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.
CHAPTER XX.
THE TROTHPLIGHT.
Yet even now it is good to think,
While my few poor varlets grumble and drink,
In my desolate hall where the fires sink;
Of Dorothy sitting glorious there,
In glory of gold and glory of hair,
And glory of glorious face most fair;
Likewise to-night I make good cheer,
Because this battle draweth near,
For what have I to love or fear?
W. MORRIS (adapted).
John Manners sought out Dorothy as soon as the interview was concluded, and he was fortunate enough to find her alone.
Poor Dorothy; she had long expected this meeting, and she had tried to prepare herself to face it. Her love, subjected to such a terrible strain, had come like gold out of the refining fire. It had grown stronger and better, and as she saw her lover emerge from the room she realised for the first time how much she really loved him.
The tale was soon told, and as he poured into her ears the unwelcome tidings her tender heart was lacerated by each successive word.
"And now, my own sweet Dorothy," he concluded, "you know all. I have told thee all the pitiful story. Would to God it had been a pleasant tale I had to tell thee, but alas! I have told thee but the truth."
He looked fondly into her face, and wondered how often he would be permitted to see it more. It was deadly pale, and her lips quivered again as she endeavoured to keep them tightly closed.
"John," she murmured, "in any matter but this I should obey them; but—but——" She broke down under the mental strain. It was a terrible struggle between conflicting affections, and, unable to sustain it, she would have fallen in a faint upon the ground had not the strong arms of her lover supported her.
Manners laid her gently down upon the bank and sprinkled some water upon her, for they were on the slopes of the Wye, and in a few moments she mastered her feelings and opened her eyes.
"I am dizzy," she apologetically exclaimed, as she saw the form of her beloved bending over her. "I shall be better soon."
She fulfilled her prediction quickly, and when he would have led her back into the Hall she begged him to wait.
"Nay, nay, John," she said, "the Lady Maude will soon devise a plan for separating us, but let us remain together while we may."
"But, Doll, you are ill," he exclaimed, "and I must take good care of thee."
"I should be worse were I severed from thee," she sweetly replied, "and, John, I have somewhat to tell thee."
"Speak on then, sweet one."
"You will be true to me, John, whatever happens?" she asked.
She was timid to approach the subject, and blushed deeply at the sound of her own sweet voice. She had more than half a mind to take the words back lest they should strike a single pang into his heart, but they were spoken, and before she could enter into any explanation, he had bent down and kissed her.
"My precious darling!" he passionately exclaimed. "I never could forget thee; thy name is written on my heart; I shall never cease to love thee. The saints forfend me, Doll. I were a miscreant indeed were I to play traitor to thy love."
"I shall trust you, John," she replied, bestowing upon him a look of undisguised affection; "I do trust thee; I shall be happy in thy love. Whatever trouble comes I shall be happy, because I shall know your heart is trusty and true."
"That it shall be, Doll," he cried, "a right trusty heart—though they do make thee wed Edward Stanley."
"John!" she exclaimed quickly, flushing scarlet again, "have I not given my troth to thee? They shall not force me into it. You can trust me."
"O, Doll. My love, my darling, it would break my heart to give thee up; but I must do it for the sake of thy happiness."
Poor heart, he spoke but the truth, but he spoke it as bravely as he could.
"Hush, John," Dorothy hastily broke in; "you must not say such things."
"Alas! you little know, my sweet one, to what misery you would consign yourself if you proved staunch to me," he continued. "This fragile form was not made to suffer, but to recline in ease," he added, as he gazed fondly at the graceful form of the maiden.
"I have recked the cost," she simply replied. "You do not doubt me, do you, John?" she asked, looking up into his troubled face.
"Doubt thee, no;" he replied, "but I would save thee from a host of sorrows."
Dorothy held her head down in silence, and seeing that she did not answer. Manners continued.
"I must be frank with you, Doll. The husband they have chosen thee may be an earl in time to come, and is a Derby to boot. He is rich, and mayhap he may love thee, too, and I—and I——"
"Stop, John, stop," she commanded. "Would you thus trifle with my love? I have seen in thee a noble heart, a kind heart, a loving heart. I have refused many before thee. I have just refused one lord, and I shall refuse the other. You would not so dispraise yourself but to dissuade me; but you have yet to learn the constancy of a maiden's love."
"Are you resolved?" he asked, almost choked by the feelings of joy her words had caused.
"I am," she firmly replied; "I shall brave the worst, and be happy in your love. What more can I desire?"
Manners was too much overcome to speak. He could only weakly articulate a fervent "God bless you, my love;" but if Dorothy had desired anything more to prove the intensity of his feelings, she would have found it had she looked to see it in his eyes.
While matters had been progressing thus at Haddon, Sir Henry de la Zouch had been gradually improving in health, until by now he had found himself almost as well as he had been of yore, and he had intimated that he was fast getting ready to return to Ashby Castle.
His passion for Dorothy had not abated one whit, and he was deeply mortified to find how rapidly Manners had been wooing and winning the maiden.
Yet, although his suit had been rebuffed at every point, he was not discouraged. Indeed, had his other qualities equalled his perseverance, he had richly merited a full and good reward; but, unfortunately, this was his only redeeming trait, and the baseness of that motive which prompted it poisoned that very virtue too.
He was neither dejected nor cast down, because he felt that he had within his power a mode of wooing the maiden which, were he but to use it, could not fail to insure complete success. The plan had its drawbacks, to be sure, but it was the only one at his command, and even as he lay upon the sick bed, tossing in agony from side to side, he was considering whether or no he should carry it out. When he was better he determined to put it into force upon the first opportunity, but every relapse undid his resolution, and made him pay attention to his conscience, which bade him reject the idea.
As a compromise he determined at last to ask Dorothy again for her hand, and he availed himself of an early opportunity of doing this. He used all his persuasive eloquence in vain. He pointed to his haggard face, and told her that a refusal would inevitably complete the work that Manners had begun, but she was firm; and seeing that nothing would shake her resolution, he resolved to put his plan into operation immediately upon his recovery.
It was a deeply-laid scheme, the scheme of a villain, and it revealed its author in its proper light. As he communicated his plan to his page, when the latter paid him his final visit, his face glowed with satisfaction, and he imagined the chagrin his dupes would feel when they found themselves within his power.
It was necessary, in the first place, to throw Manners off his guard, and, smarting under the humiliation of his defeat, De la Zouch determined that his victor should also come within the reach of his net; and, as he witnessed the growing familiarity which existed between his rival and Dorothy, he was more than ever determined to have vengeance upon him, and more jubilant at the prospect of attaining the consummation of his wish.
This was the motive which caused his readiness to meet Manners as a friend. He rightly judged that Manners once put off the scent, the rest would follow his example, so he appeared to accept Dorothy's refusal with a better grace, as a thing inevitable; and once face to face again with his gallant foe, nothing could exceed the extravagance of the language he employed to convince him that he regretted the follies of the past and to instil into his mind that he wished for the future to be counted as his friend.
It is a noticeable feature about villains that they almost always overreach themselves at some point or other—in story-books they always do—and to this characteristic De la Zouch proved no exception, for the very intensity of the words he chose, and the excessive flattery he employed, instead of gaining their object, aroused in John Manners' mind a feeling of suspicion of which he could in nowise dispossess himself. He would have communicated his fears to Dorothy, but he feared lest she should misjudge him and interpret it as an ebulition of jealousy, and there was none other except his friend Crowleigh in whom he could confide. Unwilling, however, to wound the susceptibilities of De la Zouch, who, after all, might have been actuated by the best of motives, he fairly met all his advances, and though he was all along mistrustful of his intentions, yet he was careful that Sir Henry should perceive no signs of it.
Lady Vernon soon gave Manners a hint that his visit to Haddon might terminate at any time he chose; but, although wounded in spirit by her words, he was in no great hurry to depart from Dorothy's side, and Sir George, eager to make amends for his dame's shortcomings, and ashamed that the traditional hospitality of his mansion should be so roughly contradicted while he was the lord of Haddon, appeared most anxious to prolong the visit, and endeavoured to make the enjoyment of his guest as complete as it could possibly be, the circumstances being duly considered.
To the surprise of them all, De la Zouch added his request to the baron's, declaring that he and Manners would depart together in a few days, and if his late antagonist did not offer any serious opposition to the plan, he intended to entertain him for a short time at Ashby, adding that he had already given commands that the castle should be prepared for their reception.
The request was couched in such a manner that Manners could do no other than accept it, but he immediately resolved to curtail his visit into Leicestershire as much as he possibly could, and he felt that it would be a relief to him when the visit was concluded.
The days swiftly passed; all too quickly for the two lovers. Sir Thomas Stanley had sent a messenger to inform them that his brother had met with an accident, and was too ill to travel then, and he feared he would be obliged to return to Haddon alone; but the letter brought the unwelcome news to Dorothy that Edward Stanley would come and claim her as his bride before the year had passed.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE PLOT IN PROGRESS.
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire
Showed spirit proud, and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek,
Did deep design and counsel speak.
SCOTT.
It was with mingled feelings of sorrow, suspicion, and gladness that John Manners received news from Sir Henry de la Zouch, who had gone over to his castle some days before, that he was coming back upon the morrow to escort his guests to Ashby.
Sir Thomas Stanley had returned to Haddon, and though he was well satisfied, upon the whole, with the result of his mission, yet he clearly perceived the real state of affairs, and was far too astute not to make strenuous efforts to alter their course.
He had interposed himself as much as possible between Dorothy and her forbidden lover, and had succeeded in some degree in keeping them apart. He might, however, have spared himself the trouble, for, although he prevented their meeting on some occasions, yet love was conqueror in the end, and with Lettice as a trusty helpmeet, the two lovers found ways and means by which to see each other of which he never dreamed.
Sir Thomas was too much of a gentleman to affront Manners, as he had been secretly urged to do, but he made no secret of his opinion that it would be a relief to him when the time came for the visitors to depart.
True to his word, Sir Henry arrived at Haddon on the following day, bringing with him an invitation for Sir Thomas Stanley and Crowleigh to accompany him on his return.
Sir Thomas refused it, as indeed he was expected to do, but Sir Everard Crowleigh, glad to be able to bear his friend company, promptly accepted the offer, and Manners began to look upon the prospect of his stay at Ashby with a little more hopefulness.
Sir George Vernon was too hospitable a host to let even De la Zouch depart again upon the self-same day upon which he had arrived. He would not tolerate the idea for a single moment; there must be a carousal and a dance at night in honour of the departing guests, and then they would be at liberty to depart upon the first grey streaks of dawn if they were so minded.
De la Zouch, well aware that the King of the Peak was the soul of hospitality itself, had calculated upon the offer, and at once accepted it; while the baron, not content with what he had already done, when the morrow came, drew the designing Stanley with himself into his private room, and, under the pretext of taking counsel with him, kept him by his side, leaving the way open for Manners to have a farewell afternoon with Dorothy.
De la Zouch proposed a ride, and as there appeared to be little prospect of enjoying undisturbed peace at Haddon, the two lovers fell in with the suggestion, and very soon after the mid-day meal they met, booted and spurred, at the gate of the hall.
"Aye, aye, there," hailed a voice, as Manners was helping Dorothy off the riding-stone into the saddle, "whither away so gaily?"
"Aye, Everard," replied his friend, as he turned round and saw who it was that called. "Hurry up, we are off for a ride."
"Shall I come, too?" he inquired, as he hastened up and stood beside them.
"Do," returned Dorothy. "Make haste, though, for time is precious with us now."
"I will not keep you waiting, fair Mistress Dorothy," he gallantly responded; "I will follow thee anon. Which way am I to come, Bakewell, Cromford, or which?"
"Oh, Cromford," replied Sir Henry quickly. "See how restive my horse is, he will bolt off if I try to hold him in much longer. Are we ready? Let us go then; time is short, remember," and giving the rein to his steed he started off at a good pace, whilst the others followed quickly in his wake.
It was a beautiful day, and the scenery around was so majestically grand that even its familiarity did not detract from its beauty in the eyes of the little party as it rode laughingly by. The early leaves were just beginning to drop from off the parent stems; the ferns and bracken, which grew in abundance on either side of the road, were just assuming their peculiar fading, golden hue, whilst the hardier leaves were just beginning to bedeck themselves in the full glory of their rich autumnal tints.
"This is beautiful," exclaimed Dorothy, enthusiastically, as she gazed enraptured at the rich variety of form and colour which met them at every turn. "Look at those cliffs. It is lovely, it is grand."
They had just passed the little hamlet of Matlock Bath, and were approaching Cromford. There were no stone walls then to hide from view even the smallest portion of the gorgeous picture. From the road to the Derwent there sloped a narrow strip of marshy meadow, which covered itself with a superabundance of luxurious tall grasses and tough bracken. Beyond the stream there rose, standing straight up by the water's edge, a wall of jagged and scarred rock, overgrown with trees and climbing foliage, which was faithfully mirrored in the placid water below. The scene could hardly fail to appeal to their sense of beauty.
Manners avowed that he thought it the fairest spot on earth, and De la Zouch, not to be outdone in gallantry, added that the presence of so fair a maiden as Dorothy Vernon in the midst of so much natural beauty made a picture a better than which he never desired to see.
"And, after all, fair Dorothy," he concluded, "I wot that it is but the reflection of thine own sweet form and peerless grace."
Dorothy frowned. She did not care for compliments from Sir Henry de la Zouch; she always feared them, for they generally had a sting somewhere, and she had noticed that, as a rule, they were followed by something more or less unpleasant.
"Sir Everard has not come yet," she exclaimed, turning round in her saddle, "perhaps he is not coming after all?"
"He is sure to follow us," replied Manners. "Maybe he has been delayed, and yet we have come slowly. Hark! I hear the ring of hoofs upon the road even now."
They halted to await their companion, but they soon discovered, as the sound of the galloping grew rapidly more and more distinct, that the horseman was advancing towards them from the opposite direction.
"He is hindered, surely," exclaimed De la Zouch, who heartily wished he was stating the truth, "and it will soon be time for us to turn our faces again towards the Hall."
"Not just yet, Sir Henry," Dorothy quickly replied; "but you may; and you will."
"Not yet, eh! Then let us have a race along this lane," suggested De la Zouch, evading the hint and pointing to a long lane almost completely overarched with the massive branches of the overhanging trees which grew on either side.
Dorothy looked at Manners appealingly.
"What say you, Doll?" he inquired. "You shall determine."
"Nay, you decide."
"To that clump of trees," interposed De la Zouch.
"Well, if Dorothy does not object—"
"Not I, in truth," she interrupted.
"Away we go, then," replied Manners. "There and back at once?" he asked.
"No, only there," replied Sir Henry, ill-concealing a malicious grin. "It will be a long, long time before you come back this way, I trow," he added under his breath.
"But we are not yet placed," said Dorothy's lover, as De la Zouch was about to start away. "We two must fall in the rear, Sir Henry."
"Nay, I am equally as well mounted as you," returned the maiden. "We will run upon our merits, or I shall withdraw."
In a few minutes they were careening along the course in gallant style, as nearly as possible all three abreast, but as they neared the trees which formed the winning mark, Sir Henry fell behind and left the other two to finish the exciting race alone.
"Curse them, a murrain on them!" he muttered, as he pulled his horse to a standstill; "where can the fellows be?"
His objurgation might have been heard, for no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he saw, rising up from the brushwood, the men of whom he had just spoken in such uncomplimentary terms.
Burdened as he was with anxiety for the successful issue of his plot, and fearful lest at the last stage it should miscarry and snatch away the prize for which he had struggled so long, and which already seemed to be within his grasp, De la Zouch was in a terrible ferment of hope and fear.
"The villains," he muttered, as he sat still in his saddle impatiently watching; "why don't they move? It will be too late in a minute. I'll thrash every mother's son of them when we get back to Ashby, that I will. Dear me! what a fool I am to forget the signal;" and putting his hand to his mouth he blew a loud shrill whistle through his fingers.
Manners and Dorothy had just raced up together to the trees, and hearing the unusual sound that their companion made, they turned round at the same instant to see how much they were before him, and to ascertain the meaning of the noise. Just at this juncture, in answer to the signal of their lord, De la Zouch's hirelings rushed through the already prepared gaps in the tall hedges and fell upon the lovers, taking them completely by surprise.
Dorothy was quickly unhorsed with no more roughness than her own resistance necessitated, but it was not so with her lover. Though Manners had nothing to defend himself with, except the stock of his riding-whip, yet he gave so good an account of himself, and wielded his paltry weapon to so much purpose that he quickly freed himself, and rushed to aid poor Doll. This purpose, however, he failed to accomplish. The odds were ten to one, but even then it was for some time an open question whether the one would not prevail over the ten. All his skill was brought into play. He laid about him right and left until his weapon broke, and then, undismayed, he lunged out with the remnant, and succeeded in wresting a bludgeon from one of his injured opponents, and plunged into the fray with renewed vigour.
In spite of his efforts, however, he was unable to rescue Dorothy. Having once got her into their possession the men were determined to keep her, and she was borne away from the contest ineffectually struggling with her captors, who, having retired to a safe distance, awaited with their quarry until Manners himself was captured too.
De la Zouch sat aghast at this exhibition of his rival's prowess. Whatever the cost might be it was imperative that Manners should not escape to tell the tale at Haddon, and he alternately groaned and cursed each time he witnessed his followers quail and fall beneath the terrific blows of their antagonist. He had come, he thought, prepared for any contingency, but it appeared as though his force was by no means strong enough to achieve the desired end.
Manners himself, suspicious of De la Zouch, as he all along had been, perceived at the outset the trap into which he had been led, and now, finding it useless to attempt Dorothy's rescue any longer, and feeling the first approach of weariness come warningly over him, set spurs to his horse and galloped back again towards Sir Henry de la Zouch, intent on wreaking a full vengeance upon him, and at the same time determined to make an effort to escape in order to discover aid by which to rescue his betrothed.
"Villain!" he hissed, "thou shalt pay dearly for this."
De la Zouch did not wait to meet the overpowering fury of his foe. He no longer marvelled at the result of the tournament. He had seen enough of Manners' prowess already to have much faith left in his own powers of defense. To him distance lent enchantment to the view, so turning his horse sharply round he galloped away, bidding Manners do his worst.
It would have fared ill with the knight of Ashby had his foe but once reached within arm's length of him; but Fortune, after wavering about as if uncertain which way to make up its mind, declared itself at last upon the side of villainy, and Manners was stretched low upon the ground by a stone hurled at him by one of his assailants.
With his fall Dorothy's last chance of escape was taken from her.
De la Zouch heard the groan of his injured foe, and turning his face round to ascertain its meaning, he was just in time to see his rival drop from his saddle upon the road, where he was quickly surrounded amid a considerable show of bravery by the minions of De la Zouch to whom he had just given such a terrible exhibition of his skill.
"You cowardly knaves," cried that worthy, "secure him ere he escapes again."
Not a man stirred, for Manners had inspired them with so wholesome a dread of the power of his arm that, although he was sorely wounded, no one was willing to venture within his reach.
"Secure him, I say," imperiously repeated Sir Henry, who, from his safe position on horseback, could well afford to ridicule their fears and give his commands with confidence.
Manners with difficulty managed to raise himself upon his elbow, and he looked so fierce and desperate that the solitary man who had advanced towards him retreated with dismay.
"By St. George, seize him, sirrah," exclaimed the knight, springing off his saddle in high dudgeon. "You are all cowards together."
"Seize him, do you say," returned the man, insolently; "seize him, do you say? Seize him yourself, then, for I vow I have had more than enough of it already. He fights like a dragon; see here," and the man bared his arm and showed a number of bruises upon it. "Now then, master," he continued, "seize him yourself, say I, for I will have no more to do with the affair;" and to this his companions sullenly murmured assent.
"A woman would have less fear than thee," returned the knight contemptuously, as he glanced at the arm held out before him. "Why, I have fought for hours after being grievously wounded in the fray."
It had been more to Sir Henry's mind to have struck the man down to the ground for his insolence, and this he felt strongly impelled to do, but seeing the threatening aspect of the man's companions he restrained his fury, promising himself that his punishment should lose nothing by the fact of it being reserved to another and a safer time. It was with difficulty that he had contented himself with returning so mild an answer, but the man's retort drove him at once beyond the bounds of prudence and patience, and made him utterly reckless.
"Mayhap you have," returned the man incredulously, "but I'll warrant me it was no fault of thine. You showed us some of your skill just now."
"I will prove it," shouted the knight, furiously, and, suiting the action to the word, he seized hold of the nearest weapon, a stout ash stick, and advancing towards the dazed and bleeding esquire, he dealt him a blow on the head which stretched him insensible upon the turf.
"Coward!" cried the man, springing forward from among his companions. "You are the coward. I will be no party to such a cold-blooded murder as this," and his bosom swelled with indignation as he turned round to his companions and pointed to where Manners lay.
"Who says I am a coward? Who dares to speak such insolence?" demanded
De la Zouch, trembling all over with rage.
"I do, and I repeat it," replied the other, bending over the prostrate form of his late antagonist.
For a moment Sir Henry stood in speechless amazement at such unlooked-for presumption, and then suddenly raising his weapon, he brought it down upon his offending servant, and stretched him beside the object of his sympathy.
"Who says I am a coward now?" he fiercely asked, turning upon the abashed companions of the latest victim of his temper.
Whatever the others thought, they wisely held their peace, and, terrified and cowed by the lesson their lord had taught them, they silently raised the two inanimate bodies, and, according to their instructions, proceeded to rejoin Dorothy and her guard ere they began their journey back to the castle at Ashby.
* * * * *
CHAPTER XXII.
ON A FALSE SCENT.
I can counterfeit the deep tragedian!
Speak, and look back, and pry on every side,
Tremble, and start at wagging of a straw.
Pretending deep suspicion; ghastly looks
Are at my service like enforced smiles,
And both are ready in their offices,
At any time to grace my stratagems.
SHAKESPEARE.
Dorothy Vernon had impatiently awaited the conclusion of the contest, and the prodigious amount of faith she had in her lover's capabilities, coupled with what she had already witnessed of the fight, led her to hope that he would yet return victorious to deliver her.
She had ceased to struggle ere the victors returned, partly because of the hope with which she had deluded herself, and partly because her attempts had only wearied her without bringing her any nearer to success; but at the first glimpse of the slowly approaching company she broke away from her too trustful captors and fled precipitately towards the advancing party.
"Let me go to him; is he hurt?" she cried, as one of her guardians overtook her and pulled her to a standstill, and starting forward again she left a fragment of her dress between the man's fingers, and hastened on again until she reached her lover's side.
"Speak, John," she exclaimed in piteous tones, as she gazed upon his pallid face and livid form. "Speak just one word to me."
But Manners did not speak. Thoroughly stunned by the blows he had received, he lay quite unconscious in the position in which he had been placed, and he was so weakened by the loss of blood from his wounds that his immediate return to consciousness was exceedingly problematical. He lay deaf, and apparently dead, whilst Dorothy pleaded in vain for a word from his lips.
"Just one word," she repeated, pathetically.
"Poor Lady," exclaimed Sir Henry's page, who was in charge of the party. "Don't take it to heart so much; he will come round soon, and be himself again. Nay, touch her not," he commanded, as one of the men was about to take her away, "she will do no harm."
"He is dead," she sobbed, and ere she could be assured that her conjecture was wrong she fainted away, and was gently laid beside her lover, while they were borne swiftly and silently, by sequestered roads, from the scene of the adventure.
Sir Henry watched them departing till a turn in the road hid them from view, and then, bethinking himself of his position, he mounted his steed and rode rapidly away, feeling immensely relieved that, after all, he had proved successful.
A few minutes in the saddle sufficed him, and then dismounting, he took of his hat and belaboured it well with the stock end of his whip.
He satisfied himself at length, and ceasing from his efforts in that direction he laid it on the ground and surveyed the effect.
It looked battered indeed, and evidently well pleased with the result, the knight set busily to work upon his clothes. He carefully tore them here and there with a sharp-pointed piece of wood, while to complete the deception, he spoiled the appearance of his attire by daubing it freely with dirt.
"I trow that will be enough," he murmured, as ceasing his labours he complacently gazed upon the transformation he had effected; "but no!" he added, "I had best be on the safe side," and he gently scratched his hands to give himself the appearance of having passed through a long and stern struggle.
"A bruise or two would improve my appearance considerably," he added, "but then bruises hurt and are apt to turn awkward; I think I might safely spare myself the pain; but I might, at all events, break my whip-stock and carry the end of it back;" and having settled these points to his own satisfaction, he mounted his saddle afresh, and setting spurs to his horse he never drew rein until long after he had passed out of the lane, and was well on the high road to Haddon.
As he neared the vicinity of the Hall he proceeded to put into practice what yet remained unfinished of his disguise. He had treated his own person, and now he turned his attention to the faithful steed which had carried him often and well.
There was no time to waste. He had lost much precious time already. He would have found little time in which to be sentimental had he been so inclined, but such an idea never entered into his head, and pulling his jack-knife out of his pocket, he opened the blade and stabbed the horse in the shoulder.
As previously related, De la Zouch had thought of ornamenting himself with a few slight bruises, but he had decided to forego whatever advantages might accrue to him from such a course of conduct, but now the matter was decided for him in a manner which he had never considered.
It had never flashed upon the heated brain of the malignant knight that wounding a horse was a very delicate operation to perform, and in his reckless hurry he had never taken into account that such conduct would be attended with any danger, or he would have proceeded to accomplish his design in a more cautious fashion; and it was not until the horse kicked out after the first blow that Sir Henry de la Zouch became suddenly aware of the danger of his position. He had not the power to stay the second thrust, and before he could retreat out of danger he was sent sprawling into the hedge bottom.
Fortunately, the effects of the blow were considerably diminished, inasmuch as its greatest force was already spent ere De la Zouch was struck. Had it not been for this circumstance he would have come off ill indeed, but even as it was he was sorely injured, and lay insensible in the place where he had fallen until he opened his eyes at dusk and found himself being lifted up.
"Where am I?" he gasped, as he mechanically rubbed his eyes and gazed around. "I am hurt."
"Lie still awhile," returned Crowleigh, for he it was who stood over him. "You will be yourself again directly," and raising his horn to his lips he blew a loud, clear note upon the still evening air.
"What does that portend?" asked the conscience-stricken and mistrustful knight. He feared that he was about to be carried off to answer for his misdeeds.
"There will be help soon," said Crowleigh. "Lie still, for you are hurt. You will be better by-and-by. Drink this," and he filled his horn with water and offered it to him.
De la Zouch took the water and drank it off. It appeared to do him good, for he rapidly rallied, and the reassuring words of Crowleigh had a magical effect in clearing his brow and helping on his recovery.
"Am I much hurt?" he inquired with a look of intense agony upon his brow.
"Bruised and stunned, I think, that is all. Ha, here they come;" and, as he suddenly stopped speaking, the sound of the replying horns could be distinctly heard, and within a few minutes, from different quarters, over walls and fences, the horsemen came riding in by ones and twos until at last there numbered a full dozen.
"Oh!" groaned De la Zouch, loudly, "it is painful, cannot you relieve me?"
"Where is Sir George Vernon?" inquired Sir Everard; "have none of you seen him of late?"
No one had, but they had all blown their horns, so he was sure to be in soon.
De la Zouch shuddered at the mention of the King of the Peak—he was hardly himself again as yet, but he was fast rallying, and by the time that the baron arrived he was quite ready to meet him.
"Heigho! found at last;" exclaimed the baron, as he made his way through the group. "But whom have we here; tush, where is my Doll?"
De la Zouch, for answer, began to play his game, and he only replied to the query with a deceitful and prolonged groan.
"Where's my Dorothy?" impatiently repeated the baron, disregarding the agonised look which met his gaze.
"There—miles on," gasped Sir Henry, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and pointing along the road by which he had just travelled; and then, as if the effort had been too much for him, he fell back panting upon the turf.
Sir George Vernon waited for no more, but hastily bestriding his saddle, he galloped away, bidding the others disperse again upon their search. Only Sir Thomas Stanley and one solitary retainer remained, and these from very different reasons; the former because he suspected foul play, and wished for the immediate future to have De la Zouch under his own eye; and the latter, much against his will, was constrained to tarry behind to help the unfortunate nobleman back to Haddon.
"Twenty nobles for the man who finds my Dorothy," shouted the baron as he rode off, "and twice twenty if there has been any knavery and the rogues are caught"; and as the knight of Ashby heard the sound of the galloping grow fainter he was fain to own himself so far only partially successful, and as he was lifted up to be carried away, he shut his eyes and ruminated on the probable present condition of his captives, and wondered where they were.
Dorothy soon awoke from the swoon into which she had fallen on seeing the prostrate condition of her lover, and being graciously permitted by the page to have a considerable amount of liberty, she soon busied herself in trying to restore Manners to consciousness.
Eustace, the page in question, had judged her aright. There was little fear now of her attempting to escape. Indeed, the thought never entered into her head; her whole attention was concentrated upon the one effort of restoring her lover to consciousness, and even the heart of the hardest of the rough men around her was softened by the picture of grief which she presented.
At last John Manners opened his eyes, and as he caught sight of Dorothy's tear-stained face bending over him, he smiled. His smile dispelled all Dorothy's fears, as the rising sun dispels the morning mist, and through her grief she smiled responsively back upon her lover.
Eustace witnessed his recovery with a profound sense of relief. It was in ignorance of the plot that he had been inveigled to obey his lord's behests, for though at Haddon De la Zouch had acquainted him with a part of the conspiracy, yet he had grossly deceived him. He had informed him that it was Dorothy Vernon's wish to flee to Ashby, and it was not until he was undeceived by the conduct of the maiden herself that the fullness of his master's treachery revealed itself to him.
True, he had been engaged on sundry occasions with his master in unworthy and unknightly deeds, but never until now had he perceived the outrageous conduct of his lord. His whole nature recoiled from the task which had been imposed upon him, and nothing but the extreme fear with which De la Zouch had inspired him during a long acquaintanceship held him back from releasing the two lovers on the way, and helping them back to Haddon.
He was not yet courageous enough to pursue such a course, however. He felt that his master's eye was upon him, and he could not shake the evil influence off; but, although failing in this particular, he gave them a practical token of his sympathy by offering them such food as he possessed—a small flagon of wine, purloined from Sir Henry's store, together with a rough rye cake, which were gratefully accepted as a token of friendship, and before long were thankfully consumed.
He tendered them gracefully to the captives, and without waiting to be thanked he made his way to the rear, where, forming the men in order, he divided them into two companies, and sending the one on in front, the other half walked a little distance behind, leaving Dorothy and her lover free to converse as they chose. In this order, without molestation or accident, they reached their destination as the grey light of the succeeding morning melted into the clearer light of riper day.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DARK SUSPICIONS.
But oh, that hapless maiden?—
Where may she wander now, whither betake her,
From the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and thistles?
Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now.
Or, 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm
Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears.
What, if in wild amazement and affright
Or while we speak, within the direful grasp
Of savage hunger.
MILTON.
The liberal offer which the King of the Peak made for the recovery of his daughter fired his followers with enthusiasm; for, although they had searched willingly enough before, both for the sake of love and duty, yet the tempting reward added to their zeal, and each one set out on his journey anew, feeling pretty confident that very soon he would be at least twenty nobles the richer.
As the shades of evening fell, and the twilight began to fade into darkness, the prospect of finding the maiden grew fainter and fainter, until at length the most hopeful gave up the search and returned disconsolately to Haddon, hoping that the maiden would be found at the Hall, and that with her return the chance of gaining the twenty nobles was irretrievably lost. Sir George was the last to return, and the jaded condition of his horse told far more plainly than ever words could have done how far he had ridden.
He had hoped, amid fear and trembling, that his lost darling had been found. He even half expected her to meet him upon his return; but all his anticipations were rudely dispelled. Not a trace of her had been found, and crushed by the ill news, he retired to the solitude of his dressing room, with his riding accoutrements unremoved, and gazed for a time meditatively into the empty fireplace, in an agony of fear as to the fate which had befallen her. So far, there was no clue to guide him; he could not even imagine or suspect any adequate reason for her absence; he could only ruminate sorrowfully on the fact that she was gone, and lament his inability to find her.
He was pondering in this fashion when a gentle knock at the door aroused him from his reverie.
"Enter," he gruffly and impatiently responded.
The door opened and Lettice entered. Her face was suffused with tears.
"Well, Lettice," he inquired in a somewhat gentler voice, "what is it, eh?"
"Is there any news of my mistress?" she tremblingly asked.
"None," he replied, "would God there were."
The maid curtsied and withdrew, but ere she had closed the door, the baron called her back.
"Lettice!" he cried.
She was in the room again in an instant.
"Is Sir Thomas Stanley here?" he asked.
"He is with Mistress Margaret, keeping watch in Sir Henry's room," she replied.
"Bid him attend me here, then," he commanded. Lettice closed the door again, and with a feeling of keen disappointment went off to discharge her mission.
Sir Thomas received the summons ungraciously, but feeling constrained to obey it, he bade the maid keep his betrothed company, and telling her not to let her eyes depart from De la Zouch he hastened to see Sir George.
When the good folk of Haddon awoke next morning, they were summoned to the Hall by the sound of the bell. The news of Dorothy's mysterious disappearance had quickly spread, and feeling sure that some announcement concerning her was about to be made, they quickly flocked into the courtyard curious to learn the latest tidings.
They were not disappointed. Sir George repeated his offer of the previous day, increasing it upon the impulse of the moment to fifty nobles, and he at once despatched a number of his household to renew the search.
Meanwhile De la Zouch, to revenge himself upon the baron for his behaviour to him on the preceding afternoon, continued in a well-feigned semi-unconscious state, and throughout the day he declared himself too faint and dazed and altogether unfit to explain Dorothy's absence. Although besieged with inquiries from early morning, he remained obstinately deaf to all entreaties, nor was it until the evening that he professed himself able to understand their inquiries or returned intelligent answers to their questions.
"I was almost killed by that treacherous esquire," he whined, as he began his explanation.
"Never mind that, tell us about Dorothy," interrupted the baron.
"I am coming to that," he replied. "No sooner were we started than I began to suspect mischief. I could see that Manners did not want me."
"Very like," interrupted Sir Thomas dryly.
De la Zouch felt hurt by the unfeeling remark, and he looked hurt, too, but Sir Thomas took no note of it, and the effort was futile.
"Why did you not come, Crowleigh?" he continued, changing the expression of his countenance from anger to agony, "then all would have been different."
It would, indeed, but not as Sir Henry implied.
"I was hindered," returned Sir Everard, highly nettled at the other's tone and speech. "My horse fell lame with a stone in his shoe, and I had to return."
"At Cromford he set a pack of knaves upon me," pursued De la Zouch, with the coolest audacity. "I was almost murdered; I tried to save her, but what could I do? They were ten to one, and whilst I fought like a madman, Dorothy and Manners laughed at me to my face and rode off together."
"You lie," returned Crowleigh, hotly.
"Do I?" he replied with a sneer, "then prithee what does this bespeak, and this, and this?" and he showed in turn the scratches and bruises on the various parts of his body.
"At Cromford?" inquired the baron. "Did you say at Cromford?"
"Aye, at Cromford, Sir George. I struggled hard to rescue Dorothy for thee, but it was of no avail. No man can combat ten and win."
"I passed Cromford myself and saw naught of it, nor yet had any of the villagers," said the baron severely.
"And what means this?" continued De la Zouch, pointing to the battered hat and soiled and torn clothes. "Do not these alone prove that I am speaking but the truth? Can you doubt me longer now?" and he glanced round indignantly, and acted his part so well that he almost persuaded himself that he was a much-abused and persecuted person.
"Did no one witness the struggle, Sir Henry?" asked the sceptical
Stanley. "Was there not one during all that time passed by?"
"In faith, Sir Thomas, I know not," he replied. "I found no time to look. I had work enough to do to save my skin, I assure you. He has taken her to London."
"The ingrate!" warmly exclaimed Lady Maude, who had just entered the room. "And Dorothy is worse than he. Let them go, Sir George, they are not worth the finding; let them go."
"Well, 'twas a knightly thing to do, to leave a lady; a right gallant thing, nay by my troth it was," said Stanley, severely. "And my brother is on his way here, too; what will Edward say?"
"Poor Sir Henry, we have judged thee hardly, I fear, but we must try to make amends for it now," said the dame sympathetically.
"She must be found; she shall," interrupted the baron, emphasising the last word with a stamp of the foot. "Manners shall suffer though I—"
"Tush, Sir George, let them go," interrupted his good lady. "They will want to return soon enough."
"Nay, she must be traced and brought home again," said Stanley.
"Edward would die of chagrin else."
"She shall be found," repeated the baron decisively.
De la Zouch had mentally calculated that a slight relapse in his condition would probably arouse a wider feeling of sympathy for him, and to secure this end he closed his eyes and gasped for breath, but the feeling of suspicion was too firmly rooted to be dispelled so easily, and he opened his eyes again to find his companions as cold and unsympathetic as before.
"You have not told us all," exclaimed Crowleigh. "Manners would never leave his host in so graceless a style, I know."
"Have I not told thee the truth, Sir George?" De la Zouch meekly appealed, "and do not these rents and scars bear me out? 'Tis a pretty reward for a noble fight is this," and he finished with a sigh of profound discontent.
"I believe thee," returned the baron slowly, to whom the evidence of the torn garments and De la Zouch's wounds appeared irresistible.
"And was not my poor horse lamed by the miscreants, who would have killed it outright had I not interposed myself?" continued Sir Henry. "Are all these things to count as naught, and is not the absence of the lovers itself sufficient proof? What more do you require? What have you to disprove these things? Why should you doubt me?" and he looked round in triumph, feeling sure that his reply was perfectly unanswerable.
"He speaks the truth, Sir Thomas," said the old knight. "We owe a debt of gratitude to thee, Sir Henry."
"I found this knife where De la Zouch was lying," said Stanley bluntly. "I thought it was his, and so I brought it for him."
De la Zouch gazed with horror upon the tell-tale weapon, but in an instant he decided how to parry the thrust.
"'Tis mine," he cried, hastily snatching it away. "The villains wrested it from my grasp."
"And part of the blade was buried in the horse's flank," pursued Sir Thomas. "I discovered it there when the horse dashed into the yard covered with blood and foam."
"The wretches!" interjected De la Zouch.
"And yet, Sir Henry, methought the struggle took place at Cromford, and that would be nigh three miles from where I found the knife."
Sir Henry turned livid with anger, and was at a loss how to reply, when Lady Vernon fortunately came to the rescue.
"You struggled worthily, sir knight," said she, "and I would that the cause had been more worthy of thy mettle. We cannot doubt thee more."
"I cannot contradict thee," went on Margaret's lover, "but you will show us the exact scene of the fray, Sir Henry, of course?"
"Assuredly I will, to-morrow—if I am well enough," he added carefully.
Sir George Vernon noted the answer with displeasure. He was not very strong in his belief of Sir Henry's innocence as yet, though the evidence in De la Zouch's favour would have been decisive enough for him had not Stanley shaken it so.
"Has thy Dorothy forsaken thee, then, Sir George?" asked Crowleigh pertinently.
"Why no, Sir Everard—yes; that is—I cannot say," he hopelessly replied. "It must be so, and yet, no! I cannot believe it either."
De la Zouch ground his teeth in ill-suppressed rage. Matters had taken a decidedly unfavourable turn; he was being sorely worsted, and he wished himself far away. The suspicions of Sir Thomas Stanley were pressing uncomfortably near him, and he found himself in a quandary how to evade them.