Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

C >> Charles Major >> Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

The girl unsuspectingly helped me.

"Father asked if you had spoken upon a subject of great interest to him
and to yourself, and I told him you had not. 'When he does speak,' said
father most kindly, 'I want you to grant his request'--and I will grant
it, Cousin Malcolm." She looked in my face and continued: "I will grant
your request, whatever it may be. You are the dearest friend I have in the
world, and mine is the most loving and lovable father that girl ever had.
It almost breaks my heart when I think of his suffering should he learn of
what I have done--that which I just told to you." She walked beside me
meditatively for a moment and said, "To-morrow I will return Sir John's
gift and I will never see him again."

I felt sure that by to-morrow she would have repented of her repentance;
but I soon discovered that I had given her much more time than she needed
to perform that trifling feminine gymnastic, for with the next breath she
said:--

"I have no means of returning the heart. I must see him once more and I
will give--give it--it--back to--to him, and will tell him that I can see
him never again." She scarcely had sufficient resolution to finish telling
her intention. Whence, then, would come the will to put it in action?
Forty thieves could not have stolen the heart from her, though she thought
she was honest when she said she would take it to him.

"Dorothy," said I, seriously but kindly, "have you and Sir John spoken
of--"

She evidently knew that I meant to say "of love," for she interrupted me.

"N-o, but surely he knows. And I--I think--at least I hope with all my
heart that--"

"I will take the heart to Sir John," said I, interrupting her angrily,
"and you need not see him again. He has acted like a fool and a knave. He
is a villain, Dorothy, and I will tell him as much in the most emphatic
terms I have at my command."

"Dare you speak against him or to him upon the subject!" she exclaimed,
her eyes blazing with anger; "you--you asked for my confidence and I gave
it. You said I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me that I am
a fool indeed. Traitor!"

"My dear cousin," said I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging me
with bad faith, "your secret is safe with me. I swear it by my knighthood.
You may trust me. I spoke in anger. But Sir John has acted badly. That you
cannot gainsay. You, too, have done great evil. That also you cannot
gainsay."

"No," said the girl, dejectedly, "I cannot deny it; but the greatest evil
is yet to come."

"You must do something," I continued. "You must take some decisive step
that will break this connection, and you must take the step at once if you
would save yourself from the frightful evil that is in store for you.
Forgive me for what I said, sweet cousin. My angry words sprang from my
love for you and my fear for your future."

No girl's heart was more tender to the influence of kindness than
Dorothy's. No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory command.

My words softened her at once, and she tried to smother the anger I had
aroused. But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained which in a
moment or two created a disastrous conflagration. You shall hear.

She walked by my side in silence for a little time, and then spoke in a
low, slightly sullen tone which told of her effort to smother her
resentment.

"I do trust you, Cousin Malcolm. What is it that you wish to ask of me?
Your request is granted before it is made."

"Do not be too sure of that, Dorothy," I replied. "It is a request your
father ardently desires me to make, and I do not know how to speak to you
concerning the subject in the way I wish."

I could not ask her to marry me, and tell her with the same breath that I
did not want her for my wife. I felt I must wait for a further opportunity
to say that I spoke only because her father had required me to do so, and
that circumstances forced me to put the burden of refusal upon her. I well
knew that she would refuse me, and then I intended to explain.

"Why, what is it all about?" asked the girl in surprise, suspecting, I
believe, what was to follow.

"It is this: your father is anxious that his vast estates shall not pass
out of the family name, and he wishes you to be my wife, so that your
children may bear the loved name of Vernon."

I could not have chosen a more inauspicious time to speak. She looked at
me for an instant in surprise, turning to scorn. Then she spoke in tones
of withering contempt.

"Tell my father that I shall never bear a child by the name of Vernon. I
would rather go barren to my grave. Ah! that is why Sir John Manners is a
villain? That is why a decisive step should be taken? That is why you come
to my father's house a-fortune-hunting? After you have squandered your
patrimony and have spent a dissolute youth in profligacy, after the women
of the class you have known will have no more of you but choose younger
men, you who are old enough to be my father come here and seek your
fortune, as your father sought his, by marriage. I do not believe that my
father wishes me to--to marry you. You have wheedled him into giving his
consent when he was in his cups. But even if he wished it with all his
heart, I would not marry you." Then she turned and walked rapidly toward
the Hall.

Her fierce words angered me; for in the light of my real intentions her
scorn was uncalled for, and her language was insulting beyond endurance.
For a moment or two the hot blood rushed to my brain and rendered me
incapable of intelligent thought. But as Dorothy walked from me I realized
that something must be done at once to put myself right with her. When my
fit of temper had cooled, and when I considered that the girl did not know
my real intentions, I could not help acknowledging that in view of all
that had just passed between us concerning Sir John Manners, and, in fact,
in view of all that she had seen and could see, her anger was justifiable.

I called to her: "Dorothy, wait a moment. You have not heard all I have to
say."

She hastened her pace. A few rapid strides brought me to her side. I was
provoked, not at her words, for they were almost justifiable, but because
she would not stop to hear me. I grasped her rudely by the arm and
said:--

"Listen till I have finished."

"I will not," she answered viciously. "Do not touch me."

I still held her by the arm and said: "I do not wish to marry you. I spoke
only because your father desired me to do so, and because my refusal to
speak would have offended him beyond any power of mine to make amends. I
could not tell you that I did not wish you for my wife until you had given
me an opportunity. I was forced to throw the burden of refusal upon you."

"That is but a ruse--a transparent, flimsy ruse," responded the stubborn,
angry girl, endeavoring to draw her arm from my grasp.

"It is not a ruse," I answered. "If you will listen to me and will help me
by acting as I suggest, we may between us bring your father to our way of
thinking, and I may still be able to retain his friendship."

"What is your great plan?" asked Dorothy, in a voice such as one might
expect to hear from a piece of ice.

"I have formed no plan as yet," I replied, "although I have thought of
several. Until we can determine upon one, I suggest that you permit me to
say to your father that I have asked you to be my wife, and that the
subject has come upon you so suddenly that you wish a short time,--a
fortnight or a month--in which to consider your answer."

"That is but a ruse, I say, to gain time," she answered contemptuously. "I
do not wish one moment in which to consider. You already have my answer. I
should think you had had enough. Do you desire more of the same sort? A
little of such treatment should go a long way with a man possessed of one
spark of honor or self-respect."

Her language would have angered a sheep.

"If you will not listen to me," I answered, thoroughly aroused and
careless of consequences, "go to your father. Tell him I asked you to be
my wife, and that you scorned my suit. Then take the consequences. He has
always been gentle and tender to you because there has been no conflict.
Cross his desires, and you will learn a fact of which you have never
dreamed. You have seen the manner in which he treats others who oppose
him. You will learn that with you, too, he can be one of the cruelest and
most violent of men."

"You slander my father. I will go to him as you advise and will tell him
that I would not marry you if you wore the English crown. I, myself, will
tell him of my meeting with Sir John Manners rather than allow you the
pleasure of doing so. He will be angry, but he will pity me."

"For God's sake, Dorothy, do not tell your father of your meetings at
Overhaddon. He would kill you. Have you lived in the same house with him
all these years and do you not better know his character than to think
that you may go to him with the tale you have just told me, and that he
will forgive you? Feel as you will toward me, but believe me when I swear
to you by my knighthood that I will betray to no person what you have this
day divulged to me."

Dorothy made no reply, but turned from me and rapidly walked toward the
Hall. I followed at a short distance, and all my anger was displaced by
fear for her. When we reached the Hall she quickly sought her father and
approached him in her old free manner, full of confidence in her influence
over him.

"Father, this man"--waving her hand toward me--"has come to Haddon Hall
a-fortune-hunting. He has asked me to be his wife, and says you wish me to
accept him."

"Yes, Doll, I certainly wish it with all my heart," returned Sir George,
affectionately, taking his daughter's hand.

"Then you need wish it no longer, for I will not marry him."

"What?" demanded her father, springing to his feet.

"I will not. I will not. I will not."

"You will if I command you to do so, you damned insolent wench," answered
Sir George, hoarsely. Dorothy's eyes opened in wonder.

"Do not deceive yourself, father, for one moment," she retorted
contemptuously. "He has come here in sheep's clothing and has adroitly
laid his plans to convince you that I should marry him, but--"

"He has done nothing of the sort," answered Sir George, growing more angry
every moment, but endeavoring to be calm. "Nothing of the sort. Many years
ago I spoke to him on this subject, which is very dear to my heart. The
project has been dear to me ever since you were a child. When I again
broached it to Malcolm a fortnight or more since I feared from his manner
that he was averse to the scheme. I had tried several times to speak to
him about it, but he warded me off, and when I did speak, I feared that he
was not inclined to it."

"Yes," interrupted the headstrong girl, apparently bent upon destroying
both of us. "He pretended that he did not wish to marry me. He said he
wished me to give a sham consent for the purpose of gaining time till we
might hit upon some plan by which we could change your mind. He said he
had no desire nor intention to marry me. It was but a poor, lame ruse on
his part."

During Dorothy's recital Sir George turned his face from her to me. When
she had finished speaking, he looked at me for a moment and said:--

"Does my daughter speak the truth? Did you say--"

"Yes," I promptly replied, "I have no intention of marrying your
daughter." Then hoping to place myself before Sir George in a better
light, I continued: "I could not accept the hand of a lady against her
will. I told you as much when we conversed on the subject."

"What?" exclaimed Sir George, furious with anger. "You too? You whom I
have befriended?"

"I told you, Sir George, I would not marry Dorothy without her free
consent. No gentleman of honor would accept the enforced compliance of a
woman."

"But Doll says that you told her you had no intention of marrying her even
should she consent," replied Sir George.

"I don't know that I spoke those exact words," I replied, "but you may
consider them said."

"You damned, ungrateful, treacherous hound!" stormed Sir George. "You
listened to me when I offered you my daughter's hand, and you pretended to
consent without at the time having any intention of doing so."

"That, I suppose, is true, Sir George," said I, making a masterful effort
against anger. "That is true, for I knew that Dorothy would not consent;
and had I been inclined to the marriage, I repeat, I would marry no woman
against her will. No gentleman would do it."

My remark threw Sir George into a paroxysm of rage.

"I did it, you cur, you dog, you--you traitorous, ungrateful--I did it."

"Then, Sir George," said I, interrupting him, for I was no longer able to
restrain my anger, "you were a cowardly poltroon."

"This to me in my house!" he cried, grasping a chair with which to strike
me. Dorothy came between us.

"Yes," said I, "and as much more as you wish to hear." I stood my ground,
and Sir George put down the chair.

"Leave my house at once," he said in a whisper of rage.

"If you are on my premises in one hour from now I will have you flogged
from my door by the butcher."

"What have I done?" cried Dorothy. "What have I done?"

"Your regrets come late, Mistress Vernon," said I.

"She shall have more to regret," said Sir George, sullenly. "Go to your
room, you brazen, disobedient huzzy, and if you leave it without my
permission, by God, I will have you whipped till you bleed. I will teach
you to say 'I won't' when I say 'you shall.' God curse my soul, if I don't
make you repent this day!"

As I left the room Dorothy was in tears, and Sir George was walking the
floor in a towering rage. The girl had learned that I was right in what I
had told her concerning her father's violent temper.

I went at once to my room in Eagle Tower and collected my few belongings
in a bundle. Pitifully small it was, I tell you.

Where I should go I knew not, and where I should remain I knew even less,
for my purse held only a few shillings--the remnant of the money Queen
Mary had sent to me by the hand of Sir Thomas Douglas. England was as
unsafe for me as Scotland; but how I might travel to France without money,
and how I might without a pass evade Elizabeth's officers who guarded
every English port, even were I supplied with gold, were problems for
which I had no solution.

There were but two persons in Haddon Hall to whom I cared to say farewell.
They were Lady Madge and Will Dawson. The latter was a Scot, and was
attached to the cause of Queen Mary. He and I had become friends, and on
several occasions we had talked confidentially over Mary's sad plight.

When my bundle was packed, I sought Madge and found her in the gallery
near the foot of the great staircase. She knew my step and rose to greet
me with a bright smile.

"I have come to say good-by to you, Cousin Madge," said I. The smile
vanished from her face.

"You are not going to leave Haddon Hall?" she asked.

"Yes, and forever," I responded. "Sir George has ordered me to go."

"No, no," she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. I supposed that you and my
uncle were friends. What has happened? Tell me if you can--if you wish.
Let me touch your hand," and as she held out her hands, I gladly grasped
them.

I have never seen anything more beautiful than Madge Stanley's hands. They
were not small, but their shape, from the fair, round forearm and wrist to
the ends of the fingers was worthy of a sculptor's dream. Beyond their
physical beauty there was an expression in them which would have belonged
to her eyes had she possessed the sense of sight. The flood of her vital
energy had for so many years been directed toward her hands as a
substitute for her lost eyesight that their sensitiveness showed itself
not only in an infinite variety of delicate gestures and movements,
changing with her changing moods, but they had an expression of their own,
such as we look for in the eyes. I had gazed upon her hands so often, and
had studied so carefully their varying expression, discernible both to my
sight and to my touch, that I could read her mind through them as we read
the emotions of others through the countenance. The "feel" of her hands,
if I may use the word, I can in no way describe. Its effect on me was
magical. The happiest moments I have ever known were those when I held the
fair blind girl by the hand and strolled upon the great terrace or
followed the babbling winding course of dear old Wye, and drank in the
elixir of all that is good and pure from the cup of her sweet, unconscious
influence.

Madge, too, had found happiness in our strolling. She had also found
health and strength, and, marvellous to say, there had come to her a
slight improvement in vision. She had always been able to distinguish
sunlight from darkness, but with renewed strength had come the power dimly
to discern dark objects in a strong light, and even that small change for
the better had brought unspeakable gladness to her heart. She said she
owed it all to me. A faint pink had spread itself in her cheeks and a
plumpness had been imparted to her form which gave to her ethereal beauty
a touch of the material. Nor was this to be regretted, for no man can
adequately make love to a woman who has too much of the angel in her. You
must not think, however, that I had been making love to Madge. On the
contrary, I again say, the thought had never entered my mind. Neither at
that time had I even suspected that she would listen to me upon the great
theme. I had in my self-analysis assigned many reasons other than love for
my tenderness toward her; but when I was about to depart, and she
impulsively gave me her hands, I, believing that I was grasping them for
the last time, felt the conviction come upon me that she was dearer to me
than all else in life.

"Do you want to tell me why my uncle has driven you from Haddon?" she
asked.

"He wished me to ask Dorothy to be my wife," I returned.

"And you?" she queried.

"I did so."

Instantly the girl withdrew her hands from mine and stepped back from me.
Then I had another revelation. I knew what she meant and felt. Her hands
told me all, even had there been no expression in her movement and in her
face.

"Dorothy refused," I continued, "and her father desired to force her into
compliance. I would not be a party to the transaction, and Sir George
ordered me to leave his house."

After a moment of painful silence Madge said:--"I do not wonder that you
should wish to marry Dorothy. She--she must be very beautiful."

"I do not wish to marry Dorothy," said I. I heard a slight noise back of
me, but gave it no heed. "And I should not have married her had she
consented. I knew that Dorothy would refuse me, therefore I promised Sir
George that I would ask her to be my wife. Sir George had always been my
friend, and should I refuse to comply with his wishes, I well knew he
would be my enemy. He is bitterly angry against me now; but when he
becomes calm, he will see wherein he has wronged me. I asked Dorothy to
help me, but she would not listen to my plan."

"--and now she begs your forgiveness," cried Dorothy, as she ran weeping
to me, and took my hand most humbly.

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" I exclaimed.

"What frightful evil have I brought upon you?" said she. "Where can you
go? What will you do?"

"I know not," I answered. "I shall probably go to the Tower of London when
Queen Elizabeth's officers learn of my quarrel with Sir George. But I will
try to escape to France."

"Have you money?" asked Madge, tightly holding one of my hands.

"A small sum," I answered.

"How much have you? Tell me. Tell me how much have you," insisted Madge,
clinging to my hand and speaking with a force that would brook no refusal.

"A very little sum, I am sorry to say; only a few shillings," I
responded.

She quickly withdrew her hand from mine and began to remove the baubles
from her ears and the brooch from her throat. Then she nervously stripped
the rings from her fingers and held out the little handful of jewels
toward me, groping for my hands.

"Take these, Malcolm. Take these, and wait here till I return." She turned
toward the staircase, but in her confusion she missed it, and before I
could reach her, she struck against the great newel post.

"God pity me," she said, as I took her hand. "I wish I were dead. Please
lead me to the staircase, Cousin Malcolm. Thank you."

She was weeping gently when she started up the steps, and I knew that she
was going to fetch me her little treasure of gold.

Madge held up the skirt of her gown with one hand while she grasped the
banister with the other. She was halfway up when Dorothy, whose generous
impulses needed only to be prompted, ran nimbly and was about to pass her
on the staircase when Madge grasped her gown.

"Please don't, Dorothy. Please do not. I beg you, do not forestall me. Let
me do this. Let me. You have all else to make you happy. Don't take this
from me only because you can see and can walk faster than I."

Dorothy did not stop, but hurried past her. Madge sank upon the steps and
covered her face with her hands. Then she came gropingly back to me just
as Dorothy returned.

"Take these, Cousin Malcolm," cried Dorothy. "Here are a few stones of
great value. They belonged to my mother."

Madge was sitting dejectedly upon the lowest step of the staircase.
Dorothy held her jewel-box toward me, and in the midst of the diamonds and
gold I saw the heart John Manners had given her. I did not take the box.

"Do you offer me this, too--even this?" I said, lifting the heart from the
box by its chain.--"Yes, yes," cried Dorothy, "even that, gladly, gladly."
I replaced it in the box.

Then spoke Madge, while she tried to check the falling tears:--"Dorothy,
you are a cruel, selfish girl."

"Oh, Madge," cried Dorothy, stepping to her side and taking her hand. "How
can you speak so unkindly to me?"

"You have everything good," interrupted Madge. "You have beauty, wealth,
eyesight, and yet you would not leave to me the joy of helping him. I
could not see, and you hurried past me that you might be first to give him
the help of which I was the first to think."

Dorothy was surprised at the outburst from Madge, and kneeled by her side.

"We may both help Cousin Malcolm," she said.

"No, no," responded Madge, angrily. "Your jewels are more than enough. He
would have no need of my poor offering."

I took Madge's hand and said, "I shall accept help from no one but you,
Madge; from no one but you."

"I will go to our rooms for your box," said Dorothy, who had begun to see
the trouble. "I will fetch it for you."

"No, I will fetch it," answered Madge. She arose, and I led her to the
foot of the staircase. When she returned she held in her hands a purse and
a little box of jewels. These she offered to me, but I took only the
purse, saying: "I accept the purse. It contains more money than I shall
need. From its weight I should say there are twenty gold pounds sterling."

"Twenty-five," answered Madge. "I have saved them, believing that the
time might come when they would be of great use to me. I did not know the
joy I was saving for myself."

Tears came to my eyes, and Dorothy wept silently.

"Will you not take the jewels also?" asked Madge.

"No," I responded; "the purse will more than pay my expenses to France,
where I have wealthy relatives. There I may have my mother's estate for
the asking, and I can repay you the gold. I can never repay your
kindness."

"I hope you will never offer to repay the gold," said Madge.

"I will not," I gladly answered.

"As to the kindness," she said, "you have paid me in advance for that
many, many times over."

I then said farewell, promising to send letters telling of my fortune. As
I was leaving I bent forward and kissed Madge upon the forehead, while she
gently pressed my hand, but did not speak a word.

"Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, who held my other hand, "you are a strong,
gentle, noble man, and I want you to say that you forgive me."

"I do forgive you, Dorothy, from my heart. I could not blame you if I
wished to do so, for you did not know what you were doing."

"Not to know is sometimes the greatest of sins," answered Dorothy. I bent
forward to kiss her cheek in token of my full forgiveness, but she gave me
her lips and said: "I shall never again be guilty of not knowing that you
are good and true and noble, Cousin Malcolm, and I shall never again doubt
your wisdom or your good faith when you speak to me." She did doubt me
afterward, but I fear her doubt was with good cause. I shall tell you of
it in the proper place.

Then I forced myself to leave my fair friends and went to the gateway
under Eagle Tower, where I found Will Dawson waiting for me with my horse.

"Sir George ordered me to bring your horse," said Will. "He seemed much
excited. Has anything disagreeable happened? Are you leaving us? I see you
wear your steel cap and breastplate and are carrying your bundle."

"Yes, Will, your master has quarrelled with me and I must leave his
house."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26