Summer lay upon the land. The landscape stretched out before Leet Hall
was fair to look upon. A fine expanse of wood and dale, of trees in
their luxuriant beauty; of emerald-green plains, of meandering streams,
of patches of growing corn already putting on its golden hue, and of
the golden sunlight, soon to set and gladden other worlds, that shone
from the deep-blue sky. Birds sang in their leafy shelters, bees were
drowsily humming as they gathered the last of the day's honey, and
butterflies flitted from flower to flower with a good-night kiss.
At one of the windows stood, in her haughty beauty, Eliza Monk. Not,
surely, of the lovely scene before her was she thinking, or her face
might have worn a more pleasing expression. Rather did she seem to gaze,
and with displeasure, at two or three people who were walking in the
distance: Lucy Carradyne side by side with the clergyman, and Miss Kate
Dancox pulling at his coat-tails.
"Shameful flirt!"
The acidity of the tone was so pronounced that Mrs. Carradyne, seated
near and busy at her netting, lifted her head in surprise. "Why, Eliza,
what's the matter? Who is a flirt?"
"Lucy," curtly replied Eliza, pointing with her finger.
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Carradyne, after glancing outwards.
"Why does she persistently lay herself out to attract that man?" was the
passionate rejoinder.
"Be silent, Eliza. How can you conjure up so unjust a charge? Lucy is
not capable of _laying herself out_ to attract anyone. It lies but in
your imagination."
"Day after day, when she is out with Kate, you may see him join
her--allured to her side."
"The 'allurer' is Kate, then. I am surprised at you, Eliza: you might be
talking of a servant-maid. Kate has taken a liking for Mr. Grame, and
she runs after him at all times and seasons."
"She ought to be stopped, then."
"Stopped! Will you undertake to do it? Could her mother be stopped in
anything she pleased to do? And the child has the same rebellious will."
"I say that Robert Grame's attraction is Lucy."
"It may be so," acknowledged Mrs. Carradyne. "But the attraction must
lie in Lucy herself; not in anything she does. Some suspicion of the
sort has, at times, crossed me."
She looked at them again as she spoke. They were sauntering onwards
slowly; Mr. Grame bending towards Lucy, and talking earnestly. Kate,
dancing about, pulling at his arm or his coat, appeared to get but
little attention. Mrs. Carradyne quietly went on with her work.
And that composed manner, combined with her last sentence, brought gall
and wormwood to Eliza Monk.
Throwing a summer scarf upon her shoulders, Eliza passed out at the
French window, crossed the terrace, and set out to confront the
conspirators. But she was not in time. Seeing her coming, or not seeing
her--who knew?--Mr. Grame turned off with a fleet foot towards his home.
So nobody remained for Miss Monk to waste her angry breath upon but
Lucy. The breath was keenly sharp, and Lucy fell to weeping.
* * * * *
"I am here, Grame. Don't go in."
The words fell on the clergyman's ears as he closed the Vicarage gate
behind him, and was passing up the path to his door. Turning his head,
he saw Hubert Monk seated on the bench under the may tree, pink and
lovely yet. "How long have you been here?" he asked, sitting down beside
him.
"Ever so long; waiting for you," replied Hubert.
"I was only strolling about."
"I saw you: with Lucy and the child."
They had become fast and firm friends, these two young men; and the
minister was insensibly exercising a wonderful influence over Hubert for
good. Believing--as he did believe--that Hubert's days were numbered,
that any sharp extra exertion might entail fatal consequences, he gently
strove, as opportunity offered, to lead his thoughts to the Better Land.
"What an evening it is!" rapturously exclaimed Hubert.
"Ay: so calm and peaceful."
The rays of the setting sun touched Hubert's face, lighting up its
extreme delicacy; the scent of the closing flowers filled the still air
with sweetness; the birds were chanting their evening song of praise.
Hubert, his elbow on the arm of the bench, his hand supporting his chin,
looked out with dreamy eyes.
"What book have you there?" asked Mr. Grame, noticing one in his other
hand.
"Herbert," answered the young man, showing it. "I filched it from your
table through the open window, Grame."
The clergyman took it. It chanced to open at a passage he was very fond
of. Or perhaps he knew the place, and opened it purposely.
"Do you know these verses, Hubert? They are appropriate enough just now,
while those birds are carolling."
"I can't tell. What verses? Read them."
"Hark, how the birds do sing,
And woods do ring!
All creatures have their joy, and man hath his,
Yet, if we rightly measure,
Man's joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter than in present is.
Not that we may not here
Taste of the cheer;
But as birds drink and straight lift up the head,
So must he sip and think
Of better drink
He may attain to after he is dead."
"Ay," said Hubert, breaking the silence after a time, "it's very true, I
suppose. But this world--oh, it's worth living for. Will anything in the
next, Grame, be more beautiful than _that_?"
He was pointing to the sunset, marvellously and unusually beautiful.
Lovely pink and crimson clouds flecked the west; in their midst shone a
dazzling golden light too glorious to look upon.
"One might fancy it the portals of heaven," said the clergyman; "the
golden gate of entrance, leading to the pearly gates within, and to the
glittering walls of precious stones."
"Ay! And it seems to take the form of an entrance-gate!" exclaimed
Hubert; for it really did so. "Look at it! Oh, Grame, surely the very
gate of Heaven cannot be more wonderful than that!"
"And if the gate of entrance is so unspeakably beautiful, what will the
City itself be?" murmured Mr. Grame. "The Heavenly City! the New
Jerusalem!"
"It is beginning to fade," said Hubert presently, as they sat watching;
"the brightness is going. What a pity!"
"All that's bright must fade in this world, you know; and fade very
quickly. Hubert! it will not in the next."
* * * * *
Church Leet, watching its neighbours' doings sharply, began to whisper
that the new clergyman, Mr. Grame, was likely to cause unpleasantness to
the Monk family, just as some of his predecessors had caused it. For no
man having eyes in his head (still less any woman) could fail to see
that the Captain's imperious daughter had fallen desperately in love
with him. Would there be a second elopement, as in the days of Tom
Dancox? Would Eliza Monk set her father at defiance as Katherine did?
One of the last to see signs and tokens, though they took place under
her open eyes, was Mrs. Carradyne. But she saw at last. The clergyman
could not walk across a new-mown field, or down a shady lane, or be
hastening along the dusty turnpike road, but by some inexplicable
coincidence he would be met by Miss Monk; and when he came to the
Hall to pass an hour with Hubert, she generally made a third at the
interview. It had pleased her latterly to take to practising on the old
church organ; and if Mr. Grame was not wiled into the church with her
and her attendant, the ancient clerk, who blew the bellows, she was sure
to alight upon him in going or returning.
One fine evening, dinner over, when the last beams of the sun were
slanting into the drawing-room, Eliza Monk was sitting back on a sofa,
reading; Kate romped about the room, and Mrs. Carradyne had just rung
the bell for tea. Lucy had been spending the afternoon with Mrs. Speck,
and Hubert had now gone to fetch her home.
"Good gracious, Kate, can't you be quiet!" exclaimed Miss Monk, as the
child in her gambols sprang upon the sofa, upsetting the book and its
reader's temper. "Go away: you are treading on my flounces. Aunt Emma,
why do you persist in having this tiresome little reptile with us after
dinner?"
"Because your father will not let her be sent to the nursery," said Mrs.
Carradyne.
"Did you ever know a child like her?"
"She is only as her mother was; as you were, Eliza--always rebellious.
Kate, sit down to the piano and play one of your pretty tunes."
"I won't," responded Kate. "Play yourself, Aunt Emma."
Dashing through the open glass doors, Kate began tossing a ball on the
broad gravel walk below the terrace. Mrs. Carradyne cautioned her not
to break the windows, and turned to the tea-table.
"Don't make the tea yet, Aunt Emma," interrupted Miss Monk, in tones
that were quite like a command. "Mr. Grame is coming, and he won't care
for cold tea."
Mrs. Carradyne returned to her seat. She thought the opportunity had
come to say something to her niece which she had been wanting to say.
"You invited Mr. Grame, Eliza?"
"I did," said Eliza, looking defiance.
"My dear," resumed Mrs. Carradyne with some hesitation, "forgive me if I
offer you a word of advice. You have no mother; I pray you to listen to
me in her stead. You must change your line of behaviour to Mr. Grame."
Eliza's dark face turned red and haughty. "I do not understand you, Aunt
Emma."
"Nay, I think you do understand me, my dear. You have incautiously
allowed yourself to fall into--into an undesirable liking for Mr. Grame.
An _unseemly_ liking, Eliza."
"Unseemly!"
"Yes; because it has not been sought. Cannot you see, Eliza, how he
instinctively recedes from it? how he would repel it were he less the
gentleman than he is? Child, I shrink from saying these things to you,
but it is needful. You have good sense, Eliza, keen discernment, and
you might see for yourself that it is not to you Mr. Grame's love is
given--or ever will be."
For once in her life Eliza Monk allowed herself to betray agitation. She
opened her trembling lips to speak, but closed them again.
"A moment yet, Eliza. Let us suppose, for argument's sake, that Mr.
Grame loved you; that he wished to marry you; you know, my dear, how
utterly useless it would be. Your father would not suffer it."
"Mr. Grame is of gentle descent; my father is attached to him," disputed
Eliza.
"But Mr. Grame has nothing but his living--a hundred and sixty pounds a
year; _you_ must make a match in accordance with your own position. It
would be Katherine's trouble, Katherine's rebellion over again. But this
was mentioned for argument's sake only; Mr. Grame will never sue for
anything of the kind; and I must beg of you, my dear, to put all idea
of it away, and to change your manner towards him."
"Perhaps you fancy he may wish to sue for Lucy!" cried Eliza, in fierce
resentment.
"That is a great deal more likely than the other. And the difficulties
in her case would not be so great."
"And pray why, Aunt Emma?"
"Because, my dear, I should not resent it as your father would. I am not
so ambitious for her as he is for you."
"A fine settlement for her--Robert Grame and his hundred----"
"Who is taking my name in vain?" cried a pleasant voice from the open
window; and Robert Grame entered.
"I was," said Eliza readily; her tone changing like magic to sweet
suavity, her face putting on its best charm. "About to remark that the
Reverend Robert Grame has a hundred faults. Aunt Emma agrees with me."
He laughed lightly, regarding it as pleasantry, and inquired for Hubert.
Eliza stepped out on the terrace when tea was over, talking to Mr.
Grame; they began to pace it slowly together. Kate and her ball sported
on the gravel walk beneath. It was a warm, serene evening, the silver
moon shining, the evening star just appearing in the clear blue sky.
"Lucy being away, you cannot enjoy your usual flirtation with her,"
remarked Miss Monk, in a light tone.
But he did not take it lightly. Rarely had his voice been more serious
than when he answered: "I beg your pardon. I do not flirt--I have never
flirted with Miss Carradyne."
"No! It has looked like it."
Mr. Grame remained silent. "I hope not," he said at last. "I did not
intend--I did not think. However, I must mend my manners," he added more
gaily. "To flirt at all would ill become my sacred calling. And Lucy
Carradyne is superior to any such trifling."
Her pulses were coursing on to fever heat. With her whole heart she
loved Robert Grame: and the secret preference he had unconsciously
betrayed for Lucy had served to turn her later days to bitterness.
"Possibly you mean something more serious," said Eliza, compressing her
lips.
"If I mean anything, I should certainly mean it seriously," replied the
young clergyman, his face blushing as he made the avowal. "But I may
not. I have been reflecting much latterly, and I see I may not. If my
income were good it might be a different matter. But it is not; and
marriage for me must be out of the question."
"With a portionless girl, yes. Robert Grame," she went on rapidly with
impassioned earnestness, "when you marry, it must be with someone who
can help you; whose income will compensate for the deficiency of yours.
Look around you well: there may be some young ladies rich in the world's
wealth, even in Church Leet, who will forget your want of fortune for
your own sake."
Did he misunderstand her? It was hardly possible. She had a large
fortune; Lucy none. But he answered as though he comprehended not. It
may be that he deemed it best to set her ill-regulated hopes at rest
for ever.
"One can hardly suppose a temptation of that kind would fall in the way
of an obscure individual like myself. If it did, I could only reject it.
I should not marry for money. I shall never marry where I do not love."
They had halted near one of the terrace seats. On it lay a toy of
Kate's, a little wooden "box of bells." Mechanically, her mind far away,
Eliza took it up and began, still mechanically, turning the wire which
set the bells playing with a soft but not unpleasant jingle.
"You love Lucy Carradyne!" she whispered.
"I fear I do," he answered. "Though I have struggled against the
conviction."
A sudden crash startled them; shivers of glass fell before their feet;
fit accompaniment to the shattered hopes of one who stood there. Kate
Dancox, aiming at Mr. Grame's hat, had sent her ball through the window.
He leaped away to catch the culprit, and Eliza Monk sat down on the
bench, all gladness gone out of her. Her love-dream had turned out to
be a snare and a delusion.
"Who did that?"
Captain Monk, frightened from his after-dinner nap by the crash, came
forth in anger. Kate got a box on the ear, and was sent to bed howling.
"You should send her to school, papa."
"And I will," declared the Captain. "She startled me out of a sleep. Out
of a dream, too. And it is not often I dream. I thought I was hearing
the chimes again."
"Chimes which I have not yet been fortunate enough to hear at all," said
Mr. Grame with a smile. Eliza recalled the sound of the bells she had
set in motion, and thought it must have reached her father in his sleep.
"By George, no! You shall, though, Grame. They shall ring the new year
in when it comes."
"Aunt Emma won't like that," laughingly commented Eliza. She was trying
to be gay and careless before Robert Grame.
"Aunt Emma may _dis_like it!" retorted the Captain. "She has picked up
some ridiculously absurd notion, Grame, that the bells bring ill-luck
when they are heard. Women are so foolishly superstitious."
"That must be a very far-fetched superstition," said the parson.
"One might as well believe in witches," mocked the Captain. "I have
given in to her fancies for some years, not to cross her, and allowed
the bells to be silent: she's a good woman on the whole; but be hanged
if I will any longer. On the last day of this year, Grame, you shall
hear the chimes."
* * * * *
How it came about nobody exactly knew, unless it was through Hubert, but
matters were smoothed for the parson and Lucy.
Mrs. Carradyne knew his worth, and she saw that they were as much
in love with one another as ever could be Hodge and Joan. She liked
the idea of Lucy being settled near her--and the vicarage, large and
handsome, could have its unused rooms opened and furnished. Mr. Grame
honestly avowed that he should have asked for Lucy before, but for his
poverty; he supposed that Lucy was poor also.
"That is so; Lucy has nothing of her own," said Mrs. Carradyne to this.
"But I am not in that condition."
"Of course not. But--pardon me--I thought your property went to your
son."
Mrs. Carradyne laughed. "A small estate of his father's, close by here,
became my son's at his father's death," she said. "My own money is at my
disposal; the half of it will eventually be Lucy's. When she marries, I
shall allow her two hundred a year: and upon that, and your stipend, you
will have to get along together."
"It will be like riches to me," said the young parson all in a glow.
"Ah! Wait until you realise the outlets for money that a wife entails,"
nodded Mrs. Carradyne in her superior wisdom. "Not but that I'm sure
it's good for young people, setting up together, to be straitened at
the beginning. It teaches them economy and the value of money."
Altogether it seemed a wonderful prospect to Robert Grame. Miss Lucy
thought it would be Paradise. But a stern wave of opposition set in from
Captain Monk.
Hubert broke the news to him as they were sitting together after dinner.
To begin with, the Captain, as a matter of course, flew into a passion.
"Another of those beggarly parsons! What possessed them, that they
should fix upon _his_ family to play off their machinations upon! Lucy
Carradyne was his niece: she should never be grabbed up by one of them
while he was alive to stop it."
"Wait a minute, father," whispered Hubert. "You like Robert Grame; I
know that: you would rather see him carry off Lucy than Eliza."
"What the dickens do you mean by that?"
Hubert said a few cautious words--hinting that, but for Lucy's being in
the way, poor Katherine's escapade might have been enacted over again.
Captain Monk relieved his mind by some strong language, sailor fashion;
and for once in his life saw he must give in to necessity.
So the wedding was fixed for the month of February, just one year after
they had met: that sweet time of early spring, when spring comes in
genially, when the birds would be singing, and the green buds peeping
and the sunlight dancing.
But the present year was not over yet. Lucy was sewing at her wedding
things. Eliza Monk, smarting as from an adder's sting, ran away to visit
a family who lived near Oddingly, an insignificant little place, lying,
as everybody knows, on the other side of Worcester, famous only for its
dullness and for the strange murders committed there in 1806--which have
since passed into history. But she returned home for Christmas.
Once more it was old-fashioned Christmas weather; Jack Frost freezing
the snow and sporting his icicles. The hearty tenants, wending their way
to the annual feast in the winter twilight, said how unusually sharp the
air was, enough to bite off their ears and noses.
The Reverend Robert Grame made one at the table for the first time,
and said grace at the Captain's elbow. He had heard about the freedom
obtaining at these dinners; but he knew he was utterly powerless
to suppress it, and he hoped his presence might prove some little
restraint, just as poor George West had hoped in the days gone by: not
that it was as bad now as it used to be. A rumour had gone abroad that
the chimes were to play again, but it died away unconfirmed, for Captain
Monk kept his own counsel.
The first to quit the table was Hubert. Captain Monk looked up angrily.
He was proud of his son, of his tall and graceful form, of his handsome
features, proud even of his bright complexion; ay, and of his estimable
qualities. While inwardly fearing Hubert's signs of fading strength, he
defiantly refused to recognise it or to admit it openly.
"What now?" he said in a loud whisper. "Are _you_ turning renegade?"
The young man bent over his father's shoulder. "I don't feel well;
better let me go quietly, father; I have felt pain here all
day"--touching his left side. And he escaped.
There was present at table an elderly gentleman named Peveril. He had
recently come with his wife into the neighbourhood and taken on lease a
small estate, called by the odd name of Peacock's Range, which belonged
to Hubert and lay between Church Dykely and Church Leet. Mr. Peveril put
an inopportune question.
"What is the story, Captain, about some chimes which were put up in the
church here and are never allowed to ring because they caused the death
of the Vicar? I was told of it to-day."
Captain Monk looked at Mr. Peveril, but did not speak.
"One George West, I think. Was he parson here?"
"Yes, he was parson here," said Farmer Winter, finding nobody else
answered Mr. Peveril, next to whom he sat. He was a very old man now,
but hale and hearty still, and a steadfast ally of his landlord. "Given
that parson his way and we should never have had the chimes put up at
all. Sweet sounding bells they are, too."
"But how could the chimes kill him?" went on Mr. Peveril. "Did they kill
him?"
"George West was a quarrelsome, mischief-making meddler, good for
nothing but to set the parish together by the ears; and I must beg of
you to drop his name when at my table, Peveril. As to the chimes, you
will hear them to-night."
Captain Monk spoke in his sternest tones, and Mr. Peveril bowed. Robert
Grame had listened in surprise. He wondered what it all meant--for
nobody had ever told him of this phase of the past. The table clapped
its unsteady hands and gave a cheer for the chimes, now to be heard
again.
"Yes, gentlemen," said the Captain, not a whit more steady than his
guests. "They shall ring for us to-night, though it brought the parson
out of his grave."
A few minutes before twelve the butler, who had his orders, came into
the dining-room and set the windows open. His master gave him another
order and the man withdrew. Entering the drawing-room, he proceeded to
open those windows also. Mr. Peveril, and one or two more guests, sat
with the family; Hubert lay back in an easy-chair.
"What are you about, Rimmer?" hastily cried out Mrs. Carradyne in
surprise. "Opening the windows!"
"It is by the master's orders, ma'am," replied the butler; "he bade me
open them, that you and the ladies might get a better hearing of the
chimes."
Mrs. Carradyne, superstitious ever, grew white as death. "_The chimes!_"
she breathed in a dread whisper. "Surely, surely, Rimmer, you must be
mistaken. The chimes cannot be going to ring again!"
"They are to ring the New Year in," said the man. "I have known it this
day or two, but was not allowed to tell, as Madam may guess"--glancing
at his mistress. "John Cale has got his orders, and he'll set 'em going
when the clock has struck twelve."
"Oh, is there no one who will run to stop it?" bewailed Mrs. Carradyne,
wringing her hands in all the terror of a nameless fear. "There may yet
be time. Rimmer! can you go?"
Hubert came out of his chair laughing. Rimmer was round and fat now,
and could not run if he tried. "I'll go, aunt," he said. "Why, walking
slowly, I should get there before Rimmer."
The words, "walking slowly," may have misled Mrs. Carradyne; or, in the
moment's tribulation, perhaps she forgot that Hubert ought not to be the
one to use much exertion; but she made no objection. No one else made
way, and Hubert hastened out, putting on his overcoat as he went towards
the church.
It was the loveliest night; the air was still and clear, the landscape
white and glistening, the moon bright as gold. Hubert, striding along
at a quick walk, had traversed half the short distance, when the church
clock struck out the first note of midnight. And he knew he should not
be in time--unless----
He set off to run: it was such a very little way! Flying along without
heed to self, he reached the churchyard gate. And there he was
forced--forced--to stop to gather up his laboured breath.
Ring, ring, ring! broke forth the chimes melodiously upon Hubert's ear.
"Stop!" he shouted, panting; "stop! stop!"--just as if John Cale could
hear the warning: and he began leaping over the gravestones in his path,
after the irreverent fashion of Miss Kate Dancox.
"Stop!" he faintly cried in his exhaustion, dashing through the vestry,
as the strains of "The Bay of Biscay" pursued their harmonious course
overhead, sounding louder here than in the open air. "Sto----"
He could not end the word. Pulling the little door open, he put his foot
on the first step of the narrow ladder of a staircase: and then fell
prone upon it. John Cale and young Mr. Threpp, the churchwarden's son,
who had been the clerk's companion, were descending the stairs, after
the chimes had chimed themselves out, and they had locked them up again
to (perhaps) another year, when they found some impediment below.
"What is it?" exclaimed young Mr. Threpp. The clerk turned on his
lantern.
It was Hubert, Captain Monk's son and heir. He lay there with a face of
deadly whiteness, a blue shade encircling his lips.