“Rates are imposed upon the parish needlessly, Captain Monk; it has been so ever since my time here.  Pardon me for saying that if you put up chimes to gratify yourself, you should bear the expense, and not throw it upon those who have a struggle to get bread to eat.”

Captain Monk drank off another glass.  “Any more treason, Parson?”

“Yes,” said Mr. West, “if you like to call it so.  My conscience tells me that the whole procedure in regard to setting up these chimes is so wrong, so manifestly unjust, that I have determined not to allow them to be heard until the rates levied for them are refunded to the poor and oppressed.  I believe I have the power to close the belfry-tower, and I shall act upon it.”

“By Jove! do you think you are going to stand between me and my will?” cried the Captain passionately.  “Every individual who has not yet paid the rate shall be made to pay it to-morrow.”

“There is another world, Captain Monk,” interposed the mild voice of the minister, “to which, I hope, we are all—­”

“If you attempt to preach to me—­”

At this moment a spoon fell to the ground by the sideboard.  The Vicar turned to look; his back was towards it; the Captain peered also at the end of the rapidly-darkening room:  when both became aware that one of the servants—­Michael, who had shown in Mr. West—­stood there; had stood there all the time.

“What are you waiting for, sirrah?” roared his master.  “We don’t want you.  Here! put this window open an inch or two before you go; the room’s close.”

“Shall I bring lights, sir?” asked Michael, after doing as he was directed.

“No:  who wants lights?  Stir the fire into a blaze.”

Michael left them.  It was from him that thus much of the conversation was subsequently known.

Not five minutes had elapsed when a commotion was heard in the dining-room.  Then the bell rang violently, and the Captain opened the door—­overturning a chair in his passage to it—­and shouted out for a light.  More than one servant flew to obey the order:  in his hasty moods their master brooked not delay:  and three separate candles were carried in.

“Good lack, master!” exclaimed the butler, John Rimmer, who was a native of Church Dykely, “what’s amiss with the Parson?”

“Lift him up, and loosen his neck-cloth,” said Captain Monk, his tone less imperious than usual.

Mr. West lay on the hearthrug near his chair, his head resting close to the fender.  Rimmer raised his head, another servant took off his black neck-tie; for it was only on high days that the poor Vicar indulged in a white one.  He gasped twice, struggled slightly, and then lay quietly in the butler’s arms.

“Oh, sir!” burst forth the man in a horror-stricken voice to his master, “this is surely death!”

It surely was.  George West, who had gone there but just before in the height of health and strength, had breathed his last.