The day was misting and dark, but so vast was my relief that I imagined the sun was out as I rattled toward Arlington Street.  If only Dolly were not ill again from the shock, I should be happy indeed.  She must have heard, ere then, that I was not killed; and I had still better news to tell her than that of Lord Comyn’s condition.  Mr. Fox, who got every rumour that ran, had shouted after me that the duke and Lewis were set out for France.  How he knew I had not waited to inquire.  But the report tallied with my own surmise, for they had used the word “Dover” when they left us for dead in the Wilderness.

I dismissed my chaise at the door.

“Mr. Manners waits on you, sir, in the drawing-room,” said the footman.  “Your honour is here sooner than he looked for,” he added gratuitously.

“Sooner than he looked for?”

“Yes, sir.  James is gone to you but quarter of an hour since with a message, sir.”

I was puzzled.

“And Miss Manners?  Is she well?”

The man smiled.

“Very well, sir, thank your honour.”

To add to my surprise, Mr. Marmaduke was pacing the drawing-room in a yellow night-gown.  He met me with an expression I failed to fathom, and then my eye was held by a letter in his hand.  He cleared his throat.

“Good morning, Richard,” said he, very serious,—­very pompous, I thought.  “I am pleased to see that you are so well out of the deplorable affair of last night.”

I had not looked for gratitude.  In truth, I had done nothing for him, and Chartersea might have exposed him a highwayman for all I cared,—­I had fought for Dolly.  But this attitude astonished me.  I was about to make a tart reply, and then thought better of it.

“Walter, a decanter of wine for Mr. Carvel,” says he to the footman.  Then to me:  “I am rejoiced to hear that Lord Comyn is out of danger.”

I merely stared at him.

“Will you sit?” he continued.  “To speak truth, the Annapolis packet came in last night with news for you.  Knowing that you have not had time to hear from Maryland, I sent for you.”

My brain was in such a state that for the moment I took no meaning from this introduction.  I was conscious only of indignation against him for sending for me, when for all he knew I might have been unable to leave my bed.  Suddenly I jumped from the chair.

“You have heard from Maryland?” I cried.  “Is Mr. Carvel dead?  Oh, tell me, is Mr. Carvel dead?” And I clutched his arm to make him wince.

He nodded, and turned away.  “My dear old friend is no more,” he said.  “Your grandfather passed away on the seventh of last month.”

I sank into a chair and bowed my face, a flood of recollections overwhelming me, a thousand kindnesses of my grandfather coming to mind.  One comfort alone stood forth, even had I gone home with John Paul, I had missed him.  But that he should have died alone with Grafton brought the tears brimming to my eyes.  I had thought to be there to receive his last words and blessing, to watch over him, and to Smooth his pillow.  Who had he else in the world to bear him affection on his death-bed?  The imagination of that scene drove me mad.