But now it was no longer the herald of peace, nor the token of joy, for the villagers knew full well that it was tolling the knell of the departed priest, and their hearts were heavy with sorrow for the friend they knew had just pa.s.sed away.

The chapel was open. It was free for the once to as many as could enter, and there were few around who did not wish to show respect to the man who had surely, in one way or another, proved himself their friend.

The limited number that the chapel could accommodate took their places long before the vesper bell stopped ringing, and when Sir George came in, bringing in with him the Lady Maude, and followed by his daughters and the two guests, there was a large concourse of disappointed worshippers outside who were bent on remaining as near the sacred edifice as they might get. Though they were denied admittance, they would hear the solemn chant as it sounded through the open windows, and they felt that they would fall under the same sacred influence as those who were inside; and whilst these latter were favoured by the hallowing influences of the sanctuary, they were compensated for this by the rustling of the leaves, which seemed to moan in sympathy with them as the wind swept gently by.

Of all who mourned the loss of the father--and there were many who regretted that he was taken from their midst--none was more sincere in her grief than Dorothy, and none apparently was so little affected by the loss as Margaret.

This maiden had watched the growing familiarity of the intercourse between her sister and John Manners with no friendly eyes. She had perceived that it was necessary to take action at once in the matter, and at her express command her lover was even now on a mission to his brother to secure the double alliance between the two houses of Vernon and Stanley, upon which she and Lady Vernon had set their minds.

The absence of Sir Thomas had intensified her feelings in the matter, and seeing Manners leading Dorothy out of the sick man's chamber with his arm interlinked with hers, it had goaded her to such a frenzy that, regardless of the inopportunity of the time, she had proceeded straightway to Sir George and Lady Maude and had laid the matter before them in a most unfavourable light.

And now, as the impressive requiem was about to be sung--a dirge full of soul-stirring reflections and sacred grandeur--Margaret's head was full of bitterness, and she failed to respond to the sympathetic sublimity of the service, or to notice its serene beauty either. To her it was nothing more than a tiresome form; her interest was centred on Dorothy alone, and she heartily condemned herself for not arranging that. Dorothy should not sit beside the esquire. It was a dreary and unpleasant time to her, and when she raised her eyes from her sister it was only impatiently to watch the deepening shades of the approaching night as they registered themselves upon the gla.s.s-panes at her side. The windows gradually became more and more difficult to see through; each time she looked it had grown a shade darker, until at length the pure gla.s.s had changed, to her unmitigated satisfaction, in hue from clear transparency to green, and from that to black.

At length the service was over. She hailed its conclusion with a sigh of relief, mentally promising the new confessor but a small portion of her favour if he were always as long-winded as he had been on this occasion; and she anxiously awaited the moment when Sir George would rise from his knees and lead the way out, so that she might carry Dorothy off in safety.

The time came in due course. The baron rose; the others followed his example, and as Lady Maude, less haughty than usual, led the way out of the chapel, Margaret eagerly caught hold of her sister and led her away in silence across the courtyard and into the hall.

CHAPTER XIX.

"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE."

'Twere wild to hope for her, you say, I've torn and cast those words away, Surely there's hope! For life 'tis well Love without hope's impossible.

--COVENTRY PATMORE.

Father Philip had lain under the sod but one sunset before the fruits of Margaret's intriguing began to make themselves apparent.

It was with a secret sense of misgiving that Manners received an invitation, which he readily construed into a command, to attend the baron in his private room, and it was with a fluttering heart that he prepared himself to meet Dorothy's father. Nor were his forebodings set at rest or in anywise lightened by the first view he got of the baron.

Sir George was pacing up and down the room, but hearing the door open he stopped suddenly, and when Manners entered he saw upon the knight's face a look which at once struck a chill to his heart.

"Sit down, Manners, sit down," said the baron curtly.

He was nervous and excited, and as Manners obeyed the injunction he clearly perceived this fact, and it afforded him a little satisfaction.

"You wished to see me?" he exclaimed, breaking the awkward silence which ensued after he had sat down.

"Eh, yes, I did."

Another long pause followed, which was painful alike to both.

The baron's agitation increased, and it did not need any great exercise of shrewdness to guess the cause. The lover guessed it intuitively, and deftly altered the topic which was just about to be broached.

"Poor Father Philip is gone," he exclaimed in a sympathetic tone.

"Ye-e-s," slowly a.s.sented the baron.

"And you miss him, I perceive," pursued the esquire tremulously.

"Very true, but--"

"And I hear Nicholas Bury is about to depart," hazarded Manners, interrupting the baron.

"Eh! what?" exclaimed Sir George. "Father Nicholas going?"

"He has informed Everard so."

"No, he must stay," returned the knight, banishing the wrinkles that had contracted his brow; "of course he must stay."

He was clearly off his guard now, and Manners breathed easier again; for, thanks to the efforts of Dorothy and Crowleigh, as well as to his own perceptions, he was by no means ignorant of the conspiracy of which he was the victim, and he wished to procrastinate the inevitable interview until a more favourable time presented itself for the purpose.

"Where did he come from?" continued the baron, drifting innocently farther and farther away from the purpose of the interview.

"Am I to trust thee with his secret then?" asked the lover.

"Of course, let me know all. I shall protect him, come what will."

"Then he is Sir Ronald Bury's brother."

"He is a better man than his brother, then," exclaimed Sir George, when he had overcome his astonishment. "Did Sir Everard fetch him from Nottingham?"

"Nay, from Dale Abbey."

"Ha!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the baron, "say you so? The abbey is dismantled, and methought I knew every Catholic in the shire."

"Then, Sir George, you forgot the hermitage," was the prompt reply.

Sir George had just caught sight of his good lady through the open lattice window, and as he saw her wending her way quickly along the path it painfully recalled him to a sense of his position.

"I sent for thee," he said suddenly, changing the conversation and knitting his brow, "because I wished to see thee on a matter of much importance."

"I am honoured by your confidence," promptly returned the esquire, making a gallant effort to escape the subject, "but pray on no account tell either Everard or Nicholas that it was I who gave the information. I was charged to tell no man, by my honour."

Unluckily, Lady Vernon pa.s.sed the door just as he was speaking, and the sound of her footsteps kept the subject too well in the baron's mind for him to wander from it again.

"About Dorothy," he explained, ignoring the last remark.

Manners was nonplussed; he attempted no rejoinder, and the baron paced the room again in great perturbation. At length he stopped.

"'Tis an awkward piece of business," he said, "and I had much rather it had not fallen so; but I suppose it must be done."

Still Manners vouchsafed no reply, and his silence added to the baron's discomfiture.