Dawson engaged the newcomer, and a.s.signed to him the duty of kindling the fires in the family apartments of the Hall. The name of the new servant was Thomas Thompson, a name that Dorothy soon abbreviated to Tom-Tom.

One day she said to him, by way of opening the acquaintance, "Thomas, you and I should be good friends; we have so much in common."

"Thank you, my lady," responded Thomas, greatly pleased. "I hope we shall be good friends; indeed, indeed I do, but I cannot tell wherein I am so fortunate as to have anything in common with your Ladyship. What is it, may I ask, of which we have so much in common?"

"So much hair," responded Dorothy, laughing.

"It were blasphemy, lady, to compare my hair with yours," returned Thomas.

"Your hair, I make sure, is such as the blessed Virgin had. I ask your pardon for speaking so plainly; but your words put the thought into my mind, and perhaps they gave me license to speak."

Thomas was on his knees, placing wood upon the fire.

"Thomas," returned Dorothy, "you need never apologize to a lady for making so fine a speech. I declare a courtier could not have made a better one."

"Perhaps I have lived among courtiers, lady," said Thomas.

"I doubt not," replied Dorothy, derisively. "You would have me believe you are above your station. It is the way with all new servants. I suppose you have seen fine company and better days."

"I have never seen finer company than now, and I have never known better days than this," responded courtier Thomas. Dorothy thought he was presuming on her condescension, and was about to tell him so when he continued: "The servants at Haddon Hall are gentlefolk compared with servants at other places where I have worked, and I desire nothing more than to find favor in Sir George's eyes. I would do anything to achieve that end."

Dorothy was not entirely rea.s.sured by Thomas's closing words; but even if they were presumptuous, she admired his wit in giving them an inoffensive turn. From that day forth the acquaintance grew between the servant and mistress until it reached the point of familiarity at which Dorothy dubbed him Tom-Tom.

Frequently Dorothy was startled by remarks made by Thomas, having in them a strong dash of familiarity; but he always gave to his words a harmless turn before she could resent them. At times, however, she was not quite sure of his intention.

Within a week after Thomas's advent to the hall, Dorothy began to suspect that the new servant looked upon her with eyes of great favor. She frequently caught him watching her, and at such times his eyes, which Dorothy thought were really very fine, would glow with an ardor all too evident. His manner was cause for amus.e.m.e.nt rather than concern, and since she felt kindly toward the new servant, she thought to create a faithful ally by treating him graciously. She might, she thought, need Thomas's help when the time should come for her to leave Haddon Hall with John, if that happy time should ever come. She did not realize that the most dangerous, watchful enemy to her cherished scheme would be a man who was himself in love with her, even though he were a servant, and she looked on Thomas's evident infatuation with a smile. She did not once think that in the end it might cause her great trouble, so she accepted his mute admiration, and thought to make use of it later on. To Tom, therefore, Dorothy was gracious.

John had sent word to Dorothy, by Jennie Faxton, that he had gone to London, and would be there for a fortnight or more.

Sir George had given permission to his daughter to ride out whenever she wished to do so, but he had ordered that Dawson or I should follow in the capacity of spy, and Dorothy knew of the censorship, though she pretended ignorance of it. So long as John was in London she did not care who followed her; but I well knew that when Manners should return, Dorothy would again begin manoeuvring, and that by some cunning trick she would see him.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

One afternoon I was temporarily absent from the Hall and Dorothy wished to ride. Dawson was engaged, and when Dorothy had departed, he ordered Tom to ride after his mistress at a respectful distance. Nearly a fortnight had pa.s.sed since John had gone to London, and when Dorothy rode forth that afternoon she was beginning to hope he might have returned, and that by some delightful possibility he might then be loitering about the old trysting-place at Bowling Green Gate. There was a half-unconscious conviction in her heart that he would be there. She determined therefore, to ride toward Rowsley, to cross the Wye at her former fording-place, and to go up to Bowling Green Gate on the Devonshire side of the Haddon wall.

She had no reason, other than the feeling born of her wishes, to believe that John would be there; but she loved the spot for the sake of the memories which hovered about it. She well knew that some one would follow her from the Hall; but she felt sure that in case the spy proved to be Dawson or myself, she could easily arrange matters to her satisfaction, if by good fortune she should find her lover at the gate.

Tom rode so far behind his mistress that she could not determine who was following her. Whenever she brought Dolcy to a walk, Tom-Tom also walked his horse. When Dorothy galloped, he galloped; but after Dorothy had crossed the Wye and had taken the wall over into the Devonshire lands, Tom also crossed the river and wall and quickly rode to her side. He uncovered and bowed low with a familiarity of manner that startled her. The act of riding up to her and the manner in which he took his place by her side were presumptuous to the point of insolence, and his att.i.tude, although not openly offensive, was slightly alarming. She put Dolcy to a gallop; but the servant who, she thought, was presuming on her former graciousness, kept close at Dolcy's heels. The man was a stranger, and she knew nothing of his character. She was alone in the forest with him, and she did not know to what length his absurd pa.s.sion for her might lead him.

She was alarmed, but she despised cowardice, although she knew herself to be a coward, and she determined to ride to the gate, which was but a short distance ahead of her. She resolved that if the insolent fellow continued his familiarity, she would teach him a lesson he would never forget. When she was within a short distance of the gate she sprang from Dolcy and handed her rein to her servant. John was not there, but she went to the gate in the hope that a letter might be hidden beneath the stone bench where Jennie was wont to find them in times past. Dorothy found no letter, but she could not resist the temptation to sit down upon the bench where he and she had sat, and to dream over the happy moments she had spent there. Tom, instead of holding the horses, hitched them, and walked toward Dorothy. That act on the part of her servant was effrontery of the most insolent sort. Will Dawson himself would not have dared do such a thing.

It filled her with alarm, and as Tom approached she was trying to determine in what manner she would crush him. But when the audacious Thomas, having reached the gate, seated himself beside his mistress on the stone bench, the girl sprang to her feet in fright and indignation. She began to realize the extent of her foolhardiness in going to that secluded spot with a stranger.

"How dare you approach me in this insolent fashion?" cried Dorothy, breathless with fear.

"Mistress Vernon," responded Thomas, looking boldly up into her pale face, "I wager you a gold pound sterling that if you permit me to remain here by your side ten minutes you will be unwilling--"

"John, John!" cried the girl, exultantly. Tom s.n.a.t.c.hed the red beard from his face, and Dorothy, after one fleeting, luminous look into his eyes, fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. She wept, and John, bending over the kneeling girl, kissed her sunlit hair.

"Cruel, cruel," sobbed Dorothy. Then she lifted her head and clasped her hands about his neck. "Is it not strange," she continued, "that I should have felt so sure of seeing you? My reason kept telling me that my hopes were absurd, but a stronger feeling full of the breath of certainty seemed to a.s.sure me that you would be here. It impelled me to come, though I feared you after we crossed the wall. But reason, fear, and caution were powerless to keep me away."

"You did not know my voice," said John, "nor did you penetrate my disguise. You once said that you would recognize me though I wore all the petticoats in Derbyshire."

"Please don't jest with me now," pleaded Dorothy. "I cannot bear it. Great joy is harder to endure than great grief. Why did you not reveal yourself to me at the Hall?" she asked plaintively.

"I found no opportunity," returned John, "others were always present."

I shall tell you nothing that followed. It is no affair of yours nor of mine.

They were overjoyed in being together once more. Neither of them seemed to realize that John, while living under Sir George's roof, was facing death every moment. To Dorothy, the fact that John, who was heir to one of England's n.o.blest houses, was willing for her sake to become a servant, to do a servant's work, and to receive the indignities constantly put upon a servant, appealed most powerfully. It added to her feeling for him a tenderness which is not necessarily a part of pa.s.sionate love.

It is needless for me to tell you that while John performed faithfully the duty of keeping bright the fires in Haddon Hall, he did not neglect the other flame--the one in Dorothy's heart--for the sake of whose warmth he had a.s.sumed the leathern garb of servitude and had placed his head in the lion's mouth.

At first he and Dorothy used great caution in exchanging words and glances, but familiarity with danger breeds contempt for it. So they utilized every opportunity that n.i.g.g.ard chance offered, and blinded by their great longing soon began to make opportunities for speech with each other, thereby bringing trouble to Dorothy and deadly peril to John. Of that I shall soon tell you.

During the period of John's service in Haddon Hall negotiations for Dorothy's marriage with Lord Stanley were progressing slowly but surely.

Arrangements for the marriage settlement by the Stanleys, and for Dorothy's dower to be given by Sir George, were matters that the King of the Peak approached boldly as he would have met any other affair of business. But the Earl of Derby, whose mind moved slowly, desiring that a generous portion of the Vernon wealth should be transferred with Dorothy to the Stanley holdings without the delay incident to Sir George's death, put off signing the articles of marriage in his effort to augment the cash payment. In truth, the great wealth which Dorothy would bring to the house of Stanley was the earl's real reason for desiring her marriage with his son. The earl was heavily in debt, and his estate stood in dire need of help.

Sir George, though attracted by the high n.o.bility of the house of Stanley, did not relish the thought that the wealth he had acc.u.mulated by his own efforts, and the Vernon estates which had come down to him through centuries, should go to pay Lord Derby's debts. He therefore insisted that Dorothy's dower should be her separate estate, and demanded that it should remain untouched and untouchable by either of the Stanleys. That arrangement did not suit my lord earl, and although the son since he had seen Dorothy at Derby-town was eager to possess the beautiful girl, his father did not share his ardor. Lawyers were called in who looked expensively wise, but they accomplished the purpose for which they were employed. An agreement of marriage was made and was drawn up on an imposing piece of parchment, brave with ribbons, pompous with seals, and fair in clerkly penmanship.

One day Sir George showed me the copy of the contract which had been prepared for him. That evening at the cost of much labor he and I went over the indenture word for word, and when we had finished Sir George thought it was very good indeed. He seemed to think that all difficulties in the way of the marriage were overcome when the agreement that lay before us on the table had been achieved between him and the earl. I knew Sir George's troubles had only begun; for I was aware of a fact which it seemed impossible for him to learn, though of late Dorothy had given him much teaching thereto. I knew that he had transmitted to his daughter a large portion of his own fierce, stubborn, unbreakable will, and that in her it existed in its most deadly form--the feminine. To me after supper that night was a.s.signed the task of reading and rereading many times to Sir George the contents of the beautiful parchment. When I would read a clause that particularly pleased my cousin, he insisted on celebrating the event by drinking a mug of liquor drawn from a huge leather stoup which sat upon the table between us. By the time I had made several readings of the interesting doc.u.ment the characters began to mingle in a way that did not impart ease and clearness to my style. Some of the strange combinations which I and the liquor extracted from amid the seals and ribbons puzzled Sir George not a little. But with each new libation he found new clauses and fresh causes for self-congratulation, though to speak exact truth I more than once married Sir George to the Earl of Derby, and in my profanity gave Lord James Stanley to the devil to have and to hold.

Sir George was rapidly falling before his mighty enemy, drink, and I was not far behind him, though I admit the fault with shame. My cousin for a while was mightily pleased with the contract; but when the liquor had brought him to a point where he was entirely candid with himself, he let slip the fact that after all there was regret at the bottom of the goblet, metaphorically and actually. Before his final surrender to drink he dropped the immediate consideration of the contract and said:--

"Malcolm, I have in my time known many fools, but if you will permit an old man, who loves you dearly, to make a plain statement of his conviction--"

"Certainly," I interrupted.

"It would be a great relief to me," he continued, "to say that I believe you to be the greatest fool the good G.o.d ever permitted to live."

"I am sure, Sir George, that your condescending flattery is very pleasing," I said.

Sir George, unmindful of my remark, continued, "Your disease is not usually a deadly malady, as a look about you will easily show; but, Malcolm, if you were one whit more of a fool, you certainly would perish."

I was not offended, for I knew that my cousin meant no offence.

"Then, Sir George, if the time ever comes when I wish to commit suicide, I have always at hand an easy, painless mode of death. I shall become only a little more of a fool." I laughingly said, "I will do my utmost to absorb a little wisdom now and then as a preventive."

"Never a bit of wisdom will you ever absorb. A man who would refuse a girl whose wealth and beauty are as great as Dorothy's, is past all hope. I often awaken in the dark corners of the night when a man's troubles stalk about his bed like livid demons; and when I think that all of this evil which has come up between Dorothy and me, and all of this cursed estrangement which is eating out my heart could have been averted if you had consented to marry her, I cannot but feel--"

"But, Sir George," I interrupted, "it was Dorothy, not I, who refused. She could never have been brought to marry me."

"Don't tell me, Malcolm; don't tell me," cried the old man, angrily. Drink had made Sir George sullen and violent. It made me happy at first; but with liquor in excess there always came to me a sort of frenzy.

"Don't tell me," continued Sir George. "There never lived a Vernon who couldn't win a woman if he would try. But put all that aside. She would have obeyed me. I would have forced her to marry you, and she would have thanked me afterward."

"You could never have forced her to marry me," I replied.

"But that I could and that I would have done," said Sir George. "The like is done every day. Girls in these modern times are all perverse, but they are made to yield. Take the cases of Sir Thomas Mobley, Sir Grant Rhodas, and William Kimm. Their daughters all refused to marry the men chosen for them, but the wenches were made to yield. If I had a daughter who refused to obey me, I would break her; I would break her. Yes, by G.o.d, I would break her if I had to kill her," and the old man brought his clenched hand down upon the oak table with a crash. His eyes glared frightfully, and his face bore a forbidding expression which boded no good for Dorothy.

"She will make trouble in this matter," Sir George continued, tapping the parchment with his middle finger.

"She will make trouble about this; but, by G.o.d, Malcolm, she shall obey me."