Sir William was in command of the yeoman guards.
"Is Sir John Manners your lover?" asked Elizabeth, turning to Dorothy.
"Yes," answered the girl.
"You may soon seek another," replied the queen, significantly.
Her Majesty's words seemed to awaken Dorothy from her stupor of frenzy, and she foresaw the result of her act. Then came upon her a reaction worse than death.
"You may depart," said the queen to Dorothy, and the girl went back to her room hardly conscious that she was moving.
At times we cannot help feeling that love came to the human breast through a drop of venom shot from the serpent's tongue into the heart of Eve. Again we believe it to be a spark from God's own soul. Who will solve me this riddle?
Soon the hard, cold ringing of arms, and the tramp of mailed feet resounded through Haddon Hall, and the doom-like din reached Dorothy's room in the tones of a clanging knell. There seemed to be a frightful rhythm in the chaos of sounds which repeated over and over again the words: "John will die, John will die," though the full import of her act and its results did nor for a little time entirely penetrate her consciousness. She remembered the queen's words, "You may soon seek another." Elizabeth plainly meant that John was a traitor, and that John would die for his treason. The clanking words, "John will die, John will die," bore upon the girl's ears in ever increasing volume until the agony she suffered deadened her power to think. She wandered aimlessly about the room, trying to collect her senses, but her mind was a blank. After a few minutes she ran back to the queen, having an undefined purpose of doing something to avert the consequences of her mad act. She at first thought to tell the queen that the information she had given concerning Mary Stuart's presence in Rutland was false, but she well knew that a lie seldom succeeds; and in this case, even through her clouded mentality, she could see that a lie would surely fail. She determined to beg the queen to spare John's life. She did not know exactly what she would do, but she hoped by the time she should reach the queen's room to hit upon some plan that would save him. When she knocked at Elizabeth's door it was locked against her. Her Majesty was in consultation with Cecil, Sir William St. Loe, and a few other gentlemen, among whom was Sir George Vernon.
Dorothy well knew there was no help for John if her father were of the queen's council. She insisted upon seeing the queen, but was rudely repulsed. By the time she again reached her room full consciousness had returned, and agony such as she had never before dreamed of overwhelmed her soul. Many of us have felt the same sort of pain when awakened suddenly to the fact that words we have spoken easily may not, by our utmost efforts, be recalled, though we would gladly give our life itself to have them back. If suffering can atone for sin, Dorothy bought her indulgence within one hour after sinning. But suffering cannot atone for sin; it is only a part of it—the result.
"Arise, Madge, and dress," said Dorothy, gently. "I have made a terrible mistake. I have committed a frightful crime. I have betrayed John to death. Ah, help me, Madge, if you can. Pray God to help me. He will listen to you. I fear to pray to Him. He would turn my prayers to curses. I am lost." She fell for a moment upon the bed and placed her head on Madge's breast murmuring, "If I could but die."
"All may turn out better than it now appears," said Madge. "Quiet yourself and let us consider what may be done to arrest the evil of your—your act."
"Nothing can be done, nothing," wailed Dorothy, as she arose from the bed and began to dress. "Please arise, Madge, and dress yourself. Here are your garments and your gown."
They hastily dressed without speaking, and Dorothy began again to pace the floor.
"He will die hating me," said Dorothy. "If he could live I willingly would give him to the—the Scottish woman. Then I could die and my suffering would cease. I must have been mad when I went to the queen. He trusted me with his honor and his life, and I, traitress that I am, have betrayed both. Ah, well, when he dies I also shall die. There is comfort at least in that thought. How helpless I am."
She could not weep. It seemed as if there were not a tear in her. All was hard, dry, burning agony. She again fell upon the bed and moaned piteously for a little time, wringing her hands and uttering frantic ejaculatory prayers for help.
"My mind seems to have forsaken me," she said hoarsely to Madge. "I cannot think. What noise is that?"
She paused and listened for a moment. Then she went to the north window and opened the casement.
"The yeoman guards from Bakewell are coming," she said. "I recognize them by the light of their flambeaux. They are entering the gate at the dove-cote."
A part of the queen's guard had been quartered in the village of Bakewell.
Dorothy stood at the window for a moment and said: "The other guards are here under our window and are ready to march to Rutland. There is Lord Cecil, and Sir William St. Loe, and Malcolm, and there is my father. Now they are off to meet the other yeomen at the dove-cote. The stable boys are lighting their torches and flambeaux. They are going to murder John, and I have sent them."
Dorothy covered her face with her hands and slowly walked to and fro across the room.
"Call Malcolm," said Madge. "Perhaps he can help us. Lead me to the window, Dorothy, and I will call him." Dorothy led Madge to the window, and above the din of arms I heard her soft voice calling, "Malcolm, Malcolm."
The order to march had been given before Madge called, but I sought Sir William and told him I would return to the Hall to get another sword and would soon overtake him on the road to Rutland.
I then hastened to Dorothy's room. I was ignorant of the means whereby Elizabeth had learned of Mary's presence at Rutland. The queen had told no one how the information reached her. The fact that Mary was in England was all sufficient for Cecil, and he proceeded to execute the order Elizabeth had given for Mary's arrest, without asking or desiring any explanation. I, of course, was in great distress for John's sake, since I knew that he would be attainted of treason. I had sought in vain some plan whereby I might help him, but found none. I, myself, being a Scottish refugee, occupied no safe position, and my slightest act toward helping John or Mary would be construed against me.
When I entered Dorothy's room, she ran to me and said: "Can you help me, Malcolm? Can you help me save him from this terrible evil which I have brought upon him?"
"How did you bring the evil upon him?" I asked, in astonishment. "It was not your fault that he brought Mary Stuart to—"
"No, no," she answered; "but I told the queen she was at Rutland."
"You told the queen?" I exclaimed, unwilling to believe my ears. "You told—How—why—why did you tell her?"
"I do not know why I told her," she replied. "I was mad with—with jealousy. You warned me against it, but I did not heed you. Jennie Faxton told me that she saw John and—but all that does not matter now. I will tell you hereafter if I live. What we must now do is to save him—to save him if we can. Try to devise some plan. Think—think, Malcolm."
My first thought was to ride to Rutland Castle and give the alarm. Sir George would lead the yeomen thither by the shortest route—the road by way of Rowsley. There was another route leading up the Lathkil through the dale, and thence by a road turning southward to Rutland. That road was longer by a league than the one Sir George would take, but I could put my horse to his greatest speed, and I might be able to reach the castle in time to enable John and Mary to escape. I considered the question a moment. My own life certainly would pay the forfeit in case of failure; but my love for John and, I confess it with shame, the memory of my old tenderness for Mary impelled me to take the risk. I explained the plan upon which I was thinking, and told them of my determination. When I did so, Madge grasped me by the arm to detain me, and Dorothy fell upon her knees and kissed my hand.
I said, "I must start at once; for, ride as I may, I fear the yeomen will reach Rutland gates before I can get there."
"But If the guards should be at the gates when you arrive, or if you should be missed by Cecil, you, a Scottish refugee and a friend of Queen Mary, would be suspected of treason, and you would lose your life," said Madge, who was filled with alarm for my sake.
"That is true," I replied; "but I can think of no other way whereby John can possibly be saved."
Dorothy stood for a moment in deep thought, and said:—
"I will ride to Rutland by way of Lathkil Dale—I will ride in place of you, Malcolm. It is my duty and my privilege to do this if I can."
I saw the truth of her words, and felt that since Dorothy had wrought the evil, it was clearly her duty to remedy it if she could. If she should fail, no evil consequences would fall upon her. If I should fail, it would cost me my life; and while I desired to save John, still I wished to save myself. Though my conduct may not have been chivalric, still I was willing that Dorothy should go in my place, and I told her so. I offered to ride with her as far as a certain cross-road a league distant from Rutland Castle. There I would leave her, and go across the country to meet the yeomen on the road they had taken. I could join them before they reached Rutland, and my absence during the earlier portion of the march would not be remarked, or if noticed it could easily be explained.
This plan was agreed upon, and after the guards had passed out at Dove-cote Gate and were well down toward Rowsley, I rode out from the Hall, and waited for Dorothy at an appointed spot near Overhaddon.
Immediately after my departure Dolcy was saddled, and soon Dorothy rode furiously up to me. Away we sped, Dorothy and I, by Yulegrave church, down into the dale, and up the river. Never shall I forget that mad ride. Heavy rains had recently fallen, and the road in places was almost impassable. The rivers were in flood, but when Dorothy and I reached the ford, the girl did not stop to consider the danger ahead of her. I heard her whisper, "On, Dolcy, on," and I heard the sharp "whisp" of the whip as she struck the trembling, fearful mare, and urged her into the dark flood. Dolcy hesitated, but Dorothy struck her again and again with the whip and softly cried, "On, Dolcy, on." Then mare and rider plunged into the swollen river, and I, of course, followed them. The water was so deep that our horses were compelled to swim, and when we reached the opposite side of the river we had drifted with the current a distance of at least three hundred yards below the road. We climbed the cliff by a sheep path. How Dorothy did it I do not know; and how I succeeded in following her I know even less. When we reached the top of the cliff, Dorothy started off at full gallop, leading the way, and again I followed. The sheep path leading up the river to the road followed close the edge of the cliff, where a false step by the horse would mean death to both horse and rider. But Dorothy feared not, or knew not, the danger, and I caught her ever whispered cry,—"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, on." Ashamed to fall behind, yet fearing to ride at such a pace on such a path, I urged my horse forward. He was a fine, strong, mettlesome brute, and I succeeded in keeping the girl's dim form in sight. The moon, which was rapidly sinking westward, still gave us light through rifts in the black bank of floating clouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have been our last journey in the flesh.
Soon we reached the main road turning southward. It was a series of rough rocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with the speed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words, untimely spoken, had wrought. I urged my horse until his head was close by Dolcy's tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry,—"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on."
No word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy panting with her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and the thud, thud, thud of our horses' hoofs came always back to me from Dorothy's lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing,—"On, Dolcy, on; on Dolcy, on."
The road we took led us over steep hills and down through dark, shadow-crowded ravines; but up hill, down hill, and on the level the terrible girl before me plunged forward with unabated headlong fury until I thought surely the flesh of horse, man, and woman could endure the strain not one moment longer. But the horses, the woman, and—though I say it who should not—the man were of God's best handiwork, and the cords of our lives did not snap. One thought, and only one, held possession of the girl, and the matter of her own life or death had no place in her mind.
When we reached the cross-road where I was to leave her, we halted while I instructed Dorothy concerning the road she should follow from that point to Rutland, and directed her how to proceed when she should arrive at the castle gate. She eagerly listened for a moment or two, then grew impatient, and told me to hasten in my speech, since there was no time to lose. Then she fearlessly dashed away alone into the black night; and as I watched her fair form fade into the shadows, the haunting cry came faintly back to me,—"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy on," and I was sick at heart. I was loath to leave her thus in the inky gloom. The moon had sunk for the night, and the clouds had banked up without a rift against the hidden stars; but I could give her no further help, and my life would pay the forfeit should I accompany her. She had brought the evil upon herself. She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. She was fulfilling her destiny. She was doing that which she must do: nothing more, nothing less. She was filling her little niche in the universal moment. She was a part of the infinite kaleidoscope—a fate-charged, fate-moved, fragile piece of glass which might be crushed to atoms in the twinkling of an eye, in the sounding of a trump.
After leaving Dorothy I rode across the country and soon overtook the yeoman guard whom I joined unobserved. Then I marched with them, all too rapidly to suit me, to Rutland. The little army had travelled with greater speed than I had expected, and I soon began to fear that Dorothy would not reach Rutland Castle in time to enable its inmates to escape.
Within half an hour from the time I joined the yeomen we saw the dim outlines of the castle, and Sir William St. Loe gave the command to hurry forward. Cecil, Sir William, Sir George, and myself rode in advance of the column. As we approached the castle by the road leading directly to the gate from the north, I saw for a moment upon the top of the hill west of the castle gate the forms of Dorothy and Dolcy in dim silhouette against the sky. Then I saw them plunge madly down the hill toward the gate. I fancied I could hear the girl whispering in frenzied hoarseness,—"On, Dolcy, on," and I thought I could catch the panting of the mare. At the foot of the hill, less than one hundred yards from the gate, poor Dolcy, unable to take another step, dropped to the ground. Dolcy had gone on to her death. She had filled her little niche in the universe and had died at her post Dorothy plunged forward over the mare's head, and a cry of alarm came from my lips despite me. I was sure the girl had been killed. She, however, instantly sprang to her feet. Her hair was flying behind her and she ran toward the gate crying: "John, John, fly for your life!" And then she fell prone upon the ground and did not rise.
We had all seen the mare fall, and had seen the girl run forward toward the gates and fall before reaching them. Cecil and Sir William rode to the spot where Dorothy lay, and dismounted.
In a moment Sir William called to Sir George:—
"The lady is your daughter, Mistress Dorothy."
"What in hell's name brings her here?" cried Sir George, hurriedly riding forward, "and how came she?"
I followed speedily, and the piteous sight filled my eyes with tears. I cannot describe it adequately to you, though I shall see it vividly to the end of my days. Dorothy had received a slight wound upon the temple, and blood was trickling down her face upon her neck and ruff. Her hair had fallen from its fastenings. She had lost her hat, and her gown was torn in shreds and covered with mud. I lifted the half-conscious girl to her feet and supported her; then with my kerchief I bound up the wound upon her temple.
"Poor Dolcy," she said, almost incoherently, "I have killed her and I have failed—I have failed. Now I am ready to die. Would that I had died with Dolcy. Let me lie down here, Malcolm,—let me lie down."
I still held her in my arms and supported her half-fainting form.
"Why are you here?" demanded Sir George.
"To die," responded Dorothy.
"To die? Damned nonsense!" returned her father.
"How came you here, you fool?"
"On Dolcy. She is dead," returned Dorothy.
"Were you not at Haddon when we left there?" asked her father.
"Yes," she replied.
"Did you pass us on the road?" he asked.
"How came you here?" Sir George insisted.
"Oh, I flew hither. I am a witch. Don't question me, father. I am in no temper to listen to you. I warn you once and for all, keep away from me; beware of me. I have a dagger in my bosom. Go and do the work you came to do; but remember this, father, if harm comes to him I will take my own life, and my blood shall be upon your soul."
"My God, Malcolm, what does she mean?" asked Sir George, touched with fear by the strength of his daughter's threat. "Has she lost her wits?"
"No," the girl quickly responded, "I have only just found them."
Sir George continued to question Dorothy, but he received no further response from her. She simply held up the palm of her hand warningly toward him, and the gesture was as eloquent as an oration. She leaned against me, and covered her face with her hands, while her form shook and trembled as if with a palsy.
Cecil and Sir William St. Loe then went toward the gate, and Sir George said to me:—
"I must go with them. You remain with Doll, and see that she is taken home. Procure a horse for her. If she is unable to ride, make a litter, or perhaps there is a coach in the castle; if so, take possession of it. Take her home by some means when we return. What, think you, could have brought her here?"
I evaded the question by replying, "I will probably be able to get a coach in the castle, Sir George. Leave Dorothy with me."
Soon, by the command of Sir William, the yeomen rode to the right and to the left for the purpose of surrounding the castle, and then I heard Cecil at the gates demanding:—
"Open in the name of the queen."
"Let us go to the gates," said Dorothy, "that we may hear what they say and see what they do. Will they kill him here, think you?" she asked, looking wildly into my face.
The flambeaux on the castle gate and those which the link-boys had brought with them from Haddon were lighted, and the scene in front of the gate was all aglow.
"No, no, my sweet one," I answered, "perhaps they will not kill him at all. Certainly they will not kill him now. They must try him first."
I tried to dissuade her from going to the gates, but she insisted, and I helped her to walk forward.
When Dorothy and I reached the gates, we found that Cecil and Lord Rutland were holding a consultation through the parley-window. The portcullis was still down, and the gates were closed; but soon the portcullis was raised, a postern was opened from within, and Sir William entered the castle with two score of the yeomen guards.
Sir George approached and again plied Dorothy with questions, but she would not speak. One would have thought from her attitude that she was deaf and dumb. She seemed unconscious of her father's presence.
"She has lost her mind," said Sir George, in tones of deep trouble, "and I know not what to do."
"Leave her with me for a time, cousin. I am sure she will be better if we do not question her now."
Then Dorothy seemed to awaken. "Malcolm is right, father. Leave me for a time, I pray you."
Sir George left us, and waited with a party of yeomen a short distance from the gate for the return of Sir William with his prisoners.
Dorothy and I sat upon a stone bench, near the postern through which Sir William and the guardsmen had entered, but neither of us spoke.
After a long, weary time of waiting Sir William came out of the castle through the postern, and with him came Mary Stuart. My heart jumped when I saw her in the glare of the flambeaux, and the spirit of my dead love for her came begging admission to my heart. I cannot describe my sensations when I beheld her, but this I knew, that my love for her was dead past resurrection.
Following Mary came Lord Rutland, and immediately following his Lordship walked John. When he stepped through the postern, Dorothy sprang to her feet and ran to him with a cry, "John, John!"
He looked at her in surprise, and stepped toward her with evident intent to embrace her. His act was probably the result of an involuntary impulse, for he stopped before he reached the girl.
Sir George had gone at Sir William's request to arrange the guards for the return march.
Dorothy and John were standing within two yards of each other.
"Do not touch me," cried Dorothy, "save to strike me If you will. The evil which has come upon you is of my doing. I betrayed you to the queen."
I saw Mary turn quickly toward the girl when she uttered those words.
"I was insane when I did it," continued Dorothy. "They will take your life, John. But when you die I also shall die. It is a poor reparation, I know, but it is the only one I can make."
"I do not understand you, Dorothy," said John. "Why should you betray me?"
"I cannot tell you," she answered. "All I know is that I did betray you and I hardly know how I did it. It all seems like a dream—like a fearful monster of the night. There is no need for me to explain. I betrayed you and now I suffer for it, more a thousand-fold than you can possibly suffer. I offer no excuse. I have none. I simply betrayed you, and ask only that I may die with you."
Then was manifest in John's heart the noblest quality which God has given to man—charity, strengthened by reason. His face glowed with a light that seemed saintlike, and a grand look of ineffable love and pity came to his eyes. He seemed as if by inspiration to understand all that Dorothy had felt and done, and he knew that if she had betrayed him she had done it at a time when she was not responsible for her acts. He stepped quickly to the girl's side, and caring naught that we all should see him, caught her to his breast. He held her in his arms, and the light of the flambeaux fell upon her upturned face.
"Dorothy," he said, "it matters not what you have done; you are my only love. I ask no explanation. If you have betrayed me to death, though I hope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did not love me."
"No, no, John, you know that," sobbed the girl.
"I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know. You would not intentionally bring evil upon me while you love me."
"Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately. My love was the cause—my love was my curse—it was your curse."
"Do not weep, Dorothy," said John, interrupting her. "I would that I could take all your suffering upon myself. Do not weep."
Dorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief. She was not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and by my side stood rough old Sir William. Tears were coursing down the bronzed cheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon the harrowed face of a mountain rock. When I saw Sir William's tears, I could no longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made a spectacle of myself in full view of the queen's yeoman guard.
Sir George approached our little group, and when he saw Dorothy in John's arms, he broke forth into oaths and stepped toward her intending to force her away. But John held up the palm of his free hand warningly toward Sir George, and drawing the girl's drooping form close to his breast he spoke calmly:—
"Old man, if you but lay a finger on this girl, I will kill you where you stand. No power on earth can save you."
There was a tone in John's voice that forced even Sir George to pause. Then Sir George turned to me.
"This is the man who was in my house. He is the man who called himself Thomas. Do you know him?"
Dorothy saved me from the humiliation of an answer.
She took one step from John's side and held him by the hand while she spoke.
"Father," she said, "this man is Sir John Manners. Now you may understand why he could not seek my hand openly, and you also know why I could not tell you his name." She again turned to John, and he put his arm about her. You can imagine much better that I can describe Sir George's fury. He snatched a halberd from the hands of a yeoman who was standing near by and started toward John and Dorothy. Thereupon the hard old warrior, Sir William St. Loe, whose heart one would surely say was the last place where sentiment could dwell, performed a little act of virtue which will balance many a page on the debtor side of his ledger of life. He lifted his sword and scabbard and struck Sir George's outstretched hand, causing the halberd to fall to the ground.
"Don't touch the girl," cried Sir William, hoarsely.
"She is my daughter," retorted Sir George, who was stunned mentally as well as physically by Sir William's blow.
"I care not whose daughter she is," returned Sir William. "You shall not touch her. If you make but one other attempt, I will use my blade upon you."
Sir William and John had been warm friends at London court, and the old captain of the guards quickly guessed the true situation when he saw Dorothy run to John's arms.
"Sir, you shall answer for this," said Sir George, angrily, to Sir William.
"With pleasure," returned Sir William. "I will give you satisfaction whenever you wish it, save this present time. I am too busy now."
Blessed old Sir William! You have been dead these many winters; and were I a priest, I would say a mass for your soul gratis every day in the year.
"Did the girl betray us?" asked Queen Mary.
No one answered her question. Then she turned toward Sir John and touched him upon the shoulder. He turned his face toward her, signifying that he was listening.
"Who is this girl?" Mary demanded.
"My sweetheart, my affianced wife," John answered.
"She says she betrayed us," the queen responded.
"Yes," said John.
"Did you trust her with knowledge of our presence in Rutland?" Mary demanded angrily.
"I did," he answered.
"You were a fool," said Mary.
"I know it," responded John.
"You certainly bear her no resentment for her treason," said Mary.
"I certainly do not," quietly answered John. "Her suffering is greater than mine. Can you not see that it is?"
"It is your privilege," said Mary, scornfully, "to intrust your own secrets to whomsoever you may choose for your confidant, and it is quite saintlike in you to forgive this person for betraying you; but what think you of the hard case in which her treason and your folly have placed me?"
"That is my greatest grief, save for Dorothy," answered John, softly. Lived there ever a man possessed of broader charity or deeper love than John? God surely made him of gold dust, not of common clay.
Queen Mary stepped away from John in disgust, and when she turned she saw me for the first time. She started and was about to speak, but I placed my fingers warningly upon my lips and she remained silent.
"Where do you take us, Sir William?" asked John.
"To Haddon Hall. There you will await the commands of the queen."
"How came you here?" John asked gently of Dorothy.
"I rode Dolcy," she whispered. "She dropped dead at the foot of the hill. Yonder she lies. I came up the Lathkil by the long road, and I hoped that I might reach you in time to give warning. When the guard left Haddon I realized the evil that would come upon you by reason of my base betrayal." Here she broke down and for a moment could not proceed in the narrative. She soon recovered and continued: "Then I mounted Dolcy, and tried to reach here by way of the long road. Poor Dolcy seemed to understand my trouble and my despair, and she brought me with all the speed that a horse could make; but the road was too long and too rough; and she failed, and I failed. Would that I could have died in her place. She gave her life in trying to remedy my fault."
Dorothy again began to weep, and John tenderly whispered:—
"All will yet come right" Then he kissed her before us all, and handed her to me saying, "Care for her, I pray you, sir."
John spoke a few words to Sir William, and in a moment they both went back to the castle.
In a short time the gates were opened, and the Rutland coach drawn by four horses emerged from the castle grounds. Sir William then directed Mary and Dorothy to enter the coach and requested me to ride with them to Haddon Hall.
The yeoman guards were in marching order, and I took my seat in the coach. The fates surely were in a humorous mood when they threw Dorothy, Queen Mary, and myself together. Pause for a moment and consider the situation. You know all the facts and you can analyze it as well as I. I could not help laughing at the fantastic trick of destiny.
Soon after I entered the coach Sir William gave the word, and the yeomen with Lord Rutland and John moved forward on the road to Haddon.
The coach at once followed the guard and a score of yeomen followed us.
Queen Mary occupied the back seat of the coach, and Dorothy and I sat upon the front seat facing her.
Dorothy was exhausted, and her head lay upon my shoulder. Now and again she would softly moan and sob, but she said nothing. After a few minutes of silence Queen Mary spoke:—
"Why did you betray me, you miserable wretch? Why did you betray me?"
Dorothy did not answer. Mary continued:—
"Have I ever injured you in any manner? Have I ever harmed you by thought, word, or deed?"
Dorothy's only answer was a sob.
"Perhaps you are a canting fanatic, and it may be that you hate me for the sake of that which you call the love of God?"
"No, no, madam," I said, "that was not the reason."
"Do you know the reason, Malcolm?" asked Mary, addressing me for the first time. My name upon her lips had a strange effect on me. It was like the wafting to my nostrils of a sweet forgotten odor, or the falling upon my ears of a tender refrain of bygone days. Her voice in uttering my name thrilled me, and I hated myself for my weakness.
I told Mary that I did not know Dorothy's reasons, and she continued:—
"Malcolm, you were not a party to my betrayal for the sake of revenging yourself on me?"
"God forbid!" I answered. "Sir John Manners will assure you of my innocence. I rode with Mistress Vernon to a cross-road within a league of Rutland, hoping thereby to assist her to give you and Sir John the alarm."
My admission soon brought me into trouble.
"I alone am to blame," said Dorothy, faintly.
"I can easily believe you," said Mary, sharply. "Did you expect to injure me?"
No answer came from Dorothy.
"If you expect to injure me," Mary continued, "you will be disappointed. I am a queen, and my Cousin Elizabeth would not dare to harm me, even though she might wish to do so. We are of the same blood, and she will not wish to do me injury. Your doting lover will probably lose his head for bringing me to England without his queen's consent. He is her subject. I am not. I wish you joy of the trouble you have brought upon him and upon yourself."
"Upon him!" cried Dorothy.
"Yes, upon him," continued Mary, relishing the torture she was inflicting. "You will enjoy seeing him beheaded, will you not, you fool, you huzzy, you wretch? I hope his death will haunt you till the end of your days."
Poor Dorothy, leaning against me, said faintly:—
"It will—it will. You—you devil."
The girl was almost dead from exhaustion and anguish, but she would have been dead indeed had she lacked the power to strike back. I believe had it not been for Dorothy's physical weakness she would have silenced Mary with her hands.
After a little time Dorothy's heavy breathing indicated that she had fallen asleep. Her head rested upon my shoulder, and the delicious perfume of her hair and the sweet warm breath from her lips were almost intoxicating even to me, though I was not in love with her. How great must their effect have been coming upon John hot from her intense young soul!
As the link-boys passed the coach some and some with their flambeaux I could see Dorothy's sweet pale face, almost hidden in the tangled golden red hair which fell in floods about her. The perfect oval of her cheek, the long wet lashes, the arched eyebrows, the low broad forehead, the straight nose, the saucy chin—all presented a picture of beauty and pathos sufficient to soften a heart of stone. Mary had no heart of any sort, therefore she was not moved to pity. That emotion, I am sure, she never felt from the first to the last day of her life. She continued to probe Dorothy's wound until I told her the girl was asleep. I changed Dorothy's position and placed her head against the corner cushion of the coach that she might rest more comfortably. She did not awaken when I moved her. She slept and looked like a child. For a little time after I had changed Dorothy's position Mary and I sat in silence. She was the first to speak. She leaned forward and placing her hands upon mine, whispered my name:—
"Malcolm!"
After a brief silence I said:—
"What would you, your Majesty?"
"Not 'your Majesty'" said Mary, softly, "but Mary, as of old."
She remained for a moment with her hand upon my knee, and then whispered:—
"Will you not sit by me, Malcolm?"
I believe that Mary Stuart's voice was the charm wherewith she fascinated men. I resisted to my utmost strength, but that seemed to be little more than utter weakness; so I took a seat by her side, and she gently placed her hand in mine. The warm touch of her strong, delicate fingers gave me a familiar thrill. She asked me to tell her of my wanderings since I had left Scotland, and I briefly related all my adventures. I told her of my home at Haddon Hall and of the welcome given me by my cousin, Sir George.
"Malcolm, have you forgotten?" she whispered, leaning gently against me. "Have you forgotten our old-time vows and love? Have you forgotten all that passed between us in the dear old château, when I gave to you my virgin love, fresh from my virgin heart?" I sighed and tried to harden my heart to her blandishments, for I knew she wished to use me and was tempting me to that end. She continued, "I was then only fourteen years old—ten years ago. You said that you loved me and I believed you. You could not doubt, after the proof I gave to you, that my heart was all yours. We were happy, oh, so happy. Do you remember, Malcolm?"
She brought her face close to mine while she spoke, and pressed my hand upon her breast.
My reason told me that it was but the song of the siren she was singing to my ears. My memory told me that she had been false to me twice two score times, and I knew full well she would again be false to me, or to any other man whom she could use for her purposes, and that she cared not the price at which she purchased him. Bear in mind, you who would blame me for my fall, that this woman not only was transcendently beautiful and fatally fascinating, but she was a queen and had held undisputed sway over my heart for more years than I could accurately number. As I said, added to all her beauty, she was a queen. If you have never known royalty, you cannot understand its enthralling power.
"I remember it all, madam," I replied, trying to hold myself away from her. "It is fresh to me as if it all had happened yesterday." The queen drew my arm closely to her side and nestled her cheek for an instant upon my shoulder.
"I remember also," I continued, "your marriage with Darnley when I had your promise that you would marry me; and, shame upon shame, I remember your marriage with Darnley's murderer, Bothwell."
"Cruel, cruel, Malcolm," she said. "You well know the overpowering reasons of state which impelled me to sacrifice my own happiness by marrying Darnley. I told you at the time that I hated the marriage more than I dreaded death. But I longed to quiet the factions in Scotland, and I hoped to save my poor bleeding people from the evils of war. You know I hated Darnley. You know I loved you. You knew then and you know now that you are the only man who has ever possessed my heart. You know that my words are true. You know that you, alone, have had my love since the time when I was a child."
"And Rizzio?" I asked.
"Ah, Malcolm," she answered tearfully, "I hope you, of all men, do not believe that I ever gave a thought of love to Rizzio. He was to me like my pet monkey or my favorite falcon. He was a beautiful, gentle, harmless soul. I loved him for his music. He worshipped me as did my spaniel."
Still I was determined that her blandishments should not move me.
"And Bothwell?" I asked.
"That is past endurance from you, Malcolm," she said, beginning to weep. "You know I was brutally abducted and was forced into marriage with him. He was an outlaw, an outcast. He was an uncouth brute whom any woman would loathe. I was in his power, and I feigned acquiescence only that I might escape and achieve vengeance upon him. Tell me, Malcolm, tell me," continued Mary, placing her arms about my neck and clinging to me, "tell me, you, to whom I gave my maiden's love, you who have my woman's heart, tell me, do you believe that I could willingly have married Bothwell, even though my heart had not been filled with the image of you, who are strong, gentle, and beautiful?"
You, if you are a man, may think that in my place you would have resisted the attack of this beautiful queen, but if so you think—pardon me, my friend—you are a fool. Under the spell of her magic influence I wavered in the conviction which had long since come upon me, that I had for years been her fool and her dupe. I forgot the former lessons I had learned from her perfidy. I forgot my manhood. I forgot all of good that had of late grown up in me. God help me, I forgot even Madge.
"If I could only believe you, Mary," I answered, growing insane under the influence of her fascinations, "If I could only believe you."
"Give me your lips, Malcolm," she whispered, "give me your lips.—Again, my Malcolm.—Ah, now you believe me."
The lying logic of a wanton kiss is irresistible. I was drunk and, alas! I was convinced. When I think of that time, Samson is my only comfort—Samson and a few hundred million other fools, who like Samson and me have been wheedled, kissed, and duped into misery and ruin.
I said: "I do believe you, Mary. I beg you to forgive me for having doubted you. You have been traduced and brutally misused."
"It is sweet to hear you speak those words. But it is better to think that at last we have come together with nothing to part us save that I am a prisoner in the hands of my vindictive, jealous cousin. I thank God that my kingdom of Scotland has been taken from me. I ever hated the Scots. They are an ignorant, unkempt, wry-necked, stubborn, filthy race. But, above all, my crown stood between you and me. I may now be a woman, and were it not for Elizabeth, you and I could yet find solace in each other for all our past sufferings. Malcolm, I have a sweet thought. If I could escape to fair, beautiful France, all would be happiness for us. You could claim your mother's estates in the balmy south, and we might live upon them. Help me, my Malcolm, to escape, and your reward shall be greater and sweeter than man ever before received from woman."
I struggled against her blandishments for a moment, but I was lost.
"You shall escape and I will go with you," said I. Man needs to make but one little prayer to God, "Lead me not into temptation." That prayer answered, all else of good will follow.
The morning sun had just begun to rise over Bowling Green Hill and the shadows of the night were fleeing before his lances, when our cavalcade entered the grounds of Haddon at the dove-cote. If there were two suns revolving about the earth, one to shine upon us by night and one by day, much evil would be averted. Men do evil in the dark because others cannot see them; they think evil in the dark because they cannot see themselves.
With the first faint gray of dawn there came to me thoughts of Madge. I had forgotten her, but her familiar spirit, the light, brought me back to its fair mistress.
When our coach reached the stone bridge I looked up to the Hall and saw Madge standing at the open casement of the tower window. She had been watching there all night, I learned, hoping for our speedy and safe return, and had been warned of our approach by the noise of the tramping guard. I drew back from the coach window, feeling that I was an evil shade slinking away before the spirit of light.
CHAPTER XV
LIGHT
Dorothy had awakened while we were entering Rowsley, and I was glad that Mary could not touch me again.
When our coach reached the stone steps of the entrance tower we found Sir George, Lady Crawford, and Madge waiting to receive us. The steps and the path leading to them had been carpeted with soft rugs, and Mary, although a prisoner, was received with ceremonies befitting her rank. It was a proud day for Sir George when the roof of his beautiful Hall sheltered the two most famous queens of christendom.
Sir George assisted Mary from the coach most graciously, and in knightly fashion led her to Lady Crawford and Madge, who were standing at the foot of the tower steps. Due presentations were made, and the ladies of Haddon having kissed the queen's hand, Mary went into the Hall upon the arm of his Majesty, the King of the Peak, who stepped forward most proudly.
His resentment against Dorothy was for the moment neutralized by the great honor of which his house and himself were the recipients.
John and Lord Rutland were taken to the dungeon.
I assisted Dorothy from the coach and led her to Madge, who was waiting for us upon the lowest of the steps leading to the entrance tower doorway. Dorothy took Madge's outstretched hand; but Madge, by some strange instinct, knowing of my presence, turned her face toward me. I could not lift my eyes to her face, nor could I endure to remain in her presence. While we were ascending the steps she held out her hand to me and said:—
"Is all well with you, Malcolm?" Her voice was full of tender concern, and it pained me to the heart to hear her speak kindly to me, who was so unworthy of her smallest thought.
"Yes, Lady—yes, Madge," I responded; but she knew from the tones of my voice that all was not right with me.
"I fear, Malcolm, that you do not tell me the truth. You will come to me soon?" she asked.
"I may not be able to go to you soon," I answered, "but I will do so at the first opportunity."
The torture of her kindness was almost unbearable to me. One touch of her hand, one tone of her rare voice, had made me loathe myself. The powers of evil cannot stand for one moment in a fair conflict with the powers of good. I felt that I, alone, was to blame for my treason to Madge; but despite my effort at self-condemnation there was an under-consciousness that Mary Stuart was to blame, and I hated her accordingly. Although Madge's presence hurt me, it was not because I wished to conceal my conduct from her. I knew that I could be happy again only after I had confessed to her and had received forgiveness.
Madge, who was blind of sight, led Dorothy, who was piteously blind of soul, and the two girls went to their apartments.
Curiosity is not foreign even to the royal female breast, and while Mary Stuart was entering Haddon Hall, I saw the luminous head of the Virgin Queen peeked out at a casement on the second floor watching her rival with all the curiosity of a Dutch woman sitting by her window mirror.
I went to my room in Eagle Tower, fell upon my bed, and abandoned myself to an anguish of soul which was almost luxurious. I shall not tease you with the details of my mental and moral processes. I hung in the balance a long time undetermined what course I should pursue. The difference between the influence of Mary and the effect wrought by Madge was the difference between the intoxication and the exhilaration of wine. Following the intoxication of Mary's presence ever came a torturing reaction, while the exhilarating influence of Madge gave health and strength. I chose the latter. I have always been glad I reached that determination without the aid of any impulse outside of myself; for events soon happened which again drove all faith in Mary from my heart forever. Those events would have forced me to abandon my trust in her; but mind you, I took my good resolve from inclination rather than necessity before I learned of Mary's perfidy.
The events of the night had exhausted Dorothy, and she was confined to her bed by illness for the first time in her life. She believed that she was dying, and she did not want to live. I did not go to her apartments. Madge remained with her, and I, coward-like, feared to face the girl to whom I had been untrue.
Dorothy's one and only desire, of course, was to see John, but that desire for a time seemed impossible of accomplishment.
Elizabeth, Cecil, Leicester, and Sir William St. Loe were in secret consultation many times during three or four days and nights. Occasionally Sir George was called into their councils, and that flattering attention so wrought upon the old man's pride that he was a slave to the queen's slightest wish, and was more tyrannical and dictatorial than ever before to all the rest of mankind. There were, however, two persons besides the queen before whom Sir George was gracious: one of these was Mary Stuart, whose powers of fascination had been brought to bear upon the King of the Peak most effectively. The other was Leicester, to whom, as my cousin expressed it, he hoped to dispose of that troublesome and disturbing body—Dorothy. These influences, together with the fact that his enemies of Rutland were in the Haddon dungeon, had given Sir George a spleen-vent, and Dorothy, even in the face of her father's discovery that Manners was her mysterious lover, had for once a respite from Sir George's just and mighty wrath.
The purpose of Elizabeth's many councils of war was to devise some means of obtaining from John and his father, information concerning the plot, which had resulted in bringing Mary Stuart into England. The ultimate purpose of Mary's visit, Elizabeth's counsellors firmly believed to be the dethronement of the English queen and the enthronement of her Scottish cousin. Elizabeth, in her heart, felt confident that John and his father were not parties to the treasonable plot, although she had been warned against each of them. Cecil and Sir William St. Loe also secretly held to that opinion, though neither of them expressed it, Elizabeth was conscious of having given to John while at London court an intimation that she would be willing that Mary should visit England. Of such intimation Cecil and Sir William had no knowledge, though they, together with many persons of the Court, believed that Elizabeth was not entirely averse to Mary's presence.
Lord Rutland and John were questioned by Cecil in the hope of obtaining some hints which might lead to the detection of those concerned in the chief plot, provided such plot existed. But Lord Rutland knew nothing of the affair except that John had brought the Scottish queen from Scotland, and John persisted in the statement that he had no confederate and that he knew nothing of any plot to place Mary upon the English throne.