Mournful is't to say Farewell, Though for few brief hours we part; In that absence, who can tell What may come to wring the heart! ANONYMOUS. The events recorded in the last chapter took place on a Tuesday. On Thursday afternoon Mary was surprised, in the midst of some little bustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of Will Wilson. He looked strange, at least it was strange to see any different expression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. He had a paper parcel in his hand. He came in, and sat down, more quietly than usual. "Why, Will! what's the matter with you? You seem quite cut up about something!" "And I am, Mary! I'm come to say good-bye; and few folk like to say good-bye to them they love." "Good-bye! Bless me, Will, that's sudden, is not it?" Mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fireplace. She had always liked Will; but now it seemed as if a sudden spring of sisterly love had gushed up in her heart, so sorry did she feel to hear of his approaching departure. "It's very sudden, isn't it?" said she, repeating the question. "Yes, it's very sudden," said he, dreamily. "No, it is not"; rousing himself; to think of what he was saying. "The captain told me, in a fortnight he would be ready to sail again; but it comes very sudden on me, I had got so fond of you all." Mary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalised She spoke again. "But it's not a fortnight since you came. Not a fortnight since you knocked at Jane Wilson's door, and I was there, you remember. Nothing like a fortnight!" "No; I know it's not. But, you see, I got a letter this afternoon from Jack Harris, to tell me our ship sails on Tuesday next; and it's long since I promised my uncle (my mother's brother, him that lives at Kirk-Christ, beyond Ramsay, in the Isle of Man) that I'd go and see him and his, this time of coming ashore. I must go. I'm sorry enough; but I mustn't slight poor mother's friends. I must go. Don't try to keep me," said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty. "I'm not a-going, Will. I dare say you are right; only I can't help feeling sorry you're going away. It seems so flat to be left behind. When do you go?" "To-night. I shan't see you again." "To-night I and you go to Liverpool! Maybe you and father will go together.
He's going to Glasgow, by way of Liverpool." "No! I'm walking; and I don't think your father will be up to walking." "Well! and why on earth are you walking? You can get by railway for three-and-sixpence." "Aye, but Mary! (thou mustn't let out what I'm going to tell thee) I have not got three shillings, no, nor even one sixpence left, at least not here: before I came I gave my landlady enough to carry me to the island and back, and maybe a trifle for presents, and I brought the rest here; and it's all gone but this," jingling a few coppers in his hand. "Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile," added he, as he saw she looked grave and sorry. "It's a fine clear night, and I shall set off betimes, and get in afore the Manx packet sails. Where's your father going? To Glasgow, did you say? Perhaps he and I may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the Manx boat has sailed when I get into Liverpool, I shall go by a Scotch packet. What's he going to do in Glasgow?--Seek for work? Trade is as bad there as here, folk say." "No; he knows that," answered Mary sadly. "I sometimes think he'll never get work again, and that trade will never mend. It's very hard to keep up one's heart. I wish I were a boy, I'd go to sea with you. It would be getting away from bad news at any rate; and now, there's hardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but has something sad and unhappy to tell one.
Father is going as a delegate from his Union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He's starting this evening." Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was very flat to be left alone. "You say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say; you don't mean that Margaret Jennings has any trouble?" asked the young sailor, anxiously. "No!" replied Mary, smiling a little; "she's the only one I know, I believe, who seems free from care. Her blindness almost appears a blessing sometimes; she was so downhearted when she dreaded it, and now she seems so calm and happy, when it's downright come. No! Margaret's happy, I do think." "I could almost wish it had been otherwise," said Will, thoughtfully. "I could have been so glad to comfort her, and cherish her, if she had been in trouble." "And why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy?" asked Mary. "Oh! I don't know. She seems so much better than I am! And her voice! When I hear it, and think of the wishes that are in my heart, it seems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would be to ask an angel from heaven." Mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression, at the idea of Margaret as an angel; it was so difficult (even to her dressmaking imagination) to fancy where, and how, the wings would be fastened to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print. Will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with Mary's pretty merry laugh.
Then he said-- "Aye, you may laugh, Mary; it only shows you've never been in love." In an instant Mary was carnation colour, and the tears sprang to her soft grey eyes. She that was suffering so much from the doubts arising from love. It was unkind of him. He did not notice her change of look and of complexion. He only noticed that she was silent, so he continued: "I thought--I think, that when I come back from this voyage, I will speak.