CHAPTER XXXIII. DRURY LANE
After a night spent in making resolutions, I set out for ArlingtonStreet, my heart beating a march, as it had when I went thither on myarrival in London. Such was my excitement that I was near to being runover in Piccadilly like many another country gentleman, and roundlycursed by a wagoner for my stupidity. I had a hollow bigness withinme, half of joy, half of pain, that sent me onward with ever increasingsteps and a whirling storm of contradictions in my head. Now it was:Dolly loved me in spite of all the great men in England. Why, otherwise,had she come to the sponging-house? Berating myself: had her affectionbeen other than that of a life-long friendship she would not have comean inch. But why had she made me stay in London? Why had she spoken soto Comyn? What interpretation might be put upon a score of little actsof hers that came a-flooding to mind, each a sacred treasure of memory?A lover's interpretation, forsooth. Fie, Richard! what presumption tothink that you, a raw lad, should have a chance in such a field! Youhave yet, by dint of hard knocks and buffets, to learn the world.
By this I had come in sight of her house, and suddenly I trembled like agreen horse before a cannon. My courage ran out so fast that I wassoon left without any, and my legs had carried me as far as St. James'sChurch before I could bring them up. Then I was sure, for the firsttime, that she did not love me. In front of the church I halted,reflecting that I had not remained in England with any hope of it, butrather to discover the truth about Chartersea's actions, and to saveher, if it were possible. I turned back once more, and now got as far asthe knocker, and lifted it as a belfry was striking the hour of noon. Ithink I would have fled again had not the door been immediately opened.
Once more I found myself in the room looking out over the Park, theFrench windows open to the balcony, the sunlight flowing in with thespring-scented air. On the table was lying a little leather book,stamped with gold,--her prayerbook. Well I remembered it! I opened it,to read: "Dorothy, from her Mother. Annapolis, Christmas, 1768." Thesweet vista of the past stretched before my eyes. I saw her, on such a,Mayday as this, walking to St. Anne's under the grand old trees, theirbudding leaves casting a delicate tracery at her feet. I followed her upthe aisle until she disappeared in the high pew, and then I sat besidemy grandfather and thought of her, nor listened to a word of Mr. Allen'ssermon. Why had they ever taken her to London?
When she came in I sought her face anxiously. She was still pale; andI thought, despite her smile, that a trace of sadness lingered in hereyes.
"At last, sir, you have come," she said severely. "Sit down and give anaccount of yourself at once. You have been behaving very badly."
"Dorothy--"
"Pray don't 'Dorothy' me, sir. But explain where you have been for thisweek past."
"But, Dolly--"
"You pretend to have some affection for your old playmate, but you donot trouble yourself to come to see her."
"Indeed, you do me wrong."
"Do you wrong! You prefer to gallivant about town with Comyn and CharlesFox, and with all those wild gentlemen who go to Brooks's. Nay, I haveheard of your goings-on. I shall write to Mr. Carvel to-day, and advisehim to send for you. And tell him that you won a thousand pounds in onenight--"
"It was only seven hundred," I interrupted sheepishly. I thought shesmiled faintly.
And will probably lose twenty thousand before you have done. And I shallsay to him that you have dared to make bold rebel speeches to a Lord ofthe Admiralty and to some of the King's supporters. I shall tell yourgrandfather you are disgracing him."
"Rebel speeches!" I cried.
"Yes, rebel speeches at Almack's. Who ever heard of such a thing! Nodoubt I shall hear next of your going to a drawing-room and instructinghis Majesty how to subdue the colonies. And then, sir, you will be sentto the Tower, and I shan't move a finger to get you out."
"Who told you of this, Dolly?" I demanded.
"Mr. Fox, himself, for one. He thought it so good,--or so bad,--that hetook me aside last night at Lady Tankerville's, asked me why I had letyou out of Castle Yard, and told me I must manage to curb your tongue.I replied that I had about as much influence with you as I have with Dr.Franklin."
I laughed.
"I saw Fox lead you off," I said.
"Oh, you did, did you!" she retorted. "But you never once came near meyourself, save when I chanced to meet you in the hall, tho' I was therea full three hours."
"How could I!" I exclaimed. "You were surrounded by prime ministers andambassadors, and Heaven knows how many other great people."
"When you wish to do anything, Richard, you usually find a way."
"Nay," I answered, despairing, "I can never explain anything to you,Dolly. Your tongue is too quick for mine."
"Why didn't you go home with your captain?" she asked mockingly.
"Do you know why I stayed?"
"I suppose because you want to be a gay spark and taste of the pleasuresof London. That is, what you men are pleased to call pleasures. I canthink of no other season."
"There is another," I said desperately.
"Ah," said Dolly. And in her old aggravating way she got up and stood inthe window, looking out over the park. I rose and stood beside her, myvery temples throbbing.
"We have no such springs at home," she said. "But oh, I wish I were atWilmot House to-day!"
"There is another reason," I repeated. My voice sounded far away, likethat of another. I saw the colour come into her cheeks again, slowly.The southwest wind, with a whiff of the channel salt in it, blew thecurtains at our backs.
"You have a conscience, Richard," she said gently, without turning. "Sofew of us have."
I was surprised. Nor did I know what to make of that there were so manymeanings.
"You are wild," she continued, "and impulsive, as they say your fatherwas. But he was a man I should have honoured. He stood firm beside hisfriends. He made his enemies fear him. All strong men must have enemies,I suppose. They must make them."
I looked at her, troubled, puzzled, but burning at her praise of CaptainJack.
"Dolly," I cried, "you are not well. Why won't you come back toMaryland?"
She did not reply to that. Then she faced me suddenly.
"Richard, I know now why you insisted upon going back. It was becauseyou would not desert your sea-captain. Comyn and Mr. Fox have told me,and they admire you for it as much as I."
What language is worthy to describe her as she was then in that pose,with her head high, as she was wont to ride over the field afterthe hounds. Hers was in truth no beauty of stone, but the beauty offorce,--of life itself.
"Dorothy," I cried; "Dorothy, I stayed because I love you. There, I havesaid it again, what has not passed my lips since we were children. Whathas been in my heart ever since."
I stopped, awed. For she had stepped back, out on the balcony. Shehid her head in her hands, and I saw her breast shaken as with sobs. Iwaited what seemed a day,--a year. Then she raised her face and lookedat me through the tears shining in her eyes.
"Richard," she said sadly, "why, why did you ever tell me? Why can wenot always be playmates?"
The words I tried to say choked me. I could not speak for sorrow, forvery bitterness. And yet I might have known! I dared not look at heragain.
"Dear Richard," I heard her say, "God alone understands how it hurts meto give you pain. Had I only foreseen--"
"Had you only foreseen," I said quickly.
"I should never have let you speak."
Her words came steadily, but painfully. And when I raised my eyes shemet them bravely.
"You must have seen," I cried. "These years I have loved you, nor couldI have hidden it if I had wished. But I have little--to offer you," Iwent on cruelly, for I knew not what I said; "you who may have Englishlands and titles for the consenting. I was a fool."
Her tears started again. And at sight of them I was seized with suchremorse that I could have bitten my tongue in two.
"Forgive me, Dorothy, if you can," I implored
. "I did not mean it. Nordid I presume to think you loved me. I have adored,--I shall be contentto adore from far below. And I stayed,--I stayed that I might save youif a danger threatened."
"Danger!" she exclaimed, catching her breath.
"I will come to the point," I said. "I stayed to save you from the Dukeof Chartersea."
She grasped the balcony rail, and I think would have fallen but for myarm. Then she straightened, and only the quiver of her lip marked theeffort.
"To save me from the Duke of Chartersea?" she said, so coldly that myconviction was shaken. "Explain yourself, sir."
"You cannot love him!" I cried, amazed.
She flashed upon me a glance I shall never forget.
"Richard Carvel," she said, "you have gone too far. Though you have beenmy friend all my life, there are some things which even you cannot sayto me."
And she left me abruptly and went into the house, her head flung back.And I followed in a tumult of mortification and wounded pride, in sucha state of dejection that I wished I had never been born. But hers was anature of surprises, and impulsive, like my own. Beside the cabinet sheturned, calm again, all trace of anger vanished from her face. Drawinga hawthorn sprig from a porcelain vase I had given her, she put it in myhand.
"Let us forget this, Richard," said she; "we have both been veryfoolish."
Forget, indeed! Unless Heaven had robbed me of reason, had torn the pastfrom me at a single stroke. I could not have forgotten. When I reachedmy lodgings I sent the anxious Banks about his business and threw myselfin a great chair before the window, the chair she had chosen. Strange tosay, I had no sensation save numbness. The time must have been abouttwo of the clock: I took no account of it. I recall Banks coming timidlyback with the news that two gentlemen had called. I bade him sendthem away. Would my honour not have Mrs. Marble cook my dinner, and bedressed for Lady Pembroke's ball? I sent him off again, harshly.
After a long while the slamming of a coach door roused me, and I wasstraightway seized with such an agony of mind that I could have criedaloud. 'Twas like the pain of blood flowing back into a frozen limb.Darkness was fast gathering as I reached the street and began to walkmadly. Word by word I rehearsed the scene in the drawing-room over thePark, but I could not think calmly, for the pain of it. Little by littleI probed, writhing, until far back in my boyhood I was tearing at thedead roots of that cherished plant, which was the Hope of Her Love. Ithad grown with my own life, and now with its death to-day I felt thatI had lost all that was dear to me. Then, in the midst of this abjectself-pity, I was stricken with shame. I thought of Comyn, who had bornethe same misfortune as a man should. Had his pain been the less becausehe had not loved her from childhood? Like Comyn, I resolved to labourfor her happiness.
What hour of the night it was I know not when a man touched me on theshoulder, and I came to myself with a start. I was in a narrow streetlined by hideous houses, their windows glaring with light. Each seemeda skull, with rays darting from its grinning eye-holes. Within I caughtglimpses of debauchery that turned me sick. Ten paces away three womenand a man were brawling, the low angry tones of his voice mingling withthe screeches of their Billingsgate. Muffled figures were passing andrepassing unconcernedly, some entering the houses, others coming out,and a handsome coach, without arms and with a footman in plain livery,lumbered along and stopped farther on. All this I remarked before I tooknotice of him who had intercepted me, and demanded what he wanted.
"Hey, Bill!" he cried with an oath to a man who stood on the stepsopposite; "'ere's a soft un as has put 'is gill in."
The man responded, and behind him came two more of the same feather, andsuddenly I found myself surrounded by an ill-smelling crowd of flashymen and tawdry women. They jostled me, and I reached for my sword, tomake the discovery that I had forgotten it. Regaining my full senses, Istruck the man nearest me a blow that sent him sprawling in the dirt. Ablade gleamed under the sickly light of the fish-oil lamp overhead, buta man crashed through from behind and caught the ruffian's sword-arm andflung him back in the kennel.
"The watch!" he cried, "the watch!"
They vanished like rats into their holes at the shout, leaving mestanding alone with him. The affair had come and gone so quickly that Iscarce caught my breath.
"Pardon, sir," he said, knuckling, "but I followed you."
It was Banks. For a second time he had given me an affecting example ofhis faithfulness. I forgot that he was my servant, and I caught his handand pressed it.
"You have saved my life at the risk of your own," I said; "I shall notforget it."
But Banks had been too well trained to lose sight of his position. Hemerely tipped his hat again and said imperturbably:
"Best get out of here, your honour. They'll be coming again directly."
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Drury Lane, sir," he replied, giving me just the corner of a glance;"shall I fetch a coach, sir?" No, I preferred to walk. Before we hadturned into Long Acre I had seen all of this Sodom of London that itshould be given a man to see, if indeed we must behold some of thebestiality of this world. Here alone, in the great city, high and lowwere met equal. Sin levels rank. The devil makes no choice between mylord and his kitchen wench who has gone astray. Here, in Sodom, paintedvice had lain for an hundred years and bred half the crime of a century.How many souls had gone hence in that time to meet their Maker! Someof these brazen creatures who leered at me had known how long ago!--apeaceful home and a mother's love; had been lured in their innocenceto this place of horrors, never to leave it until death mercifullyovertakes them. Others, having fallen, had been driven hither by a cruelworld that shelters all save the helpless, that forgives all save thetruly penitent. I shuddered as I thought of Mr. Hogarth's prints, which,in the library in Marlboro' Street at home, had had so little meaningfor me. Verily he had painted no worse than the reality. As I strodehomeward, my own sorrow subdued by the greater sorrow I had looked upon,the craving I had had to be alone was gone, and I would have lockedarms with a turnspit. I called to Banks, who was behind at a respectfuldistance, and bade him come talk to me. His presence of mind in callingon the watch had made even a greater impression upon me than hisbravery. I told him that he should have ten pounds, and an increase ofwages. And I asked him where I had gone after leaving Dover Street, andwhy he had followed me. He answered this latter question first. He hadseen gentlemen in the same state, or something like it, before: hisLordship, his late master, after he had fought with Mr. Onslow, of theGuards, and Sir Edward Minturn, when he had lost an inheritance and areversion at Brooks's, and was forced to give over his engagement tomarry the Honourable Miss Swift. "Lord, sir," he said, "but that wasa sad case, as set all London agog. And Sir Edward shot hisself atPortsmouth not a se'nnight after."
And he relapsed into silence, no doubt longing to ask the cause of myown affliction. Presently he surprised me by saying:
"And I might make so bold, Mr. Carvel, I would like to tell your honoursomething."
I nodded. And he hawed awhile and then burst out:
"Your honour must know then that I belongs to the footman's club inBerkeley Square, where I meets all the servants o' quality--"
"Yes," I said, wondering what footman's tale he had to tell.
"And Whipple, he's a hintimate o' mine, sir." He stopped again.
"And who may Whipple be?"
"With submission, sir. Whipple's his Grace o' Chartersea's man--and,you'll forgive me, sir--Whipple owns his Grace is prodigious ugly, an'killed young Mr. Atwater unfair, some think. Whipple says he would givenotice had he not promised the old duke--"
"Drat Whipple!" I cried.
"Yes, sir. To be sure, sir. His Grace was in a bloody rage when he foundhisself in a fruit bin at Covent Carding. An' two redbreasts had carriedhim to the round house, sir, afore they discovered his title. An' sincehis Grace ha' said time an' time afore Whipple, that he'll ha' Mr.Carvel's heart for that, and has called you most disgustin' bad names,sir. An' Whipple he says to me:
'Banks, drop your marster a word, an'you get the chance. His Grace'll speak him fair to's face, but let himlook behind him.'"
"I thank you again, Banks. I shall bear in mind your devotion," Ireplied. "But I had nothing to do with sending the duke to CoventGarden."
"Ay, sir, so I tells Whipple."
"Pray, how did you know?" I demanded curiously.
"Lord, sir! All the servants at Almack's is friends o' mine," says he."But Whipple declares his Grace will be sworn you did it, sir, tho' theLord Mayor hisself made deposition 'twas not."
"Then mark me, Banks, you are not to talk of this."
"Oh, Lord, no, your honour," he said, as he fell back. But I was not sosure of his discretion as of his loyalty.
And so I was led to perceive that I was not to be the only aggressor inthe struggle that was to come. That his Grace did me the honour tolook upon me as an obstacle. And that he intended to seize the firstopportunity to make way with me, by fair means or foul.
Volume 6.
Richard Carvel — Complete Page 34
