“Never, Carry; as God hears me, nothing will ever change me.”
“Thank you, James,” she said, “I believe you. God grant you may never be put to the test.”
And then, leaning over him, she kissed him quietly, and without a word went out from the cottage.
The next morning Stephen Walker was in the shop with Carry when Fred Bingham came in for his paper, but he was busy arranging his books, and did not hear Carry's whispered sentence, “At the old place, this evening at five.” And then, as he seemed to hesitate, she added in such an agonised whisper, “You must, you must,” that he nodded assent as he went out of the shop.
“I wonder what she wants,” he said moodily to himself as he waited at the end of the street for an omnibus; “the same thing as usual, I suppose. Bah, I begin to think I have made a fool of myself.”
At the appointed time Carry was walking restlessly backwards and forwards in a retired part of Kensington Gardens. There the trees grew thick and close, and through them the Long water could be seen, with groups of children playing about and throwing food to the waterfowl. Away to the right the band was playing, and through the vista of the trees crowds of fashionably-dressed people could be seen moving slowly to and fro. For some time no one came near the solitary, restless figure. At last a man approached, whom she recognised as far as she could see him. Then she stopped walking and leaned against a tree, with her hand pressed upon her heart as if to still its beating.
“You're early, Carry. It wants five minutes to the hour. Is anything the matter?”
“Oh, Fred,” the girl panted out. “Father begins to suspect something; he has been asking me questions about you, and he sees I am ill. Oh, Fred, keep your promise to me. You know you swore it, swore it on the Bible. You said that if your uncle lived, so that you could not marry me publicly, you would marry me privately in a month. It is three months now, Fred. Oh, dear, dear Fred, don't put me off any longer!”