“Yes. He is in the little room, writing.”
“‘Cause I want to see him,” said the clerk; and he stalked off.
“Do you know how Gisby is?” Edna asked me in a whisper.
“Dead by this time, I dare say. But I have not heard.”
They were at the top of the church when we got in, laughing in covert tones; I guessed it was over those dreadful boots. Edna stood by me whilst I locked the door, and then we went at once to the organ and began the hymn. Old Bumford could not be too far off yet to catch the sounds. Presently Fred Westerbrook and Edna went into the aisle, and paced it arm-in-arm. I kept on playing; Tod, not knowing what to do with himself, whistled an accompaniment.
“How long shall I be away, Edna!” exclaimed Fred, in answer to her question. “Why, how can I tell? It may be for years; it may be for ever. I cannot come back, I suppose, whilst this thing is hanging over my head.”
She was in very low spirits, and the tears began to drop from her eyes. Fred could see that much, as they paced through one of the patches of moonlight.
“You may not succeed in getting away.”
“No, I may not. And do you know, Edna, there are moments when I feel half inclined not to attempt it, but to give myself up instead, and let the matter take its course. If I do get away, and get on in the States, so as to make myself a home, will you come out and share it with me?”
“Yes,” she answered.