Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Part 22

"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 pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.s toward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name."

Dorothy knew that her father must have seen a man near the gate, but who he was she could not imagine. John surely was beyond the wall and well out of sight on his way to Rowsley before her father reached the crest of Bowling Green Hill. But it was evident that Shaw had seen John. Evidence that a man had been at the gate was too strong to be successfully contradicted. Facts that cannot be successfully contradicted had better be frankly admitted. Dorothy sought through her mind for an admission that would not admit, and soon hit upon a plan which, shrewd as it seemed to be, soon brought her to grief.

"Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, as the result of her mental search. "He pa.s.sed 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.

"Ah, Malcolm, are you here?" asked Sir George in a peculiar tone of surprise for which I could see no reason.

"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."

"Now, father, what is all this storming about?" asked the girl, coaxingly, as she boldly put her hands upon her father's shoulders and turned her face in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up to his. "Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know." She was sure that her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate, and she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whose only virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, would willingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught the truth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined to perjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe the influence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell I seemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily was paralyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. I cannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you may make out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of this history have occasion to speak of Dorothy's strange power, and how it was exerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.

"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.

"What have you in your pocket?" demanded Sir George with a terrible oath.

"Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you." Dorothy started to run from the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drew her to him. "Bring it out, huzzy; it's the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah, I've lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet, but I soon shall lose it at this rate," and he certainly looked as if he would.

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:--

"Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with G.o.d's help I will meet you at Bowling Green Gate--." The girl could endure no more. She sprang with a scream toward her father and tried to s.n.a.t.c.h the letter. Sir George drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed him frantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter.

Sir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued the letter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy's hand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into the fire, but she feared that her father might rescue it from the ashes. She glanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded in s.n.a.t.c.hing from her father bore John's name. Sir George strode hurriedly across the room toward her and she ran to me.

"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 G.o.dlike 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 command you to tell me this fellow's name," said Sir George, with a calmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued "I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me and told me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In G.o.d's name I swear that I would rather father a thief than a liar."

"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 G.o.d 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 cla.s.s was Dorothy.

"G.o.d is love," says the Book.

"The universe is G.o.d," 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.

The moment of respite from her father's furious attack gave her time in which to collect her scattered senses.

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 G.o.d, 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 fort.i.tude, and out of her fort.i.tude 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 G.o.d 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 t.i.ttle 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."

The girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the door leading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move. I was deeply affected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the flogging if to do so should cost Sir George's life at my hands. I would have killed him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip upon Dorothy's back.

"Father," continued the terrible girl, "are you not going to flog me?

Remember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before G.o.d 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! G.o.d help me!"