The curate was not excluded from the cabinet councils held on these topics, and he rarely absented himself. None of the lookers-on could at all make out the meaning of the several parties; even Hilary doubted what were Mr. Ufford’s views and
intentions; and as to Miss Barham, when at Hurstdene, she seemed to care little for any thing but the vicar’s daughter. The accounts from Naples, meanwhile, were most unfavorable; there seemed scarcely a hope of Lord Dunsmore’s life, which faded and flickered apparently like a dying lamp; but as his sister-in-law and her husband were devoted to him, his brother was content to remain in England.
It was a wild and stormy day, such as not unfrequently breaks up the fine weather at the commencement of August; the curate had not presented himself the whole morning at the Vicarage, and the family supposed him confined to his house by the tempest.
The church bell began to toll, and its long, mournful vibrations seemed to come sadly and awfully, with a warning sound, across the furious blast; sometimes swelling loud in a transient lull, sometimes almost swept away by the violence of the roaring gale.
“That is old Martha Blake’s funeral,” observed Hilary; “what a day for the poor people.”
“Yes; and Mr. Ufford, too,” observed Gwyneth.
The bell tolled on, and by-and-by Nest, who was watching from the window, remarked that the party had just appeared. Slowly, and with difficulty, the black group made their way across the green, the wind violently opposing their progress, and threatening at every moment to overpower their feeble and tottering steps. Gwyneth’s eyes were fixed on the procession as it wound its way along; she expected to see Mr. Ufford issue from the church to meet the mourners; but they paused at the Lychgate, set down the corpse, and sheltered themselves as well as they could beneath the walls. It was evident the clergyman had not yet arrived. Five minutes passed; ten, a quarter of an hour; still the bell tolled on; and still the mourners stood huddled together by the gate of the dead.
“How wrong to keep those poor people waiting there,” said Hilary, a little indignantly.
“I dare say there is some mistake about time,” replied Gwyneth;
“and I am sure they have often kept Mr. Ufford for an hour or more.”