Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

C >> Charles Major >> Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

[Illustration]

Mary Pickford Edition

Dorothy Vernon of
Haddon Hall

BY

CHARLES MAJOR

AUTHOR OF
WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER,
YOLANDA, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED WITH
SCENES FROM THE PHOTOPLAY

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1908

Printed in U.S.A.

To My Wife

CONTENTS

Page

A TOUCH OF BLACK MAGIC 1

CHAPTER
I. I RIDE SOWN TO HADDON 3
II. THE IRON, THE SEED, THE CLOUD, AND THE RAIN 19
III. THE PITCHER GOES TO THE WELL 35
IV. THE GOLDEN HEART 62
V. MINE ENEMY'S ROOF-TREE 91
VI. A DANGEROUS TRIP TO DERBY-TOWN 108
VII. TRIBULATION IN HADDON 130
VIII. MALCOLM NO. 2 163
IX. A TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE 181
X. THOMAS THE MAN-SERVANT 211
XI. THE COST MARK OF JOY 239
XII. THE LEICESTER POSSIBILITY 260
XIII. PROUD DAYS FOR THE OLD HALL 281
XIV. MARY STUART 302
XV. LIGHT 333
XVI. LEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE 360

A TOUCH OF BLACK MAGIC

I draw the wizard's circle upon the sands, and blue flames spring from its
circumference. I describe an inner circle, and green flames come
responsive to my words of magic. I touch the common centre of both with my
wand, and red flames, like adders' tongues, leap from the earth. Over
these flames I place my caldron filled with the blood of a new-killed doe,
and as it boils I speak my incantations and make my mystic signs and
passes, watching the blood-red mist as it rises to meet the spirits of
Air. I chant my conjurations as I learned them from the Great Key of
Solomon, and while I speak, the ruddy fumes take human forms. Out of the
dark, fathomless Past--the Past of near four hundred years ago--comes a
goodly company of simple, pompous folk all having a touch of childish
savagery which shows itself in the fierceness of their love and of their
hate.

The fairest castle-chateau in all England's great domain, the walls and
halls of which were builded in the depths of time, takes on again its
olden form quick with quivering life, and from the gates of Eagle Tower
issues my quaint and radiant company. Some are clad in gold lace, silks,
and taffetas; some wear leather, buckram and clanking steel. While the
caldron boils, their cloud-forms grow ever more distinct and definite,
till at length I can trace their every feature. I see the color of their
eyes. I discern the shades of their hair. Some heads are streaked with
gray; others are glossy with the sheen of youth. As a climax to my
conjurations I speak the word of all words magical, "Dorothy," and lo! as
though God had said, "Let there be light," a fair, radiant girl steps from
the portals of Haddon Hall and illumines all my ancient company so that I
may see even the workings of their hearts.

They, and the events of their lives, their joys and sorrows, their virtues
and sins, their hatreds, jealousies, and loves--the seven numbers in the
total sum of life--pass before me as in a panorama, moving when I bid them
move, pausing when I bid them pause, speaking when I bid them speak, and
alas! fading back into the dim gray limbo of the past long, long ere I
would have them go.

But hark! my radiant shades are about to speak. The play is about to
begin.

Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

CHAPTER I

I RIDE DOWN TO HADDON

Since I play no mean part in the events of this chronicle, a few words
concerning my own history previous to the opening of the story I am about
to tell you will surely not be amiss, and they may help you to a better
understanding of my narrative.

To begin with an unimportant fact--unimportant, that is, to you--my name
is Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon. My father was cousin-german to Sir
George Vernon, at and near whose home, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, occurred
the events which will furnish my theme.

Of the ancient lineage of the house of Vernon I need not speak. You
already know that the family is one of the oldest in England, and while it
is not of the highest nobility, it is quite gentle and noble enough to
please those who bear its honored name. My mother boasted nobler blood
than that of the Vernons. She was of the princely French house of Guise--a
niece and ward to the Great Duke, for whose sake I was named.

My father, being a younger brother, sought adventure in the land of
France, where his handsome person and engaging manner won the smiles of
Dame Fortune and my mother at one and the same cast. In due time I was
born, and upon the day following that great event my father died. On the
day of his burial my poor mother, unable to find in me either compensation
or consolation for the loss of her child's father, also died, of a broken
heart, it was said. But God was right, as usual, in taking my parents; for
I should have brought them no happiness, unless perchance they could have
moulded my life to a better form than it has had--a doubtful chance, since
our great virtues and our chief faults are born and die with us. My
faults, alas! have been many and great. In my youth I knew but one virtue:
to love my friend; and that was strong within me. How fortunate for us it
would be if we could begin our life in wisdom and end it in simplicity,
instead of the reverse which now obtains!

I remained with my granduncle, the Great Duke, and was brought up amid the
fighting, vice, and piety of his sumptuous court. I was trained to arms,
and at an early age became Esquire in Waiting to his Grace of Guise. Most
of my days between my fifteenth and twenty-fifth years were spent in the
wars. At the age of twenty-five I returned to the chateau, there to reside
as my uncle's representative, and to endure the ennui of peace. At the
chateau I found a fair, tall girl, fifteen years of age: Mary Stuart,
Queen of Scotland, soon afterward Queen of France and rightful heiress to
the English throne. The ennui of peace, did I say? Soon I had no fear of
its depressing effect, for Mary Stuart was one of those women near whose
fascinations peace does not thrive. When I found her at the chateau, my
martial ardor lost its warmth. Another sort of flame took up its home in
my heart, and no power could have turned me to the wars again.

Ah! what a gay, delightful life, tinctured with bitterness, we led in the
grand old chateau, and looking back at it how heartless, godless, and
empty it seems. Do not from these words conclude that I am a fanatic, nor
that I shall pour into your ears a ranter's tale; for cant is more to be
despised even than godlessness; but during the period of my life of which
I shall write I learned--but what I learned I shall in due time tell you.

While at the court of Guise I, like many another man, conceived for Mary
Stuart a passion which lay heavy upon my heart for many years. Sweethearts
I had by the scores, but she held my longings from all of them until I
felt the touch of a pure woman's love, and then--but again I am going
beyond my story.

I did not doubt, nor do I hesitate to say, that my passion was returned by
Mary with a fervor which she felt for no other lover; but she was a queen,
and I, compared with her, was nobody. For this difference of rank I have
since had good cause to be thankful. Great beauty is diffusive in its
tendency. Like the sun, it cannot shine for one alone. Still, it burns and
dazzles the one as if it shone for him and for no other; and he who basks
in its rays need have no fear of the ennui of peace.

The time came when I tasted the unutterable bitterness of Mary's marriage
to a simpering fool, Francis II., whom she loathed, notwithstanding absurd
stories of their sweet courtship and love.

After her marriage to Francis, Mary became hard and callous of heart, and
all the world knows her sad history. The stories of Darnley, Rizzio, and
Bothwell will be rich morsels, I suppose, for the morbid minds of men and
women so long as books are read and scandal is loved.

Ah, well, that was long ago; so long ago that now as I write it seems but
a shadow upon the horizon of time.

And so it happened that Francis died, and when the queen went back to
Scotland to ascend her native throne, I went with her, and mothlike
hovered near the blaze that burned but did not warm me.

Then in the course of time came the Darnley tragedy. I saw Rizzio killed.
Gods! what a scene for hell was that! Then followed the Bothwell
disgrace, the queen's imprisonment at Lochleven, and my own flight from
Scotland to save my head.

You will hear of Mary again in this history, and still clinging to her you
will find that same strange fatality which during all her life brought
evils upon her that were infectious to her friends and wrought their ruin.

One evening, in the autumn of the year 1567, I was sitting moodily before
my fire in the town of Dundee, brooding over Mary's disgraceful liaison
with Bothwell. I had solemnly resolved that I would see her never again,
and that I would turn my back upon the evil life I had led for so many
years, and would seek to acquire that quiescence of nature which is
necessary to an endurable old age. A tumultuous soul in the breast of an
old man breeds torture, but age, with the heart at rest, I have found is
the best season of life.

In the midst of my gloomy thoughts and good resolves my friend, Sir Thomas
Douglas, entered my room without warning and in great agitation.

"Are you alone?" he asked hurriedly, in a low voice.

"Save for your welcome presence, Sir Thomas," I answered, offering my
hand.

"The queen has been seized," he whispered, "and warrants for high treason
have been issued against many of her friends--you among the number.
Officers are now coming to serve the writ. I rode hither in all haste to
warn you. Lose not a moment, but flee for your life. The Earl of Murray
will be made regent to-morrow."

"My servant? My horse?" I responded.

"Do not wait. Go at once. I shall try to send a horse for you to Craig's
ferry. If I fail, cross the firth without one. Here is a purse. The queen
sends it to you. Go! Go!"

I acted upon the advice, of Sir Thomas and hurried into the street,
snatching up my hat, cloak, and sword as I went. Night had fallen, and
darkness and rain, which at first I was inclined to curse, proved to be my
friends. I sought the back streets and alleys and walked rapidly toward
the west gates of the city. Upon arriving at the gates I found them
closed. I aroused the warden, and with the artful argument of gold had
almost persuaded him to let me pass. My evident eagerness was my undoing,
for in the hope of obtaining more gold the warden delayed opening the
gates till two men approached on horseback, and, dismounting, demanded my
surrender.

I laughed and said: "Two against one! Gentlemen, I am caught." I then drew
my sword as if to offer it to them. My action threw the men off their
guard, and when I said, "Here it is," I gave it to the one standing near
me, but I gave it to him point first and in the heart.

It was a terrible thing to do, and bordered so closely on a broken parole
that I was troubled in conscience. I had not, however, given my parole,
nor had I surrendered; and if I had done so--if a man may take another's
life in self-defence, may he not lie to save himself?

The other man shot at me with his fusil, but missed. He then drew his
sword; but he was no match for me, and soon I left him sprawling on the
ground, dead or alive, I knew not which.

At the time of which I write I was thirty-five years of age, and since my
fifteenth birthday my occupations had been arms and the ladies--two arts
requiring constant use if one would remain expert in their practice.

I escaped, and ran along the wall to a deep breach which had been left
unrepaired. Over the sharp rocks I clambered, and at the risk of breaking
my neck I jumped off the wall into the moat, which was almost dry. Dawn
was breaking when I found a place to ascend from the moat, and I hastened
to the fields and forests, where all day and all night long I wandered
without food or drink. Two hours before sunrise next morning I reached
Craig's Ferry. The horse sent by Douglas awaited me, but the ferry-master
had been prohibited from carrying passengers across the firth, and I could
not take the horse in a small boat. In truth, I was in great alarm lest I
should be unable to cross, but I walked up the Tay a short distance, and
found a fisherman, who agreed to take me over in his frail craft. Hardly
had we started when another boat put out from shore in pursuit of us. We
made all sail, but our pursuers overtook us when we were within half a
furlong of the south bank, and as there were four men in the other boat,
all armed with fusils, I peaceably stepped into their craft and handed my
sword to their captain.

I seated myself on one of the thwarts well forward in the boat. By my side
was a heavy iron boat-hook. I had noticed that all the occupants of the
boat, except the fisherman who sailed her, wore armor; and when I saw the
boat-hook, a diabolical thought entered my mind and I immediately acted
upon its suggestion. Noiselessly I grasped the hook, and with its point
pried loose a board in the bottom of the boat, first having removed my
boots, cloak, and doublet. When the board was loosened I pressed my heel
against it with all the force I could muster, and through an opening six
inches broad and four feet long came a flood of water that swamped the
boat before one could utter twenty words. I heard a cry from one of the
men: "The dog has scuttled the boat. Shoot him!" At the same instant the
blaze and noise of two fusils broke the still blackness of the night, but
I was overboard and the powder and lead were wasted. The next moment the
boat sank in ten fathoms of water, and with it went the men in armor. I
hope the fisherman saved himself. I have often wondered if even the law of
self-preservation justified my act. It is an awful thing to inflict death,
but it is worse to endure it, and I feel sure that I am foolish to allow
my conscience to trouble me for the sake of those who would have led me
back to the scaffold.

I fear you will think that six dead men in less than as many pages make a
record of bloodshed giving promise of terrible things to come, but I am
glad I can reassure you on that point. Although there may be some good
fighting ahead of us, I believe the last man has been killed of whom I
shall chronicle--the last, that is, in fight or battle.

In truth, the history which you are about to read is not my own. It is the
story of a beautiful, wilful girl, who was madly in love with the one man
in all the world whom she should have avoided--as girls are wont to be.
This perverse tendency, philosophers tell us, is owing to the fact that
the unattainable is strangely alluring to womankind. I, being a man, shall
not, of course, dwell upon the foibles of my own sex. It were a foolish
candor.

As I said, there will be some good fighting ahead of us, for love and
battle usually go together. One must have warm, rich blood to do either
well; and, save religion, there is no source more fruitful of quarrels and
death than that passion which is the source of life.

You, of course, know without the telling, that I reached land safely after
I scuttled the boat, else I should not be writing this forty years
afterwards.

The sun had risen when I waded ashore. I was swordless, coatless, hatless,
and bootless; but I carried a well-filled purse in my belt. Up to that
time I had given no thought to my ultimate destination; but being for the
moment safe, I pondered the question and determined to make my way to
Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, where I was sure a warm welcome would await me
from my cousin, Sir George Vernon. How I found a peasant's cottage,
purchased a poor horse and a few coarse garments, and how in the disguise
of a peasant I rode southward to the English border, avoiding the cities
and the main highways, might interest you; but I am eager to come to my
story, and I will not tell you of my perilous journey.

One frosty morning, after many hairbreadth escapes, I found myself well
within the English border, and turned my horse's head toward the city of
Carlisle. There I purchased a fine charger. I bought clothing fit for a
gentleman, a new sword, a hand-fusil, a breastplate, and a steel-lined
cap, and feeling once again like a man rather than like a half-drowned
rat, I turned southward for Derbyshire and Haddon Hall.

When I left Scotland I had no fear of meeting danger in England; but at
Carlisle I learned that Elizabeth held no favor toward Scottish refugees.
I also learned that the direct road from Carlisle to Haddon, by way of
Buxton, was infested with English spies who were on the watch for friends
of the deposed Scottish queen. Several Scotchmen had been arrested, and it
was the general opinion that upon one pretext or another they would be
hanged. I therefore chose a circuitous road leading to the town of Derby,
which lay south of Haddon at a distance of six or seven leagues. It would
be safer for me to arrive at Haddon travelling from the south than from
the north. Thus, after many days, I rode into Derby-town and stabled my
horse at the Royal Arms.

I called for supper, and while I was waiting for my joint of beef a
stranger entered the room and gave his orders in a free, offhand manner
that stamped him a person of quality.

The night outside was cold. While the stranger and I sat before the fire
we caught its infectious warmth, and when he showed a disposition to talk,
I gladly fell in with his humor. Soon we were filling our glasses from the
same bowl of punch, and we seemed to be on good terms with each other. But
when God breathed into the human body a part of himself, by some
mischance He permitted the devil to slip into the tongue and loosen it. My
tongue, which ordinarily was fairly well behaved, upon this occasion
quickly brought me into trouble.

I told you that the stranger and I seemed to be upon good terms. And so we
were until I, forgetting for the moment Elizabeth's hatred of Mary's
friends, and hoping to learn the stranger's name and quality, said:--

"My name is Vernon--Sir Malcolm Vernon, knight by the hand of Queen Mary
of Scotland and of France." This remark, of course, required that my
companion should in return make known his name and degree; but in place of
so doing he at once drew away from me and sat in silence. I was older than
he, and it had seemed to me quite proper and right that I should make the
first advance. But instantly after I had spoken I regretted my words. I
remembered not only my danger, being a Scottish refugee, but I also
bethought me that I had betrayed myself. Aside from those causes of
uneasiness, the stranger's conduct was an insult which I was in duty bound
not to overlook. Neither was I inclined to do so, for I loved to fight. In
truth, I loved all things evil.

"I regret, sir," said I, after a moment or two of embarrassing silence,
"having imparted information that seems to annoy you. The Vernons, whom
you may not know, are your equals in blood, it matters not who you are."

"I know of the Vernons," he replied coldly, "and I well know that they are
of good blood and lineage. As for wealth, I am told Sir George could
easily buy the estates of any six men in Derbyshire."

"You know Sir George?" I asked despite myself.

"I do not know him, I am glad to say," returned the stranger.

"By God, sir, you shall answer-"

"At your pleasure, Sir Malcolm."

"My pleasure is now," I retorted eagerly.

I threw off my doublet and pushed the table and chairs against the wall to
make room for the fight; but the stranger, who had not drawn his sword,
said:--

"I have eaten nothing since morning, and I am as hungry as a wolf. I would
prefer to fight after supper; but if you insist--"

"I do insist," I replied. "Perhaps you will not care for supper when I
have--"

"That may be true," he interrupted; "but before we begin I think it right
to tell you, without at all meaning to boast of my skill, that I can kill
you if I wish to do so. Therefore you must see that the result of our
fight will be disagreeable to you in any case. You will die, or you will
owe me your life."

His cool impertinence angered me beyond endurance. He to speak of killing
me, one of the best swordsmen in France, where the art of sword-play is
really an art! The English are but bunglers with a gentleman's blade, and
should restrict themselves to pike and quarterstaff.

"Results be damned!" I answered. "I can kill you if I wish." Then it
occurred to me that I really did not wish to kill the handsome young
fellow toward whom I felt an irresistible attraction.

I continued: "But I prefer that you should owe me your life. I do not wish
to kill you. Guard!"

My opponent did not lift his sword, but smilingly said:--

"Then why do you insist upon fighting? I certainly do not wish to kill
you. In truth, I would be inclined to like you if you were not a Vernon."

"Damn your insolence! Guard! or I will run you through where you stand," I
answered angrily.

"But why do we fight?" insisted the stubborn fellow, with a coolness that
showed he was not one whit in fear of me.

"You should know," I replied, dropping my sword-point to the floor, and
forgetting for the moment the cause of our quarrel. "I--I do not."

"Then let us not fight," he answered, "until we have discovered the matter
of our disagreement."

At this remark neither of us could resist smiling. I had not fought since
months before, save for a moment at the gates of Dundee, and I was loath
to miss the opportunity, so I remained in thought during the space of half
a minute and remembered our cause of war.

"Oh! I recall the reason for our fighting," I replied, "and a good one it
was. You offered affront to the name of Sir George Vernon, and insultingly
refused me the courtesy of your name after I had done you the honor to
tell you mine."

"I did not tell you my name," replied the stranger, "because I believed
you would not care to hear it; and I said I was glad not to know Sir
George Vernon because--because he is my father's enemy. I am Sir John
Manners. My father is Lord Rutland."

Then it was my turn to recede. "You certainly are right. I do not care to
hear your name."

I put my sword in its scabbard and drew the table back to its former
place. Sir John stood in hesitation for a moment or two, and then said:--

"Sir Malcolm, may we not declare a truce for to-night? There is nothing
personal in the enmity between us."

"Nothing," I answered, staring at the fire, half regretful that we bore
each other enmity at all.

"You hate me, or believe you do," said Manners, "because your father's
cousin hates my father; and I try to make myself believe that I hate you
because my father hates your father's cousin. Are we not both mistaken?"

I was quick to anger and to fight, but no man's heart was more sensitive
than mine to the fair touch of a kind word.

"I am not mistaken, Sir John, when I say that I do not hate you," I
answered.

"Nor do I hate you, Sir Malcolm. Will you give me your hand?"

"Gladly," I responded, and I offered my hand to the enemy of my house.

"Landlord," I cried, "bring us two bottles of your best sack. The best in
the house, mind you."

After our amicable understanding, Sir John and myself were very
comfortable together, and when the sack and roast beef, for which the
Royal Arms was justly famous, were brought in, we sat down to an enjoyable
meal.

After supper Sir John lighted a small roll or stick made from the leaves
of tobacco. The stick was called a cigarro, and I, proud not to be behind
him in new-fashioned, gentlemanly accomplishments, called to the landlord
for a pipe. Manners interrupted me when I gave the order and offered me a
cigarro which I gladly accepted.

Despite my effort to reassure myself, I could not quite throw off a
feeling of uneasiness whenever I thought of the manner in which I had
betrayed to Sir John the fact that I was a friend to Mary Stuart. I knew
that treachery was not native to English blood, and my knowledge of
mankind had told me that the vice could not live in Sir John Manners's
heart. But he had told me of his residence at the court of Elizabeth, and
I feared trouble might come to me from the possession of so dangerous a
piece of knowledge by an enemy of my house.

I did not speak my thoughts upon the matter, and we sat the evening
through discussing many subjects. We warmed toward each other and became
quite confidential. I feel ashamed when I admit that one of my many sins
was an excessive indulgence in wine. While I was not a drunkard, I was
given to my cups sometimes in a degree both dangerous and disgraceful; and
during the evening of which I have just spoken I talked to Sir John with a
freedom that afterward made me blush, although my indiscretion brought me
no greater trouble.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26