Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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After a time John said: "I have your promise to be my wife. Do you still
wish to keep it?"

"What an absurd question, John," replied the girl, laughing softly and
contentedly. "Why else am I here? Tell me, think you, John, should I be
here if I were not willing and eager to--to keep that promise?"

"Will you go with me notwithstanding your father's hatred of my house?" he
asked.

"Ah, truly that I will, John," she answered; "surely you know I will go
with you."

"Let us go at once. Let us lose not a moment. We have already delayed too
long," cried John in eager ecstasy.

"Not to-night, John; I cannot go to-night," she pleaded. "Think of my
attire," and she drew my cloak more closely about her. "I cannot go with
you this time. My father is angry with me because of you, although he does
not know who you are. Is it not famous to have a lover in secret of whom
nobody knows? Father is angry with me, and as I told you in my letter, he
keeps me a prisoner in my rooms. Aunt Dorothy stands guard over me. The
dear, simple old soul! She told me, thinking I was Malcolm, that she was
too old to be duped by a girl! Oh, it was too comical!" And she threw back
her head and gave forth a peal of laughter that John was reluctantly
compelled to silence. "I would so delight to tell you of the scene when I
was in Aunt Dorothy's room impersonating Malcolm; but I have so much else
to say of more importance that I know I shall not tell the half. When you
have left me, I shall remember what I most wished to say but forgot."

"No, John," she continued seriously, "my father has been cruel to me, and
I try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do love
him." Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In a
moment she continued: "It would kill him, John, were I to go with you
now. I _will_ go with you soon,--I give you my solemn promise to that--but
I cannot go now,--not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all his
cruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see me
nor will he speak to me. Think of that." The tears that had welled up to
her eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. "Aunt Dorothy and
Madge," she continued, "are so dear to me that the thought of leaving them
is torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, I
promise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love them
and my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet mother
died--and Dolcy--I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself to
leave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole life
bind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive me. You must think of the grief
and pain I shall yet pass through to go to you. It is as I told you: we
women reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I love
when I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I must
forsake for--for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise,
John, to go with you, but--but forgive me. I cannot go to-night."

"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy," said John. "The sacrifice would be all
on one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You would
forego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worth
having. I am unworthy--"

"Not that word, John," cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with--well,
not with her hand. "I shall give up a great deal," she continued, "and I
know I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you must
remember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; but
I will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the time
comes, because--because I feel that I could not live if I did not make
it."

"My father has already consented to our marriage," said John. "I told him
to-day all that had passed between you and me. He, of course, was greatly
pained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that if
you and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but would
welcome you to his heart."

"Is your father that--that sort of a man?" asked Dorothy, half in revery.
"I have always heard--" and she hesitated.

"I know," replied John, "that you have heard much evil of my father,
but--let us not talk on that theme. You will know him some day, and you
may judge him for yourself. When will you go with me, Dorothy?"

"Soon, very soon, John," she answered. "You know father intends that I
shall marry Lord Stanley. _I_ intend otherwise. The more father hurries
this marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be--be
your--that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you."

"You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?" asked
John, frightened by the thought.

"Ah," cried the girl, softly, "you know I told you that God had put into
me a great plenty of will. Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever it
is, it stands me in good hand now. You don't know how much I have of it!
You never will know until I am your--your--wife." The last word was spoken
in a soft, hesitating whisper, and her head sought shamefaced refuge on
John's breast. Of course the magic word "wife" on Dorothy's lips aroused
John to action, and--but a cloud at that moment passed over the moon and
kindly obscured the scene.

"You do not blame me, John," said Dorothy, "because I cannot go with you
to-night? You do not blame me?"

"Indeed I do not, my goddess," answered John. "You will soon be mine. I
shall await your pleasure and your own time, and when you choose to come
to me--ah, then--" And the kindly cloud came back to the moon.

CHAPTER X

THOMAS THE MAN SERVANT

After a great effort of self-denial John told Dorothy it was time for her
to return to the Hall, and he walked with her down Bowling Green Hill to
the wall back of the terrace garden.

Dorothy stood for a moment on the stile at the old stone wall, and John,
clasping her hand, said:--

"You will perhaps see me sooner than you expect," and then the cloud
considerately floated over the moon again, and John hurried away up
Bowling Green Hill.

Dorothy crossed the terrace garden, going toward the door since known as
"Dorothy's Postern." She had reached the top of the postern steps when she
heard her father's voice, beyond the north wall of the terrace garden well
up toward Bowling Green Hill. John, she knew, was at that moment climbing
the hill. Immediately following the sound of her father's voice she heard
another voice--that of her father's retainer, Sir John Guild. Then came
the word "Halt!" quickly followed by the report of a fusil, and the sharp
clinking of swords upon the hillside. She ran back to the wall, and saw
the dimly outlined forms of four men. One of them was John, who was
retreating up the hill. The others were following him. Sir George and Sir
John Guild had unexpectedly returned from Derby. They had left their
horses with the stable boys and were walking toward the kitchen door when
Sir George noticed a man pass from behind the corner of the terrace
garden wall and proceed up Bowling Green Hill. The man of course was John.
Immediately Sir George and Guild, accompanied by a servant who was with
them, started in pursuit of the intruder, and a moment afterward Dorothy
heard her father's voice and the discharge of the fusil. She climbed to
the top of the stile, filled with an agony of fear. Sir George was fifteen
or twenty yards in advance of his companion, and when John saw that his
pursuers were attacking him singly, he turned and quickly ran back to meet
the warlike King of the Peak. By a few adroit turns with his sword John
disarmed his antagonist, and rushing in upon him easily threw him to the
ground by a wrestler's trick. Guild and the servant by that time were
within six yards of Sir George and John.

"Stop!" cried Manners, "your master is on the ground at my feet. My sword
point is at his heart. Make but one step toward me and Sir George Vernon
will be a dead man."

Guild and the servant halted instantly.

"What are your terms?" cried Guild, speaking with the haste which he well
knew was necessary if he would save his master's life.

"My terms are easy," answered John. "All I ask is that you allow me to
depart in peace. I am here on no harmful errand, and I demand that I may
depart and that I be not followed nor spied upon by any one."

"You may depart in peace," said Guild. "No one will follow you; no one
will spy upon you. To this I pledge my knightly word in the name of Christ
my Saviour."

John at once took his way unmolested up the hill and rode home with his
heart full of fear lest his tryst with Dorothy had been discovered.

Guild and the servant assisted Sir George to rise, and the three started
down the hill toward the stile where Dorothy was standing. She was hidden
from them, however, by the wall. Jennie Faxton, who had been on guard
while John and Dorothy were at the gate, at Dorothy's suggestion stood on
top of the stile where she could easily be seen by Sir George when he
approached.

"When my father comes here and questions you," said Dorothy to Jennie
Faxton, "tell him that the man whom he attacked was your sweetheart."

"Never fear, mistress," responded Jennie. "I will have a fine story for
the master."

Dorothy crouched inside the wall under the shadow of a bush, and Jennie
waited on the top of the stile. Sir George, thinking the girl was Dorothy,
lost no time in approaching her. He caught her roughly by the arm and
turned her around that he might see her face.

"By God, Guild," he muttered, "I have made a mistake. I thought the girl
was Doll."

He left instantly and followed Guild and the servant to the kitchen door.
When Sir George left the stile, Dorothy hastened back to the postern of
which she had the key, and hurried toward her room. She reached the door
of her father's room just in time to see Sir George and Guild enter it.
They saw her, and supposed her to be myself. If she hesitated, she was
lost. But Dorothy never hesitated. To think, with her, was to act. She did
not of course know that I was still in her apartments. She took the
chance, however, and boldly followed Sir John Guild into her father's
room. There she paused for a moment that she might not appear to be in too
great haste, and then entered Aunt Dorothy's room where I was seated,
waiting for her.

"Dorothy, my dear child," exclaimed Lady Crawford, clasping her arms about
Dorothy's neck.

"There is no time to waste in sentiment, Aunt Dorothy," responded the
girl. "Here are your sword and cloak, Malcolm. I thank you for their use.
Don them quickly." I did so, and walked into Sir George's room, where that
worthy old gentleman was dressing a slight wound in the hand. I stopped to
speak with him; but he seemed disinclined to talk, and I left the room. He
soon went to the upper court, and I presently followed him.

Dorothy changed her garments, and she, Lady Crawford, and Madge also came
to the upper court. The braziers in the courtyard had been lighted and
cast a glare over two score half-clothed men and women who had been
aroused from their beds by the commotion of the conflict on the hillside.
Upon the upper steps of the courtyard stood Sir George and Jennie Faxton.

"Who was the man you were with?" roughly demanded Sir George of the
trembling Jennie. Jennie's trembling was assumed for the occasion.

"I will not tell you his name," she replied with tears. "He is my
sweetheart, and I will never come to the Hall again. Matters have come to
a pretty pass when a maiden cannot speak with her sweetheart at the stile
without he is set upon and beaten as if he were a hedgehog. My father is
your leal henchman, and his daughter deserves better treatment at your
hands than you have given me."

"There, there!" said Sir George, placing his hand upon her head. "I was in
the wrong. I did not know you had a sweetheart who wore a sword. When I
saw you at the stile, I was sure you were another. I am glad I was wrong."
So was Dorothy glad.

"Everybody be off to bed," said Sir George. "Ben Shaw, see that the
braziers are all blackened."

Dorothy, Madge, and Lady Crawford returned to the latter's room, and Sir
George and I entered after them. He was evidently softened in heart by the
night's adventures and by the mistake he supposed he had made.

A selfish man grows hard toward those whom he injures. A generous heart
grows tender. Sir George was generous, and the injustice he thought he had
done to Dorothy made him eager to offer amends. The active evil in all Sir
George's wrong-doing was the fact that he conscientiously thought he was
in the right. Many a man has gone to hell backward--with his face honestly
toward heaven. Sir George had not spoken to Dorothy since the scene
wherein the key to Bowling Green Gate played so important a part.

"Doll," said Sir George, "I thought you were at the stile with a man. I
was mistaken. It was the Faxton girl. I beg your pardon, my daughter. I
did you wrong."

"You do me wrong in many matters, father," replied Dorothy.

"Perhaps I do," her father returned, "perhaps I do, but I mean for the
best. I seek your happiness."

"You take strange measures at times, father, to bring about my happiness,"
she replied.

"Whom God loveth He chasteneth," replied Sir George, dolefully.

"That manner of loving may be well enough for God," retorted Dorothy with
no thought of irreverence, "but for man it is dangerous. Whom man loves he
should cherish. A man who has a good, obedient daughter--one who loves
him--will not imprison her, and, above all, he will not refuse to speak to
her, nor will he cause her to suffer and to weep for lack of that love
which is her right. A man has no right to bring a girl into this world and
then cause her to suffer as you--as you--"

She ceased speaking and sought refuge in silent feminine eloquence--tears.
One would have sworn she had been grievously injured that night.

"But I am older than you, Doll, and I know what is best for your
happiness," said Sir George.

"There are some things, father, which a girl knows with better, surer
knowledge than the oldest man living. Solomon was wise because he had so
many wives from whom he could absorb wisdom."

"Ah, well!" answered Sir George, smiling in spite of himself, "you will
have the last word."

"Confess, father," she retorted quickly, "that you want the last word
yourself."

"Perhaps I do want it, but I'll never have it," returned Sir George; "kiss
me, Doll, and be my child again."

"That I will right gladly," she answered, throwing her arms about her
father's neck and kissing him with real affection. Then Sir George said
good night and started to leave. At the door he stopped, and stood for a
little time in thought.

"Dorothy," said he, speaking to Lady Crawford, "I relieve you of your duty
as a guard over Doll. She may go and come when she chooses."

"I thank you, George," said Aunt Dorothy. "The task has been painful to
me."

Dorothy went to her father and kissed him again, and Sir George departed.

When the door was closed, Lady Crawford breathed a great sigh and said: "I
thank Heaven, Dorothy, he does not know that you have been out of your
room. How could you treat me so cruelly? How could you deceive me?"

"That, Aunt Dorothy," replied the niece, "is because you are not old
enough yet to be a match for a girl who is--who is in love."

"Shame upon you, Dorothy!" said Lady Crawford. "Shame upon you, to act as
you did, and now to speak so plainly about being in love! Malcolm said you
were not a modest girl, and I am beginning to believe him."

"Did Malcolm speak so ill of me?" asked Dorothy, turning toward me with a
smile in her eyes.

"My lady aunt," said I, turning to Lady Crawford, "when did I say that
Dorothy was an immodest girl?"

"You did not say it," the old lady admitted. "Dorothy herself said it, and
she proves her words to be true by speaking so boldly of her feelings
toward this--this strange man. And she speaks before Madge, too."

"Perhaps Madge is in the same sort of trouble. Who knows?" cried Dorothy,
laughing heartily. Madge blushed painfully. "But," continued Dorothy,
seriously, "I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it. For what else, my
dear aunt, was I created but to be in love? Tell me, dear aunt, for what
else was I created?"

"Perhaps you are right," returned the old lady, who in fact was
sentimentally inclined.

"The chief end of woman, after all, is to love," said Dorothy. "What would
become of the human race if it were not?"

"Child, child," cried the aunt, "where learned you such things?"

"They were written upon my mother's breast," continued Dorothy, "and I
learned them when I took in my life with her milk. I pray they may be
written upon my breast some day, if God in His goodness shall ever bless
me with a baby girl. A man child could not read the words."

"Dorothy, Dorothy!" cried Lady Crawford, "you shock me. You pain me."

"Again I ask," responded Dorothy, "for what else was I created? I tell
you, Aunt Dorothy, the world decrees that women shall remain in ignorance,
or in pretended ignorance--in silence at least--regarding the things
concerning which they have the greatest need to be wise and talkative."

"At your age, Dorothy, I did not have half your wisdom on the subject,"
answered Lady Crawford.

"Tell me, my sweet Aunt Dorothy, were you really in a state of ignorance
such as you would have me believe?"

"Well," responded the old lady, hesitatingly, "I did not speak of such
matters."

"Why, aunt, did you not?" asked Dorothy. "Were you ashamed of what God had
done? Were you ashamed of His great purpose in creating you a woman, and
in creating your mother and your mother's mother before you?"

"No, no, child; no, no. But I cannot argue with you. Perhaps you are
right," said Aunt Dorothy.

"Then tell me, dear aunt, that I am not immodest and bold when I speak
concerning that of which my heart is full to overflowing. God put it
there, aunt, not I. Surely I am not immodest by reason of His act."

"No, no, my sweet child," returned Aunt Dorothy, beginning to weep softly.
"No, no, you are not immodest. You are worth a thousand weak fools such as
I was at your age."

Poor Aunt Dorothy had been forced into a marriage which had wrecked her
life. Dorothy's words opened her aunt's eyes to the fact that the girl
whom she so dearly loved was being thrust by Sir George into the same
wretched fate through which she had dragged her own suffering heart for so
many years. From that hour she was Dorothy's ally.

"Good night, Malcolm," said Lady Crawford, offering me her hand. I kissed
it tenderly; then I kissed the sweet old lady's cheek and said:--

"I love you with all my heart, Aunt Dorothy."

"I thank you, Malcolm," she returned.

I took my leave, and soon Madge went to her room, leaving Dorothy and Lady
Crawford together.

When Madge had gone the two Dorothys, one at each end of life, spanned the
long years that separated them, and became one in heart by reason of a
heartache common to both.

Lady Crawford seated herself and Dorothy knelt by her chair.

"Tell me, Dorothy," said the old lady, "tell me, do you love this man so
tenderly, so passionately that you cannot give him up?"

"Ah, my dear aunt," the girl responded, "words cannot tell. You cannot
know what I feel."

"Alas! I know only too well, my child. I, too, loved a man when I was your
age, and none but God knows what I suffered when I was forced by my
parents and the priests to give him up, and to wed one whom--God help
me--I loathed."

"Oh, my sweet aunt!" cried Dorothy softly, throwing her arms about the old
lady's neck and kissing her cheek. "How terribly you must have suffered!"

"Yes," responded Lady Crawford, "and I am resolved you shall not endure
the same fate. I hope the man who has won your love is worthy of you. Do
not tell me his name, for I do not wish to practise greater deception
toward your father than I must. But you may tell me of his station in
life, and of his person, that I may know he is not unworthy of you."

"His station in life," answered Dorothy, "is far better than mine. In
person he is handsome beyond any woman's wildest dream of manly beauty. In
character he is noble, generous, and good. He is far beyond my deserts,
Aunt Dorothy."

"Then why does he not seek your hand from your father?" asked the aunt.

"That I may not tell you, Aunt Dorothy," returned the girl, "unless you
would have me tell you his name, and that I dare not do. Although he is
vastly my superior in station, in blood, and in character, still my father
would kill me before he would permit me to marry this man of my choice;
and I, dear aunt, fear I shall die if I have him not."

Light slowly dawned upon Aunt Dorothy's mind, and she exclaimed in a
terrified whisper:--

"My God, child, is it he?"

"Yes," responded the girl, "yes, it is he."

"Do not speak his name, Dorothy," the old lady said. "Do not speak his
name. So long as you do not tell me, I cannot know with certainty who he
is." After a pause Aunt Dorothy continued, "Perhaps, child, it was his
father whom I loved and was compelled to give up."

"May the blessed Virgin pity us, sweet aunt," cried Dorothy, caressingly.

"And help us," returned Lady Crawford. "I, too, shall help you," she
continued. "It will be through no fault of mine if your life is wasted as
mine has been."

Dorothy kissed her aunt and retired.

Next morning when Dorothy arose a song came from her heart as it comes
from the skylark when it sees the sun at dawn--because it cannot help
singing. It awakened Aunt Dorothy, and she began to live her life anew, in
brightness, as she steeped her soul in the youth and joyousness of Dorothy
Vernon's song.

I have spoken before in this chronicle of Will Dawson. He was a Conformer.
Possibly it was by reason of his religious faith that he did not share the
general enmity that existed in Haddon Hall against the house of Rutland.
He did not, at the time of which I speak, know Sir John Manners, and he
did not suspect that the heir to Rutland was the man who had of late been
causing so much trouble to the house of Vernon. At least, if he did
suspect it, no one knew of his suspicions.

Sir George made a great effort to learn who the mysterious interloper was,
but he wholly failed to obtain any clew to his identity. He had jumped to
the conclusion that Dorothy's mysterious lover was a man of low degree. He
had taken for granted that he was an adventurer whose station and person
precluded him from openly wooing his daughter. He did not know that the
heir to Rutland was in the Derbyshire country; for John, after his first
meeting with Dorothy, had carefully concealed his presence from everybody
save the inmates of Rutland. In fact, his mission to Rutland required
secrecy, and the Rutland servants and retainers were given to understand
as much. Even had Sir George known of John's presence at Rutland, the old
gentleman's mind could not have compassed the thought that Dorothy, who,
he believed, hated the race of Manners with an intensity equalled only by
his own feelings, could be induced to exchange a word with a member of the
house. His uncertainty was not the least of his troubles; and although
Dorothy had full liberty to come and go at will, her father kept constant
watch over her. As a matter of fact, Sir George had given Dorothy liberty
partly for the purpose of watching her, and he hoped to discover thereby
and, if possible, to capture the man who had brought trouble to his
household. Sir George had once hanged a man to a tree on Bowling Green
Hill by no other authority than his own desire. That execution was the
last in England under the old Saxon law of Infangthef and Outfangthef. Sir
George had been summoned before Parliament for the deed; but the writ had
issued against the King of the Peak, and that being only a sobriquet, was
neither Sir George's name nor his title. So the writ was quashed, and the
high-handed act of personal justice was not farther investigated by the
authorities. Should my cousin capture his daughter's lover, there would
certainly be another execution under the old Saxon law. So you see that my
friend Manners was tickling death with a straw for Dorothy's sake.

One day Dawson approached Sir George and told him that a man sought
employment in the household of Haddon Hall. Sir George placed great
confidence in his forester; so he told Dawson to employ the man if his
services were needed. The new servant proved to be a fine, strong fellow,
having a great shock of carrot-colored hair and a bushy beard of rusty
red.

Dawson engaged the newcomer, and assigned to him the duty of kindling the
fires in the family apartments of the Hall. The name of the new servant
was Thomas Thompson, a name that Dorothy soon abbreviated to Tom-Tom.

One day she said to him, by way of opening the acquaintance, "Thomas, you
and I should be good friends; we have so much in common."

"Thank you, my lady," responded Thomas, greatly pleased. "I hope we shall
be good friends; indeed, indeed I do, but I cannot tell wherein I am so
fortunate as to have anything in common with your Ladyship. What is it,
may I ask, of which we have so much in common?"

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