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.”
“Elucidate,” Mr. Marrapit commanded.
Mrs. Major put into a whisper:
“The day I came here.”
Mr. Marrapit slowly moved his head towards her.
Her eyes were averted. “The time has passed swiftly,” he said.
Mrs. Major breathed: “For me it has flown on—on—” She searched wildly for a metaphor. “On wings,” she concluded.
Again there was a pause, and again Mrs. Major felt that for this passage to have fullest effect the word lay with Mr. Marrapit. But Mr. Marrapit, himself considerably perturbed, did not speak. The moments sped. Fearful lest they should distance beyond recovery the sentiments she felt she had aroused, Mrs. Major hastened to check them.
She said musingly: “I wonder if they are right?”—sighed as though doubtful.
“To whom do you refer?”
“Why, the people who say that time flies when it is spent in pleasant company.”
“They are correct,” Mr. Marrapit affirmed.
“Oh, I do not doubt it for my part, Mr. Marrapit. I never knew what happiness was until I come here—came here. But if—” The masterly woman paused.
“Continue” Mr. Marrapit commanded.
The hard word was softly spoken. Mrs. Major's heart gave two little thumps; her plan clear before her, pushed ahead. “But if to you also, Mr. Marrapit, the time has seemed to fly, then—then Mr. Marrapit, my company has—has been agreeable to you?”
Certainly there was a softness in Mr. Marrapit's tones as he made answer.
“It has, Mrs. Major,” he said, “it has. Into my establishment you have brought an air of peace that had for some time been lacking. Prior to your arrival, I was often worried by household cares that should not fall upon a man.”
Earnestly Mrs. Major replied: “Oh, I saw that. I strove to lift them.”
“You have lifted them. You have attended not only my cats but my kitchen. I am now able often to enjoy such evenings as these. This peace around us illustrates the tranquillity you have brought—”
The tranquillity was at that moment disastrously shattered. A bed of shrubbery lay within a few feet of where they sat. What had appeared to be a gnarled stump in its midst now quivered, broadened, fell into a line with the straightening back of Mr. Fletcher.
Mr. Marrapit was startled and annoyed. “What are you doing there, sir?”
“Snailin',” said Mr. Fletcher gloomily; exhibited his snail.
“Snail elsewhere. Do not snail where I am.”
“I snails where there's snails.”
“Cease snailing. You must have been there hours.”
“What if I have? This garden's fair planted with snails.”
“Snail oftener. Depart.”
Mr. Fletcher moved a few steps; then turned. “I should like to ast if this is to be part of my regular job. First you says 'cease snailin',' then you says 'snail oftener,' then you says 'snail elsewhere.' Snails take findin'. They don't come to me; I has to go to them. It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a lettuce-leaf.”
He gloomily withdrew.
Mr. Marrapit's face was angrily twitching. The moment was not propitious for continuing her conversation, and with a little sigh Mrs. Major withdrew.
But it was upon that night that she inscribed in her diary:
“Getting on with Mr. M. Should suc. Precip. fat.”