by J. M. Barrie
CHAPTER XVII
ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER
In a London fog the street-lamps are up and about, running maliciouslyat pedestrians. He is in love or writing a book who is struck by onewithout remonstrating. One night that autumn a fog crept through Londona month before it was due, and Rob met a lamp-post the followingafternoon on his way home from the _Wire_ office. He passed on without aword, though he was not writing a book. Something had happened that day,and, but for Mary Abinger, Rob would have been wishing that his mothercould see him now.
The editor of the _Wire_ had called him into a private room, in whichmany a young gentleman, who only wanted a chance to put the world torights, has quaked, hat in hand, before now. It is the dusty sanctumfrom which Mr. Rowbotham wearily distributes glory or consternation,sometimes with niggardly hand, and occasionally like an African explorerscattering largess among the natives. Mr. Rowbotham might be even agreater editor than he is if he was sure that it is quite the properthing for so distinguished a man as himself to believe in anything, andsome people think that his politics are to explain away to-day theposition he took up yesterday. He seldom writes himself, and, whiledirecting the line to be adopted by his staff, he smokes a cigar whichhe likes to probe with their pens. He is pale and thin, and has rovingeyes, got from always being on the alert against aspirants.
All the chairs in the editorial room, except Mr. Rowbotham's own, hadbeen converted, like the mantelpiece, into temporary bookcases. Robtumbled the books off one (your _Inquiry into the State of Ireland_ wasamong them, gentle reader) much as a coal-heaver topples his load into acellar, or like a housewife emptying her apron.
'You suit me very well, Angus,' the editor said. 'You have no lurkingdesire to write a book, have you?'
'No,' Rob answered; 'since I joined the Press that ambition seems tohave gone from me.'
'Quite so,' said Mr. Rowbotham, his tone implying that Rob now left thecourt without a stain upon his character. The editor's cigar went out,and he made a spill of a page from _Sonnets of the Woods_, which hadjust come in for review.
'As you know,' the editor continued, 'I have been looking about me for aleader-writer for the last year. You have a way of keeping your headthat I like, and your style is not so villainously bad. Are you preparedto join us?'
'I should think so,' said Rob.
'Very well. You will start with L800 a year. Ricketts, as you may haveheard, has half as much again as that, but he has been with us sometime.'
'All right,' said Rob calmly, though his chest was swelling. He used toreceive an order for a sack of shavings in the same tone.
'You expected this, I dare say?' asked the editor.
'Scarcely,' said Rob. 'I thought you would offer the appointment toMarriott; he is a much cleverer man than I am.'
'Yes,' assented Mr. Rowbotham, more readily than Rob thought necessary.'I have had Marriott in my eye for some time, but I rather thinkMarriott is a genius, and so he would not do for us.'
'You never had that suspicion of me?' asked Rob, a little blankly.
'Never,' said the editor frankly. 'I saw from the first that you were aman to be trusted. Moderate Radicalism is our policy, and not evenRicketts can advocate moderation so vehemently as you do. You fight forit with a flail. By the way, you are Scotch, I think?'
'Yes,' said Rob.
'I only asked,' the editor explained, 'because of the shall and the willdifficulty. Have you got over that yet?'
'No,' Rob said sadly, 'and never will.'
'I shall warn the proof-readers to be on the alert,' Mr. Rowbotham said,laughing, though Rob did not see what at. 'Dine with me at the Garrickon Wednesday week, will you?'
Rob nodded, and was retiring, when the editor called after him--
'You are not a married man, Angus?'
'No,' said Rob, with a sickly smile.
'Ah, you should marry,' recommended Mr. Rowbotham, who is a bachelor.'You would be worth another two hundred a year to us then. I wish Icould find the time to do it myself.'
Rob left the office a made man, but looking as if it all had happenedsome time ago. There were men shivering in Fleet Street as he passeddown it who had come to London on the same day as himself, every onewith a tragic story to tell now, and some already seeking the doubledeath that is called drowning care. Shadows of university graduatespassed him in the fog who would have been glad to carry his bag. Thatnight a sandwich-board man, who had once had a thousand a year, creptinto the Thames. Yet Rob bored his way home, feeling that it was all invain.
He stopped at Abinger's door to tell him what had happened, but thechambers were locked. More like a man who had lost L800 a year than onewho had just been offered it, he mounted to his own rooms, hardlynoticing that the door was now ajar. The blackness of night was in thesitting-room, and a smell of burning leather.
'Another pair of slippers gone,' said a voice from the fireplace. It wasDick, and if he had not jumped out of one of the slippers he would havebeen on fire himself. Long experience had told him the exact moment tojump.
'I tried your door,' Rob said. 'I have news for you.'
'Well,' said Dick, 'I forced my way in here because I have something totell you, and resolved not to miss you. Who speaks first? My news isbad--at least for me.'
'Mine is good,' said Rob; 'we had better finish up with it.'
'Ah,' Dick replied, 'but when you hear mine you may not care to tell meyours.'
Dick spoke first, however, and ever afterwards was glad that he had doneso.
'Look here, Angus,' he said bluntly, 'I don't know that Mary is engagedto Dowton.'
Rob stood up and sat down again.
'Nothing is to be gained by talking in that way,' he said shortly. 'Shewas engaged to him six weeks ago.'
'No,' said Dick, 'she was not, though for all I know she may be now.'
Then Dick told his tale under the fire of Rob's eyes. When it was endedRob rose from his chair, and stared silently for several minutes at avase on the mantelpiece. Dick continued talking, but Rob did not hear aword.
'I can't sit here, Abinger,' he said; 'there is not room to think. Ishall be back presently.'
He was gone into the fog the next moment. 'At it again,' muttered theporter, as Rob swung past and was lost ten paces off. He was back in anhour, walking more slowly.
'When the colonel writes to you,' he said, as he walked into his room,'does he make any mention of Dowton?'
'He never writes,' Dick answered; 'he only telegraphs me now and again,when a messenger from the Lodge happens to be in Thrums.'
'Miss Abinger writes?'
'Yes. I know from her that Dowton is still there, but that is all.'
'He would not have remained so long,' said Rob, 'unless--unless----'
'I don't know,' Dick answered. 'You see it would all depend on Mary.She had a soft heart for Dowton the day she refused him, but I am notsure how she would take his reappearance on the scene again. If sheresented it, I don't think the boldest baronet that breathes wouldventure to propose to Mary in her shell.'
'The colonel might press her?'
'Hardly, I think, to marry a man she does not care for. No, you do himan injustice. What my father would like to have is the power to compelher to care for Dowton. No doubt he would exercise that if it was his.'
'Miss Abinger says nothing--sends no messages--I mean, does she evermention me when she writes?'
'Never a word,' said Dick. 'Don't look pale, man; it is a good sign.Women go by contraries, they say. Besides, Mary is not like Mahomet. Ifthe mountain won't go to her, she will never come to the mountain.'
Rob started, and looked at his hat.
'You can't walk to Glen Quharity Lodge to-night,' said Dick, followingRob's eyes.
'Do you mean that I should go at all?'
'Why, well, you see, it is this awkward want of an income that spoilseverything. Now, if you could persuade Rowbotham to give you a thousanda year, that might have its influence on my father.'
'I
told you,' exclaimed Rob; 'no, of course I did not. I joined thestaff of the _Wire_ to-day at L800.'
'Your hand, young man,' said Dick, very nearly becoming excited. 'Thenthat is all right. On the Press every one with a good income can addtwo hundred a year to it. It is only those who need the two hundredthat cannot get it.'
'You think I should go north?' said Rob, with the whistle of the trainalready in his ears.
'Ah, it is not my affair,' answered Dick; 'I have done my duty. Ipromised to give Dowton a fair chance, and he has had it. I don't knowwhat use he has made of it, remember. You have overlooked my share inthis business, and I retire now.'
'You are against me still, Abinger.'
'No, Angus, on my word I am not. You are as good a man as Dowton, and ifMary thinks you better----'
Dick shrugged his shoulders to signify that he had freed them of a loadof prejudice.
'But does she?' said Rob.
'You will have to ask herself,' replied Dick.
'Yes; but when?'
'She will probably be up in town next season.'
'Next season,' exclaimed Rob; 'as well say next century.'
'Well, if that is too long to wait, suppose you come to Dome Castle withme at Christmas?'
Rob pushed the invitation from him contemptuously.
'There is no reason,' he said, looking at Dick defiantly, 'why I shouldnot go north to-night.'
'It would be a little hurried, would it not?' Dick said to his pipe.
'No,' Rob answered, with a happy inspiration. 'I meant to go to Thrumsjust now, for a few days at any rate. Rowbotham does not need me untilFriday.'
Rob looked up and saw Dick's mouth twitching. He tried to stare Mary'sbrother out of countenance, but could not do it.
Night probably came on that Tuesday as usual, for Nature is as much asman a slave to habit, but it was not required to darken London. If allthe clocks and watches had broken their mainsprings no one could havetold whether it was at noon or midnight that Rob left for Scotland. Itwould have been equally impossible to say from his face whether he wasoff to a marriage or a funeral. He did not know himself.
'This human nature is a curious thing,' thought Dick, as he returned tohis rooms. 'Here are two of us in misery, the one because he fears he isnot going to be married, and the other because he knows he is.'
He stretched himself out on two chairs.
'Neither of us, of course, is really miserable. Angus is not, for he isin love; and I am not, for----' He paused, and looked at his pipe.
'No, I am not miserable; how could a man be miserable who has two chairsto lie upon, and a tobacco jar at his elbow? I fancy, though, that I amjust saved from misery by lack of sentiment.
'Curious to remember that I was once sentimental with the best of them.This is the Richard who sat up all night writing poems to Nell'seyebrows. Ah, poor Nell!
'I wonder, is it my fault that my passion burned itself out in onelittle crackle? With most men, if the books tell true, the first fireonly goes out after the second is kindled, but I seem to have no moresticks to light.
'I am going to be married, though I would much rather remain single. Mywife will be the only girl I ever loved, and I like her still more thanany other girl I know. Though I shuddered just now when I thought ofmatrimony, there can be little doubt that we shall get on very welltogether.
'I should have preferred her to prove as fickle as myself, but how trueshe has remained to me! Not to me, for it is not the real Dick Abingershe cares for, and so I don't know that Nell's love is of the kind tomake a man conceited. Is marriage a rash experiment when the woman lovesthe man for qualities he does not possess, and has not discovered inyears of constant intercourse the little that is really lovable in him?Whatever I say to Nell is taken to mean the exact reverse of what I domean; she reads my writings upside down, as one might say; she cries ifI speak to her of anything more serious than flowers and waltzes, butshe thinks me divine when I treat her like an infant.
'Is it weakness or strength that has kept me what the world would calltrue to Nell? Is a man necessarily a villain because love dies out ofhis heart, or has his reason some right to think the affair over andshow him where he stands?
'Yes, Nell after all gets the worse of the bargain. She will have for ahusband a man who is evidently incapable of a lasting affection foranybody. That, I suppose, means that I find myself the only reallyinteresting person I know. Yet, I think, Richard, you would at timesrather be somebody else--anybody almost would do.
'It is a little humiliating to remember that I have been lying to Angusfor the last month or two--I, who always thought I had such a nobleadmiration for the truth. I did it very easily too, so I suppose therecan be no doubt that I really am a very poor sort of creature. I wonderif it was for Mary's sake I lied, or merely because it would have beentoo troublesome to speak the truth? Except by fits and starts I haveceased apparently to be interested in anything. The only thing nowadaysthat rouses my indignation is the attempt on any one's part to draw meinto an argument on any subject under the sun. Here is this Irishquestion; I can pump up an article in three paragraphs on it, but Idon't really seem to care whether it is ever settled or not. Should wehave a republic? I don't mind; it is all the same to me: but don't giveme the casting vote. Is Gladstone a god? is Gladstone the devil? Theysay he is one or other, and I am content to let them fight it out. Howlong is it since I gave a thought to religion? What am I? There are menwho come into this room and announce that they are agnostics, as if thatwere a new profession. Am I an agnostic? I think not; and if I was Iwould keep it to myself. My soul does not trouble me at all, except forfive minutes or so now and again. On the whole I seem to be indifferentas to whether I have one, or what is to become of it.'
Dick rose and paced the room, until his face gave the lie to everythinghe had told himself. His lips quivered and his whole body shook. Hestood in an agony against the mantelpiece with his head in his hands,and emotions had possession of him compared with which the emotions ofany other person described in this book were but children's fancies. Byand by he became calm, and began to undress. Suddenly he rememberedsomething. He rummaged for his keys in the pocket of the coat he hadcast off, and, opening his desk, wrote on a slip of paper that he tookfrom it, '_Scalping Knife_, Man Frightened to Get Married (humorous)!'
'My God!' he groaned, 'I would write an article, I think, on my mother'scoffin.'