"_I would never let them be heard_," she said impressively. "I would
have them taken down again. The story went about, you know, that poor
George West in dying prophesied that whenever they should be heard woe
would fall upon this house. I am not superstitious, Godfrey, but----"
Sheer passion had tied, so far, Godfrey Monk's lips. "Not
superstitious!" he raved out. "You are worse than that, Emma--a fool.
How dare you bring your nonsense here? There's the door."
The banquet hour approached. Nearly all the guests of last year were
again present in the warm and holly-decorated dining-room, the one
notable exception being the ill-fated Parson West. Parson Dancox came in
his stead, and said grace from the post of honour at the Captain's right
hand. Captain Monk did not appear to feel any remorse or regret: he was
jovial, free, and grandly hospitable; one might suppose he had promoted
the dead clergyman to a canonry instead of to a place in the churchyard.
"What became of the poor man's widow, Squire?" whispered a gentleman
from the neighbourhood of Evesham to Mr. Todhetley, who sat on the left
hand of his host; Sir Thomas Rivers taking the foot of the table this
year.
"Mrs. West? Well, we heard she opened a girls' school up in London,"
breathed the Squire.
"And what tale was that about his leaving a curse on the chimes?--I
never heard the rights of it."
"Hush!" said the Squire cautiously. "Nobody talks of that here. Or
believes it, either. Poor West was a man to leave a blessing behind him;
never a curse."
Hubert, at home for the holidays, was again at table. He was fourteen
now, tall of his age and slender, his blue eyes bright, his complexion
delicately beautiful. The pleated cambric frill of his shirt, which hung
over the collar of his Eton jacket after the fashion of the day, was
carried low in front, displaying the small white throat; his golden hair
curled naturally. A boy to admire and be proud of. The manners were
more decorous this year than they ever had been, and Hubert was allowed
to sit on. Possibly the shadow of George West's unhappy death lay
insensibly upon the party.
It was about half-past nine o'clock when the butler came into the room,
bringing a small note, twisted up, to his master from Mrs. Carradyne.
Captain Monk opened it and held it towards one of the lighted branches
to read the few words it contained.
"_A gentleman is asking to speak a word to Mr. Dancox. He says it
is important._"
Captain Monk tore the paper to bits. "_Not to-night_, tell your
mistress, is my answer," said he to Rimmer. "Hubert, you can go to your
aunt now; it's past your bed-time."
There could be no appeal, as the boy knew; but he went off unwillingly
and in bitter resentment against Mrs. Carradyne. He supposed she had
sent for him.
"What a cross old thing you are, Aunt Emma!" he exclaimed as he entered
the drawing-room on the other side the hall. "You won't let Harry go in
at all to the banquets, and you won't let me stay at them! Papa meant--I
think he meant--to let me remain there to hear the chimes. Why need you
have interfered to send for me?"
"I neither interfered with you, Hubert, nor sent for you. A gentleman,
who did not give his name and preferred to wait outside, wants to see
Mr. Dancox; that's all," said Mrs. Carradyne. "You gave my note to your
master, Rimmer?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied the butler. "My master bade me say to you that his
answer was _not to-night_."
Katherine Monk, her face betraying some agitation, rose from the piano.
"Was the message not given to Mr. Dancox?" she asked of Rimmer.
"Not while I was there, Miss Katherine. The master tore the note into
bits, after reading it; and dropped them under the table."
Now it chanced that Mr. Dancox, glancing covertly at the note while the
Captain held it to the light, had read what was written there. For a few
minutes he said nothing. The Captain was busy sending round the wine.
"Captain Monk--pardon me--I saw my name on that bit of paper; it caught
my eye as you held it out," he said in a low tone. "Am I called out? Is
anyone in the parish dying?"
Thus questioned, Captain Monk told the truth. No one was dying, and he
was not called out to the parish. Some gentleman was asking to speak to
him; only that.
"Well, I'll just see who it is, and what he wants," said Mr. Dancox,
rising. "Won't be away two minutes, sir."
"Bring him back with you; tell him he'll find good wine here and jolly
cheer," said the Captain. And Mr. Dancox went out, swinging his napkin
in his hand.
In crossing the hall he met Katherine, exchanged a hasty word with her,
let fall the serviette on a chair as he caught up his hat and overcoat,
and went out. Katherine ran upstairs.
Hubert lay down on one of the drawing-room sofas. In point of fact, that
young gentleman could not walk straight. A little wine takes effect
on youngsters, especially when they are not accustomed to it. Mrs.
Carradyne told Hubert the best place for him was bed. Not a bit of it,
the boy answered: he should go out on the terrace at twelve o'clock;
the chimes would be fine, heard out there. He fell asleep almost as he
spoke; presently he woke up, feeling headachy, cross and stupid, and of
his own accord went up to bed.
Meanwhile, the dining-room was getting jollier and louder as the time
passed on towards midnight. Great wonder was expressed at the non-return
of the parson; somebody must be undoubtedly grievously sick or dying.
Mr. Speck, the quiet little Hurst Leet doctor, dissented from this.
Nobody was dying in the parish, he affirmed, or sick enough to need a
priest; as a proof of it, _he_ had not been sent for.
Ring, ring, ring! broke forth the chimes on the quiet midnight air, as
the church clock finished striking twelve. It was a sweet sound; even
those prejudiced against the chimes could hear that: the windows had
been opened in readiness.
The glasses were charged; the company stood on their legs, some of them
not at all steady legs just then, bending their ears to listen. Captain
Monk stood in his place, majestically waving his head and his left hand
to keep time in harmony with The Bay of Biscay. His right hand held his
goblet in readiness for the toast when the sounds should cease.
Ring, ring, ring! chimed the last strokes of the bells, dying away to
faintness on the still evening air. Suddenly, amidst the hushed silence,
and whilst the sweet melody fell yet unbroken on the room, there arose
a noise as of something falling outside on the terrace, mingled with a
wild scream and the crash of breaking glass.
One of the guests rushed to the window, and put his head out of it. So
far as he could see, he said (perhaps his sight was somewhat obscured),
it was a looking-glass lying further up on the terrace.
Thrown out from one of the upper windows! scornfully pronounced the
Captain, full of wrath that it should have happened at that critical
moment to mar the dignity of his coming toast. And he gave the toast
heartily; and the new year came in for them all with good wishes and
good wine.
Some little time yet ere the company finally rose. The mahogany frame of
the broken looking-glass, standing on end, was conspicuous on the white
ground in the clear frosty night, as they streamed out from the house.
Mr. Speck, whose sight was rather remarkably good, peered at it
curiously from the hall steps, and then walked quickly along the snowy
terrace towards it.
Sure enough, it was a looking-glass, broken in its fall from an
open window above. But, lying by it in the deep snow, in his white
night-shirt, was Hubert Monk.
When the chimes began to play, Hubert was not asleep. Sitting up in bed,
he disposed himself to listen. After a bit they began to grow fainter;
Hubert impatiently dashed to the window and threw it up to its full
height as he jumped on the dressing-table, when in some unfortunate
way he overbalanced himself, and pitched out on the terrace beneath,
carrying the looking-glass with him. The fall was not much, for his room
was in one of the wings, the windows of which were low; but the boy had
struck his head in falling, and there he had lain, insensible, on the
terrace, one hand still clasping the looking-glass.
All the rosy wine-tint fading away to a sickly paleness on the Captain's
face, he looked down on his well-beloved son. The boy was carried
indoors to his room, reviving with the movement.
"Young bones are elastic," pronounced Mr. Speck, when he had examined
him; "and none of these are broken. He will probably have a cold from
the exposure; that's about the worst."
He seemed to have it already: he was shivering from head to foot now,
as he related the above particulars. All the family had assembled round
him, except Katherine.
"Where is Katherine?" suddenly inquired her father, noticing her
absence.
"I cannot think where she is," said Mrs. Carradyne. "I have not seen her
for an hour or two. Eliza says she is not in her room; I sent her to
see. She is somewhere about, of course."
"Go and look for your sister, Eliza. Tell her to come here," said
Captain Monk. But though Eliza went at once, her quest was useless.
Miss Katherine was not in the house: Miss Katherine had made a moonlight
flitting from it that evening with the Reverend Thomas Dancox.