"A TOUCH OF BLACK MAGIC\n\n\nI draw the wizard's circle upon the sands, and blue flames spring from its\ncircumference. I describe an inner circle, and green flames come\nresponsive to my words of magic. I touch the common centre of both with my\nwand, and red flames, like adders' tongues, leap from the earth. Over\nthese flames I place my caldron filled with the blood of a new-killed doe,\nand as it boils I speak my incantations and make my mystic signs and\npasses, watching the blood-red mist as it rises to meet the spirits of\nAir. I chant my conjurations as I learned them from the Great Key of\nSolomon, and while I speak, the ruddy fumes take human forms. Out of the\ndark, fathomless Past--the Past of near four hundred years ago--comes a\ngoodly company of simple, pompous folk all having a touch of childish\nsavagery which shows itself in the fierceness of their love and of their\nhate.\n\nThe fairest castle-chateau in all England's great domain, the walls and\nhalls of which were builded in the depths of time, takes on again its\nolden form quick with quivering life, and from the gates of Eagle Tower\nissues my quaint and radiant company. Some are clad in gold lace, silks,\nand taffetas; some wear leather, buckram and clanking steel. While the\ncaldron boils, their cloud-forms grow ever more distinct and definite,\ntill at length I can trace their every feature. I see the color of their\neyes. I discern the shades of their hair. Some heads are streaked with\ngray; others are glossy with the sheen of youth. As a climax to my\nconjurations I speak the word of all words magical, \"Dorothy,\" and lo! as\nthough God had said, \"Let there be light,\" a fair, radiant girl steps from\nthe portals of Haddon Hall and illumines all my ancient company so that I\nmay see even the workings of their hearts.\n\nThey, and the events of their lives, their joys and sorrows, their virtues\nand sins, their hatreds, jealousies, and loves--the seven numbers in the\ntotal sum of life--pass before me as in a panorama, moving when I bid them\nmove, pausing when I bid them pause, speaking when I bid them speak, and\nalas! fading back into the dim gray limbo of the past long, long ere I\nwould have them go.\n\nBut hark! my radiant shades are about to speak. The play is about to\nbegin.\n\n\n\n\nDorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nI RIDE DOWN TO HADDON\n\n\nSince I play no mean part in the events of this chronicle, a few words\nconcerning my own history previous to the opening of the story I am about\nto tell you will surely not be amiss, and they may help you to a better\nunderstanding of my narrative.\n\nTo begin with an unimportant fact--unimportant, that is, to you--my name\nis Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon. My father was cousin-german to Sir\nGeorge Vernon, at and near whose home, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, occurred\nthe events which will furnish my theme.\n\nOf the ancient lineage of the house of Vernon I need not speak. You\nalready know that the family is one of the oldest in England, and while it\nis not of the highest nobility, it is quite gentle and noble enough to\nplease those who bear its honored name. My mother boasted nobler blood\nthan that of the Vernons. She was of the princely French house of Guise--a\nniece and ward to the Great Duke, for whose sake I was named.\n\nMy father, being a younger brother, sought adventure in the land of\nFrance, where his handsome person and engaging manner won the smiles of\nDame Fortune and my mother at one and the same cast. In due time I was\nborn, and upon the day following that great event my father died. On the\nday of his burial my poor mother, unable to find in me either compensation\nor consolation for the loss of her child's father, also died, of a broken\nheart, it was said. But God was right, as usual, in taking my parents; for\nI should have brought them no happiness, unless perchance they could have\nmoulded my life to a better form than it has had--a doubtful chance, since\nour great virtues and our chief faults are born and die with us. My\nfaults, alas! have been many and great. In my youth I knew but one virtue:\nto love my friend; and that was strong within me. How fortunate for us it\nwould be if we could begin our life in wisdom and end it in simplicity,\ninstead of the reverse which now obtains!\n\nI remained with my granduncle, the Great Duke, and was brought up amid the\nfighting, vice, and piety of his sumptuous court. I was trained to arms,\nand at an early age became Esquire in Waiting to his Grace of Guise. Most\nof my days between my fifteenth and twenty-fifth years were spent in the\nwars. At the age of twenty-five I returned to the chateau, there to reside\nas my uncle's representative, and to endure the ennui of peace. At the\nchateau I found a fair, tall girl, fifteen years of age: Mary Stuart,\nQueen of Scotland, soon afterward Queen of France and rightful heiress to\nthe English throne. The ennui of peace, did I say? Soon I had no fear of\nits depressing effect, for Mary Stuart was one of those women near whose\nfascinations peace does not thrive. When I found her at the chateau, my\nmartial ardor lost its warmth. Another sort of flame took up its home in\nmy heart, and no power could have turned me to the wars again.\n\nAh! what a gay, delightful life, tinctured with bitterness, we led in the\ngrand old chateau, and looking back at it how heartless, godless, and\nempty it seems. Do not from these words conclude that I am a fanatic, nor\nthat I shall pour into your ears a ranter's tale; for cant is more to be\ndespised even than godlessness; but during the period of my life of which\nI shall write I learned--but what I learned I shall in due time tell you.\n\nWhile at the court of Guise I, like many another man, conceived for Mary\nStuart a passion which lay heavy upon my heart for many years. Sweethearts\nI had by the scores, but she held my longings from all of them until I\nfelt the touch of a pure woman's love, and then--but again I am going\nbeyond my story.\n\nI did not doubt, nor do I hesitate to say, that my passion was returned by\nMary with a fervor which she felt for no other lover; but she was a queen,\nand I, compared with her, was nobody. For this difference of rank I have\nsince had good cause to be thankful. Great beauty is diffusive in its\ntendency. Like the sun, it cannot shine for one alone. Still, it burns and\ndazzles the one as if it shone for him and for no other; and he who basks\nin its rays need have no fear of the ennui of peace.\n\nThe time came when I tasted the unutterable bitterness of Mary's marriage\nto a simpering fool, Francis II., whom she loathed, notwithstanding absurd\nstories of their sweet courtship and love.\n\nAfter her marriage to Francis, Mary became hard and callous of heart, and\nall the world knows her sad history. The stories of Darnley, Rizzio, and\nBothwell will be rich morsels, I suppose, for the morbid minds of men and\nwomen so long as books are read and scandal is loved.\n\nAh, well, that was long ago; so long ago that now as I write it seems but\na shadow upon the horizon of time.\n\nAnd so it happened that Francis died, and when the queen went back to\nScotland to ascend her native throne, I went with her, and mothlike\nhovered near the blaze that burned but did not warm me.\n\nThen in the course of time came the Darnley tragedy. I saw Rizzio killed.\nGods! what a scene for hell was that! Then followed the Bothwell\ndisgrace, the queen's imprisonment at Lochleven, and my own flight from\nScotland to save my head.\n\nYou will hear of Mary again in this history, and still clinging to her you\nwill find that same strange fatality which during all her life brought\nevils upon her that were infectious to her friends and wrought their ruin.\n\nOne evening, in the autumn of the year 1567, I was sitting moodily before\nmy fire in the town of Dundee, brooding over Mary's disgraceful liaison\nwith Bothwell. I had solemnly resolved that I would see her never again,\nand that I would turn my back upon the evil life I had led for so many\nyears, and would seek to acquire that quiescence of nature which is\nnecessary to an endurable old age. A tumultuous soul in the breast of an\nold man breeds torture, but age, with the heart at rest, I have found is\nthe best season of life.\n\nIn the midst of my gloomy thoughts and good resolves my friend, Sir Thomas\nDouglas, entered my room without warning and in great agitation.\n\n\"Are you alone?\" he asked hurriedly, in a low voice.\n\n\"Save for your welcome presence, Sir Thomas,\" I answered, offering my\nhand.\n\n\"The queen has been seized,\" he whispered, \"and warrants for high treason\nhave been issued against many of her friends--you among the number.\nOfficers are now coming to serve the writ. I rode hither in all haste to\nwarn you. Lose not a moment, but flee for your life. The Earl of Murray\nwill be made regent to-morrow.\"\n\n\"My servant? My horse?\" I responded.\n\n\"Do not wait. Go at once. I shall try to send a horse for you to Craig's\nferry. If I fail, cross the firth without one. Here is a purse. The queen\nsends it to you. Go! Go!\"\n\nI acted upon the advice, of Sir Thomas and hurried into the street,\nsnatching up my hat, cloak, and sword as I went. Night had fallen, and\ndarkness and rain, which at first I was inclined to curse, proved to be my\nfriends. I sought the back streets and alleys and walked rapidly toward\nthe west gates of the city. Upon arriving at the gates I found them\nclosed. I aroused the warden, and with the artful argument of gold had\nalmost persuaded him to let me pass. My evident eagerness was my undoing,\nfor in the hope of obtaining more gold the warden delayed opening the\ngates till two men approached on horseback, and, dismounting, demanded my\nsurrender.\n\nI laughed and said: \"Two against one! Gentlemen, I am caught.\" I then drew\nmy sword as if to offer it to them. My action threw the men off their\nguard, and when I said, \"Here it is,\" I gave it to the one standing near\nme, but I gave it to him point first and in the heart.\n\nIt was a terrible thing to do, and bordered so closely on a broken parole\nthat I was troubled in conscience. I had not, however, given my parole,\nnor had I surrendered; and if I had done so--if a man may take another's\nlife in self-defence, may he not lie to save himself?\n\nThe other man shot at me with his fusil, but missed. He then drew his\nsword; but he was no match for me, and soon I left him sprawling on the\nground, dead or alive, I knew not which.\n\nAt the time of which I write I was thirty-five years of age, and since my\nfifteenth birthday my occupations had been arms and the ladies--two arts\nrequiring constant use if one would remain expert in their practice.\n\nI escaped, and ran along the wall to a deep breach which had been left\nunrepaired. Over the sharp rocks I clambered, and at the risk of breaking\nmy neck I jumped off the wall into the moat, which was almost dry. Dawn\nwas breaking when I found a place to ascend from the moat, and I hastened\nto the fields and forests, where all day and all night long I wandered\nwithout food or drink. Two hours before sunrise next morning I reached\nCraig's Ferry. The horse sent by Douglas awaited me, but the ferry-master\nhad been prohibited from carrying passengers across the firth, and I could\nnot take the horse in a small boat. In truth, I was in great alarm lest I\nshould be unable to cross, but I walked up the Tay a short distance, and\nfound a fisherman, who agreed to take me over in his frail craft. Hardly\nhad we started when another boat put out from shore in pursuit of us. We\nmade all sail, but our pursuers overtook us when we were within half a\nfurlong of the south bank, and as there were four men in the other boat,\nall armed with fusils, I peaceably stepped into their craft and handed my\nsword to their captain.\n\nI seated myself on one of the thwarts well forward in the boat. By my side\nwas a heavy iron boat-hook. I had noticed that all the occupants of the\nboat, except the fisherman who sailed her, wore armor; and when I saw the\nboat-hook, a diabolical thought entered my mind and I immediately acted\nupon its suggestion. Noiselessly I grasped the hook, and with its point\npried loose a board in the bottom of the boat, first having removed my\nboots, cloak, and doublet. When the board was loosened I pressed my heel\nagainst it with all the force I could muster, and through an opening six\ninches broad and four feet long came a flood of water that swamped the\nboat before one could utter twenty words. I heard a cry from one of the\nmen: \"The dog has scuttled the boat. Shoot him!\" At the same instant the\nblaze and noise of two fusils broke the still blackness of the night, but\nI was overboard and the powder and lead were wasted. The next moment the\nboat sank in ten fathoms of water, and with it went the men in armor. I\nhope the fisherman saved himself. I have often wondered if even the law of\nself-preservation justified my act. It is an awful thing to inflict death,\nbut it is worse to endure it, and I feel sure that I am foolish to allow\nmy conscience to trouble me for the sake of those who would have led me\nback to the scaffold.\n\nI fear you will think that six dead men in less than as many pages make a\nrecord of bloodshed giving promise of terrible things to come, but I am\nglad I can reassure you on that point. Although there may be some good\nfighting ahead of us, I believe the last man has been killed of whom I\nshall chronicle--the last, that is, in fight or battle.\n\nIn truth, the history which you are about to read is not my own. It is the\nstory of a beautiful, wilful girl, who was madly in love with the one man\nin all the world whom she should have avoided--as girls are wont to be.\nThis perverse tendency, philosophers tell us, is owing to the fact that\nthe unattainable is strangely alluring to womankind. I, being a man, shall\nnot, of course, dwell upon the foibles of my own sex. It were a foolish\ncandor.\n\nAs I said, there will be some good fighting ahead of us, for love and\nbattle usually go together. One must have warm, rich blood to do either\nwell; and, save religion, there is no source more fruitful of quarrels and\ndeath than that passion which is the source of life.\n\nYou, of course, know without the telling, that I reached land safely after\nI scuttled the boat, else I should not be writing this forty years\nafterwards.\n\nThe sun had risen when I waded ashore. I was swordless, coatless, hatless,\nand bootless; but I carried a well-filled purse in my belt. Up to that\ntime I had given no thought to my ultimate destination; but being for the\nmoment safe, I pondered the question and determined to make my way to\nHaddon Hall in Derbyshire, where I was sure a warm welcome would await me\nfrom my cousin, Sir George Vernon. How I found a peasant's cottage,\npurchased a poor horse and a few coarse garments, and how in the disguise\nof a peasant I rode southward to the English border, avoiding the cities\nand the main highways, might interest you; but I am eager to come to my\nstory, and I will not tell you of my perilous journey.\n\nOne frosty morning, after many hairbreadth escapes, I found myself well\nwithin the English border, and turned my horse's head toward the city of\nCarlisle. There I purchased a fine charger. I bought clothing fit for a\ngentleman, a new sword, a hand-fusil, a breastplate, and a steel-lined\ncap, and feeling once again like a man rather than like a half-drowned\nrat, I turned southward for Derbyshire and Haddon Hall.\n\nWhen I left Scotland I had no fear of meeting danger in England; but at\nCarlisle I learned that Elizabeth held no favor toward Scottish refugees.\nI also learned that the direct road from Carlisle to Haddon, by way of\nBuxton, was infested with English spies who were on the watch for friends\nof the deposed Scottish queen. Several Scotchmen had been arrested, and it\nwas the general opinion that upon one pretext or another they would be\nhanged. I therefore chose a circuitous road leading to the town of Derby,\nwhich lay south of Haddon at a distance of six or seven leagues. It would\nbe safer for me to arrive at Haddon travelling from the south than from\nthe north. Thus, after many days, I rode into Derby-town and stabled my\nhorse at the Royal Arms.\n\nI called for supper, and while I was waiting for my joint of beef a\nstranger entered the room and gave his orders in a free, offhand manner\nthat stamped him a person of quality.\n\nThe night outside was cold. While the stranger and I sat before the fire\nwe caught its infectious warmth, and when he showed a disposition to talk,\nI gladly fell in with his humor. Soon we were filling our glasses from the\nsame bowl of punch, and we seemed to be on good terms with each other. But\nwhen God breathed into the human body a part of himself, by some\nmischance He permitted the devil to slip into the tongue and loosen it. My\ntongue, which ordinarily was fairly well behaved, upon this occasion\nquickly brought me into trouble.\n\nI told you that the stranger and I seemed to be upon good terms. And so we\nwere until I, forgetting for the moment Elizabeth's hatred of Mary's\nfriends, and hoping to learn the stranger's name and quality, said:--\n\n\"My name is Vernon--Sir Malcolm Vernon, knight by the hand of Queen Mary\nof Scotland and of France.\" This remark, of course, required that my\ncompanion should in return make known his name and degree; but in place of\nso doing he at once drew away from me and sat in silence. I was older than\nhe, and it had seemed to me quite proper and right that I should make the\nfirst advance. But instantly after I had spoken I regretted my words. I\nremembered not only my danger, being a Scottish refugee, but I also\nbethought me that I had betrayed myself. Aside from those causes of\nuneasiness, the stranger's conduct was an insult which I was in duty bound\nnot to overlook. Neither was I inclined to do so, for I loved to fight. In\ntruth, I loved all things evil.\n\n\"I regret, sir,\" said I, after a moment or two of embarrassing silence,\n\"having imparted information that seems to annoy you. The Vernons, whom\nyou may not know, are your equals in blood, it matters not who you are.\"\n\n\"I know of the Vernons,\" he replied coldly, \"and I well know that they are\nof good blood and lineage. As for wealth, I am told Sir George could\neasily buy the estates of any six men in Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"You know Sir George?\" I asked despite myself.\n\n\"I do not know him, I am glad to say,\" returned the stranger.\n\n\"By God, sir, you shall answer-\"\n\n\"At your pleasure, Sir Malcolm.\"\n\n\"My pleasure is now,\" I retorted eagerly.\n\nI threw off my doublet and pushed the table and chairs against the wall to\nmake room for the fight; but the stranger, who had not drawn his sword,\nsaid:--\n\n\"I have eaten nothing since morning, and I am as hungry as a wolf. I would\nprefer to fight after supper; but if you insist--\"\n\n\"I do insist,\" I replied. \"Perhaps you will not care for supper when I\nhave--\"\n\n\"That may be true,\" he interrupted; \"but before we begin I think it right\nto tell you, without at all meaning to boast of my skill, that I can kill\nyou if I wish to do so. Therefore you must see that the result of our\nfight will be disagreeable to you in any case. You will die, or you will\nowe me your life.\"\n\nHis cool impertinence angered me beyond endurance. He to speak of killing\nme, one of the best swordsmen in France, where the art of sword-play is\nreally an art! The English are but bunglers with a gentleman's blade, and\nshould restrict themselves to pike and quarterstaff.\n\n\"Results be damned!\" I answered. \"I can kill you if I wish.\" Then it\noccurred to me that I really did not wish to kill the handsome young\nfellow toward whom I felt an irresistible attraction.\n\nI continued: \"But I prefer that you should owe me your life. I do not wish\nto kill you. Guard!\"\n\nMy opponent did not lift his sword, but smilingly said:--\n\n\"Then why do you insist upon fighting? I certainly do not wish to kill\nyou. In truth, I would be inclined to like you if you were not a Vernon.\"\n\n\"Damn your insolence! Guard! or I will run you through where you stand,\" I\nanswered angrily.\n\n\"But why do we fight?\" insisted the stubborn fellow, with a coolness that\nshowed he was not one whit in fear of me.\n\n\"You should know,\" I replied, dropping my sword-point to the floor, and\nforgetting for the moment the cause of our quarrel. \"I--I do not.\"\n\n\"Then let us not fight,\" he answered, \"until we have discovered the matter\nof our disagreement.\"\n\nAt this remark neither of us could resist smiling. I had not fought since\nmonths before, save for a moment at the gates of Dundee, and I was loath\nto miss the opportunity, so I remained in thought during the space of half\na minute and remembered our cause of war.\n\n\"Oh! I recall the reason for our fighting,\" I replied, \"and a good one it\nwas. You offered affront to the name of Sir George Vernon, and insultingly\nrefused me the courtesy of your name after I had done you the honor to\ntell you mine.\"\n\n\"I did not tell you my name,\" replied the stranger, \"because I believed\nyou would not care to hear it; and I said I was glad not to know Sir\nGeorge Vernon because--because he is my father's enemy. I am Sir John\nManners. My father is Lord Rutland.\"\n\nThen it was my turn to recede. \"You certainly are right. I do not care to\nhear your name.\"\n\nI put my sword in its scabbard and drew the table back to its former\nplace. Sir John stood in hesitation for a moment or two, and then said:--\n\n\"Sir Malcolm, may we not declare a truce for to-night? There is nothing\npersonal in the enmity between us.\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" I answered, staring at the fire, half regretful that we bore\neach other enmity at all.\n\n\"You hate me, or believe you do,\" said Manners, \"because your father's\ncousin hates my father; and I try to make myself believe that I hate you\nbecause my father hates your father's cousin. Are we not both mistaken?\"\n\nI was quick to anger and to fight, but no man's heart was more sensitive\nthan mine to the fair touch of a kind word.\n\n\"I am not mistaken, Sir John, when I say that I do not hate you,\" I\nanswered.\n\n\"Nor do I hate you, Sir Malcolm. Will you give me your hand?\"\n\n\"Gladly,\" I responded, and I offered my hand to the enemy of my house.\n\n\"Landlord,\" I cried, \"bring us two bottles of your best sack. The best in\nthe house, mind you.\"\n\nAfter our amicable understanding, Sir John and myself were very\ncomfortable together, and when the sack and roast beef, for which the\nRoyal Arms was justly famous, were brought in, we sat down to an enjoyable\nmeal.\n\nAfter supper Sir John lighted a small roll or stick made from the leaves\nof tobacco. The stick was called a cigarro, and I, proud not to be behind\nhim in new-fashioned, gentlemanly accomplishments, called to the landlord\nfor a pipe. Manners interrupted me when I gave the order and offered me a\ncigarro which I gladly accepted.\n\nDespite my effort to reassure myself, I could not quite throw off a\nfeeling of uneasiness whenever I thought of the manner in which I had\nbetrayed to Sir John the fact that I was a friend to Mary Stuart. I knew\nthat treachery was not native to English blood, and my knowledge of\nmankind had told me that the vice could not live in Sir John Manners's\nheart. But he had told me of his residence at the court of Elizabeth, and\nI feared trouble might come to me from the possession of so dangerous a\npiece of knowledge by an enemy of my house.\n\nI did not speak my thoughts upon the matter, and we sat the evening\nthrough discussing many subjects. We warmed toward each other and became\nquite confidential. I feel ashamed when I admit that one of my many sins\nwas an excessive indulgence in wine. While I was not a drunkard, I was\ngiven to my cups sometimes in a degree both dangerous and disgraceful; and\nduring the evening of which I have just spoken I talked to Sir John with a\nfreedom that afterward made me blush, although my indiscretion brought me\nno greater trouble.\n\nMy outburst of confidence was prompted by Sir John's voluntary assurance\nthat I need fear nothing from having told him that I was a friend of Queen\nMary. The Scottish queen's name had been mentioned, and Sir John had\nsaid--\n\n\"I take it, Sir Malcolm, that you are newly arrived in England, and I feel\nsure you will accept the advice I am about to offer in the kindly spirit\nin which it is meant. I deem it unsafe for you to speak of Queen Mary's\nfriendship in the open manner you have used toward me. Her friends are not\nwelcome visitors to England, and I fear evil will befall those who come to\nus as refugees. You need have no fear that I will betray you. Your secret\nis safe with me. I will give you hostage. I also am Queen Mary's friend. I\nwould not, of course, favor her against the interest of our own queen. To\nElizabeth I am and always shall be loyal; but the unfortunate Scottish\nqueen has my sympathy in her troubles, and I should be glad to help her. I\nhear she is most beautiful and gentle in person.\"\n\nThus you see the influence of Mary's beauty reached from Edinburgh to\nLondon. A few months only were to pass till this conversation was to be\nrecalled by each of us, and the baneful influence of Mary's beauty upon\nall whom it touched was to be shown more fatally than had appeared even in\nmy own case. In truth, my reason for speaking so fully concerning the,\nScottish queen and myself will be apparent to you in good time.\n\nWhen we were about to part for the night, I asked Sir John, \"What road do\nyou travel to-morrow?\"\n\n\"I am going to Rutland Castle by way of Rowsley,\" he answered.\n\n\"I, too, travel by Rowsley to Haddon Hall. Shall we not extend our truce\nover the morrow and ride together as far as Rowsley?\" I asked.\n\n\"I shall be glad to make the truce perpetual,\" he replied laughingly.\n\n\"So shall I,\" was my response.\n\nThus we sealed our compact and knitted out of the warp and woof of enmity\na friendship which became a great joy and a sweet grief to each of us.\n\nThat night I lay for hours thinking of the past and wondering about the\nfuture. I had tasted the sweets--all flavored with bitterness--of court\nlife. Women, wine, gambling, and fighting had given me the best of all the\nevils they had to offer. Was I now to drop that valorous life, which men\nso ardently seek, and was I to take up a browsing, kinelike existence at\nHaddon Hall, there to drone away my remaining days in fat'ning, peace, and\nquietude? I could not answer my own question, but this I knew: that Sir\nGeorge Vernon was held in high esteem by Elizabeth, and I felt that his\nhouse was, perhaps, the only spot in England where my head could safely\nlie. I also had other plans concerning Sir George and his household which\nI regret to say I imparted to Sir John in the sack-prompted outpouring of\nmy confidence. The plans of which I shall now speak had been growing in\nfavor with me for several months previous to my enforced departure from\nScotland, and that event had almost determined me to adopt them. Almost, I\nsay, for when I approached Haddon Hall I wavered in my resolution.\n\nAt the time when I had last visited Sir George at Haddon, his daughter\nDorothy--Sir George called her Doll--was a slipshod girl of twelve. She\nwas exceedingly plain, and gave promise of always so remaining. Sir\nGeorge, who had no son, was anxious that his vast estates should remain\nin the Vernon name. He had upon the occasion of my last visit intimated to\nme that when Doll should become old enough to marry, and I, perchance, had\nhad my fill of knocking about the world, a marriage might be brought about\nbetween us which would enable him to leave his estates to his daughter and\nstill to retain the much-loved Vernon name for his descendants.\n\nOwing to Doll's rusty red hair, slim shanks, and freckled face, the\nproposition had not struck me with favor, yet to please Sir George I had\nfeigned acquiescence, and had said that when the time should come, we\nwould talk it over. Before my flight from Scotland I had often thought of\nSir George's proposition made six or seven years before. My love for Mary\nStuart had dimmed the light of other beauties in my eyes, and I had never\nmarried. For many months before my flight, however, I had not been\npermitted to bask in the light of Mary's smiles to the extent of my\nwishes. Younger men, among them Darnley, who was but eighteen years of\nage, were preferred to me, and I had begun to consider the advisability of\nan orderly retreat from the Scottish court before my lustre should be\nentirely dimmed. It is said that a man is young so long as he is strong,\nand I was strong as in the days of my youth. My cheeks were fresh, my eyes\nwere bright, and my hair was red as when I was twenty, and without a\nthread of gray. Still, my temperament was more exacting and serious, and\nthe thought of becoming settled for life, or rather for old age and death,\nwas growing in favor with me. With that thought came always a suggestion\nof slim, freckled Dorothy and Sir George's offer. She held out to me\nwealth and position, a peaceful home for my old age, and a grave with a\npompous, pious epitaph at Bakewell church, in death.\n\nWhen I was compelled to leave Scotland, circumstances forced me to a\ndecision, and my resolution was quickly taken. I would go to Derbyshire\nand would marry Dorothy. I did not expect ever again to feel great love\nfor a woman. The fuse, I thought, had burned out when I loved Mary Stuart.\nOne woman, I believed, was like another to me, and Dorothy would answer as\nwell as any for my wife. I could and would be kind to her, and that alone\nin time would make me fond. It is true, my affection would be of a fashion\nmore comfortable than exciting; but who, having passed his galloping\nyouth, will contemn the joys that come from making others happy? I believe\nthere is no person, past the age of forty, at all given to pondering the\nwhys of life, who will gainsay that the joy we give to others is our chief\nsource of happiness. Why, then, should not a wise man, through purely\nselfish motives, begin early to cultivate the gentle art of giving joy?\n\nBut the fates were to work out the destinies of Dorothy and myself without\nour assistance. Self-willed, arrogant creatures are those same fates, but\nthey save us a deal of trouble by assuming our responsibilities.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE IRON, THE SEED, THE CLOUD, AND THE RAIN\n\n\nThe morning following my meeting with Manners, he and I made an early\nstart. An hour before noon we rode into the town of Rowsley and halted at\nThe Peacock for dinner.\n\nWhen we entered the courtyard of the inn we saw three ladies warmly\nwrapped in rich furs leave a ponderous coach and walk to the inn door,\nwhich they entered. One of them was an elderly lady whom I recognized as\nmy cousin, Lady Dorothy Crawford, sister to Sir George Vernon. The second\nwas a tall, beautiful girl, with an exquisite ivory-like complexion and a\nwonderful crown of fluffy red hair which encircled her head like a halo of\nsunlit glory. I could compare its wondrous lustre to no color save that of\nmolten gold deeply alloyed with copper. But that comparison tells you\nnothing. I can find no simile with which to describe the beauties of its\nshades and tints. It was red, but it also was golden, as if the enamoured\nsun had gilded every hair with its radiance. In all my life I had never\nseen anything so beautiful as this tall girl's hair. Still, it was the\nVernon red. My cousin, Sir George, and many Vernons had hair of the same\ncolor. Yet the girl's hair differed from all other I had ever seen. It had\na light and a lustre of its own which was as distinct from the ordinary\nVernon red, although that is very good and we are proud of it, as the\nsheen of gold is from the glitter of brass. I knew by the girl's hair\nthat she was my cousin, Dorothy Vernon, whom I reluctantly had come to\nwed.\n\nI asked myself, \"Can this be the plain, freckled girl I knew seven years\nago?\" Compared with her beauty even Mary Stuart's was pale as the vapid\nmoon at dawn. The girl seemed to be the incarnated spirit of universal\nlife and light, and I had condescendingly come to marry this goddess. I\nfelt a dash of contemptuous pity for my complacent self.\n\nIn my cogitations concerning marriage with Dorothy Vernon, I had not at\nall taken into consideration her personal inclination. A girl, after all,\nis but the chattel of her father, and must, perforce, if needs be, marry\nthe man who is chosen for her. But leaving parental authority out of the\nquestion, a girl with brick-red hair and a multitude of freckles need not\nbe considered when an agreeable, handsome man offers himself as a husband.\nShe usually is willing to the point of eagerness. That is the manner in\nwhich I had thought about Dorothy Vernon, if I considered her at all. But\nwhen a man is about to offer himself to a goddess, he is apt to pause. In\nsuch a case there are always two sides to the question, and nine chances\nto one the goddess will coolly take possession of both. When I saw Dorothy\nin the courtyard of The Peacock, I instantly knew that she was a girl to\nbe taken into account in all matters wherein she was personally concerned.\nHer every feature, every poise and gesture, unconsciously bore the stamp\nof \"I will\" or \"I will not.\"\n\nWalking by Dorothy's side, holding her hand, was a fair young woman whose\nhair was black, and whose skin was of the white, clear complexion such as\nwe see in the faces of nuns. She walked with a hesitating, cautious step,\nand clung to Dorothy, who was gentle and attentive to her. But of this\nfair, pale girl I have so much to say in the pages to come that I shall\nnot further describe her here.\n\nWhen the ladies had entered the inn, my companion and I dismounted, and\nManners exclaimed:--\n\n\"Did you see the glorious girl who but now entered the inn door? Gods! I\nnever before saw such beauty.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied, \"I know her.\"\n\n\"How fortunate I am,\" said Sir John. \"Perhaps I may induce you to present\nme to her. At least you will tell me her name, that I may seek her\nacquaintance by the usual means. I am not susceptible, but by my faith,\nI--I--she looked at me from the door-steps, and when I caught her eyes it\nseemed--that is, I saw--or I felt a stream of burning life enter my soul,\nand--but you will think I am a fool. I know I am a fool. But I feel as if\nI were--as if I had been bewitched in one little second of time, and by a\nsingle glance from a pair of brown eyes. You certainly will think I am a\nfool, but you cannot understand--\"\n\n\"Why can't I understand?\" I asked indignantly. \"The thing you have seen\nand felt has been in this world long enough for every man to understand.\nEve used it upon Adam. I can't understand? Damme, sir, do you think I am a\nclod? I have felt it fifty times.\"\n\n\"Not--\" began Sir John, hesitatingly.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" I replied. \"You, too, will have the same experience fifty\ntimes again before you are my age.\"\n\n\"But the lady,\" said Sir John, \"tell me of her. Will you--can you present\nme to her? If not, will you tell me who she is?\"\n\nI remained for a moment in thought, wondering if it were right for me to\ntell him that the girl whom he so much admired was the daughter of his\nfather's enemy. I could see no way of keeping Dorothy's name from him, so\nI determined to tell him.\n\n\"She is my cousin, Mistress Dorothy Vernon,\" I said. \"The eldest is Lady\nDorothy Crawford. The beautiful, pale girl I do not know.\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" returned Sir John; \"she is the lady whom you have come to\nmarry, is she not?\"\n\n\"Y-e-s,\" said I, hesitatingly.\n\n\"You certainly are to be congratulated,\" returned Manners.\n\n\"I doubt if I shall marry her,\" I replied.\n\n\"Why?\" asked Manners.\n\n\"For many reasons, chief among which is her beauty.\"\n\n\"That is an unusual reason for declining a woman,\" responded Sir John,\nwith a low laugh.\n\n\"I think it is quite usual,\" I replied, having in mind the difficulty with\nwhich great beauties are won. But I continued, \"A woman of moderate beauty\nmakes a safer wife, and in the long run is more comforting than one who is\ntoo attractive.\"\n\n\"You are a philosopher, Sir Malcolm,\" said Manners, laughingly.\n\n\"And a liar,\" I muttered to myself. I felt sure, however, that I should\nnever marry Dorothy Vernon, and I do not mind telling you, even at this\nearly stage in my history, that I was right in my premonition. I did not\nmarry her.\n\n\"I suppose I shall now be compelled to give you up to your relatives,\"\nsaid Manners.\n\n\"Yes,\" I returned, \"we must say good-by for the present; but if we do not\nmeet again, it shall not be for the lack of my wishing. Your father and\nSir George would feel deeply injured, should they learn of our friendship,\ntherefore--\"\n\n\"You are quite right,\" he interrupted. \"It is better that no one should\nknow of it. Nevertheless, between you and me let there be no feud.\"\n\n\"The secrecy of our friendship will give it zest,\" said I. \"That is true,\nbut 'good wine needs no bush.' You will not mention my name to the\nladies?\"\n\n\"No, if you wish that I shall not.\"\n\n\"I do so wish.\"\n\nWhen the stable boys had taken our horses, I gave my hand to Sir John,\nafter which we entered the inn and treated each other as strangers.\n\nSoon after I had washed the stains of travel from my hands and face, I\nsent the maid to my cousins, asking that I might be permitted to pay my\ndevotions, and Dorothy came to the tap-room in response to my message.\n\nWhen she entered she ran to me with outstretched hands and a gleam of\nwelcome in her eyes. We had been rare friends when she was a child.\n\n\"Ah, Cousin Malcolm, what a fine surprise you have given us!\" she\nexclaimed, clasping both my hands and offering me her cheek to kiss.\n\"Father's delight will be beyond measure when he sees you.\"\n\n\"As mine now is,\" I responded, gazing at her from head to foot and\ndrinking in her beauty with my eyes. \"Doll! Doll! What a splendid girl you\nhave become. Who would have thought that--that--\" I hesitated, realizing\nthat I was rapidly getting myself into trouble.\n\n\"Say it. Say it, cousin! I know what is in your mind. Rusty red hair,\nangular shoulders, sharp elbows, freckles thickly set as stars upon a\nclear night, and so large and brown that they fairly twinkled. Great\nstaring green eyes. Awkward!--\" And she threw up her hands in mimic horror\nat the remembrance. \"No one could have supposed that such a girl would\nhave become--that is, you know,\" she continued confusedly, \"could have\nchanged. I haven't a freckle now,\" and she lifted her face that I might\nprove the truth of her words by examination, and perhaps that I might also\nobserve her beauty.\n\nNeither did I waste the opportunity. I dwelt longingly upon the wondrous\nred golden hair which fringed her low broad forehead, and upon the heavy\nblack eyebrows, the pencilled points of whose curves almost touched\nacross the nose. I saw the rose-tinted ivory of her skin and the long jet\nlashes curving in a great sweep from her full white lids, and I thought\nfull sure that Venus herself was before me. My gaze halted for a moment at\nthe long eyes which changed chameleon-like with the shifting light, and\nvaried with her moods from deep fathomless green to violet, and from\nviolet to soft voluptuous brown, but in all their tints beaming forth a\nlustre that would have stirred the soul of an anchorite. Then I noted the\nbeauty of her clean-cut saucy nose and the red arch of her lips, slightly\nparted for the purpose of showing her teeth. But I could not stop long to\ndwell upon any one especial feature, for there were still to be seen her\ndivine round chin, her large white throat, and the infinite grace in poise\nand curve of her strong young form. I dared not pause nor waste my time if\nI were to see it all, for such a girl as Dorothy waits no man's\nleisure--that is, unless she wishes to wait. In such case there is no\nmoving her, and patience becomes to her a delightful virtue.\n\nAfter my prolonged scrutiny Dorothy lowered her face and said\nlaughingly:--\n\n\"Now come, cousin, tell me the truth. Who would have thought it possible?\"\n\n\"Not I, Doll, not I, if you will pardon me the frankness.\"\n\n\"Oh, that is easily done.\" Then with a merry ripple of laughter, \"It is\nmuch easier, I fancy, for a woman to speak of the time when she was plain\nthan to refer to the time when--when she was beautiful. What an absurd\nspeech that is for me to make,\" she said confusedly.\n\n\"I certainly did not expect to find so great a change,\" said I. \"Why,\nDoll, you are wondrous, glorious, beautiful. I can't find words--\"\n\n\"Then don't try, Cousin Malcolm,\" she said with a smile that fringed her\nmouth in dimples. \"Don't try. You will make me vain.\"\n\n\"You are that already, Doll,\" I answered, to tease her.\n\n\"I fear I am, cousin--vain as a man. But don't call me Doll. I am tall\nenough to be called Dorothy.\"\n\nShe straightened herself up to her full height, and stepping close to my\nside, said: \"I am as tall as you. I will now try to make you vain. You\nlook just as young and as handsome as when I last saw you and so ardently\nadmired your waving black mustachio and your curling chin beard.\"\n\n\"Did you admire them, Doll--Dorothy?\" I asked, hoping, though with little\nfaith, that the admiration might still continue.\n\n\"Oh, prodigiously,\" she answered with unassuring candor. \"Prodigiously.\nNow who is vain, Cousin Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon?\"\n\n\"I,\" I responded, shrugging my shoulders and confessing by compulsion.\n\n\"But you must remember,\" she continued provokingly, \"that a girl of twelve\nis very immature in her judgment and will fall in love with any man who\nallows her to look upon him twice.\"\n\n\"Then I am to believe that the fire begins very early to burn in the\nfeminine heart,\" I responded.\n\n\"With birth, my cousin, with birth,\" she replied; \"but in my heart it\nburned itself out upon your curling beard at the mature age of twelve.\"\n\n\"And you have never been in love since that time, Doll--Dorothy?\" I asked\nwith more earnestness in my heart than in my voice.\n\n\"No, no; by the Virgin, no! Not even in the shadow of a thought. And by\nthe help of the Virgin I hope I never shall be; for when it comes to me,\nmark my word, cousin, there will be trouble in Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"By my soul, I believe you speak the truth,\" I answered, little dreaming\nhow quickly our joint prophecy would come true.\n\nI then asked Dorothy to tell me about her father.\n\n\"Father is well in health,\" she said. \"In mind he has been much troubled\nand disturbed. Last month he lost the lawsuit against detestable old Lord\nRutland. He was much angered by the loss, and has been moody and morose in\nbrooding over it ever since. He tries, poor father, to find relief from\nhis troubles, and--and I fear takes too much liquor. Rutland and his\nfriends swore to one lie upon another, and father believes that the judge\nwho tried the case was bribed. Father intends to appeal to Parliament, but\neven in Parliament he fears he cannot obtain justice. Lord Rutland's\nson--a disreputable fellow, who for many years has lived at court--is a\nfavorite with the queen, and his acquaintance with her Majesty and with\nthe lords will be to father's prejudice.\"\n\n\"I have always believed that your father stood in the queen's good\ngraces?\" I said interrogatively.\n\n\"So he does, but I have been told that this son of Lord Rutland, whom I\nhave never seen, has the beauty of--of the devil, and exercises a great\ninfluence over her Majesty and her friends. The young man is not known in\nthis neighborhood, for he has never deigned to leave the court; but Lady\nCavendish tells me he has all the fascinations of Satan. I would that\nSatan had him.\"\n\n\"The feud still lives between Vernon and Rutland?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, and it will continue to live so long as an ounce of blood can hold a\npound of hatred,\" said the girl, with flashing eyes and hard lips. \"I love\nto hate the accursed race. They have wronged our house for three\ngenerations, and my father has suffered greater injury at their hands than\nany of our name. Let us not talk of the hateful subject.\"\n\nWe changed the topic. I had expected Dorothy to invite me to go with her\nto meet Lady Crawford, but the girl seemed disinclined to leave the\ntap-room. The Peacock was her father's property, and the host and hostess\nwere her friends after the manner of persons in their degree. Therefore\nDorothy felt at liberty to visit the tap-room quite as freely as if it had\nbeen the kitchen of Haddon Hall.\n\nDuring our conversation I had frequently noticed Dorothy glancing slyly in\nthe direction of the fireplace; but my back was turned that way, and I did\nnot know, nor did it at first occur to me to wonder what attracted her\nattention. Soon she began to lose the thread of our conversation, and made\ninappropriate, tardy replies to my remarks. The glances toward the\nfireplace increased in number and duration, and her efforts to pay\nattention to what I was saying became painful failures.\n\nAfter a little time she said: \"Is it not cool here? Let us go over to the\nfireplace where it is warmer.\"\n\nI turned to go with her, and at once saw that it was not the fire in the\nfireplace which had attracted Dorothy, but quite a different sort of\nflame. In short, much to my consternation, I discovered that it was\nnothing less than my handsome new-found friend, Sir John Manners, toward\nwhom Dorothy had been glancing.\n\nWe walked over to the fireplace, and one of the fires, Sir John, moved\naway. But the girl turned her face that she might see him in his new\nposition. The movement, I confess, looked bold to the point of brazenness;\nbut if the movement was bold, what shall I say of her glances and the\nexpression of her face? She seemed unable to take her eager eyes from the\nstranger, or to think of anything but him, and after a few moments she did\nnot try. Soon she stopped talking entirely and did not even hear what I\nwas saying. I, too, became silent, and after a long pause the girl\nasked:--\n\n\"Cousin, who is the gentleman with whom you were travelling?\"\n\nI was piqued by Dorothy's conduct, and answered rather curtly: \"He is a\nstranger. I picked him up at Derby, and we rode here together.\"\n\nA pause followed, awkward in its duration.\n\n\"Did you--not--learn--his--name?\" asked Dorothy, hesitatingly.\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied.\n\nThen came another pause, broken by the girl, who spoke in a quick,\nimperious tone touched with irritation:--\n\n\"Well, what is it?\"\n\n\"It is better that I do not tell you,\" I answered. \"It was quite by\naccident that we met. Neither of us knew the other. Please do not ask me\nto tell you his name.\"\n\n\"Oh, but you make me all the more eager to learn. Mystery, you know, is\nintolerable to a woman, except in the unravelling. Come, tell me! Tell me!\nNot, of course, that I really care a farthing to know--but the mystery! A\nmystery drives me wild. Tell me, please do, Cousin Malcolm.\"\n\nShe certainly was posing for the stranger's benefit, and was doing all in\nher power, while coaxing me, to display her charms, graces, and pretty\nlittle ways. Her attitude and conduct spoke as plainly as the spring\nbird's song speaks to its mate. Yet Dorothy's manner did not seem bold.\nEven to me it appeared modest, beautiful, and necessary. She seemed to act\nunder compulsion. She would laugh, for the purpose, no doubt, of showing\nher dimples and her teeth, and would lean her head to one side pigeon-wise\nto display her eyes to the best advantage, and then would she shyly glance\ntoward Sir John to see if he was watching her. It was shameless, but it\ncould not be helped by Dorothy nor any one else. After a few moments of\nmute pleading by the girl, broken now and then by, \"Please, please,\" I\nsaid:--\n\n\"If you give to me your promise that you will never speak of this matter\nto any person, I will tell you the gentleman's name. I would not for a\ngreat deal have your father know that I have held conversation with him\neven for a moment, though at the time I did not know who he was.\"\n\n\"Oh, this is delightful! He must be some famous, dashing highwayman. I\npromise, of course I promise--faithfully.\" She was glancing constantly\ntoward Manners, and her face was bright with smiles and eager with\nanticipation.\n\n\"He is worse than a highwayman, I regret to say. The gentleman toward whom\nyou are so ardently glancing is--Sir John Manners.\"\n\nA shock of pain passed over Dorothy's face, followed by a hard, repellent\nexpression that was almost ugly.\n\n\"Let us go to Aunt Dorothy,\" she said, as she turned and walked across the\nroom toward the door.\n\nWhen we had closed the door of the tap-room behind us Dorothy said\nangrily:--\n\n\"Tell me, cousin, how you, a Vernon, came to be in his company?\"\n\n\"I told you that I met him quite by accident at the Royal Arms in\nDerby-town. We became friends before either knew the other's name. After\nchance had disclosed our identities, he asked for a truce to our feud\nuntil the morrow; and he was so gentle and open in his conduct that I\ncould not and would not refuse his proffered olive branch. In truth,\nwhatever faults may be attributable to Lord Rutland,--and I am sure he\ndeserves all the evil you have spoken of him,--his son, Sir John, is a\nnoble gentleman, else I have been reading the book of human nature all my\nlife in vain. Perhaps he is in no way to blame for his father's conduct\nHe may have had no part in it\"\n\n\"Perhaps he has not,\" said Dorothy, musingly.\n\nIt was not a pleasant task for me to praise Sir John, but my sense of\njustice impelled me to do so. I tried to make myself feel injured and\nchagrined because of Dorothy's manner toward him; for you must remember I\nhad arranged with myself to marry this girl, but I could not work my\nfeelings into a state of indignation against the heir to Rutland. The\ntruth is, my hope of winning Dorothy had evaporated upon the first sight\nof her, like the volatile essence it really was. I cannot tell you why,\nbut I at once seemed to realize that all the thought and labor which I had\ndevoted to the arduous task of arranging with myself this marriage was\nlabor lost. So I frankly told her my kindly feelings for Sir John, and\ngave her my high estimate of his character.\n\nI continued: \"You see, Dorothy, I could not so easily explain to your\nfather my association with Sir John, and I hope you will not speak of it\nto any one, lest the news should reach Sir George's ears.\"\n\n\"I will not speak of it,\" she returned, sighing faintly. \"After all, it is\nnot his fault that his father is such a villain. He doesn't look like his\nfather, does he?\"\n\n\"I cannot say. I never saw Lord Rutland,\" I replied.\n\n\"He is the most villanous-looking--\" but she broke off the sentence and\nstood for a moment in revery. We were in the darkened passage, and Dorothy\nhad taken my hand. That little act in another woman of course would have\nled to a demonstration on my part, but in this girl it seemed so entirely\nnatural and candid that it was a complete bar to undue familiarity. In\ntruth, I had no such tendency, for the childish act spoke of an innocence\nand faith that were very sweet to me who all my life had lived among men\nand women who laughed at those simple virtues. The simple conditions of\nlife are all that are worth striving for. They come to us fresh from\nNature and from Nature's God. The complex are but concoctions of man after\nrecipes in the devil's alchemy. So much gold, so much ambition, so much\nlust. Mix well. Product: so much vexation.\n\n\"He must resemble his mother,\" said Dorothy, after a long pause. \"Poor\nfellow! His mother is dead. He is like me in that respect. I wonder if his\nfather's villanies trouble him?\"\n\n\"I think they must trouble him. He seems to be sad,\" said I, intending to\nbe ironical.\n\nMy reply was taken seriously.\n\n\"I am sorry for him,\" she said, \"it is not right to hate even our enemies.\nThe Book tells us that.\"\n\n\"Yet you hate Lord Rutland,\" said I, amused and provoked.\n\nUnexpected and dangerous symptoms were rapidly developing in the perverse\ngirl, and trouble was brewing \"in Derbyshire.\"\n\nThe adjective perverse, by the way, usually is superfluous when used to\nmodify the noun girl.\n\n\"Yet you hate Lord Rutland,\" I repeated.\n\n\"Why, y-e-s,\" she responded. \"I cannot help that, but you know it would be\nvery wrong to--to hate all his family. To hate him is bad enough.\"\n\nI soon began to fear that I had praised Sir John overmuch.\n\n\"I think Sir John is all there is of Lord Rutland's family,\" I said,\nalarmed yet amused at Dorothy's search for an excuse not to hate my\nnew-found friend.\n\n\"Well,\" she continued after a pause, throwing her head to one side, \"I am\nsorry there are no more of that family not to hate.\"\n\n\"Dorothy! Dorothy!\" I exclaimed. \"What has come over you? You surprise\nme.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, with a little sigh, \"I certainly have surprised\nmyself by--by my willingness to forgive those who have injured my house. I\ndid not know there was so much--so much good in me.\"\n\n\"Mistress Pharisee,\" thought I, \"you are a hypocrite.\"\n\nAgain intending to be ironical, I said, \"Shall I fetch him from the\ntap-room and present him to you?\"\n\nOnce more my irony was lost upon the girl. Evidently that sort of humor\nwas not my strong point.\n\n\"No, no,\" she responded indignantly, \"I would not speak to him for--\"\nAgain she broke her sentence abruptly, and after a little pause, short in\nitself but amply long for a girl like Dorothy to change her mind two score\ntimes, she continued: \"It would not be for the best. What think you,\nCousin Malcolm?\"\n\n\"Surely the girl has gone mad,\" thought I. Her voice was soft and\nconciliating as if to say, \"I trust entirely to your mature, superior\njudgment.\"\n\nMy judgment coincided emphatically with her words, and I said: \"I spoke\nonly in jest. It certainly would not be right. It would be all wrong if\nyou were to meet him.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" the girl responded with firmness, \"but--but no real harm\ncould come of it,\" she continued, laughing nervously. \"He could not strike\nme nor bite me. Of course it would be unpleasant for me to meet him, and\nas there is no need--I am curious to know what one of his race is like.\nIt's the only reason that would induce me to consent. Of course you know\nthere could be no other reason for me to wish--that is, you know--to be\nwilling to meet him. Of course you know.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" I replied, still clinging to my unsuccessful irony. \"I will\ntell you all I know about him, so that you may understand what he is\nlike. As for his personal appearance, you saw him, did you not?\"\n\nI thought surely that piece of irony would not fail, but it did, and I\nhave seldom since attempted to use that form of humor.\n\n\"Yes--oh, yes, I saw him for a moment.\"\n\n\"But I will not present him to you, Dorothy, however much you may wish to\nmeet him,\" I said positively.\n\n\"It is almost an insult, Cousin Malcolm, for you to say that I wish to\nmeet him,\" she answered in well-feigned indignation.\n\nThe French blood in my veins moved me to shrug my shoulders. I could do\nnothing else. With all my knowledge of womankind this girl had sent me to\nsea.\n\nBut what shall we say of Dorothy's conduct? I fancy I can hear you mutter,\n\"This Dorothy Vernon must have been a bold, immodest, brazen girl.\"\nNothing of the sort. Dare you of the cold blood--if perchance there be any\nwith that curse in their veins who read these lines--dare you, I say, lift\nyour voice against the blessed heat in others which is but a greater,\nstronger, warmer spark of God's own soul than you possess or than you can\ncomprehend? \"Evil often comes of it,\" I hear you say. That I freely admit;\nand evil comes from eating too much bread, and from hearing too much\npreaching. But the universe, from the humblest blade of grass to the\ninfinite essence of God, exists because of that warmth which the mawkish\nworld contemns. Is the iron immodest when it creeps to the lodestone and\nclings to its side? Is the hen bird brazen when she flutters to her mate\nresponsive to his compelling woo-song? Is the seed immodest when it sinks\ninto the ground and swells with budding life? Is the cloud bold when it\nsoftens into rain and falls to earth because it has no other choice? or is\nit brazen when it nestles for a time on the bosom of heaven's arched dome\nand sinking into the fathomless depths of a blue black infinity ceases to\nbe itself? Is the human soul immodest when, drawn by a force it cannot\nresist, it seeks a stronger soul which absorbs its ego as the blue sky\nabsorbs the floating cloud, as the warm earth swells the seed, as the\nmagnet draws the iron? All these are of one quality. The iron, the seed,\nthe cloud, and the soul of man are _what_ they are, do _what_ they do,\nlove as they love, live as they live, and die as they die because they\nmust--because they have no other choice. We think we are free because at\ntimes we act as we please, forgetting that God gives us the \"please,\" and\nthat every act of our being is but the result of a dictated motive.\nDorothy was not immodest. This was her case. She was the iron, the seed,\nthe cloud, and the rain. You, too, are the iron, the seed, the cloud, and\nthe rain. It is only human vanity which prompts you to believe that you\nare yourself and that you are free. Do you find any freedom in this world\nsave that which you fondly believe to exist within yourself? Self! There\nis but one self, God. I have been told that the people of the East call\nHim Brahma. The word, it is said, means \"Breath,\" \"Inspiration,\" \"All.\" I\nhave felt that the beautiful pagan thought has truth in it; but my\nconscience and my priest tell me rather to cling to truths I have than to\nfly to others that I know not of. As a result, I shall probably die\northodox and mistaken.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE PITCHER GOES TO THE WELL.\n\n\nDorothy and I went to the inn parlors, where I received a cordial welcome\nfrom my cousin, Lady Crawford. After our greeting, Dorothy came toward me\nleading the fair, pale girl whom I had seen in the courtyard.\n\n\"Madge, this is my cousin, Malcolm Vernon,\" said Dorothy. \"He was a dear\nfriend of my childhood and is much beloved by my father. Lady Magdalene\nStanley, cousin,\" and she placed the girl's soft white hand in mine. There\nwas a peculiar hesitancy in the girl's manner which puzzled me. She did\nnot look at me when Dorothy placed her hand in mine, but kept her eyes\ncast down, the long, black lashes resting upon the fair curves of her\ncheek like a shadow on the snow. She murmured a salutation, and when I\nmade a remark that called for a response, she lifted her eyes but seemed\nnot to look at me. Unconsciously I turned my face toward Dorothy, who\nclosed her eyes and formed with her lips the word \"blind.\"\n\nI retained the girl's hand, and she did not withdraw it. When I caught\nDorothy's unspoken word I led Lady Madge to a chair and asked if I might\nsit beside her.\n\n\"Certainly,\" she answered smilingly; \"you know I am blind, but I can hear\nand speak, and I enjoy having persons I like sit near me that I may touch\nthem now and then while we talk. If I could only see!\" she exclaimed.\nStill, there was no tone of complaint in her voice and very little even of\nregret. The girl's eyes were of a deep blue and were entirely without scar\nor other evidence of blindness, except that they did not seem to see. I\nafterward learned that her affliction had come upon her as the result of\nillness when she was a child. She was niece to the Earl of Derby, and\nDorothy's mother had been her aunt. She owned a small estate and had lived\nat Haddon Hall five or six years because of the love that existed between\nher and Dorothy. A strong man instinctively longs to cherish that which\nneeds his strength, and perhaps it was the girl's helplessness that first\nappealed to me. Perhaps it was her rare, peculiar beauty, speaking\neloquently of virtue such as I had never known, that touched me. I cannot\nsay what the impelling cause was, but this I know: my heart went out in\npity to her, and all that was good within me--good, which I had never\nbefore suspected--stirred in my soul, and my past life seemed black and\nbarren beyond endurance. Even Dorothy's marvellous beauty lacked the\nsubtle quality which this simple blind girl possessed. The first step in\nregeneration is to see one's faults; the second is to regret them; the\nthird is to quit them. The first and second steps constitute repentance;\nthe second and third regeneration. One hour within the radius of Madge\nStanley's influence brought me to repentance. But repentance is an\neveryday virtue. Should I ever achieve regeneration? That is one of the\nquestions this history will answer. To me, Madge Stanley's passive force\nwas the strongest influence for good that had ever impinged on my life.\nWith respect to her, morally, I was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the\nrain, for she, acting unconsciously, moved me with neither knowledge nor\nvolition on my part.\n\nSoon after my arrival at the ladies' parlor dinner was served, and after\ndinner a Persian merchant was ushered in, closely followed by his\nservants bearing bales of rare Eastern fabrics. A visit and a dinner at\nthe inn were little events that made a break in the monotony of life at\nthe Hall, and the ladies preferred to visit the merchant, who was stopping\nat The Peacock for a time, rather than to have him take his wares to\nHaddon.\n\nWhile Lady Crawford and Dorothy were revelling in Persian silks, satins,\nand gold cloths, I sat by Lady Madge and was more than content that we\nwere left to ourselves. My mind, however, was as far from thoughts of\ngallantry as if she had been a black-veiled nun. I believe I have not told\nyou that I was of the Holy Catholic Faith. My religion, I may say, has\nalways been more nominal and political than spiritual, although there ran\nthrough it a strong vein of inherited tendencies and superstitions which\nwere highly colored by contempt for heresy and heretics. I was Catholic by\nhabit. But if I analyzed my supposed religious belief, I found that I had\nnone save a hatred for heresy. Heretics, as a rule, were low-born persons,\nvulgarly moral, and as I had always thought, despisedly hypocritical.\nMadge Stanley, however, was a Protestant, and that fact shook the\nstructure of my old mistakes to its foundation, and left me religionless.\n\nAfter the Persian merchant had packed his bales and departed, Dorothy and\nLady Crawford joined Madge and me near the fireplace. Soon Dorothy went\nover to the window and stood there gazing into the courtyard. After a few\nminutes Lady Crawford said, \"Dorothy, had we not better order Dawson to\nbring out the horses and coach?\" Will Dawson was Sir George's forester.\n\nLady Crawford repeated her question, but Dorothy was too intently watching\nthe scene in the courtyard to hear. I went over to her, and looking out at\nthe window discovered the object of Dorothy's rapt attention. There is no\nneed for me to tell you who it was. Irony, as you know, and as I had\nlearned, was harmless against this thick-skinned nymph. Of course I had no\nauthority to scold her, so I laughed. The object of Dorothy's attention\nwas about to mount his horse. He was drawing on his gauntleted gloves and\nheld between his teeth a cigarro. He certainly presented a handsome figure\nfor the eyes of an ardent girl to rest upon while he stood beneath the\nwindow, clothed in a fashionable Paris-made suit of brown, doublet,\ntrunks, and hose. His high-topped boots were polished till they shone, and\nhis broad-rimmed hat, of soft beaver, was surmounted by a flowing plume.\nEven I, who had no especial taste nor love for masculine beauty, felt my\nsense of the beautiful strongly moved by the attractive picture my\nnew-found friend presented. His dress, manner, and bearing, polished by\nthe friction of life at a luxurious court, must have appeared god-like to\nDorothy. She had never travelled farther from home than Buxton and\nDerby-town, and had met only the half-rustic men belonging to the\nsurrounding gentry and nobility of Derbyshire, Nottingham, and Stafford.\nShe had met but few even of them, and their lives had been spent chiefly\nin drinking, hunting, and gambling--accomplishments that do not fine down\nthe texture of a man's nature or fit him for a lady's bower. Sir John\nManners was a revelation to Dorothy; and she, poor girl, was bewildered\nand bewitched by him.\n\nWhen John had mounted and was moving away, he looked up to the window\nwhere Dorothy stood, and a light came to her eyes and a smile to her face\nwhich no man who knows the sum of two and two can ever mistake if he but\nonce sees it.\n\nWhen I saw the light in Dorothy's eyes, I knew that all the hatred that\nwas ever born from all the feuds that had ever lived since the quarrelling\nrace of man began its feuds in Eden could not make Dorothy Vernon hate the\nson of her father's enemy.\n\n\"I was--was--watching him draw smoke through the--the little stick which\nhe holds in his mouth, and--and blow it out again,\" said Dorothy, in\nexplanation of her attitude. She blushed painfully and continued, \"I hope\nyou do not think--\"\n\n\"I do not think,\" I answered. \"I would not think of thinking.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" she responded, with a forced smile, as she watched Sir\nJohn pass out of sight under the arch of the innyard gate. I did not\nthink. I knew. And the sequel, so full of trouble, soon proved that I was\nright. After John had passed through the gate, Dorothy was willing to go\nhome; and when Will Dawson brought the great coach to the inn door, I\nmounted my horse and rode beside the ladies to Haddon Hall, two miles\nnorth from Rowsley.\n\nI shall not stop to tell you of the warm welcome given me by Sir George\nVernon, nor of his delight when I briefly told him my misfortunes in\nScotland--misfortunes that had brought me to Haddon Hall. Nor shall I\ndescribe the great boar's head supper given in my honor, at which there\nwere twenty men who could have put me under the table. I thought I knew\nsomething of the art of drinking, but at that supper I soon found I was a\nmere tippler compared with these country guzzlers. At that feast I learned\nalso that Dorothy, when she had hinted concerning Sir George's excessive\ndrinking, had told the truth. He, being the host, drank with all his\nguests. Near midnight he grew distressingly drunk, talkative, and violent,\nand when toward morning he was carried from the room by his servants, the\ncompany broke up. Those who could do so reeled home; those who could not\nwalk at all were put to bed by the retainers at Haddon Hall. I had chosen\nmy bedroom high up in Eagle Tower. At table I had tried to remain sober.\nThat, however, was an impossible task, for at the upper end of the hall\nthere was a wrist-ring placed in the wainscoting at a height of ten or\ntwelve inches above the head of an ordinary man, and if he refused to\ndrink as much as the other guests thought he should, his wrist was\nfastened above his head in the ring, and the liquor which he should have\npoured down his throat was poured down his sleeve. Therefore to avoid this\nspecies of rustic sport I drank much more than was good for me. When the\nfeast closed I thought I was sober enough to go to my room unassisted; so\nI took a candle, and with a great show of self-confidence climbed the\nspiral stone stairway to the door of my room. The threshold of my door was\ntwo or three feet above the steps of the stairway, and after I had\ncontemplated the distance for a few minutes, I concluded that it would not\nbe safe for me to attempt to climb into my sleeping apartments without\nhelp. Accordingly I sat down upon the step on which I had been standing,\nplaced my candle beside me, called loudly for a servant, received no\nresponse, and fell asleep only to be awakened by one of Sir George's\nretainers coming downstairs next morning.\n\nAfter that supper, in rapid succession, followed hunting and drinking,\nfeasting and dancing in my honor. At the dances the pipers furnished the\nmusic, or, I should rather say, the noise. Their miserable wailings\nreminded me of Scotland. After all, thought I, is the insidious, polished\nvice of France worse than the hoggish, uncouth practices of Scotland and\nof English country life? I could not endure the latter, so I asked Sir\nGeorge, on the pretext of ill health, to allow me to refuse invitations to\nother houses, and I insisted that he should give no more entertainments at\nHaddon Hall on my account. Sir George eagerly acquiesced in all my wishes.\nIn truth, I was treated like an honored guest and a member of the family,\nand I congratulated myself that my life had fallen in such pleasant lines.\nDorothy and Madge became my constant companions, for Sir George's time\nwas occupied chiefly with his estates and with his duties as magistrate. A\nfeeling of rest and contentment came over me, and my past life drifted\nback of me like an ever receding cloud.\n\nThus passed the months of October and November.\n\nIn the meantime events in Scotland and in England proved my wisdom in\nseeking a home at Haddon Hall, and showed me how great was my good fortune\nin finding it.\n\nQueen Mary was a prisoner at Lochleven Castle, and her brother Murray had\nbeheaded many of her friends. Elizabeth, hating Mary as only a plain,\nenvious woman can hate one who is transcendently beautiful, had, upon\ndifferent pretexts, seized many of Mary's friends who had fled to England\nfor sanctuary, and some of them had suffered imprisonment or death.\n\nElizabeth, in many instances, had good cause for her attitude toward\nMary's friends, since plots were hatching thick and fast to liberate Mary\nfrom Lochleven; and many such plots, undoubtedly, had for their chief end\nthe deposition of Elizabeth, and the enthronement of Mary as Queen of\nEngland.\n\nAs a strict matter of law, Mary was rightful heir to the English throne,\nand Elizabeth was an usurper. Parliament, at Henry's request, had declared\nthat Elizabeth, his issue by Anne Boleyn, was illegitimate, and that being\ntrue, Mary was next in line of descent. The Catholics of England took that\nstand, and Mary's beauty and powers of fascination had won for her friends\neven in the personal household of the Virgin Queen. Small cause for wonder\nwas it that Elizabeth, knowing all these facts, looked with suspicion and\nfear upon Mary's refugee friends.\n\nThe English queen well knew that Sir George Vernon was her friend,\ntherefore his house and his friendship were my sanctuary, without which\nmy days certainly would have been numbered in the land of Elizabeth, and\ntheir number would have been small. I was dependent on Sir George not only\nfor a roof to shelter me, but for my very life. I speak of these things\nthat you may know some of the many imperative reasons why I desired to\nplease and conciliate my cousin. In addition to those reasons, I soon grew\nto love Sir George, not only because of his kindness to me, but because he\nwas a lovable man. He was generous, just, and frank, and although at times\nhe was violent almost to the point of temporary madness, his heart was\nusually gentle, and was as easily touched by kindness as it was quickly\nmoved to cruelty by injury, fancied or actual. I have never known a more\ncruel, tender man than he. You will see him in each of his natures before\nyou have finished this history. But you must judge him only after you have\nconsidered his times, which were forty years ago, his surroundings, and\nhis blood.\n\nDuring those two months remarkable changes occurred within the walls of\nHaddon, chief of which were in myself, and, alas! in Dorothy.\n\nMy pilgrimage to Haddon, as you already know, had been made for the\npurpose of marrying my fair cousin; for I did not, at the time I left\nScotland, suppose I should need Sir George's protection against Elizabeth.\nWhen I met Dorothy at Rowsley, my desire to marry her became personal, in\naddition to the mercenary motives with which I had originally started. But\nI quickly recognized the fact that the girl was beyond my reach. I knew I\ncould not win her love, even though I had a thousand years to try for it;\nand I would not accept her hand in marriage solely at her father's\ncommand. I also soon learned that Dorothy was the child of her father,\ngentle, loving, and tender beyond the naming, but also wilful, violent,\nand fierce to the extent that no command could influence her.\n\nFirst I shall speak of the change within myself. I will soon be done with\nso much \"I\" and \"me,\" and you shall have Dorothy to your heart's content,\nor trouble, I know not which.\n\nSoon after my arrival at Haddon Hall the sun ushered in one of those\nwonderful days known only to the English autumn, when the hush of Nature's\ndrowsiness, just before her long winter's sleep, imparts its soft\nrestfulness to man, as if it were a lotus feast. Dorothy was\nostentatiously busy with her household matters, and was consulting with\nbutler, cook, and steward. Sir George had ridden out to superintend his\nmen at work, and I, wandering aimlessly about the hail, came upon Madge\nStanley sitting in the chaplain's room with folded hands.\n\n\"Lady Madge, will you go with me for a walk this beautiful morning?\" I\nasked.\n\n\"Gladly would I go, Sir Malcolm,\" she responded, a smile brightening her\nface and quickly fading away, \"but I--I cannot walk in unfamiliar places.\nI should fail. You would have to lead me by the hand, and that, I fear,\nwould mar the pleasure of your walk.\"\n\n\"Indeed, it would not, Lady Madge. I should enjoy my walk all the more.\"\n\n\"If you really wish me to go, I shall be delighted,\" she responded, as the\nbrightness came again to her face. \"I sometimes grow weary, and, I\nconfess, a little sad sitting alone when Dorothy cannot be with me. Aunt\nDorothy, now that she has her magnifying glasses,--spectacles, I think\nthey are called,--devotes all her time to reading, and dislikes to be\ninterrupted.\"\n\n\"I wish it very much,\" I said, surprised by the real eagerness of my\ndesire, and unconsciously endeavoring to keep out of the tones of my voice\na part of that eagerness.\n\n\"I shall take you at your word,\" she said. \"I will go to my room to get my\nhat and cloak.\"\n\nShe rose and began to grope her way toward the door, holding out her\nwhite, expressive hands in front of her. It was pitiful and beautiful to\nsee her, and my emotions welled up in my throat till I could hardly speak.\n\n\"Permit me to give you my hand,\" I said huskily. How I longed to carry\nher! Every man with the right sort of a heart in his breast has a touch of\nthe mother instinct in him; but, alas I only a touch. Ah, wondrous and\nglorious womanhood! If you had naught but the mother instinct to lift you\nabove your masters by the hand of man-made laws, those masters were still\nunworthy to tie the strings of your shoes.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the girl, as she clasped my hand, and moved with\nconfidence by my side. \"This is so much better than the dreadful fear of\nfalling. Even through these rooms where I have lived for many years I feel\nsafe only in a few places,--on the stairs, and in my rooms, which are also\nDorothy's. When Dorothy changes the position of a piece of furniture in\nthe Hall, she leads me to it several times that I may learn just where it\nis. A long time ago she changed the position of a chair and did not tell\nme. I fell against it and was hurt. Dorothy wept bitterly over the mishap,\nand she has never since failed to tell me of such changes. I cannot make\nyou know how kind and tender Dorothy is to me. I feel that I should die\nwithout her, and I know she would grieve terribly were we to part.\"\n\nI could not answer. What a very woman you will think I was! I, who could\nlaugh while I ran my sword through a man's heart, could hardly restrain my\ntears for pity of this beautiful blind girl.\n\n\"Thank you; that will do,\" she said, when we came to the foot of the great\nstaircase. \"I can now go to my rooms alone.\"\n\nWhen she reached the top she hesitated and groped for a moment; then she\nturned and called laughingly to me while I stood at the bottom of the\nsteps, \"I know the way perfectly well, but to go alone in any place is not\nlike being led.\"\n\n\"There are many ways in which one may be led, Lady Madge,\" I answered\naloud. Then I said to myself, \"That girl will lead you to Heaven, Malcolm,\nif you will permit her to do so.\"\n\nBut thirty-five years of evil life are hard to neutralize. There is but\none subtle elixir that can do it--love; and I had not thought of that\nmagic remedy with respect to Madge.\n\nI hurriedly fetched my hat and returned to the foot of the staircase.\nWithin a minute or two Madge came down stairs holding up the skirt of her\ngown with one hand, while she grasped the banister with the other. As I\nwatched her descending I was enraptured with her beauty. Even the\nmarvellous vital beauty of Dorothy could not compare with this girl's\nfair, pale loveliness. It seemed to be almost a profanation for me to\nadmire the sweet oval of her face. Upon her alabaster skin, the black\neyebrows, the long lashes, the faint blue veins and the curving red lips\nstood in exquisite relief. While she was descending the stairs, I caught a\ngleam of her round, snowy forearm and wrist; and when my eyes sought the\nperfect curves of her form disclosed by the clinging silk gown she wore, I\nfelt that I had sinned in looking upon her, and I was almost glad she\ncould not see the shame which was in my face.\n\n\"Cousin Malcolm, are you waiting?\" she asked from midway in the staircase.\n\n\"Yes, I am at the foot of the steps,\" I answered.\n\n\"I called you 'Cousin Malcolm,'\" she said, holding out her hand when she\ncame near me. \"Pardon me; it was a slip of the tongue. I hear 'Cousin\nMalcolm' so frequently from Dorothy that the name is familiar to me.\"\n\n\"I shall be proud if you will call me 'Cousin Malcolm' always. I like the\nname better than any that you can use.\"\n\n\"If you wish it,\" she said, in sweet, simple candor, \"I will call you\n'Cousin Malcolm,' and you may call me 'Cousin Madge' or 'Madge,' just as\nyou please.\"\n\n\"'Cousin Madge' it shall be; that is a compact,\" I answered, as I opened\nthe door and we walked out into the fresh air of the bright October\nmorning.\n\n\"That will stand for our first compact; we are progressing famously,\" she\nsaid, with a low laugh of delight.\n\nAh, to think that the blind can laugh. God is good.\n\nWe walked out past the stables and the cottage, and crossed the river on\nthe great stone bridge. Then we took our way down the babbling Wye,\nkeeping close to its banks, while the dancing waters and even the gleaming\npebbles seemed to dimple and smile as they softly sang their song of\nwelcome to the fair kindred spirit who had come to visit them. If we\nwandered from the banks for but a moment, the waters seemed to struggle\nand turn in their course until they were again by her side, and then would\nthey gently flow and murmur their contentment as they travelled forward to\nthe sea, full of the memory of her sweet presence. And during all that\ntime I led her by the hand. I tell you, friends, 'tis sweet to write of\nit.\n\nWhen we returned we crossed the Wye by the stone footbridge and entered\nthe garden below the terrace at the corner postern. We remained for an\nhour resting upon the terrace balustrade, and before we went indoors Madge\nagain spoke of Dorothy.\n\n\"I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this walk, nor how thankful I\nam to you for taking me,\" she said.\n\nI did not interrupt her by replying, for I loved to hear her talk.\n\n\"Dorothy sometimes takes me with her for a short walk, but I seldom have\nthat pleasure. Walking is too slow for Dorothy. She is so strong and full\nof life. She delights to ride her mare Dolcy. Have you seen Dolcy?\"\n\n\"No,\" I responded.\n\n\"You must see her at once. She is the most beautiful animal in the world.\nThough small of limb, she is swift as the wind, and as easy as a cradle in\nher gaits. She is mettlesome and fiery, but full of affection. She often\nkisses Dorothy. Mare and rider are finely mated. Dorothy is the most\nperfect woman, and Dolcy is the most perfect mare. 'The two D's,' we call\nthem. But Dorothy says we must be careful not to put a--a dash between\nthem,\" she said with a laugh and a blush.\n\nThen I led Madge into the hall, and she was blithe and happy as if the\nblessed light of day were in her eyes. It was in her soul, and that, after\nall, is where it brings the greatest good.\n\nAfter that morning, Madge and I frequently walked out when the days were\npleasant. The autumn was mild, well into winter time, and by the end of\nNovember the transparent cheeks of the blind girl held an exquisite tinge\nof color, and her form had a new grace from the strength she had acquired\nin exercise. We had grown to be dear friends, and the touch of her hand\nwas a pleasure for which I waited eagerly from day to day. Again I say\nthoughts of love for her had never entered my mind. Perhaps their absence\nwas because of my feeling that they could not possibly exist in her heart\nfor me.\n\nOne evening in November, after the servants had all gone to bed, Sir\nGeorge and I went to the kitchen to drink a hot punch before retiring for\nthe night. I drank a moderate bowl and sat in a large chair before the\nfire, smoking a pipe of tobacco, while Sir George drank brandy toddy at\nthe massive oak table in the middle of the room.\n\nSir George was rapidly growing drunk. He said: \"Dawson tells me that the\nqueen's officers arrested another of Mary Stuart's damned French friends\nat Derby-town yesterday,--Count somebody; I can't pronounce their\nmiserable names.\"\n\n\"Can you not remember his name?\" I asked. \"He may be a friend of mine.\" My\nremark was intended to remind Sir George that his language was offensive\nto me.\n\n\"That is true, Malcolm,\" responded Sir George. \"I beg your pardon. I meant\nto speak ill only of Mary's meddlesome friends, who are doing more injury\nthan good to their queen's cause by their plotting.\"\n\nI replied: \"No one can regret these plots more than I do. They certainly\nwill work great injury to the cause they are intended to help. But I fear\nmany innocent men are made to suffer for the few guilty ones. Without your\nprotection, for which I cannot sufficiently thank you, my life here would\nprobably be of short duration. After my misfortunes in Scotland, I know\nnot what I should have done had it not been for your generous welcome. I\nlost all in Scotland, and it would now be impossible for me to go to\nFrance. An attempt on my part to escape would result in my arrest. Fortune\ncertainly has turned her capricious back upon me, with the one exception\nthat she has left me your friendship.\"\n\n\"Malcolm, my boy,\" said Sir George, drawing his chair toward me, \"that\nwhich you consider your loss is my great gain. I am growing old, and if\nyou, who have seen so much of the gay world, will be content to live with\nus and share our dulness and our cares, I shall be the happiest man in\nEngland.\"\n\n\"I thank you more than I can tell,\" I said, careful not to commit myself\nto any course.\n\n\"Barring my quarrel with the cursed race of Manners,\" continued Sir\nGeorge, \"I have little to trouble me; and if you will remain with us, I\nthank God I may leave the feud in good hands. Would that I were young\nagain only for a day that I might call that scoundrel Rutland and his imp\nof a son to account in the only manner whereby an honest man may have\njustice of a thief. There are but two of them, Malcolm,--father and\nson,--and if they were dead, the damned race would be extinct.\"\n\nI believe that Sir George Vernon when sober could not have spoken in that\nfashion even of his enemies.\n\nI found difficulty in replying to my cousin's remarks, so I said\nevasively:--\n\n\"I certainly am the most fortunate of men to find so warm a welcome from\nyou, and so good a home as that which I have at Haddon Hall. When I met\nDorothy at the inn, I knew at once by her kindness that my friends of old\nwere still true to me. I was almost stunned by Dorothy's beauty.\"\n\nMy mention of Dorothy was unintentional and unfortunate. I had shied from\nthe subject upon several previous occasions, but Sir George was\ncontinually trying to lead up to it. This time my lack of forethought\nsaved him the trouble.\n\n\"Do you really think that Doll is very beautiful--so very beautiful? Do\nyou really think so, Malcolm?\" said the old gentleman, rubbing his hands\nin pride and pleasure.\n\n\"Surprisingly beautiful,\" I answered, seeking hurriedly through my mind\nfor an excuse to turn the conversation. I had within two months learned\none vital fact: beautiful as Dorothy was, I did not want her for my wife,\nand I could not have had her even were I dying for love. The more I\nlearned of Dorothy and myself during the autumn through which I had just\npassed--and I had learned more of myself than I had been able to discover\nin the thirty-five previous years of my life--the more clearly I saw the\nutter unfitness of marriage between us.\n\n\"In all your travels,\" asked Sir George, leaning his elbows upon his\nknees and looking at his feet between his hands, \"in all your travels and\ncourt life have you ever seen a woman who was so beautiful as my girl\nDoll?\"\n\nHis pride in Dorothy at times had a tinge of egotism and selfishness. It\nseemed to be almost the pride of possession and ownership. \"My girl!\" The\nexpression and the tone in which the words were spoken sounded as if he\nhad said: \"My fine horse,\" \"My beautiful Hall,\" or \"My grand estates.\"\nDorothy was his property. Still, he loved the girl passionately. She was\ndearer to him than all his horses, cattle, halls, and estates put\ntogether, and he loved even them to excess. He loved all that he\npossessed; whatever was his was the best of the sort. Such a love is apt\nto grow up in the breasts of men who have descended from a long line of\nproprietary ancestors, and with all its materialism it has in it\npossibilities of great good. The sturdy, unflinching patriotism of the\nEnglish people springs from this source. The thought, \"That which I\npossess is the best,\" has beauty and use in it, though it leads men to\ntreat other men, and, alas! women, as mere chattels. All this was passing\nthrough my mind, and I forgot to answer Sir George's question.\n\n\"Have you ever seen a woman more beautiful than Doll?\" he again asked.\n\n\"I certainly have never seen one whose beauty may even be compared with\nDorothy's,\" I answered.\n\n\"And she is young, too,\" continued Sir George; \"she is not yet nineteen.\"\n\n\"That is very young,\" I answered, not knowing what else to say.\n\n\"And she will be rich some day. Very rich. I am called 'King of the Peak,'\nyou know, and there are not three estates in Derbyshire which, if\ncombined, would equal mine.\"\n\n\"That is true, cousin,\" I answered, \"and I rejoice in your good fortune.\"\n\n\"Dorothy will have it all one of these days--all, all,\" continued my\ncousin, still looking at his feet.\n\nAfter a long pause, during which Sir George took several libations from\nhis bowl of toddy, he cleared his throat and said, \"So Dorothy is the most\nbeautiful girl and the richest heiress you know?\"\n\n\"Indeed she is,\" I responded, knowing full well what he was leading up to.\nRealizing that in spite of me he would now speak his mind, I made no\nattempt to turn the current of the conversation.\n\nAfter another long pause, and after several more draughts from the bowl,\nmy old friend and would-be benefactor said: \"You may remember a little\nconversation between us when you were last at Haddon six or seven years\nago, about--about Dorothy? You remember?\"\n\nI, of course, dared not pretend that I had forgotten.\n\n\"Yes, I remember,\" I responded.\n\n\"What do you think of the proposition by this time?\" asked Sir George.\n\"Dorothy and all she will inherit shall be yours--\"\n\n\"Stop, stop, Sir George!\" I exclaimed. \"You do not know what you say. No\none but a prince or a great peer of the realm is worthy of aspiring to\nDorothy's hand. When she is ready to marry you should take her to London\ncourt, where she can make her choice from among the nobles of our land.\nThere is not a marriageable duke or earl in England who would not eagerly\nseek the girl for a wife. My dear cousin, your generosity overwhelms me,\nbut it must not be thought of. I am utterly unworthy of her in person,\nage, and position. No! no!\"\n\n\"But listen to me, Malcolm,\" responded Sir George. \"Your modesty, which,\nin truth, I did not know you possessed, is pleasing to me; but I have\nreasons of my own for wishing that you should marry Dorothy. I want my\nestates to remain in the Vernon name, and one day you or your children\nwill make my house and my name noble. You and Dorothy shall go to court,\nand between you--damme! if you can't win a dukedom, I am no prophet. You\nwould not object to change your faith, would you?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" I responded, \"of course I should not object to that.\"\n\n\"Of course not. I knew you were no fool,\" said Sir George. \"Age! why, you\nare only thirty-five years old--little more than a matured boy. I prefer\nyou to any man in England for Dorothy's husband.\"\n\n\"You overwhelm me with your kindness,\" I returned, feeling that I was\nbeing stranded on a very dangerous shore, amidst wealth and beauty.\n\n\"Tut, tut, there's no kindness in it,\" returned my cousin. \"I do not offer\nyou Dorothy's hand from an unselfish motive. I have told you one motive,\nbut there is another, and a little condition besides, Malcolm.\" The brandy\nSir George had been drinking had sent the devil to his brain.\n\n\"What is the condition?\" I asked, overjoyed to hear that there was one.\n\nThe old man leaned toward me and a fierce blackness overclouded his face.\n\"I am told, Malcolm, that you have few equals in swordsmanship, and that\nthe duello is not new to you. Is it true?\"\n\n\"I believe I may say it is true,\" I answered. \"I have fought successfully\nwith some of the most noted duellists of--\"\n\n\"Enough, enough! Now, this is the condition, Malcolm,--a welcome one to\nyou, I am sure; a welcome one to any brave man.\" His eyes gleamed with\nfire and hatred. \"Quarrel with Rutland and his son and kill both of them.\"\n\nI felt like recoiling from the old fiend. I had often quarrelled and\nfought, but, thank God, never in cold blood and with deliberate intent to\ndo murder.\n\n\"Then Dorothy and all I possess shall be yours,\" said Sir George. \"The old\none will be an easy victim. The young one, they say, prides himself on his\nprowess. I do not know with what cause, I have never seen him fight. In\nfact, I have never seen the fellow at all. He has lived at London court\nsince he was a child, and has seldom, if ever, visited this part of the\ncountry. He was a page both to Edward VI. and to Queen Mary. Why Elizabeth\nkeeps the damned traitor at court to plot against her is more than I can\nunderstand. Do the conditions suit you, Malcolm?\" asked Sir George,\npiercing me with his eyes.\n\nI did not respond, and he continued: \"All I ask is your promise to kill\nRutland and his son at the first opportunity. I care not how. The marriage\nmay come off at once. It can't take place too soon to please me.\"\n\nI could not answer for a time. The power to speak and to think had left\nme. To accept Sir George's offer was out of the question. To refuse it\nwould be to give offence beyond reparation to my only friend, and you know\nwhat that would have meant to me. My refuge was Dorothy. I knew, however\nwilling I might be or might appear to be, Dorothy would save me the\ntrouble and danger of refusing her hand. So I said:--\n\n\"We have not consulted Dorothy. Perhaps her inclinations--\"\n\n\"Doll's inclinations be damned. I have always been kind and indulgent to\nher, and she is a dutiful, obedient daughter. My wish and command in this\naffair will furnish inclinations enough for Doll.\"\n\n\"But, Sir George,\" I remonstrated, \"I would not accept the hand of Dorothy\nnor of any woman unless she desired it. I could not. I could not.\"\n\n\"If Doll consents, I am to understand that you accept?\" asked Sir George.\n\nI saw no way out of the dilemma, and to gain time I said, \"Few men in\ntheir right mind would refuse so flattering an offer unless there were a\nmost potent reason, and I--I--\"\n\n\"Good! good! I shall go to bed happy to-night for the first time in years.\nThe Rutlands will soon be out of my path.\"\n\nThere is a self-acting retribution in our evil passions which never fails\nto operate. One who hates must suffer, and Sir George for years had paid\nthe penalty night and day, unconscious that his pain was of his own\nmaking.\n\nBefore we parted I said, \"This is a delicate matter, with reference to\nDorothy, and I insist that you give me time to win, if possible, her\nkindly regard before you express to her your wish.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, nonsense, Malcolm! I'll tell the girl about it in the morning,\nand save you the trouble. The women will want to make some new gowns\nand--\"\n\n\"But,\" I interrupted emphatically, \"I will not have it so. It is every\nman's sweet privilege to woo the woman of his choice in his own way. It is\nnot a trouble to me; it is a pleasure, and it is every woman's right to be\nwooed by the man who seeks her. I again insist that I only shall speak to\nDorothy on this subject. At least, I demand that I be allowed to speak\nfirst.\"\n\n\"That's all damned nonsense,\" responded Sir George; \"but if you will have\nit so, well and good. Take your own course. I suppose it's the fashion at\ncourt. The good old country way suits me. A girl's father tells her whom\nshe is to marry, and, by gad, she does it without a word and is glad to\nget a man. English girls obey their parents. They know what to expect if\nthey don't--the lash, by God and the dungeon under the keep. Your\nroundabout method is all right for tenants and peasants; but among people\nwho possess estates and who control vast interests, girls are--girls\nare--Well, they are born and brought up to obey and to help forward the\ninterests of their houses.\" The old man was growing very drunk, and after\na long pause he continued: \"Have your own way, Malcolm, but don't waste\ntime. Now that the matter is settled, I want to get it off my hands\nquickly.\"\n\n\"I shall speak to Dorothy on the subject at the first favorable\nopportunity,\" I responded; \"but I warn you, Sir George, that if Dorothy\nproves disinclined to marry me, I will not accept her hand.\"\n\n\"Never fear for Doll; she will be all right,\" and we parted.\n\nDoll all right! Had he only known how very far from \"all right\" Dorothy\nwas, he would have slept little that night.\n\nThis brings me to the other change of which I spoke--the change in\nDorothy. Change? It was a metamorphosis.\n\nA fortnight after the scene at The Peacock I accidentally discovered a\ndrawing made by Dorothy of a man with a cigarro in his mouth. The girl\nsnatched the paper from my hands and blushed convincingly.\n\n\"It is a caricature of--of him,\" she said. She smiled, and evidently was\nwilling to talk upon the subject of \"him.\" I declined the topic.\n\nThis happened a month or more previous to my conversation with Sir George\nconcerning Dorothy. A few days after my discovery of the cigarro picture,\nDorothy and I were out on the terrace together. Frequently when she was\nwith me she would try to lead the conversation to the topic which I well\nknew was in her mind, if not in her heart, at all times. She would speak\nof our first meeting at The Peacock, and would use every artifice to\ninduce me to bring up the subject which she was eager to discuss, but I\nalways failed her. On the day mentioned when we were together on the\nterrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desired\ntopic, she said, \"I suppose you never meet--meet--him when you ride out?\"\n\n\"Whom, Dorothy?\" I asked.\n\n\"The gentleman with the cigarro,\" she responded, laughing nervously.\n\n\"No,\" I answered, \"I know nothing of him.\"\n\nThe subject was dropped.\n\nAt another time she said, \"He was in the village--Overhaddon--yesterday.\"\n\nThen I knew who \"him\" was.\n\n\"How do you know?\" I asked.\n\n\"Jennie Faxton, the farrier's daughter, told me. She often comes to the\nHall to serve me. She likes to act as my maid, and is devoted to me.\"\n\n\"Did he send any word to you?\" I asked at a venture. The girl blushed and\nhung her head. \"N-o,\" she responded.\n\n\"What was it, Dorothy?\" I asked gently. \"You may trust me.\"\n\n\"He sent no word to me,\" the girl responded. \"Jennie said she heard two\ngentlemen talking about me in front of the farrier's shop, and one of them\nsaid something about--oh, I don't know what it was. I can't tell you. It\nwas all nonsense, and of course he did not mean it.\"\n\n\"Tell me all, Dorothy,\" I said, seeing that she really wanted to speak.\n\n\"Oh, he said something about having seen Sir George Vernon's daughter at\nRowsley, and--and--I can't tell you what he said, I am too full of shame.\"\nIf her cheeks told the truth, she certainly was \"full of shame.\"\n\n\"Tell me all, sweet cousin; I am sorry for you,\" I said. She raised her\neyes to mine in quick surprise with a look of suspicion.\n\n\"You may trust me, Dorothy. I say it again, you may trust me.\"\n\n\"He spoke of my beauty and called it marvellous,\" said the girl. \"He said\nthat in all the world there was not another woman--oh, I can't tell you.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, go on, Dorothy,\" I insisted.\n\n\"He said,\" she continued, \"that he could think of nothing else but me day\nor night since he had first seen me at Rowsley--that I had bewitched him\nand--and--Then the other gentleman said, 'John, don't play with fire; it\nwill burn you. Nothing good can come of it for you.'\"\n\n\"Did Jennie know who the gentleman was?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" returned Dorothy.\n\n\"How do you know who he was?\"\n\n\"Jennie described him,\" she said.\n\n\"How did she describe him?\" I asked.\n\n\"She said he was--he was the handsomest man in the world and--and that he\naffected her so powerfully she fell in love with him in spite of herself.\nThe little devil, to dare! You see that describes him perfectly.\"\n\nI laughed outright, and the girl blushed painfully.\n\n\"It does describe him,\" she said petulantly. \"You know it does. No one can\ngainsay that he is wonderfully, dangerously handsome. I believe the woman\ndoes not live who could refrain from feasting her eyes on his noble\nbeauty. I wonder if I shall ever again--again.\" Tears were in her voice\nand almost in her eyes.\n\n\"Dorothy! My God, Dorothy!\" I exclaimed in terror.\n\n\"Yes! yes! My God, Dorothy!\" she responded, covering her face with her\nhands and sighing deeply, as she dropped her head and left me.\n\nYes, yes, my God, Dorothy! The helpless iron and the terrible loadstone!\nThe passive seed! The dissolving cloud and the falling rain!\n\nLess than a week after the above conversation, Dorothy, Madge, and I were\nriding from Yulegrave Church up to the village of Overhaddon, which lies\none mile across the hills from Haddon Hall. My horse had cast a shoe, and\nwe stopped at Faxton's shop to have him shod. The town well is in the\nmiddle of an open space called by the villagers \"The Open,\" around which\nare clustered the half-dozen houses and shops that constitute the village.\nThe girls were mounted, and I was standing beside them in front of the\nfarrier's, waiting for my horse. Jennie Faxton, a wild, unkempt girl of\nsixteen, was standing in silent admiration near Dorothy. Our backs were\nturned toward the well. Suddenly a light came into Jennie's face, and she\nplucked Dorothy by the skirt of her habit.\n\n\"Look, mistress, look! Look there by the well!\" said Jennie in a whisper.\nDorothy looked toward the well. I also turned my head and beheld my\nfriend, Sir John, holding a bucket of water for his horse to drink. I had\nnot seen him since we parted at The Peacock, and I did not show that I\nrecognized him. I feared to betray our friendship to the villagers. They,\nhowever, did not know Sir John, and I need not have been so cautious. But\nDorothy and Madge were with me, and of course I dared not make any\ndemonstration of acquaintanceship with the enemy of our house.\n\nDorothy watched John closely, and when he was ready to mount she struck\nher horse with the whip, and boldly rode to the well.\n\n\"May I ask you to give my mare water?\" she said.\n\n\"Certainly. Ah, I beg pardon. I did not understand,\" answered Sir John,\nconfusedly. John, the polished, self-poised courtier, felt the confusion\nof a country rustic in the presence of this wonderful girl, whose\nknowledge of life had been acquired within the precincts of Haddon Hall.\nYet the inexperienced girl was self-poised and unconfused, while the wits\nof the courtier, who had often calmly flattered the queen, had all gone\nwool-gathering.\n\nShe repeated her request.\n\n\"Certainly,\" returned John, \"I--I knew what you said--but--but you\nsurprise me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said brazen Dorothy, \"I have surprised myself.\"\n\nJohn, in his haste to satisfy Dolcy's thirst, dashed the water against the\nskirt of Dorothy's habit, and was profuse in his apologies.\n\n\"Do not mention it,\" said Dorothy. \"I like a damp habit. The wind cannot\nso easily blow it about,\" and she laughed as she shook the garment to free\nit of the water. Dolcy refused to drink, and Dorothy having no excuse to\nlinger at the well, drew up her reins and prepared to leave. While doing\nso, she said:--\n\n\"Do you often come to Overhaddon?\" Her eager eyes shone like red coals,\nand looking at John, she awaited smilingly his response.\n\n\"Seldom,\" answered John; \"not often. I mean every day--that is, if I may\ncome.\"\n\n\"Any one may come to the village whenever he wishes to do so,\" responded\nDorothy, laughing too plainly at Sir John's confusion. \"Is it seldom, or\nnot often, or every day that you come?\" In her overconfidence she was\nchaffing him. He caught the tone, and looked quickly into the girl's eyes.\nHer gaze could not stand against John's for a moment, and the long lashes\ndrooped to shade her eyes from the fierce light of his.\n\n\"I said I would come to Overhaddon every day,\" he returned; \"and although\nI must have appeared very foolish in my confusion, you cannot\nmisunderstand the full meaning of my words.\"\n\nIn John's boldness and in the ring of his voice Dorothy felt the touch of\nher master, against whom she well knew all the poor force she could muster\nwould be utterly helpless. She was frightened, and said:--\n\n\"I--I must go. Good-by.\"\n\nWhen she rode away from him she thought: \"I believed because of his\nconfusion that I was the stronger. I could not stand against him for a\nmoment. Holy Virgin! what have I done, and to what am I coming?\"\n\nYou may now understand the magnitude of the task which Sir George had set\nfor me when he bade me marry his daughter and kill the Rutlands. I might\nperform the last-named feat, but dragon fighting would be mere child's\nplay compared with the first, while the girl's heart was filled with the\nimage of another man.\n\nI walked forward to meet Dorothy, leaving Madge near the farrier's shop.\n\n\"Dorothy, are you mad? What have you been doing?\" I asked.\n\n\"Could you not see?\" she answered, under her breath, casting a look of\nwarning toward Madge and a glance of defiance at me. \"Are you, too, blind?\nCould you not see what I was doing?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I responded.\n\n\"Then why do you ask?\"\n\nAs I went back to Madge I saw John ride out of the village by the south\nroad. I afterward learned that he rode gloomily back to Rutland Castle\ncursing himself for a fool. His duty to his father, which with him was a\nstrong motive, his family pride, his self love, his sense of caution, all\ntold him that he was walking open-eyed into trouble. He had tried to\nremain away from the vicinity of Haddon Hall, but, despite his\nself-respect and self-restraint, he had made several visits to Rowsley and\nto Overhaddon, and at one time had ridden to Bakewell, passing Haddon\nHall on his way thither. He had as much business in the moon as at\nOverhaddon, yet he told Dorothy he would be at the village every day, and\nshe, it seemed, was only too willing to give him opportunities to transact\nhis momentous affairs.\n\nAs the floating cloud to the fathomless blue, as the seed to the earth, as\nthe iron to the lodestone, so was Dorothy unto John.\n\nThus you see our beautiful pitcher went to the well and was broken.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE GOLDEN HEART\n\n\nThe day after Dorothy's first meeting with Manners at Overhaddon she was\nrestless and nervous, and about the hour of three in the afternoon she\nmounted Dolcy and rode toward Bakewell. That direction, I was sure, she\ntook for the purpose of misleading us at the Hall, and I felt confident\nshe would, when once out of sight, head her mare straight for Overhaddon.\nWithin an hour Dorothy was home again, and very ill-tempered.\n\nThe next day she rode out in the morning. I asked her if I should ride\nwith her, and the emphatic \"No\" with which she answered me left no room\nfor doubt in my mind concerning her desire for my company or her\ndestination. Again she returned within an hour and hurried to her\napartments. Shortly afterward Madge asked me what Dorothy was weeping\nabout; and although in my own mind I was confident of the cause of\nDorothy's tears, I, of course, did not give Madge a hint of my suspicion.\nYet I then knew, quite as well as I now know, that John, notwithstanding\nthe important business which he said would bring him to Overhaddon every\nday, had forced himself to remain at home, and Dorothy, in consequence,\nsuffered from anger and wounded pride. She had twice ridden to Overhaddon\nto meet him. She had done for his sake that which she knew she should have\nleft undone, and he had refused the offering. A smarting conscience, an\naching heart, and a breast full of anger were Dorothy's rewards for her\nevil doing. The day after her second futile trip to Overhaddon, I, to test\nher, spoke of John. She turned upon me with the black look of a fury, and\nhurled her words at me.\n\n\"Never again speak his despised name in my hearing. Curse him and his\nwhole race.\"\n\n\"Now what has he been doing?\" I asked.\n\n\"I tell you, I will not speak of him, nor will I listen to you,\" and she\ndashed away from me like a fiery whirlwind.\n\nFour or five days later the girl rode out again upon Dolcy. She was away\nfrom home for four long hours, and when she returned she was so gentle,\nsweet, and happy that she was willing to kiss every one in the household\nfrom Welch, the butcher, to Sir George. She was radiant. She clung to\nMadge and to me, and sang and romped through the house like Dorothy of\nold.\n\nMadge said, \"I am so glad you are feeling better, Dorothy.\" Then, speaking\nto me: \"She has been ill for several days. She could not sleep.\"\n\nDorothy looked quickly over to me, gave a little shrug to her shoulders,\nbent forward her face, which was red with blushing, and kissed Madge\nlingeringly upon the lips.\n\nThe events of Dorothy's trip I soon learned from her.\n\nThe little scene between Dorothy, Madge, and myself, after Dorothy's\njoyful return, occurred a week before the momentous conversation between\nSir George and me concerning my union with his house. Ten days after Sir\nGeorge had offered me his daughter and his lands, he brought up the\nsubject again. He and I were walking on the ridge of Bowling Green Hill.\n\n\"I am glad you are making such fair progress with Doll,\" said Sir George.\n\"Have you yet spoken to her upon the subject?\"\n\nI was surprised to hear that I had made any progress. In fact, I did not\nknow that I had taken a single step. I was curious to learn in what the\nprogress consisted, so I said:--\n\n\"I have not spoken to Dorothy yet concerning the marriage, and I fear that\nI have made no progress at all. She certainly is friendly enough to me,\nbut--\"\n\n\"I should say that the gift from you she exhibited would indicate\nconsiderable progress,\" said Sir George, casting an expressive glance\ntoward me.\n\n\"What gift?\" I stupidly inquired.\n\n\"The golden heart, you rascal. She said you told her it had belonged to\nyour mother.\"\n\n\"Holy Mother of Truth!\" thought I, \"pray give your especial care to my\ncousin Dorothy. She needs it.\"\n\nSir George thrust at my side with his thumb and continued:--\n\n\"Don't deny it, Malcolm. Damme, you are as shy as a boy in this matter.\nBut perhaps you know better than I how to go at her. I was thinking only\nthe other day that your course was probably the right one. Doll, I\nsuspect, has a dash of her old father's temper, and she may prove a little\ntroublesome unless we let her think she is having her own way. Oh, there\nis nothing like knowing how to handle them, Malcolm. Just let them think\nthey are having their own way and--and save trouble. Doll may have more of\nher father in her than I suspect, and perhaps it is well for us to move\nslowly. You will be able to judge, but you must not move too slowly. If in\nthe end she should prove stubborn, we will break her will or break her\nneck. I would rather have a daughter in Bakewell churchyard than a wilful,\nstubborn, disobedient huzzy in Haddon Hall.\"\n\nSir George had been drinking, and my slip concerning the gift passed\nunnoticed by him.\n\n\"I am sure you well know how to proceed in this matter, but don't be too\ncautious, Malcolm; the best woman living loves to be stormed.\"\n\n\"Trust me,\" I answered, \"I shall speak--\" and my words unconsciously sank\naway to thought, as thought often, and inconveniently at times, grows into\nwords.\n\n\"Dorothy, Dorothy,\" said the thoughts again and again, \"where came you by\nthe golden heart?\" and \"where learned you so villanously to lie?\"\n\n\"From love,\" was the response, whispered by the sighing winds. \"From love,\nthat makes men and women like unto gods and teaches them the tricks of\ndevils.\" \"From love,\" murmured the dry rustling leaves and the rugged\ntrees. \"From love,\" sighed the fleecy clouds as they floated in the sweet\nrestful azure of the vaulted sky. \"From love,\" cried the mighty sun as he\npoured his light and heat upon the eager world to give it life. I would\nnot give a fig for a woman, however, who would not lie herself black in\nthe face for the sake of her lover, and I am glad that it is a virtue few\nwomen lack. One who would scorn to lie under all other circumstances\nwould--but you understand. I suppose that Dorothy had never before uttered\na real lie. She hated all that was evil and loved all that was good till\nlove came a-teaching.\n\nI quickly invented an excuse to leave Sir George, and returned to the Hall\nto seek Dorothy. I found her and asked her to accompany me for a few\nminutes that I might speak with her privately. We went out upon the\nterrace and I at once began:--\n\n\"You should tell me when I present you gifts that I may not cause trouble\nby my ignorance nor show surprise when I suddenly learn what I have done.\nYou see when a man gives a lady a gift and he does not know it, he is apt\nto--\"\n\n\"Holy Virgin!\" exclaimed Dorothy, pale with fear and consternation. \"Did\nyou--\"\n\n\"No, I did not betray you, but I came perilously near it.\"\n\n\"I--I wanted to tell you about it. I tried several times to do so--I did\nso long to tell somebody, but I could not bring myself to speak. I was\nfull of shame, yet I was proud and happy, for all that happened was good\nand pure and sacred. You are not a woman; you cannot know--\"\n\n\"But I do know. I know that you saw Manners the other day, and that he\ngave you a golden heart.\"\n\n\"How did you know? Did any one--\"\n\n\"Tell me? No. I knew it when you returned after five hours' absence,\nlooking radiant as the sun.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" the girl exclaimed, with a startled movement.\n\n\"I also knew,\" I continued, \"that at other times when you rode out upon\nDolcy you had not seen him.\"\n\n\"How did you know?\" she asked, with quick-coming breath.\n\n\"By your ill-humor,\" I answered.\n\n\"I knew it was so. I felt that everybody knew all that I had been doing. I\ncould almost see father and Madge and you--even the servants--reading the\nwickedness written upon my heart. I knew that I could hide it from\nnobody.\" Tears were very near the girl's eyes.\n\n\"We cannot help thinking that our guilty consciences, through which we see\nso plainly our own evil, are transparent to all the world. In that fact\nlies an evil-doer's greatest danger,\" said I, preacher fashion; \"but you\nneed have no fear. What you have done I believe is suspected by no one\nsave me.\"\n\nA deep sigh of relief rose from the girl's heaving breast.\n\n\"Well,\" she began, \"I will tell you all about it, and I am only too glad\nto do so. It is heavy, Malcolm, heavy on my conscience. But I would not\nbe rid of it for all the kingdoms of the earth.\"\n\n\"A moment since you told me that your conduct was good and pure and\nsacred, and now you tell me that it is heavy on your conscience. Does one\ngrieve, Dorothy, for the sake of that which is good and pure and sacred?\"\n\n\"I cannot answer your question,\" she replied. \"I am no priest. But this I\nknow: I have done no evil, and my conscience nevertheless is sore. Solve\nme the riddle, Malcolm, if you can.\"\n\n\"I cannot solve your riddle, Dorothy,\" I replied; \"but I feel sure it will\nbe far safer for each of us if you will tell me all that happens\nhereafter.\"\n\n\"I am sure you are right,\" she responded; \"but some secrets are so\ndelicious that we love to suck their sweets alone. I believe, however,\nyour advice is good, and I will tell you all that has happened, though I\ncannot look you in the face while doing it.\" She hesitated a moment, and\nher face was red with tell-tale blushes. She continued, \"I have acted most\nunmaidenly.\"\n\n\"Unmaidenly perhaps, but not unwomanly,\" said I.\n\n\"I thank you,\" she said, interrupting my sentence. It probably was well\nthat she did so, for I was about to add, \"To act womanly often means to\nget yourself into mischief and your friends into as much trouble as\npossible.\" Had I finished my remark, she would not have thanked me.\n\n\"Well,\" said the girl, beginning her laggard narrative, \"after we saw--saw\nhim at Overhaddon, you know, I went to the village on each of three\ndays--\"\n\n\"Yes, I know that also,\" I said.\n\n\"How did you--but never mind. I did not see him, and when I returned home\nI felt angry and hurt and--and--but never mind that either. One day I\nfound him, and I at once rode to the well where he was standing by his\nhorse. He drew water for Dolcy, but the perverse mare would not drink.\"\n\n\"A characteristic of her sex,\" I muttered.\n\n\"What did you say?\" asked the girl.\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\nShe continued: \"He seemed constrained and distant in his manner, but I\nknew, that is, I thought--I mean I felt--oh, you know--he looked as if he\nwere glad to see me and I--I, oh, God! I was so glad and happy to see him\nthat I could hardly restrain myself to act at all maidenly. He must have\nheard my heart beat. I thought he was in trouble. He seemed to have\nsomething he wished to say to me.\"\n\n\"He doubtless had a great deal he wished to say to you,\" said I, again\ntempted to futile irony.\n\n\"I was sure he had something to say,\" the girl returned seriously. \"He was\nin trouble. I knew that he was, and I longed to help him.\"\n\n\"What trouble?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. I forgot to ask, but he looked troubled.\"\n\n\"Doubtless he was troubled,\" I responded. \"He had sufficient cause for\ntrouble,\" I finished the sentence to myself with the words, \"in you.\"\n\n\"What was the cause of his trouble?\" she hastily asked, turning her face\ntoward me.\n\n\"I do not know certainly,\" I answered in a tone of irony which should have\npierced an oak board, while the girl listened and looked at me eagerly;\n\"but I might guess.\"\n\n\"What was it? What was it? Let me hear you guess,\" she asked.\n\n\"You,\" I responded laconically.\n\n\"I!\" she exclaimed in surprise.\n\n\"Yes, you,\" I responded with emphasis. \"You would bring trouble to any\nman, but to Sir John Manners--well, if he intends to keep up these\nmeetings with you it would be better for his peace and happiness that he\nshould get him a house in hell, for he would live there more happily than\non this earth.\"\n\n\"That is a foolish, senseless remark, Malcolm,\" the girl replied, tossing\nher head with a show of anger in her eyes. \"This is no time to jest.\" I\nsuppose I could not have convinced her that I was not jesting.\n\n\"At first we did not speak to each other even to say good day, but stood\nby the well in silence for a very long time. The village people were\nstaring at us, and I felt that every window had a hundred faces in it, and\nevery face a hundred eyes.\"\n\n\"You imagined that,\" said I, \"because of your guilty conscience.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so. But it seemed to me that we stood by the well in silence a\nvery long time. You see, Cousin Malcolm, I was not the one who should\nspeak first. I had done more than my part in going to meet him.\"\n\n\"Decidedly so,\" said I, interrupting the interesting narrative.\n\n\"When I could bear the gaze of the villagers no longer, I drew up my reins\nand started to leave The Open by the north road. After Dolcy had climbed\nhalfway up North Hill, which as you know overlooks the village, I turned\nmy head and saw Sir John still standing by the well, resting his hand upon\nhis horse's mane. He was watching me. I grew angry, and determined that he\nshould follow me, even if I had to call him. So I drew Dolcy to a stand.\nWas not that bold in me? But wait, there is worse to come, Malcolm. He did\nnot move, but stood like a statue looking toward me. I knew that he wanted\nto come, so after a little time I--I beckoned to him and--and then he came\nlike a thunderbolt. Oh! it was delicious. I put Dolcy to a gallop, for\nwhen he started toward me I was frightened. Besides I did not want him to\novertake me till we were out of the village. But when once he had started,\nhe did not wait. He was as swift now as he had been slow, and my heart\nthrobbed and triumphed because of his eagerness, though in truth I was\nafraid of him. Dolcy, you know, is very fleet, and when I touched her with\nthe whip she soon put half a mile between me and the village. Then I\nbrought her to a walk and--and he quickly overtook me.\n\n\"When he came up to me he said: 'I feared to follow you, though I ardently\nwished to do so. I dreaded to tell you my name lest you should hate me.\nSir Malcolm at The Peacock said he would not disclose to you my identity.\nI am John Manners. Our fathers are enemies.'\n\n\"Then I said to him, 'That is the reason I wish to talk to you. I wished\nyou to come to meet me because I wanted to tell you that I regret and\ndeplore the feud between our fathers.'--'Ah, you wished me to come?' he\nasked.--'Of course I did,' I answered, 'else why should I be here?'--'No\none regrets the feud between our houses so deeply as I,' replied Sir John.\n'I can think of nothing else by day, nor can I dream of anything else by\nnight. It is the greatest cause for grief and sorrow that has ever come\ninto my life.' You see, Cousin Malcolm,\" the girl continued, \"I was right.\nHis father's conduct does trouble him. Isn't he noble and broad-minded to\nsee the evil of his father's ways?\"\n\nI did not tell the girl that Sir John's regret for the feud between the\nhouses of Manners and Vernon grew out of the fact that it separated him\nfrom her; nor did I tell her that he did not grieve over his \"father's\nways.\"\n\nI asked, \"Did Sir John tell you that he grieved because of his father's\nill-doing?\"\n\n\"N-o, not in set terms, but--that, of course, would have been very hard\nfor him to say. I told you what he said, and there could be no other\nmeaning to his words.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" I responded.\n\n\"No, and I fairly longed to reach out my hand and clutch him,\nbecause--because I was so sorry for him.\"\n\n\"Was sorrow your only feeling?\" I asked.\n\nThe girl looked at me for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears. Then\nshe sobbed gently and said, \"Oh, Cousin Malcolm, you are so old and so\nwise.\" (\"Thank you,\" thought I, \"a second Daniel come to judgment at\nthirty-five; or Solomon and Methuselah in one.\") She continued: \"Tell me,\ntell me, what is this terrible thing that has come upon me. I seem to be\nliving in a dream. I am burning with a fever, and a heavy weight is here\nupon my breast. I cannot sleep at night. I can do nothing but long and\nyearn for--for I know not what--till at times it seems that some\nfrightful, unseen monster is slowly drawing the heart out of my bosom. I\nthink of--of him at all times, and I try to recall his face, and the tones\nof his voice until, Cousin Malcolm, I tell you I am almost mad. I call\nupon the Holy Virgin hour by hour to pity me; but she is pure, and cannot\nknow what I feel. I hate and loathe myself. To what am I coming? Where\nwill it all end? Yet I can do nothing to save myself. I am powerless\nagainst this terrible feeling. I cannot even resolve to resist it. It came\nupon me mildly that day at The Peacock Inn, when I first saw him, and it\ngrows deeper and stronger day by day, and, alas! night by night. I seem to\nhave lost myself. In some strange way I feel as if I had sunk into\nhim--that he had absorbed me.\"\n\n\"The iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain,\" thought I.\n\n\"I believed,\" continued the girl, \"that if he would exert his will I might\nhave relief; but there again I find trouble, for I cannot bring myself to\nask him to will it. The feeling within me is like a sore heart: painful as\nit is, I must keep it. Without it I fear I could not live.\"\n\nAfter this outburst there was a long pause during which she walked by my\nside, seemingly unconscious that I was near her. I had known for some time\nthat Dorothy was interested in Manners; but I was not prepared to see such\na volcano of passion. I need not descant upon the evils and dangers of the\nsituation. The thought that first came to me was that Sir George would\nsurely kill his daughter before he would allow her to marry a son of\nRutland. I was revolving in my mind how I should set about to mend the\nmatter when Dorothy again spoke.\n\n\"Tell me, Cousin Malcolm, can a man throw a spell over a woman and bewitch\nher?\"\n\n\"I do not know. I have never heard of a man witch,\" I responded.\n\n\"No?\" asked the girl.\n\n\"But,\" I continued, \"I do know that a woman may bewitch a man. John\nManners, I doubt not, could also testify knowingly on the subject by this\ntime.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you think he is bewitched?\" cried Dorothy, grasping my arm and\nlooking eagerly into my face. \"If I could bewitch him, I would do it. I\nwould deal with the devil gladly to learn the art. I would not care for my\nsoul. I do not fear the future. The present is a thousand-fold dearer to\nme than either the past or the future. I care not what comes hereafter. I\nwant him now. Ah, Malcolm, pity my shame.\"\n\nShe covered her face with her hands, and after a moment continued: \"I am\nnot myself. I belong not to myself. But if I knew that he also suffers, I\ndo believe my pain would be less.\"\n\n\"I think you may set your heart at rest upon that point,\" I answered. \"He,\ndoubtless, also suffers.\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" she responded, unconscious of the selfish wish she had\nexpressed. \"If he does not, I know not what will be my fate.\"\n\nI saw that I had made a mistake in assuring her that John also suffered,\nand I determined to correct it later on, if possible.\n\nDorothy was silent, and I said, \"You have not told me about the golden\nheart.\"\n\n\"I will tell you,\" she answered. \"We rode for two hours or more, and\ntalked of the weather and the scenery, until there was nothing more to be\nsaid concerning either. Then Sir John told me of the court in London,\nwhere he has always lived, and of the queen whose hair, he says, is red,\nbut not at all like mine. I wondered if he would speak of the beauty of my\nhair, but he did not. He only looked at it. Then he told me about the\nScottish queen whom he once met when he was on an embassy to Edinburgh. He\ndescribed her marvellous beauty, and I believe he sympathizes with her\ncause--that is, with her cause in Scotland. He says she has no good cause\nin England. He is true to our queen. Well--well he talked so interestingly\nthat I could have listened a whole month--yes, all my life.\"\n\n\"I suppose you could,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" she continued, \"but I could not remain longer from home, and when I\nleft him he asked me to accept a keepsake which had belonged to his\nmother, as a token that there should be no feud between him and me.\" And\nshe drew from her bosom a golden heart studded with diamonds and pierced\nby a white silver arrow.\n\n\"I, of course, accepted it, then we said 'good-by,' and I put Dolcy to a\ngallop that she might speedily take me out of temptation.\"\n\n\"Have you ridden to Overhaddon for the purpose of seeing Manners many\ntimes since he gave you the heart?\" I queried.\n\n\"What would you call 'many times'?\" she asked, drooping her head.\n\n\"Every day?\" I said interrogatively. She nodded. \"Yes. But I have seen\nhim only once since the day when he gave me the heart.\"\n\nNothing I could say would do justice to the subject, so I remained silent.\n\n\"But you have not yet told me how your father came to know of the golden\nheart,\" I said.\n\n\"It was this way: One morning while I was looking at the heart, father\ncame upon me suddenly before I could conceal it. He asked me to tell him\nhow I came by the jewel, and in my fright and confusion I could think of\nnothing else to say, so I told him you had given it to me. He promised not\nto speak to you about the heart, but he did not keep his word. He seemed\npleased.\"\n\n\"Doubtless he was pleased,\" said I, hoping to lead up to the subject so\nnear to Sir George's heart, but now farther than ever from mine.\n\nThe girl unsuspectingly helped me.\n\n\"Father asked if you had spoken upon a subject of great interest to him\nand to yourself, and I told him you had not. 'When he does speak,' said\nfather most kindly, 'I want you to grant his request'--and I will grant\nit, Cousin Malcolm.\" She looked in my face and continued: \"I will grant\nyour request, whatever it may be. You are the dearest friend I have in the\nworld, and mine is the most loving and lovable father that girl ever had.\nIt almost breaks my heart when I think of his suffering should he learn of\nwhat I have done--that which I just told to you.\" She walked beside me\nmeditatively for a moment and said, \"To-morrow I will return Sir John's\ngift and I will never see him again.\"\n\nI felt sure that by to-morrow she would have repented of her repentance;\nbut I soon discovered that I had given her much more time than she needed\nto perform that trifling feminine gymnastic, for with the next breath she\nsaid:--\n\n\"I have no means of returning the heart. I must see him once more and I\nwill give--give it--it--back to--to him, and will tell him that I can see\nhim never again.\" She scarcely had sufficient resolution to finish telling\nher intention. Whence, then, would come the will to put it in action?\nForty thieves could not have stolen the heart from her, though she thought\nshe was honest when she said she would take it to him.\n\n\"Dorothy,\" said I, seriously but kindly, \"have you and Sir John spoken\nof--\"\n\nShe evidently knew that I meant to say \"of love,\" for she interrupted me.\n\n\"N-o, but surely he knows. And I--I think--at least I hope with all my\nheart that--\"\n\n\"I will take the heart to Sir John,\" said I, interrupting her angrily,\n\"and you need not see him again. He has acted like a fool and a knave. He\nis a villain, Dorothy, and I will tell him as much in the most emphatic\nterms I have at my command.\"\n\n\"Dare you speak against him or to him upon the subject!\" she exclaimed,\nher eyes blazing with anger; \"you--you asked for my confidence and I gave\nit. You said I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me that I am\na fool indeed. Traitor!\"\n\n\"My dear cousin,\" said I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging me\nwith bad faith, \"your secret is safe with me. I swear it by my knighthood.\nYou may trust me. I spoke in anger. But Sir John has acted badly. That you\ncannot gainsay. You, too, have done great evil. That also you cannot\ngainsay.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the girl, dejectedly, \"I cannot deny it; but the greatest evil\nis yet to come.\"\n\n\"You must do something,\" I continued. \"You must take some decisive step\nthat will break this connection, and you must take the step at once if you\nwould save yourself from the frightful evil that is in store for you.\nForgive me for what I said, sweet cousin. My angry words sprang from my\nlove for you and my fear for your future.\"\n\nNo girl's heart was more tender to the influence of kindness than\nDorothy's. No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory command.\n\nMy words softened her at once, and she tried to smother the anger I had\naroused. But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained which in a\nmoment or two created a disastrous conflagration. You shall hear.\n\nShe walked by my side in silence for a little time, and then spoke in a\nlow, slightly sullen tone which told of her effort to smother her\nresentment.\n\n\"I do trust you, Cousin Malcolm. What is it that you wish to ask of me?\nYour request is granted before it is made.\"\n\n\"Do not be too sure of that, Dorothy,\" I replied. \"It is a request your\nfather ardently desires me to make, and I do not know how to speak to you\nconcerning the subject in the way I wish.\"\n\nI could not ask her to marry me, and tell her with the same breath that I\ndid not want her for my wife. I felt I must wait for a further opportunity\nto say that I spoke only because her father had required me to do so, and\nthat circumstances forced me to put the burden of refusal upon her. I well\nknew that she would refuse me, and then I intended to explain.\n\n\"Why, what is it all about?\" asked the girl in surprise, suspecting, I\nbelieve, what was to follow.\n\n\"It is this: your father is anxious that his vast estates shall not pass\nout of the family name, and he wishes you to be my wife, so that your\nchildren may bear the loved name of Vernon.\"\n\nI could not have chosen a more inauspicious time to speak. She looked at\nme for an instant in surprise, turning to scorn. Then she spoke in tones\nof withering contempt.\n\n\"Tell my father that I shall never bear a child by the name of Vernon. I\nwould rather go barren to my grave. Ah! that is why Sir John Manners is a\nvillain? That is why a decisive step should be taken? That is why you come\nto my father's house a-fortune-hunting? After you have squandered your\npatrimony and have spent a dissolute youth in profligacy, after the women\nof the class you have known will have no more of you but choose younger\nmen, you who are old enough to be my father come here and seek your\nfortune, as your father sought his, by marriage. I do not believe that my\nfather wishes me to--to marry you. You have wheedled him into giving his\nconsent when he was in his cups. But even if he wished it with all his\nheart, I would not marry you.\" Then she turned and walked rapidly toward\nthe Hall.\n\nHer fierce words angered me; for in the light of my real intentions her\nscorn was uncalled for, and her language was insulting beyond endurance.\nFor a moment or two the hot blood rushed to my brain and rendered me\nincapable of intelligent thought. But as Dorothy walked from me I realized\nthat something must be done at once to put myself right with her. When my\nfit of temper had cooled, and when I considered that the girl did not know\nmy real intentions, I could not help acknowledging that in view of all\nthat had just passed between us concerning Sir John Manners, and, in fact,\nin view of all that she had seen and could see, her anger was justifiable.\n\nI called to her: \"Dorothy, wait a moment. You have not heard all I have to\nsay.\"\n\nShe hastened her pace. A few rapid strides brought me to her side. I was\nprovoked, not at her words, for they were almost justifiable, but because\nshe would not stop to hear me. I grasped her rudely by the arm and\nsaid:--\n\n\"Listen till I have finished.\"\n\n\"I will not,\" she answered viciously. \"Do not touch me.\"\n\nI still held her by the arm and said: \"I do not wish to marry you. I spoke\nonly because your father desired me to do so, and because my refusal to\nspeak would have offended him beyond any power of mine to make amends. I\ncould not tell you that I did not wish you for my wife until you had given\nme an opportunity. I was forced to throw the burden of refusal upon you.\"\n\n\"That is but a ruse--a transparent, flimsy ruse,\" responded the stubborn,\nangry girl, endeavoring to draw her arm from my grasp.\n\n\"It is not a ruse,\" I answered. \"If you will listen to me and will help me\nby acting as I suggest, we may between us bring your father to our way of\nthinking, and I may still be able to retain his friendship.\"\n\n\"What is your great plan?\" asked Dorothy, in a voice such as one might\nexpect to hear from a piece of ice.\n\n\"I have formed no plan as yet,\" I replied, \"although I have thought of\nseveral. Until we can determine upon one, I suggest that you permit me to\nsay to your father that I have asked you to be my wife, and that the\nsubject has come upon you so suddenly that you wish a short time,--a\nfortnight or a month--in which to consider your answer.\"\n\n\"That is but a ruse, I say, to gain time,\" she answered contemptuously. \"I\ndo not wish one moment in which to consider. You already have my answer. I\nshould think you had had enough. Do you desire more of the same sort? A\nlittle of such treatment should go a long way with a man possessed of one\nspark of honor or self-respect.\"\n\nHer language would have angered a sheep.\n\n\"If you will not listen to me,\" I answered, thoroughly aroused and\ncareless of consequences, \"go to your father. Tell him I asked you to be\nmy wife, and that you scorned my suit. Then take the consequences. He has\nalways been gentle and tender to you because there has been no conflict.\nCross his desires, and you will learn a fact of which you have never\ndreamed. You have seen the manner in which he treats others who oppose\nhim. You will learn that with you, too, he can be one of the cruelest and\nmost violent of men.\"\n\n\"You slander my father. I will go to him as you advise and will tell him\nthat I would not marry you if you wore the English crown. I, myself, will\ntell him of my meeting with Sir John Manners rather than allow you the\npleasure of doing so. He will be angry, but he will pity me.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Dorothy, do not tell your father of your meetings at\nOverhaddon. He would kill you. Have you lived in the same house with him\nall these years and do you not better know his character than to think\nthat you may go to him with the tale you have just told me, and that he\nwill forgive you? Feel as you will toward me, but believe me when I swear\nto you by my knighthood that I will betray to no person what you have this\nday divulged to me.\"\n\nDorothy made no reply, but turned from me and rapidly walked toward the\nHall. I followed at a short distance, and all my anger was displaced by\nfear for her. When we reached the Hall she quickly sought her father and\napproached him in her old free manner, full of confidence in her influence\nover him.\n\n\"Father, this man\"--waving her hand toward me--\"has come to Haddon Hall\na-fortune-hunting. He has asked me to be his wife, and says you wish me to\naccept him.\"\n\n\"Yes, Doll, I certainly wish it with all my heart,\" returned Sir George,\naffectionately, taking his daughter's hand.\n\n\"Then you need wish it no longer, for I will not marry him.\"\n\n\"What?\" demanded her father, springing to his feet.\n\n\"I will not. I will not. I will not.\"\n\n\"You will if I command you to do so, you damned insolent wench,\" answered\nSir George, hoarsely. Dorothy's eyes opened in wonder.\n\n\"Do not deceive yourself, father, for one moment,\" she retorted\ncontemptuously. \"He has come here in sheep's clothing and has adroitly\nlaid his plans to convince you that I should marry him, but--\"\n\n\"He has done nothing of the sort,\" answered Sir George, growing more angry\nevery moment, but endeavoring to be calm. \"Nothing of the sort. Many years\nago I spoke to him on this subject, which is very dear to my heart. The\nproject has been dear to me ever since you were a child. When I again\nbroached it to Malcolm a fortnight or more since I feared from his manner\nthat he was averse to the scheme. I had tried several times to speak to\nhim about it, but he warded me off, and when I did speak, I feared that he\nwas not inclined to it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" interrupted the headstrong girl, apparently bent upon destroying\nboth of us. \"He pretended that he did not wish to marry me. He said he\nwished me to give a sham consent for the purpose of gaining time till we\nmight hit upon some plan by which we could change your mind. He said he\nhad no desire nor intention to marry me. It was but a poor, lame ruse on\nhis part.\"\n\nDuring Dorothy's recital Sir George turned his face from her to me. When\nshe had finished speaking, he looked at me for a moment and said:--\n\n\"Does my daughter speak the truth? Did you say--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I promptly replied, \"I have no intention of marrying your\ndaughter.\" Then hoping to place myself before Sir George in a better\nlight, I continued: \"I could not accept the hand of a lady against her\nwill. I told you as much when we conversed on the subject.\"\n\n\"What?\" exclaimed Sir George, furious with anger. \"You too? You whom I\nhave befriended?\"\n\n\"I told you, Sir George, I would not marry Dorothy without her free\nconsent. No gentleman of honor would accept the enforced compliance of a\nwoman.\"\n\n\"But Doll says that you told her you had no intention of marrying her even\nshould she consent,\" replied Sir George.\n\n\"I don't know that I spoke those exact words,\" I replied, \"but you may\nconsider them said.\"\n\n\"You damned, ungrateful, treacherous hound!\" stormed Sir George. \"You\nlistened to me when I offered you my daughter's hand, and you pretended to\nconsent without at the time having any intention of doing so.\"\n\n\"That, I suppose, is true, Sir George,\" said I, making a masterful effort\nagainst anger. \"That is true, for I knew that Dorothy would not consent;\nand had I been inclined to the marriage, I repeat, I would marry no woman\nagainst her will. No gentleman would do it.\"\n\nMy remark threw Sir George into a paroxysm of rage.\n\n\"I did it, you cur, you dog, you--you traitorous, ungrateful--I did it.\"\n\n\"Then, Sir George,\" said I, interrupting him, for I was no longer able to\nrestrain my anger, \"you were a cowardly poltroon.\"\n\n\"This to me in my house!\" he cried, grasping a chair with which to strike\nme. Dorothy came between us.\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, \"and as much more as you wish to hear.\" I stood my ground,\nand Sir George put down the chair.\n\n\"Leave my house at once,\" he said in a whisper of rage.\n\n\"If you are on my premises in one hour from now I will have you flogged\nfrom my door by the butcher.\"\n\n\"What have I done?\" cried Dorothy. \"What have I done?\"\n\n\"Your regrets come late, Mistress Vernon,\" said I.\n\n\"She shall have more to regret,\" said Sir George, sullenly. \"Go to your\nroom, you brazen, disobedient huzzy, and if you leave it without my\npermission, by God, I will have you whipped till you bleed. I will teach\nyou to say 'I won't' when I say 'you shall.' God curse my soul, if I don't\nmake you repent this day!\"\n\nAs I left the room Dorothy was in tears, and Sir George was walking the\nfloor in a towering rage. The girl had learned that I was right in what I\nhad told her concerning her father's violent temper.\n\nI went at once to my room in Eagle Tower and collected my few belongings\nin a bundle. Pitifully small it was, I tell you.\n\nWhere I should go I knew not, and where I should remain I knew even less,\nfor my purse held only a few shillings--the remnant of the money Queen\nMary had sent to me by the hand of Sir Thomas Douglas. England was as\nunsafe for me as Scotland; but how I might travel to France without money,\nand how I might without a pass evade Elizabeth's officers who guarded\nevery English port, even were I supplied with gold, were problems for\nwhich I had no solution.\n\nThere were but two persons in Haddon Hall to whom I cared to say farewell.\nThey were Lady Madge and Will Dawson. The latter was a Scot, and was\nattached to the cause of Queen Mary. He and I had become friends, and on\nseveral occasions we had talked confidentially over Mary's sad plight.\n\nWhen my bundle was packed, I sought Madge and found her in the gallery\nnear the foot of the great staircase. She knew my step and rose to greet\nme with a bright smile.\n\n\"I have come to say good-by to you, Cousin Madge,\" said I. The smile\nvanished from her face.\n\n\"You are not going to leave Haddon Hall?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, and forever,\" I responded. \"Sir George has ordered me to go.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she exclaimed. \"I cannot believe it. I supposed that you and my\nuncle were friends. What has happened? Tell me if you can--if you wish.\nLet me touch your hand,\" and as she held out her hands, I gladly grasped\nthem.\n\nI have never seen anything more beautiful than Madge Stanley's hands. They\nwere not small, but their shape, from the fair, round forearm and wrist to\nthe ends of the fingers was worthy of a sculptor's dream. Beyond their\nphysical beauty there was an expression in them which would have belonged\nto her eyes had she possessed the sense of sight. The flood of her vital\nenergy had for so many years been directed toward her hands as a\nsubstitute for her lost eyesight that their sensitiveness showed itself\nnot only in an infinite variety of delicate gestures and movements,\nchanging with her changing moods, but they had an expression of their own,\nsuch as we look for in the eyes. I had gazed upon her hands so often, and\nhad studied so carefully their varying expression, discernible both to my\nsight and to my touch, that I could read her mind through them as we read\nthe emotions of others through the countenance. The \"feel\" of her hands,\nif I may use the word, I can in no way describe. Its effect on me was\nmagical. The happiest moments I have ever known were those when I held the\nfair blind girl by the hand and strolled upon the great terrace or\nfollowed the babbling winding course of dear old Wye, and drank in the\nelixir of all that is good and pure from the cup of her sweet, unconscious\ninfluence.\n\nMadge, too, had found happiness in our strolling. She had also found\nhealth and strength, and, marvellous to say, there had come to her a\nslight improvement in vision. She had always been able to distinguish\nsunlight from darkness, but with renewed strength had come the power dimly\nto discern dark objects in a strong light, and even that small change for\nthe better had brought unspeakable gladness to her heart. She said she\nowed it all to me. A faint pink had spread itself in her cheeks and a\nplumpness had been imparted to her form which gave to her ethereal beauty\na touch of the material. Nor was this to be regretted, for no man can\nadequately make love to a woman who has too much of the angel in her. You\nmust not think, however, that I had been making love to Madge. On the\ncontrary, I again say, the thought had never entered my mind. Neither at\nthat time had I even suspected that she would listen to me upon the great\ntheme. I had in my self-analysis assigned many reasons other than love for\nmy tenderness toward her; but when I was about to depart, and she\nimpulsively gave me her hands, I, believing that I was grasping them for\nthe last time, felt the conviction come upon me that she was dearer to me\nthan all else in life.\n\n\"Do you want to tell me why my uncle has driven you from Haddon?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"He wished me to ask Dorothy to be my wife,\" I returned.\n\n\"And you?\" she queried.\n\n\"I did so.\"\n\nInstantly the girl withdrew her hands from mine and stepped back from me.\nThen I had another revelation. I knew what she meant and felt. Her hands\ntold me all, even had there been no expression in her movement and in her\nface.\n\n\"Dorothy refused,\" I continued, \"and her father desired to force her into\ncompliance. I would not be a party to the transaction, and Sir George\nordered me to leave his house.\"\n\nAfter a moment of painful silence Madge said:--\"I do not wonder that you\nshould wish to marry Dorothy. She--she must be very beautiful.\"\n\n\"I do not wish to marry Dorothy,\" said I. I heard a slight noise back of\nme, but gave it no heed. \"And I should not have married her had she\nconsented. I knew that Dorothy would refuse me, therefore I promised Sir\nGeorge that I would ask her to be my wife. Sir George had always been my\nfriend, and should I refuse to comply with his wishes, I well knew he\nwould be my enemy. He is bitterly angry against me now; but when he\nbecomes calm, he will see wherein he has wronged me. I asked Dorothy to\nhelp me, but she would not listen to my plan.\"\n\n\"--and now she begs your forgiveness,\" cried Dorothy, as she ran weeping\nto me, and took my hand most humbly.\n\n\"Dorothy! Dorothy!\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"What frightful evil have I brought upon you?\" said she. \"Where can you\ngo? What will you do?\"\n\n\"I know not,\" I answered. \"I shall probably go to the Tower of London when\nQueen Elizabeth's officers learn of my quarrel with Sir George. But I will\ntry to escape to France.\"\n\n\"Have you money?\" asked Madge, tightly holding one of my hands.\n\n\"A small sum,\" I answered.\n\n\"How much have you? Tell me. Tell me how much have you,\" insisted Madge,\nclinging to my hand and speaking with a force that would brook no refusal.\n\n\"A very little sum, I am sorry to say; only a few shillings,\" I\nresponded.\n\nShe quickly withdrew her hand from mine and began to remove the baubles\nfrom her ears and the brooch from her throat. Then she nervously stripped\nthe rings from her fingers and held out the little handful of jewels\ntoward me, groping for my hands.\n\n\"Take these, Malcolm. Take these, and wait here till I return.\" She turned\ntoward the staircase, but in her confusion she missed it, and before I\ncould reach her, she struck against the great newel post.\n\n\"God pity me,\" she said, as I took her hand. \"I wish I were dead. Please\nlead me to the staircase, Cousin Malcolm. Thank you.\"\n\nShe was weeping gently when she started up the steps, and I knew that she\nwas going to fetch me her little treasure of gold.\n\nMadge held up the skirt of her gown with one hand while she grasped the\nbanister with the other. She was halfway up when Dorothy, whose generous\nimpulses needed only to be prompted, ran nimbly and was about to pass her\non the staircase when Madge grasped her gown.\n\n\"Please don't, Dorothy. Please do not. I beg you, do not forestall me. Let\nme do this. Let me. You have all else to make you happy. Don't take this\nfrom me only because you can see and can walk faster than I.\"\n\nDorothy did not stop, but hurried past her. Madge sank upon the steps and\ncovered her face with her hands. Then she came gropingly back to me just\nas Dorothy returned.\n\n\"Take these, Cousin Malcolm,\" cried Dorothy. \"Here are a few stones of\ngreat value. They belonged to my mother.\"\n\nMadge was sitting dejectedly upon the lowest step of the staircase.\nDorothy held her jewel-box toward me, and in the midst of the diamonds and\ngold I saw the heart John Manners had given her. I did not take the box.\n\n\"Do you offer me this, too--even this?\" I said, lifting the heart from the\nbox by its chain.--\"Yes, yes,\" cried Dorothy, \"even that, gladly, gladly.\"\nI replaced it in the box.\n\nThen spoke Madge, while she tried to check the falling tears:--\"Dorothy,\nyou are a cruel, selfish girl.\"\n\n\"Oh, Madge,\" cried Dorothy, stepping to her side and taking her hand. \"How\ncan you speak so unkindly to me?\"\n\n\"You have everything good,\" interrupted Madge. \"You have beauty, wealth,\neyesight, and yet you would not leave to me the joy of helping him. I\ncould not see, and you hurried past me that you might be first to give him\nthe help of which I was the first to think.\"\n\nDorothy was surprised at the outburst from Madge, and kneeled by her side.\n\n\"We may both help Cousin Malcolm,\" she said.\n\n\"No, no,\" responded Madge, angrily. \"Your jewels are more than enough. He\nwould have no need of my poor offering.\"\n\nI took Madge's hand and said, \"I shall accept help from no one but you,\nMadge; from no one but you.\"\n\n\"I will go to our rooms for your box,\" said Dorothy, who had begun to see\nthe trouble. \"I will fetch it for you.\"\n\n\"No, I will fetch it,\" answered Madge. She arose, and I led her to the\nfoot of the staircase. When she returned she held in her hands a purse and\na little box of jewels. These she offered to me, but I took only the\npurse, saying: \"I accept the purse. It contains more money than I shall\nneed. From its weight I should say there are twenty gold pounds sterling.\"\n\n\"Twenty-five,\" answered Madge. \"I have saved them, believing that the\ntime might come when they would be of great use to me. I did not know the\njoy I was saving for myself.\"\n\nTears came to my eyes, and Dorothy wept silently.\n\n\"Will you not take the jewels also?\" asked Madge.\n\n\"No,\" I responded; \"the purse will more than pay my expenses to France,\nwhere I have wealthy relatives. There I may have my mother's estate for\nthe asking, and I can repay you the gold. I can never repay your\nkindness.\"\n\n\"I hope you will never offer to repay the gold,\" said Madge.\n\n\"I will not,\" I gladly answered.\n\n\"As to the kindness,\" she said, \"you have paid me in advance for that\nmany, many times over.\"\n\nI then said farewell, promising to send letters telling of my fortune. As\nI was leaving I bent forward and kissed Madge upon the forehead, while she\ngently pressed my hand, but did not speak a word.\n\n\"Cousin Malcolm,\" said Dorothy, who held my other hand, \"you are a strong,\ngentle, noble man, and I want you to say that you forgive me.\"\n\n\"I do forgive you, Dorothy, from my heart. I could not blame you if I\nwished to do so, for you did not know what you were doing.\"\n\n\"Not to know is sometimes the greatest of sins,\" answered Dorothy. I bent\nforward to kiss her cheek in token of my full forgiveness, but she gave me\nher lips and said: \"I shall never again be guilty of not knowing that you\nare good and true and noble, Cousin Malcolm, and I shall never again doubt\nyour wisdom or your good faith when you speak to me.\" She did doubt me\nafterward, but I fear her doubt was with good cause. I shall tell you of\nit in the proper place.\n\nThen I forced myself to leave my fair friends and went to the gateway\nunder Eagle Tower, where I found Will Dawson waiting for me with my horse.\n\n\"Sir George ordered me to bring your horse,\" said Will. \"He seemed much\nexcited. Has anything disagreeable happened? Are you leaving us? I see you\nwear your steel cap and breastplate and are carrying your bundle.\"\n\n\"Yes, Will, your master has quarrelled with me and I must leave his\nhouse.\"\n\n\"But where do you go, Sir Malcolm? You remember that of which we talked?\nIn England no place but Haddon Hall will be safe for you, and the ports\nare so closely guarded that you will certainly be arrested if you try to\nsail for France.\"\n\n\"I know all that only too well, Will. But I must go, and I will try to\nescape to France. If you wish to communicate with me, I may be found by\naddressing a letter in care of the Duc de Guise.\"\n\n\"If I can ever be of help to you,\" said Will, \"personally, or in that\nother matter, Queen Mary, you understand,--you have only to call on me.\"\n\n\"I thank you, Will,\" I returned, \"I shall probably accept your kind offer\nsooner than you anticipate. Do you know Jennie Faxton, the ferrier's\ndaughter?\"\n\n\"I do,\" he responded.\n\n\"I believe she may be trusted,\" I said.\n\n\"Indeed, I believe she is true as any steel in her father's shop,\" Will\nresponded.\n\n\"Good-by, Will, you may hear from me soon.\"\n\nI mounted and rode back of the terrace, taking my way along the Wye toward\nRowsley. When I turned and looked back, I saw Dorothy standing upon the\nterrace. By her side, dressed in white, stood Madge. Her hand was covering\nher eyes. A step or two below them on the terrace staircase stood Will\nDawson. They were three stanch friends, although one of them had brought\nmy troubles upon me. After all, I was leaving Haddon Hall well garrisoned.\nMy heart also was well garrisoned with a faithful troop of pain. But I\nshall write no more of that time. It was too full of bitterness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nMINE ENEMY'S ROOF-TREE\n\n\nI rode down the Wye to Rowsley, and by the will of my horse rather than by\nany intention of my own took the road up through Lathkil Dale. I had\ndetermined if possible to reach the city of Chester, and thence to ride\ndown into Wales, hoping to find on the rough Welsh coast a fishing boat or\na smuggler's craft that would carry me to France. In truth, I cared little\nwhether I went to the Tower or to France, since in either case I felt that\nI had looked my last upon Haddon Hall, and had spoken farewell to the only\nperson in all the world for whom I really cared. My ride from Haddon gave\nme time for deliberate thought, and I fully agreed with myself upon two\npropositions. First, I became thoroughly conscious of my real feeling\ntoward Madge, and secondly, I was convinced that her kindness and her\npeculiar attitude toward me when I parted from her were but the promptings\nof a tender heart stirred by pity for my unfortunate situation, rather\nthan what I thought when I said farewell to her. The sweet Wye and the\nbeautiful Lathkil whispered to me as I rode beside their banks, but in\ntheir murmurings I heard only the music of her voice. The sun shone\nbrightly, but its blessed light only served to remind me of the beautiful\ngirl whom I had left in darkness. The light were worthless to me if I\ncould not share it with her. What a mooning lout was I!\n\nAll my life I had been a philosopher, and as I rode from Haddon, beneath\nall my gloominess there ran a current of amusement which brought to my\nlips an ill-formed, half-born laugh when I thought of the plight and\ncondition in which I, by candid self-communion, found myself. Five years\nbefore that time I had left France, and had cast behind me all the fair\npossibilities for noble achievement which were offered to me in that land,\nthat I might follow the fortunes of a woman whom I thought I loved. Before\nmy exile from her side I had begun to fear that my idol was but a thing of\nstone; and now that I had learned to know myself, and to see her as she\nreally was, I realized that I had been worshipping naught but clay for lo,\nthese many years. There was only this consolation in the thought for me:\nevery man at some time in his life is a fool--made such by a woman. It is\ngiven to but few men to have for their fool-maker the rightful queen of\nthree kingdoms. All that was left to me of my life of devotion was a\nshame-faced pride in the quality of my fool-maker. \"Then,\" thought I, \"I\nhave at last turned to be my own fool-maker.\" But I suppose it had been\nwritten in the book of fate that I should ride from Haddon a lovelorn\nyouth of thirty-five, and I certainly was fulfilling my destiny to the\nletter.\n\nI continued to ride up the Lathkil until I came to a fork in the road. One\nbranch led to the northwest, the other toward the southwest. I was at a\nloss which direction to take, and I left the choice to my horse, in whose\nwisdom and judgement I had more confidence than in my own. My horse,\nrefusing the responsibility, stopped. So there we stood like an equestrian\nstatue arguing with itself until I saw a horseman riding toward me from\nthe direction of Overhaddon. When he approached I recognized Sir John\nManners. He looked as woebegone as I felt, and I could not help laughing\nat the pair of us, for I knew that his trouble was akin to mine. The pain\nof love is ludicrous to all save those who feel it. Even to them it is\nlaughable in others. A love-full heart has no room for that sort of\ncharity which pities for kinship's sake.\n\n\"What is the trouble with you, Sir John, that you look so downcast?\" said\nI, offering my hand.\n\n\"Ah,\" he answered, forcing a poor look of cheerfulness into his face, \"Sir\nMalcolm, I am glad to see you. Do I look downcast?\"\n\n\"As forlorn as a lover who has missed seeing his sweetheart,\" I responded,\nguessing the cause of Sir John's despondency.\n\n\"I have no sweetheart, therefore missing her could not have made me\ndowncast,\" he replied.\n\n\"So you really did miss her?\" I queried. \"She was detained at Haddon Hall,\nSir John, to bid me farewell.\"\n\n\"I do not understand--\" began Sir John, growing cold in his bearing.\n\n\"I understand quite well,\" I answered. \"Dorothy told me all to-day. You\nneed keep nothing from me. The golden heart brought her into trouble, and\nmade mischief for me of which I cannot see the end. I will tell you the\nstory while we ride. I am seeking my way to Chester, that I may, if\npossible, sail for France. This fork in the road has brought me to a\nstandstill, and my horse refuses to decide which route we shall take.\nPerhaps you will direct us.\"\n\n\"Gladly. The road to the southwest--the one I shall take--is the most\ndirect route to Chester. But tell me, how comes it that you are leaving\nHaddon Hall? I thought you had gone there to marry-\" He stopped speaking,\nand a smile stole into his eyes.\n\n\"Let us ride forward together, and I will tell you about it,\" said I.\n\nWhile we travelled I told Sir John the circumstances of my departure from\nHaddon Hall, concealing nothing save that which touched Madge Stanley. I\nthen spoke of my dangerous position in England, and told him of my great\ndesire to reach my mother's people in France.\n\n\"You will find difficulty and danger in escaping to France at this time,\"\nsaid Sir John, \"the guard at the ports is very strong and strict, and your\ngreatest risk will be at the moment when you try to embark without a\npassport.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" I responded; \"but I know of nothing else that I can do.\"\n\n\"Come with me to Rutland Castle,\" said Sir John. \"You may there find\nrefuge until such time as you can go to France. I will gladly furnish you\nmoney which you may repay at your pleasure, and I may soon be able to\nprocure a passport for you.\"\n\nI thanked him, but said I did not see my way clear to accept his kind\noffer.\n\n\"You are unknown in the neighborhood of Rutland,\" he continued, \"and you\nmay easily remain incognito.\" Although his offer was greatly to my liking,\nI suggested several objections, chief among which was the distaste Lord\nRutland might feel toward one of my name. I would not, of course, consent\nthat my identity should be concealed from him. But to be brief--an almost\nimpossible achievement for me, it seems--Sir John assured me of his\nfather's welcome, and it was arranged between us that I should take my\nbaptismal name, Francois de Lorraine, and passing for a French gentleman\non a visit to England, should go to Rutland with my friend. So it happened\nthrough the strange workings of fate that I found help and refuge under my\nenemy's roof-tree.\n\nKind old Lord Rutland welcomed me, as his son had foretold, and I was\nconvinced ere I had passed an hour under his roof that the feud between\nhim and Sir George was of the latter's brewing.\n\nThe happenings in Haddon Hall while I lived at Rutland I knew, of course,\nonly by the mouth of others; but for convenience in telling I shall speak\nof them as if I had seen and heard all that took place. I may now say once\nfor all that I shall take that liberty throughout this entire history.\n\nOn the morning of the day after my departure from Haddon, Jennie Faxton\nwent to visit Dorothy and gave her a piece of information, small in\nitself, but large in its effect upon that ardent young lady. Will\nFletcher, the arrow-maker at Overhaddon, had observed Dorothy's movements\nin connection with Manners; and although Fletcher did not know who Sir\nJohn was, that fact added to his curiosity and righteous indignation.\n\n\"It do be right that some one should tell the King of the Peak as how his\ndaughter is carrying on with a young man who does come here every day or\ntwo to meet her, and I do intend to tell Sir George if she put not a stop\nto it,\" said Fletcher to some of his gossips in Yulegrave churchyard one\nSunday afternoon.\n\nDorothy notified John, Jennie being the messenger, of Will's observations,\nvisual and verbal, and designated another place for meeting,--the gate\neast of Bowling Green Hill. This gate was part of a wall on the east side\nof the Haddon estates adjoining the lands of the house of Devonshire which\nlay to the eastward. It was a secluded spot in the heart of the forest\nhalf a mile distant from Haddon Hall.\n\nSir George, for a fortnight or more after my disappearance, enforced his\ndecree of imprisonment against Dorothy, and she, being unable to leave the\nHall, could not go to Bowling Green Gate to meet Sir John. Before I had\nlearned of the new trysting-place John had ridden thither several evenings\nto meet Dorothy, but had found only Jennie bearing her mistress's excuses.\nI supposed his journeyings had been to Overhaddon; but I did not press his\nconfidence, nor did he give it.\n\nSir George's treatment of Dorothy had taught her that the citadel of her\nfather's wrath could be stormed only by gentleness, and an opportunity was\nsoon presented in which she used that effective engine of feminine warfare\nto her great advantage.\n\nAs I have told you, Sir George was very rich. No man, either noble or\ngentle, in Derbyshire or in any of the adjoining counties, possessed so\ngreat an estate or so beautiful a hall as did he. In France we would have\ncalled Haddon Hall a grand chateau.\n\nSir George's deceased wife had been a sister to the Earl of Derby, who\nlived at the time of which I am now writing. The earl had a son, James,\nwho was heir to the title and to the estates of his father. The son was a\ndissipated, rustic clown--almost a simpleton. He had the vulgarity of a\nstable boy and the vices of a courtier. His associates were chosen from\nthe ranks of gamesters, ruffians, and tavern maids. Still, he was a scion\nof one of the greatest families of England's nobility.\n\nAfter Sir George's trouble with Dorothy, growing out of his desire that I\nshould wed her, the King of the Peak had begun to feel that in his\nbeautiful daughter he had upon his hands a commodity that might at any\ntime cause him trouble. He therefore determined to marry her to some\neligible gentleman as quickly as possible, and to place the heavy\nresponsibility of managing her in the hands of a husband. The stubborn\nviolence of Sir George's nature, the rough side of which had never before\nbeen shown to Dorothy, in her became adroit wilfulness of a quality that\nno masculine mind may compass. But her life had been so entirely\nundisturbed by opposing influences that her father, firm in the belief\nthat no one in his household would dare to thwart his will, had remained\nin dangerous ignorance of the latent trouble which pervaded his daughter\nfrom the soles of her shapely feet to the top of her glory-crowned head.\n\nSir George, in casting about for a son-in-law, had hit upon the heir to\nthe house of Derby as a suitable match for his child, and had entered into\nan alliance offensive and defensive with the earl against the common\nenemy, Dorothy. The two fathers had partly agreed that the heir to Derby\nshould wed the heiress of Haddon. The heir, although he had never seen his\ncousin except when she was a plain, unattractive girl, was entirely\nwilling for the match, but the heiress--well, she had not been consulted,\nand everybody connected with the affair instinctively knew there would be\ntrouble in that quarter. Sir George, however, had determined that Dorothy\nshould do her part in case the contract of marriage should be agreed upon\nbetween the heads of the houses. He had fully resolved to assert the\nmajesty of the law vested in him as a father and to compel Dorothy to do\nhis bidding, if there were efficacy in force and chastisement. At the time\nwhen Sir George spoke to Dorothy about the Derby marriage, she had been a\nprisoner for a fortnight or more, and had learned that her only hope\nagainst her father lay in cunning. So she wept, and begged for time in\nwhich to consider the answer she would give to Lord Derby's request. She\nbegged for two months, or even one month, in which to bring herself to\naccede to her father's commands.\n\n\"You have always been so kind and good to me, father, that I shall try to\nobey if you and the earl eventually agree upon terms,\" she said tearfully,\nhaving no intention whatever of trying to do anything but disobey.\n\n\"Try!\" stormed Sir George. \"Try to obey me! By God, girl, I say you shall\nobey!\"\n\n\"Oh, father, I am so young. I have not seen my cousin for years. I do not\nwant to leave you, and I have never thought twice of any man. Do not drive\nme from you.\"\n\nSir George, eager to crush in the outset any disposition to oppose his\nwill, grew violent and threatened his daughter with dire punishment if she\nwere not docile and obedient.\n\nThen said rare Dorothy:--\n\n\"It would indeed be a great match.\" Greater than ever will happen, she\nthought. \"I should be a countess.\" She strutted across the room with head\nup and with dilating nostrils. The truth was, she desired to gain her\nliberty once more that she might go to John, and was ready to promise\nanything to achieve that end. \"What sort of a countess would I make,\nfather?\"\n\n\"A glorious countess, Doll, a glorious countess,\" said her father,\nlaughing. \"You are a good girl to obey me so readily.\"\n\n\"Oh, but I have not obeyed you yet,\" returned Dorothy, fearing that her\nfather might be suspicious of a too ready acquiescence.\n\n\"But you will obey me,\" answered Sir George, half in command and half in\nentreaty.\n\n\"There are not many girls who would refuse the coronet of a countess.\" She\nthen seated herself upon her father's knee and kissed him, while Sir\nGeorge laughed softly over his easy victory.\n\nBlessed is the man who does not know when he is beaten.\n\nSeeing her father's kindly humor, Dorothy said:--\n\n\"Father, do you still wish me to remain a prisoner in my rooms?\"\n\n\"If you promise to be a good, obedient daughter,\" returned Sir George,\n\"you shall have your liberty.\"\n\n\"I have always been that, father, and I am too old to learn otherwise,\"\nanswered this girl, whose father had taught her deception by his violence.\nYou may drive men, but you cannot drive any woman who is worth possessing.\nYou may for a time think you drive her, but in the end she will have her\nway.\n\nDorothy's first act of obedience after regaining liberty was to send a\nletter to Manners by the hand of Jennie Faxton.\n\nJohn received the letter in the evening, and all next day he passed the\ntime whistling, singing, and looking now and again at his horologue. He\nwalked about the castle like a happy wolf in a pen. He did not tell me\nthere was a project on foot, with Dorothy as the objective, but I knew it,\nand waited with some impatience for the outcome.\n\nLong before the appointed time, which was sunset, John galloped forth for\nBowling Green Gate with joy and anticipation in his heart and pain in his\nconscience. As he rode, he resolved again and again that the interview\ntoward which he was hastening should be the last he would have with\nDorothy. But when he pictured the girl to himself, and thought upon her\nmarvellous beauty and infinite winsomeness, his conscience was drowned in\nhis longing, and he resolved that he would postpone resolving until the\nmorrow.\n\nJohn hitched his horse near the gate and stood looking between the massive\niron bars toward Haddon Hall, whose turrets could be seen through the\nleafless boughs of the trees. The sun was sinking perilously low, thought\nJohn, and with each moment his heart also sank, while his good resolutions\nshowed the flimsy fibre of their fabric and were rent asunder by the fear\nthat she might not come. As the moments dragged on and she did not come, a\nhundred alarms tormented him. First among these was a dread that she might\nhave made resolves such as had sprung up so plenteously in him, and that\nshe might have been strong enough to act upon them and to remain at home.\nBut he was mistaken in the girl. Such resolutions as he had been making\nand breaking had never come to her at all. The difference between the man\nand the woman was this: he resolved in his mind not to see her and failed\nin keeping to his resolution; while she resolved in her heart to see\nhim--resolved that nothing in heaven or earth or the other place could\nkeep her from seeing him, and succeeded in carrying out her resolution.\nThe intuitive resolve, the one that does not know it is a resolution, is\nthe sort before which obstacles fall like corn before the sickle.\n\nAfter John had waited a weary time, the form of the girl appeared above\nthe crest of the hill. She was holding up the skirt of her gown, and\nglided over the earth so rapidly that she appeared to be running. Beat!\nbeat! oh, heart of John, if there is aught in womanhood to make you throb;\nif there is aught in infinite grace and winsomeness; if there is aught in\nperfect harmony of color and form and movement; if there is aught of\nbeauty, in God's power to create that can set you pulsing, beat! for the\nfairest creature of His hand is hastening to greet you. The wind had\ndishevelled her hair and it was blowing in fluffy curls of golden red\nabout her face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with joy and exercise,\nher red lips were parted, and her eyes--but I am wasting words. As for\nJohn's heart it almost smothered him with its beating. He had never before\nsupposed that he could experience such violent throbbing within his breast\nand live. But at last she was at the gate, in all her exquisite beauty and\nwinsomeness, and something must be done to make the heart conform to the\nusages of good society. She, too, was in trouble with her breathing, but\nJohn thought that her trouble was owing to exertion. However that may have\nbeen, nothing in heaven or earth was ever so beautiful, so radiant, so\ngraceful, or so fair as this girl who had come to give herself to John. It\nseems that I cannot take myself away from the attractive theme.\n\n\"Ah, Sir John, you did come,\" said the girl, joyously.\n\n\"Yes,\" John succeeded in replying, after an effort, \"and you--I thank you,\ngracious lady, for coming. I do not deserve--\" the heart again asserted\nitself, and Dorothy stood by the gate with downcast eyes, waiting to learn\nwhat it was that John did not deserve. She thought he deserved everything\ngood.\n\n\"I fear I have caused you fatigue,\" said John, again thinking, and with\ngood reason, that he was a fool.\n\nThe English language, which he had always supposed to be his mother\ntongue, had deserted him as if it were his step-mother. After all, the\ndifficulty, as John subsequently said, was that Dorothy's beauty had\ndeprived him of the power to think. He could only see. He was entirely\ndisorganized by a girl whom he could have carried away in his arms.\n\n\"I feel no fatigue,\" replied Dorothy.\n\n\"I feared that in climbing the hill you had lost your breath,\" answered\ndisorganized John.\n\n\"So I did,\" she returned. Then she gave a great sigh and said, \"Now I am\nall right again.\"\n\nAll right? So is the morning sun, so is the arching rainbow, and so are\nthe flitting lights of the north in midwinter. All are \"all right\" because\nGod made them, as He made Dorothy, perfect, each after its kind.\n\nA long, uneasy pause ensued. Dorothy felt the embarrassing silence less\nthan John, and could have helped him greatly had she wished to do so. But\nshe had made the advances at their former meetings, and as she had told\nme, she \"had done a great deal more than her part in going to meet him.\"\nTherefore she determined that he should do his own wooing thenceforward.\nShe had graciously given him all the opportunity he had any right to ask.\n\nWhile journeying to Bowling Green Gate, John had formulated many true and\nbeautiful sentiments of a personal nature which he intended expressing to\nDorothy; but when the opportunity came for him to speak, the weather, his\nhorse, Dorothy's mare Dolcy, the queens of England and Scotland were the\nonly subjects on which he could induce his tongue to perform, even\nmoderately well.\n\nDorothy listened attentively while John on the opposite side of the gate\ndiscoursed limpingly on the above-named themes; and although in former\ninterviews she had found those topics quite interesting, upon that\noccasion she had come to Bowling Green Gate to listen to something else\nand was piqued not to hear it. After ten or fifteen minutes she said\ndemurely:--\n\n\"I may not remain here longer. I shall be missed at the Hall. I regained\nmy liberty but yesterday, and father will be suspicious of me during the\nnext few days. I must be watchful and must have a care of my behavior.\"\n\nJohn summoned his wits and might have spoken his mind freely had he not\nfeared to say too much. Despite Dorothy's witchery, honor, conscience, and\nprudence still bore weight with him, and they all dictated that he should\ncling to the shreds of his resolution and not allow matters to go too far\nbetween him and this fascinating girl. He was much in love with her; but\nDorothy had reached at a bound a height to which he was still climbing.\nSoon John, also, was to reach the pinnacle whence honor, conscience, and\nprudence were to be banished.\n\n\"I fear I must now leave you,\" said Dorothy, as darkness began to gather.\n\n\"I hope I may soon see you again,\" said John.\n\n\"Sometime I will see you if--if I can,\" she answered with downcast eyes.\n\"It is seldom I can leave the Hall alone, but I shall try to come here at\nsunset some future day.\" John's silence upon a certain theme had given\noffence.\n\n\"I cannot tell you how greatly I thank you,\" cried John.\n\n\"I will say adieu,\" said Dorothy, as she offered him her hand through the\nbars of the gate. John raised the hand gallantly to his lips, and when she\nhad withdrawn it there seemed no reason for her to remain. But she stood\nfor a moment hesitatingly. Then she stooped to reach into her pocket while\nshe daintily lifted the skirt of her gown with the other hand and from the\npocket drew forth a great iron key.\n\n\"I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate--and\ncome to--to this side. I had great difficulty in taking it from the\nforester's closet, where it has been hanging for a hundred years or more.\"\n\nShe showed John the key, returned it to her pocket, made a courtesy, and\nmoved slowly away, walking backward.\n\n\"Mistress Vernon,\" cried John, \"I beg you to let me have the key.\"\n\n\"It is too late, now,\" said the girl, with downcast eyes. \"Darkness is\nrapidly falling, and I must return to the Hall.\"\n\nJohn began to climb the gate, but she stopped him. He had thrown away his\nopportunity.\n\n\"Please do not follow me, Sir John,\" said she, still moving backward. \"I\nmust not remain longer.\"\n\n\"Only for one moment,\" pleaded John.\n\n\"No,\" the girl responded, \"I--I may, perhaps, bring the key when I come\nagain. I am glad, Sir John, that you came to meet me this evening.\" She\ncourtesied, and then hurried away toward Haddon Hall. Twice she looked\nbackward and waved her hand, and John stood watching her through the bars\ntill her form was lost to view beneath the crest of Bowling Green Hill.\n\n\"'I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate and\ncome to this side,'\" muttered John, quoting the girl's words. \"Compared\nwith you, John Manners, there is no other fool in this world.\" Then\nmeditatively: \"I wonder if she feels toward me as I feel toward her?\nSurely she does. What other reason could bring her here to meet me unless\nshe is a brazen, wanton creature who is for every man.\" Then came a\njealous thought that hurt him like the piercing of a knife. It lasted but\na moment, however, and he continued muttering to himself: \"If she loves me\nand will be my wife, I will--I will ... In God's name what will I do? If I\nwere to marry her, old Vernon would kill her, and I--I should kill my\nfather.\"\n\nThen John mounted his horse and rode homeward the unhappiest happy man in\nEngland. He had made perilous strides toward that pinnacle sans honor,\nsans caution, sans conscience, sans everything but love.\n\nThat evening while we were walking on the battlements, smoking, John told\nme of his interview with Dorothy and extolled her beauty, grace, and\nwinsomeness which, in truth, as you know, were matchless. But when he\nspoke of \"her sweet, shy modesty,\" I came near to laughing in his face.\n\n\"Did she not write a letter asking you to meet her?\" I asked.\n\n\"Why--y-e-s,\" returned John.\n\n\"And,\" I continued, \"has she not from the first sought you?\"\n\n\"It almost seems to be so,\" answered John, \"but notwithstanding the fact\nthat one might say--might call--that one might feel that her conduct\nis--that it might be--you know, well--it might be called by some persons\nnot knowing all the facts in the case, immodest--I hate to use the word\nwith reference to her--yet it does not appear to me to have been at all\nimmodest in Mistress Vernon, and, Sir Malcolm, I should be deeply offended\nwere any of my friends to intimate--\"\n\n\"Now, John,\" I returned, laughing at him, \"you could not, if you wished,\nmake me quarrel with you; and if you desire it, I will freely avow my firm\nbelief in the fact that my cousin Dorothy is the flower of modesty. Does\nthat better suit you?\"\n\nI could easily see that my bantering words did not suit him at all; but I\nlaughed at him, and he could not find it in his heart to show his\nill-feeling.\n\n\"I will not quarrel with you,\" he returned; \"but in plain words, I do not\nlike the tone in which you speak of her. It hurts me, and I do not believe\nyou would wilfully give me pain.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I would not,\" I answered seriously.\n\n\"Mistress Vernon's conduct toward me,\" John continued, \"has been gracious.\nThere has been no immodesty nor boldness in it.\"\n\nI laughed again and said: \"I make my humble apologies to her Majesty,\nQueen Dorothy. But in all earnestness, Sir John, you are right: Dorothy is\nmodest and pure. As for her conduct toward you, there is a royal quality\nabout beauty such as my cousin possesses which gives an air of\ngraciousness to acts that in a plainer girl would seem bold. Beauty, like\nroyalty, has its own prerogatives.\"\n\nFor a fortnight after the adventures just related, John, in pursuance of\nhis oft-repeated resolution not to see Dorothy, rode every evening to\nBowling Green Gate; but during that time he failed to see her, and the\nresolutions, with each failure, became weaker and fewer.\n\nOne evening, after many disappointments, John came to my room bearing in\nhis hands a letter which he said Jennie Faxton had delivered to him at\nBowling Green Gate.\n\n\"Mistress Vernon,\" said John, \"and Lady Madge Stanley will ride to\nDerby-town to-morrow. They will go in the Haddon Hall coach, and Dawson\nwill drive. Mistress Vernon writes to me thus:--\n\n    \"'To SIR JOHN MANNERS:--\n\n    \"'My good wishes and my kind greeting. Lady Madge Stanley, my good\n    aunt, Lady Crawford, and myself do intend journeying to Derby-town\n    to-morrow. My aunt, Lady Crawford, is slightly ill, and although I\n    should much regret to see her sickness grow greater, yet if ill she\n    must be, I do hope that her worst day will be upon the morrow, in\n    which case she could not accompany Lady Madge and me. I shall nurse my\n    good aunt carefully this day, and shall importune her to take\n    plentifully of physic that she may quickly recover her health--after\n    to-morrow. Should a gentleman ask of Will Dawson, who will be in the\n    tap-room of the Royal Arms at eleven o'clock of the morning, Dawson\n    will be glad to inform the gentleman concerning Lady Crawford's\n    health. Let us hope that the physic will cure Lady Crawford--by the\n    day after to-morrow at furthest. The said Will Dawson may be trusted.\n    With great respect,\n\n    DOROTHY VERNON.'\"\n\n\"I suppose the gentleman will be solicitous concerning Lady Crawford's\nhealth to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock,\" said I.\n\n\"The gentleman is now solicitous concerning Lady Crawford's health,\"\nanswered John, laughingly. \"Was there ever a lady more fair and gracious\nthan Mistress Vernon?\"\n\nI smiled with a superior air at John's weakness, being, as you know,\nentirely free from his complaint myself, and John continued:--\n\n\"Perhaps you would call Mistress Dorothy bold for sending me this letter?\"\n\n\"It is redolent with shyness,\" I answered. \"But would you really wish poor\nLady Crawford to be ill that you might witness Mistress Dorothy's\nmodesty?\"\n\n\"Please don't jest on that subject,\" said John, seriously. \"I would wish\nanything, I fear, that would bring me an opportunity to see her, to look\nupon her face, and to hear her voice. For her I believe I would sacrifice\nevery one who is dear to me. One day she shall be mine--mine at whatever\ncost--if she will be. If she will be. Ah, there is the rub! If she will\nbe. I dare not hope for that.\"\n\n\"I think,\" said I, \"that you really have some little cause to hope.\"\n\n\"You speak in the same tone again. Malcolm, you do not understand her. She\nmight love me to the extent that I sometimes hope; but her father and mine\nwould never consent to our union, and she, I fear, could not be induced to\nmarry me under those conditions. Do not put the hope into my heart.\"\n\n\"You only now said she should be yours some day,\" I answered.\n\n\"So she shall,\" returned John, \"so she shall.\"\n\n\"But Lady Madge is to be with her to-morrow,\" said I, my own heart beating\nwith an ardent wish and a new-born hope, \"and you may be unable, after\nall, to see Mistress Dorothy.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" replied John. \"I do not know how she will arrange matters,\nbut I have faith in her ingenuity.\"\n\nWell might he have faith, for Dorothy was possessed of that sort of a will\nwhich usually finds a way.\n\n\"If you wish me to go with you to Derby-town, I will do so. Perhaps I may\nbe able to entertain Lady Madge while you have a word with Dorothy. What\nthink you of the plan?\" I asked.\n\n\"If you will go with me, Malcolm, I shall thank you with all my heart.\"\n\nAnd so it was agreed between us that we should both go to Derby-town for\nthe purpose of inquiring about Lady Crawford's health, though for me the\nexpedition was full of hazard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nA DANGEROUS TRIP TO DERBY-TOWN\n\n\nThe next morning broke brightly, but soon clouds began to gather and a\nstorm seemed imminent. We feared that the gloomy prospect of the sky might\nkeep Dorothy and Madge at home, but long before the appointed hour John\nand I were at the Royal Arms watching eagerly for the Haddon coach. At the\ninn we occupied a room from which we could look into the courtyard, and at\nthe window we stood alternating between exaltation and despair.\n\nWhen my cogitations turned upon myself--a palpitating youth of\nthirty-five, waiting with beating heart for a simple blind girl little\nmore than half my age; and when I remembered how for years I had laughed\nat the tenderness of the fairest women of the French and Scottish\ncourts--I could not help saying to myself, \"Poor fool! you have achieved\nan early second childhood.\" But when I recalled Madge in all her beauty,\npurity, and helplessness, my cynicism left me, and I, who had enjoyed all\nof life's ambitious possibilities, calmly reached the conclusion that it\nis sometimes a blessed privilege to be a fool. While I dwelt on thoughts\nof Madge, all the latent good within me came uppermost. There is latent\ngood in every man, though it may remain latent all his life. Good\nresolves, pure thoughts, and noble aspirations--new sensations to me, I\nblush to confess--bubbled in my heart, and I made a mental prayer, \"If\nthis is folly, may God banish wisdom.\" What is there, after all is said,\nin wisdom, that men should seek it? Has it ever brought happiness to its\npossessor? I am an old man at this writing. I have tasted all the cups of\nlife, and from the fulness of my experience I tell you that the simple\nlife is the only one wherein happiness is found. When you permit your\nheart and your mind to grow complex and wise, you make nooks and crannies\nfor wretchedness to lodge in. Innocence is Nature's wisdom; knowledge is\nman's folly.\n\nAn hour before noon our patience was rewarded when we saw the Haddon Hall\ncoach drive into the courtyard with Dawson on the box. I tried to make\nmyself believe that I did not wish Lady Crawford were ill. But there is\nlittle profit in too close scrutiny of our deep-seated motives, and in\nthis case I found no comfort in self-examination. I really did wish that\nAunt Dorothy were ill.\n\nMy motive studying, however, was brought to a joyous end when I saw Will\nDawson close the coach door after Madge and Dorothy had alighted.\n\nHow wondrously beautiful they were! Had we lived in the days when Olympus\nruled the world, John surely would have had a god for his rival. Dorothy\nseemed luminous, so radiant was she with the fire of life. As for Madge,\nhad I beheld a corona hovering over her head I should have thought it in\nall respects a natural and appropriate phenomenon--so fair and saintlike\ndid she appear to me. Her warm white furs and her clinging gown of soft\nlight-colored woollen stuff seemed to be a saint's robe, and her dainty\nlittle hat, fashioned with ermine about the edge of the rim--well, that\nwas the corona, and I was ready to worship.\n\nDorothy, as befitted her, wore a blaze of harmonious colors and looked\nlike the spirit of life and youth. I wish I could cease rhapsodizing over\nthose two girls, but I cannot. You may pass over it as you read, if you do\nnot like it.\n\n\"Ye gods! did ever a creature so perfect as she tread the earth?\" asked\nJohn, meaning, of course, Dorothy.\n\n\"No,\" answered I, meaning, of course, Madge.\n\nThe girls entered the inn, and John and I descended to the tap-room for\nthe purpose of consulting Will Dawson concerning the state of Aunt\nDorothy's health.\n\nWhen we entered the tap-room Will was standing near the fireplace with a\nmug of hot punch in his hand. When I touched him, he almost dropped the\nmug so great was his surprise at seeing me.\n\n\"Sir Mal--\" he began to say, but I stopped him by a gesture. He instantly\nrecovered his composure and appeared not to recognize me.\n\nI spoke in broken English, for, as you know, I belong more to France than\nto any other country. \"I am Sir Francois de Lorraine,\" said I. \"I wish to\ninquire if Lady Crawford is in good health?\"\n\n\"Her ladyship is ill, sir, I am sorry to say,\" responded Will, taking off\nhis hat. \"Mistress Vernon and Lady Madge Stanley are at the inn. If you\nwish to inquire more particularly concerning Lady Crawford's health, I\nwill ask them if they wish to receive you. They are in the parlor.\"\n\nWill was the king of trumps!\n\n\"Say to them,\" said I, \"that Sir Francois de Lorraine--mark the name\ncarefully, please--and his friend desire to make inquiry concerning Lady\nCrawford's health, and would deem it a great honor should the ladies grant\nthem an interview.\"\n\nWill's countenance was as expressionless as the face upon the mug from\nwhich he had been drinking. \"I shall inform the ladies of your honor's\nrequest.\" He thereupon placed the half-emptied mug upon the fire-shelf\nand left the room.\n\nWhen Will announced his errand to the girls, Dorothy said in surprise:--\n\n\"Sir Francois de Lorraine? That is the name of the Grand Duc de Guise, but\nsurely--Describe him to me, Will.\"\n\n\"He is about your height, Mistress Dorothy, and is very handsome,\"\nresponded Will.\n\nThe latter part of Will's description placed me under obligation to him to\nthe extent of a gold pound sterling.\n\n\"Ah, it is John!\" thought Dorothy, forgetting the fact that John was a\ngreat deal taller than she, but feeling that Will's description of \"very\nhandsome\" could apply to only one man in the world. \"He has taken\nMalcolm's name.\" Then she said, \"Bring him to us, Will. But who is the\nfriend? Do you know him? Tell me his appearance.\"\n\n\"I did not notice the other gentleman,\" replied Will, \"and I can tell you\nnothing of him.\"\n\n\"Will, you are a very stupid man. But bring the gentlemen here.\" Dorothy\nhad taken Will into her confidence to the extent of telling him that a\ngentleman would arrive at the Royal Arms who would inquire for Lady\nCrawford's health, and that she, Dorothy, would fully inform the gentleman\nupon that interesting topic. Will may have had suspicions of his own, but\nif so, he kept them to himself, and at least did not know that the\ngentleman whom his mistress expected to see was Sir John Manners. Neither\ndid he suspect that fact. Dawson had never seen Manners, and did not know\nhe was in the neighborhood of Derby. The fact was concealed from Dawson by\nDorothy not so much because she doubted him, but for the reason that she\nwished him to be able truthfully to plead innocence in case trouble should\ngrow out of the Derby-town escapade.\n\n\"I wonder why John did not come alone?\" thought Dorothy. \"This friend of\nhis will be a great hindrance.\"\n\nDorothy ran to the mirror and hurriedly gave a few touches to her hair,\npressing it lightly with her soft flexible fingers here, and tucking in a\nstray curl there, which for beauty's sake should have been allowed to hang\nloose. She was standing at the pier-glass trying to see the back of her\nhead when Will knocked to announce our arrival.\n\n\"Come,\" said Dorothy.\n\nWill opened the door and held it for us to pass in. Madge was seated near\nthe fire. When we entered Dorothy was standing with great dignity in the\ncentre of the floor, not of course intending to make an exhibition of\ndelight over John in the presence of a stranger. But when she saw that I\nwas the stranger, she ran to me with outstretched hands.\n\n\"Good morning, Mistress Vernon,\" said I, in mock ceremoniousness.\n\n\"Oh, Malcolm! Malcolm!\" cried Madge, quickly rising from her chair. \"You\nare cruel, Dorothy, to surprise me in this fashion.\"\n\n\"I, too, am surprised. I did not know that Malcolm was coming,\" replied\nDorothy, turning to give welcome to John. Then I stepped to Madge's side\nand took her hands, but all I could say was \"Madge! Madge!\" and all she\nsaid was \"Malcolm! Malcolm!\" yet we seemed to understand each other.\n\nJohn and Dorothy were likewise stricken with a paucity of words, but they\nalso doubtless understood each other. After a moment or two there fell\nupon me a shower of questions from Dorothy.\n\n\"Did you not go to France? How happens it that you are in Derby-town?\nWhere did you meet Sir John? What a delightful surprise you have given us!\nNothing was wanting to make us happy but your presence.\"\n\n\"I am so happy that it frightens me,\" said Dorothy in ecstasy. \"Trouble\nwill come, I am sure. One extreme always follows another. The pendulum\nalways swings as far back as it goes forward. But we are happy now, aren't\nwe, Madge? I intend to remain so while I can. The pendulum may swing as\nfar backward as it chooses hereafter. Sufficient to the day is the evil\nthereof. Sometimes the joy is almost sufficient, isn't it, Madge?\"\n\n\"The evil is more than sufficient some days,\" answered Madge.\n\n\"Come, Madge, don't be foreboding.\"\n\n\"Dorothy, I have not met the other gentleman,\" said Madge.\n\n\"Ah, pardon me. In my surprise I forgot to present you. Lady Madge\nStanley, let me present Sir John Manners.\"\n\n\"Sir John Manners!\" cried Madge, taking a step backward. Her surprise was\nso great that she forgot to acknowledge the introduction. \"Dorothy, what\nmeans this?\" she continued.\n\n\"It means,\" replied Dorothy, nervously, \"that Sir John is my very dear\nfriend. I will explain it to you at another time.\"\n\nWe stood silently for a few moments, and John said:--\n\n\"I hope I may find favor in your heart, Lady Madge. I wish to greet you\nwith my sincere homage.\"\n\n\"Sir John, I am glad to greet you, but I fear the pendulum of which\nDorothy spoke will swing very far backward erelong.\"\n\n\"Let it swing as far back as it chooses,\" answered Dorothy, with a toss of\nher head, \"I am ready to buy and to pay for happiness. That seems to be\nthe only means whereby we may have it. I am ready to buy it with pain any\nday, and am willing to pay upon demand. Pain passes away; joy lasts\nforever.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Sir John, addressing Madge, \"I know it is not prudent for\nMalcolm and me to be here to-day; but imprudent things seem to be the most\ndelightful.\"\n\n\"For men, Sir John,\" returned Madge. \"Upon women they leave their mark.\"\n\n\"I fear you are right,\" he answered. \"I had not thought of my visit in\nthat light. For Mistress Vernon's sake it is better that I do not remain\nin Derby.\"\n\n\"For Mistress Vernon's sake you shall remain,\" cried that impetuous young\nwoman, clutching John's arm.\n\nAfter a time, Dorothy wishing to visit one of the shops to make purchases,\nit was agreed between us that we should all walk out. Neither Dorothy nor\nMadge had ever before visited Derby-town. John and I had visited the place\nbut once; that was upon the occasion of our first meeting. No one in the\ntown knew us, and we felt safe in venturing forth into the streets. So we\nhelped Dorothy and Madge to don their furs, and out we went happier and\nmore reckless than four people have any good right to be. But before\nsetting out I went to the tap-room and ordered dinner.\n\nI found the host and directed him to prepare a dozen partridges in a pie,\na haunch of venison, a few links of German sausage, and a capon. The host\ninformed me that he had in his pantry a barrel of roots called potatoes\nwhich had been sent to him by a sea-captain who had recently returned from\nthe new world. He hurried away and brought a potato for inspection. It was\nof a gray brown color and near the size of an egg. The landlord assured me\nthat it was delicious when baked, and I ordered four, at the cost of a\ncrown each. I understand that my Lord Raleigh claims to have brought the\nfirst potatoes and tobacco into England in '85; but I know that I smoked\ntobacco in '66, and I saw potatoes at the Royal Arms in Derby-town in '67.\nI also ordered another new dish for our famous dinner. It was a brown\nbeverage called coffee. The berries from which the beverage is made mine\nhost showed to me, and said they had been brought to him by a sea-faring\nman from Arabia. I ordered a pot of the drink at a cost of three crowns. I\nhave heard it said that coffee was not known in Europe or in England till\nit was introduced by Rawolf in '73, but I saw it at the Royal Arms in '67.\nIn addition to this list, I ordered for our drinking sweet wine from\nMadeira and red wine from Burgundy. The latter-named wine had begun to\ngrow in favor at the French court when I left France five years before. It\nwas little liked in England. All these dainties were rare at the time of\nwhich I write; but they have since grown into considerable use, and I\ndoubt not, as we progress in luxury, they will become common articles of\nfood upon the tables of the rich. Prongs, or forks, as they are called,\nwhich by some are used in cutting and eating one's food at table, I also\npredict will become implements of daily use. It is really a filthy\nfashion, which we have, of handling food with our fingers. The Italians\nhave used forks for some time, but our preachers speak against them,\nsaying God has given us our fingers with which to eat, and that it is\nimpious to thwart his purposes by the use of forks. The preachers will\nprobably retard the general use of forks among the common people.\n\nAfter I had given my order for dinner we started out on our ramble through\nDerby-town.\n\nShortly after we left the inn we divided into couples for the ostensible\nreason that we did not wish to attract too much attention--Dorothy and\nJohn, Madge and I! Our real reason for separating was--but you understand.\n\nMadge's hand lay like a span of snow upon my arm, and--but this time I\nwill restrain my tendency to rhapsodize.\n\nWe walked out through those parts of the town which were little used, and\nMadge talked freely and happily.\n\nShe fairly babbled, and to me her voice was like the murmurings of the\nrivers that flowed out of paradise.\n\nWe had agreed with John and Dorothy to meet them at the Royal Arms in one\nhour, and that time had almost passed when Madge and I turned our faces\ntoward the inn.\n\nWhen we were within a short distance of our hostelry we saw a crowd\ngathered around a young man who was standing on a box. He was speaking in\na mournful, lugubrious voice and accompanied his words with violent\ngesticulations. Out of curiosity we stopped to listen, and learned that\nreligion was our orator's theme.\n\nI turned to a man standing near me and asked:--\n\n\"Who is the fellow speaking?\"\n\n\"The pious man is Robert Brown. He is exhorting in the name of the Lord of\nHosts.\"\n\n\"The pious Robert Brown?\" I queried, \"exhorting in the name of--of the\nLord of where, did you say?\"\n\n\"Hosts,\" laconically responded my friend, while listening intently to the\nwords of Brown.\n\n\"Hosts, say you? Who is he?\" I asked of my interesting neighbor. \"I know\nhim not.\"\n\n\"Doubtless you know Him not,\" responded the man, evidently annoyed at my\ninterruption and my flippancy.\n\nAfter a moment or two I, desiring to know more concerning the orator,\nasked:--\n\n\"Robert Brown, say you?\"\n\n\"Even he,\" came the response. \"It will be good for your soul if you but\nlisten to him in a prayerful mood. He is a young man upon whom the Spirit\nhath descended plenteously.\"\n\n\"The Spirit?\" I asked.\n\n\"Ay,\" returned my neighbor.\n\nI could not extract another word from him, so I had the worst of the\nencounter.\n\nWe had been standing there but a short time when the young exhorter\ndescended from his improvised pulpit and passed among the crowd for the\npurpose of collecting money. His harangue had appeared ridiculous to me,\nbut Madge seemed interested in his discourse. She said:--\n\n\"He is very earnest, Malcolm,\" and at once my heart went out to the young\nenthusiast upon the box. One kind word from Madge, and I was the fellow's\nfriend for life. I would have remained his friend had he permitted me that\nhigh privilege. But that he would not do. When he came to me, I dropped\ninto his hat a small silver piece which shone brightly among a few black\ncopper coins. My liberal contribution did not induce him to kindness, but,\non the contrary, it attracted his attention to the giver. He looked at the\nsilver coin, and then turning his solemn gaze upon me, eyed me insolently\nfrom head to foot. While doing so a look of profound disgust spread over\nhis mournful countenance. After a calm survey of my person, which to me\nwas uncomfortably long, he turned to the bystanders, and in the same\nhigh-pitched, lugubrious voice which he had used when exhorting, said:--\n\n\"Brethren, here behold ye the type of anti-Christ,\" and he waved his thin\nhand toward me much to my amusement and annoyance. \"Here,\" said he, \"we\nfind the leading strings to all that is iniquitous--vanity. It is\nbetokened in his velvets, satins, and laces. Think ye, young man,\" he\nsaid, turning to me, \"that such vanities are not an abomination in the\neyes of the God of Israel?\"\n\n\"I believe that the God of Israel cares nothing about my apparel,\" I\nreplied, more amused than angered. He paid no attention to my remark.\n\n\"And this young woman,\" he continued, pointing to Madge, \"this young\nwoman, daughter of the Roman harlot, no doubt, she also is arrayed in\nsilks, taffetas, and fine cloth. Look ye, friends, upon this abominable\ncollar of Satan; this ruff of fine linen, all smeared in the devil's own\nliquor, starch. Her vanity is an offence in the nostrils of God's people.\"\n\nAs he spoke he stretched forth his hand and caught in his clawlike grasp\nthe dainty white ruff that encircled Madge's neck. When I saw his act, my\nfirst impulse was to run him through, and I drew my sword half from its\nscabbard with that purpose. But he was not the sort of a man upon whom I\ncould use my blade. He was hardly more than a boy--a wild, half-crazed\nfanatic, whose reason, if he had ever possessed any, had been lost in the\nCharybdis of his zeal. He honestly thought it was his duty to insult\npersons who apparently disagreed with him. Such a method of proselyting is\nreally a powerful means of persuasion among certain classes, and it has\nalways been used by men who have successfully founded permanent religious\nsects. To plant successfully a religious thought or system requires more\nviolent aggression than to conquer a nation.\n\nSince I could not run the fellow through, I drew back my arm, and striking\nas lightly as possible, I laid our zealous friend sprawling on his back.\nThus had I the honor of knocking down the founder of the Brownists.\n\nIf I mistake not, the time will come, if these men are allowed to harangue\nthe populace, when the kings of England will be unable to accomplish the\nfeat of knocking down Brown's followers. Heresies, like noxious weeds,\ngrow without cultivation, and thrive best on barren soil. Or shall I say\nthat, like the goodly vine, they bear better fruit when pruned? I cannot\nfully decide this question for myself; but I admire these sturdy fanatics\nwho so passionately love their own faith, and so bitterly hate all others,\nand I am almost prepared to say that each new heresy brings to the world a\nbetter orthodoxy.\n\nFor a little time after my encounter with Brown, all my skill was needed\nto ward off the frantic hero. He quickly rose to his feet, and, with the\nhelp of his friends, seemed determined to spread the gospel by tearing me\nto pieces. My sword point kept the rabble at a respectful distance for a\nwhile, but they crowded closely upon me, and I should have been compelled\nto kill some of them had I not been reenforced by two men who came to my\nhelp and laid about them most joyfully with their quarterstaffs. A few\nbroken heads stemmed for a moment the torrent of religious enthusiasm, and\nduring a pause in the hostilities I hurriedly retreated with Madge,\nungratefully leaving my valiant allies to reap the full reward of victory\nshould the fortunes of war favor them.\n\nMadge was terribly frightened, and with her by my side I, of course, would\nnot have remained to fight the redoubtable Bayard himself.\n\nWe hurried forward, but before we reached the inn we were overtaken by our\nallies whom we had abandoned. Our friends were young men. One wore a rich,\nhalf-rustic habit, and the other was dressed as a horse boy. Both were\nintoxicated. I had been thankful for their help; but I did not want their\ncompany.\n\n\"How now, Cousin Madge?\" said our richly dressed ally. \"What in the\ndevil's name has brought you into this street broil?\"\n\n\"Ah, Cousin James, is it you?\" replied the trembling girl.\n\n\"Yes, but who is your friend that so cleverly unloaded his quarrel upon\nus? Hell's fires! but they were like a swarm of wasps. Who is your friend,\nMadge?\"\n\n\"Sir Malcolm Vernon,\" replied Madge. \"Let me present you, Sir Malcolm, to\nmy cousin, Lord James Stanley.\"\n\nI offered my hand to his Lordship, and said:--\n\n\"I thank you much for your timely help. I should not have deserted you had\nI not felt that my first duty was to extricate Lady Madge from the\ndisagreeable situation. We must hasten away from here, or the mad rabble\nwill follow us.\"\n\n\"Right you are, my hearty,\" returned Stanley, slapping me on the shoulder.\n\"Of course you had to get the wench away. Where do you go? We will bear\nyou company.\"\n\nI longed to pay the fellow for his help by knocking him down; but the\npossibilities of trouble ahead of us were already too great, and I forced\nmyself to be content with the prowess already achieved.\n\n\"But you have not told me what brought you into the broil,\" asked his\nLordship, as we walked toward the inn.\n\n\"Sir Malcolm and I were walking out to see the town and--\"\n\n\"To see the town? By gad, that's good, Cousin Madge. How much of it did\nyou see? You are as blind as an owl at noon,\" answered his Lordship.\n\n\"Alas! I am blind,\" returned Madge, clinging closely to me, and shrinking\nfrom her cousin's terrible jest. I could not think of anything\nsufficiently holy and sacred upon which to vow my vengeance against this\nfellow, if the time should ever come when I dared take it.\n\n\"Are you alone with this--this gentleman?\" asked his Lordship, grasping\nMadge by the arm.\n\n\"No,\" returned Madge, \"Dorothy is with us.\"\n\n\"She is among the shops,\" I volunteered reluctantly.\n\n\"Dorothy? Dorothy Vernon? By gad, Tod, we are in luck. I must see the\nwench I am to marry,\" said his Lordship, speaking to his companion, the\nstable boy. \"So Dorothy is with you, is she, cousin? I haven't seen her\nfor years. They say she is a handsome filly now. By gad, she had room to\nimprove, for she was plain enough, to frighten rats away from a barn when\nI last saw her. We will go to the inn and see for ourselves, won't we,\nTod? Dad's word won't satisfy us when it comes to the matter of marrying,\nwill it, Tod?\"\n\nTod was the drunken stable boy who had assisted his Lordship and me in\nour battle with the Brownists.\n\nI was at a loss what course to pursue. I was forced to submit to this\nfellow's company, and to endure patiently his insolence. But John and\nDorothy would soon return, and there is no need that I should explain the\ndangers of the predicament which would then ensue.\n\nWhen we were within a few yards of the inn door I looked backward and saw\nDorothy and John approaching us. I held up my hand warningly. John caught\nmy meaning, and instantly leaving Dorothy's side, entered an adjacent\nshop. My movement had attracted Stanley's attention, and he turned in the\ndirection I had been looking. When he saw Dorothy, he turned again to me\nand asked:--\n\n\"Is that Dorothy Vernon?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied.\n\n\"Look at her, Tod!\" exclaimed my lord, \"look at her, Tod! The dad was\nright about her, after all. I thought the old man was hoaxing me when he\ntold me that she was beautiful. Holy Virgin, Tod, did you ever see\nanything so handsome? I will take her quick enough; I will take her. Dad\nwon't need to tease me. I'm willing.\"\n\nDorothy approached to within a few yards of us, and my Lord Stanley\nstepped forward to meet her.\n\n\"Ye don't know me, do ye?\" said Stanley.\n\nDorothy was frightened and quickly stepped to my side.\n\n\"I--I believe not,\" responded Dorothy.\n\n\"Lord James Stanley,\" murmured Madge, who knew of the approaching Stanley\nmarriage.\n\n\"Madge is right,\" returned. Stanley, grinning foolishly. \"I am your cousin\nJames, but not so much of a cousin that I cannot be more than cousin,\nheh?\" He laughed boisterously, and winking at Tod, thrust his thumb into\nthat worthy's ribs. \"Say, Tod, something more than cousin; that's the\nthing, isn't it, Tod?\"\n\nJohn was standing half-concealed at the door of the shop in which he had\nsought refuge. Dorothy well knew the peril of the situation, and when I\nfrowned at her warningly, she caught the hint that she should not resent\nStanley's words, however insulting and irritating they might become.\n\n\"Let us go to the inn,\" said Dorothy.\n\n\"That's the thing to do. Let us go to the inn and have dinner,\" said\nStanley. \"It's two hours past dinner time now, and I'm almost famished.\nWe'll have a famous dinner. Come, cousin,\" said he, addressing Dorothy.\n\"We'll have kidneys and tripe and--\"\n\n\"We do not want dinner,\" said Dorothy. \"We must return home at once. Sir\nMalcolm, will you order Dawson to bring out the coach?\"\n\nWe went to the inn parlor, and I, loath to do so, left the ladies with\nStanley and his horse-boy friend while I sought Dawson for the purpose of\ntelling him to fetch the coach with all haste.\n\n\"We have not dined,\" said the forester.\n\n\"We shall not dine,\" I answered. \"Fetch the coach with all the haste you\ncan make.\" The bystanders in the tap-room were listening, and I continued,\n\"A storm is brewing, and we must hasten home.\"\n\nTrue enough, a storm was brewing.\n\nWhen I left Dawson, I hurriedly found John and told him we were preparing\nto leave the inn, and that we would expect him to overtake us on the road\nto Rowsley.\n\nI returned to the ladies in the parlor and found them standing near the\nwindow. Stanley had tried to kiss Dorothy, and she had slapped his face.\nFortunately he had taken the blow good-humoredly, and was pouring into her\nunwilling ear a fusillade of boorish compliments when. I entered the\nparlor.\n\nI said, \"The coach is ready.\"\n\nThe ladies moved toward the door. \"I am going to ride with you, my\nbeauty,\" said his Lordship.\n\n\"That you shall not do,\" retorted Dorothy, with blazing eyes.\n\n\"That I will do,\" he answered. \"The roads are free to all, and you cannot\nkeep me from following you.\"\n\nDorothy was aware of her predicament, and I too saw it, but could find no\nway out of it. I was troubled a moment; but my fear was needless, for\nDorothy was equal to the occasion.\n\n\"We should like your company, Cousin Stanley,\" replied Dorothy, without a\ntrace of anger in her manner, \"but we cannot let you ride with us in the\nface of the storm that is brewing.\"\n\n\"We won't mind the storm, will we, Tod? We are going with our cousin.\"\n\n\"If you insist upon being so kind to us,\" said Dorothy, \"you may come. But\nI have changed my mind about dinner. I am very hungry, and we accept your\ninvitation.\"\n\n\"Now you are coming around nicely,\" said Lord James, joyfully. \"We like\nthat, don't we, Tod?\"\n\nTod had been silent under all circumstances.\n\nDorothy continued: \"Madge and I will drive in the coach to one or two of\nthe shops, and we shall return in one hour. Meantime, Cousin Stanley, we\nwish you to have a fine dinner prepared for us, and we promise to do ample\njustice to the fare.\"\n\n\"She'll never come back,\" said silent Tod, without moving a muscle.\n\n\"How about it, cousin?\" asked Stanley. \"Tod says you'll never come back;\nhe means that you are trying to give us the slip.\"\n\n\"Never fear, Cousin Stanley,\" she returned, \"I am too eager for dinner\nnot to come back. If you fail to have a well-loaded table for me, I shall\nnever speak to you again.\"\n\nWe then went to the coach, and as the ladies entered it Dorothy said aloud\nto Dawson:--\n\n\"Drive to Conn's shop.\"\n\nI heard Tod say to his worthy master:--\n\n\"She's a slippin' ye.\"\n\n\"You're a fool, Tod. Don't you see she wants me more than she wants the\ndinner, and she's hungry, too.\"\n\n\"Don't see,\" retorted his laconic friend.\n\nOf course when the coach was well away from the inn, Dawson received new\ninstructions, and took the road to Rowsley. When the ladies had departed,\nI went to the tap-room with Stanley, and after paying the host for the\ncoffee, the potatoes, and the dinner which alas! we had not tasted, I\nordered a great bowl of sack and proceeded to drink with my allies in the\nhope that I might make them too drunk to follow us. Within half an hour I\ndiscovered that I was laboring at a hopeless task. There was great danger\nthat I would be the first to succumb; so I, expressing a wish to sleep off\nthe liquor before the ladies should return, made my escape from the\ntap-room, mounted my horse, and galloped furiously after Dorothy and\nMadge. John was riding by the coach when I overtook it.\n\nIt was two hours past noon when I came up with John and the girls. Snow\nhad been falling softly earlier in the afternoon, but as the day advanced\nthe storm grew in violence. A cold, bleak wind was blowing from the north,\nand by reason of the weather and because of the ill condition of the\nroads, the progress of the coach was so slow that darkness overtook us\nbefore we had finished half of our journey to Rowsley. Upon the fall of\nnight the storm increased in violence, and the snow came in piercing,\nhorizontal shafts which stung like the prick of a needle.\n\nAt the hour of six--I but guessed the time--John and I, who were riding\nat the rear of the coach, heard close on our heels the trampling of\nhorses. I rode forward to Dawson, who was in the coach box, and told him\nto drive with all the speed he could make. I informed him that some one\nwas following us, and that I feared highwaymen were on our track.\n\nHardly had I finished speaking to Dawson when I heard the report of a\nhand-fusil, back of the coach, near the spot where I had left John. I\nquickly drew my sword, though it was a task of no small labor, owing to\nthe numbness of my fingers. I breathed along the blade to warm it, and\nthen I hastened to John, whom I found in a desperate conflict with three\nruffians. No better swordsman than John ever drew blade, and he was\nholding his ground in the darkness right gallantly. When I rode to his\nrescue, another hand-fusil was discharged, and then another, and I knew\nthat we need have no more fear from bullets, for the three men had\ndischarged their weapons, and they could not reload while John and I were\nengaging them. I heard the bullets tell upon the coach, and I heard the\ngirls screaming lustily. I feared they had been wounded, but you may be\nsure I had no leisure to learn the truth. Three against two was terrible\nodds in the dark, where brute force and luck go for more than skill. We\nfought desperately for a while, but in the end we succeeded in beating off\nthe highwaymen. When we had finished with the knaves who had attacked us,\nwe quickly overtook our party. We were calling Dawson to stop when we saw\nthe coach, careening with the slant of the hill, topple over, and fall to\nthe bottom of a little precipice five or six feet in height. We at once\ndismounted and jumped down the declivity to the coach, which lay on its\nside, almost covered by drifted snow. The pole had broken in the fall, and\nthe horses were standing on the road. We first saw Dawson. He was\nswearing like a Dutchman, and when we had dragged him from his snowy\ngrave, we opened the coach door, lifted out the ladies, and seated them\nupon the uppermost side of the coach. They were only slightly bruised, but\nwhat they lacked in bruises they made up in fright. In respect to the\nlatter it were needless for me to attempt a description.\n\nWe can laugh about it now and speak lightly concerning the adventure, and,\nas a matter of truth, the humor of the situation appealed to me even then.\nBut imagine yourself in the predicament, and you will save me the trouble\nof setting forth its real terrors.\n\nThe snow was up to our belts, and we did not at first know how we were to\nextricate the ladies. John and Dawson, however, climbed to the road, and I\ncarried Dorothy and Madge to the little precipice where the two men at the\ntop lifted them from my arms. The coach was broken, and when I climbed to\nthe road, John, Dawson, and myself held a council of war against the\nstorm. Dawson said we were three good miles from Rowsley, and that he knew\nof no house nearer than the village at which we could find shelter. We\ncould not stand in the road and freeze, so I got the blankets and robes\nfrom the coach and made riding pads for Dorothy and Madge. These we\nstrapped upon the broad backs of the coach horses, and then assisted the\nladies to mount. I walked by the side of Madge, and John performed the\nsame agreeable duty for Dorothy. Dawson went ahead of us, riding my horse\nand leading John's; and thus we travelled to Rowsley, half dead and nearly\nfrozen, over the longest three miles in the kingdom.\n\nJohn left us before entering the village, and took the road to Rutland,\nintending to stop for the night at a cottage two miles distant, upon his\nfather's estates. I was to follow Sir John when the ladies were safely\nlodged at The Peacock.\n\nIt was agreed between us that nothing should be said concerning the\npresence of any man save Dawson and myself in our party.\n\nWhen John left us, I rode to The Peacock with Dorothy and Madge, and while\nI was bidding them good-by my violent cousin, Sir George, entered the inn.\nDorothy ran to her father and briefly related the adventures of the night,\ndwelling with undeserved emphasis upon the help I had rendered. She told\nher father--the statement was literally true--that she had met me at the\nRoyal Arms, where I was stopping, and that she had, through fear of the\nstorm and in dread of highwaymen, asked me to ride beside their coach to\nRowsley.\n\nWhen I saw Sir George enter the room, I expected to have trouble with him;\nbut after he had spoken with Dorothy, much to my surprise, he offered me\nhis hand and said:--\n\n\"I thank you, Malcolm, for the help you have rendered my girls, and I am\nglad you have come back to us.\"\n\n\"I have not come back to you, Sir George,\" said I, withholding my hand. \"I\nmet Mistress Vernon and Lady Madge at the Royal Arms, and escorted them to\nRowsley for reasons which she has just given to you. I was about to depart\nwhen you entered.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut! Malcolm, you will come with us to Haddon Hall.\"\n\n\"To be ordered away again, Sir George?\" I asked.\n\n\"I did not order you to go. You left in a childish fit of anger. Why in\nthe devil's name did you run away so quickly? Could you not have given a\nman time to cool off? You treated me very badly, Malcolm.\"\n\n\"Sir George, you certainly know--\"\n\n\"I know nothing of the sort. Now I want not another word from you. Damme!\nI say, not another word. If I ever ordered you to leave Haddon Hall, I\ndidn't know what I was doing,\" cried Sir George, heartily.\n\n\"But you may again not know,\" said I.\n\n\"Now, Malcolm, don't be a greater fool than I was. If I say I did not\norder you to leave Haddon Hall, can't you take me at my word? My age and\nmy love for you should induce you to let me ease my conscience, if I can.\nIf the same illusion should ever come over you again--that is, if you\nshould ever again imagine that I am ordering you to leave Haddon\nHall--well, just tell me to go to the devil. I have been punished enough\nalready, man. Come home with us. Here is Dorothy, whom I love better than\nI love myself. In anger I might say the same thing to her that I said to\nyou, but--Nonsense, Malcolm, don't be a fool. Come home with us. Haddon is\nyour home as freely as it is the home of Dorothy, Madge, and myself.\"\n\nThe old gentleman's voice trembled, and I could not withstand the double\nforce of his kindness and my desire. So it came about that when Madge held\nout her fair hand appealingly to me, and when Dorothy said, \"Please come\nhome with us, Cousin Malcolm,\" I offered my hand to Sir George, and with\nfeeling said, \"Let us make this promise to each other: that nothing\nhereafter shall come between us.\"\n\n\"I gladly promise,\" responded the generous, impulsive old man. \"Dorothy,\nMadge, and you are all in this world whom I love. Nothing shall make\ntrouble between us. Whatever happens, we will each forgive.\"\n\nThe old gentleman was in his kindest, softest mood.\n\n\"Let us remember the words,\" said I.\n\n\"I give my hand and my word upon it,\" cried Sir George.\n\nHow easy it is to stake the future upon a present impulse. But when the\ntime for reckoning comes,--when the future becomes the present,--it is\nsometimes hard to pay the priceless present for the squandered past. Next\nmorning we all rode home to Haddon,--how sweet the words sound even at\nthis distance of time!--and there was rejoicing in the Hall as if the\nprodigal had returned.\n\nIn the evening I came upon Madge unawares. She was softly singing a\nplaintive little love song. I did not disturb her, and as I stole away\nagain I said to myself, \"God is good.\" A realization of that great truth\nhad of late been growing upon me. When once we thoroughly learn it, life\ntakes on a different color.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTRIBULATION IN HADDON\n\n\nAfter I had left Haddon at Sir George's tempestuous order, he had remained\nin a state of furious anger against Dorothy and myself for a fortnight or\nmore. But after her adroit conversation with him concerning the Stanley\nmarriage, wherein she neither promised nor refused, and after she learned\nthat she could more easily cajole her father than command him, Dorothy\neasily ensconced herself again in his warm heart, and took me into that\ncapacious abode along with her.\n\nThen came the trip to Derby, whereby his serene Lordship, James Stanley,\nhad been enabled to see Dorothy and to fall in love with her winsome\nbeauty, and whereby I was brought back to Haddon. Thereafter came events\ncrowding so rapidly one upon the heels of another that I scarce know where\nto begin the telling of them. I shall not stop to say, \"Sir George told me\nthis,\" or \"Madge, Dorothy, or John told me that,\" but I shall write as if\nI had personal knowledge of all that happened. After all, the important\nfact is that I know the truth concerning matters whereof I write, and of\nthat you may rest with surety.\n\nThe snow lay upon the ground for a fortnight after the storm in which we\nrode from Derby, but at the end of that time it melted, and the sun shone\nwith the brilliancy and warmth of springtide. So warm and genial was the\nweather that the trees, flowers, and shrubs were cozened into budding\nforth. The buds were withered by a killing frost which came upon us later\nin the season at a time when the spring should have been abroad in all her\ngraciousness, and that year was called the year of the leafless summer.\n\nOne afternoon Sir George received a distinguished guest in the person of\nthe Earl of Derby, and the two old gentlemen remained closeted together\nfor several hours. That night at supper, after the ladies had risen from\ntable, Sir George dismissed the servants saying that he wished to speak to\nme in private. I feared that he intended again bringing forward the\nsubject of marriage with Dorothy, but he soon relieved my mind.\n\n\"The Earl of Derby was here to-day. He has asked for Doll's hand in\nmarriage with his eldest son and heir, Lord James Stanley, and I have\ngranted the request.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" I responded, with marvellous intelligence. I could say nothing\nmore, but I thought--in truth I knew--that it did not lie within the power\nof any man in or out of England to dispose of Dorothy Vernon's hand in\nmarriage to Lord James Stanley. Her father might make a murderess out of\nher, but Countess of Derby, never.\n\nSir George continued, \"The general terms of the marriage contract have\nbeen agreed upon by the earl and me, and the lawyers will do the rest.\"\n\n\"What is your feeling in the matter?\" I asked aimlessly.\n\n\"My feeling?\" cried Sir George. \"Why, sir, my feeling is that the girl\nshall marry Stanley just as soon as arrangements can be made for the\nwedding ceremony. The young fellow, it seems, saw Doll at Derby-town the\nday you came home, and since then he is eager, his father tells me, for\nthe union. He is coming to see her when I give my permission, and I will\nsend him word at as early a date as propriety will admit. I must not let\nthem be seen together too soon, you know. There might be a hitch in the\nmarriage negotiations. The earl is a tight one in business matters, and\nmight drive a hard bargain with me should I allow his son to place Doll in\na false position before the marriage contract is signed.\" He little knew\nhow certainly Dorothy herself would avoid that disaster.\n\nHe took a long draught from his mug of toddy and winked knowingly at me,\nsaying, \"I am too wise for that.\"\n\n\"Have you told Dorothy?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" he replied, \"I have not exactly told her. I had a talk with her a\nfew days ago on the subject, though the earl and I had not, at that time,\nentirely agreed upon the terms, and I did not know that we should agree.\nBut I told her of the pending negotiations, because I wished to prepare\nher for the signing of the contract; and also, by gad, Malcolm, I wanted\nto make the girl understand at the outset that I will have no trifling\nwith my commands in this matter. I made that feature of the case very\nplain, you may rest assured. She understands me fully, and although at\nfirst she was a little inclined to fight, she soon--she soon--well, she\nknuckled under gracefully when she found she must.\"\n\n\"Did she consent to the marriage?\" I asked, well knowing that even if she\nhad consented in words, she had no thought of doing so in deed.\n\n\"Y-e-s,\" returned Sir George, hesitatingly.\n\n\"I congratulate you,\" I replied.\n\n\"I shall grieve to lose Doll,\" the old man slowly continued with\nperceptible signs of emotion. \"I shall grieve to lose my girl, but I am\nanxious to have the wedding over. You see, Malcolm, of late I have noticed\nsigns of wilfulness in Doll that can be more easily handled by a husband\nthan by a father. Marriage and children anchor a woman, you know. In\ntruth, I have opened my eyes to the fact that Doll is growing dangerous.\nI'gad, the other day I thought she was a child, but suddenly I learn she\nis a woman. I had not before noticed the change. Beauty and wilfulness,\nsuch as the girl has of late developed, are powers not to be\nunderestimated by wise men. There is hell in them, Malcolm, I tell you\nthere is hell in them.\" Sir George meditatively snuffed the candle with\nhis fingers and continued: \"If a horse once learns that he can kick--sell\nhim. Only yesterday, as I said, Doll was a child, and now, by Jove, she is\na full-blown woman, and I catch myself standing in awe of her and calling\nher Dorothy. Yes, damme, standing in awe of my own child! That will never\ndo, you know. What has wrought the change? And, after all, what is the\nchange? I can't define it, but there has been a great one.\"\n\nHe was in a revery and spoke more to himself than to me. \"Yesterday she\nwas my child--she was a child, and now--and now--she is--she is--Why the\ndevil didn't you take her, Malcolm?\" cried the old man, awakening. \"But\nthere, never mind; that is all past and gone, and the future Earl of Derby\nwill be a great match for her.\"\n\n\"Do you know the future Earl of Derby?\" I asked. \"Have you ever seen him?\"\n\n\"No,\" Sir George replied. \"I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but--\"\n\n\"My dear cousin,\" said I, interrupting him, \"he is a vulgar, drunken\nclown, whose associates have always been stable boys, tavern maids, and\nthose who are worse than either.\"\n\n\"What?\" cried Sir George, hotly, the liquor having reached his brain. \"You\nwon't have Doll yourself, and you won't consent to another--damme, would\nyou have the girl wither into spinsterhood? How, sir, dare you interfere?\"\n\n\"I withdraw all I said, Sir George,\" I replied hastily. \"I have not a word\nto say against the match. I thought--\"\n\n\"Well, damn you, sir, don't think.\"\n\n\"You said you wished to consult me about the affair, and I supposed--\"\n\n\"Don't suppose either,\" replied Sir George, sullenly. \"Supposing and\nthinking have hanged many a man. I didn't wish to consult you. I simply\nwanted to tell you of the projected marriage.\" Then after a moment of\nhalf-maudlin, sullen silence he continued, \"Go to bed, Malcolm, go to bed,\nor we'll be quarrelling again.\"\n\nI was glad enough to go to bed, for my cousin was growing drunk, and drink\nmade a demon of this man, whose violence when sober was tempered by a\nheart full of tenderness and love.\n\nNext morning Sir George was feeling irritable from the effects of the\nbrandy he had drunk over night. At breakfast, in the presence of Lady\nCrawford, Madge, and myself, he abruptly informed Dorothy that he was\nabout to give that young goddess to Lord James Stanley for his wife. He\ntold her of the arrangement he had made the day before with the Earl of\nDerby. Lady Crawford looked toward her brother in surprise, and Madge\npushed her chair a little way back from the table with a startled\nmovement. Dorothy sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing fire and her\nbreast rising and falling like the storm-wrought pulsing of the sea. I\ncoughed warningly and placed my finger on my lips, making the sign of\nsilence to Dorothy. The girl made a wondrous and beautiful struggle\nagainst her wrath, and in a moment all signs of ill-temper disappeared,\nand her face took on an expression of sweet meekness which did not belong\nthere of right. She quietly sat down again, and when I looked at her, I\nwould have sworn that Griselda in the flesh was sitting opposite me. Sir\nGeorge was right. \"Ways such as the girl had of late developed were\ndangerous.\" Hell was in them to an extent little dreamed of by her father.\nBreakfast was finished in silence. Dorothy did not come down to dinner at\nnoon, but Sir George did not mark her absence. At supper her place was\nstill vacant.\n\n\"Where is Doll?\" cried Sir George, angrily. He had been drinking heavily\nduring the afternoon. \"Where is Doll?\" he demanded.\n\n\"She is on the terrace,\" answered Madge. \"She said she did not want\nsupper.\"\n\n\"Tell your mistress to come to supper,\" said Sir George, speaking to one\nof the servants. \"You will find her on the terrace.\"\n\nThe servant left the room, but soon returned, saying that Mistress Dorothy\nwanted no supper.\n\n\"Tell her to come to the table whether she wants supper or not. Tell her I\nwill put a stop to her moping about the place like a surly vixen,\" growled\nSir George.\n\n\"Don't send such a message by a servant,\" pleaded Lady Crawford.\n\n\"Then take it to her yourself, Dorothy,\" exclaimed her brother.\n\nDorothy returned with her aunt and meekly took her place at the table.\n\n\"I will have none of your moping and pouting,\" said Sir George, as Dorothy\nwas taking her chair.\n\nThe girl made no reply, but she did not eat.\n\n\"Eat your supper,\" her father commanded. \"I tell you I will have no--\"\n\n\"You would not have me eat if I am not hungry, would you, father?\" she\nasked softly.\n\n\"I'd have you hungry, you perverse wench.\"\n\n\"Then make me an appetite,\" returned the girl. I never heard more ominous\ntones fall from human lips. They betokened a mood in which one could\neasily do murder in cold blood, and I was surprised that Sir George did\nnot take warning and remain silent.\n\n\"I cannot make an appetite for you, fool,\" he replied testily.\n\n\"Then you cannot make me eat,\" retorted Dorothy.\n\n\"Ah, you would answer me, would you, you brazen, insolent huzzy,\" cried\nher father, angrily.\n\nDorothy held up her hand warningly to Sir George, and uttered the one\nword, \"Father.\" Her voice sounded like the clear, low ring of steel as I\nhave heard it in the stillness of sunrise during a duel to the death.\nMadge gently placed her hand in Dorothy's, but the caress met no response.\n\n\"Go to your room,\" answered Sir George.\n\nDorothy rose to her feet and spoke calmly: \"I have not said that I would\ndisobey you in regard to this marriage which you have sought for me; and\nyour harshness, father, grows out of your effort to reconcile your\nconscience with the outrage you would put upon your own flesh and\nblood--your only child.\"\n\n\"Suffering God!\" cried Sir George, frenzied with anger and drink. \"Am I to\nendure such insolence from my own child? The lawyers will be here\nto-morrow. The contract will be signed, and, thank God, I shall soon be\nrid of you. I'll place you in the hands of one who will break your\ndamnable will and curb your vixenish temper.\" Then he turned to Lady\nCrawford. \"Dorothy, if there is anything to do in the way of gowns and\nwomen's trumpery in preparation for the wedding, begin at once, for the\nceremony shall come off within a fortnight.\"\n\nThis was beyond Dorothy's power to endure. Madge felt the storm coming and\nclutched her by the arm in an effort to stop her, but nothing could have\ndone that.\n\n\"I marry Lord Stanley?\" she asked in low, bell-like tones, full of\ncontempt and disdain. \"Marry that creature? Father, you don't know me.\"\n\n\"By God, I know myself,\" retorted Sir George, \"and I say--\"\n\n\"Now hear me, father,\" she interrupted in a manner that silenced even\nhim. She bent forward, resting one fair hand upon the table, while she\nheld out her other arm bared to the elbow. \"Hear what I say and take it\nfor the truth as if it had come from Holy Writ. I will open the veins in\nthis arm and will strew my blood in a gapless circle around Haddon Hall so\nthat you shall tread upon it whenever you go forth into the day or into\nthe night before I will marry the drunken idiot with whom you would curse\nme. Ay, I will do more. I will kill you, if need be, should you try to\nforce him on me. Now, father, we understand each other. At least you\ncannot fail to understand me. For the last time I warn you. Beware of me.\"\n\nShe gently pushed the chair back from the table, quietly adjusted the\nsleeve which she had drawn upward from her wrist, and slowly walked out of\nthe room, softly humming the refrain of a roundelay. There was no trace of\nexcitement about the girl. Her brain was acting with the ease and\nprecision of a perfectly constructed machine. Sir George, by his violence\nand cruelty, had made a fiend of this strong, passionate, tender heart.\nThat was all.\n\nThe supper, of course, was quickly finished, and the ladies left the room.\n\nSir George took to his bottle and remained with it till his servants put\nhim to bed. I slipped away from him and smoked a pipe in front of the\nkitchen fire. Then I went early to my bed in Eagle Tower.\n\nDorothy went to her apartments. There she lay upon her bed, and for a time\nher heart was like flint. Soon she thought of her precious golden heart\npierced with a silver arrow, and tears came to her eyes as she drew the\npriceless treasure from her breast and breathed upon it a prayer to the\nGod of love for help. Her heart was soft again, soft only as hers could\nbe, and peace came to her as she pressed John's golden heart to her lips\nand murmured over and over the words, \"My love, my love, my love,\" and\nmurmuring fell asleep.\n\nI wonder how many of the countless women of this world found peace,\ncomfort, and ecstasy in breathing those magic words yesterday? How many\nhave found them to-day? How many will find them to-morrow? No one can\ntell; but this I know, they come to every woman at some time in her life,\nrighteously or unrighteously, as surely as her heart pulses.\n\nThat evening Jennie Faxton bore a letter to John, informing him of the\nprojected Stanley marriage. It asked him to meet the writer at Bowling\nGreen Gate, and begged him to help her if he could.\n\nThe small and intermittent remnants of conscience, sense of duty, and\ncaution which still remained in John's head--I will not say in John's\nheart, for that was full to overflowing with something else--were quickly\nbanished by the unwelcome news in Dorothy's letter. His first impulse was\nto kill Stanley; but John Manners was not an assassin, and a duel would\nmake public all he wished to conceal. He wished to conceal, among other\nthings, his presence at Rutland. He had two reasons for so desiring. First\nin point of time was the urgent purpose with which he had come to\nDerbyshire. That purpose was to further a plan for the rescue of Mary\nStuart and to bring her incognito to Rutland Castle as a refuge until\nElizabeth could be persuaded to receive her. Of this plan I knew nothing\ntill after the disastrous attempt to carry it out, of which I shall\nhereafter tell you. The other reason why John wished his presence at\nRutland unknown was that if he were supposed to be in London, no one would\nsuspect him of knowing Dorothy Vernon.\n\nYou must remember there had been no overt love-making between John and\nDorothy up to that time. The scene at the gate approached perilously near\nit, but the line between concealment and confession had not been crossed.\nMind you, I say there had been no love-making _between_ them. While\nDorothy had gone as far in that direction as a maiden should dare go--and\nto tell the exact truth, a great deal farther--John had remained almost\nsilent for reasons already given you. He also felt a fear of the girl, and\nfailed to see in her conduct those signs of intense love which would have\nbeen plainly discernible had not his perceptions been blinded by the fury\nof his own infatuation. He had placed a curb on his passion and did not\nreally know its strength and power until he learned that another man was\nsoon to possess the girl he loved. Then life held but one purpose for him.\nThus, you see that when Dorothy was moaning, \"My love, my love,\" and was\nkissing the golden heart, she was taking a great deal for granted.\nPerhaps, however, she better understood John's feeling for her than did he\nhimself. A woman's sixth sense, intuition, is a great help to her in such\ncases. Perhaps the girl knew with intuitive confidence that her passion\nwas returned; and perhaps at first she found John's receptive mode of\nwooing sweeter far than an aggressive attack would have been. It may be\nalso there was more of the serpent's cunning than of reticence in John's\nconduct. He knew well the ways of women, and perhaps he realized that if\nhe would allow Dorothy to manage the entire affair she would do his wooing\nfor him much better than he could do it for himself. If you are a man, try\nthe plan upon the next woman whom you seek to win. If she happens to be\none who has full confidence in her charms, you will be surprised at the\nresult. Women lacking that confidence are restrained by fear and doubt.\nBut in no case have I much faith in the hammer-and-tongs process at the\nopening of a campaign. Later on, of course--but you doubtless are quite as\nwell informed concerning this important subject as I. There is, however,\nso much blundering in that branch of science that I have a mind to endow a\ncollege at Oxford or at Paris in which shall be taught the gentle,\nuniversally needed art of making love. What a noble attendance such a\ncollege would draw. But I have wandered wofully from my story.\n\nI must go back a short time in my narrative. A few days before my return\nto Haddon Hall the great iron key to the gate in the wall east of Bowling\nGreen Hill was missed from the forester's closet where it had hung for a\ncentury or more. Bowling Green Hill, as you know, is eastward from Haddon\nHall a distance of the fourth part of a mile, and the gate is east of the\nhill about the same distance or less. A wall is built upon the east line\nof the Haddon estate, and east of the wall lies a great trackless forest\nbelonging to the house of Devonshire. In olden times there had been a road\nfrom Bakewell to Rowsley along the east side of the wall; but before Sir\nGeorge's seizin the road had been abandoned and the gate was not used. It\nstood in a secluded, unfrequented spot, and Dorothy thought herself very\nshrewd in choosing it for a trysting-place.\n\nBut as I told you, one day the key was missed. It was of no value or use,\nand at first nothing was thought of its loss; but from time to time the\nfact that it could not be found was spoken of as curious. All the servants\nhad been questioned in vain, and the loss of the key to Bowling Green Gate\nsoon took on the dignity of a mystery--a mystery soon to be solved, alas!\nto Dorothy's undoing.\n\nThe afternoon of the day following the terrible scene between Sir George\nand his daughter at the supper table, Dorothy rode forth alone upon her\nmare Dolcy. From the window of my room in Eagle Tower I saw her go down\nthe west side of the Wye toward Rowsley. I ascended to the roof of the\ntower, and from that elevation I saw her cross the river, and soon she was\nlost to sight in the forest. At that time I knew nothing of the new\ntrysting-place, but I felt sure that Dorothy had gone out to seek John.\nThe sun shone brightly, and its gentle warmth enticed me to remain upon\nthe tower battlements, to muse, and to dream. I fetched my pipe and\ntobacco from my room. I had been smoking at intervals for several months,\nbut had not entirely learned to like the weed, because of a slight nausea\nwhich it invariably caused me to feel. But I thought by practice now and\nagain to inure myself to the habit, which was then so new and fashionable\namong modish gentlemen. While I smoked I mused upon the past and present,\nand tried to peer into the future--a fruitless task wherein we waste much\nvaluable time; a vain striving, like Eve's, after forbidden knowledge,\nwhich, should we possess it, would destroy the little remnant of Eden\nstill existing on earth. Could we look forward only to our joys, a\nknowledge of the future might be good to have; but imagine, if you can,\nthe horror of anticipating evils to come.\n\nAfter a short time, a lotuslike dreaminess stole over me, and past and\nfuture seemed to blend in a supreme present of contentment and rest. Then\nI knew I had wooed and won Tobacco and that thenceforth I had at hand an\never ready solace in time of trouble. At the end of an hour my dreaming\nwas disturbed by voices, which came distinctly up to me from the base of\nthe tower. I leaned over the battlements to listen, and what I heard gave\nme alarm and concern such as all the tobacco in the world could not\nassuage. I looked down the dizzy heights of Eagle Tower and saw Sir George\nin conversation with Ben Shaw, a woodman. I had not heard the words first\nspoken between them.\n\n\"Ay, ay, Sir George,\" said Ben, \"they be there, by Bowling Green Gate,\nnow. I saw them twenty minutes since,--Mistress Vernon and a gentleman.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the gentleman is Sir Malcolm,\" answered my cousin. I drew back\nfrom the battlements, and the woodman replied, \"Perhaps he be, but I doubt\nit.\"\n\nThere had been a partial reconciliation--sincere on Sir George's part, but\nfalse and hollow on Dorothy's--which Madge had brought about between\nfather and daughter that morning. Sir George, who was sober and repentant\nof his harshness, was inclined to be tender to Dorothy, though he still\ninsisted in the matter of the Stanley marriage. Dorothy's anger had\ncooled, and cunning had taken its place. Sir George had asked her to\nforgive him for the hard words he had spoken, and she had again led him to\nbelieve that she would be dutiful and obedient. It is hard to determine,\nas a question of right and wrong, whether Dorothy is to be condemned or\njustified in the woful deception she practised upon her father. To use a\nplain, ugly word, she lied to him without hesitation or pain of\nconscience. Still, we must remember that, forty years ago, girls were\nfrequently forced, regardless of cries and piteous agony, into marriages\nto which death would have been preferable. They were flogged into\nobedience, imprisoned and starved into obedience, and alas! they were\nsometimes killed in the course of punishment for disobedience by men of\nSir George's school and temper. I could give you at least one instance in\nwhich a fair girl met her death from punishment inflicted by her father\nbecause she would not consent to wed the man of his choice. Can we blame\nDorothy if she would lie or rob or do murder to avoid a fate which to her\nwould have been worse than death? When you find yourself condemning her,\nnow or hereafter in this history, if you are a man ask yourself this\nquestion: \"If I had a sweetheart in Dorothy's sad case, should I not wish\nher to do as she did? Should I not wish, if it were possible by any\nmeans, that she should save herself from the worst of fates, and should\nsave me from the agony of losing her to such a man as Sir George had\nselected for Dorothy's husband? Is it not a sin to disobey the law of\nself-preservation actively or passively?\" Answer these questions as you\nchoose. As for myself, I say God bless Dorothy for lying. Perhaps I am in\nerror. Perhaps I am not. I but tell you the story of Dorothy as it\nhappened, and I am a poor hand at solving questions of right and wrong\nwhere a beautiful woman is concerned. To my thinking, she usually is in\nthe right. In any case, she is sure to have the benefit of the doubt.\n\nWhen Sir George heard the woodman's story, he started hurriedly toward\nBowling Green Gate.\n\nNow I shall tell you of Dorothy's adventures after I saw her cross the\nWye.\n\nWhen she reached the gate, John was waiting for her.\n\n\"Ah, Sir John, I am so glad you are here. That is, I am glad you are here\nbefore I arrived--good even,\" said the girl, confusedly. Her heart again\nwas beating in a provoking manner, and her breath would not come with ease\nand regularity. The rapid progress of the malady with which she was\nafflicted or blessed was plainly discernible since the last meeting with\nmy friend, Sir John. That is, it would have been plain to any one but\nJohn, whose ailment had taken a fatal turn and had progressed to the\nante-mortem state of blindness. By the help of the stimulating hope and\nfear which Dorothy's letter had brought to him, he had planned an\nelaborate conversation, and had determined to speak decisive words. He\nhoped to receive from her the answer for which he longed; but his heart\nand breath seemed to have conspired with Dorothy to make\nintercommunication troublesome.\n\n\"I received your gracious letter, Mistress Vernon, and I thank you. I\nwas--I am--that is, my thanks are more than I--I can express.\"\n\n\"So I see,\" said the girl, half amused at John's condition, although it\nwas but little worse than her own. This universal malady, love, never\ntakes its blind form in women. It opens their eyes. Under its influence\nthey can see the truth through a millstone. The girl's heart jumped with\njoy when she saw John's truth-telling manner, and composure quickly came\nto her relief, though she still feigned confusion because she wished him\nto see the truth in her as she had seen it in him. She well knew of his\nblindness, and had almost begun to fear lest she would eventually be\ncompelled to tell him in words that which she so ardently wished him to\nsee for himself. She thought John was the blindest of his sex; but she\nwas, to a certain extent, mistaken. John was blind, as you already know,\nbut his reticence was not all due to a lack of sight. He at least had\nreached the condition of a well-developed hope. He hoped the girl cared\nfor him. He would have fully believed it had it not been for the\ndifficulty he found in convincing himself that a goddess like Dorothy\ncould care for a man so unworthy as himself. Most modest persons are\nself-respecting. That was John's condition; he was not vain.\n\n\"Jennie brought me your letter also,\" said the girl, laughing because she\nwas happy, though her merriment somewhat disconcerted John.\n\n\"It told me,\" she continued, \"that you would come. I have it here in my\npocket--and--and the gate key.\" She determined this time to introduce the\nkey early in the engagement. \"But I feared you might not want to come.\"\nThe cunning, the boldness, and the humility of the serpent was in the\ngirl. \"That is, you know, I thought--perhaps--that is, I feared that you\nmight not come. Your father might have been ill, or you might have changed\nyour mind after you wrote the letter.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered John, whose face was beaming with joy. Here, truly, was a\ngoddess who could make the blind to see if she were but given a little\ntime.\n\n\"Do you mean that your father is not ill, or that you did not change your\nmind?\" asked Dorothy, whose face, as it should have been after such a\nspeech, was bent low while she struggled with the great iron key,\nentangled in the pocket of her gown.\n\n\"I mean that I have not changed my mind,\" said John, who felt that the\ntime to speak had come. \"There has been no change in me other than a new\naccess of eagerness with every hour, and a new longing to see you and to\nhear your voice.\"\n\nDorothy felt a great thrill pass through her breast, and she knew that the\nreward of her labors was at hand.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the self-complacent girl, hardly conscious of her words,\nso great was the joyous tumult in her heart, \"I should have known.\"\n\nThere was another pause devoted to the key, with bended head. \"But--but\nyou might have changed your mind,\" she continued, \"and I might not have\nknown it, for, you see, I did not know your former state of mind; you have\nnever told me.\" Her tongue had led her further than she had intended to\ngo, and she blushed painfully, and I think, considering her words,\nappropriately.\n\n\"My letter told you my state of mind. At least it told you of my intention\nto come. I--I fear that I do not understand you,\" said John.\n\n\"I mean,\" she replied, with a saucy, fluttering little laugh as she looked\nup from her conflict with the entangled key, \"I mean that--that you don't\nknow what I mean. But here is the key at last, and--and--you may, if you\nwish, come to this side of the gate.\"\n\nShe stepped forward to unlock the gate with an air that seemed to say,\n\"Now, John, you shall have a clear field.\"\n\nBut to her surprise she found that the lock had been removed. That\ndiscovery brought back to John his wandering wits.\n\n\"Mistress Dorothy,\" he cried in tones of alarm, \"I must not remain here.\nWe are suspected and are sure to be discovered. Your father has set a trap\nfor us. I care not for myself, but I would not bring upon you the trouble\nand distress which would surely follow discovery. Let us quickly choose\nanother place and time of meeting. I pray you, sweet lady, meet me\nto-morrow at this time near the white cliff back of Lathkil mill. I have\nthat to say to you which is the very blood of my heart. I must now leave\nyou at once.\"\n\nHe took her hand, and kissing it, started to leave through the open gate.\n\nThe girl caught his arm to detain him. \"Say it now, John, say it now. I\nhave dreamed of it by night and by day. You know all, and I know all, and\nI long to hear from your lips the words that will break down all barriers\nbetween us.\" She had been carried away by the mad onrush of her passion.\nShe was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, and she spoke because\nshe could not help it.\n\n\"I will speak, Dorothy, God help me! God help me, I will speak!\" said\nJohn, as he caught the girl to his breast in a fierce embrace. \"I love\nyou, I love you! God Himself only knows how deeply, how passionately! I do\nnot know. I cannot fathom its depths. With all my heart and soul, with\nevery drop of blood that pulses through my veins, I love you--I adore you.\nGive me your lips, my beauty, my Aphrodite, my queen!\"\n\n\"There--they--are, John,--there they are. They are--all yours--all\nyours--now! Oh, God! my blood is on fire.\" She buried her face on his\nbreast for shame, that he might not see her burning eyes and her scarlet\ncheeks. Then after a time she cared not what he saw, and she lifted her\nlips to his, a voluntary offering. The supreme emotions of the moment\ndrove all other consciousness from their souls.\n\n\"Tell me, Dorothy, that you will be my wife. Tell me, tell me!\" cried\nJohn.\n\n\"I will, I will, oh, how gladly, how gladly!\"\n\n\"Tell me that no power on earth can force you to marry Lord Stanley. Tell\nme that you will marry no man but me; that you will wait--wait for me\ntill--\"\n\n\"I will marry no man but you, John, no man but you,\" said the girl,\nwhisperingly. Her head was thrown back from his breast that she might look\ninto his eyes, and that he might see the truth in hers. \"I am all yours.\nBut oh, John, I cannot wait--I cannot! Do not ask me to wait. It would\nkill me. I wear the golden heart you gave me, John,\" she continued, as she\nnestled closer in his embrace. \"I wear the golden heart always. It is\nnever from me, even for one little moment. I bear it always upon my heart,\nJohn. Here it is.\" She drew from her breast the golden heart and kissed\nit. Then she pressed it to his lips, and said: \"I kiss it twenty times in\nthe day and in the night; ay, a hundred times. I do not know how often;\nbut now I kiss your real heart, John,\" and she kissed his breast, and then\nstood tiptoe to lift her lips to his.\n\nThere was no room left now in John's heart for doubt that Dorothy Vernon\nwas his own forever and forever. She had convinced him beyond the reach of\nfear or doubt. John forgot the lockless gate. He forgot everything but\nDorothy, and cruel time passed with a rapidity of which they were\nunconscious. They were, however, brought back to consciousness by hearing\na long blast from the forester's bugle, and John immediately retreated\nthrough the gate.\n\nDorothy then closed the gate and hastily seated herself upon a stone\nbench against the Haddon side of the wall. She quickly assumed an attitude\nof listless repose, and Dolcy, who was nibbling at the grass near by,\ndoubtless supposed that her mistress had come to Bowling Green Gate to\nrest because it was a secluded place, and because she desired to be alone.\n\nDorothy's attitude was not assumed one moment too soon, for hardly was her\ngown arranged with due regard to carelessness when Sir George's form rose\nabove the crest of Bowling Green Hill. In a few minutes he was standing in\nfront of his daughter, red with anger. Dorothy's face wore a look of calm\ninnocence, which I believe would have deceived Solomon himself,\nnotwithstanding that great man's experience with the sex. It did more to\nthrow Sir George off the scent than any words the girl could have spoken.\n\n\"Who has been with you?\" demanded Sir George, angrily.\n\n\"When, father?\" queried the girl, listlessly resting her head against the\nwall.\n\n\"Now, this afternoon. Who has been with you? Ben Shaw said that a man was\nhere. He said that he saw a man with you less than half an hour since.\"\n\nThat piece of information was startling to Dorothy, but no trace of\nsurprise was visible in her manner or in her voice. She turned listlessly\nand brushed a dry leaf from her gown. Then she looked calmly up into her\nfather's face and said laconically, but to the point:--\n\n\"Ben lied.\" To herself she said, \"Ben shall also suffer.\"\n\n\"I do not believe that Ben lied,\" said Sir George. \"I, myself, saw a man\ngo away from here.\"\n\nThat was crowding the girl into close quarters, but she did not flinch.\n\n\"Which way did he go, father?\" she asked, with a fine show of carelessness\nin her manner, but with a feeling of excruciating fear in her breast. She\nwell knew the wisdom of the maxim, \"Never confess.\"\n\n\"He went northward,\" answered Sir George.\n\n\"Inside the wall?\" asked Dorothy, beginning again to breathe freely, for\nshe knew that John had ridden southward.\n\n\"Inside the wall, of course,\" her father replied. \"Do you suppose I could\nsee him through the stone wall? One should be able to see through a stone\nwall to keep good watch on you.\"\n\n\"You might have thought you saw him through the wall,\" answered the girl.\n\"I sometimes think of late, father, that you are losing your mind. You\ndrink too much brandy, my dear father. Oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if you\nwere to lose your mind?\" She rose as she spoke, and going to her father\nbegan to stroke him gently with her hand. She looked into his face with\nreal affection; for when she deceived him, she loved him best as a partial\natonement for her ill-doing.\n\n\"Wouldn't that be dreadful?\" she continued, while Sir George stood lost in\nbewilderment. \"Wouldn't that be dreadful for my dear old father to lose\nhis mind? But I really think it must be coming to pass. A great change has\nof late come over you, father. You have for the first time in your life\nbeen unkind to me and suspicious. Father, do you realize that you insult\nyour daughter when you accuse her of having been in this secluded place\nwith a man? You would punish another for speaking so against my fair\nname.\"\n\n\"But, Dorothy,\" Sir George replied, feeling as if he were in the wrong,\n\"Ben Shaw said that he saw you here with a man, and I saw a man pass\ntoward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name.\"\n\nDorothy knew that her father must have seen a man near the gate, but who\nhe was she could not imagine. John surely was beyond the wall and well out\nof sight on his way to Rowsley before her father reached the crest of\nBowling Green Hill. But it was evident that Shaw had seen John. Evidence\nthat a man had been at the gate was too strong to be successfully\ncontradicted. Facts that cannot be successfully contradicted had better be\nfrankly admitted. Dorothy sought through her mind for an admission that\nwould not admit, and soon hit upon a plan which, shrewd as it seemed to\nbe, soon brought her to grief.\n\n\"Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm,\" said Dorothy, as the result of her\nmental search. \"He passed here a little time since and stopped for a\nmoment to talk. Perhaps you saw Malcolm, father. You would not find fault\nwith me because he was here, would you?\"\n\n\"Dorothy, my daughter,\" said Sir George, hesitatingly, \"are you telling me\nthe truth?\"\n\nThen the fair girl lifted up her beautiful head, and standing erect at her\nfull height (it pains me to tell you this) said: \"Father, I am a Vernon. I\nwould not lie.\"\n\nHer manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced.\n\nHe said, \"I believe you.\"\n\nHer father's confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point of\nrepentance, I hardly need say.\n\nDorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare me\nto answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me. She took\nDolcy's rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested the\nother upon her father's arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to the\nHall, very happy because of her lucky escape.\n\nBut a lie is always full of latent retribution.\n\nI was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothy\nand her father entered.\n\n\"Ah, Malcolm, are you here?\" asked Sir George in a peculiar tone of\nsurprise for which I could see no reason.\n\n\"I thought you were walking.\"\n\nI was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, \"No, I am helping old\nBess and Jennie with supper.\"\n\n\"Have you not been walking?\" asked Sir George.\n\nThere was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I was\nsurprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. But\nSir George's expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when compared\nwith that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not only\nwas her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body were\nconvulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, I\ncould not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only too\nreadable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stamped\nher foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips and\nnodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost upon\nme, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. The\nexpression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of my\ngaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mighty\npantomimic effort at mute communication.\n\n\"Why in the devil's name are you making those grimaces?\" demanded Sir\nGeorge.\n\n\"I wasn't making grimaces--I--I think I was about to sneeze,\" replied\nDorothy.\n\n\"Do you think I am blind?\" stormed Sir George. \"Perhaps I am losing my\nmind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you at\nBowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I'll show you that if I\nam losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house.\"\n\n\"Now, father, what is all this storming about?\" asked the girl, coaxingly,\nas she boldly put her hands upon her father's shoulders and turned her\nface in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up to\nhis. \"Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know.\" She was sure\nthat her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate,\nand she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whose\nonly virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, would\nwillingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught the\ntruth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined to\nperjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe the\ninfluence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell I\nseemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily was\nparalyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. I\ncannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you may\nmake out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of this\nhistory have occasion to speak of Dorothy's strange power, and how it was\nexerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.\n\n\"Ask Malcolm,\" repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father's\nbreast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for,\nin place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demanded\nexcitedly of Dorothy, \"What have you in your pocket that strikes against\nmy knee?\"\n\n\"Mother of Heaven!\" exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping back\nfrom her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward her\npocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness by\nsudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face which\nfilled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holding\nwith one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched the\nkey in her pocket.\n\n\"What have you in your pocket?\" demanded Sir George with a terrible oath.\n\"Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you.\" Dorothy started to run\nfrom the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drew\nher to him. \"Bring it out, huzzy; it's the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah,\nI've lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet,\nbut I soon shall lose it at this rate,\" and he certainly looked as if he\nwould.\n\nPoor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, but\nshe was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown and\ntore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom.\nDorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece of\nwhite paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made in\nthe gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he felt\nsure, was from Dorothy's unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for a\ntime, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her face\nfrom her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, \"Malcolm.\" Her\nvoice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help I\nhave never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take the\nletter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he would\nstrike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and he\ntook up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:--\n\n\"Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with God's help I\nwill meet you at Bowling Green Gate--.\" The girl could endure no more. She\nsprang with a scream toward her father and tried to snatch the letter. Sir\nGeorge drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed him\nfrantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter.\nSir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued the\nletter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy's\nhand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into the\nfire, but she feared that her father might rescue it from the ashes. She\nglanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded in\nsnatching from her father bore John's name. Sir George strode hurriedly\nacross the room toward her and she ran to me.\n\n\"Malcolm! Malcolm!\" she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then I\nsaw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herself\nupon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembled\nas a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree may\ntremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. While\nshe clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and her\nwondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expression\nwas the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension.\nHer face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Her\nfear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped her\nfingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying to\nmake, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for less\nthan one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyed\neven one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and to\ncaress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of rest\nin my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength.\n\n\"Where is the paper?\" he cried in rage. \"It contained the fellow's\nsignature.\"\n\n\"I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it.\nDoubtless that would be a pleasant task for you,\" answered Dorothy, who\nwas comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discover\nJohn's name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girl\nhad he then learned that the letter was from John Manners.\n\n\"I command you to tell me this fellow's name,\" said Sir George, with a\ncalmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued\n\"I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me and\ntold me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In God's name I\nswear that I would rather father a thief than a liar.\"\n\n\"I did give her the heart, Sir George,\" I said, interrupting him. \"It was\nmy mother's.\" I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in his\nviolence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for his\nanger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but her\ndeception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love that\nhad come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meeting\nwith Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I also\nbelieve, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not a\nthief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. She\nwas gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but I\nbelieve she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love.\nSome few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an ocean\nof love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart and\nsoul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class was\nDorothy.\n\n\"God is love,\" says the Book.\n\n\"The universe is God,\" says the philosopher. \"Therefore,\" as the\nmathematician would say, \"love is the universe.\" To that proposition\nDorothy was a corollary.\n\nThe servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen.\n\n\"Let us go to the dining hall,\" I suggested. Sir George led the way by the\nstone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquet\nhail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand.\n\nThe moment of respite from her father's furious attack gave her time in\nwhich to collect her scattered senses.\n\nWhen we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, Sir\nGeorge turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to know\nthe name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and said\nnothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room.\n\n\"Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tell\nme the name of the man who wrote this letter,\" he cried, holding toward\nher the fragment of paper. \"Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, I\nswear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper court\ntill you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child.\"\n\nThen Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only for\nherself she had to fear.\n\nHer heart kept saying, \"This for his sake, this for his sake.\" Out of her\nlove came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action.\n\nHer father's oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodice\nfrom her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:--\n\n\"I am ready for the whip, I am ready. Who is to do the deed, father, you\nor the butcher? It must be done. You have sworn it, and I swear before God\nand by my maidenhood that I will not tell you the name of the man who\nwrote the letter. I love him, and before I will tell you his name or\nforego his love for me, or before I will abate one jot or tittle of my\nlove for him, I will gladly die by the whip in your hand. I am ready for\nthe whip, father. I am ready. Let us have it over quickly.\"\n\nThe girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the door\nleading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move. I was deeply\naffected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the flogging\nif to do so should cost Sir George's life at my hands. I would have\nkilled him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip upon\nDorothy's back.\n\n\"Father,\" continued the terrible girl, \"are you not going to flog me?\nRemember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before God and upon\nyour knighthood. A forsworn Christian? A forsworn knight? A forsworn\nVernon? The lash, father, the lash--I am eager for it.\"\n\nSir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward the\ndoor. Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, and\nshe whispered the words, \"Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!\"\n\nAs she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his arms\ntoward her and in a wail of agony cried: \"Doll! Doll! My daughter! My\nchild! God help me!\"\n\nHe covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment as\nthe tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbing\nforth the anguish of which his soul was full.\n\nIn an instant Dorothy was by her father's side holding his head upon her\nlap. She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamed\nfrom her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance.\n\n\"I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all. I will give him up; I\nwill see him never again. I will try not to love him. Oh, father, forgive\nme, forgive me. I will never again deceive you so long as I live.\"\n\nTruly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken. When one swears\nto do too much, one performs too little.\n\nI helped Sir George rise to his feet.\n\nDorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but he\nrepulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her name\nquitted the room with tottering steps.\n\nWhen her father had gone Dorothy stood in revery for a little time, and\nthen looking toward the door through which her father had just passed, she\nspoke as if to herself: \"He does not know. How fortunate!\"\n\n\"But you said you would tell him,\" I suggested. \"You said you would give\nhim up.\"\n\nDorothy was in a deep revery. She took her bodice from the floor and\nmechanically put it on.\n\n\"I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give--give him\nup,\" she replied; \"but I will do neither. Father would not meet my love\nwith love. He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance when\nit was he who should have repented. I was alarmed and grieved for father's\nsake when I said that I would tell him about--about John, and would give\nhim up.\" She was silent and thoughtful for a little time. \"Give him up?\"\nshe cried defiantly. \"No, not for my soul; not for ten thousand thousand\nsouls. When my father refused my love, he threw away the only opportunity\nhe shall ever have to learn from me John's name. That I swear, and I shall\nnever be forsworn. I asked father's forgiveness when he should have begged\nfor mine. Whip me in the courtyard, would he, till I should bleed! Yet I\nwas willing to forgive him, and he would not accept my forgiveness. I was\nwilling to forego John, who is more than life to me; but my father would\nnot accept my sacrifice. Truly will I never be so great a fool the second\ntime. Malcolm, I will not remain here to be the victim of another insult\nsuch as my father put upon me to-day. There is no law, human or divine,\nthat gives to a parent the right to treat his daughter as my father has\nused me. Before this day my conscience smote me when I deceived him, and I\nsuffered pain if I but thought of my father. But now, thanks to his\ncruelty, I may be happy without remorse. Malcolm, if you betray me, I\nwill--I will kill you if I must follow you over the world to do it.\"\n\n\"Do you think that I deserve that threat from you, Dorothy?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, no, my dear friend, forgive me. I trust you,\" and she caught up my\nhand and kissed it gently.\n\nDorothy and I remained in the banquet hail, seated upon the stone bench\nunder the blazoned window.\n\nSoon Sir George returned, closely followed by two men, one of whom bore\nmanacles such as were used to secure prisoners in the dungeon. Sir George\ndid not speak. He turned to the men and motioned with his hand toward\nDorothy. I sprang to my feet, intending to interfere by force, if need be,\nto prevent the outrage; but before I could speak Lady Crawford hurriedly\nentered the hall and ran to Sir George's side.\n\n\"Brother,\" she said, \"old Bess has just told me that you have given orders\nfor Dorothy's confinement in the dungeon. I could not believe Bess; but\nthese men with irons lead me to suspect that you really intend.--\"\n\n\"Do not interfere in affairs that do not concern you,\" replied Sir George,\nsullenly.\n\n\"But this does concern me greatly,\" said Aunt Dorothy, \"and if you send\nDoll to the dungeon, Madge and I will leave your house and will proclaim\nyour act to all England.\"\n\n\"The girl has disobeyed me and has lied to me, and--\"\n\n\"I care not what she has done, I shall leave your house and disown you for\nmy brother if you perpetrate this outrage upon my niece. She is dear to me\nas if she were my own child. Have I not brought her up since babyhood? If\nyou carry out this order, brother, I will leave Haddon Hall forever.\"\n\n\"And I'll go with her,\" cried old Bess, who stood at the door of the\nscreens.\n\n\"And I, too,\" said Dawson, who was one of the men who had entered with Sir\nGeorge.\n\n\"And I,\" cried the other man, throwing the manacles to the floor, \"I will\nleave your service.\"\n\nSir George took up the manacles and moved toward Dorothy.\n\n\"You may all go, every cursed one of you. I rule my own house, and I will\nhave no rebels in it. When I have finished with this perverse wench, I'll\nnot wait for you to go. I'll drive you all out and you may go to--\"\n\nHe was approaching Dorothy, but I stepped in front of him.\n\n\"This must not be, Sir George,\" said I, sternly. \"I shall not leave Haddon\nHall, and I fear you not. I shall remain here to protect your daughter and\nyou from your own violence. You cannot put me out of Haddon Hall; I will\nnot go.\"\n\n\"Why cannot I put you out of Haddon Hail?\" retorted Sir George, whose rage\nby that time was frightful to behold.\n\n\"Because, sir, I am a better man and a better swordsman than you are, and\nbecause you have not on all your estates a servant nor a retainer who will\nnot join me against you when I tell them the cause I champion.\"\n\nDawson and his fellow stepped to my side significantly, and Sir George\nraised the iron manacles as if intending to strike me. I did not move. At\nthe same moment Madge entered the room.\n\n\"Where is my uncle?\" she asked.\n\nOld Bess led her to Sir George. She spoke not a word, but placed her arms\ngently about his neck and drew his face down to hers. Then she kissed him\nsoftly upon the lips and said:--\n\n\"My uncle has never in all his life spoken in aught but kindness to me,\nand now I beg him to be kind to Dorothy.\"\n\nThe heavy manacles fell clanking to the floor. Sir George placed his hand\ncaressingly upon Madge's head and turned from Dorothy.\n\nLady Crawford then approached her brother and put her hand upon his arm,\nsaying:--\n\n\"Come with me, George, that I may speak to you in private.\"\n\nShe moved toward the door by which she had entered, and Madge quietly took\nher uncle's hand and led him after Lady Crawford. Within five minutes Sir\nGeorge, Aunt Dorothy, and Madge returned to the room.\n\n\"Dorothy?\" said Madge in a low voice.\n\n\"Here I am, Madge,\" murmured Dorothy, who was sitting on the bench by the\nblazoned window. Madge walked gropingly over to her cousin and sat by her\nside, taking her hand. Then Lady Crawford spoke to Dorothy:--\n\n\"Your father wishes me to say that you must go to your apartments in\nEntrance Tower, and that you shall not leave them without his consent. He\nalso insists that I say to you if you make resistance or objection to this\ndecree, or if you attempt to escape, he will cause you to be manacled and\nconfined in the dungeon, and that no persuasion upon our part will lead\nhim from his purpose.\"\n\n\"Which shall it be?\" asked Sir George, directing his question to Lady\nCrawford.\n\nDorothy lifted her eyebrows, bit the corner of her lip, shrugged her\nshoulders, and said:--\n\n\"Indeed, it makes no difference to me where you send me, father; I am\nwilling to do whatever will give you the greatest happiness. If you\nconsult my wishes, you will have me whipped in the courtyard till I bleed.\nI should enjoy that more than anything else you can do. Ah, how tender is\nthe love of a father! It passeth understanding.\"\n\n\"Come to your apartments, Dorothy,\" said Lady Crawford, anxious to\nseparate the belligerents. \"I have given your father my word of honor that\nI will guard you and will keep you prisoner in your rooms. Do you not pity\nme? I gave my promise only to save you from the dungeon, and painful as\nthe task will be, I will keep my word to your father.\"\n\n\"Which shall it be, father?\" asked Dorothy. \"You shall finish the task you\nbegan. I shall not help you in your good work by making choice. You shall\nchoose my place of imprisonment. Where shall it be? Shall I go to my rooms\nor to the dungeon?\"\n\n\"Go to your rooms,\" answered Sir George, \"and let me never see--\" but Sir\nGeorge did not finish the sentence. He hurriedly left the hall, and\nDorothy cheerfully went to imprisonment in Entrance Tower.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nMALCOLM No. 2\n\n\nSir George had done a bad day's work. He had hardened Dorothy's heart\nagainst himself and had made it more tender toward John. Since her father\nhad treated her so cruelly, she felt she was at liberty to give her heart\nto John without stint. So when once she was alone in her room the\nflood-gates of her heart were opened, and she poured forth the ineffable\ntenderness and the passionate longings with which she was filled. With\nsolitude came the memory of John's words and John's kisses. She recalled\nevery movement, every word, every tone, every sensation. She gave her soul\nunbridled license to feast with joyous ecstasy upon the thrilling\nmemories. All thoughts of her father's cruelty were drowned in a sea of\nbliss. She forgot him. In truth, she forgot everything but her love and\nher lover. That evening, after she had assisted Madge to prepare for bed,\nas was her custom, Dorothy stood before her mirror making her toilet for\nthe night. In the flood of her newly found ecstasy she soon forgot that\nMadge was in the room.\n\nDorothy stood before her mirror with her face near to its polished\nsurface, that she might scrutinize every feature, and, if possible, verify\nJohn's words.\n\n\"He called me 'my beauty' twice,\" she thought, \"and 'my Aphrodite' once.\"\nThen her thoughts grew into unconscious words, and she spoke aloud:--\n\n\"I wish he could see me now.\" And she blushed at the thought, as she\nshould have done. \"He acted as if he meant all he said,\" she thought. \"I\nknow he meant it. I trust him entirely. But if he should change? Holy\nMother, I believe I should die. But I do believe him. He would not lie,\neven though he is not a Vernon.\"\n\nWith thoughts of the scene between herself and her father at the gate,\nthere came a low laugh, half of amusement, half of contentment, and the\nlaugh meant a great deal that was to be regretted; it showed a sad change\nin Dorothy's heart. But yesterday the memory of her deceit would have\nfilled her with grief. To-night she laughed at it. Ah, Sir George!\nPitiable old man! While your daughter laughs, you sigh and groan and moan,\nand your heart aches with pain and impotent rage. Even drink fails to\nbring comfort to you. I say impotent rage, because Dorothy is out of your\nreach, and as surely as the sun rises in the east she is lost to you\nforever. The years of protection and tender love which you have given to\nher go for nothing. Now comes the son of your mortal enemy, and you are\nbut an obstruction in her path. Your existence is forgotten while she\nrevels in the memory of his words, his embraces, and his lips. She laughs\nwhile you suffer, in obedience to the fate that Heaven has decreed for\nthose who bring children into this world.\n\nWho is to blame for the pitiable mite which children give in return for a\nparent's flood of love? I do not know, but of this I am sure: if parents\nwould cease to feel that they own their children in common with their\nhorses, their estates, and their cattle; if they would not, as many do in\nvarying degrees, treat their children as their property, the return of\nlove would be far more adequate than it is.\n\nDorothy stood before her mirror plaiting her hair. Her head was turned\nbackward a little to one side that she might more easily reach the great\nred golden skein. In that entrancing attitude the reflection of the nether\nlip of which John had spoken so fondly came distinctly to Dorothy's\nnotice. She paused in the braiding of her hair and held her face close to\nthe mirror that she might inspect the lip, whose beauty John had so\nardently admired. She turned her face from one side to the other that she\nmight view it from all points, and then she thrust it forward with a\npouting movement that would have set the soul of a mummy pulsing if he had\never been a man. She stood for a moment in contemplation of the full red\nlip, and then resting her hands upon the top of the mirror table leaned\nforward and kissed its reflected image.\n\nAgain forgetfulness fell upon her and her thoughts grew into words.\n\n\"He was surely right concerning my lower lip,\" she said, speaking to\nherself. Then without the least apparent relevance, \"He had been smoking.\"\nAgain her words broke her revery, and she took up the unfinished braid of\nhair. When she did so, she caught a glimpse of her arm which was as\nperfectly rounded as the fairest marble of Phidias. She stretched the arm\nto its full length that the mirror might reflect its entire beauty. Again\nshe thought aloud: \"I wish he could see my arm. Perhaps some day--\" But\nthe words ceased, and in their place came a flush that spread from her\nhair to her full white throat, and she quickly turned the mirror away so\nthat even it should not behold her beauty.\n\nYou see after all is told Dorothy was modest.\n\nShe finished her toilet without the aid of her mirror; but before she\nextinguished the candle she stole one more fleeting glance at its polished\nsurface, and again came the thought, \"Perhaps some day--\" Then she covered\nthe candle, and amid enfolding darkness lay down beside Madge, full of\nthoughts and sensations that made her tremble; for they were strange to\nher, and she knew not what they meant.\n\nDorothy thought that Madge was asleep, but after a few minutes the latter\nsaid:--\n\n\"Tell me, Dorothy, who was on fire?\"\n\n\"Who was on fire?\" asked Dorothy in surprise. \"What do you mean, Madge?\"\n\n\"I hope they have not been trying to burn any one,\" said Madge.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" again asked Dorothy.\n\n\"You said 'He had been smoking,'\" responded Madge.\n\n\"Oh,\" laughed Dorothy, \"that is too comical. Of course not, dear one. I\nwas speaking of--of a man who had been smoking tobacco, as Malcolm does.\"\nThen she explained the process of tobacco smoking.\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" answered Madge. \"I saw Malcolm's pipe. That is, I held it\nin my hands for a moment while he explained to me its use.\"\n\nSilence ensued for a moment, and Madge again spoke:--\n\n\"What was it he said about your lower lip, and who was he? I did not learn\nwhy Uncle George wished to confine you in the dungeon. I am so sorry that\nthis trouble has come upon you.\"\n\n\"Trouble, Madge?\" returned Dorothy. \"Truly, you do not understand. No\ntrouble has come upon me. The greatest happiness of my life has come to\npass. Don't pity me. Envy me. My happiness is so sweet and so great that\nit frightens me.\"\n\n\"How can you be happy while your father treats you so cruelly?\" asked\nMadge.\n\n\"His conduct makes it possible for my happiness to be complete,\" returned\nDorothy. \"If he were kind to me, I should be unhappy, but his cruelty\nleaves me free to be as happy as I may. For my imprisonment in this room I\ncare not a farthing. It does not trouble me, for when I wish to see--see\nhim again, I shall do so. I don't know at this time just how I shall\neffect it; but be sure, sweet one, I shall find a way.\" There was no doubt\nin Madge's mind that Dorothy would find a way.\n\n\"Who is he, Dorothy? You may trust me. Is he the gentleman whom we met at\nDerby-town?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Dorothy, \"he is Sir John Manners.\"\n\n\"Dorothy!\" exclaimed Madge in tones of fear.\n\n\"It could not be worse, could it, Madge?\" said Dorothy.\n\n\"Oh, Dorothy!\" was the only response.\n\n\"You will not betray me?\" asked Dorothy, whose alarm made her suspicious.\n\n\"You know whether or not I will betray you,\" answered Madge.\n\n\"Indeed, I know, else I should not have told you my secret. Oh, you should\nsee him, Madge; he is the most beautiful person living. The poor soft\nbeauty of the fairest woman grows pale beside him. You cannot know how\nwonderfully beautiful a man may be. You have never seen one.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have seen many men, and I well remember their appearance. I was\ntwelve years old, you know, when I lost my sight.\"\n\n\"But, Madge,\" said Dorothy, out of the fulness of her newly acquired\nknowledge, \"a girl of twelve cannot see a man.\"\n\n\"No woman sees with her eyes the man whom she loves,\" answered Madge,\nquietly.\n\n\"How does she see him?\" queried Dorothy.\n\n\"With her heart.\"\n\n\"Have you, too, learned that fact?\" asked Dorothy.\n\nMadge hesitated for a moment and murmured \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Who is he, dear one?\" whispered Dorothy.\n\n\"I may not tell even you, Dorothy,\" replied Madge, \"because it can come\nto nothing. The love is all on my part.\"\n\nDorothy insisted, but Madge begged her not to ask for her secret.\n\n\"Please don't even make a guess concerning him,\" said Madge. \"It is my\nshame and my joy.\"\n\nIt looked as if this malady which had fallen upon Dorothy were like the\nplague that infects a whole family if one but catch it.\n\nDorothy, though curious, was generous, and remained content with Madge's\npromise that she should be the first one to hear the sweet story if ever\nthe time should come to tell it.\n\n\"When did you see him?\" asked Madge, who was more willing to receive than\nto impart intelligence concerning affairs of the heart.\n\n\"To-day,\" answered Dorothy. Then she told Madge about the scenes at the\ngate and described what had happened between her and Sir George in the\nkitchen and banquet hall.\n\n\"How could you tell your father such a falsehood?\" asked Madge in\nconsternation.\n\n\"It was very easy. You see I had to do it. I never lied until recently.\nBut oh, Madge, this is a terrible thing to come upon a girl!\" \"This\" was\nsomewhat indefinite, but Madge understood, and perhaps it will be clear to\nyou what Dorothy meant. The girl continued: \"She forgets all else. It will\ndrive her to do anything, however wicked. For some strange cause, under\nits influence she does not feel the wrong she does. It acts upon a girl's\nsense of right and wrong as poppy juice acts on pain. Before it came upon\nme in--in such terrible force, I believe I should have become ill had I\ntold my father a falsehood. I might have equivocated, or I might have\nevaded the truth in some slight degree, but I could not have told a lie.\nBut now it is as easy as winking.\"\n\n\"And I fear, Dorothy,\" responded Madge, \"that winking is very easy for\nyou.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered candid Dorothy with a sigh.\n\n\"It must be a very great evil,\" said Madge, deploringly.\n\n\"One might well believe so,\" answered Dorothy, \"but it is not. One\ninstinctively knows it to be the essence of all that is good.\"\n\nMadge asked, \"Did Sir John tell you that--that he--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dorothy, covering her face even from the flickering rays of\nthe rushlight.\n\n\"Did you tell him?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" came in reply from under the coverlet.\n\nAfter a short silence Dorothy uncovered her face.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said boldly, \"I told him plainly; nor did I feel shame in so\ndoing. It must be that this strange love makes one brazen. You, Madge,\nwould die with shame had you sought any man as I have sought John. I would\nnot for worlds tell you how bold and over-eager I have been.\"\n\n\"Oh, Dorothy!\" was all the answer Madge gave.\n\n\"You would say 'Oh, Dorothy,' many times if you knew all.\" Another pause\nensued, after which Madge asked:--\n\n\"How did you know he had been smoking?\"\n\n\"I--I tasted it,\" responded Dorothy.\n\n\"How could you taste it? I hope you did not smoke?\" returned Madge in\nwonderment.\n\nDorothy smothered a little laugh, made two or three vain attempts to\nexplain, tenderly put her arms about Madge's neck and kissed her.\n\n\"Oh, Dorothy, that certainly was wrong,\" returned Madge, although she had\nsome doubts in her own mind upon the point.\n\n\"Well, if it is wrong,\" answered Dorothy, sighing, \"I don't care to live.\"\n\n\"Dorothy, I fear you are an immodest girl,\" said Madge.\n\n\"I fear I am, but I don't care--John, John, John!\"\n\n\"How came he to speak of your lower lip?\" asked Madge. \"It certainly is\nvery beautiful; but how came he to speak of it?\"\n\n\"It was after--after--once,\" responded Dorothy.\n\n\"And your arm,\" continued remorseless Madge, \"how came he to speak of it?\nYou surely did not--\"\n\n\"No, no, Madge; I hope you do not think I would show him my arm. I have\nnot come to that. I have a poor remnant of modesty left; but the Holy\nMother only knows how long it will last. No, he did not speak of my arm.\"\n\n\"You spoke of your arm when you were before the mirror,\" responded Madge,\n\"and you said, 'Perhaps some day--'\"\n\n\"Oh, don't, Madge. Please spare me. I indeed fear I am very wicked. I will\nsay a little prayer to the Virgin to-night. She will hear me, even If I am\nwicked; and she will help me to become good and modest again.\"\n\nThe girls went to sleep, and Dorothy dreamed \"John, John, John,\" and\nslumbered happily.\n\nThat part of the building of Haddon Hall which lies to the northward, west\nof the kitchen, consists of rooms according to the following plan:--\n\nThe two rooms in Entrance Tower over the great doors at the northwest\ncorner of Haddon Hall were occupied by Dorothy and Madge. The west room\noverlooking the Wye was their parlor. The next room to the east was their\nbedroom. The room next their bedroom was occupied by Lady Crawford. Beyond\nthat was Sir George's bedroom, and east of his room was one occupied by\nthe pages and two retainers. To enter Dorothy's apartments one must pass\nthrough all the other rooms I have mentioned. Her windows were twenty-five\nfeet from the ground and were barred with iron. After Dorothy's sentence\nof imprisonment, Lady Crawford, or some trusted person in her place, was\nalways on guard in Aunt Dorothy's room to prevent Dorothy's escape, and\nguards were also stationed in the retainer's room for the same purpose. I\ntell you this that you may understand the difficulties Dorothy would have\nto overcome before she could see John, as she declared to Madge she would.\nBut my opinion is that there are no limits to the resources of a wilful\ngirl. Dorothy saw Manners. The plan she conceived to bring about the\ndesired end was so seemingly impossible, and her execution of it was so\nadroit and daring, that I believe it will of itself interest you in the\ntelling, aside from the bearing it has upon this history. No sane man\nwould have deemed it possible, but this wilful girl carried it to\nfruition. She saw no chance of failure. To her it seemed a simple, easy\nmatter. Therefore she said with confidence and truth, \"I will see him when\nI wish to.\"\n\nLet me tell you of it.\n\nDuring Dorothy's imprisonment I spent an hour or two each evening with her\nand Madge at their parlor in the tower. The windows of the room, as I have\ntold you, faced westward, overlooking the Wye, and disclosed the\nbeautiful, undulating scenery of Overhaddon Hill in the distance.\n\nOne afternoon when Madge was not present Dorothy asked me to bring her a\ncomplete suit of my garments,--boots, hose, trunks, waistcoat, and\ndoublet. I laughed, and asked her what she wanted with them, but she\nrefused to tell me. She insisted, however, and I promised to fetch the\ngarments to her. Accordingly the next evening I delivered the bundle to\nher hands. Within a week she returned them all, saving the boots. Those\nshe kept--for what reason I could not guess.\n\nLady Crawford, by command of Sir George, carried in her reticule the key\nof the door which opened from her own room into Sir George's apartments,\nand the door was always kept locked.\n\nDorothy had made several attempts to obtain possession of the key, with\nintent, I believe, of making a bold dash for liberty. But Aunt Dorothy,\nmindful of Sir George's wrath and fearing him above all men, acted\nfaithfully her part of gaoler. She smiled, half in sadness, when she told\nme of the girl's simplicity in thinking she could hoodwink a person of\nLady Crawford's age, experience, and wisdom. The old lady took great pride\nin her own acuteness. The distasteful task of gaoler, however, pained good\nAunt Dorothy, whose simplicity was, in truth, no match for Dorothy's\nlove-quickened cunning. But Aunt Dorothy's sense of duty and her fear of\nSir George impelled her to keep good and conscientious guard.\n\nOne afternoon near the hour of sunset I knocked for admission at Lady\nCrawford's door. When I had entered she locked the door carefully after\nme, and replaced the key in the reticule which hung at her girdle.\n\nI exchanged a few words with her Ladyship, and entered Dorothy's bedroom,\nwhere I left my cloak, hat, and sword. The girls were in the parlor. When\nI left Lady Crawford she again took her chair near the candle, put on her\ngreat bone-rimmed spectacles, and was soon lost to the world in the pages\nof \"Sir Philip de Comynges.\" The dear old lady was near-sighted and was\nslightly deaf. Dorothy's bedroom, like Lady Crawford's apartments, was in\ndeep shadow. In it there was no candle.\n\nMy two fair friends were seated in one of the west windows watching the\nsunset. They rose, and each gave me her hand and welcomed me with the rare\nsmiles I had learned to expect from them. I drew a chair near to the\nwindow and we talked and laughed together merrily for a few minutes. After\na little time Dorothy excused herself, saying that she would leave Madge\nand me while she went into the bedroom to make a change in her apparel.\n\nMadge and I sat for a few minutes at the window, and I said, \"You have not\nbeen out to-day for exercise.\"\n\nI had ridden to Derby with Sir George and had gone directly on my return\nto see my two young friends. Sir George had not returned.\n\n\"Will you walk with me about the room?\" I asked. My real reason for making\nthe suggestion was that I longed to clasp her hand, and to feel its\nvelvety touch, since I should lead her if we walked.\n\nShe quickly rose in answer to my invitation and offered me her hand. As we\nwalked to and fro a deep, sweet contentment filled my heart, and I felt\nthat any words my lips could coin would but mar the ineffable silence.\n\nNever shall I forget the soft light of that gloaming as the darkening red\nrays of the sinking sun shot through the panelled window across the floor\nand illumined the tapestry upon the opposite wall.\n\nThe tapestries of Haddon Hall are among the most beautiful in England, and\nthe picture upon which the sun's rays fell was that of a lover kneeling at\nthe feet of his mistress. Madge and I passed and repassed the illumined\nscene, and while it was softly fading into shadow a great flood of tender\nlove for the girl whose soft hand I held swept over my heart. It was the\nnoblest motive I had ever felt.\n\nMoved by an impulse I could not resist, I stopped in our walk, and falling\nto my knee pressed her hand ardently to my lips. Madge did not withdraw\nher hand, nor did she attempt to raise me. She stood in passive silence.\nThe sun's rays had risen as the sun had sunk, and the light was falling\nlike a holy radiance from the gates of paradise upon the girl's head. I\nlooked upward, and never in my eyes had woman's face appeared so fair and\nsaintlike. She seemed to see me and to feel the silent outpouring of my\naffection. I rose to my feet, and clasping both her hands spoke only her\nname \"Madge.\"\n\nShe answered simply, \"Malcolm, is it possible?\" And her face, illumined by\nthe sunlight and by the love-god, told me all else. Then I gently took her\nto my arms and kissed her lips again and again and again, and Madge by no\nsign nor gesture said me nay. She breathed a happy sigh, her head fell\nupon my breast, and all else of good that the world could offer compared\nwith her was dross to me.\n\nWe again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her hand\nwithout an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through the\nhappiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and to\nlave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But my\nrhapsodies must have an end.\n\nWhen Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom and\nquickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I had\nlent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak.\nShe drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slim\nwaist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, and\nturned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin and\nupper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some manner\ncontrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of Malcolm\nVernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.\n\nWhile sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword against\nthe oak floor in Dorothy's bedroom. I supposed she had been toying with it\nand had let it fall. She was much of a child, and nothing could escape her\ncuriosity. Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy's apartments. I\nwhispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, and\nthen I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom. I\nnoiselessly opened the door and entered. From my dark hiding-place in\nDorothy's bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy's room which filled\nme with wonder and suppressed laughter. Striding about in the\nshadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford's apartment was my other self,\nMalcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.\n\nThe sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slanting\nrays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow,\nsave for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which\nthe old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously\nperusing.\n\nThe girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be\ndeepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the\nmost graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if she\nthought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a\ncopy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.\n\n\"What do you read, Lady Crawford?\" said my cloak and hat, in tones that\ncertainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.\n\n\"What do you say, Malcolm?\" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to show\nthe ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.\n\n\"I asked what do you read?\" repeated Dorothy.\n\n\"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,'\" responded Lady Crawford.\n\"Have you read it? It is a rare and interesting history.\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book. I have read it many times.\"\nThere was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly brought\nDorothy into trouble.\n\n\"What part of the 'Chronicle' do you best like?\" asked Aunt Dorothy,\nperhaps for lack of anything else to say. Here was trouble already for\nMalcolm No. 2.\n\n\"That is hard for me to say. I so well like it all. Perhaps--ah--perhaps I\nprefer the--the ah--the middle portion.\"\n\n\"Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy,\"\nreturned Aunt Dorothy. \"Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are always\nthinking--the ladies, the ladies.\"\n\n\"Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?\" my second self responded\nin a gallant style of which I was really proud. \"She who has caused so\nmuch of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman's mind\ncannot be better employed than--\"\n\n\"Malcolm, you are incorrigible. But it is well for a gentleman to keep in\npractice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practise\non.\"\n\n\"They like it, even if it be only practice, don't they?\" said Dorothy,\nfull of the spirit of mischief.\n\n\"I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon,\" retorted Aunt Dorothy with\na toss of her head. \"I surely don't value your practice, as you call it,\none little farthing's worth.\"\n\nBut Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of wit\nthan Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself.\n\n\"I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book. \"I have been\nreading Sir Philip's account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy.\nDo you remember the cause of her death?\"\n\nMalcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled to\nadmit that he did not remember the cause of Mary's death.\n\n\"You did not read the book with attention,\" replied Lady Crawford. \"Sir\nPhilip says that Mary of Burgundy died from an excess of modesty.\"\n\n\"That disease will never depopulate England,\" was the answer that came\nfrom my garments, much to my chagrin.\n\n\"Sir Malcolm,\" exclaimed the old lady, \"I never before heard so ungallant\na speech from your lips.\"--\"And,\" thought I, \"she never will hear its like\nfrom me.\"\n\n\"Modesty,\" continued Lady Crawford, \"may not be valued so highly by young\nwomen nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but--\"\n\n\"I am sure it is not,\" interrupted Dorothy.\n\n\"But,\" continued Lady Crawford, \"the young women of England are modest and\nseemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of in\nungallant jest.\"\n\nI trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry.\n\n\"Do you not,\" said Lady Crawford, \"consider Dorothy and Madge to be\nmodest, well-behaved maidens?\"\n\n\"Madge! Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be. She is a saint, but\nas to Dorothy--well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for her\nthan death from modesty. I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form does\nnot kill. Dorothy has it mildly,\" then under her breath, \"if at all.\"\n\nThe girl's sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for the moment\nit caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise.\n\n\"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy,\" retorted Lady Crawford.\n\"She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply.\"\n\n\"Her father would not agree with you,\" replied Dorothy.\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" responded the aunt. \"Her father's conduct causes me great\npain and grief.\"\n\n\"It also causes me pain,\" said Dorothy, sighing.\n\n\"But, Malcolm,\" continued the old lady, putting down her book and turning\nwith quickened interest toward my other self, \"who, suppose you, is the\nman with whom Dorothy has become so strangely entangled?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell for the life of me,\" answered Malcolm No. 2. \"Surely a\nmodest girl would not act as she does.\"\n\n\"Surely a modest girl would,\" replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. \"Malcolm, you\nknow nothing of women.\"\n\n\"Spoken with truth,\" thought I.\n\nThe old lady continued: \"Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do with\neach other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at the\nwindow. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish I\ncould help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. I\nfeign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I am\ngreatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love.\"\n\n\"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy,\" said the lovelorn young woman. \"I am\nsure she is fathoms deep in love.\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Lady Crawford, \"but a great passion would have impelled\nher to act as she did. Why, even Mary of Burgundy, with all her modesty,\nwon the husband she wanted, ay, and had him at the cost of half her rich\ndomain.\"\n\n\"I wonder if Dorothy will ever have the man she wants?\" said Malcolm,\nsighing in a manner entirely new to him.\n\n\"No,\" answered the old lady, \"I fear there is no hope for Dorothy. I\nwonder who he is? Her father intends that she shall soon marry Lord\nStanley. Sir George told me as much this morning when he started for\nDerby-town to arrange for the signing of the marriage contract within a\nday or two. He had a talk yesterday with Dorothy. She, I believe, has\nsurrendered to the inevitable, and again there is good feeling between her\nand my brother.\"\n\nDorothy tossed her head expressively.\n\n\"It is a good match,\" continued Lady Crawford, \"a good match, Malcolm. I\npity Dorothy; but it is my duty to guard her, and I shall do it\nfaithfully.\"\n\n\"My dear Lady Crawford,\" said my hat and cloak, \"your words and feelings\ndo great credit to your heart. But have you ever thought that your niece\nis a very wilful girl, and that she is full of disturbing expedients? Now\nI am willing to wager my beard that she will, sooner than you suspect, see\nher lover. And I am also willing to lay a wager that she will marry the\nman of her choice despite all the watchfulness of her father and yourself.\nKeep close guard over her, my lady, or she will escape.\"\n\nLady Crawford laughed. \"She shall not escape. Have no fear of that,\nMalcolm. The key to the door is always safely locked in my reticule. No\ngirl can outwit me. I am too old to be caught unawares by a mere child\nlike Dorothy. It makes me laugh, Malcolm--although I am sore at heart for\nDorothy's sake--it makes me laugh, with a touch of tears, when I think of\npoor simple Dorothy's many little artifices to gain possession of this\nkey. They are amusing and pathetic. Poor child! But I am too old to be\nduped by a girl, Malcolm, I am too old. She has no chance to escape.\"\n\nI said to myself: \"No one has ever become too old to be duped by a girl\nwho is in love. Her wits grow keen as the otter's fur grows thick for the\nwinter's need. I do not know your niece's plan; but if I mistake not, Aunt\nDorothy, you will in one respect, at least, soon be rejuvenated.\"\n\n\"I am sure Lady Crawford is right in what she says,\" spoke my other self,\n\"and Sir George is fortunate in having for his daughter a guardian who\ncannot be hoodwinked and who is true to a distasteful trust. I would the\ntrouble were over and that Dorothy were well married.\"\n\n\"So wish I, Malcolm, with all my heart,\" replied Aunt Dorothy.\n\nAfter a brief pause in the conversation Malcolm No. 2 said:--\n\n\"I must now take my leave. Will you kindly unlock the door and permit me\nto say good night?\"\n\n\"If you must go,\" answered my lady, glad enough to be left alone with her\nbeloved Sir Philip. Then she unlocked the door.\n\n\"Keep good watch, my dear aunt,\" said Malcolm. \"I greatly fear that\nDorothy--\" but the door closed on the remainder of the sentence and on\nDorothy Vernon.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" ejaculated the old lady somewhat impatiently. \"Why should he\nfear for Dorothy? I hope I shall not again be disturbed.\" And soon she was\ndeep in the pages of her book.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nA TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE\n\n\nI was at a loss what course to pursue, and I remained for a moment in\npuzzling thought. I went back to Madge, and after closing the door, told\nher of all I had seen. She could not advise me, and of course she was\ndeeply troubled and concerned. After deliberating, I determined to speak\nto Aunt Dorothy that she might know what had happened. So I opened the\ndoor and walked into Lady Crawford's presence. After viewing my lady's\nback for a short time, I said:--\n\n\"I cannot find my hat, cloak, and sword. I left them in Dorothy's bedroom.\nHas any one been here since I entered?\"\n\nThe old lady turned quickly upon me, \"Since you entered?\" she cried in\nwonderment and consternation. \"Since you left, you mean. Did you not leave\nthis room a few minutes ago? What means this? How found you entrance\nwithout the key?\"\n\n\"I did not leave this room, Aunt Dorothy; you see I am here,\" I responded.\n\n\"Who did leave? Your wraith? Some one--Dorothy!\" screamed the old lady in\nterror. \"That girl!!--Holy Virgin! where is she?\"\n\nLady Crawford hastened to Dorothy's room and returned to me in great\nagitation.\n\n\"Were you in the plot?\" she demanded angrily.\n\n\"No more than were you, Lady Crawford,\" I replied, telling the exact\ntruth. If I were accessory to Dorothy's crime, it was only as a witness\nand Aunt Dorothy had seen as much as I.\n\nI continued: \"Dorothy left Lady Madge and me at the window, saying she\nwished to make a change in her garments. I was watching the sunset and\ntalking with Lady Madge.\"\n\nLady Crawford, being full of concern about the main event,--Dorothy's\nescape,--was easily satisfied that I was not accessory before the fact.\n\n\"What shall I do, Malcolm? What shall I do? Help me, quickly. My brother\nwill return in the morning--perhaps he will return to-night--and he will\nnot believe that I have not intentionally permitted Dorothy to leave the\nHall. I have of late said so much to him on behalf of the girl that he\nsuspects me already of being in sympathy with her. He will not believe me\nwhen I tell him that I have been duped. The ungrateful, selfish girl! How\ncould she so unkindly return my affection!\"\n\nThe old lady began to weep.\n\nI did not believe that Dorothy intended to leave Haddon Hall permanently.\nI felt confident she had gone out only to meet John, and was sure she\nwould soon return. On the strength of that opinion I said: \"If you fear\nthat Sir George will not believe you--he certainly will blame you--would\nit not be better to admit Dorothy quietly when she returns and say nothing\nto any one concerning the escapade? I will remain here in these rooms, and\nwhen she returns I will depart, and the guards will never suspect that\nDorothy has left the Hall.\"\n\n\"If she will but return,\" wailed Aunt Dorothy, \"I shall be only too glad\nto admit her and to keep silent.\"\n\n\"I am sure she will,\" I answered. \"Leave orders with the guard at Sir\nGeorge's door to admit me at any time during the night, and Dorothy will\ncome in without being recognized. Her disguise must be very complete if\nshe could deceive you.\"\n\n\"Indeed, her disguise is complete,\" replied the tearful old lady.\n\nDorothy's disguise was so complete and her resemblance to me had been so\nwell contrived that she met with no opposition from the guards in the\nretainer's room nor from the porter. She walked out upon the terrace where\nshe strolled for a short time. Then she climbed over the wall at the stile\nback of the terrace and took her way up Bowling Green Hill toward the\ngate. She sauntered leisurely until she was out of sight of the Hall. Then\ngathering up her cloak and sword she sped along the steep path to the hill\ncrest and thence to the gate.\n\nSoon after the first day of her imprisonment she had sent a letter to John\nby the hand of Jennie Faxton, acquainting him with the details of all that\nhad happened. In her letter, among much else, she said:--\n\n\"My true love, I beg you to haunt with your presence Bowling Green Gate\neach day at the hour of sunset. I cannot tell you when I shall be there to\nmeet you, or surely I would do so now. But be there I will. Let no doubt\nof that disturb your mind. It does not lie in the power of man to keep me\nfrom you. That is, it lies in the power of but one man, you, my love and\nmy lord, and I fear not that you will use your power to that end. So it is\nthat I beg you to wait for me at sunset hour each day near by Bowling\nGreen Gate. You may be caused to wait for me a long weary time; but one\nday, sooner or later, I shall go to you, and then--ah, then, if it be in\nmy power to reward your patience, you shall have no cause for complaint.\"\n\nWhen Dorothy reached the gate she found it securely locked. She peered\neagerly through the bars, hoping to see John. She tried to shake the\nheavy iron structure to assure herself that it could not be opened.\n\n\"Ah, well,\" she sighed, \"I suppose the reason love laughs at locksmiths is\nbecause he--or she--can climb.\"\n\nThen she climbed the gate and sprang to the ground on the Devonshire side\nof the wall.\n\n\"What will John think when he sees me in this attire?\" she said half\naloud. \"Malcolm's cloak serves but poorly to cover me, and I shall instead\nbe covered with shame and confusion when John comes. I fear he will think\nI have disgraced myself.\" Then, with a sigh, \"But necessity knows no\nraiment.\"\n\nShe strode about near the gate for a few minutes, wishing that she were\nindeed a man, save for one fact: if she were not a woman, John would not\nlove her, and, above all, she could not love John. The fact that she could\nand did love John appealed to Dorothy as the highest, sweetest privilege\nthat Heaven or earth could offer to a human being.\n\nThe sun had sunk in the west, and his faint parting glory was but dimly to\nbe seen upon a few small clouds that floated above Overhaddon Hill. The\nmoon was past its half; and the stars, still yellow and pale from the\nlingering glare of day, waited eagerly to give their twinkling help in\nlighting the night. The forest near the gate was dense, and withal the\nfading light of the sun and the dawning beams of the moon and stars, deep\nshadow enveloped Dorothy and all the scene about her. The girl was\ndisappointed when she did not see Manners, but she was not vexed. There\nwas but one person in all the world toward whom she held a patient, humble\nattitude--John. If he, in his greatness, goodness, and condescension,\ndeigned to come and meet so poor a person as Dorothy Vernon, she would be\nthankful and happy; if he did not come, she would be sorrowful. His will\nwas her will, and she would come again and again until she should find\nhim waiting for her, and he should stoop to lift her into heaven.\n\nIf there is a place in all the earth where red warm blood counts for its\nfull value, it is in a pure woman's veins. Through self-fear it brings to\nher a proud reserve toward all mankind till the right one comes. Toward\nhim it brings an eager humbleness that is the essence and the life of\nHeaven and of love. Poets may praise snowy women as they will, but the\ncompelling woman is she of the warm blood. The snowy woman is the lifeless\nseed, the rainless cloud, the unmagnetic lodestone, the drossful iron. The\ngreat laws of nature affect her but passively. If there is aught in the\nsaying of the ancients, \"The best only in nature can survive,\" the day of\nher extermination will come. Fire is as chaste as snow, and infinitely\nmore comforting.\n\nDorothy's patience was not to be tried for long. Five minutes after she\nhad climbed the gate she beheld John riding toward her from the direction\nof Rowsley, and her heart beat with thrill upon thrill of joy. She felt\nthat the crowning moment of her life was at hand. By the help of a subtle\nsense--familiar spirit to her love perhaps--she knew that John would ask\nher to go with him and to be his wife, despite all the Rutlands and\nVernons dead, living, or to be born. The thought of refusing him never\nentered her mind. Queen Nature was on the throne in the fulness of power,\nand Dorothy, in perfect attune with her great sovereign, was fulfilling\nher destiny in accordance with the laws to which her drossless being was\nentirely amenable.\n\nMany times had the fear come to her that Sir John Manners, who was heir to\nthe great earldom of Rutland,--he who was so great, so good, and so\nbeautiful,--might feel that his duty to his house past, present, and\nfuture, and the obligations of his position among the grand nobles of the\nrealm, should deter him from a marriage against which so many good reasons\ncould be urged. But this evening her familiar spirit whispered to her that\nshe need not fear, and her heart was filled with joy and certainty. John\ndismounted and tethered his horse at a short distance from the gate. He\napproached Dorothy, but halted when he beheld a man instead of the girl\nwhom he longed to meet. His hesitancy surprised Dorothy, who, in her\neagerness, had forgotten her male attire. She soon saw, however, that he\ndid not recognize her, and she determined, in a spirit of mischief, to\nmaintain her incognito till he should penetrate her disguise.\n\nShe turned her back on John and sauntered leisurely about, whistling\nsoftly. She pretended to be unconscious of his presence, and John, who\nfelt that the field was his by the divine right of love, walked to the\ngate and looked through the bars toward Bowling Green. He stood at the\ngate for a short time with indifference in his manner and irritation in\nhis heart. He, too, tried to hum a tune, but failed. Then he tried to\nwhistle, but his musical efforts were abortive. There was no music in him.\nA moment before his heart had been full of harmony; but when he found a\nman instead of his sweetheart, the harmony quickly turned to rasping\ndiscord.\n\nJohn was not a patient man, and his impatience was apt to take the form of\nwords and actions. A little aimless stalking about at the gate was more\nthan enough for him, so he stepped toward the intruder and lifted his hat.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" he said, \"I thought when first I saw you that you\nwere Sir Malcolm Vernon. I fancied you bore resemblance to him. I see that\nI was in error.\"\n\n\"Yes, in error,\" answered my beard.\n\nAgain the two gentlemen walked around each other with great amusement on\nthe part of one, and with ever increasing vexation on the part of the\nother.\n\nSoon John said, \"May I ask whom have I the honor to address?\"\n\n\"Certainly, you may ask,\" was the response.\n\nA silence ensued during which Dorothy again turned her back on John and\nwalked a few paces away from him. John's patience was rapidly oozing, and\nwhen the unknown intruder again turned in his direction, John said with\nall the gentleness then at his command:--\n\n\"Well, sir, I do ask.\"\n\n\"Your curiosity is flattering,\" said the girl.\n\n\"Pardon me, sir,\" returned John. \"My curiosity is not intended to be\nflattering. I--\"\n\n\"I hope it is not intended to be insulting, sir?\" asked my hat and cloak.\n\n\"That, sir, all depends upon yourself,\" retorted John, warmly. Then after\nan instant of thought, he continued in tones of conciliation:--\n\n\"I have an engagement of a private nature at this place. In short, I hope\nto meet a--a friend here within a few minutes and I feel sure that under\nthe circumstances so gallant a gentleman as yourself will act with due\nconsideration for the feelings of another. I hope and believe that you\nwill do as you would be done by.\"\n\n\"Certainly, certainly,\" responded the gallant. \"I find no fault at all\nwith your presence. Please take no account whatever of me. I assure you I\nshall not be in the least disturbed.\"\n\nJohn was somewhat disconcerted.\n\n\"Perhaps you will not be disturbed,\" replied John, struggling to keep down\nhis temper, \"but I fear you do not understand me. I hope to meet a--a lady\nand--\"\n\n\"I hope also to meet a--a friend,\" the fellow said; \"but I assure you we\nshall in no way conflict.\"\n\n\"May I ask,\" queried John, \"if you expect to meet a gentleman or a lady?\"\n\n\"Certainly you may ask,\" was the girl's irritating reply.\n\n\"Well, well, sir, I do ask,\" said John. \"Furthermore, I demand to know\nwhom you expect to meet at this place.\"\n\n\"That, of course, sir, is no business of yours.\"\n\n\"But I shall make it my affair. I expect to meet a lady here, my\nsweetheart.\" The girl's heart jumped with joy. \"And if you have any of the\nfeelings of a gentleman, you must know that your presence will be\nintolerable to me.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it will be, my dear sir, but I have as good a right here as you\nor any other. If you must know all about my affairs, I tell you I, too,\nhope to meet my sweetheart at this place. In fact, I know I shall meet my\nsweetheart, and, my good fellow, I beg to inform you that a stranger's\npresence would be very annoying to me.\"\n\nJohn was at his wit's end. He must quickly do or say something to persuade\nthis stubborn fellow to leave. If Dorothy should come and see two persons\nat the gate she, of course, would return to the Hall. Jennie Faxton, who\nknew that the garments were finished, had told Sir John that he might\nreasonably expect to see Dorothy at the gate on that evening, for Sir\nGeorge had gone to Derby-town, presumably to remain over night.\n\nIn sheer desperation John said, \"I was here first, and I claim the\nground.\"\n\n\"That is not true,\" replied the other. \"I have been waiting here for\nyou--I mean for the person I am to meet--\" Dorothy thought she had\nbetrayed herself, and that John would surely recognize her. \"I had been\nwaiting full five minutes before you arrived.\"\n\nJohn's blindness in failing to recognize Dorothy is past my understanding.\nHe explained it to me afterward by saying that his eagerness to see\nDorothy, and his fear, nay almost certainty, that she could not come,\ncoupled with the hope which Jennie Faxton had given him, had so completely\noccupied his mind that other subjects received but slight consideration.\n\n\"But I--I have been here before this night to meet--\"\n\n\"And I have been here to meet--quite as often as you, I hope,\" retorted\nDorothy.\n\nThey say that love blinds a man. It must also have deafened John, since he\ndid not recognize his sweetheart's voice.\n\n\"It may be true that you have been here before this evening,\" retorted\nJohn, angrily; \"but you shall not remain here now. If you wish to save\nyourself trouble, leave at once. If you stalk about in the forest, I will\nrun you through and leave you for the crows to pick.\"\n\n\"I have no intention of leaving, and if I were to do so you would regret\nit; by my beard, you would regret it,\" answered the girl, pleased to see\nJohn in his overbearing, commanding mood. His stupidity was past\ncomprehension.\n\n\"Defend yourself,\" said John, drawing his sword.\n\n\"Now he will surely know the truth,\" thought Dorothy, but she said: \"I am\nmuch younger than you, and am not so large and strong. I am unskilled in\nthe use of a sword, and therefore am I no match for Sir John Manners than\nwhom, I have heard, there is no better swordsman, stronger arm, nor braver\nheart in England.\"\n\n\"You flatter me, my friend,\" returned John, forced into a good humor\nagainst his will; \"but you must leave. He who cannot defend himself must\nyield; it is the law of nature and of men.\"\n\nJohn advanced toward Dorothy, who retreated stepping backward, holding her\narm over her face.\n\n\"I am ready to yield if you wish. In fact, I am eager to yield--more eager\nthan you can know,\" she cried.\n\n\"It is well,\" answered John, putting his sword in sheath.\n\n\"But,\" continued Dorothy, \"I will not go away.\"\n\n\"Then you must fight,\" said John.\n\n\"I tell you again I am willing, nay, eager to yield to you, but I also\ntell you I cannot fight in the way you would have me. In other ways\nperhaps I can fight quite as well as anybody. But really, I am ashamed to\ndraw my sword, since to do so would show you how poorly I am equipped to\ndefend myself under your great laws of nature and of man. Again, I wish to\nassure you that I am more than eager to yield; but I cannot fight you, and\nI will not go away.\"\n\nThe wonder never ceases that John did not recognize her. She took no pains\nto hide her identity, and after a few moments of concealment she was\nanxious that John should discover her under my garments.\n\n\"I would know his voice,\" she thought, \"did he wear all the petticoats in\nDerbyshire.\"\n\n\"What shall I do with you?\" cried John, amused and irritated. \"I cannot\nstrike you.\"\n\n\"No, of course you would not murder me in cold blood,\" answered Dorothy,\nlaughing heartily. She was sure her laughter would open John's eyes.\n\n\"I cannot carry you away,\" said John.\n\n\"I would come back again, if you did,\" answered the irrepressible fellow.\n\n\"I suppose you would,\" returned John, sullenly. \"In the devil's name, tell\nme what you will do. Can I not beg you to go?\"\n\n\"Now, Sir John, you have touched me. I make you this offer: you expect\nMistress Vernon to come from the Hall--\"\n\n\"What do you know about Mistress Vernon?\" cried John. \"By God, I will--\"\n\n\"Now don't grow angry, Sir John, and please don't swear in my presence.\nYou expect her, I say, to come from the Hall. What I propose is this: you\nshall stand by the gate and watch for Doll--oh, I mean Mistress\nVernon--and I will stand here behind the wall where she cannot see me.\nWhen she comes in sight--though in truth I don't think she will come, and\nI believe were she under your very nose you would not see her--you shall\ntell me and I will leave at once; that is, if you wish me to leave. After\nyou see Dorothy Vernon if you still wish me to go, I pledge my faith no\npower can keep me. Now is not that fair? I like you very much, and I want\nto remain here, if you will permit me, and talk to you for a little\ntime--till you see Doll Vernon.\"\n\n\"Doll Vernon, fellow? How dare you so speak of her?\" demanded John, hotly.\n\n\"Your pardon and her pardon, I beg; Mistress Vernon, soon to be Countess\nof Derbyshire. By the way, I wager you a gold pound sterling that by the\ntime you see Doll Vernon--Mistress Vernon, I pray your pardon--you will\nhave grown so fond of me that you will not permit me to leave you.\" She\nthought after that speech he could not help but know her; but John's skull\nwas like an oaken board that night. Nothing could penetrate it. He began\nto fancy that his companion was a simple witless person who had escaped\nfrom his keepers.\n\n\"Will you take the wager?\" asked Dorothy.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" was the only reply John deigned to give to so foolish a\nproposition.\n\n\"Then will you agree that I shall remain at the gate till Doll--Mistress\nVernon comes?\"\n\n\"I suppose I shall have to make the best terms possible with you,\" he\nreturned. \"You are an amusing fellow and as perverse as a woman.\"\n\n\"I knew you would soon learn to like me,\" she responded. \"The first step\ntoward a man's affection is to amuse him. That old saw which says the road\nto a man's heart is through his stomach, is a sad mistake. Amusement is\nthe highway to a man's affections.\"\n\n\"It is better that one laugh with us than at us. There is a vast\ndifference in the two methods,\" answered John, contemptuously.\n\n\"You dare to laugh at me,\" cried Dorothy, grasping the hilt of her sword,\nand pretending to be angry. John waved her off with his hand, and\nlaughingly said, \"Little you know concerning the way to a man's heart, and\nno doubt less of the way to a woman's.\"\n\n\"I, perhaps, know more about it than you would believe,\" returned Malcolm\nNo. 2.\n\n\"If you know aught of the latter subject, it is more than I would\nsuppose,\" said John. \"It is absurd to say that a woman can love a man who\nis unable to defend himself.\"\n\n\"A vain man thinks that women care only for men of his own pattern,\"\nretorted Dorothy. \"Women love a strong arm, it is true, but they also love\na strong heart, and you see I am not at all afraid of you, even though you\nhave twice my strength. There are as many sorts of bravery, Sir John,\nas--as there are hairs in my beard.\"\n\n\"That is not many,\" interrupted John.\n\n\"And,\" continued the girl, \"I believe, John,--Sir John,--you possess all\nthe kinds of bravery that are good.\"\n\n\"You flatter me,\" said John.\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Dorothy, \"that was my intent.\"\n\nAfter that unflattering remark there came a pause. Then the girl continued\nsomewhat hesitatingly: \"Doubtless many women, Sir John, have seen your\nvirtues more clearly than even I see them. Women have a keener perception\nof masculine virtues than--than we have.\"\n\nDorothy paused, and her heart beat with a quickened throb while she\nawaited his reply. A new field of discovery was opening up to her and a\nnew use for her disguise.\n\nJohn made no reply, but the persistent girl pursued her new line of\nattack.\n\n\"Surely Sir John Manners has had many sweethearts,\" said Dorothy, in\nflattering tones. There were rocks and shoals ahead for John's love barge.\n\"Many, many, I am sure,\" the girl persisted.\n\n\"Ah, a few, a few, I admit,\" John like a fool replied. Dorothy was\naccumulating disagreeable information rapidly.\n\n\"While you were at London court,\" said she, \"the fine ladies must have\nsought you in great numbers--I am sure they did.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, oh, perhaps,\" returned John. \"One cannot always remember such\naffairs.\" His craft was headed for the rocks. Had he observed Dorothy's\nface, he would have seen the storm a-brewing.\n\n\"To how many women, Sir John, have you lost your heart, and at various\ntimes how many have lost their hearts to you?\" asked the persistent\ngirl.--\"What a senseless question,\" returned John. \"A dozen times or more;\nperhaps a score or two score times. I cannot tell the exact number. I did\nnot keep an account.\"\n\nDorothy did not know whether she wanted to weep or be angry. Pique and a\nflash of temper, however, saved her from tears, and she said, \"You are so\nbrave and handsome that you must have found it a very easy task--much\neasier than it would be for me--to convince those confiding ones of your\naffection?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied John, plunging full sail upon the breakers, \"I admit that\nusually they have been quite easy to convince. I am naturally bold, and I\nsuppose that perhaps--that is, I may possibly have a persuasive trick\nabout me.\"\n\nShades of good men who have blundered into ruin over the path of petty\nvanity, save this man! But no, Dorothy must drink the bitter cup of\nknowledge to the dregs.\n\n\"And you have been false to all of these women? she said.\n\n\"Ah, well, you know--the devil take it! A man can't be true to a score of\nwomen,\" replied John.\n\n\"I am sure none of them wished you to be true,\" the girl answered,\nrestraining her tears with great difficulty.\n\nAt that point in the conversation John began to suspect from the manner\nand shapeliness of his companion that a woman had disguised herself in\nman's attire. Yet it did not once occur to him that Dorothy's fair form\nwas concealed within the disguise. He attempted to lift my soft beaver\nhat, the broad rim of which hid Dorothy's face, but to that she made a\ndecided objection, and John continued: \"By my soul I believe you are a\nwoman. Your walk\"--Dorothy thought she had been swaggering like a\nveritable swash-buckler--\"your voice, the curves of your form, all betray\nyou.\" Dorothy gathered the cloak closely about her.\n\n\"I would know more of you,\" said John, and he stepped toward the now\ninteresting stranger. But she drew away from him, and told him to keep\nhands off.\n\n\"Oh, I am right. You are a woman,\" said John.\n\nDorothy had maintained the disguise longer than she wished, and was\nwilling that John should discover her identity. At first it had been rare\nsport to dupe him; but the latter part of her conversation had given her\nno pleasure. She was angry, jealous, and hurt by what she had learned.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, \"I admit that I am a--a woman. Now I must go.\"\n\n\"Stay but one moment,\" pleaded John, whose curiosity and gallantry were\naroused. \"I will watch for Mistress Vernon, and when she appears, then you\nmay go.\"\n\n\"I told you that you would want me to remain,\" said the girl with a sigh.\nShe was almost ready to weep. Then she thought: \"I little dreamed I was\ncoming here for this. I will carry the disguise a little farther, and\nwill, perhaps, learn enough to--to break my heart.\"\n\nShe was soon to learn all she wanted to know and a great deal more.\n\n\"Come sit by me on this stone,\" said John, coaxingly. The girl complied,\nand drew the cloak over her knees.\n\n\"Tell me why you are here,\" he asked.\n\n\"To meet a gentleman,\" she replied, with low-bent face.\n\n\"Tell me your name,\" John asked, as he drew my glove from her passive\nhand. John held the hand in his, and after examining it in the dim light\nsaw that it was a great deal more than good to look upon. Then he lifted\nit to his lips and said:\n\n\"Since our sweethearts have disappointed us, may we not console ourselves\nwith each other?\" He placed his arm around the girl's waist and drew her\nyielding form toward him. Dorothy, unobserved by John, removed the false\nbeard and moustachio, and when John put his arm about her waist and leaned\nforward to kiss the fair accommodating neighbor she could restrain her\ntears no longer and said:--\n\n\"That would be no consolation for me, John; that would be no consolation\nfor me. How can you? How can you?\"\n\nShe rose to her feet and covered her face with her hands in a paroxysm of\nweeping. John, too, sprang to his feet, you may be sure. \"Dorothy! God\nhelp me! I am the king of fools. Curse this hour in which I have thrown\naway my heaven. You must hate and despise me, fool, fool that I am.\"\n\nJohn knew that it were worse than useless for him to attempt an\nexplanation. The first thought that flashed through his mind was, to tell\nthe girl that he had only pretended not to know her. He thought he would\ntry to make her believe that he had been turning her trick upon herself;\nbut he was wise in his day and generation, and did not seek refuge in that\nfalsehood.\n\nThe girl would never have forgiven him for that.\n\n\"The only amends I can make,\" he said, in very dolefulness, \"is that I may\nnever let you see my face again.\"\n\n\"That will not help matters,\" sobbed Dorothy.\n\n\"I know it will not,\" returned John. \"Nothing can help me. I can remain\nhere no longer. I must leave you. I cannot even ask you to say farewell.\nMistress Vernon, you do not despise me half so bitterly as I despise\nmyself.\"\n\nDorothy was one of those rare natures to whom love comes but once. It had\ncome to her and had engulfed her whole being. To part with it would be\nlike parting with life itself. It was her tyrant, her master. It was her\nego. She could no more throw it off than she could expel herself from her\nown existence. All this she knew full well, for she had analyzed her\nconditions, and her reason had joined with all her other faculties in\ngiving her a clear concept of the truth. She knew she belonged to John\nManners for life and for eternity. She also knew that the chance of seeing\nhim soon again was very slight, and to part from him now in aught but\nkindness would almost kill her.\n\nBefore John had recognized Dorothy he certainly had acted like a fool, but\nwith the shock of recognition came wisdom. All the learning of the\nancients and all the cunning of the prince of darkness could not have\ntaught him a wiser word with which to make his peace, \"I may never let you\nsee my face again.\" That was more to be feared by Dorothy than even John's\ninconstancy.\n\nHer heart was full of trouble. \"I do not know what I wish,\" she said\nsimply. \"Give me a little time to think.\"\n\nJohn's heart leaped with joy, but he remained silent.\n\nDorothy continued: \"Oh, that I had remained at home. I would to God I had\nnever seen Derby-town nor you.\"\n\nJohn in the fulness of his wisdom did not interrupt her.\n\n\"To think that I have thus made a fool of myself about a man who has\ngiven his heart to a score of women.\"\n\n\"This is torture,\" moaned John, in real pain.\n\n\"But,\" continued Dorothy, \"I could not remain away from this place when I\nhad the opportunity to come to you. I felt that I must come. I felt that I\nshould die if I did not. And you are so false. I wish I were dead. A\nmoment ago, had I been another woman, you would have kissed her. You\nthought I was another woman.\"\n\nJohn's wisdom stood by him nobly. He knew he could neither explain\nsuccessfully nor beg forgiveness. He simply said: \"I cannot remain and\nlook you in the face. If I dare make any request, it is that despite all\nyou have heard from my lips you will still believe that I love you, and\nthat in all my life I have never loved any one so dearly. There is no\nother woman for me.\"\n\n\"You doubtless spoke the same false words to the other two score women,\"\nsaid Dorothy. Tears and sobs were playing sad havoc with her powers of\nspeech.\n\n\"Farewell, Mistress Vernon,\" replied John. \"I should be shameless if I\ndared ask you to believe any word I can utter. Forget, if possible, that I\never existed; forget me that you may not despise me. I am unworthy to\ndwell even in the smallest of your thoughts. I am altogether base and\ncontemptible.\"\n\n\"N-o-o,\" sighed Dorothy, poutingly, while she bent low her head and toyed\nwith the gold lace of my cloak.\n\n\"Farewell,\" said John. He took a step or two backward from her.\n\n\"You are over-eager to leave, it seems to me,\" said the girl in an injured\ntone. \"I wonder that you came at all.\" John's heart was singing hosanna.\nHe, however, maintained his voice at a mournful pitch and said: \"I must\ngo. I can no longer endure to remain.\" While he spoke he moved toward his\nhorse, and his head was bowed with real shame as he thought of the\npitiable fool he had made of himself. Dorothy saw him going from her, and\nshe called to him softly and reluctantly, \"John.\"\n\nHe did not hear her, or perhaps he thought best to pretend that he did not\nhear, and as he moved from her the girl became desperate. Modesty,\nresentment, insulted womanhood and injured pride were all swept away by\nthe stream of her mighty love, and she cried again, this time without\nhesitancy or reluctance, \"John, John.\" She started to run toward him, but\nmy cloak was in her way, and the sword tripped her feet. In her fear lest\nJohn might leave her, she unclasped the sword-belt from her waist and\nsnatched the cloak from her shoulders. Freed from these hindrances, she\nran toward John.\n\n\"John, do not leave me. Do not leave me.\" As she spoke, she reached an\nopen space among the trees and John turned toward her. Her hat had fallen\noff, and the red golden threads of her hair, freed from their fastenings,\nstreamed behind her. Never before had a vision of such exquisite\nloveliness sped through the moonbeams. So entrancing was her beauty to\nJohn that he stood motionless in admiration. He did not go to meet her as\nhe should have done, and perhaps as he would have done had his senses not\nbeen wrapped in benumbing wonderment. His eyes were unable to interpret to\nhis brain all her marvellous beauty, and his other senses abandoning their\nproper functions had hastened to the assistance of his sight He saw, he\nheard, he felt her loveliness. Thus occupied he did not move, so Dorothy\nran to him and fell upon his breast.\n\n\"You did not come to meet me,\" she sobbed. \"You made me come all the way,\nto forgive you. Cruel, cruel!\"\n\nJohn held the girl in his arms, but he did not dare to kiss her, and his\nself-denial soon brought its reward. He had not expected that she would\ncome a beggar to him. The most he had dared to hope was that she would\nlisten to his prayer for forgiveness. With all his worldly wisdom John had\nnot learned the fact that inconstancy does not destroy love in the one who\nsuffers by reason of it; nor did he know of the exquisite pain-touched\nhappiness which comes to a gentle, passionate heart such as Dorothy's from\nthe mere act of forgiving.\n\n\"Is it possible you can forgive me for the miserable lies I have uttered?\"\nasked John, almost unconscious of the words he was speaking. \"Is it\npossible you can forgive me for uttering those lies, Dorothy?\" he\nrepeated.\n\nShe laid her head upon his breast, and softly passing her hand over the\nlace of his doublet, whispered:--\n\n\"If I could believe they were lies, I could easily forgive you,\" she\nanswered between low sobs and soft sighs. Though she was a woman, the\nsweet essence of childhood was in her heart.\n\n\"But you cannot believe me, even when I tell you that I spoke not the\ntruth,\" answered John, with growing faith in his system of passive\nrepentance. Again came the sighs, and a few struggling, childish sobs.\n\n\"It is easy for us to believe that which we long to believe,\" she said.\nThen she turned her face upward to him, and John's reward was altogether\ndisproportioned to the self-denial he had exercised a few minutes before.\nShe rewarded him far beyond his deserts; and after a pause she said\nmischievously:--\n\n\"You told me that you were a bold man with women, and I know that at least\nthat part of what you said was untrue, for you are a bashful man, John,\nyou are downright bashful. It is I who have been bold. You were too timid\nto woo me, and I so longed for you that I--I--was not timid.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Dorothy, I beg you to have pity and to make no jest of\nme. Your kindness almost kills me, and your ridicule--\"\n\n\"There, there, John,\" whispered the girl, \"I will never again make a jest\nof you if it gives you pain. Tell me, John, tell me truly, was it all\nfalse--that which you told me about the other women?\"\n\nThere had been more truth in John's bragging than he cared to confess. He\nfeared and loathed a lie; so he said evasively, but with perfect truth:--\n\n\"You must know, my goddess. If you do not know without the telling that I\nlove you with all my being; if you do not know that there is for me and\never will be no woman but you in all the world; if you do not know that\nyou have stolen my soul and that I live only in your presence, all that I\ncan say will avail nothing toward convincing you. I am almost crazed with\nlove for you, and with pain and torture. For the love of God let me leave\nyou that I may hide my face.\"\n\n\"Never,\" cried the girl, clasping her hands about his neck and pressing\nher lips gently upon his. \"Never. There, that will soothe you, won't it,\nJohn?\"\n\nIt did soothe him, and in the next moment, John, almost frenzied with joy,\nhurt the girl by the violence of his embraces; but she, woman-like, found\nher heaven in the pain.\n\nThey went back to the stone bench beside the gate, and after a little time\nDorothy said:--\n\n\"But tell me, John, would you have kissed the other woman? Would you\nreally have done it?\"\n\nJohn's honesty certainly was good policy in that instance. The adroit girl\nhad set a trap for him.\n\n\"I suppose I would,\" answered John, with a groan.\n\n\"It hurts me to hear the fact,\" said Dorothy, sighing; \"but it pleases me\nto hear the truth. I know all else you tell me is true. I was trying you\nwhen I asked the question, for I certainly knew what you intended to do. A\nwoman instinctively knows when a man is going to--to--when anything of\nthat sort is about to happen.\"\n\n\"How does she know?\" asked John.\n\nRocks and breakers ahead for Dorothy.\n\n\"I cannot tell you,\" replied the girl, naively, \"but she knows.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is the awakened desire in her own heart which forewarns her,\"\nsaid John, stealthily seeking from Dorothy a truth that would pain him\nshould he learn it.\n\n\"I suppose that is partly the source of her knowledge,\" replied the\nknowing one, with a great show of innocence in her manner. John was in no\nposition to ask impertinent questions, nor had he any right to grow angry\nat unpleasant discoveries; but he did both, although for a time he\nsuppressed the latter.\n\n\"You believe she is sure to know, do you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Usually,\" she replied. \"Of course there are times when--when it happens\nso suddenly that--\"\n\nJohn angrily sprang to his feet, took a few hurried steps in front of\nDorothy, who remained demurely seated with her eyes cast down, and then\nagain he took his place beside her on the stone bench. He was trembling\nwith anger and jealousy. The devil was in the girl that night for\nmischief.\n\n\"I suppose you speak from the fulness of your experience,\" demanded John,\nin tones that would have been insulting had they not been pleasing to the\ngirl. She had seen the drift of John's questions at an early stage of the\nconversation, and his easily aroused jealousy was good proof to her of his\naffection. After all, she was in no danger from rocks and breakers. She\nwell knew the currents, eddies, rocks, and shoals of the sea she was\nnavigating, although she had never before sailed it. Her fore-mothers, all\nthe way back to Eve, had been making charts of those particular waters for\nher especial benefit. Why do we, a slow-moving, cumbersome army of men,\ncontinue to do battle with the foe at whose hands defeat is always our\nportion?\n\n\"Experience?\" queried Dorothy, her head turned to one side in a\nhalf-contemplative attitude. \"Experience? Of course that is the only way\nwe learn anything.\"\n\nJohn again sprang to his feet, and again he sat down beside the girl. He\nhad so recently received forgiveness for his own sins that he dared not be\nunforgiving toward Dorothy. He did not speak, and she remained silent,\nwilling to allow time for the situation to take its full effect. The\nwisdom of the serpent is black ignorance compared with the cunning of a\ngirl in Dorothy's situation. God gives her wit for the occasion as He\ngives the cat soft paws, sharp claws, and nimbleness. She was teaching\nJohn a lesson he would never forget. She was binding him to her with hoops\nof steel.\n\n\"I know that I have not the right to ask,\" said John, suppressing his\nemotions, \"but may I know merely as a matter of trivial information--may I\nknow the name of--of the person--this fellow with whom you have had so\nfull an experience? God curse him! Tell me his name.\" He caught the girl\nviolently by both arms as if he would shake the truth out of her. He was\nunconsciously making full amends for the faults he had committed earlier\nin the evening. The girl made no answer. John's powers of self-restraint,\nwhich were not of the strongest order, were exhausted, and he again sprang\nto his feet and stood towering before her in a passion. \"Tell me his\nname,\" he said hoarsely. \"I demand it. I will not rest till I kill him.\"\n\n\"If you would kill him, I surely will not tell you his name. In truth, I\nadmit I am very fond of him.\"\n\n\"Speak not another word to me till you tell me his name,\" stormed John. I\nfeel sorry for John when I think of the part he played in this interview;\nbut every man knows well his condition.\n\n\"I care not,\" continued John, \"in what manner I have offended you, nor\ndoes my debt of gratitude to you for your generosity in forgiving my sins\nweigh one scruple against this you have told me. No man, unless he were a\npoor clown, would endure it; and I tell you now, with all my love for you,\nI will not--I will not!\"\n\nDorothy was beginning to fear him. She of course did not fear personal\nviolence; but after all, while he was slower than she, he was much\nstronger every way, and when aroused, his strength imposed itself upon her\nand she feared to play him any farther.\n\n\"Sit beside me, John, and I will tell you his name,\" said the girl,\nlooking up to him, and then casting down her eyes. A dimpling smile was\nplaying about her lips.\n\n\"No, I will not sit by you,\" replied John, angrily. She partly rose, and\ntaking him by the arm drew him to her side.\n\n\"Tell me his name,\" again demanded John, sitting rigidly by Dorothy. \"Tell\nme his name.\"\n\n\"Will you kill him?\" she asked.\n\n\"That I will,\" he answered. \"Of that you may rest assured.\"\n\n\"If you kill him, John, it will break my heart; for to do so, you must\ncommit suicide. There is no other man but you, John. With you I had my\nfirst, last, and only experience.\"\n\nJohn, of course, was speechless. He had received only what he deserved. I\nfreely admit he played the part of a fool during this entire interview\nwith Dorothy, and he was more fully convinced of the fact than either you\nor I can be. I do not like to have a fool for the hero of my history; but\nthis being a history and not a romance, I must tell you of events just as\nthey happened, and of persons exactly as they were, else my conscience\nwill smite me for untruthfulness. Dorothy's last assault was too much for\nJohn. He could neither parry nor thrust.\n\nHer heart was full of mirth and gladness.\n\n\"None other but you, John,\" she repeated, leaning forward in front of him,\nand looking up into his eyes. A ray of moonlight stealing its way between\nthe forest boughs fell upon her upturned face and caused it to glow with a\ngoddess-like radiance.\n\n\"None but you, John. There never has been and there never shall be\nanother.\"\n\nWhen John's consciousness returned he said, \"Dorothy, can you love such a\nfool as I?\"\n\n\"That I can and that I do with all my heart,\" she returned.\n\n\"And can you forgive me for this last fault--for doubting you?\"\n\n\"That is easily done,\" she answered softly, \"because doubt is the child of\nlove.\"\n\n\"But you do not doubt me?\" he replied.\n\n\"N-o-o,\" she answered somewhat haltingly; \"but I--I am a woman.\"\n\n\"And a woman's heart is the home of faith,\" said John, reverentially.\n\n\"Y-e-s,\" she responded, still not quite sure of her ground. \"Sometimes it\nis the home of too much faith, but faith, like virtue, is its own reward.\nFew persons are false to one who gives a blind, unquestioning faith. Even\na poor degree of honor responds to it in kind.\"\n\n\"Dorothy, I am so unworthy of you that I stand abashed in your presence,\"\nreplied John.\n\n\"No, you are not unworthy of me. We don't look for unmixed good in men,\"\nsaid the girl with a mischievous little laugh. Then seriously: \"Those\nvirtues you have are so great and so strong, John, that my poor little\nvirtues, while they perhaps are more numerous than yours, are but weak\nthings by comparison. In truth, there are some faults in men which we\nwomen do not--do not altogether dislike. They cause us--they make us--oh,\nI cannot express exactly what I mean. They make us more eager perhaps. A\ntoo constant man is like an overstrong sweet: he cloys us. The faults I\nspeak of hurt us; but we thrive on them. Women enjoy pain now and then.\nMalcolm was telling me the other day that the wise people of the East have\na saying: 'Without shadow there can be no light; without death there can\nbe no life; without suffering there can be no joy.' Surely is that saying\ntrue of women. She who suffers naught enjoys naught. When a woman becomes\npassive, John, she is but a clod. Pain gives us a vent--a vent for\nsomething, I know not what it is; but this I know, we are happier for it.\"\n\n\"I fear, Dorothy, that I have given you too much 'vent,' as you call it,\"\nsaid John.\n\n\"No, no,\" she replied. \"That was nothing. My great vent is that I can pour\nout my love upon you, John, without stint. Now that I know you are mine, I\nhave some one whom I can deluge with it. Do you know, John, I believe that\nwhen God made me He collected together the requisite portions of reason,\nimagination, and will,--there was a great plenty of will, John,--and all\nthe other ingredients that go to make a human being. But after He had\ngotten them all together there was still a great space left to be filled,\nand He just threw in an immensity of love with which to complete me.\nTherefore, John, am I not in true proportion. There is too much love in\nme, and it wells up at times and overflows my heart. How thankful I should\nbe that I may pour it upon you and that it will not be wasted. How good\nyou are to give me the sweet privilege.\"\n\n\"How thankful should I be, Dorothy. I have never known you till this\nnight. I am unworthy--\"\n\n\"Not another word of that sort, John,\" she interrupted, covering his mouth\nwith her hand.\n\nThey stood for a long time talking a deal of celestial nonsense which I\nshall not give you. I fear I have already given you too much of what John\nand Dorothy did and said in this very sentimental interview. But in no\nother way can I so well make you to know the persons of whom I write. I\nmight have said Dorothy was so and so, and John was such and such. I might\nhave analyzed them in long, dull pages of minute description; but it is\nthat which persons do and say that gives us true concept of their\ncharacters; what others say about them is little else than a mere\nstatement that black is black and white is white. But to my story again.\n\nDorothy by her beauty had won John's admiration when first he beheld her.\nWhen he met her afterward, her charms of mind and her thousand winsome\nways moved him deeply. But upon the evening of which I am now telling you\nhe beheld for the first time her grand burning soul, and he saw her pure\nheart filled to overflowing with its dangerous burden of love, right from\nthe hands of God Himself, as the girl had said. John was of a coarser\nfibre than she who had put him up for her idol; but his sensibilities were\nkeen, and at their awakening he saw clearly the worth of the priceless\ntreasure which propitious fate had given him in the love of Dorothy, and\nhe sat humbly at her feet. Yet she knew it not, but sat humbly at John's\nfeet the happiest woman in all the world because of her great good fortune\nin having a demi-god upon whom she could lavish the untold wealth of her\nheart. If you are a woman, pray God that He may touch your eyes with\nDorothy's blessed blindness. There is a heaven in the dark for you, if you\ncan find it.\n\nI must leave the scene, though I am loath to do so. Seldom do we catch a\nglimpse of a human soul, and more seldom still does it show itself like a\ngust of God's breath upon the deep of eternity as it did that night in\nDorothy.\n\nAfter a time John said: \"I have your promise to be my wife. Do you still\nwish to keep it?\"\n\n\"What an absurd question, John,\" replied the girl, laughing softly and\ncontentedly. \"Why else am I here? Tell me, think you, John, should I be\nhere if I were not willing and eager to--to keep that promise?\"\n\n\"Will you go with me notwithstanding your father's hatred of my house?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"Ah, truly that I will, John,\" she answered; \"surely you know I will go\nwith you.\"\n\n\"Let us go at once. Let us lose not a moment. We have already delayed too\nlong,\" cried John in eager ecstasy.\n\n\"Not to-night, John; I cannot go to-night,\" she pleaded. \"Think of my\nattire,\" and she drew my cloak more closely about her. \"I cannot go with\nyou this time. My father is angry with me because of you, although he does\nnot know who you are. Is it not famous to have a lover in secret of whom\nnobody knows? Father is angry with me, and as I told you in my letter, he\nkeeps me a prisoner in my rooms. Aunt Dorothy stands guard over me. The\ndear, simple old soul! She told me, thinking I was Malcolm, that she was\ntoo old to be duped by a girl! Oh, it was too comical!\" And she threw back\nher head and gave forth a peal of laughter that John was reluctantly\ncompelled to silence. \"I would so delight to tell you of the scene when I\nwas in Aunt Dorothy's room impersonating Malcolm; but I have so much else\nto say of more importance that I know I shall not tell the half. When you\nhave left me, I shall remember what I most wished to say but forgot.\"\n\n\"No, John,\" she continued seriously, \"my father has been cruel to me, and\nI try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do love\nhim.\" Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In a\nmoment she continued: \"It would kill him, John, were I to go with you\nnow. I _will_ go with you soon,--I give you my solemn promise to that--but\nI cannot go now,--not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all his\ncruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see me\nnor will he speak to me. Think of that.\" The tears that had welled up to\nher eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. \"Aunt Dorothy and\nMadge,\" she continued, \"are so dear to me that the thought of leaving them\nis torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, I\npromise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love them\nand my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet mother\ndied--and Dolcy--I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself to\nleave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole life\nbind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive me. You must think of the grief\nand pain I shall yet pass through to go to you. It is as I told you: we\nwomen reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I love\nwhen I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I must\nforsake for--for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise,\nJohn, to go with you, but--but forgive me. I cannot go to-night.\"\n\n\"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy,\" said John. \"The sacrifice would be all\non one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You would\nforego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worth\nhaving. I am unworthy--\"\n\n\"Not that word, John,\" cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with--well,\nnot with her hand. \"I shall give up a great deal,\" she continued, \"and I\nknow I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you must\nremember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; but\nI will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the time\ncomes, because--because I feel that I could not live if I did not make\nit.\"\n\n\"My father has already consented to our marriage,\" said John. \"I told him\nto-day all that had passed between you and me. He, of course, was greatly\npained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that if\nyou and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but would\nwelcome you to his heart.\"\n\n\"Is your father that--that sort of a man?\" asked Dorothy, half in revery.\n\"I have always heard--\" and she hesitated.\n\n\"I know,\" replied John, \"that you have heard much evil of my father,\nbut--let us not talk on that theme. You will know him some day, and you\nmay judge him for yourself. When will you go with me, Dorothy?\"\n\n\"Soon, very soon, John,\" she answered. \"You know father intends that I\nshall marry Lord Stanley. _I_ intend otherwise. The more father hurries\nthis marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be--be\nyour--that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you.\"\n\n\"You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?\" asked\nJohn, frightened by the thought.\n\n\"Ah,\" cried the girl, softly, \"you know I told you that God had put into\nme a great plenty of will. Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever it\nis, it stands me in good hand now. You don't know how much I have of it!\nYou never will know until I am your--your--wife.\" The last word was spoken\nin a soft, hesitating whisper, and her head sought shamefaced refuge on\nJohn's breast. Of course the magic word \"wife\" on Dorothy's lips aroused\nJohn to action, and--but a cloud at that moment passed over the moon and\nkindly obscured the scene.\n\n\"You do not blame me, John,\" said Dorothy, \"because I cannot go with you\nto-night? You do not blame me?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do not, my goddess,\" answered John. \"You will soon be mine. I\nshall await your pleasure and your own time, and when you choose to come\nto me--ah, then--\" And the kindly cloud came back to the moon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHOMAS THE MAN SERVANT\n\n\nAfter a great effort of self-denial John told Dorothy it was time for her\nto return to the Hall, and he walked with her down Bowling Green Hill to\nthe wall back of the terrace garden.\n\nDorothy stood for a moment on the stile at the old stone wall, and John,\nclasping her hand, said:--\n\n\"You will perhaps see me sooner than you expect,\" and then the cloud\nconsiderately floated over the moon again, and John hurried away up\nBowling Green Hill.\n\nDorothy crossed the terrace garden, going toward the door since known as\n\"Dorothy's Postern.\" She had reached the top of the postern steps when she\nheard her father's voice, beyond the north wall of the terrace garden well\nup toward Bowling Green Hill. John, she knew, was at that moment climbing\nthe hill. Immediately following the sound of her father's voice she heard\nanother voice--that of her father's retainer, Sir John Guild. Then came\nthe word \"Halt!\" quickly followed by the report of a fusil, and the sharp\nclinking of swords upon the hillside. She ran back to the wall, and saw\nthe dimly outlined forms of four men. One of them was John, who was\nretreating up the hill. The others were following him. Sir George and Sir\nJohn Guild had unexpectedly returned from Derby. They had left their\nhorses with the stable boys and were walking toward the kitchen door when\nSir George noticed a man pass from behind the corner of the terrace\ngarden wall and proceed up Bowling Green Hill. The man of course was John.\nImmediately Sir George and Guild, accompanied by a servant who was with\nthem, started in pursuit of the intruder, and a moment afterward Dorothy\nheard her father's voice and the discharge of the fusil. She climbed to\nthe top of the stile, filled with an agony of fear. Sir George was fifteen\nor twenty yards in advance of his companion, and when John saw that his\npursuers were attacking him singly, he turned and quickly ran back to meet\nthe warlike King of the Peak. By a few adroit turns with his sword John\ndisarmed his antagonist, and rushing in upon him easily threw him to the\nground by a wrestler's trick. Guild and the servant by that time were\nwithin six yards of Sir George and John.\n\n\"Stop!\" cried Manners, \"your master is on the ground at my feet. My sword\npoint is at his heart. Make but one step toward me and Sir George Vernon\nwill be a dead man.\"\n\nGuild and the servant halted instantly.\n\n\"What are your terms?\" cried Guild, speaking with the haste which he well\nknew was necessary if he would save his master's life.\n\n\"My terms are easy,\" answered John. \"All I ask is that you allow me to\ndepart in peace. I am here on no harmful errand, and I demand that I may\ndepart and that I be not followed nor spied upon by any one.\"\n\n\"You may depart in peace,\" said Guild. \"No one will follow you; no one\nwill spy upon you. To this I pledge my knightly word in the name of Christ\nmy Saviour.\"\n\nJohn at once took his way unmolested up the hill and rode home with his\nheart full of fear lest his tryst with Dorothy had been discovered.\n\nGuild and the servant assisted Sir George to rise, and the three started\ndown the hill toward the stile where Dorothy was standing. She was hidden\nfrom them, however, by the wall. Jennie Faxton, who had been on guard\nwhile John and Dorothy were at the gate, at Dorothy's suggestion stood on\ntop of the stile where she could easily be seen by Sir George when he\napproached.\n\n\"When my father comes here and questions you,\" said Dorothy to Jennie\nFaxton, \"tell him that the man whom he attacked was your sweetheart.\"\n\n\"Never fear, mistress,\" responded Jennie. \"I will have a fine story for\nthe master.\"\n\nDorothy crouched inside the wall under the shadow of a bush, and Jennie\nwaited on the top of the stile. Sir George, thinking the girl was Dorothy,\nlost no time in approaching her. He caught her roughly by the arm and\nturned her around that he might see her face.\n\n\"By God, Guild,\" he muttered, \"I have made a mistake. I thought the girl\nwas Doll.\"\n\nHe left instantly and followed Guild and the servant to the kitchen door.\nWhen Sir George left the stile, Dorothy hastened back to the postern of\nwhich she had the key, and hurried toward her room. She reached the door\nof her father's room just in time to see Sir George and Guild enter it.\nThey saw her, and supposed her to be myself. If she hesitated, she was\nlost. But Dorothy never hesitated. To think, with her, was to act. She did\nnot of course know that I was still in her apartments. She took the\nchance, however, and boldly followed Sir John Guild into her father's\nroom. There she paused for a moment that she might not appear to be in too\ngreat haste, and then entered Aunt Dorothy's room where I was seated,\nwaiting for her.\n\n\"Dorothy, my dear child,\" exclaimed Lady Crawford, clasping her arms about\nDorothy's neck.\n\n\"There is no time to waste in sentiment, Aunt Dorothy,\" responded the\ngirl. \"Here are your sword and cloak, Malcolm. I thank you for their use.\nDon them quickly.\" I did so, and walked into Sir George's room, where that\nworthy old gentleman was dressing a slight wound in the hand. I stopped to\nspeak with him; but he seemed disinclined to talk, and I left the room. He\nsoon went to the upper court, and I presently followed him.\n\nDorothy changed her garments, and she, Lady Crawford, and Madge also came\nto the upper court. The braziers in the courtyard had been lighted and\ncast a glare over two score half-clothed men and women who had been\naroused from their beds by the commotion of the conflict on the hillside.\nUpon the upper steps of the courtyard stood Sir George and Jennie Faxton.\n\n\"Who was the man you were with?\" roughly demanded Sir George of the\ntrembling Jennie. Jennie's trembling was assumed for the occasion.\n\n\"I will not tell you his name,\" she replied with tears. \"He is my\nsweetheart, and I will never come to the Hall again. Matters have come to\na pretty pass when a maiden cannot speak with her sweetheart at the stile\nwithout he is set upon and beaten as if he were a hedgehog. My father is\nyour leal henchman, and his daughter deserves better treatment at your\nhands than you have given me.\"\n\n\"There, there!\" said Sir George, placing his hand upon her head. \"I was in\nthe wrong. I did not know you had a sweetheart who wore a sword. When I\nsaw you at the stile, I was sure you were another. I am glad I was wrong.\"\nSo was Dorothy glad.\n\n\"Everybody be off to bed,\" said Sir George. \"Ben Shaw, see that the\nbraziers are all blackened.\"\n\nDorothy, Madge, and Lady Crawford returned to the latter's room, and Sir\nGeorge and I entered after them. He was evidently softened in heart by the\nnight's adventures and by the mistake he supposed he had made.\n\nA selfish man grows hard toward those whom he injures. A generous heart\ngrows tender. Sir George was generous, and the injustice he thought he had\ndone to Dorothy made him eager to offer amends. The active evil in all Sir\nGeorge's wrong-doing was the fact that he conscientiously thought he was\nin the right. Many a man has gone to hell backward--with his face honestly\ntoward heaven. Sir George had not spoken to Dorothy since the scene\nwherein the key to Bowling Green Gate played so important a part.\n\n\"Doll,\" said Sir George, \"I thought you were at the stile with a man. I\nwas mistaken. It was the Faxton girl. I beg your pardon, my daughter. I\ndid you wrong.\"\n\n\"You do me wrong in many matters, father,\" replied Dorothy.\n\n\"Perhaps I do,\" her father returned, \"perhaps I do, but I mean for the\nbest. I seek your happiness.\"\n\n\"You take strange measures at times, father, to bring about my happiness,\"\nshe replied.\n\n\"Whom God loveth He chasteneth,\" replied Sir George, dolefully.\n\n\"That manner of loving may be well enough for God,\" retorted Dorothy with\nno thought of irreverence, \"but for man it is dangerous. Whom man loves he\nshould cherish. A man who has a good, obedient daughter--one who loves\nhim--will not imprison her, and, above all, he will not refuse to speak to\nher, nor will he cause her to suffer and to weep for lack of that love\nwhich is her right. A man has no right to bring a girl into this world and\nthen cause her to suffer as you--as you--\"\n\nShe ceased speaking and sought refuge in silent feminine eloquence--tears.\nOne would have sworn she had been grievously injured that night.\n\n\"But I am older than you, Doll, and I know what is best for your\nhappiness,\" said Sir George.\n\n\"There are some things, father, which a girl knows with better, surer\nknowledge than the oldest man living. Solomon was wise because he had so\nmany wives from whom he could absorb wisdom.\"\n\n\"Ah, well!\" answered Sir George, smiling in spite of himself, \"you will\nhave the last word.\"\n\n\"Confess, father,\" she retorted quickly, \"that you want the last word\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I do want it, but I'll never have it,\" returned Sir George; \"kiss\nme, Doll, and be my child again.\"\n\n\"That I will right gladly,\" she answered, throwing her arms about her\nfather's neck and kissing him with real affection. Then Sir George said\ngood night and started to leave. At the door he stopped, and stood for a\nlittle time in thought.\n\n\"Dorothy,\" said he, speaking to Lady Crawford, \"I relieve you of your duty\nas a guard over Doll. She may go and come when she chooses.\"\n\n\"I thank you, George,\" said Aunt Dorothy. \"The task has been painful to\nme.\"\n\nDorothy went to her father and kissed him again, and Sir George departed.\n\nWhen the door was closed, Lady Crawford breathed a great sigh and said: \"I\nthank Heaven, Dorothy, he does not know that you have been out of your\nroom. How could you treat me so cruelly? How could you deceive me?\"\n\n\"That, Aunt Dorothy,\" replied the niece, \"is because you are not old\nenough yet to be a match for a girl who is--who is in love.\"\n\n\"Shame upon you, Dorothy!\" said Lady Crawford. \"Shame upon you, to act as\nyou did, and now to speak so plainly about being in love! Malcolm said you\nwere not a modest girl, and I am beginning to believe him.\"\n\n\"Did Malcolm speak so ill of me?\" asked Dorothy, turning toward me with a\nsmile in her eyes.\n\n\"My lady aunt,\" said I, turning to Lady Crawford, \"when did I say that\nDorothy was an immodest girl?\"\n\n\"You did not say it,\" the old lady admitted. \"Dorothy herself said it, and\nshe proves her words to be true by speaking so boldly of her feelings\ntoward this--this strange man. And she speaks before Madge, too.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Madge is in the same sort of trouble. Who knows?\" cried Dorothy,\nlaughing heartily. Madge blushed painfully. \"But,\" continued Dorothy,\nseriously, \"I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it. For what else, my\ndear aunt, was I created but to be in love? Tell me, dear aunt, for what\nelse was I created?\"\n\n\"Perhaps you are right,\" returned the old lady, who in fact was\nsentimentally inclined.\n\n\"The chief end of woman, after all, is to love,\" said Dorothy. \"What would\nbecome of the human race if it were not?\"\n\n\"Child, child,\" cried the aunt, \"where learned you such things?\"\n\n\"They were written upon my mother's breast,\" continued Dorothy, \"and I\nlearned them when I took in my life with her milk. I pray they may be\nwritten upon my breast some day, if God in His goodness shall ever bless\nme with a baby girl. A man child could not read the words.\"\n\n\"Dorothy, Dorothy!\" cried Lady Crawford, \"you shock me. You pain me.\"\n\n\"Again I ask,\" responded Dorothy, \"for what else was I created? I tell\nyou, Aunt Dorothy, the world decrees that women shall remain in ignorance,\nor in pretended ignorance--in silence at least--regarding the things\nconcerning which they have the greatest need to be wise and talkative.\"\n\n\"At your age, Dorothy, I did not have half your wisdom on the subject,\"\nanswered Lady Crawford.\n\n\"Tell me, my sweet Aunt Dorothy, were you really in a state of ignorance\nsuch as you would have me believe?\"\n\n\"Well,\" responded the old lady, hesitatingly, \"I did not speak of such\nmatters.\"\n\n\"Why, aunt, did you not?\" asked Dorothy. \"Were you ashamed of what God had\ndone? Were you ashamed of His great purpose in creating you a woman, and\nin creating your mother and your mother's mother before you?\"\n\n\"No, no, child; no, no. But I cannot argue with you. Perhaps you are\nright,\" said Aunt Dorothy.\n\n\"Then tell me, dear aunt, that I am not immodest and bold when I speak\nconcerning that of which my heart is full to overflowing. God put it\nthere, aunt, not I. Surely I am not immodest by reason of His act.\"\n\n\"No, no, my sweet child,\" returned Aunt Dorothy, beginning to weep softly.\n\"No, no, you are not immodest. You are worth a thousand weak fools such as\nI was at your age.\"\n\nPoor Aunt Dorothy had been forced into a marriage which had wrecked her\nlife. Dorothy's words opened her aunt's eyes to the fact that the girl\nwhom she so dearly loved was being thrust by Sir George into the same\nwretched fate through which she had dragged her own suffering heart for so\nmany years. From that hour she was Dorothy's ally.\n\n\"Good night, Malcolm,\" said Lady Crawford, offering me her hand. I kissed\nit tenderly; then I kissed the sweet old lady's cheek and said:--\n\n\"I love you with all my heart, Aunt Dorothy.\"\n\n\"I thank you, Malcolm,\" she returned.\n\nI took my leave, and soon Madge went to her room, leaving Dorothy and Lady\nCrawford together.\n\nWhen Madge had gone the two Dorothys, one at each end of life, spanned the\nlong years that separated them, and became one in heart by reason of a\nheartache common to both.\n\nLady Crawford seated herself and Dorothy knelt by her chair.\n\n\"Tell me, Dorothy,\" said the old lady, \"tell me, do you love this man so\ntenderly, so passionately that you cannot give him up?\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear aunt,\" the girl responded, \"words cannot tell. You cannot\nknow what I feel.\"\n\n\"Alas! I know only too well, my child. I, too, loved a man when I was your\nage, and none but God knows what I suffered when I was forced by my\nparents and the priests to give him up, and to wed one whom--God help\nme--I loathed.\"\n\n\"Oh, my sweet aunt!\" cried Dorothy softly, throwing her arms about the old\nlady's neck and kissing her cheek. \"How terribly you must have suffered!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" responded Lady Crawford, \"and I am resolved you shall not endure\nthe same fate. I hope the man who has won your love is worthy of you. Do\nnot tell me his name, for I do not wish to practise greater deception\ntoward your father than I must. But you may tell me of his station in\nlife, and of his person, that I may know he is not unworthy of you.\"\n\n\"His station in life,\" answered Dorothy, \"is far better than mine. In\nperson he is handsome beyond any woman's wildest dream of manly beauty. In\ncharacter he is noble, generous, and good. He is far beyond my deserts,\nAunt Dorothy.\"\n\n\"Then why does he not seek your hand from your father?\" asked the aunt.\n\n\"That I may not tell you, Aunt Dorothy,\" returned the girl, \"unless you\nwould have me tell you his name, and that I dare not do. Although he is\nvastly my superior in station, in blood, and in character, still my father\nwould kill me before he would permit me to marry this man of my choice;\nand I, dear aunt, fear I shall die if I have him not.\"\n\nLight slowly dawned upon Aunt Dorothy's mind, and she exclaimed in a\nterrified whisper:--\n\n\"My God, child, is it he?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" responded the girl, \"yes, it is he.\"\n\n\"Do not speak his name, Dorothy,\" the old lady said. \"Do not speak his\nname. So long as you do not tell me, I cannot know with certainty who he\nis.\" After a pause Aunt Dorothy continued, \"Perhaps, child, it was his\nfather whom I loved and was compelled to give up.\"\n\n\"May the blessed Virgin pity us, sweet aunt,\" cried Dorothy, caressingly.\n\n\"And help us,\" returned Lady Crawford. \"I, too, shall help you,\" she\ncontinued. \"It will be through no fault of mine if your life is wasted as\nmine has been.\"\n\nDorothy kissed her aunt and retired.\n\nNext morning when Dorothy arose a song came from her heart as it comes\nfrom the skylark when it sees the sun at dawn--because it cannot help\nsinging. It awakened Aunt Dorothy, and she began to live her life anew, in\nbrightness, as she steeped her soul in the youth and joyousness of Dorothy\nVernon's song.\n\nI have spoken before in this chronicle of Will Dawson. He was a Conformer.\nPossibly it was by reason of his religious faith that he did not share the\ngeneral enmity that existed in Haddon Hall against the house of Rutland.\nHe did not, at the time of which I speak, know Sir John Manners, and he\ndid not suspect that the heir to Rutland was the man who had of late been\ncausing so much trouble to the house of Vernon. At least, if he did\nsuspect it, no one knew of his suspicions.\n\nSir George made a great effort to learn who the mysterious interloper was,\nbut he wholly failed to obtain any clew to his identity. He had jumped to\nthe conclusion that Dorothy's mysterious lover was a man of low degree. He\nhad taken for granted that he was an adventurer whose station and person\nprecluded him from openly wooing his daughter. He did not know that the\nheir to Rutland was in the Derbyshire country; for John, after his first\nmeeting with Dorothy, had carefully concealed his presence from everybody\nsave the inmates of Rutland. In fact, his mission to Rutland required\nsecrecy, and the Rutland servants and retainers were given to understand\nas much. Even had Sir George known of John's presence at Rutland, the old\ngentleman's mind could not have compassed the thought that Dorothy, who,\nhe believed, hated the race of Manners with an intensity equalled only by\nhis own feelings, could be induced to exchange a word with a member of the\nhouse. His uncertainty was not the least of his troubles; and although\nDorothy had full liberty to come and go at will, her father kept constant\nwatch over her. As a matter of fact, Sir George had given Dorothy liberty\npartly for the purpose of watching her, and he hoped to discover thereby\nand, if possible, to capture the man who had brought trouble to his\nhousehold. Sir George had once hanged a man to a tree on Bowling Green\nHill by no other authority than his own desire. That execution was the\nlast in England under the old Saxon law of Infangthef and Outfangthef. Sir\nGeorge had been summoned before Parliament for the deed; but the writ had\nissued against the King of the Peak, and that being only a sobriquet, was\nneither Sir George's name nor his title. So the writ was quashed, and the\nhigh-handed act of personal justice was not farther investigated by the\nauthorities. Should my cousin capture his daughter's lover, there would\ncertainly be another execution under the old Saxon law. So you see that my\nfriend Manners was tickling death with a straw for Dorothy's sake.\n\nOne day Dawson approached Sir George and told him that a man sought\nemployment in the household of Haddon Hall. Sir George placed great\nconfidence in his forester; so he told Dawson to employ the man if his\nservices were needed. The new servant proved to be a fine, strong fellow,\nhaving a great shock of carrot-colored hair and a bushy beard of rusty\nred.\n\nDawson engaged the newcomer, and assigned to him the duty of kindling the\nfires in the family apartments of the Hall. The name of the new servant\nwas Thomas Thompson, a name that Dorothy soon abbreviated to Tom-Tom.\n\nOne day she said to him, by way of opening the acquaintance, \"Thomas, you\nand I should be good friends; we have so much in common.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my lady,\" responded Thomas, greatly pleased. \"I hope we shall\nbe good friends; indeed, indeed I do, but I cannot tell wherein I am so\nfortunate as to have anything in common with your Ladyship. What is it,\nmay I ask, of which we have so much in common?\"\n\n\"So much hair,\" responded Dorothy, laughing.\n\n\"It were blasphemy, lady, to compare my hair with yours,\" returned Thomas.\n\"Your hair, I make sure, is such as the blessed Virgin had. I ask your\npardon for speaking so plainly; but your words put the thought into my\nmind, and perhaps they gave me license to speak.\"\n\nThomas was on his knees, placing wood upon the fire.\n\n\"Thomas,\" returned Dorothy, \"you need never apologize to a lady for making\nso fine a speech. I declare a courtier could not have made a better one.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I have lived among courtiers, lady,\" said Thomas.\n\n\"I doubt not,\" replied Dorothy, derisively. \"You would have me believe you\nare above your station. It is the way with all new servants. I suppose\nyou have seen fine company and better days.\"\n\n\"I have never seen finer company than now, and I have never known better\ndays than this,\" responded courtier Thomas. Dorothy thought he was\npresuming on her condescension, and was about to tell him so when he\ncontinued: \"The servants at Haddon Hall are gentlefolk compared with\nservants at other places where I have worked, and I desire nothing more\nthan to find favor in Sir George's eyes. I would do anything to achieve\nthat end.\"\n\nDorothy was not entirely reassured by Thomas's closing words; but even if\nthey were presumptuous, she admired his wit in giving them an inoffensive\nturn. From that day forth the acquaintance grew between the servant and\nmistress until it reached the point of familiarity at which Dorothy dubbed\nhim Tom-Tom.\n\nFrequently Dorothy was startled by remarks made by Thomas, having in them\na strong dash of familiarity; but he always gave to his words a harmless\nturn before she could resent them. At times, however, she was not quite\nsure of his intention.\n\nWithin a week after Thomas's advent to the hall, Dorothy began to suspect\nthat the new servant looked upon her with eyes of great favor. She\nfrequently caught him watching her, and at such times his eyes, which\nDorothy thought were really very fine, would glow with an ardor all too\nevident. His manner was cause for amusement rather than concern, and since\nshe felt kindly toward the new servant, she thought to create a faithful\nally by treating him graciously. She might, she thought, need Thomas's\nhelp when the time should come for her to leave Haddon Hall with John, if\nthat happy time should ever come. She did not realize that the most\ndangerous, watchful enemy to her cherished scheme would be a man who was\nhimself in love with her, even though he were a servant, and she looked on\nThomas's evident infatuation with a smile. She did not once think that in\nthe end it might cause her great trouble, so she accepted his mute\nadmiration, and thought to make use of it later on. To Tom, therefore,\nDorothy was gracious.\n\nJohn had sent word to Dorothy, by Jennie Faxton, that he had gone to\nLondon, and would be there for a fortnight or more.\n\nSir George had given permission to his daughter to ride out whenever she\nwished to do so, but he had ordered that Dawson or I should follow in the\ncapacity of spy, and Dorothy knew of the censorship, though she pretended\nignorance of it. So long as John was in London she did not care who\nfollowed her; but I well knew that when Manners should return, Dorothy\nwould again begin manoeuvring, and that by some cunning trick she would\nsee him.\n\nOne afternoon I was temporarily absent from the Hall and Dorothy wished to\nride. Dawson was engaged, and when Dorothy had departed, he ordered Tom to\nride after his mistress at a respectful distance. Nearly a fortnight had\npassed since John had gone to London, and when Dorothy rode forth that\nafternoon she was beginning to hope he might have returned, and that by\nsome delightful possibility he might then be loitering about the old\ntrysting-place at Bowling Green Gate. There was a half-unconscious\nconviction in her heart that he would be there. She determined therefore,\nto ride toward Rowsley, to cross the Wye at her former fording-place, and\nto go up to Bowling Green Gate on the Devonshire side of the Haddon wall.\nShe had no reason, other than the feeling born of her wishes, to believe\nthat John would be there; but she loved the spot for the sake of the\nmemories which hovered about it. She well knew that some one would follow\nher from the Hall; but she felt sure that in case the spy proved to be\nDawson or myself, she could easily arrange matters to her satisfaction, if\nby good fortune she should find her lover at the gate.\n\nTom rode so far behind his mistress that she could not determine who was\nfollowing her. Whenever she brought Dolcy to a walk, Tom-Tom also walked\nhis horse. When Dorothy galloped, he galloped; but after Dorothy had\ncrossed the Wye and had taken the wall over into the Devonshire lands, Tom\nalso crossed the river and wall and quickly rode to her side. He uncovered\nand bowed low with a familiarity of manner that startled her. The act of\nriding up to her and the manner in which he took his place by her side\nwere presumptuous to the point of insolence, and his attitude, although\nnot openly offensive, was slightly alarming. She put Dolcy to a gallop;\nbut the servant who, she thought, was presuming on her former\ngraciousness, kept close at Dolcy's heels. The man was a stranger, and she\nknew nothing of his character. She was alone in the forest with him, and\nshe did not know to what length his absurd passion for her might lead him.\nShe was alarmed, but she despised cowardice, although she knew herself to\nbe a coward, and she determined to ride to the gate, which was but a short\ndistance ahead of her. She resolved that if the insolent fellow continued\nhis familiarity, she would teach him a lesson he would never forget. When\nshe was within a short distance of the gate she sprang from Dolcy and\nhanded her rein to her servant. John was not there, but she went to the\ngate in the hope that a letter might be hidden beneath the stone bench\nwhere Jennie was wont to find them in times past. Dorothy found no letter,\nbut she could not resist the temptation to sit down upon the bench where\nhe and she had sat, and to dream over the happy moments she had spent\nthere. Tom, instead of holding the horses, hitched them, and walked toward\nDorothy. That act on the part of her servant was effrontery of the most\ninsolent sort. Will Dawson himself would not have dared do such a thing.\nIt filled her with alarm, and as Tom approached she was trying to\ndetermine in what manner she would crush him. But when the audacious\nThomas, having reached the gate, seated himself beside his mistress on the\nstone bench, the girl sprang to her feet in fright and indignation. She\nbegan to realize the extent of her foolhardiness in going to that secluded\nspot with a stranger.\n\n\"How dare you approach me in this insolent fashion?\" cried Dorothy,\nbreathless with fear.\n\n\"Mistress Vernon,\" responded Thomas, looking boldly up into her pale face,\n\"I wager you a gold pound sterling that if you permit me to remain here by\nyour side ten minutes you will be unwilling--\"\n\n\"John, John!\" cried the girl, exultantly. Tom snatched the red beard from\nhis face, and Dorothy, after one fleeting, luminous look into his eyes,\nfell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. She wept, and John,\nbending over the kneeling girl, kissed her sunlit hair.\n\n\"Cruel, cruel,\" sobbed Dorothy. Then she lifted her head and clasped her\nhands about his neck. \"Is it not strange,\" she continued, \"that I should\nhave felt so sure of seeing you? My reason kept telling me that my hopes\nwere absurd, but a stronger feeling full of the breath of certainty seemed\nto assure me that you would be here. It impelled me to come, though I\nfeared you after we crossed the wall. But reason, fear, and caution were\npowerless to keep me away.\"\n\n\"You did not know my voice,\" said John, \"nor did you penetrate my\ndisguise. You once said that you would recognize me though I wore all the\npetticoats in Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"Please don't jest with me now,\" pleaded Dorothy. \"I cannot bear it. Great\njoy is harder to endure than great grief. Why did you not reveal yourself\nto me at the Hall?\" she asked plaintively.\n\n\"I found no opportunity,\" returned John, \"others were always present.\"\n\nI shall tell you nothing that followed. It is no affair of yours nor of\nmine.\n\nThey were overjoyed in being together once more. Neither of them seemed to\nrealize that John, while living under Sir George's roof, was facing death\nevery moment. To Dorothy, the fact that John, who was heir to one of\nEngland's noblest houses, was willing for her sake to become a servant, to\ndo a servant's work, and to receive the indignities constantly put upon a\nservant, appealed most powerfully. It added to her feeling for him a\ntenderness which is not necessarily a part of passionate love.\n\nIt is needless for me to tell you that while John performed faithfully the\nduty of keeping bright the fires in Haddon Hall, he did not neglect the\nother flame--the one in Dorothy's heart--for the sake of whose warmth he\nhad assumed the leathern garb of servitude and had placed his head in the\nlion's mouth.\n\nAt first he and Dorothy used great caution in exchanging words and\nglances, but familiarity with danger breeds contempt for it. So they\nutilized every opportunity that niggard chance offered, and blinded by\ntheir great longing soon began to make opportunities for speech with each\nother, thereby bringing trouble to Dorothy and deadly peril to John. Of\nthat I shall soon tell you.\n\nDuring the period of John's service in Haddon Hall negotiations for\nDorothy's marriage with Lord Stanley were progressing slowly but surely.\nArrangements for the marriage settlement by the Stanleys, and for\nDorothy's dower to be given by Sir George, were matters that the King of\nthe Peak approached boldly as he would have met any other affair of\nbusiness. But the Earl of Derby, whose mind moved slowly, desiring that a\ngenerous portion of the Vernon wealth should be transferred with Dorothy\nto the Stanley holdings without the delay incident to Sir George's death,\nput off signing the articles of marriage in his effort to augment the cash\npayment. In truth, the great wealth which Dorothy would bring to the house\nof Stanley was the earl's real reason for desiring her marriage with his\nson. The earl was heavily in debt, and his estate stood in dire need of\nhelp.\n\nSir George, though attracted by the high nobility of the house of Stanley,\ndid not relish the thought that the wealth he had accumulated by his own\nefforts, and the Vernon estates which had come down to him through\ncenturies, should go to pay Lord Derby's debts. He therefore insisted that\nDorothy's dower should be her separate estate, and demanded that it should\nremain untouched and untouchable by either of the Stanleys. That\narrangement did not suit my lord earl, and although the son since he had\nseen Dorothy at Derby-town was eager to possess the beautiful girl, his\nfather did not share his ardor. Lawyers were called in who looked\nexpensively wise, but they accomplished the purpose for which they were\nemployed. An agreement of marriage was made and was drawn up on an\nimposing piece of parchment, brave with ribbons, pompous with seals, and\nfair in clerkly penmanship.\n\nOne day Sir George showed me the copy of the contract which had been\nprepared for him. That evening at the cost of much labor he and I went\nover the indenture word for word, and when we had finished Sir George\nthought it was very good indeed. He seemed to think that all difficulties\nin the way of the marriage were overcome when the agreement that lay\nbefore us on the table had been achieved between him and the earl. I knew\nSir George's troubles had only begun; for I was aware of a fact which it\nseemed impossible for him to learn, though of late Dorothy had given him\nmuch teaching thereto. I knew that he had transmitted to his daughter a\nlarge portion of his own fierce, stubborn, unbreakable will, and that in\nher it existed in its most deadly form--the feminine. To me after supper\nthat night was assigned the task of reading and rereading many times to\nSir George the contents of the beautiful parchment. When I would read a\nclause that particularly pleased my cousin, he insisted on celebrating the\nevent by drinking a mug of liquor drawn from a huge leather stoup which\nsat upon the table between us. By the time I had made several readings of\nthe interesting document the characters began to mingle in a way that did\nnot impart ease and clearness to my style. Some of the strange\ncombinations which I and the liquor extracted from amid the seals and\nribbons puzzled Sir George not a little. But with each new libation he\nfound new clauses and fresh causes for self-congratulation, though to\nspeak exact truth I more than once married Sir George to the Earl of\nDerby, and in my profanity gave Lord James Stanley to the devil to have\nand to hold.\n\nSir George was rapidly falling before his mighty enemy, drink, and I was\nnot far behind him, though I admit the fault with shame. My cousin for a\nwhile was mightily pleased with the contract; but when the liquor had\nbrought him to a point where he was entirely candid with himself, he let\nslip the fact that after all there was regret at the bottom of the goblet,\nmetaphorically and actually. Before his final surrender to drink he\ndropped the immediate consideration of the contract and said:--\n\n\"Malcolm, I have in my time known many fools, but if you will permit an\nold man, who loves you dearly, to make a plain statement of his\nconviction--\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" I interrupted.\n\n\"It would be a great relief to me,\" he continued, \"to say that I believe\nyou to be the greatest fool the good God ever permitted to live.\"\n\n\"I am sure, Sir George, that your condescending flattery is very\npleasing,\" I said.\n\nSir George, unmindful of my remark, continued, \"Your disease is not\nusually a deadly malady, as a look about you will easily show; but,\nMalcolm, if you were one whit more of a fool, you certainly would perish.\"\n\nI was not offended, for I knew that my cousin meant no offence.\n\n\"Then, Sir George, if the time ever comes when I wish to commit suicide, I\nhave always at hand an easy, painless mode of death. I shall become only a\nlittle more of a fool.\" I laughingly said, \"I will do my utmost to absorb\na little wisdom now and then as a preventive.\"\n\n\"Never a bit of wisdom will you ever absorb. A man who would refuse a girl\nwhose wealth and beauty are as great as Dorothy's, is past all hope. I\noften awaken in the dark corners of the night when a man's troubles stalk\nabout his bed like livid demons; and when I think that all of this evil\nwhich has come up between Dorothy and me, and all of this cursed\nestrangement which is eating out my heart could have been averted if you\nhad consented to marry her, I cannot but feel--\"\n\n\"But, Sir George,\" I interrupted, \"it was Dorothy, not I, who refused. She\ncould never have been brought to marry me.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me, Malcolm; don't tell me,\" cried the old man, angrily. Drink\nhad made Sir George sullen and violent. It made me happy at first; but\nwith liquor in excess there always came to me a sort of frenzy.\n\n\"Don't tell me,\" continued Sir George. \"There never lived a Vernon who\ncouldn't win a woman if he would try. But put all that aside. She would\nhave obeyed me. I would have forced her to marry you, and she would have\nthanked me afterward.\"\n\n\"You could never have forced her to marry me,\" I replied.\n\n\"But that I could and that I would have done,\" said Sir George. \"The like\nis done every day. Girls in these modern times are all perverse, but they\nare made to yield. Take the cases of Sir Thomas Mobley, Sir Grant Rhodas,\nand William Kimm. Their daughters all refused to marry the men chosen for\nthem, but the wenches were made to yield. If I had a daughter who refused\nto obey me, I would break her; I would break her. Yes, by God, I would\nbreak her if I had to kill her,\" and the old man brought his clenched hand\ndown upon the oak table with a crash. His eyes glared frightfully, and his\nface bore a forbidding expression which boded no good for Dorothy.\n\n\"She will make trouble in this matter,\" Sir George continued, tapping the\nparchment with his middle finger.\n\n\"She will make trouble about this; but, by God, Malcolm, she shall obey\nme.\"\n\nHe struck the oaken table another great blow with his fist, and glared\nfiercely across at me.\n\n\"Lord Wyatt had trouble with his daughter when he made the marriage with\nDevonshire,\" continued Sir George.\n\n\"A damned good match it was, too, for the girl. But she had her heart set\non young Gillman, and she refused to obey her father. She refused, by God,\npoint blank, to obey her father. She refused to obey the man who had given\nher life. What did Wyatt do? He was a man who knew what a child owes to\nits father, and, by God, Malcolm, after trying every other means to bring\nthe wench to her senses, after he had tried persuasion, after having in\ntwo priests and a bishop to show her how badly she was acting, and after\nhe had tried to reason with her, he whipped her; yes, he whipped her till\nshe bled--till she bled, Malcolm, I tell you. Ah, Wyatt knew what is due\nfrom a child to its parents. The whipping failed to bring the perverse\nhuzzy to obedience, so Wyatt threw her into a dungeon and starved her\ntill--till--\"\n\n\"Till she died,\" I interrupted.\n\n\"Yes, till she died,\" mumbled Sir George, sullenly, \"till she died, and it\nserved her right, by God, served her right.\"\n\nThe old man was growing very drunk, and everything was beginning to\nappear distorted to me. Sir George rose to his feet, leaned toward me with\nglaring eyes, struck the table a terrible blow with his fist, and said:--\n\n\"By the blood of God I swear that if Doll refuses to marry Stanley, and\npersists in her refusal, I'll whip her. Wyatt is a man after my own heart.\nI'll starve her. I'll kill her. Ay, if I loved her ten thousand times more\nthan I do, I would kill her or she should obey me.\"\n\nThen dawned upon me a vision of terrible possibilities. I was sure Sir\nGeorge could not force Dorothy to marry against her will; but I feared\nlest he might kill her in his effort to \"break her.\" I do not mean that I\nfeared he would kill her by a direct act, unless he should do so in a\nmoment of frenzy induced by drink and passion, but I did fear for the\nresults of the breaking process. The like had often happened. It had\nhappened in the case of Wyatt's daughter. Dorothy under the intoxicating\ninfluence of her passion might become so possessed by the spirit of a\nmartyr that she could calmly take a flogging, but my belief was that\nshould matters proceed to that extreme, should Sir George flog his\ndaughter, the chords of her highly strung nature would snap under the\ntension, and she would die. I loved Dorothy for the sake of her fierce,\npassionate, tender heart, and because she loved me; and even in my sober,\nreflective moments I had resolved that my life, ay, and Sir George's life\nalso, should stand between the girl and the lash. If in calmness I could\ndeliberately form such a resolution, imagine the effect on my\nliquor-crazed brain of Sir George's words and the vista of horrors they\ndisclosed. I was intoxicated. I was drunk. I say it with shame; and on\nhearing Sir George's threat my half-frenzied imagination ran riot into the\nforeboding future.\n\nAll the candles, save one tottering wick, were dead in their sockets, and\nthe room was filled with lowering phantom-like shadows from oaken floor\nto grimy vaulted roof beams. Sir George, hardly conscious of what he did\nand said, all his evil passions quickened with drink, leaned his hands\nupon the table and glared across at me. He seemed to be the incarnation of\nrage and ferocity, to so great a pitch had he wrought himself. The\nsputtering candle feebly flickered, and seemed to give its dim light only\nthat the darksome shadows might flit and hover about us like vampires on\nthe scent of blood. A cold perspiration induced by a nameless fear came\nupon me, and in that dark future to which my heated imagination travelled\nI saw, as if revealed by black magic, fair, sweet, generous Dorothy,\nstanding piteously upon Bowling Green hillside. Over her drooping form\nthere hung in air a monster cloudlike image of her father holding in its\nhand a deadly bludgeon. So black, so horrid was this shadow-demon that I\nsprang from my chair with a frightful oath, and shrieked:--\n\n\"Hell is made for man because of his cruelty to woman.\"\n\nSir George had sunk into his chair. Liquor had finished its work, and the\nold man, resting his head upon his folded arms, leaned forward on the\ntable. He was drunk--dead to the world. How long I stood in frenzied\nstupor gazing at shadow-stricken Dorothy upon the hillside I do not know.\nIt must have been several minutes. Blood of Christ, how vividly I remember\nthe vision! The sunny radiance of the girl's hair was darkened and dead.\nHer bending attitude was one of abject grief. Her hands covered her face,\nand she was the image of woe. Suddenly she lifted her head with the quick\nimpulsive movement so familiar in her, and with a cry eloquent as a\nchild's wail for its mother called, \"John,\" and held out her arms\nimploringly toward the dim shadowy form of her lover standing upon the\nhill crest. Then John's form began to fade, and as its shadowy essence\ngrew dim, despair slowly stole like a mask of death over Dorothy's face.\nShe stood for a moment gazing vacantly into space. Then she fell to the\nground, the shadow of her father hovering over her prostrate form, and the\nwords, \"Dead, dead, dead,\" came to me in horrifying whispers from every\ndancing shadow-demon in the room.\n\nIn trying to locate the whispers as they reverberated from floor to oaken\nrafters, I turned and saw Sir George. He looked as if he were dead.\n\n\"Why should you not be dead in fact?\" I cried. \"You would kill your\ndaughter. Why should I not kill you? That will solve the whole question.\"\n\nI revelled in the thought; I drank it in; I nursed it; I cuddled it; I\nkissed it. Nature's brutish love for murder had deluged my soul. I put my\nhand to my side for the purpose of drawing my sword or my knife. I had\nneither with me. Then I remember staggering toward the fireplace to get\none of the fire-irons with which to kill my cousin. I remember that when I\ngrasped the fire-iron, by the strange working of habit I employed it for\nthe moment in its proper use; and as I began to stir the embers on the\nhearth, my original purpose was forgotten. That moment of habit-wrought\nforgetfulness saved me and saved Sir George's life. I remember that I sank\ninto the chair in front of the fireplace, holding the iron, and I thank\nGod that I remember nothing more.\n\nDuring the night the servants aroused me, and I staggered up the stone\nstairway of Eagle Tower and clambered into my room.\n\nThe next morning I awakened feeling ill. There was a taste in my mouth as\nIf I had been chewing a piece of the devil's boot over night. I wanted no\nbreakfast, so I climbed to the top of the tower, hoping the fresh morning\nbreeze might cool my head and cleanse my mouth. For a moment or two I\nstood on the tower roof bareheaded and open-mouthed while I drank in the\nfresh, purifying air. The sweet draught helped me physically; but all the\nwinds of Boreas could not have blown out of my head the vision of the\nprevious night. The question, \"Was it prophetic?\" kept ringing in my ears,\nanswerless save by a superstitious feeling of fear. Then the horrid\nthought that I had only by a mere chance missed becoming a murderer came\nupon me, and again was crowded from my mind by the memory of Dorothy and\nthe hovering spectre which had hung over her head on Bowling Green\nhillside.\n\nI walked to the north side of the tower and on looking down the first\nperson I saw was our new servant, Thomas, holding two horses at the\nmounting stand. One of them was Dolcy, and I, feeling that a brisk ride\nwith Dorothy would help me to throw off my wretchedness, quickly descended\nthe tower stairs, stopped at my room for my hat and cloak, and walked\naround to the mounting block. Dorothy was going to ride, and I supposed\nshe would prefer me to the new servant as a companion.\n\nI asked Thomas if his mistress were going out for a ride, and he replied\naffirmatively.\n\n\"Who is to accompany her?\" I asked.\n\n\"She gave orders for me to go with her,\" he answered.\n\n\"Very well,\" I responded, \"take your horse back to the stable and fetch\nmine.\" The man hesitated, and twice he began to make reply, but finally he\nsaid:--\n\n\"Very well, Sir Malcolm.\"\n\nHe hitched Dolcy to the ring in the mounting block and started back toward\nthe stable leading his own horse. At that moment Dorothy came out of the\ntower gate, dressed for the ride. Surely no woman was ever more beautiful\nthan she that morning.\n\n\"Tom-Tom, where are you taking the horse?\" she cried.\n\n\"To the stable, Mistress,\" answered the servant. \"Sir Malcolm says he will\ngo with you.\"\n\nDorothy's joyousness vanished. From radiant brightness her expression\nchanged in the twinkling of an eye to a look of disappointment so\nsorrowful that I at once knew there was some great reason why she did not\nwish me to ride with her. I could not divine the reason, neither did I\ntry. I quickly said to Thomas:--\n\n\"Do not bring my horse. If Mistress Vernon will excuse me, I shall not\nride with her this morning. I forgot for the moment that I had not\nbreakfasted.\"\n\nAgain came to Dorothy's face the radiant look of joy as if to affirm what\nit had already told me. I looked toward Thomas, and his eyes, too, were\nalight. I could make nothing of it. Thomas was a fine-looking fellow,\nnotwithstanding his preposterous hair and beard; but I felt sure there\ncould be no understanding between the man and his mistress.\n\nWhen Thomas and Dorothy had mounted, she timidly ventured to say:--\n\n\"We are sorry, Cousin Malcolm, that you cannot ride with us.\"\n\nShe did not give me an opportunity to change my mind, but struck Dolcy a\nsharp blow with her whip that sent the spirited mare galloping toward the\ndove-cote, and Thomas quickly followed at a respectful distance. From the\ndove-cote Dorothy took the path down the Wye toward Rowsley. I, of course,\nconnected her strange conduct with John. When a young woman who is well\nbalanced physically, mentally, and morally acts in a strange, unusual\nmanner, you may depend on it there is a man somewhere behind her motive.\n\nI knew that John was in London. Only the night before I had received word\nfrom Rutland Castle that he had not returned, and that he was not expected\nhome for many days.\n\nSo I concluded that John could not be behind my fair cousin's motive. I\ntried to stop guessing at the riddle Dorothy had set me, but my effort was\nuseless. I wondered and thought and guessed, but I brought to myself only\nthe answer, \"Great is the mystery of womanhood.\"\n\nAfter Dorothy had ridden away I again climbed to the top of Eagle Tower\nand saw the riders cross the Wye at Dorothy's former fording-place, and\ntake the wall. I then did a thing that fills me with shame when I think of\nit. For the only time in my whole life I acted the part of a spy. I\nhurried to Bowling Green Gate, and horror upon horror, there I beheld my\ncousin Dorothy in the arms of Thomas, the man-servant. I do not know why\nthe truth of Thomas's identity did not dawn upon me, but it did not, and I\nstole away from the gate, thinking that Dorothy, after all, was no better\nthan the other women I had known at various times in my life, and I\nresolved to tell John what I had seen. You must remember that the women I\nhad known were of the courts of Mary Stuart and of Guise, and the less we\nsay about them the better. God pity them! Prior to my acquaintance with\nDorothy and Madge I had always considered a man to be a fool who would put\nhis faith in womankind. To me women were as good as men,--no better, no\nworse. But with my knowledge of those two girls there had grown up in me a\nfaith in woman's virtue which in my opinion is man's greatest comforter;\nthe lack of it his greatest torment.\n\nI went back to Eagle Tower and stood at my window looking down the Wye,\nhoping soon to see Dorothy returning home. I did not feel jealousy in the\nsense that a lover would feel it; but there was a pain in my heart, a\nmingling of grief, anger, and resentment because Dorothy had destroyed not\nonly my faith in her, but, alas! my sweet, new-born faith in womankind.\nThrough her fault I had fallen again to my old, black belief that virtue\nwas only another name for the lack of opportunity. It is easy for a man\nwho has never known virtue in woman to bear and forbear the lack of it;\nbut when once he has known the priceless treasure, doubt becomes\nexcruciating pain.\n\nAfter an hour or two Dorothy and her servant appeared at the ford and took\nthe path up the Wye toward Haddon. Thomas was riding a short distance\nbehind his accommodating mistress, and as they approached the Hall, I\nrecognized something familiar in his figure. At first, the feeling of\nrecognition was indistinct, but when the riders drew near, something about\nthe man--his poise on the horse, a trick with the rein or a turn with his\nstirrup, I could not tell what it was--startled me like a flash in the\ndark, and the word \"John!\" sprang to my lips. The wonder of the thing\ndrove out of my mind all power to think. I could only feel happy, so I lay\ndown upon my bed and soon dropped off to sleep.\n\nWhen I awakened I was rapt in peace, for I had again found my treasured\nfaith in womankind. I had hardly dared include Madge in my backsliding,\nbut I had come perilously near doing it, and the thought of my narrow\nescape from such perfidy frightened me. I have never taken the risk since\nthat day. I would not believe the testimony of my own eyes against the\nevidence of my faith in Madge.\n\nI knew that Thomas was Sir John Manners, and yet I did not know it\ncertainly. I determined, if possible, to remain in partial ignorance,\nhoping that I might with some small show of truth be able to plead\nignorance should Sir George accuse me of bad faith in having failed to\ntell him of John's presence in Haddon Hall. That Sir George would sooner\nor later discover Thomas's identity I had little doubt. That he would kill\nhim should he once have him in his power, I had no doubt at all. Hence,\nalthough I had awakened in peace concerning Dorothy, you may understand\nthat I awakened to trouble concerning John.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE COST MARK OF JOY\n\n\nPeace had been restored between Dorothy and her father. At least an\narmistice had been tacitly declared. But, owing to Dorothy's knowledge of\nher father's intention that she should marry Lord Stanley, and because of\nSir George's feeling that Dorothy had determined to do nothing of the\nsort, the belligerent powers maintained a defensive attitude which\nrendered an absolute reconciliation impossible. They were ready for war at\na moment's notice.\n\nThe strangest part of their relation was the failure of each to comprehend\nand fully to realize the full strength of the other's purpose. Dorothy\ncould not bring herself to believe that her father, who had until within\nthe last few weeks, been kind and indulgent to her, seriously intended to\nforce her into marriage with a creature so despicable as Stanley. In fact,\nshe did not believe that her father could offer lasting resistance to her\nardent desire in any matter. Such an untoward happening had never befallen\nher. Dorothy had learned to believe from agreeable experience that it was\na crime in any one, bordering on treason, to thwart her ardent desires. It\nis true she had in certain events, been compelled to coax and even to weep\ngently. On a few extreme occasions she had been forced to do a little\nstorming in order to have her own way; but that any presumptuous\nindividuals should resist her will after the storming had been resorted\nto was an event of such recent happening in her life that she had not\ngrown familiar with the thought of it. Therefore, while she felt that her\nfather might seriously annoy her with the Stanley project, and while she\nrealized that she might be compelled to resort to the storming process in\na degree thitherto uncalled for, she believed that the storm she would\nraise would blow her father entirely out of his absurd and utterly\nuntenable position. On the other hand, while Sir George anticipated\ntrouble with Dorothy, he had never been able to believe that she would\nabsolutely refuse to obey him. In those olden times--now nearly half a\ncentury past--filial disobedience was rare. The refusal of a child to obey\na parent, and especially the refusal of a daughter to obey her father in\nthe matter of marriage, was then looked upon as a crime and was frequently\npunished in a way which amounted to barbarous ferocity. Sons, being of the\nprivileged side of humanity, might occasionally disobey with impunity, but\nwoe to the poor girl who dared set up a will of her own. A man who could\nnot compel obedience from his daughter was looked upon as a poor weakling,\nand contempt was his portion in the eyes of his fellow-men--in the eyes of\nhis fellow-brutes, I should like to say.\n\nGrowing out of such conditions was the firm belief on the part of Sir\nGeorge that Dorothy would in the end obey him; but if by any hard chance\nshe should be guilty of the high crime of disobedience--Well! Sir George\nintended to prevent the crime. Perhaps mere stubborness and fear of the\ncontempt in which he would be held by his friends in case he were defeated\nby his own daughter were no small parts of Sir George's desire to carry\nthrough the enterprise in which he had embarked with the Stanleys.\nAlthough there was no doubt in Sir George's mind that he would eventually\nconquer in the conflict with Dorothy, he had a profound respect for the\npower of his antagonist to do temporary battle, and he did not care to\nenter into actual hostilities until hostilities should become actually\nnecessary.\n\nTherefore, upon the second day after I had read the beribboned, besealed\ncontract to Sir George, he sent an advance guard toward the enemy's line.\nHe placed the ornamental piece of parchment in Lady Crawford's hands and\ndirected her to give it to Dorothy.\n\nBut before I tell you of the parchment I must relate a scene that occurred\nin Aunt Dorothy's room a few hours after I recognized John as he rode up\nthe Wye with Dorothy. It was late in the afternoon of the day after I read\nthe contract to Sir George and saw the horrid vision on Bowling Green.\n\nI was sitting with Madge at the west window of Dorothy's parlor. We were\nwatching the sun as it sank in splendor beneath Overhaddon Hill.\n\nI should like first to tell you a few words--only a few, I pray\nyou--concerning Madge and myself. I will.\n\nI have just said that Madge and I were watching the sun at the west\nwindow, and I told you but the truth, for Madge had learned to see with my\neyes. Gladly would I have given them to her outright, and willingly would\nI have lived in darkness could I have given light to her. She gave light\nto me--the light of truth, of purity, and of exalted motive. There had\nbeen no words spoken by Madge nor me to any one concerning the strange and\nholy chain that was welding itself about us, save the partial confession\nwhich she had whispered to Dorothy. But notwithstanding our silence, our\nfriends in the Hall understood that Madge and I were very dear to each\nother. I, of course, saw a great deal of her; but it was the evening hour\nat the west window to which I longingly looked forward all the day. I am\nno poet, nor do my words and thoughts come with the rhythmic flow and\neloquent imagery of one to whom the talent of poesy is given. But during\nthose evening hours it seemed that with the soft touch of Madge's hand\nthere ran through me a current of infectious dreaming which kindled my\nsoul till thoughts of beauty came to my mind and words of music sprang to\nmy lips such as I had always considered not to be in me. It was not I who\nspoke; it was Madge who saw with my eyes and spoke with my voice. To my\nvision, swayed by Madge's subtle influence, the landscape became a thing\nof moving beauty and of life, and the floating clouds became a panorama of\never shifting pictures. I, inspired by her, described so eloquently the\nwonders I saw that she, too, could see them. Now a flock of white-winged\nangels rested on the low-hung azure of the sky, watching the glory of\nPhoebus as he drove his fiery steeds over the western edge of the world.\nAgain, Mount Olympus would grow before my eyes, and I would plainly see\nJove sitting upon his burnished throne, while gods and goddesses floated\nat his feet and revelled on the fleecy mountain sides. Then would\nmountain, gods, and goddesses dissolve,--as in fact they did dissolve ages\nago before the eyes of millions who had thought them real,--and in their\nplaces perhaps would come a procession of golden-maned lions, at the\ndescription of which would Madge take pretended fright. Again, would I see\nMadge herself in flowing white robes made of the stuff from which fleecy\nclouds are wrought. All these wonders would I describe, and when I would\ncome to tell her of the fair cloud image of herself I would seize the\njoyous chance to make her understand in some faint degree how altogether\nlovely in my eyes the vision was. Then would she smile and softly press my\nhand and say:--\n\n\"Malcolm, it must be some one else you see in the cloud,\" though she was\npleased.\n\nBut when the hour was done then came the crowning moment of the day, for\nas I would rise to take my leave, if perchance we were alone, she would\ngive herself to my arms for one fleeting instant and willingly would her\nlips await--but there are moments too sacred for aught save holy thought.\nThe theme is sweet to me, but I must go back to Dorothy and tell you of\nthe scene I have promised you.\n\nAs I have already said, it was the evening following that upon which I had\nread the marriage contract to Sir George, and had seen the vision on the\nhillside. Madge and I were sitting at the west window. Dorothy, in\nkindness to us, was sitting alone by the fireside in Lady Crawford's\nchamber. Thomas entered the room with an armful of fagots, which he\ndeposited in the fagot-holder. He was about to replenish the fire, but\nDorothy thrust him aside, and said:--\n\n\"You shall kindle no more fires for me. At least you shall not do so when\nno one else is by. It pains me that you, at whose feet I am unworthy to\nkneel, should be my servant\"\n\nThereupon she took in her hands the fagot John had been holding. He\noffered to prevent her, but she said:--\n\n\"Please, John, let me do this.\"\n\nThe doors were open, and we heard all that was said by Dorothy and Tom.\nMadge grasped my hand in surprise and fear.\n\n\"Please, John,\" said Dorothy, \"if it gives me pleasure to be your servant,\nyou should not wish to deny me. There lives but one person whom I would\nserve. There, John, I will give you another, and you shall let me do as I\nwill.\"\n\nDorothy, still holding the fagot in her hands, pressed it against John's\nbreast and gently pushed him backward toward a large armchair, in which\nshe had been sitting by the west side of the fireplace.\n\n\"You sit there, John, and we will make believe that this is our house, and\nthat you have just come in very cold from a ride, and that I am making a\nfine fire to warm you. Isn't it pleasant, John? There, you sit and warm\nyourself--my--my--husband,\" she said laughingly. \"It is fine sport even to\nplay at. There is one fagot on the fire,\" she said, as she threw the wood\nupon the embers, causing them to fly in all directions. John started up to\nbrush the scattered embers back into the fireplace, but Dorothy stopped\nhim.\n\n\"I will put them all back,\" she said. \"You know you are cold and very\ntired. You have been overseeing the tenantry and have been hunting. Will\nyou have a bowl of punch, my--my husband?\" and she laughed again and\nkissed him as she passed to the holder for another fagot.\n\n\"I much prefer that to punch,\" said John, laughing softly. \"Have you\nmore?\"\n\n\"Thousands of them, John, thousands of them.\" She rippled forth a little\nlaugh and continued: \"I occupy my time nowadays in making them that I may\nalways have a great supply when we are--that is, you know, when you--when\nthe time comes that you may require a great many to keep you in good\nhumor.\" Again came the laugh, merry and clear as the tinkle of sterling\nsilver.\n\nShe laughed again within a minute or two; but when the second laugh came,\nit sounded like a knell.\n\nDorothy delighted to be dressed in the latest fashion. Upon this occasion\nshe wore a skirt vast in width, of a pattern then much in vogue. The\nsleeves also were preposterously large, in accordance with the custom of\nthe times. About her neck a beautiful white linen ruff stood out at least\nthe eighth part of an ell. The day had been damp and cold, and the room in\nwhich she had been sitting was chilly. For that reason, most fortunately,\nshe had thrown over her shoulders a wide sable cloak broad enough to\nenfold her many times and long enough to reach nearly to her knees:\nDorothy thus arrayed was standing in front of John's chair. She had just\nspoken the words \"good humor,\" when the door leading to her father's room\nopened and in walked Sir George. She and her ample skirts and broad\nsleeves were between John and the door. Not one brief instant did Dorothy\nwaste in thought. Had she paused to put in motion the machinery of reason,\nJohn would have been lost. Thomas sitting in Lady Crawford's chair and\nDorothy standing beside him would have told Sir George all he needed to\nknow. He might not have discovered John's identity, but a rope and a tree\nin Bowling Green would quickly have closed the chapter of Dorothy's\nmysterious love affair. Dorothy, however, did not stop to reason nor to\nthink. She simply acted without preliminary thought, as the rose unfolds\nor as the lightning strikes. She quietly sat down upon John's knees,\nleaned closely back against him, spread out the ample folds of her skirt,\nthrew the lower parts of her broad cape over her shoulders and across the\nback of the chair, and Sir John Manners was invisible to mortal eyes.\n\n\"Come in, father,\" said Dorothy, in dulcet tones that should have betrayed\nher.\n\n\"I heard you laughing and talking,\" said Sir George, \"and I wondered who\nwas with you.\"\n\n\"I was talking to Madge and Malcolm who are in the other room,\" replied\nDorothy.\n\n\"Did not Thomas come in with fagots?\" asked Sir George.\n\n\"I think he is replenishing the fire in the parlor, father, or he may have\ngone out. I did not notice. Do you want him?\"\n\n\"I do not especially want him,\" Sir George answered.\n\n\"When he finishes in the parlor I will tell him that you want him,\" said\nDorothy.\n\n\"Very well,\" replied Sir George.\n\nHe returned to his room, but he did not close the door.\n\nThe moment her father's back was turned Dorothy called:--\n\n\"Tom--Tom, father wants you,\" and instantly Thomas was standing\ndeferentially by her side, and she was seated in the great chair. It was a\nrapid change, I assure you. But a man's life and his fortune for good or\nill often hang upon a tiny peg--a second of time protruding from the wall\nof eternity. It serves him briefly; but if he be ready for the vital\ninstant, it may serve him well.\n\n\"Yes, mistress,\" said Thomas, \"I go to him at once.\"\n\nJohn left the room and closed the door as he passed out. Then it was that\nDorothy's laugh sounded like the chilling tones of a knell. It was the\nlaugh of one almost distraught. She came to Madge and me laughing, but the\nlaugh quickly changed to convulsive sobs. The strain of the brief moment\nduring which her father had been in Lady Crawford's room had been too\ngreat for even her strong nerves to bear. She tottered and would have\nfallen had I not caught her. I carried her to the bed, and Madge called\nLady Crawford. Dorothy had swooned.\n\nWhen she wakened she said dreamily:--\n\n\"I shall always keep this cloak and gown.\"\n\nAunt Dorothy thought the words were but the incoherent utterances of a\ndimly conscious mind, but I knew they were the deliberate expression of a\njustly grateful heart.\n\nThe following evening trouble came about over the matter of the marriage\ncontract.\n\nYou remember I told you that Sir George had sent Lady Crawford as an\nadvance guard to place the parchment in the enemy's hands. But the advance\nguard feared the enemy and therefore did not deliver the contract directly\nto Dorothy. She placed it conspicuously upon the table, knowing well that\nher niece's curiosity would soon prompt an examination.\n\nI was sitting before the fire in Aunt Dorothy's room, talking to Madge\nwhen Lady Crawford entered, placed the parchment on the table, and took a\nchair by my side. Soon Dorothy entered the room. The roll of parchment,\nbrave with ribbons, was lying on the table. It attracted her attention at\nonce, and she took it in her hands.\n\n\"What is this?\" she asked carelessly. Her action was prompted entirely by\nidle curiosity. That, by the way, was no small motive with Dorothy. She\nhad the curiosity of a young doe. Receiving no answer, she untied the\nribbons and unrolled the parchment to investigate its contents for\nherself. When the parchment was unrolled, she began to read:--\n\n\"In the name of God, amen. This indenture of agreement, looking to union\nin the holy bonds of marriage between the Right Honorable Lord James\nStanley of the first part, and Mistress Dorothy Vernon of Haddon of the\nsecond part--\"\n\nShe read no farther. She crumpled the beautiful parchment in her hands,\nwalked over to the fire, and quietly placed the sacred instrument in the\nmidst of the flames. Then she turned away with a sneer of contempt upon\nher face and--again I grieve to tell you this--said:--\n\n\"In the name of God, amen. May this indenture be damned.\"\n\n\"Dorothy!\" exclaimed Lady Crawford, horrified at her niece's profanity. \"I\nfeel shame for your impious words.\"\n\n\"I don't care what you feel, aunt,\" retorted Dorothy, with a dangerous\nglint in her eyes. \"Feel as you wish, I meant what I said, and I will say\nit again if you would like to hear it. I will say it to father when I see\nhim. Now, Aunt Dorothy, I love you and I love my father, but I give you\nfair warning there is trouble ahead for any one who crosses me in this\nmatter.\"\n\nShe certainly looked as if she spoke the truth. Then she hummed a tune\nunder her breath--a dangerous signal in Dorothy at certain times. Soon the\nhumming turned to whistling. Whistling in those olden days was looked upon\nas a species of crime in a girl.\n\nDorothy stood by the window for a short time and then taking up an\nembroidery frame, drew a chair nearer to the light and began to work at\nher embroidery. In a moment or two she stopped whistling, and we could\nalmost feel the silence in the room. Madge, of course, only partly knew\nwhat had happened, and her face wore an expression of expectant, anxious\ninquiry. Aunt Dorothy looked at me, and I looked at the fire. The\nparchment burned slowly. Lady Crawford, from a sense of duty to Sir George\nand perhaps from politic reasons, made two or three attempts to speak, and\nafter five minutes of painful silence she brought herself to say:--\n\n\"Dorothy, your father left the contract here for you to read. He will be\nangry when he learns what you have done. Such disobedience is sure to--\"\n\n\"Not another word from you,\" screamed Dorothy, springing like a tigress\nfrom her chair. \"Not another word from you or I will--I will scratch you.\nI will kill some one. Don't speak to me. Can't you see that I am trying to\ncalm myself for an interview with father? An angry brain is full of\nblunders. I want to make none. I will settle this affair with father. No\none else, not even you, Aunt Dorothy, shall interfere.\" The girl turned to\nthe window, stood beating a tattoo upon the glass for a moment or two,\nthen went over to Lady Crawford and knelt by her side. She put her arms\nabout Aunt Dorothy's neck, softly kissed her, and said:--\n\n\"Forgive me, dear aunt; forgive me. I am almost crazed with my troubles. I\nlove you dearly indeed, indeed I do.\"\n\nMadge gropingly went to Dorothy's side and took her hand. Dorothy kissed\nMadge's hand and rose to her feet.\n\n\"Where is my father?\" asked Dorothy, to whom a repentant feeling toward\nLady Crawford had brought partial calmness. \"I will go to him immediately\nand will have this matter over. We might as well understand each other at\nonce. Father seems very dull at understanding me. But he shall know me\nbetter before long.\"\n\nSir George may have respected the strength of his adversary, but Dorothy\nhad no respect for the strength of her foe. She was eager for the fray.\nWhen she had a disagreeable thing to do, she always wanted to do it\nquickly.\n\nDorothy was saved the trouble of seeking her father, for at that moment he\nentered the room.\n\n\"You are welcome, father,\" said Dorothy in cold, defiant tones. \"You have\ncome just in time to see the last flickering flame of your fine marriage\ncontract.\" She led him to the fireplace. \"Does it not make a beautiful\nsmoke and blaze?\"\n\n\"Did you dare--\"\n\n\"Ay, that I did,\" replied Dorothy.\n\n\"You dared?\" again asked her father, unable to believe the evidence of his\neyes.\n\n\"Ay, so I said; that I did,\" again said Dorothy.\n\n\"By the death of Christ--\" began Sir George.\n\n\"Now be careful, father, about your oaths,\" the girl interrupted. \"You\nmust not forget the last batch you made and broke.\"\n\nDorothy's words and manner maddened Sir George. The expression of her\nwhole person, from her feet to her hair, breathed defiance. The poise of\nher body and of her limbs, the wild glint in her eyes, and the turn of her\nhead, all told eloquently that Sir George had no chance to win and that\nDorothy was an unconquerable foe. It is a wonder he did not learn in that\none moment that he could never bring his daughter to marry Lord Stanley.\n\n\"I will imprison you,\" cried Sir George, gasping with rage.\n\n\"Very well,\" responded Dorothy, smilingly. \"You kept me prisoner for a\nfortnight. I did not ask you to liberate me. I am ready to go back to my\napartments.\"\n\n\"But now you shall go to the dungeon,\" her father said.\n\n\"Ah, the dungeon!\" cried the girl, as if she were delighted at the\nthought. \"The dungeon! Very well, again. I am ready to go to the dungeon.\nYou may keep me there the remainder of my natural life. I cannot prevent\nyou from doing that, but you cannot force me to marry Lord Stanley.\"\n\n\"I will starve you until you obey me!\" retorted her father. \"I will starve\nyou!\"\n\n\"That, again, you may easily do, my dear father; but again I tell you I\nwill never marry Stanley. If you think I fear to die, try to kill me. I do\nnot fear death. You have it not in your power to make me fear you or\nanything you can do. You may kill me, but I thank God it requires my\nconsent for my marriage to Stanley, and I swear before God that never\nshall be given.\"\n\nThe girl's terrible will and calm determination staggered Sir George, and\nby its force beat down even his strong will. The infuriated old man\nwavered a moment and said:--\n\n\"Fool, I seek only your happiness in this marriage. Only your happiness.\nWhy will you not consent to it?\"\n\nI thought the battle was over, and that Dorothy was the victor. She\nthought so, too, but was not great enough to bear her triumph silently.\nShe kept on talking and carried her attack too far.\n\n\"And I refuse to obey because of my happiness. I refuse because I hate\nLord Stanley, and because, as you already know, I love another man.\"\n\nWhen she spoke the words \"because I love another man,\" the cold, defiant\nexpression of her face changed to one of ecstasy.\n\n\"I will have you to the dungeon this very hour, you brazen huzzy,\" cried\nSir George.\n\n\"How often, father, shall I repeat that I am ready to go to the dungeon? I\nam eager to obey you in all things save one.\"\n\n\"You shall have your wish,\" returned Sir George. \"Would that you had died\nere you had disgraced your house with a low-bred dog whose name you are\nashamed to utter.\"\n\n\"Father, there has been no disgrace,\" Dorothy answered, and her words bore\nthe ring of truth.\n\n\"You have been meeting the fellow at secluded spots in the forest--how\nfrequently you have met him God only knows--and you lied to me when you\nwere discovered at Bowling Green Gate.\"\n\n\"I would do it again gladly if I but had the chance,\" answered the girl,\nwho by that time was reckless of consequences.\n\n\"But the chance you shall not have,\" retorted Sir George.\n\n\"Do not be too sure, father,\" replied Dorothy. She was unable to resist\nthe temptation to mystify him. \"I may see him before another hour. I will\nlay you this wager, father, if I do not within one hour see the man--the\nman whom I love--I will marry Lord Stanley. If I see him within that time\nyou shall permit me to marry him. I have seen him two score times since\nthe day you surprised me at the gate.\"\n\nThat was a dangerous admission for the girl to make, and she soon\nregretted it with all her heart. Truly she was right. An angry brain is\nfull of blunders.\n\nOf course Dorothy's words, which were so full of meaning to Madge and me,\nmeant little to Sir George. He looked upon them only as irritating\ninsolence on her part. A few minutes later, however, they became full of\nsignificance.\n\nSir George seemed to have forgotten the Stanley marriage and the burning\nof the contract in his quarrel with Dorothy over her unknown lover.\n\nConceive, if you can, the situation in Haddon Hall at that time. There was\nlove-drunk Dorothy, proud of the skill which had enabled her to outwit her\nwrathful father. There was Sir George, whose mental condition, inflamed by\nconstant drinking, bordered on frenzy because he felt that his child, whom\nhe had so tenderly loved from the day of her birth, had disgraced herself\nwith a low-born wretch whom she refused to name. And there, under the same\nroof, lived the man who was the root and source of all the trouble. A\npretty kettle of fish!\n\n\"The wager, father, will you take it?\" eagerly asked Dorothy.\n\nSir George, who thought that her words were spoken only to anger him,\nwaved her off with his hands and said:--\n\n\"I have reason to believe that I know the wretch for whose sake you have\ndisgraced yourself. You may be sure that I shall soon know him with\ncertainty. When I do, I will quickly have him in my power. Then I will\nhang him to a tree on Bowling Green, and you shall see the low-born dog\ndie.\"\n\n\"He is better born than any of our house,\" retorted Dorothy, who had lost\nall sense of caution. \"Ay, he is better born than any with whom we claim\nkin.\"\n\nSir George stood in open-eyed wonder, and Dorothy continued: \"You cannot\nkeep him from me. I shall see him, and I will have him despite you. I tell\nyou again, I have seen him two score times since you tried to spy upon us\nat Bowling Green Gate, and I will see him whenever I choose, and I will\nwed him when I am ready to do so. You cannot prevent it. You can only be\nforsworn, oath upon oath; and if I were you, I would stop swearing.\"\n\nSir George, as was usual with him in those sad times, was inflamed with\ndrink, and Dorothy's conduct, I must admit, was maddening. In the midst of\nher taunting Thomas stepped into the room bearing an armful of fagots. Sir\nGeorge turned to him and said:--\n\n\"Go and tell Welch to bring a set of manacles.\"\n\n\"For Mistress Dorothy?\" Thomas asked, surprised into the exclamation.\n\n\"Curse you, do you mean to bandy words with me, you scum?\" cried Sir\nGeorge.\n\nHe snatched a fagot from John and drew back his arm to strike him. John\ntook one step back from Sir George and one step nearer to Dorothy.\n\n\"Yes, Thomas,\" said Dorothy, sneeringly, \"bring Welch with the manacles\nfor me. My dear father would put me in the dungeon out of the reach of\nother men, so that he may keep me safely for my unknown lover. Go, Thomas.\nGo, else father will again be forsworn before Christ and upon his\nknighthood.\"\n\n\"This before a servant! I'll gag you, you hellish vixen,\" cried Sir\nGeorge. Then I am sure he knew not what he did. \"Curse you!\" he cried, as\nhe held the fagot upraised and rushed upon Dorothy. John, with his arms\nfull of fagots, could not avert the blow which certainly would have killed\nthe girl, but he could take it. He sprang between Dorothy and her father,\nthe fagot fell upon his head, and he sank to the floor. In his fall John's\nwig dropped off, and when the blood began to flow from the wound Dorothy\nkneeled beside his prostrate form. She snatched the great bush of false\nbeard from his face and fell to kissing his lips and his hands in a\nparoxysm of passionate love and grief. Her kisses she knew to be a panacea\nfor all ills John could be heir to, and she thought they would heal even\nthe wound her father had given, and stop the frightful outpouring of\nJohn's life-blood. The poor girl, oblivious of all save her wounded\nlover, murmured piteously:--\n\n\"John, John, speak to me; 'tis Dorothy.\" She placed her lips near his ear\nand whispered: \"'Tis Dorothy, John. Speak to her.\" But she received no\nresponse. Then came a wild light to her eyes and she cried aloud: \"John,\n'tis Dorothy. Open your eyes. Speak to me, John! oh, for God's sake speak\nto me! Give some little sign that you live,\" but John was silent. \"My God,\nmy God! Help, help! Will no one help me save this man? See you not that\nhis life is flowing away? This agony will kill me. John, my lover, my\nlord, speak to me. Ah, his heart, his heart! I will know.\" She tore from\nhis breast the leathern doublet and placed her ear over his heart. \"Thank\nGod, it beats!\" she cried in a frenzied whisper, as she kissed his breast\nand turned her ear again to hear his heart's welcome throbbing. Then she\ntried to lift him in her arms and succeeded in placing his head in her\nlap. It was a piteous scene. God save me from witnessing another like it.\n\nAfter Dorothy lifted John's head to her lap he began to breathe\nperceptibly, and the girl's agitation passed away as she gently stroked\nhis hair and kissed him over and over again, softly whispering her love to\nhis unresponsive ear in a gentle frenzy of ineffable tenderness such as\nwas never before seen in this world, I do believe. I wish with all my\nheart that I were a maker of pictures so that I might draw for you the\nscene which is as clear and vivid in every detail to my eyes now as it was\nupon that awful day in Haddon Hall. There lay John upon the floor and by\nhis side knelt Dorothy. His head was resting in her lap. Over them stood\nSir George with the murderous fagot raised, as if he intended again to\nstrike. I had sprung to his side and was standing by him, intending to\nfell him to the floor should he attempt to repeat the blow upon either\nDorothy or John. Across from Sir George and me, that is, upon the opposite\nside of Dorothy and John, stood Lady Crawford and Madge, who clung to each\nother in terror. The silence was heavy, save when broken by Dorothy's sobs\nand whispered ejaculations to John. Sir George's terrible deed had\ndeprived all of us, including himself, of the power to speak. I feared to\nmove from his side lest he should strike again. After a long agony of\nsilence he angrily threw the fagot away from him and asked:--\n\n\"Who is this fellow? Can any one tell me?\"\n\nOnly Madge, Dorothy, and I could have given him true answer. By some\nstrange power of divination Madge had learned all that had happened, and\nshe knew as well as I the name of the man who lay upon the floor battling\nwith death. Neither Madge nor I answered.\n\n\"Who is this fellow?\" again demanded Sir George.\n\nDorothy lifted her face toward her father.\n\n\"He is the man whom you seek, father,\" she answered, in a low, tearful\nvoice. \"He is my lover; he is my life; he is my soul, and if you have\nmurdered him in your attempt to kill your own child, all England shall\nhear of it and you shall hang. He is worth more in the eyes of the queen\nthan we and all our kindred. You know not whom you have killed.\"\n\nSir George's act had sobered him.\n\n\"I did not intend to kill him--in that manner,\" said Sir George, dropping\nhis words absent-mindedly. \"I hoped to hang him. Where is Dawson? Some one\nfetch Dawson.\"\n\nSeveral of the servants had gathered about the open door in the next room,\nand in obedience to Sir George's command one of them went to seek the\nforester. I feared that John would die from the effects of the blow; but I\nalso knew from experience that a man's head may receive very hard knocks\nand life still remain. Should John recover and should Sir George learn\nhis name, I was sure that my violent cousin would again attempt the\npersonal administration of justice and would hang him, under the old Saxon\nlaw. In that event Parliament would not be so easily pacified as upon the\noccasion of the former hanging at Haddon; and I knew that if John should\ndie by my cousin's hand, Sir George would pay for the act with his life\nand his estates. Fearing that Sir George might learn through Dawson of\nJohn's identity, I started out in search of Will to have a word with him\nbefore he could see his master. I felt sure that for many reasons Will\nwould be inclined to save John; but to what extent his fidelity to the\ncause of his master might counteract his resentment of Sir George's act, I\ndid not know. I suspected that Dawson was privy to John's presence in\nHaddon Hall, but I was not sure of it, so I wished to prepare the forester\nfor his interview with Sir George and to give him a hint of my plans for\nsecuring John's safety, in the event he should not die in Aunt Dorothy's\nroom.\n\nWhen I opened the door in the Northwest Tower I saw Dawson coming toward\nthe Hall from the dove-cote, and I hastened forward to meet him. It was\npitiful that so good a man as Sir George Vernon was, should have been\nsurrounded in his own house by real friends who were also traitors. That\nwas the condition of affairs in Haddon Hall, and I felt that I was the\nchief offender. The evil, however, was all of Sir George's making. Tyranny\nis the father of treason.\n\nWhen I met Dawson I said: \"Will, do you know who Tom-Tom is?\"\n\nThe forester hesitated for a moment, and said, \"Well, Sir Malcolm, I\nsuppose he is Thomas--\"\n\n\"No, no, Will, tell me the truth. Do you know that he is--or perhaps by\nthis time I should say he was--Sir John Manners?\"\n\n\"Was?\" cried Will. \"Great God! Has Sir George discovered--is he dead? If\nhe is dead, it will be a sad day for Sir George and for Haddon Hall. Tell\nme quickly.\"\n\nI at once knew Will Dawson was in the secret. I answered:--\n\n\"I hope he is not dead. Sir George attempted to strike Dorothy with a\nfagot, but Thomas stepped in front of her and received the blow. He is\nlying almost, if not quite, dead in Lady Crawford's room. Sir George knows\nnothing about him, save that he is Dorothy's lover. But should Thomas\nrevive I feel sure my cousin will hang him in the morning unless steps are\ntaken to prevent the deed.\"\n\n\"Sir Malcolm, if you will stand by me,\" said Dawson, \"Sir George will not\nhang him.\"\n\n\"I certainly will stand by you, Dawson. Have no doubt on that score. Sir\nGeorge intends to cast John into the dungeon, and should he do so I want\nyou to send Jennie Faxton to Rutland and have her tell the Rutlanders to\nrescue John to-night. To-morrow morning I fear will be too late. Be on\nyour guard, Will. Do not allow Sir George to discover that you have any\nfeeling in this matter. Above all, lead him from the possibility of\nlearning that Thomas is Sir John Manners. I will contrive to admit the\nRutland men at midnight.\"\n\nI hastened with Dawson back to the Hall, where we found the situation as I\nhad left it. John's head was lying on Dorothy's lap, and she was trying to\ndress his wound with pieces of linen torn from her clothing. Sir George\nwas pacing to and fro across the room, breaking forth at times in curses\nagainst Dorothy because of her relations with a servant.\n\nWhen Dawson and I entered the room, Sir George spoke angrily to Will:--\n\n\"Who is this fellow? You employed him. Who is he?\"\n\n\"He gave me his name as Thomas Thompson,\" returned Will, \"and he brought\nme a favorable letter of recommendation from Danford.\"\n\nDanford was forester to the Duke of Devonshire, and lived at Chatsworth.\n\n\"There was naught in the letter save that he was a good servant and an\nhonest man. That is all we can ask of any man.\"\n\n\"But who is he?\" again demanded Sir George.\n\n\"Your worship may perhaps learn from Danford more than I can tell you,\"\nreplied the forester, adroitly avoiding a lie.\n\n\"Think of it, Malcolm,\" said Sir George, speaking to me. \"Think of it. My\ndaughter, my only child, seeks for her husband this low-born serving man.\nI have always been sure that the fellow would prove to be such.\" Then he\nturned to Dawson: \"Throw the fellow into the dungeon. If he lives till\nmorning, I will have him hanged. To the dungeon with him.\"\n\nSir George waved his hand toward Dawson and Tom Welch, and then stepped\naside. Will made an effort to hide his feelings, and without a word or\ngesture that could betray him, he and Welch lifted John to carry him away.\nThen it was piteous to see Dorothy. She clung to John and begged that he\nmight be left with her. Sir George violently thrust her away from John's\nside, but she, still upon her knees, grasped her father's hand and cried\nout in agony:--\n\n\"Father, let me remain with him. If you have ever felt love for me, and if\nmy love for you has ever touched one tender spot in your heart, pity me\nnow and leave this man with me, or let me go with him. I beg you, father;\nI plead; I implore. He may be dying. We know not. In this hour of my agony\nbe merciful to me.\"\n\nBut Sir George rudely repulsed her and left the room, following Welch and\nDawson, who bore John's unconscious form between them. Dorothy rose to her\nfeet screaming and tried to follow John. I, fearing that in her frenzy of\ngrief she might divulge John's name, caught her in my arms and detained\nher by force. She turned upon me savagely and struck me in her effort to\nescape. She called me traitor, villain, dog, but I lifted her in my arms\nand carried her struggling to her bedroom. I wanted to tell her of the\nplans which Dawson and I had made, but I feared to do so, lest she might\nin some way betray them, so I left her in the room with Lady Crawford and\nMadge. I told Lady Crawford to detain Dorothy at all hazards, and I\nwhispered to Madge asking her to tell Dorothy that I would look to John's\ncomfort and safety. I then hastily followed Sir George, Dawson, and Welch,\nand in a few moments I saw them leave John, bleeding and senseless, upon\nthe dungeon floor. When Sir George's back was turned, Dawson by my orders\nbrought the surgeon from the stable where he had been working with the\nhorses. The surgeon bound up the wound in John's head and told me, to my\ngreat joy, that it was not fatal. Then he administered a reviving potion\nand soon consciousness returned. I whispered to John that Dawson and I\nwould not forsake him, and, fearing discovery by Sir George, hurriedly\nleft the dungeon.\n\nI believe there is a certain amount of grief and sorrow which comes with\nevery great joy to give it a cost mark whereby we may always know its\nvalue. The love between Dorothy and John indeed was marked in plain\nfigures of high denominations.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE LEICESTER POSSIBILITY\n\n\nOn leaving the dungeon I sought Madge, and after I had whispered a word to\nher from my heart I asked her to tell Dorothy the encouraging words of the\nsurgeon, and also to tell her that she should not be angry with me until\nshe was sure she had good cause. I dared not send a more explicit message,\nand I dared not go to Dorothy, for Sir George was in a suspicious mood and\nI feared ruin not only for myself but for John, should my violent cousin\nsuspect me of sympathy with his daughter and her lover.\n\nI also sought Aunt Dorothy and whispered a word to her of which you shall\nhear more presently.\n\n\"Ah, I cannot do it,\" cried the trembling old lady in response to my\nwhispered request. \"I cannot do it.\"\n\n\"But you must, Aunt Dorothy,\" I responded. \"Upon it depend three lives:\nSir George's, Dorothy's, and her lover's. You must do it.\"\n\n\"I will try,\" she replied.\n\n\"That assurance will not suit me,\" I responded. \"You must promise upon\nyour salvation that you will not fail me.\"\n\n\"I promise upon my salvation,\" replied Aunt Dorothy.\n\nThat evening of course we did not see the ladies at supper. Sir George and\nI ate in silence until my cousin became talkative from drink. Then he\nspoke bitterly of Dorothy's conduct, and bore with emphasis upon the fact\nthat the lover to whom Dorothy had stooped was a low-born serving man.\n\n\"But Dorothy declares he is noble,\" I responded.\n\n\"She has lied to me so often that I do not believe a word she says,\"\nreturned Sir George.\n\nHe swore oath upon oath that the wretch should hang in the morning, and\nfor the purpose of carrying into effect his intention he called in Joe the\nbutcher and told him to make all things ready for the execution.\n\nI did not attempt to thwart his purpose by word or gesture, knowing it\nwould be useless, but hoped that John would be out of his reach long ere\nthe cock would crow his first greeting to the morrow's sun.\n\nAfter Sir George had drunk far into the night the servants helped him to\nbed, and he carried with him the key to the dungeon together with the keys\nto all the outer doors and gates of Haddon Hall, as was his custom. The\nkeys were in a bunch, held together by an iron ring, and Sir George always\nkept them under his pillow at night.\n\nI sought my bed in Eagle Tower and lay down in my clothes to rest and\nwait. The window of my room was open.\n\nWithin an hour after midnight I heard the hooting of an owl. The doleful\nsound came up to me from the direction of the stone footbridge at the\nsouthwest corner of the Hall below the chapel. I went to my window and\nlooked out over the courts and terrace. Haddon Hall and all things in and\nabout it were wrapped in slumbrous silence. I waited, and again I heard\nthe hooting of the owl. Noiselessly leaving my room I descended the stone\nsteps to an unused apartment in the tower from which a window opened upon\nthe roof of the north wing of the Hall. Along that roof I crept with bared\nfeet, till I reached another roof, the battlements of which at the lowest\npoint were not more than twenty feet from the ground. Thence I clambered\ndown to a window cornice five or six feet lower, and jumped, at the risk\nof my limbs, the remaining distance of fifteen or sixteen feet to the soft\nsod beneath. I ran with all haste, took my stand under Aunt Dorothy's\nwindow, and whistled softly. The window casing opened and I heard the\ngreat bunch of keys jingling and clinking against the stone wall as Aunt\nDorothy paid them out to me by means of a cord. After I had secured the\nkeys I called in a whisper to Lady Crawford and directed her to leave the\ncord hanging from the window. I also told her to remain in readiness to\ndraw up the keys when they should have served their purpose. Then I took\nthem and ran to the stone footbridge where I found four Rutland men who\nhad come in response to the message Dawson had sent by Jennie Faxton. Two\nof the men went with me, and we entered the lower garden by the southwest\npostern. Thence we crept noiselessly to the terrace and made our entrance\ninto the Hall by \"Dorothy's Postern.\" I had in my life engaged in many\nquestionable and dangerous enterprises, but this was my first attempt at\nhouse-breaking. To say that I was nervous would but poorly define the\nstate of my feelings. Since that day I have respected the high calling of\nburglary and regard with favor the daring knights of the skeleton key. I\nwas frightened. I, who would feel no fear had I to fight a dozen men,\ntrembled with fright during this adventure. The deathlike silence and the\ndarkness in familiar places seemed uncanny to me. The very chairs and\ntables appeared to be sleeping, and I was fearful lest they should awaken.\nI cannot describe to you how I was affected. Whether it was fear or awe or\na smiting conscience I cannot say, but my teeth chattered as if they were\nin the mouth of a fool, and my knees quaked as if they supported a coward.\nStill I knew I was doing my duty, though one's conscience sometimes smites\nhim when his reason tells him he is acting righteously. It is more\ndangerous to possess a sensitive conscience which cannot be made to hear\nreason than to have none at all. But I will make short my account of that\nnight's doings. The two Rutland men and I groped our way to the dungeon\nand carried forth John, who was weak from loss of blood. I told them to\nlock the door of the Hall as they passed out and to attach the keys to the\ncord hanging from Lady Crawford's window. Then I climbed to my room again,\nfeeling in conscience like a criminal because I had done the best act of\nmy life.\n\nEarly next morning I was awakened by a great noise in the upper court.\nWhen I looked out at my window I beheld Sir George. He was half dressed\nand was angrily questioning the servants and retainers. I knew that he had\ndiscovered John's escape, but I did not know all, nor did I know the\nworst. I dressed and went to the kitchen, where I bathed my hands and\nface. There I learned that the keys to the hall had been stolen from under\nSir George's pillow, and that the prisoner had escaped from the dungeon.\nOld Bess, the cook, nodded her head wisely and whispered to me the words,\n\"Good for Mistress Doll.\"\n\nBess's unsought confidence alarmed me. I did not relish the thought that\nBess nor any one else should believe me to be in sympathy with Dorothy,\nand I said:--\n\n\"If Mistress Vernon had aught to do with last night's affairs, she should\nbe full of shame. I will not believe that she knew of it at all. My\nopinion is that one of the servants was bribed by some person interested\nin Tom-Tom's escape.\"\n\n\"Believe nothing of the sort,\" retorted Bess. \"It is the mistress and not\nthe servant who stole the keys and liberated Tom-Tom. But the question is,\nwho may Tom-Tom be? and the servants' hall is full of it. We are not\nuncertain as to the manner of his escape. Some of the servants do say that\nthe Earl of Leicester be now visiting the Duke of Devonshire; and some\nalso do say that his Lordship be fond of disguises in his gallantry. They\ndo also say that the queen is in love with him, and that he must disguise\nhimself when he woos elsewhere, or she be's famously jealous. It would be\na pretty mess the master has brought us all into should Tom-Tom prove to\nbe my lord Earl of Leicester. We'd all hang and to hell.\"\n\n\"Bess, that tongue of yours will cost you your head one of these good\ntimes,\" I remarked, while I rubbed my face with the towel.\n\n\"I would sooner lose my head,\" retorted Bess, \"than have my mouth shut by\nfear. I know, Sir Malcolm, that I'll not die till my time comes; but\nplease the good God when my time does come I will try to die talking.\"\n\n\"That you will,\" said I.\n\n\"True word, Sir Malcolm,\" she answered, and I left her in possession of\nthe field.\n\nI went into the courtyard, and when Sir George saw me he said, \"Malcolm,\ncome with me to my room; I want a word with you.\"\n\nWe went to his room.\n\n\"I suppose you know of the fellow's escape last night?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied, \"Bess told me about it in the kitchen.\"\n\nIt seemed to me that my words said, \"I did it.\"\n\n\"Not only was the fellow liberated,\" said my cousin, \"but the keys to all\nthe outer gates and doors of the Hall have been stolen and carried away.\nCan you help me unravel this affair?\"\n\n\"Do you suspect any one of having stolen the keys?\" I asked.\n\n\"I know, of course, that Dorothy did it. Who her accomplices were, if any\nshe had, I do not know. I have catechized the servants, but the question\nis bottomless to me.\"\n\n\"Have you spoken to Dorothy on the subject?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" he replied, \"but I have sent word to her by the Faxton girl that I\nam going to see her at once. Come with me.\"\n\nWe went into Lady Crawford's room. She was ill and in bed. I did not\nwonder that she was ill after the experiences of the previous night. Sir\nGeorge asked her if she had heard or seen Dorothy pass through her room\nduring the night. She said:--\n\n\"Dorothy did not pass through this room last night. I did not once close\nmy eyes in sleep, and I should have seen her had she been here at all.\"\n\nSir George entered Dorothy's bedroom, and Lady Crawford beckoned me to go\nto her side.\n\n\"I waited till sunrise,\" she said, \"that I might draw up the keys.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said I, \"the cord?\"\n\n\"I burned it,\" she replied.\n\nThen I followed Sir George into Dorothy's room. Madge was dressed for the\nday, and Dorothy, who had been helping her, was making her own toilet. Her\nhair hung loose and fell like a cataract of sunshine over her bare\nshoulders. But no words that I can write would give you a conception of\nher wondrous beauty, and I shall not waste them in the attempt. When we\nentered the room she was standing at the mirror. She turned, comb in hand,\ntoward Sir George and said:--\n\n\"I suppose, father, you will accuse me of liberating Thomas.\"\n\n\"You must know that I will accuse you,\" replied Sir George.\n\n\"Then, father, for once you will accuse me falsely. I am overjoyed that he\nhas escaped, and I certainly should have tried to liberate him had I\nthought it possible to do so. But I did not do it, though to tell you the\ntruth I am sorry I did not.\"\n\n\"I do not believe you,\" her father replied.\n\n\"I knew you would not believe me,\" answered Dorothy. \"Had I liberated him\nI should probably have lied to you about it; therefore, I wonder not that\nyou should disbelieve me. But I tell you again upon my salvation that I\nknow nothing of the stealing of the keys nor of Tom-Tom's escape. Believe\nme or not, I shall deny it no more.\"\n\nMadge gropingly went to Sir George's side, and he tenderly put his arms\nabout her, saying:--\n\n\"I would that you were my daughter.\" Madge took his hand caressingly.\n\n\"Uncle, I want to tell you that Dorothy speaks the truth,\" she said. \"I\nhave been with her every moment since the terrible scene of yesterday\nevening. Neither Dorothy nor I closed our eyes in sleep all night long.\nShe lay through the dark hours moaning, and I tried to comfort her. Our\ndoor was locked, and it was opened only by your messenger who brought the\ngood news of Tom-Tom's escape. I say good news, uncle, because his escape\nhas saved you from the stain of murder. You are too brave a man to do\nmurder, uncle.\"\n\n\"How dare you,\" said Sir George, taking his arm from Madge's waist, \"how\ndare you defend--\"\n\n\"Now, uncle, I beg you pause and take a moment's thought,\" said Madge,\ninterrupting him. \"You have never spoken unkindly to me.\"\n\n\"Nor will I, Madge, so long as I live. I know there is not a lie in you,\nand I am sure you believe to be true all you tell me, but Dorothy has\ndeceived you by some adroit trick.\"\n\n\"If she deceived me, she is a witch,\" retorted Madge, laughing softly.\n\n\"That I am almost ready to believe is the case,\" said Sir George.\nDorothy, who was combing her hair at the mirror, laughed softly and\nsaid:--\n\n\"My broomstick is under the bed, father.\"\n\nSir George went into Lady Crawford's room and shut the door, leaving me\nwith the girls.\n\nWhen her father had left, Dorothy turned upon me with fire in her eyes:--\n\n\"Malcolm Vernon, if you ever lay hands upon me again as you did last\nnight, I will--I will scratch you. You pretended to be his friend and\nmine, but for a cowardly fear of my father you came between us and you\ncarried me to this room by force. Then you locked the door and--and\"--\n\n\"Did not Madge give you my message?\" I asked, interrupting her.\n\n\"Yes, but did you not force me away from him when, through my fault, he\nwas almost at death's door?\"\n\n\"Have your own way, Dorothy,\" I said. \"There lives not, I hope, another\nwoman in the world so unreasoning and perverse as you.\"\n\nShe tossed her head contemptuously and continued to comb her hair.\n\n\"How, suppose you,\" I asked, addressing Dorothy's back, as if I were\nseeking information, \"how, suppose you, the Rutland people learned that\nJohn was confined in the Haddon dungeon, and how did they come by the\nkeys?\"\n\nThe girl turned for a moment, and a light came to her anger-clouded face\nas the rainbow steals across the blackened sky.\n\n\"Malcolm, Malcolm,\" she cried, and she ran to me with her bare arms\noutstretched.\n\n\"Did you liberate him?\" she asked. \"How did you get the keys?\"\n\n\"I know nothing of it, Dorothy, nothing,\" I replied.\n\n\"Swear it, Malcolm, swear it,\" she said.\n\n\"I will swear to nothing,\" I said, unclasping her arms from my neck.\n\n\"Then I will kiss you,\" she answered, \"for you are my dear good brother,\nand never so long as I live will I again doubt you.\"\n\nBut she did before long doubt me again, and with good cause.\n\nDorothy being in a gentle humor; I took advantage of the opportunity to\nwarn her against betraying John's name to her father. I also told her to\nask her father's forgiveness, and advised her to feign consent to the\nStanley marriage. Matters had reached a point where some remedy, however\ndesperate, must be applied.\n\nMany persons, I fear, will condemn me for advising Dorothy to deceive her\nfather; but what would you have had me do? Should I have told her to marry\nStanley? Certainly not. Had I done so, my advice would have availed\nnothing. Should I have advised her to antagonize her father, thereby\nkeeping alive his wrath, bringing trouble to herself and bitter regret to\nhim? Certainly not. The only course left for me to advise was the least of\nthree evils--a lie. Three evils must be very great indeed when a lie is\nthe least of them. In the vast army of evils with which this world swarms\nthe lie usually occupies a proud position in the front rank. But at times\nconditions arise when, coward-like, he slinks to the rear and evils\ngreater than he take precedence. In such sad case I found Dorothy, and I\nsought help from my old enemy, the lie. Dorothy agreed with me and\nconsented to do all in her power to deceive her father, and what she could\nnot do to that end was not worth doing.\n\nDorothy was anxious about John's condition, and sent Jennie Faxton to\nBowling Green, hoping a letter would be there for her. Jennie soon\nreturned with a letter, and Dorothy once more was full of song, for\nJohn's letter told her that he was fairly well and that he would by some\nmeans see her soon again despite all opposition.\n\n\"At our next meeting, my fair mistress,\" John said in the letter, \"you\nmust be ready to come with me. I will wait no longer for you. In fairness\nto me and to yourself you shall not ask me to wait. I will accept no more\nexcuses. You must come with me when next we meet.\"\n\n\"Ah, well,\" said Dorothy to Madge, \"if I must go with him, I must. Why did\nhe not talk in that fashion when we rode out together the last time? I\nlike to be made to do what I want to do. He was foolish not to make me\nconsent, or better still would it have been had he taken the reins of my\nhorse and ridden off with me, with or against my will. I might have\nscreamed, and I might have fought him, but I could not have hurt him, and\nhe would have had his way, and--and,\" with a sigh, \"I should have had my\nway.\"\n\nAfter a brief pause devoted to thought, she continued:--\n\n\"If I were a man and were wooing a woman, I would first learn what she\nwanted to do and then--and then, by my word, I would make her do it.\"\n\nI went from Dorothy's room to breakfast, where I found Sir George. I took\nmy seat at the table and he said:--\n\n\"Who, in God's name, suppose you, could have taken the keys from my\npillow?\"\n\n\"Is there any one whom you suspect?\" I asked for lack of anything else to\nsay.\n\n\"I at first thought, of course, that Dorothy had taken them,\" he answered.\n\"But Madge would not lie, neither would my sister. Dorothy would not\nhesitate to lie herself blue in the face, but for some reason I believed\nher when she told me she knew nothing of the affair. Her words sounded\nlike truth for once.\"\n\n\"I think, Sir George,\" said I, \"you should have left off 'for once.'\nDorothy is not a liar. She has spoken falsely to you only because she\nfears you. I am sure that a lie is hateful to her.\"\n\n\"Malcolm, I wish I could have your faith,\" he responded. \"By the way,\nMalcolm, have you ever seen the Earl of Leicester?\"\n\n\"I saw him only once. He visited Scotland during the ceremonies at Queen\nMary's return from France. I saw him once, and then but briefly. Why do\nyou ask?\"\n\n\"It is whispered among the servants,\" said Sir George, \"that Leicester is\nat Chatsworth in disguise.\"\n\nChatsworth was the home of the Duke of Devonshire, and was but a short\ndistance from Haddon. After Sir George spoke, I remembered the words of\nold Bess.\n\n\"Still, I do not know why you ask.\" I said.\n\n\"My reason is this,\" replied Sir George; \"Dorothy declared the fellow was\nof noble blood. It is said that Leicester loves gallant adventure\nincognito. He fears her Majesty's jealousy if in such matters he acts\nopenly. You remember the sad case of Mistress Robsart. I wonder what\nbecame of the girl? He made way with her in some murderous fashion, I am\nsure.\" Sir George remained in revery for a moment, and then the poor old\nman cried in tones of distress: \"Malcolm, if that fellow whom I struck\nlast night was Leicester, and if he has been trying his hellish tricks on\nmy Doll I--I should pity her; I should not abuse her. I may have been\nwrong. If he has wronged Doll--if he has wronged my girl, I will pursue\nhim to the ends of the earth for vengeance. That is why I ask if you have\never seen the Earl of Leicester. Was the man who lay upon the floor last\nnight Robert Dudley? If it were he, and if I had known it, I would have\nbeaten him to death then and there. Poor Doll!\"\n\nAny one hearing the old man speak would easily have known that Doll was\nall that life held for him to love.\n\n\"I do not distinctly remember Leicester's face,\" I answered, \"but since\nyou speak of it, I believe there is a resemblance between him and the man\nwe called Thomas. But even were it he, Sir George, you need have no fear\nfor Dorothy. She of all women is able and willing to protect herself.\"\n\n\"I will go to Dorothy and ask her to tell me the truth. Come with me.\"\n\nWe again went to Dorothy's room. She had, since I last saw her, received\nthe letter from John of which I have spoken, and when we entered her\nparlor where she and Madge were eating breakfast we found her very happy.\nAs a result she was willing and eager to act upon my advice.\n\nShe rose and turned toward her father.\n\n\"You told me, Doll, that the fellow was of noble blood. Did you speak the\ntruth?\"\n\n\"Yes, father, I spoke the truth. There is no nobler blood in England than\nhis, save that of our royal queen. In that you may believe me, father, for\nI speak the truth.\"\n\nSir George remained silent for a moment and then said:--\n\n\"If the man is he whom I believe him to be he can have no true purpose\nwith you. Tell me, my child--the truth will bring no reproaches from\nme--tell me, has he misused you in any way?\"\n\n\"No, father, before God, he has been a true gentleman to me.\"\n\nThe poor old man struggled for a moment with his emotions; then tears came\nto his eyes and he covered his face with his hands as he started to leave\nthe room.\n\nDorothy ran to him and clasped her arms about his neck. Those two, father\nand child, were surely of one blood as shown in the storms of violence and\ntenderness by which their natures were alternately swept.\n\n\"Father, you may believe me; you do believe me,\" said Dorothy.\n\"Furthermore, I tell you that this man has treated me with all courtesy,\nnay, more: he has treated me with all the reverence he would have shown\nour queen.\"\n\n\"He can have no true purpose with you, Doll,\" said Sir George, who felt\nsure that Leicester was the man.\n\n\"But he has, father, a true purpose with me. He would make me his wife\nto-day would I consent.\"\n\n\"Why then does he not seek you openly?\"\n\n\"That he cannot do,\" Dorothy responded hesitatingly.\n\n\"Tell me, Doll, who is the man?\" asked Sir George.\n\nI was standing behind him and Dorothy's face was turned toward me. She\nhesitated, and I knew by her expression that she was about to tell all.\nSir George, I believe, would have killed her had she done so. I placed my\nfinger on my lips and shook my head.\n\nDorothy said: \"That I cannot tell you, father. You are wasting words in\nasking me.\"\n\n\"Is it because of his wish that you refuse to tell me his name?\" asked Sir\nGeorge. I nodded my head.\n\n\"Yes, father,\" softly responded Dorothy in the old dangerous, dulcet\ntones.\n\n\"That is enough; I know who the man is.\"\n\nDorothy kissed her father. He returned the caress, much to my surprise,\nand left the room.\n\nWhen I turned to follow Sir George I glanced toward Dorothy. Her eyes were\nlike two moons, so full were they of wonderment and inquiry.\n\nI stopped with Sir George in his room. He was meditative and sad.\n\n\"I believe my Doll has told me the truth,\" he said.\n\n\"Have no doubt of it, Sir George,\" I replied.\n\n\"But what good intent can Leicester have toward my girl?\" he asked.\n\n\"Of that I cannot say,\" I replied; \"but my dear cousin, of this fact be\nsure: if he have evil intent toward Dorothy, he will fail.\"\n\n\"But there was the Robsart girl,\" he replied.\n\n\"Ay,\" said I, \"but Dorothy Vernon is not Amy Robsart. Have no fear of your\ndaughter. She is proof against both villany and craft. Had she been in\nMistress Robsart's place, Leicester would not have deserted her. Dorothy\nis the sort of woman men do not desert. What say you to the fact that\nLeicester might wish to make her his wife?\"\n\n\"He may purpose to do so secretly, as in the case of the Robsart girl,\"\nreturned Sir George. \"Go, Malcolm, and ask her if he is willing to make\nher his wife before the world.\"\n\nI was glad of an opportunity for a word with Dorothy, so I hastily went to\nher. I told her of the Leicester phase of the situation, and I also told\nher that her father had asked me if the man whom she loved was willing to\nmake her his wife before the world.\n\n\"Tell my father,\" said she, \"that I will be no man's wife save before all\nthe world. A man who will not acknowledge me never shall possess me.\"\n\nI went back to Sir George and delivered the message word for word.\n\n\"She is a strange, strong girl, isn't she, Malcolm?\" said her father.\n\n\"She is her father's child,\" I replied.\n\n\"By my spurs she is. She should have been a man,\" said Sir George, with a\ntwinkle of admiration in his eyes. He admired a good fight even though he\nwere beaten in it.\n\nIt is easy to be good when we are happy. Dorothy, the great disturber,\nwas both. Therefore, peace reigned once more in Haddon Hall.\n\nLetters frequently passed between John and Dorothy by the hand of Jennie\nFaxton, but John made no attempt to meet his sweetheart. He and Dorothy\nwere biding their time.\n\nA fortnight passed during which Cupid confined his operations to Madge and\nmyself. For her sweet sake he was gracious and strewed our path with\nroses. I should delight to tell you of our wooing. She a fair young\ncreature of eighteen, I a palpitating youth of thirty-five. I should love\nto tell you of Madge's promise to be my wife, and of the announcement in\nthe Hall of our betrothal; but there was little of interest in it to any\none save ourselves, and I fear lest you should find it very sentimental\nand dull indeed. I should love to tell you also of the delightful walks\nwhich Madge and I took together along the sweet old Wye and upon the crest\nof Bowling Green; but above all would I love to tell you of the delicate\nrose tints that came to her cheek, and how most curiously at times, when\nmy sweetheart's health was bounding, the blessed light of day would\npenetrate the darkened windows of her eyes, and how upon such occasions\nshe would cry out joyously, \"Oh, Malcolm, I can dimly see.\" I say I should\nlove to tell you about all those joyous happenings, but after all I fear I\nshould shrink from doing so in detail, for the feelings and sayings of our\nown hearts are sacred to us. It is much easier to tell of the love affairs\nof others.\n\nA fortnight or three weeks passed quietly in Haddon Hall. Sir George had\nthe notion firmly fixed in his head that the man whom Dorothy had been\nmeeting held honorable intentions toward the girl. He did her the justice\nto believe that by reason of her strength and purity she would tolerate\nnone other. At times he felt sure that the man was Leicester, and again\nhe flouted the thought as impossible. If it were Leicester, and if he\nwished to marry Dorothy, Sir George thought the match certainly would be\nillustrious. Halting between the questions, \"Is he Leicester?\" and \"Is he\nnot Leicester?\" Sir George did not press the Stanley nuptials, nor did he\ninsist upon the signing of the contract. Dorothy received from her father\nfull permission to go where and when she wished. But her father's\nwillingness to give her liberty excited her suspicions. She knew he would\npermit her to leave the Hall only that he might watch her, and, if\npossible, entrap her and John. Therefore, she rode out only with Madge and\nme, and sought no opportunity to see her lover. It may be that her\npassiveness was partly due to the fact that she knew her next meeting with\nJohn would mean farewell to Haddon Hall. She well knew she was void of\nresistance when in John's hands. And his letter had told her frankly what\nhe would expect from her when next they should meet. She was eager to go\nto him; but the old habit of love for home and its sweet associations and\nher returning affection for her father, now that he was kind to her, were\nstrong cords entwining her tender heart, which she could not break\nsuddenly even for the sake of the greater joy.\n\nOne day Dorothy received from John a letter telling her he would on the\nfollowing morning start for the Scottish border with the purpose of\nmeeting the queen of Scotland. A plan had been formed among Mary's friends\nin Scotland to rescue her from Lochleven Castle, where she was a prisoner,\nand to bring her incognito to Rutland. John had been chosen to escort her\nfrom the English border to his father's castle. From thence, when the\nopportunity should arise, she was to escape to France, or make her peace\nwith Elizabeth. The adventure was full of peril both for her Scottish and\nEnglish friends. The Scottish regent Murray surely would hang all the\nconspirators whom he might capture, and Elizabeth would probably inflict\nsummary punishment upon any of her subjects whom she could convict of\ncomplicity in the plot.\n\nIn connection with this scheme to rescue Mary it was said there was also\nanother conspiracy. There appeared to be a plot within a plot which had\nfor its end the enthronement of Mary in Elizabeth's stead.\n\nThe Rutlands knew nothing of this subplot.\n\nElizabeth had once or twice expressed sympathy with her Scottish cousin.\nShe had said in John's presence that while she could not for reasons of\nstate _invite_ Mary to seek refuge in England, still if Mary would come\nuninvited she would be welcomed. Therefore, John thought he was acting in\naccord with the English queen's secret wish when he went to Rutland with\nthe purpose of being in readiness to meet Mary at the Scottish border.\n\nThere were two elements in Elizabeth's character on which John had not\ncounted. One was her royal prerogative to speak words she did not mean;\nand the other was the universal feminine privilege to change her mind. Our\nqueen did not want Mary to visit England, nor had she any knowledge of the\nplot to induce that event. She did, however, fear that Mary's unwise\nfriends among the Catholics cherished the purpose of making Mary queen of\nEngland. Although John had heard faint rumors of such a plot, he had been\ngiven to understand that Mary had no share in it, and he believed that the\nadventure in which he was about to embark had for its only purpose her\nliberation from a cruel and unjust imprisonment. Her cause appealed to\nJohn's chivalrous nature as it appealed to so many other good though\nmistaken men who sought to give help to the Scottish queen, and brought\nonly grief to her and ruin to themselves.\n\nDorothy had heard at various times just enough of these plots to fill her\nheart with alarm when she learned that John was about to be engaged in\nthem. Her trouble was twofold. She feared lest personal injury or death\nmight befall John; and jealousy, that shame of love, gnawed at her heart\ndespite her efforts to drive it away.\n\n\"Is she so marvellously beautiful?\" Dorothy asked of me over and over\nagain, referring to Mary Stuart. \"Is she such a marvel of beauty and\nfascination that all men fall before her?\"\n\n\"That usually is the result,\" I replied. \"I have never known her to smile\nupon a man who did not at once respond by falling upon his knees to her.\"\n\nMy reply certainly was not comforting.\n\n\"Ah, then, I am lost,\" she responded, with a tremulous sigh. \"Is--is she\nprone to smile on men and--and--to grow fond of them?\"\n\n\"I should say, Dorothy, that both the smiling and the fondness have become\na habit with her.\"\n\n\"Then she will be sure to choose John from among all men. He is so\nglorious and perfect and beautiful that she will be eager to--to--O God! I\nwish he had not gone to fetch her.\"\n\n\"You need have no fear,\" I said reassuringly. \"While Mary Stuart is\nmarvellously beautiful and fascinating, there is at least one woman who\nexcels her. Above all, that woman is pure and chaste.\"\n\n\"Who is she, that one woman, Malcolm? Who is she?\" asked the girl, leaning\nforward in her chair and looking at me eagerly with burning eyes.\n\n\"You are already a vain girl, Dorothy, and I shall not tell you who that\none woman is,\" I answered laughingly.\n\n\"No, no, Malcolm, I am not vain in this matter. It is of too great moment\nto me for the petty vice of vanity to have any part in it. You do not\nunderstand me. I care not for my beauty, save for his sake. I long to be\nmore beautiful, more fascinating, and more attractive than she--than any\nwoman living--only because I long to hold John--to keep him from her, from\nall others. I have seen so little of the world that I must be sadly\nlacking in those arts which please men, and I long to possess the beauty\nof the angels, and the fascinations of Satan that I may hold John, hold\nhim, hold him, hold him. That I may hold him so sure and fast that it will\nbe impossible for him to break from me. At times, I almost wish he were\nblind; then he could see no other woman. Ah, am I not a wicked, selfish\ngirl? But I will not allow myself to become jealous. He is all mine, isn't\nhe, Malcolm?\" She spoke with nervous energy, and tears were ready to\nspring from her eyes.\n\n\"He is all yours, Dorothy,\" I answered, \"all yours, as surely as that\ndeath will some day come to all of us. Promise me, Dorothy, that you will\nnever again allow a jealous thought to enter your heart. You have no cause\nfor jealousy, nor will you ever have. If you permit that hateful passion\nto take possession of you, it will bring ruin in its wake.\"\n\n\"It was, indeed, foolish in me,\" cried Dorothy, springing to her feet and\nclasping her hands tightly; \"and I promise never again to feel jealousy.\nMalcolm, its faintest touch tears and gnaws at my heart and racks me with\nagony. But I will drive it out of me. Under its influence I am not\nresponsible for my acts. It would quickly turn me mad. I promise, oh, I\nswear, that I never will allow it to come to me again.\"\n\nPoor Dorothy's time of madness was not far distant nor was the evil that\nwas to follow in its wake.\n\nJohn in writing to Dorothy concerning his journey to Scotland had\nunhesitatingly intrusted to her keeping his honor, and, unwittingly, his\nlife. It did not once occur to him that she could, under any conditions,\nbetray him. I trusted her as John did until I saw her vivid flash of\nburning jealousy. But by the light of that flash I saw that should the\ngirl, with or without reason, become convinced that Mary Stuart was her\nrival, she would quickly make Derbyshire the warmest locality in\nChristendom, and John's life might pay the cost of her folly. Dorothy\nwould brook no rival--no, not for a single hour. Should she become jealous\nshe would at once be swept beyond the influence of reason or the care for\nconsequences. It were safer to arouse a sleeping devil than Dorothy\nVernon's jealousy. Now about the time of John's journey to the Scottish\nborder, two matters of importance arose at Haddon Hall. One bore directly\nupon Dorothy, namely, the renewal by the Stanleys of their suit for her\nhand. The other was the announcement by the queen that she would soon do\nSir George Vernon the honor of spending a fortnight under the roof of\nHaddon Hall. Each event was of great importance to the King of the Peak.\nHe had concluded that Thomas, the man-servant, was not the Earl of\nLeicester in disguise, and when the Earl of Derby again came forward with\nhis marriage project, Sir George fell back into his old hardness toward\nDorothy, and she prepared her armament, offensive and defensive, for\ninstant use if need should arise. I again began my machinations, since I\ncan call my double dealing by no other name. I induced Dorothy to agree to\nmeet the earl and his son James. Without promising positively to marry\nLord Stanley, she, at my suggestion, led her father to believe she was\nready to yield to his wishes. By this course she gained time and liberty,\nand kept peace with her father. Since you have seen the evils that war\nbrought to Haddon, you well know how desirable peace was. In time of war\nall Haddon was a field of carnage and unrest. In time of peace the dear\nold Hall was an ideal home. I persuaded Sir George not to insist on a\npositive promise from Dorothy, and I advised him to allow her yielding\nmood to grow upon her. I assured him evasively that she would eventually\nsuccumb to his paternal authority and love.\n\nWhat an inherent love we all have for meddling in the affairs of others,\nand what a delicious zest we find in faithfully applying our surplus\nenergies to business that is not strictly our own! I had become a part of\nthe Sir George-Dorothy-John affair, and I was like the man who caught the\nbear: I could not loose my hold.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nPROUD DAYS FOR THE OLD HALL\n\n\nOf course the queen's approaching visit threw Haddon Hall into a frenzy of\nscrubbing and furbishing. Aunt Dorothy was the busiest woman in England.\nFloors were newly polished. Draperies were taken down and were carefully\nwashed with mysterious concoctions warranted to remove dirt without injury\nto color. Superfine wax was bought in great boxes, and candles were made\nfor all the chandeliers and candelabra in the house. Perfumed oil was\npurchased for the lamp in the state bedroom. Elizabeth, by the way, when\nshe came, did not like the odor of the oil, and with an oath tossed both\nthe oil and the lamp out of the window. The fattest sheep, kine, and hogs\nwere chosen from the flocks and were brought in to be stall-fed in such\nnumbers that one might have supposed we were expecting an ogress who could\neat an ox at a meal. Pipers and dancers were engaged, and a merry fool was\nbrought down from London. At last the eventful day came and with it came\nour queen. She brought with her a hundred yeomen of her guard and a score\nof ladies and gentlemen. Among the latter was the Earl of Leicester, who\nwas the queen's prime favorite.\n\nPrior to the queen's announcement of her intention to visit Haddon Sir\nGeorge had, with Dorothy's tacit consent, fixed a day upon which the Earl\nof Derby and his son, Lord James, should be received at the Hall for the\npurpose of signing the marriage contract. Dorothy, of course, had no\nintention of signing the contract, but she put off the evil hour of\nrefusal as far as possible, hoping something might occur in the meantime\nto help her out of the dilemma. Something did occur at the last moment. I\nam eager to tell you about it, but it must wait its turn. Truly would the\nstory of this ingenious girl's life make a romance if it were written by a\npoet. In her Guinevere and Elaine were moulded into one person with the\ntenderness, purity, and fierceness of each.\n\nTo postpone further the time of the Stanley visit, Dorothy suggested that\nthe betrothal should take place in the presence of the queen. Sir George\nacquiesced, and in his heart grew less eager for the Stanley match as\nDorothy apparently became more tractable. He was, however, engaged with\nthe earl to an extent that forbade withdrawal, even had he been sure that\nhe wished to withdraw.\n\nAt the time of which I speak the Earl of Leicester was the most exalted\nsubject of the realm. He was ardently devoted to the cause of the ladies,\nand, although he had fixed his hope on Elizabeth and longed for a seat\nbeside her on the throne, his inflammable heart was constantly catching\nfire from other eyes. He, of course, made desperate efforts to conceal\nthese manifold conflagrations from the queen, but the inflammable tow of\nhis heart was always bringing him into trouble with his fiery mistress.\n\nThe earl's first glance toward Dorothy was full of admiration. The second\nglance was full of conflagration. The second day of the queen's residence\nin Haddon I was astonished, grieved, and angered to see that our girl had\nturned her powerful batteries upon the earl with the evident purpose of\nconquest. At times her long lashes would fall before him, and again her\ngreat luminous eyes would open wide, shedding a soft radiance which no man\ncould withstand. Once I saw her walking alone with him upon the terrace.\nHer head was drooped shamelessly, and the earl was ardent though restless,\nbeing fearful of the queen. I boiled with rage against Dorothy, but by a\nstrong effort I did not boil over until I had better cause. The better\ncause came later.\n\nI failed to tell you of a brief conversation which occurred between Sir\nGeorge and me after my cousin first saw the Earl of Leicester. Sir George\nhad gallantly led the queen to her apartments, and I had conducted\nLeicester and several of the gentlemen to their various rooms. Sir George\nand I met at the staircase after we had quitted our guests.\n\nHe said: \"Malcolm, that fellow Thomas whom I knocked in the head looked no\nmore like Leicester than I do. Why did you tell me there was resemblance?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" I answered. \"Perhaps your words suggested the thought of\na resemblance. Perhaps I had lost all memory of Leicester's features. I\ncannot answer your question.\"\n\nThen an expression of anger came to Sir George's face, and he said:--\n\n\"I believe Dorothy lied to me when she said that the fellow Thomas was of\nnoble blood.\"\n\nThe next day a servant reported that Thomas had been seen loitering near\nBowling Green Gate, and Sir George ordered Dorothy not to leave the Hall\nwithout his permission.\n\nDorothy replied to her father's command, \"I shall obey you, father.\"\n\nTo me there was a note of danger in her voice. Such docile submissiveness\nwas not natural to the girl. Of course all appearance of harshness toward\nDorothy was suppressed by Sir George during the queen's visit to the Hall.\nIn truth, he had no reason to be harsh, for Dorothy was a meek,\nsubmissive, and obedient daughter. Her meekness, however, as you may well\nsurmise, was but the forerunner of dire rebellion.\n\nThe fourth day of the queen's presence at Haddon Hall was the one\nappointed for the visit of the Stanleys, and Sir George thought to make a\ngreat event of the betrothal by having the queen act as a witness to the\nmarriage contract. As the day approached Sir George became thoughtful,\nwhile Dorothy grew gleeful. The girl was frequently seen with Leicester,\nand Sir George could not help noticing that nobleman's pronounced\nadmiration for his daughter. These exhibitions of gallantry were never\nmade in the presence of the queen. The morning of the day when the\nStanleys were expected Sir George called me to his room for a private\nconsultation. The old gentleman was in a state of excitement, not unmixed\nwith perplexity and trouble.\n\nHe said, \"I have great and good news to impart to you, Malcolm; yet I am\nin a dilemma growing out of it.\"\n\n\"Tell me the good news first, Sir George,\" I replied. \"The dilemma may\nwait.\"\n\n\"Is Doll a very beautiful girl?\" he asked eagerly.\n\n\"I believe she is the most beautiful woman in the world,\" I answered.\n\n\"Good, good,\" he replied, rubbing his hands. \"Is she so fascinating,\nbrilliant, and attractive, think you--of course I speak in jest--but think\nyou she might vie with the court ladies for beauty, and think you she\nmight attract--for the sake of illustration I will say--might she attract\na man like Leicester?\"\n\n\"Unless I am much mistaken,\" I answered, \"Leicester is over his ears in\nlove with the girl now.\"\n\n\"Ah, do you believe so, Malcolm?\" replied Sir George, laughing and\nslapping his thigh, as he walked to and fro across the room. \"You have\nseen so much of that sort of thing that you should know it when it comes\nunder your nose. Eh, Malcolm, eh?\"\n\n\"I should suppose that any one, however inexperienced in such matters,\ncould easily see Leicester's infatuation for Dorothy. If you wish me to\ntell you what I really believe--\"\n\n\"I do, I do,\" interrupted Sir George.\n\n\"I should say,\" I continued, \"that Dorothy has deliberately gone in for\nconquest. Leave the girl to herself, Sir George. She can conduct the\ncampaign without help from any one. She understands the art of such\nwarfare as well as if she were a veteran.\"\n\n\"Gad, but she does, but she does. I believe she could give Venus herself\nsome good points in the matter. But let me tell you, Malcolm,\"--the old\nman dropped his voice to a whisper,--\"I questioned Doll this morning, and\nshe confessed that Leicester had spoken words of love to her. Would it not\nbe a great match for our house?\"\n\nHe said \"our house,\" mind you, not \"our Doll.\" I might call his condition\nof mind patrimonial selfishness. Simple old man! He did not know that\nwords of love are not necessarily words of marriage.\n\n\"Has Leicester spoken to you?\" I asked in alarm for John's sake.\n\n\"No, no, he has not spoken,\" returned my cousin; \"for that, of course, he\nmust have the queen's consent. But he will speak, I am sure, all in good\ntime, Malcolm, all in good time.\"\n\n\"How about the Stanleys?\" I asked. \"They will be here this afternoon.\"\n\n\"That's the devil's finger in the matter,\" cried Sir George. \"That's where\nmy dilemma lies. How shall I put them off, and still retain them in case\nnothing should come from Leicester? Besides, I am in honor bound to the\nearl.\"\n\n\"I have a plan,\" I replied. \"You carry out your part of the agreement\nwith the earl, but let Dorothy, at the last moment, refuse to give her\nconsent. Let her ask for more time, on the plea that she does not know her\nmind. I will suggest to her, if you wish, the part she is to play; but I\nwill conceal from her the fact that you are a party to it.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the old man, \"that would be bad faith toward the earl.\" After a\npause he continued doubtingly: \"No, do not speak to Doll. I believe she\nneeds no suggestions in the matter. I fear that mischief is in her mind\nalready. Her easy acquiescence in my wishes have of late had a suspicious\nappearance. No, don't speak to her, Malcolm. If ever there lived a girl\nwho could be perverse and wilful on her own account, without help from any\none, it is my girl Doll. God bless you, man, if she but knew that I wanted\nher to reject Stanley, she would have him in spite of hell itself. I\nwonder what she means by her docility and obedience? No, don't speak a\nword to her on the subject. Let her believe I am serious regarding this\nmarriage, and she will have some plan of her own to raise the devil. I\nhave been expecting signs of it every day. I had determined not to bear\nwith her perversity, but now that the Leicester possibility has come up\nwe'll leave Doll to work out her own salvation, Malcolm. Don't interfere.\nNo man living can teach that girl a new trick in deviltry. Gods, Malcolm!\nI am curious to know what she will be doing, for she certainly will be\ndoing something rather than sign that contract of betrothal.\"\n\n\"But suppose out of obedience to you she should sign the contract?\" I\nasked.\n\n\"Malcolm, you don't know Doll,\" he replied. Then, after a pause, \"Neither\ndo I. I wish she were well married.\"\n\nWhen I left Sir George, I found Dorothy in close consultation with the\nqueen and two of her ladies. I heard the name of Lord James Stanley spoken\namid suppressed laughter, and I suspected Dorothy had on foot some prank\ntouching that young man, to which her Majesty was a party.\n\nAfter dinner the Stanleys came a-wooing. The party consisted of father,\nson, and four retainers, who looked as if they had been preserved in\nalcohol for the occasion, so red were their faces.\n\nThe Earl of Derby was a fine old gentleman of the rural type. His noble\nson was an uncouth rustic, who had no thought above a stable boy or tavern\nmaid, nor any ambition above horse trading. His attire was a wonder to\nbehold. He wore a ruff of stupendous proportions. His trunks were so\npuffed out and preposterous in size that they looked like a great painted\nknot on a tree; and the many-colored splendors of his sleeves, his hat,\nhis hose, and his shoes were dazzling to the eye. Add to this wondrous\nraiment feet and hands that could not be satisfactorily disposed of, and\nan unrest of manner painful to behold, and you may possibly conceive the\ngrandiose absurdity of Dorothy's wooer. The sight of him almost made Sir\nGeorge ill; and his entrance into the long gallery, where the queen was\nseated with her ladies and gentlemen, and Sir George and his friends\nstanding about her, was a signal for laughter in which her Majesty openly\njoined.\n\nI shall not lead you through the tedious ceremony of presentation and\nintroduction, nor shall I tell you of the pompous manner in which one of\nthe earl's retinue, a lawyer, read the marriage contract. The fact that\nthe contract was read without the presence of Dorothy, whom it so nearly\nconcerned, was significant of the small consideration which at that time\nwas given to a girl's consent. When all was ready for the signing, Dorothy\nwas summoned.\n\nSir George stood beside the Stanleys, and his nervousness was painfully\napparent. Two servants opened the great doors at the end of the long\ngallery, and Dorothy, holding up the skirt of her gown, bounded into the\nroom. She kneeled to the queen, and turned toward her uncle Stanley and\nher lover-cousin with a low bow. Then she courtesied and said--\n\n\"Good even, uncle, and how do you do, cousin. Have you come to inspect me,\nand, perchance, to buy?\"\n\nSir George's face bore an expression of mingled shame, wonder, and alarm,\nand the queen and her suite laughed behind their fans.\n\n\"It is well,\" continued Dorothy. \"Here am I, ready for inspection.\"\nThereupon she began to disrobe herself before the entire company.\nLeicester laughed outright, and the queen and her ladies suppressed their\nmerriment for a moment, and then sent forth peals of laughter without\nrestraint. Sir George stepped toward the girl and raised his hand\nwarningly, but the queen interposed:--\n\n\"Silence, Sir George, I command you;\" and Sir George retreated to his\nformer place beside the Earl of Derby. Dorothy first removed her bodice,\nshowing her shoulders and a part of her arms, clothed in the fashion of a\ntavern maid.\n\nLeicester, who stood by me, whispered, \"God never made anything more\nbeautiful than Mistress Vernon's arms.\"\n\nSir George again spoke angrily, \"Doll, what are you doing?\" But the queen\nby a wave of her hand commanded silence. Then the girl put her hands\nbehind her, and loosened the belt which held her skirt in place. The skirt\nfell to the floor, and out of it bounded Dorothy in the short gown of a\nmaid.\n\n\"You will be better able to judge of me in this costume, cousin,\" said\nDorothy. \"It will be more familiar to you than the gowns which ladies\nwear.\"\n\n\"I will retract,\" said Leicester, whispering to me, and gazing ardently\nat Dorothy's ankles. \"God has made something more beautiful than Mistress\nVernon's arms. By Venus! I suppose that in His omnipotence He might be\nable to create something more beautiful than her ankles, but up to this\ntime He has not vouchsafed to me a vision of it. Ah! did any one ever\nbehold such strength, such perfect symmetry, such--St. George! the gypsy\ndoesn't live who can dance like that.\"\n\nSure enough, Dorothy was dancing. The pipers in the balcony had burst\nforth in a ribald jig of a tune, and the girl was whirling in a wild,\nweird, and wondrous dance before her lover-cousin. Sir George ordered the\npipers to cease playing; but again Elizabeth, who was filled with mirth,\ninterrupted, and the music pealed forth in wanton volumes which flooded\nthe gallery. Dorothy danced like an elfin gypsy to the inspiring strains.\nSoon her dance changed to wondrous imitations of the movements of a horse.\nShe walked sedately around in an ever increasing circle; she trotted and\npaced; she gave the single foot and racked; she galloped, slowly for a\nwhile, and then the gallop merged into a furious run which sent the blood\nof her audience thrilling through their veins with delight. The wondrous\nease and grace, and the marvellous strength and quickness of her\nmovements, cannot be described. I had never before thought the human body\ncapable of such grace and agility as she displayed.\n\nAfter her dance was finished she stepped in front of her cousin and\ndelivered herself as follows:--\n\n\"I am sound from ear tip to fetlock. There is not a blemish in me.\"\n\n\"No, by my faith, I will swear there is not!\" cried the Earl of Leicester.\n\n\"I have good wind,\" continued Dorothy, \"two good eyes. By night or by day\nI can see everything within the range of my vision, and a great deal that\nis not. I shy, at times, when an uncouth object suddenly comes upon me. I\nam warranted gentle if properly handled, but otherwise it is unsafe to\ncurry my heels.\"\n\nSir George could no longer restrain himself, and again tried to prevent\nDorothy from proceeding with her terrible insult to the Stanleys. The\nqueen, however, was determined to see the end of the frolic, and she\nsaid:--\n\n\"Proceed, Mistress Vernon, proceed.\"\n\nDorothy, nothing loath, continued: \"As for my disposition, it might be\nbetter. It probably will improve with age, if it doesn't grow worse. I\nhave all the gaits a horse should have. I am four years old, I have never\nbeen trained to work double, and I think I never shall be. What think you?\nNow what have you to offer in exchange? Step out and let me see you move.\"\n\nShe took the poor youth by the hand and led him to the middle of the\nfloor.\n\n\"How old are you? Show me your teeth,\" she said. The heir to Derby smiled\nuneasily, and drew his hand across his nose.\n\n\"Ah, you have a touch of the distemper, I see. Are you subject to it?\"\n\nStanley smiled, and the earl said:--\n\n\"Sir George, this insult has gone far enough.\"\n\n\"Stand back, my Lord Derby,\" said the queen. \"Do not interfere with this\ninteresting barter.\"\n\nThe earl reluctantly lapsed into silence. He remembered the insult of her\nMajesty's words all his life.\n\n\"Now step off,\" said Dorothy to Lord James.\n\nThe young man stood in helpless confusion. Dorothy took a step backward\nfrom him, and after watching Stanley a moment said:--\n\n\"What! You can neither trot, pace, nor gallop? I don't believe you can\neven walk alone.\" Then she turned toward Sir George. A smile was on her\nlips, but a look from hell was in her eyes as she said:--\n\n\"Father, take a lesson from this day. I gave you fair warning. Bring me no\nmore scurvy cobs for barter nor trade.\" Then she turned to the Earl of\nDerby and to her cousin Lord James, made a deep courtesy, and said:--\n\n\"You can have no barter with me. Good day.\"\n\nShe ran from the room, and a great peal of laughter from all save Sir\nGeorge and the Stanleys followed her as she passed out through the double\ndoor. When the laughter had subsided, the Earl of Derby turned to Sir\nGeorge and said:--\n\n\"Sir George, this insult is unbearable, and I shall expect satisfaction\nfor it.\" Then he turned to the queen: \"I beg that your Majesty will give\nme leave to depart with my son.\"\n\n\"Granted,\" answered Elizabeth, and father and son started to leave the\nroom, moving backward toward the great doors. Sir George asked the earl\nand Lord Stanley to remain, and in the presence of the company who had\nwitnessed the insult, he in the humblest manner made abject apology for\nthe treatment his distinguished guests had received at the hands of his\ndaughter. He very honestly and in all truth disclaimed any sympathy with\nDorothy's conduct, and offered, as the only reparation he could make, to\npunish her in some way befitting the offence. Then he conducted the guests\nto the mounting block near the entrance tower and saw them depart. Dorothy\nhad solved her father's dilemma with a vengeance.\n\nSir George was not sure that he wanted to be angry at Dorothy, though he\nfelt it was a duty he owed to himself and to the Stanleys. He had wished\nthat the girl would in some manner defer the signing of the contract, but\nhe had not wanted her to refuse young Stanley's hand in a manner so\ninsulting that the match would be broken off altogether.\n\nAs the day progressed, and as Sir George pondered over Dorothy's conduct,\nhe grew more inclined to anger; but during the afternoon she kept well\nunder the queen's wing, and he found no opportunity to give vent to his\nill-temper.\n\nLate that night he called me to his room. He had been drinking during the\nevening and was poised between good-humored hilarity and ill-tempered\nferocity. The latter condition was usually the result of his libations.\nWhen I entered the room it was evident he was amused.\n\n\"Did you ever hear or see such brazen effrontery?\" he asked, referring to\nDorothy's treatment of the Stanleys. \"Is there another girl on earth who\nwould have conceived the absurd thought, or, having conceived it, would\nhave dared to carry it out?\"\n\nI took a chair and replied, \"I think there is not another.\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" continued Sir George. He sat in thought for a moment, and\nthen broke forth into a great laugh. When he had finished laughing he\nsaid: \"I admit it was laughable and--and pretty--beautiful. Damme, I\ndidn't know the girl could do it, Malcolm! I didn't know she had it in\nher. There is not another girl living could have carried the frolic\nthrough.\" Then he spoke seriously, \"But I will make her smart for it when\nthe queen leaves Haddon.\"\n\n\"Sir George, if you will allow me to suggest what I feel on the subject, I\nwould say that you have no reason whatever for desiring to make Dorothy\nsmart. She may have deeper designs than we can see.\"\n\n\"What designs do you suppose she can have? Tell me, Malcolm,\" asked Sir\nGeorge.\n\nI remained silent for a moment, hardly knowing how to express my thought.\n\"Certainly she could not have appeared to a better advantage than in her\ntavern maid's costume,\" I said.\n\n\"That is true,\" answered Sir George. \"Though she is my own daughter, I\nmust admit that I have never seen any woman so beautiful as she.\" The old\ngentleman laughed softly for a moment and said: \"But wasn't it brazen?\nWasn't it shameless? I have always given the girl credit for modesty,\nbut--damme, damme--\"\n\n\"Her beauty in the tavern maid's costume fired Leicester's heart as\nnothing else could have done,\" I said. \"He stood by my side, and was in\nraptures over her charms.\"\n\nSir George mused a moment and said something about the \"Leicester\npossibility,\" which I knew to be an impossibility, and before I left him\nhe had determined to allow the matter to drop for the present. \"I am\nmaking a damned pretty mess of the whole affair, I fear, Malcolm,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"You don't seem to be clearing it up, Sir George,\" I responded.\n\nAfter talking over some arrangements for the queen's entertainment, I said\ngood night, and left my cousin brooding over as complicated a problem as\nman ever tried to solve.\n\nThe next morning I told Dorothy how her father felt with respect to the\n\"Leicester possibility.\" She laughed and said:--\n\n\"I will encourage father in that matter, and,\" with a saucy twinkle in her\neye, \"incidentally I will not discourage my proud lord of Leicester. I\nwill make the most of the situation, fear not, Malcolm.\"\n\n\"I do not fear,\" said I, emphatically.\n\nThere it was: the full-blown spirit of conquest, strong even in a\nlove-full heart. God breathed into Adam the breath of life; but into Eve\nhe breathed the love of conquest, and it has been growing stronger in the\nhearts of her daughters with each recurring generation.\n\n\"How about John?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, John?\" she answered, throwing her head contemplatively to one side.\n\"He is amply able to protect his own interests. I could not be really\nuntrue to him if I wished to be. It is I who am troubled on the score of\ninfidelity. John will be with the most beautiful queen--\" She broke off in\nthe midst of her sentence, and her face became clouded with an expression\nof anger and hatred. \"God curse her! I wish she were dead, dead, dead.\nThere! you know how I feel toward your English-French-Scottish beauty.\nCurse the mongrel--\" She halted before the ugly word she was about to use;\nbut her eyes were like glowing embers, and her cheeks were flushed by the\nheat of anger.\n\n\"Did you not promise me, Dorothy, that you would not again allow yourself\nto become jealous of Queen Mary?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, I promised, but I cannot prevent the jealousy, and I do not intend\nto try. I hate her, and I love to hate her.\"\n\n\"Why should you hate her?\" I asked. \"If John remains true to you, there is\ncertainly no cause for you to hate any one. If he should be untrue to you,\nyou should hate him.\"\n\n\"Hate him?\" she exclaimed. \"That, indeed, is pretty reasoning. If he\nshould be untrue to me, I should of course hate her. I could not hate him.\nI did not make myself love him. I would never have been so great a fool as\nto bring that pain upon myself intentionally. I suppose no girl would\ndeliberately make herself love a man and bring into her heart so great an\nagony. I feel toward John as I do, because I must; and I hate your\nScottish mongrel because I must. I tell you, Malcolm, when she comes to\nRutland, if I hear of her trying any of her wanton tricks on John there\nwill be trouble--mark my words!\"\n\n\"I ask you to promise me this, Dorothy: that you will do nothing\nconcerning John and Queen Mary without first speaking to me.\"\n\nShe paced across the room angrily. \"I promise you nothing, Malcolm, save\nthat I shall not allow that woman to come between John and me. That I\npromise you, on my oath.\"\n\nDorothy continued to shed her luminous smiles on Leicester, though she was\ncareful not to shine in the queen's presence. My lord was dazzled by the\nsmiles, and continually sought opportunities to bask in their dangerous\nlight. As a result of this smiling and basking the great London\nheart-breaker was soon helplessly caught in the toils of Doll, the country\nmaiden. She played him as an angler plays a trout. The most experienced\ncourt coquette could not have done the part better than did this girl,\nwhose knowledge of the subject was wholly intuitive, for her life had all\nbeen spent amid the green hills and groves of Derbyshire. She so managed\nthe affair that her father should see enough of Leicester's preference to\nkeep alive in Sir George's mind the hope for the \"Leicester possibility.\"\nThose words had become with her a phrase slyly to play upon.\n\nOne afternoon when the sun was graciously warm and bright, I induced Madge\nto walk with me upon the terrace, that I might for a few moments feel the\ntouch of her hand and hear her whispered words. We took a seat by a large\nholly bush, which effectually concealed us from view. We had been there\nbut a few moments when we heard footsteps approaching. Looking between the\nbranches of the holly bush I saw Dorothy and Leicester coming toward us\nfrom the north end of the terrace. Dorothy's eyes were cast down demurely,\nand her head hung in the attitude of a shy, modest girl, who listens\ntimidly to words that are music in her ears. Never have I seen an attitude\nmore indicative of the receptive mood than that which Dorothy assumed\ntoward Leicester.\n\n\"Ah,\" thought I, \"poor John has given his heart and has risked his life\nfor the sake of Doll, and Doll is a miserable coquette.\"\n\nBut there was conduct still more objectionable to come from Dorothy.\n\nUnconscious of our presence, Leicester said, \"My fair beauty, my Venus,\nhere is a settle under this holly bush, well hidden from prying eyes. It\ninvites us. Will you sit here with me for one happy moment, and give me a\ntaste of Paradise?\"\n\n\"I fear I should not sit with you, my lord, however much I--may--may wish\nto do so. My father or the queen might observe us.\" The black lashes fell\nupon the fair cheek, and the red golden head with its crown of glory hung\nforward convincingly.\n\n\"You false jade,\" thought I.\n\n\"I ask for but one moment,\" pleaded Leicester. \"The queen sleeps at this\ntime after dinner, and perhaps your father would not object if you were to\ngrant this little favor to the first nobleman of the realm.\"\n\n\"You do not know my father, my lord. He is very strict regarding my\nconduct,\" murmured the drooping head.\n\n\"I ask for but one little moment,\" continued the earl, \"in which to tell\nyou that you have filled my heart with adoration and love.\"\n\n\"I should not listen to you, my lord. Were I mindful of my happiness, I\nshould return to the Hall at once,\" said the drooping lashes and hanging\nhead.\n\n\"You lying wench,\" thought I. By that time I was thoroughly angered.\n\n\"Only one little moment on the settle,\" pleaded Leicester, \"that I may\nspeak to you that which I wish so ardently to say.\"\n\n\"Can you not speak while we walk, my lord?\" asked Dorothy.\n\nI felt a bitter desire to curse the girl.\n\n\"It is difficult for me to speak while we walk,\" said Leicester,\ncautiously taking the girl's hand; so she permitted him to lead her to the\nsettle under the holly bush, on the opposite side of which Madge and I\nwere sitting.\n\nThe earl retained the hand for a moment after he and Dorothy were seated,\nbut she gently drew it away and moved a little distance from his Lordship.\nStill, her eyes were drooped, her head hung low, and her bosom actually\nheaved as if with emotion.\n\n\"I will tell John of your shamelessness,\" I said to myself. \"He shall feel\nno more heartaches for you--you wanton huzzy.\"\n\nThen Leicester poured forth his passion most eloquently. Poesy, verse, and\nrhetoric all came to help him in his wooing. Now and then the girl would\nrespond to his ardor with \"Please, my lord,\" or \"I pray you, my lord,\" and\nwhen he would try to take her hand she would say, \"I beg you, my lord, do\nnot.\" But Leicester evidently thought that the \"do not\" meant \"do,\" for\nsoon he began to steal his arm about her waist, and she was so slow in\nstopping him that I thought she was going to submit. She, however, arose\ngently to her feet and said:--\n\n\"My lord, I must return to the Hall. I may not longer remain here with\nyou.\"\n\nThe earl caught her hand and endeavored to kiss it, but she adroitly\nprevented him, and stepping out into the path, started slowly toward the\nHall. She turned her head slightly toward Leicester in a mute but eloquent\ninvitation, and he quickly followed her.\n\nI watched the pair walk up the terrace. They descended the steps to the\ngarden, and from thence they entered the Hall by way of the porch.\n\n\"Was it not very wicked in Dorothy to listen to such words from\nLeicester?\" asked Madge. \"I do not at all understand her.\"\n\nMadge, of course, knew only a part of what had happened, and a very small\npart at that, for she had not seen Dorothy. Madge and I returned to the\nHall, and we went at once to Dorothy's room, hoping to see her, and\nintending to tell her our opinion of the shameless manner in which she had\nacted.\n\nDorothy was in her room alone when we entered. She clapped her hands, ran\nto the door, bolted it, and bounded back toward us.\n\n\"I have the greatest news to tell you,\" she cried laughingly,--\"the\ngreatest news and the greatest sport of which you ever heard. My lord\nLeicester is in love with me.\"\n\n\"Indeed, that is very fine,\" I responded; but my irony met its usual fate.\nShe did not see it.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Dorothy, brimming over with mirth, \"you should have heard\nhim pleading with me a few moments since upon the terrace.\"\n\n\"We did hear him,\" said Madge.\n\n\"You heard him? Where? How?\" Her eyes were wide with wonder.\n\n\"We were on the opposite side of the holly bush from you,\" I answered. \"We\nheard him and we saw you.\"\n\n\"Did you? Good. I am glad of it,\" said Dorothy.\n\n\"Yes, we saw and we heard all, and we think that your conduct was\nshameless,\" I responded severely.\n\n\"Shameless?\" demanded Dorothy. \"Now pray tell me what I did or said that\nwas shameless.\".\n\nI was at a loss to define the wrong in her conduct, for it had been of an\nintangible quality which in itself was nothing, but notwithstanding meant\na great deal.\n\n\"You permitted him to hold your hand,\" I said, trying to fix on something\nreal with which to accuse her.\n\n\"I did nothing of the sort,\" said Dorothy, laughingly. \"He caught my hand\nseveral times, but I withdrew it from him\"\n\nI knew she spoke the truth regarding her hand, so I tried again.\n\n\"You--you hung your head and kept your eyes cast down, and you looked--\"\n\n\"Oh, I hung my head, I cast down my eyes, and I looked?\" she answered,\nlaughing heartily. \"Pray let me ask you, Master Fault-finder, for what use\nelse are heads and eyes made?\"\n\nI was not prepared to say that the uses to which Dorothy had put her head\nand eyes were not some of the purposes for which they were created. They\nare good purposes, too, I admit, although I would not have conceded as\nmuch to Dorothy. I knew the girl would soon wheedle me into her way of\nthinking, so I took a bold stand and said:--\n\n\"It is my intention to tell John about your conduct with Leicester, and I\nshall learn for what purpose he thinks eyes and heads are created.\"\n\n\"Tell John?\" cried Dorothy. \"Of course you may tell John. He well knows\nthe purposes of heads and eyes, and their proper uses. He has told me many\ntimes his opinion on the subject.\" She laughed for a moment, and then\ncontinued: \"I, too, shall tell John all that happened or shall happen\nbetween Lord Leicester and me. I wish I could tell him now. How I wish I\ncould tell him now.\" A soft light came to her eyes, and she repeated\nhuskily: \"If I might tell him now; if I might tell him now. Why, Malcolm,\nI despise Leicester. He is a poor, weak fool. He has no more force nor\nstrength than I have. He is not a man. He is no more attractive than a\nwoman. He wanted to kiss me. He begged me to give him but one. It is but a\npoor kiss which a man gets by begging. Think you I would give him one? Had\nhe but touched my lips, think you I would ever allow John to soil himself\nagain by kissing them? Fear not, Malcolm. Fear not for John nor for me.\nNo man will ever receive from me a favor, the granting of which would make\nme unfit to be John's--John's wife. I have paid too dearly for him to\nthrow him away for a penny whistle that I do not want.\" Then she grew\nearnest, with a touch of anger: \"Leicester! What reason, suppose you,\nMalcolm, have I for treating him as I do? Think you I act from sheer\nwantonness? If there were one little spot of that fault upon my soul, I\nwould tear myself from John, though I should die for it.\"\n\nHer laughing mood had passed away, and I feared to say that I could see no\nreason other than coquetry for her conduct, I feared the red-haired\ntigress would scratch my eyes out.\n\n\"I have wanted to see you,\" she continued, \"that I might tell you of my\nplans and of the way they are working out, but now since you have spoken\nto me in this manner, Sir Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon, I shall\ntell you nothing. You suspect me. Therefore, you shall wait with the rest\nof the world to learn my purposes. You may tell John all you have seen and\nheard. I care not how quickly you do it.\" Then with a sigh: \"I pray God it\nmay be very soon. He will wish for no explanation, and he shall one day\nhave in me a rich reward for his faith.\"\n\n\"Do you trust him as he trusts you?\" I asked, \"and would you demand an\nexplanation were he to act toward Mary Stuart as you have acted toward\nLeicester?\"\n\n\"He could not act toward her as I did toward Lord Leicester,\" she said\nthoughtfully. Then after a moment she laughingly continued: \"John\ncan't--he can't hang his head and--droop his eyes and look.\"\n\n\"But if--\" I began.\n\n\"I want no more of your hellish 'ifs,'\" cried the girl in sudden fury. \"If\nJohn were to--to look at that Scottish mongrel as I looked at Leicester, I\nwould--I would kill the royal wanton. I would kill her if it cost my\nlife. Now, for God's sake, leave me. You see the state into which you\nhave wrought me.\" I left Madge with Dorothy and walked out upon Bowling\nGreen to ponder on the events that were passing before me.\n\nFrom the time we learned that John had gone to fetch the Scottish queen I\nhad fears lest Dorothy's inflammable jealousy might cause trouble, and now\nthose fears were rapidly transforming themselves into a feeling of\ncertainty. There is nothing in life so sweet and so dangerous as the love\nof a hot-blooded woman.\n\nI soon saw Dorothy again. \"Tell me,\" said I, in conciliation, \"tell me,\nplease, what is your reason for acting as you do toward Leicester, and why\nshould you look differently upon similar conduct on John's part?\"\n\n\"I will not tell you my plans,\" she responded,--\"not now, at least.\nPerhaps I shall do so when I have recovered from my ill-temper. It is hard\nfor me to give my reasons for feeling differently about like conduct on\nJohn's part. Perhaps I feel as I do because--because--It is this way:\nWhile I might do little things--mere nothings--such as I have done--it\nwould be impossible for me to do any act of unfaithfulness to John. Oh, it\ncould not be. But with him, he--he--well, he is a man and--and--oh, don't\ntalk to me! Don't talk to me! You are driving me mad. Out of my sight! Out\nof my room! Holy Virgin! I shall die before I have him; I know I shall.\"\n\nThere it was again. The thought of Mary Stuart drove her wild. Dorothy\nthrew herself on her face upon the bed, and Madge went over and sat by her\nside to soothe her. I, with a feeling of guilt, so adroit had been\nDorothy's defence, left the girls and went to my room in the tower to\nunravel, by the help of my pipe, the tangled web of woman's\nincomprehensibility. I failed, as many another man had failed before me,\nand as men will continue to fail to the end of time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nMARY STUART\n\n\nAnd now I come to an event in this history which I find difficult to place\nbefore you in its true light. For Dorothy's sake I wish I might omit it\naltogether. But in true justice to her and for the purpose of making you\nsee clearly the enormity of her fault and the palliating excuses therefor,\nif any there were, I shall pause briefly to show the condition of affairs\nat the time of which I am about to write--a time when Dorothy's madness\nbrought us to the most terrible straits and plunged us into deepest\ntribulations.\n\nAlthough I have been unable to show you as much of John as I have wished\nyou to see, you nevertheless must know that he, whose nature was not like\nthe shallow brook but was rather of the quality of a deep, slow-moving\nriver, had caught from Dorothy an infection of love from which he would\nnever recover. His soul was steeped in the delicious essence of the girl.\nI would also call your attention to the conditions under which his passion\nfor Dorothy had arisen. It is true he received the shaft when first he saw\nher at the Royal Arms in Derby-town, but the shaft had come from Dorothy's\neyes. Afterward she certainly had done her full part in the wooing. It was\nfor her sake, after she had drawn him on to love her, that he became a\nservant in Haddon Hall. For her sake he faced death at the hands of her\nfather. And it was through her mad fault that the evil came upon him of\nwhich I shall now tell you. That she paid for her fault in suffering does\nnot excuse her, since pain is but the latter half of evil.\n\nDuring the term of Elizabeth's residence in Haddon Hall John returned to\nRutland with Queen Mary Stuart, whose escape from Lochleven had excited\nall England. The country was full of rumors that Mary was coming to\nEngland not so much for sanctuary as to be on the ground ready to accept\nthe English crown when her opportunity to do so should occur. The\nCatholics, a large and powerful party, flushed with their triumphs under\nthe \"Bloody Queen,\" were believed to sympathize with Mary's cause.\nAlthough Elizabeth said little on the subject, she felt deeply, and she\nfeared trouble should the Scottish queen enter her dominion. Another cause\nof annoyance to Elizabeth was the memory that Leicester had once been\ndeeply impressed with Mary's charms, and had sought her hand in marriage.\nElizabeth's prohibition alone had prevented the match. That thought\nrankled in Elizabeth's heart, and she hated Mary, although her hatred, as\nin all other cases, was tempered with justice and mercy. This great queen\nhad the brain of a man with its motives, and the heart of a woman with its\nemotions.\n\nWhen news of Mary's escape reached London, Cecil came in great haste to\nHaddon. During a consultation with Elizabeth he advised her to seize Mary,\nshould she enter England, and to check the plots made in Mary's behalf by\nexecuting the principal friends of the Scottish queen. He insistently\ndemanded that Elizabeth should keep Mary under lock and key, should she be\nso fortunate as to obtain possession of her person, and that the men who\nwere instrumental in bringing her into England should be arraigned for\nhigh treason.\n\nJohn certainly had been instrumental in bringing her into England, and if\nCecil's advice were taken by the queen, John's head would pay the forfeit\nfor his chivalric help to Mary.\n\nElizabeth was loath to act on this advice, but Cecil worked upon her fears\nand jealousies until her mind and her heart were in accord, and she gave\nsecret orders that his advice should be carried out. Troops were sent to\nthe Scottish border to watch for the coming of the fugitive queen. But\nMary was already ensconced, safely, as she thought, in Rutland Castle\nunder the assumed name of Lady Blanche. Her presence at Rutland was, of\ncourse, guarded as a great secret.\n\nDorothy's mind dwelt frequently upon the fact that John and the beautiful\nyoung Scottish queen lived under the same roof, for John had written to\nDorothy immediately after his return. Nothing so propagates itself as\njealousy. There were in Haddon Hall two hearts in which this\nself-propagating process was rapidly progressing--Elizabeth's and\nDorothy's. Each had for the cause of her jealousy the same woman.\n\nOne night, soon after Cecil had obtained from Elizabeth the order for\nMary's arrest, Dorothy, on retiring to her room at a late hour found\nJennie Faxton waiting for her with a precious letter from John. Dorothy\ndrank in the tenderness of John's letter as the thirsty earth absorbs the\nrain; but her joy was neutralized by frequent references to the woman who\nshe feared might become her rival. One-half of what she feared, she was\nsure had been accomplished: that is, Mary's half. She knew in her heart\nthat the young queen would certainly grow fond of John. That was a\nforegone conclusion. No woman could be with him and escape that fate,\nthought Dorothy. Her hope as to the other half--John's part--rested solely\nupon her faith in John, which was really great, and her confidence in her\nown charms and in her own power to hold him, which in truth, and with good\nreason, was not small, Dorothy went to bed, and Jennie, following her\nusual custom, when at Haddon, lay upon the floor in the same room. John's\nletter, with all its tenderness, had thrown Dorothy into an inquisitive\nframe of mind. After an hour or two of restless tossing upon the bed she\nfell asleep, but soon after midnight she awakened, and in her drowsy\ncondition the devil himself played upon the strings of her dream-charged\nimagination. After a time she sprang from the bed, lighted a candle at the\nrush light, and read John's letter in a tremor of dream-wrought fear. Then\nshe aroused Jennie Faxton and asked:--\n\n\"When were you at Rutland?\"\n\n\"I spent yesterday and to-day there, mistress,\" answered Jennie.\n\n\"Did you see a strange lady?\" asked Dorothy.\n\n\"Oh, yes, mistress, I did see her three or four times,\" answered Jennie.\n\"Lady Blanche is her name, and she be a cousin of Sir John's. She do come,\nthey say, from France, and do speak only in the tongue of that country.\"\n\n\"I--I suppose that this--this Lady Blanche and--and Sir John are very good\nfriends? Did you--did you--often see them together?\" asked Dorothy. She\nfelt guilty in questioning Jennie for the purpose of spying upon her\nlover. She knew that John would not pry into her conduct.\n\n\"Indeed, yes, mistress,\" returned Jennie, who admired John greatly from\nher lowly sphere, and who for her own sake as well as Dorothy's was\njealous of Queen Mary. \"They do walk together a great deal on the\nramparts, and the white snaky lady do look up into Sir John's face like\nthis\"--here Jennie assumed a lovelorn expression. \"And--and once,\nmistress, I thought--I thought--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Jesu!\" hissed Dorothy, clutching Jennie by the arm, \"you\nthought, you thought. Tell me! Tell me! What in hell's name did you think?\nSpeak quickly, wench.\"\n\n\"I be not sure, mistress, but I thought I saw his arm about her waist one\nevening on the ramparts. It was dark, and for sure I could not tell,\nbut--\"\n\n\"God's curse upon the white huzzy!\" screamed Dorothy. \"God's curse upon\nher! She is stealing him from me, and I am helpless.\"\n\nShe clasped her hands over the top of her head and ran to and fro across\nthe room uttering inarticulate cries of agony. Then she sat upon the\nbedside and threw herself into Madge's arms, crying under her breath: \"My\nGod! My God! Think of it, Madge. I have given him my heart, my soul, O\nmerciful God, my love--all that I have worth giving, and now comes this\nwhite wretch, and because she is a queen and was sired in hell she tries\nto steal him from me and coaxes him to put his arm around her waist.\"\n\n\"Don't feel that way about it, Dorothy,\" said Madge, soothingly. \"I know\nSir John can explain it all to you when you see him. He is true to you, I\nam sure.\"\n\n\"True to me, Madge! How can he be true to me if she coaxes him to woo her\nand if he puts his arm--I am losing him; I know it. I--I--O God, Madge, I\nam smothering; I am strangling! Holy Virgin! I believe I am about to die.\"\nShe threw herself upon the bed by Madge's side, clutching her throat and\nbreast, and her grand woman's form tossed and struggled as if she were in\nconvulsions.\n\n\"Holy mother!\" she cried, \"take this frightful agony from my breast.\nSnatch this terrible love from my heart. God! If you have pity, give it\nnow. Help me! Help me! Ah, how deeply I love. I never loved him so much as\nI do at this awful moment. Save me from doing that which is in my heart.\nIf I could have him for only one little portion of a minute. But that is\ndenied me whose right it is, and is given to her who has no right. Ah,\nGod is not just. If he were he would strike her dead. I hate her and I\nhate--hate him.\"\n\nShe arose to a sitting posture on the edge of the bed and held out her\narms toward Madge.\n\n\"Madge,\" she continued, frenzied by the thought, \"his arm was around her\nwaist. That was early in the evening. Holy Virgin! What may be happening\nnow?\"\n\nDorothy sprang from the bed and staggered about the room with her hands\nupon her throbbing temples.\n\n\"I cannot bear this agony. God give me strength.\" Soon she began to gasp\nfor breath. \"I can--see--them now--together, together. I hate her; I hate\nhim. My love has turned bitter. What can I do? What can I do? I will do\nit. I will. I will disturb their sweet rest. If I cannot have him, she\nshall not. I'll tell the queen, I'll tell the queen.\"\n\nDorothy acted on her resolution the moment it was taken, and at once began\nto unbolt the door.\n\n\"Stay, Dorothy, stay!\" cried Madge. \"Think on what you are about to do. It\nwill cost John his life. Come to me for one moment, Dorothy, I pray you.\"\nMadge arose from the bed and began groping her way toward Dorothy, who was\nunbolting the door.\n\nMadge could have calmed the tempest-tossed sea as easily as she could have\ninduced Dorothy to pause in her mad frenzy. Jennie Faxton, almost\nparalyzed by fear of the storm she had raised, stood in the corner of the\nroom trembling and speechless. Dorothy was out of the room before poor\nblind Madge could reach her. The frenzied girl was dressed only in her\nnight robes and her glorious hair hung dishevelled down to her waist. She\nran through the rooms of Lady Crawford and those occupied by her father\nand the retainers. Then she sped down the long gallery and up the steps to\nElizabeth's apartment.\n\nShe knocked violently at the queen's door.\n\n\"Who comes?\" demanded one of her Majesty's ladies.\n\n\"I, Dorothy,\" was the response. \"I wish to speak to her Majesty at once\nupon a matter of great importance to her.\"\n\nElizabeth ordered her ladies to admit Dorothy, and the girl ran to the\nqueen, who had half arisen in her bed.\n\n\"You must have affairs of great moment, indeed,\" cried Elizabeth, testily,\n\"if they induce you to disturb me in this manner.\"\n\n\"Of great moment, indeed, your Majesty,\" replied Dorothy, endeavoring to\nbe calm, \"of moment to you and to me. Mary Stuart is in England at this\ninstant trying to steal your crown and my lover. She is now sleeping\nwithin five leagues of this place. God only knows what she is doing. Let\nus waste no time, your Majesty.\"\n\nThe girl was growing wilder every second.\n\n\"Let us go--you and I--and seize this wanton creature. You to save your\ncrown; I to save my lover and--my life.\"\n\n\"Where is she?\" demanded Elizabeth, sharply. \"Cease prattling about your\nlover. She would steal both my lover and my crown if she could. Where is\nshe?\"\n\n\"She is at Rutland Castle, your Majesty,\" answered Dorothy.\n\n\"Ah, the Duke of Rutland and his son John,\" said Elizabeth. \"I have been\nwarned of them. Send for my Lord Cecil and Sir William St. Loe.\"\n\nSir William was in command of the yeoman guards.\n\n\"Is Sir John Manners your lover?\" asked Elizabeth, turning to Dorothy.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the girl.\n\n\"You may soon seek another,\" replied the queen, significantly.\n\nHer Majesty's words seemed to awaken Dorothy from her stupor of frenzy,\nand she foresaw the result of her act. Then came upon her a reaction worse\nthan death.\n\n\"You may depart,\" said the queen to Dorothy, and the girl went back to\nher room hardly conscious that she was moving.\n\nAt times we cannot help feeling that love came to the human breast through\na drop of venom shot from the serpent's tongue into the heart of Eve.\nAgain we believe it to be a spark from God's own soul. Who will solve me\nthis riddle?\n\nSoon the hard, cold ringing of arms, and the tramp of mailed feet\nresounded through Haddon Hall, and the doom-like din reached Dorothy's\nroom in the tones of a clanging knell. There seemed to be a frightful\nrhythm in the chaos of sounds which repeated over and over again the\nwords: \"John will die, John will die,\" though the full import of her act\nand its results did nor for a little time entirely penetrate her\nconsciousness. She remembered the queen's words, \"You may soon seek\nanother.\" Elizabeth plainly meant that John was a traitor, and that John\nwould die for his treason. The clanking words, \"John will die, John will\ndie,\" bore upon the girl's ears in ever increasing volume until the agony\nshe suffered deadened her power to think. She wandered aimlessly about the\nroom, trying to collect her senses, but her mind was a blank. After a few\nminutes she ran back to the queen, having an undefined purpose of doing\nsomething to avert the consequences of her mad act. She at first thought\nto tell the queen that the information she had given concerning Mary\nStuart's presence in Rutland was false, but she well knew that a lie\nseldom succeeds; and in this case, even through her clouded mentality, she\ncould see that a lie would surely fail. She determined to beg the queen to\nspare John's life. She did not know exactly what she would do, but she\nhoped by the time she should reach the queen's room to hit upon some plan\nthat would save him. When she knocked at Elizabeth's door it was locked\nagainst her. Her Majesty was in consultation with Cecil, Sir William St.\nLoe, and a few other gentlemen, among whom was Sir George Vernon.\n\nDorothy well knew there was no help for John if her father were of the\nqueen's council. She insisted upon seeing the queen, but was rudely\nrepulsed. By the time she again reached her room full consciousness had\nreturned, and agony such as she had never before dreamed of overwhelmed\nher soul. Many of us have felt the same sort of pain when awakened\nsuddenly to the fact that words we have spoken easily may not, by our\nutmost efforts, be recalled, though we would gladly give our life itself\nto have them back. If suffering can atone for sin, Dorothy bought her\nindulgence within one hour after sinning. But suffering cannot atone for\nsin; it is only a part of it--the result.\n\n\"Arise, Madge, and dress,\" said Dorothy, gently. \"I have made a terrible\nmistake. I have committed a frightful crime. I have betrayed John to\ndeath. Ah, help me, Madge, if you can. Pray God to help me. He will listen\nto you. I fear to pray to Him. He would turn my prayers to curses. I am\nlost.\" She fell for a moment upon the bed and placed her head on Madge's\nbreast murmuring, \"If I could but die.\"\n\n\"All may turn out better than it now appears,\" said Madge. \"Quiet yourself\nand let us consider what may be done to arrest the evil of your--your\nact.\"\n\n\"Nothing can be done, nothing,\" wailed Dorothy, as she arose from the bed\nand began to dress. \"Please arise, Madge, and dress yourself. Here are\nyour garments and your gown.\"\n\nThey hastily dressed without speaking, and Dorothy began again to pace the\nfloor.\n\n\"He will die hating me,\" said Dorothy. \"If he could live I willingly would\ngive him to the--the Scottish woman. Then I could die and my suffering\nwould cease. I must have been mad when I went to the queen. He trusted me\nwith his honor and his life, and I, traitress that I am, have betrayed\nboth. Ah, well, when he dies I also shall die. There is comfort at least\nin that thought. How helpless I am.\"\n\nShe could not weep. It seemed as if there were not a tear in her. All was\nhard, dry, burning agony. She again fell upon the bed and moaned piteously\nfor a little time, wringing her hands and uttering frantic ejaculatory\nprayers for help.\n\n\"My mind seems to have forsaken me,\" she said hoarsely to Madge. \"I cannot\nthink. What noise is that?\"\n\nShe paused and listened for a moment. Then she went to the north window\nand opened the casement.\n\n\"The yeoman guards from Bakewell are coming,\" she said. \"I recognize them\nby the light of their flambeaux. They are entering the gate at the\ndove-cote.\"\n\nA part of the queen's guard had been quartered in the village of Bakewell.\n\nDorothy stood at the window for a moment and said: \"The other guards are\nhere under our window and are ready to march to Rutland. There is Lord\nCecil, and Sir William St. Loe, and Malcolm, and there is my father. Now\nthey are off to meet the other yeomen at the dove-cote. The stable boys\nare lighting their torches and flambeaux. They are going to murder John,\nand I have sent them.\"\n\nDorothy covered her face with her hands and slowly walked to and fro\nacross the room.\n\n\"Call Malcolm,\" said Madge. \"Perhaps he can help us. Lead me to the\nwindow, Dorothy, and I will call him.\" Dorothy led Madge to the window,\nand above the din of arms I heard her soft voice calling, \"Malcolm,\nMalcolm.\"\n\nThe order to march had been given before Madge called, but I sought Sir\nWilliam and told him I would return to the Hall to get another sword and\nwould soon overtake him on the road to Rutland.\n\nI then hastened to Dorothy's room. I was ignorant of the means whereby\nElizabeth had learned of Mary's presence at Rutland. The queen had told no\none how the information reached her. The fact that Mary was in England was\nall sufficient for Cecil, and he proceeded to execute the order Elizabeth\nhad given for Mary's arrest, without asking or desiring any explanation.\nI, of course, was in great distress for John's sake, since I knew that he\nwould be attainted of treason. I had sought in vain some plan whereby I\nmight help him, but found none. I, myself, being a Scottish refugee,\noccupied no safe position, and my slightest act toward helping John or\nMary would be construed against me.\n\nWhen I entered Dorothy's room, she ran to me and said: \"Can you help me,\nMalcolm? Can you help me save him from this terrible evil which I have\nbrought upon him?\"\n\n\"How did you bring the evil upon him?\" I asked, in astonishment. \"It was\nnot your fault that he brought Mary Stuart to--\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she answered; \"but I told the queen she was at Rutland.\"\n\n\"You told the queen?\" I exclaimed, unwilling to believe my ears. \"You\ntold--How--why--why did you tell her?\"\n\n\"I do not know why I told her,\" she replied. \"I was mad with--with\njealousy. You warned me against it, but I did not heed you. Jennie Faxton\ntold me that she saw John and--but all that does not matter now. I will\ntell you hereafter if I live. What we must now do is to save him--to save\nhim if we can. Try to devise some plan. Think--think, Malcolm.\"\n\nMy first thought was to ride to Rutland Castle and give the alarm. Sir\nGeorge would lead the yeomen thither by the shortest route--the road by\nway of Rowsley. There was another route leading up the Lathkil through the\ndale, and thence by a road turning southward to Rutland. That road was\nlonger by a league than the one Sir George would take, but I could put my\nhorse to his greatest speed, and I might be able to reach the castle in\ntime to enable John and Mary to escape. I considered the question a\nmoment. My own life certainly would pay the forfeit in case of failure;\nbut my love for John and, I confess it with shame, the memory of my old\ntenderness for Mary impelled me to take the risk. I explained the plan\nupon which I was thinking, and told them of my determination. When I did\nso, Madge grasped me by the arm to detain me, and Dorothy fell upon her\nknees and kissed my hand.\n\nI said, \"I must start at once; for, ride as I may, I fear the yeomen will\nreach Rutland gates before I can get there.\"\n\n\"But If the guards should be at the gates when you arrive, or if you\nshould be missed by Cecil, you, a Scottish refugee and a friend of Queen\nMary, would be suspected of treason, and you would lose your life,\" said\nMadge, who was filled with alarm for my sake.\n\n\"That is true,\" I replied; \"but I can think of no other way whereby John\ncan possibly be saved.\"\n\nDorothy stood for a moment in deep thought, and said:--\n\n\"I will ride to Rutland by way of Lathkil Dale--I will ride in place of\nyou, Malcolm. It is my duty and my privilege to do this if I can.\"\n\nI saw the truth of her words, and felt that since Dorothy had wrought the\nevil, it was clearly her duty to remedy it if she could. If she should\nfail, no evil consequences would fall upon her. If I should fail, it would\ncost me my life; and while I desired to save John, still I wished to save\nmyself. Though my conduct may not have been chivalric, still I was willing\nthat Dorothy should go in my place, and I told her so. I offered to ride\nwith her as far as a certain cross-road a league distant from Rutland\nCastle. There I would leave her, and go across the country to meet the\nyeomen on the road they had taken. I could join them before they reached\nRutland, and my absence during the earlier portion of the march would not\nbe remarked, or if noticed it could easily be explained.\n\nThis plan was agreed upon, and after the guards had passed out at\nDove-cote Gate and were well down toward Rowsley, I rode out from the\nHall, and waited for Dorothy at an appointed spot near Overhaddon.\n\nImmediately after my departure Dolcy was saddled, and soon Dorothy rode\nfuriously up to me. Away we sped, Dorothy and I, by Yulegrave church, down\ninto the dale, and up the river. Never shall I forget that mad ride. Heavy\nrains had recently fallen, and the road in places was almost impassable.\nThe rivers were in flood, but when Dorothy and I reached the ford, the\ngirl did not stop to consider the danger ahead of her. I heard her\nwhisper, \"On, Dolcy, on,\" and I heard the sharp \"whisp\" of the whip as she\nstruck the trembling, fearful mare, and urged her into the dark flood.\nDolcy hesitated, but Dorothy struck her again and again with the whip and\nsoftly cried, \"On, Dolcy, on.\" Then mare and rider plunged into the\nswollen river, and I, of course, followed them. The water was so deep that\nour horses were compelled to swim, and when we reached the opposite side\nof the river we had drifted with the current a distance of at least three\nhundred yards below the road. We climbed the cliff by a sheep path. How\nDorothy did it I do not know; and how I succeeded in following her I know\neven less. When we reached the top of the cliff, Dorothy started off at\nfull gallop, leading the way, and again I followed. The sheep path\nleading up the river to the road followed close the edge of the cliff,\nwhere a false step by the horse would mean death to both horse and rider.\nBut Dorothy feared not, or knew not, the danger, and I caught her ever\nwhispered cry,--\"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, on.\" Ashamed to fall behind,\nyet fearing to ride at such a pace on such a path, I urged my horse\nforward. He was a fine, strong, mettlesome brute, and I succeeded in\nkeeping the girl's dim form in sight. The moon, which was rapidly sinking\nwestward, still gave us light through rifts in the black bank of floating\nclouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have been\nour last journey in the flesh.\n\nSoon we reached the main road turning southward. It was a series of rough\nrocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with the\nspeed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words,\nuntimely spoken, had wrought. I urged my horse until his head was close by\nDolcy's tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry,--\"On,\nDolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on.\"\n\nNo word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy panting\nwith her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and the\nthud, thud, thud of our horses' hoofs came always back to me from\nDorothy's lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing,--\"On, Dolcy,\non; on Dolcy, on.\"\n\nThe road we took led us over steep hills and down through dark,\nshadow-crowded ravines; but up hill, down hill, and on the level the\nterrible girl before me plunged forward with unabated headlong fury until\nI thought surely the flesh of horse, man, and woman could endure the\nstrain not one moment longer. But the horses, the woman, and--though I say\nit who should not--the man were of God's best handiwork, and the cords of\nour lives did not snap. One thought, and only one, held possession of the\ngirl, and the matter of her own life or death had no place in her mind.\n\nWhen we reached the cross-road where I was to leave her, we halted while I\ninstructed Dorothy concerning the road she should follow from that point\nto Rutland, and directed her how to proceed when she should arrive at the\ncastle gate. She eagerly listened for a moment or two, then grew\nimpatient, and told me to hasten in my speech, since there was no time to\nlose. Then she fearlessly dashed away alone into the black night; and as I\nwatched her fair form fade into the shadows, the haunting cry came faintly\nback to me,--\"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy on,\" and I was sick at heart. I was\nloath to leave her thus in the inky gloom. The moon had sunk for the\nnight, and the clouds had banked up without a rift against the hidden\nstars; but I could give her no further help, and my life would pay the\nforfeit should I accompany her. She had brought the evil upon herself. She\nwas the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. She was fulfilling her\ndestiny. She was doing that which she must do: nothing more, nothing less.\nShe was filling her little niche in the universal moment. She was a part\nof the infinite kaleidoscope--a fate-charged, fate-moved, fragile piece of\nglass which might be crushed to atoms in the twinkling of an eye, in the\nsounding of a trump.\n\nAfter leaving Dorothy I rode across the country and soon overtook the\nyeoman guard whom I joined unobserved. Then I marched with them, all too\nrapidly to suit me, to Rutland. The little army had travelled with greater\nspeed than I had expected, and I soon began to fear that Dorothy would not\nreach Rutland Castle in time to enable its inmates to escape.\n\nWithin half an hour from the time I joined the yeomen we saw the dim\noutlines of the castle, and Sir William St. Loe gave the command to hurry\nforward. Cecil, Sir William, Sir George, and myself rode in advance of the\ncolumn. As we approached the castle by the road leading directly to the\ngate from the north, I saw for a moment upon the top of the hill west of\nthe castle gate the forms of Dorothy and Dolcy in dim silhouette against\nthe sky. Then I saw them plunge madly down the hill toward the gate. I\nfancied I could hear the girl whispering in frenzied hoarseness,--\"On,\nDolcy, on,\" and I thought I could catch the panting of the mare. At the\nfoot of the hill, less than one hundred yards from the gate, poor Dolcy,\nunable to take another step, dropped to the ground. Dolcy had gone on to\nher death. She had filled her little niche in the universe and had died at\nher post Dorothy plunged forward over the mare's head, and a cry of alarm\ncame from my lips despite me. I was sure the girl had been killed. She,\nhowever, instantly sprang to her feet. Her hair was flying behind her and\nshe ran toward the gate crying: \"John, John, fly for your life!\" And then\nshe fell prone upon the ground and did not rise.\n\nWe had all seen the mare fall, and had seen the girl run forward toward\nthe gates and fall before reaching them. Cecil and Sir William rode to the\nspot where Dorothy lay, and dismounted.\n\nIn a moment Sir William called to Sir George:--\n\n\"The lady is your daughter, Mistress Dorothy.\"\n\n\"What in hell's name brings her here?\" cried Sir George, hurriedly riding\nforward, \"and how came she?\"\n\nI followed speedily, and the piteous sight filled my eyes with tears. I\ncannot describe it adequately to you, though I shall see it vividly to the\nend of my days. Dorothy had received a slight wound upon the temple, and\nblood was trickling down her face upon her neck and ruff. Her hair had\nfallen from its fastenings. She had lost her hat, and her gown was torn in\nshreds and covered with mud. I lifted the half-conscious girl to her feet\nand supported her; then with my kerchief I bound up the wound upon her\ntemple.\n\n\"Poor Dolcy,\" she said, almost incoherently, \"I have killed her and I have\nfailed--I have failed. Now I am ready to die. Would that I had died with\nDolcy. Let me lie down here, Malcolm,--let me lie down.\"\n\nI still held her in my arms and supported her half-fainting form.\n\n\"Why are you here?\" demanded Sir George.\n\n\"To die,\" responded Dorothy.\n\n\"To die? Damned nonsense!\" returned her father.\n\n\"How came you here, you fool?\"\n\n\"On Dolcy. She is dead,\" returned Dorothy.\n\n\"Were you not at Haddon when we left there?\" asked her father.\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied.\n\n\"Did you pass us on the road?\" he asked.\n\n\"How came you here?\" Sir George insisted.\n\n\"Oh, I flew hither. I am a witch. Don't question me, father. I am in no\ntemper to listen to you. I warn you once and for all, keep away from me;\nbeware of me. I have a dagger in my bosom. Go and do the work you came to\ndo; but remember this, father, if harm comes to him I will take my own\nlife, and my blood shall be upon your soul.\"\n\n\"My God, Malcolm, what does she mean?\" asked Sir George, touched with fear\nby the strength of his daughter's threat. \"Has she lost her wits?\"\n\n\"No,\" the girl quickly responded, \"I have only just found them.\"\n\nSir George continued to question Dorothy, but he received no further\nresponse from her. She simply held up the palm of her hand warningly\ntoward him, and the gesture was as eloquent as an oration. She leaned\nagainst me, and covered her face with her hands, while her form shook and\ntrembled as if with a palsy.\n\nCecil and Sir William St. Loe then went toward the gate, and Sir George\nsaid to me:--\n\n\"I must go with them. You remain with Doll, and see that she is taken\nhome. Procure a horse for her. If she is unable to ride, make a litter, or\nperhaps there is a coach in the castle; if so, take possession of it. Take\nher home by some means when we return. What, think you, could have brought\nher here?\"\n\nI evaded the question by replying, \"I will probably be able to get a coach\nin the castle, Sir George. Leave Dorothy with me.\"\n\nSoon, by the command of Sir William, the yeomen rode to the right and to\nthe left for the purpose of surrounding the castle, and then I heard Cecil\nat the gates demanding:--\n\n\"Open in the name of the queen.\"\n\n\"Let us go to the gates,\" said Dorothy, \"that we may hear what they say\nand see what they do. Will they kill him here, think you?\" she asked,\nlooking wildly into my face.\n\nThe flambeaux on the castle gate and those which the link-boys had brought\nwith them from Haddon were lighted, and the scene in front of the gate was\nall aglow.\n\n\"No, no, my sweet one,\" I answered, \"perhaps they will not kill him at\nall. Certainly they will not kill him now. They must try him first.\"\n\nI tried to dissuade her from going to the gates, but she insisted, and I\nhelped her to walk forward.\n\nWhen Dorothy and I reached the gates, we found that Cecil and Lord Rutland\nwere holding a consultation through the parley-window. The portcullis was\nstill down, and the gates were closed; but soon the portcullis was\nraised, a postern was opened from within, and Sir William entered the\ncastle with two score of the yeomen guards.\n\nSir George approached and again plied Dorothy with questions, but she\nwould not speak. One would have thought from her attitude that she was\ndeaf and dumb. She seemed unconscious of her father's presence.\n\n\"She has lost her mind,\" said Sir George, in tones of deep trouble, \"and I\nknow not what to do.\"\n\n\"Leave her with me for a time, cousin. I am sure she will be better if we\ndo not question her now.\"\n\nThen Dorothy seemed to awaken. \"Malcolm is right, father. Leave me for a\ntime, I pray you.\"\n\nSir George left us, and waited with a party of yeomen a short distance\nfrom the gate for the return of Sir William with his prisoners.\n\nDorothy and I sat upon a stone bench, near the postern through which Sir\nWilliam and the guardsmen had entered, but neither of us spoke.\n\nAfter a long, weary time of waiting Sir William came out of the castle\nthrough the postern, and with him came Mary Stuart. My heart jumped when I\nsaw her in the glare of the flambeaux, and the spirit of my dead love for\nher came begging admission to my heart. I cannot describe my sensations\nwhen I beheld her, but this I knew, that my love for her was dead past\nresurrection.\n\nFollowing Mary came Lord Rutland, and immediately following his Lordship\nwalked John. When he stepped through the postern, Dorothy sprang to her\nfeet and ran to him with a cry, \"John, John!\"\n\nHe looked at her in surprise, and stepped toward her with evident intent\nto embrace her. His act was probably the result of an involuntary impulse,\nfor he stopped before he reached the girl.\n\nSir George had gone at Sir William's request to arrange the guards for\nthe return march.\n\nDorothy and John were standing within two yards of each other.\n\n\"Do not touch me,\" cried Dorothy, \"save to strike me If you will. The evil\nwhich has come upon you is of my doing. I betrayed you to the queen.\"\n\nI saw Mary turn quickly toward the girl when she uttered those words.\n\n\"I was insane when I did it,\" continued Dorothy. \"They will take your\nlife, John. But when you die I also shall die. It is a poor reparation, I\nknow, but it is the only one I can make.\"\n\n\"I do not understand you, Dorothy,\" said John. \"Why should you betray me?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell you,\" she answered. \"All I know is that I did betray you\nand I hardly know how I did it. It all seems like a dream--like a fearful\nmonster of the night. There is no need for me to explain. I betrayed you\nand now I suffer for it, more a thousand-fold than you can possibly\nsuffer. I offer no excuse. I have none. I simply betrayed you, and ask\nonly that I may die with you.\"\n\nThen was manifest in John's heart the noblest quality which God has given\nto man--charity, strengthened by reason. His face glowed with a light that\nseemed saintlike, and a grand look of ineffable love and pity came to his\neyes. He seemed as if by inspiration to understand all that Dorothy had\nfelt and done, and he knew that if she had betrayed him she had done it at\na time when she was not responsible for her acts. He stepped quickly to\nthe girl's side, and caring naught that we all should see him, caught her\nto his breast. He held her in his arms, and the light of the flambeaux\nfell upon her upturned face.\n\n\"Dorothy,\" he said, \"it matters not what you have done; you are my only\nlove. I ask no explanation. If you have betrayed me to death, though I\nhope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did not\nlove me.\"\n\n\"No, no, John, you know that,\" sobbed the girl.\n\n\"I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know. You would not\nintentionally bring evil upon me while you love me.\"\n\n\"Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately. My love\nwas the cause--my love was my curse--it was your curse.\"\n\n\"Do not weep, Dorothy,\" said John, interrupting her. \"I would that I could\ntake all your suffering upon myself. Do not weep.\"\n\nDorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief. She\nwas not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and by\nmy side stood rough old Sir William. Tears were coursing down the bronzed\ncheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon the\nharrowed face of a mountain rock. When I saw Sir William's tears, I could\nno longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made a\nspectacle of myself in full view of the queen's yeoman guard.\n\nSir George approached our little group, and when he saw Dorothy in John's\narms, he broke forth into oaths and stepped toward her intending to force\nher away. But John held up the palm of his free hand warningly toward Sir\nGeorge, and drawing the girl's drooping form close to his breast he spoke\ncalmly:--\n\n\"Old man, if you but lay a finger on this girl, I will kill you where you\nstand. No power on earth can save you.\"\n\nThere was a tone in John's voice that forced even Sir George to pause.\nThen Sir George turned to me.\n\n\"This is the man who was in my house. He is the man who called himself\nThomas. Do you know him?\"\n\nDorothy saved me from the humiliation of an answer.\n\nShe took one step from John's side and held him by the hand while she\nspoke.\n\n\"Father,\" she said, \"this man is Sir John Manners. Now you may understand\nwhy he could not seek my hand openly, and you also know why I could not\ntell you his name.\" She again turned to John, and he put his arm about\nher. You can imagine much better that I can describe Sir George's fury. He\nsnatched a halberd from the hands of a yeoman who was standing near by and\nstarted toward John and Dorothy. Thereupon the hard old warrior, Sir\nWilliam St. Loe, whose heart one would surely say was the last place where\nsentiment could dwell, performed a little act of virtue which will balance\nmany a page on the debtor side of his ledger of life. He lifted his sword\nand scabbard and struck Sir George's outstretched hand, causing the\nhalberd to fall to the ground.\n\n\"Don't touch the girl,\" cried Sir William, hoarsely.\n\n\"She is my daughter,\" retorted Sir George, who was stunned mentally as\nwell as physically by Sir William's blow.\n\n\"I care not whose daughter she is,\" returned Sir William. \"You shall not\ntouch her. If you make but one other attempt, I will use my blade upon\nyou.\"\n\nSir William and John had been warm friends at London court, and the old\ncaptain of the guards quickly guessed the true situation when he saw\nDorothy run to John's arms.\n\n\"Sir, you shall answer for this,\" said Sir George, angrily, to Sir\nWilliam.\n\n\"With pleasure,\" returned Sir William. \"I will give you satisfaction\nwhenever you wish it, save this present time. I am too busy now.\"\n\nBlessed old Sir William! You have been dead these many winters; and were I\na priest, I would say a mass for your soul gratis every day in the year.\n\n\"Did the girl betray us?\" asked Queen Mary.\n\nNo one answered her question. Then she turned toward Sir John and touched\nhim upon the shoulder. He turned his face toward her, signifying that he\nwas listening.\n\n\"Who is this girl?\" Mary demanded.\n\n\"My sweetheart, my affianced wife,\" John answered.\n\n\"She says she betrayed us,\" the queen responded.\n\n\"Yes,\" said John.\n\n\"Did you trust her with knowledge of our presence in Rutland?\" Mary\ndemanded angrily.\n\n\"I did,\" he answered.\n\n\"You were a fool,\" said Mary.\n\n\"I know it,\" responded John.\n\n\"You certainly bear her no resentment for her treason,\" said Mary.\n\n\"I certainly do not,\" quietly answered John. \"Her suffering is greater\nthan mine. Can you not see that it is?\"\n\n\"It is your privilege,\" said Mary, scornfully, \"to intrust your own\nsecrets to whomsoever you may choose for your confidant, and it is quite\nsaintlike in you to forgive this person for betraying you; but what think\nyou of the hard case in which her treason and your folly have placed me?\"\n\n\"That is my greatest grief, save for Dorothy,\" answered John, softly.\nLived there ever a man possessed of broader charity or deeper love than\nJohn? God surely made him of gold dust, not of common clay.\n\nQueen Mary stepped away from John in disgust, and when she turned she saw\nme for the first time. She started and was about to speak, but I placed my\nfingers warningly upon my lips and she remained silent.\n\n\"Where do you take us, Sir William?\" asked John.\n\n\"To Haddon Hall. There you will await the commands of the queen.\"\n\n\"How came you here?\" John asked gently of Dorothy.\n\n\"I rode Dolcy,\" she whispered. \"She dropped dead at the foot of the hill.\nYonder she lies. I came up the Lathkil by the long road, and I hoped that\nI might reach you in time to give warning. When the guard left Haddon I\nrealized the evil that would come upon you by reason of my base betrayal.\"\nHere she broke down and for a moment could not proceed in the narrative.\nShe soon recovered and continued: \"Then I mounted Dolcy, and tried to\nreach here by way of the long road. Poor Dolcy seemed to understand my\ntrouble and my despair, and she brought me with all the speed that a horse\ncould make; but the road was too long and too rough; and she failed, and I\nfailed. Would that I could have died in her place. She gave her life in\ntrying to remedy my fault.\"\n\nDorothy again began to weep, and John tenderly whispered:--\n\n\"All will yet come right\" Then he kissed her before us all, and handed her\nto me saying, \"Care for her, I pray you, sir.\"\n\nJohn spoke a few words to Sir William, and in a moment they both went back\nto the castle.\n\nIn a short time the gates were opened, and the Rutland coach drawn by four\nhorses emerged from the castle grounds. Sir William then directed Mary and\nDorothy to enter the coach and requested me to ride with them to Haddon\nHall.\n\nThe yeoman guards were in marching order, and I took my seat in the coach.\nThe fates surely were in a humorous mood when they threw Dorothy, Queen\nMary, and myself together. Pause for a moment and consider the situation.\nYou know all the facts and you can analyze it as well as I. I could not\nhelp laughing at the fantastic trick of destiny.\n\nSoon after I entered the coach Sir William gave the word, and the yeomen\nwith Lord Rutland and John moved forward on the road to Haddon.\n\nThe coach at once followed the guard and a score of yeomen followed us.\n\nQueen Mary occupied the back seat of the coach, and Dorothy and I sat upon\nthe front seat facing her.\n\nDorothy was exhausted, and her head lay upon my shoulder. Now and again\nshe would softly moan and sob, but she said nothing.\n\nAfter a few minutes of silence Queen Mary spoke:--\n\n\"Why did you betray me, you miserable wretch? Why did you betray me?\"\n\nDorothy did not answer. Mary continued:--\n\n\"Have I ever injured you in any manner? Have I ever harmed you by thought,\nword, or deed?\"\n\nDorothy's only answer was a sob.\n\n\"Perhaps you are a canting fanatic, and it may be that you hate me for the\nsake of that which you call the love of God?\"\n\n\"No, no, madam,\" I said, \"that was not the reason.\"\n\n\"Do you know the reason, Malcolm?\" asked Mary, addressing me for the first\ntime. My name upon her lips had a strange effect on me. It was like the\nwafting to my nostrils of a sweet forgotten odor, or the falling upon my\nears of a tender refrain of bygone days. Her voice in uttering my name\nthrilled me, and I hated myself for my weakness.\n\nI told Mary that I did not know Dorothy's reasons, and she continued:--\n\n\"Malcolm, you were not a party to my betrayal for the sake of revenging\nyourself on me?\"\n\n\"God forbid!\" I answered. \"Sir John Manners will assure you of my\ninnocence. I rode with Mistress Vernon to a cross-road within a league of\nRutland, hoping thereby to assist her to give you and Sir John the alarm.\"\n\nMy admission soon brought me into trouble.\n\n\"I alone am to blame,\" said Dorothy, faintly.\n\n\"I can easily believe you,\" said Mary, sharply. \"Did you expect to injure\nme?\"\n\nNo answer came from Dorothy.\n\n\"If you expect to injure me,\" Mary continued, \"you will be disappointed. I\nam a queen, and my Cousin Elizabeth would not dare to harm me, even though\nshe might wish to do so. We are of the same blood, and she will not wish\nto do me injury. Your doting lover will probably lose his head for\nbringing me to England without his queen's consent. He is her subject. I\nam not. I wish you joy of the trouble you have brought upon him and upon\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Upon him!\" cried Dorothy.\n\n\"Yes, upon him,\" continued Mary, relishing the torture she was inflicting.\n\"You will enjoy seeing him beheaded, will you not, you fool, you huzzy,\nyou wretch? I hope his death will haunt you till the end of your days.\"\n\nPoor Dorothy, leaning against me, said faintly:--\n\n\"It will--it will. You--you devil.\"\n\nThe girl was almost dead from exhaustion and anguish, but she would have\nbeen dead indeed had she lacked the power to strike back. I believe had it\nnot been for Dorothy's physical weakness she would have silenced Mary with\nher hands.\n\nAfter a little time Dorothy's heavy breathing indicated that she had\nfallen asleep. Her head rested upon my shoulder, and the delicious perfume\nof her hair and the sweet warm breath from her lips were almost\nintoxicating even to me, though I was not in love with her. How great must\ntheir effect have been coming upon John hot from her intense young soul!\n\nAs the link-boys passed the coach some and some with their flambeaux I\ncould see Dorothy's sweet pale face, almost hidden in the tangled golden\nred hair which fell in floods about her. The perfect oval of her cheek,\nthe long wet lashes, the arched eyebrows, the low broad forehead, the\nstraight nose, the saucy chin--all presented a picture of beauty and\npathos sufficient to soften a heart of stone. Mary had no heart of any\nsort, therefore she was not moved to pity. That emotion, I am sure, she\nnever felt from the first to the last day of her life. She continued to\nprobe Dorothy's wound until I told her the girl was asleep. I changed\nDorothy's position and placed her head against the corner cushion of the\ncoach that she might rest more comfortably. She did not awaken when I\nmoved her. She slept and looked like a child. For a little time after I\nhad changed Dorothy's position Mary and I sat in silence. She was the\nfirst to speak. She leaned forward and placing her hands upon mine,\nwhispered my name:--\n\n\"Malcolm!\"\n\nAfter a brief silence I said:--\n\n\"What would you, your Majesty?\"\n\n\"Not 'your Majesty'\" said Mary, softly, \"but Mary, as of old.\"\n\nShe remained for a moment with her hand upon my knee, and then\nwhispered:--\n\n\"Will you not sit by me, Malcolm?\"\n\nI believe that Mary Stuart's voice was the charm wherewith she fascinated\nmen. I resisted to my utmost strength, but that seemed to be little more\nthan utter weakness; so I took a seat by her side, and she gently placed\nher hand in mine. The warm touch of her strong, delicate fingers gave me a\nfamiliar thrill. She asked me to tell her of my wanderings since I had\nleft Scotland, and I briefly related all my adventures. I told her of my\nhome at Haddon Hall and of the welcome given me by my cousin, Sir George.\n\n\"Malcolm, have you forgotten?\" she whispered, leaning gently against me.\n\"Have you forgotten our old-time vows and love? Have you forgotten all\nthat passed between us in the dear old chateau, when I gave to you my\nvirgin love, fresh from my virgin heart?\" I sighed and tried to harden my\nheart to her blandishments, for I knew she wished to use me and was\ntempting me to that end. She continued, \"I was then only fourteen years\nold--ten years ago. You said that you loved me and I believed you. You\ncould not doubt, after the proof I gave to you, that my heart was all\nyours. We were happy, oh, so happy. Do you remember, Malcolm?\"\n\nShe brought her face close to mine while she spoke, and pressed my hand\nupon her breast.\n\nMy reason told me that it was but the song of the siren she was singing to\nmy ears. My memory told me that she had been false to me twice two score\ntimes, and I knew full well she would again be false to me, or to any\nother man whom she could use for her purposes, and that she cared not the\nprice at which she purchased him. Bear in mind, you who would blame me for\nmy fall, that this woman not only was transcendently beautiful and fatally\nfascinating, but she was a queen and had held undisputed sway over my\nheart for more years than I could accurately number. As I said, added to\nall her beauty, she was a queen. If you have never known royalty, you\ncannot understand its enthralling power.\n\n\"I remember it all, madam,\" I replied, trying to hold myself away from\nher. \"It is fresh to me as if it all had happened yesterday.\" The queen\ndrew my arm closely to her side and nestled her cheek for an instant upon\nmy shoulder.\n\n\"I remember also,\" I continued, \"your marriage with Darnley when I had\nyour promise that you would marry me; and, shame upon shame, I remember\nyour marriage with Darnley's murderer, Bothwell.\"\n\n\"Cruel, cruel, Malcolm,\" she said. \"You well know the overpowering\nreasons of state which impelled me to sacrifice my own happiness by\nmarrying Darnley. I told you at the time that I hated the marriage more\nthan I dreaded death. But I longed to quiet the factions in Scotland, and\nI hoped to save my poor bleeding people from the evils of war. You know I\nhated Darnley. You know I loved you. You knew then and you know now that\nyou are the only man who has ever possessed my heart. You know that my\nwords are true. You know that you, alone, have had my love since the time\nwhen I was a child.\"\n\n\"And Rizzio?\" I asked.\n\n\"Ah, Malcolm,\" she answered tearfully, \"I hope you, of all men, do not\nbelieve that I ever gave a thought of love to Rizzio. He was to me like my\npet monkey or my favorite falcon. He was a beautiful, gentle, harmless\nsoul. I loved him for his music. He worshipped me as did my spaniel.\"\n\nStill I was determined that her blandishments should not move me.\n\n\"And Bothwell?\" I asked.\n\n\"That is past endurance from you, Malcolm,\" she said, beginning to weep.\n\"You know I was brutally abducted and was forced into marriage with him.\nHe was an outlaw, an outcast. He was an uncouth brute whom any woman would\nloathe. I was in his power, and I feigned acquiescence only that I might\nescape and achieve vengeance upon him. Tell me, Malcolm, tell me,\"\ncontinued Mary, placing her arms about my neck and clinging to me, \"tell\nme, you, to whom I gave my maiden's love, you who have my woman's heart,\ntell me, do you believe that I could willingly have married Bothwell, even\nthough my heart had not been filled with the image of you, who are strong,\ngentle, and beautiful?\"\n\nYou, if you are a man, may think that in my place you would have resisted\nthe attack of this beautiful queen, but if so you think--pardon me, my\nfriend--you are a fool. Under the spell of her magic influence I wavered\nin the conviction which had long since come upon me, that I had for years\nbeen her fool and her dupe. I forgot the former lessons I had learned from\nher perfidy. I forgot my manhood. I forgot all of good that had of late\ngrown up in me. God help me, I forgot even Madge.\n\n\"If I could only believe you, Mary,\" I answered, growing insane under the\ninfluence of her fascinations, \"If I could only believe you.\"\n\n\"Give me your lips, Malcolm,\" she whispered, \"give me your lips.--Again,\nmy Malcolm.--Ah, now you believe me.\"\n\nThe lying logic of a wanton kiss is irresistible. I was drunk and, alas! I\nwas convinced. When I think of that time, Samson is my only\ncomfort--Samson and a few hundred million other fools, who like Samson and\nme have been wheedled, kissed, and duped into misery and ruin.\n\nI said: \"I do believe you, Mary. I beg you to forgive me for having\ndoubted you. You have been traduced and brutally misused.\"\n\n\"It is sweet to hear you speak those words. But it is better to think that\nat last we have come together with nothing to part us save that I am a\nprisoner in the hands of my vindictive, jealous cousin. I thank God that\nmy kingdom of Scotland has been taken from me. I ever hated the Scots.\nThey are an ignorant, unkempt, wry-necked, stubborn, filthy race. But,\nabove all, my crown stood between you and me. I may now be a woman, and\nwere it not for Elizabeth, you and I could yet find solace in each other\nfor all our past sufferings. Malcolm, I have a sweet thought. If I could\nescape to fair, beautiful France, all would be happiness for us. You could\nclaim your mother's estates in the balmy south, and we might live upon\nthem. Help me, my Malcolm, to escape, and your reward shall be greater and\nsweeter than man ever before received from woman.\"\n\nI struggled against her blandishments for a moment, but I was lost.\n\n\"You shall escape and I will go with you,\" said I. Man needs to make but\none little prayer to God, \"Lead me not into temptation.\" That prayer\nanswered, all else of good will follow.\n\nThe morning sun had just begun to rise over Bowling Green Hill and the\nshadows of the night were fleeing before his lances, when our cavalcade\nentered the grounds of Haddon at the dove-cote. If there were two suns\nrevolving about the earth, one to shine upon us by night and one by day,\nmuch evil would be averted. Men do evil in the dark because others cannot\nsee them; they think evil in the dark because they cannot see themselves.\n\nWith the first faint gray of dawn there came to me thoughts of Madge. I\nhad forgotten her, but her familiar spirit, the light, brought me back to\nits fair mistress.\n\nWhen our coach reached the stone bridge I looked up to the Hall and saw\nMadge standing at the open casement of the tower window. She had been\nwatching there all night, I learned, hoping for our speedy and safe\nreturn, and had been warned of our approach by the noise of the tramping\nguard. I drew back from the coach window, feeling that I was an evil shade\nslinking away before the spirit of light.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nLIGHT\n\n\nDorothy had awakened while we were entering Rowsley, and I was glad that\nMary could not touch me again.\n\nWhen our coach reached the stone steps of the entrance tower we found Sir\nGeorge, Lady Crawford, and Madge waiting to receive us. The steps and the\npath leading to them had been carpeted with soft rugs, and Mary, although\na prisoner, was received with ceremonies befitting her rank. It was a\nproud day for Sir George when the roof of his beautiful Hall sheltered the\ntwo most famous queens of christendom.\n\nSir George assisted Mary from the coach most graciously, and in knightly\nfashion led her to Lady Crawford and Madge, who were standing at the foot\nof the tower steps. Due presentations were made, and the ladies of Haddon\nhaving kissed the queen's hand, Mary went into the Hall upon the arm of\nhis Majesty, the King of the Peak, who stepped forward most proudly.\n\nHis resentment against Dorothy was for the moment neutralized by the great\nhonor of which his house and himself were the recipients.\n\nJohn and Lord Rutland were taken to the dungeon.\n\nI assisted Dorothy from the coach and led her to Madge, who was waiting\nfor us upon the lowest of the steps leading to the entrance tower doorway.\nDorothy took Madge's outstretched hand; but Madge, by some strange\ninstinct, knowing of my presence, turned her face toward me. I could not\nlift my eyes to her face, nor could I endure to remain in her presence.\nWhile we were ascending the steps she held out her hand to me and said:--\n\n\"Is all well with you, Malcolm?\" Her voice was full of tender concern, and\nit pained me to the heart to hear her speak kindly to me, who was so\nunworthy of her smallest thought.\n\n\"Yes, Lady--yes, Madge,\" I responded; but she knew from the tones of my\nvoice that all was not right with me.\n\n\"I fear, Malcolm, that you do not tell me the truth. You will come to me\nsoon?\" she asked.\n\n\"I may not be able to go to you soon,\" I answered, \"but I will do so at\nthe first opportunity.\"\n\nThe torture of her kindness was almost unbearable to me. One touch of her\nhand, one tone of her rare voice, had made me loathe myself. The powers of\nevil cannot stand for one moment in a fair conflict with the powers of\ngood. I felt that I, alone, was to blame for my treason to Madge; but\ndespite my effort at self-condemnation there was an under-consciousness\nthat Mary Stuart was to blame, and I hated her accordingly. Although\nMadge's presence hurt me, it was not because I wished to conceal my\nconduct from her. I knew that I could be happy again only after I had\nconfessed to her and had received forgiveness.\n\nMadge, who was blind of sight, led Dorothy, who was piteously blind of\nsoul, and the two girls went to their apartments.\n\nCuriosity is not foreign even to the royal female breast, and while Mary\nStuart was entering Haddon Hall, I saw the luminous head of the Virgin\nQueen peeked out at a casement on the second floor watching her rival with\nall the curiosity of a Dutch woman sitting by her window mirror.\n\nI went to my room in Eagle Tower, fell upon my bed, and abandoned myself\nto an anguish of soul which was almost luxurious. I shall not tease you\nwith the details of my mental and moral processes. I hung in the balance a\nlong time undetermined what course I should pursue. The difference between\nthe influence of Mary and the effect wrought by Madge was the difference\nbetween the intoxication and the exhilaration of wine. Following the\nintoxication of Mary's presence ever came a torturing reaction, while the\nexhilarating influence of Madge gave health and strength. I chose the\nlatter. I have always been glad I reached that determination without the\naid of any impulse outside of myself; for events soon happened which again\ndrove all faith in Mary from my heart forever. Those events would have\nforced me to abandon my trust in her; but mind you, I took my good resolve\nfrom inclination rather than necessity before I learned of Mary's perfidy.\n\nThe events of the night had exhausted Dorothy, and she was confined to her\nbed by illness for the first time in her life. She believed that she was\ndying, and she did not want to live. I did not go to her apartments. Madge\nremained with her, and I, coward-like, feared to face the girl to whom I\nhad been untrue.\n\nDorothy's one and only desire, of course, was to see John, but that desire\nfor a time seemed impossible of accomplishment.\n\nElizabeth, Cecil, Leicester, and Sir William St. Loe were in secret\nconsultation many times during three or four days and nights. Occasionally\nSir George was called into their councils, and that flattering attention\nso wrought upon the old man's pride that he was a slave to the queen's\nslightest wish, and was more tyrannical and dictatorial than ever before\nto all the rest of mankind. There were, however, two persons besides the\nqueen before whom Sir George was gracious: one of these was Mary Stuart,\nwhose powers of fascination had been brought to bear upon the King of the\nPeak most effectively. The other was Leicester, to whom, as my cousin\nexpressed it, he hoped to dispose of that troublesome and disturbing\nbody--Dorothy. These influences, together with the fact that his enemies\nof Rutland were in the Haddon dungeon, had given Sir George a spleen-vent,\nand Dorothy, even in the face of her father's discovery that Manners was\nher mysterious lover, had for once a respite from Sir George's just and\nmighty wrath.\n\nThe purpose of Elizabeth's many councils of war was to devise some means\nof obtaining from John and his father, information concerning the plot,\nwhich had resulted in bringing Mary Stuart into England. The ultimate\npurpose of Mary's visit, Elizabeth's counsellors firmly believed to be the\ndethronement of the English queen and the enthronement of her Scottish\ncousin. Elizabeth, in her heart, felt confident that John and his father\nwere not parties to the treasonable plot, although she had been warned\nagainst each of them. Cecil and Sir William St. Loe also secretly held to\nthat opinion, though neither of them expressed it, Elizabeth was conscious\nof having given to John while at London court an intimation that she would\nbe willing that Mary should visit England. Of such intimation Cecil and\nSir William had no knowledge, though they, together with many persons of\nthe Court, believed that Elizabeth was not entirely averse to Mary's\npresence.\n\nLord Rutland and John were questioned by Cecil in the hope of obtaining\nsome hints which might lead to the detection of those concerned in the\nchief plot, provided such plot existed. But Lord Rutland knew nothing of\nthe affair except that John had brought the Scottish queen from Scotland,\nand John persisted in the statement that he had no confederate and that he\nknew nothing of any plot to place Mary upon the English throne.\n\nJohn said: \"I received from Queen Mary's friends in Scotland letters\nasking me to meet her on the border, and requesting me to conduct her to\nmy father's castle. Those letters mentioned no Englishman but myself, and\nthey stated that Queen Mary's flight to England was to be undertaken with\nthe tacit consent of our gracious queen. That fact, the letters told me,\nour queen wished should not be known. There were reasons of state, the\nletters said, which made it impolitic for our queen openly to invite Queen\nMary to seek sanctuary in England. I received those letters before I left\nWestminster. Upon the day when I received them, I heard our gracious queen\nsay that she would gladly invite Queen Mary to England, were it not for\nthe fact that such an invitation would cause trouble between her and the\nregent, Murray. Her Majesty at the same time intimated that she would be\nglad if Mary Stuart should come to England uninvited.\" John turned to\nElizabeth, \"I beg your Majesty, in justice, to ratify my words.\" Elizabeth\nhesitated for a moment after John's appeal; but her love of justice came\nto her rescue and she hung her head as she said, \"You are right, Sir\nJohn.\" Then she looked her counsellors in the face and said, \"I well\nremember that I so expressed myself.\"\n\n\"In truth,\" said John, \"I having only an hour before received the letter\nfrom Scotland, believed that your Majesty's words were meant for my ear. I\nfelt that your Majesty knew of the letters, and I thought that I should be\ncarrying out your royal wishes should I bring Queen Mary into England\nwithout your knowledge.\"\n\nThe queen responded: \"I then felt that I wished Queen Mary to seek refuge\nin my kingdom, but so many untoward events have transpired since I spoke\non the subject at Westminster that I have good cause to change my mind,\nthough I easily understand how you might have been misled by my words.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" replied John, \"that your Majesty has had good cause to change\nyour mind; but I protest in all sincerity that I considered the Scottish\nletters to be a command from my queen.\"\n\nElizabeth was a strange combination of paradoxes. No one could be truer\nthan she to a fixed determination once taken. No one could be swayed by\ndoubt so easily as she to change her mind sixty times in the space of a\nminute. During one moment she was minded to liberate John and Lord\nRutland; in the next she determined to hold them in prison, hoping to\nlearn from them some substantial fact concerning the plot which, since\nMary's arrival in England, had become a nightmare to her. But, with all\nher vagaries the Virgin Queen surely loved justice. That quality, alone,\nmakes a sovereign great. Elizabeth, like her mother, Anne Boleyn, had\ngreat faith in her personal beauty; like her father, she had unbounded\nconfidence in her powers of mind. She took great pride in the ease with\nwhich she controlled persons. She believed that no one was so adroit as\nElizabeth Tudor in extracting secrets from others, and in unravelling\nmysterious situations, nor so cunning in hunting out plots and in running\ndown plotters. In all such matters she delighted to act secretly and\nalone.\n\nDuring the numerous councils held at Haddon, Elizabeth allowed Cecil to\nquestion John to his heart's content; but while she listened she\nformulated a plan of her own which she was sure would be effective in\nextracting all the truth from John, if all the truth had not already been\nextracted. Elizabeth kept her cherished plan to herself. It was this:--\n\nShe would visit Dorothy, whom she knew to be ill, and would by her subtle\nart steal from John's sweetheart all that the girl knew of the case. If\nJohn had told Dorothy part of the affair concerning Mary Stuart, he had\nprobably told her all, and Elizabeth felt confident that she could easily\npump the girl dry. She did not know Dorothy. Accordingly our queen,\nElizabeth, the adroit, went to Dorothy's room under the pretence of paying\nthe girl a gracious visit. Dorothy wished to arise and receive her royal\nguest, but Elizabeth said gently:--\n\n\"Do not arise, Dorothy; rest quietly, and I will sit here beside you on\nthe bed. I have come to tell you that you must recover your health at\nonce. We miss you greatly in the Hall.\"\n\nNo one could be more gracious than Elizabeth when the humor was upon her;\nthough, in truth, the humor was often lacking.\n\n\"Let us send all save you and me from the room,\" said the queen, \"that we\nmay have a quiet little chat together.\"\n\nAll who were in the room save Dorothy and Elizabeth of course departed at\nonce.\n\nWhen the door was closed, the queen said: \"I wish to thank you for telling\nme of the presence of her Scottish Majesty at Rutland. You know there is a\nplot on foot to steal my throne from me.\"\n\n\"God forbid that there should be such a plot,\" replied Dorothy, resting\nupon her elbow in the bed.\n\n\"I fear it is only too true that there is such a plot,\" returned\nElizabeth, \"and I owe you a great debt of gratitude for warning me of the\nScottish queen's presence in my kingdom.\"\n\n\"I hope the danger will be averted from your Majesty,\" said Dorothy; \"but\nthat which I did will cause my death--it will kill me. No human being ever\nbefore has lived through the agony I have suffered since that terrible\nnight. I was a traitress. I betrayed the man who is dearer to me than my\nimmortal soul. He says that he forgives me, but your Majesty knows that my\nfault is beyond forgiveness.\"\n\n\"Sir John is a noble gentleman, child,\" said the queen. \"I hope that he is\nloyal to me, but I fear--I fear.\"\n\n\"Do not doubt, do not fear, my queen,\" returned Dorothy, eagerly; \"there\nis nothing false in him.\"\n\n\"Do you love him deeply, little one?\" asked the queen.\n\n\"No words can tell you my love for him,\" answered the girl. \"I feel shame\nto say that he has taken even the holy God's place in my heart. Perhaps it\nis for that sin that God now punishes me.\"\n\n\"Fear not on that score, Dorothy,\" replied the queen. \"God will not punish\nyou for feeling the love which He Himself has put into your heart. I would\nwillingly give my crown could I feel such love for a worthy man who would\nin return love me for myself. But I cannot feel, nor can I have faith.\nSelf-interest, which is so dominant in all men, frightens me, and I doubt\ntheir vows.\"\n\n\"Surely, any man would love you for your own sake,\" said Dorothy,\ntenderly.\n\n\"It may be that you speak truly, child; but I cannot know when men's vows\nare true nor when they are false. The real trouble is within myself. If I\ncould but feel truly, I could interpret truthfully.\"\n\n\"Ah, your Majesty,\" interrupted Dorothy, \"you do not know the thing for\nwhich you are wishing; it is a torture worse than death; it is an ecstasy\nsweeter than heaven. It is killing me. I pity you, though you are a queen,\nif you have never felt it.\"\n\n\"Would you do anything I might ask of you, if you could thereby save Sir\nJohn's life?\" asked the queen.\n\n\"Ah, I would gladly give my soul to save him,\" responded Dorothy, with\ntears in her eyes and eagerness in her voice. \"Oh, my queen, do not lead\nme to hope, and then plunge me again into despair. Give me no\nencouragement unless you mean to free him. As for my part, take my life\nand spare John's. Kill me by torture, burn me at the stake, stretch me\nupon the rack till my joints are severed and my flesh is torn asunder. Let\nme die by inches, my queen; but spare him, oh, spare him, and do with me\nas you will. Ask from me what you wish. Gladly will I do all that you may\ndemand; gladly will I welcome death and call it sweet, if I can thereby\nsave him. The faint hope your Majesty's words hold out makes me strong\nagain. Come, come, take my life; take all that I can give. Give me him.\"\n\n\"Do you believe that I am an ogress thirsting for blood, Dorothy, that you\noffer me your life for his? You can purchase Sir John's life at a much\nsmaller cost.\" Dorothy rose to the queen with a cry, and put her arms\nabout her neck. \"You may purchase his freedom,\" continued the queen, \"and\nyou may serve your loving queen at one and the same time, if you wish to\ndo so.\"\n\nDorothy had sunk back into the bed, and Elizabeth was sitting close by her\nside; but when the queen spoke she turned her head on the pillow and\nkissed the royal hand which was resting upon the coverlid.\n\n\"Ah, you are so good, so true, and so beautiful,\" said Dorothy.\n\nHer familiarity toward the queen was sweet to the woman, to whom it was\nnew.\n\nDorothy did not thank the queen for her graciousness. She did not reply\ndirectly to her offer. She simply said:--\n\n\"John has told me many times that he was first attracted to me because I\nresembled you.\"\n\nThe girl had ample faith in her own beauty, and knew full well the subtle\nflattery which lay in her words. \"He said,\" she continued, \"that my hair\nin some faint degree resembled yours, but he said it was not of so\nbeautiful a hue. I have loved my hair ever since the day he told me that\nit resembled your Majesty's.\" The girl leaned forward toward the queen and\ngently kissed the royal locks. They no more resembled Dorothy's hair than\nbrick dust resembles the sheen of gold.\n\nThe queen glanced at the reflection of her hair in the mirror and it\nflatly contradicted Dorothy. But the girl's words were backed by\nElizabeth's vanity, and the adroit flattery went home.\n\n\"Ah, my child,\" exclaimed her Majesty softly, as she leaned forward and\nkissed Dorothy's fair cheek.\n\nDorothy wept gently for a moment and familiarly rested her face upon the\nqueen's breast. Then she entwined her white arms about Elizabeth's neck\nand turned her glorious eyes up to the queen's face that her Majesty might\nbehold their wondrous beauty and feel the flattery of the words she was\nabout to utter.\n\n\"He said also,\" continued Dorothy, \"that my eyes in some slight degree\nresembled your Majesty's, but he qualified his compliment by telling\nme--he did not exactly tell me that my eyes were not so large and\nbrilliant as your Majesty's, for he was making love to me, and of course\nhe would not have dared to say that my eyes were not the most perfect on\nearth; but he did say that--at least I know that he meant--that my eyes,\nwhile they resembled yours, were hardly so glorious, and--and I am very\njealous of your Majesty. John will be leaving me to worship at your feet.\"\n\nElizabeth's eyes were good enough. The French called them \"marcassin,\"\nthat is, wild boar's eyes. They were little and sparkling; they were not\nluminous and large like Dorothy's, and the girl's flattery was rank.\nElizabeth, however, saw Dorothy's eyes and believed her words rather than\nthe reply of the lying mirror, and her Majesty's heart was soft from the\ngirl's kneading. Consider, I pray you, the serpent-like wisdom displayed\nby Dorothy's method of attack upon the queen. She did not ask for John's\nliberty. She did not seek it. She sought only to place John softly on\nElizabeth's heart. Some natures absorb flattery as the desert sands absorb\nthe unfrequent rain, and Elizabeth--but I will speak no ill of her. She is\nthe greatest and the best sovereign England has ever had. May God send to\nmy beloved country others like her. She had many small shortcomings; but I\nhave noticed that those persons who spend their evil energies in little\nfaults have less force left for greater ones. I will show you a mystery:\nLittle faults are personally more disagreeable and rasping to us than\ngreat ones. Like flying grains of sand upon a windy day, they vex us\nconstantly. Great faults come like an avalanche, but they come less\nfrequently, and we often admire their possessor, who sooner or later is\napt to become our destroyer.\n\n\"I can hardly tell you,\" said Dorothy in response to a question by\nElizabeth, \"I can hardly tell you why I informed your Majesty of Queen\nMary's presence at Rutland. I did it partly for love of your Majesty and\npartly because I was jealous of that white, plain woman from Scotland.\"\n\n\"She is not a plain woman, is she?\" said Elizabeth, delighted to hear Mary\nof Scotland so spoken of for once. One way to flatter some women is to\nberate those whom they despise or fear. Elizabeth loved Dorothy better for\nthe hatred which the girl bore to Mary. Both stood upon a broad plane of\nmutual sympathy-jealousy of the same woman. It united the queen and the\nmaiden in a common heart-touching cause.\n\nDorothy's confidence grew apace. \"She is plain,\" replied Dorothy,\npoutingly. \"She appears plain, colorless, and repulsive by the side of\nyour Majesty.\"\n\n\"No, no, Dorothy, that cannot be,\" returned Queen Elizabeth, gently\npatting. Dorothy's cheek and glancing stealthily at the reflection of her\nown face in the mirror. At this point Dorothy considered that the time had\ncome for a direct attack.\n\n\"Your Majesty need have no fear of a plot to place Queen Mary upon your\nthrone. The English people would not endure her wicked pale face for a\nmoment.\"\n\n\"But there is such a plot in existence,\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"What you say may be true,\" returned Dorothy; \"but, your Majesty, John is\nnot in the plot, and he knows nothing of it.\"\n\n\"I hope--I believe--he is not in the plot,\" said Elizabeth, \"but I fear--\"\n\nThe girl kissed the sleeve of Elizabeth's gown, and then she drew the\nqueen closer to her and kissed her hair and her face.\n\n\"Ah, my beauteous queen,\" said Dorothy, \"I thank you for those words. You\nmust know that John loves you, and is your loyal subject. Take pity upon\nme. Help me. Hold out your gracious hand and lift me from my despair.\"\n\nDorothy slipped from the bed and fell on her knees, burying her face in\nthe queen's lap.\n\nElizabeth was touched by the girl's appeal, and caressingly stroked her\nhair, as she said: \"I believe he is innocent, but I fear he knows or\nsuspects others who harbor treasonable designs. Tell me, Dorothy, do you\nknow of any such persons? If you can tell me their names, you will serve\nyour queen, and will save your lover. No harm shall come to Sir John, and\nno one save myself shall have knowledge of any word that you may speak. If\nI do not learn the names of the traitors through you or through Sir John,\nI may be compelled to hold him a prisoner until I discover them. If\nthrough you I learn them, Sir John shall go free at once.\"\n\n\"Gladly, for your Majesty's sake alone would I tell you the names of such\ntraitorous men, did I know them;\" replied Dorothy, \"and thrice gladly\nwould I do so if I might thereby liberate John. Your Majesty must see that\nthese motives are strong enough to induce me to speak if I knew aught to\ntell you. I would betray the whole world to save him, of that you may be\nsure. But alas! I know no man whom I can betray. John told me nothing of\nhis expedition to the Scottish border save what was in two letters which\nhe sent to me. One of these I received before he left Rutland, and the\nother after his return.\"\n\nShe fetched the letters to the queen, who read them carefully.\n\n\"Perhaps if I were to see him, he might, upon my importunity, tell me all\nhe knows concerning the affair and those connected with it if he knows\nanything more than he has already told,\" said Dorothy, by a great effort\nsuppressing her eagerness. \"I am sure, your Majesty, he would tell me all\nShould he tell me the names of any persons connected with any treasonable\nplot, I will certainly tell you. It would be base in me again to betray\nJohn's confidence; but your Majesty has promised me his life and liberty,\nand to obtain those I would do anything, however evil it might be. If I\nmay see John, I promise to learn all that he knows, if he knows anything;\nand I also promise to tell you word for word all that he says.\"\n\nThe girl felt safe in making these promises, since she was sure that John\nknew nothing of a treasonable character.\n\nThe queen, thinking that she had adroitly led Dorothy up to making the\noffer, said, \"I accept the conditions. Be in readiness to visit Sir John,\nupon my command.\"\n\nThus the compact was sealed, and the queen, who thought herself wise, was\nused by the girl, who thought herself simple.\n\nFor the purpose of hiding her exultation, Dorothy appeared to be ill, but\nwhen the queen passed out at the door and closed it behind her, the girl\nsprang from the bed and danced around the room as if she were a\nbear-baiter. From the depths of despair she flew to the pinnacle of hope.\nShe knew, however, that she must conceal her happiness; therefore she went\nback to bed and waited impatiently the summons of Elizabeth requiring her\nto go to John.\n\nBut now I must pause to tell you of my troubles which followed so swiftly\nupon the heels of my fault that I was fairly stunned by them. My narrative\nwill be brief, and I shall soon bring you back again to Dorothy.\n\nQueen Mary had no sooner arrived at Haddon Hall than she opened an attack\nupon Leicester, somewhat after the same plan, I suppose, which she had\nfollowed with me in the coach. She could no more easily resist inviting\nhomage from men than a swallow can refrain from flying. Thus, from\ninclination and policy, she sought Leicester and endeavored by the\npleasant paths of her blandishments to lead him to her cause. There can be\nno doubt concerning Leicester's wishes in the premises. Had Mary's cause\nheld elements of success, he would have joined her; but he feared\nElizabeth, and he hoped some day to share her throne. He would, however,\nprefer to share the throne with Mary.\n\nMary told him of her plans and hopes. She told him that I had ridden with\nDorothy for the purpose of rescuing John and herself, and that I had\npromised to help her to escape to France. She told him she would use me\nfor her tool in making her escape, and would discard me when once she\nshould be safe out of England. Then would come Leicester's turn. Then\nshould my lord have his recompense, and together they would regain the\nScottish crown.\n\nHow deeply Leicester became engaged in the plot I cannot say, but this I\nknow: through fear of Elizabeth, or for the purpose of winning her favor,\nhe unfolded to our queen all the details of Mary's scheme, together with\nthe full story of my ride with Dorothy to Rutland, and my return with\nDorothy and Mary in the coach. Thereupon Mary was placed under strict\nguard. The story spread quickly through the Hall, and Dawson brought it to\nme. On hearing it, my first thought was of Madge. I knew it would soon\nreach her. Therefore I determined to go to her at once and make a clean\nbreast of all my perfidy. Had I done so sooner, I should at least have had\nthe benefit of an honest, voluntary confession; but my conscience had made\na coward of me, and the woman who had been my curse for years had so\ncompletely disturbed my mind that I should have been quite as well off\nwithout any at all. It led me from one mistake into another.\n\nAfter Dawson told me that my miserable story was known throughout the\nHall, I sought Madge, and found her with Aunt Dorothy. She was weeping,\nand I at once knew that I was too late with my confession. I spoke her\nname, \"Madge,\" and stood by her side awaiting her reply.\n\n\"Is it true, Malcolm?\" she asked. \"I cannot believe it till I hear it from\nyour lips.\"\n\n\"It was true,\" I responded. \"I promised to help Queen Mary escape, and I\npromised to go with her; but within one hour of the time when I gave my\nword I regretted it as I have never regretted anything else in all my\nlife. I resolved that, while I should, according to my promise, help the\nScottish queen escape, I would not go with her. I resolved to wait here at\nHaddon to tell all to you and to our queen, and then I would patiently\ntake my just punishment from each. My doom from the queen, I believed,\nwould probably be death; but I feared more your--God help me! It is\nuseless for me to speak.\" Here I broke down and fell upon my knees,\ncrying, \"Madge, Madge, pity me, pity me! Forgive me if you can, and, if\nour queen decrees it, I shall die happy.\"\n\nIn my desperation I caught the girl's hand, but she drew it quickly from\nme, and said:--\n\n\"Do not touch me!\"\n\nShe arose to her feet, and groped her way to her bedroom. We were in Aunt\nDorothy's room. I watched Madge as she sought with her outstretched hand\nthe doorway; and when she passed slowly through it, the sun of my life\nseemed to turn black. Just as Madge passed from the room, Sir William St.\nLoe, with two yeomen, entered by Sir George's door and placed irons upon\nmy wrist and ankles. I was led by Sir William to the dungeon, and no word\nwas spoken by either of us.\n\nI had never in my life feared death, and now I felt that I would welcome\nit. When a man is convinced that his life is useless, through the dire\ndisaster that he is a fool, he values it little, and is even more than\nwilling to lose it.\n\nThen there were three of us in the dungeon,--John, Lord Rutland, and\nmyself; and we were all there because we had meddled in the affairs of\nothers, and because Dorothy had inherited from Eve a capacity for insane,\nunreasoning jealousy.\n\nLord Rutland was sitting on the ground in a corner of the dungeon. John,\nby the help of a projecting stone in the masonry, had climbed to the small\ngrated opening which served to admit a few straggling rays of light into\nthe dungeon's gloom. He was gazing out upon the fair day, whose beauty he\nfeared would soon fade away from him forever.\n\nElizabeth's coldness had given him no hope. It had taken all hope from his\nfather.\n\nThe opening of the door attracted John's attention, and he turned his face\ntoward me when I entered. He had been looking toward the light, and his\neyes, unaccustomed for the moment to the darkness, failed at first to\nrecognize of me. When the dungeon door had closed behind me, he sprang\ndown from his perch by the window, and came toward me with outstretched\nhands. He said sorrowfully:--\n\n\"Malcolm, have I brought you here, too? Why are you in irons? It seems\nthat I am destined to bring calamity upon all whom I love.\"\n\n\"It is a long story,\" I replied laughingly. \"I will tell it to you when\nthe time begins to drag; but I tell you now it is through no fault of\nyours that I am here. No one is to blame for my misfortune but myself.\"\nThen I continued bitterly, \"Unless it be the good God who created me a\nfool.\"\n\nJohn went to his father's side and said:--\n\n\"Sir Malcolm is here, father. Will you not rise and greet him?\"\n\nJohn's voice aroused his father, and the old lord came to the little patch\nof light in which I was standing and said: \"A terrible evil has fallen\nupon us, Sir Malcolm, and without our fault. I grieve to learn that you\nalso are entangled in the web. The future looks very dark.\"\n\n\"Cheer up, father,\" said John, taking the old man's hand. \"Light will soon\ncome; I am sure it will.\"\n\n\"I have tried all my life to be a just man,\" said Lord Rutland. \"I have\nfailed at times, I fear, but I have tried. That is all any man can do. I\npray that God in His mercy will soon send light to you, John, whatever of\ndarkness there may be in store for me.\"\n\nI thought, \"He will surely answer this just man's prayer,\" and almost\nbefore the thought was completed the dungeon door turned upon its hinges\nand a great light came with glorious refulgence through the open\nportal--Dorothy.\n\n\"John!\"\n\nNever before did one word express so much of mingled joy and grief. Fear\nand confidence, and, greater than all, love unutterable were blended in\nits eloquent tones. She sprang to John as the lightning leaps from cloud\nto cloud, and he caught her to his heart. He gently kissed her hair, her\nface being hidden in the folds of his doublet.\n\n\"Let me kneel, John, let me kneel,\" she murmured.\n\n\"No, Dorothy, no,\" he responded, holding her closely in his arms.\n\n\"But one moment, John,\" she pleased.\n\n\"No, no; let me see your eyes, sweet one,\" said John, trying to turn her\nface upward toward his own.\n\n\"I cannot yet, John, I cannot. Please let me kneel for one little moment\nat your feet.\"\n\nJohn saw that the girl would find relief in self-abasement, so he relaxed\nhis arms, and she sank to her knees upon the dungeon floor. She wept\nsoftly for a moment, and then throwing back her head with her old\nimpulsive manner looked up into his face.\n\n\"Oh, forgive me, John! Forgive me! Not that I deserve your forgiveness,\nbut because you pity me.\"\n\n\"I forgave you long ago, Dorothy. You had my full forgiveness before you\nasked it.\"\n\nHe lifted the weeping girl to her feet and the two clung together in\nsilence. After a pause Dorothy spoke:--\n\n\"You have not asked me, John, why I betrayed you.\"\n\n\"I want to know nothing, Dorothy, save that you love me.\"\n\n\"That you already know. But you cannot know how much I love you. I myself\ndon't know. John, I seem to have turned all to love. 'However much there\nis of me, that much there is of love for you. As the salt is in every drop\nof the sea, so love is in every part of my being; but John,\" she\ncontinued, drooping her head and speaking regretfully, \"the salt in the\nsea is not unmixed with many things hurtful.\" Her face blushed with shame\nand she continued limpingly: \"And my love is not--is not without evil. Oh,\nJohn, I feel deep shame in telling you, but my love is terribly jealous.\nAt times a jealousy comes over me so fierce and so distracting that under\nits influence I am mad, John, mad. I then see nothing in its true light;\nmy eyes seem filled with--with blood, and all things appear red or black\nand--and--oh! John, I pray you never again cause me jealousy. It makes a\ndemon of me.\"\n\nYou may well know that John was nonplussed.\n\n\"I cause you jealousy?\" he asked in surprise. \"When did I--\" But Dorothy\ninterrupted him, her eyes flashing darkly and a note of fierceness in her\nvoice. He saw for himself the effects of jealousy upon her.\n\n\"That white--white Scottish wanton! God's curse be upon her! She tried to\nsteal you from me.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she did,\" replied John, smilingly, \"of that I do not know. But\nthis I do know, and you, Dorothy, must know it too henceforth and for all\ntime to come. No woman can steal my love from you. Since I gave you my\ntroth I have been true to you; I have not been false even in one little\nthought.\"\n\n\"I feel sure, John, that you have not been untrue to me,\" said the girl\nwith a faint smile playing about her lips; \"but--but you remember the\nstrange woman at Bowling Green Gate whom you would have--\"\n\n\"Dorothy, I hope you have not come to my dungeon for the purpose of making\nme more wretched than I already am?\"\n\n\"No, no, John, forgive me,\" she cried softly; \"but John, I hate her, I\nhate her! and I want you to promise that you too will hate her.\"\n\n\"I promise,\" said John, \"though, you have had no cause for jealousy of\nQueen Mary.\"\n\n\"Perhaps--not,\" she replied hesitatingly. \"I have never thought,\" the\ngirl continued poutingly, \"that you did anything of which I should be\njealous; but she--she--oh, I hate her! Let us not talk about her. Jennie\nFaxton told me--I will talk about her, and you shall not stop me--Jennie\nFaxton told me that the white woman made love to you and caused you to put\nyour arm about her waist one evening on the battlements and-\"\n\n\"Jennie told you a lie,\" said John.\n\n\"Now don't interrupt me,\" the girl cried nervously, almost ready for\ntears, \"and I will try to tell you all. Jennie told me the--the white\nwoman looked up to you this fashion,\" and the languishing look she gave\nJohn in imitation of Queen Mary was so beautiful and comical that he could\ndo nothing but laugh and cover her face with kisses, then laugh again and\nlove the girl more deeply and yet more deeply with each new breath he\ndrew. Dorothy was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry, so she\ndid both.\n\n\"Jennie told me in the middle of the night,\" continued Dorothy, \"when all\nthings seem so vivid and appear so distorted and--and that terrible\nblinding jealousy of which I told you came upon me and drove me mad. I\nreally thought, John, that I should die of the agony. Oh, John, if you\ncould know the anguish I suffered that night you would pity me; you would\nnot blame me.\"\n\n\"I do not blame you, Dorothy.\"\n\n\"No, no, there-\" she kissed him softly, and quickly continued: \"I felt\nthat I must separate her from you at all cost. I would have done murder to\naccomplish my purpose. Some demon whispered to me, 'Tell Queen Elizabeth,'\nand--and oh, John, let me kneel again.\"\n\n\"No, no, Dorothy, let us talk of something else,\" said John, soothingly.\n\n\"In one moment, John. I thought only of the evil that would come to\nher--her of Scotland. I did not think of the trouble I would bring to\nyou, John, until the queen, after asking me if you were my lover, said\nangrily: 'You may soon seek another.' Then, John, I knew that I had also\nbrought evil upon you. Then I _did_ suffer. I tried to reach Rutland, and\nyou know all else that happened on that terrible night. Now John, you know\nall--all. I have withheld nothing. I have, confessed all, and I feel that\na great weight is taken from my heart. You will not hate me, will you,\nJohn?\"\n\nHe caught the girl to his breast and tried to turn her face toward his.\n\n\"I could not hate you if I would,\" he replied, with quick-coming breath,\n\"and God knows I would not. To love you is the sweetest joy in life,\" and\nhe softly kissed the great lustrous eyes till they closed as if in sleep.\nThen he fiercely sought the rich red lips, waiting soft and passive for\nhis caresses, while the fair head fell back upon the bend of his elbow in\na languorous, half-conscious sweet surrender to his will. Lord Rutland and\nI had turned our backs on the shameless pair, and were busily discussing\nthe prospect for the coming season's crops.\n\nRemember, please, that Dorothy spoke to John of Jennie Faxton. Her doing\nso soon bore bitter fruit for me.\n\nDorothy had been too busy with John to notice any one else, but he soon\npresented her to his father. After the old lord had gallantly kissed her\nhand, she turned scornfully to me and said:--\n\n\"So you fell a victim to her wanton wiles? If it were not for Madge's\nsake, I could wish you might hang.\"\n\n\"You need not balk your kindly desire for Madge's sake,\" I answered. \"She\ncares little about my fate. I fear she will never forgive me.\"\n\n\"One cannot tell what a woman will do,\" Dorothy replied. \"She is apt to\nmake a great fool of herself when it comes to forgiving the man she\nloves.\"\n\n\"Men at times have something to forgive,\" I retorted, looking with a\nsmile toward John. The girl made no reply, but took John's hand and looked\nat him as if to say, \"John, please don't let this horrid man abuse me.\"\n\n\"But Madge no longer cares for me,\" I continued, wishing to talk upon the\ntheme, \"and your words do not apply to her.\"\n\nThe girl turned her back disdainfully on me and said, \"You seem to be\nquite as easily duped by the woman who loves you and says she doesn't as\nby the one who does not care for you but says she does.\"\n\n\"Damn that girl's tongue!\" thought I; but her words, though biting,\ncarried joy to my heart and light to my soul.\n\nAfter exchanging a few words with Lord Rutland, Dorothy turned to John and\nsaid:--\n\n\"Tell me upon your knightly honor, John, do you know aught of a wicked,\ntreasonable plot to put the Scottish woman on the English throne?\"\n\nI quickly placed my finger on my lips and touched my ear to indicate that\ntheir words would be overheard; for a listening-tube connected the dungeon\nwith Sir George's closet.\n\n\"Before the holy God, upon my knighthood, by the sacred love we bear each\nother, I swear I know of no such plot,\" answered John. \"I would be the\nfirst to tell our good queen did I suspect its existence.\"\n\nDorothy and John continued talking upon the subject of the plot, but were\nsoon interrupted by a warning knock upon the dungeon door.\n\nLord Rutland, whose heart was like twenty-two carat gold, soft, pure, and\nprecious, kissed Dorothy's hand when she was about to leave, and said:\n\"Dear lady, grieve not for our sake. I can easily see that more pain has\ncome to you than to us. I thank you for the great fearless love you bear\nmy son. It has brought him trouble, but it is worth its cost. You have my\nforgiveness freely, and I pray God's choicest benediction may be with\nyou.\" She kissed the old lord and said, \"I hope some day to make you love\nme.\"\n\n\"That will be an easy task,\" said his Lordship, gallantly. Dorothy was\nabout to leave. Just at the doorway she remembered the chief purpose of\nher visit; so she ran back to John, put her hand over his mouth to insure\nsilence, and whispered in his ear.\n\nOn hearing Dorothy's whispered words, signs of joy were so apparent in\nJohn's face that they could not be mistaken. He said nothing, but kissed\nher hand and she hurriedly left the dungeon.\n\nAfter the dungeon door closed upon Dorothy, John went to his father and\nwhispered a few words to him. Then he came to me, and in the same\nsecretive manner said:--\n\n\"The queen has promised Dorothy our liberty.\" I was not at all sure that\n\"our liberty\" included me,--I greatly doubted it,--but I was glad for the\nsake of my friends, and, in truth, cared little for myself.\n\nDorothy went from our dungeon to the queen, and that afternoon, according\nto promise, Elizabeth gave orders for the release of John and his father.\nSir George, of course, was greatly chagrined when his enemies slipped from\nhis grasp; but he dared not show his ill humor in the presence of the\nqueen nor to any one who would be apt to enlighten her Majesty on the\nsubject.\n\nDorothy did not know the hour when her lover would leave Haddon; but she\nsat patiently at her window till at last John and Lord Rutland appeared.\nShe called to Madge, telling her of the joyous event, and Madge, asked:--\n\n\"Is Malcolm with them?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Dorothy, \"he has been left in the dungeon, where he\ndeserves to remain.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, Madge said:--\n\n\"If John had acted toward the Scottish queen as Malcolm did, would you\nforgive him?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course. I would forgive him anything.\"\n\n\"Then why shall we not forgive Malcolm?\" asked Madge.\n\n\"Because he is not John,\" was the absurd reply.\n\n\"No,\" said Madge, promptly; \"but he is 'John' to me.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" responded Dorothy, \"and I will forgive him if you will.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it makes much difference to Malcolm whether or not you\nforgive him,\" said Madge, who was provoked at Dorothy's condescending\noffer. \"My forgiveness, I hope, is what he desires.\"\n\n\"That is true, Madge,\" replied Dorothy, laughingly; \"but may not I, also,\nforgive him?\"\n\n\"If you choose,\" responded Madge, quietly; \"as for me, I know not what I\nwish to do.\"\n\nYou remember that Dorothy during her visit to the dungeon spoke of Jennie\nFaxton. The girl's name reached Sir George's ear through the\nlistening-tube and she was at once brought in and put to the question.\n\nJennie, contrary to her wont, became frightened and told all she knew\nconcerning John and Dorothy, including my part in their affairs. In Sir\nGeorge's mind, my bad faith to him was a greater crime than my treason to\nElizabeth, and he at once went to the queen with his tale of woe.\n\nElizabeth, the most sentimental of women, had heard from Dorothy the story\nof her tempestuous love, and also of mine, and the queen was greatly\ninterested in the situation.\n\nI will try to be brief.\n\nThrough the influence of Dorothy and Madge, as I afterward learned, and\nby the help of a good word from Cecil, the queen was induced to order my\nliberation on condition that I should thenceforth reside in France. So one\nmorning, three days after John's departure from Haddon, I was overjoyed to\nhear the words, \"You are free.\"\n\nI did not know that Jennie Faxton had given Sir George her large stock of\ndisturbing information concerning my connection with the affairs of\nDorothy and John. So when I left the dungeon, I, supposing that my stormy\ncousin would be glad to forgive me if Queen Elizabeth would, sought and\nfound him in Aunt Dorothy's room. Lady Crawford and Sir George were\nsitting near the fire and Madge was standing near the door in the next\nroom beyond. When I entered, Sir George sprang to his feet and cried out\nangrily:--\n\n\"You traitorous dog, the queen has seen fit to liberate you, and I cannot\ninterfere with her orders; but if you do not leave my Hall at once I shall\nset the hounds on you. Your effects will be sent to The Peacock, and the\nsooner you quit England the safer you will be.\" There was of course\nnothing for me to do but to go.\n\n\"You once told me, Sir George--you remember our interview at The\nPeacock--that if you should ever again order me to leave Haddon, I should\ntell you to go to the devil. I now take advantage of your kind permission,\nand will also say farewell.\"\n\nI kissed Aunt Dorothy's cheek, took my leave, and sought Cecil, from whom\nI obtained a passport to France. Then I asked Dawson to fetch my horse.\n\nI longed to see Madge before I left Haddon, but I knew that my desire\ncould not be gratified; so I determined to stop at Rowsley and send back a\nletter to her which Dawson undertook to deliver. In my letter I would ask\nMadge's permission to return for her from France and to take her home\nwith me as my wife. After I had despatched my letter I would wait at The\nPeacock for an answer.\n\nSore at heart, I bade good-by to Dawson, mounted my horse, and turned his\nhead toward the Dove-cote Gate. As I rode under Dorothy's window she was\nsitting there. The casement was open, for the day was mild, although the\nseason was little past midwinter. I heard her call to Madge, and then she\ncalled to me:--\n\n\"Farewell, Malcolm! Forgive me for what I said to you in the dungeon. I\nwas wrong, as usual. Forgive me, and God bless you. Farewell!\"\n\nWhile Dorothy was speaking, and before I replied, Madge came to the open\ncasement and called:--\n\n\"Wait for me, Malcolm, I am going down to you.\"\n\nGreat joy is a wonderful purifier, and Madge's cry finished the work of\nthe past few months and made a good man of me, who all my life before had\nknown little else than evil.\n\nSoon Madge's horse was led by a groom to the mounting block, and in a few\nminutes she emerged gropingly from the great door of Entrance Tower.\nDorothy was again a prisoner in her rooms and could not come down to bid\nme farewell. Madge mounted, and the groom led her horse to me and placed\nthe reins in my hands.\n\n\"Is it you, Malcolm?\" asked Madge.\n\n\"Yes,\" I responded, in a voice husky with emotion. \"I cannot thank you\nenough for coming to say farewell. You have forgiven me?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" responded Madge, almost in tears, \"but I have not come to say\nfarewell.\"\n\nI did not understand her meaning.\n\n\"Are you going to ride part of the way with me--perhaps to Rowsley?\" I\nasked, hardly daring to hope for so much.\n\n\"To France, Malcolm, if you wish to take me,\" she responded murmuringly.\n\nFor a little time I could not feel the happiness that had come upon me in\nso great a flood. But when I had collected my scattered senses, I said:--\n\n\"I thank God that He has turned your heart again to me. May I feel His\nrighteous anger if ever I give you cause to regret the step you are\ntaking.\"\n\n\"I shall never regret it, Malcolm,\" she answered softly, as she held out\nher hand to me.\n\nThen we rode by the dove-cote, out from Haddon Hall, never to see its\nwalls again.\n\nWe went to Rutland, whence after a fortnight we journeyed to France. There\nI received my mother's estates, and never for one moment, to my knowledge,\nhas Madge regretted having intrusted her life and happiness to me. I need\nnot speak for myself.\n\nOur home is among the warm, sunlit, vine-covered hills of southern France,\nand we care not for the joys of golden streets so long as God in His\ngoodness vouchsafes to us our earthly paradise. Age, with the heart at\npeace, is the fairest season of life; and love, leavened of God, robs even\napproaching death of his sting and makes for us a broad flower-strewn path\nfrom the tempestuous sea of time to the calm, sweet ocean of eternity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nLEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE\n\n\nI shall now tell you of the happenings in Haddon Hall during the fortnight\nwe spent at Rutland before our departure for France.\n\nWe left Dorothy, you will remember, a prisoner in her rooms.\n\nAfter John had gone Sir George's wrath began to gather, and Dorothy was\nnot permitted to depart from the Hall for even a walk upon the terrace,\nnor could she leave her own apartments save when the queen requested her\npresence.\n\nA few days after my departure from Haddon, Sir George sent Dawson out\nthrough the adjoining country to invite the nobility and gentry to a grand\nball to be given at the Hall in honor of Queen Elizabeth. Queen Mary had\nbeen sent a prisoner to Chatsworth.\n\nTom Shaw, the most famous piper of his times, and a choice company of\nmusicians to play with him were hired for the occasion, and, in short, the\nevent was so glorious that its wonders have been sung in minstrelsy\nthroughout Derbyshire ever since.\n\nDorothy's imprisonment saddened Leicester's heart, and he longed to see\nher, for her beauty had touched him nearly. Accordingly, the earl one day\nintimated to Sir George his wish in terms that almost bespoke an intention\nto ask for the girl's hand when upon proper opportunity the queen's\nconsent might be sought and perchance obtained. His equivocal words did\nnot induce Sir George to grant a meeting by which Dorothy might be\ncompromised; but a robust hope for the ultimate accomplishment of the\n\"Leicester possibility\" was aroused in the breast of the King of the Peak,\nand from hope he could, and soon did, easily step to faith. He saw that\nthe earl was a handsome man, and he believed, at least he hoped, that the\nfascinating lord might, if he were given an opportunity, woo Dorothy's\nheart away from the hated scion of a hated race. Sir George, therefore,\nafter several interviews with the earl, grew anxious to give his Lordship\nan opportunity to win her. But both Sir George and my lord feared\nElizabeth's displeasure, and the meeting between Leicester and the girl\nseemed difficult to contrive. Sir George felt confident that Dorothy\ncould, if she would, easily capture the great lord in a few private\ninterviews; but would she? Dorothy gave her father no encouragement in the\nmatter, and took pains to shun Leicester rather than to seek him.\n\nAs Dorothy grew unwilling, Leicester and Sir George grew eager, until at\nlength the latter felt that it was almost time to exert his parental\nauthority. He told Aunt Dorothy his feeling on the subject, and she told\nher niece. It was impossible to know from what source Dorothy might draw\ninspiration for mischief. It came to her with her father's half-command\nregarding Leicester.\n\nWinter had again asserted itself. The weather was bitter cold and snow\ncovered the ground to the depth of a horse's fetlock.\n\nThe eventful night of the grand ball arrived, and Dorothy's heart throbbed\ntill she thought surely it would burst.\n\nAt nightfall guests began to arrive, and Sir George, hospitable soul that\nhe was, grew boisterous with good humor and delight.\n\nThe rare old battlements of Haddon were ablaze with flambeaux, and inside\nthe rooms were alight with waxen tapers. The long gallery was brilliant\nwith the smiles of bejewelled beauty, and laughter, song, and merriment\nfilled the grand old Hall from terrace to Entrance Tower. Dorothy, of\ncourse, was brought down from her prison to grace the occasion with a\nbeauty which none could rival. Her garments were of soft, clinging,\nbright-colored silks and snowy laces, and all who saw her agreed that a\ncreature more radiant never greeted the eye of man.\n\nWhen the guests had all arrived, the pipers in the balcony burst forth in\nheart-swelling strains of music, and every foot in the room longed for the\ndance to begin.\n\nI should like to tell you how Elizabeth most graciously opened the ball\nwith his Majesty, the King of the Peak, amid the plaudits of worshipping\nsubjects, and I should enjoy describing the riotous glory which\nfollowed,--for although I was not there, I know intimately all that\nhappened,--but I will balk my desire and tell you only of those things\nwhich touched Dorothy.\n\nLeicester, of course, danced with her, and during a pause in the figure,\nthe girl in response to pleadings which she had adroitly incited,\nreluctantly promised to grant the earl the private interview he so much\ndesired if he could suggest some means for bringing it about. Leicester\nwas in raptures over her complaisance and glowed with triumph and\ndelightful anticipation. But he could think of no satisfactory plan\nwhereby his hopes might be brought to a happy fruition. He proposed\nseveral, but all seemed impracticable to the coy girl, and she rejected\nthem. After many futile attempts he said:--\n\n\"I can suggest no good plan, mistress. I pray you, gracious lady,\ntherefore, make full to overflowing the measure of your generosity, and\ntell me how it may be accomplished.\"\n\nDorothy hung her head as if in great shame and said: \"I fear, my lord, we\nhad better abandon the project for a time. Upon another occasion\nperhaps--\"\n\n\"No, no,\" interrupted the earl, pleadingly, \"do not so grievously\ndisappoint me. My heart yearns to have you to myself for one little moment\nwhere spying eyes cannot see nor prying ears hear. It is cruel in you to\nraise my hopes only to cast them down. I beg you, tell me if you know in\nwhat manner I may meet you privately.\"\n\nAfter a long pause, Dorothy with downcast eyes said, \"I am full of shame,\nmy lord, to consent to this meeting, and then find the way to it,\nbut--but--\" (\"Yes, yes, my Venus, my gracious one,\" interrupted the\nearl)--\"but if my father would permit me to--to leave the Hall for a few\nminutes, I might--oh, it is impossible, my lord. I must not think of it.\"\n\n\"I pray you, I beg you,\" pleaded Leicester. \"Tell me, at least, what you\nmight do if your father would permit you to leave the Hall. I would gladly\nfall to my knees, were it not for the assembled company.\"\n\nWith reluctance in her manner and gladness in her heart, the girl said:--\n\n\"If my father would permit me to leave the Hall, I might--only for a\nmoment, meet you at the stile, in the northeast corner of the garden back\nof the terrace half an hour hence. But he would not permit me, and--and,\nmy lord, I ought not to go even should father consent.\"\n\n\"I will ask your father's permission for you. I will seek him at once,\"\nsaid the eager earl.\n\n\"No, no, my lord, I pray you, do not,\" murmured Dorothy, with distracting\nlittle troubled wrinkles in her forehead. Her trouble was more for fear\nlest he would not than for dread that he would.\n\n\"I will, I will,\" cried his Lordship, softly; \"I insist, and you shall not\ngainsay me.\"\n\nThe girl's only assent was silence, but that was sufficient for so\nenterprising a gallant as the noble Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. So\nhe at once went to seek Sir George.\n\nThe old gentleman, although anxious to give Leicester a chance to press\nhis suit with Dorothy, at first refused, but Leicester said:--\n\n\"My intentions are honorable, Sir George. If I can win your daughter's\nheart, it is my wish, if the queen's consent can be obtained, to ask\nMistress Vernon's hand in marriage.\"\n\nSir George's breast swelled with pride and satisfaction, for Leicester's\nwords were as near an offer of marriage as it was in his power to make. So\nthe earl received, for Dorothy, permission to leave the Hall, and eagerly\ncarried it to her.\n\n\"Your father consents gladly,\" said the earl. \"Will you meet me half an\nhour hence at the stile?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" murmured the girl, with shamelessly cast down eyes and drooping\nhead. Leicester bowed himself away, and fully fifteen minutes before the\nappointed time left the Hall to wait in the cold at the stile for Dorothy.\n\nBefore the expiration of the tedious half hour our meek maiden went to her\nfather and with deep modesty and affected shame said:--\n\n\"Father, is it your wish that I go out of the Hall for a few minutes to\nmeet--to meet--\" She apparently could not finish the sentence, so modest\nand shame-faced was she.\n\n\"Yes, Doll, I wish you to go on this condition: if Leicester asks you to\nmarry him, you shall consent to be his wife.\"\n\n\"I promise, father,\" replied the dutiful girl, \"if Lord Leicester asks me\nthis night, I will be his wife.\"\n\n\"That is well, child, that is well. Once more you are my good, obedient\ndaughter, and I love you. Wear your sable cloak, Doll; the weather is very\ncold out of doors.\"\n\nHer father's solicitude touched her nearly, and she gently led him to a\nsecluded alcove near by, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him\npassionately. The girl's affection was sweet to the old man who had been\nwithout it so long, and his eyes grew moist as he returned her caresses.\nDorothy's eyes also were filled with tears. Her throat was choked with\nsobs, and her heart was sore with pain. Poor young heart! Poor old man!\n\nSoon after Dorothy had spoken with her father she left the Hall by\nDorothy's Postern. She was wrapped in her sable cloak--the one that had\nsaved John's life in Aunt Dorothy's room; but instead of going across the\ngarden to the stile where Lord Leicester was waiting, which was north and\neast of the terrace, she sped southward down the terrace and did not stop\ntill she reached the steps which led westward to the lower garden. She\nstood on the terrace till she saw a man running toward her from the\npostern in the southwest corner of the lower garden. Then down the steps\nshe sped with winged feet, and outstretching her arms, fell upon the man's\nbreast, whispering: \"John, my love! John, my love!\"\n\nAs for the man--well, during the first minute or two he wasted no time in\nspeech.\n\nWhen he spoke he said:--\n\n\"We must not tarry here. Horses are waiting at the south end of the\nfootbridge. Let us hasten away at once.\"\n\nThen happened the strangest of all the strange things I have had to record\nof this strange, fierce, tender, and at time almost half-savage girl.\n\nDorothy for months had longed for that moment. Her heart had almost burst\nwith joy when a new-born hope for it was suggested by the opportunities of\nthe ball and her father's desire touching my lord of Leicester. But now\nthat the longed-for moment was at hand, the tender heart, which had so\nanxiously awaited it, failed, and the girl broke down weeping\nhysterically.\n\n\"Oh, John, you have forgiven so many faults in me,\" she said between\nsobs, \"that I know you will forgive me when I tell you I cannot go with\nyou to-night. I thought I could and I so intended when I came out here to\nmeet you. But oh, John, my dearest love, I cannot go; I cannot go. Another\ntime I will go with you, John. I promise that I will go with you soon,\nvery soon, John; but I cannot go now, oh, I cannot. You will forgive me,\nwon't you, John? You will forgive me?\"\n\n\"No,\" cried John in no uncertain tones, \"I will not forgive you. I will\ntake you. If you cry out, I will silence you.\" Thereupon he rudely took\nthe girl in his arms and ran with her toward the garden gate near the\nnorth end of the stone footbridge.\n\n\"John, John!\" she cried in terror. But he placed his hand over her mouth\nand forced her to remain silent till they were past the south wall. Then\nhe removed his hand and she screamed and struggled against him with all\nher might. Strong as she was, her strength was no match for John's, and\nher struggles were in vain.\n\nJohn, with his stolen bride, hurriedly crossed the footbridge and ran to\nthe men who were holding the horses. There he placed Dorothy on her feet\nand said with a touch of anger:--\n\n\"Will you mount of your own will or shall I put you in the saddle?\"\n\n\"I'll mount of my own will, John,\" she replied submissively, \"and John,\nI--I thank you, I thank you for--for--\" she stopped speaking and toyed\nwith the tufts of fur that hung from the edges of her cloak.\n\n\"For what, my love? For what do you thank me?\" asked John after a little\npause.\n\n\"For making--me--do--what I--I longed to do. My conscience would not let\nme do it of my own free will.\"\n\nThen tears came from her eyes in a great flood, and throwing her arms\nabout John's neck she gave him herself and her heart to keep forever and\nforever.\n\nAnd Leicester was shivering at the stile! The girl had forgotten even the\nexistence of the greatest lord in the realm.\n\nMy wife, Lord Rutland, and I waited in the watch-room above the castle\ngates for the coming of Dorothy and John; and when they came--but I will\nnot try to describe the scene. It were a vain effort. Tears and laughter\nwell compounded make the sweetest joy; grief and joy the truest happiness;\nhappiness and pain the grandest soul, and none of these may be described.\nWe may analyze them, and may take them part from part; but, like love,\nthey cannot be compounded. We may know all the component parts, but when\nwe try to create these great emotions in description, we lack the subtle\ncompounding flux to unite the ingredients, and after all is done, we have\nsimply said that black is black and that white is white.\n\nNext day, in the morning, Madge and I started for our new home in France.\nWe rode up the hill down which poor Dolcy took her last fatal plunge, and\nwhen we reached the crest, we paused to look back. Standing on the\nbattlements, waving a kerchief in farewell to us, was the golden-crowned\nform of a girl. Soon she covered her face with her kerchief, and we knew\nshe was weeping Then we, also, wept as we turned away from the fair\npicture; and since that far-off morning--forty long, long years ago--we\nhave not seen the face nor heard the voice of our sweet, tender friend.\nForty years! What an eternity it is if we tear it into minutes!\n\n\n\n\nL'ENVOI\n\n\nThe fire ceases to burn; the flames are sucked back into the earth; the\ndoe's blood has boiled away; the caldron cools, and my shadowy friends--so\nreal to me--whom I love with a passionate tenderness beyond my power to\nexpress, have sunk into the dread black bank of the past, and my poor,\nweak wand is powerless to recall them for the space of even one fleeting\nmoment. So I must say farewell to them; but all my life I shall carry a\nheart full of tender love and pain for the fairest, fiercest, gentlest,\nweakest, strongest of them all--Dorothy Vernon."