Heiress of Haddon

by W. E. Doubleday

CHAPTER XXX.

STOLEN SWEETS.

All close they met again, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil;
Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
Unknown of any, from whispering tale.
Ah! better had it been for ever so,
Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.

KEATS.

It was within a week off Christmas, and at Haddon all was in confusion and disorder amid the preparations for the forthcoming wedding. Manners had now relinquished all hope of Sir George ever relenting, and he waited with feverish impatience the time when, once more, he might clasp his darling to his heart, and pour again into her ears the oft-told story of his undiminished love.

He longed to see her again, or to be seen by her, even though no words were spoken; for he had been away awhile, and though he had bidden Roger send Dorothy word of his absence through Lettice, yet he feared lest the message had not been delivered, and she would feel alarmed at his being away.

Ill news awaited his return. Dorothy was to go away with Margaret, for she was ill, and Benedict had prescribed a change of air. He was desperate, and in his desperation he was prepared to hazard anything which promised the remotest chance of success; but alas! his ventures, while resulting harmlessly, brought him no nearer the goal of his ambition than he had been before.

"Roger," he said, "I shall get me to the Hall. Lettice should come soon; bid her hasten back and tell her mistress I am there awaiting her."

"Aye, I will tell her," replied the honest woodsman, "but methinks it is a sorry chance. Thou art far more likely to be discovered than to succeed, for there be many folks at the Hall, and few dare to be friends of thine."

"Nevertheless, I shall attempt it, good Roger; dissuade me not."

"Faith, not I. 'Tis not for such as me to interfere. Thou art brave,
Master Manners, and art worthy of success; may it come to thee, say I.
But the Hall is full big to seek each other in; where shalt thou be?"

"In the dining-room."

"In the dining-room!" quoth Roger, in surprise. "The dining-room! Thou'lt surely never look there? 'Tis as bare of hiding places as the flat of my hand. Why not in the archer's room, or the tower?"

"I shall hide me behind the arras till she comes," replied Manners.

"The arras," laughed his companion, "why it will bulge out like the monuments in Bakewell Church; the first who comes will spy thee out. Take my advice, master, and wait in the tower. Why, the buttery were safer than the dining-room."

"Tut, I shall go," he replied; "there is more to hide one than you wot of, but my Dorothy knows it, and I shall meet her there;" and picking up a bundle of wood he started off to the Hall.

He was not long upon the way, and when he arrived at his destination there was no difficulty in getting into the kitchens, for he had been there scores of times before, and his was quite a familiar figure now.

"Ho, Hubert," called one of the busy cooks as he entered the room, "lend a hand with this steer; thou hast the strength of a bullock, I verily believe."

Manners dropped the wood and good-naturedly lent the desired assistance.

"An thou would'st chop it with this cleaver thou wert a good fellow," continued the cook, as, having got the beast upon the bench, he surveyed its goodly proportions, and handed the cleaver to his newly-found helpmate.

"Nay, I am no butcher, I am but a woodsman, and should cut it wrong, I fear," returned Manners, as he laid the chopper down. "Were it a tree—"

"Now, come," interrupted the cook, persuasively. "I am wearied out; I have no strength left in my arm. See you, here, here, and here, and the thing is done."

"I will do it an you will serve me a good turn, too?" he replied.

"Done, then," said the other; "what is it?"

"Show me the Hall; I have long wished to see the ballroom. 'Tis a fine room, Roger says."

"Fine!" exclaimed the cook. "I should think it is fine. There's not another in all Queen Elizabeth's land to equal it. I will show it thee afterwards."

"Help me with this sack of flour," exclaimed the baker, "and I will show it thee now."

Manners chopped the carcase up, for which he was promised a share of the pie, and quickly satisfied the baker. His strength, indeed, was wonderful, and what two bakers had failed to do together, he easily accomplished alone.

"Thou shalt have a cake to-night," exclaimed the baker, admiringly. "A milk-white cake hot off the hearthstone, such as my lord the baron loveth so well," and they passed through the stone-flagged passage into the banqueting-room beyond to see the wonders of the Hall.

"Nay," exclaimed the chamberlain, as they attempted to pass up the steps leading to the upper part of the Hall. "'tis against the rules, you know."

"All right, John, 'tis all right," replied the baker. "Hubert is going to help me, and you cannot stay me, I trow, or Lady Vernon will come upon thee about the cakes for the feast."

There was no gainsaying this argument, for John stood in mortal fear of his mistress, and at the mention of her name he stepped aside and allowed them to pass by.

"John likes to be flattered," laughed the baker, as the door closed upon them, "but I use a different weapon. I speak of Lady Vernon, and he always yields."

"I saw he was there," replied Manners, "else I had needed no assistance to pass through. He despises us, I verily believe, and likes to show his power. So this is the ballroom, eh? 'Tis a magnificent room, surely," he exclaimed in well-feigned innocence.

"The ballroom!" laughed the other, contemptuously. "No, this is but the dining-room. Come, I will show thee the ballroom."

"I would linger here awhile," responded Manners, with charming simplicity, "this tapestry takes my fancy so; and the ceiling, with such quaint devices. Nay, there can be naught to better this, I swear."

"Then you must stay alone, for I am busy," replied his companion.

This was exactly what Manners wanted, and as he offered no opposition, the baker left him alone on the threshold of the ballroom, and returned to attend to his duties.

It was a matter of little difficulty to find the hiding, place, for Manners knew it well, and pulling the arras aside, he slid an old oak panel along and stepped into the cavity it disclosed to await with as much patience as he could command the well-known footstep of his beloved.

A long time he waited; each passing footstep caused his heart to flutter with expectation, only, however, to leave it to quieten in disappointment as the sounds receded and died away in the echoing ballroom above, or else mingled, maybe, in the turmoil of the busy kitchens below. No Dorothy appeared, and his heart at last began to fail.

"Surely she will not come," he murmured at length. "Lettice cannot have been," and his spirit sank within him at the thought. He was cold and fatigued, and once being infected with the idea that he was doomed to disappointment, he quickly discovered all the discomforts of his position and aggravated his misery by adding to them by his own imagination.

He had made up his mind to depart, and was about to put his resolution into practice, when a gentle voice broke the stillness of the room. He held his breath to listen. There was surely someone at the door, for he heard the handle turn; it creaked upon its hinges, and a moment later a gentle step resounded on the floor, and he knew that he was not alone. Could it be Dorothy? He pushed the door of his retreat ajar and listened intently, but only the responsive throbbing of his own heart could he hear.

"Doll!" he exclaimed.

There was no reply.

"Doll," he repeated, in a little louder tone as he pushed door and tapestry aside and entered the room. "Doll!"

"It is not Dorothy, Master Manners," replied a gentle voice, "it is I,
Lettice, her maid."

His heart stood still; chilled with despair.

"Where is she?" he cried. "Tell me, will she come?"

"Nay, she cannot come; Dame Maude is with her, getting ready for the feast.

"And Dorothy cannot come," he repeated, with downcast eyes. "Hast thou seen her; has she had my message?"

"One may not speak with her when my lady is there," said the maid, "but she read it in my eyes. I would, Master Manners, I could help thee more, but I fear that cannot be."

"Bid her keep her tryst to-night, Lettice," he replied, "and thou wilt serve thee well."

"I fear me she cannot. Oft has she tried and failed; she is watched too well. An she were to pass the gate alone the whole Hall would know of it."

"Look, then, Lettice, could you come?"

Lettice often had done so before to meet her own stalwart young lover in the privacy of the wood, and she blushed at the question.

"I come?" she replied, "happen I might were I but to speak to the chamberlain first."

"Speak to him, then, for mercy's sake, speak," replied the lover, quickly. "Lend Doll your hood and shawl, none will know the difference in the dark. Tell the porter to expect you. There, adieu; fail me not, good Lettice," and without leaving her time to make reply he rushed hastily out of the room, and left her alone to carry out his instructions as best she could.

Dusk was rapidly deepening into darkness when John Manners stole out of his humble abode to wend his way to the old trysting place, whither he had been so frequently of late. His progress was watched by a pair of eager, jealous eyes, as their owner silently but surely dogged his every footstep; and when the tree was reached at last Manners lay wearily down at its foot, fully resolved not to depart from thence until he had brought matters to a crisis. At the same moment the figure of a young man glided stealthily into the cover of a bush within a few yards of where the other lay. Manners was not aware of the fact; he had neither seen nor heard his pursuer, and in happy ignorance of the circumstance he awaited Dorothy's appearance.

The night was chilly, for the snow had just departed from off the ground, and the fast gathering leaden clouds threatened to quickly cover it over again; but, buoyed up with hope and excitement, Manners heeded it not. Quietly, but not calmly, he lay, impatiently awaiting the coming of his love.

At last she came, but she approached so silently that her lover was not aware of her presence until she spoke.

"John," she exclaimed, "I am here."

He was upon his feet in an instant.

"My darling, my beloved;" he cried, as he rapturously embraced her in his arms. "This is good of thee, 'tis more than I deserve."

"Say not so," she replied. "I would do aught for thy dear sake. I have endured much for thee, but I have been happy in it because it was for thee."

"Thou would'st do aught for me, my precious one?" cried Manners. "I have much to ask of thee. 'Tis well for me thou art so ready. None shall part us, Doll."

"No, never," she replied, firmly.

"Then, Dorothy, we must flee together."

"What!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Leave Haddon?"

"Hush, Doll, I fear it must be so."

"Oh, John," she sobbed, "I cannot do it, indeed I cannot do it. Is there no other way? Have you no other plan?"

"Sir George will never relent," Manners replied, "and in another month—"

"Nay, nay, John, I have refused the one, I am resolved not to wed the other."

There was a painful pause for a minute or two, but at length Manners spoke. His voice trembled and betrayed the depth of his feelings plainly.

"'Tis a hard choice, Doll," he said, "but you must choose betwixt
Haddon and me. If you say me nay, I shall lose you."

"Wait, John, you can trust me?" she sobbed.

"Aye, that I can," he returned, tenderly; "but the flower is withering, and will soon be gone. This face was not so pale nor yet so thin before. Dorothy, I cannot see thee droop like this before my eyes."

"You can trust me," she replied; "then wait awhile."

"And then; what then?"

"If they are against us then, I will do thy will and go with thee."

"Nay, Doll, I should lose thee, and that would break my heart; it must be yes or no, there is no other way of escape."

Dorothy bowed her head upon his shoulders while the tears ran freely down her cheeks, and Manners stood over her, his breast heaving in fierce thrills of mingled emotions.

"Choose for thine own happiness, Doll," he whispered, breaking again another painful spell of silence.

"I cannot leave my father so—and Margaret," she added, after a pause.

"Margaret will leave thee soon enough," replied her lover, "and Sir George would wed thee to Sir Edward Stanley in a month. Thou wilt have to leave them soon, anyhow—why not with me? I would brave the world for thy sake."

"I know it," she replied, "but I cannot say 'yes.' Do not persuade me,
I will give thee an answer in a little while.

"I have made arrangements," Manners answered. "Everything is ready. We shall go to Nottingham; all our plans are laid ready for the wedding."

"I cannot refuse thee, John," whispered Dorothy, as she dried her tears, "but I cannot consent—not yet, at least. Lettice shall bring thee word."

"So be it, then," he said. "Kiss me, Doll, it may be for the last time; an you decide to stay, I shall go to the wars again."

"Hush, your words are over loud, John. If you go, I die. Listen!"

Manners needed not the injunction, for someone was unmistakably rushing towards them. He turned, and faced the intruder.

"Hold!" he cried, "or you shall rue it. Stand back," he added, as the figure of a man ran towards Dorothy.

"Lettice," exclaimed the other, "could I think this of thee? I had trusted thee better. What have I done that thou should'st treat me thus? As for thee—" he said, turning to Manners.

"Tut, man, doff thy cap," interrupted the latter. "This is Mistress
Dorothy Vernon."

"Thou hast met here often enough before," continued the unbelieving
Will, "but I'll warrant me this shall be the last time. Mistress
Dorothy, indeed! A likely story that; but I know that hood too well to
be deceived. You are Sir Edward Stanley, or Master Manners, perchance,
I suppose. Roger Morton shall know of this."

"Lettice is in the hall," said Dorothy. "I know thou art to be trusted, Will, for Lettice ofttimes speaks of thee. This is Master Manners. Hush! not a word, tell it not to anyone."

It was the voice of Dorothy, beyond dispute, and not the voice of Lettice, and the astonished youth dropped down upon his knees and sued forgiveness.

"And you knew me not?" asked Manners, as he clapped his companion familiarly upon the back. "I deceived thee, then? Have not the others found out my disguise? Methinks they have looked at me askance of late."

The young woodsman rubbed his eyes to convince himself that it was a reality, and that it was not a vivid dream.

"Nay," he replied, at length; "they said thou wert seeking to rob me of my Lettice, for we knew thee not."

"I am a craftsman still," returned Manners, "mind you tell them not.
There, I shall rejoin thee soon."

Lettice's lover took the hint and departed, not at all loth to get out of the way, and feeling mightily relieved that things happened to be as they were, and were not any worse.

"Doll," said her lover, as the retreating sound died away in the distance, "we have another friend in him. Do thou tell this to Lettice, happen it will enliven her. I will not press thee for thy answer now; we shall love each other to the end, I know. Remember this, Doll, thy happiness as well as mine is at stake. Sir George cannot take back his words even though he repent them. He cannot relent, for he has promised thee, and he is the very soul of honour, but, an we please ourselves, he cannot help it, and all will come right. Nay, interrupt me not, I have weighed my words, there will never be such another chance for us to flee. There, now, thou knowest all I can tell thee, thou shalt decide anon."

Dorothy was silent, but if looks had speech, she had pleaded eloquently. Her resolution swayed to and fro in the terrible struggle of her affection: her soul was riven. She was too happy in the company of her lover to say him nay, and yet, at the same time, the bond of love which drew her to her father was far too strong to be suddenly snapped.

"I must go," she said, at last, "but whether it be aye or whether it be nay, in life and in death I am thine alone. Kiss me, John, and let me go."

Manners was deeply agitated. He took her face in both his hands, and stooping down, he kissed her again and again.

"It may be the last time," he said, "but trust me, Doll, I am only thine. I shall keep my love-troth true. Keep a stout heart, my sweet one, and by my faith we shall be happy yet."

They had approached the Hall as near as was safe, and now the moment for parting had arrived Dorothy tried to speak, but her heart was too full, and words failed to come at her command. She listened to her lover's last injunction to keep up a brave heart, and wringing his hands in agonised silence, she gathered her cloak around her, and hastened into the Hall.