Dorothy’s mind dwelt frequently upon the fact that John and the beautiful young Scottish queen lived under the same roof, for John had written to Dorothy immediately after his return.  Nothing so propagates itself as jealousy.  There were in Haddon Hall two hearts in which this self-propagating process was rapidly progressing—­Elizabeth’s and Dorothy’s.  Each had for the cause of her jealousy the same woman.

One night, soon after Cecil had obtained from Elizabeth the order for Mary’s arrest, Dorothy, on retiring to her room at a late hour found Jennie Faxton waiting for her with a precious letter from John.  Dorothy drank in the tenderness of John’s letter as the thirsty earth absorbs the rain; but her joy was neutralized by frequent references to the woman who she feared might become her rival.  One-half of what she feared, she was sure had been accomplished:  that is, Mary’s half.  She knew in her heart that the young queen would certainly grow fond of John.  That was a foregone conclusion.  No woman could be with him and escape that fate, thought Dorothy.  Her hope as to the other half-John’s part-rested solely upon her faith in John, which was really great, and her confidence in her own charms and in her own power to hold him, which in truth, and with good reason, was not small, Dorothy went to bed, and Jennie, following her usual custom, when at Haddon, lay upon the floor in the same room.  John’s letter, with all its tenderness, had thrown Dorothy into an inquisitive frame of mind.  After an hour or two of restless tossing upon the bed she fell asleep, but soon after midnight she awakened, and in her drowsy condition the devil himself played upon the strings of her dream-charged imagination.  After a time she sprang from the bed, lighted a candle at the rush light, and read John’s letter in a tremor of dream-wrought fear.  Then she aroused Jennie Faxton and asked:—­

“When were you at Rutland?”

“I spent yesterday and to-day there, mistress,” answered Jennie.

“Did you see a strange lady?” asked Dorothy.

“Oh, yes, mistress, I did see her three or four times,” answered Jennie.  “Lady Blanche is her name, and she be a cousin of Sir John’s.  She do come, they say, from France, and do speak only in the tongue of that country.”

“I—­I suppose that this—­this Lady Blanche and—­and Sir John are very good friends?  Did you—­did you—­often see them together?” asked Dorothy.  She felt guilty in questioning Jennie for the purpose of spying upon her lover.  She knew that John would not pry into her conduct.

“Indeed, yes, mistress,” returned Jennie, who admired John greatly from her lowly sphere, and who for her own sake as well as Dorothy’s was jealous of Queen Mary.  “They do walk together a great deal on the ramparts, and the white snaky lady do look up into Sir John’s face like this”—­here Jennie assumed a lovelorn expression.  “And—­and once, mistress, I thought—­I thought—­”