I RIDE DOWN TO HADDON


Since I play no mean part in the events of this chronicle, a few words
concerning my own history previous to the opening of the story I am about
to tell you will surely not be amiss, and they may help you to a better
understanding of my narrative.

To begin with an unimportant fact--unimportant, that is, to you--my name
is Malcolm François de Lorraine Vernon. My father was cousin-german to Sir
George Vernon, at and near whose home, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, occurred
the events which will furnish my theme.

Of the ancient lineage of the house of Vernon I need not speak. You
already know that the family is one of the oldest in England, and while it
is not of the highest nobility, it is quite gentle and noble enough to
please those who bear its honored name. My mother boasted nobler blood
than that of the Vernons. She was of the princely French house of Guise--a
niece and ward to the Great Duke, for whose sake I was named.

My father, being a younger brother, sought adventure in the land of
France, where his handsome person and engaging manner won the smiles of
Dame Fortune and my mother at one and the same cast. In due time I was
born, and upon the day following that great event my father died. On the
day of his burial my poor mother, unable to find in me either compensation
or consolation for the loss of her child's father, also died, of a broken
heart, it was said. But God was right, as usual, in taking my parents; for
I should have brought them no happiness, unless perchance they could have
moulded my life to a better form than it has had--a doubtful chance, since