Last night a proud page came to me;
Sir Knight, he said, I greet you free;
The moon is up at midnight hour,
All mute and lonely is the bower:
To rouse the deer my lord is gone,
And his fair daughter’s all alone,
As lily fair, and as sweet to see;
Arise, Sir Knight, and follow me.
The stars streamed out, the new-woke moon
O’er Chatsworth hill gleamed brightly down,
And my love’s cheeks, half seen, half hid,
With love and joy blushed deeply red:
Short was our time, and chaste our bliss,
A whispered vow and a gentle kiss;
And one of those long looks, which earth
With all its glory is not worth.
The stars beamed lovelier from the sky,
The smiling brook flowed gentlier by;
Life, fly thou on; I’ll mind that hour
Of sacred love in greenwood bower;
Let seas between us swell and sound,
Still at her name my heart shall bound;
Her name——which like a spell I’ll keep,
To soothe me and to charm my sleep.
“‘“Fellow,” said Sir Ralph Cavendish, “thou hast not shamed my belief of
thy skill; keep that piece of gold, and drink thy cup of wine in quiet to
the health of the lass who inspired thy strain, be she lordly or be she
low.” The minstrel seated himself, and the interrupted mirth recommenced,
which was not long to continue. When the minstrel began to sing, the
King of the Peak fixed his large and searching eyes on his person, with
a scrutiny from which nothing could escape, and which called a flush of
apprehension to the face of his daughter Dora. Something like a cloud
came upon his brow at the first verse, which, darkening down through the
second, became as dark as a December night at the close of the third,
when rising, and motioning Sir Ralph Cavendish to follow, he retired into
the recess of the southern window.
“‘“Sir Knight,” said the lord of Haddon, “thou art the sworn friend of
John Manners, and well thou knowest what his presumption dares at, and
what are the lets between him and me. _Cavendo tutus?_ ponder on thy
own motto well. ‘Let seas between us swell and sound’:——let his song be
prophetic for Derbyshire,——for England has no river deep enough and broad
enough to preserve him from a father’s sword, whose peace he seeks to
wound.” “Knight of Haddon,” said Sir Ralph, “John Manners is indeed my
friend, and the friend of a Cavendish can be no mean person; a braver and
a better spirit never aspired after beauty.” “Sir Knight,” said the King
of the Peak, “I court no man’s counsel; hearken to my words. Look at the
moon’s shadow on Haddon-dial; there it is beside the casement; the shadow
falls short of twelve. If it darkens the midnight hour, and John Manners
be found here, he shall be cast fettered, neck and heel, into the deepest
dungeon of Haddon.”
“‘All this passed not unobserved of Dora Vernon, whose fears and
affections divined immediate mischief from the calm speech and darkened
brow of her father. Her heart sank within her when he beckoned her
to withdraw; she followed him into the great tapestried room. “My
daughter,——my love Dora,” said the not idle fears of a father, “wine
has done more than its usual good office with the wits of our guests
to-night; they look on thee with bolder eyes and speak of thee with a
bolder tongue than a father can wish. Retire, therefore, to thy chamber.
One of thy wisest attendants shall be thy companion. Adieu, my love, till
sunrise!” He kissed her white temples and white brow; and Dora clung to
his neck, and sobbed in his bosom, while the secret of her heart rose
near her lips. He returned to his guests, and mirth and music, and the
march of the wine-cup, recommenced with a vigor which promised reparation
for the late intermission.
“‘The chamber, or, rather, temporary prison, of Dora Vernon was nigh the
cross-bow room, and had a window which looked out on the terraced garden
and the extensive chase toward the hill of Haddon. All that side of the
hall lay in deep shadow, and the moon, sunk to the very summit of the
western heath, threw a level and a farewell beam over river and tower.
The young lady of Haddon seated herself in the recessed window, and lent
her ear to every sound, and her eye to every shadow that flitted over the
garden and chase. Her attendant maiden——shrewd, demure, and suspicious,
of the ripe age of thirty, yet of a merry pleasant look, which had its
admirers——sat watching every motion with the eye of an owl.
“‘It was past midnight, when a foot came gliding along the passage, and
a finger gave three slight scratches on the door of the chamber. The
maid went out, and after a brief conference suddenly returned, red with
blushes from ear to ear. “O my lady!” said the trusty maiden,——“O my
sweet young lady, here’s that poor young lad,——ye know his name,——who
gave me three yards of crimson ribbon to trim my peach-bloom mantle,
last Bakewell fair. An honester or a kinder heart never kept a promise;
and yet I may not give him the meeting. O my young lady, my sweet young
lady, my beautiful young lady, could you not stay here for half an hour
by yourself?” Ere her young mistress could answer, the notice of the
lover’s presence was renewed. The maiden again went; whispers were heard,
and the audible salutation of lips; she returned again more resolute than
ever to oblige her lover. “O my lady, my young lady, if ye ever hope
to prosper in true love yourself, spare me but one half-hour with this
harmless kind lad. He has come seven long miles to see my fair face, he
says; and, O my lady, he has a handsome face of his own. O, never let it
be said that Dora Vernon sundered true lovers! But I see consent written
in your own lovely face,——so I will run; and, O my lady, take care of
your own sweet, handsome self, when your faithful Nan’s away!” And the
maiden retired with her lover.
“‘It was half an hour after midnight when one of the keepers of the
chase, as he lay beneath a holly-bush listening, with a prolonged groan,
to the audible voice of revelry in the hall, from which his duty had
lately excluded him, happened to observe two forms approaching; one of
low stature, a light step, and muffled in a common mantle; the other
with the air and in the dress of a forester, a sword at his side and
pistols in his belt. The ale and the wine had invaded the keeper’s brain
and impaired his sight; yet he roused himself up with a hiccup and a
“Hilloah,” and “Where go ye, my masters?” The lesser form whispered to
the other, who immediately said, “Jasper Jugg, is this you? Heaven be
praised I have found you so soon; here’s that north-country pedler,
with his beads and blue ribbon, he has come and whistled out pretty Nan
Malkin, the lady’s favorite and the lord’s trusty maid. I left them under
the terrace, and came to tell you.”
“‘The enraged keeper scarce heard this account of the faithlessness of
his love to an end; he started off with the swiftness of one of the deer
which he watched, making the boughs crash, as he forced his way through
bush and glade direct for the hall, vowing desertion to the girl and
destruction to the pedler. “Let us hasten our steps, my love,” said the
lesser figure, in a sweet voice; and unmantling as she spoke, turned back
to the towers of Haddon the fairest face that ever left them,——the face
of Dora Vernon herself. “My men and my horses are nigh, my love,” said
the taller figure; and taking a silver call from his pocket, he imitated
the sharp, shrill cry of the plover; then turning round, he stood and
gazed towards Haddon, scarcely darkened by the setting of the moon,
for the festal lights flashed from turret and casement, and the sound
of mirth and revelry rang with augmenting din. “Ah, fair and stately
Haddon,” said Lord John Manners, “little dost thou know thou hast lost
thy jewel from thy brow, else thy lights would be dimmed, thy mirth would
turn to wailing, and swords would be flashing from thy portals in all the
haste of hot pursuit. Farewell, for a while, fair tower, farewell for
a while. I shall return and bless the time I harped among thy menials
and sang of my love, and charmed her out of thy little chamber window.”
Several armed men now came suddenly down from the hill of Haddon, horses
richly caparisoned were brought from among the trees of the chase, and
the ancestors of the present family of Rutland sought shelter, for a
time, in a distant land, from the wrath of the King of the Peak.’”
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