Brown had never disclosed the brutal delinquency of Long Bill Tweak. Not to the maid, because he could not wound her; not to Blunder Cove, because he would not shame her. The revelation must be made, of course; but not now—by-an’-by. The maid knew that her mother was dead beyond recall: no mystery was ever made of that; and there ended the childish wish and wonder concerning that poor woman. But her father? Here was an inviting mystery. No; he was not what you might call dead—jus’ sort o’ gone away. Would he ever come back? Oh, sure! no need o’ frettin’ about that; he’d be back—by-an’-by. Had “By-an’-by” Brown said Never, the problem would have been dieposed of, once and for all: the fretting over with, once and for all. But what he said was this uncourageous and specious by-an’-by. So the maid waited in interested speculation: then impatiently. For she was used to saying, You told me so. Also, But then you promised.
As by-an’-by overhauled by-an’-by in the days of “By-an’-by” Brown, and as the ultimate by-an’-by became imminent, “By-an’-by” Brown was ever more disquieted.
“But,” says the maid, “‘by-an’-by’ is never.”
“Oh, my, no!” he protested.
She tapped the tip of his nose with a long little forefinger, and emphasized every word with a stouter tap. “Yes—it—is!” said she.
“Not never,” cried “By-an’-by” Brown.
“Then,” says she, “is it to-morrow?”
Brown violently shook his head.
“Is it nex’ week?”
“Goodness, no!”