TRIBULATION IN HADDON
After I had left Haddon at Sir George's tempestuous order, he had remained
in a state of furious anger against Dorothy and myself for a fortnight or
more. But after her adroit conversation with him concerning the Stanley
marriage, wherein she neither promised nor refused, and after she learned
that she could more easily cajole her father than command him, Dorothy
easily ensconced herself again in his warm heart, and took me into that
capacious abode along with her.
Then came the trip to Derby, whereby his serene Lordship, James Stanley,
had been enabled to see Dorothy and to fall in love with her winsome
beauty, and whereby I was brought back to Haddon. Thereafter came events
crowding so rapidly one upon the heels of another that I scarce know where
to begin the telling of them. I shall not stop to say, "Sir George told me
this," or "Madge, Dorothy, or John told me that," but I shall write as if
I had personal knowledge of all that happened. After all, the important
fact is that I know the truth concerning matters whereof I write, and of
that you may rest with surety.
The snow lay upon the ground for a fortnight after the storm in which we
rode from Derby, but at the end of that time it melted, and the sun shone
with the brilliancy and warmth of springtide. So warm and genial was the
weather that the trees, flowers, and shrubs were cozened into budding
forth. The buds were withered by a killing frost which came upon us later
in the season at a time when the spring should have been abroad in all her
graciousness, and that year was called the year of the leafless summer.
One afternoon Sir George received a distinguished guest in the person of
the Earl of Derby, and the two old gentlemen remained closeted together
for several hours. That night at supper, after the ladies had risen from
table, Sir George dismissed the servants saying that he wished to speak to
me in private. I feared that he intended again bringing forward the
subject of marriage with Dorothy, but he soon relieved my mind.
"The Earl of Derby was here to-day. He has asked for Doll's hand in
marriage with his eldest son and heir, Lord James Stanley, and I have
granted the request."
"Indeed," I responded, with marvellous intelligence. I could say nothing
more, but I thought--in truth I knew--that it did not lie within the power
of any man in or out of England to dispose of Dorothy Vernon's hand in
marriage to Lord James Stanley. Her father might make a murderess out of
her, but Countess of Derby, never.
Sir George continued, "The general terms of the marriage contract have
been agreed upon by the earl and me, and the lawyers will do the rest."
"What is your feeling in the matter?" I asked aimlessly.
"My feeling?" cried Sir George. "Why, sir, my feeling is that the girl
shall marry Stanley just as soon as arrangements can be made for the
wedding ceremony. The young fellow, it seems, saw Doll at Derby-town the
day you came home, and since then he is eager, his father tells me, for
the union. He is coming to see her when I give my permission, and I will
send him word at as early a date as propriety will admit. I must not let
them be seen together too soon, you know. There might be a hitch in the
marriage negotiations. The earl is a tight one in business matters, and
might drive a hard bargain with me should I allow his son to place Doll in
a false position before the marriage contract is signed." He little knew
how certainly Dorothy herself would avoid that disaster.
He took a long draught from his mug of toddy and winked knowingly at me,
saying, "I am too wise for that."
"Have you told Dorothy?" I asked.
"No," he replied, "I have not exactly told her. I had a talk with her a
few days ago on the subject, though the earl and I had not, at that time,
entirely agreed upon the terms, and I did not know that we should agree.
But I told her of the pending negotiations, because I wished to prepare
her for the signing of the contract; and also, by gad, Malcolm, I wanted
to make the girl understand at the outset that I will have no trifling
with my commands in this matter. I made that feature of the case very
plain, you may rest assured. She understands me fully, and although at
first she was a little inclined to fight, she soon--she soon--well, she
knuckled under gracefully when she found she must."
"Did she consent to the marriage?" I asked, well knowing that even if she
had consented in words, she had no thought of doing so in deed.
"Y-e-s," returned Sir George, hesitatingly.
"I congratulate you," I replied.
"I shall grieve to lose Doll," the old man slowly continued with
perceptible signs of emotion. "I shall grieve to lose my girl, but I am
anxious to have the wedding over. You see, Malcolm, of late I have noticed
signs of wilfulness in Doll that can be more easily handled by a husband
than by a father. Marriage and children anchor a woman, you know. In
truth, I have opened my eyes to the fact that Doll is growing dangerous.
I'gad, the other day I thought she was a child, but suddenly I learn she
is a woman. I had not before noticed the change. Beauty and wilfulness,
such as the girl has of late developed, are powers not to be
underestimated by wise men. There is hell in them, Malcolm, I tell you
there is hell in them." Sir George meditatively snuffed the candle with
his fingers and continued: "If a horse once learns that he can kick--sell
him. Only yesterday, as I said, Doll was a child, and now, by Jove, she is
a full-blown woman, and I catch myself standing in awe of her and calling
her Dorothy. Yes, damme, standing in awe of my own child! That will never
do, you know. What has wrought the change? And, after all, what is the
change? I can't define it, but there has been a great one."
He was in a revery and spoke more to himself than to me. "Yesterday she
was my child--she was a child, and now--and now--she is--she is--Why the
devil didn't you take her, Malcolm?" cried the old man, awakening. "But
there, never mind; that is all past and gone, and the future Earl of Derby
will be a great match for her."
"Do you know the future Earl of Derby?" I asked. "Have you ever seen him?"
"No," Sir George replied. "I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but--"
"My dear cousin," said I, interrupting him, "he is a vulgar, drunken
clown, whose associates have always been stable boys, tavern maids, and
those who are worse than either."
"What?" cried Sir George, hotly, the liquor having reached his brain. "You
won't have Doll yourself, and you won't consent to another--damme, would
you have the girl wither into spinsterhood? How, sir, dare you interfere?"
"I withdraw all I said, Sir George," I replied hastily. "I have not a word
to say against the match. I thought--"
"Well, damn you, sir, don't think."
"You said you wished to consult me about the affair, and I supposed--"
"Don't suppose either," replied Sir George, sullenly. "Supposing and
thinking have hanged many a man. I didn't wish to consult you. I simply
wanted to tell you of the projected marriage." Then after a moment of
half-maudlin, sullen silence he continued, "Go to bed, Malcolm, go to bed,
or we'll be quarrelling again."
I was glad enough to go to bed, for my cousin was growing drunk, and drink
made a demon of this man, whose violence when sober was tempered by a
heart full of tenderness and love.
Next morning Sir George was feeling irritable from the effects of the
brandy he had drunk over night. At breakfast, in the presence of Lady
Crawford, Madge, and myself, he abruptly informed Dorothy that he was
about to give that young goddess to Lord James Stanley for his wife. He
told her of the arrangement he had made the day before with the Earl of
Derby. Lady Crawford looked toward her brother in surprise, and Madge
pushed her chair a little way back from the table with a startled
movement. Dorothy sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing fire and her
breast rising and falling like the storm-wrought pulsing of the sea. I
coughed warningly and placed my finger on my lips, making the sign of
silence to Dorothy. The girl made a wondrous and beautiful struggle
against her wrath, and in a moment all signs of ill-temper disappeared,
and her face took on an expression of sweet meekness which did not belong
there of right. She quietly sat down again, and when I looked at her, I
would have sworn that Griselda in the flesh was sitting opposite me. Sir
George was right. "Ways such as the girl had of late developed were
dangerous." Hell was in them to an extent little dreamed of by her father.
Breakfast was finished in silence. Dorothy did not come down to dinner at
noon, but Sir George did not mark her absence. At supper her place was
still vacant.
"Where is Doll?" cried Sir George, angrily. He had been drinking heavily
during the afternoon. "Where is Doll?" he demanded.
"She is on the terrace," answered Madge. "She said she did not want
supper."
"Tell your mistress to come to supper," said Sir George, speaking to one
of the servants. "You will find her on the terrace."
The servant left the room, but soon returned, saying that Mistress Dorothy
wanted no supper.
"Tell her to come to the table whether she wants supper or not. Tell her I
will put a stop to her moping about the place like a surly vixen," growled
Sir George.
"Don't send such a message by a servant," pleaded Lady Crawford.
"Then take it to her yourself, Dorothy," exclaimed her brother.
Dorothy returned with her aunt and meekly took her place at the table.
"I will have none of your moping and pouting," said Sir George, as Dorothy
was taking her chair.
The girl made no reply, but she did not eat.
"Eat your supper," her father commanded. "I tell you I will have no--"
"You would not have me eat if I am not hungry, would you, father?" she
asked softly.
"I'd have you hungry, you perverse wench."
"Then make me an appetite," returned the girl. I never heard more ominous
tones fall from human lips. They betokened a mood in which one could
easily do murder in cold blood, and I was surprised that Sir George did
not take warning and remain silent.
"I cannot make an appetite for you, fool," he replied testily.
"Then you cannot make me eat," retorted Dorothy.
"Ah, you would answer me, would you, you brazen, insolent huzzy," cried
her father, angrily.
Dorothy held up her hand warningly to Sir George, and uttered the one
word, "Father." Her voice sounded like the clear, low ring of steel as I
have heard it in the stillness of sunrise during a duel to the death.
Madge gently placed her hand in Dorothy's, but the caress met no response.
"Go to your room," answered Sir George.
Dorothy rose to her feet and spoke calmly: "I have not said that I would
disobey you in regard to this marriage which you have sought for me; and
your harshness, father, grows out of your effort to reconcile your
conscience with the outrage you would put upon your own flesh and
blood--your only child."
"Suffering God!" cried Sir George, frenzied with anger and drink. "Am I to
endure such insolence from my own child? The lawyers will be here
to-morrow. The contract will be signed, and, thank God, I shall soon be
rid of you. I'll place you in the hands of one who will break your
damnable will and curb your vixenish temper." Then he turned to Lady
Crawford. "Dorothy, if there is anything to do in the way of gowns and
women's trumpery in preparation for the wedding, begin at once, for the
ceremony shall come off within a fortnight."
This was beyond Dorothy's power to endure. Madge felt the storm coming and
clutched her by the arm in an effort to stop her, but nothing could have
done that.
"I marry Lord Stanley?" she asked in low, bell-like tones, full of
contempt and disdain. "Marry that creature? Father, you don't know me."
"By God, I know myself," retorted Sir George, "and I say--"
"Now hear me, father," she interrupted in a manner that silenced even
him. She bent forward, resting one fair hand upon the table, while she
held out her other arm bared to the elbow. "Hear what I say and take it
for the truth as if it had come from Holy Writ. I will open the veins in
this arm and will strew my blood in a gapless circle around Haddon Hall so
that you shall tread upon it whenever you go forth into the day or into
the night before I will marry the drunken idiot with whom you would curse
me. Ay, I will do more. I will kill you, if need be, should you try to
force him on me. Now, father, we understand each other. At least you
cannot fail to understand me. For the last time I warn you. Beware of me."
She gently pushed the chair back from the table, quietly adjusted the
sleeve which she had drawn upward from her wrist, and slowly walked out of
the room, softly humming the refrain of a roundelay. There was no trace of
excitement about the girl. Her brain was acting with the ease and
precision of a perfectly constructed machine. Sir George, by his violence
and cruelty, had made a fiend of this strong, passionate, tender heart.
That was all.
The supper, of course, was quickly finished, and the ladies left the room.
Sir George took to his bottle and remained with it till his servants put
him to bed. I slipped away from him and smoked a pipe in front of the
kitchen fire. Then I went early to my bed in Eagle Tower.
Dorothy went to her apartments. There she lay upon her bed, and for a time
her heart was like flint. Soon she thought of her precious golden heart
pierced with a silver arrow, and tears came to her eyes as she drew the
priceless treasure from her breast and breathed upon it a prayer to the
God of love for help. Her heart was soft again, soft only as hers could
be, and peace came to her as she pressed John's golden heart to her lips
and murmured over and over the words, "My love, my love, my love," and
murmuring fell asleep.
I wonder how many of the countless women of this world found peace,
comfort, and ecstasy in breathing those magic words yesterday? How many
have found them to-day? How many will find them to-morrow? No one can
tell; but this I know, they come to every woman at some time in her life,
righteously or unrighteously, as surely as her heart pulses.
That evening Jennie Faxton bore a letter to John, informing him of the
projected Stanley marriage. It asked him to meet the writer at Bowling
Green Gate, and begged him to help her if he could.
The small and intermittent remnants of conscience, sense of duty, and
caution which still remained in John's head--I will not say in John's
heart, for that was full to overflowing with something else--were quickly
banished by the unwelcome news in Dorothy's letter. His first impulse was
to kill Stanley; but John Manners was not an assassin, and a duel would
make public all he wished to conceal. He wished to conceal, among other
things, his presence at Rutland. He had two reasons for so desiring. First
in point of time was the urgent purpose with which he had come to
Derbyshire. That purpose was to further a plan for the rescue of Mary
Stuart and to bring her incognito to Rutland Castle as a refuge until
Elizabeth could be persuaded to receive her. Of this plan I knew nothing
till after the disastrous attempt to carry it out, of which I shall
hereafter tell you. The other reason why John wished his presence at
Rutland unknown was that if he were supposed to be in London, no one would
suspect him of knowing Dorothy Vernon.
You must remember there had been no overt love-making between John and
Dorothy up to that time. The scene at the gate approached perilously near
it, but the line between concealment and confession had not been crossed.
Mind you, I say there had been no love-making _between_ them. While
Dorothy had gone as far in that direction as a maiden should dare go--and
to tell the exact truth, a great deal farther--John had remained almost
silent for reasons already given you. He also felt a fear of the girl, and
failed to see in her conduct those signs of intense love which would have
been plainly discernible had not his perceptions been blinded by the fury
of his own infatuation. He had placed a curb on his passion and did not
really know its strength and power until he learned that another man was
soon to possess the girl he loved. Then life held but one purpose for him.
Thus, you see that when Dorothy was moaning, "My love, my love," and was
kissing the golden heart, she was taking a great deal for granted.
Perhaps, however, she better understood John's feeling for her than did he
himself. A woman's sixth sense, intuition, is a great help to her in such
cases. Perhaps the girl knew with intuitive confidence that her passion
was returned; and perhaps at first she found John's receptive mode of
wooing sweeter far than an aggressive attack would have been. It may be
also there was more of the serpent's cunning than of reticence in John's
conduct. He knew well the ways of women, and perhaps he realized that if
he would allow Dorothy to manage the entire affair she would do his wooing
for him much better than he could do it for himself. If you are a man, try
the plan upon the next woman whom you seek to win. If she happens to be
one who has full confidence in her charms, you will be surprised at the
result. Women lacking that confidence are restrained by fear and doubt.
But in no case have I much faith in the hammer-and-tongs process at the
opening of a campaign. Later on, of course--but you doubtless are quite as
well informed concerning this important subject as I. There is, however,
so much blundering in that branch of science that I have a mind to endow a
college at Oxford or at Paris in which shall be taught the gentle,
universally needed art of making love. What a noble attendance such a
college would draw. But I have wandered wofully from my story.
I must go back a short time in my narrative. A few days before my return
to Haddon Hall the great iron key to the gate in the wall east of Bowling
Green Hill was missed from the forester's closet where it had hung for a
century or more. Bowling Green Hill, as you know, is eastward from Haddon
Hall a distance of the fourth part of a mile, and the gate is east of the
hill about the same distance or less. A wall is built upon the east line
of the Haddon estate, and east of the wall lies a great trackless forest
belonging to the house of Devonshire. In olden times there had been a road
from Bakewell to Rowsley along the east side of the wall; but before Sir
George's seizin the road had been abandoned and the gate was not used. It
stood in a secluded, unfrequented spot, and Dorothy thought herself very
shrewd in choosing it for a trysting-place.
But as I told you, one day the key was missed. It was of no value or use,
and at first nothing was thought of its loss; but from time to time the
fact that it could not be found was spoken of as curious. All the servants
had been questioned in vain, and the loss of the key to Bowling Green Gate
soon took on the dignity of a mystery--a mystery soon to be solved, alas!
to Dorothy's undoing.
The afternoon of the day following the terrible scene between Sir George
and his daughter at the supper table, Dorothy rode forth alone upon her
mare Dolcy. From the window of my room in Eagle Tower I saw her go down
the west side of the Wye toward Rowsley. I ascended to the roof of the
tower, and from that elevation I saw her cross the river, and soon she was
lost to sight in the forest. At that time I knew nothing of the new
trysting-place, but I felt sure that Dorothy had gone out to seek John.
The sun shone brightly, and its gentle warmth enticed me to remain upon
the tower battlements, to muse, and to dream. I fetched my pipe and
tobacco from my room. I had been smoking at intervals for several months,
but had not entirely learned to like the weed, because of a slight nausea
which it invariably caused me to feel. But I thought by practice now and
again to inure myself to the habit, which was then so new and fashionable
among modish gentlemen. While I smoked I mused upon the past and present,
and tried to peer into the future--a fruitless task wherein we waste much
valuable time; a vain striving, like Eve's, after forbidden knowledge,
which, should we possess it, would destroy the little remnant of Eden
still existing on earth. Could we look forward only to our joys, a
knowledge of the future might be good to have; but imagine, if you can,
the horror of anticipating evils to come.
After a short time, a lotuslike dreaminess stole over me, and past and
future seemed to blend in a supreme present of contentment and rest. Then
I knew I had wooed and won Tobacco and that thenceforth I had at hand an
ever ready solace in time of trouble. At the end of an hour my dreaming
was disturbed by voices, which came distinctly up to me from the base of
the tower. I leaned over the battlements to listen, and what I heard gave
me alarm and concern such as all the tobacco in the world could not
assuage. I looked down the dizzy heights of Eagle Tower and saw Sir George
in conversation with Ben Shaw, a woodman. I had not heard the words first
spoken between them.
"Ay, ay, Sir George," said Ben, "they be there, by Bowling Green Gate,
now. I saw them twenty minutes since,--Mistress Vernon and a gentleman."
"Perhaps the gentleman is Sir Malcolm," answered my cousin. I drew back
from the battlements, and the woodman replied, "Perhaps he be, but I doubt
it."
There had been a partial reconciliation--sincere on Sir George's part, but
false and hollow on Dorothy's--which Madge had brought about between
father and daughter that morning. Sir George, who was sober and repentant
of his harshness, was inclined to be tender to Dorothy, though he still
insisted in the matter of the Stanley marriage. Dorothy's anger had
cooled, and cunning had taken its place. Sir George had asked her to
forgive him for the hard words he had spoken, and she had again led him to
believe that she would be dutiful and obedient. It is hard to determine,
as a question of right and wrong, whether Dorothy is to be condemned or
justified in the woful deception she practised upon her father. To use a
plain, ugly word, she lied to him without hesitation or pain of
conscience. Still, we must remember that, forty years ago, girls were
frequently forced, regardless of cries and piteous agony, into marriages
to which death would have been preferable. They were flogged into
obedience, imprisoned and starved into obedience, and alas! they were
sometimes killed in the course of punishment for disobedience by men of
Sir George's school and temper. I could give you at least one instance in
which a fair girl met her death from punishment inflicted by her father
because she would not consent to wed the man of his choice. Can we blame
Dorothy if she would lie or rob or do murder to avoid a fate which to her
would have been worse than death? When you find yourself condemning her,
now or hereafter in this history, if you are a man ask yourself this
question: "If I had a sweetheart in Dorothy's sad case, should I not wish
her to do as she did? Should I not wish, if it were possible by any
means, that she should save herself from the worst of fates, and should
save me from the agony of losing her to such a man as Sir George had
selected for Dorothy's husband? Is it not a sin to disobey the law of
self-preservation actively or passively?" Answer these questions as you
choose. As for myself, I say God bless Dorothy for lying. Perhaps I am in
error. Perhaps I am not. I but tell you the story of Dorothy as it
happened, and I am a poor hand at solving questions of right and wrong
where a beautiful woman is concerned. To my thinking, she usually is in
the right. In any case, she is sure to have the benefit of the doubt.
When Sir George heard the woodman's story, he started hurriedly toward
Bowling Green Gate.
Now I shall tell you of Dorothy's adventures after I saw her cross the
Wye.
When she reached the gate, John was waiting for her.
"Ah, Sir John, I am so glad you are here. That is, I am glad you are here
before I arrived--good even," said the girl, confusedly. Her heart again
was beating in a provoking manner, and her breath would not come with ease
and regularity. The rapid progress of the malady with which she was
afflicted or blessed was plainly discernible since the last meeting with
my friend, Sir John. That is, it would have been plain to any one but
John, whose ailment had taken a fatal turn and had progressed to the
ante-mortem state of blindness. By the help of the stimulating hope and
fear which Dorothy's letter had brought to him, he had planned an
elaborate conversation, and had determined to speak decisive words. He
hoped to receive from her the answer for which he longed; but his heart
and breath seemed to have conspired with Dorothy to make
intercommunication troublesome.
"I received your gracious letter, Mistress Vernon, and I thank you. I
was--I am--that is, my thanks are more than I--I can express."
"So I see," said the girl, half amused at John's condition, although it
was but little worse than her own. This universal malady, love, never
takes its blind form in women. It opens their eyes. Under its influence
they can see the truth through a millstone. The girl's heart jumped with
joy when she saw John's truth-telling manner, and composure quickly came
to her relief, though she still feigned confusion because she wished him
to see the truth in her as she had seen it in him. She well knew of his
blindness, and had almost begun to fear lest she would eventually be
compelled to tell him in words that which she so ardently wished him to
see for himself. She thought John was the blindest of his sex; but she
was, to a certain extent, mistaken. John was blind, as you already know,
but his reticence was not all due to a lack of sight. He at least had
reached the condition of a well-developed hope. He hoped the girl cared
for him. He would have fully believed it had it not been for the
difficulty he found in convincing himself that a goddess like Dorothy
could care for a man so unworthy as himself. Most modest persons are
self-respecting. That was John's condition; he was not vain.
"Jennie brought me your letter also," said the girl, laughing because she
was happy, though her merriment somewhat disconcerted John.
"It told me," she continued, "that you would come. I have it here in my
pocket--and--and the gate key." She determined this time to introduce the
key early in the engagement. "But I feared you might not want to come."
The cunning, the boldness, and the humility of the serpent was in the
girl. "That is, you know, I thought--perhaps--that is, I feared that you
might not come. Your father might have been ill, or you might have changed
your mind after you wrote the letter."
"No," answered John, whose face was beaming with joy. Here, truly, was a
goddess who could make the blind to see if she were but given a little
time.
"Do you mean that your father is not ill, or that you did not change your
mind?" asked Dorothy, whose face, as it should have been after such a
speech, was bent low while she struggled with the great iron key,
entangled in the pocket of her gown.
"I mean that I have not changed my mind," said John, who felt that the
time to speak had come. "There has been no change in me other than a new
access of eagerness with every hour, and a new longing to see you and to
hear your voice."
Dorothy felt a great thrill pass through her breast, and she knew that the
reward of her labors was at hand.
"Certainly," said the self-complacent girl, hardly conscious of her words,
so great was the joyous tumult in her heart, "I should have known."
There was another pause devoted to the key, with bended head. "But--but
you might have changed your mind," she continued, "and I might not have
known it, for, you see, I did not know your former state of mind; you have
never told me." Her tongue had led her further than she had intended to
go, and she blushed painfully, and I think, considering her words,
appropriately.
"My letter told you my state of mind. At least it told you of my intention
to come. I--I fear that I do not understand you," said John.
"I mean," she replied, with a saucy, fluttering little laugh as she looked
up from her conflict with the entangled key, "I mean that--that you don't
know what I mean. But here is the key at last, and--and--you may, if you
wish, come to this side of the gate."
She stepped forward to unlock the gate with an air that seemed to say,
"Now, John, you shall have a clear field."
But to her surprise she found that the lock had been removed. That
discovery brought back to John his wandering wits.
"Mistress Dorothy," he cried in tones of alarm, "I must not remain here.
We are suspected and are sure to be discovered. Your father has set a trap
for us. I care not for myself, but I would not bring upon you the trouble
and distress which would surely follow discovery. Let us quickly choose
another place and time of meeting. I pray you, sweet lady, meet me
to-morrow at this time near the white cliff back of Lathkil mill. I have
that to say to you which is the very blood of my heart. I must now leave
you at once."
He took her hand, and kissing it, started to leave through the open gate.
The girl caught his arm to detain him. "Say it now, John, say it now. I
have dreamed of it by night and by day. You know all, and I know all, and
I long to hear from your lips the words that will break down all barriers
between us." She had been carried away by the mad onrush of her passion.
She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, and she spoke because
she could not help it.
"I will speak, Dorothy, God help me! God help me, I will speak!" said
John, as he caught the girl to his breast in a fierce embrace. "I love
you, I love you! God Himself only knows how deeply, how passionately! I do
not know. I cannot fathom its depths. With all my heart and soul, with
every drop of blood that pulses through my veins, I love you--I adore you.
Give me your lips, my beauty, my Aphrodite, my queen!"
"There--they--are, John,--there they are. They are--all yours--all
yours--now! Oh, God! my blood is on fire." She buried her face on his
breast for shame, that he might not see her burning eyes and her scarlet
cheeks. Then after a time she cared not what he saw, and she lifted her
lips to his, a voluntary offering. The supreme emotions of the moment
drove all other consciousness from their souls.
"Tell me, Dorothy, that you will be my wife. Tell me, tell me!" cried
John.
"I will, I will, oh, how gladly, how gladly!"
"Tell me that no power on earth can force you to marry Lord Stanley. Tell
me that you will marry no man but me; that you will wait--wait for me
till--"
"I will marry no man but you, John, no man but you," said the girl,
whisperingly. Her head was thrown back from his breast that she might look
into his eyes, and that he might see the truth in hers. "I am all yours.
But oh, John, I cannot wait--I cannot! Do not ask me to wait. It would
kill me. I wear the golden heart you gave me, John," she continued, as she
nestled closer in his embrace. "I wear the golden heart always. It is
never from me, even for one little moment. I bear it always upon my heart,
John. Here it is." She drew from her breast the golden heart and kissed
it. Then she pressed it to his lips, and said: "I kiss it twenty times in
the day and in the night; ay, a hundred times. I do not know how often;
but now I kiss your real heart, John," and she kissed his breast, and then
stood tiptoe to lift her lips to his.
There was no room left now in John's heart for doubt that Dorothy Vernon
was his own forever and forever. She had convinced him beyond the reach of
fear or doubt. John forgot the lockless gate. He forgot everything but
Dorothy, and cruel time passed with a rapidity of which they were
unconscious. They were, however, brought back to consciousness by hearing
a long blast from the forester's bugle, and John immediately retreated
through the gate.
Dorothy then closed the gate and hastily seated herself upon a stone
bench against the Haddon side of the wall. She quickly assumed an attitude
of listless repose, and Dolcy, who was nibbling at the grass near by,
doubtless supposed that her mistress had come to Bowling Green Gate to
rest because it was a secluded place, and because she desired to be alone.
Dorothy's attitude was not assumed one moment too soon, for hardly was her
gown arranged with due regard to carelessness when Sir George's form rose
above the crest of Bowling Green Hill. In a few minutes he was standing in
front of his daughter, red with anger. Dorothy's face wore a look of calm
innocence, which I believe would have deceived Solomon himself,
notwithstanding that great man's experience with the sex. It did more to
throw Sir George off the scent than any words the girl could have spoken.
"Who has been with you?" demanded Sir George, angrily.
"When, father?" queried the girl, listlessly resting her head against the
wall.
"Now, this afternoon. Who has been with you? Ben Shaw said that a man was
here. He said that he saw a man with you less than half an hour since."
That piece of information was startling to Dorothy, but no trace of
surprise was visible in her manner or in her voice. She turned listlessly
and brushed a dry leaf from her gown. Then she looked calmly up into her
father's face and said laconically, but to the point:--
"Ben lied." To herself she said, "Ben shall also suffer."
"I do not believe that Ben lied," said Sir George. "I, myself, saw a man
go away from here."
That was crowding the girl into close quarters, but she did not flinch.
"Which way did he go, father?" she asked, with a fine show of carelessness
in her manner, but with a feeling of excruciating fear in her breast. She
well knew the wisdom of the maxim, "Never confess."
"He went northward," answered Sir George.
"Inside the wall?" asked Dorothy, beginning again to breathe freely, for
she knew that John had ridden southward.
"Inside the wall, of course," her father replied. "Do you suppose I could
see him through the stone wall? One should be able to see through a stone
wall to keep good watch on you."
"You might have thought you saw him through the wall," answered the girl.
"I sometimes think of late, father, that you are losing your mind. You
drink too much brandy, my dear father. Oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if you
were to lose your mind?" She rose as she spoke, and going to her father
began to stroke him gently with her hand. She looked into his face with
real affection; for when she deceived him, she loved him best as a partial
atonement for her ill-doing.
"Wouldn't that be dreadful?" she continued, while Sir George stood lost in
bewilderment. "Wouldn't that be dreadful for my dear old father to lose
his mind? But I really think it must be coming to pass. A great change has
of late come over you, father. You have for the first time in your life
been unkind to me and suspicious. Father, do you realize that you insult
your daughter when you accuse her of having been in this secluded place
with a man? You would punish another for speaking so against my fair
name."
"But, Dorothy," Sir George replied, feeling as if he were in the wrong,
"Ben Shaw said that he saw you here with a man, and I saw a man pass
toward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name."
Dorothy knew that her father must have seen a man near the gate, but who
he was she could not imagine. John surely was beyond the wall and well out
of sight on his way to Rowsley before her father reached the crest of
Bowling Green Hill. But it was evident that Shaw had seen John. Evidence
that a man had been at the gate was too strong to be successfully
contradicted. Facts that cannot be successfully contradicted had better be
frankly admitted. Dorothy sought through her mind for an admission that
would not admit, and soon hit upon a plan which, shrewd as it seemed to
be, soon brought her to grief.
"Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, as the result of her
mental search. "He passed here a little time since and stopped for a
moment to talk. Perhaps you saw Malcolm, father. You would not find fault
with me because he was here, would you?"
"Dorothy, my daughter," said Sir George, hesitatingly, "are you telling me
the truth?"
Then the fair girl lifted up her beautiful head, and standing erect at her
full height (it pains me to tell you this) said: "Father, I am a Vernon. I
would not lie."
Her manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced.
He said, "I believe you."
Her father's confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point of
repentance, I hardly need say.
Dorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare me
to answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me. She took
Dolcy's rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested the
other upon her father's arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to the
Hall, very happy because of her lucky escape.
But a lie is always full of latent retribution.
I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothy
and her father entered.
"Ah, Malcolm, are you here?" asked Sir George in a peculiar tone of
surprise for which I could see no reason.
"I thought you were walking."
I was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, "No, I am helping old
Bess and Jennie with supper."
"Have you not been walking?" asked Sir George.
There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I was
surprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. But
Sir George's expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when compared
with that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not only
was her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body were
convulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, I
could not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only too
readable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stamped
her foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips and
nodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost upon
me, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. The
expression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of my
gaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mighty
pantomimic effort at mute communication.
"Why in the devil's name are you making those grimaces?" demanded Sir
George.
"I wasn't making grimaces--I--I think I was about to sneeze," replied
Dorothy.
"Do you think I am blind?" stormed Sir George. "Perhaps I am losing my
mind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you at
Bowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I'll show you that if I
am losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house."
"Now, father, what is all this storming about?" asked the girl, coaxingly,
as she boldly put her hands upon her father's shoulders and turned her
face in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up to
his. "Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know." She was sure
that her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate,
and she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whose
only virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, would
willingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught the
truth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined to
perjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe the
influence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell I
seemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily was
paralyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. I
cannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you may
make out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of this
history have occasion to speak of Dorothy's strange power, and how it was
exerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.
"Ask Malcolm," repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father's
breast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for,
in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demanded
excitedly of Dorothy, "What have you in your pocket that strikes against
my knee?"
"Mother of Heaven!" exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping back
from her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward her
pocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness by
sudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face which
filled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holding
with one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched the
key in her pocket.
"What have you in your pocket?" demanded Sir George with a terrible oath.
"Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you." Dorothy started to run
from the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drew
her to him. "Bring it out, huzzy; it's the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah,
I've lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet,
but I soon shall lose it at this rate," and he certainly looked as if he
would.
Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, but
she was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown and
tore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom.
Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece of
white paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made in
the gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he felt
sure, was from Dorothy's unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for a
time, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her face
from her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, "Malcolm." Her
voice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help I
have never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take the
letter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he would
strike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and he
took up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:--
"Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with God's help I
will meet you at Bowling Green Gate--." The girl could endure no more. She
sprang with a scream toward her father and tried to snatch the letter. Sir
George drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed him
frantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter.
Sir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued the
letter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy's
hand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into the
fire, but she feared that her father might rescue it from the ashes. She
glanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded in
snatching from her father bore John's name. Sir George strode hurriedly
across the room toward her and she ran to me.
"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then I
saw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herself
upon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembled
as a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree may
tremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. While
she clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and her
wondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expression
was the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension.
Her face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Her
fear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped her
fingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying to
make, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for less
than one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyed
even one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and to
caress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of rest
in my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength.
"Where is the paper?" he cried in rage. "It contained the fellow's
signature."
"I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it.
Doubtless that would be a pleasant task for you," answered Dorothy, who
was comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discover
John's name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girl
had he then learned that the letter was from John Manners.
"I command you to tell me this fellow's name," said Sir George, with a
calmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued
"I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me and
told me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In God's name I
swear that I would rather father a thief than a liar."
"I did give her the heart, Sir George," I said, interrupting him. "It was
my mother's." I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in his
violence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for his
anger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but her
deception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love that
had come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meeting
with Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I also
believe, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not a
thief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. She
was gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but I
believe she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love.
Some few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an ocean
of love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart and
soul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class was
Dorothy.
"God is love," says the Book.
"The universe is God," says the philosopher. "Therefore," as the
mathematician would say, "love is the universe." To that proposition
Dorothy was a corollary.
The servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen.
"Let us go to the dining hall," I suggested. Sir George led the way by the
stone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquet
hail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand.
The moment of respite from her father's furious attack gave her time in
which to collect her scattered senses.
When we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, Sir
George turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to know
the name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and said
nothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room.
"Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tell
me the name of the man who wrote this letter," he cried, holding toward
her the fragment of paper. "Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, I
swear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper court
till you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child."
Then Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only for
herself she had to fear.
Her heart kept saying, "This for his sake, this for his sake." Out of her
love came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action.
Her father's oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodice
from her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:--
"I am ready for the whip, I am ready. Who is to do the deed, father, you
or the butcher? It must be done. You have sworn it, and I swear before God
and by my maidenhood that I will not tell you the name of the man who
wrote the letter. I love him, and before I will tell you his name or
forego his love for me, or before I will abate one jot or tittle of my
love for him, I will gladly die by the whip in your hand. I am ready for
the whip, father. I am ready. Let us have it over quickly."
The girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the door
leading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move. I was deeply
affected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the flogging
if to do so should cost Sir George's life at my hands. I would have
killed him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip upon
Dorothy's back.
"Father," continued the terrible girl, "are you not going to flog me?
Remember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before God and upon
your knighthood. A forsworn Christian? A forsworn knight? A forsworn
Vernon? The lash, father, the lash--I am eager for it."
Sir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward the
door. Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, and
she whispered the words, "Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!"
As she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his arms
toward her and in a wail of agony cried: "Doll! Doll! My daughter! My
child! God help me!"
He covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment as
the tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbing
forth the anguish of which his soul was full.
In an instant Dorothy was by her father's side holding his head upon her
lap. She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamed
from her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance.
"I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all. I will give him up; I
will see him never again. I will try not to love him. Oh, father, forgive
me, forgive me. I will never again deceive you so long as I live."
Truly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken. When one swears
to do too much, one performs too little.
I helped Sir George rise to his feet.
Dorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but he
repulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her name
quitted the room with tottering steps.
When her father had gone Dorothy stood in revery for a little time, and
then looking toward the door through which her father had just passed, she
spoke as if to herself: "He does not know. How fortunate!"
"But you said you would tell him," I suggested. "You said you would give
him up."
Dorothy was in a deep revery. She took her bodice from the floor and
mechanically put it on.
"I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give--give him
up," she replied; "but I will do neither. Father would not meet my love
with love. He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance when
it was he who should have repented. I was alarmed and grieved for father's
sake when I said that I would tell him about--about John, and would give
him up." She was silent and thoughtful for a little time. "Give him up?"
she cried defiantly. "No, not for my soul; not for ten thousand thousand
souls. When my father refused my love, he threw away the only opportunity
he shall ever have to learn from me John's name. That I swear, and I shall
never be forsworn. I asked father's forgiveness when he should have begged
for mine. Whip me in the courtyard, would he, till I should bleed! Yet I
was willing to forgive him, and he would not accept my forgiveness. I was
willing to forego John, who is more than life to me; but my father would
not accept my sacrifice. Truly will I never be so great a fool the second
time. Malcolm, I will not remain here to be the victim of another insult
such as my father put upon me to-day. There is no law, human or divine,
that gives to a parent the right to treat his daughter as my father has
used me. Before this day my conscience smote me when I deceived him, and I
suffered pain if I but thought of my father. But now, thanks to his
cruelty, I may be happy without remorse. Malcolm, if you betray me, I
will--I will kill you if I must follow you over the world to do it."
"Do you think that I deserve that threat from you, Dorothy?" I asked.
"No, no, my dear friend, forgive me. I trust you," and she caught up my
hand and kissed it gently.
Dorothy and I remained in the banquet hail, seated upon the stone bench
under the blazoned window.
Soon Sir George returned, closely followed by two men, one of whom bore
manacles such as were used to secure prisoners in the dungeon. Sir George
did not speak. He turned to the men and motioned with his hand toward
Dorothy. I sprang to my feet, intending to interfere by force, if need be,
to prevent the outrage; but before I could speak Lady Crawford hurriedly
entered the hall and ran to Sir George's side.
"Brother," she said, "old Bess has just told me that you have given orders
for Dorothy's confinement in the dungeon. I could not believe Bess; but
these men with irons lead me to suspect that you really intend.--"
"Do not interfere in affairs that do not concern you," replied Sir George,
sullenly.
"But this does concern me greatly," said Aunt Dorothy, "and if you send
Doll to the dungeon, Madge and I will leave your house and will proclaim
your act to all England."
"The girl has disobeyed me and has lied to me, and--"
"I care not what she has done, I shall leave your house and disown you for
my brother if you perpetrate this outrage upon my niece. She is dear to me
as if she were my own child. Have I not brought her up since babyhood? If
you carry out this order, brother, I will leave Haddon Hall forever."
"And I'll go with her," cried old Bess, who stood at the door of the
screens.
"And I, too," said Dawson, who was one of the men who had entered with Sir
George.
"And I," cried the other man, throwing the manacles to the floor, "I will
leave your service."
Sir George took up the manacles and moved toward Dorothy.
"You may all go, every cursed one of you. I rule my own house, and I will
have no rebels in it. When I have finished with this perverse wench, I'll
not wait for you to go. I'll drive you all out and you may go to--"
He was approaching Dorothy, but I stepped in front of him.
"This must not be, Sir George," said I, sternly. "I shall not leave Haddon
Hall, and I fear you not. I shall remain here to protect your daughter and
you from your own violence. You cannot put me out of Haddon Hall; I will
not go."
"Why cannot I put you out of Haddon Hail?" retorted Sir George, whose rage
by that time was frightful to behold.
"Because, sir, I am a better man and a better swordsman than you are, and
because you have not on all your estates a servant nor a retainer who will
not join me against you when I tell them the cause I champion."
Dawson and his fellow stepped to my side significantly, and Sir George
raised the iron manacles as if intending to strike me. I did not move. At
the same moment Madge entered the room.
"Where is my uncle?" she asked.
Old Bess led her to Sir George. She spoke not a word, but placed her arms
gently about his neck and drew his face down to hers. Then she kissed him
softly upon the lips and said:--
"My uncle has never in all his life spoken in aught but kindness to me,
and now I beg him to be kind to Dorothy."
The heavy manacles fell clanking to the floor. Sir George placed his hand
caressingly upon Madge's head and turned from Dorothy.
[Illustration]
Lady Crawford then approached her brother and put her hand upon his arm,
saying:--
"Come with me, George, that I may speak to you in private."
She moved toward the door by which she had entered, and Madge quietly took
her uncle's hand and led him after Lady Crawford. Within five minutes Sir
George, Aunt Dorothy, and Madge returned to the room.
"Dorothy?" said Madge in a low voice.
"Here I am, Madge," murmured Dorothy, who was sitting on the bench by the
blazoned window. Madge walked gropingly over to her cousin and sat by her
side, taking her hand. Then Lady Crawford spoke to Dorothy:--
"Your father wishes me to say that you must go to your apartments in
Entrance Tower, and that you shall not leave them without his consent. He
also insists that I say to you if you make resistance or objection to this
decree, or if you attempt to escape, he will cause you to be manacled and
confined in the dungeon, and that no persuasion upon our part will lead
him from his purpose."
"Which shall it be?" asked Sir George, directing his question to Lady
Crawford.
Dorothy lifted her eyebrows, bit the corner of her lip, shrugged her
shoulders, and said:--
"Indeed, it makes no difference to me where you send me, father; I am
willing to do whatever will give you the greatest happiness. If you
consult my wishes, you will have me whipped in the courtyard till I bleed.
I should enjoy that more than anything else you can do. Ah, how tender is
the love of a father! It passeth understanding."
"Come to your apartments, Dorothy," said Lady Crawford, anxious to
separate the belligerents. "I have given your father my word of honor that
I will guard you and will keep you prisoner in your rooms. Do you not pity
me? I gave my promise only to save you from the dungeon, and painful as
the task will be, I will keep my word to your father."
"Which shall it be, father?" asked Dorothy. "You shall finish the task you
began. I shall not help you in your good work by making choice. You shall
choose my place of imprisonment. Where shall it be? Shall I go to my rooms
or to the dungeon?"
"Go to your rooms," answered Sir George, "and let me never see--" but Sir
George did not finish the sentence. He hurriedly left the hall, and
Dorothy cheerfully went to imprisonment in Entrance Tower.