Dorothy and I went to the inn parlors, where I received a cordial welcome from my cousin, Lady Crawford. After our greeting, Dorothy came toward me leading the fair, pale girl whom I had seen in the courtyard.

“Madge, this is my cousin, Malcolm Vernon,” said Dorothy. “He was a dear friend of my childhood and is much beloved by my father. Lady Magdalene Stanley, cousin,” and she placed the girl’s soft white hand in mine. There was a peculiar hesitancy in the girl’s manner which puzzled me. She did not look at me when Dorothy placed her hand in mine, but kept her eyes cast down, the long, black lashes resting upon the fair curves of her cheek like a shadow on the snow. She murmured a salutation, and when I made a remark that called for a response, she lifted her eyes but seemed not to look at me. Unconsciously I turned my face toward Dorothy, who closed her eyes and formed with her lips the word “blind.”

I retained the girl’s hand, and she did not withdraw it. When I caught Dorothy’s unspoken word I led Lady Madge to a chair and asked if I might sit beside her.

“Certainly,” she answered smilingly; “you know I am blind, but I can hear and speak, and I enjoy having persons I like sit near me that I may touch them now and then while we talk. If I could only see!” she exclaimed. Still, there was no tone of complaint in her voice and very little even of regret. The girl’s eyes were of a deep blue and were entirely without scar or other evidence of blindness, except that they did not seem to see. I afterward learned that her affliction had come upon her as the result of illness when she was a child. She was niece to the Earl of Derby, and Dorothy’s mother had been her aunt. She owned a small estate and had lived at Haddon Hall five or six years because of the love that existed between her and Dorothy. A strong man instinctively longs to cherish that which needs his strength, and perhaps it was the girl’s helplessness that first appealed to me. Perhaps it was her rare, peculiar beauty, speaking eloquently of virtue such as I had never known, that touched me. I cannot say what the impelling cause was, but this I know: my heart went out in pity to her, and all that was good within me good, which I had never before suspected stirred in my soul, and my past life seemed black and barren beyond endurance. Even Dorothy’s marvellous beauty lacked the subtle quality which this simple blind girl possessed. The first step in regeneration is to see one’s faults; the second is to regret them; the third is to quit them. The first and second steps constitute repentance; the second and third regeneration. One hour within the radius of Madge Stanley’s influence brought me to repentance. But repentance is an everyday virtue. Should I ever achieve regeneration? That is one of the questions this history will answer. To me, Madge Stanley’s passive force was the strongest influence for good that had ever impinged on my life. With respect to her, morally, I was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, for she, acting unconsciously, moved me with neither knowledge nor volition on my part.

Soon after my arrival at the ladies’ parlor dinner was served, and after dinner a Persian merchant was ushered in, closely followed by his servants bearing bales of rare Eastern fabrics. A visit and a dinner at the inn were little events that made a break in the monotony of life at the Hall, and the ladies preferred to visit the merchant, who was stopping at The Peacock for a time, rather than to have him take his wares to Haddon.

While Lady Crawford and Dorothy were revelling in Persian silks, satins, and gold cloths, I sat by Lady Madge and was more than content that we were left to ourselves. My mind, however, was as far from thoughts of gallantry as if she had been a black-veiled nun. I believe I have not told you that I was of the Holy Catholic Faith. My religion, I may say, has always been more nominal and political than spiritual, although there ran through it a strong vein of inherited tendencies and superstitions which were highly colored by contempt for heresy and heretics. I was Catholic by habit. But if I analyzed my supposed religious belief, I found that I had none save a hatred for heresy. Heretics, as a rule, were low-born persons, vulgarly moral, and as I had always thought, despisedly hypocritical. Madge Stanley, however, was a Protestant, and that fact shook the structure of my old mistakes to its foundation, and left me religionless.

After the Persian merchant had packed his bales and departed, Dorothy and Lady Crawford joined Madge and me near the fireplace. Soon Dorothy went over to the window and stood there gazing into the courtyard. After a few minutes Lady Crawford said, “Dorothy, had we not better order Dawson to bring out the horses and coach?” Will Dawson was Sir George’s forester. Lady Crawford repeated her question, but Dorothy was too intently watching the scene in the courtyard to hear. I went over to her, and looking out at the window discovered the object of Dorothy’s rapt attention. There is no need for me to tell you who it was. Irony, as you know, and as I had learned, was harmless against this thick-skinned nymph. Of course I had no authority to scold her, so I laughed. The object of Dorothy’s attention was about to mount his horse. He was drawing on his gauntleted gloves and held between his teeth a cigarro. He certainly presented a handsome figure for the eyes of an ardent girl to rest upon while he stood beneath the window, clothed in a fashionable Paris-made suit of brown, doublet, trunks, and hose. His high-topped boots were polished till they shone, and his broad-rimmed hat, of soft beaver, was surmounted by a flowing plume. Even I, who had no especial taste nor love for masculine beauty, felt my sense of the beautiful strongly moved by the attractive picture my new-found friend presented. His dress, manner, and bearing, polished by the friction of life at a luxurious court, must have appeared god-like to Dorothy. She had never travelled farther from home than Buxton and Derby-town, and had met only the half-rustic men belonging to the surrounding gentry and nobility of Derbyshire, Nottingham, and Stafford. She had met but few even of them, and their lives had been spent chiefly in drinking, hunting, and gambling accomplishments that do not fine down the texture of a man’s nature or fit him for a lady’s bower. Sir John Manners was a revelation to Dorothy; and she, poor girl, was bewildered and bewitched by him.

When John had mounted and was moving away, he looked up to the window where Dorothy stood, and a light came to her eyes and a smile to her face which no man who knows the sum of two and two can ever mistake if he but once sees it.

When I saw the light in Dorothy’s eyes, I knew that all the hatred that was ever born from all the feuds that had ever lived since the quarrelling race of man began its feuds in Eden could not make Dorothy Vernon hate the son of her father’s enemy.

“I was was watching him draw smoke through the the little stick which he holds in his mouth, and and blow it out again,” said Dorothy, in explanation of her attitude. She blushed painfully and continued, “I hope you do not think ”

“I do not think,” I answered. “I would not think of thinking.”

“Of course not,” she responded, with a forced smile, as she watched Sir John pass out of sight under the arch of the innyard gate. I did not think. I knew. And the sequel, so full of trouble, soon proved that I was right. After John had passed through the gate, Dorothy was willing to go home; and when Will Dawson brought the great coach to the inn door, I mounted my horse and rode beside the ladies to Haddon Hall, two miles north from Rowsley.

I shall not stop to tell you of the warm welcome given me by Sir George Vernon, nor of his delight when I briefly told him my misfortunes in Scotland misfortunes that had brought me to Haddon Hall. Nor shall I describe the great boar’s head supper given in my honor, at which there were twenty men who could have put me under the table. I thought I knew something of the art of drinking, but at that supper I soon found I was a mere tippler compared with these country guzzlers. At that feast I learned also that Dorothy, when she had hinted concerning Sir George’s excessive drinking, had told the truth. He, being the host, drank with all his guests. Near midnight he grew distressingly drunk, talkative, and violent, and when toward morning he was carried from the room by his servants, the company broke up. Those who could do so reeled home; those who could not walk at all were put to bed by the retainers at Haddon Hall. I had chosen my bedroom high up in Eagle Tower. At table I had tried to remain sober. That, however, was an impossible task, for at the upper end of the hail there was a wrist-ring placed in the wainscoting at a height of ten or twelve inches above the head of an ordinary man, and if he refused to drink as much as the other guests thought he should, his wrist was fastened above his head in the ring, and the liquor which he should have poured down his throat was poured down his sleeve. Therefore to avoid this species of rustic sport I drank much more than was good for me. When the feast closed I thought I was sober enough to go to my room unassisted; so I took a candle, and with a great show of self-confidence climbed the spiral stone stairway to the door of my room. The threshold of my door was two or three feet above the steps of the stairway, and after I had contemplated the distance for a few minutes, I concluded that it would not be safe for me to attempt to climb into my sleeping apartments without help. Accordingly I sat down upon the step on which I had been standing, placed my candle beside me, called loudly for a servant, received no response, and fell asleep only to be awakened by one of Sir George’s retainers coming downstairs next morning.

After that supper, in rapid succession, followed hunting and drinking, feasting and dancing in my honor. At the dances the pipers furnished the music, or, I should rather say, the noise. Their miserable wailings reminded me of Scotland. After all, thought I, is the insidious, polished vice of France worse than the hoggish, uncouth practices of Scotland and of English country life? I could not endure the latter, so I asked Sir George, on the pretext of ill health, to allow me to refuse invitations to other houses, and I insisted that he should give no more entertainments at Haddon Hall on my account. Sir George eagerly acquiesced in all my wishes. In truth, I was treated like an honored guest and a member of the family, and I congratulated myself that my life had fallen in such pleasant lines. Dorothy and Madge became my constant companions, for Sir George’s time was occupied chiefly with his estates and with his duties as magistrate. A feeling of rest and contentment came over me, and my past life drifted back of me like an ever receding cloud.

Thus passed the months of October and November.

In the meantime events in Scotland and in England proved my wisdom in seeking a home at Haddon Hall, and showed me how great was my good fortune in finding it.

Queen Mary was a prisoner at Lochleven Castle, and her brother Murray had beheaded many of her friends. Elizabeth, hating Mary as only a plain, envious woman can hate one who is transcendently beautiful, had, upon different pretexts, seized many of Mary’s friends who had fled to England for sanctuary, and some of them had suffered imprisonment or death.

Elizabeth, in many instances, had good cause for her attitude toward Mary’s friends, since plots were hatching thick and fast to liberate Mary from Lochleven; and many such plots, undoubtedly, had for their chief end the deposition of Elizabeth, and the enthronement of Mary as Queen of England.

As a strict matter of law, Mary was rightful heir to the English throne, and Elizabeth was an usurper. Parliament, at Henry’s request, had declared that Elizabeth, his issue by Anne Boleyn, was illegitimate, and that being true, Mary was next in line of descent. The Catholics of England took that stand, and Mary’s beauty and powers of fascination had won for her friends even in the personal household of the Virgin Queen. Small cause for wonder was it that Elizabeth, knowing all these facts, looked with suspicion and fear upon Mary’s refugee friends.

The English queen well knew that Sir George Vernon was her friend, therefore his house and his friendship were my sanctuary, without which my days certainly would have been numbered in the land of Elizabeth, and their number would have been small. I was dependent on Sir George not only for a roof to shelter me, but for my very life. I speak of these things that you may know some of the many imperative reasons why I desired to please and conciliate my cousin. In addition to those reasons, I soon grew to love Sir George, not only because of his kindness to me, but because he was a lovable man. He was generous, just, and frank, and although at times he was violent almost to the point of temporary madness, his heart was usually gentle, and was as easily touched by kindness as it was quickly moved to cruelty by injury, fancied or actual. I have never known a more cruel, tender man than he. You will see him in each of his natures before you have finished this history. But you must judge him only after you have considered his times, which were forty years ago, his surroundings, and his blood.

During those two months remarkable changes occurred within the walls of Haddon, chief of which were in myself, and, alas! in Dorothy.

My pilgrimage to Haddon, as you already know, had been made for the purpose of marrying my fair cousin; for I did not, at the time I left Scotland, suppose I should need Sir George’s protection against Elizabeth. When I met Dorothy at Rowsley, my desire to marry her became personal, in addition to the mercenary motives with which I had originally started. But I quickly recognized the fact that the girl was beyond my reach. I knew I could not win her love, even though I had a thousand years to try for it; and I would not accept her hand in marriage solely at her father’s command. I also soon learned that Dorothy was the child of her father, gentle, loving, and tender beyond the naming, but also wilful, violent, and fierce to the extent that no command could influence her.

First I shall speak of the change within myself. I will soon be done with so much “I” and “me,” and you shall have Dorothy to your heart’s content, or trouble, I know not which.

Soon after my arrival at Haddon Hall the sun ushered in one of those wonderful days known only to the English autumn, when the hush of Nature’s drowsiness, just before her long winter’s sleep, imparts its soft restfulness to man, as if it were a lotus feast. Dorothy was ostentatiously busy with her household matters, and was consulting with butler, cook, and steward. Sir George had ridden out to superintend his men at work, and I, wandering aimlessly about the hail, came upon Madge Stanley sitting in the chaplain’s room with folded hands.

“Lady Madge, will you go with me for a walk this beautiful morning?” I asked.

“Gladly would I go, Sir Malcolm,” she responded, a smile brightening her face and quickly fading away, “but I I cannot walk in unfamiliar places. I should fail. You would have to lead me by the hand, and that, I fear, would mar the pleasure of your walk.”

“Indeed, it would not, Lady Madge. I should enjoy my walk all the more.”

“If you really wish me to go, I shall be delighted,” she responded, as the brightness came again to her face. “I sometimes grow weary, and, I confess, a little sad sitting alone when Dorothy cannot be with me. Aunt Dorothy, now that she has her magnifying glasses, spectacles, I think they are called, devotes all her time to reading, and dislikes to be interrupted.”

“I wish it very much,” I said, surprised by the real eagerness of my desire, and unconsciously endeavoring to keep out of the tones of my voice a part of that eagerness.

“I shall take you at your word,” she said. “I will go to my room to get my hat and cloak.”

She rose and began to grope her way toward the door, holding out her white, expressive hands in front of her. It was pitiful and beautiful to see her, and my emotions welled up in my throat till I could hardly speak.

“Permit me to give you my hand,” I said huskily. How I longed to carry her! Every man with the right sort of a heart in his breast has a touch of the mother instinct in him; but, alas I only a touch. Ah, wondrous and glorious womanhood! If you had naught but the mother instinct to lift you above your masters by the hand of man-made laws, those masters were still unworthy to tie the strings of your shoes.

“Thank you,” said the girl, as she clasped my hand, and moved with confidence by my side. “This is so much better than the dreadful fear of falling. Even through these rooms where I have lived for many years I feel safe only in a few places, on the stairs, and in my rooms, which are also Dorothy’s. When Dorothy changes the position of a piece of furniture in the Hall, she leads me to it several times that I may learn just where it is. A long time ago she changed the position of a chair and did not tell me. I fell against it and was hurt. Dorothy wept bitterly over the mishap, and she has never since failed to tell me of such changes. I cannot make you know how kind and tender Dorothy is to me. I feel that I should die without her, and I know she would grieve terribly were we to part.”

I could not answer. What a very woman you will think I was! I, who could laugh while I ran my sword through a man’s heart, could hardly restrain my tears for pity of this beautiful blind girl.

“Thank you; that will do,” she said, when we came to the foot of the great staircase. “I can now go to my rooms alone.”

When she reached the top she hesitated and groped for a moment; then she turned and called laughingly to me while I stood at the bottom of the steps, “I know the way perfectly well, but to go alone in any place is not like being led.”

“There are many ways in which one may be led, Lady Madge,” I answered aloud. Then I said to myself, “That girl will lead you to Heaven, Malcolm, if you will permit her to do so.”

But thirty-five years of evil life are hard to neutralize. There is but one subtle elixir that can do it love; and I had not thought of that magic remedy with respect to Madge.

I hurriedly fetched my hat and returned to the foot of the staircase. Within a minute or two Madge came down stairs holding up the skirt of her gown with one hand, while she grasped the banister with the other. As I watched her descending I was enraptured with her beauty. Even the marvellous vital beauty of Dorothy could not compare with this girl’s fair, pale loveliness. It seemed to be almost a profanation for me to admire the sweet oval of her face. Upon her alabaster skin, the black eyebrows, the long lashes, the faint blue veins and the curving red lips stood in exquisite relief. While she was descending the stairs, I caught a gleam of her round, snowy forearm and wrist; and when my eyes sought the perfect curves of her form disclosed by the clinging silk gown she wore, I felt that I had sinned in looking upon her, and I was almost glad she could not see the shame which was in my face.

“Cousin Malcolm, are you waiting?” she asked from midway in the staircase.

“Yes, I am at the foot of the steps,” I answered.

“I called you ‘Cousin Malcolm,’” she said, holding out her hand when she came near me. “Pardon me; it was a slip of the tongue. I hear ’Cousin Malcolm’ so frequently from Dorothy that the name is familiar to me.”

“I shall be proud if you will call me ‘Cousin Malcolm’ always. I like the name better than any that you can use.”

“If you wish it,” she said, in sweet, simple candor, “I will call you ‘Cousin Malcolm,’ and you may call me ‘Cousin Madge’ or ‘Madge,’ just as you please.”

“‘Cousin Madge’ it shall be; that is a compact,” I answered, as I opened the door and we walked out into the fresh air of the bright October morning.

“That will stand for our first compact; we are progressing famously,” she said, with a low laugh of delight.

Ah, to think that the blind can laugh. God is good.

We walked out past the stables and the cottage, and crossed the river on the great stone bridge. Then we took our way down the babbling Wye, keeping close to its banks, while the dancing waters and even the gleaming pebbles seemed to dimple and smile as they softly sang their song of welcome to the fair kindred spirit who had come to visit them. If we wandered from the banks for but a moment, the waters seemed to struggle and turn in their course until they were again by her side, and then would they gently flow and murmur their contentment as they travelled forward to the sea, full of the memory of her sweet presence. And during all that time I led her by the hand. I tell you, friends, ’tis sweet to write of it.

When we returned we crossed the Wye by the stone footbridge and entered the garden below the terrace at the corner postern. We remained for an hour resting upon the terrace balustrade, and before we went indoors Madge again spoke of Dorothy.

“I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this walk, nor how thankful I am to you for taking me,” she said.

I did not interrupt her by replying, for I loved to hear her talk.

“Dorothy sometimes takes me with her for a short walk, but I seldom have that pleasure. Walking is too slow for Dorothy. She is so strong and full of life. She delights to ride her mare Dolcy. Have you seen Dolcy?”

“No,” I responded.

“You must see her at once. She is the most beautiful animal in the world. Though small of limb, she is swift as the wind, and as easy as a cradle in her gaits. She is mettlesome and fiery, but full of affection. She often kisses Dorothy. Mare and rider are finely mated. Dorothy is the most perfect woman, and Dolcy is the most perfect mare. ‘The two D’s,’ we call them. But Dorothy says we must be careful not to put a a dash between them,” she said with a laugh and a blush.

Then I led Madge into the hall, and she was blithe and happy as if the blessed light of day were in her eyes. It was in her soul, and that, after all, is where it brings the greatest good.

After that morning, Madge and I frequently walked out when the days were pleasant. The autumn was mild, well into winter time, and by the end of November the transparent cheeks of the blind girl held an exquisite tinge of color, and her form had a new grace from the strength she had acquired in exercise. We had grown to be dear friends, and the touch of her hand was a pleasure for which I waited eagerly from day to day. Again I say thoughts of love for her had never entered my mind. Perhaps their absence was because of my feeling that they could not possibly exist in her heart for me.

One evening in November, after the servants had all gone to bed, Sir George and I went to the kitchen to drink a hot punch before retiring for the night. I drank a moderate bowl and sat in a large chair before the fire, smoking a pipe of tobacco, while Sir George drank brandy toddy at the massive oak table in the middle of the room.

Sir George was rapidly growing drunk. He said: “Dawson tells me that the queen’s officers arrested another of Mary Stuart’s damned French friends at Derby-town yesterday, Count somebody; I can’t pronounce their miserable names.”

“Can you not remember his name?” I asked. “He may be a friend of mine.” My remark was intended to remind Sir George that his language was offensive to me.

“That is true, Malcolm,” responded Sir George. “I beg your pardon. I meant to speak ill only of Mary’s meddlesome friends, who are doing more injury than good to their queen’s cause by their plotting.”

I replied: “No one can regret these plots more than I do. They certainly will work great injury to the cause they are intended to help. But I fear many innocent men are made to suffer for the few guilty ones. Without your protection, for which I cannot sufficiently thank you, my life here would probably be of short duration. After my misfortunes in Scotland, I know not what I should have done had it not been for your generous welcome. I lost all in Scotland, and it would now be impossible for me to go to France. An attempt on my part to escape would result in my arrest. Fortune certainly has turned her capricious back upon me, with the one exception that she has left me your friendship.”

“Malcolm, my boy,” said Sir George, drawing his chair toward me, “that which you consider your loss is my great gain. I am growing old, and if you, who have seen so much of the gay world, will be content to live with us and share our dulness and our cares, I shall be the happiest man in England.”

“I thank you more than I can tell,” I said, careful not to commit myself to any course.

“Barring my quarrel with the cursed race of Manners,” continued Sir George, “I have little to trouble me; and if you will remain with us, I thank God I may leave the feud in good hands. Would that I were young again only for a day that I might call that scoundrel Rutland and his imp of a son to account in the only manner whereby an honest man may have justice of a thief. There are but two of them, Malcolm, father and son, and if they were dead, the damned race would be extinct.”

I believe that Sir George Vernon when sober could not have spoken in that fashion even of his enemies.

I found difficulty in replying to my cousin’s remarks, so I said evasively:

“I certainly am the most fortunate of men to find so warm a welcome from you, and so good a home as that which I have at Haddon Hall. When I met Dorothy at the inn, I knew at once by her kindness that my friends of old were still true to me. I was almost stunned by Dorothy’s beauty.”

My mention of Dorothy was unintentional and unfortunate. I had shied from the subject upon several previous occasions, but Sir George was continually trying to lead up to it. This time my lack of forethought saved him the trouble.

“Do you really think that Doll is very beautiful so very beautiful? Do you really think so, Malcolm?” said the old gentleman, rubbing his hands in pride and pleasure.

“Surprisingly beautiful,” I answered, seeking hurriedly through my mind for an excuse to turn the conversation. I had within two months learned one vital fact: beautiful as Dorothy was, I did not want her for my wife, and I could not have had her even were I dying for love. The more I learned of Dorothy and myself during the autumn through which I had just passed and I had learned more of myself than I had been able to discover in the thirty-five previous years of my life the more clearly I saw the utter unfitness of marriage between us.

“In all your travels,” asked Sir George, leaning his elbows upon his knees and looking at his feet between his hands, “in all your travels and court life have you ever seen a woman who was so beautiful as my girl Doll?”

His pride in Dorothy at times had a tinge of egotism and selfishness. It seemed to be almost the pride of possession and ownership. “My girl!” The expression and the tone in which the words were spoken sounded as if he had said: “My fine horse,” “My beautiful Hall,” or “My grand estates.” Dorothy was his property. Still, he loved the girl passionately. She was dearer to him than all his horses, cattle, halls, and estates put together, and he loved even them to excess. He loved all that he possessed; whatever was his was the best of the sort. Such a love is apt to grow up in the breasts of men who have descended from a long line of proprietary ancestors, and with all its materialism it has in it possibilities of great good. The sturdy, unflinching patriotism of the English people springs from this source. The thought, “That which I possess is the best,” has beauty and use in it, though it leads men to treat other men, and, alas! women, as mere chattels. All this was passing through my mind, and I forgot to answer Sir George’s question.

“Have you ever seen a woman more beautiful than Doll?” he again asked.

“I certainly have never seen one whose beauty may even be compared with Dorothy’s,” I answered.

“And she is young, too,” continued Sir George; “she is not yet nineteen.”

“That is very young,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.

“And she will be rich some day. Very rich. I am called ‘King of the Peak,’ you know, and there are not three estates in Derbyshire which, if combined, would equal mine.”

“That is true, cousin,” I answered, “and I rejoice in your good fortune.”

“Dorothy will have it all one of these days all, all,” continued my cousin, still looking at his feet.

After a long pause, during which Sir George took several libations from his bowl of toddy, he cleared his throat and said, “So Dorothy is the most beautiful girl and the richest heiress you know?”

“Indeed she is,” I responded, knowing full well what he was leading up to. Realizing that in spite of me he would now speak his mind, I made no attempt to turn the current of the conversation.

After another long pause, and after several more draughts from the bowl, my old friend and would-be benefactor said: “You may remember a little conversation between us when you were last at Haddon six or seven years ago, about about Dorothy? You remember?”

I, of course, dared not pretend that I had forgotten.

“Yes, I remember,” I responded.

“What do you think of the proposition by this time?” asked Sir George. “Dorothy and all she will inherit shall be yours ”

“Stop, stop, Sir George!” I exclaimed. “You do not know what you say. No one but a prince or a great peer of the realm is worthy of aspiring to Dorothy’s hand. When she is ready to marry you should take her to London court, where she can make her choice from among the nobles of our land. There is not a marriageable duke or earl in England who would not eagerly seek the girl for a wife. My dear cousin, your generosity overwhelms me, but it must not be thought of. I am utterly unworthy of her in person, age, and position. No! no!”

“But listen to me, Malcolm,” responded Sir George. “Your modesty, which, in truth, I did not know you possessed, is pleasing to me; but I have reasons of my own for wishing that you should marry Dorothy. I want my estates to remain in the Vernon name, and one day you or your children will make my house and my name noble. You and Dorothy shall go to court, and between you damme! if you can’t win a dukedom, I am no prophet. You would not object to change your faith, would you?”

“Oh, no,” I responded, “of course I should not object to that.”

“Of course not. I knew you were no fool,” said Sir George. “Age! why, you are only thirty-five years old little more than a matured boy. I prefer you to any man in England for Dorothy’s husband.”

“You overwhelm me with your kindness,” I returned, feeling that I was being stranded on a very dangerous shore, amidst wealth and beauty.

“Tut, tut, there’s no kindness in it,” returned my cousin. “I do not offer you Dorothy’s hand from an unselfish motive. I have told you one motive, but there is another, and a little condition besides, Malcolm.” The brandy Sir George had been drinking had sent the devil to his brain.

“What is the condition?” I asked, overjoyed to hear that there was one.

The old man leaned toward me and a fierce blackness overclouded his face. “I am told, Malcolm, that you have few equals in swordsmanship, and that the duello is not new to you. Is it true?”

“I believe I may say it is true,” I answered. “I have fought successfully with some of the most noted duellists of ”

“Enough, enough! Now, this is the condition, Malcolm, a welcome one to you, I am sure; a welcome one to any brave man.” His eyes gleamed with fire and hatred. “Quarrel with Rutland and his son and kill both of them.”

I felt like recoiling from the old fiend. I had often quarrelled and fought, but, thank God, never in cold blood and with deliberate intent to do murder.

“Then Dorothy and all I possess shall be yours,” said Sir George. “The old one will be an easy victim. The young one, they say, prides himself on his prowess. I do not know with what cause, I have never seen him fight. In fact, I have never seen the fellow at all. He has lived at London court since he was a child, and has seldom, if ever, visited this part of the country. He was a page both to Edward VI. and to Queen Mary. Why Elizabeth keeps the damned traitor at court to plot against her is more than I can understand. Do the conditions suit you, Malcolm?” asked Sir George, piercing me with his eyes.

I did not respond, and he continued: “All I ask is your promise to kill Rutland and his son at the first opportunity. I care not how. The marriage may come off at once. It can’t take place too soon to please me.”

I could not answer for a time. The power to speak and to think had left me. To accept Sir George’s offer was out of the question. To refuse it would be to give offence beyond reparation to my only friend, and you know what that would have meant to me. My refuge was Dorothy. I knew, however willing I might be or might appear to be, Dorothy would save me the trouble and danger of refusing her hand. So I said:

“We have not consulted Dorothy. Perhaps her inclinations ”

“Doll’s inclinations be damned. I have always been kind and indulgent to her, and she is a dutiful, obedient daughter. My wish and command in this affair will furnish inclinations enough for Doll.”

“But, Sir George,” I remonstrated, “I would not accept the hand of Dorothy nor of any woman unless she desired it. I could not. I could not.”

“If Doll consents, I am to understand that you accept?” asked Sir George.

I saw no way out of the dilemma, and to gain time I said, “Few men in their right mind would refuse so flattering an offer unless there were a most potent reason, and I I ”

“Good! good! I shall go to bed happy to-night for the first time in years. The Rutlands will soon be out of my path.”

There is a self-acting retribution in our evil passions which never fails to operate. One who hates must suffer, and Sir George for years had paid the penalty night and day, unconscious that his pain was of his own making.

Before we parted I said, “This is a delicate matter, with reference to Dorothy, and I insist that you give me time to win, if possible, her kindly regard before you express to her your wish.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, Malcolm! I’ll tell the girl about it in the morning, and save you the trouble. The women will want to make some new gowns and ”

“But,” I interrupted emphatically, “I will not have it so. It is every man’s sweet privilege to woo the woman of his choice in his own way. It is not a trouble to me; it is a pleasure, and it is every woman’s right to be wooed by the man who seeks her. I again insist that I only shall speak to Dorothy on this subject. At least, I demand that I be allowed to speak first.”

“That’s all damned nonsense,” responded Sir George; “but if you will have it so, well and good. Take your own course. I suppose it’s the fashion at court. The good old country way suits me. A girl’s father tells her whom she is to marry, and, by gad, she does it without a word and is glad to get a man. English girls obey their parents. They know what to expect if they don’t the lash, by God and the dungeon under the keep. Your roundabout method is all right for tenants and peasants; but among people who possess estates and who control vast interests, girls are girls are Well, they are born and brought up to obey and to help forward the interests of their houses.” The old man was growing very drunk, and after a long pause he continued: “Have your own way, Malcolm, but don’t waste time. Now that the matter is settled, I want to get it off my hands quickly.”

“I shall speak to Dorothy on the subject at the first favorable opportunity,” I responded; “but I warn you, Sir George, that if Dorothy proves disinclined to marry me, I will not accept her hand.”

“Never fear for Doll; she will be all right,” and we parted.

Doll all right! Had he only known how very far from “all right” Dorothy was, he would have slept little that night.

This brings me to the other change of which I spoke the change in Dorothy. Change? It was a metamorphosis.

A fortnight after the scene at The Peacock I accidentally discovered a drawing made by Dorothy of a man with a cigarro in his mouth. The girl snatched the paper from my hands and blushed convincingly.

“It is a caricature of of him,” she said. She smiled, and evidently was willing to talk upon the subject of “him.” I declined the topic.

This happened a month or more previous to my conversation with Sir George concerning Dorothy. A few days after my discovery of the cigarro picture, Dorothy and I were out on the terrace together. Frequently when she was with me she would try to lead the conversation to the topic which I well knew was in her mind, if not in her heart, at all times. She would speak of our first meeting at The Peacock, and would use every artifice to induce me to bring up the subject which she was eager to discuss, but I always failed her. On the day mentioned when we were together on the terrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desired topic, she said, “I suppose you never meet meet him when you ride out?”

“Whom, Dorothy?” I asked.

“The gentleman with the cigarro,” she responded, laughing nervously.

“No,” I answered, “I know nothing of him.”

The subject was dropped.

At another time she said, “He was in the village Overhaddon yesterday.”

Then I knew who “him” was.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Jennie Faxton, the farrier’s daughter, told me. She often comes to the Hall to serve me. She likes to act as my maid, and is devoted to me.”

“Did he send any word to you?” I asked at a venture. The girl blushed and hung her head. “N-o,” she responded.

“What was it, Dorothy?” I asked gently. “You may trust me.”

“He sent no word to me,” the girl responded. “Jennie said she heard two gentlemen talking about me in front of the farrier’s shop, and one of them said something about oh, I don’t know what it was. I can’t tell you. It was all nonsense, and of course he did not mean it.”

“Tell me all, Dorothy,” I said, seeing that she really wanted to speak.

“Oh, he said something about having seen Sir George Vernon’s daughter at Rowsley, and and I can’t tell you what he said, I am too full of shame.” If her cheeks told the truth, she certainly was “full of shame.”

“Tell me all, sweet cousin; I am sorry for you,” I said. She raised her eyes to mine in quick surprise with a look of suspicion.

“You may trust me, Dorothy. I say it again, you may trust me.”

“He spoke of my beauty and called it marvellous,” said the girl. “He said that in all the world there was not another woman oh, I can’t tell you.”

“Yes, yes, go on, Dorothy,” I insisted.

“He said,” she continued, “that he could think of nothing else but me day or night since he had first seen me at Rowsley that I had bewitched him and and Then the other gentleman said, ’John, don’t play with fire; it will burn you. Nothing good can come of it for you.’”

“Did Jennie know who the gentleman was?” I asked.

“No,” returned Dorothy.

“How do you know who he was?”

“Jennie described him,” she said.

“How did she describe him?” I asked.

“She said he was he was the handsomest man in the world and and that he affected her so powerfully she fell in love with him in spite of herself. The little devil, to dare! You see that describes him perfectly.”

I laughed outright, and the girl blushed painfully.

“It does describe him,” she said petulantly. “You know it does. No one can gainsay that he is wonderfully, dangerously handsome. I believe the woman does not live who could refrain from feasting her eyes on his noble beauty. I wonder if I shall ever again again.” Tears were in her voice and almost in her eyes.

“Dorothy! My God, Dorothy!” I exclaimed in terror.

“Yes! yes! My God, Dorothy!” she responded, covering her face with her hands and sighing deeply, as she dropped her head and left me.

Yes, yes, my God, Dorothy! The helpless iron and the terrible loadstone!
The passive seed! The dissolving cloud and the falling rain!

Less than a week after the above conversation, Dorothy, Madge, and I were riding from Yulegrave Church up to the village of Overhaddon, which lies one mile across the hills from Haddon Hall. My horse had cast a shoe, and we stopped at Faxton’s shop to have him shod. The town well is in the middle of an open space called by the villagers “The Open,” around which are clustered the half-dozen houses and shops that constitute the village. The girls were mounted, and I was standing beside them in front of the farrier’s, waiting for my horse. Jennie Faxton, a wild, unkempt girl of sixteen, was standing in silent admiration near Dorothy. Our backs were turned toward the well. Suddenly a light came into Jennie’s face, and she plucked Dorothy by the skirt of her habit.

“Look, mistress, look! Look there by the well!” said Jennie in a whisper. Dorothy looked toward the well. I also turned my head and beheld my friend, Sir John, holding a bucket of water for his horse to drink. I had not seen him since we parted at The Peacock, and I did not show that I recognized him. I feared to betray our friendship to the villagers. They, however, did not know Sir John, and I need not have been so cautious. But Dorothy and Madge were with me, and of course I dared not make any demonstration of acquaintanceship with the enemy of our house.

Dorothy watched John closely, and when he was ready to mount she struck her horse with the whip, and boldly rode to the well.

“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.