CHAPTER III
THE PITCHER GOES TO THE WELL.
Dorothy and I went to the inn parlors, where I received a cordial welcomefrom my cousin, Lady Crawford. After our greeting, Dorothy came toward meleading the fair, pale girl whom I had seen in the courtyard.
"Madge, this is my cousin, Malcolm Vernon," said Dorothy. "He was a dearfriend of my childhood and is much beloved by my father. Lady MagdaleneStanley, cousin," and she placed the girl's soft white hand in mine. Therewas a peculiar hesitancy in the girl's manner which puzzled me. She didnot look at me when Dorothy placed her hand in mine, but kept her eyescast down, the long, black lashes resting upon the fair curves of hercheek like a shadow on the snow. She murmured a salutation, and when Imade a remark that called for a response, she lifted her eyes but seemednot to look at me. Unconsciously I turned my face toward Dorothy, whoclosed her eyes and formed with her lips the word "blind."
I retained the girl's hand, and she did not withdraw it. When I caughtDorothy's unspoken word I led Lady Madge to a chair and asked if I mightsit beside her.
"Certainly," she answered smilingly; "you know I am blind, but I can hearand speak, and I enjoy having persons I like sit near me that I may touchthem now and then while we talk. If I could only see!" she exclaimed.Still, there was no tone of complaint in her voice and very little even ofregret. The girl's eyes were of a deep blue and were entirely without scaror other evidence of blindness, except that they did not seem to see. Iafterward learned that her affliction had come upon her as the result ofillness when she was a child. She was niece to the Earl of Derby, andDorothy's mother had been her aunt. She owned a small estate and had livedat Haddon Hall five or six years because of the love that existed betweenher and Dorothy. A strong man instinctively longs to cherish that whichneeds his strength, and perhaps it was the girl's helplessness that firstappealed to me. Perhaps it was her rare, peculiar beauty, speakingeloquently of virtue such as I had never known, that touched me. I cannotsay what the impelling cause was, but this I know: my heart went out inpity to her, and all that was good within me--good, which I had neverbefore suspected--stirred in my soul, and my past life seemed black andbarren beyond endurance. Even Dorothy's marvellous beauty lacked thesubtle quality which this simple blind girl possessed. The first step inregeneration is to see one's faults; the second is to regret them; thethird is to quit them. The first and second steps constitute repentance;the second and third regeneration. One hour within the radius of MadgeStanley's influence brought me to repentance. But repentance is aneveryday virtue. Should I ever achieve regeneration? That is one of thequestions this history will answer. To me, Madge Stanley's passive forcewas the strongest influence for good that had ever impinged on my life.With respect to her, morally, I was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and therain, for she, acting unconsciously, moved me with neither knowledge norvolition on my part.
Soon after my arrival at the ladies' parlor dinner was served, and afterdinner a Persian merchant was ushered in, closely followed by hisservants bearing bales of rare Eastern fabrics. A visit and a dinner atthe inn were little events that made a break in the monotony of life atthe Hall, and the ladies preferred to visit the merchant, who was stoppingat The Peacock for a time, rather than to have him take his wares toHaddon.
While Lady Crawford and Dorothy were revelling in Persian silks, satins,and gold cloths, I sat by Lady Madge and was more than content that wewere left to ourselves. My mind, however, was as far from thoughts ofgallantry as if she had been a black-veiled nun. I believe I have not toldyou that I was of the Holy Catholic Faith. My religion, I may say, hasalways been more nominal and political than spiritual, although there ranthrough it a strong vein of inherited tendencies and superstitions whichwere highly colored by contempt for heresy and heretics. I was Catholic byhabit. But if I analyzed my supposed religious belief, I found that I hadnone save a hatred for heresy. Heretics, as a rule, were low-born persons,vulgarly moral, and as I had always thought, despisedly hypocritical.Madge Stanley, however, was a Protestant, and that fact shook thestructure of my old mistakes to its foundation, and left me religionless.
After the Persian merchant had packed his bales and departed, Dorothy andLady Crawford joined Madge and me near the fireplace. Soon Dorothy wentover to the window and stood there gazing into the courtyard. After a fewminutes Lady Crawford said, "Dorothy, had we not better order Dawson tobring out the horses and coach?" Will Dawson was Sir George's forester.
Lady Crawford repeated her question, but Dorothy was too intently watchingthe scene in the courtyard to hear. I went over to her, and looking out atthe window discovered the object of Dorothy's rapt attention. There is noneed for me to tell you who it was. Irony, as you know, and as I hadlearned, was harmless against this thick-skinned nymph. Of course I had noauthority to scold her, so I laughed. The object of Dorothy's attentionwas about to mount his horse. He was drawing on his gauntleted gloves andheld between his teeth a cigarro. He certainly presented a handsome figurefor the eyes of an ardent girl to rest upon while he stood beneath thewindow, clothed in a fashionable Paris-made suit of brown, doublet,trunks, and hose. His high-topped boots were polished till they shone, andhis broad-rimmed hat, of soft beaver, was surmounted by a flowing plume.Even I, who had no especial taste nor love for masculine beauty, felt mysense of the beautiful strongly moved by the attractive picture mynew-found friend presented. His dress, manner, and bearing, polished bythe friction of life at a luxurious court, must have appeared god-like toDorothy. She had never travelled farther from home than Buxton andDerby-town, and had met only the half-rustic men belonging to thesurrounding gentry and nobility of Derbyshire, Nottingham, and Stafford.She had met but few even of them, and their lives had been spent chieflyin drinking, hunting, and gambling--accomplishments that do not fine downthe texture of a man's nature or fit him for a lady's bower. Sir JohnManners was a revelation to Dorothy; and she, poor girl, was bewilderedand bewitched by him.
When John had mounted and was moving away, he looked up to the windowwhere Dorothy stood, and a light came to her eyes and a smile to her facewhich no man who knows the sum of two and two can ever mistake if he butonce sees it.
When I saw the light in Dorothy's eyes, I knew that all the hatred thatwas ever born from all the feuds that had ever lived since the quarrellingrace of man began its feuds in Eden could not make Dorothy Vernon hate theson of her father's enemy.
"I was--was--watching him draw smoke through the--the little stick whichhe holds in his mouth, and--and blow it out again," said Dorothy, inexplanation of her attitude. She blushed painfully and continued, "I hopeyou do not think--"
"I do not think," I answered. "I would not think of thinking."
"Of course not," she responded, with a forced smile, as she watched SirJohn pass out of sight under the arch of the innyard gate. I did notthink. I knew. And the sequel, so full of trouble, soon proved that I wasright. After John had passed through the gate, Dorothy was willing to gohome; and when Will Dawson brought the great coach to the inn door, Imounted my horse and rode beside the ladies to Haddon Hall, two milesnorth from Rowsley.
I shall not stop to tell you of the warm welcome given me by Sir GeorgeVernon, nor of his delight when I briefly told him my misfortunes inScotland--misfortunes that had brought me to Haddon Hall. Nor shall Idescribe the great boar's head supper given in my honor, at which therewere twenty men who could have put me under the table. I thought I knewsomething of the art of drinking, but at that supper I soon found I was amere tippler compared with these country guzzlers. At that feast I learnedalso that Dorothy, when she had hinted concerning Sir George's excessivedrinking, had told the truth. He, being the host, drank with all hisguests. Near midnight he grew distressingly drunk, talkative, and violent,and when toward morning he was carried from the room by his servants, thecompany broke up. Those who could do so reeled home; those who could notwalk at all were put to bed by the retainers at Haddon Hall. I had chosenmy bedroom high up in Eagle Tower. At table I had tried to r
emain sober.That, however, was an impossible task, for at the upper end of the hallthere was a wrist-ring placed in the wainscoting at a height of ten ortwelve inches above the head of an ordinary man, and if he refused todrink as much as the other guests thought he should, his wrist wasfastened above his head in the ring, and the liquor which he should havepoured down his throat was poured down his sleeve. Therefore to avoid thisspecies of rustic sport I drank much more than was good for me. When thefeast closed I thought I was sober enough to go to my room unassisted; soI took a candle, and with a great show of self-confidence climbed thespiral stone stairway to the door of my room. The threshold of my door wastwo or three feet above the steps of the stairway, and after I hadcontemplated the distance for a few minutes, I concluded that it would notbe safe for me to attempt to climb into my sleeping apartments withouthelp. Accordingly I sat down upon the step on which I had been standing,placed my candle beside me, called loudly for a servant, received noresponse, and fell asleep only to be awakened by one of Sir George'sretainers coming downstairs next morning.
After that supper, in rapid succession, followed hunting and drinking,feasting and dancing in my honor. At the dances the pipers furnished themusic, or, I should rather say, the noise. Their miserable wailingsreminded me of Scotland. After all, thought I, is the insidious, polishedvice of France worse than the hoggish, uncouth practices of Scotland andof English country life? I could not endure the latter, so I asked SirGeorge, on the pretext of ill health, to allow me to refuse invitations toother houses, and I insisted that he should give no more entertainments atHaddon Hall on my account. Sir George eagerly acquiesced in all my wishes.In truth, I was treated like an honored guest and a member of the family,and I congratulated myself that my life had fallen in such pleasant lines.Dorothy and Madge became my constant companions, for Sir George's timewas occupied chiefly with his estates and with his duties as magistrate. Afeeling of rest and contentment came over me, and my past life driftedback of me like an ever receding cloud.
Thus passed the months of October and November.
In the meantime events in Scotland and in England proved my wisdom inseeking a home at Haddon Hall, and showed me how great was my good fortunein finding it.
Queen Mary was a prisoner at Lochleven Castle, and her brother Murray hadbeheaded many of her friends. Elizabeth, hating Mary as only a plain,envious woman can hate one who is transcendently beautiful, had, upondifferent pretexts, seized many of Mary's friends who had fled to Englandfor sanctuary, and some of them had suffered imprisonment or death.
Elizabeth, in many instances, had good cause for her attitude towardMary's friends, since plots were hatching thick and fast to liberate Maryfrom Lochleven; and many such plots, undoubtedly, had for their chief endthe deposition of Elizabeth, and the enthronement of Mary as Queen ofEngland.
As a strict matter of law, Mary was rightful heir to the English throne,and Elizabeth was an usurper. Parliament, at Henry's request, had declaredthat Elizabeth, his issue by Anne Boleyn, was illegitimate, and that beingtrue, Mary was next in line of descent. The Catholics of England took thatstand, and Mary's beauty and powers of fascination had won for her friendseven in the personal household of the Virgin Queen. Small cause for wonderwas it that Elizabeth, knowing all these facts, looked with suspicion andfear upon Mary's refugee friends.
The English queen well knew that Sir George Vernon was her friend,therefore his house and his friendship were my sanctuary, without whichmy days certainly would have been numbered in the land of Elizabeth, andtheir number would have been small. I was dependent on Sir George not onlyfor a roof to shelter me, but for my very life. I speak of these thingsthat you may know some of the many imperative reasons why I desired toplease and conciliate my cousin. In addition to those reasons, I soon grewto love Sir George, not only because of his kindness to me, but because hewas a lovable man. He was generous, just, and frank, and although at timeshe was violent almost to the point of temporary madness, his heart wasusually gentle, and was as easily touched by kindness as it was quicklymoved to cruelty by injury, fancied or actual. I have never known a morecruel, tender man than he. You will see him in each of his natures beforeyou have finished this history. But you must judge him only after you haveconsidered his times, which were forty years ago, his surroundings, andhis blood.
During those two months remarkable changes occurred within the walls ofHaddon, chief of which were in myself, and, alas! in Dorothy.
My pilgrimage to Haddon, as you already know, had been made for thepurpose of marrying my fair cousin; for I did not, at the time I leftScotland, suppose I should need Sir George's protection against Elizabeth.When I met Dorothy at Rowsley, my desire to marry her became personal, inaddition to the mercenary motives with which I had originally started. ButI quickly recognized the fact that the girl was beyond my reach. I knew Icould not win her love, even though I had a thousand years to try for it;and I would not accept her hand in marriage solely at her father'scommand. I also soon learned that Dorothy was the child of her father,gentle, loving, and tender beyond the naming, but also wilful, violent,and fierce to the extent that no command could influence her.
First I shall speak of the change within myself. I will soon be done withso much "I" and "me," and you shall have Dorothy to your heart's content,or trouble, I know not which.
Soon after my arrival at Haddon Hall the sun ushered in one of thosewonderful days known only to the English autumn, when the hush of Nature'sdrowsiness, just before her long winter's sleep, imparts its softrestfulness to man, as if it were a lotus feast. Dorothy wasostentatiously busy with her household matters, and was consulting withbutler, cook, and steward. Sir George had ridden out to superintend hismen at work, and I, wandering aimlessly about the hail, came upon MadgeStanley sitting in the chaplain's room with folded hands.
"Lady Madge, will you go with me for a walk this beautiful morning?" Iasked.
"Gladly would I go, Sir Malcolm," she responded, a smile brightening herface and quickly fading away, "but I--I cannot walk in unfamiliar places.I should fail. You would have to lead me by the hand, and that, I fear,would mar the pleasure of your walk."
"Indeed, it would not, Lady Madge. I should enjoy my walk all the more."
"If you really wish me to go, I shall be delighted," she responded, as thebrightness came again to her face. "I sometimes grow weary, and, Iconfess, a little sad sitting alone when Dorothy cannot be with me. AuntDorothy, now that she has her magnifying glasses,--spectacles, I thinkthey are called,--devotes all her time to reading, and dislikes to beinterrupted."
"I wish it very much," I said, surprised by the real eagerness of mydesire, and unconsciously endeavoring to keep out of the tones of my voicea part of that eagerness.
"I shall take you at your word," she said. "I will go to my room to get myhat and cloak."
She rose and began to grope her way toward the door, holding out herwhite, expressive hands in front of her. It was pitiful and beautiful tosee her, and my emotions welled up in my throat till I could hardly speak.
"Permit me to give you my hand," I said huskily. How I longed to carryher! Every man with the right sort of a heart in his breast has a touch ofthe mother instinct in him; but, alas I only a touch. Ah, wondrous andglorious womanhood! If you had naught but the mother instinct to lift youabove your masters by the hand of man-made laws, those masters were stillunworthy to tie the strings of your shoes.
"Thank you," said the girl, as she clasped my hand, and moved withconfidence by my side. "This is so much better than the dreadful fear offalling. Even through these rooms where I have lived for many years I feelsafe only in a few places,--on the stairs, and in my rooms, which are alsoDorothy's. When Dorothy changes the position of a piece of furniture inthe Hall, she leads me to it several times that I may learn just where itis. A long time ago she changed the position of a chair and did not tellme. I fell against it and was hurt. Dorothy wept bitterly over the mishap,and she has never since failed to tell me of such changes. I can
not makeyou know how kind and tender Dorothy is to me. I feel that I should diewithout her, and I know she would grieve terribly were we to part."
I could not answer. What a very woman you will think I was! I, who couldlaugh while I ran my sword through a man's heart, could hardly restrain mytears for pity of this beautiful blind girl.
"Thank you; that will do," she said, when we came to the foot of the greatstaircase. "I can now go to my rooms alone."
When she reached the top she hesitated and groped for a moment; then sheturned and called laughingly to me while I stood at the bottom of thesteps, "I know the way perfectly well, but to go alone in any place is notlike being led."
"There are many ways in which one may be led, Lady Madge," I answeredaloud. Then I said to myself, "That girl will lead you to Heaven, Malcolm,if you will permit her to do so."
But thirty-five years of evil life are hard to neutralize. There is butone subtle elixir that can do it--love; and I had not thought of thatmagic remedy with respect to Madge.
I hurriedly fetched my hat and returned to the foot of the staircase.Within a minute or two Madge came down stairs holding up the skirt of hergown with one hand, while she grasped the banister with the other. As Iwatched her descending I was enraptured with her beauty. Even themarvellous vital beauty of Dorothy could not compare with this girl'sfair, pale loveliness. It seemed to be almost a profanation for me toadmire the sweet oval of her face. Upon her alabaster skin, the blackeyebrows, the long lashes, the faint blue veins and the curving red lipsstood in exquisite relief. While she was descending the stairs, I caught agleam of her round, snowy forearm and wrist; and when my eyes sought theperfect curves of her form disclosed by the clinging silk gown she wore, Ifelt that I had sinned in looking upon her, and I was almost glad shecould not see the shame which was in my face.
"Cousin Malcolm, are you waiting?" she asked from midway in the staircase.
"Yes, I am at the foot of the steps," I answered.
"I called you 'Cousin Malcolm,'" she said, holding out her hand when shecame near me. "Pardon me; it was a slip of the tongue. I hear 'CousinMalcolm' so frequently from Dorothy that the name is familiar to me."
"I shall be proud if you will call me 'Cousin Malcolm' always. I like thename better than any that you can use."
"If you wish it," she said, in sweet, simple candor, "I will call you'Cousin Malcolm,' and you may call me 'Cousin Madge' or 'Madge,' just asyou please."
"'Cousin Madge' it shall be; that is a compact," I answered, as I openedthe door and we walked out into the fresh air of the bright Octobermorning.
"That will stand for our first compact; we are progressing famously," shesaid, with a low laugh of delight.
Ah, to think that the blind can laugh. God is good.
We walked out past the stables and the cottage, and crossed the river onthe great stone bridge. Then we took our way down the babbling Wye,keeping close to its banks, while the dancing waters and even the gleamingpebbles seemed to dimple and smile as they softly sang their song ofwelcome to the fair kindred spirit who had come to visit them. If wewandered from the banks for but a moment, the waters seemed to struggleand turn in their course until they were again by her side, and then wouldthey gently flow and murmur their contentment as they travelled forward tothe sea, full of the memory of her sweet presence. And during all thattime I led her by the hand. I tell you, friends, 'tis sweet to write ofit.
When we returned we crossed the Wye by the stone footbridge and enteredthe garden below the terrace at the corner postern. We remained for anhour resting upon the terrace balustrade, and before we went indoors Madgeagain spoke of Dorothy.
"I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this walk, nor how thankful Iam to you for taking me," she said.
I did not interrupt her by replying, for I loved to hear her talk.
"Dorothy sometimes takes me with her for a short walk, but I seldom havethat pleasure. Walking is too slow for Dorothy. She is so strong and fullof life. She delights to ride her mare Dolcy. Have you seen Dolcy?"
"No," I responded.
"You must see her at once. She is the most beautiful animal in the world.Though small of limb, she is swift as the wind, and as easy as a cradle inher gaits. She is mettlesome and fiery, but full of affection. She oftenkisses Dorothy. Mare and rider are finely mated. Dorothy is the mostperfect woman, and Dolcy is the most perfect mare. 'The two D's,' we callthem. But Dorothy says we must be careful not to put a--a dash betweenthem," she said with a laugh and a blush.
Then I led Madge into the hall, and she was blithe and happy as if theblessed light of day were in her eyes. It was in her soul, and that, afterall, is where it brings the greatest good.
After that morning, Madge and I frequently walked out when the days werepleasant. The autumn was mild, well into winter time, and by the end ofNovember the transparent cheeks of the blind girl held an exquisite tingeof color, and her form had a new grace from the strength she had acquiredin exercise. We had grown to be dear friends, and the touch of her handwas a pleasure for which I waited eagerly from day to day. Again I saythoughts of love for her had never entered my mind. Perhaps their absencewas because of my feeling that they could not possibly exist in her heartfor me.
One evening in November, after the servants had all gone to bed, SirGeorge and I went to the kitchen to drink a hot punch before retiring forthe night. I drank a moderate bowl and sat in a large chair before thefire, smoking a pipe of tobacco, while Sir George drank brandy toddy atthe massive oak table in the middle of the room.
Sir George was rapidly growing drunk. He said: "Dawson tells me that thequeen's officers arrested another of Mary Stuart's damned French friendsat Derby-town yesterday,--Count somebody; I can't pronounce theirmiserable names."
"Can you not remember his name?" I asked. "He may be a friend of mine." Myremark was intended to remind Sir George that his language was offensiveto me.
"That is true, Malcolm," responded Sir George. "I beg your pardon. I meantto speak ill only of Mary's meddlesome friends, who are doing more injurythan good to their queen's cause by their plotting."
I replied: "No one can regret these plots more than I do. They certainlywill work great injury to the cause they are intended to help. But I fearmany innocent men are made to suffer for the few guilty ones. Without yourprotection, for which I cannot sufficiently thank you, my life here wouldprobably be of short duration. After my misfortunes in Scotland, I knownot what I should have done had it not been for your generous welcome. Ilost all in Scotland, and it would now be impossible for me to go toFrance. An attempt on my part to escape would result in my arrest. Fortunecertainly has turned her capricious back upon me, with the one exceptionthat she has left me your friendship."
"Malcolm, my boy," said Sir George, drawing his chair toward me, "thatwhich you consider your loss is my great gain. I am growing old, and ifyou, who have seen so much of the gay world, will be content to live withus and share our dulness and our cares, I shall be the happiest man inEngland."
"I thank you more than I can tell," I said, careful not to commit myselfto any course.
"Barring my quarrel with the cursed race of Manners," continued SirGeorge, "I have little to trouble me; and if you will remain with us, Ithank God I may leave the feud in good hands. Would that I were youngagain only for a day that I might call that scoundrel Rutland and his impof a son to account in the only manner whereby an honest man may havejustice of a thief. There are but two of them, Malcolm,--father andson,--and if they were dead, the damned race would be extinct."
I believe that Sir George Vernon when sober could not have spoken in thatfashion even of his enemies.
I found difficulty in replying to my cousin's remarks, so I saidevasively:--
"I certainly am the most fortunate of men to find so warm a welcome fromyou, and so good a home as that which I have at Haddon Hall. When I metDorothy at the inn, I knew at once by her kindness that my friends of oldwere still true to me. I was almost stunned by Dorot
hy's beauty."
My mention of Dorothy was unintentional and unfortunate. I had shied fromthe subject upon several previous occasions, but Sir George wascontinually trying to lead up to it. This time my lack of forethoughtsaved him the trouble.
"Do you really think that Doll is very beautiful--so very beautiful? Doyou really think so, Malcolm?" said the old gentleman, rubbing his handsin pride and pleasure.
"Surprisingly beautiful," I answered, seeking hurriedly through my mindfor an excuse to turn the conversation. I had within two months learnedone vital fact: beautiful as Dorothy was, I did not want her for my wife,and I could not have had her even were I dying for love. The more Ilearned of Dorothy and myself during the autumn through which I had justpassed--and I had learned more of myself than I had been able to discoverin the thirty-five previous years of my life--the more clearly I saw theutter unfitness of marriage between us.
"In all your travels," asked Sir George, leaning his elbows upon hisknees and looking at his feet between his hands, "in all your travels andcourt life have you ever seen a woman who was so beautiful as my girlDoll?"
His pride in Dorothy at times had a tinge of egotism and selfishness. Itseemed to be almost the pride of possession and ownership. "My girl!" Theexpression and the tone in which the words were spoken sounded as if hehad said: "My fine horse," "My beautiful Hall," or "My grand estates."Dorothy was his property. Still, he loved the girl passionately. She wasdearer to him than all his horses, cattle, halls, and estates puttogether, and he loved even them to excess. He loved all that hepossessed; whatever was his was the best of the sort. Such a love is aptto grow up in the breasts of men who have descended from a long line ofproprietary ancestors, and with all its materialism it has in itpossibilities of great good. The sturdy, unflinching patriotism of theEnglish people springs from this source. The thought, "That which Ipossess is the best," has beauty and use in it, though it leads men totreat other men, and, alas! women, as mere chattels. All this was passingthrough my mind, and I forgot to answer Sir George's question.
"Have you ever seen a woman more beautiful than Doll?" he again asked.
"I certainly have never seen one whose beauty may even be compared withDorothy's," I answered.
"And she is young, too," continued Sir George; "she is not yet nineteen."
"That is very young," I answered, not knowing what else to say.
"And she will be rich some day. Very rich. I am called 'King of the Peak,'you know, and there are not three estates in Derbyshire which, ifcombined, would equal mine."
"That is true, cousin," I answered, "and I rejoice in your good fortune."
"Dorothy will have it all one of these days--all, all," continued mycousin, still looking at his feet.
After a long pause, during which Sir George took several libations fromhis bowl of toddy, he cleared his throat and said, "So Dorothy is the mostbeautiful girl and the richest heiress you know?"
"Indeed she is," I responded, knowing full well what he was leading up to.Realizing that in spite of me he would now speak his mind, I made noattempt to turn the current of the conversation.
After another long pause, and after several more draughts from the bowl,my old friend and would-be benefactor said: "You may remember a littleconversation between us when you were last at Haddon six or seven yearsago, about--about Dorothy? You remember?"
I, of course, dared not pretend that I had forgotten.
"Yes, I remember," I responded.
"What do you think of the proposition by this time?" asked Sir George."Dorothy and all she will inherit shall be yours--"
"Stop, stop, Sir George!" I exclaimed. "You do not know what you say. Noone but a prince or a great peer of the realm is worthy of aspiring toDorothy's hand. When she is ready to marry you should take her to Londoncourt, where she can make her choice from among the nobles of our land.There is not a marriageable duke or earl in England who would not eagerlyseek the girl for a wife. My dear cousin, your generosity overwhelms me,but it must not be thought of. I am utterly unworthy of her in person,age, and position. No! no!"
"But listen to me, Malcolm," responded Sir George. "Your modesty, which,in truth, I did not know you possessed, is pleasing to me; but I havereasons of my own for wishing that you should marry Dorothy. I want myestates to remain in the Vernon name, and one day you or your childrenwill make my house and my name noble. You and Dorothy shall go to court,and between you--damme! if you can't win a dukedom, I am no prophet. Youwould not object to change your faith, would you?"
"Oh, no," I responded, "of course I should not object to that."
"Of course not. I knew you were no fool," said Sir George. "Age! why, youare only thirty-five years old--little more than a matured boy. I preferyou to any man in England for Dorothy's husband."
"You overwhelm me with your kindness," I returned, feeling that I wasbeing stranded on a very dangerous shore, amidst wealth and beauty.
"Tut, tut, there's no kindness in it," returned my cousin. "I do not offeryou Dorothy's hand from an unselfish motive. I have told you one motive,but there is another, and a little condition besides, Malcolm." The brandySir George had been drinking had sent the devil to his brain.
"What is the condition?" I asked, overjoyed to hear that there was one.
The old man leaned toward me and a fierce blackness overclouded his face."I am told, Malcolm, that you have few equals in swordsmanship, and thatthe duello is not new to you. Is it true?"
"I believe I may say it is true," I answered. "I have fought successfullywith some of the most noted duellists of--"
"Enough, enough! Now, this is the condition, Malcolm,--a welcome one toyou, I am sure; a welcome one to any brave man." His eyes gleamed withfire and hatred. "Quarrel with Rutland and his son and kill both of them."
I felt like recoiling from the old fiend. I had often quarrelled andfought, but, thank God, never in cold blood and with deliberate intent todo murder.
"Then Dorothy and all I possess shall be yours," said Sir George. "The oldone will be an easy victim. The young one, they say, prides himself on hisprowess. I do not know with what cause, I have never seen him fight. Infact, I have never seen the fellow at all. He has lived at London courtsince he was a child, and has seldom, if ever, visited this part of thecountry. He was a page both to Edward VI. and to Queen Mary. Why Elizabethkeeps the damned traitor at court to plot against her is more than I canunderstand. Do the conditions suit you, Malcolm?" asked Sir George,piercing me with his eyes.
I did not respond, and he continued: "All I ask is your promise to killRutland and his son at the first opportunity. I care not how. The marriagemay come off at once. It can't take place too soon to please me."
I could not answer for a time. The power to speak and to think had leftme. To accept Sir George's offer was out of the question. To refuse itwould be to give offence beyond reparation to my only friend, and you knowwhat that would have meant to me. My refuge was Dorothy. I knew, howeverwilling I might be or might appear to be, Dorothy would save me thetrouble and danger of refusing her hand. So I said:--
"We have not consulted Dorothy. Perhaps her inclinations--"
"Doll's inclinations be damned. I have always been kind and indulgent toher, and she is a dutiful, obedient daughter. My wish and command in thisaffair will furnish inclinations enough for Doll."
"But, Sir George," I remonstrated, "I would not accept the hand of Dorothynor of any woman unless she desired it. I could not. I could not."
"If Doll consents, I am to understand that you accept?" asked Sir George.
I saw no way out of the dilemma, and to gain time I said, "Few men intheir right mind would refuse so flattering an offer unless there were amost potent reason, and I--I--"
"Good! good! I shall go to bed happy to-night for the first time in years.The Rutlands will soon be out of my path."
There is a self-acting retribution in our evil passions which never failsto operate. One who hates must suffer, and Sir George for years had paidthe pen
alty night and day, unconscious that his pain was of his ownmaking.
Before we parted I said, "This is a delicate matter, with reference toDorothy, and I insist that you give me time to win, if possible, herkindly regard before you express to her your wish."
"Nonsense, nonsense, Malcolm! I'll tell the girl about it in the morning,and save you the trouble. The women will want to make some new gownsand--"
"But," I interrupted emphatically, "I will not have it so. It is everyman's sweet privilege to woo the woman of his choice in his own way. It isnot a trouble to me; it is a pleasure, and it is every woman's right to bewooed by the man who seeks her. I again insist that I only shall speak toDorothy on this subject. At least, I demand that I be allowed to speakfirst."
"That's all damned nonsense," responded Sir George; "but if you will haveit so, well and good. Take your own course. I suppose it's the fashion atcourt. The good old country way suits me. A girl's father tells her whomshe is to marry, and, by gad, she does it without a word and is glad toget a man. English girls obey their parents. They know what to expect ifthey don't--the lash, by God and the dungeon under the keep. Yourroundabout method is all right for tenants and peasants; but among peoplewho possess estates and who control vast interests, girls are--girlsare--Well, they are born and brought up to obey and to help forward theinterests of their houses." The old man was growing very drunk, and aftera long pause he continued: "Have your own way, Malcolm, but don't wastetime. Now that the matter is settled, I want to get it off my handsquickly."
"I shall speak to Dorothy on the subject at the first favorableopportunity," I responded; "but I warn you, Sir George, that if Dorothyproves disinclined to marry me, I will not accept her hand."
"Never fear for Doll; she will be all right," and we parted.
Doll all right! Had he only known how very far from "all right" Dorothywas, he would have slept little that night.
This brings me to the other change of which I spoke--the change inDorothy. Change? It was a metamorphosis.
A fortnight after the scene at The Peacock I accidentally discovered adrawing made by Dorothy of a man with a cigarro in his mouth. The girlsnatched the paper from my hands and blushed convincingly.
"It is a caricature of--of him," she said. She smiled, and evidently waswilling to talk upon the subject of "him." I declined the topic.
This happened a month or more previous to my conversation with Sir Georgeconcerning Dorothy. A few days after my discovery of the cigarro picture,Dorothy and I were out on the terrace together. Frequently when she waswith me she would try to lead the conversation to the topic which I wellknew was in her mind, if not in her heart, at all times. She would speakof our first meeting at The Peacock, and would use every artifice toinduce me to bring up the subject which she was eager to discuss, but Ialways failed her. On the day mentioned when we were together on theterrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desiredtopic, she said, "I suppose you never meet--meet--him when you ride out?"
"Whom, Dorothy?" I asked.
"The gentleman with the cigarro," she responded, laughing nervously.
"No," I answered, "I know nothing of him."
The subject was dropped.
At another time she said, "He was in the village--Overhaddon--yesterday."
Then I knew who "him" was.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Jennie Faxton, the farrier's daughter, told me. She often comes to theHall to serve me. She likes to act as my maid, and is devoted to me."
"Did he send any word to you?" I asked at a venture. The girl blushed andhung her head. "N-o," she responded.
"What was it, Dorothy?" I asked gently. "You may trust me."
"He sent no word to me," the girl responded. "Jennie said she heard twogentlemen talking about me in front of the farrier's shop, and one of themsaid something about--oh, I don't know what it was. I can't tell you. Itwas all nonsense, and of course he did not mean it."
"Tell me all, Dorothy," I said, seeing that she really wanted to speak.
"Oh, he said something about having seen Sir George Vernon's daughter atRowsley, and--and--I can't tell you what he said, I am too full of shame."If her cheeks told the truth, she certainly was "full of shame."
"Tell me all, sweet cousin; I am sorry for you," I said. She raised hereyes to mine in quick surprise with a look of suspicion.
"You may trust me, Dorothy. I say it again, you may trust me."
"He spoke of my beauty and called it marvellous," said the girl. "He saidthat in all the world there was not another woman--oh, I can't tell you."
"Yes, yes, go on, Dorothy," I insisted.
"He said," she continued, "that he could think of nothing else but me dayor night since he had first seen me at Rowsley--that I had bewitched himand--and--Then the other gentleman said, 'John, don't play with fire; itwill burn you. Nothing good can come of it for you.'"
"Did Jennie know who the gentleman was?" I asked.
"No," returned Dorothy.
"How do you know who he was?"
"Jennie described him," she said.
"How did she describe him?" I asked.
"She said he was--he was the handsomest man in the world and--and that heaffected her so powerfully she fell in love with him in spite of herself.The little devil, to dare! You see that describes him perfectly."
I laughed outright, and the girl blushed painfully.
"It does describe him," she said petulantly. "You know it does. No one cangainsay that he is wonderfully, dangerously handsome. I believe the womandoes not live who could refrain from feasting her eyes on his noblebeauty. I wonder if I shall ever again--again." Tears were in her voiceand almost in her eyes.
"Dorothy! My God, Dorothy!" I exclaimed in terror.
"Yes! yes! My God, Dorothy!" she responded, covering her face with herhands and sighing deeply, as she dropped her head and left me.
Yes, yes, my God, Dorothy! The helpless iron and the terrible loadstone!The passive seed! The dissolving cloud and the falling rain!
Less than a week after the above conversation, Dorothy, Madge, and I wereriding from Yulegrave Church up to the village of Overhaddon, which liesone mile across the hills from Haddon Hall. My horse had cast a shoe, andwe stopped at Faxton's shop to have him shod. The town well is in themiddle of an open space called by the villagers "The Open," around whichare clustered the half-dozen houses and shops that constitute the village.The girls were mounted, and I was standing beside them in front of thefarrier's, waiting for my horse. Jennie Faxton, a wild, unkempt girl ofsixteen, was standing in silent admiration near Dorothy. Our backs wereturned toward the well. Suddenly a light came into Jennie's face, and sheplucked Dorothy by the skirt of her habit.
"Look, mistress, look! Look there by the well!" said Jennie in a whisper.Dorothy looked toward the well. I also turned my head and beheld myfriend, Sir John, holding a bucket of water for his horse to drink. I hadnot seen him since we parted at The Peacock, and I did not show that Irecognized him. I feared to betray our friendship to the villagers. They,however, did not know Sir John, and I need not have been so cautious. ButDorothy and Madge were with me, and of course I dared not make anydemonstration of acquaintanceship with the enemy of our house.
Dorothy watched John closely, and when he was ready to mount she struckher horse with the whip, and boldly rode to the well.
"May I ask you to give my mare water?" she said.
"Certainly. Ah, I beg pardon. I did not understand," answered Sir John,confusedly. John, the polished, self-poised courtier, felt the confusionof a country rustic in the presence of this wonderful girl, whoseknowledge of life had been acquired within the precincts of Haddon Hall.Yet the inexperienced girl was self-poised and unconfused, while the witsof the courtier, who had often calmly flattered the queen, had all gonewool-gathering.
She repeated her request.
"Certainly," returned John, "I--I knew what you said--but--but yousurprise me."
"Yes," said brazen
Dorothy, "I have surprised myself."
John, in his haste to satisfy Dolcy's thirst, dashed the water against theskirt of Dorothy's habit, and was profuse in his apologies.
"Do not mention it," said Dorothy. "I like a damp habit. The wind cannotso easily blow it about," and she laughed as she shook the garment to freeit of the water. Dolcy refused to drink, and Dorothy having no excuse tolinger at the well, drew up her reins and prepared to leave. While doingso, she said:--
"Do you often come to Overhaddon?" Her eager eyes shone like red coals,and looking at John, she awaited smilingly his response.
"Seldom," answered John; "not often. I mean every day--that is, if I maycome."
"Any one may come to the village whenever he wishes to do so," respondedDorothy, laughing too plainly at Sir John's confusion. "Is it seldom, ornot often, or every day that you come?" In her overconfidence she waschaffing him. He caught the tone, and looked quickly into the girl's eyes.Her gaze could not stand against John's for a moment, and the long lashesdrooped to shade her eyes from the fierce light of his.
"I said I would come to Overhaddon every day," he returned; "and althoughI must have appeared very foolish in my confusion, you cannotmisunderstand the full meaning of my words."
In John's boldness and in the ring of his voice Dorothy felt the touch ofher master, against whom she well knew all the poor force she could musterwould be utterly helpless. She was frightened, and said:--
"I--I must go. Good-by."
When she rode away from him she thought: "I believed because of hisconfusion that I was the stronger. I could not stand against him for amoment. Holy Virgin! what have I done, and to what am I coming?"
You may now understand the magnitude of the task which Sir George had setfor me when he bade me marry his daughter and kill the Rutlands. I mightperform the last-named feat, but dragon fighting would be mere child'splay compared with the first, while the girl's heart was filled with theimage of another man.
I walked forward to meet Dorothy, leaving Madge near the farrier's shop.
"Dorothy, are you mad? What have you been doing?" I asked.
"Could you not see?" she answered, under her breath, casting a look ofwarning toward Madge and a glance of defiance at me. "Are you, too, blind?Could you not see what I was doing?"
"Yes," I responded.
"Then why do you ask?"
As I went back to Madge I saw John ride out of the village by the southroad. I afterward learned that he rode gloomily back to Rutland Castlecursing himself for a fool. His duty to his father, which with him was astrong motive, his family pride, his self love, his sense of caution, alltold him that he was walking open-eyed into trouble. He had tried toremain away from the vicinity of Haddon Hall, but, despite hisself-respect and self-restraint, he had made several visits to Rowsley andto Overhaddon, and at one time had ridden to Bakewell, passing HaddonHall on his way thither. He had as much business in the moon as atOverhaddon, yet he told Dorothy he would be at the village every day, andshe, it seemed, was only too willing to give him opportunities to transacthis momentous affairs.
As the floating cloud to the fathomless blue, as the seed to the earth, asthe iron to the lodestone, so was Dorothy unto John.
Thus you see our beautiful pitcher went to the well and was broken.