by Unknown
Rob lurked behind trees and peered round hedges, watching Miss Abinger go from one house to another, but he could not shake himself free of the fear that all the world had its eye on him. Hitherto not his honesty but its bluntness had told against him (the honesty of a good many persons is only stupidity asserting itself), and now he had not the courage to be honest. When any wayfarers approached he whistled to the fields as if he had lost a dog in them, or walked smartly eastward (until he got round a corner) like one who was in a hurry to reach Silchester. He looked covertly at the few persons who passed him, to see if they were looking at him. A solitary crow fluttered into the air from behind a wall, and Rob started. In a night he had become selfconscious.
At last Mary turned homewards, with the sun in her face. Rob was moving toward the hamlet when he saw her, and in spite of himself he came to a dead stop. He knew that if she passed inside the gates of the castle his last chance of speaking to her was gone; but it was not that which made him keep his ground. He was shaking as the thin boards used to do when they shot past his circular saw. His mind, in short, had run away and left him.
On other occasions Mary would not have thought of doing more than bow to Rob, but he had Christmas Day in his favour, and she smiled.
‘A happy Christmas to you, Mr. Angus,’ she said, holding out her hand.
It was then that Rob lifted his hat, and overcame his upbringing. His unaccustomed fingers insisted on lifting it in such a cautious way that, in a court of law, it could have been argued that he was only planting it more firmly on his head. He did not do it well, but he did it. Some men would have succumbed altogether on realising so sharply that it is not women who are terrible, but a woman. Here is a clear case in which the part is greater than the whole.
Rob would have liked to wish Miss Abinger a happy Christmas too, but the words would not form, and had she chosen she could have left him looking very foolish. But Mary had blushed slightly when she caught sight of Rob standing helplessly in the middle of the road, and this meant that she understood what he was doing there. A girl can overlook a great deal in a man who admires her. She feels happier. It increases her self-respect. So Miss Abinger told him that, if the frost held, the snow would soon harden, but if a thaw came it would melt; and then Rob tore out of himself the words that tended to slip back as they reached his tongue.
‘I don’t know how I could have done it,’ he said feebly, beginning at the end of what he had meant to say. There he stuck again.
Mary knew what he spoke of, and her pale face coloured. She shrank from talking of The Scorn of Scorns.
‘Please don’t let that trouble you,’ she said, with an effort. ‘I was really only a schoolgirl when I wrote it, and Miss Meredith got it printed recently as a birthday surprise for me. I assure you I would never have thought of publishing it myself for — for people to read. Schoolgirls, you know, Mr. Angus, are full of such silly sentiment.’
A breeze of indignation shook ‘No, no!’ out of Rob, but Mary did not heed.
‘I know better now,’ she said; ‘indeed, not even you, the hardest of my critics, sees more clearly than I the — the childishness of the book.’
Miss Abinger’s voice faltered a very little, and Rob’s sufferings allowed him to break out.
‘No,’ he said, with a look of appeal in his eyes that were as grey as hers, ‘it was a madness that let me write like that. The Scorn of Scorns is the most beautiful, the tenderest — —’ He stuck once more. Miss Abinger could have helped him again, but she did not. Perhaps she wanted him to go on. He could not do so, but he repeated what he had said already, which may have been the next best thing to do.
‘You do surprise me now, Mr. Angus,’ said Mary, light-hearted all at once, ‘for you know you scarcely wrote like that.’
‘Ah, but I have read the book since I saw you,’ Rob blurted out, ‘and that has made such a difference.’
A wiser man might have said a more foolish thing. Mary looked up smiling. Her curiosity was aroused, and at once she became merciless. Hitherto she had only tried to be kind to Rob, but now she wanted to be kind to herself.
‘You can hardly have re-read my story since last night,’ she said, shaking her fair head demurely.
‘I read it all through the night,’ exclaimed Rob, in such a tone that Mary started. She had no desire to change the conversation, however; she did not start so much as that.
‘But you had to write papa’s speech?’ she said.
‘I forgot to do it,’ Rob answered awkwardly. His heart sank, for he saw that here was another cause he had given Miss Abinger to dislike him. Possibly he was wrong. There may be extenuating circumstances that will enable the best of daughters to overlook an affront to her father’s speeches.
‘But it was in the Mirror. I read it,’ said Mary.
‘Was it?’ said Rob, considerably relieved. How it could have got there was less of a mystery to him than to her, for Protheroe had sub-edited so many speeches to tenants that in an emergency he could always guess at what the landlords said.
‘It was rather short,’ Mary admitted, ‘compared with the report in the Argus. Papa thought — —’ She stopped hastily.
‘He thought it should have been longer?’ asked Rob. Then before he had time to think of it, he had told her of his first meeting with the colonel.
‘I remember papa was angry at the time,’ Mary said, ‘but you need not have been afraid of his recognising you last night. He did recognise you.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes; but you were his guest.’
Rob could not think of anything more to say, and he saw that Mary was about to bid him good-morning. He found himself walking with her in the direction of the castle gates.
‘This scenery reminds me of Scotland,’ he said.
‘I love it,’ said Mary (man’s only excellence over woman is that his awe of this word prevents his using it so lightly), ‘and I am glad that I shall be here until the season begins.’
Rob had no idea what the season was, but he saw that some time Mary would be going away, and his face said, what would he do then?
‘Then I go to London with the Merediths,’ she continued, adding thoughtfully, ‘I suppose you mean to go to London, Mr. Angus? My brother says that all literary men drift there.’
‘Yes, oh yes,’ said Rob.
‘Soon?’
‘Immediately,’ he replied recklessly.
They reached the gates, and, as Mary held out her hand, the small basket was tilted upon her arm, and a card fluttered out.
‘It is a Christmas card a little boy in one of those houses gave me,’ she said, as Rob returned it to her. ‘Have you got many Christmas cards to-day, Mr. Angus?’
‘None,’ said Rob.
‘Not even from your relatives?’ asked Mary, beginning to pity him more than was necessary.
‘I have no relatives,’ he replied; ‘they are all dead.’
‘I was in Scotland two summers ago,’ Mary said, very softly, ‘at a place called Glen Quharity; papa was there shooting. But I don’t suppose you know it?’
‘Our Glen Quharity!’ exclaimed Rob; ‘why, you must have passed through Thrums?’
‘We were several times in Thrums. Have you been there?’
‘I was born in it; I was never thirty miles away from it until I came here.’
‘Oh,’ cried Mary, ‘then you must be the literary — —’ She stopped and reddened.
‘The literary sawmiller,’ said Rob, finishing her sentence; ‘that was what they called me, I know, at Glen Quharity Lodge.’
Mary looked up at him with a new interest, for when she was there Glen Quharity had been full of the sawmiller, who could not only talk in Greek, but had a reputation for tossing the caber.
‘Papa told me some months ago,’ she said, in surprise, ‘that the liter —— , that you had joined the Press in England, but he evidently did not know of your being in Silchester.’
‘But how could he have known an
ything about me?’ asked Rob, surprised in turn.
‘This is so strange,’ Mary answered. ‘Why, papa takes credit for having got you your appointment on the press.’
‘It was a minister, a Mr. Rorrison, who did that for me,’ said Rob; ‘indeed, he was so good that I could have joined the Press a year ago by his help, had not circumstances compelled me to remain at home.’
‘I did not know the clergyman’s name,’ Mary said, ‘but it was papa who spoke of you to him first. Don’t you remember writing out this clergyman’s sermon in shorthand, and a messenger’s coming to you for your report on horseback next day?’
‘Certainly I do,’ said Rob, ‘and he asked me to write it out in longhand as quickly as possible. That was how I got to know Mr. Rorrison; and, as I understood, he had sent for the report of the sermon, on hearing accidentally that I had taken it down, because he had some reason for wanting a copy of it.’
‘Perhaps that was how it was told to you afterwards,’ Mary said, ‘but it was really papa who wanted the sermon.’
‘I should like to know all about it,’ Rob said, seeing that she hesitated. Colonel Abinger had not seemed to him the kind of man who would send a messenger on horseback about the country in quest of sermons.
‘I am afraid,’ Mary explained, ‘that it arose out of a wager. This clergyman was staying at the Lodge, but papa was the only other person there who would go as far as Thrums to hear him preach. I was not there that year, so I don’t know why papa went, but when he returned he told the others that the sermon had been excellent. There is surely an English church in Thrums, for I am sure papa would not think a sermon excellent that was preached in a chapel?’
‘There is,’ said Rob; ‘but in Thrums it is called the chapel.’
‘Well, some badinage arose out of papa’s eulogy, and it ended in a bet that he could not tell the others what this fine sermon was about. He was to get a night to think it over. Papa took the bet a little rashly, for when he put it to himself he found that he could not even remember the text. As he told me afterwards (here Mary smiled a little), he had a general idea of the sermon, but could not quite put it into words, and he was fearing that he would lose the wager (and be laughed at, which always vexes papa), when he heard of your report. So a messenger was sent to Thrums for it — and papa won his bet.’
‘But how did Mr. Rorrison hear of my report, then?’
‘Oh, I forgot; papa told him afterwards, and was so pleased with his victory, that when he heard Mr. Rorrison had influence with some press people, he suggested to him that something might be done for you.’
‘This is strange,’ said Rob, ‘and perhaps the strangest thing about it is that if Colonel Abinger could identify me with the sawmiller, he would be sorry that he had interfered.’
Mary saw the force of this so clearly that she could not contradict him.
‘Surely,’ she said, ‘I heard when I was at the Lodge of your having a niece, and that you and the little child lived alone in the sawmill?’
‘Yes,’ Rob answered hoarsely, ‘but she is dead. She wandered from home, and was found dead on a mountain-side.’
‘Was it long ago?’ asked Mary, very softly.
‘Only a few months ago,’ Rob said, making his answer as short as possible, for the death of Davy moved him still. ‘She was only four years old.’
Mary’s hand went halfway toward his involuntarily. His mouth was twitching. He knew how good she was.
‘That card,’ he began, and hesitated.
‘Oh, would you care to have it?’ said Mary.
But just then Colonel Abinger walked into them, somewhat amazed to see his daughter talking to one of the lower orders. Neither Rob nor Mary had any inclination to tell him that this was the Scotsman he had befriended.
‘This is Mr. Angus, papa,’ said Mary, ‘who — who was with us last night.’
‘Mr. Angus and I have met before, I think,’ replied her father, recalling the fishing episode. His brow darkened, and Rob was ready for anything, but Colonel Abinger was a gentleman.
‘I always wanted to see you again, Mr. Angus,’ he said, with an effort, ‘to ask you — what flies you were using that day?’
Rob muttered something in answer, which the colonel did not try to catch. Mary smiled and bowed, and the next moment she had disappeared with her father down the avenue.
What followed cannot be explained. When Rob roused himself from his amazement at Mary Abinger’s having been in Thrums without his feeling her presence, something made him go a few yards inside the castle grounds, and, lying lightly on the snow, he saw the Christmas card. He lifted it up as if it were a rare piece of china, and held it in his two hands as though it were a bird which might escape. He did not know whether it had dropped there of its own accord, and doubt and transport fought for victory on his face. At last he put the card exultingly into his pocket, his chest heaved, and he went toward Silchester whistling.
CHAPTER VII
THE GRAND PASSION?
One of the disappointments of life is that the persons we think we have reason to dislike are seldom altogether villains; they are not made sufficiently big for it. When we can go to sleep in an armchair this ceases to be a trouble, but it vexed Mary Abinger. Her villain of fiction, on being haughtily rejected, had at least left the heroine’s home looking a little cowed. Sir Clement in the same circumstances had stayed on.
The colonel had looked forward resentfully for years to meeting this gentleman again, and giving him a piece of his stormy mind. When the opportunity came, however, Mary’s father instead asked his unexpected visitor to remain for a week. Colonel Abinger thought he was thus magnanimous because his guest had been confidential with him, but it was perhaps rather because Sir Clement had explained how much he thought of him. To dislike our admirers is to be severe on ourselves, and is therefore not common.
The Dome had introduced the colonel to Sir Clement as well as to Rob. One day Colonel Abinger had received by letter from a little hostelry in the neighbourhood the compliments of Sir Clement Dowton, and a request that he might be allowed to fish in the preserved water. All that Mary’s father knew of Dowton at that time was that he had been lost to English society for half a dozen years. Once in many months the papers spoke of him as serving under Gordon in China, as being taken captive by an African king, as having settled down in a cattle-ranch in the vicinity of Manitoba. His lawyers were probably aware of his whereabouts oftener than other persons. All that society knew was that he hated England because one of its daughters had married a curate. The colonel called at the inn, and found Sir Clement such an attentive listener that he thought the baronet’s talk quite brilliant. A few days afterwards the stranger’s traps were removed to the castle, and then he met Miss Abinger, who was recently home from school. He never spoke to her of his grudge against England.
It is only the unselfish men who think much, otherwise Colonel Abinger might have pondered a little over his guest. Dowton had spoken of himself as an enthusiastic angler, yet he let his flies drift down the stream like fallen leaves. He never remembered to go a-fishing until it was suggested to him. He had given his host several reasons for his long absence from his property, and told him he did not want the world to know that he was back in England, as he was not certain whether he would remain. The colonel at his request introduced him to the few visitors at the castle as Mr. Dowton, and was surprised to discover afterwards that they all knew his real name.
‘I assure you,’ Mary’s father said to him, ‘that they have not learned it from me. It is incomprehensible how a thing like that leaks out.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Dowton, who, however, should have understood it, as he had taken the visitors aside and told them his real name himself. He seemed to do this not of his free will, but because he could not help it.
It never struck the colonel that his own society was not what tied Sir Clement to Dome Castle; for widowers with grownup daughters are in a foreign land without in
terpreters. On that morning when the baronet vanished, nevertheless, the master of Dome Castle was the only person in it who did not think that it would soon lose its mistress, mere girl though she was.
Sir Clement’s strange disappearance was accounted for at the castle, where alone it was properly known, in various ways. Miss Abinger, in the opinion of the servants’ hall, held her head so high that there he was believed to have run away because she had said him no. Miss Abinger excused and blamed him alternately to herself, until she found a dull satisfaction in looking upon him as the villain he might have been had his high forehead spoken true. As for the colonel, he ordered Mary (he had no need) never to mention the fellow’s name to him, but mentioned it frequently himself.
Nothing had happened, so far as was known, to disturb the baronet’s serenity; neither friends nor lawyers had been aware that he was in England, and he had received no letters. Mary remembered his occasional fits of despondency, but on the whole he seemed to revel in his visit, and had never looked happier than the night before he went. His traps were sent by the colonel in a fury to the little inn where he had at first taken up his abode, but it was not known at the castle whether he ever got them. Some months afterwards a letter from him appeared in the Times, dated from Suez, and from then until he reappeared at Dome Castle, the colonel, except when he spoke to himself, never heard the baronet’s name mentioned.
Sir Clement must have been very impulsive, for on returning to the castle he had intended to treat Miss Abinger with courteous coldness, as if she had been responsible for his flight, and he had not seen her again for ten minutes before he asked her to marry him. He meant to explain his conduct in one way to the colonel, and he explained it in quite another way.
When Colonel Abinger took him into the smoking-room on Christmas Eve to hear what he had to say for himself, the baronet sank into a chair, with a look of contentment on his beautiful face that said he was glad to be there again. Then the colonel happened to mention Mary’s name in such a way that he seemed to know of Sir Clement’s proposal to her three years earlier. At once the baronet began another story from the one he had meant to tell, and though he soon discovered that he had credited his host with a knowledge the colonel did not possess, it was too late to draw back. So Mary’s father heard to his amazement that the baronet had run away because he was in love with Miss Abinger. Colonel Abinger had read The Scorn of Scorns, but it had taught him nothing.
