by Unknown
‘Forgive me, dear,’ Dick said kindly; ‘of course I misunderstood — but this will be a blow to our father.’
Mary looked troubled.
‘I could not marry him, you know, Dick,’ she faltered.
‘Certainly not,’ Dick said, ‘if you don’t care sufficiently for him; and yet he seems a man that a girl might care for.’
‘Oh, he is,’ Mary exclaimed. ‘He was so manly and kind that I wanted to be nice to him.’
‘You have evidently made up your mind, sister mine,’ Dick said, ‘to die a spinster.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, with a white face.
Suddenly Dick took both her hands, and looked her in the face.
‘Do you care for any other person, Mary?’ he asked sharply.
Mary shook her head, but she did not return her brother’s gaze. Her hands were trembling. She tried to pull them from him, but he held her firmly until she looked at him. Then she drew up her head proudly. Her hands ceased to shake. She had become marble again.
Dick was not deceived. He dropped her hands, and leant despondently against a tree.
‘Angus — —’ he began.
‘You must not,’ Mary cried; and he stopped abruptly.
‘It is worse than I could have feared,’ Dick said.
‘No, it is not,’ said Mary quickly. ‘It is nothing. I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It was my fault bringing you together. I should have been more — —’
‘No, it was not. I met him before. Whom are you speaking about?’
‘Think of our father, Mary.’
‘Oh, I have!’
‘He is not like you. How could he dare — —’
‘Dick, don’t.’
Will bounced towards them with a hop, step, and jump, and Mrs. Meredith was signalling that she wanted both.
‘Never speak of this again,’ Mary said in a low voice to Dick as they walked toward the others.
‘I hope I shall never feel forced to do so,’ Dick replied.
‘You will not,’ Mary said, in her haste. ‘But, Dick,’ she added anxiously, ‘surely the others did not think what you thought? It would be so unpleasant for Sir Clement.’
‘Well, I can’t say,’ Dick answered.
‘At all events, he did not?’
‘Who is he?’
‘Oh, Dick, I mean Mr. Angus?’
Dick bit his lip, and would have replied angrily; but perhaps he loved this sister of his more than any other person in the world.
‘Angus, I suppose, noticed nothing,’ he answered, in order to save Mary pain, ‘except that you and Dowton seemed very good friends.’
Dick knew that this was untrue. He did not remember then that the good-natured lies live for ever like the others.
Evening came on before they returned to the river, and Sunbury, now blazing with fireworks, was shooting flaming arrows at the sky. The sweep of water at the village was one broad bridge of boats, lighted by torches and Chinese lanterns of every hue. Stars broke overhead, and fell in showers. It was only possible to creep ahead by pulling in the oars and holding on to the stream of craft of all kinds that moved along by inches. Rob, who was punting Dick and Mary, had to lay down his pole and adopt the same tactics, but boat and punt were driven apart, and soon tangled hopelessly in different knots.
‘It is nearly eight o’clock,’ Dick said, after he had given up looking for the rest of the party. ‘You must not lose your train, Angus.’
‘I thought you were to stay overnight, Mr. Angus,’ Mary said.
Possibly she meant that had she known he had to return to London, she would have begun to treat him better earlier in the day, but Rob thought she only wanted to be polite for the last time.
‘I have to be at the Wire,’ he replied, ‘before ten.’
Mary, who had not much patience with business, and fancied that it could always be deferred until next day if one wanted to defer it very much, said, ‘Oh!’ and then asked, ‘Is there not a train that would suit from Sunbury?’
Rob, blinder now than ever, thought that she wanted to get rid of him.
‘If I could catch the 8.15 here,’ he said, ‘I would reach Waterloo before half-past nine.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Dick. ‘There is no time to lose.’
Rob waited for Mary to speak, but she said nothing.
‘I had better try it,’ he said.
With difficulty the punt was brought near a landing-stage, and Rob jumped out.
‘Goodbye,’ he said to Mary.
‘Goodnight,’ she replied. Her mouth was quivering, but how could he know?
‘Wait a moment,’ Dick exclaimed. ‘We might see him off, Mary?’ Mary hesitated.
‘The others might wonder what had become of us,’ she said.
‘Oh, we need not attempt to look for them in this maze,’ her brother answered. ‘We shall only meet them again at the Tawny Owl.’
The punt was left in charge of a boatman, and the three set off silently for the station, Mary walking between the two men. They might have been soldiers guarding a deserter.
What were Mary’s feelings? She did not fully realise as yet that Rob thought she was engaged to Dowton. She fancied that he was sulky because a circumstance of which he knew nothing made her wish to treat Sir Clement with more than usual consideration; and now she thought that Rob, having brought it on himself, deserved to remain miserable until he saw that it was entirely his own fault. But she only wanted to be cruel to him now to forgive him for it afterwards.
Rob had ceased to ask himself if it was possible that she had not promised to be Dowton’s wife. His anger had passed away. Her tender heart, he thought, made her wish to be good to him — for the last time.
As for Dick, he read the thoughts of both, and inwardly called himself a villain for not reading them out aloud. Yet by his merely remaining silent these two lovers would probably never meet again, and was not that what would be best for Mary?
Rob leant out of the carriage window to say goodbye, and Dick, ill at ease, turned his back on the train. It had been a hard day for Mary, and, as Rob pressed her hand warmly, a film came over her eyes. Rob saw it, and still he thought that she was only sorry for him. There are far better and nobler things than loving a woman and getting her, but Rob wanted Mary to know, by the last look he gave her, that so long as it meant her happiness his misery was only an unusual form of joy.
CHAPTER XV
COLONEL ABINGER TAKES COMMAND
One misty morning, about three weeks after the picnic, Dick found himself a prisoner in the quadrangle of Frobisher’s Inn. He had risen to catch an early train, but the gates were locked, and the porter in charge had vanished from his box. Dick chafed, and tore round the Inn in search of him. It was barely six o’clock; which is three hours after midnight in London. The windows of the Inn had darkened one by one, until for hours the black building had slept heavily with only one eye open. Dick recognised the window, and saw Rob’s shadow cast on its white blind. He was standing there, looking up a little uneasily, when the porter tramped into sight.
‘Is Mr. Angus often as late as this?’ Mary’s brother paused to ask at the gate.
‘Why, sir,’ the porter answered, ‘I am on duty until eight o’clock, and as likely as not he will still be sitting there when I go. His shadow up there has become a sort of companion to me in the long nights, but I sometimes wonder what has come over the gentleman of late.’
‘He is busy, I suppose; that is all,’ Dick said sharply.
The porter shook his head doubtfully, like one who knew the ways of literary hands. He probably wrote himself.
‘Mr. Angus only came in from his office at three o’clock,’ he said, ‘and you would think he would have had enough of writing by that time. You can see his arm going on the blind though yet, and it won’t be out of his common if he has another long walk before he goes to bed.’
‘Does he walk so late as this?’ asked Dick, to whom six in the mor
ning was an hour of the night.
‘I never knew such a gentleman for walking,’ replied the porter, ‘and when I open the gate to him he is off at six miles an hour. I can hear the echo of his feet two or three streets off. He doesn’t look as if he did it for pleasure either.’
‘What else would he do it for?’
‘I can’t say. He looks as if he wanted to run away from himself.’
Dick passed out, with a forced laugh. He knew that since saying goodbye to Mary at Sunbury Station, Rob had hardly dared to stop working and face the future. The only rest Rob got was when he was striding along the great thoroughfares, where every one’s life seemed to have a purpose except his own. But it was only when he asked himself for what end he worked that he stopped working. There were moments when he could not believe that it was all over. He saw himself dead, and the world going on as usual. When he read what he had written the night before, he wondered how people could be interested in such matters. The editor of the Wire began to think of this stolid Scotsman every time there was a hitch in the office, but Rob scarcely noticed that he was making progress. It could only mean ten or twenty pounds more a month; and what was that to a man who had only himself to think of, and had gathered a library on twenty shillings a week? He bought some good cigars, however.
Dick, who was longing for his father’s return from the Continent, so that the responsibility for this miserable business might be transferred to the colonel’s shoulders, frequently went into Rob’s rooms to comfort him, but did not know how to do it. They sat silently on opposite sides of the very hearthrug which Mary had once made a remark about — Rob had looked interestedly at the rug after she went away — and each thought that, but for the other’s sake, he would rather be alone.
What Dick felt most keenly was Rob’s increased regard for him. Rob never spoke of the Tawny Owl without an effort, but he showed that he appreciated Dick’s unspoken sympathy. If affairs could have righted themselves in that way, Mary’s brother would have preferred to be turned with contumely out of Rob’s rooms, where, as it was, and despite his friendship for Rob, he seemed now to be only present on false pretences. Dick was formally engaged to Nell now, but he tried at times to have no patience with Rob. Perhaps he thought a little sadly in his own rooms that to be engaged is not all the world.
Dick had hoped that the misunderstanding which parted Rob and Mary at Sunbury would keep them apart without further intervention from him. That was not to be. The next time he went to Molesey he was asked why he had not brought Mr. Angus with him, and though it was not Mary who asked the question, she stopped short on her way out of the saloon to hear his answer.
‘He did not seem to want to come,’ Dick replied reluctantly.
‘I know why Mr. Angus would not come with you,’ Nell said to Dick when they were alone; ‘he thinks Mary is engaged to Sir Clement.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Dick.
‘I am sure of it,’ said Nell; ‘you know we all thought so that day we were up the river.’
‘Then let him think so if he chooses,’ Dick said harshly. ‘It is no affair of his.’
‘Oh, it is!’ Nell exclaimed. ‘But I suppose it would never do, Dick?’
‘What you are thinking of is quite out of the question,’ replied Dick, feeling that it was a cruel fate which compelled him to act a father’s part to Mary; ‘and besides, Mary does not care for him like that. She told me so herself.’
‘Oh, but she does,’ Nell replied, in a tone of conviction.
‘Did she tell you so?’
‘No, she said she didn’t,’ answered Nell, as if that made no difference.
‘Well,’ said Dick wearily, ‘it is much better that Angus should not come here again.’
Nevertheless, when Dick returned to London he carried in his pocket an invitation to Rob to spend the following Saturday at the Tawny Owl. It was a very nice note in Mary Abinger’s handwriting, and Dick would have liked to drop it over the Hungerfield Bridge. He gave it to Rob, however, and stood on the defensive.
The note began, ‘Dear Mr. Angus, Mrs. Meredith would be very pleased if you could — —’
The blood came to Rob’s face as he saw the handwriting, but it went as quickly.
‘They ask me down next Saturday,’ Rob said bluntly to Dick, ‘but you know why I can’t go.’
‘You had better come,’ miserable Dick said, defying himself.
‘She is to marry Dowton, is she not?’ Rob asked, but with no life in his voice.
Dick turned away his head, to leave the rest to fate.
‘So, of course I must not go,’ Rob continued bravely.
Dick did not dare to look him in the face, but Rob put his hand on the shoulder of Mary’s brother.
‘I was a madman,’ he said, ‘to think that she could ever have cared for me, but this will not interfere with our friendship, Abinger?’
‘Surely not,’ said Dick, taking Rob’s hand.
It was one of those awful moments in men’s lives when they allow, face to face, that they like each other.
Rob concluded that Mrs. Meredith, knowing nothing of his attachment for Mary, saw no reason why he should not return to the houseboat, and that circumstances had compelled Mary to write the invitation. His blundering honesty would not let him concoct a polite excuse for declining it, and Mrs. Meredith took his answer amiss, while Nell dared not say what she thought for fear of Dick. Mary read his note over once, and then went for a solitary walk round the island. Rob saw her from the towpath where he had been prowling about for hours in hopes of catching a last glimpse of her. Her face was shaded beneath her big straw hat, and no baby-yacht, such as the Thames sports, ever glided down the river more prettily than she tripped along the island path. Once her white frock caught in a dilapidated seat, and she had to stoop to loosen it. Rob’s heart stopped beating for a moment just then. The way Mary extricated herself was another revelation. He remembered having thought it delightful that she seldom knew what day of the month it was, and having looked on in an ecstasy while she searched for the pocket of her dress. The day before Mrs. Meredith had not been able to find her pocket, and Rob had thought it foolish of ladies not to wear their pockets where they could be more easily got at.
Rob did not know it, but Mary saw him. She had but to beckon, and in three minutes he would have been across the ferry. She gave no sign, however, but sat dreamily on the ramshackle seat that patient anglers have used until the Thames fishes must think seat and angler part of the same vegetable. Though Mary would not for worlds have let him know that she saw him, she did not mind his standing afar off and looking at her. Once after that Rob started involuntarily for Molesey, but realising what he was about by the time he reached Surbiton, he got out of the train there and returned to London.
An uneasy feeling possessed Dick that Mary knew of the misunderstanding which kept Rob away, and possibly even of her brother’s share in fostering it. If so, she was too proud to end it. He found that if he mentioned Rob to her she did not answer a word. Nell’s verbal experiments in the same direction met with a similar fate, and every one was glad when the colonel reappeared to take command.
Colonel Abinger was only in London for a few days, being on his way to Glen Quharity, the tenant of which was already telegraphing him glorious figures about the grouse. Mary was going too, and the Merediths were shortly to return to Silchester.
‘There is a Thrums man on this stair,’ Dick said to his father one afternoon in Frobisher’s Inn, ‘a particular friend of mine, though I have treated him villainously.’
‘Ah,’ said the colonel, who had just come up from the houseboat, ‘then you might have him in, and make your difference up. Perhaps he could give me some information about the shooting.’
‘Possibly,’ Dick said; ‘but we have no difference to make up, because he thinks me as honest as himself. You have met him, I believe.’
‘What did you say his name was?’
‘His name is Angus.’
&
nbsp; ‘I can’t recall any Angus.’
‘Ah, you never knew him so well as Mary and I do.’
‘Mary?’ asked the colonel, looking up quickly.
‘Yes,’ said Dick. ‘Do you remember a man from a Silchester paper who was at the castle last Christmas?’
‘What!’ cried the colonel, ‘an underbred, poaching fellow who — —’
‘Not at all,’ said Dick, ‘an excellent gentleman, who is to make his mark here, and, as I have said, my very particular friend.’
‘That fellow turned up again,’ groaned the colonel.
‘I have something more to tell you of him,’ continued Dick remorselessly. ‘I have reason to believe, as we say on the Press when hard up for copy, that he is in love with Mary.’
The colonel sprang from his seat. ‘Be calm,’ said Dick.
‘I am calm,’ cried the colonel, not saying another word, so fearful was he of what Dick might tell him next.
‘That would not, perhaps, so much matter,’ Dick said, coming to rest at the back of a chair, ‘if it were not that Mary seems to have an equal regard for him.’
Colonel Abinger’s hands clutched the edge of the table, and it was not a look of love he cast at Dick.
‘If this be true,’ he exclaimed, his voice breaking in agitation, ‘I shall never forgive you, Richard, never. But I don’t believe it.’
Dick felt sorry for his father.
‘It is a fact that has to be faced,’ he said, more gently.
‘Why, why, why, the man is a pauper!’
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Dick. ‘He may be on the regular staff of the Wire any day now.’
‘You dare to look me in the face, and tell me you have encouraged this, this — —’ cried the colonel, choking in a rush of words.
‘Quite the contrary,’ Dick said; ‘I have done more than I had any right to do to put an end to it.’
‘Then it is ended?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘It shall be ended,’ shouted the colonel, making the table groan under his fist.
‘In a manner,’ Dick said, ‘you are responsible for the whole affair. Do you remember when you were at Glen Quharity two or three years ago asking a parson called Rorrison, father of Rorrison the war correspondent, to use his son’s Press influence on behalf of a Thrums man? Well, Angus is that man. Is it not strange how this has come about?’