But now there was a change. Ever since Marion’s appeal in the study, a close observer might have traced an almost wistful uneasiness in her father, would have noticed that his eyes followed her, that his voice was modulated into unusual gentleness in addressing her, and that once or twice in a discussion with Anthony he had sided with her, taking her part, indeed, with a sharpness which seemed uncalled for. His heart smote him for the blindness which, after all, had caused little or no mischief. But we are all inclined to suppose that we might have averted evil had we only seen it coming. It seemed to him as if his girl’s determination were something against which he should have watched and prayed. Not that he had any cause of complaint to make him object to Marmaduke personally as her husband, but that his poverty and present position held out no prospect of marriage, and he keenly felt what the bitterness of a long waiting would be to her. It made him long to do something that should atone for his failure of care. He called Marion into the study, put the letter into her hand, and waited silently.
“Of course you will accept, papa,” Marion said, looking up. “To-morrow will be a very good day.”
“He says nothing of Marmaduke,” Mr Miles observed slowly.
“But it means that he will listen to you.”
“I suppose I must,” said the Vicar, looking round his room with a sigh. “But I don’t know about to-morrow. Anthony may not be able to start so soon.”
“Anthony! Why should he go?” said Marion, in a tone of dissatisfaction.
“We are asked together; I could not go without him.”
No more was said, and it may have been that the greatness of the sacrifice he was about to make in some measure appeared to the Vicar to compensate for his mistakes, for he did not attempt to disguise his misery at the prospect before him, and Marion breathed more freely when she saw him seated with Anthony in the little pony-carriage, of which James and a portmanteau shared the back seat. Even when they had started, her anxiety was not ended, for twice, to Sniffs extreme disgust, the fat pony came tugging round the corner again, once to leave a message for a farmer, and once to say that Tom Lear must wait to be married until the Vicar’s return. At last they were fairly off. The children ran out to courtesy; the women speculated as to the meaning of the portmanteau.
“Mr Anthony’s gwoin’ agaen,” said old Araunah, shaking his head. “Thyur’s a dale of comin’ and gwoin’ nowadays. Us used to think twice afore us car’d ower legs dree or fowter miles out o’ t’ pleace, us did, and ’twarn’t wi’out there wor a good rason for’t, a peg to sell, or a bet o’ sense like that. But thyur’s a dale of comin’ and gwoin’ nowadays.”
“I shall never believe they are gone until they are back again, I am sure,” said Mrs Miles, coming into the porch with tearful eyes. “It is three years since the Vicar slept out of the house, and that was to preach, and it does seem so unnatural he should have left his sermon book behind him. But there is really one good thing about it, and that is that we can have the kitchen chimney swept quite comfortably. Marion my dear, you’ll not mind cold—”