CHAPTER XI
THE COST MARK OF JOY
Peace had been restored between Dorothy and her father. At least anarmistice had been tacitly declared. But, owing to Dorothy's knowledge ofher father's intention that she should marry Lord Stanley, and because ofSir George's feeling that Dorothy had determined to do nothing of thesort, the belligerent powers maintained a defensive attitude whichrendered an absolute reconciliation impossible. They were ready for war ata moment's notice.
The strangest part of their relation was the failure of each to comprehendand fully to realize the full strength of the other's purpose. Dorothycould not bring herself to believe that her father, who had until withinthe last few weeks, been kind and indulgent to her, seriously intended toforce her into marriage with a creature so despicable as Stanley. In fact,she did not believe that her father could offer lasting resistance to herardent desire in any matter. Such an untoward happening had never befallenher. Dorothy had learned to believe from agreeable experience that it wasa crime in any one, bordering on treason, to thwart her ardent desires. Itis true she had in certain events, been compelled to coax and even to weepgently. On a few extreme occasions she had been forced to do a littlestorming in order to have her own way; but that any presumptuousindividuals should resist her will after the storming had been resortedto was an event of such recent happening in her life that she had notgrown familiar with the thought of it. Therefore, while she felt that herfather might seriously annoy her with the Stanley project, and while sherealized that she might be compelled to resort to the storming process ina degree thitherto uncalled for, she believed that the storm she wouldraise would blow her father entirely out of his absurd and utterlyuntenable position. On the other hand, while Sir George anticipatedtrouble with Dorothy, he had never been able to believe that she wouldabsolutely refuse to obey him. In those olden times--now nearly half acentury past--filial disobedience was rare. The refusal of a child to obeya parent, and especially the refusal of a daughter to obey her father inthe matter of marriage, was then looked upon as a crime and was frequentlypunished in a way which amounted to barbarous ferocity. Sons, being of theprivileged side of humanity, might occasionally disobey with impunity, butwoe to the poor girl who dared set up a will of her own. A man who couldnot compel obedience from his daughter was looked upon as a poor weakling,and contempt was his portion in the eyes of his fellow-men--in the eyes ofhis fellow-brutes, I should like to say.
Growing out of such conditions was the firm belief on the part of SirGeorge that Dorothy would in the end obey him; but if by any hard chanceshe should be guilty of the high crime of disobedience--Well! Sir Georgeintended to prevent the crime. Perhaps mere stubborness and fear of thecontempt in which he would be held by his friends in case he were defeatedby his own daughter were no small parts of Sir George's desire to carrythrough the enterprise in which he had embarked with the Stanleys.Although there was no doubt in Sir George's mind that he would eventuallyconquer in the conflict with Dorothy, he had a profound respect for thepower of his antagonist to do temporary battle, and he did not care toenter into actual hostilities until hostilities should become actuallynecessary.
Therefore, upon the second day after I had read the beribboned, besealedcontract to Sir George, he sent an advance guard toward the enemy's line.He placed the ornamental piece of parchment in Lady Crawford's hands anddirected her to give it to Dorothy.
But before I tell you of the parchment I must relate a scene that occurredin Aunt Dorothy's room a few hours after I recognized John as he rode upthe Wye with Dorothy. It was late in the afternoon of the day after I readthe contract to Sir George and saw the horrid vision on Bowling Green.
I was sitting with Madge at the west window of Dorothy's parlor. We werewatching the sun as it sank in splendor beneath Overhaddon Hill.
I should like first to tell you a few words--only a few, I prayyou--concerning Madge and myself. I will.
I have just said that Madge and I were watching the sun at the westwindow, and I told you but the truth, for Madge had learned to see with myeyes. Gladly would I have given them to her outright, and willingly wouldI have lived in darkness could I have given light to her. She gave lightto me--the light of truth, of purity, and of exalted motive. There hadbeen no words spoken by Madge nor me to any one concerning the strange andholy chain that was welding itself about us, save the partial confessionwhich she had whispered to Dorothy. But notwithstanding our silence, ourfriends in the Hall understood that Madge and I were very dear to eachother. I, of course, saw a great deal of her; but it was the evening hourat the west window to which I longingly looked forward all the day. I amno poet, nor do my words and thoughts come with the rhythmic flow andeloquent imagery of one to whom the talent of poesy is given. But duringthose evening hours it seemed that with the soft touch of Madge's handthere ran through me a current of infectious dreaming which kindled mysoul till thoughts of beauty came to my mind and words of music sprang tomy lips such as I had always considered not to be in me. It was not I whospoke; it was Madge who saw with my eyes and spoke with my voice. To myvision, swayed by Madge's subtle influence, the landscape became a thingof moving beauty and of life, and the floating clouds became a panorama ofever shifting pictures. I, inspired by her, described so eloquently thewonders I saw that she, too, could see them. Now a flock of white-wingedangels rested on the low-hung azure of the sky, watching the glory ofPhoebus as he drove his fiery steeds over the western edge of the world.Again, Mount Olympus would grow before my eyes, and I would plainly seeJove sitting upon his burnished throne, while gods and goddesses floatedat his feet and revelled on the fleecy mountain sides. Then wouldmountain, gods, and goddesses dissolve,--as in fact they did dissolve agesago before the eyes of millions who had thought them real,--and in theirplaces perhaps would come a procession of golden-maned lions, at thedescription of which would Madge take pretended fright. Again, would I seeMadge herself in flowing white robes made of the stuff from which fleecyclouds are wrought. All these wonders would I describe, and when I wouldcome to tell her of the fair cloud image of herself I would seize thejoyous chance to make her understand in some faint degree how altogetherlovely in my eyes the vision was. Then would she smile and softly press myhand and say:--
"Malcolm, it must be some one else you see in the cloud," though she waspleased.
But when the hour was done then came the crowning moment of the day, foras I would rise to take my leave, if perchance we were alone, she wouldgive herself to my arms for one fleeting instant and willingly would herlips await--but there are moments too sacred for aught save holy thought.The theme is sweet to me, but I must go back to Dorothy and tell you ofthe scene I have promised you.
As I have already said, it was the evening following that upon which I hadread the marriage contract to Sir George, and had seen the vision on thehillside. Madge and I were sitting at the west window. Dorothy, inkindness to us, was sitting alone by the fireside in Lady Crawford'schamber. Thomas entered the room with an armful of fagots, which hedeposited in the fagot-holder. He was about to replenish the fire, butDorothy thrust him aside, and said:--
"You shall kindle no more fires for me. At least you shall not do so whenno one else is by. It pains me that you, at whose feet I am unworthy tokneel, should be my servant"
Thereupon she took in her hands the fagot John had been holding. Heoffered to prevent her, but she said:--
"Please, John, let me do this."
The doors were open, and we heard all that was said by Dorothy and Tom.Madge grasped my hand in surprise and fear.
"Please, John," said Dorothy, "if it gives me pleasure to be your servant,you should not wish to deny me. There lives but one person whom I wouldserve. There, John, I will give you another, and you shall let me do as Iwill."
Dorothy, still holding the fagot in her hands, pressed it against John'sbreast and gently pushed him backward toward a large armchair, in whichshe had been sitting by the west side of the fireplace.
"You sit th
ere, John, and we will make believe that this is our house, andthat you have just come in very cold from a ride, and that I am making afine fire to warm you. Isn't it pleasant, John? There, you sit and warmyourself--my--my--husband," she said laughingly. "It is fine sport even toplay at. There is one fagot on the fire," she said, as she threw the woodupon the embers, causing them to fly in all directions. John started up tobrush the scattered embers back into the fireplace, but Dorothy stoppedhim.
"I will put them all back," she said. "You know you are cold and verytired. You have been overseeing the tenantry and have been hunting. Willyou have a bowl of punch, my--my husband?" and she laughed again andkissed him as she passed to the holder for another fagot.
"I much prefer that to punch," said John, laughing softly. "Have youmore?"
"Thousands of them, John, thousands of them." She rippled forth a littlelaugh and continued: "I occupy my time nowadays in making them that I mayalways have a great supply when we are--that is, you know, when you--whenthe time comes that you may require a great many to keep you in goodhumor." Again came the laugh, merry and clear as the tinkle of sterlingsilver.
She laughed again within a minute or two; but when the second laugh came,it sounded like a knell.
Dorothy delighted to be dressed in the latest fashion. Upon this occasionshe wore a skirt vast in width, of a pattern then much in vogue. Thesleeves also were preposterously large, in accordance with the custom ofthe times. About her neck a beautiful white linen ruff stood out at leastthe eighth part of an ell. The day had been damp and cold, and the room inwhich she had been sitting was chilly. For that reason, most fortunately,she had thrown over her shoulders a wide sable cloak broad enough toenfold her many times and long enough to reach nearly to her knees:Dorothy thus arrayed was standing in front of John's chair. She had justspoken the words "good humor," when the door leading to her father's roomopened and in walked Sir George. She and her ample skirts and broadsleeves were between John and the door. Not one brief instant did Dorothywaste in thought. Had she paused to put in motion the machinery of reason,John would have been lost. Thomas sitting in Lady Crawford's chair andDorothy standing beside him would have told Sir George all he needed toknow. He might not have discovered John's identity, but a rope and a treein Bowling Green would quickly have closed the chapter of Dorothy'smysterious love affair. Dorothy, however, did not stop to reason nor tothink. She simply acted without preliminary thought, as the rose unfoldsor as the lightning strikes. She quietly sat down upon John's knees,leaned closely back against him, spread out the ample folds of her skirt,threw the lower parts of her broad cape over her shoulders and across theback of the chair, and Sir John Manners was invisible to mortal eyes.
"Come in, father," said Dorothy, in dulcet tones that should have betrayedher.
"I heard you laughing and talking," said Sir George, "and I wondered whowas with you."
"I was talking to Madge and Malcolm who are in the other room," repliedDorothy.
"Did not Thomas come in with fagots?" asked Sir George.
"I think he is replenishing the fire in the parlor, father, or he may havegone out. I did not notice. Do you want him?"
"I do not especially want him," Sir George answered.
"When he finishes in the parlor I will tell him that you want him," saidDorothy.
"Very well," replied Sir George.
He returned to his room, but he did not close the door.
The moment her father's back was turned Dorothy called:--
"Tom--Tom, father wants you," and instantly Thomas was standingdeferentially by her side, and she was seated in the great chair. It was arapid change, I assure you. But a man's life and his fortune for good orill often hang upon a tiny peg--a second of time protruding from the wallof eternity. It serves him briefly; but if he be ready for the vitalinstant, it may serve him well.
"Yes, mistress," said Thomas, "I go to him at once."
John left the room and closed the door as he passed out. Then it was thatDorothy's laugh sounded like the chilling tones of a knell. It was thelaugh of one almost distraught. She came to Madge and me laughing, but thelaugh quickly changed to convulsive sobs. The strain of the brief momentduring which her father had been in Lady Crawford's room had been toogreat for even her strong nerves to bear. She tottered and would havefallen had I not caught her. I carried her to the bed, and Madge calledLady Crawford. Dorothy had swooned.
When she wakened she said dreamily:--
"I shall always keep this cloak and gown."
Aunt Dorothy thought the words were but the incoherent utterances of adimly conscious mind, but I knew they were the deliberate expression of ajustly grateful heart.
The following evening trouble came about over the matter of the marriagecontract.
You remember I told you that Sir George had sent Lady Crawford as anadvance guard to place the parchment in the enemy's hands. But the advanceguard feared the enemy and therefore did not deliver the contract directlyto Dorothy. She placed it conspicuously upon the table, knowing well thather niece's curiosity would soon prompt an examination.
I was sitting before the fire in Aunt Dorothy's room, talking to Madgewhen Lady Crawford entered, placed the parchment on the table, and took achair by my side. Soon Dorothy entered the room. The roll of parchment,brave with ribbons, was lying on the table. It attracted her attention atonce, and she took it in her hands.
"What is this?" she asked carelessly. Her action was prompted entirely byidle curiosity. That, by the way, was no small motive with Dorothy. Shehad the curiosity of a young doe. Receiving no answer, she untied theribbons and unrolled the parchment to investigate its contents forherself. When the parchment was unrolled, she began to read:--
"In the name of God, amen. This indenture of agreement, looking to unionin the holy bonds of marriage between the Right Honorable Lord JamesStanley of the first part, and Mistress Dorothy Vernon of Haddon of thesecond part--"
She read no farther. She crumpled the beautiful parchment in her hands,walked over to the fire, and quietly placed the sacred instrument in themidst of the flames. Then she turned away with a sneer of contempt uponher face and--again I grieve to tell you this--said:--
"In the name of God, amen. May this indenture be damned."
"Dorothy!" exclaimed Lady Crawford, horrified at her niece's profanity. "Ifeel shame for your impious words."
"I don't care what you feel, aunt," retorted Dorothy, with a dangerousglint in her eyes. "Feel as you wish, I meant what I said, and I will sayit again if you would like to hear it. I will say it to father when I seehim. Now, Aunt Dorothy, I love you and I love my father, but I give youfair warning there is trouble ahead for any one who crosses me in thismatter."
She certainly looked as if she spoke the truth. Then she hummed a tuneunder her breath--a dangerous signal in Dorothy at certain times. Soon thehumming turned to whistling. Whistling in those olden days was looked uponas a species of crime in a girl.
Dorothy stood by the window for a short time and then taking up anembroidery frame, drew a chair nearer to the light and began to work ather embroidery. In a moment or two she stopped whistling, and we couldalmost feel the silence in the room. Madge, of course, only partly knewwhat had happened, and her face wore an expression of expectant, anxiousinquiry. Aunt Dorothy looked at me, and I looked at the fire. Theparchment burned slowly. Lady Crawford, from a sense of duty to Sir Georgeand perhaps from politic reasons, made two or three attempts to speak, andafter five minutes of painful silence she brought herself to say:--
"Dorothy, your father left the contract here for you to read. He will beangry when he learns what you have done. Such disobedience is sure to--"
"Not another word from you," screamed Dorothy, springing like a tigressfrom her chair. "Not another word from you or I will--I will scratch you.I will kill some one. Don't speak to me. Can't you see that I am trying tocalm myself for an interview with father? An angry brain is full ofblunders. I want to make none. I will settle this affair wi
th father. Noone else, not even you, Aunt Dorothy, shall interfere." The girl turned tothe window, stood beating a tattoo upon the glass for a moment or two,then went over to Lady Crawford and knelt by her side. She put her armsabout Aunt Dorothy's neck, softly kissed her, and said:--
"Forgive me, dear aunt; forgive me. I am almost crazed with my troubles. Ilove you dearly indeed, indeed I do."
Madge gropingly went to Dorothy's side and took her hand. Dorothy kissedMadge's hand and rose to her feet.
"Where is my father?" asked Dorothy, to whom a repentant feeling towardLady Crawford had brought partial calmness. "I will go to him immediatelyand will have this matter over. We might as well understand each other atonce. Father seems very dull at understanding me. But he shall know mebetter before long."
Sir George may have respected the strength of his adversary, but Dorothyhad no respect for the strength of her foe. She was eager for the fray.When she had a disagreeable thing to do, she always wanted to do itquickly.
Dorothy was saved the trouble of seeking her father, for at that moment heentered the room.
"You are welcome, father," said Dorothy in cold, defiant tones. "You havecome just in time to see the last flickering flame of your fine marriagecontract." She led him to the fireplace. "Does it not make a beautifulsmoke and blaze?"
"Did you dare--"
"Ay, that I did," replied Dorothy.
"You dared?" again asked her father, unable to believe the evidence of hiseyes.
"Ay, so I said; that I did," again said Dorothy.
"By the death of Christ--" began Sir George.
"Now be careful, father, about your oaths," the girl interrupted. "Youmust not forget the last batch you made and broke."
Dorothy's words and manner maddened Sir George. The expression of herwhole person, from her feet to her hair, breathed defiance. The poise ofher body and of her limbs, the wild glint in her eyes, and the turn of herhead, all told eloquently that Sir George had no chance to win and thatDorothy was an unconquerable foe. It is a wonder he did not learn in thatone moment that he could never bring his daughter to marry Lord Stanley.
"I will imprison you," cried Sir George, gasping with rage.
"Very well," responded Dorothy, smilingly. "You kept me prisoner for afortnight. I did not ask you to liberate me. I am ready to go back to myapartments."
"But now you shall go to the dungeon," her father said.
"Ah, the dungeon!" cried the girl, as if she were delighted at thethought. "The dungeon! Very well, again. I am ready to go to the dungeon.You may keep me there the remainder of my natural life. I cannot preventyou from doing that, but you cannot force me to marry Lord Stanley."
"I will starve you until you obey me!" retorted her father. "I will starveyou!"
"That, again, you may easily do, my dear father; but again I tell you Iwill never marry Stanley. If you think I fear to die, try to kill me. I donot fear death. You have it not in your power to make me fear you oranything you can do. You may kill me, but I thank God it requires myconsent for my marriage to Stanley, and I swear before God that nevershall be given."
The girl's terrible will and calm determination staggered Sir George, andby its force beat down even his strong will. The infuriated old manwavered a moment and said:--
"Fool, I seek only your happiness in this marriage. Only your happiness.Why will you not consent to it?"
I thought the battle was over, and that Dorothy was the victor. Shethought so, too, but was not great enough to bear her triumph silently.She kept on talking and carried her attack too far.
"And I refuse to obey because of my happiness. I refuse because I hateLord Stanley, and because, as you already know, I love another man."
When she spoke the words "because I love another man," the cold, defiantexpression of her face changed to one of ecstasy.
"I will have you to the dungeon this very hour, you brazen huzzy," criedSir George.
"How often, father, shall I repeat that I am ready to go to the dungeon? Iam eager to obey you in all things save one."
"You shall have your wish," returned Sir George. "Would that you had diedere you had disgraced your house with a low-bred dog whose name you areashamed to utter."
"Father, there has been no disgrace," Dorothy answered, and her words borethe ring of truth.
"You have been meeting the fellow at secluded spots in the forest--howfrequently you have met him God only knows--and you lied to me when youwere discovered at Bowling Green Gate."
"I would do it again gladly if I but had the chance," answered the girl,who by that time was reckless of consequences.
"But the chance you shall not have," retorted Sir George.
"Do not be too sure, father," replied Dorothy. She was unable to resistthe temptation to mystify him. "I may see him before another hour. I willlay you this wager, father, if I do not within one hour see the man--theman whom I love--I will marry Lord Stanley. If I see him within that timeyou shall permit me to marry him. I have seen him two score times sincethe day you surprised me at the gate."
That was a dangerous admission for the girl to make, and she soonregretted it with all her heart. Truly she was right. An angry brain isfull of blunders.
Of course Dorothy's words, which were so full of meaning to Madge and me,meant little to Sir George. He looked upon them only as irritatinginsolence on her part. A few minutes later, however, they became full ofsignificance.
Sir George seemed to have forgotten the Stanley marriage and the burningof the contract in his quarrel with Dorothy over her unknown lover.
Conceive, if you can, the situation in Haddon Hall at that time. There waslove-drunk Dorothy, proud of the skill which had enabled her to outwit herwrathful father. There was Sir George, whose mental condition, inflamed byconstant drinking, bordered on frenzy because he felt that his child, whomhe had so tenderly loved from the day of her birth, had disgraced herselfwith a low-born wretch whom she refused to name. And there, under the sameroof, lived the man who was the root and source of all the trouble. Apretty kettle of fish!
"The wager, father, will you take it?" eagerly asked Dorothy.
Sir George, who thought that her words were spoken only to anger him,waved her off with his hands and said:--
"I have reason to believe that I know the wretch for whose sake you havedisgraced yourself. You may be sure that I shall soon know him withcertainty. When I do, I will quickly have him in my power. Then I willhang him to a tree on Bowling Green, and you shall see the low-born dogdie."
"He is better born than any of our house," retorted Dorothy, who had lostall sense of caution. "Ay, he is better born than any with whom we claimkin."
Sir George stood in open-eyed wonder, and Dorothy continued: "You cannotkeep him from me. I shall see him, and I will have him despite you. I tellyou again, I have seen him two score times since you tried to spy upon usat Bowling Green Gate, and I will see him whenever I choose, and I willwed him when I am ready to do so. You cannot prevent it. You can only beforsworn, oath upon oath; and if I were you, I would stop swearing."
Sir George, as was usual with him in those sad times, was inflamed withdrink, and Dorothy's conduct, I must admit, was maddening. In the midst ofher taunting Thomas stepped into the room bearing an armful of fagots. SirGeorge turned to him and said:--
"Go and tell Welch to bring a set of manacles."
"For Mistress Dorothy?" Thomas asked, surprised into the exclamation.
"Curse you, do you mean to bandy words with me, you scum?" cried SirGeorge.
He snatched a fagot from John and drew back his arm to strike him. Johntook one step back from Sir George and one step nearer to Dorothy.
"Yes, Thomas," said Dorothy, sneeringly, "bring Welch with the manaclesfor me. My dear father would put me in the dungeon out of the reach ofother men, so that he may keep me safely for my unknown lover. Go, Thomas.Go, else father will again be forsworn before Christ and upon hisknighthood."
"This before a servant! I'll gag you, yo
u hellish vixen," cried SirGeorge. Then I am sure he knew not what he did. "Curse you!" he cried, ashe held the fagot upraised and rushed upon Dorothy. John, with his armsfull of fagots, could not avert the blow which certainly would have killedthe girl, but he could take it. He sprang between Dorothy and her father,the fagot fell upon his head, and he sank to the floor. In his fall John'swig dropped off, and when the blood began to flow from the wound Dorothykneeled beside his prostrate form. She snatched the great bush of falsebeard from his face and fell to kissing his lips and his hands in aparoxysm of passionate love and grief. Her kisses she knew to be a panaceafor all ills John could be heir to, and she thought they would heal eventhe wound her father had given, and stop the frightful outpouring ofJohn's life-blood. The poor girl, oblivious of all save her woundedlover, murmured piteously:--
"John, John, speak to me; 'tis Dorothy." She placed her lips near his earand whispered: "'Tis Dorothy, John. Speak to her." But she received noresponse. Then came a wild light to her eyes and she cried aloud: "John,'tis Dorothy. Open your eyes. Speak to me, John! oh, for God's sake speakto me! Give some little sign that you live," but John was silent. "My God,my God! Help, help! Will no one help me save this man? See you not thathis life is flowing away? This agony will kill me. John, my lover, mylord, speak to me. Ah, his heart, his heart! I will know." She tore fromhis breast the leathern doublet and placed her ear over his heart. "ThankGod, it beats!" she cried in a frenzied whisper, as she kissed his breastand turned her ear again to hear his heart's welcome throbbing. Then shetried to lift him in her arms and succeeded in placing his head in herlap. It was a piteous scene. God save me from witnessing another like it.
After Dorothy lifted John's head to her lap he began to breatheperceptibly, and the girl's agitation passed away as she gently strokedhis hair and kissed him over and over again, softly whispering her love tohis unresponsive ear in a gentle frenzy of ineffable tenderness such aswas never before seen in this world, I do believe. I wish with all myheart that I were a maker of pictures so that I might draw for you thescene which is as clear and vivid in every detail to my eyes now as it wasupon that awful day in Haddon Hall. There lay John upon the floor and byhis side knelt Dorothy. His head was resting in her lap. Over them stoodSir George with the murderous fagot raised, as if he intended again tostrike. I had sprung to his side and was standing by him, intending tofell him to the floor should he attempt to repeat the blow upon eitherDorothy or John. Across from Sir George and me, that is, upon the oppositeside of Dorothy and John, stood Lady Crawford and Madge, who clung to eachother in terror. The silence was heavy, save when broken by Dorothy's sobsand whispered ejaculations to John. Sir George's terrible deed haddeprived all of us, including himself, of the power to speak. I feared tomove from his side lest he should strike again. After a long agony ofsilence he angrily threw the fagot away from him and asked:--
"Who is this fellow? Can any one tell me?"
Only Madge, Dorothy, and I could have given him true answer. By somestrange power of divination Madge had learned all that had happened, andshe knew as well as I the name of the man who lay upon the floor battlingwith death. Neither Madge nor I answered.
"Who is this fellow?" again demanded Sir George.
Dorothy lifted her face toward her father.
"He is the man whom you seek, father," she answered, in a low, tearfulvoice. "He is my lover; he is my life; he is my soul, and if you havemurdered him in your attempt to kill your own child, all England shallhear of it and you shall hang. He is worth more in the eyes of the queenthan we and all our kindred. You know not whom you have killed."
Sir George's act had sobered him.
"I did not intend to kill him--in that manner," said Sir George, droppinghis words absent-mindedly. "I hoped to hang him. Where is Dawson? Some onefetch Dawson."
Several of the servants had gathered about the open door in the next room,and in obedience to Sir George's command one of them went to seek theforester. I feared that John would die from the effects of the blow; but Ialso knew from experience that a man's head may receive very hard knocksand life still remain. Should John recover and should Sir George learnhis name, I was sure that my violent cousin would again attempt thepersonal administration of justice and would hang him, under the old Saxonlaw. In that event Parliament would not be so easily pacified as upon theoccasion of the former hanging at Haddon; and I knew that if John shoulddie by my cousin's hand, Sir George would pay for the act with his lifeand his estates. Fearing that Sir George might learn through Dawson ofJohn's identity, I started out in search of Will to have a word with himbefore he could see his master. I felt sure that for many reasons Willwould be inclined to save John; but to what extent his fidelity to thecause of his master might counteract his resentment of Sir George's act, Idid not know. I suspected that Dawson was privy to John's presence inHaddon Hall, but I was not sure of it, so I wished to prepare the foresterfor his interview with Sir George and to give him a hint of my plans forsecuring John's safety, in the event he should not die in Aunt Dorothy'sroom.
When I opened the door in the Northwest Tower I saw Dawson coming towardthe Hall from the dove-cote, and I hastened forward to meet him. It waspitiful that so good a man as Sir George Vernon was, should have beensurrounded in his own house by real friends who were also traitors. Thatwas the condition of affairs in Haddon Hall, and I felt that I was thechief offender. The evil, however, was all of Sir George's making. Tyrannyis the father of treason.
When I met Dawson I said: "Will, do you know who Tom-Tom is?"
The forester hesitated for a moment, and said, "Well, Sir Malcolm, Isuppose he is Thomas--"
"No, no, Will, tell me the truth. Do you know that he is--or perhaps bythis time I should say he was--Sir John Manners?"
"Was?" cried Will. "Great God! Has Sir George discovered--is he dead? Ifhe is dead, it will be a sad day for Sir George and for Haddon Hall. Tellme quickly."
I at once knew Will Dawson was in the secret. I answered:--
"I hope he is not dead. Sir George attempted to strike Dorothy with afagot, but Thomas stepped in front of her and received the blow. He islying almost, if not quite, dead in Lady Crawford's room. Sir George knowsnothing about him, save that he is Dorothy's lover. But should Thomasrevive I feel sure my cousin will hang him in the morning unless steps aretaken to prevent the deed."
"Sir Malcolm, if you will stand by me," said Dawson, "Sir George will nothang him."
"I certainly will stand by you, Dawson. Have no doubt on that score. SirGeorge intends to cast John into the dungeon, and should he do so I wantyou to send Jennie Faxton to Rutland and have her tell the Rutlanders torescue John to-night. To-morrow morning I fear will be too late. Be onyour guard, Will. Do not allow Sir George to discover that you have anyfeeling in this matter. Above all, lead him from the possibility oflearning that Thomas is Sir John Manners. I will contrive to admit theRutland men at midnight."
I hastened with Dawson back to the Hall, where we found the situation as Ihad left it. John's head was lying on Dorothy's lap, and she was trying todress his wound with pieces of linen torn from her clothing. Sir Georgewas pacing to and fro across the room, breaking forth at times in cursesagainst Dorothy because of her relations with a servant.
When Dawson and I entered the room, Sir George spoke angrily to Will:--
"Who is this fellow? You employed him. Who is he?"
"He gave me his name as Thomas Thompson," returned Will, "and he broughtme a favorable letter of recommendation from Danford."
Danford was forester to the Duke of Devonshire, and lived at Chatsworth.
"There was naught in the letter save that he was a good servant and anhonest man. That is all we can ask of any man."
"But who is he?" again demanded Sir George.
"Your worship may perhaps learn from Danford more than I can tell you,"replied the forester, adroitly avoiding a lie.
"Think of it, Malcolm," said Sir George, speaking to me. "Think of it. Mydaughter, my only child, s
eeks for her husband this low-born serving man.I have always been sure that the fellow would prove to be such." Then heturned to Dawson: "Throw the fellow into the dungeon. If he lives tillmorning, I will have him hanged. To the dungeon with him."
Sir George waved his hand toward Dawson and Tom Welch, and then steppedaside. Will made an effort to hide his feelings, and without a word orgesture that could betray him, he and Welch lifted John to carry him away.Then it was piteous to see Dorothy. She clung to John and begged that hemight be left with her. Sir George violently thrust her away from John'sside, but she, still upon her knees, grasped her father's hand and criedout in agony:--
"Father, let me remain with him. If you have ever felt love for me, and ifmy love for you has ever touched one tender spot in your heart, pity menow and leave this man with me, or let me go with him. I beg you, father;I plead; I implore. He may be dying. We know not. In this hour of my agonybe merciful to me."
But Sir George rudely repulsed her and left the room, following Welch andDawson, who bore John's unconscious form between them. Dorothy rose to herfeet screaming and tried to follow John. I, fearing that in her frenzy ofgrief she might divulge John's name, caught her in my arms and detainedher by force. She turned upon me savagely and struck me in her effort toescape. She called me traitor, villain, dog, but I lifted her in my armsand carried her struggling to her bedroom. I wanted to tell her of theplans which Dawson and I had made, but I feared to do so, lest she mightin some way betray them, so I left her in the room with Lady Crawford andMadge. I told Lady Crawford to detain Dorothy at all hazards, and Iwhispered to Madge asking her to tell Dorothy that I would look to John'scomfort and safety. I then hastily followed Sir George, Dawson, and Welch,and in a few moments I saw them leave John, bleeding and senseless, uponthe dungeon floor. When Sir George's back was turned, Dawson by my ordersbrought the surgeon from the stable where he had been working with thehorses. The surgeon bound up the wound in John's head and told me, to mygreat joy, that it was not fatal. Then he administered a reviving potionand soon consciousness returned. I whispered to John that Dawson and Iwould not forsake him, and, fearing discovery by Sir George, hurriedlyleft the dungeon.
I believe there is a certain amount of grief and sorrow which comes withevery great joy to give it a cost mark whereby we may always know itsvalue. The love between Dorothy and John indeed was marked in plainfigures of high denominations.
Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Page 12