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

When we entered the courtyard of the inn we saw three ladies warmly wrapped 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 as my cousin, Lady Dorothy Crawford, sister to Sir George Vernon. The second was a tall, beautiful girl, with an exquisite ivory-like complexion and a wonderful crown of fluffy red hair which encircled her head like a halo of sunlit glory. I could compare its wondrous lustre to no color save that of molten gold deeply alloyed with copper. But that comparison tells you nothing. I can find no simile with which to describe the beauties of its shades and tints. It was red, but it also was golden, as if the enamoured sun had gilded every hair with its radiance. In all my life I had never seen anything so beautiful as this tall girl's hair. Still, it was the Vernon red. My cousin, Sir George, and many Vernons had hair of the same color. Yet the girl's hair differed from all other I had ever seen. It had a light and a lustre of its own which was as distinct from the ordinary Vernon red, although that is very good and we are proud of it, as the sheen of gold is from the glitter of brass. I knew by the girl's hair that she was my cousin, Dorothy Vernon, whom I reluctantly had come to wed.

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

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

Walking by Dorothy's side, holding her hand, was a fair young woman whose hair was black, and whose skin was of the white, clear complexion such as we 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 this fair, pale girl I have so much to say in the pages to come that I shall not further describe her here.

When the ladies had entered the inn, my companion and I dismounted, and Manners exclaimed:—

"Did you see the glorious girl who but now entered the inn door? Gods! I never before saw such beauty."

"Yes," I replied, "I know her."

"How fortunate I am," said Sir John. "Perhaps I may induce you to present me to her. At least you will tell me her name, that I may seek her acquaintance 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 it seemed—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 if I were—as if I had been bewitched in one little second of time, and by a single glance from a pair of brown eyes. You certainly will think I am a fool, but you cannot understand—"

"Why can't I understand?" I asked indignantly. "The thing you have seen and 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 a clod? I have felt it fifty times."

"Not—" began Sir John, hesitatingly.

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

"But the lady," said Sir John, "tell me of her. Will you—can you present me 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 to tell him that the girl whom he so much admired was the daughter of his father's enemy. I could see no way of keeping Dorothy's name from him, so I determined to tell him.

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

"I am sorry," returned Sir John; "she is the lady whom you have come to marry, 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 with which great beauties are won. But I continued, "A woman of moderate beauty makes a safer wife, and in the long run is more comforting than one who is too attractive."

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

"And a liar," I muttered to myself. I felt sure, however, that I should never marry Dorothy Vernon, and I do not mind telling you, even at this early stage in my history, that I was right in my premonition. I did not marry 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 not meet again, it shall not be for the lack of my wishing. Your father and Sir George would feel deeply injured, should they learn of our friendship, therefore—"

"You are quite right," he interrupted. "It is better that no one should know 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 the ladies?"

"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, I sent the maid to my cousins, asking that I might be permitted to pay my devotions, 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 of welcome in her eyes. We had been rare friends when she was a child.

"Ah, Cousin Malcolm, what a fine surprise you have given us!" she exclaimed, 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 and drinking in her beauty with my eyes. "Doll! Doll! What a splendid girl you have become. Who would have thought that—that—" I hesitated, realizing that 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 a clear night, and so large and brown that they fairly twinkled. Great staring green eyes. Awkward!—" And she threw up her hands in mimic horror at the remembrance. "No one could have supposed that such a girl would have become—that is, you know," she continued confusedly, "could have changed. I haven't a freckle now," and she lifted her face that I might prove the truth of her words by examination, and perhaps that I might also observe her beauty.

Neither did I waste the opportunity. I dwelt longingly upon the wondrous red golden hair which fringed her low broad forehead, and upon the heavy black eyebrows, the pencilled points of whose curves almost touched across the nose. I saw the rose-tinted ivory of her skin and the long jet lashes curving in a great sweep from her full white lids, and I thought full sure that Venus herself was before me. My gaze halted for a moment at the long eyes which changed chameleon-like with the shifting light, and varied with her moods from deep fathomless green to violet, and from violet to soft voluptuous brown, but in all their tints beaming forth a lustre that would have stirred the soul of an anchorite. Then I noted the beauty of her clean-cut saucy nose and the red arch of her lips, slightly parted for the purpose of showing her teeth. But I could not stop long to dwell upon any one especial feature, for there were still to be seen her divine round chin, her large white throat, and the infinite grace in poise and curve of her strong young form. I dared not pause nor waste my time if I were to see it all, for such a girl as Dorothy waits no man's leisure—that is, unless she wishes to wait. In such case there is no moving her, and patience becomes to her a delightful virtue.

After my prolonged scrutiny Dorothy lowered her face and said laughingly:—

"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 is much easier, I fancy, for a woman to speak of the time when she was plain than to refer to the time when—when she was beautiful. What an absurd speech 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 her mouth 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 tall enough to be called Dorothy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With birth, my cousin, with birth," she replied; "but in my heart it burned 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 asked with more earnestness in my heart than in my voice.

"No, no; by the Virgin, no! Not even in the shadow of a thought. And by the 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 dreaming how 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 troubled and disturbed. Last month he lost the lawsuit against detestable old Lord Rutland. He was much angered by the loss, and has been moody and morose in brooding over it ever since. He tries, poor father, to find relief from his troubles, and—and I fear takes too much liquor. Rutland and his friends swore to one lie upon another, and father believes that the judge who tried the case was bribed. Father intends to appeal to Parliament, but even in Parliament he fears he cannot obtain justice. Lord Rutland's son—a disreputable fellow, who for many years has lived at court—is a favorite with the queen, and his acquaintance with her Majesty and with the lords will be to father's prejudice."

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

"So he does, but I have been told that this son of Lord Rutland, whom I have never seen, has the beauty of—of the devil, and exercises a great influence over her Majesty and her friends. The young man is not known in this neighborhood, for he has never deigned to leave the court; but Lady Cavendish tells me he has all the fascinations of Satan. I would that Satan 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 a pound of hatred," said the girl, with flashing eyes and hard lips. "I love to hate the accursed race. They have wronged our house for three generations, and my father has suffered greater injury at their hands than any 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 her to meet Lady Crawford, but the girl seemed disinclined to leave the tap-room. The Peacock was her father's property, and the host and hostess were her friends after the manner of persons in their degree. Therefore Dorothy felt at liberty to visit the tap-room quite as freely as if it had been the kitchen of Haddon Hall.

During our conversation I had frequently noticed Dorothy glancing slyly in the direction of the fireplace; but my back was turned that way, and I did not know, nor did it at first occur to me to wonder what attracted her attention. Soon she began to lose the thread of our conversation, and made inappropriate, tardy replies to my remarks. The glances toward the fireplace increased in number and duration, and her efforts to pay attention to what I was saying became painful failures.

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

I turned to go with her, and at once saw that it was not the fire in the fireplace which had attracted Dorothy, but quite a different sort of flame. In short, much to my consternation, I discovered that it was nothing less than my handsome new-found friend, Sir John Manners, toward whom Dorothy had been glancing.

We walked over to the fireplace, and one of the fires, Sir John, moved away. But the girl turned her face that she might see him in his new position. 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 the expression of her face? She seemed unable to take her eager eyes from the stranger, or to think of anything but him, and after a few moments she did not try. Soon she stopped talking entirely and did not even hear what I was saying. I, too, became silent, and after a long pause the girl asked:—

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

I was piqued by Dorothy's conduct, and answered rather curtly: "He is a stranger. 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 by accident that we met. Neither of us knew the other. Please do not ask me to tell you his name."

"Oh, but you make me all the more eager to learn. Mystery, you know, is intolerable 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! A mystery drives me wild. Tell me, please do, Cousin Malcolm."

She certainly was posing for the stranger's benefit, and was doing all in her power, while coaxing me, to display her charms, graces, and pretty little ways. Her attitude and conduct spoke as plainly as the spring bird'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 act under compulsion. She would laugh, for the purpose, no doubt, of showing her dimples and her teeth, and would lean her head to one side pigeon-wise to display her eyes to the best advantage, and then would she shyly glance toward Sir John to see if he was watching her. It was shameless, but it could not be helped by Dorothy nor any one else. After a few moments of mute pleading by the girl, broken now and then by, "Please, please," I said:—

"If you give to me your promise that you will never speak of this matter to any person, I will tell you the gentleman's name. I would not for a great deal have your father know that I have held conversation with him even 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. I promise, of course I promise—faithfully." She was glancing constantly toward Manners, and her face was bright with smiles and eager with anticipation.

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

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

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

When we had closed the door of the tap-room behind us Dorothy said angrily:—

"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 in Derby-town. We became friends before either knew the other's name. After chance had disclosed our identities, he asked for a truce to our feud until the morrow; and he was so gentle and open in his conduct that I could not and would not refuse his proffered olive branch. In truth, whatever faults may be attributable to Lord Rutland—and I am sure he deserves all the evil you have spoken of him—his son, Sir John, is a noble gentleman, else I have been reading the book of human nature all my life in vain. Perhaps he is in no way to blame for his father's conduct He 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 of justice impelled me to do so. I tried to make myself feel injured and chagrined because of Dorothy's manner toward him; for you must remember I had arranged with myself to marry this girl, but I could not work my feelings into a state of indignation against the heir to Rutland. The truth is, my hope of winning Dorothy had evaporated upon the first sight of 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 had devoted to the arduous task of arranging with myself this marriage was labor lost. So I frankly told her my kindly feelings for Sir John, and gave her my high estimate of his character.

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

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

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

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

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

"I think they must trouble him. He seems to be sad," said I, intending to be 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 perverse girl, and trouble was brewing "in Derbyshire."

The adjective perverse, by the way, usually is superfluous when used to modify 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 be very 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 my new-found friend.

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

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

"Yes," she answered, with a little sigh, "I certainly have surprised myself by—by my willingness to forgive those who have injured my house. I did 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 the tap-room and present him to you?"

Once more my irony was lost upon the girl. Evidently that sort of humor was 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 in itself but amply long for a girl like Dorothy to change her mind two score times, 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 and conciliating as if to say, "I trust entirely to your mature, superior judgment."

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

"That is true," the girl responded with firmness, "but—but no real harm could come of it," she continued, laughing nervously. "He could not strike me nor bite me. Of course it would be unpleasant for me to meet him, and as 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 know there could be no other reason for me to wish—that is, you know—to be willing to meet him. Of course you know."

"Certainly," I replied, still clinging to my unsuccessful irony. "I will tell you all I know about him, so that you may understand what he is like. 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 I have 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 to meet him," I said positively.

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

The French blood in my veins moved me to shrug my shoulders. I could do nothing else. With all my knowledge of womankind this girl had sent me to sea.

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 any with that curse in their veins who read these lines—dare you, I say, lift your 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 can comprehend? "Evil often comes of it," I hear you say. That I freely admit; and evil comes from eating too much bread, and from hearing too much preaching. But the universe, from the humblest blade of grass to the infinite essence of God, exists because of that warmth which the mawkish world contemns. Is the iron immodest when it creeps to the lodestone and clings to its side? Is the hen bird brazen when she flutters to her mate responsive to his compelling woo-song? Is the seed immodest when it sinks into the ground and swells with budding life? Is the cloud bold when it softens into rain and falls to earth because it has no other choice? or is it brazen when it nestles for a time on the bosom of heaven's arched dome and sinking into the fathomless depths of a blue black infinity ceases to be itself? Is the human soul immodest when, drawn by a force it cannot resist, it seeks a stronger soul which absorbs its ego as the blue sky absorbs the floating cloud, as the warm earth swells the seed, as the magnet 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 they must—because they have no other choice. We think we are free because at times we act as we please, forgetting that God gives us the "please," and that 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, and the rain. It is only human vanity which prompts you to believe that you are yourself and that you are free. Do you find any freedom in this world save that which you fondly believe to exist within yourself? Self! There is but one self, God. I have been told that the people of the East call Him Brahma. The word, it is said, means "Breath," "Inspiration," "All." I have felt that the beautiful pagan thought has truth in it; but my conscience and my priest tell me rather to cling to truths I have than to fly to others that I know not of. As a result, I shall probably die orthodox and mistaken.