Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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Dorothy's attitude was not assumed one moment too soon, for hardly was her
gown arranged with due regard to carelessness when Sir George's form rose
above the crest of Bowling Green Hill. In a few minutes he was standing in
front of his daughter, red with anger. Dorothy's face wore a look of calm
innocence, which I believe would have deceived Solomon himself,
notwithstanding that great man's experience with the sex. It did more to
throw Sir George off the scent than any words the girl could have spoken.

"Who has been with you?" demanded Sir George, angrily.

"When, father?" queried the girl, listlessly resting her head against the
wall.

"Now, this afternoon. Who has been with you? Ben Shaw said that a man was
here. He said that he saw a man with you less than half an hour since."

That piece of information was startling to Dorothy, but no trace of
surprise was visible in her manner or in her voice. She turned listlessly
and brushed a dry leaf from her gown. Then she looked calmly up into her
father's face and said laconically, but to the point:--

"Ben lied." To herself she said, "Ben shall also suffer."

"I do not believe that Ben lied," said Sir George. "I, myself, saw a man
go away from here."

That was crowding the girl into close quarters, but she did not flinch.

"Which way did he go, father?" she asked, with a fine show of carelessness
in her manner, but with a feeling of excruciating fear in her breast. She
well knew the wisdom of the maxim, "Never confess."

"He went northward," answered Sir George.

"Inside the wall?" asked Dorothy, beginning again to breathe freely, for
she knew that John had ridden southward.

"Inside the wall, of course," her father replied. "Do you suppose I could
see him through the stone wall? One should be able to see through a stone
wall to keep good watch on you."

"You might have thought you saw him through the wall," answered the girl.
"I sometimes think of late, father, that you are losing your mind. You
drink too much brandy, my dear father. Oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if you
were to lose your mind?" She rose as she spoke, and going to her father
began to stroke him gently with her hand. She looked into his face with
real affection; for when she deceived him, she loved him best as a partial
atonement for her ill-doing.

"Wouldn't that be dreadful?" she continued, while Sir George stood lost in
bewilderment. "Wouldn't that be dreadful for my dear old father to lose
his mind? But I really think it must be coming to pass. A great change has
of late come over you, father. You have for the first time in your life
been unkind to me and suspicious. Father, do you realize that you insult
your daughter when you accuse her of having been in this secluded place
with a man? You would punish another for speaking so against my fair
name."

"But, Dorothy," Sir George replied, feeling as if he were in the wrong,
"Ben Shaw said that he saw you here with a man, and I saw a man pass
toward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name."

Dorothy knew that her father must have seen a man near the gate, but who
he was she could not imagine. John surely was beyond the wall and well out
of sight on his way to Rowsley before her father reached the crest of
Bowling Green Hill. But it was evident that Shaw had seen John. Evidence
that a man had been at the gate was too strong to be successfully
contradicted. Facts that cannot be successfully contradicted had better be
frankly admitted. Dorothy sought through her mind for an admission that
would not admit, and soon hit upon a plan which, shrewd as it seemed to
be, soon brought her to grief.

"Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, as the result of her
mental search. "He passed here a little time since and stopped for a
moment to talk. Perhaps you saw Malcolm, father. You would not find fault
with me because he was here, would you?"

"Dorothy, my daughter," said Sir George, hesitatingly, "are you telling me
the truth?"

Then the fair girl lifted up her beautiful head, and standing erect at her
full height (it pains me to tell you this) said: "Father, I am a Vernon. I
would not lie."

Her manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced.

He said, "I believe you."

Her father's confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point of
repentance, I hardly need say.

Dorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare me
to answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me. She took
Dolcy's rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested the
other upon her father's arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to the
Hall, very happy because of her lucky escape.

But a lie is always full of latent retribution.

I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothy
and her father entered.

"Ah, Malcolm, are you here?" asked Sir George in a peculiar tone of
surprise for which I could see no reason.

"I thought you were walking."

I was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, "No, I am helping old
Bess and Jennie with supper."

"Have you not been walking?" asked Sir George.

There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I was
surprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. But
Sir George's expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when compared
with that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not only
was her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body were
convulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, I
could not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only too
readable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stamped
her foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips and
nodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost upon
me, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. The
expression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of my
gaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mighty
pantomimic effort at mute communication.

"Why in the devil's name are you making those grimaces?" demanded Sir
George.

"I wasn't making grimaces--I--I think I was about to sneeze," replied
Dorothy.

"Do you think I am blind?" stormed Sir George. "Perhaps I am losing my
mind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you at
Bowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I'll show you that if I
am losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house."

"Now, father, what is all this storming about?" asked the girl, coaxingly,
as she boldly put her hands upon her father's shoulders and turned her
face in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up to
his. "Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know." She was sure
that her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate,
and she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whose
only virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, would
willingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught the
truth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined to
perjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe the
influence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell I
seemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily was
paralyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. I
cannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you may
make out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of this
history have occasion to speak of Dorothy's strange power, and how it was
exerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.

"Ask Malcolm," repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father's
breast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for,
in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demanded
excitedly of Dorothy, "What have you in your pocket that strikes against
my knee?"

"Mother of Heaven!" exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping back
from her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward her
pocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness by
sudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face which
filled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holding
with one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched the
key in her pocket.

"What have you in your pocket?" demanded Sir George with a terrible oath.
"Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you." Dorothy started to run
from the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drew
her to him. "Bring it out, huzzy; it's the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah,
I've lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet,
but I soon shall lose it at this rate," and he certainly looked as if he
would.

Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, but
she was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown and
tore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom.
Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece of
white paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made in
the gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he felt
sure, was from Dorothy's unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for a
time, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her face
from her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, "Malcolm." Her
voice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help I
have never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take the
letter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he would
strike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and he
took up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:--

"Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with God's help I
will meet you at Bowling Green Gate--." The girl could endure no more. She
sprang with a scream toward her father and tried to snatch the letter. Sir
George drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed him
frantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter.
Sir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued the
letter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy's
hand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into the
fire, but she feared that her father might rescue it from the ashes. She
glanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded in
snatching from her father bore John's name. Sir George strode hurriedly
across the room toward her and she ran to me.

"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then I
saw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herself
upon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembled
as a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree may
tremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. While
she clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and her
wondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expression
was the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension.
Her face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Her
fear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped her
fingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying to
make, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for less
than one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyed
even one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and to
caress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of rest
in my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength.

"Where is the paper?" he cried in rage. "It contained the fellow's
signature."

"I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it.
Doubtless that would be a pleasant task for you," answered Dorothy, who
was comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discover
John's name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girl
had he then learned that the letter was from John Manners.

"I command you to tell me this fellow's name," said Sir George, with a
calmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued
"I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me and
told me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In God's name I
swear that I would rather father a thief than a liar."

"I did give her the heart, Sir George," I said, interrupting him. "It was
my mother's." I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in his
violence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for his
anger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but her
deception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love that
had come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meeting
with Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I also
believe, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not a
thief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. She
was gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but I
believe she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love.
Some few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an ocean
of love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart and
soul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class was
Dorothy.

"God is love," says the Book.

"The universe is God," says the philosopher. "Therefore," as the
mathematician would say, "love is the universe." To that proposition
Dorothy was a corollary.

The servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen.

"Let us go to the dining hall," I suggested. Sir George led the way by the
stone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquet
hail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand.

The moment of respite from her father's furious attack gave her time in
which to collect her scattered senses.

When we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, Sir
George turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to know
the name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and said
nothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room.

"Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tell
me the name of the man who wrote this letter," he cried, holding toward
her the fragment of paper. "Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, I
swear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper court
till you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child."

Then Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only for
herself she had to fear.

Her heart kept saying, "This for his sake, this for his sake." Out of her
love came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action.

Her father's oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodice
from her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:--

"I am ready for the whip, I am ready. Who is to do the deed, father, you
or the butcher? It must be done. You have sworn it, and I swear before God
and by my maidenhood that I will not tell you the name of the man who
wrote the letter. I love him, and before I will tell you his name or
forego his love for me, or before I will abate one jot or tittle of my
love for him, I will gladly die by the whip in your hand. I am ready for
the whip, father. I am ready. Let us have it over quickly."

The girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the door
leading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move. I was deeply
affected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the flogging
if to do so should cost Sir George's life at my hands. I would have
killed him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip upon
Dorothy's back.

"Father," continued the terrible girl, "are you not going to flog me?
Remember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before God and upon
your knighthood. A forsworn Christian? A forsworn knight? A forsworn
Vernon? The lash, father, the lash--I am eager for it."

Sir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward the
door. Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, and
she whispered the words, "Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!"

As she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his arms
toward her and in a wail of agony cried: "Doll! Doll! My daughter! My
child! God help me!"

He covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment as
the tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbing
forth the anguish of which his soul was full.

In an instant Dorothy was by her father's side holding his head upon her
lap. She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamed
from her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance.

"I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all. I will give him up; I
will see him never again. I will try not to love him. Oh, father, forgive
me, forgive me. I will never again deceive you so long as I live."

Truly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken. When one swears
to do too much, one performs too little.

I helped Sir George rise to his feet.

Dorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but he
repulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her name
quitted the room with tottering steps.

When her father had gone Dorothy stood in revery for a little time, and
then looking toward the door through which her father had just passed, she
spoke as if to herself: "He does not know. How fortunate!"

"But you said you would tell him," I suggested. "You said you would give
him up."

Dorothy was in a deep revery. She took her bodice from the floor and
mechanically put it on.

"I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give--give him
up," she replied; "but I will do neither. Father would not meet my love
with love. He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance when
it was he who should have repented. I was alarmed and grieved for father's
sake when I said that I would tell him about--about John, and would give
him up." She was silent and thoughtful for a little time. "Give him up?"
she cried defiantly. "No, not for my soul; not for ten thousand thousand
souls. When my father refused my love, he threw away the only opportunity
he shall ever have to learn from me John's name. That I swear, and I shall
never be forsworn. I asked father's forgiveness when he should have begged
for mine. Whip me in the courtyard, would he, till I should bleed! Yet I
was willing to forgive him, and he would not accept my forgiveness. I was
willing to forego John, who is more than life to me; but my father would
not accept my sacrifice. Truly will I never be so great a fool the second
time. Malcolm, I will not remain here to be the victim of another insult
such as my father put upon me to-day. There is no law, human or divine,
that gives to a parent the right to treat his daughter as my father has
used me. Before this day my conscience smote me when I deceived him, and I
suffered pain if I but thought of my father. But now, thanks to his
cruelty, I may be happy without remorse. Malcolm, if you betray me, I
will--I will kill you if I must follow you over the world to do it."

"Do you think that I deserve that threat from you, Dorothy?" I asked.

"No, no, my dear friend, forgive me. I trust you," and she caught up my
hand and kissed it gently.

Dorothy and I remained in the banquet hail, seated upon the stone bench
under the blazoned window.

Soon Sir George returned, closely followed by two men, one of whom bore
manacles such as were used to secure prisoners in the dungeon. Sir George
did not speak. He turned to the men and motioned with his hand toward
Dorothy. I sprang to my feet, intending to interfere by force, if need be,
to prevent the outrage; but before I could speak Lady Crawford hurriedly
entered the hall and ran to Sir George's side.

"Brother," she said, "old Bess has just told me that you have given orders
for Dorothy's confinement in the dungeon. I could not believe Bess; but
these men with irons lead me to suspect that you really intend.--"

"Do not interfere in affairs that do not concern you," replied Sir George,
sullenly.

"But this does concern me greatly," said Aunt Dorothy, "and if you send
Doll to the dungeon, Madge and I will leave your house and will proclaim
your act to all England."

"The girl has disobeyed me and has lied to me, and--"

"I care not what she has done, I shall leave your house and disown you for
my brother if you perpetrate this outrage upon my niece. She is dear to me
as if she were my own child. Have I not brought her up since babyhood? If
you carry out this order, brother, I will leave Haddon Hall forever."

"And I'll go with her," cried old Bess, who stood at the door of the
screens.

"And I, too," said Dawson, who was one of the men who had entered with Sir
George.

"And I," cried the other man, throwing the manacles to the floor, "I will
leave your service."

Sir George took up the manacles and moved toward Dorothy.

"You may all go, every cursed one of you. I rule my own house, and I will
have no rebels in it. When I have finished with this perverse wench, I'll
not wait for you to go. I'll drive you all out and you may go to--"

He was approaching Dorothy, but I stepped in front of him.

"This must not be, Sir George," said I, sternly. "I shall not leave Haddon
Hall, and I fear you not. I shall remain here to protect your daughter and
you from your own violence. You cannot put me out of Haddon Hall; I will
not go."

"Why cannot I put you out of Haddon Hail?" retorted Sir George, whose rage
by that time was frightful to behold.

"Because, sir, I am a better man and a better swordsman than you are, and
because you have not on all your estates a servant nor a retainer who will
not join me against you when I tell them the cause I champion."

Dawson and his fellow stepped to my side significantly, and Sir George
raised the iron manacles as if intending to strike me. I did not move. At
the same moment Madge entered the room.

"Where is my uncle?" she asked.

Old Bess led her to Sir George. She spoke not a word, but placed her arms
gently about his neck and drew his face down to hers. Then she kissed him
softly upon the lips and said:--

"My uncle has never in all his life spoken in aught but kindness to me,
and now I beg him to be kind to Dorothy."

The heavy manacles fell clanking to the floor. Sir George placed his hand
caressingly upon Madge's head and turned from Dorothy.

[Illustration]

Lady Crawford then approached her brother and put her hand upon his arm,
saying:--

"Come with me, George, that I may speak to you in private."

She moved toward the door by which she had entered, and Madge quietly took
her uncle's hand and led him after Lady Crawford. Within five minutes Sir
George, Aunt Dorothy, and Madge returned to the room.

"Dorothy?" said Madge in a low voice.

"Here I am, Madge," murmured Dorothy, who was sitting on the bench by the
blazoned window. Madge walked gropingly over to her cousin and sat by her
side, taking her hand. Then Lady Crawford spoke to Dorothy:--

"Your father wishes me to say that you must go to your apartments in
Entrance Tower, and that you shall not leave them without his consent. He
also insists that I say to you if you make resistance or objection to this
decree, or if you attempt to escape, he will cause you to be manacled and
confined in the dungeon, and that no persuasion upon our part will lead
him from his purpose."

"Which shall it be?" asked Sir George, directing his question to Lady
Crawford.

Dorothy lifted her eyebrows, bit the corner of her lip, shrugged her
shoulders, and said:--

"Indeed, it makes no difference to me where you send me, father; I am
willing to do whatever will give you the greatest happiness. If you
consult my wishes, you will have me whipped in the courtyard till I bleed.
I should enjoy that more than anything else you can do. Ah, how tender is
the love of a father! It passeth understanding."

"Come to your apartments, Dorothy," said Lady Crawford, anxious to
separate the belligerents. "I have given your father my word of honor that
I will guard you and will keep you prisoner in your rooms. Do you not pity
me? I gave my promise only to save you from the dungeon, and painful as
the task will be, I will keep my word to your father."

"Which shall it be, father?" asked Dorothy. "You shall finish the task you
began. I shall not help you in your good work by making choice. You shall
choose my place of imprisonment. Where shall it be? Shall I go to my rooms
or to the dungeon?"

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