Part 68 (2/2)

”Yes--I know--I quite understand,” said Mary. ”But there's plenty of time---”

”Yes, there's plenty of time!” agreed Twitt. ”But, lor,' if you could only know what a pain it gives me in the 'ed to work the portry out of it, ye wouldn't wonder at my preparin' ye, as 'twere. Onny I wishes ye just to understand that it'll all be done for love--an' no charge.”

Mary thanked him smiling, yet with tears in her eyes, and he strolled away down the street in his usual slow and somewhat casual manner.

That evening,--the evening of the day on which all that was mortal of ”old David” had been committed to the gentle ground, Mary unlocked the cupboard of which he had given her the key on the last night of his life, and took out the bulky packet it contained. She read the superscription with some surprise and uneasiness. It was addressed to a Mr. Bulteel, in a certain street near Chancery Lane, London. Now Mary had never been to London in her life. The very idea of going to that vast unknown metropolis half scared her, and she sat for some minutes, with the sealed packet in her lap, quite confused and troubled.

”Yet I made the promise!” she said to herself--”And I dare not break it!

I must go. And I must not tell Angus anything about it--that's the worst part of all!”

She gazed wistfully at the packet,--anon she turned it over and over. It was sealed in several places--but the seal had no graven impress, the wax having merely been pressed with the finger.

”I must go!” she repeated. ”I'm bound to deliver it myself to the man for whom it is intended. But what a journey it will be! To London!”

Absorbed in thought, she started as a tap came at the cottage door,--and rising, she hurriedly put the package out of sight, just as Angus entered.

”Mary,” he said, as he came towards her--”Do you know, I've been thinking we had better get quietly married as soon as possible?”

She smiled.

”Why? Is the book finished?” she asked.

”No, it isn't. I wish it was! But it will be finished in another month----”

”Then let us wait that other month,” she said. ”You will be happier, I know, if the work is off your mind.”

”Yes--I shall be happier--but Mary, I can't bear to think of you all alone in this little cottage----”

She gently interrupted him.

”I was all alone for five years after my father died,” she said. ”And though I was sometimes a little sad, I was not dull, because I always had work to do. Dear old David was a good companion, and it was pleasant to take care of him--indeed, this last year has been quite a happy one for me, and I shan't find it hard to live alone in the cottage for just a month now. Don't worry about me, Angus!”

He stooped and picked up Charlie, who, since his master's death, had been very dispirited.

”You see, Mary,” he said, as he fondled the little dog and stroked its silky hair--”nothing will alter the fact that you are richer than I am.

You do regular work for which you get regular pay--now I have no settled work at all, and not much chance of pay, even for the book on which I've been spending nearly a year of my time. You've got a house which you can keep going--and very soon I shall not be able to afford so much as a room!--think of that! And yet--I have the impertinence to ask you to marry me! Forgive me, dear! It is, as you say, better to wait.”

She came and entwined her arms about him.

”I'll wait a month,” she said--”No longer, Angus! By that time, if you don't marry me, I shall summons you for breach of promise!”

She smiled--but he still remained thoughtful.

”Angus!” she said suddenly--”I want to tell you--I shall have to go away from Weircombe for a day--perhaps two days.”

He looked surprised.

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