CHAPTER I.
Notes On The Building Of Bridges.
Within the limits of this short section of our story we shall cram two months of history, taking but a furtive peep or two at our personages as they plod through it.
This is well within our power, since the position of the novelist in regard to his characters may be compared with that of the destiny which in the largest comedy moves to and fro mankind its actors. As destiny moves its puppets, so the novelist moves his--upraising, debasing; favouring, tormenting; creating, wiping from the page.
And of the pair the novelist is the more just. Has villainy in a novel ever gone unpunished? Has virtue ever failed of its reward? Your novelist is of all autocrats the most zealous of right and wrong.
Villain may through two-thirds of his career enjoy his wicked pleasures, exceedingly prosper despite his baseness; but ever above him the cold eye of his judge keeps watch, and in the end he is apportioned the most horrible deserts that any could wish. Virtue may by the G.o.ds be hounded and harried till the reader"s heart is wrung.
But spare your tears; before Finis is written, down swoops the judge; the dogs are whipped off; Virtue is led to fair pastures and there left smiling.
Contrasted with this autocrat of the printed page, the destiny whose comedy began with the world and is indefinitely continued makes sorry show. Here the wicked exceedingly flourish and keep at it to the end of their chapter; here virtue, battling with tremendous waves of adversity, is at last engulfed and miserably drowned. Truly, their fit rewards are apportioned, we are instructed, after death. But there is something of a doubt; the novelist, in regard to his characters, takes no risks.
Upon another head, moreover, the novelist shows himself the more kindly autocrat. There is his power, so freely exercised, to bridge time. Whereas destiny makes us to watch those in whom we are interested plod every inch and step of their lives-over each rut, through each swamp, up each hill,-the novelist, upon his characters coming to places dull or too difficult, immediately veils from us their weary struggles. Destiny will never grant such a boon: we must watch our friends even when they bore us, even when they cause us pain. Yet this boon is the commonest indulgence of the novelist-as it now (to become personal) is mine.
I bridge two months.
And you must imagine this bridge as indeed a short and airy pa.s.sage across a valley, down into which the persons of our story must carefully climb, across which they must plod, and up whose far side they must laboriously scramble to meet us upon the level ground. For we are much in the position, we novel readers, of village children curiously watching a caravan of gipsies pa.s.sing through their district. The gipsies (who stand for our characters) plod wearily away along a bend of dusty road. The children cease following, play awhile; then by a short-cut through the fields overtake the travellers as again they come into the straight.
So now with you and me. We have no need to follow our gipsies down the valley that takes two months in the traversing: we skip across the bridge.
But, leaning over, we may take a shot or two at them as here and there they come into view.
CHAPTER II.
Excursions Beneath The Bridge.
I.
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. Sat.u.r.day 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.