With that I felt Mr. Rogers's grip on my shoulder—no gentle one, I can assure you. He, too, had been gazing at the curate, but now stared down, searching my face.
"You've hit him, by George! Quick, boy!—have you learnt more than you told me last night? Or is it only guessing?"
"Ask him," said I, "why he married Miss Isabel."
"Married! Isabel Brooks married!"—Mr. Rogers's eyes, wide and round, turned slowly from me and fastened themselves on the curate.
"Not to him, but to Archibald Plinlimmon. Mr. Whitmore married them privately. Ask him why!"
"Why?" Mr. Rogers released me and springing on the curate, seized him by the collar. "Why, you unhanged cur? Why? Or better, say it's not true—say something, else by the Lord I'll kill you here and now!"
Mr. Whitmore slid from his chair and grovelling on the floor clasped Mr. Doidge's knees. "Take him off!" he gasped. "Have mercy—take him off! You shall hear everything, sir: indeed you shall. Only have mercy, and take him off!"
"Pah!" Mr. Rogers hurled him into a corner.
"Enough, Mr. Rogers!" commanded the Rector. The two stood eyeing the culprit who, crouching where he fell, gazed up at them dumbly, pitifully, as a dog between two thrashings.
"Now, sir," the Rector continued. "You married this couple, it seems. At whose request?"