carvel Hallnear two years gone; and now that I had begun, I was going through withMr. Allen's part in the conspiracy, when Dorothy startled us both bycrying:

  "Oh, there is so much wickedness in the world, I wish I had never beenborn!"

  She flung herself from the room in a passion of tears to shock me. As ifin answer to my troubled look, Mrs. Manners said, with a sigh:

  "She has not been at all well, lately, Richard. I fear the gayetyof this place is too much for her. Indeed, I am sorry we ever leftMaryland."

  I was greatly disturbed, and thought involuntarily of Comyn's words.Could it be that Mr. Manners was forcing her to marry Chartersea?

  "And has Mr. Lloyd said nothing of my uncle?" I asked after a while.

  "I will not deny that ugly rumours are afloat," she answered. "Grafton,as you know, is not liked in Annapolis, especially by the Patriot party.But there is not the slightest ground for suspicion. The messenger--"

  "Yes?"

  "Your uncle denies all knowledge of. He was taken to be the tool ofthe captain of the slaver, and he disappeared so completely that it wassupposed he had escaped to the ship. The story goes that you were seizedfor a ransom, and killed in the struggle. Your black ran all the way totown, crying the news to those he met on the Circle and in West Street,but by the mercy of God he was stopped by Mr. Swain and some othersbefore he had reached your grandfather. In ten minutes a score of menwere galloping out of the Town Gate, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Singleton ahead.They found your horse dead, and the road through the woods all trampleddown, and they spurred after the tracks down to the water's edge.Singleton recalled a slaver, the crew of which had been brawling at theShip tavern a few nights before. But the storm was so thick they couldnot see the ship's length out into the river. They started two fastsloops from the town wharves in chase, and your uncle has been movingheaven and earth to obtain some clew of you. He has put notices in thenewspapers of Charlestown, Philadelphia, New York, and even Boston, andoffered a thousand pounds reward."