beside vanity
under my cap. And the notion that you could admire and love any girl but
me was beyond endurance. Then his Lordship arrived in England, brimming
with praise of you, to assure me that the affair was not about Patty at
all. This was far from making me satisfied that you were not in love
with her, and I may say now that I was miserable. Then, as we were
setting out for Castle Howard, came the news of your death on the road
to Upper Marlboro. I could not go a step. Poor Jack, he was very honest
when he proposed," she added, with a sigh.

"He loved you, Dorothy."

She did not hear me, so deep was she in thought.

"'Twas he who gave me news of you, when I was starving at Gordon's."

"And I--I starved, too, Richard," she answered softly. "Dearest, I slid
very wrong. There are some matters that must be spoken of between us,
whatever the pain they give. And my heart aches now when I think of that
dark day in Arlington Street when I gave you the locket, and you went out
of my life. I knew that I had done wrong then, Richard, as soon as ever
the door closed behind you. I should have gone with you, for better for
worse, for richer for poorer. I should have run after you in the rain
and thrown myself at your feet. And that would have been best for my
father and for me."

She covered her face with her hands, and her words were stifled by a sob.

"Dorothy, Dorothy!" I cried, drawing her to me. "Another time. Not now,
when we are so happy."

"Now, and never again, dear," she said. "Yes, I saw and heard all that
passed in the drawing-room. And I did not blame, but praised you for it.
I have never spoken a word beyond necessity to my father since. God
forgive me!" she cried, "but I have despised him from that hour. When
I knew that he had plotted to sell me to that detestable brute, working
upon me to save his honour, of which he has not the smallest spark; that
he had recognized and denied you, friendless before our house, and sent
you into the darkness at Vauxhall to be murdered, then he was no father
of mine. I would that you might know what my mother has suffered from
such a man, Richard."

"My dear, I have often pitied her from my soul," I said.

"And now I shall tell you something of the story of the Duke of
Chartersea," she went on, and I felt her tremble as she spoke that name.
"I think of all we have Lord Comyn to thank for, next to saving your life
twice, was his telling you of the danger I ran. And, Ric