For a time Dorothy and Manners walked on in perfect silence, the one preparing to pour out the story of his love, and the other waiting and expecting the declaration.

"We had better retrace our steps now," exclaimed Dorothy at length.

They turned round and began to wend their way again towards the Hall, in a silence that was positively painful to both.

"You are dreaming, Master Manners," she exclaimed, as they neared the narrow bridge which spans the Wye just outside the gates of Haddon.

"Come, sir, declare your thoughts; let me be your confessor, for I will shrive thee right easily, and the penance shall be pleasant enough, I a.s.sure thee. Now confess!"

"I was thinking of--of love," he stammered out.

"Love! then I forgive thee," she exclaimed with a beating heart, "'tis a common sin. Proceed, my son."

"I was thinking of a little poem."

"Oh!" That was a disappointing continuation.

"'Twas a verse of Sir Thomas Wyatt's. Shall I tell it thee?"

"'Hide nothing from me,' as Father Philip says," replied Doll, brightening up again, for she was well acquainted with the verse of that unfortunate n.o.bleman, which was almost all on the subject of love. She thought she knew the verse which he would tell her, nor was she mistaken. Almost everyone knew that verse, even if they knew none other.

The young esquire fixed his eyes upon her, and began--

A face that should content me wondrous well.

Should not be fair, but lovely to behold; Of lively look, all grief for to repel, With right good grace as would I that it should Speak, without words, such words as none can tell, Her tress also should be of crisped gold; With wit, and these, I might perchance be tried, And knit again with knot that should not slide.

"Then I perceive you are difficult to please, my son," she replied.

"Listen, stay Dorothy," he said, quickly, as she stepped upon the footbridge, "surely that means you. Oh, Dorothy, let me speak. I must tell you. I cannot let you depart yet. I love you. I have loved you ever since I saw you first."

He paused, but as the maiden did not speak, he continued.

"Ever since the hawking party I have loved you. Do you remember that?"

"I do," she demurely replied.

"Nay, stay, leave me not thus," he cried, as Dorothy unconsciously moved. "You must stay, you must listen. Dorothy, I cannot flatter you like some; I speak the truth. I cannot live without you make me happy.

Will you be mine?"

"But, sir knight--"

"Nay," he interrupted, "say it is so. I am no knight, I am but a simple esquire, but though you be the daughter of the rich King of the Peak--"

"Nay, do not talk like that," she interrupted quickly.

"Let me do something to show the vastness of my love," he went on.

"What shall it be? Bid me do aught, or go anywhere; command me what you will, but say you love me."

"And if I do, what then?"

"What then?" he echoed; "I would live or die for you--for you alone."

"I do love you, then," she replied, with downcast eyes and blushing face.

Manners stood up erect, and glanced straight into the honest eyes of the beautiful girl as she stood on the bridge beside him.

"You do?" he exclaimed; "say it again."

"I do love you." she repeated; "and will be yours for ever if you love me as you say."

"What!" he cried, "you, the fair Dorothy Vernon, the Princess of the Peak, the fairest jewel in the land, you give yourself to me--John Manners, a simple esquire? I can scarce believe my ears."

"I will show you. John," she replied; "my life shall prove it. I have loved you dearly ever since that self-same hunt"; and permitting her love-troth to be sealed by a kiss, she buried her fair face in his bosom and quietly wept in the excess of her joy.

CHAPTER XIII.

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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured; 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.