“I did indeed,” resumed his wife. “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘how could I ever treat en so unfair,’ says I, ‘arter all them years as him an’ me was a-walkin’? Oh,’ says I, ‘when I think of his melancholy face, an’ this his weddin’ day an’ all.’ So I nips out at Templecombe, an’ gets another ticket, an’ pops into the train as were just startin’ Branston-way—an’ here I be.”
“Well, an’ I be pure glad to see ye,” cried William heartily.
They had by this time reached the house, and Mrs. Faithfull, still breathless with fatigue and agitation, stared anxiously about.
“Where is she?” she inquired in a whisper.
“Who?” said William, setting down the bag.
“Why, your Cousin Sabina!”
“Oh, her!” said William, with something like a twinkle in his usually lack-lustre eye; “she be gone home-along to fetch her things an’ lock up her house. She says she’ll come back to-morrow mornin’ first thing.”
“Well, but we don’t want her now, do we?” cried Martha, trembling with eagerness. “I was thinkin’ maybe after all, ye’d fancy a bit of a holiday, William. Ye might drop her a bit of a line an’ say ye was goin’ to take the first honeymoon yerself. I fancy ye’d like London very well, William. You should have the first turn, by right, the man bein’ master; an’ I mid be able to run up for a couple o’ days at the end o’ the week. Here’s my ticket, d’ye see; you could catch the last train, you know, an’ then, as I tell ’ee, I’d come an’ j’ine ye.”
“That won’t do,” said William firmly; “nay, ’twon’t do.”
“Why not?” gasped Martha.