THE GOLDEN HEART
The day after Dorothy's first meeting with Manners at Overhaddon she was
restless and nervous, and about the hour of three in the afternoon she
mounted Dolcy and rode toward Bakewell. That direction, I was sure, she
took for the purpose of misleading us at the Hall, and I felt confident
she would, when once out of sight, head her mare straight for Overhaddon.
Within an hour Dorothy was home again, and very ill-tempered.
The next day she rode out in the morning. I asked her if I should ride
with her, and the emphatic "No" with which she answered me left no room
for doubt in my mind concerning her desire for my company or her
destination. Again she returned within an hour and hurried to her
apartments. Shortly afterward Madge asked me what Dorothy was weeping
about; and although in my own mind I was confident of the cause of
Dorothy's tears, I, of course, did not give Madge a hint of my suspicion.
Yet I then knew, quite as well as I now know, that John, notwithstanding
the important business which he said would bring him to Overhaddon every
day, had forced himself to remain at home, and Dorothy, in consequence,
suffered from anger and wounded pride. She had twice ridden to Overhaddon
to meet him. She had done for his sake that which she knew she should have
left undone, and he had refused the offering. A smarting conscience, an
aching heart, and a breast full of anger were Dorothy's rewards for her
evil doing. The day after her second futile trip to Overhaddon, I, to test
her, spoke of John. She turned upon me with the black look of a fury, and
hurled her words at me.
"Never again speak his despised name in my hearing. Curse him and his
whole race."
"Now what has he been doing?" I asked.
"I tell you, I will not speak of him, nor will I listen to you," and she
dashed away from me like a fiery whirlwind.
Four or five days later the girl rode out again upon Dolcy. She was away
from home for four long hours, and when she returned she was so gentle,
sweet, and happy that she was willing to kiss every one in the household
from Welch, the butcher, to Sir George. She was radiant. She clung to
Madge and to me, and sang and romped through the house like Dorothy of
old.
Madge said, "I am so glad you are feeling better, Dorothy." Then, speaking
to me: "She has been ill for several days. She could not sleep."
Dorothy looked quickly over to me, gave a little shrug to her shoulders,
bent forward her face, which was red with blushing, and kissed Madge
lingeringly upon the lips.
The events of Dorothy's trip I soon learned from her.
The little scene between Dorothy, Madge, and myself, after Dorothy's
joyful return, occurred a week before the momentous conversation between
Sir George and me concerning my union with his house. Ten days after Sir
George had offered me his daughter and his lands, he brought up the
subject again. He and I were walking on the ridge of Bowling Green Hill.
"I am glad you are making such fair progress with Doll," said Sir George.
"Have you yet spoken to her upon the subject?"
I was surprised to hear that I had made any progress. In fact, I did not
know that I had taken a single step. I was curious to learn in what the
progress consisted, so I said:--
"I have not spoken to Dorothy yet concerning the marriage, and I fear that
I have made no progress at all. She certainly is friendly enough to me,
but--"
"I should say that the gift from you she exhibited would indicate
considerable progress," said Sir George, casting an expressive glance
toward me.
"What gift?" I stupidly inquired.
"The golden heart, you rascal. She said you told her it had belonged to
your mother."
"Holy Mother of Truth!" thought I, "pray give your especial care to my
cousin Dorothy. She needs it."
Sir George thrust at my side with his thumb and continued:--
"Don't deny it, Malcolm. Damme, you are as shy as a boy in this matter.
But perhaps you know better than I how to go at her. I was thinking only
the other day that your course was probably the right one. Doll, I
suspect, has a dash of her old father's temper, and she may prove a little
troublesome unless we let her think she is having her own way. Oh, there
is nothing like knowing how to handle them, Malcolm. Just let them think
they are having their own way and--and save trouble. Doll may have more of
her father in her than I suspect, and perhaps it is well for us to move
slowly. You will be able to judge, but you must not move too slowly. If in
the end she should prove stubborn, we will break her will or break her
neck. I would rather have a daughter in Bakewell churchyard than a wilful,
stubborn, disobedient huzzy in Haddon Hall."
[Illustration]
Sir George had been drinking, and my slip concerning the gift passed
unnoticed by him.
"I am sure you well know how to proceed in this matter, but don't be too
cautious, Malcolm; the best woman living loves to be stormed."
"Trust me," I answered, "I shall speak--" and my words unconsciously sank
away to thought, as thought often, and inconveniently at times, grows into
words.
"Dorothy, Dorothy," said the thoughts again and again, "where came you by
the golden heart?" and "where learned you so villanously to lie?"
"From love," was the response, whispered by the sighing winds. "From love,
that makes men and women like unto gods and teaches them the tricks of
devils." "From love," murmured the dry rustling leaves and the rugged
trees. "From love," sighed the fleecy clouds as they floated in the sweet
restful azure of the vaulted sky. "From love," cried the mighty sun as he
poured his light and heat upon the eager world to give it life. I would
not give a fig for a woman, however, who would not lie herself black in
the face for the sake of her lover, and I am glad that it is a virtue few
women lack. One who would scorn to lie under all other circumstances
would--but you understand. I suppose that Dorothy had never before uttered
a real lie. She hated all that was evil and loved all that was good till
love came a-teaching.
I quickly invented an excuse to leave Sir George, and returned to the Hall
to seek Dorothy. I found her and asked her to accompany me for a few
minutes that I might speak with her privately. We went out upon the
terrace and I at once began:--
"You should tell me when I present you gifts that I may not cause trouble
by my ignorance nor show surprise when I suddenly learn what I have done.
You see when a man gives a lady a gift and he does not know it, he is apt
to--"
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Dorothy, pale with fear and consternation. "Did
you--"
"No, I did not betray you, but I came perilously near it."
"I--I wanted to tell you about it. I tried several times to do so--I did
so long to tell somebody, but I could not bring myself to speak. I was
full of shame, yet I was proud and happy, for all that happened was good
and pure and sacred. You are not a woman; you cannot know--"
"But I do know. I know that you saw Manners the other day, and that he
gave you a golden heart."
"How did you know? Did any one--"
"Tell me? No. I knew it when you returned after five hours' absence,
looking radiant as the sun."
"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, with a startled movement.
"I also knew," I continued, "that at other times when you rode out upon
Dolcy you had not seen him."
"How did you know?" she asked, with quick-coming breath.
"By your ill-humor," I answered.
"I knew it was so. I felt that everybody knew all that I had been doing. I
could almost see father and Madge and you--even the servants--reading the
wickedness written upon my heart. I knew that I could hide it from
nobody." Tears were very near the girl's eyes.
"We cannot help thinking that our guilty consciences, through which we see
so plainly our own evil, are transparent to all the world. In that fact
lies an evil-doer's greatest danger," said I, preacher fashion; "but you
need have no fear. What you have done I believe is suspected by no one
save me."
A deep sigh of relief rose from the girl's heaving breast.
"Well," she began, "I will tell you all about it, and I am only too glad
to do so. It is heavy, Malcolm, heavy on my conscience. But I would not
be rid of it for all the kingdoms of the earth."
"A moment since you told me that your conduct was good and pure and
sacred, and now you tell me that it is heavy on your conscience. Does one
grieve, Dorothy, for the sake of that which is good and pure and sacred?"
"I cannot answer your question," she replied. "I am no priest. But this I
know: I have done no evil, and my conscience nevertheless is sore. Solve
me the riddle, Malcolm, if you can."
"I cannot solve your riddle, Dorothy," I replied; "but I feel sure it will
be far safer for each of us if you will tell me all that happens
hereafter."
"I am sure you are right," she responded; "but some secrets are so
delicious that we love to suck their sweets alone. I believe, however,
your advice is good, and I will tell you all that has happened, though I
cannot look you in the face while doing it." She hesitated a moment, and
her face was red with tell-tale blushes. She continued, "I have acted most
unmaidenly."
"Unmaidenly perhaps, but not unwomanly," said I.
"I thank you," she said, interrupting my sentence. It probably was well
that she did so, for I was about to add, "To act womanly often means to
get yourself into mischief and your friends into as much trouble as
possible." Had I finished my remark, she would not have thanked me.
"Well," said the girl, beginning her laggard narrative, "after we saw--saw
him at Overhaddon, you know, I went to the village on each of three
days--"
"Yes, I know that also," I said.
"How did you--but never mind. I did not see him, and when I returned home
I felt angry and hurt and--and--but never mind that either. One day I
found him, and I at once rode to the well where he was standing by his
horse. He drew water for Dolcy, but the perverse mare would not drink."
"A characteristic of her sex," I muttered.
"What did you say?" asked the girl.
"Nothing."
She continued: "He seemed constrained and distant in his manner, but I
knew, that is, I thought--I mean I felt--oh, you know--he looked as if he
were glad to see me and I--I, oh, God! I was so glad and happy to see him
that I could hardly restrain myself to act at all maidenly. He must have
heard my heart beat. I thought he was in trouble. He seemed to have
something he wished to say to me."
"He doubtless had a great deal he wished to say to you," said I, again
tempted to futile irony.
"I was sure he had something to say," the girl returned seriously. "He was
in trouble. I knew that he was, and I longed to help him."
"What trouble?" I inquired.
"Oh, I don't know. I forgot to ask, but he looked troubled."
"Doubtless he was troubled," I responded. "He had sufficient cause for
trouble," I finished the sentence to myself with the words, "in you."
"What was the cause of his trouble?" she hastily asked, turning her face
toward me.
"I do not know certainly," I answered in a tone of irony which should have
pierced an oak board, while the girl listened and looked at me eagerly;
"but I might guess."
"What was it? What was it? Let me hear you guess," she asked.
"You," I responded laconically.
"I!" she exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, you," I responded with emphasis. "You would bring trouble to any
man, but to Sir John Manners--well, if he intends to keep up these
meetings with you it would be better for his peace and happiness that he
should get him a house in hell, for he would live there more happily than
on this earth."
"That is a foolish, senseless remark, Malcolm," the girl replied, tossing
her head with a show of anger in her eyes. "This is no time to jest." I
suppose I could not have convinced her that I was not jesting.
"At first we did not speak to each other even to say good day, but stood
by the well in silence for a very long time. The village people were
staring at us, and I felt that every window had a hundred faces in it, and
every face a hundred eyes."
"You imagined that," said I, "because of your guilty conscience."
"Perhaps so. But it seemed to me that we stood by the well in silence a
very long time. You see, Cousin Malcolm, I was not the one who should
speak first. I had done more than my part in going to meet him."
"Decidedly so," said I, interrupting the interesting narrative.
"When I could bear the gaze of the villagers no longer, I drew up my reins
and started to leave The Open by the north road. After Dolcy had climbed
halfway up North Hill, which as you know overlooks the village, I turned
my head and saw Sir John still standing by the well, resting his hand upon
his horse's mane. He was watching me. I grew angry, and determined that he
should follow me, even if I had to call him. So I drew Dolcy to a stand.
Was not that bold in me? But wait, there is worse to come, Malcolm. He did
not move, but stood like a statue looking toward me. I knew that he wanted
to come, so after a little time I--I beckoned to him and--and then he came
like a thunderbolt. Oh! it was delicious. I put Dolcy to a gallop, for
when he started toward me I was frightened. Besides I did not want him to
overtake me till we were out of the village. But when once he had started,
he did not wait. He was as swift now as he had been slow, and my heart
throbbed and triumphed because of his eagerness, though in truth I was
afraid of him. Dolcy, you know, is very fleet, and when I touched her with
the whip she soon put half a mile between me and the village. Then I
brought her to a walk and--and he quickly overtook me.
"When he came up to me he said: 'I feared to follow you, though I ardently
wished to do so. I dreaded to tell you my name lest you should hate me.
Sir Malcolm at The Peacock said he would not disclose to you my identity.
I am John Manners. Our fathers are enemies.'
"Then I said to him, 'That is the reason I wish to talk to you. I wished
you to come to meet me because I wanted to tell you that I regret and
deplore the feud between our fathers.'--'Ah, you wished me to come?' he
asked.--'Of course I did,' I answered, 'else why should I be here?'--'No
one regrets the feud between our houses so deeply as I,' replied Sir John.
'I can think of nothing else by day, nor can I dream of anything else by
night. It is the greatest cause for grief and sorrow that has ever come
into my life.' You see, Cousin Malcolm," the girl continued, "I was right.
His father's conduct does trouble him. Isn't he noble and broad-minded to
see the evil of his father's ways?"
I did not tell the girl that Sir John's regret for the feud between the
houses of Manners and Vernon grew out of the fact that it separated him
from her; nor did I tell her that he did not grieve over his "father's
ways."
I asked, "Did Sir John tell you that he grieved because of his father's
ill-doing?"
"N-o, not in set terms, but--that, of course, would have been very hard
for him to say. I told you what he said, and there could be no other
meaning to his words."
"Of course not," I responded.
"No, and I fairly longed to reach out my hand and clutch him,
because--because I was so sorry for him."
"Was sorrow your only feeling?" I asked.
The girl looked at me for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears. Then
she sobbed gently and said, "Oh, Cousin Malcolm, you are so old and so
wise." ("Thank you," thought I, "a second Daniel come to judgment at
thirty-five; or Solomon and Methuselah in one.") She continued: "Tell me,
tell me, what is this terrible thing that has come upon me. I seem to be
living in a dream. I am burning with a fever, and a heavy weight is here
upon my breast. I cannot sleep at night. I can do nothing but long and
yearn for--for I know not what--till at times it seems that some
frightful, unseen monster is slowly drawing the heart out of my bosom. I
think of--of him at all times, and I try to recall his face, and the tones
of his voice until, Cousin Malcolm, I tell you I am almost mad. I call
upon the Holy Virgin hour by hour to pity me; but she is pure, and cannot
know what I feel. I hate and loathe myself. To what am I coming? Where
will it all end? Yet I can do nothing to save myself. I am powerless
against this terrible feeling. I cannot even resolve to resist it. It came
upon me mildly that day at The Peacock Inn, when I first saw him, and it
grows deeper and stronger day by day, and, alas! night by night. I seem to
have lost myself. In some strange way I feel as if I had sunk into
him--that he had absorbed me."
"The iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain," thought I.
"I believed," continued the girl, "that if he would exert his will I might
have relief; but there again I find trouble, for I cannot bring myself to
ask him to will it. The feeling within me is like a sore heart: painful as
it is, I must keep it. Without it I fear I could not live."
After this outburst there was a long pause during which she walked by my
side, seemingly unconscious that I was near her. I had known for some time
that Dorothy was interested in Manners; but I was not prepared to see such
a volcano of passion. I need not descant upon the evils and dangers of the
situation. The thought that first came to me was that Sir George would
surely kill his daughter before he would allow her to marry a son of
Rutland. I was revolving in my mind how I should set about to mend the
matter when Dorothy again spoke.
"Tell me, Cousin Malcolm, can a man throw a spell over a woman and bewitch
her?"
"I do not know. I have never heard of a man witch," I responded.
"No?" asked the girl.
"But," I continued, "I do know that a woman may bewitch a man. John
Manners, I doubt not, could also testify knowingly on the subject by this
time."
"Oh, do you think he is bewitched?" cried Dorothy, grasping my arm and
looking eagerly into my face. "If I could bewitch him, I would do it. I
would deal with the devil gladly to learn the art. I would not care for my
soul. I do not fear the future. The present is a thousand-fold dearer to
me than either the past or the future. I care not what comes hereafter. I
want him now. Ah, Malcolm, pity my shame."
She covered her face with her hands, and after a moment continued: "I am
not myself. I belong not to myself. But if I knew that he also suffers, I
do believe my pain would be less."
"I think you may set your heart at rest upon that point," I answered. "He,
doubtless, also suffers."
"I hope so," she responded, unconscious of the selfish wish she had
expressed. "If he does not, I know not what will be my fate."
I saw that I had made a mistake in assuring her that John also suffered,
and I determined to correct it later on, if possible.
Dorothy was silent, and I said, "You have not told me about the golden
heart."
"I will tell you," she answered. "We rode for two hours or more, and
talked of the weather and the scenery, until there was nothing more to be
said concerning either. Then Sir John told me of the court in London,
where he has always lived, and of the queen whose hair, he says, is red,
but not at all like mine. I wondered if he would speak of the beauty of my
hair, but he did not. He only looked at it. Then he told me about the
Scottish queen whom he once met when he was on an embassy to Edinburgh. He
described her marvellous beauty, and I believe he sympathizes with her
cause--that is, with her cause in Scotland. He says she has no good cause
in England. He is true to our queen. Well--well he talked so interestingly
that I could have listened a whole month--yes, all my life."
"I suppose you could," I said.
"Yes," she continued, "but I could not remain longer from home, and when I
left him he asked me to accept a keepsake which had belonged to his
mother, as a token that there should be no feud between him and me." And
she drew from her bosom a golden heart studded with diamonds and pierced
by a white silver arrow.
"I, of course, accepted it, then we said 'good-by,' and I put Dolcy to a
gallop that she might speedily take me out of temptation."
"Have you ridden to Overhaddon for the purpose of seeing Manners many
times since he gave you the heart?" I queried.
"What would you call 'many times'?" she asked, drooping her head.
"Every day?" I said interrogatively. She nodded. "Yes. But I have seen
him only once since the day when he gave me the heart."
Nothing I could say would do justice to the subject, so I remained silent.
"But you have not yet told me how your father came to know of the golden
heart," I said.
"It was this way: One morning while I was looking at the heart, father
came upon me suddenly before I could conceal it. He asked me to tell him
how I came by the jewel, and in my fright and confusion I could think of
nothing else to say, so I told him you had given it to me. He promised not
to speak to you about the heart, but he did not keep his word. He seemed
pleased."
"Doubtless he was pleased," said I, hoping to lead up to the subject so
near to Sir George's heart, but now farther than ever from mine.
The girl unsuspectingly helped me.
"Father asked if you had spoken upon a subject of great interest to him
and to yourself, and I told him you had not. 'When he does speak,' said
father most kindly, 'I want you to grant his request'--and I will grant
it, Cousin Malcolm." She looked in my face and continued: "I will grant
your request, whatever it may be. You are the dearest friend I have in the
world, and mine is the most loving and lovable father that girl ever had.
It almost breaks my heart when I think of his suffering should he learn of
what I have done--that which I just told to you." She walked beside me
meditatively for a moment and said, "To-morrow I will return Sir John's
gift and I will never see him again."
I felt sure that by to-morrow she would have repented of her repentance;
but I soon discovered that I had given her much more time than she needed
to perform that trifling feminine gymnastic, for with the next breath she
said:--
"I have no means of returning the heart. I must see him once more and I
will give--give it--it--back to--to him, and will tell him that I can see
him never again." She scarcely had sufficient resolution to finish telling
her intention. Whence, then, would come the will to put it in action?
Forty thieves could not have stolen the heart from her, though she thought
she was honest when she said she would take it to him.
"Dorothy," said I, seriously but kindly, "have you and Sir John spoken
of--"
She evidently knew that I meant to say "of love," for she interrupted me.
"N-o, but surely he knows. And I--I think--at least I hope with all my
heart that--"
"I will take the heart to Sir John," said I, interrupting her angrily,
"and you need not see him again. He has acted like a fool and a knave. He
is a villain, Dorothy, and I will tell him as much in the most emphatic
terms I have at my command."
"Dare you speak against him or to him upon the subject!" she exclaimed,
her eyes blazing with anger; "you--you asked for my confidence and I gave
it. You said I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me that I am
a fool indeed. Traitor!"
"My dear cousin," said I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging me
with bad faith, "your secret is safe with me. I swear it by my knighthood.
You may trust me. I spoke in anger. But Sir John has acted badly. That you
cannot gainsay. You, too, have done great evil. That also you cannot
gainsay."
"No," said the girl, dejectedly, "I cannot deny it; but the greatest evil
is yet to come."
"You must do something," I continued. "You must take some decisive step
that will break this connection, and you must take the step at once if you
would save yourself from the frightful evil that is in store for you.
Forgive me for what I said, sweet cousin. My angry words sprang from my
love for you and my fear for your future."
No girl's heart was more tender to the influence of kindness than
Dorothy's. No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory command.
My words softened her at once, and she tried to smother the anger I had
aroused. But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained which in a
moment or two created a disastrous conflagration. You shall hear.
She walked by my side in silence for a little time, and then spoke in a
low, slightly sullen tone which told of her effort to smother her
resentment.
"I do trust you, Cousin Malcolm. What is it that you wish to ask of me?
Your request is granted before it is made."
"Do not be too sure of that, Dorothy," I replied. "It is a request your
father ardently desires me to make, and I do not know how to speak to you
concerning the subject in the way I wish."
I could not ask her to marry me, and tell her with the same breath that I
did not want her for my wife. I felt I must wait for a further opportunity
to say that I spoke only because her father had required me to do so, and
that circumstances forced me to put the burden of refusal upon her. I well
knew that she would refuse me, and then I intended to explain.
"Why, what is it all about?" asked the girl in surprise, suspecting, I
believe, what was to follow.
"It is this: your father is anxious that his vast estates shall not pass
out of the family name, and he wishes you to be my wife, so that your
children may bear the loved name of Vernon."
I could not have chosen a more inauspicious time to speak. She looked at
me for an instant in surprise, turning to scorn. Then she spoke in tones
of withering contempt.
"Tell my father that I shall never bear a child by the name of Vernon. I
would rather go barren to my grave. Ah! that is why Sir John Manners is a
villain? That is why a decisive step should be taken? That is why you come
to my father's house a-fortune-hunting? After you have squandered your
patrimony and have spent a dissolute youth in profligacy, after the women
of the class you have known will have no more of you but choose younger
men, you who are old enough to be my father come here and seek your
fortune, as your father sought his, by marriage. I do not believe that my
father wishes me to--to marry you. You have wheedled him into giving his
consent when he was in his cups. But even if he wished it with all his
heart, I would not marry you." Then she turned and walked rapidly toward
the Hall.
Her fierce words angered me; for in the light of my real intentions her
scorn was uncalled for, and her language was insulting beyond endurance.
For a moment or two the hot blood rushed to my brain and rendered me
incapable of intelligent thought. But as Dorothy walked from me I realized
that something must be done at once to put myself right with her. When my
fit of temper had cooled, and when I considered that the girl did not know
my real intentions, I could not help acknowledging that in view of all
that had just passed between us concerning Sir John Manners, and, in fact,
in view of all that she had seen and could see, her anger was justifiable.
I called to her: "Dorothy, wait a moment. You have not heard all I have to
say."
She hastened her pace. A few rapid strides brought me to her side. I was
provoked, not at her words, for they were almost justifiable, but because
she would not stop to hear me. I grasped her rudely by the arm and
said:--
"Listen till I have finished."
"I will not," she answered viciously. "Do not touch me."
I still held her by the arm and said: "I do not wish to marry you. I spoke
only because your father desired me to do so, and because my refusal to
speak would have offended him beyond any power of mine to make amends. I
could not tell you that I did not wish you for my wife until you had given
me an opportunity. I was forced to throw the burden of refusal upon you."
"That is but a ruse--a transparent, flimsy ruse," responded the stubborn,
angry girl, endeavoring to draw her arm from my grasp.
"It is not a ruse," I answered. "If you will listen to me and will help me
by acting as I suggest, we may between us bring your father to our way of
thinking, and I may still be able to retain his friendship."
"What is your great plan?" asked Dorothy, in a voice such as one might
expect to hear from a piece of ice.
"I have formed no plan as yet," I replied, "although I have thought of
several. Until we can determine upon one, I suggest that you permit me to
say to your father that I have asked you to be my wife, and that the
subject has come upon you so suddenly that you wish a short time,--a
fortnight or a month--in which to consider your answer."
"That is but a ruse, I say, to gain time," she answered contemptuously. "I
do not wish one moment in which to consider. You already have my answer. I
should think you had had enough. Do you desire more of the same sort? A
little of such treatment should go a long way with a man possessed of one
spark of honor or self-respect."
Her language would have angered a sheep.
"If you will not listen to me," I answered, thoroughly aroused and
careless of consequences, "go to your father. Tell him I asked you to be
my wife, and that you scorned my suit. Then take the consequences. He has
always been gentle and tender to you because there has been no conflict.
Cross his desires, and you will learn a fact of which you have never
dreamed. You have seen the manner in which he treats others who oppose
him. You will learn that with you, too, he can be one of the cruelest and
most violent of men."
"You slander my father. I will go to him as you advise and will tell him
that I would not marry you if you wore the English crown. I, myself, will
tell him of my meeting with Sir John Manners rather than allow you the
pleasure of doing so. He will be angry, but he will pity me."
"For God's sake, Dorothy, do not tell your father of your meetings at
Overhaddon. He would kill you. Have you lived in the same house with him
all these years and do you not better know his character than to think
that you may go to him with the tale you have just told me, and that he
will forgive you? Feel as you will toward me, but believe me when I swear
to you by my knighthood that I will betray to no person what you have this
day divulged to me."
Dorothy made no reply, but turned from me and rapidly walked toward the
Hall. I followed at a short distance, and all my anger was displaced by
fear for her. When we reached the Hall she quickly sought her father and
approached him in her old free manner, full of confidence in her influence
over him.
"Father, this man"--waving her hand toward me--"has come to Haddon Hall
a-fortune-hunting. He has asked me to be his wife, and says you wish me to
accept him."
"Yes, Doll, I certainly wish it with all my heart," returned Sir George,
affectionately, taking his daughter's hand.
"Then you need wish it no longer, for I will not marry him."
"What?" demanded her father, springing to his feet.
"I will not. I will not. I will not."
"You will if I command you to do so, you damned insolent wench," answered
Sir George, hoarsely. Dorothy's eyes opened in wonder.
"Do not deceive yourself, father, for one moment," she retorted
contemptuously. "He has come here in sheep's clothing and has adroitly
laid his plans to convince you that I should marry him, but--"
"He has done nothing of the sort," answered Sir George, growing more angry
every moment, but endeavoring to be calm. "Nothing of the sort. Many years
ago I spoke to him on this subject, which is very dear to my heart. The
project has been dear to me ever since you were a child. When I again
broached it to Malcolm a fortnight or more since I feared from his manner
that he was averse to the scheme. I had tried several times to speak to
him about it, but he warded me off, and when I did speak, I feared that he
was not inclined to it."
"Yes," interrupted the headstrong girl, apparently bent upon destroying
both of us. "He pretended that he did not wish to marry me. He said he
wished me to give a sham consent for the purpose of gaining time till we
might hit upon some plan by which we could change your mind. He said he
had no desire nor intention to marry me. It was but a poor, lame ruse on
his part."
During Dorothy's recital Sir George turned his face from her to me. When
she had finished speaking, he looked at me for a moment and said:--
"Does my daughter speak the truth? Did you say--"
"Yes," I promptly replied, "I have no intention of marrying your
daughter." Then hoping to place myself before Sir George in a better
light, I continued: "I could not accept the hand of a lady against her
will. I told you as much when we conversed on the subject."
"What?" exclaimed Sir George, furious with anger. "You too? You whom I
have befriended?"
"I told you, Sir George, I would not marry Dorothy without her free
consent. No gentleman of honor would accept the enforced compliance of a
woman."
"But Doll says that you told her you had no intention of marrying her even
should she consent," replied Sir George.
"I don't know that I spoke those exact words," I replied, "but you may
consider them said."
"You damned, ungrateful, treacherous hound!" stormed Sir George. "You
listened to me when I offered you my daughter's hand, and you pretended to
consent without at the time having any intention of doing so."
"That, I suppose, is true, Sir George," said I, making a masterful effort
against anger. "That is true, for I knew that Dorothy would not consent;
and had I been inclined to the marriage, I repeat, I would marry no woman
against her will. No gentleman would do it."
My remark threw Sir George into a paroxysm of rage.
"I did it, you cur, you dog, you--you traitorous, ungrateful--I did it."
"Then, Sir George," said I, interrupting him, for I was no longer able to
restrain my anger, "you were a cowardly poltroon."
"This to me in my house!" he cried, grasping a chair with which to strike
me. Dorothy came between us.
"Yes," said I, "and as much more as you wish to hear." I stood my ground,
and Sir George put down the chair.
"Leave my house at once," he said in a whisper of rage.
"If you are on my premises in one hour from now I will have you flogged
from my door by the butcher."
"What have I done?" cried Dorothy. "What have I done?"
"Your regrets come late, Mistress Vernon," said I.
"She shall have more to regret," said Sir George, sullenly. "Go to your
room, you brazen, disobedient huzzy, and if you leave it without my
permission, by God, I will have you whipped till you bleed. I will teach
you to say 'I won't' when I say 'you shall.' God curse my soul, if I don't
make you repent this day!"
As I left the room Dorothy was in tears, and Sir George was walking the
floor in a towering rage. The girl had learned that I was right in what I
had told her concerning her father's violent temper.
I went at once to my room in Eagle Tower and collected my few belongings
in a bundle. Pitifully small it was, I tell you.
Where I should go I knew not, and where I should remain I knew even less,
for my purse held only a few shillings--the remnant of the money Queen
Mary had sent to me by the hand of Sir Thomas Douglas. England was as
unsafe for me as Scotland; but how I might travel to France without money,
and how I might without a pass evade Elizabeth's officers who guarded
every English port, even were I supplied with gold, were problems for
which I had no solution.
There were but two persons in Haddon Hall to whom I cared to say farewell.
They were Lady Madge and Will Dawson. The latter was a Scot, and was
attached to the cause of Queen Mary. He and I had become friends, and on
several occasions we had talked confidentially over Mary's sad plight.
When my bundle was packed, I sought Madge and found her in the gallery
near the foot of the great staircase. She knew my step and rose to greet
me with a bright smile.
"I have come to say good-by to you, Cousin Madge," said I. The smile
vanished from her face.
"You are not going to leave Haddon Hall?" she asked.
"Yes, and forever," I responded. "Sir George has ordered me to go."
"No, no," she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. I supposed that you and my
uncle were friends. What has happened? Tell me if you can--if you wish.
Let me touch your hand," and as she held out her hands, I gladly grasped
them.
I have never seen anything more beautiful than Madge Stanley's hands. They
were not small, but their shape, from the fair, round forearm and wrist to
the ends of the fingers was worthy of a sculptor's dream. Beyond their
physical beauty there was an expression in them which would have belonged
to her eyes had she possessed the sense of sight. The flood of her vital
energy had for so many years been directed toward her hands as a
substitute for her lost eyesight that their sensitiveness showed itself
not only in an infinite variety of delicate gestures and movements,
changing with her changing moods, but they had an expression of their own,
such as we look for in the eyes. I had gazed upon her hands so often, and
had studied so carefully their varying expression, discernible both to my
sight and to my touch, that I could read her mind through them as we read
the emotions of others through the countenance. The "feel" of her hands,
if I may use the word, I can in no way describe. Its effect on me was
magical. The happiest moments I have ever known were those when I held the
fair blind girl by the hand and strolled upon the great terrace or
followed the babbling winding course of dear old Wye, and drank in the
elixir of all that is good and pure from the cup of her sweet, unconscious
influence.
Madge, too, had found happiness in our strolling. She had also found
health and strength, and, marvellous to say, there had come to her a
slight improvement in vision. She had always been able to distinguish
sunlight from darkness, but with renewed strength had come the power dimly
to discern dark objects in a strong light, and even that small change for
the better had brought unspeakable gladness to her heart. She said she
owed it all to me. A faint pink had spread itself in her cheeks and a
plumpness had been imparted to her form which gave to her ethereal beauty
a touch of the material. Nor was this to be regretted, for no man can
adequately make love to a woman who has too much of the angel in her. You
must not think, however, that I had been making love to Madge. On the
contrary, I again say, the thought had never entered my mind. Neither at
that time had I even suspected that she would listen to me upon the great
theme. I had in my self-analysis assigned many reasons other than love for
my tenderness toward her; but when I was about to depart, and she
impulsively gave me her hands, I, believing that I was grasping them for
the last time, felt the conviction come upon me that she was dearer to me
than all else in life.
"Do you want to tell me why my uncle has driven you from Haddon?" she
asked.
"He wished me to ask Dorothy to be my wife," I returned.
"And you?" she queried.
"I did so."
Instantly the girl withdrew her hands from mine and stepped back from me.
Then I had another revelation. I knew what she meant and felt. Her hands
told me all, even had there been no expression in her movement and in her
face.
"Dorothy refused," I continued, "and her father desired to force her into
compliance. I would not be a party to the transaction, and Sir George
ordered me to leave his house."
After a moment of painful silence Madge said:--"I do not wonder that you
should wish to marry Dorothy. She--she must be very beautiful."
"I do not wish to marry Dorothy," said I. I heard a slight noise back of
me, but gave it no heed. "And I should not have married her had she
consented. I knew that Dorothy would refuse me, therefore I promised Sir
George that I would ask her to be my wife. Sir George had always been my
friend, and should I refuse to comply with his wishes, I well knew he
would be my enemy. He is bitterly angry against me now; but when he
becomes calm, he will see wherein he has wronged me. I asked Dorothy to
help me, but she would not listen to my plan."
"--and now she begs your forgiveness," cried Dorothy, as she ran weeping
to me, and took my hand most humbly.
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" I exclaimed.
"What frightful evil have I brought upon you?" said she. "Where can you
go? What will you do?"
"I know not," I answered. "I shall probably go to the Tower of London when
Queen Elizabeth's officers learn of my quarrel with Sir George. But I will
try to escape to France."
"Have you money?" asked Madge, tightly holding one of my hands.
"A small sum," I answered.
"How much have you? Tell me. Tell me how much have you," insisted Madge,
clinging to my hand and speaking with a force that would brook no refusal.
"A very little sum, I am sorry to say; only a few shillings," I
responded.
She quickly withdrew her hand from mine and began to remove the baubles
from her ears and the brooch from her throat. Then she nervously stripped
the rings from her fingers and held out the little handful of jewels
toward me, groping for my hands.
"Take these, Malcolm. Take these, and wait here till I return." She turned
toward the staircase, but in her confusion she missed it, and before I
could reach her, she struck against the great newel post.
"God pity me," she said, as I took her hand. "I wish I were dead. Please
lead me to the staircase, Cousin Malcolm. Thank you."
She was weeping gently when she started up the steps, and I knew that she
was going to fetch me her little treasure of gold.
Madge held up the skirt of her gown with one hand while she grasped the
banister with the other. She was halfway up when Dorothy, whose generous
impulses needed only to be prompted, ran nimbly and was about to pass her
on the staircase when Madge grasped her gown.
"Please don't, Dorothy. Please do not. I beg you, do not forestall me. Let
me do this. Let me. You have all else to make you happy. Don't take this
from me only because you can see and can walk faster than I."
Dorothy did not stop, but hurried past her. Madge sank upon the steps and
covered her face with her hands. Then she came gropingly back to me just
as Dorothy returned.
"Take these, Cousin Malcolm," cried Dorothy. "Here are a few stones of
great value. They belonged to my mother."
Madge was sitting dejectedly upon the lowest step of the staircase.
Dorothy held her jewel-box toward me, and in the midst of the diamonds and
gold I saw the heart John Manners had given her. I did not take the box.
"Do you offer me this, too--even this?" I said, lifting the heart from the
box by its chain.--"Yes, yes," cried Dorothy, "even that, gladly, gladly."
I replaced it in the box.
Then spoke Madge, while she tried to check the falling tears:--"Dorothy,
you are a cruel, selfish girl."
"Oh, Madge," cried Dorothy, stepping to her side and taking her hand. "How
can you speak so unkindly to me?"
"You have everything good," interrupted Madge. "You have beauty, wealth,
eyesight, and yet you would not leave to me the joy of helping him. I
could not see, and you hurried past me that you might be first to give him
the help of which I was the first to think."
Dorothy was surprised at the outburst from Madge, and kneeled by her side.
"We may both help Cousin Malcolm," she said.
"No, no," responded Madge, angrily. "Your jewels are more than enough. He
would have no need of my poor offering."
I took Madge's hand and said, "I shall accept help from no one but you,
Madge; from no one but you."
"I will go to our rooms for your box," said Dorothy, who had begun to see
the trouble. "I will fetch it for you."
"No, I will fetch it," answered Madge. She arose, and I led her to the
foot of the staircase. When she returned she held in her hands a purse and
a little box of jewels. These she offered to me, but I took only the
purse, saying: "I accept the purse. It contains more money than I shall
need. From its weight I should say there are twenty gold pounds sterling."
"Twenty-five," answered Madge. "I have saved them, believing that the
time might come when they would be of great use to me. I did not know the
joy I was saving for myself."
Tears came to my eyes, and Dorothy wept silently.
"Will you not take the jewels also?" asked Madge.
"No," I responded; "the purse will more than pay my expenses to France,
where I have wealthy relatives. There I may have my mother's estate for
the asking, and I can repay you the gold. I can never repay your
kindness."
"I hope you will never offer to repay the gold," said Madge.
"I will not," I gladly answered.
"As to the kindness," she said, "you have paid me in advance for that
many, many times over."
I then said farewell, promising to send letters telling of my fortune. As
I was leaving I bent forward and kissed Madge upon the forehead, while she
gently pressed my hand, but did not speak a word.
"Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, who held my other hand, "you are a strong,
gentle, noble man, and I want you to say that you forgive me."
"I do forgive you, Dorothy, from my heart. I could not blame you if I
wished to do so, for you did not know what you were doing."
"Not to know is sometimes the greatest of sins," answered Dorothy. I bent
forward to kiss her cheek in token of my full forgiveness, but she gave me
her lips and said: "I shall never again be guilty of not knowing that you
are good and true and noble, Cousin Malcolm, and I shall never again doubt
your wisdom or your good faith when you speak to me." She did doubt me
afterward, but I fear her doubt was with good cause. I shall tell you of
it in the proper place.
Then I forced myself to leave my fair friends and went to the gateway
under Eagle Tower, where I found Will Dawson waiting for me with my horse.
"Sir George ordered me to bring your horse," said Will. "He seemed much
excited. Has anything disagreeable happened? Are you leaving us? I see you
wear your steel cap and breastplate and are carrying your bundle."
"Yes, Will, your master has quarrelled with me and I must leave his
house."
"But where do you go, Sir Malcolm? You remember that of which we talked?
In England no place but Haddon Hall will be safe for you, and the ports
are so closely guarded that you will certainly be arrested if you try to
sail for France."
"I know all that only too well, Will. But I must go, and I will try to
escape to France. If you wish to communicate with me, I may be found by
addressing a letter in care of the Duc de Guise."
"If I can ever be of help to you," said Will, "personally, or in that
other matter, Queen Mary, you understand,--you have only to call on me."
"I thank you, Will," I returned, "I shall probably accept your kind offer
sooner than you anticipate. Do you know Jennie Faxton, the ferrier's
daughter?"
"I do," he responded.
"I believe she may be trusted," I said.
"Indeed, I believe she is true as any steel in her father's shop," Will
responded.
"Good-by, Will, you may hear from me soon."
I mounted and rode back of the terrace, taking my way along the Wye toward
Rowsley. When I turned and looked back, I saw Dorothy standing upon the
terrace. By her side, dressed in white, stood Madge. Her hand was covering
her eyes. A step or two below them on the terrace staircase stood Will
Dawson. They were three stanch friends, although one of them had brought
my troubles upon me. After all, I was leaving Haddon Hall well garrisoned.
My heart also was well garrisoned with a faithful troop of pain. But I
shall write no more of that time. It was too full of bitterness.