Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  I RIDE DOWN TO HADDON

  Since I play no mean part in the events of this chronicle, a few wordsconcerning my own history previous to the opening of the story I am aboutto tell you will surely not be amiss, and they may help you to a betterunderstanding of my narrative.

  To begin with an unimportant fact--unimportant, that is, to you--my nameis Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon. My father was cousin-german to SirGeorge Vernon, at and near whose home, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, occurredthe events which will furnish my theme.

  Of the ancient lineage of the house of Vernon I need not speak. Youalready know that the family is one of the oldest in England, and while itis not of the highest nobility, it is quite gentle and noble enough toplease those who bear its honored name. My mother boasted nobler bloodthan that of the Vernons. She was of the princely French house of Guise--aniece and ward to the Great Duke, for whose sake I was named.

  My father, being a younger brother, sought adventure in the land ofFrance, where his handsome person and engaging manner won the smiles ofDame Fortune and my mother at one and the same cast. In due time I wasborn, and upon the day following that great event my father died. On theday of his burial my poor mother, unable to find in me either compensationor consolation for the loss of her child's father, also died, of a brokenheart, it was said. But God was right, as usual, in taking my parents; forI should have brought them no happiness, unless perchance they could havemoulded my life to a better form than it has had--a doubtful chance, sinceour great virtues and our chief faults are born and die with us. Myfaults, alas! have been many and great. In my youth I knew but one virtue:to love my friend; and that was strong within me. How fortunate for us itwould be if we could begin our life in wisdom and end it in simplicity,instead of the reverse which now obtains!

  I remained with my granduncle, the Great Duke, and was brought up amid thefighting, vice, and piety of his sumptuous court. I was trained to arms,and at an early age became Esquire in Waiting to his Grace of Guise. Mostof my days between my fifteenth and twenty-fifth years were spent in thewars. At the age of twenty-five I returned to the chateau, there to resideas my uncle's representative, and to endure the ennui of peace. At thechateau I found a fair, tall girl, fifteen years of age: Mary Stuart,Queen of Scotland, soon afterward Queen of France and rightful heiress tothe English throne. The ennui of peace, did I say? Soon I had no fear ofits depressing effect, for Mary Stuart was one of those women near whosefascinations peace does not thrive. When I found her at the chateau, mymartial ardor lost its warmth. Another sort of flame took up its home inmy heart, and no power could have turned me to the wars again.

  Ah! what a gay, delightful life, tinctured with bitterness, we led in thegrand old chateau, and looking back at it how heartless, godless, andempty it seems. Do not from these words conclude that I am a fanatic, northat I shall pour into your ears a ranter's tale; for cant is more to bedespised even than godlessness; but during the period of my life of whichI shall write I learned--but what I learned I shall in due time tell you.

  While at the court of Guise I, like many another man, conceived for MaryStuart a passion which lay heavy upon my heart for many years. SweetheartsI had by the scores, but she held my longings from all of them until Ifelt the touch of a pure woman's love, and then--but again I am goingbeyond my story.

  I did not doubt, nor do I hesitate to say, that my passion was returned byMary with a fervor which she felt for no other lover; but she was a queen,and I, compared with her, was nobody. For this difference of rank I havesince had good cause to be thankful. Great beauty is diffusive in itstendency. Like the sun, it cannot shine for one alone. Still, it burns anddazzles the one as if it shone for him and for no other; and he who basksin its rays need have no fear of the ennui of peace.

  The time came when I tasted the unutterable bitterness of Mary's marriageto a simpering fool, Francis II., whom she loathed, notwithstanding absurdstories of their sweet courtship and love.

  After her marriage to Francis, Mary became hard and callous of heart, andall the world knows her sad history. The stories of Darnley, Rizzio, andBothwell will be rich morsels, I suppose, for the morbid minds of men andwomen so long as books are read and scandal is loved.

  Ah, well, that was long ago; so long ago that now as I write it seems buta shadow upon the horizon of time.

  And so it happened that Francis died, and when the queen went back toScotland to ascend her native throne, I went with her, and mothlikehovered near the blaze that burned but did not warm me.

  Then in the course of time came the Darnley tragedy. I saw Rizzio killed.Gods! what a scene for hell was that! Then followed the Bothwelldisgrace, the queen's imprisonment at Lochleven, and my own flight fromScotland to save my head.

  You will hear of Mary again in this history, and still clinging to her youwill find that same strange fatality which during all her life broughtevils upon her that were infectious to her friends and wrought their ruin.

  One evening, in the autumn of the year 1567, I was sitting moodily beforemy fire in the town of Dundee, brooding over Mary's disgraceful liaisonwith Bothwell. I had solemnly resolved that I would see her never again,and that I would turn my back upon the evil life I had led for so manyyears, and would seek to acquire that quiescence of nature which isnecessary to an endurable old age. A tumultuous soul in the breast of anold man breeds torture, but age, with the heart at rest, I have found isthe best season of life.

  In the midst of my gloomy thoughts and good resolves my friend, Sir ThomasDouglas, entered my room without warning and in great agitation.

  "Are you alone?" he asked hurriedly, in a low voice.

  "Save for your welcome presence, Sir Thomas," I answered, offering myhand.

  "The queen has been seized," he whispered, "and warrants for high treasonhave been issued against many of her friends--you among the number.Officers are now coming to serve the writ. I rode hither in all haste towarn you. Lose not a moment, but flee for your life. The Earl of Murraywill be made regent to-morrow."

  "My servant? My horse?" I responded.

  "Do not wait. Go at once. I shall try to send a horse for you to Craig'sferry. If I fail, cross the firth without one. Here is a purse. The queensends it to you. Go! Go!"

  I acted upon the advice, of Sir Thomas and hurried into the street,snatching up my hat, cloak, and sword as I went. Night had fallen, anddarkness and rain, which at first I was inclined to curse, proved to be myfriends. I sought the back streets and alleys and walked rapidly towardthe west gates of the city. Upon arriving at the gates I found themclosed. I aroused the warden, and with the artful argument of gold hadalmost persuaded him to let me pass. My evident eagerness was my undoing,for in the hope of obtaining more gold the warden delayed opening thegates till two men approached on horseback, and, dismounting, demanded mysurrender.

  I laughed and said: "Two against one! Gentlemen, I am caught." I then drewmy sword as if to offer it to them. My action threw the men off theirguard, and when I said, "Here it is," I gave it to the one standing nearme, but I gave it to him point first and in the heart.

  It was a terrible thing to do, and bordered so closely on a broken parolethat I was troubled in conscience. I had not, however, given my parole,nor had I surrendered; and if I had done so--if a man may take another'slife in self-defence, may he not lie to save himself?

  The other man shot at me with his fusil, but missed. He then drew hissword; but he was no match for me, and soon I left him sprawling on theground, dead or alive, I knew not which.

  At the time of which I write I was thirty-five years of age, and since myfifteenth birthday my occupations had been arms and the ladies--two artsrequiring constant use if one would remain expert in their practice.

  I escaped, and ran along the wall to a deep breach which had been leftunrepaired. Over the sharp rocks I clambered, and at the risk of breakingmy neck I jumped off the wall into the moat, which was almost dry. Dawnwas breaking when I found a place to ascend fr
om the moat, and I hastenedto the fields and forests, where all day and all night long I wanderedwithout food or drink. Two hours before sunrise next morning I reachedCraig's Ferry. The horse sent by Douglas awaited me, but the ferry-masterhad been prohibited from carrying passengers across the firth, and I couldnot take the horse in a small boat. In truth, I was in great alarm lest Ishould be unable to cross, but I walked up the Tay a short distance, andfound a fisherman, who agreed to take me over in his frail craft. Hardlyhad we started when another boat put out from shore in pursuit of us. Wemade all sail, but our pursuers overtook us when we were within half afurlong of the south bank, and as there were four men in the other boat,all armed with fusils, I peaceably stepped into their craft and handed mysword to their captain.

  I seated myself on one of the thwarts well forward in the boat. By my sidewas a heavy iron boat-hook. I had noticed that all the occupants of theboat, except the fisherman who sailed her, wore armor; and when I saw theboat-hook, a diabolical thought entered my mind and I immediately actedupon its suggestion. Noiselessly I grasped the hook, and with its pointpried loose a board in the bottom of the boat, first having removed myboots, cloak, and doublet. When the board was loosened I pressed my heelagainst it with all the force I could muster, and through an opening sixinches broad and four feet long came a flood of water that swamped theboat before one could utter twenty words. I heard a cry from one of themen: "The dog has scuttled the boat. Shoot him!" At the same instant theblaze and noise of two fusils broke the still blackness of the night, butI was overboard and the powder and lead were wasted. The next moment theboat sank in ten fathoms of water, and with it went the men in armor. Ihope the fisherman saved himself. I have often wondered if even the law ofself-preservation justified my act. It is an awful thing to inflict death,but it is worse to endure it, and I feel sure that I am foolish to allowmy conscience to trouble me for the sake of those who would have led meback to the scaffold.

  I fear you will think that six dead men in less than as many pages make arecord of bloodshed giving promise of terrible things to come, but I amglad I can reassure you on that point. Although there may be some goodfighting ahead of us, I believe the last man has been killed of whom Ishall chronicle--the last, that is, in fight or battle.

  In truth, the history which you are about to read is not my own. It is thestory of a beautiful, wilful girl, who was madly in love with the one manin all the world whom she should have avoided--as girls are wont to be.This perverse tendency, philosophers tell us, is owing to the fact thatthe unattainable is strangely alluring to womankind. I, being a man, shallnot, of course, dwell upon the foibles of my own sex. It were a foolishcandor.

  As I said, there will be some good fighting ahead of us, for love andbattle usually go together. One must have warm, rich blood to do eitherwell; and, save religion, there is no source more fruitful of quarrels anddeath than that passion which is the source of life.

  You, of course, know without the telling, that I reached land safely afterI scuttled the boat, else I should not be writing this forty yearsafterwards.

  The sun had risen when I waded ashore. I was swordless, coatless, hatless,and bootless; but I carried a well-filled purse in my belt. Up to thattime I had given no thought to my ultimate destination; but being for themoment safe, I pondered the question and determined to make my way toHaddon Hall in Derbyshire, where I was sure a warm welcome would await mefrom my cousin, Sir George Vernon. How I found a peasant's cottage,purchased a poor horse and a few coarse garments, and how in the disguiseof a peasant I rode southward to the English border, avoiding the citiesand the main highways, might interest you; but I am eager to come to mystory, and I will not tell you of my perilous journey.

  One frosty morning, after many hairbreadth escapes, I found myself wellwithin the English border, and turned my horse's head toward the city ofCarlisle. There I purchased a fine charger. I bought clothing fit for agentleman, a new sword, a hand-fusil, a breastplate, and a steel-linedcap, and feeling once again like a man rather than like a half-drownedrat, I turned southward for Derbyshire and Haddon Hall.

  When I left Scotland I had no fear of meeting danger in England; but atCarlisle I learned that Elizabeth held no favor toward Scottish refugees.I also learned that the direct road from Carlisle to Haddon, by way ofBuxton, was infested with English spies who were on the watch for friendsof the deposed Scottish queen. Several Scotchmen had been arrested, and itwas the general opinion that upon one pretext or another they would behanged. I therefore chose a circuitous road leading to the town of Derby,which lay south of Haddon at a distance of six or seven leagues. It wouldbe safer for me to arrive at Haddon travelling from the south than fromthe north. Thus, after many days, I rode into Derby-town and stabled myhorse at the Royal Arms.

  I called for supper, and while I was waiting for my joint of beef astranger entered the room and gave his orders in a free, offhand mannerthat stamped him a person of quality.

  The night outside was cold. While the stranger and I sat before the firewe caught its infectious warmth, and when he showed a disposition to talk,I gladly fell in with his humor. Soon we were filling our glasses from thesame bowl of punch, and we seemed to be on good terms with each other. Butwhen God breathed into the human body a part of himself, by somemischance He permitted the devil to slip into the tongue and loosen it. Mytongue, which ordinarily was fairly well behaved, upon this occasionquickly brought me into trouble.

  I told you that the stranger and I seemed to be upon good terms. And so wewere until I, forgetting for the moment Elizabeth's hatred of Mary'sfriends, and hoping to learn the stranger's name and quality, said:--

  "My name is Vernon--Sir Malcolm Vernon, knight by the hand of Queen Maryof Scotland and of France." This remark, of course, required that mycompanion should in return make known his name and degree; but in place ofso doing he at once drew away from me and sat in silence. I was older thanhe, and it had seemed to me quite proper and right that I should make thefirst advance. But instantly after I had spoken I regretted my words. Iremembered not only my danger, being a Scottish refugee, but I alsobethought me that I had betrayed myself. Aside from those causes ofuneasiness, the stranger's conduct was an insult which I was in duty boundnot to overlook. Neither was I inclined to do so, for I loved to fight. Intruth, I loved all things evil.

  "I regret, sir," said I, after a moment or two of embarrassing silence,"having imparted information that seems to annoy you. The Vernons, whomyou may not know, are your equals in blood, it matters not who you are."

  "I know of the Vernons," he replied coldly, "and I well know that they areof good blood and lineage. As for wealth, I am told Sir George couldeasily buy the estates of any six men in Derbyshire."

  "You know Sir George?" I asked despite myself.

  "I do not know him, I am glad to say," returned the stranger.

  "By God, sir, you shall answer-"

  "At your pleasure, Sir Malcolm."

  "My pleasure is now," I retorted eagerly.

  I threw off my doublet and pushed the table and chairs against the wall tomake room for the fight; but the stranger, who had not drawn his sword,said:--

  "I have eaten nothing since morning, and I am as hungry as a wolf. I wouldprefer to fight after supper; but if you insist--"

  "I do insist," I replied. "Perhaps you will not care for supper when Ihave--"

  "That may be true," he interrupted; "but before we begin I think it rightto tell you, without at all meaning to boast of my skill, that I can killyou if I wish to do so. Therefore you must see that the result of ourfight will be disagreeable to you in any case. You will die, or you willowe me your life."

  His cool impertinence angered me beyond endurance. He to speak of killingme, one of the best swordsmen in France, where the art of sword-play isreally an art! The English are but bunglers with a gentleman's blade, andshould restrict themselves to pike and quarterstaff.

  "Results be damned!" I answered. "I can kill you if I wish." Then itoccurred to me that
I really did not wish to kill the handsome youngfellow toward whom I felt an irresistible attraction.

  I continued: "But I prefer that you should owe me your life. I do not wishto kill you. Guard!"

  My opponent did not lift his sword, but smilingly said:--

  "Then why do you insist upon fighting? I certainly do not wish to killyou. In truth, I would be inclined to like you if you were not a Vernon."

  "Damn your insolence! Guard! or I will run you through where you stand," Ianswered angrily.

  "But why do we fight?" insisted the stubborn fellow, with a coolness thatshowed he was not one whit in fear of me.

  "You should know," I replied, dropping my sword-point to the floor, andforgetting for the moment the cause of our quarrel. "I--I do not."

  "Then let us not fight," he answered, "until we have discovered the matterof our disagreement."

  At this remark neither of us could resist smiling. I had not fought sincemonths before, save for a moment at the gates of Dundee, and I was loathto miss the opportunity, so I remained in thought during the space of halfa minute and remembered our cause of war.

  "Oh! I recall the reason for our fighting," I replied, "and a good one itwas. You offered affront to the name of Sir George Vernon, and insultinglyrefused me the courtesy of your name after I had done you the honor totell you mine."

  "I did not tell you my name," replied the stranger, "because I believedyou would not care to hear it; and I said I was glad not to know SirGeorge Vernon because--because he is my father's enemy. I am Sir JohnManners. My father is Lord Rutland."

  Then it was my turn to recede. "You certainly are right. I do not care tohear your name."

  I put my sword in its scabbard and drew the table back to its formerplace. Sir John stood in hesitation for a moment or two, and then said:--

  "Sir Malcolm, may we not declare a truce for to-night? There is nothingpersonal in the enmity between us."

  "Nothing," I answered, staring at the fire, half regretful that we boreeach other enmity at all.

  "You hate me, or believe you do," said Manners, "because your father'scousin hates my father; and I try to make myself believe that I hate youbecause my father hates your father's cousin. Are we not both mistaken?"

  I was quick to anger and to fight, but no man's heart was more sensitivethan mine to the fair touch of a kind word.

  "I am not mistaken, Sir John, when I say that I do not hate you," Ianswered.

  "Nor do I hate you, Sir Malcolm. Will you give me your hand?"

  "Gladly," I responded, and I offered my hand to the enemy of my house.

  "Landlord," I cried, "bring us two bottles of your best sack. The best inthe house, mind you."

  After our amicable understanding, Sir John and myself were verycomfortable together, and when the sack and roast beef, for which theRoyal Arms was justly famous, were brought in, we sat down to an enjoyablemeal.

  After supper Sir John lighted a small roll or stick made from the leavesof tobacco. The stick was called a cigarro, and I, proud not to be behindhim in new-fashioned, gentlemanly accomplishments, called to the landlordfor a pipe. Manners interrupted me when I gave the order and offered me acigarro which I gladly accepted.

  Despite my effort to reassure myself, I could not quite throw off afeeling of uneasiness whenever I thought of the manner in which I hadbetrayed to Sir John the fact that I was a friend to Mary Stuart. I knewthat treachery was not native to English blood, and my knowledge ofmankind had told me that the vice could not live in Sir John Manners'sheart. But he had told me of his residence at the court of Elizabeth, andI feared trouble might come to me from the possession of so dangerous apiece of knowledge by an enemy of my house.

  I did not speak my thoughts upon the matter, and we sat the eveningthrough discussing many subjects. We warmed toward each other and becamequite confidential. I feel ashamed when I admit that one of my many sinswas an excessive indulgence in wine. While I was not a drunkard, I wasgiven to my cups sometimes in a degree both dangerous and disgraceful; andduring the evening of which I have just spoken I talked to Sir John with afreedom that afterward made me blush, although my indiscretion brought meno greater trouble.

  My outburst of confidence was prompted by Sir John's voluntary assurancethat I need fear nothing from having told him that I was a friend of QueenMary. The Scottish queen's name had been mentioned, and Sir John hadsaid--

  "I take it, Sir Malcolm, that you are newly arrived in England, and I feelsure you will accept the advice I am about to offer in the kindly spiritin which it is meant. I deem it unsafe for you to speak of Queen Mary'sfriendship in the open manner you have used toward me. Her friends are notwelcome visitors to England, and I fear evil will befall those who come tous as refugees. You need have no fear that I will betray you. Your secretis safe with me. I will give you hostage. I also am Queen Mary's friend. Iwould not, of course, favor her against the interest of our own queen. ToElizabeth I am and always shall be loyal; but the unfortunate Scottishqueen has my sympathy in her troubles, and I should be glad to help her. Ihear she is most beautiful and gentle in person."

  Thus you see the influence of Mary's beauty reached from Edinburgh toLondon. A few months only were to pass till this conversation was to berecalled by each of us, and the baneful influence of Mary's beauty uponall whom it touched was to be shown more fatally than had appeared even inmy own case. In truth, my reason for speaking so fully concerning the,Scottish queen and myself will be apparent to you in good time.

  When we were about to part for the night, I asked Sir John, "What road doyou travel to-morrow?"

  "I am going to Rutland Castle by way of Rowsley," he answered.

  "I, too, travel by Rowsley to Haddon Hall. Shall we not extend our truceover the morrow and ride together as far as Rowsley?" I asked.

  "I shall be glad to make the truce perpetual," he replied laughingly.

  "So shall I," was my response.

  Thus we sealed our compact and knitted out of the warp and woof of enmitya friendship which became a great joy and a sweet grief to each of us.

  That night I lay for hours thinking of the past and wondering about thefuture. I had tasted the sweets--all flavored with bitterness--of courtlife. Women, wine, gambling, and fighting had given me the best of all theevils they had to offer. Was I now to drop that valorous life, which menso ardently seek, and was I to take up a browsing, kinelike existence atHaddon Hall, there to drone away my remaining days in fat'ning, peace, andquietude? I could not answer my own question, but this I knew: that SirGeorge Vernon was held in high esteem by Elizabeth, and I felt that hishouse was, perhaps, the only spot in England where my head could safelylie. I also had other plans concerning Sir George and his household whichI regret to say I imparted to Sir John in the sack-prompted outpouring ofmy confidence. The plans of which I shall now speak had been growing infavor with me for several months previous to my enforced departure fromScotland, and that event had almost determined me to adopt them. Almost, Isay, for when I approached Haddon Hall I wavered in my resolution.

  At the time when I had last visited Sir George at Haddon, his daughterDorothy--Sir George called her Doll--was a slipshod girl of twelve. Shewas exceedingly plain, and gave promise of always so remaining. SirGeorge, who had no son, was anxious that his vast estates should remainin the Vernon name. He had upon the occasion of my last visit intimated tome that when Doll should become old enough to marry, and I, perchance, hadhad my fill of knocking about the world, a marriage might be brought aboutbetween us which would enable him to leave his estates to his daughter andstill to retain the much-loved Vernon name for his descendants.

  Owing to Doll's rusty red hair, slim shanks, and freckled face, theproposition had not struck me with favor, yet to please Sir George I hadfeigned acquiescence, and had said that when the time should come, wewould talk it over. Before my flight from Scotland I had often thought ofSir George's proposition made six or seven years before. My love for MaryStuart had dimmed the light of other beauties i
n my eyes, and I had nevermarried. For many months before my flight, however, I had not beenpermitted to bask in the light of Mary's smiles to the extent of mywishes. Younger men, among them Darnley, who was but eighteen years ofage, were preferred to me, and I had begun to consider the advisability ofan orderly retreat from the Scottish court before my lustre should beentirely dimmed. It is said that a man is young so long as he is strong,and I was strong as in the days of my youth. My cheeks were fresh, my eyeswere bright, and my hair was red as when I was twenty, and without athread of gray. Still, my temperament was more exacting and serious, andthe thought of becoming settled for life, or rather for old age and death,was growing in favor with me. With that thought came always a suggestionof slim, freckled Dorothy and Sir George's offer. She held out to mewealth and position, a peaceful home for my old age, and a grave with apompous, pious epitaph at Bakewell church, in death.

  When I was compelled to leave Scotland, circumstances forced me to adecision, and my resolution was quickly taken. I would go to Derbyshireand would marry Dorothy. I did not expect ever again to feel great lovefor a woman. The fuse, I thought, had burned out when I loved Mary Stuart.One woman, I believed, was like another to me, and Dorothy would answer aswell as any for my wife. I could and would be kind to her, and that alonein time would make me fond. It is true, my affection would be of a fashionmore comfortable than exciting; but who, having passed his gallopingyouth, will contemn the joys that come from making others happy? I believethere is no person, past the age of forty, at all given to pondering thewhys of life, who will gainsay that the joy we give to others is our chiefsource of happiness. Why, then, should not a wise man, through purelyselfish motives, begin early to cultivate the gentle art of giving joy?

  But the fates were to work out the destinies of Dorothy and myself withoutour assistance. Self-willed, arrogant creatures are those same fates, butthey save us a deal of trouble by assuming our responsibilities.