Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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The girl's sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for the moment
it caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise.

"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy," retorted Lady Crawford.
"She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply."

"Her father would not agree with you," replied Dorothy.

"Perhaps not," responded the aunt. "Her father's conduct causes me great
pain and grief."

"It also causes me pain," said Dorothy, sighing.

"But, Malcolm," continued the old lady, putting down her book and turning
with quickened interest toward my other self, "who, suppose you, is the
man with whom Dorothy has become so strangely entangled?"

"I cannot tell for the life of me," answered Malcolm No. 2. "Surely a
modest girl would not act as she does."

"Surely a modest girl would," replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. "Malcolm, you
know nothing of women."

"Spoken with truth," thought I.

The old lady continued: "Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do with
each other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at the
window. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish I
could help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. I
feign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I am
greatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love."

"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy," said the lovelorn young woman. "I am
sure she is fathoms deep in love."

"Nothing," said Lady Crawford, "but a great passion would have impelled
her to act as she did. Why, even Mary of Burgundy, with all her modesty,
won the husband she wanted, ay, and had him at the cost of half her rich
domain."

"I wonder if Dorothy will ever have the man she wants?" said Malcolm,
sighing in a manner entirely new to him.

"No," answered the old lady, "I fear there is no hope for Dorothy. I
wonder who he is? Her father intends that she shall soon marry Lord
Stanley. Sir George told me as much this morning when he started for
Derby-town to arrange for the signing of the marriage contract within a
day or two. He had a talk yesterday with Dorothy. She, I believe, has
surrendered to the inevitable, and again there is good feeling between her
and my brother."

Dorothy tossed her head expressively.

"It is a good match," continued Lady Crawford, "a good match, Malcolm. I
pity Dorothy; but it is my duty to guard her, and I shall do it
faithfully."

"My dear Lady Crawford," said my hat and cloak, "your words and feelings
do great credit to your heart. But have you ever thought that your niece
is a very wilful girl, and that she is full of disturbing expedients? Now
I am willing to wager my beard that she will, sooner than you suspect, see
her lover. And I am also willing to lay a wager that she will marry the
man of her choice despite all the watchfulness of her father and yourself.
Keep close guard over her, my lady, or she will escape."

Lady Crawford laughed. "She shall not escape. Have no fear of that,
Malcolm. The key to the door is always safely locked in my reticule. No
girl can outwit me. I am too old to be caught unawares by a mere child
like Dorothy. It makes me laugh, Malcolm--although I am sore at heart for
Dorothy's sake--it makes me laugh, with a touch of tears, when I think of
poor simple Dorothy's many little artifices to gain possession of this
key. They are amusing and pathetic. Poor child! But I am too old to be
duped by a girl, Malcolm, I am too old. She has no chance to escape."

I said to myself: "No one has ever become too old to be duped by a girl
who is in love. Her wits grow keen as the otter's fur grows thick for the
winter's need. I do not know your niece's plan; but if I mistake not, Aunt
Dorothy, you will in one respect, at least, soon be rejuvenated."

"I am sure Lady Crawford is right in what she says," spoke my other self,
"and Sir George is fortunate in having for his daughter a guardian who
cannot be hoodwinked and who is true to a distasteful trust. I would the
trouble were over and that Dorothy were well married."

"So wish I, Malcolm, with all my heart," replied Aunt Dorothy.

After a brief pause in the conversation Malcolm No. 2 said:--

"I must now take my leave. Will you kindly unlock the door and permit me
to say good night?"

"If you must go," answered my lady, glad enough to be left alone with her
beloved Sir Philip. Then she unlocked the door.

"Keep good watch, my dear aunt," said Malcolm. "I greatly fear that
Dorothy--" but the door closed on the remainder of the sentence and on
Dorothy Vernon.

"Nonsense!" ejaculated the old lady somewhat impatiently. "Why should he
fear for Dorothy? I hope I shall not again be disturbed." And soon she was
deep in the pages of her book.

CHAPTER IX

A TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE

I was at a loss what course to pursue, and I remained for a moment in
puzzling thought. I went back to Madge, and after closing the door, told
her of all I had seen. She could not advise me, and of course she was
deeply troubled and concerned. After deliberating, I determined to speak
to Aunt Dorothy that she might know what had happened. So I opened the
door and walked into Lady Crawford's presence. After viewing my lady's
back for a short time, I said:--

"I cannot find my hat, cloak, and sword. I left them in Dorothy's bedroom.
Has any one been here since I entered?"

The old lady turned quickly upon me, "Since you entered?" she cried in
wonderment and consternation. "Since you left, you mean. Did you not leave
this room a few minutes ago? What means this? How found you entrance
without the key?"

"I did not leave this room, Aunt Dorothy; you see I am here," I responded.

"Who did leave? Your wraith? Some one--Dorothy!" screamed the old lady in
terror. "That girl!!--Holy Virgin! where is she?"

Lady Crawford hastened to Dorothy's room and returned to me in great
agitation.

"Were you in the plot?" she demanded angrily.

"No more than were you, Lady Crawford," I replied, telling the exact
truth. If I were accessory to Dorothy's crime, it was only as a witness
and Aunt Dorothy had seen as much as I.

I continued: "Dorothy left Lady Madge and me at the window, saying she
wished to make a change in her garments. I was watching the sunset and
talking with Lady Madge."

Lady Crawford, being full of concern about the main event,--Dorothy's
escape,--was easily satisfied that I was not accessory before the fact.

"What shall I do, Malcolm? What shall I do? Help me, quickly. My brother
will return in the morning--perhaps he will return to-night--and he will
not believe that I have not intentionally permitted Dorothy to leave the
Hall. I have of late said so much to him on behalf of the girl that he
suspects me already of being in sympathy with her. He will not believe me
when I tell him that I have been duped. The ungrateful, selfish girl! How
could she so unkindly return my affection!"

The old lady began to weep.

I did not believe that Dorothy intended to leave Haddon Hall permanently.
I felt confident she had gone out only to meet John, and was sure she
would soon return. On the strength of that opinion I said: "If you fear
that Sir George will not believe you--he certainly will blame you--would
it not be better to admit Dorothy quietly when she returns and say nothing
to any one concerning the escapade? I will remain here in these rooms, and
when she returns I will depart, and the guards will never suspect that
Dorothy has left the Hall."

"If she will but return," wailed Aunt Dorothy, "I shall be only too glad
to admit her and to keep silent."

"I am sure she will," I answered. "Leave orders with the guard at Sir
George's door to admit me at any time during the night, and Dorothy will
come in without being recognized. Her disguise must be very complete if
she could deceive you."

"Indeed, her disguise is complete," replied the tearful old lady.

Dorothy's disguise was so complete and her resemblance to me had been so
well contrived that she met with no opposition from the guards in the
retainer's room nor from the porter. She walked out upon the terrace where
she strolled for a short time. Then she climbed over the wall at the stile
back of the terrace and took her way up Bowling Green Hill toward the
gate. She sauntered leisurely until she was out of sight of the Hall. Then
gathering up her cloak and sword she sped along the steep path to the hill
crest and thence to the gate.

Soon after the first day of her imprisonment she had sent a letter to John
by the hand of Jennie Faxton, acquainting him with the details of all that
had happened. In her letter, among much else, she said:--

"My true love, I beg you to haunt with your presence Bowling Green Gate
each day at the hour of sunset. I cannot tell you when I shall be there to
meet you, or surely I would do so now. But be there I will. Let no doubt
of that disturb your mind. It does not lie in the power of man to keep me
from you. That is, it lies in the power of but one man, you, my love and
my lord, and I fear not that you will use your power to that end. So it is
that I beg you to wait for me at sunset hour each day near by Bowling
Green Gate. You may be caused to wait for me a long weary time; but one
day, sooner or later, I shall go to you, and then--ah, then, if it be in
my power to reward your patience, you shall have no cause for complaint."

When Dorothy reached the gate she found it securely locked. She peered
eagerly through the bars, hoping to see John. She tried to shake the
heavy iron structure to assure herself that it could not be opened.

"Ah, well," she sighed, "I suppose the reason love laughs at locksmiths is
because he--or she--can climb."

Then she climbed the gate and sprang to the ground on the Devonshire side
of the wall.

"What will John think when he sees me in this attire?" she said half
aloud. "Malcolm's cloak serves but poorly to cover me, and I shall instead
be covered with shame and confusion when John comes. I fear he will think
I have disgraced myself." Then, with a sigh, "But necessity knows no
raiment."

She strode about near the gate for a few minutes, wishing that she were
indeed a man, save for one fact: if she were not a woman, John would not
love her, and, above all, she could not love John. The fact that she could
and did love John appealed to Dorothy as the highest, sweetest privilege
that Heaven or earth could offer to a human being.

The sun had sunk in the west, and his faint parting glory was but dimly to
be seen upon a few small clouds that floated above Overhaddon Hill. The
moon was past its half; and the stars, still yellow and pale from the
lingering glare of day, waited eagerly to give their twinkling help in
lighting the night. The forest near the gate was dense, and withal the
fading light of the sun and the dawning beams of the moon and stars, deep
shadow enveloped Dorothy and all the scene about her. The girl was
disappointed when she did not see Manners, but she was not vexed. There
was but one person in all the world toward whom she held a patient, humble
attitude--John. If he, in his greatness, goodness, and condescension,
deigned to come and meet so poor a person as Dorothy Vernon, she would be
thankful and happy; if he did not come, she would be sorrowful. His will
was her will, and she would come again and again until she should find
him waiting for her, and he should stoop to lift her into heaven.

If there is a place in all the earth where red warm blood counts for its
full value, it is in a pure woman's veins. Through self-fear it brings to
her a proud reserve toward all mankind till the right one comes. Toward
him it brings an eager humbleness that is the essence and the life of
Heaven and of love. Poets may praise snowy women as they will, but the
compelling woman is she of the warm blood. The snowy woman is the lifeless
seed, the rainless cloud, the unmagnetic lodestone, the drossful iron. The
great laws of nature affect her but passively. If there is aught in the
saying of the ancients, "The best only in nature can survive," the day of
her extermination will come. Fire is as chaste as snow, and infinitely
more comforting.

Dorothy's patience was not to be tried for long. Five minutes after she
had climbed the gate she beheld John riding toward her from the direction
of Rowsley, and her heart beat with thrill upon thrill of joy. She felt
that the crowning moment of her life was at hand. By the help of a subtle
sense--familiar spirit to her love perhaps--she knew that John would ask
her to go with him and to be his wife, despite all the Rutlands and
Vernons dead, living, or to be born. The thought of refusing him never
entered her mind. Queen Nature was on the throne in the fulness of power,
and Dorothy, in perfect attune with her great sovereign, was fulfilling
her destiny in accordance with the laws to which her drossless being was
entirely amenable.

Many times had the fear come to her that Sir John Manners, who was heir to
the great earldom of Rutland,--he who was so great, so good, and so
beautiful,--might feel that his duty to his house past, present, and
future, and the obligations of his position among the grand nobles of the
realm, should deter him from a marriage against which so many good reasons
could be urged. But this evening her familiar spirit whispered to her that
she need not fear, and her heart was filled with joy and certainty. John
dismounted and tethered his horse at a short distance from the gate. He
approached Dorothy, but halted when he beheld a man instead of the girl
whom he longed to meet. His hesitancy surprised Dorothy, who, in her
eagerness, had forgotten her male attire. She soon saw, however, that he
did not recognize her, and she determined, in a spirit of mischief, to
maintain her incognito till he should penetrate her disguise.

She turned her back on John and sauntered leisurely about, whistling
softly. She pretended to be unconscious of his presence, and John, who
felt that the field was his by the divine right of love, walked to the
gate and looked through the bars toward Bowling Green. He stood at the
gate for a short time with indifference in his manner and irritation in
his heart. He, too, tried to hum a tune, but failed. Then he tried to
whistle, but his musical efforts were abortive. There was no music in him.
A moment before his heart had been full of harmony; but when he found a
man instead of his sweetheart, the harmony quickly turned to rasping
discord.

John was not a patient man, and his impatience was apt to take the form of
words and actions. A little aimless stalking about at the gate was more
than enough for him, so he stepped toward the intruder and lifted his hat.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "I thought when first I saw you that you
were Sir Malcolm Vernon. I fancied you bore resemblance to him. I see that
I was in error."

"Yes, in error," answered my beard.

Again the two gentlemen walked around each other with great amusement on
the part of one, and with ever increasing vexation on the part of the
other.

Soon John said, "May I ask whom have I the honor to address?"

"Certainly, you may ask," was the response.

A silence ensued during which Dorothy again turned her back on John and
walked a few paces away from him. John's patience was rapidly oozing, and
when the unknown intruder again turned in his direction, John said with
all the gentleness then at his command:--

"Well, sir, I do ask."

"Your curiosity is flattering," said the girl.

"Pardon me, sir," returned John. "My curiosity is not intended to be
flattering. I--"

"I hope it is not intended to be insulting, sir?" asked my hat and cloak.

"That, sir, all depends upon yourself," retorted John, warmly. Then after
an instant of thought, he continued in tones of conciliation:--

"I have an engagement of a private nature at this place. In short, I hope
to meet a--a friend here within a few minutes and I feel sure that under
the circumstances so gallant a gentleman as yourself will act with due
consideration for the feelings of another. I hope and believe that you
will do as you would be done by."

"Certainly, certainly," responded the gallant. "I find no fault at all
with your presence. Please take no account whatever of me. I assure you I
shall not be in the least disturbed."

John was somewhat disconcerted.

"Perhaps you will not be disturbed," replied John, struggling to keep down
his temper, "but I fear you do not understand me. I hope to meet a--a lady
and--"

"I hope also to meet a--a friend," the fellow said; "but I assure you we
shall in no way conflict."

"May I ask," queried John, "if you expect to meet a gentleman or a lady?"

"Certainly you may ask," was the girl's irritating reply.

"Well, well, sir, I do ask," said John. "Furthermore, I demand to know
whom you expect to meet at this place."

"That, of course, sir, is no business of yours."

"But I shall make it my affair. I expect to meet a lady here, my
sweetheart." The girl's heart jumped with joy. "And if you have any of the
feelings of a gentleman, you must know that your presence will be
intolerable to me."

"Perhaps it will be, my dear sir, but I have as good a right here as you
or any other. If you must know all about my affairs, I tell you I, too,
hope to meet my sweetheart at this place. In fact, I know I shall meet my
sweetheart, and, my good fellow, I beg to inform you that a stranger's
presence would be very annoying to me."

John was at his wit's end. He must quickly do or say something to persuade
this stubborn fellow to leave. If Dorothy should come and see two persons
at the gate she, of course, would return to the Hall. Jennie Faxton, who
knew that the garments were finished, had told Sir John that he might
reasonably expect to see Dorothy at the gate on that evening, for Sir
George had gone to Derby-town, presumably to remain over night.

In sheer desperation John said, "I was here first, and I claim the
ground."

"That is not true," replied the other. "I have been waiting here for
you--I mean for the person I am to meet--" Dorothy thought she had
betrayed herself, and that John would surely recognize her. "I had been
waiting full five minutes before you arrived."

John's blindness in failing to recognize Dorothy is past my understanding.
He explained it to me afterward by saying that his eagerness to see
Dorothy, and his fear, nay almost certainty, that she could not come,
coupled with the hope which Jennie Faxton had given him, had so completely
occupied his mind that other subjects received but slight consideration.

"But I--I have been here before this night to meet--"

"And I have been here to meet--quite as often as you, I hope," retorted
Dorothy.

They say that love blinds a man. It must also have deafened John, since he
did not recognize his sweetheart's voice.

"It may be true that you have been here before this evening," retorted
John, angrily; "but you shall not remain here now. If you wish to save
yourself trouble, leave at once. If you stalk about in the forest, I will
run you through and leave you for the crows to pick."

"I have no intention of leaving, and if I were to do so you would regret
it; by my beard, you would regret it," answered the girl, pleased to see
John in his overbearing, commanding mood. His stupidity was past
comprehension.

"Defend yourself," said John, drawing his sword.

"Now he will surely know the truth," thought Dorothy, but she said: "I am
much younger than you, and am not so large and strong. I am unskilled in
the use of a sword, and therefore am I no match for Sir John Manners than
whom, I have heard, there is no better swordsman, stronger arm, nor braver
heart in England."

"You flatter me, my friend," returned John, forced into a good humor
against his will; "but you must leave. He who cannot defend himself must
yield; it is the law of nature and of men."

John advanced toward Dorothy, who retreated stepping backward, holding her
arm over her face.

"I am ready to yield if you wish. In fact, I am eager to yield--more eager
than you can know," she cried.

"It is well," answered John, putting his sword in sheath.

"But," continued Dorothy, "I will not go away."

"Then you must fight," said John.

"I tell you again I am willing, nay, eager to yield to you, but I also
tell you I cannot fight in the way you would have me. In other ways
perhaps I can fight quite as well as anybody. But really, I am ashamed to
draw my sword, since to do so would show you how poorly I am equipped to
defend myself under your great laws of nature and of man. Again, I wish to
assure you that I am more than eager to yield; but I cannot fight you, and
I will not go away."

The wonder never ceases that John did not recognize her. She took no pains
to hide her identity, and after a few moments of concealment she was
anxious that John should discover her under my garments.

"I would know his voice," she thought, "did he wear all the petticoats in
Derbyshire."

"What shall I do with you?" cried John, amused and irritated. "I cannot
strike you."

"No, of course you would not murder me in cold blood," answered Dorothy,
laughing heartily. She was sure her laughter would open John's eyes.

"I cannot carry you away," said John.

"I would come back again, if you did," answered the irrepressible fellow.

"I suppose you would," returned John, sullenly. "In the devil's name, tell
me what you will do. Can I not beg you to go?"

"Now, Sir John, you have touched me. I make you this offer: you expect
Mistress Vernon to come from the Hall--"

"What do you know about Mistress Vernon?" cried John. "By God, I will--"

"Now don't grow angry, Sir John, and please don't swear in my presence.
You expect her, I say, to come from the Hall. What I propose is this: you
shall stand by the gate and watch for Doll--oh, I mean Mistress
Vernon--and I will stand here behind the wall where she cannot see me.
When she comes in sight--though in truth I don't think she will come, and
I believe were she under your very nose you would not see her--you shall
tell me and I will leave at once; that is, if you wish me to leave. After
you see Dorothy Vernon if you still wish me to go, I pledge my faith no
power can keep me. Now is not that fair? I like you very much, and I want
to remain here, if you will permit me, and talk to you for a little
time--till you see Doll Vernon."

"Doll Vernon, fellow? How dare you so speak of her?" demanded John, hotly.

"Your pardon and her pardon, I beg; Mistress Vernon, soon to be Countess
of Derbyshire. By the way, I wager you a gold pound sterling that by the
time you see Doll Vernon--Mistress Vernon, I pray your pardon--you will
have grown so fond of me that you will not permit me to leave you." She
thought after that speech he could not help but know her; but John's skull
was like an oaken board that night. Nothing could penetrate it. He began
to fancy that his companion was a simple witless person who had escaped
from his keepers.

"Will you take the wager?" asked Dorothy.

"Nonsense!" was the only reply John deigned to give to so foolish a
proposition.

"Then will you agree that I shall remain at the gate till Doll--Mistress
Vernon comes?"

"I suppose I shall have to make the best terms possible with you," he
returned. "You are an amusing fellow and as perverse as a woman."

"I knew you would soon learn to like me," she responded. "The first step
toward a man's affection is to amuse him. That old saw which says the road
to a man's heart is through his stomach, is a sad mistake. Amusement is
the highway to a man's affections."

"It is better that one laugh with us than at us. There is a vast
difference in the two methods," answered John, contemptuously.

"You dare to laugh at me," cried Dorothy, grasping the hilt of her sword,
and pretending to be angry. John waved her off with his hand, and
laughingly said, "Little you know concerning the way to a man's heart, and
no doubt less of the way to a woman's."

"I, perhaps, know more about it than you would believe," returned Malcolm
No. 2.

"If you know aught of the latter subject, it is more than I would
suppose," said John. "It is absurd to say that a woman can love a man who
is unable to defend himself."

"A vain man thinks that women care only for men of his own pattern,"
retorted Dorothy. "Women love a strong arm, it is true, but they also love
a strong heart, and you see I am not at all afraid of you, even though you
have twice my strength. There are as many sorts of bravery, Sir John,
as--as there are hairs in my beard."

"That is not many," interrupted John.

"And," continued the girl, "I believe, John,--Sir John,--you possess all
the kinds of bravery that are good."

"You flatter me," said John.

"Yes," returned Dorothy, "that was my intent."

After that unflattering remark there came a pause. Then the girl continued
somewhat hesitatingly: "Doubtless many women, Sir John, have seen your
virtues more clearly than even I see them. Women have a keener perception
of masculine virtues than--than we have."

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