FATHER PHILIP'S ACCIDENT.
And thou hast loved him! Faith, what next?
It had been better far for thee
That thou had'st ne'er been born, than this.
Brood on thy folly, and return,
But when thou hast repented on't.
A WOMAN'S WHIM.
As the two lovers, happy in their newly-pledged love-troth, entered
the gateway of the Hall they were encountered by the news that Father
Philip had met with an accident. Margaret and Sir Everard Crowleigh
had not yet returned, and messengers were even then, by the
chamberlain's commands, preparing to go out to secure aid.
"'Tis a sad mishap, my lady," said that functionary, as Dorothy
entered. "That stupid old horse of his threw him against a tree, and
we cannot find Sir Benedict anywhere; the poor father is bleeding
to death. He's dying, my lady, dying; what will the baron do if he
return?"
"Hush! Thomas, of course he will return."
"May the blessed Virgin take pity on us," pursued the wretched man,
"there is an evil spirit o'er the place. Someone is working a spell
against us."
"Where is the father?" asked Manners abruptly.
"He lies in the chaplain's room; I can hear him groaning now. The
saints look down in----"
Dorothy passed on, heeding not the continued invocations which the old
man made to all the saints in the calendar, and led her lover into the
little room in which the unfortunate priest lay.
The portly form of Father Philip lay stretched at full length upon a
wooden bench, and the room resounded with his painful groans. As they
approached nearer to him they could see the fearful injuries he had
received; and the continued reiteration of the sufferer that he was
about to die needed no other confirmation than a glance at his pale
face, upon which the mark of death was plainly written.
Father Philip, despite his faults, was universally beloved in the
neighbourhood--by the poor for the bounty he dispensed at the gates
from the well-stocked larder of the knight; by the rich because he
was by far the best tale-teller of the district, and the success of a
feast at which he was present was at once assured; and by the children
generally, for the confections and little silver pence he bestowed
upon them, along with his kind word and cheery smile, in a most
liberal manner.
At Haddon he was a prime favourite with all alike. He had entered the
service of the Vernons soon after the monasteries were dissolved, in
the time of Henry VIII., and had grown old in his office. Throughout
the critical and changeful reigns of Edward and Mary, as well as the
early years of Elizabeth's time, he had, in spite of all the attempts
made to oust him, retained his position as confessor to the family and
priest of the chapel at Haddon, and, as he had christened Margaret, he
was looking forward with pleasurable expectancy to the occasion when
he would be called upon to marry her also.
Leaving Dorothy standing on the threshold of the doorway, Manners
advanced to the injured man's side, and endeavoured to sooth him by
instilling into his mind a ray of hope.
"O, Dorothy," gasped the priest, disregarding the words of his
would-be comforter, "I am dying, dying like a dog. O, for some of
Dame Durden's simples now. For the blessed Virgin's sake fetch Sir
Benedict. O, dear! O, dear!" and he sank back with a groan.
Dorothy turned, and with a fast-beating heart hastened to deliver the
captive knight, while her lover endeavoured to staunch the flow of
blood by binding the wound tightly up in strips of cloth.
By dint of much shaking and shouting cousin Benedict was at last
roused from his drunken sleep, and also at last was made to understand
somewhat of the exigencies of the case for which his aid was needed.
"I will come soon," he exclaimed, in answer to Dorothy's entreaties.
"You must come now!" she replied, in a peremptory tone, which admitted
of no prevarication.
"Where is the wine?" he asked, as he rubbed his eyes and glanced
around; "why, this is the kitchen."
"Come along, Benedict; Father Philip is dying, I tell you. Do you
understand?"
Benedict à Woode stood up as still as he was able, and rubbed off a
quantity of the salt which tenaciously adhered to his garments, then,
noticing for the first time that he was in the great salt trough, he
exclaimed in a tone of great surprise, "What! have I been here?"
"You have," she answered severely, "but why do you not come and
succour Father Philip? He is bleeding to death, while you, who are
staying here, might help him."
As the knight rapidly collected his scattered senses, he became
more and more ashamed of himself; and now, clambering out of his
ignominious confinement, with bowed head and tottering feet he humbly
followed his fair companion across the yard. Not even the gigantic
vat, which was still steaming from a recent brew, the pungent odour
of which could be plainly scented, induced him to alter his course; he
meekly entered the room at Dorothy's heels.
Whatever effects of his recent indulgence remained with him before he
entered the room, they were quickly dispelled as he beheld the
pallid countenance of his friend, and falling down upon his knees, he
scrutinised the injuries the venerable father had received.
A brief examination satisfied Benedict that, unskilled as he was, the
case was entirely beyond his power, and he knew not what to do. He
unloosened the bandages which Manners had made, and let the already
over-bled man bleed still more; and then, bethinking himself of
summoning superior aid, he hastily concocted a dose of simples,
which the sufferer could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take,
despatched a mounted messenger to Derby, and sat himself down at the
foot of the bench to await the course of events.
The effect produced by the dose was evidently what Benedict had
wished, and for a long time the sufferer was far more quiet.
"O, Benedict," he feebly exclaimed, "my head, my head!"
"Well, it will be better soon."
"Nay, I know I'm dying; 'twas a fatal fall, and I cannot shrive
myself."
Benedict saw that his patient was getting excited, and he mixed
another draught, which the father absolutely refused to take.
"Oh, dear, I'm dying, dying," he gasped.
"Tut, man! rubbish. There's life enough left yet in you. We shall be
out together again in a day or two."
"Send for another brother," pursued the unfortunate man. "I am dying;
my end has come, and I know it."
"Tut, man!" returned the knight, "I tell you you will be better soon."
"A witch told me I should die like this," continued the father
obstinately, "and the time has come. I am too old to survive it now."
"Go to sleep, father," interrupted Manners, "you ought not to talk
now; you want rest."
"Yes, sleep," assented à Woode.
"I cannot, I am dying," he gasped; and he groaned in agony again and
again.
"Father Philip," interposed Dorothy, "you must rest yourself. Master
Manners is a soldier and has seen many hurt like you, and even worse;
you must do his bidding an you would get well again."
"What in the name of faith does all this mean?" asked Margaret, as she
stepped into the room. "What is all this stir and commotion about?"
"I am dying, Margaret," repeated the confessor, as he gasped for very
breath. "I thought to marry thee, my daughter, but now it is denied
me. You will pray for the repose of the soul of Father Philip, will
you not?" he inquired, looking up into her face as she bent over him.
"When you are dead, yes," she replied, "but not until."
"Don't talk to him, Mistress Margaret," said Manners; "he will only
injure himself by talking in return. I have enjoined quietness, but he
will take no heed. He ought to refresh himself by quietness, and sleep
if possible, does he not; is not that correct, Everard?"
"Aye, it is indeed,"
"I shall be dead soon, Margaret, and--"
"Go to sleep, man, or at least lie still," growled à Woode. "What is
the use of all my care and simples if you won't do as I order you?"
"And you will ask the baron to forgive an old man's follies,
Margaret?" slowly pursued the father, between the gasps, quite
heedless of the counsel given him to remain silent.
"I'll stop this," Sir Benedict broke in savagely, as he proceeded to
tie the bandages on afresh. "Father Philip, you shall be silent, or
die you must. That's better," he exclaimed, as his patient fell back
unconscious. "He will, perforce, be quiet now awhile, and we may
safely remove him to his room."
"Is he badly hurt, think you?" asked Margaret.
"I don't think he will ever get better again," Benedict gravely
replied; "he is old, and it is a terrible wound."
"Neither do I think he will weather it," added Crowleigh; "I have seen
men hurt like that before, fair Mistress Margaret, and we soldiers
soon recognise the mark of death."
Slowly and with great care the poor father was carried into the hall,
and as soon as he was laid upon his bed, seeing that there were
no signs of returning consciousness, Margaret and Dorothy quietly
retired.
"Meg," exclaimed the younger sister, with glistening eyes, as they sat
in cheerless solitude before the blazing logs in their own room, "I
have something to tell thee, and I shall mayhap want your aid ere I
have done."
She stopped short, to see if her sister had guessed her secret, but it
was apparently undiscovered, so she went on.
"I don't expect Lady Maude will be very willing; she always opposes
us, does she not?"
"Sometimes," said Margaret drily.
"He is not so rich as De la Zouch," pursued Dorothy, "so I don't think
she will agree to it at first."
"To what? What do you mean? Father Philip's accident has turned your
head, I verily believe," replied her sister, as a terrible suspicion
of the truth flashed into her imagination.
"Nay, Meg, dear, listen. I have plighted my troth to-night."
Margaret jumped from her seat as if stung, and her face turned livid
with anger.
"What!" she exclaimed, "you have dared to plight your troth to Master
Manners?"
"To John Manners, yes."
Her voice was quiet and her bearing firm, nor was she half so agitated
as her sister, a fact which Margaret was slow to understand.
"Speak fair, Dorothy," she said, as she tried to persuade herself that
she had misunderstood her meaning. "None of your riddles for me. You
are joking, surely."
"Nay, I am in earnest, Meg. Ask him yourself; he will tell you whether
I was joking an hour ago. De la Zouch knows I would perish rather
than be his countess. I told him so myself. And oh! Meg, dear, I am so
happy now, for I love John Manners so very, very much."
"'Tis a sad night's work for _you_", burst out Margaret. "What right
have you, prithee, to make arrangements such as these? You are to be
betrothed to a brother of Sir Thomas Stanley. Edward is coming from
the Isle of Man within a month to arrange it all, and a nice affair
have you made it with your forwardness."
"Edward Stanley?" echoed Doll, in blank dismay.
"Yes, surely."
"Never," she replied, decisively; "I will have none of him, nor could
I if I would. I am betrothed already."
"You foolish child," returned Margaret. I must rate this Master
Manners for his presumption. Sir Thomas will have talked the matter
over with your father ere now, as they journeyed up to London."
"It will be of no use even if he has. John Manners has my pledge, and
I shall keep it with him, too."
"Tut, child, this is idle talk. By now the matter is all arranged
for you, and very thankful ought you to be. If Master Manners is a
gentleman----"
"He _is_ a gentleman."
"He will think no more about you, then, after he knows the facts,"
said Margaret sharply, and passing out of the room she left Dorothy
alone to her tears, while she tried to discover the happy esquire to
give him a piece of her mind.