CHAPTER XIX.
"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE."
'Twere wild to hope for her, you say, I've torn and cast those words away, Surely there's hope! For life 'tis well Love without hope's impossible.
—COVENTRY PATMORE.
Father Philip had lain under the sod but one sunset before the fruits of Margaret's intriguing began to make themselves apparent.
It was with a secret sense of misgiving that Manners received an invitation, which he readily construed into a command, to attend the baron in his private room, and it was with a fluttering heart that he prepared himself to meet Dorothy's father. Nor were his forebodings set at rest or in anywise lightened by the first view he got of the baron.
Sir George was pacing up and down the room, but hearing the door open he stopped suddenly, and when Manners entered he saw upon the knight's face a look which at once struck a chill to his heart.
"Sit down, Manners, sit down," said the baron curtly.
He was nervous and excited, and as Manners obeyed the injunction he clearly perceived this fact, and it afforded him a little satisfaction.
"You wished to see me?" he exclaimed, breaking the awkward silence which ensued after he had sat down.
"Eh, yes, I did."
Another long pause followed, which was painful alike to both.
The baron's agitation increased, and it did not need any great exercise of shrewdness to guess the cause. The lover guessed it intuitively, and deftly altered the topic which was just about to be broached.
"Poor Father Philip is gone," he exclaimed in a sympathetic tone.
"Ye-e-s," slowly assented the baron.
"And you miss him, I perceive," pursued the esquire tremulously.
"Very true, but—"
"And I hear Nicholas Bury is about to depart," hazarded Manners, interrupting the baron.
"Eh! what?" exclaimed Sir George. "Father Nicholas going?"
"He has informed Everard so."
"No, he must stay," returned the knight, banishing the wrinkles that had contracted his brow; "of course he must stay."
He was clearly off his guard now, and Manners breathed easier again; for, thanks to the efforts of Dorothy and Crowleigh, as well as to his own perceptions, he was by no means ignorant of the conspiracy of which he was the victim, and he wished to procrastinate the inevitable interview until a more favourable time presented itself for the purpose.
"Where did he come from?" continued the baron, drifting innocently farther and farther away from the purpose of the interview.
"Am I to trust thee with his secret then?" asked the lover.
"Of course, let me know all. I shall protect him, come what will."
"Then he is Sir Ronald Bury's brother."
"He is a better man than his brother, then," exclaimed Sir George, when he had overcome his astonishment. "Did Sir Everard fetch him from Nottingham?"
"Nay, from Dale Abbey."
"Ha!" ejaculated the baron, "say you so? The abbey is dismantled, and methought I knew every Catholic in the shire."
"Then, Sir George, you forgot the hermitage," was the prompt reply.
Sir George had just caught sight of his good lady through the open lattice window, and as he saw her wending her way quickly along the path it painfully recalled him to a sense of his position.
"I sent for thee," he said suddenly, changing the conversation and knitting his brow, "because I wished to see thee on a matter of much importance."
"I am honoured by your confidence," promptly returned the esquire, making a gallant effort to escape the subject, "but pray on no account tell either Everard or Nicholas that it was I who gave the information. I was charged to tell no man, by my honour."
Unluckily, Lady Vernon passed the door just as he was speaking, and the sound of her footsteps kept the subject too well in the baron's mind for him to wander from it again.
"About Dorothy," he explained, ignoring the last remark.
Manners was nonplussed; he attempted no rejoinder, and the baron paced the room again in great perturbation. At length he stopped.
"'Tis an awkward piece of business," he said, "and I had much rather it had not fallen so; but I suppose it must be done."
Still Manners vouchsafed no reply, and his silence added to the baron's discomfiture.
For a long time neither of them spoke. The baron wiped the perspiration from his brow and tried to frame together the words which proved so troublesome to utter, while Manners sat, ill at ease, waiting to hear the worst.
"Most young men fall in love," exclaimed the knight at length. He jerked the words out rather than spoke them, but they were at least uttered, and feeling that he had broken the ice he heaved a sigh of relief.
"I did so myself," he innocently rambled on, "more than once." He had almost said "and once too many," but he paused with the words upon his lips, and the recollection that Lady Maude might not be far away decided him to leave the remark unexpressed.
"I have done so, too, once and for ever," exclaimed Manners, mustering up courage enough to break into the subject at a stroke. He felt that it must all come out now, and the sooner it was over the better pleased would he be; therefore he plunged headlong into it, hoping, perchance, to fire the baron with a little of the same enthusiasm with which he was himself possessed.
"It has been my good fortune," he continued boldly, "to fall deeply in love with your daughter, your Dorothy—and she has not spurned me."
"No, Doll is a rare girl, a bonnie girl, and a good one, too. I love her better than I love myself, and forsooth, young man, we value ourselves at no sorry figure neither."
"I wonder whoever saw her that did not love her," said the deeply-smitten swain sententiously.
They were both engaged in conversation now in common sympathy, and the eyes of the old knight sparkled with joy as he thought of his darling and her many charms.
"She is the light of my life," he replied. "See, there she goes, with her bewitching grace," and he caught hold of Manners and drew him into the recess of the oriel window and pointed out where Dorothy and her sister were talking together on the green.
"Margaret is to wed Sir Thomas Stanley this autumn, I hear," ventured the esquire.
"Yes—and Dorothy is to be wedded this winter also," replied the baron as he heard the partner of his joys pass again outside the door.
"This winter!" echoed Manners in blank dismay. "Dorothy to be wedded this winter! To whom, I pray?"
"To Sir Edward Stanley."
Manners staggered back against the wall as though he had been smitten by some invisible hand. His face blanched, his lips quivered, and he gasped for very breath. This was news indeed, far beyond his worst anticipations, and he was almost crushed by the blow.
The baron watched him with a feeling akin to dismay. He hated his unpleasant task, and half regretted the promise he had made Sir Thomas Stanley. He pitied the unfortunate esquire who stood before him, and sincerely blamed himself for accepting the business, and the dame for thrusting it upon him.
Manners soon rallied, much to Sir George's relief; and the two sat down together at the little table. The baron, tried to express his sympathy with him in his great disappointment which had just come upon him, but his words were clumsy, and afforded no relief.
"It is not yet quite decided upon, is it?" asked the young man.
"We expect Sir Edward now at any time," the knight replied.
"But, Sir George, Dorothy has plighted her troth to me."
"Ah, we know it; Margaret has told us of it. 'Twas a foolish thing to do."
"And Father Philip blessed the match," pursued Manners.
"But she has been promised to Edward Stanley," was the quiet reply, "and a Vernon's promise is never broken, never."
The two remained silent awhile. Sir George had made wonderful progress with his mission of late—a fact due to the knowledge that Lady Vernon was standing just outside the door; and before either of them spoke again she entered the room, and making a formal courtesy to the visitor, she advanced to her husband's side.
"You have told Master Manners, I suppose?" she inquired in a harsh, unfeeling voice that stabbed the lover's heart by every word.
"Yes, my dear," he replied, looking as if he were ashamed of the whole business, "I have told him all."
"But surely you cannot understand Dorothy's feelings in the——"
"Dorothy will do as we desire," interrupted Lady Maude, severely.
"Do you really love your daughter, Sir George?" asked Manners, in desperation. "Then I conjure you by all the affection towards her you possess, that in this, matter you consult her happiness. I cannot live without her, and she will fade away like a tender flower if you baulk her choice."
"Do I love her?" repeated Sir George, impatiently. "Aye, that I do; am
I not her father?"
"Hush, Sir George," interrupted Lady Vernon, "Master Manners is outrageous. I will talk with him, and you can depart an you wish it."
Nothing loth, Sir George turned to go; glad to wash his hands of the whole affair, and feeling thoroughly ashamed that it had ever fallen to his lot to treat a guest in so inhospitable a fashion.
"I am sorry, Master Manners," continued the dame, as she watched the retreating figure of her lord, "that Sir George has played his part so ill. It had been kinder on his part had he introduced the subject in another way, but he is ill-fitted for matters of business."
Manners had heard the rustle of her gown outside the door some time before Lady Vernon had entered, and he shrewdly suspected that she had been listening to the conversation. The manner in which she re-opened the subject at once convinced him that his conjecture was right, and knowing the integrity of the baron he was ready to defend him.
"Sir George meant well enough," he said.
"Come now, Master Manners, that was bravely said," replied the lady.
"He has a kind heart, but it is apt to be too kind at times, and then
I have to go over it all again; you understand?"
"Perfectly, but Lady Vernon——"
"And you will perceive that we are within our rights in disposing of Dorothy as we wish," she continued. "Of course, she will consent to it in time."
"Never," returned Manners, stoutly.
"You are but a youth, therefore you are bold, but mark my words, young man, you will have less faith and more caution as your years come on."
"Will you accept Dorothy's choice?" asked Manners bluntly, disregarding the last remark.
"Do you suppose, Master Manners," replied Lady Vernon, "that Dorothy will withstand us? We are all agreed in the matter."
"All except Dorothy, maybe."
"And she will soon——"
"I tell you never!" he replied hotly.
Lady Vernon laughed; a light, incredulous sort of laugh, which only tended to enstrange them farther still.
"There are considerations of which you appear to be ignorant, sir," she replied, "but I am not willing to wound your feelings."
"That may be, and yet, perchance, there may be somewhat to be said on the other side," he calmly rejoined.
Lady Vernon fixed her eyes upon him, astounded at his presumption, but instead of crushing him under an avalanche of her wrath, she restrained herself, and broke into another superficial burst of laughter.
"Pooh," she said, "you are simply an esquire, and he is a knight."
"And he a knight," echoed Dorothy's lover, scornfully. "As if he were aught the better for that."
"A knight is a knight," replied the lady stiffly; "and he is the son of an earl."
"And I, by the favour of fortune, am the nephew of an earl; and, moreover, Dorothy and I have plighted our troth together."
"Then you were over bold."
"I might accept your decision for myself, Lady Vernon," he said; "indeed, I had done so ere now, but Dorothy's happiness is at stake as well as mine."
"You accept it perforce, then?"
"Nay, I will abide by Dorothy's decision alone. She shall have the ruling of it, and I know what she will say."
"I must be plain with you, Master Manners," said Lady Maude, with considerable asperity. "It can never, no, never be as you desire. We have other designs for Dorothy than that she should marry a soldier of fortune. Her portion," she continued, curling her lips in scorn, "is a half of the whole estate of Haddon, which, you must admit, is no small dowry; and what have you to set against that? Your lands would not maintain yourself alone," and, having delivered herself thus, she cast a triumphant glance upon the young man who stood before her.
"I may win renown," he quickly replied.
"You possibly might," she replied, with another contemptuous curl of her lip, "but that is a shadow, a mere myth. Besides, you can put no value on fame; you cannot even live upon it."
"I have a true and loving heart, and a strong arm."
"Tut, man," she laughed; "so has every beggar. Prithee, now, as a matter of business, what have you to offer? Nothing."
"What! Surely you do not want to barter her away?" cried Manners. "Why talk of business?"
"Certainly not," she replied; "but it is our duty to make as good an alliance for her as we can. You ought to perceive that this is to her advantage, and if you care for her welfare as much as you would have us believe, you would help us to secure it for her, instead of placing her in a position which can only breed discontent and mischief," and without giving Manners time to reply she swept proudly out of the room and left him alone with his sorrow.