"Ask Malcolm," repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father's breast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for, in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demanded excitedly of Dorothy, "What have you in your pocket that strikes against my knee?"
"Mother of Heaven!" exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping back from her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward her pocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness by sudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face which filled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holding with one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched the key in her pocket.
"What have you in your pocket?" demanded Sir George with a terrible oath. "Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you." Dorothy started to run from the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drew her to him. "Bring it out, huzzy; it's the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah, I've lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet, but I soon shall lose it at this rate," and he certainly looked as if he would.
Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, but she was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown and tore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom. Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece of white paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made in the gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he felt sure, was from Dorothy's unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for a time, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her face from her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, "Malcolm." Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help I have never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take the letter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he would strike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and he took up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:—
"Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with God's help I will meet you at Bowling Green Gate—." The girl could endure no more. She sprang with a scream toward her father and tried to snatch the letter. Sir George drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed him frantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter. Sir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued the letter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy's hand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into the fire, but she feared that her father might rescue it from the ashes. She glanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded in snatching from her father bore John's name. Sir George strode hurriedly across the room toward her and she ran to me.
"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then I saw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herself upon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembled as a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree may tremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. While she clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and her wondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expression was the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension. Her face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Her fear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped her fingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying to make, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for less than one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyed even one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and to caress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of rest in my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength.
"Where is the paper?" he cried in rage. "It contained the fellow's signature."
"I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it. Doubtless that would be a pleasant task for you," answered Dorothy, who was comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discover John's name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girl had he then learned that the letter was from John Manners.
"I command you to tell me this fellow's name," said Sir George, with a calmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued "I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me and told me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In God's name I swear that I would rather father a thief than a liar."
"I did give her the heart, Sir George," I said, interrupting him. "It was my mother's." I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in his violence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for his anger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but her deception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love that had come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meeting with Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I also believe, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not a thief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. She was gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but I believe she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love. Some few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an ocean of love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart and soul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class was Dorothy.