Thus we see the meeting again of George and Mary.
When the agitated young man on the day following the cab accident had alighted from the omnibus at the bottom of Palace Gardens he was opposite No. 14 by half-past ten; waiting till eleven; going, convinced she did not live there; returning, upon the desperate hope that indeed she did; waiting till twelve—and being most handsomely rewarded.
Her face signalled that she saw him, but her eyes gave no recognition—quickly were averted from him; the windows behind her had eyes, she knew.
My agitated George, who had made a hasty step at the red flag that fluttered on her cheeks, as hastily stepped away beneath the chill of her glance; in tremendous perturbation turned and fled; in tremendous perturbation turned and pursued. In Regent's Park he saw her produce a brilliant pair of scarlet worsted reins, gay with bells; heard her hiss like any proper groom as tandemwise she harnessed David and Angela, those restive steeds.
The equipage was about to start—she had cracked her whip, clicked her tongue—when with thumping heart, with face that matched the flaming reins, hat in hand he approached; spoke the driver.
Her steeds turned about; with wide, unblinking eyes, searched his face and hers.
“Your faces are very red,” Angela said. “Are you angry?”
“You have got very red faces,” David echoed. “Are you in a temper?”
Mary told them No; George said they were fine horses; felt legs; offered to buy them.
His words purchased their hearts, which were more valuable.
After the drive they would return to the stable, which was this seat, Mary told him; she could not stay to speak to him any longer. George declared he was the stable groom and would wait.
Away they dashed at handsome speed, right round the inner circle; returned more sedately, a little out of breath. There had been, moreover, an accident: leader, it appeared, had fallen and cut his knees.
“I shied at a motor,” David explained, proud of the red blood now that the agony was past.
George unharnessed them; dressed the wounds; scolded the coachman because no feed had been brought for the horses; promised that to-morrow he would bring some corn—bun corn.
“Will you come to-morrow?” Angela asked.
George glanced at Mary. “Yes,” he told them.
“Every to-morrow?”
“Every to-morrow.”
Tremendous joy. Well delighted, they ran to a new game.
Every to-morrow ran but to three: George and Mary had by then exchanged their histories. The pending examination was discussed, and Mary simply would not speak to him if, wasting his time, he came daily to idle with the children (so she expressed it). She would abandon the Park, she told him—would take her charges to a Square gardens of which they had the entry, where George might not follow.
George did not press the point. As he wrestled out the matter in the hours between their meetings she was a fresh incentive to work. But once a week he must be allowed to come: here he was adamant, and she gladly agreeable. Saturday mornings was the time arranged.
Mary had been fearful at this first re-encounter that it would be the last. The children would certainly tell their mother; Mrs. Chater would certainly make an end to the acquaintance.
“Ask them not to tell,” George had suggested.
Impossible to think of such a thing: it would be to teach them deceit.
“Well, I'll ask them.”
“But that would be just as bad. No—if they tell, it cannot be helped. And after all—”
“Well, after all...?”
“After all—what would it matter?”
George said: “It would matter to me—a lot.”
He glanced at her, but she was looking after Angela and David. He asked: “Wouldn't it matter to you?”
She flushed a little; answered, with her eyes still averted towards the children, “Why—why, of course I should mind. I mean—”
But there are meanings for which it is difficult to find clothes in which they may decently take the air; and here the wardrobe of Mary's mind stood wanting.
George enticed. “Do you mean you would be sorry not to—not to—”
He also found his wardrobe deficient.
Then Mary sent out her meaning, risking its decency. “Why, yes, I would be sorry not to see you again; why should I mind saying so? I have liked meeting you.” And, becoming timid at its appearance, she hurried after it a cloak that would utterly disguise it. “I meet so few people,” she said.
But George was satisfied; she had said she would mind—nay, even though she had not spoken it, her manner assured him that indeed she would regret not again meeting him. It was a thought to hug, a memory to spur his energies when they flagged over his studies; it was a brush to paint his world in lively colours.
Nor, as the future occurred, need either have had apprehension that the children would tell their mother and so set up an insurmountable barrier between them. A previous experience had warned Angela that it were wise to keep from her mother joys that were out of the ordinary run of events.
Returning homeward that day, a little in advance of Mary, she therefore addressed her brother upon the matter.
“Davie, I hope that man will come to-morrow.”
“I hope it, too.”
“We won't tell mother, Davie.”
“Why?”
“Because mother'll say No.”
“Why?”
“Because she always says No, stupid.”
“Why?”
“Oh, Davie, you are stupid! I don't know why; I only know. Don't you remember that lady that used to talk to Miss Humf'ay and play with us? Well, when we told mother, mother said No, didn't she? and the lady played with those abom'able red-dress children that make faces instead.”
“Will he play with the abom'able red-dress children that make faces if we tell mother?”
“Of course he will.”
“Why?”
“They always do, stupid.”
“Why?”
Angela ran back. “Oh, Miss Humf'ay, Davie is so irrating! He will say Why ....”
There is a lesson for parents in that conversation, I suspect.
Leaning from our bridge we may content ourselves with a hurried shot at George, laboriously toiling at his books, sedulously attending his classes, with his Mary spending glorious Saturday mornings that, as they brought him nearer to knowledge of her, sent him from her yet more fevered; and, straining towards another point, we will focus for an instant upon Margaret his cousin, and Bill Wyvern, her adored.
Mr. William Wyvern had most vigorously whacked about among events since that evening when his Margaret had composed her verses for George. At that time a fellow-student with George at St. Peter's Hospital, he had now abandoned the profession and was started upon the literary career (as he named it) that long he had wished to follow. The change had been come by with little difficulty. Professor Wyvern—that eminent biologist whose fame was so tremendous that even now a normally forgetful Press yet continued to paragraph him while he spent in absent-minded seclusion the ebb of that life which at the flood had so mightily advanced knowledge—Professor Wyvern was too much attached to his son, too docile in the hands of his loving wife, to gainsay any wish that Bill might urge and that Mrs. Wyvern might support.
Bill achieved his end: the stories he had had printed in magazines, secretly shown to his proud mother, were now brought forth and chuckled over with glee by the Professor. The famous biologist struggled through one of the stories, vowed he had read them all, cheerily patted Bill's arm with his shaky old hand, and cheerfully abandoned the hope he had held of seeing his son a great surgeon.
It was Bill's burning ambition to obtain a post upon a paper. Not until later did he learn that it is the men outside the papers who must have a turn for stringing sentences; that those inside are machines, cutting and serving the material with no greater interest in it than has the cheesemonger in the cheese he weighs and deals. Meanwhile, the glimpse we may take of him shows Bill Wyvern urging along his pen until clean paper became magic manuscripts; living upon a billow of hope when the envelopes were sped, submerged beneath oceans of gloom when they were returned; trembling into Fleet Street deliciously to inhale the thick smell of printer's ink that came roaring up from a hundred basements; with goggle eyes venerating the men who with assured steps passed in and out the swing-doors of castles he burned to storm; snatching brief moments for the boisterous society of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, those rare bull-terriers; and finally, expending with his Margaret moments more protracted—stealthy meetings, for the most part—in Mr. Marrapit's shrubbery.
But two more peeps from our bridge need we take, and then our characters will be ready to meet us upon the further side.
A glance from here will reveal to us Mrs. Major, that masterly woman, inscribing in her diary:
“Getting on with Mr. M. Should sue. Precip. fat.”
Fill out the abbreviations to which Mrs. Major, in her diary, was prone, and we have:
“Getting on with Mr. Marrapit. Should succeed. Precipitancy fatal.”
Succeed in what? To what would precipitancy of action be irreparable? Listen to a conversation that may enlighten us—spoken upon the lawn of Herons' Holt; Mr. Marrapit in his chair making a lap for the Rose of Sharon; Mrs. Major on a garden seat, crocheting.
A stealthy peep assuring her that his eyes were not closed, Mrs. Major nerved herself with a deep breath; with a long sigh let it escape in the form, “A year ago!”—dropped hands upon her lap and gazed wistfully at the setting sun. She had seen the trick very successfully performed upon the stage.
Mr. Marrapit turned his eyes upon her.
“You spoke, Mrs. Major?”
With an admirable start Mrs. Major appeared to gather in wandering fancies. “I fear I was thinking aloud, Mr. Marrapit. I beg pardon.”
“Do not. There is no occasion. You said 'A year ago.'”
“Did I, Mr. Marrapit?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Marrapit.
A pause followed. The wistful woman felt that, were the thing to be done properly, the word lay with her companion. To her pleasure he continued:
“To-day, then, is an anniversary?”
“It is.”
“Of a happy event, I trust?”
Mrs. Major clasped her hands; spoke with admirable ecstasy. “Oh, Mr. Marrapit, of a golden—golden page in my life.”
“Elucidate,” Mr. Marrapit commanded.
Mrs. Major put into a whisper:
“The day I came here.”
Mr. Marrapit slowly moved his head towards her.
Her eyes were averted. “The time has passed swiftly,” he said.
Mrs. Major breathed: “For me it has flown on—on—” She searched wildly for a metaphor. “On wings,” she concluded.
Again there was a pause, and again Mrs. Major felt that for this passage to have fullest effect the word lay with Mr. Marrapit. But Mr. Marrapit, himself considerably perturbed, did not speak. The moments sped. Fearful lest they should distance beyond recovery the sentiments she felt she had aroused, Mrs. Major hastened to check them.
She said musingly: “I wonder if they are right?”—sighed as though doubtful.
“To whom do you refer?”
“Why, the people who say that time flies when it is spent in pleasant company.”
“They are correct,” Mr. Marrapit affirmed.
“Oh, I do not doubt it for my part, Mr. Marrapit. I never knew what happiness was until I come here—came here. But if—” The masterly woman paused.
“Continue” Mr. Marrapit commanded.
The hard word was softly spoken. Mrs. Major's heart gave two little thumps; her plan clear before her, pushed ahead. “But if to you also, Mr. Marrapit, the time has seemed to fly, then—then Mr. Marrapit, my company has—has been agreeable to you?”
Certainly there was a softness in Mr. Marrapit's tones as he made answer.
“It has, Mrs. Major,” he said, “it has. Into my establishment you have brought an air of peace that had for some time been lacking. Prior to your arrival, I was often worried by household cares that should not fall upon a man.”
Earnestly Mrs. Major replied: “Oh, I saw that. I strove to lift them.”
“You have lifted them. You have attended not only my cats but my kitchen. I am now able often to enjoy such evenings as these. This peace around us illustrates the tranquillity you have brought—”
The tranquillity was at that moment disastrously shattered. A bed of shrubbery lay within a few feet of where they sat. What had appeared to be a gnarled stump in its midst now quivered, broadened, fell into a line with the straightening back of Mr. Fletcher.
Mr. Marrapit was startled and annoyed. “What are you doing there, sir?”
“Snailin',” said Mr. Fletcher gloomily; exhibited his snail.
“Snail elsewhere. Do not snail where I am.”
“I snails where there's snails.”
“Cease snailing. You must have been there hours.”
“What if I have? This garden's fair planted with snails.”
“Snail oftener. Depart.”
Mr. Fletcher moved a few steps; then turned. “I should like to ast if this is to be part of my regular job. First you says 'cease snailin',' then you says 'snail oftener,' then you says 'snail elsewhere.' Snails take findin'. They don't come to me; I has to go to them. It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a lettuce-leaf.”
He gloomily withdrew.
Mr. Marrapit's face was angrily twitching. The moment was not propitious for continuing her conversation, and with a little sigh Mrs. Major withdrew.
But it was upon that night that she inscribed in her diary:
“Getting on with Mr. M. Should suc. Precip. fat.”
A last peep, ere we hurry across the bridge, will disclose to us Mr. Bob Chater still pressing upon Mary the attentions which her position, in relation to his, made it so difficult for her to escape. Piqued by her attitude towards him, he was the more inflamed than ordinarily he would have been by the fair face and neat figure that were hers. Yet he made no headway; within a month of the date of his return to Palace Gardens was as far from conquest as upon that night in the nursery.
To a City friend, Mr. Lemuel Moss, dining at 14 Palace Gardens with him one night, he explained affairs.
“Dam' pretty girl, that governess of yours, or whatever she is,” said Mr. Moss, biting the end from a cigar in the smoking-room after dinner. “Lucky beggar you are, Bob. My mater won't have even a servant in the place that wouldn't look amiss in a monkey-house. Knows me too well, unfortunately,” and Mr. Moss, taking a squint at himself in the overmantel, laughed—well enough pleased.
Bob pointed out that there was not so much luck about it as Mr. Moss appeared to think. “Never seen such a stand-offish little rip in all my life,” he moodily concluded.
“What, isn't she—?”
Bob understood the unvoiced question. “Won't even let a chap have two minutes' talk with her,” he said, “let alone anything else.”
Mr. Moss stretched himself along the sofa; rejoined: “Oh, rats! Rats! You don't know how to manage 'em—that's what it is.”
“I know as well as you, and a dashed sight better, I don't mind betting,” Bob returned with heat. In some circles it is an aspersion upon a man's manliness to have it hinted that a petticoat presenting possibilities has not been ruffled.
“Well, it don't look much like it. I caught her eye in the passage when we were coming downstairs, and you don't tell me—not much!”
“Did you though?” Bob said. Himself he had never been so fortunate.
“No mistake about it. Why, d'you mean to say you've never got as far as that, even?”
“Tell you she won't look at me.”
Mr. Moss laughed. Enjoyed the “score” over his host for a few moments, and then:
“Tell you what it is, old bird,” said he, “you're going the wrong way about it. I know another case just the same. Chap out Wimbledon way. His people kept a girl—topper she was, too—dark. He was always messing round just like you are, and she was stand-offish as a nun. One night he came home early, a bit screwed—people out—girl in. Met her in the drawing-room. Almost been afraid to speak to her before. Had a bit of fizz on board him now—you know; didn't care a rip for anybody. Gave her a smacking great kiss, and, by Gad!—well, she was all right. Told him she'd always stood off up to then because she was never quite sure what he meant—afraid he didn't mean anything, and that she might get herself into no end of a row if she started playing around. Same with this little bit of goods, I'll lay.”
Bob was interested. “Shouldn't be surprised if you're right,” he said; and moodily cogitated upon the line of action prescribed.
Mr. Moss offered to bet that where girls were concerned he was never far wrong. “Slap-dash style is what they like,” he remarked, and with a careless “It's all they understand” dismissed the subject.
It remained, however, in Bob's mind throughout the evening; sprang instantly when, after breakfast upon the following day, he caught a glimpse of Mary as he prepared for the City.
Standing for a moment in the hall, it occurred to him that this very evening offered the opportunity he sought. Mr. and Mrs. Chater were to dine at the house of a neighbour. The invitation had included Bob—fortunately he had refused it. Returning to the morning-room, “I shan't be in to-night,” he told his mother.
“Then I needn't order any dinner for you?”
“No.” He hung about irresolute, then lit a cigar, and between the puffs, “Shall you be late?” he asked carelessly.
“Sure to be,” Mrs. Chater told him. “It's going to be a big bridge drive, you know. We shan't get back before midnight. Don't sit up for us, dear.”
Bob inhaled a long breath from his cigar, exhaled it deliciously. The chance for the slap-dash style was at hand.
“Oh, I'll be later than you. Lemmy Moss has got a bachelors' party on. We're going to have a billiard match.”
“That's capital then, dear. I shall let the servants go to Earl's Court—I've promised them a long time.”
Bob whistled gaily as he mounted his 'bus for the City. The opportunity was surely exceptional.
At eight o'clock he returned; noiselessly let himself in.
The gas in the hall burned low. Beneath the library door gleamed a stronger light. Bob turned the handle.
Mary was curled in a big chair with a book. Certainly the opportunity was exceptional.
At the noise of his entry she sprang to her feet with a little cry. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed: “what a fright you gave me!”
Bob pushed the door. He laughed. “Did I?”; came towards her. “Are you all alone? What a shame!”
“Minnie is in the kitchen, I think. Mrs. Chater said you wouldn't be in to-night.”
“Why do you think I came?”
“I don't know.”
“I came to see you.”
She gave a nervous little laugh and made to pass him.
Bob fell back a pace, guarding the door. “Don't you think that was thoughtful of me?”
“I don't know what you mean. There was no need.”
“What! No need! You all alone like this when all the rest are enjoying themselves!”
“So was I. A long evening with a book.”
She had fallen back as he, speaking, had slowly advanced.
Now the great chair in which she had been seated was alone between them.
“Oh, books! Books are rot.” He stepped around the chair.
She fell back; was cornered between the hearth and a low table.
Bob dropped into the chair; boldly regarded her; his eyes as expressive of his slap-dash intentions as he could make them: “Look here, I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I'm going to take you to a music-hall or somewhere.”
He stretched a foot; touched her.
She drew back close against the mantelpiece, her agitation very evident.
“Well, don't that please you?”
“You know it is impossible.”
Bob paid no regard. This was that same diffidence with which the chap near Wimbledon had had to contend.
“We'll come out of the show early and have a bit of supper and be back before half-past eleven. Who's to know? Now, then?”
“It's very kind of you. I know you mean it kindly—”
“Of course I do—”
“But I'd rather not.”
“Are you afraid?”
She was desperately afraid. Her face, the shaking of her hand where it was pressed back against the wall, and the catch in her voice advertised her apprehension. She was afraid of this big young man confidently lolling before her.
She said weakly: “It would not be right.”
Bob sat up. “Is that all?” he laughed. His hands were upon the arms of the chair, and he made to pull himself up towards her.
She saw her mistake. “No,” she cried hurriedly—“no; I would not go with you in any case.”
A shadow flickered upon Bob's face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say. Please let me pass.”
“I want to be friends with you. Why can't you let me?”
“Please let me pass. Mr. Chater.”
Bob lay back. He said with a laugh, “Well, I'm not stopping you, am I?”
She hesitated a moment. The passage between the table and the long chair was narrow. But truly he was not stopping her—so far as one might judge.
She took her skirts about her with her left hand; stepped forward; was almost past the chair before he moved.
Then he flung out a hand and caught her wrist, drawing her.
“Now!” he cried, and his voice was thick.
She gave a half-sound of dismay—of fear; tried to twist free. Bob laughed; pulled sharply on her arm. She was standing sideways to him—against the sudden strain lost her balance and half toppled across the chair.
As Bob reflected, when afterwards feeding upon the incident, had he not been as unprepared as she for her sudden stumble, he would have made—as he put it—a better thing of it. As it was, her face falling against his, he was but able to give a half kiss when she had writhed herself free and made across the room.
But that embrace of her had warmed Bob's passions. Springing up, he caught her as she fumbled with the latch; twisted her to him.
For a moment they struggled, he grasping her wrists and pressing towards her.
With the intention of encircling her waist he slipped his hold. But panic made her the quicker. Her outstretched arms held him at bay for a breathing space; then as he broke them down she dealt him a swinging blow upon the face that staggered him back a step, his hand to his cheek.
Mrs. Chater opened the door.
“Oh, he kissed me! He kissed me!” Mary cried.
Bob said very slowly, “You—infernal—little—liar.”
Mrs. Chater glowered upon Mary with cruel eyes. “It was a fortunate thing,” she said coldly, “that a headache brought me home. Go to your room, miss.”
We may hurry across the bridge.
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