“That is but a ruse, I say, to gain time,” she answered contemptuously.  “I do not wish one moment in which to consider.  You already have my answer.  I should think you had had enough.  Do you desire more of the same sort?  A little of such treatment should go a long way with a man possessed of one spark of honor or self-respect.”

Her language would have angered a sheep.

“If you will not listen to me,” I answered, thoroughly aroused and careless of consequences, “go to your father.  Tell him I asked you to be my wife, and that you scorned my suit.  Then take the consequences.  He has always been gentle and tender to you because there has been no conflict.  Cross his desires, and you will learn a fact of which you have never dreamed.  You have seen the manner in which he treats others who oppose him.  You will learn that with you, too, he can be one of the cruelest and most violent of men.”

“You slander my father.  I will go to him as you advise and will tell him that I would not marry you if you wore the English crown.  I, myself, will tell him of my meeting with Sir John Manners rather than allow you the pleasure of doing so.  He will be angry, but he will pity me.”

“For God’s sake, Dorothy, do not tell your father of your meetings at Overhaddon.  He would kill you.  Have you lived in the same house with him all these years and do you not better know his character than to think that you may go to him with the tale you have just told me, and that he will forgive you?  Feel as you will toward me, but believe me when I swear to you by my knighthood that I will betray to no person what you have this day divulged to me.”

Dorothy made no reply, but turned from me and rapidly walked toward the Hall.  I followed at a short distance, and all my anger was displaced by fear for her.  When we reached the Hall she quickly sought her father and approached him in her old free manner, full of confidence in her influence over him.

“Father, this man”—­waving her hand toward me—­“has come to Haddon Hall a-fortune-hunting.  He has asked me to be his wife, and says you wish me to accept him.”

“Yes, Doll, I certainly wish it with all my heart,” returned Sir George, affectionately, taking his daughter’s hand.

“Then you need wish it no longer, for I will not marry him.”

“What?” demanded her father, springing to his feet.

“I will not.  I will not.  I will not.”

“You will if I command you to do so, you damned insolent wench,” answered Sir George, hoarsely.  Dorothy’s eyes opened in wonder.

“Do not deceive yourself, father, for one moment,” she retorted contemptuously.  “He has come here in sheep’s clothing and has adroitly laid his plans to convince you that I should marry him, but—­”

“He has done nothing of the sort,” answered Sir George, growing more angry every moment, but endeavoring to be calm.  “Nothing of the sort.  Many years ago I spoke to him on this subject, which is very dear to my heart.  The project has been dear to me ever since you were a child.  When I again broached it to Malcolm a fortnight or more since I feared from his manner that he was averse to the scheme.  I had tried several times to speak to him about it, but he warded me off, and when I did speak, I feared that he was not inclined to it.”