Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall. Charles Major
next in line of descent. The Catholics of England took that stand, and Mary's beauty and powers of fascination had won for her friends even in the personal household of the Virgin Queen. Small cause for wonder was it that Elizabeth, knowing all these facts, looked with suspicion and fear upon Mary's refugee friends.
The English queen well knew that Sir George Vernon was her friend, therefore his house and his friendship were my sanctuary, without which my days certainly would have been numbered in the land of Elizabeth, and their number would have been small. I was dependent on Sir George not only for a roof to shelter me, but for my very life. I speak of these things that you may know some of the many imperative reasons why I desired to please and conciliate my cousin. In addition to those reasons, I soon grew to love Sir George, not only because of his kindness to me, but because he was a lovable man. He was generous, just, and frank, and although at times he was violent almost to the point of temporary madness, his heart was usually gentle, and was as easily touched by kindness as it was quickly moved to cruelty by injury, fancied or actual. I have never known a more cruel, tender man than he. You will see him in each of his natures before you have finished this history. But you must judge him only after you have considered his times, which were forty years ago, his surroundings, and his blood.
During those two months remarkable changes occurred within the walls of Haddon, chief of which were in myself, and, alas! in Dorothy.
My pilgrimage to Haddon, as you already know, had been made for the purpose of marrying my fair cousin; for I did not, at the time I left Scotland, suppose I should need Sir George's protection against Elizabeth. When I met Dorothy at Rowsley, my desire to marry her became personal, in addition to the mercenary motives with which I had originally started. But I quickly recognized the fact that the girl was beyond my reach. I knew I could not win her love, even though I had a thousand years to try for it; and I would not accept her hand in marriage solely at her father's command. I also soon learned that Dorothy was the child of her father, gentle, loving, and tender beyond the naming, but also wilful, violent, and fierce to the extent that no command could influence her.
First I shall speak of the change within myself. I will soon be done with so much "I" and "me," and you shall have Dorothy to your heart's content, or trouble, I know not which.
Soon after my arrival at Haddon Hall the sun ushered in one of those wonderful days known only to the English autumn, when the hush of Nature's drowsiness, just before her long winter's sleep, imparts its soft restfulness to man, as if it were a lotus feast. Dorothy was ostentatiously busy with her household matters, and was consulting with butler, cook, and steward. Sir George had ridden out to superintend his men at work, and I, wandering aimlessly about the hail, came upon Madge Stanley sitting in the chaplain's room with folded hands.
"Lady Madge, will you go with me for a walk this beautiful morning?" I asked.
"Gladly would I go, Sir Malcolm," she responded, a smile brightening her face and quickly fading away, "but I—I cannot walk in unfamiliar places. I should fail. You would have to lead me by the hand, and that, I fear, would mar the pleasure of your walk."
"Indeed, it would not, Lady Madge. I should enjoy my walk all the more."
"If you really wish me to go, I shall be delighted," she responded, as the brightness came again to her face. "I sometimes grow weary, and, I confess, a little sad sitting alone when Dorothy cannot be with me. Aunt Dorothy, now that she has her magnifying glasses—spectacles, I think they are called—devotes all her time to reading, and dislikes to be interrupted."
"I wish it very much," I said, surprised by the real eagerness of my desire, and unconsciously endeavoring to keep out of the tones of my voice a part of that eagerness.
"I shall take you at your word," she said. "I will go to my room to get my hat and cloak."
She rose and began to grope her way toward the door, holding out her white, expressive hands in front of her. It was pitiful and beautiful to see her, and my emotions welled up in my throat till I could hardly speak.
"Permit me to give you my hand," I said huskily. How I longed to carry her! Every man with the right sort of a heart in his breast has a touch of the mother instinct in him; but, alas I only a touch. Ah, wondrous and glorious womanhood! If you had naught but the mother instinct to lift you above your masters by the hand of man-made laws, those masters were still unworthy to tie the strings of your shoes.
"Thank you," said the girl, as she clasped my hand, and moved with confidence by my side. "This is so much better than the dreadful fear of falling. Even through these rooms where I have lived for many years I feel safe only in a few places—on the stairs, and in my rooms, which are also Dorothy's. When Dorothy changes the position of a piece of furniture in the Hall, she leads me to it several times that I may learn just where it is. A long time ago she changed the position of a chair and did not tell me. I fell against it and was hurt. Dorothy wept bitterly over the mishap, and she has never since failed to tell me of such changes. I cannot make you know how kind and tender Dorothy is to me. I feel that I should die without her, and I know she would grieve terribly were we to part."
I could not answer. What a very woman you will think I was! I, who could laugh while I ran my sword through a man's heart, could hardly restrain my tears for pity of this beautiful blind girl.
"Thank you; that will do," she said, when we came to the foot of the great staircase. "I can now go to my rooms alone."
When she reached the top she hesitated and groped for a moment; then she turned and called laughingly to me while I stood at the bottom of the steps, "I know the way perfectly well, but to go alone in any place is not like being led."
"There are many ways in which one may be led, Lady Madge," I answered aloud. Then I said to myself, "That girl will lead you to Heaven, Malcolm, if you will permit her to do so."
But thirty-five years of evil life are hard to neutralize. There is but one subtle elixir that can do it—love; and I had not thought of that magic remedy with respect to Madge.
I hurriedly fetched my hat and returned to the foot of the staircase. Within a minute or two Madge came down stairs holding up the skirt of her gown with one hand, while she grasped the banister with the other. As I watched her descending I was enraptured with her beauty. Even the marvellous vital beauty of Dorothy could not compare with this girl's fair, pale loveliness. It seemed to be almost a profanation for me to admire the sweet oval of her face. Upon her alabaster skin, the black eyebrows, the long lashes, the faint blue veins and the curving red lips stood in exquisite relief. While she was descending the stairs, I caught a gleam of her round, snowy forearm and wrist; and when my eyes sought the perfect curves of her form disclosed by the clinging silk gown she wore, I felt that I had sinned in looking upon her, and I was almost glad she could not see the shame which was in my face.
"Cousin Malcolm, are you waiting?" she asked from midway in the staircase.
"Yes, I am at the foot of the steps," I answered.
"I called you 'Cousin Malcolm,'" she said, holding out her hand when she came near me. "Pardon me; it was a slip of the tongue. I hear 'Cousin Malcolm' so frequently from Dorothy that the name is familiar to me."
"I shall be proud if you will call me 'Cousin Malcolm' always. I like the name better than any that you can use."
"If you wish it," she said, in sweet, simple candor, "I will call you 'Cousin Malcolm,' and you may call me 'Cousin Madge' or 'Madge,' just as you please."
"'Cousin Madge' it shall be; that is a compact," I answered, as I opened the door and we walked out into the fresh air of the bright October morning.
"That will stand for our first compact; we are progressing famously," she said, with a low laugh of delight.
Ah, to think that the blind can laugh. God is good.
We walked out past the stables and the cottage, and crossed the river on the great stone bridge. Then we took our way down the babbling Wye, keeping close to its banks, while the dancing waters and even the gleaming pebbles seemed to dimple and smile as they softly sang their song of welcome to the fair kindred spirit