Heiress of Haddon

by W. E. Doubleday

CHAPTER XXVIII.

NOT YET

You might esteem him
A child for his might,
Or you may deem him
A coward through his flight.
But if she whom love honours
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards on her,
Love will find out the way.

ANON.

If love cannot sharpen the faculties of mankind; if it cannot quicken the perceptions; if it has not the power to make the deaf hear, the blind see, the lame walk—at least, sufficient for its own success—then, indeed—! But it is possessed of all these virtues, and more. If necessity be the mother of invention, then is love the mother of both; and surely the most ingenious devices and the cleverest productions had been connected with this subtle passion.

Divers and many were the plans which Manners devised to meet his beloved Dorothy again, but the success he so richly merited was tardy in coming, and one after another his schemes were frustrated, until success seemed to have receded from his grasp for ever.

Dorothy, in fact, was too carefully watched to permit of her meeting her lover easily, and she was kept too busy at the tapestry frame to allow her much time for writing to him had she been so disposed. Whenever she went out she was well attended, and for a long time Manners was fain to content himself with an occasional glimpse of her pale face as she rode by, or by sending love-notes and receiving messages back by the kindly aid of the faithful Lettice.

Still he persevered, and was rarely absent from the trysting place at the appointed time, for Dorothy might come on any night, and when she came he was determined she should find him there. But she never came. Lettice occasionally he met, but even she was suspected and was kept indoors as much as possible, and more often than not he sat his weary vigils out alone.

Good Roger Morton did his utmost to further his friend's design, sending him up as often as possible on missions to the Hall, and he went so frequently both with messages and faggots, that, seeing him so often, no one suspected that the young woodsman was any other than what he professed to be.

Time flew on: weeks passed by. Autumn brought its coldest and chillest weather for the winter to take up and carry forward. The steers were fattening in the stalls, or salting in the troughs, for the Christmas festivities. The capacious larders of Haddon were replenished to the full, ready to withstand the attack of the cooks; large piles of wood lay stacked up in the yard, ready to supply the many fires which were to cook the victuals for the feast; and the servants themselves grew daily more surprised at the constant arrival of fresh stores, and wondered if ever so magnificent a feast had taken place before.

With Dorothy the time passed slowly and painfully along. Her position had not improved one whit, and she was wearied of the life of restraint and imprisonment to which she was subjected. Her fingers were sore and ached again with the continual tenter-stitching she had to perform, and her whole nature revolted at the system of espionage which Lady Vernon and Sir Edward Stanley had set upon her. The daily visits of that unfeeling and determined nobleman with whom they would force her into marriage, Edward Stanley, always left her with a sadder heart than she had had before.

With Manners the time flew by quickly. He sorely wanted to see Dorothy again, and as the days rapidly passed he recked not of the disappointments of the past, but only thought of the few days which intervened between them and Christmas.

Surely the rumour must be wrong. There would never be two weddings at the Hall this Christmastide. He, at least, would not believe it.

"Nicholas," he said, as he met that worthy at last, "thou wilt only marry one?"

"The baron bids me marry the other as well. I would it were not so, for the maiden cares naught for him. I like not this brother; he is worse than Margaret's betrothed."

"You must help us, then."

"I must do my duty, but if in doing that I can aid thee thou hast but to speak the word."

"But you shall help us, Nicholas."

"Why, how?"

"I will tell thee."

"I am a priest, remember. I cannot do anything unworthy even for a friend like thee; though thou wert my benefactor."

He paused, as if unwilling to wound his friend by his words, and seeing the look of dismay upon the other's face, he stopped.

"Nicholas," said Manners, "thou shalt do naught but stand. I must see Dorothy. I shall," he added determinedly. "Some way or other I shall see her; even though blood be shed I shall do it," and in the intensity of his feelings he involuntarily put his hand down to his side to feel for the dagger which was not there.

"I fear thou art too venturesome," expostulated his friend, quietly.

"I am desperate," he replied; "and you, Nicholas, by simply standing still might help me as much as I require, and might, perchance, prevent bloodshed, too."

"Hush, friend John, talk not thus foolishly."

"And the blood will be upon your head," continued the distracted lover. "With or without your aid I must, I shall, see Doll; and that soon. You know my word is not lightly broken. Did I not succour thee and save thy life when all conspired against thee?"

"Aye, in truth, and—"

"And I call upon you now, Nicholas, to discharge that debt," pursued Manners, hotly. "You must; I am resolved, I am well nigh desperate; and Father Philip sanctioned the troth, Nicholas, and blessed us ere he died."

"Is that so?"

"Assuredly it is. Thou shalt help us, nor shalt thou be dishonoured in the deed."

"An you will lead me into no evil I will consent, but I fear to trust thee, thou wert ever rash and headstrong."

Two days later, ere the Sabbath mass began, there stole into the little chapel of Haddon the figure of a man, which ever since the break of day might have been observed crouched down at the bottom of the mighty brewing vat. Had anyone cared to look under the cloth which covered it they would assuredly have discovered him there.

The door of the sanctuary had just been thrown open, somewhat later than usual, for the servants had evidently overslept themselves, and were now to be heard throwing the shutters open, and bustling about in the kitchens, trying to make up for the time they had lost.

The man, by his garb, might have been taken for a labourer. His black hair hung in matted patches upon his shoulders; his clothes were torn and patched, and the coarse leather jerkin he wore, which was almost ready to be replaced by a new one, gave unmistakable tokens that the wearer was a man of toil.

In spite of all these signs the face of the man was handsome, and not without traces of hauteur. His hands were red and rough, but not hard and horny as those of other craftsmen were; and his whole bearing would have impressed a critical observer that this man at least was worthier of a better lot.

Yes, it was John Manners. He was bearding the lion in his den.

Pushing the inner door ajar, and casting a look around the yard at the same time to satisfy himself that he was not observed, he quietly entered the edifice, and closed the door.

"Ha, ha," he mused. "At last we shall meet again," and at the thought of it he heaved a sigh of relief.

Seating himself in the family pew, he pulled out a book from his capacious breast-pocket, and as he anticipated a long period of uninterrupted peace, he commenced to peruse it. It was "Tottel's Miscellany," a collection of amorous sonnets, and little love sonnets and little love songs, and he read page after page, to the delight of his heart, until he was startled to a sense of his position by the sound of voices just outside.

"No, no, Sir Edward. We must give her a little longer time, she will come round soon to our opinion," were the words he unmistakably heard.

"But you promised her to me this Christmas, remember," was the quick reply.

"Aye, so I did," returned the first speaker. "I would that I had not promised her at all, she is so unhappy over it."

"And I have laid my plans according to that promise," rejoined his companion.

"We must allow her a little longer time," replied the baron, decisively. "Manners has been again to flame her passion for him anew. She will be ready to accept thee soon, but not just yet."

"I tell her John Manners has forsaken her, but she will persist in her waywardness, and I expect, forsooth, she will do so until—"

"Tut, tut, man," interposed Sir George, "it shall not be at Christmas, as we would have had it; but even as she comes not to her senses soon, you shall take her away. Say another month, Sir Edward, another month. There, that is settled, trouble me no more, and now we will off to mass."

They were in the garden, and through the open lattice window Manners could hear them without the slightest trouble. At the mention of mass he abruptly closed his book, and replacing it in his pocket, he crept carefully into the dismal hollow under the pulpit, and pulling the panel to after him he hid himself securely in the dark recess.

"So ho!" he murmured, as he fixed himself in his retreat; "the baron is good. Another month and then, oh! and then?"

He stopped and relapsed into thought. His brow contracted, his lips were tightly pressed, and his eyes stared fixedly through the darkness of his retreat at the chinks of the panels in front, through which he could see the place where his beloved would shortly sit.

"Aye, aye," he muttered, as he fiercely clapped his hand upon his thigh. "It cannot be the worse for her, nor yet much worse for me. She must do it; I will broach it to her now. Here they come."

The pulpit was none too strong, and as Nicholas ascended the stair and shut the door, it distinctly shook and tottered to and fro over the esquire.

"Why, by my halidame," thought Manners, "the whole contrivance will fall down together and crush me."

This fear was strengthened soon, for as the priest fixed himself conveniently in his elevated position, the floor above the esquire's head creaked and groaned and threatened every minute to fall.

The service quickly began, much to Manners' relief; but oh, horrors! Father Nicholas began to preach, and by the time the lover expected to have clasped his darling in his arms, the discourse was just getting into full swing.

"Stop, Nicholas, in the name of mercy, stop," he whispered through the floor; but Nicholas heard him not, and quietly pursued the even tenour of his way.

Another half-hour had elapsed, and the situation had become well nigh intolerable. Apart from being cramped, Manners was uncomfortable enough. He felt that it would have immensely relieved him to have screamed, but he dared not do it. He wanted to cough, or sneeze, but he had to repress his feelings. The place in which he was boxed up was damp and humid, and the darkness in which he was enveloped was oppressive. He could bear it no longer, and raising himself up he groped around with his hands, and easily lifting a piece of the old pulpit flooring, he looked up at Nicholas and groaned.

Nicholas involuntarily started at the sound, but recollecting the voice, he screened his friend by his presence of mind. Without a moment's pause he stopped and indulged in a prolonged fit of coughing, while the little congregation, which had been startled by the groan, attributed the noise to a premonitory symptom of the attack, and thought no more about it.

"For mercy's sake, stop," muttered Manners. But the priest placidly resumed his discourse, and drowned Manners' voice by his own.

The sand-glass, which was affixed to the pulpit desk to mark the limit of the time allowed for the sermon, had long indicated that Father Nicholas was trespassing upon the indulgence of his hearers before he stopped; but it was over at last, and confession time had arrived.

Well knew the wily preacher that the second part of the service would not be prolonged. Sir George had never much to confess while there was a good meal awaiting him, and what Lady Maude would have said upon such occasions was always cut short when the sermon had been long, and was reserved for a more fitting occasion.

Neither Sir Thomas Stanley nor his brother ever stayed for confession. They generally found some more attractive way of spending the time; and as soon as they could do so they slipped out, heartily cursing the long-winded priest, and wishing that Sir George were not, by far, so good a Catholic.

Margaret stayed longer than the rest, and when her confession had ceased she kept the father and took occasion to consult him about the marriage ceremony.

She went at last, and then it was Dorothy's turn. The way was once more open for the brave-hearted Manners to meet his betrothed again.

"Stop!" exclaimed Nicholas, as Manners eagerly kissed the maiden's blushing cheek. "Let Mistress Dorothy perform her duty first."

There was no gainsaying this. The good father would not be argued with, and so Dorothy bended her knee, and in humble penitence confessed her misdeeds and prayed forgiveness for her sins.

The confession, though well meant, was constrained and short. The maiden was absent-minded, and though she would have entered into it with heart and soul, she found herself unable to bend her will, and even while confessing, her thoughts were fixed on her lover, whom she knew was impatiently waiting to embrace her as soon as she had finished her devotions.

"And now, my own peerless Doll," said Manners, as she rose and came to him, "at last I may talk with thee once more."

"Yes, John," replied the maiden, "at last! We have waited long for this."

"Nicholas, you will listen and warn us if anyone approaches," said
Manners.

"I pray thee forget not that the time goes on apace," replied the confessor. "I will guard the door for thee."

The lovers were alone; they were free to enjoy each other's company for a little while, and in a short time the sound of eager conversation filled the room.

"Come, now, 'tis time," broke in the priest, after a long pause. "Sir
George will be wondering at the long delay."

"A minute more, Nicholas, a minute more," was the excited reply.

"Now, Doll," Manners appealed, "I have told you all. What say you?"

"Not yet, John, not yet," she demurely replied.

"O, say not so, Doll," he pleaded, "they will never relent."

"I cannot do it, John; indeed, I cannot. I would refuse thee naught save this, but this I must refuse."

Her lover looked at her sadly. "Then we may not see each other again," he said, "till thou art Lady Stanley."

"Nay, nay," she replied quickly, "I shall never be that. My heart would break first. I shall never be that."

"Or I may be discovered, and—and then, Doll, what?"

"O don't, don't say that," she cried. "You tear my heart. I cannot do it, John; at least—at least not now."

"Mistress Dorothy, we must go now. I cannot, I dare not tarry any longer," said the priest as he came up and stood beside the lovers. "We must go at once."

"A minute more, just a minute, Nicholas."

"Nay," he replied, "we must not linger any more."

"Go, then, I will follow thee," said Dorothy, and taking her at her word the father bowed himself low before the little altar and departed.

"Not yet," said Manners, "you cannot yet! Doll, it must come to this, and why not do it now?"

"Nay, nay, John, ask me not. I cannot, I cannot do it. Adieu, we shall meet again soon, trust me till then"; and giving him a farewell kiss, she left him alone and hastened into the Hall.