Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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"May I ask you to give my mare water?" she said.

"Certainly. Ah, I beg pardon. I did not understand," answered Sir John,
confusedly. John, the polished, self-poised courtier, felt the confusion
of a country rustic in the presence of this wonderful girl, whose
knowledge of life had been acquired within the precincts of Haddon Hall.
Yet the inexperienced girl was self-poised and unconfused, while the wits
of the courtier, who had often calmly flattered the queen, had all gone
wool-gathering.

She repeated her request.

"Certainly," returned John, "I--I knew what you said--but--but you
surprise me."

"Yes," said brazen Dorothy, "I have surprised myself."

John, in his haste to satisfy Dolcy's thirst, dashed the water against the
skirt of Dorothy's habit, and was profuse in his apologies.

"Do not mention it," said Dorothy. "I like a damp habit. The wind cannot
so easily blow it about," and she laughed as she shook the garment to free
it of the water. Dolcy refused to drink, and Dorothy having no excuse to
linger at the well, drew up her reins and prepared to leave. While doing
so, she said:--

"Do you often come to Overhaddon?" Her eager eyes shone like red coals,
and looking at John, she awaited smilingly his response.

"Seldom," answered John; "not often. I mean every day--that is, if I may
come."

"Any one may come to the village whenever he wishes to do so," responded
Dorothy, laughing too plainly at Sir John's confusion. "Is it seldom, or
not often, or every day that you come?" In her overconfidence she was
chaffing him. He caught the tone, and looked quickly into the girl's eyes.
Her gaze could not stand against John's for a moment, and the long lashes
drooped to shade her eyes from the fierce light of his.

"I said I would come to Overhaddon every day," he returned; "and although
I must have appeared very foolish in my confusion, you cannot
misunderstand the full meaning of my words."

In John's boldness and in the ring of his voice Dorothy felt the touch of
her master, against whom she well knew all the poor force she could muster
would be utterly helpless. She was frightened, and said:--

"I--I must go. Good-by."

When she rode away from him she thought: "I believed because of his
confusion that I was the stronger. I could not stand against him for a
moment. Holy Virgin! what have I done, and to what am I coming?"

You may now understand the magnitude of the task which Sir George had set
for me when he bade me marry his daughter and kill the Rutlands. I might
perform the last-named feat, but dragon fighting would be mere child's
play compared with the first, while the girl's heart was filled with the
image of another man.

I walked forward to meet Dorothy, leaving Madge near the farrier's shop.

"Dorothy, are you mad? What have you been doing?" I asked.

"Could you not see?" she answered, under her breath, casting a look of
warning toward Madge and a glance of defiance at me. "Are you, too, blind?
Could you not see what I was doing?"

"Yes," I responded.

"Then why do you ask?"

As I went back to Madge I saw John ride out of the village by the south
road. I afterward learned that he rode gloomily back to Rutland Castle
cursing himself for a fool. His duty to his father, which with him was a
strong motive, his family pride, his self love, his sense of caution, all
told him that he was walking open-eyed into trouble. He had tried to
remain away from the vicinity of Haddon Hall, but, despite his
self-respect and self-restraint, he had made several visits to Rowsley and
to Overhaddon, and at one time had ridden to Bakewell, passing Haddon
Hall on his way thither. He had as much business in the moon as at
Overhaddon, yet he told Dorothy he would be at the village every day, and
she, it seemed, was only too willing to give him opportunities to transact
his momentous affairs.

As the floating cloud to the fathomless blue, as the seed to the earth, as
the iron to the lodestone, so was Dorothy unto John.

Thus you see our beautiful pitcher went to the well and was broken.

CHAPTER IV

THE GOLDEN HEART

The day after Dorothy's first meeting with Manners at Overhaddon she was
restless and nervous, and about the hour of three in the afternoon she
mounted Dolcy and rode toward Bakewell. That direction, I was sure, she
took for the purpose of misleading us at the Hall, and I felt confident
she would, when once out of sight, head her mare straight for Overhaddon.
Within an hour Dorothy was home again, and very ill-tempered.

The next day she rode out in the morning. I asked her if I should ride
with her, and the emphatic "No" with which she answered me left no room
for doubt in my mind concerning her desire for my company or her
destination. Again she returned within an hour and hurried to her
apartments. Shortly afterward Madge asked me what Dorothy was weeping
about; and although in my own mind I was confident of the cause of
Dorothy's tears, I, of course, did not give Madge a hint of my suspicion.
Yet I then knew, quite as well as I now know, that John, notwithstanding
the important business which he said would bring him to Overhaddon every
day, had forced himself to remain at home, and Dorothy, in consequence,
suffered from anger and wounded pride. She had twice ridden to Overhaddon
to meet him. She had done for his sake that which she knew she should have
left undone, and he had refused the offering. A smarting conscience, an
aching heart, and a breast full of anger were Dorothy's rewards for her
evil doing. The day after her second futile trip to Overhaddon, I, to test
her, spoke of John. She turned upon me with the black look of a fury, and
hurled her words at me.

"Never again speak his despised name in my hearing. Curse him and his
whole race."

"Now what has he been doing?" I asked.

"I tell you, I will not speak of him, nor will I listen to you," and she
dashed away from me like a fiery whirlwind.

Four or five days later the girl rode out again upon Dolcy. She was away
from home for four long hours, and when she returned she was so gentle,
sweet, and happy that she was willing to kiss every one in the household
from Welch, the butcher, to Sir George. She was radiant. She clung to
Madge and to me, and sang and romped through the house like Dorothy of
old.

Madge said, "I am so glad you are feeling better, Dorothy." Then, speaking
to me: "She has been ill for several days. She could not sleep."

Dorothy looked quickly over to me, gave a little shrug to her shoulders,
bent forward her face, which was red with blushing, and kissed Madge
lingeringly upon the lips.

The events of Dorothy's trip I soon learned from her.

The little scene between Dorothy, Madge, and myself, after Dorothy's
joyful return, occurred a week before the momentous conversation between
Sir George and me concerning my union with his house. Ten days after Sir
George had offered me his daughter and his lands, he brought up the
subject again. He and I were walking on the ridge of Bowling Green Hill.

"I am glad you are making such fair progress with Doll," said Sir George.
"Have you yet spoken to her upon the subject?"

I was surprised to hear that I had made any progress. In fact, I did not
know that I had taken a single step. I was curious to learn in what the
progress consisted, so I said:--

"I have not spoken to Dorothy yet concerning the marriage, and I fear that
I have made no progress at all. She certainly is friendly enough to me,
but--"

"I should say that the gift from you she exhibited would indicate
considerable progress," said Sir George, casting an expressive glance
toward me.

"What gift?" I stupidly inquired.

"The golden heart, you rascal. She said you told her it had belonged to
your mother."

"Holy Mother of Truth!" thought I, "pray give your especial care to my
cousin Dorothy. She needs it."

Sir George thrust at my side with his thumb and continued:--

"Don't deny it, Malcolm. Damme, you are as shy as a boy in this matter.
But perhaps you know better than I how to go at her. I was thinking only
the other day that your course was probably the right one. Doll, I
suspect, has a dash of her old father's temper, and she may prove a little
troublesome unless we let her think she is having her own way. Oh, there
is nothing like knowing how to handle them, Malcolm. Just let them think
they are having their own way and--and save trouble. Doll may have more of
her father in her than I suspect, and perhaps it is well for us to move
slowly. You will be able to judge, but you must not move too slowly. If in
the end she should prove stubborn, we will break her will or break her
neck. I would rather have a daughter in Bakewell churchyard than a wilful,
stubborn, disobedient huzzy in Haddon Hall."

[Illustration]

Sir George had been drinking, and my slip concerning the gift passed
unnoticed by him.

"I am sure you well know how to proceed in this matter, but don't be too
cautious, Malcolm; the best woman living loves to be stormed."

"Trust me," I answered, "I shall speak--" and my words unconsciously sank
away to thought, as thought often, and inconveniently at times, grows into
words.

"Dorothy, Dorothy," said the thoughts again and again, "where came you by
the golden heart?" and "where learned you so villanously to lie?"

"From love," was the response, whispered by the sighing winds. "From love,
that makes men and women like unto gods and teaches them the tricks of
devils." "From love," murmured the dry rustling leaves and the rugged
trees. "From love," sighed the fleecy clouds as they floated in the sweet
restful azure of the vaulted sky. "From love," cried the mighty sun as he
poured his light and heat upon the eager world to give it life. I would
not give a fig for a woman, however, who would not lie herself black in
the face for the sake of her lover, and I am glad that it is a virtue few
women lack. One who would scorn to lie under all other circumstances
would--but you understand. I suppose that Dorothy had never before uttered
a real lie. She hated all that was evil and loved all that was good till
love came a-teaching.

I quickly invented an excuse to leave Sir George, and returned to the Hall
to seek Dorothy. I found her and asked her to accompany me for a few
minutes that I might speak with her privately. We went out upon the
terrace and I at once began:--

"You should tell me when I present you gifts that I may not cause trouble
by my ignorance nor show surprise when I suddenly learn what I have done.
You see when a man gives a lady a gift and he does not know it, he is apt
to--"

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Dorothy, pale with fear and consternation. "Did
you--"

"No, I did not betray you, but I came perilously near it."

"I--I wanted to tell you about it. I tried several times to do so--I did
so long to tell somebody, but I could not bring myself to speak. I was
full of shame, yet I was proud and happy, for all that happened was good
and pure and sacred. You are not a woman; you cannot know--"

"But I do know. I know that you saw Manners the other day, and that he
gave you a golden heart."

"How did you know? Did any one--"

"Tell me? No. I knew it when you returned after five hours' absence,
looking radiant as the sun."

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, with a startled movement.

"I also knew," I continued, "that at other times when you rode out upon
Dolcy you had not seen him."

"How did you know?" she asked, with quick-coming breath.

"By your ill-humor," I answered.

"I knew it was so. I felt that everybody knew all that I had been doing. I
could almost see father and Madge and you--even the servants--reading the
wickedness written upon my heart. I knew that I could hide it from
nobody." Tears were very near the girl's eyes.

"We cannot help thinking that our guilty consciences, through which we see
so plainly our own evil, are transparent to all the world. In that fact
lies an evil-doer's greatest danger," said I, preacher fashion; "but you
need have no fear. What you have done I believe is suspected by no one
save me."

A deep sigh of relief rose from the girl's heaving breast.

"Well," she began, "I will tell you all about it, and I am only too glad
to do so. It is heavy, Malcolm, heavy on my conscience. But I would not
be rid of it for all the kingdoms of the earth."

"A moment since you told me that your conduct was good and pure and
sacred, and now you tell me that it is heavy on your conscience. Does one
grieve, Dorothy, for the sake of that which is good and pure and sacred?"

"I cannot answer your question," she replied. "I am no priest. But this I
know: I have done no evil, and my conscience nevertheless is sore. Solve
me the riddle, Malcolm, if you can."

"I cannot solve your riddle, Dorothy," I replied; "but I feel sure it will
be far safer for each of us if you will tell me all that happens
hereafter."

"I am sure you are right," she responded; "but some secrets are so
delicious that we love to suck their sweets alone. I believe, however,
your advice is good, and I will tell you all that has happened, though I
cannot look you in the face while doing it." She hesitated a moment, and
her face was red with tell-tale blushes. She continued, "I have acted most
unmaidenly."

"Unmaidenly perhaps, but not unwomanly," said I.

"I thank you," she said, interrupting my sentence. It probably was well
that she did so, for I was about to add, "To act womanly often means to
get yourself into mischief and your friends into as much trouble as
possible." Had I finished my remark, she would not have thanked me.

"Well," said the girl, beginning her laggard narrative, "after we saw--saw
him at Overhaddon, you know, I went to the village on each of three
days--"

"Yes, I know that also," I said.

"How did you--but never mind. I did not see him, and when I returned home
I felt angry and hurt and--and--but never mind that either. One day I
found him, and I at once rode to the well where he was standing by his
horse. He drew water for Dolcy, but the perverse mare would not drink."

"A characteristic of her sex," I muttered.

"What did you say?" asked the girl.

"Nothing."

She continued: "He seemed constrained and distant in his manner, but I
knew, that is, I thought--I mean I felt--oh, you know--he looked as if he
were glad to see me and I--I, oh, God! I was so glad and happy to see him
that I could hardly restrain myself to act at all maidenly. He must have
heard my heart beat. I thought he was in trouble. He seemed to have
something he wished to say to me."

"He doubtless had a great deal he wished to say to you," said I, again
tempted to futile irony.

"I was sure he had something to say," the girl returned seriously. "He was
in trouble. I knew that he was, and I longed to help him."

"What trouble?" I inquired.

"Oh, I don't know. I forgot to ask, but he looked troubled."

"Doubtless he was troubled," I responded. "He had sufficient cause for
trouble," I finished the sentence to myself with the words, "in you."

"What was the cause of his trouble?" she hastily asked, turning her face
toward me.

"I do not know certainly," I answered in a tone of irony which should have
pierced an oak board, while the girl listened and looked at me eagerly;
"but I might guess."

"What was it? What was it? Let me hear you guess," she asked.

"You," I responded laconically.

"I!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, you," I responded with emphasis. "You would bring trouble to any
man, but to Sir John Manners--well, if he intends to keep up these
meetings with you it would be better for his peace and happiness that he
should get him a house in hell, for he would live there more happily than
on this earth."

"That is a foolish, senseless remark, Malcolm," the girl replied, tossing
her head with a show of anger in her eyes. "This is no time to jest." I
suppose I could not have convinced her that I was not jesting.

"At first we did not speak to each other even to say good day, but stood
by the well in silence for a very long time. The village people were
staring at us, and I felt that every window had a hundred faces in it, and
every face a hundred eyes."

"You imagined that," said I, "because of your guilty conscience."

"Perhaps so. But it seemed to me that we stood by the well in silence a
very long time. You see, Cousin Malcolm, I was not the one who should
speak first. I had done more than my part in going to meet him."

"Decidedly so," said I, interrupting the interesting narrative.

"When I could bear the gaze of the villagers no longer, I drew up my reins
and started to leave The Open by the north road. After Dolcy had climbed
halfway up North Hill, which as you know overlooks the village, I turned
my head and saw Sir John still standing by the well, resting his hand upon
his horse's mane. He was watching me. I grew angry, and determined that he
should follow me, even if I had to call him. So I drew Dolcy to a stand.
Was not that bold in me? But wait, there is worse to come, Malcolm. He did
not move, but stood like a statue looking toward me. I knew that he wanted
to come, so after a little time I--I beckoned to him and--and then he came
like a thunderbolt. Oh! it was delicious. I put Dolcy to a gallop, for
when he started toward me I was frightened. Besides I did not want him to
overtake me till we were out of the village. But when once he had started,
he did not wait. He was as swift now as he had been slow, and my heart
throbbed and triumphed because of his eagerness, though in truth I was
afraid of him. Dolcy, you know, is very fleet, and when I touched her with
the whip she soon put half a mile between me and the village. Then I
brought her to a walk and--and he quickly overtook me.

"When he came up to me he said: 'I feared to follow you, though I ardently
wished to do so. I dreaded to tell you my name lest you should hate me.
Sir Malcolm at The Peacock said he would not disclose to you my identity.
I am John Manners. Our fathers are enemies.'

"Then I said to him, 'That is the reason I wish to talk to you. I wished
you to come to meet me because I wanted to tell you that I regret and
deplore the feud between our fathers.'--'Ah, you wished me to come?' he
asked.--'Of course I did,' I answered, 'else why should I be here?'--'No
one regrets the feud between our houses so deeply as I,' replied Sir John.
'I can think of nothing else by day, nor can I dream of anything else by
night. It is the greatest cause for grief and sorrow that has ever come
into my life.' You see, Cousin Malcolm," the girl continued, "I was right.
His father's conduct does trouble him. Isn't he noble and broad-minded to
see the evil of his father's ways?"

I did not tell the girl that Sir John's regret for the feud between the
houses of Manners and Vernon grew out of the fact that it separated him
from her; nor did I tell her that he did not grieve over his "father's
ways."

I asked, "Did Sir John tell you that he grieved because of his father's
ill-doing?"

"N-o, not in set terms, but--that, of course, would have been very hard
for him to say. I told you what he said, and there could be no other
meaning to his words."

"Of course not," I responded.

"No, and I fairly longed to reach out my hand and clutch him,
because--because I was so sorry for him."

"Was sorrow your only feeling?" I asked.

The girl looked at me for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears. Then
she sobbed gently and said, "Oh, Cousin Malcolm, you are so old and so
wise." ("Thank you," thought I, "a second Daniel come to judgment at
thirty-five; or Solomon and Methuselah in one.") She continued: "Tell me,
tell me, what is this terrible thing that has come upon me. I seem to be
living in a dream. I am burning with a fever, and a heavy weight is here
upon my breast. I cannot sleep at night. I can do nothing but long and
yearn for--for I know not what--till at times it seems that some
frightful, unseen monster is slowly drawing the heart out of my bosom. I
think of--of him at all times, and I try to recall his face, and the tones
of his voice until, Cousin Malcolm, I tell you I am almost mad. I call
upon the Holy Virgin hour by hour to pity me; but she is pure, and cannot
know what I feel. I hate and loathe myself. To what am I coming? Where
will it all end? Yet I can do nothing to save myself. I am powerless
against this terrible feeling. I cannot even resolve to resist it. It came
upon me mildly that day at The Peacock Inn, when I first saw him, and it
grows deeper and stronger day by day, and, alas! night by night. I seem to
have lost myself. In some strange way I feel as if I had sunk into
him--that he had absorbed me."

"The iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain," thought I.

"I believed," continued the girl, "that if he would exert his will I might
have relief; but there again I find trouble, for I cannot bring myself to
ask him to will it. The feeling within me is like a sore heart: painful as
it is, I must keep it. Without it I fear I could not live."

After this outburst there was a long pause during which she walked by my
side, seemingly unconscious that I was near her. I had known for some time
that Dorothy was interested in Manners; but I was not prepared to see such
a volcano of passion. I need not descant upon the evils and dangers of the
situation. The thought that first came to me was that Sir George would
surely kill his daughter before he would allow her to marry a son of
Rutland. I was revolving in my mind how I should set about to mend the
matter when Dorothy again spoke.

"Tell me, Cousin Malcolm, can a man throw a spell over a woman and bewitch
her?"

"I do not know. I have never heard of a man witch," I responded.

"No?" asked the girl.

"But," I continued, "I do know that a woman may bewitch a man. John
Manners, I doubt not, could also testify knowingly on the subject by this
time."

"Oh, do you think he is bewitched?" cried Dorothy, grasping my arm and
looking eagerly into my face. "If I could bewitch him, I would do it. I
would deal with the devil gladly to learn the art. I would not care for my
soul. I do not fear the future. The present is a thousand-fold dearer to
me than either the past or the future. I care not what comes hereafter. I
want him now. Ah, Malcolm, pity my shame."

She covered her face with her hands, and after a moment continued: "I am
not myself. I belong not to myself. But if I knew that he also suffers, I
do believe my pain would be less."

"I think you may set your heart at rest upon that point," I answered. "He,
doubtless, also suffers."

"I hope so," she responded, unconscious of the selfish wish she had
expressed. "If he does not, I know not what will be my fate."

I saw that I had made a mistake in assuring her that John also suffered,
and I determined to correct it later on, if possible.

Dorothy was silent, and I said, "You have not told me about the golden
heart."

"I will tell you," she answered. "We rode for two hours or more, and
talked of the weather and the scenery, until there was nothing more to be
said concerning either. Then Sir John told me of the court in London,
where he has always lived, and of the queen whose hair, he says, is red,
but not at all like mine. I wondered if he would speak of the beauty of my
hair, but he did not. He only looked at it. Then he told me about the
Scottish queen whom he once met when he was on an embassy to Edinburgh. He
described her marvellous beauty, and I believe he sympathizes with her
cause--that is, with her cause in Scotland. He says she has no good cause
in England. He is true to our queen. Well--well he talked so interestingly
that I could have listened a whole month--yes, all my life."

"I suppose you could," I said.

"Yes," she continued, "but I could not remain longer from home, and when I
left him he asked me to accept a keepsake which had belonged to his
mother, as a token that there should be no feud between him and me." And
she drew from her bosom a golden heart studded with diamonds and pierced
by a white silver arrow.

"I, of course, accepted it, then we said 'good-by,' and I put Dolcy to a
gallop that she might speedily take me out of temptation."

"Have you ridden to Overhaddon for the purpose of seeing Manners many
times since he gave you the heart?" I queried.

"What would you call 'many times'?" she asked, drooping her head.

"Every day?" I said interrogatively. She nodded. "Yes. But I have seen
him only once since the day when he gave me the heart."

Nothing I could say would do justice to the subject, so I remained silent.

"But you have not yet told me how your father came to know of the golden
heart," I said.

"It was this way: One morning while I was looking at the heart, father
came upon me suddenly before I could conceal it. He asked me to tell him
how I came by the jewel, and in my fright and confusion I could think of
nothing else to say, so I told him you had given it to me. He promised not
to speak to you about the heart, but he did not keep his word. He seemed
pleased."

"Doubtless he was pleased," said I, hoping to lead up to the subject so
near to Sir George's heart, but now farther than ever from mine.

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