“Syne ye maun be nane ither than Mr. Richard Carvel.  Yere servan’, Mr. Carvel,” and he made me a low bow, to the great dropping of jaws round about, and led me into the inn.  With trembling hands he took a packet from his cabinet and showed me the letters, twenty-three in all, which Ivie had written home since he had gone out as the King’s passenger in ’45.  The sight of them brought tears to my eyes and carried me out of the Scotch mist back to dear old Maryland.  I had no trouble in convincing mine host that I was the lad eulogized in the scrawls, and he put hand on the very sheet which announced my birth, nineteen years since,—­the fourth generation of Carvels Ivie had known.

So it came that the captain and I got the best chaise and pair in place of the worst, and sat down to a breakfast such as was prepared only for my Lord Selkirk when he passed that way, while I told the landlord of his brother; and as I talked I remembered the day I had caught the arm of the mill and gone the round, to find that Ivie had written of that, too!

After that our landlord would not hear of a reckoning.  I might stay a month, a year, at the “Twa Naigs” if I wished.  As for John Paul, who seemed my friend, he would say nothing, only to advise me privately that the man was queer company, shaking his head when I defended him.  He came to me with ten guineas, which he pressed me to take for Ivies sake, and repay when occasion offered.  I thanked him, but was of no mind to accept money from one who thought ill of my benefactor.

The refusal of these recalled the chaise, and I took the trouble to expostulate with the captain on that score, pointing out as delicately as I might that, as he had brought me to Scotland, I held it within my right to incur the expense of the trip to London, and that I intended to reimburse him when I saw Mr. Dix.  For I knew that his wallet was not over full, since he had left the half of his savings with his mother.  Much to my secret delight, he agreed to this as within the compass of a gentleman’s acceptance.  Had he not, I had the full intention of leaving him to post it alone, and of offering myself to the master of the first schooner.

Despite the rain, and the painful scenes gone through but yesterday, and the sour-looking ring of men and women gathered to see the start, I was in high spirits as we went spinning down the Carlisle road, with my heart leaping to the crack of the postilion’s whip.

I was going to London and to Dorothy!

CHAPTER XXII

ON THE ROAD

Many were the ludicrous incidents we encountered on our journey to London.  As long as I live, I shall never forget John Paul’s alighting upon the bridge of the Sark to rid himself of a mighty farewell address to Scotland he had been composing upon the road.  And this he delivered with such appalling voice and gesture as to frighten to a standstill a chaise on the English side of the stream, containing a young gentleman in a scarlet coat and a laced hat, and a young lady who sobbed as we passed them.  They were, no doubt, running to Gretna Green to be married.