Part 83 (1/2)
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.”
CHAPTER LVI. HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL
'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 pa.s.sed 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!”