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 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.  Sweet sounding bells they are.”

“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.