and irritable, and kept up an annoying squeal of complaint.
Uncle Alfred's gaiety was somewhat dampened by the discovery that George Harris was absent without leave. He said that he supposed Harris would show up in time to feed the pigs, but meanwhile he strongly disapproved of the man leaving the farm alone, even for a short while. "Suppose something should happen to one of the hogs—with nobody here to help!"
Annette and I were in a state of comatose bliss; our new life lay before us, but it had not yet quite begun. "With my arm around her, I remember wandering about the house and grounds—saying little, thinking of nothing but the future: the future that we owed entirely to the kindness of my uncle.
The minister was expected at two o'clock. At three he had not arrived, and since the sky was growing more and more ominous, I began to fear that if he did not come, soon, a storm might interfere with making the trip that day. Uncle Alfred said he would telephone to find out the reason for the delay. He waddled out of the living room, and down the hall to his own bedroom where the telephone was. As I heard his door dose, I heard also the first deep growl of thunder.
The passage of time meant nothing to Annette and me, but I suppose it must have been more than half an hour later when Uncle Alfred appeared in the doorway and clapped his pink hand to his forehead in a gesture of despair.
"My God, Julian!" he groaned. "The most terrible thing has happened! I don't know how to tell you! I can't tell you!"
We stared at him. "What is it?" I demanded. "The minister—"
"No, not that. I tried to reach him, and there was no answer, so I suppose he's on his way. If it were only that!"
"Then what?"
"Afterwards, you see, I called my office. I won't stop to tell you all about it, now, but—" he sighed deeply. "Julian, my boy, you must fly to Mexico City at once! My office has made a reservation for you on the earliest plane—we must leave here within an hour!" As I started to protest, he handed me a long envelope that was sealed in a number of places with red wax. "Here — take this! I will tell you about it before you go. Oh, Julian, I am so sorry about this! So sorry!" Then he sighed again, and added, "But journeys end in lovers' meeting, you know. Annette will follow you as soon as your mission is finished—"
I interrupted, "Why shouldn't she come with me now?"
"Ah!" he said. "There was another piece of bad luck! Terrible luck! There was only room for one more passenger on the plane. But don't worry—I'll send her to you at the first possible moment." He put his arm as far as it would go around her waist, and murmured, "Poor, poor girl—"
Annette looked at me with shining eyes. "It's all right—it's your job—and I can understand that. I'll follow you, darling."
"Of course she will" Uncle Alfred assured me. "And if there isn't time for you to be married here, she'll marry you wherever you are. Won't you, my dear?"
I was enraged by something indefinable in my uncle's manner—or perhaps it was by the situation, itself. In any case, I remember the insane itch to sink my fingers in my uncle's fat neck, to squeeze the life from his disgusting body. But I stood silent in the gloomy room, as if waiting for the next thing to happen. Annette released herself, came to me and put her hands on my shoulders; raising her head, she whispered, "Think of the future, darling. We'll be so happy for so long." I kissed her—and my anger was gone.
The thunder had grown louder, and
