"Oh, do you think he is bewitched?" cried Dorothy, grasping my arm and looking eagerly into my face. "If I could bewitch him, I would do it. I would deal with the devil gladly to learn the art. I would not care for my soul. I do not fear the future. The present is a thousand-fold dearer to me than either the past or the future. I care not what comes hereafter. I want him now. Ah, Malcolm, pity my shame."

She covered her face with her hands, and after a moment continued: "I am not myself. I belong not to myself. But if I knew that he also suffers, I do believe my pain would be less."

"I think you may set your heart at rest upon that point," I answered. "He, doubtless, also suffers."

"I hope so," she responded, unconscious of the selfish wish she had expressed. "If he does not, I know not what will be my fate."

Dorothy was silent, and I said, "You have not told me about the golden heart."

"I will tell you," she answered. "We rode for two hours or more, and talked of the weather and the scenery, until there was nothing more to be said concerning either. Then Sir John told me of the court in London, where he has always lived, and of the queen whose hair, he says, is red, but not at all like mine. I wondered if he would speak of the beauty of my hair, but he did not. He only looked at it. Then he told me about the Scottish queen whom he once met when he was on an embassy to Edinburgh. He described her marvellous beauty, and I believe he sympathizes with her cause—that is, with her cause in Scotland. He says she has no good cause in England. He is true to our queen. Well—well he talked so interestingly that I could have listened a whole month—yes, all my life."

"I suppose you could," I said.

"Yes," she continued, "but I could not remain longer from home, and when I left him he asked me to accept a keepsake which had belonged to his mother, as a token that there should be no feud between him and me." And she drew from her bosom a golden heart studded with diamonds and pierced by a white silver arrow.

"I, of course, accepted it, then we said 'good-by,' and I put Dolcy to a gallop that she might speedily take me out of temptation."

"Have you ridden to Overhaddon for the purpose of seeing Manners many times since he gave you the heart?" I queried.

"What would you call 'many times'?" she asked, drooping her head.

Nothing I could say would do justice to the subject, so I remained silent.

"But you have not yet told me how your father came to know of the golden heart," I said.

"It was this way: One morning while I was looking at the heart, father came upon me suddenly before I could conceal it. He asked me to tell him how I came by the jewel, and in my fright and confusion I could think of nothing else to say, so I told him you had given it to me. He promised not to speak to you about the heart, but he did not keep his word. He seemed pleased."

"Doubtless he was pleased," said I, hoping to lead up to the subject so near to Sir George's heart, but now farther than ever from mine.

The girl unsuspectingly helped me.

"Father asked if you had spoken upon a subject of great interest to him and to yourself, and I told him you had not. 'When he does speak,' said father most kindly, 'I want you to grant his request'—and I will grant it, Cousin Malcolm." She looked in my face and continued: "I will grant your request, whatever it may be. You are the dearest friend I have in the world, and mine is the most loving and lovable father that girl ever had. It almost breaks my heart when I think of his suffering should he learn of what I have done—that which I just told to you." She walked beside me meditatively for a moment and said, "To-morrow I will return Sir John's gift and I will never see him again."

I felt sure that by to-morrow she would have repented of her repentance; but I soon discovered that I had given her much more time than she needed to perform that trifling feminine gymnastic, for with the next breath she said:—

"Dorothy," said I, seriously but kindly, "have you and Sir John spoken of—"

She evidently knew that I meant to say "of love," for she interrupted me.

"N-o, but surely he knows. And I—I think—at least I hope with all my heart that—"

"I will take the heart to Sir John," said I, interrupting her angrily, "and you need not see him again. He has acted like a fool and a knave. He is a villain, Dorothy, and I will tell him as much in the most emphatic terms I have at my command."

"Dare you speak against him or to him upon the subject!" she exclaimed, her eyes blazing with anger; "you—you asked for my confidence and I gave it. You said I might trust you and I did so, and now you show me that I am a fool indeed. Traitor!"

"My dear cousin," said I, seeing that she spoke the truth in charging me with bad faith, "your secret is safe with me. I swear it by my knighthood. You may trust me. I spoke in anger. But Sir John has acted badly. That you cannot gainsay. You, too, have done great evil. That also you cannot gainsay."

"No," said the girl, dejectedly, "I cannot deny it; but the greatest evil is yet to come."

No girl's heart was more tender to the influence of kindness than Dorothy's. No heart was more obdurate to unkindness or peremptory command.

My words softened her at once, and she tried to smother the anger I had aroused. But she did not entirely succeed, and a spark remained which in a moment or two created a disastrous conflagration. You shall hear.

She walked by my side in silence for a little time, and then spoke in a low, slightly sullen tone which told of her effort to smother her resentment.

"I do trust you, Cousin Malcolm. What is it that you wish to ask of me? Your request is granted before it is made."

"Do not be too sure of that, Dorothy," I replied. "It is a request your father ardently desires me to make, and I do not know how to speak to you concerning the subject in the way I wish."

I could not ask her to marry me, and tell her with the same breath that I did not want her for my wife. I felt I must wait for a further opportunity to say that I spoke only because her father had required me to do so, and that circumstances forced me to put the burden of refusal upon her. I well knew that she would refuse me, and then I intended to explain.

"Why, what is it all about?" asked the girl in surprise, suspecting, I believe, what was to follow.

"It is this: your father is anxious that his vast estates shall not pass out of the family name, and he wishes you to be my wife, so that your children may bear the loved name of Vernon."

"Tell my father that I shall never bear a child by the name of Vernon. I would rather go barren to my grave. Ah! that is why Sir John Manners is a villain? That is why a decisive step should be taken? That is why you come to my father's house a-fortune-hunting? After you have squandered your patrimony and have spent a dissolute youth in profligacy, after the women of the class you have known will have no more of you but choose younger men, you who are old enough to be my father come here and seek your fortune, as your father sought his, by marriage. I do not believe that my father wishes me to—to marry you. You have wheedled him into giving his consent when he was in his cups. But even if he wished it with all his heart, I would not marry you." Then she turned and walked rapidly toward the Hall.

Her fierce words angered me; for in the light of my real intentions her scorn was uncalled for, and her language was insulting beyond endurance. For a moment or two the hot blood rushed to my brain and rendered me incapable of intelligent thought. But as Dorothy walked from me I realized that something must be done at once to put myself right with her. When my fit of temper had cooled, and when I considered that the girl did not know my real intentions, I could not help acknowledging that in view of all that had just passed between us concerning Sir John Manners, and, in fact, in view of all that she had seen and could see, her anger was justifiable.

I called to her: "Dorothy, wait a moment. You have not heard all I have to say."

"Listen till I have finished."

"I will not," she answered viciously. "Do not touch me."

I still held her by the arm and said: "I do not wish to marry you. I spoke only because your father desired me to do so, and because my refusal to speak would have offended him beyond any power of mine to make amends. I could not tell you that I did not wish you for my wife until you had given me an opportunity. I was forced to throw the burden of refusal upon you."

"That is but a ruse—a transparent, flimsy ruse," responded the stubborn, angry girl, endeavoring to draw her arm from my grasp.

"It is not a ruse," I answered. "If you will listen to me and will help me by acting as I suggest, we may between us bring your father to our way of thinking, and I may still be able to retain his friendship."

"What is your great plan?" asked Dorothy, in a voice such as one might expect to hear from a piece of ice.

"I have formed no plan as yet," I replied, "although I have thought of several. Until we can determine upon one, I suggest that you permit me to say to your father that I have asked you to be my wife, and that the subject has come upon you so suddenly that you wish a short time,—a fortnight or a month—in which to consider your answer."

"That is but a ruse, I say, to gain time," she answered contemptuously. "I do not wish one moment in which to consider. You already have my answer. I should think you had had enough. Do you desire more of the same sort? A little of such treatment should go a long way with a man possessed of one spark of honor or self-respect."

Her language would have angered a sheep.

"You slander my father. I will go to him as you advise and will tell him that I would not marry you if you wore the English crown. I, myself, will tell him of my meeting with Sir John Manners rather than allow you the pleasure of doing so. He will be angry, but he will pity me."

"For God's sake, Dorothy, do not tell your father of your meetings at Overhaddon. He would kill you. Have you lived in the same house with him all these years and do you not better know his character than to think that you may go to him with the tale you have just told me, and that he will forgive you? Feel as you will toward me, but believe me when I swear to you by my knighthood that I will betray to no person what you have this day divulged to me."

Dorothy made no reply, but turned from me and rapidly walked toward the Hall. I followed at a short distance, and all my anger was displaced by fear for her. When we reached the Hall she quickly sought her father and approached him in her old free manner, full of confidence in her influence over him.

"Father, this man"—waving her hand toward me—"has come to Haddon Hall a-fortune-hunting. He has asked me to be his wife, and says you wish me to accept him."

"Then you need wish it no longer, for I will not marry him."

"What?" demanded her father, springing to his feet.

"I will not. I will not. I will not."

"You will if I command you to do so, you damned insolent wench," answered Sir George, hoarsely. Dorothy's eyes opened in wonder.

"Do not deceive yourself, father, for one moment," she retorted contemptuously. "He has come here in sheep's clothing and has adroitly laid his plans to convince you that I should marry him, but—"

"He has done nothing of the sort," answered Sir George, growing more angry every moment, but endeavoring to be calm. "Nothing of the sort. Many years ago I spoke to him on this subject, which is very dear to my heart. The project has been dear to me ever since you were a child. When I again broached it to Malcolm a fortnight or more since I feared from his manner that he was averse to the scheme. I had tried several times to speak to him about it, but he warded me off, and when I did speak, I feared that he was not inclined to it."

"Yes," interrupted the headstrong girl, apparently bent upon destroying both of us. "He pretended that he did not wish to marry me. He said he wished me to give a sham consent for the purpose of gaining time till we might hit upon some plan by which we could change your mind. He said he had no desire nor intention to marry me. It was but a poor, lame ruse on his part."

During Dorothy's recital Sir George turned his face from her to me. When she had finished speaking, he looked at me for a moment and said:—

"Does my daughter speak the truth? Did you say—"

"What?" exclaimed Sir George, furious with anger. "You too? You whom I have befriended?"

"I told you, Sir George, I would not marry Dorothy without her free consent. No gentleman of honor would accept the enforced compliance of a woman."

"But Doll says that you told her you had no intention of marrying her even should she consent," replied Sir George.

"I don't know that I spoke those exact words," I replied, "but you may consider them said."

"You damned, ungrateful, treacherous hound!" stormed Sir George. "You listened to me when I offered you my daughter's hand, and you pretended to consent without at the time having any intention of doing so."

"That, I suppose, is true, Sir George," said I, making a masterful effort against anger. "That is true, for I knew that Dorothy would not consent; and had I been inclined to the marriage, I repeat, I would marry no woman against her will. No gentleman would do it."

My remark threw Sir George into a paroxysm of rage.

"I did it, you cur, you dog, you—you traitorous, ungrateful—I did it."

"Then, Sir George," said I, interrupting him, for I was no longer able to restrain my anger, "you were a cowardly poltroon."

"This to me in my house!" he cried, grasping a chair with which to strike me. Dorothy came between us.

"Yes," said I, "and as much more as you wish to hear." I stood my ground, and Sir George put down the chair.

"If you are on my premises in one hour from now I will have you flogged from my door by the butcher."

"What have I done?" cried Dorothy. "What have I done?"

"Your regrets come late, Mistress Vernon," said I.

"She shall have more to regret," said Sir George, sullenly. "Go to your room, you brazen, disobedient huzzy, and if you leave it without my permission, by God, I will have you whipped till you bleed. I will teach you to say 'I won't' when I say 'you shall.' God curse my soul, if I don't make you repent this day!"

As I left the room Dorothy was in tears, and Sir George was walking the floor in a towering rage. The girl had learned that I was right in what I had told her concerning her father's violent temper.

I went at once to my room in Eagle Tower and collected my few belongings in a bundle. Pitifully small it was, I tell you.

Where I should go I knew not, and where I should remain I knew even less, for my purse held only a few shillings—the remnant of the money Queen Mary had sent to me by the hand of Sir Thomas Douglas. England was as unsafe for me as Scotland; but how I might travel to France without money, and how I might without a pass evade Elizabeth's officers who guarded every English port, even were I supplied with gold, were problems for which I had no solution.

There were but two persons in Haddon Hall to whom I cared to say farewell. They were Lady Madge and Will Dawson. The latter was a Scot, and was attached to the cause of Queen Mary. He and I had become friends, and on several occasions we had talked confidentially over Mary's sad plight.

"I have come to say good-by to you, Cousin Madge," said I. The smile vanished from her face.

"You are not going to leave Haddon Hall?" she asked.

"Yes, and forever," I responded. "Sir George has ordered me to go."

"No, no," she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. I supposed that you and my uncle were friends. What has happened? Tell me if you can—if you wish. Let me touch your hand," and as she held out her hands, I gladly grasped them.

Madge, too, had found happiness in our strolling. She had also found health and strength, and, marvellous to say, there had come to her a slight improvement in vision. She had always been able to distinguish sunlight from darkness, but with renewed strength had come the power dimly to discern dark objects in a strong light, and even that small change for the better had brought unspeakable gladness to her heart. She said she owed it all to me. A faint pink had spread itself in her cheeks and a plumpness had been imparted to her form which gave to her ethereal beauty a touch of the material. Nor was this to be regretted, for no man can adequately make love to a woman who has too much of the angel in her. You must not think, however, that I had been making love to Madge. On the contrary, I again say, the thought had never entered my mind. Neither at that time had I even suspected that she would listen to me upon the great theme. I had in my self-analysis assigned many reasons other than love for my tenderness toward her; but when I was about to depart, and she impulsively gave me her hands, I, believing that I was grasping them for the last time, felt the conviction come upon me that she was dearer to me than all else in life.

"Do you want to tell me why my uncle has driven you from Haddon?" she asked.

"He wished me to ask Dorothy to be my wife," I returned.

"And you?" she queried.

"I did so."

"Dorothy refused," I continued, "and her father desired to force her into compliance. I would not be a party to the transaction, and Sir George ordered me to leave his house."

After a moment of painful silence Madge said:—"I do not wonder that you should wish to marry Dorothy. She—she must be very beautiful."

"I do not wish to marry Dorothy," said I. I heard a slight noise back of me, but gave it no heed. "And I should not have married her had she consented. I knew that Dorothy would refuse me, therefore I promised Sir George that I would ask her to be my wife. Sir George had always been my friend, and should I refuse to comply with his wishes, I well knew he would be my enemy. He is bitterly angry against me now; but when he becomes calm, he will see wherein he has wronged me. I asked Dorothy to help me, but she would not listen to my plan."

"—and now she begs your forgiveness," cried Dorothy, as she ran weeping to me, and took my hand most humbly.

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" I exclaimed.

"What frightful evil have I brought upon you?" said she. "Where can you go? What will you do?"

"I know not," I answered. "I shall probably go to the Tower of London when Queen Elizabeth's officers learn of my quarrel with Sir George. But I will try to escape to France."

"Have you money?" asked Madge, tightly holding one of my hands.

"A small sum," I answered.

"How much have you? Tell me. Tell me how much have you," insisted Madge, clinging to my hand and speaking with a force that would brook no refusal.

She quickly withdrew her hand from mine and began to remove the baubles from her ears and the brooch from her throat. Then she nervously stripped the rings from her fingers and held out the little handful of jewels toward me, groping for my hands.

"Take these, Malcolm. Take these, and wait here till I return." She turned toward the staircase, but in her confusion she missed it, and before I could reach her, she struck against the great newel post.

"God pity me," she said, as I took her hand. "I wish I were dead. Please lead me to the staircase, Cousin Malcolm. Thank you."

She was weeping gently when she started up the steps, and I knew that she was going to fetch me her little treasure of gold.

Madge held up the skirt of her gown with one hand while she grasped the banister with the other. She was halfway up when Dorothy, whose generous impulses needed only to be prompted, ran nimbly and was about to pass her on the staircase when Madge grasped her gown.

"Please don't, Dorothy. Please do not. I beg you, do not forestall me. Let me do this. Let me. You have all else to make you happy. Don't take this from me only because you can see and can walk faster than I."

Dorothy did not stop, but hurried past her. Madge sank upon the steps and covered her face with her hands. Then she came gropingly back to me just as Dorothy returned.

"Take these, Cousin Malcolm," cried Dorothy. "Here are a few stones of great value. They belonged to my mother."

"Do you offer me this, too—even this?" I said, lifting the heart from the box by its chain.—"Yes, yes," cried Dorothy, "even that, gladly, gladly." I replaced it in the box.

Then spoke Madge, while she tried to check the falling tears:—"Dorothy, you are a cruel, selfish girl."

"Oh, Madge," cried Dorothy, stepping to her side and taking her hand. "How can you speak so unkindly to me?"

"You have everything good," interrupted Madge. "You have beauty, wealth, eyesight, and yet you would not leave to me the joy of helping him. I could not see, and you hurried past me that you might be first to give him the help of which I was the first to think."

Dorothy was surprised at the outburst from Madge, and kneeled by her side.

"We may both help Cousin Malcolm," she said.

"No, no," responded Madge, angrily. "Your jewels are more than enough. He would have no need of my poor offering."

I took Madge's hand and said, "I shall accept help from no one but you, Madge; from no one but you."

"I will go to our rooms for your box," said Dorothy, who had begun to see the trouble. "I will fetch it for you."

"No, I will fetch it," answered Madge. She arose, and I led her to the foot of the staircase. When she returned she held in her hands a purse and a little box of jewels. These she offered to me, but I took only the purse, saying: "I accept the purse. It contains more money than I shall need. From its weight I should say there are twenty gold pounds sterling."

Tears came to my eyes, and Dorothy wept silently.

"Will you not take the jewels also?" asked Madge.

"No," I responded; "the purse will more than pay my expenses to France, where I have wealthy relatives. There I may have my mother's estate for the asking, and I can repay you the gold. I can never repay your kindness."

"I hope you will never offer to repay the gold," said Madge.

"I will not," I gladly answered.

"As to the kindness," she said, "you have paid me in advance for that many, many times over."

I then said farewell, promising to send letters telling of my fortune. As I was leaving I bent forward and kissed Madge upon the forehead, while she gently pressed my hand, but did not speak a word.

"Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, who held my other hand, "you are a strong, gentle, noble man, and I want you to say that you forgive me."

"I do forgive you, Dorothy, from my heart. I could not blame you if I wished to do so, for you did not know what you were doing."

"Not to know is sometimes the greatest of sins," answered Dorothy. I bent forward to kiss her cheek in token of my full forgiveness, but she gave me her lips and said: "I shall never again be guilty of not knowing that you are good and true and noble, Cousin Malcolm, and I shall never again doubt your wisdom or your good faith when you speak to me." She did doubt me afterward, but I fear her doubt was with good cause. I shall tell you of it in the proper place.

"Sir George ordered me to bring your horse," said Will. "He seemed much excited. Has anything disagreeable happened? Are you leaving us? I see you wear your steel cap and breastplate and are carrying your bundle."

"Yes, Will, your master has quarrelled with me and I must leave his house."

"But where do you go, Sir Malcolm? You remember that of which we talked? In England no place but Haddon Hall will be safe for you, and the ports are so closely guarded that you will certainly be arrested if you try to sail for France."

"I know all that only too well, Will. But I must go, and I will try to escape to France. If you wish to communicate with me, I may be found by addressing a letter in care of the Duc de Guise."

"If I can ever be of help to you," said Will, "personally, or in that other matter, Queen Mary, you understand,—you have only to call on me."

"I thank you, Will," I returned, "I shall probably accept your kind offer sooner than you anticipate. Do you know Jennie Faxton, the ferrier's daughter?"

"I do," he responded.

"I believe she may be trusted," I said.

"Indeed, I believe she is true as any steel in her father's shop," Will responded.

"Good-by, Will, you may hear from me soon."

MINE ENEMY'S ROOF-TREE

I rode down the Wye to Rowsley, and by the will of my horse rather than by any intention of my own took the road up through Lathkil Dale. I had determined if possible to reach the city of Chester, and thence to ride down into Wales, hoping to find on the rough Welsh coast a fishing boat or a smuggler's craft that would carry me to France. In truth, I cared little whether I went to the Tower or to France, since in either case I felt that I had looked my last upon Haddon Hall, and had spoken farewell to the only person in all the world for whom I really cared. My ride from Haddon gave me time for deliberate thought, and I fully agreed with myself upon two propositions. First, I became thoroughly conscious of my real feeling toward Madge, and secondly, I was convinced that her kindness and her peculiar attitude toward me when I parted from her were but the promptings of a tender heart stirred by pity for my unfortunate situation, rather than what I thought when I said farewell to her. The sweet Wye and the beautiful Lathkil whispered to me as I rode beside their banks, but in their murmurings I heard only the music of her voice. The sun shone brightly, but its blessed light only served to remind me of the beautiful girl whom I had left in darkness. The light were worthless to me if I could not share it with her. What a mooning lout was I!

"What is the trouble with you, Sir John, that you look so downcast?" said I, offering my hand.

"Ah," he answered, forcing a poor look of cheerfulness into his face, "Sir Malcolm, 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 me downcast," 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. You need keep nothing from me. The golden heart brought her into trouble, and made mischief for me of which I cannot see the end. I will tell you the story while we ride. I am seeking my way to Chester, that I may, if possible, sail for France. This fork in the road has brought me to a standstill, 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 most direct route to Chester. But tell me, how comes it that you are leaving Haddon 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.

"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 your greatest risk will be at the moment when you try to embark without a passport."

"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 find refuge until such time as you can go to France. I will gladly furnish you money which you may repay at your pleasure, and I may soon be able to procure a passport for you."

I thanked him, but said I did not see my way clear to accept his kind offer.

"You are unknown in the neighborhood of Rutland," he continued, "and you may easily remain incognito." Although his offer was greatly to my liking, I suggested several objections, chief among which was the distaste Lord Rutland might feel toward one of my name. I would not, of course, consent that my identity should be concealed from him. But to be brief—an almost impossible achievement for me, it seems—Sir John assured me of his father's welcome, and it was arranged between us that I should take my baptismal name, François de Lorraine, and passing for a French gentleman on a visit to England, should go to Rutland with my friend. So it happened through the strange workings of fate that I found help and refuge under my enemy's roof-tree.

Kind old Lord Rutland welcomed me, as his son had foretold, and I was convinced ere I had passed an hour under his roof that the feud between him and Sir George was of the latter's brewing.

On the morning of the day after my departure from Haddon, Jennie Faxton went to visit Dorothy and gave her a piece of information, small in itself, but large in its effect upon that ardent young lady. Will Fletcher, the arrow-maker at Overhaddon, had observed Dorothy's movements in connection with Manners; and although Fletcher did not know who Sir John 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 his daughter is carrying on with a young man who does come here every day or two to meet her, and I do intend to tell Sir George if she put not a stop to it," said Fletcher to some of his gossips in Yulegrave churchyard one Sunday afternoon.

Dorothy notified John, Jennie being the messenger, of Will's observations, visual and verbal, and designated another place for meeting,—the gate east of Bowling Green Hill. This gate was part of a wall on the east side of the Haddon estates adjoining the lands of the house of Devonshire which lay to the eastward. It was a secluded spot in the heart of the forest half a mile distant from Haddon Hall.

Sir George, for a fortnight or more after my disappearance, enforced his decree of imprisonment against Dorothy, and she, being unable to leave the Hall, could not go to Bowling Green Gate to meet Sir John. Before I had learned of the new trysting-place John had ridden thither several evenings to 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 his confidence, nor did he give it.

As I have told you, Sir George was very rich. No man, either noble or gentle, in Derbyshire or in any of the adjoining counties, possessed so great an estate or so beautiful a hall as did he. In France we would have called Haddon Hall a grand château.

Sir George's deceased wife had been a sister to the Earl of Derby, who lived 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 a dissipated, rustic clown—almost a simpleton. He had the vulgarity of a stable boy and the vices of a courtier. His associates were chosen from the ranks of gamesters, ruffians, and tavern maids. Still, he was a scion of one of the greatest families of England's nobility.

After Sir George's trouble with Dorothy, growing out of his desire that I should wed her, the King of the Peak had begun to feel that in his beautiful daughter he had upon his hands a commodity that might at any time cause him trouble. He therefore determined to marry her to some eligible gentleman as quickly as possible, and to place the heavy responsibility of managing her in the hands of a husband. The stubborn violence of Sir George's nature, the rough side of which had never before been shown to Dorothy, in her became adroit wilfulness of a quality that no masculine mind may compass. But her life had been so entirely undisturbed by opposing influences that her father, firm in the belief that no one in his household would dare to thwart his will, had remained in dangerous ignorance of the latent trouble which pervaded his daughter from the soles of her shapely feet to the top of her glory-crowned head.

"You have always been so kind and good to me, father, that I shall try to obey 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 shall obey!"

"Oh, father, I am so young. I have not seen my cousin for years. I do not want to leave you, and I have never thought twice of any man. Do not drive me from you."

Then said rare Dorothy:—

"It would indeed be a great match." Greater than ever will happen, she thought. "I should be a countess." She strutted across the room with head up and with dilating nostrils. The truth was, she desired to gain her liberty once more that she might go to John, and was ready to promise anything 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 her father might be suspicious of a too ready acquiescence.

"But you will obey me," answered Sir George, half in command and half in entreaty.

"There are not many girls who would refuse the coronet of a countess." She then seated herself upon her father's knee and kissed him, while Sir George 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 her way.

John received the letter in the evening, and all next day he passed the time whistling, singing, and looking now and again at his horologue. He walked about the castle like a happy wolf in a pen. He did not tell me there 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 for Bowling Green Gate with joy and anticipation in his heart and pain in his conscience. As he rode, he resolved again and again that the interview toward which he was hastening should be the last he would have with Dorothy. But when he pictured the girl to himself, and thought upon her marvellous beauty and infinite winsomeness, his conscience was drowned in his longing, and he resolved that he would postpone resolving until the morrow.

After John had waited a weary time, the form of the girl appeared above the crest of the hill. She was holding up the skirt of her gown, and glided 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 in perfect harmony of color and form and movement; if there is aught of beauty, in God's power to create that can set you pulsing, beat! for the fairest creature of His hand is hastening to greet you. The wind had dishevelled her hair and it was blowing in fluffy curls of golden red about 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 for John's heart it almost smothered him with its beating. He had never before supposed that he could experience such violent throbbing within his breast and live. But at last she was at the gate, in all her exquisite beauty and winsomeness, and something must be done to make the heart conform to the usages of good society. She, too, was in trouble with her breathing, but John thought that her trouble was owing to exertion. However that may have been, nothing in heaven or earth was ever so beautiful, so radiant, so graceful, or so fair as this girl who had come to give herself to John. It seems that I cannot take myself away from the attractive theme.

"Ah, Sir John, you did come," said the girl, joyously.

"I fear I have caused you fatigue," said John, again thinking, and with good reason, that he was a fool.

The English language, which he had always supposed to be his mother tongue, had deserted him as if it were his step-mother. After all, the difficulty, as John subsequently said, was that Dorothy's beauty had deprived him of the power to think. He could only see. He was entirely disorganized 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," answered disorganized John.

"So I did," she returned. Then she gave a great sigh and said, "Now I am all right again."

All right? So is the morning sun, so is the arching rainbow, and so are the flitting lights of the north in midwinter. All are "all right" because God made them, as He made Dorothy, perfect, each after its kind.

A long, uneasy pause ensued. Dorothy felt the embarrassing silence less than John, and could have helped him greatly had she wished to do so. But she had made the advances at their former meetings, and as she had told me, 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.

Dorothy listened attentively while John on the opposite side of the gate discoursed limpingly on the above-named themes; and although in former interviews she had found those topics quite interesting, upon that occasion she had come to Bowling Green Gate to listen to something else and was piqued not to hear it. After ten or fifteen minutes she said demurely:—

"I may not remain here longer. I shall be missed at the Hall. I regained my liberty but yesterday, and father will be suspicious of me during the next 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 not feared to say too much. Despite Dorothy's witchery, honor, conscience, and prudence still bore weight with him, and they all dictated that he should cling to the shreds of his resolution and not allow matters to go too far between him and this fascinating girl. He was much in love with her; but Dorothy had reached at a bound a height to which he was still climbing. Soon John, also, was to reach the pinnacle whence honor, conscience, and prudence 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 at sunset some future day." John's silence upon a certain theme had given offence.

"I cannot tell you how greatly I thank you," cried John.

"I brought this key, thinking that you might wish to unlock the gate—and come to—to this side. I had great difficulty in taking it from the forester'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, and moved 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 is rapidly falling, and I must return to the Hall."

John began to climb the gate, but she stopped him. He had thrown away his opportunity.

"Please do not follow me, Sir John," said she, still moving backward. "I must not remain longer."

"Only for one moment," pleaded John.

"No," the girl responded, "I—I may, perhaps, bring the key when I come again. I am glad, Sir John, that you came to meet me this evening." She courtesied, and then hurried away toward Haddon Hall. Twice she looked backward and waved her hand, and John stood watching her through the bars till her form was lost to view beneath the crest of Bowling Green Hill.

Then John mounted his horse and rode homeward the unhappiest happy man in England. 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 told me of his interview with Dorothy and extolled her beauty, grace, and winsomeness which, in truth, as you know, were matchless. But when he spoke 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 fact that one might say—might call—that one might feel that her conduct is—that it might be—you know, well—it might be called by some persons not knowing all the facts in the case, immodest—I hate to use the word with reference to her—yet it does not appear to me to have been at all immodest in Mistress Vernon, and, Sir Malcolm, I should be deeply offended were 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 firm belief in the fact that my cousin Dorothy is the flower of modesty. Does that better suit you?"

"I will not quarrel with you," he returned; "but in plain words, I do not like the tone in which you speak of her. It hurts me, and I do not believe you 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 is modest and pure. As for her conduct toward you, there is a royal quality about beauty such as my cousin possesses which gives an air of graciousness to acts that in a plainer girl would seem bold. Beauty, like royalty, has its own prerogatives."

For a fortnight after the adventures just related, John, in pursuance of his oft-repeated resolution not to see Dorothy, rode every evening to Bowling Green Gate; but during that time he failed to see her, and the resolutions, with each failure, became weaker and fewer.

One evening, after many disappointments, John came to my room bearing in his hands a letter which he said Jennie Faxton had delivered to him at Bowling Green Gate.

"Mistress Vernon," said John, "and Lady Madge Stanley will ride to Derby-town to-morrow. They will go in the Haddon Hall coach, and Dawson will drive. Mistress Vernon writes to me thus:—

"I suppose the gentleman will be solicitous concerning Lady Crawford's health 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 gracious than 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 poor Lady Crawford to be ill that you might witness Mistress Dorothy's modesty?"

"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. She might love me to the extent that I sometimes hope; but her father and mine would never consent to our union, and she, I fear, could not be induced to marry 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 beating with an ardent wish and a new-born hope, "and you may be unable, after all, 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 will which usually finds a way.

"If you wish me to go with you to Derby-town, I will do so. Perhaps I may be able to entertain Lady Madge while you have a word with Dorothy. What think 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 for the purpose of inquiring about Lady Crawford's health, though for me the expedition was full of hazard.