CHAPTER XV
LIGHT
Dorothy had awakened while we were entering Rowsley, and I was glad thatMary could not touch me again.
When our coach reached the stone steps of the entrance tower we found SirGeorge, Lady Crawford, and Madge waiting to receive us. The steps and thepath leading to them had been carpeted with soft rugs, and Mary, althougha prisoner, was received with ceremonies befitting her rank. It was aproud day for Sir George when the roof of his beautiful Hall sheltered thetwo most famous queens of christendom.
Sir George assisted Mary from the coach most graciously, and in knightlyfashion led her to Lady Crawford and Madge, who were standing at the footof the tower steps. Due presentations were made, and the ladies of Haddonhaving kissed the queen's hand, Mary went into the Hall upon the arm ofhis Majesty, the King of the Peak, who stepped forward most proudly.
His resentment against Dorothy was for the moment neutralized by the greathonor of which his house and himself were the recipients.
John and Lord Rutland were taken to the dungeon.
I assisted Dorothy from the coach and led her to Madge, who was waitingfor us upon the lowest of the steps leading to the entrance tower doorway.Dorothy took Madge's outstretched hand; but Madge, by some strangeinstinct, knowing of my presence, turned her face toward me. I could notlift my eyes to her face, nor could I endure to remain in her presence.While we were ascending the steps she held out her hand to me and said:--
"Is all well with you, Malcolm?" Her voice was full of tender concern, andit pained me to the heart to hear her speak kindly to me, who was sounworthy of her smallest thought.
"Yes, Lady--yes, Madge," I responded; but she knew from the tones of myvoice that all was not right with me.
"I fear, Malcolm, that you do not tell me the truth. You will come to mesoon?" she asked.
"I may not be able to go to you soon," I answered, "but I will do so atthe first opportunity."
The torture of her kindness was almost unbearable to me. One touch of herhand, one tone of her rare voice, had made me loathe myself. The powers ofevil cannot stand for one moment in a fair conflict with the powers ofgood. I felt that I, alone, was to blame for my treason to Madge; butdespite my effort at self-condemnation there was an under-consciousnessthat Mary Stuart was to blame, and I hated her accordingly. AlthoughMadge's presence hurt me, it was not because I wished to conceal myconduct from her. I knew that I could be happy again only after I hadconfessed to her and had received forgiveness.
Madge, who was blind of sight, led Dorothy, who was piteously blind ofsoul, and the two girls went to their apartments.
Curiosity is not foreign even to the royal female breast, and while MaryStuart was entering Haddon Hall, I saw the luminous head of the VirginQueen peeked out at a casement on the second floor watching her rival withall the curiosity of a Dutch woman sitting by her window mirror.
I went to my room in Eagle Tower, fell upon my bed, and abandoned myselfto an anguish of soul which was almost luxurious. I shall not tease youwith the details of my mental and moral processes. I hung in the balance along time undetermined what course I should pursue. The difference betweenthe influence of Mary and the effect wrought by Madge was the differencebetween the intoxication and the exhilaration of wine. Following theintoxication of Mary's presence ever came a torturing reaction, while theexhilarating influence of Madge gave health and strength. I chose thelatter. I have always been glad I reached that determination without theaid of any impulse outside of myself; for events soon happened which againdrove all faith in Mary from my heart forever. Those events would haveforced me to abandon my trust in her; but mind you, I took my good resolvefrom inclination rather than necessity before I learned of Mary's perfidy.
The events of the night had exhausted Dorothy, and she was confined to herbed by illness for the first time in her life. She believed that she wasdying, and she did not want to live. I did not go to her apartments. Madgeremained with her, and I, coward-like, feared to face the girl to whom Ihad been untrue.
Dorothy's one and only desire, of course, was to see John, but that desirefor a time seemed impossible of accomplishment.
Elizabeth, Cecil, Leicester, and Sir William St. Loe were in secretconsultation many times during three or four days and nights. OccasionallySir George was called into their councils, and that flattering attentionso wrought upon the old man's pride that he was a slave to the queen'sslightest wish, and was more tyrannical and dictatorial than ever beforeto all the rest of mankind. There were, however, two persons besides thequeen before whom Sir George was gracious: one of these was Mary Stuart,whose powers of fascination had been brought to bear upon the King of thePeak most effectively. The other was Leicester, to whom, as my cousinexpressed it, he hoped to dispose of that troublesome and disturbingbody--Dorothy. These influences, together with the fact that his enemiesof Rutland were in the Haddon dungeon, had given Sir George a spleen-vent,and Dorothy, even in the face of her father's discovery that Manners washer mysterious lover, had for once a respite from Sir George's just andmighty wrath.
The purpose of Elizabeth's many councils of war was to devise some meansof obtaining from John and his father, information concerning the plot,which had resulted in bringing Mary Stuart into England. The ultimatepurpose of Mary's visit, Elizabeth's counsellors firmly believed to be thedethronement of the English queen and the enthronement of her Scottishcousin. Elizabeth, in her heart, felt confident that John and his fatherwere not parties to the treasonable plot, although she had been warnedagainst each of them. Cecil and Sir William St. Loe also secretly held tothat opinion, though neither of them expressed it, Elizabeth was consciousof having given to John while at London court an intimation that she wouldbe willing that Mary should visit England. Of such intimation Cecil andSir William had no knowledge, though they, together with many persons ofthe Court, believed that Elizabeth was not entirely averse to Mary'spresence.
Lord Rutland and John were questioned by Cecil in the hope of obtainingsome hints which might lead to the detection of those concerned in thechief plot, provided such plot existed. But Lord Rutland knew nothing ofthe affair except that John had brought the Scottish queen from Scotland,and John persisted in the statement that he had no confederate and that heknew nothing of any plot to place Mary upon the English throne.
John said: "I received from Queen Mary's friends in Scotland lettersasking me to meet her on the border, and requesting me to conduct her tomy father's castle. Those letters mentioned no Englishman but myself, andthey stated that Queen Mary's flight to England was to be undertaken withthe tacit consent of our gracious queen. That fact, the letters told me,our queen wished should not be known. There were reasons of state, theletters said, which made it impolitic for our queen openly to invite QueenMary to seek sanctuary in England. I received those letters before I leftWestminster. Upon the day when I received them, I heard our gracious queensay that she would gladly invite Queen Mary to England, were it not forthe fact that such an invitation would cause trouble between her and theregent, Murray. Her Majesty at the same time intimated that she would beglad if Mary Stuart should come to England uninvited." John turned toElizabeth, "I beg your Majesty, in justice, to ratify my words." Elizabethhesitated for a moment after John's appeal; but her love of justice cameto her rescue and she hung her head as she said, "You are right, SirJohn." Then she looked her counsellors in the face and said, "I wellremember that I so expressed myself."
"In truth," said John, "I having only an hour before received the letterfrom Scotland, believed that your Majesty's words were meant for my ear. Ifelt that your Majesty knew of the letters, and I thought that I should becarrying out your royal wishes should I bring Queen Mary into Englandwithout your knowledge."
The queen responded: "I then felt that I wished Queen Mary to seek refugein my kingdom, but so many untoward events have transpired since I spokeon the subject at Westminster that I have good cause to change my mind,though I easily understand how you might have be
en misled by my words."
"I am sure," replied John, "that your Majesty has had good cause to changeyour mind; but I protest in all sincerity that I considered the Scottishletters to be a command from my queen."
Elizabeth was a strange combination of paradoxes. No one could be truerthan she to a fixed determination once taken. No one could be swayed bydoubt so easily as she to change her mind sixty times in the space of aminute. During one moment she was minded to liberate John and LordRutland; in the next she determined to hold them in prison, hoping tolearn from them some substantial fact concerning the plot which, sinceMary's arrival in England, had become a nightmare to her. But, with allher vagaries the Virgin Queen surely loved justice. That quality, alone,makes a sovereign great. Elizabeth, like her mother, Anne Boleyn, hadgreat faith in her personal beauty; like her father, she had unboundedconfidence in her powers of mind. She took great pride in the ease withwhich she controlled persons. She believed that no one was so adroit asElizabeth Tudor in extracting secrets from others, and in unravellingmysterious situations, nor so cunning in hunting out plots and in runningdown plotters. In all such matters she delighted to act secretly andalone.
During the numerous councils held at Haddon, Elizabeth allowed Cecil toquestion John to his heart's content; but while she listened sheformulated a plan of her own which she was sure would be effective inextracting all the truth from John, if all the truth had not already beenextracted. Elizabeth kept her cherished plan to herself. It was this:--
She would visit Dorothy, whom she knew to be ill, and would by her subtleart steal from John's sweetheart all that the girl knew of the case. IfJohn had told Dorothy part of the affair concerning Mary Stuart, he hadprobably told her all, and Elizabeth felt confident that she could easilypump the girl dry. She did not know Dorothy. Accordingly our queen,Elizabeth, the adroit, went to Dorothy's room under the pretence of payingthe girl a gracious visit. Dorothy wished to arise and receive her royalguest, but Elizabeth said gently:--
"Do not arise, Dorothy; rest quietly, and I will sit here beside you onthe bed. I have come to tell you that you must recover your health atonce. We miss you greatly in the Hall."
No one could be more gracious than Elizabeth when the humor was upon her;though, in truth, the humor was often lacking.
"Let us send all save you and me from the room," said the queen, "that wemay have a quiet little chat together."
All who were in the room save Dorothy and Elizabeth of course departed atonce.
When the door was closed, the queen said: "I wish to thank you for tellingme of the presence of her Scottish Majesty at Rutland. You know there is aplot on foot to steal my throne from me."
"God forbid that there should be such a plot," replied Dorothy, restingupon her elbow in the bed.
"I fear it is only too true that there is such a plot," returnedElizabeth, "and I owe you a great debt of gratitude for warning me of theScottish queen's presence in my kingdom."
"I hope the danger will be averted from your Majesty," said Dorothy; "butthat which I did will cause my death--it will kill me. No human being everbefore has lived through the agony I have suffered since that terriblenight. I was a traitress. I betrayed the man who is dearer to me than myimmortal soul. He says that he forgives me, but your Majesty knows that myfault is beyond forgiveness."
"Sir John is a noble gentleman, child," said the queen. "I hope that he isloyal to me, but I fear--I fear."
"Do not doubt, do not fear, my queen," returned Dorothy, eagerly; "thereis nothing false in him."
"Do you love him deeply, little one?" asked the queen.
"No words can tell you my love for him," answered the girl. "I feel shameto say that he has taken even the holy God's place in my heart. Perhaps itis for that sin that God now punishes me."
"Fear not on that score, Dorothy," replied the queen. "God will not punishyou for feeling the love which He Himself has put into your heart. I wouldwillingly give my crown could I feel such love for a worthy man who wouldin return love me for myself. But I cannot feel, nor can I have faith.Self-interest, which is so dominant in all men, frightens me, and I doubttheir vows."
"Surely, any man would love you for your own sake," said Dorothy,tenderly.
"It may be that you speak truly, child; but I cannot know when men's vowsare true nor when they are false. The real trouble is within myself. If Icould but feel truly, I could interpret truthfully."
"Ah, your Majesty," interrupted Dorothy, "you do not know the thing forwhich you are wishing; it is a torture worse than death; it is an ecstasysweeter than heaven. It is killing me. I pity you, though you are a queen,if you have never felt it."
"Would you do anything I might ask of you, if you could thereby save SirJohn's life?" asked the queen.
"Ah, I would gladly give my soul to save him," responded Dorothy, withtears in her eyes and eagerness in her voice. "Oh, my queen, do not leadme to hope, and then plunge me again into despair. Give me noencouragement unless you mean to free him. As for my part, take my lifeand spare John's. Kill me by torture, burn me at the stake, stretch meupon the rack till my joints are severed and my flesh is torn asunder. Letme die by inches, my queen; but spare him, oh, spare him, and do with meas you will. Ask from me what you wish. Gladly will I do all that you maydemand; gladly will I welcome death and call it sweet, if I can therebysave him. The faint hope your Majesty's words hold out makes me strongagain. Come, come, take my life; take all that I can give. Give me him."
"Do you believe that I am an ogress thirsting for blood, Dorothy, that youoffer me your life for his? You can purchase Sir John's life at a muchsmaller cost." Dorothy rose to the queen with a cry, and put her armsabout her neck. "You may purchase his freedom," continued the queen, "andyou may serve your loving queen at one and the same time, if you wish todo so."
Dorothy had sunk back into the bed, and Elizabeth was sitting close by herside; but when the queen spoke she turned her head on the pillow andkissed the royal hand which was resting upon the coverlid.
"Ah, you are so good, so true, and so beautiful," said Dorothy.
Her familiarity toward the queen was sweet to the woman, to whom it wasnew.
Dorothy did not thank the queen for her graciousness. She did not replydirectly to her offer. She simply said:--
"John has told me many times that he was first attracted to me because Iresembled you."
The girl had ample faith in her own beauty, and knew full well the subtleflattery which lay in her words. "He said," she continued, "that my hairin some faint degree resembled yours, but he said it was not of sobeautiful a hue. I have loved my hair ever since the day he told me thatit resembled your Majesty's." The girl leaned forward toward the queen andgently kissed the royal locks. They no more resembled Dorothy's hair thanbrick dust resembles the sheen of gold.
The queen glanced at the reflection of her hair in the mirror and itflatly contradicted Dorothy. But the girl's words were backed byElizabeth's vanity, and the adroit flattery went home.
"Ah, my child," exclaimed her Majesty softly, as she leaned forward andkissed Dorothy's fair cheek.
Dorothy wept gently for a moment and familiarly rested her face upon thequeen's breast. Then she entwined her white arms about Elizabeth's neckand turned her glorious eyes up to the queen's face that her Majesty mightbehold their wondrous beauty and feel the flattery of the words she wasabout to utter.
"He said also," continued Dorothy, "that my eyes in some slight degreeresembled your Majesty's, but he qualified his compliment by tellingme--he did not exactly tell me that my eyes were not so large andbrilliant as your Majesty's, for he was making love to me, and of coursehe would not have dared to say that my eyes were not the most perfect onearth; but he did say that--at least I know that he meant--that my eyes,while they resembled yours, were hardly so glorious, and--and I am veryjealous of your Majesty. John will be leaving me to worship at your feet."
Elizabeth's eyes were good enough. The French called them "marcassin,"that is, wild b
oar's eyes. They were little and sparkling; they were notluminous and large like Dorothy's, and the girl's flattery was rank.Elizabeth, however, saw Dorothy's eyes and believed her words rather thanthe reply of the lying mirror, and her Majesty's heart was soft from thegirl's kneading. Consider, I pray you, the serpent-like wisdom displayedby Dorothy's method of attack upon the queen. She did not ask for John'sliberty. She did not seek it. She sought only to place John softly onElizabeth's heart. Some natures absorb flattery as the desert sands absorbthe unfrequent rain, and Elizabeth--but I will speak no ill of her. She isthe greatest and the best sovereign England has ever had. May God send tomy beloved country others like her. She had many small shortcomings; but Ihave noticed that those persons who spend their evil energies in littlefaults have less force left for greater ones. I will show you a mystery:Little faults are personally more disagreeable and rasping to us thangreat ones. Like flying grains of sand upon a windy day, they vex usconstantly. Great faults come like an avalanche, but they come lessfrequently, and we often admire their possessor, who sooner or later isapt to become our destroyer.
"I can hardly tell you," said Dorothy in response to a question byElizabeth, "I can hardly tell you why I informed your Majesty of QueenMary's presence at Rutland. I did it partly for love of your Majesty andpartly because I was jealous of that white, plain woman from Scotland."
"She is not a plain woman, is she?" said Elizabeth, delighted to hear Maryof Scotland so spoken of for once. One way to flatter some women is toberate those whom they despise or fear. Elizabeth loved Dorothy better forthe hatred which the girl bore to Mary. Both stood upon a broad plane ofmutual sympathy-jealousy of the same woman. It united the queen and themaiden in a common heart-touching cause.
Dorothy's confidence grew apace. "She is plain," replied Dorothy,poutingly. "She appears plain, colorless, and repulsive by the side ofyour Majesty."
"No, no, Dorothy, that cannot be," returned Queen Elizabeth, gentlypatting. Dorothy's cheek and glancing stealthily at the reflection of herown face in the mirror. At this point Dorothy considered that the time hadcome for a direct attack.
"Your Majesty need have no fear of a plot to place Queen Mary upon yourthrone. The English people would not endure her wicked pale face for amoment."
"But there is such a plot in existence," said Elizabeth.
"What you say may be true," returned Dorothy; "but, your Majesty, John isnot in the plot, and he knows nothing of it."
"I hope--I believe--he is not in the plot," said Elizabeth, "but I fear--"
The girl kissed the sleeve of Elizabeth's gown, and then she drew thequeen closer to her and kissed her hair and her face.
"Ah, my beauteous queen," said Dorothy, "I thank you for those words. Youmust know that John loves you, and is your loyal subject. Take pity uponme. Help me. Hold out your gracious hand and lift me from my despair."
Dorothy slipped from the bed and fell on her knees, burying her face inthe queen's lap.
Elizabeth was touched by the girl's appeal, and caressingly stroked herhair, as she said: "I believe he is innocent, but I fear he knows orsuspects others who harbor treasonable designs. Tell me, Dorothy, do youknow of any such persons? If you can tell me their names, you will serveyour queen, and will save your lover. No harm shall come to Sir John, andno one save myself shall have knowledge of any word that you may speak. IfI do not learn the names of the traitors through you or through Sir John,I may be compelled to hold him a prisoner until I discover them. Ifthrough you I learn them, Sir John shall go free at once."
"Gladly, for your Majesty's sake alone would I tell you the names of suchtraitorous men, did I know them;" replied Dorothy, "and thrice gladlywould I do so if I might thereby liberate John. Your Majesty must see thatthese motives are strong enough to induce me to speak if I knew aught totell you. I would betray the whole world to save him, of that you may besure. But alas! I know no man whom I can betray. John told me nothing ofhis expedition to the Scottish border save what was in two letters whichhe sent to me. One of these I received before he left Rutland, and theother after his return."
She fetched the letters to the queen, who read them carefully.
"Perhaps if I were to see him, he might, upon my importunity, tell me allhe knows concerning the affair and those connected with it if he knowsanything more than he has already told," said Dorothy, by a great effortsuppressing her eagerness. "I am sure, your Majesty, he would tell me allShould he tell me the names of any persons connected with any treasonableplot, I will certainly tell you. It would be base in me again to betrayJohn's confidence; but your Majesty has promised me his life and liberty,and to obtain those I would do anything, however evil it might be. If Imay see John, I promise to learn all that he knows, if he knows anything;and I also promise to tell you word for word all that he says."
The girl felt safe in making these promises, since she was sure that Johnknew nothing of a treasonable character.
The queen, thinking that she had adroitly led Dorothy up to making theoffer, said, "I accept the conditions. Be in readiness to visit Sir John,upon my command."
Thus the compact was sealed, and the queen, who thought herself wise, wasused by the girl, who thought herself simple.
For the purpose of hiding her exultation, Dorothy appeared to be ill, butwhen the queen passed out at the door and closed it behind her, the girlsprang from the bed and danced around the room as if she were abear-baiter. From the depths of despair she flew to the pinnacle of hope.She knew, however, that she must conceal her happiness; therefore she wentback to bed and waited impatiently the summons of Elizabeth requiring herto go to John.
But now I must pause to tell you of my troubles which followed so swiftlyupon the heels of my fault that I was fairly stunned by them. My narrativewill be brief, and I shall soon bring you back again to Dorothy.
Queen Mary had no sooner arrived at Haddon Hall than she opened an attackupon Leicester, somewhat after the same plan, I suppose, which she hadfollowed with me in the coach. She could no more easily resist invitinghomage from men than a swallow can refrain from flying. Thus, frominclination and policy, she sought Leicester and endeavored by thepleasant paths of her blandishments to lead him to her cause. There can beno doubt concerning Leicester's wishes in the premises. Had Mary's causeheld elements of success, he would have joined her; but he fearedElizabeth, and he hoped some day to share her throne. He would, however,prefer to share the throne with Mary.
Mary told him of her plans and hopes. She told him that I had ridden withDorothy for the purpose of rescuing John and herself, and that I hadpromised to help her to escape to France. She told him she would use mefor her tool in making her escape, and would discard me when once sheshould be safe out of England. Then would come Leicester's turn. Thenshould my lord have his recompense, and together they would regain theScottish crown.
How deeply Leicester became engaged in the plot I cannot say, but this Iknow: through fear of Elizabeth, or for the purpose of winning her favor,he unfolded to our queen all the details of Mary's scheme, together withthe full story of my ride with Dorothy to Rutland, and my return withDorothy and Mary in the coach. Thereupon Mary was placed under strictguard. The story spread quickly through the Hall, and Dawson brought it tome. On hearing it, my first thought was of Madge. I knew it would soonreach her. Therefore I determined to go to her at once and make a cleanbreast of all my perfidy. Had I done so sooner, I should at least have hadthe benefit of an honest, voluntary confession; but my conscience had madea coward of me, and the woman who had been my curse for years had socompletely disturbed my mind that I should have been quite as well offwithout any at all. It led me from one mistake into another.
After Dawson told me that my miserable story was known throughout theHall, I sought Madge, and found her with Aunt Dorothy. She was weeping,and I at once knew that I was too late with my confession. I spoke hername, "Madge," and stood by her side awaiting her reply.
"Is it true, Malcolm?" she asked. "I cannot believe it till
I hear it fromyour lips."
"It was true," I responded. "I promised to help Queen Mary escape, and Ipromised to go with her; but within one hour of the time when I gave myword I regretted it as I have never regretted anything else in all mylife. I resolved that, while I should, according to my promise, help theScottish queen escape, I would not go with her. I resolved to wait here atHaddon to tell all to you and to our queen, and then I would patientlytake my just punishment from each. My doom from the queen, I believed,would probably be death; but I feared more your--God help me! It isuseless for me to speak." Here I broke down and fell upon my knees,crying, "Madge, Madge, pity me, pity me! Forgive me if you can, and, ifour queen decrees it, I shall die happy."
In my desperation I caught the girl's hand, but she drew it quickly fromme, and said:--
"Do not touch me!"
She arose to her feet, and groped her way to her bedroom. We were in AuntDorothy's room. I watched Madge as she sought with her outstretched handthe doorway; and when she passed slowly through it, the sun of my lifeseemed to turn black. Just as Madge passed from the room, Sir William St.Loe, with two yeomen, entered by Sir George's door and placed irons uponmy wrist and ankles. I was led by Sir William to the dungeon, and no wordwas spoken by either of us.
I had never in my life feared death, and now I felt that I would welcomeit. When a man is convinced that his life is useless, through the diredisaster that he is a fool, he values it little, and is even more thanwilling to lose it.
Then there were three of us in the dungeon,--John, Lord Rutland, andmyself; and we were all there because we had meddled in the affairs ofothers, and because Dorothy had inherited from Eve a capacity for insane,unreasoning jealousy.
Lord Rutland was sitting on the ground in a corner of the dungeon. John,by the help of a projecting stone in the masonry, had climbed to the smallgrated opening which served to admit a few straggling rays of light intothe dungeon's gloom. He was gazing out upon the fair day, whose beauty hefeared would soon fade away from him forever.
Elizabeth's coldness had given him no hope. It had taken all hope from hisfather.
The opening of the door attracted John's attention, and he turned his facetoward me when I entered. He had been looking toward the light, and hiseyes, unaccustomed for the moment to the darkness, failed at first torecognize of me. When the dungeon door had closed behind me, he sprangdown from his perch by the window, and came toward me with outstretchedhands. He said sorrowfully:--
"Malcolm, have I brought you here, too? Why are you in irons? It seemsthat I am destined to bring calamity upon all whom I love."
"It is a long story," I replied laughingly. "I will tell it to you whenthe time begins to drag; but I tell you now it is through no fault ofyours that I am here. No one is to blame for my misfortune but myself."Then I continued bitterly, "Unless it be the good God who created me afool."
John went to his father's side and said:--
"Sir Malcolm is here, father. Will you not rise and greet him?"
John's voice aroused his father, and the old lord came to the little patchof light in which I was standing and said: "A terrible evil has fallenupon us, Sir Malcolm, and without our fault. I grieve to learn that youalso are entangled in the web. The future looks very dark."
"Cheer up, father," said John, taking the old man's hand. "Light will sooncome; I am sure it will."
"I have tried all my life to be a just man," said Lord Rutland. "I havefailed at times, I fear, but I have tried. That is all any man can do. Ipray that God in His mercy will soon send light to you, John, whatever ofdarkness there may be in store for me."
I thought, "He will surely answer this just man's prayer," and almostbefore the thought was completed the dungeon door turned upon its hingesand a great light came with glorious refulgence through the openportal--Dorothy.
"John!"
Never before did one word express so much of mingled joy and grief. Fearand confidence, and, greater than all, love unutterable were blended inits eloquent tones. She sprang to John as the lightning leaps from cloudto cloud, and he caught her to his heart. He gently kissed her hair, herface being hidden in the folds of his doublet.
"Let me kneel, John, let me kneel," she murmured.
"No, Dorothy, no," he responded, holding her closely in his arms.
"But one moment, John," she pleased.
"No, no; let me see your eyes, sweet one," said John, trying to turn herface upward toward his own.
"I cannot yet, John, I cannot. Please let me kneel for one little momentat your feet."
John saw that the girl would find relief in self-abasement, so he relaxedhis arms, and she sank to her knees upon the dungeon floor. She weptsoftly for a moment, and then throwing back her head with her oldimpulsive manner looked up into his face.
"Oh, forgive me, John! Forgive me! Not that I deserve your forgiveness,but because you pity me."
"I forgave you long ago, Dorothy. You had my full forgiveness before youasked it."
He lifted the weeping girl to her feet and the two clung together insilence. After a pause Dorothy spoke:--
"You have not asked me, John, why I betrayed you."
"I want to know nothing, Dorothy, save that you love me."
"That you already know. But you cannot know how much I love you. I myselfdon't know. John, I seem to have turned all to love. 'However much thereis of me, that much there is of love for you. As the salt is in every dropof the sea, so love is in every part of my being; but John," shecontinued, drooping her head and speaking regretfully, "the salt in thesea is not unmixed with many things hurtful." Her face blushed with shameand she continued limpingly: "And my love is not--is not without evil. Oh,John, I feel deep shame in telling you, but my love is terribly jealous.At times a jealousy comes over me so fierce and so distracting that underits influence I am mad, John, mad. I then see nothing in its true light;my eyes seem filled with--with blood, and all things appear red or blackand--and--oh! John, I pray you never again cause me jealousy. It makes ademon of me."
You may well know that John was nonplussed.
"I cause you jealousy?" he asked in surprise. "When did I--" But Dorothyinterrupted him, her eyes flashing darkly and a note of fierceness in hervoice. He saw for himself the effects of jealousy upon her.
"That white--white Scottish wanton! God's curse be upon her! She tried tosteal you from me."
"Perhaps she did," replied John, smilingly, "of that I do not know. Butthis I do know, and you, Dorothy, must know it too henceforth and for alltime to come. No woman can steal my love from you. Since I gave you mytroth I have been true to you; I have not been false even in one littlethought."
"I feel sure, John, that you have not been untrue to me," said the girlwith a faint smile playing about her lips; "but--but you remember thestrange woman at Bowling Green Gate whom you would have--"
"Dorothy, I hope you have not come to my dungeon for the purpose of makingme more wretched than I already am?"
"No, no, John, forgive me," she cried softly; "but John, I hate her, Ihate her! and I want you to promise that you too will hate her."
"I promise," said John, "though, you have had no cause for jealousy ofQueen Mary."
"Perhaps--not," she replied hesitatingly. "I have never thought," thegirl continued poutingly, "that you did anything of which I should bejealous; but she--she--oh, I hate her! Let us not talk about her. JennieFaxton told me--I will talk about her, and you shall not stop me--JennieFaxton told me that the white woman made love to you and caused you to putyour arm about her waist one evening on the battlements and-"
"Jennie told you a lie," said John.
"Now don't interrupt me," the girl cried nervously, almost ready fortears, "and I will try to tell you all. Jennie told me the--the whitewoman looked up to you this fashion," and the languishing look she gaveJohn in imitation of Queen Mary was so beautiful and comical that he coulddo nothing but laugh and cover her face with kisses, then laugh again andlove the girl more deeply and yet more
deeply with each new breath hedrew. Dorothy was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry, so shedid both.
"Jennie told me in the middle of the night," continued Dorothy, "when allthings seem so vivid and appear so distorted and--and that terribleblinding jealousy of which I told you came upon me and drove me mad. Ireally thought, John, that I should die of the agony. Oh, John, if youcould know the anguish I suffered that night you would pity me; you wouldnot blame me."
"I do not blame you, Dorothy."
"No, no, there-" she kissed him softly, and quickly continued: "I feltthat I must separate her from you at all cost. I would have done murder toaccomplish my purpose. Some demon whispered to me, 'Tell Queen Elizabeth,'and--and oh, John, let me kneel again."
"No, no, Dorothy, let us talk of something else," said John, soothingly.
"In one moment, John. I thought only of the evil that would come toher--her of Scotland. I did not think of the trouble I would bring toyou, John, until the queen, after asking me if you were my lover, saidangrily: 'You may soon seek another.' Then, John, I knew that I had alsobrought evil upon you. Then I _did_ suffer. I tried to reach Rutland, andyou know all else that happened on that terrible night. Now John, you knowall--all. I have withheld nothing. I have, confessed all, and I feel thata great weight is taken from my heart. You will not hate me, will you,John?"
He caught the girl to his breast and tried to turn her face toward his.
"I could not hate you if I would," he replied, with quick-coming breath,"and God knows I would not. To love you is the sweetest joy in life," andhe softly kissed the great lustrous eyes till they closed as if in sleep.Then he fiercely sought the rich red lips, waiting soft and passive forhis caresses, while the fair head fell back upon the bend of his elbow ina languorous, half-conscious sweet surrender to his will. Lord Rutland andI had turned our backs on the shameless pair, and were busily discussingthe prospect for the coming season's crops.
Remember, please, that Dorothy spoke to John of Jennie Faxton. Her doingso soon bore bitter fruit for me.
Dorothy had been too busy with John to notice any one else, but he soonpresented her to his father. After the old lord had gallantly kissed herhand, she turned scornfully to me and said:--
"So you fell a victim to her wanton wiles? If it were not for Madge'ssake, I could wish you might hang."
"You need not balk your kindly desire for Madge's sake," I answered. "Shecares little about my fate. I fear she will never forgive me."
"One cannot tell what a woman will do," Dorothy replied. "She is apt tomake a great fool of herself when it comes to forgiving the man sheloves."
"Men at times have something to forgive," I retorted, looking with asmile toward John. The girl made no reply, but took John's hand and lookedat him as if to say, "John, please don't let this horrid man abuse me."
"But Madge no longer cares for me," I continued, wishing to talk upon thetheme, "and your words do not apply to her."
The girl turned her back disdainfully on me and said, "You seem to bequite as easily duped by the woman who loves you and says she doesn't asby the one who does not care for you but says she does."
"Damn that girl's tongue!" thought I; but her words, though biting,carried joy to my heart and light to my soul.
After exchanging a few words with Lord Rutland, Dorothy turned to John andsaid:--
"Tell me upon your knightly honor, John, do you know aught of a wicked,treasonable plot to put the Scottish woman on the English throne?"
I quickly placed my finger on my lips and touched my ear to indicate thattheir words would be overheard; for a listening-tube connected the dungeonwith Sir George's closet.
"Before the holy God, upon my knighthood, by the sacred love we bear eachother, I swear I know of no such plot," answered John. "I would be thefirst to tell our good queen did I suspect its existence."
Dorothy and John continued talking upon the subject of the plot, but weresoon interrupted by a warning knock upon the dungeon door.
Lord Rutland, whose heart was like twenty-two carat gold, soft, pure, andprecious, kissed Dorothy's hand when she was about to leave, and said:"Dear lady, grieve not for our sake. I can easily see that more pain hascome to you than to us. I thank you for the great fearless love you bearmy son. It has brought him trouble, but it is worth its cost. You have myforgiveness freely, and I pray God's choicest benediction may be withyou." She kissed the old lord and said, "I hope some day to make you loveme."
"That will be an easy task," said his Lordship, gallantly. Dorothy wasabout to leave. Just at the doorway she remembered the chief purpose ofher visit; so she ran back to John, put her hand over his mouth to insuresilence, and whispered in his ear.
On hearing Dorothy's whispered words, signs of joy were so apparent inJohn's face that they could not be mistaken. He said nothing, but kissedher hand and she hurriedly left the dungeon.
After the dungeon door closed upon Dorothy, John went to his father andwhispered a few words to him. Then he came to me, and in the samesecretive manner said:--
"The queen has promised Dorothy our liberty." I was not at all sure that"our liberty" included me,--I greatly doubted it,--but I was glad for thesake of my friends, and, in truth, cared little for myself.
Dorothy went from our dungeon to the queen, and that afternoon, accordingto promise, Elizabeth gave orders for the release of John and his father.Sir George, of course, was greatly chagrined when his enemies slipped fromhis grasp; but he dared not show his ill humor in the presence of thequeen nor to any one who would be apt to enlighten her Majesty on thesubject.
Dorothy did not know the hour when her lover would leave Haddon; but shesat patiently at her window till at last John and Lord Rutland appeared.She called to Madge, telling her of the joyous event, and Madge, asked:--
"Is Malcolm with them?"
"No," replied Dorothy, "he has been left in the dungeon, where hedeserves to remain."
After a short pause, Madge said:--
"If John had acted toward the Scottish queen as Malcolm did, would youforgive him?"
"Yes, of course. I would forgive him anything."
"Then why shall we not forgive Malcolm?" asked Madge.
"Because he is not John," was the absurd reply.
"No," said Madge, promptly; "but he is 'John' to me."
"That is true," responded Dorothy, "and I will forgive him if you will."
"I don't believe it makes much difference to Malcolm whether or not youforgive him," said Madge, who was provoked at Dorothy's condescendingoffer. "My forgiveness, I hope, is what he desires."
"That is true, Madge," replied Dorothy, laughingly; "but may not I, also,forgive him?"
"If you choose," responded Madge, quietly; "as for me, I know not what Iwish to do."
You remember that Dorothy during her visit to the dungeon spoke of JennieFaxton. The girl's name reached Sir George's ear through thelistening-tube and she was at once brought in and put to the question.
Jennie, contrary to her wont, became frightened and told all she knewconcerning John and Dorothy, including my part in their affairs. In SirGeorge's mind, my bad faith to him was a greater crime than my treason toElizabeth, and he at once went to the queen with his tale of woe.
Elizabeth, the most sentimental of women, had heard from Dorothy the storyof her tempestuous love, and also of mine, and the queen was greatlyinterested in the situation.
I will try to be brief.
Through the influence of Dorothy and Madge, as I afterward learned, andby the help of a good word from Cecil, the queen was induced to order myliberation on condition that I should thenceforth reside in France. So onemorning, three days after John's departure from Haddon, I was overjoyed tohear the words, "You are free."
I did not know that Jennie Faxton had given Sir George her large stock ofdisturbing information concerning my connection with the affairs ofDorothy and John. So when I left the dungeon, I, supposing that my stormycousin would be glad to forgive me if Queen Elizabeth
would, sought andfound him in Aunt Dorothy's room. Lady Crawford and Sir George weresitting near the fire and Madge was standing near the door in the nextroom beyond. When I entered, Sir George sprang to his feet and cried outangrily:--
"You traitorous dog, the queen has seen fit to liberate you, and I cannotinterfere with her orders; but if you do not leave my Hall at once I shallset the hounds on you. Your effects will be sent to The Peacock, and thesooner you quit England the safer you will be." There was of coursenothing for me to do but to go.
"You once told me, Sir George--you remember our interview at ThePeacock--that if you should ever again order me to leave Haddon, I shouldtell you to go to the devil. I now take advantage of your kind permission,and will also say farewell."
I kissed Aunt Dorothy's cheek, took my leave, and sought Cecil, from whomI obtained a passport to France. Then I asked Dawson to fetch my horse.
I longed to see Madge before I left Haddon, but I knew that my desirecould not be gratified; so I determined to stop at Rowsley and send back aletter to her which Dawson undertook to deliver. In my letter I would askMadge's permission to return for her from France and to take her homewith me as my wife. After I had despatched my letter I would wait at ThePeacock for an answer.
Sore at heart, I bade good-by to Dawson, mounted my horse, and turned hishead toward the Dove-cote Gate. As I rode under Dorothy's window she wassitting there. The casement was open, for the day was mild, although theseason was little past midwinter. I heard her call to Madge, and then shecalled to me:--
"Farewell, Malcolm! Forgive me for what I said to you in the dungeon. Iwas wrong, as usual. Forgive me, and God bless you. Farewell!"
While Dorothy was speaking, and before I replied, Madge came to the opencasement and called:--
"Wait for me, Malcolm, I am going down to you."
Great joy is a wonderful purifier, and Madge's cry finished the work ofthe past few months and made a good man of me, who all my life before hadknown little else than evil.
Soon Madge's horse was led by a groom to the mounting block, and in a fewminutes she emerged gropingly from the great door of Entrance Tower.Dorothy was again a prisoner in her rooms and could not come down to bidme farewell. Madge mounted, and the groom led her horse to me and placedthe reins in my hands.
"Is it you, Malcolm?" asked Madge.
"Yes," I responded, in a voice husky with emotion. "I cannot thank youenough for coming to say farewell. You have forgiven me?"
"Yes," responded Madge, almost in tears, "but I have not come to sayfarewell."
I did not understand her meaning.
"Are you going to ride part of the way with me--perhaps to Rowsley?" Iasked, hardly daring to hope for so much.
"To France, Malcolm, if you wish to take me," she responded murmuringly.
For a little time I could not feel the happiness that had come upon me inso great a flood. But when I had collected my scattered senses, I said:--
"I thank God that He has turned your heart again to me. May I feel Hisrighteous anger if ever I give you cause to regret the step you aretaking."
"I shall never regret it, Malcolm," she answered softly, as she held outher hand to me.
Then we rode by the dove-cote, out from Haddon Hall, never to see itswalls again.
We went to Rutland, whence after a fortnight we journeyed to France. ThereI received my mother's estates, and never for one moment, to my knowledge,has Madge regretted having intrusted her life and happiness to me. I neednot speak for myself.
Our home is among the warm, sunlit, vine-covered hills of southern France,and we care not for the joys of golden streets so long as God in Hisgoodness vouchsafes to us our earthly paradise. Age, with the heart atpeace, is the fairest season of life; and love, leavened of God, robs evenapproaching death of his sting and makes for us a broad flower-strewn pathfrom the tempestuous sea of time to the calm, sweet ocean of eternity.
CHAPTER XVI
LEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE
I shall now tell you of the happenings in Haddon Hall during the fortnightwe spent at Rutland before our departure for France.
We left Dorothy, you will remember, a prisoner in her rooms.
After John had gone Sir George's wrath began to gather, and Dorothy wasnot permitted to depart from the Hall for even a walk upon the terrace,nor could she leave her own apartments save when the queen requested herpresence.
A few days after my departure from Haddon, Sir George sent Dawson outthrough the adjoining country to invite the nobility and gentry to a grandball to be given at the Hall in honor of Queen Elizabeth. Queen Mary hadbeen sent a prisoner to Chatsworth.
Tom Shaw, the most famous piper of his times, and a choice company ofmusicians to play with him were hired for the occasion, and, in short, theevent was so glorious that its wonders have been sung in minstrelsythroughout Derbyshire ever since.
Dorothy's imprisonment saddened Leicester's heart, and he longed to seeher, for her beauty had touched him nearly. Accordingly, the earl one dayintimated to Sir George his wish in terms that almost bespoke an intentionto ask for the girl's hand when upon proper opportunity the queen'sconsent might be sought and perchance obtained. His equivocal words didnot induce Sir George to grant a meeting by which Dorothy might becompromised; but a robust hope for the ultimate accomplishment of the"Leicester possibility" was aroused in the breast of the King of the Peak,and from hope he could, and soon did, easily step to faith. He saw thatthe earl was a handsome man, and he believed, at least he hoped, that thefascinating lord might, if he were given an opportunity, woo Dorothy'sheart away from the hated scion of a hated race. Sir George, therefore,after several interviews with the earl, grew anxious to give his Lordshipan opportunity to win her. But both Sir George and my lord fearedElizabeth's displeasure, and the meeting between Leicester and the girlseemed difficult to contrive. Sir George felt confident that Dorothycould, if she would, easily capture the great lord in a few privateinterviews; but would she? Dorothy gave her father no encouragement in thematter, and took pains to shun Leicester rather than to seek him.
As Dorothy grew unwilling, Leicester and Sir George grew eager, until atlength the latter felt that it was almost time to exert his parentalauthority. He told Aunt Dorothy his feeling on the subject, and she toldher niece. It was impossible to know from what source Dorothy might drawinspiration for mischief. It came to her with her father's half-commandregarding Leicester.
Winter had again asserted itself. The weather was bitter cold and snowcovered the ground to the depth of a horse's fetlock.
The eventful night of the grand ball arrived, and Dorothy's heart throbbedtill she thought surely it would burst.
At nightfall guests began to arrive, and Sir George, hospitable soul thathe was, grew boisterous with good humor and delight.
The rare old battlements of Haddon were ablaze with flambeaux, and insidethe rooms were alight with waxen tapers. The long gallery was brilliantwith the smiles of bejewelled beauty, and laughter, song, and merrimentfilled the grand old Hall from terrace to Entrance Tower. Dorothy, ofcourse, was brought down from her prison to grace the occasion with abeauty which none could rival. Her garments were of soft, clinging,bright-colored silks and snowy laces, and all who saw her agreed that acreature more radiant never greeted the eye of man.
When the guests had all arrived, the pipers in the balcony burst forth inheart-swelling strains of music, and every foot in the room longed for thedance to begin.
I should like to tell you how Elizabeth most graciously opened the ballwith his Majesty, the King of the Peak, amid the plaudits of worshippingsubjects, and I should enjoy describing the riotous glory whichfollowed,--for although I was not there, I know intimately all thathappened,--but I will balk my desire and tell you only of those thingswhich touched Dorothy.
Leicester, of course, danced with her, and during a pause in the figure,the girl in response to pleadings which she had adroitly incited,reluctantly promised to grant the earl the private interview he s
o muchdesired if he could suggest some means for bringing it about. Leicesterwas in raptures over her complaisance and glowed with triumph anddelightful anticipation. But he could think of no satisfactory planwhereby his hopes might be brought to a happy fruition. He proposedseveral, but all seemed impracticable to the coy girl, and she rejectedthem. After many futile attempts he said:--
"I can suggest no good plan, mistress. I pray you, gracious lady,therefore, make full to overflowing the measure of your generosity, andtell me how it may be accomplished."
Dorothy hung her head as if in great shame and said: "I fear, my lord, wehad better abandon the project for a time. Upon another occasionperhaps--"
"No, no," interrupted the earl, pleadingly, "do not so grievouslydisappoint me. My heart yearns to have you to myself for one little momentwhere spying eyes cannot see nor prying ears hear. It is cruel in you toraise my hopes only to cast them down. I beg you, tell me if you know inwhat manner I may meet you privately."
After a long pause, Dorothy with downcast eyes said, "I am full of shame,my lord, to consent to this meeting, and then find the way to it,but--but--" ("Yes, yes, my Venus, my gracious one," interrupted theearl)--"but if my father would permit me to--to leave the Hall for a fewminutes, I might--oh, it is impossible, my lord. I must not think of it."
"I pray you, I beg you," pleaded Leicester. "Tell me, at least, what youmight do if your father would permit you to leave the Hall. I would gladlyfall to my knees, were it not for the assembled company."
With reluctance in her manner and gladness in her heart, the girl said:--
"If my father would permit me to leave the Hall, I might--only for amoment, meet you at the stile, in the northeast corner of the garden backof the terrace half an hour hence. But he would not permit me, and--and,my lord, I ought not to go even should father consent."
"I will ask your father's permission for you. I will seek him at once,"said the eager earl.
"No, no, my lord, I pray you, do not," murmured Dorothy, with distractinglittle troubled wrinkles in her forehead. Her trouble was more for fearlest he would not than for dread that he would.
"I will, I will," cried his Lordship, softly; "I insist, and you shall notgainsay me."
The girl's only assent was silence, but that was sufficient for soenterprising a gallant as the noble Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Sohe at once went to seek Sir George.
The old gentleman, although anxious to give Leicester a chance to presshis suit with Dorothy, at first refused, but Leicester said:--
"My intentions are honorable, Sir George. If I can win your daughter'sheart, it is my wish, if the queen's consent can be obtained, to askMistress Vernon's hand in marriage."
Sir George's breast swelled with pride and satisfaction, for Leicester'swords were as near an offer of marriage as it was in his power to make. Sothe earl received, for Dorothy, permission to leave the Hall, and eagerlycarried it to her.
"Your father consents gladly," said the earl. "Will you meet me half anhour hence at the stile?"
"Yes," murmured the girl, with shamelessly cast down eyes and droopinghead. Leicester bowed himself away, and fully fifteen minutes before theappointed time left the Hall to wait in the cold at the stile for Dorothy.
Before the expiration of the tedious half hour our meek maiden went to herfather and with deep modesty and affected shame said:--
"Father, is it your wish that I go out of the Hall for a few minutes tomeet--to meet--" She apparently could not finish the sentence, so modestand shame-faced was she.
"Yes, Doll, I wish you to go on this condition: if Leicester asks you tomarry him, you shall consent to be his wife."
"I promise, father," replied the dutiful girl, "if Lord Leicester asks methis night, I will be his wife."
"That is well, child, that is well. Once more you are my good, obedientdaughter, and I love you. Wear your sable cloak, Doll; the weather is verycold out of doors."
Her father's solicitude touched her nearly, and she gently led him to asecluded alcove near by, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed himpassionately. The girl's affection was sweet to the old man who had beenwithout it so long, and his eyes grew moist as he returned her caresses.Dorothy's eyes also were filled with tears. Her throat was choked withsobs, and her heart was sore with pain. Poor young heart! Poor old man!
Soon after Dorothy had spoken with her father she left the Hall byDorothy's Postern. She was wrapped in her sable cloak--the one that hadsaved John's life in Aunt Dorothy's room; but instead of going across thegarden to the stile where Lord Leicester was waiting, which was north andeast of the terrace, she sped southward down the terrace and did not stoptill she reached the steps which led westward to the lower garden. Shestood on the terrace till she saw a man running toward her from thepostern in the southwest corner of the lower garden. Then down the stepsshe sped with winged feet, and outstretching her arms, fell upon the man'sbreast, whispering: "John, my love! John, my love!"
As for the man--well, during the first minute or two he wasted no time inspeech.
When he spoke he said:--
"We must not tarry here. Horses are waiting at the south end of thefootbridge. Let us hasten away at once."
Then happened the strangest of all the strange things I have had to recordof this strange, fierce, tender, and at time almost half-savage girl.
Dorothy for months had longed for that moment. Her heart had almost burstwith joy when a new-born hope for it was suggested by the opportunities ofthe ball and her father's desire touching my lord of Leicester. But nowthat the longed-for moment was at hand, the tender heart, which had soanxiously awaited it, failed, and the girl broke down weepinghysterically.
"Oh, John, you have forgiven so many faults in me," she said betweensobs, "that I know you will forgive me when I tell you I cannot go withyou to-night. I thought I could and I so intended when I came out here tomeet you. But oh, John, my dearest love, I cannot go; I cannot go. Anothertime I will go with you, John. I promise that I will go with you soon,very soon, John; but I cannot go now, oh, I cannot. You will forgive me,won't you, John? You will forgive me?"
"No," cried John in no uncertain tones, "I will not forgive you. I willtake you. If you cry out, I will silence you." Thereupon he rudely tookthe girl in his arms and ran with her toward the garden gate near thenorth end of the stone footbridge.
"John, John!" she cried in terror. But he placed his hand over her mouthand forced her to remain silent till they were past the south wall. Thenhe removed his hand and she screamed and struggled against him with allher might. Strong as she was, her strength was no match for John's, andher struggles were in vain.
John, with his stolen bride, hurriedly crossed the footbridge and ran tothe men who were holding the horses. There he placed Dorothy on her feetand said with a touch of anger:--
"Will you mount of your own will or shall I put you in the saddle?"
"I'll mount of my own will, John," she replied submissively, "and John,I--I thank you, I thank you for--for--" she stopped speaking and toyedwith the tufts of fur that hung from the edges of her cloak.
"For what, my love? For what do you thank me?" asked John after a littlepause.
"For making--me--do--what I--I longed to do. My conscience would not letme do it of my own free will."
Then tears came from her eyes in a great flood, and throwing her armsabout John's neck she gave him herself and her heart to keep forever andforever.
And Leicester was shivering at the stile! The girl had forgotten even theexistence of the greatest lord in the realm.
My wife, Lord Rutland, and I waited in the watch-room above the castlegates for the coming of Dorothy and John; and when they came--but I willnot try to describe the scene. It were a vain effort. Tears and laughterwell compounded make the sweetest joy; grief and joy the truest happiness;happiness and pain the grandest soul, and none of these may be described.We may analyze them, and may take them part from part; but, like love,they cannot be compounded. We may know
all the component parts, but whenwe try to create these great emotions in description, we lack the subtlecompounding flux to unite the ingredients, and after all is done, we havesimply said that black is black and that white is white.
Next day, in the morning, Madge and I started for our new home in France.We rode up the hill down which poor Dolcy took her last fatal plunge, andwhen we reached the crest, we paused to look back. Standing on thebattlements, waving a kerchief in farewell to us, was the golden-crownedform of a girl. Soon she covered her face with her kerchief, and we knewshe was weeping Then we, also, wept as we turned away from the fairpicture; and since that far-off morning--forty long, long years ago--wehave not seen the face nor heard the voice of our sweet, tender friend.Forty years! What an eternity it is if we tear it into minutes!
L'ENVOI
The fire ceases to burn; the flames are sucked back into the earth; thedoe's blood has boiled away; the caldron cools, and my shadowy friends--soreal to me--whom I love with a passionate tenderness beyond my power toexpress, have sunk into the dread black bank of the past, and my poor,weak wand is powerless to recall them for the space of even one fleetingmoment. So I must say farewell to them; but all my life I shall carry aheart full of tender love and pain for the fairest, fiercest, gentlest,weakest, strongest of them all--Dorothy Vernon.
MALCOLM POSSIBLY IN ERROR
Malcolm Vernon is the only writer on the life of Dorothy Vernon who speaksof Rutland Castle. All others writing on the subject say that BelvoirCastle was the home of the Earl of Rutland.
No other writer mentions the proposed marriage, spoken of by Malcolm,between Dorothy and Lord Derby's son. They do, however, say that Dorothyhad an elder sister who married a Stanley, but died childless, leavingDorothy sole heiress to Sir George Vernon's vast estate.
All writers agree with Malcolm upon the main fact that brave Dorothyeloped with John Manners and brought to him the fair estate of Haddon,which their descendant, the present Duke of Rutland, now possesses.
No other writer speaks of Mary Stuart having been at Haddon, and manychroniclers disagree with Malcolm as to the exact date of her imprisonmentin Lochleven and her escape.
In all other essential respects the history of Dorothy Vernon as told byMalcolm agrees with other accounts of her life.
I do not pretend to reconcile the differences between these greathistorical authorities, but I confess to considerable faith in Malcolm.
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