Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall Page 3

  CHAPTER II

  THE IRON, THE SEED, THE CLOUD, AND THE RAIN

  The morning following my meeting with Manners, he and I made an earlystart. An hour before noon we rode into the town of Rowsley and halted atThe Peacock for dinner.

  When we entered the courtyard of the inn we saw three ladies warmlywrapped in rich furs leave a ponderous coach and walk to the inn door,which they entered. One of them was an elderly lady whom I recognized asmy cousin, Lady Dorothy Crawford, sister to Sir George Vernon. The secondwas a tall, beautiful girl, with an exquisite ivory-like complexion and awonderful crown of fluffy red hair which encircled her head like a halo ofsunlit glory. I could compare its wondrous lustre to no color save that ofmolten gold deeply alloyed with copper. But that comparison tells younothing. I can find no simile with which to describe the beauties of itsshades and tints. It was red, but it also was golden, as if the enamouredsun had gilded every hair with its radiance. In all my life I had neverseen anything so beautiful as this tall girl's hair. Still, it was theVernon red. My cousin, Sir George, and many Vernons had hair of the samecolor. Yet the girl's hair differed from all other I had ever seen. It hada light and a lustre of its own which was as distinct from the ordinaryVernon red, although that is very good and we are proud of it, as thesheen of gold is from the glitter of brass. I knew by the girl's hairthat she was my cousin, Dorothy Vernon, whom I reluctantly had come towed.

  I asked myself, "Can this be the plain, freckled girl I knew seven yearsago?" Compared with her beauty even Mary Stuart's was pale as the vapidmoon at dawn. The girl seemed to be the incarnated spirit of universallife and light, and I had condescendingly come to marry this goddess. Ifelt a dash of contemptuous pity for my complacent self.

  In my cogitations concerning marriage with Dorothy Vernon, I had not atall taken into consideration her personal inclination. A girl, after all,is but the chattel of her father, and must, perforce, if needs be, marrythe man who is chosen for her. But leaving parental authority out of thequestion, a girl with brick-red hair and a multitude of freckles need notbe considered when an agreeable, handsome man offers himself as a husband.She usually is willing to the point of eagerness. That is the manner inwhich I had thought about Dorothy Vernon, if I considered her at all. Butwhen a man is about to offer himself to a goddess, he is apt to pause. Insuch a case there are always two sides to the question, and nine chancesto one the goddess will coolly take possession of both. When I saw Dorothyin the courtyard of The Peacock, I instantly knew that she was a girl tobe taken into account in all matters wherein she was personally concerned.Her every feature, every poise and gesture, unconsciously bore the stampof "I will" or "I will not."

  Walking by Dorothy's side, holding her hand, was a fair young woman whosehair was black, and whose skin was of the white, clear complexion such aswe see in the faces of nuns. She walked with a hesitating, cautious step,and clung to Dorothy, who was gentle and attentive to her. But of thisfair, pale girl I have so much to say in the pages to come that I shallnot further describe her here.

  When the ladies had entered the inn, my companion and I dismounted, andManners exclaimed:--

  "Did you see the glorious girl who but now entered the inn door? Gods! Inever before saw such beauty."

  "Yes," I replied, "I know her."

  "How fortunate I am," said Sir John. "Perhaps I may induce you to presentme to her. At least you will tell me her name, that I may seek heracquaintance by the usual means. I am not susceptible, but by my faith,I--I--she looked at me from the door-steps, and when I caught her eyes itseemed--that is, I saw--or I felt a stream of burning life enter my soul,and--but you will think I am a fool. I know I am a fool. But I feel as ifI were--as if I had been bewitched in one little second of time, and by asingle glance from a pair of brown eyes. You certainly will think I am afool, but you cannot understand--"

  "Why can't I understand?" I asked indignantly. "The thing you have seenand felt has been in this world long enough for every man to understand.Eve used it upon Adam. I can't understand? Damme, sir, do you think I am aclod? I have felt it fifty times."

  "Not--" began Sir John, hesitatingly.

  "Nonsense!" I replied. "You, too, will have the same experience fiftytimes again before you are my age."

  "But the lady," said Sir John, "tell me of her. Will you--can you presentme to her? If not, will you tell me who she is?"

  I remained for a moment in thought, wondering if it were right for me totell him that the girl whom he so much admired was the daughter of hisfather's enemy. I could see no way of keeping Dorothy's name from him, soI determined to tell him.

  "She is my cousin, Mistress Dorothy Vernon," I said. "The eldest is LadyDorothy Crawford. The beautiful, pale girl I do not know."

  "I am sorry," returned Sir John; "she is the lady whom you have come tomarry, is she not?"

  "Y-e-s," said I, hesitatingly.

  "You certainly are to be congratulated," returned Manners.

  "I doubt if I shall marry her," I replied.

  "Why?" asked Manners.

  "For many reasons, chief among which is her beauty."

  "That is an unusual reason for declining a woman," responded Sir John,with a low laugh.

  "I think it is quite usual," I replied, having in mind the difficulty withwhich great beauties are won. But I continued, "A woman of moderate beautymakes a safer wife, and in the long run is more comforting than one who istoo attractive."

  "You are a philosopher, Sir Malcolm," said Manners, laughingly.

  "And a liar," I muttered to myself. I felt sure, however, that I shouldnever marry Dorothy Vernon, and I do not mind telling you, even at thisearly stage in my history, that I was right in my premonition. I did notmarry her.

  "I suppose I shall now be compelled to give you up to your relatives,"said Manners.

  "Yes," I returned, "we must say good-by for the present; but if we do notmeet again, it shall not be for the lack of my wishing. Your father andSir George would feel deeply injured, should they learn of our friendship,therefore--"

  "You are quite right," he interrupted. "It is better that no one shouldknow of it. Nevertheless, between you and me let there be no feud."

  "The secrecy of our friendship will give it zest," said I. "That is true,but 'good wine needs no bush.' You will not mention my name to theladies?"

  "No, if you wish that I shall not."

  "I do so wish."

  When the stable boys had taken our horses, I gave my hand to Sir John,after which we entered the inn and treated each other as strangers.

  Soon after I had washed the stains of travel from my hands and face, Isent the maid to my cousins, asking that I might be permitted to pay mydevotions, and Dorothy came to the tap-room in response to my message.

  When she entered she ran to me with outstretched hands and a gleam ofwelcome in her eyes. We had been rare friends when she was a child.

  "Ah, Cousin Malcolm, what a fine surprise you have given us!" sheexclaimed, clasping both my hands and offering me her cheek to kiss."Father's delight will be beyond measure when he sees you."

  "As mine now is," I responded, gazing at her from head to foot anddrinking in her beauty with my eyes. "Doll! Doll! What a splendid girl youhave become. Who would have thought that--that--" I hesitated, realizingthat I was rapidly getting myself into trouble.

  "Say it. Say it, cousin! I know what is in your mind. Rusty red hair,angular shoulders, sharp elbows, freckles thickly set as stars upon aclear night, and so large and brown that they fairly twinkled. Greatstaring green eyes. Awkward!--" And she threw up her hands in mimic horrorat the remembrance. "No one could have supposed that such a girl wouldhave become--that is, you know," she continued confusedly, "could havechanged. I haven't a freckle now," and she lifted her face that I mightprove the truth of her words by examination, and perhaps that I might alsoobserve her beauty.

  Neither did I waste the opportunity. I dwelt longingly upon the wondrousred golden hair which fringed her low broad forehead, and upon
the heavyblack eyebrows, the pencilled points of whose curves almost touchedacross the nose. I saw the rose-tinted ivory of her skin and the long jetlashes curving in a great sweep from her full white lids, and I thoughtfull sure that Venus herself was before me. My gaze halted for a moment atthe long eyes which changed chameleon-like with the shifting light, andvaried with her moods from deep fathomless green to violet, and fromviolet to soft voluptuous brown, but in all their tints beaming forth alustre that would have stirred the soul of an anchorite. Then I noted thebeauty of her clean-cut saucy nose and the red arch of her lips, slightlyparted for the purpose of showing her teeth. But I could not stop long todwell upon any one especial feature, for there were still to be seen herdivine round chin, her large white throat, and the infinite grace in poiseand curve of her strong young form. I dared not pause nor waste my time ifI were to see it all, for such a girl as Dorothy waits no man'sleisure--that is, unless she wishes to wait. In such case there is nomoving her, and patience becomes to her a delightful virtue.

  After my prolonged scrutiny Dorothy lowered her face and saidlaughingly:--

  "Now come, cousin, tell me the truth. Who would have thought it possible?"

  "Not I, Doll, not I, if you will pardon me the frankness."

  "Oh, that is easily done." Then with a merry ripple of laughter, "It ismuch easier, I fancy, for a woman to speak of the time when she was plainthan to refer to the time when--when she was beautiful. What an absurdspeech that is for me to make," she said confusedly.

  "I certainly did not expect to find so great a change," said I. "Why,Doll, you are wondrous, glorious, beautiful. I can't find words--"

  "Then don't try, Cousin Malcolm," she said with a smile that fringed hermouth in dimples. "Don't try. You will make me vain."

  "You are that already, Doll," I answered, to tease her.

  "I fear I am, cousin--vain as a man. But don't call me Doll. I am tallenough to be called Dorothy."

  She straightened herself up to her full height, and stepping close to myside, said: "I am as tall as you. I will now try to make you vain. Youlook just as young and as handsome as when I last saw you and so ardentlyadmired your waving black mustachio and your curling chin beard."

  "Did you admire them, Doll--Dorothy?" I asked, hoping, though with littlefaith, that the admiration might still continue.

  "Oh, prodigiously," she answered with unassuring candor. "Prodigiously.Now who is vain, Cousin Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon?"

  "I," I responded, shrugging my shoulders and confessing by compulsion.

  "But you must remember," she continued provokingly, "that a girl of twelveis very immature in her judgment and will fall in love with any man whoallows her to look upon him twice."

  "Then I am to believe that the fire begins very early to burn in thefeminine heart," I responded.

  "With birth, my cousin, with birth," she replied; "but in my heart itburned itself out upon your curling beard at the mature age of twelve."

  "And you have never been in love since that time, Doll--Dorothy?" I askedwith more earnestness in my heart than in my voice.

  "No, no; by the Virgin, no! Not even in the shadow of a thought. And bythe help of the Virgin I hope I never shall be; for when it comes to me,mark my word, cousin, there will be trouble in Derbyshire."

  "By my soul, I believe you speak the truth," I answered, little dreaminghow quickly our joint prophecy would come true.

  I then asked Dorothy to tell me about her father.

  "Father is well in health," she said. "In mind he has been much troubledand disturbed. Last month he lost the lawsuit against detestable old LordRutland. He was much angered by the loss, and has been moody and morose inbrooding over it ever since. He tries, poor father, to find relief fromhis troubles, and--and I fear takes too much liquor. Rutland and hisfriends swore to one lie upon another, and father believes that the judgewho tried the case was bribed. Father intends to appeal to Parliament, buteven in Parliament he fears he cannot obtain justice. Lord Rutland'sson--a disreputable fellow, who for many years has lived at court--is afavorite with the queen, and his acquaintance with her Majesty and withthe lords will be to father's prejudice."

  "I have always believed that your father stood in the queen's goodgraces?" I said interrogatively.

  "So he does, but I have been told that this son of Lord Rutland, whom Ihave never seen, has the beauty of--of the devil, and exercises a greatinfluence over her Majesty and her friends. The young man is not known inthis neighborhood, for he has never deigned to leave the court; but LadyCavendish tells me he has all the fascinations of Satan. I would thatSatan had him."

  "The feud still lives between Vernon and Rutland?" I asked.

  "Yes, and it will continue to live so long as an ounce of blood can hold apound of hatred," said the girl, with flashing eyes and hard lips. "I loveto hate the accursed race. They have wronged our house for threegenerations, and my father has suffered greater injury at their hands thanany of our name. Let us not talk of the hateful subject."

  We changed the topic. I had expected Dorothy to invite me to go with herto meet Lady Crawford, but the girl seemed disinclined to leave thetap-room. The Peacock was her father's property, and the host and hostesswere her friends after the manner of persons in their degree. ThereforeDorothy felt at liberty to visit the tap-room quite as freely as if it hadbeen the kitchen of Haddon Hall.

  During our conversation I had frequently noticed Dorothy glancing slyly inthe direction of the fireplace; but my back was turned that way, and I didnot know, nor did it at first occur to me to wonder what attracted herattention. Soon she began to lose the thread of our conversation, and madeinappropriate, tardy replies to my remarks. The glances toward thefireplace increased in number and duration, and her efforts to payattention to what I was saying became painful failures.

  After a little time she said: "Is it not cool here? Let us go over to thefireplace where it is warmer."

  I turned to go with her, and at once saw that it was not the fire in thefireplace which had attracted Dorothy, but quite a different sort offlame. In short, much to my consternation, I discovered that it wasnothing less than my handsome new-found friend, Sir John Manners, towardwhom Dorothy had been glancing.

  We walked over to the fireplace, and one of the fires, Sir John, movedaway. But the girl turned her face that she might see him in his newposition. The movement, I confess, looked bold to the point of brazenness;but if the movement was bold, what shall I say of her glances and theexpression of her face? She seemed unable to take her eager eyes from thestranger, or to think of anything but him, and after a few moments she didnot try. Soon she stopped talking entirely and did not even hear what Iwas saying. I, too, became silent, and after a long pause the girlasked:--

  "Cousin, who is the gentleman with whom you were travelling?"

  I was piqued by Dorothy's conduct, and answered rather curtly: "He is astranger. I picked him up at Derby, and we rode here together."

  A pause followed, awkward in its duration.

  "Did you--not--learn--his--name?" asked Dorothy, hesitatingly.

  "Yes," I replied.

  Then came another pause, broken by the girl, who spoke in a quick,imperious tone touched with irritation:--

  "Well, what is it?"

  "It is better that I do not tell you," I answered. "It was quite byaccident that we met. Neither of us knew the other. Please do not ask meto tell you his name."

  "Oh, but you make me all the more eager to learn. Mystery, you know, isintolerable to a woman, except in the unravelling. Come, tell me! Tell me!Not, of course, that I really care a farthing to know--but the mystery! Amystery drives me wild. Tell me, please do, Cousin Malcolm."

  She certainly was posing for the stranger's benefit, and was doing all inher power, while coaxing me, to display her charms, graces, and prettylittle ways. Her attitude and conduct spoke as plainly as the springbird's song speaks to its mate. Yet Dorothy's manner did not seem bold.Even to me it appeared modest, beautiful
, and necessary. She seemed to actunder compulsion. She would laugh, for the purpose, no doubt, of showingher dimples and her teeth, and would lean her head to one side pigeon-wiseto display her eyes to the best advantage, and then would she shyly glancetoward Sir John to see if he was watching her. It was shameless, but itcould not be helped by Dorothy nor any one else. After a few moments ofmute pleading by the girl, broken now and then by, "Please, please," Isaid:--

  "If you give to me your promise that you will never speak of this matterto any person, I will tell you the gentleman's name. I would not for agreat deal have your father know that I have held conversation with himeven for a moment, though at the time I did not know who he was."

  "Oh, this is delightful! He must be some famous, dashing highwayman. Ipromise, of course I promise--faithfully." She was glancing constantlytoward Manners, and her face was bright with smiles and eager withanticipation.

  "He is worse than a highwayman, I regret to say. The gentleman toward whomyou are so ardently glancing is--Sir John Manners."

  A shock of pain passed over Dorothy's face, followed by a hard, repellentexpression that was almost ugly.

  "Let us go to Aunt Dorothy," she said, as she turned and walked across theroom toward the door.

  When we had closed the door of the tap-room behind us Dorothy saidangrily:--

  "Tell me, cousin, how you, a Vernon, came to be in his company?"

  "I told you that I met him quite by accident at the Royal Arms inDerby-town. We became friends before either knew the other's name. Afterchance had disclosed our identities, he asked for a truce to our feuduntil the morrow; and he was so gentle and open in his conduct that Icould not and would not refuse his proffered olive branch. In truth,whatever faults may be attributable to Lord Rutland,--and I am sure hedeserves all the evil you have spoken of him,--his son, Sir John, is anoble gentleman, else I have been reading the book of human nature all mylife in vain. Perhaps he is in no way to blame for his father's conductHe may have had no part in it"

  "Perhaps he has not," said Dorothy, musingly.

  It was not a pleasant task for me to praise Sir John, but my sense ofjustice impelled me to do so. I tried to make myself feel injured andchagrined because of Dorothy's manner toward him; for you must remember Ihad arranged with myself to marry this girl, but I could not work myfeelings into a state of indignation against the heir to Rutland. Thetruth is, my hope of winning Dorothy had evaporated upon the first sightof her, like the volatile essence it really was. I cannot tell you why,but I at once seemed to realize that all the thought and labor which I haddevoted to the arduous task of arranging with myself this marriage waslabor lost. So I frankly told her my kindly feelings for Sir John, andgave her my high estimate of his character.

  I continued: "You see, Dorothy, I could not so easily explain to yourfather my association with Sir John, and I hope you will not speak of itto any one, lest the news should reach Sir George's ears."

  "I will not speak of it," she returned, sighing faintly. "After all, it isnot his fault that his father is such a villain. He doesn't look like hisfather, does he?"

  "I cannot say. I never saw Lord Rutland," I replied.

  "He is the most villanous-looking--" but she broke off the sentence andstood for a moment in revery. We were in the darkened passage, and Dorothyhad taken my hand. That little act in another woman of course would haveled to a demonstration on my part, but in this girl it seemed so entirelynatural and candid that it was a complete bar to undue familiarity. Intruth, I had no such tendency, for the childish act spoke of an innocenceand faith that were very sweet to me who all my life had lived among menand women who laughed at those simple virtues. The simple conditions oflife are all that are worth striving for. They come to us fresh fromNature and from Nature's God. The complex are but concoctions of man afterrecipes in the devil's alchemy. So much gold, so much ambition, so muchlust. Mix well. Product: so much vexation.

  "He must resemble his mother," said Dorothy, after a long pause. "Poorfellow! His mother is dead. He is like me in that respect. I wonder if hisfather's villanies trouble him?"

  "I think they must trouble him. He seems to be sad," said I, intending tobe ironical.

  My reply was taken seriously.

  "I am sorry for him," she said, "it is not right to hate even our enemies.The Book tells us that."

  "Yet you hate Lord Rutland," said I, amused and provoked.

  Unexpected and dangerous symptoms were rapidly developing in the perversegirl, and trouble was brewing "in Derbyshire."

  The adjective perverse, by the way, usually is superfluous when used tomodify the noun girl.

  "Yet you hate Lord Rutland," I repeated.

  "Why, y-e-s," she responded. "I cannot help that, but you know it would bevery wrong to--to hate all his family. To hate him is bad enough."

  I soon began to fear that I had praised Sir John overmuch.

  "I think Sir John is all there is of Lord Rutland's family," I said,alarmed yet amused at Dorothy's search for an excuse not to hate mynew-found friend.

  "Well," she continued after a pause, throwing her head to one side, "I amsorry there are no more of that family not to hate."

  "Dorothy! Dorothy!" I exclaimed. "What has come over you? You surpriseme."

  "Yes," she answered, with a little sigh, "I certainly have surprisedmyself by--by my willingness to forgive those who have injured my house. Idid not know there was so much--so much good in me."

  "Mistress Pharisee," thought I, "you are a hypocrite."

  Again intending to be ironical, I said, "Shall I fetch him from thetap-room and present him to you?"

  Once more my irony was lost upon the girl. Evidently that sort of humorwas not my strong point.

  "No, no," she responded indignantly, "I would not speak to him for--"Again she broke her sentence abruptly, and after a little pause, short initself but amply long for a girl like Dorothy to change her mind two scoretimes, she continued: "It would not be for the best. What think you,Cousin Malcolm?"

  "Surely the girl has gone mad," thought I. Her voice was soft andconciliating as if to say, "I trust entirely to your mature, superiorjudgment."

  My judgment coincided emphatically with her words, and I said: "I spokeonly in jest. It certainly would not be right. It would be all wrong ifyou were to meet him."

  "That is true," the girl responded with firmness, "but--but no real harmcould come of it," she continued, laughing nervously. "He could not strikeme nor bite me. Of course it would be unpleasant for me to meet him, andas there is no need--I am curious to know what one of his race is like.It's the only reason that would induce me to consent. Of course you knowthere could be no other reason for me to wish--that is, you know--to bewilling to meet him. Of course you know."

  "Certainly," I replied, still clinging to my unsuccessful irony. "I willtell you all I know about him, so that you may understand what he islike. As for his personal appearance, you saw him, did you not?"

  I thought surely that piece of irony would not fail, but it did, and Ihave seldom since attempted to use that form of humor.

  "Yes--oh, yes, I saw him for a moment."

  "But I will not present him to you, Dorothy, however much you may wish tomeet him," I said positively.

  "It is almost an insult, Cousin Malcolm, for you to say that I wish tomeet him," she answered in well-feigned indignation.

  The French blood in my veins moved me to shrug my shoulders. I could donothing else. With all my knowledge of womankind this girl had sent me tosea.

  But what shall we say of Dorothy's conduct? I fancy I can hear you mutter,"This Dorothy Vernon must have been a bold, immodest, brazen girl."Nothing of the sort. Dare you of the cold blood--if perchance there be anywith that curse in their veins who read these lines--dare you, I say, liftyour voice against the blessed heat in others which is but a greater,stronger, warmer spark of God's own soul than you possess or than you cancomprehend? "Evil often comes of it," I hear you say. That I freely admit;and evil comes f
rom eating too much bread, and from hearing too muchpreaching. But the universe, from the humblest blade of grass to theinfinite essence of God, exists because of that warmth which the mawkishworld contemns. Is the iron immodest when it creeps to the lodestone andclings to its side? Is the hen bird brazen when she flutters to her materesponsive to his compelling woo-song? Is the seed immodest when it sinksinto the ground and swells with budding life? Is the cloud bold when itsoftens into rain and falls to earth because it has no other choice? or isit brazen when it nestles for a time on the bosom of heaven's arched domeand sinking into the fathomless depths of a blue black infinity ceases tobe itself? Is the human soul immodest when, drawn by a force it cannotresist, it seeks a stronger soul which absorbs its ego as the blue skyabsorbs the floating cloud, as the warm earth swells the seed, as themagnet draws the iron? All these are of one quality. The iron, the seed,the cloud, and the soul of man are _what_ they are, do _what_ they do,love as they love, live as they live, and die as they die because theymust--because they have no other choice. We think we are free because attimes we act as we please, forgetting that God gives us the "please," andthat every act of our being is but the result of a dictated motive.Dorothy was not immodest. This was her case. She was the iron, the seed,the cloud, and the rain. You, too, are the iron, the seed, the cloud, andthe rain. It is only human vanity which prompts you to believe that youare yourself and that you are free. Do you find any freedom in this worldsave that which you fondly believe to exist within yourself? Self! Thereis but one self, God. I have been told that the people of the East callHim Brahma. The word, it is said, means "Breath," "Inspiration," "All." Ihave felt that the beautiful pagan thought has truth in it; but myconscience and my priest tell me rather to cling to truths I have than tofly to others that I know not of. As a result, I shall probably dieorthodox and mistaken.