Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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"So much hair," responded Dorothy, laughing.

"It were blasphemy, lady, to compare my hair with yours," returned Thomas.
"Your hair, I make sure, is such as the blessed Virgin had. I ask your
pardon for speaking so plainly; but your words put the thought into my
mind, and perhaps they gave me license to speak."

Thomas was on his knees, placing wood upon the fire.

"Thomas," returned Dorothy, "you need never apologize to a lady for making
so fine a speech. I declare a courtier could not have made a better one."

"Perhaps I have lived among courtiers, lady," said Thomas.

"I doubt not," replied Dorothy, derisively. "You would have me believe you
are above your station. It is the way with all new servants. I suppose
you have seen fine company and better days."

"I have never seen finer company than now, and I have never known better
days than this," responded courtier Thomas. Dorothy thought he was
presuming on her condescension, and was about to tell him so when he
continued: "The servants at Haddon Hall are gentlefolk compared with
servants at other places where I have worked, and I desire nothing more
than to find favor in Sir George's eyes. I would do anything to achieve
that end."

Dorothy was not entirely reassured by Thomas's closing words; but even if
they were presumptuous, she admired his wit in giving them an inoffensive
turn. From that day forth the acquaintance grew between the servant and
mistress until it reached the point of familiarity at which Dorothy dubbed
him Tom-Tom.

Frequently Dorothy was startled by remarks made by Thomas, having in them
a strong dash of familiarity; but he always gave to his words a harmless
turn before she could resent them. At times, however, she was not quite
sure of his intention.

Within a week after Thomas's advent to the hall, Dorothy began to suspect
that the new servant looked upon her with eyes of great favor. She
frequently caught him watching her, and at such times his eyes, which
Dorothy thought were really very fine, would glow with an ardor all too
evident. His manner was cause for amusement rather than concern, and since
she felt kindly toward the new servant, she thought to create a faithful
ally by treating him graciously. She might, she thought, need Thomas's
help when the time should come for her to leave Haddon Hall with John, if
that happy time should ever come. She did not realize that the most
dangerous, watchful enemy to her cherished scheme would be a man who was
himself in love with her, even though he were a servant, and she looked on
Thomas's evident infatuation with a smile. She did not once think that in
the end it might cause her great trouble, so she accepted his mute
admiration, and thought to make use of it later on. To Tom, therefore,
Dorothy was gracious.

John had sent word to Dorothy, by Jennie Faxton, that he had gone to
London, and would be there for a fortnight or more.

Sir George had given permission to his daughter to ride out whenever she
wished to do so, but he had ordered that Dawson or I should follow in the
capacity of spy, and Dorothy knew of the censorship, though she pretended
ignorance of it. So long as John was in London she did not care who
followed her; but I well knew that when Manners should return, Dorothy
would again begin manoeuvring, and that by some cunning trick she would
see him.

[Illustration]

One afternoon I was temporarily absent from the Hall and Dorothy wished to
ride. Dawson was engaged, and when Dorothy had departed, he ordered Tom to
ride after his mistress at a respectful distance. Nearly a fortnight had
passed since John had gone to London, and when Dorothy rode forth that
afternoon she was beginning to hope he might have returned, and that by
some delightful possibility he might then be loitering about the old
trysting-place at Bowling Green Gate. There was a half-unconscious
conviction in her heart that he would be there. She determined therefore,
to ride toward Rowsley, to cross the Wye at her former fording-place, and
to go up to Bowling Green Gate on the Devonshire side of the Haddon wall.
She had no reason, other than the feeling born of her wishes, to believe
that John would be there; but she loved the spot for the sake of the
memories which hovered about it. She well knew that some one would follow
her from the Hall; but she felt sure that in case the spy proved to be
Dawson or myself, she could easily arrange matters to her satisfaction, if
by good fortune she should find her lover at the gate.

Tom rode so far behind his mistress that she could not determine who was
following her. Whenever she brought Dolcy to a walk, Tom-Tom also walked
his horse. When Dorothy galloped, he galloped; but after Dorothy had
crossed the Wye and had taken the wall over into the Devonshire lands, Tom
also crossed the river and wall and quickly rode to her side. He uncovered
and bowed low with a familiarity of manner that startled her. The act of
riding up to her and the manner in which he took his place by her side
were presumptuous to the point of insolence, and his attitude, although
not openly offensive, was slightly alarming. She put Dolcy to a gallop;
but the servant who, she thought, was presuming on her former
graciousness, kept close at Dolcy's heels. The man was a stranger, and she
knew nothing of his character. She was alone in the forest with him, and
she did not know to what length his absurd passion for her might lead him.
She was alarmed, but she despised cowardice, although she knew herself to
be a coward, and she determined to ride to the gate, which was but a short
distance ahead of her. She resolved that if the insolent fellow continued
his familiarity, she would teach him a lesson he would never forget. When
she was within a short distance of the gate she sprang from Dolcy and
handed her rein to her servant. John was not there, but she went to the
gate in the hope that a letter might be hidden beneath the stone bench
where Jennie was wont to find them in times past. Dorothy found no letter,
but she could not resist the temptation to sit down upon the bench where
he and she had sat, and to dream over the happy moments she had spent
there. Tom, instead of holding the horses, hitched them, and walked toward
Dorothy. That act on the part of her servant was effrontery of the most
insolent sort. Will Dawson himself would not have dared do such a thing.
It filled her with alarm, and as Tom approached she was trying to
determine in what manner she would crush him. But when the audacious
Thomas, having reached the gate, seated himself beside his mistress on the
stone bench, the girl sprang to her feet in fright and indignation. She
began to realize the extent of her foolhardiness in going to that secluded
spot with a stranger.

"How dare you approach me in this insolent fashion?" cried Dorothy,
breathless with fear.

"Mistress Vernon," responded Thomas, looking boldly up into her pale face,
"I wager you a gold pound sterling that if you permit me to remain here by
your side ten minutes you will be unwilling--"

"John, John!" cried the girl, exultantly. Tom snatched the red beard from
his face, and Dorothy, after one fleeting, luminous look into his eyes,
fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. She wept, and John,
bending over the kneeling girl, kissed her sunlit hair.

"Cruel, cruel," sobbed Dorothy. Then she lifted her head and clasped her
hands about his neck. "Is it not strange," she continued, "that I should
have felt so sure of seeing you? My reason kept telling me that my hopes
were absurd, but a stronger feeling full of the breath of certainty seemed
to assure me that you would be here. It impelled me to come, though I
feared you after we crossed the wall. But reason, fear, and caution were
powerless to keep me away."

"You did not know my voice," said John, "nor did you penetrate my
disguise. You once said that you would recognize me though I wore all the
petticoats in Derbyshire."

"Please don't jest with me now," pleaded Dorothy. "I cannot bear it. Great
joy is harder to endure than great grief. Why did you not reveal yourself
to me at the Hall?" she asked plaintively.

"I found no opportunity," returned John, "others were always present."

I shall tell you nothing that followed. It is no affair of yours nor of
mine.

They were overjoyed in being together once more. Neither of them seemed to
realize that John, while living under Sir George's roof, was facing death
every moment. To Dorothy, the fact that John, who was heir to one of
England's noblest houses, was willing for her sake to become a servant, to
do a servant's work, and to receive the indignities constantly put upon a
servant, appealed most powerfully. It added to her feeling for him a
tenderness which is not necessarily a part of passionate love.

It is needless for me to tell you that while John performed faithfully the
duty of keeping bright the fires in Haddon Hall, he did not neglect the
other flame--the one in Dorothy's heart--for the sake of whose warmth he
had assumed the leathern garb of servitude and had placed his head in the
lion's mouth.

At first he and Dorothy used great caution in exchanging words and
glances, but familiarity with danger breeds contempt for it. So they
utilized every opportunity that niggard chance offered, and blinded by
their great longing soon began to make opportunities for speech with each
other, thereby bringing trouble to Dorothy and deadly peril to John. Of
that I shall soon tell you.

During the period of John's service in Haddon Hall negotiations for
Dorothy's marriage with Lord Stanley were progressing slowly but surely.
Arrangements for the marriage settlement by the Stanleys, and for
Dorothy's dower to be given by Sir George, were matters that the King of
the Peak approached boldly as he would have met any other affair of
business. But the Earl of Derby, whose mind moved slowly, desiring that a
generous portion of the Vernon wealth should be transferred with Dorothy
to the Stanley holdings without the delay incident to Sir George's death,
put off signing the articles of marriage in his effort to augment the cash
payment. In truth, the great wealth which Dorothy would bring to the house
of Stanley was the earl's real reason for desiring her marriage with his
son. The earl was heavily in debt, and his estate stood in dire need of
help.

Sir George, though attracted by the high nobility of the house of Stanley,
did not relish the thought that the wealth he had accumulated by his own
efforts, and the Vernon estates which had come down to him through
centuries, should go to pay Lord Derby's debts. He therefore insisted that
Dorothy's dower should be her separate estate, and demanded that it should
remain untouched and untouchable by either of the Stanleys. That
arrangement did not suit my lord earl, and although the son since he had
seen Dorothy at Derby-town was eager to possess the beautiful girl, his
father did not share his ardor. Lawyers were called in who looked
expensively wise, but they accomplished the purpose for which they were
employed. An agreement of marriage was made and was drawn up on an
imposing piece of parchment, brave with ribbons, pompous with seals, and
fair in clerkly penmanship.

One day Sir George showed me the copy of the contract which had been
prepared for him. That evening at the cost of much labor he and I went
over the indenture word for word, and when we had finished Sir George
thought it was very good indeed. He seemed to think that all difficulties
in the way of the marriage were overcome when the agreement that lay
before us on the table had been achieved between him and the earl. I knew
Sir George's troubles had only begun; for I was aware of a fact which it
seemed impossible for him to learn, though of late Dorothy had given him
much teaching thereto. I knew that he had transmitted to his daughter a
large portion of his own fierce, stubborn, unbreakable will, and that in
her it existed in its most deadly form--the feminine. To me after supper
that night was assigned the task of reading and rereading many times to
Sir George the contents of the beautiful parchment. When I would read a
clause that particularly pleased my cousin, he insisted on celebrating the
event by drinking a mug of liquor drawn from a huge leather stoup which
sat upon the table between us. By the time I had made several readings of
the interesting document the characters began to mingle in a way that did
not impart ease and clearness to my style. Some of the strange
combinations which I and the liquor extracted from amid the seals and
ribbons puzzled Sir George not a little. But with each new libation he
found new clauses and fresh causes for self-congratulation, though to
speak exact truth I more than once married Sir George to the Earl of
Derby, and in my profanity gave Lord James Stanley to the devil to have
and to hold.

Sir George was rapidly falling before his mighty enemy, drink, and I was
not far behind him, though I admit the fault with shame. My cousin for a
while was mightily pleased with the contract; but when the liquor had
brought him to a point where he was entirely candid with himself, he let
slip the fact that after all there was regret at the bottom of the goblet,
metaphorically and actually. Before his final surrender to drink he
dropped the immediate consideration of the contract and said:--

"Malcolm, I have in my time known many fools, but if you will permit an
old man, who loves you dearly, to make a plain statement of his
conviction--"

"Certainly," I interrupted.

"It would be a great relief to me," he continued, "to say that I believe
you to be the greatest fool the good God ever permitted to live."

"I am sure, Sir George, that your condescending flattery is very
pleasing," I said.

Sir George, unmindful of my remark, continued, "Your disease is not
usually a deadly malady, as a look about you will easily show; but,
Malcolm, if you were one whit more of a fool, you certainly would perish."

I was not offended, for I knew that my cousin meant no offence.

"Then, Sir George, if the time ever comes when I wish to commit suicide, I
have always at hand an easy, painless mode of death. I shall become only a
little more of a fool." I laughingly said, "I will do my utmost to absorb
a little wisdom now and then as a preventive."

"Never a bit of wisdom will you ever absorb. A man who would refuse a girl
whose wealth and beauty are as great as Dorothy's, is past all hope. I
often awaken in the dark corners of the night when a man's troubles stalk
about his bed like livid demons; and when I think that all of this evil
which has come up between Dorothy and me, and all of this cursed
estrangement which is eating out my heart could have been averted if you
had consented to marry her, I cannot but feel--"

"But, Sir George," I interrupted, "it was Dorothy, not I, who refused. She
could never have been brought to marry me."

"Don't tell me, Malcolm; don't tell me," cried the old man, angrily. Drink
had made Sir George sullen and violent. It made me happy at first; but
with liquor in excess there always came to me a sort of frenzy.

"Don't tell me," continued Sir George. "There never lived a Vernon who
couldn't win a woman if he would try. But put all that aside. She would
have obeyed me. I would have forced her to marry you, and she would have
thanked me afterward."

"You could never have forced her to marry me," I replied.

"But that I could and that I would have done," said Sir George. "The like
is done every day. Girls in these modern times are all perverse, but they
are made to yield. Take the cases of Sir Thomas Mobley, Sir Grant Rhodas,
and William Kimm. Their daughters all refused to marry the men chosen for
them, but the wenches were made to yield. If I had a daughter who refused
to obey me, I would break her; I would break her. Yes, by God, I would
break her if I had to kill her," and the old man brought his clenched hand
down upon the oak table with a crash. His eyes glared frightfully, and his
face bore a forbidding expression which boded no good for Dorothy.

"She will make trouble in this matter," Sir George continued, tapping the
parchment with his middle finger.

"She will make trouble about this; but, by God, Malcolm, she shall obey
me."

He struck the oaken table another great blow with his fist, and glared
fiercely across at me.

"Lord Wyatt had trouble with his daughter when he made the marriage with
Devonshire," continued Sir George.

"A damned good match it was, too, for the girl. But she had her heart set
on young Gillman, and she refused to obey her father. She refused, by God,
point blank, to obey her father. She refused to obey the man who had given
her life. What did Wyatt do? He was a man who knew what a child owes to
its father, and, by God, Malcolm, after trying every other means to bring
the wench to her senses, after he had tried persuasion, after having in
two priests and a bishop to show her how badly she was acting, and after
he had tried to reason with her, he whipped her; yes, he whipped her till
she bled--till she bled, Malcolm, I tell you. Ah, Wyatt knew what is due
from a child to its parents. The whipping failed to bring the perverse
huzzy to obedience, so Wyatt threw her into a dungeon and starved her
till--till--"

"Till she died," I interrupted.

"Yes, till she died," mumbled Sir George, sullenly, "till she died, and it
served her right, by God, served her right."

The old man was growing very drunk, and everything was beginning to
appear distorted to me. Sir George rose to his feet, leaned toward me with
glaring eyes, struck the table a terrible blow with his fist, and said:--

"By the blood of God I swear that if Doll refuses to marry Stanley, and
persists in her refusal, I'll whip her. Wyatt is a man after my own heart.
I'll starve her. I'll kill her. Ay, if I loved her ten thousand times more
than I do, I would kill her or she should obey me."

Then dawned upon me a vision of terrible possibilities. I was sure Sir
George could not force Dorothy to marry against her will; but I feared
lest he might kill her in his effort to "break her." I do not mean that I
feared he would kill her by a direct act, unless he should do so in a
moment of frenzy induced by drink and passion, but I did fear for the
results of the breaking process. The like had often happened. It had
happened in the case of Wyatt's daughter. Dorothy under the intoxicating
influence of her passion might become so possessed by the spirit of a
martyr that she could calmly take a flogging, but my belief was that
should matters proceed to that extreme, should Sir George flog his
daughter, the chords of her highly strung nature would snap under the
tension, and she would die. I loved Dorothy for the sake of her fierce,
passionate, tender heart, and because she loved me; and even in my sober,
reflective moments I had resolved that my life, ay, and Sir George's life
also, should stand between the girl and the lash. If in calmness I could
deliberately form such a resolution, imagine the effect on my
liquor-crazed brain of Sir George's words and the vista of horrors they
disclosed. I was intoxicated. I was drunk. I say it with shame; and on
hearing Sir George's threat my half-frenzied imagination ran riot into the
foreboding future.

All the candles, save one tottering wick, were dead in their sockets, and
the room was filled with lowering phantom-like shadows from oaken floor
to grimy vaulted roof beams. Sir George, hardly conscious of what he did
and said, all his evil passions quickened with drink, leaned his hands
upon the table and glared across at me. He seemed to be the incarnation of
rage and ferocity, to so great a pitch had he wrought himself. The
sputtering candle feebly flickered, and seemed to give its dim light only
that the darksome shadows might flit and hover about us like vampires on
the scent of blood. A cold perspiration induced by a nameless fear came
upon me, and in that dark future to which my heated imagination travelled
I saw, as if revealed by black magic, fair, sweet, generous Dorothy,
standing piteously upon Bowling Green hillside. Over her drooping form
there hung in air a monster cloudlike image of her father holding in its
hand a deadly bludgeon. So black, so horrid was this shadow-demon that I
sprang from my chair with a frightful oath, and shrieked:--

"Hell is made for man because of his cruelty to woman."

Sir George had sunk into his chair. Liquor had finished its work, and the
old man, resting his head upon his folded arms, leaned forward on the
table. He was drunk--dead to the world. How long I stood in frenzied
stupor gazing at shadow-stricken Dorothy upon the hillside I do not know.
It must have been several minutes. Blood of Christ, how vividly I remember
the vision! The sunny radiance of the girl's hair was darkened and dead.
Her bending attitude was one of abject grief. Her hands covered her face,
and she was the image of woe. Suddenly she lifted her head with the quick
impulsive movement so familiar in her, and with a cry eloquent as a
child's wail for its mother called, "John," and held out her arms
imploringly toward the dim shadowy form of her lover standing upon the
hill crest. Then John's form began to fade, and as its shadowy essence
grew dim, despair slowly stole like a mask of death over Dorothy's face.
She stood for a moment gazing vacantly into space. Then she fell to the
ground, the shadow of her father hovering over her prostrate form, and the
words, "Dead, dead, dead," came to me in horrifying whispers from every
dancing shadow-demon in the room.

In trying to locate the whispers as they reverberated from floor to oaken
rafters, I turned and saw Sir George. He looked as if he were dead.

"Why should you not be dead in fact?" I cried. "You would kill your
daughter. Why should I not kill you? That will solve the whole question."

I revelled in the thought; I drank it in; I nursed it; I cuddled it; I
kissed it. Nature's brutish love for murder had deluged my soul. I put my
hand to my side for the purpose of drawing my sword or my knife. I had
neither with me. Then I remember staggering toward the fireplace to get
one of the fire-irons with which to kill my cousin. I remember that when I
grasped the fire-iron, by the strange working of habit I employed it for
the moment in its proper use; and as I began to stir the embers on the
hearth, my original purpose was forgotten. That moment of habit-wrought
forgetfulness saved me and saved Sir George's life. I remember that I sank
into the chair in front of the fireplace, holding the iron, and I thank
God that I remember nothing more.

During the night the servants aroused me, and I staggered up the stone
stairway of Eagle Tower and clambered into my room.

The next morning I awakened feeling ill. There was a taste in my mouth as
If I had been chewing a piece of the devil's boot over night. I wanted no
breakfast, so I climbed to the top of the tower, hoping the fresh morning
breeze might cool my head and cleanse my mouth. For a moment or two I
stood on the tower roof bareheaded and open-mouthed while I drank in the
fresh, purifying air. The sweet draught helped me physically; but all the
winds of Boreas could not have blown out of my head the vision of the
previous night. The question, "Was it prophetic?" kept ringing in my ears,
answerless save by a superstitious feeling of fear. Then the horrid
thought that I had only by a mere chance missed becoming a murderer came
upon me, and again was crowded from my mind by the memory of Dorothy and
the hovering spectre which had hung over her head on Bowling Green
hillside.

I walked to the north side of the tower and on looking down the first
person I saw was our new servant, Thomas, holding two horses at the
mounting stand. One of them was Dolcy, and I, feeling that a brisk ride
with Dorothy would help me to throw off my wretchedness, quickly descended
the tower stairs, stopped at my room for my hat and cloak, and walked
around to the mounting block. Dorothy was going to ride, and I supposed
she would prefer me to the new servant as a companion.

I asked Thomas if his mistress were going out for a ride, and he replied
affirmatively.

"Who is to accompany her?" I asked.

"She gave orders for me to go with her," he answered.

"Very well," I responded, "take your horse back to the stable and fetch
mine." The man hesitated, and twice he began to make reply, but finally he
said:--

"Very well, Sir Malcolm."

He hitched Dolcy to the ring in the mounting block and started back toward
the stable leading his own horse. At that moment Dorothy came out of the
tower gate, dressed for the ride. Surely no woman was ever more beautiful
than she that morning.

"Tom-Tom, where are you taking the horse?" she cried.

"To the stable, Mistress," answered the servant. "Sir Malcolm says he will
go with you."

Dorothy's joyousness vanished. From radiant brightness her expression
changed in the twinkling of an eye to a look of disappointment so
sorrowful that I at once knew there was some great reason why she did not
wish me to ride with her. I could not divine the reason, neither did I
try. I quickly said to Thomas:--

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