“What time is the wedding to be? I have not even learnt that yet,” he said laughing.
“Mrs. Hereford arranged that it should be at two, that will leave us plenty of time to catch our train, and I have not told anyone where we mean to go. That is our secret.”
“Yes, we will keep that dark,” said Ralph. “Otherwise it may be creeping into the papers. Did you see there was a paragraph about Sir Matthew Mactavish’s late ward in yesterday’s ‘Veracity’?”
“Yes. We couldn’t help laughing over it, but I hope Janet and Minnie won’t see it. Oh, Ralph! what a nightmare the past is to look back on! and how happy and safe I am with you!”.
Now that all was arranged, she seemed perfectly at rest, able even to enjoy all the manifold little plans and the cheerful bustle that heralded the wedding-day. But Ralph down at Manchester spent a feverishly anxious week, and found it difficult indeed to concentrate his mind on his work. Most managers would have lost all patience with him, but Macneillie with the genial breadth of mind and the rare patience that characterised him took it all very quietly, and perhaps in his secret soul rather enjoyed the sight of such unusual and unsullied enthusiasm.
By the time Saturday arrived, Ralph had become very “ill to live with.” He wandered about the house imagining that he was busy packing but contriving to forget half his possessions. He could hardly stir without singing or whistling, and he would have neglected to put in an appearance at “Treasury” if Macneillie himself had not reminded him.
“You are like your namesake Sir Ralph the Rover,” said the manager, who had been answering his correspondence as well as he could to a running accompaniment of Ralph’s voice.
“He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing—”
“We won’t finish the quotation. But my dear fellow you will be quite played out to-morrow if you go on at this rate.”