Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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"I will starve you until you obey me!" retorted her father. "I will starve
you!"

"That, again, you may easily do, my dear father; but again I tell you I
will never marry Stanley. If you think I fear to die, try to kill me. I do
not fear death. You have it not in your power to make me fear you or
anything you can do. You may kill me, but I thank God it requires my
consent for my marriage to Stanley, and I swear before God that never
shall be given."

The girl's terrible will and calm determination staggered Sir George, and
by its force beat down even his strong will. The infuriated old man
wavered a moment and said:--

"Fool, I seek only your happiness in this marriage. Only your happiness.
Why will you not consent to it?"

I thought the battle was over, and that Dorothy was the victor. She
thought so, too, but was not great enough to bear her triumph silently.
She kept on talking and carried her attack too far.

"And I refuse to obey because of my happiness. I refuse because I hate
Lord Stanley, and because, as you already know, I love another man."

When she spoke the words "because I love another man," the cold, defiant
expression of her face changed to one of ecstasy.

"I will have you to the dungeon this very hour, you brazen huzzy," cried
Sir George.

"How often, father, shall I repeat that I am ready to go to the dungeon? I
am eager to obey you in all things save one."

"You shall have your wish," returned Sir George. "Would that you had died
ere you had disgraced your house with a low-bred dog whose name you are
ashamed to utter."

"Father, there has been no disgrace," Dorothy answered, and her words bore
the ring of truth.

"You have been meeting the fellow at secluded spots in the forest--how
frequently you have met him God only knows--and you lied to me when you
were discovered at Bowling Green Gate."

"I would do it again gladly if I but had the chance," answered the girl,
who by that time was reckless of consequences.

"But the chance you shall not have," retorted Sir George.

"Do not be too sure, father," replied Dorothy. She was unable to resist
the temptation to mystify him. "I may see him before another hour. I will
lay you this wager, father, if I do not within one hour see the man--the
man whom I love--I will marry Lord Stanley. If I see him within that time
you shall permit me to marry him. I have seen him two score times since
the day you surprised me at the gate."

That was a dangerous admission for the girl to make, and she soon
regretted it with all her heart. Truly she was right. An angry brain is
full of blunders.

Of course Dorothy's words, which were so full of meaning to Madge and me,
meant little to Sir George. He looked upon them only as irritating
insolence on her part. A few minutes later, however, they became full of
significance.

Sir George seemed to have forgotten the Stanley marriage and the burning
of the contract in his quarrel with Dorothy over her unknown lover.

Conceive, if you can, the situation in Haddon Hall at that time. There was
love-drunk Dorothy, proud of the skill which had enabled her to outwit her
wrathful father. There was Sir George, whose mental condition, inflamed by
constant drinking, bordered on frenzy because he felt that his child, whom
he had so tenderly loved from the day of her birth, had disgraced herself
with a low-born wretch whom she refused to name. And there, under the same
roof, lived the man who was the root and source of all the trouble. A
pretty kettle of fish!

"The wager, father, will you take it?" eagerly asked Dorothy.

Sir George, who thought that her words were spoken only to anger him,
waved her off with his hands and said:--

"I have reason to believe that I know the wretch for whose sake you have
disgraced yourself. You may be sure that I shall soon know him with
certainty. When I do, I will quickly have him in my power. Then I will
hang him to a tree on Bowling Green, and you shall see the low-born dog
die."

"He is better born than any of our house," retorted Dorothy, who had lost
all sense of caution. "Ay, he is better born than any with whom we claim
kin."

Sir George stood in open-eyed wonder, and Dorothy continued: "You cannot
keep him from me. I shall see him, and I will have him despite you. I tell
you again, I have seen him two score times since you tried to spy upon us
at Bowling Green Gate, and I will see him whenever I choose, and I will
wed him when I am ready to do so. You cannot prevent it. You can only be
forsworn, oath upon oath; and if I were you, I would stop swearing."

Sir George, as was usual with him in those sad times, was inflamed with
drink, and Dorothy's conduct, I must admit, was maddening. In the midst of
her taunting Thomas stepped into the room bearing an armful of fagots. Sir
George turned to him and said:--

"Go and tell Welch to bring a set of manacles."

"For Mistress Dorothy?" Thomas asked, surprised into the exclamation.

"Curse you, do you mean to bandy words with me, you scum?" cried Sir
George.

He snatched a fagot from John and drew back his arm to strike him. John
took one step back from Sir George and one step nearer to Dorothy.

"Yes, Thomas," said Dorothy, sneeringly, "bring Welch with the manacles
for me. My dear father would put me in the dungeon out of the reach of
other men, so that he may keep me safely for my unknown lover. Go, Thomas.
Go, else father will again be forsworn before Christ and upon his
knighthood."

"This before a servant! I'll gag you, you hellish vixen," cried Sir
George. Then I am sure he knew not what he did. "Curse you!" he cried, as
he held the fagot upraised and rushed upon Dorothy. John, with his arms
full of fagots, could not avert the blow which certainly would have killed
the girl, but he could take it. He sprang between Dorothy and her father,
the fagot fell upon his head, and he sank to the floor. In his fall John's
wig dropped off, and when the blood began to flow from the wound Dorothy
kneeled beside his prostrate form. She snatched the great bush of false
beard from his face and fell to kissing his lips and his hands in a
paroxysm of passionate love and grief. Her kisses she knew to be a panacea
for all ills John could be heir to, and she thought they would heal even
the wound her father had given, and stop the frightful outpouring of
John's life-blood. The poor girl, oblivious of all save her wounded
lover, murmured piteously:--

"John, John, speak to me; 'tis Dorothy." She placed her lips near his ear
and whispered: "'Tis Dorothy, John. Speak to her." But she received no
response. Then came a wild light to her eyes and she cried aloud: "John,
'tis Dorothy. Open your eyes. Speak to me, John! oh, for God's sake speak
to me! Give some little sign that you live," but John was silent. "My God,
my God! Help, help! Will no one help me save this man? See you not that
his life is flowing away? This agony will kill me. John, my lover, my
lord, speak to me. Ah, his heart, his heart! I will know." She tore from
his breast the leathern doublet and placed her ear over his heart. "Thank
God, it beats!" she cried in a frenzied whisper, as she kissed his breast
and turned her ear again to hear his heart's welcome throbbing. Then she
tried to lift him in her arms and succeeded in placing his head in her
lap. It was a piteous scene. God save me from witnessing another like it.

After Dorothy lifted John's head to her lap he began to breathe
perceptibly, and the girl's agitation passed away as she gently stroked
his hair and kissed him over and over again, softly whispering her love to
his unresponsive ear in a gentle frenzy of ineffable tenderness such as
was never before seen in this world, I do believe. I wish with all my
heart that I were a maker of pictures so that I might draw for you the
scene which is as clear and vivid in every detail to my eyes now as it was
upon that awful day in Haddon Hall. There lay John upon the floor and by
his side knelt Dorothy. His head was resting in her lap. Over them stood
Sir George with the murderous fagot raised, as if he intended again to
strike. I had sprung to his side and was standing by him, intending to
fell him to the floor should he attempt to repeat the blow upon either
Dorothy or John. Across from Sir George and me, that is, upon the opposite
side of Dorothy and John, stood Lady Crawford and Madge, who clung to each
other in terror. The silence was heavy, save when broken by Dorothy's sobs
and whispered ejaculations to John. Sir George's terrible deed had
deprived all of us, including himself, of the power to speak. I feared to
move from his side lest he should strike again. After a long agony of
silence he angrily threw the fagot away from him and asked:--

"Who is this fellow? Can any one tell me?"

Only Madge, Dorothy, and I could have given him true answer. By some
strange power of divination Madge had learned all that had happened, and
she knew as well as I the name of the man who lay upon the floor battling
with death. Neither Madge nor I answered.

"Who is this fellow?" again demanded Sir George.

Dorothy lifted her face toward her father.

"He is the man whom you seek, father," she answered, in a low, tearful
voice. "He is my lover; he is my life; he is my soul, and if you have
murdered him in your attempt to kill your own child, all England shall
hear of it and you shall hang. He is worth more in the eyes of the queen
than we and all our kindred. You know not whom you have killed."

Sir George's act had sobered him.

"I did not intend to kill him--in that manner," said Sir George, dropping
his words absent-mindedly. "I hoped to hang him. Where is Dawson? Some one
fetch Dawson."

Several of the servants had gathered about the open door in the next room,
and in obedience to Sir George's command one of them went to seek the
forester. I feared that John would die from the effects of the blow; but I
also knew from experience that a man's head may receive very hard knocks
and life still remain. Should John recover and should Sir George learn
his name, I was sure that my violent cousin would again attempt the
personal administration of justice and would hang him, under the old Saxon
law. In that event Parliament would not be so easily pacified as upon the
occasion of the former hanging at Haddon; and I knew that if John should
die by my cousin's hand, Sir George would pay for the act with his life
and his estates. Fearing that Sir George might learn through Dawson of
John's identity, I started out in search of Will to have a word with him
before he could see his master. I felt sure that for many reasons Will
would be inclined to save John; but to what extent his fidelity to the
cause of his master might counteract his resentment of Sir George's act, I
did not know. I suspected that Dawson was privy to John's presence in
Haddon Hall, but I was not sure of it, so I wished to prepare the forester
for his interview with Sir George and to give him a hint of my plans for
securing John's safety, in the event he should not die in Aunt Dorothy's
room.

When I opened the door in the Northwest Tower I saw Dawson coming toward
the Hall from the dove-cote, and I hastened forward to meet him. It was
pitiful that so good a man as Sir George Vernon was, should have been
surrounded in his own house by real friends who were also traitors. That
was the condition of affairs in Haddon Hall, and I felt that I was the
chief offender. The evil, however, was all of Sir George's making. Tyranny
is the father of treason.

When I met Dawson I said: "Will, do you know who Tom-Tom is?"

The forester hesitated for a moment, and said, "Well, Sir Malcolm, I
suppose he is Thomas--"

"No, no, Will, tell me the truth. Do you know that he is--or perhaps by
this time I should say he was--Sir John Manners?"

[Illustration]

"Was?" cried Will. "Great God! Has Sir George discovered--is he dead? If
he is dead, it will be a sad day for Sir George and for Haddon Hall. Tell
me quickly."

I at once knew Will Dawson was in the secret. I answered:--

"I hope he is not dead. Sir George attempted to strike Dorothy with a
fagot, but Thomas stepped in front of her and received the blow. He is
lying almost, if not quite, dead in Lady Crawford's room. Sir George knows
nothing about him, save that he is Dorothy's lover. But should Thomas
revive I feel sure my cousin will hang him in the morning unless steps are
taken to prevent the deed."

"Sir Malcolm, if you will stand by me," said Dawson, "Sir George will not
hang him."

"I certainly will stand by you, Dawson. Have no doubt on that score. Sir
George intends to cast John into the dungeon, and should he do so I want
you to send Jennie Faxton to Rutland and have her tell the Rutlanders to
rescue John to-night. To-morrow morning I fear will be too late. Be on
your guard, Will. Do not allow Sir George to discover that you have any
feeling in this matter. Above all, lead him from the possibility of
learning that Thomas is Sir John Manners. I will contrive to admit the
Rutland men at midnight."

I hastened with Dawson back to the Hall, where we found the situation as I
had left it. John's head was lying on Dorothy's lap, and she was trying to
dress his wound with pieces of linen torn from her clothing. Sir George
was pacing to and fro across the room, breaking forth at times in curses
against Dorothy because of her relations with a servant.

When Dawson and I entered the room, Sir George spoke angrily to Will:--

"Who is this fellow? You employed him. Who is he?"

"He gave me his name as Thomas Thompson," returned Will, "and he brought
me a favorable letter of recommendation from Danford."

Danford was forester to the Duke of Devonshire, and lived at Chatsworth.

"There was naught in the letter save that he was a good servant and an
honest man. That is all we can ask of any man."

"But who is he?" again demanded Sir George.

"Your worship may perhaps learn from Danford more than I can tell you,"
replied the forester, adroitly avoiding a lie.

"Think of it, Malcolm," said Sir George, speaking to me. "Think of it. My
daughter, my only child, seeks for her husband this low-born serving man.
I have always been sure that the fellow would prove to be such." Then he
turned to Dawson: "Throw the fellow into the dungeon. If he lives till
morning, I will have him hanged. To the dungeon with him."

Sir George waved his hand toward Dawson and Tom Welch, and then stepped
aside. Will made an effort to hide his feelings, and without a word or
gesture that could betray him, he and Welch lifted John to carry him away.
Then it was piteous to see Dorothy. She clung to John and begged that he
might be left with her. Sir George violently thrust her away from John's
side, but she, still upon her knees, grasped her father's hand and cried
out in agony:--

"Father, let me remain with him. If you have ever felt love for me, and if
my love for you has ever touched one tender spot in your heart, pity me
now and leave this man with me, or let me go with him. I beg you, father;
I plead; I implore. He may be dying. We know not. In this hour of my agony
be merciful to me."

But Sir George rudely repulsed her and left the room, following Welch and
Dawson, who bore John's unconscious form between them. Dorothy rose to her
feet screaming and tried to follow John. I, fearing that in her frenzy of
grief she might divulge John's name, caught her in my arms and detained
her by force. She turned upon me savagely and struck me in her effort to
escape. She called me traitor, villain, dog, but I lifted her in my arms
and carried her struggling to her bedroom. I wanted to tell her of the
plans which Dawson and I had made, but I feared to do so, lest she might
in some way betray them, so I left her in the room with Lady Crawford and
Madge. I told Lady Crawford to detain Dorothy at all hazards, and I
whispered to Madge asking her to tell Dorothy that I would look to John's
comfort and safety. I then hastily followed Sir George, Dawson, and Welch,
and in a few moments I saw them leave John, bleeding and senseless, upon
the dungeon floor. When Sir George's back was turned, Dawson by my orders
brought the surgeon from the stable where he had been working with the
horses. The surgeon bound up the wound in John's head and told me, to my
great joy, that it was not fatal. Then he administered a reviving potion
and soon consciousness returned. I whispered to John that Dawson and I
would not forsake him, and, fearing discovery by Sir George, hurriedly
left the dungeon.

I believe there is a certain amount of grief and sorrow which comes with
every great joy to give it a cost mark whereby we may always know its
value. The love between Dorothy and John indeed was marked in plain
figures of high denominations.

CHAPTER XII

THE LEICESTER POSSIBILITY

On Leaving the dungeon I sought Madge, and after I had whispered a word to
her from my heart I asked her to tell Dorothy the encouraging words of the
surgeon, and also to tell her that she should not be angry with me until
she was sure she had good cause. I dared not send a more explicit message,
and I dared not go to Dorothy, for Sir George was in a suspicious mood and
I feared ruin not only for myself but for John, should my violent cousin
suspect me of sympathy with his daughter and her lover.

I also sought Aunt Dorothy and whispered a word to her of which you shall
hear more presently.

"Ah, I cannot do it," cried the trembling old lady in response to my
whispered request. "I cannot do it."

"But you must, Aunt Dorothy," I responded. "Upon it depend three lives:
Sir George's, Dorothy's, and her lover's. You must do it."

"I will try," she replied.

"That assurance will not suit me," I responded. "You must promise upon
your salvation that you will not fail me."

"I promise upon my salvation," replied Aunt Dorothy.

That evening of course we did not see the ladies at supper. Sir George and
I ate in silence until my cousin became talkative from drink. Then he
spoke bitterly of Dorothy's conduct, and bore with emphasis upon the fact
that the lover to whom Dorothy had stooped was a low-born serving man.

"But Dorothy declares he is noble," I responded.

"She has lied to me so often that I do not believe a word she says,"
returned Sir George.

He swore oath upon oath that the wretch should hang in the morning, and
for the purpose of carrying into effect his intention he called in Joe the
butcher and told him to make all things ready for the execution.

I did not attempt to thwart his purpose by word or gesture, knowing it
would be useless, but hoped that John would be out of his reach long ere
the cock would crow his first greeting to the morrow's sun.

After Sir George had drunk far into the night the servants helped him to
bed, and he carried with him the key to the dungeon together with the keys
to all the outer doors and gates of Haddon Hall, as was his custom. The
keys were in a bunch, held together by an iron ring, and Sir George always
kept them under his pillow at night.

I sought my bed in Eagle Tower and lay down in my clothes to rest and
wait. The window of my room was open.

Within an hour after midnight I heard the hooting of an owl. The doleful
sound came up to me from the direction of the stone footbridge at the
southwest corner of the Hall below the chapel. I went to my window and
looked out over the courts and terrace. Haddon Hall and all things in and
about it were wrapped in slumbrous silence. I waited, and again I heard
the hooting of the owl. Noiselessly leaving my room I descended the stone
steps to an unused apartment in the tower from which a window opened upon
the roof of the north wing of the Hall. Along that roof I crept with bared
feet, till I reached another roof, the battlements of which at the lowest
point were not more than twenty feet from the ground. Thence I clambered
down to a window cornice five or six feet lower, and jumped, at the risk
of my limbs, the remaining distance of fifteen or sixteen feet to the soft
sod beneath. I ran with all haste, took my stand under Aunt Dorothy's
window, and whistled softly. The window casing opened and I heard the
great bunch of keys jingling and clinking against the stone wall as Aunt
Dorothy paid them out to me by means of a cord. After I had secured the
keys I called in a whisper to Lady Crawford and directed her to leave the
cord hanging from the window. I also told her to remain in readiness to
draw up the keys when they should have served their purpose. Then I took
them and ran to the stone footbridge where I found four Rutland men who
had come in response to the message Dawson had sent by Jennie Faxton. Two
of the men went with me, and we entered the lower garden by the southwest
postern. Thence we crept noiselessly to the terrace and made our entrance
into the Hall by "Dorothy's Postern." I had in my life engaged in many
questionable and dangerous enterprises, but this was my first attempt at
house-breaking. To say that I was nervous would but poorly define the
state of my feelings. Since that day I have respected the high calling of
burglary and regard with favor the daring knights of the skeleton key. I
was frightened. I, who would feel no fear had I to fight a dozen men,
trembled with fright during this adventure. The deathlike silence and the
darkness in familiar places seemed uncanny to me. The very chairs and
tables appeared to be sleeping, and I was fearful lest they should awaken.
I cannot describe to you how I was affected. Whether it was fear or awe or
a smiting conscience I cannot say, but my teeth chattered as if they were
in the mouth of a fool, and my knees quaked as if they supported a coward.
Still I knew I was doing my duty, though one's conscience sometimes smites
him when his reason tells him he is acting righteously. It is more
dangerous to possess a sensitive conscience which cannot be made to hear
reason than to have none at all. But I will make short my account of that
night's doings. The two Rutland men and I groped our way to the dungeon
and carried forth John, who was weak from loss of blood. I told them to
lock the door of the Hall as they passed out and to attach the keys to the
cord hanging from Lady Crawford's window. Then I climbed to my room again,
feeling in conscience like a criminal because I had done the best act of
my life.

Early next morning I was awakened by a great noise in the upper court.
When I looked out at my window I beheld Sir George. He was half dressed
and was angrily questioning the servants and retainers. I knew that he had
discovered John's escape, but I did not know all, nor did I know the
worst. I dressed and went to the kitchen, where I bathed my hands and
face. There I learned that the keys to the hall had been stolen from under
Sir George's pillow, and that the prisoner had escaped from the dungeon.
Old Bess, the cook, nodded her head wisely and whispered to me the words,
"Good for Mistress Doll."

Bess's unsought confidence alarmed me. I did not relish the thought that
Bess nor any one else should believe me to be in sympathy with Dorothy,
and I said:--

"If Mistress Vernon had aught to do with last night's affairs, she should
be full of shame. I will not believe that she knew of it at all. My
opinion is that one of the servants was bribed by some person interested
in Tom-Tom's escape."

"Believe nothing of the sort," retorted Bess. "It is the mistress and not
the servant who stole the keys and liberated Tom-Tom. But the question is,
who may Tom-Tom be? and the servants' hall is full of it. We are not
uncertain as to the manner of his escape. Some of the servants do say that
the Earl of Leicester be now visiting the Duke of Devonshire; and some
also do say that his Lordship be fond of disguises in his gallantry. They
do also say that the queen is in love with him, and that he must disguise
himself when he woos elsewhere, or she be's famously jealous. It would be
a pretty mess the master has brought us all into should Tom-Tom prove to
be my lord Earl of Leicester. We'd all hang and to hell."

"Bess, that tongue of yours will cost you your head one of these good
times," I remarked, while I rubbed my face with the towel.

"I would sooner lose my head," retorted Bess, "than have my mouth shut by
fear. I know, Sir Malcolm, that I'll not die till my time comes; but
please the good God when my time does come I will try to die talking."

"That you will," said I.

"True word, Sir Malcolm," she answered, and I left her in possession of
the field.

I went into the courtyard, and when Sir George saw me he said, "Malcolm,
come with me to my room; I want a word with you."

We went to his room.

"I suppose you know of the fellow's escape last night?" he said.

"Yes," I replied, "Bess told me about it in the kitchen."

It seemed to me that my words said, "I did it."

"Not only was the fellow liberated," said my cousin, "but the keys to all
the outer gates and doors of the Hall have been stolen and carried away.
Can you help me unravel this affair?"

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