THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime,
I care no longer, being all unblest;
Wed whom thou wilt; but I am sick of time.
And I desire to rest.
TENNYSON.
Haddon Hall was sighted by the two travellers just before mid-day, and
long before they reached it Manners had been despatched in great haste
to hasten them forward with the news that the poor father was almost
at his last gasp.
They needed not the urging, for they had ridden hard, almost without a
rest, and not only was Nicholas thoroughly wearied out by the unusual
exertion of riding but the horses were sorely jaded too.
In a few minutes they all three rode up to the doorway together, and
leaving their steeds to Manners, Sir Everard Crowleigh took the priest
to the sick man's chamber.
Father Philip was reclining upon the well-cushioned couch when they
entered. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep; he had
not enjoyed the luxury of a sleep for days past, and the haggard
expression of his face, and the twitching muscles of his body,
foretold only too truly that the end of the father was not very far
away.
The sick man knew it, and was willing to escape from his agony as
soon as he had received the proper consolation and preparation of his
religion. His only fear was that he would not linger long enough
to receive it, but that he might his lips were even then moving in
prayer.
Dorothy was sitting by his bedside, and as Nicholas Bury stepped
gently forward she silently arose, and, with a heart too full to
permit her to speak, she offered him her hand as a token of welcome,
and led him up to the chair upon which she had just been sitting.
Her courtesy was acknowledged by a most profound bow, but, refusing
the seat she proffered him, Nicholas reached another for himself and
sat down upon it by the side of the maiden.
It was a long time since Nicholas had witnessed so much magnificence
gathered together in one room, and tired by his long ride and soothed
by the grateful odour of the incense which filled the room, and also
struck by a feeling of reverential awe by the solemnity of the
whole scene, which readily appealed to his religious instincts, he
remembered nothing of what had just transpired, but leaned his head
upon his hand and fell into a reverie, such as he had allowed himself
to indulge in when alone in his solitary Deepdale cell.
"He is not asleep," said Dorothy, stretching forward and laying her
hand upon his arm. "He has been waiting long for thee."
Her voice startled Nicholas, who had become sublimely unconscious of
his surroundings; and incoherently murmuring some remark, maybe the
conclusion of one of his prayers, he turned round and fixed his gaze
upon the form of the dying man.
"Reverend father," he exclaimed in a subdued and quiet voice, "I am
here to aid thee."
Father Philip turned himself round with difficulty and faced the
speaker.
"Dorothy," he called.
"I am here, father," she replied, "I have never left thee."
"Take it away from my eyes, child," he commanded.
Father Philip never called her child except on rare occasions when
her conduct displeased him, and she would have felt hurt at the
appellation now had it not been for the unusual circumstances of the
case. She looked inquiringly at him to fathom his meaning, but, seeing
nothing to remove, she would have asked him what it was he meant, had
he not interrupted her.
"Take it away, Dorothy," he repeated, "I cannot see."
"Poor brother," exclaimed Nicholas, noticing the discomfiture. "I fear
me thou art blind. There is naught to take away, save the film from
off thine eyes."
"Brother, did you say?" asked the dying man. "Did you say brother; are
you then the priest? Praise be to God; I shall die easy now," and he
buried his face in the pillow and wept for joy.
"Let him lie as he is," whispered Nicholas; "he will be far easier so.
Poor man, he is indeed at the portals of death."
"The leech said so," replied the heart-broken Dorothy, and then for a
long time they sat motionless, watching with intense earnestness each
movement of the dying man.
The good father wept unrestrainedly. His whole frame quivered with
emotion as the sobs escaped his breast; until, after a time, the
sounds gradually and yet perceptibly grew weaker and fainter, and
finally died away altogether.
"He is dead!" sobbed Dorothy, after a long pause.
"Nay, see," replied her companion, "his bosom heaves, but the end is
very near. May my last hour be as calm as this," he added earnestly,
as he gazed as the father.
"Amen, so be it, Nicholas Bury," said a voice from the region of the
doorway.
The monk started at the sound of his name, but did not move; the
tapers were burning before the altar, and the curtain was drawn, and
he failed to distinguish the features of the visitor.
Dorothy, even through her ears, noticed that he was startled and
discomposed, and she hastened to reassure him.
"No harm, no harm, good father; 'tis but Master John Manners," she
said.
"You have not forgotten me, surely?" inquired Manners, stepping
forward, and throwing the light upon his face.
The priest gave a start of surprise as he recognised the visage of the
new comer.
"Forgotten a Rutland?" he exclaimed. "No, never! Right glad am I to
meet with thee again, but hush! This is the chamber of death. I will
see thee afterwards. The father moves, see."
Father Philip endeavoured to turn himself over, but he was too weak to
succeed, and he fell back exhausted.
"Oh, dear," he groaned, "I am a sinful man."
"So are we all, brother," returned Nicholas. "The best of us are very
sinful."
"Dorothy."
Doll stood up and leaned over the bed.
"Give me your hand, my daughter."
She placed her hands between the thin hands which the father held out
feebly to her, while the hot tears trickled down her face and fell in
rapid succession upon the quilted coverlid beneath.
"Will you kiss me, Doll?" he asked. "I shall never ask aught of thee
again. Tell the baron," he slowly continued, addressing the priest
now, "tell him that I blessed her and told her yes."
Dorothy bent down thoroughly heartbroken, and kissed the marble-like
forehead, dropping as she did a shower of tears upon his face.
"What is that, the holy water?" he asked, placing his finger upon one
of the drops.
"I could not help it, father," she sobbed aloud, "indeed I could not.
They are tears, but I will wipe them off."
"God bless thee, Doll, thou hast a tender heart. Nay, nay, leave them
on I beseech thee, they shall be thy last gift to the old man; I will
take them with me into my grave."
He paused, but Dorothy could not speak. She covered her face with her
hands and wept on.
"May the Blessed Virgin ever be your friend," he continued, resting
his hand upon her head, "and may the saints protect thee. I have
naught to give thee, Doll, but thou shalt have my blessing. God bless
thee, Doll, God bless thee and thy lover," and he sank back upon the
bed completely exhausted.
They sat motionless by his side for some minutes, only Dorothy's sobs
and the sick man's broken sighs breaking upon the silence, until at
last Manners advanced, and taking the hand of his betrothed, led her
unresistingly out into the garden.
Nicholas sat, after their departure, until well into the night,
watching by the bedside, before Father Philip opened his eyes again.
Many inquirers had visited the room, but they had departed again, and,
though they knew it not, they had looked for the last time upon the
familiar form of the confessor, ere he breathed his last.
As the morrow dawned the old man passed away, happy, inasmuch as
Nicholas had afforded him the last rites of his religion. As the
twilight descended the chapel bell rung out upon the stillness of the
eventide. It was the Sabbath, but amid the sorrow and the gloom which
reigned around, this fact had been well-nigh forgotten.
The summer breeze carried the sound a long way along the dale. It
had not been heard since the day of Father Philip's accident, and its
sound had been sorely missed.
But now it was no longer the herald of peace, nor the token of joy,
for the villagers knew full well that it was tolling the knell of
the departed priest, and their hearts were heavy with sorrow for the
friend they knew had just passed away.
The chapel was open. It was free for the once to as many as could
enter, and there were few around who did not wish to show respect to
the man who had surely, in one way or another, proved himself their
friend.
The limited number that the chapel could accommodate took their places
long before the vesper bell stopped ringing, and when Sir George came
in, bringing in with him the Lady Maude, and followed by his daughters
and the two guests, there was a large concourse of disappointed
worshippers outside who were bent on remaining as near the sacred
edifice as they might get. Though they were denied admittance, they
would hear the solemn chant as it sounded through the open windows,
and they felt that they would fall under the same sacred influence as
those who were inside; and whilst these latter were favoured by the
hallowing influences of the sanctuary, they were compensated for this
by the rustling of the leaves, which seemed to moan in sympathy with
them as the wind swept gently by.
Of all who mourned the loss of the father--and there were many who
regretted that he was taken from their midst--none was more sincere in
her grief than Dorothy, and none apparently was so little affected by
the loss as Margaret.
This maiden had watched the growing familiarity of the intercourse
between her sister and John Manners with no friendly eyes. She had
perceived that it was necessary to take action at once in the matter,
and at her express command her lover was even now on a mission to his
brother to secure the double alliance between the two houses of Vernon
and Stanley, upon which she and Lady Vernon had set their minds.
The absence of Sir Thomas had intensified her feelings in the matter,
and seeing Manners leading Dorothy out of the sick man's chamber with
his arm interlinked with hers, it had goaded her to such a frenzy
that, regardless of the inopportunity of the time, she had proceeded
straightway to Sir George and Lady Maude and had laid the matter
before them in a most unfavourable light.
And now, as the impressive requiem was about to be sung--a dirge full
of soul-stirring reflections and sacred grandeur--Margaret's head
was full of bitterness, and she failed to respond to the sympathetic
sublimity of the service, or to notice its serene beauty either. To
her it was nothing more than a tiresome form; her interest was centred
on Dorothy alone, and she heartily condemned herself for not arranging
that. Dorothy should not sit beside the esquire. It was a dreary and
unpleasant time to her, and when she raised her eyes from her
sister it was only impatiently to watch the deepening shades of the
approaching night as they registered themselves upon the glass-panes
at her side. The windows gradually became more and more difficult to
see through; each time she looked it had grown a shade darker, until
at length the pure glass had changed, to her unmitigated satisfaction,
in hue from clear transparency to green, and from that to black.
At length the service was over. She hailed its conclusion with a sigh
of relief, mentally promising the new confessor but a small portion
of her favour if he were always as long-winded as he had been on this
occasion; and she anxiously awaited the moment when Sir George would
rise from his knees and lead the way out, so that she might carry
Dorothy off in safety.
The time came in due course. The baron rose; the others followed his
example, and as Lady Maude, less haughty than usual, led the way out
of the chapel, Margaret eagerly caught hold of her sister and led her
away in silence across the courtyard and into the hall.