Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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"Go to your rooms," answered Sir George, "and let me never see--" but Sir
George did not finish the sentence. He hurriedly left the hall, and
Dorothy cheerfully went to imprisonment in Entrance Tower.

CHAPTER VIII

MALCOLM No. 2

Sir George had done a bad day's work. He had hardened Dorothy's heart
against himself and had made it more tender toward John. Since her father
had treated her so cruelly, she felt she was at liberty to give her heart
to John without stint. So when once she was alone in her room the
flood-gates of her heart were opened, and she poured forth the ineffable
tenderness and the passionate longings with which she was filled. With
solitude came the memory of John's words and John's kisses. She recalled
every movement, every word, every tone, every sensation. She gave her soul
unbridled license to feast with joyous ecstasy upon the thrilling
memories. All thoughts of her father's cruelty were drowned in a sea of
bliss. She forgot him. In truth, she forgot everything but her love and
her lover. That evening, after she had assisted Madge to prepare for bed,
as was her custom, Dorothy stood before her mirror making her toilet for
the night. In the flood of her newly found ecstasy she soon forgot that
Madge was in the room.

Dorothy stood before her mirror with her face near to its polished
surface, that she might scrutinize every feature, and, if possible, verify
John's words.

"He called me 'my beauty' twice," she thought, "and 'my Aphrodite' once."
Then her thoughts grew into unconscious words, and she spoke aloud:--

"I wish he could see me now." And she blushed at the thought, as she
should have done. "He acted as if he meant all he said," she thought. "I
know he meant it. I trust him entirely. But if he should change? Holy
Mother, I believe I should die. But I do believe him. He would not lie,
even though he is not a Vernon."

With thoughts of the scene between herself and her father at the gate,
there came a low laugh, half of amusement, half of contentment, and the
laugh meant a great deal that was to be regretted; it showed a sad change
in Dorothy's heart. But yesterday the memory of her deceit would have
filled her with grief. To-night she laughed at it. Ah, Sir George!
Pitiable old man! While your daughter laughs, you sigh and groan and moan,
and your heart aches with pain and impotent rage. Even drink fails to
bring comfort to you. I say impotent rage, because Dorothy is out of your
reach, and as surely as the sun rises in the east she is lost to you
forever. The years of protection and tender love which you have given to
her go for nothing. Now comes the son of your mortal enemy, and you are
but an obstruction in her path. Your existence is forgotten while she
revels in the memory of his words, his embraces, and his lips. She laughs
while you suffer, in obedience to the fate that Heaven has decreed for
those who bring children into this world.

Who is to blame for the pitiable mite which children give in return for a
parent's flood of love? I do not know, but of this I am sure: if parents
would cease to feel that they own their children in common with their
horses, their estates, and their cattle; if they would not, as many do in
varying degrees, treat their children as their property, the return of
love would be far more adequate than it is.

Dorothy stood before her mirror plaiting her hair. Her head was turned
backward a little to one side that she might more easily reach the great
red golden skein. In that entrancing attitude the reflection of the nether
lip of which John had spoken so fondly came distinctly to Dorothy's
notice. She paused in the braiding of her hair and held her face close to
the mirror that she might inspect the lip, whose beauty John had so
ardently admired. She turned her face from one side to the other that she
might view it from all points, and then she thrust it forward with a
pouting movement that would have set the soul of a mummy pulsing if he had
ever been a man. She stood for a moment in contemplation of the full red
lip, and then resting her hands upon the top of the mirror table leaned
forward and kissed its reflected image.

Again forgetfulness fell upon her and her thoughts grew into words.

"He was surely right concerning my lower lip," she said, speaking to
herself. Then without the least apparent relevance, "He had been smoking."
Again her words broke her revery, and she took up the unfinished braid of
hair. When she did so, she caught a glimpse of her arm which was as
perfectly rounded as the fairest marble of Phidias. She stretched the arm
to its full length that the mirror might reflect its entire beauty. Again
she thought aloud: "I wish he could see my arm. Perhaps some day--" But
the words ceased, and in their place came a flush that spread from her
hair to her full white throat, and she quickly turned the mirror away so
that even it should not behold her beauty.

You see after all is told Dorothy was modest.

She finished her toilet without the aid of her mirror; but before she
extinguished the candle she stole one more fleeting glance at its polished
surface, and again came the thought, "Perhaps some day--" Then she covered
the candle, and amid enfolding darkness lay down beside Madge, full of
thoughts and sensations that made her tremble; for they were strange to
her, and she knew not what they meant.

Dorothy thought that Madge was asleep, but after a few minutes the latter
said:--

"Tell me, Dorothy, who was on fire?"

"Who was on fire?" asked Dorothy in surprise. "What do you mean, Madge?"

"I hope they have not been trying to burn any one," said Madge.

"What do you mean?" again asked Dorothy.

"You said 'He had been smoking,'" responded Madge.

"Oh," laughed Dorothy, "that is too comical. Of course not, dear one. I
was speaking of--of a man who had been smoking tobacco, as Malcolm does."
Then she explained the process of tobacco smoking.

"Yes, I know," answered Madge. "I saw Malcolm's pipe. That is, I held it
in my hands for a moment while he explained to me its use."

Silence ensued for a moment, and Madge again spoke:--

"What was it he said about your lower lip, and who was he? I did not learn
why Uncle George wished to confine you in the dungeon. I am so sorry that
this trouble has come upon you."

"Trouble, Madge?" returned Dorothy. "Truly, you do not understand. No
trouble has come upon me. The greatest happiness of my life has come to
pass. Don't pity me. Envy me. My happiness is so sweet and so great that
it frightens me."

"How can you be happy while your father treats you so cruelly?" asked
Madge.

"His conduct makes it possible for my happiness to be complete," returned
Dorothy. "If he were kind to me, I should be unhappy, but his cruelty
leaves me free to be as happy as I may. For my imprisonment in this room I
care not a farthing. It does not trouble me, for when I wish to see--see
him again, I shall do so. I don't know at this time just how I shall
effect it; but be sure, sweet one, I shall find a way." There was no doubt
in Madge's mind that Dorothy would find a way.

"Who is he, Dorothy? You may trust me. Is he the gentleman whom we met at
Derby-town?"

"Yes," answered Dorothy, "he is Sir John Manners."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Madge in tones of fear.

"It could not be worse, could it, Madge?" said Dorothy.

"Oh, Dorothy!" was the only response.

"You will not betray me?" asked Dorothy, whose alarm made her suspicious.

"You know whether or not I will betray you," answered Madge.

"Indeed, I know, else I should not have told you my secret. Oh, you should
see him, Madge; he is the most beautiful person living. The poor soft
beauty of the fairest woman grows pale beside him. You cannot know how
wonderfully beautiful a man may be. You have never seen one."

"Yes, I have seen many men, and I well remember their appearance. I was
twelve years old, you know, when I lost my sight."

"But, Madge," said Dorothy, out of the fulness of her newly acquired
knowledge, "a girl of twelve cannot see a man."

"No woman sees with her eyes the man whom she loves," answered Madge,
quietly.

"How does she see him?" queried Dorothy.

"With her heart."

"Have you, too, learned that fact?" asked Dorothy.

Madge hesitated for a moment and murmured "Yes."

"Who is he, dear one?" whispered Dorothy.

"I may not tell even you, Dorothy," replied Madge, "because it can come
to nothing. The love is all on my part."

Dorothy insisted, but Madge begged her not to ask for her secret.

"Please don't even make a guess concerning him," said Madge. "It is my
shame and my joy."

It looked as if this malady which had fallen upon Dorothy were like the
plague that infects a whole family if one but catch it.

Dorothy, though curious, was generous, and remained content with Madge's
promise that she should be the first one to hear the sweet story if ever
the time should come to tell it.

"When did you see him?" asked Madge, who was more willing to receive than
to impart intelligence concerning affairs of the heart.

"To-day," answered Dorothy. Then she told Madge about the scenes at the
gate and described what had happened between her and Sir George in the
kitchen and banquet hall.

"How could you tell your father such a falsehood?" asked Madge in
consternation.

"It was very easy. You see I had to do it. I never lied until recently.
But oh, Madge, this is a terrible thing to come upon a girl!" "This" was
somewhat indefinite, but Madge understood, and perhaps it will be clear to
you what Dorothy meant. The girl continued: "She forgets all else. It will
drive her to do anything, however wicked. For some strange cause, under
its influence she does not feel the wrong she does. It acts upon a girl's
sense of right and wrong as poppy juice acts on pain. Before it came upon
me in--in such terrible force, I believe I should have become ill had I
told my father a falsehood. I might have equivocated, or I might have
evaded the truth in some slight degree, but I could not have told a lie.
But now it is as easy as winking."

"And I fear, Dorothy," responded Madge, "that winking is very easy for
you."

"Yes," answered candid Dorothy with a sigh.

"It must be a very great evil," said Madge, deploringly.

"One might well believe so," answered Dorothy, "but it is not. One
instinctively knows it to be the essence of all that is good."

Madge asked, "Did Sir John tell you that--that he--"

"Yes," said Dorothy, covering her face even from the flickering rays of
the rushlight.

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes," came in reply from under the coverlet.

After a short silence Dorothy uncovered her face.

"Yes," she said boldly, "I told him plainly; nor did I feel shame in so
doing. It must be that this strange love makes one brazen. You, Madge,
would die with shame had you sought any man as I have sought John. I would
not for worlds tell you how bold and over-eager I have been."

"Oh, Dorothy!" was all the answer Madge gave.

"You would say 'Oh, Dorothy,' many times if you knew all." Another pause
ensued, after which Madge asked:--

"How did you know he had been smoking?"

"I--I tasted it," responded Dorothy.

"How could you taste it? I hope you did not smoke?" returned Madge in
wonderment.

Dorothy smothered a little laugh, made two or three vain attempts to
explain, tenderly put her arms about Madge's neck and kissed her.

"Oh, Dorothy, that certainly was wrong," returned Madge, although she had
some doubts in her own mind upon the point.

"Well, if it is wrong," answered Dorothy, sighing, "I don't care to live."

"Dorothy, I fear you are an immodest girl," said Madge.

"I fear I am, but I don't care--John, John, John!"

"How came he to speak of your lower lip?" asked Madge. "It certainly is
very beautiful; but how came he to speak of it?"

"It was after--after--once," responded Dorothy.

"And your arm," continued remorseless Madge, "how came he to speak of it?
You surely did not--"

"No, no, Madge; I hope you do not think I would show him my arm. I have
not come to that. I have a poor remnant of modesty left; but the Holy
Mother only knows how long it will last. No, he did not speak of my arm."

"You spoke of your arm when you were before the mirror," responded Madge,
"and you said, 'Perhaps some day--'"

"Oh, don't, Madge. Please spare me. I indeed fear I am very wicked. I will
say a little prayer to the Virgin to-night. She will hear me, even If I am
wicked; and she will help me to become good and modest again."

The girls went to sleep, and Dorothy dreamed "John, John, John," and
slumbered happily.

That part of the building of Haddon Hall which lies to the northward, west
of the kitchen, consists of rooms according to the following plan:--

The two rooms in Entrance Tower over the great doors at the northwest
corner of Haddon Hall were occupied by Dorothy and Madge. The west room
overlooking the Wye was their parlor. The next room to the east was their
bedroom. The room next their bedroom was occupied by Lady Crawford. Beyond
that was Sir George's bedroom, and east of his room was one occupied by
the pages and two retainers. To enter Dorothy's apartments one must pass
through all the other rooms I have mentioned. Her windows were twenty-five
feet from the ground and were barred with iron. After Dorothy's sentence
of imprisonment, Lady Crawford, or some trusted person in her place, was
always on guard in Aunt Dorothy's room to prevent Dorothy's escape, and
guards were also stationed in the retainer's room for the same purpose. I
tell you this that you may understand the difficulties Dorothy would have
to overcome before she could see John, as she declared to Madge she would.
But my opinion is that there are no limits to the resources of a wilful
girl. Dorothy saw Manners. The plan she conceived to bring about the
desired end was so seemingly impossible, and her execution of it was so
adroit and daring, that I believe it will of itself Interest you in the
telling, aside from the bearing it has upon this history. No sane man
would have deemed it possible, but this wilful girl carried it to
fruition. She saw no chance of failure. To her it seemed a simple, easy
matter. Therefore she said with confidence and truth, "I will see him when
I wish to."

Let me tell you of it.

During Dorothy's imprisonment I spent an hour or two each evening with her
and Madge at their parlor in the tower. The windows of the room, as I have
told you, faced westward, overlooking the Wye, and disclosed the
beautiful, undulating scenery of Overhaddon Hill in the distance.

One afternoon when Madge was not present Dorothy asked me to bring her a
complete suit of my garments,--boots, hose, trunks, waistcoat, and
doublet. I laughed, and asked her what she wanted with them, but she
refused to tell me. She insisted, however, and I promised to fetch the
garments to her. Accordingly the next evening I delivered the bundle to
her hands. Within a week she returned them all, saving the boots. Those
she kept--for what reason I could not guess.

Lady Crawford, by command of Sir George, carried in her reticule the key
of the door which opened from her own room into Sir George's apartments,
and the door was always kept locked.

Dorothy had made several attempts to obtain possession of the key, with
intent, I believe, of making a bold dash for liberty. But Aunt Dorothy,
mindful of Sir George's wrath and fearing him above all men, acted
faithfully her part of gaoler. She smiled, half in sadness, when she told
me of the girl's simplicity in thinking she could hoodwink a person of
Lady Crawford's age, experience, and wisdom. The old lady took great pride
in her own acuteness. The distasteful task of gaoler, however, pained good
Aunt Dorothy, whose simplicity was, in truth, no match for Dorothy's
love-quickened cunning. But Aunt Dorothy's sense of duty and her fear of
Sir George impelled her to keep good and conscientious guard.

One afternoon near the hour of sunset I knocked for admission at Lady
Crawford's door. When I had entered she locked the door carefully after
me, and replaced the key in the reticule which hung at her girdle.

I exchanged a few words with her Ladyship, and entered Dorothy's bedroom,
where I left my cloak, hat, and sword. The girls were in the parlor. When
I left Lady Crawford she again took her chair near the candle, put on her
great bone-rimmed spectacles, and was soon lost to the world in the pages
of "Sir Philip de Comynges." The dear old lady was near-sighted and was
slightly deaf. Dorothy's bedroom, like Lady Crawford's apartments, was in
deep shadow. In it there was no candle.

My two fair friends were seated in one of the west windows watching the
sunset. They rose, and each gave me her hand and welcomed me with the rare
smiles I had learned to expect from them. I drew a chair near to the
window and we talked and laughed together merrily for a few minutes. After
a little time Dorothy excused herself, saying that she would leave Madge
and me while she went into the bedroom to make a change in her apparel.

Madge and I sat for a few minutes at the window, and I said, "You have not
been out to-day for exercise."

I had ridden to Derby with Sir George and had gone directly on my return
to see my two young friends. Sir George had not returned.

"Will you walk with me about the room?" I asked. My real reason for making
the suggestion was that I longed to clasp her hand, and to feel its
velvety touch, since I should lead her if we walked.

She quickly rose in answer to my invitation and offered me her hand. As we
walked to and fro a deep, sweet contentment filled my heart, and I felt
that any words my lips could coin would but mar the ineffable silence.

Never shall I forget the soft light of that gloaming as the darkening red
rays of the sinking sun shot through the panelled window across the floor
and illumined the tapestry upon the opposite wall.

The tapestries of Haddon Hall are among the most beautiful in England, and
the picture upon which the sun's rays fell was that of a lover kneeling at
the feet of his mistress. Madge and I passed and repassed the illumined
scene, and while it was softly fading into shadow a great flood of tender
love for the girl whose soft hand I held swept over my heart. It was the
noblest motive I had ever felt.

Moved by an impulse I could not resist, I stopped in our walk, and falling
to my knee pressed her hand ardently to my lips. Madge did not withdraw
her hand, nor did she attempt to raise me. She stood in passive silence.
The sun's rays had risen as the sun had sunk, and the light was falling
like a holy radiance from the gates of paradise upon the girl's head. I
looked upward, and never in my eyes had woman's face appeared so fair and
saintlike. She seemed to see me and to feel the silent outpouring of my
affection. I rose to my feet, and clasping both her hands spoke only her
name "Madge."

She answered simply, "Malcolm, is it possible?" And her face, illumined by
the sunlight and by the love-god, told me all else. Then I gently took her
to my arms and kissed her lips again and again and again, and Madge by no
sign nor gesture said me nay. She breathed a happy sigh, her head fell
upon my breast, and all else of good that the world could offer compared
with her was dross to me.

We again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her hand
without an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through the
happiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and to
lave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But my
rhapsodies must have an end.

When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom and
quickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I had
lent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak.
She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slim
waist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, and
turned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin and
upper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some manner
contrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of Malcolm
Vernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.

While sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword against
the oak floor in Dorothy's bedroom. I supposed she had been toying with it
and had let it fall. She was much of a child, and nothing could escape her
curiosity. Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy's apartments. I
whispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, and
then I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom. I
noiselessly opened the door and entered. From my dark hiding-place in
Dorothy's bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy's room which filled
me with wonder and suppressed laughter. Striding about in the
shadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford's apartment was my other self,
Malcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.

The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slanting
rays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow,
save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which
the old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously
perusing.

The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be
deepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the
most graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if she
thought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a
copy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.

"What do you read, Lady Crawford?" said my cloak and hat, in tones that
certainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.

"What do you say, Malcolm?" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to show
the ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.

"I asked what do you read?" repeated Dorothy.

"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,'" responded Lady Crawford.
"Have you read it? It is a rare and interesting history."

"Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book. I have read it many times."
There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly brought
Dorothy into trouble.

"What part of the 'Chronicle' do you best like?" asked Aunt Dorothy,
perhaps for lack of anything else to say. Here was trouble already for
Malcolm No. 2.

"That is hard for me to say. I so well like it all. Perhaps--ah--perhaps I
prefer the--the ah--the middle portion."

"Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy,"
returned Aunt Dorothy. "Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are always
thinking--the ladies, the ladies."

"Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?" my second self responded
in a gallant style of which I was really proud. "She who has caused so
much of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman's mind
cannot be better employed than--"

"Malcolm, you are incorrigible. But it is well for a gentleman to keep in
practice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practise
on."

"They like it, even if it be only practice, don't they?" said Dorothy,
full of the spirit of mischief.

"I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon," retorted Aunt Dorothy with
a toss of her head. "I surely don't value your practice, as you call it,
one little farthing's worth."

But Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of wit
than Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself.

"I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford."

"Oh!" replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book. "I have been
reading Sir Philip's account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy.
Do you remember the cause of her death?"

Malcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled to
admit that he did not remember the cause of Mary's death.

"You did not read the book with attention," replied Lady Crawford. "Sir
Philip says that Mary of Burgundy died from an excess of modesty."

"That disease will never depopulate England," was the answer that came
from my garments, much to my chagrin.

"Sir Malcolm," exclaimed the old lady, "I never before heard so ungallant
a speech from your lips."--"And," thought I, "she never will hear its like
from me."

"Modesty," continued Lady Crawford, "may not be valued so highly by young
women nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but--"

"I am sure it is not," interrupted Dorothy.

"But," continued Lady Crawford, "the young women of England are modest and
seemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of in
ungallant jest."

I trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry.

"Do you not," said Lady Crawford, "consider Dorothy and Madge to be
modest, well-behaved maidens?"

"Madge! Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be. She is a saint, but
as to Dorothy--well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for her
than death from modesty. I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form does
not kill. Dorothy has it mildly," then under her breath, "if at all."

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