Haddon, usually so gay, wore for the time being a sombre aspect.  Sir George was its life and soul, and now that he was away and exposed to the machinations of enemies who were hungering and thirsting after a share of his riches, a gloom settled down upon the place and enveloped it in an ill-befitting aspect of dreariness.  Baits and hunting parties were alike abandoned; no one felt in the humour to participate in gaieties, of whatever kind, so long as the baron was away; and the guests who had assembled to witness the tournament had, with few exceptions, returned to their homes feeling deprived, in a large measure, of that succession of festivities and enjoyments to which they had looked forward with so much expectancy.

Sir Henry was still confined to his room from the injuries which he had received in his encounter with Manners; and Cousin Benedict, who had stayed to take the baron’s place during his enforced absence, had found his position so intolerably lonely that he at last took refuge in such copious libations of wine that henceforward his interest in contemporary events entirely ceased.

This air of desolation had infected Lady Vernon, too.  Her temper, never of the mildest disposition, now became exceedingly irritable, and finding little consolation forthcoming from Sir Benedict, she vented her spleen with all those with whom she came into contact, and finally shut herself up within her own room and added to the misery of the household by obstinately refusing to hold any intercourse with the family.

Margaret and Dorothy were thus thrown much upon their own resources, and they managed to spend the time wearily enough at the tapestry frame until Manners and Crowleigh paid a visit to the Hall—­ostensibly to inquire after the health of the wounded knight.  Their arrival, as might be readily imagined, was cordially welcomed by the girls, and nothing beyond a first request was required to induce the two gentlemen to stay; and, so once again, Manners found himself, to his heart’s great contentment, housed under the same roof as the lady of his love.

This time, however, he had come with the firm determination to bring matters to a crisis.  He felt that his passion for Dorothy could be no longer controlled.  Her bearing towards him had fired him with hope, but her position and her surpassing beauty had brought so many suitors to worship at her shrine that he was driven to despair between the conflicting emotions of hope and fear.

For a whole day he waited a favourable opportunity to carry out his purpose, and in vain.  The two sisters seemed to be inseparable in this time of trouble, and try as he might he could not get the interview for which he so ardently longed.  The fates were unpropitious, and one after another his artifices were defeated until at last he was obliged to fall back upon the assistance of his friend, and ask him, as a last resource, to help him out of his difficulty.