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. 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.