And you must imagine this bridge as indeed a short
and airy passage 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 passing 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.
Excursions Beneath The Bridge.
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.
