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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.d; 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 rea.s.sure 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."

"G.o.d 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. G.o.d bless thee, Doll, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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.