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.