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 wou
ld 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.
"Cal
l 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 univ
ersal 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.
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 minutes of 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? H
ave 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 chateau, 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.
Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Page 15
