A DISGUISED LOVER.
Imperious beauty,
Treading upon the neck of understanding,
Compelled me to put off my natural shape
Of loyal duty, to disguise myself.
MASSINGER
The autumn winds were howling among the trees and scattering the later
leaves in all directions, when, with the fall of twilight, a gentle
knock was heard at the door of the hut of the chief forester of
Haddon.
A lonely traveller stood outside, shivering in his rough and scanty
garments as he stood in the still evening breeze, and as he waited
expectantly at the unopened door he heard a gruff voice inside the
cottage trolling forth a simple ballad of the chase.
He waited patiently until the song was finished, and then, taking
courage, he tapped again much louder than before, and was rewarded by
hearing footsteps advance towards the threshold, and a moment later
the crazy portal was standing open, and the unkempt head of the
forester peered inquiringly out.
"What now, what now," he inquired, as his eye lighted upon the strange
figure before him; "who and what art thou?"
"Art thou Roger the forester?" asked the wanderer in reply.
"Roger Morton, at your service, yes."
"Then, by the love of heaven, I beseech thee let me in."
"Well, there are few ask that favour off me, but none shall ever say
I turned an empty mouth away at night, e'en though it were a beggar's.
Come in."
Thankful indeed to receive so ready an invitation, the traveller
entered the hospitable cottage.
"I am not a beggar, though, forsooth," he began, as he seated himself
upon the log which did duty for a seat. "You do not recognise me,
Roger, I perceive."
"Roger Morton, I repeat it, at your service."
"Well, then, Roger Morton, be it so, but yet you seem to know me not."
"Odds, troth," ejaculated the forester, "I seem to know thee somewhat;
we have met before."
"A many times, Roger."
"Roger Morton."
"Well, well, Roger Morton, I am apt to forget myself."
"Ha! you are Nathan Grene," interrupted the man, as he laid before his
guest some cheese and a mug of new milk. "I know your voice."
"Are we alone?" whispered the traveller.
"We are," replied Roger, as he picked up a stout stick with which to
defend himself, "but he would be a bold man to tackle me alone, for I
can take care of myself full well;" and he quickly placed himself in
an attitude of defence.
"Tut, I mean no ill, 'tis a matter of secrecy which I am about to
entrust you with; read this," and pulling up a piece of cord which
suspended from his neck, he drew up a tiny casket from his bosom, and,
opening it, he drew out a neatly-folded slip of paper and held it out.
Slowly and laboriously Roger spelled the missive out, and having
succeeded at last in making himself master of its contents, he
whistled with surprise, and closely scanned the visage of his guest.
"What a change!" he exclaimed at length. "What will the baron say?"
"Hush, speak gently, or we shall be overheard. The baron must not
know. Can you be trusted?"
"Surely. And you are Master Manners who killed that De la Zouch. To
think of it, now."
John Manners it was. His rescue of Dorothy had advanced his suit but
little. Lady Vernon had been too proud to own herself defeated, and
Sir George had passed his word to the Stanleys and was bound to keep
to his promise, while Edward Stanley, who had arrived at Haddon soon
after the maiden's rescue, had taken a dislike to his rival and had
made matters so uncomfortable for him at the Hall that the unfortunate
esquire had found it necessary to take the hint and withdraw himself
from Haddon.
But though driven away he was not defeated, for he yet found means of
hearing from his betrothed, and even occasionally to correspond
with her, but he soon found that the long absence grew more and more
unendurable, until at last he determined to venture forward at every
risk to be near her again.
"And so they would force Mistress Dorothy to marry Sir Thomas
Stanley's brother?" said the forester after a pause, as he handed the
little missive back.
"Yes, and Dorothy conjures you to help us. You will do it, will you
not?"
"So good as she has been to my poor little Lettice, yes, that I will
do; but how?"
"I must be a forester."
"'Tis a rough life for such as thee, Master Manners."
"Yes."
"And it is dangerous, too, at times."
"Aye, I know."
"And then if you were to be discovered?"
"Don't talk of ifs, man. I talked it all over with Dorothy long ago.
She could not dissuade me, nor can you. I am ready for anything for
her sake."
"Heaven bless her. I--"
"Aye, heaven bless her," interrupted Manners. "I shall wed her yet, if
heaven does but bless her."
"You are decided to join our craft, then?" asked Roger. "We are two
woodmen short, as luck will have it."
"I have come to be one, then," replied Manners. "I am disguised for
that alone."
And so it came to pass that John Manners, the nephew of an earl,
whose uncle, even now, was high in favour with the Queen, and who had
himself bowed the knee on more than one occasion before her throne,
had become a woodsman, and joined the foresters of Sir George Vernon.
Love, and love alone, could have induced him to humble himself so
much. It was for love of Dorothy that he turned his back upon the
Royal Court; and now, to win his bride, he was content, nay happy, to
discard his own station in life, and take upon himself the lot of a
common woodsman.
Fortune was indeed leading him by strange paths, but he trusted she
would lead him to the prize at last.
Dorothy's lot, meanwhile, had not been a bright one. Edward Stanley
was relentless, and in answer to her piteous appeals that she loved
him not, he cited the baron's words, referred her to the promise Sir
George had rashly made to Sir Thomas; he declared that he loved her
fervently, and, had it not been for the baron's interference, would
have carried her off at the end of a month and have married her
straightway.
Manners was sternly forbidden her; the gates of Haddon were closed
against him, and even an excuse was found to keep Crowleigh away as
well. It was fondly hoped that these stringent measures would have the
effect of bringing Dorothy to her senses, but their plans completely
failed. The maiden began to sicken. The colour fled from her rosy
cheeks, and she began to grow rapidly worse. Lady Vernon ascribed it
to mere obstinacy, and grew impatient with her, and made her worse
than she would otherwise have been by finding fault with everything
she did; and by setting her long tasks of tenter-stitching to perform,
making her unhappy lot more miserable still. The only friend she had
to whom she could unbosom her secrets was her maid Lettice, and during
this time the hearts of the two girls were knitted closely together,
the one by a craving for sympathy, and the other drawn to love by the
dual bond of love and pity.
Many a night had these two wept together in the darkness and silence
of an unlighted room, and many a time had Dorothy laid her head upon
her tire-maid's knee and sobbed until with swollen eyes she had sobbed
herself to sleep; and many a night had Dorothy sat alone, forbidden to
leave the Hall, while her maid had gone out on a fruitless errand to
discover if her lover had yet come.
"Not yet?" she would ask, as the maid returned, and Lettice had echoed
"Not yet," in reply, until she hated the very sound of the words.
"O, Lettice, he has not forgotten me?" she would sob distractedly, as
she saw the disappointed face return.
"No, never, my lady. Something has happened, surely."
"It must be so," her mistress would reply, and then she would relapse
into silence.
To-night Dorothy sat alone. Her eyes were heavy, for she had
been weeping long. Her sky seemed overcast; there was not a rift
discoverable anywhere, and she was almost broken-hearted. Nearly two
months had passed, and no sign of her lover had she seen to brighten
her. Edward had told her that her lover had renounced her, and in
spite of herself she almost began to believe the story. Lettice had
gone out on her mission once more, but she questioned whether she
would ever go again, and she prepared herself, as the time for the
maid's return drew nigh, to receive the usual answer, "No, my lady,
not yet."
Later than usual Dorothy heard her well-known footstep lightly
tripping along the passage. The very lateness of her return inspired
her with a ray of hope, and opening the door, she went out to meet
her.
"Has he come, Lettice, has he come?" she eagerly exclaimed, varying
for once her usual despondent query. And, as she asked, her heart
fluttered wildly within her, and the hot blood mounted to her cheeks.
"I have news of him for thee," returned the maid, gaily.
Dorothy was too overcome to speak. The long-expected news had come at
last; she fell upon the tire-maid's neck and wept tears of joy, while
Lettice drew her unresistingly along, and led her to her little room
again.
"There," she said, as she closed the doors so that none might hear.
"Master Manners sends his duty to thee, my lady."
"His _duty_, indeed," she exclaimed, with drooping eyes; "why not his
love forsooth?"
"'Twas love he said," returned the maid. "He is a forester."
"A forester!" echoed Dorothy in amazement. "My John a forester! Not a
common woodman, Lettice, surely?"
"Aye, but he is. He has done it for thy sake. It was the only way."
"And they told me he had forsaken me. Was ever man so noble as he?"
"He has sent thee this," said Lettice, as she handed a letter to her
mistress. "'Tis but roughly done, but he said you would forgive it,
and he sealed it with a score of kisses before he gave it me."
Dorothy hastily took up the note and read it. Evidently it pleased
her well, for as she perused its contents her countenance flushed with
pleasure.
"Lettice," she exclaimed, "only you and I, besides your father, know
that Hubert is the same as Master Manners. We must keep it secret as
the grave itself. Is he well disguised?"
"In truth, I knew him not until he called me by name."
"'Tis well. He runs a fearful risk. Edward or Thomas Stanley would as
lief kill him as they would a dog did they but recognise him again."
"He has been ill, and he is deadly thin."
"Poor John. He tells me so. I understand all now."
"That will disguise him better than aught else, he said."
"Perhaps it is so, but 'tis a cruel disguise," said Dorothy
sympathetically. "Did he give thee any word for me?"
"Naught, save that I was to tell thee he would write anon, as he could
not see thee. He will hide the letters in the tree that Father Philip
fell against; there is a hole in it, and he has shown it me. But you
will see him soon; he wears a peacock's feather in his cap."
"I should know him well enough without a sign," said Dorothy
decisively, "and he were best without it, for it might lead him into
peril."
"Father will send him with the logs," pursued Lettice. "He came but
yesternight."
"Hush, Lettice, is not that Lady Maude coming?"
"Gramercy no, I hope not, or it might fare ill with us," said the
maid, "but hide the letter, for the love of heaven do," she added
quickly as the footsteps quickly approached.
Quick as thought Doll transferred the missive into her pocket, and,
with a guilty look which she vainly strove to hide, she turned to
brave Lady Vernon.
Lady Vernon it was, but she passed hurriedly along the corridor, and
having escaped thus luckily so far, they waited not to tempt fortune
again, but bidding each other an affectionate "Good-night," Lettice
withdrew, and left Dorothy alone with her newly-gotten joy.