CHAPTER V
MINE ENEMY'S ROOF-TREE
I rode down the Wye to Rowsley, and by the will of my horse rather than byany intention of my own took the road up through Lathkil Dale. I haddetermined if possible to reach the city of Chester, and thence to ridedown into Wales, hoping to find on the rough Welsh coast a fishing boat ora smuggler's craft that would carry me to France. In truth, I cared littlewhether I went to the Tower or to France, since in either case I felt thatI had looked my last upon Haddon Hall, and had spoken farewell to the onlyperson in all the world for whom I really cared. My ride from Haddon gaveme time for deliberate thought, and I fully agreed with myself upon twopropositions. First, I became thoroughly conscious of my real feelingtoward Madge, and secondly, I was convinced that her kindness and herpeculiar attitude toward me when I parted from her were but the promptingsof a tender heart stirred by pity for my unfortunate situation, ratherthan what I thought when I said farewell to her. The sweet Wye and thebeautiful Lathkil whispered to me as I rode beside their banks, but intheir murmurings I heard only the music of her voice. The sun shonebrightly, but its blessed light only served to remind me of the beautifulgirl whom I had left in darkness. The light were worthless to me if Icould not share it with her. What a mooning lout was I!
All my life I had been a philosopher, and as I rode from Haddon, beneathall my gloominess there ran a current of amusement which brought to mylips an ill-formed, half-born laugh when I thought of the plight andcondition in which I, by candid self-communion, found myself. Five yearsbefore that time I had left France, and had cast behind me all the fairpossibilities for noble achievement which were offered to me in that land,that I might follow the fortunes of a woman whom I thought I loved. Beforemy exile from her side I had begun to fear that my idol was but a thing ofstone; and now that I had learned to know myself, and to see her as shereally was, I realized that I had been worshipping naught but clay for lo,these many years. There was only this consolation in the thought for me:every man at some time in his life is a fool--made such by a woman. It isgiven to but few men to have for their fool-maker the rightful queen ofthree kingdoms. All that was left to me of my life of devotion was ashame-faced pride in the quality of my fool-maker. "Then," thought I, "Ihave at last turned to be my own fool-maker." But I suppose it had beenwritten in the book of fate that I should ride from Haddon a lovelornyouth of thirty-five, and I certainly was fulfilling my destiny to theletter.
I continued to ride up the Lathkil until I came to a fork in the road. Onebranch led to the northwest, the other toward the southwest. I was at aloss which direction to take, and I left the choice to my horse, in whosewisdom and judgement I had more confidence than in my own. My horse,refusing the responsibility, stopped. So there we stood like an equestrianstatue arguing with itself until I saw a horseman riding toward me fromthe direction of Overhaddon. When he approached I recognized Sir JohnManners. He looked as woebegone as I felt, and I could not help laughingat the pair of us, for I knew that his trouble was akin to mine. The painof love is ludicrous to all save those who feel it. Even to them it islaughable in others. A love-full heart has no room for that sort ofcharity which pities for kinship's sake.
"What is the trouble with you, Sir John, that you look so downcast?" saidI, offering my hand.
"Ah," he answered, forcing a poor look of cheerfulness into his face, "SirMalcolm, I am glad to see you. Do I look downcast?"
"As forlorn as a lover who has missed seeing his sweetheart," I responded,guessing the cause of Sir John's despondency.
"I have no sweetheart, therefore missing her could not have made medowncast," he replied.
"So you really did miss her?" I queried. "She was detained at Haddon Hall,Sir John, to bid me farewell."
"I do not understand--" began Sir John, growing cold in his bearing.
"I understand quite well," I answered. "Dorothy told me all to-day. Youneed keep nothing from me. The golden heart brought her into trouble, andmade mischief for me of which I cannot see the end. I will tell you thestory while we ride. I am seeking my way to Chester, that I may, ifpossible, sail for France. This fork in the road has brought me to astandstill, and my horse refuses to decide which route we shall take.Perhaps you will direct us."
"Gladly. The road to the southwest--the one I shall take--is the mostdirect route to Chester. But tell me, how comes it that you are leavingHaddon Hall? I thought you had gone there to marry-" He stopped speaking,and a smile stole into his eyes.
"Let us ride forward together, and I will tell you about it," said I.
While we travelled I told Sir John the circumstances of my departure fromHaddon Hall, concealing nothing save that which touched Madge Stanley. Ithen spoke of my dangerous position in England, and told him of my greatdesire to reach my mother's people in France.
"You will find difficulty and danger in escaping to France at this time,"said Sir John, "the guard at the ports is very strong and strict, and yourgreatest risk will be at the moment when you try to embark without apassport."
"That is true," I responded; "but I know of nothing else that I can do."
"Come with me to Rutland Castle," said Sir John. "You may there findrefuge until such time as you can go to France. I will gladly furnish youmoney which you may repay at your pleasure, and I may soon be able toprocure a passport for you."
I thanked him, but said I did not see my way clear to accept his kindoffer.
"You are unknown in the neighborhood of Rutland," he continued, "and youmay easily remain incognito." Although his offer was greatly to my liking,I suggested several objections, chief among which was the distaste LordRutland might feel toward one of my name. I would not, of course, consentthat my identity should be concealed from him. But to be brief--an almostimpossible achievement for me, it seems--Sir John assured me of hisfather's welcome, and it was arranged between us that I should take mybaptismal name, Francois de Lorraine, and passing for a French gentlemanon a visit to England, should go to Rutland with my friend. So it happenedthrough the strange workings of fate that I found help and refuge under myenemy's roof-tree.
Kind old Lord Rutland welcomed me, as his son had foretold, and I wasconvinced ere I had passed an hour under his roof that the feud betweenhim and Sir George was of the latter's brewing.
The happenings in Haddon Hall while I lived at Rutland I knew, of course,only by the mouth of others; but for convenience in telling I shall speakof them as if I had seen and heard all that took place. I may now say oncefor all that I shall take that liberty throughout this entire history.
On the morning of the day after my departure from Haddon, Jennie Faxtonwent to visit Dorothy and gave her a piece of information, small initself, but large in its effect upon that ardent young lady. WillFletcher, the arrow-maker at Overhaddon, had observed Dorothy's movementsin connection with Manners; and although Fletcher did not know who SirJohn was, that fact added to his curiosity and righteous indignation.
"It do be right that some one should tell the King of the Peak as how hisdaughter is carrying on with a young man who does come here every day ortwo to meet her, and I do intend to tell Sir George if she put not a stopto it," said Fletcher to some of his gossips in Yulegrave churchyard oneSunday afternoon.
Dorothy notified John, Jennie being the messenger, of Will's observations,visual and verbal, and designated another place for meeting,--the gateeast of Bowling Green Hill. This gate was part of a wall on the east sideof the Haddon estates adjoining the lands of the house of Devonshire whichlay to the eastward. It was a secluded spot in the heart of the foresthalf a mile distant from Haddon Hall.
Sir George, for a fortnight or more after my disappearance, enforced hisdecree of imprisonment against Dorothy, and she, being unable to leave theHall, could not go to Bowling Green Gate to meet Sir John. Before I hadlearned of the new trysting-place John had ridden thither several eveningsto meet Dorothy, but had found only Jennie bearing her mistress's excuses.I supposed his journeyings had been to Overhaddon; but I did not
press hisconfidence, nor did he give it.
Sir George's treatment of Dorothy had taught her that the citadel of herfather's wrath could be stormed only by gentleness, and an opportunity wassoon presented in which she used that effective engine of feminine warfareto her great advantage.
As I have told you, Sir George was very rich. No man, either noble orgentle, in Derbyshire or in any of the adjoining counties, possessed sogreat an estate or so beautiful a hall as did he. In France we would havecalled Haddon Hall a grand chateau.
Sir George's deceased wife had been a sister to the Earl of Derby, wholived at the time of which I am now writing. The earl had a son, James,who was heir to the title and to the estates of his father. The son was adissipated, rustic clown--almost a simpleton. He had the vulgarity of astable boy and the vices of a courtier. His associates were chosen fromthe ranks of gamesters, ruffians, and tavern maids. Still, he was a scionof one of the greatest families of England's nobility.
After Sir George's trouble with Dorothy, growing out of his desire that Ishould wed her, the King of the Peak had begun to feel that in hisbeautiful daughter he had upon his hands a commodity that might at anytime cause him trouble. He therefore determined to marry her to someeligible gentleman as quickly as possible, and to place the heavyresponsibility of managing her in the hands of a husband. The stubbornviolence of Sir George's nature, the rough side of which had never beforebeen shown to Dorothy, in her became adroit wilfulness of a quality thatno masculine mind may compass. But her life had been so entirelyundisturbed by opposing influences that her father, firm in the beliefthat no one in his household would dare to thwart his will, had remainedin dangerous ignorance of the latent trouble which pervaded his daughterfrom the soles of her shapely feet to the top of her glory-crowned head.
Sir George, in casting about for a son-in-law, had hit upon the heir tothe house of Derby as a suitable match for his child, and had entered intoan alliance offensive and defensive with the earl against the commonenemy, Dorothy. The two fathers had partly agreed that the heir to Derbyshould wed the heiress of Haddon. The heir, although he had never seen hiscousin except when she was a plain, unattractive girl, was entirelywilling for the match, but the heiress--well, she had not been consulted,and everybody connected with the affair instinctively knew there would betrouble in that quarter. Sir George, however, had determined that Dorothyshould do her part in case the contract of marriage should be agreed uponbetween the heads of the houses. He had fully resolved to assert themajesty of the law vested in him as a father and to compel Dorothy to dohis bidding, if there were efficacy in force and chastisement. At the timewhen Sir George spoke to Dorothy about the Derby marriage, she had been aprisoner for a fortnight or more, and had learned that her only hopeagainst her father lay in cunning. So she wept, and begged for time inwhich to consider the answer she would give to Lord Derby's request. Shebegged for two months, or even one month, in which to bring herself toaccede to her father's commands.
"You have always been so kind and good to me, father, that I shall try toobey if you and the earl eventually agree upon terms," she said tearfully,having no intention whatever of trying to do anything but disobey.
"Try!" stormed Sir George. "Try to obey me! By God, girl, I say you shallobey!"
"Oh, father, I am so young. I have not seen my cousin for years. I do notwant to leave you, and I have never thought twice of any man. Do not driveme from you."
Sir George, eager to crush in the outset any disposition to oppose hiswill, grew violent and threatened his daughter with dire punishment if shewere not docile and obedient.
Then said rare Dorothy:--
"It would indeed be a great match." Greater than ever will happen, shethought. "I should be a countess." She strutted across the room with headup and with dilating nostrils. The truth was, she desired to gain herliberty once more that she might go to John, and was ready to promiseanything to achieve that end. "What sort of a countess would I make,father?"
"A glorious countess, Doll, a glorious countess," said her father,laughing. "You are a good girl to obey me so readily."
"Oh, but I have not obeyed you yet," returned Dorothy, fearing that herfather might be suspicious of a too ready acquiescence.
"But you will obey me," answered Sir George, half in command and half inentreaty.
"There are not many girls who would refuse the coronet of a countess." Shethen seated herself upon her father's knee and kissed him, while SirGeorge laughed softly over his easy victory.
Blessed is the man who does not know when he is beaten.
Seeing her father's kindly humor, Dorothy said:--
"Father, do you still wish me to remain a prisoner in my rooms?"
"If you promise to be a good, obedient daughter," returned Sir George,"you shall have your liberty."
"I have always been that, father, and I am too old to learn otherwise,"answered this girl, whose father had taught her deception by his violence.You may drive men, but you cannot drive any woman who is worth possessing.You may for a time think you drive her, but in the end she will have herway.
Dorothy's first act of obedience after regaining liberty was to send aletter to Manners by the hand of Jennie Faxton.
John received the letter in the evening, and all next day he passed thetime whistling, singing, and looking now and again at his horologue. Hewalked about the castle like a happy wolf in a pen. He did not tell methere was a project on foot, with Dorothy as the objective, but I knew it,and waited with some impatience for the outcome.
Long before the appointed time, which was sunset, John galloped forth forBowling Green Gate with joy and anticipation in his heart and pain in hisconscience. As he rode, he resolved again and again that the interviewtoward which he was hastening should be the last he would have withDorothy. But when he pictured the girl to himself, and thought upon hermarvellous beauty and infinite winsomeness, his conscience was drowned inhis longing, and he resolved that he would postpone resolving until themorrow.
John hitched his horse near the gate and stood looking between the massiveiron bars toward Haddon Hall, whose turrets could be seen through theleafless boughs of the trees. The sun was sinking perilously low, thoughtJohn, and with each moment his heart also sank, while his good resolutionsshowed the flimsy fibre of their fabric and were rent asunder by the fearthat she might not come. As the moments dragged on and she did not come, ahundred alarms tormented him. First among these was a dread that she mighthave made resolves such as had sprung up so plenteously in him, and thatshe might have been strong enough to act upon them and to remain at home.But he was mistaken in the girl. Such resolutions as he had been makingand breaking had never come to her at all. The difference between the manand the woman was this: he resolved in his mind not to see her and failedin keeping to his resolution; while she resolved in her heart to seehim--resolved that nothing in heaven or earth or the other place couldkeep her from seeing him, and succeeded in carrying out her resolution.The intuitive resolve, the one that does not know it is a resolution, isthe sort before which obstacles fall like corn before the sickle.
After John had waited a weary time, the form of the girl appeared abovethe crest of the hill. She was holding up the skirt of her gown, andglided over the earth so rapidly that she appeared to be running. Beat!beat! oh, heart of John, if there is aught in womanhood to make you throb;if there is aught in infinite grace and winsomeness; if there is aught inperfect harmony of color and form and movement; if there is aught ofbeauty, in God's power to create that can set you pulsing, beat! for thefairest creature of His hand is hastening to greet you. The wind haddishevelled her hair and it was blowing in fluffy curls of golden redabout her face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with joy and exercise,her red lips were parted, and her eyes--but I am wasting words. As forJohn's heart it almost smothered him with its beating. He had never beforesupposed that he could experience such violent throbbing within his breastand live. But at last she was at the gate, in all her exquisite beauty andwinsom
eness, and something must be done to make the heart conform to theusages of good society. She, too, was in trouble with her breathing, butJohn thought that her trouble was owing to exertion. However that may havebeen, nothing in heaven or earth was ever so beautiful, so radiant, sograceful, or so fair as this girl who had come to give herself to John. Itseems that I cannot take myself away from the attractive theme.
"Ah, Sir John, you did come," said the girl, joyously.
"Yes," John succeeded in replying, after an effort, "and you--I thank you,gracious lady, for coming. I do not deserve--" the heart again asserteditself, and Dorothy stood by the gate with downcast eyes, waiting to learnwhat it was that John did not deserve. She thought he deserved everythinggood.
"I fear I have caused you fatigue," said John, again thinking, and withgood reason, that he was a fool.
The English language, which he had always supposed to be his mothertongue, had deserted him as if it were his step-mother. After all, thedifficulty, as John subsequently said, was that Dorothy's beauty haddeprived him of the power to think. He could only see. He was entirelydisorganized by a girl whom he could have carried away in his arms.
"I feel no fatigue," replied Dorothy.
"I feared that in climbing the hill you had lost your breath," answereddisorganized John.
"So I did," she returned. Then she gave a great sigh and said, "Now I amall right again."
All right? So is the morning sun, so is the arching rainbow, and so arethe flitting lights of the north in midwinter. All are "all right" becauseGod made them, as He made Dorothy, perfect, each after its kind.
A long, uneasy pause ensued. Dorothy felt the embarrassing silence lessthan John, and could have helped him greatly had she wished to do so. Butshe had made the advances at their former meetings, and as she had toldme, she "had done a great deal more than her part in going to meet him."Therefore she determined that he should do his own wooing thenceforward.She had graciously given him all the opportunity he had any right to ask.
While journeying to Bowling Green Gate, John had formulated many true andbeautiful sentiments of a personal nature which he intended expressing toDorothy; but when the opportunity came for him to speak, the weather, hishorse, Dorothy's mare Dolcy, the queens of England and Scotland were theonly subjects on which he could induce his tongue to perform, evenmoderately well.
Dorothy listened attentively while John on the opposite side of the gatediscoursed limpingly on the above-named themes; and although in formerinterviews she had found those topics quite interesting, upon thatoccasion she had come to Bowling Green Gate to listen to something elseand was piqued not to hear it. After ten or fifteen minutes she saiddemurely:--
"I may not remain here longer. I shall be missed at the Hall. I regainedmy liberty but yesterday, and father will be suspicious of me during thenext few days. I must be watchful and must have a care of my behavior."
John summoned his wits and might have spoken his mind freely had he notfeared to say too much. Despite Dorothy's witchery, honor, conscience, andprudence still bore weight with him, and they all dictated that he shouldcling to the shreds of his resolution and not allow matters to go too farbetween him and this fascinating girl. He was much in love with her; butDorothy had reached at a bound a height to which he was still climbing.Soon John, also, was to reach the pinnacle whence honor, conscience, andprudence were to be banished.
"I fear I must now leave you," said Dorothy, as darkness began to gather.
"I hope I may soon see you again," said John.
"Sometime I will see you if--if I can," she answered with downcast eyes."It is seldom I can leave the Hall alone, but I shall try to come here atsunset some future day." John's silence upon a certain theme had givenoffence.
"I cannot tell you how greatly I thank you," cried John.
"I will say adieu," said Dorothy, as she offered him her hand through thebars of the gate. John raised the hand gallantly to his lips, and when shehad withdrawn it there seemed no reason for her to remain. But she stoodfor a moment hesitatingly. Then she stooped to reach into her pocket whileshe daintily lifted the skirt of her gown with the other hand and from thepocket drew forth a great iron key.
"I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate--andcome to--to this side. I had great difficulty in taking it from theforester's closet, where it has been hanging for a hundred years or more."
She showed John the key, returned it to her pocket, made a courtesy, andmoved slowly away, walking backward.
"Mistress Vernon," cried John, "I beg you to let me have the key."
"It is too late, now," said the girl, with downcast eyes. "Darkness israpidly falling, and I must return to the Hall."
John began to climb the gate, but she stopped him. He had thrown away hisopportunity.
"Please do not follow me, Sir John," said she, still moving backward. "Imust not remain longer."
"Only for one moment," pleaded John.
"No," the girl responded, "I--I may, perhaps, bring the key when I comeagain. I am glad, Sir John, that you came to meet me this evening." Shecourtesied, and then hurried away toward Haddon Hall. Twice she lookedbackward and waved her hand, and John stood watching her through the barstill her form was lost to view beneath the crest of Bowling Green Hill.
"'I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate andcome to this side,'" muttered John, quoting the girl's words. "Comparedwith you, John Manners, there is no other fool in this world." Thenmeditatively: "I wonder if she feels toward me as I feel toward her?Surely she does. What other reason could bring her here to meet me unlessshe is a brazen, wanton creature who is for every man." Then came ajealous thought that hurt him like the piercing of a knife. It lasted buta moment, however, and he continued muttering to himself: "If she loves meand will be my wife, I will--I will ... In God's name what will I do? If Iwere to marry her, old Vernon would kill her, and I--I should kill myfather."
Then John mounted his horse and rode homeward the unhappiest happy man inEngland. He had made perilous strides toward that pinnacle sans honor,sans caution, sans conscience, sans everything but love.
That evening while we were walking on the battlements, smoking, John toldme of his interview with Dorothy and extolled her beauty, grace, andwinsomeness which, in truth, as you know, were matchless. But when hespoke of "her sweet, shy modesty," I came near to laughing in his face.
"Did she not write a letter asking you to meet her?" I asked.
"Why--y-e-s," returned John.
"And," I continued, "has she not from the first sought you?"
"It almost seems to be so," answered John, "but notwithstanding the factthat one might say--might call--that one might feel that her conductis--that it might be--you know, well--it might be called by some personsnot knowing all the facts in the case, immodest--I hate to use the wordwith reference to her--yet it does not appear to me to have been at allimmodest in Mistress Vernon, and, Sir Malcolm, I should be deeply offendedwere any of my friends to intimate--"
"Now, John," I returned, laughing at him, "you could not, if you wished,make me quarrel with you; and if you desire it, I will freely avow my firmbelief in the fact that my cousin Dorothy is the flower of modesty. Doesthat better suit you?"
I could easily see that my bantering words did not suit him at all; but Ilaughed at him, and he could not find it in his heart to show hisill-feeling.
"I will not quarrel with you," he returned; "but in plain words, I do notlike the tone in which you speak of her. It hurts me, and I do not believeyou would wilfully give me pain."
"Indeed, I would not," I answered seriously.
"Mistress Vernon's conduct toward me," John continued, "has been gracious.There has been no immodesty nor boldness in it."
I laughed again and said: "I make my humble apologies to her Majesty,Queen Dorothy. But in all earnestness, Sir John, you are right: Dorothy ismodest and pure. As for her conduct toward you, there is a royal qualityabout beauty such as my cous
in possesses which gives an air ofgraciousness to acts that in a plainer girl would seem bold. Beauty, likeroyalty, has its own prerogatives."
For a fortnight after the adventures just related, John, in pursuance ofhis oft-repeated resolution not to see Dorothy, rode every evening toBowling Green Gate; but during that time he failed to see her, and theresolutions, with each failure, became weaker and fewer.
One evening, after many disappointments, John came to my room bearing inhis hands a letter which he said Jennie Faxton had delivered to him atBowling Green Gate.
"Mistress Vernon," said John, "and Lady Madge Stanley will ride toDerby-town to-morrow. They will go in the Haddon Hall coach, and Dawsonwill drive. Mistress Vernon writes to me thus:--
"'To SIR JOHN MANNERS:--
"'My good wishes and my kind greeting. Lady Madge Stanley, my good aunt, Lady Crawford, and myself do intend journeying to Derby-town to-morrow. My aunt, Lady Crawford, is slightly ill, and although I should much regret to see her sickness grow greater, yet if ill she must be, I do hope that her worst day will be upon the morrow, in which case she could not accompany Lady Madge and me. I shall nurse my good aunt carefully this day, and shall importune her to take plentifully of physic that she may quickly recover her health--after to-morrow. Should a gentleman ask of Will Dawson, who will be in the tap-room of the Royal Arms at eleven o'clock of the morning, Dawson will be glad to inform the gentleman concerning Lady Crawford's health. Let us hope that the physic will cure Lady Crawford--by the day after to-morrow at furthest. The said Will Dawson may be trusted. With great respect,
DOROTHY VERNON.'"
"I suppose the gentleman will be solicitous concerning Lady Crawford'shealth to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock," said I.
"The gentleman is now solicitous concerning Lady Crawford's health,"answered John, laughingly. "Was there ever a lady more fair and graciousthan Mistress Vernon?"
I smiled with a superior air at John's weakness, being, as you know,entirely free from his complaint myself, and John continued:--
"Perhaps you would call Mistress Dorothy bold for sending me this letter?"
"It is redolent with shyness," I answered. "But would you really wish poorLady Crawford to be ill that you might witness Mistress Dorothy'smodesty?"
"Please don't jest on that subject," said John, seriously. "I would wishanything, I fear, that would bring me an opportunity to see her, to lookupon her face, and to hear her voice. For her I believe I would sacrificeevery one who is dear to me. One day she shall be mine--mine at whatevercost--if she will be. If she will be. Ah, there is the rub! If she willbe. I dare not hope for that."
"I think," said I, "that you really have some little cause to hope."
"You speak in the same tone again. Malcolm, you do not understand her. Shemight love me to the extent that I sometimes hope; but her father and minewould never consent to our union, and she, I fear, could not be induced tomarry me under those conditions. Do not put the hope into my heart."
"You only now said she should be yours some day," I answered.
"So she shall," returned John, "so she shall."
"But Lady Madge is to be with her to-morrow," said I, my own heart beatingwith an ardent wish and a new-born hope, "and you may be unable, afterall, to see Mistress Dorothy."
"That is true," replied John. "I do not know how she will arrange matters,but I have faith in her ingenuity."
Well might he have faith, for Dorothy was possessed of that sort of a willwhich usually finds a way.
"If you wish me to go with you to Derby-town, I will do so. Perhaps I maybe able to entertain Lady Madge while you have a word with Dorothy. Whatthink you of the plan?" I asked.
"If you will go with me, Malcolm, I shall thank you with all my heart."
And so it was agreed between us that we should both go to Derby-town forthe purpose of inquiring about Lady Crawford's health, though for me theexpedition was full of hazard.