"I know it, Godfrey. But--you cannot think what a strangely-strong
feeling I have against it: an instinct, it seems to me. The chimes have
brought nothing but discomfort and disaster yet; they may bring more in
the future."

Captain Monk stared at her. "What d'ye mean, Emma?"

"_I would never let them be heard_," she said impressively. "I would
have them taken down again. The story went about, you know, that poor
George West in dying prophesied that whenever they should be heard woe
would fall upon this house. I am not superstitious, Godfrey, but--"

Sheer passion had tied, so far, Godfrey Monk's lips. "Not
superstitious!" he raved out. "You are worse than that, Emma--a fool.
How dare you bring your nonsense here? There's the door."

The banquet hour approached. Nearly all the guests of last year were
again present in the warm and holly-decorated dining-room, the one
notable exception being the ill-fated Parson West. Parson Dancox came in
his stead, and said grace from the post of honour at the Captain's right
hand. Captain Monk did not appear to feel any remorse or regret: he was
jovial, free, and grandly hospitable; one might suppose he had promoted
the dead clergyman to a canonry instead of to a place in the churchyard.

"What became of the poor man's widow, Squire?" whispered a gentleman
from the neighbourhood of Evesham to Mr. Todhetley, who sat on the
left-hand of his host; Sir Thomas Rivers taking the foot of the table
this year.