Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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Then John mounted his horse and rode homeward the unhappiest happy man in
England. He had made perilous strides toward that pinnacle sans honor,
sans caution, sans conscience, sans everything but love.

That evening while we were walking on the battlements, smoking, John told
me of his interview with Dorothy and extolled her beauty, grace, and
winsomeness which, in truth, as you know, were matchless. But when he
spoke of "her sweet, shy modesty," I came near to laughing in his face.

"Did she not write a letter asking you to meet her?" I asked.

"Why--y-e-s," returned John.

"And," I continued, "has she not from the first sought you?"

"It almost seems to be so," answered John, "but notwithstanding the fact
that one might say--might call--that one might feel that her conduct
is--that it might be--you know, well--it might be called by some persons
not knowing all the facts in the case, immodest--I hate to use the word
with reference to her--yet it does not appear to me to have been at all
immodest in Mistress Vernon, and, Sir Malcolm, I should be deeply offended
were any of my friends to intimate--"

"Now, John," I returned, laughing at him, "you could not, if you wished,
make me quarrel with you; and if you desire it, I will freely avow my firm
belief in the fact that my cousin Dorothy is the flower of modesty. Does
that better suit you?"

I could easily see that my bantering words did not suit him at all; but I
laughed at him, and he could not find it in his heart to show his
ill-feeling.

"I will not quarrel with you," he returned; "but in plain words, I do not
like the tone in which you speak of her. It hurts me, and I do not believe
you would wilfully give me pain."

"Indeed, I would not," I answered seriously.

"Mistress Vernon's conduct toward me," John continued, "has been gracious.
There has been no immodesty nor boldness in it."

I laughed again and said: "I make my humble apologies to her Majesty,
Queen Dorothy. But in all earnestness, Sir John, you are right: Dorothy is
modest and pure. As for her conduct toward you, there is a royal quality
about beauty such as my cousin possesses which gives an air of
graciousness to acts that in a plainer girl would seem bold. Beauty, like
royalty, has its own prerogatives."

For a fortnight after the adventures just related, John, in pursuance of
his oft-repeated resolution not to see Dorothy, rode every evening to
Bowling Green Gate; but during that time he failed to see her, and the
resolutions, with each failure, became weaker and fewer.

One evening, after many disappointments, John came to my room bearing in
his hands a letter which he said Jennie Faxton had delivered to him at
Bowling Green Gate.

"Mistress Vernon," said John, "and Lady Madge Stanley will ride to
Derby-town to-morrow. They will go in the Haddon Hall coach, and Dawson
will drive. Mistress Vernon writes to me thus:--

"'To SIR JOHN MANNERS:--

"'My good wishes and my kind greeting. Lady Madge Stanley, my good
aunt, Lady Crawford, and myself do intend journeying to Derby-town
to-morrow. My aunt, Lady Crawford, is slightly ill, and although I
should much regret to see her sickness grow greater, yet if ill she
must be, I do hope that her worst day will be upon the morrow, in
which case she could not accompany Lady Madge and me. I shall nurse my
good aunt carefully this day, and shall importune her to take
plentifully of physic that she may quickly recover her health--after
to-morrow. Should a gentleman ask of Will Dawson, who will be in the
tap-room of the Royal Arms at eleven o'clock of the morning, Dawson
will be glad to inform the gentleman concerning Lady Crawford's
health. Let us hope that the physic will cure Lady Crawford--by the
day after to-morrow at furthest. The said Will Dawson may be trusted.
With great respect,

DOROTHY VERNON.'"

"I suppose the gentleman will be solicitous concerning Lady Crawford's
health to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock," said I.

"The gentleman is now solicitous concerning Lady Crawford's health,"
answered John, laughingly. "Was there ever a lady more fair and gracious
than Mistress Vernon?"

I smiled with a superior air at John's weakness, being, as you know,
entirely free from his complaint myself, and John continued:--

"Perhaps you would call Mistress Dorothy bold for sending me this letter?"

"It is redolent with shyness," I answered. "But would you really wish poor
Lady Crawford to be ill that you might witness Mistress Dorothy's
modesty?"

"Please don't jest on that subject," said John, seriously. "I would wish
anything, I fear, that would bring me an opportunity to see her, to look
upon her face, and to hear her voice. For her I believe I would sacrifice
every one who is dear to me. One day she shall be mine--mine at whatever
cost--if she will be. If she will be. Ah, there is the rub! If she will
be. I dare not hope for that."

"I think," said I, "that you really have some little cause to hope."

"You speak in the same tone again. Malcolm, you do not understand her. She
might love me to the extent that I sometimes hope; but her father and mine
would never consent to our union, and she, I fear, could not be induced to
marry me under those conditions. Do not put the hope into my heart."

"You only now said she should be yours some day," I answered.

"So she shall," returned John, "so she shall."

"But Lady Madge is to be with her to-morrow," said I, my own heart beating
with an ardent wish and a new-born hope, "and you may be unable, after
all, to see Mistress Dorothy."

"That is true," replied John. "I do not know how she will arrange matters,
but I have faith in her ingenuity."

Well might he have faith, for Dorothy was possessed of that sort of a will
which usually finds a way.

"If you wish me to go with you to Derby-town, I will do so. Perhaps I may
be able to entertain Lady Madge while you have a word with Dorothy. What
think you of the plan?" I asked.

"If you will go with me, Malcolm, I shall thank you with all my heart."

And so it was agreed between us that we should both go to Derby-town for
the purpose of inquiring about Lady Crawford's health, though for me the
expedition was full of hazard.

CHAPTER VI

A DANGEROUS TRIP TO DERBY-TOWN

The next morning broke brightly, but soon clouds began to gather and a
storm seemed imminent. We feared that the gloomy prospect of the sky might
keep Dorothy and Madge at home, but long before the appointed hour John
and I were at the Royal Arms watching eagerly for the Haddon coach. At the
inn we occupied a room from which we could look into the courtyard, and at
the window we stood alternating between exaltation and despair.

When my cogitations turned upon myself--a palpitating youth of
thirty-five, waiting with beating heart for a simple blind girl little
more than half my age; and when I remembered how for years I had laughed
at the tenderness of the fairest women of the French and Scottish
courts--I could not help saying to myself, "Poor fool! you have achieved
an early second childhood." But when I recalled Madge in all her beauty,
purity, and helplessness, my cynicism left me, and I, who had enjoyed all
of life's ambitious possibilities, calmly reached the conclusion that it
is sometimes a blessed privilege to be a fool. While I dwelt on thoughts
of Madge, all the latent good within me came uppermost. There is latent
good in every man, though it may remain latent all his life. Good
resolves, pure thoughts, and noble aspirations--new sensations to me, I
blush to confess--bubbled in my heart, and I made a mental prayer, "If
this is folly, may God banish wisdom." What is there, after all is said,
in wisdom, that men should seek it? Has it ever brought happiness to its
possessor? I am an old man at this writing. I have tasted all the cups of
life, and from the fulness of my experience I tell you that the simple
life is the only one wherein happiness is found. When you permit your
heart and your mind to grow complex and wise, you make nooks and crannies
for wretchedness to lodge in. Innocence is Nature's wisdom; knowledge is
man's folly.

An hour before noon our patience was rewarded when we saw the Haddon Hall
coach drive into the courtyard with Dawson on the box. I tried to make
myself believe that I did not wish Lady Crawford were ill. But there is
little profit in too close scrutiny of our deep-seated motives, and in
this case I found no comfort in self-examination. I really did wish that
Aunt Dorothy were ill.

My motive studying, however, was brought to a joyous end when I saw Will
Dawson close the coach door after Madge and Dorothy had alighted.

How wondrously beautiful they were! Had we lived in the days when Olympus
ruled the world, John surely would have had a god for his rival. Dorothy
seemed luminous, so radiant was she with the fire of life. As for Madge,
had I beheld a corona hovering over her head I should have thought it in
all respects a natural and appropriate phenomenon--so fair and saintlike
did she appear to me. Her warm white furs and her clinging gown of soft
light-colored woollen stuff seemed to be a saint's robe, and her dainty
little hat, fashioned with ermine about the edge of the rim--well, that
was the corona, and I was ready to worship.

Dorothy, as befitted her, wore a blaze of harmonious colors and looked
like the spirit of life and youth. I wish I could cease rhapsodizing over
those two girls, but I cannot. You may pass over it as you read, if you do
not like it.

"Ye gods! did ever a creature so perfect as she tread the earth?" asked
John, meaning, of course, Dorothy.

"No," answered I, meaning, of course, Madge.

The girls entered the inn, and John and I descended to the tap-room for
the purpose of consulting Will Dawson concerning the state of Aunt
Dorothy's health.

When we entered the tap-room Will was standing near the fireplace with a
mug of hot punch in his hand. When I touched him, he almost dropped the
mug so great was his surprise at seeing me.

"Sir Mal--" he began to say, but I stopped him by a gesture. He instantly
recovered his composure and appeared not to recognize me.

I spoke in broken English, for, as you know, I belong more to France than
to any other country. "I am Sir Francois de Lorraine," said I. "I wish to
inquire if Lady Crawford is in good health?"

"Her ladyship is ill, sir, I am sorry to say," responded Will, taking off
his hat. "Mistress Vernon and Lady Madge Stanley are at the inn. If you
wish to inquire more particularly concerning Lady Crawford's health, I
will ask them if they wish to receive you. They are in the parlor."

Will was the king of trumps!

"Say to them," said I, "that Sir Francois de Lorraine--mark the name
carefully, please--and his friend desire to make inquiry concerning Lady
Crawford's health, and would deem it a great honor should the ladies grant
them an interview."

Will's countenance was as expressionless as the face upon the mug from
which he had been drinking. "I shall inform the ladies of your honor's
request." He thereupon placed the half-emptied mug upon the fire-shelf
and left the room.

When Will announced his errand to the girls, Dorothy said in surprise:--

"Sir Francois de Lorraine? That is the name of the Grand Duc de Guise, but
surely--Describe him to me, Will."

"He is about your height, Mistress Dorothy, and is very handsome,"
responded Will.

The latter part of Will's description placed me under obligation to him to
the extent of a gold pound sterling.

"Ah, it is John!" thought Dorothy, forgetting the fact that John was a
great deal taller than she, but feeling that Will's description of "very
handsome" could apply to only one man in the world. "He has taken
Malcolm's name." Then she said, "Bring him to us, Will. But who is the
friend? Do you know him? Tell me his appearance."

"I did not notice the other gentleman," replied Will, "and I can tell you
nothing of him."

"Will, you are a very stupid man. But bring the gentlemen here." Dorothy
had taken Will into her confidence to the extent of telling him that a
gentleman would arrive at the Royal Arms who would inquire for Lady
Crawford's health, and that she, Dorothy, would fully inform the gentleman
upon that interesting topic. Will may have had suspicions of his own, but
if so, he kept them to himself, and at least did not know that the
gentleman whom his mistress expected to see was Sir John Manners. Neither
did he suspect that fact. Dawson had never seen Manners, and did not know
he was in the neighborhood of Derby. The fact was concealed from Dawson by
Dorothy not so much because she doubted him, but for the reason that she
wished him to be able truthfully to plead innocence in case trouble should
grow out of the Derby-town escapade.

"I wonder why John did not come alone?" thought Dorothy. "This friend of
his will be a great hindrance."

Dorothy ran to the mirror and hurriedly gave a few touches to her hair,
pressing it lightly with her soft flexible fingers here, and tucking in a
stray curl there, which for beauty's sake should have been allowed to hang
loose. She was standing at the pier-glass trying to see the back of her
head when Will knocked to announce our arrival.

"Come," said Dorothy.

Will opened the door and held it for us to pass in. Madge was seated near
the fire. When we entered Dorothy was standing with great dignity in the
centre of the floor, not of course intending to make an exhibition of
delight over John in the presence of a stranger. But when she saw that I
was the stranger, she ran to me with outstretched hands.

"Good morning, Mistress Vernon," said I, in mock ceremoniousness.

"Oh, Malcolm! Malcolm!" cried Madge, quickly rising from her chair. "You
are cruel, Dorothy, to surprise me in this fashion."

"I, too, am surprised. I did not know that Malcolm was coming," replied
Dorothy, turning to give welcome to John. Then I stepped to Madge's side
and took her hands, but all I could say was "Madge! Madge!" and all she
said was "Malcolm! Malcolm!" yet we seemed to understand each other.

John and Dorothy were likewise stricken with a paucity of words, but they
also doubtless understood each other. After a moment or two there fell
upon me a shower of questions from Dorothy.

"Did you not go to France? How happens it that you are in Derby-town?
Where did you meet Sir John? What a delightful surprise you have given us!
Nothing was wanting to make us happy but your presence."

"I am so happy that it frightens me," said Dorothy in ecstasy. "Trouble
will come, I am sure. One extreme always follows another. The pendulum
always swings as far back as it goes forward. But we are happy now, aren't
we, Madge? I intend to remain so while I can. The pendulum may swing as
far backward as it chooses hereafter. Sufficient to the day is the evil
thereof. Sometimes the joy is almost sufficient, isn't it, Madge?"

"The evil is more than sufficient some days," answered Madge.

"Come, Madge, don't be foreboding."

"Dorothy, I have not met the other gentleman," said Madge.

"Ah, pardon me. In my surprise I forgot to present you. Lady Madge
Stanley, let me present Sir John Manners."

"Sir John Manners!" cried Madge, taking a step backward. Her surprise was
so great that she forgot to acknowledge the introduction. "Dorothy, what
means this?" she continued.

"It means," replied Dorothy, nervously, "that Sir John is my very dear
friend. I will explain it to you at another time."

We stood silently for a few moments, and John said:--

"I hope I may find favor in your heart, Lady Madge. I wish to greet you
with my sincere homage."

"Sir John, I am glad to greet you, but I fear the pendulum of which
Dorothy spoke will swing very far backward erelong."

"Let it swing as far back as it chooses," answered Dorothy, with a toss of
her head, "I am ready to buy and to pay for happiness. That seems to be
the only means whereby we may have it. I am ready to buy it with pain any
day, and am willing to pay upon demand. Pain passes away; joy lasts
forever."

"I know," said Sir John, addressing Madge, "I know it is not prudent for
Malcolm and me to be here to-day; but imprudent things seem to be the most
delightful."

"For men, Sir John," returned Madge. "Upon women they leave their mark."

"I fear you are right," he answered. "I had not thought of my visit in
that light. For Mistress Vernon's sake it is better that I do not remain
in Derby."

"For Mistress Vernon's sake you shall remain," cried that impetuous young
woman, clutching John's arm.

After a time, Dorothy wishing to visit one of the shops to make purchases,
it was agreed between us that we should all walk out. Neither Dorothy nor
Madge had ever before visited Derby-town. John and I had visited the place
but once; that was upon the occasion of our first meeting. No one in the
town knew us, and we felt safe in venturing forth into the streets. So we
helped Dorothy and Madge to don their furs, and out we went happier and
more reckless than four people have any good right to be. But before
setting out I went to the tap-room and ordered dinner.

I found the host and directed him to prepare a dozen partridges in a pie,
a haunch of venison, a few links of German sausage, and a capon. The host
informed me that he had in his pantry a barrel of roots called potatoes
which had been sent to him by a sea-captain who had recently returned from
the new world. He hurried away and brought a potato for inspection. It was
of a gray brown color and near the size of an egg. The landlord assured me
that it was delicious when baked, and I ordered four, at the cost of a
crown each. I understand that my Lord Raleigh claims to have brought the
first potatoes and tobacco into England in '85; but I know that I smoked
tobacco in '66, and I saw potatoes at the Royal Arms in Derby-town in '67.
I also ordered another new dish for our famous dinner. It was a brown
beverage called coffee. The berries from which the beverage is made mine
host showed to me, and said they had been brought to him by a sea-faring
man from Arabia. I ordered a pot of the drink at a cost of three crowns. I
have heard it said that coffee was not known in Europe or in England till
it was introduced by Rawolf in '73, but I saw it at the Royal Arms in '67.
In addition to this list, I ordered for our drinking sweet wine from
Madeira and red wine from Burgundy. The latter-named wine had begun to
grow in favor at the French court when I left France five years before. It
was little liked in England. All these dainties were rare at the time of
which I write; but they have since grown into considerable use, and I
doubt not, as we progress in luxury, they will become common articles of
food upon the tables of the rich. Prongs, or forks, as they are called,
which by some are used in cutting and eating one's food at table, I also
predict will become implements of daily use. It is really a filthy
fashion, which we have, of handling food with our fingers. The Italians
have used forks for some time, but our preachers speak against them,
saying God has given us our fingers with which to eat, and that it is
impious to thwart his purposes by the use of forks. The preachers will
probably retard the general use of forks among the common people.

After I had given my order for dinner we started out on our ramble through
Derby-town.

Shortly after we left the inn we divided into couples for the ostensible
reason that we did not wish to attract too much attention--Dorothy and
John, Madge and I! Our real reason for separating was--but you understand.

Madge's hand lay like a span of snow upon my arm, and--but this time I
will restrain my tendency to rhapsodize.

We walked out through those parts of the town which were little used, and
Madge talked freely and happily.

She fairly babbled, and to me her voice was like the murmurings of the
rivers that flowed out of paradise.

We had agreed with John and Dorothy to meet them at the Royal Arms in one
hour, and that time had almost passed when Madge and I turned our faces
toward the inn.

When we were within a short distance of our hostelry we saw a crowd
gathered around a young man who was standing on a box. He was speaking in
a mournful, lugubrious voice and accompanied his words with violent
gesticulations. Out of curiosity we stopped to listen, and learned that
religion was our orator's theme.

I turned to a man standing near me and asked:--

"Who is the fellow speaking?"

"The pious man is Robert Brown. He is exhorting in the name of the Lord of
Hosts."

"The pious Robert Brown?" I queried, "exhorting in the name of--of the
Lord of where, did you say?"

"Hosts," laconically responded my friend, while listening intently to the
words of Brown.

"Hosts, say you? Who is he?" I asked of my interesting neighbor. "I know
him not."

"Doubtless you know Him not," responded the man, evidently annoyed at my
interruption and my flippancy.

After a moment or two I, desiring to know more concerning the orator,
asked:--

"Robert Brown, say you?"

"Even he," came the response. "It will be good for your soul if you but
listen to him in a prayerful mood. He is a young man upon whom the Spirit
hath descended plenteously."

"The Spirit?" I asked.

"Ay," returned my neighbor.

I could not extract another word from him, so I had the worst of the
encounter.

We had been standing there but a short time when the young exhorter
descended from his improvised pulpit and passed among the crowd for the
purpose of collecting money. His harangue had appeared ridiculous to me,
but Madge seemed interested in his discourse. She said:--

"He is very earnest, Malcolm," and at once my heart went out to the young
enthusiast upon the box. One kind word from Madge, and I was the fellow's
friend for life. I would have remained his friend had he permitted me that
high privilege. But that he would not do. When he came to me, I dropped
into his hat a small silver piece which shone brightly among a few black
copper coins. My liberal contribution did not induce him to kindness, but,
on the contrary, it attracted his attention to the giver. He looked at the
silver coin, and then turning his solemn gaze upon me, eyed me insolently
from head to foot. While doing so a look of profound disgust spread over
his mournful countenance. After a calm survey of my person, which to me
was uncomfortably long, he turned to the bystanders, and in the same
high-pitched, lugubrious voice which he had used when exhorting, said:--

"Brethren, here behold ye the type of anti-Christ," and he waved his thin
hand toward me much to my amusement and annoyance. "Here," said he, "we
find the leading strings to all that is iniquitous--vanity. It is
betokened in his velvets, satins, and laces. Think ye, young man," he
said, turning to me, "that such vanities are not an abomination in the
eyes of the God of Israel?"

"I believe that the God of Israel cares nothing about my apparel," I
replied, more amused than angered. He paid no attention to my remark.

"And this young woman," he continued, pointing to Madge, "this young
woman, daughter of the Roman harlot, no doubt, she also is arrayed in
silks, taffetas, and fine cloth. Look ye, friends, upon this abominable
collar of Satan; this ruff of fine linen, all smeared in the devil's own
liquor, starch. Her vanity is an offence in the nostrils of God's people."

As he spoke he stretched forth his hand and caught in his clawlike grasp
the dainty white ruff that encircled Madge's neck. When I saw his act, my
first impulse was to run him through, and I drew my sword half from its
scabbard with that purpose. But he was not the sort of a man upon whom I
could use my blade. He was hardly more than a boy--a wild, half-crazed
fanatic, whose reason, if he had ever possessed any, had been lost in the
Charybdis of his zeal. He honestly thought it was his duty to insult
persons who apparently disagreed with him. Such a method of proselyting is
really a powerful means of persuasion among certain classes, and it has
always been used by men who have successfully founded permanent religious
sects. To plant successfully a religious thought or system requires more
violent aggression than to conquer a nation.

Since I could not run the fellow through, I drew back my arm, and striking
as lightly as possible, I laid our zealous friend sprawling on his back.
Thus had I the honor of knocking down the founder of the Brownists.

If I mistake not, the time will come, if these men are allowed to harangue
the populace, when the kings of England will be unable to accomplish the
feat of knocking down Brown's followers. Heresies, like noxious weeds,
grow without cultivation, and thrive best on barren soil. Or shall I say
that, like the goodly vine, they bear better fruit when pruned? I cannot
fully decide this question for myself; but I admire these sturdy fanatics
who so passionately love their own faith, and so bitterly hate all others,
and I am almost prepared to say that each new heresy brings to the world a
better orthodoxy.

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