The hour came, but not the man; and while Caroline and Clara went out with Miss Morley, Marian sat down with a book to wait for him. In about an hour's time the boys came to tell her they were going to the pond with Walter. "O Gerald, won't you wait for Edmund?" "I have waited till I am tired. I cannot stay in this whole afternoon, and I do not think he will come this age." "He is shut up in the study with papa," said Lionel; "I heard their voices very loud, as if they were in _such_ a rage." "I wish I could see them," said Johnny, "it would be such fun." Away ran the boys, leaving Marian in a state of wonder and anxiety, but still confident that Edmund would not forget her. She put on her walking dress, and sat down to her book again, but still she was left to wait. The winter twilight commenced, and still no Edmund; steps approached, but not the right ones; and in came the walking party, with a general exclamation of "Poor Marian! what, still waiting?" Miss Morley advised her to take a few turns on the terrace, instead of practising that horrid Mozart. Marian disconsolately went down stairs, looking wistfully at the library door as she went past it, and, at a funeral pace, promenaded along the terrace. As she passed beneath the window of Caroline's room, a head was popped out, and a voice sang-- "So, sir, you're come at last, I thought you'd come no more, I've waited with my bonnet on from one till half-past four! You know I sit alone--" At that moment, Edmund himself was seen advancing from the door; the song ended in a scream of laughter and dismay, and the window was hastily shut. Edmund smiled a little, but very little, and said, "True enough, I am afraid I have used you very ill." "Tiresome affairs," said Marian, looking up into his harassed face. "I hope they have not made your head ache?" "I have been worried, but it is not the fault of the affairs, I wish you had not lost your walk," added he abruptly, beginning to stride on so fast that she could scarcely keep up with him, and apparently forgetting her presence entirely in his own engrossing thoughts. She watched him intently as she toiled to keep by his side, longing, but not daring, to inquire what was the matter. At last he broke out into a muttered exclamation, "destitute of all principle! all labour in vain!" "What--how--Mr. Lyddell?" "This whole day have I been at it, trying to bring him to reason about that farm!" "What? Did he wish the Dissenter to have it?" "He saw no objection--treated all I said as the merest moonshine!" "What? all the annoyance to the Wortleys, and the mischief to the poor people!" exclaimed Marian, "Why, we should have a meeting-house!" "Nothing more likely, in the Manor field, and fifty pounds subscribed--all for the sake of toleration and Gerald's interests." "You don't mean that he has done it?" said Marian, alarmed, and not quite understanding Edmund's tone of irony, "Cannot you prevent it?"