Part 82 (2/2)

”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 n.o.bility 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 b.o.o.by like me, when you had the choice of so many accomplished gentlemen with t.i.tles 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 n.o.bleman, 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.

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