“Yes,” he muttered; “doctor shall find you, and to-night, my lady. You don’t stand between her and her rights.”
He chuckled in anticipation of the scene that was to come, and, slowly descending from the pulpit, followed the figure till he was pretty close to the chancel door, but inside the rectory pew, over whose side he could listen as he knelt on the cushion of one of the seats, but quite ready to bob down into sheltering darkness should there be a risk of being seen.
Again he had not long to wait, for as he listened he heard the sound of a key in the outer door, the entering of some one, the withdrawal of the key, its insertion on the vestry side, and the locking of the door, followed by a low murmuring of voices.
“Pretty doves!” muttered the old sexton. “Coo away, sweet, soft critters! Mummy, am I, Squire Tom? Hideous old figure, am I, Miss Leo? Oh, you needn’t deny it. You’ve told my Dally I was, scores of times. All right. He! he! he! Chilly place to make love. Dessay you’ll catch colds, so I’ll bring the doctor!”
He kept his word, and North had his hand upon the latch, while Moredock gleefully rubbed his hands in anticipation of a scene that should relieve some of the tedium of his existence, and advance his grandchild’s ends, but quietly slipped away home.
“I’d like to see it,” he said; “but there may be trouble, and I’m best away.”
As if fate had determined that Horace North should be fully enlightened as to the character of the woman he worshipped, it so happened that as the door was thrown open, Tom Candlish was striking a flaming fusee.
The sharp crick—crick—crack of the explosive end overcame the sound made by the latch, and the match burst into a reddish blue flame, illuminating the whole place, for the young squire for the moment was too much taken aback to cast it down.
North uttered a hoarse groan as he gazed at the group before him: Tom Candlish seated in the curate’s chair by the oaken table, and Leo upon his knee with her arm about his neck, and her head resting upon his shoulder, while seen by the lurid light there appeared to be a couple of clergymen, one in black, the other in white, standing behind them in the background, as if to give sanction to their proceedings by performing some holy rite.
“The devil!” shouted Candlish, as Leo leaped from his lap, and crouched away in one corner of the vestry, her shame concealed by the sudden darkness that fell as Tom Candlish cast down the match.