"He went northward," answered Sir George.

"Inside the wall?" asked Dorothy, beginning again to breathe freely, for she knew that John had ridden southward.

"Inside the wall, of course," her father replied. "Do you suppose I could see him through the stone wall? One should be able to see through a stone wall to keep good watch on you."

"You might have thought you saw him through the wall," answered the girl. "I sometimes think of late, father, that you are losing your mind. You drink too much brandy, my dear father. Oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if you were to lose your mind?" She rose as she spoke, and going to her father began to stroke him gently with her hand. She looked into his face with real affection; for when she deceived him, she loved him best as a partial atonement for her ill-doing.

"Wouldn't that be dreadful?" she continued, while Sir George stood lost in bewilderment. "Wouldn't that be dreadful for my dear old father to lose his mind? But I really think it must be coming to pass. A great change has of late come over you, father. You have for the first time in your life been unkind to me and suspicious. Father, do you realize that you insult your daughter when you accuse her of having been in this secluded place with a man? You would punish another for speaking so against my fair name."

"But, Dorothy," Sir George replied, feeling as if he were in the wrong, "Ben Shaw said that he saw you here with a man, and I saw a man pass toward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name."

"Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, as the result of her mental search. "He passed here a little time since and stopped for a moment to talk. Perhaps you saw Malcolm, father. You would not find fault with me because he was here, would you?"

"Dorothy, my daughter," said Sir George, hesitatingly, "are you telling me the truth?"

Then the fair girl lifted up her beautiful head, and standing erect at her full height (it pains me to tell you this) said: "Father, I am a Vernon. I would not lie."

Her manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced.

He said, "I believe you."

Her father's confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point of repentance, I hardly need say.

Dorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare me to answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me. She took Dolcy's rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested the other upon her father's arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to the Hall, very happy because of her lucky escape.

But a lie is always full of latent retribution.

I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothy and her father entered.

"I thought you were walking."

I was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, "No, I am helping old Bess and Jennie with supper."

"Have you not been walking?" asked Sir George.

There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I was surprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. But Sir George's expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when compared with that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not only was her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body were convulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, I could not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only too readable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stamped her foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips and nodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost upon me, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. The expression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of my gaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mighty pantomimic effort at mute communication.

"Why in the devil's name are you making those grimaces?" demanded Sir George.

"I wasn't making grimaces—I—I think I was about to sneeze," replied Dorothy.

"Do you think I am blind?" stormed Sir George. "Perhaps I am losing my mind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you at Bowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I'll show you that if I am losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house."

"Ask Malcolm," repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father's breast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for, in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demanded excitedly of Dorothy, "What have you in your pocket that strikes against my knee?"

"Mother of Heaven!" exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping back from her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward her pocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness by sudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face which filled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holding with one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched the key in her pocket.

Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, but she was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown and tore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom. Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece of white paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made in the gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he felt sure, was from Dorothy's unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for a time, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her face from her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, "Malcolm." Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help I have never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take the letter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he would strike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and he took up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:—

"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then I saw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herself upon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembled as a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree may tremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. While she clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and her wondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expression was the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension. Her face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Her fear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped her fingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying to make, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for less than one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyed even one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and to caress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of rest in my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength.

"Where is the paper?" he cried in rage. "It contained the fellow's signature."

"I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it. Doubtless that would be a pleasant task for you," answered Dorothy, who was comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discover John's name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girl had he then learned that the letter was from John Manners.

"I did give her the heart, Sir George," I said, interrupting him. "It was my mother's." I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in his violence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for his anger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but her deception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love that had come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meeting with Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I also believe, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not a thief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. She was gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but I believe she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love. Some few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an ocean of love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart and soul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class was Dorothy.

"God is love," says the Book.

"The universe is God," says the philosopher. "Therefore," as the mathematician would say, "love is the universe." To that proposition Dorothy was a corollary.

The servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen.

"Let us go to the dining hall," I suggested. Sir George led the way by the stone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquet hail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand.

When we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, Sir George turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to know the name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and said nothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room.

"Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tell me the name of the man who wrote this letter," he cried, holding toward her the fragment of paper. "Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, I swear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper court till you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child."

Then Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only for herself she had to fear.

Her heart kept saying, "This for his sake, this for his sake." Out of her love came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action.

Her father's oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodice from her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:—

"I am ready for the whip, I am ready. Who is to do the deed, father, you or the butcher? It must be done. You have sworn it, and I swear before God and by my maidenhood that I will not tell you the name of the man who wrote the letter. I love him, and before I will tell you his name or forego his love for me, or before I will abate one jot or tittle of my love for him, I will gladly die by the whip in your hand. I am ready for the whip, father. I am ready. Let us have it over quickly."

"Father," continued the terrible girl, "are you not going to flog me? Remember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before God and upon your knighthood. A forsworn Christian? A forsworn knight? A forsworn Vernon? The lash, father, the lash—I am eager for it."

Sir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward the door. Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, and she whispered the words, "Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!"

As she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his arms toward her and in a wail of agony cried: "Doll! Doll! My daughter! My child! God help me!"

He covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment as the tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbing forth the anguish of which his soul was full.

In an instant Dorothy was by her father's side holding his head upon her lap. She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamed from her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance.

"I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all. I will give him up; I will see him never again. I will try not to love him. Oh, father, forgive me, forgive me. I will never again deceive you so long as I live."

Truly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken. When one swears to do too much, one performs too little.

I helped Sir George rise to his feet.

Dorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but he repulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her name quitted the room with tottering steps.

"But you said you would tell him," I suggested. "You said you would give him up."

Dorothy was in a deep revery. She took her bodice from the floor and mechanically put it on.

"I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give—give him up," she replied; "but I will do neither. Father would not meet my love with love. He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance when it was he who should have repented. I was alarmed and grieved for father's sake when I said that I would tell him about—about John, and would give him up." She was silent and thoughtful for a little time. "Give him up?" she cried defiantly. "No, not for my soul; not for ten thousand thousand souls. When my father refused my love, he threw away the only opportunity he shall ever have to learn from me John's name. That I swear, and I shall never be forsworn. I asked father's forgiveness when he should have begged for mine. Whip me in the courtyard, would he, till I should bleed! Yet I was willing to forgive him, and he would not accept my forgiveness. I was willing to forego John, who is more than life to me; but my father would not accept my sacrifice. Truly will I never be so great a fool the second time. Malcolm, I will not remain here to be the victim of another insult such as my father put upon me to-day. There is no law, human or divine, that gives to a parent the right to treat his daughter as my father has used me. Before this day my conscience smote me when I deceived him, and I suffered pain if I but thought of my father. But now, thanks to his cruelty, I may be happy without remorse. Malcolm, if you betray me, I will—I will kill you if I must follow you over the world to do it."

"No, no, my dear friend, forgive me. I trust you," and she caught up my hand and kissed it gently.

Dorothy and I remained in the banquet hail, seated upon the stone bench under the blazoned window.

Soon Sir George returned, closely followed by two men, one of whom bore manacles such as were used to secure prisoners in the dungeon. Sir George did not speak. He turned to the men and motioned with his hand toward Dorothy. I sprang to my feet, intending to interfere by force, if need be, to prevent the outrage; but before I could speak Lady Crawford hurriedly entered the hall and ran to Sir George's side.

"Brother," she said, "old Bess has just told me that you have given orders for Dorothy's confinement in the dungeon. I could not believe Bess; but these men with irons lead me to suspect that you really intend.—"

"Do not interfere in affairs that do not concern you," replied Sir George, sullenly.

"But this does concern me greatly," said Aunt Dorothy, "and if you send Doll to the dungeon, Madge and I will leave your house and will proclaim your act to all England."

"The girl has disobeyed me and has lied to me, and—"

"I care not what she has done, I shall leave your house and disown you for my brother if you perpetrate this outrage upon my niece. She is dear to me as if she were my own child. Have I not brought her up since babyhood? If you carry out this order, brother, I will leave Haddon Hall forever."

"And I'll go with her," cried old Bess, who stood at the door of the screens.

"And I, too," said Dawson, who was one of the men who had entered with Sir George.

Sir George took up the manacles and moved toward Dorothy.

"You may all go, every cursed one of you. I rule my own house, and I will have no rebels in it. When I have finished with this perverse wench, I'll not wait for you to go. I'll drive you all out and you may go to—"

He was approaching Dorothy, but I stepped in front of him.

"This must not be, Sir George," said I, sternly. "I shall not leave Haddon Hall, and I fear you not. I shall remain here to protect your daughter and you from your own violence. You cannot put me out of Haddon Hall; I will not go."

"Why cannot I put you out of Haddon Hail?" retorted Sir George, whose rage by that time was frightful to behold.

"Because, sir, I am a better man and a better swordsman than you are, and because you have not on all your estates a servant nor a retainer who will not join me against you when I tell them the cause I champion."

Dawson and his fellow stepped to my side significantly, and Sir George raised the iron manacles as if intending to strike me. I did not move. At the same moment Madge entered the room.

"Where is my uncle?" she asked.

Old Bess led her to Sir George. She spoke not a word, but placed her arms gently about his neck and drew his face down to hers. Then she kissed him softly upon the lips and said:—

"My uncle has never in all his life spoken in aught but kindness to me, and now I beg him to be kind to Dorothy."

The heavy manacles fell clanking to the floor. Sir George placed his hand caressingly upon Madge's head and turned from Dorothy.

"Come with me, George, that I may speak to you in private."

She moved toward the door by which she had entered, and Madge quietly took her uncle's hand and led him after Lady Crawford. Within five minutes Sir George, Aunt Dorothy, and Madge returned to the room.

"Dorothy?" said Madge in a low voice.

"Here I am, Madge," murmured Dorothy, who was sitting on the bench by the blazoned window. Madge walked gropingly over to her cousin and sat by her side, taking her hand. Then Lady Crawford spoke to Dorothy:—

"Your father wishes me to say that you must go to your apartments in Entrance Tower, and that you shall not leave them without his consent. He also insists that I say to you if you make resistance or objection to this decree, or if you attempt to escape, he will cause you to be manacled and confined in the dungeon, and that no persuasion upon our part will lead him from his purpose."

"Which shall it be?" asked Sir George, directing his question to Lady Crawford.

Dorothy lifted her eyebrows, bit the corner of her lip, shrugged her shoulders, and said:—

"Indeed, it makes no difference to me where you send me, father; I am willing to do whatever will give you the greatest happiness. If you consult my wishes, you will have me whipped in the courtyard till I bleed. I should enjoy that more than anything else you can do. Ah, how tender is the love of a father! It passeth understanding."

"Which shall it be, father?" asked Dorothy. "You shall finish the task you began. I shall not help you in your good work by making choice. You shall choose my place of imprisonment. Where shall it be? Shall I go to my rooms or to the dungeon?"

"Go to your rooms," answered Sir George, "and let me never see—" but Sir George did not finish the sentence. He hurriedly left the hall, and Dorothy cheerfully went to imprisonment in Entrance Tower.

MALCOLM No. 2

Sir George had done a bad day's work. He had hardened Dorothy's heart against himself and had made it more tender toward John. Since her father had treated her so cruelly, she felt she was at liberty to give her heart to John without stint. So when once she was alone in her room the flood-gates of her heart were opened, and she poured forth the ineffable tenderness and the passionate longings with which she was filled. With solitude came the memory of John's words and John's kisses. She recalled every movement, every word, every tone, every sensation. She gave her soul unbridled license to feast with joyous ecstasy upon the thrilling memories. All thoughts of her father's cruelty were drowned in a sea of bliss. She forgot him. In truth, she forgot everything but her love and her lover. That evening, after she had assisted Madge to prepare for bed, as was her custom, Dorothy stood before her mirror making her toilet for the night. In the flood of her newly found ecstasy she soon forgot that Madge was in the room.

Dorothy stood before her mirror with her face near to its polished surface, that she might scrutinize every feature, and, if possible, verify John's words.

"He called me 'my beauty' twice," she thought, "and 'my Aphrodite' once." Then her thoughts grew into unconscious words, and she spoke aloud:—

With thoughts of the scene between herself and her father at the gate, there came a low laugh, half of amusement, half of contentment, and the laugh meant a great deal that was to be regretted; it showed a sad change in Dorothy's heart. But yesterday the memory of her deceit would have filled her with grief. To-night she laughed at it. Ah, Sir George! Pitiable old man! While your daughter laughs, you sigh and groan and moan, and your heart aches with pain and impotent rage. Even drink fails to bring comfort to you. I say impotent rage, because Dorothy is out of your reach, and as surely as the sun rises in the east she is lost to you forever. The years of protection and tender love which you have given to her go for nothing. Now comes the son of your mortal enemy, and you are but an obstruction in her path. Your existence is forgotten while she revels in the memory of his words, his embraces, and his lips. She laughs while you suffer, in obedience to the fate that Heaven has decreed for those who bring children into this world.

Who is to blame for the pitiable mite which children give in return for a parent's flood of love? I do not know, but of this I am sure: if parents would cease to feel that they own their children in common with their horses, their estates, and their cattle; if they would not, as many do in varying degrees, treat their children as their property, the return of love would be far more adequate than it is.

Again forgetfulness fell upon her and her thoughts grew into words.

"He was surely right concerning my lower lip," she said, speaking to herself. Then without the least apparent relevance, "He had been smoking." Again her words broke her revery, and she took up the unfinished braid of hair. When she did so, she caught a glimpse of her arm which was as perfectly rounded as the fairest marble of Phidias. She stretched the arm to its full length that the mirror might reflect its entire beauty. Again she thought aloud: "I wish he could see my arm. Perhaps some day—" But the words ceased, and in their place came a flush that spread from her hair to her full white throat, and she quickly turned the mirror away so that even it should not behold her beauty.

You see after all is told Dorothy was modest.

Dorothy thought that Madge was asleep, but after a few minutes the latter said:—

"Tell me, Dorothy, who was on fire?"

"Who was on fire?" asked Dorothy in surprise. "What do you mean, Madge?"

"I hope they have not been trying to burn any one," said Madge.

"What do you mean?" again asked Dorothy.

"You said 'He had been smoking,'" responded Madge.

"Oh," laughed Dorothy, "that is too comical. Of course not, dear one. I was speaking of—of a man who had been smoking tobacco, as Malcolm does." Then she explained the process of tobacco smoking.

"Yes, I know," answered Madge. "I saw Malcolm's pipe. That is, I held it in my hands for a moment while he explained to me its use."

Silence ensued for a moment, and Madge again spoke:—

"What was it he said about your lower lip, and who was he? I did not learn why Uncle George wished to confine you in the dungeon. I am so sorry that this trouble has come upon you."

"Trouble, Madge?" returned Dorothy. "Truly, you do not understand. No trouble has come upon me. The greatest happiness of my life has come to pass. Don't pity me. Envy me. My happiness is so sweet and so great that it frightens me."

"How can you be happy while your father treats you so cruelly?" asked Madge.

"Who is he, Dorothy? You may trust me. Is he the gentleman whom we met at Derby-town?"

"Yes," answered Dorothy, "he is Sir John Manners."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Madge in tones of fear.

"It could not be worse, could it, Madge?" said Dorothy.

"Oh, Dorothy!" was the only response.

"You will not betray me?" asked Dorothy, whose alarm made her suspicious.

"You know whether or not I will betray you," answered Madge.

"Indeed, I know, else I should not have told you my secret. Oh, you should see him, Madge; he is the most beautiful person living. The poor soft beauty of the fairest woman grows pale beside him. You cannot know how wonderfully beautiful a man may be. You have never seen one."

"Yes, I have seen many men, and I well remember their appearance. I was twelve years old, you know, when I lost my sight."

"But, Madge," said Dorothy, out of the fulness of her newly acquired knowledge, "a girl of twelve cannot see a man."

"No woman sees with her eyes the man whom she loves," answered Madge, quietly.

"How does she see him?" queried Dorothy.

"With her heart."

"Have you, too, learned that fact?" asked Dorothy.

Madge hesitated for a moment and murmured "Yes."

"Who is he, dear one?" whispered Dorothy.

Dorothy insisted, but Madge begged her not to ask for her secret.

"Please don't even make a guess concerning him," said Madge. "It is my shame and my joy."

It looked as if this malady which had fallen upon Dorothy were like the plague that infects a whole family if one but catch it.

Dorothy, though curious, was generous, and remained content with Madge's promise that she should be the first one to hear the sweet story if ever the time should come to tell it.

"When did you see him?" asked Madge, who was more willing to receive than to impart intelligence concerning affairs of the heart.

"To-day," answered Dorothy. Then she told Madge about the scenes at the gate and described what had happened between her and Sir George in the kitchen and banquet hall.

"How could you tell your father such a falsehood?" asked Madge in consternation.

"It was very easy. You see I had to do it. I never lied until recently. But oh, Madge, this is a terrible thing to come upon a girl!" "This" was somewhat indefinite, but Madge understood, and perhaps it will be clear to you what Dorothy meant. The girl continued: "She forgets all else. It will drive her to do anything, however wicked. For some strange cause, under its influence she does not feel the wrong she does. It acts upon a girl's sense of right and wrong as poppy juice acts on pain. Before it came upon me in—in such terrible force, I believe I should have become ill had I told my father a falsehood. I might have equivocated, or I might have evaded the truth in some slight degree, but I could not have told a lie. But now it is as easy as winking."

"Yes," answered candid Dorothy with a sigh.

"It must be a very great evil," said Madge, deploringly.

"One might well believe so," answered Dorothy, "but it is not. One instinctively knows it to be the essence of all that is good."

Madge asked, "Did Sir John tell you that—that he—"

"Yes," said Dorothy, covering her face even from the flickering rays of the rushlight.

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes," came in reply from under the coverlet.

After a short silence Dorothy uncovered her face.

"Yes," she said boldly, "I told him plainly; nor did I feel shame in so doing. It must be that this strange love makes one brazen. You, Madge, would die with shame had you sought any man as I have sought John. I would not for worlds tell you how bold and over-eager I have been."

"Oh, Dorothy!" was all the answer Madge gave.

"You would say 'Oh, Dorothy,' many times if you knew all." Another pause ensued, after which Madge asked:—

"How did you know he had been smoking?"

"I—I tasted it," responded Dorothy.

"How could you taste it? I hope you did not smoke?" returned Madge in wonderment.

Dorothy smothered a little laugh, made two or three vain attempts to explain, tenderly put her arms about Madge's neck and kissed her.

"Oh, Dorothy, that certainly was wrong," returned Madge, although she had some doubts in her own mind upon the point.

"Well, if it is wrong," answered Dorothy, sighing, "I don't care to live."

"I fear I am, but I don't care—John, John, John!"

"How came he to speak of your lower lip?" asked Madge. "It certainly is very beautiful; but how came he to speak of it?"

"It was after—after—once," responded Dorothy.

"And your arm," continued remorseless Madge, "how came he to speak of it? You surely did not—"

"No, no, Madge; I hope you do not think I would show him my arm. I have not come to that. I have a poor remnant of modesty left; but the Holy Mother only knows how long it will last. No, he did not speak of my arm."

"You spoke of your arm when you were before the mirror," responded Madge, "and you said, 'Perhaps some day—'"

"Oh, don't, Madge. Please spare me. I indeed fear I am very wicked. I will say a little prayer to the Virgin to-night. She will hear me, even If I am wicked; and she will help me to become good and modest again."

The girls went to sleep, and Dorothy dreamed "John, John, John," and slumbered happily.

That part of the building of Haddon Hall which lies to the northward, west of the kitchen, consists of rooms according to the following plan:—

Let me tell you of it.

During Dorothy's imprisonment I spent an hour or two each evening with her and Madge at their parlor in the tower. The windows of the room, as I have told you, faced westward, overlooking the Wye, and disclosed the beautiful, undulating scenery of Overhaddon Hill in the distance.

One afternoon when Madge was not present Dorothy asked me to bring her a complete suit of my garments,—boots, hose, trunks, waistcoat, and doublet. I laughed, and asked her what she wanted with them, but she refused to tell me. She insisted, however, and I promised to fetch the garments to her. Accordingly the next evening I delivered the bundle to her hands. Within a week she returned them all, saving the boots. Those she kept—for what reason I could not guess.

Dorothy had made several attempts to obtain possession of the key, with intent, I believe, of making a bold dash for liberty. But Aunt Dorothy, mindful of Sir George's wrath and fearing him above all men, acted faithfully her part of gaoler. She smiled, half in sadness, when she told me of the girl's simplicity in thinking she could hoodwink a person of Lady Crawford's age, experience, and wisdom. The old lady took great pride in her own acuteness. The distasteful task of gaoler, however, pained good Aunt Dorothy, whose simplicity was, in truth, no match for Dorothy's love-quickened cunning. But Aunt Dorothy's sense of duty and her fear of Sir George impelled her to keep good and conscientious guard.

One afternoon near the hour of sunset I knocked for admission at Lady Crawford's door. When I had entered she locked the door carefully after me, and replaced the key in the reticule which hung at her girdle.

I exchanged a few words with her Ladyship, and entered Dorothy's bedroom, where I left my cloak, hat, and sword. The girls were in the parlor. When I left Lady Crawford she again took her chair near the candle, put on her great bone-rimmed spectacles, and was soon lost to the world in the pages of "Sir Philip de Comynges." The dear old lady was near-sighted and was slightly deaf. Dorothy's bedroom, like Lady Crawford's apartments, was in deep shadow. In it there was no candle.

Madge and I sat for a few minutes at the window, and I said, "You have not been out to-day for exercise."

I had ridden to Derby with Sir George and had gone directly on my return to see my two young friends. Sir George had not returned.

"Will you walk with me about the room?" I asked. My real reason for making the suggestion was that I longed to clasp her hand, and to feel its velvety touch, since I should lead her if we walked.

She quickly rose in answer to my invitation and offered me her hand. As we walked to and fro a deep, sweet contentment filled my heart, and I felt that any words my lips could coin would but mar the ineffable silence.

Never shall I forget the soft light of that gloaming as the darkening red rays of the sinking sun shot through the panelled window across the floor and illumined the tapestry upon the opposite wall.

The tapestries of Haddon Hall are among the most beautiful in England, and the picture upon which the sun's rays fell was that of a lover kneeling at the feet of his mistress. Madge and I passed and repassed the illumined scene, and while it was softly fading into shadow a great flood of tender love for the girl whose soft hand I held swept over my heart. It was the noblest motive I had ever felt.

She answered simply, "Malcolm, is it possible?" And her face, illumined by the sunlight and by the love-god, told me all else. Then I gently took her to my arms and kissed her lips again and again and again, and Madge by no sign nor gesture said me nay. She breathed a happy sigh, her head fell upon my breast, and all else of good that the world could offer compared with her was dross to me.

We again took our places by the window, since now I might hold her hand without an excuse. By the window we sat, speaking little, through the happiest hour of my I life. How dearly do I love to write about it, and to lave my soul in the sweet aromatic essence of its memory. But my rhapsodies must have an end.

When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom and quickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I had lent her. Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak. She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slim waist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, and turned up the collar of my cloak. Then she adjusted about her chin and upper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some manner contrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of Malcolm Vernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.

The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford's room its slanting rays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow, save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which the old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously perusing.

The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be deepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the most graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld. I wondered if she thought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a copy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.

"What do you read, Lady Crawford?" said my cloak and hat, in tones that certainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.

"What do you say, Malcolm?" asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to show the ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.

"I asked what do you read?" repeated Dorothy.

"The 'Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,'" responded Lady Crawford. "Have you read it? It is a rare and interesting history."

"Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book. I have read it many times." There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly brought Dorothy into trouble.

"That is hard for me to say. I so well like it all. Perhaps—ah—perhaps I prefer the—the ah—the middle portion."

"Ah, you like that part which tells the story of Mary of Burgundy," returned Aunt Dorothy. "Oh, Malcolm, I know upon what theme you are always thinking—the ladies, the ladies."

"Can the fair Lady Crawford chide me for that?" my second self responded in a gallant style of which I was really proud. "She who has caused so much of that sort of thought surely must know that a gentleman's mind cannot be better employed than—"

"Malcolm, you are incorrigible. But it is well for a gentleman to keep in practice in such matters, even though he have but an old lady to practise on."

"They like it, even if it be only practice, don't they?" said Dorothy, full of the spirit of mischief.

"I thank you for nothing, Sir Malcolm Vernon," retorted Aunt Dorothy with a toss of her head. "I surely don't value your practice, as you call it, one little farthing's worth."

But Malcolm No. 2, though mischievously inclined, was much quicker of wit than Malcolm No. 1, and she easily extricated herself.

"I meant that gentlemen like it, Lady Crawford."

"Oh!" replied Lady Crawford, again taking up her book. "I have been reading Sir Philip's account of the death of your fair Mary of Burgundy. Do you remember the cause of her death?"

Malcolm No. 2, who had read Sir Philip so many times, was compelled to admit that he did not remember the cause of Mary's death.

"That disease will never depopulate England," was the answer that came from my garments, much to my chagrin.

"Sir Malcolm," exclaimed the old lady, "I never before heard so ungallant a speech from your lips."—"And," thought I, "she never will hear its like from me."

"Modesty," continued Lady Crawford, "may not be valued so highly by young women nowadays as it was in the time of my youth, but—"

"I am sure it is not," interrupted Dorothy.

"But," continued Lady Crawford, "the young women of England are modest and seemly in their conduct, and they do not deserve to be spoken of in ungallant jest."

I trembled lest Dorothy should ruin my reputation for gallantry.

"Do you not," said Lady Crawford, "consider Dorothy and Madge to be modest, well-behaved maidens?"

"Madge! Ah, surely she is all that a maiden should be. She is a saint, but as to Dorothy—well, my dear Lady Crawford, I predict another end for her than death from modesty. I thank Heaven the disease in its mild form does not kill. Dorothy has it mildly," then under her breath, "if at all."

The girl's sense of humor had vanquished her caution, and for the moment it caused her to forget even the reason for her disguise.

"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy," retorted Lady Crawford. "She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply."

"Her father would not agree with you," replied Dorothy.

"Perhaps not," responded the aunt. "Her father's conduct causes me great pain and grief."

"It also causes me pain," said Dorothy, sighing.

"I cannot tell for the life of me," answered Malcolm No. 2. "Surely a modest girl would not act as she does."

"Surely a modest girl would," replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. "Malcolm, you know nothing of women."

"Spoken with truth," thought I.

The old lady continued: "Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do with each other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at the window. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish I could help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. I feign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I am greatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love."

"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy," said the lovelorn young woman. "I am sure she is fathoms deep in love."

"Nothing," said Lady Crawford, "but a great passion would have impelled her to act as she did. Why, even Mary of Burgundy, with all her modesty, won the husband she wanted, ay, and had him at the cost of half her rich domain."

"I wonder if Dorothy will ever have the man she wants?" said Malcolm, sighing in a manner entirely new to him.

"No," answered the old lady, "I fear there is no hope for Dorothy. I wonder who he is? Her father intends that she shall soon marry Lord Stanley. Sir George told me as much this morning when he started for Derby-town to arrange for the signing of the marriage contract within a day or two. He had a talk yesterday with Dorothy. She, I believe, has surrendered to the inevitable, and again there is good feeling between her and my brother."

Dorothy tossed her head expressively.

"My dear Lady Crawford," said my hat and cloak, "your words and feelings do great credit to your heart. But have you ever thought that your niece is a very wilful girl, and that she is full of disturbing expedients? Now I am willing to wager my beard that she will, sooner than you suspect, see her lover. And I am also willing to lay a wager that she will marry the man of her choice despite all the watchfulness of her father and yourself. Keep close guard over her, my lady, or she will escape."

Lady Crawford laughed. "She shall not escape. Have no fear of that, Malcolm. The key to the door is always safely locked in my reticule. No girl can outwit me. I am too old to be caught unawares by a mere child like Dorothy. It makes me laugh, Malcolm—although I am sore at heart for Dorothy's sake—it makes me laugh, with a touch of tears, when I think of poor simple Dorothy's many little artifices to gain possession of this key. They are amusing and pathetic. Poor child! But I am too old to be duped by a girl, Malcolm, I am too old. She has no chance to escape."

I said to myself: "No one has ever become too old to be duped by a girl who is in love. Her wits grow keen as the otter's fur grows thick for the winter's need. I do not know your niece's plan; but if I mistake not, Aunt Dorothy, you will in one respect, at least, soon be rejuvenated."

"I am sure Lady Crawford is right in what she says," spoke my other self, "and Sir George is fortunate in having for his daughter a guardian who cannot be hoodwinked and who is true to a distasteful trust. I would the trouble were over and that Dorothy were well married."

"So wish I, Malcolm, with all my heart," replied Aunt Dorothy.

"I must now take my leave. Will you kindly unlock the door and permit me to say good night?"

"If you must go," answered my lady, glad enough to be left alone with her beloved Sir Philip. Then she unlocked the door.

"Keep good watch, my dear aunt," said Malcolm. "I greatly fear that Dorothy—" but the door closed on the remainder of the sentence and on Dorothy Vernon.

"Nonsense!" ejaculated the old lady somewhat impatiently. "Why should he fear for Dorothy? I hope I shall not again be disturbed." And soon she was deep in the pages of her book.

A TRYST AT BOWLING GREEN GATE

I was at a loss what course to pursue, and I remained for a moment in puzzling thought. I went back to Madge, and after closing the door, told her of all I had seen. She could not advise me, and of course she was deeply troubled and concerned. After deliberating, I determined to speak to Aunt Dorothy that she might know what had happened. So I opened the door and walked into Lady Crawford's presence. After viewing my lady's back for a short time, I said:—

"I cannot find my hat, cloak, and sword. I left them in Dorothy's bedroom. Has any one been here since I entered?"

The old lady turned quickly upon me, "Since you entered?" she cried in wonderment and consternation. "Since you left, you mean. Did you not leave this room a few minutes ago? What means this? How found you entrance without the key?"

"I did not leave this room, Aunt Dorothy; you see I am here," I responded.

"Who did leave? Your wraith? Some one—Dorothy!" screamed the old lady in terror. "That girl!!—Holy Virgin! where is she?"

Lady Crawford hastened to Dorothy's room and returned to me in great agitation.

"Were you in the plot?" she demanded angrily.

I continued: "Dorothy left Lady Madge and me at the window, saying she wished to make a change in her garments. I was watching the sunset and talking with Lady Madge."

Lady Crawford, being full of concern about the main event,—Dorothy's escape,—was easily satisfied that I was not accessory before the fact.

"What shall I do, Malcolm? What shall I do? Help me, quickly. My brother will return in the morning—perhaps he will return to-night—and he will not believe that I have not intentionally permitted Dorothy to leave the Hall. I have of late said so much to him on behalf of the girl that he suspects me already of being in sympathy with her. He will not believe me when I tell him that I have been duped. The ungrateful, selfish girl! How could she so unkindly return my affection!"

The old lady began to weep.

I did not believe that Dorothy intended to leave Haddon Hall permanently. I felt confident she had gone out only to meet John, and was sure she would soon return. On the strength of that opinion I said: "If you fear that Sir George will not believe you—he certainly will blame you—would it not be better to admit Dorothy quietly when she returns and say nothing to any one concerning the escapade? I will remain here in these rooms, and when she returns I will depart, and the guards will never suspect that Dorothy has left the Hall."

"If she will but return," wailed Aunt Dorothy, "I shall be only too glad to admit her and to keep silent."

"Indeed, her disguise is complete," replied the tearful old lady.

Dorothy's disguise was so complete and her resemblance to me had been so well contrived that she met with no opposition from the guards in the retainer's room nor from the porter. She walked out upon the terrace where she strolled for a short time. Then she climbed over the wall at the stile back of the terrace and took her way up Bowling Green Hill toward the gate. She sauntered leisurely until she was out of sight of the Hall. Then gathering up her cloak and sword she sped along the steep path to the hill crest and thence to the gate.

Soon after the first day of her imprisonment she had sent a letter to John by the hand of Jennie Faxton, acquainting him with the details of all that had happened. In her letter, among much else, she said:—

"My true love, I beg you to haunt with your presence Bowling Green Gate each day at the hour of sunset. I cannot tell you when I shall be there to meet you, or surely I would do so now. But be there I will. Let no doubt of that disturb your mind. It does not lie in the power of man to keep me from you. That is, it lies in the power of but one man, you, my love and my lord, and I fear not that you will use your power to that end. So it is that I beg you to wait for me at sunset hour each day near by Bowling Green Gate. You may be caused to wait for me a long weary time; but one day, sooner or later, I shall go to you, and then—ah, then, if it be in my power to reward your patience, you shall have no cause for complaint."

"Ah, well," she sighed, "I suppose the reason love laughs at locksmiths is because he—or she—can climb."

Then she climbed the gate and sprang to the ground on the Devonshire side of the wall.

"What will John think when he sees me in this attire?" she said half aloud. "Malcolm's cloak serves but poorly to cover me, and I shall instead be covered with shame and confusion when John comes. I fear he will think I have disgraced myself." Then, with a sigh, "But necessity knows no raiment."

She strode about near the gate for a few minutes, wishing that she were indeed a man, save for one fact: if she were not a woman, John would not love her, and, above all, she could not love John. The fact that she could and did love John appealed to Dorothy as the highest, sweetest privilege that Heaven or earth could offer to a human being.

If there is a place in all the earth where red warm blood counts for its full value, it is in a pure woman's veins. Through self-fear it brings to her a proud reserve toward all mankind till the right one comes. Toward him it brings an eager humbleness that is the essence and the life of Heaven and of love. Poets may praise snowy women as they will, but the compelling woman is she of the warm blood. The snowy woman is the lifeless seed, the rainless cloud, the unmagnetic lodestone, the drossful iron. The great laws of nature affect her but passively. If there is aught in the saying of the ancients, "The best only in nature can survive," the day of her extermination will come. Fire is as chaste as snow, and infinitely more comforting.

Dorothy's patience was not to be tried for long. Five minutes after she had climbed the gate she beheld John riding toward her from the direction of Rowsley, and her heart beat with thrill upon thrill of joy. She felt that the crowning moment of her life was at hand. By the help of a subtle sense—familiar spirit to her love perhaps—she knew that John would ask her to go with him and to be his wife, despite all the Rutlands and Vernons dead, living, or to be born. The thought of refusing him never entered her mind. Queen Nature was on the throne in the fulness of power, and Dorothy, in perfect attune with her great sovereign, was fulfilling her destiny in accordance with the laws to which her drossless being was entirely amenable.

She turned her back on John and sauntered leisurely about, whistling softly. She pretended to be unconscious of his presence, and John, who felt that the field was his by the divine right of love, walked to the gate and looked through the bars toward Bowling Green. He stood at the gate for a short time with indifference in his manner and irritation in his heart. He, too, tried to hum a tune, but failed. Then he tried to whistle, but his musical efforts were abortive. There was no music in him. A moment before his heart had been full of harmony; but when he found a man instead of his sweetheart, the harmony quickly turned to rasping discord.

John was not a patient man, and his impatience was apt to take the form of words and actions. A little aimless stalking about at the gate was more than enough for him, so he stepped toward the intruder and lifted his hat.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "I thought when first I saw you that you were Sir Malcolm Vernon. I fancied you bore resemblance to him. I see that I was in error."

"Yes, in error," answered my beard.

Again the two gentlemen walked around each other with great amusement on the part of one, and with ever increasing vexation on the part of the other.

"Certainly, you may ask," was the response.

A silence ensued during which Dorothy again turned her back on John and walked a few paces away from him. John's patience was rapidly oozing, and when the unknown intruder again turned in his direction, John said with all the gentleness then at his command:—

"Well, sir, I do ask."

"Your curiosity is flattering," said the girl.

"Pardon me, sir," returned John. "My curiosity is not intended to be flattering. I—"

"I hope it is not intended to be insulting, sir?" asked my hat and cloak.

"That, sir, all depends upon yourself," retorted John, warmly. Then after an instant of thought, he continued in tones of conciliation:—

"I have an engagement of a private nature at this place. In short, I hope to meet a—a friend here within a few minutes and I feel sure that under the circumstances so gallant a gentleman as yourself will act with due consideration for the feelings of another. I hope and believe that you will do as you would be done by."

"Certainly, certainly," responded the gallant. "I find no fault at all with your presence. Please take no account whatever of me. I assure you I shall not be in the least disturbed."

John was somewhat disconcerted.

"Perhaps you will not be disturbed," replied John, struggling to keep down his temper, "but I fear you do not understand me. I hope to meet a—a lady and—"

"I hope also to meet a—a friend," the fellow said; "but I assure you we shall in no way conflict."

"May I ask," queried John, "if you expect to meet a gentleman or a lady?"

"Well, well, sir, I do ask," said John. "Furthermore, I demand to know whom you expect to meet at this place."

"That, of course, sir, is no business of yours."

"But I shall make it my affair. I expect to meet a lady here, my sweetheart." The girl's heart jumped with joy. "And if you have any of the feelings of a gentleman, you must know that your presence will be intolerable to me."

"Perhaps it will be, my dear sir, but I have as good a right here as you or any other. If you must know all about my affairs, I tell you I, too, hope to meet my sweetheart at this place. In fact, I know I shall meet my sweetheart, and, my good fellow, I beg to inform you that a stranger's presence would be very annoying to me."

John was at his wit's end. He must quickly do or say something to persuade this stubborn fellow to leave. If Dorothy should come and see two persons at the gate she, of course, would return to the Hall. Jennie Faxton, who knew that the garments were finished, had told Sir John that he might reasonably expect to see Dorothy at the gate on that evening, for Sir George had gone to Derby-town, presumably to remain over night.