Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

by Charles Major

  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.

  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. I
often 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 i
n 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.