none have the right that we have. He is a neighbour; it was to me, first of all, that he told the trouble."
Then he remembered.
"Sit down," he said. "I must understand much better first. I do not understand why he came to you first. Why not, if he must come to this house at all—why not to me? I like the lad; he knows that well enough."
He spoke with an admirable dignity, and began to feel more happy in consequence.
She had sat down as he told her, on the other side of the table; but he could not see her face.
"It would have been better if he had, perhaps," she said. "But—"
"Yes? What 'But' is that?"
Then she faced him, and her eyes were swimming.
"Father, he told me first because he loves me, and because I love him."
He sat up. This was speaking outright what she had only hinted at before. She must have been gathering her resolution to say this, while she had been gone. Perhaps she had been with her mother. In that case he must be cautious. …
"You mean—"
"I mean just what I say. We love one another, and I am willing to be his wife if he desires it—and with your permission. But—"
He waited for her to go on.
"Another 'But'!" he said presently, though with increasing mildness.
"I do not think he will desire it after a while. And … and I do not know what I wish. I am torn in two."
"But you are willing?"
"I pray for it every night," she cried piteously. "And every morning I pray that it may not be so."
She was staring at him as if in agony, utterly unlike what he had looked for in her. He was completely bewildered.
"I do not understand one word—"
Then she threw herself at his knees and seized his hands; her face was all torn with pain.
"And I cannot explain one word. … Father, I am in misery. You must pray for me and have patience with me. … I must wait … I must wait and see what God wishes."
"Now, now. … "
"Father, you will trust me, will you not?"
"Listen to me. You must tell me thus. Do you love this boy?"
"Yes, yes."
"And you have told him so? He asked you, I mean?"
"Yes."
He put her hands firmly from his knee.
"Then you must marry him, if matters can be arranged. It is what I should wish. But I do not know—"
"Father, you do not understand—you do not understand. I tell you I am willing enough, if he wishes it … if he wishes it."
Again she seized his hands and held them. And again bewilderment came down on him like a cloud.
"Father! you must trust me. I am willing to do everything that I ought." (She was speaking firmly and confidently now.) "If he wishes to marry me, I will marry him. I love him dearly. … But you must say nothing to him, not one word. My mother agrees with this. She would have told you herself; but I said that I would—that I must be brave. … I must learn to be brave. … I can tell you no more."
He lifted her hands and stood up.
"I see that I understand nothing that you say after all," he said with a fine fatherly dignity. "I must talk with your mother."
II
He found his wife half an hour later in the ladies' parlour, which he entered with an air as of nothing to say. With the same air of disengagement he made sure that Marjorie was nowhere in the room, and presently sat down.
Mrs. Manners was well past her prime. She was over forty years old and looked over fifty, though she retained the air of distinction which Marjorie had derived from her; but her looks belied her, and she had not one tithe of the subtlety and keenness of her daughter. She was, in fact, more suited to be wife to her husband than mother to her daughter.
"You have come about the maid," she said instantly, with disconcerting penetration and frankness. "Well, I know no more than you. She will tell me nothing but what she has told you. She has some fiddle-faddle in her head, as maids will, but she will have her way with us, I suppose."
She drew her needle through the piece of embroidery which she permitted to herself for an hour on Sundays, knotted the thread and bit it off. Then she regarded her husband.
"I. … I will have no fiddle-faddle in such a matter," he said courageously. "Maids did not rule their parents when I was a boy; they obeyed them or were beaten."
His wife laughed shortly; and began to thread her needle again.
He began to explain. The match was in all respects suitable. Certainly there were difficulties, springing from the very startling events at Matstead, and it well might be that a man who would do as Mr. Audrey had done (or, rather, proposed to do) might show obstinacy in other directions too. Therefore there was no hurry; the two were still very young, and it certainly would be wiser to wait for any formal betrothal until Robin's future disclosed itself. But no action of Mr. Audrey's need delay the betrothal indefinitely; if need were, he, Mr. Manners, would make proper settlements. Marjorie was an only daughter; in fact, she was in some sort an heiress. The Manor would be sufficient for them both. As to any other difficulties—any of the maidenly fiddle-faddle of which his wife had spoken—this should not stand in the way for an instant.
His wife laughed again in the same exclamatory manner, when he had done and sat stroking his knees.
"Why, you understand nothing about it, Mr. Manners," she said, "Did the maid not tell you she would marry him, if he wished it? She told me so."
"Then what is the matter?" he asked.
"I know no more than you."
"Does he not wish it?"
"She says so."
"Then—"
"Yes, that is what I say. And yet that says nothing. There is something more."
"Ask her."
"I have asked her. She bids me wait, as she bids you. It is no good, Mr.
Manners. We must wait the maid's time."
He sat, breathing audibly through his nose.
* * * * *
These two were devoted to their daughter in a manner hardly to be described. She was the only one left to them; for the others, of whom two had been boys, had died in infancy or childhood; and, in the event, Marjorie had absorbed the love due to them all. She was a strain higher than themselves, thought her parents, and so pride in her was added to love. The mother had made incredible sacrifices, first to have her educated by a couple of old nuns who still survived in Derby, and then to bring her out suitably at Babington House last year. The father had cordially approved, and joined in the sacrifices, which included an expenditure which he would not have thought conceivable. The result was, of course, that Marjorie, under cover of a very real dutifulness, ruled both her parents completely; her mother acknowledged the dominion, at least, to herself and her husband; her father pretended that he did not; and on this occasion rose, perhaps, nearer to repudiating it than ever in his life. It seemed to him unbearable to be bidden by his daughter, though with the utmost courtesy and affection, to mind his own business.
So he sat and breathed audibly through his nose, and meditated rebellion.
* * * * *
"And is the lad to come here for Easter?" he asked at last.
"I suppose so."
"And