"But you do not understand. I had to come, although for the time father has forbidden us to speak with you—"
Hetty stepped to the door and held it open. "Then one of his daughters at any rate shall be dutiful," she said.
Molly flung her an imploring look and walked out, sobbing.
"Is Hetty not coming down to supper?" Emilia asked in the kitchen that evening. Mrs. Wesley with her daughters and Johnny Whitelamb supped there as a rule when not entertaining visitors. The Rector took his meals alone, in the parlour.
"Your father has locked her in. Until to-morrow he forbids her to have anything but bread and water," answered Mrs. Wesley.
"And she is twenty-seven years old," added Molly.
All looked at her; even Johnny Whitelamb looked, with a face as long as a fiddle. The comment was quiet, but the note of scorn in it could not be mistaken. Molly in revolt! Molly, of all persons! Molly sat trembling. She knew that among them all Johnny was her one ally—and a hopelessly distressed and ineffective one. He had turned his head quickly and leaned forward, blinking and spreading his hands—though the season was high summer—to the cold embers of the kitchen fire; his heart torn between adoration of Hetty and the old dog-like worship of his master.
"Molly dear, she has deceived him and us all," was Mrs. Wesley's reproof, unexpectedly gentle.
"For my part," put in Nancy comfortably, "I don't suppose she would care to come down. And 'tis cosy to be back in the kitchen again, after ten days of the parlour and Mrs. Sam. Emmy agrees, I know."
But Emmy with fine composure put aside this allusion to her pet foe.
"Molly and Johnny should make a match of it," she sneered.
"They might set up house on their belief in Hetty, and even take her
to lodge with them."