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.