"Well," he said heavily, "I've fixed things up. Wedding's on 21st, Connie."
"No, it's not. I'm not going through with it." She spoke sullenly, bending towards the fireless grate.
"Ay, but ye will. Young Todd's a fool, but he seemed to be rarely set up to have you. The missus says she'll treat you well. They weren't the sort o' folk I'd thought on, Connie. I can't rightly size the whole business up, for they're decentish people."
"Decent? The old man's a fiend."
"Nay, nay, lass. Thou's not behaved so well thysen' that thou canst pick and choose. It's not the old man you'll be marrying. I cannot rightly see how it all came about."
Muriel looked at him. On his face was no longer the dark fury of resentment, but a rough tenderness, born of compunction and bewilderment. In his voice lay a new note of pity, almost, it seemed, of understanding. To Muriel this was the strangest thing in those strange days; but to Connie looking up from her clasped hands, it shone like a light through her darkness of rebellion.
"Oh, Dad, you'll help me," she cried, and stumbled forward, blindly sobbing, into the clumsy shelter of his arms.
XXVII
"Tum! Tum! Ter-um, tum, tum, tum!"
It was all over, then. The smooth bluish page scrawled over with signatures had completed the deed performed with greater solemnity in church. That was the wedding march of course, and soon they would process back down the aisle, following Connie's white fox fur and the tall shambling figure of the young man. All Marshington would watch them pass, and Muriel could imagine the things that would be said afterwards round luncheon tables all over the village.