"I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on him this morning. Nothing could have happened better, and I'm in luck's way to-day, for certain. It seems the Dean and Chapter require a certificate from him—a testimonial—just a line or two, to say that I'm a decent respectable fellow. We have not been friends of late—I hope Miss Patty keeps pretty well, by the way—but he won't deny me that small favour. You were not seeking me on her account?" he added, by an afterthought. "Patty?" She uttered her sister's name to gain time, for in truth she was bewildered, alarmed.
He nodded. "We are not allowed to correspond, as you know. But she must keep up her heart: your father will come round when he sees me precentor. 'Tis a good opening. We must allow for the Rector's crotchets (you'll excuse me, I feel sure): but give him time, I say— give him time, and he'll come round right and tight."
"My father is not with me. Oh, Mr. Romley, you have heard, surely? I was told—but there, you have the licence."
"The licence! What licence?" He stared at her.
Her heart sank. Here was some horrible mistake. She bethought herself of his careless habits, which indeed were notorious enough in and about Wroote and Epworth. "It must be among your letters—have you neglected them lately? Ah, think—think, my friend: for to me this means all the world."
"Upon my word of honour, Miss Hetty, I don't understand one word you're saying. Come, let us have it clear. What brings you to Lincoln? The Rector is not with you. Who, then?"
"We came here last night—early this morning, rather—"
"'We'?"
"I have left home. You know what we intended? But my father locked me up. I had tried to be open with him, and he would listen to nothing. So—as everything was ready—and you here with the licence—"
John Romley stepped back a pace. It is doubtful if he heard the last words. His eyes were round in his head.