Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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For a little time after my encounter with Brown, all my skill was needed
to ward off the frantic hero. He quickly rose to his feet, and, with the
help of his friends, seemed determined to spread the gospel by tearing me
to pieces. My sword point kept the rabble at a respectful distance for a
while, but they crowded closely upon me, and I should have been compelled
to kill some of them had I not been reenforced by two men who came to my
help and laid about them most joyfully with their quarterstaffs. A few
broken heads stemmed for a moment the torrent of religious enthusiasm, and
during a pause in the hostilities I hurriedly retreated with Madge,
ungratefully leaving my valiant allies to reap the full reward of victory
should the fortunes of war favor them.

Madge was terribly frightened, and with her by my side I, of course, would
not have remained to fight the redoubtable Bayard himself.

We hurried forward, but before we reached the inn we were overtaken by our
allies whom we had abandoned. Our friends were young men. One wore a rich,
half-rustic habit, and the other was dressed as a horse boy. Both were
intoxicated. I had been thankful for their help; but I did not want their
company.

"How now, Cousin Madge?" said our richly dressed ally. "What in the
devil's name has brought you into this street broil?"

"Ah, Cousin James, is it you?" replied the trembling girl.

"Yes, but who is your friend that so cleverly unloaded his quarrel upon
us? Hell's fires! but they were like a swarm of wasps. Who is your friend,
Madge?"

"Sir Malcolm Vernon," replied Madge. "Let me present you, Sir Malcolm, to
my cousin, Lord James Stanley."

I offered my hand to his Lordship, and said:--

"I thank you much for your timely help. I should not have deserted you had
I not felt that my first duty was to extricate Lady Madge from the
disagreeable situation. We must hasten away from here, or the mad rabble
will follow us."

"Right you are, my hearty," returned Stanley, slapping me on the shoulder.
"Of course you had to get the wench away. Where do you go? We will bear
you company."

I longed to pay the fellow for his help by knocking him down; but the
possibilities of trouble ahead of us were already too great, and I forced
myself to be content with the prowess already achieved.

"But you have not told me what brought you into the broil," asked his
Lordship, as we walked toward the inn.

"Sir Malcolm and I were walking out to see the town and--"

"To see the town? By gad, that's good, Cousin Madge. How much of it did
you see? You are as blind as an owl at noon," answered his Lordship.

"Alas! I am blind," returned Madge, clinging closely to me, and shrinking
from her cousin's terrible jest. I could not think of anything
sufficiently holy and sacred upon which to vow my vengeance against this
fellow, if the time should ever come when I dared take it.

"Are you alone with this--this gentleman?" asked his Lordship, grasping
Madge by the arm.

"No," returned Madge, "Dorothy is with us."

"She is among the shops," I volunteered reluctantly.

"Dorothy? Dorothy Vernon? By gad, Tod, we are in luck. I must see the
wench I am to marry," said his Lordship, speaking to his companion, the
stable boy. "So Dorothy is with you, is she, cousin? I haven't seen her
for years. They say she is a handsome filly now. By gad, she had room to
improve, for she was plain enough, to frighten rats away from a barn when
I last saw her. We will go to the inn and see for ourselves, won't we,
Tod? Dad's word won't satisfy us when it comes to the matter of marrying,
will it, Tod?"

Tod was the drunken stable boy who had assisted his Lordship and me in
our battle with the Brownists.

I was at a loss what course to pursue. I was forced to submit to this
fellow's company, and to endure patiently his insolence. But John and
Dorothy would soon return, and there is no need that I should explain the
dangers of the predicament which would then ensue.

When we were within a few yards of the inn door I looked backward and saw
Dorothy and John approaching us. I held up my hand warningly. John caught
my meaning, and instantly leaving Dorothy's side, entered an adjacent
shop. My movement had attracted Stanley's attention, and he turned in the
direction I had been looking. When he saw Dorothy, he turned again to me
and asked:--

"Is that Dorothy Vernon?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Look at her, Tod!" exclaimed my lord, "look at her, Tod! The dad was
right about her, after all. I thought the old man was hoaxing me when he
told me that she was beautiful. Holy Virgin, Tod, did you ever see
anything so handsome? I will take her quick enough; I will take her. Dad
won't need to tease me. I'm willing."

Dorothy approached to within a few yards of us, and my Lord Stanley
stepped forward to meet her.

"Ye don't know me, do ye?" said Stanley.

Dorothy was frightened and quickly stepped to my side.

"I--I believe not," responded Dorothy.

"Lord James Stanley," murmured Madge, who knew of the approaching Stanley
marriage.

"Madge is right," returned. Stanley, grinning foolishly. "I am your cousin
James, but not so much of a cousin that I cannot be more than cousin,
heh?" He laughed boisterously, and winking at Tod, thrust his thumb into
that worthy's ribs. "Say, Tod, something more than cousin; that's the
thing, isn't it, Tod?"

John was standing half-concealed at the door of the shop in which he had
sought refuge. Dorothy well knew the peril of the situation, and when I
frowned at her warningly, she caught the hint that she should not resent
Stanley's words, however insulting and irritating they might become.

"Let us go to the inn," said Dorothy.

"That's the thing to do. Let us go to the inn and have dinner," said
Stanley. "It's two hours past dinner time now, and I'm almost famished.
We'll have a famous dinner. Come, cousin," said he, addressing Dorothy.
"We'll have kidneys and tripe and--"

"We do not want dinner," said Dorothy. "We must return home at once. Sir
Malcolm, will you order Dawson to bring out the coach?"

We went to the inn parlor, and I, loath to do so, left the ladies with
Stanley and his horse-boy friend while I sought Dawson for the purpose of
telling him to fetch the coach with all haste.

"We have not dined," said the forester.

"We shall not dine," I answered. "Fetch the coach with all the haste you
can make." The bystanders in the tap-room were listening, and I continued,
"A storm is brewing, and we must hasten home."

True enough, a storm was brewing.

When I left Dawson, I hurriedly found John and told him we were preparing
to leave the inn, and that we would expect him to overtake us on the road
to Rowsley.

I returned to the ladies in the parlor and found them standing near the
window. Stanley had tried to kiss Dorothy, and she had slapped his face.
Fortunately he had taken the blow good-humoredly, and was pouring into her
unwilling ear a fusillade of boorish compliments when. I entered the
parlor.

I said, "The coach is ready."

The ladies moved toward the door. "I am going to ride with you, my
beauty," said his Lordship.

"That you shall not do," retorted Dorothy, with blazing eyes.

"That I will do," he answered. "The roads are free to all, and you cannot
keep me from following you."

Dorothy was aware of her predicament, and I too saw it, but could find no
way out of it. I was troubled a moment; but my fear was needless, for
Dorothy was equal to the occasion.

"We should like your company, Cousin Stanley," replied Dorothy, without a
trace of anger in her manner, "but we cannot let you ride with us in the
face of the storm that is brewing."

"We won't mind the storm, will we, Tod? We are going with our cousin."

"If you insist upon being so kind to us," said Dorothy, "you may come. But
I have changed my mind about dinner. I am very hungry, and we accept your
invitation."

"Now you are coming around nicely," said Lord James, joyfully. "We like
that, don't we, Tod?"

Tod had been silent under all circumstances.

Dorothy continued: "Madge and I will drive in the coach to one or two of
the shops, and we shall return in one hour. Meantime, Cousin Stanley, we
wish you to have a fine dinner prepared for us, and we promise to do ample
justice to the fare."

"She'll never come back," said silent Tod, without moving a muscle.

"How about it, cousin?" asked Stanley. "Tod says you'll never come back;
he means that you are trying to give us the slip."

"Never fear, Cousin Stanley," she returned, "I am too eager for dinner
not to come back. If you fail to have a well-loaded table for me, I shall
never speak to you again."

We then went to the coach, and as the ladies entered it Dorothy said aloud
to Dawson:--

"Drive to Conn's shop."

I heard Tod say to his worthy master:--

"She's a slippin' ye."

"You're a fool, Tod. Don't you see she wants me more than she wants the
dinner, and she's hungry, too."

"Don't see," retorted his laconic friend.

Of course when the coach was well away from the inn, Dawson received new
instructions, and took the road to Rowsley. When the ladies had departed,
I went to the tap-room with Stanley, and after paying the host for the
coffee, the potatoes, and the dinner which alas! we had not tasted, I
ordered a great bowl of sack and proceeded to drink with my allies in the
hope that I might make them too drunk to follow us. Within half an hour I
discovered that I was laboring at a hopeless task. There was great danger
that I would be the first to succumb; so I, expressing a wish to sleep off
the liquor before the ladies should return, made my escape from the
tap-room, mounted my horse, and galloped furiously after Dorothy and
Madge. John was riding by the coach when I overtook it.

It was two hours past noon when I came up with John and the girls. Snow
had been falling softly earlier in the afternoon, but as the day advanced
the storm grew in violence. A cold, bleak wind was blowing from the north,
and by reason of the weather and because of the ill condition of the
roads, the progress of the coach was so slow that darkness overtook us
before we had finished half of our journey to Rowsley. Upon the fall of
night the storm increased in violence, and the snow came in piercing,
horizontal shafts which stung like the prick of a needle.

At the hour of six--I but guessed the time--John and I, who were riding
at the rear of the coach, heard close on our heels the trampling of
horses. I rode forward to Dawson, who was in the coach box, and told him
to drive with all the speed he could make. I informed him that some one
was following us, and that I feared highwaymen were on our track.

Hardly had I finished speaking to Dawson when I heard the report of a
hand-fusil, back of the coach, near the spot where I had left John. I
quickly drew my sword, though it was a task of no small labor, owing to
the numbness of my fingers. I breathed along the blade to warm it, and
then I hastened to John, whom I found in a desperate conflict with three
ruffians. No better swordsman than John ever drew blade, and he was
holding his ground in the darkness right gallantly. When I rode to his
rescue, another hand-fusil was discharged, and then another, and I knew
that we need have no more fear from bullets, for the three men had
discharged their weapons, and they could not reload while John and I were
engaging them. I heard the bullets tell upon the coach, and I heard the
girls screaming lustily. I feared they had been wounded, but you may be
sure I had no leisure to learn the truth. Three against two was terrible
odds in the dark, where brute force and luck go for more than skill. We
fought desperately for a while, but in the end we succeeded in beating off
the highwaymen. When we had finished with the knaves who had attacked us,
we quickly overtook our party. We were calling Dawson to stop when we saw
the coach, careening with the slant of the hill, topple over, and fall to
the bottom of a little precipice five or six feet in height. We at once
dismounted and jumped down the declivity to the coach, which lay on its
side, almost covered by drifted snow. The pole had broken in the fall, and
the horses were standing on the road. We first saw Dawson. He was
swearing like a Dutchman, and when we had dragged him from his snowy
grave, we opened the coach door, lifted out the ladies, and seated them
upon the uppermost side of the coach. They were only slightly bruised, but
what they lacked in bruises they made up in fright. In respect to the
latter it were needless for me to attempt a description.

We can laugh about it now and speak lightly concerning the adventure, and,
as a matter of truth, the humor of the situation appealed to me even then.
But imagine yourself in the predicament, and you will save me the trouble
of setting forth its real terrors.

The snow was up to our belts, and we did not at first know how we were to
extricate the ladies. John and Dawson, however, climbed to the road, and I
carried Dorothy and Madge to the little precipice where the two men at the
top lifted them from my arms. The coach was broken, and when I climbed to
the road, John, Dawson, and myself held a council of war against the
storm. Dawson said we were three good miles from Rowsley, and that he knew
of no house nearer than the village at which we could find shelter. We
could not stand in the road and freeze, so I got the blankets and robes
from the coach and made riding pads for Dorothy and Madge. These we
strapped upon the broad backs of the coach horses, and then assisted the
ladies to mount. I walked by the side of Madge, and John performed the
same agreeable duty for Dorothy. Dawson went ahead of us, riding my horse
and leading John's; and thus we travelled to Rowsley, half dead and nearly
frozen, over the longest three miles in the kingdom.

John left us before entering the village, and took the road to Rutland,
intending to stop for the night at a cottage two miles distant, upon his
father's estates. I was to follow Sir John when the ladies were safely
lodged at The Peacock.

It was agreed between us that nothing should be said concerning the
presence of any man save Dawson and myself in our party.

When John left us, I rode to The Peacock with Dorothy and Madge, and while
I was bidding them good-by my violent cousin, Sir George, entered the inn.
Dorothy ran to her father and briefly related the adventures of the night,
dwelling with undeserved emphasis upon the help I had rendered. She told
her father--the statement was literally true--that she had met me at the
Royal Arms, where I was stopping, and that she had, through fear of the
storm and in dread of highwaymen, asked me to ride beside their coach to
Rowsley.

When I saw Sir George enter the room, I expected to have trouble with him;
but after he had spoken with Dorothy, much to my surprise, he offered me
his hand and said:--

"I thank you, Malcolm, for the help you have rendered my girls, and I am
glad you have come back to us."

"I have not come back to you, Sir George," said I, withholding my hand. "I
met Mistress Vernon and Lady Madge at the Royal Arms, and escorted them to
Rowsley for reasons which she has just given to you. I was about to depart
when you entered."

"Tut, tut! Malcolm, you will come with us to Haddon Hall."

"To be ordered away again, Sir George?" I asked.

"I did not order you to go. You left in a childish fit of anger. Why in
the devil's name did you run away so quickly? Could you not have given a
man time to cool off? You treated me very badly, Malcolm."

"Sir George, you certainly know--"

"I know nothing of the sort. Now I want not another word from you. Damme!
I say, not another word. If I ever ordered you to leave Haddon Hall, I
didn't know what I was doing," cried Sir George, heartily.

"But you may again not know," said I.

"Now, Malcolm, don't be a greater fool than I was. If I say I did not
order you to leave Haddon Hall, can't you take me at my word? My age and
my love for you should induce you to let me ease my conscience, if I can.
If the same illusion should ever come over you again--that is, if you
should ever again imagine that I am ordering you to leave Haddon
Hall--well, just tell me to go to the devil. I have been punished enough
already, man. Come home with us. Here is Dorothy, whom I love better than
I love myself. In anger I might say the same thing to her that I said to
you, but--Nonsense, Malcolm, don't be a fool. Come home with us. Haddon is
your home as freely as it is the home of Dorothy, Madge, and myself."

The old gentleman's voice trembled, and I could not withstand the double
force of his kindness and my desire. So it came about that when Madge held
out her fair hand appealingly to me, and when Dorothy said, "Please come
home with us, Cousin Malcolm," I offered my hand to Sir George, and with
feeling said, "Let us make this promise to each other: that nothing
hereafter shall come between us."

"I gladly promise," responded the generous, impulsive old man. "Dorothy,
Madge, and you are all in this world whom I love. Nothing shall make
trouble between us. Whatever happens, we will each forgive."

The old gentleman was in his kindest, softest mood.

"Let us remember the words," said I.

"I give my hand and my word upon it," cried Sir George.

How easy it is to stake the future upon a present impulse. But when the
time for reckoning comes,--when the future becomes the present,--it is
sometimes hard to pay the priceless present for the squandered past. Next
morning we all rode home to Haddon,--how sweet the words sound even at
this distance of time!--and there was rejoicing in the Hall as if the
prodigal had returned.

In the evening I came upon Madge unawares. She was softly singing a
plaintive little love song. I did not disturb her, and as I stole away
again I said to myself, "God is good." A realization of that great truth
had of late been growing upon me. When once we thoroughly learn it, life
takes on a different color.

CHAPTER VII

TRIBULATION IN HADDON

After I had left Haddon at Sir George's tempestuous order, he had remained
in a state of furious anger against Dorothy and myself for a fortnight or
more. But after her adroit conversation with him concerning the Stanley
marriage, wherein she neither promised nor refused, and after she learned
that she could more easily cajole her father than command him, Dorothy
easily ensconced herself again in his warm heart, and took me into that
capacious abode along with her.

Then came the trip to Derby, whereby his serene Lordship, James Stanley,
had been enabled to see Dorothy and to fall in love with her winsome
beauty, and whereby I was brought back to Haddon. Thereafter came events
crowding so rapidly one upon the heels of another that I scarce know where
to begin the telling of them. I shall not stop to say, "Sir George told me
this," or "Madge, Dorothy, or John told me that," but I shall write as if
I had personal knowledge of all that happened. After all, the important
fact is that I know the truth concerning matters whereof I write, and of
that you may rest with surety.

The snow lay upon the ground for a fortnight after the storm in which we
rode from Derby, but at the end of that time it melted, and the sun shone
with the brilliancy and warmth of springtide. So warm and genial was the
weather that the trees, flowers, and shrubs were cozened into budding
forth. The buds were withered by a killing frost which came upon us later
in the season at a time when the spring should have been abroad in all her
graciousness, and that year was called the year of the leafless summer.

One afternoon Sir George received a distinguished guest in the person of
the Earl of Derby, and the two old gentlemen remained closeted together
for several hours. That night at supper, after the ladies had risen from
table, Sir George dismissed the servants saying that he wished to speak to
me in private. I feared that he intended again bringing forward the
subject of marriage with Dorothy, but he soon relieved my mind.

"The Earl of Derby was here to-day. He has asked for Doll's hand in
marriage with his eldest son and heir, Lord James Stanley, and I have
granted the request."

"Indeed," I responded, with marvellous intelligence. I could say nothing
more, but I thought--in truth I knew--that it did not lie within the power
of any man in or out of England to dispose of Dorothy Vernon's hand in
marriage to Lord James Stanley. Her father might make a murderess out of
her, but Countess of Derby, never.

Sir George continued, "The general terms of the marriage contract have
been agreed upon by the earl and me, and the lawyers will do the rest."

"What is your feeling in the matter?" I asked aimlessly.

"My feeling?" cried Sir George. "Why, sir, my feeling is that the girl
shall marry Stanley just as soon as arrangements can be made for the
wedding ceremony. The young fellow, it seems, saw Doll at Derby-town the
day you came home, and since then he is eager, his father tells me, for
the union. He is coming to see her when I give my permission, and I will
send him word at as early a date as propriety will admit. I must not let
them be seen together too soon, you know. There might be a hitch in the
marriage negotiations. The earl is a tight one in business matters, and
might drive a hard bargain with me should I allow his son to place Doll in
a false position before the marriage contract is signed." He little knew
how certainly Dorothy herself would avoid that disaster.

He took a long draught from his mug of toddy and winked knowingly at me,
saying, "I am too wise for that."

"Have you told Dorothy?" I asked.

"No," he replied, "I have not exactly told her. I had a talk with her a
few days ago on the subject, though the earl and I had not, at that time,
entirely agreed upon the terms, and I did not know that we should agree.
But I told her of the pending negotiations, because I wished to prepare
her for the signing of the contract; and also, by gad, Malcolm, I wanted
to make the girl understand at the outset that I will have no trifling
with my commands in this matter. I made that feature of the case very
plain, you may rest assured. She understands me fully, and although at
first she was a little inclined to fight, she soon--she soon--well, she
knuckled under gracefully when she found she must."

"Did she consent to the marriage?" I asked, well knowing that even if she
had consented in words, she had no thought of doing so in deed.

"Y-e-s," returned Sir George, hesitatingly.

"I congratulate you," I replied.

"I shall grieve to lose Doll," the old man slowly continued with
perceptible signs of emotion. "I shall grieve to lose my girl, but I am
anxious to have the wedding over. You see, Malcolm, of late I have noticed
signs of wilfulness in Doll that can be more easily handled by a husband
than by a father. Marriage and children anchor a woman, you know. In
truth, I have opened my eyes to the fact that Doll is growing dangerous.
I'gad, the other day I thought she was a child, but suddenly I learn she
is a woman. I had not before noticed the change. Beauty and wilfulness,
such as the girl has of late developed, are powers not to be
underestimated by wise men. There is hell in them, Malcolm, I tell you
there is hell in them." Sir George meditatively snuffed the candle with
his fingers and continued: "If a horse once learns that he can kick--sell
him. Only yesterday, as I said, Doll was a child, and now, by Jove, she is
a full-blown woman, and I catch myself standing in awe of her and calling
her Dorothy. Yes, damme, standing in awe of my own child! That will never
do, you know. What has wrought the change? And, after all, what is the
change? I can't define it, but there has been a great one."

He was in a revery and spoke more to himself than to me. "Yesterday she
was my child--she was a child, and now--and now--she is--she is--Why the
devil didn't you take her, Malcolm?" cried the old man, awakening. "But
there, never mind; that is all past and gone, and the future Earl of Derby
will be a great match for her."

"Do you know the future Earl of Derby?" I asked. "Have you ever seen him?"

"No," Sir George replied. "I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but--"

"My dear cousin," said I, interrupting him, "he is a vulgar, drunken
clown, whose associates have always been stable boys, tavern maids, and
those who are worse than either."

"What?" cried Sir George, hotly, the liquor having reached his brain. "You
won't have Doll yourself, and you won't consent to another--damme, would
you have the girl wither into spinsterhood? How, sir, dare you interfere?"

"I withdraw all I said, Sir George," I replied hastily. "I have not a word
to say against the match. I thought--"

"Well, damn you, sir, don't think."

"You said you wished to consult me about the affair, and I supposed--"

"Don't suppose either," replied Sir George, sullenly. "Supposing and
thinking have hanged many a man. I didn't wish to consult you. I simply
wanted to tell you of the projected marriage." Then after a moment of
half-maudlin, sullen silence he continued, "Go to bed, Malcolm, go to bed,
or we'll be quarrelling again."

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