MARY STUART
And now I come to an event in this history which I find difficult to place
before you in its true light. For Dorothy's sake I wish I might omit it
altogether. But in true justice to her and for the purpose of making you
see clearly the enormity of her fault and the palliating excuses therefor,
if any there were, I shall pause briefly to show the condition of affairs
at the time of which I am about to write--a time when Dorothy's madness
brought us to the most terrible straits and plunged us into deepest
tribulations.
Although I have been unable to show you as much of John as I have wished
you to see, you nevertheless must know that he, whose nature was not like
the shallow brook but was rather of the quality of a deep, slow-moving
river, had caught from Dorothy an infection of love from which he would
never recover. His soul was steeped in the delicious essence of the girl.
I would also call your attention to the conditions under which his passion
for Dorothy had arisen. It is true he received the shaft when first he saw
her at the Royal Arms in Derby-town, but the shaft had come from Dorothy's
eyes. Afterward she certainly had done her full part in the wooing. It was
for her sake, after she had drawn him on to love her, that he became a
servant in Haddon Hall. For her sake he faced death at the hands of her
father. And it was through her mad fault that the evil came upon him of
which I shall now tell you. That she paid for her fault in suffering does
not excuse her, since pain is but the latter half of evil.
During the term of Elizabeth's residence in Haddon Hall John returned to
Rutland with Queen Mary Stuart, whose escape from Lochleven had excited
all England. The country was full of rumors that Mary was coming to
England not so much for sanctuary as to be on the ground ready to accept
the English crown when her opportunity to do so should occur. The
Catholics, a large and powerful party, flushed with their triumphs under
the "Bloody Queen," were believed to sympathize with Mary's cause.
Although Elizabeth said little on the subject, she felt deeply, and she
feared trouble should the Scottish queen enter her dominion. Another cause
of annoyance to Elizabeth was the memory that Leicester had once been
deeply impressed with Mary's charms, and had sought her hand in marriage.
Elizabeth's prohibition alone had prevented the match. That thought
rankled in Elizabeth's heart, and she hated Mary, although her hatred, as
in all other cases, was tempered with justice and mercy. This great queen
had the brain of a man with its motives, and the heart of a woman with its
emotions.
When news of Mary's escape reached London, Cecil came in great haste to
Haddon. During a consultation with Elizabeth he advised her to seize Mary,
should she enter England, and to check the plots made in Mary's behalf by
executing the principal friends of the Scottish queen. He insistently
demanded that Elizabeth should keep Mary under lock and key, should she be
so fortunate as to obtain possession of her person, and that the men who
were instrumental in bringing her into England should be arraigned for
high treason.
John certainly had been instrumental in bringing her into England, and if
Cecil's advice were taken by the queen, John's head would pay the forfeit
for his chivalric help to Mary.
Elizabeth was loath to act on this advice, but Cecil worked upon her fears
and jealousies until her mind and her heart were in accord, and she gave
secret orders that his advice should be carried out. Troops were sent to
the Scottish border to watch for the coming of the fugitive queen. But
Mary was already ensconced, safely, as she thought, in Rutland Castle
under the assumed name of Lady Blanche. Her presence at Rutland was, of
course, guarded as a great secret.
Dorothy's mind dwelt frequently upon the fact that John and the beautiful
young Scottish queen lived under the same roof, for John had written to
Dorothy immediately after his return. Nothing so propagates itself as
jealousy. There were in Haddon Hall two hearts in which this
self-propagating process was rapidly progressing--Elizabeth's and
Dorothy's. Each had for the cause of her jealousy the same woman.
One night, soon after Cecil had obtained from Elizabeth the order for
Mary's arrest, Dorothy, on retiring to her room at a late hour found
Jennie Faxton waiting for her with a precious letter from John. Dorothy
drank in the tenderness of John's letter as the thirsty earth absorbs the
rain; but her joy was neutralized by frequent references to the woman who
she feared might become her rival. One-half of what she feared, she was
sure had been accomplished: that is, Mary's half. She knew in her heart
that the young queen would certainly grow fond of John. That was a
foregone conclusion. No woman could be with him and escape that fate,
thought Dorothy. Her hope as to the other half--John's part--rested solely
upon her faith in John, which was really great, and her confidence in her
own charms and in her own power to hold him, which in truth, and with good
reason, was not small, Dorothy went to bed, and Jennie, following her
usual custom, when at Haddon, lay upon the floor in the same room. John's
letter, with all its tenderness, had thrown Dorothy into an inquisitive
frame of mind. After an hour or two of restless tossing upon the bed she
fell asleep, but soon after midnight she awakened, and in her drowsy
condition the devil himself played upon the strings of her dream-charged
imagination. After a time she sprang from the bed, lighted a candle at the
rush light, and read John's letter in a tremor of dream-wrought fear. Then
she aroused Jennie Faxton and asked:--
"When were you at Rutland?"
"I spent yesterday and to-day there, mistress," answered Jennie.
"Did you see a strange lady?" asked Dorothy.
"Oh, yes, mistress, I did see her three or four times," answered Jennie.
"Lady Blanche is her name, and she be a cousin of Sir John's. She do come,
they say, from France, and do speak only in the tongue of that country."
"I--I suppose that this--this Lady Blanche and--and Sir John are very good
friends? Did you--did you--often see them together?" asked Dorothy. She
felt guilty in questioning Jennie for the purpose of spying upon her
lover. She knew that John would not pry into her conduct.
"Indeed, yes, mistress," returned Jennie, who admired John greatly from
her lowly sphere, and who for her own sake as well as Dorothy's was
jealous of Queen Mary. "They do walk together a great deal on the
ramparts, and the white snaky lady do look up into Sir John's face like
this"--here Jennie assumed a lovelorn expression. "And--and once,
mistress, I thought--I thought--"
"Yes, yes, Jesu!" hissed Dorothy, clutching Jennie by the arm, "you
thought, you thought. Tell me! Tell me! What in hell's name did you think?
Speak quickly, wench."
"I be not sure, mistress, but I thought I saw his arm about her waist one
evening on the ramparts. It was dark, and for sure I could not tell,
but--"
"God's curse upon the white huzzy!" screamed Dorothy. "God's curse upon
her! She is stealing him from me, and I am helpless."
She clasped her hands over the top of her head and ran to and fro across
the room uttering inarticulate cries of agony. Then she sat upon the
bedside and threw herself into Madge's arms, crying under her breath: "My
God! My God! Think of it, Madge. I have given him my heart, my soul, O
merciful God, my love--all that I have worth giving, and now comes this
white wretch, and because she is a queen and was sired in hell she tries
to steal him from me and coaxes him to put his arm around her waist."
"Don't feel that way about it, Dorothy," said Madge, soothingly. "I know
Sir John can explain it all to you when you see him. He is true to you, I
am sure."
"True to me, Madge! How can he be true to me if she coaxes him to woo her
and if he puts his arm--I am losing him; I know it. I--I--O God, Madge, I
am smothering; I am strangling! Holy Virgin! I believe I am about to die."
She threw herself upon the bed by Madge's side, clutching her throat and
breast, and her grand woman's form tossed and struggled as if she were in
convulsions.
"Holy mother!" she cried, "take this frightful agony from my breast.
Snatch this terrible love from my heart. God! If you have pity, give it
now. Help me! Help me! Ah, how deeply I love. I never loved him so much as
I do at this awful moment. Save me from doing that which is in my heart.
If I could have him for only one little portion of a minute. But that is
denied me whose right it is, and is given to her who has no right. Ah,
God is not just. If he were he would strike her dead. I hate her and I
hate--hate him."
She arose to a sitting posture on the edge of the bed and held out her
arms toward Madge.
"Madge," she continued, frenzied by the thought, "his arm was around her
waist. That was early in the evening. Holy Virgin! What may be happening
now?"
Dorothy sprang from the bed and staggered about the room with her hands
upon her throbbing temples.
"I cannot bear this agony. God give me strength." Soon she began to gasp
for breath. "I can--see--them now--together, together. I hate her; I hate
him. My love has turned bitter. What can I do? What can I do? I will do
it. I will. I will disturb their sweet rest. If I cannot have him, she
shall not. I'll tell the queen, I'll tell the queen."
Dorothy acted on her resolution the moment it was taken, and at once began
to unbolt the door.
"Stay, Dorothy, stay!" cried Madge. "Think on what you are about to do. It
will cost John his life. Come to me for one moment, Dorothy, I pray you."
Madge arose from the bed and began groping her way toward Dorothy, who was
unbolting the door.
Madge could have calmed the tempest-tossed sea as easily as she could have
induced Dorothy to pause in her mad frenzy. Jennie Faxton, almost
paralyzed by fear of the storm she had raised, stood in the corner of the
room trembling and speechless. Dorothy was out of the room before poor
blind Madge could reach her. The frenzied girl was dressed only in her
night robes and her glorious hair hung dishevelled down to her waist. She
ran through the rooms of Lady Crawford and those occupied by her father
and the retainers. Then she sped down the long gallery and up the steps to
Elizabeth's apartment.
She knocked violently at the queen's door.
"Who comes?" demanded one of her Majesty's ladies.
"I, Dorothy," was the response. "I wish to speak to her Majesty at once
upon a matter of great importance to her."
Elizabeth ordered her ladies to admit Dorothy, and the girl ran to the
queen, who had half arisen in her bed.
"You must have affairs of great moment, indeed," cried Elizabeth, testily,
"if they induce you to disturb me in this manner."
"Of great moment, indeed, your Majesty," replied Dorothy, endeavoring to
be calm, "of moment to you and to me. Mary Stuart is in England at this
instant trying to steal your crown and my lover. She is now sleeping
within five leagues of this place. God only knows what she is doing. Let
us waste no time, your Majesty."
The girl was growing wilder every second.
"Let us go--you and I--and seize this wanton creature. You to save your
crown; I to save my lover and--my life."
"Where is she?" demanded Elizabeth, sharply. "Cease prattling about your
lover. She would steal both my lover and my crown if she could. Where is
she?"
"She is at Rutland Castle, your Majesty," answered Dorothy.
"Ah, the Duke of Rutland and his son John," said Elizabeth. "I have been
warned of them. Send for my Lord Cecil and Sir William St. Loe."
Sir William was in command of the yeoman guards.
"Is Sir John Manners your lover?" asked Elizabeth, turning to Dorothy.
"Yes," answered the girl.
"You may soon seek another," replied the queen, significantly.
Her Majesty's words seemed to awaken Dorothy from her stupor of frenzy,
and she foresaw the result of her act. Then came upon her a reaction worse
than death.
"You may depart," said the queen to Dorothy, and the girl went back to
her room hardly conscious that she was moving.
At times we cannot help feeling that love came to the human breast through
a drop of venom shot from the serpent's tongue into the heart of Eve.
Again we believe it to be a spark from God's own soul. Who will solve me
this riddle?
Soon the hard, cold ringing of arms, and the tramp of mailed feet
resounded through Haddon Hall, and the doom-like din reached Dorothy's
room in the tones of a clanging knell. There seemed to be a frightful
rhythm in the chaos of sounds which repeated over and over again the
words: "John will die, John will die," though the full import of her act
and its results did nor for a little time entirely penetrate her
consciousness. She remembered the queen's words, "You may soon seek
another." Elizabeth plainly meant that John was a traitor, and that John
would die for his treason. The clanking words, "John will die, John will
die," bore upon the girl's ears in ever increasing volume until the agony
she suffered deadened her power to think. She wandered aimlessly about the
room, trying to collect her senses, but her mind was a blank. After a few
minutes she ran back to the queen, having an undefined purpose of doing
something to avert the consequences of her mad act. She at first thought
to tell the queen that the information she had given concerning Mary
Stuart's presence in Rutland was false, but she well knew that a lie
seldom succeeds; and in this case, even through her clouded mentality, she
could see that a lie would surely fail. She determined to beg the queen to
spare John's life. She did not know exactly what she would do, but she
hoped by the time she should reach the queen's room to hit upon some plan
that would save him. When she knocked at Elizabeth's door it was locked
against her. Her Majesty was in consultation with Cecil, Sir William St.
Loe, and a few other gentlemen, among whom was Sir George Vernon.
Dorothy well knew there was no help for John if her father were of the
queen's council. She insisted upon seeing the queen, but was rudely
repulsed. By the time she again reached her room full consciousness had
returned, and agony such as she had never before dreamed of overwhelmed
her soul. Many of us have felt the same sort of pain when awakened
suddenly to the fact that words we have spoken easily may not, by our
utmost efforts, be recalled, though we would gladly give our life itself
to have them back. If suffering can atone for sin, Dorothy bought her
indulgence within one hour after sinning. But suffering cannot atone for
sin; it is only a part of it--the result.
"Arise, Madge, and dress," said Dorothy, gently. "I have made a terrible
mistake. I have committed a frightful crime. I have betrayed John to
death. Ah, help me, Madge, if you can. Pray God to help me. He will listen
to you. I fear to pray to Him. He would turn my prayers to curses. I am
lost." She fell for a moment upon the bed and placed her head on Madge's
breast murmuring, "If I could but die."
"All may turn out better than it now appears," said Madge. "Quiet yourself
and let us consider what may be done to arrest the evil of your--your
act."
"Nothing can be done, nothing," wailed Dorothy, as she arose from the bed
and began to dress. "Please arise, Madge, and dress yourself. Here are
your garments and your gown."
They hastily dressed without speaking, and Dorothy began again to pace the
floor.
"He will die hating me," said Dorothy. "If he could live I willingly would
give him to the--the Scottish woman. Then I could die and my suffering
would cease. I must have been mad when I went to the queen. He trusted me
with his honor and his life, and I, traitress that I am, have betrayed
both. Ah, well, when he dies I also shall die. There is comfort at least
in that thought. How helpless I am."
She could not weep. It seemed as if there were not a tear in her. All was
hard, dry, burning agony. She again fell upon the bed and moaned piteously
for a little time, wringing her hands and uttering frantic ejaculatory
prayers for help.
"My mind seems to have forsaken me," she said hoarsely to Madge. "I cannot
think. What noise is that?"
She paused and listened for a moment. Then she went to the north window
and opened the casement.
"The yeoman guards from Bakewell are coming," she said. "I recognize them
by the light of their flambeaux. They are entering the gate at the
dove-cote."
A part of the queen's guard had been quartered in the village of Bakewell.
Dorothy stood at the window for a moment and said: "The other guards are
here under our window and are ready to march to Rutland. There is Lord
Cecil, and Sir William St. Loe, and Malcolm, and there is my father. Now
they are off to meet the other yeomen at the dove-cote. The stable boys
are lighting their torches and flambeaux. They are going to murder John,
and I have sent them."
Dorothy covered her face with her hands and slowly walked to and fro
across the room.
"Call Malcolm," said Madge. "Perhaps he can help us. Lead me to the
window, Dorothy, and I will call him." Dorothy led Madge to the window,
and above the din of arms I heard her soft voice calling, "Malcolm,
Malcolm."
The order to march had been given before Madge called, but I sought Sir
William and told him I would return to the Hall to get another sword and
would soon overtake him on the road to Rutland.
I then hastened to Dorothy's room. I was ignorant of the means whereby
Elizabeth had learned of Mary's presence at Rutland. The queen had told no
one how the information reached her. The fact that Mary was in England was
all sufficient for Cecil, and he proceeded to execute the order Elizabeth
had given for Mary's arrest, without asking or desiring any explanation.
I, of course, was in great distress for John's sake, since I knew that he
would be attainted of treason. I had sought in vain some plan whereby I
might help him, but found none. I, myself, being a Scottish refugee,
occupied no safe position, and my slightest act toward helping John or
Mary would be construed against me.
When I entered Dorothy's room, she ran to me and said: "Can you help me,
Malcolm? Can you help me save him from this terrible evil which I have
brought upon him?"
"How did you bring the evil upon him?" I asked, in astonishment. "It was
not your fault that he brought Mary Stuart to--"
"No, no," she answered; "but I told the queen she was at Rutland."
"You told the queen?" I exclaimed, unwilling to believe my ears. "You
told--How--why--why did you tell her?"
"I do not know why I told her," she replied. "I was mad with--with
jealousy. You warned me against it, but I did not heed you. Jennie Faxton
told me that she saw John and--but all that does not matter now. I will
tell you hereafter if I live. What we must now do is to save him--to save
him if we can. Try to devise some plan. Think--think, Malcolm."
My first thought was to ride to Rutland Castle and give the alarm. Sir
George would lead the yeomen thither by the shortest route--the road by
way of Rowsley. There was another route leading up the Lathkil through the
dale, and thence by a road turning southward to Rutland. That road was
longer by a league than the one Sir George would take, but I could put my
horse to his greatest speed, and I might be able to reach the castle in
time to enable John and Mary to escape. I considered the question a
moment. My own life certainly would pay the forfeit in case of failure;
but my love for John and, I confess it with shame, the memory of my old
tenderness for Mary impelled me to take the risk. I explained the plan
upon which I was thinking, and told them of my determination. When I did
so, Madge grasped me by the arm to detain me, and Dorothy fell upon her
knees and kissed my hand.
I said, "I must start at once; for, ride as I may, I fear the yeomen will
reach Rutland gates before I can get there."
"But If the guards should be at the gates when you arrive, or if you
should be missed by Cecil, you, a Scottish refugee and a friend of Queen
Mary, would be suspected of treason, and you would lose your life," said
Madge, who was filled with alarm for my sake.
"That is true," I replied; "but I can think of no other way whereby John
can possibly be saved."
Dorothy stood for a moment in deep thought, and said:--
"I will ride to Rutland by way of Lathkil Dale--I will ride in place of
you, Malcolm. It is my duty and my privilege to do this if I can."
I saw the truth of her words, and felt that since Dorothy had wrought the
evil, it was clearly her duty to remedy it if she could. If she should
fail, no evil consequences would fall upon her. If I should fail, it would
cost me my life; and while I desired to save John, still I wished to save
myself. Though my conduct may not have been chivalric, still I was willing
that Dorothy should go in my place, and I told her so. I offered to ride
with her as far as a certain cross-road a league distant from Rutland
Castle. There I would leave her, and go across the country to meet the
yeomen on the road they had taken. I could join them before they reached
Rutland, and my absence during the earlier portion of the march would not
be remarked, or if noticed it could easily be explained.
This plan was agreed upon, and after the guards had passed out at
Dove-cote Gate and were well down toward Rowsley, I rode out from the
Hall, and waited for Dorothy at an appointed spot near Overhaddon.
Immediately after my departure Dolcy was saddled, and soon Dorothy rode
furiously up to me. Away we sped, Dorothy and I, by Yulegrave church, down
into the dale, and up the river. Never shall I forget that mad ride. Heavy
rains had recently fallen, and the road in places was almost impassable.
The rivers were in flood, but when Dorothy and I reached the ford, the
girl did not stop to consider the danger ahead of her. I heard her
whisper, "On, Dolcy, on," and I heard the sharp "whisp" of the whip as she
struck the trembling, fearful mare, and urged her into the dark flood.
Dolcy hesitated, but Dorothy struck her again and again with the whip and
softly cried, "On, Dolcy, on." Then mare and rider plunged into the
swollen river, and I, of course, followed them. The water was so deep that
our horses were compelled to swim, and when we reached the opposite side
of the river we had drifted with the current a distance of at least three
hundred yards below the road. We climbed the cliff by a sheep path. How
Dorothy did it I do not know; and how I succeeded in following her I know
even less. When we reached the top of the cliff, Dorothy started off at
full gallop, leading the way, and again I followed. The sheep path
leading up the river to the road followed close the edge of the cliff,
where a false step by the horse would mean death to both horse and rider.
But Dorothy feared not, or knew not, the danger, and I caught her ever
whispered cry,--"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, on." Ashamed to fall behind,
yet fearing to ride at such a pace on such a path, I urged my horse
forward. He was a fine, strong, mettlesome brute, and I succeeded in
keeping the girl's dim form in sight. The moon, which was rapidly sinking
westward, still gave us light through rifts in the black bank of floating
clouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have been
our last journey in the flesh.
Soon we reached the main road turning southward. It was a series of rough
rocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with the
speed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words,
untimely spoken, had wrought. I urged my horse until his head was close by
Dolcy's tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry,--"On,
Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on."
No word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy panting
with her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and the
thud, thud, thud of our horses' hoofs came always back to me from
Dorothy's lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing,--"On, Dolcy,
on; on Dolcy, on."
The road we took led us over steep hills and down through dark,
shadow-crowded ravines; but up hill, down hill, and on the level the
terrible girl before me plunged forward with unabated headlong fury until
I thought surely the flesh of horse, man, and woman could endure the
strain not one moment longer. But the horses, the woman, and--though I say
it who should not--the man were of God's best handiwork, and the cords of
our lives did not snap. One thought, and only one, held possession of the
girl, and the matter of her own life or death had no place in her mind.
When we reached the cross-road where I was to leave her, we halted while I
instructed Dorothy concerning the road she should follow from that point
to Rutland, and directed her how to proceed when she should arrive at the
castle gate. She eagerly listened for a moment or two, then grew
impatient, and told me to hasten in my speech, since there was no time to
lose. Then she fearlessly dashed away alone into the black night; and as I
watched her fair form fade into the shadows, the haunting cry came faintly
back to me,--"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy on," and I was sick at heart. I was
loath to leave her thus in the inky gloom. The moon had sunk for the
night, and the clouds had banked up without a rift against the hidden
stars; but I could give her no further help, and my life would pay the
forfeit should I accompany her. She had brought the evil upon herself. She
was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. She was fulfilling her
destiny. She was doing that which she must do: nothing more, nothing less.
She was filling her little niche in the universal moment. She was a part
of the infinite kaleidoscope--a fate-charged, fate-moved, fragile piece of
glass which might be crushed to atoms in the twinkling of an eye, in the
sounding of a trump.
After leaving Dorothy I rode across the country and soon overtook the
yeoman guard whom I joined unobserved. Then I marched with them, all too
rapidly to suit me, to Rutland. The little army had travelled with greater
speed than I had expected, and I soon began to fear that Dorothy would not
reach Rutland Castle in time to enable its inmates to escape.
Within half an hour from the time I joined the yeomen we saw the dim
outlines of the castle, and Sir William St. Loe gave the command to hurry
forward. Cecil, Sir William, Sir George, and myself rode in advance of the
column. As we approached the castle by the road leading directly to the
gate from the north, I saw for a moment upon the top of the hill west of
the castle gate the forms of Dorothy and Dolcy in dim silhouette against
the sky. Then I saw them plunge madly down the hill toward the gate. I
fancied I could hear the girl whispering in frenzied hoarseness,--"On,
Dolcy, on," and I thought I could catch the panting of the mare. At the
foot of the hill, less than one hundred yards from the gate, poor Dolcy,
unable to take another step, dropped to the ground. Dolcy had gone on to
her death. She had filled her little niche in the universe and had died at
her post Dorothy plunged forward over the mare's head, and a cry of alarm
came from my lips despite me. I was sure the girl had been killed. She,
however, instantly sprang to her feet. Her hair was flying behind her and
she ran toward the gate crying: "John, John, fly for your life!" And then
she fell prone upon the ground and did not rise.
We had all seen the mare fall, and had seen the girl run forward toward
the gates and fall before reaching them. Cecil and Sir William rode to the
spot where Dorothy lay, and dismounted.
In a moment Sir William called to Sir George:--
"The lady is your daughter, Mistress Dorothy."
"What in hell's name brings her here?" cried Sir George, hurriedly riding
forward, "and how came she?"
I followed speedily, and the piteous sight filled my eyes with tears. I
cannot describe it adequately to you, though I shall see it vividly to the
end of my days. Dorothy had received a slight wound upon the temple, and
blood was trickling down her face upon her neck and ruff. Her hair had
fallen from its fastenings. She had lost her hat, and her gown was torn in
shreds and covered with mud. I lifted the half-conscious girl to her feet
and supported her; then with my kerchief I bound up the wound upon her
temple.
"Poor Dolcy," she said, almost incoherently, "I have killed her and I have
failed--I have failed. Now I am ready to die. Would that I had died with
Dolcy. Let me lie down here, Malcolm,--let me lie down."
I still held her in my arms and supported her half-fainting form.
"Why are you here?" demanded Sir George.
"To die," responded Dorothy.
"To die? Damned nonsense!" returned her father.
"How came you here, you fool?"
"On Dolcy. She is dead," returned Dorothy.
"Were you not at Haddon when we left there?" asked her father.
"Yes," she replied.
"Did you pass us on the road?" he asked.
"How came you here?" Sir George insisted.
"Oh, I flew hither. I am a witch. Don't question me, father. I am in no
temper to listen to you. I warn you once and for all, keep away from me;
beware of me. I have a dagger in my bosom. Go and do the work you came to
do; but remember this, father, if harm comes to him I will take my own
life, and my blood shall be upon your soul."
"My God, Malcolm, what does she mean?" asked Sir George, touched with fear
by the strength of his daughter's threat. "Has she lost her wits?"
"No," the girl quickly responded, "I have only just found them."
Sir George continued to question Dorothy, but he received no further
response from her. She simply held up the palm of her hand warningly
toward him, and the gesture was as eloquent as an oration. She leaned
against me, and covered her face with her hands, while her form shook and
trembled as if with a palsy.
Cecil and Sir William St. Loe then went toward the gate, and Sir George
said to me:--
"I must go with them. You remain with Doll, and see that she is taken
home. Procure a horse for her. If she is unable to ride, make a litter, or
perhaps there is a coach in the castle; if so, take possession of it. Take
her home by some means when we return. What, think you, could have brought
her here?"
I evaded the question by replying, "I will probably be able to get a coach
in the castle, Sir George. Leave Dorothy with me."
Soon, by the command of Sir William, the yeomen rode to the right and to
the left for the purpose of surrounding the castle, and then I heard Cecil
at the gates demanding:--
"Open in the name of the queen."
"Let us go to the gates," said Dorothy, "that we may hear what they say
and see what they do. Will they kill him here, think you?" she asked,
looking wildly into my face.
The flambeaux on the castle gate and those which the link-boys had brought
with them from Haddon were lighted, and the scene in front of the gate was
all aglow.
"No, no, my sweet one," I answered, "perhaps they will not kill him at
all. Certainly they will not kill him now. They must try him first."
I tried to dissuade her from going to the gates, but she insisted, and I
helped her to walk forward.
When Dorothy and I reached the gates, we found that Cecil and Lord Rutland
were holding a consultation through the parley-window. The portcullis was
still down, and the gates were closed; but soon the portcullis was
raised, a postern was opened from within, and Sir William entered the
castle with two score of the yeomen guards.
Sir George approached and again plied Dorothy with questions, but she
would not speak. One would have thought from her attitude that she was
deaf and dumb. She seemed unconscious of her father's presence.
"She has lost her mind," said Sir George, in tones of deep trouble, "and I
know not what to do."
"Leave her with me for a time, cousin. I am sure she will be better if we
do not question her now."
Then Dorothy seemed to awaken. "Malcolm is right, father. Leave me for a
time, I pray you."
Sir George left us, and waited with a party of yeomen a short distance
from the gate for the return of Sir William with his prisoners.
Dorothy and I sat upon a stone bench, near the postern through which Sir
William and the guardsmen had entered, but neither of us spoke.
After a long, weary time of waiting Sir William came out of the castle
through the postern, and with him came Mary Stuart. My heart jumped when I
saw her in the glare of the flambeaux, and the spirit of my dead love for
her came begging admission to my heart. I cannot describe my sensations
when I beheld her, but this I knew, that my love for her was dead past
resurrection.
Following Mary came Lord Rutland, and immediately following his Lordship
walked John. When he stepped through the postern, Dorothy sprang to her
feet and ran to him with a cry, "John, John!"
He looked at her in surprise, and stepped toward her with evident intent
to embrace her. His act was probably the result of an involuntary impulse,
for he stopped before he reached the girl.
[Illustration]
Sir George had gone at Sir William's request to arrange the guards for
the return march.
Dorothy and John were standing within two yards of each other.
"Do not touch me," cried Dorothy, "save to strike me If you will. The evil
which has come upon you is of my doing. I betrayed you to the queen."
I saw Mary turn quickly toward the girl when she uttered those words.
"I was insane when I did it," continued Dorothy. "They will take your
life, John. But when you die I also shall die. It is a poor reparation, I
know, but it is the only one I can make."
"I do not understand you, Dorothy," said John. "Why should you betray me?"
"I cannot tell you," she answered. "All I know is that I did betray you
and I hardly know how I did it. It all seems like a dream--like a fearful
monster of the night. There is no need for me to explain. I betrayed you
and now I suffer for it, more a thousand-fold than you can possibly
suffer. I offer no excuse. I have none. I simply betrayed you, and ask
only that I may die with you."
Then was manifest in John's heart the noblest quality which God has given
to man--charity, strengthened by reason. His face glowed with a light that
seemed saintlike, and a grand look of ineffable love and pity came to his
eyes. He seemed as if by inspiration to understand all that Dorothy had
felt and done, and he knew that if she had betrayed him she had done it at
a time when she was not responsible for her acts. He stepped quickly to
the girl's side, and caring naught that we all should see him, caught her
to his breast. He held her in his arms, and the light of the flambeaux
fell upon her upturned face.
"Dorothy," he said, "it matters not what you have done; you are my only
love. I ask no explanation. If you have betrayed me to death, though I
hope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did not
love me."
"No, no, John, you know that," sobbed the girl.
"I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know. You would not
intentionally bring evil upon me while you love me."
"Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately. My love
was the cause--my love was my curse--it was your curse."
"Do not weep, Dorothy," said John, interrupting her. "I would that I could
take all your suffering upon myself. Do not weep."
Dorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief. She
was not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and by
my side stood rough old Sir William. Tears were coursing down the bronzed
cheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon the
harrowed face of a mountain rock. When I saw Sir William's tears, I could
no longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made a
spectacle of myself in full view of the queen's yeoman guard.
Sir George approached our little group, and when he saw Dorothy in John's
arms, he broke forth into oaths and stepped toward her intending to force
her away. But John held up the palm of his free hand warningly toward Sir
George, and drawing the girl's drooping form close to his breast he spoke
calmly:--
"Old man, if you but lay a finger on this girl, I will kill you where you
stand. No power on earth can save you."
There was a tone in John's voice that forced even Sir George to pause.
Then Sir George turned to me.
"This is the man who was in my house. He is the man who called himself
Thomas. Do you know him?"
Dorothy saved me from the humiliation of an answer.
She took one step from John's side and held him by the hand while she
spoke.
"Father," she said, "this man is Sir John Manners. Now you may understand
why he could not seek my hand openly, and you also know why I could not
tell you his name." She again turned to John, and he put his arm about
her. You can imagine much better that I can describe Sir George's fury. He
snatched a halberd from the hands of a yeoman who was standing near by and
started toward John and Dorothy. Thereupon the hard old warrior, Sir
William St. Loe, whose heart one would surely say was the last place where
sentiment could dwell, performed a little act of virtue which will balance
many a page on the debtor side of his ledger of life. He lifted his sword
and scabbard and struck Sir George's outstretched hand, causing the
halberd to fall to the ground.
"Don't touch the girl," cried Sir William, hoarsely.
"She is my daughter," retorted Sir George, who was stunned mentally as
well as physically by Sir William's blow.
"I care not whose daughter she is," returned Sir William. "You shall not
touch her. If you make but one other attempt, I will use my blade upon
you."
Sir William and John had been warm friends at London court, and the old
captain of the guards quickly guessed the true situation when he saw
Dorothy run to John's arms.
"Sir, you shall answer for this," said Sir George, angrily, to Sir
William.
"With pleasure," returned Sir William. "I will give you satisfaction
whenever you wish it, save this present time. I am too busy now."
Blessed old Sir William! You have been dead these many winters; and were I
a priest, I would say a mass for your soul gratis every day in the year.
"Did the girl betray us?" asked Queen Mary.
No one answered her question. Then she turned toward Sir John and touched
him upon the shoulder. He turned his face toward her, signifying that he
was listening.
"Who is this girl?" Mary demanded.
"My sweetheart, my affianced wife," John answered.
"She says she betrayed us," the queen responded.
"Yes," said John.
"Did you trust her with knowledge of our presence in Rutland?" Mary
demanded angrily.
"I did," he answered.
"You were a fool," said Mary.
"I know it," responded John.
"You certainly bear her no resentment for her treason," said Mary.
"I certainly do not," quietly answered John. "Her suffering is greater
than mine. Can you not see that it is?"
"It is your privilege," said Mary, scornfully, "to intrust your own
secrets to whomsoever you may choose for your confidant, and it is quite
saintlike in you to forgive this person for betraying you; but what think
you of the hard case in which her treason and your folly have placed me?"
"That is my greatest grief, save for Dorothy," answered John, softly.
Lived there ever a man possessed of broader charity or deeper love than
John? God surely made him of gold dust, not of common clay.
Queen Mary stepped away from John in disgust, and when she turned she saw
me for the first time. She started and was about to speak, but I placed my
fingers warningly upon my lips and she remained silent.
"Where do you take us, Sir William?" asked John.
"To Haddon Hall. There you will await the commands of the queen."
"How came you here?" John asked gently of Dorothy.
"I rode Dolcy," she whispered. "She dropped dead at the foot of the hill.
Yonder she lies. I came up the Lathkil by the long road, and I hoped that
I might reach you in time to give warning. When the guard left Haddon I
realized the evil that would come upon you by reason of my base betrayal."
Here she broke down and for a moment could not proceed in the narrative.
She soon recovered and continued: "Then I mounted Dolcy, and tried to
reach here by way of the long road. Poor Dolcy seemed to understand my
trouble and my despair, and she brought me with all the speed that a horse
could make; but the road was too long and too rough; and she failed, and I
failed. Would that I could have died in her place. She gave her life in
trying to remedy my fault."
Dorothy again began to weep, and John tenderly whispered:--
"All will yet come right" Then he kissed her before us all, and handed her
to me saying, "Care for her, I pray you, sir."
John spoke a few words to Sir William, and in a moment they both went back
to the castle.
In a short time the gates were opened, and the Rutland coach drawn by four
horses emerged from the castle grounds. Sir William then directed Mary and
Dorothy to enter the coach and requested me to ride with them to Haddon
Hall.
The yeoman guards were in marching order, and I took my seat in the coach.
The fates surely were in a humorous mood when they threw Dorothy, Queen
Mary, and myself together. Pause for a moment and consider the situation.
You know all the facts and you can analyze it as well as I. I could not
help laughing at the fantastic trick of destiny.
Soon after I entered the coach Sir William gave the word, and the yeomen
with Lord Rutland and John moved forward on the road to Haddon.
The coach at once followed the guard and a score of yeomen followed us.
Queen Mary occupied the back seat of the coach, and Dorothy and I sat upon
the front seat facing her.
Dorothy was exhausted, and her head lay upon my shoulder. Now and again
she would softly moan and sob, but she said nothing.
After a few minutes of silence Queen Mary spoke:--
"Why did you betray me, you miserable wretch? Why did you betray me?"
Dorothy did not answer. Mary continued:--
"Have I ever injured you in any manner? Have I ever harmed you by thought,
word, or deed?"
Dorothy's only answer was a sob.
"Perhaps you are a canting fanatic, and it may be that you hate me for the
sake of that which you call the love of God?"
"No, no, madam," I said, "that was not the reason."
"Do you know the reason, Malcolm?" asked Mary, addressing me for the first
time. My name upon her lips had a strange effect on me. It was like the
wafting to my nostrils of a sweet forgotten odor, or the falling upon my
ears of a tender refrain of bygone days. Her voice in uttering my name
thrilled me, and I hated myself for my weakness.
I told Mary that I did not know Dorothy's reasons, and she continued:--
"Malcolm, you were not a party to my betrayal for the sake of revenging
yourself on me?"
"God forbid!" I answered. "Sir John Manners will assure you of my
innocence. I rode with Mistress Vernon to a cross-road within a league of
Rutland, hoping thereby to assist her to give you and Sir John the alarm."
My admission soon brought me into trouble.
"I alone am to blame," said Dorothy, faintly.
"I can easily believe you," said Mary, sharply. "Did you expect to injure
me?"
No answer came from Dorothy.
"If you expect to injure me," Mary continued, "you will be disappointed. I
am a queen, and my Cousin Elizabeth would not dare to harm me, even though
she might wish to do so. We are of the same blood, and she will not wish
to do me injury. Your doting lover will probably lose his head for
bringing me to England without his queen's consent. He is her subject. I
am not. I wish you joy of the trouble you have brought upon him and upon
yourself."
"Upon him!" cried Dorothy.
"Yes, upon him," continued Mary, relishing the torture she was inflicting.
"You will enjoy seeing him beheaded, will you not, you fool, you huzzy,
you wretch? I hope his death will haunt you till the end of your days."
Poor Dorothy, leaning against me, said faintly:--
"It will--it will. You--you devil."
The girl was almost dead from exhaustion and anguish, but she would have
been dead indeed had she lacked the power to strike back. I believe had it
not been for Dorothy's physical weakness she would have silenced Mary with
her hands.
After a little time Dorothy's heavy breathing indicated that she had
fallen asleep. Her head rested upon my shoulder, and the delicious perfume
of her hair and the sweet warm breath from her lips were almost
intoxicating even to me, though I was not in love with her. How great must
their effect have been coming upon John hot from her intense young soul!
As the link-boys passed the coach some and some with their flambeaux I
could see Dorothy's sweet pale face, almost hidden in the tangled golden
red hair which fell in floods about her. The perfect oval of her cheek,
the long wet lashes, the arched eyebrows, the low broad forehead, the
straight nose, the saucy chin--all presented a picture of beauty and
pathos sufficient to soften a heart of stone. Mary had no heart of any
sort, therefore she was not moved to pity. That emotion, I am sure, she
never felt from the first to the last day of her life. She continued to
probe Dorothy's wound until I told her the girl was asleep. I changed
Dorothy's position and placed her head against the corner cushion of the
coach that she might rest more comfortably. She did not awaken when I
moved her. She slept and looked like a child. For a little time after I
had changed Dorothy's position Mary and I sat in silence. She was the
first to speak. She leaned forward and placing her hands upon mine,
whispered my name:--
"Malcolm!"
After a brief silence I said:--
"What would you, your Majesty?"
"Not 'your Majesty'" said Mary, softly, "but Mary, as of old."
She remained for a moment with her hand upon my knee, and then
whispered:--
"Will you not sit by me, Malcolm?"
I believe that Mary Stuart's voice was the charm wherewith she fascinated
men. I resisted to my utmost strength, but that seemed to be little more
than utter weakness; so I took a seat by her side, and she gently placed
her hand in mine. The warm touch of her strong, delicate fingers gave me a
familiar thrill. She asked me to tell her of my wanderings since I had
left Scotland, and I briefly related all my adventures. I told her of my
home at Haddon Hall and of the welcome given me by my cousin, Sir George.
"Malcolm, have you forgotten?" she whispered, leaning gently against me.
"Have you forgotten our old-time vows and love? Have you forgotten all
that passed between us in the dear old château, when I gave to you my
virgin love, fresh from my virgin heart?" I sighed and tried to harden my
heart to her blandishments, for I knew she wished to use me and was
tempting me to that end. She continued, "I was then only fourteen years
old--ten years ago. You said that you loved me and I believed you. You
could not doubt, after the proof I gave to you, that my heart was all
yours. We were happy, oh, so happy. Do you remember, Malcolm?"
She brought her face close to mine while she spoke, and pressed my hand
upon her breast.
My reason told me that it was but the song of the siren she was singing to
my ears. My memory told me that she had been false to me twice two score
times, and I knew full well she would again be false to me, or to any
other man whom she could use for her purposes, and that she cared not the
price at which she purchased him. Bear in mind, you who would blame me for
my fall, that this woman not only was transcendently beautiful and fatally
fascinating, but she was a queen and had held undisputed sway over my
heart for more years than I could accurately number. As I said, added to
all her beauty, she was a queen. If you have never known royalty, you
cannot understand its enthralling power.
"I remember it all, madam," I replied, trying to hold myself away from
her. "It is fresh to me as if it all had happened yesterday." The queen
drew my arm closely to her side and nestled her cheek for an instant upon
my shoulder.
"I remember also," I continued, "your marriage with Darnley when I had
your promise that you would marry me; and, shame upon shame, I remember
your marriage with Darnley's murderer, Bothwell."
"Cruel, cruel, Malcolm," she said. "You well know the overpowering
reasons of state which impelled me to sacrifice my own happiness by
marrying Darnley. I told you at the time that I hated the marriage more
than I dreaded death. But I longed to quiet the factions in Scotland, and
I hoped to save my poor bleeding people from the evils of war. You know I
hated Darnley. You know I loved you. You knew then and you know now that
you are the only man who has ever possessed my heart. You know that my
words are true. You know that you, alone, have had my love since the time
when I was a child."
"And Rizzio?" I asked.
"Ah, Malcolm," she answered tearfully, "I hope you, of all men, do not
believe that I ever gave a thought of love to Rizzio. He was to me like my
pet monkey or my favorite falcon. He was a beautiful, gentle, harmless
soul. I loved him for his music. He worshipped me as did my spaniel."
Still I was determined that her blandishments should not move me.
"And Bothwell?" I asked.
"That is past endurance from you, Malcolm," she said, beginning to weep.
"You know I was brutally abducted and was forced into marriage with him.
He was an outlaw, an outcast. He was an uncouth brute whom any woman would
loathe. I was in his power, and I feigned acquiescence only that I might
escape and achieve vengeance upon him. Tell me, Malcolm, tell me,"
continued Mary, placing her arms about my neck and clinging to me, "tell
me, you, to whom I gave my maiden's love, you who have my woman's heart,
tell me, do you believe that I could willingly have married Bothwell, even
though my heart had not been filled with the image of you, who are strong,
gentle, and beautiful?"
You, if you are a man, may think that in my place you would have resisted
the attack of this beautiful queen, but if so you think--pardon me, my
friend--you are a fool. Under the spell of her magic influence I wavered
in the conviction which had long since come upon me, that I had for years
been her fool and her dupe. I forgot the former lessons I had learned from
her perfidy. I forgot my manhood. I forgot all of good that had of late
grown up in me. God help me, I forgot even Madge.
"If I could only believe you, Mary," I answered, growing insane under the
influence of her fascinations, "If I could only believe you."
"Give me your lips, Malcolm," she whispered, "give me your lips.--Again,
my Malcolm.--Ah, now you believe me."
The lying logic of a wanton kiss is irresistible. I was drunk and, alas! I
was convinced. When I think of that time, Samson is my only
comfort--Samson and a few hundred million other fools, who like Samson and
me have been wheedled, kissed, and duped into misery and ruin.
I said: "I do believe you, Mary. I beg you to forgive me for having
doubted you. You have been traduced and brutally misused."
"It is sweet to hear you speak those words. But it is better to think that
at last we have come together with nothing to part us save that I am a
prisoner in the hands of my vindictive, jealous cousin. I thank God that
my kingdom of Scotland has been taken from me. I ever hated the Scots.
They are an ignorant, unkempt, wry-necked, stubborn, filthy race. But,
above all, my crown stood between you and me. I may now be a woman, and
were it not for Elizabeth, you and I could yet find solace in each other
for all our past sufferings. Malcolm, I have a sweet thought. If I could
escape to fair, beautiful France, all would be happiness for us. You could
claim your mother's estates in the balmy south, and we might live upon
them. Help me, my Malcolm, to escape, and your reward shall be greater and
sweeter than man ever before received from woman."
I struggled against her blandishments for a moment, but I was lost.
"You shall escape and I will go with you," said I. Man needs to make but
one little prayer to God, "Lead me not into temptation." That prayer
answered, all else of good will follow.
The morning sun had just begun to rise over Bowling Green Hill and the
shadows of the night were fleeing before his lances, when our cavalcade
entered the grounds of Haddon at the dove-cote. If there were two suns
revolving about the earth, one to shine upon us by night and one by day,
much evil would be averted. Men do evil in the dark because others cannot
see them; they think evil in the dark because they cannot see themselves.
With the first faint gray of dawn there came to me thoughts of Madge. I
had forgotten her, but her familiar spirit, the light, brought me back to
its fair mistress.
When our coach reached the stone bridge I looked up to the Hall and saw
Madge standing at the open casement of the tower window. She had been
watching there all night, I learned, hoping for our speedy and safe
return, and had been warned of our approach by the noise of the tramping
guard. I drew back from the coach window, feeling that I was an evil shade
slinking away before the spirit of light.