In a work of fiction, says a writer, 'the reader will find a hundred strange meetings and coincidences—old lovers coming face to face after years of separation, friends thought dead rising up at the corners of the streets, and the good characters appearing ad libitum to confound all the bad in the concluding chapters. Critics,' he adds, 'laugh at all these wires which pull the Minerva puppets, but real life has often, more than one imagines, its strange meetings and coincidences too—old lovers and friends do start as from Hades into our presence sometimes, and if a good genius in the shape of a father, or big brother, or a policeman did not come to the rescue at times when the last hope was failing us, what a deal more misery there would be in the world.'
Thus it was, through this doctrine of strange chances, that Mary Wellwood was soon fated to meet Colville on two occasions, and they came to pass as follows.
Mary had clever little hands, and had frequently made up such caps for Mrs. Fubsby, and arranged her ribbons and laces so nicely, that she conceived the idea of obtaining some employment for her needle, as Ellinor still required many little things that were procured for her with difficulty.
With high beating heart she one day entered a millinery establishment, and timidly suggested that she was clever as a worker, at trimming, cap and bonnet-making, and entreated a trial to be given her. Her soft voice and pleading face went for nothing. She was repelled coldly, even superciliously, and the door was pretty plainly indicated to her; so she issued forth into the bustle of the Edgeware Road again with a heavy, bitter, and irrepressible sigh.
It was a dull and depressing day early in October, when what remains to us of foliage and sunshine are held on a precarious tenure indeed, and people become conscious of 'snow in the air;' when the gardener's work consists chiefly of 'sweeping up' the leaves that come rustling down and tidying borders after the blasts of wind. Frost, however, had not come, and the parterres of Hyde Park, the phloxes and the late gladioli, still continued to make a brave show, though the dahlias drooped heavily when the dews fell. Overhead the sky was dull and leaden, of the usual London tint, and no one could tell in what quarter of it the sun was hidden.
Mary peeped into the dealer's window, and another sigh escaped her. Ellinor's landscape was still there, and, of course, unsold; so again she thought to herself, 'what was to be the end of it all?'
As a last effort she sought a music shop, where she had often given specimens of her accomplishments on the piano, and where she had frequently applied, without success, for pupils.
The proprietors liked her voice, but her pale face, with its rare charm of expression, and soft violet-blue eyes, was beginning to have a sad and hunted look. They also (for they were judges) liked her manner—who did not?—so faultless and graceful in its self-possession even yet, and her tones so sweetly modulated and pleasant; thus they were honestly anxious to help her if they could, and had hinted if she took to the stage she might make a fortune in 'the profession.'
They had heard of no pupils yet; but music—a musician—an accomplished pianist was wanted for a dance, to be given on the morrow night—two guineas were the honorarium—would she accept it?
She thought what the sum might get for Ellinor, and accepted the proposal at once.