Of course the queen’s approaching visit threw Haddon Hall into a frenzy of scrubbing and furbishing. Aunt Dorothy was the busiest woman in England. Floors were newly polished. Draperies were taken down and were carefully washed with mysterious concoctions warranted to remove dirt without injury to color. Superfine wax was bought in great boxes, and candles were made for all the chandeliers and candelabra in the house. Perfumed oil was purchased for the lamp in the state bedroom. Elizabeth, by the way, when she came, did not like the odor of the oil, and with an oath tossed both the oil and the lamp out of the window. The fattest sheep, kine, and hogs were chosen from the flocks and were brought in to be stall-fed in such numbers that one might have supposed we were expecting an ogress who could eat an ox at a meal. Pipers and dancers were engaged, and a merry fool was brought down from London. At last the eventful day came and with it came our queen. She brought with her a hundred yeomen of her guard and a score of ladies and gentlemen. Among the latter was the Earl of Leicester, who was the queen’s prime favorite.

Prior to the queen’s announcement of her intention to visit Haddon Sir George had, with Dorothy’s tacit consent, fixed a day upon which the Earl of Derby and his son, Lord James, should be received at the Hall for the purpose of signing the marriage contract. Dorothy, of course, had no intention of signing the contract, but she put off the evil hour of refusal as far as possible, hoping something might occur in the meantime to help her out of the dilemma. Something did occur at the last moment. I am eager to tell you about it, but it must wait its turn. Truly would the story of this ingenious girl’s life make a romance if it were written by a poet. In her Guinevere and Elaine were moulded into one person with the tenderness, purity, and fierceness of each.

To postpone further the time of the Stanley visit, Dorothy suggested that the betrothal should take place in the presence of the queen. Sir George acquiesced, and in his heart grew less eager for the Stanley match as Dorothy apparently became more tractable. He was, however, engaged with the earl to an extent that forbade withdrawal, even had he been sure that he wished to withdraw.

At the time of which I speak the Earl of Leicester was the most exalted subject of the realm. He was ardently devoted to the cause of the ladies, and, although he had fixed his hope on Elizabeth and longed for a seat beside her on the throne, his inflammable heart was constantly catching fire from other eyes. He, of course, made desperate efforts to conceal these manifold conflagrations from the queen, but the inflammable tow of his heart was always bringing him into trouble with his fiery mistress.

The earl’s first glance toward Dorothy was full of admiration. The second glance was full of conflagration. The second day of the queen’s residence in Haddon I was astonished, grieved, and angered to see that our girl had turned her powerful batteries upon the earl with the evident purpose of conquest. At times her long lashes would fall before him, and again her great luminous eyes would open wide, shedding a soft radiance which no man could withstand. Once I saw her walking alone with him upon the terrace. Her head was drooped shamelessly, and the earl was ardent though restless, being fearful of the queen. I boiled with rage against Dorothy, but by a strong effort I did not boil over until I had better cause. The better cause came later.

I failed to tell you of a brief conversation which occurred between Sir George and me after my cousin first saw the Earl of Leicester. Sir George had gallantly led the queen to her apartments, and I had conducted Leicester and several of the gentlemen to their various rooms. Sir George and I met at the staircase after we had quitted our guests.

He said: “Malcolm, that fellow Thomas whom I knocked in the head looked no more like Leicester than I do. Why did you tell me there was resemblance?”

“I do not know,” I answered. “Perhaps your words suggested the thought of a resemblance. Perhaps I had lost all memory of Leicester’s features. I cannot answer your question.”

Then an expression of anger came to Sir George’s face, and he said:

“I believe Dorothy lied to me when she said that the fellow Thomas was of noble blood.”

The next day a servant reported that Thomas had been seen loitering near Bowling Green Gate, and Sir George ordered Dorothy not to leave the Hall without his permission.

Dorothy replied to her father’s command, “I shall obey you, father.”

To me there was a note of danger in her voice. Such docile submissiveness was not natural to the girl. Of course all appearance of harshness toward Dorothy was suppressed by Sir George during the queen’s visit to the Hall. In truth, he had no reason to be harsh, for Dorothy was a meek, submissive, and obedient daughter. Her meekness, however, as you may well surmise, was but the forerunner of dire rebellion.

The fourth day of the queen’s presence at Haddon Hall was the one appointed for the visit of the Stanleys, and Sir George thought to make a great event of the betrothal by having the queen act as a witness to the marriage contract. As the day approached Sir George became thoughtful, while Dorothy grew gleeful. The girl was frequently seen with Leicester, and Sir George could not help noticing that nobleman’s pronounced admiration for his daughter. These exhibitions of gallantry were never made in the presence of the queen. The morning of the day when the Stanleys were expected Sir George called me to his room for a private consultation. The old gentleman was in a state of excitement, not unmixed with perplexity and trouble.

He said, “I have great and good news to impart to you, Malcolm; yet I am in a dilemma growing out of it.”

“Tell me the good news first, Sir George,” I replied. “The dilemma may wait.”

“Is Doll a very beautiful girl?” he asked eagerly.

“I believe she is the most beautiful woman in the world,” I answered.

“Good, good,” he replied, rubbing his hands. “Is she so fascinating, brilliant, and attractive, think you of course I speak in jest but think you she might vie with the court ladies for beauty, and think you she might attract for the sake of illustration I will say might she attract a man like Leicester?”

“Unless I am much mistaken,” I answered, “Leicester is over his ears in love with the girl now.”

“Ah, do you believe so, Malcolm?” replied Sir George, laughing and slapping his thigh, as he walked to and fro across the room. “You have seen so much of that sort of thing that you should know it when it comes under your nose. Eh, Malcolm, eh?”

“I should suppose that any one, however inexperienced in such matters, could easily see Leicester’s infatuation for Dorothy. If you wish me to tell you what I really believe ”

“I do, I do,” interrupted Sir George.

“I should say,” I continued, “that Dorothy has deliberately gone in for conquest. Leave the girl to herself, Sir George. She can conduct the campaign without help from any one. She understands the art of such warfare as well as if she were a veteran.”

“Gad, but she does, but she does. I believe she could give Venus herself some good points in the matter. But let me tell you, Malcolm,” the old man dropped his voice to a whisper, “I questioned Doll this morning, and she confessed that Leicester had spoken words of love to her. Would it not be a great match for our house?”

He said “our house,” mind you, not “our Doll.” I might call his condition of mind patrimonial selfishness. Simple old man! He did not know that words of love are not necessarily words of marriage.

“Has Leicester spoken to you?” I asked in alarm for John’s sake.

“No, no, he has not spoken,” returned my cousin; “for that, of course, he must have the queen’s consent. But he will speak, I am sure, all in good time, Malcolm, all in good time.”

“How about the Stanleys?” I asked. “They will be here this afternoon.”

“That’s the devil’s finger in the matter,” cried Sir George. “That’s where my dilemma lies. How shall I put them off, and still retain them in case nothing should come from Leicester? Besides, I am in honor bound to the earl.”

“I have a plan,” I replied. “You carry out your part of the agreement with the earl, but let Dorothy, at the last moment, refuse to give her consent. Let her ask for more time, on the plea that she does not know her mind. I will suggest to her, if you wish, the part she is to play; but I will conceal from her the fact that you are a party to it.”

“No,” said the old man, “that would be bad faith toward the earl.” After a pause he continued doubtingly: “No, do not speak to Doll. I believe she needs no suggestions in the matter. I fear that mischief is in her mind already. Her easy acquiescence in my wishes have of late had a suspicious appearance. No, don’t speak to her, Malcolm. If ever there lived a girl who could be perverse and wilful on her own account, without help from any one, it is my girl Doll. God bless you, man, if she but knew that I wanted her to reject Stanley, she would have him in spite of hell itself. I wonder what she means by her docility and obedience? No, don’t speak a word to her on the subject. Let her believe I am serious regarding this marriage, and she will have some plan of her own to raise the devil. I have been expecting signs of it every day. I had determined not to bear with her perversity, but now that the Leicester possibility has come up we’ll leave Doll to work out her own salvation, Malcolm. Don’t interfere. No man living can teach that girl a new trick in deviltry. Gods, Malcolm! I am curious to know what she will be doing, for she certainly will be doing something rather than sign that contract of betrothal.”

“But suppose out of obedience to you she should sign the contract?” I asked.

“Malcolm, you don’t know Doll,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “Neither do I. I wish she were well married.”

When I left Sir George, I found Dorothy in close consultation with the queen and two of her ladies. I heard the name of Lord James Stanley spoken amid suppressed laughter, and I suspected Dorothy had on foot some prank touching that young man, to which her Majesty was a party.

After dinner the Stanleys came a-wooing. The party consisted of father, son, and four retainers, who looked as if they had been preserved in alcohol for the occasion, so red were their faces.

The Earl of Derby was a fine old gentleman of the rural type. His noble son was an uncouth rustic, who had no thought above a stable boy or tavern maid, nor any ambition above horse trading. His attire was a wonder to behold. He wore a ruff of stupendous proportions. His trunks were so puffed out and preposterous in size that they looked like a great painted knot on a tree; and the many-colored splendors of his sleeves, his hat, his hose, and his shoes were dazzling to the eye. Add to this wondrous raiment feet and hands that could not be satisfactorily disposed of, and an unrest of manner painful to behold, and you may possibly conceive the grandiose absurdity of Dorothy’s wooer. The sight of him almost made Sir George ill; and his entrance into the long gallery, where the queen was seated with her ladies and gentlemen, and Sir George and his friends standing about her, was a signal for laughter in which her Majesty openly joined.

I shall not lead you through the tedious ceremony of presentation and introduction, nor shall I tell you of the pompous manner in which one of the earl’s retinue, a lawyer, read the marriage contract. The fact that the contract was read without the presence of Dorothy, whom it so nearly concerned, was significant of the small consideration which at that time was given to a girl’s consent. When all was ready for the signing, Dorothy was summoned.

Sir George stood beside the Stanleys, and his nervousness was painfully apparent. Two servants opened the great doors at the end of the long gallery, and Dorothy, holding up the skirt of her gown, bounded into the room. She kneeled to the queen, and turned toward her uncle Stanley and her lover-cousin with a low bow. Then she courtesied and said

“Good even, uncle, and how do you do, cousin. Have you come to inspect me, and, perchance, to buy?”

Sir George’s face bore an expression of mingled shame, wonder, and alarm, and the queen and her suite laughed behind their fans.

“It is well,” continued Dorothy. “Here am I, ready for inspection.” Thereupon she began to disrobe herself before the entire company. Leicester laughed outright, and the queen and her ladies suppressed their merriment for a moment, and then sent forth peals of laughter without restraint. Sir George stepped toward the girl and raised his hand warningly, but the queen interposed:

“Silence, Sir George, I command you;” and Sir George retreated to his former place beside the Earl of Derby. Dorothy first removed her bodice, showing her shoulders and a part of her arms, clothed in the fashion of a tavern maid.

Leicester, who stood by me, whispered, “God never made anything more beautiful than Mistress Vernon’s arms.”

Sir George again spoke angrily, “Doll, what are you doing?” But the queen by a wave of her hand commanded silence. Then the girl put her hands behind her, and loosened the belt which held her skirt in place. The skirt fell to the floor, and out of it bounded Dorothy in the short gown of a maid.

“You will be better able to judge of me in this costume, cousin,” said Dorothy. “It will be more familiar to you than the gowns which ladies wear.”

“I will retract,” said Leicester, whispering to me, and gazing ardently at Dorothy’s ankles. “God has made something more beautiful than Mistress Vernon’s arms. By Venus! I suppose that in His omnipotence He might be able to create something more beautiful than her ankles, but up to this time He has not vouchsafed to me a vision of it. Ah! did any one ever behold such strength, such perfect symmetry, such St. George! the gypsy doesn’t live who can dance like that.”

Sure enough, Dorothy was dancing. The pipers in the balcony had burst forth in a ribald jig of a tune, and the girl was whirling in a wild, weird, and wondrous dance before her lover-cousin. Sir George ordered the pipers to cease playing; but again Elizabeth, who was filled with mirth, interrupted, and the music pealed forth in wanton volumes which flooded the gallery. Dorothy danced like an elfin gypsy to the inspiring strains. Soon her dance changed to wondrous imitations of the movements of a horse. She walked sedately around in an ever increasing circle; she trotted and paced; she gave the single foot and racked; she galloped, slowly for a while, and then the gallop merged into a furious run which sent the blood of her audience thrilling through their veins with delight. The wondrous ease and grace, and the marvellous strength and quickness of her movements, cannot be described. I had never before thought the human body capable of such grace and agility as she displayed.

After her dance was finished she stepped in front of her cousin and delivered herself as follows:

“I am sound from ear tip to fetlock. There is not a blemish in me.”

“No, by my faith, I will swear there is not!” cried the Earl of Leicester.

“I have good wind,” continued Dorothy, “two good eyes. By night or by day I can see everything within the range of my vision, and a great deal that is not. I shy, at times, when an uncouth object suddenly comes upon me. I am warranted gentle if properly handled, but otherwise it is unsafe to curry my heels.”

Sir George could no longer restrain himself, and again tried to prevent Dorothy from proceeding with her terrible insult to the Stanleys. The queen, however, was determined to see the end of the frolic, and she said:

“Proceed, Mistress Vernon, proceed.”

Dorothy, nothing loath, continued: “As for my disposition, it might be better. It probably will improve with age, if it doesn’t grow worse. I have all the gaits a horse should have. I am four years old, I have never been trained to work double, and I think I never shall be. What think you? Now what have you to offer in exchange? Step out and let me see you move.”

She took the poor youth by the hand and led him to the middle of the floor.

“How old are you? Show me your teeth,” she said. The heir to Derby smiled uneasily, and drew his hand across his nose.

“Ah, you have a touch of the distemper, I see. Are you subject to it?”

Stanley smiled, and the earl said:

“Sir George, this insult has gone far enough.”

“Stand back, my Lord Derby,” said the queen. “Do not interfere with this interesting barter.”

The earl reluctantly lapsed into silence. He remembered the insult of her Majesty’s words all his life.

“Now step off,” said Dorothy to Lord James.

The young man stood in helpless confusion. Dorothy took a step backward from him, and after watching Stanley a moment said:

“What! You can neither trot, pace, nor gallop? I don’t believe you can even walk alone.” Then she turned toward Sir George. A smile was on her lips, but a look from hell was in her eyes as she said:

“Father, take a lesson from this day. I gave you fair warning. Bring me no more scurvy cobs for barter nor trade.” Then she turned to the Earl of Derby and to her cousin Lord James, made a deep courtesy, and said:

“You can have no barter with me. Good day.”

She ran from the room, and a great peal of laughter from all save Sir George and the Stanleys followed her as she passed out through the double door. When the laughter had subsided, the Earl of Derby turned to Sir George and said:

“Sir George, this insult is unbearable, and I shall expect satisfaction for it.” Then he turned to the queen: “I beg that your Majesty will give me leave to depart with my son.”

“Granted,” answered Elizabeth, and father and son started to leave the room, moving backward toward the great doors. Sir George asked the earl and Lord Stanley to remain, and in the presence of the company who had witnessed the insult, he in the humblest manner made abject apology for the treatment his distinguished guests had received at the hands of his daughter. He very honestly and in all truth disclaimed any sympathy with Dorothy’s conduct, and offered, as the only reparation he could make, to punish her in some way befitting the offence. Then he conducted the guests to the mounting block near the entrance tower and saw them depart. Dorothy had solved her father’s dilemma with a vengeance.

Sir George was not sure that he wanted to be angry at Dorothy, though he felt it was a duty he owed to himself and to the Stanleys. He had wished that the girl would in some manner defer the signing of the contract, but he had not wanted her to refuse young Stanley’s hand in a manner so insulting that the match would be broken off altogether.

As the day progressed, and as Sir George pondered over Dorothy’s conduct, he grew more inclined to anger; but during the afternoon she kept well under the queen’s wing, and he found no opportunity to give vent to his ill-temper.

Late that night he called me to his room. He had been drinking during the evening and was poised between good-humored hilarity and ill-tempered ferocity. The latter condition was usually the result of his libations. When I entered the room it was evident he was amused.

“Did you ever hear or see such brazen effrontery?” he asked, referring to Dorothy’s treatment of the Stanleys. “Is there another girl on earth who would have conceived the absurd thought, or, having conceived it, would have dared to carry it out?”

I took a chair and replied, “I think there is not another.”

“I hope not,” continued Sir George. He sat in thought for a moment, and then broke forth into a great laugh. When he had finished laughing he said: “I admit it was laughable and and pretty beautiful. Damme, I didn’t know the girl could do it, Malcolm! I didn’t know she had it in her. There is not another girl living could have carried the frolic through.” Then he spoke seriously, “But I will make her smart for it when the queen leaves Haddon.”

“Sir George, if you will allow me to suggest what I feel on the subject, I would say that you have no reason whatever for desiring to make Dorothy smart. She may have deeper designs than we can see.”

“What designs do you suppose she can have? Tell me, Malcolm,” asked Sir George.

I remained silent for a moment, hardly knowing how to express my thought. “Certainly she could not have appeared to a better advantage than in her tavern maid’s costume,” I said.

“That is true,” answered Sir George. “Though she is my own daughter, I must admit that I have never seen any woman so beautiful as she.” The old gentleman laughed softly for a moment and said: “But wasn’t it brazen? Wasn’t it shameless? I have always given the girl credit for modesty, but damme, damme ”

“Her beauty in the tavern maid’s costume fired Leicester’s heart as nothing else could have done,” I said. “He stood by my side, and was in raptures over her charms.”

Sir George mused a moment and said something about the “Leicester possibility,” which I knew to be an impossibility, and before I left him he had determined to allow the matter to drop for the present. “I am making a damned pretty mess of the whole affair, I fear, Malcolm,” he said.

“You don’t seem to be clearing it up, Sir George,” I responded.

After talking over some arrangements for the queen’s entertainment, I said good night, and left my cousin brooding over as complicated a problem as man ever tried to solve.

The next morning I told Dorothy how her father felt with respect to the “Leicester possibility.” She laughed and said:

“I will encourage father in that matter, and,” with a saucy twinkle in her eye, “incidentally I will not discourage my proud lord of Leicester. I will make the most of the situation, fear not, Malcolm.”

“I do not fear,” said I, emphatically.

There it was: the full-blown spirit of conquest, strong even in a love-full heart. God breathed into Adam the breath of life; but into Eve he breathed the love of conquest, and it has been growing stronger in the hearts of her daughters with each recurring generation.

“How about John?” I asked.

“Oh, John?” she answered, throwing her head contemplatively to one side. “He is amply able to protect his own interests. I could not be really untrue to him if I wished to be. It is I who am troubled on the score of infidelity. John will be with the most beautiful queen ” She broke off in the midst of her sentence, and her face became clouded with an expression of anger and hatred. “God curse her! I wish she were dead, dead, dead. There! you know how I feel toward your English-French-Scottish beauty. Curse the mongrel ” She halted before the ugly word she was about to use; but her eyes were like glowing embers, and her cheeks were flushed by the heat of anger.

“Did you not promise me, Dorothy, that you would not again allow yourself to become jealous of Queen Mary?” I asked.

“Yes, I promised, but I cannot prevent the jealousy, and I do not intend to try. I hate her, and I love to hate her.”

“Why should you hate her?” I asked. “If John remains true to you, there is certainly no cause for you to hate any one. If he should be untrue to you, you should hate him.”

“Hate him?” she exclaimed. “That, indeed, is pretty reasoning. If he should be untrue to me, I should of course hate her. I could not hate him. I did not make myself love him. I would never have been so great a fool as to bring that pain upon myself intentionally. I suppose no girl would deliberately make herself love a man and bring into her heart so great an agony. I feel toward John as I do, because I must; and I hate your Scottish mongrel because I must. I tell you, Malcolm, when she comes to Rutland, if I hear of her trying any of her wanton tricks on John there will be trouble mark my words!”

“I ask you to promise me this, Dorothy: that you will do nothing concerning John and Queen Mary without first speaking to me.”

She paced across the room angrily. “I promise you nothing, Malcolm, save that I shall not allow that woman to come between John and me. That I promise you, on my oath.”

Dorothy continued to shed her luminous smiles on Leicester, though she was careful not to shine in the queen’s presence. My lord was dazzled by the smiles, and continually sought opportunities to bask in their dangerous light. As a result of this smiling and basking the great London heart-breaker was soon helplessly caught in the toils of Doll, the country maiden. She played him as an angler plays a trout. The most experienced court coquette could not have done the part better than did this girl, whose knowledge of the subject was wholly intuitive, for her life had all been spent amid the green hills and groves of Derbyshire. She so managed the affair that her father should see enough of Leicester’s preference to keep alive in Sir George’s mind the hope for the “Leicester possibility.” Those words had become with her a phrase slyly to play upon.

One afternoon when the sun was graciously warm and bright, I induced Madge to walk with me upon the terrace, that I might for a few moments feel the touch of her hand and hear her whispered words. We took a seat by a large holly bush, which effectually concealed us from view. We had been there but a few moments when we heard footsteps approaching. Looking between the branches of the holly bush I saw Dorothy and Leicester coming toward us from the north end of the terrace. Dorothy’s eyes were cast down demurely, and her head hung in the attitude of a shy, modest girl, who listens timidly to words that are music in her ears. Never have I seen an attitude more indicative of the receptive mood than that which Dorothy assumed toward Leicester.

“Ah,” thought I, “poor John has given his heart and has risked his life for the sake of Doll, and Doll is a miserable coquette.”

But there was conduct still more objectionable to come from Dorothy.

Unconscious of our presence, Leicester said, “My fair beauty, my Venus, here is a settle under this holly bush, well hidden from prying eyes. It invites us. Will you sit here with me for one happy moment, and give me a taste of Paradise?”

“I fear I should not sit with you, my lord, however much I may may wish to do so. My father or the queen might observe us.” The black lashes fell upon the fair cheek, and the red golden head with its crown of glory hung forward convincingly.

“You false jade,” thought I.

“I ask for but one moment,” pleaded Leicester. “The queen sleeps at this time after dinner, and perhaps your father would not object if you were to grant this little favor to the first nobleman of the realm.”

“You do not know my father, my lord. He is very strict regarding my conduct,” murmured the drooping head.

“I ask for but one little moment,” continued the earl, “in which to tell you that you have filled my heart with adoration and love.”

“I should not listen to you, my lord. Were I mindful of my happiness, I should return to the Hall at once,” said the drooping lashes and hanging head.

“You lying wench,” thought I. By that time I was thoroughly angered.

“Only one little moment on the settle,” pleaded Leicester, “that I may speak to you that which I wish so ardently to say.”

“Can you not speak while we walk, my lord?” asked Dorothy.

I felt a bitter desire to curse the girl.

“It is difficult for me to speak while we walk,” said Leicester, cautiously taking the girl’s hand; so she permitted him to lead her to the settle under the holly bush, on the opposite side of which Madge and I were sitting.

The earl retained the hand for a moment after he and Dorothy were seated, but she gently drew it away and moved a little distance from his Lordship. Still, her eyes were drooped, her head hung low, and her bosom actually heaved as if with emotion.

“I will tell John of your shamelessness,” I said to myself. “He shall feel no more heartaches for you you wanton huzzy.”

Then Leicester poured forth his passion most eloquently. Poesy, verse, and rhetoric all came to help him in his wooing. Now and then the girl would respond to his ardor with “Please, my lord,” or “I pray you, my lord,” and when he would try to take her hand she would say, “I beg you, my lord, do not.” But Leicester evidently thought that the “do not” meant “do,” for soon he began to steal his arm about her waist, and she was so slow in stopping him that I thought she was going to submit. She, however, arose gently to her feet and said:

“My lord, I must return to the Hall. I may not longer remain here with you.”

The earl caught her hand and endeavored to kiss it, but she adroitly prevented him, and stepping out into the path, started slowly toward the Hall. She turned her head slightly toward Leicester in a mute but eloquent invitation, and he quickly followed her.

I watched the pair walk up the terrace. They descended the steps to the garden, and from thence they entered the Hall by way of the porch.

“Was it not very wicked in Dorothy to listen to such words from Leicester?” asked Madge. “I do not at all understand her.”

Madge, of course, knew only a part of what had happened, and a very small part at that, for she had not seen Dorothy. Madge and I returned to the Hall, and we went at once to Dorothy’s room, hoping to see her, and intending to tell her our opinion of the shameless manner in which she had acted.

Dorothy was in her room alone when we entered. She clapped her hands, ran to the door, bolted it, and bounded back toward us.

“I have the greatest news to tell you,” she cried laughingly, “the greatest news and the greatest sport of which you ever heard. My lord Leicester is in love with me.”

“Indeed, that is very fine,” I responded; but my irony met its usual fate. She did not see it.

“Yes,” continued Dorothy, brimming over with mirth, “you should have heard him pleading with me a few moments since upon the terrace.”

“We did hear him,” said Madge.

“You heard him? Where? How?” Her eyes were wide with wonder.

“We were on the opposite side of the holly bush from you,” I answered. “We heard him and we saw you.”

“Did you? Good. I am glad of it,” said Dorothy.

“Yes, we saw and we heard all, and we think that your conduct was shameless,” I responded severely.

“Shameless?” demanded Dorothy. “Now pray tell me what I did or said that was shameless.”.

I was at a loss to define the wrong in her conduct, for it had been of an intangible quality which in itself was nothing, but notwithstanding meant a great deal.

“You permitted him to hold your hand,” I said, trying to fix on something real with which to accuse her.

“I did nothing of the sort,” said Dorothy, laughingly. “He caught my hand several times, but I withdrew it from him”

I knew she spoke the truth regarding her hand, so I tried again.

“You you hung your head and kept your eyes cast down, and you looked ”

“Oh, I hung my head, I cast down my eyes, and I looked?” she answered, laughing heartily. “Pray let me ask you, Master Fault-finder, for what use else are heads and eyes made?”

I was not prepared to say that the uses to which Dorothy had put her head and eyes were not some of the purposes for which they were created. They are good purposes, too, I admit, although I would not have conceded as much to Dorothy. I knew the girl would soon wheedle me into her way of thinking, so I took a bold stand and said:

“It is my intention to tell John about your conduct with Leicester, and I shall learn for what purpose he thinks eyes and heads are created.”

“Tell John?” cried Dorothy. “Of course you may tell John. He well knows the purposes of heads and eyes, and their proper uses. He has told me many times his opinion on the subject.” She laughed for a moment, and then continued: “I, too, shall tell John all that happened or shall happen between Lord Leicester and me. I wish I could tell him now. How I wish I could tell him now.” A soft light came to her eyes, and she repeated huskily: “If I might tell him now; if I might tell him now. Why, Malcolm, I despise Leicester. He is a poor, weak fool. He has no more force nor strength than I have. He is not a man. He is no more attractive than a woman. He wanted to kiss me. He begged me to give him but one. It is but a poor kiss which a man gets by begging. Think you I would give him one? Had he but touched my lips, think you I would ever allow John to soil himself again by kissing them? Fear not, Malcolm. Fear not for John nor for me. No man will ever receive from me a favor, the granting of which would make me unfit to be John’s John’s wife. I have paid too dearly for him to throw him away for a penny whistle that I do not want.” Then she grew earnest, with a touch of anger: “Leicester! What reason, suppose you, Malcolm, have I for treating him as I do? Think you I act from sheer wantonness? If there were one little spot of that fault upon my soul, I would tear myself from John, though I should die for it.”

Her laughing mood had passed away, and I feared to say that I could see no reason other than coquetry for her conduct, I feared the red-haired tigress would scratch my eyes out.

“I have wanted to see you,” she continued, “that I might tell you of my plans and of the way they are working out, but now since you have spoken to me in this manner, Sir Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon, I shall tell you nothing. You suspect me. Therefore, you shall wait with the rest of the world to learn my purposes. You may tell John all you have seen and heard. I care not how quickly you do it.” Then with a sigh: “I pray God it may be very soon. He will wish for no explanation, and he shall one day have in me a rich reward for his faith.”

“Do you trust him as he trusts you?” I asked, “and would you demand an explanation were he to act toward Mary Stuart as you have acted toward Leicester?”

“He could not act toward her as I did toward Lord Leicester,” she said thoughtfully. Then after a moment she laughingly continued: “John can’t he can’t hang his head and droop his eyes and look.”

“But if ” I began.

“I want no more of your hellish ‘ifs,’” cried the girl in sudden fury. “If John were to to look at that Scottish mongrel as I looked at Leicester, I would I would kill the royal wanton. I would kill her if it cost my life. Now, for God’s sake, leave me. You see the state into which you have wrought me.” I left Madge with Dorothy and walked out upon Bowling Green to ponder on the events that were passing before me.

From the time we learned that John had gone to fetch the Scottish queen I had fears lest Dorothy’s inflammable jealousy might cause trouble, and now those fears were rapidly transforming themselves into a feeling of certainty. There is nothing in life so sweet and so dangerous as the love of a hot-blooded woman.

I soon saw Dorothy again. “Tell me,” said I, in conciliation, “tell me, please, what is your reason for acting as you do toward Leicester, and why should you look differently upon similar conduct on John’s part?”

“I will not tell you my plans,” she responded, “not now, at least. Perhaps I shall do so when I have recovered from my ill-temper. It is hard for me to give my reasons for feeling differently about like conduct on John’s part. Perhaps I feel as I do because because It is this way: While I might do little things mere nothings such as I have done it would be impossible for me to do any act of unfaithfulness to John. Oh, it could not be. But with him, he he well, he is a man and and oh, don’t talk to me! Don’t talk to me! You are driving me mad. Out of my sight! Out of my room! Holy Virgin! I shall die before I have him; I know I shall.”

There it was again. The thought of Mary Stuart drove her wild. Dorothy threw herself on her face upon the bed, and Madge went over and sat by her side to soothe her. I, with a feeling of guilt, so adroit had been Dorothy’s defence, left the girls and went to my room in the tower to unravel, by the help of my pipe, the tangled web of woman’s incomprehensibility. I failed, as many another man had failed before me, and as men will continue to fail to the end of time.