Captain Monk speedily filled up the vacant living, appointing to it
the Reverend Thomas Dancox, an occasional visitor at Leet Hall, who
was looking out for one.
The new Vicar turned out to be a man after the Captain's heart, a
rollicking, jovial, fox-hunting young parson, as many a parson was
in those days--and took small blame to himself for it. He was only
a year or two past thirty, good-looking, of taking manners and
hail-fellow-well-met with the parish in general, who liked him and
called him to his face Tom Dancox.
All this pleased Captain Monk. But very soon something was to arrive
that did not please him--a suspicion that the young parson and his
daughter Katherine were on rather too good terms with one another.
One day in November he stalked into the drawing-room, where Katherine
was sitting with her aunt. Hubert and Eliza were away at school, also
Mrs. Carradyne's two children.
"Was Dancox here last night?" began Captain Monk.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Carradyne.
"And the evening before--Monday?"
Mrs. Carradyne felt half afraid to answer, the Captain's tone was
becoming so threatening. "I--I think so," she rather hesitatingly said.
"Was he not, Katherine?"
Katherine Monk, a dark, haughty young woman, twenty-one now, turned
round with a flush on her handsome face. "Why do you ask, papa?"
"I ask to be answered," replied he, standing with his hands in the
pockets of his velveteen shooting-coat, a purple tinge of incipient
anger rising in his cheeks.
"Then Mr. Dancox did spend Monday evening here."
"And I saw him walking with you in the meadow by the rill this morning,"
continued the Captain. "Look here, Katherine, _no sweethearting with Tom
Dancox_. He may do very well for a parson; I like him as such, as such
only, you understand; but he can be no match for you."
"You are disturbing yourself unnecessarily, sir," said Katherine, her
own tone an angry one.
"Well, I hope that is so; I should not like to think otherwise. Anyway,
a word in season does no harm; and, take you notice that I have spoken
it. You also, Emma."
As he left the room, Mrs. Carradyne spoke, dropping her voice:
"Katherine, you know that I had already warned you. I told you it would
not do to fall into any particular friendship with Mr. Dancox; that your
father would never countenance it."
"And if I were to?--and if he did not?" scornfully returned Katherine.
"What then, Aunt Emma?"
"Be silent, child; you must not talk in that strain. Your papa is
perfectly right in this matter. Tom Dancox is not suitable in any
way--for _you_."
This took place in November. Katherine paid little heed to the advice;
she was not one to put up with advice of any sort, and she and Mr.
Dancox met occasionally under the rose. Early in December she went with
Mr. Dancox into the Parsonage, while he searched for a book he was about
to lend her. That was the plea; the truth, no doubt, being that the two
wanted a bit of a chat in quiet. As ill-luck had it, when she was coming
out again, the Parson in attendance on her as far as the gate, Captain
Monk came by.
A scene ensued. Captain Monk, in a terrible access of passion, vowed by
all the laws of the Medes and Persians, which alter not, that never, in
life or after death, should those two rebellious ones be man and wife,
and he invoked unheard-of penalties on their heads should they dare to
contemplate disobedience to his decree.
Thenceforth there was no more open rebellion; upon the surface all
looked smooth. Captain Monk understood the folly to be at an end: that
the two had come to their senses; and he took Tom Dancox back into
favour. Mrs. Carradyne assumed the same. But Katherine had her father's
unyielding will, and the Parson was bold and careless, and in love.
* * * * *
The last day of the year came round, and the usual banquet would come
with it. The weather this Christmas was not like that of last; the white
snow lay on the ground, the cold biting frost hardened the glistening
icicles on the trees.
And the chimes? Ready these three months past, they had not yet
been heard. They would be to-night. Whether Captain Monk wished the
remembrance of Mr. West's death to die away a bit first, or that he
preferred to open the treat on the banqueting night, certain it was that
he had kept them silent. When the church clock should toll the midnight
knell of the old year, the chimes would ring out to welcome the new one,
and gladden the ears of Church Leet.
But not without a remonstrance. That morning, as the Captain sat in his
study writing a letter, Mrs. Carradyne came to him.
"Godfrey," she said in a low and pleading tone, "you will not suffer the
chimes to play to-night, will you? Pray do not."
"Not suffer the chimes to play?" cried the Captain. "But indeed I shall.
Why, this is the special night they were put up for."
"I know it, Godfrey. But--you cannot think what a strangely strong
feeling I have against it: an instinct, it seems to me. The chimes have
brought nothing but discomfort and disaster yet; they may bring more in
the future."