I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothy and her father entered.
"Ah, Malcolm, are you here?" asked Sir George in a peculiar tone of surprise for which I could see no reason.
"I thought you were walking."
I was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, "No, I am helping old Bess and Jennie with supper."
"Have you not been walking?" asked Sir George.
There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I was surprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. But Sir George's expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when compared with that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not only was her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body were convulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, I could not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only too readable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stamped her foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips and nodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost upon me, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. The expression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of my gaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mighty pantomimic effort at mute communication.
"Why in the devil's name are you making those grimaces?" demanded Sir George.
"I wasn't making grimaces—I—I think I was about to sneeze," replied Dorothy.
"Do you think I am blind?" stormed Sir George. "Perhaps I am losing my mind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you at Bowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I'll show you that if I am losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house."
"Now, father, what is all this storming about?" asked the girl, coaxingly, as she boldly put her hands upon her father's shoulders and turned her face in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up to his. "Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know." She was sure that her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate, and she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whose only virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, would willingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught the truth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined to perjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe the influence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell I seemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily was paralyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. I cannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you may make out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of this history have occasion to speak of Dorothy's strange power, and how it was exerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.