St. George and St. Michael

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She was not altogether wrong in her unconscious judgment of lady
Margaret. Her nature was such as, its nobility tinctured with
romance, rendered her perfectly capable of understanding either of
the two halves of Dorothy's behaviour, but was not sufficient to the
reception and understanding of the two parts together. That is, she
could have understood the heroic capture of her former lover, or she
could have understood her going to visit him in his trouble, and
even, what Dorothy was incapable of, his release; but she was not
yet equal to understanding how she should set herself so against a
man, even to his wounding and capture, whom she loved so much as,
immediately thereupon, to dare the loss of her good name by going to
his chamber, so placing herself in the power of a man she had
injured, as well as running a great risk of discovery on the part of
her friends. Hence she was quite prepared to accept the solution of
her strange conduct, which by and by, it was hard to say how, came
to be offered and received all over the castle--that Dorothy first
admitted, then captured, and finally released the handsome young
roundhead.

Her first impressions of the affair, lady Margaret received from
lord Charles, who was certainly prejudiced against Dorothy, and no
doubt jealous of the relation of the fine young rebel to a loyal
maiden of Raglan; while the suspicion, almost belief, that she knew
and would not reveal the flaw in his castle, the idea of which had
begun to haunt him like some spot in his own body of which pain made
him unnaturally conscious, annoyed him more and more. To do him
justice, I must not omit to mention that he never made a
communication on the matter to any but his sister-in-law, who would
however have certainly had a more kindly as well as exculpatory
feeling towards Dorothy, had she first heard the truth from her own
lips.

For some little time, not perceiving the difficulties in her way,
and perhaps from unlikeness not understanding the disinclination of
such a girl to self-defence, lady Margaret continued to expect a
visit from her, with excuse at least, if not confession and apology
upon her lips, and was hurt by her silence as much as offended by
her behaviour. She was yet more annoyed, when they first met, that,
notwithstanding her evident suffering, she wore such an air of
reticence, and thence she both regarded and addressed her coldly; so
that Dorothy was confirmed in her disinclination to confide in her.
Besides, as she said to herself, she had nothing to tell but what
she had already told; everything depended on the interpretation
accorded to the facts, and the right interpretation was just the one
thing she had found herself unable to convey. If her friends did
not, she could not justify herself.

She tried hard to behave as she ought, for, conscious how much
appearances were against her, she felt it would be unjust to allow
her affection towards her mistress to be in the least shaken by her
treatment of her, and was if possible more submissive and eager in
her service than before. But in this she was every now and then
rudely checked by the fear that lady Margaret would take it as the
endeavour of guilt to win favour; and, do what she would, instead of
getting closer to her, she felt every time they met, that the hedge
of separation which had sprung up between them had in the interval
grown thicker. By degrees the mistress had assumed towards the poor
girl that impervious manner of self-contained dignity, which,
according to her who wears it, is the carriage either of a
wing-bound angel, the gait of a stork, or the hobble of a crab.

Of a different kind was the change which now began to take place
towards her on the part of another member of the household.

While she had been intent upon Richard as he stood before the
marquis, not Amanda only but another as well had been intent upon
her. Poor creature as Scudamore yet was, he possessed, besides no
small generosity of nature, a good deal of surface sympathy, and a
ready interest in the shows of humanity. Hence as he stood regarding
now the face of the prisoner and now that of Dorothy, whom he knew
for old friends, he could not help noticing that every phase of the
prisoner, so to speak, might be read on Dorothy. He was too shallow
to attribute this to anything more than the interest she must feel
in the results of the exploit she had performed. The mere suggestion
of what had afforded such wide ground for speculation on the part of
Amanda, was to Scudamore rendered impossible by the meeting of two
things--the fact that the only time he had seen them together,
Richard was very plainly out of favour, and now the all-important
share Dorothy had had in his capture. But the longer he looked, the
more he found himself attracted by the rich changefulness of
expression on a countenance usually very still. He surmised little
of the conflict of emotions that sent it to the surface, had to
construct no theory to calm the restlessness of intellectual
curiosity, discovered no secret feeding of the flame from behind.
Yet the flame itself drew him as the candle draws the moth. Emotion
in the face of a woman was enough to attract Scudamore; the prettier
the face, the stronger the attraction, but the source or character
of the emotion mattered nothing to him: he asked no questions any
more than the moth, but circled the flame. In a word, Dorothy had
now all at once become to him interesting.

As soon as she found a safe opportunity, Amanda told him of
Dorothy's being found in the turret chamber, a fact she pretended to
have heard in confidence from mistress Watson, concealing her own
part in it, But as Amanda spoke, Dorothy became to Rowland twice as
interesting as ever Amanda had been. There was a real romance about
the girl, he thought. And then she LOOKED so quiet! He never thought
of defending her or playing the true part of a cousin. Amanda might
think of her as she pleased: Rowland was content. Had he cared ever
so much more for her judgment than he did, it would have been all
the same. How far Dorothy had been right or wrong in visiting
Heywood, he did not even conjecture, not to say consider. It was
enough that she who had been to him like the blank in the centre of
the African map, was now a region of marvels and possibilities,
vague but not the less interesting, or the less worthy of beholding
the interest she had awaked. As to her loving the roundhead fellow,
that would not stand long in the way.

In this period then of gloom and wretchedness, Dorothy became aware
of a certain increase of attention on the part of her cousin. This
she attributed to kindness generated of pity. But to accept it, and
so confess that she needed it, would have been to place herself too
much on a level with one whom she did not respect, while at the same
time it would confirm him in whatever probably mistaken grounds he
had for offering it. She therefore met his advances kindly but
coldly, a treatment under which his feelings towards her began to
ripen into something a little deeper and more genuine.

During the next ten days or so, Dorothy could not help feeling that
she was regarded by almost every one in the castle as in disgrace,
and that deservedly. The most unpleasant proof she had of this was
the behaviour of the female servants, some of them assuming airs of
injured innocence, others of offensive familiarity in her presence,
while only one, a kitchen-maid she seldom saw, Tom Fool's bride in
the marriage-jest, showed her the same respect as formerly. This
girl came to her one night in her room, and with tears in her eyes
besought permission to carry her meals thither, that she might be
spared eating with the rude ladies, as in her indignation she called
them. But Dorothy saw that to forsake mistress Watson's table would
be to fly the field, and therefore, hateful as it was to meet the
looks of those around it, she did so with unvailed lids and an
enforced dignity which made itself felt. But the effort was as
exhausting as painful, and the reflex of shame, felt as shame in
spite of innocence, was eating into her heart. In vain she said to
herself that she was guiltless; in vain she folded herself round in
the cloak of her former composure; the consciousness that, to say
the least of it, she was regarded as a young woman of questionable
refinement, weighed down her very eyelids as she crossed the court.

But she was not left utterly forsaken; she had still one refuge--the
workshop, where Caspar Kaltoff wrought like an 'artificial god;' for
the worthy German altered his manner to her not a whit, but
continued to behave with the mingled kindness of a father and
devotion of a servant. His respect and trustful sympathy showed,
without word said, that he, if no other, believed nothing to her
disadvantage, but was as much her humble friend as ever; and to the
hitherto self-reliant damsel, the blessedness of human sympathy,
embodied in the looks and tones of the hard-handed mechanic, brought
such healing and such schooling together, that for a long time she
never said her prayers by her bedside without thanking God for
Caspar Kaltoff.

Ere long her worn look, thin cheek, and weary eye began to work on
the heart of lady Margaret, and she relented in spirit towards the
favourite of her husband, whose anticipated disappointment in her
had sharpened the arrows of her resentment. But to the watery dawn
of favour which followed, the poor girl could not throw wide her
windows, knowing it arose from no change in lady Margaret's judgment
concerning her: she could not as a culprit accept what had been as a
culprit withdrawn from her. The conviction burned in her heart like
cold fire, that, but for compassion upon the desolate state of an
orphan, she would have been at once dismissed from the castle.
Sometimes she ventured to think that if lord Herbert had been at
home, all this would not have happened; but now what could she
expect other than that on his return he would regard her and treat
her in the same way as his wife and father and brother?

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE DELIVERER.

But she found some relief in applying her mind to the task which
lord Worcester had set her; and many a night as she tossed sleepless
on her bed, would she turn from the thoughts that tortured her, to
brood upon the castle, and invent if she might some new possible
way, however difficult, of getting out of it unseen: and many a
morning after the night thus spent, would she hasten, ere the
household was astir, to examine some spot which had occurred to her
as perhaps containing the secret she sought. One time it was a
chimney that might have door and stair concealed within it; another,
the stables, where she examined every stall in the hope of finding a
trap to an underground way. Had any one else been in question but
Richard, the traitor, the roundhead, she might have imagined an
associate within the walls, in which case farther solution would not
have been for her; but somehow, she did not make it clear to herself
how, she could not entertain the idea in connection with Richard.
Besides, in brooding over everything, it had grown plain to her that
both Richard and Marquis had that night been through the moat.

Some who caught sight of her in the early dawn, wandering about and
peering here and there, thought that she was losing her senses;
others more ingenious in the thinking of evil, imagined she sought
to impress the household with a notion of her innocence by
pretending a search for the concealed flaw in the defences.

Ever since she had been put in charge of the water-works, she had
been in the habit of lingering a little on the roof of the keep as
often as occasion took her thither, for she delighted in the far
outlook on the open country which it afforded; and perhaps it was a
proof of the general healthiness of her nature that now in her
misery, instead of shutting herself up in her own chamber, she
oftener sought the walk around the reservoir, looking abroad in
shadowy hope of some lurking deliverance, like captive lady in the
stronghold of evil knight. On one of these occasions, in the first
of the twilight, she was leaning over one of the battlements looking
down upon the moat and its white and yellow blossoms and great green
leaves, and feeling very desolate. Her young life seemed to have
crumbled down upon her and crushed her heart, and all for one gentle
imprudence.

'Oh my mother!' she murmured,--'an' thou couldst hear me, thou
wouldst help me an' thou couldst. Thy poor Dorothy is sorely sad and
forsaken, and she knows no way of escape. Oh my mother, hear me!'

As she spoke, she looked away from the moat to the sky, and spread
out her arms in the pain of her petition.

There was a step behind her.

'What! what! My little protestant praying to the naughty saints!
That will never do.'

Dorothy had turned with a great start, and stood speechless and
trembling before lord Herbert.

'My poor child!' he said, holding out both his hands, and taking
those which Dorothy did not offer--'did I startle thee then so much?
I am truly sorry. I heard but thy last words; be not afraid of thy
secret. But what hath come to thee? Thou art white and thin, there
are tears on thy face, and it seems as thou wert not so glad to see
me as I thought thou wouldst have been. What is amiss? I hope thou
art not sick--but plainly thou art ill at ease! Go not yet after my
Molly, cousin, for truly we need thee here yet a while.'

'Would I might go to Molly, my lord!' said Dorothy. 'Molly would
believe me.'

'Thou need'st not go to Molly for that, cousin. I will believe thee.
Only tell me what thou wouldst have me believe, and I will believe
it. What! think'st thou I am not magician enough to know whom to
believe and whom not? Fye, fye, mistress! Thou, on thy part, wilt
not put faith in thy cousin Herbert!'

His kind words were to her as the voice of him that calleth for the
waters of the sea that he may pour them out on the face of the
earth. The poor girl burst into a passion of weeping, fell on her
knees before him, and holding up her clasped hands, cried out in a
voice of sob-choked agony--for she was not used to tears, and it
was to her a rending of the heart to weep--

'Save me, save me, my lord! I have no friend in the world who can
help me but thee.'

'No friend! What meanest thou, Dorothy?' said lord Herbert, taking
her two clasped hands between his. 'There is my Margaret and my
father!'

'Alas, my lord! they mean well by me, but they do not believe me;
and if your lordship believe me no more than they, I must go from
Raglan. Yet believing me, I know not how you could any more help
me.'

'Dorothy, my child, I can do nothing till thou take me with thee. I
cannot even comfort thee.'

'Your lordship is weary,' said Dorothy, rising and wiping her eyes.
'You cannot yet have eaten since you came. Go, my lord, and hear my
tale first from them that believe me not. They will assure you of
nothing that is not true, only they understand it not, and wrong me
in their conjectures. Let my lady Margaret tell it you, my lord, and
then if you have yet faith enough in me to send for me, I will come
and answer all you ask. If you send not for me, I will ride from
Raglan to-morrow.'

'It shall be as thou sayest, Dorothy. An' it be not fit for the
judge to hear both sides of the tale, or an' it boots the innocent
which side he first heareth, then were he no better judge than good
king James, of blessed memory, when he was so sore astonished to
find both sides in the right.'

'A king, my lord, and judge foolishly!'

'A king, my damsel, and judged merrily. But fear me not; I trust in
God to judge fairly even betwixt friend and foe, and I doubt not it
will be now to the lightening of thy trouble, my poor storm-beaten
dove.'

It startled Dorothy with a gladness that stung like pain, to hear
the word he never used but to his wife thus flit from his lips in
the tenderness of his pity, and alight like the dove itself upon her
head. She thanked him with her whole soul, and was silent.

'I will send hither to thee, my child, when I require thy presence;
and when I send come straight to my lady's parlour.'

Dorothy bowed her head, but could not speak, and lord Herbert walked
quickly from her. She heard him run down the stair almost with the
headlong speed of his boy Henry.

Half an hour passed slowly--then lady Margaret's page came lightly
up the steps, bearing the request that she would favour his mistress
with her presence. She rose from the battlement where she had seated
herself to watch the moon, already far up in the heavens, as she
brightened through the gathering dusk, and followed him with beating
heart.

When she entered the parlour, where as yet no candles had been
lighted, she saw and knew nothing till she found herself clasped to
a bosom heaving with emotion.

'Forgive me, Dorothy,' sobbed lady Margaret. 'I have done thee
wrong. But thou wilt love me yet again--wilt thou not, Dorothy?'

'Madam! madam !' was all Dorothy could answer, kissing her hands.

Lady Margaret led her to her husband, who kissed her on the
forehead, and seated her betwixt himself and his wife; and for a
space there was silence. Then at last said Dorothy:

'Tell me, madam, how is it that I find myself once more in the
garden of your favour? How know you that I am not all unworthy
thereof?'

'My lord tells me so,' returned lady Margaret simply.

'And whence doth my lord know it?' asked Dorothy, turning to lord
Herbert.

''An' thou be not satisfied of thine own innocence, Dorothy, I will
ask thee a few questions. Listen to thine answers, and judge. How
came the young puritan into the castle that night? But stay: we must
have candles, for how can I, the judge, or my lady, the jury, see
into the heart of the prisoner save through the window of her face?'

Dorothy laughed--her first laugh since the evil fog had ascended and
swathed her. Lady Margaret rang the bell on her table. Candles were
brought from where they stood ready in the ante-chamber, and as soon
as they began to burn clear, lord Herbert repeated his question.

'My lord,' answered Dorothy, 'I look to you to tell me so much, for
before God I know not.'

'Nay, child! thou need'st not buttress thy words with an oath,' said
his lordship. 'Thy fair eyes are worth a thousand oaths. But to the
question: tell me wherefore didst thou not let the young man go when
first thou spied him? Wherefore didst ring the alarm-bell? Thou
sawest he was upon his own mare, for thou knewest her--didst thou
not?'

'I did, my lord; but he had no business there, and I was of my lord
Worcester's household. Here I am not Dorothy Vaughan, but my lady's
gentlewoman.'

'Then why didst thou go to his room thereafter? Didst thou not know
it for the most perilous adventure maiden could undergo?'

'Perilous it hath indeed proved, my lord.'

'And might have proved worse than perilous.'

'No, my lord. Other danger was none where Richard was,' returned
Dorothy with vehemence.

'It beareth a look as if mayhap thou dost or mightst one day love
the young man!' said lord Herbert in slow pondering tone.

'My spirit hath of late been driven to hold him company, my lord. It
seemed that, save Caspar, I had no friend left but him. God help me!
it were a fearful thing to love a fanatic! But I will resist the
devil.'

'Truly we are in lack of a few such devils on what we count the
honest side, Dorothy!' said lord Herbert, laughing. 'Not every man
that thinks the other way is a rogue or a fool. But thou hast not
told me why thou didst run the heavy risk of seeking him in the
night.'

'I could not rest for thinking of him, my lord, with that terrible
wound in the head I had as good as given him, and from whose effects
I had last seen him lie as one dead. He was my playmate, and my
mother loved him.'

Here poor Dorothy broke down and wept, but recovered herself with an
effort, and proceeded.

'I kept starting awake, seeing him thus at one time, and at another
hearing him utter my name as if entreating me to go to him, until at
last I believed that I was called.'

'Called by whom, Dorothy?'

'I thought--I thought, my lord, it might be the same that called
Samuel, who had opened my ears to hear Richard's voice.'

'And it was indeed therefore thou didst go?'

'I think so, my lord. I am sure, at least, but for that I would not
have gone. Yet surely I mistook, for see what hath come of it,' she
added, turning to lady Margaret.

'We must not judge from one consequence where there are a thousand
yet to follow,' said his lordship. '--And thou sayest, when thou
didst enter the room thou didst find no one there?'

'I say so, my lord, and it is true.'

'That I know as well as thou. What then didst thou think of the
matter?'

'I was filled with fear, my lord, when I saw the bedclothes all in a
heap on the floor, but upon reflection I hoped that he had had the
better in the struggle, and had escaped; for now at least he could
do no harm in Raglan, I thought. But when I found the door was
locked,--I dare hardly think of that, my lord; it makes me tremble
yet.'

'Now, who thinkest thou in thy heart did lock the door upon thee?'

'Might it not have been Satan himself, my lord?'

'Nay, I cannot tell what might or might not be where such a one is
so plainly concerned. But I believe he was only acting in his usual
fashion, which, as a matter of course, must be his worst--I mean
through the heart and hands of some one in the house who would bring
thee into trouble.'

'I would it were the other way, my lord.'

'So would I heartily. In his own person I fear him not a whit. But
hast thou no suspicion of any one owing thee a grudge, who might be
glad on such opportunity to pay it thee with interest?'

'I must confess I have, my lord; but I beg of your lordship not to
question me on the matter further, for it reaches only to suspicion.
I know nothing, and might, if I uttered a word, be guilty of
grievous wrong. Pardon me, my lord.'

Lord Herbert looked hard at his wife. Lady Margaret dropped her
head.

'Thou art right, indeed, my good cousin!' he said, turning again to
Dorothy; 'for that would be to do by another as thou sufferest so
sorely from others doing by thee. I must send my brains about and
make a discovery or two for myself. It is well I have a few days to
spend at home. And now to the first part of the business in hand.
Hast thou any special way of calling thy dog? It is a moonlit night,
I believe.'

He rose and went to the window, over which hung a heavy curtain of
Flemish tapestry.

'It is a three-quarter old moon, my lord,' said Dorothy, 'and very
bright. I did use to call my dog with a whistle my mother gave me
when I was a child.'

'Canst thou lay thy hand upon it? Hast thou it with thee in Raglan?'

'I have it in my hand now, my lord.'

'What then with the moon and thy whistle, I think we shall not
fail.'

'Hast lost thy wits, Ned?' said his wife. 'Or what fiend wouldst
thou raise to-night?'

'I would lay one rather,' returned lord Herbert. 'But first I would
discover this same perilous fault in the armour of my house. Is thy
genet still in thy control, Dorothy?'

'I have no reason to think otherwise, my lord. The frolicker he, the
merrier ever was I.'

'Darest thou ride him alone in the moonlight--outside the walls.'

'I dare anything on Dick's back--that Dick can do, my lord.'

'Doth thy dog know Caspar--in friendly fashion, I mean?'

'Caspar is the only one in the castle he is quite friendly with, my
lord.'

'Then is all as I would have it. And now I will tell thee what I
would not have: I would not have a soul in the place but my lady
here know that I am searching with thee after this dog-and-man hole.
Therefore I will saddle thy little horse for thee myself, and--'

'No, no, my lord!' interrupted Dorothy. 'That _I_ can do.'

'So much the better for thee. But I am no boor, fair damsel. Then
shalt thou mount and ride him forth, and Marquis thy mastiff shall
see thee go from the yard. Then will I mount the keep, and from that
point of vantage look down upon the two courts, while Caspar goes to
stand by thy dog. Thou shalt ride slowly along for a minute or two,
until these preparations shall have been made; then shalt thou blow
thy whistle, and set off at a gallop to round the castle, still ever
and anon blowing thy whistle; by which means, if I should fail to
see thy Marquis leave the castle, thou mayest perchance discover at
least from which side of the castle he comes to thee.'

Dorothy sprang to her feet.

'I am ready, my lord,' she said.

'And so am I, my maiden,' returned lord Herbert, rising. 'Wilt go to
the top of the keep, wife, and grant me the light of eyes in aid of
the moonshine? I will come thither presently.'

'Thou shalt find me there, Ned, I promise thee. Mother Mary speed
thy quest?'

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE DISCOVERY.

All was done as had been arranged. Lord Herbert saddled Dick, not
unaided of Dorothy, lifted her to his back, and led her to the gate,
in full vision of Marquis, who went wild at the sight, and
threatened to pull down kennel and all in his endeavours to follow
them. Lord Herbert himself opened the yard gate, for the horses had
already been suppered, and the men were in bed. He then walked by
her side down to the brick gate. A moment there, and she was free
and alone, with the wide green fields and the yellow moonlight all
about her.

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