Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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"It is your privilege," said Mary, scornfully, "to intrust your own
secrets to whomsoever you may choose for your confidant, and it is quite
saintlike in you to forgive this person for betraying you; but what think
you of the hard case in which her treason and your folly have placed me?"

"That is my greatest grief, save for Dorothy," answered John, softly.
Lived there ever a man possessed of broader charity or deeper love than
John? God surely made him of gold dust, not of common clay.

Queen Mary stepped away from John in disgust, and when she turned she saw
me for the first time. She started and was about to speak, but I placed my
fingers warningly upon my lips and she remained silent.

"Where do you take us, Sir William?" asked John.

"To Haddon Hall. There you will await the commands of the queen."

"How came you here?" John asked gently of Dorothy.

"I rode Dolcy," she whispered. "She dropped dead at the foot of the hill.
Yonder she lies. I came up the Lathkil by the long road, and I hoped that
I might reach you in time to give warning. When the guard left Haddon I
realized the evil that would come upon you by reason of my base betrayal."
Here she broke down and for a moment could not proceed in the narrative.
She soon recovered and continued: "Then I mounted Dolcy, and tried to
reach here by way of the long road. Poor Dolcy seemed to understand my
trouble and my despair, and she brought me with all the speed that a horse
could make; but the road was too long and too rough; and she failed, and I
failed. Would that I could have died in her place. She gave her life in
trying to remedy my fault."

Dorothy again began to weep, and John tenderly whispered:--

"All will yet come right" Then he kissed her before us all, and handed her
to me saying, "Care for her, I pray you, sir."

John spoke a few words to Sir William, and in a moment they both went back
to the castle.

In a short time the gates were opened, and the Rutland coach drawn by four
horses emerged from the castle grounds. Sir William then directed Mary and
Dorothy to enter the coach and requested me to ride with them to Haddon
Hall.

The yeoman guards were in marching order, and I took my seat in the coach.
The fates surely were in a humorous mood when they threw Dorothy, Queen
Mary, and myself together. Pause for a moment and consider the situation.
You know all the facts and you can analyze it as well as I. I could not
help laughing at the fantastic trick of destiny.

Soon after I entered the coach Sir William gave the word, and the yeomen
with Lord Rutland and John moved forward on the road to Haddon.

The coach at once followed the guard and a score of yeomen followed us.

Queen Mary occupied the back seat of the coach, and Dorothy and I sat upon
the front seat facing her.

Dorothy was exhausted, and her head lay upon my shoulder. Now and again
she would softly moan and sob, but she said nothing. After a few minutes
of silence Queen Mary spoke:--

"Why did you betray me, you miserable wretch? Why did you betray me?"

Dorothy did not answer. Mary continued:--

"Have I ever injured you in any manner? Have I ever harmed you by thought,
word, or deed?"

Dorothy's only answer was a sob.

"Perhaps you are a canting fanatic, and it may be that you hate me for the
sake of that which you call the love of God?"

"No, no, madam," I said, "that was not the reason."

"Do you know the reason, Malcolm?" asked Mary, addressing me for the first
time. My name upon her lips had a strange effect on me. It was like the
wafting to my nostrils of a sweet forgotten odor, or the falling upon my
ears of a tender refrain of bygone days. Her voice in uttering my name
thrilled me, and I hated myself for my weakness.

I told Mary that I did not know Dorothy's reasons, and she continued:--

"Malcolm, you were not a party to my betrayal for the sake of revenging
yourself on me?"

"God forbid!" I answered. "Sir John Manners will assure you of my
innocence. I rode with Mistress Vernon to a cross-road within a league of
Rutland, hoping thereby to assist her to give you and Sir John the alarm."

My admission soon brought me into trouble.

"I alone am to blame," said Dorothy, faintly.

"I can easily believe you," said Mary, sharply. "Did you expect to injure
me?"

No answer came from Dorothy.

"If you expect to injure me," Mary continued, "you will be disappointed. I
am a queen, and my Cousin Elizabeth would not dare to harm me, even though
she might wish to do so. We are of the same blood, and she will not wish
to do me injury. Your doting lover will probably lose his head for
bringing me to England without his queen's consent. He is her subject. I
am not. I wish you joy of the trouble you have brought upon him and upon
yourself."

"Upon him!" cried Dorothy.

"Yes, upon him," continued Mary, relishing the torture she was inflicting.
"You will enjoy seeing him beheaded, will you not, you fool, you huzzy,
you wretch? I hope his death will haunt you till the end of your days."

Poor Dorothy, leaning against me, said faintly:--

"It will--it will. You--you devil."

The girl was almost dead from exhaustion and anguish, but she would have
been dead indeed had she lacked the power to strike back. I believe had it
not been for Dorothy's physical weakness she would have silenced Mary with
her hands.

After a little time Dorothy's heavy breathing indicated that she had
fallen asleep. Her head rested upon my shoulder, and the delicious perfume
of her hair and the sweet warm breath from her lips were almost
intoxicating even to me, though I was not in love with her. How great must
their effect have been coming upon John hot from her intense young soul!

As the link-boys passed the coach some and some with their flambeaux I
could see Dorothy's sweet pale face, almost hidden in the tangled golden
red hair which fell in floods about her. The perfect oval of her cheek,
the long wet lashes, the arched eyebrows, the low broad forehead, the
straight nose, the saucy chin--all presented a picture of beauty and
pathos sufficient to soften a heart of stone. Mary had no heart of any
sort, therefore she was not moved to pity. That emotion, I am sure, she
never felt from the first to the last day of her life. She continued to
probe Dorothy's wound until I told her the girl was asleep. I changed
Dorothy's position and placed her head against the corner cushion of the
coach that she might rest more comfortably. She did not awaken when I
moved her. She slept and looked like a child. For a little time after I
had changed Dorothy's position Mary and I sat in silence. She was the
first to speak. She leaned forward and placing her hands upon mine,
whispered my name:--

"Malcolm!"

After a brief silence I said:--

"What would you, your Majesty?"

"Not 'your Majesty'" said Mary, softly, "but Mary, as of old."

She remained for a moment with her hand upon my knee, and then
whispered:--

"Will you not sit by me, Malcolm?"

I believe that Mary Stuart's voice was the charm wherewith she fascinated
men. I resisted to my utmost strength, but that seemed to be little more
than utter weakness; so I took a seat by her side, and she gently placed
her hand in mine. The warm touch of her strong, delicate fingers gave me a
familiar thrill. She asked me to tell her of my wanderings since I had
left Scotland, and I briefly related all my adventures. I told her of my
home at Haddon Hall and of the welcome given me by my cousin, Sir George.

"Malcolm, have you forgotten?" she whispered, leaning gently against me.
"Have you forgotten our old-time vows and love? Have you forgotten all
that passed between us in the dear old chateau, when I gave to you my
virgin love, fresh from my virgin heart?" I sighed and tried to harden my
heart to her blandishments, for I knew she wished to use me and was
tempting me to that end. She continued, "I was then only fourteen years
old--ten years ago. You said that you loved me and I believed you. You
could not doubt, after the proof I gave to you, that my heart was all
yours. We were happy, oh, so happy. Do you remember, Malcolm?"

She brought her face close to mine while she spoke, and pressed my hand
upon her breast.

My reason told me that it was but the song of the siren she was singing to
my ears. My memory told me that she had been false to me twice two score
times, and I knew full well she would again be false to me, or to any
other man whom she could use for her purposes, and that she cared not the
price at which she purchased him. Bear in mind, you who would blame me for
my fall, that this woman not only was transcendently beautiful and fatally
fascinating, but she was a queen and had held undisputed sway over my
heart for more years than I could accurately number. As I said, added to
all her beauty, she was a queen. If you have never known royalty, you
cannot understand its enthralling power.

"I remember it all, madam," I replied, trying to hold myself away from
her. "It is fresh to me as if it all had happened yesterday." The queen
drew my arm closely to her side and nestled her cheek for an instant upon
my shoulder.

"I remember also," I continued, "your marriage with Darnley when I had
your promise that you would marry me; and, shame upon shame, I remember
your marriage with Darnley's murderer, Bothwell."

"Cruel, cruel, Malcolm," she said. "You well know the overpowering
reasons of state which impelled me to sacrifice my own happiness by
marrying Darnley. I told you at the time that I hated the marriage more
than I dreaded death. But I longed to quiet the factions in Scotland, and
I hoped to save my poor bleeding people from the evils of war. You know I
hated Darnley. You know I loved you. You knew then and you know now that
you are the only man who has ever possessed my heart. You know that my
words are true. You know that you, alone, have had my love since the time
when I was a child."

"And Rizzio?" I asked.

"Ah, Malcolm," she answered tearfully, "I hope you, of all men, do not
believe that I ever gave a thought of love to Rizzio. He was to me like my
pet monkey or my favorite falcon. He was a beautiful, gentle, harmless
soul. I loved him for his music. He worshipped me as did my spaniel."

Still I was determined that her blandishments should not move me.

"And Bothwell?" I asked.

"That is past endurance from you, Malcolm," she said, beginning to weep.
"You know I was brutally abducted and was forced into marriage with him.
He was an outlaw, an outcast. He was an uncouth brute whom any woman would
loathe. I was in his power, and I feigned acquiescence only that I might
escape and achieve vengeance upon him. Tell me, Malcolm, tell me,"
continued Mary, placing her arms about my neck and clinging to me, "tell
me, you, to whom I gave my maiden's love, you who have my woman's heart,
tell me, do you believe that I could willingly have married Bothwell, even
though my heart had not been filled with the image of you, who are strong,
gentle, and beautiful?"

You, if you are a man, may think that in my place you would have resisted
the attack of this beautiful queen, but if so you think--pardon me, my
friend--you are a fool. Under the spell of her magic influence I wavered
in the conviction which had long since come upon me, that I had for years
been her fool and her dupe. I forgot the former lessons I had learned from
her perfidy. I forgot my manhood. I forgot all of good that had of late
grown up in me. God help me, I forgot even Madge.

"If I could only believe you, Mary," I answered, growing insane under the
influence of her fascinations, "If I could only believe you."

"Give me your lips, Malcolm," she whispered, "give me your lips.--Again,
my Malcolm.--Ah, now you believe me."

The lying logic of a wanton kiss is irresistible. I was drunk and, alas! I
was convinced. When I think of that time, Samson is my only
comfort--Samson and a few hundred million other fools, who like Samson and
me have been wheedled, kissed, and duped into misery and ruin.

I said: "I do believe you, Mary. I beg you to forgive me for having
doubted you. You have been traduced and brutally misused."

"It is sweet to hear you speak those words. But it is better to think that
at last we have come together with nothing to part us save that I am a
prisoner in the hands of my vindictive, jealous cousin. I thank God that
my kingdom of Scotland has been taken from me. I ever hated the Scots.
They are an ignorant, unkempt, wry-necked, stubborn, filthy race. But,
above all, my crown stood between you and me. I may now be a woman, and
were it not for Elizabeth, you and I could yet find solace in each other
for all our past sufferings. Malcolm, I have a sweet thought. If I could
escape to fair, beautiful France, all would be happiness for us. You could
claim your mother's estates in the balmy south, and we might live upon
them. Help me, my Malcolm, to escape, and your reward shall be greater and
sweeter than man ever before received from woman."

I struggled against her blandishments for a moment, but I was lost.

"You shall escape and I will go with you," said I. Man needs to make but
one little prayer to God, "Lead me not into temptation." That prayer
answered, all else of good will follow.

The morning sun had just begun to rise over Bowling Green Hill and the
shadows of the night were fleeing before his lances, when our cavalcade
entered the grounds of Haddon at the dove-cote. If there were two suns
revolving about the earth, one to shine upon us by night and one by day,
much evil would be averted. Men do evil in the dark because others cannot
see them; they think evil in the dark because they cannot see themselves.

With the first faint gray of dawn there came to me thoughts of Madge. I
had forgotten her, but her familiar spirit, the light, brought me back to
its fair mistress.

When our coach reached the stone bridge I looked up to the Hall and saw
Madge standing at the open casement of the tower window. She had been
watching there all night, I learned, hoping for our speedy and safe
return, and had been warned of our approach by the noise of the tramping
guard. I drew back from the coach window, feeling that I was an evil shade
slinking away before the spirit of light.

CHAPTER XV

LIGHT

Dorothy had awakened while we were entering Rowsley, and I was glad that
Mary could not touch me again.

When our coach reached the stone steps of the entrance tower we found Sir
George, Lady Crawford, and Madge waiting to receive us. The steps and the
path leading to them had been carpeted with soft rugs, and Mary, although
a prisoner, was received with ceremonies befitting her rank. It was a
proud day for Sir George when the roof of his beautiful Hall sheltered the
two most famous queens of christendom.

Sir George assisted Mary from the coach most graciously, and in knightly
fashion led her to Lady Crawford and Madge, who were standing at the foot
of the tower steps. Due presentations were made, and the ladies of Haddon
having kissed the queen's hand, Mary went into the Hall upon the arm of
his Majesty, the King of the Peak, who stepped forward most proudly.

His resentment against Dorothy was for the moment neutralized by the great
honor of which his house and himself were the recipients.

John and Lord Rutland were taken to the dungeon.

I assisted Dorothy from the coach and led her to Madge, who was waiting
for us upon the lowest of the steps leading to the entrance tower doorway.
Dorothy took Madge's outstretched hand; but Madge, by some strange
instinct, knowing of my presence, turned her face toward me. I could not
lift my eyes to her face, nor could I endure to remain in her presence.
While we were ascending the steps she held out her hand to me and said:--

"Is all well with you, Malcolm?" Her voice was full of tender concern, and
it pained me to the heart to hear her speak kindly to me, who was so
unworthy of her smallest thought.

"Yes, Lady--yes, Madge," I responded; but she knew from the tones of my
voice that all was not right with me.

"I fear, Malcolm, that you do not tell me the truth. You will come to me
soon?" she asked.

"I may not be able to go to you soon," I answered, "but I will do so at
the first opportunity."

The torture of her kindness was almost unbearable to me. One touch of her
hand, one tone of her rare voice, had made me loathe myself. The powers of
evil cannot stand for one moment in a fair conflict with the powers of
good. I felt that I, alone, was to blame for my treason to Madge; but
despite my effort at self-condemnation there was an under-consciousness
that Mary Stuart was to blame, and I hated her accordingly. Although
Madge's presence hurt me, it was not because I wished to conceal my
conduct from her. I knew that I could be happy again only after I had
confessed to her and had received forgiveness.

Madge, who was blind of sight, led Dorothy, who was piteously blind of
soul, and the two girls went to their apartments.

Curiosity is not foreign even to the royal female breast, and while Mary
Stuart was entering Haddon Hall, I saw the luminous head of the Virgin
Queen peeked out at a casement on the second floor watching her rival with
all the curiosity of a Dutch woman sitting by her window mirror.

I went to my room in Eagle Tower, fell upon my bed, and abandoned myself
to an anguish of soul which was almost luxurious. I shall not tease you
with the details of my mental and moral processes. I hung in the balance a
long time undetermined what course I should pursue. The difference between
the influence of Mary and the effect wrought by Madge was the difference
between the intoxication and the exhilaration of wine. Following the
intoxication of Mary's presence ever came a torturing reaction, while the
exhilarating influence of Madge gave health and strength. I chose the
latter. I have always been glad I reached that determination without the
aid of any impulse outside of myself; for events soon happened which again
drove all faith in Mary from my heart forever. Those events would have
forced me to abandon my trust in her; but mind you, I took my good resolve
from inclination rather than necessity before I learned of Mary's perfidy.

The events of the night had exhausted Dorothy, and she was confined to her
bed by illness for the first time in her life. She believed that she was
dying, and she did not want to live. I did not go to her apartments. Madge
remained with her, and I, coward-like, feared to face the girl to whom I
had been untrue.

Dorothy's one and only desire, of course, was to see John, but that desire
for a time seemed impossible of accomplishment.

Elizabeth, Cecil, Leicester, and Sir William St. Loe were in secret
consultation many times during three or four days and nights. Occasionally
Sir George was called into their councils, and that flattering attention
so wrought upon the old man's pride that he was a slave to the queen's
slightest wish, and was more tyrannical and dictatorial than ever before
to all the rest of mankind. There were, however, two persons besides the
queen before whom Sir George was gracious: one of these was Mary Stuart,
whose powers of fascination had been brought to bear upon the King of the
Peak most effectively. The other was Leicester, to whom, as my cousin
expressed it, he hoped to dispose of that troublesome and disturbing
body--Dorothy. These influences, together with the fact that his enemies
of Rutland were in the Haddon dungeon, had given Sir George a spleen-vent,
and Dorothy, even in the face of her father's discovery that Manners was
her mysterious lover, had for once a respite from Sir George's just and
mighty wrath.

The purpose of Elizabeth's many councils of war was to devise some means
of obtaining from John and his father, information concerning the plot,
which had resulted in bringing Mary Stuart into England. The ultimate
purpose of Mary's visit, Elizabeth's counsellors firmly believed to be the
dethronement of the English queen and the enthronement of her Scottish
cousin. Elizabeth, in her heart, felt confident that John and his father
were not parties to the treasonable plot, although she had been warned
against each of them. Cecil and Sir William St. Loe also secretly held to
that opinion, though neither of them expressed it, Elizabeth was conscious
of having given to John while at London court an intimation that she would
be willing that Mary should visit England. Of such intimation Cecil and
Sir William had no knowledge, though they, together with many persons of
the Court, believed that Elizabeth was not entirely averse to Mary's
presence.

Lord Rutland and John were questioned by Cecil in the hope of obtaining
some hints which might lead to the detection of those concerned in the
chief plot, provided such plot existed. But Lord Rutland knew nothing of
the affair except that John had brought the Scottish queen from Scotland,
and John persisted in the statement that he had no confederate and that he
knew nothing of any plot to place Mary upon the English throne.

John said: "I received from Queen Mary's friends in Scotland letters
asking me to meet her on the border, and requesting me to conduct her to
my father's castle. Those letters mentioned no Englishman but myself, and
they stated that Queen Mary's flight to England was to be undertaken with
the tacit consent of our gracious queen. That fact, the letters told me,
our queen wished should not be known. There were reasons of state, the
letters said, which made it impolitic for our queen openly to invite Queen
Mary to seek sanctuary in England. I received those letters before I left
Westminster. Upon the day when I received them, I heard our gracious queen
say that she would gladly invite Queen Mary to England, were it not for
the fact that such an invitation would cause trouble between her and the
regent, Murray. Her Majesty at the same time intimated that she would be
glad if Mary Stuart should come to England uninvited." John turned to
Elizabeth, "I beg your Majesty, in justice, to ratify my words." Elizabeth
hesitated for a moment after John's appeal; but her love of justice came
to her rescue and she hung her head as she said, "You are right, Sir
John." Then she looked her counsellors in the face and said, "I well
remember that I so expressed myself."

"In truth," said John, "I having only an hour before received the letter
from Scotland, believed that your Majesty's words were meant for my ear. I
felt that your Majesty knew of the letters, and I thought that I should be
carrying out your royal wishes should I bring Queen Mary into England
without your knowledge."

The queen responded: "I then felt that I wished Queen Mary to seek refuge
in my kingdom, but so many untoward events have transpired since I spoke
on the subject at Westminster that I have good cause to change my mind,
though I easily understand how you might have been misled by my words."

"I am sure," replied John, "that your Majesty has had good cause to change
your mind; but I protest in all sincerity that I considered the Scottish
letters to be a command from my queen."

Elizabeth was a strange combination of paradoxes. No one could be truer
than she to a fixed determination once taken. No one could be swayed by
doubt so easily as she to change her mind sixty times in the space of a
minute. During one moment she was minded to liberate John and Lord
Rutland; in the next she determined to hold them in prison, hoping to
learn from them some substantial fact concerning the plot which, since
Mary's arrival in England, had become a nightmare to her. But, with all
her vagaries the Virgin Queen surely loved justice. That quality, alone,
makes a sovereign great. Elizabeth, like her mother, Anne Boleyn, had
great faith in her personal beauty; like her father, she had unbounded
confidence in her powers of mind. She took great pride in the ease with
which she controlled persons. She believed that no one was so adroit as
Elizabeth Tudor in extracting secrets from others, and in unravelling
mysterious situations, nor so cunning in hunting out plots and in running
down plotters. In all such matters she delighted to act secretly and
alone.

During the numerous councils held at Haddon, Elizabeth allowed Cecil to
question John to his heart's content; but while she listened she
formulated a plan of her own which she was sure would be effective in
extracting all the truth from John, if all the truth had not already been
extracted. Elizabeth kept her cherished plan to herself. It was this:--

She would visit Dorothy, whom she knew to be ill, and would by her subtle
art steal from John's sweetheart all that the girl knew of the case. If
John had told Dorothy part of the affair concerning Mary Stuart, he had
probably told her all, and Elizabeth felt confident that she could easily
pump the girl dry. She did not know Dorothy. Accordingly our queen,
Elizabeth, the adroit, went to Dorothy's room under the pretence of paying
the girl a gracious visit. Dorothy wished to arise and receive her royal
guest, but Elizabeth said gently:--

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