On that day when George left his Mary at the little lodgings in Meath
Street, Battersea, Bill Wyvern returned to Paitley Hill after absence
from home for a week upon a visit.
His Margaret was his first thought upon his arrival. Letters between
the pair were, by the sharpness of Mr. Marrapit's eye, compelled to be
exchanged not through the post but by medium of a lovers' postal box
situate in the hole of a tree in that shrubbery of Herons' Holt where
they were wont by stealth to meet. Thus when Bill, upon this day of
his return, scaled the tremendous wall and groped among the bushes, he
saw the trysting bower innocent of his love--then searched and found a
letter.
A sad little note for lover's heart. Mr. Marrapit, it said, abed of a
chill, prevented Margaret meeting her Bill that afternoon. Her father
must be constantly ministered; impossible to say when she would be
released. She heard him calling, she must fly to him. With fondest
love. No time for more.
II.
The lines chilled Bill's heart. His was a fidgety and nervous love
that took fright at shadow of doubt. The week that had divided him
from Margaret was the longest period they had not embraced since their
discovery one of another. Was it not possible, he tortured himself,
that loss of his presence had blurred his image in her heart?
Countless heroes of his own stories who thus had suffered rose to
assure him that possible indeed it was.
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