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 at their sight as with an adder's sting,
ran away from it 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 dulness 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 oppressed 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 neighbourho