Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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My outburst of confidence was prompted by Sir John's voluntary assurance
that I need fear nothing from having told him that I was a friend of Queen
Mary. The Scottish queen's name had been mentioned, and Sir John had
said--

"I take it, Sir Malcolm, that you are newly arrived in England, and I feel
sure you will accept the advice I am about to offer in the kindly spirit
in which it is meant. I deem it unsafe for you to speak of Queen Mary's
friendship in the open manner you have used toward me. Her friends are not
welcome visitors to England, and I fear evil will befall those who come to
us as refugees. You need have no fear that I will betray you. Your secret
is safe with me. I will give you hostage. I also am Queen Mary's friend. I
would not, of course, favor her against the interest of our own queen. To
Elizabeth I am and always shall be loyal; but the unfortunate Scottish
queen has my sympathy in her troubles, and I should be glad to help her. I
hear she is most beautiful and gentle in person."

Thus you see the influence of Mary's beauty reached from Edinburgh to
London. A few months only were to pass till this conversation was to be
recalled by each of us, and the baneful influence of Mary's beauty upon
all whom it touched was to be shown more fatally than had appeared even in
my own case. In truth, my reason for speaking so fully concerning the,
Scottish queen and myself will be apparent to you in good time.

When we were about to part for the night, I asked Sir John, "What road do
you travel to-morrow?"

"I am going to Rutland Castle by way of Rowsley," he answered.

"I, too, travel by Rowsley to Haddon Hall. Shall we not extend our truce
over the morrow and ride together as far as Rowsley?" I asked.

"I shall be glad to make the truce perpetual," he replied laughingly.

"So shall I," was my response.

Thus we sealed our compact and knitted out of the warp and woof of enmity
a friendship which became a great joy and a sweet grief to each of us.

That night I lay for hours thinking of the past and wondering about the
future. I had tasted the sweets--all flavored with bitterness--of court
life. Women, wine, gambling, and fighting had given me the best of all the
evils they had to offer. Was I now to drop that valorous life, which men
so ardently seek, and was I to take up a browsing, kinelike existence at
Haddon Hall, there to drone away my remaining days in fat'ning, peace, and
quietude? I could not answer my own question, but this I knew: that Sir
George Vernon was held in high esteem by Elizabeth, and I felt that his
house was, perhaps, the only spot in England where my head could safely
lie. I also had other plans concerning Sir George and his household which
I regret to say I imparted to Sir John in the sack-prompted outpouring of
my confidence. The plans of which I shall now speak had been growing in
favor with me for several months previous to my enforced departure from
Scotland, and that event had almost determined me to adopt them. Almost, I
say, for when I approached Haddon Hall I wavered in my resolution.

At the time when I had last visited Sir George at Haddon, his daughter
Dorothy--Sir George called her Doll--was a slipshod girl of twelve. She
was exceedingly plain, and gave promise of always so remaining. Sir
George, who had no son, was anxious that his vast estates should remain
in the Vernon name. He had upon the occasion of my last visit intimated to
me that when Doll should become old enough to marry, and I, perchance, had
had my fill of knocking about the world, a marriage might be brought about
between us which would enable him to leave his estates to his daughter and
still to retain the much-loved Vernon name for his descendants.

Owing to Doll's rusty red hair, slim shanks, and freckled face, the
proposition had not struck me with favor, yet to please Sir George I had
feigned acquiescence, and had said that when the time should come, we
would talk it over. Before my flight from Scotland I had often thought of
Sir George's proposition made six or seven years before. My love for Mary
Stuart had dimmed the light of other beauties in my eyes, and I had never
married. For many months before my flight, however, I had not been
permitted to bask in the light of Mary's smiles to the extent of my
wishes. Younger men, among them Darnley, who was but eighteen years of
age, were preferred to me, and I had begun to consider the advisability of
an orderly retreat from the Scottish court before my lustre should be
entirely dimmed. It is said that a man is young so long as he is strong,
and I was strong as in the days of my youth. My cheeks were fresh, my eyes
were bright, and my hair was red as when I was twenty, and without a
thread of gray. Stills my temperament was more exacting and serious, and
the thought of becoming settled for life, or rather for old age and death,
was growing in favor with me. With that thought came always a suggestion
of slim, freckled Dorothy and Sir George's offer. She held out to me
wealth and position, a peaceful home for my old age, and a grave with a
pompous, pious epitaph at Bakewell church, in death.

When I was compelled to leave Scotland, circumstances forced me to a
decision, and my resolution was quickly taken. I would go to Derbyshire
and would marry Dorothy. I did not expect ever again to feel great love
for a woman. The fuse, I thought, had burned out when I loved Mary Stuart.
One woman, I believed, was like another to me, and Dorothy would answer as
well as any for my wife. I could and would be kind to her, and that alone
in time would make me fond. It is true, my affection would be of a fashion
more comfortable than exciting; but who, having passed his galloping
youth, will contemn the joys that come from making others happy? I believe
there is no person, past the age of forty, at all given to pondering the
whys of life, who will gainsay that the joy we give to others is our chief
source of happiness. Why, then, should not a wise man, through purely
selfish motives, begin early to cultivate the gentle art of giving joy?

But the fates were to work out the destinies of Dorothy and myself without
our assistance. Self-willed, arrogant creatures are those same fates, but
they save us a deal of trouble by assuming our responsibilities.

CHAPTER II

THE IRON, THE SEED, THE CLOUD, AND THE RAIN

The morning following my meeting with Manners, he and I made an early
start. An hour before noon we rode into the town of Rowsley and halted at
The Peacock for dinner.

When we entered the courtyard of the inn we saw three ladies warmly
wrapped in rich furs leave a ponderous coach and walk to the inn door,
which they entered. One of them was an elderly lady whom I recognized as
my cousin, Lady Dorothy Crawford, sister to Sir George Vernon. The second
was a tall, beautiful girl, with an exquisite ivory-like complexion and a
wonderful crown of fluffy red hair which encircled her head like a halo of
sunlit glory. I could compare its wondrous lustre to no color save that of
molten gold deeply alloyed with copper. But that comparison tells you
nothing. I can find no simile with which to describe the beauties of its
shades and tints. It was red, but it also was golden, as if the enamoured
sun had gilded every hair with its radiance. In all my life I had never
seen anything so beautiful as this tall girl's hair. Still, it was the
Vernon red. My cousin, Sir George, and many Vernons had hair of the same
color. Yet the girl's hair differed from all other I had ever seen. It had
a light and a lustre of its own which was as distinct from the ordinary
Vernon red, although that is very good and we are proud of it, as the
sheen of gold is from the glitter of brass. I knew by the girl's hair
that she was my cousin, Dorothy Vernon, whom I reluctantly had come to
wed.

I asked myself, "Can this be the plain, freckled girl I knew seven years
ago?" Compared with her beauty even Mary Stuart's was pale as the vapid
moon at dawn. The girl seemed to be the incarnated spirit of universal
life and light, and I had condescendingly come to marry this goddess. I
felt a dash of contemptuous pity for my complacent self.

In my cogitations concerning marriage with Dorothy Vernon, I had not at
all taken into consideration her personal inclination. A girl, after all,
is but the chattel of her father, and must, perforce, if needs be, marry
the man who is chosen for her. But leaving parental authority out of the
question, a girl with brick-red hair and a multitude of freckles need not
be considered when an agreeable, handsome man offers himself as a husband.
She usually is willing to the point of eagerness. That is the manner in
which I had thought about Dorothy Vernon, if I considered her at all. But
when a man is about to offer himself to a goddess, he is apt to pause. In
such a case there are always two sides to the question, and nine chances
to one the goddess will coolly take possession of both. When I saw Dorothy
in the courtyard of The Peacock, I instantly knew that she was a girl to
be taken into account in all matters wherein she was personally concerned.
Her every feature, every poise and gesture, unconsciously bore the stamp
of "I will" or "I will not."

Walking by Dorothy's side, holding her hand, was a fair young woman whose
hair was black, and whose skin was of the white, clear complexion such as
we see in the faces of nuns. She walked with a hesitating, cautious step,
and clung to Dorothy, who was gentle and attentive to her. But of this
fair, pale girl I have so much to say in the pages to come that I shall
not further describe her here.

When the ladies had entered the inn, my companion and I dismounted, and
Manners exclaimed:--

"Did you see the glorious girl who but now entered the inn door? Gods! I
never before saw such beauty."

"Yes," I replied, "I know her."

"How fortunate I am," said Sir John. "Perhaps I may induce you to present
me to her. At least you will tell me her name, that I may seek her
acquaintance by the usual means. I am not susceptible, but by my faith,
I--I--she looked at me from the door-steps, and when I caught her eyes it
seemed--that is, I saw--or I felt a stream of burning life enter my soul,
and--but you will think I am a fool. I know I am a fool. But I feel as if
I were--as if I had been bewitched in one little second of time, and by a
single glance from a pair of brown eyes. You certainly will think I am a
fool, but you cannot understand--"

"Why can't I understand?" I asked indignantly. "The thing you have seen
and felt has been in this world long enough for every man to understand.
Eve used it upon Adam. I can't understand? Damme, sir, do you think I am a
clod? I have felt it fifty times."

"Not--" began Sir John, hesitatingly.

"Nonsense!" I replied. "You, too, will have the same experience fifty
times again before you are my age."

"But the lady," said Sir John, "tell me of her. Will you--can you present
me to her? If not, will you tell me who she is?"

I remained for a moment in thought, wondering if it were right for me to
tell him that the girl whom he so much admired was the daughter of his
father's enemy. I could see no way of keeping Dorothy's name from him, so
I determined to tell him.

"She is my cousin, Mistress Dorothy Vernon," I said. "The eldest is Lady
Dorothy Crawford. The beautiful, pale girl I do not know."

"I am sorry," returned Sir John; "she is the lady whom you have come to
marry, is she not?"

"Y-e-s," said I, hesitatingly.

"You certainly are to be congratulated," returned Manners.

"I doubt if I shall marry her," I replied.

"Why?" asked Manners.

"For many reasons, chief among which is her beauty."

"That is an unusual reason for declining a woman," responded Sir John,
with a low laugh.

"I think it is quite usual," I replied, having in mind the difficulty with
which great beauties are won. But I continued, "A woman of moderate beauty
makes a safer wife, and in the long run is more comforting than one who is
too attractive."

"You are a philosopher, Sir Malcolm," said Manners, laughingly.

"And a liar," I muttered to myself. I felt sure, however, that I should
never marry Dorothy Vernon, and I do not mind telling you, even at this
early stage in my history, that I was right in my premonition. I did not
marry her.

"I suppose I shall now be compelled to give you up to your relatives,"
said Manners.

"Yes," I returned, "we must say good-by for the present; but if we do not
meet again, it shall not be for the lack of my wishing. Your father and
Sir George would feel deeply injured, should they learn of our friendship,
therefore--"

"You are quite right," he interrupted. "It is better that no one should
know of it. Nevertheless, between you and me let there be no feud."

"The secrecy of our friendship will give it zest," said I. "That is true,
but 'good wine needs no bush.' You will not mention my name to the
ladies?"

"No, if you wish that I shall not."

"I do so wish."

When the stable boys had taken our horses, I gave my hand to Sir John,
after which we entered the inn and treated each other as strangers.

Soon after I had washed the stains of travel from my hands and face, I
sent the maid to my cousins, asking that I might be permitted to pay my
devotions, and Dorothy came to the tap-room in response to my message.

When she entered she ran to me with outstretched hands and a gleam of
welcome in her eyes. We had been rare friends when she was a child.

"Ah, Cousin Malcolm, what a fine surprise you have given us!" she
exclaimed, clasping both my hands and offering me her cheek to kiss.
"Father's delight will be beyond measure when he sees you."

"As mine now is," I responded, gazing at her from head to foot and
drinking in her beauty with my eyes. "Doll! Doll! What a splendid girl you
have become. Who would have thought that--that--" I hesitated, realizing
that I was rapidly getting myself into trouble.

"Say it. Say it, cousin! I know what is in your mind. Rusty red hair,
angular shoulders, sharp elbows, freckles thickly set as stars upon a
clear night, and so large and brown that they fairly twinkled. Great
staring green eyes. Awkward!--" And she threw up her hands in mimic horror
at the remembrance. "No one could have supposed that such a girl would
have become--that is, you know," she continued confusedly, "could have
changed. I haven't a freckle now," and she lifted her face that I might
prove the truth of her words by examination, and perhaps that I might also
observe her beauty.

Neither did I waste the opportunity. I dwelt longingly upon the wondrous
red golden hair which fringed her low broad forehead, and upon the heavy
black eyebrows, the pencilled points of whose curves almost touched
across the nose. I saw the rose-tinted ivory of her skin and the long jet
lashes curving in a great sweep from her full white lids, and I thought
full sure that Venus herself was before me. My gaze halted for a moment at
the long eyes which changed chameleon-like with the shifting light, and
varied with her moods from deep fathomless green to violet, and from
violet to soft voluptuous brown, but in all their tints beaming forth a
lustre that would have stirred the soul of an anchorite. Then I noted the
beauty of her clean-cut saucy nose and the red arch of her lips, slightly
parted for the purpose of showing her teeth. But I could not stop long to
dwell upon any one especial feature, for there were still to be seen her
divine round chin, her large white throat, and the infinite grace in poise
and curve of her strong young form. I dared not pause nor waste my time if
I were to see it all, for such a girl as Dorothy waits no man's
leisure--that is, unless she wishes to wait. In such case there is no
moving her, and patience becomes to her a delightful virtue.

After my prolonged scrutiny Dorothy lowered her face and said
laughingly:--

"Now come, cousin, tell me the truth. Who would have thought it possible?"

"Not I, Doll, not I, if you will pardon me the frankness."

"Oh, that is easily done." Then with a merry ripple of laughter, "It is
much easier, I fancy, for a woman to speak of the time when she was plain
than to refer to the time when--when she was beautiful. What an absurd
speech that is for me to make," she said confusedly.

"I certainly did not expect to find so great a change," said I. "Why,
Doll, you are wondrous, glorious, beautiful. I can't find words--"

"Then don't try, Cousin Malcolm," she said with a smile that fringed her
mouth in dimples. "Don't try. You will make me vain."

"You are that already, Doll," I answered, to tease her.

"I fear I am, cousin--vain as a man. But don't call me Doll. I am tall
enough to be called Dorothy."

She straightened herself up to her full height, and stepping close to my
side, said: "I am as tall as you. I will now try to make you vain. You
look just as young and as handsome as when I last saw you and so ardently
admired your waving black mustachio and your curling chin beard."

"Did you admire them, Doll--Dorothy?" I asked, hoping, though with little
faith, that the admiration might still continue.

"Oh, prodigiously," she answered with unassuring candor. "Prodigiously.
Now who is vain, Cousin Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon?"

"I," I responded, shrugging my shoulders and confessing by compulsion.

"But you must remember," she continued provokingly, "that a girl of twelve
is very immature in her judgment and will fall in love with any man who
allows her to look upon him twice."

"Then I am to believe that the fire begins very early to burn in the
feminine heart," I responded.

"With birth, my cousin, with birth," she replied; "but in my heart it
burned itself out upon your curling beard at the mature age of twelve."

"And you have never been in love since that time, Doll--Dorothy?" I asked
with more earnestness in my heart than in my voice.

"No, no; by the Virgin, no! Not even in the shadow of a thought. And by
the help of the Virgin I hope I never shall be; for when it comes to me,
mark my word, cousin, there will be trouble in Derbyshire."

"By my soul, I believe you speak the truth," I answered, little dreaming
how quickly our joint prophecy would come true.

I then asked Dorothy to tell me about her father.

"Father is well in health," she said. "In mind he has been much troubled
and disturbed. Last month he lost the lawsuit against detestable old Lord
Rutland. He was much angered by the loss, and has been moody and morose in
brooding over it ever since. He tries, poor father, to find relief from
his troubles, and--and I fear takes too much liquor. Rutland and his
friends swore to one lie upon another, and father believes that the judge
who tried the case was bribed. Father intends to appeal to Parliament, but
even in Parliament he fears he cannot obtain justice. Lord Rutland's
son--a disreputable fellow, who for many years has lived at court--is a
favorite with the queen, and his acquaintance with her Majesty and with
the lords will be to father's prejudice."

"I have always believed that your father stood in the queen's good
graces?" I said interrogatively.

"So he does, but I have been told that this son of Lord Rutland, whom I
have never seen, has the beauty of--of the devil, and exercises a great
influence over her Majesty and her friends. The young man is not known in
this neighborhood, for he has never deigned to leave the court; but Lady
Cavendish tells me he has all the fascinations of Satan. I would that
Satan had him."

"The feud still lives between Vernon and Rutland?" I asked.

"Yes, and it will continue to live so long as an ounce of blood can hold a
pound of hatred," said the girl, with flashing eyes and hard lips. "I love
to hate the accursed race. They have wronged our house for three
generations, and my father has suffered greater injury at their hands than
any of our name. Let us not talk of the hateful subject."

We changed the topic. I had expected Dorothy to invite me to go with her
to meet Lady Crawford, but the girl seemed disinclined to leave the
tap-room. The Peacock was her father's property, and the host and hostess
were her friends after the manner of persons in their degree. Therefore
Dorothy felt at liberty to visit the tap-room quite as freely as if it had
been the kitchen of Haddon Hall.

During our conversation I had frequently noticed Dorothy glancing slyly in
the direction of the fireplace; but my back was turned that way, and I did
not know, nor did it at first occur to me to wonder what attracted her
attention. Soon she began to lose the thread of our conversation, and made
inappropriate, tardy replies to my remarks. The glances toward the
fireplace increased in number and duration, and her efforts to pay
attention to what I was saying became painful failures.

After a little time she said: "Is it not cool here? Let us go over to the
fireplace where it is warmer."

I turned to go with her, and at once saw that it was not the fire in the
fireplace which had attracted Dorothy, but quite a different sort of
flame. In short, much to my consternation, I discovered that it was
nothing less than my handsome new-found friend, Sir John Manners, toward
whom Dorothy had been glancing.

We walked over to the fireplace, and one of the fires, Sir John, moved
away. But the girl turned her face that she might see him in his new
position. The movement, I confess, looked bold to the point of brazenness;
but if the movement was bold, what shall I say of her glances and the
expression of her face? She seemed unable to take her eager eyes from the
stranger, or to think of anything but him, and after a few moments she did
not try. Soon she stopped talking entirely and did not even hear what I
was saying. I, too, became silent, and after a long pause the girl
asked:--

"Cousin, who is the gentleman with whom you were travelling?"

I was piqued by Dorothy's conduct, and answered rather curtly: "He is a
stranger. I picked him up at Derby, and we rode here together."

A pause followed, awkward in its duration.

"Did you--not--learn--his--name?" asked Dorothy, hesitatingly.

"Yes," I replied.

Then came another pause, broken by the girl, who spoke in a quick,
imperious tone touched with irritation:--

"Well, what is it?"

"It is better that I do not tell you," I answered. "It was quite by
accident that we met. Neither of us knew the other. Please do not ask me
to tell you his name."

"Oh, but you make me all the more eager to learn. Mystery, you know, is
intolerable to a woman, except in the unravelling. Come, tell me! Tell me!
Not, of course, that I really care a farthing to know--but the mystery! A
mystery drives me wild. Tell me, please do, Cousin Malcolm."

She certainly was posing for the stranger's benefit, and was doing all in
her power, while coaxing me, to display her charms, graces, and pretty
little ways. Her attitude and conduct spoke as plainly as the spring
bird's song speaks to its mate. Yet Dorothy's manner did not seem bold.
Even to me it appeared modest, beautiful, and necessary. She seemed to act
under compulsion. She would laugh, for the purpose, no doubt, of showing
her dimples and her teeth, and would lean her head to one side pigeon-wise
to display her eyes to the best advantage, and then would she shyly glance
toward Sir John to see if he was watching her. It was shameless, but it
could not be helped by Dorothy nor any one else. After a few moments of
mute pleading by the girl, broken now and then by, "Please, please," I
said:--

"If you give to me your promise that you will never speak of this matter
to any person, I will tell you the gentleman's name. I would not for a
great deal have your father know that I have held conversation with him
even for a moment, though at the time I did not know who he was."

"Oh, this is delightful! He must be some famous, dashing highwayman. I
promise, of course I promise--faithfully." She was glancing constantly
toward Manners, and her face was bright with smiles and eager with
anticipation.

"He is worse than a highwayman, I regret to say. The gentleman toward whom
you are so ardently glancing is--Sir John Manners."

A shock of pain passed over Dorothy's face, followed by a hard, repellent
expression that was almost ugly.

"Let us go to Aunt Dorothy," she said, as she turned and walked across the
room toward the door.

When we had closed the door of the tap-room behind us Dorothy said
angrily:--

"Tell me, cousin, how you, a Vernon, came to be in his company?"

"I told you that I met him quite by accident at the Royal Arms in
Derby-town. We became friends before either knew the other's name. After
chance had disclosed our identities, he asked for a truce to our feud
until the morrow; and he was so gentle and open in his conduct that I
could not and would not refuse his proffered olive branch. In truth,
whatever faults may be attributable to Lord Rutland,--and I am sure he
deserves all the evil you have spoken of him,--his son, Sir John, is a
noble gentleman, else I have been reading the book of human nature all my
life in vain. Perhaps he is in no way to blame for his father's conduct
He may have had no part in it"

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