That there must be some weighty cause, apart from what she knew, to make her easy and tolerant father speak so severely, Maria felt assured of. She never thought to rebel at the mandate; but it seemed to her that Philip grew all the dearer to her heart.
She had a speedy proof that the Vicar was very much in earnest. He gave orders in the household that whenever Mr. Cleeve called he was not to be admitted. Philip did call; again and again; and at last he understood that the door was closed to him. It made Philip very angry, and he set himself to waylay Maria out of doors.
One morning he met her suddenly in a pretty, green lane just outside the town, and had accosted her before Maria well knew he was there.
"Good-morning, Maria," he said, stopping her and holding out his hand. What could she do but put out hers in return?
"Good-morning," she rejoined.
"I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Page's death; it must have been a mournful time for you. You have been back a week, have you not?"
"About that."
"And I have called at the Vicarage nearly every day, only to be denied to you. Mr. Kettle is not to be seen, and Miss Kettle is not to be seen, are the answers I get. Of course I can only conclude that I am no longer welcome. Now, Maria, what is the meaning of it?"
Maria was thoroughly distressed. She knew not what to say. How dear he was to her! How his very voice thrilled her as he spoke! If there was anger in his eyes there was love as well, and her own eyes fell before his ardent gaze.
"Papa thought it best that you should not come to the Vicarage for a little while," she murmured--and the words seemed nearly to choke her.