"Ho, Hubert," called one of the busy cooks as he entered the room, "lend a hand with this steer; thou hast the strength of a bullock, I verily believe."

Manners dropped the wood and good-naturedly lent the desired a.s.sistance.

"An thou would'st chop it with this cleaver thou wert a good fellow,"

continued the cook, as, having got the beast upon the bench, he surveyed its goodly proportions, and handed the cleaver to his newly-found helpmate.

"Nay, I am no butcher, I am but a woodsman, and should cut it wrong, I fear," returned Manners, as he laid the chopper down. "Were it a tree--"

"Now, come," interrupted the cook, persuasively. "I am wearied out; I have no strength left in my arm. See you, here, here, and here, and the thing is done."

"I will do it an you will serve me a good turn, too?" he replied.

"Done, then," said the other; "what is it?"

"Show me the Hall; I have long wished to see the ballroom. 'Tis a fine room, Roger says."

"Fine!" exclaimed the cook. "I should think it is fine. There's not another in all Queen Elizabeth's land to equal it. I will show it thee afterwards."

"Help me with this sack of flour," exclaimed the baker, "and I will show it thee now."

Manners chopped the carcase up, for which he was promised a share of the pie, and quickly satisfied the baker. His strength, indeed, was wonderful, and what two bakers had failed to do together, he easily accomplished alone.

"Thou shalt have a cake to-night," exclaimed the baker, admiringly.

"A milk-white cake hot off the hearthstone, such as my lord the baron loveth so well," and they pa.s.sed through the stone-flagged pa.s.sage into the banqueting-room beyond to see the wonders of the Hall.

"Nay," exclaimed the chamberlain, as they attempted to pa.s.s up the steps leading to the upper part of the Hall. "'tis against the rules, you know."

"All right, John, 'tis all right," replied the baker. "Hubert is going to help me, and you cannot stay me, I trow, or Lady Vernon will come upon thee about the cakes for the feast."

There was no gainsaying this argument, for John stood in mortal fear of his mistress, and at the mention of her name he stepped aside and allowed them to pa.s.s by.

"John likes to be flattered," laughed the baker, as the door closed upon them, "but I use a different weapon. I speak of Lady Vernon, and he always yields."

"I saw he was there," replied Manners, "else I had needed no a.s.sistance to pa.s.s through. He despises us, I verily believe, and likes to show his power. So this is the ballroom, eh? 'Tis a magnificent room, surely," he exclaimed in well-feigned innocence.

"The ballroom!" laughed the other, contemptuously. "No, this is but the dining-room. Come, I will show thee the ballroom."

"I would linger here awhile," responded Manners, with charming simplicity, "this tapestry takes my fancy so; and the ceiling, with such quaint devices. Nay, there can be naught to better this, I swear."

"Then you must stay alone, for I am busy," replied his companion.

This was exactly what Manners wanted, and as he offered no opposition, the baker left him alone on the threshold of the ballroom, and returned to attend to his duties.

It was a matter of little difficulty to find the hiding, place, for Manners knew it well, and pulling the arras aside, he slid an old oak panel along and stepped into the cavity it disclosed to await with as much patience as he could command the well-known footstep of his beloved.

A long time he waited; each pa.s.sing footstep caused his heart to flutter with expectation, only, however, to leave it to quieten in disappointment as the sounds receded and died away in the echoing ballroom above, or else mingled, maybe, in the turmoil of the busy kitchens below. No Dorothy appeared, and his heart at last began to fail.

"Surely she will not come," he murmured at length. "Lettice cannot have been," and his spirit sank within him at the thought. He was cold and fatigued, and once being infected with the idea that he was doomed to disappointment, he quickly discovered all the discomforts of his position and aggravated his misery by adding to them by his own imagination.

He had made up his mind to depart, and was about to put his resolution into practice, when a gentle voice broke the stillness of the room. He held his breath to listen. There was surely someone at the door, for he heard the handle turn; it creaked upon its hinges, and a moment later a gentle step resounded on the floor, and he knew that he was not alone. Could it be Dorothy? He pushed the door of his retreat ajar and listened intently, but only the responsive throbbing of his own heart could he hear.

"Doll!" he exclaimed.

There was no reply.

"Doll," he repeated, in a little louder tone as he pushed door and tapestry aside and entered the room. "Doll!"

"It is not Dorothy, Master Manners," replied a gentle voice, "it is I, Lettice, her maid."

His heart stood still; chilled with despair.

"Where is she?" he cried. "Tell me, will she come?"

"Nay, she cannot come; Dame Maude is with her, getting ready for the feast.

"And Dorothy cannot come," he repeated, with downcast eyes. "Hast thou seen her; has she had my message?"

"One may not speak with her when my lady is there," said the maid, "but she read it in my eyes. I would, Master Manners, I could help thee more, but I fear that cannot be."

"Bid her keep her tryst to-night, Lettice," he replied, "and thou wilt serve thee well."

"I fear me she cannot. Oft has she tried and failed; she is watched too well. An she were to pa.s.s the gate alone the whole Hall would know of it."

"Look, then, Lettice, could you come?"

Lettice often had done so before to meet her own stalwart young lover in the privacy of the wood, and she blushed at the question.

"I come?" she replied, "happen I might were I but to speak to the chamberlain first."

"Speak to him, then, for mercy's sake, speak," replied the lover, quickly. "Lend Doll your hood and shawl, none will know the difference in the dark. Tell the porter to expect you. There, adieu; fail me not, good Lettice," and without leaving her time to make reply he rushed hastily out of the room, and left her alone to carry out his instructions as best she could.

Dusk was rapidly deepening into darkness when John Manners stole out of his humble abode to wend his way to the old trysting place, whither he had been so frequently of late. His progress was watched by a pair of eager, jealous eyes, as their owner silently but surely dogged his every footstep; and when the tree was reached at last Manners lay wearily down at its foot, fully resolved not to depart from thence until he had brought matters to a crisis. At the same moment the figure of a young man glided stealthily into the cover of a bush within a few yards of where the other lay. Manners was not aware of the fact; he had neither seen nor heard his pursuer, and in happy ignorance of the circ.u.mstance he awaited Dorothy's appearance.

The night was chilly, for the snow had just departed from off the ground, and the fast gathering leaden clouds threatened to quickly cover it over again; but, buoyed up with hope and excitement, Manners heeded it not. Quietly, but not calmly, he lay, impatiently awaiting the coming of his love.

At last she came, but she approached so silently that her lover was not aware of her presence until she spoke.

"John," she exclaimed, "I am here."

He was upon his feet in an instant.

"My darling, my beloved;" he cried, as he rapturously embraced her in his arms. "This is good of thee, 'tis more than I deserve."

"Say not so," she replied. "I would do aught for thy dear sake. I have endured much for thee, but I have been happy in it because it was for thee."

"Thou would'st do aught for me, my precious one?" cried Manners. "I have much to ask of thee. 'Tis well for me thou art so ready. None shall part us, Doll."

"No, never," she replied, firmly.