A NARROW ESCAPE.
The moon in pearly light may steep
The still blue air;
The rose hath ceased to droop and weep,
For lo! her joy is there.
He sings to her, and o'er the trees
She hears his sweet notes swim,
The world may weary--she but hears
Her love, and hears but him.
P.J. BAILEY.
John Manners found life uncomfortable enough in the new condition of
life in which he had placed himself. The work was hard, and the fare
was rough. There was no difference between his lot and the lot of
those around him, and yet, in spite of this, he was looked at
askance by his new companions, while to crown all, he found very few
opportunities of meeting or seeing his beloved Dorothy.
Often had he made arrangements to meet her at different trysting
places, but, just as often had he waited patiently, only to be
disappointed by the non-arrival of his lady-love. In this sorry plight
he had been obliged to content himself with sending messages to her
through Lettice, whom he constantly met at her father's hut; or,
failing her, as a last resource he fell back upon communicating with
his lover through the unsatisfactory medium of the tree, where, not
unfrequently, as he placed a fresh note in he found the previous one
untouched.
At last, however, after many fruitless attempts which would assuredly
have effectually daunted less ardent lovers, they found themselves
once more together in the woods. What bliss, what rapture, what
delight, filled the heart of each as they gazed fondly at the other!
Dorothy felt bright and lithesome as of yore, as she felt the touch
of her lover's hands again. The weeks of misery through which she had
just passed seemed but as a dream to her as she once more heard his
cheery voice, and the haggard, careworn look, which had settled
upon her fair face of late, was instantly dispelled as her betrothed
imprinted a warm kiss upon her blushing cheeks. As for Manners, he was
completely transported with delight, and for some moments he bathed
his hungry eyes in the sunshine of her beauty. To see her again had
been his dearest wish, and now she stood before him, and he felt that
all the sacrifices he had been called upon to make for the sake of his
love were more than compensated for as he heard her gently call him by
the old familiar name.
"John," she said.
"Well, dearest one; we are met once more."
"You can trust me now?"
"Aye, indeed, I can," he replied, with glistening eyes. "Forgive me,
Doll, I know you will."
"I do; I did long ago. I knew you could not doubt me long. How good of
you to come, and to risk so much--for my sake," she added, raising her
lustrous eyes up to his.
"Nay, Doll, it were for my sake, too. I could not be far from thee
long; the saints forfend I should. But tell me, Dorothy, how go our
fortunes now; I fear not well?"
"Alas, no! Lady Maude is stricter than ever," she replied. "Were I a
lazy serving-maid mine were a happier lot."
"And Sir Edward, what of him?"
"He wooes me with threats. Was ever a maiden won thus, John? He vows I
shall be his bride, and O--"
"What, dearest?"
"Margaret is to be wedded soon, and Sir Edward swears there shall be
two weddings at the same time. He says I shall like him well enough
in time to come. Margaret wishes it, Lady Maude wishes it, Sir Thomas
wishes it, and Edward Stanley says it shall be."
"He knows it not," sturdily replied Manners, as he clasped her to his
breast. "Our love is strong enough to conquer all that, Doll."
"I hope it will. I think it will in the end," she replied, "but the
way is very dark for us at present. But naught shall stay us now. Our
love is too true not to win."
"It shall!" he returned, decisively. "Be of good heart, my precious
one, we shall soon have passed all this and be happy together."
"Heaven grant it," replied Dorothy, fervently, "but it is a terrible
time now. With you exposed to danger every hour outside, and every
hand against me in the house, save Lettice, 'tis terrible, terrible!"
and the maiden burst into tears.
"Poor Doll," said Manners, as he tenderly supported her. "Your lot is
hard, but there will be a change ere long. The wind does not always
blow from one quarter, you know; it will alter soon."
"I fear me not," replied the maiden disconsolately.
"Oh, surely, when they see what an unconquerable will thou hast. Sir
George loves thee too well to lightly disregard thy happiness. He
loves you dearly; he will surely repent ere the time comes, for he
hath a tender heart for thee."
Dorothy laid her hand upon his arm and beckoned him to be still,
pointing at the same time to a thick mass of the thick foliage with
which they were surrounded.
"Hist," she whispered. "Methought I heard the sound of footsteps,
listen!"
She paused, and together they bent their heads and listened, but
nothing was to be heard save the rustling of the leaves.
"'Twas thy fancy," exclaimed Manners, "thou art frightened."
"I thought I saw the form of a man pass by those trees," she replied.
"It must be fancy, though, and yet, methought I saw him stop and then
pass on again."
"Sir George will stand by thee," pursued Manners, "he loves thee
better than himself."
"I know it, I know he loves me much, John; but he has promised me to
the Stanleys, and when I told him of our trothplight he laughed, and
said he was doing it all for the best. He forbade me to mention your
name ever more, or even think of you again--as if you were not ever in
my mind."
"Does not Lady Maude relent at all?"
"Lady Maude relent! Nay, rather does she grow more bitter against me
day by day, and that I may forget thee she makes me tenter-stitch from
morn till eve. Even Margaret gives her voice bitterly against me now."
"Thou hast no one to console thee, then?"
"Save Lettice, no."
"Poor Dorothy. And Father Nicholas, what saith he? He is a friend of
mine."
"He is so grave I have not mentioned it to him."
"Then by my troth, Doll, bid him meet me here to-morrow night. He
shall help us, he shall befriend thee. Tell him all, he can be well
trusted, I wot, unless he has strangely changed since he hath taken
the cowl. Bid him come here alone and without fail."
Soon, all too soon, the brief interview came to an end, and Dorothy
had to go back to the Hall, while her lover, having reluctantly parted
from her when he dare accompany her no further, slowly wound his way
back to the sorry hut which served him, in common with the rest of his
fellows, as a home.
He had no heart to join in the boisterous fun with which his
companions were making themselves merry as he entered, and passing
them unnoticed by, he took a seat in the furthest corner of the room
and watched the faggots as they blazed and burned away upon the hearth
in front of him.
Dorothy returned with a sad heart, too. The moment of bliss which had
so transported her with delight had passed away again, and she found
herself in pretty well the same downcast frame of mind in which she
had been before, for she knew not when she would see her lover again,
and she dare not let herself ponder on the terrible risks her noble
lover ran.
"Well, Dorothy," said Lady Maude, as she burst into the maiden's room
ere Doll had found time to divest herself of hood and wimple, "thou
art serving us a pretty trick. Thou would'st meet thy whilom lover all
unbeknown to us, eh? Pick up thy things and follow me."
It would have been worse than useless to have refused, and argument,
Dorothy knew of old, at such a time would have been equally futile;
so, while her blood almost froze with terror in her veins, she meekly
obeyed her step-mother and followed her through the long ballroom into
the banqueting-room below in a perfect agony of terror lest her lover
had been taken and was about to be confronted with her.
The stone-flagged chamber, in which the festive table, which has
creaked under many a load of beef and venison, still stands in
grandeur all unique, was in full glory then. The musicians' gallery
was richly bedecked with gilt, and was adorned with antlers, the
trophies of many a chase, in place of the dingy, whitewash-spotted,
pictures which, hang upon its walls to-day (and look as if they were
sadly in need of a washing). Gay hunting-scenes, and a canvas on
which, were delineated the forms of the Virgin and her Babe, met the
eye and pleased it. A savoury odour of newly-baked cakes floated along
the passage from the kitchens right into the room, and a piece of
tapestry, one of Dorothy's first attempts, depended over the doorway
of the carved wooden screen to keep out draughts, and at the same time
give a warm and pleasing effect to the interior.
It was into this room, in which sat the baron and Sir Thomas Stanley,
looking terribly grave and severe, that Lady Vernon led poor Dorothy.
"Come hither, Dorothy," said the baron, as she entered.
The "Dorothy" sounded ominous, and she advanced in great trepidation.
"You have been out without our knowledge," he exclaimed.
"Out; of course she has," interrupted Lady Vernon. "See, she cannot
deny it, she has the tokens of guilt upon her now," and she derisively
pointed at the tell-tale garments she had made her carry in.
"Hush, Maude," said the baron, "you will frighten her. Dorothy, you
have been with Manners," he added, turning severely towards her.
Dorothy hung down her head, but vouchsafed no reply. She was in an
agony of fear for the safety of her lover, but amid all her terrors
she was resolved that no words should fall from her lips which might
bring trouble upon him.
"Aye, and with Master Manners again," repeated the dame.
"What have you to say, Dorothy?" asked Sir George quickly.
"Nothing," she replied.
"Then you _have_ been with him?"
"Nay, I said not so."
"Of course she has," exclaimed Lady Vernon, "who can doubt it?"
"We heard Manners speaking; I could swear to it now," said Sir Thomas
Stanley.
"I fear it is even so, Dorothy," said the baron, not unkindly. "There
is a guilty look upon thy face. Now tell us where he is and we will
forgive thee thy share."
Dorothy returned no answer. She was determined that no words of hers
should injure him.
"He saved my life," she replied, as the question was repeated.
"Tut, tell us where to find him, else thou wilt have enough to
thank that stubborn will of thine for," interrupted the baroness,
impatiently.
There was a sound of footsteps just outside, and they all paused to
listen.
"'Tis Edward bringing Manners back," said Sir Thomas quietly. "Here
they come."
The tapestry was quickly pushed aside, and the ruddy face of Sir
Edward Stanley insinuated itself between, the fringes and the screen,
but it was not the face of a contented man, for it wore a disappointed
look.
"Bring him in," commanded the baron.
"Nay, I have not caught him yet," he ruefully replied. "Come and help
us, he has hidden himself amid the woodsmen's huts."
"You go," said the baron, addressing Sir Thomas. "I will stay with
Dorothy"; and without waiting to be bidden a second time Sir Thomas
Stanley left his untasted supper on the table and joined in the search
for Dorothy's forbidden lover.
Meanwhile, the subject of all this commotion sat innocently gazing
at the burning embers, watching the logs as they blazed up and then
gradually disappeared into powder to be blown away by the first slight
breath of wind. Surely, he reflected, 'tis so with the baron's will;
he is in the height of his determined fury now. But soon--and as the
door opened, another puff of wind blew away the airy ashes of a once
stout log--aye, surely, his opposition will vanish like as that.
"Never a soul came in here, your lordship, for a long time back,"
said Roger, deferentially doffing his cap. "Your lordship must be
mistaken."
Manners turned round and beheld, with a feeling akin to dismay, Sir
Thomas Stanley and his brother just within the threshold of the door.
"Tut, tut, man," replied the knight, "I say he came in here; he was
seen to enter, and no one has passed out since then."
Sir Thomas appealed to the others, but they were all unanimous in
supporting their master, and replied in one chorus of surprise.
Manners had not been seen for weeks, and not a soul among them had any
idea of his whereabouts.
"I suppose no one entered, then?" sneered the knight.
"No," replied Roger complacently, "not for a long time back."
"Did he not come in here?" appealed Sir Thomas to those outside.
"Aye, aye," came the answer, "he did."
"Then where is he?" demanded the knight fiercely.
"Nay, I swear by the Holy Virgin I saw him not," replied the sturdy
forester, in perfect truth, for he had not noticed his arrival.
"Hugh came in last," said Lettice's lover, Will. "Hast thou seen aught
of this Manners of late, Hugh?"
Manners' first impulse was to grapple with his pursuers, but he
controlled himself, and trusting to the perfection of his disguise to
screen him, without a moment's hesitation he boldly answered in the
negative.
"Not I," he said, emphatically. "I left my axe just outside, and it
looks so like rain that I went to fetch it in, but I saw nobody; no,
not a soul. Methinks it will rain hard, too, before the morning."
"Tut," interrupted Sir Edward. "Did you hear anybody?"
"No, not even a mouse."
"Then we must search. Out, men, and help us. The man that catches
him shall be rewarded well. We must find him; he is hereabouts, for
I heard his voice. A murrain on the fellow--all this trouble for a
woman's whim."
He glanced suspiciously round the cot, but finding no suspicious
tokens he led them out and set them to work to discover him. Few of
them, however, were zealous, for Manners had made himself popular
among them during his visits to the Hall. Dorothy they adored and
they were not at all anxious to bring sorrow upon her to oblige the
imperious Stanleys. Besides these considerations, the whole affair was
so romantic that it seemed more like an acted ballad than a serious
reality while Manners' position appealed to them in such a powerful
fashion that they sympathised with him, and had not the search been
conducted immediately under the eyes of the two nobles it would have
been far more half-hearted than it was. A few, and a few only, were
tempted to diligence by the offer of reward, and made a display of
alacrity, and amongst the busiest, with a price upon his head, John
Manners searched vigilantly for himself.