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."
"I am indeed fond of early walking," replied Emma, with a smile; "but I
cannot say that it is so much pleasure as duty which brings me here. I
am a day-governess, and pass this pond every morning on my way to
Kensington, where the family in which I teach resides."
"Indeed," said Willie, with that amount of emphasis which denotes
moderate surprise and solicits information.
He paused for a single moment; but, seeing that Emma did not intend to
speak of her own affairs, he added quickly:
"I am waiting for my brother Frank. We arranged to meet here this
morning. I hope that Miss Tippet is well?"
"Quite well," replied Emma, with a blush, as she took a sudden interest
in a large duck, which swam up to the edge of the pond at that moment,
in the hope, no doubt, of obtaining food from her hand. Its hopes were
disappointed, however, for Emma only called it a beautiful creature; and
then, turning somewhat abruptly to Willie, said, with a slight look of
embarrassment, that she feared she should be late and must bid him
good-morning.
Willie felt a good deal puzzled, and had he been the same Willie that we
introduced at the commencement of our tale, he would have told Emma his
mind candidly, and asked her what was the matter; but Willie was a man
now, so he smiled, lifted his hat politely, and wished her good-morning.
Five minutes later, Frank appeared in the distance and hurried forward.
Seven years had added a little to the breadth of his shoulders, and the
firm self-possession of his step and look; but they had made no other
perceptible impression on him. There was, indeed, a deep scar on his
right temple; but that was the result of accident, not of time. Many a
hairbreadth escape had he made during these seven years of fighting with
the flames, and often had his life been in imminent danger; but he was
fortunate in having escaped, hitherto, with only a broken leg and a
variety of small cuts, scalds, and bruises. The cut on his temple was
the severest, and most recent of these. He had got it in a fall through
a second floor, which gave way under him as he was attempting to rescue
an old bedridden man, who lay in an inner chamber. Frank was carried
out in a state of insensibility on the broad shoulders of his friend
Baxmore, while Dale rescued the old man.
"How goes it, Frank?" cried Willie, advancing and giving his brother's
hand a warm shake; "the cut head mending--eh?"
"Oh, it's all right," replied Frank, with a smile, as they sauntered up
and down by the margin of the pond; "the headaches have left me now, I'm
thankful to say, and the-doctor tells me it won't leave much of a mark."
"You don't need to care much if it does, for it's an honourable scar,
and does not spoil your beauty, old boy."
"Well, Willie," said Frank, "here I am at your request. What have you
got to tell me; nothing serious, I hope?"
The stalwart fireman looked earnestly into his brother's face, and
exhibited more anxiety than there seemed to be any occasion for.
"No, nothing very serious. It may be serious enough for all I know; but
as far as my knowledge goes it's not bad enough to make you look so
anxious. Why, what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, Willie. Perhaps my late accident has shaken my nerves a bit."
Willie burst into a loud laugh, and said that it was so awfully absurd
to hear a man like Frank talking of nerves at all that he could not help
it.
"Well, but what _is_ the news you've got to tell me?" resumed Frank.
"You're not going to be married, are you?"
Frank asked this with a look and expression so peculiar that Willie
again laughed and said that really he could not understand him at all;
for even suppose he had been going to be married, that was no reason why
he should take it so much to heart, as the expression on his face
implied he did.
"Perhaps not, Willie," said Frank with a quiet smile; "but _that_ is not
what you want to speak about, then?"
"No, certainly not."