Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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"Do not bring my horse. If Mistress Vernon will excuse me, I shall not
ride with her this morning. I forgot for the moment that I had not
breakfasted."

Again came to Dorothy's face the radiant look of joy as if to affirm what
it had already told me. I looked toward Thomas, and his eyes, too, were
alight. I could make nothing of it. Thomas was a fine-looking fellow,
notwithstanding his preposterous hair and beard; but I felt sure there
could be no understanding between the man and his mistress.

When Thomas and Dorothy had mounted, she timidly ventured to say:--

"We are sorry, Cousin Malcolm, that you cannot ride with us."

She did not give me an opportunity to change my mind, but struck Dolcy a
sharp blow with her whip that sent the spirited mare galloping toward the
dove-cote, and Thomas quickly followed at a respectful distance. From the
dove-cote Dorothy took the path down the Wye toward Rowsley. I, of course,
connected her strange conduct with John. When a young woman who is well
balanced physically, mentally, and morally acts in a strange, unusual
manner, you may depend on it there is a man somewhere behind her motive.

I knew that John was in London. Only the night before I had received word
from Rutland Castle that he had not returned, and that he was not expected
home for many days.

So I concluded that John could not be behind my fair cousin's motive. I
tried to stop guessing at the riddle Dorothy had set me, but my effort was
useless. I wondered and thought and guessed, but I brought to myself only
the answer, "Great is the mystery of womanhood."

After Dorothy had ridden away I again climbed to the top of Eagle Tower
and saw the riders cross the Wye at Dorothy's former fording-place, and
take the wall. I then did a thing that fills me with shame when I think of
it. For the only time in my whole life I acted the part of a spy. I
hurried to Bowling Green Gate, and horror upon horror, there I beheld my
cousin Dorothy in the arms of Thomas, the man-servant. I do not know why
the truth of Thomas's identity did not dawn upon me, but it did not, and I
stole away from the gate, thinking that Dorothy, after all, was no better
than the other women I had known at various times in my life, and I
resolved to tell John what I had seen. You must remember that the women I
had known were of the courts of Mary Stuart and of Guise, and the less we
say about them the better. God pity them! Prior to my acquaintance with
Dorothy and Madge I had always considered a man to be a fool who would put
his faith in womankind. To me women were as good as men,--no better, no
worse. But with my knowledge of those two girls there had grown up in me a
faith in woman's virtue which in my opinion is man's greatest comforter;
the lack of it his greatest torment.

I went back to Eagle Tower and stood at my window looking down the Wye,
hoping soon to see Dorothy returning home. I did not feel jealousy in the
sense that a lover would feel it; but there was a pain in my heart, a
mingling of grief, anger, and resentment because Dorothy had destroyed not
only my faith in her, but, alas! my sweet, new-born faith in womankind.
Through her fault I had fallen again to my old, black belief that virtue
was only another name for the lack of opportunity. It is easy for a man
who has never known virtue in woman to bear and forbear the lack of it;
but when once he has known the priceless treasure, doubt becomes
excruciating pain.

After an hour or two Dorothy and her servant appeared at the ford and took
the path up the Wye toward Haddon. Thomas was riding a short distance
behind his accommodating mistress, and as they approached the Hall, I
recognized something familiar in his figure. At first, the feeling of
recognition was indistinct, but when the riders drew near, something about
the man--his poise on the horse, a trick with the rein or a turn with his
stirrup, I could not tell what it was--startled me like a flash in the
dark, and the word "John!" sprang to my lips. The wonder of the thing
drove out of my mind all power to think. I could only feel happy, so I lay
down upon my bed and soon dropped off to sleep.

When I awakened I was rapt in peace, for I had again found my treasured
faith in womankind. I had hardly dared include Madge in my backsliding,
but I had come perilously near doing it, and the thought of my narrow
escape from such perfidy frightened me. I have never taken the risk since
that day. I would not believe the testimony of my own eyes against the
evidence of my faith in Madge.

I knew that Thomas was Sir John Manners, and yet I did not know it
certainly. I determined, if possible, to remain in partial ignorance,
hoping that I might with some small show of truth be able to plead
ignorance should Sir George accuse me of bad faith in having failed to
tell him of John's presence in Haddon Hall. That Sir George would sooner
or later discover Thomas's identity I had little doubt. That he would kill
him should he once have him in his power, I had no doubt at all. Hence,
although I had awakened in peace concerning Dorothy, you may understand
that I awakened to trouble concerning John.

CHAPTER XI

THE COST MARK OF JOY

Peace had been restored between Dorothy and her father. At least an
armistice had been tacitly declared. But, owing to Dorothy's knowledge of
her father's intention that she should marry Lord Stanley, and because of
Sir George's feeling that Dorothy had determined to do nothing of the
sort, the belligerent powers maintained a defensive attitude which
rendered an absolute reconciliation impossible. They were ready for war at
a moment's notice.

The strangest part of their relation was the failure of each to comprehend
and fully to realize the full strength of the other's purpose. Dorothy
could not bring herself to believe that her father, who had until within
the last few weeks, been kind and indulgent to her, seriously intended to
force her into marriage with a creature so despicable as Stanley. In fact,
she did not believe that her father could offer lasting resistance to her
ardent desire in any matter. Such an untoward happening had never befallen
her. Dorothy had learned to believe from agreeable experience that it was
a crime in any one, bordering on treason, to thwart her ardent desires. It
is true she had in certain events, been compelled to coax and even to weep
gently. On a few extreme occasions she had been forced to do a little
storming in order to have her own way; but that any presumptuous
individuals should resist her will after the storming had been resorted
to was an event of such recent happening in her life that she had not
grown familiar with the thought of it. Therefore, while she felt that her
father might seriously annoy her with the Stanley project, and while she
realized that she might be compelled to resort to the storming process in
a degree thitherto uncalled for, she believed that the storm she would
raise would blow her father entirely out of his absurd and utterly
untenable position. On the other hand, while Sir George anticipated
trouble with Dorothy, he had never been able to believe that she would
absolutely refuse to obey him. In those olden times--now nearly half a
century past--filial disobedience was rare. The refusal of a child to obey
a parent, and especially the refusal of a daughter to obey her father in
the matter of marriage, was then looked upon as a crime and was frequently
punished in a way which amounted to barbarous ferocity. Sons, being of the
privileged side of humanity, might occasionally disobey with impunity, but
woe to the poor girl who dared set up a will of her own. A man who could
not compel obedience from his daughter was looked upon as a poor weakling,
and contempt was his portion in the eyes of his fellow-men--in the eyes of
his fellow-brutes, I should like to say.

Growing out of such conditions was the firm belief on the part of Sir
George that Dorothy would in the end obey him; but if by any hard chance
she should be guilty of the high crime of disobedience--Well! Sir George
intended to prevent the crime. Perhaps mere stubborness and fear of the
contempt in which he would be held by his friends in case he were defeated
by his own daughter were no small parts of Sir George's desire to carry
through the enterprise in which he had embarked with the Stanleys.
Although there was no doubt in Sir George's mind that he would eventually
conquer in the conflict with Dorothy, he had a profound respect for the
power of his antagonist to do temporary battle, and he did not care to
enter into actual hostilities until hostilities should become actually
necessary.

Therefore, upon the second day after I had read the beribboned, besealed
contract to Sir George, he sent an advance guard toward the enemy's line.
He placed the ornamental piece of parchment in Lady Crawford's hands and
directed her to give it to Dorothy.

But before I tell you of the parchment I must relate a scene that occurred
in Aunt Dorothy's room a few hours after I recognized John as he rode up
the Wye with Dorothy. It was late in the afternoon of the day after I read
the contract to Sir George and saw the horrid vision on Bowling Green.

I was sitting with Madge at the west window of Dorothy's parlor. We were
watching the sun as it sank in splendor beneath Overhaddon Hill.

I should like first to tell you a few words--only a few, I pray
you--concerning Madge and myself. I will.

I have just said that Madge and I were watching the sun at the west
window, and I told you but the truth, for Madge had learned to see with my
eyes. Gladly would I have given them to her outright, and willingly would
I have lived in darkness could I have given light to her. She gave light
to me--the light of truth, of purity, and of exalted motive. There had
been no words spoken by Madge nor me to any one concerning the strange and
holy chain that was welding itself about us, save the partial confession
which she had whispered to Dorothy. But notwithstanding our silence, our
friends in the Hall understood that Madge and I were very dear to each
other. I, of course, saw a great deal of her; but it was the evening hour
at the west window to which I longingly looked forward all the day. I am
no poet, nor do my words and thoughts come with the rhythmic flow and
eloquent imagery of one to whom the talent of poesy is given. But during
those evening hours it seemed that with the soft touch of Madge's hand
there ran through me a current of infectious dreaming which kindled my
soul till thoughts of beauty came to my mind and words of music sprang to
my lips such as I had always considered not to be in me. It was not I who
spoke; it was Madge who saw with my eyes and spoke with my voice. To my
vision, swayed by Madge's subtle influence, the landscape became a thing
of moving beauty and of life, and the floating clouds became a panorama of
ever shifting pictures. I, inspired by her, described so eloquently the
wonders I saw that she, too, could see them. Now a flock of white-winged
angels rested on the low-hung azure of the sky, watching the glory of
Phoebus as he drove his fiery steeds over the western edge of the world.
Again, Mount Olympus would grow before my eyes, and I would plainly see
Jove sitting upon his burnished throne, while gods and goddesses floated
at his feet and revelled on the fleecy mountain sides. Then would
mountain, gods, and goddesses dissolve,--as in fact they did dissolve ages
ago before the eyes of millions who had thought them real,--and in their
places perhaps would come a procession of golden-maned lions, at the
description of which would Madge take pretended fright. Again, would I see
Madge herself in flowing white robes made of the stuff from which fleecy
clouds are wrought. All these wonders would I describe, and when I would
come to tell her of the fair cloud image of herself I would seize the
joyous chance to make her understand in some faint degree how altogether
lovely in my eyes the vision was. Then would she smile and softly press my
hand and say:--

"Malcolm, it must be some one else you see in the cloud," though she was
pleased.

But when the hour was done then came the crowning moment of the day, for
as I would rise to take my leave, if perchance we were alone, she would
give herself to my arms for one fleeting instant and willingly would her
lips await--but there are moments too sacred for aught save holy thought.
The theme is sweet to me, but I must go back to Dorothy and tell you of
the scene I have promised you.

As I have already said, it was the evening following that upon which I had
read the marriage contract to Sir George, and had seen the vision on the
hillside. Madge and I were sitting at the west window. Dorothy, in
kindness to us, was sitting alone by the fireside in Lady Crawford's
chamber. Thomas entered the room with an armful of fagots, which he
deposited in the fagot-holder. He was about to replenish the fire, but
Dorothy thrust him aside, and said:--

"You shall kindle no more fires for me. At least you shall not do so when
no one else is by. It pains me that you, at whose feet I am unworthy to
kneel, should be my servant"

Thereupon she took in her hands the fagot John had been holding. He
offered to prevent her, but she said:--

"Please, John, let me do this."

The doors were open, and we heard all that was said by Dorothy and Tom.
Madge grasped my hand in surprise and fear.

"Please, John," said Dorothy, "if it gives me pleasure to be your servant,
you should not wish to deny me. There lives but one person whom I would
serve. There, John, I will give you another, and you shall let me do as I
will."

Dorothy, still holding the fagot in her hands, pressed it against John's
breast and gently pushed him backward toward a large armchair, in which
she had been sitting by the west side of the fireplace.

"You sit there, John, and we will make believe that this is our house, and
that you have just come in very cold from a ride, and that I am making a
fine fire to warm you. Isn't it pleasant, John? There, you sit and warm
yourself--my--my--husband," she said laughingly. "It is fine sport even to
play at. There is one fagot on the fire," she said, as she threw the wood
upon the embers, causing them to fly in all directions. John started up to
brush the scattered embers back into the fireplace, but Dorothy stopped
him.

"I will put them all back," she said. "You know you are cold and very
tired. You have been overseeing the tenantry and have been hunting. Will
you have a howl of punch, my--my husband?" and she laughed again and
kissed him as she passed to the holder for another fagot.

"I much prefer that to punch," said John, laughing softly. "Have you
more?"

"Thousands of them, John, thousands of them." She rippled forth a little
laugh and continued: "I occupy my time nowadays in making them that I may
always have a great supply when we are--that is, you know, when you--when
the time comes that you may require a great many to keep you in good
humor." Again came the laugh, merry and clear as the tinkle of sterling
silver.

She laughed again within a minute or two; but when the second laugh came,
it sounded like a knell.

Dorothy delighted to be dressed in the latest fashion. Upon this occasion
she wore a skirt vast in width, of a pattern then much in vogue. The
sleeves also were preposterously large, in accordance with the custom of
the times. About her neck a beautiful white linen ruff stood out at least
the eighth part of an ell. The day had been damp and cold, and the room in
which she had been sitting was chilly. For that reason, most fortunately,
she had thrown over her shoulders a wide sable cloak broad enough to
enfold her many times and long enough to reach nearly to her knees:
Dorothy thus arrayed was standing in front of John's chair. She had just
spoken the words "good humor," when the door leading to her father's room
opened and in walked Sir George. She and her ample skirts and broad
sleeves were between John and the door. Not one brief instant did Dorothy
waste in thought. Had she paused to put in motion the machinery of reason,
John would have been lost. Thomas sitting in Lady Crawford's chair and
Dorothy standing beside him would have told Sir George all he needed to
know. He might not have discovered John's identity, but a rope and a tree
in Bowling Green would quickly have closed the chapter of Dorothy's
mysterious love affair. Dorothy, however, did not stop to reason nor to
think. She simply acted without preliminary thought, as the rose unfolds
or as the lightning strikes. She quietly sat down upon John's knees,
leaned closely back against him, spread out the ample folds of her skirt,
threw the lower parts of her broad cape over her shoulders and across the
back of the chair, and Sir John Manners was invisible to mortal eyes.

"Come in, father," said Dorothy, in dulcet tones that should have betrayed
her.

"I heard you laughing and talking," said Sir George, "and I wondered who
was with you."

"I was talking to Madge and Malcolm who are in the other room," replied
Dorothy.

"Did not Thomas come in with fagots?" asked Sir George.

"I think he is replenishing the fire in the parlor, father, or he may have
gone out. I did not notice. Do you want him?"

"I do not especially want him," Sir George answered.

"When he finishes in the parlor I will tell him that you want him," said
Dorothy.

"Very well," replied Sir George.

He returned to his room, but he did not close the door.

The moment her father's back was turned Dorothy called:--

"Tom--Tom, father wants you," and instantly Thomas was standing
deferentially by her side, and she was seated in the great chair. It was a
rapid change, I assure you. But a man's life and his fortune for good or
ill often hang upon a tiny peg--a second of time protruding from the wall
of eternity. It serves him briefly; but if he be ready for the vital
instant, it may serve him well.

"Yes, mistress," said Thomas, "I go to him at once."

John left the room and closed the door as he passed out. Then it was that
Dorothy's laugh sounded like the chilling tones of a knell. It was the
laugh of one almost distraught. She came to Madge and me laughing, but the
laugh quickly changed to convulsive sobs. The strain of the brief moment
during which her father had been in Lady Crawford's room had been too
great for even her strong nerves to bear. She tottered and would have
fallen had I not caught her. I carried her to the bed, and Madge called
Lady Crawford. Dorothy had swooned.

When she wakened she said dreamily:--

"I shall always keep this cloak and gown."

Aunt Dorothy thought the words were but the incoherent utterances of a
dimly conscious mind, but I knew they were the deliberate expression of a
justly grateful heart.

The following evening trouble came about over the matter of the marriage
contract.

You remember I told you that Sir George had sent Lady Crawford as an
advance guard to place the parchment in the enemy's hands. But the advance
guard feared the enemy and therefore did not deliver the contract directly
to Dorothy. She placed it conspicuously upon the table, knowing well that
her niece's curiosity would soon prompt an examination.

I was sitting before the fire in Aunt Dorothy's room, talking to Madge
when Lady Crawford entered, placed the parchment on the table, and took a
chair by my side. Soon Dorothy entered the room. The roll of parchment,
brave with ribbons, was lying on the table. It attracted her attention at
once, and she took it in her hands.

"What is this?" she asked carelessly. Her action was prompted entirely by
idle curiosity. That, by the way, was no small motive with Dorothy. She
had the curiosity of a young doe. Receiving no answer, she untied the
ribbons and unrolled the parchment to investigate its contents for
herself. When the parchment was unrolled, she began to read:--

"In the name of God, amen. This indenture of agreement, looking to union
in the holy bonds of marriage between the Right Honorable Lord James
Stanley of the first part, and Mistress Dorothy Vernon of Haddon of the
second part--"

She read no farther. She crumpled the beautiful parchment in her hands,
walked over to the fire, and quietly placed the sacred instrument in the
midst of the flames. Then she turned away with a sneer of contempt upon
her face and--again I grieve to tell you this--said:--

"In the name of God, amen. May this indenture be damned."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Lady Crawford, horrified at her niece's profanity. "I
feel shame for your impious words."

"I don't care what you feel, aunt," retorted Dorothy, with a dangerous
glint in her eyes. "Feel as you wish, I meant what I said, and I will say
it again if you would like to hear it. I will say it to father when I see
him. Now, Aunt Dorothy, I love you and I love my father, but I give you
fair warning there is trouble ahead for any one who crosses me in this
matter."

She certainly looked as if she spoke the truth. Then she hummed a tune
under her breath--a dangerous signal in Dorothy at certain times. Soon the
humming turned to whistling. Whistling in those olden days was looked upon
as a species of crime in a girl.

Dorothy stood by the window for a short time and then taking up an
embroidery frame, drew a chair nearer to the light and began to work at
her embroidery. In a moment or two she stopped whistling, and we could
almost feel the silence in the room. Madge, of course, only partly knew
what had happened, and her face wore an expression of expectant, anxious
inquiry. Aunt Dorothy looked at me, and I looked at the fire. The
parchment burned slowly. Lady Crawford, from a sense of duty to Sir George
and perhaps from politic reasons, made two or three attempts to speak, and
after five minutes of painful silence she brought herself to say:--

"Dorothy, your father left the contract here for you to read. He will be
angry when he learns what you have done. Such disobedience is sure to--"

"Not another word from you," screamed Dorothy, springing like a tigress
from her chair. "Not another word from you or I will--I will scratch you.
I will kill some one. Don't speak to me. Can't you see that I am trying to
calm myself for an interview with father? An angry brain is full of
blunders. I want to make none. I will settle this affair with father. No
one else, not even you, Aunt Dorothy, shall interfere." The girl turned to
the window, stood beating a tattoo upon the glass for a moment or two,
then went over to Lady Crawford and knelt by her side. She put her arms
about Aunt Dorothy's neck, softly kissed her, and said:--

"Forgive me, dear aunt; forgive me. I am almost crazed with my troubles. I
love you dearly indeed, indeed I do."

Madge gropingly went to Dorothy's side and took her hand. Dorothy kissed
Madge's hand and rose to her feet.

"Where is my father?" asked Dorothy, to whom a repentant feeling toward
Lady Crawford had brought partial calmness. "I will go to him immediately
and will have this matter over. We might as well understand each other at
once. Father seems very dull at understanding me. But he shall know me
better before long."

Sir George may have respected the strength of his adversary, but Dorothy
had no respect for the strength of her foe. She was eager for the fray.
When she had a disagreeable thing to do, she always wanted to do it
quickly.

Dorothy was saved the trouble of seeking her father, for at that moment he
entered the room.

"You are welcome, father," said Dorothy in cold, defiant tones. "You have
come just in time to see the last flickering flame of your fine marriage
contract." She led him to the fireplace. "Does it not make a beautiful
smoke and blaze?"

"Did you dare--"

"Ay, that I did," replied Dorothy.

"You dared?" again asked her father, unable to believe the evidence of his
eyes.

"Ay, so I said; that I did," again said Dorothy.

"By the death of Christ--" began Sir George.

"Now be careful, father, about your oaths," the girl interrupted. "You
must not forget the last batch you made and broke."

Dorothy's words and manner maddened Sir George. The expression of her
whole person, from her feet to her hair, breathed defiance. The poise of
her body and of her limbs, the wild glint in her eyes, and the turn of her
head, all told eloquently that Sir George had no chance to win and that
Dorothy was an unconquerable foe. It is a wonder he did not learn in that
one moment that he could never bring his daughter to marry Lord Stanley.

"I will imprison you," cried Sir George, gasping with rage.

"Very well," responded Dorothy, smilingly. "You kept me prisoner for a
fortnight. I did not ask you to liberate me. I am ready to go back to my
apartments."

"But now you shall go to the dungeon," her father said.

"Ah, the dungeon!" cried the girl, as if she were delighted at the
thought. "The dungeon! Very well, again. I am ready to go to the dungeon.
You may keep me there the remainder of my natural life. I cannot prevent
you from doing that, but you cannot force me to marry Lord Stanley."

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