CHAPTER X
THOMAS THE MAN SERVANT

After a great effort of self-denial John told Dorothy it was time for her to return to the Hall, and he walked with her down Bowling Green Hill to the wall back of the terrace garden.

Dorothy stood for a moment on the stile at the old stone wall, and John, clasping her hand, said:—

"You will perhaps see me sooner than you expect," and then the cloud considerately floated over the moon again, and John hurried away up Bowling Green Hill.

Dorothy crossed the terrace garden, going toward the door since known as "Dorothy's Postern." She had reached the top of the postern steps when she heard her father's voice, beyond the north wall of the terrace garden well up toward Bowling Green Hill. John, she knew, was at that moment climbing the hill. Immediately following the sound of her father's voice she heard another voice—that of her father's retainer, Sir John Guild. Then came the word "Halt!" quickly followed by the report of a fusil, and the sharp clinking of swords upon the hillside. She ran back to the wall, and saw the dimly outlined forms of four men. One of them was John, who was retreating up the hill. The others were following him. Sir George and Sir John Guild had unexpectedly returned from Derby. They had left their horses with the stable boys and were walking toward the kitchen door when Sir George noticed a man pass from behind the corner of the terrace garden wall and proceed up Bowling Green Hill. The man of course was John. Immediately Sir George and Guild, accompanied by a servant who was with them, started in pursuit of the intruder, and a moment afterward Dorothy heard her father's voice and the discharge of the fusil. She climbed to the top of the stile, filled with an agony of fear. Sir George was fifteen or twenty yards in advance of his companion, and when John saw that his pursuers were attacking him singly, he turned and quickly ran back to meet the warlike King of the Peak. By a few adroit turns with his sword John disarmed his antagonist, and rushing in upon him easily threw him to the ground by a wrestler's trick. Guild and the servant by that time were within six yards of Sir George and John.

"Stop!" cried Manners, "your master is on the ground at my feet. My sword point is at his heart. Make but one step toward me and Sir George Vernon will be a dead man."

Guild and the servant halted instantly.

"What are your terms?" cried Guild, speaking with the haste which he well knew was necessary if he would save his master's life.

"My terms are easy," answered John. "All I ask is that you allow me to depart in peace. I am here on no harmful errand, and I demand that I may depart and that I be not followed nor spied upon by any one."

"You may depart in peace," said Guild. "No one will follow you; no one will spy upon you. To this I pledge my knightly word in the name of Christ my Saviour."

John at once took his way unmolested up the hill and rode home with his heart full of fear lest his tryst with Dorothy had been discovered.

Guild and the servant assisted Sir George to rise, and the three started down the hill toward the stile where Dorothy was standing. She was hidden from them, however, by the wall. Jennie Faxton, who had been on guard while John and Dorothy were at the gate, at Dorothy's suggestion stood on top of the stile where she could easily be seen by Sir George when he approached.

"When my father comes here and questions you," said Dorothy to Jennie Faxton, "tell him that the man whom he attacked was your sweetheart."

"Never fear, mistress," responded Jennie. "I will have a fine story for the master."

Dorothy crouched inside the wall under the shadow of a bush, and Jennie waited on the top of the stile. Sir George, thinking the girl was Dorothy, lost no time in approaching her. He caught her roughly by the arm and turned her around that he might see her face.

"By God, Guild," he muttered, "I have made a mistake. I thought the girl was Doll."

He left instantly and followed Guild and the servant to the kitchen door. When Sir George left the stile, Dorothy hastened back to the postern of which she had the key, and hurried toward her room. She reached the door of her father's room just in time to see Sir George and Guild enter it. They saw her, and supposed her to be myself. If she hesitated, she was lost. But Dorothy never hesitated. To think, with her, was to act. She did not of course know that I was still in her apartments. She took the chance, however, and boldly followed Sir John Guild into her father's room. There she paused for a moment that she might not appear to be in too great haste, and then entered Aunt Dorothy's room where I was seated, waiting for her.

"Dorothy, my dear child," exclaimed Lady Crawford, clasping her arms about Dorothy's neck.

"There is no time to waste in sentiment, Aunt Dorothy," responded the girl. "Here are your sword and cloak, Malcolm. I thank you for their use. Don them quickly." I did so, and walked into Sir George's room, where that worthy old gentleman was dressing a slight wound in the hand. I stopped to speak with him; but he seemed disinclined to talk, and I left the room. He soon went to the upper court, and I presently followed him.

Dorothy changed her garments, and she, Lady Crawford, and Madge also came to the upper court. The braziers in the courtyard had been lighted and cast a glare over two score half-clothed men and women who had been aroused from their beds by the commotion of the conflict on the hillside. Upon the upper steps of the courtyard stood Sir George and Jennie Faxton.

"Who was the man you were with?" roughly demanded Sir George of the trembling Jennie. Jennie's trembling was assumed for the occasion.

"I will not tell you his name," she replied with tears. "He is my sweetheart, and I will never come to the Hall again. Matters have come to a pretty pass when a maiden cannot speak with her sweetheart at the stile without he is set upon and beaten as if he were a hedgehog. My father is your leal henchman, and his daughter deserves better treatment at your hands than you have given me."

"There, there!" said Sir George, placing his hand upon her head. "I was in the wrong. I did not know you had a sweetheart who wore a sword. When I saw you at the stile, I was sure you were another. I am glad I was wrong." So was Dorothy glad.

"Everybody be off to bed," said Sir George. "Ben Shaw, see that the braziers are all blackened."

Dorothy, Madge, and Lady Crawford returned to the latter's room, and Sir George and I entered after them. He was evidently softened in heart by the night's adventures and by the mistake he supposed he had made.

A selfish man grows hard toward those whom he injures. A generous heart grows tender. Sir George was generous, and the injustice he thought he had done to Dorothy made him eager to offer amends. The active evil in all Sir George's wrong-doing was the fact that he conscientiously thought he was in the right. Many a man has gone to hell backward—with his face honestly toward heaven. Sir George had not spoken to Dorothy since the scene wherein the key to Bowling Green Gate played so important a part.

"Doll," said Sir George, "I thought you were at the stile with a man. I was mistaken. It was the Faxton girl. I beg your pardon, my daughter. I did you wrong."

"You do me wrong in many matters, father," replied Dorothy.

"Perhaps I do," her father returned, "perhaps I do, but I mean for the best. I seek your happiness."

"You take strange measures at times, father, to bring about my happiness," she replied.

"Whom God loveth He chasteneth," replied Sir George, dolefully.

"That manner of loving may be well enough for God," retorted Dorothy with no thought of irreverence, "but for man it is dangerous. Whom man loves he should cherish. A man who has a good, obedient daughter—one who loves him—will not imprison her, and, above all, he will not refuse to speak to her, nor will he cause her to suffer and to weep for lack of that love which is her right. A man has no right to bring a girl into this world and then cause her to suffer as you—as you—"

She ceased speaking and sought refuge in silent feminine eloquence—tears. One would have sworn she had been grievously injured that night.

"But I am older than you, Doll, and I know what is best for your happiness," said Sir George.

"There are some things, father, which a girl knows with better, surer knowledge than the oldest man living. Solomon was wise because he had so many wives from whom he could absorb wisdom."

"Ah, well!" answered Sir George, smiling in spite of himself, "you will have the last word."

"Confess, father," she retorted quickly, "that you want the last word yourself."

"Perhaps I do want it, but I'll never have it," returned Sir George; "kiss me, Doll, and be my child again."

"That I will right gladly," she answered, throwing her arms about her father's neck and kissing him with real affection. Then Sir George said good night and started to leave. At the door he stopped, and stood for a little time in thought.

"Dorothy," said he, speaking to Lady Crawford, "I relieve you of your duty as a guard over Doll. She may go and come when she chooses."

"I thank you, George," said Aunt Dorothy. "The task has been painful to me."

Dorothy went to her father and kissed him again, and Sir George departed.

When the door was closed, Lady Crawford breathed a great sigh and said: "I thank Heaven, Dorothy, he does not know that you have been out of your room. How could you treat me so cruelly? How could you deceive me?"

"That, Aunt Dorothy," replied the niece, "is because you are not old enough yet to be a match for a girl who is—who is in love."

"Shame upon you, Dorothy!" said Lady Crawford. "Shame upon you, to act as you did, and now to speak so plainly about being in love! Malcolm said you were not a modest girl, and I am beginning to believe him."

"Did Malcolm speak so ill of me?" asked Dorothy, turning toward me with a smile in her eyes.

"My lady aunt," said I, turning to Lady Crawford, "when did I say that Dorothy was an immodest girl?"

"You did not say it," the old lady admitted. "Dorothy herself said it, and she proves her words to be true by speaking so boldly of her feelings toward this—this strange man. And she speaks before Madge, too."

"Perhaps Madge is in the same sort of trouble. Who knows?" cried Dorothy, laughing heartily. Madge blushed painfully. "But," continued Dorothy, seriously, "I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it. For what else, my dear aunt, was I created but to be in love? Tell me, dear aunt, for what else was I created?"

"Perhaps you are right," returned the old lady, who in fact was sentimentally inclined.

"The chief end of woman, after all, is to love," said Dorothy. "What would become of the human race if it were not?"

"Child, child," cried the aunt, "where learned you such things?"

"They were written upon my mother's breast," continued Dorothy, "and I learned them when I took in my life with her milk. I pray they may be written upon my breast some day, if God in His goodness shall ever bless me with a baby girl. A man child could not read the words."

"Dorothy, Dorothy!" cried Lady Crawford, "you shock me. You pain me."

"Again I ask," responded Dorothy, "for what else was I created? I tell you, Aunt Dorothy, the world decrees that women shall remain in ignorance, or in pretended ignorance—in silence at least—regarding the things concerning which they have the greatest need to be wise and talkative."

"At your age, Dorothy, I did not have half your wisdom on the subject," answered Lady Crawford.

"Tell me, my sweet Aunt Dorothy, were you really in a state of ignorance such as you would have me believe?"

"Well," responded the old lady, hesitatingly, "I did not speak of such matters."

"Why, aunt, did you not?" asked Dorothy. "Were you ashamed of what God had done? Were you ashamed of His great purpose in creating you a woman, and in creating your mother and your mother's mother before you?"

"No, no, child; no, no. But I cannot argue with you. Perhaps you are right," said Aunt Dorothy.

"Then tell me, dear aunt, that I am not immodest and bold when I speak concerning that of which my heart is full to overflowing. God put it there, aunt, not I. Surely I am not immodest by reason of His act."

"No, no, my sweet child," returned Aunt Dorothy, beginning to weep softly. "No, no, you are not immodest. You are worth a thousand weak fools such as I was at your age."

Poor Aunt Dorothy had been forced into a marriage which had wrecked her life. Dorothy's words opened her aunt's eyes to the fact that the girl whom she so dearly loved was being thrust by Sir George into the same wretched fate through which she had dragged her own suffering heart for so many years. From that hour she was Dorothy's ally.

"Good night, Malcolm," said Lady Crawford, offering me her hand. I kissed it tenderly; then I kissed the sweet old lady's cheek and said:—

"I love you with all my heart, Aunt Dorothy."

"I thank you, Malcolm," she returned.

I took my leave, and soon Madge went to her room, leaving Dorothy and Lady Crawford together.

When Madge had gone the two Dorothys, one at each end of life, spanned the long years that separated them, and became one in heart by reason of a heartache common to both.

Lady Crawford seated herself and Dorothy knelt by her chair.

"Tell me, Dorothy," said the old lady, "tell me, do you love this man so tenderly, so passionately that you cannot give him up?"

"Ah, my dear aunt," the girl responded, "words cannot tell. You cannot know what I feel."

"Alas! I know only too well, my child. I, too, loved a man when I was your age, and none but God knows what I suffered when I was forced by my parents and the priests to give him up, and to wed one whom—God help me—I loathed."

"Oh, my sweet aunt!" cried Dorothy softly, throwing her arms about the old lady's neck and kissing her cheek. "How terribly you must have suffered!"

"Yes," responded Lady Crawford, "and I am resolved you shall not endure the same fate. I hope the man who has won your love is worthy of you. Do not tell me his name, for I do not wish to practise greater deception toward your father than I must. But you may tell me of his station in life, and of his person, that I may know he is not unworthy of you."

"His station in life," answered Dorothy, "is far better than mine. In person he is handsome beyond any woman's wildest dream of manly beauty. In character he is noble, generous, and good. He is far beyond my deserts, Aunt Dorothy."

"Then why does he not seek your hand from your father?" asked the aunt.

"That I may not tell you, Aunt Dorothy," returned the girl, "unless you would have me tell you his name, and that I dare not do. Although he is vastly my superior in station, in blood, and in character, still my father would kill me before he would permit me to marry this man of my choice; and I, dear aunt, fear I shall die if I have him not."

Light slowly dawned upon Aunt Dorothy's mind, and she exclaimed in a terrified whisper:—

"My God, child, is it he?"

"Yes," responded the girl, "yes, it is he."

"Do not speak his name, Dorothy," the old lady said. "Do not speak his name. So long as you do not tell me, I cannot know with certainty who he is." After a pause Aunt Dorothy continued, "Perhaps, child, it was his father whom I loved and was compelled to give up."

"May the blessed Virgin pity us, sweet aunt," cried Dorothy, caressingly.

"And help us," returned Lady Crawford. "I, too, shall help you," she continued. "It will be through no fault of mine if your life is wasted as mine has been."

Dorothy kissed her aunt and retired.

Next morning when Dorothy arose a song came from her heart as it comes from the skylark when it sees the sun at dawn—because it cannot help singing. It awakened Aunt Dorothy, and she began to live her life anew, in brightness, as she steeped her soul in the youth and joyousness of Dorothy Vernon's song.

I have spoken before in this chronicle of Will Dawson. He was a Conformer. Possibly it was by reason of his religious faith that he did not share the general enmity that existed in Haddon Hall against the house of Rutland. He did not, at the time of which I speak, know Sir John Manners, and he did not suspect that the heir to Rutland was the man who had of late been causing so much trouble to the house of Vernon. At least, if he did suspect it, no one knew of his suspicions.

Sir George made a great effort to learn who the mysterious interloper was, but he wholly failed to obtain any clew to his identity. He had jumped to the conclusion that Dorothy's mysterious lover was a man of low degree. He had taken for granted that he was an adventurer whose station and person precluded him from openly wooing his daughter. He did not know that the heir to Rutland was in the Derbyshire country; for John, after his first meeting with Dorothy, had carefully concealed his presence from everybody save the inmates of Rutland. In fact, his mission to Rutland required secrecy, and the Rutland servants and retainers were given to understand as much. Even had Sir George known of John's presence at Rutland, the old gentleman's mind could not have compassed the thought that Dorothy, who, he believed, hated the race of Manners with an intensity equalled only by his own feelings, could be induced to exchange a word with a member of the house. His uncertainty was not the least of his troubles; and although Dorothy had full liberty to come and go at will, her father kept constant watch over her. As a matter of fact, Sir George had given Dorothy liberty partly for the purpose of watching her, and he hoped to discover thereby and, if possible, to capture the man who had brought trouble to his household. Sir George had once hanged a man to a tree on Bowling Green Hill by no other authority than his own desire. That execution was the last in England under the old Saxon law of Infangthef and Outfangthef. Sir George had been summoned before Parliament for the deed; but the writ had issued against the King of the Peak, and that being only a sobriquet, was neither Sir George's name nor his title. So the writ was quashed, and the high-handed act of personal justice was not farther investigated by the authorities. Should my cousin capture his daughter's lover, there would certainly be another execution under the old Saxon law. So you see that my friend Manners was tickling death with a straw for Dorothy's sake.

One day Dawson approached Sir George and told him that a man sought employment in the household of Haddon Hall. Sir George placed great confidence in his forester; so he told Dawson to employ the man if his services were needed. The new servant proved to be a fine, strong fellow, having a great shock of carrot-colored hair and a bushy beard of rusty red.

Dawson engaged the newcomer, and assigned to him the duty of kindling the fires in the family apartments of the Hall. The name of the new servant was Thomas Thompson, a name that Dorothy soon abbreviated to Tom-Tom.

One day she said to him, by way of opening the acquaintance, "Thomas, you and I should be good friends; we have so much in common."

"Thank you, my lady," responded Thomas, greatly pleased. "I hope we shall be good friends; indeed, indeed I do, but I cannot tell wherein I am so fortunate as to have anything in common with your Ladyship. What is it, may I ask, of which we have so much in common?"

"So much hair," responded Dorothy, laughing.

"It were blasphemy, lady, to compare my hair with yours," returned Thomas. "Your hair, I make sure, is such as the blessed Virgin had. I ask your pardon for speaking so plainly; but your words put the thought into my mind, and perhaps they gave me license to speak."

Thomas was on his knees, placing wood upon the fire.

"Thomas," returned Dorothy, "you need never apologize to a lady for making so fine a speech. I declare a courtier could not have made a better one."

"Perhaps I have lived among courtiers, lady," said Thomas.

"I doubt not," replied Dorothy, derisively. "You would have me believe you are above your station. It is the way with all new servants. I suppose you have seen fine company and better days."

"I have never seen finer company than now, and I have never known better days than this," responded courtier Thomas. Dorothy thought he was presuming on her condescension, and was about to tell him so when he continued: "The servants at Haddon Hall are gentlefolk compared with servants at other places where I have worked, and I desire nothing more than to find favor in Sir George's eyes. I would do anything to achieve that end."

Dorothy was not entirely reassured by Thomas's closing words; but even if they were presumptuous, she admired his wit in giving them an inoffensive turn. From that day forth the acquaintance grew between the servant and mistress until it reached the point of familiarity at which Dorothy dubbed him Tom-Tom.

Frequently Dorothy was startled by remarks made by Thomas, having in them a strong dash of familiarity; but he always gave to his words a harmless turn before she could resent them. At times, however, she was not quite sure of his intention.

Within a week after Thomas's advent to the hall, Dorothy began to suspect that the new servant looked upon her with eyes of great favor. She frequently caught him watching her, and at such times his eyes, which Dorothy thought were really very fine, would glow with an ardor all too evident. His manner was cause for amusement rather than concern, and since she felt kindly toward the new servant, she thought to create a faithful ally by treating him graciously. She might, she thought, need Thomas's help when the time should come for her to leave Haddon Hall with John, if that happy time should ever come. She did not realize that the most dangerous, watchful enemy to her cherished scheme would be a man who was himself in love with her, even though he were a servant, and she looked on Thomas's evident infatuation with a smile. She did not once think that in the end it might cause her great trouble, so she accepted his mute admiration, and thought to make use of it later on. To Tom, therefore, Dorothy was gracious.

John had sent word to Dorothy, by Jennie Faxton, that he had gone to London, and would be there for a fortnight or more.

Sir George had given permission to his daughter to ride out whenever she wished to do so, but he had ordered that Dawson or I should follow in the capacity of spy, and Dorothy knew of the censorship, though she pretended ignorance of it. So long as John was in London she did not care who followed her; but I well knew that when Manners should return, Dorothy would again begin manoeuvring, and that by some cunning trick she would see him.

One afternoon I was temporarily absent from the Hall and Dorothy wished to ride. Dawson was engaged, and when Dorothy had departed, he ordered Tom to ride after his mistress at a respectful distance. Nearly a fortnight had passed since John had gone to London, and when Dorothy rode forth that afternoon she was beginning to hope he might have returned, and that by some delightful possibility he might then be loitering about the old trysting-place at Bowling Green Gate. There was a half-unconscious conviction in her heart that he would be there. She determined therefore, to ride toward Rowsley, to cross the Wye at her former fording-place, and to go up to Bowling Green Gate on the Devonshire side of the Haddon wall. She had no reason, other than the feeling born of her wishes, to believe that John would be there; but she loved the spot for the sake of the memories which hovered about it. She well knew that some one would follow her from the Hall; but she felt sure that in case the spy proved to be Dawson or myself, she could easily arrange matters to her satisfaction, if by good fortune she should find her lover at the gate.

Tom rode so far behind his mistress that she could not determine who was following her. Whenever she brought Dolcy to a walk, Tom-Tom also walked his horse. When Dorothy galloped, he galloped; but after Dorothy had crossed the Wye and had taken the wall over into the Devonshire lands, Tom also crossed the river and wall and quickly rode to her side. He uncovered and bowed low with a familiarity of manner that startled her. The act of riding up to her and the manner in which he took his place by her side were presumptuous to the point of insolence, and his attitude, although not openly offensive, was slightly alarming. She put Dolcy to a gallop; but the servant who, she thought, was presuming on her former graciousness, kept close at Dolcy's heels. The man was a stranger, and she knew nothing of his character. She was alone in the forest with him, and she did not know to what length his absurd passion for her might lead him. She was alarmed, but she despised cowardice, although she knew herself to be a coward, and she determined to ride to the gate, which was but a short distance ahead of her. She resolved that if the insolent fellow continued his familiarity, she would teach him a lesson he would never forget. When she was within a short distance of the gate she sprang from Dolcy and handed her rein to her servant. John was not there, but she went to the gate in the hope that a letter might be hidden beneath the stone bench where Jennie was wont to find them in times past. Dorothy found no letter, but she could not resist the temptation to sit down upon the bench where he and she had sat, and to dream over the happy moments she had spent there. Tom, instead of holding the horses, hitched them, and walked toward Dorothy. That act on the part of her servant was effrontery of the most insolent sort. Will Dawson himself would not have dared do such a thing. It filled her with alarm, and as Tom approached she was trying to determine in what manner she would crush him. But when the audacious Thomas, having reached the gate, seated himself beside his mistress on the stone bench, the girl sprang to her feet in fright and indignation. She began to realize the extent of her foolhardiness in going to that secluded spot with a stranger.

"How dare you approach me in this insolent fashion?" cried Dorothy, breathless with fear.

"Mistress Vernon," responded Thomas, looking boldly up into her pale face, "I wager you a gold pound sterling that if you permit me to remain here by your side ten minutes you will be unwilling—"

"John, John!" cried the girl, exultantly. Tom snatched the red beard from his face, and Dorothy, after one fleeting, luminous look into his eyes, fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. She wept, and John, bending over the kneeling girl, kissed her sunlit hair.

"Cruel, cruel," sobbed Dorothy. Then she lifted her head and clasped her hands about his neck. "Is it not strange," she continued, "that I should have felt so sure of seeing you? My reason kept telling me that my hopes were absurd, but a stronger feeling full of the breath of certainty seemed to assure me that you would be here. It impelled me to come, though I feared you after we crossed the wall. But reason, fear, and caution were powerless to keep me away."

"You did not know my voice," said John, "nor did you penetrate my disguise. You once said that you would recognize me though I wore all the petticoats in Derbyshire."

"Please don't jest with me now," pleaded Dorothy. "I cannot bear it. Great joy is harder to endure than great grief. Why did you not reveal yourself to me at the Hall?" she asked plaintively.

"I found no opportunity," returned John, "others were always present."

I shall tell you nothing that followed. It is no affair of yours nor of mine.

They were overjoyed in being together once more. Neither of them seemed to realize that John, while living under Sir George's roof, was facing death every moment. To Dorothy, the fact that John, who was heir to one of England's noblest houses, was willing for her sake to become a servant, to do a servant's work, and to receive the indignities constantly put upon a servant, appealed most powerfully. It added to her feeling for him a tenderness which is not necessarily a part of passionate love.

It is needless for me to tell you that while John performed faithfully the duty of keeping bright the fires in Haddon Hall, he did not neglect the other flame—the one in Dorothy's heart—for the sake of whose warmth he had assumed the leathern garb of servitude and had placed his head in the lion's mouth.

At first he and Dorothy used great caution in exchanging words and glances, but familiarity with danger breeds contempt for it. So they utilized every opportunity that niggard chance offered, and blinded by their great longing soon began to make opportunities for speech with each other, thereby bringing trouble to Dorothy and deadly peril to John. Of that I shall soon tell you.

During the period of John's service in Haddon Hall negotiations for Dorothy's marriage with Lord Stanley were progressing slowly but surely. Arrangements for the marriage settlement by the Stanleys, and for Dorothy's dower to be given by Sir George, were matters that the King of the Peak approached boldly as he would have met any other affair of business. But the Earl of Derby, whose mind moved slowly, desiring that a generous portion of the Vernon wealth should be transferred with Dorothy to the Stanley holdings without the delay incident to Sir George's death, put off signing the articles of marriage in his effort to augment the cash payment. In truth, the great wealth which Dorothy would bring to the house of Stanley was the earl's real reason for desiring her marriage with his son. The earl was heavily in debt, and his estate stood in dire need of help.

Sir George, though attracted by the high nobility of the house of Stanley, did not relish the thought that the wealth he had accumulated by his own efforts, and the Vernon estates which had come down to him through centuries, should go to pay Lord Derby's debts. He therefore insisted that Dorothy's dower should be her separate estate, and demanded that it should remain untouched and untouchable by either of the Stanleys. That arrangement did not suit my lord earl, and although the son since he had seen Dorothy at Derby-town was eager to possess the beautiful girl, his father did not share his ardor. Lawyers were called in who looked expensively wise, but they accomplished the purpose for which they were employed. An agreement of marriage was made and was drawn up on an imposing piece of parchment, brave with ribbons, pompous with seals, and fair in clerkly penmanship.

One day Sir George showed me the copy of the contract which had been prepared for him. That evening at the cost of much labor he and I went over the indenture word for word, and when we had finished Sir George thought it was very good indeed. He seemed to think that all difficulties in the way of the marriage were overcome when the agreement that lay before us on the table had been achieved between him and the earl. I knew Sir George's troubles had only begun; for I was aware of a fact which it seemed impossible for him to learn, though of late Dorothy had given him much teaching thereto. I knew that he had transmitted to his daughter a large portion of his own fierce, stubborn, unbreakable will, and that in her it existed in its most deadly form—the feminine. To me after supper that night was assigned the task of reading and rereading many times to Sir George the contents of the beautiful parchment. When I would read a clause that particularly pleased my cousin, he insisted on celebrating the event by drinking a mug of liquor drawn from a huge leather stoup which sat upon the table between us. By the time I had made several readings of the interesting document the characters began to mingle in a way that did not impart ease and clearness to my style. Some of the strange combinations which I and the liquor extracted from amid the seals and ribbons puzzled Sir George not a little. But with each new libation he found new clauses and fresh causes for self-congratulation, though to speak exact truth I more than once married Sir George to the Earl of Derby, and in my profanity gave Lord James Stanley to the devil to have and to hold.

Sir George was rapidly falling before his mighty enemy, drink, and I was not far behind him, though I admit the fault with shame. My cousin for a while was mightily pleased with the contract; but when the liquor had brought him to a point where he was entirely candid with himself, he let slip the fact that after all there was regret at the bottom of the goblet, metaphorically and actually. Before his final surrender to drink he dropped the immediate consideration of the contract and said:—

"Malcolm, I have in my time known many fools, but if you will permit an old man, who loves you dearly, to make a plain statement of his conviction—"

"Certainly," I interrupted.

"It would be a great relief to me," he continued, "to say that I believe you to be the greatest fool the good God ever permitted to live."

"I am sure, Sir George, that your condescending flattery is very pleasing," I said.

Sir George, unmindful of my remark, continued, "Your disease is not usually a deadly malady, as a look about you will easily show; but, Malcolm, if you were one whit more of a fool, you certainly would perish."

I was not offended, for I knew that my cousin meant no offence.

"Then, Sir George, if the time ever comes when I wish to commit suicide, I have always at hand an easy, painless mode of death. I shall become only a little more of a fool." I laughingly said, "I will do my utmost to absorb a little wisdom now and then as a preventive."

"Never a bit of wisdom will you ever absorb. A man who would refuse a girl whose wealth and beauty are as great as Dorothy's, is past all hope. I often awaken in the dark corners of the night when a man's troubles stalk about his bed like livid demons; and when I think that all of this evil which has come up between Dorothy and me, and all of this cursed estrangement which is eating out my heart could have been averted if you had consented to marry her, I cannot but feel—"

"But, Sir George," I interrupted, "it was Dorothy, not I, who refused. She could never have been brought to marry me."

"Don't tell me, Malcolm; don't tell me," cried the old man, angrily. Drink had made Sir George sullen and violent. It made me happy at first; but with liquor in excess there always came to me a sort of frenzy.

"Don't tell me," continued Sir George. "There never lived a Vernon who couldn't win a woman if he would try. But put all that aside. She would have obeyed me. I would have forced her to marry you, and she would have thanked me afterward."

"You could never have forced her to marry me," I replied.

"But that I could and that I would have done," said Sir George. "The like is done every day. Girls in these modern times are all perverse, but they are made to yield. Take the cases of Sir Thomas Mobley, Sir Grant Rhodas, and William Kimm. Their daughters all refused to marry the men chosen for them, but the wenches were made to yield. If I had a daughter who refused to obey me, I would break her; I would break her. Yes, by God, I would break her if I had to kill her," and the old man brought his clenched hand down upon the oak table with a crash. His eyes glared frightfully, and his face bore a forbidding expression which boded no good for Dorothy.

"She will make trouble in this matter," Sir George continued, tapping the parchment with his middle finger.

"She will make trouble about this; but, by God, Malcolm, she shall obey me."

He struck the oaken table another great blow with his fist, and glared fiercely across at me.

"Lord Wyatt had trouble with his daughter when he made the marriage with Devonshire," continued Sir George.

"A damned good match it was, too, for the girl. But she had her heart set on young Gillman, and she refused to obey her father. She refused, by God, point blank, to obey her father. She refused to obey the man who had given her life. What did Wyatt do? He was a man who knew what a child owes to its father, and, by God, Malcolm, after trying every other means to bring the wench to her senses, after he had tried persuasion, after having in two priests and a bishop to show her how badly she was acting, and after he had tried to reason with her, he whipped her; yes, he whipped her till she bled—till she bled, Malcolm, I tell you. Ah, Wyatt knew what is due from a child to its parents. The whipping failed to bring the perverse huzzy to obedience, so Wyatt threw her into a dungeon and starved her till—till—"

"Till she died," I interrupted.

"Yes, till she died," mumbled Sir George, sullenly, "till she died, and it served her right, by God, served her right."

The old man was growing very drunk, and everything was beginning to appear distorted to me. Sir George rose to his feet, leaned toward me with glaring eyes, struck the table a terrible blow with his fist, and said:—

"By the blood of God I swear that if Doll refuses to marry Stanley, and persists in her refusal, I'll whip her. Wyatt is a man after my own heart. I'll starve her. I'll kill her. Ay, if I loved her ten thousand times more than I do, I would kill her or she should obey me."

Then dawned upon me a vision of terrible possibilities. I was sure Sir George could not force Dorothy to marry against her will; but I feared lest he might kill her in his effort to "break her." I do not mean that I feared he would kill her by a direct act, unless he should do so in a moment of frenzy induced by drink and passion, but I did fear for the results of the breaking process. The like had often happened. It had happened in the case of Wyatt's daughter. Dorothy under the intoxicating influence of her passion might become so possessed by the spirit of a martyr that she could calmly take a flogging, but my belief was that should matters proceed to that extreme, should Sir George flog his daughter, the chords of her highly strung nature would snap under the tension, and she would die. I loved Dorothy for the sake of her fierce, passionate, tender heart, and because she loved me; and even in my sober, reflective moments I had resolved that my life, ay, and Sir George's life also, should stand between the girl and the lash. If in calmness I could deliberately form such a resolution, imagine the effect on my liquor-crazed brain of Sir George's words and the vista of horrors they disclosed. I was intoxicated. I was drunk. I say it with shame; and on hearing Sir George's threat my half-frenzied imagination ran riot into the foreboding future.

All the candles, save one tottering wick, were dead in their sockets, and the room was filled with lowering phantom-like shadows from oaken floor to grimy vaulted roof beams. Sir George, hardly conscious of what he did and said, all his evil passions quickened with drink, leaned his hands upon the table and glared across at me. He seemed to be the incarnation of rage and ferocity, to so great a pitch had he wrought himself. The sputtering candle feebly flickered, and seemed to give its dim light only that the darksome shadows might flit and hover about us like vampires on the scent of blood. A cold perspiration induced by a nameless fear came upon me, and in that dark future to which my heated imagination travelled I saw, as if revealed by black magic, fair, sweet, generous Dorothy, standing piteously upon Bowling Green hillside. Over her drooping form there hung in air a monster cloudlike image of her father holding in its hand a deadly bludgeon. So black, so horrid was this shadow-demon that I sprang from my chair with a frightful oath, and shrieked:—

"Hell is made for man because of his cruelty to woman."

Sir George had sunk into his chair. Liquor had finished its work, and the old man, resting his head upon his folded arms, leaned forward on the table. He was drunk—dead to the world. How long I stood in frenzied stupor gazing at shadow-stricken Dorothy upon the hillside I do not know. It must have been several minutes. Blood of Christ, how vividly I remember the vision! The sunny radiance of the girl's hair was darkened and dead. Her bending attitude was one of abject grief. Her hands covered her face, and she was the image of woe. Suddenly she lifted her head with the quick impulsive movement so familiar in her, and with a cry eloquent as a child's wail for its mother called, "John," and held out her arms imploringly toward the dim shadowy form of her lover standing upon the hill crest. Then John's form began to fade, and as its shadowy essence grew dim, despair slowly stole like a mask of death over Dorothy's face. She stood for a moment gazing vacantly into space. Then she fell to the ground, the shadow of her father hovering over her prostrate form, and the words, "Dead, dead, dead," came to me in horrifying whispers from every dancing shadow-demon in the room.

In trying to locate the whispers as they reverberated from floor to oaken rafters, I turned and saw Sir George. He looked as if he were dead.

"Why should you not be dead in fact?" I cried. "You would kill your daughter. Why should I not kill you? That will solve the whole question."

I revelled in the thought; I drank it in; I nursed it; I cuddled it; I kissed it. Nature's brutish love for murder had deluged my soul. I put my hand to my side for the purpose of drawing my sword or my knife. I had neither with me. Then I remember staggering toward the fireplace to get one of the fire-irons with which to kill my cousin. I remember that when I grasped the fire-iron, by the strange working of habit I employed it for the moment in its proper use; and as I began to stir the embers on the hearth, my original purpose was forgotten. That moment of habit-wrought forgetfulness saved me and saved Sir George's life. I remember that I sank into the chair in front of the fireplace, holding the iron, and I thank God that I remember nothing more.

During the night the servants aroused me, and I staggered up the stone stairway of Eagle Tower and clambered into my room.

The next morning I awakened feeling ill. There was a taste in my mouth as If I had been chewing a piece of the devil's boot over night. I wanted no breakfast, so I climbed to the top of the tower, hoping the fresh morning breeze might cool my head and cleanse my mouth. For a moment or two I stood on the tower roof bareheaded and open-mouthed while I drank in the fresh, purifying air. The sweet draught helped me physically; but all the winds of Boreas could not have blown out of my head the vision of the previous night. The question, "Was it prophetic?" kept ringing in my ears, answerless save by a superstitious feeling of fear. Then the horrid thought that I had only by a mere chance missed becoming a murderer came upon me, and again was crowded from my mind by the memory of Dorothy and the hovering spectre which had hung over her head on Bowling Green hillside.

I walked to the north side of the tower and on looking down the first person I saw was our new servant, Thomas, holding two horses at the mounting stand. One of them was Dolcy, and I, feeling that a brisk ride with Dorothy would help me to throw off my wretchedness, quickly descended the tower stairs, stopped at my room for my hat and cloak, and walked around to the mounting block. Dorothy was going to ride, and I supposed she would prefer me to the new servant as a companion.

I asked Thomas if his mistress were going out for a ride, and he replied affirmatively.

"Who is to accompany her?" I asked.

"She gave orders for me to go with her," he answered.

"Very well," I responded, "take your horse back to the stable and fetch mine." The man hesitated, and twice he began to make reply, but finally he said:—

"Very well, Sir Malcolm."

He hitched Dolcy to the ring in the mounting block and started back toward the stable leading his own horse. At that moment Dorothy came out of the tower gate, dressed for the ride. Surely no woman was ever more beautiful than she that morning.

"Tom-Tom, where are you taking the horse?" she cried.

"To the stable, Mistress," answered the servant. "Sir Malcolm says he will go with you."

Dorothy's joyousness vanished. From radiant brightness her expression changed in the twinkling of an eye to a look of disappointment so sorrowful that I at once knew there was some great reason why she did not wish me to ride with her. I could not divine the reason, neither did I try. I quickly said to Thomas:—

"Do not bring my horse. If Mistress Vernon will excuse me, I shall not ride with her this morning. I forgot for the moment that I had not breakfasted."

Again came to Dorothy's face the radiant look of joy as if to affirm what it had already told me. I looked toward Thomas, and his eyes, too, were alight. I could make nothing of it. Thomas was a fine-looking fellow, notwithstanding his preposterous hair and beard; but I felt sure there could be no understanding between the man and his mistress.

When Thomas and Dorothy had mounted, she timidly ventured to say:—

"We are sorry, Cousin Malcolm, that you cannot ride with us."

She did not give me an opportunity to change my mind, but struck Dolcy a sharp blow with her whip that sent the spirited mare galloping toward the dove-cote, and Thomas quickly followed at a respectful distance. From the dove-cote Dorothy took the path down the Wye toward Rowsley. I, of course, connected her strange conduct with John. When a young woman who is well balanced physically, mentally, and morally acts in a strange, unusual manner, you may depend on it there is a man somewhere behind her motive.

I knew that John was in London. Only the night before I had received word from Rutland Castle that he had not returned, and that he was not expected home for many days.

So I concluded that John could not be behind my fair cousin's motive. I tried to stop guessing at the riddle Dorothy had set me, but my effort was useless. I wondered and thought and guessed, but I brought to myself only the answer, "Great is the mystery of womanhood."

After Dorothy had ridden away I again climbed to the top of Eagle Tower and saw the riders cross the Wye at Dorothy's former fording-place, and take the wall. I then did a thing that fills me with shame when I think of it. For the only time in my whole life I acted the part of a spy. I hurried to Bowling Green Gate, and horror upon horror, there I beheld my cousin Dorothy in the arms of Thomas, the man-servant. I do not know why the truth of Thomas's identity did not dawn upon me, but it did not, and I stole away from the gate, thinking that Dorothy, after all, was no better than the other women I had known at various times in my life, and I resolved to tell John what I had seen. You must remember that the women I had known were of the courts of Mary Stuart and of Guise, and the less we say about them the better. God pity them! Prior to my acquaintance with Dorothy and Madge I had always considered a man to be a fool who would put his faith in womankind. To me women were as good as men,—no better, no worse. But with my knowledge of those two girls there had grown up in me a faith in woman's virtue which in my opinion is man's greatest comforter; the lack of it his greatest torment.

I went back to Eagle Tower and stood at my window looking down the Wye, hoping soon to see Dorothy returning home. I did not feel jealousy in the sense that a lover would feel it; but there was a pain in my heart, a mingling of grief, anger, and resentment because Dorothy had destroyed not only my faith in her, but, alas! my sweet, new-born faith in womankind. Through her fault I had fallen again to my old, black belief that virtue was only another name for the lack of opportunity. It is easy for a man who has never known virtue in woman to bear and forbear the lack of it; but when once he has known the priceless treasure, doubt becomes excruciating pain.

After an hour or two Dorothy and her servant appeared at the ford and took the path up the Wye toward Haddon. Thomas was riding a short distance behind his accommodating mistress, and as they approached the Hall, I recognized something familiar in his figure. At first, the feeling of recognition was indistinct, but when the riders drew near, something about the man—his poise on the horse, a trick with the rein or a turn with his stirrup, I could not tell what it was—startled me like a flash in the dark, and the word "John!" sprang to my lips. The wonder of the thing drove out of my mind all power to think. I could only feel happy, so I lay down upon my bed and soon dropped off to sleep.

When I awakened I was rapt in peace, for I had again found my treasured faith in womankind. I had hardly dared include Madge in my backsliding, but I had come perilously near doing it, and the thought of my narrow escape from such perfidy frightened me. I have never taken the risk since that day. I would not believe the testimony of my own eyes against the evidence of my faith in Madge.

I knew that Thomas was Sir John Manners, and yet I did not know it certainly. I determined, if possible, to remain in partial ignorance, hoping that I might with some small show of truth be able to plead ignorance should Sir George accuse me of bad faith in having failed to tell him of John's presence in Haddon Hall. That Sir George would sooner or later discover Thomas's identity I had little doubt. That he would kill him should he once have him in his power, I had no doubt at all. Hence, although I had awakened in peace concerning Dorothy, you may understand that I awakened to trouble concerning John.

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