by J. M. Barrie
CHAPTER XI
ROB IS STRUCK DOWN
Rob turned from Simms's door and went quietly downstairs, looking to thebeadle, who gave him a good-evening at the mouth of the inn, like a mangoing quietly to his work. He could not keep his thoughts. They fellabout him in sparks, raised by a wheel whirling so fast that it seemedmotionless.
Sleep-walkers seldom come to damage until they awake; and Rob sped on,taking crossings without a halt; deaf to the shouts of cabmen, blind totheir gesticulations. When you have done Oxford Circus you can doanything; but he was not even brought to himself there, though it is allsavage lands in twenty square yards. For a time he saw nothing but thatscene in Simms's chambers, which had been photographed on his brain. Thelight of his life had suddenly been turned out, leaving him only thelast thing he saw to think about.
By and by he was walking more slowly, laughing at himself. Since he metMary Abinger she had lived so much in his mind that he had not dared tothink of losing her. He had only given himself fits of despondency forthe pleasure of dispelling them. Now all at once he saw withoutprejudice the Rob Angus who had made up his mind to carry off thisprize, and he cut such a poor figure that he smiled grimly at it. Herealised as a humorous conception that this uncouth young man who washimself must have fancied that he was, on the whole, less unworthy ofMiss Abinger than were most of the young men she was likely to meet.With the exaggerated humility that comes occasionally to men in hiscondition, without, however, feeling sufficiently at home to remainlong, he felt that there was everything in Simms a girl could findlovable, and nothing in himself. He was so terribly open that any onecould understand him, while Simms was such an enigma as a girl wouldlove to read. His own clumsiness contrasted as disastrously with Simms'sgrace of manner as his blunt talk compared with Simms's wit. Not beingable to see himself with the eyes of others, Rob noted only one thing inhis favour, his fight forward; which they, knowing, for instance, thathe was better to look at than most men, would have considered his chiefdrawback. Rob in his calmer moments had perhaps as high an opinion ofhis capacity as the circumstances warranted, but he never knew that agood many ladies felt his presence when he passed them.
Most men are hero and villain several times in a day, but Rob wentthrough the whole gamut of sensations in half an hour, hating himselfthe one moment for what seemed another's fault the next, fancying nowthat he was blessing the union of Mary with the man she cared for, and,again, that he had Simms by the throat. He fled from the fleeting formof woman, and ran after it.
Simms had deceived him, had never even mentioned Silchester, had laughedat the awakening that was coming to him. All these months they had beenwaiting for Mary Abinger together, and Simms had not said that when shecame it would be to him. Then Rob saw what a foolish race these thoughtsran in his brain, remembering that he had only seen Simms twice for morethan a moment, and that he himself had never talked of Silchester. Hescorned his own want of generosity, and recalled his solicitude forSimms's welfare an hour before.
Rob saw his whole future life lying before him. The broken-looking manwith the sad face aged before his time, who walked alone up FleetStreet, was Rob Angus, who had come to London to be happy. Simms wouldask him sometimes to his house to see her, but it was better that heshould not go. She would understand why, if her husband did not. Herhusband! Rob could not gulp down the lump in his throat. He rushed onagain, with nothing before him but that picture of Simms kissing her.
Simms was not worthy of her. Why had he always seemed an unhappy,disappointed man if the one thing in the world worth striving for washis? Rob stopped abruptly in the street with the sudden thought, Was itpossible that she did not care for Simms? Could that scene have had anyother meaning? He had once heard Simms himself say that you never knewwhat a woman meant by anything until she told you, and probably not eventhen. But he saw again the love in her eyes as she looked up intoSimms's face. All through his life he would carry that look with him.
They took no distinct shape, but wild ways of ending his misery coursedthrough his brain, and he looked on calmly at his own funeral. Aterrible stolidity seized him, and he conceived himself a monster fromwhom the capacity to sympathise had gone. Children saw his face and fledfrom him.
He had left England far behind, and dwelt now among wild tribes who hadnot before looked upon a white face. Their sick came to him formiracles, and he either cured them or told them to begone. He was notsure whether he was a fiend or a missionary.
Then something remarkable happened, which showed that Rob had notmistaken his profession. He saw himself in the editorial chair that hehad so often coveted, and Mary Abinger, too, was in the room. Alwayspreviously when she had come between him and the paper he had beenforced to lay down his pen, but now he wrote on and on, and she seemedto help him. He was describing the scene that he had witnessed inSimms's chambers, describing it so vividly that he heard the greatpublic discussing his article as if it were an Academy picture. Hispassion had subsided, and the best words formed slowly in his brain. Hewas hesitating about the most fitting title, when some one struckagainst him, and as he drew his arm over his eyes he knew with horrorthat he had been turning Mary Abinger into copy.
For the last time that night Rob dreamt again, and now it was such afine picture he drew that he looked upon it with sad complacency. Manyyears had passed. He was now rich and famous. He passed through thewynds of Thrums, and the Auld Lichts turned out to gaze at him. He sawhimself signing cheques for all kinds of charitable objects, andappearing in the subscription lists, with a grand disregard for glorythat is not common to philanthropists, as X. Y. Z. or 'A Wellwisher.'His walls were lined with books written by himself, and Mary Abinger(who had not changed in the least with the years) read them proudly,knowing that they were all written for her. (Simms somehow had notfulfilled his promise.) The papers were full of his speech in the Houseof Commons the night before, and he had declined a seat in the Cabinetfrom conscientious motives. His imagination might soon have landed himmaster in the Mansion House, had it not deserted him when he had mostneed of it. He fell from his balloon like a stone. Before him he saw theblank years that had to be traversed without any Mary Abinger, anddespair filled his soul. All the horrible meaning of the scene he hadfled from came to him like a rush of blood to the head, and he stoodwith it, glaring at it, in the middle of a roaring street. Three hansomsshaved him by an inch, and the fourth knocked him senseless.
An hour later Simms was lolling in his chambers smoking, his chairtilted back until another inch would have sent him over it. His gas hadbeen blazing all day because he had no blotting-paper, and the blindswere nicely pulled down because Mary Abinger and Nell were there to doit. They were sitting on each side of him, and Nell had on a round cap,about which Simms subsequently wrote an article. Mary's hat was largerand turned up at one side; the fashion which arose through a carriagewheel's happening to pass over the hat of a leader of fashion and makeit perfectly lovely. Beyond the hats one does not care to venture, butout of fairness to Mary and Nell it should be said that there were noshiny little beads on their dresses.
They had put on their hats to go, and then they had sat down again totell their host a great many things that they had told him already. EvenMary, who was perfect in a general sort of way, took a considerable timeto tell a story, and expected it to have more point when it ended thanwas sometimes the case. Simms, with his eyes half closed, let thelaughter ripple over his head, and drowsily heard the details of theirjourney from Silchester afresh. Mary had come up with the Merediths onthe previous day, and they were now staying at the Langham Hotel. Theywould only be in town for a few weeks; 'just to oblige the season,' Nellsaid, for she had inveigled her father into taking a house-boat on theThames, and was certain it would prove delightful. Mary was to accompanythem there too, having first done her duty to society, and ColonelAbinger was setting off shortly for the Continent. In the middle of herprattle, Nell distinctly saw Simms's head nod, as if it was loose in itssocket. She made a mournful g
rimace.
Simms sat up.
'Your voices did it,' he explained, unabashed. 'They are as soothing tothe jaded journalist as the streams that murmur through the fields inJune.'
'Cigars are making you stupid, Dick,' said Mary; 'I do wonder why mensmoke.'
'I have often asked myself that question,' thoughtfully answered Simms,whom it is time to call by his real name of Dick Abinger. 'I know somemen who smoke because they might get sick otherwise when in the companyof smokers. Others smoke because they began to do so at school, and arenow afraid to leave off. A great many men smoke for philanthropicmotives, smoking enabling them to work harder, and so being for theirfamily's good. At picnics men smoke because it is the only way to keepthe midges off the ladies. Smoking keeps you cool in summer and warm inwinter, and is an excellent disinfectant. There are even said to be menwho admit that they smoke because they like it, but for my own part Ifancy I smoke because I forget not to do so.'
'Silly reasons,' said Nell. If there was one possible improvement shecould conceive in Dick it was that he might make his jests a littleeasier.
'It is revealing no secret,' murmured Abinger in reply, 'to say thatdrowning men clutch at straws.'
Mary rose to go once more, and sat down again, for she had rememberedsomething else.
'Do you know, Dick,' she said, 'that your two names are a greatnuisance. On our way to London yesterday there was an acquaintance ofMr. Meredith's in the carriage, and he told us he knew Noble Simmswell.'
'Yes,' said Nell, 'and that this Noble Simms was an old gentleman whohad been married for thirty years. We said we knew Mr. Noble Simms andthat he was a barrister, and he laughed at us. So you see some one istrading on your name.'
'Much good may it do him,' said Abinger generously.
'But it is horrid,' said Nell, 'that we should have to listen to peoplepraising Noble Simms's writings, and not be allowed to say that he isDick Abinger in disguise.'
'It must be very hard on you, Nell, to have to keep a secret,' admittedDick, 'but you see I must lead two lives or be undone. In the Temple youwill see the name of Richard Abinger, barrister-at-law, but inFrobisher's Inn he is J. Noble Simms.'
'I don't see the good of it,' said Nell.
'My ambition, you must remember,' explained Dick, 'is to be LordChancellor or Lord Chief Justice, I forget which, but while I wait forthat post I must live, and I live by writings (which are all dead themorning after they appear). Now such is the suspicion with whichliterature is regarded by the legal mind, that were it known I wrote forthe Press my chance of the Lord Chancellorship would cease to be a moralcertainty. The editor of the _Scalping Knife_ has not the least notionthat Noble Simms is the rising barrister who has been known to make asmuch by the law as a guinea in a single month. Indeed, only my mostintimate friends, some of whom practise the same deception themselves,are aware that the singular gifts of Simms and Abinger are united in thesame person.'
'The housekeeper here must know?' asked Mary.
'No, it would hopelessly puzzle her,' said Dick; 'she would think therewas something uncanny about it, and so she is happy in the belief thatthe letters which occasionally come addressed to Abinger are forwardedby me to that gentleman's abode in the Temple.'
'It is such an ugly name, Noble Simms,' said Nell; 'I wonder why youselected it.'
'It is ugly, is it not?' said Dick. 'It struck me at the time as themost ridiculous name I was likely to think of, and so I chose it. Sucha remarkable name sticks to the public mind, and that is fame.'
As he spoke he rose to get the two girls the cab that would take themback to the hotel.
'There is some one knocking at the door,' said Mary.
'Come in,' murmured Abinger.
The housekeeper opened the door, but half shut it again when she sawthat Dick was not alone. Then she thought of a compromise betweentelling her business and retiring.
'If you please, Mr. Simms,' she said apologetically, 'would you speak tome a moment in the passage?'
Abinger disappeared with her, and when he returned the indifferent lookhad gone from his face.
'Wait for me a few minutes,' he said; 'a man upstairs, one of the bestfellows breathing, has met with an accident, and I question if he has afriend in London. I am going up to see him.'
'Poor fellow!' said Mary to Nell, after Dick had gone; 'fancy his lyinghere for weeks without any one going near him but Dick.'
'But how much worse it would be without Dick!' said Nell.
'I wonder if he is a barrister,' said Mary.
'I think he will be a journalist rather,' Nell said thoughtfully, 'atall, dark, melancholy-looking man, and I should not wonder though hehad a broken heart.'
'I'm afraid it is more serious than that,' said Mary.
Nell set off on a trip round the room, remarking with a profound sighthat it must be awful to live alone and have no one to speak to forwhole hours at a time. 'I should go mad,' she said, in such a tone ofconviction that Mary did not think of questioning it.
Then Nell, who had opened a drawer rather guiltily, exclaimed, 'Oh,Mary!'
A woman can put more meaning into a note of exclamation than a man canpack in a sentence. It costs Mr. Jones, for instance, a long messagesimply to telegraph to his wife that he is bringing a friend home todinner, but in a sixpenny reply Mrs. Jones can warn him that he hadbetter do no such thing, that he ought to be ashamed of himself forthinking of it, that he must make some excuse to his friend, and that hewill hear more of this when he gets home. Nell's 'Oh, Mary!' signifiedthat chaos was come.
Mary hastened round the table, and found her friend with a letter in herhand.
'Well,' said Mary, 'that is one of your letters to Dick, is it not?'
'Yes,' answered Nell tragically; 'but fancy his keeping my letters lyingabout carelessly in a drawer--and--and, yes, using them as scribblingpaper!'
Scrawled across the envelopes in a barely decipherable handwriting weresuch notes as these: 'Schoolboys smoking master's cane-chair, work up';'Return of the swallows (poetic or humorous?)'; 'My First Murder(magazine?)'; 'Better do something pathetic for a change.'
There were tears in Nell's eyes.
'This comes of prying,' said Mary.
'Oh, I wasn't prying,' said Nell; 'I only opened it by accident. That isthe worst of it. I can't say anything about them to him, because hemight think I had opened his drawer to--to see what was in it--which isthe last thing in the world I would think of doing. Oh, Mary,' she addedwoefully, 'what do you think?'
'I think you are a goose,' said Mary promptly.
'Ah, you are so indifferent,' Nell said, surrendering her position allat once. 'Now when I see a drawer I am quite unhappy until I know whatis in it, especially if it is locked. When we lived opposite the BurtonsI was miserable because they always kept the blind of one of theirwindows down. If I had been a boy I would have climbed up to see whythey did it. Ah! that is Dick; I know his step.'
She was hastening to the door, when she remembered the letters, andsubsided primly into a chair.
'Well?' asked Mary, as her brother re-entered with something in hishand.
'The poor fellow has had a nasty accident,' said Dick; 'run over in thestreet, it seems. He ought to have been taken to the infirmary, but theygot a letter with his address on it in his pocket, and brought himhere.'
'Has a doctor seen him?'
'Yes, but I hardly make out from the housekeeper what he said. He wasgone before I went up. There are some signs, however, of what he did.The poor fellow seems to have been struck on the head.'
Mary shuddered, understanding that some operation had been foundnecessary.
'Did he speak to you?' asked Nell.
'He was asleep,' said Dick, 'but talking more than he does when he isawake.'
'He must have been delirious,' said Mary.
'One thing I can't make out,' Dick said, more to himself than to hiscompanions. 'He mumbled my name to himself half a dozen times while Iwas upstairs.'
'Bu
t is there anything remarkable in that,' asked Mary, 'if he has sofew friends in London?'
'What I don't understand,' explained Dick, 'is that the word I caughtwas Abinger. Now, I am quite certain that he only knew me as NobleSimms.'
'Some one must have told him your real name,' said Mary. 'Is he asleepnow?'
'That reminds me of another thing,' said Dick, looking at the torn cardin his hand. 'Just as I was coming away he staggered off the couch wherehe is lying to his desk, opened it, and took out this card. He glared atit, and tore it in two before I got him back to the couch.'
There were tears in Nell's eyes now, for she felt that she understood itall.
'It is horrible to think of him alone up there,' she cried. 'Let us goup to him, Mary.'
Mary hesitated.
'I don't think it would be the thing,' she said, taking the card fromNell's hand. She started slightly as she looked at it, and then becamewhite.
'What is his name, Dick?' she faltered, in a voice that made Nell lookat her.
'Angus,' said Dick. 'He has been on the Press here for some months.'
The name suggested nothing at the moment to Nell, but Mary let the cardfall. It was a shabby little Christmas card.
'I think we should go up and see if we can do anything,' Dick's sistersaid.
'But would it be the thing?' Nell asked.
'Of course it would,' said Mary, a little surprised at Nell.
