Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Part 31

"If you would kill him, I surely will not tell you his name. In truth, I admit I am very fond of him."

"Speak not another word to me till you tell me his name," stormed John. I feel sorry for John when I think of the part he played in this interview; but every man knows well his condition.

"I care not," continued John, "in what manner I have offended you, nor does my debt of grat.i.tude to you for your generosity in forgiving my sins weigh one scruple against this you have told me. No man, unless he were a poor clown, would endure it; and I tell you now, with all my love for you, I will not--I will not!"

Dorothy was beginning to fear him. She of course did not fear personal violence; but after all, while he was slower than she, he was much stronger every way, and when aroused, his strength imposed itself upon her and she feared to play him any farther.

"Sit beside me, John, and I will tell you his name," said the girl, looking up to him, and then casting down her eyes. A dimpling smile was playing about her lips.

"No, I will not sit by you," replied John, angrily. She partly rose, and taking him by the arm drew him to her side.

"Tell me his name," again demanded John, sitting rigidly by Dorothy. "Tell me his name."

"Will you kill him?" she asked.

"That I will," he answered. "Of that you may rest a.s.sured."

"If you kill him, John, it will break my heart; for to do so, you must commit suicide. There is no other man but you, John. With you I had my first, last, and only experience."

John, of course, was speechless. He had received only what he deserved. I freely admit he played the part of a fool during this entire interview with Dorothy, and he was more fully convinced of the fact than either you or I can be. I do not like to have a fool for the hero of my history; but this being a history and not a romance, I must tell you of events just as they happened, and of persons exactly as they were, else my conscience will smite me for untruthfulness. Dorothy's last a.s.sault was too much for John. He could neither parry nor thrust.

Her heart was full of mirth and gladness.

"None other but you, John," she repeated, leaning forward in front of him, and looking up into his eyes. A ray of moonlight stealing its way between the forest boughs fell upon her upturned face and caused it to glow with a G.o.ddess-like radiance.

"None but you, John. There never has been and there never shall be another."

When John's consciousness returned he said, "Dorothy, can you love such a fool as I?"

"That I can and that I do with all my heart," she returned.

"And can you forgive me for this last fault--for doubting you?"

"That is easily done," she answered softly, "because doubt is the child of love."

"But you do not doubt me?" he replied.

"N-o-o," she answered somewhat haltingly; "but I--I am a woman."

"And a woman's heart is the home of faith," said John, reverentially.

"Y-e-s," she responded, still not quite sure of her ground. "Sometimes it is the home of too much faith, but faith, like virtue, is its own reward.

Few persons are false to one who gives a blind, unquestioning faith. Even a poor degree of honor responds to it in kind."

"Dorothy, I am so unworthy of you that I stand abashed in your presence,"

replied John.

"No, you are not unworthy of me. We don't look for unmixed good in men,"

said the girl with a mischievous little laugh. Then seriously: "Those virtues you have are so great and so strong, John, that my poor little virtues, while they perhaps are more numerous than yours, are but weak things by comparison. In truth, there are some faults in men which we women do not--do not altogether dislike. They cause us--they make us--oh, I cannot express exactly what I mean. They make us more eager perhaps. A too constant man is like an overstrong sweet: he cloys us. The faults I speak of hurt us; but we thrive on them. Women enjoy pain now and then.

Malcolm was telling me the other day that the wise people of the East have a saying: 'Without shadow there can be no light; without death there can be no life; without suffering there can be no joy.' Surely is that saying true of women. She who suffers naught enjoys naught. When a woman becomes pa.s.sive, John, she is but a clod. Pain gives us a vent--a vent for something, I know not what it is; but this I know, we are happier for it."

"I fear, Dorothy, that I have given you too much 'vent,' as you call it,"

said John.

"No, no," she replied. "That was nothing. My great vent is that I can pour out my love upon you, John, without stint. Now that I know you are mine, I have some one whom I can deluge with it. Do you know, John, I believe that when G.o.d made me He collected together the requisite portions of reason, imagination, and will,--there was a great plenty of will, John,--and all the other ingredients that go to make a human being. But after He had gotten them all together there was still a great s.p.a.ce left to be filled, and He just threw in an immensity of love with which to complete me.

Therefore, John, am I not in true proportion. There is too much love in me, and it wells up at times and overflows my heart. How thankful I should be that I may pour it upon you and that it will not be wasted. How good you are to give me the sweet privilege."

"How thankful should I be, Dorothy. I have never known you till this night. I am unworthy--"

"Not another word of that sort, John," she interrupted, covering his mouth with her hand.

They stood for a long time talking a deal of celestial nonsense which I shall not give you. I fear I have already given you too much of what John and Dorothy did and said in this very sentimental interview. But in no other way can I so well make you to know the persons of whom I write. I might have said Dorothy was so and so, and John was such and such. I might have a.n.a.lyzed them in long, dull pages of minute description; but it is that which persons do and say that gives us true concept of their characters; what others say about them is little else than a mere statement that black is black and white is white. But to my story again.

Dorothy by her beauty had won John's admiration when first he beheld her.

When he met her afterward, her charms of mind and her thousand winsome ways moved him deeply. But upon the evening of which I am now telling you he beheld for the first time her grand burning soul, and he saw her pure heart filled to overflowing with its dangerous burden of love, right from the hands of G.o.d Himself, as the girl had said. John was of a coa.r.s.er fibre than she who had put him up for her idol; but his sensibilities were keen, and at their awakening he saw clearly the worth of the priceless treasure which propitious fate had given him in the love of Dorothy, and he sat humbly at her feet. Yet she knew it not, but sat humbly at John's feet the happiest woman in all the world because of her great good fortune in having a demi-G.o.d upon whom she could lavish the untold wealth of her heart. If you are a woman, pray G.o.d that He may touch your eyes with Dorothy's blessed blindness. There is a heaven in the dark for you, if you can find it.

I must leave the scene, though I am loath to do so. Seldom do we catch a glimpse of a human soul, and more seldom still does it show itself like a gust of G.o.d's breath upon the deep of eternity as it did that night in Dorothy.

After a time John said: "I have your promise to be my wife. Do you still wish to keep it?"

"What an absurd question, John," replied the girl, laughing softly and contentedly. "Why else am I here? Tell me, think you, John, should I be here if I were not willing and eager to--to keep that promise?"

"Will you go with me notwithstanding your father's hatred of my house?" he asked.

"Ah, truly that I will, John," she answered; "surely you know I will go with you."

"Let us go at once. Let us lose not a moment. We have already delayed too long," cried John in eager ecstasy.

"Not to-night, John; I cannot go to-night," she pleaded. "Think of my attire," and she drew my cloak more closely about her. "I cannot go with you this time. My father is angry with me because of you, although he does not know who you are. Is it not famous to have a lover in secret of whom n.o.body knows? Father is angry with me, and as I told you in my letter, he keeps me a prisoner in my rooms. Aunt Dorothy stands guard over me. The dear, simple old soul! She told me, thinking I was Malcolm, that she was too old to be duped by a girl! Oh, it was too comical!" And she threw back her head and gave forth a peal of laughter that John was reluctantly compelled to silence. "I would so delight to tell you of the scene when I was in Aunt Dorothy's room impersonating Malcolm; but I have so much else to say of more importance that I know I shall not tell the half. When you have left me, I shall remember what I most wished to say but forgot."

"No, John," she continued seriously, "my father has been cruel to me, and I try to make myself think I do not love him; but I fail, for I do love him." Tears were welling up in her eyes and stifling her voice. In a moment she continued: "It would kill him, John, were I to go with you now. I _will_ go with you soon,--I give you my solemn promise to that--but I cannot go now,--not now. I cannot leave him and the others. With all his cruelty to me, I love him, John, next to you. He will not come to see me nor will he speak to me. Think of that." The tears that had welled up to her eyes fell in a piteous stream over her cheeks. "Aunt Dorothy and Madge," she continued, "are so dear to me that the thought of leaving them is torture. But I will go with you some day, John, some day soon, I promise you. They have always been kind and gentle to me, and I love them and my father and my dear home where I was born and where my sweet mother died--and Dolcy--I love them all so dearly that I must prepare myself to leave them, John, even to go with you. The heart strings of my whole life bind me to them. Forgive me, John, forgive me. You must think of the grief and pain I shall yet pa.s.s through to go to you. It is as I told you: we women reach heaven only through purgatory. I must forsake all else I love when I go to you. All, all! All that has been dear to me in life I must forsake for--for that which is dearer to me than life itself. I promise, John, to go with you, but--but forgive me. I cannot go to-night."

"Nor can I ask it of you, Dorothy," said John. "The sacrifice would be all on one side. I should forego nothing, and I should receive all. You would forego everything, and G.o.d help me, you would receive nothing worth having. I am unworthy--"

"Not that word, John," cried Dorothy, again covering his mouth with--well, not with her hand. "I shall give up a great deal," she continued, "and I know I shall suffer. I suffer even now when I think of it, for you must remember that I am rooted to my home and to the dear ones it shelters; but I will soon make the exchange, John; I shall make it gladly when the time comes, because--because I feel that I could not live if I did not make it."

"My father has already consented to our marriage," said John. "I told him to-day all that had pa.s.sed between you and me. He, of course, was greatly pained at first; but when I told him of your perfections, he said that if you and I were dear to each other, he would offer no opposition, but would welcome you to his heart."

"Is your father that--that sort of a man?" asked Dorothy, half in revery.

"I have always heard--" and she hesitated.

"I know," replied John, "that you have heard much evil of my father, but--let us not talk on that theme. You will know him some day, and you may judge him for yourself. When will you go with me, Dorothy?"

"Soon, very soon, John," she answered. "You know father intends that I shall marry Lord Stanley. _I_ intend otherwise. The more father hurries this marriage with my beautiful cousin the sooner I shall be--be your--that is, you know, the sooner I shall go with you."

"You will not allow your father to force you to marry Lord Stanley?" asked John, frightened by the thought.

"Ah," cried the girl, softly, "you know I told you that G.o.d had put into me a great plenty of will. Father calls it wilfulness; but whichever it is, it stands me in good hand now. You don't know how much I have of it!