"This is t' yoong lady!" she said in a breathless whisper to her husband. "Muster-Melrose's däater! She's coom fra Duddon. An' she's fer seein' her feyther."
Old Dixon had grown very pale. But otherwise he showed no surprise. He looked frowning at Felicia.
"Yo' canno' do that, Miss Melrose. Yo'r feyther wunna see yo'. He's an owd man noo, and we darena disturb him."
Felicia argued with the pair, first quietly, then with a heaving breast, and some angry tears. Dixon soon dropped the struggle, so far as words went. He left that to his wife. But he stood firmly against the door, looking on.
"You shan't keep me here!" said Felicia at last with a stamp. "I'll call some one! I'll make a noise!"
A queer, humorous look twinkled over Dixon's face. Then—suddenly—he moved from the door. His expression had grown hesitating—soft.
"Varra well, then. Yo' shall goa—if you mun goa."
His wife protested. He turned upon her.
"She shall goa!" he repeated, striking the dresser beside him. "Her feyther's an old man—an' sick. Mebbe he'll be meetin' his Mäaker face to face, before the year's oot; yo' canno' tell. He's weakenin' fasst. An' he's ben a hard mon to his awn flesh and blood. There'll be a reckonin'! An' the Lord's sent him this yan chance o' repentance. I'll not stan' i' the Lord's way—whativer. Coom along, Missie!"
And entirely regardless of his wife's entreaties, the old Methodist resolutely opened the kitchen door, and beckoned to Felicia. He was lame now and walked with a stick, his shoulders bent. But he neither paused, nor spoke to her again. Murmuring to himself, he led her along the inner passage, and opened the door into the great gallery.