"Forgive me, dear aunt; forgive me. I am almost crazed with my troubles. I love you dearly indeed, indeed I do."

Madge gropingly went to Dorothy's side and took her hand. Dorothy kissed Madge's hand and rose to her feet.

"Where is my father?" asked Dorothy, to whom a repentant feeling toward Lady Crawford had brought partial calmness. "I will go to him immediately and will have this matter over. We might as well understand each other at once. Father seems very dull at understanding me. But he shall know me better before long."

Sir George may have respected the strength of his adversary, but Dorothy had no respect for the strength of her foe. She was eager for the fray.

When she had a disagreeable thing to do, she always wanted to do it quickly.

Dorothy was saved the trouble of seeking her father, for at that moment he entered the room.

"You are welcome, father," said Dorothy in cold, defiant tones. "You have come just in time to see the last flickering flame of your fine marriage contract." She led him to the fireplace. "Does it not make a beautiful smoke and blaze?"

"Did you dare--"

"Ay, that I did," replied Dorothy.

"You dared?" again asked her father, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes.

"Ay, so I said; that I did," again said Dorothy.

"By the death of Christ--" began Sir George.

"Now be careful, father, about your oaths," the girl interrupted. "You must not forget the last batch you made and broke."

Dorothy's words and manner maddened Sir George. The expression of her whole person, from her feet to her hair, breathed defiance. The poise of her body and of her limbs, the wild glint in her eyes, and the turn of her head, all told eloquently that Sir George had no chance to win and that Dorothy was an unconquerable foe. It is a wonder he did not learn in that one moment that he could never bring his daughter to marry Lord Stanley.

"I will imprison you," cried Sir George, gasping with rage.

"Very well," responded Dorothy, smilingly. "You kept me prisoner for a fortnight. I did not ask you to liberate me. I am ready to go back to my apartments."

"But now you shall go to the dungeon," her father said.

"Ah, the dungeon!" cried the girl, as if she were delighted at the thought. "The dungeon! Very well, again. I am ready to go to the dungeon.

You may keep me there the remainder of my natural life. I cannot prevent you from doing that, but you cannot force me to marry Lord Stanley."

"I will starve you until you obey me!" retorted her father. "I will starve you!"

"That, again, you may easily do, my dear father; but again I tell you I will never marry Stanley. If you think I fear to die, try to kill me. I do not fear death. You have it not in your power to make me fear you or anything you can do. You may kill me, but I thank G.o.d it requires my consent for my marriage to Stanley, and I swear before G.o.d that never shall be given."

The girl's terrible will and calm determination staggered Sir George, and by its force beat down even his strong will. The infuriated old man wavered a moment and said:--

"Fool, I seek only your happiness in this marriage. Only your happiness.

Why will you not consent to it?"

I thought the battle was over, and that Dorothy was the victor. She thought so, too, but was not great enough to bear her triumph silently.

She kept on talking and carried her attack too far.

"And I refuse to obey because of my happiness. I refuse because I hate Lord Stanley, and because, as you already know, I love another man."

When she spoke the words "because I love another man," the cold, defiant expression of her face changed to one of ecstasy.

"I will have you to the dungeon this very hour, you brazen huzzy," cried Sir George.

"How often, father, shall I repeat that I am ready to go to the dungeon? I am eager to obey you in all things save one."

"You shall have your wish," returned Sir George. "Would that you had died ere you had disgraced your house with a low-bred dog whose name you are ashamed to utter."

"Father, there has been no disgrace," Dorothy answered, and her words bore the ring of truth.

"You have been meeting the fellow at secluded spots in the forest--how frequently you have met him G.o.d only knows--and you lied to me when you were discovered at Bowling Green Gate."

"I would do it again gladly if I but had the chance," answered the girl, who by that time was reckless of consequences.

"But the chance you shall not have," retorted Sir George.

"Do not be too sure, father," replied Dorothy. She was unable to resist the temptation to mystify him. "I may see him before another hour. I will lay you this wager, father, if I do not within one hour see the man--the man whom I love--I will marry Lord Stanley. If I see him within that time you shall permit me to marry him. I have seen him two score times since the day you surprised me at the gate."

That was a dangerous admission for the girl to make, and she soon regretted it with all her heart. Truly she was right. An angry brain is full of blunders.

Of course Dorothy's words, which were so full of meaning to Madge and me, meant little to Sir George. He looked upon them only as irritating insolence on her part. A few minutes later, however, they became full of significance.

Sir George seemed to have forgotten the Stanley marriage and the burning of the contract in his quarrel with Dorothy over her unknown lover.

Conceive, if you can, the situation in Haddon Hall at that time. There was love-drunk Dorothy, proud of the skill which had enabled her to outwit her wrathful father. There was Sir George, whose mental condition, inflamed by constant drinking, bordered on frenzy because he felt that his child, whom he had so tenderly loved from the day of her birth, had disgraced herself with a low-born wretch whom she refused to name. And there, under the same roof, lived the man who was the root and source of all the trouble. A pretty kettle of fish!

"The wager, father, will you take it?" eagerly asked Dorothy.

Sir George, who thought that her words were spoken only to anger him, waved her off with his hands and said:--

"I have reason to believe that I know the wretch for whose sake you have disgraced yourself. You may be sure that I shall soon know him with certainty. When I do, I will quickly have him in my power. Then I will hang him to a tree on Bowling Green, and you shall see the low-born dog die."

"He is better born than any of our house," retorted Dorothy, who had lost all sense of caution. "Ay, he is better born than any with whom we claim kin."

Sir George stood in open-eyed wonder, and Dorothy continued: "You cannot keep him from me. I shall see him, and I will have him despite you. I tell you again, I have seen him two score times since you tried to spy upon us at Bowling Green Gate, and I will see him whenever I choose, and I will wed him when I am ready to do so. You cannot prevent it. You can only be forsworn, oath upon oath; and if I were you, I would stop swearing."

Sir George, as was usual with him in those sad times, was inflamed with drink, and Dorothy's conduct, I must admit, was maddening. In the midst of her taunting Thomas stepped into the room bearing an armful of f.a.gots. Sir George turned to him and said:--

"Go and tell Welch to bring a set of manacles."

"For Mistress Dorothy?" Thomas asked, surprised into the exclamation.

"Curse you, do you mean to bandy words with me, you sc.u.m?" cried Sir George.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed a f.a.got from John and drew back his arm to strike him. John took one step back from Sir George and one step nearer to Dorothy.

"Yes, Thomas," said Dorothy, sneeringly, "bring Welch with the manacles for me. My dear father would put me in the dungeon out of the reach of other men, so that he may keep me safely for my unknown lover. Go, Thomas.

Go, else father will again be forsworn before Christ and upon his knighthood."

"This before a servant! I'll gag you, you h.e.l.lish vixen," cried Sir George. Then I am sure he knew not what he did. "Curse you!" he cried, as he held the f.a.got upraised and rushed upon Dorothy. John, with his arms full of f.a.gots, could not avert the blow which certainly would have killed the girl, but he could take it. He sprang between Dorothy and her father, the f.a.got fell upon his head, and he sank to the floor. In his fall John's wig dropped off, and when the blood began to flow from the wound Dorothy kneeled beside his prostrate form. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the great bush of false beard from his face and fell to kissing his lips and his hands in a paroxysm of pa.s.sionate love and grief. Her kisses she knew to be a panacea for all ills John could be heir to, and she thought they would heal even the wound her father had given, and stop the frightful outpouring of John's life-blood. The poor girl, oblivious of all save her wounded lover, murmured piteously:--