I gripped the rope tightly, sprang to the deck, and faced her as she came out of the group, her lips parted, and the red of her cheeks vying with the hood she wore. I took her hand silently.
“I had given you over, Richard,” she said, her eyes looking reproachfully into mine. “Another ten minutes, and I should not have seen you.”
Indeed, the topsails were already off the caps, the captain on deck, and the men gathered at the capstan.
“Have you not enough to wish you good-by, Dolly?” I asked.
“There must be a score of them,” said my lady, making a face. “But I wish to talk to you.”
Mr. Marmaduke, however, had no notion of allowing a gathering in his daughter's honour to be broken up. It had been wickedly said of him, when the news of his coming departure got around, that he feared Dorothy would fall in love with some provincial beau before he could get her within reach of a title. When he observed me talking to her, he hurried away from the friends come to see his wife (he had none himself), and seizing me by the arm implored me to take good care of my dear grandfather, and to write them occasionally of the state of his health, and likewise how I fared.
“I think Dorothy will miss you more than any of them, Richard,” said he. “Will you not, my dear?”
But she was gone. I, too, left him without ceremony, to speak to Mrs. Manners, who was standing apart, looking shoreward. She started when I spoke, and I saw that tears were in her eyes.
“Are you coming back soon, Mrs. Manners?” I asked.
“Oh, Richard! I don't know,” she answered, with a little choke in her voice. “I hope it will be no longer than a year, for we are leaving all we hold dear for a very doubtful pleasure.”