“And marry the sweet lass by the Bishop´s-Gate, and nurse your brave boys on your knee. You see we have had eyes, Mr. Orme.”
“I do not know how that may be, but----”
“And,” Simon went on, “if you will do me the honour to let me furnish you with the wedding coat, I´ll warrant it of the finest--a free gift at my hands, for all your kindness to me and the boys.”
“We must first find the lady,” laughed Gervase.
“I think she is already found, and I know she is very sweet to look at.”
In the forenoon Gervase found himself in the wainscoted parlour that was for ever associated in his mind with Dorothy Carew. He had dressed himself with some care, and looked a handsome fellow as he stood by the window looking out on the grass plot that he remembered so well. It seemed to him years since he had stood there; a whole life was crowded between that time and this--a life in which he had seen many strange sights and come through some memorable fortunes. Dorothy, he did not doubt, was still the same, but Macpherson, so rugged and so kindly, was gone, and the tragedy of his death came vividly before him as he stood in the room where he had first met the man by whose hands he had fallen. He was determined that Dorothy should never know the secret which could only bring her grief; this was the one secret in which she should not share. It was hardly likely that Jasper Carew would ever cross his path again--if he did it would then be time enough to think in what manner he should deal with him. In the meantime here was Arcady with the pipe and the lute, with the springtime crowned with the sweetest love, and care and sorrow laid aside for a season. His heart seemed to rise into his throat and a mist to cloud his eyes, as he heard a light footstep behind him. The gallant speeches that he had been rehearsing vanished from his memory, and he stood with his mind all blank as Dorothy came softly into the room, with her hand extended, and her eyes cast down. Her manner was awkward and constrained, though he did not notice it. He would have held her hand in his but she withdrew it gently and seated herself by the window.
“Dorothy, Miss Carew,” he began, with an overmastering desire to take her in his arms, “my words have come true, the words I spoke that last afternoon when----”
“Yes,” she said, “I remember.”
“I said when we next met the joybells would be ringing. Listen, you can hear them now; the old time is all gone.”
“Yes, it is all gone--and--and, Mr. Orme, I cannot say all that is in my heart. The city is ringing with your great exploit, but I knew it all. All the night I watched you as you floated down the dark tide. Oh! it was a gallant deed; no man ever did a braver. You did not tell me what was in your mind, but I felt and knew it. I knew you would not fail.”