CHAPTER IX
A TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE
I was at a loss what course to pursue, and I remained for a moment inpuzzling thought. I went back to Madge, and after closing the door, toldher of all I had seen. She could not advise me, and of course she wasdeeply troubled and concerned. After deliberating, I determined to speakto Aunt Dorothy that she might know what had happened. So I opened thedoor and walked into Lady Crawford's presence. After viewing my lady'sback for a short time, I said:--
"I cannot find my hat, cloak, and sword. I left them in Dorothy's bedroom.Has any one been here since I entered?"
The old lady turned quickly upon me, "Since you entered?" she cried inwonderment and consternation. "Since you left, you mean. Did you not leavethis room a few minutes ago? What means this? How found you entrancewithout the key?"
"I did not leave this room, Aunt Dorothy; you see I am here," I responded.
"Who did leave? Your wraith? Some one--Dorothy!" screamed the old lady interror. "That girl!!--Holy Virgin! where is she?"
Lady Crawford hastened to Dorothy's room and returned to me in greatagitation.
"Were you in the plot?" she demanded angrily.
"No more than were you, Lady Crawford," I replied, telling the exacttruth. If I were accessory to Dorothy's crime, it was only as a witnessand Aunt Dorothy had seen as much as I.
I continued: "Dorothy left Lady Madge and me at the window, saying shewished to make a change in her garments. I was watching the sunset andtalking with Lady Madge."
Lady Crawford, being full of concern about the main event,--Dorothy'sescape,--was easily satisfied that I was not accessory before the fact.
"What shall I do, Malcolm? What shall I do? Help me, quickly. My brotherwill return in the morning--perhaps he will return to-night--and he willnot believe that I have not intentionally permitted Dorothy to leave theHall. I have of late said so much to him on behalf of the girl that hesuspects me already of being in sympathy with her. He will not believe mewhen I tell him that I have been duped. The ungrateful, selfish girl! Howcould she so unkindly return my affection!"
The old lady began to weep.
I did not believe that Dorothy intended to leave Haddon Hall permanently.I felt confident she had gone out only to meet John, and was sure shewould soon return. On the strength of that opinion I said: "If you fearthat Sir George will not believe you--he certainly will blame you--wouldit not be better to admit Dorothy quietly when she returns and say nothingto any one concerning the escapade? I will remain here in these rooms, andwhen she returns I will depart, and the guards will never suspect thatDorothy has left the Hall."
"If she will but return," wailed Aunt Dorothy, "I shall be only too gladto admit her and to keep silent."
"I am sure she will," I answered. "Leave orders with the guard at SirGeorge's door to admit me at any time during the night, and Dorothy willcome in without being recognized. Her disguise must be very complete ifshe could deceive you."
"Indeed, her disguise is complete," replied the tearful old lady.
Dorothy's disguise was so complete and her resemblance to me had been sowell contrived that she met with no opposition from the guards in theretainer's room nor from the porter. She walked out upon the terrace whereshe strolled for a short time. Then she climbed over the wall at the stileback of the terrace and took her way up Bowling Green Hill toward thegate. She sauntered leisurely until she was out of sight of the Hall. Thengathering up her cloak and sword she sped along the steep path to the hillcrest and thence to the gate.
Soon after the first day of her imprisonment she had sent a letter to Johnby the hand of Jennie Faxton, acquainting him with the details of all thathad happened. In her letter, among much else, she said:--
"My true love, I beg you to haunt with your presence Bowling Green Gateeach day at the hour of sunset. I cannot tell you when I shall be there tomeet you, or surely I would do so now. But be there I will. Let no doubtof that disturb your mind. It does not lie in the power of man to keep mefrom you. That is, it lies in the power of but one man, you, my love andmy lord, and I fear not that you will use your power to that end. So it isthat I beg you to wait for me at sunset hour each day near by BowlingGreen Gate. You may be caused to wait for me a long weary time; but oneday, sooner or later, I shall go to you, and then--ah, then, if it be inmy power to reward your patience, you shall have no cause for complaint."
When Dorothy reached the gate she found it securely locked. She peeredeagerly through the bars, hoping to see John. She tried to shake theheavy iron structure to assure herself that it could not be opened.
"Ah, well," she sighed, "I suppose the reason love laughs at locksmiths isbecause he--or she--can climb."
Then she climbed the gate and sprang to the ground on the Devonshire sideof the wall.
"What will John think when he sees me in this attire?" she said halfaloud. "Malcolm's cloak serves but poorly to cover me, and I shall insteadbe covered with shame and confusion when John comes. I fear he will thinkI have disgraced myself." Then, with a sigh, "But necessity knows noraiment."
She strode about near the gate for a few minutes, wishing that she wereindeed a man, save for one fact: if she were not a woman, John would notlove her, and, above all, she could not love John. The fact that she couldand did love John appealed to Dorothy as the highest, sweetest privilegethat Heaven or earth could offer to a human being.
The sun had sunk in the west, and his faint parting glory was but dimly tobe seen upon a few small clouds that floated above Overhaddon Hill. Themoon was past its half; and the stars, still yellow and pale from thelingering glare of day, waited eagerly to give their twinkling help inlighting the night. The forest near the gate was dense, and withal thefading light of the sun and the dawning beams of the moon and stars, deepshadow enveloped Dorothy and all the scene about her. The girl wasdisappointed when she did not see Manners, but she was not vexed. Therewas but one person in all the world toward whom she held a patient, humbleattitude--John. If he, in his greatness, goodness, and condescension,deigned to come and meet so poor a person as Dorothy Vernon, she would bethankful and happy; if he did not come, she would be sorrowful. His willwas her will, and she would come again and again until she should findhim waiting for her, and he should stoop to lift her into heaven.
If there is a place in all the earth where red warm blood counts for itsfull value, it is in a pure woman's veins. Through self-fear it brings toher a proud reserve toward all mankind till the right one comes. Towardhim it brings an eager humbleness that is the essence and the life ofHeaven and of love. Poets may praise snowy women as they will, but thecompelling woman is she of the warm blood. The snowy woman is the lifelessseed, the rainless cloud, the unmagnetic lodestone, the drossful iron. Thegreat laws of nature affect her but passively. If there is aught in thesaying of the ancients, "The best only in nature can survive," the day ofher extermination will come. Fire is as chaste as snow, and infinitelymore comforting.
Dorothy's patience was not to be tried for long. Five minutes after shehad climbed the gate she beheld John riding toward her from the directionof Rowsley, and her heart beat with thrill upon thrill of joy. She feltthat the crowning moment of her life was at hand. By the help of a subtlesense--familiar spirit to her love perhaps--she knew that John would askher to go with him and to be his wife, despite all the Rutlands andVernons dead, living, or to be born. The thought of refusing him neverentered her mind. Queen Nature was on the throne in the fulness of power,and Dorothy, in perfect attune with her great sovereign, was fulfillingher destiny in accordance with the laws to which her drossless being wasentirely amenable.
Many times had the fear come to her that Sir John Manners, who was heir tothe great earldom of Rutland,--he who was so great, so good, and sobeautiful,--might feel that his duty to his house past, present, andfuture, and the obligations of his position among the grand nobles of therealm, should deter him from a marriage against which so many good reasonscould be urged. But this evening
her familiar spirit whispered to her thatshe need not fear, and her heart was filled with joy and certainty. Johndismounted and tethered his horse at a short distance from the gate. Heapproached Dorothy, but halted when he beheld a man instead of the girlwhom he longed to meet. His hesitancy surprised Dorothy, who, in hereagerness, had forgotten her male attire. She soon saw, however, that hedid not recognize her, and she determined, in a spirit of mischief, tomaintain her incognito till he should penetrate her disguise.
She turned her back on John and sauntered leisurely about, whistlingsoftly. She pretended to be unconscious of his presence, and John, whofelt that the field was his by the divine right of love, walked to thegate and looked through the bars toward Bowling Green. He stood at thegate for a short time with indifference in his manner and irritation inhis heart. He, too, tried to hum a tune, but failed. Then he tried towhistle, but his musical efforts were abortive. There was no music in him.A moment before his heart had been full of harmony; but when he found aman instead of his sweetheart, the harmony quickly turned to raspingdiscord.
John was not a patient man, and his impatience was apt to take the form ofwords and actions. A little aimless stalking about at the gate was morethan enough for him, so he stepped toward the intruder and lifted his hat.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I thought when first I saw you that youwere Sir Malcolm Vernon. I fancied you bore resemblance to him. I see thatI was in error."
"Yes, in error," answered my beard.
Again the two gentlemen walked around each other with great amusement onthe part of one, and with ever increasing vexation on the part of theother.
Soon John said, "May I ask whom have I the honor to address?"
"Certainly, you may ask," was the response.
A silence ensued during which Dorothy again turned her back on John andwalked a few paces away from him. John's patience was rapidly oozing, andwhen the unknown intruder again turned in his direction, John said withall the gentleness then at his command:--
"Well, sir, I do ask."
"Your curiosity is flattering," said the girl.
"Pardon me, sir," returned John. "My curiosity is not intended to beflattering. I--"
"I hope it is not intended to be insulting, sir?" asked my hat and cloak.
"That, sir, all depends upon yourself," retorted John, warmly. Then afteran instant of thought, he continued in tones of conciliation:--
"I have an engagement of a private nature at this place. In short, I hopeto meet a--a friend here within a few minutes and I feel sure that underthe circumstances so gallant a gentleman as yourself will act with dueconsideration for the feelings of another. I hope and believe that youwill do as you would be done by."
"Certainly, certainly," responded the gallant. "I find no fault at allwith your presence. Please take no account whatever of me. I assure you Ishall not be in the least disturbed."
John was somewhat disconcerted.
"Perhaps you will not be disturbed," replied John, struggling to keep downhis temper, "but I fear you do not understand me. I hope to meet a--a ladyand--"
"I hope also to meet a--a friend," the fellow said; "but I assure you weshall in no way conflict."
"May I ask," queried John, "if you expect to meet a gentleman or a lady?"
"Certainly you may ask," was the girl's irritating reply.
"Well, well, sir, I do ask," said John. "Furthermore, I demand to knowwhom you expect to meet at this place."
"That, of course, sir, is no business of yours."
"But I shall make it my affair. I expect to meet a lady here, mysweetheart." The girl's heart jumped with joy. "And if you have any of thefeelings of a gentleman, you must know that your presence will beintolerable to me."
"Perhaps it will be, my dear sir, but I have as good a right here as youor any other. If you must know all about my affairs, I tell you I, too,hope to meet my sweetheart at this place. In fact, I know I shall meet mysweetheart, and, my good fellow, I beg to inform you that a stranger'spresence would be very annoying to me."
John was at his wit's end. He must quickly do or say something to persuadethis stubborn fellow to leave. If Dorothy should come and see two personsat the gate she, of course, would return to the Hall. Jennie Faxton, whoknew that the garments were finished, had told Sir John that he mightreasonably expect to see Dorothy at the gate on that evening, for SirGeorge had gone to Derby-town, presumably to remain over night.
In sheer desperation John said, "I was here first, and I claim theground."
"That is not true," replied the other. "I have been waiting here foryou--I mean for the person I am to meet--" Dorothy thought she hadbetrayed herself, and that John would surely recognize her. "I had beenwaiting full five minutes before you arrived."
John's blindness in failing to recognize Dorothy is past my understanding.He explained it to me afterward by saying that his eagerness to seeDorothy, and his fear, nay almost certainty, that she could not come,coupled with the hope which Jennie Faxton had given him, had so completelyoccupied his mind that other subjects received but slight consideration.
"But I--I have been here before this night to meet--"
"And I have been here to meet--quite as often as you, I hope," retortedDorothy.
They say that love blinds a man. It must also have deafened John, since hedid not recognize his sweetheart's voice.
"It may be true that you have been here before this evening," retortedJohn, angrily; "but you shall not remain here now. If you wish to saveyourself trouble, leave at once. If you stalk about in the forest, I willrun you through and leave you for the crows to pick."
"I have no intention of leaving, and if I were to do so you would regretit; by my beard, you would regret it," answered the girl, pleased to seeJohn in his overbearing, commanding mood. His stupidity was pastcomprehension.
"Defend yourself," said John, drawing his sword.
"Now he will surely know the truth," thought Dorothy, but she said: "I ammuch younger than you, and am not so large and strong. I am unskilled inthe use of a sword, and therefore am I no match for Sir John Manners thanwhom, I have heard, there is no better swordsman, stronger arm, nor braverheart in England."
"You flatter me, my friend," returned John, forced into a good humoragainst his will; "but you must leave. He who cannot defend himself mustyield; it is the law of nature and of men."
John advanced toward Dorothy, who retreated stepping backward, holding herarm over her face.
"I am ready to yield if you wish. In fact, I am eager to yield--more eagerthan you can know," she cried.
"It is well," answered John, putting his sword in sheath.
"But," continued Dorothy, "I will not go away."
"Then you must fight," said John.
"I tell you again I am willing, nay, eager to yield to you, but I alsotell you I cannot fight in the way you would have me. In other waysperhaps I can fight quite as well as anybody. But really, I am ashamed todraw my sword, since to do so would show you how poorly I am equipped todefend myself under your great laws of nature and of man. Again, I wish toassure you that I am more than eager to yield; but I cannot fight you, andI will not go away."
The wonder never ceases that John did not recognize her. She took no painsto hide her identity, and after a few moments of concealment she wasanxious that John should discover her under my garments.
"I would know his voice," she thought, "did he wear all the petticoats inDerbyshire."
"What shall I do with you?" cried John, amused and irritated. "I cannotstrike you."
"No, of course you would not murder me in cold blood," answered Dorothy,laughing heartily. She was sure her laughter would open John's eyes.
"I cannot carry you away," said John.
"I would come back again, if you did," answered the irrepressible fellow.
"I suppose you would," returned John, sullenly. "In the devil's name, tellme what you will do. Can I not beg you to go?"
"Now, Sir John, you have touched me. I ma
ke you this offer: you expectMistress Vernon to come from the Hall--"
"What do you know about Mistress Vernon?" cried John. "By God, I will--"
"Now don't grow angry, Sir John, and please don't swear in my presence.You expect her, I say, to come from the Hall. What I propose is this: youshall stand by the gate and watch for Doll--oh, I mean MistressVernon--and I will stand here behind the wall where she cannot see me.When she comes in sight--though in truth I don't think she will come, andI believe were she under your very nose you would not see her--you shalltell me and I will leave at once; that is, if you wish me to leave. Afteryou see Dorothy Vernon if you still wish me to go, I pledge my faith nopower can keep me. Now is not that fair? I like you very much, and I wantto remain here, if you will permit me, and talk to you for a littletime--till you see Doll Vernon."
"Doll Vernon, fellow? How dare you so speak of her?" demanded John, hotly.
"Your pardon and her pardon, I beg; Mistress Vernon, soon to be Countessof Derbyshire. By the way, I wager you a gold pound sterling that by thetime you see Doll Vernon--Mistress Vernon, I pray your pardon--you willhave grown so fond of me that you will not permit me to leave you." Shethought after that speech he could not help but know her; but John's skullwas like an oaken board that night. Nothing could penetrate it. He beganto fancy that his companion was a simple witless person who had escapedfrom his keepers.
"Will you take the wager?" asked Dorothy.
"Nonsense!" was the only reply John deigned to give to so foolish aproposition.
"Then will you agree that I shall remain at the gate till Doll--MistressVernon comes?"
"I suppose I shall have to make the best terms possible with you," hereturned. "You are an amusing fellow and as perverse as a woman."
"I knew you would soon learn to like me," she responded. "The first steptoward a man's affection is to amuse him. That old saw which says the roadto a man's heart is through his stomach, is a sad mistake. Amusement isthe highway to a man's affections."
"It is better that one laugh with us than at us. There is a vastdifference in the two methods," answered John, contemptuously.
"You dare to laugh at me," cried Dorothy, grasping the hilt of her sword,and pretending to be angry. John waved her off with his hand, andlaughingly said, "Little you know concerning the way to a man's heart, andno doubt less of the way to a woman's."
"I, perhaps, know more about it than you would believe," returned MalcolmNo. 2.
"If you know aught of the latter subject, it is more than I wouldsuppose," said John. "It is absurd to say that a woman can love a man whois unable to defend himself."
"A vain man thinks that women care only for men of his own pattern,"retorted Dorothy. "Women love a strong arm, it is true, but they also lovea strong heart, and you see I am not at all afraid of you, even though youhave twice my strength. There are as many sorts of bravery, Sir John,as--as there are hairs in my beard."
"That is not many," interrupted John.
"And," continued the girl, "I believe, John,--Sir John,--you possess allthe kinds of bravery that are good."
"You flatter me," said John.
"Yes," returned Dorothy, "that was my intent."
After that unflattering remark there came a pause. Then the girl continuedsomewhat hesitatingly: "Doubtless many women, Sir John, have seen yourvirtues more clearly than even I see them. Women have a keener perceptionof masculine virtues than--than we have."
Dorothy paused, and her heart beat with a quickened throb while sheawaited his reply. A new field of discovery was opening up to her and anew use for her disguise.
John made no reply, but the persistent girl pursued her new line ofattack.
"Surely Sir John Manners has had many sweethearts," said Dorothy, inflattering tones. There were rocks and shoals ahead for John's love barge."Many, many, I am sure," the girl persisted.
"Ah, a few, a few, I admit," John like a fool replied. Dorothy wasaccumulating disagreeable information rapidly.
"While you were at London court," said she, "the fine ladies must havesought you in great numbers--I am sure they did."
"Perhaps, oh, perhaps," returned John. "One cannot always remember suchaffairs." His craft was headed for the rocks. Had he observed Dorothy'sface, he would have seen the storm a-brewing.
"To how many women, Sir John, have you lost your heart, and at varioustimes how many have lost their hearts to you?" asked the persistentgirl.--"What a senseless question," returned John. "A dozen times or more;perhaps a score or two score times. I cannot tell the exact number. I didnot keep an account."
Dorothy did not know whether she wanted to weep or be angry. Pique and aflash of temper, however, saved her from tears, and she said, "You are sobrave and handsome that you must have found it a very easy task--mucheasier than it would be for me--to convince those confiding ones of youraffection?"
"Yes," replied John, plunging full sail upon the breakers, "I admit thatusually they have been quite easy to convince. I am naturally bold, and Isuppose that perhaps--that is, I may possibly have a persuasive trickabout me."
Shades of good men who have blundered into ruin over the path of pettyvanity, save this man! But no, Dorothy must drink the bitter cup ofknowledge to the dregs.
"And you have been false to all of these women? she said.
"Ah, well, you know--the devil take it! A man can't be true to a score ofwomen," replied John.
"I am sure none of them wished you to be true," the girl answered,restraining her tears with great difficulty.
At that point in the conversation John began to suspect from the mannerand shapeliness of his companion that a woman had disguised herself inman's attire. Yet it did not once occur to him that Dorothy's fair formwas concealed within the disguise. He attempted to lift my soft beaverhat, the broad rim of which hid Dorothy's face, but to that she made adecided objection, and John continued: "By my soul I believe you are awoman. Your walk"--Dorothy thought she had been swaggering like averitable swash-buckler--"your voice, the curves of your form, all betrayyou." Dorothy gathered the cloak closely about her.
"I would know more of you," said John, and he stepped toward the nowinteresting stranger. But she drew away from him, and told him to keephands off.
"Oh, I am right. You are a woman," said John.
Dorothy had maintained the disguise longer than she wished, and waswilling that John should discover her identity. At first it had been raresport to dupe him; but the latter part of her conversation had given herno pleasure. She was angry, jealous, and hurt by what she had learned.
"Yes," she answered, "I admit that I am a--a woman. Now I must go."
"Stay but one moment," pleaded John, whose curiosity and gallantry werearoused. "I will watch for Mistress Vernon, and when she appears, then youmay go."
"I told you that you would want me to remain," said the girl with a sigh.She was almost ready to weep. Then she thought: "I little dreamed I wascoming here for this. I will carry the disguise a little farther, andwill, perhaps, learn enough to--to break my heart."
She was soon to learn all she wanted to know and a great deal more.
"Come sit by me on this stone," said John, coaxingly. The girl complied,and drew the cloak over her knees.
"Tell me why you are here," he asked.
"To meet a gentleman," she replied, with low-bent face.
"Tell me your name," John asked, as he drew my glove from her passivehand. John held the hand in his, and after examining it in the dim lightsaw that it was a great deal more than good to look upon. Then he liftedit to his lips and said:
"Since our sweethearts have disappointed us, may we not console ourselveswith each other?" He placed his arm around the girl's waist and drew heryielding form toward him. Dorothy, unobserved by John, removed the falsebeard and moustachio, and when John put his arm about her waist and leanedforward to kiss the fair accommodating neighbor she could restrain hertears no longer and said:--
"That would be no consolation for me, John; th
at would be no consolationfor me. How can you? How can you?"
She rose to her feet and covered her face with her hands in a paroxysm ofweeping. John, too, sprang to his feet, you may be sure. "Dorothy! Godhelp me! I am the king of fools. Curse this hour in which I have thrownaway my heaven. You must hate and despise me, fool, fool that I am."
John knew that it were worse than useless for him to attempt anexplanation. The first thought that flashed through his mind was, to tellthe girl that he had only pretended not to know her. He thought he wouldtry to make her believe that he had been turning her trick upon herself;but he was wise in his day and generation, and did not seek refuge in thatfalsehood.
The girl would never have forgiven him for that.
"The only amends I can make," he said, in very dolefulness, "is that I maynever let you see my face again."
"That will not help matters," sobbed Dorothy.
"I know it will not," returned John. "Nothing can help me. I can remainhere no longer. I must leave you. I cannot even ask you to say farewell.Mistress Vernon, you do not despise me half so bitterly as I despisemyself."
Dorothy was one of those rare natures to whom love comes but once. It hadcome to her and had engulfed her whole being. To part with it would belike parting with life itself. It was her tyrant, her master. It was herego. She could no more throw it off than she could expel herself from herown existence. All this she knew full well, for she had analyzed herconditions, and her reason had joined with all her other faculties ingiving her a clear concept of the truth. She knew she belonged to JohnManners for life and for eternity. She also knew that the chance of seeinghim soon again was very slight, and to part from him now in aught butkindness would almost kill her.
Before John had recognized Dorothy he certainly had acted like a fool, butwith the shock of recognition came wisdom. All the learning of theancients and all the cunning of the prince of darkness could not havetaught him a wiser word with which to make his peace, "I may never let yousee my face again." That was more to be feared by Dorothy than even John'sinconstancy.
Her heart was full of trouble. "I do not know what I wish," she saidsimply. "Give me a little time to think."
John's heart leaped with joy, but he remained silent.
Dorothy continued: "Oh, that I had remained at home. I would to God I hadnever seen Derby-town nor you."
John in the fulness of his wisdom did not interrupt her.
"To think that I have thus made a fool of myself about a man who hasgiven his heart to a score of women."
"This is torture," moaned John, in real pain.
"But," continued Dorothy, "I could not remain away from this place when Ihad the opportunity to come to you. I felt that I must come. I felt that Ishould die if I did not. And you are so false. I wish I were dead. Amoment ago, had I been another woman, you would have kissed her. Youthought I was another woman."
John's wisdom stood by him nobly. He knew he could neither explainsuccessfully nor beg forgiveness. He simply said: "I cannot remain andlook you in the face. If I dare make any request, it is that despite allyou have heard from my lips you will still believe that I love you, andthat in all my life I have never loved any one so dearly. There is noother woman for me."
"You doubtless spoke the same false words to the other two score women,"said Dorothy. Tears and sobs were playing sad havoc with her powers ofspeech.
"Farewell, Mistress Vernon," replied John. "I should be shameless if Idared ask you to believe any word I can utter. Forget, if possible, that Iever existed; forget me that you may not despise me. I am unworthy todwell even in the smallest of your thoughts. I am altogether base andcontemptible."
"N-o-o," sighed Dorothy, poutingly, while she bent low her head and toyedwith the gold lace of my cloak.
"Farewell," said John. He took a step or two backward from her.
"You are over-eager to leave, it seems to me," said the girl in an injuredtone. "I wonder that you came at all." John's heart was singing hosanna.He, however, maintained his voice at a mournful pitch and said: "I mustgo. I can no longer endure to remain." While he spoke he moved toward hishorse, and his head was bowed with real shame as he thought of thepitiable fool he had made of himself. Dorothy saw him going from her, andshe called to him softly and reluctantly, "John."
He did not hear her, or perhaps he thought best to pretend that he did nothear, and as he moved from her the girl became desperate. Modesty,resentment, insulted womanhood and injured pride were all swept away bythe stream of her mighty love, and she cried again, this time withouthesitancy or reluctance, "John, John." She started to run toward him, butmy cloak was in her way, and the sword tripped her feet. In her fear lestJohn might leave her, she unclasped the sword-belt from her waist andsnatched the cloak from her shoulders. Freed from these hindrances, sheran toward John.
"John, do not leave me. Do not leave me." As she spoke, she reached anopen space among the trees and John turned toward her. Her hat had fallenoff, and the red golden threads of her hair, freed from their fastenings,streamed behind her. Never before had a vision of such exquisiteloveliness sped through the moonbeams. So entrancing was her beauty toJohn that he stood motionless in admiration. He did not go to meet her ashe should have done, and perhaps as he would have done had his senses notbeen wrapped in benumbing wonderment. His eyes were unable to interpret tohis brain all her marvellous beauty, and his other senses abandoning theirproper functions had hastened to the assistance of his sight He saw, heheard, he felt her loveliness. Thus occupied he did not move, so Dorothyran to him and fell upon his breast.
"You did not come to meet me," she sobbed. "You made me come all the way,to forgive you. Cruel, cruel!"
John held the girl in his arms, but he did not dare to kiss her, and hisself-denial soon brought its reward. He had not expected that she wouldcome a beggar to him. The most he had dared to hope was that she wouldlisten to his prayer for forgiveness. With all his worldly wisdom John hadnot learned the fact that inconstancy does not destroy love in the one whosuffers by reason of it; nor did he know of the exquisite pain-touchedhappiness which comes to a gentle, passionate heart such as Dorothy's fromthe mere act of forgiving.
"Is it possible you can forgive me for the miserable lies I have uttered?"asked John, almost unconscious of the words he was speaking. "Is itpossible you can forgive me for uttering those lies, Dorothy?" herepeated.
She laid her head upon his breast, and softly passing her hand over thelace of his doublet, whispered:--
"If I could believe they were lies, I could easily forgive you," sheanswered between low sobs and soft sighs. Though she was a woman, thesweet essence of childhood was in her heart.
"But you cannot believe me, even when I tell you that I spoke not thetruth," answered John, with growing faith in his system of passiverepentance. Again came the sighs, and a few struggling, childish sobs.
"It is easy for us to believe that which we long to believe," she said.Then she turned her face upward to him, and John's reward was altogetherdisproportioned to the self-denial he had exercised a few minutes before.She rewarded him far beyond his deserts; and after a pause she saidmischievously:--
"You told me that you were a bold man with women, and I know that at leastthat part of what you said was untrue, for you are a bashful man, John,you are downright bashful. It is I who have been bold. You were too timidto woo me, and I so longed for you that I--I--was not timid."
"For God's sake, Dorothy, I beg you to have pity and to make no jest ofme. Your kindness almost kills me, and your ridicule--"
"There, there, John," whispered the girl, "I will never again make a jestof you if it gives you pain. Tell me, John, tell me truly, was it allfalse--that which you told me about the other women?"
There had been more truth in John's bragging than he cared to confess. Hefeared and loathed a lie; so he said evasively, but with perfect truth:--
"You must know, my goddess. If you do not know without the telling that Ilove you with all my being; if yo
u do not know that there is for me andever will be no woman but you in all the world; if you do not know thatyou have stolen my soul and that I live only in your presence, all that Ican say will avail nothing toward convincing you. I am almost crazed withlove for you, and with pain and torture. For the love of God let me leaveyou that I may hide my face."
"Never," cried the girl, clasping her hands about his neck and pressingher lips gently upon his. "Never. There, that will soothe you, won't it,John?"
It did soothe him, and in the next moment, John, almost frenzied with joy,hurt the girl by the violence of his embraces; but she, woman-like, foundher heaven in the pain.
They went back to the stone bench beside the gate, and after a little timeDorothy said:--
"But tell me, John, would you have kissed the other woman? Would youreally have done it?"
John's honesty certainly was good policy in that instance. The adroit girlhad set a trap for him.
"I suppose I would," answered John, with a groan.
"It hurts me to hear the fact," said Dorothy, sighing; "but it pleases meto hear the truth. I know all else you tell me is true. I was trying youwhen I asked the question, for I certainly knew what you intended to do. Awoman instinctively knows when a man is going to--to--when anything ofthat sort is about to happen."
"How does she know?" asked John.
Rocks and breakers ahead for Dorothy.
"I cannot tell you," replied the girl, naively, "but she knows."
"Perhaps it is the awakened desire in her own heart which forewarns her,"said John, stealthily seeking from Dorothy a truth that would pain himshould he learn it.
"I suppose that is partly the source of her knowledge," replied theknowing one, with a great show of innocence in her manner. John was in noposition to ask impertinent questions, nor had he any right to grow angryat unpleasant discoveries; but he did both, although for a time hesuppressed the latter.
"You believe she is sure to know, do you?" he asked.
"Usually," she replied. "Of course there are times when--when it happensso suddenly that--"
John angrily sprang to his feet, took a few hurried steps in front ofDorothy, who remained demurely seated with her eyes cast down, and thenagain he took his place beside her on the stone bench. He was tremblingwith anger and jealousy. The devil was in the girl that night formischief.
"I suppose you speak from the fulness of your experience," demanded John,in tones that would have been insulting had they not been pleasing to thegirl. She had seen the drift of John's questions at an early stage of theconversation, and his easily aroused jealousy was good proof to her of hisaffection. After all, she was in no danger from rocks and breakers. Shewell knew the currents, eddies, rocks, and shoals of the sea she wasnavigating, although she had never before sailed it. Her fore-mothers, allthe way back to Eve, had been making charts of those particular waters forher especial benefit. Why do we, a slow-moving, cumbersome army of men,continue to do battle with the foe at whose hands defeat is always ourportion?
"Experience?" queried Dorothy, her head turned to one side in ahalf-contemplative attitude. "Experience? Of course that is the only waywe learn anything."
John again sprang to his feet, and again he sat down beside the girl. Hehad so recently received forgiveness for his own sins that he dared not beunforgiving toward Dorothy. He did not speak, and she remained silent,willing to allow time for the situation to take its full effect. Thewisdom of the serpent is black ignorance compared with the cunning of agirl in Dorothy's situation. God gives her wit for the occasion as Hegives the cat soft paws, sharp claws, and nimbleness. She was teachingJohn a lesson he would never forget. She was binding him to her with hoopsof steel.
"I know that I have not the right to ask," said John, suppressing hisemotions, "but may I know merely as a matter of trivial information--may Iknow the name of--of the person--this fellow with whom you have had sofull an experience? God curse him! Tell me his name." He caught the girlviolently by both arms as if he would shake the truth out of her. He wasunconsciously making full amends for the faults he had committed earlierin the evening. The girl made no answer. John's powers of self-restraint,which were not of the strongest order, were exhausted, and he again sprangto his feet and stood towering before her in a passion. "Tell me hisname," he said hoarsely. "I demand it. I will not rest till I kill him."
"If you would kill him, I surely will not tell you his name. In truth, Iadmit I am very fond of him."
"Speak not another word to me till you tell me his name," stormed John. Ifeel sorry for John when I think of the part he played in this interview;but every man knows well his condition.
"I care not," continued John, "in what manner I have offended you, nordoes my debt of gratitude to you for your generosity in forgiving my sinsweigh one scruple against this you have told me. No man, unless he were apoor clown, would endure it; and I tell you now, with all my love for you,I will not--I will not!"
Dorothy was beginning to fear him. She of course did not fear personalviolence; but after all, while he was slower than she, he was muchstronger every way, and when aroused, his strength imposed itself upon herand she feared to play him any farther.
"Sit beside me, John, and I will tell you his name," said the girl,looking up to him, and then casting down her eyes. A dimpling smile wasplaying about her lips.
"No, I will not sit by you," replied John, angrily. She partly rose, andtaking him by the arm drew him to her side.
"Tell me his name," again demanded John, sitting rigidly by Dorothy. "Tellme his name."
"Will you kill him?" she asked.
"That I will," he answered. "Of that you may rest assured."
"If you kill him, John, it will break my heart; for to do so, you mustcommit suicide. There is no other man but you, John. With you I had myfirst, last, and only experience."
John, of course, was speechless. He had received only what he deserved. Ifreely admit he played the part of a fool during this entire interviewwith Dorothy, and he was more fully convinced of the fact than either youor I can be. I do not like to have a fool for the hero of my history; butthis being a history and not a romance, I must tell you of events just asthey happened, and of persons exactly as they were, else my consciencewill smite me for untruthfulness. Dorothy's last assault was too much forJohn. He could neither parry nor thrust.
Her heart was full of mirth and gladness.
"None other but you, John," she repeated, leaning forward in front of him,and looking up into his eyes. A ray of moonlight stealing its way betweenthe forest boughs fell upon her upturned face and caused it to glow with agoddess-like radiance.
"None but you, John. There never has been and there never shall beanother."
When John's consciousness returned he said, "Dorothy, can you love such afool as I?"
"That I can and that I do with all my heart," she returned.
"And can you forgive me for this last fault--for doubting you?"
"That is easily done," she answered softly, "because doubt is the child oflove."
"But you do not doubt me?" he replied.
"N-o-o," she answered somewhat haltingly; "but I--I am a woman."
"And a woman's heart is the home of faith," said John, reverentially.
"Y-e-s," she responded, still not quite sure of her ground. "Sometimes itis the home of too much faith, but faith, like virtue, is its own reward.Few persons are false to one who gives a blind, unquestioning faith. Evena poor degree of honor responds to it in kind."
"Dorothy, I am so unworthy of you that I stand abashed in your presence,"replied John.
"No, you are not unworthy of me. We don't look for unmixed good in men,"said the girl with a mischievous little laugh. Then seriously: "Thosevirtues you have are so great and so strong, John, that my poor littlevirtues, while they perhaps are more numerous than yours, are but weakthings by comparison. In truth, there are some faults in men which wewomen do not--do not altogether dislike. They cause us--they make us--oh,I cannot
express exactly what I mean. They make us more eager perhaps. Atoo constant man is like an overstrong sweet: he cloys us. The faults Ispeak of hurt us; but we thrive on them. Women enjoy pain now and then.Malcolm was telling me the other day that the wise people of the East havea saying: 'Without shadow there can be no light; without death there canbe no life; without suffering there can be no joy.' Surely is that sayingtrue of women. She who suffers naught enjoys naught. When a woman becomespassive, John, she is but a clod. Pain gives us a vent--a vent forsomething, I know not what it is; but this I know, we are happier for it."
"I fear, Dorothy, that I have given you too much 'vent,' as you call it,"said John.
"No, no," she replied. "That was nothing. My great vent is that I can pourout my love upon you, John, without stint. Now that I know you are mine, Ihave some one whom I can deluge with it. Do you know, John, I believe thatwhen God made me He collected together the requisite portions of reason,imagination, and will,--there was a great plenty of will, John,--and allthe other ingredients that go to make a human being. But after He hadgotten them all together there was still a great space left to be filled,and He just threw in an immensity of love with which to complete me.Therefore, John, am I not in true proportion. There is too much love inme, and it wells up at times and overflows my heart. How thankful I shouldbe that I may pour it upon you and that it will not be wasted. How goodyou are to give me the sweet privilege."
"How thankful should I be, Dorothy. I have never known you till thisnight. I am unworthy--"
"Not another word of that sort, John," she interrupted, covering his mouthwith her hand.
They stood for a long time talking a deal of celestial nonsense which Ishall not give you. I fear I have already given you too much of what Johnand Dorothy did and said in this very sentimental interview. But in noother way can I so well make you to know the persons of whom I write. Imight have said Dorothy was so and so, and John was such and such. I mighthave analyzed them in long, dull pages of minute description; but it isthat which persons do and say that gives us true concept of theircharacters; what others say about them is little else than a merestatement that black is black and white is white. But to my story again.
Dorothy by her beauty had won John's admiration when first he beheld her.When he met her afterward, her charms of mind and her thousand winsomeways moved him deeply. But upon the evening of which I am now telling youhe beheld for the first time her grand burning soul, and he saw her pureheart filled to overflowing with its dangerous burden of love, right fromthe hands of God Himself, as the girl had said. John was of a coarserfibre than she who had put him up for her idol; but his sensibilities werekeen, and at their awakening he saw clearly the worth of the pricelesstreasure which propitious fate had given him in the love of Dorothy, andhe sat humbly at her feet. Yet she knew it not, but sat humbly at John'sfeet the happiest woman in all the world because of her great good fortunein having a demi-god upon whom she could lavish the untold wealth of herheart. If you are a woman, pray God that He may touch your eyes withDorothy's blessed blindness. There is a heaven in the dark for you, if youcan find it.
I must leave the scene, though I am loath to do so. Seldom do we catch aglimpse of a human soul, and more seldom still does it show itself like agust of God's breath upon the deep of eternity as it did that night inDorothy.
After a time John said: "I have your promise to be my wife. Do you stillwish to keep it?"
"What an absurd question, John," replied the girl, laughing softly andcontentedly. "Why else am I here? Tell me, think you, John, should I behere if I were not willing and eager to--to keep that promise?"
"Will you go with me notwithstanding your father's hatred of my house?" heasked.
"Ah, truly that I will, John," she answered; "surely you know I will gowith you."
"Let us go at once. Let us lose not a moment. We have already delayed toolong," cried John in eager ecstasy.
"Not to-night, John; I cannot go to-night," she pleaded. "Think of myattire," and she drew my cloak more closely about her. "I cannot go withyou this time. My father is angry with me because of you, although he doesnot know who you are. Is it not famous to have a lover in secret of whomnobody knows? Father is angry with me, and as I told you in my letter, hekeeps me a prisoner in my rooms. Aunt Dorothy stands guard over me. Thedear, simple old soul! She told me, thinking I was Malcolm, that she wastoo old to be duped by a girl! Oh, it was too comical!" And she threw backher head and gave forth a peal of laughter that John was reluctantlycompelled to silence. "I would so delight to tell you of the scene when Iwas in Aunt Dorothy's room impersonating Malcolm; but I have so much elseto say of more importance that I know I shall not tell the half. When youhave left me, I shall remember what I most wished to say but forgot."
"No, John," she continued seriously, "my father has been cruel to me, andI try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do lovehim." Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In amoment she continued: "It would kill him, John, were I to go with younow. I _will_ go with you soon,--I give you my solemn promise to that--butI cannot go now,--not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all hiscruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see menor will he speak to me. Think of that." The tears that had welled up toher eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. "Aunt Dorothy andMadge," she continued, "are so dear to me that the thought of leaving themis torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, Ipromise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love themand my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet motherdied--and Dolcy--I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself toleave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole lifebind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive me. You must think of the griefand pain I shall yet pass through to go to you. It is as I told you: wewomen reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I lovewhen I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I mustforsake for--for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise,John, to go with you, but--but forgive me. I cannot go to-night."
"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy," said John. "The sacrifice would be allon one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You wouldforego everything, and God help me, you would receive nothing worthhaving. I am unworthy--"
"Not that word, John," cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with--well,not with her hand. "I shall give up a great deal," she continued, "and Iknow I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you mustremember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; butI will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the timecomes, because--because I feel that I could not live if I did not makeit."
"My father has already consented to our marriage," said John. "I told himto-day all that had passed between you and me. He, of course, was greatlypained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that ifyou and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but wouldwelcome you to his heart."
"Is your father that--that sort of a man?" asked Dorothy, half in revery."I have always heard--" and she hesitated.
"I know," replied John, "that you have heard much evil of my father,but--let us not talk on that theme. You will know him some day, and youmay judge him for yourself. When will you go with me, Dorothy?"
"Soon, very soon, John," she answered. "You know father intends that Ishall marry Lord Stanley. _I_ intend otherwise. The more father hurriesthis marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be--beyour--that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you."
"You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?" askedJohn, frightened by the thought.
"Ah," cried the girl, softly, "you know I told you that God had put intome a great plenty of will. Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever itis, it stands me in good hand now. You don't know how much I have of it!You never will know until I am your--your--wife." The last word was
spokenin a soft, hesitating whisper, and her head sought shamefaced refuge onJohn's breast. Of course the magic word "wife" on Dorothy's lips arousedJohn to action, and--but a cloud at that moment passed over the moon andkindly obscured the scene.
"You do not blame me, John," said Dorothy, "because I cannot go with youto-night? You do not blame me?"
"Indeed I do not, my goddess," answered John. "You will soon be mine. Ishall await your pleasure and your own time, and when you choose to cometo me--ah, then--" And the kindly cloud came back to the moon.
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