LIGHT
Dorothy had awakened while we were entering Rowsley, and I was glad that
Mary could not touch me again.
When our coach reached the stone steps of the entrance tower we found Sir
George, Lady Crawford, and Madge waiting to receive us. The steps and the
path leading to them had been carpeted with soft rugs, and Mary, although
a prisoner, was received with ceremonies befitting her rank. It was a
proud day for Sir George when the roof of his beautiful Hall sheltered the
two most famous queens of christendom.
Sir George assisted Mary from the coach most graciously, and in knightly
fashion led her to Lady Crawford and Madge, who were standing at the foot
of the tower steps. Due presentations were made, and the ladies of Haddon
having kissed the queen's hand, Mary went into the Hall upon the arm of
his Majesty, the King of the Peak, who stepped forward most proudly.
His resentment against Dorothy was for the moment neutralized by the great
honor of which his house and himself were the recipients.
John and Lord Rutland were taken to the dungeon.
I assisted Dorothy from the coach and led her to Madge, who was waiting
for us upon the lowest of the steps leading to the entrance tower doorway.
Dorothy took Madge's outstretched hand; but Madge, by some strange
instinct, knowing of my presence, turned her face toward me. I could not
lift my eyes to her face, nor could I endure to remain in her presence.
While we were ascending the steps she held out her hand to me and said:--
"Is all well with you, Malcolm?" Her voice was full of tender concern, and
it pained me to the heart to hear her speak kindly to me, who was so
unworthy of her smallest thought.
"Yes, Lady--yes, Madge," I responded; but she knew from the tones of my
voice that all was not right with me.
"I fear, Malcolm, that you do not tell me the truth. You will come to me
soon?" she asked.
"I may not be able to go to you soon," I answered, "but I will do so at
the first opportunity."
The torture of her kindness was almost unbearable to me. One touch of her
hand, one tone of her rare voice, had made me loathe myself. The powers of
evil cannot stand for one moment in a fair conflict with the powers of
good. I felt that I, alone, was to blame for my treason to Madge; but
despite my effort at self-condemnation there was an under-consciousness
that Mary Stuart was to blame, and I hated her accordingly. Although
Madge's presence hurt me, it was not because I wished to conceal my
conduct from her. I knew that I could be happy again only after I had
confessed to her and had received forgiveness.
Madge, who was blind of sight, led Dorothy, who was piteously blind of
soul, and the two girls went to their apartments.
Curiosity is not foreign even to the royal female breast, and while Mary
Stuart was entering Haddon Hall, I saw the luminous head of the Virgin
Queen peeked out at a casement on the second floor watching her rival with
all the curiosity of a Dutch woman sitting by her window mirror.
I went to my room in Eagle Tower, fell upon my bed, and abandoned myself
to an anguish of soul which was almost luxurious. I shall not tease you
with the details of my mental and moral processes. I hung in the balance a
long time undetermined what course I should pursue. The difference between
the influence of Mary and the effect wrought by Madge was the difference
between the intoxication and the exhilaration of wine. Following the
intoxication of Mary's presence ever came a torturing reaction, while the
exhilarating influence of Madge gave health and strength. I chose the
latter. I have always been glad I reached that determination without the
aid of any impulse outside of myself; for events soon happened which again
drove all faith in Mary from my heart forever. Those events would have
forced me to abandon my trust in her; but mind you, I took my good resolve
from inclination rather than necessity before I learned of Mary's perfidy.
The events of the night had exhausted Dorothy, and she was confined to her
bed by illness for the first time in her life. She believed that she was
dying, and she did not want to live. I did not go to her apartments. Madge
remained with her, and I, coward-like, feared to face the girl to whom I
had been untrue.
Dorothy's one and only desire, of course, was to see John, but that desire
for a time seemed impossible of accomplishment.
Elizabeth, Cecil, Leicester, and Sir William St. Loe were in secret
consultation many times during three or four days and nights. Occasionally
Sir George was called into their councils, and that flattering attention
so wrought upon the old man's pride that he was a slave to the queen's
slightest wish, and was more tyrannical and dictatorial than ever before
to all the rest of mankind. There were, however, two persons besides the
queen before whom Sir George was gracious: one of these was Mary Stuart,
whose powers of fascination had been brought to bear upon the King of the
Peak most effectively. The other was Leicester, to whom, as my cousin
expressed it, he hoped to dispose of that troublesome and disturbing
body--Dorothy. These influences, together with the fact that his enemies
of Rutland were in the Haddon dungeon, had given Sir George a spleen-vent,
and Dorothy, even in the face of her father's discovery that Manners was
her mysterious lover, had for once a respite from Sir George's just and
mighty wrath.
The purpose of Elizabeth's many councils of war was to devise some means
of obtaining from John and his father, information concerning the plot,
which had resulted in bringing Mary Stuart into England. The ultimate
purpose of Mary's visit, Elizabeth's counsellors firmly believed to be the
dethronement of the English queen and the enthronement of her Scottish
cousin. Elizabeth, in her heart, felt confident that John and his father
were not parties to the treasonable plot, although she had been warned
against each of them. Cecil and Sir William St. Loe also secretly held to
that opinion, though neither of them expressed it, Elizabeth was conscious
of having given to John while at London court an intimation that she would
be willing that Mary should visit England. Of such intimation Cecil and
Sir William had no knowledge, though they, together with many persons of
the Court, believed that Elizabeth was not entirely averse to Mary's
presence.
Lord Rutland and John were questioned by Cecil in the hope of obtaining
some hints which might lead to the detection of those concerned in the
chief plot, provided such plot existed. But Lord Rutland knew nothing of
the affair except that John had brought the Scottish queen from Scotland,
and John persisted in the statement that he had no confederate and that he
knew nothing of any plot to place Mary upon the English throne.
John said: "I received from Queen Mary's friends in Scotland letters
asking me to meet her on the border, and requesting me to conduct her to
my father's castle. Those letters mentioned no Englishman but myself, and
they stated that Queen Mary's flight to England was to be undertaken with
the tacit consent of our gracious queen. That fact, the letters told me,
our queen wished should not be known. There were reasons of state, the
letters said, which made it impolitic for our queen openly to invite Queen
Mary to seek sanctuary in England. I received those letters before I left
Westminster. Upon the day when I received them, I heard our gracious queen
say that she would gladly invite Queen Mary to England, were it not for
the fact that such an invitation would cause trouble between her and the
regent, Murray. Her Majesty at the same time intimated that she would be
glad if Mary Stuart should come to England uninvited." John turned to
Elizabeth, "I beg your Majesty, in justice, to ratify my words." Elizabeth
hesitated for a moment after John's appeal; but her love of justice came
to her rescue and she hung her head as she said, "You are right, Sir
John." Then she looked her counsellors in the face and said, "I well
remember that I so expressed myself."
"In truth," said John, "I having only an hour before received the letter
from Scotland, believed that your Majesty's words were meant for my ear. I
felt that your Majesty knew of the letters, and I thought that I should be
carrying out your royal wishes should I bring Queen Mary into England
without your knowledge."
The queen responded: "I then felt that I wished Queen Mary to seek refuge
in my kingdom, but so many untoward events have transpired since I spoke
on the subject at Westminster that I have good cause to change my mind,
though I easily understand how you might have been misled by my words."
"I am sure," replied John, "that your Majesty has had good cause to change
your mind; but I protest in all sincerity that I considered the Scottish
letters to be a command from my queen."
Elizabeth was a strange combination of paradoxes. No one could be truer
than she to a fixed determination once taken. No one could be swayed by
doubt so easily as she to change her mind sixty times in the space of a
minute. During one moment she was minded to liberate John and Lord
Rutland; in the next she determined to hold them in prison, hoping to
learn from them some substantial fact concerning the plot which, since
Mary's arrival in England, had become a nightmare to her. But, with all
her vagaries the Virgin Queen surely loved justice. That quality, alone,
makes a sovereign great. Elizabeth, like her mother, Anne Boleyn, had
great faith in her personal beauty; like her father, she had unbounded
confidence in her powers of mind. She took great pride in the ease with
which she controlled persons. She believed that no one was so adroit as
Elizabeth Tudor in extracting secrets from others, and in unravelling
mysterious situations, nor so cunning in hunting out plots and in running
down plotters. In all such matters she delighted to act secretly and
alone.
During the numerous councils held at Haddon, Elizabeth allowed Cecil to
question John to his heart's content; but while she listened she
formulated a plan of her own which she was sure would be effective in
extracting all the truth from John, if all the truth had not already been
extracted. Elizabeth kept her cherished plan to herself. It was this:--
She would visit Dorothy, whom she knew to be ill, and would by her subtle
art steal from John's sweetheart all that the girl knew of the case. If
John had told Dorothy part of the affair concerning Mary Stuart, he had
probably told her all, and Elizabeth felt confident that she could easily
pump the girl dry. She did not know Dorothy. Accordingly our queen,
Elizabeth, the adroit, went to Dorothy's room under the pretence of paying
the girl a gracious visit. Dorothy wished to arise and receive her royal
guest, but Elizabeth said gently:--
"Do not arise, Dorothy; rest quietly, and I will sit here beside you on
the bed. I have come to tell you that you must recover your health at
once. We miss you greatly in the Hall."
No one could be more gracious than Elizabeth when the humor was upon her;
though, in truth, the humor was often lacking.
"Let us send all save you and me from the room," said the queen, "that we
may have a quiet little chat together."
All who were in the room save Dorothy and Elizabeth of course departed at
once.
When the door was closed, the queen said: "I wish to thank you for telling
me of the presence of her Scottish Majesty at Rutland. You know there is a
plot on foot to steal my throne from me."
"God forbid that there should be such a plot," replied Dorothy, resting
upon her elbow in the bed.
"I fear it is only too true that there is such a plot," returned
Elizabeth, "and I owe you a great debt of gratitude for warning me of the
Scottish queen's presence in my kingdom."
"I hope the danger will be averted from your Majesty," said Dorothy; "but
that which I did will cause my death--it will kill me. No human being ever
before has lived through the agony I have suffered since that terrible
night. I was a traitress. I betrayed the man who is dearer to me than my
immortal soul. He says that he forgives me, but your Majesty knows that my
fault is beyond forgiveness."
"Sir John is a noble gentleman, child," said the queen. "I hope that he is
loyal to me, but I fear--I fear."
"Do not doubt, do not fear, my queen," returned Dorothy, eagerly; "there
is nothing false in him."
"Do you love him deeply, little one?" asked the queen.
"No words can tell you my love for him," answered the girl. "I feel shame
to say that he has taken even the holy God's place in my heart. Perhaps it
is for that sin that God now punishes me."
"Fear not on that score, Dorothy," replied the queen. "God will not punish
you for feeling the love which He Himself has put into your heart. I would
willingly give my crown could I feel such love for a worthy man who would
in return love me for myself. But I cannot feel, nor can I have faith.
Self-interest, which is so dominant in all men, frightens me, and I doubt
their vows."
"Surely, any man would love you for your own sake," said Dorothy,
tenderly.
"It may be that you speak truly, child; but I cannot know when men's vows
are true nor when they are false. The real trouble is within myself. If I
could but feel truly, I could interpret truthfully."
"Ah, your Majesty," interrupted Dorothy, "you do not know the thing for
which you are wishing; it is a torture worse than death; it is an ecstasy
sweeter than heaven. It is killing me. I pity you, though you are a queen,
if you have never felt it."
"Would you do anything I might ask of you, if you could thereby save Sir
John's life?" asked the queen.
"Ah, I would gladly give my soul to save him," responded Dorothy, with
tears in her eyes and eagerness in her voice. "Oh, my queen, do not lead
me to hope, and then plunge me again into despair. Give me no
encouragement unless you mean to free him. As for my part, take my life
and spare John's. Kill me by torture, burn me at the stake, stretch me
upon the rack till my joints are severed and my flesh is torn asunder. Let
me die by inches, my queen; but spare him, oh, spare him, and do with me
as you will. Ask from me what you wish. Gladly will I do all that you may
demand; gladly will I welcome death and call it sweet, if I can thereby
save him. The faint hope your Majesty's words hold out makes me strong
again. Come, come, take my life; take all that I can give. Give me him."
"Do you believe that I am an ogress thirsting for blood, Dorothy, that you
offer me your life for his? You can purchase Sir John's life at a much
smaller cost." Dorothy rose to the queen with a cry, and put her arms
about her neck. "You may purchase his freedom," continued the queen, "and
you may serve your loving queen at one and the same time, if you wish to
do so."
Dorothy had sunk back into the bed, and Elizabeth was sitting close by her
side; but when the queen spoke she turned her head on the pillow and
kissed the royal hand which was resting upon the coverlid.
"Ah, you are so good, so true, and so beautiful," said Dorothy.
Her familiarity toward the queen was sweet to the woman, to whom it was
new.
Dorothy did not thank the queen for her graciousness. She did not reply
directly to her offer. She simply said:--
"John has told me many times that he was first attracted to me because I
resembled you."
The girl had ample faith in her own beauty, and knew full well the subtle
flattery which lay in her words. "He said," she continued, "that my hair
in some faint degree resembled yours, but he said it was not of so
beautiful a hue. I have loved my hair ever since the day he told me that
it resembled your Majesty's." The girl leaned forward toward the queen and
gently kissed the royal locks. They no more resembled Dorothy's hair than
brick dust resembles the sheen of gold.
The queen glanced at the reflection of her hair in the mirror and it
flatly contradicted Dorothy. But the girl's words were backed by
Elizabeth's vanity, and the adroit flattery went home.
"Ah, my child," exclaimed her Majesty softly, as she leaned forward and
kissed Dorothy's fair cheek.
Dorothy wept gently for a moment and familiarly rested her face upon the
queen's breast. Then she entwined her white arms about Elizabeth's neck
and turned her glorious eyes up to the queen's face that her Majesty might
behold their wondrous beauty and feel the flattery of the words she was
about to utter.
"He said also," continued Dorothy, "that my eyes in some slight degree
resembled your Majesty's, but he qualified his compliment by telling
me--he did not exactly tell me that my eyes were not so large and
brilliant as your Majesty's, for he was making love to me, and of course
he would not have dared to say that my eyes were not the most perfect on
earth; but he did say that--at least I know that he meant--that my eyes,
while they resembled yours, were hardly so glorious, and--and I am very
jealous of your Majesty. John will be leaving me to worship at your feet."
Elizabeth's eyes were good enough. The French called them "marcassin,"
that is, wild boar's eyes. They were little and sparkling; they were not
luminous and large like Dorothy's, and the girl's flattery was rank.
Elizabeth, however, saw Dorothy's eyes and believed her words rather than
the reply of the lying mirror, and her Majesty's heart was soft from the
girl's kneading. Consider, I pray you, the serpent-like wisdom displayed
by Dorothy's method of attack upon the queen. She did not ask for John's
liberty. She did not seek it. She sought only to place John softly on
Elizabeth's heart. Some natures absorb flattery as the desert sands absorb
the unfrequent rain, and Elizabeth--but I will speak no ill of her. She is
the greatest and the best sovereign England has ever had. May God send to
my beloved country others like her. She had many small shortcomings; but I
have noticed that those persons who spend their evil energies in little
faults have less force left for greater ones. I will show you a mystery:
Little faults are personally more disagreeable and rasping to us than
great ones. Like flying grains of sand upon a windy day, they vex us
constantly. Great faults come like an avalanche, but they come less
frequently, and we often admire their possessor, who sooner or later is
apt to become our destroyer.
"I can hardly tell you," said Dorothy in response to a question by
Elizabeth, "I can hardly tell you why I informed your Majesty of Queen
Mary's presence at Rutland. I did it partly for love of your Majesty and
partly because I was jealous of that white, plain woman from Scotland."
"She is not a plain woman, is she?" said Elizabeth, delighted to hear Mary
of Scotland so spoken of for once. One way to flatter some women is to
berate those whom they despise or fear. Elizabeth loved Dorothy better for
the hatred which the girl bore to Mary. Both stood upon a broad plane of
mutual sympathy-jealousy of the same woman. It united the queen and the
maiden in a common heart-touching cause.
Dorothy's confidence grew apace. "She is plain," replied Dorothy,
poutingly. "She appears plain, colorless, and repulsive by the side of
your Majesty."
"No, no, Dorothy, that cannot be," returned Queen Elizabeth, gently
patting. Dorothy's cheek and glancing stealthily at the reflection of her
own face in the mirror. At this point Dorothy considered that the time had
come for a direct attack.
"Your Majesty need have no fear of a plot to place Queen Mary upon your
throne. The English people would not endure her wicked pale face for a
moment."
"But there is such a plot in existence," said Elizabeth.
"What you say may be true," returned Dorothy; "but, your Majesty, John is
not in the plot, and he knows nothing of it."
"I hope--I believe--he is not in the plot," said Elizabeth, "but I fear--"
The girl kissed the sleeve of Elizabeth's gown, and then she drew the
queen closer to her and kissed her hair and her face.
"Ah, my beauteous queen," said Dorothy, "I thank you for those words. You
must know that John loves you, and is your loyal subject. Take pity upon
me. Help me. Hold out your gracious hand and lift me from my despair."
Dorothy slipped from the bed and fell on her knees, burying her face in
the queen's lap.
Elizabeth was touched by the girl's appeal, and caressingly stroked her
hair, as she said: "I believe he is innocent, but I fear he knows or
suspects others who harbor treasonable designs. Tell me, Dorothy, do you
know of any such persons? If you can tell me their names, you will serve
your queen, and will save your lover. No harm shall come to Sir John, and
no one save myself shall have knowledge of any word that you may speak. If
I do not learn the names of the traitors through you or through Sir John,
I may be compelled to hold him a prisoner until I discover them. If
through you I learn them, Sir John shall go free at once."
"Gladly, for your Majesty's sake alone would I tell you the names of such
traitorous men, did I know them;" replied Dorothy, "and thrice gladly
would I do so if I might thereby liberate John. Your Majesty must see that
these motives are strong enough to induce me to speak if I knew aught to
tell you. I would betray the whole world to save him, of that you may be
sure. But alas! I know no man whom I can betray. John told me nothing of
his expedition to the Scottish border save what was in two letters which
he sent to me. One of these I received before he left Rutland, and the
other after his return."
She fetched the letters to the queen, who read them carefully.
"Perhaps if I were to see him, he might, upon my importunity, tell me all
he knows concerning the affair and those connected with it if he knows
anything more than he has already told," said Dorothy, by a great effort
suppressing her eagerness. "I am sure, your Majesty, he would tell me all
Should he tell me the names of any persons connected with any treasonable
plot, I will certainly tell you. It would be base in me again to betray
John's confidence; but your Majesty has promised me his life and liberty,
and to obtain those I would do anything, however evil it might be. If I
may see John, I promise to learn all that he knows, if he knows anything;
and I also promise to tell you word for word all that he says."
The girl felt safe in making these promises, since she was sure that John
knew nothing of a treasonable character.
The queen, thinking that she had adroitly led Dorothy up to making the
offer, said, "I accept the conditions. Be in readiness to visit Sir John,
upon my command."
Thus the compact was sealed, and the queen, who thought herself wise, was
used by the girl, who thought herself simple.
For the purpose of hiding her exultation, Dorothy appeared to be ill, but
when the queen passed out at the door and closed it behind her, the girl
sprang from the bed and danced around the room as if she were a
bear-baiter. From the depths of despair she flew to the pinnacle of hope.
She knew, however, that she must conceal her happiness; therefore she went
back to bed and waited impatiently the summons of Elizabeth requiring her
to go to John.
But now I must pause to tell you of my troubles which followed so swiftly
upon the heels of my fault that I was fairly stunned by them. My narrative
will be brief, and I shall soon bring you back again to Dorothy.
Queen Mary had no sooner arrived at Haddon Hall than she opened an attack
upon Leicester, somewhat after the same plan, I suppose, which she had
followed with me in the coach. She could no more easily resist inviting
homage from men than a swallow can refrain from flying. Thus, from
inclination and policy, she sought Leicester and endeavored by the
pleasant paths of her blandishments to lead him to her cause. There can be
no doubt concerning Leicester's wishes in the premises. Had Mary's cause
held elements of success, he would have joined her; but he feared
Elizabeth, and he hoped some day to share her throne. He would, however,
prefer to share the throne with Mary.
Mary told him of her plans and hopes. She told him that I had ridden with
Dorothy for the purpose of rescuing John and herself, and that I had
promised to help her to escape to France. She told him she would use me
for her tool in making her escape, and would discard me when once she
should be safe out of England. Then would come Leicester's turn. Then
should my lord have his recompense, and together they would regain the
Scottish crown.
How deeply Leicester became engaged in the plot I cannot say, but this I
know: through fear of Elizabeth, or for the purpose of winning her favor,
he unfolded to our queen all the details of Mary's scheme, together with
the full story of my ride with Dorothy to Rutland, and my return with
Dorothy and Mary in the coach. Thereupon Mary was placed under strict
guard. The story spread quickly through the Hall, and Dawson brought it to
me. On hearing it, my first thought was of Madge. I knew it would soon
reach her. Therefore I determined to go to her at once and make a clean
breast of all my perfidy. Had I done so sooner, I should at least have had
the benefit of an honest, voluntary confession; but my conscience had made
a coward of me, and the woman who had been my curse for years had so
completely disturbed my mind that I should have been quite as well off
without any at all. It led me from one mistake into another.
After Dawson told me that my miserable story was known throughout the
Hall, I sought Madge, and found her with Aunt Dorothy. She was weeping,
and I at once knew that I was too late with my confession. I spoke her
name, "Madge," and stood by her side awaiting her reply.
"Is it true, Malcolm?" she asked. "I cannot believe it till I hear it from
your lips."
"It was true," I responded. "I promised to help Queen Mary escape, and I
promised to go with her; but within one hour of the time when I gave my
word I regretted it as I have never regretted anything else in all my
life. I resolved that, while I should, according to my promise, help the
Scottish queen escape, I would not go with her. I resolved to wait here at
Haddon to tell all to you and to our queen, and then I would patiently
take my just punishment from each. My doom from the queen, I believed,
would probably be death; but I feared more your--God help me! It is
useless for me to speak." Here I broke down and fell upon my knees,
crying, "Madge, Madge, pity me, pity me! Forgive me if you can, and, if
our queen decrees it, I shall die happy."
In my desperation I caught the girl's hand, but she drew it quickly from
me, and said:--
"Do not touch me!"
She arose to her feet, and groped her way to her bedroom. We were in Aunt
Dorothy's room. I watched Madge as she sought with her outstretched hand
the doorway; and when she passed slowly through it, the sun of my life
seemed to turn black. Just as Madge passed from the room, Sir William St.
Loe, with two yeomen, entered by Sir George's door and placed irons upon
my wrist and ankles. I was led by Sir William to the dungeon, and no word
was spoken by either of us.
I had never in my life feared death, and now I felt that I would welcome
it. When a man is convinced that his life is useless, through the dire
disaster that he is a fool, he values it little, and is even more than
willing to lose it.
Then there were three of us in the dungeon,--John, Lord Rutland, and
myself; and we were all there because we had meddled in the affairs of
others, and because Dorothy had inherited from Eve a capacity for insane,
unreasoning jealousy.
Lord Rutland was sitting on the ground in a corner of the dungeon. John,
by the help of a projecting stone in the masonry, had climbed to the small
grated opening which served to admit a few straggling rays of light into
the dungeon's gloom. He was gazing out upon the fair day, whose beauty he
feared would soon fade away from him forever.
Elizabeth's coldness had given him no hope. It had taken all hope from his
father.
The opening of the door attracted John's attention, and he turned his face
toward me when I entered. He had been looking toward the light, and his
eyes, unaccustomed for the moment to the darkness, failed at first to
recognize of me. When the dungeon door had closed behind me, he sprang
down from his perch by the window, and came toward me with outstretched
hands. He said sorrowfully:--
"Malcolm, have I brought you here, too? Why are you in irons? It seems
that I am destined to bring calamity upon all whom I love."
"It is a long story," I replied laughingly. "I will tell it to you when
the time begins to drag; but I tell you now it is through no fault of
yours that I am here. No one is to blame for my misfortune but myself."
Then I continued bitterly, "Unless it be the good God who created me a
fool."
John went to his father's side and said:--
"Sir Malcolm is here, father. Will you not rise and greet him?"
John's voice aroused his father, and the old lord came to the little patch
of light in which I was standing and said: "A terrible evil has fallen
upon us, Sir Malcolm, and without our fault. I grieve to learn that you
also are entangled in the web. The future looks very dark."
"Cheer up, father," said John, taking the old man's hand. "Light will soon
come; I am sure it will."
"I have tried all my life to be a just man," said Lord Rutland. "I have
failed at times, I fear, but I have tried. That is all any man can do. I
pray that God in His mercy will soon send light to you, John, whatever of
darkness there may be in store for me."
I thought, "He will surely answer this just man's prayer," and almost
before the thought was completed the dungeon door turned upon its hinges
and a great light came with glorious refulgence through the open
portal--Dorothy.
"John!"
Never before did one word express so much of mingled joy and grief. Fear
and confidence, and, greater than all, love unutterable were blended in
its eloquent tones. She sprang to John as the lightning leaps from cloud
to cloud, and he caught her to his heart. He gently kissed her hair, her
face being hidden in the folds of his doublet.
"Let me kneel, John, let me kneel," she murmured.
"No, Dorothy, no," he responded, holding her closely in his arms.
"But one moment, John," she pleased.
"No, no; let me see your eyes, sweet one," said John, trying to turn her
face upward toward his own.
"I cannot yet, John, I cannot. Please let me kneel for one little moment
at your feet."
John saw that the girl would find relief in self-abasement, so he relaxed
his arms, and she sank to her knees upon the dungeon floor. She wept
softly for a moment, and then throwing back her head with her old
impulsive manner looked up into his face.
"Oh, forgive me, John! Forgive me! Not that I deserve your forgiveness,
but because you pity me."
"I forgave you long ago, Dorothy. You had my full forgiveness before you
asked it."
He lifted the weeping girl to her feet and the two clung together in
silence. After a pause Dorothy spoke:--
"You have not asked me, John, why I betrayed you."
"I want to know nothing, Dorothy, save that you love me."
"That you already know. But you cannot know how much I love you. I myself
don't know. John, I seem to have turned all to love. 'However much there
is of me, that much there is of love for you. As the salt is in every drop
of the sea, so love is in every part of my being; but John," she
continued, drooping her head and speaking regretfully, "the salt in the
sea is not unmixed with many things hurtful." Her face blushed with shame
and she continued limpingly: "And my love is not--is not without evil. Oh,
John, I feel deep shame in telling you, but my love is terribly jealous.
At times a jealousy comes over me so fierce and so distracting that under
its influence I am mad, John, mad. I then see nothing in its true light;
my eyes seem filled with--with blood, and all things appear red or black
and--and--oh! John, I pray you never again cause me jealousy. It makes a
demon of me."
You may well know that John was nonplussed.
"I cause you jealousy?" he asked in surprise. "When did I--" But Dorothy
interrupted him, her eyes flashing darkly and a note of fierceness in her
voice. He saw for himself the effects of jealousy upon her.
"That white--white Scottish wanton! God's curse be upon her! She tried to
steal you from me."
"Perhaps she did," replied John, smilingly, "of that I do not know. But
this I do know, and you, Dorothy, must know it too henceforth and for all
time to come. No woman can steal my love from you. Since I gave you my
troth I have been true to you; I have not been false even in one little
thought."
"I feel sure, John, that you have not been untrue to me," said the girl
with a faint smile playing about her lips; "but--but you remember the
strange woman at Bowling Green Gate whom you would have--"
"Dorothy, I hope you have not come to my dungeon for the purpose of making
me more wretched than I already am?"
"No, no, John, forgive me," she cried softly; "but John, I hate her, I
hate her! and I want you to promise that you too will hate her."
"I promise," said John, "though, you have had no cause for jealousy of
Queen Mary."
"Perhaps--not," she replied hesitatingly. "I have never thought," the
girl continued poutingly, "that you did anything of which I should be
jealous; but she--she--oh, I hate her! Let us not talk about her. Jennie
Faxton told me--I will talk about her, and you shall not stop me--Jennie
Faxton told me that the white woman made love to you and caused you to put
your arm about her waist one evening on the battlements and-"
"Jennie told you a lie," said John.
"Now don't interrupt me," the girl cried nervously, almost ready for
tears, "and I will try to tell you all. Jennie told me the--the white
woman looked up to you this fashion," and the languishing look she gave
John in imitation of Queen Mary was so beautiful and comical that he could
do nothing but laugh and cover her face with kisses, then laugh again and
love the girl more deeply and yet more deeply with each new breath he
drew. Dorothy was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry, so she
did both.
"Jennie told me in the middle of the night," continued Dorothy, "when all
things seem so vivid and appear so distorted and--and that terrible
blinding jealousy of which I told you came upon me and drove me mad. I
really thought, John, that I should die of the agony. Oh, John, if you
could know the anguish I suffered that night you would pity me; you would
not blame me."
"I do not blame you, Dorothy."
"No, no, there-" she kissed him softly, and quickly continued: "I felt
that I must separate her from you at all cost. I would have done murder to
accomplish my purpose. Some demon whispered to me, 'Tell Queen Elizabeth,'
and--and oh, John, let me kneel again."
"No, no, Dorothy, let us talk of something else," said John, soothingly.
"In one moment, John. I thought only of the evil that would come to
her--her of Scotland. I did not think of the trouble I would bring to
you, John, until the queen, after asking me if you were my lover, said
angrily: 'You may soon seek another.' Then, John, I knew that I had also
brought evil upon you. Then I _did_ suffer. I tried to reach Rutland, and
you know all else that happened on that terrible night. Now John, you know
all--all. I have withheld nothing. I have, confessed all, and I feel that
a great weight is taken from my heart. You will not hate me, will you,
John?"
He caught the girl to his breast and tried to turn her face toward his.
"I could not hate you if I would," he replied, with quick-coming breath,
"and God knows I would not. To love you is the sweetest joy in life," and
he softly kissed the great lustrous eyes till they closed as if in sleep.
Then he fiercely sought the rich red lips, waiting soft and passive for
his caresses, while the fair head fell back upon the bend of his elbow in
a languorous, half-conscious sweet surrender to his will. Lord Rutland and
I had turned our backs on the shameless pair, and were busily discussing
the prospect for the coming season's crops.
Remember, please, that Dorothy spoke to John of Jennie Faxton. Her doing
so soon bore bitter fruit for me.
Dorothy had been too busy with John to notice any one else, but he soon
presented her to his father. After the old lord had gallantly kissed her
hand, she turned scornfully to me and said:--
"So you fell a victim to her wanton wiles? If it were not for Madge's
sake, I could wish you might hang."
"You need not balk your kindly desire for Madge's sake," I answered. "She
cares little about my fate. I fear she will never forgive me."
"One cannot tell what a woman will do," Dorothy replied. "She is apt to
make a great fool of herself when it comes to forgiving the man she
loves."
"Men at times have something to forgive," I retorted, looking with a
smile toward John. The girl made no reply, but took John's hand and looked
at him as if to say, "John, please don't let this horrid man abuse me."
"But Madge no longer cares for me," I continued, wishing to talk upon the
theme, "and your words do not apply to her."
The girl turned her back disdainfully on me and said, "You seem to be
quite as easily duped by the woman who loves you and says she doesn't as
by the one who does not care for you but says she does."
"Damn that girl's tongue!" thought I; but her words, though biting,
carried joy to my heart and light to my soul.
After exchanging a few words with Lord Rutland, Dorothy turned to John and
said:--
"Tell me upon your knightly honor, John, do you know aught of a wicked,
treasonable plot to put the Scottish woman on the English throne?"
I quickly placed my finger on my lips and touched my ear to indicate that
their words would be overheard; for a listening-tube connected the dungeon
with Sir George's closet.
"Before the holy God, upon my knighthood, by the sacred love we bear each
other, I swear I know of no such plot," answered John. "I would be the
first to tell our good queen did I suspect its existence."
Dorothy and John continued talking upon the subject of the plot, but were
soon interrupted by a warning knock upon the dungeon door.
Lord Rutland, whose heart was like twenty-two carat gold, soft, pure, and
precious, kissed Dorothy's hand when she was about to leave, and said:
"Dear lady, grieve not for our sake. I can easily see that more pain has
come to you than to us. I thank you for the great fearless love you bear
my son. It has brought him trouble, but it is worth its cost. You have my
forgiveness freely, and I pray God's choicest benediction may be with
you." She kissed the old lord and said, "I hope some day to make you love
me."
"That will be an easy task," said his Lordship, gallantly. Dorothy was
about to leave. Just at the doorway she remembered the chief purpose of
her visit; so she ran back to John, put her hand over his mouth to insure
silence, and whispered in his ear.
On hearing Dorothy's whispered words, signs of joy were so apparent in
John's face that they could not be mistaken. He said nothing, but kissed
her hand and she hurriedly left the dungeon.
After the dungeon door closed upon Dorothy, John went to his father and
whispered a few words to him. Then he came to me, and in the same
secretive manner said:--
"The queen has promised Dorothy our liberty." I was not at all sure that
"our liberty" included me,--I greatly doubted it,--but I was glad for the
sake of my friends, and, in truth, cared little for myself.
Dorothy went from our dungeon to the queen, and that afternoon, according
to promise, Elizabeth gave orders for the release of John and his father.
Sir George, of course, was greatly chagrined when his enemies slipped from
his grasp; but he dared not show his ill humor in the presence of the
queen nor to any one who would be apt to enlighten her Majesty on the
subject.
Dorothy did not know the hour when her lover would leave Haddon; but she
sat patiently at her window till at last John and Lord Rutland appeared.
She called to Madge, telling her of the joyous event, and Madge, asked:--
"Is Malcolm with them?"
"No," replied Dorothy, "he has been left in the dungeon, where he
deserves to remain."
After a short pause, Madge said:--
"If John had acted toward the Scottish queen as Malcolm did, would you
forgive him?"
"Yes, of course. I would forgive him anything."
"Then why shall we not forgive Malcolm?" asked Madge.
"Because he is not John," was the absurd reply.
"No," said Madge, promptly; "but he is 'John' to me."
"That is true," responded Dorothy, "and I will forgive him if you will."
"I don't believe it makes much difference to Malcolm whether or not you
forgive him," said Madge, who was provoked at Dorothy's condescending
offer. "My forgiveness, I hope, is what he desires."
"That is true, Madge," replied Dorothy, laughingly; "but may not I, also,
forgive him?"
"If you choose," responded Madge, quietly; "as for me, I know not what I
wish to do."
You remember that Dorothy during her visit to the dungeon spoke of Jennie
Faxton. The girl's name reached Sir George's ear through the
listening-tube and she was at once brought in and put to the question.
Jennie, contrary to her wont, became frightened and told all she knew
concerning John and Dorothy, including my part in their affairs. In Sir
George's mind, my bad faith to him was a greater crime than my treason to
Elizabeth, and he at once went to the queen with his tale of woe.
Elizabeth, the most sentimental of women, had heard from Dorothy the story
of her tempestuous love, and also of mine, and the queen was greatly
interested in the situation.
I will try to be brief.
Through the influence of Dorothy and Madge, as I afterward learned, and
by the help of a good word from Cecil, the queen was induced to order my
liberation on condition that I should thenceforth reside in France. So one
morning, three days after John's departure from Haddon, I was overjoyed to
hear the words, "You are free."
I did not know that Jennie Faxton had given Sir George her large stock of
disturbing information concerning my connection with the affairs of
Dorothy and John. So when I left the dungeon, I, supposing that my stormy
cousin would be glad to forgive me if Queen Elizabeth would, sought and
found him in Aunt Dorothy's room. Lady Crawford and Sir George were
sitting near the fire and Madge was standing near the door in the next
room beyond. When I entered, Sir George sprang to his feet and cried out
angrily:--
"You traitorous dog, the queen has seen fit to liberate you, and I cannot
interfere with her orders; but if you do not leave my Hall at once I shall
set the hounds on you. Your effects will be sent to The Peacock, and the
sooner you quit England the safer you will be." There was of course
nothing for me to do but to go.
"You once told me, Sir George--you remember our interview at The
Peacock--that if you should ever again order me to leave Haddon, I should
tell you to go to the devil. I now take advantage of your kind permission,
and will also say farewell."
I kissed Aunt Dorothy's cheek, took my leave, and sought Cecil, from whom
I obtained a passport to France. Then I asked Dawson to fetch my horse.
I longed to see Madge before I left Haddon, but I knew that my desire
could not be gratified; so I determined to stop at Rowsley and send back a
letter to her which Dawson undertook to deliver. In my letter I would ask
Madge's permission to return for her from France and to take her home
with me as my wife. After I had despatched my letter I would wait at The
Peacock for an answer.
Sore at heart, I bade good-by to Dawson, mounted my horse, and turned his
head toward the Dove-cote Gate. As I rode under Dorothy's window she was
sitting there. The casement was open, for the day was mild, although the
season was little past midwinter. I heard her call to Madge, and then she
called to me:--
"Farewell, Malcolm! Forgive me for what I said to you in the dungeon. I
was wrong, as usual. Forgive me, and God bless you. Farewell!"
While Dorothy was speaking, and before I replied, Madge came to the open
casement and called:--
"Wait for me, Malcolm, I am going down to you."
Great joy is a wonderful purifier, and Madge's cry finished the work of
the past few months and made a good man of me, who all my life before had
known little else than evil.
Soon Madge's horse was led by a groom to the mounting block, and in a few
minutes she emerged gropingly from the great door of Entrance Tower.
Dorothy was again a prisoner in her rooms and could not come down to bid
me farewell. Madge mounted, and the groom led her horse to me and placed
the reins in my hands.
"Is it you, Malcolm?" asked Madge.
"Yes," I responded, in a voice husky with emotion. "I cannot thank you
enough for coming to say farewell. You have forgiven me?"
"Yes," responded Madge, almost in tears, "but I have not come to say
farewell."
I did not understand her meaning.
"Are you going to ride part of the way with me--perhaps to Rowsley?" I
asked, hardly daring to hope for so much.
"To France, Malcolm, if you wish to take me," she responded murmuringly.
For a little time I could not feel the happiness that had come upon me in
so great a flood. But when I had collected my scattered senses, I said:--
"I thank God that He has turned your heart again to me. May I feel His
righteous anger if ever I give you cause to regret the step you are
taking."
"I shall never regret it, Malcolm," she answered softly, as she held out
her hand to me.
Then we rode by the dove-cote, out from Haddon Hall, never to see its
walls again.
We went to Rutland, whence after a fortnight we journeyed to France. There
I received my mother's estates, and never for one moment, to my knowledge,
has Madge regretted having intrusted her life and happiness to me. I need
not speak for myself.
Our home is among the warm, sunlit, vine-covered hills of southern France,
and we care not for the joys of golden streets so long as God in His
goodness vouchsafes to us our earthly paradise. Age, with the heart at
peace, is the fairest season of life; and love, leavened of God, robs even
approaching death of his sting and makes for us a broad flower-strewn path
from the tempestuous sea of time to the calm, sweet ocean of eternity.