A CONFESSION OF LOVE.
It was my fortune, common to that age,
To love a lady fair, of great degree,
The which was born of noble parentage.
And set in highest seat of dignity.
SPENSER.
The sun was declining, after a gorgeous display of its fiery hues;
gilding with a translucent light the grey walls of Haddon, and casting
weird shadows on the closely-cropped bowling green, when two figures
emerged from the shades of the neighbouring wood and passed into the
meadow which lies below the Hall.
Sir George Vernon had not yet returned from London; indeed, nothing
but a note from Margaret's lover had given them any information about
the two travellers since they had departed, six days ago, and although
news of them was now considered overdue, yet, in those days of bad
roads and slow travelling, communications from distant places were
never, or seldom at best, rapidly transmitted, and, bearing this in
mind, no concern was felt on that account.
Haddon, usually so gay, wore for the time being a sombre aspect. Sir
George was its life and soul, and now that he was away and exposed to
the machinations of enemies who were hungering and thirsting after a
share of his riches, a gloom settled down upon the place and enveloped
it in an ill-befitting aspect of dreariness. Baits and hunting parties
were alike abandoned; no one felt in the humour to participate in
gaieties, of whatever kind, so long as the baron was away; and the
guests who had assembled to witness the tournament had, with few
exceptions, returned to their homes feeling deprived, in a large
measure, of that succession of festivities and enjoyments to which
they had looked forward with so much expectancy.
Sir Henry was still confined to his room from the injuries which he
had received in his encounter with Manners; and Cousin Benedict, who
had stayed to take the baron's place during his enforced absence, had
found his position so intolerably lonely that he at last took refuge
in such copious libations of wine that henceforward his interest in
contemporary events entirely ceased.
This air of desolation had infected Lady Vernon, too. Her temper,
never of the mildest disposition, now became exceedingly irritable,
and finding little consolation forthcoming from Sir Benedict, she
vented her spleen with all those with whom she came into contact, and
finally shut herself up within her own room and added to the misery of
the household by obstinately refusing to hold any intercourse with the
family.
Margaret and Dorothy were thus thrown much upon their own resources,
and they managed to spend the time wearily enough at the tapestry
frame until Manners and Crowleigh paid a visit to the Hall--ostensibly
to inquire after the health of the wounded knight. Their arrival, as
might be readily imagined, was cordially welcomed by the girls,
and nothing beyond a first request was required to induce the two
gentlemen to stay; and, so once again, Manners found himself, to his
heart's great contentment, housed under the same roof as the lady of
his love.
This time, however, he had come with the firm determination to bring
matters to a crisis. He felt that his passion for Dorothy could be no
longer controlled. Her bearing towards him had fired him with hope,
but her position and her surpassing beauty had brought so many suitors
to worship at her shrine that he was driven to despair between the
conflicting emotions of hope and fear.
For a whole day he waited a favourable opportunity to carry out his
purpose, and in vain. The two sisters seemed to be inseparable in this
time of trouble, and try as he might he could not get the interview
for which he so ardently longed. The fates were unpropitious, and one
after another his artifices were defeated until at last he was obliged
to fall back upon the assistance of his friend, and ask him, as a last
resource, to help him out of his difficulty.
As the shades of evening crept silently on, and the cooler air began
to assert itself over the torrid atmosphere of the day, Sir Everard
Crowleigh opened the campaign on behalf of his companion by suggesting
that a walk would not only be refreshing to the two maidens, but also
positively beneficial. "I don't pretend to know much of the skill
of the leech," he added, "but I think that fresh country air is the
finest physic out for young ladies, both for health and beauty too."
"And maybe 'tis good for gentlemen as well," laughed Dorothy.
"It is the true elixir of life, for which the alchemysts labour in
vain to find," exclaimed Manners. "Sir Benedict knows leechcraft, let
us take his opinion upon its merits.
"Nay," laughingly responded Margaret, "Cousin Benedict, I fear, is too
much engaged in other affairs to attend to us just now."
"Why, how?" asked Crowleigh in surprise, "surely no one would be
ungallant enough not to lend their services to two such fair maidens.
Never! I cannot conceive it."
"Margaret means," interposed Dorothy, "that he has been taking too
much wine again, and then he goes wandering about the cellars and
passages until he falls down and goes to sleep. Nobody takes any
notice of him now, though, we have all got too familiar with his
ways."
"Well, we will go," decided the elder sister, "but which way--north,
south, east, or west? Bakewell, Rowsley, or where? Let us determine
quickly, for it will soon be dark."
"We are at your service," gallantly responded John Manners. "Any way
will suit us equally well." Certainly, provided that the walk was long
enough, the direction they should take was of little importance to
him. He had a more important matter on his mind.
"Let it be Rowsley way, Margaret," asked Dorothy.
"Well, then," she agreed, "we will say Rowsley, 'tis a pretty walk;
but we might first see our venerable protector in safety, then nothing
could be nicer. Follow me, brave gentlemen," said Margaret, and
the two girls led the way through the banqueting-room and down the
stone-flagged passage into the capacious wine cellar below.
Benedict was not there, but it was evident, from signs which could
not be mistaken, that he had been there shortly before. All the
neighbouring cellars were thoroughly explored, but to no purpose; he
could not be discovered, and, finding that he had just been seen in
the vicinity of the old archer's room, they turned their feet in that
direction, only to find themselves once more baffled when they arrived
there.
"No, your ladyships," replied the serving-maid, in answer to their
inquiry, "he has gone again just now; you will be sure to find him in
the kitchen, though."
"'Tis as good as a badger hunt," laughed Crowleigh, as they trailed
into the kitchen again, "but prithee, fair mistress, what shall we
gain by discovering the august knight?"
"In truth I cannot tell," replied Dorothy; "but, trust me, Margaret
has some plan or other in her head.
"Yes," said Margaret, "but see him, here he is; the master of the
house, our guardian, our protector; behold him where he lies," and she
pointed to where the too festive knight lay doubled uncomfortably up
in the salting trough.
"I expected about as much," she went on, "and I want to cure him; what
shall we do?"
"Salt him," slyly suggested Dorothy, "that is the usual way."
"Fasten him down in the box for the night," suggested Crowleigh.
"We will," she said; "here is the lid, we can easily fasten it down so
that he cannot undo it, and we will have a peep at him to see that he
is not smothered when we come back."
In accordance with this decision Sir Benedict was unconsciously made a
prisoner, as securely as any culprit in Derby gaol, and leaving him
in this position the merry quartette started off upon their evening
stroll.
Disdaining the highway, they followed the beaten path which led
through the wood to Rowsley, Crowleigh doing his part to aid his
friend by walking on with Margaret in front, and so deeply engaged her
interest by recounting some of his adventures in badger hunting that
she entirely forgot her sister, who followed behind her in a more
leisurely fashion with Master Manners.
In vain the anxious esquire sought to broach the topic which lay so
near to his heart; the words would not come, and beyond a few gallant
and courtier-like remarks--to the like of which Dorothy had often
listened beforetimes with impatience--he could not succeed; and when
at last he began to give expression to his feelings, it was in a wild
and almost incoherent manner.
As for the maiden who lightly tripped by his side, although she wore
a sober, pensive look, yet she was filled with a silent joy, and the
great fire of love which was burning in her breast she found difficult
to control. With that quick and subtle faculty which belongs to
womankind alone she had intuitively guessed his mission at the outset,
and with perceptions rendered keener by the intensity of her passion,
she was on the alert to detect his advances and respond to them with
a due amount of proper maidenly reserve. Finding, however, that he was
slow to approach the subject, yet feeling sure of his intentions and
fearing lest the opportunity should slip by, she sought to precipitate
his movements by a few, delicate hints.
"Why, we are all alone," she exclaimed, "Wherever can my sister be?
Let us hasten on."
"She is in safe hands, fair Dorothy," he replied, "and you will not be
missed awhile."
Dorothy noted with satisfaction that he had dropped the "Mistress"
from before her name, and this, she argued, denoted that he was
awakening at last, and encouraged her to venture again with another
remark.
"Margaret is such a scold," she teasingly said; "I fear we must really
hasten forward."
"Nay, we will not hurry, we should not catch her now were we to try."
"Why not, prithee?"
"Because--because: well, do not let us try," he responded. He had
fully meant to have declared his love to her then, but that "because"
stuck in his throat and blocked up all the other words he would have
said. The very intensity of his love hindered him from declaring his
passion.
"What would Sir Thomas Stanley say if he knew Sir Everard were out
courting with Meg?" wickedly suggested Dorothy. "Would he not be in a
towering rage?"
"There would be another tournament, maybe," laughed Manners, not
noticing the tender tone in which his fair companion had addressed
him.
"Poor De la Zouch will remember his attempt to provide amusement for
us for some time yet, I fear," she continued coquettishly. As her
previous efforts had led to nothing, she had started afresh in another
vein, mentally resolving that her companion was wretchedly slow in
responding to her advances.
"I fear he will," he replied; "but he is improving, I hear. Sir
Benedict seems to understand his case."
"He is like to be scarred for life, though," Dorothy returned. "Poor
Sir Henry."
"You are sorry for him," exclaimed Manners, who felt a little piqued
at the tone of Dorothy's reply, as, indeed, she intended he should be.
"Yes," she said, "I am; very sorry."
Manners bit his lip with annoyance, and made a foolish remark.
"Ha, he was your lover, perchance?" he said.
Dorothy flushed up hotly at the taunt. Manners saw it, and would have
done much to have recalled his hasty words, but they were gone.
"Master Manners!" Doll exclaimed, turning quickly round upon him; "I
have spurned him; I have told him what I think. Once and for ever have
I refused him, and he knows I shall not change."
"Fair Dorothy, sweet Dorothy," Manners penitently exclaimed, dropping
hurriedly upon his knees; "you shall be my queen. Forgive me--or
condemn. I sue you for your pardon, nor will I rise until I have
gained it."
"I will visit you to-morrow, then," she said, turning to go.
"Farewell."
Her voice was sweet again, and her brow was once more clear.
"You have forgiven me?" he cried, rising up and following her.
"What, sir knight?" she exclaimed, in feigned surprise, "risen, eh?
Upon my word, you are a fickle cavalier. Well, I suppose I must extend
my clemency to you. At what price will you be willing to purchase my
forgiveness?"
Manners was just going to tell her he would give himself and all he
had to her if she would take it, but a sudden bend in the path brought
them face to face with Margaret and Crowleigh, and the words were left
unspoken.
It needed no question to inform Sir Everard that his friend's mission
was not accomplished yet. He looked to see the sparkling eyes and
a countenance beaming with delight, but was met by a face the very
picture of disappointment; and shrewdly seeing that their company
would be in no wise acceptable at such a juncture, he adroitly led
Margaret on, still an interested listener to his wonderful tales, and
intimating that they were returning to Haddon, they passed the lovers
by.
For a time Dorothy and Manners walked on in perfect silence, the one
preparing to pour out the story of his love, and the other waiting and
expecting the declaration.
"We had better retrace our steps now," exclaimed Dorothy at length.
They turned round and began to wend their way again towards the Hall,
in a silence that was positively painful to both.
"You are dreaming, Master Manners," she exclaimed, as they neared the
narrow bridge which spans the Wye just outside the gates of Haddon.
"Come, sir, declare your thoughts; let me be your confessor, for
I will shrive thee right easily, and the penance shall be pleasant
enough, I assure thee. Now confess!"
"I was thinking of--of love," he stammered out.
"Love! then I forgive thee," she exclaimed with a beating heart, "'tis
a common sin. Proceed, my son."
"I was thinking of a little poem."
"Oh!" That was a disappointing continuation.
"'Twas a verse of Sir Thomas Wyatt's. Shall I tell it thee?"
"'Hide nothing from me,' as Father Philip says," replied Doll,
brightening up again, for she was well acquainted with the verse of
that unfortunate nobleman, which was almost all on the subject of
love. She thought she knew the verse which he would tell her, nor was
she mistaken. Almost everyone knew that verse, even if they knew none
other.
The young esquire fixed his eyes upon her, and began--
A face that should content me wondrous well.
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold;
Of lively look, all grief for to repel,
With right good grace as would I that it should
Speak, without words, such words as none can tell,
Her tress also should be of crisped gold;
With wit, and these, I might perchance be tried,
And knit again with knot that should not slide.
"Then I perceive you are difficult to please, my son," she replied.
"Listen, stay Dorothy," he said, quickly, as she stepped upon the
footbridge, "surely that means you. Oh, Dorothy, let me speak. I must
tell you. I cannot let you depart yet. I love you. I have loved you
ever since I saw you first."
He paused, but as the maiden did not speak, he continued.
"Ever since the hawking party I have loved you. Do you remember that?"
"I do," she demurely replied.
"Nay, stay, leave me not thus," he cried, as Dorothy unconsciously
moved. "You must stay, you must listen. Dorothy, I cannot flatter you
like some; I speak the truth. I cannot live without you make me happy.
Will you be mine?"
"But, sir knight--"
"Nay," he interrupted, "say it is so. I am no knight, I am but a
simple esquire, but though you be the daughter of the rich King of the
Peak--"
"Nay, do not talk like that," she interrupted quickly.
"Let me do something to show the vastness of my love," he went on.
"What shall it be? Bid me do aught, or go anywhere; command me what
you will, but say you love me."
"And if I do, what then?"
"What then?" he echoed; "I would live or die for you--for you alone."
"I do love you, then," she replied, with downcast eyes and blushing
face.
Manners stood up erect, and glanced straight into the honest eyes of
the beautiful girl as she stood on the bridge beside him.
"You do?" he exclaimed; "say it again."
"I do love you." she repeated; "and will be yours for ever if you love
me as you say."
"What!" he cried, "you, the fair Dorothy Vernon, the Princess of the
Peak, the fairest jewel in the land, you give yourself to me--John
Manners, a simple esquire? I can scarce believe my ears."
"I will show you. John," she replied; "my life shall prove it. I have
loved you dearly ever since that self-same hunt"; and permitting her
love-troth to be sealed by a kiss, she buried her fair face in his
bosom and quietly wept in the excess of her joy.