'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.