Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Part 36

But before I tell you of the parchment I must relate a scene that occurred in Aunt Dorothy's room a few hours after I recognized John as he rode up the Wye with Dorothy. It was late in the afternoon of the day after I read the contract to Sir George and saw the horrid vision on Bowling Green.

I was sitting with Madge at the west window of Dorothy's parlor. We were watching the sun as it sank in splendor beneath Overhaddon Hill.

I should like first to tell you a few words--only a few, I pray you--concerning Madge and myself. I will.

I have just said that Madge and I were watching the sun at the west window, and I told you but the truth, for Madge had learned to see with my eyes. Gladly would I have given them to her outright, and willingly would I have lived in darkness could I have given light to her. She gave light to me--the light of truth, of purity, and of exalted motive. There had been no words spoken by Madge nor me to any one concerning the strange and holy chain that was welding itself about us, save the partial confession which she had whispered to Dorothy. But notwithstanding our silence, our friends in the Hall understood that Madge and I were very dear to each other. I, of course, saw a great deal of her; but it was the evening hour at the west window to which I longingly looked forward all the day. I am no poet, nor do my words and thoughts come with the rhythmic flow and eloquent imagery of one to whom the talent of poesy is given. But during those evening hours it seemed that with the soft touch of Madge's hand there ran through me a current of infectious dreaming which kindled my soul till thoughts of beauty came to my mind and words of music sprang to my lips such as I had always considered not to be in me. It was not I who spoke; it was Madge who saw with my eyes and spoke with my voice. To my vision, swayed by Madge's subtle influence, the landscape became a thing of moving beauty and of life, and the floating clouds became a panorama of ever shifting pictures. I, inspired by her, described so eloquently the wonders I saw that she, too, could see them. Now a flock of white-winged angels rested on the low-hung azure of the sky, watching the glory of Phoebus as he drove his fiery steeds over the western edge of the world.

Again, Mount Olympus would grow before my eyes, and I would plainly see Jove sitting upon his burnished throne, while G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses floated at his feet and revelled on the fleecy mountain sides. Then would mountain, G.o.ds, and G.o.ddesses dissolve,--as in fact they did dissolve ages ago before the eyes of millions who had thought them real,--and in their places perhaps would come a procession of golden-maned lions, at the description of which would Madge take pretended fright. Again, would I see Madge herself in flowing white robes made of the stuff from which fleecy clouds are wrought. All these wonders would I describe, and when I would come to tell her of the fair cloud image of herself I would seize the joyous chance to make her understand in some faint degree how altogether lovely in my eyes the vision was. Then would she smile and softly press my hand and say:--

"Malcolm, it must be some one else you see in the cloud," though she was pleased.

But when the hour was done then came the crowning moment of the day, for as I would rise to take my leave, if perchance we were alone, she would give herself to my arms for one fleeting instant and willingly would her lips await--but there are moments too sacred for aught save holy thought.

The theme is sweet to me, but I must go back to Dorothy and tell you of the scene I have promised you.

As I have already said, it was the evening following that upon which I had read the marriage contract to Sir George, and had seen the vision on the hillside. Madge and I were sitting at the west window. Dorothy, in kindness to us, was sitting alone by the fireside in Lady Crawford's chamber. Thomas entered the room with an armful of f.a.gots, which he deposited in the f.a.got-holder. He was about to replenish the fire, but Dorothy thrust him aside, and said:--

"You shall kindle no more fires for me. At least you shall not do so when no one else is by. It pains me that you, at whose feet I am unworthy to kneel, should be my servant"

Thereupon she took in her hands the f.a.got John had been holding. He offered to prevent her, but she said:--

"Please, John, let me do this."

The doors were open, and we heard all that was said by Dorothy and Tom.

Madge grasped my hand in surprise and fear.

"Please, John," said Dorothy, "if it gives me pleasure to be your servant, you should not wish to deny me. There lives but one person whom I would serve. There, John, I will give you another, and you shall let me do as I will."

Dorothy, still holding the f.a.got in her hands, pressed it against John's breast and gently pushed him backward toward a large armchair, in which she had been sitting by the west side of the fireplace.

"You sit there, John, and we will make believe that this is our house, and that you have just come in very cold from a ride, and that I am making a fine fire to warm you. Isn't it pleasant, John? There, you sit and warm yourself--my--my--husband," she said laughingly. "It is fine sport even to play at. There is one f.a.got on the fire," she said, as she threw the wood upon the embers, causing them to fly in all directions. John started up to brush the scattered embers back into the fireplace, but Dorothy stopped him.

"I will put them all back," she said. "You know you are cold and very tired. You have been overseeing the tenantry and have been hunting. Will you have a howl of punch, my--my husband?" and she laughed again and kissed him as she pa.s.sed to the holder for another f.a.got.

"I much prefer that to punch," said John, laughing softly. "Have you more?"

"Thousands of them, John, thousands of them." She rippled forth a little laugh and continued: "I occupy my time nowadays in making them that I may always have a great supply when we are--that is, you know, when you--when the time comes that you may require a great many to keep you in good humor." Again came the laugh, merry and clear as the tinkle of sterling silver.

She laughed again within a minute or two; but when the second laugh came, it sounded like a knell.

Dorothy delighted to be dressed in the latest fashion. Upon this occasion she wore a skirt vast in width, of a pattern then much in vogue. The sleeves also were preposterously large, in accordance with the custom of the times. About her neck a beautiful white linen ruff stood out at least the eighth part of an ell. The day had been damp and cold, and the room in which she had been sitting was chilly. For that reason, most fortunately, she had thrown over her shoulders a wide sable cloak broad enough to enfold her many times and long enough to reach nearly to her knees: Dorothy thus arrayed was standing in front of John's chair. She had just spoken the words "good humor," when the door leading to her father's room opened and in walked Sir George. She and her ample skirts and broad sleeves were between John and the door. Not one brief instant did Dorothy waste in thought. Had she paused to put in motion the machinery of reason, John would have been lost. Thomas sitting in Lady Crawford's chair and Dorothy standing beside him would have told Sir George all he needed to know. He might not have discovered John's ident.i.ty, but a rope and a tree in Bowling Green would quickly have closed the chapter of Dorothy's mysterious love affair. Dorothy, however, did not stop to reason nor to think. She simply acted without preliminary thought, as the rose unfolds or as the lightning strikes. She quietly sat down upon John's knees, leaned closely back against him, spread out the ample folds of her skirt, threw the lower parts of her broad cape over her shoulders and across the back of the chair, and Sir John Manners was invisible to mortal eyes.

"Come in, father," said Dorothy, in dulcet tones that should have betrayed her.

"I heard you laughing and talking," said Sir George, "and I wondered who was with you."

"I was talking to Madge and Malcolm who are in the other room," replied Dorothy.

"Did not Thomas come in with f.a.gots?" asked Sir George.

"I think he is replenishing the fire in the parlor, father, or he may have gone out. I did not notice. Do you want him?"

"I do not especially want him," Sir George answered.

"When he finishes in the parlor I will tell him that you want him," said Dorothy.

"Very well," replied Sir George.

He returned to his room, but he did not close the door.

The moment her father's back was turned Dorothy called:--

"Tom--Tom, father wants you," and instantly Thomas was standing deferentially by her side, and she was seated in the great chair. It was a rapid change, I a.s.sure you. But a man's life and his fortune for good or ill often hang upon a tiny peg--a second of time protruding from the wall of eternity. It serves him briefly; but if he be ready for the vital instant, it may serve him well.

"Yes, mistress," said Thomas, "I go to him at once."

John left the room and closed the door as he pa.s.sed out. Then it was that Dorothy's laugh sounded like the chilling tones of a knell. It was the laugh of one almost distraught. She came to Madge and me laughing, but the laugh quickly changed to convulsive sobs. The strain of the brief moment during which her father had been in Lady Crawford's room had been too great for even her strong nerves to bear. She tottered and would have fallen had I not caught her. I carried her to the bed, and Madge called Lady Crawford. Dorothy had swooned.

When she wakened she said dreamily:--

"I shall always keep this cloak and gown."

Aunt Dorothy thought the words were but the incoherent utterances of a dimly conscious mind, but I knew they were the deliberate expression of a justly grateful heart.

The following evening trouble came about over the matter of the marriage contract.

You remember I told you that Sir George had sent Lady Crawford as an advance guard to place the parchment in the enemy's hands. But the advance guard feared the enemy and therefore did not deliver the contract directly to Dorothy. She placed it conspicuously upon the table, knowing well that her niece's curiosity would soon prompt an examination.

I was sitting before the fire in Aunt Dorothy's room, talking to Madge when Lady Crawford entered, placed the parchment on the table, and took a chair by my side. Soon Dorothy entered the room. The roll of parchment, brave with ribbons, was lying on the table. It attracted her attention at once, and she took it in her hands.

"What is this?" she asked carelessly. Her action was prompted entirely by idle curiosity. That, by the way, was no small motive with Dorothy. She had the curiosity of a young doe. Receiving no answer, she untied the ribbons and unrolled the parchment to investigate its contents for herself. When the parchment was unrolled, she began to read:--

"In the name of G.o.d, amen. This indenture of agreement, looking to union in the holy bonds of marriage between the Right Honorable Lord James Stanley of the first part, and Mistress Dorothy Vernon of Haddon of the second part--"

She read no farther. She crumpled the beautiful parchment in her hands, walked over to the fire, and quietly placed the sacred instrument in the midst of the flames. Then she turned away with a sneer of contempt upon her face and--again I grieve to tell you this--said:--

"In the name of G.o.d, amen. May this indenture be d.a.m.ned."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Lady Crawford, horrified at her niece's profanity. "I feel shame for your impious words."

"I don't care what you feel, aunt," retorted Dorothy, with a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Feel as you wish, I meant what I said, and I will say it again if you would like to hear it. I will say it to father when I see him. Now, Aunt Dorothy, I love you and I love my father, but I give you fair warning there is trouble ahead for any one who crosses me in this matter."

She certainly looked as if she spoke the truth. Then she hummed a tune under her breath--a dangerous signal in Dorothy at certain times. Soon the humming turned to whistling. Whistling in those olden days was looked upon as a species of crime in a girl.

Dorothy stood by the window for a short time and then taking up an embroidery frame, drew a chair nearer to the light and began to work at her embroidery. In a moment or two she stopped whistling, and we could almost feel the silence in the room. Madge, of course, only partly knew what had happened, and her face wore an expression of expectant, anxious inquiry. Aunt Dorothy looked at me, and I looked at the fire. The parchment burned slowly. Lady Crawford, from a sense of duty to Sir George and perhaps from politic reasons, made two or three attempts to speak, and after five minutes of painful silence she brought herself to say:--

"Dorothy, your father left the contract here for you to read. He will be angry when he learns what you have done. Such disobedience is sure to--"

"Not another word from you," screamed Dorothy, springing like a tigress from her chair. "Not another word from you or I will--I will scratch you.

I will kill some one. Don't speak to me. Can't you see that I am trying to calm myself for an interview with father? An angry brain is full of blunders. I want to make none. I will settle this affair with father. No one else, not even you, Aunt Dorothy, shall interfere." The girl turned to the window, stood beating a tattoo upon the gla.s.s for a moment or two, then went over to Lady Crawford and knelt by her side. She put her arms about Aunt Dorothy's neck, softly kissed her, and said:--