Beyond the City | Page 2

listlessly awaiting the
return of the driver.
As she turned slowly round, and the sunshine struck upon her face, the
two watchers were amazed to see that this very active and energetic
lady was far from being in her first youth, so far that she had certainly
come of age again since she first passed that landmark in life's journey.
Her finely chiseled, clean-cut face, with something red Indian about the
firm mouth and strongly marked cheek bones, showed even at that
distance traces of the friction of the passing years. And yet she was
very handsome. Her features were as firm in repose as those of a Greek
bust, and her great dark eyes were arched over by two brows so black,
so thick, and so delicately curved, that the eye turned away from the
harsher details of the face to marvel at their grace and strength. Her
figure, too, was straight as a dart, a little portly, perhaps, but curving
into magnificent outlines, which were half accentuated by the strange
costume which she wore. Her hair, black but plentifully shot with grey,
was brushed plainly back from her high forehead, and was gathered
under a small round felt hat, like that of a man, with one sprig of
feather in the band as a concession to her sex. A double- breasted jacket
of some dark frieze-like material fitted closely to her figure, while her
straight blue skirt, untrimmed and ungathered, was cut so short that the
lower curve of her finely-turned legs was plainly visible beneath it,
terminating in a pair of broad, flat, low-heeled and square-toed shoes.
Such was the lady who lounged at the gate of number three, under the
curious eyes of her two opposite neighbors.
But if her conduct and appearance had already somewhat jarred upon
their limited and precise sense of the fitness of things, what were they

to think of the next little act in this tableau vivant? The cabman, red
and heavy-jowled, had come back from his labors, and held out his
hand for his fare. The lady passed him a coin, there was a moment of
mumbling and gesticulating, and suddenly she had him with both hands
by the red cravat which girt his neck, and was shaking him as a terrier
would a rat. Right across the pavement she thrust him, and, pushing
him up against the wheel, she banged his head three several times
against the side of his own vehicle.
"Can I be of any use to you, aunt?" asked the large youth, framing
himself in the open doorway.
"Not the slightest," panted the enraged lady. "There, you low
blackguard, that will teach you to be impertinent to a lady."
The cabman looked helplessly about him with a bewildered,
questioning gaze, as one to whom alone of all men this unheard-of and
extraordinary thing had happened. Then, rubbing his head, he mounted
slowly on to the box and drove away with an uptossed hand appealing
to the universe. The lady smoothed down her dress, pushed back her
hair under her little felt hat, and strode in through the hall-door, which
was closed behind her. As with a whisk her short skirts vanished into
the darkness, the two spectators--Miss Bertha and Miss Monica
Williams--sat looking at each other in speechless amazement. For fifty
years they had peeped through that little window and across that trim
garden, but never yet had such a sight as this come to confound them.
"I wish," said Monica at last, "that we had kept the field."
"I am sure I wish we had," answered her sister.

----


CHAPTER II.

BREAKING THE ICE.
The cottage from the window of which the Misses Williams had looked
out stands, and has stood for many a year, in that pleasant suburban
district which lies between Norwood, Anerley, and Forest Hill. Long
before there had been a thought of a township there, when the
Metropolis was still quite a distant thing, old Mr. Williams had
inhabited "The Brambles," as the little house was called, and had
owned all the fields about it. Six or eight such cottages scattered over a
rolling country- side were all the houses to be found there in the days
when the century was young. From afar, when the breeze came from
the north, the dull, low roar of the great city might be heard, like the
breaking of the tide of life, while along the horizon might be seen the
dim curtain of smoke, the grim spray which that tide threw up.
Gradually, however, as the years passed, the City had thrown out a long
brick-feeler here and there, curving, extending, and coalescing, until at
last the little cottages had been gripped round by these red tentacles,
and had been absorbed to