Seven years passed away. During that period London revolved in its usual course, reproducing its annual number of events—its births, deaths, and marriages; its plans, plots, and pleasures; its business, bustle, and bungle; its successes, sentiments, and sensations; its facts, fancies, and failures—also its fires; which last had increased steadily, until they reached the imposing number of about twelve hundred in the year.
But although that time elapsed, and many changes took place, for better or for worse, in all circles of society, there had not been much change in the relative positions of the actors in our tale; at least, not much that was apparent. Great alterations, however, had taken place in the physical condition of some of them, as the sequel will show.
One bright morning in the spring-time of the year, a youth with the soft down of early manhood on his lips and cheeks, paced slowly to and fro near the margin of the pond in Kensington Gardens.
Being early, the spot was as complete a solitude as the backwoods of North America, and so thick was the foliage on the noble trees, that no glimpse of the surrounding city could be obtained in any direction. Everything that greeted eye and ear was characteristic of “the woods,” even to the swans, geese, ducks, and other water-fowl which sported on the clear surface of the pond; while the noise of traffic in the mighty metropolis was so subdued by distance as to resemble the deep-toned roar of a great cataract. A stranger, rambling there for the first time would have found it difficult to believe that he was surrounded on all sides by London!
It was one of those soul-stirring mornings in which Nature seems to smile. There was just enough of motion in the air to relieve the effect of what is called a dead calm. The ripple on the water caught the sun’s rays, and, breaking them up, scattered them about in a shower of fragmentary diamonds. Fleecy-white clouds floated in the blue sky, suggesting dreams of fairy-land, and scents of sprouting herbage filled the nostrils, reminding one of the fast-approaching summer.
The youth who sauntered alone by the margin of the pond was broad of shoulder and stout of limb, though not unusually tall—not much above the middle height. His gait was easy, free—almost reckless—as though he cared not a fig for anybody, high or low, rich or poor; yet his eye was bright and his smile kindly, as though he cared for everybody—high, low, rich, and poor. He sauntered with his hands in the pockets of his short coat, and whistled an operatic air in a low melodious tone. He was evidently waiting for someone; and, judging from his impatient gestures, someone who was resolved to keep him waiting.
Presently, a female figure appeared in the far distance, on the broad avenue that leads direct from the Serpentine. She was young and graceful in form; but she walked with a quick step, with her eyes looking down, like one who regarded neither youth nor grace. Curiously enough, this downcast look gave to her fair face a modest, captivating grace, which is never seen to sit upon the lofty brow, or to circle round the elevated nose, of conscious beauty.
The youth at first paid no attention to her (she was not the “someone” for whom he waited); but as she drew near, he became suddenly interested, and threw himself in her way. Just as she was about to pass, she raised her eyes, started, blushed, and exclaimed:
“Mr Willders!”
“Good morning, Miss Ward!” said the youth, advancing with a smile, and holding out his hand; “this is indeed an unexpected pleasure; I did not know that you were addicted to early walking.”