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Updated: June 7, 2025
"And Reginald Eversleigh the man whom you love he who should have been at your side, was at Hallgrove Rectory, among a circle of visitors, flirting with the most notorious of coquettes Miss Graham, an old friend of his boyish days." Victor looked at Paulina's face, and saw the random shot had gone home.
The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on the baronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated with shuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival at Hallgrove. The lights grew more distinct feeble lamps in a village street, glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there.
"Well, sir, he's dirty, certainly; and the saddle is soaking; but he's pretty dry, considering." "Are the girths broken?" "No, sir, there's nothing amiss with them." "Very well. Take care of the horse, but say nothing about him to Mr. Dale at present." The visitors at Hallgrove Rectory had received the intelligence which Sir Reginald Eversleigh had communicated to them with the deepest concern.
All the poor of the parish had been invited to dine with their pastor on Christmas-day, and this two o'clock dinner was a greater pleasure to the rector of Hallgrove than the repast which was to be served at seven o'clock for himself and the guests of his own rank.
Pondering upon these probabilities, Victor Carrington rode slowly on towards Hallgrove. He had taken accurate observations; he had nicely calculated time and place. All the servants, tenants, and villagers were gathered together under Lionel Dale's hospitable roof. To the feasting had succeeded games and story-telling, and the absorbing gossip of such a reunion.
The time had been when the prospect of a visit to Hallgrove Rectory would have seemed very pleasant to her. But that time was gone. The haughty spirit was soured by disappointment, the selfish nature embittered by defeat. There was a glass over the mantel-piece. Lydia leaned her arms upon the marble slab, and contemplated the dark face in the mirror.
The one thing in which he himself felt that he was perhaps open to blame, was in his passion for the sports of the field. No one who had stood amongst the little group at the top of the long table in Hallgrove Manor-house on this snowy Christmas morning could have doubted that the heart of Lionel Dale was true to the very core. He was not alone amongst his poor parishioners.
There were some people in Hallgrove and its neighbourhood who said that Lionel Dale took more pleasure in this life than a clergyman and a good Christian should take; but surely those who had seen him seated by the bed of sickness, or ministering to the needs of affliction, could scarcely have grudged him the innocent happiness of his hours of relaxation.
No stranger had been seen to join the hunt that day, or noticed lurking about Hallgrove that morning, and Mr. Larkspur's own reliable eyes had assured him that Carrington was not among the recipients of the rector's hospitality on Christmas-day.
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