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.
III.
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.”
