THOMAS THE MAN SERVANT
After a great effort of self-denial John told Dorothy it was time for her
to return to the Hall, and he walked with her down Bowling Green Hill to
the wall back of the terrace garden.
Dorothy stood for a moment on the stile at the old stone wall, and John,
clasping her hand, said:--
"You will perhaps see me sooner than you expect," and then the cloud
considerately floated over the moon again, and John hurried away up
Bowling Green Hill.
Dorothy crossed the terrace garden, going toward the door since known as
"Dorothy's Postern." She had reached the top of the postern steps when she
heard her father's voice, beyond the north wall of the terrace garden well
up toward Bowling Green Hill. John, she knew, was at that moment climbing
the hill. Immediately following the sound of her father's voice she heard
another voice--that of her father's retainer, Sir John Guild. Then came
the word "Halt!" quickly followed by the report of a fusil, and the sharp
clinking of swords upon the hillside. She ran back to the wall, and saw
the dimly outlined forms of four men. One of them was John, who was
retreating up the hill. The others were following him. Sir George and Sir
John Guild had unexpectedly returned from Derby. They had left their
horses with the stable boys and were walking toward the kitchen door when
Sir George noticed a man pass from behind the corner of the terrace
garden wall and proceed up Bowling Green Hill. The man of course was John.
Immediately Sir George and Guild, accompanied by a servant who was with
them, started in pursuit of the intruder, and a moment afterward Dorothy
heard her father's voice and the discharge of the fusil. She climbed to
the top of the stile, filled with an agony of fear. Sir George was fifteen
or twenty yards in advance of his companion, and when John saw that his
pursuers were attacking him singly, he turned and quickly ran back to meet
the warlike King of the Peak. By a few adroit turns with his sword John
disarmed his antagonist, and rushing in upon him easily threw him to the
ground by a wrestler's trick. Guild and the servant by that time were
within six yards of Sir George and John.
"Stop!" cried Manners, "your master is on the ground at my feet. My sword
point is at his heart. Make but one step toward me and Sir George Vernon
will be a dead man."
Guild and the servant halted instantly.
"What are your terms?" cried Guild, speaking with the haste which he well
knew was necessary if he would save his master's life.
"My terms are easy," answered John. "All I ask is that you allow me to
depart in peace. I am here on no harmful errand, and I demand that I may
depart and that I be not followed nor spied upon by any one."
"You may depart in peace," said Guild. "No one will follow you; no one
will spy upon you. To this I pledge my knightly word in the name of Christ
my Saviour."
John at once took his way unmolested up the hill and rode home with his
heart full of fear lest his tryst with Dorothy had been discovered.
Guild and the servant assisted Sir George to rise, and the three started
down the hill toward the stile where Dorothy was standing. She was hidden
from them, however, by the wall. Jennie Faxton, who had been on guard
while John and Dorothy were at the gate, at Dorothy's suggestion stood on
top of the stile where she could easily be seen by Sir George when he
approached.
"When my father comes here and questions you," said Dorothy to Jennie
Faxton, "tell him that the man whom he attacked was your sweetheart."
"Never fear, mistress," responded Jennie. "I will have a fine story for
the master."
Dorothy crouched inside the wall under the shadow of a bush, and Jennie
waited on the top of the stile. Sir George, thinking the girl was Dorothy,
lost no time in approaching her. He caught her roughly by the arm and
turned her around that he might see her face.
"By God, Guild," he muttered, "I have made a mistake. I thought the girl
was Doll."
He left instantly and followed Guild and the servant to the kitchen door.
When Sir George left the stile, Dorothy hastened back to the postern of
which she had the key, and hurried toward her room. She reached the door
of her father's room just in time to see Sir George and Guild enter it.
They saw her, and supposed her to be myself. If she hesitated, she was
lost. But Dorothy never hesitated. To think, with her, was to act. She did
not of course know that I was still in her apartments. She took the
chance, however, and boldly followed Sir John Guild into her father's
room. There she paused for a moment that she might not appear to be in too
great haste, and then entered Aunt Dorothy's room where I was seated,
waiting for her.
"Dorothy, my dear child," exclaimed Lady Crawford, clasping her arms about
Dorothy's neck.
"There is no time to waste in sentiment, Aunt Dorothy," responded the
girl. "Here are your sword and cloak, Malcolm. I thank you for their use.
Don them quickly." I did so, and walked into Sir George's room, where that
worthy old gentleman was dressing a slight wound in the hand. I stopped to
speak with him; but he seemed disinclined to talk, and I left the room. He
soon went to the upper court, and I presently followed him.
Dorothy changed her garments, and she, Lady Crawford, and Madge also came
to the upper court. The braziers in the courtyard had been lighted and
cast a glare over two score half-clothed men and women who had been
aroused from their beds by the commotion of the conflict on the hillside.
Upon the upper steps of the courtyard stood Sir George and Jennie Faxton.
"Who was the man you were with?" roughly demanded Sir George of the
trembling Jennie. Jennie's trembling was assumed for the occasion.
"I will not tell you his name," she replied with tears. "He is my
sweetheart, and I will never come to the Hall again. Matters have come to
a pretty pass when a maiden cannot speak with her sweetheart at the stile
without he is set upon and beaten as if he were a hedgehog. My father is
your leal henchman, and his daughter deserves better treatment at your
hands than you have given me."
"There, there!" said Sir George, placing his hand upon her head. "I was in
the wrong. I did not know you had a sweetheart who wore a sword. When I
saw you at the stile, I was sure you were another. I am glad I was wrong."
So was Dorothy glad.
"Everybody be off to bed," said Sir George. "Ben Shaw, see that the
braziers are all blackened."
Dorothy, Madge, and Lady Crawford returned to the latter's room, and Sir
George and I entered after them. He was evidently softened in heart by the
night's adventures and by the mistake he supposed he had made.
A selfish man grows hard toward those whom he injures. A generous heart
grows tender. Sir George was generous, and the injustice he thought he had
done to Dorothy made him eager to offer amends. The active evil in all Sir
George's wrong-doing was the fact that he conscientiously thought he was
in the right. Many a man has gone to hell backward--with his face honestly
toward heaven. Sir George had not spoken to Dorothy since the scene
wherein the key to Bowling Green Gate played so important a part.
"Doll," said Sir George, "I thought you were at the stile with a man. I
was mistaken. It was the Faxton girl. I beg your pardon, my daughter. I
did you wrong."
"You do me wrong in many matters, father," replied Dorothy.
"Perhaps I do," her father returned, "perhaps I do, but I mean for the
best. I seek your happiness."
"You take strange measures at times, father, to bring about my happiness,"
she replied.
"Whom God loveth He chasteneth," replied Sir George, dolefully.
"That manner of loving may be well enough for God," retorted Dorothy with
no thought of irreverence, "but for man it is dangerous. Whom man loves he
should cherish. A man who has a good, obedient daughter--one who loves
him--will not imprison her, and, above all, he will not refuse to speak to
her, nor will he cause her to suffer and to weep for lack of that love
which is her right. A man has no right to bring a girl into this world and
then cause her to suffer as you--as you--"
She ceased speaking and sought refuge in silent feminine eloquence--tears.
One would have sworn she had been grievously injured that night.
"But I am older than you, Doll, and I know what is best for your
happiness," said Sir George.
"There are some things, father, which a girl knows with better, surer
knowledge than the oldest man living. Solomon was wise because he had so
many wives from whom he could absorb wisdom."
"Ah, well!" answered Sir George, smiling in spite of himself, "you will
have the last word."
"Confess, father," she retorted quickly, "that you want the last word
yourself."
"Perhaps I do want it, but I'll never have it," returned Sir George; "kiss
me, Doll, and be my child again."
"That I will right gladly," she answered, throwing her arms about her
father's neck and kissing him with real affection. Then Sir George said
good night and started to leave. At the door he stopped, and stood for a
little time in thought.
"Dorothy," said he, speaking to Lady Crawford, "I relieve you of your duty
as a guard over Doll. She may go and come when she chooses."
"I thank you, George," said Aunt Dorothy. "The task has been painful to
me."
Dorothy went to her father and kissed him again, and Sir George departed.
When the door was closed, Lady Crawford breathed a great sigh and said: "I
thank Heaven, Dorothy, he does not know that you have been out of your
room. How could you treat me so cruelly? How could you deceive me?"
"That, Aunt Dorothy," replied the niece, "is because you are not old
enough yet to be a match for a girl who is--who is in love."
"Shame upon you, Dorothy!" said Lady Crawford. "Shame upon you, to act as
you did, and now to speak so plainly about being in love! Malcolm said you
were not a modest girl, and I am beginning to believe him."
"Did Malcolm speak so ill of me?" asked Dorothy, turning toward me with a
smile in her eyes.
"My lady aunt," said I, turning to Lady Crawford, "when did I say that
Dorothy was an immodest girl?"
"You did not say it," the old lady admitted. "Dorothy herself said it, and
she proves her words to be true by speaking so boldly of her feelings
toward this--this strange man. And she speaks before Madge, too."
"Perhaps Madge is in the same sort of trouble. Who knows?" cried Dorothy,
laughing heartily. Madge blushed painfully. "But," continued Dorothy,
seriously, "I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it. For what else, my
dear aunt, was I created but to be in love? Tell me, dear aunt, for what
else was I created?"
"Perhaps you are right," returned the old lady, who in fact was
sentimentally inclined.
"The chief end of woman, after all, is to love," said Dorothy. "What would
become of the human race if it were not?"
"Child, child," cried the aunt, "where learned you such things?"
"They were written upon my mother's breast," continued Dorothy, "and I
learned them when I took in my life with her milk. I pray they may be
written upon my breast some day, if God in His goodness shall ever bless
me with a baby girl. A man child could not read the words."
"Dorothy, Dorothy!" cried Lady Crawford, "you shock me. You pain me."
"Again I ask," responded Dorothy, "for what else was I created? I tell
you, Aunt Dorothy, the world decrees that women shall remain in ignorance,
or in pretended ignorance--in silence at least--regarding the things
concerning which they have the greatest need to be wise and talkative."
"At your age, Dorothy, I did not have half your wisdom on the subject,"
answered Lady Crawford.
"Tell me, my sweet Aunt Dorothy, were you really in a state of ignorance
such as you would have me believe?"
"Well," responded the old lady, hesitatingly, "I did not speak of such
matters."
"Why, aunt, did you not?" asked Dorothy. "Were you ashamed of what God had
done? Were you ashamed of His great purpose in creating you a woman, and
in creating your mother and your mother's mother before you?"
"No, no, child; no, no. But I cannot argue with you. Perhaps you are
right," said Aunt Dorothy.
"Then tell me, dear aunt, that I am not immodest and bold when I speak
concerning that of which my heart is full to overflowing. God put it
there, aunt, not I. Surely I am not immodest by reason of His act."
"No, no, my sweet child," returned Aunt Dorothy, beginning to weep softly.
"No, no, you are not immodest. You are worth a thousand weak fools such as
I was at your age."
Poor Aunt Dorothy had been forced into a marriage which had wrecked her
life. Dorothy's words opened her aunt's eyes to the fact that the girl
whom she so dearly loved was being thrust by Sir George into the same
wretched fate through which she had dragged her own suffering heart for so
many years. From that hour she was Dorothy's ally.
"Good night, Malcolm," said Lady Crawford, offering me her hand. I kissed
it tenderly; then I kissed the sweet old lady's cheek and said:--
"I love you with all my heart, Aunt Dorothy."
"I thank you, Malcolm," she returned.
I took my leave, and soon Madge went to her room, leaving Dorothy and Lady
Crawford together.
When Madge had gone the two Dorothys, one at each end of life, spanned the
long years that separated them, and became one in heart by reason of a
heartache common to both.
Lady Crawford seated herself and Dorothy knelt by her chair.
"Tell me, Dorothy," said the old lady, "tell me, do you love this man so
tenderly, so passionately that you cannot give him up?"
"Ah, my dear aunt," the girl responded, "words cannot tell. You cannot
know what I feel."
"Alas! I know only too well, my child. I, too, loved a man when I was your
age, and none but God knows what I suffered when I was forced by my
parents and the priests to give him up, and to wed one whom--God help
me--I loathed."
"Oh, my sweet aunt!" cried Dorothy softly, throwing her arms about the old
lady's neck and kissing her cheek. "How terribly you must have suffered!"
"Yes," responded Lady Crawford, "and I am resolved you shall not endure
the same fate. I hope the man who has won your love is worthy of you. Do
not tell me his name, for I do not wish to practise greater deception
toward your father than I must. But you may tell me of his station in
life, and of his person, that I may know he is not unworthy of you."
"His station in life," answered Dorothy, "is far better than mine. In
person he is handsome beyond any woman's wildest dream of manly beauty. In
character he is noble, generous, and good. He is far beyond my deserts,
Aunt Dorothy."
"Then why does he not seek your hand from your father?" asked the aunt.
"That I may not tell you, Aunt Dorothy," returned the girl, "unless you
would have me tell you his name, and that I dare not do. Although he is
vastly my superior in station, in blood, and in character, still my father
would kill me before he would permit me to marry this man of my choice;
and I, dear aunt, fear I shall die if I have him not."
Light slowly dawned upon Aunt Dorothy's mind, and she exclaimed in a
terrified whisper:--
"My God, child, is it he?"
"Yes," responded the girl, "yes, it is he."
"Do not speak his name, Dorothy," the old lady said. "Do not speak his
name. So long as you do not tell me, I cannot know with certainty who he
is." After a pause Aunt Dorothy continued, "Perhaps, child, it was his
father whom I loved and was compelled to give up."
"May the blessed Virgin pity us, sweet aunt," cried Dorothy, caressingly.
"And help us," returned Lady Crawford. "I, too, shall help you," she
continued. "It will be through no fault of mine if your life is wasted as
mine has been."
Dorothy kissed her aunt and retired.
Next morning when Dorothy arose a song came from her heart as it comes
from the skylark when it sees the sun at dawn--because it cannot help
singing. It awakened Aunt Dorothy, and she began to live her life anew, in
brightness, as she steeped her soul in the youth and joyousness of Dorothy
Vernon's song.
I have spoken before in this chronicle of Will Dawson. He was a Conformer.
Possibly it was by reason of his religious faith that he did not share the
general enmity that existed in Haddon Hall against the house of Rutland.
He did not, at the time of which I speak, know Sir John Manners, and he
did not suspect that the heir to Rutland was the man who had of late been
causing so much trouble to the house of Vernon. At least, if he did
suspect it, no one knew of his suspicions.
Sir George made a great effort to learn who the mysterious interloper was,
but he wholly failed to obtain any clew to his identity. He had jumped to
the conclusion that Dorothy's mysterious lover was a man of low degree. He
had taken for granted that he was an adventurer whose station and person
precluded him from openly wooing his daughter. He did not know that the
heir to Rutland was in the Derbyshire country; for John, after his first
meeting with Dorothy, had carefully concealed his presence from everybody
save the inmates of Rutland. In fact, his mission to Rutland required
secrecy, and the Rutland servants and retainers were given to understand
as much. Even had Sir George known of John's presence at Rutland, the old
gentleman's mind could not have compassed the thought that Dorothy, who,
he believed, hated the race of Manners with an intensity equalled only by
his own feelings, could be induced to exchange a word with a member of the
house. His uncertainty was not the least of his troubles; and although
Dorothy had full liberty to come and go at will, her father kept constant
watch over her. As a matter of fact, Sir George had given Dorothy liberty
partly for the purpose of watching her, and he hoped to discover thereby
and, if possible, to capture the man who had brought trouble to his
household. Sir George had once hanged a man to a tree on Bowling Green
Hill by no other authority than his own desire. That execution was the
last in England under the old Saxon law of Infangthef and Outfangthef. Sir
George had been summoned before Parliament for the deed; but the writ had
issued against the King of the Peak, and that being only a sobriquet, was
neither Sir George's name nor his title. So the writ was quashed, and the
high-handed act of personal justice was not farther investigated by the
authorities. Should my cousin capture his daughter's lover, there would
certainly be another execution under the old Saxon law. So you see that my
friend Manners was tickling death with a straw for Dorothy's sake.
One day Dawson approached Sir George and told him that a man sought
employment in the household of Haddon Hall. Sir George placed great
confidence in his forester; so he told Dawson to employ the man if his
services were needed. The new servant proved to be a fine, strong fellow,
having a great shock of carrot-colored hair and a bushy beard of rusty
red.
Dawson engaged the newcomer, and assigned to him the duty of kindling the
fires in the family apartments of the Hall. The name of the new servant
was Thomas Thompson, a name that Dorothy soon abbreviated to Tom-Tom.
One day she said to him, by way of opening the acquaintance, "Thomas, you
and I should be good friends; we have so much in common."
"Thank you, my lady," responded Thomas, greatly pleased. "I hope we shall
be good friends; indeed, indeed I do, but I cannot tell wherein I am so
fortunate as to have anything in common with your Ladyship. What is it,
may I ask, of which we have so much in common?"
"So much hair," responded Dorothy, laughing.
"It were blasphemy, lady, to compare my hair with yours," returned Thomas.
"Your hair, I make sure, is such as the blessed Virgin had. I ask your
pardon for speaking so plainly; but your words put the thought into my
mind, and perhaps they gave me license to speak."
Thomas was on his knees, placing wood upon the fire.
"Thomas," returned Dorothy, "you need never apologize to a lady for making
so fine a speech. I declare a courtier could not have made a better one."
"Perhaps I have lived among courtiers, lady," said Thomas.
"I doubt not," replied Dorothy, derisively. "You would have me believe you
are above your station. It is the way with all new servants. I suppose
you have seen fine company and better days."
"I have never seen finer company than now, and I have never known better
days than this," responded courtier Thomas. Dorothy thought he was
presuming on her condescension, and was about to tell him so when he
continued: "The servants at Haddon Hall are gentlefolk compared with
servants at other places where I have worked, and I desire nothing more
than to find favor in Sir George's eyes. I would do anything to achieve
that end."
Dorothy was not entirely reassured by Thomas's closing words; but even if
they were presumptuous, she admired his wit in giving them an inoffensive
turn. From that day forth the acquaintance grew between the servant and
mistress until it reached the point of familiarity at which Dorothy dubbed
him Tom-Tom.
Frequently Dorothy was startled by remarks made by Thomas, having in them
a strong dash of familiarity; but he always gave to his words a harmless
turn before she could resent them. At times, however, she was not quite
sure of his intention.
Within a week after Thomas's advent to the hall, Dorothy began to suspect
that the new servant looked upon her with eyes of great favor. She
frequently caught him watching her, and at such times his eyes, which
Dorothy thought were really very fine, would glow with an ardor all too
evident. His manner was cause for amusement rather than concern, and since
she felt kindly toward the new servant, she thought to create a faithful
ally by treating him graciously. She might, she thought, need Thomas's
help when the time should come for her to leave Haddon Hall with John, if
that happy time should ever come. She did not realize that the most
dangerous, watchful enemy to her cherished scheme would be a man who was
himself in love with her, even though he were a servant, and she looked on
Thomas's evident infatuation with a smile. She did not once think that in
the end it might cause her great trouble, so she accepted his mute
admiration, and thought to make use of it later on. To Tom, therefore,
Dorothy was gracious.
John had sent word to Dorothy, by Jennie Faxton, that he had gone to
London, and would be there for a fortnight or more.
Sir George had given permission to his daughter to ride out whenever she
wished to do so, but he had ordered that Dawson or I should follow in the
capacity of spy, and Dorothy knew of the censorship, though she pretended
ignorance of it. So long as John was in London she did not care who
followed her; but I well knew that when Manners should return, Dorothy
would again begin manoeuvring, and that by some cunning trick she would
see him.
[Illustration]
One afternoon I was temporarily absent from the Hall and Dorothy wished to
ride. Dawson was engaged, and when Dorothy had departed, he ordered Tom to
ride after his mistress at a respectful distance. Nearly a fortnight had
passed since John had gone to London, and when Dorothy rode forth that
afternoon she was beginning to hope he might have returned, and that by
some delightful possibility he might then be loitering about the old
trysting-place at Bowling Green Gate. There was a half-unconscious
conviction in her heart that he would be there. She determined therefore,
to ride toward Rowsley, to cross the Wye at her former fording-place, and
to go up to Bowling Green Gate on the Devonshire side of the Haddon wall.
She had no reason, other than the feeling born of her wishes, to believe
that John would be there; but she loved the spot for the sake of the
memories which hovered about it. She well knew that some one would follow
her from the Hall; but she felt sure that in case the spy proved to be
Dawson or myself, she could easily arrange matters to her satisfaction, if
by good fortune she should find her lover at the gate.
Tom rode so far behind his mistress that she could not determine who was
following her. Whenever she brought Dolcy to a walk, Tom-Tom also walked
his horse. When Dorothy galloped, he galloped; but after Dorothy had
crossed the Wye and had taken the wall over into the Devonshire lands, Tom
also crossed the river and wall and quickly rode to her side. He uncovered
and bowed low with a familiarity of manner that startled her. The act of
riding up to her and the manner in which he took his place by her side
were presumptuous to the point of insolence, and his attitude, although
not openly offensive, was slightly alarming. She put Dolcy to a gallop;
but the servant who, she thought, was presuming on her former
graciousness, kept close at Dolcy's heels. The man was a stranger, and she
knew nothing of his character. She was alone in the forest with him, and
she did not know to what length his absurd passion for her might lead him.
She was alarmed, but she despised cowardice, although she knew herself to
be a coward, and she determined to ride to the gate, which was but a short
distance ahead of her. She resolved that if the insolent fellow continued
his familiarity, she would teach him a lesson he would never forget. When
she was within a short distance of the gate she sprang from Dolcy and
handed her rein to her servant. John was not there, but she went to the
gate in the hope that a letter might be hidden beneath the stone bench
where Jennie was wont to find them in times past. Dorothy found no letter,
but she could not resist the temptation to sit down upon the bench where
he and she had sat, and to dream over the happy moments she had spent
there. Tom, instead of holding the horses, hitched them, and walked toward
Dorothy. That act on the part of her servant was effrontery of the most
insolent sort. Will Dawson himself would not have dared do such a thing.
It filled her with alarm, and as Tom approached she was trying to
determine in what manner she would crush him. But when the audacious
Thomas, having reached the gate, seated himself beside his mistress on the
stone bench, the girl sprang to her feet in fright and indignation. She
began to realize the extent of her foolhardiness in going to that secluded
spot with a stranger.
"How dare you approach me in this insolent fashion?" cried Dorothy,
breathless with fear.
"Mistress Vernon," responded Thomas, looking boldly up into her pale face,
"I wager you a gold pound sterling that if you permit me to remain here by
your side ten minutes you will be unwilling--"
"John, John!" cried the girl, exultantly. Tom snatched the red beard from
his face, and Dorothy, after one fleeting, luminous look into his eyes,
fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. She wept, and John,
bending over the kneeling girl, kissed her sunlit hair.
"Cruel, cruel," sobbed Dorothy. Then she lifted her head and clasped her
hands about his neck. "Is it not strange," she continued, "that I should
have felt so sure of seeing you? My reason kept telling me that my hopes
were absurd, but a stronger feeling full of the breath of certainty seemed
to assure me that you would be here. It impelled me to come, though I
feared you after we crossed the wall. But reason, fear, and caution were
powerless to keep me away."
"You did not know my voice," said John, "nor did you penetrate my
disguise. You once said that you would recognize me though I wore all the
petticoats in Derbyshire."
"Please don't jest with me now," pleaded Dorothy. "I cannot bear it. Great
joy is harder to endure than great grief. Why did you not reveal yourself
to me at the Hall?" she asked plaintively.
"I found no opportunity," returned John, "others were always present."
I shall tell you nothing that followed. It is no affair of yours nor of
mine.
They were overjoyed in being together once more. Neither of them seemed to
realize that John, while living under Sir George's roof, was facing death
every moment. To Dorothy, the fact that John, who was heir to one of
England's noblest houses, was willing for her sake to become a servant, to
do a servant's work, and to receive the indignities constantly put upon a
servant, appealed most powerfully. It added to her feeling for him a
tenderness which is not necessarily a part of passionate love.
It is needless for me to tell you that while John performed faithfully the
duty of keeping bright the fires in Haddon Hall, he did not neglect the
other flame--the one in Dorothy's heart--for the sake of whose warmth he
had assumed the leathern garb of servitude and had placed his head in the
lion's mouth.
At first he and Dorothy used great caution in exchanging words and
glances, but familiarity with danger breeds contempt for it. So they
utilized every opportunity that niggard chance offered, and blinded by
their great longing soon began to make opportunities for speech with each
other, thereby bringing trouble to Dorothy and deadly peril to John. Of
that I shall soon tell you.
During the period of John's service in Haddon Hall negotiations for
Dorothy's marriage with Lord Stanley were progressing slowly but surely.
Arrangements for the marriage settlement by the Stanleys, and for
Dorothy's dower to be given by Sir George, were matters that the King of
the Peak approached boldly as he would have met any other affair of
business. But the Earl of Derby, whose mind moved slowly, desiring that a
generous portion of the Vernon wealth should be transferred with Dorothy
to the Stanley holdings without the delay incident to Sir George's death,
put off signing the articles of marriage in his effort to augment the cash
payment. In truth, the great wealth which Dorothy would bring to the house
of Stanley was the earl's real reason for desiring her marriage with his
son. The earl was heavily in debt, and his estate stood in dire need of
help.
Sir George, though attracted by the high nobility of the house of Stanley,
did not relish the thought that the wealth he had accumulated by his own
efforts, and the Vernon estates which had come down to him through
centuries, should go to pay Lord Derby's debts. He therefore insisted that
Dorothy's dower should be her separate estate, and demanded that it should
remain untouched and untouchable by either of the Stanleys. That
arrangement did not suit my lord earl, and although the son since he had
seen Dorothy at Derby-town was eager to possess the beautiful girl, his
father did not share his ardor. Lawyers were called in who looked
expensively wise, but they accomplished the purpose for which they were
employed. An agreement of marriage was made and was drawn up on an
imposing piece of parchment, brave with ribbons, pompous with seals, and
fair in clerkly penmanship.
One day Sir George showed me the copy of the contract which had been
prepared for him. That evening at the cost of much labor he and I went
over the indenture word for word, and when we had finished Sir George
thought it was very good indeed. He seemed to think that all difficulties
in the way of the marriage were overcome when the agreement that lay
before us on the table had been achieved between him and the earl. I knew
Sir George's troubles had only begun; for I was aware of a fact which it
seemed impossible for him to learn, though of late Dorothy had given him
much teaching thereto. I knew that he had transmitted to his daughter a
large portion of his own fierce, stubborn, unbreakable will, and that in
her it existed in its most deadly form--the feminine. To me after supper
that night was assigned the task of reading and rereading many times to
Sir George the contents of the beautiful parchment. When I would read a
clause that particularly pleased my cousin, he insisted on celebrating the
event by drinking a mug of liquor drawn from a huge leather stoup which
sat upon the table between us. By the time I had made several readings of
the interesting document the characters began to mingle in a way that did
not impart ease and clearness to my style. Some of the strange
combinations which I and the liquor extracted from amid the seals and
ribbons puzzled Sir George not a little. But with each new libation he
found new clauses and fresh causes for self-congratulation, though to
speak exact truth I more than once married Sir George to the Earl of
Derby, and in my profanity gave Lord James Stanley to the devil to have
and to hold.
Sir George was rapidly falling before his mighty enemy, drink, and I was
not far behind him, though I admit the fault with shame. My cousin for a
while was mightily pleased with the contract; but when the liquor had
brought him to a point where he was entirely candid with himself, he let
slip the fact that after all there was regret at the bottom of the goblet,
metaphorically and actually. Before his final surrender to drink he
dropped the immediate consideration of the contract and said:--
"Malcolm, I have in my time known many fools, but if you will permit an
old man, who loves you dearly, to make a plain statement of his
conviction--"
"Certainly," I interrupted.
"It would be a great relief to me," he continued, "to say that I believe
you to be the greatest fool the good God ever permitted to live."
"I am sure, Sir George, that your condescending flattery is very
pleasing," I said.
Sir George, unmindful of my remark, continued, "Your disease is not
usually a deadly malady, as a look about you will easily show; but,
Malcolm, if you were one whit more of a fool, you certainly would perish."
I was not offended, for I knew that my cousin meant no offence.
"Then, Sir George, if the time ever comes when I wish to commit suicide, I
have always at hand an easy, painless mode of death. I shall become only a
little more of a fool." I laughingly said, "I will do my utmost to absorb
a little wisdom now and then as a preventive."
"Never a bit of wisdom will you ever absorb. A man who would refuse a girl
whose wealth and beauty are as great as Dorothy's, is past all hope. I
often awaken in the dark corners of the night when a man's troubles stalk
about his bed like livid demons; and when I think that all of this evil
which has come up between Dorothy and me, and all of this cursed
estrangement which is eating out my heart could have been averted if you
had consented to marry her, I cannot but feel--"
"But, Sir George," I interrupted, "it was Dorothy, not I, who refused. She
could never have been brought to marry me."
"Don't tell me, Malcolm; don't tell me," cried the old man, angrily. Drink
had made Sir George sullen and violent. It made me happy at first; but
with liquor in excess there always came to me a sort of frenzy.
"Don't tell me," continued Sir George. "There never lived a Vernon who
couldn't win a woman if he would try. But put all that aside. She would
have obeyed me. I would have forced her to marry you, and she would have
thanked me afterward."
"You could never have forced her to marry me," I replied.
"But that I could and that I would have done," said Sir George. "The like
is done every day. Girls in these modern times are all perverse, but they
are made to yield. Take the cases of Sir Thomas Mobley, Sir Grant Rhodas,
and William Kimm. Their daughters all refused to marry the men chosen for
them, but the wenches were made to yield. If I had a daughter who refused
to obey me, I would break her; I would break her. Yes, by God, I would
break her if I had to kill her," and the old man brought his clenched hand
down upon the oak table with a crash. His eyes glared frightfully, and his
face bore a forbidding expression which boded no good for Dorothy.
"She will make trouble in this matter," Sir George continued, tapping the
parchment with his middle finger.
"She will make trouble about this; but, by God, Malcolm, she shall obey
me."
He struck the oaken table another great blow with his fist, and glared
fiercely across at me.
"Lord Wyatt had trouble with his daughter when he made the marriage with
Devonshire," continued Sir George.
"A damned good match it was, too, for the girl. But she had her heart set
on young Gillman, and she refused to obey her father. She refused, by God,
point blank, to obey her father. She refused to obey the man who had given
her life. What did Wyatt do? He was a man who knew what a child owes to
its father, and, by God, Malcolm, after trying every other means to bring
the wench to her senses, after he had tried persuasion, after having in
two priests and a bishop to show her how badly she was acting, and after
he had tried to reason with her, he whipped her; yes, he whipped her till
she bled--till she bled, Malcolm, I tell you. Ah, Wyatt knew what is due
from a child to its parents. The whipping failed to bring the perverse
huzzy to obedience, so Wyatt threw her into a dungeon and starved her
till--till--"
"Till she died," I interrupted.
"Yes, till she died," mumbled Sir George, sullenly, "till she died, and it
served her right, by God, served her right."
The old man was growing very drunk, and everything was beginning to
appear distorted to me. Sir George rose to his feet, leaned toward me with
glaring eyes, struck the table a terrible blow with his fist, and said:--
"By the blood of God I swear that if Doll refuses to marry Stanley, and
persists in her refusal, I'll whip her. Wyatt is a man after my own heart.
I'll starve her. I'll kill her. Ay, if I loved her ten thousand times more
than I do, I would kill her or she should obey me."
Then dawned upon me a vision of terrible possibilities. I was sure Sir
George could not force Dorothy to marry against her will; but I feared
lest he might kill her in his effort to "break her." I do not mean that I
feared he would kill her by a direct act, unless he should do so in a
moment of frenzy induced by drink and passion, but I did fear for the
results of the breaking process. The like had often happened. It had
happened in the case of Wyatt's daughter. Dorothy under the intoxicating
influence of her passion might become so possessed by the spirit of a
martyr that she could calmly take a flogging, but my belief was that
should matters proceed to that extreme, should Sir George flog his
daughter, the chords of her highly strung nature would snap under the
tension, and she would die. I loved Dorothy for the sake of her fierce,
passionate, tender heart, and because she loved me; and even in my sober,
reflective moments I had resolved that my life, ay, and Sir George's life
also, should stand between the girl and the lash. If in calmness I could
deliberately form such a resolution, imagine the effect on my
liquor-crazed brain of Sir George's words and the vista of horrors they
disclosed. I was intoxicated. I was drunk. I say it with shame; and on
hearing Sir George's threat my half-frenzied imagination ran riot into the
foreboding future.
All the candles, save one tottering wick, were dead in their sockets, and
the room was filled with lowering phantom-like shadows from oaken floor
to grimy vaulted roof beams. Sir George, hardly conscious of what he did
and said, all his evil passions quickened with drink, leaned his hands
upon the table and glared across at me. He seemed to be the incarnation of
rage and ferocity, to so great a pitch had he wrought himself. The
sputtering candle feebly flickered, and seemed to give its dim light only
that the darksome shadows might flit and hover about us like vampires on
the scent of blood. A cold perspiration induced by a nameless fear came
upon me, and in that dark future to which my heated imagination travelled
I saw, as if revealed by black magic, fair, sweet, generous Dorothy,
standing piteously upon Bowling Green hillside. Over her drooping form
there hung in air a monster cloudlike image of her father holding in its
hand a deadly bludgeon. So black, so horrid was this shadow-demon that I
sprang from my chair with a frightful oath, and shrieked:--
"Hell is made for man because of his cruelty to woman."
Sir George had sunk into his chair. Liquor had finished its work, and the
old man, resting his head upon his folded arms, leaned forward on the
table. He was drunk--dead to the world. How long I stood in frenzied
stupor gazing at shadow-stricken Dorothy upon the hillside I do not know.
It must have been several minutes. Blood of Christ, how vividly I remember
the vision! The sunny radiance of the girl's hair was darkened and dead.
Her bending attitude was one of abject grief. Her hands covered her face,
and she was the image of woe. Suddenly she lifted her head with the quick
impulsive movement so familiar in her, and with a cry eloquent as a
child's wail for its mother called, "John," and held out her arms
imploringly toward the dim shadowy form of her lover standing upon the
hill crest. Then John's form began to fade, and as its shadowy essence
grew dim, despair slowly stole like a mask of death over Dorothy's face.
She stood for a moment gazing vacantly into space. Then she fell to the
ground, the shadow of her father hovering over her prostrate form, and the
words, "Dead, dead, dead," came to me in horrifying whispers from every
dancing shadow-demon in the room.
In trying to locate the whispers as they reverberated from floor to oaken
rafters, I turned and saw Sir George. He looked as if he were dead.
"Why should you not be dead in fact?" I cried. "You would kill your
daughter. Why should I not kill you? That will solve the whole question."
I revelled in the thought; I drank it in; I nursed it; I cuddled it; I
kissed it. Nature's brutish love for murder had deluged my soul. I put my
hand to my side for the purpose of drawing my sword or my knife. I had
neither with me. Then I remember staggering toward the fireplace to get
one of the fire-irons with which to kill my cousin. I remember that when I
grasped the fire-iron, by the strange working of habit I employed it for
the moment in its proper use; and as I began to stir the embers on the
hearth, my original purpose was forgotten. That moment of habit-wrought
forgetfulness saved me and saved Sir George's life. I remember that I sank
into the chair in front of the fireplace, holding the iron, and I thank
God that I remember nothing more.
During the night the servants aroused me, and I staggered up the stone
stairway of Eagle Tower and clambered into my room.
The next morning I awakened feeling ill. There was a taste in my mouth as
If I had been chewing a piece of the devil's boot over night. I wanted no
breakfast, so I climbed to the top of the tower, hoping the fresh morning
breeze might cool my head and cleanse my mouth. For a moment or two I
stood on the tower roof bareheaded and open-mouthed while I drank in the
fresh, purifying air. The sweet draught helped me physically; but all the
winds of Boreas could not have blown out of my head the vision of the
previous night. The question, "Was it prophetic?" kept ringing in my ears,
answerless save by a superstitious feeling of fear. Then the horrid
thought that I had only by a mere chance missed becoming a murderer came
upon me, and again was crowded from my mind by the memory of Dorothy and
the hovering spectre which had hung over her head on Bowling Green
hillside.
I walked to the north side of the tower and on looking down the first
person I saw was our new servant, Thomas, holding two horses at the
mounting stand. One of them was Dolcy, and I, feeling that a brisk ride
with Dorothy would help me to throw off my wretchedness, quickly descended
the tower stairs, stopped at my room for my hat and cloak, and walked
around to the mounting block. Dorothy was going to ride, and I supposed
she would prefer me to the new servant as a companion.
I asked Thomas if his mistress were going out for a ride, and he replied
affirmatively.
"Who is to accompany her?" I asked.
"She gave orders for me to go with her," he answered.
"Very well," I responded, "take your horse back to the stable and fetch
mine." The man hesitated, and twice he began to make reply, but finally he
said:--
"Very well, Sir Malcolm."
He hitched Dolcy to the ring in the mounting block and started back toward
the stable leading his own horse. At that moment Dorothy came out of the
tower gate, dressed for the ride. Surely no woman was ever more beautiful
than she that morning.
"Tom-Tom, where are you taking the horse?" she cried.
"To the stable, Mistress," answered the servant. "Sir Malcolm says he will
go with you."
Dorothy's joyousness vanished. From radiant brightness her expression
changed in the twinkling of an eye to a look of disappointment so
sorrowful that I at once knew there was some great reason why she did not
wish me to ride with her. I could not divine the reason, neither did I
try. I quickly said to Thomas:--
"Do not bring my horse. If Mistress Vernon will excuse me, I shall not
ride with her this morning. I forgot for the moment that I had not
breakfasted."
Again came to Dorothy's face the radiant look of joy as if to affirm what
it had already told me. I looked toward Thomas, and his eyes, too, were
alight. I could make nothing of it. Thomas was a fine-looking fellow,
notwithstanding his preposterous hair and beard; but I felt sure there
could be no understanding between the man and his mistress.
When Thomas and Dorothy had mounted, she timidly ventured to say:--
"We are sorry, Cousin Malcolm, that you cannot ride with us."
She did not give me an opportunity to change my mind, but struck Dolcy a
sharp blow with her whip that sent the spirited mare galloping toward the
dove-cote, and Thomas quickly followed at a respectful distance. From the
dove-cote Dorothy took the path down the Wye toward Rowsley. I, of course,
connected her strange conduct with John. When a young woman who is well
balanced physically, mentally, and morally acts in a strange, unusual
manner, you may depend on it there is a man somewhere behind her motive.
I knew that John was in London. Only the night before I had received word
from Rutland Castle that he had not returned, and that he was not expected
home for many days.
So I concluded that John could not be behind my fair cousin's motive. I
tried to stop guessing at the riddle Dorothy had set me, but my effort was
useless. I wondered and thought and guessed, but I brought to myself only
the answer, "Great is the mystery of womanhood."
After Dorothy had ridden away I again climbed to the top of Eagle Tower
and saw the riders cross the Wye at Dorothy's former fording-place, and
take the wall. I then did a thing that fills me with shame when I think of
it. For the only time in my whole life I acted the part of a spy. I
hurried to Bowling Green Gate, and horror upon horror, there I beheld my
cousin Dorothy in the arms of Thomas, the man-servant. I do not know why
the truth of Thomas's identity did not dawn upon me, but it did not, and I
stole away from the gate, thinking that Dorothy, after all, was no better
than the other women I had known at various times in my life, and I
resolved to tell John what I had seen. You must remember that the women I
had known were of the courts of Mary Stuart and of Guise, and the less we
say about them the better. God pity them! Prior to my acquaintance with
Dorothy and Madge I had always considered a man to be a fool who would put
his faith in womankind. To me women were as good as men,--no better, no
worse. But with my knowledge of those two girls there had grown up in me a
faith in woman's virtue which in my opinion is man's greatest comforter;
the lack of it his greatest torment.
I went back to Eagle Tower and stood at my window looking down the Wye,
hoping soon to see Dorothy returning home. I did not feel jealousy in the
sense that a lover would feel it; but there was a pain in my heart, a
mingling of grief, anger, and resentment because Dorothy had destroyed not
only my faith in her, but, alas! my sweet, new-born faith in womankind.
Through her fault I had fallen again to my old, black belief that virtue
was only another name for the lack of opportunity. It is easy for a man
who has never known virtue in woman to bear and forbear the lack of it;
but when once he has known the priceless treasure, doubt becomes
excruciating pain.
After an hour or two Dorothy and her servant appeared at the ford and took
the path up the Wye toward Haddon. Thomas was riding a short distance
behind his accommodating mistress, and as they approached the Hall, I
recognized something familiar in his figure. At first, the feeling of
recognition was indistinct, but when the riders drew near, something about
the man--his poise on the horse, a trick with the rein or a turn with his
stirrup, I could not tell what it was--startled me like a flash in the
dark, and the word "John!" sprang to my lips. The wonder of the thing
drove out of my mind all power to think. I could only feel happy, so I lay
down upon my bed and soon dropped off to sleep.
When I awakened I was rapt in peace, for I had again found my treasured
faith in womankind. I had hardly dared include Madge in my backsliding,
but I had come perilously near doing it, and the thought of my narrow
escape from such perfidy frightened me. I have never taken the risk since
that day. I would not believe the testimony of my own eyes against the
evidence of my faith in Madge.
I knew that Thomas was Sir John Manners, and yet I did not know it
certainly. I determined, if possible, to remain in partial ignorance,
hoping that I might with some small show of truth be able to plead
ignorance should Sir George accuse me of bad faith in having failed to
tell him of John's presence in Haddon Hall. That Sir George would sooner
or later discover Thomas's identity I had little doubt. That he would kill
him should he once have him in his power, I had no doubt at all. Hence,
although I had awakened in peace concerning Dorothy, you may understand
that I awakened to trouble concerning John.