The Complete Works of J. M. Barrie (With Illustrations). James Matthew Barrie
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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 saw-miller,' 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 saw-miller, 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 anything 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 saw-miller, 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 saw-mill?'
'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 half-way 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