CHAPTER XII.
A CONFESSION OF LOVE.
It was my fortune, common to that age,
To love a lady fair, of great degree,
The which was born of noble parentage.
And set in highest seat of dignity.
SPENSER.
The sun was declining, after a gorgeous display of its fiery hues; gilding with a translucent light the grey walls of Haddon, and casting weird shadows on the closely-cropped bowling green, when two figures emerged from the shades of the neighbouring wood and passed into the meadow which lies below the Hall.
Sir George Vernon had not yet returned from London; indeed, nothing but a note from Margaret's lover had given them any information about the two travellers since they had departed, six days ago, and although news of them was now considered overdue, yet, in those days of bad roads and slow travelling, communications from distant places were never, or seldom at best, rapidly transmitted, and, bearing this in mind, no concern was felt on that account.
Haddon, usually so gay, wore for the time being a sombre aspect. Sir George was its life and soul, and now that he was away and exposed to the machinations of enemies who were hungering and thirsting after a share of his riches, a gloom settled down upon the place and enveloped it in an ill-befitting aspect of dreariness. Baits and hunting parties were alike abandoned; no one felt in the humour to participate in gaieties, of whatever kind, so long as the baron was away; and the guests who had assembled to witness the tournament had, with few exceptions, returned to their homes feeling deprived, in a large measure, of that succession of festivities and enjoyments to which they had looked forward with so much expectancy.
Sir Henry was still confined to his room from the injuries which he had received in his encounter with Manners; and Cousin Benedict, who had stayed to take the baron's place during his enforced absence, had found his position so intolerably lonely that he at last took refuge in such copious libations of wine that henceforward his interest in contemporary events entirely ceased.
This air of desolation had infected Lady Vernon, too. Her temper, never of the mildest disposition, now became exceedingly irritable, and finding little consolation forthcoming from Sir Benedict, she vented her spleen with all those with whom she came into contact, and finally shut herself up within her own room and added to the misery of the household by obstinately refusing to hold any intercourse with the family.
Margaret and Dorothy were thus thrown much upon their own resources, and they managed to spend the time wearily enough at the tapestry frame until Manners and Crowleigh paid a visit to the Hall—ostensibly to inquire after the health of the wounded knight. Their arrival, as might be readily imagined, was cordially welcomed by the girls, and nothing beyond a first request was required to induce the two gentlemen to stay; and, so once again, Manners found himself, to his heart's great contentment, housed under the same roof as the lady of his love.
This time, however, he had come with the firm determination to bring matters to a crisis. He felt that his passion for Dorothy could be no longer controlled. Her bearing towards him had fired him with hope, but her position and her surpassing beauty had brought so many suitors to worship at her shrine that he was driven to despair between the conflicting emotions of hope and fear.
For a whole day he waited a favourable opportunity to carry out his purpose, and in vain. The two sisters seemed to be inseparable in this time of trouble, and try as he might he could not get the interview for which he so ardently longed. The fates were unpropitious, and one after another his artifices were defeated until at last he was obliged to fall back upon the assistance of his friend, and ask him, as a last resource, to help him out of his difficulty.
As the shades of evening crept silently on, and the cooler air began to assert itself over the torrid atmosphere of the day, Sir Everard Crowleigh opened the campaign on behalf of his companion by suggesting that a walk would not only be refreshing to the two maidens, but also positively beneficial. "I don't pretend to know much of the skill of the leech," he added, "but I think that fresh country air is the finest physic out for young ladies, both for health and beauty too."
"And maybe 'tis good for gentlemen as well," laughed Dorothy.
"It is the true elixir of life, for which the alchemysts labour in vain to find," exclaimed Manners. "Sir Benedict knows leechcraft, let us take his opinion upon its merits.
"Nay," laughingly responded Margaret, "Cousin Benedict, I fear, is too much engaged in other affairs to attend to us just now."
"Why, how?" asked Crowleigh in surprise, "surely no one would be ungallant enough not to lend their services to two such fair maidens. Never! I cannot conceive it."
"Margaret means," interposed Dorothy, "that he has been taking too much wine again, and then he goes wandering about the cellars and passages until he falls down and goes to sleep. Nobody takes any notice of him now, though, we have all got too familiar with his ways."
"Well, we will go," decided the elder sister, "but which way—north, south, east, or west? Bakewell, Rowsley, or where? Let us determine quickly, for it will soon be dark."
"We are at your service," gallantly responded John Manners. "Any way will suit us equally well." Certainly, provided that the walk was long enough, the direction they should take was of little importance to him. He had a more important matter on his mind.
"Let it be Rowsley way, Margaret," asked Dorothy.
"Well, then," she agreed, "we will say Rowsley, 'tis a pretty walk; but we might first see our venerable protector in safety, then nothing could be nicer. Follow me, brave gentlemen," said Margaret, and the two girls led the way through the banqueting-room and down the stone-flagged passage into the capacious wine cellar below.
Benedict was not there, but it was evident, from signs which could not be mistaken, that he had been there shortly before. All the neighbouring cellars were thoroughly explored, but to no purpose; he could not be discovered, and, finding that he had just been seen in the vicinity of the old archer's room, they turned their feet in that direction, only to find themselves once more baffled when they arrived there.
"No, your ladyships," replied the serving-maid, in answer to their inquiry, "he has gone again just now; you will be sure to find him in the kitchen, though."
"'Tis as good as a badger hunt," laughed Crowleigh, as they trailed into the kitchen again, "but prithee, fair mistress, what shall we gain by discovering the august knight?"
"In truth I cannot tell," replied Dorothy; "but, trust me, Margaret has some plan or other in her head.
"Yes," said Margaret, "but see him, here he is; the master of the house, our guardian, our protector; behold him where he lies," and she pointed to where the too festive knight lay doubled uncomfortably up in the salting trough.
"I expected about as much," she went on, "and I want to cure him; what shall we do?"
"Salt him," slyly suggested Dorothy, "that is the usual way."
"Fasten him down in the box for the night," suggested Crowleigh.
"We will," she said; "here is the lid, we can easily fasten it down so that he cannot undo it, and we will have a peep at him to see that he is not smothered when we come back."
In accordance with this decision Sir Benedict was unconsciously made a prisoner, as securely as any culprit in Derby gaol, and leaving him in this position the merry quartette started off upon their evening stroll.
Disdaining the highway, they followed the beaten path which led through the wood to Rowsley, Crowleigh doing his part to aid his friend by walking on with Margaret in front, and so deeply engaged her interest by recounting some of his adventures in badger hunting that she entirely forgot her sister, who followed behind her in a more leisurely fashion with Master Manners.
In vain the anxious esquire sought to broach the topic which lay so near to his heart; the words would not come, and beyond a few gallant and courtier-like remarks—to the like of which Dorothy had often listened beforetimes with impatience—he could not succeed; and when at last he began to give expression to his feelings, it was in a wild and almost incoherent manner.
As for the maiden who lightly tripped by his side, although she wore a sober, pensive look, yet she was filled with a silent joy, and the great fire of love which was burning in her breast she found difficult to control. With that quick and subtle faculty which belongs to womankind alone she had intuitively guessed his mission at the outset, and with perceptions rendered keener by the intensity of her passion, she was on the alert to detect his advances and respond to them with a due amount of proper maidenly reserve. Finding, however, that he was slow to approach the subject, yet feeling sure of his intentions and fearing lest the opportunity should slip by, she sought to precipitate his movements by a few, delicate hints.
"Why, we are all alone," she exclaimed, "Wherever can my sister be?
Let us hasten on."
"She is in safe hands, fair Dorothy," he replied, "and you will not be missed awhile."
Dorothy noted with satisfaction that he had dropped the "Mistress" from before her name, and this, she argued, denoted that he was awakening at last, and encouraged her to venture again with another remark.
"Margaret is such a scold," she teasingly said; "I fear we must really hasten forward."
"Nay, we will not hurry, we should not catch her now were we to try."
"Why not, prithee?"
"Because—because: well, do not let us try," he responded. He had fully meant to have declared his love to her then, but that "because" stuck in his throat and blocked up all the other words he would have said. The very intensity of his love hindered him from declaring his passion.
"What would Sir Thomas Stanley say if he knew Sir Everard were out courting with Meg?" wickedly suggested Dorothy. "Would he not be in a towering rage?"
"There would be another tournament, maybe," laughed Manners, not noticing the tender tone in which his fair companion had addressed him.
"Poor De la Zouch will remember his attempt to provide amusement for us for some time yet, I fear," she continued coquettishly. As her previous efforts had led to nothing, she had started afresh in another vein, mentally resolving that her companion was wretchedly slow in responding to her advances.
"I fear he will," he replied; "but he is improving, I hear. Sir
Benedict seems to understand his case."
"He is like to be scarred for life, though," Dorothy returned. "Poor
Sir Henry."
"You are sorry for him," exclaimed Manners, who felt a little piqued at the tone of Dorothy's reply, as, indeed, she intended he should be.
"Yes," she said, "I am; very sorry."
Manners bit his lip with annoyance, and made a foolish remark.
"Ha, he was your lover, perchance?" he said.
Dorothy flushed up hotly at the taunt. Manners saw it, and would have done much to have recalled his hasty words, but they were gone.
"Master Manners!" Doll exclaimed, turning quickly round upon him; "I have spurned him; I have told him what I think. Once and for ever have I refused him, and he knows I shall not change."
"Fair Dorothy, sweet Dorothy," Manners penitently exclaimed, dropping hurriedly upon his knees; "you shall be my queen. Forgive me—or condemn. I sue you for your pardon, nor will I rise until I have gained it."
"I will visit you to-morrow, then," she said, turning to go.
"Farewell."
Her voice was sweet again, and her brow was once more clear.
"You have forgiven me?" he cried, rising up and following her.
"What, sir knight?" she exclaimed, in feigned surprise, "risen, eh? Upon my word, you are a fickle cavalier. Well, I suppose I must extend my clemency to you. At what price will you be willing to purchase my forgiveness?"
Manners was just going to tell her he would give himself and all he had to her if she would take it, but a sudden bend in the path brought them face to face with Margaret and Crowleigh, and the words were left unspoken.
It needed no question to inform Sir Everard that his friend's mission was not accomplished yet. He looked to see the sparkling eyes and a countenance beaming with delight, but was met by a face the very picture of disappointment; and shrewdly seeing that their company would be in no wise acceptable at such a juncture, he adroitly led Margaret on, still an interested listener to his wonderful tales, and intimating that they were returning to Haddon, they passed the lovers by.
For a time Dorothy and Manners walked on in perfect silence, the one preparing to pour out the story of his love, and the other waiting and expecting the declaration.
"We had better retrace our steps now," exclaimed Dorothy at length.
They turned round and began to wend their way again towards the Hall, in a silence that was positively painful to both.
"You are dreaming, Master Manners," she exclaimed, as they neared the narrow bridge which spans the Wye just outside the gates of Haddon.
"Come, sir, declare your thoughts; let me be your confessor, for I will shrive thee right easily, and the penance shall be pleasant enough, I assure thee. Now confess!"
"I was thinking of—of love," he stammered out.
"Love! then I forgive thee," she exclaimed with a beating heart, "'tis a common sin. Proceed, my son."
"I was thinking of a little poem."
"Oh!" That was a disappointing continuation.
"'Twas a verse of Sir Thomas Wyatt's. Shall I tell it thee?"
"'Hide nothing from me,' as Father Philip says," replied Doll, brightening up again, for she was well acquainted with the verse of that unfortunate nobleman, which was almost all on the subject of love. She thought she knew the verse which he would tell her, nor was she mistaken. Almost everyone knew that verse, even if they knew none other.
The young esquire fixed his eyes upon her, and began—
A face that should content me wondrous well.
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold;
Of lively look, all grief for to repel,
With right good grace as would I that it should
Speak, without words, such words as none can tell,
Her tress also should be of crisped gold;
With wit, and these, I might perchance be tried,
And knit again with knot that should not slide.
"Then I perceive you are difficult to please, my son," she replied.
"Listen, stay Dorothy," he said, quickly, as she stepped upon the footbridge, "surely that means you. Oh, Dorothy, let me speak. I must tell you. I cannot let you depart yet. I love you. I have loved you ever since I saw you first."
He paused, but as the maiden did not speak, he continued.
"Ever since the hawking party I have loved you. Do you remember that?"
"I do," she demurely replied.
"Nay, stay, leave me not thus," he cried, as Dorothy unconsciously moved. "You must stay, you must listen. Dorothy, I cannot flatter you like some; I speak the truth. I cannot live without you make me happy. Will you be mine?"
"But, sir knight—"
"Nay," he interrupted, "say it is so. I am no knight, I am but a simple esquire, but though you be the daughter of the rich King of the Peak—"
"Nay, do not talk like that," she interrupted quickly.
"Let me do something to show the vastness of my love," he went on. "What shall it be? Bid me do aught, or go anywhere; command me what you will, but say you love me."
"And if I do, what then?"
"What then?" he echoed; "I would live or die for you—for you alone."
"I do love you, then," she replied, with downcast eyes and blushing face.
Manners stood up erect, and glanced straight into the honest eyes of the beautiful girl as she stood on the bridge beside him.
"You do?" he exclaimed; "say it again."
"I do love you." she repeated; "and will be yours for ever if you love me as you say."
"What!" he cried, "you, the fair Dorothy Vernon, the Princess of the
Peak, the fairest jewel in the land, you give yourself to me—John
Manners, a simple esquire? I can scarce believe my ears."
"I will show you. John," she replied; "my life shall prove it. I have loved you dearly ever since that self-same hunt"; and permitting her love-troth to be sealed by a kiss, she buried her fair face in his bosom and quietly wept in the excess of her joy.