Heiress of Haddon

by W. E. Doubleday

CHAPTER XXXIII.

PEACE AT LAST.

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"'Tis but to make a trial of his love!"
And filled his glass to all, but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

ROGERS.

Still at Haddon the fun maintained its uproarious course, and amid the whirl of festivity Dorothy's absence was not remarked.

Sir Edward Stanley was far too elated with the vision of success which had opened out before him to bore Dorothy with his presence on this occasion, but in spite of this he rarely let his eyes depart from watching her.

"Hi, Sir Edward," cried an inquisitive old dame from one of the deep window recesses. "Hither, good knight, for I would talk with thee awhile."

He could not very well resist such a direct appeal, but he took his seat beside her unwillingly enough.

"I hear, Sir Edward," confidentially began the dame, "that in a month you are to wed Mistress Dorothy Vernon; is that so?"

"It is," he replied, curtly.

"You are a lucky knight, then," she replied, "for, except my Isabel,
Dorothy is the fairest maiden I have ever clapt eyes on. But then,
Isabel, forsooth, is not so rich. We cannot all be Vernons, you know,
though if everybody had their deserts we—"

"Yes, I trow that she is rich and fair; but for neither of these do I care so much as her love," gallantly responded Stanley.

"Tut, now, Sir Edward," pursued his tormentor, "both you and I know full well that people marry for riches and rank, not for beauty. You marry for riches, I suppose, and she for rank. Now, sir knight, am I not right?" she asked triumphantly.

"Nay, my lady, you are far from it. You will excuse me now, I am sure; I am promised a dance with Dorothy shortly," and he got up and departed, glad to get away so quickly, and deaf to her entreaty to return.

His temper was ruffled, and he walked away to look for his partner, to lose his irritation in the sunshine of her company.

But Dorothy was nowhere to be seen.

He paced up and down the length of the room, chafing at her absence, and peering into every corner and recess as he wandered along. The dining-room and banqueting-hall were searched equally in vain, and at last the baffled lover concluded that she had retired for a little rest.

He waited, irritated not a little at the long delay. His eye scanned each passing figure again and again, and rigorously searched each group, but it was all "love's labour lost;" Dorothy could not be found; and finally, unable any longer to control the forebodings of his suspicious heart, he hastened to the baron and acquainted him with all his fears.

"Tush, man," replied Sir George gaily; "maybe she is feeling somewhat out of sorts, or happen she is tired. Margaret!" he called, as the newly-married maiden was passing along, "do thou seek for Dorothy, my Lady Stanley. Thy new brother, Sir Edward, is jealous of her absence."

"Ah, prithee do, good Margaret," added that unhappy knight. "Her absence just at this time bodes no good, I fear, and makes me feel uneasy."

"She shall be here soon," replied Lady Stanley, and she went away to seek the truant sister, leaving her husband to beguile the tediousness of the time by engaging in conversation with his brother. Sir Thomas was in high glee, and could find no sympathy with the miserable forebodings of his younger brother.

"I tell thee what, Edward," he said, "thou must let her have more freedom. You are too rash; you must be astute an you would succeed. Dorothy is drawn by affection, not driven by ill words or sour looks. It had been better for thee, I trow, an thou hadst not pressed for the marriage so soon; but thou hast done it now."

"Lady Maude advised me in it, and I cannot say I repent it now, though my heart does misgive ever and again," he replied.

"That John Manners," continued the elder Stanley, "is a good enough man, a likely fellow, and would have done well for Dorothy; aye, and had not you been in the way, he would have won her, too. Thou art no match for him, Edward; thou art too impatient."

Edward hung down his head, and gazed uncomfortably upon the floor. He was conscious of the truth of his brother's statement, and could not well refute it. He paused in silence, hoping that the subject would be pursued no further.

"Here comes Margaret," he said, lifting up his head and feeling mightily relieved that the awkward pause had come to an end; but sorely dismayed to see no Dorothy following behind.

"Where is she?—she has gone!" he almost screamed as he saw the look of consternation on her face.

"I cannot find her," Margaret replied, addressing herself to Sir Thomas. "I have searched her rooms, but all in vain; and no one knows aught of her, no one has seen her."

"Said I not so?" furiously exclaimed Sir Edward. "She has gone; the bird has flown."

"What bird?" asked the baron, coming up.

"Dorothy, Sir George. Dorothy has fled."

"Fled; nay it cannot be," returned the baron, stoutly. He had too much faith in Dorothy to believe that.

"They are searching for her now," said Margaret. "Nobody knows where she is, and Sir Edward has missed her long. I cannot understand it."

"Her clothes are gone. Her riding habit has gone," exclaimed one of the domestics, rushing breathlessly up to the group. "Father Nicholas hath just come in and he says two horses, galloping, passed him on the Ashbourne road. One, he thinks might have been a lady, but it was too dark to see distinctly."

This she gasped out in jerks, but her news was intelligible enough, and it threw the whole assembly at once into a ferment of confusion, amid which could be heard the voice of Sir Edward Stanley exclaiming, in a tone far above the rest of the babel—"That was Dorothy."

"Gone!" exclaimed the baron, aghast. "Nay, search the Hall."

"Out; to your saddles, ye gallant knights," commanded Sir Thomas Stanley, promptly. "Here is a prize worth the capturing. She must be stopped!" and he quickly led the way to the stables, and in a very short space of time was mounted and urging his steed to the utmost along the Ashbourne road.

Sir George stayed behind; he could not believe that Dorothy had really gone; but when a thorough investigation of the Hall, and the outbuildings also, revealed the fact that she was nowhere there, he was stricken with dismay, and succumbed, for a time, to a feeling of despair.

"Nicholas," he said, as the worthy father approached to comfort him, "thou art sure that one was a lady?"

"It was dark, Sir George," the priest replied. "I was unsuspicious, and deep in meditation, but I fear it was so."

"Was it my Doll?"

"I cannot say," he replied. "I never saw the face, and did but imperfectly see the form."

The baron sank back, regardless of the ladies who crowded round him, commiserating his ill fortune. He remained silent, with a bowed head and bleeding heart.

All night long the pursuit was kept up. Every lane was searched, every innkeeper was severely catechised, and although in several instances they had the satisfaction of hearing that couples, either on horses or in conveyances, had passed, yet when the quarry was hunted down, if it did not turn out to be an inoffensive market gardener and his worthy spouse returning from Derby Christmas market, in almost every other instance the horsemen were the decoys that Manners had so carefully provided.

At last the chase was given up. Dorothy had proved one too many for them, and with mingled feelings her pursuers turned their steeds again towards Haddon, curious to learn if any of the others had been more fortunate than themselves.

The two Stanleys were the last to return, but after having been out in the saddle for more than a whole day, and that upon the right scent, they were obliged to return without having met with success.

The next day was spent in searching the neighbourhood. Every inn and every house was visited, but the night falling, they returned again empty-handed, and very disconsolate.

News came with the next day's courier, for Dorothy dutifully acquainted her father, in a touching letter, with all the details of the engagement, the elopement, and the marriage. Manners, too, sent a note to the baron, in which he pathetically pleaded Dorothy's cause. "And sure," the epistle concluded, "so doting a father as you undoubtedly are would not force so loving a daughter to wed against her will. You clearly sought her welfare and, in choosing Sir Edward Stanley, thought you were doing well for her, but it was a sad mistake. I have her undivided love, and even if we are for ever banished from 'dear old Haddon,' as Doll delights to call it, we shall be happy in each other's confidence and love; though I confess that Dorothy hath a tender heart and grieves to think how you must regard her. None but myself, she declares, could ever have led her to leave thee. I feel for thee, but I feel for my sweet Doll, too. At thy bidding, whenever given, we will gladly visit thee. Till then—adieu."

"Married!" cried Lady Vernon, aghast, as Sir Thomas Stanley read the letter aloud. She was speechless with rage and could say no more, but her looks betokened the feelings of her heart."

"Married!" echoed Sir Edward, in dismay.

"Aye, married," responded Sir Thomas. "You have lost her, Edward; it is as I said."

"Poor, foolish Dorothy," exclaimed the baron, in a decidedly sympathetic frame of mind. "Poor Doll."

"Poor Dorothy, indeed," retorted Lady Maude, sharply. "Wicked, perverse Dorothy, you mean, Sir George. I shall never look at her again. We must make her undo the marriage bond again, Sir Edward," she continued, turning to the disappointed lover.

Even that rash knight could see the futility of such advice, and he despondently shook his head.

"Nay," he said, "I fear that cannot be easily done."

"Easily done, sir knight," tauntingly replied the dame. "Who talks of ease in a matter like this? It must—it shall be done."

"It cannot be done," replied Sir Thomas, promptly. "Manners will have been too careful to allow of that. We must resign ourselves to the loss; and you, Edward, will have to seek elsewhere for a bride."

"'Resign' and 'cannot,'" continued Lady Vernon, contemptuously.
"Did'st ever hear the like of it, Margaret?"

But Margaret was mercifully inclined, and by siding with Dorothy she would be supporting her husband. Therefore she could not agree with the angry declamations of her stepmother.

"Poor Dorothy," she exclaimed, "I pity her, but she has done foolishly indeed."

Lady Vernon was astonished; she had counted upon Margaret's support at least.

"Pity her, indeed!" she scornfully laughed. "She shall have little enough of my pity if ever I clap my eyes on her again," replied Lady Vernon. "She shall never come here again."

"Hush, Maude," interrupted the baron, "I shall settle that."

Lady Vernon had never been spoken to in such a manner since she had wedded Sir George, and she staggered back in surprise as though she had been struck by an invisible hand.

"You will—!" she began, but checked herself. The baron's brow was forbidding. She had never seen him look so threatening before, and she cowered back in fear and kept a discreet silence.

"I am furious," the baron burst out, with a sudden revulsion of feeling. "To think that my Dorothy should serve me thus! and as she has chosen, so shall it be. She prefers Manners to me, then she shall have him. I disown her, she is none of mine. She shall never return."

Flesh and blood, however, is very human, and, in spite of his stern resolve never to see Dorothy again, the baron's naturally kind heart soon began to soften, and in a short space of time his feelings had entirely undergone a change. He longed to clasp his lost darling to his heart again, and tell her she was forgiven, but he was proud, and his pride held him back from declaring his sentiments.

It was not long to be endured. He became anxious. Dorothy was ill. Sir Ronald Bury had sent him word of that in a letter which was calculated to stab the baron to the very heart. He grew restless; his conscience pricked him day and night, until, unable to bear it any longer, he declared himself.

"Maude," he said, as together they sat in the lonely dining-room,
"Dorothy has been a month gone now."

"Yes," she carelessly replied.

"And I hear she is sorely ill."

"Like enough," said Lady Vernon, not unwilling to make the knight suffer a little, for she had not forgiven him yet. "She was ill enough when she went."

"Then," returned the baron, "she shall come back; we cannot do without her."

Lady Vernon turned sharply round to expostulate with her lord, but seeing his forbidding countenance, she desisted, and her silence Sir George tacitly construed as acquiescence.

"I shall send for her this very day," pursued the good old knight, "we must try to forget the past, Maude—for, in good sooth, we have all done amiss—and begin again. We have no Margaret now, and without Doll, gone in such a fashion withal, we were miserable indeed."

"We must have more balls and feasts," quickly suggested Lady Maude.
"They will heal our wounds."

"Balls and feasts!" repeated the baron. "Nay, we are too old for those now. We should only get Benedict and old De Lacey to come, for, by my halidame, squires and knights won't come to see us now Meg and Doll are gone, and then, Maude, after all, you know," he continued slyly, "love will have its own way, and you trow full well that folk blamed me enough when I wedded."

Lady Maude blushed. The comments on her marriage with the baron had been by no means what she might have wished, as the remembrance of them was not particularly pleasant to her even now, so she discreetly held her peace.

"We cannot blame her, Maude," went on Sir George, waxing enthusiastic as the love of Dorothy asserted itself more and more within him. "We are all alike to blame, and had I been John Manners myself, I should maybe have done just what he has done. Who could help it, eh, Maude? Not I, in truth; and then, Manners has done us good service, too. We must welcome them back, and make them happy if we can. I shall send a message off now."

Before his feelings had found time to change—even had he so wished—he scrawled a note of forgiveness to the fugitives, praying them to return, and before he returned to his wife the messenger was on his way.

* * * * *

A warm welcome awaited gallant John Manners and his beautiful lady as, a week later, they were met by the fond father just outside Haddon.

Impatiently, the baron had awaited their return. For two whole days he had done little else than watch for their coming, from the loftiest portion of the tall eagle tower, and when at last the little cavalcade could be distinguished in the far distance, wending its way with all possible haste towards the Hall, he started off to meet them.

It was a glad reunion. Even Lady Maude was touched, as she met them in the courtyard, and with much more kindliness than she had been wont to treat Doll for some time, she kissed the upraised face; Manners received a stately bow. He, at all events, had much to be forgiven yet; but the baron, casting the last particle of pride to the winds, warmly and repeatedly embraced his daughter, and frankly greeted her husband.

The menials with one accord united to welcome back the youthful couple, for Dorothy was universally beloved, and somehow or other the story of Manners' disguise had got abroad and had made hosts of admiring friends for him, both high and low.

Even Lady Maude melted at last and regarded him with favour, but whether this was because she learned that his uncle, the earl, favoured his nephew and petted his bride, or whether the highly satisfactory conduct of Master Manners himself gained her esteem, must be left for the courteous reader to determine.

Happiness now reigned once more in Haddon. The old Hall rung again with shouts of gladness, and in a short space of time Manners had the satisfaction of promoting Lettice's husband to a more honourable position than he had formerly occupied.

At the end of a year, as the oft-falling snows betokened the coming of another Christmas, sad news reached Haddon. Margaret was dead. The dampness of Castle Rushen had brought on a fever, to which she soon had succumbed. Thus the whole estates of Haddon fell, ultimately, to Dorothy's share, which she presented to her faithful lover as her dowry. John Manners' descendants, the Rutlands, have had reason to be thankful for this, for it added largely to their riches, but Manners himself declared that had she brought him all the wealth that "Good Queen Bess" possessed, he had not been one whit the happier. He could see nothing he prized so highly as his wife, and in her he found his all in all.

It is only necessary to add that discord, never again invaded the domain of Haddon. The marriage proved a happy one; and no one, except the Stanleys, regretted it in

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Heiress of Haddon, by William E. Doubleday