The Manor was soon besieged with callers.  Everyone in the county flocked thither to leave cards, and express their sympathy for the unfortunate mischance that had overtaken the bright creature who had been the cynosure of all eyes for her beauty and grace on the morning of the first fox-hunt of the year.  All the ill-natured gossip, all the slanderous tittle-tattle which had been started by Lord Roxmouth and fostered by Miss Tabitha Pippitt, ebbed and died away in the great wave of honest regret and kindly pity that pervaded the whole neighbourhood.  Even Sir Morton Pippitt, smitten by compunction for certain selfish motives which had inspired him to serve Lord Roxmouth as a willing tool, was an indefatigable, almost daily enquirer as to Maryllia’s condition, for though pompous, blusterous, and to a very great extent something of a snob, his nature was not altogether lacking in the milk of human kindness like that of his daughter Tabitha.  She, still smarting under the jealous conviction that John Walden was secretly enamoured of the Lady of the Manor, had heard the strange story of his having so far forgotten his usual self as to wander out bareheaded in the evening air and recite the commencement of the burial service like a man distraught when Maryllia’s crushed body had been brought home, and she thought of it often with an inward rage she could scarcely conceal.  Almost,—­such was her acrimony and vindictiveness—­she wished Maryllia would die.

“Serve her right!” she said to herself, setting her thin lips spitefully together—­“Serve her right!”

There are a great many eminently respectable ladies of Miss Tabitha’s temperament who always say ‘Serve her right,’ when a pretty and charming woman, superior to themselves, meets with some misfortune.  They regard it as a just dispensation of Providence.

John Walden meanwhile had braced himself to face the worst that could happen.  Or rather, as he chose to put it, strength, not his own, had been given him to stand up, albeit feebly, under the shock of unexpected disaster.  Pale, composed, punctilious in the performance of all his duties, and patiently attentive to the needs of his parishioners, he went about among them as usual in his own quiet, sympathetic way just as if his heart were not crying out in fierce rebellion against inexorable destiny,—­and as if he were not wildly clamouring to be near her whom, now that she was being taken from him, he knew that he loved with an ardour far deeper and stronger than with the same passion common to men in the first flush of their early manhood.  And though he sent Bainton every day up to the Manor to make enquiries about her, he never went near the place himself.  He could not.  Brave as he tried to be, he could not meet Cicely Bourne.  He knew that one look into the little singer’s piteous dark eyes would have broken him down completely.