CHAPTER XVI
LEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE

I shall now tell you of the happenings in Haddon Hall during the fortnight we spent at Rutland before our departure for France.

We left Dorothy, you will remember, a prisoner in her rooms.

After John had gone Sir George's wrath began to gather, and Dorothy was not permitted to depart from the Hall for even a walk upon the terrace, nor could she leave her own apartments save when the queen requested her presence.

A few days after my departure from Haddon, Sir George sent Dawson out through the adjoining country to invite the nobility and gentry to a grand ball to be given at the Hall in honor of Queen Elizabeth. Queen Mary had been sent a prisoner to Chatsworth.

Tom Shaw, the most famous piper of his times, and a choice company of musicians to play with him were hired for the occasion, and, in short, the event was so glorious that its wonders have been sung in minstrelsy throughout Derbyshire ever since.

Dorothy's imprisonment saddened Leicester's heart, and he longed to see her, for her beauty had touched him nearly. Accordingly, the earl one day intimated to Sir George his wish in terms that almost bespoke an intention to ask for the girl's hand when upon proper opportunity the queen's consent might be sought and perchance obtained. His equivocal words did not induce Sir George to grant a meeting by which Dorothy might be compromised; but a robust hope for the ultimate accomplishment of the "Leicester possibility" was aroused in the breast of the King of the Peak, and from hope he could, and soon did, easily step to faith. He saw that the earl was a handsome man, and he believed, at least he hoped, that the fascinating lord might, if he were given an opportunity, woo Dorothy's heart away from the hated scion of a hated race. Sir George, therefore, after several interviews with the earl, grew anxious to give his Lordship an opportunity to win her. But both Sir George and my lord feared Elizabeth's displeasure, and the meeting between Leicester and the girl seemed difficult to contrive. Sir George felt confident that Dorothy could, if she would, easily capture the great lord in a few private interviews; but would she? Dorothy gave her father no encouragement in the matter, and took pains to shun Leicester rather than to seek him.

As Dorothy grew unwilling, Leicester and Sir George grew eager, until at length the latter felt that it was almost time to exert his parental authority. He told Aunt Dorothy his feeling on the subject, and she told her niece. It was impossible to know from what source Dorothy might draw inspiration for mischief. It came to her with her father's half-command regarding Leicester.

Winter had again asserted itself. The weather was bitter cold and snow covered the ground to the depth of a horse's fetlock.

The eventful night of the grand ball arrived, and Dorothy's heart throbbed till she thought surely it would burst.

At nightfall guests began to arrive, and Sir George, hospitable soul that he was, grew boisterous with good humor and delight.

The rare old battlements of Haddon were ablaze with flambeaux, and inside the rooms were alight with waxen tapers. The long gallery was brilliant with the smiles of bejewelled beauty, and laughter, song, and merriment filled the grand old Hall from terrace to Entrance Tower. Dorothy, of course, was brought down from her prison to grace the occasion with a beauty which none could rival. Her garments were of soft, clinging, bright-colored silks and snowy laces, and all who saw her agreed that a creature more radiant never greeted the eye of man.

When the guests had all arrived, the pipers in the balcony burst forth in heart-swelling strains of music, and every foot in the room longed for the dance to begin.

I should like to tell you how Elizabeth most graciously opened the ball with his Majesty, the King of the Peak, amid the plaudits of worshipping subjects, and I should enjoy describing the riotous glory which followed,—for although I was not there, I know intimately all that happened,—but I will balk my desire and tell you only of those things which touched Dorothy.

Leicester, of course, danced with her, and during a pause in the figure, the girl in response to pleadings which she had adroitly incited, reluctantly promised to grant the earl the private interview he so much desired if he could suggest some means for bringing it about. Leicester was in raptures over her complaisance and glowed with triumph and delightful anticipation. But he could think of no satisfactory plan whereby his hopes might be brought to a happy fruition. He proposed several, but all seemed impracticable to the coy girl, and she rejected them. After many futile attempts he said:—

"I can suggest no good plan, mistress. I pray you, gracious lady, therefore, make full to overflowing the measure of your generosity, and tell me how it may be accomplished."

Dorothy hung her head as if in great shame and said: "I fear, my lord, we had better abandon the project for a time. Upon another occasion perhaps—"

"No, no," interrupted the earl, pleadingly, "do not so grievously disappoint me. My heart yearns to have you to myself for one little moment where spying eyes cannot see nor prying ears hear. It is cruel in you to raise my hopes only to cast them down. I beg you, tell me if you know in what manner I may meet you privately."

After a long pause, Dorothy with downcast eyes said, "I am full of shame, my lord, to consent to this meeting, and then find the way to it, but—but—" ("Yes, yes, my Venus, my gracious one," interrupted the earl)—"but if my father would permit me to—to leave the Hall for a few minutes, I might—oh, it is impossible, my lord. I must not think of it."

"I pray you, I beg you," pleaded Leicester. "Tell me, at least, what you might do if your father would permit you to leave the Hall. I would gladly fall to my knees, were it not for the assembled company."

With reluctance in her manner and gladness in her heart, the girl said:—

"If my father would permit me to leave the Hall, I might—only for a moment, meet you at the stile, in the northeast corner of the garden back of the terrace half an hour hence. But he would not permit me, and—and, my lord, I ought not to go even should father consent."

"I will ask your father's permission for you. I will seek him at once," said the eager earl.

"No, no, my lord, I pray you, do not," murmured Dorothy, with distracting little troubled wrinkles in her forehead. Her trouble was more for fear lest he would not than for dread that he would.

"I will, I will," cried his Lordship, softly; "I insist, and you shall not gainsay me."

The girl's only assent was silence, but that was sufficient for so enterprising a gallant as the noble Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. So he at once went to seek Sir George.

The old gentleman, although anxious to give Leicester a chance to press his suit with Dorothy, at first refused, but Leicester said:—

"My intentions are honorable, Sir George. If I can win your daughter's heart, it is my wish, if the queen's consent can be obtained, to ask Mistress Vernon's hand in marriage."

Sir George's breast swelled with pride and satisfaction, for Leicester's words were as near an offer of marriage as it was in his power to make. So the earl received, for Dorothy, permission to leave the Hall, and eagerly carried it to her.

"Your father consents gladly," said the earl. "Will you meet me half an hour hence at the stile?"

"Yes," murmured the girl, with shamelessly cast down eyes and drooping head. Leicester bowed himself away, and fully fifteen minutes before the appointed time left the Hall to wait in the cold at the stile for Dorothy.

Before the expiration of the tedious half hour our meek maiden went to her father and with deep modesty and affected shame said:—

"Father, is it your wish that I go out of the Hall for a few minutes to meet—to meet—" She apparently could not finish the sentence, so modest and shame-faced was she.

"Yes, Doll, I wish you to go on this condition: if Leicester asks you to marry him, you shall consent to be his wife."

"I promise, father," replied the dutiful girl, "if Lord Leicester asks me this night, I will be his wife."

"That is well, child, that is well. Once more you are my good, obedient daughter, and I love you. Wear your sable cloak, Doll; the weather is very cold out of doors."

Her father's solicitude touched her nearly, and she gently led him to a secluded alcove near by, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him passionately. The girl's affection was sweet to the old man who had been without it so long, and his eyes grew moist as he returned her caresses. Dorothy's eyes also were filled with tears. Her throat was choked with sobs, and her heart was sore with pain. Poor young heart! Poor old man!

Soon after Dorothy had spoken with her father she left the Hall by Dorothy's Postern. She was wrapped in her sable cloak—the one that had saved John's life in Aunt Dorothy's room; but instead of going across the garden to the stile where Lord Leicester was waiting, which was north and east of the terrace, she sped southward down the terrace and did not stop till she reached the steps which led westward to the lower garden. She stood on the terrace till she saw a man running toward her from the postern in the southwest corner of the lower garden. Then down the steps she sped with winged feet, and outstretching her arms, fell upon the man's breast, whispering: "John, my love! John, my love!"

As for the man—well, during the first minute or two he wasted no time in speech.

When he spoke he said:—

"We must not tarry here. Horses are waiting at the south end of the footbridge. Let us hasten away at once."

Then happened the strangest of all the strange things I have had to record of this strange, fierce, tender, and at time almost half-savage girl.

Dorothy for months had longed for that moment. Her heart had almost burst with joy when a new-born hope for it was suggested by the opportunities of the ball and her father's desire touching my lord of Leicester. But now that the longed-for moment was at hand, the tender heart, which had so anxiously awaited it, failed, and the girl broke down weeping hysterically.

"Oh, John, you have forgiven so many faults in me," she said between sobs, "that I know you will forgive me when I tell you I cannot go with you to-night. I thought I could and I so intended when I came out here to meet you. But oh, John, my dearest love, I cannot go; I cannot go. Another time I will go with you, John. I promise that I will go with you soon, very soon, John; but I cannot go now, oh, I cannot. You will forgive me, won't you, John? You will forgive me?"

"No," cried John in no uncertain tones, "I will not forgive you. I will take you. If you cry out, I will silence you." Thereupon he rudely took the girl in his arms and ran with her toward the garden gate near the north end of the stone footbridge.

"John, John!" she cried in terror. But he placed his hand over her mouth and forced her to remain silent till they were past the south wall. Then he removed his hand and she screamed and struggled against him with all her might. Strong as she was, her strength was no match for John's, and her struggles were in vain.

John, with his stolen bride, hurriedly crossed the footbridge and ran to the men who were holding the horses. There he placed Dorothy on her feet and said with a touch of anger:—

"Will you mount of your own will or shall I put you in the saddle?"

"I'll mount of my own will, John," she replied submissively, "and John, I—I thank you, I thank you for—for—" she stopped speaking and toyed with the tufts of fur that hung from the edges of her cloak.

"For what, my love? For what do you thank me?" asked John after a little pause.

"For making—me—do—what I—I longed to do. My conscience would not let me do it of my own free will."

Then tears came from her eyes in a great flood, and throwing her arms about John's neck she gave him herself and her heart to keep forever and forever.

And Leicester was shivering at the stile! The girl had forgotten even the existence of the greatest lord in the realm.

My wife, Lord Rutland, and I waited in the watch-room above the castle gates for the coming of Dorothy and John; and when they came—but I will not try to describe the scene. It were a vain effort. Tears and laughter well compounded make the sweetest joy; grief and joy the truest happiness; happiness and pain the grandest soul, and none of these may be described. We may analyze them, and may take them part from part; but, like love, they cannot be compounded. We may know all the component parts, but when we try to create these great emotions in description, we lack the subtle compounding flux to unite the ingredients, and after all is done, we have simply said that black is black and that white is white.

Next day, in the morning, Madge and I started for our new home in France. We rode up the hill down which poor Dolcy took her last fatal plunge, and when we reached the crest, we paused to look back. Standing on the battlements, waving a kerchief in farewell to us, was the golden-crowned form of a girl. Soon she covered her face with her kerchief, and we knew she was weeping Then we, also, wept as we turned away from the fair picture; and since that far-off morning—forty long, long years ago—we have not seen the face nor heard the voice of our sweet, tender friend. Forty years! What an eternity it is if we tear it into minutes!

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