He struck the oaken table another great blow with his fist, and glared fiercely across at me.

"Lord Wyatt had trouble with his daughter when he made the marriage with Devonshire," continued Sir George.

"A d.a.m.ned good match it was, too, for the girl. But she had her heart set on young Gillman, and she refused to obey her father. She refused, by G.o.d, point blank, to obey her father. She refused to obey the man who had given her life. What did Wyatt do? He was a man who knew what a child owes to its father, and, by G.o.d, Malcolm, after trying every other means to bring the wench to her senses, after he had tried persuasion, after having in two priests and a bishop to show her how badly she was acting, and after he had tried to reason with her, he whipped her; yes, he whipped her till she bled--till she bled, Malcolm, I tell you. Ah, Wyatt knew what is due from a child to its parents. The whipping failed to bring the perverse huzzy to obedience, so Wyatt threw her into a dungeon and starved her till--till--"

"Till she died," I interrupted.

"Yes, till she died," mumbled Sir George, sullenly, "till she died, and it served her right, by G.o.d, served her right."

The old man was growing very drunk, and everything was beginning to appear distorted to me. Sir George rose to his feet, leaned toward me with glaring eyes, struck the table a terrible blow with his fist, and said:--

"By the blood of G.o.d I swear that if Doll refuses to marry Stanley, and persists in her refusal, I'll whip her. Wyatt is a man after my own heart.

I'll starve her. I'll kill her. Ay, if I loved her ten thousand times more than I do, I would kill her or she should obey me."

Then dawned upon me a vision of terrible possibilities. I was sure Sir George could not force Dorothy to marry against her will; but I feared lest he might kill her in his effort to "break her." I do not mean that I feared he would kill her by a direct act, unless he should do so in a moment of frenzy induced by drink and pa.s.sion, but I did fear for the results of the breaking process. The like had often happened. It had happened in the case of Wyatt's daughter. Dorothy under the intoxicating influence of her pa.s.sion might become so possessed by the spirit of a martyr that she could calmly take a flogging, but my belief was that should matters proceed to that extreme, should Sir George flog his daughter, the chords of her highly strung nature would snap under the tension, and she would die. I loved Dorothy for the sake of her fierce, pa.s.sionate, tender heart, and because she loved me; and even in my sober, reflective moments I had resolved that my life, ay, and Sir George's life also, should stand between the girl and the lash. If in calmness I could deliberately form such a resolution, imagine the effect on my liquor-crazed brain of Sir George's words and the vista of horrors they disclosed. I was intoxicated. I was drunk. I say it with shame; and on hearing Sir George's threat my half-frenzied imagination ran riot into the foreboding future.

All the candles, save one tottering wick, were dead in their sockets, and the room was filled with lowering phantom-like shadows from oaken floor to grimy vaulted roof beams. Sir George, hardly conscious of what he did and said, all his evil pa.s.sions quickened with drink, leaned his hands upon the table and glared across at me. He seemed to be the incarnation of rage and ferocity, to so great a pitch had he wrought himself. The sputtering candle feebly flickered, and seemed to give its dim light only that the darksome shadows might flit and hover about us like vampires on the scent of blood. A cold perspiration induced by a nameless fear came upon me, and in that dark future to which my heated imagination travelled I saw, as if revealed by black magic, fair, sweet, generous Dorothy, standing piteously upon Bowling Green hillside. Over her drooping form there hung in air a monster cloudlike image of her father holding in its hand a deadly bludgeon. So black, so horrid was this shadow-demon that I sprang from my chair with a frightful oath, and shrieked:--

"h.e.l.l is made for man because of his cruelty to woman."

Sir George had sunk into his chair. Liquor had finished its work, and the old man, resting his head upon his folded arms, leaned forward on the table. He was drunk--dead to the world. How long I stood in frenzied stupor gazing at shadow-stricken Dorothy upon the hillside I do not know.

It must have been several minutes. Blood of Christ, how vividly I remember the vision! The sunny radiance of the girl's hair was darkened and dead.

Her bending att.i.tude was one of abject grief. Her hands covered her face, and she was the image of woe. Suddenly she lifted her head with the quick impulsive movement so familiar in her, and with a cry eloquent as a child's wail for its mother called, "John," and held out her arms imploringly toward the dim shadowy form of her lover standing upon the hill crest. Then John's form began to fade, and as its shadowy essence grew dim, despair slowly stole like a mask of death over Dorothy's face.

She stood for a moment gazing vacantly into s.p.a.ce. Then she fell to the ground, the shadow of her father hovering over her prostrate form, and the words, "Dead, dead, dead," came to me in horrifying whispers from every dancing shadow-demon in the room.

In trying to locate the whispers as they reverberated from floor to oaken rafters, I turned and saw Sir George. He looked as if he were dead.

"Why should you not be dead in fact?" I cried. "You would kill your daughter. Why should I not kill you? That will solve the whole question."

I revelled in the thought; I drank it in; I nursed it; I cuddled it; I kissed it. Nature's brutish love for murder had deluged my soul. I put my hand to my side for the purpose of drawing my sword or my knife. I had neither with me. Then I remember staggering toward the fireplace to get one of the fire-irons with which to kill my cousin. I remember that when I grasped the fire-iron, by the strange working of habit I employed it for the moment in its proper use; and as I began to stir the embers on the hearth, my original purpose was forgotten. That moment of habit-wrought forgetfulness saved me and saved Sir George's life. I remember that I sank into the chair in front of the fireplace, holding the iron, and I thank G.o.d that I remember nothing more.

During the night the servants aroused me, and I staggered up the stone stairway of Eagle Tower and clambered into my room.

The next morning I awakened feeling ill. There was a taste in my mouth as If I had been chewing a piece of the devil's boot over night. I wanted no breakfast, so I climbed to the top of the tower, hoping the fresh morning breeze might cool my head and cleanse my mouth. For a moment or two I stood on the tower roof bareheaded and open-mouthed while I drank in the fresh, purifying air. The sweet draught helped me physically; but all the winds of Boreas could not have blown out of my head the vision of the previous night. The question, "Was it prophetic?" kept ringing in my ears, answerless save by a superst.i.tious feeling of fear. Then the horrid thought that I had only by a mere chance missed becoming a murderer came upon me, and again was crowded from my mind by the memory of Dorothy and the hovering spectre which had hung over her head on Bowling Green hillside.

I walked to the north side of the tower and on looking down the first person I saw was our new servant, Thomas, holding two horses at the mounting stand. One of them was Dolcy, and I, feeling that a brisk ride with Dorothy would help me to throw off my wretchedness, quickly descended the tower stairs, stopped at my room for my hat and cloak, and walked around to the mounting block. Dorothy was going to ride, and I supposed she would prefer me to the new servant as a companion.

I asked Thomas if his mistress were going out for a ride, and he replied affirmatively.

"Who is to accompany her?" I asked.

"She gave orders for me to go with her," he answered.

"Very well," I responded, "take your horse back to the stable and fetch mine." The man hesitated, and twice he began to make reply, but finally he said:--

"Very well, Sir Malcolm."

He hitched Dolcy to the ring in the mounting block and started back toward the stable leading his own horse. At that moment Dorothy came out of the tower gate, dressed for the ride. Surely no woman was ever more beautiful than she that morning.

"Tom-Tom, where are you taking the horse?" she cried.

"To the stable, Mistress," answered the servant. "Sir Malcolm says he will go with you."

Dorothy's joyousness vanished. From radiant brightness her expression changed in the twinkling of an eye to a look of disappointment so sorrowful that I at once knew there was some great reason why she did not wish me to ride with her. I could not divine the reason, neither did I try. I quickly said to Thomas:--

"Do not bring my horse. If Mistress Vernon will excuse me, I shall not ride with her this morning. I forgot for the moment that I had not breakfasted."

Again came to Dorothy's face the radiant look of joy as if to affirm what it had already told me. I looked toward Thomas, and his eyes, too, were alight. I could make nothing of it. Thomas was a fine-looking fellow, notwithstanding his preposterous hair and beard; but I felt sure there could be no understanding between the man and his mistress.

When Thomas and Dorothy had mounted, she timidly ventured to say:--

"We are sorry, Cousin Malcolm, that you cannot ride with us."

She did not give me an opportunity to change my mind, but struck Dolcy a sharp blow with her whip that sent the spirited mare galloping toward the dove-cote, and Thomas quickly followed at a respectful distance. From the dove-cote Dorothy took the path down the Wye toward Rowsley. I, of course, connected her strange conduct with John. When a young woman who is well balanced physically, mentally, and morally acts in a strange, unusual manner, you may depend on it there is a man somewhere behind her motive.

I knew that John was in London. Only the night before I had received word from Rutland Castle that he had not returned, and that he was not expected home for many days.

So I concluded that John could not be behind my fair cousin's motive. I tried to stop guessing at the riddle Dorothy had set me, but my effort was useless. I wondered and thought and guessed, but I brought to myself only the answer, "Great is the mystery of womanhood."

After Dorothy had ridden away I again climbed to the top of Eagle Tower and saw the riders cross the Wye at Dorothy's former fording-place, and take the wall. I then did a thing that fills me with shame when I think of it. For the only time in my whole life I acted the part of a spy. I hurried to Bowling Green Gate, and horror upon horror, there I beheld my cousin Dorothy in the arms of Thomas, the man-servant. I do not know why the truth of Thomas's ident.i.ty did not dawn upon me, but it did not, and I stole away from the gate, thinking that Dorothy, after all, was no better than the other women I had known at various times in my life, and I resolved to tell John what I had seen. You must remember that the women I had known were of the courts of Mary Stuart and of Guise, and the less we say about them the better. G.o.d pity them! Prior to my acquaintance with Dorothy and Madge I had always considered a man to be a fool who would put his faith in womankind. To me women were as good as men,--no better, no worse. But with my knowledge of those two girls there had grown up in me a faith in woman's virtue which in my opinion is man's greatest comforter; the lack of it his greatest torment.

I went back to Eagle Tower and stood at my window looking down the Wye, hoping soon to see Dorothy returning home. I did not feel jealousy in the sense that a lover would feel it; but there was a pain in my heart, a mingling of grief, anger, and resentment because Dorothy had destroyed not only my faith in her, but, alas! my sweet, new-born faith in womankind.

Through her fault I had fallen again to my old, black belief that virtue was only another name for the lack of opportunity. It is easy for a man who has never known virtue in woman to bear and forbear the lack of it; but when once he has known the priceless treasure, doubt becomes excruciating pain.

After an hour or two Dorothy and her servant appeared at the ford and took the path up the Wye toward Haddon. Thomas was riding a short distance behind his accommodating mistress, and as they approached the Hall, I recognized something familiar in his figure. At first, the feeling of recognition was indistinct, but when the riders drew near, something about the man--his poise on the horse, a trick with the rein or a turn with his stirrup, I could not tell what it was--startled me like a flash in the dark, and the word "John!" sprang to my lips. The wonder of the thing drove out of my mind all power to think. I could only feel happy, so I lay down upon my bed and soon dropped off to sleep.

When I awakened I was rapt in peace, for I had again found my treasured faith in womankind. I had hardly dared include Madge in my backsliding, but I had come perilously near doing it, and the thought of my narrow escape from such perfidy frightened me. I have never taken the risk since that day. I would not believe the testimony of my own eyes against the evidence of my faith in Madge.

I knew that Thomas was Sir John Manners, and yet I did not know it certainly. I determined, if possible, to remain in partial ignorance, hoping that I might with some small show of truth be able to plead ignorance should Sir George accuse me of bad faith in having failed to tell him of John's presence in Haddon Hall. That Sir George would sooner or later discover Thomas's ident.i.ty I had little doubt. That he would kill him should he once have him in his power, I had no doubt at all. Hence, although I had awakened in peace concerning Dorothy, you may understand that I awakened to trouble concerning John.

CHAPTER XI

THE COST MARK OF JOY

Peace had been restored between Dorothy and her father. At least an armistice had been tacitly declared. But, owing to Dorothy's knowledge of her father's intention that she should marry Lord Stanley, and because of Sir George's feeling that Dorothy had determined to do nothing of the sort, the belligerent powers maintained a defensive att.i.tude which rendered an absolute reconciliation impossible. They were ready for war at a moment's notice.

The strangest part of their relation was the failure of each to comprehend and fully to realize the full strength of the other's purpose. Dorothy could not bring herself to believe that her father, who had until within the last few weeks, been kind and indulgent to her, seriously intended to force her into marriage with a creature so despicable as Stanley. In fact, she did not believe that her father could offer lasting resistance to her ardent desire in any matter. Such an untoward happening had never befallen her. Dorothy had learned to believe from agreeable experience that it was a crime in any one, bordering on treason, to thwart her ardent desires. It is true she had in certain events, been compelled to coax and even to weep gently. On a few extreme occasions she had been forced to do a little storming in order to have her own way; but that any presumptuous individuals should resist her will after the storming had been resorted to was an event of such recent happening in her life that she had not grown familiar with the thought of it. Therefore, while she felt that her father might seriously annoy her with the Stanley project, and while she realized that she might be compelled to resort to the storming process in a degree thitherto uncalled for, she believed that the storm she would raise would blow her father entirely out of his absurd and utterly untenable position. On the other hand, while Sir George antic.i.p.ated trouble with Dorothy, he had never been able to believe that she would absolutely refuse to obey him. In those olden times--now nearly half a century past--filial disobedience was rare. The refusal of a child to obey a parent, and especially the refusal of a daughter to obey her father in the matter of marriage, was then looked upon as a crime and was frequently punished in a way which amounted to barbarous ferocity. Sons, being of the privileged side of humanity, might occasionally disobey with impunity, but woe to the poor girl who dared set up a will of her own. A man who could not compel obedience from his daughter was looked upon as a poor weakling, and contempt was his portion in the eyes of his fellow-men--in the eyes of his fellow-brutes, I should like to say.

Growing out of such conditions was the firm belief on the part of Sir George that Dorothy would in the end obey him; but if by any hard chance she should be guilty of the high crime of disobedience--Well! Sir George intended to prevent the crime. Perhaps mere stubborness and fear of the contempt in which he would be held by his friends in case he were defeated by his own daughter were no small parts of Sir George's desire to carry through the enterprise in which he had embarked with the Stanleys.

Although there was no doubt in Sir George's mind that he would eventually conquer in the conflict with Dorothy, he had a profound respect for the power of his antagonist to do temporary battle, and he did not care to enter into actual hostilities until hostilities should become actually necessary.

Therefore, upon the second day after I had read the beribboned, besealed contract to Sir George, he sent an advance guard toward the enemy's line.

He placed the ornamental piece of parchment in Lady Crawford's hands and directed her to give it to Dorothy.