CHAPTER XII
THE LEICESTER POSSIBILITY
On leaving the dungeon I sought Madge, and after I had whispered a word toher from my heart I asked her to tell Dorothy the encouraging words of thesurgeon, and also to tell her that she should not be angry with me untilshe was sure she had good cause. I dared not send a more explicit message,and I dared not go to Dorothy, for Sir George was in a suspicious mood andI feared ruin not only for myself but for John, should my violent cousinsuspect me of sympathy with his daughter and her lover.
I also sought Aunt Dorothy and whispered a word to her of which you shallhear more presently.
"Ah, I cannot do it," cried the trembling old lady in response to mywhispered request. "I cannot do it."
"But you must, Aunt Dorothy," I responded. "Upon it depend three lives:Sir George's, Dorothy's, and her lover's. You must do it."
"I will try," she replied.
"That assurance will not suit me," I responded. "You must promise uponyour salvation that you will not fail me."
"I promise upon my salvation," replied Aunt Dorothy.
That evening of course we did not see the ladies at supper. Sir George andI ate in silence until my cousin became talkative from drink. Then hespoke bitterly of Dorothy's conduct, and bore with emphasis upon the factthat the lover to whom Dorothy had stooped was a low-born serving man.
"But Dorothy declares he is noble," I responded.
"She has lied to me so often that I do not believe a word she says,"returned Sir George.
He swore oath upon oath that the wretch should hang in the morning, andfor the purpose of carrying into effect his intention he called in Joe thebutcher and told him to make all things ready for the execution.
I did not attempt to thwart his purpose by word or gesture, knowing itwould be useless, but hoped that John would be out of his reach long erethe cock would crow his first greeting to the morrow's sun.
After Sir George had drunk far into the night the servants helped him tobed, and he carried with him the key to the dungeon together with the keysto all the outer doors and gates of Haddon Hall, as was his custom. Thekeys were in a bunch, held together by an iron ring, and Sir George alwayskept them under his pillow at night.
I sought my bed in Eagle Tower and lay down in my clothes to rest andwait. The window of my room was open.
Within an hour after midnight I heard the hooting of an owl. The dolefulsound came up to me from the direction of the stone footbridge at thesouthwest corner of the Hall below the chapel. I went to my window andlooked out over the courts and terrace. Haddon Hall and all things in andabout it were wrapped in slumbrous silence. I waited, and again I heardthe hooting of the owl. Noiselessly leaving my room I descended the stonesteps to an unused apartment in the tower from which a window opened uponthe roof of the north wing of the Hall. Along that roof I crept with baredfeet, till I reached another roof, the battlements of which at the lowestpoint were not more than twenty feet from the ground. Thence I clambereddown to a window cornice five or six feet lower, and jumped, at the riskof my limbs, the remaining distance of fifteen or sixteen feet to the softsod beneath. I ran with all haste, took my stand under Aunt Dorothy'swindow, and whistled softly. The window casing opened and I heard thegreat bunch of keys jingling and clinking against the stone wall as AuntDorothy paid them out to me by means of a cord. After I had secured thekeys I called in a whisper to Lady Crawford and directed her to leave thecord hanging from the window. I also told her to remain in readiness todraw up the keys when they should have served their purpose. Then I tookthem and ran to the stone footbridge where I found four Rutland men whohad come in response to the message Dawson had sent by Jennie Faxton. Twoof the men went with me, and we entered the lower garden by the southwestpostern. Thence we crept noiselessly to the terrace and made our entranceinto the Hall by "Dorothy's Postern." I had in my life engaged in manyquestionable and dangerous enterprises, but this was my first attempt athouse-breaking. To say that I was nervous would but poorly define thestate of my feelings. Since that day I have respected the high calling ofburglary and regard with favor the daring knights of the skeleton key. Iwas frightened. I, who would feel no fear had I to fight a dozen men,trembled with fright during this adventure. The deathlike silence and thedarkness in familiar places seemed uncanny to me. The very chairs andtables appeared to be sleeping, and I was fearful lest they should awaken.I cannot describe to you how I was affected. Whether it was fear or awe ora smiting conscience I cannot say, but my teeth chattered as if they werein the mouth of a fool, and my knees quaked as if they supported a coward.Still I knew I was doing my duty, though one's conscience sometimes smiteshim when his reason tells him he is acting righteously. It is moredangerous to possess a sensitive conscience which cannot be made to hearreason than to have none at all. But I will make short my account of thatnight's doings. The two Rutland men and I groped our way to the dungeonand carried forth John, who was weak from loss of blood. I told them tolock the door of the Hall as they passed out and to attach the keys to thecord hanging from Lady Crawford's window. Then I climbed to my room again,feeling in conscience like a criminal because I had done the best act ofmy life.
Early next morning I was awakened by a great noise in the upper court.When I looked out at my window I beheld Sir George. He was half dressedand was angrily questioning the servants and retainers. I knew that he haddiscovered John's escape, but I did not know all, nor did I know theworst. I dressed and went to the kitchen, where I bathed my hands andface. There I learned that the keys to the hall had been stolen from underSir George's pillow, and that the prisoner had escaped from the dungeon.Old Bess, the cook, nodded her head wisely and whispered to me the words,"Good for Mistress Doll."
Bess's unsought confidence alarmed me. I did not relish the thought thatBess nor any one else should believe me to be in sympathy with Dorothy,and I said:--
"If Mistress Vernon had aught to do with last night's affairs, she shouldbe full of shame. I will not believe that she knew of it at all. Myopinion is that one of the servants was bribed by some person interestedin Tom-Tom's escape."
"Believe nothing of the sort," retorted Bess. "It is the mistress and notthe servant who stole the keys and liberated Tom-Tom. But the question is,who may Tom-Tom be? and the servants' hall is full of it. We are notuncertain as to the manner of his escape. Some of the servants do say thatthe Earl of Leicester be now visiting the Duke of Devonshire; and somealso do say that his Lordship be fond of disguises in his gallantry. Theydo also say that the queen is in love with him, and that he must disguisehimself when he woos elsewhere, or she be's famously jealous. It would bea pretty mess the master has brought us all into should Tom-Tom prove tobe my lord Earl of Leicester. We'd all hang and to hell."
"Bess, that tongue of yours will cost you your head one of these goodtimes," I remarked, while I rubbed my face with the towel.
"I would sooner lose my head," retorted Bess, "than have my mouth shut byfear. I know, Sir Malcolm, that I'll not die till my time comes; butplease the good God when my time does come I will try to die talking."
"That you will," said I.
"True word, Sir Malcolm," she answered, and I left her in possession ofthe field.
I went into the courtyard, and when Sir George saw me he said, "Malcolm,come with me to my room; I want a word with you."
We went to his room.
"I suppose you know of the fellow's escape last night?" he said.
"Yes," I replied, "Bess told me about it in the kitchen."
It seemed to me that my words said, "I did it."
"Not only was the fellow liberated," said my cousin, "but the keys to allthe outer gates and doors of the Hall have been stolen and carried away.Can you help me unravel this affair?"
"Do you suspect any one of having stolen the keys?" I asked.
"I know, of course, that Dorothy did it. Who her accomplices were, if anyshe had, I do not know. I have catechized the servants, but the questionis bottomless to me."
"Have you spoken to Dorothy on the subject?" I asked.
"No," he replied, "but I have sent word to her by the Faxton girl that Iam going to see her at once. Come with me."
We went into Lady Crawford's room. She was ill and in bed. I did notwonder that she was ill after the experiences of the previous night. SirGeorge asked her if she had heard or seen Dorothy pass through her roomduring the night. She said:--
"Dorothy did not pass through this room last night. I did not once closemy eyes in sleep, and I should have seen her had she been here at all."
Sir George entered Dorothy's bedroom, and Lady Crawford beckoned me to goto her side.
"I waited till sunrise," she said, "that I might draw up the keys."
"Hush!" said I, "the cord?"
"I burned it," she replied.
Then I followed Sir George into Dorothy's room. Madge was dressed for theday, and Dorothy, who had been helping her, was making her own toilet. Herhair hung loose and fell like a cataract of sunshine over her bareshoulders. But no words that I can write would give you a conception ofher wondrous beauty, and I shall not waste them in the attempt. When weentered the room she was standing at the mirror. She turned, comb in hand,toward Sir George and said:--
"I suppose, father, you will accuse me of liberating Thomas."
"You must know that I will accuse you," replied Sir George.
"Then, father, for once you will accuse me falsely. I am overjoyed that hehas escaped, and I certainly should have tried to liberate him had Ithought it possible to do so. But I did not do it, though to tell you thetruth I am sorry I did not."
"I do not believe you," her father replied.
"I knew you would not believe me," answered Dorothy. "Had I liberated himI should probably have lied to you about it; therefore, I wonder not thatyou should disbelieve me. But I tell you again upon my salvation that Iknow nothing of the stealing of the keys nor of Tom-Tom's escape. Believeme or not, I shall deny it no more."
Madge gropingly went to Sir George's side, and he tenderly put his armsabout her, saying:--
"I would that you were my daughter." Madge took his hand caressingly.
"Uncle, I want to tell you that Dorothy speaks the truth," she said. "Ihave been with her every moment since the terrible scene of yesterdayevening. Neither Dorothy nor I closed our eyes in sleep all night long.She lay through the dark hours moaning, and I tried to comfort her. Ourdoor was locked, and it was opened only by your messenger who brought thegood news of Tom-Tom's escape. I say good news, uncle, because his escapehas saved you from the stain of murder. You are too brave a man to domurder, uncle."
"How dare you," said Sir George, taking his arm from Madge's waist, "howdare you defend--"
"Now, uncle, I beg you pause and take a moment's thought," said Madge,interrupting him. "You have never spoken unkindly to me."
"Nor will I, Madge, so long as I live. I know there is not a lie in you,and I am sure you believe to be true all you tell me, but Dorothy hasdeceived you by some adroit trick."
"If she deceived me, she is a witch," retorted Madge, laughing softly.
"That I am almost ready to believe is the case," said Sir George.Dorothy, who was combing her hair at the mirror, laughed softly andsaid:--
"My broomstick is under the bed, father."
Sir George went into Lady Crawford's room and shut the door, leaving mewith the girls.
When her father had left, Dorothy turned upon me with fire in her eyes:--
"Malcolm Vernon, if you ever lay hands upon me again as you did lastnight, I will--I will scratch you. You pretended to be his friend andmine, but for a cowardly fear of my father you came between us and youcarried me to this room by force. Then you locked the door and--and"--
"Did not Madge give you my message?" I asked, interrupting her.
"Yes, but did you not force me away from him when, through my fault, hewas almost at death's door?"
"Have your own way, Dorothy," I said. "There lives not, I hope, anotherwoman in the world so unreasoning and perverse as you."
She tossed her head contemptuously and continued to comb her hair.
"How, suppose you," I asked, addressing Dorothy's back, as if I wereseeking information, "how, suppose you, the Rutland people learned thatJohn was confined in the Haddon dungeon, and how did they come by thekeys?"
The girl turned for a moment, and a light came to her anger-clouded faceas the rainbow steals across the blackened sky.
"Malcolm, Malcolm," she cried, and she ran to me with her bare armsoutstretched.
"Did you liberate him?" she asked. "How did you get the keys?"
"I know nothing of it, Dorothy, nothing," I replied.
"Swear it, Malcolm, swear it," she said.
"I will swear to nothing," I said, unclasping her arms from my neck.
"Then I will kiss you," she answered, "for you are my dear good brother,and never so long as I live will I again doubt you."
But she did before long doubt me again, and with good cause.
Dorothy being in a gentle humor; I took advantage of the opportunity towarn her against betraying John's name to her father. I also told her toask her father's forgiveness, and advised her to feign consent to theStanley marriage. Matters had reached a point where some remedy, howeverdesperate, must be applied.
Many persons, I fear, will condemn me for advising Dorothy to deceive herfather; but what would you have had me do? Should I have told her to marryStanley? Certainly not. Had I done so, my advice would have availednothing. Should I have advised her to antagonize her father, therebykeeping alive his wrath, bringing trouble to herself and bitter regret tohim? Certainly not. The only course left for me to advise was the least ofthree evils--a lie. Three evils must be very great indeed when a lie isthe least of them. In the vast army of evils with which this world swarmsthe lie usually occupies a proud position in the front rank. But at timesconditions arise when, coward-like, he slinks to the rear and evilsgreater than he take precedence. In such sad case I found Dorothy, and Isought help from my old enemy, the lie. Dorothy agreed with me andconsented to do all in her power to deceive her father, and what she couldnot do to that end was not worth doing.
Dorothy was anxious about John's condition, and sent Jennie Faxton toBowling Green, hoping a letter would be there for her. Jennie soonreturned with a letter, and Dorothy once more was full of song, forJohn's letter told her that he was fairly well and that he would by somemeans see her soon again despite all opposition.
"At our next meeting, my fair mistress," John said in the letter, "youmust be ready to come with me. I will wait no longer for you. In fairnessto me and to yourself you shall not ask me to wait. I will accept no moreexcuses. You must come with me when next we meet."
"Ah, well," said Dorothy to Madge, "if I must go with him, I must. Why didhe not talk in that fashion when we rode out together the last time? Ilike to be made to do what I want to do. He was foolish not to make meconsent, or better still would it have been had he taken the reins of myhorse and ridden off with me, with or against my will. I might havescreamed, and I might have fought him, but I could not have hurt him, andhe would have had his way, and--and," with a sigh, "I should have had myway."
After a brief pause devoted to thought, she continued:--
"If I were a man and were wooing a woman, I would first learn what shewanted to do and then--and then, by my word, I would make her do it."
I went from Dorothy's room to breakfast, where I found Sir George. I tookmy seat at the table and he said:--
"Who, in God's name, suppose you, could have taken the keys from mypillow?"
"Is there any one whom you suspect?" I asked for lack of anything else tosay.
"I at first thought, of course, that Dorothy had taken them," he answered."But Madge would not lie, neither would my sister. Dorothy would nothesitate to lie herself blue in the face, but for some reason I believedher when she told me she knew nothing of the affair. Her words soundedlike truth for once."
"Malcolm, I wish I could have your faith," he responded. "By the way,Malcolm, have you ever seen the Earl of Leicester?"
"I saw him only once. He visited Scotland during the ceremonies at QueenMary's return from France. I saw him once, and then but briefly. Why doyou ask?"
"It is whispered among the servants," said Sir George, "that Leicester isat Chatsworth in disguise."
Chatsworth was the home of the Duke of Devonshire, and was but a shortdistance from Haddon. After Sir George spoke, I remembered the words ofold Bess.
"Still, I do not know why you ask." I said.
"My reason is this," replied Sir George; "Dorothy declared the fellow wasof noble blood. It is said that Leicester loves gallant adventureincognito. He fears her Majesty's jealousy if in such matters he actsopenly. You remember the sad case of Mistress Robsart. I wonder whatbecame of the girl? He made way with her in some murderous fashion, I amsure." Sir George remained in revery for a moment, and then the poor oldman cried in tones of distress: "Malcolm, if that fellow whom I strucklast night was Leicester, and if he has been trying his hellish tricks onmy Doll I--I should pity her; I should not abuse her. I may have beenwrong. If he has wronged Doll--if he has wronged my girl, I will pursuehim to the ends of the earth for vengeance. That is why I ask if you haveever seen the Earl of Leicester. Was the man who lay upon the floor lastnight Robert Dudley? If it were he, and if I had known it, I would havebeaten him to death then and there. Poor Doll!"
Any one hearing the old man speak would easily have known that Doll wasall that life held for him to love.
"I do not distinctly remember Leicester's face," I answered, "but sinceyou speak of it, I believe there is a resemblance between him and the manwe called Thomas. But even were it he, Sir George, you need have no fearfor Dorothy. She of all women is able and willing to protect herself."
"I will go to Dorothy and ask her to tell me the truth. Come with me."
We again went to Dorothy's room. She had, since I last saw her, receivedthe letter from John of which I have spoken, and when we entered herparlor where she and Madge were eating breakfast we found her very happy.As a result she was willing and eager to act upon my advice.
She rose and turned toward her father.
"You told me, Doll, that the fellow was of noble blood. Did you speak thetruth?"
"Yes, father, I spoke the truth. There is no nobler blood in England thanhis, save that of our royal queen. In that you may believe me, father, forI speak the truth."
Sir George remained silent for a moment and then said:--
"If the man is he whom I believe him to be he can have no true purposewith you. Tell me, my child--the truth will bring no reproaches fromme--tell me, has he misused you in any way?"
"No, father, before God, he has been a true gentleman to me."
The poor old man struggled for a moment with his emotions; then tears cameto his eyes and he covered his face with his hands as he started to leavethe room.
Dorothy ran to him and clasped her arms about his neck. Those two, fatherand child, were surely of one blood as shown in the storms of violence andtenderness by which their natures were alternately swept.
"Father, you may believe me; you do believe me," said Dorothy."Furthermore, I tell you that this man has treated me with all courtesy,nay, more: he has treated me with all the reverence he would have shownour queen."
"He can have no true purpose with you, Doll," said Sir George, who feltsure that Leicester was the man.
"But he has, father, a true purpose with me. He would make me his wifeto-day would I consent."
"Why then does he not seek you openly?"
"That he cannot do," Dorothy responded hesitatingly.
"Tell me, Doll, who is the man?" asked Sir George.
I was standing behind him and Dorothy's face was turned toward me. Shehesitated, and I knew by her expression that she was about to tell all.Sir George, I believe, would have killed her had she done so. I placed myfinger on my lips and shook my head.
Dorothy said: "That I cannot tell you, father. You are wasting words inasking me."
"Is it because of his wish that you refuse to tell me his name?" asked SirGeorge. I nodded my head.
"Yes, father," softly responded Dorothy in the old dangerous, dulcettones.
"That is enough; I know who the man is."
Dorothy kissed her father. He returned the caress, much to my surprise,and left the room.
When I turned to follow Sir George I glanced toward Dorothy. Her eyes werelike two moons, so full were they of wonderment and inquiry.
I stopped with Sir George in his room. He was meditative and sad.
"I believe my Doll has told me the truth," he said.
"Have no doubt of it, Sir George," I replied.
"But what good intent can Leicester have toward my girl?" he asked.
"Of that I cannot say," I replied; "but my dear cousin, of this fact besure: if he have evil intent toward Dorothy, he will fail."
"But there was the Robsart girl," he replied.
"Ay," said I, "but Dorothy Vernon is not Amy Robsart. Have no fear of yourdaughter. She is proof against both villany and craft. Had she been inMistress Robsart's place, Leicester would not have deserted her. Dorothyis the sort of woman men do not desert. What say you to the fact thatLeicester might wish to make her his wife?"
"He may purpose to do so secretly, as in the case of the Robsart girl,"returned Sir George. "Go, Malcolm, and ask her if he is willing to makeher his wife before the world."
I was glad of an opportunity for a word with Dorothy, so I hastily went toher. I told her of the Leicester phase of the situation, and I also toldher that her father had asked me if the man whom she loved was willing tomake her his wife before the world.
"Tell my father," said she, "that I will be no man's wife save before allthe world. A man who will not acknowledge me never shall possess me."
I went back to Sir George and delivered the message word for word.
"She is a strange, strong girl, isn't she, Malcolm?" said her father.
"She is her father's child," I replied.
"By my spurs she is. She should have been a man," said Sir George, with atwinkle of admiration in his eyes. He admired a good fight even though hewere beaten in it.
It is easy to be good when we are happy. Dorothy, the great disturber,was both. Therefore, peace reigned once more in Haddon Hall.
Letters frequently passed between John and Dorothy by the hand of JennieFaxton, but John made no attempt to meet his sweetheart. He and Dorothywere biding their time.
A fortnight passed during which Cupid confined his operations to Madge andmyself. For her sweet sake he was gracious and strewed our path withroses. I should delight to tell you of our wooing. She a fair youngcreature of eighteen, I a palpitating youth of thirty-five. I should loveto tell you of Madge's promise to be my wife, and of the announcement inthe Hall of our betrothal; but there was little of interest in it to anyone save ourselves, and I fear lest you should find it very sentimentaland dull indeed. I should love to tell you also of the delightful walkswhich Madge and I took together along the sweet old Wye and upon the crestof Bowling Green; but above all would I love to tell you of the delicaterose tints that came to her cheek, and how most curiously at times, whenmy sweetheart's health was bounding, the blessed light of day wouldpenetrate the darkened windows of her eyes, and how upon such occasionsshe would cry out joyously, "Oh, Malcolm, I can dimly see." I say I shouldlove to tell you about all those joyous happenings, but after all I fear Ishould shrink from doing so in detail, for the feelings and sayings of ourown hearts are sacred to us. It is much easier to tell of the love affairsof others.
A fortnight or three weeks passed quietly in Haddon Hall. Sir George hadthe notion firmly fixed in his head that the man whom D
orothy had beenmeeting held honorable intentions toward the girl. He did her the justiceto believe that by reason of her strength and purity she would toleratenone other. At times he felt sure that the man was Leicester, and againhe flouted the thought as impossible. If it were Leicester, and if hewished to marry Dorothy, Sir George thought the match certainly would beillustrious. Halting between the questions, "Is he Leicester?" and "Is henot Leicester?" Sir George did not press the Stanley nuptials, nor did heinsist upon the signing of the contract. Dorothy received from her fatherfull permission to go where and when she wished. But her father'swillingness to give her liberty excited her suspicions. She knew he wouldpermit her to leave the Hall only that he might watch her, and, ifpossible, entrap her and John. Therefore, she rode out only with Madge andme, and sought no opportunity to see her lover. It may be that herpassiveness was partly due to the fact that she knew her next meeting withJohn would mean farewell to Haddon Hall. She well knew she was void ofresistance when in John's hands. And his letter had told her frankly whathe would expect from her when next they should meet. She was eager to goto him; but the old habit of love for home and its sweet associations andher returning affection for her father, now that he was kind to her, werestrong cords entwining her tender heart, which she could not breaksuddenly even for the sake of the greater joy.
One day Dorothy received from John a letter telling her he would on thefollowing morning start for the Scottish border with the purpose ofmeeting the queen of Scotland. A plan had been formed among Mary's friendsin Scotland to rescue her from Lochleven Castle, where she was a prisoner,and to bring her incognito to Rutland. John had been chosen to escort herfrom the English border to his father's castle. From thence, when theopportunity should arise, she was to escape to France, or make her peacewith Elizabeth. The adventure was full of peril both for her Scottish andEnglish friends. The Scottish regent Murray surely would hang all theconspirators whom he might capture, and Elizabeth would probably inflictsummary punishment upon any of her subjects whom she could convict ofcomplicity in the plot.
In connection with this scheme to rescue Mary it was said there was alsoanother conspiracy. There appeared to be a plot within a plot which hadfor its end the enthronement of Mary in Elizabeth's stead.
The Rutlands knew nothing of this subplot.
Elizabeth had once or twice expressed sympathy with her Scottish cousin.She had said in John's presence that while she could not for reasons ofstate _invite_ Mary to seek refuge in England, still if Mary would comeuninvited she would be welcomed. Therefore, John thought he was acting inaccord with the English queen's secret wish when he went to Rutland withthe purpose of being in readiness to meet Mary at the Scottish border.
There were two elements in Elizabeth's character on which John had notcounted. One was her royal prerogative to speak words she did not mean;and the other was the universal feminine privilege to change her mind. Ourqueen did not want Mary to visit England, nor had she any knowledge of theplot to induce that event. She did, however, fear that Mary's unwisefriends among the Catholics cherished the purpose of making Mary queen ofEngland. Although John had heard faint rumors of such a plot, he had beengiven to understand that Mary had no share in it, and he believed that theadventure in which he was about to embark had for its only purpose herliberation from a cruel and unjust imprisonment. Her cause appealed toJohn's chivalrous nature as it appealed to so many other good thoughmistaken men who sought to give help to the Scottish queen, and broughtonly grief to her and ruin to themselves.
Dorothy had heard at various times just enough of these plots to fill herheart with alarm when she learned that John was about to be engaged inthem. Her trouble was twofold. She feared lest personal injury or deathmight befall John; and jealousy, that shame of love, gnawed at her heartdespite her efforts to drive it away.
"Is she so marvellously beautiful?" Dorothy asked of me over and overagain, referring to Mary Stuart. "Is she such a marvel of beauty andfascination that all men fall before her?"
"That usually is the result," I replied. "I have never known her to smileupon a man who did not at once respond by falling upon his knees to her."
My reply certainly was not comforting.
"Ah, then, I am lost," she responded, with a tremulous sigh. "Is--is sheprone to smile on men and--and--to grow fond of them?"
"I should say, Dorothy, that both the smiling and the fondness have becomea habit with her."
"Then she will be sure to choose John from among all men. He is soglorious and perfect and beautiful that she will be eager to--to--O God! Iwish he had not gone to fetch her."
"You need have no fear," I said reassuringly. "While Mary Stuart ismarvellously beautiful and fascinating, there is at least one woman whoexcels her. Above all, that woman is pure and chaste."
"Who is she, that one woman, Malcolm? Who is she?" asked the girl, leaningforward in her chair and looking at me eagerly with burning eyes.
"You are already a vain girl, Dorothy, and I shall not tell you who thatone woman is," I answered laughingly.
"No, no, Malcolm, I am not vain in this matter. It is of too great momentto me for the petty vice of vanity to have any part in it. You do notunderstand me. I care not for my beauty, save for his sake. I long to bemore beautiful, more fascinating, and more attractive than she--than anywoman living--only because I long to hold John--to keep him from her, fromall others. I have seen so little of the world that I must be sadlylacking in those arts which please men, and I long to possess the beautyof the angels, and the fascinations of Satan that I may hold John, holdhim, hold him, hold him. That I may hold him so sure and fast that it willbe impossible for him to break from me. At times, I almost wish he wereblind; then he could see no other woman. Ah, am I not a wicked, selfishgirl? But I will not allow myself to become jealous. He is all mine, isn'the, Malcolm?" She spoke with nervous energy, and tears were ready tospring from her eyes.
"He is all yours, Dorothy," I answered, "all yours, as surely as thatdeath will some day come to all of us. Promise me, Dorothy, that you willnever again allow a jealous thought to enter your heart. You have no causefor jealousy, nor will you ever have. If you permit that hateful passionto take possession of you, it will bring ruin in its wake."
"It was, indeed, foolish in me," cried Dorothy, springing to her feet andclasping her hands tightly; "and I promise never again to feel jealousy.Malcolm, its faintest touch tears and gnaws at my heart and racks me withagony. But I will drive it out of me. Under its influence I am notresponsible for my acts. It would quickly turn me mad. I promise, oh, Iswear, that I never will allow it to come to me again."
Poor Dorothy's time of madness was not far distant nor was the evil thatwas to follow in its wake.
John in writing to Dorothy concerning his journey to Scotland hadunhesitatingly intrusted to her keeping his honor, and, unwittingly, hislife. It did not once occur to him that she could, under any conditions,betray him. I trusted her as John did until I saw her vivid flash ofburning jealousy. But by the light of that flash I saw that should thegirl, with or without reason, become convinced that Mary Stuart was herrival, she would quickly make Derbyshire the warmest locality inChristendom, and John's life might pay the cost of her folly. Dorothywould brook no rival--no, not for a single hour. Should she become jealousshe would at once be swept beyond the influence of reason or the care forconsequences. It were safer to arouse a sleeping devil than DorothyVernon's jealousy. Now about the time of John's journey to the Scottishborder, two matters of importance arose at Haddon Hall. One bore directlyupon Dorothy, namely, the renewal by the Stanleys of their suit for herhand. The other was the announcement by the queen that she would soon doSir George Vernon the honor of spending a fortnight under the roof ofHaddon Hall. Each event was of great importance to the King of the Peak.He had concluded that Thomas, the man-servant, was not the Earl ofLeicester in disguise, and when the Earl of Derby again came forward withhis marriage project, Sir George fell back into his old hardness towardDorothy, and she p
repared her armament, offensive and defensive, forinstant use if need should arise. I again began my machinations, since Ican call my double dealing by no other name. I induced Dorothy to agree tomeet the earl and his son James. Without promising positively to marryLord Stanley, she, at my suggestion, led her father to believe she wasready to yield to his wishes. By this course she gained time and liberty,and kept peace with her father. Since you have seen the evils that warbrought to Haddon, you well know how desirable peace was. In time of warall Haddon was a field of carnage and unrest. In time of peace the dearold Hall was an ideal home. I persuaded Sir George not to insist on apositive promise from Dorothy, and I advised him to allow her yieldingmood to grow upon her. I assured him evasively that she would eventuallysuccumb to his paternal authority and love.
What an inherent love we all have for meddling in the affairs of others,and what a delicious zest we find in faithfully applying our surplusenergies to business that is not strictly our own! I had become a part ofthe Sir George-Dorothy-John affair, and I was like the man who caught thebear: I could not loose my hold.
Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Page 13