CHAPTER VIII
MALCOLM No. 2
Sir George had done a bad day's work. He had hardened Dorothy's heartagainst himself and had made it more tender toward John. Since her fatherhad treated her so cruelly, she felt she was at liberty to give her heartto John without stint. So when once she was alone in her room theflood-gates of her heart were opened, and she poured forth the ineffabletenderness and the passionate longings with which she was filled. Withsolitude came the memory of John's words and John's kisses. She recalledevery movement, every word, every tone, every sensation. She gave her soulunbridled license to feast with joyous ecstasy upon the thrillingmemories. All thoughts of her father's cruelty were drowned in a sea ofbliss. She forgot him. In truth, she forgot everything but her love andher lover. That evening, after she had assisted Madge to prepare for bed,as was her custom, Dorothy stood before her mirror making her toilet forthe night. In the flood of her newly found ecstasy she soon forgot thatMadge was in the room.
Dorothy stood before her mirror with her face near to its polishedsurface, that she might scrutinize every feature, and, if possible, verifyJohn's words.
"He called me 'my beauty' twice," she thought, "and 'my Aphrodite' once."Then her thoughts grew into unconscious words, and she spoke aloud:--
"I wish he could see me now." And she blushed at the thought, as sheshould have done. "He acted as if he meant all he said," she thought. "Iknow he meant it. I trust him entirely. But if he should change? HolyMother, I believe I should die. But I do believe him. He would not lie,even though he is not a Vernon."
With thoughts of the scene between herself and her father at the gate,there came a low laugh, half of amusement, half of contentment, and thelaugh meant a great deal that was to be regretted; it showed a sad changein Dorothy's heart. But yesterday the memory of her deceit would havefilled her with grief. To-night she laughed at it. Ah, Sir George!Pitiable old man! While your daughter laughs, you sigh and groan and moan,and your heart aches with pain and impotent rage. Even drink fails tobring comfort to you. I say impotent rage, because Dorothy is out of yourreach, and as surely as the sun rises in the east she is lost to youforever. The years of protection and tender love which you have given toher go for nothing. Now comes the son of your mortal enemy, and you arebut an obstruction in her path. Your existence is forgotten while sherevels in the memory of his words, his embraces, and his lips. She laughswhile you suffer, in obedience to the fate that Heaven has decreed forthose who bring children into this world.
Who is to blame for the pitiable mite which children give in return for aparent's flood of love? I do not know, but of this I am sure: if parentswould cease to feel that they own their children in common with theirhorses, their estates, and their cattle; if they would not, as many do invarying degrees, treat their children as their property, the return oflove would be far more adequate than it is.
Dorothy stood before her mirror plaiting her hair. Her head was turnedbackward a little to one side that she might more easily reach the greatred golden skein. In that entrancing attitude the reflection of the netherlip of which John had spoken so fondly came distinctly to Dorothy'snotice. She paused in the braiding of her hair and held her face close tothe mirror that she might inspect the lip, whose beauty John had soardently admired. She turned her face from one side to the other that shemight view it from all points, and then she thrust it forward with apouting movement that would have set the soul of a mummy pulsing if he hadever been a man. She stood for a moment in contemplation of the full redlip, and then resting her hands upon the top of the mirror table leanedforward and kissed its reflected image.
Again forgetfulness fell upon her and her thoughts grew into words.
"He was surely right concerning my lower lip," she said, speaking toherself. Then without the least apparent relevance, "He had been smoking."Again her words broke her revery, and she took up the unfinished braid ofhair. When she did so, she caught a glimpse of her arm which was asperfectly rounded as the fairest marble of Phidias. She stretched the armto its full length that the mirror might reflect its entire beauty. Againshe thought aloud: "I wish he could see my arm. Perhaps some day--" Butthe words ceased, and in their place came a flush that spread from herhair to her full white throat, and she quickly turned the mirror away sothat even it should not behold her beauty.
You see after all is told Dorothy was modest.
She finished her toilet without the aid of her mirror; but before sheextinguished the candle she stole one more fleeting glance at its polishedsurface, and again came the thought, "Perhaps some day--" Then she coveredthe candle, and amid enfolding darkness lay down beside Madge, full ofthoughts and sensations that made her tremble; for they were strange toher, and she knew not what they meant.
Dorothy thought that Madge was asleep, but after a few minutes the lattersaid:--
"Tell me, Dorothy, who was on fire?"
"Who was on fire?" asked Dorothy in surprise. "What do you mean, Madge?"
"I hope they have not been trying to burn any one," said Madge.
"What do you mean?" again asked Dorothy.
"You said 'He had been smoking,'" responded Madge.
"Oh," laughed Dorothy, "that is too comical. Of course not, dear one. Iwas speaking of--of a man who had been smoking tobacco, as Malcolm does."Then she explained the process of tobacco smoking.
"Yes, I know," answered Madge. "I saw Malcolm's pipe. That is, I held itin my hands for a moment while he explained to me its use."
Silence ensued for a moment, and Madge again spoke:--
"What was it he said about your lower lip, and who was he? I did not learnwhy Uncle George wished to confine you in the dungeon. I am so sorry thatthis trouble has come upon you."
"Trouble, Madge?" returned Dorothy. "Truly, you do not understand. Notrouble has come upon me. The greatest happiness of my life has come topass. Don't pity me. Envy me. My happiness is so sweet and so great thatit frightens me."
"How can you be happy while your father treats you so cruelly?" askedMadge.
"His conduct makes it possible for my happiness to be complete," returnedDorothy. "If he were kind to me, I should be unhappy, but his crueltyleaves me free to be as happy as I may. For my imprisonment in this room Icare not a farthing. It does not trouble me, for when I wish to see--seehim again, I shall do so. I don't know at this time just how I shalleffect it; but be sure, sweet one, I shall find a way." There was no doubtin Madge's mind that Dorothy would find a way.
"Who is he, Dorothy? You may trust me. Is he the gentleman whom we met atDerby-town?"
"Yes," answered Dorothy, "he is Sir John Manners."
"Dorothy!" exclaimed Madge in tones of fear.
"It could not be worse, could it, Madge?" said Dorothy.
"Oh, Dorothy!" was the only response.
"You will not betray me?" asked Dorothy, whose alarm made her suspicious.
"You know whether or not I will betray you," answered Madge.
"Indeed, I know, else I should not have told you my secret. Oh, you shouldsee him, Madge; he is the most beautiful person living. The poor softbeauty of the fairest woman grows pale beside him. You cannot know howwonderfully beautiful a man may be. You have never seen one."
"Yes, I have seen many men, and I well remember their appearance. I wastwelve years old, you know, when I lost my sight."
"But, Madge," said Dorothy, out of the fulness of her newly acquiredknowledge, "a girl of twelve cannot see a man."
"No woman sees with her eyes the man whom she loves," answered Madge,quietly.
"How does she see him?" queried Dorothy.
"With her heart."
"Have you, too, learned that fact?" asked Dorothy.
Madge hesitated for a moment and murmured "Yes."
"Who is he, dear one?" whispered Dorothy.
"I may not tell even you, Dorothy," replied Madge, "because it can cometo nothing. The love is all on my part."
Dorothy insisted, but Madge begged her not to ask for her s
ecret.
"Please don't even make a guess concerning him," said Madge. "It is myshame and my joy."
It looked as if this malady which had fallen upon Dorothy were like theplague that infects a whole family if one but catch it.
Dorothy, though curious, was generous, and remained content with Madge'spromise that she should be the first one to hear the sweet story if everthe time should come to tell it.
"When did you see him?" asked Madge, who was more willing to receive thanto impart intelligence concerning affairs of the heart.
"To-day," answered Dorothy. Then she told Madge about the scenes at thegate and described what had happened between her and Sir George in thekitchen and banquet hall.
"How could you tell your father such a falsehood?" asked Madge inconsternation.
"It was very easy. You see I had to do it. I never lied until recently.But oh, Madge, this is a terrible thing to come upon a girl!" "This" wassomewhat indefinite, but Madge understood, and perhaps it will be clear toyou what Dorothy meant. The girl continued: "She forgets all else. It willdrive her to do anything, however wicked. For some strange cause, underits influence she does not feel the wrong she does. It acts upon a girl'ssense of right and wrong as poppy juice acts on pain. Before it came uponme in--in such terrible force, I believe I should have become ill had Itold my father a falsehood. I might have equivocated, or I might haveevaded the truth in some slight degree, but I could not have told a lie.But now it is as easy as winking."
"And I fear, Dorothy," responded Madge, "that winking is very easy foryou."
"Yes," answered candid Dorothy with a sigh.
"It must be a very great evil," said Madge, deploringly.
"One might well believe so," answered Dorothy, "but it is not. Oneinstinctively knows it to be the essence of all that is good."
Madge asked, "Did Sir John tell you that--that he--"
"Yes," said Dorothy, covering her face even from the flickering rays ofthe rushlight.
"Did you tell him?"
"Yes," came in reply from under the coverlet.
After a short silence Dorothy uncovered her face.
"Yes," she said boldly, "I told him plainly; nor did I feel shame in sodoing. It must be that this strange love makes one brazen. You, Madge,would die with shame had you sought any man as I have sought John. I wouldnot for worlds tell you how bold and over-eager I have been."
"Oh, Dorothy!" was all the answer Madge gave.
"You would say 'Oh, Dorothy,' many times if you knew all." Another pauseensued, after which Madge asked:--
"How did you know he had been smoking?"
"I--I tasted it," responded Dorothy.
"How could you taste it? I hope you did not smoke?" returned Madge inwonderment.
Dorothy smothered a little laugh, made two or three vain attempts toexplain, tenderly put her arms about Madge's neck and kissed her.
"Oh, Dorothy, that certainly was wrong," returned Madge, although she hadsome doubts in her own mind upon the point.
"Well, if it is wrong," answered Dorothy, sighing, "I don't care to live."
"Dorothy, I fear you are an immodest girl," said Madge.
"I fear I am, but I don't care--John, John, John!"
"How came he to speak of your lower lip?" asked Madge. "It certainly isvery beautiful; but how came he to speak of it?"
"It was after--after--once," responded Dorothy.
"And your arm," continued remorseless Madge, "how came he to speak of it?You surely did not--"
"No, no, Madge; I hope you do not think I would show him my arm. I havenot come to that. I have a poor remnant of modesty left; but the HolyMother only knows how long it will last. No, he did not speak of my arm."
"You spoke of your arm when you were before the mirror," responded Madge,"and you said, 'Perhaps some day--'"
"Oh, don't, Madge. Please spare me. I indeed fear I am very wicked. I willsay a little prayer to the Virgin to-night. She will hear me, even If I amwicked; and she will help me to become good and modest again."
The girls went to sleep, and Dorothy dreamed "John, John, John," andslumbered happily.
That part of the building of Haddon Hall which lies to the northward, westof the kitchen, consists of rooms according to the following plan:--
The two rooms in Entrance Tower over the great doors at the northwestcorner of Haddon Hall were occupied by Dorothy and Madge. The west roomoverlooking the Wye was their parlor. The next room to the east was theirbedroom. The room next their bedroom was occupied by Lady Crawford. Beyondthat was Sir George's bedroom, and east of his room was one occupied bythe pages and two retainers. To enter Dorothy's apartments one must passthrough all the other rooms I have mentioned. Her windows were twenty-fivefeet from the ground and were barred with iron. After Dorothy's sentenceof imprisonment, Lady Crawford, or some trusted person in her place, wasalways on guard in Aunt Dorothy's room to prevent Dorothy's escape, andguards were also stationed in the retainer's room for the same purpose. Itell you this that you may understand the difficulties Dorothy would haveto overcome before she could see John, as she declared to Madge she would.But my opinion is that there are no limits to the resources of a wilfulgirl. Dorothy saw Manners. The plan she conceived to bring about thedesired end was so seemingly impossible, and her execution of it was soadroit and daring, that I believe it will of itself interest you in thetelling, aside from the bearing it has upon this history. No sane manwould have deemed it possible, but this wilful girl carried it tofruition. She saw no chance of failure. To her it seemed a simple, easymatter. Therefore she said with confidence and truth, "I will see him whenI wish to."
Let me tell you of it.
During Dorothy's imprisonment I spent an hour or two each evening with herand Madge at their parlor in the tower. The windows of the room, as I havetold you, faced westward, overlooking the Wye, and disclosed thebeautiful, undulating scenery of Overhaddon Hill in the distance.
One afternoon when Madge was not present Dorothy asked me to bring her acomplete suit of my garments,--boots, hose, trunks, waistcoat, anddoublet. I laughed, and asked her what she wanted with them, but sherefused to tell me. She insisted, however, and I promised to fetch thegarments to her. Accordingly the next evening I delivered the bundle toher hands. Within a week she returned them all, saving the boots. Thoseshe kept--for what reason I could not guess.
Lady Crawford, by command of Sir George, carried in her reticule the keyof the door which opened from her own room into Sir George's apartments,and the door was always kept locked.
Dorothy had made several attempts to obtain possession of the key, withintent, I believe, of making a bold dash for liberty. But Aunt Dorothy,mindful of Sir George's wrath and fearing him above all men, actedfaithfully her part of gaoler. She smiled, half in sadness, when she toldme of the girl's simplicity in thinking she could hoodwink a person ofLady Crawford's age, experience, and wisdom. The old lady took great pridein her own acuteness. The distasteful task of gaoler, however, pained goodAunt Dorothy, whose simplicity was, in truth, no match for Dorothy'slove-quickened cunning. But Aunt Dorothy's sense of duty and her fear ofSir George impelled her to keep good and conscientious guard.
One afternoon near the hour of sunset I knocked for admission at LadyCrawford's door. When I had entered she locked the door carefully afterme, and replaced the key in the reticule which hung at her girdle.
I exchanged a few words with her Ladyship, and entered Dorothy's bedroom,where I left my cloak, hat, and sword. The girls were in the parlor. WhenI left Lady Crawford she again took her chair near the candle, put on hergreat bone-rimmed spectacles, and was soon lost to the world in the pagesof "Sir Philip de Comynges." The dear old lady was near-sighted and wasslightly deaf. Dorothy's bedroom, like Lady Crawford's apartments, was indeep shadow. In it there was no candle.
My two fair friends were seated in one of the west windows watching thesunset. They rose, and each gave me her hand and welcomed me with the raresmiles I had learned to expect from th
em. I drew a chair near to thewindow and we talked and laughed together merrily for a few minutes. Aftera little time Dorothy excused herself, saying that she would leave Madgeand me while she went into the bedroom to make a change in her apparel.
Madge and I sat for a few minutes at the window, and I said, "You have notbeen out to-day for exercise."
I had ridden to Derby with Sir George and had gone directly on my returnto see my two young friends. Sir George had not returned.
"Will you walk with me about the room?" I asked. My real reason for makingthe suggestion was that I longed to clasp her hand, and to feel itsvelvety touch, since I should lead her if we walked.
She quickly rose in answer to my invitation and offered me her hand. As wewalked to and fro a deep, sweet contentment filled my heart, and I feltthat any words my lips could coin would but mar the ineffable silence.
Never shall I forget the soft light of that gloaming as the darkening redrays of the sinking sun shot through the panelled window across the floorand illumined the tapestry upon the opposite wall.
The tapestries of Haddon Hall are among the most beautiful in England, andthe picture upon which the sun's rays fell was that of a lover kneeling atthe feet of his mistress. Madge and I passed and repassed the illuminedscene, and while it was softly fading into shadow a great flood of tenderlove for the girl whose soft hand I held swept over my heart. It was thenoblest motive I had ever felt.
Moved by an impulse I could not resist, I stopped in our walk, and fallingto my knee pressed her hand ardently to my lips. Madge did not withdrawher hand, nor did she attempt to raise me. She stood in passive silence.The sun's rays had risen as the sun had sunk, and the light was fallinglike a holy radiance from the gates of paradise upon the girl's head. Ilooked upward, and never in my eyes had woman's face appeared so fair andsaintlike. She seemed to see me and to feel the silent outpouring of myaffection. I rose to my feet, and clasping both her hands spoke only hername "Madge."
She answered simply, "Malcolm, is it possible?" And her face, illumined bythe sunlight and by the love-god, told me all else. Then I gently took herto my arms and kissed her lips again and again and again, and Madge by nosign nor gesture said me nay. She breathed a happy sigh, her head fellupon my breast, and all else of good that the world could offer comparedwith her was dross to me.
We again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her handwithout an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through thehappiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and tolave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But myrhapsodies must have an end.
When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom andquickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I hadlent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak.She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slimwaist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, andturned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin andupper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some mannercontrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of MalcolmVernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.
While sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword againstthe oak floor in Dorothy's bedroom. I supposed she had been toying with itand had let it fall. She was much of a child, and nothing could escape hercuriosity. Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy's apartments. Iwhispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, andthen I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom. Inoiselessly opened the door and entered. From my dark hiding-place inDorothy's bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy's room which filledme with wonder and suppressed laughter. Striding about in theshadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford's apartment was my other self,Malcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.
The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slantingrays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow,save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of whichthe old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriouslyperusing.
The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might bedeepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was themost graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if shethought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were acopy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.
"What do you read, Lady Crawford?" said my cloak and hat, in tones thatcertainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.
"What do you say, Malcolm?" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to showthe ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.
"I asked what do you read?" repeated Dorothy.
"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,'" responded Lady Crawford."Have you read it? It is a rare and interesting history."
"Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book. I have read it many times."There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly broughtDorothy into trouble.
"What part of the 'Chronicle' do you best like?" asked Aunt Dorothy,perhaps for lack of anything else to say. Here was trouble already forMalcolm No. 2.
"That is hard for me to say. I so well like it all. Perhaps--ah--perhaps Iprefer the--the ah--the middle portion."
"Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy,"returned Aunt Dorothy. "Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are alwaysthinking--the ladies, the ladies."
"Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?" my second self respondedin a gallant style of which I was really proud. "She who has caused somuch of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman's mindcannot be better employed than--"
"Malcolm, you are incorrigible. But it is well for a gentleman to keep inpractice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practiseon."
"They like it, even if it be only practice, don't they?" said Dorothy,full of the spirit of mischief.
"I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon," retorted Aunt Dorothy witha toss of her head. "I surely don't value your practice, as you call it,one little farthing's worth."
But Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of witthan Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself.
"I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford."
"Oh!" replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book. "I have beenreading Sir Philip's account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy.Do you remember the cause of her death?"
Malcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled toadmit that he did not remember the cause of Mary's death.
"You did not read the book with attention," replied Lady Crawford. "SirPhilip says that Mary of Burgundy died from an excess of modesty."
"That disease will never depopulate England," was the answer that camefrom my garments, much to my chagrin.
"Sir Malcolm," exclaimed the old lady, "I never before heard so ungallanta speech from your lips."--"And," thought I, "she never will hear its likefrom me."
"Modesty," continued Lady Crawford, "may not be valued so highly by youngwomen nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but--"
"I am sure it is not," interrupted Dorothy.
"But," continued Lady Crawford, "the young women of England are modest andseemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of inungallant jest."
I trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry.
"Do you not," said Lady Crawford, "consider Dorothy and Madge to bemodest, well-behaved maidens?"
"Madge! Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be. She is a saint, butas to Dorothy--well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for herthan death from modesty. I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form doesnot kill. Dorothy has it mildly," then under her breath, "if at all."
The girl's sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for th
e momentit caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise.
"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy," retorted Lady Crawford."She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply."
"Her father would not agree with you," replied Dorothy.
"Perhaps not," responded the aunt. "Her father's conduct causes me greatpain and grief."
"It also causes me pain," said Dorothy, sighing.
"But, Malcolm," continued the old lady, putting down her book and turningwith quickened interest toward my other self, "who, suppose you, is theman with whom Dorothy has become so strangely entangled?"
"I cannot tell for the life of me," answered Malcolm No. 2. "Surely amodest girl would not act as she does."
"Surely a modest girl would," replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. "Malcolm, youknow nothing of women."
"Spoken with truth," thought I.
The old lady continued: "Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do witheach other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at thewindow. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish Icould help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. Ifeign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I amgreatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love."
"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy," said the lovelorn young woman. "I amsure she is fathoms deep in love."
"Nothing," said Lady Crawford, "but a great passion would have impelledher to act as she did. Why, even Mary of Burgundy, with all her modesty,won the husband she wanted, ay, and had him at the cost of half her richdomain."
"I wonder if Dorothy will ever have the man she wants?" said Malcolm,sighing in a manner entirely new to him.
"No," answered the old lady, "I fear there is no hope for Dorothy. Iwonder who he is? Her father intends that she shall soon marry LordStanley. Sir George told me as much this morning when he started forDerby-town to arrange for the signing of the marriage contract within aday or two. He had a talk yesterday with Dorothy. She, I believe, hassurrendered to the inevitable, and again there is good feeling between herand my brother."
Dorothy tossed her head expressively.
"It is a good match," continued Lady Crawford, "a good match, Malcolm. Ipity Dorothy; but it is my duty to guard her, and I shall do itfaithfully."
"My dear Lady Crawford," said my hat and cloak, "your words and feelingsdo great credit to your heart. But have you ever thought that your nieceis a very wilful girl, and that she is full of disturbing expedients? NowI am willing to wager my beard that she will, sooner than you suspect, seeher lover. And I am also willing to lay a wager that she will marry theman of her choice despite all the watchfulness of her father and yourself.Keep close guard over her, my lady, or she will escape."
Lady Crawford laughed. "She shall not escape. Have no fear of that,Malcolm. The key to the door is always safely locked in my reticule. Nogirl can outwit me. I am too old to be caught unawares by a mere childlike Dorothy. It makes me laugh, Malcolm--although I am sore at heart forDorothy's sake--it makes me laugh, with a touch of tears, when I think ofpoor simple Dorothy's many little artifices to gain possession of thiskey. They are amusing and pathetic. Poor child! But I am too old to beduped by a girl, Malcolm, I am too old. She has no chance to escape."
I said to myself: "No one has ever become too old to be duped by a girlwho is in love. Her wits grow keen as the otter's fur grows thick for thewinter's need. I do not know your niece's plan; but if I mistake not, AuntDorothy, you will in one respect, at least, soon be rejuvenated."
"I am sure Lady Crawford is right in what she says," spoke my other self,"and Sir George is fortunate in having for his daughter a guardian whocannot be hoodwinked and who is true to a distasteful trust. I would thetrouble were over and that Dorothy were well married."
"So wish I, Malcolm, with all my heart," replied Aunt Dorothy.
After a brief pause in the conversation Malcolm No. 2 said:--
"I must now take my leave. Will you kindly unlock the door and permit meto say good night?"
"If you must go," answered my lady, glad enough to be left alone with herbeloved Sir Philip. Then she unlocked the door.
"Keep good watch, my dear aunt," said Malcolm. "I greatly fear thatDorothy--" but the door closed on the remainder of the sentence and onDorothy Vernon.
"Nonsense!" ejaculated the old lady somewhat impatiently. "Why should hefear for Dorothy? I hope I shall not again be disturbed." And soon she wasdeep in the pages of her book.