A TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE
I was at a loss what course to pursue, and I remained for a moment in
puzzling thought. I went back to Madge, and after closing the door, told
her of all I had seen. She could not advise me, and of course she was
deeply troubled and concerned. After deliberating, I determined to speak
to Aunt Dorothy that she might know what had happened. So I opened the
door and walked into Lady Crawford's presence. After viewing my lady's
back for a short time, I said:--
"I cannot find my hat, cloak, and sword. I left them in Dorothy's bedroom.
Has any one been here since I entered?"
The old lady turned quickly upon me, "Since you entered?" she cried in
wonderment and consternation. "Since you left, you mean. Did you not leave
this room a few minutes ago? What means this? How found you entrance
without the key?"
"I did not leave this room, Aunt Dorothy; you see I am here," I responded.
"Who did leave? Your wraith? Some one--Dorothy!" screamed the old lady in
terror. "That girl!!--Holy Virgin! where is she?"
Lady Crawford hastened to Dorothy's room and returned to me in great
agitation.
"Were you in the plot?" she demanded angrily.
"No more than were you, Lady Crawford," I replied, telling the exact
truth. If I were accessory to Dorothy's crime, it was only as a witness
and Aunt Dorothy had seen as much as I.
I continued: "Dorothy left Lady Madge and me at the window, saying she
wished to make a change in her garments. I was watching the sunset and
talking with Lady Madge."
Lady Crawford, being full of concern about the main event,--Dorothy's
escape,--was easily satisfied that I was not accessory before the fact.
"What shall I do, Malcolm? What shall I do? Help me, quickly. My brother
will return in the morning--perhaps he will return to-night--and he will
not believe that I have not intentionally permitted Dorothy to leave the
Hall. I have of late said so much to him on behalf of the girl that he
suspects me already of being in sympathy with her. He will not believe me
when I tell him that I have been duped. The ungrateful, selfish girl! How
could she so unkindly return my affection!"
The old lady began to weep.
I did not believe that Dorothy intended to leave Haddon Hall permanently.
I felt confident she had gone out only to meet John, and was sure she
would soon return. On the strength of that opinion I said: "If you fear
that Sir George will not believe you--he certainly will blame you--would
it not be better to admit Dorothy quietly when she returns and say nothing
to any one concerning the escapade? I will remain here in these rooms, and
when she returns I will depart, and the guards will never suspect that
Dorothy has left the Hall."
"If she will but return," wailed Aunt Dorothy, "I shall be only too glad
to admit her and to keep silent."
"I am sure she will," I answered. "Leave orders with the guard at Sir
George's door to admit me at any time during the night, and Dorothy will
come in without being recognized. Her disguise must be very complete if
she could deceive you."
"Indeed, her disguise is complete," replied the tearful old lady.
Dorothy's disguise was so complete and her resemblance to me had been so
well contrived that she met with no opposition from the guards in the
retainer's room nor from the porter. She walked out upon the terrace where
she strolled for a short time. Then she climbed over the wall at the stile
back of the terrace and took her way up Bowling Green Hill toward the
gate. She sauntered leisurely until she was out of sight of the Hall. Then
gathering up her cloak and sword she sped along the steep path to the hill
crest and thence to the gate.
Soon after the first day of her imprisonment she had sent a letter to John
by the hand of Jennie Faxton, acquainting him with the details of all that
had happened. In her letter, among much else, she said:--
"My true love, I beg you to haunt with your presence Bowling Green Gate
each day at the hour of sunset. I cannot tell you when I shall be there to
meet you, or surely I would do so now. But be there I will. Let no doubt
of that disturb your mind. It does not lie in the power of man to keep me
from you. That is, it lies in the power of but one man, you, my love and
my lord, and I fear not that you will use your power to that end. So it is
that I beg you to wait for me at sunset hour each day near by Bowling
Green Gate. You may be caused to wait for me a long weary time; but one
day, sooner or later, I shall go to you, and then--ah, then, if it be in
my power to reward your patience, you shall have no cause for complaint."
When Dorothy reached the gate she found it securely locked. She peered
eagerly through the bars, hoping to see John. She tried to shake the
heavy iron structure to assure herself that it could not be opened.
"Ah, well," she sighed, "I suppose the reason love laughs at locksmiths is
because he--or she--can climb."
Then she climbed the gate and sprang to the ground on the Devonshire side
of the wall.
"What will John think when he sees me in this attire?" she said half
aloud. "Malcolm's cloak serves but poorly to cover me, and I shall instead
be covered with shame and confusion when John comes. I fear he will think
I have disgraced myself." Then, with a sigh, "But necessity knows no
raiment."
She strode about near the gate for a few minutes, wishing that she were
indeed a man, save for one fact: if she were not a woman, John would not
love her, and, above all, she could not love John. The fact that she could
and did love John appealed to Dorothy as the highest, sweetest privilege
that Heaven or earth could offer to a human being.
The sun had sunk in the west, and his faint parting glory was but dimly to
be seen upon a few small clouds that floated above Overhaddon Hill. The
moon was past its half; and the stars, still yellow and pale from the
lingering glare of day, waited eagerly to give their twinkling help in
lighting the night. The forest near the gate was dense, and withal the
fading light of the sun and the dawning beams of the moon and stars, deep
shadow enveloped Dorothy and all the scene about her. The girl was
disappointed when she did not see Manners, but she was not vexed. There
was but one person in all the world toward whom she held a patient, humble
attitude--John. If he, in his greatness, goodness, and condescension,
deigned to come and meet so poor a person as Dorothy Vernon, she would be
thankful and happy; if he did not come, she would be sorrowful. His will
was her will, and she would come again and again until she should find
him waiting for her, and he should stoop to lift her into heaven.
If there is a place in all the earth where red warm blood counts for its
full value, it is in a pure woman's veins. Through self-fear it brings to
her a proud reserve toward all mankind till the right one comes. Toward
him it brings an eager humbleness that is the essence and the life of
Heaven and of love. Poets may praise snowy women as they will, but the
compelling woman is she of the warm blood. The snowy woman is the lifeless
seed, the rainless cloud, the unmagnetic lodestone, the drossful iron. The
great laws of nature affect her but passively. If there is aught in the
saying of the ancients, "The best only in nature can survive," the day of
her extermination will come. Fire is as chaste as snow, and infinitely
more comforting.
Dorothy's patience was not to be tried for long. Five minutes after she
had climbed the gate she beheld John riding toward her from the direction
of Rowsley, and her heart beat with thrill upon thrill of joy. She felt
that the crowning moment of her life was at hand. By the help of a subtle
sense--familiar spirit to her love perhaps--she knew that John would ask
her to go with him and to be his wife, despite all the Rutlands and
Vernons dead, living, or to be born. The thought of refusing him never
entered her mind. Queen Nature was on the throne in the fulness of power,
and Dorothy, in perfect attune with her great sovereign, was fulfilling
her destiny in accordance with the laws to which her drossless being was
entirely amenable.
Many times had the fear come to her that Sir John Manners, who was heir to
the great earldom of Rutland,--he who was so great, so good, and so
beautiful,--might feel that his duty to his house past, present, and
future, and the obligations of his position among the grand nobles of the
realm, should deter him from a marriage against which so many good reasons
could be urged. But this evening her familiar spirit whispered to her that
she need not fear, and her heart was filled with joy and certainty. John
dismounted and tethered his horse at a short distance from the gate. He
approached Dorothy, but halted when he beheld a man instead of the girl
whom he longed to meet. His hesitancy surprised Dorothy, who, in her
eagerness, had forgotten her male attire. She soon saw, however, that he
did not recognize her, and she determined, in a spirit of mischief, to
maintain her incognito till he should penetrate her disguise.
She turned her back on John and sauntered leisurely about, whistling
softly. She pretended to be unconscious of his presence, and John, who
felt that the field was his by the divine right of love, walked to the
gate and looked through the bars toward Bowling Green. He stood at the
gate for a short time with indifference in his manner and irritation in
his heart. He, too, tried to hum a tune, but failed. Then he tried to
whistle, but his musical efforts were abortive. There was no music in him.
A moment before his heart had been full of harmony; but when he found a
man instead of his sweetheart, the harmony quickly turned to rasping
discord.
John was not a patient man, and his impatience was apt to take the form of
words and actions. A little aimless stalking about at the gate was more
than enough for him, so he stepped toward the intruder and lifted his hat.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I thought when first I saw you that you
were Sir Malcolm Vernon. I fancied you bore resemblance to him. I see that
I was in error."
"Yes, in error," answered my beard.
Again the two gentlemen walked around each other with great amusement on
the part of one, and with ever increasing vexation on the part of the
other.
Soon John said, "May I ask whom have I the honor to address?"
"Certainly, you may ask," was the response.
A silence ensued during which Dorothy again turned her back on John and
walked a few paces away from him. John's patience was rapidly oozing, and
when the unknown intruder again turned in his direction, John said with
all the gentleness then at his command:--
"Well, sir, I do ask."
"Your curiosity is flattering," said the girl.
"Pardon me, sir," returned John. "My curiosity is not intended to be
flattering. I--"
"I hope it is not intended to be insulting, sir?" asked my hat and cloak.
"That, sir, all depends upon yourself," retorted John, warmly. Then after
an instant of thought, he continued in tones of conciliation:--
"I have an engagement of a private nature at this place. In short, I hope
to meet a--a friend here within a few minutes and I feel sure that under
the circumstances so gallant a gentleman as yourself will act with due
consideration for the feelings of another. I hope and believe that you
will do as you would be done by."
"Certainly, certainly," responded the gallant. "I find no fault at all
with your presence. Please take no account whatever of me. I assure you I
shall not be in the least disturbed."
John was somewhat disconcerted.
"Perhaps you will not be disturbed," replied John, struggling to keep down
his temper, "but I fear you do not understand me. I hope to meet a--a lady
and--"
"I hope also to meet a--a friend," the fellow said; "but I assure you we
shall in no way conflict."
"May I ask," queried John, "if you expect to meet a gentleman or a lady?"
"Certainly you may ask," was the girl's irritating reply.
"Well, well, sir, I do ask," said John. "Furthermore, I demand to know
whom you expect to meet at this place."
"That, of course, sir, is no business of yours."
"But I shall make it my affair. I expect to meet a lady here, my
sweetheart." The girl's heart jumped with joy. "And if you have any of the
feelings of a gentleman, you must know that your presence will be
intolerable to me."
"Perhaps it will be, my dear sir, but I have as good a right here as you
or any other. If you must know all about my affairs, I tell you I, too,
hope to meet my sweetheart at this place. In fact, I know I shall meet my
sweetheart, and, my good fellow, I beg to inform you that a stranger's
presence would be very annoying to me."
John was at his wit's end. He must quickly do or say something to persuade
this stubborn fellow to leave. If Dorothy should come and see two persons
at the gate she, of course, would return to the Hall. Jennie Faxton, who
knew that the garments were finished, had told Sir John that he might
reasonably expect to see Dorothy at the gate on that evening, for Sir
George had gone to Derby-town, presumably to remain over night.
In sheer desperation John said, "I was here first, and I claim the
ground."
"That is not true," replied the other. "I have been waiting here for
you--I mean for the person I am to meet--" Dorothy thought she had
betrayed herself, and that John would surely recognize her. "I had been
waiting full five minutes before you arrived."
John's blindness in failing to recognize Dorothy is past my understanding.
He explained it to me afterward by saying that his eagerness to see
Dorothy, and his fear, nay almost certainty, that she could not come,
coupled with the hope which Jennie Faxton had given him, had so completely
occupied his mind that other subjects received but slight consideration.
"But I--I have been here before this night to meet--"
"And I have been here to meet--quite as often as you, I hope," retorted
Dorothy.
They say that love blinds a man. It must also have deafened John, since he
did not recognize his sweetheart's voice.
"It may be true that you have been here before this evening," retorted
John, angrily; "but you shall not remain here now. If you wish to save
yourself trouble, leave at once. If you stalk about in the forest, I will
run you through and leave you for the crows to pick."
"I have no intention of leaving, and if I were to do so you would regret
it; by my beard, you would regret it," answered the girl, pleased to see
John in his overbearing, commanding mood. His stupidity was past
comprehension.
"Defend yourself," said John, drawing his sword.
"Now he will surely know the truth," thought Dorothy, but she said: "I am
much younger than you, and am not so large and strong. I am unskilled in
the use of a sword, and therefore am I no match for Sir John Manners than
whom, I have heard, there is no better swordsman, stronger arm, nor braver
heart in England."
"You flatter me, my friend," returned John, forced into a good humor
against his will; "but you must leave. He who cannot defend himself must
yield; it is the law of nature and of men."
John advanced toward Dorothy, who retreated stepping backward, holding her
arm over her face.
"I am ready to yield if you wish. In fact, I am eager to yield--more eager
than you can know," she cried.
"It is well," answered John, putting his sword in sheath.
"But," continued Dorothy, "I will not go away."
"Then you must fight," said John.
"I tell you again I am willing, nay, eager to yield to you, but I also
tell you I cannot fight in the way you would have me. In other ways
perhaps I can fight quite as well as anybody. But really, I am ashamed to
draw my sword, since to do so would show you how poorly I am equipped to
defend myself under your great laws of nature and of man. Again, I wish to
assure you that I am more than eager to yield; but I cannot fight you, and
I will not go away."
The wonder never ceases that John did not recognize her. She took no pains
to hide her identity, and after a few moments of concealment she was
anxious that John should discover her under my garments.
"I would know his voice," she thought, "did he wear all the petticoats in
Derbyshire."
"What shall I do with you?" cried John, amused and irritated. "I cannot
strike you."
"No, of course you would not murder me in cold blood," answered Dorothy,
laughing heartily. She was sure her laughter would open John's eyes.
"I cannot carry you away," said John.
"I would come back again, if you did," answered the irrepressible fellow.
"I suppose you would," returned John, sullenly. "In the devil's name, tell
me what you will do. Can I not beg you to go?"
"Now, Sir John, you have touched me. I make you this offer: you expect
Mistress Vernon to come from the Hall--"
"What do you know about Mistress Vernon?" cried John. "By God, I will--"
"Now don't grow angry, Sir John, and please don't swear in my presence.
You expect her, I say, to come from the Hall. What I propose is this: you
shall stand by the gate and watch for Doll--oh, I mean Mistress
Vernon--and I will stand here behind the wall where she cannot see me.
When she comes in sight--though in truth I don't think she will come, and
I believe were she under your very nose you would not see her--you shall
tell me and I will leave at once; that is, if you wish me to leave. After
you see Dorothy Vernon if you still wish me to go, I pledge my faith no
power can keep me. Now is not that fair? I like you very much, and I want
to remain here, if you will permit me, and talk to you for a little
time--till you see Doll Vernon."
"Doll Vernon, fellow? How dare you so speak of her?" demanded John, hotly.
"Your pardon and her pardon, I beg; Mistress Vernon, soon to be Countess
of Derbyshire. By the way, I wager you a gold pound sterling that by the
time you see Doll Vernon--Mistress Vernon, I pray your pardon--you will
have grown so fond of me that you will not permit me to leave you." She
thought after that speech he could not help but know her; but John's skull
was like an oaken board that night. Nothing could penetrate it. He began
to fancy that his companion was a simple witless person who had escaped
from his keepers.
"Will you take the wager?" asked Dorothy.
"Nonsense!" was the only reply John deigned to give to so foolish a
proposition.
"Then will you agree that I shall remain at the gate till Doll--Mistress
Vernon comes?"
"I suppose I shall have to make the best terms possible with you," he
returned. "You are an amusing fellow and as perverse as a woman."
"I knew you would soon learn to like me," she responded. "The first step
toward a man's affection is to amuse him. That old saw which says the road
to a man's heart is through his stomach, is a sad mistake. Amusement is
the highway to a man's affections."
"It is better that one laugh with us than at us. There is a vast
difference in the two methods," answered John, contemptuously.
"You dare to laugh at me," cried Dorothy, grasping the hilt of her sword,
and pretending to be angry. John waved her off with his hand, and
laughingly said, "Little you know concerning the way to a man's heart, and
no doubt less of the way to a woman's."
"I, perhaps, know more about it than you would believe," returned Malcolm
No. 2.
"If you know aught of the latter subject, it is more than I would
suppose," said John. "It is absurd to say that a woman can love a man who
is unable to defend himself."
"A vain man thinks that women care only for men of his own pattern,"
retorted Dorothy. "Women love a strong arm, it is true, but they also love
a strong heart, and you see I am not at all afraid of you, even though you
have twice my strength. There are as many sorts of bravery, Sir John,
as--as there are hairs in my beard."
"That is not many," interrupted John.
"And," continued the girl, "I believe, John,--Sir John,--you possess all
the kinds of bravery that are good."
"You flatter me," said John.
"Yes," returned Dorothy, "that was my intent."
After that unflattering remark there came a pause. Then the girl continued
somewhat hesitatingly: "Doubtless many women, Sir John, have seen your
virtues more clearly than even I see them. Women have a keener perception
of masculine virtues than--than we have."
Dorothy paused, and her heart beat with a quickened throb while she
awaited his reply. A new field of discovery was opening up to her and a
new use for her disguise.
John made no reply, but the persistent girl pursued her new line of
attack.
[Illustration]
"Surely Sir John Manners has had many sweethearts," said Dorothy, in
flattering tones. There were rocks and shoals ahead for John's love barge.
"Many, many, I am sure," the girl persisted.
"Ah, a few, a few, I admit," John like a fool replied. Dorothy was
accumulating disagreeable information rapidly.
"While you were at London court," said she, "the fine ladies must have
sought you in great numbers--I am sure they did."
"Perhaps, oh, perhaps," returned John. "One cannot always remember such
affairs." His craft was headed for the rocks. Had he observed Dorothy's
face, he would have seen the storm a-brewing.
"To how many women, Sir John, have you lost your heart, and at various
times how many have lost their hearts to you?" asked the persistent
girl.--"What a senseless question," returned John. "A dozen times or more;
perhaps a score or two score times. I cannot tell the exact number. I did
not keep an account."
Dorothy did not know whether she wanted to weep or be angry. Pique and a
flash of temper, however, saved her from tears, and she said, "You are so
brave and handsome that you must have found it a very easy task--much
easier than it would be for me--to convince those confiding ones of your
affection?"
"Yes," replied John, plunging full sail upon the breakers, "I admit that
usually they have been quite easy to convince. I am naturally bold, and I
suppose that perhaps--that is, I may possibly have a persuasive trick
about me."
Shades of good men who have blundered into ruin over the path of petty
vanity, save this man! But no, Dorothy must drink the bitter cup of
knowledge to the dregs.
"And you have been false to all of these women? she said.
"Ah, well, you know--the devil take it! A man can't be true to a score of
women," replied John.
"I am sure none of them wished you to be true," the girl answered,
restraining her tears with great difficulty.
At that point in the conversation John began to suspect from the manner
and shapeliness of his companion that a woman had disguised herself in
man's attire. Yet it did not once occur to him that Dorothy's fair form
was concealed within the disguise. He attempted to lift my soft beaver
hat, the broad rim of which hid Dorothy's face, but to that she made a
decided objection, and John continued: "By my soul I believe you are a
woman. Your walk"--Dorothy thought she had been swaggering like a
veritable swash-buckler--"your voice, the curves of your form, all betray
you." Dorothy gathered the cloak closely about her.
"I would know more of you," said John, and he stepped toward the now
interesting stranger. But she drew away from him, and told him to keep
hands off.
"Oh, I am right. You are a woman," said John.
Dorothy had maintained the disguise longer than she wished, and was
willing that John should discover her identity. At first it had been rare
sport to dupe him; but the latter part of her conversation had given her
no pleasure. She was angry, jealous, and hurt by what she had learned.
"Yes," she answered, "I admit that I am a--a woman. Now I must go."
"Stay but one moment," pleaded John, whose curiosity and gallantry were
aroused. "I will watch for Mistress Vernon, and when she appears, then you
may go."
"I told you that you would want me to remain," said the girl with a sigh.
She was almost ready to weep. Then she thought: "I little dreamed I was
coming here for this. I will carry the disguise a little farther, and
will, perhaps, learn enough to--to break my heart."
She was soon to learn all she wanted to know and a great deal more.
"Come sit by me on this stone," said John, coaxingly. The girl complied,
and drew the cloak over her knees.
"Tell me why you are here," he asked.
"To meet a gentleman," she replied, with low-bent face.
"Tell me your name," John asked, as he drew my glove from her passive
hand. John held the hand in his, and after examining it in the dim light
saw that it was a great deal more than good to look upon. Then he lifted
it to his lips and said:
"Since our sweethearts have disappointed us, may we not console ourselves
with each other?" He placed his arm around the girl's waist and drew her
yielding form toward him. Dorothy, unobserved by John, removed the false
beard and moustachio, and when John put his arm about her waist and leaned
forward to kiss the fair accommodating neighbor she could restrain her
tears no longer and said:--
"That would be no consolation for me, John; that would be no consolation
for me. How can you? How can you?"
She rose to her feet and covered her face with her hands in a paroxysm of
weeping. John, too, sprang to his feet, you may be sure. "Dorothy! God
help me! I am the king of fools. Curse this hour in which I have thrown
away my heaven. You must hate and despise me, fool, fool that I am."
John knew that it were worse than useless for him to attempt an
explanation. The first thought that flashed through his mind was, to tell
the girl that he had only pretended not to know her. He thought he would
try to make her believe that he had been turning her trick upon herself;
but he was wise in his day and generation, and did not seek refuge in that
falsehood.
The girl would never have forgiven him for that.
"The only amends I can make," he said, in very dolefulness, "is that I may
never let you see my face again."
"That will not help matters," sobbed Dorothy.
"I know it will not," returned John. "Nothing can help me. I can remain
here no longer. I must leave you. I cannot even ask you to say farewell.
Mistress Vernon, you do not despise me half so bitterly as I despise
myself."
Dorothy was one of those rare natures to whom love comes but once. It had
come to her and had engulfed her whole being. To part with it would be
like parting with life itself. It was her tyrant, her master. It was her
ego. She could no more throw it off than she could expel herself from her
own existence. All this she knew full well, for she had analyzed her
conditions, and her reason had joined with all her other faculties in
giving her a clear concept of the truth. She knew she belonged to John
Manners for life and for eternity. She also knew that the chance of seeing
him soon again was very slight, and to part from him now in aught but
kindness would almost kill her.
Before John had recognized Dorothy he certainly had acted like a fool, but
with the shock of recognition came wisdom. All the learning of the
ancients and all the cunning of the prince of darkness could not have
taught him a wiser word with which to make his peace, "I may never let you
see my face again." That was more to be feared by Dorothy than even John's
inconstancy.
Her heart was full of trouble. "I do not know what I wish," she said
simply. "Give me a little time to think."
John's heart leaped with joy, but he remained silent.
Dorothy continued: "Oh, that I had remained at home. I would to God I had
never seen Derby-town nor you."
John in the fulness of his wisdom did not interrupt her.
"To think that I have thus made a fool of myself about a man who has
given his heart to a score of women."
"This is torture," moaned John, in real pain.
"But," continued Dorothy, "I could not remain away from this place when I
had the opportunity to come to you. I felt that I must come. I felt that I
should die if I did not. And you are so false. I wish I were dead. A
moment ago, had I been another woman, you would have kissed her. You
thought I was another woman."
John's wisdom stood by him nobly. He knew he could neither explain
successfully nor beg forgiveness. He simply said: "I cannot remain and
look you in the face. If I dare make any request, it is that despite all
you have heard from my lips you will still believe that I love you, and
that in all my life I have never loved any one so dearly. There is no
other woman for me."
"You doubtless spoke the same false words to the other two score women,"
said Dorothy. Tears and sobs were playing sad havoc with her powers of
speech.
"Farewell, Mistress Vernon," replied John. "I should be shameless if I
dared ask you to believe any word I can utter. Forget, if possible, that I
ever existed; forget me that you may not despise me. I am unworthy to
dwell even in the smallest of your thoughts. I am altogether base and
contemptible."
"N-o-o," sighed Dorothy, poutingly, while she bent low her head and toyed
with the gold lace of my cloak.
"Farewell," said John. He took a step or two backward from her.
"You are over-eager to leave, it seems to me," said the girl in an injured
tone. "I wonder that you came at all." John's heart was singing hosanna.
He, however, maintained his voice at a mournful pitch and said: "I must
go. I can no longer endure to remain." While he spoke he moved toward his
horse, and his head was bowed with real shame as he thought of the
pitiable fool he had made of himself. Dorothy saw him going from her, and
she called to him softly and reluctantly, "John."
He did not hear her, or perhaps he thought best to pretend that he did not
hear, and as he moved from her the girl became desperate. Modesty,
resentment, insulted womanhood and injured pride were all swept away by
the stream of her mighty love, and she cried again, this time without
hesitancy or reluctance, "John, John." She started to run toward him, but
my cloak was in her way, and the sword tripped her feet. In her fear lest
John might leave her, she unclasped the sword-belt from her waist and
snatched the cloak from her shoulders. Freed from these hindrances, she
ran toward John.
"John, do not leave me. Do not leave me." As she spoke, she reached an
open space among the trees and John turned toward her. Her hat had fallen
off, and the red golden threads of her hair, freed from their fastenings,
streamed behind her. Never before had a vision of such exquisite
loveliness sped through the moonbeams. So entrancing was her beauty to
John that he stood motionless in admiration. He did not go to meet her as
he should have done, and perhaps as he would have done had his senses not
been wrapped in benumbing wonderment. His eyes were unable to interpret to
his brain all her marvellous beauty, and his other senses abandoning their
proper functions had hastened to the assistance of his sight He saw, he
heard, he felt her loveliness. Thus occupied he did not move, so Dorothy
ran to him and fell upon his breast.
"You did not come to meet me," she sobbed. "You made me come all the way,
to forgive you. Cruel, cruel!"
John held the girl in his arms, but he did not dare to kiss her, and his
self-denial soon brought its reward. He had not expected that she would
come a beggar to him. The most he had dared to hope was that she would
listen to his prayer for forgiveness. With all his worldly wisdom John had
not learned the fact that inconstancy does not destroy love in the one who
suffers by reason of it; nor did he know of the exquisite pain-touched
happiness which comes to a gentle, passionate heart such as Dorothy's from
the mere act of forgiving.
"Is it possible you can forgive me for the miserable lies I have uttered?"
asked John, almost unconscious of the words he was speaking. "Is it
possible you can forgive me for uttering those lies, Dorothy?" he
repeated.
She laid her head upon his breast, and softly passing her hand over the
lace of his doublet, whispered:--
"If I could believe they were lies, I could easily forgive you," she
answered between low sobs and soft sighs. Though she was a woman, the
sweet essence of childhood was in her heart.
"But you cannot believe me, even when I tell you that I spoke not the
truth," answered John, with growing faith in his system of passive
repentance. Again came the sighs, and a few struggling, childish sobs.
"It is easy for us to believe that which we long to believe," she said.
Then she turned her face upward to him, and John's reward was altogether
disproportioned to the self-denial he had exercised a few minutes before.
She rewarded him far beyond his deserts; and after a pause she said
mischievously:--
"You told me that you were a bold man with women, and I know that at least
that part of what you said was untrue, for you are a bashful man, John,
you are downright bashful. It is I who have been bold. You were too timid
to woo me, and I so longed for you that I--I--was not timid."
"For God's sake, Dorothy, I beg you to have pity and to make no jest of
me. Your kindness almost kills me, and your ridicule--"
"There, there, John," whispered the girl, "I will never again make a jest
of you if it gives you pain. Tell me, John, tell me truly, was it all
false--that which you told me about the other women?"
There had been more truth in John's bragging than he cared to confess. He
feared and loathed a lie; so he said evasively, but with perfect truth:--
"You must know, my goddess. If you do not know without the telling that I
love you with all my being; if you do not know that there is for me and
ever will be no woman but you in all the world; if you do not know that
you have stolen my soul and that I live only in your presence, all that I
can say will avail nothing toward convincing you. I am almost crazed with
love for you, and with pain and torture. For the love of God let me leave
you that I may hide my face."
"Never," cried the girl, clasping her hands about his neck and pressing
her lips gently upon his. "Never. There, that will soothe you, won't it,
John?"
It did soothe him, and in the next moment, John, almost frenzied with joy,
hurt the girl by the violence of his embraces; but she, woman-like, found
her heaven in the pain.
They went back to the stone bench beside the gate, and after a little time
Dorothy said:--
"But tell me, John, would you have kissed the other woman? Would you
really have done it?"
John's honesty certainly was good policy in that instance. The adroit girl
had set a trap for him.
"I suppose I would," answered John, with a groan.
"It hurts me to hear the fact," said Dorothy, sighing; "but it pleases me
to hear the truth. I know all else you tell me is true. I was trying you
when I asked the question, for I certainly knew what you intended to do. A
woman instinctively knows when a man is going to--to--when anything of
that sort is about to happen."
"How does she know?" asked John.
Rocks and breakers ahead for Dorothy.
"I cannot tell you," replied the girl, naïvely, "but she knows."
"Perhaps it is the awakened desire in her own heart which forewarns her,"
said John, stealthily seeking from Dorothy a truth that would pain him
should he learn it.
"I suppose that is partly the source of her knowledge," replied the
knowing one, with a great show of innocence in her manner. John was in no
position to ask impertinent questions, nor had he any right to grow angry
at unpleasant discoveries; but he did both, although for a time he
suppressed the latter.
"You believe she is sure to know, do you?" he asked.
"Usually," she replied. "Of course there are times when--when it happens
so suddenly that--"
John angrily sprang to his feet, took a few hurried steps in front of
Dorothy, who remained demurely seated with her eyes cast down, and then
again he took his place beside her on the stone bench. He was trembling
with anger and jealousy. The devil was in the girl that night for
mischief.
"I suppose you speak from the fulness of your experience," demanded John,
in tones that would have been insulting had they not been pleasing to the
girl. She had seen the drift of John's questions at an early stage of the
conversation, and his easily aroused jealousy was good proof to her of his
affection. After all, she was in no danger from rocks and breakers. She
well knew the currents, eddies, rocks, and shoals of the sea she was
navigating, although she had never before sailed it. Her fore-mothers, all
the way back to Eve, had been making charts of those particular waters for
her especial benefit. Why do we, a slow-moving, cumbersome army of men,
continue to do battle with the foe at whose hands defeat is always our
portion?
"Experience?" queried Dorothy, her head turned to one side in a
half-contemplative attitude. "Experience? Of course that is the only way
we learn anything."
John again sprang to his feet, and again he sat down beside the girl. He
had so recently received forgiveness for his own sins that he dared not be
unforgiving toward Dorothy. He did not speak, and she remained silent,
willing to allow time for the situation to take its full effect. The
wisdom of the serpent is black ignorance compared with the cunning of a
girl in Dorothy's situation. God gives her wit for the occasion as He
gives the cat soft paws, sharp claws, and nimbleness. She was teaching
John a lesson he would never forget. She was binding him to her with hoops
of steel.
"I know that I have not the right to ask," said John, suppressing his
emotions, "but may I know merely as a matter of trivial information--may I
know the name of--of the person--this fellow with whom you have had so
full an experience? God curse him! Tell me his name." He caught the girl
violently by both arms as if he would shake the truth out of her. He was
unconsciously making full amends for the faults he had committed earlier
in the evening. The girl made no answer. John's powers of self-restraint,
which were not of the strongest order, were exhausted, and he again sprang
to his feet and stood towering before her in a passion. "Tell me his
name," he said hoarsely. "I demand it. I will not rest till I kill him."
"If you would kill him, I surely will not tell you his name. In truth, I
admit I am very fond of him."
"Speak not another word to me till you tell me his name," stormed John. I
feel sorry for John when I think of the part he played in this interview;
but every man knows well his condition.
"I care not," continued John, "in what manner I have offended you, nor
does my debt of gratitude to you for your generosity in forgiving my sins
weigh one scruple against this you have told me. No man, unless he were a
poor clown, would endure it; and I tell you now, with all my love for you,
I will not--I will not!"
Dorothy was beginning to fear him. She of course did not fear personal
violence; but after all, while he was slower than she, he was much
stronger every way, and when aroused, his strength imposed itself upon her
and she feared to play him any farther.
"Sit beside me, John, and I will tell you his name," said the girl,
looking up to him, and then casting down her eyes. A dimpling smile was
playing about her lips.
"No, I will not sit by you," replied John, angrily. She partly rose, and
taking him by the arm drew him to her side.
"Tell me his name," again demanded John, sitting rigidly by Dorothy. "Tell
me his name."
"Will you kill him?" she asked.
"That I will," he answered. "Of that you may rest assured."
"If you kill him, John, it will break my heart; for to do so, you must
commit suicide. There is no other man but you, John. With you I had my
first, last, and only experience."
John, of course, was speechless. He had received only what he deserved. I
freely admit he played the part of a fool during this entire interview
with Dorothy, and he was more fully convinced of the fact than either you
or I can be. I do not like to have a fool for the hero of my history; but
this being a history and not a romance, I must tell you of events just as
they happened, and of persons exactly as they were, else my conscience
will smite me for untruthfulness. Dorothy's last assault was too much for
John. He could neither parry nor thrust.
Her heart was full of mirth and gladness.
"None other but you, John," she repeated, leaning forward in front of him,
and looking up into his eyes. A ray of moonlight stealing its way between
the forest boughs fell upon her upturned face and caused it to glow with a
goddess-like radiance.
"None but you, John. There never has been and there never shall be
another."
When John's consciousness returned he said, "Dorothy, can you love such a
fool as I?"
"That I can and that I do with all my heart," she returned.
"And can you forgive me for this last fault--for doubting you?"
"That is easily done," she answered softly, "because doubt is the child of
love."
"But you do not doubt me?" he replied.
"N-o-o," she answered somewhat haltingly; "but I--I am a woman."
"And a woman's heart is the home of faith," said John, reverentially.
"Y-e-s," she responded, still not quite sure of her ground. "Sometimes it
is the home of too much faith, but faith, like virtue, is its own reward.
Few persons are false to one who gives a blind, unquestioning faith. Even
a poor degree of honor responds to it in kind."
"Dorothy, I am so unworthy of you that I stand abashed in your presence,"
replied John.
"No, you are not unworthy of me. We don't look for unmixed good in men,"
said the girl with a mischievous little laugh. Then seriously: "Those
virtues you have are so great and so strong, John, that my poor little
virtues, while they perhaps are more numerous than yours, are but weak
things by comparison. In truth, there are some faults in men which we
women do not--do not altogether dislike. They cause us--they make us--oh,
I cannot express exactly what I mean. They make us more eager perhaps. A
too constant man is like an overstrong sweet: he cloys us. The faults I
speak of hurt us; but we thrive on them. Women enjoy pain now and then.
Malcolm was telling me the other day that the wise people of the East have
a saying: 'Without shadow there can be no light; without death there can
be no life; without suffering there can be no joy.' Surely is that saying
true of women. She who suffers naught enjoys naught. When a woman becomes
passive, John, she is but a clod. Pain gives us a vent--a vent for
something, I know not what it is; but this I know, we are happier for it."
"I fear, Dorothy, that I have given you too much 'vent,' as you call it,"
said John.
"No, no," she replied. "That was nothing. My great vent is that I can pour
out my love upon you, John, without stint. Now that I know you are mine, I
have some one whom I can deluge with it. Do you know, John, I believe that
when God made me He collected together the requisite portions of reason,
imagination, and will,--there was a great plenty of will, John,--and all
the other ingredients that go to make a human being. But after He had
gotten them all together there was still a great space left to be filled,
and He just threw in an immensity of love with which to complete me.
Therefore, John, am I not in true proportion. There is too much love in
me, and it wells up at times and overflows my heart. How thankful I should
be that I may pour it upon you and that it will not be wasted. How good
you are to give me the sweet privilege."
"How thankful should I be, Dorothy. I have never known you till this
night. I am unworthy--"
"Not another word of that sort, John," she interrupted, covering his mouth
with her hand.
They stood for a long time talking a deal of celestial nonsense which I
shall not give you. I fear I have already given you too much of what John
and Dorothy did and said in this very sentimental interview. But in no
other way can I so well make you to know the persons of whom I write. I
might have said Dorothy was so and so, and John was such and such. I might
have analyzed them in long, dull pages of minute description; but it is
that which persons do and say that gives us true concept of their
characters; what others say about them is little else than a mere
statement that black is black and white is white. But to my story again.
Dorothy by her beauty had won John's admiration when first he beheld her.
When he met her afterward, her charms of mind and her thousand winsome
ways moved him deeply. But upon the evening of which I am now telling you
he beheld for the first time her grand burning soul, and he saw her pure
heart filled to overflowing with its dangerous burden of love, right from
the hands of God Himself, as the girl had said. John was of a coarser
fibre than she who had put him up for her idol; but his sensibilities were
keen, and at their awakening he saw clearly the worth of the priceless
treasure which propitious fate had given him in the love of Dorothy, and
he sat humbly at her feet. Yet she knew it not, but sat humbly at John's
feet the happiest woman in all the world because of her great good fortune
in having a demi-god upon whom she could lavish the untold wealth of her
heart. If you are a woman, pray God that He may touch your eyes with
Dorothy's blessed blindness. There is a heaven in the dark for you, if you
can find it.
I must leave the scene, though I am loath to do so. Seldom do we catch a
glimpse of a human soul, and more seldom still does it show itself like a
gust of God's breath upon the deep of eternity as it did that night in
Dorothy.
After a time John said: "I have your promise to be my wife. Do you still
wish to keep it?"
"What an absurd question, John," replied the girl, laughing softly and
contentedly. "Why else am I here? Tell me, think you, John, should I be
here if I were not willing and eager to--to keep that promise?"
"Will you go with me notwithstanding your father's hatred of my house?" he
asked.
"Ah, truly that I will, John," she answered; "surely you know I will go
with you."
"Let us go at once. Let us lose not a moment. We have already delayed too
long," cried John in eager ecstasy.
"Not to-night, John; I cannot go to-night," she pleaded. "Think of my
attire," and she drew my cloak more closely about her. "I cannot go with
you this time. My father is angry with me because of you, although he does
not know who you are. Is it not famous to have a lover in secret of whom
nobody knows? Father is angry with me, and as I told you in my letter, he
keeps me a prisoner in my rooms. Aunt Dorothy stands guard over me. The
dear, simple old soul! She told me, thinking I was Malcolm, that she was
too old to be duped by a girl! Oh, it was too comical!" And she threw back
her head and gave forth a peal of laughter that John was reluctantly
compelled to silence. "I would so delight to tell you of the scene when I
was in Aunt Dorothy's room impersonating Malcolm; but I have so much else
to say of more importance that I know I shall not tell the half. When you
have left me, I shall remember what I most wished to say but forgot."
"No, John," she continued seriously, "my father has been cruel to me, and
I try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do love
him." Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In a
moment she continued: "It would kill him, John, were I to go with you
now. I _will_ go with you soon,--I give you my solemn promise to that--but
I cannot go now,--not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all his
cruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see me
nor will he speak to me. Think of that." The tears that had welled up to
her eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. "Aunt Dorothy and
Madge," she continued, "are so dear to me that the thought of leaving them
is torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, I
promise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love them
and my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet mother
died--and Dolcy--I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself to
leave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole life
bind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive me. You must think of the grief
and pain I shall yet pass through to go to you. It is as I told you: we
women reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I love
when I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I must
forsake for--for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise,
John, to go with you, but--but forgive me. I cannot go to-night."
"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy," said John. "The sacrifice would be all
on one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You would
forego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worth
having. I am unworthy--"
"Not that word, John," cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with--well,
not with her hand. "I shall give up a great deal," she continued, "and I
know I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you must
remember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; but
I will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the time
comes, because--because I feel that I could not live if I did not make
it."
"My father has already consented to our marriage," said John. "I told him
to-day all that had passed between you and me. He, of course, was greatly
pained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that if
you and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but would
welcome you to his heart."
"Is your father that--that sort of a man?" asked Dorothy, half in revery.
"I have always heard--" and she hesitated.
"I know," replied John, "that you have heard much evil of my father,
but--let us not talk on that theme. You will know him some day, and you
may judge him for yourself. When will you go with me, Dorothy?"
"Soon, very soon, John," she answered. "You know father intends that I
shall marry Lord Stanley. _I_ intend otherwise. The more father hurries
this marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be--be
your--that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you."
"You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?" asked
John, frightened by the thought.
"Ah," cried the girl, softly, "you know I told you that God had put into
me a great plenty of will. Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever it
is, it stands me in good hand now. You don't know how much I have of it!
You never will know until I am your--your--wife." The last word was spoken
in a soft, hesitating whisper, and her head sought shamefaced refuge on
John's breast. Of course the magic word "wife" on Dorothy's lips aroused
John to action, and--but a cloud at that moment passed over the moon and
kindly obscured the scene.
"You do not blame me, John," said Dorothy, "because I cannot go with you
to-night? You do not blame me?"
"Indeed I do not, my goddess," answered John. "You will soon be mine. I
shall await your pleasure and your own time, and when you choose to come
to me--ah, then--" And the kindly cloud came back to the moon.