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 a 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 a 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.