“What am I to do?” she wailed in bitter despair. “Papa, what is to become of me—and of my unoffending child?”
“I don’t know: I wish I did know. It will be a cruel blight upon us all. You will have to live it down, Eliza. Ah, child, if you and Katherine had only listened to me, and not made those rebellious marriages!”
He turned away as he spoke in the direction of the church, to see that his orders were being executed there. Harry Carradyne ran after him. The clock was striking midday as they entered the churchyard.
Yes, the workmen were at their work—taking down the bells.
“If the time were to come over again, Harry,” began Captain Monk as they were walking homeward, he leaning upon his nephew’s arm, “I wouldn’t have them put up. They don’t seem to have brought luck somehow, as the parish has been free to say. Not but that it must be utter nonsense.”
“Well, no, they don’t, uncle,” assented Harry.
“As one grows in years, one gets to look at things differently, lad. Actions that seemed laudable enough when one’s blood was young and hot, crop up again then, wearing another aspect. But for those chimes, poor West would not have died as he did. I have had him upon my mind a good bit lately.”
Surely Captain Monk was wonderfully changing! And he was leaning heavily upon Harry’s arm.
“Are you tired, uncle? Would you like to sit down on this bench and rest?”