“Yes, ’twas that he answered when they asked him if he had struck,” I exclaimed.

“It must have been an awful scene,” she said, and her shoulders quivered.  “When you were at your worst you would talk of it, and sometimes of what happened to you in London, of that ride in Hyde Park, or—­or of Vauxhall,” she continued hurriedly.  “And when I could bear it no longer, I would take your hand and call you by name, and often quiet you thus.”

“And did I speak of aught else?” I asked eagerly.

“Oh, yes.  When you were caliper, it would be of your childhood, of your grandfather and your birthdays, of Captain Clapsaddle, and of Patty and her father.”

“And never of Dolly, I suppose.”

She turned away her head.

“And never of Dolly?”

“I will tell you what you said once, Richard,” she answered, her voice dropping very low.  “I was sitting by the window there, and the dawn was coming.  And suddenly I heard you cry:  ’Patty, when I return will you be my wife?’ I got up and came to your side, and you said it again, twice.”

The room was very still.  And the vision of Patty in the parlour of Gordon’s Pride, knitting my woollen stocking, rose before me.

“Yes,” I said at length, “I asked her that the day before I left for the war.  God bless her!  She has the warmest heart in the world, and the most generous nature.  Do you know what her answer was, Dorothy?”

“No.”  ’Twas only her lips moving that formed the word.  She was twisting absently the tassel of the bed curtain.

“She asked me if I loved her.”

My lady glanced up with a start, then looked me searchingly through and through.

“And you?” she said, in the same inaudible way.

“I could answer nothing.  ’Twas because of her father’s dying wish I asked her, and she guessed that same.  I would not tell her a lie, for only the one woman lives whom I love, and whom I have loved ever since we were children together among the strawberries.  Need I say that that woman is you, Dorothy?  I loved you before we sailed to Carvel Hall between my grandfather’s knees, and I will love you till death claims me.”

Then it seemed as if my heart had stopped beating.  But the snowy apron upon her breast fluttered like a sail stirring in the wind, her head was high, and her eyes were far away.  Even my voice sounded in the distance as I continued: 

“Will you be the mistress of Carvel Hall, Dorothy?  Hallowed is the day that I can ask it.”

What of this earth may excel in sweetness the surrender of that proud and noble nature!  And her words, my dears, shall be sacred to you, too, who are descended from her.  She bent forward a little, those deep blue eyes gazing full into my own with a fondness to make me tremble.

“Dear Richard,” she said, “I believe I have loved you always.  If I have been wilful and wicked, I have suffered more than you know—­even as I have made you suffer.”