She covered her face with her hands, and her words were stifled by a sob.
“Dorothy, Dorothy!” I cried, drawing her to me. “Another time. Not now, when we are so happy.”
“Now, and never again, dear,” she said. “Yes, I saw and heard all that passed in the drawing-room. And I did not blame, but praised you for it. I have never spoken a word beyond necessity to my father since. God forgive me!” she cried, “but I have despised him from that hour. When I knew that he had plotted to sell me to that detestable brute, working upon me to save his honour, of which he has not the smallest spark; that he had recognized and denied you, friendless before our house, and sent you into the darkness at Vauxhall to be murdered, then he was no father of mine. I would that you might know what my mother has suffered from such a man, Richard.”
“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 nobility 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.