“He does. Dos’t want him?” I said, barring the entrance but holding the door half open, whilst Mary had risen to her feet and held the light above her head, to see the better.
“Aw’ve tramped fra Manchester, an’ awn had newt to eit sin break o’ day, an’ aw beg yo’ for the love of God to gi’ me a crust an’ th’ price o’ a bed or let me lie me dahn i’ th’ mistal.”
And as he spoke and his face struck stronger at me, it all came back.
“It’s Ben o’ Buck’s,” I cried.
“It’s Ben o’ Buck’s,” he said in a low voice, and hung down his head and said no more. I was for banging the door in his face, the hot blood surging to my face and anger and scorn in my heart.
But Mary took the loaf and a slice of cheese from the table where our supper lay, and a coin from the window sill where the milk money was, and gave it to him, but turned her eyes from him as she gave it. And I knew that Mary had taken the better part, and there was no longer anger in my heart and I closed the door upon the figure that slouched away into the cold dark night.
Yes: Mary and I were wed, and for the life of me I cannot remember that I ever asked Mary to be my wife. I always tell her she did all the love–making. Did she not put her arms about my neck, and did she not tell Long Tom she meant to wed me. To be sure it was a Leap Year, and that accounts for it.
I overheard Mary telling Martha that our wedding day was fixed. It was to be in October—on the sixteenth—to be exact.
“Then that settles it,” said Martha.
“Settles what?” asked Mary.