Spring passed, summer
came and went, and the leaves were turning from gold to brown when one
morning, as I was at breakfast, Mr. Faneuil's man came in with a letter.
It was from Master Freake, summoning me home as all was put right. It
contained a few lines from Margaret, written in Italian. A ship was
sailing for London that day, and I went on her.
* * * * *
Jonadab Kilroot had found his way across the Atlantic into Boston Harbour
much more easily than I was finding mine across London to Master Freake's
house in Queen Anne's Gate. It was after nine at night, at which late
hour, of course, I did not intend to arouse the inmates, but I meant to
find the place so that I could stand outside and imagine Margaret within,
perchance dreaming of me. At last I observed that men with torches were
clearly being used as guides through this black maze of streets, and I
stopped one such and offered him a guinea to do his office for me. He was
a lean, shabby, hungry-looking man, who might be forty by the look of him.
He stared vacantly at me for a few seconds, and then hurriedly led the
way, holding his link high over his head.
Pages:
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546