Peace had been restored between Dorothy and her father. At least an armistice had been tacitly declared. But, owing to Dorothy’s knowledge of her father’s intention that she should marry Lord Stanley, and because of Sir George’s feeling that Dorothy had determined to do nothing of the sort, the belligerent powers maintained a defensive attitude which rendered an absolute reconciliation impossible. They were ready for war at a moment’s notice.

The strangest part of their relation was the failure of each to comprehend and fully to realize the full strength of the other’s purpose. Dorothy could not bring herself to believe that her father, who had until within the last few weeks, been kind and indulgent to her, seriously intended to force her into marriage with a creature so despicable as Stanley. In fact, she did not believe that her father could offer lasting resistance to her ardent desire in any matter. Such an untoward happening had never befallen her. Dorothy had learned to believe from agreeable experience that it was a crime in any one, bordering on treason, to thwart her ardent desires. It is true she had in certain events, been compelled to coax and even to weep gently. On a few extreme occasions she had been forced to do a little storming in order to have her own way; but that any presumptuous individuals should resist her will after the storming had been resorted to was an event of such recent happening in her life that she had not grown familiar with the thought of it. Therefore, while she felt that her father might seriously annoy her with the Stanley project, and while she realized that she might be compelled to resort to the storming process in a degree thitherto uncalled for, she believed that the storm she would raise would blow her father entirely out of his absurd and utterly untenable position. On the other hand, while Sir George anticipated trouble with Dorothy, he had never been able to believe that she would absolutely refuse to obey him. In those olden times now nearly half a century past filial disobedience was rare. The refusal of a child to obey a parent, and especially the refusal of a daughter to obey her father in the matter of marriage, was then looked upon as a crime and was frequently punished in a way which amounted to barbarous ferocity. Sons, being of the privileged side of humanity, might occasionally disobey with impunity, but woe to the poor girl who dared set up a will of her own. A man who could not compel obedience from his daughter was looked upon as a poor weakling, and contempt was his portion in the eyes of his fellow-men in the eyes of his fellow-brutes, I should like to say.

Growing out of such conditions was the firm belief on the part of Sir George that Dorothy would in the end obey him; but if by any hard chance she should be guilty of the high crime of disobedience Well! Sir George intended to prevent the crime. Perhaps mere stubborness and fear of the contempt in which he would be held by his friends in case he were defeated by his own daughter were no small parts of Sir George’s desire to carry through the enterprise in which he had embarked with the Stanleys. Although there was no doubt in Sir George’s mind that he would eventually conquer in the conflict with Dorothy, he had a profound respect for the power of his antagonist to do temporary battle, and he did not care to enter into actual hostilities until hostilities should become actually necessary.

Therefore, upon the second day after I had read the beribboned, besealed contract to Sir George, he sent an advance guard toward the enemy’s line. He placed the ornamental piece of parchment in Lady Crawford’s hands and directed her to give it to Dorothy.

But before I tell you of the parchment I must relate a scene that occurred in Aunt Dorothy’s room a few hours after I recognized John as he rode up the Wye with Dorothy. It was late in the afternoon of the day after I read the contract to Sir George and saw the horrid vision on Bowling Green.

I was sitting with Madge at the west window of Dorothy’s parlor. We were watching the sun as it sank in splendor beneath Overhaddon Hill.

I should like first to tell you a few words only a few, I pray you concerning Madge and myself. I will.

I have just said that Madge and I were watching the sun at the west window, and I told you but the truth, for Madge had learned to see with my eyes. Gladly would I have given them to her outright, and willingly would I have lived in darkness could I have given light to her. She gave light to me the light of truth, of purity, and of exalted motive. There had been no words spoken by Madge nor me to any one concerning the strange and holy chain that was welding itself about us, save the partial confession which she had whispered to Dorothy. But notwithstanding our silence, our friends in the Hall understood that Madge and I were very dear to each other. I, of course, saw a great deal of her; but it was the evening hour at the west window to which I longingly looked forward all the day. I am no poet, nor do my words and thoughts come with the rhythmic flow and eloquent imagery of one to whom the talent of poesy is given. But during those evening hours it seemed that with the soft touch of Madge’s hand there ran through me a current of infectious dreaming which kindled my soul till thoughts of beauty came to my mind and words of music sprang to my lips such as I had always considered not to be in me. It was not I who spoke; it was Madge who saw with my eyes and spoke with my voice. To my vision, swayed by Madge’s subtle influence, the landscape became a thing of moving beauty and of life, and the floating clouds became a panorama of ever shifting pictures. I, inspired by her, described so eloquently the wonders I saw that she, too, could see them. Now a flock of white-winged angels rested on the low-hung azure of the sky, watching the glory of Phoebus as he drove his fiery steeds over the western edge of the world. Again, Mount Olympus would grow before my eyes, and I would plainly see Jove sitting upon his burnished throne, while gods and goddesses floated at his feet and revelled on the fleecy mountain sides. Then would mountain, gods, and goddesses dissolve, as in fact they did dissolve ages ago before the eyes of millions who had thought them real, and in their places perhaps would come a procession of golden-maned lions, at the description of which would Madge take pretended fright. Again, would I see Madge herself in flowing white robes made of the stuff from which fleecy clouds are wrought. All these wonders would I describe, and when I would come to tell her of the fair cloud image of herself I would seize the joyous chance to make her understand in some faint degree how altogether lovely in my eyes the vision was. Then would she smile and softly press my hand and say:

“Malcolm, it must be some one else you see in the cloud,” though she was pleased.

But when the hour was done then came the crowning moment of the day, for as I would rise to take my leave, if perchance we were alone, she would give herself to my arms for one fleeting instant and willingly would her lips await but there are moments too sacred for aught save holy thought. The theme is sweet to me, but I must go back to Dorothy and tell you of the scene I have promised you.

As I have already said, it was the evening following that upon which I had read the marriage contract to Sir George, and had seen the vision on the hillside. Madge and I were sitting at the west window. Dorothy, in kindness to us, was sitting alone by the fireside in Lady Crawford’s chamber. Thomas entered the room with an armful of fagots, which he deposited in the fagot-holder. He was about to replenish the fire, but Dorothy thrust him aside, and said:

“You shall kindle no more fires for me. At least you shall not do so when no one else is by. It pains me that you, at whose feet I am unworthy to kneel, should be my servant”

Thereupon she took in her hands the fagot John had been holding. He offered to prevent her, but she said:

“Please, John, let me do this.”

The doors were open, and we heard all that was said by Dorothy and Tom. Madge grasped my hand in surprise and fear.

“Please, John,” said Dorothy, “if it gives me pleasure to be your servant, you should not wish to deny me. There lives but one person whom I would serve. There, John, I will give you another, and you shall let me do as I will.”

Dorothy, still holding the fagot in her hands, pressed it against John’s breast and gently pushed him backward toward a large armchair, in which she had been sitting by the west side of the fireplace.

“You sit there, John, and we will make believe that this is our house, and that you have just come in very cold from a ride, and that I am making a fine fire to warm you. Isn’t it pleasant, John? There, you sit and warm yourself my my husband,” she said laughingly. “It is fine sport even to play at. There is one fagot on the fire,” she said, as she threw the wood upon the embers, causing them to fly in all directions. John started up to brush the scattered embers back into the fireplace, but Dorothy stopped him.

“I will put them all back,” she said. “You know you are cold and very tired. You have been overseeing the tenantry and have been hunting. Will you have a howl of punch, my my husband?” and she laughed again and kissed him as she passed to the holder for another fagot.

“I much prefer that to punch,” said John, laughing softly. “Have you more?”

“Thousands of them, John, thousands of them.” She rippled forth a little laugh and continued: “I occupy my time nowadays in making them that I may always have a great supply when we are that is, you know, when you when the time comes that you may require a great many to keep you in good humor.” Again came the laugh, merry and clear as the tinkle of sterling silver.

She laughed again within a minute or two; but when the second laugh came, it sounded like a knell.

Dorothy delighted to be dressed in the latest fashion. Upon this occasion she wore a skirt vast in width, of a pattern then much in vogue. The sleeves also were preposterously large, in accordance with the custom of the times. About her neck a beautiful white linen ruff stood out at least the eighth part of an ell. The day had been damp and cold, and the room in which she had been sitting was chilly. For that reason, most fortunately, she had thrown over her shoulders a wide sable cloak broad enough to enfold her many times and long enough to reach nearly to her knees: Dorothy thus arrayed was standing in front of John’s chair. She had just spoken the words “good humor,” when the door leading to her father’s room opened and in walked Sir George. She and her ample skirts and broad sleeves were between John and the door. Not one brief instant did Dorothy waste in thought. Had she paused to put in motion the machinery of reason, John would have been lost. Thomas sitting in Lady Crawford’s chair and Dorothy standing beside him would have told Sir George all he needed to know. He might not have discovered John’s identity, but a rope and a tree in Bowling Green would quickly have closed the chapter of Dorothy’s mysterious love affair. Dorothy, however, did not stop to reason nor to think. She simply acted without preliminary thought, as the rose unfolds or as the lightning strikes. She quietly sat down upon John’s knees, leaned closely back against him, spread out the ample folds of her skirt, threw the lower parts of her broad cape over her shoulders and across the back of the chair, and Sir John Manners was invisible to mortal eyes.

“Come in, father,” said Dorothy, in dulcet tones that should have betrayed her.

“I heard you laughing and talking,” said Sir George, “and I wondered who was with you.”

“I was talking to Madge and Malcolm who are in the other room,” replied Dorothy.

“Did not Thomas come in with fagots?” asked Sir George.

“I think he is replenishing the fire in the parlor, father, or he may have gone out. I did not notice. Do you want him?”

“I do not especially want him,” Sir George answered.

“When he finishes in the parlor I will tell him that you want him,” said Dorothy.

“Very well,” replied Sir George.

He returned to his room, but he did not close the door.

The moment her father’s back was turned Dorothy called:

“Tom Tom, father wants you,” and instantly Thomas was standing deferentially by her side, and she was seated in the great chair. It was a rapid change, I assure you. But a man’s life and his fortune for good or ill often hang upon a tiny peg a second of time protruding from the wall of eternity. It serves him briefly; but if he be ready for the vital instant, it may serve him well.

“Yes, mistress,” said Thomas, “I go to him at once.”

John left the room and closed the door as he passed out. Then it was that Dorothy’s laugh sounded like the chilling tones of a knell. It was the laugh of one almost distraught. She came to Madge and me laughing, but the laugh quickly changed to convulsive sobs. The strain of the brief moment during which her father had been in Lady Crawford’s room had been too great for even her strong nerves to bear. She tottered and would have fallen had I not caught her. I carried her to the bed, and Madge called Lady Crawford. Dorothy had swooned.

When she wakened she said dreamily:

“I shall always keep this cloak and gown.”

Aunt Dorothy thought the words were but the incoherent utterances of a dimly conscious mind, but I knew they were the deliberate expression of a justly grateful heart.

The following evening trouble came about over the matter of the marriage contract.

You remember I told you that Sir George had sent Lady Crawford as an advance guard to place the parchment in the enemy’s hands. But the advance guard feared the enemy and therefore did not deliver the contract directly to Dorothy. She placed it conspicuously upon the table, knowing well that her niece’s curiosity would soon prompt an examination.

I was sitting before the fire in Aunt Dorothy’s room, talking to Madge when Lady Crawford entered, placed the parchment on the table, and took a chair by my side. Soon Dorothy entered the room. The roll of parchment, brave with ribbons, was lying on the table. It attracted her attention at once, and she took it in her hands.

“What is this?” she asked carelessly. Her action was prompted entirely by idle curiosity. That, by the way, was no small motive with Dorothy. She had the curiosity of a young doe. Receiving no answer, she untied the ribbons and unrolled the parchment to investigate its contents for herself. When the parchment was unrolled, she began to read:

“In the name of God, amen. This indenture of agreement, looking to union in the holy bonds of marriage between the Right Honorable Lord James Stanley of the first part, and Mistress Dorothy Vernon of Haddon of the second part ”

She read no farther. She crumpled the beautiful parchment in her hands, walked over to the fire, and quietly placed the sacred instrument in the midst of the flames. Then she turned away with a sneer of contempt upon her face and again I grieve to tell you this said:

“In the name of God, amen. May this indenture be damned.”

“Dorothy!” exclaimed Lady Crawford, horrified at her niece’s profanity. “I feel shame for your impious words.”

“I don’t care what you feel, aunt,” retorted Dorothy, with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Feel as you wish, I meant what I said, and I will say it again if you would like to hear it. I will say it to father when I see him. Now, Aunt Dorothy, I love you and I love my father, but I give you fair warning there is trouble ahead for any one who crosses me in this matter.”

She certainly looked as if she spoke the truth. Then she hummed a tune under her breath a dangerous signal in Dorothy at certain times. Soon the humming turned to whistling. Whistling in those olden days was looked upon as a species of crime in a girl.

Dorothy stood by the window for a short time and then taking up an embroidery frame, drew a chair nearer to the light and began to work at her embroidery. In a moment or two she stopped whistling, and we could almost feel the silence in the room. Madge, of course, only partly knew what had happened, and her face wore an expression of expectant, anxious inquiry. Aunt Dorothy looked at me, and I looked at the fire. The parchment burned slowly. Lady Crawford, from a sense of duty to Sir George and perhaps from politic reasons, made two or three attempts to speak, and after five minutes of painful silence she brought herself to say:

“Dorothy, your father left the contract here for you to read. He will be angry when he learns what you have done. Such disobedience is sure to ”

“Not another word from you,” screamed Dorothy, springing like a tigress from her chair. “Not another word from you or I will I will scratch you. I will kill some one. Don’t speak to me. Can’t you see that I am trying to calm myself for an interview with father? An angry brain is full of blunders. I want to make none. I will settle this affair with father. No one else, not even you, Aunt Dorothy, shall interfere.” The girl turned to the window, stood beating a tattoo upon the glass for a moment or two, then went over to Lady Crawford and knelt by her side. She put her arms about Aunt Dorothy’s neck, softly kissed her, and said:

“Forgive me, dear aunt; forgive me. I am almost crazed with my troubles. I love you dearly indeed, indeed I do.”

Madge gropingly went to Dorothy’s side and took her hand. Dorothy kissed Madge’s hand and rose to her feet.

“Where is my father?” asked Dorothy, to whom a repentant feeling toward Lady Crawford had brought partial calmness. “I will go to him immediately and will have this matter over. We might as well understand each other at once. Father seems very dull at understanding me. But he shall know me better before long.”

Sir George may have respected the strength of his adversary, but Dorothy had no respect for the strength of her foe. She was eager for the fray. When she had a disagreeable thing to do, she always wanted to do it quickly.

Dorothy was saved the trouble of seeking her father, for at that moment he entered the room.

“You are welcome, father,” said Dorothy in cold, defiant tones. “You have come just in time to see the last flickering flame of your fine marriage contract.” She led him to the fireplace. “Does it not make a beautiful smoke and blaze?”

“Did you dare ”

“Ay, that I did,” replied Dorothy.

“You dared?” again asked her father, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes.

“Ay, so I said; that I did,” again said Dorothy.

“By the death of Christ ” began Sir George.

“Now be careful, father, about your oaths,” the girl interrupted. “You must not forget the last batch you made and broke.”

Dorothy’s words and manner maddened Sir George. The expression of her whole person, from her feet to her hair, breathed defiance. The poise of her body and of her limbs, the wild glint in her eyes, and the turn of her head, all told eloquently that Sir George had no chance to win and that Dorothy was an unconquerable foe. It is a wonder he did not learn in that one moment that he could never bring his daughter to marry Lord Stanley.

“I will imprison you,” cried Sir George, gasping with rage.

“Very well,” responded Dorothy, smilingly. “You kept me prisoner for a fortnight. I did not ask you to liberate me. I am ready to go back to my apartments.”

“But now you shall go to the dungeon,” her father said.

“Ah, the dungeon!” cried the girl, as if she were delighted at the thought. “The dungeon! Very well, again. I am ready to go to the dungeon. You may keep me there the remainder of my natural life. I cannot prevent you from doing that, but you cannot force me to marry Lord Stanley.”

“I will starve you until you obey me!” retorted her father. “I will starve you!”

“That, again, you may easily do, my dear father; but again I tell you I will never marry Stanley. If you think I fear to die, try to kill me. I do not fear death. You have it not in your power to make me fear you or anything you can do. You may kill me, but I thank God it requires my consent for my marriage to Stanley, and I swear before God that never shall be given.”

The girl’s terrible will and calm determination staggered Sir George, and by its force beat down even his strong will. The infuriated old man wavered a moment and said:

“Fool, I seek only your happiness in this marriage. Only your happiness. Why will you not consent to it?”

I thought the battle was over, and that Dorothy was the victor. She thought so, too, but was not great enough to bear her triumph silently. She kept on talking and carried her attack too far.

“And I refuse to obey because of my happiness. I refuse because I hate Lord Stanley, and because, as you already know, I love another man.”

When she spoke the words “because I love another man,” the cold, defiant expression of her face changed to one of ecstasy.

“I will have you to the dungeon this very hour, you brazen huzzy,” cried Sir George.

“How often, father, shall I repeat that I am ready to go to the dungeon? I am eager to obey you in all things save one.”

“You shall have your wish,” returned Sir George. “Would that you had died ere you had disgraced your house with a low-bred dog whose name you are ashamed to utter.”

“Father, there has been no disgrace,” Dorothy answered, and her words bore the ring of truth.

“You have been meeting the fellow at secluded spots in the forest how frequently you have met him God only knows and you lied to me when you were discovered at Bowling Green Gate.”

“I would do it again gladly if I but had the chance,” answered the girl, who by that time was reckless of consequences.

“But the chance you shall not have,” retorted Sir George.

“Do not be too sure, father,” replied Dorothy. She was unable to resist the temptation to mystify him. “I may see him before another hour. I will lay you this wager, father, if I do not within one hour see the man the man whom I love I will marry Lord Stanley. If I see him within that time you shall permit me to marry him. I have seen him two score times since the day you surprised me at the gate.”

That was a dangerous admission for the girl to make, and she soon regretted it with all her heart. Truly she was right. An angry brain is full of blunders.

Of course Dorothy’s words, which were so full of meaning to Madge and me, meant little to Sir George. He looked upon them only as irritating insolence on her part. A few minutes later, however, they became full of significance.

Sir George seemed to have forgotten the Stanley marriage and the burning of the contract in his quarrel with Dorothy over her unknown lover.

Conceive, if you can, the situation in Haddon Hall at that time. There was love-drunk Dorothy, proud of the skill which had enabled her to outwit her wrathful father. There was Sir George, whose mental condition, inflamed by constant drinking, bordered on frenzy because he felt that his child, whom he had so tenderly loved from the day of her birth, had disgraced herself with a low-born wretch whom she refused to name. And there, under the same roof, lived the man who was the root and source of all the trouble. A pretty kettle of fish!

“The wager, father, will you take it?” eagerly asked Dorothy.

Sir George, who thought that her words were spoken only to anger him, waved her off with his hands and said:

“I have reason to believe that I know the wretch for whose sake you have disgraced yourself. You may be sure that I shall soon know him with certainty. When I do, I will quickly have him in my power. Then I will hang him to a tree on Bowling Green, and you shall see the low-born dog die.”

“He is better born than any of our house,” retorted Dorothy, who had lost all sense of caution. “Ay, he is better born than any with whom we claim kin.”

Sir George stood in open-eyed wonder, and Dorothy continued: “You cannot keep him from me. I shall see him, and I will have him despite you. I tell you again, I have seen him two score times since you tried to spy upon us at Bowling Green Gate, and I will see him whenever I choose, and I will wed him when I am ready to do so. You cannot prevent it. You can only be forsworn, oath upon oath; and if I were you, I would stop swearing.”

Sir George, as was usual with him in those sad times, was inflamed with drink, and Dorothy’s conduct, I must admit, was maddening. In the midst of her taunting Thomas stepped into the room bearing an armful of fagots. Sir George turned to him and said:

“Go and tell Welch to bring a set of manacles.”

“For Mistress Dorothy?” Thomas asked, surprised into the exclamation.

“Curse you, do you mean to bandy words with me, you scum?” cried Sir George.

He snatched a fagot from John and drew back his arm to strike him. John took one step back from Sir George and one step nearer to Dorothy.

“Yes, Thomas,” said Dorothy, sneeringly, “bring Welch with the manacles for me. My dear father would put me in the dungeon out of the reach of other men, so that he may keep me safely for my unknown lover. Go, Thomas. Go, else father will again be forsworn before Christ and upon his knighthood.”

“This before a servant! I’ll gag you, you hellish vixen,” cried Sir George. Then I am sure he knew not what he did. “Curse you!” he cried, as he held the fagot upraised and rushed upon Dorothy. John, with his arms full of fagots, could not avert the blow which certainly would have killed the girl, but he could take it. He sprang between Dorothy and her father, the fagot fell upon his head, and he sank to the floor. In his fall John’s wig dropped off, and when the blood began to flow from the wound Dorothy kneeled beside his prostrate form. She snatched the great bush of false beard from his face and fell to kissing his lips and his hands in a paroxysm of passionate love and grief. Her kisses she knew to be a panacea for all ills John could be heir to, and she thought they would heal even the wound her father had given, and stop the frightful outpouring of John’s life-blood. The poor girl, oblivious of all save her wounded lover, murmured piteously:

“John, John, speak to me; ’tis Dorothy.” She placed her lips near his ear and whispered: “’Tis Dorothy, John. Speak to her.” But she received no response. Then came a wild light to her eyes and she cried aloud: “John, ’tis Dorothy. Open your eyes. Speak to me, John! oh, for God’s sake speak to me! Give some little sign that you live,” but John was silent. “My God, my God! Help, help! Will no one help me save this man? See you not that his life is flowing away? This agony will kill me. John, my lover, my lord, speak to me. Ah, his heart, his heart! I will know.” She tore from his breast the leathern doublet and placed her ear over his heart. “Thank God, it beats!” she cried in a frenzied whisper, as she kissed his breast and turned her ear again to hear his heart’s welcome throbbing. Then she tried to lift him in her arms and succeeded in placing his head in her lap. It was a piteous scene. God save me from witnessing another like it.

After Dorothy lifted John’s head to her lap he began to breathe perceptibly, and the girl’s agitation passed away as she gently stroked his hair and kissed him over and over again, softly whispering her love to his unresponsive ear in a gentle frenzy of ineffable tenderness such as was never before seen in this world, I do believe. I wish with all my heart that I were a maker of pictures so that I might draw for you the scene which is as clear and vivid in every detail to my eyes now as it was upon that awful day in Haddon Hall. There lay John upon the floor and by his side knelt Dorothy. His head was resting in her lap. Over them stood Sir George with the murderous fagot raised, as if he intended again to strike. I had sprung to his side and was standing by him, intending to fell him to the floor should he attempt to repeat the blow upon either Dorothy or John. Across from Sir George and me, that is, upon the opposite side of Dorothy and John, stood Lady Crawford and Madge, who clung to each other in terror. The silence was heavy, save when broken by Dorothy’s sobs and whispered ejaculations to John. Sir George’s terrible deed had deprived all of us, including himself, of the power to speak. I feared to move from his side lest he should strike again. After a long agony of silence he angrily threw the fagot away from him and asked:

“Who is this fellow? Can any one tell me?”

Only Madge, Dorothy, and I could have given him true answer. By some strange power of divination Madge had learned all that had happened, and she knew as well as I the name of the man who lay upon the floor battling with death. Neither Madge nor I answered.

“Who is this fellow?” again demanded Sir George.

Dorothy lifted her face toward her father.

“He is the man whom you seek, father,” she answered, in a low, tearful voice. “He is my lover; he is my life; he is my soul, and if you have murdered him in your attempt to kill your own child, all England shall hear of it and you shall hang. He is worth more in the eyes of the queen than we and all our kindred. You know not whom you have killed.”

Sir George’s act had sobered him.

“I did not intend to kill him in that manner,” said Sir George, dropping his words absent-mindedly. “I hoped to hang him. Where is Dawson? Some one fetch Dawson.”

Several of the servants had gathered about the open door in the next room, and in obedience to Sir George’s command one of them went to seek the forester. I feared that John would die from the effects of the blow; but I also knew from experience that a man’s head may receive very hard knocks and life still remain. Should John recover and should Sir George learn his name, I was sure that my violent cousin would again attempt the personal administration of justice and would hang him, under the old Saxon law. In that event Parliament would not be so easily pacified as upon the occasion of the former hanging at Haddon; and I knew that if John should die by my cousin’s hand, Sir George would pay for the act with his life and his estates. Fearing that Sir George might learn through Dawson of John’s identity, I started out in search of Will to have a word with him before he could see his master. I felt sure that for many reasons Will would be inclined to save John; but to what extent his fidelity to the cause of his master might counteract his resentment of Sir George’s act, I did not know. I suspected that Dawson was privy to John’s presence in Haddon Hall, but I was not sure of it, so I wished to prepare the forester for his interview with Sir George and to give him a hint of my plans for securing John’s safety, in the event he should not die in Aunt Dorothy’s room.

When I opened the door in the Northwest Tower I saw Dawson coming toward the Hall from the dove-cote, and I hastened forward to meet him. It was pitiful that so good a man as Sir George Vernon was, should have been surrounded in his own house by real friends who were also traitors. That was the condition of affairs in Haddon Hall, and I felt that I was the chief offender. The evil, however, was all of Sir George’s making. Tyranny is the father of treason.

When I met Dawson I said: “Will, do you know who Tom-Tom is?”

The forester hesitated for a moment, and said, “Well, Sir Malcolm, I suppose he is Thomas ”

“No, no, Will, tell me the truth. Do you know that he is or perhaps by this time I should say he was Sir John Manners?”

“Was?” cried Will. “Great God! Has Sir George discovered is he dead? If he is dead, it will be a sad day for Sir George and for Haddon Hall. Tell me quickly.”

I at once knew Will Dawson was in the secret. I answered:

“I hope he is not dead. Sir George attempted to strike Dorothy with a fagot, but Thomas stepped in front of her and received the blow. He is lying almost, if not quite, dead in Lady Crawford’s room. Sir George knows nothing about him, save that he is Dorothy’s lover. But should Thomas revive I feel sure my cousin will hang him in the morning unless steps are taken to prevent the deed.”

“Sir Malcolm, if you will stand by me,” said Dawson, “Sir George will not hang him.”

“I certainly will stand by you, Dawson. Have no doubt on that score. Sir George intends to cast John into the dungeon, and should he do so I want you to send Jennie Faxton to Rutland and have her tell the Rutlanders to rescue John to-night. To-morrow morning I fear will be too late. Be on your guard, Will. Do not allow Sir George to discover that you have any feeling in this matter. Above all, lead him from the possibility of learning that Thomas is Sir John Manners. I will contrive to admit the Rutland men at midnight.”

I hastened with Dawson back to the Hall, where we found the situation as I had left it. John’s head was lying on Dorothy’s lap, and she was trying to dress his wound with pieces of linen torn from her clothing. Sir George was pacing to and fro across the room, breaking forth at times in curses against Dorothy because of her relations with a servant.

When Dawson and I entered the room, Sir George spoke angrily to Will:

“Who is this fellow? You employed him. Who is he?”

“He gave me his name as Thomas Thompson,” returned Will, “and he brought me a favorable letter of recommendation from Danford.”

Danford was forester to the Duke of Devonshire, and lived at Chatsworth.

“There was naught in the letter save that he was a good servant and an honest man. That is all we can ask of any man.”

“But who is he?” again demanded Sir George.

“Your worship may perhaps learn from Danford more than I can tell you,” replied the forester, adroitly avoiding a lie.

“Think of it, Malcolm,” said Sir George, speaking to me. “Think of it. My daughter, my only child, seeks for her husband this low-born serving man. I have always been sure that the fellow would prove to be such.” Then he turned to Dawson: “Throw the fellow into the dungeon. If he lives till morning, I will have him hanged. To the dungeon with him.”

Sir George waved his hand toward Dawson and Tom Welch, and then stepped aside. Will made an effort to hide his feelings, and without a word or gesture that could betray him, he and Welch lifted John to carry him away. Then it was piteous to see Dorothy. She clung to John and begged that he might be left with her. Sir George violently thrust her away from John’s side, but she, still upon her knees, grasped her father’s hand and cried out in agony:

“Father, let me remain with him. If you have ever felt love for me, and if my love for you has ever touched one tender spot in your heart, pity me now and leave this man with me, or let me go with him. I beg you, father; I plead; I implore. He may be dying. We know not. In this hour of my agony be merciful to me.”

But Sir George rudely repulsed her and left the room, following Welch and Dawson, who bore John’s unconscious form between them. Dorothy rose to her feet screaming and tried to follow John. I, fearing that in her frenzy of grief she might divulge John’s name, caught her in my arms and detained her by force. She turned upon me savagely and struck me in her effort to escape. She called me traitor, villain, dog, but I lifted her in my arms and carried her struggling to her bedroom. I wanted to tell her of the plans which Dawson and I had made, but I feared to do so, lest she might in some way betray them, so I left her in the room with Lady Crawford and Madge. I told Lady Crawford to detain Dorothy at all hazards, and I whispered to Madge asking her to tell Dorothy that I would look to John’s comfort and safety. I then hastily followed Sir George, Dawson, and Welch, and in a few moments I saw them leave John, bleeding and senseless, upon the dungeon floor. When Sir George’s back was turned, Dawson by my orders brought the surgeon from the stable where he had been working with the horses. The surgeon bound up the wound in John’s head and told me, to my great joy, that it was not fatal. Then he administered a reviving potion and soon consciousness returned. I whispered to John that Dawson and I would not forsake him, and, fearing discovery by Sir George, hurriedly left the dungeon.

I believe there is a certain amount of grief and sorrow which comes with every great joy to give it a cost mark whereby we may always know its value. The love between Dorothy and John indeed was marked in plain figures of high denominations.