The rector of Hallgrove and his guests assembled in the old-fashioned drawing-room of the manor-house rectory at seven o'clock on that snowy Christmas-night. The snowflakes fell thick and fast as night closed in upon the gardens and shrubberies, the swift-flowing river, and distant hills.
The rectory drawing-room, beautified by the soft light of wax-candles, and the rich hues of flowers, was a pleasant picture—a picture which was made all the more charming by the female figures which filled its foreground.
Chief among these, and radiant with beauty and high spirits, was Lydia
Graham.
She had contrived to draw Lionel Dale to her side. She was seated by a table scattered with volumes of engravings, and he was bending over her as she turned the leaves.
Her smiles, her flatteries, her cleverly simulated interest in the rector's charities and pensioners, had exercised a considerable influence upon him—an influence which grew stronger with every hour. There was a sweetness and simplicity in the manners of the two Misses Mordaunt which pleased him; but the country-bred girls lost much by contrast with the brilliant Lydia.
"I hope you are going to give us a real old-fashioned Christmas evening, Mr. Dale," said Miss Graham.
"I don't quite know what you mean by an old-fashioned Christmas evening."
"Nor am I quite clear as to whether I know what I mean myself," answered the young lady, gaily. "I think, after dinner, we ought to sit round that noble old fire-place and tell stories, ought we not?"
"Yes, I believe that is the sort of thing," replied the rector. "For my own part, I am ready to be Miss Graham's slave for the whole of the evening; and in that capacity will hold myself bound to perform her behests, however tyrannical she may be."
When dinner was announced, Lionel Dale was obliged to leave the bewitching Lydia in order to offer his arm to Mrs. Mordaunt, while that young lady was fain to be satisfied with the escort of the disinherited Sir Reginald Eversleigh.