And now, as the impressive requiem was about to be sung—­a dirge full of soul-stirring reflections and sacred grandeur—­Margaret’s head was full of bitterness, and she failed to respond to the sympathetic sublimity of the service, or to notice its serene beauty either.  To her it was nothing more than a tiresome form; her interest was centred on Dorothy alone, and she heartily condemned herself for not arranging that.  Dorothy should not sit beside the esquire.  It was a dreary and unpleasant time to her, and when she raised her eyes from her sister it was only impatiently to watch the deepening shades of the approaching night as they registered themselves upon the glass-panes at her side.  The windows gradually became more and more difficult to see through; each time she looked it had grown a shade darker, until at length the pure glass had changed, to her unmitigated satisfaction, in hue from clear transparency to green, and from that to black.

At length the service was over.  She hailed its conclusion with a sigh of relief, mentally promising the new confessor but a small portion of her favour if he were always as long-winded as he had been on this occasion; and she anxiously awaited the moment when Sir George would rise from his knees and lead the way out, so that she might carry Dorothy off in safety.

The time came in due course.  The baron rose; the others followed his example, and as Lady Maude, less haughty than usual, led the way out of the chapel, Margaret eagerly caught hold of her sister and led her away in silence across the courtyard and into the hall.

CHAPTER XIX.

“The course of true love.”

’Twere wild to hope for her, you say, I’ve torn and cast those words away, Surely there’s hope!  For life ’tis well Love without hope’s impossible.

—­Coventry Patmore.

Father Philip had lain under the sod but one sunset before the fruits of Margaret’s intriguing began to make themselves apparent.

It was with a secret sense of misgiving that Manners received an invitation, which he readily construed into a command, to attend the baron in his private room, and it was with a fluttering heart that he prepared himself to meet Dorothy’s father.  Nor were his forebodings set at rest or in anywise lightened by the first view he got of the baron.

Sir George was pacing up and down the room, but hearing the door open he stopped suddenly, and when Manners entered he saw upon the knight’s face a look which at once struck a chill to his heart.

“Sit down, Manners, sit down,” said the baron curtly.

He was nervous and excited, and as Manners obeyed the injunction he clearly perceived this fact, and it afforded him a little satisfaction.

“You wished to see me?” he exclaimed, breaking the awkward silence which ensued after he had sat down.