“Ye see, Cicely,” he explained more quietly, “they’ve been at Webster’s two hours and more now—they must be doing it thoroughly. Now ye can tell me about it.”
“Oh, first—where is he?”
“Never mind. Nowhere near the stackyard. Tell me about the parson.”
Wadsworth, it appeared from Cicely’s tale, was in as great a turmoil as Horwick. Her father had bidden her good-bye, given her an address in Liverpool, and was ready for flight. Many would have been glad to have Arthur, but what was the use? Arthur was safer in Horwick than in Wadsworth. Then, as she had stood distraught in the square, she had seen the parson coming out of the church, and had flown to him and well-nigh dragged him back into the building. There, on her knees, she had supplicated him (“Easy, lass,” said Matthew Moon, soothingly)—all was different now—oh! if the parson could but know!—Back o’ th’ Mooin, too, was against him ... she did not remember all she had said. At last the parson had consented to take him in for a night, during which he would pray for guidance; but it must be understood that after that all must be as God should direct.
“Humph!” said the merchant. “And yourself; when can ye join him?”
“Me?” exclaimed Cicely, “Oh, Matthew, I promised Sally I’d not leave her, and I can’t take that word back now——”
“He’ll not clear out without ye.”
“Oh, he must, he must!”
“I don’t think Arthur right knows what that means,” Matthew observed drily.
“Then he must trust i’ God and wait somewhere while I can meet him. It were the last word I passed Sally afore she went off. I’d see to Jimmy, too, I promised——”