"Not without just cause."
"And you will defy me—and marry them?"
"Yes."
The old man paused. He was trembling with rage and disappointment. He considered for a while. His face became paler—a dusky grey—and the lines between his nostrils and the corners of his mouth hardened and deepened. Forgetting that he was still in the church, he put his hat on his head; then he turned to walk away.
"I have shown all—all here, that I am against this; I have proclaimed it to the parish. I will not be defied with impunity. Take care you, Luke! I will leave no stone unturned to displace you. And as for Anthony, as he has made his bed so shall he lie—in his pigstye. Never—I call God to my witness—never in Hall."
As he passed through the richly-sculptured and gilt and painted screen, an old woman stepped forward and intercepted him on his way to the church door.
He put out his hand impatiently, to wave her away, without regarding her, and would have thrust past. But she would not be thus put aside.
"Ah, ha! Master Cleverdon!" she exclaimed, in harsh tones. "Look at me. Do you not know me—me, your wife's mother. Me, whom you threatened with the stick should I venture through your doors to see my daughter?"
Old Cleverdon looked at her with a scowl. "Of course I know you—you old beldame Penwarne."
"There is a righteous God in heaven!" cried the old woman, with vehemence—extending her arms to bar his passage. "Now will he recompense to you all the heartache and misery you brought on my child—aye, and through your own child too. That is well! That is well!"