It was but the first of February, yet the weather might have served for
May-day: one of those superb days that come once in a while out of their
season, serving to remind the world that the dark, depressing, dreary
winter will not last for ever; though we may have half feared it means
to, forgetting the reassuring promise of the Divine Ruler of all things,
given after the Flood:
"_While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat,
and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not cease._"
The warm and glorious sunbeams lay on Church Leet, as if to woo the bare
hedges into verdant life, the cold fields to smiling plains. Even the
mounds of the graveyard, interspersed amidst the old tombstones, looked
green and cheerful to-day in the golden light.
Turning slowly out of the Vicarage gate came a good-looking clergyman of
seven-or-eight-and-twenty. A slender man of middle height, with a sweet
expression on his pale, thoughtful face, and dark earnest eyes. It was
the new Vicar of Church Leet, the Reverend Robert Grame.
For a goodish many years have gone on since that tragedy of poor
Katherine's death, and this is the second appointed Vicar since that
inauspicious time.
Mr. Grame walked across the churchyard, glancing at the inscriptions on
the tombs. Inside the church porch stood the clerk, old John Cale, keys
in hand. Mr. Grame saw him and quickened his pace.
"Have I kept you waiting, Cale?" he cried in his pleasant, considerate
tones. "I am sorry for that."
"Not at all, your reverence; I came afore the time. This here church
is but a step or two off my home, yonder, and I'm as often out here as
I be indoors," continued John Cale, a fresh-coloured little man with
pale grey eyes and white hair. "I've been clerk here, sir, for
seven-and-thirty years."
"You've seen more than one parson out then, I reckon."
"More than one! Ay, sir, more than--more than six times one, I was going
to say; but that's too much, maybe. Let's see: there was Mr. Cartright,
he had held the living I hardly know how many years when I came, and he
held it for many after that. Mr. West succeeded him--the Reverend George
West; then came Thomas Dancox; then Mr. Atterley: four in all. And now
you've come, sir, to make the fifth."
"Did they all die? or take other livings?"
"Some the one thing, sir, and some the other. Mr. Cartright died, he
was old; and Mr. West, he--he----" John Cale hesitated before he went
on--"he died; Mr. Dancox got appointed to a chaplaincy somewhere over
the seas; he was here but about eighteen months, hardly that; and Mr.
Atterley, who has just left, has had a big church with a big income,
they say, given to him over in Oxfordshire."
"Which makes room for me," smiled Robert Grame.
They were inside the church now; a small and very old-fashioned church,
with high pews, dark and sombre. Over the large pew of the Monks,
standing sideways to the pulpit, sundry slabs were on the wall, their
inscriptions testifying to the virtues and ages of the Monk family dead
and gone. Mr. Grame stood to read them. One slab of white marble, its
black letters fresh and clear, caught especially his eye.
"Katherine, eldest child of Godfrey Monk, gentleman, and wife of the
Reverend Thomas Dancox," he read out aloud. "Was that he who was Vicar
here?"
"Ay, 'twas. She married him again her father's wish, and died, poor
thing, just a year after it," replied the clerk. "And only twenty-three,
as you see, sir! The Captain came down and forgave her on her dying
bed, and 'twas he that had the stone put up there. Her baby-girl was
taken to the Hall, and is there still: ten years old she must be now;
'twas but an hour or two old when the mother died."
"It seems a sad history," observed Mr. Grame as he turned away to enter
the vestry.
John Cale did the honours of its mysteries: showing him the chest for
the surplices; the cupboard let into the wall for the register; the
place where candles and such-like stores were kept. Mr. Grame opened a
door at one end of the room and saw a square flagged place, containing
grave-digging tools and the hanging ropes of the bell which called
people to church. Shutting the door again, he crossed to a door on the
opposite side. But that he could not open.
"What does this lead to?" he asked. "It is locked."
"It's always kept locked, that door is, sir; and it's a'most as much as
my post is worth to open it," said the clerk, his voice sinking to a
mysterious whisper. "It leads up to the chimes."
"The chimes!" echoed the new parson in surprise. "Do you mean to say
this little country church can boast of chimes?"
John Cale nodded. "Lovely, pleasant things they be to listen to, sir,
but we've not heard 'em since the midnight when Miss Katherine died.
They play a tune called 'The Bay o' Biscay.'"
Selecting a key from the bunch that he carried in his hand, he opened
the door, displaying a narrow staircase, unprotected as a ladder and
nearly perpendicular. At the top was another small door, evidently
locked.
"Captain Monk had all this done when he put the chimes up," remarked
he. "I sweep the dust off these stairs once in three months or so, but
otherwise the door's not opened. And that one," nodding to the door
above, "never."
"But why?" asked the clergyman. "If the chimes are there, and are, as
you say, melodious, why do they not play?"
"Well, sir, I b'lieve there's a bit of superstition at the bottom of
it," returned the clerk, not caring to explain too fully lest he should
have to tell about Mr. West's death, which might not be the thing to
frighten a new Vicar with. "A feeling has somehow got abroad in the
parish (leastways with a many of its folk) that the putting-up of its
bells brought ill-luck, and that whenever the chimes ring out some
dreadful evil falls on the Monk family."
"I never heard of such a thing," exclaimed the Vicar, hardly knowing
whether to laugh or lecture. "The parish cannot be so ignorant as that!
How can the putting-up of chimes bring ill-luck?"
"Well, your reverence, I don't know; the thing's beyond me. They were
heard but three times, ringing in the new year at midnight, three years,
one on top of t'other--and each time some ill fell."
"My good man--and I am sure you are good--you should know better,"
remonstrated Mr. Grame. "Captain Monk cannot surely give credence to
this?"
"No, sir; but his sister up at the Hall does--Mrs. Carradyne. It's said
the Captain used to ridicule her finely for it; he'd fly into a passion
whenever 'twas alluded to. Captain Monk, as a brave seaman, is too bold
to tolerate anything of the sort. But he has never let the chimes play
since his daughter died. He was coming out from the death-scene at
midnight, when the chimes broke forth the third year, and it's said he
can't abear the sound of 'em since."
"That may well be," assented Mr. Grame.
"And finding, sir, year after year, year after year, as one year gives
place to another, that they are never heard, we have got to call 'em
amid ourselves, the Silent Chimes," spoke the clerk, as they turned to
leave the church. "The Silent Chimes, sir."
Clinking his keys, the clerk walked away to his home, an ivy-covered
cottage not a stone's-throw off; the clergyman lingered in the
churchyard, reading the memorials on the tombstones. He was smiling at
the quaintness of some of them, when the sound of hasty footsteps caused
him to turn. A little girl was climbing over the churchyard-railings (as
being nearer to her than the entrance-gate), and came dashing towards
him across the gravestones.
"Are you grandpapa's new parson?" asked the young lady; a pretty child
of ten, with a dark skin, and dusky-violet eyes staring at him freely
out of a saucy face.
"Yes, I am," said he. "What is your name?"
"What is yours?" boldly questioned she. "They've talked about you at
home, but I forgot it."
"Mine is Robert Grame. Won't you tell me yours?"
"Oh, it's Kate.--Here's that wicked Lucy coming! She's going to groan at
me for jumping here. She says it's not reverent."
A charming young lady of some twenty years was coming up the path,
wearing a scarlet cloak, its hood lined with white silk; a straw hat
shaded her fair face, blushing very much just now; in her dark-grey eyes
might be read vexation, as she addressed Mr. Grame.
"I hope Kate has not been rude? I hope you will excuse her heedlessness
in this place. She is only a little girl."
"It's only the new parson, Lucy," broke in Kate without ceremony. "He
says his name's Robert Grame."
"Oh, Kate, don't! How shall we ever teach you manners?" reprimanded the
young lady, in distress. "She has been very much indulged, sir," turning
to the clergyman.
"I can well understand that," he said, with a bright smile. "I presume
that I have the honour of speaking to the daughter of my patron--Captain
Monk?"
"No; Captain Monk is my uncle: I am Lucy Carradyne."
As the young clergyman stood, hat in hand, a feeling came over him that
he had never seen so sweet a face as the one he was looking at. Miss
Lucy Carradyne was saying to herself, "What a nice countenance he has!
What kindly, earnest eyes!"
"This little lady tells me her name is Kate."
"Kate Dancox," said Lucy, as the child danced away. "Her mother was
Captain Monk's eldest daughter; she died when Kate was born. My uncle
is very fond of Kate; he will hardly have her controlled at all."
"I have been in to see my church! John Cale has been doing its honours
for me," smiled Mr. Grame. "It is a pretty little edifice."
"Yes, and I hope you will like it; I hope you will like the parish,"
frankly returned Lucy.
"I shall be sure to do that, I think. As soon, at least, as I can
feel convinced that it is to be really mine," he added, with a quaint
expression. "When I heard, a week ago, that Captain Monk had presented
me--an entire stranger to him--with the living of Church Leet, I
could not believe it. It is not often that a nameless curate, without
influence, is spontaneously remembered."
"It is not much of a living," said Lucy, meeting the words half
jestingly. "Worth, I believe, about a hundred and sixty pounds a-year."
"But that is a great rise for me--and I have a house to myself large
and beautiful--and am a Vicar and no longer a curate," he returned,
laughingly. "I cannot _imagine_, though, how Captain Monk came to give
it me. Have you any idea how it was, Miss Carradyne?"
Lucy's face flushed. She could not tell this gentleman the truth:
that another clergyman had been fixed upon, one who would have been
especially welcome to the parishioners; that Captain Monk had all but
nominated him to the living. But it chanced to reach the Captain's ears
that this clergyman had expressed his intention of holding the Communion
service monthly, instead of quarterly as heretofore, so he put the
question to him. Finding it to be true, he withdrew his promise; he
would not have old customs broken in upon by modern innovation, he said;
and forthwith he appointed the Reverend Robert Grame.
"I do not even know how Captain Monk heard of me," continued Mr. Grame,
marking Lucy's hesitation.
"I believe you were recommended to him by one of the clergy attached
to Worcester Cathedral," said Lucy.--"And I think I must wish you
good-morning now."
But there came an interruption. A tall, stately, haughty young woman,
with an angry look upon her dark and handsome face, had entered the
churchyard, and was calling out as she advanced:
"That monkey broken loose again, I suppose, and at her pranks here! What
are you good for, Lucy, if you cannot keep her in better order? You know
I told you to go straight on to Mrs. Speck, and----"
The words died away. Mr. Grame, who had been hidden by a large upright
tombstone, emerged into view. Lucy, with another blush, spoke to cover
the awkwardness.
"This is Miss Monk," she said to him. "Eliza, it is the new clergyman,
Mr. Grame."
Miss Monk recovered her equanimity. A winning smile supplanted the anger
on her face; she held out her hand, grandly gracious. For she liked the
stranger's look: he was beyond doubt a gentleman--and an attractive man.
"Allow me to welcome you to Church Leet, Mr. Grame. My father chances
to be absent to-day; he is gone to Evesham."
"So the clerk told me, or I should have called this morning to pay my
respects to him, and to thank him for his generous and most unexpected
patronage of me. I got here last night," concluded Mr. Grame, standing
uncovered as when he had saluted Lucy. Eliza Monk liked his pleasant
voice and taking manners: her fancy went out to him there and then.
"But though papa is absent, you will walk up with me now to the Hall to
make acquaintance with my aunt, Mrs. Carradyne," said Eliza, in tones
that, gracious though they were, sounded in the light of a command--just
as poor Katherine's had always sounded. And Mr. Grame went with her.
But now--handsome though she was, gracious though she meant to be--there
was something about Eliza Monk that seemed to repulse Robert Grame,
rather than attract him. Lucy had fascinated him; she repelled. Other
people had experienced the same kind of repulsion, but knew not where it
lay.
Hubert, the heir, about twenty-five now, came forward to greet the
stranger as they entered the Hall. No repulsion about _him_. Robert
Grame's hand met his with a warm clasp. A young man of gentle manners
and a face of rare beauty--but oh, so suspiciously delicate! Perhaps it
was the extreme slenderness of the frame, the wan look in the refined
features and their bright hectic that drew forth the clergyman's
sympathy. An impression came over him that this young man was not long
for earth.
"Is Mr. Monk strong?" he presently asked of Mrs. Carradyne, when Hubert
had temporarily quitted the room.
"Indeed, no. He had rheumatic fever some years ago," she added, "and has
never been strong since."
"Has he heart disease?" questioned the clergyman. He thought the young
man had just that look.
"We fear his heart is weak," replied Mrs. Carradyne.
"But that may be only your fancy, you know, Aunt Emma," spoke Miss Monk
reproachfully. She and her father were both passionately attached to
Hubert; they resented any doubt cast upon his health.
"Oh, of course," assented Mrs. Carradyne, who never resented anything.
"We shall be good friends, I trust," said Eliza, with a beaming smile,
as her hand lay in Mr. Grame's when he was leaving.
"Indeed I hope so," he answered. "Why not?"