Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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Remember, please, that Dorothy spoke to John of Jennie Faxton. Her doing
so soon bore bitter fruit for me.

Dorothy had been too busy with John to notice any one else, but he soon
presented her to his father. After the old lord had gallantly kissed her
hand, she turned scornfully to me and said:--

"So you fell a victim to her wanton wiles? If it were not for Madge's
sake, I could wish you might hang."

"You need not balk your kindly desire for Madge's sake," I answered. "She
cares little about my fate. I fear she will never forgive me."

"One cannot tell what a woman will do," Dorothy replied. "She is apt to
make a great fool of herself when it comes to forgiving the man she
loves."

"Men at times have something to forgive," I retorted, looking with a
smile toward John. The girl made no reply, but took John's hand and looked
at him as if to say, "John, please don't let this horrid man abuse me."

"But Madge no longer cares for me," I continued, wishing to talk upon the
theme, "and your words do not apply to her."

The girl turned her back disdainfully on me and said, "You seem to be
quite as easily duped by the woman who loves you and says she doesn't as
by the one who does not care for you but says she does."

"Damn that girl's tongue!" thought I; but her words, though biting,
carried joy to my heart and light to my soul.

After exchanging a few words with Lord Rutland, Dorothy turned to John and
said:--

"Tell me upon your knightly honor, John, do you know aught of a wicked,
treasonable plot to put the Scottish woman on the English throne?"

I quickly placed my finger on my lips and touched my ear to indicate that
their words would be overheard; for a listening-tube connected the dungeon
with Sir George's closet.

"Before the holy God, upon my knighthood, by the sacred love we bear each
other, I swear I know of no such plot," answered John. "I would be the
first to tell our good queen did I suspect its existence."

Dorothy and John continued talking upon the subject of the plot, but were
soon interrupted by a warning knock upon the dungeon door.

Lord Rutland, whose heart was like twenty-two carat gold, soft, pure, and
precious, kissed Dorothy's hand when she was about to leave, and said:
"Dear lady, grieve not for our sake. I can easily see that more pain has
come to you than to us. I thank you for the great fearless love you bear
my son. It has brought him trouble, but it is worth its cost. You have my
forgiveness freely, and I pray God's choicest benediction may be with
you." She kissed the old lord and said, "I hope some day to make you love
me."

"That will be an easy task," said his Lordship, gallantly. Dorothy was
about to leave. Just at the doorway she remembered the chief purpose of
her visit; so she ran back to John, put her hand over his mouth to insure
silence, and whispered in his ear.

On hearing Dorothy's whispered words, signs of joy were so apparent in
John's face that they could not be mistaken. He said nothing, but kissed
her hand and she hurriedly left the dungeon.

After the dungeon door closed upon Dorothy, John went to his father and
whispered a few words to him. Then he came to me, and in the same
secretive manner said:--

"The queen has promised Dorothy our liberty." I was not at all sure that
"our liberty" included me,--I greatly doubted it,--but I was glad for the
sake of my friends, and, in truth, cared little for myself.

Dorothy went from our dungeon to the queen, and that afternoon, according
to promise, Elizabeth gave orders for the release of John and his father.
Sir George, of course, was greatly chagrined when his enemies slipped from
his grasp; but he dared not show his ill humor in the presence of the
queen nor to any one who would be apt to enlighten her Majesty on the
subject.

Dorothy did not know the hour when her lover would leave Haddon; but she
sat patiently at her window till at last John and Lord Rutland appeared.
She called to Madge, telling her of the joyous event, and Madge, asked:--

"Is Malcolm with them?"

"No," replied Dorothy, "he has been left in the dungeon, where he
deserves to remain."

After a short pause, Madge said:--

"If John had acted toward the Scottish queen as Malcolm did, would you
forgive him?"

"Yes, of course. I would forgive him anything."

"Then why shall we not forgive Malcolm?" asked Madge.

"Because he is not John," was the absurd reply.

"No," said Madge, promptly; "but he is 'John' to me."

"That is true," responded Dorothy, "and I will forgive him if you will."

"I don't believe it makes much difference to Malcolm whether or not you
forgive him," said Madge, who was provoked at Dorothy's condescending
offer. "My forgiveness, I hope, is what he desires."

"That is true, Madge," replied Dorothy, laughingly; "but may not I, also,
forgive him?"

"If you choose," responded Madge, quietly; "as for me, I know not what I
wish to do."

You remember that Dorothy during her visit to the dungeon spoke of Jennie
Faxton. The girl's name reached Sir George's ear through the
listening-tube and she was at once brought in and put to the question.

Jennie, contrary to her wont, became frightened and told all she knew
concerning John and Dorothy, including my part in their affairs. In Sir
George's mind, my bad faith to him was a greater crime than my treason to
Elizabeth, and he at once went to the queen with his tale of woe.

Elizabeth, the most sentimental of women, had heard from Dorothy the story
of her tempestuous love, and also of mine, and the queen was greatly
interested in the situation.

I will try to be brief.

Through the influence of Dorothy and Madge, as I afterward learned, and
by the help of a good word from Cecil, the queen was induced to order my
liberation on condition that I should thenceforth reside in France. So one
morning, three days after John's departure from Haddon, I was overjoyed to
hear the words, "You are free."

I did not know that Jennie Faxton had given Sir George her large stock of
disturbing information concerning my connection with the affairs of
Dorothy and John. So when I left the dungeon, I, supposing that my stormy
cousin would be glad to forgive me if Queen Elizabeth would, sought and
found him in Aunt Dorothy's room. Lady Crawford and Sir George were
sitting near the fire and Madge was standing near the door in the next
room beyond. When I entered, Sir George sprang to his feet and cried out
angrily:--

"You traitorous dog, the queen has seen fit to liberate you, and I cannot
interfere with her orders; but if you do not leave my Hall at once I shall
set the hounds on you. Your effects will be sent to The Peacock, and the
sooner you quit England the safer you will be." There was of course
nothing for me to do but to go.

"You once told me, Sir George--you remember our interview at The
Peacock--that if you should ever again order me to leave Haddon, I should
tell you to go to the devil. I now take advantage of your kind permission,
and will also say farewell."

I kissed Aunt Dorothy's cheek, took my leave, and sought Cecil, from whom
I obtained a passport to France. Then I asked Dawson to fetch my horse.

I longed to see Madge before I left Haddon, but I knew that my desire
could not be gratified; so I determined to stop at Rowsley and send back a
letter to her which Dawson undertook to deliver. In my letter I would ask
Madge's permission to return for her from France and to take her home
with me as my wife. After I had despatched my letter I would wait at The
Peacock for an answer.

Sore at heart, I bade good-by to Dawson, mounted my horse, and turned his
head toward the Dove-cote Gate. As I rode under Dorothy's window she was
sitting there. The casement was open, for the day was mild, although the
season was little past midwinter. I heard her call to Madge, and then she
called to me:--

"Farewell, Malcolm! Forgive me for what I said to you in the dungeon. I
was wrong, as usual. Forgive me, and God bless you. Farewell!"

While Dorothy was speaking, and before I replied, Madge came to the open
casement and called:--

"Wait for me, Malcolm, I am going down to you."

Great joy is a wonderful purifier, and Madge's cry finished the work of
the past few months and made a good man of me, who all my life before had
known little else than evil.

Soon Madge's horse was led by a groom to the mounting block, and in a few
minutes she emerged gropingly from the great door of Entrance Tower.
Dorothy was again a prisoner in her rooms and could not come down to bid
me farewell. Madge mounted, and the groom led her horse to me and placed
the reins in my hands.

"Is it you, Malcolm?" asked Madge.

"Yes," I responded, in a voice husky with emotion. "I cannot thank you
enough for coming to say farewell. You have forgiven me?"

"Yes," responded Madge, almost in tears, "but I have not come to say
farewell."

I did not understand her meaning.

"Are you going to ride part of the way with me--perhaps to Rowsley?" I
asked, hardly daring to hope for so much.

"To France, Malcolm, if you wish to take me," she responded murmuringly.

For a little time I could not feel the happiness that had come upon me in
so great a flood. But when I had collected my scattered senses, I said:--

"I thank God that He has turned your heart again to me. May I feel His
righteous anger if ever I give you cause to regret the step you are
taking."

"I shall never regret it, Malcolm," she answered softly, as she held out
her hand to me.

Then we rode by the dove-cote, out from Haddon Hall, never to see its
walls again.

We went to Rutland, whence after a fortnight we journeyed to France. There
I received my mother's estates, and never for one moment, to my knowledge,
has Madge regretted having intrusted her life and happiness to me. I need
not speak for myself.

Our home is among the warm, sunlit, vine-covered hills of southern France,
and we care not for the joys of golden streets so long as God in His
goodness vouchsafes to us our earthly paradise. Age, with the heart at
peace, is the fairest season of life; and love, leavened of God, robs even
approaching death of his sting and makes for us a broad flower-strewn path
from the tempestuous sea of time to the calm, sweet ocean of eternity.

CHAPTER XVI

LEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE

I shall now tell you of the happenings in Haddon Hall during the fortnight
we spent at Rutland before our departure for France.

We left Dorothy, you will remember, a prisoner in her rooms.

After John had gone Sir George's wrath began to gather, and Dorothy was
not permitted to depart from the Hall for even a walk upon the terrace,
nor could she leave her own apartments save when the queen requested her
presence.

A few days after my departure from Haddon, Sir George sent Dawson out
through the adjoining country to invite the nobility and gentry to a grand
ball to be given at the Hall in honor of Queen Elizabeth. Queen Mary had
been sent a prisoner to Chatsworth.

Tom Shaw, the most famous piper of his times, and a choice company of
musicians to play with him were hired for the occasion, and, in short, the
event was so glorious that its wonders have been sung in minstrelsy
throughout Derbyshire ever since.

Dorothy's imprisonment saddened Leicester's heart, and he longed to see
her, for her beauty had touched him nearly. Accordingly, the earl one day
intimated to Sir George his wish in terms that almost bespoke an intention
to ask for the girl's hand when upon proper opportunity the queen's
consent might be sought and perchance obtained. His equivocal words did
not induce Sir George to grant a meeting by which Dorothy might be
compromised; but a robust hope for the ultimate accomplishment of the
"Leicester possibility" was aroused in the breast of the King of the Peak,
and from hope he could, and soon did, easily step to faith. He saw that
the earl was a handsome man, and he believed, at least he hoped, that the
fascinating lord might, if he were given an opportunity, woo Dorothy's
heart away from the hated scion of a hated race. Sir George, therefore,
after several interviews with the earl, grew anxious to give his Lordship
an opportunity to win her. But both Sir George and my lord feared
Elizabeth's displeasure, and the meeting between Leicester and the girl
seemed difficult to contrive. Sir George felt confident that Dorothy
could, if she would, easily capture the great lord in a few private
interviews; but would she? Dorothy gave her father no encouragement in the
matter, and took pains to shun Leicester rather than to seek him.

As Dorothy grew unwilling, Leicester and Sir George grew eager, until at
length the latter felt that it was almost time to exert his parental
authority. He told Aunt Dorothy his feeling on the subject, and she told
her niece. It was impossible to know from what source Dorothy might draw
inspiration for mischief. It came to her with her father's half-command
regarding Leicester.

Winter had again asserted itself. The weather was bitter cold and snow
covered the ground to the depth of a horse's fetlock.

The eventful night of the grand ball arrived, and Dorothy's heart throbbed
till she thought surely it would burst.

At nightfall guests began to arrive, and Sir George, hospitable soul that
he was, grew boisterous with good humor and delight.

The rare old battlements of Haddon were ablaze with flambeaux, and inside
the rooms were alight with waxen tapers. The long gallery was brilliant
with the smiles of bejewelled beauty, and laughter, song, and merriment
filled the grand old Hall from terrace to Entrance Tower. Dorothy, of
course, was brought down from her prison to grace the occasion with a
beauty which none could rival. Her garments were of soft, clinging,
bright-colored silks and snowy laces, and all who saw her agreed that a
creature more radiant never greeted the eye of man.

When the guests had all arrived, the pipers in the balcony burst forth in
heart-swelling strains of music, and every foot in the room longed for the
dance to begin.

I should like to tell you how Elizabeth most graciously opened the ball
with his Majesty, the King of the Peak, amid the plaudits of worshipping
subjects, and I should enjoy describing the riotous glory which
followed,--for although I was not there, I know intimately all that
happened,--but I will balk my desire and tell you only of those things
which touched Dorothy.

Leicester, of course, danced with her, and during a pause in the figure,
the girl in response to pleadings which she had adroitly incited,
reluctantly promised to grant the earl the private interview he so much
desired if he could suggest some means for bringing it about. Leicester
was in raptures over her complaisance and glowed with triumph and
delightful anticipation. But he could think of no satisfactory plan
whereby his hopes might be brought to a happy fruition. He proposed
several, but all seemed impracticable to the coy girl, and she rejected
them. After many futile attempts he said:--

"I can suggest no good plan, mistress. I pray you, gracious lady,
therefore, make full to overflowing the measure of your generosity, and
tell me how it may be accomplished."

Dorothy hung her head as if in great shame and said: "I fear, my lord, we
had better abandon the project for a time. Upon another occasion
perhaps--"

"No, no," interrupted the earl, pleadingly, "do not so grievously
disappoint me. My heart yearns to have you to myself for one little moment
where spying eyes cannot see nor prying ears hear. It is cruel in you to
raise my hopes only to cast them down. I beg you, tell me if you know in
what manner I may meet you privately."

After a long pause, Dorothy with downcast eyes said, "I am full of shame,
my lord, to consent to this meeting, and then find the way to it,
but--but--" ("Yes, yes, my Venus, my gracious one," interrupted the
earl)--"but if my father would permit me to--to leave the Hall for a few
minutes, I might--oh, it is impossible, my lord. I must not think of it."

"I pray you, I beg you," pleaded Leicester. "Tell me, at least, what you
might do if your father would permit you to leave the Hall. I would gladly
fall to my knees, were it not for the assembled company."

With reluctance in her manner and gladness in her heart, the girl said:--

"If my father would permit me to leave the Hall, I might--only for a
moment, meet you at the stile, in the northeast corner of the garden back
of the terrace half an hour hence. But he would not permit me, and--and,
my lord, I ought not to go even should father consent."

"I will ask your father's permission for you. I will seek him at once,"
said the eager earl.

"No, no, my lord, I pray you, do not," murmured Dorothy, with distracting
little troubled wrinkles in her forehead. Her trouble was more for fear
lest he would not than for dread that he would.

"I will, I will," cried his Lordship, softly; "I insist, and you shall not
gainsay me."

The girl's only assent was silence, but that was sufficient for so
enterprising a gallant as the noble Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. So
he at once went to seek Sir George.

The old gentleman, although anxious to give Leicester a chance to press
his suit with Dorothy, at first refused, but Leicester said:--

"My intentions are honorable, Sir George. If I can win your daughter's
heart, it is my wish, if the queen's consent can be obtained, to ask
Mistress Vernon's hand in marriage."

Sir George's breast swelled with pride and satisfaction, for Leicester's
words were as near an offer of marriage as it was in his power to make. So
the earl received, for Dorothy, permission to leave the Hall, and eagerly
carried it to her.

"Your father consents gladly," said the earl. "Will you meet me half an
hour hence at the stile?"

"Yes," murmured the girl, with shamelessly cast down eyes and drooping
head. Leicester bowed himself away, and fully fifteen minutes before the
appointed time left the Hall to wait in the cold at the stile for Dorothy.

Before the expiration of the tedious half hour our meek maiden went to her
father and with deep modesty and affected shame said:--

"Father, is it your wish that I go out of the Hall for a few minutes to
meet--to meet--" She apparently could not finish the sentence, so modest
and shame-faced was she.

"Yes, Doll, I wish you to go on this condition: if Leicester asks you to
marry him, you shall consent to be his wife."

"I promise, father," replied the dutiful girl, "if Lord Leicester asks me
this night, I will be his wife."

"That is well, child, that is well. Once more you are my good, obedient
daughter, and I love you. Wear your sable cloak, Doll; the weather is very
cold out of doors."

Her father's solicitude touched her nearly, and she gently led him to a
secluded alcove near by, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him
passionately. The girl's affection was sweet to the old man who had been
without it so long, and his eyes grew moist as he returned her caresses.
Dorothy's eyes also were filled with tears. Her throat was choked with
sobs, and her heart was sore with pain. Poor young heart! Poor old man!

Soon after Dorothy had spoken with her father she left the Hall by
Dorothy's Postern. She was wrapped in her sable cloak--the one that had
saved John's life in Aunt Dorothy's room; but instead of going across the
garden to the stile where Lord Leicester was waiting, which was north and
east of the terrace, she sped southward down the terrace and did not stop
till she reached the steps which led westward to the lower garden. She
stood on the terrace till she saw a man running toward her from the
postern in the southwest corner of the lower garden. Then down the steps
she sped with winged feet, and outstretching her arms, fell upon the man's
breast, whispering: "John, my love! John, my love!"

As for the man--well, during the first minute or two he wasted no time in
speech.

When he spoke he said:--

"We must not tarry here. Horses are waiting at the south end of the
footbridge. Let us hasten away at once."

Then happened the strangest of all the strange things I have had to record
of this strange, fierce, tender, and at time almost half-savage girl.

Dorothy for months had longed for that moment. Her heart had almost burst
with joy when a new-born hope for it was suggested by the opportunities of
the ball and her father's desire touching my lord of Leicester. But now
that the longed-for moment was at hand, the tender heart, which had so
anxiously awaited it, failed, and the girl broke down weeping
hysterically.

"Oh, John, you have forgiven so many faults in me," she said between
sobs, "that I know you will forgive me when I tell you I cannot go with
you to-night. I thought I could and I so intended when I came out here to
meet you. But oh, John, my dearest love, I cannot go; I cannot go. Another
time I will go with you, John. I promise that I will go with you soon,
very soon, John; but I cannot go now, oh, I cannot. You will forgive me,
won't you, John? You will forgive me?"

"No," cried John in no uncertain tones, "I will not forgive you. I will
take you. If you cry out, I will silence you." Thereupon he rudely took
the girl in his arms and ran with her toward the garden gate near the
north end of the stone footbridge.

"John, John!" she cried in terror. But he placed his hand over her mouth
and forced her to remain silent till they were past the south wall. Then
he removed his hand and she screamed and struggled against him with all
her might. Strong as she was, her strength was no match for John's, and
her struggles were in vain.

John, with his stolen bride, hurriedly crossed the footbridge and ran to
the men who were holding the horses. There he placed Dorothy on her feet
and said with a touch of anger:--

"Will you mount of your own will or shall I put you in the saddle?"

"I'll mount of my own will, John," she replied submissively, "and John,
I--I thank you, I thank you for--for--" she stopped speaking and toyed
with the tufts of fur that hung from the edges of her cloak.

"For what, my love? For what do you thank me?" asked John after a little
pause.

"For making--me--do--what I--I longed to do. My conscience would not let
me do it of my own free will."

Then tears came from her eyes in a great flood, and throwing her arms
about John's neck she gave him herself and her heart to keep forever and
forever.

And Leicester was shivering at the stile! The girl had forgotten even the
existence of the greatest lord in the realm.

My wife, Lord Rutland, and I waited in the watch-room above the castle
gates for the coming of Dorothy and John; and when they came--but I will
not try to describe the scene. It were a vain effort. Tears and laughter
well compounded make the sweetest joy; grief and joy the truest happiness;
happiness and pain the grandest soul, and none of these may be described.
We may analyze them, and may take them part from part; but, like love,
they cannot be compounded. We may know all the component parts, but when
we try to create these great emotions in description, we lack the subtle
compounding flux to unite the ingredients, and after all is done, we have
simply said that black is black and that white is white.

Next day, in the morning, Madge and I started for our new home in France.
We rode up the hill down which poor Dolcy took her last fatal plunge, and
when we reached the crest, we paused to look back. Standing on the
battlements, waving a kerchief in farewell to us, was the golden-crowned
form of a girl. Soon she covered her face with her kerchief, and we knew
she was weeping Then we, also, wept as we turned away from the fair
picture; and since that far-off morning--forty long, long years ago--we
have not seen the face nor heard the voice of our sweet, tender friend.
Forty years! What an eternity it is if we tear it into minutes!

L'ENVOI

The fire ceases to burn; the flames are sucked back into the earth; the
doe's blood has boiled away; the caldron cools, and my shadowy friends--so
real to me--whom I love with a passionate tenderness beyond my power to
express, have sunk into the dread black bank of the past, and my poor,
weak wand is powerless to recall them for the space of even one fleeting
moment. So I must say farewell to them; but all my life I shall carry a
heart full of tender love and pain for the fairest, fiercest, gentlest,
weakest, strongest of them all--Dorothy Vernon.

MALCOLM POSSIBLY IN ERROR

Malcolm Vernon is the only writer on the life of Dorothy Vernon who speaks
of Rutland Castle. All others writing on the subject say that Belvoir
Castle was the home of the Earl of Rutland.

No other writer mentions the proposed marriage, spoken of by Malcolm,
between Dorothy and Lord Derby's son. They do, however, say that Dorothy
had an elder sister who married a Stanley, but died childless, leaving
Dorothy sole heiress to Sir George Vernon's vast estate.

All writers agree with Malcolm upon the main fact that brave Dorothy
eloped with John Manners and brought to him the fair estate of Haddon,
which their descendant, the present Duke of Rutland, now possesses.

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