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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you told Dorothy?” I asked.

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

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

“Y-e-s,” returned Sir George, hesitatingly.

“I congratulate you,” I replied.

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

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

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

“No,” Sir George replied. “I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but ”

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

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

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

“Well, damn you, sir, don’t think.”

“You said you wished to consult me about the affair, and I supposed ”

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

I was glad enough to go to bed, for my cousin was growing drunk, and drink made a demon of this man, whose violence when sober was tempered by a heart full of tenderness and love.

Next morning Sir George was feeling irritable from the effects of the brandy he had drunk over night. At breakfast, in the presence of Lady Crawford, Madge, and myself, he abruptly informed Dorothy that he was about to give that young goddess to Lord James Stanley for his wife. He told her of the arrangement he had made the day before with the Earl of Derby. Lady Crawford looked toward her brother in surprise, and Madge pushed her chair a little way back from the table with a startled movement. Dorothy sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing fire and her breast rising and falling like the storm-wrought pulsing of the sea. I coughed warningly and placed my finger on my lips, making the sign of silence to Dorothy. The girl made a wondrous and beautiful struggle against her wrath, and in a moment all signs of ill-temper disappeared, and her face took on an expression of sweet meekness which did not belong there of right. She quietly sat down again, and when I looked at her, I would have sworn that Griselda in the flesh was sitting opposite me. Sir George was right. “Ways such as the girl had of late developed were dangerous.” Hell was in them to an extent little dreamed of by her father. Breakfast was finished in silence. Dorothy did not come down to dinner at noon, but Sir George did not mark her absence. At supper her place was still vacant.

“Where is Doll?” cried Sir George, angrily. He had been drinking heavily during the afternoon. “Where is Doll?” he demanded.

“She is on the terrace,” answered Madge. “She said she did not want supper.”

“Tell your mistress to come to supper,” said Sir George, speaking to one of the servants. “You will find her on the terrace.”

The servant left the room, but soon returned, saying that Mistress Dorothy wanted no supper.

“Tell her to come to the table whether she wants supper or not. Tell her I will put a stop to her moping about the place like a surly vixen,” growled Sir George.

“Don’t send such a message by a servant,” pleaded Lady Crawford.

“Then take it to her yourself, Dorothy,” exclaimed her brother.

Dorothy returned with her aunt and meekly took her place at the table.

“I will have none of your moping and pouting,” said Sir George, as Dorothy was taking her chair.

The girl made no reply, but she did not eat.

“Eat your supper,” her father commanded. “I tell you I will have no ”

“You would not have me eat if I am not hungry, would you, father?” she asked softly.

“I’d have you hungry, you perverse wench.”

“Then make me an appetite,” returned the girl. I never heard more ominous tones fall from human lips. They betokened a mood in which one could easily do murder in cold blood, and I was surprised that Sir George did not take warning and remain silent.

“I cannot make an appetite for you, fool,” he replied testily.

“Then you cannot make me eat,” retorted Dorothy.

“Ah, you would answer me, would you, you brazen, insolent huzzy,” cried her father, angrily.

Dorothy held up her hand warningly to Sir George, and uttered the one word, “Father.” Her voice sounded like the clear, low ring of steel as I have heard it in the stillness of sunrise during a duel to the death. Madge gently placed her hand in Dorothy’s, but the caress met no response.

“Go to your room,” answered Sir George.

Dorothy rose to her feet and spoke calmly: “I have not said that I would disobey you in regard to this marriage which you have sought for me; and your harshness, father, grows out of your effort to reconcile your conscience with the outrage you would put upon your own flesh and blood your only child.”

“Suffering God!” cried Sir George, frenzied with anger and drink. “Am I to endure such insolence from my own child? The lawyers will be here to-morrow. The contract will be signed, and, thank God, I shall soon be rid of you. I’ll place you in the hands of one who will break your damnable will and curb your vixenish temper.” Then he turned to Lady Crawford. “Dorothy, if there is anything to do in the way of gowns and women’s trumpery in preparation for the wedding, begin at once, for the ceremony shall come off within a fortnight.”

This was beyond Dorothy’s power to endure. Madge felt the storm coming and clutched her by the arm in an effort to stop her, but nothing could have done that.

“I marry Lord Stanley?” she asked in low, bell-like tones, full of contempt and disdain. “Marry that creature? Father, you don’t know me.”

“By God, I know myself,” retorted Sir George, “and I say ”

“Now hear me, father,” she interrupted in a manner that silenced even him. She bent forward, resting one fair hand upon the table, while she held out her other arm bared to the elbow. “Hear what I say and take it for the truth as if it had come from Holy Writ. I will open the veins in this arm and will strew my blood in a gapless circle around Haddon Hall so that you shall tread upon it whenever you go forth into the day or into the night before I will marry the drunken idiot with whom you would curse me. Ay, I will do more. I will kill you, if need be, should you try to force him on me. Now, father, we understand each other. At least you cannot fail to understand me. For the last time I warn you. Beware of me.”

She gently pushed the chair back from the table, quietly adjusted the sleeve which she had drawn upward from her wrist, and slowly walked out of the room, softly humming the refrain of a roundelay. There was no trace of excitement about the girl. Her brain was acting with the ease and precision of a perfectly constructed machine. Sir George, by his violence and cruelty, had made a fiend of this strong, passionate, tender heart. That was all.

The supper, of course, was quickly finished, and the ladies left the room.

Sir George took to his bottle and remained with it till his servants put him to bed. I slipped away from him and smoked a pipe in front of the kitchen fire. Then I went early to my bed in Eagle Tower.

Dorothy went to her apartments. There she lay upon her bed, and for a time her heart was like flint. Soon she thought of her precious golden heart pierced with a silver arrow, and tears came to her eyes as she drew the priceless treasure from her breast and breathed upon it a prayer to the God of love for help. Her heart was soft again, soft only as hers could be, and peace came to her as she pressed John’s golden heart to her lips and murmured over and over the words, “My love, my love, my love,” and murmuring fell asleep.

I wonder how many of the countless women of this world found peace, comfort, and ecstasy in breathing those magic words yesterday? How many have found them to-day? How many will find them to-morrow? No one can tell; but this I know, they come to every woman at some time in her life, righteously or unrighteously, as surely as her heart pulses.

That evening Jennie Faxton bore a letter to John, informing him of the projected Stanley marriage. It asked him to meet the writer at Bowling Green Gate, and begged him to help her if he could.

The small and intermittent remnants of conscience, sense of duty, and caution which still remained in John’s head I will not say in John’s heart, for that was full to overflowing with something else were quickly banished by the unwelcome news in Dorothy’s letter. His first impulse was to kill Stanley; but John Manners was not an assassin, and a duel would make public all he wished to conceal. He wished to conceal, among other things, his presence at Rutland. He had two reasons for so desiring. First in point of time was the urgent purpose with which he had come to Derbyshire. That purpose was to further a plan for the rescue of Mary Stuart and to bring her incognito to Rutland Castle as a refuge until Elizabeth could be persuaded to receive her. Of this plan I knew nothing till after the disastrous attempt to carry it out, of which I shall hereafter tell you. The other reason why John wished his presence at Rutland unknown was that if he were supposed to be in London, no one would suspect him of knowing Dorothy Vernon.

You must remember there had been no overt love-making between John and Dorothy up to that time. The scene at the gate approached perilously near it, but the line between concealment and confession had not been crossed. Mind you, I say there had been no love-making between them. While Dorothy had gone as far in that direction as a maiden should dare go and to tell the exact truth, a great deal farther John had remained almost silent for reasons already given you. He also felt a fear of the girl, and failed to see in her conduct those signs of intense love which would have been plainly discernible had not his perceptions been blinded by the fury of his own infatuation. He had placed a curb on his passion and did not really know its strength and power until he learned that another man was soon to possess the girl he loved. Then life held but one purpose for him. Thus, you see that when Dorothy was moaning, “My love, my love,” and was kissing the golden heart, she was taking a great deal for granted. Perhaps, however, she better understood John’s feeling for her than did he himself. A woman’s sixth sense, intuition, is a great help to her in such cases. Perhaps the girl knew with intuitive confidence that her passion was returned; and perhaps at first she found John’s receptive mode of wooing sweeter far than an aggressive attack would have been. It may be also there was more of the serpent’s cunning than of reticence in John’s conduct. He knew well the ways of women, and perhaps he realized that if he would allow Dorothy to manage the entire affair she would do his wooing for him much better than he could do it for himself. If you are a man, try the plan upon the next woman whom you seek to win. If she happens to be one who has full confidence in her charms, you will be surprised at the result. Women lacking that confidence are restrained by fear and doubt. But in no case have I much faith in the hammer-and-tongs process at the opening of a campaign. Later on, of course but you doubtless are quite as well informed concerning this important subject as I. There is, however, so much blundering in that branch of science that I have a mind to endow a college at Oxford or at Paris in which shall be taught the gentle, universally needed art of making love. What a noble attendance such a college would draw. But I have wandered wofully from my story.

I must go back a short time in my narrative. A few days before my return to Haddon Hall the great iron key to the gate in the wall east of Bowling Green Hill was missed from the forester’s closet where it had hung for a century or more. Bowling Green Hill, as you know, is eastward from Haddon Hall a distance of the fourth part of a mile, and the gate is east of the hill about the same distance or less. A wall is built upon the east line of the Haddon estate, and east of the wall lies a great trackless forest belonging to the house of Devonshire. In olden times there had been a road from Bakewell to Rowsley along the east side of the wall; but before Sir George’s seizin the road had been abandoned and the gate was not used. It stood in a secluded, unfrequented spot, and Dorothy thought herself very shrewd in choosing it for a trysting-place.

But as I told you, one day the key was missed. It was of no value or use, and at first nothing was thought of its loss; but from time to time the fact that it could not be found was spoken of as curious. All the servants had been questioned in vain, and the loss of the key to Bowling Green Gate soon took on the dignity of a mystery a mystery soon to be solved, alas! to Dorothy’s undoing.

The afternoon of the day following the terrible scene between Sir George and his daughter at the supper table, Dorothy rode forth alone upon her mare Dolcy. From the window of my room in Eagle Tower I saw her go down the west side of the Wye toward Rowsley. I ascended to the roof of the tower, and from that elevation I saw her cross the river, and soon she was lost to sight in the forest. At that time I knew nothing of the new trysting-place, but I felt sure that Dorothy had gone out to seek John. The sun shone brightly, and its gentle warmth enticed me to remain upon the tower battlements, to muse, and to dream. I fetched my pipe and tobacco from my room. I had been smoking at intervals for several months, but had not entirely learned to like the weed, because of a slight nausea which it invariably caused me to feel. But I thought by practice now and again to inure myself to the habit, which was then so new and fashionable among modish gentlemen. While I smoked I mused upon the past and present, and tried to peer into the future a fruitless task wherein we waste much valuable time; a vain striving, like Eve’s, after forbidden knowledge, which, should we possess it, would destroy the little remnant of Eden still existing on earth. Could we look forward only to our joys, a knowledge of the future might be good to have; but imagine, if you can, the horror of anticipating evils to come.

After a short time, a lotuslike dreaminess stole over me, and past and future seemed to blend in a supreme present of contentment and rest. Then I knew I had wooed and won Tobacco and that thenceforth I had at hand an ever ready solace in time of trouble. At the end of an hour my dreaming was disturbed by voices, which came distinctly up to me from the base of the tower. I leaned over the battlements to listen, and what I heard gave me alarm and concern such as all the tobacco in the world could not assuage. I looked down the dizzy heights of Eagle Tower and saw Sir George in conversation with Ben Shaw, a woodman. I had not heard the words first spoken between them.

“Ay, ay, Sir George,” said Ben, “they be there, by Bowling Green Gate, now. I saw them twenty minutes since, Mistress Vernon and a gentleman.”

“Perhaps the gentleman is Sir Malcolm,” answered my cousin. I drew back from the battlements, and the woodman replied, “Perhaps he be, but I doubt it.”

There had been a partial reconciliation sincere on Sir George’s part, but false and hollow on Dorothy’s which Madge had brought about between father and daughter that morning. Sir George, who was sober and repentant of his harshness, was inclined to be tender to Dorothy, though he still insisted in the matter of the Stanley marriage. Dorothy’s anger had cooled, and cunning had taken its place. Sir George had asked her to forgive him for the hard words he had spoken, and she had again led him to believe that she would be dutiful and obedient. It is hard to determine, as a question of right and wrong, whether Dorothy is to be condemned or justified in the woful deception she practised upon her father. To use a plain, ugly word, she lied to him without hesitation or pain of conscience. Still, we must remember that, forty years ago, girls were frequently forced, regardless of cries and piteous agony, into marriages to which death would have been preferable. They were flogged into obedience, imprisoned and starved into obedience, and alas! they were sometimes killed in the course of punishment for disobedience by men of Sir George’s school and temper. I could give you at least one instance in which a fair girl met her death from punishment inflicted by her father because she would not consent to wed the man of his choice. Can we blame Dorothy if she would lie or rob or do murder to avoid a fate which to her would have been worse than death? When you find yourself condemning her, now or hereafter in this history, if you are a man ask yourself this question: “If I had a sweetheart in Dorothy’s sad case, should I not wish her to do as she did? Should I not wish, if it were possible by any means, that she should save herself from the worst of fates, and should save me from the agony of losing her to such a man as Sir George had selected for Dorothy’s husband? Is it not a sin to disobey the law of self-preservation actively or passively?” Answer these questions as you choose. As for myself, I say God bless Dorothy for lying. Perhaps I am in error. Perhaps I am not. I but tell you the story of Dorothy as it happened, and I am a poor hand at solving questions of right and wrong where a beautiful woman is concerned. To my thinking, she usually is in the right. In any case, she is sure to have the benefit of the doubt.

When Sir George heard the woodman’s story, he started hurriedly toward Bowling Green Gate.

Now I shall tell you of Dorothy’s adventures after I saw her cross the Wye.

When she reached the gate, John was waiting for her.

“Ah, Sir John, I am so glad you are here. That is, I am glad you are here before I arrived good even,” said the girl, confusedly. Her heart again was beating in a provoking manner, and her breath would not come with ease and regularity. The rapid progress of the malady with which she was afflicted or blessed was plainly discernible since the last meeting with my friend, Sir John. That is, it would have been plain to any one but John, whose ailment had taken a fatal turn and had progressed to the ante-mortem state of blindness. By the help of the stimulating hope and fear which Dorothy’s letter had brought to him, he had planned an elaborate conversation, and had determined to speak decisive words. He hoped to receive from her the answer for which he longed; but his heart and breath seemed to have conspired with Dorothy to make intercommunication troublesome.

“I received your gracious letter, Mistress Vernon, and I thank you. I was I am that is, my thanks are more than I I can express.”

“So I see,” said the girl, half amused at John’s condition, although it was but little worse than her own. This universal malady, love, never takes its blind form in women. It opens their eyes. Under its influence they can see the truth through a millstone. The girl’s heart jumped with joy when she saw John’s truth-telling manner, and composure quickly came to her relief, though she still feigned confusion because she wished him to see the truth in her as she had seen it in him. She well knew of his blindness, and had almost begun to fear lest she would eventually be compelled to tell him in words that which she so ardently wished him to see for himself. She thought John was the blindest of his sex; but she was, to a certain extent, mistaken. John was blind, as you already know, but his reticence was not all due to a lack of sight. He at least had reached the condition of a well-developed hope. He hoped the girl cared for him. He would have fully believed it had it not been for the difficulty he found in convincing himself that a goddess like Dorothy could care for a man so unworthy as himself. Most modest persons are self-respecting. That was John’s condition; he was not vain.

“Jennie brought me your letter also,” said the girl, laughing because she was happy, though her merriment somewhat disconcerted John.

“It told me,” she continued, “that you would come. I have it here in my pocket and and the gate key.” She determined this time to introduce the key early in the engagement. “But I feared you might not want to come.” The cunning, the boldness, and the humility of the serpent was in the girl. “That is, you know, I thought perhaps that is, I feared that you might not come. Your father might have been ill, or you might have changed your mind after you wrote the letter.”

“No,” answered John, whose face was beaming with joy. Here, truly, was a goddess who could make the blind to see if she were but given a little time.

“Do you mean that your father is not ill, or that you did not change your mind?” asked Dorothy, whose face, as it should have been after such a speech, was bent low while she struggled with the great iron key, entangled in the pocket of her gown.

“I mean that I have not changed my mind,” said John, who felt that the time to speak had come. “There has been no change in me other than a new access of eagerness with every hour, and a new longing to see you and to hear your voice.”

Dorothy felt a great thrill pass through her breast, and she knew that the reward of her labors was at hand.

“Certainly,” said the self-complacent girl, hardly conscious of her words, so great was the joyous tumult in her heart, “I should have known.”

There was another pause devoted to the key, with bended head. “But but you might have changed your mind,” she continued, “and I might not have known it, for, you see, I did not know your former state of mind; you have never told me.” Her tongue had led her further than she had intended to go, and she blushed painfully, and I think, considering her words, appropriately.

“My letter told you my state of mind. At least it told you of my intention to come. I I fear that I do not understand you,” said John.

“I mean,” she replied, with a saucy, fluttering little laugh as she looked up from her conflict with the entangled key, “I mean that that you don’t know what I mean. But here is the key at last, and and you may, if you wish, come to this side of the gate.”

She stepped forward to unlock the gate with an air that seemed to say, “Now, John, you shall have a clear field.”

But to her surprise she found that the lock had been removed. That discovery brought back to John his wandering wits.

“Mistress Dorothy,” he cried in tones of alarm, “I must not remain here. We are suspected and are sure to be discovered. Your father has set a trap for us. I care not for myself, but I would not bring upon you the trouble and distress which would surely follow discovery. Let us quickly choose another place and time of meeting. I pray you, sweet lady, meet me to-morrow at this time near the white cliff back of Lathkil mill. I have that to say to you which is the very blood of my heart. I must now leave you at once.”

He took her hand, and kissing it, started to leave through the open gate.

The girl caught his arm to detain him. “Say it now, John, say it now. I have dreamed of it by night and by day. You know all, and I know all, and I long to hear from your lips the words that will break down all barriers between us.” She had been carried away by the mad onrush of her passion. She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, and she spoke because she could not help it.

“I will speak, Dorothy, God help me! God help me, I will speak!” said John, as he caught the girl to his breast in a fierce embrace. “I love you, I love you! God Himself only knows how deeply, how passionately! I do not know. I cannot fathom its depths. With all my heart and soul, with every drop of blood that pulses through my veins, I love you I adore you. Give me your lips, my beauty, my Aphrodite, my queen!”

“There they are, John, there they are. They are all yours all yours now! Oh, God! my blood is on fire.” She buried her face on his breast for shame, that he might not see her burning eyes and her scarlet cheeks. Then after a time she cared not what he saw, and she lifted her lips to his, a voluntary offering. The supreme emotions of the moment drove all other consciousness from their souls.

“Tell me, Dorothy, that you will be my wife. Tell me, tell me!” cried John.

“I will, I will, oh, how gladly, how gladly!”

“Tell me that no power on earth can force you to marry Lord Stanley. Tell me that you will marry no man but me; that you will wait wait for me till ”

“I will marry no man but you, John, no man but you,” said the girl, whisperingly. Her head was thrown back from his breast that she might look into his eyes, and that he might see the truth in hers. “I am all yours. But oh, John, I cannot wait I cannot! Do not ask me to wait. It would kill me. I wear the golden heart you gave me, John,” she continued, as she nestled closer in his embrace. “I wear the golden heart always. It is never from me, even for one little moment. I bear it always upon my heart, John. Here it is.” She drew from her breast the golden heart and kissed it. Then she pressed it to his lips, and said: “I kiss it twenty times in the day and in the night; ay, a hundred times. I do not know how often; but now I kiss your real heart, John,” and she kissed his breast, and then stood tiptoe to lift her lips to his.

There was no room left now in John’s heart for doubt that Dorothy Vernon was his own forever and forever. She had convinced him beyond the reach of fear or doubt. John forgot the lockless gate. He forgot everything but Dorothy, and cruel time passed with a rapidity of which they were unconscious. They were, however, brought back to consciousness by hearing a long blast from the forester’s bugle, and John immediately retreated through the gate.

Dorothy then closed the gate and hastily seated herself upon a stone bench against the Haddon side of the wall. She quickly assumed an attitude of listless repose, and Dolcy, who was nibbling at the grass near by, doubtless supposed that her mistress had come to Bowling Green Gate to rest because it was a secluded place, and because she desired to be alone.

Dorothy’s attitude was not assumed one moment too soon, for hardly was her gown arranged with due regard to carelessness when Sir George’s form rose above the crest of Bowling Green Hill. In a few minutes he was standing in front of his daughter, red with anger. Dorothy’s face wore a look of calm innocence, which I believe would have deceived Solomon himself, notwithstanding that great man’s experience with the sex. It did more to throw Sir George off the scent than any words the girl could have spoken.

“Who has been with you?” demanded Sir George, angrily.

“When, father?” queried the girl, listlessly resting her head against the wall.

“Now, this afternoon. Who has been with you? Ben Shaw said that a man was here. He said that he saw a man with you less than half an hour since.”

That piece of information was startling to Dorothy, but no trace of surprise was visible in her manner or in her voice. She turned listlessly and brushed a dry leaf from her gown. Then she looked calmly up into her father’s face and said laconically, but to the point:

“Ben lied.” To herself she said, “Ben shall also suffer.”

“I do not believe that Ben lied,” said Sir George. “I, myself, saw a man go away from here.”

That was crowding the girl into close quarters, but she did not flinch.

“Which way did he go, father?” she asked, with a fine show of carelessness in her manner, but with a feeling of excruciating fear in her breast. She well knew the wisdom of the maxim, “Never confess.”

“He went northward,” answered Sir George.

“Inside the wall?” asked Dorothy, beginning again to breathe freely, for she knew that John had ridden southward.

“Inside the wall, of course,” her father replied. “Do you suppose I could see him through the stone wall? One should be able to see through a stone wall to keep good watch on you.”

“You might have thought you saw him through the wall,” answered the girl. “I sometimes think of late, father, that you are losing your mind. You drink too much brandy, my dear father. Oh, wouldn’t it be dreadful if you were to lose your mind?” She rose as she spoke, and going to her father began to stroke him gently with her hand. She looked into his face with real affection; for when she deceived him, she loved him best as a partial atonement for her ill-doing.

“Wouldn’t that be dreadful?” she continued, while Sir George stood lost in bewilderment. “Wouldn’t that be dreadful for my dear old father to lose his mind? But I really think it must be coming to pass. A great change has of late come over you, father. You have for the first time in your life been unkind to me and suspicious. Father, do you realize that you insult your daughter when you accuse her of having been in this secluded place with a man? You would punish another for speaking so against my fair name.”

“But, Dorothy,” Sir George replied, feeling as if he were in the wrong, “Ben Shaw said that he saw you here with a man, and I saw a man pass toward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name.”

Dorothy knew that her father must have seen a man near the gate, but who he was she could not imagine. John surely was beyond the wall and well out of sight on his way to Rowsley before her father reached the crest of Bowling Green Hill. But it was evident that Shaw had seen John. Evidence that a man had been at the gate was too strong to be successfully contradicted. Facts that cannot be successfully contradicted had better be frankly admitted. Dorothy sought through her mind for an admission that would not admit, and soon hit upon a plan which, shrewd as it seemed to be, soon brought her to grief.

“Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm,” said Dorothy, as the result of her mental search. “He passed here a little time since and stopped for a moment to talk. Perhaps you saw Malcolm, father. You would not find fault with me because he was here, would you?”

“Dorothy, my daughter,” said Sir George, hesitatingly, “are you telling me the truth?”

Then the fair girl lifted up her beautiful head, and standing erect at her full height (it pains me to tell you this) said: “Father, I am a Vernon. I would not lie.”

Her manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced.

He said, “I believe you.”

Her father’s confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point of repentance, I hardly need say.

Dorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare me to answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me. She took Dolcy’s rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested the other upon her father’s arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to the Hall, very happy because of her lucky escape.

But a lie is always full of latent retribution.

I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothy and her father entered.

“Ah, Malcolm, are you here?” asked Sir George in a peculiar tone of surprise for which I could see no reason.

“I thought you were walking.”

I was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, “No, I am helping old Bess and Jennie with supper.”

“Have you not been walking?” asked Sir George.

There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I was surprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. But Sir George’s expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when compared with that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not only was her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body were convulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, I could not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only too readable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stamped her foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips and nodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost upon me, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. The expression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of my gaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mighty pantomimic effort at mute communication.

“Why in the devil’s name are you making those grimaces?” demanded Sir George.

“I wasn’t making grimaces I I think I was about to sneeze,” replied Dorothy.

“Do you think I am blind?” stormed Sir George. “Perhaps I am losing my mind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you at Bowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I’ll show you that if I am losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house.”

“Now, father, what is all this storming about?” asked the girl, coaxingly, as she boldly put her hands upon her father’s shoulders and turned her face in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up to his. “Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know.” She was sure that her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate, and she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whose only virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, would willingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught the truth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined to perjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe the influence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell I seemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily was paralyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. I cannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you may make out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of this history have occasion to speak of Dorothy’s strange power, and how it was exerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.

“Ask Malcolm,” repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father’s breast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for, in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demanded excitedly of Dorothy, “What have you in your pocket that strikes against my knee?”

“Mother of Heaven!” exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping back from her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward her pocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness by sudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face which filled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holding with one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched the key in her pocket.

“What have you in your pocket?” demanded Sir George with a terrible oath. “Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you.” Dorothy started to run from the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drew her to him. “Bring it out, huzzy; it’s the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah, I’ve lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet, but I soon shall lose it at this rate,” and he certainly looked as if he would.

Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, but she was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown and tore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom. Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece of white paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made in the gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he felt sure, was from Dorothy’s unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for a time, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her face from her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, “Malcolm.” Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help I have never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take the letter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he would strike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and he took up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:

“Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with God’s help I will meet you at Bowling Green Gate .” The girl could endure no more. She sprang with a scream toward her father and tried to snatch the letter. Sir George drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed him frantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter. Sir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued the letter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy’s hand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into the fire, but she feared that her father might rescue it from the ashes. She glanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded in snatching from her father bore John’s name. Sir George strode hurriedly across the room toward her and she ran to me.

“Malcolm! Malcolm!” she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then I saw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herself upon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembled as a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree may tremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. While she clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and her wondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expression was the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension. Her face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Her fear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped her fingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying to make, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for less than one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyed even one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and to caress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of rest in my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength.

“Where is the paper?” he cried in rage. “It contained the fellow’s signature.”

“I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it. Doubtless that would be a pleasant task for you,” answered Dorothy, who was comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discover John’s name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girl had he then learned that the letter was from John Manners.

“I command you to tell me this fellow’s name,” said Sir George, with a calmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued “I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me and told me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In God’s name I swear that I would rather father a thief than a liar.”

“I did give her the heart, Sir George,” I said, interrupting him. “It was my mother’s.” I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in his violence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for his anger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but her deception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love that had come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meeting with Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I also believe, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not a thief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. She was gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but I believe she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love. Some few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an ocean of love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart and soul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class was Dorothy.

“God is love,” says the Book.

“The universe is God,” says the philosopher. “Therefore,” as the mathematician would say, “love is the universe.” To that proposition Dorothy was a corollary.

The servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen.

“Let us go to the dining hall,” I suggested. Sir George led the way by the stone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquet hail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand.

The moment of respite from her father’s furious attack gave her time in which to collect her scattered senses.

When we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, Sir George turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to know the name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and said nothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room.

“Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tell me the name of the man who wrote this letter,” he cried, holding toward her the fragment of paper. “Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, I swear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper court till you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child.”

Then Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only for herself she had to fear.

Her heart kept saying, “This for his sake, this for his sake.” Out of her love came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action.

Her father’s oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodice from her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:

“I am ready for the whip, I am ready. Who is to do the deed, father, you or the butcher? It must be done. You have sworn it, and I swear before God and by my maidenhood that I will not tell you the name of the man who wrote the letter. I love him, and before I will tell you his name or forego his love for me, or before I will abate one jot or tittle of my love for him, I will gladly die by the whip in your hand. I am ready for the whip, father. I am ready. Let us have it over quickly.”

The girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the door leading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move. I was deeply affected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the flogging if to do so should cost Sir George’s life at my hands. I would have killed him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip upon Dorothy’s back.

“Father,” continued the terrible girl, “are you not going to flog me? Remember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before God and upon your knighthood. A forsworn Christian? A forsworn knight? A forsworn Vernon? The lash, father, the lash I am eager for it.”

Sir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward the door. Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, and she whispered the words, “Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!”

As she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his arms toward her and in a wail of agony cried: “Doll! Doll! My daughter! My child! God help me!”

He covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment as the tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbing forth the anguish of which his soul was full.

In an instant Dorothy was by her father’s side holding his head upon her lap. She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamed from her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance.

“I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all. I will give him up; I will see him never again. I will try not to love him. Oh, father, forgive me, forgive me. I will never again deceive you so long as I live.”

Truly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken. When one swears to do too much, one performs too little.

I helped Sir George rise to his feet.

Dorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but he repulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her name quitted the room with tottering steps.

When her father had gone Dorothy stood in revery for a little time, and then looking toward the door through which her father had just passed, she spoke as if to herself: “He does not know. How fortunate!”

“But you said you would tell him,” I suggested. “You said you would give him up.”

Dorothy was in a deep revery. She took her bodice from the floor and mechanically put it on.

“I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give give him up,” she replied; “but I will do neither. Father would not meet my love with love. He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance when it was he who should have repented. I was alarmed and grieved for father’s sake when I said that I would tell him about about John, and would give him up.” She was silent and thoughtful for a little time. “Give him up?” she cried defiantly. “No, not for my soul; not for ten thousand thousand souls. When my father refused my love, he threw away the only opportunity he shall ever have to learn from me John’s name. That I swear, and I shall never be forsworn. I asked father’s forgiveness when he should have begged for mine. Whip me in the courtyard, would he, till I should bleed! Yet I was willing to forgive him, and he would not accept my forgiveness. I was willing to forego John, who is more than life to me; but my father would not accept my sacrifice. Truly will I never be so great a fool the second time. Malcolm, I will not remain here to be the victim of another insult such as my father put upon me to-day. There is no law, human or divine, that gives to a parent the right to treat his daughter as my father has used me. Before this day my conscience smote me when I deceived him, and I suffered pain if I but thought of my father. But now, thanks to his cruelty, I may be happy without remorse. Malcolm, if you betray me, I will I will kill you if I must follow you over the world to do it.”

“Do you think that I deserve that threat from you, Dorothy?” I asked.

“No, no, my dear friend, forgive me. I trust you,” and she caught up my hand and kissed it gently.

Dorothy and I remained in the banquet hail, seated upon the stone bench under the blazoned window.

Soon Sir George returned, closely followed by two men, one of whom bore manacles such as were used to secure prisoners in the dungeon. Sir George did not speak. He turned to the men and motioned with his hand toward Dorothy. I sprang to my feet, intending to interfere by force, if need be, to prevent the outrage; but before I could speak Lady Crawford hurriedly entered the hall and ran to Sir George’s side.

“Brother,” she said, “old Bess has just told me that you have given orders for Dorothy’s confinement in the dungeon. I could not believe Bess; but these men with irons lead me to suspect that you really intend. ”

“Do not interfere in affairs that do not concern you,” replied Sir George, sullenly.

“But this does concern me greatly,” said Aunt Dorothy, “and if you send Doll to the dungeon, Madge and I will leave your house and will proclaim your act to all England.”

“The girl has disobeyed me and has lied to me, and ”

“I care not what she has done, I shall leave your house and disown you for my brother if you perpetrate this outrage upon my niece. She is dear to me as if she were my own child. Have I not brought her up since babyhood? If you carry out this order, brother, I will leave Haddon Hall forever.”

“And I’ll go with her,” cried old Bess, who stood at the door of the screens.

“And I, too,” said Dawson, who was one of the men who had entered with Sir George.

“And I,” cried the other man, throwing the manacles to the floor, “I will leave your service.”

Sir George took up the manacles and moved toward Dorothy.

“You may all go, every cursed one of you. I rule my own house, and I will have no rebels in it. When I have finished with this perverse wench, I’ll not wait for you to go. I’ll drive you all out and you may go to ”

He was approaching Dorothy, but I stepped in front of him.

“This must not be, Sir George,” said I, sternly. “I shall not leave Haddon Hall, and I fear you not. I shall remain here to protect your daughter and you from your own violence. You cannot put me out of Haddon Hall; I will not go.”

“Why cannot I put you out of Haddon Hail?” retorted Sir George, whose rage by that time was frightful to behold.

“Because, sir, I am a better man and a better swordsman than you are, and because you have not on all your estates a servant nor a retainer who will not join me against you when I tell them the cause I champion.”

Dawson and his fellow stepped to my side significantly, and Sir George raised the iron manacles as if intending to strike me. I did not move. At the same moment Madge entered the room.

“Where is my uncle?” she asked.

Old Bess led her to Sir George. She spoke not a word, but placed her arms gently about his neck and drew his face down to hers. Then she kissed him softly upon the lips and said:

“My uncle has never in all his life spoken in aught but kindness to me, and now I beg him to be kind to Dorothy.”

The heavy manacles fell clanking to the floor. Sir George placed his hand caressingly upon Madge’s head and turned from Dorothy.

Lady Crawford then approached her brother and put her hand upon his arm, saying:

“Come with me, George, that I may speak to you in private.”

She moved toward the door by which she had entered, and Madge quietly took her uncle’s hand and led him after Lady Crawford. Within five minutes Sir George, Aunt Dorothy, and Madge returned to the room.

“Dorothy?” said Madge in a low voice.

“Here I am, Madge,” murmured Dorothy, who was sitting on the bench by the blazoned window. Madge walked gropingly over to her cousin and sat by her side, taking her hand. Then Lady Crawford spoke to Dorothy:

“Your father wishes me to say that you must go to your apartments in Entrance Tower, and that you shall not leave them without his consent. He also insists that I say to you if you make resistance or objection to this decree, or if you attempt to escape, he will cause you to be manacled and confined in the dungeon, and that no persuasion upon our part will lead him from his purpose.”

“Which shall it be?” asked Sir George, directing his question to Lady Crawford.

Dorothy lifted her eyebrows, bit the corner of her lip, shrugged her shoulders, and said:

“Indeed, it makes no difference to me where you send me, father; I am willing to do whatever will give you the greatest happiness. If you consult my wishes, you will have me whipped in the courtyard till I bleed. I should enjoy that more than anything else you can do. Ah, how tender is the love of a father! It passeth understanding.”

“Come to your apartments, Dorothy,” said Lady Crawford, anxious to separate the belligerents. “I have given your father my word of honor that I will guard you and will keep you prisoner in your rooms. Do you not pity me? I gave my promise only to save you from the dungeon, and painful as the task will be, I will keep my word to your father.”

“Which shall it be, father?” asked Dorothy. “You shall finish the task you began. I shall not help you in your good work by making choice. You shall choose my place of imprisonment. Where shall it be? Shall I go to my rooms or to the dungeon?”

“Go to your rooms,” answered Sir George, “and let me never see ” but Sir George did not finish the sentence. He hurriedly left the hall, and Dorothy cheerfully went to imprisonment in Entrance Tower.