The lively tune pursued the even tenour of its way; the burly form of the leader screened him well from view, and that functionary was too much engrossed in the execution of the piece to remark the peculiar conduct of his companion.
Dorothy lingered to look at the pictures she knew so well; but Sir Edward tarried at her side. It was evident he was not at all disposed to leave her, and Dorothy herself at last gave up all hopes of his doing so.
Sir Edward said something to her, but the noise drowned the sound of his voice, and Manners could not hear what it was he had said, but the next moment she permitted Stanley to lead her towards the door. The poor minstrel's heart sank at the sight. Was this, then, the fulfilment of Lettice's promise? Had he so misjudged the character of his beloved? He dismissed the thought, for he could not believe it even then.
No, it was not so. Dorothy paused and turned back. Manners involuntarily stood up and followed her with his eyes. Margaret and her betrothed were behind, and to them she went. His spirits revived again.
She laughingly raised her fan and pointed to the carving on the wall.
Was the black knot on? He gasped for breath as he anxiously looked to see. It surely was not there. At all events he could not see it, but then his eyes might be deceiving him, for she was at the further end of the room. Ah! would she only drop the fan which was held up in her trembling hand, and then—
With a clatter the fan dropped upon the pavement. Sir Edward gallantly stooped down and returned it to its fair owner, but Manners waited to see no more. She was his; the signal had been given, and picking up his instrument he set to and contributed as good a share to the gladsome melody as any of his fellows.
CHAPTER XXXII.
PLAIN JOHN MANNERS WINS HIS BRIDE.
One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door the charger stood near:
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur,
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
SCOTT.
Fast waxed the fun at Haddon, and loud above the strains of music rose the sounds of merriment in the grand old Hall.
It was the bridal night. Margaret Vernon had redeemed her troth-plight, given to Sir Thomas Stanley early in the summer, and in the former part of the day she had been joined in holy wedlock with her lover by Father Nicholas Bury, with more of the Roman Catholic ritual than Queen Elizabeth's ministers would have approved of had they known it.
Never had Haddon been so full of visitors before. Never had it been so gay. None who came had been turned away. The baron kept an open house, and whilst the rooms of the Hall were strained to the uttermost to find accommodation for the numerous guests, the gate had been thronged throughout the livelong day by an eager crowd of expectant beggars, none of whom had gone away with empty hands.
But now the night was closing in, and the visitors were determined to make the most of it. Sir George was almost ubiquitous. Here, there, wherever the mirth was loudest, there the form of the jovial baron was sure to be found. Old knights and equally elderly dames congregated together in the capacious oriel windows, and, with the tapestry curtains drawn aside, talked of the good old times of "Bluff King Hal," and pointed out with pride of superiority of their own happy age to these degenerate days. Middle-aged matrons sat proudly watching their offspring as they flitted to and fro, and noted with much satisfaction the matchless beauty of their own daughters, and the mediocrity of the rest; or, were they so inclined, footed it, as of old, with equally middle-aged gallants. Sir Benedict à Woode soon retired from the scene, and taking advantage of his intimate knowledge of the building, he led a few convivial spirits, like himself, into the wine-cellar, which they did their utmost to empty, until, having imbibed too much, they were fain to lie down, through sheer inability to stand.
It was from the rising generation, however, that the greatest merriment arose. These, paired off in ever changing couples, whirled from one end of the room to the other, and then, without a pause, returned again, heedless alike of the gratulations of their elder friends as they passed them by, and of the indifferent gaze of those who were not their friends who looked at them with jealous eyes.
Dorothy, with a heavy load at her heart, wore a bright and even smiling face. She received the flattering service of her admirers as of old, and danced impartially with all who asked for the privilege.
Even Sir Edward Stanley, although she cordially disliked him, came in for a goodly share of her favours. He had noted a change in her conduct of late, and that change was for the better. He imagined that she was readier to accept his advances, and when he had communicated his thoughts to his brother, they were confirmed in almost every respect. Sir Thomas had remarked exactly the same change, and they readily ascribed it to a yielding of the maiden's spirit.
Little did they suspect that this alteration in her bearing was due to any other cause than that Manners was being forgotten, and in his happiness at the change, Sir Edward was content to let her enjoy herself as she listed, feeling sure that ere the end of another month there would be another bridal party, in which Dorothy Vernon and himself would be the principal actors.
When the merriment was at its highest, and the boisterousness was at its climax, Dorothy remembered that the time was fast approaching when she would have to depart. Her lover—he who had risked so much for her sake—would be waiting in the cold meadow with the horses waiting for her! and she sank down to rest, well knowing the terrible strain she would soon be called upon to endure.
"Fair Mistress Dorothy is tired, I perceive," quoth a young knight, as he approached her, longing for her company in another dance.
"Aye," she answered. "I have danced too much, sir knight, and my shoe pinches too," she added, with perfect truth.
"Then by my troth," responded the gallant youth, "I swear you have a full small shoe."
"Come, Dorothy," said Margaret as she came up to her sister's side, "here is a gentle knight who would dance with thee," and she gravely introduced the veteran cavalier De Lacey.
"You will forgive me awhile, will you not, Sir John?" said Dorothy, "for I am wearied and the room is over hot," and smiling back at the gracious reply of the old knight, who accepted her excuse, she retired to the corner of the room, while the disappointed De Lacey proceeded to join company with Sir Benedict à Woode, and found solace in quaffing the baron's wine.
Dorothy's heart was beating fast; the critical moment had come. She was close beside the door which led into the ante-chamber, and a slight noise in that apartment recalled to her memory the fact that her faithful maid Lettice was waiting for her there.
She lingered, and her resolution wavered. It was hard to go and leave behind the scenes of merry childhood and all the pleasant recollections connected with the home; and as she sat there undecided, many pleasant recollections rushed back into her memory and pleaded powerfully with her tender heart. But the greatest pang of all was the parting from the baron. She loved him sincerely, and she knew that he loved her dearly in return. This it was which now held her back, but the movements of her maid in the adjoining room continually reminded her that her lover would be waiting for her with an anxious heart.
The struggle which raged in her breast was bitter, but short and decisive. The love she bore to Manners outweighed all other considerations, and casting a last fond look at the scene from which she was about to tear herself, she chose a moment when a peal of laughter at the further end of the room attracted the attention of the company, and slipping behind the tapestry curtain, she pushed the door gently open and stole quietly through.
It was a desperate thing to do, and required all the nerve that Dorothy had at her command. How the door creaked as she closed it after her. It must, surely, call attention to the fact that she had passed through. But no one came, and she flung herself into the arms of her maid, trembling like an aspen leaf with fear.
"Oh, Lettice," she sobbed, "tell the baron I love him still, and
Margaret, too. Poor Meg! 'tis hard to be severed thus."
"Hush, my lady," replied the maid. "This is no time for weeping. Master Manners hath been here awaiting thee. I bade him go, for that were neither safe for him nor thee."
"You shall join us soon, Lettice. But, O! give my duty to the baron. I should care naught were it not for him—and Meg; but Margaret is happy now."
"And so shalt thou be soon. But haste! moments are precious now. Thy gown and everything has gone, and the brave Master Manners waits for thee alone. There, go. Hark! someone is coming," and throwing a shawl over the graceful shoulders of her mistress, Lettice affectionately embraced her, and watching her hasten down the steps she waited until Dorothy was out of sight before shutting and barring the doors behind her.
As Dorothy passed the ballroom, she could hear distinctly the sounds of merriment within, but she heeded them not. The lights shone through the open oriel windows right upon her path, but she crept under the shadow of the wall and passed hastily on. It was a trying time, but she safely passed through it, and quickly found herself at the little latchet gate below the bowling green. It stood open, and through it she hastened, casting neither a look to the right nor to the left, nor yet behind her, but only anxious that her escape should be unknown. Down the slope she ran, nor did she stop until she found herself clasped in the fond embrace of her lover, upon the footbridge.
"My darling," murmured Manners, "thou art come at last. God bless thee, my love," and he kissed the tear-stained face over and over again.
"I am ready, John," she murmured; "but quick, hasten! our start will be short, for they will mark my absence soon."
Bestowing another shower of kisses upon her, Manners led her across the narrow bridge. How gaily the water danced and sparkled and made melody amongst the stones! How the wind sighed sweetly and whispered among the trees, and how the strains of music and the sounds of revelry sounded through the open windows of the Hall. But of all the sounds that Manners heard there was none which thrilled him so much, or caused him so much happiness, as the sound of Dorothy's dress as it rustled against the walls of the narrow bridge when they passed through.
Once on the other side there was no delay. The horses were in waiting, and seizing the bridle of one, Manners helped Dorothy to mount into the saddle, and then lightly springing into another, he set spurs to his steed and away they started.
The most sequestered roads were chosen, for they wished to see as few people as possible, and to be seen by none. But Manners did not trust to this alone. He felt the preciousness of his charge, and had brought horses and men with him, whom he sent off in couples by different roads, to lead their pursuers on a false scent if pursuit were made.
All through the night they rode. Scenes which charmed them before they now passed by unnoticed, and their grandeur was ignored. Masson's heights, up which they had often wandered together, instilled no pleasant thoughts within their breasts now; their one object, which engrossed all their attention, was to hasten forward to gain a haven of safety.
As the grey light of the morning broke upon them, and the rising sun began to make its appearance, they crossed the border, and passed out of the county of Derby into the neighbouring shire of Leicester. Still they pushed on, for there was no telling how soon their pursuers might be upon them; nor did they draw rein until well into the morning, when, though Dorothy, animated for the time being with a wonderful amount of endurance, gave her voice for hastening forward, Manners deemed it advisable, for her sake, to stay.
They stopped their steeds at a wayside inn, but here so unusual a sight as two travellers on horseback—one a maiden of surpassing beauty, clothed in rare and costly silks, and the other a gallant young knight—soon caused a little crowd of curious rustics to congregate around the house.
"Poor lady," exclaimed one tender-hearted matron, as she watched Dorothy dismount. "She is of gentle blood; just see how weary she looks."
"Didst ever see the likes of such a riding dress afore?" asked her neighbour, as she eyed Doll's dress admiringly.
"Beshrew me," added an onlooker of the sterner sex, "'tis a runaway match, I'll warrant me. These horses are ridden to death."
Neither Dorothy nor Manners was disposed to stay any longer than was necessary amid such a curious people, and after partaking of a good breakfast, and indulging in a little rest, they started on their way again, with a fresh relay of horses.
This time they never stopped until they rode up to the little church, within which the shivering clergyman sat, anxiously awaiting the couple whom he had engaged to marry.
He was ignorant of the plot, and though he might have guessed it pretty well, he was by no means anxious to lose by over-inquisitiveness the handsome fee which the young man had promised. He only chafed at their delay, and when at length they arrived and entered the sacred edifice he proceeded straightway with the service, quite as anxious to get it over, so that he might partake of his breakfast, as were the couple before him, and almost as quickly as they could have wished.
"Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?" said the parson, as he gabbled on with the service.
"Aye, I will!" responded Manners, in a clear ringing voice which was echoed among the rafters of the roof, and he took her to his bosom and sealed the pledge with a kiss—a proceeding so unusual and peculiar that the good clergyman opened his eyes and mouth, until finally he came to a full stop.
"I will!" repeated Manners, addressing the parson, "but why do you stop?" and he looked suspiciously behind to see if his pursuers had come to rob him of his prize. There was no one there, however, save a few rustics, who, prompted by sheer curiosity, had entered the church and stood lingering just within the sacred portal, and in a few minutes more the lovers emerged from the little church, safely joined together in the bonds of holy wedlock, followed by the parson, who wore a smiling face, inasmuch as he had been rewarded with a gift far beyond his utmost expectations. But the two lovers were far happier than he, and with the certificate of marriage, signed, sealed, and entered in the register, they remounted their steeds and proceeded at a steady pace to Nottingham Castle, where, the Earl of Rutland having unexpectedly returned, he extended a right hearty welcome to his nephew and his beautiful bride.
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