Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall. Charles Major
were together on the terrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desired topic, she said, "I suppose you never meet—meet—him when you ride out?"
"Whom, Dorothy?" I asked.
"The gentleman with the cigarro," she responded, laughing nervously.
"No," I answered, "I know nothing of him."
The subject was dropped.
At another time she said, "He was in the village—Overhaddon—yesterday."
Then I knew who "him" was.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Jennie Faxton, the farrier's daughter, told me. She often comes to the Hall to serve me. She likes to act as my maid, and is devoted to me."
"Did he send any word to you?" I asked at a venture. The girl blushed and hung her head. "N-o," she responded.
"What was it, Dorothy?" I asked gently. "You may trust me."
"He sent no word to me," the girl responded. "Jennie said she heard two gentlemen talking about me in front of the farrier's shop, and one of them said something about—oh, I don't know what it was. I can't tell you. It was all nonsense, and of course he did not mean it."
"Tell me all, Dorothy," I said, seeing that she really wanted to speak.
"Oh, he said something about having seen Sir George Vernon's daughter at Rowsley, and—and—I can't tell you what he said, I am too full of shame." If her cheeks told the truth, she certainly was "full of shame."
"Tell me all, sweet cousin; I am sorry for you," I said. She raised her eyes to mine in quick surprise with a look of suspicion.
"You may trust me, Dorothy. I say it again, you may trust me."
"He spoke of my beauty and called it marvellous," said the girl. "He said that in all the world there was not another woman—oh, I can't tell you."
"Yes, yes, go on, Dorothy," I insisted.
"He said," she continued, "that he could think of nothing else but me day or night since he had first seen me at Rowsley—that I had bewitched him and—and—Then the other gentleman said, 'John, don't play with fire; it will burn you. Nothing good can come of it for you.'"
"Did Jennie know who the gentleman was?" I asked.
"No," returned Dorothy.
"How do you know who he was?"
"Jennie described him," she said.
"How did she describe him?" I asked.
"She said he was—he was the handsomest man in the world and—and that he affected her so powerfully she fell in love with him in spite of herself. The little devil, to dare! You see that describes him perfectly."
I laughed outright, and the girl blushed painfully.
"It does describe him," she said petulantly. "You know it does. No one can gainsay that he is wonderfully, dangerously handsome. I believe the woman does not live who could refrain from feasting her eyes on his noble beauty. I wonder if I shall ever again—again." Tears were in her voice and almost in her eyes.
"Dorothy! My God, Dorothy!" I exclaimed in terror.
"Yes! yes! My God, Dorothy!" she responded, covering her face with her hands and sighing deeply, as she dropped her head and left me.
Yes, yes, my God, Dorothy! The helpless iron and the terrible loadstone! The passive seed! The dissolving cloud and the falling rain!
Less than a week after the above conversation, Dorothy, Madge, and I were riding from Yulegrave Church up to the village of Overhaddon, which lies one mile across the hills from Haddon Hall. My horse had cast a shoe, and we stopped at Faxton's shop to have him shod. The town well is in the middle of an open space called by the villagers "The Open," around which are clustered the half-dozen houses and shops that constitute the village. The girls were mounted, and I was standing beside them in front of the farrier's, waiting for my horse. Jennie Faxton, a wild, unkempt girl of sixteen, was standing in silent admiration near Dorothy. Our backs were turned toward the well. Suddenly a light came into Jennie's face, and she plucked Dorothy by the skirt of her habit.
"Look, mistress, look! Look there by the well!" said Jennie in a whisper. Dorothy looked toward the well. I also turned my head and beheld my friend, Sir John, holding a bucket of water for his horse to drink. I had not seen him since we parted at The Peacock, and I did not show that I recognized him. I feared to betray our friendship to the villagers. They, however, did not know Sir John, and I need not have been so cautious. But Dorothy and Madge were with me, and of course I dared not make any demonstration of acquaintanceship with the enemy of our house.
Dorothy watched John closely, and when he was ready to mount she struck her horse with the whip, and boldly rode to the well.
"May I ask you to give my mare water?" she said.
"Certainly. Ah, I beg pardon. I did not understand," answered Sir John, confusedly. John, the polished, self-poised courtier, felt the confusion of a country rustic in the presence of this wonderful girl, whose knowledge of life had been acquired within the precincts of Haddon Hall. Yet the inexperienced girl was self-poised and unconfused, while the wits of the courtier, who had often calmly flattered the queen, had all gone wool-gathering.
She repeated her request.
"Certainly," returned John, "I—I knew what you said—but—but you surprise me."
"Yes," said brazen Dorothy, "I have surprised myself."
John, in his haste to satisfy Dolcy's thirst, dashed the water against the skirt of Dorothy's habit, and was profuse in his apologies.
"Do not mention it," said Dorothy. "I like a damp habit. The wind cannot so easily blow it about," and she laughed as she shook the garment to free it of the water. Dolcy refused to drink, and Dorothy having no excuse to linger at the well, drew up her reins and prepared to leave. While doing so, she said:—
"Do you often come to Overhaddon?" Her eager eyes shone like red coals, and looking at John, she awaited smilingly his response.
"Seldom," answered John; "not often. I mean every day—that is, if I may come."
"Any one may come to the village whenever he wishes to do so," responded Dorothy, laughing too plainly at Sir John's confusion. "Is it seldom, or not often, or every day that you come?" In her overconfidence she was chaffing him. He caught the tone, and looked quickly into the girl's eyes. Her gaze could not stand against John's for a moment, and the long lashes drooped to shade her eyes from the fierce light of his.
"I said I would come to Overhaddon every day," he returned; "and although I must have appeared very foolish in my confusion, you cannot misunderstand the full meaning of my words."
In John's boldness and in the ring of his voice Dorothy felt the touch of her master, against whom she well knew all the poor force she could muster would be utterly helpless. She was frightened, and said:—
"I—I must go. Good-by."
When she rode away from him she thought: "I believed because of his confusion that I was the stronger. I could not stand against him for a moment. Holy Virgin! what have I done, and to what am I coming?"
You may now understand the magnitude of the task which Sir George had set for me when he bade me marry his daughter and kill the Rutlands. I might perform the last-named feat, but dragon fighting would be mere child's play compared with the first, while the girl's heart was filled with the image of another man.
I walked forward to meet Dorothy, leaving Madge near the farrier's shop.
"Dorothy, are you mad? What have you been doing?" I asked.
"Could you not see?" she answered, under her breath, casting a look of warning toward Madge and a glance of defiance at me. "Are you, too, blind? Could you not see what I