“My God!” I exclaimed, in bitterness and disgust; “you are a father, and would sell both your daughter and your honour for a title, and to the filthiest wretch in the kingdom?”

Without bestowing upon him another look, I turned on my heel and left the room.  I had set my foot on the stair, when I heard the rustle of a dress, and the low voice which I knew so well calling my name.

“Richard.”

There at my side was Dorothy, even taller in her paleness, with sorrow and agitation in her blue eyes.

“Richard, I have heard all.—­I listened.  Are you going away without a word for me?” Her breath came fast, and mine, as she laid a hand upon my arm.  “Richard, I do not care whether you are poor.  What am I saying?” she cried wildly.  “Am I false to my own father?  Richard, what have you done?”

And then, while I stood dazed, she tore open her gown, and drawing forth a little gold locket, pressed it in my palm.  “The flowers you gave me on your birthday,—­the lilies of the valley, do you remember?  They are here, Richard.  I have worn them upon my heart ever since.”

I raised the locket to my lips.

“I shall treasure it for your sake, Dorothy,” I said, “for the sake of the old days.  God keep you!”

For a moment I looked into the depths of her eyes.  Then she was gone, and I went down the stairs alone.  Outside, the rain fell unheeded on my new coat.  My steps bent southward, past Whitehall, where the martyr Charles had met death so nobly:  past the stairs to the river, where she had tripped with me so gayly not a month since.  Death was in my soul that day,—­death and love, which is the mystery of life.  God guided me into the great Abbey near by, where I fell on my knees before Him and before England’s dead.  He had raised them and cast them down, even as He was casting me, that I might come to know the glory of His holy name.

RICHARD CARVEL

By Winston Churchill

Volume 7.

XLII.  My Friends are proven
XLIII.  Annapolis once more
XLIV.  Noblesse Oblige
XLV.  The House of Memories
XLVI.  Gordon’s Pride
XLVII.  Visitors
XLVIII.  Multum in Parvo
XLIX.  Liberty loses a Friend

CHAPTER XLII

MY FRIENDS ARE PROVEN

At the door of my lodgings I was confronted by Banks, red with indignation and fidgety from uneasiness.

“O Lord, Mr. Carvel, what has happened, sir?” he cried.  “Your honour’s agent ‘as been here since noon.  Must I take orders from the likes o’ him, sir?”

Mr. Dix was indeed in possession of my rooms, lounging in the chair Dolly had chosen, smoking my tobacco.  I stared at him from the threshold.  Something in my appearance, or force of habit, or both brought him to his feet, and wiped away the smirk from his face.  He put down the pipe guiltily.  I told him shortly that I had heard the news which he must have got by the packet:  and that he should have his money, tho’ it took the rest of my life:  and the ten per cent I had promised him provided he would not press my Lord Comyn.  He hesitated, and drummed on the table.  He was the man of business again.