The day after Dorothy’s first
meeting with Manners at Overhaddon she was restless
and nervous, and about the hour of three in the afternoon
she mounted Dolcy and rode toward Bakewell. That
direction, I was sure, she took for the purpose of
misleading us at the Hall, and I felt confident she
would, when once out of sight, head her mare straight
for Overhaddon. Within an hour Dorothy was home
again, and very ill-tempered.
The next day she rode out in the morning.
I asked her if I should ride with her, and the emphatic
“No” with which she answered me left no
room for doubt in my mind concerning her desire for
my company or her destination. Again she returned
within an hour and hurried to her apartments.
Shortly afterward Madge asked me what Dorothy was weeping
about; and although in my own mind I was confident
of the cause of Dorothy’s tears, I, of course,
did not give Madge a hint of my suspicion. Yet
I then knew, quite as well as I now know, that John,
notwithstanding the important business which he said
would bring him to Overhaddon every day, had forced
himself to remain at home, and Dorothy, in consequence,
suffered from anger and wounded pride. She had
twice ridden to Overhaddon to meet him. She had
done for his sake that which she knew she should have
left undone, and he had refused the offering.
A smarting conscience, an aching heart, and a breast
full of anger were Dorothy’s rewards for her
evil doing. The day after her second futile trip
to Overhaddon, I, to test her, spoke of John.
She turned upon me with the black look of a fury, and
hurled her words at me.
“Never again speak his despised
name in my hearing. Curse him and his whole race.”
“Now what has he been doing?” I asked.
“I tell you, I will not speak
of him, nor will I listen to you,” and she dashed
away from me like a fiery whirlwind.
Four or five days later the girl rode
out again upon Dolcy. She was away from home
for four long hours, and when she returned she was
so gentle, sweet, and happy that she was willing to
kiss every one in the household from Welch, the butcher,
to Sir George. She was radiant. She clung
to Madge and to me, and sang and romped through the
house like Dorothy of old.
Madge said, “I am so glad you
are feeling better, Dorothy.” Then, speaking
to me: “She has been ill for several days.
She could not sleep.”
Dorothy looked quickly over to me,
gave a little shrug to her shoulders, bent forward
her face, which was red with blushing, and kissed Madge
lingeringly upon the lips.
The events of Dorothy’s trip I soon learned
from her.
The little scene between Dorothy,
Madge, and myself, after Dorothy’s joyful return,
occurred a week before the momentous conversation between
Sir George and me concerning my union with his house.
Ten days after Sir George had offered me his daughter
and his lands, he brought up the subject again.
He and I were walking on the ridge of Bowling Green
Hill.
“I am glad you are making such
fair progress with Doll,” said Sir George.
“Have you yet spoken to her upon the subject?”
I was surprised to hear that I had
made any progress. In fact, I did not know that
I had taken a single step. I was curious to learn
in what the progress consisted, so I said:
“I have not spoken to Dorothy
yet concerning the marriage, and I fear that I have
made no progress at all. She certainly is friendly
enough to me, but ”
“I should say that the gift
from you she exhibited would indicate considerable
progress,” said Sir George, casting an expressive
glance toward me.
“What gift?” I stupidly inquired.
“The golden heart, you rascal.
She said you told her it had belonged to your mother.”
“Holy Mother of Truth!”
thought I, “pray give your especial care to my
cousin Dorothy. She needs it.”
Sir George thrust at my side with
his thumb and continued:
“Don’t deny it, Malcolm.
Damme, you are as shy as a boy in this matter.
But perhaps you know better than I how to go at her.
I was thinking only the other day that your course
was probably the right one. Doll, I suspect,
has a dash of her old father’s temper, and she
may prove a little troublesome unless we let her think
she is having her own way. Oh, there is nothing
like knowing how to handle them, Malcolm. Just
let them think they are having their own way and and
save trouble. Doll may have more of her father
in her than I suspect, and perhaps it is well for us
to move slowly. You will be able to judge, but
you must not move too slowly. If in the end she
should prove stubborn, we will break her will or break
her neck. I would rather have a daughter in Bakewell
churchyard than a wilful, stubborn, disobedient huzzy
in Haddon Hall.”
Sir George had been drinking, and
my slip concerning the gift passed unnoticed by him.
“I am sure you well know how
to proceed in this matter, but don’t be too
cautious, Malcolm; the best woman living loves to be
stormed.”
“Trust me,” I answered,
“I shall speak ” and my words
unconsciously sank away to thought, as thought often,
and inconveniently at times, grows into words.
“Dorothy, Dorothy,” said
the thoughts again and again, “where came you
by the golden heart?” and “where learned
you so villanously to lie?”
“From love,” was the response,
whispered by the sighing winds. “From love,
that makes men and women like unto gods and teaches
them the tricks of devils.” “From
love,” murmured the dry rustling leaves and the
rugged trees. “From love,” sighed
the fleecy clouds as they floated in the sweet restful
azure of the vaulted sky. “From love,”
cried the mighty sun as he poured his light and heat
upon the eager world to give it life. I would
not give a fig for a woman, however, who would not
lie herself black in the face for the sake of her
lover, and I am glad that it is a virtue few women
lack. One who would scorn to lie under all other
circumstances would but you understand.
I suppose that Dorothy had never before uttered a
real lie. She hated all that was evil and loved
all that was good till love came a-teaching.
I quickly invented an excuse to leave
Sir George, and returned to the Hall to seek Dorothy.
I found her and asked her to accompany me for a few
minutes that I might speak with her privately.
We went out upon the terrace and I at once began:
“You should tell me when I present
you gifts that I may not cause trouble by my ignorance
nor show surprise when I suddenly learn what I have
done. You see when a man gives a lady a gift
and he does not know it, he is apt to ”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed
Dorothy, pale with fear and consternation. “Did
you ”
“No, I did not betray you, but I came perilously
near it.”
“I I wanted to tell
you about it. I tried several times to do so I
did so long to tell somebody, but I could not bring
myself to speak. I was full of shame, yet I was
proud and happy, for all that happened was good and
pure and sacred. You are not a woman; you cannot
know ”
“But I do know. I know
that you saw Manners the other day, and that he gave
you a golden heart.”
“How did you know? Did any one ”
“Tell me? No. I knew
it when you returned after five hours’ absence,
looking radiant as the sun.”
“Oh!” the girl exclaimed, with a startled
movement.
“I also knew,” I continued,
“that at other times when you rode out upon
Dolcy you had not seen him.”
“How did you know?” she asked, with quick-coming
breath.
“By your ill-humor,” I answered.
“I knew it was so. I felt
that everybody knew all that I had been doing.
I could almost see father and Madge and you even
the servants reading the wickedness written
upon my heart. I knew that I could hide it from
nobody.” Tears were very near the girl’s
eyes.
“We cannot help thinking that
our guilty consciences, through which we see so plainly
our own evil, are transparent to all the world.
In that fact lies an evil-doer’s greatest danger,”
said I, preacher fashion; “but you need have
no fear. What you have done I believe is suspected
by no one save me.”
A deep sigh of relief rose from the girl’s heaving
breast.
“Well,” she began, “I
will tell you all about it, and I am only too glad
to do so. It is heavy, Malcolm, heavy on my conscience.
But I would not be rid of it for all the kingdoms
of the earth.”
“A moment since you told me
that your conduct was good and pure and sacred, and
now you tell me that it is heavy on your conscience.
Does one grieve, Dorothy, for the sake of that which
is good and pure and sacred?”
“I cannot answer your question,”
she replied. “I am no priest. But this
I know: I have done no evil, and my conscience
nevertheless is sore. Solve me the riddle, Malcolm,
if you can.”
“I cannot solve your riddle,
Dorothy,” I replied; “but I feel sure it
will be far safer for each of us if you will tell
me all that happens hereafter.”
“I am sure you are right,”
she responded; “but some secrets are so delicious
that we love to suck their sweets alone. I believe,
however, your advice is good, and I will tell you
all that has happened, though I cannot look you in
the face while doing it.” She hesitated
a moment, and her face was red with tell-tale blushes.
She continued, “I have acted most unmaidenly.”
“Unmaidenly perhaps, but not unwomanly,”
said I.
“I thank you,” she said,
interrupting my sentence. It probably was well
that she did so, for I was about to add, “To
act womanly often means to get yourself into mischief
and your friends into as much trouble as possible.”
Had I finished my remark, she would not have thanked
me.
“Well,” said the girl,
beginning her laggard narrative, “after we saw saw
him at Overhaddon, you know, I went to the village
on each of three days ”
“Yes, I know that also,” I said.
“How did you but
never mind. I did not see him, and when I returned
home I felt angry and hurt and and but
never mind that either. One day I found him,
and I at once rode to the well where he was standing
by his horse. He drew water for Dolcy, but the
perverse mare would not drink.”
“A characteristic of her sex,” I muttered.
“What did you say?” asked the girl.
“Nothing.”
She continued: “He seemed
constrained and distant in his manner, but I knew,
that is, I thought I mean I felt oh,
you know he looked as if he were glad to
see me and I I, oh, God! I was so glad
and happy to see him that I could hardly restrain
myself to act at all maidenly. He must have heard
my heart beat. I thought he was in trouble.
He seemed to have something he wished to say to me.”
“He doubtless had a great deal
he wished to say to you,” said I, again tempted
to futile irony.
“I was sure he had something
to say,” the girl returned seriously. “He
was in trouble. I knew that he was, and I longed
to help him.”
“What trouble?” I inquired.
“Oh, I don’t know. I forgot to ask,
but he looked troubled.”
“Doubtless he was troubled,”
I responded. “He had sufficient cause for
trouble,” I finished the sentence to myself with
the words, “in you.”
“What was the cause of his trouble?”
she hastily asked, turning her face toward me.
“I do not know certainly,”
I answered in a tone of irony which should have pierced
an oak board, while the girl listened and looked at
me eagerly; “but I might guess.”
“What was it? What was
it? Let me hear you guess,” she asked.
“You,” I responded laconically.
“I!” she exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, you,” I responded
with emphasis. “You would bring trouble
to any man, but to Sir John Manners well,
if he intends to keep up these meetings with you it
would be better for his peace and happiness that he
should get him a house in hell, for he would live there
more happily than on this earth.”
“That is a foolish, senseless
remark, Malcolm,” the girl replied, tossing
her head with a show of anger in her eyes. “This
is no time to jest.” I suppose I could
not have convinced her that I was not jesting.
“At first we did not speak to
each other even to say good day, but stood by the
well in silence for a very long time. The village
people were staring at us, and I felt that every window
had a hundred faces in it, and every face a hundred
eyes.”
“You imagined that,” said
I, “because of your guilty conscience.”
“Perhaps so. But it seemed
to me that we stood by the well in silence a very
long time. You see, Cousin Malcolm, I was not
the one who should speak first. I had done more
than my part in going to meet him.”
“Decidedly so,” said I,
interrupting the interesting narrative.
“When I could bear the gaze
of the villagers no longer, I drew up my reins and
started to leave The Open by the north road. After
Dolcy had climbed halfway up North Hill, which as
you know overlooks the village, I turned my head and
saw Sir John still standing by the well, resting his
hand upon his horse’s mane. He was watching
me. I grew angry, and determined that he should
follow me, even if I had to call him. So I drew
Dolcy to a stand. Was not that bold in me?
But wait, there is worse to come, Malcolm. He
did not move, but stood like a statue looking toward
me. I knew that he wanted to come, so after a
little time I I beckoned to him and and
then he came like a thunderbolt. Oh! it was delicious.
I put Dolcy to a gallop, for when he started toward
me I was frightened. Besides I did not want him
to overtake me till we were out of the village.
But when once he had started, he did not wait.
He was as swift now as he had been slow, and my heart
throbbed and triumphed because of his eagerness, though
in truth I was afraid of him. Dolcy, you know,
is very fleet, and when I touched her with the whip
she soon put half a mile between me and the village.
Then I brought her to a walk and and he
quickly overtook me.
“When he came up to me he said:
’I feared to follow you, though I ardently wished
to do so. I dreaded to tell you my name lest you
should hate me. Sir Malcolm at The Peacock said
he would not disclose to you my identity. I am
John Manners. Our fathers are enemies.’
“Then I said to him, ’That
is the reason I wish to talk to you. I wished
you to come to meet me because I wanted to tell you
that I regret and deplore the feud between our fathers.’ ’Ah,
you wished me to come?’ he asked. ’Of
course I did,’ I answered, ’else why should
I be here?’ ’No one regrets
the feud between our houses so deeply as I,’
replied Sir John. ’I can think of nothing
else by day, nor can I dream of anything else by night.
It is the greatest cause for grief and sorrow that
has ever come into my life.’ You see, Cousin
Malcolm,” the girl continued, “I was right.
His father’s conduct does trouble him. Isn’t
he noble and broad-minded to see the evil of his father’s
ways?”
I did not tell the girl that Sir John’s
regret for the feud between the houses of Manners
and Vernon grew out of the fact that it separated him
from her; nor did I tell her that he did not grieve
over his “father’s ways.”
I asked, “Did Sir John tell
you that he grieved because of his father’s
ill-doing?”
“N-o, not in set terms, but that,
of course, would have been very hard for him to say.
I told you what he said, and there could be no other
meaning to his words.”
“Of course not,” I responded.
“No, and I fairly longed to
reach out my hand and clutch him, because because
I was so sorry for him.”
“Was sorrow your only feeling?” I asked.
The girl looked at me for a moment,
and her eyes filled with tears. Then she sobbed
gently and said, “Oh, Cousin Malcolm, you are
so old and so wise.” ("Thank you,” thought
I, “a second Daniel come to judgment at thirty-five;
or Solomon and Methuselah in one.”) She continued:
“Tell me, tell me, what is this terrible thing
that has come upon me. I seem to be living in
a dream. I am burning with a fever, and a heavy
weight is here upon my breast. I cannot sleep
at night. I can do nothing but long and yearn
for for I know not what till
at times it seems that some frightful, unseen monster
is slowly drawing the heart out of my bosom. I
think of of him at all times, and I try
to recall his face, and the tones of his voice until,
Cousin Malcolm, I tell you I am almost mad. I
call upon the Holy Virgin hour by hour to pity me;
but she is pure, and cannot know what I feel.
I hate and loathe myself. To what am I coming?
Where will it all end? Yet I can do nothing to
save myself. I am powerless against this terrible
feeling. I cannot even resolve to resist it.
It came upon me mildly that day at The Peacock Inn,
when I first saw him, and it grows deeper and stronger
day by day, and, alas! night by night. I seem
to have lost myself. In some strange way I feel
as if I had sunk into him that he had absorbed
me.”
“The iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain,”
thought I.
“I believed,” continued
the girl, “that if he would exert his will I
might have relief; but there again I find trouble,
for I cannot bring myself to ask him to will it.
The feeling within me is like a sore heart: painful
as it is, I must keep it. Without it I fear I
could not live.”
After this outburst there was a long
pause during which she walked by my side, seemingly
unconscious that I was near her. I had known for
some time that Dorothy was interested in Manners;
but I was not prepared to see such a volcano of passion.
I need not descant upon the evils and dangers of the
situation. The thought that first came to me was
that Sir George would surely kill his daughter before
he would allow her to marry a son of Rutland.
I was revolving in my mind how I should set about to
mend the matter when Dorothy again spoke.
“Tell me, Cousin Malcolm, can
a man throw a spell over a woman and bewitch her?”
“I do not know. I have
never heard of a man witch,” I responded.
“No?” asked the girl.
“But,” I continued, “I
do know that a woman may bewitch a man. John
Manners, I doubt not, could also testify knowingly
on the subject by this time.”
“Oh, do you think he is bewitched?”
cried Dorothy, grasping my arm and looking eagerly
into my face. “If I could bewitch him, I
would do it. I would deal with the devil gladly
to learn the art. I would not care for my soul.
I do not fear the future. The present is a thousand-fold
dearer to me than either the past or the future.
I care not what comes hereafter. I want him now.
Ah, Malcolm, pity my shame.”
She covered her face with her hands,
and after a moment continued: “I am not
myself. I belong not to myself. But if I
knew that he also suffers, I do believe my pain would
be less.”
“I think you may set your heart
at rest upon that point,” I answered. “He,
doubtless, also suffers.”
“I hope so,” she responded,
unconscious of the selfish wish she had expressed.
“If he does not, I know not what will be my fate.”
I saw that I had made a mistake in
assuring her that John also suffered, and I determined
to correct it later on, if possible.
Dorothy was silent, and I said, “You
have not told me about the golden heart.”
“I will tell you,” she
answered. “We rode for two hours or more,
and talked of the weather and the scenery, until there
was nothing more to be said concerning either.
Then Sir John told me of the court in London, where
he has always lived, and of the queen whose hair, he
says, is red, but not at all like mine. I wondered
if he would speak of the beauty of my hair, but he
did not. He only looked at it. Then he told
me about the Scottish queen whom he once met when
he was on an embassy to Edinburgh. He described
her marvellous beauty, and I believe he sympathizes
with her cause that is, with her cause
in Scotland. He says she has no good cause in
England. He is true to our queen. Well well
he talked so interestingly that I could have listened
a whole month yes, all my life.”
“I suppose you could,” I said.
“Yes,” she continued,
“but I could not remain longer from home, and
when I left him he asked me to accept a keepsake which
had belonged to his mother, as a token that there
should be no feud between him and me.” And
she drew from her bosom a golden heart studded with
diamonds and pierced by a white silver arrow.
“I, of course, accepted it,
then we said ‘good-by,’ and I put Dolcy
to a gallop that she might speedily take me out of
temptation.”
“Have you ridden to Overhaddon
for the purpose of seeing Manners many times since
he gave you the heart?” I queried.
“What would you call ’many
times’?” she asked, drooping her head.
“Every day?” I said interrogatively.
She nodded. “Yes. But I have seen
him only once since the day when he gave me the heart.”
Nothing I could say would do justice
to the subject, so I remained silent.
“But you have not yet told me
how your father came to know of the golden heart,”
I said.
“It was this way: One morning
while I was looking at the heart, father came upon
me suddenly before I could conceal it. He asked
me to tell him how I came by the jewel, and in my
fright and confusion I could think of nothing else
to say, so I told him you had given it to me.
He promised not to speak to you about the heart, but
he did not keep his word. He seemed pleased.”
“Doubtless he was pleased,”
said I, hoping to lead up to the subject so near to
Sir George’s heart, but now farther than ever
from mine.
The girl unsuspectingly helped me.
“Father asked if you had spoken
upon a subject of great interest to him and to yourself,
and I told him you had not. ‘When he does
speak,’ said father most kindly, ’I want
you to grant his request’ and I will
grant it, Cousin Malcolm.” She looked in
my face and continued: “I will grant your
request, whatever it may be. You are the dearest
friend I have in the world, and mine is the most loving
and lovable father that girl ever had. It almost
breaks my heart when I think of his suffering should
he learn of what I have done that which
I just told to you.” She walked beside me
meditatively for a moment and said, “To-morrow
I will return Sir John’s gift and I will never
see him again.”
I felt sure that by to-morrow she
would have repented of her repentance; but I soon
discovered that I had given her much more time than
she needed to perform that trifling feminine gymnastic,
for with the next breath she said:
“I have no means of returning
the heart. I must see him once more and I will
give give it it back
to to him, and will tell him that I can
see him never again.” She scarcely had
sufficient resolution to finish telling her intention.
Whence, then, would come the will to put it in action?
Forty thieves could not have stolen the heart from
her, though she thought she was honest when she said
she would take it to him.
“Dorothy,” said I, seriously
but kindly, “have you and Sir John spoken of ”
She evidently knew that I meant to
say “of love,” for she interrupted me.
“N-o, but surely he knows.
And I I think at least I hope
with all my heart that ”
“I will take the heart to Sir
John,” said I, interrupting her angrily, “and
you need not see him again. He has acted like
a fool and a knave. He is a villain, Dorothy,
and I will tell him as much in the most emphatic terms
I have at my command.”
“Dare you speak against him
or to him upon the subject!” she exclaimed,
her eyes blazing with anger; “you you
asked for my confidence and I gave it. You said
I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me
that I am a fool indeed. Traitor!”
“My dear cousin,” said
I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging me
with bad faith, “your secret is safe with me.
I swear it by my knighthood. You may trust me.
I spoke in anger. But Sir John has acted badly.
That you cannot gainsay. You, too, have done
great evil. That also you cannot gainsay.”
“No,” said the girl, dejectedly,
“I cannot deny it; but the greatest evil is
yet to come.”
“You must do something,”
I continued. “You must take some decisive
step that will break this connection, and you must
take the step at once if you would save yourself from
the frightful evil that is in store for you.
Forgive me for what I said, sweet cousin. My angry
words sprang from my love for you and my fear for
your future.”
No girl’s heart was more tender
to the influence of kindness than Dorothy’s.
No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory
command.
My words softened her at once, and
she tried to smother the anger I had aroused.
But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained
which in a moment or two created a disastrous conflagration.
You shall hear.
She walked by my side in silence for
a little time, and then spoke in a low, slightly sullen
tone which told of her effort to smother her resentment.
“I do trust you, Cousin Malcolm.
What is it that you wish to ask of me? Your request
is granted before it is made.”
“Do not be too sure of that,
Dorothy,” I replied. “It is a request
your father ardently desires me to make, and I do
not know how to speak to you concerning the subject
in the way I wish.”
I could not ask her to marry me, and
tell her with the same breath that I did not want
her for my wife. I felt I must wait for a further
opportunity to say that I spoke only because her father
had required me to do so, and that circumstances forced
me to put the burden of refusal upon her. I well
knew that she would refuse me, and then I intended
to explain.
“Why, what is it all about?”
asked the girl in surprise, suspecting, I believe,
what was to follow.
“It is this: your father
is anxious that his vast estates shall not pass out
of the family name, and he wishes you to be my wife,
so that your children may bear the loved name of Vernon.”
I could not have chosen a more inauspicious
time to speak. She looked at me for an instant
in surprise, turning to scorn. Then she spoke
in tones of withering contempt.
“Tell my father that I shall
never bear a child by the name of Vernon. I would
rather go barren to my grave. Ah! that is why
Sir John Manners is a villain? That is why a
decisive step should be taken? That is why you
come to my father’s house a-fortune-hunting?
After you have squandered your patrimony and have
spent a dissolute youth in profligacy, after the women
of the class you have known will have no more of you
but choose younger men, you who are old enough to
be my father come here and seek your fortune, as your
father sought his, by marriage. I do not believe
that my father wishes me to to marry you.
You have wheedled him into giving his consent when
he was in his cups. But even if he wished it with
all his heart, I would not marry you.”
Then she turned and walked rapidly toward the Hall.
Her fierce words angered me; for in
the light of my real intentions her scorn was uncalled
for, and her language was insulting beyond endurance.
For a moment or two the hot blood rushed to my brain
and rendered me incapable of intelligent thought.
But as Dorothy walked from me I realized that something
must be done at once to put myself right with her.
When my fit of temper had cooled, and when I considered
that the girl did not know my real intentions, I could
not help acknowledging that in view of all that had
just passed between us concerning Sir John Manners,
and, in fact, in view of all that she had seen and
could see, her anger was justifiable.
I called to her: “Dorothy,
wait a moment. You have not heard all I have to
say.”
She hastened her pace. A few
rapid strides brought me to her side. I was provoked,
not at her words, for they were almost justifiable,
but because she would not stop to hear me. I
grasped her rudely by the arm and said:
“Listen till I have finished.”
“I will not,” she answered viciously.
“Do not touch me.”
I still held her by the arm and said:
“I do not wish to marry you. I spoke only
because your father desired me to do so, and because
my refusal to speak would have offended him beyond
any power of mine to make amends. I could not
tell you that I did not wish you for my wife until
you had given me an opportunity. I was forced
to throw the burden of refusal upon you.”
“That is but a ruse a
transparent, flimsy ruse,” responded the stubborn,
angry girl, endeavoring to draw her arm from my grasp.
“It is not a ruse,” I
answered. “If you will listen to me and
will help me by acting as I suggest, we may between
us bring your father to our way of thinking, and I
may still be able to retain his friendship.”
“What is your great plan?”
asked Dorothy, in a voice such as one might expect
to hear from a piece of ice.
“I have formed no plan as yet,”
I replied, “although I have thought of several.
Until we can determine upon one, I suggest that you
permit me to say to your father that I have asked
you to be my wife, and that the subject has come upon
you so suddenly that you wish a short time, a
fortnight or a month in which to consider
your answer.”
“That is but a ruse, I say,
to gain time,” she answered contemptuously.
“I do not wish one moment in which to consider.
You already have my answer. I should think you
had had enough. Do you desire more of the same
sort? A little of such treatment should go a
long way with a man possessed of one spark of honor
or self-respect.”
Her language would have angered a sheep.
“If you will not listen to me,”
I answered, thoroughly aroused and careless of consequences,
“go to your father. Tell him I asked you
to be my wife, and that you scorned my suit.
Then take the consequences. He has always been
gentle and tender to you because there has been no
conflict. Cross his desires, and you will learn
a fact of which you have never dreamed. You have
seen the manner in which he treats others who oppose
him. You will learn that with you, too, he can
be one of the cruelest and most violent of men.”
“You slander my father.
I will go to him as you advise and will tell him that
I would not marry you if you wore the English crown.
I, myself, will tell him of my meeting with Sir John
Manners rather than allow you the pleasure of doing
so. He will be angry, but he will pity me.”
“For God’s sake, Dorothy,
do not tell your father of your meetings at Overhaddon.
He would kill you. Have you lived in the same
house with him all these years and do you not better
know his character than to think that you may go to
him with the tale you have just told me, and that he
will forgive you? Feel as you will toward me,
but believe me when I swear to you by my knighthood
that I will betray to no person what you have this
day divulged to me.”
Dorothy made no reply, but turned
from me and rapidly walked toward the Hall. I
followed at a short distance, and all my anger was
displaced by fear for her. When we reached the
Hall she quickly sought her father and approached
him in her old free manner, full of confidence in her
influence over him.
“Father, this man” waving
her hand toward me “has come to Haddon
Hall a-fortune-hunting. He has asked me to be
his wife, and says you wish me to accept him.”
“Yes, Doll, I certainly wish
it with all my heart,” returned Sir George,
affectionately, taking his daughter’s hand.
“Then you need wish it no longer,
for I will not marry him.”
“What?” demanded her father, springing
to his feet.
“I will not. I will not. I will not.”
“You will if I command you to
do so, you damned insolent wench,” answered
Sir George, hoarsely. Dorothy’s eyes opened
in wonder.
“Do not deceive yourself, father,
for one moment,” she retorted contemptuously.
“He has come here in sheep’s clothing and
has adroitly laid his plans to convince you that I
should marry him, but ”
“He has done nothing of the
sort,” answered Sir George, growing more angry
every moment, but endeavoring to be calm. “Nothing
of the sort. Many years ago I spoke to him on
this subject, which is very dear to my heart.
The project has been dear to me ever since you were
a child. When I again broached it to Malcolm
a fortnight or more since I feared from his manner
that he was averse to the scheme. I had tried
several times to speak to him about it, but he warded
me off, and when I did speak, I feared that he was
not inclined to it.”
“Yes,” interrupted the
headstrong girl, apparently bent upon destroying both
of us. “He pretended that he did not wish
to marry me. He said he wished me to give a sham
consent for the purpose of gaining time till we might
hit upon some plan by which we could change your mind.
He said he had no desire nor intention to marry me.
It was but a poor, lame ruse on his part.”
During Dorothy’s recital Sir
George turned his face from her to me. When she
had finished speaking, he looked at me for a moment
and said:
“Does my daughter speak the truth? Did
you say ”
“Yes,” I promptly replied,
“I have no intention of marrying your daughter.”
Then hoping to place myself before Sir George in a
better light, I continued: “I could not
accept the hand of a lady against her will. I
told you as much when we conversed on the subject.”
“What?” exclaimed Sir
George, furious with anger. “You too?
You whom I have befriended?”
“I told you, Sir George, I would
not marry Dorothy without her free consent. No
gentleman of honor would accept the enforced compliance
of a woman.”
“But Doll says that you told
her you had no intention of marrying her even should
she consent,” replied Sir George.
“I don’t know that I spoke
those exact words,” I replied, “but you
may consider them said.”
“You damned, ungrateful, treacherous
hound!” stormed Sir George. “You
listened to me when I offered you my daughter’s
hand, and you pretended to consent without at the
time having any intention of doing so.”
“That, I suppose, is true, Sir
George,” said I, making a masterful effort against
anger. “That is true, for I knew that Dorothy
would not consent; and had I been inclined to the
marriage, I repeat, I would marry no woman against
her will. No gentleman would do it.”
My remark threw Sir George into a paroxysm of rage.
“I did it, you cur, you dog, you you
traitorous, ungrateful I did it.”
“Then, Sir George,” said
I, interrupting him, for I was no longer able to restrain
my anger, “you were a cowardly poltroon.”
“This to me in my house!”
he cried, grasping a chair with which to strike me.
Dorothy came between us.
“Yes,” said I, “and
as much more as you wish to hear.” I stood
my ground, and Sir George put down the chair.
“Leave my house at once,” he said in a
whisper of rage.
“If you are on my premises in
one hour from now I will have you flogged from my
door by the butcher.”
“What have I done?” cried Dorothy.
“What have I done?”
“Your regrets come late, Mistress Vernon,”
said I.
“She shall have more to regret,”
said Sir George, sullenly. “Go to your
room, you brazen, disobedient huzzy, and if you leave
it without my permission, by God, I will have you
whipped till you bleed. I will teach you to say
‘I won’t’ when I say ‘you shall.’
God curse my soul, if I don’t make you repent
this day!”
As I left the room Dorothy was in
tears, and Sir George was walking the floor in a towering
rage. The girl had learned that I was right in
what I had told her concerning her father’s
violent temper.
I went at once to my room in Eagle
Tower and collected my few belongings in a bundle.
Pitifully small it was, I tell you.
Where I should go I knew not, and
where I should remain I knew even less, for my purse
held only a few shillings the remnant of
the money Queen Mary had sent to me by the hand of
Sir Thomas Douglas. England was as unsafe for
me as Scotland; but how I might travel to France without
money, and how I might without a pass evade Elizabeth’s
officers who guarded every English port, even were
I supplied with gold, were problems for which I had
no solution.
There were but two persons in Haddon
Hall to whom I cared to say farewell. They were
Lady Madge and Will Dawson. The latter was a Scot,
and was attached to the cause of Queen Mary.
He and I had become friends, and on several occasions
we had talked confidentially over Mary’s sad
plight.
When my bundle was packed, I sought
Madge and found her in the gallery near the foot of
the great staircase. She knew my step and rose
to greet me with a bright smile.
“I have come to say good-by
to you, Cousin Madge,” said I. The smile vanished
from her face.
“You are not going to leave Haddon Hall?”
she asked.
“Yes, and forever,” I responded.
“Sir George has ordered me to go.”
“No, no,” she exclaimed.
“I cannot believe it. I supposed that you
and my uncle were friends. What has happened?
Tell me if you can if you wish. Let
me touch your hand,” and as she held out her
hands, I gladly grasped them.
I have never seen anything more beautiful
than Madge Stanley’s hands. They were not
small, but their shape, from the fair, round forearm
and wrist to the ends of the fingers was worthy of
a sculptor’s dream. Beyond their physical
beauty there was an expression in them which would
have belonged to her eyes had she possessed the sense
of sight. The flood of her vital energy had for
so many years been directed toward her hands as a
substitute for her lost eyesight that their sensitiveness
showed itself not only in an infinite variety of delicate
gestures and movements, changing with her changing
moods, but they had an expression of their own, such
as we look for in the eyes. I had gazed upon her
hands so often, and had studied so carefully their
varying expression, discernible both to my sight and
to my touch, that I could read her mind through them
as we read the emotions of others through the countenance.
The “feel” of her hands, if I may use
the word, I can in no way describe. Its effect
on me was magical. The happiest moments I have
ever known were those when I held the fair blind girl
by the hand and strolled upon the great terrace or
followed the babbling winding course of dear old Wye,
and drank in the elixir of all that is good and pure
from the cup of her sweet, unconscious influence.
Madge, too, had found happiness in
our strolling. She had also found health and
strength, and, marvellous to say, there had come to
her a slight improvement in vision. She had always
been able to distinguish sunlight from darkness, but
with renewed strength had come the power dimly to
discern dark objects in a strong light, and even that
small change for the better had brought unspeakable
gladness to her heart. She said she owed it all
to me. A faint pink had spread itself in her cheeks
and a plumpness had been imparted to her form which
gave to her ethereal beauty a touch of the material.
Nor was this to be regretted, for no man can adequately
make love to a woman who has too much of the angel
in her. You must not think, however, that I had
been making love to Madge. On the contrary, I
again say, the thought had never entered my mind.
Neither at that time had I even suspected that she
would listen to me upon the great theme. I had
in my self-analysis assigned many reasons other than
love for my tenderness toward her; but when I was
about to depart, and she impulsively gave me her hands,
I, believing that I was grasping them for the last
time, felt the conviction come upon me that she was
dearer to me than all else in life.
“Do you want to tell me why
my uncle has driven you from Haddon?” she asked.
“He wished me to ask Dorothy to be my wife,”
I returned.
“And you?” she queried.
“I did so.”
Instantly the girl withdrew her hands
from mine and stepped back from me. Then I had
another revelation. I knew what she meant and
felt. Her hands told me all, even had there been
no expression in her movement and in her face.
“Dorothy refused,” I continued,
“and her father desired to force her into compliance.
I would not be a party to the transaction, and Sir
George ordered me to leave his house.”
After a moment of painful silence
Madge said: “I do not wonder that
you should wish to marry Dorothy. She she
must be very beautiful.”
“I do not wish to marry Dorothy,”
said I. I heard a slight noise back of me, but gave
it no heed. “And I should not have married
her had she consented. I knew that Dorothy would
refuse me, therefore I promised Sir George that I
would ask her to be my wife. Sir George had always
been my friend, and should I refuse to comply with
his wishes, I well knew he would be my enemy.
He is bitterly angry against me now; but when he becomes
calm, he will see wherein he has wronged me. I
asked Dorothy to help me, but she would not listen
to my plan.”
“ and now she begs
your forgiveness,” cried Dorothy, as she ran
weeping to me, and took my hand most humbly.
“Dorothy! Dorothy!” I exclaimed.
“What frightful evil have I
brought upon you?” said she. “Where
can you go? What will you do?”
“I know not,” I answered.
“I shall probably go to the Tower of London when
Queen Elizabeth’s officers learn of my quarrel
with Sir George. But I will try to escape to
France.”
“Have you money?” asked
Madge, tightly holding one of my hands.
“A small sum,” I answered.
“How much have you? Tell
me. Tell me how much have you,” insisted
Madge, clinging to my hand and speaking with a force
that would brook no refusal.
“A very little sum, I am sorry
to say; only a few shillings,” I responded.
She quickly withdrew her hand from
mine and began to remove the baubles from her ears
and the brooch from her throat. Then she nervously
stripped the rings from her fingers and held out the
little handful of jewels toward me, groping for my
hands.
“Take these, Malcolm. Take
these, and wait here till I return.” She
turned toward the staircase, but in her confusion
she missed it, and before I could reach her, she struck
against the great newel post.
“God pity me,” she said,
as I took her hand. “I wish I were dead.
Please lead me to the staircase, Cousin Malcolm.
Thank you.”
She was weeping gently when she started
up the steps, and I knew that she was going to fetch
me her little treasure of gold.
Madge held up the skirt of her gown
with one hand while she grasped the banister with
the other. She was halfway up when Dorothy, whose
generous impulses needed only to be prompted, ran
nimbly and was about to pass her on the staircase
when Madge grasped her gown.
“Please don’t, Dorothy.
Please do not. I beg you, do not forestall me.
Let me do this. Let me. You have all else
to make you happy. Don’t take this from
me only because you can see and can walk faster than
I.”
Dorothy did not stop, but hurried
past her. Madge sank upon the steps and covered
her face with her hands. Then she came gropingly
back to me just as Dorothy returned.
“Take these, Cousin Malcolm,”
cried Dorothy. “Here are a few stones of
great value. They belonged to my mother.”
Madge was sitting dejectedly upon
the lowest step of the staircase. Dorothy held
her jewel-box toward me, and in the midst of the diamonds
and gold I saw the heart John Manners had given her.
I did not take the box.
“Do you offer me this, too even
this?” I said, lifting the heart from the box
by its chain. “Yes, yes,” cried
Dorothy, “even that, gladly, gladly.”
I replaced it in the box.
Then spoke Madge, while she tried
to check the falling tears: “Dorothy,
you are a cruel, selfish girl.”
“Oh, Madge,” cried Dorothy,
stepping to her side and taking her hand. “How
can you speak so unkindly to me?”
“You have everything good,”
interrupted Madge. “You have beauty, wealth,
eyesight, and yet you would not leave to me the joy
of helping him. I could not see, and you hurried
past me that you might be first to give him the help
of which I was the first to think.”
Dorothy was surprised at the outburst
from Madge, and kneeled by her side.
“We may both help Cousin Malcolm,” she
said.
“No, no,” responded Madge,
angrily. “Your jewels are more than enough.
He would have no need of my poor offering.”
I took Madge’s hand and said,
“I shall accept help from no one but you, Madge;
from no one but you.”
“I will go to our rooms for
your box,” said Dorothy, who had begun to see
the trouble. “I will fetch it for you.”
“No, I will fetch it,”
answered Madge. She arose, and I led her to the
foot of the staircase. When she returned she held
in her hands a purse and a little box of jewels.
These she offered to me, but I took only the purse,
saying: “I accept the purse. It contains
more money than I shall need. From its weight
I should say there are twenty gold pounds sterling.”
“Twenty-five,” answered
Madge. “I have saved them, believing that
the time might come when they would be of great use
to me. I did not know the joy I was saving for
myself.”
Tears came to my eyes, and Dorothy wept silently.
“Will you not take the jewels also?” asked
Madge.
“No,” I responded; “the
purse will more than pay my expenses to France, where
I have wealthy relatives. There I may have my
mother’s estate for the asking, and I can repay
you the gold. I can never repay your kindness.”
“I hope you will never offer to repay the gold,”
said Madge.
“I will not,” I gladly answered.
“As to the kindness,”
she said, “you have paid me in advance for that
many, many times over.”
I then said farewell, promising to
send letters telling of my fortune. As I was
leaving I bent forward and kissed Madge upon the forehead,
while she gently pressed my hand, but did not speak
a word.
“Cousin Malcolm,” said
Dorothy, who held my other hand, “you are a strong,
gentle, noble man, and I want you to say that you forgive
me.”
“I do forgive you, Dorothy,
from my heart. I could not blame you if I wished
to do so, for you did not know what you were doing.”
“Not to know is sometimes the
greatest of sins,” answered Dorothy. I bent
forward to kiss her cheek in token of my full forgiveness,
but she gave me her lips and said: “I shall
never again be guilty of not knowing that you are
good and true and noble, Cousin Malcolm, and I shall
never again doubt your wisdom or your good faith when
you speak to me.” She did doubt me afterward,
but I fear her doubt was with good cause. I shall
tell you of it in the proper place.
Then I forced myself to leave my fair
friends and went to the gateway under Eagle Tower,
where I found Will Dawson waiting for me with my horse.
“Sir George ordered me to bring
your horse,” said Will. “He seemed
much excited. Has anything disagreeable happened?
Are you leaving us? I see you wear your steel
cap and breastplate and are carrying your bundle.”
“Yes, Will, your master has
quarrelled with me and I must leave his house.”
“But where do you go, Sir Malcolm?
You remember that of which we talked? In England
no place but Haddon Hall will be safe for you, and
the ports are so closely guarded that you will certainly
be arrested if you try to sail for France.”
“I know all that only too well,
Will. But I must go, and I will try to escape
to France. If you wish to communicate with me,
I may be found by addressing a letter in care of the
Duc de Guise.”
“If I can ever be of help to
you,” said Will, “personally, or in that
other matter, Queen Mary, you understand, you
have only to call on me.”
“I thank you, Will,” I
returned, “I shall probably accept your kind
offer sooner than you anticipate. Do you know
Jennie Faxton, the ferrier’s daughter?”
“I do,” he responded.
“I believe she may be trusted,” I said.
“Indeed, I believe she is true
as any steel in her father’s shop,” Will
responded.
“Good-by, Will, you may hear from me soon.”
I mounted and rode back of the terrace,
taking my way along the Wye toward Rowsley. When
I turned and looked back, I saw Dorothy standing upon
the terrace. By her side, dressed in white, stood
Madge. Her hand was covering her eyes. A
step or two below them on the terrace staircase stood
Will Dawson. They were three stanch friends,
although one of them had brought my troubles upon
me. After all, I was leaving Haddon Hall well
garrisoned. My heart also was well garrisoned
with a faithful troop of pain. But I shall write
no more of that time. It was too full of bitterness.