Disaster arrives when the work is completed.
“There!” we say, standing back, a little
flushed and out of breath with the excitement of the
thing. “There! There’s a place
in which to live! Could any existence be more
glorious?” And then we advance a step and lean
against the walls to survey the surrounding prospect.
It is the fatal action. The material body touches
the aerial structure and down with a crash the castle
comes—back we pitch into the foundations,
and thwack, bump, thwack, comes the masonry tumbling
about us, bruising, wounding.
VI.
George had built the castle. Mary had sat by
twittering and clapping her hands for glee as higher
and higher it rose. He knew for a fact, he told
her, that his uncle had not expended upon his education
much more than half the money left him for the purpose.
He was convinced that by hook or by crook he could
obtain the 400 pounds that would buy him the practice
at Runnygate of which the Dean had told him. They
would have a little house there—the town
would thrive—the practice would nourish—in
a year—why, in a year they would likely
enough have to be thinking of getting a partner!
And it would begin almost immediately! In three
weeks the examination would be held. He could
not fail to pass—then for the 400 pounds
and Runnygate!
And then, unhappily, George leaned against this castle
wall; provoked the crash.
“Till then, dear,” he said, “you
will stay with these Chater people. I know you
hate it; but it will be only a short time, a few weeks
at most.”
Instantly her gay twittering ceased. Trouble
drove glee from her eyes. Memory chased dreams
from her brain. Distress tore down the gay colours
from her cheeks. She clasped her hands; from her
seat half rose.
“Oh!” she cried; and again, “Oh!
I had forgotten!”
“Forgotten? Forgotten what?”
“Dearest, I should have told you at the beginning,
but I could not. I wanted to wait until I knew.
I have not seen her yet this morning.”
My startled George was becoming pale. “Knew
what? Seen whom? What do you mean?”
She said, “No, I won’t tell you.
I won’t spoil all this beautiful morning we
have spent. I will wait till next week.”
“Mary, what do you mean? Wait till next
week? No. You must tell me now. How
could I leave you like this, knowing you are in some
trouble? What has happened? You must tell.
You must. I insist.”
“Ah, I will.” Her agitation, as her
mind cast back over the events of the previous night,
was enhanced by the suddenness of the change from
the sunshine in which she had been disporting to the
darkness that now swept upon her. She was as
a girl who, singing along a country lane, is suddenly
confronted from the hedgeside by some ugly tramp.
She said, “You know that young Mr. Chater?”
Dark imaginings clouded upon George’s brow.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes; well—?”
