"I remember also," I continued, "your marriage with Darnley when I had your promise that you would marry me; and, shame upon shame, I remember your marriage with Darnley's murderer, Bothwell."

"Cruel, cruel, Malcolm," she said. "You well know the overpowering reasons of state which impelled me to sacrifice my own happiness by marrying Darnley. I told you at the time that I hated the marriage more than I dreaded death. But I longed to quiet the factions in Scotland, and I hoped to save my poor bleeding people from the evils of war. You know I hated Darnley. You know I loved you. You knew then and you know now that you are the only man who has ever possessed my heart. You know that my words are true. You know that you, alone, have had my love since the time when I was a child."

"And Rizzio?" I asked.

"Ah, Malcolm," she answered tearfully, "I hope you, of all men, do not believe that I ever gave a thought of love to Rizzio. He was to me like my pet monkey or my favorite falcon. He was a beautiful, gentle, harmless soul. I loved him for his music. He worshipped me as did my spaniel."

Still I was determined that her blandishments should not move me.

"And Bothwell?" I asked.

"That is past endurance from you, Malcolm," she said, beginning to weep. "You know I was brutally abducted and was forced into marriage with him. He was an outlaw, an outcast. He was an uncouth brute whom any woman would loathe. I was in his power, and I feigned acquiescence only that I might escape and achieve vengeance upon him. Tell me, Malcolm, tell me," continued Mary, placing her arms about my neck and clinging to me, "tell me, you, to whom I gave my maiden's love, you who have my woman's heart, tell me, do you believe that I could willingly have married Bothwell, even though my heart had not been filled with the image of you, who are strong, gentle, and beautiful?"

You, if you are a man, may think that in my place you would have resisted the attack of this beautiful queen, but if so you think—pardon me, my friend—you are a fool. Under the spell of her magic influence I wavered in the conviction which had long since come upon me, that I had for years been her fool and her dupe. I forgot the former lessons I had learned from her perfidy. I forgot my manhood. I forgot all of good that had of late grown up in me. God help me, I forgot even Madge.

"If I could only believe you, Mary," I answered, growing insane under the influence of her fascinations, "If I could only believe you."

"Give me your lips, Malcolm," she whispered, "give me your lips.—Again, my Malcolm.—Ah, now you believe me."

The lying logic of a wanton kiss is irresistible. I was drunk and, alas! I was convinced. When I think of that time, Samson is my only comfort—Samson and a few hundred million other fools, who like Samson and me have been wheedled, kissed, and duped into misery and ruin.

I said: "I do believe you, Mary. I beg you to forgive me for having doubted you. You have been traduced and brutally misused."

"It is sweet to hear you speak those words. But it is better to think that at last we have come together with nothing to part us save that I am a prisoner in the hands of my vindictive, jealous cousin. I thank God that my kingdom of Scotland has been taken from me. I ever hated the Scots. They are an ignorant, unkempt, wry-necked, stubborn, filthy race. But, above all, my crown stood between you and me. I may now be a woman, and were it not for Elizabeth, you and I could yet find solace in each other for all our past sufferings. Malcolm, I have a sweet thought. If I could escape to fair, beautiful France, all would be happiness for us. You could claim your mother's estates in the balmy south, and we might live upon them. Help me, my Malcolm, to escape, and your reward shall be greater and sweeter than man ever before received from woman."

I struggled against her blandishments for a moment, but I was lost.

"You shall escape and I will go with you," said I. Man needs to make but one little prayer to God, "Lead me not into temptation." That prayer answered, all else of good will follow.

The morning sun had just begun to rise over Bowling Green Hill and the shadows of the night were fleeing before his lances, when our cavalcade entered the grounds of Haddon at the dove-cote. If there were two suns revolving about the earth, one to shine upon us by night and one by day, much evil would be averted. Men do evil in the dark because others cannot see them; they think evil in the dark because they cannot see themselves.

With the first faint gray of dawn there came to me thoughts of Madge. I had forgotten her, but her familiar spirit, the light, brought me back to its fair mistress.

When our coach reached the stone bridge I looked up to the Hall and saw Madge standing at the open casement of the tower window. She had been watching there all night, I learned, hoping for our speedy and safe return, and had been warned of our approach by the noise of the tramping guard. I drew back from the coach window, feeling that I was an evil shade slinking away before the spirit of light.



CHAPTER XV

LIGHT

Dorothy had awakened while we were entering Rowsley, and I was glad that Mary could not touch me again.

When our coach reached the stone steps of the entrance tower we found Sir George, Lady Crawford, and Madge waiting to receive us. The steps and the path leading to them had been carpeted with soft rugs, and Mary, although a prisoner, was received with ceremonies befitting her rank. It was a proud day for Sir George when the roof of his beautiful Hall sheltered the two most famous queens of christendom.

Sir George assisted Mary from the coach most graciously, and in knightly fashion led her to Lady Crawford and Madge, who were standing at the foot of the tower steps. Due presentations were made, and the ladies of Haddon having kissed the queen's hand, Mary went into the Hall upon the arm of his Majesty, the King of the Peak, who stepped forward most proudly.

His resentment against Dorothy was for the moment neutralized by the great honor of which his house and himself were the recipients.

John and Lord Rutland were taken to the dungeon.

I assisted Dorothy from the coach and led her to Madge, who was waiting for us upon the lowest of the steps leading to the entrance tower doorway. Dorothy took Madge's outstretched hand; but Madge, by some strange instinct, knowing of my presence, turned her face toward me. I could not lift my eyes to her face, nor could I endure to remain in her presence. While we were ascending the steps she held out her hand to me and said:—

"Is all well with you, Malcolm?" Her voice was full of tender concern, and it pained me to the heart to hear her speak kindly to me, who was so unworthy of her smallest thought.

"Yes, Lady—yes, Madge," I responded; but she knew from the tones of my voice that all was not right with me.

"I fear, Malcolm, that you do not tell me the truth. You will come to me soon?" she asked.

"I may not be able to go to you soon," I answered, "but I will do so at the first opportunity."

The torture of her kindness was almost unbearable to me. One touch of her hand, one tone of her rare voice, had made me loathe myself. The powers of evil cannot stand for one moment in a fair conflict with the powers of good. I felt that I, alone, was to blame for my treason to Madge; but despite my effort at self-condemnation there was an under-consciousness that Mary Stuart was to blame, and I hated her accordingly. Although Madge's presence hurt me, it was not because I wished to conceal my conduct from her. I knew that I could be happy again only after I had confessed to her and had received forgiveness.

Madge, who was blind of sight, led Dorothy, who was piteously blind of soul, and the two girls went to their apartments.

Curiosity is not foreign even to the royal female breast, and while Mary Stuart was entering Haddon Hall, I saw the luminous head of the Virgin Queen peeked out at a casement on the second floor watching her rival with all the curiosity of a Dutch woman sitting by her window mirror.

I went to my room in Eagle Tower, fell upon my bed, and abandoned myself to an anguish of soul which was almost luxurious. I shall not tease you with the details of my mental and moral processes. I hung in the balance a long time undetermined what course I should pursue. The difference between the influence of Mary and the effect wrought by Madge was the difference between the intoxication and the exhilaration of wine. Following the intoxication of Mary's presence ever came a torturing reaction, while the exhilarating influence of Madge gave health and strength. I chose the latter. I have always been glad I reached that determination without the aid of any impulse outside of myself; for events soon happened which again drove all faith in Mary from my heart forever. Those events would have forced me to abandon my trust in her; but mind you, I took my good resolve from inclination rather than necessity before I learned of Mary's perfidy.

The events of the night had exhausted Dorothy, and she was confined to her bed by illness for the first time in her life. She believed that she was dying, and she did not want to live. I did not go to her apartments. Madge remained with her, and I, coward-like, feared to face the girl to whom I had been untrue.

Dorothy's one and only desire, of course, was to see John, but that desire for a time seemed impossible of accomplishment.

Elizabeth, Cecil, Leicester, and Sir William St. Loe were in secret consultation many times during three or four days and nights. Occasionally Sir George was called into their councils, and that flattering attention so wrought upon the old man's pride that he was a slave to the queen's slightest wish, and was more tyrannical and dictatorial than ever before to all the rest of mankind. There were, however, two persons besides the queen before whom Sir George was gracious: one of these was Mary Stuart, whose powers of fascination had been brought to bear upon the King of the Peak most effectively. The other was Leicester, to whom, as my cousin expressed it, he hoped to dispose of that troublesome and disturbing body—Dorothy. These influences, together with the fact that his enemies of Rutland were in the Haddon dungeon, had given Sir George a spleen-vent, and Dorothy, even in the face of her father's discovery that Manners was her mysterious lover, had for once a respite from Sir George's just and mighty wrath.

The purpose of Elizabeth's many councils of war was to devise some means of obtaining from John and his father, information concerning the plot, which had resulted in bringing Mary Stuart into England. The ultimate purpose of Mary's visit, Elizabeth's counsellors firmly believed to be the dethronement of the English queen and the enthronement of her Scottish cousin. Elizabeth, in her heart, felt confident that John and his father were not parties to the treasonable plot, although she had been warned against each of them. Cecil and Sir William St. Loe also secretly held to that opinion, though neither of them expressed it, Elizabeth was conscious of having given to John while at London court an intimation that she would be willing that Mary should visit England. Of such intimation Cecil and Sir William had no knowledge, though they, together with many persons of the Court, believed that Elizabeth was not entirely averse to Mary's presence.

Lord Rutland and John were questioned by Cecil in the hope of obtaining some hints which might lead to the detection of those concerned in the chief plot, provided such plot existed. But Lord Rutland knew nothing of the affair except that John had brought the Scottish queen from Scotland, and John persisted in the statement that he had no confederate and that he knew nothing of any plot to place Mary upon the English throne.

John said: "I received from Queen Mary's friends in Scotland letters asking me to meet her on the border, and requesting me to conduct her to my father's castle. Those letters mentioned no Englishman but myself, and they stated that Queen Mary's flight to England was to be undertaken with the tacit consent of our gracious queen. That fact, the letters told me, our queen wished should not be known. There were reasons of state, the letters said, which made it impolitic for our queen openly to invite Queen Mary to seek sanctuary in England. I received those letters before I left Westminster. Upon the day when I received them, I heard our gracious queen say that she would gladly invite Queen Mary to England, were it not for the fact that such an invitation would cause trouble between her and the regent, Murray. Her Majesty at the same time intimated that she would be glad if Mary Stuart should come to England uninvited." John turned to Elizabeth, "I beg your Majesty, in justice, to ratify my words." Elizabeth hesitated for a moment after John's appeal; but her love of justice came to her rescue and she hung her head as she said, "You are right, Sir John." Then she looked her counsellors in the face and said, "I well remember that I so expressed myself."

"In truth," said John, "I having only an hour before received the letter from Scotland, believed that your Majesty's words were meant for my ear. I felt that your Majesty knew of the letters, and I thought that I should be carrying out your royal wishes should I bring Queen Mary into England without your knowledge."

The queen responded: "I then felt that I wished Queen Mary to seek refuge in my kingdom, but so many untoward events have transpired since I spoke on the subject at Westminster that I have good cause to change my mind, though I easily understand how you might have been misled by my words."

"I am sure," replied John, "that your Majesty has had good cause to change your mind; but I protest in all sincerity that I considered the Scottish letters to be a command from my queen."

Elizabeth was a strange combination of paradoxes. No one could be truer than she to a fixed determination once taken. No one could be swayed by doubt so easily as she to change her mind sixty times in the space of a minute. During one moment she was minded to liberate John and Lord Rutland; in the next she determined to hold them in prison, hoping to learn from them some substantial fact concerning the plot which, since Mary's arrival in England, had become a nightmare to her. But, with all her vagaries the Virgin Queen surely loved justice. That quality, alone, makes a sovereign great. Elizabeth, like her mother, Anne Boleyn, had great faith in her personal beauty; like her father, she had unbounded confidence in her powers of mind. She took great pride in the ease with which she controlled persons. She believed that no one was so adroit as Elizabeth Tudor in extracting secrets from others, and in unravelling mysterious situations, nor so cunning in hunting out plots and in running down plotters. In all such matters she delighted to act secretly and alone.

During the numerous councils held at Haddon, Elizabeth allowed Cecil to question John to his heart's content; but while she listened she formulated a plan of her own which she was sure would be effective in extracting all the truth from John, if all the truth had not already been extracted. Elizabeth kept her cherished plan to herself. It was this:—

She would visit Dorothy, whom she knew to be ill, and would by her subtle art steal from John's sweetheart all that the girl knew of the case. If John had told Dorothy part of the affair concerning Mary Stuart, he had probably told her all, and Elizabeth felt confident that she could easily pump the girl dry. She did not know Dorothy. Accordingly our queen, Elizabeth, the adroit, went to Dorothy's room under the pretence of paying the girl a gracious visit. Dorothy wished to arise and receive her royal guest, but Elizabeth said gently:—

"Do not arise, Dorothy; rest quietly, and I will sit here beside you on the bed. I have come to tell you that you must recover your health at once. We miss you greatly in the Hall."

No one could be more gracious than Elizabeth when the humor was upon her; though, in truth, the humor was often lacking.

"Let us send all save you and me from the room," said the queen, "that we may have a quiet little chat together."

All who were in the room save Dorothy and Elizabeth of course departed at once.

When the door was closed, the queen said: "I wish to thank you for telling me of the presence of her Scottish Majesty at Rutland. You know there is a plot on foot to steal my throne from me."

"God forbid that there should be such a plot," replied Dorothy, resting upon her elbow in the bed.

"I fear it is only too true that there is such a plot," returned Elizabeth, "and I owe you a great debt of gratitude for warning me of the Scottish queen's presence in my kingdom."

"I hope the danger will be averted from your Majesty," said Dorothy; "but that which I did will cause my death—it will kill me. No human being ever before has lived through the agony I have suffered since that terrible night. I was a traitress. I betrayed the man who is dearer to me than my immortal soul. He says that he forgives me, but your Majesty knows that my fault is beyond forgiveness."

"Sir John is a noble gentleman, child," said the queen. "I hope that he is loyal to me, but I fear—I fear."

"Do not doubt, do not fear, my queen," returned Dorothy, eagerly; "there is nothing false in him."

"Do you love him deeply, little one?" asked the queen.

"No words can tell you my love for him," answered the girl. "I feel shame to say that he has taken even the holy God's place in my heart. Perhaps it is for that sin that God now punishes me."

"Fear not on that score, Dorothy," replied the queen. "God will not punish you for feeling the love which He Himself has put into your heart. I would willingly give my crown could I feel such love for a worthy man who would in return love me for myself. But I cannot feel, nor can I have faith. Self-interest, which is so dominant in all men, frightens me, and I doubt their vows."

"Surely, any man would love you for your own sake," said Dorothy, tenderly.

"It may be that you speak truly, child; but I cannot know when men's vows are true nor when they are false. The real trouble is within myself. If I could but feel truly, I could interpret truthfully."

"Ah, your Majesty," interrupted Dorothy, "you do not know the thing for which you are wishing; it is a torture worse than death; it is an ecstasy sweeter than heaven. It is killing me. I pity you, though you are a queen, if you have never felt it."

"Would you do anything I might ask of you, if you could thereby save Sir John's life?" asked the queen.

"Ah, I would gladly give my soul to save him," responded Dorothy, with tears in her eyes and eagerness in her voice. "Oh, my queen, do not lead me to hope, and then plunge me again into despair. Give me no encouragement unless you mean to free him. As for my part, take my life and spare John's. Kill me by torture, burn me at the stake, stretch me upon the rack till my joints are severed and my flesh is torn asunder. Let me die by inches, my queen; but spare him, oh, spare him, and do with me as you will. Ask from me what you wish. Gladly will I do all that you may demand; gladly will I welcome death and call it sweet, if I can thereby save him. The faint hope your Majesty's words hold out makes me strong again. Come, come, take my life; take all that I can give. Give me him."

"Do you believe that I am an ogress thirsting for blood, Dorothy, that you offer me your life for his? You can purchase Sir John's life at a much smaller cost." Dorothy rose to the queen with a cry, and put her arms about her neck. "You may purchase his freedom," continued the queen, "and you may serve your loving queen at one and the same time, if you wish to do so."

Dorothy had sunk back into the bed, and Elizabeth was sitting close by her side; but when the queen spoke she turned her head on the pillow and kissed the royal hand which was resting upon the coverlid.

"Ah, you are so good, so true, and so beautiful," said Dorothy.

Her familiarity toward the queen was sweet to the woman, to whom it was new.

Dorothy did not thank the queen for her graciousness. She did not reply directly to her offer. She simply said:—

"John has told me many times that he was first attracted to me because I resembled you."

The girl had ample faith in her own beauty, and knew full well the subtle flattery which lay in her words. "He said," she continued, "that my hair in some faint degree resembled yours, but he said it was not of so beautiful a hue. I have loved my hair ever since the day he told me that it resembled your Majesty's." The girl leaned forward toward the queen and gently kissed the royal locks. They no more resembled Dorothy's hair than brick dust resembles the sheen of gold.

The queen glanced at the reflection of her hair in the mirror and it flatly contradicted Dorothy. But the girl's words were backed by Elizabeth's vanity, and the adroit flattery went home.

"Ah, my child," exclaimed her Majesty softly, as she leaned forward and kissed Dorothy's fair cheek.

Dorothy wept gently for a moment and familiarly rested her face upon the queen's breast. Then she entwined her white arms about Elizabeth's neck and turned her glorious eyes up to the queen's face that her Majesty might behold their wondrous beauty and feel the flattery of the words she was about to utter.

"He said also," continued Dorothy, "that my eyes in some slight degree resembled your Majesty's, but he qualified his compliment by telling me—he did not exactly tell me that my eyes were not so large and brilliant as your Majesty's, for he was making love to me, and of course he would not have dared to say that my eyes were not the most perfect on earth; but he did say that—at least I know that he meant—that my eyes, while they resembled yours, were hardly so glorious, and—and I am very jealous of your Majesty. John will be leaving me to worship at your feet."

Elizabeth's eyes were good enough. The French called them "marcassin," that is, wild boar's eyes. They were little and sparkling; they were not luminous and large like Dorothy's, and the girl's flattery was rank. Elizabeth, however, saw Dorothy's eyes and believed her words rather than the reply of the lying mirror, and her Majesty's heart was soft from the girl's kneading. Consider, I pray you, the serpent-like wisdom displayed by Dorothy's method of attack upon the queen. She did not ask for John's liberty. She did not seek it. She sought only to place John softly on Elizabeth's heart. Some natures absorb flattery as the desert sands absorb the unfrequent rain, and Elizabeth—but I will speak no ill of her. She is the greatest and the best sovereign England has ever had. May God send to my beloved country others like her. She had many small shortcomings; but I have noticed that those persons who spend their evil energies in little faults have less force left for greater ones. I will show you a mystery: Little faults are personally more disagreeable and rasping to us than great ones. Like flying grains of sand upon a windy day, they vex us constantly. Great faults come like an avalanche, but they come less frequently, and we often admire their possessor, who sooner or later is apt to become our destroyer.

"I can hardly tell you," said Dorothy in response to a question by Elizabeth, "I can hardly tell you why I informed your Majesty of Queen Mary's presence at Rutland. I did it partly for love of your Majesty and partly because I was jealous of that white, plain woman from Scotland."

"She is not a plain woman, is she?" said Elizabeth, delighted to hear Mary of Scotland so spoken of for once. One way to flatter some women is to berate those whom they despise or fear. Elizabeth loved Dorothy better for the hatred which the girl bore to Mary. Both stood upon a broad plane of mutual sympathy-jealousy of the same woman. It united the queen and the maiden in a common heart-touching cause.

Dorothy's confidence grew apace. "She is plain," replied Dorothy, poutingly. "She appears plain, colorless, and repulsive by the side of your Majesty."

"No, no, Dorothy, that cannot be," returned Queen Elizabeth, gently patting. Dorothy's cheek and glancing stealthily at the reflection of her own face in the mirror. At this point Dorothy considered that the time had come for a direct attack.

"Your Majesty need have no fear of a plot to place Queen Mary upon your throne. The English people would not endure her wicked pale face for a moment."

"But there is such a plot in existence," said Elizabeth.

"What you say may be true," returned Dorothy; "but, your Majesty, John is not in the plot, and he knows nothing of it."

"I hope—I believe—he is not in the plot," said Elizabeth, "but I fear—"

The girl kissed the sleeve of Elizabeth's gown, and then she drew the queen closer to her and kissed her hair and her face.

"Ah, my beauteous queen," said Dorothy, "I thank you for those words. You must know that John loves you, and is your loyal subject. Take pity upon me. Help me. Hold out your gracious hand and lift me from my despair."

Dorothy slipped from the bed and fell on her knees, burying her face in the queen's lap.

Elizabeth was touched by the girl's appeal, and caressingly stroked her hair, as she said: "I believe he is innocent, but I fear he knows or suspects others who harbor treasonable designs. Tell me, Dorothy, do you know of any such persons? If you can tell me their names, you will serve your queen, and will save your lover. No harm shall come to Sir John, and no one save myself shall have knowledge of any word that you may speak. If I do not learn the names of the traitors through you or through Sir John, I may be compelled to hold him a prisoner until I discover them. If through you I learn them, Sir John shall go free at once."

"Gladly, for your Majesty's sake alone would I tell you the names of such traitorous men, did I know them;" replied Dorothy, "and thrice gladly would I do so if I might thereby liberate John. Your Majesty must see that these motives are strong enough to induce me to speak if I knew aught to tell you. I would betray the whole world to save him, of that you may be sure. But alas! I know no man whom I can betray. John told me nothing of his expedition to the Scottish border save what was in two letters which he sent to me. One of these I received before he left Rutland, and the other after his return."

She fetched the letters to the queen, who read them carefully.

"Perhaps if I were to see him, he might, upon my importunity, tell me all he knows concerning the affair and those connected with it if he knows anything more than he has already told," said Dorothy, by a great effort suppressing her eagerness. "I am sure, your Majesty, he would tell me all Should he tell me the names of any persons connected with any treasonable plot, I will certainly tell you. It would be base in me again to betray John's confidence; but your Majesty has promised me his life and liberty, and to obtain those I would do anything, however evil it might be. If I may see John, I promise to learn all that he knows, if he knows anything; and I also promise to tell you word for word all that he says."

The girl felt safe in making these promises, since she was sure that John knew nothing of a treasonable character.

The queen, thinking that she had adroitly led Dorothy up to making the offer, said, "I accept the conditions. Be in readiness to visit Sir John, upon my command."

Thus the compact was sealed, and the queen, who thought herself wise, was used by the girl, who thought herself simple.

For the purpose of hiding her exultation, Dorothy appeared to be ill, but when the queen passed out at the door and closed it behind her, the girl sprang from the bed and danced around the room as if she were a bear-baiter. From the depths of despair she flew to the pinnacle of hope. She knew, however, that she must conceal her happiness; therefore she went back to bed and waited impatiently the summons of Elizabeth requiring her to go to John.

But now I must pause to tell you of my troubles which followed so swiftly upon the heels of my fault that I was fairly stunned by them. My narrative will be brief, and I shall soon bring you back again to Dorothy.

Queen Mary had no sooner arrived at Haddon Hall than she opened an attack upon Leicester, somewhat after the same plan, I suppose, which she had followed with me in the coach. She could no more easily resist inviting homage from men than a swallow can refrain from flying. Thus, from inclination and policy, she sought Leicester and endeavored by the pleasant paths of her blandishments to lead him to her cause. There can be no doubt concerning Leicester's wishes in the premises. Had Mary's cause held elements of success, he would have joined her; but he feared Elizabeth, and he hoped some day to share her throne. He would, however, prefer to share the throne with Mary.

Mary told him of her plans and hopes. She told him that I had ridden with Dorothy for the purpose of rescuing John and herself, and that I had promised to help her to escape to France. She told him she would use me for her tool in making her escape, and would discard me when once she should be safe out of England. Then would come Leicester's turn. Then should my lord have his recompense, and together they would regain the Scottish crown.

How deeply Leicester became engaged in the plot I cannot say, but this I know: through fear of Elizabeth, or for the purpose of winning her favor, he unfolded to our queen all the details of Mary's scheme, together with the full story of my ride with Dorothy to Rutland, and my return with Dorothy and Mary in the coach. Thereupon Mary was placed under strict guard. The story spread quickly through the Hall, and Dawson brought it to me. On hearing it, my first thought was of Madge. I knew it would soon reach her. Therefore I determined to go to her at once and make a clean breast of all my perfidy. Had I done so sooner, I should at least have had the benefit of an honest, voluntary confession; but my conscience had made a coward of me, and the woman who had been my curse for years had so completely disturbed my mind that I should have been quite as well off without any at all. It led me from one mistake into another.

After Dawson told me that my miserable story was known throughout the Hall, I sought Madge, and found her with Aunt Dorothy. She was weeping, and I at once knew that I was too late with my confession. I spoke her name, "Madge," and stood by her side awaiting her reply.

"Is it true, Malcolm?" she asked. "I cannot believe it till I hear it from your lips."

"It was true," I responded. "I promised to help Queen Mary escape, and I promised to go with her; but within one hour of the time when I gave my word I regretted it as I have never regretted anything else in all my life. I resolved that, while I should, according to my promise, help the Scottish queen escape, I would not go with her. I resolved to wait here at Haddon to tell all to you and to our queen, and then I would patiently take my just punishment from each. My doom from the queen, I believed, would probably be death; but I feared more your—God help me! It is useless for me to speak." Here I broke down and fell upon my knees, crying, "Madge, Madge, pity me, pity me! Forgive me if you can, and, if our queen decrees it, I shall die happy."

In my desperation I caught the girl's hand, but she drew it quickly from me, and said:—

"Do not touch me!"

She arose to her feet, and groped her way to her bedroom. We were in Aunt Dorothy's room. I watched Madge as she sought with her outstretched hand the doorway; and when she passed slowly through it, the sun of my life seemed to turn black. Just as Madge passed from the room, Sir William St. Loe, with two yeomen, entered by Sir George's door and placed irons upon my wrist and ankles. I was led by Sir William to the dungeon, and no word was spoken by either of us.

I had never in my life feared death, and now I felt that I would welcome it. When a man is convinced that his life is useless, through the dire disaster that he is a fool, he values it little, and is even more than willing to lose it.

Then there were three of us in the dungeon,—John, Lord Rutland, and myself; and we were all there because we had meddled in the affairs of others, and because Dorothy had inherited from Eve a capacity for insane, unreasoning jealousy.

Lord Rutland was sitting on the ground in a corner of the dungeon. John, by the help of a projecting stone in the masonry, had climbed to the small grated opening which served to admit a few straggling rays of light into the dungeon's gloom. He was gazing out upon the fair day, whose beauty he feared would soon fade away from him forever.

Elizabeth's coldness had given him no hope. It had taken all hope from his father.

The opening of the door attracted John's attention, and he turned his face toward me when I entered. He had been looking toward the light, and his eyes, unaccustomed for the moment to the darkness, failed at first to recognize of me. When the dungeon door had closed behind me, he sprang down from his perch by the window, and came toward me with outstretched hands. He said sorrowfully:—

"Malcolm, have I brought you here, too? Why are you in irons? It seems that I am destined to bring calamity upon all whom I love."

"It is a long story," I replied laughingly. "I will tell it to you when the time begins to drag; but I tell you now it is through no fault of yours that I am here. No one is to blame for my misfortune but myself." Then I continued bitterly, "Unless it be the good God who created me a fool."

John went to his father's side and said:—

"Sir Malcolm is here, father. Will you not rise and greet him?"

John's voice aroused his father, and the old lord came to the little patch of light in which I was standing and said: "A terrible evil has fallen upon us, Sir Malcolm, and without our fault. I grieve to learn that you also are entangled in the web. The future looks very dark."

"Cheer up, father," said John, taking the old man's hand. "Light will soon come; I am sure it will."

"I have tried all my life to be a just man," said Lord Rutland. "I have failed at times, I fear, but I have tried. That is all any man can do. I pray that God in His mercy will soon send light to you, John, whatever of darkness there may be in store for me."

I thought, "He will surely answer this just man's prayer," and almost before the thought was completed the dungeon door turned upon its hinges and a great light came with glorious refulgence through the open portal—Dorothy.

"John!"

Never before did one word express so much of mingled joy and grief. Fear and confidence, and, greater than all, love unutterable were blended in its eloquent tones. She sprang to John as the lightning leaps from cloud to cloud, and he caught her to his heart. He gently kissed her hair, her face being hidden in the folds of his doublet.

"Let me kneel, John, let me kneel," she murmured.

"No, Dorothy, no," he responded, holding her closely in his arms.

"But one moment, John," she pleased.

"No, no; let me see your eyes, sweet one," said John, trying to turn her face upward toward his own.

"I cannot yet, John, I cannot. Please let me kneel for one little moment at your feet."

John saw that the girl would find relief in self-abasement, so he relaxed his arms, and she sank to her knees upon the dungeon floor. She wept softly for a moment, and then throwing back her head with her old impulsive manner looked up into his face.

"Oh, forgive me, John! Forgive me! Not that I deserve your forgiveness, but because you pity me."

"I forgave you long ago, Dorothy. You had my full forgiveness before you asked it."

He lifted the weeping girl to her feet and the two clung together in silence. After a pause Dorothy spoke:—

"You have not asked me, John, why I betrayed you."

"I want to know nothing, Dorothy, save that you love me."

"That you already know. But you cannot know how much I love you. I myself don't know. John, I seem to have turned all to love. 'However much there is of me, that much there is of love for you. As the salt is in every drop of the sea, so love is in every part of my being; but John," she continued, drooping her head and speaking regretfully, "the salt in the sea is not unmixed with many things hurtful." Her face blushed with shame and she continued limpingly: "And my love is not—is not without evil. Oh, John, I feel deep shame in telling you, but my love is terribly jealous. At times a jealousy comes over me so fierce and so distracting that under its influence I am mad, John, mad. I then see nothing in its true light; my eyes seem filled with—with blood, and all things appear red or black and—and—oh! John, I pray you never again cause me jealousy. It makes a demon of me."

You may well know that John was nonplussed.

"I cause you jealousy?" he asked in surprise. "When did I—" But Dorothy interrupted him, her eyes flashing darkly and a note of fierceness in her voice. He saw for himself the effects of jealousy upon her.

"That white—white Scottish wanton! God's curse be upon her! She tried to steal you from me."

"Perhaps she did," replied John, smilingly, "of that I do not know. But this I do know, and you, Dorothy, must know it too henceforth and for all time to come. No woman can steal my love from you. Since I gave you my troth I have been true to you; I have not been false even in one little thought."

"I feel sure, John, that you have not been untrue to me," said the girl with a faint smile playing about her lips; "but—but you remember the strange woman at Bowling Green Gate whom you would have—"

"Dorothy, I hope you have not come to my dungeon for the purpose of making me more wretched than I already am?"

"No, no, John, forgive me," she cried softly; "but John, I hate her, I hate her! and I want you to promise that you too will hate her."

"I promise," said John, "though, you have had no cause for jealousy of Queen Mary."

"Perhaps—not," she replied hesitatingly. "I have never thought," the girl continued poutingly, "that you did anything of which I should be jealous; but she—she—oh, I hate her! Let us not talk about her. Jennie Faxton told me—I will talk about her, and you shall not stop me—Jennie Faxton told me that the white woman made love to you and caused you to put your arm about her waist one evening on the battlements and-"

"Jennie told you a lie," said John.

"Now don't interrupt me," the girl cried nervously, almost ready for tears, "and I will try to tell you all. Jennie told me the—the white woman looked up to you this fashion," and the languishing look she gave John in imitation of Queen Mary was so beautiful and comical that he could do nothing but laugh and cover her face with kisses, then laugh again and love the girl more deeply and yet more deeply with each new breath he drew. Dorothy was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry, so she did both.

"Jennie told me in the middle of the night," continued Dorothy, "when all things seem so vivid and appear so distorted and—and that terrible blinding jealousy of which I told you came upon me and drove me mad. I really thought, John, that I should die of the agony. Oh, John, if you could know the anguish I suffered that night you would pity me; you would not blame me."

"I do not blame you, Dorothy."

"No, no, there-" she kissed him softly, and quickly continued: "I felt that I must separate her from you at all cost. I would have done murder to accomplish my purpose. Some demon whispered to me, 'Tell Queen Elizabeth,' and—and oh, John, let me kneel again."

"No, no, Dorothy, let us talk of something else," said John, soothingly.

"In one moment, John. I thought only of the evil that would come to her—her of Scotland. I did not think of the trouble I would bring to you, John, until the queen, after asking me if you were my lover, said angrily: 'You may soon seek another.' Then, John, I knew that I had also brought evil upon you. Then I did suffer. I tried to reach Rutland, and you know all else that happened on that terrible night. Now John, you know all—all. I have withheld nothing. I have, confessed all, and I feel that a great weight is taken from my heart. You will not hate me, will you, John?"

He caught the girl to his breast and tried to turn her face toward his.

"I could not hate you if I would," he replied, with quick-coming breath, "and God knows I would not. To love you is the sweetest joy in life," and he softly kissed the great lustrous eyes till they closed as if in sleep. Then he fiercely sought the rich red lips, waiting soft and passive for his caresses, while the fair head fell back upon the bend of his elbow in a languorous, half-conscious sweet surrender to his will. Lord Rutland and I had turned our backs on the shameless pair, and were busily discussing the prospect for the coming season's crops.

Remember, please, that Dorothy spoke to John of Jennie Faxton. Her doing so soon bore bitter fruit for me.

Dorothy had been too busy with John to notice any one else, but he soon presented her to his father. After the old lord had gallantly kissed her hand, she turned scornfully to me and said:—

"So you fell a victim to her wanton wiles? If it were not for Madge's sake, I could wish you might hang."

"You need not balk your kindly desire for Madge's sake," I answered. "She cares little about my fate. I fear she will never forgive me."

"One cannot tell what a woman will do," Dorothy replied. "She is apt to make a great fool of herself when it comes to forgiving the man she loves."

"Men at times have something to forgive," I retorted, looking with a smile toward John. The girl made no reply, but took John's hand and looked at him as if to say, "John, please don't let this horrid man abuse me."

"But Madge no longer cares for me," I continued, wishing to talk upon the theme, "and your words do not apply to her."

The girl turned her back disdainfully on me and said, "You seem to be quite as easily duped by the woman who loves you and says she doesn't as by the one who does not care for you but says she does."

"Damn that girl's tongue!" thought I; but her words, though biting, carried joy to my heart and light to my soul.

After exchanging a few words with Lord Rutland, Dorothy turned to John and said:—

"Tell me upon your knightly honor, John, do you know aught of a wicked, treasonable plot to put the Scottish woman on the English throne?"

I quickly placed my finger on my lips and touched my ear to indicate that their words would be overheard; for a listening-tube connected the dungeon with Sir George's closet.

"Before the holy God, upon my knighthood, by the sacred love we bear each other, I swear I know of no such plot," answered John. "I would be the first to tell our good queen did I suspect its existence."

Dorothy and John continued talking upon the subject of the plot, but were soon interrupted by a warning knock upon the dungeon door.

Lord Rutland, whose heart was like twenty-two carat gold, soft, pure, and precious, kissed Dorothy's hand when she was about to leave, and said: "Dear lady, grieve not for our sake. I can easily see that more pain has come to you than to us. I thank you for the great fearless love you bear my son. It has brought him trouble, but it is worth its cost. You have my forgiveness freely, and I pray God's choicest benediction may be with you." She kissed the old lord and said, "I hope some day to make you love me."

"That will be an easy task," said his Lordship, gallantly. Dorothy was about to leave. Just at the doorway she remembered the chief purpose of her visit; so she ran back to John, put her hand over his mouth to insure silence, and whispered in his ear.

On hearing Dorothy's whispered words, signs of joy were so apparent in John's face that they could not be mistaken. He said nothing, but kissed her hand and she hurriedly left the dungeon.

After the dungeon door closed upon Dorothy, John went to his father and whispered a few words to him. Then he came to me, and in the same secretive manner said:—

"The queen has promised Dorothy our liberty." I was not at all sure that "our liberty" included me,—I greatly doubted it,—but I was glad for the sake of my friends, and, in truth, cared little for myself.

Dorothy went from our dungeon to the queen, and that afternoon, according to promise, Elizabeth gave orders for the release of John and his father. Sir George, of course, was greatly chagrined when his enemies slipped from his grasp; but he dared not show his ill humor in the presence of the queen nor to any one who would be apt to enlighten her Majesty on the subject.

Dorothy did not know the hour when her lover would leave Haddon; but she sat patiently at her window till at last John and Lord Rutland appeared. She called to Madge, telling her of the joyous event, and Madge, asked:—

"Is Malcolm with them?"

"No," replied Dorothy, "he has been left in the dungeon, where he deserves to remain."

After a short pause, Madge said:—

"If John had acted toward the Scottish queen as Malcolm did, would you forgive him?"

"Yes, of course. I would forgive him anything."

"Then why shall we not forgive Malcolm?" asked Madge.

"Because he is not John," was the absurd reply.

"No," said Madge, promptly; "but he is 'John' to me."

"That is true," responded Dorothy, "and I will forgive him if you will."

"I don't believe it makes much difference to Malcolm whether or not you forgive him," said Madge, who was provoked at Dorothy's condescending offer. "My forgiveness, I hope, is what he desires."

"That is true, Madge," replied Dorothy, laughingly; "but may not I, also, forgive him?"

"If you choose," responded Madge, quietly; "as for me, I know not what I wish to do."

You remember that Dorothy during her visit to the dungeon spoke of Jennie Faxton. The girl's name reached Sir George's ear through the listening-tube and she was at once brought in and put to the question.

Jennie, contrary to her wont, became frightened and told all she knew concerning John and Dorothy, including my part in their affairs. In Sir George's mind, my bad faith to him was a greater crime than my treason to Elizabeth, and he at once went to the queen with his tale of woe.

Elizabeth, the most sentimental of women, had heard from Dorothy the story of her tempestuous love, and also of mine, and the queen was greatly interested in the situation.

I will try to be brief.

Through the influence of Dorothy and Madge, as I afterward learned, and by the help of a good word from Cecil, the queen was induced to order my liberation on condition that I should thenceforth reside in France. So one morning, three days after John's departure from Haddon, I was overjoyed to hear the words, "You are free."

I did not know that Jennie Faxton had given Sir George her large stock of disturbing information concerning my connection with the affairs of Dorothy and John. So when I left the dungeon, I, supposing that my stormy cousin would be glad to forgive me if Queen Elizabeth would, sought and found him in Aunt Dorothy's room. Lady Crawford and Sir George were sitting near the fire and Madge was standing near the door in the next room beyond. When I entered, Sir George sprang to his feet and cried out angrily:—

"You traitorous dog, the queen has seen fit to liberate you, and I cannot interfere with her orders; but if you do not leave my Hall at once I shall set the hounds on you. Your effects will be sent to The Peacock, and the sooner you quit England the safer you will be." There was of course nothing for me to do but to go.

"You once told me, Sir George—you remember our interview at The Peacock—that if you should ever again order me to leave Haddon, I should tell you to go to the devil. I now take advantage of your kind permission, and will also say farewell."

I kissed Aunt Dorothy's cheek, took my leave, and sought Cecil, from whom I obtained a passport to France. Then I asked Dawson to fetch my horse.

I longed to see Madge before I left Haddon, but I knew that my desire could not be gratified; so I determined to stop at Rowsley and send back a letter to her which Dawson undertook to deliver. In my letter I would ask Madge's permission to return for her from France and to take her home with me as my wife. After I had despatched my letter I would wait at The Peacock for an answer.

Sore at heart, I bade good-by to Dawson, mounted my horse, and turned his head toward the Dove-cote Gate. As I rode under Dorothy's window she was sitting there. The casement was open, for the day was mild, although the season was little past midwinter. I heard her call to Madge, and then she called to me:—

"Farewell, Malcolm! Forgive me for what I said to you in the dungeon. I was wrong, as usual. Forgive me, and God bless you. Farewell!"

While Dorothy was speaking, and before I replied, Madge came to the open casement and called:—

"Wait for me, Malcolm, I am going down to you."

Great joy is a wonderful purifier, and Madge's cry finished the work of the past few months and made a good man of me, who all my life before had known little else than evil.

Soon Madge's horse was led by a groom to the mounting block, and in a few minutes she emerged gropingly from the great door of Entrance Tower. Dorothy was again a prisoner in her rooms and could not come down to bid me farewell. Madge mounted, and the groom led her horse to me and placed the reins in my hands.

"Is it you, Malcolm?" asked Madge.

"Yes," I responded, in a voice husky with emotion. "I cannot thank you enough for coming to say farewell. You have forgiven me?"

"Yes," responded Madge, almost in tears, "but I have not come to say farewell."

I did not understand her meaning.

"Are you going to ride part of the way with me—perhaps to Rowsley?" I asked, hardly daring to hope for so much.

"To France, Malcolm, if you wish to take me," she responded murmuringly.

For a little time I could not feel the happiness that had come upon me in so great a flood. But when I had collected my scattered senses, I said:—

"I thank God that He has turned your heart again to me. May I feel His righteous anger if ever I give you cause to regret the step you are taking."

"I shall never regret it, Malcolm," she answered softly, as she held out her hand to me.

Then we rode by the dove-cote, out from Haddon Hall, never to see its walls again.

We went to Rutland, whence after a fortnight we journeyed to France. There I received my mother's estates, and never for one moment, to my knowledge, has Madge regretted having intrusted her life and happiness to me. I need not speak for myself.

Our home is among the warm, sunlit, vine-covered hills of southern France, and we care not for the joys of golden streets so long as God in His goodness vouchsafes to us our earthly paradise. Age, with the heart at peace, is the fairest season of life; and love, leavened of God, robs even approaching death of his sting and makes for us a broad flower-strewn path from the tempestuous sea of time to the calm, sweet ocean of eternity.



CHAPTER XVI

LEICESTER WAITS AT THE STILE

I shall now tell you of the happenings in Haddon Hall during the fortnight we spent at Rutland before our departure for France.

We left Dorothy, you will remember, a prisoner in her rooms.

After John had gone Sir George's wrath began to gather, and Dorothy was not permitted to depart from the Hall for even a walk upon the terrace, nor could she leave her own apartments save when the queen requested her presence.

A few days after my departure from Haddon, Sir George sent Dawson out through the adjoining country to invite the nobility and gentry to a grand ball to be given at the Hall in honor of Queen Elizabeth. Queen Mary had been sent a prisoner to Chatsworth.

Tom Shaw, the most famous piper of his times, and a choice company of musicians to play with him were hired for the occasion, and, in short, the event was so glorious that its wonders have been sung in minstrelsy throughout Derbyshire ever since.

Dorothy's imprisonment saddened Leicester's heart, and he longed to see her, for her beauty had touched him nearly. Accordingly, the earl one day intimated to Sir George his wish in terms that almost bespoke an intention to ask for the girl's hand when upon proper opportunity the queen's consent might be sought and perchance obtained. His equivocal words did not induce Sir George to grant a meeting by which Dorothy might be compromised; but a robust hope for the ultimate accomplishment of the "Leicester possibility" was aroused in the breast of the King of the Peak, and from hope he could, and soon did, easily step to faith. He saw that the earl was a handsome man, and he believed, at least he hoped, that the fascinating lord might, if he were given an opportunity, woo Dorothy's heart away from the hated scion of a hated race. Sir George, therefore, after several interviews with the earl, grew anxious to give his Lordship an opportunity to win her. But both Sir George and my lord feared Elizabeth's displeasure, and the meeting between Leicester and the girl seemed difficult to contrive. Sir George felt confident that Dorothy could, if she would, easily capture the great lord in a few private interviews; but would she? Dorothy gave her father no encouragement in the matter, and took pains to shun Leicester rather than to seek him.

As Dorothy grew unwilling, Leicester and Sir George grew eager, until at length the latter felt that it was almost time to exert his parental authority. He told Aunt Dorothy his feeling on the subject, and she told her niece. It was impossible to know from what source Dorothy might draw inspiration for mischief. It came to her with her father's half-command regarding Leicester.

Winter had again asserted itself. The weather was bitter cold and snow covered the ground to the depth of a horse's fetlock.

The eventful night of the grand ball arrived, and Dorothy's heart throbbed till she thought surely it would burst.

At nightfall guests began to arrive, and Sir George, hospitable soul that he was, grew boisterous with good humor and delight.

The rare old battlements of Haddon were ablaze with flambeaux, and inside the rooms were alight with waxen tapers. The long gallery was brilliant with the smiles of bejewelled beauty, and laughter, song, and merriment filled the grand old Hall from terrace to Entrance Tower. Dorothy, of course, was brought down from her prison to grace the occasion with a beauty which none could rival. Her garments were of soft, clinging, bright-colored silks and snowy laces, and all who saw her agreed that a creature more radiant never greeted the eye of man.

When the guests had all arrived, the pipers in the balcony burst forth in heart-swelling strains of music, and every foot in the room longed for the dance to begin.

I should like to tell you how Elizabeth most graciously opened the ball with his Majesty, the King of the Peak, amid the plaudits of worshipping subjects, and I should enjoy describing the riotous glory which followed,—for although I was not there, I know intimately all that happened,—but I will balk my desire and tell you only of those things which touched Dorothy.

Leicester, of course, danced with her, and during a pause in the figure, the girl in response to pleadings which she had adroitly incited, reluctantly promised to grant the earl the private interview he so much desired if he could suggest some means for bringing it about. Leicester was in raptures over her complaisance and glowed with triumph and delightful anticipation. But he could think of no satisfactory plan whereby his hopes might be brought to a happy fruition. He proposed several, but all seemed impracticable to the coy girl, and she rejected them. After many futile attempts he said:—

"I can suggest no good plan, mistress. I pray you, gracious lady, therefore, make full to overflowing the measure of your generosity, and tell me how it may be accomplished."

Dorothy hung her head as if in great shame and said: "I fear, my lord, we had better abandon the project for a time. Upon another occasion perhaps—"

"No, no," interrupted the earl, pleadingly, "do not so grievously disappoint me. My heart yearns to have you to myself for one little moment where spying eyes cannot see nor prying ears hear. It is cruel in you to raise my hopes only to cast them down. I beg you, tell me if you know in what manner I may meet you privately."

After a long pause, Dorothy with downcast eyes said, "I am full of shame, my lord, to consent to this meeting, and then find the way to it, but—but—" ("Yes, yes, my Venus, my gracious one," interrupted the earl)—"but if my father would permit me to—to leave the Hall for a few minutes, I might—oh, it is impossible, my lord. I must not think of it."

"I pray you, I beg you," pleaded Leicester. "Tell me, at least, what you might do if your father would permit you to leave the Hall. I would gladly fall to my knees, were it not for the assembled company."

With reluctance in her manner and gladness in her heart, the girl said:—

"If my father would permit me to leave the Hall, I might—only for a moment, meet you at the stile, in the northeast corner of the garden back of the terrace half an hour hence. But he would not permit me, and—and, my lord, I ought not to go even should father consent."

"I will ask your father's permission for you. I will seek him at once," said the eager earl.

"No, no, my lord, I pray you, do not," murmured Dorothy, with distracting little troubled wrinkles in her forehead. Her trouble was more for fear lest he would not than for dread that he would.

"I will, I will," cried his Lordship, softly; "I insist, and you shall not gainsay me."

The girl's only assent was silence, but that was sufficient for so enterprising a gallant as the noble Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. So he at once went to seek Sir George.

The old gentleman, although anxious to give Leicester a chance to press his suit with Dorothy, at first refused, but Leicester said:—

"My intentions are honorable, Sir George. If I can win your daughter's heart, it is my wish, if the queen's consent can be obtained, to ask Mistress Vernon's hand in marriage."

Sir George's breast swelled with pride and satisfaction, for Leicester's words were as near an offer of marriage as it was in his power to make. So the earl received, for Dorothy, permission to leave the Hall, and eagerly carried it to her.

"Your father consents gladly," said the earl. "Will you meet me half an hour hence at the stile?"

"Yes," murmured the girl, with shamelessly cast down eyes and drooping head. Leicester bowed himself away, and fully fifteen minutes before the appointed time left the Hall to wait in the cold at the stile for Dorothy.

Before the expiration of the tedious half hour our meek maiden went to her father and with deep modesty and affected shame said:—

"Father, is it your wish that I go out of the Hall for a few minutes to meet—to meet—" She apparently could not finish the sentence, so modest and shame-faced was she.

"Yes, Doll, I wish you to go on this condition: if Leicester asks you to marry him, you shall consent to be his wife."

"I promise, father," replied the dutiful girl, "if Lord Leicester asks me this night, I will be his wife."

"That is well, child, that is well. Once more you are my good, obedient daughter, and I love you. Wear your sable cloak, Doll; the weather is very cold out of doors."

Her father's solicitude touched her nearly, and she gently led him to a secluded alcove near by, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him passionately. The girl's affection was sweet to the old man who had been without it so long, and his eyes grew moist as he returned her caresses. Dorothy's eyes also were filled with tears. Her throat was choked with sobs, and her heart was sore with pain. Poor young heart! Poor old man!

Soon after Dorothy had spoken with her father she left the Hall by Dorothy's Postern. She was wrapped in her sable cloak—the one that had saved John's life in Aunt Dorothy's room; but instead of going across the garden to the stile where Lord Leicester was waiting, which was north and east of the terrace, she sped southward down the terrace and did not stop till she reached the steps which led westward to the lower garden. She stood on the terrace till she saw a man running toward her from the postern in the southwest corner of the lower garden. Then down the steps she sped with winged feet, and outstretching her arms, fell upon the man's breast, whispering: "John, my love! John, my love!"

As for the man—well, during the first minute or two he wasted no time in speech.

When he spoke he said:—

"We must not tarry here. Horses are waiting at the south end of the footbridge. Let us hasten away at once."

Then happened the strangest of all the strange things I have had to record of this strange, fierce, tender, and at time almost half-savage girl.

Dorothy for months had longed for that moment. Her heart had almost burst with joy when a new-born hope for it was suggested by the opportunities of the ball and her father's desire touching my lord of Leicester. But now that the longed-for moment was at hand, the tender heart, which had so anxiously awaited it, failed, and the girl broke down weeping hysterically.

"Oh, John, you have forgiven so many faults in me," she said between sobs, "that I know you will forgive me when I tell you I cannot go with you to-night. I thought I could and I so intended when I came out here to meet you. But oh, John, my dearest love, I cannot go; I cannot go. Another time I will go with you, John. I promise that I will go with you soon, very soon, John; but I cannot go now, oh, I cannot. You will forgive me, won't you, John? You will forgive me?"

"No," cried John in no uncertain tones, "I will not forgive you. I will take you. If you cry out, I will silence you." Thereupon he rudely took the girl in his arms and ran with her toward the garden gate near the north end of the stone footbridge.

"John, John!" she cried in terror. But he placed his hand over her mouth and forced her to remain silent till they were past the south wall. Then he removed his hand and she screamed and struggled against him with all her might. Strong as she was, her strength was no match for John's, and her struggles were in vain.

John, with his stolen bride, hurriedly crossed the footbridge and ran to the men who were holding the horses. There he placed Dorothy on her feet and said with a touch of anger:—

"Will you mount of your own will or shall I put you in the saddle?"

"I'll mount of my own will, John," she replied submissively, "and John, I—I thank you, I thank you for—for—" she stopped speaking and toyed with the tufts of fur that hung from the edges of her cloak.

"For what, my love? For what do you thank me?" asked John after a little pause.

"For making—me—do—what I—I longed to do. My conscience would not let me do it of my own free will."

Then tears came from her eyes in a great flood, and throwing her arms about John's neck she gave him herself and her heart to keep forever and forever.

And Leicester was shivering at the stile! The girl had forgotten even the existence of the greatest lord in the realm.

My wife, Lord Rutland, and I waited in the watch-room above the castle gates for the coming of Dorothy and John; and when they came—but I will not try to describe the scene. It were a vain effort. Tears and laughter well compounded make the sweetest joy; grief and joy the truest happiness; happiness and pain the grandest soul, and none of these may be described. We may analyze them, and may take them part from part; but, like love, they cannot be compounded. We may know all the component parts, but when we try to create these great emotions in description, we lack the subtle compounding flux to unite the ingredients, and after all is done, we have simply said that black is black and that white is white.

Next day, in the morning, Madge and I started for our new home in France. We rode up the hill down which poor Dolcy took her last fatal plunge, and when we reached the crest, we paused to look back. Standing on the battlements, waving a kerchief in farewell to us, was the golden-crowned form of a girl. Soon she covered her face with her kerchief, and we knew she was weeping Then we, also, wept as we turned away from the fair picture; and since that far-off morning—forty long, long years ago—we have not seen the face nor heard the voice of our sweet, tender friend. Forty years! What an eternity it is if we tear it into minutes!



L'ENVOI

The fire ceases to burn; the flames are sucked back into the earth; the doe's blood has boiled away; the caldron cools, and my shadowy friends—so real to me—whom I love with a passionate tenderness beyond my power to express, have sunk into the dread black bank of the past, and my poor, weak wand is powerless to recall them for the space of even one fleeting moment. So I must say farewell to them; but all my life I shall carry a heart full of tender love and pain for the fairest, fiercest, gentlest, weakest, strongest of them all—Dorothy Vernon.



MALCOLM POSSIBLY IN ERROR

Malcolm Vernon is the only writer on the life of Dorothy Vernon who speaks of Rutland Castle. All others writing on the subject say that Belvoir Castle was the home of the Earl of Rutland.

No other writer mentions the proposed marriage, spoken of by Malcolm, between Dorothy and Lord Derby's son. They do, however, say that Dorothy had an elder sister who married a Stanley, but died childless, leaving Dorothy sole heiress to Sir George Vernon's vast estate.

All writers agree with Malcolm upon the main fact that brave Dorothy eloped with John Manners and brought to him the fair estate of Haddon, which their descendant, the present Duke of Rutland, now possesses.

No other writer speaks of Mary Stuart having been at Haddon, and many chroniclers disagree with Malcolm as to the exact date of her imprisonment in Lochleven and her escape.

In all other essential respects the history of Dorothy Vernon as told by Malcolm agrees with other accounts of her life.

I do not pretend to reconcile the differences between these great historical authorities, but I confess to considerable faith in Malcolm.

THE END