Perhaps the method of rushing at once 'in media res' is, of all the ways of beginning a story, or a separate branch of a story, the least objectionable. The reader is made to think that the gold lies so near the surface that he will be required to take very little trouble in digging for it. And the writer is enabled,--at any rate for a time, and till his neck has become, as it were, warm to the collar,--to throw off from him the difficulties and dangers, the tedium and prolixity, of description. This rushing 'in media res' has doubtless the charm of ease. 'Certainly when I threw her from the garret window to the stony pavement below, I did not anticipate that she would fall so far without injury to life or limb.' When a story has been begun after this fashion, without any prelude, without description of the garret or of the pavement, or of the lady thrown, or of the speaker, a great amount of trouble seems to have been saved. The mind of the reader fills up the blanks,--if erroneously, still satisfactorily. He knows, at least, that the heroine has encountered a terrible danger, and has escaped from it with almost incredible good fortune, that the demon of the piece is a bold demon, not ashamed to speak of his own iniquity, and that the heroine and the demon are so far united that they have been in a garret together. But there is the drawback on the system,--that it is almost impossible to avoid the necessity of doing, sooner or later, that which would naturally be done at first. It answers, perhaps, for a half-a-dozen chapters;--and to carry the reader pleasantly for half-a-dozen chapters is a great matter!-but after that a certain nebulous darkness gradually seems to envelope the characters and the incidents. 'Is all this going on in the country, or is it in town,--or perhaps in the Colonies? How old was she? Was she tall? Is she fair? Is she heroine-like in her form and gait? And, after all, how high was the garret window? I have always found that the details would insist on being told at last, and that by rushing 'in media res' I was simply presenting the cart before the horse. But as readers like the cart the best, I will do it once again,--trying it only for a branch of my story,--and will endeavour to let as little as possible of the horse be seen afterwards.
'And so poor Frank has been turned out of heaven?' said Lady Mabel Grex to young Lord Silverbridge.
'Who told you that? I have said nothing to anybody.'
'Of course he told me himself,' said the young beauty. I am aware that, in the word beauty, and perhaps, also, the word young, a little bit of the horse appearing; and I am already sure that I shall have to show his head and neck, even if not his very tail.
'Poor Frank! Did you hear it all?'
'I heard nothing, Lady Mab, and know nothing.'
'You know that your awful governor won't let him stay any longer in Carlton Terrace?'
'Yes, I know that.'
'And why not?'
'Would Lord Grex allow Percival to have his friends living here?'
Lord Grex was Lady Mabel's father, Lord Percival was the Earl's son;--and the Earl lived in Belgrave Square. All these little bits of the horse.
'Certainly not. In the first place, I am here.'
'That makes a difference, certainly.'
'Of course it makes a difference. They would be wanting to make love to me.'
'No doubt. I should, I know.'
'And therefore it wouldn't do for you to live here, and then papa is living here himself. And then the permission never has been given. I suppose Frank did not go there without the Duke knowing it.'
'I daresay that I mentioned it.'
'You might as well tell me about it. We are cousins, you know.'
Frank Tregear, through his mother's family, was second cousin to Lady Mabel; as was also Lord Silverbridge, one of the Grexes having, at some remote period, married a Palliser. This is another bit of the horse.
'The governor merely seemed to think that he would like to have his own house to himself,--like other people. What an ass Tregear was to say anything to you about it.'
'I don't think he was an ass at all. Of course he had to tell us that he was changing his residence. He says that he is going to take a back bedroom somewhere near the Seven Dials.'
'He has got very nice rooms in Duke Street.'
'Have you seen him, then?'
'Of course I have.'
'Poor fellow! I wish he had a little money; he is so nice. And now, Lord Silverbridge, do you mean to say that there is something in the wind about Lady Mary?'
'If there were I should not talk about it,' said Lord Silverbridge.
'You are a very innocent young gentleman.'
'And you are a very interesting young lady.'
'You ought to think me so, for I interest myself very much about you. Was the Duke very angry about your not standing for the county?'
'He was vexed.'
'I do think it is so odd that a man should be expected to be this or that in politics because his father happened to be so before him! I don't understand how he should expect that you should remain with a party so utterly snobbish and down in the world as the Radicals. Everybody that is worth anything is leaving them.'
'He has not left them.'
'No, I don't suppose he could; but you have.'
'I never belonged to them, Lady Mab.'
'And never will, I hope. I always told papa that you would certainly be one of us.' All this took place in the drawing-room of Lord Grex's house. There was no Lady Grex alive, but there lived with the Earl, a certain elderly lady, reported in some distant way a cousin of the family, named Miss Cassewary, who in the matter of looking after Lady Mab, did what was supposed to be absolutely necessary. She now entered the room with her bonnet on, having just returned from church. 'What was the text?' asked Lady Mab at once.
'If you had gone to church, as you ought to have done, my dear, you would have heard it.'
'But as I didn't?'
'I don't think the text alone will do you any good.'
'And probably you forget it.'
'No, I don't, my dear. How do you do, Lord Silverbridge?'
'He is a Conservative, Miss Cass.'
'Of course he is. I am quite sure that a young nobleman of so much taste and intellect would take the better side.'