On Leaving the dungeon I sought Madge, and after I had whispered a word to her from my heart I asked her to tell Dorothy the encouraging words of the surgeon, and also to tell her that she should not be angry with me until she was sure she had good cause. I dared not send a more explicit message, and I dared not go to Dorothy, for Sir George was in a suspicious mood and I feared ruin not only for myself but for John, should my violent cousin suspect me of sympathy with his daughter and her lover.

I also sought Aunt Dorothy and whispered a word to her of which you shall hear more presently.

“Ah, I cannot do it,” cried the trembling old lady in response to my whispered request. “I cannot do it.”

“But you must, Aunt Dorothy,” I responded. “Upon it depend three lives: Sir George’s, Dorothy’s, and her lover’s. You must do it.”

“I will try,” she replied.

“That assurance will not suit me,” I responded. “You must promise upon your salvation that you will not fail me.”

“I promise upon my salvation,” replied Aunt Dorothy.

That evening of course we did not see the ladies at supper. Sir George and I ate in silence until my cousin became talkative from drink. Then he spoke bitterly of Dorothy’s conduct, and bore with emphasis upon the fact that the lover to whom Dorothy had stooped was a low-born serving man.

“But Dorothy declares he is noble,” I responded.

“She has lied to me so often that I do not believe a word she says,” returned Sir George.

He swore oath upon oath that the wretch should hang in the morning, and for the purpose of carrying into effect his intention he called in Joe the butcher and told him to make all things ready for the execution.

I did not attempt to thwart his purpose by word or gesture, knowing it would be useless, but hoped that John would be out of his reach long ere the cock would crow his first greeting to the morrow’s sun.

After Sir George had drunk far into the night the servants helped him to bed, and he carried with him the key to the dungeon together with the keys to all the outer doors and gates of Haddon Hall, as was his custom. The keys were in a bunch, held together by an iron ring, and Sir George always kept them under his pillow at night.

I sought my bed in Eagle Tower and lay down in my clothes to rest and wait. The window of my room was open.

Within an hour after midnight I heard the hooting of an owl. The doleful sound came up to me from the direction of the stone footbridge at the southwest corner of the Hall below the chapel. I went to my window and looked out over the courts and terrace. Haddon Hall and all things in and about it were wrapped in slumbrous silence. I waited, and again I heard the hooting of the owl. Noiselessly leaving my room I descended the stone steps to an unused apartment in the tower from which a window opened upon the roof of the north wing of the Hall. Along that roof I crept with bared feet, till I reached another roof, the battlements of which at the lowest point were not more than twenty feet from the ground. Thence I clambered down to a window cornice five or six feet lower, and jumped, at the risk of my limbs, the remaining distance of fifteen or sixteen feet to the soft sod beneath. I ran with all haste, took my stand under Aunt Dorothy’s window, and whistled softly. The window casing opened and I heard the great bunch of keys jingling and clinking against the stone wall as Aunt Dorothy paid them out to me by means of a cord. After I had secured the keys I called in a whisper to Lady Crawford and directed her to leave the cord hanging from the window. I also told her to remain in readiness to draw up the keys when they should have served their purpose. Then I took them and ran to the stone footbridge where I found four Rutland men who had come in response to the message Dawson had sent by Jennie Faxton. Two of the men went with me, and we entered the lower garden by the southwest postern. Thence we crept noiselessly to the terrace and made our entrance into the Hall by “Dorothy’s Postern.” I had in my life engaged in many questionable and dangerous enterprises, but this was my first attempt at house-breaking. To say that I was nervous would but poorly define the state of my feelings. Since that day I have respected the high calling of burglary and regard with favor the daring knights of the skeleton key. I was frightened. I, who would feel no fear had I to fight a dozen men, trembled with fright during this adventure. The deathlike silence and the darkness in familiar places seemed uncanny to me. The very chairs and tables appeared to be sleeping, and I was fearful lest they should awaken. I cannot describe to you how I was affected. Whether it was fear or awe or a smiting conscience I cannot say, but my teeth chattered as if they were in the mouth of a fool, and my knees quaked as if they supported a coward. Still I knew I was doing my duty, though one’s conscience sometimes smites him when his reason tells him he is acting righteously. It is more dangerous to possess a sensitive conscience which cannot be made to hear reason than to have none at all. But I will make short my account of that night’s doings. The two Rutland men and I groped our way to the dungeon and carried forth John, who was weak from loss of blood. I told them to lock the door of the Hall as they passed out and to attach the keys to the cord hanging from Lady Crawford’s window. Then I climbed to my room again, feeling in conscience like a criminal because I had done the best act of my life.

Early next morning I was awakened by a great noise in the upper court. When I looked out at my window I beheld Sir George. He was half dressed and was angrily questioning the servants and retainers. I knew that he had discovered John’s escape, but I did not know all, nor did I know the worst. I dressed and went to the kitchen, where I bathed my hands and face. There I learned that the keys to the hall had been stolen from under Sir George’s pillow, and that the prisoner had escaped from the dungeon. Old Bess, the cook, nodded her head wisely and whispered to me the words, “Good for Mistress Doll.”

Bess’s unsought confidence alarmed me. I did not relish the thought that Bess nor any one else should believe me to be in sympathy with Dorothy, and I said:

“If Mistress Vernon had aught to do with last night’s affairs, she should be full of shame. I will not believe that she knew of it at all. My opinion is that one of the servants was bribed by some person interested in Tom-Tom’s escape.”

“Believe nothing of the sort,” retorted Bess. “It is the mistress and not the servant who stole the keys and liberated Tom-Tom. But the question is, who may Tom-Tom be? and the servants’ hall is full of it. We are not uncertain as to the manner of his escape. Some of the servants do say that the Earl of Leicester be now visiting the Duke of Devonshire; and some also do say that his Lordship be fond of disguises in his gallantry. They do also say that the queen is in love with him, and that he must disguise himself when he woos elsewhere, or she be’s famously jealous. It would be a pretty mess the master has brought us all into should Tom-Tom prove to be my lord Earl of Leicester. We’d all hang and to hell.”

“Bess, that tongue of yours will cost you your head one of these good times,” I remarked, while I rubbed my face with the towel.

“I would sooner lose my head,” retorted Bess, “than have my mouth shut by fear. I know, Sir Malcolm, that I’ll not die till my time comes; but please the good God when my time does come I will try to die talking.”

“That you will,” said I.

“True word, Sir Malcolm,” she answered, and I left her in possession of the field.

I went into the courtyard, and when Sir George saw me he said, “Malcolm, come with me to my room; I want a word with you.”

We went to his room.

“I suppose you know of the fellow’s escape last night?” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, “Bess told me about it in the kitchen.”

It seemed to me that my words said, “I did it.”

“Not only was the fellow liberated,” said my cousin, “but the keys to all the outer gates and doors of the Hall have been stolen and carried away. Can you help me unravel this affair?”

“Do you suspect any one of having stolen the keys?” I asked.

“I know, of course, that Dorothy did it. Who her accomplices were, if any she had, I do not know. I have catechized the servants, but the question is bottomless to me.”

“Have you spoken to Dorothy on the subject?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “but I have sent word to her by the Faxton girl that I am going to see her at once. Come with me.”

We went into Lady Crawford’s room. She was ill and in bed. I did not wonder that she was ill after the experiences of the previous night. Sir George asked her if she had heard or seen Dorothy pass through her room during the night. She said:

“Dorothy did not pass through this room last night. I did not once close my eyes in sleep, and I should have seen her had she been here at all.”

Sir George entered Dorothy’s bedroom, and Lady Crawford beckoned me to go to her side.

“I waited till sunrise,” she said, “that I might draw up the keys.”

“Hush!” said I, “the cord?”

“I burned it,” she replied.

Then I followed Sir George into Dorothy’s room. Madge was dressed for the day, and Dorothy, who had been helping her, was making her own toilet. Her hair hung loose and fell like a cataract of sunshine over her bare shoulders. But no words that I can write would give you a conception of her wondrous beauty, and I shall not waste them in the attempt. When we entered the room she was standing at the mirror. She turned, comb in hand, toward Sir George and said:

“I suppose, father, you will accuse me of liberating Thomas.”

“You must know that I will accuse you,” replied Sir George.

“Then, father, for once you will accuse me falsely. I am overjoyed that he has escaped, and I certainly should have tried to liberate him had I thought it possible to do so. But I did not do it, though to tell you the truth I am sorry I did not.”

“I do not believe you,” her father replied.

“I knew you would not believe me,” answered Dorothy. “Had I liberated him I should probably have lied to you about it; therefore, I wonder not that you should disbelieve me. But I tell you again upon my salvation that I know nothing of the stealing of the keys nor of Tom-Tom’s escape. Believe me or not, I shall deny it no more.”

Madge gropingly went to Sir George’s side, and he tenderly put his arms about her, saying:

“I would that you were my daughter.” Madge took his hand caressingly.

“Uncle, I want to tell you that Dorothy speaks the truth,” she said. “I have been with her every moment since the terrible scene of yesterday evening. Neither Dorothy nor I closed our eyes in sleep all night long. She lay through the dark hours moaning, and I tried to comfort her. Our door was locked, and it was opened only by your messenger who brought the good news of Tom-Tom’s escape. I say good news, uncle, because his escape has saved you from the stain of murder. You are too brave a man to do murder, uncle.”

“How dare you,” said Sir George, taking his arm from Madge’s waist, “how dare you defend ”

“Now, uncle, I beg you pause and take a moment’s thought,” said Madge, interrupting him. “You have never spoken unkindly to me.”

“Nor will I, Madge, so long as I live. I know there is not a lie in you, and I am sure you believe to be true all you tell me, but Dorothy has deceived you by some adroit trick.”

“If she deceived me, she is a witch,” retorted Madge, laughing softly.

“That I am almost ready to believe is the case,” said Sir George. Dorothy, who was combing her hair at the mirror, laughed softly and said:

“My broomstick is under the bed, father.”

Sir George went into Lady Crawford’s room and shut the door, leaving me with the girls.

When her father had left, Dorothy turned upon me with fire in her eyes:

“Malcolm Vernon, if you ever lay hands upon me again as you did last night, I will I will scratch you. You pretended to be his friend and mine, but for a cowardly fear of my father you came between us and you carried me to this room by force. Then you locked the door and and”

“Did not Madge give you my message?” I asked, interrupting her.

“Yes, but did you not force me away from him when, through my fault, he was almost at death’s door?”

“Have your own way, Dorothy,” I said. “There lives not, I hope, another woman in the world so unreasoning and perverse as you.”

She tossed her head contemptuously and continued to comb her hair.

“How, suppose you,” I asked, addressing Dorothy’s back, as if I were seeking information, “how, suppose you, the Rutland people learned that John was confined in the Haddon dungeon, and how did they come by the keys?”

The girl turned for a moment, and a light came to her anger-clouded face as the rainbow steals across the blackened sky.

“Malcolm, Malcolm,” she cried, and she ran to me with her bare arms outstretched.

“Did you liberate him?” she asked. “How did you get the keys?”

“I know nothing of it, Dorothy, nothing,” I replied.

“Swear it, Malcolm, swear it,” she said.

“I will swear to nothing,” I said, unclasping her arms from my neck.

“Then I will kiss you,” she answered, “for you are my dear good brother, and never so long as I live will I again doubt you.”

But she did before long doubt me again, and with good cause.

Dorothy being in a gentle humor; I took advantage of the opportunity to warn her against betraying John’s name to her father. I also told her to ask her father’s forgiveness, and advised her to feign consent to the Stanley marriage. Matters had reached a point where some remedy, however desperate, must be applied.

Many persons, I fear, will condemn me for advising Dorothy to deceive her father; but what would you have had me do? Should I have told her to marry Stanley? Certainly not. Had I done so, my advice would have availed nothing. Should I have advised her to antagonize her father, thereby keeping alive his wrath, bringing trouble to herself and bitter regret to him? Certainly not. The only course left for me to advise was the least of three evils a lie. Three evils must be very great indeed when a lie is the least of them. In the vast army of evils with which this world swarms the lie usually occupies a proud position in the front rank. But at times conditions arise when, coward-like, he slinks to the rear and evils greater than he take precedence. In such sad case I found Dorothy, and I sought help from my old enemy, the lie. Dorothy agreed with me and consented to do all in her power to deceive her father, and what she could not do to that end was not worth doing.

Dorothy was anxious about John’s condition, and sent Jennie Faxton to Bowling Green, hoping a letter would be there for her. Jennie soon returned with a letter, and Dorothy once more was full of song, for John’s letter told her that he was fairly well and that he would by some means see her soon again despite all opposition.

“At our next meeting, my fair mistress,” John said in the letter, “you must be ready to come with me. I will wait no longer for you. In fairness to me and to yourself you shall not ask me to wait. I will accept no more excuses. You must come with me when next we meet.”

“Ah, well,” said Dorothy to Madge, “if I must go with him, I must. Why did he not talk in that fashion when we rode out together the last time? I like to be made to do what I want to do. He was foolish not to make me consent, or better still would it have been had he taken the reins of my horse and ridden off with me, with or against my will. I might have screamed, and I might have fought him, but I could not have hurt him, and he would have had his way, and and,” with a sigh, “I should have had my way.”

After a brief pause devoted to thought, she continued:

“If I were a man and were wooing a woman, I would first learn what she wanted to do and then and then, by my word, I would make her do it.”

I went from Dorothy’s room to breakfast, where I found Sir George. I took my seat at the table and he said:

“Who, in God’s name, suppose you, could have taken the keys from my pillow?”

“Is there any one whom you suspect?” I asked for lack of anything else to say.

“I at first thought, of course, that Dorothy had taken them,” he answered. “But Madge would not lie, neither would my sister. Dorothy would not hesitate to lie herself blue in the face, but for some reason I believed her when she told me she knew nothing of the affair. Her words sounded like truth for once.”

“I think, Sir George,” said I, “you should have left off ‘for once.’ Dorothy is not a liar. She has spoken falsely to you only because she fears you. I am sure that a lie is hateful to her.”

“Malcolm, I wish I could have your faith,” he responded. “By the way, Malcolm, have you ever seen the Earl of Leicester?”

“I saw him only once. He visited Scotland during the ceremonies at Queen Mary’s return from France. I saw him once, and then but briefly. Why do you ask?”

“It is whispered among the servants,” said Sir George, “that Leicester is at Chatsworth in disguise.”

Chatsworth was the home of the Duke of Devonshire, and was but a short distance from Haddon. After Sir George spoke, I remembered the words of old Bess.

“Still, I do not know why you ask.” I said.

“My reason is this,” replied Sir George; “Dorothy declared the fellow was of noble blood. It is said that Leicester loves gallant adventure incognito. He fears her Majesty’s jealousy if in such matters he acts openly. You remember the sad case of Mistress Robsart. I wonder what became of the girl? He made way with her in some murderous fashion, I am sure.” Sir George remained in revery for a moment, and then the poor old man cried in tones of distress: “Malcolm, if that fellow whom I struck last night was Leicester, and if he has been trying his hellish tricks on my Doll I I should pity her; I should not abuse her. I may have been wrong. If he has wronged Doll if he has wronged my girl, I will pursue him to the ends of the earth for vengeance. That is why I ask if you have ever seen the Earl of Leicester. Was the man who lay upon the floor last night Robert Dudley? If it were he, and if I had known it, I would have beaten him to death then and there. Poor Doll!”

Any one hearing the old man speak would easily have known that Doll was all that life held for him to love.

“I do not distinctly remember Leicester’s face,” I answered, “but since you speak of it, I believe there is a resemblance between him and the man we called Thomas. But even were it he, Sir George, you need have no fear for Dorothy. She of all women is able and willing to protect herself.”

“I will go to Dorothy and ask her to tell me the truth. Come with me.”

We again went to Dorothy’s room. She had, since I last saw her, received the letter from John of which I have spoken, and when we entered her parlor where she and Madge were eating breakfast we found her very happy. As a result she was willing and eager to act upon my advice.

She rose and turned toward her father.

“You told me, Doll, that the fellow was of noble blood. Did you speak the truth?”

“Yes, father, I spoke the truth. There is no nobler blood in England than his, save that of our royal queen. In that you may believe me, father, for I speak the truth.”

Sir George remained silent for a moment and then said:

“If the man is he whom I believe him to be he can have no true purpose with you. Tell me, my child the truth will bring no reproaches from me tell me, has he misused you in any way?”

“No, father, before God, he has been a true gentleman to me.”

The poor old man struggled for a moment with his emotions; then tears came to his eyes and he covered his face with his hands as he started to leave the room.

Dorothy ran to him and clasped her arms about his neck. Those two, father and child, were surely of one blood as shown in the storms of violence and tenderness by which their natures were alternately swept.

“Father, you may believe me; you do believe me,” said Dorothy. “Furthermore, I tell you that this man has treated me with all courtesy, nay, more: he has treated me with all the reverence he would have shown our queen.”

“He can have no true purpose with you, Doll,” said Sir George, who felt sure that Leicester was the man.

“But he has, father, a true purpose with me. He would make me his wife to-day would I consent.”

“Why then does he not seek you openly?”

“That he cannot do,” Dorothy responded hesitatingly.

“Tell me, Doll, who is the man?” asked Sir George.

I was standing behind him and Dorothy’s face was turned toward me. She hesitated, and I knew by her expression that she was about to tell all. Sir George, I believe, would have killed her had she done so. I placed my finger on my lips and shook my head.

Dorothy said: “That I cannot tell you, father. You are wasting words in asking me.”

“Is it because of his wish that you refuse to tell me his name?” asked Sir George. I nodded my head.

“Yes, father,” softly responded Dorothy in the old dangerous, dulcet tones.

“That is enough; I know who the man is.”

Dorothy kissed her father. He returned the caress, much to my surprise, and left the room.

When I turned to follow Sir George I glanced toward Dorothy. Her eyes were like two moons, so full were they of wonderment and inquiry.

I stopped with Sir George in his room. He was meditative and sad.

“I believe my Doll has told me the truth,” he said.

“Have no doubt of it, Sir George,” I replied.

“But what good intent can Leicester have toward my girl?” he asked.

“Of that I cannot say,” I replied; “but my dear cousin, of this fact be sure: if he have evil intent toward Dorothy, he will fail.”

“But there was the Robsart girl,” he replied.

“Ay,” said I, “but Dorothy Vernon is not Amy Robsart. Have no fear of your daughter. She is proof against both villany and craft. Had she been in Mistress Robsart’s place, Leicester would not have deserted her. Dorothy is the sort of woman men do not desert. What say you to the fact that Leicester might wish to make her his wife?”

“He may purpose to do so secretly, as in the case of the Robsart girl,” returned Sir George. “Go, Malcolm, and ask her if he is willing to make her his wife before the world.”

I was glad of an opportunity for a word with Dorothy, so I hastily went to her. I told her of the Leicester phase of the situation, and I also told her that her father had asked me if the man whom she loved was willing to make her his wife before the world.

“Tell my father,” said she, “that I will be no man’s wife save before all the world. A man who will not acknowledge me never shall possess me.”

I went back to Sir George and delivered the message word for word.

“She is a strange, strong girl, isn’t she, Malcolm?” said her father.

“She is her father’s child,” I replied.

“By my spurs she is. She should have been a man,” said Sir George, with a twinkle of admiration in his eyes. He admired a good fight even though he were beaten in it.

It is easy to be good when we are happy. Dorothy, the great disturber, was both. Therefore, peace reigned once more in Haddon Hall.

Letters frequently passed between John and Dorothy by the hand of Jennie Faxton, but John made no attempt to meet his sweetheart. He and Dorothy were biding their time.

A fortnight passed during which Cupid confined his operations to Madge and myself. For her sweet sake he was gracious and strewed our path with roses. I should delight to tell you of our wooing. She a fair young creature of eighteen, I a palpitating youth of thirty-five. I should love to tell you of Madge’s promise to be my wife, and of the announcement in the Hall of our betrothal; but there was little of interest in it to any one save ourselves, and I fear lest you should find it very sentimental and dull indeed. I should love to tell you also of the delightful walks which Madge and I took together along the sweet old Wye and upon the crest of Bowling Green; but above all would I love to tell you of the delicate rose tints that came to her cheek, and how most curiously at times, when my sweetheart’s health was bounding, the blessed light of day would penetrate the darkened windows of her eyes, and how upon such occasions she would cry out joyously, “Oh, Malcolm, I can dimly see.” I say I should love to tell you about all those joyous happenings, but after all I fear I should shrink from doing so in detail, for the feelings and sayings of our own hearts are sacred to us. It is much easier to tell of the love affairs of others.

A fortnight or three weeks passed quietly in Haddon Hall. Sir George had the notion firmly fixed in his head that the man whom Dorothy had been meeting held honorable intentions toward the girl. He did her the justice to believe that by reason of her strength and purity she would tolerate none other. At times he felt sure that the man was Leicester, and again he flouted the thought as impossible. If it were Leicester, and if he wished to marry Dorothy, Sir George thought the match certainly would be illustrious. Halting between the questions, “Is he Leicester?” and “Is he not Leicester?” Sir George did not press the Stanley nuptials, nor did he insist upon the signing of the contract. Dorothy received from her father full permission to go where and when she wished. But her father’s willingness to give her liberty excited her suspicions. She knew he would permit her to leave the Hall only that he might watch her, and, if possible, entrap her and John. Therefore, she rode out only with Madge and me, and sought no opportunity to see her lover. It may be that her passiveness was partly due to the fact that she knew her next meeting with John would mean farewell to Haddon Hall. She well knew she was void of resistance when in John’s hands. And his letter had told her frankly what he would expect from her when next they should meet. She was eager to go to him; but the old habit of love for home and its sweet associations and her returning affection for her father, now that he was kind to her, were strong cords entwining her tender heart, which she could not break suddenly even for the sake of the greater joy.

One day Dorothy received from John a letter telling her he would on the following morning start for the Scottish border with the purpose of meeting the queen of Scotland. A plan had been formed among Mary’s friends in Scotland to rescue her from Lochleven Castle, where she was a prisoner, and to bring her incognito to Rutland. John had been chosen to escort her from the English border to his father’s castle. From thence, when the opportunity should arise, she was to escape to France, or make her peace with Elizabeth. The adventure was full of peril both for her Scottish and English friends. The Scottish regent Murray surely would hang all the conspirators whom he might capture, and Elizabeth would probably inflict summary punishment upon any of her subjects whom she could convict of complicity in the plot.

In connection with this scheme to rescue Mary it was said there was also another conspiracy. There appeared to be a plot within a plot which had for its end the enthronement of Mary in Elizabeth’s stead.

The Rutlands knew nothing of this subplot.

Elizabeth had once or twice expressed sympathy with her Scottish cousin. She had said in John’s presence that while she could not for reasons of state invite Mary to seek refuge in England, still if Mary would come uninvited she would be welcomed. Therefore, John thought he was acting in accord with the English queen’s secret wish when he went to Rutland with the purpose of being in readiness to meet Mary at the Scottish border.

There were two elements in Elizabeth’s character on which John had not counted. One was her royal prerogative to speak words she did not mean; and the other was the universal feminine privilege to change her mind. Our queen did not want Mary to visit England, nor had she any knowledge of the plot to induce that event. She did, however, fear that Mary’s unwise friends among the Catholics cherished the purpose of making Mary queen of England. Although John had heard faint rumors of such a plot, he had been given to understand that Mary had no share in it, and he believed that the adventure in which he was about to embark had for its only purpose her liberation from a cruel and unjust imprisonment. Her cause appealed to John’s chivalrous nature as it appealed to so many other good though mistaken men who sought to give help to the Scottish queen, and brought only grief to her and ruin to themselves.

Dorothy had heard at various times just enough of these plots to fill her heart with alarm when she learned that John was about to be engaged in them. Her trouble was twofold. She feared lest personal injury or death might befall John; and jealousy, that shame of love, gnawed at her heart despite her efforts to drive it away.

“Is she so marvellously beautiful?” Dorothy asked of me over and over again, referring to Mary Stuart. “Is she such a marvel of beauty and fascination that all men fall before her?”

“That usually is the result,” I replied. “I have never known her to smile upon a man who did not at once respond by falling upon his knees to her.”

My reply certainly was not comforting.

“Ah, then, I am lost,” she responded, with a tremulous sigh. “Is is she prone to smile on men and and to grow fond of them?”

“I should say, Dorothy, that both the smiling and the fondness have become a habit with her.”

“Then she will be sure to choose John from among all men. He is so glorious and perfect and beautiful that she will be eager to to O God! I wish he had not gone to fetch her.”

“You need have no fear,” I said reassuringly. “While Mary Stuart is marvellously beautiful and fascinating, there is at least one woman who excels her. Above all, that woman is pure and chaste.”

“Who is she, that one woman, Malcolm? Who is she?” asked the girl, leaning forward in her chair and looking at me eagerly with burning eyes.

“You are already a vain girl, Dorothy, and I shall not tell you who that one woman is,” I answered laughingly.

“No, no, Malcolm, I am not vain in this matter. It is of too great moment to me for the petty vice of vanity to have any part in it. You do not understand me. I care not for my beauty, save for his sake. I long to be more beautiful, more fascinating, and more attractive than she than any woman living only because I long to hold John to keep him from her, from all others. I have seen so little of the world that I must be sadly lacking in those arts which please men, and I long to possess the beauty of the angels, and the fascinations of Satan that I may hold John, hold him, hold him, hold him. That I may hold him so sure and fast that it will be impossible for him to break from me. At times, I almost wish he were blind; then he could see no other woman. Ah, am I not a wicked, selfish girl? But I will not allow myself to become jealous. He is all mine, isn’t he, Malcolm?” She spoke with nervous energy, and tears were ready to spring from her eyes.

“He is all yours, Dorothy,” I answered, “all yours, as surely as that death will some day come to all of us. Promise me, Dorothy, that you will never again allow a jealous thought to enter your heart. You have no cause for jealousy, nor will you ever have. If you permit that hateful passion to take possession of you, it will bring ruin in its wake.”

“It was, indeed, foolish in me,” cried Dorothy, springing to her feet and clasping her hands tightly; “and I promise never again to feel jealousy. Malcolm, its faintest touch tears and gnaws at my heart and racks me with agony. But I will drive it out of me. Under its influence I am not responsible for my acts. It would quickly turn me mad. I promise, oh, I swear, that I never will allow it to come to me again.”

Poor Dorothy’s time of madness was not far distant nor was the evil that was to follow in its wake.

John in writing to Dorothy concerning his journey to Scotland had unhesitatingly intrusted to her keeping his honor, and, unwittingly, his life. It did not once occur to him that she could, under any conditions, betray him. I trusted her as John did until I saw her vivid flash of burning jealousy. But by the light of that flash I saw that should the girl, with or without reason, become convinced that Mary Stuart was her rival, she would quickly make Derbyshire the warmest locality in Christendom, and John’s life might pay the cost of her folly. Dorothy would brook no rival no, not for a single hour. Should she become jealous she would at once be swept beyond the influence of reason or the care for consequences. It were safer to arouse a sleeping devil than Dorothy Vernon’s jealousy. Now about the time of John’s journey to the Scottish border, two matters of importance arose at Haddon Hall. One bore directly upon Dorothy, namely, the renewal by the Stanleys of their suit for her hand. The other was the announcement by the queen that she would soon do Sir George Vernon the honor of spending a fortnight under the roof of Haddon Hall. Each event was of great importance to the King of the Peak. He had concluded that Thomas, the man-servant, was not the Earl of Leicester in disguise, and when the Earl of Derby again came forward with his marriage project, Sir George fell back into his old hardness toward Dorothy, and she prepared her armament, offensive and defensive, for instant use if need should arise. I again began my machinations, since I can call my double dealing by no other name. I induced Dorothy to agree to meet the earl and his son James. Without promising positively to marry Lord Stanley, she, at my suggestion, led her father to believe she was ready to yield to his wishes. By this course she gained time and liberty, and kept peace with her father. Since you have seen the evils that war brought to Haddon, you well know how desirable peace was. In time of war all Haddon was a field of carnage and unrest. In time of peace the dear old Hall was an ideal home. I persuaded Sir George not to insist on a positive promise from Dorothy, and I advised him to allow her yielding mood to grow upon her. I assured him evasively that she would eventually succumb to his paternal authority and love.

What an inherent love we all have for meddling in the affairs of others, and what a delicious zest we find in faithfully applying our surplus energies to business that is not strictly our own! I had become a part of the Sir George-Dorothy-John affair, and I was like the man who caught the bear: I could not loose my hold.