“I think I’ll hurry on an’ change my dress,” remarked Martha, after stalking on for some moments in silence.
She was not going to travel in her best black and get the crape all messed about with dust.
“Don’t mind me, William, my dear,” said Sabina, when the bride had left them. “If you’re wanting to change your deep, ye’d best hurry on, too, maybe.”
“I’ve no need to change my suit,” returned William sorrowfully. “I bain’t a-goin’ on the honeymoon.”
“What!” cried the widow, in astonishment. “She’s never goin’ to leave ye on your weddin’ day?”
“She be,” said Mr. Faithfull slowly. “It do seem a bit hard, but we couldn’t both on us leave the house, an’ she haven’t a-had a holiday for twenty year. Ye see, it fell out this way—”
And he proceeded to explain the circumstances, already related, on which Mrs. Gully animadverted with much warmth.
They were still discussing the matter when Martha rejoined them in the private room of the Pure Drop, where a slight refection had been set forth.
This was partaken of hastily, and for the most part in silence, and at its conclusion Mrs. Faithfull jumped up and took a ceremonious farewell of her new cousin. William shouldered his wife’s bag and set forth beside her. Martha beguiled the walk to the station by a variety of injunctions, all of which the new landlord of the Pure Drop promised to heed and obey. It was not until she had actually taken her seat in the railway carriage that she found time for sentiment, and then, embracing her husband, she expressed the affectionate hope that he would not be lonely during her absence.
William clambered out of the compartment and carefully closed the door before he answered:—