“No, I think not,” replied Mr. Priddon, who was already in his canonicals.  “Hedges came in and said something to him, and they went out together.”

A minute or two of impatience—­she was in no mood to wait long—­and then she rang the bell.  It should be remarked that the old lady, either from excitement or some apprehension of failure, was shaking and jumping as if she had St. Vitus’s dance.  Hedges came in.

“Where’s your master?” she tartly asked.

“With Mr. Carr, my lady.”

“With Mr.—­What did you say?”

“My lord is with Mr. Carr.  He has just arrived.”

A moment given to startled consternation and then the fury broke forth.  The young parson had never had the pleasure of seeing one of these war-dances before, and backed against the wall in his starched surplice.

“What brings him here?  How dare he come uninvited?”

“I heard him say, my lady, that finding he had a Sunday to spare, he thought he would come and pass it at Hartledon,” said the well-trained Hedges.

Ere the words had left his lips Lord Hartledon and Mr. Carr were present; the latter in a state of utter amazement and in his travelling dress, having only removed his overcoat.

“You’ll be my groomsman, Carr,” said Hartledon.  “We have no adherents; this is a strictly private affair.”

“Did you send for Mr. Carr?” whispered the countess-dowager, looking white through her rouge.

“No; his coming has taken me by surprise,” replied Hartledon, with a nervousness he could not wholly conceal.

They passed rapidly through the passages, marshalled by Hedges.  Lord Hartledon led his bride, the countess-dowager walked with the clergyman, and Mr. Carr brought up the rear.  The latter gentleman was wondering whether he had fallen into a dream that he should wake up from in the morning.  The mode of procession was a little out of the common order of such affairs; but so was the marriage.

Now it happened, not very long before this, that Dr. Ashton was on his way home from a visit to a sick parishioner—­a poor man, who said he believed life had been prolonged in him that his many years’ minister should be at his deathbed.  Dr. Ashton’s road lay beyond Hartledon, and in returning he crossed the road, which brought him out near the river, between Hartledon and the Rectory.  Happening to cast his eyes that way, he saw a light where he had never seen one before—­in the little unused chapel.  Peering through the trees at the two low diamond-paned windows, to make sure he was not mistaken, Dr. Ashton quickened his pace:  his thoughts glancing at fire.

He was well acquainted with Hartledon; and making his way in by the nearest entrance, he dashed along the passages to the chapel, meeting at length one of the servants.

“John,” he panted, quite out of breath with hurrying, “there’s a light in the chapel.  I fear it is on fire.”