[Illustration]

Mary Pickford Edition

Dorothy Vernon ofHaddon Hall

BY

CHARLES MAJOR

AUTHOR OFWHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER, YOLANDA, ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED WITHSCENES FROM THE PHOTOPLAY

GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1908

Printed in U. S. A. 

To My Wife

CONTENTS

 Page

A TOUCH OF BLACK MAGIC 1

CHAPTER I. I RIDE SOWN TO HADDON 3 II. THE IRON, THE SEED, THE CLOUD, AND THE RAIN 19 III. THE PITCHER GOES TO THE WELL 35 IV. THE GOLDEN HEART 62 V. MINE ENEMY'S ROOF-TREE 91 VI. A DANGEROUS TRIP TO DERBY-TOWN 108 VII. TRIBULATION IN HADDON 130VIII. MALCOLM NO. 2 163 IX. A TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE 181 X. THOMAS THE MAN-SERVANT 211 XI. THE COST MARK OF JOY 239 XII. THE LEICESTER POSSIBILITY 260XIII. PROUD DAYS FOR THE OLD HALL 281 XIV. MARY STUART 302 XV. LIGHT 333 XVI. LEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE 360

A TOUCH OF BLACK MAGIC

I draw the wizard's circle upon the sands, and blue flames spring from itscircumference. I describe an inner circle, and green flames comeresponsive to my words of magic. I touch the common centre of both with mywand, and red flames, like adders' tongues, leap from the earth. Overthese flames I place my caldron filled with the blood of a new-killed doe, and as it boils I speak my incantations and make my mystic signs andpasses, watching the blood-red mist as it rises to meet the spirits ofAir. I chant my conjurations as I learned them from the Great Key ofSolomon, and while I speak, the ruddy fumes take human forms. Out of thedark, fathomless Past--the Past of near four hundred years ago--comes agoodly company of simple, pompous folk all having a touch of childishsavagery which shows itself in the fierceness of their love and of theirhate. 

The fairest castle-château in all England's great domain, the walls andhalls of which were builded in the depths of time, takes on again itsolden form quick with quivering life, and from the gates of Eagle Towerissues my quaint and radiant company. Some are clad in gold lace, silks, and taffetas; some wear leather, buckram and clanking steel. While thecaldron boils, their cloud-forms grow ever more distinct and definite, till at length I can trace their every feature. I see the color of theireyes. I discern the shades of their hair. Some heads are streaked withgray; others are glossy with the sheen of youth. As a climax to myconjurations I speak the word of all words magical, "Dorothy, " and lo! asthough God had said, "Let there be light, " a fair, radiant girl steps fromthe portals of Haddon Hall and illumines all my ancient company so that Imay see even the workings of their hearts. 

They, and the events of their lives, their joys and sorrows, their virtuesand sins, their hatreds, jealousies, and loves--the seven numbers in thetotal sum of life--pass before me as in a panorama, moving when I bid themmove, pausing when I bid them pause, speaking when I bid them speak, andalas! fading back into the dim gray limbo of the past long, long ere Iwould have them go. 

But hark! my radiant shades are about to speak. The play is about tobegin. 

Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

CHAPTER I

I RIDE DOWN TO HADDON

Since I play no mean part in the events of this chronicle, a few wordsconcerning my own history previous to the opening of the story I am aboutto tell you will surely not be amiss, and they may help you to a betterunderstanding of my narrative. 

To begin with an unimportant fact--unimportant, that is, to you--my nameis Malcolm François de Lorraine Vernon. My father was cousin-german to SirGeorge Vernon, at and near whose home, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, occurredthe events which will furnish my theme. 

Of the ancient lineage of the house of Vernon I need not speak. Youalready know that the family is one of the oldest in England, and while itis not of the highest nobility, it is quite gentle and noble enough toplease those who bear its honored name. My mother boasted nobler bloodthan that of the Vernons. She was of the princely French house of Guise--aniece and ward to the Great Duke, for whose sake I was named. 

My father, being a younger brother, sought adventure in the land ofFrance, where his handsome person and engaging manner won the smiles ofDame Fortune and my mother at one and the same cast. In due time I wasborn, and upon the day following that great event my father died. On theday of his burial my poor mother, unable to find in me either compensationor consolation for the loss of her child's father, also died, of a brokenheart, it was said. But God was right, as usual, in taking my parents; forI should have brought them no happiness, unless perchance they could havemoulded my life to a better form than it has had--a doubtful chance, sinceour great virtues and our chief faults are born and die with us. Myfaults, alas! have been many and great. In my youth I knew but one virtue:to love my friend; and that was strong within me. How fortunate for us itwould be if we could begin our life in wisdom and end it in simplicity, instead of the reverse which now obtains!

I remained with my granduncle, the Great Duke, and was brought up amid thefighting, vice, and piety of his sumptuous court. I was trained to arms, and at an early age became Esquire in Waiting to his Grace of Guise. Mostof my days between my fifteenth and twenty-fifth years were spent in thewars. At the age of twenty-five I returned to the château, there to resideas my uncle's representative, and to endure the ennui of peace. At thechâteau I found a fair, tall girl, fifteen years of age: Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, soon afterward Queen of France and rightful heiress tothe English throne. The ennui of peace, did I say? Soon I had no fear ofits depressing effect, for Mary Stuart was one of those women near whosefascinations peace does not thrive. When I found her at the château, mymartial ardor lost its warmth. Another sort of flame took up its home inmy heart, and no power could have turned me to the wars again. 

Ah! what a gay, delightful life, tinctured with bitterness, we led in thegrand old château, and looking back at it how heartless, godless, andempty it seems. Do not from these words conclude that I am a fanatic, northat I shall pour into your ears a ranter's tale; for cant is more to bedespised even than godlessness; but during the period of my life of whichI shall write I learned--but what I learned I shall in due time tell you. 

While at the court of Guise I, like many another man, conceived for MaryStuart a passion which lay heavy upon my heart for many years. SweetheartsI had by the scores, but she held my longings from all of them until Ifelt the touch of a pure woman's love, and then--but again I am goingbeyond my story. 

I did not doubt, nor do I hesitate to say, that my passion was returned byMary with a fervor which she felt for no other lover; but she was a queen, and I, compared with her, was nobody. For this difference of rank I havesince had good cause to be thankful. Great beauty is diffusive in itstendency. Like the sun, it cannot shine for one alone. Still, it burns anddazzles the one as if it shone for him and for no other; and he who basksin its rays need have no fear of the ennui of peace. 

The time came when I tasted the unutterable bitterness of Mary's marriageto a simpering fool, Francis II. , whom she loathed, notwithstanding absurdstories of their sweet courtship and love. 

After her marriage to Francis, Mary became hard and callous of heart, andall the world knows her sad history. The stories of Darnley, Rizzio, andBothwell will be rich morsels, I suppose, for the morbid minds of men andwomen so long as books are read and scandal is loved. 

Ah, well, that was long ago; so long ago that now as I write it seems buta shadow upon the horizon of time. 

And so it happened that Francis died, and when the queen went back toScotland to ascend her native throne, I went with her, and mothlikehovered near the blaze that burned but did not warm me. 

Then in the course of time came the Darnley tragedy. I saw Rizzio killed. Gods! what a scene for hell was that! Then followed the Bothwelldisgrace, the queen's imprisonment at Lochleven, and my own flight fromScotland to save my head. 

You will hear of Mary again in this history, and still clinging to her youwill find that same strange fatality which during all her life broughtevils upon her that were infectious to her friends and wrought their ruin. 

One evening, in the autumn of the year 1567, I was sitting moodily beforemy fire in the town of Dundee, brooding over Mary's disgraceful liaisonwith Bothwell. I had solemnly resolved that I would see her never again, and that I would turn my back upon the evil life I had led for so manyyears, and would seek to acquire that quiescence of nature which isnecessary to an endurable old age. A tumultuous soul in the breast of anold man breeds torture, but age, with the heart at rest, I have found isthe best season of life. 

In the midst of my gloomy thoughts and good resolves my friend, Sir ThomasDouglas, entered my room without warning and in great agitation. 

"Are you alone?" he asked hurriedly, in a low voice. 

"Save for your welcome presence, Sir Thomas, " I answered, offering myhand. 

"The queen has been seized, " he whispered, "and warrants for high treasonhave been issued against many of her friends--you among the number. Officers are now coming to serve the writ. I rode hither in all haste towarn you. Lose not a moment, but flee for your life. The Earl of Murraywill be made regent to-morrow. "

"My servant? My horse?" I responded. 

"Do not wait. Go at once. I shall try to send a horse for you to Craig'sferry. If I fail, cross the firth without one. Here is a purse. The queensends it to you. Go! Go!"

I acted upon the advice, of Sir Thomas and hurried into the street, snatching up my hat, cloak, and sword as I went. Night had fallen, anddarkness and rain, which at first I was inclined to curse, proved to be myfriends. I sought the back streets and alleys and walked rapidly towardthe west gates of the city. Upon arriving at the gates I found themclosed. I aroused the warden, and with the artful argument of gold hadalmost persuaded him to let me pass. My evident eagerness was my undoing, for in the hope of obtaining more gold the warden delayed opening thegates till two men approached on horseback, and, dismounting, demanded mysurrender. 

I laughed and said: "Two against one! Gentlemen, I am caught. " I then drewmy sword as if to offer it to them. My action threw the men off theirguard, and when I said, "Here it is, " I gave it to the one standing nearme, but I gave it to him point first and in the heart. 

It was a terrible thing to do, and bordered so closely on a broken parolethat I was troubled in conscience. I had not, however, given my parole, nor had I surrendered; and if I had done so--if a man may take another'slife in self-defence, may he not lie to save himself?

The other man shot at me with his fusil, but missed. He then drew hissword; but he was no match for me, and soon I left him sprawling on theground, dead or alive, I knew not which. 

At the time of which I write I was thirty-five years of age, and since myfifteenth birthday my occupations had been arms and the ladies--two artsrequiring constant use if one would remain expert in their practice. 

I escaped, and ran along the wall to a deep breach which had been leftunrepaired. Over the sharp rocks I clambered, and at the risk of breakingmy neck I jumped off the wall into the moat, which was almost dry. Dawnwas breaking when I found a place to ascend from the moat, and I hastenedto the fields and forests, where all day and all night long I wanderedwithout food or drink. Two hours before sunrise next morning I reachedCraig's Ferry. The horse sent by Douglas awaited me, but the ferry-masterhad been prohibited from carrying passengers across the firth, and I couldnot take the horse in a small boat. In truth, I was in great alarm lest Ishould be unable to cross, but I walked up the Tay a short distance, andfound a fisherman, who agreed to take me over in his frail craft. Hardlyhad we started when another boat put out from shore in pursuit of us. Wemade all sail, but our pursuers overtook us when we were within half afurlong of the south bank, and as there were four men in the other boat, all armed with fusils, I peaceably stepped into their craft and handed mysword to their captain. 

I seated myself on one of the thwarts well forward in the boat. By my sidewas a heavy iron boat-hook. I had noticed that all the occupants of theboat, except the fisherman who sailed her, wore armor; and when I saw theboat-hook, a diabolical thought entered my mind and I immediately actedupon its suggestion. Noiselessly I grasped the hook, and with its pointpried loose a board in the bottom of the boat, first having removed myboots, cloak, and doublet. When the board was loosened I pressed my heelagainst it with all the force I could muster, and through an opening sixinches broad and four feet long came a flood of water that swamped theboat before one could utter twenty words. I heard a cry from one of themen: "The dog has scuttled the boat. Shoot him!" At the same instant theblaze and noise of two fusils broke the still blackness of the night, butI was overboard and the powder and lead were wasted. The next moment theboat sank in ten fathoms of water, and with it went the men in armor. Ihope the fisherman saved himself. I have often wondered if even the law ofself-preservation justified my act. It is an awful thing to inflict death, but it is worse to endure it, and I feel sure that I am foolish to allowmy conscience to trouble me for the sake of those who would have led meback to the scaffold. 

I fear you will think that six dead men in less than as many pages make arecord of bloodshed giving promise of terrible things to come, but I amglad I can reassure you on that point. Although there may be some goodfighting ahead of us, I believe the last man has been killed of whom Ishall chronicle--the last, that is, in fight or battle. 

In truth, the history which you are about to read is not my own. It is thestory of a beautiful, wilful girl, who was madly in love with the one manin all the world whom she should have avoided--as girls are wont to be. This perverse tendency, philosophers tell us, is owing to the fact thatthe unattainable is strangely alluring to womankind. I, being a man, shallnot, of course, dwell upon the foibles of my own sex. It were a foolishcandor. 

As I said, there will be some good fighting ahead of us, for love andbattle usually go together. One must have warm, rich blood to do eitherwell; and, save religion, there is no source more fruitful of quarrels anddeath than that passion which is the source of life. 

You, of course, know without the telling, that I reached land safely afterI scuttled the boat, else I should not be writing this forty yearsafterwards. 

The sun had risen when I waded ashore. I was swordless, coatless, hatless, and bootless; but I carried a well-filled purse in my belt. Up to thattime I had given no thought to my ultimate destination; but being for themoment safe, I pondered the question and determined to make my way toHaddon Hall in Derbyshire, where I was sure a warm welcome would await mefrom my cousin, Sir George Vernon. How I found a peasant's cottage, purchased a poor horse and a few coarse garments, and how in the disguiseof a peasant I rode southward to the English border, avoiding the citiesand the main highways, might interest you; but I am eager to come to mystory, and I will not tell you of my perilous journey. 

One frosty morning, after many hairbreadth escapes, I found myself wellwithin the English border, and turned my horse's head toward the city ofCarlisle. There I purchased a fine charger. I bought clothing fit for agentleman, a new sword, a hand-fusil, a breastplate, and a steel-linedcap, and feeling once again like a man rather than like a half-drownedrat, I turned southward for Derbyshire and Haddon Hall. 

When I left Scotland I had no fear of meeting danger in England; but atCarlisle I learned that Elizabeth held no favor toward Scottish refugees. I also learned that the direct road from Carlisle to Haddon, by way ofBuxton, was infested with English spies who were on the watch for friendsof the deposed Scottish queen. Several Scotchmen had been arrested, and itwas the general opinion that upon one pretext or another they would behanged. I therefore chose a circuitous road leading to the town of Derby, which lay south of Haddon at a distance of six or seven leagues. It wouldbe safer for me to arrive at Haddon travelling from the south than fromthe north. Thus, after many days, I rode into Derby-town and stabled myhorse at the Royal Arms. 

I called for supper, and while I was waiting for my joint of beef astranger entered the room and gave his orders in a free, offhand mannerthat stamped him a person of quality. 

The night outside was cold. While the stranger and I sat before the firewe caught its infectious warmth, and when he showed a disposition to talk, I gladly fell in with his humor. Soon we were filling our glasses from thesame bowl of punch, and we seemed to be on good terms with each other. Butwhen God breathed into the human body a part of himself, by somemischance He permitted the devil to slip into the tongue and loosen it. Mytongue, which ordinarily was fairly well behaved, upon this occasionquickly brought me into trouble. 

I told you that the stranger and I seemed to be upon good terms. And so wewere until I, forgetting for the moment Elizabeth's hatred of Mary'sfriends, and hoping to learn the stranger's name and quality, said:--

"My name is Vernon--Sir Malcolm Vernon, knight by the hand of Queen Maryof Scotland and of France. " This remark, of course, required that mycompanion should in return make known his name and degree; but in place ofso doing he at once drew away from me and sat in silence. I was older thanhe, and it had seemed to me quite proper and right that I should make thefirst advance. But instantly after I had spoken I regretted my words. Iremembered not only my danger, being a Scottish refugee, but I alsobethought me that I had betrayed myself. Aside from those causes ofuneasiness, the stranger's conduct was an insult which I was in duty boundnot to overlook. Neither was I inclined to do so, for I loved to fight. Intruth, I loved all things evil. 

"I regret, sir, " said I, after a moment or two of embarrassing silence, "having imparted information that seems to annoy you. The Vernons, whomyou may not know, are your equals in blood, it matters not who you are. "

"I know of the Vernons, " he replied coldly, "and I well know that they areof good blood and lineage. As for wealth, I am told Sir George couldeasily buy the estates of any six men in Derbyshire. "

"You know Sir George?" I asked despite myself. 

"I do not know him, I am glad to say, " returned the stranger. 

"By God, sir, you shall answer-"

"At your pleasure, Sir Malcolm. "

"My pleasure is now, " I retorted eagerly. 

I threw off my doublet and pushed the table and chairs against the wall tomake room for the fight; but the stranger, who had not drawn his sword, said:--

"I have eaten nothing since morning, and I am as hungry as a wolf. I wouldprefer to fight after supper; but if you insist--"

"I do insist, " I replied. "Perhaps you will not care for supper when Ihave--"

"That may be true, " he interrupted; "but before we begin I think it rightto tell you, without at all meaning to boast of my skill, that I can killyou if I wish to do so. Therefore you must see that the result of ourfight will be disagreeable to you in any case. You will die, or you willowe me your life. "

His cool impertinence angered me beyond endurance. He to speak of killingme, one of the best swordsmen in France, where the art of sword-play isreally an art! The English are but bunglers with a gentleman's blade, andshould restrict themselves to pike and quarterstaff. 

"Results be damned!" I answered. "I can kill you if I wish. " Then itoccurred to me that I really did not wish to kill the handsome youngfellow toward whom I felt an irresistible attraction. 

I continued: "But I prefer that you should owe me your life. I do not wishto kill you. Guard!"

My opponent did not lift his sword, but smilingly said:--

"Then why do you insist upon fighting? I certainly do not wish to killyou. In truth, I would be inclined to like you if you were not a Vernon. "

"Damn your insolence! Guard! or I will run you through where you stand, " Ianswered angrily. 

"But why do we fight?" insisted the stubborn fellow, with a coolness thatshowed he was not one whit in fear of me. 

"You should know, " I replied, dropping my sword-point to the floor, andforgetting for the moment the cause of our quarrel. "I--I do not. "

"Then let us not fight, " he answered, "until we have discovered the matterof our disagreement. "

At this remark neither of us could resist smiling. I had not fought sincemonths before, save for a moment at the gates of Dundee, and I was loathto miss the opportunity, so I remained in thought during the space of halfa minute and remembered our cause of war. 

"Oh! I recall the reason for our fighting, " I replied, "and a good one itwas. You offered affront to the name of Sir George Vernon, and insultinglyrefused me the courtesy of your name after I had done you the honor totell you mine. "

"I did not tell you my name, " replied the stranger, "because I believedyou would not care to hear it; and I said I was glad not to know SirGeorge Vernon because--because he is my father's enemy. I am Sir JohnManners. My father is Lord Rutland. "

Then it was my turn to recede. "You certainly are right. I do not care tohear your name. "

I put my sword in its scabbard and drew the table back to its formerplace. Sir John stood in hesitation for a moment or two, and then said:--

"Sir Malcolm, may we not declare a truce for to-night? There is nothingpersonal in the enmity between us. "

"Nothing, " I answered, staring at the fire, half regretful that we boreeach other enmity at all. 

"You hate me, or believe you do, " said Manners, "because your father'scousin hates my father; and I try to make myself believe that I hate youbecause my father hates your father's cousin. Are we not both mistaken?"

I was quick to anger and to fight, but no man's heart was more sensitivethan mine to the fair touch of a kind word. 

"I am not mistaken, Sir John, when I say that I do not hate you, " Ianswered. 

"Nor do I hate you, Sir Malcolm. Will you give me your hand?"

"Gladly, " I responded, and I offered my hand to the enemy of my house. 

"Landlord, " I cried, "bring us two bottles of your best sack. The best inthe house, mind you. "

After our amicable understanding, Sir John and myself were verycomfortable together, and when the sack and roast beef, for which theRoyal Arms was justly famous, were brought in, we sat down to an enjoyablemeal. 

After supper Sir John lighted a small roll or stick made from the leavesof tobacco. The stick was called a cigarro, and I, proud not to be behindhim in new-fashioned, gentlemanly accomplishments, called to the landlordfor a pipe. Manners interrupted me when I gave the order and offered me acigarro which I gladly accepted. 

Despite my effort to reassure myself, I could not quite throw off afeeling of uneasiness whenever I thought of the manner in which I hadbetrayed to Sir John the fact that I was a friend to Mary Stuart. I knewthat treachery was not native to English blood, and my knowledge ofmankind had told me that the vice could not live in Sir John Manners'sheart. But he had told me of his residence at the court of Elizabeth, andI feared trouble might come to me from the possession of so dangerous apiece of knowledge by an enemy of my house. 

I did not speak my thoughts upon the matter, and we sat the eveningthrough discussing many subjects. We warmed toward each other and becamequite confidential. I feel ashamed when I admit that one of my many sinswas an excessive indulgence in wine. While I was not a drunkard, I wasgiven to my cups sometimes in a degree both dangerous and disgraceful; andduring the evening of which I have just spoken I talked to Sir John with afreedom that afterward made me blush, although my indiscretion brought meno greater trouble. 

My outburst of confidence was prompted by Sir John's voluntary assurancethat I need fear nothing from having told him that I was a friend of QueenMary. The Scottish queen's name had been mentioned, and Sir John hadsaid--

"I take it, Sir Malcolm, that you are newly arrived in England, and I feelsure you will accept the advice I am about to offer in the kindly spiritin which it is meant. I deem it unsafe for you to speak of Queen Mary'sfriendship in the open manner you have used toward me. Her friends are notwelcome visitors to England, and I fear evil will befall those who come tous as refugees. You need have no fear that I will betray you. Your secretis safe with me. I will give you hostage. I also am Queen Mary's friend. Iwould not, of course, favor her against the interest of our own queen. ToElizabeth I am and always shall be loyal; but the unfortunate Scottishqueen has my sympathy in her troubles, and I should be glad to help her. Ihear she is most beautiful and gentle in person. "

Thus you see the influence of Mary's beauty reached from Edinburgh toLondon. A few months only were to pass till this conversation was to berecalled by each of us, and the baneful influence of Mary's beauty uponall whom it touched was to be shown more fatally than had appeared even inmy own case. In truth, my reason for speaking so fully concerning the, Scottish queen and myself will be apparent to you in good time. 

When we were about to part for the night, I asked Sir John, "What road doyou travel to-morrow?"

"I am going to Rutland Castle by way of Rowsley, " he answered. 

"I, too, travel by Rowsley to Haddon Hall. Shall we not extend our truceover the morrow and ride together as far as Rowsley?" I asked. 

"I shall be glad to make the truce perpetual, " he replied laughingly. 

"So shall I, " was my response. 

Thus we sealed our compact and knitted out of the warp and woof of enmitya friendship which became a great joy and a sweet grief to each of us. 

That night I lay for hours thinking of the past and wondering about thefuture. I had tasted the sweets--all flavored with bitterness--of courtlife. Women, wine, gambling, and fighting had given me the best of all theevils they had to offer. Was I now to drop that valorous life, which menso ardently seek, and was I to take up a browsing, kinelike existence atHaddon Hall, there to drone away my remaining days in fat'ning, peace, andquietude? I could not answer my own question, but this I knew: that SirGeorge Vernon was held in high esteem by Elizabeth, and I felt that hishouse was, perhaps, the only spot in England where my head could safelylie. I also had other plans concerning Sir George and his household whichI regret to say I imparted to Sir John in the sack-prompted outpouring ofmy confidence. The plans of which I shall now speak had been growing infavor with me for several months previous to my enforced departure fromScotland, and that event had almost determined me to adopt them. Almost, Isay, for when I approached Haddon Hall I wavered in my resolution. 

At the time when I had last visited Sir George at Haddon, his daughterDorothy--Sir George called her Doll--was a slipshod girl of twelve. Shewas exceedingly plain, and gave promise of always so remaining. SirGeorge, who had no son, was anxious that his vast estates should remainin the Vernon name. He had upon the occasion of my last visit intimated tome that when Doll should become old enough to marry, and I, perchance, hadhad my fill of knocking about the world, a marriage might be brought aboutbetween us which would enable him to leave his estates to his daughter andstill to retain the much-loved Vernon name for his descendants. 

Owing to Doll's rusty red hair, slim shanks, and freckled face, theproposition had not struck me with favor, yet to please Sir George I hadfeigned acquiescence, and had said that when the time should come, wewould talk it over. Before my flight from Scotland I had often thought ofSir George's proposition made six or seven years before. My love for MaryStuart had dimmed the light of other beauties in my eyes, and I had nevermarried. For many months before my flight, however, I had not beenpermitted to bask in the light of Mary's smiles to the extent of mywishes. Younger men, among them Darnley, who was but eighteen years ofage, were preferred to me, and I had begun to consider the advisability ofan orderly retreat from the Scottish court before my lustre should beentirely dimmed. It is said that a man is young so long as he is strong, and I was strong as in the days of my youth. My cheeks were fresh, my eyeswere bright, and my hair was red as when I was twenty, and without athread of gray. Stills my temperament was more exacting and serious, andthe thought of becoming settled for life, or rather for old age and death, was growing in favor with me. With that thought came always a suggestionof slim, freckled Dorothy and Sir George's offer. She held out to mewealth and position, a peaceful home for my old age, and a grave with apompous, pious epitaph at Bakewell church, in death. 

When I was compelled to leave Scotland, circumstances forced me to adecision, and my resolution was quickly taken. I would go to Derbyshireand would marry Dorothy. I did not expect ever again to feel great lovefor a woman. The fuse, I thought, had burned out when I loved Mary Stuart. One woman, I believed, was like another to me, and Dorothy would answer aswell as any for my wife. I could and would be kind to her, and that alonein time would make me fond. It is true, my affection would be of a fashionmore comfortable than exciting; but who, having passed his gallopingyouth, will contemn the joys that come from making others happy? I believethere is no person, past the age of forty, at all given to pondering thewhys of life, who will gainsay that the joy we give to others is our chiefsource of happiness. Why, then, should not a wise man, through purelyselfish motives, begin early to cultivate the gentle art of giving joy?

But the fates were to work out the destinies of Dorothy and myself withoutour assistance. Self-willed, arrogant creatures are those same fates, butthey save us a deal of trouble by assuming our responsibilities. 

CHAPTER II

THE IRON, THE SEED, THE CLOUD, AND THE RAIN

The morning following my meeting with Manners, he and I made an earlystart. An hour before noon we rode into the town of Rowsley and halted atThe Peacock for dinner. 

When we entered the courtyard of the inn we saw three ladies warmlywrapped in rich furs leave a ponderous coach and walk to the inn door, which they entered. One of them was an elderly lady whom I recognized asmy cousin, Lady Dorothy Crawford, sister to Sir George Vernon. The secondwas a tall, beautiful girl, with an exquisite ivory-like complexion and awonderful crown of fluffy red hair which encircled her head like a halo ofsunlit glory. I could compare its wondrous lustre to no color save that ofmolten gold deeply alloyed with copper. But that comparison tells younothing. I can find no simile with which to describe the beauties of itsshades and tints. It was red, but it also was golden, as if the enamouredsun had gilded every hair with its radiance. In all my life I had neverseen anything so beautiful as this tall girl's hair. Still, it was theVernon red. My cousin, Sir George, and many Vernons had hair of the samecolor. Yet the girl's hair differed from all other I had ever seen. It hada light and a lustre of its own which was as distinct from the ordinaryVernon red, although that is very good and we are proud of it, as thesheen of gold is from the glitter of brass. I knew by the girl's hairthat she was my cousin, Dorothy Vernon, whom I reluctantly had come towed. 

I asked myself, "Can this be the plain, freckled girl I knew seven yearsago?" Compared with her beauty even Mary Stuart's was pale as the vapidmoon at dawn. The girl seemed to be the incarnated spirit of universallife and light, and I had condescendingly come to marry this goddess. Ifelt a dash of contemptuous pity for my complacent self. 

In my cogitations concerning marriage with Dorothy Vernon, I had not atall taken into consideration her personal inclination. A girl, after all, is but the chattel of her father, and must, perforce, if needs be, marrythe man who is chosen for her. But leaving parental authority out of thequestion, a girl with brick-red hair and a multitude of freckles need notbe considered when an agreeable, handsome man offers himself as a husband. She usually is willing to the point of eagerness. That is the manner inwhich I had thought about Dorothy Vernon, if I considered her at all. Butwhen a man is about to offer himself to a goddess, he is apt to pause. Insuch a case there are always two sides to the question, and nine chancesto one the goddess will coolly take possession of both. When I saw Dorothyin the courtyard of The Peacock, I instantly knew that she was a girl tobe taken into account in all matters wherein she was personally concerned. Her every feature, every poise and gesture, unconsciously bore the stampof "I will" or "I will not. "

Walking by Dorothy's side, holding her hand, was a fair young woman whosehair was black, and whose skin was of the white, clear complexion such aswe see in the faces of nuns. She walked with a hesitating, cautious step, and clung to Dorothy, who was gentle and attentive to her. But of thisfair, pale girl I have so much to say in the pages to come that I shallnot further describe her here. 

When the ladies had entered the inn, my companion and I dismounted, andManners exclaimed:--

"Did you see the glorious girl who but now entered the inn door? Gods! Inever before saw such beauty. "

"Yes, " I replied, "I know her. "

"How fortunate I am, " said Sir John. "Perhaps I may induce you to presentme to her. At least you will tell me her name, that I may seek heracquaintance by the usual means. I am not susceptible, but by my faith, I--I--she looked at me from the door-steps, and when I caught her eyes itseemed--that is, I saw--or I felt a stream of burning life enter my soul, and--but you will think I am a fool. I know I am a fool. But I feel as ifI were--as if I had been bewitched in one little second of time, and by asingle glance from a pair of brown eyes. You certainly will think I am afool, but you cannot understand--"

"Why can't I understand?" I asked indignantly. "The thing you have seenand felt has been in this world long enough for every man to understand. Eve used it upon Adam. I can't understand? Damme, sir, do you think I am aclod? I have felt it fifty times. "

"Not--" began Sir John, hesitatingly. 

"Nonsense!" I replied. "You, too, will have the same experience fiftytimes again before you are my age. "

"But the lady, " said Sir John, "tell me of her. Will you--can you presentme to her? If not, will you tell me who she is?"

I remained for a moment in thought, wondering if it were right for me totell him that the girl whom he so much admired was the daughter of hisfather's enemy. I could see no way of keeping Dorothy's name from him, soI determined to tell him. 

"She is my cousin, Mistress Dorothy Vernon, " I said. "The eldest is LadyDorothy Crawford. The beautiful, pale girl I do not know. "

"I am sorry, " returned Sir John; "she is the lady whom you have come tomarry, is she not?"

"Y-e-s, " said I, hesitatingly. 

"You certainly are to be congratulated, " returned Manners. 

"I doubt if I shall marry her, " I replied. 

"Why?" asked Manners. 

"For many reasons, chief among which is her beauty. "

"That is an unusual reason for declining a woman, " responded Sir John, with a low laugh. 

"I think it is quite usual, " I replied, having in mind the difficulty withwhich great beauties are won. But I continued, "A woman of moderate beautymakes a safer wife, and in the long run is more comforting than one who istoo attractive. "

"You are a philosopher, Sir Malcolm, " said Manners, laughingly. 

"And a liar, " I muttered to myself. I felt sure, however, that I shouldnever marry Dorothy Vernon, and I do not mind telling you, even at thisearly stage in my history, that I was right in my premonition. I did notmarry her. 

"I suppose I shall now be compelled to give you up to your relatives, "said Manners. 

"Yes, " I returned, "we must say good-by for the present; but if we do notmeet again, it shall not be for the lack of my wishing. Your father andSir George would feel deeply injured, should they learn of our friendship, therefore--"

"You are quite right, " he interrupted. "It is better that no one shouldknow of it. Nevertheless, between you and me let there be no feud. "

"The secrecy of our friendship will give it zest, " said I. "That is true, but 'good wine needs no bush. ' You will not mention my name to theladies?"

"No, if you wish that I shall not. "

"I do so wish. "

When the stable boys had taken our horses, I gave my hand to Sir John, after which we entered the inn and treated each other as strangers. 

Soon after I had washed the stains of travel from my hands and face, Isent the maid to my cousins, asking that I might be permitted to pay mydevotions, and Dorothy came to the tap-room in response to my message. 

When she entered she ran to me with outstretched hands and a gleam ofwelcome in her eyes. We had been rare friends when she was a child. 

"Ah, Cousin Malcolm, what a fine surprise you have given us!" sheexclaimed, clasping both my hands and offering me her cheek to kiss. "Father's delight will be beyond measure when he sees you. "

"As mine now is, " I responded, gazing at her from head to foot anddrinking in her beauty with my eyes. "Doll! Doll! What a splendid girl youhave become. Who would have thought that--that--" I hesitated, realizingthat I was rapidly getting myself into trouble. 

"Say it. Say it, cousin! I know what is in your mind. Rusty red hair, angular shoulders, sharp elbows, freckles thickly set as stars upon aclear night, and so large and brown that they fairly twinkled. Greatstaring green eyes. Awkward!--" And she threw up her hands in mimic horrorat the remembrance. "No one could have supposed that such a girl wouldhave become--that is, you know, " she continued confusedly, "could havechanged. I haven't a freckle now, " and she lifted her face that I mightprove the truth of her words by examination, and perhaps that I might alsoobserve her beauty. 

Neither did I waste the opportunity. I dwelt longingly upon the wondrousred golden hair which fringed her low broad forehead, and upon the heavyblack eyebrows, the pencilled points of whose curves almost touchedacross the nose. I saw the rose-tinted ivory of her skin and the long jetlashes curving in a great sweep from her full white lids, and I thoughtfull sure that Venus herself was before me. My gaze halted for a moment atthe long eyes which changed chameleon-like with the shifting light, andvaried with her moods from deep fathomless green to violet, and fromviolet to soft voluptuous brown, but in all their tints beaming forth alustre that would have stirred the soul of an anchorite. Then I noted thebeauty of her clean-cut saucy nose and the red arch of her lips, slightlyparted for the purpose of showing her teeth. But I could not stop long todwell upon any one especial feature, for there were still to be seen herdivine round chin, her large white throat, and the infinite grace in poiseand curve of her strong young form. I dared not pause nor waste my time ifI were to see it all, for such a girl as Dorothy waits no man'sleisure--that is, unless she wishes to wait. In such case there is nomoving her, and patience becomes to her a delightful virtue. 

After my prolonged scrutiny Dorothy lowered her face and saidlaughingly:--

"Now come, cousin, tell me the truth. Who would have thought it possible?"

"Not I, Doll, not I, if you will pardon me the frankness. "

"Oh, that is easily done. " Then with a merry ripple of laughter, "It ismuch easier, I fancy, for a woman to speak of the time when she was plainthan to refer to the time when--when she was beautiful. What an absurdspeech that is for me to make, " she said confusedly. 

"I certainly did not expect to find so great a change, " said I. "Why, Doll, you are wondrous, glorious, beautiful. I can't find words--"

"Then don't try, Cousin Malcolm, " she said with a smile that fringed hermouth in dimples. "Don't try. You will make me vain. "

"You are that already, Doll, " I answered, to tease her. 

"I fear I am, cousin--vain as a man. But don't call me Doll. I am tallenough to be called Dorothy. "

She straightened herself up to her full height, and stepping close to myside, said: "I am as tall as you. I will now try to make you vain. Youlook just as young and as handsome as when I last saw you and so ardentlyadmired your waving black mustachio and your curling chin beard. "

"Did you admire them, Doll--Dorothy?" I asked, hoping, though with littlefaith, that the admiration might still continue. 

"Oh, prodigiously, " she answered with unassuring candor. "Prodigiously. Now who is vain, Cousin Malcolm François de Lorraine Vernon?"

"I, " I responded, shrugging my shoulders and confessing by compulsion. 

"But you must remember, " she continued provokingly, "that a girl of twelveis very immature in her judgment and will fall in love with any man whoallows her to look upon him twice. "

"Then I am to believe that the fire begins very early to burn in thefeminine heart, " I responded. 

"With birth, my cousin, with birth, " she replied; "but in my heart itburned itself out upon your curling beard at the mature age of twelve. "

"And you have never been in love since that time, Doll--Dorothy?" I askedwith more earnestness in my heart than in my voice. 

"No, no; by the Virgin, no! Not even in the shadow of a thought. And bythe help of the Virgin I hope I never shall be; for when it comes to me, mark my word, cousin, there will be trouble in Derbyshire. "

"By my soul, I believe you speak the truth, " I answered, little dreaminghow quickly our joint prophecy would come true. 

I then asked Dorothy to tell me about her father. 

"Father is well in health, " she said. "In mind he has been much troubledand disturbed. Last month he lost the lawsuit against detestable old LordRutland. He was much angered by the loss, and has been moody and morose inbrooding over it ever since. He tries, poor father, to find relief fromhis troubles, and--and I fear takes too much liquor. Rutland and hisfriends swore to one lie upon another, and father believes that the judgewho tried the case was bribed. Father intends to appeal to Parliament, buteven in Parliament he fears he cannot obtain justice. Lord Rutland'sson--a disreputable fellow, who for many years has lived at court--is afavorite with the queen, and his acquaintance with her Majesty and withthe lords will be to father's prejudice. "

"I have always believed that your father stood in the queen's goodgraces?" I said interrogatively. 

"So he does, but I have been told that this son of Lord Rutland, whom Ihave never seen, has the beauty of--of the devil, and exercises a greatinfluence over her Majesty and her friends. The young man is not known inthis neighborhood, for he has never deigned to leave the court; but LadyCavendish tells me he has all the fascinations of Satan. I would thatSatan had him. "

"The feud still lives between Vernon and Rutland?" I asked. 

"Yes, and it will continue to live so long as an ounce of blood can hold apound of hatred, " said the girl, with flashing eyes and hard lips. "I loveto hate the accursed race. They have wronged our house for threegenerations, and my father has suffered greater injury at their hands thanany of our name. Let us not talk of the hateful subject. "

We changed the topic. I had expected Dorothy to invite me to go with herto meet Lady Crawford, but the girl seemed disinclined to leave thetap-room. The Peacock was her father's property, and the host and hostesswere her friends after the manner of persons in their degree. ThereforeDorothy felt at liberty to visit the tap-room quite as freely as if it hadbeen the kitchen of Haddon Hall. 

During our conversation I had frequently noticed Dorothy glancing slyly inthe direction of the fireplace; but my back was turned that way, and I didnot know, nor did it at first occur to me to wonder what attracted herattention. Soon she began to lose the thread of our conversation, and madeinappropriate, tardy replies to my remarks. The glances toward thefireplace increased in number and duration, and her efforts to payattention to what I was saying became painful failures. 

After a little time she said: "Is it not cool here? Let us go over to thefireplace where it is warmer. "

I turned to go with her, and at once saw that it was not the fire in thefireplace which had attracted Dorothy, but quite a different sort offlame. In short, much to my consternation, I discovered that it wasnothing less than my handsome new-found friend, Sir John Manners, towardwhom Dorothy had been glancing. 

We walked over to the fireplace, and one of the fires, Sir John, movedaway. But the girl turned her face that she might see him in his newposition. The movement, I confess, looked bold to the point of brazenness;but if the movement was bold, what shall I say of her glances and theexpression of her face? She seemed unable to take her eager eyes from thestranger, or to think of anything but him, and after a few moments she didnot try. Soon she stopped talking entirely and did not even hear what Iwas saying. I, too, became silent, and after a long pause the girlasked:--

"Cousin, who is the gentleman with whom you were travelling?"

I was piqued by Dorothy's conduct, and answered rather curtly: "He is astranger. I picked him up at Derby, and we rode here together. "

A pause followed, awkward in its duration. 

"Did you--not--learn--his--name?" asked Dorothy, hesitatingly. 

"Yes, " I replied. 

Then came another pause, broken by the girl, who spoke in a quick, imperious tone touched with irritation:--

"Well, what is it?"

"It is better that I do not tell you, " I answered. "It was quite byaccident that we met. Neither of us knew the other. Please do not ask meto tell you his name. "

"Oh, but you make me all the more eager to learn. Mystery, you know, isintolerable to a woman, except in the unravelling. Come, tell me! Tell me!Not, of course, that I really care a farthing to know--but the mystery! Amystery drives me wild. Tell me, please do, Cousin Malcolm. "

She certainly was posing for the stranger's benefit, and was doing all inher power, while coaxing me, to display her charms, graces, and prettylittle ways. Her attitude and conduct spoke as plainly as the springbird's song speaks to its mate. Yet Dorothy's manner did not seem bold. Even to me it appeared modest, beautiful, and necessary. She seemed to actunder compulsion. She would laugh, for the purpose, no doubt, of showingher dimples and her teeth, and would lean her head to one side pigeon-wiseto display her eyes to the best advantage, and then would she shyly glancetoward Sir John to see if he was watching her. It was shameless, but itcould not be helped by Dorothy nor any one else. After a few moments ofmute pleading by the girl, broken now and then by, "Please, please, " Isaid:--

"If you give to me your promise that you will never speak of this matterto any person, I will tell you the gentleman's name. I would not for agreat deal have your father know that I have held conversation with himeven for a moment, though at the time I did not know who he was. "

"Oh, this is delightful! He must be some famous, dashing highwayman. Ipromise, of course I promise--faithfully. " She was glancing constantlytoward Manners, and her face was bright with smiles and eager withanticipation. 

"He is worse than a highwayman, I regret to say. The gentleman toward whomyou are so ardently glancing is--Sir John Manners. "

A shock of pain passed over Dorothy's face, followed by a hard, repellentexpression that was almost ugly. 

"Let us go to Aunt Dorothy, " she said, as she turned and walked across theroom toward the door. 

When we had closed the door of the tap-room behind us Dorothy saidangrily:--

"Tell me, cousin, how you, a Vernon, came to be in his company?"

"I told you that I met him quite by accident at the Royal Arms inDerby-town. We became friends before either knew the other's name. Afterchance had disclosed our identities, he asked for a truce to our feuduntil the morrow; and he was so gentle and open in his conduct that Icould not and would not refuse his proffered olive branch. In truth, whatever faults may be attributable to Lord Rutland, --and I am sure hedeserves all the evil you have spoken of him, --his son, Sir John, is anoble gentleman, else I have been reading the book of human nature all mylife in vain. Perhaps he is in no way to blame for his father's conductHe may have had no part in it"

"Perhaps he has not, " said Dorothy, musingly. 

It was not a pleasant task for me to praise Sir John, but my sense ofjustice impelled me to do so. I tried to make myself feel injured andchagrined because of Dorothy's manner toward him; for you must remember Ihad arranged with myself to marry this girl, but I could not work myfeelings into a state of indignation against the heir to Rutland. Thetruth is, my hope of winning Dorothy had evaporated upon the first sightof her, like the volatile essence it really was. I cannot tell you why, but I at once seemed to realize that all the thought and labor which I haddevoted to the arduous task of arranging with myself this marriage waslabor lost. So I frankly told her my kindly feelings for Sir John, andgave her my high estimate of his character. 

I continued: "You see, Dorothy, I could not so easily explain to yourfather my association with Sir John, and I hope you will not speak of itto any one, lest the news should reach Sir George's ears. "

"I will not speak of it, " she returned, sighing faintly. "After all, it isnot his fault that his father is such a villain. He doesn't look like hisfather, does he?"

"I cannot say. I never saw Lord Rutland, " I replied. 

"He is the most villanous-looking--" but she broke off the sentence andstood for a moment in revery. We were in the darkened passage, and Dorothyhad taken my hand. That little act in another woman of course would haveled to a demonstration on my part, but in this girl it seemed so entirelynatural and candid that it was a complete bar to undue familiarity. Intruth, I had no such tendency, for the childish act spoke of an innocenceand faith that were very sweet to me who all my life had lived among menand women who laughed at those simple virtues. The simple conditions oflife are all that are worth striving for. They come to us fresh fromNature and from Nature's God. The complex are but concoctions of man afterrecipes in the devil's alchemy. So much gold, so much ambition, so muchlust. Mix well. Product: so much vexation. 

"He must resemble his mother, " said Dorothy, after a long pause. "Poorfellow! His mother is dead. He is like me in that respect. I wonder if hisfather's villanies trouble him?"

"I think they must trouble him. He seems to be sad, " said I, intending tobe ironical. 

My reply was taken seriously. 

"I am sorry for him, " she said, "it is not right to hate even our enemies. The Book tells us that. "

"Yet you hate Lord Rutland, " said I, amused and provoked. 

Unexpected and dangerous symptoms were rapidly developing in the perversegirl, and trouble was brewing "in Derbyshire. "

The adjective perverse, by the way, usually is superfluous when used tomodify the noun girl. 

"Yet you hate Lord Rutland, " I repeated. 

"Why, y-e-s, " she responded. "I cannot help that, but you know it would bevery wrong to--to hate all his family. To hate him is bad enough. "

I soon began to fear that I had praised Sir John overmuch. 

"I think Sir John is all there is of Lord Rutland's family, " I said, alarmed yet amused at Dorothy's search for an excuse not to hate mynew-found friend. 

"Well, " she continued after a pause, throwing her head to one side, "I amsorry there are no more of that family not to hate. "

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" I exclaimed. "What has come over you? You surpriseme. "

"Yes, " she answered, with a little sigh, "I certainly have surprisedmyself by--by my willingness to forgive those who have injured my house. Idid not know there was so much--so much good in me. "

"Mistress Pharisee, " thought I, "you are a hypocrite. "

Again intending to be ironical, I said, "Shall I fetch him from thetap-room and present him to you?"

Once more my irony was lost upon the girl. Evidently that sort of humorwas not my strong point. 

"No, no, " she responded indignantly, "I would not speak to him for--"Again she broke her sentence abruptly, and after a little pause, short initself but amply long for a girl like Dorothy to change her mind two scoretimes, she continued: "It would not be for the best. What think you, Cousin Malcolm?"

"Surely the girl has gone mad, " thought I. Her voice was soft andconciliating as if to say, "I trust entirely to your mature, superiorjudgment. "

My judgment coincided emphatically with her words, and I said: "I spokeonly in jest. It certainly would not be right. It would be all wrong ifyou were to meet him. "

"That is true, " the girl responded with firmness, "but--but no real harmcould come of it, " she continued, laughing nervously. "He could not strikeme nor bite me. Of course it would be unpleasant for me to meet him, andas there is no need--I am curious to know what one of his race is like. It's the only reason that would induce me to consent. Of course you knowthere could be no other reason for me to wish--that is, you know--to bewilling to meet him. Of course you know. "

"Certainly, " I replied, still clinging to my unsuccessful irony. "I willtell you all I know about him, so that you may understand what he islike. As for his personal appearance, you saw him, did you not?"

I thought surely that piece of irony would not fail, but it did, and Ihave seldom since attempted to use that form of humor. 

"Yes--oh, yes, I saw him for a moment. "

"But I will not present him to you, Dorothy, however much you may wish tomeet him, " I said positively. 

"It is almost an insult, Cousin Malcolm, for you to say that I wish tomeet him, " she answered in well-feigned indignation. 

The French blood in my veins moved me to shrug my shoulders. I could donothing else. With all my knowledge of womankind this girl had sent me tosea. 

But what shall we say of Dorothy's conduct? I fancy I can hear you mutter, "This Dorothy Vernon must have been a bold, immodest, brazen girl. "Nothing of the sort. Dare you of the cold blood--if perchance there be anywith that curse in their veins who read these lines--dare you, I say, liftyour voice against the blessed heat in others which is but a greater, stronger, warmer spark of God's own soul than you possess or than you cancomprehend? "Evil often comes of it, " I hear you say. That I freely admit;and evil comes from eating too much bread, and from hearing too muchpreaching. But the universe, from the humblest blade of grass to theinfinite essence of God, exists because of that warmth which the mawkishworld contemns. Is the iron immodest when it creeps to the lodestone andclings to its side? Is the hen bird brazen when she flutters to her materesponsive to his compelling woo-song? Is the seed immodest when it sinksinto the ground and swells with budding life? Is the cloud bold when itsoftens into rain and falls to earth because it has no other choice? or isit brazen when it nestles for a time on the bosom of heaven's arched domeand sinking into the fathomless depths of a blue black infinity ceases tobe itself? Is the human soul immodest when, drawn by a force it cannotresist, it seeks a stronger soul which absorbs its ego as the blue skyabsorbs the floating cloud, as the warm earth swells the seed, as themagnet draws the iron? All these are of one quality. The iron, the seed, the cloud, and the soul of man are _what_ they are, do _what_ they do, love as they love, live as they live, and die as they die because theymust--because they have no other choice. We think we are free because attimes we act as we please, forgetting that God gives us the "please, " andthat every act of our being is but the result of a dictated motive. Dorothy was not immodest. This was her case. She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. You, too, are the iron, the seed, the cloud, andthe rain. It is only human vanity which prompts you to believe that youare yourself and that you are free. Do you find any freedom in this worldsave that which you fondly believe to exist within yourself? Self! Thereis but one self, God. I have been told that the people of the East callHim Brahma. The word, it is said, means "Breath, " "Inspiration, " "All. " Ihave felt that the beautiful pagan thought has truth in it; but myconscience and my priest tell me rather to cling to truths I have than tofly to others that I know not of. As a result, I shall probably dieorthodox and mistaken. 

CHAPTER III

THE PITCHER GOES TO THE WELL. 

Dorothy and I went to the inn parlors, where I received a cordial welcomefrom my cousin, Lady Crawford. After our greeting, Dorothy came toward meleading the fair, pale girl whom I had seen in the courtyard. 

"Madge, this is my cousin, Malcolm Vernon, " said Dorothy. "He was a dearfriend of my childhood and is much beloved by my father. Lady MagdaleneStanley, cousin, " and she placed the girl's soft white hand in mine. Therewas a peculiar hesitancy in the girl's manner which puzzled me. She didnot look at me when Dorothy placed her hand in mine, but kept her eyescast down, the long, black lashes resting upon the fair curves of hercheek like a shadow on the snow. She murmured a salutation, and when Imade a remark that called for a response, she lifted her eyes but seemednot to look at me. Unconsciously I turned my face toward Dorothy, whoclosed her eyes and formed with her lips the word "blind. "

I retained the girl's hand, and she did not withdraw it. When I caughtDorothy's unspoken word I led Lady Madge to a chair and asked if I mightsit beside her. 

"Certainly, " she answered smilingly; "you know I am blind, but I can hearand speak, and I enjoy having persons I like sit near me that I may touchthem now and then while we talk. If I could only see!" she exclaimed. Still, there was no tone of complaint in her voice and very little even ofregret. The girl's eyes were of a deep blue and were entirely without scaror other evidence of blindness, except that they did not seem to see. Iafterward learned that her affliction had come upon her as the result ofillness when she was a child. She was niece to the Earl of Derby, andDorothy's mother had been her aunt. She owned a small estate and had livedat Haddon Hall five or six years because of the love that existed betweenher and Dorothy. A strong man instinctively longs to cherish that whichneeds his strength, and perhaps it was the girl's helplessness that firstappealed to me. Perhaps it was her rare, peculiar beauty, speakingeloquently of virtue such as I had never known, that touched me. I cannotsay what the impelling cause was, but this I know: my heart went out inpity to her, and all that was good within me--good, which I had neverbefore suspected--stirred in my soul, and my past life seemed black andbarren beyond endurance. Even Dorothy's marvellous beauty lacked thesubtle quality which this simple blind girl possessed. The first step inregeneration is to see one's faults; the second is to regret them; thethird is to quit them. The first and second steps constitute repentance;the second and third regeneration. One hour within the radius of MadgeStanley's influence brought me to repentance. But repentance is aneveryday virtue. Should I ever achieve regeneration? That is one of thequestions this history will answer. To me, Madge Stanley's passive forcewas the strongest influence for good that had ever impinged on my life. With respect to her, morally, I was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and therain, for she, acting unconsciously, moved me with neither knowledge norvolition on my part. 

Soon after my arrival at the ladies' parlor dinner was served, and afterdinner a Persian merchant was ushered in, closely followed by hisservants bearing bales of rare Eastern fabrics. A visit and a dinner atthe inn were little events that made a break in the monotony of life atthe Hall, and the ladies preferred to visit the merchant, who was stoppingat The Peacock for a time, rather than to have him take his wares toHaddon. 

While Lady Crawford and Dorothy were revelling in Persian silks, satins, and gold cloths, I sat by Lady Madge and was more than content that wewere left to ourselves. My mind, however, was as far from thoughts ofgallantry as if she had been a black-veiled nun. I believe I have not toldyou that I was of the Holy Catholic Faith. My religion, I may say, hasalways been more nominal and political than spiritual, although there ranthrough it a strong vein of inherited tendencies and superstitions whichwere highly colored by contempt for heresy and heretics. I was Catholic byhabit. But if I analyzed my supposed religious belief, I found that I hadnone save a hatred for heresy. Heretics, as a rule, were low-born persons, vulgarly moral, and as I had always thought, despisedly hypocritical. Madge Stanley, however, was a Protestant, and that fact shook thestructure of my old mistakes to its foundation, and left me religionless. 

After the Persian merchant had packed his bales and departed, Dorothy andLady Crawford joined Madge and me near the fireplace. Soon Dorothy wentover to the window and stood there gazing into the courtyard. After a fewminutes Lady Crawford said, "Dorothy, had we not better order Dawson tobring out the horses and coach?" Will Dawson was Sir George's forester. Lady Crawford repeated her question, but Dorothy was too intently watchingthe scene in the courtyard to hear. I went over to her, and looking out atthe window discovered the object of Dorothy's rapt attention. There is noneed for me to tell you who it was. Irony, as you know, and as I hadlearned, was harmless against this thick-skinned nymph. Of course I had noauthority to scold her, so I laughed. The object of Dorothy's attentionwas about to mount his horse. He was drawing on his gauntleted gloves andheld between his teeth a cigarro. He certainly presented a handsome figurefor the eyes of an ardent girl to rest upon while he stood beneath thewindow, clothed in a fashionable Paris-made suit of brown, doublet, trunks, and hose. His high-topped boots were polished till they shone, andhis broad-rimmed hat, of soft beaver, was surmounted by a flowing plume. Even I, who had no especial taste nor love for masculine beauty, felt mysense of the beautiful strongly moved by the attractive picture mynew-found friend presented. His dress, manner, and bearing, polished bythe friction of life at a luxurious court, must have appeared god-like toDorothy. She had never travelled farther from home than Buxton andDerby-town, and had met only the half-rustic men belonging to thesurrounding gentry and nobility of Derbyshire, Nottingham, and Stafford. She had met but few even of them, and their lives had been spent chieflyin drinking, hunting, and gambling--accomplishments that do not fine downthe texture of a man's nature or fit him for a lady's bower. Sir JohnManners was a revelation to Dorothy; and she, poor girl, was bewilderedand bewitched by him. 

When John had mounted and was moving away, he looked up to the windowwhere Dorothy stood, and a light came to her eyes and a smile to her facewhich no man who knows the sum of two and two can ever mistake if he butonce sees it. 

When I saw the light in Dorothy's eyes, I knew that all the hatred thatwas ever born from all the feuds that had ever lived since the quarrellingrace of man began its feuds in Eden could not make Dorothy Vernon hate theson of her father's enemy. 

"I was--was--watching him draw smoke through the--the little stick whichhe holds in his mouth, and--and blow it out again, " said Dorothy, inexplanation of her attitude. She blushed painfully and continued, "I hopeyou do not think--"

"I do not think, " I answered. "I would not think of thinking. "

"Of course not, " she responded, with a forced smile, as she watched SirJohn pass out of sight under the arch of the innyard gate. I did notthink. I knew. And the sequel, so full of trouble, soon proved that I wasright. After John had passed through the gate, Dorothy was willing to gohome; and when Will Dawson brought the great coach to the inn door, Imounted my horse and rode beside the ladies to Haddon Hall, two milesnorth from Rowsley. 

I shall not stop to tell you of the warm welcome given me by Sir GeorgeVernon, nor of his delight when I briefly told him my misfortunes inScotland--misfortunes that had brought me to Haddon Hall. Nor shall Idescribe the great boar's head supper given in my honor, at which therewere twenty men who could have put me under the table. I thought I knewsomething of the art of drinking, but at that supper I soon found I was amere tippler compared with these country guzzlers. At that feast I learnedalso that Dorothy, when she had hinted concerning Sir George's excessivedrinking, had told the truth. He, being the host, drank with all hisguests. Near midnight he grew distressingly drunk, talkative, and violent, and when toward morning he was carried from the room by his servants, thecompany broke up. Those who could do so reeled home; those who could notwalk at all were put to bed by the retainers at Haddon Hall. I had chosenmy bedroom high up in Eagle Tower. At table I had tried to remain sober. That, however, was an impossible task, for at the upper end of the hailthere was a wrist-ring placed in the wainscoting at a height of ten ortwelve inches above the head of an ordinary man, and if he refused todrink as much as the other guests thought he should, his wrist wasfastened above his head in the ring, and the liquor which he should havepoured down his throat was poured down his sleeve. Therefore to avoid thisspecies of rustic sport I drank much more than was good for me. When thefeast closed I thought I was sober enough to go to my room unassisted; soI took a candle, and with a great show of self-confidence climbed thespiral stone stairway to the door of my room. The threshold of my door wastwo or three feet above the steps of the stairway, and after I hadcontemplated the distance for a few minutes, I concluded that it would notbe safe for me to attempt to climb into my sleeping apartments withouthelp. Accordingly I sat down upon the step on which I had been standing, placed my candle beside me, called loudly for a servant, received noresponse, and fell asleep only to be awakened by one of Sir George'sretainers coming downstairs next morning. 

After that supper, in rapid succession, followed hunting and drinking, feasting and dancing in my honor. At the dances the pipers furnished themusic, or, I should rather say, the noise. Their miserable wailingsreminded me of Scotland. After all, thought I, is the insidious, polishedvice of France worse than the hoggish, uncouth practices of Scotland andof English country life? I could not endure the latter, so I asked SirGeorge, on the pretext of ill health, to allow me to refuse invitations toother houses, and I insisted that he should give no more entertainments atHaddon Hall on my account. Sir George eagerly acquiesced in all my wishes. In truth, I was treated like an honored guest and a member of the family, and I congratulated myself that my life had fallen in such pleasant lines. Dorothy and Madge became my constant companions, for Sir George's timewas occupied chiefly with his estates and with his duties as magistrate. Afeeling of rest and contentment came over me, and my past life driftedback of me like an ever receding cloud. 

Thus passed the months of October and November. 

In the meantime events in Scotland and in England proved my wisdom inseeking a home at Haddon Hall, and showed me how great was my good fortunein finding it. 

Queen Mary was a prisoner at Lochleven Castle, and her brother Murray hadbeheaded many of her friends. Elizabeth, hating Mary as only a plain, envious woman can hate one who is transcendently beautiful, had, upondifferent pretexts, seized many of Mary's friends who had fled to Englandfor sanctuary, and some of them had suffered imprisonment or death. 

Elizabeth, in many instances, had good cause for her attitude towardMary's friends, since plots were hatching thick and fast to liberate Maryfrom Lochleven; and many such plots, undoubtedly, had for their chief endthe deposition of Elizabeth, and the enthronement of Mary as Queen ofEngland. 

As a strict matter of law, Mary was rightful heir to the English throne, and Elizabeth was an usurper. Parliament, at Henry's request, had declaredthat Elizabeth, his issue by Anne Boleyn, was illegitimate, and that beingtrue, Mary was next in line of descent. The Catholics of England took thatstand, and Mary's beauty and powers of fascination had won for her friendseven in the personal household of the Virgin Queen. Small cause for wonderwas it that Elizabeth, knowing all these facts, looked with suspicion andfear upon Mary's refugee friends. 

The English queen well knew that Sir George Vernon was her friend, therefore his house and his friendship were my sanctuary, without whichmy days certainly would have been numbered in the land of Elizabeth, andtheir number would have been small. I was dependent on Sir George not onlyfor a roof to shelter me, but for my very life. I speak of these thingsthat you may know some of the many imperative reasons why I desired toplease and conciliate my cousin. In addition to those reasons, I soon grewto love Sir George, not only because of his kindness to me, but because hewas a lovable man. He was generous, just, and frank, and although at timeshe was violent almost to the point of temporary madness, his heart wasusually gentle, and was as easily touched by kindness as it was quicklymoved to cruelty by injury, fancied or actual. I have never known a morecruel, tender man than he. You will see him in each of his natures beforeyou have finished this history. But you must judge him only after you haveconsidered his times, which were forty years ago, his surroundings, andhis blood. 

During those two months remarkable changes occurred within the walls ofHaddon, chief of which were in myself, and, alas! in Dorothy. 

My pilgrimage to Haddon, as you already know, had been made for thepurpose of marrying my fair cousin; for I did not, at the time I leftScotland, suppose I should need Sir George's protection against Elizabeth. When I met Dorothy at Rowsley, my desire to marry her became personal, inaddition to the mercenary motives with which I had originally started. ButI quickly recognized the fact that the girl was beyond my reach. I knew Icould not win her love, even though I had a thousand years to try for it;and I would not accept her hand in marriage solely at her father'scommand. I also soon learned that Dorothy was the child of her father, gentle, loving, and tender beyond the naming, but also wilful, violent, and fierce to the extent that no command could influence her. 

First I shall speak of the change within myself. I will soon be done withso much "I" and "me, " and you shall have Dorothy to your heart's content, or trouble, I know not which. 

Soon after my arrival at Haddon Hall the sun ushered in one of thosewonderful days known only to the English autumn, when the hush of Nature'sdrowsiness, just before her long winter's sleep, imparts its softrestfulness to man, as if it were a lotus feast. Dorothy wasostentatiously busy with her household matters, and was consulting withbutler, cook, and steward. Sir George had ridden out to superintend hismen at work, and I, wandering aimlessly about the hail, came upon MadgeStanley sitting in the chaplain's room with folded hands. 

"Lady Madge, will you go with me for a walk this beautiful morning?" Iasked. 

"Gladly would I go, Sir Malcolm, " she responded, a smile brightening herface and quickly fading away, "but I--I cannot walk in unfamiliar places. I should fail. You would have to lead me by the hand, and that, I fear, would mar the pleasure of your walk. "

"Indeed, it would not, Lady Madge. I should enjoy my walk all the more. "

"If you really wish me to go, I shall be delighted, " she responded, as thebrightness came again to her face. "I sometimes grow weary, and, Iconfess, a little sad sitting alone when Dorothy cannot be with me. AuntDorothy, now that she has her magnifying glasses, --spectacles, I thinkthey are called, --devotes all her time to reading, and dislikes to beinterrupted. "

"I wish it very much, " I said, surprised by the real eagerness of mydesire, and unconsciously endeavoring to keep out of the tones of my voicea part of that eagerness. 

"I shall take you at your word, " she said. "I will go to my room to get myhat and cloak. "

She rose and began to grope her way toward the door, holding out herwhite, expressive hands in front of her. It was pitiful and beautiful tosee her, and my emotions welled up in my throat till I could hardly speak. 

"Permit me to give you my hand, " I said huskily. How I longed to carryher! Every man with the right sort of a heart in his breast has a touch ofthe mother instinct in him; but, alas I only a touch. Ah, wondrous andglorious womanhood! If you had naught but the mother instinct to lift youabove your masters by the hand of man-made laws, those masters were stillunworthy to tie the strings of your shoes. 

"Thank you, " said the girl, as she clasped my hand, and moved withconfidence by my side. "This is so much better than the dreadful fear offalling. Even through these rooms where I have lived for many years I feelsafe only in a few places, --on the stairs, and in my rooms, which are alsoDorothy's. When Dorothy changes the position of a piece of furniture inthe Hall, she leads me to it several times that I may learn just where itis. A long time ago she changed the position of a chair and did not tellme. I fell against it and was hurt. Dorothy wept bitterly over the mishap, and she has never since failed to tell me of such changes. I cannot makeyou know how kind and tender Dorothy is to me. I feel that I should diewithout her, and I know she would grieve terribly were we to part. "

I could not answer. What a very woman you will think I was! I, who couldlaugh while I ran my sword through a man's heart, could hardly restrain mytears for pity of this beautiful blind girl. 

"Thank you; that will do, " she said, when we came to the foot of the greatstaircase. "I can now go to my rooms alone. "

When she reached the top she hesitated and groped for a moment; then sheturned and called laughingly to me while I stood at the bottom of thesteps, "I know the way perfectly well, but to go alone in any place is notlike being led. "

"There are many ways in which one may be led, Lady Madge, " I answeredaloud. Then I said to myself, "That girl will lead you to Heaven, Malcolm, if you will permit her to do so. "

But thirty-five years of evil life are hard to neutralize. There is butone subtle elixir that can do it--love; and I had not thought of thatmagic remedy with respect to Madge. 

I hurriedly fetched my hat and returned to the foot of the staircase. Within a minute or two Madge came down stairs holding up the skirt of hergown with one hand, while she grasped the banister with the other. As Iwatched her descending I was enraptured with her beauty. Even themarvellous vital beauty of Dorothy could not compare with this girl'sfair, pale loveliness. It seemed to be almost a profanation for me toadmire the sweet oval of her face. Upon her alabaster skin, the blackeyebrows, the long lashes, the faint blue veins and the curving red lipsstood in exquisite relief. While she was descending the stairs, I caught agleam of her round, snowy forearm and wrist; and when my eyes sought theperfect curves of her form disclosed by the clinging silk gown she wore, Ifelt that I had sinned in looking upon her, and I was almost glad shecould not see the shame which was in my face. 

"Cousin Malcolm, are you waiting?" she asked from midway in the staircase. 

"Yes, I am at the foot of the steps, " I answered. 

"I called you 'Cousin Malcolm, '" she said, holding out her hand when shecame near me. "Pardon me; it was a slip of the tongue. I hear 'CousinMalcolm' so frequently from Dorothy that the name is familiar to me. "

"I shall be proud if you will call me 'Cousin Malcolm' always. I like thename better than any that you can use. "

"If you wish it, " she said, in sweet, simple candor, "I will call you'Cousin Malcolm, ' and you may call me 'Cousin Madge' or 'Madge, ' just asyou please. "

"'Cousin Madge' it shall be; that is a compact, " I answered, as I openedthe door and we walked out into the fresh air of the bright Octobermorning. 

"That will stand for our first compact; we are progressing famously, " shesaid, with a low laugh of delight. 

Ah, to think that the blind can laugh. God is good. 

We walked out past the stables and the cottage, and crossed the river onthe great stone bridge. Then we took our way down the babbling Wye, keeping close to its banks, while the dancing waters and even the gleamingpebbles seemed to dimple and smile as they softly sang their song ofwelcome to the fair kindred spirit who had come to visit them. If wewandered from the banks for but a moment, the waters seemed to struggleand turn in their course until they were again by her side, and then wouldthey gently flow and murmur their contentment as they travelled forward tothe sea, full of the memory of her sweet presence. And during all thattime I led her by the hand. I tell you, friends, 'tis sweet to write ofit. 

When we returned we crossed the Wye by the stone footbridge and enteredthe garden below the terrace at the corner postern. We remained for anhour resting upon the terrace balustrade, and before we went indoors Madgeagain spoke of Dorothy. 

"I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this walk, nor how thankful Iam to you for taking me, " she said. 

I did not interrupt her by replying, for I loved to hear her talk. 

"Dorothy sometimes takes me with her for a short walk, but I seldom havethat pleasure. Walking is too slow for Dorothy. She is so strong and fullof life. She delights to ride her mare Dolcy. Have you seen Dolcy?"

"No, " I responded. 

"You must see her at once. She is the most beautiful animal in the world. Though small of limb, she is swift as the wind, and as easy as a cradle inher gaits. She is mettlesome and fiery, but full of affection. She oftenkisses Dorothy. Mare and rider are finely mated. Dorothy is the mostperfect woman, and Dolcy is the most perfect mare. 'The two D's, ' we callthem. But Dorothy says we must be careful not to put a--a dash betweenthem, " she said with a laugh and a blush. 

Then I led Madge into the hall, and she was blithe and happy as if theblessed light of day were in her eyes. It was in her soul, and that, afterall, is where it brings the greatest good. 

After that morning, Madge and I frequently walked out when the days werepleasant. The autumn was mild, well into winter time, and by the end ofNovember the transparent cheeks of the blind girl held an exquisite tingeof color, and her form had a new grace from the strength she had acquiredin exercise. We had grown to be dear friends, and the touch of her handwas a pleasure for which I waited eagerly from day to day. Again I saythoughts of love for her had never entered my mind. Perhaps their absencewas because of my feeling that they could not possibly exist in her heartfor me. 

One evening in November, after the servants had all gone to bed, SirGeorge and I went to the kitchen to drink a hot punch before retiring forthe night. I drank a moderate bowl and sat in a large chair before thefire, smoking a pipe of tobacco, while Sir George drank brandy toddy atthe massive oak table in the middle of the room. 

Sir George was rapidly growing drunk. He said: "Dawson tells me that thequeen's officers arrested another of Mary Stuart's damned French friendsat Derby-town yesterday, --Count somebody; I can't pronounce theirmiserable names. "

"Can you not remember his name?" I asked. "He may be a friend of mine. " Myremark was intended to remind Sir George that his language was offensiveto me. 

"That is true, Malcolm, " responded Sir George. "I beg your pardon. I meantto speak ill only of Mary's meddlesome friends, who are doing more injurythan good to their queen's cause by their plotting. "

I replied: "No one can regret these plots more than I do. They certainlywill work great injury to the cause they are intended to help. But I fearmany innocent men are made to suffer for the few guilty ones. Without yourprotection, for which I cannot sufficiently thank you, my life here wouldprobably be of short duration. After my misfortunes in Scotland, I knownot what I should have done had it not been for your generous welcome. Ilost all in Scotland, and it would now be impossible for me to go toFrance. An attempt on my part to escape would result in my arrest. Fortunecertainly has turned her capricious back upon me, with the one exceptionthat she has left me your friendship. "

"Malcolm, my boy, " said Sir George, drawing his chair toward me, "thatwhich you consider your loss is my great gain. I am growing old, and ifyou, who have seen so much of the gay world, will be content to live withus and share our dulness and our cares, I shall be the happiest man inEngland. "

"I thank you more than I can tell, " I said, careful not to commit myselfto any course. 

"Barring my quarrel with the cursed race of Manners, " continued SirGeorge, "I have little to trouble me; and if you will remain with us, Ithank God I may leave the feud in good hands. Would that I were youngagain only for a day that I might call that scoundrel Rutland and his impof a son to account in the only manner whereby an honest man may havejustice of a thief. There are but two of them, Malcolm, --father andson, --and if they were dead, the damned race would be extinct. "

I believe that Sir George Vernon when sober could not have spoken in thatfashion even of his enemies. 

I found difficulty in replying to my cousin's remarks, so I saidevasively:--

"I certainly am the most fortunate of men to find so warm a welcome fromyou, and so good a home as that which I have at Haddon Hall. When I metDorothy at the inn, I knew at once by her kindness that my friends of oldwere still true to me. I was almost stunned by Dorothy's beauty. "

My mention of Dorothy was unintentional and unfortunate. I had shied fromthe subject upon several previous occasions, but Sir George wascontinually trying to lead up to it. This time my lack of forethoughtsaved him the trouble. 

"Do you really think that Doll is very beautiful--so very beautiful? Doyou really think so, Malcolm?" said the old gentleman, rubbing his handsin pride and pleasure. 

"Surprisingly beautiful, " I answered, seeking hurriedly through my mindfor an excuse to turn the conversation. I had within two months learnedone vital fact: beautiful as Dorothy was, I did not want her for my wife, and I could not have had her even were I dying for love. The more Ilearned of Dorothy and myself during the autumn through which I had justpassed--and I had learned more of myself than I had been able to discoverin the thirty-five previous years of my life--the more clearly I saw theutter unfitness of marriage between us. 

"In all your travels, " asked Sir George, leaning his elbows upon hisknees and looking at his feet between his hands, "in all your travels andcourt life have you ever seen a woman who was so beautiful as my girlDoll?"

His pride in Dorothy at times had a tinge of egotism and selfishness. Itseemed to be almost the pride of possession and ownership. "My girl!" Theexpression and the tone in which the words were spoken sounded as if hehad said: "My fine horse, " "My beautiful Hall, " or "My grand estates. "Dorothy was his property. Still, he loved the girl passionately. She wasdearer to him than all his horses, cattle, halls, and estates puttogether, and he loved even them to excess. He loved all that hepossessed; whatever was his was the best of the sort. Such a love is aptto grow up in the breasts of men who have descended from a long line ofproprietary ancestors, and with all its materialism it has in itpossibilities of great good. The sturdy, unflinching patriotism of theEnglish people springs from this source. The thought, "That which Ipossess is the best, " has beauty and use in it, though it leads men totreat other men, and, alas! women, as mere chattels. All this was passingthrough my mind, and I forgot to answer Sir George's question. 

"Have you ever seen a woman more beautiful than Doll?" he again asked. 

"I certainly have never seen one whose beauty may even be compared withDorothy's, " I answered. 

"And she is young, too, " continued Sir George; "she is not yet nineteen. "

"That is very young, " I answered, not knowing what else to say. 

"And she will be rich some day. Very rich. I am called 'King of the Peak, 'you know, and there are not three estates in Derbyshire which, ifcombined, would equal mine. "

"That is true, cousin, " I answered, "and I rejoice in your good fortune. "

"Dorothy will have it all one of these days--all, all, " continued mycousin, still looking at his feet. 

After a long pause, during which Sir George took several libations fromhis bowl of toddy, he cleared his throat and said, "So Dorothy is the mostbeautiful girl and the richest heiress you know?"

"Indeed she is, " I responded, knowing full well what he was leading up to. Realizing that in spite of me he would now speak his mind, I made noattempt to turn the current of the conversation. 

After another long pause, and after several more draughts from the bowl, my old friend and would-be benefactor said: "You may remember a littleconversation between us when you were last at Haddon six or seven yearsago, about--about Dorothy? You remember?"

I, of course, dared not pretend that I had forgotten. 

"Yes, I remember, " I responded. 

"What do you think of the proposition by this time?" asked Sir George. "Dorothy and all she will inherit shall be yours--"

"Stop, stop, Sir George!" I exclaimed. "You do not know what you say. Noone but a prince or a great peer of the realm is worthy of aspiring toDorothy's hand. When she is ready to marry you should take her to Londoncourt, where she can make her choice from among the nobles of our land. There is not a marriageable duke or earl in England who would not eagerlyseek the girl for a wife. My dear cousin, your generosity overwhelms me, but it must not be thought of. I am utterly unworthy of her in person, age, and position. No! no!"

"But listen to me, Malcolm, " responded Sir George. "Your modesty, which, in truth, I did not know you possessed, is pleasing to me; but I havereasons of my own for wishing that you should marry Dorothy. I want myestates to remain in the Vernon name, and one day you or your childrenwill make my house and my name noble. You and Dorothy shall go to court, and between you--damme! if you can't win a dukedom, I am no prophet. Youwould not object to change your faith, would you?"

"Oh, no, " I responded, "of course I should not object to that. "

"Of course not. I knew you were no fool, " said Sir George. "Age! why, youare only thirty-five years old--little more than a matured boy. I preferyou to any man in England for Dorothy's husband. "

"You overwhelm me with your kindness, " I returned, feeling that I wasbeing stranded on a very dangerous shore, amidst wealth and beauty. 

"Tut, tut, there's no kindness in it, " returned my cousin. "I do not offeryou Dorothy's hand from an unselfish motive. I have told you one motive, but there is another, and a little condition besides, Malcolm. " The brandySir George had been drinking had sent the devil to his brain. 

"What is the condition?" I asked, overjoyed to hear that there was one. 

The old man leaned toward me and a fierce blackness overclouded his face. "I am told, Malcolm, that you have few equals in swordsmanship, and thatthe duello is not new to you. Is it true?"

"I believe I may say it is true, " I answered. "I have fought successfullywith some of the most noted duellists of--"

"Enough, enough! Now, this is the condition, Malcolm, --a welcome one toyou, I am sure; a welcome one to any brave man. " His eyes gleamed withfire and hatred. "Quarrel with Rutland and his son and kill both of them. "

I felt like recoiling from the old fiend. I had often quarrelled andfought, but, thank God, never in cold blood and with deliberate intent todo murder. 

"Then Dorothy and all I possess shall be yours, " said Sir George. "The oldone will be an easy victim. The young one, they say, prides himself on hisprowess. I do not know with what cause, I have never seen him fight. Infact, I have never seen the fellow at all. He has lived at London courtsince he was a child, and has seldom, if ever, visited this part of thecountry. He was a page both to Edward VI. And to Queen Mary. Why Elizabethkeeps the damned traitor at court to plot against her is more than I canunderstand. Do the conditions suit you, Malcolm?" asked Sir George, piercing me with his eyes. 

I did not respond, and he continued: "All I ask is your promise to killRutland and his son at the first opportunity. I care not how. The marriagemay come off at once. It can't take place too soon to please me. "

I could not answer for a time. The power to speak and to think had leftme. To accept Sir George's offer was out of the question. To refuse itwould be to give offence beyond reparation to my only friend, and you knowwhat that would have meant to me. My refuge was Dorothy. I knew, howeverwilling I might be or might appear to be, Dorothy would save me thetrouble and danger of refusing her hand. So I said:--

"We have not consulted Dorothy. Perhaps her inclinations--"

"Doll's inclinations be damned. I have always been kind and indulgent toher, and she is a dutiful, obedient daughter. My wish and command in thisaffair will furnish inclinations enough for Doll. "

"But, Sir George, " I remonstrated, "I would not accept the hand of Dorothynor of any woman unless she desired it. I could not. I could not. "

"If Doll consents, I am to understand that you accept?" asked Sir George. 

I saw no way out of the dilemma, and to gain time I said, "Few men intheir right mind would refuse so flattering an offer unless there were amost potent reason, and I--I--"

"Good! good! I shall go to bed happy to-night for the first time in years. The Rutlands will soon be out of my path. "

There is a self-acting retribution in our evil passions which never failsto operate. One who hates must suffer, and Sir George for years had paidthe penalty night and day, unconscious that his pain was of his ownmaking. 

Before we parted I said, "This is a delicate matter, with reference toDorothy, and I insist that you give me time to win, if possible, herkindly regard before you express to her your wish. "

"Nonsense, nonsense, Malcolm! I'll tell the girl about it in the morning, and save you the trouble. The women will want to make some new gownsand--"

"But, " I interrupted emphatically, "I will not have it so. It is everyman's sweet privilege to woo the woman of his choice in his own way. It isnot a trouble to me; it is a pleasure, and it is every woman's right to bewooed by the man who seeks her. I again insist that I only shall speak toDorothy on this subject. At least, I demand that I be allowed to speakfirst. "

"That's all damned nonsense, " responded Sir George; "but if you will haveit so, well and good. Take your own course. I suppose it's the fashion atcourt. The good old country way suits me. A girl's father tells her whomshe is to marry, and, by gad, she does it without a word and is glad toget a man. English girls obey their parents. They know what to expect ifthey don't--the lash, by God and the dungeon under the keep. Yourroundabout method is all right for tenants and peasants; but among peoplewho possess estates and who control vast interests, girls are--girlsare--Well, they are born and brought up to obey and to help forward theinterests of their houses. " The old man was growing very drunk, and aftera long pause he continued: "Have your own way, Malcolm, but don't wastetime. Now that the matter is settled, I want to get it off my handsquickly. "

"I shall speak to Dorothy on the subject at the first favorableopportunity, " I responded; "but I warn you, Sir George, that if Dorothyproves disinclined to marry me, I will not accept her hand. "

"Never fear for Doll; she will be all right, " and we parted. 

Doll all right! Had he only known how very far from "all right" Dorothywas, he would have slept little that night. 

This brings me to the other change of which I spoke--the change inDorothy. Change? It was a metamorphosis. 

A fortnight after the scene at The Peacock I accidentally discovered adrawing made by Dorothy of a man with a cigarro in his mouth. The girlsnatched the paper from my hands and blushed convincingly. 

"It is a caricature of--of him, " she said. She smiled, and evidently waswilling to talk upon the subject of "him. " I declined the topic. 

This happened a month or more previous to my conversation with Sir Georgeconcerning Dorothy. A few days after my discovery of the cigarro picture, Dorothy and I were out on the terrace together. Frequently when she waswith me she would try to lead the conversation to the topic which I wellknew was in her mind, if not in her heart, at all times. She would speakof our first meeting at The Peacock, and would use every artifice toinduce me to bring up the subject which she was eager to discuss, but Ialways failed her. On the day mentioned when we were together on theterrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desiredtopic, she said, "I suppose you never meet--meet--him when you ride out?"

"Whom, Dorothy?" I asked. 

"The gentleman with the cigarro, " she responded, laughing nervously. 

"No, " I answered, "I know nothing of him. "

The subject was dropped. 

At another time she said, "He was in the village--Overhaddon--yesterday. "

Then I knew who "him" was. 

"How do you know?" I asked. 

"Jennie Faxton, the farrier's daughter, told me. She often comes to theHall to serve me. She likes to act as my maid, and is devoted to me. "

"Did he send any word to you?" I asked at a venture. The girl blushed andhung her head. "N-o, " she responded. 

"What was it, Dorothy?" I asked gently. "You may trust me. "

"He sent no word to me, " the girl responded. "Jennie said she heard twogentlemen talking about me in front of the farrier's shop, and one of themsaid something about--oh, I don't know what it was. I can't tell you. Itwas all nonsense, and of course he did not mean it. "

"Tell me all, Dorothy, " I said, seeing that she really wanted to speak. 

"Oh, he said something about having seen Sir George Vernon's daughter atRowsley, and--and--I can't tell you what he said, I am too full of shame. "If her cheeks told the truth, she certainly was "full of shame. "

"Tell me all, sweet cousin; I am sorry for you, " I said. She raised hereyes to mine in quick surprise with a look of suspicion. 

"You may trust me, Dorothy. I say it again, you may trust me. "

"He spoke of my beauty and called it marvellous, " said the girl. "He saidthat in all the world there was not another woman--oh, I can't tell you. "

"Yes, yes, go on, Dorothy, " I insisted. 

"He said, " she continued, "that he could think of nothing else but me dayor night since he had first seen me at Rowsley--that I had bewitched himand--and--Then the other gentleman said, 'John, don't play with fire; itwill burn you. Nothing good can come of it for you. '"

"Did Jennie know who the gentleman was?" I asked. 

"No, " returned Dorothy. 

"How do you know who he was?"

"Jennie described him, " she said. 

"How did she describe him?" I asked. 

"She said he was--he was the handsomest man in the world and--and that heaffected her so powerfully she fell in love with him in spite of herself. The little devil, to dare! You see that describes him perfectly. "

I laughed outright, and the girl blushed painfully. 

"It does describe him, " she said petulantly. "You know it does. No one cangainsay that he is wonderfully, dangerously handsome. I believe the womandoes not live who could refrain from feasting her eyes on his noblebeauty. I wonder if I shall ever again--again. " Tears were in her voiceand almost in her eyes. 

"Dorothy! My God, Dorothy!" I exclaimed in terror. 

"Yes! yes! My God, Dorothy!" she responded, covering her face with herhands and sighing deeply, as she dropped her head and left me. 

Yes, yes, my God, Dorothy! The helpless iron and the terrible loadstone!The passive seed! The dissolving cloud and the falling rain!

Less than a week after the above conversation, Dorothy, Madge, and I wereriding from Yulegrave Church up to the village of Overhaddon, which liesone mile across the hills from Haddon Hall. My horse had cast a shoe, andwe stopped at Faxton's shop to have him shod. The town well is in themiddle of an open space called by the villagers "The Open, " around whichare clustered the half-dozen houses and shops that constitute the village. The girls were mounted, and I was standing beside them in front of thefarrier's, waiting for my horse. Jennie Faxton, a wild, unkempt girl ofsixteen, was standing in silent admiration near Dorothy. Our backs wereturned toward the well. Suddenly a light came into Jennie's face, and sheplucked Dorothy by the skirt of her habit. 

"Look, mistress, look! Look there by the well!" said Jennie in a whisper. Dorothy looked toward the well. I also turned my head and beheld myfriend, Sir John, holding a bucket of water for his horse to drink. I hadnot seen him since we parted at The Peacock, and I did not show that Irecognized him. I feared to betray our friendship to the villagers. They, however, did not know Sir John, and I need not have been so cautious. ButDorothy and Madge were with me, and of course I dared not make anydemonstration of acquaintanceship with the enemy of our house. 

Dorothy watched John closely, and when he was ready to mount she struckher horse with the whip, and boldly rode to the well. 

"May I ask you to give my mare water?" she said. 

"Certainly. Ah, I beg pardon. I did not understand, " answered Sir John, confusedly. John, the polished, self-poised courtier, felt the confusionof a country rustic in the presence of this wonderful girl, whoseknowledge of life had been acquired within the precincts of Haddon Hall. Yet the inexperienced girl was self-poised and unconfused, while the witsof the courtier, who had often calmly flattered the queen, had all gonewool-gathering. 

She repeated her request. 

"Certainly, " returned John, "I--I knew what you said--but--but yousurprise me. "

"Yes, " said brazen Dorothy, "I have surprised myself. "

John, in his haste to satisfy Dolcy's thirst, dashed the water against theskirt of Dorothy's habit, and was profuse in his apologies. 

"Do not mention it, " said Dorothy. "I like a damp habit. The wind cannotso easily blow it about, " and she laughed as she shook the garment to freeit of the water. Dolcy refused to drink, and Dorothy having no excuse tolinger at the well, drew up her reins and prepared to leave. While doingso, she said:--

"Do you often come to Overhaddon?" Her eager eyes shone like red coals, and looking at John, she awaited smilingly his response. 

"Seldom, " answered John; "not often. I mean every day--that is, if I maycome. "

"Any one may come to the village whenever he wishes to do so, " respondedDorothy, laughing too plainly at Sir John's confusion. "Is it seldom, ornot often, or every day that you come?" In her overconfidence she waschaffing him. He caught the tone, and looked quickly into the girl's eyes. Her gaze could not stand against John's for a moment, and the long lashesdrooped to shade her eyes from the fierce light of his. 

"I said I would come to Overhaddon every day, " he returned; "and althoughI must have appeared very foolish in my confusion, you cannotmisunderstand the full meaning of my words. "

In John's boldness and in the ring of his voice Dorothy felt the touch ofher master, against whom she well knew all the poor force she could musterwould be utterly helpless. She was frightened, and said:--

"I--I must go. Good-by. "

When she rode away from him she thought: "I believed because of hisconfusion that I was the stronger. I could not stand against him for amoment. Holy Virgin! what have I done, and to what am I coming?"

You may now understand the magnitude of the task which Sir George had setfor me when he bade me marry his daughter and kill the Rutlands. I mightperform the last-named feat, but dragon fighting would be mere child'splay compared with the first, while the girl's heart was filled with theimage of another man. 

I walked forward to meet Dorothy, leaving Madge near the farrier's shop. 

"Dorothy, are you mad? What have you been doing?" I asked. 

"Could you not see?" she answered, under her breath, casting a look ofwarning toward Madge and a glance of defiance at me. "Are you, too, blind?Could you not see what I was doing?"

"Yes, " I responded. 

"Then why do you ask?"

As I went back to Madge I saw John ride out of the village by the southroad. I afterward learned that he rode gloomily back to Rutland Castlecursing himself for a fool. His duty to his father, which with him was astrong motive, his family pride, his self love, his sense of caution, alltold him that he was walking open-eyed into trouble. He had tried toremain away from the vicinity of Haddon Hall, but, despite hisself-respect and self-restraint, he had made several visits to Rowsley andto Overhaddon, and at one time had ridden to Bakewell, passing HaddonHall on his way thither. He had as much business in the moon as atOverhaddon, yet he told Dorothy he would be at the village every day, andshe, it seemed, was only too willing to give him opportunities to transacthis momentous affairs. 

As the floating cloud to the fathomless blue, as the seed to the earth, asthe iron to the lodestone, so was Dorothy unto John. 

Thus you see our beautiful pitcher went to the well and was broken. 

CHAPTER IV

THE GOLDEN HEART

The day after Dorothy's first meeting with Manners at Overhaddon she wasrestless and nervous, and about the hour of three in the afternoon shemounted Dolcy and rode toward Bakewell. That direction, I was sure, shetook for the purpose of misleading us at the Hall, and I felt confidentshe would, when once out of sight, head her mare straight for Overhaddon. Within an hour Dorothy was home again, and very ill-tempered. 

The next day she rode out in the morning. I asked her if I should ridewith her, and the emphatic "No" with which she answered me left no roomfor doubt in my mind concerning her desire for my company or herdestination. Again she returned within an hour and hurried to herapartments. Shortly afterward Madge asked me what Dorothy was weepingabout; and although in my own mind I was confident of the cause ofDorothy's tears, I, of course, did not give Madge a hint of my suspicion. Yet I then knew, quite as well as I now know, that John, notwithstandingthe important business which he said would bring him to Overhaddon everyday, had forced himself to remain at home, and Dorothy, in consequence, suffered from anger and wounded pride. She had twice ridden to Overhaddonto meet him. She had done for his sake that which she knew she should haveleft undone, and he had refused the offering. A smarting conscience, anaching heart, and a breast full of anger were Dorothy's rewards for herevil doing. The day after her second futile trip to Overhaddon, I, to testher, spoke of John. She turned upon me with the black look of a fury, andhurled her words at me. 

"Never again speak his despised name in my hearing. Curse him and hiswhole race. "

"Now what has he been doing?" I asked. 

"I tell you, I will not speak of him, nor will I listen to you, " and shedashed away from me like a fiery whirlwind. 

Four or five days later the girl rode out again upon Dolcy. She was awayfrom home for four long hours, and when she returned she was so gentle, sweet, and happy that she was willing to kiss every one in the householdfrom Welch, the butcher, to Sir George. She was radiant. She clung toMadge and to me, and sang and romped through the house like Dorothy ofold. 

Madge said, "I am so glad you are feeling better, Dorothy. " Then, speakingto me: "She has been ill for several days. She could not sleep. "

Dorothy looked quickly over to me, gave a little shrug to her shoulders, bent forward her face, which was red with blushing, and kissed Madgelingeringly upon the lips. 

The events of Dorothy's trip I soon learned from her. 

The little scene between Dorothy, Madge, and myself, after Dorothy'sjoyful return, occurred a week before the momentous conversation betweenSir George and me concerning my union with his house. Ten days after SirGeorge had offered me his daughter and his lands, he brought up thesubject again. He and I were walking on the ridge of Bowling Green Hill. 

"I am glad you are making such fair progress with Doll, " said Sir George. "Have you yet spoken to her upon the subject?"

I was surprised to hear that I had made any progress. In fact, I did notknow that I had taken a single step. I was curious to learn in what theprogress consisted, so I said:--

"I have not spoken to Dorothy yet concerning the marriage, and I fear thatI have made no progress at all. She certainly is friendly enough to me, but--"

"I should say that the gift from you she exhibited would indicateconsiderable progress, " said Sir George, casting an expressive glancetoward me. 

"What gift?" I stupidly inquired. 

"The golden heart, you rascal. She said you told her it had belonged toyour mother. "

"Holy Mother of Truth!" thought I, "pray give your especial care to mycousin Dorothy. She needs it. "

Sir George thrust at my side with his thumb and continued:--

"Don't deny it, Malcolm. Damme, you are as shy as a boy in this matter. But perhaps you know better than I how to go at her. I was thinking onlythe other day that your course was probably the right one. Doll, Isuspect, has a dash of her old father's temper, and she may prove a littletroublesome unless we let her think she is having her own way. Oh, thereis nothing like knowing how to handle them, Malcolm. Just let them thinkthey are having their own way and--and save trouble. Doll may have more ofher father in her than I suspect, and perhaps it is well for us to moveslowly. You will be able to judge, but you must not move too slowly. If inthe end she should prove stubborn, we will break her will or break herneck. I would rather have a daughter in Bakewell churchyard than a wilful, stubborn, disobedient huzzy in Haddon Hall. "

[Illustration]

Sir George had been drinking, and my slip concerning the gift passedunnoticed by him. 

"I am sure you well know how to proceed in this matter, but don't be toocautious, Malcolm; the best woman living loves to be stormed. "

"Trust me, " I answered, "I shall speak--" and my words unconsciously sankaway to thought, as thought often, and inconveniently at times, grows intowords. 

"Dorothy, Dorothy, " said the thoughts again and again, "where came you bythe golden heart?" and "where learned you so villanously to lie?"

"From love, " was the response, whispered by the sighing winds. "From love, that makes men and women like unto gods and teaches them the tricks ofdevils. " "From love, " murmured the dry rustling leaves and the ruggedtrees. "From love, " sighed the fleecy clouds as they floated in the sweetrestful azure of the vaulted sky. "From love, " cried the mighty sun as hepoured his light and heat upon the eager world to give it life. I wouldnot give a fig for a woman, however, who would not lie herself black inthe face for the sake of her lover, and I am glad that it is a virtue fewwomen lack. One who would scorn to lie under all other circumstanceswould--but you understand. I suppose that Dorothy had never before uttereda real lie. She hated all that was evil and loved all that was good tilllove came a-teaching. 

I quickly invented an excuse to leave Sir George, and returned to the Hallto seek Dorothy. I found her and asked her to accompany me for a fewminutes that I might speak with her privately. We went out upon theterrace and I at once began:--

"You should tell me when I present you gifts that I may not cause troubleby my ignorance nor show surprise when I suddenly learn what I have done. You see when a man gives a lady a gift and he does not know it, he is aptto--"

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Dorothy, pale with fear and consternation. "Didyou--"

"No, I did not betray you, but I came perilously near it. "

"I--I wanted to tell you about it. I tried several times to do so--I didso long to tell somebody, but I could not bring myself to speak. I wasfull of shame, yet I was proud and happy, for all that happened was goodand pure and sacred. You are not a woman; you cannot know--"

"But I do know. I know that you saw Manners the other day, and that hegave you a golden heart. "

"How did you know? Did any one--"

"Tell me? No. I knew it when you returned after five hours' absence, looking radiant as the sun. "

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, with a startled movement. 

"I also knew, " I continued, "that at other times when you rode out uponDolcy you had not seen him. "

"How did you know?" she asked, with quick-coming breath. 

"By your ill-humor, " I answered. 

"I knew it was so. I felt that everybody knew all that I had been doing. Icould almost see father and Madge and you--even the servants--reading thewickedness written upon my heart. I knew that I could hide it fromnobody. " Tears were very near the girl's eyes. 

"We cannot help thinking that our guilty consciences, through which we seeso plainly our own evil, are transparent to all the world. In that factlies an evil-doer's greatest danger, " said I, preacher fashion; "but youneed have no fear. What you have done I believe is suspected by no onesave me. "

A deep sigh of relief rose from the girl's heaving breast. 

"Well, " she began, "I will tell you all about it, and I am only too gladto do so. It is heavy, Malcolm, heavy on my conscience. But I would notbe rid of it for all the kingdoms of the earth. "

"A moment since you told me that your conduct was good and pure andsacred, and now you tell me that it is heavy on your conscience. Does onegrieve, Dorothy, for the sake of that which is good and pure and sacred?"

"I cannot answer your question, " she replied. "I am no priest. But this Iknow: I have done no evil, and my conscience nevertheless is sore. Solveme the riddle, Malcolm, if you can. "

"I cannot solve your riddle, Dorothy, " I replied; "but I feel sure it willbe far safer for each of us if you will tell me all that happenshereafter. "

"I am sure you are right, " she responded; "but some secrets are sodelicious that we love to suck their sweets alone. I believe, however, your advice is good, and I will tell you all that has happened, though Icannot look you in the face while doing it. " She hesitated a moment, andher face was red with tell-tale blushes. She continued, "I have acted mostunmaidenly. "

"Unmaidenly perhaps, but not unwomanly, " said I. 

"I thank you, " she said, interrupting my sentence. It probably was wellthat she did so, for I was about to add, "To act womanly often means toget yourself into mischief and your friends into as much trouble aspossible. " Had I finished my remark, she would not have thanked me. 

"Well, " said the girl, beginning her laggard narrative, "after we saw--sawhim at Overhaddon, you know, I went to the village on each of threedays--"

"Yes, I know that also, " I said. 

"How did you--but never mind. I did not see him, and when I returned homeI felt angry and hurt and--and--but never mind that either. One day Ifound him, and I at once rode to the well where he was standing by hishorse. He drew water for Dolcy, but the perverse mare would not drink. "

"A characteristic of her sex, " I muttered. 

"What did you say?" asked the girl. 

"Nothing. "

She continued: "He seemed constrained and distant in his manner, but Iknew, that is, I thought--I mean I felt--oh, you know--he looked as if hewere glad to see me and I--I, oh, God! I was so glad and happy to see himthat I could hardly restrain myself to act at all maidenly. He must haveheard my heart beat. I thought he was in trouble. He seemed to havesomething he wished to say to me. "

"He doubtless had a great deal he wished to say to you, " said I, againtempted to futile irony. 

"I was sure he had something to say, " the girl returned seriously. "He wasin trouble. I knew that he was, and I longed to help him. "

"What trouble?" I inquired. 

"Oh, I don't know. I forgot to ask, but he looked troubled. "

"Doubtless he was troubled, " I responded. "He had sufficient cause fortrouble, " I finished the sentence to myself with the words, "in you. "

"What was the cause of his trouble?" she hastily asked, turning her facetoward me. 

"I do not know certainly, " I answered in a tone of irony which should havepierced an oak board, while the girl listened and looked at me eagerly;"but I might guess. "

"What was it? What was it? Let me hear you guess, " she asked. 

"You, " I responded laconically. 

"I!" she exclaimed in surprise. 

"Yes, you, " I responded with emphasis. "You would bring trouble to anyman, but to Sir John Manners--well, if he intends to keep up thesemeetings with you it would be better for his peace and happiness that heshould get him a house in hell, for he would live there more happily thanon this earth. "

"That is a foolish, senseless remark, Malcolm, " the girl replied, tossingher head with a show of anger in her eyes. "This is no time to jest. " Isuppose I could not have convinced her that I was not jesting. 

"At first we did not speak to each other even to say good day, but stoodby the well in silence for a very long time. The village people werestaring at us, and I felt that every window had a hundred faces in it, andevery face a hundred eyes. "

"You imagined that, " said I, "because of your guilty conscience. "

"Perhaps so. But it seemed to me that we stood by the well in silence avery long time. You see, Cousin Malcolm, I was not the one who shouldspeak first. I had done more than my part in going to meet him. "

"Decidedly so, " said I, interrupting the interesting narrative. 

"When I could bear the gaze of the villagers no longer, I drew up my reinsand started to leave The Open by the north road. After Dolcy had climbedhalfway up North Hill, which as you know overlooks the village, I turnedmy head and saw Sir John still standing by the well, resting his hand uponhis horse's mane. He was watching me. I grew angry, and determined that heshould follow me, even if I had to call him. So I drew Dolcy to a stand. Was not that bold in me? But wait, there is worse to come, Malcolm. He didnot move, but stood like a statue looking toward me. I knew that he wantedto come, so after a little time I--I beckoned to him and--and then he camelike a thunderbolt. Oh! it was delicious. I put Dolcy to a gallop, forwhen he started toward me I was frightened. Besides I did not want him toovertake me till we were out of the village. But when once he had started, he did not wait. He was as swift now as he had been slow, and my heartthrobbed and triumphed because of his eagerness, though in truth I wasafraid of him. Dolcy, you know, is very fleet, and when I touched her withthe whip she soon put half a mile between me and the village. Then Ibrought her to a walk and--and he quickly overtook me. 

"When he came up to me he said: 'I feared to follow you, though I ardentlywished to do so. I dreaded to tell you my name lest you should hate me. Sir Malcolm at The Peacock said he would not disclose to you my identity. I am John Manners. Our fathers are enemies. '

"Then I said to him, 'That is the reason I wish to talk to you. I wishedyou to come to meet me because I wanted to tell you that I regret anddeplore the feud between our fathers. '--'Ah, you wished me to come?' heasked. --'Of course I did, ' I answered, 'else why should I be here?'--'Noone regrets the feud between our houses so deeply as I, ' replied Sir John. 'I can think of nothing else by day, nor can I dream of anything else bynight. It is the greatest cause for grief and sorrow that has ever comeinto my life. ' You see, Cousin Malcolm, " the girl continued, "I was right. His father's conduct does trouble him. Isn't he noble and broad-minded tosee the evil of his father's ways?"

I did not tell the girl that Sir John's regret for the feud between thehouses of Manners and Vernon grew out of the fact that it separated himfrom her; nor did I tell her that he did not grieve over his "father'sways. "

I asked, "Did Sir John tell you that he grieved because of his father'sill-doing?"

"N-o, not in set terms, but--that, of course, would have been very hardfor him to say. I told you what he said, and there could be no othermeaning to his words. "

"Of course not, " I responded. 

"No, and I fairly longed to reach out my hand and clutch him, because--because I was so sorry for him. "

"Was sorrow your only feeling?" I asked. 

The girl looked at me for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears. Thenshe sobbed gently and said, "Oh, Cousin Malcolm, you are so old and sowise. " ("Thank you, " thought I, "a second Daniel come to judgment atthirty-five; or Solomon and Methuselah in one. ") She continued: "Tell me, tell me, what is this terrible thing that has come upon me. I seem to beliving in a dream. I am burning with a fever, and a heavy weight is hereupon my breast. I cannot sleep at night. I can do nothing but long andyearn for--for I know not what--till at times it seems that somefrightful, unseen monster is slowly drawing the heart out of my bosom. Ithink of--of him at all times, and I try to recall his face, and the tonesof his voice until, Cousin Malcolm, I tell you I am almost mad. I callupon the Holy Virgin hour by hour to pity me; but she is pure, and cannotknow what I feel. I hate and loathe myself. To what am I coming? Wherewill it all end? Yet I can do nothing to save myself. I am powerlessagainst this terrible feeling. I cannot even resolve to resist it. It cameupon me mildly that day at The Peacock Inn, when I first saw him, and itgrows deeper and stronger day by day, and, alas! night by night. I seem tohave lost myself. In some strange way I feel as if I had sunk intohim--that he had absorbed me. "

"The iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, " thought I. 

"I believed, " continued the girl, "that if he would exert his will I mighthave relief; but there again I find trouble, for I cannot bring myself toask him to will it. The feeling within me is like a sore heart: painful asit is, I must keep it. Without it I fear I could not live. "

After this outburst there was a long pause during which she walked by myside, seemingly unconscious that I was near her. I had known for some timethat Dorothy was interested in Manners; but I was not prepared to see sucha volcano of passion. I need not descant upon the evils and dangers of thesituation. The thought that first came to me was that Sir George wouldsurely kill his daughter before he would allow her to marry a son ofRutland. I was revolving in my mind how I should set about to mend thematter when Dorothy again spoke. 

"Tell me, Cousin Malcolm, can a man throw a spell over a woman and bewitchher?"

"I do not know. I have never heard of a man witch, " I responded. 

"No?" asked the girl. 

"But, " I continued, "I do know that a woman may bewitch a man. JohnManners, I doubt not, could also testify knowingly on the subject by thistime. "

"Oh, do you think he is bewitched?" cried Dorothy, grasping my arm andlooking eagerly into my face. "If I could bewitch him, I would do it. Iwould deal with the devil gladly to learn the art. I would not care for mysoul. I do not fear the future. The present is a thousand-fold dearer tome than either the past or the future. I care not what comes hereafter. Iwant him now. Ah, Malcolm, pity my shame. "

She covered her face with her hands, and after a moment continued: "I amnot myself. I belong not to myself. But if I knew that he also suffers, Ido believe my pain would be less. "

"I think you may set your heart at rest upon that point, " I answered. "He, doubtless, also suffers. "

"I hope so, " she responded, unconscious of the selfish wish she hadexpressed. "If he does not, I know not what will be my fate. "

I saw that I had made a mistake in assuring her that John also suffered, and I determined to correct it later on, if possible. 

Dorothy was silent, and I said, "You have not told me about the goldenheart. "

"I will tell you, " she answered. "We rode for two hours or more, andtalked of the weather and the scenery, until there was nothing more to besaid concerning either. Then Sir John told me of the court in London, where he has always lived, and of the queen whose hair, he says, is red, but not at all like mine. I wondered if he would speak of the beauty of myhair, but he did not. He only looked at it. Then he told me about theScottish queen whom he once met when he was on an embassy to Edinburgh. Hedescribed her marvellous beauty, and I believe he sympathizes with hercause--that is, with her cause in Scotland. He says she has no good causein England. He is true to our queen. Well--well he talked so interestinglythat I could have listened a whole month--yes, all my life. "

"I suppose you could, " I said. 

"Yes, " she continued, "but I could not remain longer from home, and when Ileft him he asked me to accept a keepsake which had belonged to hismother, as a token that there should be no feud between him and me. " Andshe drew from her bosom a golden heart studded with diamonds and piercedby a white silver arrow. 

"I, of course, accepted it, then we said 'good-by, ' and I put Dolcy to agallop that she might speedily take me out of temptation. "

"Have you ridden to Overhaddon for the purpose of seeing Manners manytimes since he gave you the heart?" I queried. 

"What would you call 'many times'?" she asked, drooping her head. 

"Every day?" I said interrogatively. She nodded. "Yes. But I have seenhim only once since the day when he gave me the heart. "

Nothing I could say would do justice to the subject, so I remained silent. 

"But you have not yet told me how your father came to know of the goldenheart, " I said. 

"It was this way: One morning while I was looking at the heart, fathercame upon me suddenly before I could conceal it. He asked me to tell himhow I came by the jewel, and in my fright and confusion I could think ofnothing else to say, so I told him you had given it to me. He promised notto speak to you about the heart, but he did not keep his word. He seemedpleased. "

"Doubtless he was pleased, " said I, hoping to lead up to the subject sonear to Sir George's heart, but now farther than ever from mine. 

The girl unsuspectingly helped me. 

"Father asked if you had spoken upon a subject of great interest to himand to yourself, and I told him you had not. 'When he does speak, ' saidfather most kindly, 'I want you to grant his request'--and I will grantit, Cousin Malcolm. " She looked in my face and continued: "I will grantyour request, whatever it may be. You are the dearest friend I have in theworld, and mine is the most loving and lovable father that girl ever had. It almost breaks my heart when I think of his suffering should he learn ofwhat I have done--that which I just told to you. " She walked beside memeditatively for a moment and said, "To-morrow I will return Sir John'sgift and I will never see him again. "

I felt sure that by to-morrow she would have repented of her repentance;but I soon discovered that I had given her much more time than she neededto perform that trifling feminine gymnastic, for with the next breath shesaid:--

"I have no means of returning the heart. I must see him once more and Iwill give--give it--it--back to--to him, and will tell him that I can seehim never again. " She scarcely had sufficient resolution to finish tellingher intention. Whence, then, would come the will to put it in action?Forty thieves could not have stolen the heart from her, though she thoughtshe was honest when she said she would take it to him. 

"Dorothy, " said I, seriously but kindly, "have you and Sir John spokenof--"

She evidently knew that I meant to say "of love, " for she interrupted me. 

"N-o, but surely he knows. And I--I think--at least I hope with all myheart that--"

"I will take the heart to Sir John, " said I, interrupting her angrily, "and you need not see him again. He has acted like a fool and a knave. Heis a villain, Dorothy, and I will tell him as much in the most emphaticterms I have at my command. "

"Dare you speak against him or to him upon the subject!" she exclaimed, her eyes blazing with anger; "you--you asked for my confidence and I gaveit. You said I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me that I ama fool indeed. Traitor!"

"My dear cousin, " said I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging mewith bad faith, "your secret is safe with me. I swear it by my knighthood. You may trust me. I spoke in anger. But Sir John has acted badly. That youcannot gainsay. You, too, have done great evil. That also you cannotgainsay. "

"No, " said the girl, dejectedly, "I cannot deny it; but the greatest evilis yet to come. "

"You must do something, " I continued. "You must take some decisive stepthat will break this connection, and you must take the step at once if youwould save yourself from the frightful evil that is in store for you. Forgive me for what I said, sweet cousin. My angry words sprang from mylove for you and my fear for your future. "

No girl's heart was more tender to the influence of kindness thanDorothy's. No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory command. 

My words softened her at once, and she tried to smother the anger I hadaroused. But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained which in amoment or two created a disastrous conflagration. You shall hear. 

She walked by my side in silence for a little time, and then spoke in alow, slightly sullen tone which told of her effort to smother herresentment. 

"I do trust you, Cousin Malcolm. What is it that you wish to ask of me?Your request is granted before it is made. "

"Do not be too sure of that, Dorothy, " I replied. "It is a request yourfather ardently desires me to make, and I do not know how to speak to youconcerning the subject in the way I wish. "

I could not ask her to marry me, and tell her with the same breath that Idid not want her for my wife. I felt I must wait for a further opportunityto say that I spoke only because her father had required me to do so, andthat circumstances forced me to put the burden of refusal upon her. I wellknew that she would refuse me, and then I intended to explain. 

"Why, what is it all about?" asked the girl in surprise, suspecting, Ibelieve, what was to follow. 

"It is this: your father is anxious that his vast estates shall not passout of the family name, and he wishes you to be my wife, so that yourchildren may bear the loved name of Vernon. "

I could not have chosen a more inauspicious time to speak. She looked atme for an instant in surprise, turning to scorn. Then she spoke in tonesof withering contempt. 

"Tell my father that I shall never bear a child by the name of Vernon. Iwould rather go barren to my grave. Ah! that is why Sir John Manners is avillain? That is why a decisive step should be taken? That is why you cometo my father's house a-fortune-hunting? After you have squandered yourpatrimony and have spent a dissolute youth in profligacy, after the womenof the class you have known will have no more of you but choose youngermen, you who are old enough to be my father come here and seek yourfortune, as your father sought his, by marriage. I do not believe that myfather wishes me to--to marry you. You have wheedled him into giving hisconsent when he was in his cups. But even if he wished it with all hisheart, I would not marry you. " Then she turned and walked rapidly towardthe Hall. 

Her fierce words angered me; for in the light of my real intentions herscorn was uncalled for, and her language was insulting beyond endurance. For a moment or two the hot blood rushed to my brain and rendered meincapable of intelligent thought. But as Dorothy walked from me I realizedthat something must be done at once to put myself right with her. When myfit of temper had cooled, and when I considered that the girl did not knowmy real intentions, I could not help acknowledging that in view of allthat had just passed between us concerning Sir John Manners, and, in fact, in view of all that she had seen and could see, her anger was justifiable. 

I called to her: "Dorothy, wait a moment. You have not heard all I have tosay. "

She hastened her pace. A few rapid strides brought me to her side. I wasprovoked, not at her words, for they were almost justifiable, but becauseshe would not stop to hear me. I grasped her rudely by the arm andsaid:--

"Listen till I have finished. "

"I will not, " she answered viciously. "Do not touch me. "

I still held her by the arm and said: "I do not wish to marry you. I spokeonly because your father desired me to do so, and because my refusal tospeak would have offended him beyond any power of mine to make amends. Icould not tell you that I did not wish you for my wife until you had givenme an opportunity. I was forced to throw the burden of refusal upon you. "

"That is but a ruse--a transparent, flimsy ruse, " responded the stubborn, angry girl, endeavoring to draw her arm from my grasp. 

"It is not a ruse, " I answered. "If you will listen to me and will help meby acting as I suggest, we may between us bring your father to our way ofthinking, and I may still be able to retain his friendship. "

"What is your great plan?" asked Dorothy, in a voice such as one mightexpect to hear from a piece of ice. 

"I have formed no plan as yet, " I replied, "although I have thought ofseveral. Until we can determine upon one, I suggest that you permit me tosay to your father that I have asked you to be my wife, and that thesubject has come upon you so suddenly that you wish a short time, --afortnight or a month--in which to consider your answer. "

"That is but a ruse, I say, to gain time, " she answered contemptuously. "Ido not wish one moment in which to consider. You already have my answer. Ishould think you had had enough. Do you desire more of the same sort? Alittle of such treatment should go a long way with a man possessed of onespark of honor or self-respect. "

Her language would have angered a sheep. 

"If you will not listen to me, " I answered, thoroughly aroused andcareless of consequences, "go to your father. Tell him I asked you to bemy wife, and that you scorned my suit. Then take the consequences. He hasalways been gentle and tender to you because there has been no conflict. Cross his desires, and you will learn a fact of which you have neverdreamed. You have seen the manner in which he treats others who opposehim. You will learn that with you, too, he can be one of the cruelest andmost violent of men. "

"You slander my father. I will go to him as you advise and will tell himthat I would not marry you if you wore the English crown. I, myself, willtell him of my meeting with Sir John Manners rather than allow you thepleasure of doing so. He will be angry, but he will pity me. "

"For God's sake, Dorothy, do not tell your father of your meetings atOverhaddon. He would kill you. Have you lived in the same house with himall these years and do you not better know his character than to thinkthat you may go to him with the tale you have just told me, and that hewill forgive you? Feel as you will toward me, but believe me when I swearto you by my knighthood that I will betray to no person what you have thisday divulged to me. "

Dorothy made no reply, but turned from me and rapidly walked toward theHall. I followed at a short distance, and all my anger was displaced byfear for her. When we reached the Hall she quickly sought her father andapproached him in her old free manner, full of confidence in her influenceover him. 

"Father, this man"--waving her hand toward me--"has come to Haddon Halla-fortune-hunting. He has asked me to be his wife, and says you wish me toaccept him. "

"Yes, Doll, I certainly wish it with all my heart, " returned Sir George, affectionately, taking his daughter's hand. 

"Then you need wish it no longer, for I will not marry him. "

"What?" demanded her father, springing to his feet. 

"I will not. I will not. I will not. "

"You will if I command you to do so, you damned insolent wench, " answeredSir George, hoarsely. Dorothy's eyes opened in wonder. 

"Do not deceive yourself, father, for one moment, " she retortedcontemptuously. "He has come here in sheep's clothing and has adroitlylaid his plans to convince you that I should marry him, but--"

"He has done nothing of the sort, " answered Sir George, growing more angryevery moment, but endeavoring to be calm. "Nothing of the sort. Many yearsago I spoke to him on this subject, which is very dear to my heart. Theproject has been dear to me ever since you were a child. When I againbroached it to Malcolm a fortnight or more since I feared from his mannerthat he was averse to the scheme. I had tried several times to speak tohim about it, but he warded me off, and when I did speak, I feared that hewas not inclined to it. "

"Yes, " interrupted the headstrong girl, apparently bent upon destroyingboth of us. "He pretended that he did not wish to marry me. He said hewished me to give a sham consent for the purpose of gaining time till wemight hit upon some plan by which we could change your mind. He said hehad no desire nor intention to marry me. It was but a poor, lame ruse onhis part. "

During Dorothy's recital Sir George turned his face from her to me. Whenshe had finished speaking, he looked at me for a moment and said:--

"Does my daughter speak the truth? Did you say--"

"Yes, " I promptly replied, "I have no intention of marrying yourdaughter. " Then hoping to place myself before Sir George in a betterlight, I continued: "I could not accept the hand of a lady against herwill. I told you as much when we conversed on the subject. "

"What?" exclaimed Sir George, furious with anger. "You too? You whom Ihave befriended?"

"I told you, Sir George, I would not marry Dorothy without her freeconsent. No gentleman of honor would accept the enforced compliance of awoman. "

"But Doll says that you told her you had no intention of marrying her evenshould she consent, " replied Sir George. 

"I don't know that I spoke those exact words, " I replied, "but you mayconsider them said. "

"You damned, ungrateful, treacherous hound!" stormed Sir George. "Youlistened to me when I offered you my daughter's hand, and you pretended toconsent without at the time having any intention of doing so. "

"That, I suppose, is true, Sir George, " said I, making a masterful effortagainst anger. "That is true, for I knew that Dorothy would not consent;and had I been inclined to the marriage, I repeat, I would marry no womanagainst her will. No gentleman would do it. "

My remark threw Sir George into a paroxysm of rage. 

"I did it, you cur, you dog, you--you traitorous, ungrateful--I did it. "

"Then, Sir George, " said I, interrupting him, for I was no longer able torestrain my anger, "you were a cowardly poltroon. "

"This to me in my house!" he cried, grasping a chair with which to strikeme. Dorothy came between us. 

"Yes, " said I, "and as much more as you wish to hear. " I stood my ground, and Sir George put down the chair. 

"Leave my house at once, " he said in a whisper of rage. 

"If you are on my premises in one hour from now I will have you floggedfrom my door by the butcher. "

"What have I done?" cried Dorothy. "What have I done?"

"Your regrets come late, Mistress Vernon, " said I. 

"She shall have more to regret, " said Sir George, sullenly. "Go to yourroom, you brazen, disobedient huzzy, and if you leave it without mypermission, by God, I will have you whipped till you bleed. I will teachyou to say 'I won't' when I say 'you shall. ' God curse my soul, if I don'tmake you repent this day!"

As I left the room Dorothy was in tears, and Sir George was walking thefloor in a towering rage. The girl had learned that I was right in what Ihad told her concerning her father's violent temper. 

I went at once to my room in Eagle Tower and collected my few belongingsin a bundle. Pitifully small it was, I tell you. 

Where I should go I knew not, and where I should remain I knew even less, for my purse held only a few shillings--the remnant of the money QueenMary had sent to me by the hand of Sir Thomas Douglas. England was asunsafe for me as Scotland; but how I might travel to France without money, and how I might without a pass evade Elizabeth's officers who guardedevery English port, even were I supplied with gold, were problems forwhich I had no solution. 

There were but two persons in Haddon Hall to whom I cared to say farewell. They were Lady Madge and Will Dawson. The latter was a Scot, and wasattached to the cause of Queen Mary. He and I had become friends, and onseveral occasions we had talked confidentially over Mary's sad plight. 

When my bundle was packed, I sought Madge and found her in the gallerynear the foot of the great staircase. She knew my step and rose to greetme with a bright smile. 

"I have come to say good-by to you, Cousin Madge, " said I. The smilevanished from her face. 

"You are not going to leave Haddon Hall?" she asked. 

"Yes, and forever, " I responded. "Sir George has ordered me to go. "

"No, no, " she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. I supposed that you and myuncle were friends. What has happened? Tell me if you can--if you wish. Let me touch your hand, " and as she held out her hands, I gladly graspedthem. 

I have never seen anything more beautiful than Madge Stanley's hands. Theywere not small, but their shape, from the fair, round forearm and wrist tothe ends of the fingers was worthy of a sculptor's dream. Beyond theirphysical beauty there was an expression in them which would have belongedto her eyes had she possessed the sense of sight. The flood of her vitalenergy had for so many years been directed toward her hands as asubstitute for her lost eyesight that their sensitiveness showed itselfnot only in an infinite variety of delicate gestures and movements, changing with her changing moods, but they had an expression of their own, such as we look for in the eyes. I had gazed upon her hands so often, andhad studied so carefully their varying expression, discernible both to mysight and to my touch, that I could read her mind through them as we readthe emotions of others through the countenance. The "feel" of her hands, if I may use the word, I can in no way describe. Its effect on me wasmagical. The happiest moments I have ever known were those when I held thefair blind girl by the hand and strolled upon the great terrace orfollowed the babbling winding course of dear old Wye, and drank in theelixir of all that is good and pure from the cup of her sweet, unconsciousinfluence. 

Madge, too, had found happiness in our strolling. She had also foundhealth and strength, and, marvellous to say, there had come to her aslight improvement in vision. She had always been able to distinguishsunlight from darkness, but with renewed strength had come the power dimlyto discern dark objects in a strong light, and even that small change forthe better had brought unspeakable gladness to her heart. She said sheowed it all to me. A faint pink had spread itself in her cheeks and aplumpness had been imparted to her form which gave to her ethereal beautya touch of the material. Nor was this to be regretted, for no man canadequately make love to a woman who has too much of the angel in her. Youmust not think, however, that I had been making love to Madge. On thecontrary, I again say, the thought had never entered my mind. Neither atthat time had I even suspected that she would listen to me upon the greattheme. I had in my self-analysis assigned many reasons other than love formy tenderness toward her; but when I was about to depart, and sheimpulsively gave me her hands, I, believing that I was grasping them forthe last time, felt the conviction come upon me that she was dearer to methan all else in life. 

"Do you want to tell me why my uncle has driven you from Haddon?" sheasked. 

"He wished me to ask Dorothy to be my wife, " I returned. 

"And you?" she queried. 

"I did so. "

Instantly the girl withdrew her hands from mine and stepped back from me. Then I had another revelation. I knew what she meant and felt. Her handstold me all, even had there been no expression in her movement and in herface. 

"Dorothy refused, " I continued, "and her father desired to force her intocompliance. I would not be a party to the transaction, and Sir Georgeordered me to leave his house. "

After a moment of painful silence Madge said:--"I do not wonder that youshould wish to marry Dorothy. She--she must be very beautiful. "

"I do not wish to marry Dorothy, " said I. I heard a slight noise back ofme, but gave it no heed. "And I should not have married her had sheconsented. I knew that Dorothy would refuse me, therefore I promised SirGeorge that I would ask her to be my wife. Sir George had always been myfriend, and should I refuse to comply with his wishes, I well knew hewould be my enemy. He is bitterly angry against me now; but when hebecomes calm, he will see wherein he has wronged me. I asked Dorothy tohelp me, but she would not listen to my plan. "

"--and now she begs your forgiveness, " cried Dorothy, as she ran weepingto me, and took my hand most humbly. 

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" I exclaimed. 

"What frightful evil have I brought upon you?" said she. "Where can yougo? What will you do?"

"I know not, " I answered. "I shall probably go to the Tower of London whenQueen Elizabeth's officers learn of my quarrel with Sir George. But I willtry to escape to France. "

"Have you money?" asked Madge, tightly holding one of my hands. 

"A small sum, " I answered. 

"How much have you? Tell me. Tell me how much have you, " insisted Madge, clinging to my hand and speaking with a force that would brook no refusal. 

"A very little sum, I am sorry to say; only a few shillings, " Iresponded. 

She quickly withdrew her hand from mine and began to remove the baublesfrom her ears and the brooch from her throat. Then she nervously strippedthe rings from her fingers and held out the little handful of jewelstoward me, groping for my hands. 

"Take these, Malcolm. Take these, and wait here till I return. " She turnedtoward the staircase, but in her confusion she missed it, and before Icould reach her, she struck against the great newel post. 

"God pity me, " she said, as I took her hand. "I wish I were dead. Pleaselead me to the staircase, Cousin Malcolm. Thank you. "

She was weeping gently when she started up the steps, and I knew that shewas going to fetch me her little treasure of gold. 

Madge held up the skirt of her gown with one hand while she grasped thebanister with the other. She was halfway up when Dorothy, whose generousimpulses needed only to be prompted, ran nimbly and was about to pass heron the staircase when Madge grasped her gown. 

"Please don't, Dorothy. Please do not. I beg you, do not forestall me. Letme do this. Let me. You have all else to make you happy. Don't take thisfrom me only because you can see and can walk faster than I. "

Dorothy did not stop, but hurried past her. Madge sank upon the steps andcovered her face with her hands. Then she came gropingly back to me justas Dorothy returned. 

"Take these, Cousin Malcolm, " cried Dorothy. "Here are a few stones ofgreat value. They belonged to my mother. "

Madge was sitting dejectedly upon the lowest step of the staircase. Dorothy held her jewel-box toward me, and in the midst of the diamonds andgold I saw the heart John Manners had given her. I did not take the box. 

"Do you offer me this, too--even this?" I said, lifting the heart from thebox by its chain. --"Yes, yes, " cried Dorothy, "even that, gladly, gladly. "I replaced it in the box. 

Then spoke Madge, while she tried to check the falling tears:--"Dorothy, you are a cruel, selfish girl. "

"Oh, Madge, " cried Dorothy, stepping to her side and taking her hand. "Howcan you speak so unkindly to me?"

"You have everything good, " interrupted Madge. "You have beauty, wealth, eyesight, and yet you would not leave to me the joy of helping him. Icould not see, and you hurried past me that you might be first to give himthe help of which I was the first to think. "

Dorothy was surprised at the outburst from Madge, and kneeled by her side. 

"We may both help Cousin Malcolm, " she said. 

"No, no, " responded Madge, angrily. "Your jewels are more than enough. Hewould have no need of my poor offering. "

I took Madge's hand and said, "I shall accept help from no one but you, Madge; from no one but you. "

"I will go to our rooms for your box, " said Dorothy, who had begun to seethe trouble. "I will fetch it for you. "

"No, I will fetch it, " answered Madge. She arose, and I led her to thefoot of the staircase. When she returned she held in her hands a purse anda little box of jewels. These she offered to me, but I took only thepurse, saying: "I accept the purse. It contains more money than I shallneed. From its weight I should say there are twenty gold pounds sterling. "

"Twenty-five, " answered Madge. "I have saved them, believing that thetime might come when they would be of great use to me. I did not know thejoy I was saving for myself. "

Tears came to my eyes, and Dorothy wept silently. 

"Will you not take the jewels also?" asked Madge. 

"No, " I responded; "the purse will more than pay my expenses to France, where I have wealthy relatives. There I may have my mother's estate forthe asking, and I can repay you the gold. I can never repay yourkindness. "

"I hope you will never offer to repay the gold, " said Madge. 

"I will not, " I gladly answered. 

"As to the kindness, " she said, "you have paid me in advance for thatmany, many times over. "

I then said farewell, promising to send letters telling of my fortune. AsI was leaving I bent forward and kissed Madge upon the forehead, while shegently pressed my hand, but did not speak a word. 

"Cousin Malcolm, " said Dorothy, who held my other hand, "you are a strong, gentle, noble man, and I want you to say that you forgive me. "

"I do forgive you, Dorothy, from my heart. I could not blame you if Iwished to do so, for you did not know what you were doing. "

"Not to know is sometimes the greatest of sins, " answered Dorothy. I bentforward to kiss her cheek in token of my full forgiveness, but she gave meher lips and said: "I shall never again be guilty of not knowing that youare good and true and noble, Cousin Malcolm, and I shall never again doubtyour wisdom or your good faith when you speak to me. " She did doubt meafterward, but I fear her doubt was with good cause. I shall tell you ofit in the proper place. 

Then I forced myself to leave my fair friends and went to the gatewayunder Eagle Tower, where I found Will Dawson waiting for me with my horse. 

"Sir George ordered me to bring your horse, " said Will. "He seemed muchexcited. Has anything disagreeable happened? Are you leaving us? I see youwear your steel cap and breastplate and are carrying your bundle. "

"Yes, Will, your master has quarrelled with me and I must leave hishouse. "

"But where do you go, Sir Malcolm? You remember that of which we talked?In England no place but Haddon Hall will be safe for you, and the portsare so closely guarded that you will certainly be arrested if you try tosail for France. "

"I know all that only too well, Will. But I must go, and I will try toescape to France. If you wish to communicate with me, I may be found byaddressing a letter in care of the Duc de Guise. "

"If I can ever be of help to you, " said Will, "personally, or in thatother matter, Queen Mary, you understand, --you have only to call on me. "

"I thank you, Will, " I returned, "I shall probably accept your kind offersooner than you anticipate. Do you know Jennie Faxton, the ferrier'sdaughter?"

"I do, " he responded. 

"I believe she may be trusted, " I said. 

"Indeed, I believe she is true as any steel in her father's shop, " Willresponded. 

"Good-by, Will, you may hear from me soon. "

I mounted and rode back of the terrace, taking my way along the Wye towardRowsley. When I turned and looked back, I saw Dorothy standing upon theterrace. By her side, dressed in white, stood Madge. Her hand was coveringher eyes. A step or two below them on the terrace staircase stood WillDawson. They were three stanch friends, although one of them had broughtmy troubles upon me. After all, I was leaving Haddon Hall well garrisoned. My heart also was well garrisoned with a faithful troop of pain. But Ishall write no more of that time. It was too full of bitterness. 

CHAPTER V

MINE ENEMY'S ROOF-TREE

I rode down the Wye to Rowsley, and by the will of my horse rather than byany intention of my own took the road up through Lathkil Dale. I haddetermined if possible to reach the city of Chester, and thence to ridedown into Wales, hoping to find on the rough Welsh coast a fishing boat ora smuggler's craft that would carry me to France. In truth, I cared littlewhether I went to the Tower or to France, since in either case I felt thatI had looked my last upon Haddon Hall, and had spoken farewell to the onlyperson in all the world for whom I really cared. My ride from Haddon gaveme time for deliberate thought, and I fully agreed with myself upon twopropositions. First, I became thoroughly conscious of my real feelingtoward Madge, and secondly, I was convinced that her kindness and herpeculiar attitude toward me when I parted from her were but the promptingsof a tender heart stirred by pity for my unfortunate situation, ratherthan what I thought when I said farewell to her. The sweet Wye and thebeautiful Lathkil whispered to me as I rode beside their banks, but intheir murmurings I heard only the music of her voice. The sun shonebrightly, but its blessed light only served to remind me of the beautifulgirl whom I had left in darkness. The light were worthless to me if Icould not share it with her. What a mooning lout was I!

All my life I had been a philosopher, and as I rode from Haddon, beneathall my gloominess there ran a current of amusement which brought to mylips an ill-formed, half-born laugh when I thought of the plight andcondition in which I, by candid self-communion, found myself. Five yearsbefore that time I had left France, and had cast behind me all the fairpossibilities for noble achievement which were offered to me in that land, that I might follow the fortunes of a woman whom I thought I loved. Beforemy exile from her side I had begun to fear that my idol was but a thing ofstone; and now that I had learned to know myself, and to see her as shereally was, I realized that I had been worshipping naught but clay for lo, these many years. There was only this consolation in the thought for me:every man at some time in his life is a fool--made such by a woman. It isgiven to but few men to have for their fool-maker the rightful queen ofthree kingdoms. All that was left to me of my life of devotion was ashame-faced pride in the quality of my fool-maker. "Then, " thought I, "Ihave at last turned to be my own fool-maker. " But I suppose it had beenwritten in the book of fate that I should ride from Haddon a lovelornyouth of thirty-five, and I certainly was fulfilling my destiny to theletter. 

I continued to ride up the Lathkil until I came to a fork in the road. Onebranch led to the northwest, the other toward the southwest. I was at aloss which direction to take, and I left the choice to my horse, in whosewisdom and judgement I had more confidence than in my own. My horse, refusing the responsibility, stopped. So there we stood like an equestrianstatue arguing with itself until I saw a horseman riding toward me fromthe direction of Overhaddon. When he approached I recognized Sir JohnManners. He looked as woebegone as I felt, and I could not help laughingat the pair of us, for I knew that his trouble was akin to mine. The painof love is ludicrous to all save those who feel it. Even to them it islaughable in others. A love-full heart has no room for that sort ofcharity which pities for kinship's sake. 

"What is the trouble with you, Sir John, that you look so downcast?" saidI, offering my hand. 

"Ah, " he answered, forcing a poor look of cheerfulness into his face, "SirMalcolm, I am glad to see you. Do I look downcast?"

"As forlorn as a lover who has missed seeing his sweetheart, " I responded, guessing the cause of Sir John's despondency. 

"I have no sweetheart, therefore missing her could not have made medowncast, " he replied. 

"So you really did miss her?" I queried. "She was detained at Haddon Hall, Sir John, to bid me farewell. "

"I do not understand--" began Sir John, growing cold in his bearing. 

"I understand quite well, " I answered. "Dorothy told me all to-day. Youneed keep nothing from me. The golden heart brought her into trouble, andmade mischief for me of which I cannot see the end. I will tell you thestory while we ride. I am seeking my way to Chester, that I may, ifpossible, sail for France. This fork in the road has brought me to astandstill, and my horse refuses to decide which route we shall take. Perhaps you will direct us. "

"Gladly. The road to the southwest--the one I shall take--is the mostdirect route to Chester. But tell me, how comes it that you are leavingHaddon Hall? I thought you had gone there to marry-" He stopped speaking, and a smile stole into his eyes. 

"Let us ride forward together, and I will tell you about it, " said I. 

While we travelled I told Sir John the circumstances of my departure fromHaddon Hall, concealing nothing save that which touched Madge Stanley. Ithen spoke of my dangerous position in England, and told him of my greatdesire to reach my mother's people in France. 

"You will find difficulty and danger in escaping to France at this time, "said Sir John, "the guard at the ports is very strong and strict, and yourgreatest risk will be at the moment when you try to embark without apassport. "

"That is true, " I responded; "but I know of nothing else that I can do. "

"Come with me to Rutland Castle, " said Sir John. "You may there findrefuge until such time as you can go to France. I will gladly furnish youmoney which you may repay at your pleasure, and I may soon be able toprocure a passport for you. "

I thanked him, but said I did not see my way clear to accept his kindoffer. 

"You are unknown in the neighborhood of Rutland, " he continued, "and youmay easily remain incognito. " Although his offer was greatly to my liking, I suggested several objections, chief among which was the distaste LordRutland might feel toward one of my name. I would not, of course, consentthat my identity should be concealed from him. But to be brief--an almostimpossible achievement for me, it seems--Sir John assured me of hisfather's welcome, and it was arranged between us that I should take mybaptismal name, François de Lorraine, and passing for a French gentlemanon a visit to England, should go to Rutland with my friend. So it happenedthrough the strange workings of fate that I found help and refuge under myenemy's roof-tree. 

Kind old Lord Rutland welcomed me, as his son had foretold, and I wasconvinced ere I had passed an hour under his roof that the feud betweenhim and Sir George was of the latter's brewing. 

The happenings in Haddon Hall while I lived at Rutland I knew, of course, only by the mouth of others; but for convenience in telling I shall speakof them as if I had seen and heard all that took place. I may now say oncefor all that I shall take that liberty throughout this entire history. 

On the morning of the day after my departure from Haddon, Jennie Faxtonwent to visit Dorothy and gave her a piece of information, small initself, but large in its effect upon that ardent young lady. WillFletcher, the arrow-maker at Overhaddon, had observed Dorothy's movementsin connection with Manners; and although Fletcher did not know who SirJohn was, that fact added to his curiosity and righteous indignation. 

"It do be right that some one should tell the King of the Peak as how hisdaughter is carrying on with a young man who does come here every day ortwo to meet her, and I do intend to tell Sir George if she put not a stopto it, " said Fletcher to some of his gossips in Yulegrave churchyard oneSunday afternoon. 

Dorothy notified John, Jennie being the messenger, of Will's observations, visual and verbal, and designated another place for meeting, --the gateeast of Bowling Green Hill. This gate was part of a wall on the east sideof the Haddon estates adjoining the lands of the house of Devonshire whichlay to the eastward. It was a secluded spot in the heart of the foresthalf a mile distant from Haddon Hall. 

Sir George, for a fortnight or more after my disappearance, enforced hisdecree of imprisonment against Dorothy, and she, being unable to leave theHall, could not go to Bowling Green Gate to meet Sir John. Before I hadlearned of the new trysting-place John had ridden thither several eveningsto meet Dorothy, but had found only Jennie bearing her mistress's excuses. I supposed his journeyings had been to Overhaddon; but I did not press hisconfidence, nor did he give it. 

Sir George's treatment of Dorothy had taught her that the citadel of herfather's wrath could be stormed only by gentleness, and an opportunity wassoon presented in which she used that effective engine of feminine warfareto her great advantage. 

As I have told you, Sir George was very rich. No man, either noble orgentle, in Derbyshire or in any of the adjoining counties, possessed sogreat an estate or so beautiful a hall as did he. In France we would havecalled Haddon Hall a grand château. 

Sir George's deceased wife had been a sister to the Earl of Derby, wholived at the time of which I am now writing. The earl had a son, James, who was heir to the title and to the estates of his father. The son was adissipated, rustic clown--almost a simpleton. He had the vulgarity of astable boy and the vices of a courtier. His associates were chosen fromthe ranks of gamesters, ruffians, and tavern maids. Still, he was a scionof one of the greatest families of England's nobility. 

After Sir George's trouble with Dorothy, growing out of his desire that Ishould wed her, the King of the Peak had begun to feel that in hisbeautiful daughter he had upon his hands a commodity that might at anytime cause him trouble. He therefore determined to marry her to someeligible gentleman as quickly as possible, and to place the heavyresponsibility of managing her in the hands of a husband. The stubbornviolence of Sir George's nature, the rough side of which had never beforebeen shown to Dorothy, in her became adroit wilfulness of a quality thatno masculine mind may compass. But her life had been so entirelyundisturbed by opposing influences that her father, firm in the beliefthat no one in his household would dare to thwart his will, had remainedin dangerous ignorance of the latent trouble which pervaded his daughterfrom the soles of her shapely feet to the top of her glory-crowned head. 

Sir George, in casting about for a son-in-law, had hit upon the heir tothe house of Derby as a suitable match for his child, and had entered intoan alliance offensive and defensive with the earl against the commonenemy, Dorothy. The two fathers had partly agreed that the heir to Derbyshould wed the heiress of Haddon. The heir, although he had never seen hiscousin except when she was a plain, unattractive girl, was entirelywilling for the match, but the heiress--well, she had not been consulted, and everybody connected with the affair instinctively knew there would betrouble in that quarter. Sir George, however, had determined that Dorothyshould do her part in case the contract of marriage should be agreed uponbetween the heads of the houses. He had fully resolved to assert themajesty of the law vested in him as a father and to compel Dorothy to dohis bidding, if there were efficacy in force and chastisement. At the timewhen Sir George spoke to Dorothy about the Derby marriage, she had been aprisoner for a fortnight or more, and had learned that her only hopeagainst her father lay in cunning. So she wept, and begged for time inwhich to consider the answer she would give to Lord Derby's request. Shebegged for two months, or even one month, in which to bring herself toaccede to her father's commands. 

"You have always been so kind and good to me, father, that I shall try toobey if you and the earl eventually agree upon terms, " she said tearfully, having no intention whatever of trying to do anything but disobey. 

"Try!" stormed Sir George. "Try to obey me! By God, girl, I say you shallobey!"

"Oh, father, I am so young. I have not seen my cousin for years. I do notwant to leave you, and I have never thought twice of any man. Do not driveme from you. "

Sir George, eager to crush in the outset any disposition to oppose hiswill, grew violent and threatened his daughter with dire punishment if shewere not docile and obedient. 

Then said rare Dorothy:--

"It would indeed be a great match. " Greater than ever will happen, shethought. "I should be a countess. " She strutted across the room with headup and with dilating nostrils. The truth was, she desired to gain herliberty once more that she might go to John, and was ready to promiseanything to achieve that end. "What sort of a countess would I make, father?"

"A glorious countess, Doll, a glorious countess, " said her father, laughing. "You are a good girl to obey me so readily. "

"Oh, but I have not obeyed you yet, " returned Dorothy, fearing that herfather might be suspicious of a too ready acquiescence. 

"But you will obey me, " answered Sir George, half in command and half inentreaty. 

"There are not many girls who would refuse the coronet of a countess. " Shethen seated herself upon her father's knee and kissed him, while SirGeorge laughed softly over his easy victory. 

Blessed is the man who does not know when he is beaten. 

Seeing her father's kindly humor, Dorothy said:--

"Father, do you still wish me to remain a prisoner in my rooms?"

"If you promise to be a good, obedient daughter, " returned Sir George, "you shall have your liberty. "

"I have always been that, father, and I am too old to learn otherwise, "answered this girl, whose father had taught her deception by his violence. You may drive men, but you cannot drive any woman who is worth possessing. You may for a time think you drive her, but in the end she will have herway. 

Dorothy's first act of obedience after regaining liberty was to send aletter to Manners by the hand of Jennie Faxton. 

John received the letter in the evening, and all next day he passed thetime whistling, singing, and looking now and again at his horologue. Hewalked about the castle like a happy wolf in a pen. He did not tell methere was a project on foot, with Dorothy as the objective, but I knew it, and waited with some impatience for the outcome. 

Long before the appointed time, which was sunset, John galloped forth forBowling Green Gate with joy and anticipation in his heart and pain in hisconscience. As he rode, he resolved again and again that the interviewtoward which he was hastening should be the last he would have withDorothy. But when he pictured the girl to himself, and thought upon hermarvellous beauty and infinite winsomeness, his conscience was drowned inhis longing, and he resolved that he would postpone resolving until themorrow. 

John hitched his horse near the gate and stood looking between the massiveiron bars toward Haddon Hall, whose turrets could be seen through theleafless boughs of the trees. The sun was sinking perilously low, thoughtJohn, and with each moment his heart also sank, while his good resolutionsshowed the flimsy fibre of their fabric and were rent asunder by the fearthat she might not come. As the moments dragged on and she did not come, ahundred alarms tormented him. First among these was a dread that she mighthave made resolves such as had sprung up so plenteously in him, and thatshe might have been strong enough to act upon them and to remain at home. But he was mistaken in the girl. Such resolutions as he had been makingand breaking had never come to her at all. The difference between the manand the woman was this: he resolved in his mind not to see her and failedin keeping to his resolution; while she resolved in her heart to seehim--resolved that nothing in heaven or earth or the other place couldkeep her from seeing him, and succeeded in carrying out her resolution. The intuitive resolve, the one that does not know it is a resolution, isthe sort before which obstacles fall like corn before the sickle. 

After John had waited a weary time, the form of the girl appeared abovethe crest of the hill. She was holding up the skirt of her gown, andglided over the earth so rapidly that she appeared to be running. Beat!beat! oh, heart of John, if there is aught in womanhood to make you throb;if there is aught in infinite grace and winsomeness; if there is aught inperfect harmony of color and form and movement; if there is aught ofbeauty, in God's power to create that can set you pulsing, beat! for thefairest creature of His hand is hastening to greet you. The wind haddishevelled her hair and it was blowing in fluffy curls of golden redabout her face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with joy and exercise, her red lips were parted, and her eyes--but I am wasting words. As forJohn's heart it almost smothered him with its beating. He had never beforesupposed that he could experience such violent throbbing within his breastand live. But at last she was at the gate, in all her exquisite beauty andwinsomeness, and something must be done to make the heart conform to theusages of good society. She, too, was in trouble with her breathing, butJohn thought that her trouble was owing to exertion. However that may havebeen, nothing in heaven or earth was ever so beautiful, so radiant, sograceful, or so fair as this girl who had come to give herself to John. Itseems that I cannot take myself away from the attractive theme. 

"Ah, Sir John, you did come, " said the girl, joyously. 

"Yes, " John succeeded in replying, after an effort, "and you--I thank you, gracious lady, for coming. I do not deserve--" the heart again asserteditself, and Dorothy stood by the gate with downcast eyes, waiting to learnwhat it was that John did not deserve. She thought he deserved everythinggood. 

"I fear I have caused you fatigue, " said John, again thinking, and withgood reason, that he was a fool. 

The English language, which he had always supposed to be his mothertongue, had deserted him as if it were his step-mother. After all, thedifficulty, as John subsequently said, was that Dorothy's beauty haddeprived him of the power to think. He could only see. He was entirelydisorganized by a girl whom he could have carried away in his arms. 

"I feel no fatigue, " replied Dorothy. 

"I feared that in climbing the hill you had lost your breath, " answereddisorganized John. 

"So I did, " she returned. Then she gave a great sigh and said, "Now I amall right again. "

All right? So is the morning sun, so is the arching rainbow, and so arethe flitting lights of the north in midwinter. All are "all right" becauseGod made them, as He made Dorothy, perfect, each after its kind. 

A long, uneasy pause ensued. Dorothy felt the embarrassing silence lessthan John, and could have helped him greatly had she wished to do so. Butshe had made the advances at their former meetings, and as she had toldme, she "had done a great deal more than her part in going to meet him. "Therefore she determined that he should do his own wooing thenceforward. She had graciously given him all the opportunity he had any right to ask. 

While journeying to Bowling Green Gate, John had formulated many true andbeautiful sentiments of a personal nature which he intended expressing toDorothy; but when the opportunity came for him to speak, the weather, hishorse, Dorothy's mare Dolcy, the queens of England and Scotland were theonly subjects on which he could induce his tongue to perform, evenmoderately well. 

Dorothy listened attentively while John on the opposite side of the gatediscoursed limpingly on the above-named themes; and although in formerinterviews she had found those topics quite interesting, upon thatoccasion she had come to Bowling Green Gate to listen to something elseand was piqued not to hear it. After ten or fifteen minutes she saiddemurely:--

"I may not remain here longer. I shall be missed at the Hall. I regainedmy liberty but yesterday, and father will be suspicious of me during thenext few days. I must be watchful and must have a care of my behavior. "

John summoned his wits and might have spoken his mind freely had he notfeared to say too much. Despite Dorothy's witchery, honor, conscience, andprudence still bore weight with him, and they all dictated that he shouldcling to the shreds of his resolution and not allow matters to go too farbetween him and this fascinating girl. He was much in love with her; butDorothy had reached at a bound a height to which he was still climbing. Soon John, also, was to reach the pinnacle whence honor, conscience, andprudence were to be banished. 

"I fear I must now leave you, " said Dorothy, as darkness began to gather. 

"I hope I may soon see you again, " said John. 

"Sometime I will see you if--if I can, " she answered with downcast eyes. "It is seldom I can leave the Hall alone, but I shall try to come here atsunset some future day. " John's silence upon a certain theme had givenoffence. 

"I cannot tell you how greatly I thank you, " cried John. 

"I will say adieu, " said Dorothy, as she offered him her hand through thebars of the gate. John raised the hand gallantly to his lips, and when shehad withdrawn it there seemed no reason for her to remain. But she stoodfor a moment hesitatingly. Then she stooped to reach into her pocket whileshe daintily lifted the skirt of her gown with the other hand and from thepocket drew forth a great iron key. 

"I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate--andcome to--to this side. I had great difficulty in taking it from theforester's closet, where it has been hanging for a hundred years or more. "

She showed John the key, returned it to her pocket, made a courtesy, andmoved slowly away, walking backward. 

"Mistress Vernon, " cried John, "I beg you to let me have the key. "

"It is too late, now, " said the girl, with downcast eyes. "Darkness israpidly falling, and I must return to the Hall. "

John began to climb the gate, but she stopped him. He had thrown away hisopportunity. 

"Please do not follow me, Sir John, " said she, still moving backward. "Imust not remain longer. "

"Only for one moment, " pleaded John. 

"No, " the girl responded, "I--I may, perhaps, bring the key when I comeagain. I am glad, Sir John, that you came to meet me this evening. " Shecourtesied, and then hurried away toward Haddon Hall. Twice she lookedbackward and waved her hand, and John stood watching her through the barstill her form was lost to view beneath the crest of Bowling Green Hill. 

"'I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate andcome to this side, '" muttered John, quoting the girl's words. "Comparedwith you, John Manners, there is no other fool in this world. " Thenmeditatively: "I wonder if she feels toward me as I feel toward her?Surely she does. What other reason could bring her here to meet me unlessshe is a brazen, wanton creature who is for every man. " Then came ajealous thought that hurt him like the piercing of a knife. It lasted buta moment, however, and he continued muttering to himself: "If she loves meand will be my wife, I will--I will . .. In God's name what will I do? If Iwere to marry her, old Vernon would kill her, and I--I should kill myfather. "

Then John mounted his horse and rode homeward the unhappiest happy man inEngland. He had made perilous strides toward that pinnacle sans honor, sans caution, sans conscience, sans everything but love. 

That evening while we were walking on the battlements, smoking, John toldme of his interview with Dorothy and extolled her beauty, grace, andwinsomeness which, in truth, as you know, were matchless. But when hespoke of "her sweet, shy modesty, " I came near to laughing in his face. 

"Did she not write a letter asking you to meet her?" I asked. 

"Why--y-e-s, " returned John. 

"And, " I continued, "has she not from the first sought you?"

"It almost seems to be so, " answered John, "but notwithstanding the factthat one might say--might call--that one might feel that her conductis--that it might be--you know, well--it might be called by some personsnot knowing all the facts in the case, immodest--I hate to use the wordwith reference to her--yet it does not appear to me to have been at allimmodest in Mistress Vernon, and, Sir Malcolm, I should be deeply offendedwere any of my friends to intimate--"

"Now, John, " I returned, laughing at him, "you could not, if you wished, make me quarrel with you; and if you desire it, I will freely avow my firmbelief in the fact that my cousin Dorothy is the flower of modesty. Doesthat better suit you?"

I could easily see that my bantering words did not suit him at all; but Ilaughed at him, and he could not find it in his heart to show hisill-feeling. 

"I will not quarrel with you, " he returned; "but in plain words, I do notlike the tone in which you speak of her. It hurts me, and I do not believeyou would wilfully give me pain. "

"Indeed, I would not, " I answered seriously. 

"Mistress Vernon's conduct toward me, " John continued, "has been gracious. There has been no immodesty nor boldness in it. "

I laughed again and said: "I make my humble apologies to her Majesty, Queen Dorothy. But in all earnestness, Sir John, you are right: Dorothy ismodest and pure. As for her conduct toward you, there is a royal qualityabout beauty such as my cousin possesses which gives an air ofgraciousness to acts that in a plainer girl would seem bold. Beauty, likeroyalty, has its own prerogatives. "

For a fortnight after the adventures just related, John, in pursuance ofhis oft-repeated resolution not to see Dorothy, rode every evening toBowling Green Gate; but during that time he failed to see her, and theresolutions, with each failure, became weaker and fewer. 

One evening, after many disappointments, John came to my room bearing inhis hands a letter which he said Jennie Faxton had delivered to him atBowling Green Gate. 

"Mistress Vernon, " said John, "and Lady Madge Stanley will ride toDerby-town to-morrow. They will go in the Haddon Hall coach, and Dawsonwill drive. Mistress Vernon writes to me thus:--

 "'To SIR JOHN MANNERS:--

 "'My good wishes and my kind greeting. Lady Madge Stanley, my good aunt, Lady Crawford, and myself do intend journeying to Derby-town to-morrow. My aunt, Lady Crawford, is slightly ill, and although I should much regret to see her sickness grow greater, yet if ill she must be, I do hope that her worst day will be upon the morrow, in which case she could not accompany Lady Madge and me. I shall nurse my good aunt carefully this day, and shall importune her to take plentifully of physic that she may quickly recover her health--after to-morrow. Should a gentleman ask of Will Dawson, who will be in the tap-room of the Royal Arms at eleven o'clock of the morning, Dawson will be glad to inform the gentleman concerning Lady Crawford's health. Let us hope that the physic will cure Lady Crawford--by the day after to-morrow at furthest. The said Will Dawson may be trusted. With great respect, DOROTHY VERNON. '"

"I suppose the gentleman will be solicitous concerning Lady Crawford'shealth to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, " said I. 

"The gentleman is now solicitous concerning Lady Crawford's health, "answered John, laughingly. "Was there ever a lady more fair and graciousthan Mistress Vernon?"

I smiled with a superior air at John's weakness, being, as you know, entirely free from his complaint myself, and John continued:--

"Perhaps you would call Mistress Dorothy bold for sending me this letter?"

"It is redolent with shyness, " I answered. "But would you really wish poorLady Crawford to be ill that you might witness Mistress Dorothy'smodesty?"

"Please don't jest on that subject, " said John, seriously. "I would wishanything, I fear, that would bring me an opportunity to see her, to lookupon her face, and to hear her voice. For her I believe I would sacrificeevery one who is dear to me. One day she shall be mine--mine at whatevercost--if she will be. If she will be. Ah, there is the rub! If she willbe. I dare not hope for that. "

"I think, " said I, "that you really have some little cause to hope. "

"You speak in the same tone again. Malcolm, you do not understand her. Shemight love me to the extent that I sometimes hope; but her father and minewould never consent to our union, and she, I fear, could not be induced tomarry me under those conditions. Do not put the hope into my heart. "

"You only now said she should be yours some day, " I answered. 

"So she shall, " returned John, "so she shall. "

"But Lady Madge is to be with her to-morrow, " said I, my own heart beatingwith an ardent wish and a new-born hope, "and you may be unable, afterall, to see Mistress Dorothy. "

"That is true, " replied John. "I do not know how she will arrange matters, but I have faith in her ingenuity. "

Well might he have faith, for Dorothy was possessed of that sort of a willwhich usually finds a way. 

"If you wish me to go with you to Derby-town, I will do so. Perhaps I maybe able to entertain Lady Madge while you have a word with Dorothy. Whatthink you of the plan?" I asked. 

"If you will go with me, Malcolm, I shall thank you with all my heart. "

And so it was agreed between us that we should both go to Derby-town forthe purpose of inquiring about Lady Crawford's health, though for me theexpedition was full of hazard. 

CHAPTER VI

A DANGEROUS TRIP TO DERBY-TOWN

The next morning broke brightly, but soon clouds began to gather and astorm seemed imminent. We feared that the gloomy prospect of the sky mightkeep Dorothy and Madge at home, but long before the appointed hour Johnand I were at the Royal Arms watching eagerly for the Haddon coach. At theinn we occupied a room from which we could look into the courtyard, and atthe window we stood alternating between exaltation and despair. 

When my cogitations turned upon myself--a palpitating youth ofthirty-five, waiting with beating heart for a simple blind girl littlemore than half my age; and when I remembered how for years I had laughedat the tenderness of the fairest women of the French and Scottishcourts--I could not help saying to myself, "Poor fool! you have achievedan early second childhood. " But when I recalled Madge in all her beauty, purity, and helplessness, my cynicism left me, and I, who had enjoyed allof life's ambitious possibilities, calmly reached the conclusion that itis sometimes a blessed privilege to be a fool. While I dwelt on thoughtsof Madge, all the latent good within me came uppermost. There is latentgood in every man, though it may remain latent all his life. Goodresolves, pure thoughts, and noble aspirations--new sensations to me, Iblush to confess--bubbled in my heart, and I made a mental prayer, "Ifthis is folly, may God banish wisdom. " What is there, after all is said, in wisdom, that men should seek it? Has it ever brought happiness to itspossessor? I am an old man at this writing. I have tasted all the cups oflife, and from the fulness of my experience I tell you that the simplelife is the only one wherein happiness is found. When you permit yourheart and your mind to grow complex and wise, you make nooks and cranniesfor wretchedness to lodge in. Innocence is Nature's wisdom; knowledge isman's folly. 

An hour before noon our patience was rewarded when we saw the Haddon Hallcoach drive into the courtyard with Dawson on the box. I tried to makemyself believe that I did not wish Lady Crawford were ill. But there islittle profit in too close scrutiny of our deep-seated motives, and inthis case I found no comfort in self-examination. I really did wish thatAunt Dorothy were ill. 

My motive studying, however, was brought to a joyous end when I saw WillDawson close the coach door after Madge and Dorothy had alighted. 

How wondrously beautiful they were! Had we lived in the days when Olympusruled the world, John surely would have had a god for his rival. Dorothyseemed luminous, so radiant was she with the fire of life. As for Madge, had I beheld a corona hovering over her head I should have thought it inall respects a natural and appropriate phenomenon--so fair and saintlikedid she appear to me. Her warm white furs and her clinging gown of softlight-colored woollen stuff seemed to be a saint's robe, and her daintylittle hat, fashioned with ermine about the edge of the rim--well, thatwas the corona, and I was ready to worship. 

Dorothy, as befitted her, wore a blaze of harmonious colors and lookedlike the spirit of life and youth. I wish I could cease rhapsodizing overthose two girls, but I cannot. You may pass over it as you read, if you donot like it. 

"Ye gods! did ever a creature so perfect as she tread the earth?" askedJohn, meaning, of course, Dorothy. 

"No, " answered I, meaning, of course, Madge. 

The girls entered the inn, and John and I descended to the tap-room forthe purpose of consulting Will Dawson concerning the state of AuntDorothy's health. 

When we entered the tap-room Will was standing near the fireplace with amug of hot punch in his hand. When I touched him, he almost dropped themug so great was his surprise at seeing me. 

"Sir Mal--" he began to say, but I stopped him by a gesture. He instantlyrecovered his composure and appeared not to recognize me. 

I spoke in broken English, for, as you know, I belong more to France thanto any other country. "I am Sir François de Lorraine, " said I. "I wish toinquire if Lady Crawford is in good health?"

"Her ladyship is ill, sir, I am sorry to say, " responded Will, taking offhis hat. "Mistress Vernon and Lady Madge Stanley are at the inn. If youwish to inquire more particularly concerning Lady Crawford's health, Iwill ask them if they wish to receive you. They are in the parlor. "

Will was the king of trumps!

"Say to them, " said I, "that Sir François de Lorraine--mark the namecarefully, please--and his friend desire to make inquiry concerning LadyCrawford's health, and would deem it a great honor should the ladies grantthem an interview. "

Will's countenance was as expressionless as the face upon the mug fromwhich he had been drinking. "I shall inform the ladies of your honor'srequest. " He thereupon placed the half-emptied mug upon the fire-shelfand left the room. 

When Will announced his errand to the girls, Dorothy said in surprise:--

"Sir François de Lorraine? That is the name of the Grand Duc de Guise, butsurely--Describe him to me, Will. "

"He is about your height, Mistress Dorothy, and is very handsome, "responded Will. 

The latter part of Will's description placed me under obligation to him tothe extent of a gold pound sterling. 

"Ah, it is John!" thought Dorothy, forgetting the fact that John was agreat deal taller than she, but feeling that Will's description of "veryhandsome" could apply to only one man in the world. "He has takenMalcolm's name. " Then she said, "Bring him to us, Will. But who is thefriend? Do you know him? Tell me his appearance. "

"I did not notice the other gentleman, " replied Will, "and I can tell younothing of him. "

"Will, you are a very stupid man. But bring the gentlemen here. " Dorothyhad taken Will into her confidence to the extent of telling him that agentleman would arrive at the Royal Arms who would inquire for LadyCrawford's health, and that she, Dorothy, would fully inform the gentlemanupon that interesting topic. Will may have had suspicions of his own, butif so, he kept them to himself, and at least did not know that thegentleman whom his mistress expected to see was Sir John Manners. Neitherdid he suspect that fact. Dawson had never seen Manners, and did not knowhe was in the neighborhood of Derby. The fact was concealed from Dawson byDorothy not so much because she doubted him, but for the reason that shewished him to be able truthfully to plead innocence in case trouble shouldgrow out of the Derby-town escapade. 

"I wonder why John did not come alone?" thought Dorothy. "This friend ofhis will be a great hindrance. "

Dorothy ran to the mirror and hurriedly gave a few touches to her hair, pressing it lightly with her soft flexible fingers here, and tucking in astray curl there, which for beauty's sake should have been allowed to hangloose. She was standing at the pier-glass trying to see the back of herhead when Will knocked to announce our arrival. 

"Come, " said Dorothy. 

Will opened the door and held it for us to pass in. Madge was seated nearthe fire. When we entered Dorothy was standing with great dignity in thecentre of the floor, not of course intending to make an exhibition ofdelight over John in the presence of a stranger. But when she saw that Iwas the stranger, she ran to me with outstretched hands. 

"Good morning, Mistress Vernon, " said I, in mock ceremoniousness. 

"Oh, Malcolm! Malcolm!" cried Madge, quickly rising from her chair. "Youare cruel, Dorothy, to surprise me in this fashion. "

"I, too, am surprised. I did not know that Malcolm was coming, " repliedDorothy, turning to give welcome to John. Then I stepped to Madge's sideand took her hands, but all I could say was "Madge! Madge!" and all shesaid was "Malcolm! Malcolm!" yet we seemed to understand each other. 

John and Dorothy were likewise stricken with a paucity of words, but theyalso doubtless understood each other. After a moment or two there fellupon me a shower of questions from Dorothy. 

"Did you not go to France? How happens it that you are in Derby-town?Where did you meet Sir John? What a delightful surprise you have given us!Nothing was wanting to make us happy but your presence. "

"I am so happy that it frightens me, " said Dorothy in ecstasy. "Troublewill come, I am sure. One extreme always follows another. The pendulumalways swings as far back as it goes forward. But we are happy now, aren'twe, Madge? I intend to remain so while I can. The pendulum may swing asfar backward as it chooses hereafter. Sufficient to the day is the evilthereof. Sometimes the joy is almost sufficient, isn't it, Madge?"

"The evil is more than sufficient some days, " answered Madge. 

"Come, Madge, don't be foreboding. "

"Dorothy, I have not met the other gentleman, " said Madge. 

"Ah, pardon me. In my surprise I forgot to present you. Lady MadgeStanley, let me present Sir John Manners. "

"Sir John Manners!" cried Madge, taking a step backward. Her surprise wasso great that she forgot to acknowledge the introduction. "Dorothy, whatmeans this?" she continued. 

"It means, " replied Dorothy, nervously, "that Sir John is my very dearfriend. I will explain it to you at another time. "

We stood silently for a few moments, and John said:--

"I hope I may find favor in your heart, Lady Madge. I wish to greet youwith my sincere homage. "

"Sir John, I am glad to greet you, but I fear the pendulum of whichDorothy spoke will swing very far backward erelong. "

"Let it swing as far back as it chooses, " answered Dorothy, with a toss ofher head, "I am ready to buy and to pay for happiness. That seems to bethe only means whereby we may have it. I am ready to buy it with pain anyday, and am willing to pay upon demand. Pain passes away; joy lastsforever. "

"I know, " said Sir John, addressing Madge, "I know it is not prudent forMalcolm and me to be here to-day; but imprudent things seem to be the mostdelightful. "

"For men, Sir John, " returned Madge. "Upon women they leave their mark. "

"I fear you are right, " he answered. "I had not thought of my visit inthat light. For Mistress Vernon's sake it is better that I do not remainin Derby. "

"For Mistress Vernon's sake you shall remain, " cried that impetuous youngwoman, clutching John's arm. 

After a time, Dorothy wishing to visit one of the shops to make purchases, it was agreed between us that we should all walk out. Neither Dorothy norMadge had ever before visited Derby-town. John and I had visited the placebut once; that was upon the occasion of our first meeting. No one in thetown knew us, and we felt safe in venturing forth into the streets. So wehelped Dorothy and Madge to don their furs, and out we went happier andmore reckless than four people have any good right to be. But beforesetting out I went to the tap-room and ordered dinner. 

I found the host and directed him to prepare a dozen partridges in a pie, a haunch of venison, a few links of German sausage, and a capon. The hostinformed me that he had in his pantry a barrel of roots called potatoeswhich had been sent to him by a sea-captain who had recently returned fromthe new world. He hurried away and brought a potato for inspection. It wasof a gray brown color and near the size of an egg. The landlord assured methat it was delicious when baked, and I ordered four, at the cost of acrown each. I understand that my Lord Raleigh claims to have brought thefirst potatoes and tobacco into England in '85; but I know that I smokedtobacco in '66, and I saw potatoes at the Royal Arms in Derby-town in '67. I also ordered another new dish for our famous dinner. It was a brownbeverage called coffee. The berries from which the beverage is made minehost showed to me, and said they had been brought to him by a sea-faringman from Arabia. I ordered a pot of the drink at a cost of three crowns. Ihave heard it said that coffee was not known in Europe or in England tillit was introduced by Rawolf in '73, but I saw it at the Royal Arms in '67. In addition to this list, I ordered for our drinking sweet wine fromMadeira and red wine from Burgundy. The latter-named wine had begun togrow in favor at the French court when I left France five years before. Itwas little liked in England. All these dainties were rare at the time ofwhich I write; but they have since grown into considerable use, and Idoubt not, as we progress in luxury, they will become common articles offood upon the tables of the rich. Prongs, or forks, as they are called, which by some are used in cutting and eating one's food at table, I alsopredict will become implements of daily use. It is really a filthyfashion, which we have, of handling food with our fingers. The Italianshave used forks for some time, but our preachers speak against them, saying God has given us our fingers with which to eat, and that it isimpious to thwart his purposes by the use of forks. The preachers willprobably retard the general use of forks among the common people. 

After I had given my order for dinner we started out on our ramble throughDerby-town. 

Shortly after we left the inn we divided into couples for the ostensiblereason that we did not wish to attract too much attention--Dorothy andJohn, Madge and I! Our real reason for separating was--but you understand. 

Madge's hand lay like a span of snow upon my arm, and--but this time Iwill restrain my tendency to rhapsodize. 

We walked out through those parts of the town which were little used, andMadge talked freely and happily. 

She fairly babbled, and to me her voice was like the murmurings of therivers that flowed out of paradise. 

We had agreed with John and Dorothy to meet them at the Royal Arms in onehour, and that time had almost passed when Madge and I turned our facestoward the inn. 

When we were within a short distance of our hostelry we saw a crowdgathered around a young man who was standing on a box. He was speaking ina mournful, lugubrious voice and accompanied his words with violentgesticulations. Out of curiosity we stopped to listen, and learned thatreligion was our orator's theme. 

I turned to a man standing near me and asked:--

"Who is the fellow speaking?"

"The pious man is Robert Brown. He is exhorting in the name of the Lord ofHosts. "

"The pious Robert Brown?" I queried, "exhorting in the name of--of theLord of where, did you say?"

"Hosts, " laconically responded my friend, while listening intently to thewords of Brown. 

"Hosts, say you? Who is he?" I asked of my interesting neighbor. "I knowhim not. "

"Doubtless you know Him not, " responded the man, evidently annoyed at myinterruption and my flippancy. 

After a moment or two I, desiring to know more concerning the orator, asked:--

"Robert Brown, say you?"

"Even he, " came the response. "It will be good for your soul if you butlisten to him in a prayerful mood. He is a young man upon whom the Spirithath descended plenteously. "

"The Spirit?" I asked. 

"Ay, " returned my neighbor. 

I could not extract another word from him, so I had the worst of theencounter. 

We had been standing there but a short time when the young exhorterdescended from his improvised pulpit and passed among the crowd for thepurpose of collecting money. His harangue had appeared ridiculous to me, but Madge seemed interested in his discourse. She said:--

"He is very earnest, Malcolm, " and at once my heart went out to the youngenthusiast upon the box. One kind word from Madge, and I was the fellow'sfriend for life. I would have remained his friend had he permitted me thathigh privilege. But that he would not do. When he came to me, I droppedinto his hat a small silver piece which shone brightly among a few blackcopper coins. My liberal contribution did not induce him to kindness, but, on the contrary, it attracted his attention to the giver. He looked at thesilver coin, and then turning his solemn gaze upon me, eyed me insolentlyfrom head to foot. While doing so a look of profound disgust spread overhis mournful countenance. After a calm survey of my person, which to mewas uncomfortably long, he turned to the bystanders, and in the samehigh-pitched, lugubrious voice which he had used when exhorting, said:--

"Brethren, here behold ye the type of anti-Christ, " and he waved his thinhand toward me much to my amusement and annoyance. "Here, " said he, "wefind the leading strings to all that is iniquitous--vanity. It isbetokened in his velvets, satins, and laces. Think ye, young man, " hesaid, turning to me, "that such vanities are not an abomination in theeyes of the God of Israel?"

"I believe that the God of Israel cares nothing about my apparel, " Ireplied, more amused than angered. He paid no attention to my remark. 

"And this young woman, " he continued, pointing to Madge, "this youngwoman, daughter of the Roman harlot, no doubt, she also is arrayed insilks, taffetas, and fine cloth. Look ye, friends, upon this abominablecollar of Satan; this ruff of fine linen, all smeared in the devil's ownliquor, starch. Her vanity is an offence in the nostrils of God's people. "

As he spoke he stretched forth his hand and caught in his clawlike graspthe dainty white ruff that encircled Madge's neck. When I saw his act, myfirst impulse was to run him through, and I drew my sword half from itsscabbard with that purpose. But he was not the sort of a man upon whom Icould use my blade. He was hardly more than a boy--a wild, half-crazedfanatic, whose reason, if he had ever possessed any, had been lost in theCharybdis of his zeal. He honestly thought it was his duty to insultpersons who apparently disagreed with him. Such a method of proselyting isreally a powerful means of persuasion among certain classes, and it hasalways been used by men who have successfully founded permanent religioussects. To plant successfully a religious thought or system requires moreviolent aggression than to conquer a nation. 

Since I could not run the fellow through, I drew back my arm, and strikingas lightly as possible, I laid our zealous friend sprawling on his back. Thus had I the honor of knocking down the founder of the Brownists. 

If I mistake not, the time will come, if these men are allowed to haranguethe populace, when the kings of England will be unable to accomplish thefeat of knocking down Brown's followers. Heresies, like noxious weeds, grow without cultivation, and thrive best on barren soil. Or shall I saythat, like the goodly vine, they bear better fruit when pruned? I cannotfully decide this question for myself; but I admire these sturdy fanaticswho so passionately love their own faith, and so bitterly hate all others, and I am almost prepared to say that each new heresy brings to the world abetter orthodoxy. 

For a little time after my encounter with Brown, all my skill was neededto ward off the frantic hero. He quickly rose to his feet, and, with thehelp of his friends, seemed determined to spread the gospel by tearing meto pieces. My sword point kept the rabble at a respectful distance for awhile, but they crowded closely upon me, and I should have been compelledto kill some of them had I not been reënforced by two men who came to myhelp and laid about them most joyfully with their quarterstaffs. A fewbroken heads stemmed for a moment the torrent of religious enthusiasm, andduring a pause in the hostilities I hurriedly retreated with Madge, ungratefully leaving my valiant allies to reap the full reward of victoryshould the fortunes of war favor them. 

Madge was terribly frightened, and with her by my side I, of course, wouldnot have remained to fight the redoubtable Bayard himself. 

We hurried forward, but before we reached the inn we were overtaken by ourallies whom we had abandoned. Our friends were young men. One wore a rich, half-rustic habit, and the other was dressed as a horse boy. Both wereintoxicated. I had been thankful for their help; but I did not want theircompany. 

"How now, Cousin Madge?" said our richly dressed ally. "What in thedevil's name has brought you into this street broil?"

"Ah, Cousin James, is it you?" replied the trembling girl. 

"Yes, but who is your friend that so cleverly unloaded his quarrel uponus? Hell's fires! but they were like a swarm of wasps. Who is your friend, Madge?"

"Sir Malcolm Vernon, " replied Madge. "Let me present you, Sir Malcolm, tomy cousin, Lord James Stanley. "

I offered my hand to his Lordship, and said:--

"I thank you much for your timely help. I should not have deserted you hadI not felt that my first duty was to extricate Lady Madge from thedisagreeable situation. We must hasten away from here, or the mad rabblewill follow us. "

"Right you are, my hearty, " returned Stanley, slapping me on the shoulder. "Of course you had to get the wench away. Where do you go? We will bearyou company. "

I longed to pay the fellow for his help by knocking him down; but thepossibilities of trouble ahead of us were already too great, and I forcedmyself to be content with the prowess already achieved. 

"But you have not told me what brought you into the broil, " asked hisLordship, as we walked toward the inn. 

"Sir Malcolm and I were walking out to see the town and--"

"To see the town? By gad, that's good, Cousin Madge. How much of it didyou see? You are as blind as an owl at noon, " answered his Lordship. 

"Alas! I am blind, " returned Madge, clinging closely to me, and shrinkingfrom her cousin's terrible jest. I could not think of anythingsufficiently holy and sacred upon which to vow my vengeance against thisfellow, if the time should ever come when I dared take it. 

"Are you alone with this--this gentleman?" asked his Lordship, graspingMadge by the arm. 

"No, " returned Madge, "Dorothy is with us. "

"She is among the shops, " I volunteered reluctantly. 

"Dorothy? Dorothy Vernon? By gad, Tod, we are in luck. I must see thewench I am to marry, " said his Lordship, speaking to his companion, thestable boy. "So Dorothy is with you, is she, cousin? I haven't seen herfor years. They say she is a handsome filly now. By gad, she had room toimprove, for she was plain enough, to frighten rats away from a barn whenI last saw her. We will go to the inn and see for ourselves, won't we, Tod? Dad's word won't satisfy us when it comes to the matter of marrying, will it, Tod?"

Tod was the drunken stable boy who had assisted his Lordship and me inour battle with the Brownists. 

I was at a loss what course to pursue. I was forced to submit to thisfellow's company, and to endure patiently his insolence. But John andDorothy would soon return, and there is no need that I should explain thedangers of the predicament which would then ensue. 

When we were within a few yards of the inn door I looked backward and sawDorothy and John approaching us. I held up my hand warningly. John caughtmy meaning, and instantly leaving Dorothy's side, entered an adjacentshop. My movement had attracted Stanley's attention, and he turned in thedirection I had been looking. When he saw Dorothy, he turned again to meand asked:--

"Is that Dorothy Vernon?"

"Yes, " I replied. 

"Look at her, Tod!" exclaimed my lord, "look at her, Tod! The dad wasright about her, after all. I thought the old man was hoaxing me when hetold me that she was beautiful. Holy Virgin, Tod, did you ever seeanything so handsome? I will take her quick enough; I will take her. Dadwon't need to tease me. I'm willing. "

Dorothy approached to within a few yards of us, and my Lord Stanleystepped forward to meet her. 

"Ye don't know me, do ye?" said Stanley. 

Dorothy was frightened and quickly stepped to my side. 

"I--I believe not, " responded Dorothy. 

"Lord James Stanley, " murmured Madge, who knew of the approaching Stanleymarriage. 

"Madge is right, " returned. Stanley, grinning foolishly. "I am your cousinJames, but not so much of a cousin that I cannot be more than cousin, heh?" He laughed boisterously, and winking at Tod, thrust his thumb intothat worthy's ribs. "Say, Tod, something more than cousin; that's thething, isn't it, Tod?"

John was standing half-concealed at the door of the shop in which he hadsought refuge. Dorothy well knew the peril of the situation, and when Ifrowned at her warningly, she caught the hint that she should not resentStanley's words, however insulting and irritating they might become. 

"Let us go to the inn, " said Dorothy. 

"That's the thing to do. Let us go to the inn and have dinner, " saidStanley. "It's two hours past dinner time now, and I'm almost famished. We'll have a famous dinner. Come, cousin, " said he, addressing Dorothy. "We'll have kidneys and tripe and--"

"We do not want dinner, " said Dorothy. "We must return home at once. SirMalcolm, will you order Dawson to bring out the coach?"

We went to the inn parlor, and I, loath to do so, left the ladies withStanley and his horse-boy friend while I sought Dawson for the purpose oftelling him to fetch the coach with all haste. 

"We have not dined, " said the forester. 

"We shall not dine, " I answered. "Fetch the coach with all the haste youcan make. " The bystanders in the tap-room were listening, and I continued, "A storm is brewing, and we must hasten home. "

True enough, a storm was brewing. 

When I left Dawson, I hurriedly found John and told him we were preparingto leave the inn, and that we would expect him to overtake us on the roadto Rowsley. 

I returned to the ladies in the parlor and found them standing near thewindow. Stanley had tried to kiss Dorothy, and she had slapped his face. Fortunately he had taken the blow good-humoredly, and was pouring into herunwilling ear a fusillade of boorish compliments when. I entered theparlor. 

I said, "The coach is ready. "

The ladies moved toward the door. "I am going to ride with you, mybeauty, " said his Lordship. 

"That you shall not do, " retorted Dorothy, with blazing eyes. 

"That I will do, " he answered. "The roads are free to all, and you cannotkeep me from following you. "

Dorothy was aware of her predicament, and I too saw it, but could find noway out of it. I was troubled a moment; but my fear was needless, forDorothy was equal to the occasion. 

"We should like your company, Cousin Stanley, " replied Dorothy, without atrace of anger in her manner, "but we cannot let you ride with us in theface of the storm that is brewing. "

"We won't mind the storm, will we, Tod? We are going with our cousin. "

"If you insist upon being so kind to us, " said Dorothy, "you may come. ButI have changed my mind about dinner. I am very hungry, and we accept yourinvitation. "

"Now you are coming around nicely, " said Lord James, joyfully. "We likethat, don't we, Tod?"

Tod had been silent under all circumstances. 

Dorothy continued: "Madge and I will drive in the coach to one or two ofthe shops, and we shall return in one hour. Meantime, Cousin Stanley, wewish you to have a fine dinner prepared for us, and we promise to do amplejustice to the fare. "

"She'll never come back, " said silent Tod, without moving a muscle. 

"How about it, cousin?" asked Stanley. "Tod says you'll never come back;he means that you are trying to give us the slip. "

"Never fear, Cousin Stanley, " she returned, "I am too eager for dinnernot to come back. If you fail to have a well-loaded table for me, I shallnever speak to you again. "

We then went to the coach, and as the ladies entered it Dorothy said aloudto Dawson:--

"Drive to Conn's shop. "

I heard Tod say to his worthy master:--

"She's a slippin' ye. "

"You're a fool, Tod. Don't you see she wants me more than she wants thedinner, and she's hungry, too. "

"Don't see, " retorted his laconic friend. 

Of course when the coach was well away from the inn, Dawson received newinstructions, and took the road to Rowsley. When the ladies had departed, I went to the tap-room with Stanley, and after paying the host for thecoffee, the potatoes, and the dinner which alas! we had not tasted, Iordered a great bowl of sack and proceeded to drink with my allies in thehope that I might make them too drunk to follow us. Within half an hour Idiscovered that I was laboring at a hopeless task. There was great dangerthat I would be the first to succumb; so I, expressing a wish to sleep offthe liquor before the ladies should return, made my escape from thetap-room, mounted my horse, and galloped furiously after Dorothy andMadge. John was riding by the coach when I overtook it. 

It was two hours past noon when I came up with John and the girls. Snowhad been falling softly earlier in the afternoon, but as the day advancedthe storm grew in violence. A cold, bleak wind was blowing from the north, and by reason of the weather and because of the ill condition of theroads, the progress of the coach was so slow that darkness overtook usbefore we had finished half of our journey to Rowsley. Upon the fall ofnight the storm increased in violence, and the snow came in piercing, horizontal shafts which stung like the prick of a needle. 

At the hour of six--I but guessed the time--John and I, who were ridingat the rear of the coach, heard close on our heels the trampling ofhorses. I rode forward to Dawson, who was in the coach box, and told himto drive with all the speed he could make. I informed him that some onewas following us, and that I feared highwaymen were on our track. 

Hardly had I finished speaking to Dawson when I heard the report of ahand-fusil, back of the coach, near the spot where I had left John. Iquickly drew my sword, though it was a task of no small labor, owing tothe numbness of my fingers. I breathed along the blade to warm it, andthen I hastened to John, whom I found in a desperate conflict with threeruffians. No better swordsman than John ever drew blade, and he washolding his ground in the darkness right gallantly. When I rode to hisrescue, another hand-fusil was discharged, and then another, and I knewthat we need have no more fear from bullets, for the three men haddischarged their weapons, and they could not reload while John and I wereengaging them. I heard the bullets tell upon the coach, and I heard thegirls screaming lustily. I feared they had been wounded, but you may besure I had no leisure to learn the truth. Three against two was terribleodds in the dark, where brute force and luck go for more than skill. Wefought desperately for a while, but in the end we succeeded in beating offthe highwaymen. When we had finished with the knaves who had attacked us, we quickly overtook our party. We were calling Dawson to stop when we sawthe coach, careening with the slant of the hill, topple over, and fall tothe bottom of a little precipice five or six feet in height. We at oncedismounted and jumped down the declivity to the coach, which lay on itsside, almost covered by drifted snow. The pole had broken in the fall, andthe horses were standing on the road. We first saw Dawson. He wasswearing like a Dutchman, and when we had dragged him from his snowygrave, we opened the coach door, lifted out the ladies, and seated themupon the uppermost side of the coach. They were only slightly bruised, butwhat they lacked in bruises they made up in fright. In respect to thelatter it were needless for me to attempt a description. 

We can laugh about it now and speak lightly concerning the adventure, and, as a matter of truth, the humor of the situation appealed to me even then. But imagine yourself in the predicament, and you will save me the troubleof setting forth its real terrors. 

The snow was up to our belts, and we did not at first know how we were toextricate the ladies. John and Dawson, however, climbed to the road, and Icarried Dorothy and Madge to the little precipice where the two men at thetop lifted them from my arms. The coach was broken, and when I climbed tothe road, John, Dawson, and myself held a council of war against thestorm. Dawson said we were three good miles from Rowsley, and that he knewof no house nearer than the village at which we could find shelter. Wecould not stand in the road and freeze, so I got the blankets and robesfrom the coach and made riding pads for Dorothy and Madge. These westrapped upon the broad backs of the coach horses, and then assisted theladies to mount. I walked by the side of Madge, and John performed thesame agreeable duty for Dorothy. Dawson went ahead of us, riding my horseand leading John's; and thus we travelled to Rowsley, half dead and nearlyfrozen, over the longest three miles in the kingdom. 

John left us before entering the village, and took the road to Rutland, intending to stop for the night at a cottage two miles distant, upon hisfather's estates. I was to follow Sir John when the ladies were safelylodged at The Peacock. 

It was agreed between us that nothing should be said concerning thepresence of any man save Dawson and myself in our party. 

When John left us, I rode to The Peacock with Dorothy and Madge, and whileI was bidding them good-by my violent cousin, Sir George, entered the inn. Dorothy ran to her father and briefly related the adventures of the night, dwelling with undeserved emphasis upon the help I had rendered. She toldher father--the statement was literally true--that she had met me at theRoyal Arms, where I was stopping, and that she had, through fear of thestorm and in dread of highwaymen, asked me to ride beside their coach toRowsley. 

When I saw Sir George enter the room, I expected to have trouble with him;but after he had spoken with Dorothy, much to my surprise, he offered mehis hand and said:--

"I thank you, Malcolm, for the help you have rendered my girls, and I amglad you have come back to us. "

"I have not come back to you, Sir George, " said I, withholding my hand. "Imet Mistress Vernon and Lady Madge at the Royal Arms, and escorted them toRowsley for reasons which she has just given to you. I was about to departwhen you entered. "

"Tut, tut! Malcolm, you will come with us to Haddon Hall. "

"To be ordered away again, Sir George?" I asked. 

"I did not order you to go. You left in a childish fit of anger. Why inthe devil's name did you run away so quickly? Could you not have given aman time to cool off? You treated me very badly, Malcolm. "

"Sir George, you certainly know--"

"I know nothing of the sort. Now I want not another word from you. Damme!I say, not another word. If I ever ordered you to leave Haddon Hall, Ididn't know what I was doing, " cried Sir George, heartily. 

"But you may again not know, " said I. 

"Now, Malcolm, don't be a greater fool than I was. If I say I did notorder you to leave Haddon Hall, can't you take me at my word? My age andmy love for you should induce you to let me ease my conscience, if I can. If the same illusion should ever come over you again--that is, if youshould ever again imagine that I am ordering you to leave HaddonHall--well, just tell me to go to the devil. I have been punished enoughalready, man. Come home with us. Here is Dorothy, whom I love better thanI love myself. In anger I might say the same thing to her that I said toyou, but--Nonsense, Malcolm, don't be a fool. Come home with us. Haddon isyour home as freely as it is the home of Dorothy, Madge, and myself. "

The old gentleman's voice trembled, and I could not withstand the doubleforce of his kindness and my desire. So it came about that when Madge heldout her fair hand appealingly to me, and when Dorothy said, "Please comehome with us, Cousin Malcolm, " I offered my hand to Sir George, and withfeeling said, "Let us make this promise to each other: that nothinghereafter shall come between us. "

"I gladly promise, " responded the generous, impulsive old man. "Dorothy, Madge, and you are all in this world whom I love. Nothing shall maketrouble between us. Whatever happens, we will each forgive. "

The old gentleman was in his kindest, softest mood. 

"Let us remember the words, " said I. 

"I give my hand and my word upon it, " cried Sir George. 

How easy it is to stake the future upon a present impulse. But when thetime for reckoning comes, --when the future becomes the present, --it issometimes hard to pay the priceless present for the squandered past. Nextmorning we all rode home to Haddon, --how sweet the words sound even atthis distance of time!--and there was rejoicing in the Hall as if theprodigal had returned. 

In the evening I came upon Madge unawares. She was softly singing aplaintive little love song. I did not disturb her, and as I stole awayagain I said to myself, "God is good. " A realization of that great truthhad of late been growing upon me. When once we thoroughly learn it, lifetakes on a different color. 

CHAPTER VII

TRIBULATION IN HADDON

After I had left Haddon at Sir George's tempestuous order, he had remainedin a state of furious anger against Dorothy and myself for a fortnight ormore. But after her adroit conversation with him concerning the Stanleymarriage, wherein she neither promised nor refused, and after she learnedthat she could more easily cajole her father than command him, Dorothyeasily ensconced herself again in his warm heart, and took me into thatcapacious abode along with her. 

Then came the trip to Derby, whereby his serene Lordship, James Stanley, had been enabled to see Dorothy and to fall in love with her winsomebeauty, and whereby I was brought back to Haddon. Thereafter came eventscrowding so rapidly one upon the heels of another that I scarce know whereto begin the telling of them. I shall not stop to say, "Sir George told methis, " or "Madge, Dorothy, or John told me that, " but I shall write as ifI had personal knowledge of all that happened. After all, the importantfact is that I know the truth concerning matters whereof I write, and ofthat you may rest with surety. 

The snow lay upon the ground for a fortnight after the storm in which werode from Derby, but at the end of that time it melted, and the sun shonewith the brilliancy and warmth of springtide. So warm and genial was theweather that the trees, flowers, and shrubs were cozened into buddingforth. The buds were withered by a killing frost which came upon us laterin the season at a time when the spring should have been abroad in all hergraciousness, and that year was called the year of the leafless summer. 

One afternoon Sir George received a distinguished guest in the person ofthe Earl of Derby, and the two old gentlemen remained closeted togetherfor several hours. That night at supper, after the ladies had risen fromtable, Sir George dismissed the servants saying that he wished to speak tome in private. I feared that he intended again bringing forward thesubject of marriage with Dorothy, but he soon relieved my mind. 

"The Earl of Derby was here to-day. He has asked for Doll's hand inmarriage with his eldest son and heir, Lord James Stanley, and I havegranted the request. "

"Indeed, " I responded, with marvellous intelligence. I could say nothingmore, but I thought--in truth I knew--that it did not lie within the powerof any man in or out of England to dispose of Dorothy Vernon's hand inmarriage to Lord James Stanley. Her father might make a murderess out ofher, but Countess of Derby, never. 

Sir George continued, "The general terms of the marriage contract havebeen agreed upon by the earl and me, and the lawyers will do the rest. "

"What is your feeling in the matter?" I asked aimlessly. 

"My feeling?" cried Sir George. "Why, sir, my feeling is that the girlshall marry Stanley just as soon as arrangements can be made for thewedding ceremony. The young fellow, it seems, saw Doll at Derby-town theday you came home, and since then he is eager, his father tells me, forthe union. He is coming to see her when I give my permission, and I willsend him word at as early a date as propriety will admit. I must not letthem be seen together too soon, you know. There might be a hitch in themarriage negotiations. The earl is a tight one in business matters, andmight drive a hard bargain with me should I allow his son to place Doll ina false position before the marriage contract is signed. " He little knewhow certainly Dorothy herself would avoid that disaster. 

He took a long draught from his mug of toddy and winked knowingly at me, saying, "I am too wise for that. "

"Have you told Dorothy?" I asked. 

"No, " he replied, "I have not exactly told her. I had a talk with her afew days ago on the subject, though the earl and I had not, at that time, entirely agreed upon the terms, and I did not know that we should agree. But I told her of the pending negotiations, because I wished to prepareher for the signing of the contract; and also, by gad, Malcolm, I wantedto make the girl understand at the outset that I will have no triflingwith my commands in this matter. I made that feature of the case veryplain, you may rest assured. She understands me fully, and although atfirst she was a little inclined to fight, she soon--she soon--well, sheknuckled under gracefully when she found she must. "

"Did she consent to the marriage?" I asked, well knowing that even if shehad consented in words, she had no thought of doing so in deed. 

"Y-e-s, " returned Sir George, hesitatingly. 

"I congratulate you, " I replied. 

"I shall grieve to lose Doll, " the old man slowly continued withperceptible signs of emotion. "I shall grieve to lose my girl, but I amanxious to have the wedding over. You see, Malcolm, of late I have noticedsigns of wilfulness in Doll that can be more easily handled by a husbandthan by a father. Marriage and children anchor a woman, you know. Intruth, I have opened my eyes to the fact that Doll is growing dangerous. I'gad, the other day I thought she was a child, but suddenly I learn sheis a woman. I had not before noticed the change. Beauty and wilfulness, such as the girl has of late developed, are powers not to beunderestimated by wise men. There is hell in them, Malcolm, I tell youthere is hell in them. " Sir George meditatively snuffed the candle withhis fingers and continued: "If a horse once learns that he can kick--sellhim. Only yesterday, as I said, Doll was a child, and now, by Jove, she isa full-blown woman, and I catch myself standing in awe of her and callingher Dorothy. Yes, damme, standing in awe of my own child! That will neverdo, you know. What has wrought the change? And, after all, what is thechange? I can't define it, but there has been a great one. "

He was in a revery and spoke more to himself than to me. "Yesterday shewas my child--she was a child, and now--and now--she is--she is--Why thedevil didn't you take her, Malcolm?" cried the old man, awakening. "Butthere, never mind; that is all past and gone, and the future Earl of Derbywill be a great match for her. "

"Do you know the future Earl of Derby?" I asked. "Have you ever seen him?"

"No, " Sir George replied. "I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but--"

"My dear cousin, " said I, interrupting him, "he is a vulgar, drunkenclown, whose associates have always been stable boys, tavern maids, andthose who are worse than either. "

"What?" cried Sir George, hotly, the liquor having reached his brain. "Youwon't have Doll yourself, and you won't consent to another--damme, wouldyou have the girl wither into spinsterhood? How, sir, dare you interfere?"

"I withdraw all I said, Sir George, " I replied hastily. "I have not a wordto say against the match. I thought--"

"Well, damn you, sir, don't think. "

"You said you wished to consult me about the affair, and I supposed--"

"Don't suppose either, " replied Sir George, sullenly. "Supposing andthinking have hanged many a man. I didn't wish to consult you. I simplywanted to tell you of the projected marriage. " Then after a moment ofhalf-maudlin, sullen silence he continued, "Go to bed, Malcolm, go to bed, or we'll be quarrelling again. "

I was glad enough to go to bed, for my cousin was growing drunk, and drinkmade a demon of this man, whose violence when sober was tempered by aheart full of tenderness and love. 

Next morning Sir George was feeling irritable from the effects of thebrandy he had drunk over night. At breakfast, in the presence of LadyCrawford, Madge, and myself, he abruptly informed Dorothy that he wasabout to give that young goddess to Lord James Stanley for his wife. Hetold her of the arrangement he had made the day before with the Earl ofDerby. Lady Crawford looked toward her brother in surprise, and Madgepushed her chair a little way back from the table with a startledmovement. Dorothy sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing fire and herbreast rising and falling like the storm-wrought pulsing of the sea. Icoughed warningly and placed my finger on my lips, making the sign ofsilence to Dorothy. The girl made a wondrous and beautiful struggleagainst her wrath, and in a moment all signs of ill-temper disappeared, and her face took on an expression of sweet meekness which did not belongthere of right. She quietly sat down again, and when I looked at her, Iwould have sworn that Griselda in the flesh was sitting opposite me. SirGeorge was right. "Ways such as the girl had of late developed weredangerous. " Hell was in them to an extent little dreamed of by her father. Breakfast was finished in silence. Dorothy did not come down to dinner atnoon, but Sir George did not mark her absence. At supper her place wasstill vacant. 

"Where is Doll?" cried Sir George, angrily. He had been drinking heavilyduring the afternoon. "Where is Doll?" he demanded. 

"She is on the terrace, " answered Madge. "She said she did not wantsupper. "

"Tell your mistress to come to supper, " said Sir George, speaking to oneof the servants. "You will find her on the terrace. "

The servant left the room, but soon returned, saying that Mistress Dorothywanted no supper. 

"Tell her to come to the table whether she wants supper or not. Tell her Iwill put a stop to her moping about the place like a surly vixen, " growledSir George. 

"Don't send such a message by a servant, " pleaded Lady Crawford. 

"Then take it to her yourself, Dorothy, " exclaimed her brother. 

Dorothy returned with her aunt and meekly took her place at the table. 

"I will have none of your moping and pouting, " said Sir George, as Dorothywas taking her chair. 

The girl made no reply, but she did not eat. 

"Eat your supper, " her father commanded. "I tell you I will have no--"

"You would not have me eat if I am not hungry, would you, father?" sheasked softly. 

"I'd have you hungry, you perverse wench. "

"Then make me an appetite, " returned the girl. I never heard more ominoustones fall from human lips. They betokened a mood in which one couldeasily do murder in cold blood, and I was surprised that Sir George didnot take warning and remain silent. 

"I cannot make an appetite for you, fool, " he replied testily. 

"Then you cannot make me eat, " retorted Dorothy. 

"Ah, you would answer me, would you, you brazen, insolent huzzy, " criedher father, angrily. 

Dorothy held up her hand warningly to Sir George, and uttered the oneword, "Father. " Her voice sounded like the clear, low ring of steel as Ihave heard it in the stillness of sunrise during a duel to the death. Madge gently placed her hand in Dorothy's, but the caress met no response. 

"Go to your room, " answered Sir George. 

Dorothy rose to her feet and spoke calmly: "I have not said that I woulddisobey you in regard to this marriage which you have sought for me; andyour harshness, father, grows out of your effort to reconcile yourconscience with the outrage you would put upon your own flesh andblood--your only child. "

"Suffering God!" cried Sir George, frenzied with anger and drink. "Am I toendure such insolence from my own child? The lawyers will be hereto-morrow. The contract will be signed, and, thank God, I shall soon berid of you. I'll place you in the hands of one who will break yourdamnable will and curb your vixenish temper. " Then he turned to LadyCrawford. "Dorothy, if there is anything to do in the way of gowns andwomen's trumpery in preparation for the wedding, begin at once, for theceremony shall come off within a fortnight. "

This was beyond Dorothy's power to endure. Madge felt the storm coming andclutched her by the arm in an effort to stop her, but nothing could havedone that. 

"I marry Lord Stanley?" she asked in low, bell-like tones, full ofcontempt and disdain. "Marry that creature? Father, you don't know me. "

"By God, I know myself, " retorted Sir George, "and I say--"

"Now hear me, father, " she interrupted in a manner that silenced evenhim. She bent forward, resting one fair hand upon the table, while sheheld out her other arm bared to the elbow. "Hear what I say and take itfor the truth as if it had come from Holy Writ. I will open the veins inthis arm and will strew my blood in a gapless circle around Haddon Hall sothat you shall tread upon it whenever you go forth into the day or intothe night before I will marry the drunken idiot with whom you would curseme. Ay, I will do more. I will kill you, if need be, should you try toforce him on me. Now, father, we understand each other. At least youcannot fail to understand me. For the last time I warn you. Beware of me. "

She gently pushed the chair back from the table, quietly adjusted thesleeve which she had drawn upward from her wrist, and slowly walked out ofthe room, softly humming the refrain of a roundelay. There was no trace ofexcitement about the girl. Her brain was acting with the ease andprecision of a perfectly constructed machine. Sir George, by his violenceand cruelty, had made a fiend of this strong, passionate, tender heart. That was all. 

The supper, of course, was quickly finished, and the ladies left the room. 

Sir George took to his bottle and remained with it till his servants puthim to bed. I slipped away from him and smoked a pipe in front of thekitchen fire. Then I went early to my bed in Eagle Tower. 

Dorothy went to her apartments. There she lay upon her bed, and for a timeher heart was like flint. Soon she thought of her precious golden heartpierced with a silver arrow, and tears came to her eyes as she drew thepriceless treasure from her breast and breathed upon it a prayer to theGod of love for help. Her heart was soft again, soft only as hers couldbe, and peace came to her as she pressed John's golden heart to her lipsand murmured over and over the words, "My love, my love, my love, " andmurmuring fell asleep. 

I wonder how many of the countless women of this world found peace, comfort, and ecstasy in breathing those magic words yesterday? How manyhave found them to-day? How many will find them to-morrow? No one cantell; but this I know, they come to every woman at some time in her life, righteously or unrighteously, as surely as her heart pulses. 

That evening Jennie Faxton bore a letter to John, informing him of theprojected Stanley marriage. It asked him to meet the writer at BowlingGreen Gate, and begged him to help her if he could. 

The small and intermittent remnants of conscience, sense of duty, andcaution which still remained in John's head--I will not say in John'sheart, for that was full to overflowing with something else--were quicklybanished by the unwelcome news in Dorothy's letter. His first impulse wasto kill Stanley; but John Manners was not an assassin, and a duel wouldmake public all he wished to conceal. He wished to conceal, among otherthings, his presence at Rutland. He had two reasons for so desiring. Firstin point of time was the urgent purpose with which he had come toDerbyshire. That purpose was to further a plan for the rescue of MaryStuart and to bring her incognito to Rutland Castle as a refuge untilElizabeth could be persuaded to receive her. Of this plan I knew nothingtill after the disastrous attempt to carry it out, of which I shallhereafter tell you. The other reason why John wished his presence atRutland unknown was that if he were supposed to be in London, no one wouldsuspect him of knowing Dorothy Vernon. 

You must remember there had been no overt love-making between John andDorothy up to that time. The scene at the gate approached perilously nearit, but the line between concealment and confession had not been crossed. Mind you, I say there had been no love-making _between_ them. WhileDorothy had gone as far in that direction as a maiden should dare go--andto tell the exact truth, a great deal farther--John had remained almostsilent for reasons already given you. He also felt a fear of the girl, andfailed to see in her conduct those signs of intense love which would havebeen plainly discernible had not his perceptions been blinded by the furyof his own infatuation. He had placed a curb on his passion and did notreally know its strength and power until he learned that another man wassoon to possess the girl he loved. Then life held but one purpose for him. Thus, you see that when Dorothy was moaning, "My love, my love, " and waskissing the golden heart, she was taking a great deal for granted. Perhaps, however, she better understood John's feeling for her than did hehimself. A woman's sixth sense, intuition, is a great help to her in suchcases. Perhaps the girl knew with intuitive confidence that her passionwas returned; and perhaps at first she found John's receptive mode ofwooing sweeter far than an aggressive attack would have been. It may bealso there was more of the serpent's cunning than of reticence in John'sconduct. He knew well the ways of women, and perhaps he realized that ifhe would allow Dorothy to manage the entire affair she would do his wooingfor him much better than he could do it for himself. If you are a man, trythe plan upon the next woman whom you seek to win. If she happens to beone who has full confidence in her charms, you will be surprised at theresult. Women lacking that confidence are restrained by fear and doubt. But in no case have I much faith in the hammer-and-tongs process at theopening of a campaign. Later on, of course--but you doubtless are quite aswell informed concerning this important subject as I. There is, however, so much blundering in that branch of science that I have a mind to endow acollege at Oxford or at Paris in which shall be taught the gentle, universally needed art of making love. What a noble attendance such acollege would draw. But I have wandered wofully from my story. 

I must go back a short time in my narrative. A few days before my returnto Haddon Hall the great iron key to the gate in the wall east of BowlingGreen Hill was missed from the forester's closet where it had hung for acentury or more. Bowling Green Hill, as you know, is eastward from HaddonHall a distance of the fourth part of a mile, and the gate is east of thehill about the same distance or less. A wall is built upon the east lineof the Haddon estate, and east of the wall lies a great trackless forestbelonging to the house of Devonshire. In olden times there had been a roadfrom Bakewell to Rowsley along the east side of the wall; but before SirGeorge's seizin the road had been abandoned and the gate was not used. Itstood in a secluded, unfrequented spot, and Dorothy thought herself veryshrewd in choosing it for a trysting-place. 

But as I told you, one day the key was missed. It was of no value or use, and at first nothing was thought of its loss; but from time to time thefact that it could not be found was spoken of as curious. All the servantshad been questioned in vain, and the loss of the key to Bowling Green Gatesoon took on the dignity of a mystery--a mystery soon to be solved, alas!to Dorothy's undoing. 

The afternoon of the day following the terrible scene between Sir Georgeand his daughter at the supper table, Dorothy rode forth alone upon hermare Dolcy. From the window of my room in Eagle Tower I saw her go downthe west side of the Wye toward Rowsley. I ascended to the roof of thetower, and from that elevation I saw her cross the river, and soon she waslost to sight in the forest. At that time I knew nothing of the newtrysting-place, but I felt sure that Dorothy had gone out to seek John. The sun shone brightly, and its gentle warmth enticed me to remain uponthe tower battlements, to muse, and to dream. I fetched my pipe andtobacco from my room. I had been smoking at intervals for several months, but had not entirely learned to like the weed, because of a slight nauseawhich it invariably caused me to feel. But I thought by practice now andagain to inure myself to the habit, which was then so new and fashionableamong modish gentlemen. While I smoked I mused upon the past and present, and tried to peer into the future--a fruitless task wherein we waste muchvaluable time; a vain striving, like Eve's, after forbidden knowledge, which, should we possess it, would destroy the little remnant of Edenstill existing on earth. Could we look forward only to our joys, aknowledge of the future might be good to have; but imagine, if you can, the horror of anticipating evils to come. 

After a short time, a lotuslike dreaminess stole over me, and past andfuture seemed to blend in a supreme present of contentment and rest. ThenI knew I had wooed and won Tobacco and that thenceforth I had at hand anever ready solace in time of trouble. At the end of an hour my dreamingwas disturbed by voices, which came distinctly up to me from the base ofthe tower. I leaned over the battlements to listen, and what I heard gaveme alarm and concern such as all the tobacco in the world could notassuage. I looked down the dizzy heights of Eagle Tower and saw Sir Georgein conversation with Ben Shaw, a woodman. I had not heard the words firstspoken between them. 

"Ay, ay, Sir George, " said Ben, "they be there, by Bowling Green Gate, now. I saw them twenty minutes since, --Mistress Vernon and a gentleman. "

"Perhaps the gentleman is Sir Malcolm, " answered my cousin. I drew backfrom the battlements, and the woodman replied, "Perhaps he be, but I doubtit. "

There had been a partial reconciliation--sincere on Sir George's part, butfalse and hollow on Dorothy's--which Madge had brought about betweenfather and daughter that morning. Sir George, who was sober and repentantof his harshness, was inclined to be tender to Dorothy, though he stillinsisted in the matter of the Stanley marriage. Dorothy's anger hadcooled, and cunning had taken its place. Sir George had asked her toforgive him for the hard words he had spoken, and she had again led him tobelieve that she would be dutiful and obedient. It is hard to determine, as a question of right and wrong, whether Dorothy is to be condemned orjustified in the woful deception she practised upon her father. To use aplain, ugly word, she lied to him without hesitation or pain ofconscience. Still, we must remember that, forty years ago, girls werefrequently forced, regardless of cries and piteous agony, into marriagesto which death would have been preferable. They were flogged intoobedience, imprisoned and starved into obedience, and alas! they weresometimes killed in the course of punishment for disobedience by men ofSir George's school and temper. I could give you at least one instance inwhich a fair girl met her death from punishment inflicted by her fatherbecause she would not consent to wed the man of his choice. Can we blameDorothy if she would lie or rob or do murder to avoid a fate which to herwould have been worse than death? When you find yourself condemning her, now or hereafter in this history, if you are a man ask yourself thisquestion: "If I had a sweetheart in Dorothy's sad case, should I not wishher to do as she did? Should I not wish, if it were possible by anymeans, that she should save herself from the worst of fates, and shouldsave me from the agony of losing her to such a man as Sir George hadselected for Dorothy's husband? Is it not a sin to disobey the law ofself-preservation actively or passively?" Answer these questions as youchoose. As for myself, I say God bless Dorothy for lying. Perhaps I am inerror. Perhaps I am not. I but tell you the story of Dorothy as ithappened, and I am a poor hand at solving questions of right and wrongwhere a beautiful woman is concerned. To my thinking, she usually is inthe right. In any case, she is sure to have the benefit of the doubt. 

When Sir George heard the woodman's story, he started hurriedly towardBowling Green Gate. 

Now I shall tell you of Dorothy's adventures after I saw her cross theWye. 

When she reached the gate, John was waiting for her. 

"Ah, Sir John, I am so glad you are here. That is, I am glad you are herebefore I arrived--good even, " said the girl, confusedly. Her heart againwas beating in a provoking manner, and her breath would not come with easeand regularity. The rapid progress of the malady with which she wasafflicted or blessed was plainly discernible since the last meeting withmy friend, Sir John. That is, it would have been plain to any one butJohn, whose ailment had taken a fatal turn and had progressed to theante-mortem state of blindness. By the help of the stimulating hope andfear which Dorothy's letter had brought to him, he had planned anelaborate conversation, and had determined to speak decisive words. Hehoped to receive from her the answer for which he longed; but his heartand breath seemed to have conspired with Dorothy to makeintercommunication troublesome. 

"I received your gracious letter, Mistress Vernon, and I thank you. Iwas--I am--that is, my thanks are more than I--I can express. "

"So I see, " said the girl, half amused at John's condition, although itwas but little worse than her own. This universal malady, love, nevertakes its blind form in women. It opens their eyes. Under its influencethey can see the truth through a millstone. The girl's heart jumped withjoy when she saw John's truth-telling manner, and composure quickly cameto her relief, though she still feigned confusion because she wished himto see the truth in her as she had seen it in him. She well knew of hisblindness, and had almost begun to fear lest she would eventually becompelled to tell him in words that which she so ardently wished him tosee for himself. She thought John was the blindest of his sex; but shewas, to a certain extent, mistaken. John was blind, as you already know, but his reticence was not all due to a lack of sight. He at least hadreached the condition of a well-developed hope. He hoped the girl caredfor him. He would have fully believed it had it not been for thedifficulty he found in convincing himself that a goddess like Dorothycould care for a man so unworthy as himself. Most modest persons areself-respecting. That was John's condition; he was not vain. 

"Jennie brought me your letter also, " said the girl, laughing because shewas happy, though her merriment somewhat disconcerted John. 

"It told me, " she continued, "that you would come. I have it here in mypocket--and--and the gate key. " She determined this time to introduce thekey early in the engagement. "But I feared you might not want to come. "The cunning, the boldness, and the humility of the serpent was in thegirl. "That is, you know, I thought--perhaps--that is, I feared that youmight not come. Your father might have been ill, or you might have changedyour mind after you wrote the letter. "

"No, " answered John, whose face was beaming with joy. Here, truly, was agoddess who could make the blind to see if she were but given a littletime. 

"Do you mean that your father is not ill, or that you did not change yourmind?" asked Dorothy, whose face, as it should have been after such aspeech, was bent low while she struggled with the great iron key, entangled in the pocket of her gown. 

"I mean that I have not changed my mind, " said John, who felt that thetime to speak had come. "There has been no change in me other than a newaccess of eagerness with every hour, and a new longing to see you and tohear your voice. "

Dorothy felt a great thrill pass through her breast, and she knew that thereward of her labors was at hand. 

"Certainly, " said the self-complacent girl, hardly conscious of her words, so great was the joyous tumult in her heart, "I should have known. "

There was another pause devoted to the key, with bended head. "But--butyou might have changed your mind, " she continued, "and I might not haveknown it, for, you see, I did not know your former state of mind; you havenever told me. " Her tongue had led her further than she had intended togo, and she blushed painfully, and I think, considering her words, appropriately. 

"My letter told you my state of mind. At least it told you of my intentionto come. I--I fear that I do not understand you, " said John. 

"I mean, " she replied, with a saucy, fluttering little laugh as she lookedup from her conflict with the entangled key, "I mean that--that you don'tknow what I mean. But here is the key at last, and--and--you may, if youwish, come to this side of the gate. "

She stepped forward to unlock the gate with an air that seemed to say, "Now, John, you shall have a clear field. "

But to her surprise she found that the lock had been removed. Thatdiscovery brought back to John his wandering wits. 

"Mistress Dorothy, " he cried in tones of alarm, "I must not remain here. We are suspected and are sure to be discovered. Your father has set a trapfor us. I care not for myself, but I would not bring upon you the troubleand distress which would surely follow discovery. Let us quickly chooseanother place and time of meeting. I pray you, sweet lady, meet meto-morrow at this time near the white cliff back of Lathkil mill. I havethat to say to you which is the very blood of my heart. I must now leaveyou at once. "

He took her hand, and kissing it, started to leave through the open gate. 

The girl caught his arm to detain him. "Say it now, John, say it now. Ihave dreamed of it by night and by day. You know all, and I know all, andI long to hear from your lips the words that will break down all barriersbetween us. " She had been carried away by the mad onrush of her passion. She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, and she spoke becauseshe could not help it. 

"I will speak, Dorothy, God help me! God help me, I will speak!" saidJohn, as he caught the girl to his breast in a fierce embrace. "I loveyou, I love you! God Himself only knows how deeply, how passionately! I donot know. I cannot fathom its depths. With all my heart and soul, withevery drop of blood that pulses through my veins, I love you--I adore you. Give me your lips, my beauty, my Aphrodite, my queen!"

"There--they--are, John, --there they are. They are--all yours--allyours--now! Oh, God! my blood is on fire. " She buried her face on hisbreast for shame, that he might not see her burning eyes and her scarletcheeks. Then after a time she cared not what he saw, and she lifted herlips to his, a voluntary offering. The supreme emotions of the momentdrove all other consciousness from their souls. 

"Tell me, Dorothy, that you will be my wife. Tell me, tell me!" criedJohn. 

"I will, I will, oh, how gladly, how gladly!"

"Tell me that no power on earth can force you to marry Lord Stanley. Tellme that you will marry no man but me; that you will wait--wait for metill--"

"I will marry no man but you, John, no man but you, " said the girl, whisperingly. Her head was thrown back from his breast that she might lookinto his eyes, and that he might see the truth in hers. "I am all yours. But oh, John, I cannot wait--I cannot! Do not ask me to wait. It wouldkill me. I wear the golden heart you gave me, John, " she continued, as shenestled closer in his embrace. "I wear the golden heart always. It isnever from me, even for one little moment. I bear it always upon my heart, John. Here it is. " She drew from her breast the golden heart and kissedit. Then she pressed it to his lips, and said: "I kiss it twenty times inthe day and in the night; ay, a hundred times. I do not know how often;but now I kiss your real heart, John, " and she kissed his breast, and thenstood tiptoe to lift her lips to his. 

There was no room left now in John's heart for doubt that Dorothy Vernonwas his own forever and forever. She had convinced him beyond the reach offear or doubt. John forgot the lockless gate. He forgot everything butDorothy, and cruel time passed with a rapidity of which they wereunconscious. They were, however, brought back to consciousness by hearinga long blast from the forester's bugle, and John immediately retreatedthrough the gate. 

Dorothy then closed the gate and hastily seated herself upon a stonebench against the Haddon side of the wall. She quickly assumed an attitudeof listless repose, and Dolcy, who was nibbling at the grass near by, doubtless supposed that her mistress had come to Bowling Green Gate torest because it was a secluded place, and because she desired to be alone. 

Dorothy's attitude was not assumed one moment too soon, for hardly was hergown arranged with due regard to carelessness when Sir George's form roseabove the crest of Bowling Green Hill. In a few minutes he was standing infront of his daughter, red with anger. Dorothy's face wore a look of calminnocence, which I believe would have deceived Solomon himself, notwithstanding that great man's experience with the sex. It did more tothrow Sir George off the scent than any words the girl could have spoken. 

"Who has been with you?" demanded Sir George, angrily. 

"When, father?" queried the girl, listlessly resting her head against thewall. 

"Now, this afternoon. Who has been with you? Ben Shaw said that a man washere. He said that he saw a man with you less than half an hour since. "

That piece of information was startling to Dorothy, but no trace ofsurprise was visible in her manner or in her voice. She turned listlesslyand brushed a dry leaf from her gown. Then she looked calmly up into herfather's face and said laconically, but to the point:--

"Ben lied. " To herself she said, "Ben shall also suffer. "

"I do not believe that Ben lied, " said Sir George. "I, myself, saw a mango away from here. "

That was crowding the girl into close quarters, but she did not flinch. 

"Which way did he go, father?" she asked, with a fine show of carelessnessin her manner, but with a feeling of excruciating fear in her breast. Shewell knew the wisdom of the maxim, "Never confess. "

"He went northward, " answered Sir George. 

"Inside the wall?" asked Dorothy, beginning again to breathe freely, forshe knew that John had ridden southward. 

"Inside the wall, of course, " her father replied. "Do you suppose I couldsee him through the stone wall? One should be able to see through a stonewall to keep good watch on you. "

"You might have thought you saw him through the wall, " answered the girl. "I sometimes think of late, father, that you are losing your mind. Youdrink too much brandy, my dear father. Oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if youwere to lose your mind?" She rose as she spoke, and going to her fatherbegan to stroke him gently with her hand. She looked into his face withreal affection; for when she deceived him, she loved him best as a partialatonement for her ill-doing. 

"Wouldn't that be dreadful?" she continued, while Sir George stood lost inbewilderment. "Wouldn't that be dreadful for my dear old father to losehis mind? But I really think it must be coming to pass. A great change hasof late come over you, father. You have for the first time in your lifebeen unkind to me and suspicious. Father, do you realize that you insultyour daughter when you accuse her of having been in this secluded placewith a man? You would punish another for speaking so against my fairname. "

"But, Dorothy, " Sir George replied, feeling as if he were in the wrong, "Ben Shaw said that he saw you here with a man, and I saw a man passtoward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name. "

Dorothy knew that her father must have seen a man near the gate, but whohe was she could not imagine. John surely was beyond the wall and well outof sight on his way to Rowsley before her father reached the crest ofBowling Green Hill. But it was evident that Shaw had seen John. Evidencethat a man had been at the gate was too strong to be successfullycontradicted. Facts that cannot be successfully contradicted had better befrankly admitted. Dorothy sought through her mind for an admission thatwould not admit, and soon hit upon a plan which, shrewd as it seemed tobe, soon brought her to grief. 

"Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm, " said Dorothy, as the result of hermental search. "He passed here a little time since and stopped for amoment to talk. Perhaps you saw Malcolm, father. You would not find faultwith me because he was here, would you?"

"Dorothy, my daughter, " said Sir George, hesitatingly, "are you telling methe truth?"

Then the fair girl lifted up her beautiful head, and standing erect at herfull height (it pains me to tell you this) said: "Father, I am a Vernon. Iwould not lie. "

Her manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced. 

He said, "I believe you. "

Her father's confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point ofrepentance, I hardly need say. 

Dorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare meto answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me. She tookDolcy's rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested theother upon her father's arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to theHall, very happy because of her lucky escape. 

But a lie is always full of latent retribution. 

I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothyand her father entered. 

"Ah, Malcolm, are you here?" asked Sir George in a peculiar tone ofsurprise for which I could see no reason. 

"I thought you were walking. "

I was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, "No, I am helping oldBess and Jennie with supper. "

"Have you not been walking?" asked Sir George. 

There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I wassurprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. ButSir George's expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when comparedwith that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not onlywas her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body wereconvulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, Icould not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only tooreadable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stampedher foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips andnodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost uponme, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. Theexpression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of mygaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mightypantomimic effort at mute communication. 

"Why in the devil's name are you making those grimaces?" demanded SirGeorge. 

"I wasn't making grimaces--I--I think I was about to sneeze, " repliedDorothy. 

"Do you think I am blind?" stormed Sir George. "Perhaps I am losing mymind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you atBowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I'll show you that if Iam losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house. "

"Now, father, what is all this storming about?" asked the girl, coaxingly, as she boldly put her hands upon her father's shoulders and turned herface in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up tohis. "Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know. " She was surethat her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate, and she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whoseonly virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, wouldwillingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught thetruth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined toperjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe theinfluence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell Iseemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily wasparalyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. Icannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you maymake out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of thishistory have occasion to speak of Dorothy's strange power, and how it wasexerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth. 

"Ask Malcolm, " repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father'sbreast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for, in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demandedexcitedly of Dorothy, "What have you in your pocket that strikes againstmy knee?"

"Mother of Heaven!" exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping backfrom her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward herpocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness bysudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face whichfilled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holdingwith one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched thekey in her pocket. 

"What have you in your pocket?" demanded Sir George with a terrible oath. "Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you. " Dorothy started to runfrom the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drewher to him. "Bring it out, huzzy; it's the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah, I've lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet, but I soon shall lose it at this rate, " and he certainly looked as if hewould. 

Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, butshe was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown andtore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom. Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece ofwhite paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made inthe gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he feltsure, was from Dorothy's unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for atime, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her facefrom her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, "Malcolm. " Hervoice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help Ihave never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take theletter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he wouldstrike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and hetook up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:--

"Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with God's help Iwill meet you at Bowling Green Gate--. " The girl could endure no more. Shesprang with a scream toward her father and tried to snatch the letter. SirGeorge drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed himfrantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter. Sir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued theletter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy'shand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into thefire, but she feared that her father might rescue it from the ashes. Sheglanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded insnatching from her father bore John's name. Sir George strode hurriedlyacross the room toward her and she ran to me. 

"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then Isaw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herselfupon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembledas a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree maytremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. Whileshe clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and herwondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expressionwas the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension. Her face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Herfear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped herfingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying tomake, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for lessthan one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyedeven one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and tocaress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of restin my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength. 

"Where is the paper?" he cried in rage. "It contained the fellow'ssignature. "

"I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it. Doubtless that would be a pleasant task for you, " answered Dorothy, whowas comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discoverJohn's name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girlhad he then learned that the letter was from John Manners. 

"I command you to tell me this fellow's name, " said Sir George, with acalmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued"I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me andtold me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In God's name Iswear that I would rather father a thief than a liar. "

"I did give her the heart, Sir George, " I said, interrupting him. "It wasmy mother's. " I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in hisviolence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for hisanger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but herdeception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love thathad come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meetingwith Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I alsobelieve, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not athief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. Shewas gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but Ibelieve she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love. Some few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an oceanof love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart andsoul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class wasDorothy. 

"God is love, " says the Book. 

"The universe is God, " says the philosopher. "Therefore, " as themathematician would say, "love is the universe. " To that propositionDorothy was a corollary. 

The servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen. 

"Let us go to the dining hall, " I suggested. Sir George led the way by thestone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquethail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand. 

The moment of respite from her father's furious attack gave her time inwhich to collect her scattered senses. 

When we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, SirGeorge turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to knowthe name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and saidnothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room. 

"Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tellme the name of the man who wrote this letter, " he cried, holding towardher the fragment of paper. "Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, Iswear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper courttill you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child. "

Then Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only forherself she had to fear. 

Her heart kept saying, "This for his sake, this for his sake. " Out of herlove came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action. 

Her father's oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodicefrom her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:--

"I am ready for the whip, I am ready. Who is to do the deed, father, youor the butcher? It must be done. You have sworn it, and I swear before Godand by my maidenhood that I will not tell you the name of the man whowrote the letter. I love him, and before I will tell you his name orforego his love for me, or before I will abate one jot or tittle of mylove for him, I will gladly die by the whip in your hand. I am ready forthe whip, father. I am ready. Let us have it over quickly. "

The girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the doorleading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move. I was deeplyaffected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the floggingif to do so should cost Sir George's life at my hands. I would havekilled him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip uponDorothy's back. 

"Father, " continued the terrible girl, "are you not going to flog me?Remember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before God and uponyour knighthood. A forsworn Christian? A forsworn knight? A forswornVernon? The lash, father, the lash--I am eager for it. "

Sir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward thedoor. Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, andshe whispered the words, "Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!"

As she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his armstoward her and in a wail of agony cried: "Doll! Doll! My daughter! Mychild! God help me!"

He covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment asthe tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbingforth the anguish of which his soul was full. 

In an instant Dorothy was by her father's side holding his head upon herlap. She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamedfrom her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance. 

"I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all. I will give him up; Iwill see him never again. I will try not to love him. Oh, father, forgiveme, forgive me. I will never again deceive you so long as I live. "

Truly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken. When one swearsto do too much, one performs too little. 

I helped Sir George rise to his feet. 

Dorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but herepulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her namequitted the room with tottering steps. 

When her father had gone Dorothy stood in revery for a little time, andthen looking toward the door through which her father had just passed, shespoke as if to herself: "He does not know. How fortunate!"

"But you said you would tell him, " I suggested. "You said you would givehim up. "

Dorothy was in a deep revery. She took her bodice from the floor andmechanically put it on. 

"I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give--give himup, " she replied; "but I will do neither. Father would not meet my lovewith love. He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance whenit was he who should have repented. I was alarmed and grieved for father'ssake when I said that I would tell him about--about John, and would givehim up. " She was silent and thoughtful for a little time. "Give him up?"she cried defiantly. "No, not for my soul; not for ten thousand thousandsouls. When my father refused my love, he threw away the only opportunityhe shall ever have to learn from me John's name. That I swear, and I shallnever be forsworn. I asked father's forgiveness when he should have beggedfor mine. Whip me in the courtyard, would he, till I should bleed! Yet Iwas willing to forgive him, and he would not accept my forgiveness. I waswilling to forego John, who is more than life to me; but my father wouldnot accept my sacrifice. Truly will I never be so great a fool the secondtime. Malcolm, I will not remain here to be the victim of another insultsuch as my father put upon me to-day. There is no law, human or divine, that gives to a parent the right to treat his daughter as my father hasused me. Before this day my conscience smote me when I deceived him, and Isuffered pain if I but thought of my father. But now, thanks to hiscruelty, I may be happy without remorse. Malcolm, if you betray me, Iwill--I will kill you if I must follow you over the world to do it. "

"Do you think that I deserve that threat from you, Dorothy?" I asked. 

"No, no, my dear friend, forgive me. I trust you, " and she caught up myhand and kissed it gently. 

Dorothy and I remained in the banquet hail, seated upon the stone benchunder the blazoned window. 

Soon Sir George returned, closely followed by two men, one of whom boremanacles such as were used to secure prisoners in the dungeon. Sir Georgedid not speak. He turned to the men and motioned with his hand towardDorothy. I sprang to my feet, intending to interfere by force, if need be, to prevent the outrage; but before I could speak Lady Crawford hurriedlyentered the hall and ran to Sir George's side. 

"Brother, " she said, "old Bess has just told me that you have given ordersfor Dorothy's confinement in the dungeon. I could not believe Bess; butthese men with irons lead me to suspect that you really intend. --"

"Do not interfere in affairs that do not concern you, " replied Sir George, sullenly. 

"But this does concern me greatly, " said Aunt Dorothy, "and if you sendDoll to the dungeon, Madge and I will leave your house and will proclaimyour act to all England. "

"The girl has disobeyed me and has lied to me, and--"

"I care not what she has done, I shall leave your house and disown you formy brother if you perpetrate this outrage upon my niece. She is dear to meas if she were my own child. Have I not brought her up since babyhood? Ifyou carry out this order, brother, I will leave Haddon Hall forever. "

"And I'll go with her, " cried old Bess, who stood at the door of thescreens. 

"And I, too, " said Dawson, who was one of the men who had entered with SirGeorge. 

"And I, " cried the other man, throwing the manacles to the floor, "I willleave your service. "

Sir George took up the manacles and moved toward Dorothy. 

"You may all go, every cursed one of you. I rule my own house, and I willhave no rebels in it. When I have finished with this perverse wench, I'llnot wait for you to go. I'll drive you all out and you may go to--"

He was approaching Dorothy, but I stepped in front of him. 

"This must not be, Sir George, " said I, sternly. "I shall not leave HaddonHall, and I fear you not. I shall remain here to protect your daughter andyou from your own violence. You cannot put me out of Haddon Hall; I willnot go. "

"Why cannot I put you out of Haddon Hail?" retorted Sir George, whose rageby that time was frightful to behold. 

"Because, sir, I am a better man and a better swordsman than you are, andbecause you have not on all your estates a servant nor a retainer who willnot join me against you when I tell them the cause I champion. "

Dawson and his fellow stepped to my side significantly, and Sir Georgeraised the iron manacles as if intending to strike me. I did not move. Atthe same moment Madge entered the room. 

"Where is my uncle?" she asked. 

Old Bess led her to Sir George. She spoke not a word, but placed her armsgently about his neck and drew his face down to hers. Then she kissed himsoftly upon the lips and said:--

"My uncle has never in all his life spoken in aught but kindness to me, and now I beg him to be kind to Dorothy. "

The heavy manacles fell clanking to the floor. Sir George placed his handcaressingly upon Madge's head and turned from Dorothy. 

[Illustration]

Lady Crawford then approached her brother and put her hand upon his arm, saying:--

"Come with me, George, that I may speak to you in private. "

She moved toward the door by which she had entered, and Madge quietly tookher uncle's hand and led him after Lady Crawford. Within five minutes SirGeorge, Aunt Dorothy, and Madge returned to the room. 

"Dorothy?" said Madge in a low voice. 

"Here I am, Madge, " murmured Dorothy, who was sitting on the bench by theblazoned window. Madge walked gropingly over to her cousin and sat by herside, taking her hand. Then Lady Crawford spoke to Dorothy:--

"Your father wishes me to say that you must go to your apartments inEntrance Tower, and that you shall not leave them without his consent. Healso insists that I say to you if you make resistance or objection to thisdecree, or if you attempt to escape, he will cause you to be manacled andconfined in the dungeon, and that no persuasion upon our part will leadhim from his purpose. "

"Which shall it be?" asked Sir George, directing his question to LadyCrawford. 

Dorothy lifted her eyebrows, bit the corner of her lip, shrugged hershoulders, and said:--

"Indeed, it makes no difference to me where you send me, father; I amwilling to do whatever will give you the greatest happiness. If youconsult my wishes, you will have me whipped in the courtyard till I bleed. I should enjoy that more than anything else you can do. Ah, how tender isthe love of a father! It passeth understanding. "

"Come to your apartments, Dorothy, " said Lady Crawford, anxious toseparate the belligerents. "I have given your father my word of honor thatI will guard you and will keep you prisoner in your rooms. Do you not pityme? I gave my promise only to save you from the dungeon, and painful asthe task will be, I will keep my word to your father. "

"Which shall it be, father?" asked Dorothy. "You shall finish the task youbegan. I shall not help you in your good work by making choice. You shallchoose my place of imprisonment. Where shall it be? Shall I go to my roomsor to the dungeon?"

"Go to your rooms, " answered Sir George, "and let me never see--" but SirGeorge did not finish the sentence. He hurriedly left the hall, andDorothy cheerfully went to imprisonment in Entrance Tower. 

CHAPTER VIII

MALCOLM No. 2

Sir George had done a bad day's work. He had hardened Dorothy's heartagainst himself and had made it more tender toward John. Since her fatherhad treated her so cruelly, she felt she was at liberty to give her heartto John without stint. So when once she was alone in her room theflood-gates of her heart were opened, and she poured forth the ineffabletenderness and the passionate longings with which she was filled. Withsolitude came the memory of John's words and John's kisses. She recalledevery movement, every word, every tone, every sensation. She gave her soulunbridled license to feast with joyous ecstasy upon the thrillingmemories. All thoughts of her father's cruelty were drowned in a sea ofbliss. She forgot him. In truth, she forgot everything but her love andher lover. That evening, after she had assisted Madge to prepare for bed, as was her custom, Dorothy stood before her mirror making her toilet forthe night. In the flood of her newly found ecstasy she soon forgot thatMadge was in the room. 

Dorothy stood before her mirror with her face near to its polishedsurface, that she might scrutinize every feature, and, if possible, verifyJohn's words. 

"He called me 'my beauty' twice, " she thought, "and 'my Aphrodite' once. "Then her thoughts grew into unconscious words, and she spoke aloud:--

"I wish he could see me now. " And she blushed at the thought, as sheshould have done. "He acted as if he meant all he said, " she thought. "Iknow he meant it. I trust him entirely. But if he should change? HolyMother, I believe I should die. But I do believe him. He would not lie, even though he is not a Vernon. "

With thoughts of the scene between herself and her father at the gate, there came a low laugh, half of amusement, half of contentment, and thelaugh meant a great deal that was to be regretted; it showed a sad changein Dorothy's heart. But yesterday the memory of her deceit would havefilled her with grief. To-night she laughed at it. Ah, Sir George!Pitiable old man! While your daughter laughs, you sigh and groan and moan, and your heart aches with pain and impotent rage. Even drink fails tobring comfort to you. I say impotent rage, because Dorothy is out of yourreach, and as surely as the sun rises in the east she is lost to youforever. The years of protection and tender love which you have given toher go for nothing. Now comes the son of your mortal enemy, and you arebut an obstruction in her path. Your existence is forgotten while sherevels in the memory of his words, his embraces, and his lips. She laughswhile you suffer, in obedience to the fate that Heaven has decreed forthose who bring children into this world. 

Who is to blame for the pitiable mite which children give in return for aparent's flood of love? I do not know, but of this I am sure: if parentswould cease to feel that they own their children in common with theirhorses, their estates, and their cattle; if they would not, as many do invarying degrees, treat their children as their property, the return oflove would be far more adequate than it is. 

Dorothy stood before her mirror plaiting her hair. Her head was turnedbackward a little to one side that she might more easily reach the greatred golden skein. In that entrancing attitude the reflection of the netherlip of which John had spoken so fondly came distinctly to Dorothy'snotice. She paused in the braiding of her hair and held her face close tothe mirror that she might inspect the lip, whose beauty John had soardently admired. She turned her face from one side to the other that shemight view it from all points, and then she thrust it forward with apouting movement that would have set the soul of a mummy pulsing if he hadever been a man. She stood for a moment in contemplation of the full redlip, and then resting her hands upon the top of the mirror table leanedforward and kissed its reflected image. 

Again forgetfulness fell upon her and her thoughts grew into words. 

"He was surely right concerning my lower lip, " she said, speaking toherself. Then without the least apparent relevance, "He had been smoking. "Again her words broke her revery, and she took up the unfinished braid ofhair. When she did so, she caught a glimpse of her arm which was asperfectly rounded as the fairest marble of Phidias. She stretched the armto its full length that the mirror might reflect its entire beauty. Againshe thought aloud: "I wish he could see my arm. Perhaps some day--" Butthe words ceased, and in their place came a flush that spread from herhair to her full white throat, and she quickly turned the mirror away sothat even it should not behold her beauty. 

You see after all is told Dorothy was modest. 

She finished her toilet without the aid of her mirror; but before sheextinguished the candle she stole one more fleeting glance at its polishedsurface, and again came the thought, "Perhaps some day--" Then she coveredthe candle, and amid enfolding darkness lay down beside Madge, full ofthoughts and sensations that made her tremble; for they were strange toher, and she knew not what they meant. 

Dorothy thought that Madge was asleep, but after a few minutes the lattersaid:--

"Tell me, Dorothy, who was on fire?"

"Who was on fire?" asked Dorothy in surprise. "What do you mean, Madge?"

"I hope they have not been trying to burn any one, " said Madge. 

"What do you mean?" again asked Dorothy. 

"You said 'He had been smoking, '" responded Madge. 

"Oh, " laughed Dorothy, "that is too comical. Of course not, dear one. Iwas speaking of--of a man who had been smoking tobacco, as Malcolm does. "Then she explained the process of tobacco smoking. 

"Yes, I know, " answered Madge. "I saw Malcolm's pipe. That is, I held itin my hands for a moment while he explained to me its use. "

Silence ensued for a moment, and Madge again spoke:--

"What was it he said about your lower lip, and who was he? I did not learnwhy Uncle George wished to confine you in the dungeon. I am so sorry thatthis trouble has come upon you. "

"Trouble, Madge?" returned Dorothy. "Truly, you do not understand. Notrouble has come upon me. The greatest happiness of my life has come topass. Don't pity me. Envy me. My happiness is so sweet and so great thatit frightens me. "

"How can you be happy while your father treats you so cruelly?" askedMadge. 

"His conduct makes it possible for my happiness to be complete, " returnedDorothy. "If he were kind to me, I should be unhappy, but his crueltyleaves me free to be as happy as I may. For my imprisonment in this room Icare not a farthing. It does not trouble me, for when I wish to see--seehim again, I shall do so. I don't know at this time just how I shalleffect it; but be sure, sweet one, I shall find a way. " There was no doubtin Madge's mind that Dorothy would find a way. 

"Who is he, Dorothy? You may trust me. Is he the gentleman whom we met atDerby-town?"

"Yes, " answered Dorothy, "he is Sir John Manners. "

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Madge in tones of fear. 

"It could not be worse, could it, Madge?" said Dorothy. 

"Oh, Dorothy!" was the only response. 

"You will not betray me?" asked Dorothy, whose alarm made her suspicious. 

"You know whether or not I will betray you, " answered Madge. 

"Indeed, I know, else I should not have told you my secret. Oh, you shouldsee him, Madge; he is the most beautiful person living. The poor softbeauty of the fairest woman grows pale beside him. You cannot know howwonderfully beautiful a man may be. You have never seen one. "

"Yes, I have seen many men, and I well remember their appearance. I wastwelve years old, you know, when I lost my sight. "

"But, Madge, " said Dorothy, out of the fulness of her newly acquiredknowledge, "a girl of twelve cannot see a man. "

"No woman sees with her eyes the man whom she loves, " answered Madge, quietly. 

"How does she see him?" queried Dorothy. 

"With her heart. "

"Have you, too, learned that fact?" asked Dorothy. 

Madge hesitated for a moment and murmured "Yes. "

"Who is he, dear one?" whispered Dorothy. 

"I may not tell even you, Dorothy, " replied Madge, "because it can cometo nothing. The love is all on my part. "

Dorothy insisted, but Madge begged her not to ask for her secret. 

"Please don't even make a guess concerning him, " said Madge. "It is myshame and my joy. "

It looked as if this malady which had fallen upon Dorothy were like theplague that infects a whole family if one but catch it. 

Dorothy, though curious, was generous, and remained content with Madge'spromise that she should be the first one to hear the sweet story if everthe time should come to tell it. 

"When did you see him?" asked Madge, who was more willing to receive thanto impart intelligence concerning affairs of the heart. 

"To-day, " answered Dorothy. Then she told Madge about the scenes at thegate and described what had happened between her and Sir George in thekitchen and banquet hall. 

"How could you tell your father such a falsehood?" asked Madge inconsternation. 

"It was very easy. You see I had to do it. I never lied until recently. But oh, Madge, this is a terrible thing to come upon a girl!" "This" wassomewhat indefinite, but Madge understood, and perhaps it will be clear toyou what Dorothy meant. The girl continued: "She forgets all else. It willdrive her to do anything, however wicked. For some strange cause, underits influence she does not feel the wrong she does. It acts upon a girl'ssense of right and wrong as poppy juice acts on pain. Before it came uponme in--in such terrible force, I believe I should have become ill had Itold my father a falsehood. I might have equivocated, or I might haveevaded the truth in some slight degree, but I could not have told a lie. But now it is as easy as winking. "

"And I fear, Dorothy, " responded Madge, "that winking is very easy foryou. "

"Yes, " answered candid Dorothy with a sigh. 

"It must be a very great evil, " said Madge, deploringly. 

"One might well believe so, " answered Dorothy, "but it is not. Oneinstinctively knows it to be the essence of all that is good. "

Madge asked, "Did Sir John tell you that--that he--"

"Yes, " said Dorothy, covering her face even from the flickering rays ofthe rushlight. 

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes, " came in reply from under the coverlet. 

After a short silence Dorothy uncovered her face. 

"Yes, " she said boldly, "I told him plainly; nor did I feel shame in sodoing. It must be that this strange love makes one brazen. You, Madge, would die with shame had you sought any man as I have sought John. I wouldnot for worlds tell you how bold and over-eager I have been. "

"Oh, Dorothy!" was all the answer Madge gave. 

"You would say 'Oh, Dorothy, ' many times if you knew all. " Another pauseensued, after which Madge asked:--

"How did you know he had been smoking?"

"I--I tasted it, " responded Dorothy. 

"How could you taste it? I hope you did not smoke?" returned Madge inwonderment. 

Dorothy smothered a little laugh, made two or three vain attempts toexplain, tenderly put her arms about Madge's neck and kissed her. 

"Oh, Dorothy, that certainly was wrong, " returned Madge, although she hadsome doubts in her own mind upon the point. 

"Well, if it is wrong, " answered Dorothy, sighing, "I don't care to live. "

"Dorothy, I fear you are an immodest girl, " said Madge. 

"I fear I am, but I don't care--John, John, John!"

"How came he to speak of your lower lip?" asked Madge. "It certainly isvery beautiful; but how came he to speak of it?"

"It was after--after--once, " responded Dorothy. 

"And your arm, " continued remorseless Madge, "how came he to speak of it?You surely did not--"

"No, no, Madge; I hope you do not think I would show him my arm. I havenot come to that. I have a poor remnant of modesty left; but the HolyMother only knows how long it will last. No, he did not speak of my arm. "

"You spoke of your arm when you were before the mirror, " responded Madge, "and you said, 'Perhaps some day--'"

"Oh, don't, Madge. Please spare me. I indeed fear I am very wicked. I willsay a little prayer to the Virgin to-night. She will hear me, even If I amwicked; and she will help me to become good and modest again. "

The girls went to sleep, and Dorothy dreamed "John, John, John, " andslumbered happily. 

That part of the building of Haddon Hall which lies to the northward, westof the kitchen, consists of rooms according to the following plan:--

The two rooms in Entrance Tower over the great doors at the northwestcorner of Haddon Hall were occupied by Dorothy and Madge. The west roomoverlooking the Wye was their parlor. The next room to the east was theirbedroom. The room next their bedroom was occupied by Lady Crawford. Beyondthat was Sir George's bedroom, and east of his room was one occupied bythe pages and two retainers. To enter Dorothy's apartments one must passthrough all the other rooms I have mentioned. Her windows were twenty-fivefeet from the ground and were barred with iron. After Dorothy's sentenceof imprisonment, Lady Crawford, or some trusted person in her place, wasalways on guard in Aunt Dorothy's room to prevent Dorothy's escape, andguards were also stationed in the retainer's room for the same purpose. Itell you this that you may understand the difficulties Dorothy would haveto overcome before she could see John, as she declared to Madge she would. But my opinion is that there are no limits to the resources of a wilfulgirl. Dorothy saw Manners. The plan she conceived to bring about thedesired end was so seemingly impossible, and her execution of it was soadroit and daring, that I believe it will of itself Interest you in thetelling, aside from the bearing it has upon this history. No sane manwould have deemed it possible, but this wilful girl carried it tofruition. She saw no chance of failure. To her it seemed a simple, easymatter. Therefore she said with confidence and truth, "I will see him whenI wish to. "

Let me tell you of it. 

During Dorothy's imprisonment I spent an hour or two each evening with herand Madge at their parlor in the tower. The windows of the room, as I havetold you, faced westward, overlooking the Wye, and disclosed thebeautiful, undulating scenery of Overhaddon Hill in the distance. 

One afternoon when Madge was not present Dorothy asked me to bring her acomplete suit of my garments, --boots, hose, trunks, waistcoat, anddoublet. I laughed, and asked her what she wanted with them, but sherefused to tell me. She insisted, however, and I promised to fetch thegarments to her. Accordingly the next evening I delivered the bundle toher hands. Within a week she returned them all, saving the boots. Thoseshe kept--for what reason I could not guess. 

Lady Crawford, by command of Sir George, carried in her reticule the keyof the door which opened from her own room into Sir George's apartments, and the door was always kept locked. 

Dorothy had made several attempts to obtain possession of the key, withintent, I believe, of making a bold dash for liberty. But Aunt Dorothy, mindful of Sir George's wrath and fearing him above all men, actedfaithfully her part of gaoler. She smiled, half in sadness, when she toldme of the girl's simplicity in thinking she could hoodwink a person ofLady Crawford's age, experience, and wisdom. The old lady took great pridein her own acuteness. The distasteful task of gaoler, however, pained goodAunt Dorothy, whose simplicity was, in truth, no match for Dorothy'slove-quickened cunning. But Aunt Dorothy's sense of duty and her fear ofSir George impelled her to keep good and conscientious guard. 

One afternoon near the hour of sunset I knocked for admission at LadyCrawford's door. When I had entered she locked the door carefully afterme, and replaced the key in the reticule which hung at her girdle. 

I exchanged a few words with her Ladyship, and entered Dorothy's bedroom, where I left my cloak, hat, and sword. The girls were in the parlor. WhenI left Lady Crawford she again took her chair near the candle, put on hergreat bone-rimmed spectacles, and was soon lost to the world in the pagesof "Sir Philip de Comynges. " The dear old lady was near-sighted and wasslightly deaf. Dorothy's bedroom, like Lady Crawford's apartments, was indeep shadow. In it there was no candle. 

My two fair friends were seated in one of the west windows watching thesunset. They rose, and each gave me her hand and welcomed me with the raresmiles I had learned to expect from them. I drew a chair near to thewindow and we talked and laughed together merrily for a few minutes. Aftera little time Dorothy excused herself, saying that she would leave Madgeand me while she went into the bedroom to make a change in her apparel. 

Madge and I sat for a few minutes at the window, and I said, "You have notbeen out to-day for exercise. "

I had ridden to Derby with Sir George and had gone directly on my returnto see my two young friends. Sir George had not returned. 

"Will you walk with me about the room?" I asked. My real reason for makingthe suggestion was that I longed to clasp her hand, and to feel itsvelvety touch, since I should lead her if we walked. 

She quickly rose in answer to my invitation and offered me her hand. As wewalked to and fro a deep, sweet contentment filled my heart, and I feltthat any words my lips could coin would but mar the ineffable silence. 

Never shall I forget the soft light of that gloaming as the darkening redrays of the sinking sun shot through the panelled window across the floorand illumined the tapestry upon the opposite wall. 

The tapestries of Haddon Hall are among the most beautiful in England, andthe picture upon which the sun's rays fell was that of a lover kneeling atthe feet of his mistress. Madge and I passed and repassed the illuminedscene, and while it was softly fading into shadow a great flood of tenderlove for the girl whose soft hand I held swept over my heart. It was thenoblest motive I had ever felt. 

Moved by an impulse I could not resist, I stopped in our walk, and fallingto my knee pressed her hand ardently to my lips. Madge did not withdrawher hand, nor did she attempt to raise me. She stood in passive silence. The sun's rays had risen as the sun had sunk, and the light was fallinglike a holy radiance from the gates of paradise upon the girl's head. Ilooked upward, and never in my eyes had woman's face appeared so fair andsaintlike. She seemed to see me and to feel the silent outpouring of myaffection. I rose to my feet, and clasping both her hands spoke only hername "Madge. "

She answered simply, "Malcolm, is it possible?" And her face, illumined bythe sunlight and by the love-god, told me all else. Then I gently took herto my arms and kissed her lips again and again and again, and Madge by nosign nor gesture said me nay. She breathed a happy sigh, her head fellupon my breast, and all else of good that the world could offer comparedwith her was dross to me. 

We again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her handwithout an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through thehappiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and tolave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But myrhapsodies must have an end. 

When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom andquickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I hadlent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak. She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slimwaist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, andturned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin andupper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some mannercontrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of MalcolmVernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy. 

While sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword againstthe oak floor in Dorothy's bedroom. I supposed she had been toying with itand had let it fall. She was much of a child, and nothing could escape hercuriosity. Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy's apartments. Iwhispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, andthen I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom. Inoiselessly opened the door and entered. From my dark hiding-place inDorothy's bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy's room which filledme with wonder and suppressed laughter. Striding about in theshadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford's apartment was my other self, Malcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon. 

The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slantingrays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow, save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of whichthe old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriouslyperusing. 

The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might bedeepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was themost graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if shethought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were acopy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace. 

"What do you read, Lady Crawford?" said my cloak and hat, in tones thatcertainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice. 

"What do you say, Malcolm?" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to showthe ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading. 

"I asked what do you read?" repeated Dorothy. 

"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges, '" responded Lady Crawford. "Have you read it? It is a rare and interesting history. "

"Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book. I have read it many times. "There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly broughtDorothy into trouble. 

"What part of the 'Chronicle' do you best like?" asked Aunt Dorothy, perhaps for lack of anything else to say. Here was trouble already forMalcolm No. 2. 

"That is hard for me to say. I so well like it all. Perhaps--ah--perhaps Iprefer the--the ah--the middle portion. "

"Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy, "returned Aunt Dorothy. "Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are alwaysthinking--the ladies, the ladies. "

"Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?" my second self respondedin a gallant style of which I was really proud. "She who has caused somuch of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman's mindcannot be better employed than--"

"Malcolm, you are incorrigible. But it is well for a gentleman to keep inpractice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practiseon. "

"They like it, even if it be only practice, don't they?" said Dorothy, full of the spirit of mischief. 

"I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon, " retorted Aunt Dorothy witha toss of her head. "I surely don't value your practice, as you call it, one little farthing's worth. "

But Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of witthan Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself. 

"I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford. "

"Oh!" replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book. "I have beenreading Sir Philip's account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy. Do you remember the cause of her death?"

Malcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled toadmit that he did not remember the cause of Mary's death. 

"You did not read the book with attention, " replied Lady Crawford. "SirPhilip says that Mary of Burgundy died from an excess of modesty. "

"That disease will never depopulate England, " was the answer that camefrom my garments, much to my chagrin. 

"Sir Malcolm, " exclaimed the old lady, "I never before heard so ungallanta speech from your lips. "--"And, " thought I, "she never will hear its likefrom me. "

"Modesty, " continued Lady Crawford, "may not be valued so highly by youngwomen nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but--"

"I am sure it is not, " interrupted Dorothy. 

"But, " continued Lady Crawford, "the young women of England are modest andseemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of inungallant jest. "

I trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry. 

"Do you not, " said Lady Crawford, "consider Dorothy and Madge to bemodest, well-behaved maidens?"

"Madge! Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be. She is a saint, butas to Dorothy--well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for herthan death from modesty. I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form doesnot kill. Dorothy has it mildly, " then under her breath, "if at all. "

The girl's sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for the momentit caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise. 

"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy, " retorted Lady Crawford. "She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply. "

"Her father would not agree with you, " replied Dorothy. 

"Perhaps not, " responded the aunt. "Her father's conduct causes me greatpain and grief. "

"It also causes me pain, " said Dorothy, sighing. 

"But, Malcolm, " continued the old lady, putting down her book and turningwith quickened interest toward my other self, "who, suppose you, is theman with whom Dorothy has become so strangely entangled?"

"I cannot tell for the life of me, " answered Malcolm No. 2. "Surely amodest girl would not act as she does. "

"Surely a modest girl would, " replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. "Malcolm, youknow nothing of women. "

"Spoken with truth, " thought I. 

The old lady continued: "Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do witheach other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at thewindow. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish Icould help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. Ifeign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I amgreatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love. "

"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy, " said the lovelorn young woman. "I amsure she is fathoms deep in love. "

"Nothing, " said Lady Crawford, "but a great passion would have impelledher to act as she did. Why, even Mary of Burgundy, with all her modesty, won the husband she wanted, ay, and had him at the cost of half her richdomain. "

"I wonder if Dorothy will ever have the man she wants?" said Malcolm, sighing in a manner entirely new to him. 

"No, " answered the old lady, "I fear there is no hope for Dorothy. Iwonder who he is? Her father intends that she shall soon marry LordStanley. Sir George told me as much this morning when he started forDerby-town to arrange for the signing of the marriage contract within aday or two. He had a talk yesterday with Dorothy. She, I believe, hassurrendered to the inevitable, and again there is good feeling between herand my brother. "

Dorothy tossed her head expressively. 

"It is a good match, " continued Lady Crawford, "a good match, Malcolm. Ipity Dorothy; but it is my duty to guard her, and I shall do itfaithfully. "

"My dear Lady Crawford, " said my hat and cloak, "your words and feelingsdo great credit to your heart. But have you ever thought that your nieceis a very wilful girl, and that she is full of disturbing expedients? NowI am willing to wager my beard that she will, sooner than you suspect, seeher lover. And I am also willing to lay a wager that she will marry theman of her choice despite all the watchfulness of her father and yourself. Keep close guard over her, my lady, or she will escape. "

Lady Crawford laughed. "She shall not escape. Have no fear of that, Malcolm. The key to the door is always safely locked in my reticule. Nogirl can outwit me. I am too old to be caught unawares by a mere childlike Dorothy. It makes me laugh, Malcolm--although I am sore at heart forDorothy's sake--it makes me laugh, with a touch of tears, when I think ofpoor simple Dorothy's many little artifices to gain possession of thiskey. They are amusing and pathetic. Poor child! But I am too old to beduped by a girl, Malcolm, I am too old. She has no chance to escape. "

I said to myself: "No one has ever become too old to be duped by a girlwho is in love. Her wits grow keen as the otter's fur grows thick for thewinter's need. I do not know your niece's plan; but if I mistake not, AuntDorothy, you will in one respect, at least, soon be rejuvenated. "

"I am sure Lady Crawford is right in what she says, " spoke my other self, "and Sir George is fortunate in having for his daughter a guardian whocannot be hoodwinked and who is true to a distasteful trust. I would thetrouble were over and that Dorothy were well married. "

"So wish I, Malcolm, with all my heart, " replied Aunt Dorothy. 

After a brief pause in the conversation Malcolm No. 2 said:--

"I must now take my leave. Will you kindly unlock the door and permit meto say good night?"

"If you must go, " answered my lady, glad enough to be left alone with herbeloved Sir Philip. Then she unlocked the door. 

"Keep good watch, my dear aunt, " said Malcolm. "I greatly fear thatDorothy--" but the door closed on the remainder of the sentence and onDorothy Vernon. 

"Nonsense!" ejaculated the old lady somewhat impatiently. "Why should hefear for Dorothy? I hope I shall not again be disturbed. " And soon she wasdeep in the pages of her book. 

CHAPTER IX

A TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE

I was at a loss what course to pursue, and I remained for a moment inpuzzling thought. I went back to Madge, and after closing the door, toldher of all I had seen. She could not advise me, and of course she wasdeeply troubled and concerned. After deliberating, I determined to speakto Aunt Dorothy that she might know what had happened. So I opened thedoor and walked into Lady Crawford's presence. After viewing my lady'sback for a short time, I said:--

"I cannot find my hat, cloak, and sword. I left them in Dorothy's bedroom. Has any one been here since I entered?"

The old lady turned quickly upon me, "Since you entered?" she cried inwonderment and consternation. "Since you left, you mean. Did you not leavethis room a few minutes ago? What means this? How found you entrancewithout the key?"

"I did not leave this room, Aunt Dorothy; you see I am here, " I responded. 

"Who did leave? Your wraith? Some one--Dorothy!" screamed the old lady interror. "That girl!!--Holy Virgin! where is she?"

Lady Crawford hastened to Dorothy's room and returned to me in greatagitation. 

"Were you in the plot?" she demanded angrily. 

"No more than were you, Lady Crawford, " I replied, telling the exacttruth. If I were accessory to Dorothy's crime, it was only as a witnessand Aunt Dorothy had seen as much as I. 

I continued: "Dorothy left Lady Madge and me at the window, saying shewished to make a change in her garments. I was watching the sunset andtalking with Lady Madge. "

Lady Crawford, being full of concern about the main event, --Dorothy'sescape, --was easily satisfied that I was not accessory before the fact. 

"What shall I do, Malcolm? What shall I do? Help me, quickly. My brotherwill return in the morning--perhaps he will return to-night--and he willnot believe that I have not intentionally permitted Dorothy to leave theHall. I have of late said so much to him on behalf of the girl that hesuspects me already of being in sympathy with her. He will not believe mewhen I tell him that I have been duped. The ungrateful, selfish girl! Howcould she so unkindly return my affection!"

The old lady began to weep. 

I did not believe that Dorothy intended to leave Haddon Hall permanently. I felt confident she had gone out only to meet John, and was sure shewould soon return. On the strength of that opinion I said: "If you fearthat Sir George will not believe you--he certainly will blame you--wouldit not be better to admit Dorothy quietly when she returns and say nothingto any one concerning the escapade? I will remain here in these rooms, andwhen she returns I will depart, and the guards will never suspect thatDorothy has left the Hall. "

"If she will but return, " wailed Aunt Dorothy, "I shall be only too gladto admit her and to keep silent. "

"I am sure she will, " I answered. "Leave orders with the guard at SirGeorge's door to admit me at any time during the night, and Dorothy willcome in without being recognized. Her disguise must be very complete ifshe could deceive you. "

"Indeed, her disguise is complete, " replied the tearful old lady. 

Dorothy's disguise was so complete and her resemblance to me had been sowell contrived that she met with no opposition from the guards in theretainer's room nor from the porter. She walked out upon the terrace whereshe strolled for a short time. Then she climbed over the wall at the stileback of the terrace and took her way up Bowling Green Hill toward thegate. She sauntered leisurely until she was out of sight of the Hall. Thengathering up her cloak and sword she sped along the steep path to the hillcrest and thence to the gate. 

Soon after the first day of her imprisonment she had sent a letter to Johnby the hand of Jennie Faxton, acquainting him with the details of all thathad happened. In her letter, among much else, she said:--

"My true love, I beg you to haunt with your presence Bowling Green Gateeach day at the hour of sunset. I cannot tell you when I shall be there tomeet you, or surely I would do so now. But be there I will. Let no doubtof that disturb your mind. It does not lie in the power of man to keep mefrom you. That is, it lies in the power of but one man, you, my love andmy lord, and I fear not that you will use your power to that end. So it isthat I beg you to wait for me at sunset hour each day near by BowlingGreen Gate. You may be caused to wait for me a long weary time; but oneday, sooner or later, I shall go to you, and then--ah, then, if it be inmy power to reward your patience, you shall have no cause for complaint. "

When Dorothy reached the gate she found it securely locked. She peeredeagerly through the bars, hoping to see John. She tried to shake theheavy iron structure to assure herself that it could not be opened. 

"Ah, well, " she sighed, "I suppose the reason love laughs at locksmiths isbecause he--or she--can climb. "

Then she climbed the gate and sprang to the ground on the Devonshire sideof the wall. 

"What will John think when he sees me in this attire?" she said halfaloud. "Malcolm's cloak serves but poorly to cover me, and I shall insteadbe covered with shame and confusion when John comes. I fear he will thinkI have disgraced myself. " Then, with a sigh, "But necessity knows noraiment. "

She strode about near the gate for a few minutes, wishing that she wereindeed a man, save for one fact: if she were not a woman, John would notlove her, and, above all, she could not love John. The fact that she couldand did love John appealed to Dorothy as the highest, sweetest privilegethat Heaven or earth could offer to a human being. 

The sun had sunk in the west, and his faint parting glory was but dimly tobe seen upon a few small clouds that floated above Overhaddon Hill. Themoon was past its half; and the stars, still yellow and pale from thelingering glare of day, waited eagerly to give their twinkling help inlighting the night. The forest near the gate was dense, and withal thefading light of the sun and the dawning beams of the moon and stars, deepshadow enveloped Dorothy and all the scene about her. The girl wasdisappointed when she did not see Manners, but she was not vexed. Therewas but one person in all the world toward whom she held a patient, humbleattitude--John. If he, in his greatness, goodness, and condescension, deigned to come and meet so poor a person as Dorothy Vernon, she would bethankful and happy; if he did not come, she would be sorrowful. His willwas her will, and she would come again and again until she should findhim waiting for her, and he should stoop to lift her into heaven. 

If there is a place in all the earth where red warm blood counts for itsfull value, it is in a pure woman's veins. Through self-fear it brings toher a proud reserve toward all mankind till the right one comes. Towardhim it brings an eager humbleness that is the essence and the life ofHeaven and of love. Poets may praise snowy women as they will, but thecompelling woman is she of the warm blood. The snowy woman is the lifelessseed, the rainless cloud, the unmagnetic lodestone, the drossful iron. Thegreat laws of nature affect her but passively. If there is aught in thesaying of the ancients, "The best only in nature can survive, " the day ofher extermination will come. Fire is as chaste as snow, and infinitelymore comforting. 

Dorothy's patience was not to be tried for long. Five minutes after shehad climbed the gate she beheld John riding toward her from the directionof Rowsley, and her heart beat with thrill upon thrill of joy. She feltthat the crowning moment of her life was at hand. By the help of a subtlesense--familiar spirit to her love perhaps--she knew that John would askher to go with him and to be his wife, despite all the Rutlands andVernons dead, living, or to be born. The thought of refusing him neverentered her mind. Queen Nature was on the throne in the fulness of power, and Dorothy, in perfect attune with her great sovereign, was fulfillingher destiny in accordance with the laws to which her drossless being wasentirely amenable. 

Many times had the fear come to her that Sir John Manners, who was heir tothe great earldom of Rutland, --he who was so great, so good, and sobeautiful, --might feel that his duty to his house past, present, andfuture, and the obligations of his position among the grand nobles of therealm, should deter him from a marriage against which so many good reasonscould be urged. But this evening her familiar spirit whispered to her thatshe need not fear, and her heart was filled with joy and certainty. Johndismounted and tethered his horse at a short distance from the gate. Heapproached Dorothy, but halted when he beheld a man instead of the girlwhom he longed to meet. His hesitancy surprised Dorothy, who, in hereagerness, had forgotten her male attire. She soon saw, however, that hedid not recognize her, and she determined, in a spirit of mischief, tomaintain her incognito till he should penetrate her disguise. 

She turned her back on John and sauntered leisurely about, whistlingsoftly. She pretended to be unconscious of his presence, and John, whofelt that the field was his by the divine right of love, walked to thegate and looked through the bars toward Bowling Green. He stood at thegate for a short time with indifference in his manner and irritation inhis heart. He, too, tried to hum a tune, but failed. Then he tried towhistle, but his musical efforts were abortive. There was no music in him. A moment before his heart had been full of harmony; but when he found aman instead of his sweetheart, the harmony quickly turned to raspingdiscord. 

John was not a patient man, and his impatience was apt to take the form ofwords and actions. A little aimless stalking about at the gate was morethan enough for him, so he stepped toward the intruder and lifted his hat. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, "I thought when first I saw you that youwere Sir Malcolm Vernon. I fancied you bore resemblance to him. I see thatI was in error. "

"Yes, in error, " answered my beard. 

Again the two gentlemen walked around each other with great amusement onthe part of one, and with ever increasing vexation on the part of theother. 

Soon John said, "May I ask whom have I the honor to address?"

"Certainly, you may ask, " was the response. 

A silence ensued during which Dorothy again turned her back on John andwalked a few paces away from him. John's patience was rapidly oozing, andwhen the unknown intruder again turned in his direction, John said withall the gentleness then at his command:--

"Well, sir, I do ask. "

"Your curiosity is flattering, " said the girl. 

"Pardon me, sir, " returned John. "My curiosity is not intended to beflattering. I--"

"I hope it is not intended to be insulting, sir?" asked my hat and cloak. 

"That, sir, all depends upon yourself, " retorted John, warmly. Then afteran instant of thought, he continued in tones of conciliation:--

"I have an engagement of a private nature at this place. In short, I hopeto meet a--a friend here within a few minutes and I feel sure that underthe circumstances so gallant a gentleman as yourself will act with dueconsideration for the feelings of another. I hope and believe that youwill do as you would be done by. "

"Certainly, certainly, " responded the gallant. "I find no fault at allwith your presence. Please take no account whatever of me. I assure you Ishall not be in the least disturbed. "

John was somewhat disconcerted. 

"Perhaps you will not be disturbed, " replied John, struggling to keep downhis temper, "but I fear you do not understand me. I hope to meet a--a ladyand--"

"I hope also to meet a--a friend, " the fellow said; "but I assure you weshall in no way conflict. "

"May I ask, " queried John, "if you expect to meet a gentleman or a lady?"

"Certainly you may ask, " was the girl's irritating reply. 

"Well, well, sir, I do ask, " said John. "Furthermore, I demand to knowwhom you expect to meet at this place. "

"That, of course, sir, is no business of yours. "

"But I shall make it my affair. I expect to meet a lady here, mysweetheart. " The girl's heart jumped with joy. "And if you have any of thefeelings of a gentleman, you must know that your presence will beintolerable to me. "

"Perhaps it will be, my dear sir, but I have as good a right here as youor any other. If you must know all about my affairs, I tell you I, too, hope to meet my sweetheart at this place. In fact, I know I shall meet mysweetheart, and, my good fellow, I beg to inform you that a stranger'spresence would be very annoying to me. "

John was at his wit's end. He must quickly do or say something to persuadethis stubborn fellow to leave. If Dorothy should come and see two personsat the gate she, of course, would return to the Hall. Jennie Faxton, whoknew that the garments were finished, had told Sir John that he mightreasonably expect to see Dorothy at the gate on that evening, for SirGeorge had gone to Derby-town, presumably to remain over night. 

In sheer desperation John said, "I was here first, and I claim theground. "

"That is not true, " replied the other. "I have been waiting here foryou--I mean for the person I am to meet--" Dorothy thought she hadbetrayed herself, and that John would surely recognize her. "I had beenwaiting full five minutes before you arrived. "

John's blindness in failing to recognize Dorothy is past my understanding. He explained it to me afterward by saying that his eagerness to seeDorothy, and his fear, nay almost certainty, that she could not come, coupled with the hope which Jennie Faxton had given him, had so completelyoccupied his mind that other subjects received but slight consideration. 

"But I--I have been here before this night to meet--"

"And I have been here to meet--quite as often as you, I hope, " retortedDorothy. 

They say that love blinds a man. It must also have deafened John, since hedid not recognize his sweetheart's voice. 

"It may be true that you have been here before this evening, " retortedJohn, angrily; "but you shall not remain here now. If you wish to saveyourself trouble, leave at once. If you stalk about in the forest, I willrun you through and leave you for the crows to pick. "

"I have no intention of leaving, and if I were to do so you would regretit; by my beard, you would regret it, " answered the girl, pleased to seeJohn in his overbearing, commanding mood. His stupidity was pastcomprehension. 

"Defend yourself, " said John, drawing his sword. 

"Now he will surely know the truth, " thought Dorothy, but she said: "I ammuch younger than you, and am not so large and strong. I am unskilled inthe use of a sword, and therefore am I no match for Sir John Manners thanwhom, I have heard, there is no better swordsman, stronger arm, nor braverheart in England. "

"You flatter me, my friend, " returned John, forced into a good humoragainst his will; "but you must leave. He who cannot defend himself mustyield; it is the law of nature and of men. "

John advanced toward Dorothy, who retreated stepping backward, holding herarm over her face. 

"I am ready to yield if you wish. In fact, I am eager to yield--more eagerthan you can know, " she cried. 

"It is well, " answered John, putting his sword in sheath. 

"But, " continued Dorothy, "I will not go away. "

"Then you must fight, " said John. 

"I tell you again I am willing, nay, eager to yield to you, but I alsotell you I cannot fight in the way you would have me. In other waysperhaps I can fight quite as well as anybody. But really, I am ashamed todraw my sword, since to do so would show you how poorly I am equipped todefend myself under your great laws of nature and of man. Again, I wish toassure you that I am more than eager to yield; but I cannot fight you, andI will not go away. "

The wonder never ceases that John did not recognize her. She took no painsto hide her identity, and after a few moments of concealment she wasanxious that John should discover her under my garments. 

"I would know his voice, " she thought, "did he wear all the petticoats inDerbyshire. "

"What shall I do with you?" cried John, amused and irritated. "I cannotstrike you. "

"No, of course you would not murder me in cold blood, " answered Dorothy, laughing heartily. She was sure her laughter would open John's eyes. 

"I cannot carry you away, " said John. 

"I would come back again, if you did, " answered the irrepressible fellow. 

"I suppose you would, " returned John, sullenly. "In the devil's name, tellme what you will do. Can I not beg you to go?"

"Now, Sir John, you have touched me. I make you this offer: you expectMistress Vernon to come from the Hall--"

"What do you know about Mistress Vernon?" cried John. "By God, I will--"

"Now don't grow angry, Sir John, and please don't swear in my presence. You expect her, I say, to come from the Hall. What I propose is this: youshall stand by the gate and watch for Doll--oh, I mean MistressVernon--and I will stand here behind the wall where she cannot see me. When she comes in sight--though in truth I don't think she will come, andI believe were she under your very nose you would not see her--you shalltell me and I will leave at once; that is, if you wish me to leave. Afteryou see Dorothy Vernon if you still wish me to go, I pledge my faith nopower can keep me. Now is not that fair? I like you very much, and I wantto remain here, if you will permit me, and talk to you for a littletime--till you see Doll Vernon. "

"Doll Vernon, fellow? How dare you so speak of her?" demanded John, hotly. 

"Your pardon and her pardon, I beg; Mistress Vernon, soon to be Countessof Derbyshire. By the way, I wager you a gold pound sterling that by thetime you see Doll Vernon--Mistress Vernon, I pray your pardon--you willhave grown so fond of me that you will not permit me to leave you. " Shethought after that speech he could not help but know her; but John's skullwas like an oaken board that night. Nothing could penetrate it. He beganto fancy that his companion was a simple witless person who had escapedfrom his keepers. 

"Will you take the wager?" asked Dorothy. 

"Nonsense!" was the only reply John deigned to give to so foolish aproposition. 

"Then will you agree that I shall remain at the gate till Doll--MistressVernon comes?"

"I suppose I shall have to make the best terms possible with you, " hereturned. "You are an amusing fellow and as perverse as a woman. "

"I knew you would soon learn to like me, " she responded. "The first steptoward a man's affection is to amuse him. That old saw which says the roadto a man's heart is through his stomach, is a sad mistake. Amusement isthe highway to a man's affections. "

"It is better that one laugh with us than at us. There is a vastdifference in the two methods, " answered John, contemptuously. 

"You dare to laugh at me, " cried Dorothy, grasping the hilt of her sword, and pretending to be angry. John waved her off with his hand, andlaughingly said, "Little you know concerning the way to a man's heart, andno doubt less of the way to a woman's. "

"I, perhaps, know more about it than you would believe, " returned MalcolmNo. 2. 

"If you know aught of the latter subject, it is more than I wouldsuppose, " said John. "It is absurd to say that a woman can love a man whois unable to defend himself. "

"A vain man thinks that women care only for men of his own pattern, "retorted Dorothy. "Women love a strong arm, it is true, but they also lovea strong heart, and you see I am not at all afraid of you, even though youhave twice my strength. There are as many sorts of bravery, Sir John, as--as there are hairs in my beard. "

"That is not many, " interrupted John. 

"And, " continued the girl, "I believe, John, --Sir John, --you possess allthe kinds of bravery that are good. "

"You flatter me, " said John. 

"Yes, " returned Dorothy, "that was my intent. "

After that unflattering remark there came a pause. Then the girl continuedsomewhat hesitatingly: "Doubtless many women, Sir John, have seen yourvirtues more clearly than even I see them. Women have a keener perceptionof masculine virtues than--than we have. "

Dorothy paused, and her heart beat with a quickened throb while sheawaited his reply. A new field of discovery was opening up to her and anew use for her disguise. 

John made no reply, but the persistent girl pursued her new line ofattack. 

[Illustration]

"Surely Sir John Manners has had many sweethearts, " said Dorothy, inflattering tones. There were rocks and shoals ahead for John's love barge. "Many, many, I am sure, " the girl persisted. 

"Ah, a few, a few, I admit, " John like a fool replied. Dorothy wasaccumulating disagreeable information rapidly. 

"While you were at London court, " said she, "the fine ladies must havesought you in great numbers--I am sure they did. "

"Perhaps, oh, perhaps, " returned John. "One cannot always remember suchaffairs. " His craft was headed for the rocks. Had he observed Dorothy'sface, he would have seen the storm a-brewing. 

"To how many women, Sir John, have you lost your heart, and at varioustimes how many have lost their hearts to you?" asked the persistentgirl. --"What a senseless question, " returned John. "A dozen times or more;perhaps a score or two score times. I cannot tell the exact number. I didnot keep an account. "

Dorothy did not know whether she wanted to weep or be angry. Pique and aflash of temper, however, saved her from tears, and she said, "You are sobrave and handsome that you must have found it a very easy task--mucheasier than it would be for me--to convince those confiding ones of youraffection?"

"Yes, " replied John, plunging full sail upon the breakers, "I admit thatusually they have been quite easy to convince. I am naturally bold, and Isuppose that perhaps--that is, I may possibly have a persuasive trickabout me. "

Shades of good men who have blundered into ruin over the path of pettyvanity, save this man! But no, Dorothy must drink the bitter cup ofknowledge to the dregs. 

"And you have been false to all of these women? she said. 

"Ah, well, you know--the devil take it! A man can't be true to a score ofwomen, " replied John. 

"I am sure none of them wished you to be true, " the girl answered, restraining her tears with great difficulty. 

At that point in the conversation John began to suspect from the mannerand shapeliness of his companion that a woman had disguised herself inman's attire. Yet it did not once occur to him that Dorothy's fair formwas concealed within the disguise. He attempted to lift my soft beaverhat, the broad rim of which hid Dorothy's face, but to that she made adecided objection, and John continued: "By my soul I believe you are awoman. Your walk"--Dorothy thought she had been swaggering like averitable swash-buckler--"your voice, the curves of your form, all betrayyou. " Dorothy gathered the cloak closely about her. 

"I would know more of you, " said John, and he stepped toward the nowinteresting stranger. But she drew away from him, and told him to keephands off. 

"Oh, I am right. You are a woman, " said John. 

Dorothy had maintained the disguise longer than she wished, and waswilling that John should discover her identity. At first it had been raresport to dupe him; but the latter part of her conversation had given herno pleasure. She was angry, jealous, and hurt by what she had learned. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I admit that I am a--a woman. Now I must go. "

"Stay but one moment, " pleaded John, whose curiosity and gallantry werearoused. "I will watch for Mistress Vernon, and when she appears, then youmay go. "

"I told you that you would want me to remain, " said the girl with a sigh. She was almost ready to weep. Then she thought: "I little dreamed I wascoming here for this. I will carry the disguise a little farther, andwill, perhaps, learn enough to--to break my heart. "

She was soon to learn all she wanted to know and a great deal more. 

"Come sit by me on this stone, " said John, coaxingly. The girl complied, and drew the cloak over her knees. 

"Tell me why you are here, " he asked. 

"To meet a gentleman, " she replied, with low-bent face. 

"Tell me your name, " John asked, as he drew my glove from her passivehand. John held the hand in his, and after examining it in the dim lightsaw that it was a great deal more than good to look upon. Then he liftedit to his lips and said:

"Since our sweethearts have disappointed us, may we not console ourselveswith each other?" He placed his arm around the girl's waist and drew heryielding form toward him. Dorothy, unobserved by John, removed the falsebeard and moustachio, and when John put his arm about her waist and leanedforward to kiss the fair accommodating neighbor she could restrain hertears no longer and said:--

"That would be no consolation for me, John; that would be no consolationfor me. How can you? How can you?"

She rose to her feet and covered her face with her hands in a paroxysm ofweeping. John, too, sprang to his feet, you may be sure. "Dorothy! Godhelp me! I am the king of fools. Curse this hour in which I have thrownaway my heaven. You must hate and despise me, fool, fool that I am. "

John knew that it were worse than useless for him to attempt anexplanation. The first thought that flashed through his mind was, to tellthe girl that he had only pretended not to know her. He thought he wouldtry to make her believe that he had been turning her trick upon herself;but he was wise in his day and generation, and did not seek refuge in thatfalsehood. 

The girl would never have forgiven him for that. 

"The only amends I can make, " he said, in very dolefulness, "is that I maynever let you see my face again. "

"That will not help matters, " sobbed Dorothy. 

"I know it will not, " returned John. "Nothing can help me. I can remainhere no longer. I must leave you. I cannot even ask you to say farewell. Mistress Vernon, you do not despise me half so bitterly as I despisemyself. "

Dorothy was one of those rare natures to whom love comes but once. It hadcome to her and had engulfed her whole being. To part with it would belike parting with life itself. It was her tyrant, her master. It was herego. She could no more throw it off than she could expel herself from herown existence. All this she knew full well, for she had analyzed herconditions, and her reason had joined with all her other faculties ingiving her a clear concept of the truth. She knew she belonged to JohnManners for life and for eternity. She also knew that the chance of seeinghim soon again was very slight, and to part from him now in aught butkindness would almost kill her. 

Before John had recognized Dorothy he certainly had acted like a fool, butwith the shock of recognition came wisdom. All the learning of theancients and all the cunning of the prince of darkness could not havetaught him a wiser word with which to make his peace, "I may never let yousee my face again. " That was more to be feared by Dorothy than even John'sinconstancy. 

Her heart was full of trouble. "I do not know what I wish, " she saidsimply. "Give me a little time to think. "

John's heart leaped with joy, but he remained silent. 

Dorothy continued: "Oh, that I had remained at home. I would to God I hadnever seen Derby-town nor you. "

John in the fulness of his wisdom did not interrupt her. 

"To think that I have thus made a fool of myself about a man who hasgiven his heart to a score of women. "

"This is torture, " moaned John, in real pain. 

"But, " continued Dorothy, "I could not remain away from this place when Ihad the opportunity to come to you. I felt that I must come. I felt that Ishould die if I did not. And you are so false. I wish I were dead. Amoment ago, had I been another woman, you would have kissed her. Youthought I was another woman. "

John's wisdom stood by him nobly. He knew he could neither explainsuccessfully nor beg forgiveness. He simply said: "I cannot remain andlook you in the face. If I dare make any request, it is that despite allyou have heard from my lips you will still believe that I love you, andthat in all my life I have never loved any one so dearly. There is noother woman for me. "

"You doubtless spoke the same false words to the other two score women, "said Dorothy. Tears and sobs were playing sad havoc with her powers ofspeech. 

"Farewell, Mistress Vernon, " replied John. "I should be shameless if Idared ask you to believe any word I can utter. Forget, if possible, that Iever existed; forget me that you may not despise me. I am unworthy todwell even in the smallest of your thoughts. I am altogether base andcontemptible. "

"N-o-o, " sighed Dorothy, poutingly, while she bent low her head and toyedwith the gold lace of my cloak. 

"Farewell, " said John. He took a step or two backward from her. 

"You are over-eager to leave, it seems to me, " said the girl in an injuredtone. "I wonder that you came at all. " John's heart was singing hosanna. He, however, maintained his voice at a mournful pitch and said: "I mustgo. I can no longer endure to remain. " While he spoke he moved toward hishorse, and his head was bowed with real shame as he thought of thepitiable fool he had made of himself. Dorothy saw him going from her, andshe called to him softly and reluctantly, "John. "

He did not hear her, or perhaps he thought best to pretend that he did nothear, and as he moved from her the girl became desperate. Modesty, resentment, insulted womanhood and injured pride were all swept away bythe stream of her mighty love, and she cried again, this time withouthesitancy or reluctance, "John, John. " She started to run toward him, butmy cloak was in her way, and the sword tripped her feet. In her fear lestJohn might leave her, she unclasped the sword-belt from her waist andsnatched the cloak from her shoulders. Freed from these hindrances, sheran toward John. 

"John, do not leave me. Do not leave me. " As she spoke, she reached anopen space among the trees and John turned toward her. Her hat had fallenoff, and the red golden threads of her hair, freed from their fastenings, streamed behind her. Never before had a vision of such exquisiteloveliness sped through the moonbeams. So entrancing was her beauty toJohn that he stood motionless in admiration. He did not go to meet her ashe should have done, and perhaps as he would have done had his senses notbeen wrapped in benumbing wonderment. His eyes were unable to interpret tohis brain all her marvellous beauty, and his other senses abandoning theirproper functions had hastened to the assistance of his sight He saw, heheard, he felt her loveliness. Thus occupied he did not move, so Dorothyran to him and fell upon his breast. 

"You did not come to meet me, " she sobbed. "You made me come all the way, to forgive you. Cruel, cruel!"

John held the girl in his arms, but he did not dare to kiss her, and hisself-denial soon brought its reward. He had not expected that she wouldcome a beggar to him. The most he had dared to hope was that she wouldlisten to his prayer for forgiveness. With all his worldly wisdom John hadnot learned the fact that inconstancy does not destroy love in the one whosuffers by reason of it; nor did he know of the exquisite pain-touchedhappiness which comes to a gentle, passionate heart such as Dorothy's fromthe mere act of forgiving. 

"Is it possible you can forgive me for the miserable lies I have uttered?"asked John, almost unconscious of the words he was speaking. "Is itpossible you can forgive me for uttering those lies, Dorothy?" herepeated. 

She laid her head upon his breast, and softly passing her hand over thelace of his doublet, whispered:--

"If I could believe they were lies, I could easily forgive you, " sheanswered between low sobs and soft sighs. Though she was a woman, thesweet essence of childhood was in her heart. 

"But you cannot believe me, even when I tell you that I spoke not thetruth, " answered John, with growing faith in his system of passiverepentance. Again came the sighs, and a few struggling, childish sobs. 

"It is easy for us to believe that which we long to believe, " she said. Then she turned her face upward to him, and John's reward was altogetherdisproportioned to the self-denial he had exercised a few minutes before. She rewarded him far beyond his deserts; and after a pause she saidmischievously:--

"You told me that you were a bold man with women, and I know that at leastthat part of what you said was untrue, for you are a bashful man, John, you are downright bashful. It is I who have been bold. You were too timidto woo me, and I so longed for you that I--I--was not timid. "

"For God's sake, Dorothy, I beg you to have pity and to make no jest ofme. Your kindness almost kills me, and your ridicule--"

"There, there, John, " whispered the girl, "I will never again make a jestof you if it gives you pain. Tell me, John, tell me truly, was it allfalse--that which you told me about the other women?"

There had been more truth in John's bragging than he cared to confess. Hefeared and loathed a lie; so he said evasively, but with perfect truth:--

"You must know, my goddess. If you do not know without the telling that Ilove you with all my being; if you do not know that there is for me andever will be no woman but you in all the world; if you do not know thatyou have stolen my soul and that I live only in your presence, all that Ican say will avail nothing toward convincing you. I am almost crazed withlove for you, and with pain and torture. For the love of God let me leaveyou that I may hide my face. "

"Never, " cried the girl, clasping her hands about his neck and pressingher lips gently upon his. "Never. There, that will soothe you, won't it, John?"

It did soothe him, and in the next moment, John, almost frenzied with joy, hurt the girl by the violence of his embraces; but she, woman-like, foundher heaven in the pain. 

They went back to the stone bench beside the gate, and after a little timeDorothy said:--

"But tell me, John, would you have kissed the other woman? Would youreally have done it?"

John's honesty certainly was good policy in that instance. The adroit girlhad set a trap for him. 

"I suppose I would, " answered John, with a groan. 

"It hurts me to hear the fact, " said Dorothy, sighing; "but it pleases meto hear the truth. I know all else you tell me is true. I was trying youwhen I asked the question, for I certainly knew what you intended to do. Awoman instinctively knows when a man is going to--to--when anything ofthat sort is about to happen. "

"How does she know?" asked John. 

Rocks and breakers ahead for Dorothy. 

"I cannot tell you, " replied the girl, naïvely, "but she knows. "

"Perhaps it is the awakened desire in her own heart which forewarns her, "said John, stealthily seeking from Dorothy a truth that would pain himshould he learn it. 

"I suppose that is partly the source of her knowledge, " replied theknowing one, with a great show of innocence in her manner. John was in noposition to ask impertinent questions, nor had he any right to grow angryat unpleasant discoveries; but he did both, although for a time hesuppressed the latter. 

"You believe she is sure to know, do you?" he asked. 

"Usually, " she replied. "Of course there are times when--when it happensso suddenly that--"

John angrily sprang to his feet, took a few hurried steps in front ofDorothy, who remained demurely seated with her eyes cast down, and thenagain he took his place beside her on the stone bench. He was tremblingwith anger and jealousy. The devil was in the girl that night formischief. 

"I suppose you speak from the fulness of your experience, " demanded John, in tones that would have been insulting had they not been pleasing to thegirl. She had seen the drift of John's questions at an early stage of theconversation, and his easily aroused jealousy was good proof to her of hisaffection. After all, she was in no danger from rocks and breakers. Shewell knew the currents, eddies, rocks, and shoals of the sea she wasnavigating, although she had never before sailed it. Her fore-mothers, allthe way back to Eve, had been making charts of those particular waters forher especial benefit. Why do we, a slow-moving, cumbersome army of men, continue to do battle with the foe at whose hands defeat is always ourportion?

"Experience?" queried Dorothy, her head turned to one side in ahalf-contemplative attitude. "Experience? Of course that is the only waywe learn anything. "

John again sprang to his feet, and again he sat down beside the girl. Hehad so recently received forgiveness for his own sins that he dared not beunforgiving toward Dorothy. He did not speak, and she remained silent, willing to allow time for the situation to take its full effect. Thewisdom of the serpent is black ignorance compared with the cunning of agirl in Dorothy's situation. God gives her wit for the occasion as Hegives the cat soft paws, sharp claws, and nimbleness. She was teachingJohn a lesson he would never forget. She was binding him to her with hoopsof steel. 

"I know that I have not the right to ask, " said John, suppressing hisemotions, "but may I know merely as a matter of trivial information--may Iknow the name of--of the person--this fellow with whom you have had sofull an experience? God curse him! Tell me his name. " He caught the girlviolently by both arms as if he would shake the truth out of her. He wasunconsciously making full amends for the faults he had committed earlierin the evening. The girl made no answer. John's powers of self-restraint, which were not of the strongest order, were exhausted, and he again sprangto his feet and stood towering before her in a passion. "Tell me hisname, " he said hoarsely. "I demand it. I will not rest till I kill him. "

"If you would kill him, I surely will not tell you his name. In truth, Iadmit I am very fond of him. "

"Speak not another word to me till you tell me his name, " stormed John. Ifeel sorry for John when I think of the part he played in this interview;but every man knows well his condition. 

"I care not, " continued John, "in what manner I have offended you, nordoes my debt of gratitude to you for your generosity in forgiving my sinsweigh one scruple against this you have told me. No man, unless he were apoor clown, would endure it; and I tell you now, with all my love for you, I will not--I will not!"

Dorothy was beginning to fear him. She of course did not fear personalviolence; but after all, while he was slower than she, he was muchstronger every way, and when aroused, his strength imposed itself upon herand she feared to play him any farther. 

"Sit beside me, John, and I will tell you his name, " said the girl, looking up to him, and then casting down her eyes. A dimpling smile wasplaying about her lips. 

"No, I will not sit by you, " replied John, angrily. She partly rose, andtaking him by the arm drew him to her side. 

"Tell me his name, " again demanded John, sitting rigidly by Dorothy. "Tellme his name. "

"Will you kill him?" she asked. 

"That I will, " he answered. "Of that you may rest assured. "

"If you kill him, John, it will break my heart; for to do so, you mustcommit suicide. There is no other man but you, John. With you I had myfirst, last, and only experience. "

John, of course, was speechless. He had received only what he deserved. Ifreely admit he played the part of a fool during this entire interviewwith Dorothy, and he was more fully convinced of the fact than either youor I can be. I do not like to have a fool for the hero of my history; butthis being a history and not a romance, I must tell you of events just asthey happened, and of persons exactly as they were, else my consciencewill smite me for untruthfulness. Dorothy's last assault was too much forJohn. He could neither parry nor thrust. 

Her heart was full of mirth and gladness. 

"None other but you, John, " she repeated, leaning forward in front of him, and looking up into his eyes. A ray of moonlight stealing its way betweenthe forest boughs fell upon her upturned face and caused it to glow with agoddess-like radiance. 

"None but you, John. There never has been and there never shall beanother. "

When John's consciousness returned he said, "Dorothy, can you love such afool as I?"

"That I can and that I do with all my heart, " she returned. 

"And can you forgive me for this last fault--for doubting you?"

"That is easily done, " she answered softly, "because doubt is the child oflove. "

"But you do not doubt me?" he replied. 

"N-o-o, " she answered somewhat haltingly; "but I--I am a woman. "

"And a woman's heart is the home of faith, " said John, reverentially. 

"Y-e-s, " she responded, still not quite sure of her ground. "Sometimes itis the home of too much faith, but faith, like virtue, is its own reward. Few persons are false to one who gives a blind, unquestioning faith. Evena poor degree of honor responds to it in kind. "

"Dorothy, I am so unworthy of you that I stand abashed in your presence, "replied John. 

"No, you are not unworthy of me. We don't look for unmixed good in men, "said the girl with a mischievous little laugh. Then seriously: "Thosevirtues you have are so great and so strong, John, that my poor littlevirtues, while they perhaps are more numerous than yours, are but weakthings by comparison. In truth, there are some faults in men which wewomen do not--do not altogether dislike. They cause us--they make us--oh, I cannot express exactly what I mean. They make us more eager perhaps. Atoo constant man is like an overstrong sweet: he cloys us. The faults Ispeak of hurt us; but we thrive on them. Women enjoy pain now and then. Malcolm was telling me the other day that the wise people of the East havea saying: 'Without shadow there can be no light; without death there canbe no life; without suffering there can be no joy. ' Surely is that sayingtrue of women. She who suffers naught enjoys naught. When a woman becomespassive, John, she is but a clod. Pain gives us a vent--a vent forsomething, I know not what it is; but this I know, we are happier for it. "

"I fear, Dorothy, that I have given you too much 'vent, ' as you call it, "said John. 

"No, no, " she replied. "That was nothing. My great vent is that I can pourout my love upon you, John, without stint. Now that I know you are mine, Ihave some one whom I can deluge with it. Do you know, John, I believe thatwhen God made me He collected together the requisite portions of reason, imagination, and will, --there was a great plenty of will, John, --and allthe other ingredients that go to make a human being. But after He hadgotten them all together there was still a great space left to be filled, and He just threw in an immensity of love with which to complete me. Therefore, John, am I not in true proportion. There is too much love inme, and it wells up at times and overflows my heart. How thankful I shouldbe that I may pour it upon you and that it will not be wasted. How goodyou are to give me the sweet privilege. "

"How thankful should I be, Dorothy. I have never known you till thisnight. I am unworthy--"

"Not another word of that sort, John, " she interrupted, covering his mouthwith her hand. 

They stood for a long time talking a deal of celestial nonsense which Ishall not give you. I fear I have already given you too much of what Johnand Dorothy did and said in this very sentimental interview. But in noother way can I so well make you to know the persons of whom I write. Imight have said Dorothy was so and so, and John was such and such. I mighthave analyzed them in long, dull pages of minute description; but it isthat which persons do and say that gives us true concept of theircharacters; what others say about them is little else than a merestatement that black is black and white is white. But to my story again. 

Dorothy by her beauty had won John's admiration when first he beheld her. When he met her afterward, her charms of mind and her thousand winsomeways moved him deeply. But upon the evening of which I am now telling youhe beheld for the first time her grand burning soul, and he saw her pureheart filled to overflowing with its dangerous burden of love, right fromthe hands of God Himself, as the girl had said. John was of a coarserfibre than she who had put him up for her idol; but his sensibilities werekeen, and at their awakening he saw clearly the worth of the pricelesstreasure which propitious fate had given him in the love of Dorothy, andhe sat humbly at her feet. Yet she knew it not, but sat humbly at John'sfeet the happiest woman in all the world because of her great good fortunein having a demi-god upon whom she could lavish the untold wealth of herheart. If you are a woman, pray God that He may touch your eyes withDorothy's blessed blindness. There is a heaven in the dark for you, if youcan find it. 

I must leave the scene, though I am loath to do so. Seldom do we catch aglimpse of a human soul, and more seldom still does it show itself like agust of God's breath upon the deep of eternity as it did that night inDorothy. 

After a time John said: "I have your promise to be my wife. Do you stillwish to keep it?"

"What an absurd question, John, " replied the girl, laughing softly andcontentedly. "Why else am I here? Tell me, think you, John, should I behere if I were not willing and eager to--to keep that promise?"

"Will you go with me notwithstanding your father's hatred of my house?" heasked. 

"Ah, truly that I will, John, " she answered; "surely you know I will gowith you. "

"Let us go at once. Let us lose not a moment. We have already delayed toolong, " cried John in eager ecstasy. 

"Not to-night, John; I cannot go to-night, " she pleaded. "Think of myattire, " and she drew my cloak more closely about her. "I cannot go withyou this time. My father is angry with me because of you, although he doesnot know who you are. Is it not famous to have a lover in secret of whomnobody knows? Father is angry with me, and as I told you in my letter, hekeeps me a prisoner in my rooms. Aunt Dorothy stands guard over me. Thedear, simple old soul! She told me, thinking I was Malcolm, that she wastoo old to be duped by a girl! Oh, it was too comical!" And she threw backher head and gave forth a peal of laughter that John was reluctantlycompelled to silence. "I would so delight to tell you of the scene when Iwas in Aunt Dorothy's room impersonating Malcolm; but I have so much elseto say of more importance that I know I shall not tell the half. When youhave left me, I shall remember what I most wished to say but forgot. "

"No, John, " she continued seriously, "my father has been cruel to me, andI try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do lovehim. " Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In amoment she continued: "It would kill him, John, were I to go with younow. I _will_ go with you soon, --I give you my solemn promise to that--butI cannot go now, --not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all hiscruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see menor will he speak to me. Think of that. " The tears that had welled up toher eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. "Aunt Dorothy andMadge, " she continued, "are so dear to me that the thought of leaving themis torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, Ipromise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love themand my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet motherdied--and Dolcy--I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself toleave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole lifebind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive me. You must think of the griefand pain I shall yet pass through to go to you. It is as I told you: wewomen reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I lovewhen I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I mustforsake for--for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise, John, to go with you, but--but forgive me. I cannot go to-night. "

"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy, " said John. "The sacrifice would be allon one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You wouldforego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worthhaving. I am unworthy--"

"Not that word, John, " cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with--well, not with her hand. "I shall give up a great deal, " she continued, "and Iknow I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you mustremember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; butI will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the timecomes, because--because I feel that I could not live if I did not makeit. "

"My father has already consented to our marriage, " said John. "I told himto-day all that had passed between you and me. He, of course, was greatlypained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that ifyou and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but wouldwelcome you to his heart. "

"Is your father that--that sort of a man?" asked Dorothy, half in revery. "I have always heard--" and she hesitated. 

"I know, " replied John, "that you have heard much evil of my father, but--let us not talk on that theme. You will know him some day, and youmay judge him for yourself. When will you go with me, Dorothy?"

"Soon, very soon, John, " she answered. "You know father intends that Ishall marry Lord Stanley. _I_ intend otherwise. The more father hurriesthis marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be--beyour--that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you. "

"You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?" askedJohn, frightened by the thought. 

"Ah, " cried the girl, softly, "you know I told you that God had put intome a great plenty of will. Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever itis, it stands me in good hand now. You don't know how much I have of it!You never will know until I am your--your--wife. " The last word was spokenin a soft, hesitating whisper, and her head sought shamefaced refuge onJohn's breast. Of course the magic word "wife" on Dorothy's lips arousedJohn to action, and--but a cloud at that moment passed over the moon andkindly obscured the scene. 

"You do not blame me, John, " said Dorothy, "because I cannot go with youto-night? You do not blame me?"

"Indeed I do not, my goddess, " answered John. "You will soon be mine. Ishall await your pleasure and your own time, and when you choose to cometo me--ah, then--" And the kindly cloud came back to the moon. 

CHAPTER X

THOMAS THE MAN SERVANT

After a great effort of self-denial John told Dorothy it was time for herto return to the Hall, and he walked with her down Bowling Green Hill tothe wall back of the terrace garden. 

Dorothy stood for a moment on the stile at the old stone wall, and John, clasping her hand, said:--

"You will perhaps see me sooner than you expect, " and then the cloudconsiderately floated over the moon again, and John hurried away upBowling Green Hill. 

Dorothy crossed the terrace garden, going toward the door since known as"Dorothy's Postern. " She had reached the top of the postern steps when sheheard her father's voice, beyond the north wall of the terrace garden wellup toward Bowling Green Hill. John, she knew, was at that moment climbingthe hill. Immediately following the sound of her father's voice she heardanother voice--that of her father's retainer, Sir John Guild. Then camethe word "Halt!" quickly followed by the report of a fusil, and the sharpclinking of swords upon the hillside. She ran back to the wall, and sawthe dimly outlined forms of four men. One of them was John, who wasretreating up the hill. The others were following him. Sir George and SirJohn Guild had unexpectedly returned from Derby. They had left theirhorses with the stable boys and were walking toward the kitchen door whenSir George noticed a man pass from behind the corner of the terracegarden wall and proceed up Bowling Green Hill. The man of course was John. Immediately Sir George and Guild, accompanied by a servant who was withthem, started in pursuit of the intruder, and a moment afterward Dorothyheard her father's voice and the discharge of the fusil. She climbed tothe top of the stile, filled with an agony of fear. Sir George was fifteenor twenty yards in advance of his companion, and when John saw that hispursuers were attacking him singly, he turned and quickly ran back to meetthe warlike King of the Peak. By a few adroit turns with his sword Johndisarmed his antagonist, and rushing in upon him easily threw him to theground by a wrestler's trick. Guild and the servant by that time werewithin six yards of Sir George and John. 

"Stop!" cried Manners, "your master is on the ground at my feet. My swordpoint is at his heart. Make but one step toward me and Sir George Vernonwill be a dead man. "

Guild and the servant halted instantly. 

"What are your terms?" cried Guild, speaking with the haste which he wellknew was necessary if he would save his master's life. 

"My terms are easy, " answered John. "All I ask is that you allow me todepart in peace. I am here on no harmful errand, and I demand that I maydepart and that I be not followed nor spied upon by any one. "

"You may depart in peace, " said Guild. "No one will follow you; no onewill spy upon you. To this I pledge my knightly word in the name of Christmy Saviour. "

John at once took his way unmolested up the hill and rode home with hisheart full of fear lest his tryst with Dorothy had been discovered. 

Guild and the servant assisted Sir George to rise, and the three starteddown the hill toward the stile where Dorothy was standing. She was hiddenfrom them, however, by the wall. Jennie Faxton, who had been on guardwhile John and Dorothy were at the gate, at Dorothy's suggestion stood ontop of the stile where she could easily be seen by Sir George when heapproached. 

"When my father comes here and questions you, " said Dorothy to JennieFaxton, "tell him that the man whom he attacked was your sweetheart. "

"Never fear, mistress, " responded Jennie. "I will have a fine story forthe master. "

Dorothy crouched inside the wall under the shadow of a bush, and Jenniewaited on the top of the stile. Sir George, thinking the girl was Dorothy, lost no time in approaching her. He caught her roughly by the arm andturned her around that he might see her face. 

"By God, Guild, " he muttered, "I have made a mistake. I thought the girlwas Doll. "

He left instantly and followed Guild and the servant to the kitchen door. When Sir George left the stile, Dorothy hastened back to the postern ofwhich she had the key, and hurried toward her room. She reached the doorof her father's room just in time to see Sir George and Guild enter it. They saw her, and supposed her to be myself. If she hesitated, she waslost. But Dorothy never hesitated. To think, with her, was to act. She didnot of course know that I was still in her apartments. She took thechance, however, and boldly followed Sir John Guild into her father'sroom. There she paused for a moment that she might not appear to be in toogreat haste, and then entered Aunt Dorothy's room where I was seated, waiting for her. 

"Dorothy, my dear child, " exclaimed Lady Crawford, clasping her arms aboutDorothy's neck. 

"There is no time to waste in sentiment, Aunt Dorothy, " responded thegirl. "Here are your sword and cloak, Malcolm. I thank you for their use. Don them quickly. " I did so, and walked into Sir George's room, where thatworthy old gentleman was dressing a slight wound in the hand. I stopped tospeak with him; but he seemed disinclined to talk, and I left the room. Hesoon went to the upper court, and I presently followed him. 

Dorothy changed her garments, and she, Lady Crawford, and Madge also cameto the upper court. The braziers in the courtyard had been lighted andcast a glare over two score half-clothed men and women who had beenaroused from their beds by the commotion of the conflict on the hillside. Upon the upper steps of the courtyard stood Sir George and Jennie Faxton. 

"Who was the man you were with?" roughly demanded Sir George of thetrembling Jennie. Jennie's trembling was assumed for the occasion. 

"I will not tell you his name, " she replied with tears. "He is mysweetheart, and I will never come to the Hall again. Matters have come toa pretty pass when a maiden cannot speak with her sweetheart at the stilewithout he is set upon and beaten as if he were a hedgehog. My father isyour leal henchman, and his daughter deserves better treatment at yourhands than you have given me. "

"There, there!" said Sir George, placing his hand upon her head. "I was inthe wrong. I did not know you had a sweetheart who wore a sword. When Isaw you at the stile, I was sure you were another. I am glad I was wrong. "So was Dorothy glad. 

"Everybody be off to bed, " said Sir George. "Ben Shaw, see that thebraziers are all blackened. "

Dorothy, Madge, and Lady Crawford returned to the latter's room, and SirGeorge and I entered after them. He was evidently softened in heart by thenight's adventures and by the mistake he supposed he had made. 

A selfish man grows hard toward those whom he injures. A generous heartgrows tender. Sir George was generous, and the injustice he thought he haddone to Dorothy made him eager to offer amends. The active evil in all SirGeorge's wrong-doing was the fact that he conscientiously thought he wasin the right. Many a man has gone to hell backward--with his face honestlytoward heaven. Sir George had not spoken to Dorothy since the scenewherein the key to Bowling Green Gate played so important a part. 

"Doll, " said Sir George, "I thought you were at the stile with a man. Iwas mistaken. It was the Faxton girl. I beg your pardon, my daughter. Idid you wrong. "

"You do me wrong in many matters, father, " replied Dorothy. 

"Perhaps I do, " her father returned, "perhaps I do, but I mean for thebest. I seek your happiness. "

"You take strange measures at times, father, to bring about my happiness, "she replied. 

"Whom God loveth He chasteneth, " replied Sir George, dolefully. 

"That manner of loving may be well enough for God, " retorted Dorothy withno thought of irreverence, "but for man it is dangerous. Whom man loves heshould cherish. A man who has a good, obedient daughter--one who loveshim--will not imprison her, and, above all, he will not refuse to speak toher, nor will he cause her to suffer and to weep for lack of that lovewhich is her right. A man has no right to bring a girl into this world andthen cause her to suffer as you--as you--"

She ceased speaking and sought refuge in silent feminine eloquence--tears. One would have sworn she had been grievously injured that night. 

"But I am older than you, Doll, and I know what is best for yourhappiness, " said Sir George. 

"There are some things, father, which a girl knows with better, surerknowledge than the oldest man living. Solomon was wise because he had somany wives from whom he could absorb wisdom. "

"Ah, well!" answered Sir George, smiling in spite of himself, "you willhave the last word. "

"Confess, father, " she retorted quickly, "that you want the last wordyourself. "

"Perhaps I do want it, but I'll never have it, " returned Sir George; "kissme, Doll, and be my child again. "

"That I will right gladly, " she answered, throwing her arms about herfather's neck and kissing him with real affection. Then Sir George saidgood night and started to leave. At the door he stopped, and stood for alittle time in thought. 

"Dorothy, " said he, speaking to Lady Crawford, "I relieve you of your dutyas a guard over Doll. She may go and come when she chooses. "

"I thank you, George, " said Aunt Dorothy. "The task has been painful tome. "

Dorothy went to her father and kissed him again, and Sir George departed. 

When the door was closed, Lady Crawford breathed a great sigh and said: "Ithank Heaven, Dorothy, he does not know that you have been out of yourroom. How could you treat me so cruelly? How could you deceive me?"

"That, Aunt Dorothy, " replied the niece, "is because you are not oldenough yet to be a match for a girl who is--who is in love. "

"Shame upon you, Dorothy!" said Lady Crawford. "Shame upon you, to act asyou did, and now to speak so plainly about being in love! Malcolm said youwere not a modest girl, and I am beginning to believe him. "

"Did Malcolm speak so ill of me?" asked Dorothy, turning toward me with asmile in her eyes. 

"My lady aunt, " said I, turning to Lady Crawford, "when did I say thatDorothy was an immodest girl?"

"You did not say it, " the old lady admitted. "Dorothy herself said it, andshe proves her words to be true by speaking so boldly of her feelingstoward this--this strange man. And she speaks before Madge, too. "

"Perhaps Madge is in the same sort of trouble. Who knows?" cried Dorothy, laughing heartily. Madge blushed painfully. "But, " continued Dorothy, seriously, "I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it. For what else, mydear aunt, was I created but to be in love? Tell me, dear aunt, for whatelse was I created?"

"Perhaps you are right, " returned the old lady, who in fact wassentimentally inclined. 

"The chief end of woman, after all, is to love, " said Dorothy. "What wouldbecome of the human race if it were not?"

"Child, child, " cried the aunt, "where learned you such things?"

"They were written upon my mother's breast, " continued Dorothy, "and Ilearned them when I took in my life with her milk. I pray they may bewritten upon my breast some day, if God in His goodness shall ever blessme with a baby girl. A man child could not read the words. "

"Dorothy, Dorothy!" cried Lady Crawford, "you shock me. You pain me. "

"Again I ask, " responded Dorothy, "for what else was I created? I tellyou, Aunt Dorothy, the world decrees that women shall remain in ignorance, or in pretended ignorance--in silence at least--regarding the thingsconcerning which they have the greatest need to be wise and talkative. "

"At your age, Dorothy, I did not have half your wisdom on the subject, "answered Lady Crawford. 

"Tell me, my sweet Aunt Dorothy, were you really in a state of ignorancesuch as you would have me believe?"

"Well, " responded the old lady, hesitatingly, "I did not speak of suchmatters. "

"Why, aunt, did you not?" asked Dorothy. "Were you ashamed of what God haddone? Were you ashamed of His great purpose in creating you a woman, andin creating your mother and your mother's mother before you?"

"No, no, child; no, no. But I cannot argue with you. Perhaps you areright, " said Aunt Dorothy. 

"Then tell me, dear aunt, that I am not immodest and bold when I speakconcerning that of which my heart is full to overflowing. God put itthere, aunt, not I. Surely I am not immodest by reason of His act. "

"No, no, my sweet child, " returned Aunt Dorothy, beginning to weep softly. "No, no, you are not immodest. You are worth a thousand weak fools such asI was at your age. "

Poor Aunt Dorothy had been forced into a marriage which had wrecked herlife. Dorothy's words opened her aunt's eyes to the fact that the girlwhom she so dearly loved was being thrust by Sir George into the samewretched fate through which she had dragged her own suffering heart for somany years. From that hour she was Dorothy's ally. 

"Good night, Malcolm, " said Lady Crawford, offering me her hand. I kissedit tenderly; then I kissed the sweet old lady's cheek and said:--

"I love you with all my heart, Aunt Dorothy. "

"I thank you, Malcolm, " she returned. 

I took my leave, and soon Madge went to her room, leaving Dorothy and LadyCrawford together. 

When Madge had gone the two Dorothys, one at each end of life, spanned thelong years that separated them, and became one in heart by reason of aheartache common to both. 

Lady Crawford seated herself and Dorothy knelt by her chair. 

"Tell me, Dorothy, " said the old lady, "tell me, do you love this man sotenderly, so passionately that you cannot give him up?"

"Ah, my dear aunt, " the girl responded, "words cannot tell. You cannotknow what I feel. "

"Alas! I know only too well, my child. I, too, loved a man when I was yourage, and none but God knows what I suffered when I was forced by myparents and the priests to give him up, and to wed one whom--God helpme--I loathed. "

"Oh, my sweet aunt!" cried Dorothy softly, throwing her arms about the oldlady's neck and kissing her cheek. "How terribly you must have suffered!"

"Yes, " responded Lady Crawford, "and I am resolved you shall not endurethe same fate. I hope the man who has won your love is worthy of you. Donot tell me his name, for I do not wish to practise greater deceptiontoward your father than I must. But you may tell me of his station inlife, and of his person, that I may know he is not unworthy of you. "

"His station in life, " answered Dorothy, "is far better than mine. Inperson he is handsome beyond any woman's wildest dream of manly beauty. Incharacter he is noble, generous, and good. He is far beyond my deserts, Aunt Dorothy. "

"Then why does he not seek your hand from your father?" asked the aunt. 

"That I may not tell you, Aunt Dorothy, " returned the girl, "unless youwould have me tell you his name, and that I dare not do. Although he isvastly my superior in station, in blood, and in character, still my fatherwould kill me before he would permit me to marry this man of my choice;and I, dear aunt, fear I shall die if I have him not. "

Light slowly dawned upon Aunt Dorothy's mind, and she exclaimed in aterrified whisper:--

"My God, child, is it he?"

"Yes, " responded the girl, "yes, it is he. "

"Do not speak his name, Dorothy, " the old lady said. "Do not speak hisname. So long as you do not tell me, I cannot know with certainty who heis. " After a pause Aunt Dorothy continued, "Perhaps, child, it was hisfather whom I loved and was compelled to give up. "

"May the blessed Virgin pity us, sweet aunt, " cried Dorothy, caressingly. 

"And help us, " returned Lady Crawford. "I, too, shall help you, " shecontinued. "It will be through no fault of mine if your life is wasted asmine has been. "

Dorothy kissed her aunt and retired. 

Next morning when Dorothy arose a song came from her heart as it comesfrom the skylark when it sees the sun at dawn--because it cannot helpsinging. It awakened Aunt Dorothy, and she began to live her life anew, inbrightness, as she steeped her soul in the youth and joyousness of DorothyVernon's song. 

I have spoken before in this chronicle of Will Dawson. He was a Conformer. Possibly it was by reason of his religious faith that he did not share thegeneral enmity that existed in Haddon Hall against the house of Rutland. He did not, at the time of which I speak, know Sir John Manners, and hedid not suspect that the heir to Rutland was the man who had of late beencausing so much trouble to the house of Vernon. At least, if he didsuspect it, no one knew of his suspicions. 

Sir George made a great effort to learn who the mysterious interloper was, but he wholly failed to obtain any clew to his identity. He had jumped tothe conclusion that Dorothy's mysterious lover was a man of low degree. Hehad taken for granted that he was an adventurer whose station and personprecluded him from openly wooing his daughter. He did not know that theheir to Rutland was in the Derbyshire country; for John, after his firstmeeting with Dorothy, had carefully concealed his presence from everybodysave the inmates of Rutland. In fact, his mission to Rutland requiredsecrecy, and the Rutland servants and retainers were given to understandas much. Even had Sir George known of John's presence at Rutland, the oldgentleman's mind could not have compassed the thought that Dorothy, who, he believed, hated the race of Manners with an intensity equalled only byhis own feelings, could be induced to exchange a word with a member of thehouse. His uncertainty was not the least of his troubles; and althoughDorothy had full liberty to come and go at will, her father kept constantwatch over her. As a matter of fact, Sir George had given Dorothy libertypartly for the purpose of watching her, and he hoped to discover therebyand, if possible, to capture the man who had brought trouble to hishousehold. Sir George had once hanged a man to a tree on Bowling GreenHill by no other authority than his own desire. That execution was thelast in England under the old Saxon law of Infangthef and Outfangthef. SirGeorge had been summoned before Parliament for the deed; but the writ hadissued against the King of the Peak, and that being only a sobriquet, wasneither Sir George's name nor his title. So the writ was quashed, and thehigh-handed act of personal justice was not farther investigated by theauthorities. Should my cousin capture his daughter's lover, there wouldcertainly be another execution under the old Saxon law. So you see that myfriend Manners was tickling death with a straw for Dorothy's sake. 

One day Dawson approached Sir George and told him that a man soughtemployment in the household of Haddon Hall. Sir George placed greatconfidence in his forester; so he told Dawson to employ the man if hisservices were needed. The new servant proved to be a fine, strong fellow, having a great shock of carrot-colored hair and a bushy beard of rustyred. 

Dawson engaged the newcomer, and assigned to him the duty of kindling thefires in the family apartments of the Hall. The name of the new servantwas Thomas Thompson, a name that Dorothy soon abbreviated to Tom-Tom. 

One day she said to him, by way of opening the acquaintance, "Thomas, youand I should be good friends; we have so much in common. "

"Thank you, my lady, " responded Thomas, greatly pleased. "I hope we shallbe good friends; indeed, indeed I do, but I cannot tell wherein I am sofortunate as to have anything in common with your Ladyship. What is it, may I ask, of which we have so much in common?"

"So much hair, " responded Dorothy, laughing. 

"It were blasphemy, lady, to compare my hair with yours, " returned Thomas. "Your hair, I make sure, is such as the blessed Virgin had. I ask yourpardon for speaking so plainly; but your words put the thought into mymind, and perhaps they gave me license to speak. "

Thomas was on his knees, placing wood upon the fire. 

"Thomas, " returned Dorothy, "you need never apologize to a lady for makingso fine a speech. I declare a courtier could not have made a better one. "

"Perhaps I have lived among courtiers, lady, " said Thomas. 

"I doubt not, " replied Dorothy, derisively. "You would have me believe youare above your station. It is the way with all new servants. I supposeyou have seen fine company and better days. "

"I have never seen finer company than now, and I have never known betterdays than this, " responded courtier Thomas. Dorothy thought he waspresuming on her condescension, and was about to tell him so when hecontinued: "The servants at Haddon Hall are gentlefolk compared withservants at other places where I have worked, and I desire nothing morethan to find favor in Sir George's eyes. I would do anything to achievethat end. "

Dorothy was not entirely reassured by Thomas's closing words; but even ifthey were presumptuous, she admired his wit in giving them an inoffensiveturn. From that day forth the acquaintance grew between the servant andmistress until it reached the point of familiarity at which Dorothy dubbedhim Tom-Tom. 

Frequently Dorothy was startled by remarks made by Thomas, having in thema strong dash of familiarity; but he always gave to his words a harmlessturn before she could resent them. At times, however, she was not quitesure of his intention. 

Within a week after Thomas's advent to the hall, Dorothy began to suspectthat the new servant looked upon her with eyes of great favor. Shefrequently caught him watching her, and at such times his eyes, whichDorothy thought were really very fine, would glow with an ardor all tooevident. His manner was cause for amusement rather than concern, and sinceshe felt kindly toward the new servant, she thought to create a faithfulally by treating him graciously. She might, she thought, need Thomas'shelp when the time should come for her to leave Haddon Hall with John, ifthat happy time should ever come. She did not realize that the mostdangerous, watchful enemy to her cherished scheme would be a man who washimself in love with her, even though he were a servant, and she looked onThomas's evident infatuation with a smile. She did not once think that inthe end it might cause her great trouble, so she accepted his muteadmiration, and thought to make use of it later on. To Tom, therefore, Dorothy was gracious. 

John had sent word to Dorothy, by Jennie Faxton, that he had gone toLondon, and would be there for a fortnight or more. 

Sir George had given permission to his daughter to ride out whenever shewished to do so, but he had ordered that Dawson or I should follow in thecapacity of spy, and Dorothy knew of the censorship, though she pretendedignorance of it. So long as John was in London she did not care whofollowed her; but I well knew that when Manners should return, Dorothywould again begin manoeuvring, and that by some cunning trick she wouldsee him. 

[Illustration]

One afternoon I was temporarily absent from the Hall and Dorothy wished toride. Dawson was engaged, and when Dorothy had departed, he ordered Tom toride after his mistress at a respectful distance. Nearly a fortnight hadpassed since John had gone to London, and when Dorothy rode forth thatafternoon she was beginning to hope he might have returned, and that bysome delightful possibility he might then be loitering about the oldtrysting-place at Bowling Green Gate. There was a half-unconsciousconviction in her heart that he would be there. She determined therefore, to ride toward Rowsley, to cross the Wye at her former fording-place, andto go up to Bowling Green Gate on the Devonshire side of the Haddon wall. She had no reason, other than the feeling born of her wishes, to believethat John would be there; but she loved the spot for the sake of thememories which hovered about it. She well knew that some one would followher from the Hall; but she felt sure that in case the spy proved to beDawson or myself, she could easily arrange matters to her satisfaction, ifby good fortune she should find her lover at the gate. 

Tom rode so far behind his mistress that she could not determine who wasfollowing her. Whenever she brought Dolcy to a walk, Tom-Tom also walkedhis horse. When Dorothy galloped, he galloped; but after Dorothy hadcrossed the Wye and had taken the wall over into the Devonshire lands, Tomalso crossed the river and wall and quickly rode to her side. He uncoveredand bowed low with a familiarity of manner that startled her. The act ofriding up to her and the manner in which he took his place by her sidewere presumptuous to the point of insolence, and his attitude, althoughnot openly offensive, was slightly alarming. She put Dolcy to a gallop;but the servant who, she thought, was presuming on her formergraciousness, kept close at Dolcy's heels. The man was a stranger, and sheknew nothing of his character. She was alone in the forest with him, andshe did not know to what length his absurd passion for her might lead him. She was alarmed, but she despised cowardice, although she knew herself tobe a coward, and she determined to ride to the gate, which was but a shortdistance ahead of her. She resolved that if the insolent fellow continuedhis familiarity, she would teach him a lesson he would never forget. Whenshe was within a short distance of the gate she sprang from Dolcy andhanded her rein to her servant. John was not there, but she went to thegate in the hope that a letter might be hidden beneath the stone benchwhere Jennie was wont to find them in times past. Dorothy found no letter, but she could not resist the temptation to sit down upon the bench wherehe and she had sat, and to dream over the happy moments she had spentthere. Tom, instead of holding the horses, hitched them, and walked towardDorothy. That act on the part of her servant was effrontery of the mostinsolent sort. Will Dawson himself would not have dared do such a thing. It filled her with alarm, and as Tom approached she was trying todetermine in what manner she would crush him. But when the audaciousThomas, having reached the gate, seated himself beside his mistress on thestone bench, the girl sprang to her feet in fright and indignation. Shebegan to realize the extent of her foolhardiness in going to that secludedspot with a stranger. 

"How dare you approach me in this insolent fashion?" cried Dorothy, breathless with fear. 

"Mistress Vernon, " responded Thomas, looking boldly up into her pale face, "I wager you a gold pound sterling that if you permit me to remain here byyour side ten minutes you will be unwilling--"

"John, John!" cried the girl, exultantly. Tom snatched the red beard fromhis face, and Dorothy, after one fleeting, luminous look into his eyes, fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. She wept, and John, bending over the kneeling girl, kissed her sunlit hair. 

"Cruel, cruel, " sobbed Dorothy. Then she lifted her head and clasped herhands about his neck. "Is it not strange, " she continued, "that I shouldhave felt so sure of seeing you? My reason kept telling me that my hopeswere absurd, but a stronger feeling full of the breath of certainty seemedto assure me that you would be here. It impelled me to come, though Ifeared you after we crossed the wall. But reason, fear, and caution werepowerless to keep me away. "

"You did not know my voice, " said John, "nor did you penetrate mydisguise. You once said that you would recognize me though I wore all thepetticoats in Derbyshire. "

"Please don't jest with me now, " pleaded Dorothy. "I cannot bear it. Greatjoy is harder to endure than great grief. Why did you not reveal yourselfto me at the Hall?" she asked plaintively. 

"I found no opportunity, " returned John, "others were always present. "

I shall tell you nothing that followed. It is no affair of yours nor ofmine. 

They were overjoyed in being together once more. Neither of them seemed torealize that John, while living under Sir George's roof, was facing deathevery moment. To Dorothy, the fact that John, who was heir to one ofEngland's noblest houses, was willing for her sake to become a servant, todo a servant's work, and to receive the indignities constantly put upon aservant, appealed most powerfully. It added to her feeling for him atenderness which is not necessarily a part of passionate love. 

It is needless for me to tell you that while John performed faithfully theduty of keeping bright the fires in Haddon Hall, he did not neglect theother flame--the one in Dorothy's heart--for the sake of whose warmth hehad assumed the leathern garb of servitude and had placed his head in thelion's mouth. 

At first he and Dorothy used great caution in exchanging words andglances, but familiarity with danger breeds contempt for it. So theyutilized every opportunity that niggard chance offered, and blinded bytheir great longing soon began to make opportunities for speech with eachother, thereby bringing trouble to Dorothy and deadly peril to John. Ofthat I shall soon tell you. 

During the period of John's service in Haddon Hall negotiations forDorothy's marriage with Lord Stanley were progressing slowly but surely. Arrangements for the marriage settlement by the Stanleys, and forDorothy's dower to be given by Sir George, were matters that the King ofthe Peak approached boldly as he would have met any other affair ofbusiness. But the Earl of Derby, whose mind moved slowly, desiring that agenerous portion of the Vernon wealth should be transferred with Dorothyto the Stanley holdings without the delay incident to Sir George's death, put off signing the articles of marriage in his effort to augment the cashpayment. In truth, the great wealth which Dorothy would bring to the houseof Stanley was the earl's real reason for desiring her marriage with hisson. The earl was heavily in debt, and his estate stood in dire need ofhelp. 

Sir George, though attracted by the high nobility of the house of Stanley, did not relish the thought that the wealth he had accumulated by his ownefforts, and the Vernon estates which had come down to him throughcenturies, should go to pay Lord Derby's debts. He therefore insisted thatDorothy's dower should be her separate estate, and demanded that it shouldremain untouched and untouchable by either of the Stanleys. Thatarrangement did not suit my lord earl, and although the son since he hadseen Dorothy at Derby-town was eager to possess the beautiful girl, hisfather did not share his ardor. Lawyers were called in who lookedexpensively wise, but they accomplished the purpose for which they wereemployed. An agreement of marriage was made and was drawn up on animposing piece of parchment, brave with ribbons, pompous with seals, andfair in clerkly penmanship. 

One day Sir George showed me the copy of the contract which had beenprepared for him. That evening at the cost of much labor he and I wentover the indenture word for word, and when we had finished Sir Georgethought it was very good indeed. He seemed to think that all difficultiesin the way of the marriage were overcome when the agreement that laybefore us on the table had been achieved between him and the earl. I knewSir George's troubles had only begun; for I was aware of a fact which itseemed impossible for him to learn, though of late Dorothy had given himmuch teaching thereto. I knew that he had transmitted to his daughter alarge portion of his own fierce, stubborn, unbreakable will, and that inher it existed in its most deadly form--the feminine. To me after supperthat night was assigned the task of reading and rereading many times toSir George the contents of the beautiful parchment. When I would read aclause that particularly pleased my cousin, he insisted on celebrating theevent by drinking a mug of liquor drawn from a huge leather stoup whichsat upon the table between us. By the time I had made several readings ofthe interesting document the characters began to mingle in a way that didnot impart ease and clearness to my style. Some of the strangecombinations which I and the liquor extracted from amid the seals andribbons puzzled Sir George not a little. But with each new libation hefound new clauses and fresh causes for self-congratulation, though tospeak exact truth I more than once married Sir George to the Earl ofDerby, and in my profanity gave Lord James Stanley to the devil to haveand to hold. 

Sir George was rapidly falling before his mighty enemy, drink, and I wasnot far behind him, though I admit the fault with shame. My cousin for awhile was mightily pleased with the contract; but when the liquor hadbrought him to a point where he was entirely candid with himself, he letslip the fact that after all there was regret at the bottom of the goblet, metaphorically and actually. Before his final surrender to drink hedropped the immediate consideration of the contract and said:--

"Malcolm, I have in my time known many fools, but if you will permit anold man, who loves you dearly, to make a plain statement of hisconviction--"

"Certainly, " I interrupted. 

"It would be a great relief to me, " he continued, "to say that I believeyou to be the greatest fool the good God ever permitted to live. "

"I am sure, Sir George, that your condescending flattery is verypleasing, " I said. 

Sir George, unmindful of my remark, continued, "Your disease is notusually a deadly malady, as a look about you will easily show; but, Malcolm, if you were one whit more of a fool, you certainly would perish. "

I was not offended, for I knew that my cousin meant no offence. 

"Then, Sir George, if the time ever comes when I wish to commit suicide, Ihave always at hand an easy, painless mode of death. I shall become only alittle more of a fool. " I laughingly said, "I will do my utmost to absorba little wisdom now and then as a preventive. "

"Never a bit of wisdom will you ever absorb. A man who would refuse a girlwhose wealth and beauty are as great as Dorothy's, is past all hope. Ioften awaken in the dark corners of the night when a man's troubles stalkabout his bed like livid demons; and when I think that all of this evilwhich has come up between Dorothy and me, and all of this cursedestrangement which is eating out my heart could have been averted if youhad consented to marry her, I cannot but feel--"

"But, Sir George, " I interrupted, "it was Dorothy, not I, who refused. Shecould never have been brought to marry me. "

"Don't tell me, Malcolm; don't tell me, " cried the old man, angrily. Drinkhad made Sir George sullen and violent. It made me happy at first; butwith liquor in excess there always came to me a sort of frenzy. 

"Don't tell me, " continued Sir George. "There never lived a Vernon whocouldn't win a woman if he would try. But put all that aside. She wouldhave obeyed me. I would have forced her to marry you, and she would havethanked me afterward. "

"You could never have forced her to marry me, " I replied. 

"But that I could and that I would have done, " said Sir George. "The likeis done every day. Girls in these modern times are all perverse, but theyare made to yield. Take the cases of Sir Thomas Mobley, Sir Grant Rhodas, and William Kimm. Their daughters all refused to marry the men chosen forthem, but the wenches were made to yield. If I had a daughter who refusedto obey me, I would break her; I would break her. Yes, by God, I wouldbreak her if I had to kill her, " and the old man brought his clenched handdown upon the oak table with a crash. His eyes glared frightfully, and hisface bore a forbidding expression which boded no good for Dorothy. 

"She will make trouble in this matter, " Sir George continued, tapping theparchment with his middle finger. 

"She will make trouble about this; but, by God, Malcolm, she shall obeyme. "

He struck the oaken table another great blow with his fist, and glaredfiercely across at me. 

"Lord Wyatt had trouble with his daughter when he made the marriage withDevonshire, " continued Sir George. 

"A damned good match it was, too, for the girl. But she had her heart seton young Gillman, and she refused to obey her father. She refused, by God, point blank, to obey her father. She refused to obey the man who had givenher life. What did Wyatt do? He was a man who knew what a child owes toits father, and, by God, Malcolm, after trying every other means to bringthe wench to her senses, after he had tried persuasion, after having intwo priests and a bishop to show her how badly she was acting, and afterhe had tried to reason with her, he whipped her; yes, he whipped her tillshe bled--till she bled, Malcolm, I tell you. Ah, Wyatt knew what is duefrom a child to its parents. The whipping failed to bring the perversehuzzy to obedience, so Wyatt threw her into a dungeon and starved hertill--till--"

"Till she died, " I interrupted. 

"Yes, till she died, " mumbled Sir George, sullenly, "till she died, and itserved her right, by God, served her right. "

The old man was growing very drunk, and everything was beginning toappear distorted to me. Sir George rose to his feet, leaned toward me withglaring eyes, struck the table a terrible blow with his fist, and said:--

"By the blood of God I swear that if Doll refuses to marry Stanley, andpersists in her refusal, I'll whip her. Wyatt is a man after my own heart. I'll starve her. I'll kill her. Ay, if I loved her ten thousand times morethan I do, I would kill her or she should obey me. "

Then dawned upon me a vision of terrible possibilities. I was sure SirGeorge could not force Dorothy to marry against her will; but I fearedlest he might kill her in his effort to "break her. " I do not mean that Ifeared he would kill her by a direct act, unless he should do so in amoment of frenzy induced by drink and passion, but I did fear for theresults of the breaking process. The like had often happened. It hadhappened in the case of Wyatt's daughter. Dorothy under the intoxicatinginfluence of her passion might become so possessed by the spirit of amartyr that she could calmly take a flogging, but my belief was thatshould matters proceed to that extreme, should Sir George flog hisdaughter, the chords of her highly strung nature would snap under thetension, and she would die. I loved Dorothy for the sake of her fierce, passionate, tender heart, and because she loved me; and even in my sober, reflective moments I had resolved that my life, ay, and Sir George's lifealso, should stand between the girl and the lash. If in calmness I coulddeliberately form such a resolution, imagine the effect on myliquor-crazed brain of Sir George's words and the vista of horrors theydisclosed. I was intoxicated. I was drunk. I say it with shame; and onhearing Sir George's threat my half-frenzied imagination ran riot into theforeboding future. 

All the candles, save one tottering wick, were dead in their sockets, andthe room was filled with lowering phantom-like shadows from oaken floorto grimy vaulted roof beams. Sir George, hardly conscious of what he didand said, all his evil passions quickened with drink, leaned his handsupon the table and glared across at me. He seemed to be the incarnation ofrage and ferocity, to so great a pitch had he wrought himself. Thesputtering candle feebly flickered, and seemed to give its dim light onlythat the darksome shadows might flit and hover about us like vampires onthe scent of blood. A cold perspiration induced by a nameless fear cameupon me, and in that dark future to which my heated imagination travelledI saw, as if revealed by black magic, fair, sweet, generous Dorothy, standing piteously upon Bowling Green hillside. Over her drooping formthere hung in air a monster cloudlike image of her father holding in itshand a deadly bludgeon. So black, so horrid was this shadow-demon that Isprang from my chair with a frightful oath, and shrieked:--

"Hell is made for man because of his cruelty to woman. "

Sir George had sunk into his chair. Liquor had finished its work, and theold man, resting his head upon his folded arms, leaned forward on thetable. He was drunk--dead to the world. How long I stood in frenziedstupor gazing at shadow-stricken Dorothy upon the hillside I do not know. It must have been several minutes. Blood of Christ, how vividly I rememberthe vision! The sunny radiance of the girl's hair was darkened and dead. Her bending attitude was one of abject grief. Her hands covered her face, and she was the image of woe. Suddenly she lifted her head with the quickimpulsive movement so familiar in her, and with a cry eloquent as achild's wail for its mother called, "John, " and held out her armsimploringly toward the dim shadowy form of her lover standing upon thehill crest. Then John's form began to fade, and as its shadowy essencegrew dim, despair slowly stole like a mask of death over Dorothy's face. She stood for a moment gazing vacantly into space. Then she fell to theground, the shadow of her father hovering over her prostrate form, and thewords, "Dead, dead, dead, " came to me in horrifying whispers from everydancing shadow-demon in the room. 

In trying to locate the whispers as they reverberated from floor to oakenrafters, I turned and saw Sir George. He looked as if he were dead. 

"Why should you not be dead in fact?" I cried. "You would kill yourdaughter. Why should I not kill you? That will solve the whole question. "

I revelled in the thought; I drank it in; I nursed it; I cuddled it; Ikissed it. Nature's brutish love for murder had deluged my soul. I put myhand to my side for the purpose of drawing my sword or my knife. I hadneither with me. Then I remember staggering toward the fireplace to getone of the fire-irons with which to kill my cousin. I remember that when Igrasped the fire-iron, by the strange working of habit I employed it forthe moment in its proper use; and as I began to stir the embers on thehearth, my original purpose was forgotten. That moment of habit-wroughtforgetfulness saved me and saved Sir George's life. I remember that I sankinto the chair in front of the fireplace, holding the iron, and I thankGod that I remember nothing more. 

During the night the servants aroused me, and I staggered up the stonestairway of Eagle Tower and clambered into my room. 

The next morning I awakened feeling ill. There was a taste in my mouth asIf I had been chewing a piece of the devil's boot over night. I wanted nobreakfast, so I climbed to the top of the tower, hoping the fresh morningbreeze might cool my head and cleanse my mouth. For a moment or two Istood on the tower roof bareheaded and open-mouthed while I drank in thefresh, purifying air. The sweet draught helped me physically; but all thewinds of Boreas could not have blown out of my head the vision of theprevious night. The question, "Was it prophetic?" kept ringing in my ears, answerless save by a superstitious feeling of fear. Then the horridthought that I had only by a mere chance missed becoming a murderer cameupon me, and again was crowded from my mind by the memory of Dorothy andthe hovering spectre which had hung over her head on Bowling Greenhillside. 

I walked to the north side of the tower and on looking down the firstperson I saw was our new servant, Thomas, holding two horses at themounting stand. One of them was Dolcy, and I, feeling that a brisk ridewith Dorothy would help me to throw off my wretchedness, quickly descendedthe tower stairs, stopped at my room for my hat and cloak, and walkedaround to the mounting block. Dorothy was going to ride, and I supposedshe would prefer me to the new servant as a companion. 

I asked Thomas if his mistress were going out for a ride, and he repliedaffirmatively. 

"Who is to accompany her?" I asked. 

"She gave orders for me to go with her, " he answered. 

"Very well, " I responded, "take your horse back to the stable and fetchmine. " The man hesitated, and twice he began to make reply, but finally hesaid:--

"Very well, Sir Malcolm. "

He hitched Dolcy to the ring in the mounting block and started back towardthe stable leading his own horse. At that moment Dorothy came out of thetower gate, dressed for the ride. Surely no woman was ever more beautifulthan she that morning. 

"Tom-Tom, where are you taking the horse?" she cried. 

"To the stable, Mistress, " answered the servant. "Sir Malcolm says he willgo with you. "

Dorothy's joyousness vanished. From radiant brightness her expressionchanged in the twinkling of an eye to a look of disappointment sosorrowful that I at once knew there was some great reason why she did notwish me to ride with her. I could not divine the reason, neither did Itry. I quickly said to Thomas:--

"Do not bring my horse. If Mistress Vernon will excuse me, I shall notride with her this morning. I forgot for the moment that I had notbreakfasted. "

Again came to Dorothy's face the radiant look of joy as if to affirm whatit had already told me. I looked toward Thomas, and his eyes, too, werealight. I could make nothing of it. Thomas was a fine-looking fellow, notwithstanding his preposterous hair and beard; but I felt sure therecould be no understanding between the man and his mistress. 

When Thomas and Dorothy had mounted, she timidly ventured to say:--

"We are sorry, Cousin Malcolm, that you cannot ride with us. "

She did not give me an opportunity to change my mind, but struck Dolcy asharp blow with her whip that sent the spirited mare galloping toward thedove-cote, and Thomas quickly followed at a respectful distance. From thedove-cote Dorothy took the path down the Wye toward Rowsley. I, of course, connected her strange conduct with John. When a young woman who is wellbalanced physically, mentally, and morally acts in a strange, unusualmanner, you may depend on it there is a man somewhere behind her motive. 

I knew that John was in London. Only the night before I had received wordfrom Rutland Castle that he had not returned, and that he was not expectedhome for many days. 

So I concluded that John could not be behind my fair cousin's motive. Itried to stop guessing at the riddle Dorothy had set me, but my effort wasuseless. I wondered and thought and guessed, but I brought to myself onlythe answer, "Great is the mystery of womanhood. "

After Dorothy had ridden away I again climbed to the top of Eagle Towerand saw the riders cross the Wye at Dorothy's former fording-place, andtake the wall. I then did a thing that fills me with shame when I think ofit. For the only time in my whole life I acted the part of a spy. Ihurried to Bowling Green Gate, and horror upon horror, there I beheld mycousin Dorothy in the arms of Thomas, the man-servant. I do not know whythe truth of Thomas's identity did not dawn upon me, but it did not, and Istole away from the gate, thinking that Dorothy, after all, was no betterthan the other women I had known at various times in my life, and Iresolved to tell John what I had seen. You must remember that the women Ihad known were of the courts of Mary Stuart and of Guise, and the less wesay about them the better. God pity them! Prior to my acquaintance withDorothy and Madge I had always considered a man to be a fool who would puthis faith in womankind. To me women were as good as men, --no better, noworse. But with my knowledge of those two girls there had grown up in me afaith in woman's virtue which in my opinion is man's greatest comforter;the lack of it his greatest torment. 

I went back to Eagle Tower and stood at my window looking down the Wye, hoping soon to see Dorothy returning home. I did not feel jealousy in thesense that a lover would feel it; but there was a pain in my heart, amingling of grief, anger, and resentment because Dorothy had destroyed notonly my faith in her, but, alas! my sweet, new-born faith in womankind. Through her fault I had fallen again to my old, black belief that virtuewas only another name for the lack of opportunity. It is easy for a manwho has never known virtue in woman to bear and forbear the lack of it;but when once he has known the priceless treasure, doubt becomesexcruciating pain. 

After an hour or two Dorothy and her servant appeared at the ford and tookthe path up the Wye toward Haddon. Thomas was riding a short distancebehind his accommodating mistress, and as they approached the Hall, Irecognized something familiar in his figure. At first, the feeling ofrecognition was indistinct, but when the riders drew near, something aboutthe man--his poise on the horse, a trick with the rein or a turn with hisstirrup, I could not tell what it was--startled me like a flash in thedark, and the word "John!" sprang to my lips. The wonder of the thingdrove out of my mind all power to think. I could only feel happy, so I laydown upon my bed and soon dropped off to sleep. 

When I awakened I was rapt in peace, for I had again found my treasuredfaith in womankind. I had hardly dared include Madge in my backsliding, but I had come perilously near doing it, and the thought of my narrowescape from such perfidy frightened me. I have never taken the risk sincethat day. I would not believe the testimony of my own eyes against theevidence of my faith in Madge. 

I knew that Thomas was Sir John Manners, and yet I did not know itcertainly. I determined, if possible, to remain in partial ignorance, hoping that I might with some small show of truth be able to pleadignorance should Sir George accuse me of bad faith in having failed totell him of John's presence in Haddon Hall. That Sir George would sooneror later discover Thomas's identity I had little doubt. That he would killhim should he once have him in his power, I had no doubt at all. Hence, although I had awakened in peace concerning Dorothy, you may understandthat I awakened to trouble concerning John. 

CHAPTER XI

THE COST MARK OF JOY

Peace had been restored between Dorothy and her father. At least anarmistice had been tacitly declared. But, owing to Dorothy's knowledge ofher father's intention that she should marry Lord Stanley, and because ofSir George's feeling that Dorothy had determined to do nothing of thesort, the belligerent powers maintained a defensive attitude whichrendered an absolute reconciliation impossible. They were ready for war ata moment's notice. 

The strangest part of their relation was the failure of each to comprehendand fully to realize the full strength of the other's purpose. Dorothycould not bring herself to believe that her father, who had until withinthe last few weeks, been kind and indulgent to her, seriously intended toforce her into marriage with a creature so despicable as Stanley. In fact, she did not believe that her father could offer lasting resistance to herardent desire in any matter. Such an untoward happening had never befallenher. Dorothy had learned to believe from agreeable experience that it wasa crime in any one, bordering on treason, to thwart her ardent desires. Itis true she had in certain events, been compelled to coax and even to weepgently. On a few extreme occasions she had been forced to do a littlestorming in order to have her own way; but that any presumptuousindividuals should resist her will after the storming had been resortedto was an event of such recent happening in her life that she had notgrown familiar with the thought of it. Therefore, while she felt that herfather might seriously annoy her with the Stanley project, and while sherealized that she might be compelled to resort to the storming process ina degree thitherto uncalled for, she believed that the storm she wouldraise would blow her father entirely out of his absurd and utterlyuntenable position. On the other hand, while Sir George anticipatedtrouble with Dorothy, he had never been able to believe that she wouldabsolutely refuse to obey him. In those olden times--now nearly half acentury past--filial disobedience was rare. The refusal of a child to obeya parent, and especially the refusal of a daughter to obey her father inthe matter of marriage, was then looked upon as a crime and was frequentlypunished in a way which amounted to barbarous ferocity. Sons, being of theprivileged side of humanity, might occasionally disobey with impunity, butwoe to the poor girl who dared set up a will of her own. A man who couldnot compel obedience from his daughter was looked upon as a poor weakling, and contempt was his portion in the eyes of his fellow-men--in the eyes ofhis fellow-brutes, I should like to say. 

Growing out of such conditions was the firm belief on the part of SirGeorge that Dorothy would in the end obey him; but if by any hard chanceshe should be guilty of the high crime of disobedience--Well! Sir Georgeintended to prevent the crime. Perhaps mere stubborness and fear of thecontempt in which he would be held by his friends in case he were defeatedby his own daughter were no small parts of Sir George's desire to carrythrough the enterprise in which he had embarked with the Stanleys. Although there was no doubt in Sir George's mind that he would eventuallyconquer in the conflict with Dorothy, he had a profound respect for thepower of his antagonist to do temporary battle, and he did not care toenter into actual hostilities until hostilities should become actuallynecessary. 

Therefore, upon the second day after I had read the beribboned, besealedcontract to Sir George, he sent an advance guard toward the enemy's line. He placed the ornamental piece of parchment in Lady Crawford's hands anddirected her to give it to Dorothy. 

But before I tell you of the parchment I must relate a scene that occurredin Aunt Dorothy's room a few hours after I recognized John as he rode upthe Wye with Dorothy. It was late in the afternoon of the day after I readthe contract to Sir George and saw the horrid vision on Bowling Green. 

I was sitting with Madge at the west window of Dorothy's parlor. We werewatching the sun as it sank in splendor beneath Overhaddon Hill. 

I should like first to tell you a few words--only a few, I prayyou--concerning Madge and myself. I will. 

I have just said that Madge and I were watching the sun at the westwindow, and I told you but the truth, for Madge had learned to see with myeyes. Gladly would I have given them to her outright, and willingly wouldI have lived in darkness could I have given light to her. She gave lightto me--the light of truth, of purity, and of exalted motive. There hadbeen no words spoken by Madge nor me to any one concerning the strange andholy chain that was welding itself about us, save the partial confessionwhich she had whispered to Dorothy. But notwithstanding our silence, ourfriends in the Hall understood that Madge and I were very dear to eachother. I, of course, saw a great deal of her; but it was the evening hourat the west window to which I longingly looked forward all the day. I amno poet, nor do my words and thoughts come with the rhythmic flow andeloquent imagery of one to whom the talent of poesy is given. But duringthose evening hours it seemed that with the soft touch of Madge's handthere ran through me a current of infectious dreaming which kindled mysoul till thoughts of beauty came to my mind and words of music sprang tomy lips such as I had always considered not to be in me. It was not I whospoke; it was Madge who saw with my eyes and spoke with my voice. To myvision, swayed by Madge's subtle influence, the landscape became a thingof moving beauty and of life, and the floating clouds became a panorama ofever shifting pictures. I, inspired by her, described so eloquently thewonders I saw that she, too, could see them. Now a flock of white-wingedangels rested on the low-hung azure of the sky, watching the glory ofPhoebus as he drove his fiery steeds over the western edge of the world. Again, Mount Olympus would grow before my eyes, and I would plainly seeJove sitting upon his burnished throne, while gods and goddesses floatedat his feet and revelled on the fleecy mountain sides. Then wouldmountain, gods, and goddesses dissolve, --as in fact they did dissolve agesago before the eyes of millions who had thought them real, --and in theirplaces perhaps would come a procession of golden-maned lions, at thedescription of which would Madge take pretended fright. Again, would I seeMadge herself in flowing white robes made of the stuff from which fleecyclouds are wrought. All these wonders would I describe, and when I wouldcome to tell her of the fair cloud image of herself I would seize thejoyous chance to make her understand in some faint degree how altogetherlovely in my eyes the vision was. Then would she smile and softly press myhand and say:--

"Malcolm, it must be some one else you see in the cloud, " though she waspleased. 

But when the hour was done then came the crowning moment of the day, foras I would rise to take my leave, if perchance we were alone, she wouldgive herself to my arms for one fleeting instant and willingly would herlips await--but there are moments too sacred for aught save holy thought. The theme is sweet to me, but I must go back to Dorothy and tell you ofthe scene I have promised you. 

As I have already said, it was the evening following that upon which I hadread the marriage contract to Sir George, and had seen the vision on thehillside. Madge and I were sitting at the west window. Dorothy, inkindness to us, was sitting alone by the fireside in Lady Crawford'schamber. Thomas entered the room with an armful of fagots, which hedeposited in the fagot-holder. He was about to replenish the fire, butDorothy thrust him aside, and said:--

"You shall kindle no more fires for me. At least you shall not do so whenno one else is by. It pains me that you, at whose feet I am unworthy tokneel, should be my servant"

Thereupon she took in her hands the fagot John had been holding. Heoffered to prevent her, but she said:--

"Please, John, let me do this. "

The doors were open, and we heard all that was said by Dorothy and Tom. Madge grasped my hand in surprise and fear. 

"Please, John, " said Dorothy, "if it gives me pleasure to be your servant, you should not wish to deny me. There lives but one person whom I wouldserve. There, John, I will give you another, and you shall let me do as Iwill. "

Dorothy, still holding the fagot in her hands, pressed it against John'sbreast and gently pushed him backward toward a large armchair, in whichshe had been sitting by the west side of the fireplace. 

"You sit there, John, and we will make believe that this is our house, andthat you have just come in very cold from a ride, and that I am making afine fire to warm you. Isn't it pleasant, John? There, you sit and warmyourself--my--my--husband, " she said laughingly. "It is fine sport even toplay at. There is one fagot on the fire, " she said, as she threw the woodupon the embers, causing them to fly in all directions. John started up tobrush the scattered embers back into the fireplace, but Dorothy stoppedhim. 

"I will put them all back, " she said. "You know you are cold and verytired. You have been overseeing the tenantry and have been hunting. Willyou have a howl of punch, my--my husband?" and she laughed again andkissed him as she passed to the holder for another fagot. 

"I much prefer that to punch, " said John, laughing softly. "Have youmore?"

"Thousands of them, John, thousands of them. " She rippled forth a littlelaugh and continued: "I occupy my time nowadays in making them that I mayalways have a great supply when we are--that is, you know, when you--whenthe time comes that you may require a great many to keep you in goodhumor. " Again came the laugh, merry and clear as the tinkle of sterlingsilver. 

She laughed again within a minute or two; but when the second laugh came, it sounded like a knell. 

Dorothy delighted to be dressed in the latest fashion. Upon this occasionshe wore a skirt vast in width, of a pattern then much in vogue. Thesleeves also were preposterously large, in accordance with the custom ofthe times. About her neck a beautiful white linen ruff stood out at leastthe eighth part of an ell. The day had been damp and cold, and the room inwhich she had been sitting was chilly. For that reason, most fortunately, she had thrown over her shoulders a wide sable cloak broad enough toenfold her many times and long enough to reach nearly to her knees:Dorothy thus arrayed was standing in front of John's chair. She had justspoken the words "good humor, " when the door leading to her father's roomopened and in walked Sir George. She and her ample skirts and broadsleeves were between John and the door. Not one brief instant did Dorothywaste in thought. Had she paused to put in motion the machinery of reason, John would have been lost. Thomas sitting in Lady Crawford's chair andDorothy standing beside him would have told Sir George all he needed toknow. He might not have discovered John's identity, but a rope and a treein Bowling Green would quickly have closed the chapter of Dorothy'smysterious love affair. Dorothy, however, did not stop to reason nor tothink. She simply acted without preliminary thought, as the rose unfoldsor as the lightning strikes. She quietly sat down upon John's knees, leaned closely back against him, spread out the ample folds of her skirt, threw the lower parts of her broad cape over her shoulders and across theback of the chair, and Sir John Manners was invisible to mortal eyes. 

"Come in, father, " said Dorothy, in dulcet tones that should have betrayedher. 

"I heard you laughing and talking, " said Sir George, "and I wondered whowas with you. "

"I was talking to Madge and Malcolm who are in the other room, " repliedDorothy. 

"Did not Thomas come in with fagots?" asked Sir George. 

"I think he is replenishing the fire in the parlor, father, or he may havegone out. I did not notice. Do you want him?"

"I do not especially want him, " Sir George answered. 

"When he finishes in the parlor I will tell him that you want him, " saidDorothy. 

"Very well, " replied Sir George. 

He returned to his room, but he did not close the door. 

The moment her father's back was turned Dorothy called:--

"Tom--Tom, father wants you, " and instantly Thomas was standingdeferentially by her side, and she was seated in the great chair. It was arapid change, I assure you. But a man's life and his fortune for good orill often hang upon a tiny peg--a second of time protruding from the wallof eternity. It serves him briefly; but if he be ready for the vitalinstant, it may serve him well. 

"Yes, mistress, " said Thomas, "I go to him at once. "

John left the room and closed the door as he passed out. Then it was thatDorothy's laugh sounded like the chilling tones of a knell. It was thelaugh of one almost distraught. She came to Madge and me laughing, but thelaugh quickly changed to convulsive sobs. The strain of the brief momentduring which her father had been in Lady Crawford's room had been toogreat for even her strong nerves to bear. She tottered and would havefallen had I not caught her. I carried her to the bed, and Madge calledLady Crawford. Dorothy had swooned. 

When she wakened she said dreamily:--

"I shall always keep this cloak and gown. "

Aunt Dorothy thought the words were but the incoherent utterances of adimly conscious mind, but I knew they were the deliberate expression of ajustly grateful heart. 

The following evening trouble came about over the matter of the marriagecontract. 

You remember I told you that Sir George had sent Lady Crawford as anadvance guard to place the parchment in the enemy's hands. But the advanceguard feared the enemy and therefore did not deliver the contract directlyto Dorothy. She placed it conspicuously upon the table, knowing well thather niece's curiosity would soon prompt an examination. 

I was sitting before the fire in Aunt Dorothy's room, talking to Madgewhen Lady Crawford entered, placed the parchment on the table, and took achair by my side. Soon Dorothy entered the room. The roll of parchment, brave with ribbons, was lying on the table. It attracted her attention atonce, and she took it in her hands. 

"What is this?" she asked carelessly. Her action was prompted entirely byidle curiosity. That, by the way, was no small motive with Dorothy. Shehad the curiosity of a young doe. Receiving no answer, she untied theribbons and unrolled the parchment to investigate its contents forherself. When the parchment was unrolled, she began to read:--

"In the name of God, amen. This indenture of agreement, looking to unionin the holy bonds of marriage between the Right Honorable Lord JamesStanley of the first part, and Mistress Dorothy Vernon of Haddon of thesecond part--"

She read no farther. She crumpled the beautiful parchment in her hands, walked over to the fire, and quietly placed the sacred instrument in themidst of the flames. Then she turned away with a sneer of contempt uponher face and--again I grieve to tell you this--said:--

"In the name of God, amen. May this indenture be damned. "

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Lady Crawford, horrified at her niece's profanity. "Ifeel shame for your impious words. "

"I don't care what you feel, aunt, " retorted Dorothy, with a dangerousglint in her eyes. "Feel as you wish, I meant what I said, and I will sayit again if you would like to hear it. I will say it to father when I seehim. Now, Aunt Dorothy, I love you and I love my father, but I give youfair warning there is trouble ahead for any one who crosses me in thismatter. "

She certainly looked as if she spoke the truth. Then she hummed a tuneunder her breath--a dangerous signal in Dorothy at certain times. Soon thehumming turned to whistling. Whistling in those olden days was looked uponas a species of crime in a girl. 

Dorothy stood by the window for a short time and then taking up anembroidery frame, drew a chair nearer to the light and began to work ather embroidery. In a moment or two she stopped whistling, and we couldalmost feel the silence in the room. Madge, of course, only partly knewwhat had happened, and her face wore an expression of expectant, anxiousinquiry. Aunt Dorothy looked at me, and I looked at the fire. Theparchment burned slowly. Lady Crawford, from a sense of duty to Sir Georgeand perhaps from politic reasons, made two or three attempts to speak, andafter five minutes of painful silence she brought herself to say:--

"Dorothy, your father left the contract here for you to read. He will beangry when he learns what you have done. Such disobedience is sure to--"

"Not another word from you, " screamed Dorothy, springing like a tigressfrom her chair. "Not another word from you or I will--I will scratch you. I will kill some one. Don't speak to me. Can't you see that I am trying tocalm myself for an interview with father? An angry brain is full ofblunders. I want to make none. I will settle this affair with father. Noone else, not even you, Aunt Dorothy, shall interfere. " The girl turned tothe window, stood beating a tattoo upon the glass for a moment or two, then went over to Lady Crawford and knelt by her side. She put her armsabout Aunt Dorothy's neck, softly kissed her, and said:--

"Forgive me, dear aunt; forgive me. I am almost crazed with my troubles. Ilove you dearly indeed, indeed I do. "

Madge gropingly went to Dorothy's side and took her hand. Dorothy kissedMadge's hand and rose to her feet. 

"Where is my father?" asked Dorothy, to whom a repentant feeling towardLady Crawford had brought partial calmness. "I will go to him immediatelyand will have this matter over. We might as well understand each other atonce. Father seems very dull at understanding me. But he shall know mebetter before long. "

Sir George may have respected the strength of his adversary, but Dorothyhad no respect for the strength of her foe. She was eager for the fray. When she had a disagreeable thing to do, she always wanted to do itquickly. 

Dorothy was saved the trouble of seeking her father, for at that moment heentered the room. 

"You are welcome, father, " said Dorothy in cold, defiant tones. "You havecome just in time to see the last flickering flame of your fine marriagecontract. " She led him to the fireplace. "Does it not make a beautifulsmoke and blaze?"

"Did you dare--"

"Ay, that I did, " replied Dorothy. 

"You dared?" again asked her father, unable to believe the evidence of hiseyes. 

"Ay, so I said; that I did, " again said Dorothy. 

"By the death of Christ--" began Sir George. 

"Now be careful, father, about your oaths, " the girl interrupted. "Youmust not forget the last batch you made and broke. "

Dorothy's words and manner maddened Sir George. The expression of herwhole person, from her feet to her hair, breathed defiance. The poise ofher body and of her limbs, the wild glint in her eyes, and the turn of herhead, all told eloquently that Sir George had no chance to win and thatDorothy was an unconquerable foe. It is a wonder he did not learn in thatone moment that he could never bring his daughter to marry Lord Stanley. 

"I will imprison you, " cried Sir George, gasping with rage. 

"Very well, " responded Dorothy, smilingly. "You kept me prisoner for afortnight. I did not ask you to liberate me. I am ready to go back to myapartments. "

"But now you shall go to the dungeon, " her father said. 

"Ah, the dungeon!" cried the girl, as if she were delighted at thethought. "The dungeon! Very well, again. I am ready to go to the dungeon. You may keep me there the remainder of my natural life. I cannot preventyou from doing that, but you cannot force me to marry Lord Stanley. "

"I will starve you until you obey me!" retorted her father. "I will starveyou!"

"That, again, you may easily do, my dear father; but again I tell you Iwill never marry Stanley. If you think I fear to die, try to kill me. I donot fear death. You have it not in your power to make me fear you oranything you can do. You may kill me, but I thank God it requires myconsent for my marriage to Stanley, and I swear before God that nevershall be given. "

The girl's terrible will and calm determination staggered Sir George, andby its force beat down even his strong will. The infuriated old manwavered a moment and said:--

"Fool, I seek only your happiness in this marriage. Only your happiness. Why will you not consent to it?"

I thought the battle was over, and that Dorothy was the victor. Shethought so, too, but was not great enough to bear her triumph silently. She kept on talking and carried her attack too far. 

"And I refuse to obey because of my happiness. I refuse because I hateLord Stanley, and because, as you already know, I love another man. "

When she spoke the words "because I love another man, " the cold, defiantexpression of her face changed to one of ecstasy. 

"I will have you to the dungeon this very hour, you brazen huzzy, " criedSir George. 

"How often, father, shall I repeat that I am ready to go to the dungeon? Iam eager to obey you in all things save one. "

"You shall have your wish, " returned Sir George. "Would that you had diedere you had disgraced your house with a low-bred dog whose name you areashamed to utter. "

"Father, there has been no disgrace, " Dorothy answered, and her words borethe ring of truth. 

"You have been meeting the fellow at secluded spots in the forest--howfrequently you have met him God only knows--and you lied to me when youwere discovered at Bowling Green Gate. "

"I would do it again gladly if I but had the chance, " answered the girl, who by that time was reckless of consequences. 

"But the chance you shall not have, " retorted Sir George. 

"Do not be too sure, father, " replied Dorothy. She was unable to resistthe temptation to mystify him. "I may see him before another hour. I willlay you this wager, father, if I do not within one hour see the man--theman whom I love--I will marry Lord Stanley. If I see him within that timeyou shall permit me to marry him. I have seen him two score times sincethe day you surprised me at the gate. "

That was a dangerous admission for the girl to make, and she soonregretted it with all her heart. Truly she was right. An angry brain isfull of blunders. 

Of course Dorothy's words, which were so full of meaning to Madge and me, meant little to Sir George. He looked upon them only as irritatinginsolence on her part. A few minutes later, however, they became full ofsignificance. 

Sir George seemed to have forgotten the Stanley marriage and the burningof the contract in his quarrel with Dorothy over her unknown lover. 

Conceive, if you can, the situation in Haddon Hall at that time. There waslove-drunk Dorothy, proud of the skill which had enabled her to outwit herwrathful father. There was Sir George, whose mental condition, inflamed byconstant drinking, bordered on frenzy because he felt that his child, whomhe had so tenderly loved from the day of her birth, had disgraced herselfwith a low-born wretch whom she refused to name. And there, under the sameroof, lived the man who was the root and source of all the trouble. Apretty kettle of fish!

"The wager, father, will you take it?" eagerly asked Dorothy. 

Sir George, who thought that her words were spoken only to anger him, waved her off with his hands and said:--

"I have reason to believe that I know the wretch for whose sake you havedisgraced yourself. You may be sure that I shall soon know him withcertainty. When I do, I will quickly have him in my power. Then I willhang him to a tree on Bowling Green, and you shall see the low-born dogdie. "

"He is better born than any of our house, " retorted Dorothy, who had lostall sense of caution. "Ay, he is better born than any with whom we claimkin. "

Sir George stood in open-eyed wonder, and Dorothy continued: "You cannotkeep him from me. I shall see him, and I will have him despite you. I tellyou again, I have seen him two score times since you tried to spy upon usat Bowling Green Gate, and I will see him whenever I choose, and I willwed him when I am ready to do so. You cannot prevent it. You can only beforsworn, oath upon oath; and if I were you, I would stop swearing. "

Sir George, as was usual with him in those sad times, was inflamed withdrink, and Dorothy's conduct, I must admit, was maddening. In the midst ofher taunting Thomas stepped into the room bearing an armful of fagots. SirGeorge turned to him and said:--

"Go and tell Welch to bring a set of manacles. "

"For Mistress Dorothy?" Thomas asked, surprised into the exclamation. 

"Curse you, do you mean to bandy words with me, you scum?" cried SirGeorge. 

He snatched a fagot from John and drew back his arm to strike him. Johntook one step back from Sir George and one step nearer to Dorothy. 

"Yes, Thomas, " said Dorothy, sneeringly, "bring Welch with the manaclesfor me. My dear father would put me in the dungeon out of the reach ofother men, so that he may keep me safely for my unknown lover. Go, Thomas. Go, else father will again be forsworn before Christ and upon hisknighthood. "

"This before a servant! I'll gag you, you hellish vixen, " cried SirGeorge. Then I am sure he knew not what he did. "Curse you!" he cried, ashe held the fagot upraised and rushed upon Dorothy. John, with his armsfull of fagots, could not avert the blow which certainly would have killedthe girl, but he could take it. He sprang between Dorothy and her father, the fagot fell upon his head, and he sank to the floor. In his fall John'swig dropped off, and when the blood began to flow from the wound Dorothykneeled beside his prostrate form. She snatched the great bush of falsebeard from his face and fell to kissing his lips and his hands in aparoxysm of passionate love and grief. Her kisses she knew to be a panaceafor all ills John could be heir to, and she thought they would heal eventhe wound her father had given, and stop the frightful outpouring ofJohn's life-blood. The poor girl, oblivious of all save her woundedlover, murmured piteously:--

"John, John, speak to me; 'tis Dorothy. " She placed her lips near his earand whispered: "'Tis Dorothy, John. Speak to her. " But she received noresponse. Then came a wild light to her eyes and she cried aloud: "John, 'tis Dorothy. Open your eyes. Speak to me, John! oh, for God's sake speakto me! Give some little sign that you live, " but John was silent. "My God, my God! Help, help! Will no one help me save this man? See you not thathis life is flowing away? This agony will kill me. John, my lover, mylord, speak to me. Ah, his heart, his heart! I will know. " She tore fromhis breast the leathern doublet and placed her ear over his heart. "ThankGod, it beats!" she cried in a frenzied whisper, as she kissed his breastand turned her ear again to hear his heart's welcome throbbing. Then shetried to lift him in her arms and succeeded in placing his head in herlap. It was a piteous scene. God save me from witnessing another like it. 

After Dorothy lifted John's head to her lap he began to breatheperceptibly, and the girl's agitation passed away as she gently strokedhis hair and kissed him over and over again, softly whispering her love tohis unresponsive ear in a gentle frenzy of ineffable tenderness such aswas never before seen in this world, I do believe. I wish with all myheart that I were a maker of pictures so that I might draw for you thescene which is as clear and vivid in every detail to my eyes now as it wasupon that awful day in Haddon Hall. There lay John upon the floor and byhis side knelt Dorothy. His head was resting in her lap. Over them stoodSir George with the murderous fagot raised, as if he intended again tostrike. I had sprung to his side and was standing by him, intending tofell him to the floor should he attempt to repeat the blow upon eitherDorothy or John. Across from Sir George and me, that is, upon the oppositeside of Dorothy and John, stood Lady Crawford and Madge, who clung to eachother in terror. The silence was heavy, save when broken by Dorothy's sobsand whispered ejaculations to John. Sir George's terrible deed haddeprived all of us, including himself, of the power to speak. I feared tomove from his side lest he should strike again. After a long agony ofsilence he angrily threw the fagot away from him and asked:--

"Who is this fellow? Can any one tell me?"

Only Madge, Dorothy, and I could have given him true answer. By somestrange power of divination Madge had learned all that had happened, andshe knew as well as I the name of the man who lay upon the floor battlingwith death. Neither Madge nor I answered. 

"Who is this fellow?" again demanded Sir George. 

Dorothy lifted her face toward her father. 

"He is the man whom you seek, father, " she answered, in a low, tearfulvoice. "He is my lover; he is my life; he is my soul, and if you havemurdered him in your attempt to kill your own child, all England shallhear of it and you shall hang. He is worth more in the eyes of the queenthan we and all our kindred. You know not whom you have killed. "

Sir George's act had sobered him. 

"I did not intend to kill him--in that manner, " said Sir George, droppinghis words absent-mindedly. "I hoped to hang him. Where is Dawson? Some onefetch Dawson. "

Several of the servants had gathered about the open door in the next room, and in obedience to Sir George's command one of them went to seek theforester. I feared that John would die from the effects of the blow; but Ialso knew from experience that a man's head may receive very hard knocksand life still remain. Should John recover and should Sir George learnhis name, I was sure that my violent cousin would again attempt thepersonal administration of justice and would hang him, under the old Saxonlaw. In that event Parliament would not be so easily pacified as upon theoccasion of the former hanging at Haddon; and I knew that if John shoulddie by my cousin's hand, Sir George would pay for the act with his lifeand his estates. Fearing that Sir George might learn through Dawson ofJohn's identity, I started out in search of Will to have a word with himbefore he could see his master. I felt sure that for many reasons Willwould be inclined to save John; but to what extent his fidelity to thecause of his master might counteract his resentment of Sir George's act, Idid not know. I suspected that Dawson was privy to John's presence inHaddon Hall, but I was not sure of it, so I wished to prepare the foresterfor his interview with Sir George and to give him a hint of my plans forsecuring John's safety, in the event he should not die in Aunt Dorothy'sroom. 

When I opened the door in the Northwest Tower I saw Dawson coming towardthe Hall from the dove-cote, and I hastened forward to meet him. It waspitiful that so good a man as Sir George Vernon was, should have beensurrounded in his own house by real friends who were also traitors. Thatwas the condition of affairs in Haddon Hall, and I felt that I was thechief offender. The evil, however, was all of Sir George's making. Tyrannyis the father of treason. 

When I met Dawson I said: "Will, do you know who Tom-Tom is?"

The forester hesitated for a moment, and said, "Well, Sir Malcolm, Isuppose he is Thomas--"

"No, no, Will, tell me the truth. Do you know that he is--or perhaps bythis time I should say he was--Sir John Manners?"

[Illustration]

"Was?" cried Will. "Great God! Has Sir George discovered--is he dead? Ifhe is dead, it will be a sad day for Sir George and for Haddon Hall. Tellme quickly. "

I at once knew Will Dawson was in the secret. I answered:--

"I hope he is not dead. Sir George attempted to strike Dorothy with afagot, but Thomas stepped in front of her and received the blow. He islying almost, if not quite, dead in Lady Crawford's room. Sir George knowsnothing about him, save that he is Dorothy's lover. But should Thomasrevive I feel sure my cousin will hang him in the morning unless steps aretaken to prevent the deed. "

"Sir Malcolm, if you will stand by me, " said Dawson, "Sir George will nothang him. "

"I certainly will stand by you, Dawson. Have no doubt on that score. SirGeorge intends to cast John into the dungeon, and should he do so I wantyou to send Jennie Faxton to Rutland and have her tell the Rutlanders torescue John to-night. To-morrow morning I fear will be too late. Be onyour guard, Will. Do not allow Sir George to discover that you have anyfeeling in this matter. Above all, lead him from the possibility oflearning that Thomas is Sir John Manners. I will contrive to admit theRutland men at midnight. "

I hastened with Dawson back to the Hall, where we found the situation as Ihad left it. John's head was lying on Dorothy's lap, and she was trying todress his wound with pieces of linen torn from her clothing. Sir Georgewas pacing to and fro across the room, breaking forth at times in cursesagainst Dorothy because of her relations with a servant. 

When Dawson and I entered the room, Sir George spoke angrily to Will:--

"Who is this fellow? You employed him. Who is he?"

"He gave me his name as Thomas Thompson, " returned Will, "and he broughtme a favorable letter of recommendation from Danford. "

Danford was forester to the Duke of Devonshire, and lived at Chatsworth. 

"There was naught in the letter save that he was a good servant and anhonest man. That is all we can ask of any man. "

"But who is he?" again demanded Sir George. 

"Your worship may perhaps learn from Danford more than I can tell you, "replied the forester, adroitly avoiding a lie. 

"Think of it, Malcolm, " said Sir George, speaking to me. "Think of it. Mydaughter, my only child, seeks for her husband this low-born serving man. I have always been sure that the fellow would prove to be such. " Then heturned to Dawson: "Throw the fellow into the dungeon. If he lives tillmorning, I will have him hanged. To the dungeon with him. "

Sir George waved his hand toward Dawson and Tom Welch, and then steppedaside. Will made an effort to hide his feelings, and without a word orgesture that could betray him, he and Welch lifted John to carry him away. Then it was piteous to see Dorothy. She clung to John and begged that hemight be left with her. Sir George violently thrust her away from John'sside, but she, still upon her knees, grasped her father's hand and criedout in agony:--

"Father, let me remain with him. If you have ever felt love for me, and ifmy love for you has ever touched one tender spot in your heart, pity menow and leave this man with me, or let me go with him. I beg you, father;I plead; I implore. He may be dying. We know not. In this hour of my agonybe merciful to me. "

But Sir George rudely repulsed her and left the room, following Welch andDawson, who bore John's unconscious form between them. Dorothy rose to herfeet screaming and tried to follow John. I, fearing that in her frenzy ofgrief she might divulge John's name, caught her in my arms and detainedher by force. She turned upon me savagely and struck me in her effort toescape. She called me traitor, villain, dog, but I lifted her in my armsand carried her struggling to her bedroom. I wanted to tell her of theplans which Dawson and I had made, but I feared to do so, lest she mightin some way betray them, so I left her in the room with Lady Crawford andMadge. I told Lady Crawford to detain Dorothy at all hazards, and Iwhispered to Madge asking her to tell Dorothy that I would look to John'scomfort and safety. I then hastily followed Sir George, Dawson, and Welch, and in a few moments I saw them leave John, bleeding and senseless, uponthe dungeon floor. When Sir George's back was turned, Dawson by my ordersbrought the surgeon from the stable where he had been working with thehorses. The surgeon bound up the wound in John's head and told me, to mygreat joy, that it was not fatal. Then he administered a reviving potionand soon consciousness returned. I whispered to John that Dawson and Iwould not forsake him, and, fearing discovery by Sir George, hurriedlyleft the dungeon. 

I believe there is a certain amount of grief and sorrow which comes withevery great joy to give it a cost mark whereby we may always know itsvalue. The love between Dorothy and John indeed was marked in plainfigures of high denominations. 

CHAPTER XII

THE LEICESTER POSSIBILITY

On Leaving the dungeon I sought Madge, and after I had whispered a word toher from my heart I asked her to tell Dorothy the encouraging words of thesurgeon, and also to tell her that she should not be angry with me untilshe was sure she had good cause. I dared not send a more explicit message, and I dared not go to Dorothy, for Sir George was in a suspicious mood andI feared ruin not only for myself but for John, should my violent cousinsuspect me of sympathy with his daughter and her lover. 

I also sought Aunt Dorothy and whispered a word to her of which you shallhear more presently. 

"Ah, I cannot do it, " cried the trembling old lady in response to mywhispered request. "I cannot do it. "

"But you must, Aunt Dorothy, " I responded. "Upon it depend three lives:Sir George's, Dorothy's, and her lover's. You must do it. "

"I will try, " she replied. 

"That assurance will not suit me, " I responded. "You must promise uponyour salvation that you will not fail me. "

"I promise upon my salvation, " replied Aunt Dorothy. 

That evening of course we did not see the ladies at supper. Sir George andI ate in silence until my cousin became talkative from drink. Then hespoke bitterly of Dorothy's conduct, and bore with emphasis upon the factthat the lover to whom Dorothy had stooped was a low-born serving man. 

"But Dorothy declares he is noble, " I responded. 

"She has lied to me so often that I do not believe a word she says, "returned Sir George. 

He swore oath upon oath that the wretch should hang in the morning, andfor the purpose of carrying into effect his intention he called in Joe thebutcher and told him to make all things ready for the execution. 

I did not attempt to thwart his purpose by word or gesture, knowing itwould be useless, but hoped that John would be out of his reach long erethe cock would crow his first greeting to the morrow's sun. 

After Sir George had drunk far into the night the servants helped him tobed, and he carried with him the key to the dungeon together with the keysto all the outer doors and gates of Haddon Hall, as was his custom. Thekeys were in a bunch, held together by an iron ring, and Sir George alwayskept them under his pillow at night. 

I sought my bed in Eagle Tower and lay down in my clothes to rest andwait. The window of my room was open. 

Within an hour after midnight I heard the hooting of an owl. The dolefulsound came up to me from the direction of the stone footbridge at thesouthwest corner of the Hall below the chapel. I went to my window andlooked out over the courts and terrace. Haddon Hall and all things in andabout it were wrapped in slumbrous silence. I waited, and again I heardthe hooting of the owl. Noiselessly leaving my room I descended the stonesteps to an unused apartment in the tower from which a window opened uponthe roof of the north wing of the Hall. Along that roof I crept with baredfeet, till I reached another roof, the battlements of which at the lowestpoint were not more than twenty feet from the ground. Thence I clambereddown to a window cornice five or six feet lower, and jumped, at the riskof my limbs, the remaining distance of fifteen or sixteen feet to the softsod beneath. I ran with all haste, took my stand under Aunt Dorothy'swindow, and whistled softly. The window casing opened and I heard thegreat bunch of keys jingling and clinking against the stone wall as AuntDorothy paid them out to me by means of a cord. After I had secured thekeys I called in a whisper to Lady Crawford and directed her to leave thecord hanging from the window. I also told her to remain in readiness todraw up the keys when they should have served their purpose. Then I tookthem and ran to the stone footbridge where I found four Rutland men whohad come in response to the message Dawson had sent by Jennie Faxton. Twoof the men went with me, and we entered the lower garden by the southwestpostern. Thence we crept noiselessly to the terrace and made our entranceinto the Hall by "Dorothy's Postern. " I had in my life engaged in manyquestionable and dangerous enterprises, but this was my first attempt athouse-breaking. To say that I was nervous would but poorly define thestate of my feelings. Since that day I have respected the high calling ofburglary and regard with favor the daring knights of the skeleton key. Iwas frightened. I, who would feel no fear had I to fight a dozen men, trembled with fright during this adventure. The deathlike silence and thedarkness in familiar places seemed uncanny to me. The very chairs andtables appeared to be sleeping, and I was fearful lest they should awaken. I cannot describe to you how I was affected. Whether it was fear or awe ora smiting conscience I cannot say, but my teeth chattered as if they werein the mouth of a fool, and my knees quaked as if they supported a coward. Still I knew I was doing my duty, though one's conscience sometimes smiteshim when his reason tells him he is acting righteously. It is moredangerous to possess a sensitive conscience which cannot be made to hearreason than to have none at all. But I will make short my account of thatnight's doings. The two Rutland men and I groped our way to the dungeonand carried forth John, who was weak from loss of blood. I told them tolock the door of the Hall as they passed out and to attach the keys to thecord hanging from Lady Crawford's window. Then I climbed to my room again, feeling in conscience like a criminal because I had done the best act ofmy life. 

Early next morning I was awakened by a great noise in the upper court. When I looked out at my window I beheld Sir George. He was half dressedand was angrily questioning the servants and retainers. I knew that he haddiscovered John's escape, but I did not know all, nor did I know theworst. I dressed and went to the kitchen, where I bathed my hands andface. There I learned that the keys to the hall had been stolen from underSir George's pillow, and that the prisoner had escaped from the dungeon. Old Bess, the cook, nodded her head wisely and whispered to me the words, "Good for Mistress Doll. "

Bess's unsought confidence alarmed me. I did not relish the thought thatBess nor any one else should believe me to be in sympathy with Dorothy, and I said:--

"If Mistress Vernon had aught to do with last night's affairs, she shouldbe full of shame. I will not believe that she knew of it at all. Myopinion is that one of the servants was bribed by some person interestedin Tom-Tom's escape. "

"Believe nothing of the sort, " retorted Bess. "It is the mistress and notthe servant who stole the keys and liberated Tom-Tom. But the question is, who may Tom-Tom be? and the servants' hall is full of it. We are notuncertain as to the manner of his escape. Some of the servants do say thatthe Earl of Leicester be now visiting the Duke of Devonshire; and somealso do say that his Lordship be fond of disguises in his gallantry. Theydo also say that the queen is in love with him, and that he must disguisehimself when he woos elsewhere, or she be's famously jealous. It would bea pretty mess the master has brought us all into should Tom-Tom prove tobe my lord Earl of Leicester. We'd all hang and to hell. "

"Bess, that tongue of yours will cost you your head one of these goodtimes, " I remarked, while I rubbed my face with the towel. 

"I would sooner lose my head, " retorted Bess, "than have my mouth shut byfear. I know, Sir Malcolm, that I'll not die till my time comes; butplease the good God when my time does come I will try to die talking. "

"That you will, " said I. 

"True word, Sir Malcolm, " she answered, and I left her in possession ofthe field. 

I went into the courtyard, and when Sir George saw me he said, "Malcolm, come with me to my room; I want a word with you. "

We went to his room. 

"I suppose you know of the fellow's escape last night?" he said. 

"Yes, " I replied, "Bess told me about it in the kitchen. "

It seemed to me that my words said, "I did it. "

"Not only was the fellow liberated, " said my cousin, "but the keys to allthe outer gates and doors of the Hall have been stolen and carried away. Can you help me unravel this affair?"

"Do you suspect any one of having stolen the keys?" I asked. 

"I know, of course, that Dorothy did it. Who her accomplices were, if anyshe had, I do not know. I have catechized the servants, but the questionis bottomless to me. "

"Have you spoken to Dorothy on the subject?" I asked. 

"No, " he replied, "but I have sent word to her by the Faxton girl that Iam going to see her at once. Come with me. "

We went into Lady Crawford's room. She was ill and in bed. I did notwonder that she was ill after the experiences of the previous night. SirGeorge asked her if she had heard or seen Dorothy pass through her roomduring the night. She said:--

"Dorothy did not pass through this room last night. I did not once closemy eyes in sleep, and I should have seen her had she been here at all. "

Sir George entered Dorothy's bedroom, and Lady Crawford beckoned me to goto her side. 

"I waited till sunrise, " she said, "that I might draw up the keys. "

"Hush!" said I, "the cord?"

"I burned it, " she replied. 

Then I followed Sir George into Dorothy's room. Madge was dressed for theday, and Dorothy, who had been helping her, was making her own toilet. Herhair hung loose and fell like a cataract of sunshine over her bareshoulders. But no words that I can write would give you a conception ofher wondrous beauty, and I shall not waste them in the attempt. When weentered the room she was standing at the mirror. She turned, comb in hand, toward Sir George and said:--

"I suppose, father, you will accuse me of liberating Thomas. "

"You must know that I will accuse you, " replied Sir George. 

"Then, father, for once you will accuse me falsely. I am overjoyed that hehas escaped, and I certainly should have tried to liberate him had Ithought it possible to do so. But I did not do it, though to tell you thetruth I am sorry I did not. "

"I do not believe you, " her father replied. 

"I knew you would not believe me, " answered Dorothy. "Had I liberated himI should probably have lied to you about it; therefore, I wonder not thatyou should disbelieve me. But I tell you again upon my salvation that Iknow nothing of the stealing of the keys nor of Tom-Tom's escape. Believeme or not, I shall deny it no more. "

Madge gropingly went to Sir George's side, and he tenderly put his armsabout her, saying:--

"I would that you were my daughter. " Madge took his hand caressingly. 

"Uncle, I want to tell you that Dorothy speaks the truth, " she said. "Ihave been with her every moment since the terrible scene of yesterdayevening. Neither Dorothy nor I closed our eyes in sleep all night long. She lay through the dark hours moaning, and I tried to comfort her. Ourdoor was locked, and it was opened only by your messenger who brought thegood news of Tom-Tom's escape. I say good news, uncle, because his escapehas saved you from the stain of murder. You are too brave a man to domurder, uncle. "

"How dare you, " said Sir George, taking his arm from Madge's waist, "howdare you defend--"

"Now, uncle, I beg you pause and take a moment's thought, " said Madge, interrupting him. "You have never spoken unkindly to me. "

"Nor will I, Madge, so long as I live. I know there is not a lie in you, and I am sure you believe to be true all you tell me, but Dorothy hasdeceived you by some adroit trick. "

"If she deceived me, she is a witch, " retorted Madge, laughing softly. 

"That I am almost ready to believe is the case, " said Sir George. Dorothy, who was combing her hair at the mirror, laughed softly andsaid:--

"My broomstick is under the bed, father. "

Sir George went into Lady Crawford's room and shut the door, leaving mewith the girls. 

When her father had left, Dorothy turned upon me with fire in her eyes:--

"Malcolm Vernon, if you ever lay hands upon me again as you did lastnight, I will--I will scratch you. You pretended to be his friend andmine, but for a cowardly fear of my father you came between us and youcarried me to this room by force. Then you locked the door and--and"--

"Did not Madge give you my message?" I asked, interrupting her. 

"Yes, but did you not force me away from him when, through my fault, hewas almost at death's door?"

"Have your own way, Dorothy, " I said. "There lives not, I hope, anotherwoman in the world so unreasoning and perverse as you. "

She tossed her head contemptuously and continued to comb her hair. 

"How, suppose you, " I asked, addressing Dorothy's back, as if I wereseeking information, "how, suppose you, the Rutland people learned thatJohn was confined in the Haddon dungeon, and how did they come by thekeys?"

The girl turned for a moment, and a light came to her anger-clouded faceas the rainbow steals across the blackened sky. 

"Malcolm, Malcolm, " she cried, and she ran to me with her bare armsoutstretched. 

"Did you liberate him?" she asked. "How did you get the keys?"

"I know nothing of it, Dorothy, nothing, " I replied. 

"Swear it, Malcolm, swear it, " she said. 

"I will swear to nothing, " I said, unclasping her arms from my neck. 

"Then I will kiss you, " she answered, "for you are my dear good brother, and never so long as I live will I again doubt you. "

But she did before long doubt me again, and with good cause. 

Dorothy being in a gentle humor; I took advantage of the opportunity towarn her against betraying John's name to her father. I also told her toask her father's forgiveness, and advised her to feign consent to theStanley marriage. Matters had reached a point where some remedy, howeverdesperate, must be applied. 

Many persons, I fear, will condemn me for advising Dorothy to deceive herfather; but what would you have had me do? Should I have told her to marryStanley? Certainly not. Had I done so, my advice would have availednothing. Should I have advised her to antagonize her father, therebykeeping alive his wrath, bringing trouble to herself and bitter regret tohim? Certainly not. The only course left for me to advise was the least ofthree evils--a lie. Three evils must be very great indeed when a lie isthe least of them. In the vast army of evils with which this world swarmsthe lie usually occupies a proud position in the front rank. But at timesconditions arise when, coward-like, he slinks to the rear and evilsgreater than he take precedence. In such sad case I found Dorothy, and Isought help from my old enemy, the lie. Dorothy agreed with me andconsented to do all in her power to deceive her father, and what she couldnot do to that end was not worth doing. 

Dorothy was anxious about John's condition, and sent Jennie Faxton toBowling Green, hoping a letter would be there for her. Jennie soonreturned with a letter, and Dorothy once more was full of song, forJohn's letter told her that he was fairly well and that he would by somemeans see her soon again despite all opposition. 

"At our next meeting, my fair mistress, " John said in the letter, "youmust be ready to come with me. I will wait no longer for you. In fairnessto me and to yourself you shall not ask me to wait. I will accept no moreexcuses. You must come with me when next we meet. "

"Ah, well, " said Dorothy to Madge, "if I must go with him, I must. Why didhe not talk in that fashion when we rode out together the last time? Ilike to be made to do what I want to do. He was foolish not to make meconsent, or better still would it have been had he taken the reins of myhorse and ridden off with me, with or against my will. I might havescreamed, and I might have fought him, but I could not have hurt him, andhe would have had his way, and--and, " with a sigh, "I should have had myway. "

After a brief pause devoted to thought, she continued:--

"If I were a man and were wooing a woman, I would first learn what shewanted to do and then--and then, by my word, I would make her do it. "

I went from Dorothy's room to breakfast, where I found Sir George. I tookmy seat at the table and he said:--

"Who, in God's name, suppose you, could have taken the keys from mypillow?"

"Is there any one whom you suspect?" I asked for lack of anything else tosay. 

"I at first thought, of course, that Dorothy had taken them, " he answered. "But Madge would not lie, neither would my sister. Dorothy would nothesitate to lie herself blue in the face, but for some reason I believedher when she told me she knew nothing of the affair. Her words soundedlike truth for once. "

"I think, Sir George, " said I, "you should have left off 'for once. 'Dorothy is not a liar. She has spoken falsely to you only because shefears you. I am sure that a lie is hateful to her. "

"Malcolm, I wish I could have your faith, " he responded. "By the way, Malcolm, have you ever seen the Earl of Leicester?"

"I saw him only once. He visited Scotland during the ceremonies at QueenMary's return from France. I saw him once, and then but briefly. Why doyou ask?"

"It is whispered among the servants, " said Sir George, "that Leicester isat Chatsworth in disguise. "

Chatsworth was the home of the Duke of Devonshire, and was but a shortdistance from Haddon. After Sir George spoke, I remembered the words ofold Bess. 

"Still, I do not know why you ask. " I said. 

"My reason is this, " replied Sir George; "Dorothy declared the fellow wasof noble blood. It is said that Leicester loves gallant adventureincognito. He fears her Majesty's jealousy if in such matters he actsopenly. You remember the sad case of Mistress Robsart. I wonder whatbecame of the girl? He made way with her in some murderous fashion, I amsure. " Sir George remained in revery for a moment, and then the poor oldman cried in tones of distress: "Malcolm, if that fellow whom I strucklast night was Leicester, and if he has been trying his hellish tricks onmy Doll I--I should pity her; I should not abuse her. I may have beenwrong. If he has wronged Doll--if he has wronged my girl, I will pursuehim to the ends of the earth for vengeance. That is why I ask if you haveever seen the Earl of Leicester. Was the man who lay upon the floor lastnight Robert Dudley? If it were he, and if I had known it, I would havebeaten him to death then and there. Poor Doll!"

Any one hearing the old man speak would easily have known that Doll wasall that life held for him to love. 

"I do not distinctly remember Leicester's face, " I answered, "but sinceyou speak of it, I believe there is a resemblance between him and the manwe called Thomas. But even were it he, Sir George, you need have no fearfor Dorothy. She of all women is able and willing to protect herself. "

"I will go to Dorothy and ask her to tell me the truth. Come with me. "

We again went to Dorothy's room. She had, since I last saw her, receivedthe letter from John of which I have spoken, and when we entered herparlor where she and Madge were eating breakfast we found her very happy. As a result she was willing and eager to act upon my advice. 

She rose and turned toward her father. 

"You told me, Doll, that the fellow was of noble blood. Did you speak thetruth?"

"Yes, father, I spoke the truth. There is no nobler blood in England thanhis, save that of our royal queen. In that you may believe me, father, forI speak the truth. "

Sir George remained silent for a moment and then said:--

"If the man is he whom I believe him to be he can have no true purposewith you. Tell me, my child--the truth will bring no reproaches fromme--tell me, has he misused you in any way?"

"No, father, before God, he has been a true gentleman to me. "

The poor old man struggled for a moment with his emotions; then tears cameto his eyes and he covered his face with his hands as he started to leavethe room. 

Dorothy ran to him and clasped her arms about his neck. Those two, fatherand child, were surely of one blood as shown in the storms of violence andtenderness by which their natures were alternately swept. 

"Father, you may believe me; you do believe me, " said Dorothy. "Furthermore, I tell you that this man has treated me with all courtesy, nay, more: he has treated me with all the reverence he would have shownour queen. "

"He can have no true purpose with you, Doll, " said Sir George, who feltsure that Leicester was the man. 

"But he has, father, a true purpose with me. He would make me his wifeto-day would I consent. "

"Why then does he not seek you openly?"

"That he cannot do, " Dorothy responded hesitatingly. 

"Tell me, Doll, who is the man?" asked Sir George. 

I was standing behind him and Dorothy's face was turned toward me. Shehesitated, and I knew by her expression that she was about to tell all. Sir George, I believe, would have killed her had she done so. I placed myfinger on my lips and shook my head. 

Dorothy said: "That I cannot tell you, father. You are wasting words inasking me. "

"Is it because of his wish that you refuse to tell me his name?" asked SirGeorge. I nodded my head. 

"Yes, father, " softly responded Dorothy in the old dangerous, dulcettones. 

"That is enough; I know who the man is. "

Dorothy kissed her father. He returned the caress, much to my surprise, and left the room. 

When I turned to follow Sir George I glanced toward Dorothy. Her eyes werelike two moons, so full were they of wonderment and inquiry. 

I stopped with Sir George in his room. He was meditative and sad. 

"I believe my Doll has told me the truth, " he said. 

"Have no doubt of it, Sir George, " I replied. 

"But what good intent can Leicester have toward my girl?" he asked. 

"Of that I cannot say, " I replied; "but my dear cousin, of this fact besure: if he have evil intent toward Dorothy, he will fail. "

"But there was the Robsart girl, " he replied. 

"Ay, " said I, "but Dorothy Vernon is not Amy Robsart. Have no fear of yourdaughter. She is proof against both villany and craft. Had she been inMistress Robsart's place, Leicester would not have deserted her. Dorothyis the sort of woman men do not desert. What say you to the fact thatLeicester might wish to make her his wife?"

"He may purpose to do so secretly, as in the case of the Robsart girl, "returned Sir George. "Go, Malcolm, and ask her if he is willing to makeher his wife before the world. "

I was glad of an opportunity for a word with Dorothy, so I hastily went toher. I told her of the Leicester phase of the situation, and I also toldher that her father had asked me if the man whom she loved was willing tomake her his wife before the world. 

"Tell my father, " said she, "that I will be no man's wife save before allthe world. A man who will not acknowledge me never shall possess me. "

I went back to Sir George and delivered the message word for word. 

"She is a strange, strong girl, isn't she, Malcolm?" said her father. 

"She is her father's child, " I replied. 

"By my spurs she is. She should have been a man, " said Sir George, with atwinkle of admiration in his eyes. He admired a good fight even though hewere beaten in it. 

It is easy to be good when we are happy. Dorothy, the great disturber, was both. Therefore, peace reigned once more in Haddon Hall. 

Letters frequently passed between John and Dorothy by the hand of JennieFaxton, but John made no attempt to meet his sweetheart. He and Dorothywere biding their time. 

A fortnight passed during which Cupid confined his operations to Madge andmyself. For her sweet sake he was gracious and strewed our path withroses. I should delight to tell you of our wooing. She a fair youngcreature of eighteen, I a palpitating youth of thirty-five. I should loveto tell you of Madge's promise to be my wife, and of the announcement inthe Hall of our betrothal; but there was little of interest in it to anyone save ourselves, and I fear lest you should find it very sentimentaland dull indeed. I should love to tell you also of the delightful walkswhich Madge and I took together along the sweet old Wye and upon the crestof Bowling Green; but above all would I love to tell you of the delicaterose tints that came to her cheek, and how most curiously at times, whenmy sweetheart's health was bounding, the blessed light of day wouldpenetrate the darkened windows of her eyes, and how upon such occasionsshe would cry out joyously, "Oh, Malcolm, I can dimly see. " I say I shouldlove to tell you about all those joyous happenings, but after all I fear Ishould shrink from doing so in detail, for the feelings and sayings of ourown hearts are sacred to us. It is much easier to tell of the love affairsof others. 

A fortnight or three weeks passed quietly in Haddon Hall. Sir George hadthe notion firmly fixed in his head that the man whom Dorothy had beenmeeting held honorable intentions toward the girl. He did her the justiceto believe that by reason of her strength and purity she would toleratenone other. At times he felt sure that the man was Leicester, and againhe flouted the thought as impossible. If it were Leicester, and if hewished to marry Dorothy, Sir George thought the match certainly would beillustrious. Halting between the questions, "Is he Leicester?" and "Is henot Leicester?" Sir George did not press the Stanley nuptials, nor did heinsist upon the signing of the contract. Dorothy received from her fatherfull permission to go where and when she wished. But her father'swillingness to give her liberty excited her suspicions. She knew he wouldpermit her to leave the Hall only that he might watch her, and, ifpossible, entrap her and John. Therefore, she rode out only with Madge andme, and sought no opportunity to see her lover. It may be that herpassiveness was partly due to the fact that she knew her next meeting withJohn would mean farewell to Haddon Hall. She well knew she was void ofresistance when in John's hands. And his letter had told her frankly whathe would expect from her when next they should meet. She was eager to goto him; but the old habit of love for home and its sweet associations andher returning affection for her father, now that he was kind to her, werestrong cords entwining her tender heart, which she could not breaksuddenly even for the sake of the greater joy. 

One day Dorothy received from John a letter telling her he would on thefollowing morning start for the Scottish border with the purpose ofmeeting the queen of Scotland. A plan had been formed among Mary's friendsin Scotland to rescue her from Lochleven Castle, where she was a prisoner, and to bring her incognito to Rutland. John had been chosen to escort herfrom the English border to his father's castle. From thence, when theopportunity should arise, she was to escape to France, or make her peacewith Elizabeth. The adventure was full of peril both for her Scottish andEnglish friends. The Scottish regent Murray surely would hang all theconspirators whom he might capture, and Elizabeth would probably inflictsummary punishment upon any of her subjects whom she could convict ofcomplicity in the plot. 

In connection with this scheme to rescue Mary it was said there was alsoanother conspiracy. There appeared to be a plot within a plot which hadfor its end the enthronement of Mary in Elizabeth's stead. 

The Rutlands knew nothing of this subplot. 

Elizabeth had once or twice expressed sympathy with her Scottish cousin. She had said in John's presence that while she could not for reasons ofstate _invite_ Mary to seek refuge in England, still if Mary would comeuninvited she would be welcomed. Therefore, John thought he was acting inaccord with the English queen's secret wish when he went to Rutland withthe purpose of being in readiness to meet Mary at the Scottish border. 

There were two elements in Elizabeth's character on which John had notcounted. One was her royal prerogative to speak words she did not mean;and the other was the universal feminine privilege to change her mind. Ourqueen did not want Mary to visit England, nor had she any knowledge of theplot to induce that event. She did, however, fear that Mary's unwisefriends among the Catholics cherished the purpose of making Mary queen ofEngland. Although John had heard faint rumors of such a plot, he had beengiven to understand that Mary had no share in it, and he believed that theadventure in which he was about to embark had for its only purpose herliberation from a cruel and unjust imprisonment. Her cause appealed toJohn's chivalrous nature as it appealed to so many other good thoughmistaken men who sought to give help to the Scottish queen, and broughtonly grief to her and ruin to themselves. 

Dorothy had heard at various times just enough of these plots to fill herheart with alarm when she learned that John was about to be engaged inthem. Her trouble was twofold. She feared lest personal injury or deathmight befall John; and jealousy, that shame of love, gnawed at her heartdespite her efforts to drive it away. 

"Is she so marvellously beautiful?" Dorothy asked of me over and overagain, referring to Mary Stuart. "Is she such a marvel of beauty andfascination that all men fall before her?"

"That usually is the result, " I replied. "I have never known her to smileupon a man who did not at once respond by falling upon his knees to her. "

My reply certainly was not comforting. 

"Ah, then, I am lost, " she responded, with a tremulous sigh. "Is--is sheprone to smile on men and--and--to grow fond of them?"

"I should say, Dorothy, that both the smiling and the fondness have becomea habit with her. "

"Then she will be sure to choose John from among all men. He is soglorious and perfect and beautiful that she will be eager to--to--O God! Iwish he had not gone to fetch her. "

"You need have no fear, " I said reassuringly. "While Mary Stuart ismarvellously beautiful and fascinating, there is at least one woman whoexcels her. Above all, that woman is pure and chaste. "

"Who is she, that one woman, Malcolm? Who is she?" asked the girl, leaningforward in her chair and looking at me eagerly with burning eyes. 

"You are already a vain girl, Dorothy, and I shall not tell you who thatone woman is, " I answered laughingly. 

"No, no, Malcolm, I am not vain in this matter. It is of too great momentto me for the petty vice of vanity to have any part in it. You do notunderstand me. I care not for my beauty, save for his sake. I long to bemore beautiful, more fascinating, and more attractive than she--than anywoman living--only because I long to hold John--to keep him from her, fromall others. I have seen so little of the world that I must be sadlylacking in those arts which please men, and I long to possess the beautyof the angels, and the fascinations of Satan that I may hold John, holdhim, hold him, hold him. That I may hold him so sure and fast that it willbe impossible for him to break from me. At times, I almost wish he wereblind; then he could see no other woman. Ah, am I not a wicked, selfishgirl? But I will not allow myself to become jealous. He is all mine, isn'the, Malcolm?" She spoke with nervous energy, and tears were ready tospring from her eyes. 

"He is all yours, Dorothy, " I answered, "all yours, as surely as thatdeath will some day come to all of us. Promise me, Dorothy, that you willnever again allow a jealous thought to enter your heart. You have no causefor jealousy, nor will you ever have. If you permit that hateful passionto take possession of you, it will bring ruin in its wake. "

"It was, indeed, foolish in me, " cried Dorothy, springing to her feet andclasping her hands tightly; "and I promise never again to feel jealousy. Malcolm, its faintest touch tears and gnaws at my heart and racks me withagony. But I will drive it out of me. Under its influence I am notresponsible for my acts. It would quickly turn me mad. I promise, oh, Iswear, that I never will allow it to come to me again. "

Poor Dorothy's time of madness was not far distant nor was the evil thatwas to follow in its wake. 

John in writing to Dorothy concerning his journey to Scotland hadunhesitatingly intrusted to her keeping his honor, and, unwittingly, hislife. It did not once occur to him that she could, under any conditions, betray him. I trusted her as John did until I saw her vivid flash ofburning jealousy. But by the light of that flash I saw that should thegirl, with or without reason, become convinced that Mary Stuart was herrival, she would quickly make Derbyshire the warmest locality inChristendom, and John's life might pay the cost of her folly. Dorothywould brook no rival--no, not for a single hour. Should she become jealousshe would at once be swept beyond the influence of reason or the care forconsequences. It were safer to arouse a sleeping devil than DorothyVernon's jealousy. Now about the time of John's journey to the Scottishborder, two matters of importance arose at Haddon Hall. One bore directlyupon Dorothy, namely, the renewal by the Stanleys of their suit for herhand. The other was the announcement by the queen that she would soon doSir George Vernon the honor of spending a fortnight under the roof ofHaddon Hall. Each event was of great importance to the King of the Peak. He had concluded that Thomas, the man-servant, was not the Earl ofLeicester in disguise, and when the Earl of Derby again came forward withhis marriage project, Sir George fell back into his old hardness towardDorothy, and she prepared her armament, offensive and defensive, forinstant use if need should arise. I again began my machinations, since Ican call my double dealing by no other name. I induced Dorothy to agree tomeet the earl and his son James. Without promising positively to marryLord Stanley, she, at my suggestion, led her father to believe she wasready to yield to his wishes. By this course she gained time and liberty, and kept peace with her father. Since you have seen the evils that warbrought to Haddon, you well know how desirable peace was. In time of warall Haddon was a field of carnage and unrest. In time of peace the dearold Hall was an ideal home. I persuaded Sir George not to insist on apositive promise from Dorothy, and I advised him to allow her yieldingmood to grow upon her. I assured him evasively that she would eventuallysuccumb to his paternal authority and love. 

What an inherent love we all have for meddling in the affairs of others, and what a delicious zest we find in faithfully applying our surplusenergies to business that is not strictly our own! I had become a part ofthe Sir George-Dorothy-John affair, and I was like the man who caught thebear: I could not loose my hold. 

CHAPTER XIII

PROUD DAYS FOR THE OLD HALL

Of course the queen's approaching visit threw Haddon Hall into a frenzy ofscrubbing and furbishing. Aunt Dorothy was the busiest woman in England. Floors were newly polished. Draperies were taken down and were carefullywashed with mysterious concoctions warranted to remove dirt without injuryto color. Superfine wax was bought in great boxes, and candles were madefor all the chandeliers and candelabra in the house. Perfumed oil waspurchased for the lamp in the state bedroom. Elizabeth, by the way, whenshe came, did not like the odor of the oil, and with an oath tossed boththe oil and the lamp out of the window. The fattest sheep, kine, and hogswere chosen from the flocks and were brought in to be stall-fed in suchnumbers that one might have supposed we were expecting an ogress who couldeat an ox at a meal. Pipers and dancers were engaged, and a merry fool wasbrought down from London. At last the eventful day came and with it cameour queen. She brought with her a hundred yeomen of her guard and a scoreof ladies and gentlemen. Among the latter was the Earl of Leicester, whowas the queen's prime favorite. 

Prior to the queen's announcement of her intention to visit Haddon SirGeorge had, with Dorothy's tacit consent, fixed a day upon which the Earlof Derby and his son, Lord James, should be received at the Hall for thepurpose of signing the marriage contract. Dorothy, of course, had nointention of signing the contract, but she put off the evil hour ofrefusal as far as possible, hoping something might occur in the meantimeto help her out of the dilemma. Something did occur at the last moment. Iam eager to tell you about it, but it must wait its turn. Truly would thestory of this ingenious girl's life make a romance if it were written by apoet. In her Guinevere and Elaine were moulded into one person with thetenderness, purity, and fierceness of each. 

To postpone further the time of the Stanley visit, Dorothy suggested thatthe betrothal should take place in the presence of the queen. Sir Georgeacquiesced, and in his heart grew less eager for the Stanley match asDorothy apparently became more tractable. He was, however, engaged withthe earl to an extent that forbade withdrawal, even had he been sure thathe wished to withdraw. 

At the time of which I speak the Earl of Leicester was the most exaltedsubject of the realm. He was ardently devoted to the cause of the ladies, and, although he had fixed his hope on Elizabeth and longed for a seatbeside her on the throne, his inflammable heart was constantly catchingfire from other eyes. He, of course, made desperate efforts to concealthese manifold conflagrations from the queen, but the inflammable tow ofhis heart was always bringing him into trouble with his fiery mistress. 

The earl's first glance toward Dorothy was full of admiration. The secondglance was full of conflagration. The second day of the queen's residencein Haddon I was astonished, grieved, and angered to see that our girl hadturned her powerful batteries upon the earl with the evident purpose ofconquest. At times her long lashes would fall before him, and again hergreat luminous eyes would open wide, shedding a soft radiance which no mancould withstand. Once I saw her walking alone with him upon the terrace. Her head was drooped shamelessly, and the earl was ardent though restless, being fearful of the queen. I boiled with rage against Dorothy, but by astrong effort I did not boil over until I had better cause. The bettercause came later. 

I failed to tell you of a brief conversation which occurred between SirGeorge and me after my cousin first saw the Earl of Leicester. Sir Georgehad gallantly led the queen to her apartments, and I had conductedLeicester and several of the gentlemen to their various rooms. Sir Georgeand I met at the staircase after we had quitted our guests. 

He said: "Malcolm, that fellow Thomas whom I knocked in the head looked nomore like Leicester than I do. Why did you tell me there was resemblance?"

"I do not know, " I answered. "Perhaps your words suggested the thought ofa resemblance. Perhaps I had lost all memory of Leicester's features. Icannot answer your question. "

Then an expression of anger came to Sir George's face, and he said:--

"I believe Dorothy lied to me when she said that the fellow Thomas was ofnoble blood. "

The next day a servant reported that Thomas had been seen loitering nearBowling Green Gate, and Sir George ordered Dorothy not to leave the Hallwithout his permission. 

Dorothy replied to her father's command, "I shall obey you, father. "

To me there was a note of danger in her voice. Such docile submissivenesswas not natural to the girl. Of course all appearance of harshness towardDorothy was suppressed by Sir George during the queen's visit to the Hall. In truth, he had no reason to be harsh, for Dorothy was a meek, submissive, and obedient daughter. Her meekness, however, as you may wellsurmise, was but the forerunner of dire rebellion. 

The fourth day of the queen's presence at Haddon Hall was the oneappointed for the visit of the Stanleys, and Sir George thought to make agreat event of the betrothal by having the queen act as a witness to themarriage contract. As the day approached Sir George became thoughtful, while Dorothy grew gleeful. The girl was frequently seen with Leicester, and Sir George could not help noticing that nobleman's pronouncedadmiration for his daughter. These exhibitions of gallantry were nevermade in the presence of the queen. The morning of the day when theStanleys were expected Sir George called me to his room for a privateconsultation. The old gentleman was in a state of excitement, not unmixedwith perplexity and trouble. 

He said, "I have great and good news to impart to you, Malcolm; yet I amin a dilemma growing out of it. "

"Tell me the good news first, Sir George, " I replied. "The dilemma maywait. "

"Is Doll a very beautiful girl?" he asked eagerly. 

"I believe she is the most beautiful woman in the world, " I answered. 

"Good, good, " he replied, rubbing his hands. "Is she so fascinating, brilliant, and attractive, think you--of course I speak in jest--but thinkyou she might vie with the court ladies for beauty, and think you shemight attract--for the sake of illustration I will say--might she attracta man like Leicester?"

"Unless I am much mistaken, " I answered, "Leicester is over his ears inlove with the girl now. "

"Ah, do you believe so, Malcolm?" replied Sir George, laughing andslapping his thigh, as he walked to and fro across the room. "You haveseen so much of that sort of thing that you should know it when it comesunder your nose. Eh, Malcolm, eh?"

"I should suppose that any one, however inexperienced in such matters, could easily see Leicester's infatuation for Dorothy. If you wish me totell you what I really believe--"

"I do, I do, " interrupted Sir George. 

"I should say, " I continued, "that Dorothy has deliberately gone in forconquest. Leave the girl to herself, Sir George. She can conduct thecampaign without help from any one. She understands the art of suchwarfare as well as if she were a veteran. "

"Gad, but she does, but she does. I believe she could give Venus herselfsome good points in the matter. But let me tell you, Malcolm, "--the oldman dropped his voice to a whisper, --"I questioned Doll this morning, andshe confessed that Leicester had spoken words of love to her. Would it notbe a great match for our house?"

He said "our house, " mind you, not "our Doll. " I might call his conditionof mind patrimonial selfishness. Simple old man! He did not know thatwords of love are not necessarily words of marriage. 

"Has Leicester spoken to you?" I asked in alarm for John's sake. 

"No, no, he has not spoken, " returned my cousin; "for that, of course, hemust have the queen's consent. But he will speak, I am sure, all in goodtime, Malcolm, all in good time. "

"How about the Stanleys?" I asked. "They will be here this afternoon. "

"That's the devil's finger in the matter, " cried Sir George. "That's wheremy dilemma lies. How shall I put them off, and still retain them in casenothing should come from Leicester? Besides, I am in honor bound to theearl. "

"I have a plan, " I replied. "You carry out your part of the agreementwith the earl, but let Dorothy, at the last moment, refuse to give herconsent. Let her ask for more time, on the plea that she does not know hermind. I will suggest to her, if you wish, the part she is to play; but Iwill conceal from her the fact that you are a party to it. "

"No, " said the old man, "that would be bad faith toward the earl. " After apause he continued doubtingly: "No, do not speak to Doll. I believe sheneeds no suggestions in the matter. I fear that mischief is in her mindalready. Her easy acquiescence in my wishes have of late had a suspiciousappearance. No, don't speak to her, Malcolm. If ever there lived a girlwho could be perverse and wilful on her own account, without help from anyone, it is my girl Doll. God bless you, man, if she but knew that I wantedher to reject Stanley, she would have him in spite of hell itself. Iwonder what she means by her docility and obedience? No, don't speak aword to her on the subject. Let her believe I am serious regarding thismarriage, and she will have some plan of her own to raise the devil. Ihave been expecting signs of it every day. I had determined not to bearwith her perversity, but now that the Leicester possibility has come upwe'll leave Doll to work out her own salvation, Malcolm. Don't interfere. No man living can teach that girl a new trick in deviltry. Gods, Malcolm!I am curious to know what she will be doing, for she certainly will bedoing something rather than sign that contract of betrothal. "

"But suppose out of obedience to you she should sign the contract?" Iasked. 

"Malcolm, you don't know Doll, " he replied. Then, after a pause, "Neitherdo I. I wish she were well married. "

When I left Sir George, I found Dorothy in close consultation with thequeen and two of her ladies. I heard the name of Lord James Stanley spokenamid suppressed laughter, and I suspected Dorothy had on foot some pranktouching that young man, to which her Majesty was a party. 

After dinner the Stanleys came a-wooing. The party consisted of father, son, and four retainers, who looked as if they had been preserved inalcohol for the occasion, so red were their faces. 

The Earl of Derby was a fine old gentleman of the rural type. His nobleson was an uncouth rustic, who had no thought above a stable boy or tavernmaid, nor any ambition above horse trading. His attire was a wonder tobehold. He wore a ruff of stupendous proportions. His trunks were sopuffed out and preposterous in size that they looked like a great paintedknot on a tree; and the many-colored splendors of his sleeves, his hat, his hose, and his shoes were dazzling to the eye. Add to this wondrousraiment feet and hands that could not be satisfactorily disposed of, andan unrest of manner painful to behold, and you may possibly conceive thegrandiose absurdity of Dorothy's wooer. The sight of him almost made SirGeorge ill; and his entrance into the long gallery, where the queen wasseated with her ladies and gentlemen, and Sir George and his friendsstanding about her, was a signal for laughter in which her Majesty openlyjoined. 

I shall not lead you through the tedious ceremony of presentation andintroduction, nor shall I tell you of the pompous manner in which one ofthe earl's retinue, a lawyer, read the marriage contract. The fact thatthe contract was read without the presence of Dorothy, whom it so nearlyconcerned, was significant of the small consideration which at that timewas given to a girl's consent. When all was ready for the signing, Dorothywas summoned. 

Sir George stood beside the Stanleys, and his nervousness was painfullyapparent. Two servants opened the great doors at the end of the longgallery, and Dorothy, holding up the skirt of her gown, bounded into theroom. She kneeled to the queen, and turned toward her uncle Stanley andher lover-cousin with a low bow. Then she courtesied and said--

"Good even, uncle, and how do you do, cousin. Have you come to inspect me, and, perchance, to buy?"

Sir George's face bore an expression of mingled shame, wonder, and alarm, and the queen and her suite laughed behind their fans. 

"It is well, " continued Dorothy. "Here am I, ready for inspection. "Thereupon she began to disrobe herself before the entire company. Leicester laughed outright, and the queen and her ladies suppressed theirmerriment for a moment, and then sent forth peals of laughter withoutrestraint. Sir George stepped toward the girl and raised his handwarningly, but the queen interposed:--

"Silence, Sir George, I command you;" and Sir George retreated to hisformer place beside the Earl of Derby. Dorothy first removed her bodice, showing her shoulders and a part of her arms, clothed in the fashion of atavern maid. 

Leicester, who stood by me, whispered, "God never made anything morebeautiful than Mistress Vernon's arms. "

Sir George again spoke angrily, "Doll, what are you doing?" But the queenby a wave of her hand commanded silence. Then the girl put her handsbehind her, and loosened the belt which held her skirt in place. The skirtfell to the floor, and out of it bounded Dorothy in the short gown of amaid. 

"You will be better able to judge of me in this costume, cousin, " saidDorothy. "It will be more familiar to you than the gowns which ladieswear. "

"I will retract, " said Leicester, whispering to me, and gazing ardentlyat Dorothy's ankles. "God has made something more beautiful than MistressVernon's arms. By Venus! I suppose that in His omnipotence He might beable to create something more beautiful than her ankles, but up to thistime He has not vouchsafed to me a vision of it. Ah! did any one everbehold such strength, such perfect symmetry, such--St. George! the gypsydoesn't live who can dance like that. "

Sure enough, Dorothy was dancing. The pipers in the balcony had burstforth in a ribald jig of a tune, and the girl was whirling in a wild, weird, and wondrous dance before her lover-cousin. Sir George ordered thepipers to cease playing; but again Elizabeth, who was filled with mirth, interrupted, and the music pealed forth in wanton volumes which floodedthe gallery. Dorothy danced like an elfin gypsy to the inspiring strains. Soon her dance changed to wondrous imitations of the movements of a horse. She walked sedately around in an ever increasing circle; she trotted andpaced; she gave the single foot and racked; she galloped, slowly for awhile, and then the gallop merged into a furious run which sent the bloodof her audience thrilling through their veins with delight. The wondrousease and grace, and the marvellous strength and quickness of hermovements, cannot be described. I had never before thought the human bodycapable of such grace and agility as she displayed. 

After her dance was finished she stepped in front of her cousin anddelivered herself as follows:--

"I am sound from ear tip to fetlock. There is not a blemish in me. "

"No, by my faith, I will swear there is not!" cried the Earl of Leicester. 

"I have good wind, " continued Dorothy, "two good eyes. By night or by dayI can see everything within the range of my vision, and a great deal thatis not. I shy, at times, when an uncouth object suddenly comes upon me. Iam warranted gentle if properly handled, but otherwise it is unsafe tocurry my heels. "

Sir George could no longer restrain himself, and again tried to preventDorothy from proceeding with her terrible insult to the Stanleys. Thequeen, however, was determined to see the end of the frolic, and shesaid:--

"Proceed, Mistress Vernon, proceed. "

Dorothy, nothing loath, continued: "As for my disposition, it might bebetter. It probably will improve with age, if it doesn't grow worse. Ihave all the gaits a horse should have. I am four years old, I have neverbeen trained to work double, and I think I never shall be. What think you?Now what have you to offer in exchange? Step out and let me see you move. "

She took the poor youth by the hand and led him to the middle of thefloor. 

"How old are you? Show me your teeth, " she said. The heir to Derby smileduneasily, and drew his hand across his nose. 

"Ah, you have a touch of the distemper, I see. Are you subject to it?"

Stanley smiled, and the earl said:--

"Sir George, this insult has gone far enough. "

"Stand back, my Lord Derby, " said the queen. "Do not interfere with thisinteresting barter. "

The earl reluctantly lapsed into silence. He remembered the insult of herMajesty's words all his life. 

"Now step off, " said Dorothy to Lord James. 

The young man stood in helpless confusion. Dorothy took a step backwardfrom him, and after watching Stanley a moment said:--

"What! You can neither trot, pace, nor gallop? I don't believe you caneven walk alone. " Then she turned toward Sir George. A smile was on herlips, but a look from hell was in her eyes as she said:--

"Father, take a lesson from this day. I gave you fair warning. Bring me nomore scurvy cobs for barter nor trade. " Then she turned to the Earl ofDerby and to her cousin Lord James, made a deep courtesy, and said:--

"You can have no barter with me. Good day. "

She ran from the room, and a great peal of laughter from all save SirGeorge and the Stanleys followed her as she passed out through the doubledoor. When the laughter had subsided, the Earl of Derby turned to SirGeorge and said:--

"Sir George, this insult is unbearable, and I shall expect satisfactionfor it. " Then he turned to the queen: "I beg that your Majesty will giveme leave to depart with my son. "

"Granted, " answered Elizabeth, and father and son started to leave theroom, moving backward toward the great doors. Sir George asked the earland Lord Stanley to remain, and in the presence of the company who hadwitnessed the insult, he in the humblest manner made abject apology forthe treatment his distinguished guests had received at the hands of hisdaughter. He very honestly and in all truth disclaimed any sympathy withDorothy's conduct, and offered, as the only reparation he could make, topunish her in some way befitting the offence. Then he conducted the gueststo the mounting block near the entrance tower and saw them depart. Dorothyhad solved her father's dilemma with a vengeance. 

Sir George was not sure that he wanted to be angry at Dorothy, though hefelt it was a duty he owed to himself and to the Stanleys. He had wishedthat the girl would in some manner defer the signing of the contract, buthe had not wanted her to refuse young Stanley's hand in a manner soinsulting that the match would be broken off altogether. 

As the day progressed, and as Sir George pondered over Dorothy's conduct, he grew more inclined to anger; but during the afternoon she kept wellunder the queen's wing, and he found no opportunity to give vent to hisill-temper. 

Late that night he called me to his room. He had been drinking during theevening and was poised between good-humored hilarity and ill-temperedferocity. The latter condition was usually the result of his libations. When I entered the room it was evident he was amused. 

"Did you ever hear or see such brazen effrontery?" he asked, referring toDorothy's treatment of the Stanleys. "Is there another girl on earth whowould have conceived the absurd thought, or, having conceived it, wouldhave dared to carry it out?"

I took a chair and replied, "I think there is not another. "

"I hope not, " continued Sir George. He sat in thought for a moment, andthen broke forth into a great laugh. When he had finished laughing hesaid: "I admit it was laughable and--and pretty--beautiful. Damme, Ididn't know the girl could do it, Malcolm! I didn't know she had it inher. There is not another girl living could have carried the frolicthrough. " Then he spoke seriously, "But I will make her smart for it whenthe queen leaves Haddon. "

"Sir George, if you will allow me to suggest what I feel on the subject, Iwould say that you have no reason whatever for desiring to make Dorothysmart. She may have deeper designs than we can see. "

"What designs do you suppose she can have? Tell me, Malcolm, " asked SirGeorge. 

I remained silent for a moment, hardly knowing how to express my thought. "Certainly she could not have appeared to a better advantage than in hertavern maid's costume, " I said. 

"That is true, " answered Sir George. "Though she is my own daughter, Imust admit that I have never seen any woman so beautiful as she. " The oldgentleman laughed softly for a moment and said: "But wasn't it brazen?Wasn't it shameless? I have always given the girl credit for modesty, but--damme, damme--"

"Her beauty in the tavern maid's costume fired Leicester's heart asnothing else could have done, " I said. "He stood by my side, and was inraptures over her charms. "

Sir George mused a moment and said something about the "Leicesterpossibility, " which I knew to be an impossibility, and before I left himhe had determined to allow the matter to drop for the present. "I ammaking a damned pretty mess of the whole affair, I fear, Malcolm, " hesaid. 

"You don't seem to be clearing it up, Sir George, " I responded. 

After talking over some arrangements for the queen's entertainment, I saidgood night, and left my cousin brooding over as complicated a problem asman ever tried to solve. 

The next morning I told Dorothy how her father felt with respect to the"Leicester possibility. " She laughed and said:--

"I will encourage father in that matter, and, " with a saucy twinkle in hereye, "incidentally I will not discourage my proud lord of Leicester. Iwill make the most of the situation, fear not, Malcolm. "

"I do not fear, " said I, emphatically. 

There it was: the full-blown spirit of conquest, strong even in alove-full heart. God breathed into Adam the breath of life; but into Evehe breathed the love of conquest, and it has been growing stronger in thehearts of her daughters with each recurring generation. 

"How about John?" I asked. 

"Oh, John?" she answered, throwing her head contemplatively to one side. "He is amply able to protect his own interests. I could not be reallyuntrue to him if I wished to be. It is I who am troubled on the score ofinfidelity. John will be with the most beautiful queen--" She broke off inthe midst of her sentence, and her face became clouded with an expressionof anger and hatred. "God curse her! I wish she were dead, dead, dead. There! you know how I feel toward your English-French-Scottish beauty. Curse the mongrel--" She halted before the ugly word she was about to use;but her eyes were like glowing embers, and her cheeks were flushed by theheat of anger. 

"Did you not promise me, Dorothy, that you would not again allow yourselfto become jealous of Queen Mary?" I asked. 

"Yes, I promised, but I cannot prevent the jealousy, and I do not intendto try. I hate her, and I love to hate her. "

"Why should you hate her?" I asked. "If John remains true to you, there iscertainly no cause for you to hate any one. If he should be untrue to you, you should hate him. "

"Hate him?" she exclaimed. "That, indeed, is pretty reasoning. If heshould be untrue to me, I should of course hate her. I could not hate him. I did not make myself love him. I would never have been so great a fool asto bring that pain upon myself intentionally. I suppose no girl woulddeliberately make herself love a man and bring into her heart so great anagony. I feel toward John as I do, because I must; and I hate yourScottish mongrel because I must. I tell you, Malcolm, when she comes toRutland, if I hear of her trying any of her wanton tricks on John therewill be trouble--mark my words!"

"I ask you to promise me this, Dorothy: that you will do nothingconcerning John and Queen Mary without first speaking to me. "

She paced across the room angrily. "I promise you nothing, Malcolm, savethat I shall not allow that woman to come between John and me. That Ipromise you, on my oath. "

Dorothy continued to shed her luminous smiles on Leicester, though she wascareful not to shine in the queen's presence. My lord was dazzled by thesmiles, and continually sought opportunities to bask in their dangerouslight. As a result of this smiling and basking the great Londonheart-breaker was soon helplessly caught in the toils of Doll, the countrymaiden. She played him as an angler plays a trout. The most experiencedcourt coquette could not have done the part better than did this girl, whose knowledge of the subject was wholly intuitive, for her life had allbeen spent amid the green hills and groves of Derbyshire. She so managedthe affair that her father should see enough of Leicester's preference tokeep alive in Sir George's mind the hope for the "Leicester possibility. "Those words had become with her a phrase slyly to play upon. 

One afternoon when the sun was graciously warm and bright, I induced Madgeto walk with me upon the terrace, that I might for a few moments feel thetouch of her hand and hear her whispered words. We took a seat by a largeholly bush, which effectually concealed us from view. We had been therebut a few moments when we heard footsteps approaching. Looking between thebranches of the holly bush I saw Dorothy and Leicester coming toward usfrom the north end of the terrace. Dorothy's eyes were cast down demurely, and her head hung in the attitude of a shy, modest girl, who listenstimidly to words that are music in her ears. Never have I seen an attitudemore indicative of the receptive mood than that which Dorothy assumedtoward Leicester. 

"Ah, " thought I, "poor John has given his heart and has risked his lifefor the sake of Doll, and Doll is a miserable coquette. "

But there was conduct still more objectionable to come from Dorothy. 

Unconscious of our presence, Leicester said, "My fair beauty, my Venus, here is a settle under this holly bush, well hidden from prying eyes. Itinvites us. Will you sit here with me for one happy moment, and give me ataste of Paradise?"

"I fear I should not sit with you, my lord, however much I--may--may wishto do so. My father or the queen might observe us. " The black lashes fellupon the fair cheek, and the red golden head with its crown of glory hungforward convincingly. 

"You false jade, " thought I. 

"I ask for but one moment, " pleaded Leicester. "The queen sleeps at thistime after dinner, and perhaps your father would not object if you were togrant this little favor to the first nobleman of the realm. "

"You do not know my father, my lord. He is very strict regarding myconduct, " murmured the drooping head. 

"I ask for but one little moment, " continued the earl, "in which to tellyou that you have filled my heart with adoration and love. "

"I should not listen to you, my lord. Were I mindful of my happiness, Ishould return to the Hall at once, " said the drooping lashes and hanginghead. 

"You lying wench, " thought I. By that time I was thoroughly angered. 

"Only one little moment on the settle, " pleaded Leicester, "that I mayspeak to you that which I wish so ardently to say. "

"Can you not speak while we walk, my lord?" asked Dorothy. 

I felt a bitter desire to curse the girl. 

"It is difficult for me to speak while we walk, " said Leicester, cautiously taking the girl's hand; so she permitted him to lead her to thesettle under the holly bush, on the opposite side of which Madge and Iwere sitting. 

The earl retained the hand for a moment after he and Dorothy were seated, but she gently drew it away and moved a little distance from his Lordship. Still, her eyes were drooped, her head hung low, and her bosom actuallyheaved as if with emotion. 

"I will tell John of your shamelessness, " I said to myself. "He shall feelno more heartaches for you--you wanton huzzy. "

Then Leicester poured forth his passion most eloquently. Poesy, verse, andrhetoric all came to help him in his wooing. Now and then the girl wouldrespond to his ardor with "Please, my lord, " or "I pray you, my lord, " andwhen he would try to take her hand she would say, "I beg you, my lord, donot. " But Leicester evidently thought that the "do not" meant "do, " forsoon he began to steal his arm about her waist, and she was so slow instopping him that I thought she was going to submit. She, however, arosegently to her feet and said:--

"My lord, I must return to the Hall. I may not longer remain here withyou. "

The earl caught her hand and endeavored to kiss it, but she adroitlyprevented him, and stepping out into the path, started slowly toward theHall. She turned her head slightly toward Leicester in a mute but eloquentinvitation, and he quickly followed her. 

I watched the pair walk up the terrace. They descended the steps to thegarden, and from thence they entered the Hall by way of the porch. 

"Was it not very wicked in Dorothy to listen to such words fromLeicester?" asked Madge. "I do not at all understand her. "

Madge, of course, knew only a part of what had happened, and a very smallpart at that, for she had not seen Dorothy. Madge and I returned to theHall, and we went at once to Dorothy's room, hoping to see her, andintending to tell her our opinion of the shameless manner in which she hadacted. 

Dorothy was in her room alone when we entered. She clapped her hands, ranto the door, bolted it, and bounded back toward us. 

"I have the greatest news to tell you, " she cried laughingly, --"thegreatest news and the greatest sport of which you ever heard. My lordLeicester is in love with me. "

"Indeed, that is very fine, " I responded; but my irony met its usual fate. She did not see it. 

"Yes, " continued Dorothy, brimming over with mirth, "you should have heardhim pleading with me a few moments since upon the terrace. "

"We did hear him, " said Madge. 

"You heard him? Where? How?" Her eyes were wide with wonder. 

"We were on the opposite side of the holly bush from you, " I answered. "Weheard him and we saw you. "

"Did you? Good. I am glad of it, " said Dorothy. 

"Yes, we saw and we heard all, and we think that your conduct wasshameless, " I responded severely. 

"Shameless?" demanded Dorothy. "Now pray tell me what I did or said thatwas shameless. ". 

I was at a loss to define the wrong in her conduct, for it had been of anintangible quality which in itself was nothing, but notwithstanding meanta great deal. 

"You permitted him to hold your hand, " I said, trying to fix on somethingreal with which to accuse her. 

"I did nothing of the sort, " said Dorothy, laughingly. "He caught my handseveral times, but I withdrew it from him"

I knew she spoke the truth regarding her hand, so I tried again. 

"You--you hung your head and kept your eyes cast down, and you looked--"

"Oh, I hung my head, I cast down my eyes, and I looked?" she answered, laughing heartily. "Pray let me ask you, Master Fault-finder, for what useelse are heads and eyes made?"

I was not prepared to say that the uses to which Dorothy had put her headand eyes were not some of the purposes for which they were created. Theyare good purposes, too, I admit, although I would not have conceded asmuch to Dorothy. I knew the girl would soon wheedle me into her way ofthinking, so I took a bold stand and said:--

"It is my intention to tell John about your conduct with Leicester, and Ishall learn for what purpose he thinks eyes and heads are created. "

"Tell John?" cried Dorothy. "Of course you may tell John. He well knowsthe purposes of heads and eyes, and their proper uses. He has told me manytimes his opinion on the subject. " She laughed for a moment, and thencontinued: "I, too, shall tell John all that happened or shall happenbetween Lord Leicester and me. I wish I could tell him now. How I wish Icould tell him now. " A soft light came to her eyes, and she repeatedhuskily: "If I might tell him now; if I might tell him now. Why, Malcolm, I despise Leicester. He is a poor, weak fool. He has no more force norstrength than I have. He is not a man. He is no more attractive than awoman. He wanted to kiss me. He begged me to give him but one. It is but apoor kiss which a man gets by begging. Think you I would give him one? Hadhe but touched my lips, think you I would ever allow John to soil himselfagain by kissing them? Fear not, Malcolm. Fear not for John nor for me. No man will ever receive from me a favor, the granting of which would makeme unfit to be John's--John's wife. I have paid too dearly for him tothrow him away for a penny whistle that I do not want. " Then she grewearnest, with a touch of anger: "Leicester! What reason, suppose you, Malcolm, have I for treating him as I do? Think you I act from sheerwantonness? If there were one little spot of that fault upon my soul, Iwould tear myself from John, though I should die for it. "

Her laughing mood had passed away, and I feared to say that I could see noreason other than coquetry for her conduct, I feared the red-hairedtigress would scratch my eyes out. 

"I have wanted to see you, " she continued, "that I might tell you of myplans and of the way they are working out, but now since you have spokento me in this manner, Sir Malcolm François de Lorraine Vernon, I shalltell you nothing. You suspect me. Therefore, you shall wait with the restof the world to learn my purposes. You may tell John all you have seen andheard. I care not how quickly you do it. " Then with a sigh: "I pray God itmay be very soon. He will wish for no explanation, and he shall one dayhave in me a rich reward for his faith. "

"Do you trust him as he trusts you?" I asked, "and would you demand anexplanation were he to act toward Mary Stuart as you have acted towardLeicester?"

"He could not act toward her as I did toward Lord Leicester, " she saidthoughtfully. Then after a moment she laughingly continued: "Johncan't--he can't hang his head and--droop his eyes and look. "

"But if--" I began. 

"I want no more of your hellish 'ifs, '" cried the girl in sudden fury. "IfJohn were to--to look at that Scottish mongrel as I looked at Leicester, Iwould--I would kill the royal wanton. I would kill her if it cost mylife. Now, for God's sake, leave me. You see the state into which youhave wrought me. " I left Madge with Dorothy and walked out upon BowlingGreen to ponder on the events that were passing before me. 

From the time we learned that John had gone to fetch the Scottish queen Ihad fears lest Dorothy's inflammable jealousy might cause trouble, and nowthose fears were rapidly transforming themselves into a feeling ofcertainty. There is nothing in life so sweet and so dangerous as the loveof a hot-blooded woman. 

I soon saw Dorothy again. "Tell me, " said I, in conciliation, "tell me, please, what is your reason for acting as you do toward Leicester, and whyshould you look differently upon similar conduct on John's part?"

"I will not tell you my plans, " she responded, --"not now, at least. Perhaps I shall do so when I have recovered from my ill-temper. It is hardfor me to give my reasons for feeling differently about like conduct onJohn's part. Perhaps I feel as I do because--because--It is this way:While I might do little things--mere nothings--such as I have done--itwould be impossible for me to do any act of unfaithfulness to John. Oh, itcould not be. But with him, he--he--well, he is a man and--and--oh, don'ttalk to me! Don't talk to me! You are driving me mad. Out of my sight! Outof my room! Holy Virgin! I shall die before I have him; I know I shall. "

There it was again. The thought of Mary Stuart drove her wild. Dorothythrew herself on her face upon the bed, and Madge went over and sat by herside to soothe her. I, with a feeling of guilt, so adroit had beenDorothy's defence, left the girls and went to my room in the tower tounravel, by the help of my pipe, the tangled web of woman'sincomprehensibility. I failed, as many another man had failed before me, and as men will continue to fail to the end of time. 

CHAPTER XIV

MARY STUART

And now I come to an event in this history which I find difficult to placebefore you in its true light. For Dorothy's sake I wish I might omit italtogether. But in true justice to her and for the purpose of making yousee clearly the enormity of her fault and the palliating excuses therefor, if any there were, I shall pause briefly to show the condition of affairsat the time of which I am about to write--a time when Dorothy's madnessbrought us to the most terrible straits and plunged us into deepesttribulations. 

Although I have been unable to show you as much of John as I have wishedyou to see, you nevertheless must know that he, whose nature was not likethe shallow brook but was rather of the quality of a deep, slow-movingriver, had caught from Dorothy an infection of love from which he wouldnever recover. His soul was steeped in the delicious essence of the girl. I would also call your attention to the conditions under which his passionfor Dorothy had arisen. It is true he received the shaft when first he sawher at the Royal Arms in Derby-town, but the shaft had come from Dorothy'seyes. Afterward she certainly had done her full part in the wooing. It wasfor her sake, after she had drawn him on to love her, that he became aservant in Haddon Hall. For her sake he faced death at the hands of herfather. And it was through her mad fault that the evil came upon him ofwhich I shall now tell you. That she paid for her fault in suffering doesnot excuse her, since pain is but the latter half of evil. 

During the term of Elizabeth's residence in Haddon Hall John returned toRutland with Queen Mary Stuart, whose escape from Lochleven had excitedall England. The country was full of rumors that Mary was coming toEngland not so much for sanctuary as to be on the ground ready to acceptthe English crown when her opportunity to do so should occur. TheCatholics, a large and powerful party, flushed with their triumphs underthe "Bloody Queen, " were believed to sympathize with Mary's cause. Although Elizabeth said little on the subject, she felt deeply, and shefeared trouble should the Scottish queen enter her dominion. Another causeof annoyance to Elizabeth was the memory that Leicester had once beendeeply impressed with Mary's charms, and had sought her hand in marriage. Elizabeth's prohibition alone had prevented the match. That thoughtrankled in Elizabeth's heart, and she hated Mary, although her hatred, asin all other cases, was tempered with justice and mercy. This great queenhad the brain of a man with its motives, and the heart of a woman with itsemotions. 

When news of Mary's escape reached London, Cecil came in great haste toHaddon. During a consultation with Elizabeth he advised her to seize Mary, should she enter England, and to check the plots made in Mary's behalf byexecuting the principal friends of the Scottish queen. He insistentlydemanded that Elizabeth should keep Mary under lock and key, should she beso fortunate as to obtain possession of her person, and that the men whowere instrumental in bringing her into England should be arraigned forhigh treason. 

John certainly had been instrumental in bringing her into England, and ifCecil's advice were taken by the queen, John's head would pay the forfeitfor his chivalric help to Mary. 

Elizabeth was loath to act on this advice, but Cecil worked upon her fearsand jealousies until her mind and her heart were in accord, and she gavesecret orders that his advice should be carried out. Troops were sent tothe Scottish border to watch for the coming of the fugitive queen. ButMary was already ensconced, safely, as she thought, in Rutland Castleunder the assumed name of Lady Blanche. Her presence at Rutland was, ofcourse, guarded as a great secret. 

Dorothy's mind dwelt frequently upon the fact that John and the beautifulyoung Scottish queen lived under the same roof, for John had written toDorothy immediately after his return. Nothing so propagates itself asjealousy. There were in Haddon Hall two hearts in which thisself-propagating process was rapidly progressing--Elizabeth's andDorothy's. Each had for the cause of her jealousy the same woman. 

One night, soon after Cecil had obtained from Elizabeth the order forMary's arrest, Dorothy, on retiring to her room at a late hour foundJennie Faxton waiting for her with a precious letter from John. Dorothydrank in the tenderness of John's letter as the thirsty earth absorbs therain; but her joy was neutralized by frequent references to the woman whoshe feared might become her rival. One-half of what she feared, she wassure had been accomplished: that is, Mary's half. She knew in her heartthat the young queen would certainly grow fond of John. That was aforegone conclusion. No woman could be with him and escape that fate, thought Dorothy. Her hope as to the other half-John's part-rested solelyupon her faith in John, which was really great, and her confidence in herown charms and in her own power to hold him, which in truth, and with goodreason, was not small, Dorothy went to bed, and Jennie, following herusual custom, when at Haddon, lay upon the floor in the same room. John'sletter, with all its tenderness, had thrown Dorothy into an inquisitiveframe of mind. After an hour or two of restless tossing upon the bed shefell asleep, but soon after midnight she awakened, and in her drowsycondition the devil himself played upon the strings of her dream-chargedimagination. After a time she sprang from the bed, lighted a candle at therush light, and read John's letter in a tremor of dream-wrought fear. Thenshe aroused Jennie Faxton and asked:--

"When were you at Rutland?"

"I spent yesterday and to-day there, mistress, " answered Jennie. 

"Did you see a strange lady?" asked Dorothy. 

"Oh, yes, mistress, I did see her three or four times, " answered Jennie. "Lady Blanche is her name, and she be a cousin of Sir John's. She do come, they say, from France, and do speak only in the tongue of that country. "

"I--I suppose that this--this Lady Blanche and--and Sir John are very goodfriends? Did you--did you--often see them together?" asked Dorothy. Shefelt guilty in questioning Jennie for the purpose of spying upon herlover. She knew that John would not pry into her conduct. 

"Indeed, yes, mistress, " returned Jennie, who admired John greatly fromher lowly sphere, and who for her own sake as well as Dorothy's wasjealous of Queen Mary. "They do walk together a great deal on theramparts, and the white snaky lady do look up into Sir John's face likethis"--here Jennie assumed a lovelorn expression. "And--and once, mistress, I thought--I thought--"

"Yes, yes, Jesu!" hissed Dorothy, clutching Jennie by the arm, "youthought, you thought. Tell me! Tell me! What in hell's name did you think?Speak quickly, wench. "

"I be not sure, mistress, but I thought I saw his arm about her waist oneevening on the ramparts. It was dark, and for sure I could not tell, but--"

"God's curse upon the white huzzy!" screamed Dorothy. "God's curse uponher! She is stealing him from me, and I am helpless. "

She clasped her hands over the top of her head and ran to and fro acrossthe room uttering inarticulate cries of agony. Then she sat upon thebedside and threw herself into Madge's arms, crying under her breath: "MyGod! My God! Think of it, Madge. I have given him my heart, my soul, Omerciful God, my love--all that I have worth giving, and now comes thiswhite wretch, and because she is a queen and was sired in hell she triesto steal him from me and coaxes him to put his arm around her waist. "

"Don't feel that way about it, Dorothy, " said Madge, soothingly. "I knowSir John can explain it all to you when you see him. He is true to you, Iam sure. "

"True to me, Madge! How can he be true to me if she coaxes him to woo herand if he puts his arm--I am losing him; I know it. I--I--O God, Madge, Iam smothering; I am strangling! Holy Virgin! I believe I am about to die. "She threw herself upon the bed by Madge's side, clutching her throat andbreast, and her grand woman's form tossed and struggled as if she were inconvulsions. 

"Holy mother!" she cried, "take this frightful agony from my breast. Snatch this terrible love from my heart. God! If you have pity, give itnow. Help me! Help me! Ah, how deeply I love. I never loved him so much asI do at this awful moment. Save me from doing that which is in my heart. If I could have him for only one little portion of a minute. But that isdenied me whose right it is, and is given to her who has no right. Ah, God is not just. If he were he would strike her dead. I hate her and Ihate--hate him. "

She arose to a sitting posture on the edge of the bed and held out herarms toward Madge. 

"Madge, " she continued, frenzied by the thought, "his arm was around herwaist. That was early in the evening. Holy Virgin! What may be happeningnow?"

Dorothy sprang from the bed and staggered about the room with her handsupon her throbbing temples. 

"I cannot bear this agony. God give me strength. " Soon she began to gaspfor breath. "I can--see--them now--together, together. I hate her; I hatehim. My love has turned bitter. What can I do? What can I do? I will doit. I will. I will disturb their sweet rest. If I cannot have him, sheshall not. I'll tell the queen, I'll tell the queen. "

Dorothy acted on her resolution the moment it was taken, and at once beganto unbolt the door. 

"Stay, Dorothy, stay!" cried Madge. "Think on what you are about to do. Itwill cost John his life. Come to me for one moment, Dorothy, I pray you. "Madge arose from the bed and began groping her way toward Dorothy, who wasunbolting the door. 

Madge could have calmed the tempest-tossed sea as easily as she could haveinduced Dorothy to pause in her mad frenzy. Jennie Faxton, almostparalyzed by fear of the storm she had raised, stood in the corner of theroom trembling and speechless. Dorothy was out of the room before poorblind Madge could reach her. The frenzied girl was dressed only in hernight robes and her glorious hair hung dishevelled down to her waist. Sheran through the rooms of Lady Crawford and those occupied by her fatherand the retainers. Then she sped down the long gallery and up the steps toElizabeth's apartment. 

She knocked violently at the queen's door. 

"Who comes?" demanded one of her Majesty's ladies. 

"I, Dorothy, " was the response. "I wish to speak to her Majesty at onceupon a matter of great importance to her. "

Elizabeth ordered her ladies to admit Dorothy, and the girl ran to thequeen, who had half arisen in her bed. 

"You must have affairs of great moment, indeed, " cried Elizabeth, testily, "if they induce you to disturb me in this manner. "

"Of great moment, indeed, your Majesty, " replied Dorothy, endeavoring tobe calm, "of moment to you and to me. Mary Stuart is in England at thisinstant trying to steal your crown and my lover. She is now sleepingwithin five leagues of this place. God only knows what she is doing. Letus waste no time, your Majesty. "

The girl was growing wilder every second. 

"Let us go--you and I--and seize this wanton creature. You to save yourcrown; I to save my lover and--my life. "

"Where is she?" demanded Elizabeth, sharply. "Cease prattling about yourlover. She would steal both my lover and my crown if she could. Where isshe?"

"She is at Rutland Castle, your Majesty, " answered Dorothy. 

"Ah, the Duke of Rutland and his son John, " said Elizabeth. "I have beenwarned of them. Send for my Lord Cecil and Sir William St. Loe. "

Sir William was in command of the yeoman guards. 

"Is Sir John Manners your lover?" asked Elizabeth, turning to Dorothy. 

"Yes, " answered the girl. 

"You may soon seek another, " replied the queen, significantly. 

Her Majesty's words seemed to awaken Dorothy from her stupor of frenzy, and she foresaw the result of her act. Then came upon her a reaction worsethan death. 

"You may depart, " said the queen to Dorothy, and the girl went back toher room hardly conscious that she was moving. 

At times we cannot help feeling that love came to the human breast througha drop of venom shot from the serpent's tongue into the heart of Eve. Again we believe it to be a spark from God's own soul. Who will solve methis riddle?

Soon the hard, cold ringing of arms, and the tramp of mailed feetresounded through Haddon Hall, and the doom-like din reached Dorothy'sroom in the tones of a clanging knell. There seemed to be a frightfulrhythm in the chaos of sounds which repeated over and over again thewords: "John will die, John will die, " though the full import of her actand its results did nor for a little time entirely penetrate herconsciousness. She remembered the queen's words, "You may soon seekanother. " Elizabeth plainly meant that John was a traitor, and that Johnwould die for his treason. The clanking words, "John will die, John willdie, " bore upon the girl's ears in ever increasing volume until the agonyshe suffered deadened her power to think. She wandered aimlessly about theroom, trying to collect her senses, but her mind was a blank. After a fewminutes she ran back to the queen, having an undefined purpose of doingsomething to avert the consequences of her mad act. She at first thoughtto tell the queen that the Information she had given concerning MaryStuart's presence in Rutland was false, but she well knew that a lieseldom succeeds; and in this case, even through her clouded mentality, shecould see that a lie would surely fail. She determined to beg the queen tospare John's life. She did not know exactly what she would do, but shehoped by the time she should reach the queen's room to hit upon some planthat would save him. When she knocked at Elizabeth's door it was lockedagainst her. Her Majesty was in consultation with Cecil, Sir William St. Loe, and a few other gentlemen, among whom was Sir George Vernon. 

Dorothy well knew there was no help for John if her father were of thequeen's council. She insisted upon seeing the queen, but was rudelyrepulsed. By the time she again reached her room full consciousness hadreturned, and agony such as she had never before dreamed of overwhelmedher soul. Many of us have felt the same sort of pain when awakenedsuddenly to the fact that words we have spoken easily may not, by ourutmost efforts, be recalled, though we would gladly give our life itselfto have them back. If suffering can atone for sin, Dorothy bought herindulgence within one hour after sinning. But suffering cannot atone forsin; it is only a part of it--the result. 

"Arise, Madge, and dress, " said Dorothy, gently. "I have made a terriblemistake. I have committed a frightful crime. I have betrayed John todeath. Ah, help me, Madge, if you can. Pray God to help me. He will listento you. I fear to pray to Him. He would turn my prayers to curses. I amlost. " She fell for a moment upon the bed and placed her head on Madge'sbreast murmuring, "If I could but die. "

"All may turn out better than it now appears, " said Madge. "Quiet yourselfand let us consider what may be done to arrest the evil of your--youract. "

"Nothing can be done, nothing, " wailed Dorothy, as she arose from the bedand began to dress. "Please arise, Madge, and dress yourself. Here areyour garments and your gown. "

They hastily dressed without speaking, and Dorothy began again to pace thefloor. 

"He will die hating me, " said Dorothy. "If he could live I willingly wouldgive him to the--the Scottish woman. Then I could die and my sufferingwould cease. I must have been mad when I went to the queen. He trusted mewith his honor and his life, and I, traitress that I am, have betrayedboth. Ah, well, when he dies I also shall die. There is comfort at leastin that thought. How helpless I am. "

She could not weep. It seemed as if there were not a tear in her. All washard, dry, burning agony. She again fell upon the bed and moaned piteouslyfor a little time, wringing her hands and uttering frantic ejaculatoryprayers for help. 

"My mind seems to have forsaken me, " she said hoarsely to Madge. "I cannotthink. What noise is that?"

She paused and listened for a moment. Then she went to the north windowand opened the casement. 

"The yeoman guards from Bakewell are coming, " she said. "I recognize themby the light of their flambeaux. They are entering the gate at thedove-cote. "

A part of the queen's guard had been quartered in the village of Bakewell. 

Dorothy stood at the window for a moment and said: "The other guards arehere under our window and are ready to march to Rutland. There is LordCecil, and Sir William St. Loe, and Malcolm, and there is my father. Nowthey are off to meet the other yeomen at the dove-cote. The stable boysare lighting their torches and flambeaux. They are going to murder John, and I have sent them. "

Dorothy covered her face with her hands and slowly walked to and froacross the room. 

"Call Malcolm, " said Madge. "Perhaps he can help us. Lead me to thewindow, Dorothy, and I will call him. " Dorothy led Madge to the window, and above the din of arms I heard her soft voice calling, "Malcolm, Malcolm. "

The order to march had been given before Madge called, but I sought SirWilliam and told him I would return to the Hall to get another sword andwould soon overtake him on the road to Rutland. 

I then hastened to Dorothy's room. I was ignorant of the means wherebyElizabeth had learned of Mary's presence at Rutland. The queen had told noone how the information reached her. The fact that Mary was in England wasall sufficient for Cecil, and he proceeded to execute the order Elizabethhad given for Mary's arrest, without asking or desiring any explanation. I, of course, was in great distress for John's sake, since I knew that hewould be attainted of treason. I had sought in vain some plan whereby Imight help him, but found none. I, myself, being a Scottish refugee, occupied no safe position, and my slightest act toward helping John orMary would be construed against me. 

When I entered Dorothy's room, she ran to me and said: "Can you help me, Malcolm? Can you help me save him from this terrible evil which I havebrought upon him?"

"How did you bring the evil upon him?" I asked, in astonishment. "It wasnot your fault that he brought Mary Stuart to--"

"No, no, " she answered; "but I told the queen she was at Rutland. "

"You told the queen?" I exclaimed, unwilling to believe my ears. "Youtold--How--why--why did you tell her?"

"I do not know why I told her, " she replied. "I was mad with--withjealousy. You warned me against it, but I did not heed you. Jennie Faxtontold me that she saw John and--but all that does not matter now. I willtell you hereafter if I live. What we must now do is to save him--to savehim if we can. Try to devise some plan. Think--think, Malcolm. "

My first thought was to ride to Rutland Castle and give the alarm. SirGeorge would lead the yeomen thither by the shortest route--the road byway of Rowsley. There was another route leading up the Lathkil through thedale, and thence by a road turning southward to Rutland. That road waslonger by a league than the one Sir George would take, but I could put myhorse to his greatest speed, and I might be able to reach the castle intime to enable John and Mary to escape. I considered the question amoment. My own life certainly would pay the forfeit in case of failure;but my love for John and, I confess it with shame, the memory of my oldtenderness for Mary impelled me to take the risk. I explained the planupon which I was thinking, and told them of my determination. When I didso, Madge grasped me by the arm to detain me, and Dorothy fell upon herknees and kissed my hand. 

I said, "I must start at once; for, ride as I may, I fear the yeomen willreach Rutland gates before I can get there. "

"But If the guards should be at the gates when you arrive, or if youshould be missed by Cecil, you, a Scottish refugee and a friend of QueenMary, would be suspected of treason, and you would lose your life, " saidMadge, who was filled with alarm for my sake. 

"That is true, " I replied; "but I can think of no other way whereby Johncan possibly be saved. "

Dorothy stood for a moment in deep thought, and said:--

"I will ride to Rutland by way of Lathkil Dale--I will ride in place ofyou, Malcolm. It is my duty and my privilege to do this if I can. "

I saw the truth of her words, and felt that since Dorothy had wrought theevil, it was clearly her duty to remedy it if she could. If she shouldfail, no evil consequences would fall upon her. If I should fail, it wouldcost me my life; and while I desired to save John, still I wished to savemyself. Though my conduct may not have been chivalric, still I was willingthat Dorothy should go in my place, and I told her so. I offered to ridewith her as far as a certain cross-road a league distant from RutlandCastle. There I would leave her, and go across the country to meet theyeomen on the road they had taken. I could join them before they reachedRutland, and my absence during the earlier portion of the march would notbe remarked, or if noticed it could easily be explained. 

This plan was agreed upon, and after the guards had passed out atDove-cote Gate and were well down toward Rowsley, I rode out from theHall, and waited for Dorothy at an appointed spot near Overhaddon. 

Immediately after my departure Dolcy was saddled, and soon Dorothy rodefuriously up to me. Away we sped, Dorothy and I, by Yulegrave church, downinto the dale, and up the river. Never shall I forget that mad ride. Heavyrains had recently fallen, and the road in places was almost impassable. The rivers were in flood, but when Dorothy and I reached the ford, thegirl did not stop to consider the danger ahead of her. I heard herwhisper, "On, Dolcy, on, " and I heard the sharp "whisp" of the whip as shestruck the trembling, fearful mare, and urged her into the dark flood. Dolcy hesitated, but Dorothy struck her again and again with the whip andsoftly cried, "On, Dolcy, on. " Then mare and rider plunged into theswollen river, and I, of course, followed them. The water was so deep thatour horses were compelled to swim, and when we reached the opposite sideof the river we had drifted with the current a distance of at least threehundred yards below the road. We climbed the cliff by a sheep path. HowDorothy did it I do not know; and how I succeeded in following her I knoweven less. When we reached the top of the cliff, Dorothy started off atfull gallop, leading the way, and again I followed. The sheep pathleading up the river to the road followed close the edge of the cliff, where a false step by the horse would mean death to both horse and rider. But Dorothy feared not, or knew not, the danger, and I caught her everwhispered cry, --"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, on. " Ashamed to fall behind, yet fearing to ride at such a pace on such a path, I urged my horseforward. He was a fine, strong, mettlesome brute, and I succeeded inkeeping the girl's dim form in sight. The moon, which was rapidly sinkingwestward, still gave us light through rifts in the black bank of floatingclouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have beenour last journey in the flesh. 

Soon we reached the main road turning southward. It was a series of roughrocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with thespeed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words, untimely spoken, had wrought. I urged my horse until his head was close byDolcy's tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry, --"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on. "

No word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy pantingwith her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and thethud, thud, thud of our horses' hoofs came always back to me fromDorothy's lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing, --"On, Dolcy, on; on Dolcy, on. "

The road we took led us over steep hills and down through dark, shadow-crowded ravines; but up hill, down hill, and on the level theterrible girl before me plunged forward with unabated headlong fury untilI thought surely the flesh of horse, man, and woman could endure thestrain not one moment longer. But the horses, the woman, and--though I sayit who should not--the man were of God's best handiwork, and the cords ofour lives did not snap. One thought, and only one, held possession of thegirl, and the matter of her own life or death had no place in her mind. 

When we reached the cross-road where I was to leave her, we halted while Iinstructed Dorothy concerning the road she should follow from that pointto Rutland, and directed her how to proceed when she should arrive at thecastle gate. She eagerly listened for a moment or two, then grewimpatient, and told me to hasten in my speech, since there was no time tolose. Then she fearlessly dashed away alone into the black night; and as Iwatched her fair form fade into the shadows, the haunting cry came faintlyback to me, --"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy on, " and I was sick at heart. I wasloath to leave her thus in the inky gloom. The moon had sunk for thenight, and the clouds had banked up without a rift against the hiddenstars; but I could give her no further help, and my life would pay theforfeit should I accompany her. She had brought the evil upon herself. Shewas the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. She was fulfilling herdestiny. She was doing that which she must do: nothing more, nothing less. She was filling her little niche in the universal moment. She was a partof the infinite kaleidoscope--a fate-charged, fate-moved, fragile piece ofglass which might be crushed to atoms in the twinkling of an eye, in thesounding of a trump. 

After leaving Dorothy I rode across the country and soon overtook theyeoman guard whom I joined unobserved. Then I marched with them, all toorapidly to suit me, to Rutland. The little army had travelled with greaterspeed than I had expected, and I soon began to fear that Dorothy would notreach Rutland Castle in time to enable its inmates to escape. 

Within half an hour from the time I joined the yeomen we saw the dimoutlines of the castle, and Sir William St. Loe gave the command to hurryforward. Cecil, Sir William, Sir George, and myself rode in advance of thecolumn. As we approached the castle by the road leading directly to thegate from the north, I saw for a moment upon the top of the hill west ofthe castle gate the forms of Dorothy and Dolcy in dim silhouette againstthe sky. Then I saw them plunge madly down the hill toward the gate. Ifancied I could hear the girl whispering in frenzied hoarseness, --"On, Dolcy, on, " and I thought I could catch the panting of the mare. At thefoot of the hill, less than one hundred yards from the gate, poor Dolcy, unable to take another step, dropped to the ground. Dolcy had gone on toher death. She had filled her little niche in the universe and had died ather post Dorothy plunged forward over the mare's head, and a cry of alarmcame from my lips despite me. I was sure the girl had been killed. She, however, instantly sprang to her feet. Her hair was flying behind her andshe ran toward the gate crying: "John, John, fly for your life!" And thenshe fell prone upon the ground and did not rise. 

We had all seen the mare fall, and had seen the girl run forward towardthe gates and fall before reaching them. Cecil and Sir William rode to thespot where Dorothy lay, and dismounted. 

In a moment Sir William called to Sir George:--

"The lady is your daughter, Mistress Dorothy. "

"What in hell's name brings her here?" cried Sir George, hurriedly ridingforward, "and how came she?"

I followed speedily, and the piteous sight filled my eyes with tears. Icannot describe it adequately to you, though I shall see it vividly to theend of my days. Dorothy had received a slight wound upon the temple, andblood was trickling down her face upon her neck and ruff. Her hair hadfallen from its fastenings. She had lost her hat, and her gown was torn inshreds and covered with mud. I lifted the half-conscious girl to her feetand supported her; then with my kerchief I bound up the wound upon hertemple. 

"Poor Dolcy, " she said, almost incoherently, "I have killed her and I havefailed--I have failed. Now I am ready to die. Would that I had died withDolcy. Let me lie down here, Malcolm, --let me lie down. "

I still held her in my arms and supported her half-fainting form. 

"Why are you here?" demanded Sir George. 

"To die, " responded Dorothy. 

"To die? Damned nonsense!" returned her father. 

"How came you here, you fool?"

"On Dolcy. She is dead, " returned Dorothy. 

"Were you not at Haddon when we left there?" asked her father. 

"Yes, " she replied. 

"Did you pass us on the road?" he asked. 

"How came you here?" Sir George insisted. 

"Oh, I flew hither. I am a witch. Don't question me, father. I am in notemper to listen to you. I warn you once and for all, keep away from me;beware of me. I have a dagger in my bosom. Go and do the work you came todo; but remember this, father, if harm comes to him I will take my ownlife, and my blood shall be upon your soul. "

"My God, Malcolm, what does she mean?" asked Sir George, touched with fearby the strength of his daughter's threat. "Has she lost her wits?"

"No, " the girl quickly responded, "I have only just found them. "

Sir George continued to question Dorothy, but he received no furtherresponse from her. She simply held up the palm of her hand warninglytoward him, and the gesture was as eloquent as an oration. She leanedagainst me, and covered her face with her hands, while her form shook andtrembled as if with a palsy. 

Cecil and Sir William St. Loe then went toward the gate, and Sir Georgesaid to me:--

"I must go with them. You remain with Doll, and see that she is takenhome. Procure a horse for her. If she is unable to ride, make a litter, orperhaps there is a coach in the castle; if so, take possession of it. Takeher home by some means when we return. What, think you, could have broughther here?"

I evaded the question by replying, "I will probably be able to get a coachin the castle, Sir George. Leave Dorothy with me. "

Soon, by the command of Sir William, the yeomen rode to the right and tothe left for the purpose of surrounding the castle, and then I heard Cecilat the gates demanding:--

"Open in the name of the queen. "

"Let us go to the gates, " said Dorothy, "that we may hear what they sayand see what they do. Will they kill him here, think you?" she asked, looking wildly into my face. 

The flambeaux on the castle gate and those which the link-boys had broughtwith them from Haddon were lighted, and the scene in front of the gate wasall aglow. 

"No, no, my sweet one, " I answered, "perhaps they will not kill him atall. Certainly they will not kill him now. They must try him first. "

I tried to dissuade her from going to the gates, but she insisted, and Ihelped her to walk forward. 

When Dorothy and I reached the gates, we found that Cecil and Lord Rutlandwere holding a consultation through the parley-window. The portcullis wasstill down, and the gates were closed; but soon the portcullis wasraised, a postern was opened from within, and Sir William entered thecastle with two score of the yeomen guards. 

Sir George approached and again plied Dorothy with questions, but shewould not speak. One would have thought from her attitude that she wasdeaf and dumb. She seemed unconscious of her father's presence. 

"She has lost her mind, " said Sir George, in tones of deep trouble, "and Iknow not what to do. "

"Leave her with me for a time, cousin. I am sure she will be better if wedo not question her now. "

Then Dorothy seemed to awaken. "Malcolm is right, father. Leave me for atime, I pray you. "

Sir George left us, and waited with a party of yeomen a short distancefrom the gate for the return of Sir William with his prisoners. 

Dorothy and I sat upon a stone bench, near the postern through which SirWilliam and the guardsmen had entered, but neither of us spoke. 

After a long, weary time of waiting Sir William came out of the castlethrough the postern, and with him came Mary Stuart. My heart jumped when Isaw her in the glare of the flambeaux, and the spirit of my dead love forher came begging admission to my heart. I cannot describe my sensationswhen I beheld her, but this I knew, that my love for her was dead pastresurrection. 

Following Mary came Lord Rutland, and immediately following his Lordshipwalked John. When he stepped through the postern, Dorothy sprang to herfeet and ran to him with a cry, "John, John!"

He looked at her in surprise, and stepped toward her with evident intentto embrace her. His act was probably the result of an involuntary impulse, for he stopped before he reached the girl. 

[Illustration]

Sir George had gone at Sir William's request to arrange the guards forthe return march. 

Dorothy and John were standing within two yards of each other. 

"Do not touch me, " cried Dorothy, "save to strike me If you will. The evilwhich has come upon you is of my doing. I betrayed you to the queen. "

I saw Mary turn quickly toward the girl when she uttered those words. 

"I was insane when I did it, " continued Dorothy. "They will take yourlife, John. But when you die I also shall die. It is a poor reparation, Iknow, but it is the only one I can make. "

"I do not understand you, Dorothy, " said John. "Why should you betray me?"

"I cannot tell you, " she answered. "All I know is that I did betray youand I hardly know how I did it. It all seems like a dream--like a fearfulmonster of the night. There is no need for me to explain. I betrayed youand now I suffer for it, more a thousand-fold than you can possiblysuffer. I offer no excuse. I have none. I simply betrayed you, and askonly that I may die with you. "

Then was manifest in John's heart the noblest quality which God has givento man-charity, strengthened by reason. His face glowed with a light thatseemed saintlike, and a grand look of ineffable love and pity came to hiseyes. He seemed as if by inspiration to understand all that Dorothy hadfelt and done, and he knew that if she had betrayed him she had done it ata time when she was not responsible for her acts. He stepped quickly tothe girl's side, and caring naught that we all should see him, caught herto his breast. He held her in his arms, and the light of the flambeauxfell upon her upturned face. 

"Dorothy, " he said, "it matters not what you have done; you are my onlylove. I ask no explanation. If you have betrayed me to death, though Ihope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did notlove me. "

"No, no, John, you know that, " sobbed the girl. 

"I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know. You would notintentionally bring evil upon me while you love me. "

"Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately. My lovewas the cause--my love was my curse--it was your curse. "

"Do not weep, Dorothy, " said John, interrupting her. "I would that I couldtake all your suffering upon myself. Do not weep. "

Dorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief. Shewas not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and bymy side stood rough old Sir William. Tears were coursing down the bronzedcheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon theharrowed face of a mountain rock. When I saw Sir William's tears, I couldno longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made aspectacle of myself in full view of the queen's yeoman guard. 

Sir George approached our little group, and when he saw Dorothy in John'sarms, he broke forth into oaths and stepped toward her intending to forceher away. But John held up the palm of his free hand warningly toward SirGeorge, and drawing the girl's drooping form close to his breast he spokecalmly:--

"Old man, if you but lay a finger on this girl, I will kill you where youstand. No power on earth can save you. "

There was a tone in John's voice that forced even Sir George to pause. Then Sir George turned to me. 

"This is the man who was in my house. He is the man who called himselfThomas. Do you know him?"

Dorothy saved me from the humiliation of an answer. 

She took one step from John's side and held him by the hand while shespoke. 

"Father, " she said, "this man is Sir John Manners. Now you may understandwhy he could not seek my hand openly, and you also know why I could nottell you his name. " She again turned to John, and he put his arm abouther. You can imagine much better that I can describe Sir George's fury. Hesnatched a halberd from the hands of a yeoman who was standing near by andstarted toward John and Dorothy. Thereupon the hard old warrior, SirWilliam St. Loe, whose heart one would surely say was the last place wheresentiment could dwell, performed a little act of virtue which will balancemany a page on the debtor side of his ledger of life, he lifted his swordand scabbard and struck Sir George's outstretched hand, causing thehalberd to fall to the ground. 

"Don't touch the girl, " cried Sir William, hoarsely. 

"She is my daughter, " retorted Sir George, who was stunned mentally aswell as physically by Sir William's blow. 

"I care not whose daughter she is, " returned Sir William. "You shall nottouch her. If you make but one other attempt, I will use my blade uponyou. "

Sir William and John had been warm friends at London court, and the oldcaptain of the guards quickly guessed the true situation when he sawDorothy run to John's arms. 

"Sir, you shall answer for this, " said Sir George, angrily, to SirWilliam. 

"With pleasure, " returned Sir William. "I will give you satisfactionwhenever you wish it, save this present time. I am too busy now. "

Blessed old Sir William! You have been dead these many winters; and were Ia priest, I would say a mass for your soul gratis every day in the year. 

"Did the girl betray us?" asked Queen Mary. 

No one answered her question. Then she turned toward Sir John and touchedhim upon the shoulder. He turned his face toward her, signifying that hewas listening. 

"Who is this girl?" Mary demanded. 

"My sweetheart, my affianced wife, " John answered. 

"She says she betrayed us, " the queen responded. 

"Yes, " said John. 

"Did you trust her with knowledge of our presence in Rutland?" Marydemanded angrily. 

"I did, " he answered. 

"You were a fool, " said Mary. 

"I know it, " responded John. 

"You certainly bear her no resentment for her treason, " said Mary. 

"I certainly do not, " quietly answered John. "Her suffering is greaterthan mine. Can you not see that it is?"

"It is your privilege, " said Mary, scornfully, "to intrust your ownsecrets to whomsoever you may choose for your confidant, and it is quitesaintlike in you to forgive this person for betraying you; but what thinkyou of the hard case in which her treason and your folly have placed me?"

"That is my greatest grief, save for Dorothy, " answered John, softly. Lived there ever a man possessed of broader charity or deeper love thanJohn? God surely made him of gold dust, not of common clay. 

Queen Mary stepped away from John in disgust, and when she turned she sawme for the first time. She started and was about to speak, but I placed myfingers warningly upon my lips and she remained silent. 

"Where do you take us, Sir William?" asked John. 

"To Haddon Hall. There you will await the commands of the queen. "

"How came you here?" John asked gently of Dorothy. 

"I rode Dolcy, " she whispered. "She dropped dead at the foot of the hill. Yonder she lies. I came up the Lathkil by the long road, and I hoped thatI might reach you in time to give warning. When the guard left Haddon Irealized the evil that would come upon you by reason of my base betrayal. "Here she broke down and for a moment could not proceed in the narrative. She soon recovered and continued: "Then I mounted Dolcy, and tried toreach here by way of the long road. Poor Dolcy seemed to understand mytrouble and my despair, and she brought me with all the speed that a horsecould make; but the road was too long and too rough; and she failed, and Ifailed. Would that I could have died in her place. She gave her life intrying to remedy my fault. "

Dorothy again began to weep, and John tenderly whispered:--

"All will yet come right" Then he kissed her before us all, and handed herto me saying, "Care for her, I pray you, sir. "

John spoke a few words to Sir William, and in a moment they both went backto the castle. 

In a short time the gates were opened, and the Rutland coach drawn by fourhorses emerged from the castle grounds. Sir William then directed Mary andDorothy to enter the coach and requested me to ride with them to HaddonHall. 

The yeoman guards were in marching order, and I took my seat in the coach. The fates surely were in a humorous mood when they threw Dorothy, QueenMary, and myself together. Pause for a moment and consider the situation. You know all the facts and you can analyze it as well as I. I could nothelp laughing at the fantastic trick of destiny. 

Soon after I entered the coach Sir William gave the word, and the yeomenwith Lord Rutland and John moved forward on the road to Haddon. 

The coach at once followed the guard and a score of yeomen followed us. 

Queen Mary occupied the back seat of the coach, and Dorothy and I sat uponthe front seat facing her. 

Dorothy was exhausted, and her head lay upon my shoulder. Now and againshe would softly moan and sob, but she said nothing. After a few minutesof silence Queen Mary spoke:--

"Why did you betray me, you miserable wretch? Why did you betray me?"

Dorothy did not answer. Mary continued:--

"Have I ever injured you in any manner? Have I ever harmed you by thought, word, or deed?"

Dorothy's only answer was a sob. 

"Perhaps you are a canting fanatic, and it may be that you hate me for thesake of that which you call the love of God?"

"No, no, madam, " I said, "that was not the reason. "

"Do you know the reason, Malcolm?" asked Mary, addressing me for the firsttime. My name upon her lips had a strange effect on me. It was like thewafting to my nostrils of a sweet forgotten odor, or the falling upon myears of a tender refrain of bygone days. Her voice in uttering my namethrilled me, and I hated myself for my weakness. 

I told Mary that I did not know Dorothy's reasons, and she continued:--

"Malcolm, you were not a party to my betrayal for the sake of revengingyourself on me?"

"God forbid!" I answered. "Sir John Manners will assure you of myinnocence. I rode with Mistress Vernon to a cross-road within a league ofRutland, hoping thereby to assist her to give you and Sir John the alarm. "

My admission soon brought me into trouble. 

"I alone am to blame, " said Dorothy, faintly. 

"I can easily believe you, " said Mary, sharply. "Did you expect to injureme?"

No answer came from Dorothy. 

"If you expect to injure me, " Mary continued, "you will be disappointed. Iam a queen, and my Cousin Elizabeth would not dare to harm me, even thoughshe might wish to do so. We are of the same blood, and she will not wishto do me injury. Your doting lover will probably lose his head forbringing me to England without his queen's consent. He is her subject. Iam not. I wish you joy of the trouble you have brought upon him and uponyourself. "

"Upon him!" cried Dorothy. 

"Yes, upon him, " continued Mary, relishing the torture she was inflicting. "You will enjoy seeing him beheaded, will you not, you fool, you huzzy, you wretch? I hope his death will haunt you till the end of your days. "

Poor Dorothy, leaning against me, said faintly:--

"It will--it will. You--you devil. "

The girl was almost dead from exhaustion and anguish, but she would havebeen dead indeed had she lacked the power to strike back. I believe had itnot been for Dorothy's physical weakness she would have silenced Mary withher hands. 

After a little time Dorothy's heavy breathing indicated that she hadfallen asleep. Her head rested upon my shoulder, and the delicious perfumeof her hair and the sweet warm breath from her lips were almostintoxicating even to me, though I was not in love with her. How great musttheir effect have been coming upon John hot from her intense young soul!

As the link-boys passed the coach some and some with their flambeaux Icould see Dorothy's sweet pale face, almost hidden in the tangled goldenred hair which fell in floods about her. The perfect oval of her cheek, the long wet lashes, the arched eyebrows, the low broad forehead, thestraight nose, the saucy chin--all presented a picture of beauty andpathos sufficient to soften a heart of stone. Mary had no heart of anysort, therefore she was not moved to pity. That emotion, I am sure, shenever felt from the first to the last day of her life. She continued toprobe Dorothy's wound until I told her the girl was asleep. I changedDorothy's position and placed her head against the corner cushion of thecoach that she might rest more comfortably. She did not awaken when Imoved her. She slept and looked like a child. For a little time after Ihad changed Dorothy's position Mary and I sat in silence. She was thefirst to speak. She leaned forward and placing her hands upon mine, whispered my name:--

"Malcolm!"

After a brief silence I said:--

"What would you, your Majesty?"

"Not 'your Majesty'" said Mary, softly, "but Mary, as of old. "

She remained for a moment with her hand upon my knee, and thenwhispered:--

"Will you not sit by me, Malcolm?"

I believe that Mary Stuart's voice was the charm wherewith she fascinatedmen. I resisted to my utmost strength, but that seemed to be little morethan utter weakness; so I took a seat by her side, and she gently placedher hand in mine. The warm touch of her strong, delicate fingers gave me afamiliar thrill. She asked me to tell her of my wanderings since I hadleft Scotland, and I briefly related all my adventures. I told her of myhome at Haddon Hall and of the welcome given me by my cousin, Sir George. 

"Malcolm, have you forgotten?" she whispered, leaning gently against me. "Have you forgotten our old-time vows and love? Have you forgotten allthat passed between us in the dear old château, when I gave to you myvirgin love, fresh from my virgin heart?" I sighed and tried to harden myheart to her blandishments, for I knew she wished to use me and wastempting me to that end. She continued, "I was then only fourteen yearsold--ten years ago. You said that you loved me and I believed you. Youcould not doubt, after the proof I gave to you, that my heart was allyours. We were happy, oh, so happy. Do you remember, Malcolm?"

She brought her face close to mine while she spoke, and pressed my handupon her breast. 

My reason told me that it was but the song of the siren she was singing tomy ears. My memory told me that she had been false to me twice two scoretimes, and I knew full well she would again be false to me, or to anyother man whom she could use for her purposes, and that she cared not theprice at which she purchased him. Bear in mind, you who would blame me formy fall, that this woman not only was transcendently beautiful and fatallyfascinating, but she was a queen and had held undisputed sway over myheart for more years than I could accurately number. As I said, added toall her beauty, she was a queen. If you have never known royalty, youcannot understand its enthralling power. 

"I remember it all, madam, " I replied, trying to hold myself away fromher. "It is fresh to me as if it all had happened yesterday. " The queendrew my arm closely to her side and nestled her cheek for an instant uponmy shoulder. 

"I remember also, " I continued, "your marriage with Darnley when I hadyour promise that you would marry me; and, shame upon shame, I rememberyour marriage with Darnley's murderer, Bothwell. "

"Cruel, cruel, Malcolm, " she said. "You well know the overpoweringreasons of state which impelled me to sacrifice my own happiness bymarrying Darnley. I told you at the time that I hated the marriage morethan I dreaded death. But I longed to quiet the factions in Scotland, andI hoped to save my poor bleeding people from the evils of war. You know Ihated Darnley. You know I loved you. You knew then and you know now thatyou are the only man who has ever possessed my heart. You know that mywords are true. You know that you, alone, have had my love since the timewhen I was a child. "

"And Rizzio?" I asked. 

"Ah, Malcolm, " she answered tearfully, "I hope you, of all men, do notbelieve that I ever gave a thought of love to Rizzio. He was to me like mypet monkey or my favorite falcon. He was a beautiful, gentle, harmlesssoul. I loved him for his music. He worshipped me as did my spaniel. "

Still I was determined that her blandishments should not move me. 

"And Bothwell?" I asked. 

"That is past endurance from you, Malcolm, " she said, beginning to weep. "You know I was brutally abducted and was forced into marriage with him. He was an outlaw, an outcast. He was an uncouth brute whom any woman wouldloathe. I was in his power, and I feigned acquiescence only that I mightescape and achieve vengeance upon him. Tell me, Malcolm, tell me, "continued Mary, placing her arms about my neck and clinging to me, "tellme, you, to whom I gave my maiden's love, you who have my woman's heart, tell me, do you believe that I could willingly have married Bothwell, eventhough my heart had not been filled with the image of you, who are strong, gentle, and beautiful?"

You, if you are a man, may think that in my place you would have resistedthe attack of this beautiful queen, but if so you think--pardon me, myfriend--you are a fool. Under the spell of her magic influence I waveredin the conviction which had long since come upon me, that I had for yearsbeen her fool and her dupe. I forgot the former lessons I had learned fromher perfidy. I forgot my manhood. I forgot all of good that had of lategrown up in me. God help me, I forgot even Madge. 

"If I could only believe you, Mary, " I answered, growing insane under theinfluence of her fascinations, "If I could only believe you. "

"Give me your lips, Malcolm, " she whispered, "give me your lips. --Again, my Malcolm. --Ah, now you believe me. "

The lying logic of a wanton kiss is irresistible. I was drunk and, alas! Iwas convinced. When I think of that time, Samson is my onlycomfort--Samson and a few hundred million other fools, who like Samson andme have been wheedled, kissed, and duped into misery and ruin. 

I said: "I do believe you, Mary. I beg you to forgive me for havingdoubted you. You have been traduced and brutally misused. "

"It is sweet to hear you speak those words. But it is better to think thatat last we have come together with nothing to part us save that I am aprisoner in the hands of my vindictive, jealous cousin. I thank God thatmy kingdom of Scotland has been taken from me. I ever hated the Scots. They are an ignorant, unkempt, wry-necked, stubborn, filthy race. But, above all, my crown stood between you and me. I may now be a woman, andwere it not for Elizabeth, you and I could yet find solace in each otherfor all our past sufferings. Malcolm, I have a sweet thought. If I couldescape to fair, beautiful France, all would be happiness for us. You couldclaim your mother's estates in the balmy south, and we might live uponthem. Help me, my Malcolm, to escape, and your reward shall be greater andsweeter than man ever before received from woman. "

I struggled against her blandishments for a moment, but I was lost. 

"You shall escape and I will go with you, " said I. Man needs to make butone little prayer to God, "Lead me not into temptation. " That prayeranswered, all else of good will follow. 

The morning sun had just begun to rise over Bowling Green Hill and theshadows of the night were fleeing before his lances, when our cavalcadeentered the grounds of Haddon at the dove-cote. If there were two sunsrevolving about the earth, one to shine upon us by night and one by day, much evil would be averted. Men do evil in the dark because others cannotsee them; they think evil in the dark because they cannot see themselves. 

With the first faint gray of dawn there came to me thoughts of Madge. Ihad forgotten her, but her familiar spirit, the light, brought me back toits fair mistress. 

When our coach reached the stone bridge I looked up to the Hall and sawMadge standing at the open casement of the tower window. She had beenwatching there all night, I learned, hoping for our speedy and safereturn, and had been warned of our approach by the noise of the trampingguard. I drew back from the coach window, feeling that I was an evil shadeslinking away before the spirit of light. 

CHAPTER XV

LIGHT

Dorothy had awakened while we were entering Rowsley, and I was glad thatMary could not touch me again. 

When our coach reached the stone steps of the entrance tower we found SirGeorge, Lady Crawford, and Madge waiting to receive us. The steps and thepath leading to them had been carpeted with soft rugs, and Mary, althougha prisoner, was received with ceremonies befitting her rank. It was aproud day for Sir George when the roof of his beautiful Hall sheltered thetwo most famous queens of christendom. 

Sir George assisted Mary from the coach most graciously, and in knightlyfashion led her to Lady Crawford and Madge, who were standing at the footof the tower steps. Due presentations were made, and the ladies of Haddonhaving kissed the queen's hand, Mary went into the Hall upon the arm ofhis Majesty, the King of the Peak, who stepped forward most proudly. 

His resentment against Dorothy was for the moment neutralized by the greathonor of which his house and himself were the recipients. 

John and Lord Rutland were taken to the dungeon. 

I assisted Dorothy from the coach and led her to Madge, who was waitingfor us upon the lowest of the steps leading to the entrance tower doorway. Dorothy took Madge's outstretched hand; but Madge, by some strangeinstinct, knowing of my presence, turned her face toward me. I could notlift my eyes to her face, nor could I endure to remain in her presence. While we were ascending the steps she held out her hand to me and said:--

"Is all well with you, Malcolm?" Her voice was full of tender concern, andit pained me to the heart to hear her speak kindly to me, who was sounworthy of her smallest thought. 

"Yes, Lady--yes, Madge, " I responded; but she knew from the tones of myvoice that all was not right with me. 

"I fear, Malcolm, that you do not tell me the truth. You will come to mesoon?" she asked. 

"I may not be able to go to you soon, " I answered, "but I will do so atthe first opportunity. "

The torture of her kindness was almost unbearable to me. One touch of herhand, one tone of her rare voice, had made me loathe myself. The powers ofevil cannot stand for one moment in a fair conflict with the powers ofgood. I felt that I, alone, was to blame for my treason to Madge; butdespite my effort at self-condemnation there was an under-consciousnessthat Mary Stuart was to blame, and I hated her accordingly. AlthoughMadge's presence hurt me, it was not because I wished to conceal myconduct from her. I knew that I could be happy again only after I hadconfessed to her and had received forgiveness. 

Madge, who was blind of sight, led Dorothy, who was piteously blind ofsoul, and the two girls went to their apartments. 

Curiosity is not foreign even to the royal female breast, and while MaryStuart was entering Haddon Hall, I saw the luminous head of the VirginQueen peeked out at a casement on the second floor watching her rival withall the curiosity of a Dutch woman sitting by her window mirror. 

I went to my room in Eagle Tower, fell upon my bed, and abandoned myselfto an anguish of soul which was almost luxurious. I shall not tease youwith the details of my mental and moral processes. I hung in the balance along time undetermined what course I should pursue. The difference betweenthe influence of Mary and the effect wrought by Madge was the differencebetween the intoxication and the exhilaration of wine. Following theintoxication of Mary's presence ever came a torturing reaction, while theexhilarating influence of Madge gave health and strength. I chose thelatter. I have always been glad I reached that determination without theaid of any impulse outside of myself; for events soon happened which againdrove all faith in Mary from my heart forever. Those events would haveforced me to abandon my trust in her; but mind you, I took my good resolvefrom inclination rather than necessity before I learned of Mary's perfidy. 

The events of the night had exhausted Dorothy, and she was confined to herbed by illness for the first time in her life. She believed that she wasdying, and she did not want to live. I did not go to her apartments. Madgeremained with her, and I, coward-like, feared to face the girl to whom Ihad been untrue. 

Dorothy's one and only desire, of course, was to see John, but that desirefor a time seemed impossible of accomplishment. 

Elizabeth, Cecil, Leicester, and Sir William St. Loe were in secretconsultation many times during three or four days and nights. OccasionallySir George was called into their councils, and that flattering attentionso wrought upon the old man's pride that he was a slave to the queen'sslightest wish, and was more tyrannical and dictatorial than ever beforeto all the rest of mankind. There were, however, two persons besides thequeen before whom Sir George was gracious: one of these was Mary Stuart, whose powers of fascination had been brought to bear upon the King of thePeak most effectively. The other was Leicester, to whom, as my cousinexpressed it, he hoped to dispose of that troublesome and disturbingbody--Dorothy. These influences, together with the fact that his enemiesof Rutland were in the Haddon dungeon, had given Sir George a spleen-vent, and Dorothy, even in the face of her father's discovery that Manners washer mysterious lover, had for once a respite from Sir George's just andmighty wrath. 

The purpose of Elizabeth's many councils of war was to devise some meansof obtaining from John and his father, information concerning the plot, which had resulted in bringing Mary Stuart into England. The ultimatepurpose of Mary's visit, Elizabeth's counsellors firmly believed to be thedethronement of the English queen and the enthronement of her Scottishcousin. Elizabeth, in her heart, felt confident that John and his fatherwere not parties to the treasonable plot, although she had been warnedagainst each of them. Cecil and Sir William St. Loe also secretly held tothat opinion, though neither of them expressed it, Elizabeth was consciousof having given to John while at London court an intimation that she wouldbe willing that Mary should visit England. Of such intimation Cecil andSir William had no knowledge, though they, together with many persons ofthe Court, believed that Elizabeth was not entirely averse to Mary'spresence. 

Lord Rutland and John were questioned by Cecil in the hope of obtainingsome hints which might lead to the detection of those concerned in thechief plot, provided such plot existed. But Lord Rutland knew nothing ofthe affair except that John had brought the Scottish queen from Scotland, and John persisted in the statement that he had no confederate and that heknew nothing of any plot to place Mary upon the English throne. 

John said: "I received from Queen Mary's friends in Scotland lettersasking me to meet her on the border, and requesting me to conduct her tomy father's castle. Those letters mentioned no Englishman but myself, andthey stated that Queen Mary's flight to England was to be undertaken withthe tacit consent of our gracious queen. That fact, the letters told me, our queen wished should not be known. There were reasons of state, theletters said, which made it impolitic for our queen openly to invite QueenMary to seek sanctuary in England. I received those letters before I leftWestminster. Upon the day when I received them, I heard our gracious queensay that she would gladly invite Queen Mary to England, were it not forthe fact that such an invitation would cause trouble between her and theregent, Murray. Her Majesty at the same time intimated that she would beglad if Mary Stuart should come to England uninvited. " John turned toElizabeth, "I beg your Majesty, in justice, to ratify my words. " Elizabethhesitated for a moment after John's appeal; but her love of justice cameto her rescue and she hung her head as she said, "You are right, SirJohn. " Then she looked her counsellors in the face and said, "I wellremember that I so expressed myself. "

"In truth, " said John, "I having only an hour before received the letterfrom Scotland, believed that your Majesty's words were meant for my ear. Ifelt that your Majesty knew of the letters, and I thought that I should becarrying out your royal wishes should I bring Queen Mary into Englandwithout your knowledge. "

The queen responded: "I then felt that I wished Queen Mary to seek refugein my kingdom, but so many untoward events have transpired since I spokeon the subject at Westminster that I have good cause to change my mind, though I easily understand how you might have been misled by my words. "

"I am sure, " replied John, "that your Majesty has had good cause to changeyour mind; but I protest in all sincerity that I considered the Scottishletters to be a command from my queen. "

Elizabeth was a strange combination of paradoxes. No one could be truerthan she to a fixed determination once taken. No one could be swayed bydoubt so easily as she to change her mind sixty times in the space of aminute. During one moment she was minded to liberate John and LordRutland; in the next she determined to hold them in prison, hoping tolearn from them some substantial fact concerning the plot which, sinceMary's arrival in England, had become a nightmare to her. But, with allher vagaries the Virgin Queen surely loved justice. That quality, alone, makes a sovereign great. Elizabeth, like her mother, Anne Boleyn, hadgreat faith in her personal beauty; like her father, she had unboundedconfidence in her powers of mind. She took great pride in the ease withwhich she controlled persons. She believed that no one was so adroit asElizabeth Tudor in extracting secrets from others, and in unravellingmysterious situations, nor so cunning in hunting out plots and in runningdown plotters. In all such matters she delighted to act secretly andalone. 

During the numerous councils held at Haddon, Elizabeth allowed Cecil toquestion John to his heart's content; but while she listened sheformulated a plan of her own which she was sure would be effective inextracting all the truth from John, if all the truth had not already beenextracted. Elizabeth kept her cherished plan to herself. It was this:--

She would visit Dorothy, whom she knew to be ill, and would by her subtleart steal from John's sweetheart all that the girl knew of the case. IfJohn had told Dorothy part of the affair concerning Mary Stuart, he hadprobably told her all, and Elizabeth felt confident that she could easilypump the girl dry. She did not know Dorothy. Accordingly our queen, Elizabeth, the adroit, went to Dorothy's room under the pretence of payingthe girl a gracious visit. Dorothy wished to arise and receive her royalguest, but Elizabeth said gently:--

"Do not arise, Dorothy; rest quietly, and I will sit here beside you onthe bed. I have come to tell you that you must recover your health atonce. We miss you greatly in the Hall. "

No one could be more gracious than Elizabeth when the humor was upon her;though, in truth, the humor was often lacking. 

"Let us send all save you and me from the room, " said the queen, "that wemay have a quiet little chat together. "

All who were in the room save Dorothy and Elizabeth of course departed atonce. 

When the door was closed, the queen said: "I wish to thank you for tellingme of the presence of her Scottish Majesty at Rutland. You know there is aplot on foot to steal my throne from me. "

"God forbid that there should be such a plot, " replied Dorothy, restingupon her elbow in the bed. 

"I fear it is only too true that there is such a plot, " returnedElizabeth, "and I owe you a great debt of gratitude for warning me of theScottish queen's presence in my kingdom. "

"I hope the danger will be averted from your Majesty, " said Dorothy; "butthat which I did will cause my death--it will kill me. No human being everbefore has lived through the agony I have suffered since that terriblenight. I was a traitress. I betrayed the man who is dearer to me than myimmortal soul. He says that he forgives me, but your Majesty knows that myfault is beyond forgiveness. "

"Sir John is a noble gentleman, child, " said the queen. "I hope that he isloyal to me, but I fear--I fear. "

"Do not doubt, do not fear, my queen, " returned Dorothy, eagerly; "thereis nothing false in him. "

"Do you love him deeply, little one?" asked the queen. 

"No words can tell you my love for him, " answered the girl. "I feel shameto say that he has taken even the holy God's place in my heart. Perhaps itis for that sin that God now punishes me. "

"Fear not on that score, Dorothy, " replied the queen. "God will not punishyou for feeling the love which He Himself has put into your heart. I wouldwillingly give my crown could I feel such love for a worthy man who wouldin return love me for myself. But I cannot feel, nor can I have faith. Self-interest, which is so dominant in all men, frightens me, and I doubttheir vows. "

"Surely, any man would love you for your own sake, " said Dorothy, tenderly. 

"It may be that you speak truly, child; but I cannot know when men's vowsare true nor when they are false. The real trouble is within myself. If Icould but feel truly, I could interpret truthfully. "

"Ah, your Majesty, " interrupted Dorothy, "you do not know the thing forwhich you are wishing; it is a torture worse than death; it is an ecstasysweeter than heaven. It is killing me. I pity you, though you are a queen, if you have never felt it. "

"Would you do anything I might ask of you, if you could thereby save SirJohn's life?" asked the queen. 

"Ah, I would gladly give my soul to save him, " responded Dorothy, withtears in her eyes and eagerness in her voice. "Oh, my queen, do not leadme to hope, and then plunge me again into despair. Give me noencouragement unless you mean to free him. As for my part, take my lifeand spare John's. Kill me by torture, burn me at the stake, stretch meupon the rack till my joints are severed and my flesh is torn asunder. Letme die by inches, my queen; but spare him, oh, spare him, and do with meas you will. Ask from me what you wish. Gladly will I do all that you maydemand; gladly will I welcome death and call it sweet, if I can therebysave him. The faint hope your Majesty's words hold out makes me strongagain. Come, come, take my life; take all that I can give. Give me him. "

"Do you believe that I am an ogress thirsting for blood, Dorothy, that youoffer me your life for his? You can purchase Sir John's life at a muchsmaller cost. " Dorothy rose to the queen with a cry, and put her armsabout her neck. "You may purchase his freedom, " continued the queen, "andyou may serve your loving queen at one and the same time, if you wish todo so. "

Dorothy had sunk back into the bed, and Elizabeth was sitting close by herside; but when the queen spoke she turned her head on the pillow andkissed the royal hand which was resting upon the coverlid. 

"Ah, you are so good, so true, and so beautiful, " said Dorothy. 

Her familiarity toward the queen was sweet to the woman, to whom it wasnew. 

Dorothy did not thank the queen for her graciousness. She did not replydirectly to her offer. She simply said:--

"John has told me many times that he was first attracted to me because Iresembled you. "

The girl had ample faith in her own beauty, and knew full well the subtleflattery which lay in her words. "He said, " she continued, "that my hairin some faint degree resembled yours, but he said it was not of sobeautiful a hue. I have loved my hair ever since the day he told me thatit resembled your Majesty's. " The girl leaned forward toward the queen andgently kissed the royal locks. They no more resembled Dorothy's hair thanbrick dust resembles the sheen of gold. 

The queen glanced at the reflection of her hair in the mirror and itflatly contradicted Dorothy. But the girl's words were backed byElizabeth's vanity, and the adroit flattery went home. 

"Ah, my child, " exclaimed her Majesty softly, as she leaned forward andkissed Dorothy's fair cheek. 

Dorothy wept gently for a moment and familiarly rested her face upon thequeen's breast. Then she entwined her white arms about Elizabeth's neckand turned her glorious eyes up to the queen's face that her Majesty mightbehold their wondrous beauty and feel the flattery of the words she wasabout to utter. 

"He said also, " continued Dorothy, "that my eyes in some slight degreeresembled your Majesty's, but he qualified his compliment by tellingme--he did not exactly tell me that my eyes were not so large andbrilliant as your Majesty's, for he was making love to me, and of coursehe would not have dared to say that my eyes were not the most perfect onearth; but he did say that--at least I know that he meant--that my eyes, while they resembled yours, were hardly so glorious, and--and I am veryjealous of your Majesty. John will be leaving me to worship at your feet. "

Elizabeth's eyes were good enough. The French called them "marcassin, "that is, wild boar's eyes. They were little and sparkling; they were notluminous and large like Dorothy's, and the girl's flattery was rank. Elizabeth, however, saw Dorothy's eyes and believed her words rather thanthe reply of the lying mirror, and her Majesty's heart was soft from thegirl's kneading. Consider, I pray you, the serpent-like wisdom displayedby Dorothy's method of attack upon the queen. She did not ask for John'sliberty. She did not seek it. She sought only to place John softly onElizabeth's heart. Some natures absorb flattery as the desert sands absorbthe unfrequent rain, and Elizabeth--but I will speak no ill of her. She isthe greatest and the best sovereign England has ever had. May God send tomy beloved country others like her. She had many small shortcomings; but Ihave noticed that those persons who spend their evil energies in littlefaults have less force left for greater ones. I will show you a mystery:Little faults are personally more disagreeable and rasping to us thangreat ones. Like flying grains of sand upon a windy day, they vex usconstantly. Great faults come like an avalanche, but they come lessfrequently, and we often admire their possessor, who sooner or later isapt to become our destroyer. 

"I can hardly tell you, " said Dorothy in response to a question byElizabeth, "I can hardly tell you why I informed your Majesty of QueenMary's presence at Rutland. I did it partly for love of your Majesty andpartly because I was jealous of that white, plain woman from Scotland. "

"She is not a plain woman, is she?" said Elizabeth, delighted to hear Maryof Scotland so spoken of for once. One way to flatter some women is toberate those whom they despise or fear. Elizabeth loved Dorothy better forthe hatred which the girl bore to Mary. Both stood upon a broad plane ofmutual sympathy-jealousy of the same woman. It united the queen and themaiden in a common heart-touching cause. 

Dorothy's confidence grew apace. "She is plain, " replied Dorothy, poutingly. "She appears plain, colorless, and repulsive by the side ofyour Majesty. "

"No, no, Dorothy, that cannot be, " returned Queen Elizabeth, gentlypatting. Dorothy's cheek and glancing stealthily at the reflection of herown face in the mirror. At this point Dorothy considered that the time hadcome for a direct attack. 

"Your Majesty need have no fear of a plot to place Queen Mary upon yourthrone. The English people would not endure her wicked pale face for amoment. "

"But there is such a plot in existence, " said Elizabeth. 

"What you say may be true, " returned Dorothy; "but, your Majesty, John isnot in the plot, and he knows nothing of it. "

"I hope--I believe--he is not in the plot, " said Elizabeth, "but I fear--"

The girl kissed the sleeve of Elizabeth's gown, and then she drew thequeen closer to her and kissed her hair and her face. 

"Ah, my beauteous queen, " said Dorothy, "I thank you for those words. Youmust know that John loves you, and is your loyal subject. Take pity uponme. Help me. Hold out your gracious hand and lift me from my despair. "

Dorothy slipped from the bed and fell on her knees, burying her face inthe queen's lap. 

Elizabeth was touched by the girl's appeal, and caressingly stroked herhair, as she said: "I believe he is innocent, but I fear he knows orsuspects others who harbor treasonable designs. Tell me, Dorothy, do youknow of any such persons? If you can tell me their names, you will serveyour queen, and will save your lover. No harm shall come to Sir John, andno one save myself shall have knowledge of any word that you may speak. IfI do not learn the names of the traitors through you or through Sir John, I may be compelled to hold him a prisoner until I discover them. Ifthrough you I learn them, Sir John shall go free at once. "

"Gladly, for your Majesty's sake alone would I tell you the names of suchtraitorous men, did I know them;" replied Dorothy, "and thrice gladlywould I do so if I might thereby liberate John. Your Majesty must see thatthese motives are strong enough to induce me to speak if I knew aught totell you. I would betray the whole world to save him, of that you may besure. But alas! I know no man whom I can betray. John told me nothing ofhis expedition to the Scottish border save what was in two letters whichhe sent to me. One of these I received before he left Rutland, and theother after his return. "

She fetched the letters to the queen, who read them carefully. 

"Perhaps if I were to see him, he might, upon my importunity, tell me allhe knows concerning the affair and those connected with it if he knowsanything more than he has already told, " said Dorothy, by a great effortsuppressing her eagerness. "I am sure, your Majesty, he would tell me allShould he tell me the names of any persons connected with any treasonableplot, I will certainly tell you. It would be base in me again to betrayJohn's confidence; but your Majesty has promised me his life and liberty, and to obtain those I would do anything, however evil it might be. If Imay see John, I promise to learn all that he knows, if he knows anything;and I also promise to tell you word for word all that he says. "

The girl felt safe in making these promises, since she was sure that Johnknew nothing of a treasonable character. 

The queen, thinking that she had adroitly led Dorothy up to making theoffer, said, "I accept the conditions. Be in readiness to visit Sir John, upon my command. "

Thus the compact was sealed, and the queen, who thought herself wise, wasused by the girl, who thought herself simple. 

For the purpose of hiding her exultation, Dorothy appeared to be ill, butwhen the queen passed out at the door and closed it behind her, the girlsprang from the bed and danced around the room as if she were abear-baiter. From the depths of despair she flew to the pinnacle of hope. She knew, however, that she must conceal her happiness; therefore she wentback to bed and waited impatiently the summons of Elizabeth requiring herto go to John. 

But now I must pause to tell you of my troubles which followed so swiftlyupon the heels of my fault that I was fairly stunned by them. My narrativewill be brief, and I shall soon bring you back again to Dorothy. 

Queen Mary had no sooner arrived at Haddon Hall than she opened an attackupon Leicester, somewhat after the same plan, I suppose, which she hadfollowed with me in the coach. She could no more easily resist invitinghomage from men than a swallow can refrain from flying. Thus, frominclination and policy, she sought Leicester and endeavored by thepleasant paths of her blandishments to lead him to her cause. There can beno doubt concerning Leicester's wishes in the premises. Had Mary's causeheld elements of success, he would have joined her; but he fearedElizabeth, and he hoped some day to share her throne. He would, however, prefer to share the throne with Mary. 

Mary told him of her plans and hopes. She told him that I had ridden withDorothy for the purpose of rescuing John and herself, and that I hadpromised to help her to escape to France. She told him she would use mefor her tool in making her escape, and would discard me when once sheshould be safe out of England. Then would come Leicester's turn. Thenshould my lord have his recompense, and together they would regain theScottish crown. 

How deeply Leicester became engaged in the plot I cannot say, but this Iknow: through fear of Elizabeth, or for the purpose of winning her favor, he unfolded to our queen all the details of Mary's scheme, together withthe full story of my ride with Dorothy to Rutland, and my return withDorothy and Mary in the coach. Thereupon Mary was placed under strictguard. The story spread quickly through the Hall, and Dawson brought it tome. On hearing it, my first thought was of Madge. I knew it would soonreach her. Therefore I determined to go to her at once and make a cleanbreast of all my perfidy. Had I done so sooner, I should at least have hadthe benefit of an honest, voluntary confession; but my conscience had madea coward of me, and the woman who had been my curse for years had socompletely disturbed my mind that I should have been quite as well offwithout any at all. It led me from one mistake into another. 

After Dawson told me that my miserable story was known throughout theHall, I sought Madge, and found her with Aunt Dorothy. She was weeping, and I at once knew that I was too late with my confession. I spoke hername, "Madge, " and stood by her side awaiting her reply. 

"Is it true, Malcolm?" she asked. "I cannot believe it till I hear it fromyour lips. "

"It was true, " I responded. "I promised to help Queen Mary escape, and Ipromised to go with her; but within one hour of the time when I gave myword I regretted it as I have never regretted anything else in all mylife. I resolved that, while I should, according to my promise, help theScottish queen escape, I would not go with her. I resolved to wait here atHaddon to tell all to you and to our queen, and then I would patientlytake my just punishment from each. My doom from the queen, I believed, would probably be death; but I feared more your--God help me! It isuseless for me to speak. " Here I broke down and fell upon my knees, crying, "Madge, Madge, pity me, pity me! Forgive me if you can, and, ifour queen decrees it, I shall die happy. "

In my desperation I caught the girl's hand, but she drew it quickly fromme, and said:--

"Do not touch me!"

She arose to her feet, and groped her way to her bedroom. We were in AuntDorothy's room. I watched Madge as she sought with her outstretched handthe doorway; and when she passed slowly through it, the sun of my lifeseemed to turn black. Just as Madge passed from the room, Sir William St. Loe, with two yeomen, entered by Sir George's door and placed irons uponmy wrist and ankles. I was led by Sir William to the dungeon, and no wordwas spoken by either of us. 

I had never in my life feared death, and now I felt that I would welcomeit. When a man is convinced that his life is useless, through the diredisaster that he is a fool, he values it little, and is even more thanwilling to lose it. 

Then there were three of us in the dungeon, --John, Lord Rutland, andmyself; and we were all there because we had meddled in the affairs ofothers, and because Dorothy had inherited from Eve a capacity for insane, unreasoning jealousy. 

Lord Rutland was sitting on the ground in a corner of the dungeon. John, by the help of a projecting stone in the masonry, had climbed to the smallgrated opening which served to admit a few straggling rays of light intothe dungeon's gloom. He was gazing out upon the fair day, whose beauty hefeared would soon fade away from him forever. 

Elizabeth's coldness had given him no hope. It had taken all hope from hisfather. 

The opening of the door attracted John's attention, and he turned his facetoward me when I entered. He had been looking toward the light, and hiseyes, unaccustomed for the moment to the darkness, failed at first torecognize of me. When the dungeon door had closed behind me, he sprangdown from his perch by the window, and came toward me with outstretchedhands. He said sorrowfully:--

"Malcolm, have I brought you here, too? Why are you in irons? It seemsthat I am destined to bring calamity upon all whom I love. "

"It is a long story, " I replied laughingly. "I will tell it to you whenthe time begins to drag; but I tell you now it is through no fault ofyours that I am here. No one is to blame for my misfortune but myself. "Then I continued bitterly, "Unless it be the good God who created me afool. "

John went to his father's side and said:--

"Sir Malcolm is here, father. Will you not rise and greet him?"

John's voice aroused his father, and the old lord came to the little patchof light in which I was standing and said: "A terrible evil has fallenupon us, Sir Malcolm, and without our fault. I grieve to learn that youalso are entangled in the web. The future looks very dark. "

"Cheer up, father, " said John, taking the old man's hand. "Light will sooncome; I am sure it will. "

"I have tried all my life to be a just man, " said Lord Rutland. "I havefailed at times, I fear, but I have tried. That is all any man can do. Ipray that God in His mercy will soon send light to you, John, whatever ofdarkness there may be in store for me. "

I thought, "He will surely answer this just man's prayer, " and almostbefore the thought was completed the dungeon door turned upon its hingesand a great light came with glorious refulgence through the openportal--Dorothy. 

"John!"

Never before did one word express so much of mingled joy and grief. Fearand confidence, and, greater than all, love unutterable were blended inits eloquent tones. She sprang to John as the lightning leaps from cloudto cloud, and he caught her to his heart. He gently kissed her hair, herface being hidden in the folds of his doublet. 

"Let me kneel, John, let me kneel, " she murmured. 

"No, Dorothy, no, " he responded, holding her closely in his arms. 

"But one moment, John, " she pleased. 

"No, no; let me see your eyes, sweet one, " said John, trying to turn herface upward toward his own. 

"I cannot yet, John, I cannot. Please let me kneel for one little momentat your feet. "

John saw that the girl would find relief in self-abasement, so he relaxedhis arms, and she sank to her knees upon the dungeon floor. She weptsoftly for a moment, and then throwing back her head with her oldimpulsive manner looked up into his face. 

"Oh, forgive me, John! Forgive me! Not that I deserve your forgiveness, but because you pity me. "

"I forgave you long ago, Dorothy. You had my full forgiveness before youasked it. "

He lifted the weeping girl to her feet and the two clung together insilence. After a pause Dorothy spoke:--

"You have not asked me, John, why I betrayed you. "

"I want to know nothing, Dorothy, save that you love me. "

"That you already know. But you cannot know how much I love you. I myselfdon't know. John, I seem to have turned all to love. 'However much thereis of me, that much there is of love for you. As the salt is in every dropof the sea, so love is in every part of my being; but John, " shecontinued, drooping her head and speaking regretfully, "the salt in thesea is not unmixed with many things hurtful. " Her face blushed with shameand she continued limpingly: "And my love is not--is not without evil. Oh, John, I feel deep shame in telling you, but my love is terribly jealous. At times a jealousy comes over me so fierce and so distracting that underits influence I am mad, John, mad. I then see nothing in its true light;my eyes seem filled with--with blood, and all things appear red or blackand--and--oh! John, I pray you never again cause me jealousy. It makes ademon of me. "

You may well know that John was nonplussed. 

"I cause you jealousy?" he asked in surprise. "When did I--" But Dorothyinterrupted him, her eyes flashing darkly and a note of fierceness in hervoice. He saw for himself the effects of jealousy upon her. 

"That white--white Scottish wanton! God's curse be upon her! She tried tosteal you from me. "

"Perhaps she did, " replied John, smilingly, "of that I do not know. Butthis I do know, and you, Dorothy, must know it too henceforth and for alltime to come. No woman can steal my love from you. Since I gave you mytroth I have been true to you; I have not been false even in one littlethought. "

"I feel sure, John, that you have not been untrue to me, " said the girlwith a faint smile playing about her lips; "but--but you remember thestrange woman at Bowling Green Gate whom you would have--"

"Dorothy, I hope you have not come to my dungeon for the purpose of makingme more wretched than I already am?"

"No, no, John, forgive me, " she cried softly; "but John, I hate her, Ihate her! and I want you to promise that you too will hate her. "

"I promise, " said John, "though, you have had no cause for jealousy ofQueen Mary. "

"Perhaps--not, " she replied hesitatingly. "I have never thought, " thegirl continued poutingly, "that you did anything of which I should bejealous; but she--she--oh, I hate her! Let us not talk about her. JennieFaxton told me--I will talk about her, and you shall not stop me--JennieFaxton told me that the white woman made love to you and caused you to putyour arm about her waist one evening on the battlements and-"

"Jennie told you a lie, " said John. 

"Now don't interrupt me, " the girl cried nervously, almost ready fortears, "and I will try to tell you all. Jennie told me the--the whitewoman looked up to you this fashion, " and the languishing look she gaveJohn in imitation of Queen Mary was so beautiful and comical that he coulddo nothing but laugh and cover her face with kisses, then laugh again andlove the girl more deeply and yet more deeply with each new breath hedrew. Dorothy was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry, so shedid both. 

"Jennie told me in the middle of the night, " continued Dorothy, "when allthings seem so vivid and appear so distorted and--and that terribleblinding jealousy of which I told you came upon me and drove me mad. Ireally thought, John, that I should die of the agony. Oh, John, if youcould know the anguish I suffered that night you would pity me; you wouldnot blame me. "

"I do not blame you, Dorothy. "

"No, no, there-" she kissed him softly, and quickly continued: "I feltthat I must separate her from you at all cost. I would have done murder toaccomplish my purpose. Some demon whispered to me, 'Tell Queen Elizabeth, 'and--and oh, John, let me kneel again. "

"No, no, Dorothy, let us talk of something else, " said John, soothingly. 

"In one moment, John. I thought only of the evil that would come toher--her of Scotland. I did not think of the trouble I would bring toyou, John, until the queen, after asking me if you were my lover, saidangrily: 'You may soon seek another. ' Then, John, I knew that I had alsobrought evil upon you. Then I _did_ suffer. I tried to reach Rutland, andyou know all else that happened on that terrible night. Now John, you knowall--all. I have withheld nothing. I have, confessed all, and I feel thata great weight is taken from my heart. You will not hate me, will you, John?"

He caught the girl to his breast and tried to turn her face toward his. 

"I could not hate you if I would, " he replied, with quick-coming breath, "and God knows I would not. To love you is the sweetest joy in life, " andhe softly kissed the great lustrous eyes till they closed as if in sleep. Then he fiercely sought the rich red lips, waiting soft and passive forhis caresses, while the fair head fell back upon the bend of his elbow ina languorous, half-conscious sweet surrender to his will. Lord Rutland andI had turned our backs on the shameless pair, and were busily discussingthe prospect for the coming season's crops. 

Remember, please, that Dorothy spoke to John of Jennie Faxton. Her doingso soon bore bitter fruit for me. 

Dorothy had been too busy with John to notice any one else, but he soonpresented her to his father. After the old lord had gallantly kissed herhand, she turned scornfully to me and said:--

"So you fell a victim to her wanton wiles? If it were not for Madge'ssake, I could wish you might hang. "

"You need not balk your kindly desire for Madge's sake, " I answered. "Shecares little about my fate. I fear she will never forgive me. "

"One cannot tell what a woman will do, " Dorothy replied. "She is apt tomake a great fool of herself when it comes to forgiving the man sheloves. "

"Men at times have something to forgive, " I retorted, looking with asmile toward John. The girl made no reply, but took John's hand and lookedat him as if to say, "John, please don't let this horrid man abuse me. "

"But Madge no longer cares for me, " I continued, wishing to talk upon thetheme, "and your words do not apply to her. "

The girl turned her back disdainfully on me and said, "You seem to bequite as easily duped by the woman who loves you and says she doesn't asby the one who does not care for you but says she does. "

"Damn that girl's tongue!" thought I; but her words, though biting, carried joy to my heart and light to my soul. 

After exchanging a few words with Lord Rutland, Dorothy turned to John andsaid:--

"Tell me upon your knightly honor, John, do you know aught of a wicked, treasonable plot to put the Scottish woman on the English throne?"

I quickly placed my finger on my lips and touched my ear to indicate thattheir words would be overheard; for a listening-tube connected the dungeonwith Sir George's closet. 

"Before the holy God, upon my knighthood, by the sacred love we bear eachother, I swear I know of no such plot, " answered John. "I would be thefirst to tell our good queen did I suspect its existence. "

Dorothy and John continued talking upon the subject of the plot, but weresoon interrupted by a warning knock upon the dungeon door. 

Lord Rutland, whose heart was like twenty-two carat gold, soft, pure, andprecious, kissed Dorothy's hand when she was about to leave, and said:"Dear lady, grieve not for our sake. I can easily see that more pain hascome to you than to us. I thank you for the great fearless love you bearmy son. It has brought him trouble, but it is worth its cost. You have myforgiveness freely, and I pray God's choicest benediction may be withyou. " She kissed the old lord and said, "I hope some day to make you loveme. "

"That will be an easy task, " said his Lordship, gallantly. Dorothy wasabout to leave. Just at the doorway she remembered the chief purpose ofher visit; so she ran back to John, put her hand over his mouth to insuresilence, and whispered in his ear. 

On hearing Dorothy's whispered words, signs of joy were so apparent inJohn's face that they could not be mistaken. He said nothing, but kissedher hand and she hurriedly left the dungeon. 

After the dungeon door closed upon Dorothy, John went to his father andwhispered a few words to him. Then he came to me, and in the samesecretive manner said:--

"The queen has promised Dorothy our liberty. " I was not at all sure that"our liberty" included me, --I greatly doubted it, --but I was glad for thesake of my friends, and, in truth, cared little for myself. 

Dorothy went from our dungeon to the queen, and that afternoon, accordingto promise, Elizabeth gave orders for the release of John and his father. Sir George, of course, was greatly chagrined when his enemies slipped fromhis grasp; but he dared not show his ill humor in the presence of thequeen nor to any one who would be apt to enlighten her Majesty on thesubject. 

Dorothy did not know the hour when her lover would leave Haddon; but shesat patiently at her window till at last John and Lord Rutland appeared. She called to Madge, telling her of the joyous event, and Madge, asked:--

"Is Malcolm with them?"

"No, " replied Dorothy, "he has been left in the dungeon, where hedeserves to remain. "

After a short pause, Madge said:--

"If John had acted toward the Scottish queen as Malcolm did, would youforgive him?"

"Yes, of course. I would forgive him anything. "

"Then why shall we not forgive Malcolm?" asked Madge. 

"Because he is not John, " was the absurd reply. 

"No, " said Madge, promptly; "but he is 'John' to me. "

"That is true, " responded Dorothy, "and I will forgive him if you will. "

"I don't believe it makes much difference to Malcolm whether or not youforgive him, " said Madge, who was provoked at Dorothy's condescendingoffer. "My forgiveness, I hope, is what he desires. "

"That is true, Madge, " replied Dorothy, laughingly; "but may not I, also, forgive him?"

"If you choose, " responded Madge, quietly; "as for me, I know not what Iwish to do. "

You remember that Dorothy during her visit to the dungeon spoke of JennieFaxton. The girl's name reached Sir George's ear through thelistening-tube and she was at once brought in and put to the question. 

Jennie, contrary to her wont, became frightened and told all she knewconcerning John and Dorothy, including my part in their affairs. In SirGeorge's mind, my bad faith to him was a greater crime than my treason toElizabeth, and he at once went to the queen with his tale of woe. 

Elizabeth, the most sentimental of women, had heard from Dorothy the storyof her tempestuous love, and also of mine, and the queen was greatlyinterested in the situation. 

I will try to be brief. 

Through the influence of Dorothy and Madge, as I afterward learned, andby the help of a good word from Cecil, the queen was induced to order myliberation on condition that I should thenceforth reside in France. So onemorning, three days after John's departure from Haddon, I was overjoyed tohear the words, "You are free. "

I did not know that Jennie Faxton had given Sir George her large stock ofdisturbing information concerning my connection with the affairs ofDorothy and John. So when I left the dungeon, I, supposing that my stormycousin would be glad to forgive me if Queen Elizabeth would, sought andfound him in Aunt Dorothy's room. Lady Crawford and Sir George weresitting near the fire and Madge was standing near the door in the nextroom beyond. When I entered, Sir George sprang to his feet and cried outangrily:--

"You traitorous dog, the queen has seen fit to liberate you, and I cannotinterfere with her orders; but if you do not leave my Hall at once I shallset the hounds on you. Your effects will be sent to The Peacock, and thesooner you quit England the safer you will be. " There was of coursenothing for me to do but to go. 

"You once told me, Sir George--you remember our interview at ThePeacock--that if you should ever again order me to leave Haddon, I shouldtell you to go to the devil. I now take advantage of your kind permission, and will also say farewell. "

I kissed Aunt Dorothy's cheek, took my leave, and sought Cecil, from whomI obtained a passport to France. Then I asked Dawson to fetch my horse. 

I longed to see Madge before I left Haddon, but I knew that my desirecould not be gratified; so I determined to stop at Rowsley and send back aletter to her which Dawson undertook to deliver. In my letter I would askMadge's permission to return for her from France and to take her homewith me as my wife. After I had despatched my letter I would wait at ThePeacock for an answer. 

Sore at heart, I bade good-by to Dawson, mounted my horse, and turned hishead toward the Dove-cote Gate. As I rode under Dorothy's window she wassitting there. The casement was open, for the day was mild, although theseason was little past midwinter. I heard her call to Madge, and then shecalled to me:--

"Farewell, Malcolm! Forgive me for what I said to you in the dungeon. Iwas wrong, as usual. Forgive me, and God bless you. Farewell!"

While Dorothy was speaking, and before I replied, Madge came to the opencasement and called:--

"Wait for me, Malcolm, I am going down to you. "

Great joy is a wonderful purifier, and Madge's cry finished the work ofthe past few months and made a good man of me, who all my life before hadknown little else than evil. 

Soon Madge's horse was led by a groom to the mounting block, and in a fewminutes she emerged gropingly from the great door of Entrance Tower. Dorothy was again a prisoner in her rooms and could not come down to bidme farewell. Madge mounted, and the groom led her horse to me and placedthe reins in my hands. 

"Is it you, Malcolm?" asked Madge. 

"Yes, " I responded, in a voice husky with emotion. "I cannot thank youenough for coming to say farewell. You have forgiven me?"

"Yes, " responded Madge, almost in tears, "but I have not come to sayfarewell. "

I did not understand her meaning. 

"Are you going to ride part of the way with me--perhaps to Rowsley?" Iasked, hardly daring to hope for so much. 

"To France, Malcolm, if you wish to take me, " she responded murmuringly. 

For a little time I could not feel the happiness that had come upon me inso great a flood. But when I had collected my scattered senses, I said:--

"I thank God that He has turned your heart again to me. May I feel Hisrighteous anger if ever I give you cause to regret the step you aretaking. "

"I shall never regret it, Malcolm, " she answered softly, as she held outher hand to me. 

Then we rode by the dove-cote, out from Haddon Hall, never to see itswalls again. 

We went to Rutland, whence after a fortnight we journeyed to France. ThereI received my mother's estates, and never for one moment, to my knowledge, has Madge regretted having intrusted her life and happiness to me. I neednot speak for myself. 

Our home is among the warm, sunlit, vine-covered hills of southern France, and we care not for the joys of golden streets so long as God in Hisgoodness vouchsafes to us our earthly paradise. Age, with the heart atpeace, is the fairest season of life; and love, leavened of God, robs evenapproaching death of his sting and makes for us a broad flower-strewn pathfrom the tempestuous sea of time to the calm, sweet ocean of eternity. 

CHAPTER XVI

LEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE

I shall now tell you of the happenings in Haddon Hall during the fortnightwe spent at Rutland before our departure for France. 

We left Dorothy, you will remember, a prisoner in her rooms. 

After John had gone Sir George's wrath began to gather, and Dorothy wasnot permitted to depart from the Hall for even a walk upon the terrace, nor could she leave her own apartments save when the queen requested herpresence. 

A few days after my departure from Haddon, Sir George sent Dawson outthrough the adjoining country to invite the nobility and gentry to a grandball to be given at the Hall in honor of Queen Elizabeth. Queen Mary hadbeen sent a prisoner to Chatsworth. 

Tom Shaw, the most famous piper of his times, and a choice company ofmusicians to play with him were hired for the occasion, and, in short, theevent was so glorious that its wonders have been sung in minstrelsythroughout Derbyshire ever since. 

Dorothy's imprisonment saddened Leicester's heart, and he longed to seeher, for her beauty had touched him nearly. Accordingly, the earl one dayintimated to Sir George his wish in terms that almost bespoke an intentionto ask for the girl's hand when upon proper opportunity the queen'sconsent might be sought and perchance obtained. His equivocal words didnot induce Sir George to grant a meeting by which Dorothy might becompromised; but a robust hope for the ultimate accomplishment of the"Leicester possibility" was aroused in the breast of the King of the Peak, and from hope he could, and soon did, easily step to faith. He saw thatthe earl was a handsome man, and he believed, at least he hoped, that thefascinating lord might, if he were given an opportunity, woo Dorothy'sheart away from the hated scion of a hated race. Sir George, therefore, after several interviews with the earl, grew anxious to give his Lordshipan opportunity to win her. But both Sir George and my lord fearedElizabeth's displeasure, and the meeting between Leicester and the girlseemed difficult to contrive. Sir George felt confident that Dorothycould, if she would, easily capture the great lord in a few privateinterviews; but would she? Dorothy gave her father no encouragement in thematter, and took pains to shun Leicester rather than to seek him. 

As Dorothy grew unwilling, Leicester and Sir George grew eager, until atlength the latter felt that it was almost time to exert his parentalauthority. He told Aunt Dorothy his feeling on the subject, and she toldher niece. It was impossible to know from what source Dorothy might drawinspiration for mischief. It came to her with her father's half-commandregarding Leicester. 

Winter had again asserted itself. The weather was bitter cold and snowcovered the ground to the depth of a horse's fetlock. 

The eventful night of the grand ball arrived, and Dorothy's heart throbbedtill she thought surely it would burst. 

At nightfall guests began to arrive, and Sir George, hospitable soul thathe was, grew boisterous with good humor and delight. 

The rare old battlements of Haddon were ablaze with flambeaux, and insidethe rooms were alight with waxen tapers. The long gallery was brilliantwith the smiles of bejewelled beauty, and laughter, song, and merrimentfilled the grand old Hall from terrace to Entrance Tower. Dorothy, ofcourse, was brought down from her prison to grace the occasion with abeauty which none could rival. Her garments were of soft, clinging, bright-colored silks and snowy laces, and all who saw her agreed that acreature more radiant never greeted the eye of man. 

When the guests had all arrived, the pipers in the balcony burst forth inheart-swelling strains of music, and every foot in the room longed for thedance to begin. 

I should like to tell you how Elizabeth most graciously opened the ballwith his Majesty, the King of the Peak, amid the plaudits of worshippingsubjects, and I should enjoy describing the riotous glory whichfollowed, --for although I was not there, I know intimately all thathappened, --but I will balk my desire and tell you only of those thingswhich touched Dorothy. 

Leicester, of course, danced with her, and during a pause in the figure, the girl in response to pleadings which she had adroitly incited, reluctantly promised to grant the earl the private interview he so muchdesired if he could suggest some means for bringing it about. Leicesterwas in raptures over her complaisance and glowed with triumph anddelightful anticipation. But he could think of no satisfactory planwhereby his hopes might be brought to a happy fruition. He proposedseveral, but all seemed impracticable to the coy girl, and she rejectedthem. After many futile attempts he said:--

"I can suggest no good plan, mistress. I pray you, gracious lady, therefore, make full to overflowing the measure of your generosity, andtell me how it may be accomplished. "

Dorothy hung her head as if in great shame and said: "I fear, my lord, wehad better abandon the project for a time. Upon another occasionperhaps--"

"No, no, " interrupted the earl, pleadingly, "do not so grievouslydisappoint me. My heart yearns to have you to myself for one little momentwhere spying eyes cannot see nor prying ears hear. It is cruel in you toraise my hopes only to cast them down. I beg you, tell me if you know inwhat manner I may meet you privately. "

After a long pause, Dorothy with downcast eyes said, "I am full of shame, my lord, to consent to this meeting, and then find the way to it, but--but--" ("Yes, yes, my Venus, my gracious one, " interrupted theearl)--"but if my father would permit me to--to leave the Hall for a fewminutes, I might--oh, it is impossible, my lord. I must not think of it. "

"I pray you, I beg you, " pleaded Leicester. "Tell me, at least, what youmight do if your father would permit you to leave the Hall. I would gladlyfall to my knees, were it not for the assembled company. "

With reluctance in her manner and gladness in her heart, the girl said:--

"If my father would permit me to leave the Hall, I might--only for amoment, meet you at the stile, in the northeast corner of the garden backof the terrace half an hour hence. But he would not permit me, and--and, my lord, I ought not to go even should father consent. "

"I will ask your father's permission for you. I will seek him at once, "said the eager earl. 

"No, no, my lord, I pray you, do not, " murmured Dorothy, with distractinglittle troubled wrinkles in her forehead. Her trouble was more for fearlest he would not than for dread that he would. 

"I will, I will, " cried his Lordship, softly; "I insist, and you shall notgainsay me. "

The girl's only assent was silence, but that was sufficient for soenterprising a gallant as the noble Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Sohe at once went to seek Sir George. 

The old gentleman, although anxious to give Leicester a chance to presshis suit with Dorothy, at first refused, but Leicester said:--

"My intentions are honorable, Sir George. If I can win your daughter'sheart, it is my wish, if the queen's consent can be obtained, to askMistress Vernon's hand in marriage. "

Sir George's breast swelled with pride and satisfaction, for Leicester'swords were as near an offer of marriage as it was in his power to make. Sothe earl received, for Dorothy, permission to leave the Hall, and eagerlycarried it to her. 

"Your father consents gladly, " said the earl. "Will you meet me half anhour hence at the stile?"

"Yes, " murmured the girl, with shamelessly cast down eyes and droopinghead. Leicester bowed himself away, and fully fifteen minutes before theappointed time left the Hall to wait in the cold at the stile for Dorothy. 

Before the expiration of the tedious half hour our meek maiden went to herfather and with deep modesty and affected shame said:--

"Father, is it your wish that I go out of the Hall for a few minutes tomeet--to meet--" She apparently could not finish the sentence, so modestand shame-faced was she. 

"Yes, Doll, I wish you to go on this condition: if Leicester asks you tomarry him, you shall consent to be his wife. "

"I promise, father, " replied the dutiful girl, "if Lord Leicester asks methis night, I will be his wife. "

"That is well, child, that is well. Once more you are my good, obedientdaughter, and I love you. Wear your sable cloak, Doll; the weather is verycold out of doors. "

Her father's solicitude touched her nearly, and she gently led him to asecluded alcove near by, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed himpassionately. The girl's affection was sweet to the old man who had beenwithout it so long, and his eyes grew moist as he returned her caresses. Dorothy's eyes also were filled with tears. Her throat was choked withsobs, and her heart was sore with pain. Poor young heart! Poor old man!

Soon after Dorothy had spoken with her father she left the Hall byDorothy's Postern. She was wrapped in her sable cloak--the one that hadsaved John's life in Aunt Dorothy's room; but instead of going across thegarden to the stile where Lord Leicester was waiting, which was north andeast of the terrace, she sped southward down the terrace and did not stoptill she reached the steps which led westward to the lower garden. Shestood on the terrace till she saw a man running toward her from thepostern in the southwest corner of the lower garden. Then down the stepsshe sped with winged feet, and outstretching her arms, fell upon the man'sbreast, whispering: "John, my love! John, my love!"

As for the man--well, during the first minute or two he wasted no time inspeech. 

When he spoke he said:--

"We must not tarry here. Horses are waiting at the south end of thefootbridge. Let us hasten away at once. "

Then happened the strangest of all the strange things I have had to recordof this strange, fierce, tender, and at time almost half-savage girl. 

Dorothy for months had longed for that moment. Her heart had almost burstwith joy when a new-born hope for it was suggested by the opportunities ofthe ball and her father's desire touching my lord of Leicester. But nowthat the longed-for moment was at hand, the tender heart, which had soanxiously awaited it, failed, and the girl broke down weepinghysterically. 

"Oh, John, you have forgiven so many faults in me, " she said betweensobs, "that I know you will forgive me when I tell you I cannot go withyou to-night. I thought I could and I so intended when I came out here tomeet you. But oh, John, my dearest love, I cannot go; I cannot go. Anothertime I will go with you, John. I promise that I will go with you soon, very soon, John; but I cannot go now, oh, I cannot. You will forgive me, won't you, John? You will forgive me?"

"No, " cried John in no uncertain tones, "I will not forgive you. I willtake you. If you cry out, I will silence you. " Thereupon he rudely tookthe girl in his arms and ran with her toward the garden gate near thenorth end of the stone footbridge. 

"John, John!" she cried in terror. But he placed his hand over her mouthand forced her to remain silent till they were past the south wall. Thenhe removed his hand and she screamed and struggled against him with allher might. Strong as she was, her strength was no match for John's, andher struggles were in vain. 

John, with his stolen bride, hurriedly crossed the footbridge and ran tothe men who were holding the horses. There he placed Dorothy on her feetand said with a touch of anger:--

"Will you mount of your own will or shall I put you in the saddle?"

"I'll mount of my own will, John, " she replied submissively, "and John, I--I thank you, I thank you for--for--" she stopped speaking and toyedwith the tufts of fur that hung from the edges of her cloak. 

"For what, my love? For what do you thank me?" asked John after a littlepause. 

"For making--me--do--what I--I longed to do. My conscience would not letme do it of my own free will. "

Then tears came from her eyes in a great flood, and throwing her armsabout John's neck she gave him herself and her heart to keep forever andforever. 

And Leicester was shivering at the stile! The girl had forgotten even theexistence of the greatest lord in the realm. 

My wife, Lord Rutland, and I waited in the watch-room above the castlegates for the coming of Dorothy and John; and when they came--but I willnot try to describe the scene. It were a vain effort. Tears and laughterwell compounded make the sweetest joy; grief and joy the truest happiness;happiness and pain the grandest soul, and none of these may be described. We may analyze them, and may take them part from part; but, like love, they cannot be compounded. We may know all the component parts, but whenwe try to create these great emotions in description, we lack the subtlecompounding flux to unite the ingredients, and after all is done, we havesimply said that black is black and that white is white. 

Next day, in the morning, Madge and I started for our new home in France. We rode up the hill down which poor Dolcy took her last fatal plunge, andwhen we reached the crest, we paused to look back. Standing on thebattlements, waving a kerchief in farewell to us, was the golden-crownedform of a girl. Soon she covered her face with her kerchief, and we knewshe was weeping Then we, also, wept as we turned away from the fairpicture; and since that far-off morning--forty long, long years ago--wehave not seen the face nor heard the voice of our sweet, tender friend. Forty years! What an eternity it is if we tear it into minutes!

L'ENVOI

The fire ceases to burn; the flames are sucked back into the earth; thedoe's blood has boiled away; the caldron cools, and my shadowy friends--soreal to me--whom I love with a passionate tenderness beyond my power toexpress, have sunk into the dread black bank of the past, and my poor, weak wand is powerless to recall them for the space of even one fleetingmoment. So I must say farewell to them; but all my life I shall carry aheart full of tender love and pain for the fairest, fiercest, gentlest, weakest, strongest of them all--Dorothy Vernon. 

MALCOLM POSSIBLY IN ERROR

Malcolm Vernon is the only writer on the life of Dorothy Vernon who speaksof Rutland Castle. All others writing on the subject say that BelvoirCastle was the home of the Earl of Rutland. 

No other writer mentions the proposed marriage, spoken of by Malcolm, between Dorothy and Lord Derby's son. They do, however, say that Dorothyhad an elder sister who married a Stanley, but died childless, leavingDorothy sole heiress to Sir George Vernon's vast estate. 

All writers agree with Malcolm upon the main fact that brave Dorothyeloped with John Manners and brought to him the fair estate of Haddon, which their descendant, the present Duke of Rutland, now possesses. 

No other writer speaks of Mary Stuart having been at Haddon, and manychroniclers disagree with Malcolm as to the exact date of her imprisonmentin Lochleven and her escape. 

In all other essential respects the history of Dorothy Vernon as told byMalcolm agrees with other accounts of her life. 

I do not pretend to reconcile the differences between these greathistorical authorities, but I confess to considerable faith in Malcolm.