"And help us," returned Lady Crawford. "I, too, shall help you," she continued. "It will be through no fault of mine if your life is wasted as mine has been."
Dorothy kissed her aunt and retired.
Next morning when Dorothy arose a song came from her heart as it comes from the skylark when it sees the sun at dawn—because it cannot help singing. It awakened Aunt Dorothy, and she began to live her life anew, in brightness, as she steeped her soul in the youth and joyousness of Dorothy Vernon's song.
I have spoken before in this chronicle of Will Dawson. He was a Conformer. Possibly it was by reason of his religious faith that he did not share the general enmity that existed in Haddon Hall against the house of Rutland. He did not, at the time of which I speak, know Sir John Manners, and he did not suspect that the heir to Rutland was the man who had of late been causing so much trouble to the house of Vernon. At least, if he did suspect it, no one knew of his suspicions.
Sir George made a great effort to learn who the mysterious interloper was, but he wholly failed to obtain any clew to his identity. He had jumped to the conclusion that Dorothy's mysterious lover was a man of low degree. He had taken for granted that he was an adventurer whose station and person precluded him from openly wooing his daughter. He did not know that the heir to Rutland was in the Derbyshire country; for John, after his first meeting with Dorothy, had carefully concealed his presence from everybody save the inmates of Rutland. In fact, his mission to Rutland required secrecy, and the Rutland servants and retainers were given to understand as much. Even had Sir George known of John's presence at Rutland, the old gentleman's mind could not have compassed the thought that Dorothy, who, he believed, hated the race of Manners with an intensity equalled only by his own feelings, could be induced to exchange a word with a member of the house. His uncertainty was not the least of his troubles; and although Dorothy had full liberty to come and go at will, her father kept constant watch over her. As a matter of fact, Sir George had given Dorothy liberty partly for the purpose of watching her, and he hoped to discover thereby and, if possible, to capture the man who had brought trouble to his household. Sir George had once hanged a man to a tree on Bowling Green Hill by no other authority than his own desire. That execution was the last in England under the old Saxon law of Infangthef and Outfangthef. Sir George had been summoned before Parliament for the deed; but the writ had issued against the King of the Peak, and that being only a sobriquet, was neither Sir George's name nor his title. So the writ was quashed, and the high-handed act of personal justice was not farther investigated by the authorities. Should my cousin capture his daughter's lover, there would certainly be another execution under the old Saxon law. So you see that my friend Manners was tickling death with a straw for Dorothy's sake.
One day Dawson approached Sir George and told him that a man sought employment in the household of Haddon Hall. Sir George placed great confidence in his forester; so he told Dawson to employ the man if his services were needed. The new servant proved to be a fine, strong fellow, having a great shock of carrot-colored hair and a bushy beard of rusty red.
Dawson engaged the newcomer, and assigned to him the duty of kindling the fires in the family apartments of the Hall. The name of the new servant was Thomas Thompson, a name that Dorothy soon abbreviated to Tom-Tom.
One day she said to him, by way of opening the acquaintance, "Thomas, you and I should be good friends; we have so much in common."
"Thank you, my lady," responded Thomas, greatly pleased. "I hope we shall be good friends; indeed, indeed I do, but I cannot tell wherein I am so fortunate as to have anything in common with your Ladyship. What is it, may I ask, of which we have so much in common?"
"So much hair," responded Dorothy, laughing.