Time went on swimmingly until the Saturday, and everything was in progress.  The old dowager deserved to be made commander of a garrison for her comprehensive strategy, the readiness and skill she displayed in carrying out her arrangements.  For what reason, perhaps she could not have explained to herself; but an instinct was upon her that secrecy in all ways was necessary; at any rate, she felt surer of success whilst it was maintained.  Hence her decision in regard to the unused little chapel; and that this one particular portion of the project had been long floating in her mind was proved by the fact that she had previously caused the chapel to be renovated.  But that it was to serve her own turn, she would have let it remain choked up with dust for ever.

The special license had arrived; the young clergyman who was to perform the service was located at Hartledon.  Seven o’clock was the hour fixed for the marriage:  it would be twilight then, and dinner over.  Immediately afterwards the bride and bridegroom were to depart.  So far, so good.  But Lady Kirton was not to have it quite her own way on this same Saturday, although she had enjoyed it hitherto.

A rumour reached her ears in the afternoon that Dr. Ashton was at the Rectory.  The doctor had been spending Easter at Cannes, and the dowager had devoutly prayed that he might not yet return.  The news turned her cheeks blue and yellow; a prevision rushing over her that if he and Lord Hartledon met there might be no wedding after all.  She did her best to keep Lord Hartledon indoors, and the fact of the Rector’s return from him.

Now who is going to defend Lord Hartledon?  Not you or I. More foolish, more culpable weakness was never shown than in thus yielding to these schemes.  Though ensnared by Maude’s beauty, that was no excuse for him.

An accident—­or what may be called one—­delayed dinner.  Two county friends of Hartledon’s, jolly fox-hunters in the season, had come riding a long way across country, and looked in to beg some refreshment.  The dowager fumed, and was not decently civil; but she did not see her way to turning them out.

They talked and laughed and ate; and dinner was indefinitely prolonged.  When the dowager and Lady Maude rose from table the former cast a meaning look at Lord Hartledon.  “Get rid of them as soon as you can,” it plainly said.

But the fox-hunters liked good drinking as well as good eating, and sat on, enjoying their wine; their host, one of the most courteous of living men, giving no sign, by word or look, that he wished for their departure.  He was rather silent, they observed; but the young clergyman, who made the fourth at the table, was voluble by nature.  Captain Kirton had not yet left his sick bed.

Lady Maude sat alone in her room; the white robes upon her, the orthodox veil, meant to shade her fair face thrown back from it.  She had sent away her attendants, bolted the door against her mother, and sat waiting her summons.  Waiting and thinking.  Her cheek rested on her hand, and her eyes were dreamy.