"I thank you, George," said Aunt Dorothy. "The task has been painful to me."

Dorothy went to her father and kissed him again, and Sir George departed.

When the door was closed, Lady Crawford breathed a great sigh and said: "I thank Heaven, Dorothy, he does not know that you have been out of your room. How could you treat me so cruelly? How could you deceive me?"

"That, Aunt Dorothy," replied the niece, "is because you are not old enough yet to be a match for a girl who is--who is in love."

"Shame upon you, Dorothy!" said Lady Crawford. "Shame upon you, to act as you did, and now to speak so plainly about being in love! Malcolm said you were not a modest girl, and I am beginning to believe him."

"Did Malcolm speak so ill of me?" asked Dorothy, turning toward me with a smile in her eyes.

"My lady aunt," said I, turning to Lady Crawford, "when did I say that Dorothy was an immodest girl?"

"You did not say it," the old lady admitted. "Dorothy herself said it, and she proves her words to be true by speaking so boldly of her feelings toward this--this strange man. And she speaks before Madge, too."

"Perhaps Madge is in the same sort of trouble. Who knows?" cried Dorothy, laughing heartily. Madge blushed painfully. "But," continued Dorothy, seriously, "I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it. For what else, my dear aunt, was I created but to be in love? Tell me, dear aunt, for what else was I created?"

"Perhaps you are right," returned the old lady, who in fact was sentimentally inclined.

"The chief end of woman, after all, is to love," said Dorothy. "What would become of the human race if it were not?"

"Child, child," cried the aunt, "where learned you such things?"

"They were written upon my mother's breast," continued Dorothy, "and I learned them when I took in my life with her milk. I pray they may be written upon my breast some day, if G.o.d in His goodness shall ever bless me with a baby girl. A man child could not read the words."

"Dorothy, Dorothy!" cried Lady Crawford, "you shock me. You pain me."

"Again I ask," responded Dorothy, "for what else was I created? I tell you, Aunt Dorothy, the world decrees that women shall remain in ignorance, or in pretended ignorance--in silence at least--regarding the things concerning which they have the greatest need to be wise and talkative."

"At your age, Dorothy, I did not have half your wisdom on the subject,"

answered Lady Crawford.

"Tell me, my sweet Aunt Dorothy, were you really in a state of ignorance such as you would have me believe?"

"Well," responded the old lady, hesitatingly, "I did not speak of such matters."

"Why, aunt, did you not?" asked Dorothy. "Were you ashamed of what G.o.d had done? Were you ashamed of His great purpose in creating you a woman, and in creating your mother and your mother's mother before you?"

"No, no, child; no, no. But I cannot argue with you. Perhaps you are right," said Aunt Dorothy.

"Then tell me, dear aunt, that I am not immodest and bold when I speak concerning that of which my heart is full to overflowing. G.o.d put it there, aunt, not I. Surely I am not immodest by reason of His act."

"No, no, my sweet child," returned Aunt Dorothy, beginning to weep softly.

"No, no, you are not immodest. You are worth a thousand weak fools such as I was at your age."

Poor Aunt Dorothy had been forced into a marriage which had wrecked her life. Dorothy's words opened her aunt's eyes to the fact that the girl whom she so dearly loved was being thrust by Sir George into the same wretched fate through which she had dragged her own suffering heart for so many years. From that hour she was Dorothy's ally.

"Good night, Malcolm," said Lady Crawford, offering me her hand. I kissed it tenderly; then I kissed the sweet old lady's cheek and said:--

"I love you with all my heart, Aunt Dorothy."

"I thank you, Malcolm," she returned.

I took my leave, and soon Madge went to her room, leaving Dorothy and Lady Crawford together.

When Madge had gone the two Dorothys, one at each end of life, spanned the long years that separated them, and became one in heart by reason of a heartache common to both.

Lady Crawford seated herself and Dorothy knelt by her chair.

"Tell me, Dorothy," said the old lady, "tell me, do you love this man so tenderly, so pa.s.sionately that you cannot give him up?"

"Ah, my dear aunt," the girl responded, "words cannot tell. You cannot know what I feel."

"Alas! I know only too well, my child. I, too, loved a man when I was your age, and none but G.o.d knows what I suffered when I was forced by my parents and the priests to give him up, and to wed one whom--G.o.d help me--I loathed."

"Oh, my sweet aunt!" cried Dorothy softly, throwing her arms about the old lady's neck and kissing her cheek. "How terribly you must have suffered!"

"Yes," responded Lady Crawford, "and I am resolved you shall not endure the same fate. I hope the man who has won your love is worthy of you. Do not tell me his name, for I do not wish to practise greater deception toward your father than I must. But you may tell me of his station in life, and of his person, that I may know he is not unworthy of you."

"His station in life," answered Dorothy, "is far better than mine. In person he is handsome beyond any woman's wildest dream of manly beauty. In character he is n.o.ble, generous, and good. He is far beyond my deserts, Aunt Dorothy."

"Then why does he not seek your hand from your father?" asked the aunt.

"That I may not tell you, Aunt Dorothy," returned the girl, "unless you would have me tell you his name, and that I dare not do. Although he is vastly my superior in station, in blood, and in character, still my father would kill me before he would permit me to marry this man of my choice; and I, dear aunt, fear I shall die if I have him not."

Light slowly dawned upon Aunt Dorothy's mind, and she exclaimed in a terrified whisper:--

"My G.o.d, child, is it he?"

"Yes," responded the girl, "yes, it is he."

"Do not speak his name, Dorothy," the old lady said. "Do not speak his name. So long as you do not tell me, I cannot know with certainty who he is." After a pause Aunt Dorothy continued, "Perhaps, child, it was his father whom I loved and was compelled to give up."

"May the blessed Virgin pity us, sweet aunt," cried Dorothy, caressingly.

"And help us," returned Lady Crawford. "I, too, shall help you," she continued. "It will be through no fault of mine if your life is wasted as mine has been."

Dorothy kissed her aunt and retired.

Next morning when Dorothy arose a song came from her heart as it comes from the skylark when it sees the sun at dawn--because it cannot help singing. It awakened Aunt Dorothy, and she began to live her life anew, in brightness, as she steeped her soul in the youth and joyousness of Dorothy Vernon's song.

I have spoken before in this chronicle of Will Dawson. He was a Conformer.

Possibly it was by reason of his religious faith that he did not share the general enmity that existed in Haddon Hall against the house of Rutland.

He did not, at the time of which I speak, know Sir John Manners, and he did not suspect that the heir to Rutland was the man who had of late been causing so much trouble to the house of Vernon. At least, if he did suspect it, no one knew of his suspicions.

Sir George made a great effort to learn who the mysterious interloper was, but he wholly failed to obtain any clew to his ident.i.ty. He had jumped to the conclusion that Dorothy's mysterious lover was a man of low degree. He had taken for granted that he was an adventurer whose station and person precluded him from openly wooing his daughter. He did not know that the heir to Rutland was in the Derbyshire country; for John, after his first meeting with Dorothy, had carefully concealed his presence from everybody save the inmates of Rutland. In fact, his mission to Rutland required secrecy, and the Rutland servants and retainers were given to understand as much. Even had Sir George known of John's presence at Rutland, the old gentleman's mind could not have compa.s.sed the thought that Dorothy, who, he believed, hated the race of Manners with an intensity equalled only by his own feelings, could be induced to exchange a word with a member of the house. His uncertainty was not the least of his troubles; and although Dorothy had full liberty to come and go at will, her father kept constant watch over her. As a matter of fact, Sir George had given Dorothy liberty partly for the purpose of watching her, and he hoped to discover thereby and, if possible, to capture the man who had brought trouble to his household. Sir George had once hanged a man to a tree on Bowling Green Hill by no other authority than his own desire. That execution was the last in England under the old Saxon law of Infangthef and Outfangthef. Sir George had been summoned before Parliament for the deed; but the writ had issued against the King of the Peak, and that being only a sobriquet, was neither Sir George's name nor his t.i.tle. So the writ was quashed, and the high-handed act of personal justice was not farther investigated by the authorities. Should my cousin capture his daughter's lover, there would certainly be another execution under the old Saxon law. So you see that my friend Manners was tickling death with a straw for Dorothy's sake.

One day Dawson approached Sir George and told him that a man sought employment in the household of Haddon Hall. Sir George placed great confidence in his forester; so he told Dawson to employ the man if his services were needed. The new servant proved to be a fine, strong fellow, having a great shock of carrot-colored hair and a bushy beard of rusty red.