Another year had passed, but there had been nothing definite heard about Leo.
Then came a black-bordered envelope, with the direction in her hand, asking her brother to help her, for she was in terrible straits in London with her child. There was plenty of money to be had, she said, but everything was in confusion, and the agent of Sir Thomas Candlish refused to acknowledge her as the late baronet’s wife.
But the energy of Hartley Salis soon set this right.
For old Moredock’s notion had proved to be correct. Tom Candlish had literally drunk himself to death, and the old man, who had been giving Horace North a good deal of trouble lately, and who was exceedingly fractious and jealous of his grandchild’s young husband, his deputy at the church, suddenly perked up on hearing that “young Squire Tom” was to be brought down from London to the family mausoleum.
There was a grand funeral, and the old man, helped by Joe Chegg, got through his part of the business with a good deal of his old energy.
All was over, and Horace North, who had been one of the mourners, as brother-in-law of Lady Candlish of the Hall, was about to turn away, with his mind strongly exercised by the scene, and the recollections it evoked, when he started, for he felt his sleeve plucked.
He turned sharply round to find himself alone, gazing at the old sexton, as he gave him one of his ghoulish grins—more hideous than ever.
“Now, gran’fa,” said a quick voice, and a rosy little woman, who had evidently been crying, took his arm, “you’re tired out, and must come home. Joe will finish what’s to be done.”
“Go ’way! go ’way!” cried the old man angrily.
“No, no, dear; don’t worrit Dr North now. He’ll come and see you another time.”