“Well! well!” cried the initiated, casting up their hands and eyes to heaven; the more moderate among them were of the opinion that Ted was carrying things a bit too far, particularly when’ it became known that Margaret was boiling hams and killing chickens—­yes, Sophia and Ernest, William and Augusta were laid low—­in preparation for the forthcoming nuptial feast.

On the third Sunday the general excitement reached fever-height, and when once more the Canon linked the names of Edward Wharton and Margaret Heptonstall, a kind of amazed murmur rippled from bench to bench.  All those who had been party to the plot against Margaret’s peace were totally at a loss to account for the conduct of the chief conspirator.  They made up their minds to take him to task at the earliest possible opportunity; but, as on that particular morning he did not come to church, they were forced to restrain their curiosity till later in the day.

After dinner, therefore, a select deputation waited on Mr. Edward Wharton at his own residence, but was again doomed to disappointment; that gentleman having gone to call on his charmer, and not returning till evening.  However, the ardour of the deputation, though damped, was not extinguished, and when the shades of night were falling, it again betook itself to the abode of the bridegroom elect.

As the half-dozen members who made up the embassy walked at the usual slow and somewhat shambling pace which the Lancashire rustic assumes at times of leisure—­pausing every now and then to emphasise the point of some remark, switching at the hedge with their sticks, playfully kicking up the dust, or sending a tempting pebble spinning along in front of them—­faint notes of music reached them, coming apparently from the direction towards which they were bending their steps.  These notes were feeble and faltering, as though the player were practising an unfamiliar air; in another moment or two it became evident that the sounds proceeded from Ted’s cottage, and that the musician was no other than Mr. Wharton himself.

Quickening their pace, the hilarious party burst open the door, discovering the master of the house seated astride a wooden chair, concertina in hand; his face wore a most serious, not to say dismal, expression, and his whole attitude betokened absorption.

Joe Lovelady advanced and clapped him on the shoulder with a loud laugh; the others followed, less jubilantly; one or two of them, indeed, felt themselves somewhat aggrieved at Ted’s unaccountable demeanour.

“Coom,” cried Joe, “thou mun explain a bit, Ted, lad.  We’re gettin’ fair moidered wi’ this job; how long dost thou mean to keep it up?”

“Haven’t you and Margaret fallen out yet?” put in another.  “Ye’re carryin’ on th’ coortin’ longer nor we looked for.”

“Ah, thou said thou’d content thysel’ with bein’ shouted, didn’t thou?  Thou allus said thou didn’t mean it to coom to wedlock.”