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 \
 
 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE
 
 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE 
 
 A TALE OF LITERARY LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 J. M. BARRIE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 'THE LITTLE MINISTER," "AULD LIGHT IDYLLS," " MY LADY NICOTINE,' 
 
 "A WINDOW IN THRUMS," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 
 
 43, 45 AND 47 EAST TENTH STREET
 
 W. ROBERTSON NICOLL, M.A. 
 
 20016SO
 
 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 
 
 ONE still Saturday afternoon some years ago a child 
 pulled herself through a small window into a kitchen 
 in the kirk-wynd of Thrums. She came from the 
 old graveyard, whose only outlet, when the parish 
 church gate is locked, is the windows of the wynd 
 houses that hoop it round. Squatting on a three- 
 legged stool she gazed wistfully at a letter on the 
 chimney-piece, and then, tripping to the door, looked 
 up and down the wynd. 
 
 Snecky Hobart, the bellman* hobbled past, and, 
 though Davy was only four years old, she knew that 
 as he had put on his blue top-coat he expected the 
 evening to be fine. Tammas McQuhatty, the farmer 
 of T'nowhead, met him at the corner, and they came 
 to a standstill to say, " She's nard. Sneck," and " She 
 is so, T'nowhead," referring to the weather. Ob- 
 serving that they had stopped they moved on again. 
 
 Women and children and a few men squeezed
 
 8 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 through their windows into the kirk-yard, the women 
 to knit stockings on fallen tombstones, and the men to 
 dander pleasantly from grave to grave reading the 
 inscriptions. All the men were well up in years, for 
 though, with the Auld Lichts, the Sabbath began to 
 come on at six o'clock on Saturday evening, the 
 young men were now washing themselves cautiously 
 in tin basins before going into the square to talk 
 about women. 
 
 The clatter of more than one loom could still have 
 been heard by Davy had not her ears been too accus- 
 tomed to the sound to notice it. In the adjoining house 
 Bell Mealmaker was peppering her newly washed 
 floor with sand, while her lodger, Hender Robb, with 
 a rusty razor in his hand, looked for his chin in a tiny 
 glass that was peeling on the wall. Jinny Tosh had 
 got her husband, Aundra Lunan, who always spoke 
 of her as She, ready, so to speak, for church eighteen 
 hours too soon, and Aundra sat stiffly at the fire, 
 putting his feet on the ribs every minute, to draw 
 them back with a scared look at Her as he remem- 
 bered that he had on his blacks. In a bandbox be- 
 neath the bed was his silk hat, which had been 
 knocked down to him at Jamie Ramsay's roup, and 
 Jinny had already put his red handkerchief, which 
 was also a pictorial history of Scotland, into a pocket 
 of his coat-tails, with a corner hanging gracefully 
 out. Her puckered lips signified that, however 
 much her man might desire to do so, he was not to
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 9 
 
 carry his handkerchief to church in his hat, where 
 no one could see it. On working-days Aundra held 
 his own, but at six o'clock on Saturday nights he 
 passed into Her hands. 
 
 Across the wynd, in which a few hens wandered, 
 Pete Todd was supping in his shirt-sleeves. His 
 blacks lay ready for him in the coffin-bed, and Pete, 
 glancing at them at intervals, supped as slowly as 
 he could. In one hand he held a saucer, and in the 
 other a chunk of bread, and they were as far apart 
 as Pete's outstretched arms could put them. His 
 chair was a yard from the table, on which, by care- 
 ful balancing, he rested a shoeless foot, and his face 
 was twisted to the side. Every time Easie Wha- 
 mond, his wife, passed him she took the saucer from 
 his hand, remarking that when a genteel man sat 
 down to tea he did not turn his back on the table. 
 Pete took this stolidly, like one who had long given 
 up trying to understand the tantrums of women, and 
 who felt that, as a lord of creation, he could afford 
 to let it pass. 
 
 Davy sat on her three-legged stool keeping guard 
 over her Uncle Rob the saw-miller's letter, and long- 
 ing for him to come. She screwed up her eyebrows 
 as she had seen him do when he read a letter, and 
 she felt that it would be nice if every one would come 
 and look at her taking care of it. After a time she 
 climbed up on her stool and stretched her dimpled 
 arms toward the mantelpiece. From a string sus-
 
 10 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 pended across this, socks and stockings hung drying 
 at the fire, and clutching one of them Davy drew 
 herself nearer. With a chuckle, quickly suppressed, 
 lest it should bring in Kitty Wilkie, who ought to 
 have been watching her instead of wandering down 
 the wynd to see who was to have salt fish for supper, 
 the child clutched the letter triumphantly, and, tod- 
 dling to the door, slipped out of the house. 
 
 For a moment Davy faltered at the mouth of the 
 wynd. There was no one there to whom she could 
 show the letter. A bright thought entered her head, 
 and immediately a dimple opened on her face and 
 swallowed all the puckers. Rob had gone to the 
 Whunny muir for wood, and she would take the letter 
 to him. Then when Rob saw her he would look all 
 around him, and if there was no one there to take 
 note he would lift her to his shoulder, when they 
 could read tiie letter together. 
 
 Davy ran out of the wynd into the square, thinking 
 she heard Kitty's Sabbath voice, which reminded 
 the child of the little squeaking saw that Rob used 
 for soft wood. On week-days Kitty's voice was the 
 big saw that pulled and rasped, and Mag Wilkie 
 shivered at it. Except to her husband Mag spoke 
 with her teeth closed, so politely that no one knew 
 what she said. 
 
 Davy stumbled up the steep brae down which men 
 are blown in winter to their work, until she reached 
 the rim of the hollow in which Thrums lies. Here
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 11 
 
 the road stops short, as if frightened to cross the com- 
 mon of whin that bars the way to the north. On this 
 common there are many cart-tracks over bumpy 
 sward and slippery roots, that might be the ribs of 
 the earth showing, and Davy, with a dazed look in 
 her eyes, ran down one of them, the whins catching 
 her frock to stop her, and then letting go, as if, after 
 all, one child more or less in the world was nothing 
 to them. 
 
 By and by she found herself on another road, along 
 which Rob had trudged earlier in the day with a saw 
 on his shoulder, but he had gone east, and the child's 
 face was turned westward. It is a muddy road even 
 in summer, and those who use it frequently get into 
 the habit of lifting their legs high as they walk, like 
 men picking their way through beds of rotting 
 leaves. The light had faded from her baby face 
 now, but her mouth was firm-set, and her bewildered 
 eyes were fixed straight ahead. 
 
 The last person to see Davy was Tammas Haggart, 
 who, with his waistcoat buttoned over his jacket, 
 and garters of yarn round his trousers, was slowly 
 breaking stones, though the road swallowed them 
 quicker than he could feed it. Tammas heard the 
 child approaching, for his hearing had become very 
 acute, owing to his practice when at home of listen- 
 ing through the floor to what the folks below were 
 saying, and of sometimes joining in. He leaned on 
 his hammer and watched her trot past.
 
 12 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 The strength went gradually from Tammas' old 
 arms, and again resting on his hammer he removed 
 his spectacles and wiped them on his waistcoat. He 
 took a comprehensive glance around at the fields, as 
 if he now had an opportunity of seeing them for the 
 first time during his sixty years' pilgrimage in these 
 parts, and his eyes wandered aimlessly from the som- 
 bre firs and laughing beeches to the white farms that 
 dot the strath. In the foreground two lazy colts sur- 
 veyed him critically across a dyke. To the north the 
 frowning Whunny hill had a white scarf round its 
 neck. 
 
 Something troubled Tammas. It was the vision 
 of a child in a draggled pinafore, and stepping into 
 the middle of the road he looked down it in the di- 
 rection in which Davy had passed. 
 
 "Chirsty Angus' lassieky," he murmured. 
 
 Tammas sat down cautiously on the dyke and un- 
 tied the red handkerchief that contained the rem- 
 nants of his dinner. When he had smacked his lips 
 over his flagon of cold kail, and seen the last of his 
 crumbling oatmeal and cheese, his uneasiness re- 
 turned, and he again looked down the road. 
 
 "I maun turn the bairn," was his reflection. 
 
 It was now, however, half an hour since Davy had 
 passed Tammas Haggart's cairn. 
 
 To Haggart, pondering between the strokes of his 
 hammer, came a mole-catcher, who climbed the dyke 
 and sat down beside him.
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 13 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the new-comer; to which Tammas 
 replied abstractedly : 
 
 "Jamie." 
 
 "Hae ye seen Davy Dundas?" the stone-breaker 
 asked, after the pause that followed this conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 The mole-catcher stared heavily at his corduroys. 
 
 "I dinna ken him," he said, at last, "but I hae 
 seen naebody this twa 'oors. " 
 
 " It's no a him, it's a her. Ye canna hae been a 
 winter here withoot kennin' Rob Angus." 
 
 "Ay, the saw-miller. He was i' the wud the day. 
 I saw his cart gae hame. Ou, in coorse I ken Rob. 
 He's an amazin' crittur." 
 
 Tammas broke another stone as carefully as if it 
 were a nut. 
 
 "I dinna deny," he said, "but what Rob's a curi- 
 osity. So was his faither afore 'im." 
 
 "I've heard auld Rob was a queer body," said 
 Jamie, adding incredulously, "they say he shaved 
 twice i' the week an' wore a clean dicky ilka day." 
 
 " No what ye wad say ilka day, but oftener than 
 was called for. Rob wasna naturally ostentatious ; 
 na, it was the wife 'at insistit on't. Nanny was a 
 terrible tid for cleanness. Ay, an' it's a guid thing 
 in moderation, but she juist overdid it; yes, she over- 
 did it. Man, it had sic a baud on her 'at even on 
 her death-bed they had to bring a basin to her to 
 wash her hands in."
 
 14 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Ay, ay? When there was sic a pride in her I 
 wonder she didna lat young Rob to the college, an' 
 him sae keen on't." 
 
 " Ou, he was gaen, but ye see auld Rob got gey 
 dottle after Nanny's death, an' so young Rob stuck to 
 the saw-mill. It's curious hoo a body misses his wife 
 when she's gone. Ay, it's like the clock stoppin'." 
 
 " Weel, Rob's no gettin' to the college hasna made 
 'im humble." 
 
 " Ye dinna like Rob?" 
 
 "Hoo did ye find that oot?" asked Jamie, a little 
 taken aback. "Man, Tammas," he added, admir- 
 ingly, "ye're michty quick i' the uptak." 
 
 Tammas handed his snuff-mull to the mole-catcher, 
 and then helped himself. 
 
 "I daursay, I daursay," he said thoughtfully. 
 
 "I've naething to say agin the saw -miller," con- 
 tinued Jamie, after thinking it out, "but there's 
 something in's face 'at's no sociable. He looks as if 
 he was takkin' ye aff in's inside." 
 
 " Ay, auld Rob was a sarcestic stock too. It rins 
 i' the blood." 
 
 " I prefer a mair common kind o' man, bein' o' the 
 common kind myseF." 
 
 "Ay, there's naething sarcestic about you, Jamie," 
 admitted the stone-breaker. 
 
 " I'm an ord'nar man, Tammas." 
 
 "Ye are, Jamie, ye are." 
 
 " Maybe no sae oncommon ord'nar either."
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 15 
 
 "Middlin' ord'nar, rniddlin' ord'nar." 
 
 "I'm thinkin' ye're braw an' sarcestic yersel', 
 Tammas?" 
 
 "I'd aye that repootation, Jeames. Am no an 
 every-day sarcesticist, but juist noos an' nans. There 
 was ae time I was speakin' tae Easie Webster, an' I 
 said a terrible sarcestic thing. Ay, I dinna mind 
 what it was, but it was michty sarcestic." 
 
 "It's a gift," said the mole-catcher. 
 
 "A gift it is," said Tammas. 
 
 The stone-breaker took his flagon to a spring near 
 at hand, and rinsed it out. Several times while pull- 
 ing it up and down the little pool an uneasy expres- 
 sion crossed his face as he remembered something 
 about a child, but in washing his hands, using sand 
 for soap, Davy slipped his memory, and he returned 
 cheerfully to the cairn. Here Jamie was wagging 
 his head from side to side like a man who had caught 
 himself thinking. 
 
 "I'll warrant, Tammas," he said, "ye cudna tell's 
 what set's on to speak aboot Rob Angus?" 
 
 " Na, it's a thing as has often puzzled me hoo we 
 select wan topic mair than anither. I suppose it's 
 like shootin' ; ye juist blaze awa' at the first bird 'at 
 rises." 
 
 " Ye was sayin', had I seen a lass wi' a lad's name. 
 That began it, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 " A lass wi' a lad's name? Ay, noo, that's oncom- 
 mon. But rnebbe ye mean Davy Dundas?"
 
 16 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "That's the name." 
 
 Tammas paused in the act of buttoning his trouser 
 pocket. 
 
 " Did ye say ye'd seen Davy?" he asked. 
 
 " Na, it was you as said 'at ye had seen her." 
 
 " Ay, ay, Jamie, ye're richt. Man, I fully meant 
 to turn the bairn, but she ran by at sic a steek 'at 
 there was nae stoppin' her. Rob'll mak an awfu' 
 ring-ding if onything comes ower Davy." 
 
 " Is't the litlin 'at's aye wi' Rob?" 
 
 " Ay, it's Chirsty Angus' bairn, her 'at was Rob's 
 sister. A' her fowk's deid but Rob. " 
 
 "I've seen them i' the saw-mill thegither. It 
 didna strick me 'at Rob cared muckle for the crit- 
 tury." 
 
 " Ou, Rob's a reserved stock, but he's michty fond 
 o' her when iiaebody's lookin'. It doesna do, ye 
 ken, to lat on afore company at ye've a kind o' re- 
 gaird for yere ain fowk. Na, it's lowerin'. But if 
 it wasna afore your time, ye'd seen the cradle i' the 
 saw-mill." 
 
 " I never saw ony cradle, Tammas." 
 
 " Weel, it was unco' ingenious o' Rob. The bairn's 
 father an' mither was baith gone when Davy was nae 
 age, an' auld Rob passed awa' sune efter. Rob had 
 it all arranged to ging to the college ay, he'd been 
 workin' far on into the nicht the hale year to save 
 up siller to keep 'imsel' at Edinbory, but ye see he 
 promised Chirsty to look after Davy an' no' send her
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 17 
 
 to the parish. He took her to the saw-mill an' brocht 
 her up 'imsel'. It was a terrible disappointment to 
 Rob, his mind bein' bent on becomin' a great leeter- 
 ary genius, but he's been michty guid to the bairn. 
 Ay, she's an extror'nar takkin' dawty, Davy, an' 
 though I wudna like it kent, I've a fell notion o' her 
 mysel'. I mind ance gaen in to Rob's, an', wud ye 
 believe, there was the bit lassieky sittin' in the airm- 
 chair wi' ane o' Rob's books open on her knees, an' 
 her pertendin' to be readin' oot in't to Rob. The 
 tiddy had watched him readin', ye unerstan', an', 
 man, she was mimickin' 'im to the life. There's 
 nae accountin' for thae things, but ondootedly it was 
 attractive." 
 
 " But what aboot a cradle?" 
 
 "Ou, as I was sayin', Rob didna like to lat the 
 bairn oot o' his sicht, so he made a queer cradle 'im- 
 sel', an' put it ower the burn. Ye'll mind the burn 
 rins through the saw-mill? Ay, weel, Davy's cradle 
 was put across't wi' the paddles sae arranged 'at the 
 watter rocked the cradle. Man, the burn was juist 
 like a mither to Davy, for no' only did it rock her to 
 sleep, but it sang to the bairn the hale time." 
 
 "That was an ingenious contrivance, Tammas; 
 but it was juist like Rob Angus' ind'pendence. 
 The crittur aye perseests in doin' a'thing for 'imsel'. 
 I mind ae day seein' Cree Deuchars puttin' in a win- 
 dow into the saw-mill hoose, an' Rob's fingers was 
 fair itchin' to do't quick 'imsel' ; ye ken Cree's fell
 
 18 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 slow? 'See baud o' the potty,' cries Rob, an' losh, 
 he had the window in afore Cree cud hae cut the 
 glass. Ay, ye canna deny but what Rob's fearfu' 
 independent." 
 
 " So was his faither. I call to mind auld Rob an' 
 the minister haen a termendous debate aboot justifi- 
 cation by faith, an' says Rob i' the tail o' the day, 
 gettin' passionate-like, 'I tell ye flat, Hester Byars,' 
 he says, 'if I dinna ging to heaven in my ain wy, I 
 dinna ging aval' " 
 
 " Losh, losh ! he wudna hae said that, though, to 
 oor minister ; na, he wudna hae daured. " 
 
 "Ye're a IT. P., Jamie?" asked the .stone- 
 breaker. 
 
 "I was born IT. P.," replied the mole-catcher 
 firmly, "an' U. P. I'll die." 
 
 "I say naething agin yer releegion," replied Tam- 
 mas, a little contemptuously, " but to compare yer 
 minister to oors is a haver. Man, when Mester 
 Byars was oor minister, Sanders Dobie, the wricht, 
 had a standin' engagement to mend the poopit ilka 
 month." 
 
 "We'll no' speak o' releegion, Tammas, or we'll 
 be quarrellin'. Ye micht tell' a, though, hoo they 
 cam to gie a lassieky sic a man's name as Davy." 
 
 " It was an accident at the christenin'. Ye see, 
 Hendry Dundas an' Chirsty was both vary young, 
 an' when the bairn was born they were shy-like aboot 
 makkin' the affair public; ay, Hendry cud hardly
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 19 
 
 tak courage to tell the minister. When he was had- 
 din' up the bit tid in the kirk to be baptized he was 
 remarkable egitated. Weel, the minister it was 
 Mester Dishart somehoo had a notion 'at the litlin 
 was a laddie, an' when he reads the name on the 
 paper, 'Margaret Dundas,' he looks at Hendry wi' 
 the bairny in's airms, an' says he, stern-like, 'The 
 child's a boy, is he not?' " 
 
 " Sal, that was a predeecament for Hendry." 
 " Ay, an' Hendry was confused, as a man often is 
 wi' his first; so says he, all trem'lin', 'Yes, Mr. Dis- 
 hart.' 'Then,' says the minister, 'I cannot christen 
 him Margaret, so I will call him David.' An' 
 Davit the litlin was baptized, sure eneuch." 
 " The mither wud be in a michty wy at that?" 
 " She was so, but as Hendry said, when she chal- 
 lenged him on the subject, says Hendry, 'I dauredna 
 conterdick the minister. ' " 
 
 Haggart's work being now over for the day, he sat 
 down beside Jamie to await some other stone-breakers 
 who generally caught him up on their way home. 
 Strange figures began to emerge from the woods, a 
 dumb man with a barrowful of roots for firewood, 
 several women in men's coats, one smoking a cutty- 
 pipe. A farm-laborer pulled his heavy legs in their 
 rustling corduroys alongside a field of swedes, a 
 ragged potato bogle brandished its arms in a sudden 
 puff of wind. Several men and women reached Hag- 
 gart's cairn about the same time, and said, "It is
 
 20 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 so," or "ay, ay," to him, according as they were 
 loquacious or merely polite. 
 
 "We was speakin' aboot matermony," the mole- 
 catcher remarked, as the back-bent little party strag- 
 gled toward Thrums. 
 
 "It's a caution," murmured the farm-laborer, who 
 had heard the observation from the other side of the 
 dyke. "Ay, ye may say so," he added, thoughtfully 
 addressing himself. 
 
 With the mole-catcher's companions, however, the 
 talk passed into another rut. Nevertheless Haggart 
 was thinking matrimony over, and by and by he saw 
 his way to a joke, for one of the other stone-breakers 
 had recently married a very small woman, and in 
 Thrums, where women have to work, the far-seeing 
 men prefer their wives big. 
 
 "Ye drew a sma' prize yersel', Sam'l," said Tam- 
 mas, with the gleam in his eye which showed that 
 he was now in sarcastic fettle. 
 
 "Ay, "said the mole-catcher, "SainTs Kitty is 
 sma'. I suppose Sam'l thocht it wud be prudent-like 
 to begin in a modest way." 
 
 "If Kitty hadna haen sae sma' hands," said an- 
 other stone-breaker, " I wud hae haen a bid for her 
 mysel'." 
 
 The women smiled ; they had very large hands. 
 
 "They say," said the youngest of them, who had 
 a load of firewood on her back, " 'at there's places 
 whaur little hands is thocht muckle oV
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE MAN. 21 
 
 There was an incredulous laugh at this. 
 
 "I wudna wonder, though," said the mole-catcher, 
 who had travelled ; " there's some michty queer ideas 
 i' the big toons." 
 
 "Ye'd better ging to the big toons, then, Sam'l," 
 suggested the merciless Tammas. 
 
 Sam'l woke up. 
 
 " Kitty's sma'," he said, with a chuckle, "but she's 
 an auld tid." 
 
 "What made ye think o' speirin' her, Sam'l?" 
 
 "I cudna say for sartin," answered Sam'l, reflect- 
 ively. " I had nae intention o't till I saw Pete Proc- 
 tor after her, an' syne, thinks I, I'll hae her. Ay, 
 ye micht say as Pete was the instrument o' Provi- 
 dence in that case." 
 
 "Man, man," murmured Jamie, who knew Pete, 
 " Providence sometimes maks use o' strange instru- 
 ments. " 
 
 " Ye was lang in gettin' a man yersel', Jinny," said 
 Tammas to an elderly woman. 
 
 "Fower-an' -forty year," replied Jinny. "It was 
 like a stockin', lang i' the futin', but turned at last." 
 
 "Lassies nooadays," said the old woman who 
 smoked, "is partikler by what they used to be. I 
 mind when Jeames Gowrie speired me: 'Ye wud 
 raither hae Davit Curly, I ken, ' he says. ' I dinna 
 deny't,' I says, for the thing was well kent, 'but 
 ye'll do vara weel, Jeames, ' says I, an' mairy him I 
 did."
 
 22 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "He was a harmless crittur, Jeames," said Hag- 
 gart, " but queer. Ay, he was full o' maggots." 
 
 "Ay," said Jeames' widow, "but though it's no' 
 for me to say't, he deid a deacon." 
 
 " There's some rale queer wys o' speirin' a wum- 
 an," began the mole-catcher. 
 
 "Vary true, Jamie," said a stone-breaker. "I 
 mind hoo 
 
 " There was a chappy ower by Blair," continued Ja- 
 mie, raising his voice, " 'at micht hae been a single 
 man to this day if it hadna been for the toothache." 
 
 "Ay, man?" 
 
 "Joey Fargus was the stock's name. He was on- 
 common troubled wi' the toothache till he found a 
 cure. " 
 
 " I didna ken o' ony cure for sair teeth?" 
 
 " Joey's cure was to pour cauld watter stretcht on 
 into his mooth for the maitter o' twa 'oors, an' ane 
 day he cam into Blair an' found Jess McTaggart (a 
 speerity bit thingy she was ou, she was so) fair 
 greetin' wi' sair teeth. Joey advised the crittur to 
 try his cure, an' when he left she was pourin' the 
 watter into her mooth ower the sink. Weel, it soo 
 happened 'at Joey was in Blair again aboot twa'** 
 month after, an' he gies a cry in at Willie's that's 
 Jess' father's, as ye'll un'erstan'. Ay, then Jess 
 had haen anither fit o' the toothache, an' she was 
 hingin' ower the sink wi' a tanker o' watter in her 
 han', juist as she'd been when he saw her last.
 
 ROB ANGUS IS NOT A FREE HAN. 23 
 
 ' What!' says Joey, wi' rale consairn, 'nae better 
 yet?' The stock thocht she had been haddin' gaen 
 at the watter a' thae twa month." 
 
 " I call to mind," the stone-breaker broke in again, 
 " hoo a body " 
 
 "So," continued Jamie, "Joey cudna help but ad- 
 mire the patience o' the lassie, an' says he, 'Jess,' he 
 says, 'come cot by to Mortar Pits, an' try oor well.' 
 That's hoo Joey Fargus speired's wife, an' if ye 
 dinna believe's, ye've nae mair to do but ging to 
 Mortar Pits an' see the well yersels." 
 
 "I recall," said the stone-breaker, "a vary neat 
 case o' speirin'. It was Jocky Wilkie, him 'at's 
 brither was grieve to Broken Busses, an' the lass 
 was Leeby Lunan. She was aye puttin' Jocky aff 
 when he was on the point o' speirin' her, keepin' 'im 
 hingin' on the hook like a trout, as ye may say, an' 
 takkin' her fling wi' ither lads at the same time." 
 
 "Ay, I've kent them do that." 
 
 " Weel, it fair maddened Jocky, so ane nicht he 
 gings to her father's hoose wi' a present o' a grand 
 thimble to her in his pooch, an' afore the hale hoose- 
 hold he perdooces't an flings't wi' a bang on the 
 dresser: 'Tak it,' he says to Leeby, 'or leave't.' In 
 coorse the thing's bein' done sae public-like, Leeby 
 kent she had to mak up her mind there an' then. 
 Ay, she took it." 
 
 "But hoo did ye speir Chirsty yersel', Dan'l?" 
 asked Jinny of the speaker.
 
 24 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 There was a laugh at this, for, as was well known, 
 Dan'l had jilted Chirsty. 
 
 "I never kent I had speired," replied the stone- 
 breaker, "till Chirsty told me." 
 
 " Ye'll no' say ye wasna fond o' her?" 
 
 " Sometimes I was, an' syne at other times I was 
 indifferent-like. The mair I thocht o't the mair 
 risky I saw it was, so i' the tail o' the day I says to 
 Chirsty, says I, 'Na, na, Chirsty, lat'sbe as I am.'" 
 
 "They say she took on terrible, Dan'l." 
 
 " Ay, nae doot, but a man has 'imsel' to conseeder." 
 
 By this time they had crossed the moor of whins. 
 It was a cold, still evening, and as they paused be- 
 fore climbing down into the town they heard the 
 tinkle of a bell. 
 
 'That's Snecky's bell," said the mole-catcher. 
 " What can he be cryin' at this time o' nicht?" 
 
 "There's something far wrang," said one of the 
 women. "Look, a 'body's rinnin' to the square." 
 
 The troubled look returned to Tammas Haggart's 
 face, and he stopped to look back across the fast- 
 darkening moor. 
 
 " Did ony o' ye see little Davy Dundas, the saw- 
 miller's bairny?" he began. 
 
 At that moment a young man swept by. His 
 teeth were clinched, his eyes glaring. 
 
 "Speak o' the deil," said the mole-catcher: "that 
 was Rob Angus."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ROB BECOMES FREE. 
 
 As Haggart hobbled down into the square, in the 
 mole-catcher's rear, Hobart's cracked bell tinkled up 
 the back-wynd, and immediately afterward the bell- 
 man took his stand by the side of Tarn Peter's fish- 
 cart. Snecky gave his audience time to gather, for 
 not every day was it given him to cry a lost bairn. 
 The words fell slowly from his reluctant lips. Be- 
 fore he flung back his head and ejected his proclama- 
 tion in a series of puffs he was the possessor of exclu- 
 sive news, but his tongue had hardly ceased to roll 
 round the concluding sentence when the crowd took 
 up the cry themselves. Wives flinging open their 
 windows shouted their fears across the wynds. 
 Davy Dundas had wandered from the kirkyard, 
 where Rob had left her in Kitty Wilkie's charge till 
 he returned from the woods. What had Kitty been 
 about? It was believed that the litlin had taken 
 with her a letter that had come for Rob. Was Rob 
 back from the woods yet? Ay, he had scoured the 
 whole countryside already for her. 
 
 Men gathered on the saw-mill brig, looking per- 
 plexedly at the burn that swivelled at this point, a 
 25
 
 26 WHEN A MAX'S SINGLE. 
 
 sawdust color, between wooden boards ; but the wom- 
 en pressed their bairns closely to their wrappers and 
 gazed in each other's faces. 
 
 A log of wood, with which some one had sought to 
 improvise a fire between the bricks that narrowed 
 Rob Angus' grate, turned peevishly to charcoal with- 
 out casting much light on the men and women in 
 the saw-mill kitchen. Already the burn had been 
 searched near the mill, with Rob's white face staring 
 at the searchers from his door. 
 
 The room was small and close. A closet-bed with 
 the door off afforded seats for several persons; and 
 Davit Lunan, the tinsmith, who could read Homer 
 with Rob in the original, sat clumsily on the dresser. 
 The j>eudulum of a wag-at-the-wa' clock swung si- 
 lently against the wall, casting a mouse-like shadow 
 on the hearth. Over the mantelpiece was a sampler 
 in many colors, the work of Rob's mother when she 
 was still a maid. The book-case, fitted into a recess 
 that had once held a press, was Rob's own handi- 
 work, and contained more books than any other house 
 in Thrums. Overhead the thick wooden rafters were 
 crossed with saws and staves. 
 
 There was a painful silence in the gloomy room. 
 Snecky Hobart tried to break the log in the fire-place, 
 using his leg as a poker, but desisted when he saw 
 every eye turned on him. A glitter of sparks shot 
 up the chimney, and the starling in the window be- 
 gan to whistle. Pete Todd looked undecidedly at the
 
 ROB BECOMES FREE. 27 
 
 minister, and, lifting a sack, flung it over the bird's 
 cage, as if anticipating the worst. In Thrums they 
 veil their cages if there is a death in the house. 
 
 "What do ye mean, Pete Todd?" cried Rob An- 
 gus fiercely. 
 
 His voice broke, but he seized the sack and cast it 
 on the floor. The starling, however, whistled no 
 more. 
 
 Looking as if he could strike Pete Todd, Rob stood 
 in the centre of his kitchen, a saw-miller for the last 
 time. Though they did not know it, his neighbors 
 there were photographing him in their minds, and 
 their children were destined to gape in the days to 
 come over descriptions of Rob Angus in corduroys. 
 
 These pictures showed a broad-shouldered man of 
 twenty-six, whose face was already rugged. A short 
 brown beard hid the heavy chin, and the lips were 
 locked as if Rob feared to show that he was anxious 
 about the child. His clear gray eyes were younger- 
 looking than his forehead, and the swollen balls be- 
 neath them suggested a student rather than a working- 
 man. His hands were too tanned and hard ever to 
 be white, and he delved a little in his walk, as if he 
 felt uncomfortable without a weight on his back. 
 He was the best saw-miller in his county, but his 
 ambition would have scared his customers had he 
 not kept it to himself. Many a time strangers had 
 stared at him as he strode along the Whunny road, 
 and wondered what made this stalwart man whirl
 
 28 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 the axe that he had been using as a staff. Then Rob 
 was thinking of the man he was going to be when 
 he could safely leave little Davy behind him, and it 
 was not the firs of the Whunny wood that were in 
 his eye, but a roaring city and a saw-miller taking 
 it by the throat. There had been a time when he 
 bore no love for the bairn who came between him 
 and his career. 
 
 Rob was so tall that he could stand erect in but few 
 rooms in Thrums, and long afterward, when very 
 different doors opened to him, he still involuntarily 
 ducked, as he crossed a threshold, to save his head. 
 Up to the day on which Davy wandered from home 
 he had never lifted his hat to a lady ; when he did 
 that the influence of Thrums would be broken forever. 
 
 "It's oncommon foolish o' Rob," said Pete Todd, 
 retreating to the side of the mole -catcher, "no' to be 
 mair resigned-like." 
 
 "It's his ind'pendence," answered Jamie; "ay, 
 the wricht was sayin' the noo,.says he, 'If Davy's 
 deid, Rob'll mak the coffin 'imseP, he's sae michty 
 ind'pendent.'" 
 
 Tammas Haggart stumbled into the saw-miller's 
 kitchen. It would have been a womanish kind of 
 thing to fling to the door behind him. 
 
 "Fine growin' day, Rob," he said, deliberately. 
 
 "It is so, Tammas," answered the saw-miller hos- 
 pitably, for Haggart had been his father's bosom 
 friend.
 
 ROB BECOMES FREE. 29 
 
 "No' much drowth, I'm thinkin'," said Hobart, 
 relieved by the turn the conversation had taken. 
 
 Tammas pulled from beneath the table an unsteady 
 three-legged stool Davy's stool and sat down on it 
 slowly. Rob took a step nearer as if to ask him to 
 sit somewhere else, and then turned away his head. 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Haggart. 
 
 Then, as he saw the others gathering round the 
 minister at the door, he moved uneasily on his stool. 
 
 " Whaur's Davy?" he said. 
 
 "Did ye no' ken she was lost?" the saw-miller 
 asked, in a voice that was hardly his own. 
 
 " Ay, I kent," said Tammas ; " she's on the Whunn}' 
 road." 
 
 Rob had been talking to the minister in what both 
 thought English, which in Thrums is considered an 
 ostentatious language, but he turned on Tammas in 
 broad Scotch. In the years to come, when he could 
 wear gloves without concealing his hands in his 
 pockets, excitement brought on Scotch as a poultice 
 raises blisters. 
 
 "Tammas Haggart," he cried, pulling the stone- 
 breaker off his stool. 
 
 The minister interposed. 
 
 "Tell us what you know at once, Tammas," said 
 Mr. Dishart, who, out of the pulpit, bad still a heart. 
 
 It was a sad tale that Haggart had to tell, if a 
 short one, and several of the listeners shook their 
 heads as they heard it.
 
 30 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "I meant to turn the lassieky," the stone-breaker 
 explained, "but, ou, she was past in a twinklin'." 
 
 On the saw-mill brig the minister quickly organized 
 a search party, the brig that Rob had floored anew 
 but the week before, rising daily with the sun to do 
 it because the child's little boot had caught in a worn 
 board. From it she had often crooned to watch the 
 dank mill-wheel climbing the bouncing burn. Ah, 
 Rob, the rotten old planks would have served your 
 turn. 
 
 "The Whunny road," were the words passed from 
 mouth to mouth, and the driblet of men fell into line. 
 
 Impetuous is youth, and the minister was not per- 
 haps greatly to blame for starting at once. But Lang 
 Tammas, his chief elder, paused on the threshold. 
 
 "The Lord giveth," be said, solemnly, taking off 
 his hat and letting the night air cut through his white 
 hair, "and the Lord taketh away: blessed be the 
 name of the Lord." 
 
 The saw-miller opened his mouth, but no words 
 came. 
 
 The little search party took the cold Whunny road. 
 The day had been bright and fine, and still there was 
 a smell of flowers in the air. The fickle flowers! 
 They had clustered round Davy and nestled on her 
 neck when she drew the half-ashamed saw-miller 
 through the bleating meadows, and now they could 
 smile on him when he came alone all except the 
 daisies. The daisies, that cannot play a child false,
 
 ROB BECOMES FREE. 31 
 
 had craned their necks to call Davy back as she 
 tripped over them, and bowed their heavy little heads 
 as she toddled on. It was from them that the bairn's 
 track was learned after she wandered from the 
 Whunny road. 
 
 By and by the hills ceased to echo their wailing 
 response to Hobart's bell. 
 
 Far in the rear of the more eager searchers the 
 bellman and the joiner had found a seat on a mossy 
 bank, and others, footsore and weary, had fallen else- 
 where from the ranks. The minister and half a dozen 
 others scattered over the fields and on the hillsides 
 despondent, but not daring to lag. Tinkers cowered 
 round their kettles under threatening banks, and the 
 squirrels were shadows gliding from tree to tree. 
 
 At a distant smithy a fitful light still winked to 
 the wind, but the farm lamps were out and all the 
 land was hushed. It was now long past midnight 
 in country parts. 
 
 Rob Angus was young and strong, but the heaven- 
 sent gift of tears was not for him. Blessed the moan- 
 ing mother by the cradle of her eldest-born, and the 
 maid in tears for the lover who went out so brave in 
 the morning and was not at evenfall, and the weep- 
 ing sister who can pray for her soldier brother, and 
 the wife on her husband's bosom. 
 
 Some of his neighbors had thought it unmanly 
 when Rob, at the rumble of a cart, hurried from the 
 saw -mill to snatch the child in his arms, and bear
 
 32 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 her to a bed of shavings. At such a time Davy would 
 lift a saw to within an inch of her baby-face, and 
 then, letting it fall with a wicked chuckle, run to the 
 saw-miller's arms, as sure of her lover as ever maiden 
 was of man. 
 
 A bashful lover he had been, shy, not of Davy, but 
 of what men would say, and now the time had come 
 when he looked wistfully back to a fevered child toss- 
 ing in a dark bed, the time when a light burned all 
 night in Rob's kitchen, and a trembling, heavy-eyed 
 man sat motionless on a high-backed chair. How 
 noiselessly he approached the bonny mite and replaced 
 the arm that had wandered from beneath the cover- 
 let ! Ah, for the old time when a sick, imperious child 
 told her uncle to lie down beside her, and Rob sat on 
 the bed, looking shamefacedly at the minister. Mr. 
 Disliart had turned away his head. Such things are 
 not to be told. They are between a man and his God. 
 
 Far up the Whunny hill they found Davy's little 
 shoe. Rob took it in his hand, a muddy, draggled 
 shoe that had been a pretty thing when he put it on 
 her foot that morning. The others gathered austerely 
 around him, and strong Rob stood still among the 
 brackens. 
 
 "I'm dootin' she's deid," said Tammas Haggart. 
 
 Haggart looked into the face of old Rob's son, end 
 then a strange and beautiful thing happened. To 
 the wizened stone-breaker it was no longer the som- 
 bre Whunny hill that lay before him. Two bare-
 
 ROB BECOMES FREE. 33 
 
 footed herd -laddies were on the green fields of 
 adjoining farms. The moon looking over the hills 
 found them on their ragged backs, with the cows 
 munching by their side. They had grown different 
 boys, nor known why, among the wild roses of red 
 and white, and trampling neck-high among the ferns. 
 Haggart saw once again the raspberry bushes they 
 had stripped together into flagons gleaming in the 
 grass. Rob had provided the bent pin with which 
 Tammas lured his first trout to land, and Tammas in 
 return had invited him to thraw the neck of a doomed 
 hen. They had wandered hand-in-hand through 
 thirsty grass, when scythes whistled in the corn- 
 fields, and larks thrilled overhead, and braes were 
 golden with broom. 
 
 They are two broad-shouldered men now, and Hag- 
 gart 's back is rounding at the loom. From his broken 
 window he can see Rob at the saw-mill, whistling as 
 the wheel goes round. It is Saturday night, and they 
 are in the square, clean and dapper, talking with 
 other gallants about lasses. They are courting the 
 same maid, and she sits on a stool by the door, knit- 
 ting a stocking, with a lover on each side. They 
 drop in on her mother straining the blaeberry juice 
 through a bag suspended between two chairs. They 
 sheepishly admire while Easie singes a hen ; for love 
 of her they help her father to pit his potatoes ; and 
 then, for love of the other, each gives her up. It is a 
 Friday night, and from a but and ben around which
 
 34 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 the rabble heave and toss, a dozen couples emerge in 
 strangely gay and bright apparel. Rob leads the 
 way with one lass, and Tammas follows with another. 
 It must be Rob's wedding-day. 
 
 Dim grow Tammas' eyes on the Whunny hill. 
 The years whirl by, and already he sees a grumpy 
 gravedigger go out to dig Rob's grave. Alas ! for 
 the flash into the past that sorrow gives. As he 
 clutches young Rob's hand the light dies from Tarn- 
 mas' eyes, his back grows round and bent, and the 
 hair is silvered that lay hi tousled locks on a lad's 
 head. 
 
 A nipping wind cut the search party and fled down 
 the hill that was changing in color from black to 
 gray. The searchers might have been smugglers 
 laden with whiskey bladders, such as haunted the 
 mountain in bygone days. Far away at Thrums 
 mothers still wrung their hands for Davy, but the 
 men slept. 
 
 Heads were bared, and the minister raised his 
 voice in prayer. One of the psalms of David trem- 
 bled in the gray of the morning straight to heaven ; 
 and then two young men, glancing at Mr. Dishart, 
 raised aloft a fallen rowan-tree, to let it fall as it 
 listed. It fell pointing straight down the hiD, and 
 the search party took that direction; all but Rob, 
 who stood motionless with the shoe in his hand. 
 He did not seem to comprehend the minister's beck- 
 oning.
 
 ROB BECOMES FREE. 35 
 
 Haggart took him by the arm. 
 
 "Rob, man, Rob Angus," he said, "she was but 
 fower year auld." 
 
 The stone-breaker unbuttoned his trouser-pocket, 
 and with an unsteady hand drew out his snuff-mull. 
 Rob tried to take it, but his arm trembled, and the 
 muff fell among the heather. 
 
 "Keep yourselves from idols," said Lang Tammas 
 sternly. 
 
 But the minister was young, and children lisped 
 his name at the white manse among the trees at 
 home. He took the shoe from the saw-miller who 
 had once been independent, and they went down the 
 hill together. 
 
 Davy lay dead at the edge of the burn that gurgles 
 on to the saw-mill, one little foot washed by the 
 stream. The Whunny had rocked her to sleep for 
 the last time. Half covered with grass, her baby fist 
 still clutched the letter. When Rob saw her, betook* 
 his darling dead bairn in his arms and faced the 
 others with cracking jaws. 
 
 "I dinna ken," said Tammas Haggart, after a 
 pause, "but what it's kind o' nat'ral."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 
 
 ONE evening, nearly a month after Rob Angus be- 
 came "single," Mr. George Frederick Licquorish, 
 editor and proprietor of the Silchester Mirror, was 
 sitting in his office cutting advertisements out of the 
 Silchester Argus, and pasting each on a separate 
 sheet of paper. These advertisements had not been 
 sent to the Mirror, and, as he thought this a pity, 
 he meant, through his canvasser, to call the attention 
 of the advertisers to the omission. 
 
 Mr. Licquorish was a stout little man, with a be- 
 nevolent countenance, who wrote most of his leaders 
 on the backs of old envelopes. Every few minutes 
 he darted into the composing-room, with an alertness 
 that was a libel on his genial face; and when he re- 
 turned it was pleasant to observe the kindly, good- 
 natured manner in which he chaffed tho printer's 
 devil who was trying to light the fire. It was, how- 
 ever, also noticeable that what the devil said subse- 
 quently x> another devil was, " But, you know, he 
 wouldn't o^ive me any sticks." 
 
 The Mirror and the Argus are two daily news- 
 papers published in Silchester, each of which has the 
 36
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 37 
 
 largest circulation in tho district, and is therefore 
 much the better advertising medium. Silchester is 
 the chief town of an English midland county, and 
 the Mirror's business note-paper refers to it as the 
 centre of a population of half a million souls. 
 
 The Mirror's offices are nearly crushed out of 
 sight in a block of buildings, left in the middle of a 
 street for town councils to pull down gradually. This 
 island of houses, against which a sea of humanity 
 beats daily, is cut in two by a narrow passage, off 
 which several doors open. One of these leads up a 
 dirty stair to the editorial and composing-rooms of 
 the Daily Mirror, and down a dirty stair to its 
 printing-rooms. It is the door at which you may 
 hammer for an hour without any one's paying the 
 least attention. 
 
 During the time the boy took to light Mr. Licquor- 
 ish's fire, a young man in a heavy overcoat knocked 
 more than once at the door in the alley, and then 
 moved off as if somewhat relieved that there was no 
 response. He walked round and round the block of 
 buildings, gazing upward at the windows of the com- 
 posing-room ; and several times he ran against other 
 pedestrians on whom he turned fiercely, and would 
 then have begged their pardons had he known what 
 to say. Frequently he felt in his pocket to see if 
 his money was still there, and once he went behind a 
 door and counted it. There was three pounds seven- 
 teen shillings altogether, and he kept it in a linen
 
 38 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 bag that had been originally made for carrying worms 
 in when he went fishing. When he re-entered the 
 close he always drew a deep breath, and if any per- 
 sons emerged from the Mirror office he looked after 
 them. They were mostly telegraph boys, who flut- 
 tered out and in. 
 
 When Mr. Licquorish dictated an article, as he 
 did frequently, the apprentice reporter went into the 
 editor's room to take it down, and the reporters 
 always asked him, as a favor, to shut George Fred- 
 erick's door behind him. This apprentice reporter 
 did the police reports and the magazine notices, and 
 he wondered a good deal whether the older reporters 
 really did like brandy and soda. The reason why 
 John Milton, which was the unfortunate name of 
 this boy, was told to close the editorial door behind 
 him was that it was close to the door of the reporters' 
 room, and generally stood open. The impression the 
 reporters' room made on a chance visitor varied ac- 
 cording as Mr. Licquorish's door was ajar or shut. 
 When they heard it locked on the inside, the reporters 
 and the sub-editor breathed a sigh of relief ; when it 
 opened they took their legs off the desk. 
 
 The editor's room had a carpet, and was chiefly 
 furnished with books sent in for review. It was 
 more comfortable, but more gloomy-looking than the 
 reporters' room, which had along desk running along 
 one side of it, and a bunk for holding coals and old 
 newspapers on the other side. The floor was so lit-
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 39 
 
 tered with papers, many of them still in their wrap- 
 pers, that, on his way between his seat and the door, 
 the reporter generally kicked one or more into the 
 bunk. It was in this way, unless an apprentice hap- 
 pened to be otherwise disengaged, that the floor was 
 swept. 
 
 In this room were a reference library and an old 
 coat. The library was within reach of the sub-edi- 
 tor's hand, and contained some fifty books, which 
 the literary staff could consult, with the conviction 
 that they would find the page they wanted missing. 
 The coat had hung unbrushed on a nail for many 
 years, and was so thick with dust that John Milton 
 could draw pictures on it with his finger. Accord- 
 ing to legend, it was the coat of a distinguished 
 novelist, who had once been a reporter on the Mir- 
 ror, and had left Silchester unostentatiously by his 
 window. 
 
 It was Penny, the foreman in the composing-room, 
 who set the literary staff talking about the new re- 
 porter. Penny was a lank, loosely jointed man of 
 forty, who shuffled about the office in slippers, ruled 
 the compositors with a loud voice and a blustering 
 manner, and was believed to be in Mr. Licquorish's 
 confidence. His politics were respect for the House 
 of Lords, because it rose early, enabling him to have 
 it set before supper time. 
 
 The foreman slithered so quickly from one room to 
 another that he was at the sub-editor's elbow before
 
 40 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 his own door had time to shut. There was some 
 copy in his hand, and he flung it contemptuously upon 
 the desk. 
 
 "Look here, mister," he said, flinging the copy 
 upon the sub-editor's desk, " I don't want that." 
 
 The sub-editor was twisted into as little space as 
 possible, tearing telegrams open and flinging the en- 
 velopes aside, much as a housewife shells peas. His 
 name was Protheroe, and the busier he was the more 
 he twisted himself. On Budget nights he was a knot. 
 He did voluntarily so much extra work that Mr. 
 Licquorish often thought he gave him too high wages ; 
 and on slack nights he smiled to himself, which 
 showed that something pleased him. It was rather 
 curious that this something should have been himself. 
 
 "But but," cried Protheroe, all in a flutter, "it's 
 town council meeting ; it it must be set, Mr. Penny. " 
 
 " Very well, mister ; then that special from Birm- 
 ingham must be slaughtered." 
 
 "No, no, Mr. Penny; why, that's a speech by 
 Bright." 
 
 Penny sneered at the sub-editor, and flung up his 
 arms to imply that he washed his hands of the whole 
 thing, as he had done every night for the last ten 
 years, when there was pressure on his space. 
 Protheroe had been there for half of that time, yet 
 he still trembled before the autocrat of the office. 
 
 "There's enough copy on the board," said Penny, 
 "to fill the paper. Any more specials coming in?"
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 41 
 
 He asked this fiercely, as if of opinion that the sub- 
 editor arranged with leading statesmen nightly to 
 flood the composing-room of the Mirror with 
 speeches, and Protheroe replied abjectly, as if he 
 had been caught doing it " Lord John Manners is 
 speaking at Nottingham.'"' 
 
 The foreman dashed his hand upon the desk. 
 
 "Go it, mister, go it," he cried; "anything else? 
 Tell me Gladstone's dead next." 
 
 Sometimes about two o'clock in the morning Penny 
 would get sociable, and the sub-editor was always 
 glad to respond. On those occasions they talked with 
 bated breath of the amount of copy that would come 
 in should anything happen to Mr. Gladstone ; and 
 the sub-editor, if he was in a despondent mood, pre- 
 dicted that it would occur at midnight. Thinking of 
 this had made him a Conservative. 
 
 " Nothing so bad as that," he said, dwelling on the 
 subject, to show the foreman that thoy might be 
 worse off; "but there's a column of local coming ir,. 
 and a concert in the People's Hall, and 
 
 "And you expect me to set all that?" the foreman 
 broke in. " Why, the half of that local should have 
 been set by seven o'clock, and here I've only got the 
 beginning of the town council yet. It's ridiculous." 
 
 Protheroe looked timidly toward the only reporter 
 present, and then apologetically toward Penny for 
 having looked at the reporter. 
 
 "The stuff must be behind," growled Tomlinson,
 
 42 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 nicknamed Umbrage, "as long as we're a man 
 short." 
 
 Umbrage was very short and stout, with a big 
 moon face, and always wore his coat unbuttoned. 
 In the streets, if be was walking fast and there was 
 a breeze, his coat-tails seemed to be running after 
 him. He squinted a little, from a habit he had of 
 looking sideways at public meetings to see if the au- 
 dience was gazing at him. He was "Juvenal" in 
 the Mirror on Friday mornings, and headed his 
 column of local gossip which had that signature, 
 " Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy." 
 
 "I wonder," said the sub-editor, with an insinuat- 
 ing glance at the foreman, " if the new man is ex- 
 pected to-night." 
 
 Mr. Licquorish had told him that this was so an 
 hour before, but the cunning bred of fear advised 
 him to give Penny the opportunity of divulging the 
 news. 
 
 That worthy smiled to himself, as any man has a 
 right to do who has been told something in confidence 
 by his employer. 
 
 "He's a Yorkshireman, I believe," continued the 
 crafty Protheroe. 
 
 "That's all you know," said the foreman, first 
 glancing back to see if Mr. Licquorish's door was 
 shut. " Mr. George Frederick has told me all about 
 him; he's a Scotsman called Angus, that's never 
 been out of his native county."
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 43 
 
 " He's one of those compositors taken to literature, 
 is he?" asked Umbrage, who by literature meant re- 
 porting, pausing in the middle of a sentence he was 
 transcribing from his note-book. "Just as I ex- 
 pected," he added contemptuously. 
 
 " No," said the foreman, thawing in the rays of such 
 ignorance ; " Mr. George Frederick says he's never 
 been on a newspaper before." 
 
 " An outsider !" cried Umbrage, in the voice with 
 which outsiders themselves would speak of reptiles. 
 "They are the ruin of the profession, they are." 
 
 "He'll make you all sit up, mister," said Penny, 
 with a chuckle. " Mr. George Frederick has had his 
 eye on him for a twelvemonth." 
 
 " I don't suppose you know how Mr. George Fred- 
 erick fell in with him?" said the sub-editor, basking 
 in Penny's geniality. 
 
 " Mr. George Frederick told me everything about 
 him everything," said the foreman proudly. "It 
 was a parson that recommended him." 
 
 " A parson !" ejaculated Umbrage, in such a tone 
 that if you had not caught the word you might have 
 thought he was saying "An outsider!" again. 
 
 "Yes, a parson whose sermon this Angus took 
 down in shorthand, I fancy." 
 , " What was he doing taking down a sermon?" 
 
 " I suppose he was there to hear it." 
 
 "And this is the kind of man who is taking to 
 literature nowadays !" Umbrage cried.
 
 44 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. George Frederick has heard a great deal 
 about him," continued Penny maliciously, "and ex- 
 pects him to do wonders. He's a self-made man." 
 
 "Oh," said Umbrage, who could find nothing to 
 obect to in that, having risen from comparative ob- 
 scurity himself. 
 
 "Mr. George Frederick," Penny went on, "offered 
 him a berth here before Billy Tagg was engaged, but 
 he couldn't come." 
 
 "I suppose," said Juvenal, with the sarcasm that 
 made him terrible on Fridays, "the Times offered 
 him something better, or was it the Spectator that 
 wanted an editor?" 
 
 " No, it was family matters. His mother or his 
 sister, or let me see, it was his sister's child was 
 dependent on him, and could not be left. Something 
 happened to her, though. She's dead, I think, so 
 he's a free man now." 
 
 " Yes, it was his sister's child, and she was found 
 dead," said the sub-editor, "on a mountain-side, curi- 
 ously enough, with George Frederick's letter in her 
 hand offering Angus the appointment." 
 
 Protheroe was foolish to admit that he knew this, 
 for it was news to the foreman, but it tries a man 
 severely to have to listen to news that he could tell 
 better himself. One immediate result of the sub- 
 editor's rashness was that Rob Angus sunk several 
 stages in Penny's estimation. 
 
 "I dare say he'll turn out a muff," he said, and
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 45 
 
 flung out of the room, with another intimation that 
 the copy must be cut down. 
 
 The evening wore on. Protheroe had half a dozen 
 things to do at once, and did them. 
 
 Telegraph boys were dropping the beginning of 
 Lord John Manners' speech through a grating on to 
 the sub-editorial desk long before he had reached the 
 end of it at Nottingham. 
 
 The sub-editor had to revise this as it arrived in 
 flimsy, and write a summary of it at the same time. 
 His summary was set before all the speech had 
 reached the office, which may seem strange. But 
 when Penny cried aloud for summary, so that he 
 might get that column off his hands, Protheroe made 
 guesses at many things, and, risking, "the right 
 hon. gentleman concluded his speech, which was at- 
 tentively listened to, with some further references to 
 current topics," flung Lord John to the boy, who 
 rushed with him to Penny, from whose hand he was 
 snatched by a compositor. Fifteen minutes after- 
 wards Lord John concluded his speech at Notting- 
 ham. 
 
 About half-past nine Protheroe seized his hat and 
 rushed home for supper. In the passage he nearly 
 knocked himself over by running against the young 
 man in the heavy top-coat. Umbrage went out to 
 see if he could gather any information about a prize- 
 fight. John Milton came in with a notice of a con- 
 cert, which he stuck conspicuously on the chief
 
 46 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 reporter's file. When the chief reporter came in, he 
 glanced through it and made a few alterations, chang- 
 ing " Mr. Joseph Grimes sang out of tune," for in- 
 stance, to " Mr. Grimes, the favorite vocalist, was in 
 excellent voice. " The concert was not quite over yet, 
 either ; they seldom waited for the end of anything 
 on the Mirror. 
 
 When Umbrage returned, Billy Kirker, the chief 
 reporter, was denouncing John Milton for not being 
 able to tell him how to spell "deceive." 
 
 "What is the use of you?" he asked indignantly, 
 " if you can't do a simple thing like that?" 
 
 "Say 'cheat,' " suggested Umbrage. 
 
 So Kirker wrote "cheat." Though he was the 
 chief of the J/zrror's reporting department, he had 
 only Umbrage and John Milton at present under 
 him. 
 
 As Kirker sat in the reporters' room looking over 
 his diary, with a cigarette in his mouth, he was an 
 advertisement for the Mirror, and if he paid for his 
 velvet coat out of his salary, the paper was in a 
 healthy financial condition. He was tall, twenty- 
 two years of age, and extremely slight. His manner 
 was languid, though his language was sometimes 
 forcible, but those who knew him did not think him 
 mild. This evening his fingers looked bare without 
 the diamond ring that sometimes adorned them. 
 This ring, it was noticed, generally disappeared 
 about the middle of the month, and his scarf-pin fol-
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 47 
 
 lowed it by the twenty-first. With the beginning 
 of the month they reappeared together. The literary 
 staff was paid monthly. 
 
 Mr. Licquorish looked in at the door of the re- 
 porters' room to ask pleasantly if they would not like 
 a fire. Had Protheroe been there he would havo 
 said "No;" but Billy Kirker said "Yes." Mr. Lic- 
 quorish had thought that Protheroe was there. 
 
 This was the first fire in the reporters' room that 
 season, and it smoked. Kirker, left alone, flung up 
 the window, and gradually became aware that some- 
 one with a heavy tread was walking up and down the 
 alley. He whistled gently in case it should be a 
 friend of his own, but, getting no response, resumed 
 his work. Mr. Licquorish also heard the footsteps, 
 but though he was waiting for the new reporter, he 
 did not connect him with the man outside. 
 
 Rob had stopped at the door a score of times, and 
 then turned away. He had arrived at Silchester in 
 the afternoon, and come straight to the Mirror office 
 to look at it Then he had set out in quest of lodg- 
 ings, and, having got them, had returned to the 
 passage. He was not naturally a man crushed by a 
 sense of his own unworthiness, but, looking up at 
 these windows and at the shadows that passed them 
 every moment, he felt far away from his saw-mill. 
 What a romance to him, too, was in the glare of the 
 gas and in the Mirror bill that was being reduced to 
 pulp on the wall at the mouth of the close ! It had
 
 48 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 begun to rain heavily, but he did not feel the want of 
 an umbrella, never having possessed one in Thrums. 
 
 Fighting down the emotions that had mastered 
 him so often, he turned once more to the door, and 
 as he knocked more loudly than formerly, a compos- 
 itor came out, who told him what to do if he was 
 there on business. 
 
 "Go upstairs," he said, "till you come to a door, 
 and then kick." 
 
 Rob did not have to kick, however, for he met 
 Mr. Licquorish coming downstairs, and both half 
 stopped. 
 
 " Not Mr. Angus, is it? "asked Mr. Licquorish. 
 
 " Yes," said the new reporter, the monosyllable also 
 telling that he was a Scotsman and that he did not 
 feel comfortable. 
 
 Mr. Licquorish shook him warmly by the hand, 
 and took him into the editor's room. Rob sat in a 
 chair there with his hat in his hand, while his new 
 employer spoke kindly to him about the work that 
 would begin on the morrow. 
 
 "You will find it a little strange at first," ho said; 
 "but Mr. Kirker, the head of our reporting staff, has 
 been instructed to explain the routine of the office 
 to you, and I have no doubt we shall work well 
 together." 
 
 Rob said he meant to do his best. 
 
 " It is our desire, Mr. Angus," continued Mr. Lic- 
 quorish, " to place every facility before our staff, and
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 49 
 
 if you have suggestions to make at any time en any 
 matter connected with your work we shall be most 
 happy to consider them and to meet you in a cordial 
 spirit." 
 
 While Rob was thanking Mr. Licquorish for his 
 consideration, Kirker in the next room was wonder- 
 ing whether the new reporter was to have half a 
 crown a week less than his predecessor, who had be- 
 gun with six pounds a month. 
 
 "It is pleasant to us," Mr. Licquorish concluded, 
 referring to the novelist, " to know that we have sent 
 out from this office a number of men who subsequently 
 took a high place in literature. Perhaps our system 
 of encouraging talent by fostering it has had some- 
 thing to do with this, for we like to give every one 
 his opportunity to rise. I hope the day will come, 
 Mr. Angus, when we shall be able to recall with pride 
 the fact that you began your literary career on the 
 Mirror" 
 
 Rob said he hoped so too. He had, indeed, very 
 little doubt of it. At this period of his career it made 
 him turn white to think that he might not yet be 
 famous. 
 
 "But I must not keep you here any longer," said 
 the editor, rising, " for you have had a weary jour- 
 ney, and must be feeling tired. We shall see you at 
 ten o'clock to-morrow?" 
 
 Once more Rob and his employer shook hands 
 
 heartily. 
 4
 
 50 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "But I might introduce you," said Mr. Licquorish, 
 "to the reporting room. Mr. Kirker, our chief, is, I 
 think, here." 
 
 Rob had begun to descend the stairs, but he turned 
 back. He was not certain what you did when j~ou 
 were introduced to any one, such formalities being 
 unknown in Thrums ; but he held himself in reserve 
 to do as the other did. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Kirker," said the editor, pushing open 
 the door of the reporting-room with his foot, " this is 
 Mr. Angus, who has just joined our literary staff." 
 
 Nodding genially to both, Mr. Licquorish darted 
 out of the room ; but before the door had finished its 
 swing, Mr. Kirker was aware that the new reporter's 
 nails had a rim of black. 
 
 " What do you think of George Frederick?" asked 
 the chief, after he had pointed out to Rob the only 
 chair that such a stalwart reporter might safely 
 sit on. 
 
 " He was very pleasant," said Rob. 
 
 "Yes," said Billy Kirker, thoughtfully, "there's 
 nothing George Frederick wouldn't do for any one 
 if it could be done gratis." 
 
 "And he struck me as an enterprising sort of 
 man." 
 
 "'Enterprise without outlay' is the motto of this 
 office," said the chief. 
 
 "But the paper seems to be well conducted," said 
 Rob, a little crestfallen.
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 51 
 
 "The worst conducted in England," said Kirker 
 cheerfully. 
 
 Rob asked how the Mirror compared with the 
 Argus. 
 
 " They have six reporters to our three," said Kir- 
 ker, " but we do double work and beat them." 
 
 " I suppose there is a great deal of rivalry between 
 the staffs of the two papers?" Rob asked, for he had 
 read of such things. 
 
 " Oh, no !" said Kirker, " we help each other. For 
 instance, if Daddy Walsh, the Argus chief, is drunk, 
 I help him ; and if I'm drunk, he helps me. I'm 
 going down to the Frying Pan to see him now." 
 
 " The Frying Pan? "echoed Rob. 
 
 "It's a literary club," Kirker explained, "and very 
 exclusive. If you come with me I'll introduce you." 
 
 Rob was somewhat taken aback at what he had 
 heard, but he wanted to be on good terms with his 
 fellow-workers. 
 
 "Not to-night," he said. " I think I'd better be 
 getting home now." 
 
 Kirker lit another cigarette, and saying he would 
 expect Rob at the office next morning, strolled off. 
 The new reporter was undecided whether to follow 
 him at once, or to wait for Mr. Licquorish's reap- 
 pearance. He was looking round the office curiously, 
 when the door opened and Kirker put his head in. 
 
 "By the by, old chap," he said, "could you lend 
 me five bob?"
 
 52 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the new reporter. 
 
 He had to undo the string of his money-bag, but 
 the chief was too fine a gentleman to smile. 
 
 "Thanks, old man," Kirker said carelessly, and 
 again withdrew. 
 
 The door of the editor's room was open as Rob 
 passed. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Angus," said Mr. Licquorish, "here are 
 a number of books for review ; you might do a short 
 notice of some of them." 
 
 He handed Rob the two works that happened to 
 lie uppermost, and the new reporter slipped them 
 into his pockets with a certain elation. The night 
 was dark and wet, but he lit his pipe and hurried up 
 the muddy streets to the single room that was now 
 his home. Probably his were the only lodgings in 
 his street that had not the portrait of a young lady 
 on the mantelpiece. On his way he passed three 
 noisy young men. They were Kirker and the two 
 reporters on the Argus trying which could fling his 
 hat highest in the rain. 
 
 Sitting in his lonely room Rob examined his books 
 with interest. One of them was Tennyson's new 
 volume of poems, and a month afterwards the poet 
 laureate's publishers made Rob march up the streets 
 of Silchester with his chest well forward, by advertis- 
 ing "The Silchester Mirror says, 'This admirable 
 volume.'" After all, the great delight of being on 
 the press is that you can patronize the Tennysons.
 
 ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 53 
 
 Doubtless the poet laureate got a marked copy of 
 Rob's first review forwarded him, and had an anxious 
 moment till he saw that it was favorable. There 
 had been a time when even John Milton felt a thrill 
 pass through him as he saw Messrs. Besaut and Rice 
 boasting that he thought their " Chaplain of the 
 Fleet" a novel of sustained interest, "which we 
 have read without fatigue." 
 
 Rob sat over his empty grate far on into the night, 
 his mind in a jumble. As he grew more composed 
 the Mirror and its staff sank out of sight, and he 
 was carrying -a dead child in his arms along the 
 leafy Wunny road. His mouth twitched, and his 
 head drooped. He was preparing to go to bed 
 when he sat down again to look at the other book. 
 It was a novel by " M. " in one thin volume, and 
 Rob thought the title, " The Scorn of Scorns," foolish. 
 He meant to write an honest criticism of it, but 
 never having reviewed a book before, he rather hoped 
 that this would be a poor one, which he could con- 
 demn brilliantly. Poor Rob ! he came to think more 
 of that book by and by. 
 
 At last Rob wound up the big watch that neigh- 
 bors had come to gaze at when his father bought it 
 of a pedlar forty years before, and took off the old 
 silver chain that he wore round his neck. He went 
 down on his knees to say his prayers, and then, re- 
 membering that he had said them already, rose up 
 and went to bed.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 
 
 ST. LEONARD'S LODGE is the residence of Mr. 
 William Meredith, an ex-mayor of Silchester, and 
 stands in the fashionable suburb of the town. There 
 was at one time considerable intercourse between this 
 house and Dome Castle, the seat of Colonel Abinger, 
 though they are five miles apart and in different 
 counties; and one day, after Rob had been on the 
 press for a few months, two boys set out from the 
 castle to show themselves to Nell Meredith. They 
 could have reached the high-road by a private walk 
 between a beech and an ivy hedge, but they preferred 
 to climb down a steep path to the wild running 
 Dome. The advantage of this route was that they 
 risked their necks by taking it. 
 
 Nell, who did not expect visitors, was sitting by 
 the fire in her boudoir dreaming. It was the room 
 in which she and Mary Abinger had often discussed 
 such great questions as Woman, her Aims, her In- 
 fluence ; Man, his Instability, his Weakness, his De- 
 generation ; the Poor, how are we to Help them ; why 
 Lady Lucy Gilding wears Pink when Blue is obvi- 
 ously her Color. 
 
 Nell was tucked away into a soft arm-chair, in 
 64
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 55 
 
 which her father never saw her without wondering 
 that such a little thing should require eighteen yards 
 for a dress. 
 
 "I'm not so little," she would say on these occa- 
 sions, and then Mr. Meredith chuckled, for he knew 
 that there were young men who considered his Nell 
 tall and terrible. He liked to watch her sweeping 
 through a room. To him the boudoir was a sea of 
 reefs. Nell's dignity when she was introduced to a 
 young gentleman was another thing her father could 
 never look upon without awe, but he also noticed 
 that it soon wore off. 
 
 On the mantelpiece lay a comb and several hair- 
 pins. There are few more mysterious things than 
 hairpins. So far back as we can go into the past we 
 see woman putting up her hair. It is said that mar- 
 ried men lose their awe of hairpins and clean their 
 pipes with them. 
 
 A pair of curling-tongs had a chair to themselves 
 near Nell, and she wore a short blue dressing-jacket. 
 Probably when she woke from her reverie she meant 
 to do something to her brown hair. When old gen- 
 tlemen called at the lodge they frequently told their 
 host that he had a very pretty daughter; when 
 younger gentlemen called they generally called again, 
 and if Nell thought they admired her the first time 
 she spared no pains to make them admire her still 
 more the next time. This was to make them respect 
 their own judgment.
 
 56 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 It was little Will Abinger who had set Nell 
 a-dreaming, for from wondering if he was home yet 
 for the Christmas holidays her thoughts wandered to 
 his sister Mary, and then to his brother Dick. She 
 thought longer of Dick in his lonely London cham- 
 bers than of the others, and by and by she was saying 
 to herself petulantly, " I wish people would go dying 
 and leaving me money." Mr. Meredith, and still 
 more Mrs. Meredith, thought that their only daugh- 
 ter, an heiress, would be thrown away on Richard 
 Abinger, barrister-at-law, whose blood was much 
 bluer than theirs, but who was, nevertheless, under- 
 stood to be as hard up as his father. 
 
 The door-bell rang, and two callers were ushered 
 into the drawing-room without Nell's knowing it. 
 One of them left his companion to talk to Mrs. Mere- 
 dith, and clattered upstairs in search of the daughter 
 of the house. He was a bright-faced boy of thir- 
 teen, with a passion for flinging stones, and, of late, 
 he had worn his head in the air, not because he was 
 conceited, but that he might look with admiration 
 upon the face of the young gentleman downstairs. 
 
 Bouncing into the parlor, he caught sight of the 
 object of his search before she could turn her head. 
 
 "I say, Nell, I'm back. " 
 
 Miss Meredith jumped from her chair. 
 
 "Will!" she cried. 
 
 When the visitor saw this young lady coming 
 toward him quickly, he knew what she was after,
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 5? 
 
 and tried to get out of her way. But Nell kissed 
 him. 
 
 "Now, then," he said indignantly, pushing her 
 from him. 
 
 Will looked round him fearfully, and then closed 
 the door. 
 
 " You might have waited till the door was shut, at 
 any rate," he grumbled. " It would have been a nice 
 thing if any one had seen you !" 
 
 " Why, what would it have mattered, you horrid 
 little boy !" said Nell. 
 
 "Little boy! I'm bigger than you, at any rate. 
 As for its not mattering but you don't know who 
 is downstairs. The captain " 
 
 " Captain ! "cried Nell. 
 
 She seized her curling-tongs. 
 
 "Yes," said Will, watching the effect of his words, 
 " Greybrooke, the captain of the school. He is giv- 
 ing me a week just now." 
 
 Will said this as proudly as if his guest was Napo- 
 leon Bonaparte, but Nell laid down her curling- 
 irons. The intruder interpreted her action and 
 resented it. 
 
 "You're not his style," he said; "he likes bigger 
 women." 
 
 " Oh, does he?" said Nell, screwing up her little 
 Greek nose contemptuously. 
 
 "He's eighteen," said Will. 
 
 "A mere schoolboy."
 
 58 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Why, he shaves. " 
 
 " Doesn't the master whip him for that?" 
 
 " What ? Whip Greybrooke !" 
 
 Will laughed hysterically. 
 
 " You should just see him at breakfast with old 
 Jerry. Why, I've seen him myself, when half a 
 dozen of us were asked to tea by Mrs. Jerry, and 
 though we were frightened to open our mouths, what 
 do you think Greybrooke did?" 
 
 "Something silly, I should say." 
 
 " He asked old Jerry, as cool as you like, to pass 
 the butter ! That's the sort of fellow Greybrooke is. " 
 
 "How is Mary?" 
 
 " Oh, she's all right. No, she has a headache. I 
 say, Greybrooke says Mary's rather slow." 
 
 " He must be a horror," said Nell, " and I don't see 
 why you brought him here." 
 
 " I thought you would like to see him," explained 
 Will. "He made a hundred and three against 
 Rugby, and was only bowled off his pads." 
 
 " Well," said Nell, yawning, " I suppose I must go 
 down and meet your prodigy." 
 
 Will, misunderstanding, got between her and the 
 door. 
 
 "You're not going down like that," he said, anx- 
 iously, with a wave of his hand that included the 
 dressing-jacket and the untidy hair. " Greybrooke's 
 so particular, and I told him you were a jolly 
 girl."
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 59 
 
 "What else did you tell him?" asked Nell suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 "Not much," said Will, with a guilty look. 
 
 " I know you told him something else?" 
 
 "I told him you you were fond of kissing people." 
 
 " Oh, you nasty boy, Will as if kissing a child like 
 you counted!" 
 
 " Never mind," said Will soothingly, " Greybrooke's 
 not the fellow to tell tales. Besides, I know you girls 
 can't help it. Mary's just the same." 
 
 " You are a goose, Will, and the day will come 
 when you'll give anything for a kiss." 
 
 " You've no right to bring such charges against a 
 fellow," said Will indignantly, strutting to the door. 
 
 Half-way downstairs he turned and came back. 
 
 "I say, Nell," he said, "you you, when you come 
 down, you won't kiss Greybrooke?" 
 
 Nell drew herself up in a way that would have 
 scared any young man but Will. 
 
 "He's so awfully particular," Will continued 
 apologetically. 
 
 " Was it to tell me this you came upstairs?" 
 
 "No, honor bright, it wasn't. I only came up in 
 case you should want to kiss me, and to to have it 
 over." 
 
 Nell was standing near Will, and before he could 
 jump back she slapped his face. 
 
 The snow was dancing outside in a light wind 
 when Nell sailed into the drawing-room. She could
 
 GO WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 probably still inform you how she was dressed, but 
 that evening Will and the captain could not tell Mary. 
 The captain thought it was a reddish dress or else 
 blue; but it was all in squares like a draught-board, 
 according to Will. Forty minutes had elapsed since 
 Will visited her upstairs, and now he smiled at the 
 conceit which made her think that the captain would 
 succumb to a pretty frock. Of course Nell had no 
 such thought. She always dressed carefully because 
 well, because there is never any saying. 
 
 Though Miss Meredith froze Greybrooke with a 
 glance, he was relieved to see her. Her mother had 
 discovered that she knew the lady who married his 
 brother, and had asked questions about the baby. He 
 did not like it. These, he thought, were things you 
 should pretend not to know about. He had contrived 
 to keep his nieces and nephews dark from the fellows 
 at school, though most of them would have been too 
 just to attach any blame to him. Of this baby he 
 was specially ashamed, because they had called it 
 after him. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was a small, stout lady, of whose 
 cleverness her husband spoke proudly to Nell, but 
 never to herself. When Nell told her how he had 
 bilked, she exclaimed, " Nonsense I" and then waited 
 to hear what else he had said. She loved him, but 
 probably no woman can live with a man for many 
 years without having an indulgent contempt for him, 
 and wondering how he is considered a good man of
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 61 
 
 business. Mrs. Meredith, who was a terribly active 
 woman, was glad to leave the entertainment of her 
 visitors to Nell, and that young lady began severely 
 by asking " how you boys mean to amuse yourselves?" 
 
 "Do you keep rabbits?" she said to the captain, 
 sweetly. 
 
 " I say, Nell !" cried Will warningly. 
 
 "I have not kept rabbits," Greybrooke replied, 
 with simple dignity, "since I was a boy." 
 
 "I told you," said Will, "that Greybrooke was 
 old why, he's nearly as old as yourself. She's older 
 than she looks, you know, Greybrooke." 
 
 The captain was gazing at Nell with intense ad- 
 miration. As she raised her head indignantly he 
 thought she was looking to him for protection. That 
 was a way Nell had. 
 
 " Abinger," said the captain sternly, "shut up." 
 
 "Don't mind him, Miss Meredith," he continued; 
 "he doesn't understand girls." 
 
 To think he understands girls is the last affront a 
 youth pays them. When he ceases trying to reduce 
 them to fixed principles he has come of age. Nell, 
 knowing this, felt sorry for Greybrooke, for she fore- 
 saw what he would have to go through. Her man- 
 ner to him underwent such a change that he began 
 to have a high opinion of himself. This is often 
 called falling in love. Will was satisfied that his 
 friend impressed Nell, and he admired Greybrooke's 
 politeness to a chit of a girl, but he became restless.
 
 62 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 His eyes wandered to the piano, and he had a lurk- 
 ing fear that Nell would play something. He signed 
 to the captain to get up. 
 
 "We'll have to be going now," he said at last; 
 "good-by." 
 
 Greybrooke glared at Will, forgetting that they 
 had arranged beforehand to stay as short a time as 
 possible. 
 
 " Perhaps you have other calls to make?" said 
 Nell, who had no desire to keep them there longer 
 than they cared to stay. 
 
 "Oh, yes, "said Will. 
 
 "No," said the captain, "we only came into Sil- 
 chester with Miss Abinger's message for you." 
 
 " Why, Will !" exclaimed Nell, " you never gave 
 me any message?" 
 
 "I forgot what it was," Will explained, cheerily; 
 "something about a ribbon, I think." 
 
 "I did not hear the message given," the captain 
 said, in answer to Nell's look, "but Miss Abinger 
 had a headache, and I think Will said it had to do 
 with that." 
 
 " Oh, wait a bit," said Will, " I remember some- 
 thing about it now. Mary saw something in a Sil- 
 chester paper, the Mirror, I think, that made her 
 cry, and she thinks that if you saw it you would cry 
 too. So she wants you to look at it." 
 
 "The idea of Mary's crying!" said Nell indig- 
 nantly. " But did she not give you a note?"
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS. 1 ' 63 
 
 "She was too much upset," said Will, signing to 
 the captain not to let on that they had refused to wait 
 for the note. 
 
 " I wonder what it can be," murmured Nell. 
 
 She hurried from the room to her father's den, and 
 found him there surrounded by newspapers. 
 
 " Is there anything in the Mirror, father?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Nothing," said Mr. Meredith, who had made the 
 same answer to this question many hundreds of 
 times, " nothing except depression in the boot trade." 
 
 " It can't be that," said Nell. 
 
 " Can't be what?" 
 
 "Oh, give me the paper," cried the ex-mayor's 
 daughter impatiently. 
 
 She looked hastily up and down it, with an invol- 
 untary glance at the births, deaths, and marriages, 
 turned it inside out and outside in, and then ex- 
 claimed, " Oh !" Mr. Meredith, who was too much 
 accustomed to his daughter's impulses to think that 
 there was much wrong, listened patiently while she 
 ejaculated, "Horrid!" "What a shame!" "Oh, I 
 wish I was a man !" and, " Well, I can't understand 
 it." When she tossed the paper to the floor, her 
 face was red and her body trembled with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "What is it, Nelly?" asked her father. 
 
 Whether Miss Abinger cried over the Mirror that 
 day is not to be known, but there were indignant tears
 
 64 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 in Nell's eyes as she ran upstairs to her bedroom. 
 Mr. Meredith took up the paper and examined it 
 carefully at the place where his daughter had torn it 
 in her anger. What troubled her seemed to be some- 
 thing in the book notices, and he concluded that it 
 must be a cruel " slating " of a novel in one volume 
 called " The Scorn of Scorns." Mr. Meredith remem- 
 bered that Nell had compelled him to read that book 
 and to say that he liked it. 
 
 "That's all," he said to himself, much relieved. 
 
 He fancied that Nell, being a girl, was distressed to 
 see a book she liked called " the sentimental outpour- 
 ings of some silly girl who ought to confine her writ- 
 ing to copy-books. " In a woman so much excitement 
 over nothing seemed quite a natural thing to Mr. 
 Meredith. The sex had ceased to surprise him. 
 Having retired from business, Mr. Meredith now did 
 things slowly as a good way of passing the time. 
 He had risen to wealth from penury, and counted 
 time by his dining-room chairs, having passed through 
 a cane, a horsehair, and a leather period before arriv- 
 ing at morocco. Mrs. Meredith counted time by the 
 death of her only son. 
 
 It may be presumed that Nell would not have 
 locked herself into her bed-room and cried and 
 stamped her feet on an imaginary critic had " The 
 Scorn of Scorns" not interested her more than her fa- 
 ther thought. She sat down to write a note to Mary. 
 Then she tore it up, and wrote a letter to Mary's
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS.'' 65 
 
 elder brother, beginning with the envelope. She tore 
 this up also, as another idea came into her head. 
 She nodded several times to herself over this idea, 
 as a sign that the more she thought of it the more 
 she liked it. Then, after very nearly forgetting to 
 touch her eyes with something that made them look 
 less red, she returned to the drawing-room. 
 
 " Will, " she said, " have you seen the new ponies 
 papa gave me on my birthday?" 
 
 Will leaped to his feet. 
 
 "Come on, Greybrooke," he cried, making for the 
 door. 
 
 The captain hesitated. 
 
 " Perhaps, " said Nell, with a glance at him, " Mr. 
 Greybrooke does not have much interest in horses?" 
 
 "Doesn't he, just," said Will; " why- 
 
 " No, "said Greybrooke; "but I'll wait here for 
 you, Abinger." 
 
 Will was staggered. For a moment the horrible 
 thought passed through his mind that these girls had 
 got hold of the captain. Then he remembered. 
 
 " Come on," he said, " Nell won't mind." 
 
 But Greybrooke had a delicious notion that the 
 young lady wanted to see him by himself, and Will 
 had to go to the stables alone. 
 
 "I won't be long," he said to Greybrooke, apol- 
 ogizing for leaving him alone with a girl. " Don't 
 bother him too much," he whispered to Nell at the 
 
 door. 
 
 5
 
 66 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 As soon as Will had disappeared Nell turned to 
 Greybrooke. 
 
 "Mr. Greyorooke," she said, speaking rapidly, in 
 a voice so low that it was a compliment to him in 
 itself, " there is something I should like you to do 
 for me." 
 
 The captain flushed with pleasure. 
 
 " There is nothing I wouldn't do for you," he stam- 
 mered. 
 
 "I want you," continued Miss Meredith, with a 
 most vindictive look on her face, " to find out for me 
 who wrote a book review in to-day's Mirror, and to 
 to oh, to thrash him." 
 
 "All right," said the captain, rising and looking 
 for his hat. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Nell, glancing at him ad- 
 miringly. " The book is called ' The Scorn of Scorns, ' 
 and it is written by by a friend of mine. In to-day's 
 Mirror it is called the most horrid names, sickly sen- 
 timental, not even grammatical, and all that." 
 
 " The cads !" cried Greybrooke. 
 
 " But the horribly mean, wicked thing about it," 
 continued Nell, becoming more and more indignant 
 as she told her story, " is that not two months ago 
 there was a review of the book in the same paper, 
 which said it was the most pathetic and thoughtful 
 and clever tale that had ever been published by an 
 anonymous author !" 
 
 " It's the lowest thing I ever heard of," said Grey-
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 67 
 
 brooke, "but these newspaper men are all the 
 same." 
 
 "No, they're not," said Nell (Richard Abinger, 
 Esq.'s, only visible means of sustenance was the 
 press) , " but they are dreadfully mean, contemptible 
 creatures on the Mirror just reporters, you know." 
 
 Greybrooke nodded, though he knew nothing about 
 it. 
 
 "The first review," Nell continued, "appeared on 
 the third of October, and I want you to show them 
 both to the editor, and insist upon knowing the name 
 of the writer. After that find the wretch out, 
 and " 
 
 " And lick him, "said the captain. 
 
 His face frightened Nell. 
 
 " You won't hit him very hard?" she asked, ap- 
 prehensively adding as an afterthought, "Perhaps 
 he is stronger than you." 
 
 Greybrooke felt himself in.an unfortunate position. 
 He could not boast before Nell, but he wished very 
 keenly that Will was there to boast for him. Most 
 of us have experienced the sensation. 
 
 Nell having undertaken to keep Will employed un- 
 til the captain's return, Greybrooke set off for the 
 Mirror office with a look of determination on his 
 face. He went into two shops, the one a news-shop, 
 where he bought a copy of the paper. In the other 
 he asked for a thick stick, having remembered that 
 the elegant cane he carried was better fitted for swing-
 
 68 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 ing in the air than for breaking a newspaper man's 
 head. He tried the stick on a paling. Greybrooke 
 felt certain that Miss Meredith was the novelist. 
 That was why he selected so thick a weapon. 
 
 He marched into the advertising office, and de- 
 manded to see the editor of the Mirror. 
 
 " 'Stairs," said a clerk, with his head in a ledger. 
 He meant upstairs, and the squire of dames took his 
 advice. After wandering for some time in a laby- 
 rinth of dark passages, he opened the door of the day 
 composing-room, in which half a dozen silent figures 
 were bending over their cases. 
 
 "I want the editor," said Greybrooke, somewhat 
 startled by the sound his voice made in the great 
 room. 
 
 " 'Stairs," said one of the figures, meaning down- 
 stairs. 
 
 Greybrooke, remembering who had sent him here, 
 did not lose heart. He knocked at several doors, and 
 then pushed them open. All the rooms were empty. 
 Then he heard a voice saying : 
 
 " Who are you? What do you want?" 
 
 Mr. Licquorish was the speaker, and he had been 
 peering at the intruder for some time through a grat- 
 ing in his door. He would not have spoken at all, 
 but he wanted to go into the composing-room, and 
 Greybrooke was in the passage that led to it. 
 
 "I don't see you," said the captain; "I want the 
 editor."
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 69 
 
 "I am the editor," said the voice, "but I can see 
 no one at present except on business." 
 
 "I am here on business," said Greybrooke. "I 
 want to thrash one of your staff." 
 
 " All the members of my literary staff are engaged 
 at present," said Mr. Licquorish, in a pleasant voice; 
 " which one do you want?" 
 
 " I want the low cad who wrote a review of a book 
 called 'The Scorn of Scorns' in to-day's paper." 
 
 " Oh !" said Mr. Licquorish. 
 
 "I demand his name," cried Greybrooke. 
 
 The editor made no answer. He had other things 
 to do than to quarrel with school-boys. As he could 
 not get out he began a leaderette. The visitor, how- 
 ever, had discovered the editorial door now, and was 
 shaking it violently. 
 
 " Why don't you answer me?" he cried. 
 
 Mr. Licquorish thought for a moment of calling 
 down the speaking-tube which communicated with 
 the advertisement office, for a clerk to come and take 
 this youth away, but after all he was good-natured. 
 He finished a sentence, and then opened the door. 
 The captain strode in, but refused a chair. 
 
 "Are you the author of the book?" the editor 
 asked. 
 
 "No," said Greybrooke, "but I am her friend, and 
 I am here to thrash " 
 
 Mr. Licquorish held up his hand to stop the flow of 
 the captain's indignation. He could never under-
 
 70 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 stand why the public got so excited over these little 
 matters. 
 
 " She is a Silchester lady?" he asked. 
 
 Greybrcoke did not know how to reply to this. He 
 was not sure whether Nell wanted the authorship 
 revealed. 
 
 " That has nothing to do with the matter," he said. 
 " I want the name of the writer who has libelled her. " 
 
 " On the press," said Mr. Licquorish, repeating some 
 phrases which he kept for such an occasion as the 
 present, " we have a duty to the public to perform. 
 When books are sent us for review we never allow 
 prejudice or private considerations to warp our judg- 
 ment. The Mirror has in consequence a reputation 
 for honesty that some papers do not possess. Now I 
 distinctly remember that this book, 'The Vale of 
 Tears' " 
 
 " 'The Scorn of Scorns.' " 
 
 "I mean 'The Scorn of Scorns,' was carefully 
 considered by the expert to whom it was given for 
 review. Being honestly of opinion that the treat- 
 
 " It is a novel." 
 
 "That the novel is worthless, we had to say so. 
 Had it been clever, we should " 
 
 " Mr. Licquorish paused, reading in the other's 
 face that there was something wrong. Greybrooke 
 had concluded that the editor had forgotten about 
 the first review.
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 71 
 
 "Can you show me a copy of the Mirror," the 
 captain asked, "for October third?" 
 
 Mr. Licquorish turned to the file, and Greybrooke 
 looked over his shoulder. 
 
 " There it is !" cried the captain indignantly. 
 
 They read the original notice together. It said 
 that, if " The Scorn of Scorns" was written by a new 
 writer, his next story would be looked for with great 
 interest. It "could not refrain from quoting the 
 following exquisitely tender passage." It found the 
 earlier pages "as refreshing as a spring morning," 
 and the closing chapters were a triumph of " the art 
 that conceals art." 
 
 " Well, what have you to say to that?" asked Grey- 
 brooke fiercely. 
 
 "A mistake," said the editor blandly. "Such 
 things do happen occasionally." 
 
 " You shall make reparation for it !" 
 
 "Hum," said Mr. Licquorish. 
 
 "The insult," cried Greybrooke, "must have been 
 intentional." 
 
 " No. I fancy the authoress must be to blame for 
 this. Did she send a copy of the work to us?" 
 
 " I should think it very unlikely," said Greybrooke, 
 fuming. 
 
 "Not at all," said the editor, "especially if she is 
 a Silchester lady." 
 
 " What would make her do that?" 
 
 " It generally comes about in this way. The pub-
 
 72 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 lishers send a copy of the book to a newspaper, and 
 owing to pressure on the paper's space no notice ap- 
 pears for some time. The author, who looks for it 
 daily, thinks that the publishers have neglected their 
 duty, and sends a copy to the office himself. The 
 editor, forgetful that he has had a notice of the book 
 lying ready for printing for months, gives the second 
 copy to another reviewer. By-and-bye the first review 
 appears, but owing to an oversight the editor does not 
 take note of it, and after a time, unless his attention 
 is called to the matter, the second review appears 
 also. Probably that is the explanation in this case." 
 
 " But such carelessness on a respectable paper is 
 incomprehensible," said the captain. 
 
 The editor was looking up his books to see if they 
 shed any light on the affair, but he answered : 
 
 " On the contrary, it is an experience known to 
 most newspapers. Ah, I have it !" 
 
 Mr. Licquorish read out, "'The Scorn of Scorns,' 
 received September 1st, reviewed October 3d." Sev- 
 eral pages farther on he discovered, "'The Scorn of 
 Scorns, ' received September 24th, reviewed December 
 19th." 
 
 " You will find," he said, " that this explains it." 
 
 " I don't consider the explanation satisfactory," re- 
 plied the captain, " and I insist, first, upon an apology 
 in the paper, and, second, on getting the name of the 
 writer of the second review." 
 
 "I am busy this morning," said Mr. Licquorish,
 
 "THE SCORN OF SCORNS." 73 
 
 opening his door, " and what you ask is absurd. If 
 the authoress can give me her word that she did not 
 send the book and so bring this upon herself, we shall 
 insert a word on the subject, but not otherwise. 
 Good-morning." 
 
 " Give me the writer's name," cried the captain. 
 
 " We make a point of never giving names in that 
 way," said Mr. Licquorish. 
 
 "You have not heard the last of this," Mr. Grey - 
 brooke said from the doorway. " I shall make it my 
 duty to ferret out the coward's name, and " 
 
 " Good-morning, " Mr. Licquorish repeated. 
 
 The captain went thumping down the stairs, and, 
 meeting a printer's devil at the bottom, cuffed him 
 soundly because he was part of the Mirror. 
 
 To his surprise, Miss Meredith's first remark when 
 he returned was : 
 
 " Oh, I hope you didn't see him !" 
 
 She looked at Greybrooke's face, fearing it might 
 be stained with blood, and when he told her the re- 
 sult of his inquiries she seemed pleased rather than 
 otherwise. Nell was soft-hearted after all, and she 
 knew how that second copy of the novel had reached 
 the Mirror office. 
 
 "I shall find the fellow out, though," said Grey- 
 brooke, grasping his cudgel firmly. 
 
 " Why, you are as vindictive as if you had written 
 the book yourself," said Nell. 
 
 Greybrooke murmured, blushing the while, that
 
 74 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 an insult to her hurt him more than one offered to 
 himself. Nell opened the eyes of astonishment. 
 
 "You don't think I wrote the book?" she asked; 
 then seeing that it was so from his face, added, " Oh, 
 no, I'm not clever enough. It was written by by 
 a friend of mine." 
 
 Nell deserves credit for not telling Greybrooke who 
 the friend was, for that was a secret. But there was 
 reason to believe that she had already divulged it to 
 twelve persons (all in the strictest confidence) . When 
 the captain returned she was explaining all about it 
 by letter to Richard Abinger, Esq. Possibly that 
 was why Greybrooke thought she was not nearly 
 so nice to him now as she had been an hour before. 
 
 Will was unusually quiet when he and Greybrooke 
 said adieu to the whole family of Merediths. He 
 was burning to know where the captain had been, 
 and also what Nell called him back to say in such a 
 low tone. What she said was : 
 
 "Don't say anything about going to the Mirror 
 office, Mr. Greybrooke, to Miss Abinger." 
 
 The captain turned round to lift his hat, and at 
 the same time expressed involuntarily a wish that 
 Nell could see him punishing loose bowling. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith beamed to him. 
 
 "There is something very nice," she said to Nell, 
 " about a polite young man." 
 
 "Yes," murmured her daughter, "and even if he 
 isn't polite."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 
 
 ON the morning before Christmas a murder was 
 committed in Silchester, and in murders there is " lin- 
 eage." In the Mirror office the diary for the day 
 was quickly altered. Kirker set off cheerfully for 
 the scene of the crime, leaving the banquet in the 
 Henry Institute to Tomlinson, who passed on his 
 dinner at Dome Castle to Rob, whose church deco- 
 rations were taken up by John Milton. 
 
 Christmas Eve was coming on in snow when Rob 
 and Walsh, of the Argus, set out for Dome Castle. 
 Rob disliked doing dinners at any time, partly be- 
 cause he had not a dress suit. The dinner was an 
 annual one given by Will's father to his tenants, and 
 .reporters were asked because the colonel made a 
 speech. His neighbors, when they did likewise, sent 
 reports of their own speeches (which they seemed to 
 like) to the papers ; and some of them, having called 
 themselves eloquent and justly popular, scored the 
 compliments out, yet in such a way that the editor 
 would still be able to read them, and print them if 
 he thought fit. Rob did not look forward to Colonel 
 Abinger's reception of him, for they had met some 
 
 months before, and called each other names. 
 75
 
 76 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 It was one day soon after Rob reached Silchester. 
 He had gone a-fishing in the Dome and climbed un- 
 consciously into preserved waters. As his creel grew 
 heavier his back straightened ; not until he returned 
 home did the scenery impress him. He had just 
 struck a fine fish, when a soldierly looking man at 
 the top of the steep bank caught sight of him. 
 
 "Hie, you sir!" shouted the onlooker. Whin- 
 went the line there is no music like it. Rob was 
 knee-deep in water. " You fellow !" cried the other, 
 brandishing his cane, " are you aware that this wa- 
 ter is preserved?" Rob had no time for talk. The 
 colonel sought to attract his attention by flinging a 
 pebble. " Don't do that !" cried Rob fiercely. 
 
 Away went the fish. Away went Rob after it. 
 Colonel Abinger's face was red as he clambered down 
 the bank. " I shall prosecute you," he shouted. " He 
 is gone to the bottom ; fling in a stone !" cried Rob. 
 Just then the fish showed its yellow belly and darted 
 off again. Rob let out more line. " No, no," shouted 
 the colonel, who fished himself, " you lose him if he 
 gets to the other side ; strike, man, strike !" The line 
 tightened, the rod bent a glorious sight ! " Force 
 him up stream," cried the colonel, rolling over bowl- 
 ders to assist. "Now, you have him. Bring him 
 in. Where is your landing-net?" "I haven't one," 
 cried Rob; "take him in your hands." The colonel 
 stooped to grasp the fish and missed it. " Bungler I" 
 screamed Rob. This was too much. " Give me your
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 77 
 
 name and address," said Colonel Abinger, rising to 
 his feet; "you are a poacher." Rob paid no atten- 
 tion. There was a struggle. Rob did not realize 
 that he had pushed his assailant over a rock until the 
 fish was landed. Then he apologized, offered all 
 his fish in lieu of his name and address, retired coolly 
 so long as the furious soldier was in sight, and as 
 soon as he turned a corner disappeared rapidly. He 
 could not feel that this was the best introduction to 
 the man with whom he was now on his way to 
 dine. 
 
 The reporter whose long strides made Walsh trot 
 as they hurried to Dome Castle was not quite the 
 Rob of three months before. Now he knew how a 
 third-rate newspaper is conducted, and the capacity 
 for wonder had gone from him. He was in danger 
 of thinking that the journalist's art is to write read- 
 ably, authoritatively, and always in three paragraphs 
 on a subject he knows nothing about. Rob had 
 written many leaders, and followed readers through 
 the streets wondering if they liked them Once he 
 had gone with three others to report a bishop's ser- 
 mon. A curate appeared instead, and when the re- 
 porters saw him they shut their note-books and 
 marched blandly out of the cathedral. A public 
 speaker had tried to bribe Rob with two half-crowns, 
 and it is still told in Silchester how the wrathful 
 Scotsman tore his benefactor out of the carriage he 
 had just stepped into, and, lifting him on high, looked
 
 78 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 around to consider against which stone wall he should 
 hurl him. He had discovered that on the first of the 
 month Mr. Licquorish could not help respecting his 
 staff, because on that day he paid them. Socially 
 Rob had acquired little. Protheroe had introduced 
 him to a pleasant family, but he had sat silent in a 
 corner, and they told the sub-editor not to bring him 
 back. Most of the literary staff were youths trying 
 to be Bohemians, who liked to feel themselves sink- 
 ing, and they never scaled the reserve which walled 
 Rob round. He had taken a sitting, however, in the 
 Scotch church, to the bewilderment of the minister, 
 who said, " But I thought you were a reporter?" as 
 if there must be a mistake somewhere. 
 
 Walsh could tell Rob little of Colonel Abinger. 
 He was a brave soldier, and for many years had been 
 a widower. His elder son was a barrister in London, 
 whom Silchester had almost forgotten, and Walsh 
 fancied there was some story about the daughter's 
 being engaged to a baronet. There was also a boy, 
 who had the other day brought the captain of his 
 school to a Silchester football ground to show the club 
 how to take a drop-kick. 
 
 " Does the colonel fish?" asked Rob, who would, 
 however, have preferred to know if the colonel had a 
 good memory for faces. 
 
 " He is a famous angler," said Walsh; " indeed, I 
 have been told that his bursts of passion are over in 
 five minutes, except when he catches a poacher."
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 79 
 
 Rob winced, for Walsh did not know of the fishing 
 episode. 
 
 " His temper, " continued Walsh, " is such that his 
 male servants are said never to know whether he will 
 give them a shilling or a whirl of his cane until 
 they get it. The gardener takes a look at him from 
 behind a tree before venturing to address him. I 
 suppose his poverty is at the bottom of it, for the 
 estate is mortgaged heavily, and he has had to cut 
 down trees, and even to sell his horses. The tenants 
 seem to like him, though, and if they dared they 
 would tell him not to think himself bound to give 
 them this annual dinner. There are numberless 
 stories of his fierce temper, and as many of his ex- 
 travagant kindness. According to his servants, he 
 once emptied his pocket to a beggar at a railway 
 station, and then discovered that he had no money 
 for his own ticket. As for the ne'er-do-weels, theif 
 importuning makes him rage, but they know he will 
 fling something in the end if they expose their rags 
 sufficiently." 
 
 " So," said Rob, who did not want to like the col- 
 onel, " he would not trouble about them if they kept 
 their misery to themselves. That kind of man is 
 more likely to be a philanthropist in your country than 
 in mine." 
 
 " Keep that for a Burns dinner," suggested Walsh. 
 
 Rob heard now how Tomlinson came to be nick- 
 named Umbrage.
 
 80 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " He was sub-editing one night," Walsh explained, 
 " during the time of an African war, and things were 
 going so smoothly that he and Penny were chatting 
 amicably together about the advantage of having 
 a few Latin phrases in a leader, such as dolce far 
 niente, or cela va sans dire " 
 
 "I can believe that," said Rob, "of Penny cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 " Well, in the middle of the discussion an impor- 
 tant war telegram arrived, to the not unnatural dis- 
 gust of both. As is often the case, the message was 
 misspelled, and barely decipherable, and one part of it 
 puzzled Tomlinson a good deal. It read : 'Zulus have 
 taken Umbrage; English forces had to retreat.' 
 Tomlinson searched the map in vain for Umbrage, 
 which the Zulus had taken ; and Penny, being in a 
 hurry, was sure it was a fortress. So they risked it, 
 and next morning the chief lines in the Mirror con- 
 tents bill were: 'LATEST NEWS OF THE WAR; CAP- 
 TURE OF UMBRAGE BY THE ZULUS.'" 
 
 By this time the reporters had passed into the 
 grounds of the castle, and, being late, were hurry- 
 ing up the grand avenue. It was the hour and the 
 season when night comes on so sharply that its 
 shadow may be seen trailing the earth as a breeze 
 runs along a field of corn. Heard from a height the 
 roar of the Dome among rocks might have been the 
 rustle of the surrounding trees in June ; so men and 
 women who grow old together sometimes lend each
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 81 
 
 other a voice. Walsh, seeing his opportunity in 
 Rob's silence, began to speak of himself. He told 
 how his first press- work had been a series of letters 
 he had written when at school, and contributed to a 
 local paper under the signatures of " Paterfamilias " 
 and " An Indignant Ratepayer. " Rob scarcely heard. 
 The bare, romantic scenery impressed him, and the 
 snow in his face was like a whiff of Thrums. He 
 was dreaming, but not of the reception he might get 
 at the castle, when the clatter of horses awoke him. 
 
 "There is a machine behind us," he said, though 
 he would have written trap. 
 
 A brougham lumbered into sight. As its lamps 
 flashed on the pedestrians, the coachman jerked his 
 horses to the side, and Rob had a glimpse of the 
 carriage's occupant. The brougham stopped. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the traveller, opening 
 his window, and addressing Rob, " but in the dark- 
 ness I mistook you for Colonel Abinger." 
 
 "We are on our way to the castle," said Walsh, 
 stepping forward. 
 
 "Ah, then, "said the stranger, " perhaps you will 
 give me your company for the short distance we have 
 still to go?" 
 
 There was a fine courtesy in his manner that made 
 the reporters feel their own deficiencies, yet Rob 
 thought the stranger repented his offer as soon as it 
 was made. Walsh had his hand on the door, but 
 
 Rob said : 
 6
 
 82 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " We are going to Dome Castle as reporters." 
 
 "Oh!" said the stranger. Then he bowed gra- 
 ciously, and pulled up the window. The carriage 
 rumbled on, leaving the reporters looking at each 
 other. Rob laughed. For the first time in his life 
 the advantage a handsome man has over a plain one 
 had struck him. He had only once seen such a face 
 before, and that was in marble in the Silchester Art 
 Museum. This man looked thirty years of age, but 
 there was not a line on his broad, white brow. The 
 face was magnificently classic, from the strong Ro- 
 man nose to the firm chin. The eyes, too beautiful 
 almost for his sex, were brown and wistful, of the 
 kind that droop in disappointment oftener than they 
 blaze with anger. All the hair on his face was a 
 heavy drooping mustache that almost hid his mouth. 
 
 Walsh shook his fist at this insult to the Press. 
 
 " It is the baronet I spoke of to you," he said. " I 
 forget who he is ; indeed, I rather think he travelled 
 incognito when he was here last. I don't under- 
 stand what he is doing here." 
 
 " Why, I should say this is just the place where he 
 would be if he is to marry Miss Abinger." 
 
 "That was an old story," said Walsh. "If there 
 over was an engagement it was broken off. Besides, 
 if he had been expected we should have known of it 
 at the Argus." 
 
 Walsh was right. Sir Clement Dowton was not 
 expected at Dome Castle, and, like Rob, he was not
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 83 
 
 even certain that he would be welcome. As he drew 
 near his destination his hands fidgeted with the win- 
 dow strap, yet there was an unaccountable twinkle 
 in his eye. Had there been any onlookers they 
 would have been surprised to see that all at once the 
 baronet's sense of humor seemed to overcome his 
 fears, and, instead of quaking, he laughed heartily. 
 Sir Clement was evidently one of the men who carry 
 their joke about with them. 
 
 This unexpected guest. did Rob one good turn. 
 When the colonel saw Sir Clement he hesitated for a 
 moment as if not certain how to greet him. Then 
 the baronet, who was effusive, murmured that he 
 had something to say to him, and Colonel Abinger's 
 face cleared. He did Sir Clement the unusual honor 
 of accompanying him upstairs himself, and so Rob 
 got the seat assigned to him at the dinner-table with- 
 out having to meet his host in the face. The butler 
 marched him down a long table with a twist in it, 
 and placed him under arrest, as it were, in a chair 
 from which he saw only a few of the company. The 
 dinner had already begun, but the first thing he 
 realized as he took his seat was that there was a lady 
 on each side of him, and a table-napkin in front. 
 He was not sure if he was expected to address the 
 ladies, and he was still less certain about the table- 
 napkin. Of such things he had read, and he had 
 even tried to be prepared for them. Rob looked ner- 
 vously at the napkin, and then took a covert glance
 
 84 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 along the table. There was not a napkin in sight 
 except one which a farmer had tied round his neck. 
 Rob's fingers wanted to leave the napkin alone, but 
 by an effort he forced them toward it. All this time 
 his face was a blank, but the internal struggle was 
 sharp. He took hold of the napkin, however, and 
 spread it on his knees. It fell to the floor immedi- 
 ately afterward, but he disregarded that. It was no 
 longer staring at him from the table, and with a 
 heavy sigh of relief he began to feel more at ease. 
 There is nothing like burying our bogies. 
 
 His position prevented Rob's seeing either the colo- 
 nel at the head of the table or Miss Abinger at the 
 foot of it, and even Walsh was hidden from view. 
 But his right-hand neighbor was a local doctor's wife, 
 whom the colonel had wanted to honor without hon- 
 oring too much, and she gave him some information. 
 Rob was relieved to hear her address him, and she 
 was interested in a tame Scotsman. 
 
 " I was once in the far north myself," she said, " as 
 far as Orkney. We were nearly drowned in crossing 
 that dreadful sea between it and the mainland. The 
 Solway Firth, is it?" 
 
 Rob thought for a moment of explaining what sea 
 it is, and then he thought, why should he? 
 
 "Yes, the Solway Firth," he said. 
 
 " It was rather an undertaking," she pursued, " but 
 though we were among the mountains for days, we
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 85 
 
 never encountered any of those robber chieftains one 
 reads about caterans, I think, you call them?" 
 
 "You were very lucky," said Rob. 
 
 "Were we not? But, you know, we took such 
 precautions. There was quite a party of us, includ- 
 ing my father, who has travelled a great deal, and 
 all the gentlemen wore kilts. My father said it was 
 always prudent to do in Rome as the Romans do." 
 
 "I have no doubt," said Rob, "that in that way 
 you escaped the caterans. They are very open to 
 flattery." 
 
 " So my father said. We also found that we could 
 make ourselves understood by saying 'whatever,' and 
 remembering to call the men 'she' and the women 
 'he.' What a funny custom that is !" 
 
 " We can't get out of it," said Rob. 
 
 "There is one thing," the lady continued, "that 
 you can tell me. I have been told that in winter the 
 wild boars take refuge in the streets of Inverness, 
 and that there are sometimes very exciting hunts 
 after them?" 
 
 " That is only when they run away with children, 
 Rob explained. " Then the natives go out in large 
 bodies and shoot them with claymores. It is a most 
 exciting scene." 
 
 When the doctor's wife learned that this was Rob's 
 first visit to the castle, she told him at once that she 
 was there frequently. It escaped his notice that she
 
 86 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 paused here and awaited the effect. She was not 
 given to pausing. 
 
 "My husband," she said, "attended on Lady Lou- 
 isa during her last illness quite ten years ago. I 
 was married very young," she added hurriedly. 
 
 Rob was very nearly saying he saw that. The 
 words were in his mouth, when he hesitated, reflect- 
 ing that it was not worth while. This is only 
 noticeable as showing that he missed his first com- 
 pliment. 
 
 " Lady Louisa?" he repeated instead. 
 
 " Oh, yes, the colonel married one of Lord Tarling- 
 ton's daughters. There were seven of them, you 
 know, and no sons, and when the youngest was born 
 it was said that a friend of his lordship sent him a 
 copy of Wordsworth, with the page turned down at 
 the poem, 'We are Seven' a lady friend, I believe." 
 
 " Is Miss Abinger like the colonel?" asked Rob, 
 who had heard it said that she was beautiful, and 
 could not help taking an interest in her in consequence. 
 
 "You have not seen Miss Abinger?" asked the 
 doctor's wife. " Ah, you came late, and that vulgar- 
 looking farmer hides her altogether. She is a lovely 
 girl, but " 
 
 Rob's companion pursed her lips. 
 
 "She is so cold and proud," she added. 
 
 " As proud as her father?" Rob asked, aghast. 
 
 "Oh, the colonel is humility itself beside her. 
 He freezes at times, but she never thaws."
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE, 87 
 
 Rob sighed involuntarily. He was not aware that 
 his acquaintances spoke in a similar way of him. 
 His eyes wandered up the table till they rested of 
 their own accord on a pretty girl in blue. At that 
 moment she was telling Greybrooke that he could call 
 her Nell, because " Miss " Meredith sounded like a 
 reproach. 
 
 The reporter looked at Nell with satisfaction, and 
 the doctor's wife followed his thoughts so accurately 
 that, before she could check herself, she said, " Do 
 you think so?" 
 
 Then Rob started, which confused both of them, 
 and for the remainder of the dinner the loquacious 
 lady seemed to take less interest in him, he could not 
 understand why. Flung upon his own resources, he 
 remembered that he had not spoken to the lady on 
 his other side. Had Rob only known it, she felt 
 much more uncomfortable in that great dining-room 
 than he did. No one was speaking to her, and she 
 passed the time between the courses breaking her 
 bread to pieces and eating it slowly, crumb by crumb. 
 Rob thought of something to say to her, but when he 
 tried the words over in his own mind they seemed 
 so little worth saying that he had to think again. 
 He found himself counting the crumbs, and then it 
 struck him that he might ask her if she would like 
 any salt. He did so, but she thought he asked for 
 salt, and passed the salt-cellar to him, whereupon 
 Rob, as the simplest way to get out of it, helped
 
 88 WHEN A MAX'S SINGLE. 
 
 himself to more salt, though he did not need it. The 
 intercourse thus auspiciously begun went no farther, 
 and they never met again. It might have been a 
 romance. 
 
 The colonel had not quite finished his speech, which 
 was to the effect that so long as his tenants looked 
 up to him as some one superior to themselves they 
 would find him an indulgent landlord, when the tread 
 of feet was heard outside, and then the music of the 
 waits. The colonel frowned and raised his voice, 
 but his guests caught themselves tittering, and read 
 their host's rage in his darkening face. Forgetting 
 that the waits were there by his own invitation, he 
 signed to James, the butler, to rush out and mow 
 them down. James did not interpret the message 
 so, but for the moment it was what his master meant. 
 
 While the colonel was hesitating whether to go 
 on, Rob saw Nell nod encouragingly to Greybrooke. 
 He left his seat, and, before any one knew what he 
 was about, had flung open one of the windows. The 
 room filled at once with music, and, as if by common 
 consent, the table was deserted. Will opened the 
 remaining windows, and the waits, who had been 
 singing to shadows on the white blinds, all at once 
 found a crowded audience. Rob hardly realized what 
 it meant, for he had never heard the waits before. 
 
 It was a scene that would have silenced a school- 
 girl. The night was so clear that beyond the lawn 
 where the singers were grouped the brittle trees
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 89 
 
 showed in every twig. No snow was falling, and so. 
 monotonous was the break of the river that the ear 
 would only have noticed it had it stopped. The 
 moon stood overhead like a frozen round of snow. 
 
 Looking over the heads of those who had gathered 
 at one of the windows, Rob saw first Will Abinger 
 and then the form of a girl cross to the singers. 
 Some one followed her with a cloak. From the 
 French windows steps dropped to the lawn. A lady 
 beside Rob shivered and retired to the fireside, but 
 Nell whispered to Greybrooke that she must run 
 after Mary. Several others followed her down the 
 steps. 
 
 Rob, looking round for Walsh, saw him in conver- 
 sation with the colonel. Probably he was taking 
 down the remainder of the speech. Then a lady's 
 voice said : " Who is that magnificent young man?" 
 
 The sentence ended "with the hob-nailed boots," 
 and the reference was to Rob, but he only caught the 
 first words. He thought the baronet was spoken of, 
 and suddenly remembered that he had not appeared 
 at the dinner-table. As Sir Clement entered the 
 room at that moment in evening dress, making most 
 of those who surrounded him look mean by compari- 
 son, Rob never learned who the magnificent young 
 man was. 
 
 Sir Clement's entrance was something of a sensa- 
 tion, and Rob saw several ladies raise their eyebrows. 
 All seemed to know him by name, and some person-
 
 90 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 ally. The baronet's nervousness had evidently passed 
 away, for he bowed and smiled to every one, claim- 
 ing some burly farmers as old acquaintances, though 
 he had never seen them before. His host and he 
 seemed already on the most cordial terms, but the 
 colonel was one of the few persons in the room who 
 was not looking for Miss Abinger. At last Sir 
 Clement asked for her. 
 
 "I believe," said some one in answer to the colo- 
 nel's inquiring glance round the room, " that Miss 
 Abinger is speaking with the waits." 
 
 "Perhaps I shall see her," said Dowton, stepping 
 out at one of the windows. 
 
 Colonel Abinger followed him to the window, but 
 no farther, and at that moment a tall figure on the 
 snowy lawn crossed his line of vision. It was Rob, 
 who, not knowing what to do with himself, had 
 wandered into the open. His back was toward the 
 colonel, and something in his walk recalled to that 
 choleric officer the angler whom he had encountered 
 on the Dome. 
 
 " That is the man I was sure I knew the face, " 
 said Colonel Abinger. He spoke in a whisper to 
 himself, but his hands closed with a snap. 
 
 Unconscious of all this, Rob strolled on till he 
 found a path that took him round the castle. Sud- 
 denly he caught sight of a blue dress, and at the same 
 moment a girl's voice exclaimed : " Oh, I am afraid 
 it is lost!"
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 91 
 
 The speaker bent, as if to look for something in the 
 snow, and Rob blundered up to her. " If you have 
 lost anything," he said, "perhaps I can find it." 
 
 Rob had matches in his pocket, and he struck one 
 of them. Then, to his surprise, he noticed that Nell 
 was not alone. Greybrooke was with her, and he 
 was looking foolish. 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Nell sweetly; "it 
 is a a bracelet." 
 
 Rob went down on his knees to look for the bracelet, 
 but it surprised him a little that Greybrooke did not 
 follow his example. If he had looked up, he would 
 have seen that the captain was gazing at Nell in 
 amazement. 
 
 " I am afraid it is lost, " Nell repeated, " or perhaps 
 I dropped it in the dining-room." 
 
 Greybrooke's wonder was now lost in a grin, for 
 Nell had lost nothing, unless perhaps for the moment 
 her sense of what was fit and proper. The captain 
 had followed her on to the lawn, and persuaded her 
 to come and look down upon the river from the top 
 of the cliff. She had done so, she told herself, be- 
 cause he was a boy ; but he had wanted her to do it 
 because she was a woman. On the very spot where 
 Richard Abinger, barrister-at-law, had said some- 
 thing to her that Nell would never forget, the captain 
 had presumptuously kissed her hand, and Nell had 
 allowed him, because after all it was soon over. It 
 was at that very moment that Rob came in sight,
 
 92 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 and Nell thought she was justified in deceiving him. 
 Rob would have remained a long time on the snow 
 if she had not had a heart. 
 
 "Yes, I believe I did drop it in the dining-room," 
 said Nell, in such a tone of conviction that Rob rose 
 to his feet. His knees were white in her service, and 
 Nell felt that she liked this young man. 
 
 " I am so sony to have troubled you, Mr. Mr. " 
 began the young lady. 
 
 " My name is Angus," said Rob; " I am a reporter 
 on the Silchester Mirror." 
 
 Greybrooke started, and Nell drew back in horror, 
 but the next second she was smiling. Rob thought 
 it was kindliness that made her do it, but it was 
 really a smile of triumph. She felt that she was on 
 the point of making a discovery at last. Greybrooke 
 would have blurted out a question, but Nell stopped 
 him. 
 
 " Get me a wrap of some kind, Mr. Greybrooke, " she 
 said, with such sweet imperiousness that the captain 
 went without a word. Half-way he stopped to call 
 himself a fool, for he had remembered all at once 
 about Raleigh and his cloak, and seen how he might 
 have adapted that incident to his advantage by offer- 
 ing to put his own coat round Nell's shoulders. 
 
 It was well that Greybrooke did not look back, for 
 he would have seen Miss Meredith take Rob's arm 
 which made Rob start and lead him in the direction 
 in which Miss Abinger was supposed to have gone.
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 93 
 
 "The literary life must be delightful," said artful 
 Nell, looking up into her companion's face. 
 
 Rob appreciated the flattery, but his pride made 
 him say that the literary life was not the reporter's. 
 
 "I always read the Mirror," continued Nell, on 
 whom the moon was having a bad effect to-night, 
 " and often I wonder who writes the articles. There 
 was a book review in it a few days ago that I I 
 liked very much." 
 
 "Do you remember what the book was?" asked 
 Rob, jumping into the pit. 
 
 "Let me see," said Nell, putting her head to the 
 side, "it was yes, it was a novel called called 'The 
 Scorn of Scorns.' " 
 
 Rob's good angel was very near him at that mo- 
 ment, but not near enough to put her palm over his 
 mouth. 
 
 " That review was mine," said Rob, with uncalled- 
 for satisfaction. 
 
 "Was it?" cried his companion, pulling away her 
 arm viciously. 
 
 The path had taken them to the top of the pile of 
 rocks, from which it is a sheer descent of a hundred 
 feet to the Dome. At this point the river is joined 
 by a smaller but not less noisy stream, which rushes 
 at it at right angles. Two of the castle walls rise 
 up here as if part of the cliff, and though the walk 
 goes round them, they seem to the angler looking up 
 from the opposite side of the Dome to be part of the
 
 94 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 rock. From the windows that look to the west and 
 north one can see down into the black waters, and 
 hear the Ferret, as the smaller stream is called, fling 
 itself over jagged bowlders into the Dome. 
 
 The ravine coming upon him suddenly took, away 
 Rob's breath, and he hardly felt Nell snatch away 
 her arm. She stood back, undecided what to do for 
 a moment, and they were separated by a few yards. 
 Then Rob heard a man's voice, soft and low, but 
 passionate. He knew it to be Sir Clement Dowton's, 
 though he lost the words. A girl's voice answered, 
 however a voice so exquisitely modulated, so clear 
 and pure, that Rob trembled with delight in it. This 
 is what it said : 
 
 " No, Sir Clement Dowton, I bear you no ill-will, 
 but I do not love you. Years ago I made an idol 
 and worshipped it, because I knew no better ; but I 
 am a foolish girl no longer, and I know now that it 
 was a thing of clay." 
 
 To Rob's amazement he found himself murmuring 
 these words even before they were spoken. He 
 seemed to know them so well that, had the speaker 
 missed anything, he could have put her right. It 
 was not sympathy that worked this marvel. He had 
 read all this before, or something very like it, in 
 "The Scorn of Scorns." 
 
 Nell, too, heard the voice, but did not catch the 
 words. She ran forward, and, as she reached Rob, a
 
 ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 95 
 
 tall girl in white, with a dark hood over her head, 
 pushed aside a bush and came into view. 
 
 "Mary," cried Miss Meredith, "this gentleman 
 here is the person who wrote that in the Mirror. 
 
 Let me introduce you to him, Mr. Angus, Miss " 
 
 and then Nell shrank back in amazement, as she saw 
 who was with her friend. 
 
 " Sir Clement Dowton !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Rob, however, did not hear her, nor see the 
 baronet ; for, looking up with a guilty feeling at his 
 heart, his eyes met Mary Abinger.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 
 
 DAYBREAK on the following morning found the 
 gas blazing in Rob's lodgings. Rob was seated in 
 an arm-chair, his feet on the cold hearth. "The 
 Scorn of Scorns " lay on the mantelpiece carefully 
 done up in brown paper, lest a speck of dust should 
 fall on it, and he had been staring at the ribs of the 
 fireplace for the last three hours without seeing them. 
 He had not thought of the gas. His bed was unslept 
 on. His damp boots had dried on his feet. He did 
 not feel cold. All night he had sat there, a man 
 mesmerized. For the only time in his life he had 
 forgotten to wind up his watch. 
 
 At times his lips moved as if he were speaking to 
 himself, and a smile lit up his face. Then a change 
 of mood came, and he beat the fender with his feet 
 till the fire-irons rattled. Thinking over these re- 
 marks brought the rapture to his face: 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Angus?" 
 
 " You must not take to heart what Miss Meredith 
 said." 
 
 " Please don't say any more about it. I am quite 
 sure you gave your honest opinion about my book. " 
 
 " I am so glad you think this like Scotland, because,
 
 THE ONE WOMAN, 97 
 
 of course, that is the highest compliment a Scotsman 
 can pay." 
 
 "Good-night, Mr. Angus." 
 
 That was all she had said to him, but the more 
 Rob thought over her remarks the more he liked 
 them. It was not so much the words themselves that 
 thrilled him as the way they were said. Other peo- 
 ple had asked, "How do you do, Mr. Angus?" with- 
 out making an impression, but her greeting was a 
 revelation of character, for it showed that though 
 she knew who he was she wanted to put him at his 
 ease. This is a delightful attribute in a woman, and 
 worth thinking about. 
 
 Just before Miss Abinger said " How do you do, 
 Mr. Angus?" Rob had realized what people mean 
 by calling her proud. She was holding her head 
 very high as she appeared in the path, and when 
 Nell told her who Rob was she flushed. He looked 
 hopelessly at her, bereft of speech, as he saw a tear 
 glisten on her eyelid ; and as their eyes met she read 
 into the agony that he was suffering because he had 
 hurt her. It was then that Mary made that memo- 
 rable observation, " How do you do, Mr. Angus?" 
 
 They turned toward the castle doors, Nell and the 
 baronet in front, and Rob blurted out some self-re- 
 proaches in sentences that had neither beginning nor 
 end. Mary had told him not to take it so terribly to 
 heart, but her voice trembled a little, for this had 
 been a night of incident to her. Rob knew that it
 
 98 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 was for his sake she had checked that tear, and as 
 he sat in his lodgings through the night he saw that 
 she had put aside her own troubles to lessen his. 
 When he thought of that he drew a great breath. 
 The next moment his whole body shuddered to think 
 what a brute he had been, and then she seemed to 
 touch his elbow again, and he half rose from his chair 
 in a transport. 
 
 As soon as he reached his lodgings Rob had taken 
 up " The Scorn of Scorns," which he had not yet re- 
 turned to Mr. Licquorish, and re-read it in a daze. 
 There were things in it so beautiful now that they 
 caught in his throat and stopped his reading ; they 
 took him so far into the thoughts of a girl that to go 
 farther seemed like eaves-dropping. When he read 
 it first " The Scorns of Scorns " had been written in a 
 tongue Rob did not know, but now he had the key in 
 his hands. There is a universal language that comes 
 upon young people suddenly, and enables an English 
 girl, for instance, to understand what a Chinaman 
 means when he looks twice at her. Rob had mas- 
 tered it so suddenly that he was only its slave at 
 present. His horse had run away with him. 
 
 Had the critic of " The Scorns of Scorns" been a 
 bald-headed man with two chins, who did not know 
 the authoress, he would have smiled at the severity 
 with which she took perfidious man to task, and 
 written an indulgent criticism without reading be- 
 yond the second chapter. If he had been her father
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 99 
 
 he would have laughed a good deal at her heroics, 
 but now and again they would have touched him, 
 and he would have locked the book away in his desk, 
 seeing no particular cleverness in it, but feeling proud 
 of his daughter. It would have brought such 
 thoughts to him about his wife as suddenly fill a man 
 with tenderness thoughts he seldom gives expres- 
 sion to, though she would like to hear them. 
 
 Rob, however, drank in the book, his brain filled 
 with the writer of it. It was about a young girl who 
 had given her heart to a stranger, and one day when 
 she was full of the joy of his love he had disappeared. 
 She waited wondering, fearing, and then her heart 
 broke, and her only desire was to die. No one could 
 account for the change that came over her, for she 
 was proud, and her relatives were not sympathetic. 
 She had no mother to go to, and her father could not 
 have understood. She became listless, and though 
 she smiled and talked to all, when she went to her 
 solitary bedchamber she turned her face in silence 
 to the wall. Then a fever came to her, and after that 
 she had to be taken to the continent. What shook 
 her listlessness was an accident to her father. It was 
 feared that he was on his death-bed, and as she 
 nursed him she saw that her life had been a selfish 
 one. From that moment she resolved if he got bet- 
 ter (Is it not terrible this, that the best of us try to 
 make terms with God?) to devote her life to him, 
 and to lead a nobler existence among the poor and
 
 100 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 suffering ones at home. The sudden death of a rela- 
 tive who was not a good man frightened her so much 
 that she became ill again, and now she was so fear- 
 ful of being untruthful that she could not make a 
 statement of fact without adding, "I think so," 
 under her breath. She let people take advantage of 
 her lest she should be taking advantage of them, 
 and when she passed a cripple on the road she 
 walked very slowly so that he should not feel his 
 infirmity. 
 
 Years afterward she saw the man who had pre- 
 tended to love her and then ridden away. He said 
 that he could explain everything to her, and that he 
 loved her still ; but she drew herself up, and with a 
 look of ineffable scorn told him that she no longer 
 loved him. When they first met, she said, she had 
 been little more than a child, and so she had made 
 an idol of him. But long since the idol had crum- 
 bled to pieces, and now she knew that she had wor- 
 shipped a thing of clay. She wished him well, but 
 she no longer loved him. As Lord Caltonbridge lis- 
 tened he knew that she spoke the truth, and his eyes 
 drooped before her dignified but contemptuous gaze. 
 Then, concludes the author, dwelling upon this little 
 triumph with a satisfaction that hardly suggests a 
 heart broken beyond mending, he turned upon his 
 heel, at last realizing what he was; and, feeling 
 smaller and meaner than had been his wont, left the 
 Grange for the second and last time.
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 101 
 
 How much of this might be fiction, Rob was not 
 in a mind to puzzle over. It seemed to him that the 
 soul of a pure-minded girl had been laid bare to him. 
 To look was almost a desecration, and yet it was 
 there whichever way he turned. A great longing 
 rose in his heart to see Mary Abinger again and tell 
 her what he thought of himself now. He rose and 
 paced the floor, and the words he could not speak 
 last night came to his lips in a torrent. Like many 
 men who live much alone Rob often held imaginary 
 conversations with persons far distant, and he de- 
 nounced himself to this girl a score of times as he 
 paced back and forward. Always she looked at him 
 in reply with that wonderful smile which had pleaded 
 with him not to be unhappy on her account. Horri- 
 ble fears laid hold of him that after the guests had 
 departed she had gone to her room and wept. That 
 villain Sir Clement had doubtless left the castle for 
 the second and last time, " feeling smaller and meaner 
 than had been his wont " (Rob clenched his fists at 
 the thought of him) ; but how could he dare to rage 
 at the baronet when he had been as great a scoundrel 
 himself? Rob looked about him for his hat ; a power 
 not to be resisted was drawing him back to Dome 
 Castle. 
 
 He heard the clatter of crockery in the kitchen as 
 he opened his door, and it recalled him to himself. 
 At that moment it flashed upon him that he had 
 forgotten to write any notice of Colonel Abinger's
 
 102 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 speech. He had neglected the office and come straight 
 home. At any other time this would have startled 
 him, but now it seemed the merest trifle. It passed 
 for the moment from his mind, and its place was 
 taken by the remembrance that his boots were muddy 
 and his coat soaking. For the first time in his life 
 the seriousness of going out with his hair unbrushed 
 came home to him. He had hitherto been content to 
 do little more than fling a comb at it once a day. 
 Rob returned to his room, and, crossing to the mir- 
 ror, looked anxiously into it to see what he was like. 
 He took off his coat and brushed it vigorously. 
 
 Having laved his face, he opened his box and pro- 
 duced from it two neckties, when h looked at for a 
 long time before he could make up his mind which 
 to wear. Then he changed his boots. When he had 
 brushed his hat he remembered with anxiety some 
 one on the Mirror'' s having asked him why he wore 
 it so far back on his head. He tilted it forward, and 
 carefully examined the effect in the looking-glass. 
 Then, forgetful that the sounds from the kitchen be- 
 tokened the approach of breakfast, he hurried out of 
 the house. It was a frosty morning, and already the 
 streets were alive, but Rob looked at no one. For 
 women in the abstract he now felt an unconscious 
 pity, because they were all so very unlike Mary Ab- 
 inger. He had grown so much in the night that the 
 Rob Angus of the day before seemed but an acquaint- 
 ance of his youth.
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 103 
 
 He was inside the grounds of Dome Castle again 
 before he realized that he had no longer a right to be 
 there. By fits and starts he remembered not to soil 
 his boots. He might have been stopped at the lodge, 
 but at present it had no tenant. A year before, Colo- 
 nel Abinger had realized that he could not keep 
 both a horse and a lodge-keeper, and that he could 
 keep neither if his daughter did not part with her 
 maid. He yielded to Miss Abinger's entreaties, and 
 kept the horse. 
 
 Rob went on at a swinging pace till he turned an 
 abrupt corner of the walk and saw Dome Castle 
 standing up before him. Then he started and turned 
 back hastily. This was not owing to his remem- 
 bering that he was trespassing, but because he had 
 seen a young lady coming down the steps. Rob had 
 walked five miles without his breakfast to talk to 
 Miss Abinger, but as soon as he saw her he fled. 
 When he came to himself he was so fearful of her 
 seeing him that he hurried behind a tree, where he 
 had the appearance of a burglar. 
 
 Mary Abinger came quickly up the avenue, un- 
 conscious that she was watched, and Rob discovered 
 in a moment that, after all, the prettiest thing about 
 her was the way she walked. She carried a little 
 basket in her hand, and her dress was a blending of 
 brown and yellow, with a great deal of fur about the 
 throat. Rob, however, did not take the dress into 
 account until she had passed him, when, no longer
 
 104 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 able to see her face, he gazed with delight after 
 her. 
 
 Had Rob been a lady he would probably have come 
 to the conclusion that the reason why Miss Abinger 
 wore all that fur instead of a jacket was because she 
 knew it became her better. Perhaps it was. Even 
 though a young lady has the satisfaction of feeling 
 that her heart is now adamant, that is no excuse for 
 her dressing badly. Rob's opinion was that it would 
 matter very little what she wore, because some pic- 
 tures look lovely in any frame, but that was a point 
 on which he and Miss Abinger always differed. 
 Only after long consideration had she come to the 
 conclusion that the hat she was now wearing was 
 undoubtedly the shape that suited her best, and even 
 yet she was ready to spend time in thinking about 
 other shapes. What would have seemed even more 
 surprising to Rob was that she had made up her 
 mind that one side of her face was better than the 
 other side. 
 
 No mere man, however, could ever have told which 
 was the better side of Miss Abinger's face. It was 
 a face to stir the conscience of a good man, and make 
 unworthy men keep their distance, for it spoke first 
 of purity, which can never be present anywhere with- 
 out being felt. All men are born with a craving 
 to find it, and they never look for it but among wo- 
 men. The strength of the craving is the measure of
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 105 
 
 any man's capacity to love, and without it love on 
 his side would be impossible. 
 
 Mary Abinger was fragile because she was so sen- 
 sitive. She carried everywhere a fear to hurt the 
 feelings of others, that was a bodkin at her heart. 
 Men and women in general prefer to give and take. 
 The keenness with which she felt necessitated the 
 garment of reserve, which those who did not need it 
 for themselves considered pride. Her weakness called 
 for something to wrap it up. There were times when 
 it pleased her to know that the disguise was effect- 
 ive, but not when it deceived persons she admired. 
 The cynicism of " The Scorn of Scorns " was as much 
 a cloak as her coldness, for she had an exquisite love of 
 what is good and fine in life and idealized into heroes 
 persons she knew or heard of as having a virtue. It 
 would have been cruel to her to say that there are no 
 heroes. When she found how little of the heroic there 
 was in Sir Clement Dowton she told herself that there 
 are none, and sometimes other persons had made her 
 repeat this since. She seldom reasoned about things, 
 however, unless her feelings had been wounded, and 
 soon again she was dreaming of the heroic. Heroes 
 are people to love, and Mary's ideal of what love must 
 be would have frightened some persons from loving 
 her. With most men affection for a woman is fed 
 on her regard for them. Greatness in love is no more 
 common than greatness in leading armies. Only
 
 106 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 the hundredth man does not prefer to dally where 
 woman is easiest to win ; most finding the maids of 
 honor a satisfactory substitute for the princess. So 
 the boy in the street prefers two poor apples to a 
 sound one. It may be the secret of England's great- 
 ness. 
 
 On this Christmas Day Mary Abinger came up the 
 walk rapidly, scorning herself for ever having ad- 
 mired Sir Clement Dowton. She did everything in 
 the superlative degree, and so rather wondered that 
 a thunderbolt was not sent direct from above to kill 
 him as if there were thunderbolts for every one. If 
 we got our deserts most of us would be knocked on 
 the head with a broomstick. 
 
 When she was out of sight, Rob's courage returned, 
 and he remembered that he was there in the hope of 
 speaking to her. He hurried up the walk after her, 
 but when he neared her he fell back in alarm. His 
 heart was beating violently. He asked himself in a 
 quaver what it was that he had arranged to say first. 
 
 In her little basket Mar}- had Christmas presents 
 for a few people, inhabitants of a knot of houses not 
 far distant from the castle gates. They were her fa- 
 ther's tenants, and he rather enjoyed their being un- 
 able to pay much rent, it made them so dependent. 
 Had Rob seen how she was received in some of these 
 cottages, how she sat talking merrily with one bed- 
 ridden old woman whom cheerfulness kept alive, and 
 not only gave a disabled veteran a packet of tobacco,
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 107 
 
 but filled his pipe for him, so that he gallantly said 
 he was reluctant to smoke it (trust an old man for 
 gallantry !) , and even ate pieces of strange cakes to 
 please her hostesses, he would often have thought of 
 it afterward. However, it would have been unneces- 
 sary prodigality to show him that, for his mind was 
 filled with the incomparable manner in which she 
 knocked at doors and smiled when she came out. 
 Once she dropped her basket, and he could remember 
 nothing so exquisite as her way of picking it up. 
 
 Rob lurked behind trees and peered round hedges, 
 watching Miss Abinger go from one house to an- 
 other, 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 Silches- 
 ter. 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 
 self-conscious. 
 
 At last Mary turned homeward, 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
 
 108 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 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 Christ- 
 mas Day in his favor, 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 suc- 
 cumbed altogether on realizing 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 under- 
 stood what he was doing there. A girl can overlook 
 a great deal in a man who admires her. She feels
 
 TEE ONE WOMAN. 109 
 
 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 
 colored. 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 school-girl 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. School-girls, 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 gray as hers, " it was a madness that 
 let me write like that. 'The Scorns of Scorns' is the 
 most beautiful, the tenderest " He stuck once
 
 110 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 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 differ- 
 ence. " 
 
 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.
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. Ill 
 
 " 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 al- 
 ways 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, be 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 rec- 
 ognizing you last night. He did recognize 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-morn- 
 ing. 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?
 
 112 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "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. *t 
 
 " 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, be- 
 ginning 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."
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 113 
 
 "Oh," cried Mary, "then you must be the liter- 
 ary 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 sur- 
 prise, "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 appoint- 
 ment 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 
 8
 
 114 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 write it out in longhand as quickly as possible. That 
 was how I got to know Mr. Rorrison ; and, as I un- 
 derstood, he had sent for the report of the sermon, on 
 hearing accidentally that I had taken it down, be- 
 cause he had some reason for wanting a copy of it. " 
 
 " Perhaps that was how it was told to you after- 
 ward," Mary said, "but it was really papa who 
 wanted the sermon." 
 
 " I should like to know all about it, " Rob said, see- 
 ing 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
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 115 
 
 rashly, for when he put it to himself he found that 
 he could not even remember the text. As he told me 
 afterward (here Mary smiled a little), he had a gen- 
 eral idea of the sermon, but could not quite put it 
 into words, and he was fearing that he would lose 
 the wager (and l>e 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 afterward, 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
 
 116 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 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 involun- 
 tarily. 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 in to 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," re- 
 plied 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 Abin- 
 ger's having been in Thrums without his feeling her 
 presence, something made him go a few yards inside
 
 THE ONE WOMAN. 117 
 
 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 vic- 
 tory 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 GEAND PASSION? 
 
 ONE of the disappointments of life is that the per- 
 sons 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 Abin- 
 ger. Her villain of fiction, on being haughtily re- 
 jected, 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 oppor- 
 tunity came, however, Mary's father instead asked 
 his unexpected visitor to remain for a week. Colo- 
 nel Abinger thought he was thus magnanimous be- 
 cause his guest had been confidential with him, but 
 it was perhaps rather because Sir Clement had ex- 
 plained 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 Clem- 
 ent as well as to Rob. One day Colonel Abinger had 
 118
 
 THE GRAND PASSION? 119 
 
 received by letter from a little hostelry in the neigh- 
 borhood the compliments of Sir Clement Dowton, and 
 a request that he might be allowed to fish in the pre- 
 served water. All that Mary's father knew of Dow^ 
 ton 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 ranche 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 baro- 
 net's talk quite brilliant. A few days afterward 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, other- 
 wise 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 v/as back in England, as he
 
 120 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 was not certain whether he would remain. The colo- 
 nel at his request introduced him to the few visitors 
 at the castle as Mr. Dowton, and was surprised to 
 discover afterward 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 incompre- 
 hensible how a thing like that leaks out." 
 
 " I don't understand it," said Dowton, who, how- 
 ever, 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 grown-up daughters are in a foreign 
 land without interpreters. 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 satisfac- 
 tion in looking upon him as the villain he might 
 have been had his high forehead spoken true. As
 
 121 
 
 for the colonel, he ordered Mary (he had no need) 
 never to mention the fellow's name to him, but men- 
 tioned 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 afterward 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
 
 122 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 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 amaze- 
 ment that tho 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. 
 
 " She was only a school-girl when you saw her last," 
 he said,in bewilderment; "but I hardly see how that 
 should have made you fly the house like yes, like a 
 thief." 
 
 Dowton looked sadly at him. 
 
 " I don't know," he said, speaking as if with re- 
 luctance, " that in any circumstances I should be jus- 
 tified in telling you the whole miserable story. Can 
 you not guess it? When I came here I was not a 
 free man." 
 
 "You were already married?" 
 
 "No, but I was engaged to be married." 
 
 "Did Mary know anything of this?" 
 
 " Nothing of that engagement, and but little, I 
 think, of the attachment that grew up in my heart 
 for her. I kept that to myself."
 
 THE GRAND PASSION 9 123 
 
 "She was too young," said the wise colonel, "to 
 think of such things then ; and even now I do not see 
 why you should have left us as you did." 
 
 Sir Clement rose to his feet and paced the room in 
 great agitation. 
 
 "It is hard," he said at last, "to speak of such a 
 thing to another man. But let me tell you, Abinger, 
 that when I was with you three years ago there were 
 times when I thought I would lose my reason. Do 
 you know what it is to have such a passion as that 
 raging in your heart and yet have to stifle it? There 
 were whole nights when I walked up and down my 
 room till dawn. I trembled every time I saw Miss 
 Abinger alone lest I should say that to her which I 
 had no right to say. Her voice alone was sufficient 
 to unman me. I felt that my only safety was in 
 flight." 
 
 " I have run away from a woman myself in my 
 time," the colonel said, with a grim chuckle. " There 
 are occasions when it is the one thing to do ; but this 
 was surely not one of them, if Mary knew nothing." 
 
 " Sometimes I feared she did know that I cared for 
 her. That is a hard thing to conceal, and besides 
 I suppose I felt so wretched that I was not in a con- 
 dition to act rationally. When I left the castle that 
 day I had not the least intention of not returning." 
 
 "And since then you have been half round the 
 world again? Are you married?" 
 
 "No."
 
 124 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " Then I am to understand " 
 
 "That she is dead," said Sir Clement, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 There was a silence between them, which was at 
 last broken by the colonel. 
 
 "What you have told me," he said, "is a great 
 surprise, more especially with regard to my daugh- 
 ter. Being but a child at the time, however, she 
 could not, I am confident, have thought of you in any 
 other light than as her father's friend. It is, of 
 course, on that footing that you return now?" 
 
 "As her father's friend, certainly, I hope," said 
 the baronet firmly ; " but I wish to tell you now that 
 my regard for her has never changed. I confess I 
 would have been afraid to come back to you had not 
 my longing to see her again given me courage." 
 
 " She has not the least idea of this," murmured the 
 colonel " not the least. The fact is that Mary has 
 lived so quietly with me here that she is still a child. 
 Miss Meredith, whom I dare say you have met here, 
 has been almost her only friend, and I am quite cer- 
 tain that the thought of marriage has never crossed 
 their minds. If you, or even if I, were to speak of 
 such a thing to Mary it would only frighten her." 
 
 " I should not think of speaking to her on the sub- 
 ject at present," the baronet interposed rather hur- 
 riedly, " but I thought it best to explain my position 
 to you. You know what I am that I have been 
 almost a vagrant on the face of the earth since I
 
 THE GRAND PASSION? 125 
 
 reached manhood ; but no one can see more clearly 
 than I do myself how unworthy I am of her." 
 
 " I do not need to tell you," said the colonel, taking 
 the baronet's hand, " that I used to like you, Dowton, 
 and indeed I know no one whom I would prefer for a 
 son-in-law. But you must be cautious with Mary." 
 
 "I shall be very cautious," said the baronet; "in- 
 deed there is no hurry none whatever." 
 
 Colonel Abinger would have brought the conversa- 
 tion to a close here, but there was something more 
 for Dowton to say. 
 
 "I agree with you," he said, forgetting, perhaps, 
 that the colonel had not spoken on this point, " that 
 Miss Abinger should be kept ignorant for the present 
 of the cause that drove me on that former occasion 
 from the castle." 
 
 "It is the wisest course to adopt," said the colonel, 
 looking as if he had thought the matter out step by 
 step. 
 
 "The only thing I am doubtful about," continued 
 Dowton, "is whether Miss Abinger will not think 
 that she is entitled to some explanation. She can- 
 not, I fear, have forgotten the circumstances of my 
 departure." 
 
 "Make your mind easy on that score," said the 
 colonel ; " the best proof that Mary gave the matter 
 little thought, even at the time, is that she did not 
 speak of it to me. Sweet seventeen has always a 
 short memory."
 
 126 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "But I have sometimes thought since that Miss 
 Abinger did care for me a little, in which case she 
 would have unfortunate cause to resent my flight." 
 
 While he spoke the baronet was looking anxiously 
 into the colonel's face. 
 
 "I can give you my word for it," said the colonel 
 cheerily, " that she did not give your disappearance 
 two thoughts ; and now I much question whether she 
 will recognize you." 
 
 Dowton's face clouded, but the other misinter- 
 preted the shadow. 
 
 " So put your mind at rest," said the colonel kindly, 
 " and trust an old stager like myself for being able to 
 read into a woman's heart." 
 
 Shortly afterward Colonel Abinger left his guest, 
 and for nearly five minutes the baronet looked de- 
 jected. It is sometimes advantageous to hear that a 
 lady with whom you have watched the moon rise 
 has forgotten your very name, but it is never com- 
 plimentary. By-and-bye, however, Sir Clement's 
 sense of humor drove the gloom from his chiselled 
 face, and a glass bracket over the mantelpiece told 
 him that he was laughing heartily. 
 
 It was a small breakfast party at the castle next 
 morning, Sir Clement and Greybrooke being the 
 only guests, but the baronet was so gay and morose 
 by turns that he might have been two persons. In 
 the middle of a laugh at some remark of the captain's 
 he would break off with a sigh, and immediately after
 
 THE GRAND PASSION? 127 
 
 sadly declining another cup of coffee from Mary, he 
 said something humorous to her father. The one 
 mood was natural to him and the other forced, but it 
 would have been difficult to decide which was which. 
 It is, however, one of the hardest things in life to re- 
 main miserable for any length of time on a stretch. 
 When Dowton found himself alone with Mary his 
 fingers were playing an exhilarating tune on the win- 
 dow-sill, but as he looked at her his hands fell to his 
 side, and there was pathos in his fine eyes. Drawn 
 toward her, he took a step forward, but Miss Abin- 
 ger said " No " so decisively that he stopped irresolute. 
 
 "I shall be leaving the castle in an hour," Sir 
 Clement said slowly. 
 
 "Papa told me," said Mary, "that he had prevailed 
 upon you to remain for a week." 
 
 " He pressed me to do so, and I consented, but you 
 have changed everything since then. Ah, Mary " 
 
 "Miss Abinger," said Mary. 
 
 " Miss Abinger, if you would only listen to what I 
 have to say. I can explain everything. I " 
 
 " There is nothing to explain," said Mary "noth- 
 ing that I have either a right or a desire to hear. 
 Plea'se not to return to this subject again. I said 
 everything there was to say last night." 
 
 The baronet's face paled, and he bowed his head 
 in deep dejection. His voice was trembling a little, 
 and he observed it with gratification as he answered : 
 
 "Then, I suppose, I must bid you good-by?"
 
 128 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Good-by," said Mary. "Does papa know you 
 are going?" 
 
 " I promised to him to stay on," said Sir Clement, 
 "and I can hardly expect him to forgive me if I 
 change my mind." 
 
 This was put almost in the form of a question, and 
 Mary thought she understood it. 
 
 "Then you mean to remain?" she asked. 
 
 "You compel me to go," he replied dolefully. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Mary, "I have nothing to do with 
 your going or staying." 
 
 " But it it would hardly do for me to remain after 
 what took place last night," said the baronet, in the 
 tone of one who was open to contradiction. 
 
 For the first time in the conversation Mary smiled. 
 It was not, however, the smile every man would care 
 to see at his own expense. 
 
 "If you were to go now," she said, "you would 
 not be fulfilling your promise to papa, and I know 
 that men do not like to break their word to to other 
 men." 
 
 "Then you think I ought to stay?" asked Sir 
 Clement eagerly. 
 
 " It is for you to think," said Mary. 
 
 "Perhaps, then, I ought to remain for Colonel 
 Abinger's sake," said the baronet. 
 
 Mary did not answer. 
 
 "Only for a few days," he continued, almost ap- 
 pealingly.
 
 THE GRAND PASSION? 129 
 
 "Very well, "said Mary. 
 
 "And you won't think the worse of me for it?" 
 asked Dowton anxiously. " Of course, if I were to 
 consult my own wishes I would go now, but as I 
 promised Colonel Abinger 
 
 " You will remain out of consideration for papa. 
 How could I think worse of you for that?" 
 
 Mary rose to leave the room, and as Sir Clement 
 opened the door for her he said : 
 
 "We shall say nothing of all this to Colonel 
 Abinger?" 
 
 "Oh, no, certainly not," said Mary. 
 
 She glanced up in his face, her mouth twisted 
 slightly to one side, as it had a habit of doing when 
 she felt disdainful, and the glory of her beauty 
 filled him of a sudden. The baronet pushed the door 
 close and turned to her passionately, a film over his 
 eyes, and his hands outstretched. 
 
 " Mary," he cried, "is there no hope for me?" 
 
 " No," said Mary, opening the door for herself and 
 passing out. 
 
 Sir Clement stood there motionless for a minute. 
 Then he crossed to the fireplace, and sank into a lux- 
 uriously cushioned chair. The sunlight came back 
 to his noble face. 
 
 "This is grand, glorious," he murmured, in an 
 ecstasy of enjoyment. 
 
 In the days that followed, the baronet's behavior 
 was a little peculiar. Occasionally at meals he
 
 130 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 seemed to remember that a rejected lover ought not 
 to have a good appetite. If, when he was smoking 
 in the grounds, he saw Mary approaching, he covertly 
 dropped his cigar. When he knew that she was sit- 
 ting at a window he would pace up and down the 
 walk with his head bent as if life had lost its interest 
 to him. By-and-bye his mind wandered on these oc- 
 casions to more cheerful matters, and he would start 
 to find that he had been smiling to himself and swish- 
 ing his cane playfully, like a man who walked on 
 air. It might have been said of him that he tried 
 to be miserable and found it hard work. 
 
 Will, who discovered that the baronet did not know 
 what 1. b. w. meant, could not, nevertheless, despise 
 a man who had shot lions, but he never had quite 
 the same respect for the king of beasts again. As 
 for Greybrooke, he rather liked Sir Clement, because 
 he knew that Nell (in her own words) "loathed, 
 hated, and despised " him. 
 
 Greybrooke had two severe disappointments that 
 holiday, both of which were to be traced to the ca- 
 pricious Nell. It had dawned on him that she could 
 not help liking him a little if she saw him take a 
 famous jump over the Dome known to legend as the 
 "Robber's Leap." The robber had lost his life in 
 trying to leap the stream, but the captain practised 
 in the castle grounds until he felt that he could clear 
 it. Then he formally invited Miss Meredith to come 
 and see him do it, and she told him instead that he
 
 THE GRAND PASSION? 131 
 
 was wicked. The captain and Will went back si- 
 lently to the castle, wondering what on earth she 
 would like. 
 
 Greybrooke's other disappointment was still more 
 grievous. One evening he and Will returned to the 
 castle late for dinner an offence the colonel found it 
 hard to overlook, although they were going back to 
 school on the following day. Will reached the din- 
 ing-room first, and his father frowned on him. 
 
 "You are a quarter of an hour late, William," 
 said the colonel sternly. " Where have you been?" 
 
 Will hesitated. 
 
 "Do you remember," he said, at last, "a man 
 called Angus, who was here reporting on Christmas 
 Eve?" 
 
 Mary laid down her knife and fork. 
 
 "A painfully powerful-looking man," said Dow- 
 ton, " in hob-nailed boots. I remember him." 
 
 "Well, we have been calling on him," said 
 Will. 
 
 " Calling on him, calling on that impudent news- 
 paper man!" exclaimed the colonel; "what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 " Greybrooke had a row with him some time ago, " 
 said Will; "I don't know what about, because it 
 was private ; but the captain has been looking for the 
 fellow for a fortnight to lick him I mean punish 
 him. We came upon him two days ago, near the 
 castle gates."
 
 132 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Here Will paused, as if he would prefer to jump 
 what followed. 
 
 "And did your friend 'lick' him then?" asked the 
 colonel, at which Will shook his head. 
 
 " Why not?" asked Sir Clement. 
 
 "Well," said Will reluctantly, "the fellow would 
 not let him." He he lifted Greybrooke up in his 
 arms, and and dropped him over the hedge." 
 
 Mary could not help laughing. 
 
 " The beggar I mean the fellow must have mus- 
 cles like ivy-roots," Will blurted out admiringly. 
 
 "I fancy," said Dowton, "that I have seen him 
 near the gates several times during the last week." 
 
 " Very likely, " said the colonel shortly. " I caught 
 him poaching in the Dome some months ago. There 
 is something bad about that man." 
 
 " Papa !" said Mary. 
 
 At this moment Greybrooke entered. 
 
 " So, Mr. Greybrooke," said the colonel," I hear you 
 have been in Silchester avenging an insult." 
 
 The captain looked at Will, who nodded. 
 
 "I went there," admitted Greybrooke, blushing, 
 " to horsewhip a reporter fellow, but he had run away. " 
 
 "Run away?" 
 
 "Yes. Did not Will tell you? We called at the 
 Mirror office, and were told that Angus had bolted 
 to London two days ago." 
 
 " And the worst of it," interposed Will, " is that he 
 ran off without paying his landlady's bill."
 
 THE GRAND PASSION 9 133 
 
 "I knew that man was a rascal," exclaimed the 
 colonel. 
 
 Mary flushed. 
 
 " I don't believe it," she said. 
 
 "You don't believe it," repeated her father an- 
 grily; "and why not, pray?" 
 
 "Because because I don't," said Mary.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 
 
 MARY was wrong. It was quite true that Rob 
 had run away to London without paying his land- 
 lady's bill. 
 
 The immediate result of his meeting with Miss Ab- 
 inger had been to make him undertake double work 
 and not do it. Looking in at shop-windows, where 
 he saw hats that he thought would just suit Mary 
 (he had a good deal to learn yet) , it came upon him 
 that he was wasting his time. Then he hurried 
 home, contemptuous of all the rest of Silchester, to 
 write an article for a London paper, and when he 
 next came to himself, half an hour afterward, he 
 was sitting before a blank sheet of copy-paper. He 
 began to review a book, and found himself gazing at 
 a Christmas card. He tried to think out the action 
 of a government, and thought out a ring on Miss 
 Abinger's finger instead. Three nights running he 
 dreamed that he was married, and woke up quaking. 
 
 Without much misgiving Rob heard it said in Sil- 
 chester that there was some one staying at Dome 
 Castle who was to be its mistress' husband. On 
 discovering that they referred to Dowton, and not be- 
 134
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 135 
 
 ing versed in the wonderful ways of woman, he told 
 himself that this was impossible. A cynic would 
 have pointed out that Mary had now had several days 
 in which to change her mind. Cynics are persons 
 who make themselves the measure of other people. 
 
 The philosopher who remarked that the obvious 
 truths are those which are most often missed, was 
 probably referring to the time it takes a man to dis- 
 cover that he is in love. Women are quicker because 
 they are on the outlook. It took Rob two days, and 
 when it came upon him checked his breathing. Af- 
 ter that he bore it like a man. Another discovery he 
 had to make was that, after all, he was nobody in 
 particular. This took him longer. 
 
 Although the manner of his going to London was 
 unexpected, Rob had thought out solidly the induce- 
 ments to go. Ten minutes or so after he knew that 
 he wanted to marry Mary Abinger, he made up his 
 mind to try to do it. The only obstacles he saw in his 
 way were that she was not in love with him, and 
 the lack of income. Feeling that he was an un- 
 common type of man (if people would only see it) he 
 resolved to remove this second difficulty first. The 
 saw-mill and the castle side by side did not rise up 
 and frighten him, and for the time he succeeded in 
 not thinking about Colonel Abinger. Nothing is 
 hopeless if we want it very much. 
 
 Rob calculated that if he remained on the Mirror 
 for another dozen years or so, and Mr. Licquorish
 
 J.36 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 continued to think that it would not be cheaper to do 
 without him, he might reach a salary of 200 per 
 annum. As that was not sufficient, he made up his 
 mind to leave Silchester. 
 
 There was only one place to go to. Rob thought 
 of London until he felt that it was the guardian from 
 whom he would have to ask Mary Abinger; he pic- 
 tured her there during the season, until London, 
 which he had never seen, began to assume a homely 
 aspect. It was the place in which he was to win or 
 lose his battle. To whom is London much more? 
 It is the clergyman's name for his church, the law- 
 yer's for his office, the politician's for St. Stephen's, 
 the cabman's for his stand. 
 
 There was not a man on the press in Silchester 
 who did not hunger for Fleet Street, but they were 
 all afraid to beard it. They knew it as a rabbit- 
 warren ; as the closest street in a city, where the boot- 
 black has his sycophants, and you have to battle for 
 exclusive right to sweep a crossing. The fight for- 
 ward had been grimmer to Rob, however, than to his 
 fellows, and he had never been quite beaten. He 
 was alone in the world, and poverty was like an old 
 friend. There was only one journalist in London 
 whom he knew even by name, and he wrote to him 
 for advice. This was Mr. John Rorrison, a son of 
 the minister whose assistance had brought Rob to 
 Silchester. Rorrison was understood to be practically 
 editing a great London newspaper, which is what is
 
 IX FLEET STREET. 137 
 
 understood of a great many journalists until you 
 make inquiries, but he wrote back to Rob asking him 
 why he wanted to die before his time. You collec- 
 tors who want an editor's autograph may rely upon 
 having it by return of post if you write threatening 
 to come to London with the hope that he will do 
 something for you. Rorrison's answer discomfited 
 Rob for five minutes, and then going out he caught 
 a glimpse of Mary Abinger in the Merediths' car- 
 riage. He tore up the letter, and saw that London 
 was worth risking. 
 
 One forenoon Rob set out for the office to tell Mr. 
 Licquorish of his determination. He knew that the 
 entire staff would think him demented, but he could 
 not see that he was acting rashly. He had worked 
 it all out in his mind, and even tranquilly faced pos- 
 sible starvation. Rob was congratulating himself on 
 not having given way to impulse when he reached 
 the railway station. 
 
 His way from his lodgings to the office led past 
 the station, and, as he had done scores of times before, 
 he went inside. To Rob all the romance of Silchester 
 was concentrated there ; nothing stirred him so much 
 as a panting engine ; the shunting of carriages, the 
 bustle of passengers, the porters rattling to and fro 
 with luggage, the trains twisting serpent-like into 
 the station and stealing out in a glory to be gone, 
 sent the blood to his head. On Saturday nights, 
 when he was free, any one calling at the station.
 
 138 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 would have been sure to find him on the platform 
 from which the train starts for London. His heart 
 had sunk every time it went off without him. 
 
 Rob woke up from a dream of Fleet Street to see 
 the porters slamming the doors of the London train. 
 He saw the guard's hand upraised, and heard the 
 carriages rattle as the restive engine took them un- 
 awares. Then came the warning whistle, and the 
 train moved off. For a second of time Rob felt that 
 he had lost London, and he started forward. Some 
 one near him shouted, and then he came upon the 
 train all at once, a door opened, and he shot in. 
 When he came to himself, Silchester was a cloud 
 climbing to the sky behind him, and he was on his 
 way to London. 
 
 Rob's first feeling was that the other people in the 
 carriage must know what he had done. He was re- 
 lieved to find that his companions were only an old 
 gentleman who spoke fiercely to his newspaper be- 
 cause it was reluctant to turn inside out, a little girl 
 who had got in at Silchester and consumed thirteen 
 halfpenny buns before she was five miles distant 
 from it, and a young woman, evidently a nurse, with 
 a baby in her arms. The baby was noisy for a time, 
 but Rob gave it a look that kept it silent for the rest 
 of the journey. He told himself that he would get 
 out at the first station, but when the train stopped at 
 it he sat on. He twisted himself into a corner to 
 count his money covertly, and found that it came to
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 139 
 
 four pounds odd. He also took the Christmas card 
 from his pocket, but replaced it hastily, feeling that 
 the old gentleman and the little girl were looking at 
 him. A feeling of elation grew upon him as he saw 
 that whatever might happen afterward he must be 
 in London shortly, and his mind ran on the letters 
 he would write" to Mr. Licquorish and his landlady. 
 In lieu of his ticket he handed over twelve shillings 
 to the guard, under whose eyes he did not feel com- 
 fortable, and he calculated that he owed his landlady 
 over two pounds. He would send it to her and ask 
 her to forward his things to London. Mr. Licquor- 
 ish, however, might threaten him with the law if he 
 did not return. But then the Mirror owed Rob sev- 
 eral pounds at that moment, and if he did not claim 
 it in person it would remain in Mr. Licquorish's 
 pocket. There was no saying how far that consider- 
 ation would affect the editor. Rob saw a charge of 
 dishonesty rise up and confront him, and he drew 
 back from it. A moment afterward he looked it in 
 the face, and it receded. He took his pipe from his 
 pocket. 
 
 " This is not a smoking-carriage," gasped the little 
 girl, so promptly that it almost seemed as if she had 
 been waiting her opportunity ever since the train 
 started. Rob looked at her. She seemed about eight, 
 but her eye was merciless. He thrust his pipe back 
 into its case, feeling cowed at last. 
 
 The nurse, who had been looking at Rob and. blush-
 
 140 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 ing when she caught his eye, got out with her charge 
 at a side station, and he helped her rather awkwardly 
 to alight. " Don't mention it," he said, in answer to 
 her thanks. 
 
 "Not a word; I'm not that kind," she replied, so 
 eagerly that he started back in alarm, to find the lit- 
 tle girl looking suspiciously at him. - 
 
 As Rob stepped out of the train at King's Cross he 
 realized sharply that he was alone in the world. He 
 did not know where to go now, and his heart sank 
 for a time as he paced the platform irresolutely, feel- 
 ing that it was his last link to Silchester. He turned 
 into the booking-office to consult a time-table, and 
 noticed against the wall a railway map of London. 
 For a long time he stood looking at it, and as he 
 traced the river, the streets familiar to him by name, 
 the districts and buildings which were household 
 words to him, he felt that he must live in London 
 somehow. He discovered Fleet Street in the map, 
 and studied the best way of getting to it from King's 
 Cross. Then grasping his stick firmly, he took pos- 
 session of London as calmly as he could. 
 
 Rob never found any difficulty afterward in pick- 
 ing out the shabby eating-house in which he had 
 his first meal in London. Gray's Inn Road re- 
 mained to him always its most romantic street be- 
 cause he went down it first. He walked into the roar 
 of London in Holborn, and never forgot the alley into 
 which he retreated to discover if he had suddenly be-
 
 IN FLEET STREET 141 
 
 come deaf. He wondered when the crowd would 
 pass. Years afterward he turned into Fetter Lane, 
 and suddenly there came back to his mind the thought 
 that had held him as he went down it the day he ar- 
 rived in London. 
 
 A certain awe came upon Rob as he went down 
 Fleet Street on the one side, and up it on the other. 
 He could not resist looking into the faces of the per- 
 sons who passed him, and wondering if they edited 
 the Times. The lean man who was in such a hurry 
 that wherever he had to go he would soon be there, 
 might be a man of letters whom Rob knew by heart, 
 but perhaps he was only a broken journalist with his 
 eye on half a crown. The mild-looking man whom 
 Rob smiled at because, when he was half-way across 
 the street, he lost his head and was chased out of 
 sight by half a dozen hansom cabs, was a war cor- 
 respondent who had been so long in Africa that the 
 perils of a London crossing unmanned him. The 
 youth who was on his way home with a pork-chop in 
 his pocket edited a society journal. Rob did not 
 recognize a distinguished poet in a little stout man 
 who was looking pensively at a barrowf ul of walnuts, 
 and he was mistaken in thinking that the bearded 
 gentleman who held his head so high must be some- 
 body in particular. Rob observed a pale young man 
 gazing wistfully at him, and wondered if he was a 
 thief or a sub-editor. He was merely an aspirant 
 who had come to London that morning to make his
 
 142 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 fortune, and he took Rob for a leader-writer at the 
 least. The offices, however, and even the public 
 buildings, the shops, the narrowness of the streets, all 
 disappointed Rob. The houses seemed squeezed to- 
 gether for economy of space, like a closed concertina. 
 Nothing quite fulfilled his expectations but the big 
 letter-holes in the district postal offices. He had not 
 been sufficiently long in London to feel its greatest 
 charm, which has been expressed in many ways by 
 poet, wit, business man and philosopher, but comes 
 to this, that it is the only city in the world in whose 
 streets you can eat penny buns without people's turn- 
 ing round to look at you. 
 
 In a few days Rob was a part of London. His 
 Silchester landlady had forwarded him his things, 
 and Mr. Licquorish had washed his hands of him. 
 The editor of the J/zrror's letter amounted to a la- 
 ment that a man whom he had allowed to do two 
 men's work for half a man's wages should have 
 treated him thus. Mr. Licquorish, however, had 
 conceived the idea of " forcing" John Milton, and so 
 saving a reporter, and he did not insist on Rob's re- 
 turning. He expressed a hope that his ex-reporter 
 would do well in London, and a fear, amounting to 
 a conviction, that he would not. But he sent the three 
 pounds due to him in wages, pointing out, justifi- 
 ably enough, that, strictly speaking, Rob owed him 
 a month's salary. Rob had not expected such lib- 
 erality, and from that time always admitted that
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 143 
 
 there must have been a heroic vein in Mr. Licquorish 
 after all. 
 
 Rob established himself in a little back room in 
 Islington, so small that a fairly truthful journalist 
 might have said of it, in an article, that you had to 
 climb the table to reach the fireplace, and to lift out 
 the easy-chair before you could get out at the door. 
 The room was over a grocer's shop, whose window 
 bore the announcement : " Eggs, new laid, Is. 3d. ; 
 eggs, fresh, Is. 2d. ; eggs, warranted, Is. ; eggs, lOd. " 
 A shop across the way hinted at the reputation of 
 the neighborhood in the polite placard, " Trust in the 
 Lord: every other person cash." 
 
 The only ornament Rob added to the room was the 
 Christmas card in a frame. He placed this on his 
 mantelpiece and looked at it frequently, but when he 
 heard his landlady coming he slipped it back into his 
 pocket. Yet he would have liked at times to have 
 the courage to leave it there. Though he wanted to 
 be a literary man he began his career in London with 
 a little sense, for he wrote articles to editors instead 
 of calling at the offices, and he had the good fortune 
 to have no introductions. The only pressman who 
 ever made anything by insisting on seeing the editor 
 was one a Scotsman, no doubt who got him alone 
 and threatened to break his head if he did not find 
 an opening for him. The editor saw that this was 
 the sort of man who had made up his mind to get 
 on, and yielded.
 
 144 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 During his first month in London, Rob wrote thirty 
 articles, and took them to the different offices in or- 
 der to save the postage. There were many othei men 
 in the streets at night doing the same thing. He got 
 fifteen articles back by return of post, and never saw 
 the others again. But here was the stuff Rob was 
 made of. The thirty having been rejected, he dined 
 on bread-and-cheese, and began the thirty-first. It 
 was accepted by the Minotaur, a weekly paper. Rob 
 drew a sigh of exultation as he got his first proof in 
 London, and remembered that he had written the 
 article in two hours. The payment, he understood, 
 would be two pounds at least, and at the rate of two 
 articles a day, working six days a week, this would 
 mean over six hundred a year. Rob had another 
 look at the Christmas card, and thought it smiled. 
 Every man is a fool now and then. 
 
 Except to his landlady, who thought that he dined 
 out, Rob had not spoken to a soul since he arrived 
 in London. To celebrate his first proof he resolved 
 to call on Rorrison. He had not done so earlier be- 
 cause he thought that Rorrison would not be glad 
 to gee him. Though he had kept his disappointments 
 to himself, however, he felt that he must remark 
 casually to some one that he was writing for the 
 Minotaur. 
 
 Rorrison had chambers at the top of one of the 
 Inns of Court, and as he had sported his oak, Rob 
 ought not to have knocked. He knew no better, how-
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 145 
 
 ever, and Rcrrison came grumbling to the door. 
 He was a full-bodied man of middle age, with a no- 
 ticeably heavy chin, and wore a long dressing-gown. 
 
 " I'm Angus from Silchester," Rob explained. 
 
 Rorrison's countenance fell. His occupation largely 
 consisted in avoiding literary young men, who, he 
 knew, were thirsting to take him aside and ask him 
 to get them sub-editorships. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you," he said gloomily; "come 
 in." 
 
 What Rob first noticed in the sitting-room was 
 that it was all in shadow, except one corner, whose 
 many colors dazzled the eye. Suspended over this 
 part of the room on a gas-bracket was a great Japan- 
 ese umbrella without a handle. This formed an 
 awning for a large cane chair and a tobacco-table, 
 which also held a lamp, and Rorrison had been loll- 
 ing on the chair looking at a Gladstone bag on the 
 hearth-rug until he felt that he was busy packing. 
 
 " Mind the umbrella," he said to his visitor. 
 
 The next moment a little black hole that had been 
 widening in the Japanese paper just above the lamp 
 cracked and broke, and a tongue of flame swept up 
 the umbrella. Rob sprang forward in horror, but 
 Rorrison only sighed. 
 
 "That makes the third this week," he said, "but 
 let it blaze. I used to think they would set the place 
 on fire, but somehow they don't do it. Don't give 
 the thing the satisfaction of seeming to notice it." 
 10
 
 146 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 The umbrella had been frizzled in a second, and 
 its particles were already trembling through the room 
 like flakes of snow. 
 
 " You have just been in time to find me," Rorrison 
 said ; " I start to-morrow afternoon for Egypt in the 
 special correspondent business." 
 
 "I envy you," said Rob, and then told the man- 
 ner of his coming to London. 
 
 " It was a mad thing to do," said Rorrison, looking 
 at him not without approval, " but the best journal- 
 ists frequently begin in that way. I suppose you 
 have been besieging the newspaper offices since you 
 arrived. Any result?" 
 
 " I had a proof from the Minotaur this evening," 
 said Rob. 
 
 Rorrison blew some rings of smoke into the air 
 and ran his finger through them. Then he turned 
 proudly to Rob, and saw that Rob was looking proudly 
 at him. 
 
 "Ah, what did you say?" said Rorrison. 
 
 "The Minotaur has accepted one of my things," 
 .aid Rob. 
 
 Rorrison said "Hum," and then hesitated. 
 
 "It is best that you should know the truth," he 
 said at last. " No doubt you expect to be paid by 
 the Minotaur, but I am afraid there is little hope of 
 that unless you dun them. A friend of mine sent 
 them something lately, and Roper (the editor, you 
 know) wrote asking him for more. He sent two or
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 147 
 
 three other things, and then called at the office, ex- 
 pecting to be paid." 
 
 "Was he not?" 
 
 "On the contrary," said Rorrison, "Roper asked 
 him. for the loan of five pounds." 
 
 Rob's face grew so long that even the hardened 
 Rorrison tried to feel for him. 
 
 " You need not let an experience that every one 
 has to pass through dishearten you, " he said. " There 
 are only about a dozen papers in London that are 
 worth writing for, but I can give you a good account 
 of them. Not only do they pay handsomely, but the 
 majority are open to contributions from any one. 
 Don't you believe what one reads about newspaper 
 rings. Everything sent in is looked at, and if it is 
 suitable any editor is glad to have it. Men fail to get 
 a footing on the press because well, as a rule, because 
 they are stupid." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say that," said Rob, "and 
 yet I had thirty articles rejected before the Mino- 
 taur accepted that one." 
 
 " Yes, and you will have another thirty rejected if 
 they are of the same kind. You beginners seem 
 able to write nothing but your views on politics, and 
 your reflections on art, and your theories of life, 
 which you sometimes even think original. Editors 
 won't have that, because their readers don't want it. 
 Every paper has its regular staff of leader-writers, and 
 what is wanted from the outside is freshness. An
 
 148 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 editor tosses aside your column and a half about evo- 
 lution, but is glad to have a paragraph saying that 
 you saw Herbert Spencer the day before yesterday 
 gazing solemnly for ten minutes in at a milliner's 
 window. Fleet Street at this moment is simply run- 
 ning with men who want to air their views about 
 things in general." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Rob dolefully. 
 
 " Yes, and each thinks himself as original as he 
 is profound, though they have only to meet to dis- 
 cover that they repeat each other. The pity of it is, 
 that all of them could get on to some extent if they 
 would send in what is wanted. There is copy in 
 every man you meet, and, as a journalist on this stair 
 says, when you do meet him you feel inclined to tear 
 it out of him and use it yourself." 
 
 "What sort of copy?" asked Rob. 
 
 " They should write of the things they have seen. 
 Newspaper readers have an insatiable appetite for 
 knowing how that part of the world lives with which 
 they are not familiar. They want to know how the 
 Norwegians cook their dinners and build their houses 
 and ask each other in marriage." 
 
 " But I have never been out of Britain." 
 
 " Neither was Shakespeare. There are thousands 
 of articles in Scotland yet. You must know a good 
 deal about the Scottish weavers well, there are arti- 
 cles in them. Describe the daily life of a gillie : 'The 
 Gillie at Home' is a promising title. Were you ever
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 149 
 
 snowed-np in your saw-mill? Whether you were 
 or not, there is a seasonable subject for January. 
 'Yule in a Scottish Village' also sounds well, and 
 there is a safe article in a Highland gathering." 
 
 " These must have been done before, though," said 
 Rob. 
 
 "Of course they have," answered Rorrison; "but 
 do them in your own way : the public has no mem- 
 ory, and besides, new publics are always spring- 
 ing up." 
 
 " I am glad I came to see you," said Rob, brighten- 
 ing considerably; " I never thought of these things." 
 
 " Of course you need not confine yourself to them. 
 Write on politics if you will, but don't merely say 
 what you yourself think; rather tell, for instance, 
 what is the political situation in the country parts 
 known to you. That should be more interesting and 
 valuable than your individual views. But I may tell 
 you that, if you have the journalistic faculty, you 
 will always be on the lookout for possible articles. 
 The man on this stair I have mentioned to you would 
 have had an article out of you before he had talked 
 with you as long as I have done. You must have 
 heard of Noble Simms?" 
 
 "Yes, I know his novel," said Rob; "I should like 
 immensely to meet him." 
 
 "I must leave you an introduction to him," said 
 Rorrison; "he wakens most people up, though you 
 would scarcely think it to look at him. You see thi*
 
 150 WHEN A MAX'S SINGLE. 
 
 pipe here? Simms saw me mending it with sealing- 
 wax one day, and two days afterward there was an 
 article about it in the Scalping Knife. When 1 
 went off for my holidays last summer I asked him to 
 look in here occasionally and turn a new cheese which 
 had been sent me from the country. Of course he 
 forgot to do it, but I denounced him on my return for 
 not keeping his solemn promise, so he revenged him- 
 self by publishing an article entitled 'Rorrison's Oil- 
 Painting.' In this it was explained that just before 
 Rorrison went off for a holiday he got a present of 
 an oil-painting. Remembering when he had got to 
 Paris that the painting, which had come to him wet 
 from the easel, had been left lying on his table, he 
 telegraphed to the writer to have it put away out 
 of reach of dust and the cat. The writer promised 
 to do so, but when Rorrison returned he found the 
 picture lying just where he left it. He rushed off to 
 his friend's room to upbraid him, and did it so effect- 
 ually that the friend says in his article: 'I will never 
 do a good turn for Rorrison again !'" 
 
 "But why," asked Rob, "did he turn the cheese 
 into an oil-painting?" 
 
 " Ah, there you have the journalistic instinct again . 
 You see a cheese is too plebeian a thing to form the 
 subject of an article in the Scalping Knife, so Simms 
 made a painting of it. He has had my Chinese um- 
 brella from several points of view in three different 
 papers. When I play on his piano I put scraps of
 
 IN FLEET STREET. 151 
 
 paper on the notes to guide me, and he made his 
 three guineas out of that. Once I challenged him to 
 write an article on a straw that was sticking to the 
 sill of my window, and it was one of the most inter- 
 esting things he ever did. Then there was the box 
 of old clothes and other odds and ends that he prom- 
 ised to store for me when I changed my rooms. He 
 sold the lot to a hawker for a pair of flower-pots, and 
 wrote an article on the transaction. Subsequently 
 he had another article on the flower-pots ; and when 
 I appeared to claim my belongings he got a third 
 article out of that." 
 
 " I suppose he reads a great deal?" said Rob. 
 
 "He seldom opens a book," answered Rorrison; 
 " indeed, when he requires to consult a work of refer- 
 ence he goes to the Strand and does his reading at a 
 bookstall. I don't think he was ever in the British 
 Museum." 
 
 Rob laughed. 
 
 " At the same time," he said, " I don't think Mr. 
 Noble Simms could get any copy out of me." 
 
 Just then some one shuffled into the passage, and 
 the door opened.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MR. NOBLE SIMMS. 
 
 THE new-comer was a young man with an impas- 
 sive face and weary eyes, who, as he slouched in, 
 described a parabola in the air with one of his feet, 
 which was his way of keeping a burned slipper on. 
 Rorrison introduced him to Rob as Mr. Noble Simms, 
 after which Simms took himself into a corner of the 
 room, like a man who has paid for his seat in a rail- 
 way compartment and refuses to be drawn into con- 
 versation. He would have been a handsome man 
 had he had a little more interest in himself. 
 
 " I thought you told me you were going out to- 
 night," said Rorrison. 
 
 "I meant to go," Simms answered, "but when I 
 rang for my boots the housekeeper thought I asked 
 for water, and brought it, so, rather than explain 
 matters to her, I drank the water and remained in- 
 doors." 
 
 " I read your book lately, Mr. Simms," Rob said, 
 after he had helped himself to tobacco from Simms' 
 pouch " Try my tobacco " being the Press form of 
 salutation. 
 
 "You did not buy the second volume, did you?" 
 152
 
 MR. NOBLE SIMMS. 153 
 
 asked Simms, with a show of interest, and Rob had 
 to admit that he got the novel from a library. 
 
 " Excuse my asking you," Simms continued, in his 
 painfully low voice ; " I had a special reason. You 
 see I happened to know that, besides what went to 
 the libraries, there were in all six copies of my book 
 sold. My admirer bought two, and I myself bought 
 three and two-thirds, so that only one volume re- 
 mains to be accounted for. I like to think that the 
 purchaser was a lady." 
 
 " But how did it come about," inquired Rob, while 
 Rorrison smoked on imperturbably, "that the vol- 
 umes were on sale singly?" 
 
 " That was to tempt a public," said Simms gravely, 
 "who would not take kindly to the three volumes 
 together. It is a long story, though." 
 
 Here he paused, as if anxious to escape out of the 
 conversation. 
 
 " No blarney, Simms, " expostulated Rorrison. " I 
 forgot to tell you, Angus, that this man always means 
 (when he happens to have a meaning) the reverse of 
 what he says." 
 
 "Don't mind Rorrison," said Simms to Rob. "It 
 was in this way : My great work of fiction did fairly 
 well at the libraries, owing to a mistake Mudie made* 
 about the name. He ordered a number of copies 
 under the impression that the book was by the popu- 
 lar novelist, Simmons, and when the mistake was 
 found out he was too honorable to draw back. The
 
 154 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 surplus copies, however, would not sell at all. My 
 publisher offered them as Saturday evening presents 
 to his young men, but they always left them on their 
 desks ; so next he tried the second-hand book-shops, 
 in the hope that people from the country would buy 
 the three volumes because they looked so cheap at 
 two shillings. However, even the label 'Published at 
 31s. 6d. : offered for 2s.,' was barren of results. I 
 used to stand in an alley near one of these book- 
 shops, and watch the people handling my novel." 
 
 "But no one made an offer for it?" 
 
 " Not at two shillings, but when it came down to 
 one-and-sixpence an elderly man with spectacles very 
 nearly bought it. He was undecided between it and 
 a Trigonometry, but in the end he went off with the 
 Trigonometry. Then a young lady in gray and 
 pink seemed interested in it. I watched her reading 
 the bit about Lord John entering the drawing-room 
 suddenty and finding Henry on his knees, and once 
 I distinctly saw her smile." 
 
 " She might have bought the novel if only to see 
 how it ended." 
 
 " Ah, I have always been of opinion that she would 
 have done so, had she not most unfortunately, in her 
 eagerness to learn wnat Henry said when he and 
 Eleanor went into the conservatory, knocked a row 
 of books over with her elbow. That frightened her, 
 and she took to flight." 
 
 "Most unfortunate," said Rob solemnly, though
 
 MR. NOBLE SIMMS. 155 
 
 he was already beginning to understand Simms as 
 Simms was on the surface. 
 
 " I had a still greater disappointment," continued 
 the author, "a few days afterward. By this time 
 the book was marked 'Very Amusing, Is., worth Is. 
 6d. ;' and when I saw a pale-looking young man, 
 who had been examining it, enter the shop, I thought 
 the novel was as good as sold. My excitement was 
 intense when a shopman came out for the three vol- 
 umes and carried them inside, but I was puzzled on 
 seeing the young gentleman depart, apparently with- 
 out having made a purchase. Consider my feelings 
 when the shopman replaced the three volumes on his 
 shelf with the new label, '92-i pp., Sd. ; worth Is.'" 
 
 " Surely it found a purchaser now?" 
 
 "Alas! no. The only man who seemed to be 
 attracted by it at eightpence turned out to be the 
 author of 'John Mordaunt's Christmas Box' ('Thrill- 
 ing! Published at 6s. ; offered at Is. 3d.'), who was 
 hanging about in the interests of his own work." 
 
 "Did it come down to 'Sixpence, worth nine- 
 pence' ?" 
 
 " No; when I returned to the spot next day I found 
 volumes one and three in the '2d. any vol.' box, and 
 I carried them away myself. What became of vol- 
 ume two I have never been able to discover. I rum- 
 maged the box for it in vain." 
 
 " As a matter of fact, Angus," remarked Rorrison, 
 "the novel is now in its third edition."
 
 156 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "I always understood that it had done well," said 
 Rob. 
 
 "The fourth time I asked for it at Mudie's," said 
 Simms, the latter half of whose sentences were some- 
 times scarcely audible, " I inquired how it was doing, 
 and was told that it had been already asked for three 
 times. Curiously enough there is a general impres- 
 sion that it has been a great success, and for that I 
 have to thank one man." 
 
 " The admirer of whom you spoke?" 
 
 " Yes, my admirer, as I love to call him. I first 
 heard of him as a business gentleman living at Shep- 
 herd's Bush, who spoke with rapture of my novel to 
 any chance acquaintances he made on the tops of 
 'buses. Then my aunt told me that a young lady 
 knew a stout man living at Shepherd's Bush who 
 could talk of nothing but my book ; and on inquiry 
 at my publisher's I learned that a gentleman answer- 
 ing to this description had bought two copies. 1 
 heard of my admirer from different quarters for the 
 next month, until a great longing rose in me to see 
 him, to clasp his hand, to ask what part of the book 
 he liked best at the least to walk up and down 
 past his windows, feeling that two men who appre- 
 ciated each other were only separated by a pane of 
 glass." 
 
 " Did you ever discover who he was?" 
 
 " I did. He lives at 42 Lavender Crescent, Shep- 
 herd's Bush, and his name is Henry Gilding."
 
 MR. NOBLE SIMMS. 157 
 
 "Well?" said Rob, seeing Simms pause, as if this 
 was all. 
 
 " I am afraid, Mr. Angus," the author murmured 
 in reply, " that you did not read the powerful and 
 harrowing tale very carefully, or you would remem- 
 ber that my hero's name was also Henry Gilding." 
 
 " Well, but what of that?" 
 
 "There is everything in that. It is what made 
 the Shepherd's Bush gentleman my admirer for life. 
 He considers it the strangest and most diverting 
 thing in his experience, and every night, I believe, 
 after dinner, his eldest daughter has to read out to 
 him the passages in which the Henry Gildings are 
 thickest. He chuckles over the extraordinary coin- 
 cidence still. He could take that joke with him to 
 the seaside for a month, and it would keep him in 
 humor all the time." 
 
 "Have done, Simms, have done," said Rorrison; 
 " Angus is one of us, or wants to be, at all events. 
 The Minotaur is printing one of his things, and I 
 have been giving him some sage advice." 
 
 "Any man," said Simms, "will do well on the 
 Press if he is stupid enough ; even Rorrison has done 
 well." 
 
 "I have just been telling him," responded Rorri- 
 son, "that the stupid men fail." 
 
 "I don't consider you a failure, Rorrison," said 
 Simms in mild surprise. " What stock in trade a 
 literary hand requires, Mr. Angus, is a fire to dry his
 
 158 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 writing at, jam or honey with which to gum old 
 stamps on to envelopes, and an antimacassar." 
 
 " An antimacassar?" Rob repeated. 
 
 "Yes; you pluck the thread with which to sew 
 your copy together out of the antimacassar. When 
 my antimacassars are at the wash I have to have a 
 holiday." 
 
 "Well, well, Simms," said Rorrison, "I like you 
 best when you are taciturn." 
 
 "So do I," said Simms. 
 
 "You might give Angus some advice about the 
 likeliest paper for which to write. Loudon is new to 
 him." 
 
 "The fact is, Mr. Angus," said Simms, more se- 
 riously, " that advice in such a matter is merely talk 
 thrown away. If you have the journalistic instinct, 
 which includes a determination not to be beaten as 
 well as an aptitude for selecting the proper subjects, 
 you will by-and-bye find an editor who believes in you. 
 Many men of genuine literary ability have failed on 
 the Press because they did not have that instinct, 
 and they have attacked journalism in their books in 
 consequence." 
 
 " I am not sure that I know what the journalis- 
 tic instinct precisely is," Rob said, "and still less 
 whether I possess it." 
 
 "Ah, just let me put you through your paces," 
 replied Simms. " Suppose yourself up for an exam, 
 in journalism, and that I am your examiner. Ques-
 
 MR. NOBLE SIMMS. 159 
 
 tionOne: 'The house was soon on fire; much sym- 
 pathy is expressed with the sufferers,' Can you 
 translate that into newspaper English?" 
 
 "Let me see," answered Rob, entering into the 
 spirit of the examination. "How would this do: 
 'In a moment the edifice was enveloped in shooting 
 tongues of flame ; the appalling catastrophe has 
 plunged the whole street into the gloom of night'?" 
 
 "Good. Question Two: A man hangs himself; 
 what is the technical heading for this?" 
 
 "Either 'Shocking Occurrence' or 'Rash Act.'" 
 
 " Question Three : l Pabulum, ' ' Cela va sans dire, ' 
 'Par excellence,' 'Neplus ultra.' What are these? 
 Are there any more of them?" 
 
 "They are scholarship," replied Rob, "and there 
 are two more, namely, 'tour de force' and 'terra 
 finna.' '' 
 
 " Question Four : A. (a soldier) dies at 6 P. M. with 
 his back to the foe. B. (a philanthropist) dies at 1 
 A. M. : which of these, speaking technically, would 
 you call a creditable death?" 
 
 " The soldier's, because time was given to set it." 
 
 " Quite right. Question Five : Have you ever 
 known a newspaper which did not have the largest 
 circulation in its district, and was not the most in- 
 fluential advertising medium?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " Question Six : Mr. Gladstone rises to speak in the 
 House of Commons at 2 A. M. What would be the
 
 160 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 sub-editor's probable remark on receiving the open- 
 ing words of the speech, and how would he break 
 the news to the editor? How would the editor be 
 likely to take it?" 
 
 "I prefer," said Rob, "not to answer that ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Angus," said Simms, tiring of the 
 examination, "you have passed with honors." 
 
 The conversation turned to Rorrison's coming 
 work in Egypt, and by-and-bye Simms rose to go. 
 
 "Your stick, I suppose, Mr. Angus?" he said, tak- 
 ing Rob's thick staff from a corner. 
 
 "Yes," answered Rob, " it has only a heavy knob, 
 you see, for a handle, and a doctor once told me that 
 if I continued to press so heavily on it I might suffer 
 from some disease in the palm of the hand." 
 
 "I never heard of that," said Simms, looking up 
 for the first time since he entered the room. Then 
 he added, " You should get a stick like Rorrison's, 
 It has a screw-handle which he keeps loose, so that 
 the slightest touch knocks it off. It is called the 
 compliment-stick, because if Rorrison is in the com- 
 pany of ladies he contrives to get them to hold it. 
 This is in the hope that they will knock the handle 
 off, when Rorrison bows and remarks exultingly that 
 the stick is like its owner when it came near them 
 it lost its head. He has said that to fifteen ladies 
 now, and has a great reputation for gallantry in con- 
 sequence. Good-night."
 
 MR. NOBLE SIMMS. 161 
 
 "Well, he did not get any copy out of me," said 
 Rob. 
 
 " Simms is a curious fellow," Rorrison answered. 
 " Though you might not expect it, he has written 
 some of the most pathetic things I ever read, but he 
 wears his heart out of sight. Despite what he says, 
 too, he is very jealous for the Press' good name. 
 He seemed to take to you, so I should not wonder 
 though he were to look you up here some night." 
 
 " Here? How do you mean?" 
 
 " Why, this. I shall probably be away from Lon- 
 don for some months, and as I must keep on my 
 rooms, I don't see why you should not occupy them. 
 The furniture is mine, and you would be rent free, 
 except that the housekeeper expects a few shillings a 
 week for looking after things. What do you think?" 
 
 Rob could have only one thought as he compared 
 these comfortable chambers to his own bare room, 
 and as Rorrison, who seemed to have taken a warm 
 liking to him, pressed the point, arguing that as the 
 rent must be paid at any rate the chambers were bet- 
 ter occupied, he at last consented on the understand- 
 ing that they could come to some arrangement on 
 Rorrison's return. 
 
 "It will please my father, too," Rorrison added, 
 "to know that you are here. I always remember 
 that had it not been for him you might never have 
 gone on to the Press." 
 
 They sat so late talking this matter over that
 
 162 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Rob eventually stayed all night, Rorrison having in 
 his bedroom a couch which many journalists had 
 slept on. 
 
 Next morning the paper whose nickname is the 
 Scalping Knife was served up with breakfast, and 
 the first thing Rob saw in it was a leaderette about a 
 disease generated in the palm of the hand by walk- 
 ing-sticks with heavy knobs for handles. 
 
 "I told you," said Rorrison, "that Simms would 
 make his half -guinea out of you." 
 
 When Rorrison went down to Simms' chambers 
 later in the day, however, to say that he was leaving 
 Rob tenant of his rooms, he was laughing at some- 
 thing else. 
 
 "All during breakfast," he said to Simms, "I no- 
 ticed that Angus was preoccupied, and anxious to 
 say something that he did not like to say. At last 
 he blurted it out, with a white face, and what do you 
 think it was?" 
 
 Simms shook his head. 
 
 " Well," said Rorrison, " it was this. He has been 
 accustomed to go down on his knees every night to 
 say his prayers, as we used to do at school, but when 
 he saw that I did not do it he did not like to do it 
 either. I believe it troubled him all night, for he 
 looked haggard when he rose. " 
 
 " He told you this?" 
 
 "Yes; he said he felt ashamed of himself," said
 
 MR. NOBLE SIMMS 163 
 
 Rorrison, smiling. "You must remember he is 
 country-bred. " 
 
 "You are a good fellow, Rorrison," said Simms 
 gravely, "to put him into your rooms, but I don't 
 see what you are laughing at." 
 
 "Why," said Rorrison, taken aback, "I thought 
 you would see it in the same light." 
 
 "Not I," said Simms; "but let me tell you this, I 
 shall do what I can for him. I like your Angus."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE WIGWAM. 
 
 ROB had a tussle for it, but he managed to live 
 down his first winter in London, and May-day saw 
 him sufficiently prosperous and brazen to be able to 
 go into restaurants and shout out "Waiter." After 
 that nothing frightened him but barmaids. 
 
 For a time his chief struggle had been with his 
 appetite, which tortured him when he went out in 
 the afternoons. He wanted to dine out of a paper 
 bag, but his legs were reluctant to carry him past a 
 grill-room. At last a compromise was agreed upon. 
 If he got a proof over-night, he dined in state next 
 day ; if it was only his manuscript that was returned 
 to him, he thought of dining later in the week. For 
 a long time his appetite had the worst of it. It was 
 then that he became so great an authority on penny 
 buns. His striking appearance always brought the 
 saleswomen to him promptly, and sometimes he 
 blushed, and often he glared, as he gave his order. 
 When they smiled he changed his shop. 
 
 There was one terrible month when he wrote from 
 
 morning to night and did not make sixpence. He 
 164
 
 THE WIGWAM. 165 
 
 lived by selling his books, half a dozen at a time. 
 Even on the last day of that black month he did not 
 despair. When he wound up his watch at night 
 before going hungry to bed, he never remembered 
 that it could be pawned. The very idea of entering 
 a pawnshop never struck him. Many a time when 
 his rejected articles came back he shook his fist in 
 imagination at all the editors in London, and saw 
 himself twisting their necks one by one. To think 
 of a different death for each of them exercised his 
 imagination and calmed his passion, and he won- 
 dered whether the murder of an editor was an indict- 
 able offence. When he did not have ten shillings, 
 " I will get on," cried Rob to himself. " I'm not go- 
 ing to be starved out of a big town like this. I'll 
 make my mark yet. Yes," he roared, while the 
 housekeeper, at the other side of the door, quaked 
 to hear him, " I will get on ; I'm not going to be 
 beaten. " He was waving his arms fiercely when the 
 housekeeper knocked. "Come in," said Rob, sub- 
 siding meekly into his chair. Before company he 
 seemed to be without passion, but they should have 
 seen him when he was alone. One night he dreamed 
 that he saw all the editors in London being conveyed 
 (in a row) to the hospital on stretchers. A gratified 
 smile lit up his face as he slept, and his arm, going 
 out suddenly to tip one of the stretchers over, hit 
 against a chair. Rob jumped out of bed and kicked 
 the chair round the room. By-and-bye, when his
 
 166 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 articles were occasionally used, he told his proofs 
 that the editors were capital fellows. 
 
 The only acquaintances he made were with jour- 
 nalists who came to his chambers to see Rorrison, 
 who was now in India. They seemed just as pleased 
 to see Rob, and a few of them, who spoke largely 
 of their connection with literature, borrowed five 
 shillings from him. To his disappointment Noble 
 Simms did not call, though he sometimes sent up 
 notes to Rob suggesting likely articles, and the 
 proper papers to which to send them. "I would 
 gladly say 'Use my name,'" Simms wrote, "but it is 
 the glory of anonymous journalism that names are 
 nothing and good stuff everything. I assure you 
 that on the Press it is the men who have it in them 
 that succeed, and the best of them become the edi- 
 tors." He advised Rob to go to the annual supper 
 given by a philanthropic body to discharged crimi- 
 nals, and write an account of the proceedings ; and 
 told him that when anything remarkable happened 
 in London he should at once do an article (in the 
 British Museum) on the times the same thing had 
 happened before. "Don't neglect eclipses," he said, 
 " nor heavy scoring at cricket matches any more than 
 what look like signs of the times, and always try to 
 be first in the field." He recommended Rob to 
 gather statistics of all kinds, from the number of 
 grandchildren the crowned heads of Europe had to 
 the jockeys who had ridden the Derby winner more
 
 THE WIGWAM. 167 
 
 than once, and suggested the collecting of anecdotes 
 about celebrities, which everybody would want to 
 read if his celebrities chanced to die, as they must 
 do some day ; and he assured him that there was a 
 public who liked to be told every year what the poets 
 had said about May. Rob was advised never to let 
 a historic house disappear from London without 
 compiling an article about its associations, and to be 
 ready to run after the fire brigade. He was told that 
 an article on flagstone artists could be made interest- 
 ing. " But always be sure of your facts," Simms 
 said. " Write your articles over again and again, 
 avoid fine writing as much as dishonest writing, and 
 never spoil a leaderette by drawing it out into a 
 leader. By-and-bye you may be able to choose the 
 kind of subject that interests yourself, but at present 
 put your best work into what experienced editors be- 
 lieve interests the general public." 
 
 Rob found these suggestions valuable, and often 
 thought, as he passed Simms' door, of going in to 
 thank him, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that 
 Simms did not want him. Of course Rob was wrong. 
 Simms had feared at first to saddle himself with a 
 man who might prove incapable, and, besides, he 
 generally liked those persons best whom he saw least 
 frequently. 
 
 For the great part of the spring Simms was out of 
 town ; but one day after his return he met Rob on the 
 stair, and took him into his chambers. The sitting-
 
 168 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 room had been originally furnished with newspaper 
 articles ; Simms, in his younger days, when he 
 wanted a new chair or an etching having written an 
 article to pay for it, and then pasted the article on 
 the back. He had paid a series on wild birds for 
 his piano, and at one time leaderettes had even been 
 found in the inside of his hats. Odd books and mag- 
 azines lay about his table, but they would not in all 
 have filled a library shelf ; and there were no news- 
 papers visible. The blank wall opposite the fireplace 
 showed in dust that a large picture had recently hung 
 there. It was an oil-painting which a month earlier 
 had given way in the cord and fallen behind the 
 piano, where Simms was letting it lie. 
 
 "I wonder," said Rob, who had heard from many 
 quarters of Simms' reputation, "that you are con- 
 tent to put your best work into newspapers." 
 
 "Ah," answered Simms, "I was ambitious once, 
 but, as I told you, the grand book was a failure. 
 Nowadays I gratify myself with the reflection that 
 I am not stupid enough ever to be a gceat man." 
 
 " I wish you would begin something really big," 
 said Rob earnestly. 
 
 "I feel safer," replied Simms, "finishing some- 
 thing really little." 
 
 He turned the talk to Rob's affairs, as if his own 
 wearied him, and, after hesitating, offered to " place " 
 a political article by Rob with the editor of the 
 Morning Wire.
 
 THE WIGWAM. 169 
 
 " I don't say he'll use it, though," he added. 
 
 This was so much the work Rob hungered for that 
 he could have run upstairs and begun it at once. 
 
 " Why, you surely don't work on Saturday nights?" 
 said his host, who was putting on an overcoat. 
 
 "Yes," said Rob, "there is nothing else to do. I 
 know no one well enough to go to him. Of course I 
 do nothing on the Sab I mean on Sundays." 
 
 " No?" Then how do you pass your Sundays? 
 
 " I go to church, and take a long walk, or read." 
 
 " And you never break this principle when a cap- 
 ital idea for an article strikes you on Sunday even- 
 ing, for instance?" 
 
 "Well," said Rob, "when that happens I wait un- 
 til twelve o'clock strikes, and then begin." 
 
 Perceiving nothing curious in this, Bob did not 
 look up to see Simms' mouth twitching. 
 
 "On those occasions," asked Simms, "when you 
 are waiting for twelve o'clock, does the evening not 
 seem to pass very slowly?" 
 
 Then Rob blushed. 
 
 "At all events, come with me to-night," said 
 Simms, " to my club. I am going now to the Wigwam, 
 and we may meet men there worth your knowing." 
 
 The Wigwam is one of the best-known literary 
 clubs in London, and as they rattled to it in a han- 
 som, the driver of which was the broken son of a 
 peer, Rob remarked that its fame had even travelled 
 to his saw-mill,
 
 170 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "It has such a name," said Simms in reply, "that 
 I feel sorry for any one who is taken for the first time. 
 The best way to admire the Wigwam is not to go 
 to it." 
 
 " I always thought it was considered the pleasant- 
 est club in London," Rob said. 
 
 " So it is," said Simms, who was a member of half 
 a dozen ; " most of the others are only meant for sit- 
 ting in on padded chairs and calling out 'sh-sh' when 
 any other body speaks." 
 
 At the Wigwam there is a special dinner every 
 Saturday evening, but it was over before Simms and 
 Rob arrived, and the members were crowding into 
 the room where great poets have sat beating time with 
 churchwardens, while great artists or coming Cab- 
 inet ministers sang songs that were not of the draw- 
 ing-room. A popular novelist, on whom Rob gazed 
 with a veneration that did not spread to his compan- 
 ion's face, was in the chair when they entered, and 
 the room was full of literary men, actors, and artists, 
 of whom, though many were noted, many were also 
 needy. Here was an actor who had separated from 
 his wife because her notices were better than his; 
 and another gentleman of the same profession took 
 Rob aside to say that he was the greatest tragedian 
 on earth if he could only get a chance. Rob did not 
 know what to reply when the eminent cartoonist sit- 
 ting next him, whom he had looked up to for half a 
 dozen years, told him, by way of opening a conver-
 
 THE WIGWAM. 171 
 
 sation, that he had just pawned his watch. They 
 seemed so pleased with poverty that they made as 
 much of a little of it as they could, and the wisest 
 conclusion Rob came to that night was not to take 
 them too seriously. It was, however, a novel world, 
 to find one's self in all of a sudden, one in which every 
 body was a wit at his own expense. Even Simms, 
 who always upheld the Press when any outsider ran 
 it down, sang with applause some verses whose point 
 lay in their being directed against himself. They 
 began: 
 
 When clever pressmen write this way, 
 
 " As Mr. J. A. Froude would say, " 
 
 Is it because they think lie would. 
 
 And have they read a line of Froude? 
 
 Or is it only that they fear 
 
 The comment they have made is queer, 
 
 And that they either must erase it, 
 
 Or say it's Mr. Froude who says it? 
 
 Every one abandoned himself to the humor of the 
 evening, and as song followed song, or was wedged 
 between entertainments of other kinds, the room filled 
 with smoke until it resembled London in a fog. 
 
 By-and-bye a sallow-faced man mounted a table to 
 show the company how to perform a remarkable trick 
 with three hats. He got his hats from the company, 
 and having looked at them thoughtfully for some 
 minutes, said that he had forgotten the way. 
 
 "That," said Simms, mentioning a well-known 
 
 journalist, " is K He can never work unless his 
 
 pockets are empty, and he would not be looking so
 
 172 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 doleful at present if he was not pretty well off. He 
 goes from room to room in the house he lodges in, ac- 
 cording to the state of his finances, and when you call 
 on him you have to ask at the door which floor he is 
 on to-day. One week you find him in the drawing- 
 room, the next in the garret." 
 
 A stouter and brighter man followed the hat enter- 
 tainment with a song, which he said was considered 
 by some of his friends a recitation. 
 
 "There was a time," said Simms, who was held a 
 terrible person by those who took him literally, " when 
 that was the saddest man I knew. He was so sad 
 that the doctors feared he would die of it. It all 
 came of his writing for Punch." 
 
 " How did they treat him?" Rob asked. 
 
 " Oh, they quite gave him up, and he was wasting 
 away visibly, when a second-rate provincial journal 
 appointed him its London correspondent, and saved 
 his life." 
 
 "Then he was sad," asked Rob, " because he was 
 out of work?" 
 
 "On the contrary," said Simms gravely, "he was 
 always one of the successful men, but he could not 
 laugh." 
 
 "And he laughed when he became a London 
 correspondent?" 
 
 " Yes ; that restored his sense of humor. But lis- 
 ten to this song; he is a countryman of yours who 
 sings it."
 
 THE WIGWAM. 173 
 
 A man, who looked as if he had been cut out of a 
 granite block, and who at the end of each verse thrust 
 his pipe back into his mouth, sang in a broad accent, 
 that made Rob want to go nearer him, some verses 
 about an old university : 
 
 "Take off the straoger's hat!" The shout 
 
 We raised in fifty-nine 
 Assails my ears, with careless flout, 
 
 And now the hat is mine. 
 It seems a day since I was here, 
 
 A student slim and hearty, 
 And see, the boys around me cheer, 
 
 "The ancient looking party !" 
 
 Rough horseplay did not pass for wit 
 
 When Rae and Mill were there ; 
 I see a lad from Oxford sit 
 
 In Blackie's famous chair. 
 And Rae, of all our men the one 
 
 We most admired in quad 
 (I had this years ago) , has gone 
 
 Completely to the bad. 
 
 In our debates the moral Mill 
 
 Had infinite address, 
 Alas ! since then he's robbed a till, 
 
 And now he's on the Press. 
 And Tommy Robb, the ploughman's son, 
 
 Whom all his fellows slighted, 
 From Rae and Mill the prize has won, 
 
 For Tommy's to be knighted. 
 
 A lanky loon is in the seat 
 
 Filled once by manse-bred Sheen, 
 Who did not care to mix with Peate, 
 
 A bleacher who had been. 
 But watch the whirligig of time, 
 
 Brave Peate became a preacher, 
 His name is known in every clime, 
 
 And Sheen is now the bleacher.
 
 174 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 McMillan, who the medals carried. 
 
 Is now a judge, 'tis said, 
 And curly-headed Smith is married, 
 
 And Williamson is dead. 
 Old Phil and I, who shared our books, 
 
 Now very seldom meet, 
 And when we do, with frowning looks 
 
 We passed by in the street. 
 
 The college rings with student slang 
 
 As in the days of yore, 
 The self -same notice boards still hang 
 
 Upon the class-room door : 
 An essay (I expected that) 
 
 On Burns this week, or Locke, 
 "A theory of creation" at 
 
 Precisely seven o'clock. 
 
 There's none here now who knows my name: 
 
 My place is far away, 
 And yet the college is the same, 
 
 Not older by a day. 
 But curious looks are cast at me, 
 
 Ah ! herein lies the change : 
 All else is as it used to be, 
 
 And I alone am strange ! 
 
 "Now, you could never guess," Simms said to 
 Rob, "what profession our singer belongs to." 
 
 " He looks more like a writer than an artist," said 
 Rob, who had felt the song more than the singer did. 
 
 " Well, he is more an artist than a writer, though, 
 strictly speaking, he is neither. To that man is the 
 honor of having created a profession. He furnishes 
 rooms for interviews." 
 
 "I don't quite understand," said Rob. 
 
 "It is in this way," Simms explained. "Inter- 
 views in this country are of recent growth, but
 
 THE WIGWAM. 175 
 
 it has been already discovered that what the pub- 
 lic want to read is not so much a celebrity's views 
 on any topic as a description of his library, his dress- 
 ing-gown, or his gifts from the king of Kashabahoo. 
 Many of the eminent ones, however, are very un- 
 interesting in private life, and have no curiosities to 
 show their interviewer worth writing about, so your 
 countryman has started a profession of providing 
 curiosities suitable for celebrities at from five pounds 
 upward, each article, of course, having a guaran- 
 teed story attached to it. The editor, you observe, 
 intimates his wish to include the distinguished per- 
 son in his galaxy of 'Men of the Moment,' and then 
 the notability drops a line to our friend saying that he 
 wants a few of his rooms arranged for an interview. 
 Your countryman sends the goods, arranges them 
 effectively, and puts the celebrity up to the rem- 
 iniscences he is to tell about each." 
 
 " I suppose," said Rob, with a light in his eye " that 
 the interviewer is as much taken in by this as well, 
 say, as I have been by you?" 
 
 "To the same extent," admitted Simms sol- 
 emnly. " Of course he is not aware that before the 
 interview appears the interesting relics have all been 
 packed up and taken back to our Scottish friend's 
 show-rooms." 
 
 The distinguished novelist in the chair told Rob 
 (without having been introduced to him) that his 
 books were beggaring his publishers.
 
 176 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "What I make my living off," he said, "is the 
 penny dreadful, complete in one number. I manu- 
 facture two a week without hindrance to other em- 
 ployment, and could make it three if I did not have 
 a weak wrist." 
 
 It was thus that every one talked to Rob, who, be- 
 cause he took a joke without changing countenance, 
 was considered obtuse. He congratulated one man on 
 his article on chaffinches in the Evening Firebrand, 
 and the writer said he had discovered, since the paper 
 appeared, that the birds he described were really lin- 
 nets. Another man was introduced to Rob as the 
 writer of "In Memoriam." 
 
 "No," said the gentleman himself, on seeing Rob 
 start, "my name is not Tennyson. It is, indeed, 
 Murphy. Tennyson and the other fellows, who are 
 ambitious of literary fame, pay me so much a page 
 for poems to which they put their names." 
 
 At this point the applause became so deafening 
 that Simms and Rob, who had been on their way to 
 another room, turned back. An aged man, with a 
 magnificent head, was on his feet to describe his first 
 meeting with Carlyle. 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Rob, and Simms mentioned 
 the name of a celebrity only a little less renowned 
 than Carlyle himself. To Rob it had been one of the 
 glories of London that in the streets he sometimes 
 came suddenly upon world-renowned men, but he now 
 looked upon this eminent scientist for the first time.
 
 THE WIGWAM. 177 
 
 The celebrity was there as a visitor, for the Wigwam 
 cannot boast quite such famous members as he. 
 
 The septuagenarian began his story well. He de- 
 scribed the approach to Craigenputtock on a warm 
 summer afternoon, and the emotions that laid hold 
 of him as, from a distance, he observed the sage 
 seated astride a low dyke, flinging stones into the 
 duck-pond. The pedestrian announced his name and 
 the pleasure with which he at last stood face to face 
 with the greatest writer of the day; and then the 
 genial author of " Sartor Resartus," annoyed at being 
 disturbed, jumped off the dyke and chased his visitor 
 round and round the duck-pond. The celebrity had 
 got thus far in his reminiscence when he suddenly 
 stammered, bit his lip as if enraged at something^ 
 and then trembled so much that he had to be led back 
 to his seat. 
 
 " He must be ill," whispered Rob to Simms. 
 
 " It isn't that, " answered Simms ; " I fancy he must 
 have caught sight of Wingfield." 
 
 Rob's companion pointed to a melancholy-looking 
 man in a seedy coat, who was sitting alone, glaring 
 at the celebrity. 
 
 "Who is he?" asked Rob. 
 
 "He is the great man's literary executor," Simms 
 replied; "come along with me and hearken to his 
 sad tale; he is never loth to tell it." 
 
 They crossed over to Wingfield, who received them 
 dejectedly.
 
 178 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " This is not a matter I care to speak of, Mr. An- 
 gus," said the sorrowful man, who spoke of it, how- 
 ever, as frequently as he could find a listener. " It 
 is now seven years since that gentleman" pointing 
 angrily at the celebrity, who glared in reply " ap- 
 pointed me his literary executor. At the time I 
 thought it a splendid appointment, and by the end 
 of two years I had all his remains carefully edited 
 and his biography ready for the Press. He was an 
 invalid at that time, supposed to be breaking up fast ; 
 yet look at him now." 
 
 " He is quite vigorous in appearance now," said Rob. 
 
 "Oh, I've given up hope," continued the sad man 
 dolefully. 
 
 "Still," remarked Simms," I don't know that you 
 could expect him to die just for your sake. I only 
 venture that as an opinion, of course." 
 
 "I don't ask that of him," responded Wingfield. 
 " I'm not blaming him in any way ; all I say is that 
 he has spoiled my life. Here have I been waiting, 
 waiting for five years, and I seem farther from pub- 
 lication than ever." 
 
 " It is hard on you," said Simms. 
 
 "But why did he break down in his story," asked 
 Rob, "when he saw you?" 
 
 " Oh, the man has some sense of decency left, I 
 suppose, and knows that he has ruined my career." 
 
 " Is the Carlylean reminiscence taken from the bi- 
 ography?" inquired Simms.
 
 THE WIGWAM. 179 
 
 "That is the sore point," answered Wingfield 
 sullenly. " He used to shun society, but now he goes 
 to clubs, banquets, and 'At Homes,' and tells the 
 choice things in the memoir at every one of them. 
 The book will scarcely be worth printing now." 
 
 "I dare say he feels sorry for you," said Simms, 
 "and sees that he has placed you in a false position." 
 
 "He does in a w.ay," replied the literary executor, 
 " and yet I irritate him. When he was ill last De- 
 cember I called to ask for him every day, but he mis- 
 took my motives ; and now he is frightened to be left 
 alone with me." 
 
 "It is a sad business," said Simms, "but we all 
 have our trials." 
 
 " I would try to bear up better," said the sad man, 
 "if I got more sympathy." 
 
 It was very late when Simms and Rob left the 
 Wigwam, yet they were among the first to go. 
 
 " When does the club close?" Rob asked, as they 
 got into the fresh air. 
 
 "No one knows," answered Simms wearily, "but 
 I believe the last man to go takes in the morning's 
 milk." 
 
 In the weeks that followed Rob worked hard at 
 political articles for the Wire, and at last began to 
 feel that he was making some headway. He had 
 not the fatal facility for scribbling that distinguishes 
 some journalists, but he had felt life before he took 
 to writing. His style was forcible if not superfine,
 
 180 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 and he had the faculty that makes a journalist, of 
 only seeing things from one point of view. The suc- 
 cessful political writer is blind in one eye 
 
 Though one in three of Rob's articles was now 
 used, the editor of the Wire did not write to say that 
 he liked them, and Rob never heard any one mention 
 them. Even Simms would not read them, but then 
 Simms never read any paper. He got his news 
 from the placards, and bought the Scalping Knife, 
 not to read his own articles, but to measure them and 
 calculate how much he would get for them. Then 
 he dropped them into the gutter. 
 
 Some weeks had passed without Rob's seeing 
 Simms, when one day he got a letter that made him 
 walk round and round his table like a circus horse. 
 It was from the editor of the Wire asking him to be 
 in readiness to come to the office any evening he 
 might be wanted to write. This looked like a step 
 toward an appointment on the staff if he gave satis- 
 faction (a proviso which he took complacently), and 
 Rob's chest expanded, till the room seemed quite 
 small. He pictured Thrums again. He jumped to 
 Mary Abinger, and then he distinctly saw himself in 
 the editorial chair of the Times. He was lying back 
 in it, smoking a cigar, and giving a Cabinet minis- 
 ter five minutes. 
 
 Nearly six months had passed since Rob saw Miss 
 Abinger a long time for a young man to remain in 
 love with the same person. Of late Rob had been
 
 THE WIGWAM, 181 
 
 less given to dreaming than may be expected of a 
 man who classifies the other sex into one particular 
 lady and others, but Mary was coming to London in 
 the early summer, and when he thought of summer 
 he meant Mary. Rob was oftener in Piccadilly in 
 May than he had been during the previous four 
 months, and he was always looking for somebody. 
 It was the third of June, a day to be remembered in 
 his life, that he heard from the editor of the Wire. 
 At 5 o'clock he looked upon that as what made it a 
 day of days, but he had changed his mind by a quar- 
 ter past. 
 
 Rob had a silk hat now, and he thrust it on his 
 head, meaning to run downstairs to tell Simms of his 
 good fortune. He was in the happy frame of mind 
 that makes a man walk round improbabilities, and for 
 the first time since he came to London he felt confident 
 of the future, without becoming despondent imme- 
 diately afterward. The future, like the summer, 
 was. an allegory for Miss Abinger. For the moment 
 Rob's heart filled with compassion for Simms. The 
 one thing our minds will not do is leave our neigh- 
 bors alone, and Rob had some time before reached 
 the conclusion that Simms' nature had been twisted 
 by a disappointment in love. There was nothing 
 else that could account for his fits of silence, his in 
 difference to the future. He was known to have 
 given the coat off his back to some miserable creature 
 in the street, and to have been annoyed when he dis-
 
 182 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 covered that a friend saw him do it. Though 
 Simms' walls were covered with engravings, Rob 
 remembered all at once that there was not a female 
 figure in one of them. 
 
 To sympathize with others in a love affair is de- 
 lightful to every one who feels that he is all right 
 himself. Rob went down to Simms' rooms with a 
 joyous step and a light heart. The outer door stood 
 ajar, and as he pushed it open he heard a voice that 
 turned his face white. From where he stood para- 
 lyzed he saw through the dark passage into the sit- 
 ting-room. Mary Abinger was standing before the 
 fireplace, and as Rob's arm fell from the door, Simms 
 bent forward and kissed her.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ROB IS STRUCK DOWN. 
 
 ROB turned from Simms' door and went quietly 
 downstairs, looking to the beadle, who gave him a 
 good-evening at the mouth of the inn, like a man 
 going quietly to his work. He could not keep his 
 thoughts. They fell about him in sparks, raised by 
 a wheel whirling so fast that it seemed motionless. 
 
 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 to their 
 gesticulations. When you have done Oxford Circus 
 you can do anything ; but he was not even brought to 
 himself there, though it is all savage lands in twenty 
 square yards. For a time he saw nothing but that 
 scene in Simms' chambers, which had been photo- 
 graphed on his brain. The light of his life had sud- 
 denly been turned out, leaving him only the last 
 thing he saw to think about. 
 
 By-and-bye he was walking more slowly, laugh- 
 ing at himself. Since he met Mary Abinger she had 
 lived so much in his mind that he had not dared to 
 think of losing her. He had only given himself fits 
 
 of despondency for the pleasure of dispelling them. 
 183
 
 184 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Now all at once he saw without prejudice the Rob 
 Angus who had made up his mind to carry off this 
 prize, and he cut such a poor figure that he smiled 
 grimly at it. He realized as a humorous conception 
 that this uncouth young man who was himself must 
 have fancied that he was, on the whole, less unworthy 
 of Miss Abinger than were most of the young men 
 she was likely to meet. With the exaggerated hu- 
 mility that comes occasionally to men in his condi- 
 tion, without, however, feeling sufficiently at home 
 to remain long, he felt that there was everything in 
 Simms a girl could find lovable, and nothing in him- 
 self. He was so terribly open that any one could 
 understand him, while Simms was such an enigma 
 as a girl would love to read. His own clumsiness 
 contrasted as disastrously with Simms' grace of 
 manner as his blunt talk compared with Simms' 
 wit. Not being able to see himself with the eyes of 
 others, Rob noted only one thing in his favor, his 
 fight forward; which they, knowing, for instance, 
 that he was better to look at than most men, would 
 have considered his chief drawback. Rob in his 
 calmer moments had perhaps as high an opinion of 
 his capacity as the circumstances warranted, but he 
 never knew that a good many ladies felt his presence 
 when he passed them. 
 
 Most men are hero and villain several times in a 
 day, but Rob went through the whole gamut of sensa- 
 tions in half an hour, hating himself the one moment
 
 ROB IS STRUCK DOWN. 185 
 
 for what seemed another's fault the next, fancying 
 now that 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 form of 
 woman, and ran after it. 
 
 Simms had deceived him, had never even men- 
 tioned Silchester, had laughed at the awakening that 
 was coming to him. All these months they had 
 been waiting for Mary Abinger together, and Simms 
 had not said that when she came it would be to him. 
 Then Rob saw what a foolish race these thoughts 
 ran in his brain, remembering that he had only seen 
 Simms twice for more than a moment, and that he 
 himself had never talked of Silchester. He scorned 
 his own want of generosity, and recalled his solici- 
 tude for Simms' welfare an hour before. 
 
 Rob saw his whole future life lying before him. 
 The broken-looking man with the sad face aged 
 before his time, who walked alone up Fleet Street, 
 was Rob Angus, who had come to London to be 
 happy. Simms would ask him sometimes to his 
 house to see her, but it was better that he should not 
 go. She would understand why, if her husband did 
 not. Her husband ! Rob could not gulp down the 
 lump in his throat. He rushed on again, with noth- 
 ing 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 was his?
 
 186 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Rob stopped abruptly in the street with the sudden 
 thought, Was it possible that she did not care for 
 Simms? Could that scene have had any other mean- 
 ing? He had once heard Simms himself say that 
 you never knew what a woman meant by anything 
 until she told you, and probably not even then. But 
 he saw again the love in her eyes as she looked up 
 into Simms' face. All through his life he would 
 carry that look with him. They took no distinct 
 shape, but wild ways of ending his misery coursed 
 through his brain, and he looked on calmly at hig 
 own funeral. A terrible stolidity seized him, and he 
 conceived himself a monster from whom the capacity 
 to sympathize had gone. Children saw his face and 
 fled from him. 
 
 He had left England far behind, and dwelt now 
 among wild tribes who had not before looked upon a 
 white face. Their sick came to him for miracles, and 
 he either cured them or told them to begone. He 
 was not sure whether he was a fiend or a missionary. 
 
 Then something remarkable happened, which 
 showed that Rob had not mistaken his profession. 
 He saw himself in the editorial chair that he had so 
 often coveted, and Mary Abinger, too, was in the 
 room. Always previously when she had come be- 
 tween him and the paper he had been forced to lay 
 down his pen, but now he wrote on and on, and she 
 seemed to help him. He was describing the scene 
 that he had witnessed in Simms' chambers, describ-
 
 ROB IS STRUCK DOWN. - 187 
 
 ing it so vividly that he heard the great public discuss- 
 ing his article as if it were an Academy picture. 
 His passion had subsided, and the best words formed 
 slowly in his brain. He was hesitating about the 
 most fitting title, when some one struck against him, 
 and as he drew his arm over his eyes he knew with 
 horror that he had been turning Mary Abinger into 
 copy. 
 
 For the last time that night Rob dreamed again, and 
 now it was such a fine picture he drew that he looked 
 upon it with sad complacency. Many years had 
 passed. He was now rich and famous. He passed 
 through the wynds of Thrums, and the Auld Lichts 
 turned out to gaze at him. He saw himself sign- 
 ing checks for all kinds of charitable objects, and 
 appearing in the subscription lists, with a grand 
 disregard for glory that is not common to phi- 
 lanthropists, as X. Y. Z. or "A well-wisher." 
 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 
 not fulfilled his promise.) The papers were full of 
 his speech in the House of Commons the night before, 
 and he had declined a seat in the Cabinet from con- 
 scientious motives. His imagination might soon 
 have landed him master in the Mansion House, had 
 it not deserted him when he had most need of it. He 
 fell from his balloon like a stone. Before him he saw
 
 188 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 the blank years that had to be traversed without any 
 Mary Abinger, and despair filled his soul. All the 
 horrible meaning of the scene he had fled from came 
 to him like a rush of blood to the head, and he stood 
 with it, glaring at it, in the middle of a roaring 
 street. Three hansoms shaved him by an inch, and 
 the fourth knocked him senseless. 
 
 An hour later Simms was lolling in his chambers 
 smoking, his chair tilted back until another inch 
 would have sent him over it. His gas had been 
 blazing all day because he had no blotting-paper, and 
 the blinds were nicely pulled down because Mary 
 Abinger and Nell were there to do it. They were 
 sitting on each side of him, and Nell had on a round 
 cap, about which Simms subsequently wrote an ar- 
 ticle. Mary's hat was larger and turned up at one 
 side; the fashion which arose through a carriage- 
 wheel's happening to pass over the hat of a leader of 
 fashion and make it perfectly lovely. Beyond the 
 hats one does not care to venture, but out of fairness 
 to Mary and Nell it should be said that there were no 
 shiny little beads on their dresses. 
 
 They had put on their hats to go, and then they 
 had sat down again to tell their host a great many 
 things that they had told him already. Even Mary, 
 who was perfect in a general sort of way, took a con- 
 siderable time to tell a story, and expected it to have 
 more point when it ended than was sometimes the 
 case. Simms, with his eyes half closed, let the
 
 ROB IS STRUCK DOWN. 189 
 
 laughter ripple over his head, and drowsily heard the 
 details of their journey from Silchester afresh. Mary 
 had come up with the Merediths on the previous 
 day, and they were now staying at the Langham 
 Hotel. They would only be in town for a few weeks ; 
 "just to oblige the season," Nell said, for she had 
 inveigled her father into taking a house-boat on the 
 Thames, and was certain it would prove delightful. 
 Mary was to accompany them there, too, having first 
 done her duty to society, and Colonel Abinger was 
 setting off shortly for the continent. In the middle 
 of her prattle Nell distinctly saw Simms' head nod, 
 as if it was loose in its socket. She made a mourn- 
 ful grimace. 
 
 Simms sat up. 
 
 "Your voices did it," he explained, unabashed. 
 They are as soothing to the jaded journalist as the 
 streams that murmur through the fields in June." 
 
 " Cigars are making you stupid, Dick," said Mary; 
 " I do wonder why men smoke." 
 
 " I have often asked myself that question," thought- 
 fully answered Simms, whom it is time to call by his 
 real name of Dick Abinger. "I know some men 
 who smoke because they might get sick otherwise 
 when in the company of smokers. Others smoke 
 because they began to do so at school, and are now 
 afraid to leave off. A great many men smoke for 
 philanthropic motives, smoking enabling them to 
 work harder, and so being for their family's good.
 
 190 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 At picnics men smoke because it is the only way to 
 keep the midges off the ladies. Smoking keeps you 
 cool in summer and warm in winter, and is an excel- 
 lent disinfectant. There are even said to be men who 
 admit that they smoke because they like it, but for 
 my own part I fancy I smoke because I forget not 
 to do so." 
 
 "Silly reasons," said Nell. If there was one pos- 
 sible improvement she could conceive in Dick it was 
 that he might make his jests a little easier. 
 
 "It is revealing no secret," murmured Abinger in 
 reply, " to say that drowning men clutch at straws. " 
 
 Mary rose to go once more, and sat down again, 
 for she had remembered something else. 
 
 "Do you know, Dick," she said, "that your two 
 names are a great nuisance. On our way to London 
 yesterday there was an acquaintance of Mr. Mere- 
 dith's in the carriage, and he told us he knew Noble 
 Simms well." 
 
 "Yes," said Nell, "and that this Noble Simms was 
 an old gentleman, who had been married for thirty 
 years. We said we knew Mr. Noble Simms, and 
 that he was a barrister, and he laughed at us. So 
 you see some one is trading on your name." 
 
 "Much good may it do him," said Abinger gen- 
 erously. 
 
 " But it is horrid," said Nell, " that we should have 
 to listen to people praising Noble Simms' writings,
 
 ROB IS STRUCK DOWN. 191 
 
 and not be allowed to say that he is Dick Abinger 
 in disguise." 
 
 "It must be very hard on you, Nell, to have to 
 keep a secret," admitted Dick, "but you see I must 
 lead two lives or be undone. In the Temple you will 
 see the name of Richard Abinger, barrister-at-law, 
 but in Frobisher'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 Lord Chancellor or Lord Chief Jus- 
 tice, I forget which, but while I wait for that post I 
 must live, and I live by writings (which are all dead 
 the morning after they appear). Now such is the 
 suspicion with which literature is regarded by the 
 legal mind that, were it known I wrote for the Press, 
 my chance of the Lord Chancellorship would cease 
 to be a moral certainty. The editor of the Scalping 
 Knife has not the least notion that Noble Simms is 
 the rising barrister who has been known to make as 
 much by the law as a guinea in a single month. In- 
 deed, only my most intimate friends, some of whom 
 practise the same deception themselves, are aware 
 that the singular gifts of Simms and Abinger are 
 united in the same person." 
 
 " The housekeeper here must know?" asked Mary. 
 
 "No, it would hopelessly puzzle her," said Dick; 
 "she would think there was something uncanny 
 about it, and so she is happy in the belief that the
 
 192 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 letters which occasionally come addressed to Abinger 
 are forwarded hy me to that gentleman's abode in 
 the Temple." 
 
 "It is such an ugly name, Noble Simms," said 
 Nell; "I wonder why you selected it." 
 
 " It is ugly, is it not?" said Dick. " It struck me 
 at the time as the most ridiculous name I was likely 
 to think of, and so I chose it. Such a remark- 
 able 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 them back to the hotel. 
 
 "There is some one knocking at the door," said 
 Mary. 
 
 "Come in," murmured Ahinger. 
 
 The housekeeper opened the door, but half shut it 
 again when she saw that Dick was not alone. Then 
 she thought of a compromise between telling her bus- 
 iness and retiring. 
 
 "If you please, Mr. Simms," she said apologeti- 
 cally, "would you speak to me a moment in the 
 passage?" 
 
 Abinger disappeared with her, and when he re- 
 turned the indifferent look had gone from his face. 
 
 " Wait for me a few minutes," he said ; " a man up- 
 stairs, one of the best fellows breathing, has met 
 with an accident, and I question if he has a friend in 
 London. I am going up to see him." 
 
 " Poor fellow !" said Mary to Nell, after Dick had
 
 ROB IS STRUCK DOWN. 193 
 
 gone; "fancy his lying here for weeks without any 
 one's 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, " a tall, dark, melancholy-looking man, 
 and I should not wonder though he had 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 sigh that it must be awful to live 
 alone and have no one to speak to for whole hours at 
 a time. I should go mad," she said, in such a tone 
 of conviction that Mary did not think of question- 
 ing it. 
 
 Then Nell, who had opened a drawer rather guilt- 
 ily, exclaimed, "Oh, Mary!" 
 
 A woman can put more meaning into a note of ex- 
 clamation than a man can pack in a sentence. It 
 costs Mr. Jones, for instance, a long message sim- 
 ply to telegraph to his wife that he is bringing a 
 friend home to dinner, but in a sixpenny reply Mrs. 
 Jones can warn him that he had better do no such 
 thing ; that he ought to be ashamed of himself for 
 thinking of it, that he must make some excuse to his 
 friend, and that he will hear more of this when he 
 gets home. Nell's " Oh, Mary !" signified that chaos 
 
 was come. 
 13
 
 194 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Mary hastened round the table, and found her 
 friend with a letter in her hand. 
 
 "Well," said Mary, "that is one of your letters to 
 Dick, is it not?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Nell tragically; "but fancy his 
 keeping my letters lying about carelessly in a drawer 
 and and, yes, using them as scribbling paper !" 
 
 Scrawled across the envelopes in a barely decipher- 
 able handwriting were such notes as these : " School- 
 boys smoking master's cane-chair, work up;" "Re- 
 turn 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 is the worst of it. I can't say 
 anything about them to him, because he might think 
 I had opened his drawer to to see what was in it 
 which is the last thing in the world I would think of 
 doing. "Oh, Mary," she added woefully, "what do 
 you think?" 
 
 " I think you are a goose," said Mary promptly. 
 
 "Ah, you are so indifferent," Nell said, surrender- 
 ing her position all at once. " Now when I see a 
 drawer I am quite unhappy until I know what is in 
 it, especially if it is locked. When we lived oppo- 
 site the Burtons I was miserable because they always 
 kept the blind of one of their windows down. If I
 
 ROB IS STRUCK DOWN. 195 
 
 had been a boy I would have climbed up to see why 
 they did it. "Ah! that is Dick; I know his step." 
 
 She was hastening to the door, when she remem- 
 bered the letters, and subsided primly into a chair. 
 
 "Well?" asked Mary, as her brother re-entered 
 with something in his hand. 
 
 "The poor fellow has had a nasty accident," said 
 Dick; "run over in the street, it seems. He ought 
 to have been taken to the infirmary, but they got a 
 letter with his address on it in his pocket, and brought 
 him here." 
 
 " Has a doctor seen him?" 
 
 " Yes, but I hardly make out from the housekeeper 
 what he said. He was gone 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 oper- 
 ation had been found necessary. 
 
 " Did he speak to you?" asked Nell. 
 
 "He was asleep," said Dick, "but talking more 
 than he does when he is awake." 
 
 " He must have been delirious," said Mary. 
 
 " One thing I can't make out," Dick said, more to 
 himself than to his companions. " He mumbled my 
 name to himself half a dozen times while I was up- 
 stairs." 
 
 "But is there anything remarkable in that," asked 
 Mary, " if he has so few friends in London?" 
 
 "What I don't understand," explained Dick, "is
 
 196 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 that the word I caught was Abinger. Now, I am 
 quite certain that he only knew me as Noble Simms." 
 
 "Some one must have told him your real name," 
 said Mary. " Is he asleep now?" 
 
 "That reminds me of another thing," said Dick, 
 looking at the torn card in his hand. "Just as I 
 was coming away he staggered off the couch where 
 he is lying to his desk, opened it, and took out this 
 card. He glared at it, 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 it all. 
 
 " It is horrible to think of him alone up there," she 
 cried. " Let us go up to him, Mary." 
 
 Mary hesitated. 
 
 "I don't think it would be the thing," she said, 
 taking the card from Nell's hand. She started 
 slightly as she looked at it, and then became white. 
 
 "What is his name, Dick?" she faltered, in a voice 
 that made Nell look at 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 card fall. It was a shabby 
 little Christmas-card. 
 
 " I think we should go up and see if we can do any- 
 thing," Dick's sister said. 
 
 " But would it be the thing?" Nell asked. 
 
 "Of course it would," said Mary, a little surprised 
 at Nell.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 
 
 GIVE a man his chance, and he has sufficient hard- 
 ihood for anything. Within a week of the accident 
 Rob was in Dick Abinger's most luxurious chair, 
 coolly taking a cup and saucer from Nell, while Mary 
 arranged a cushion for his poor head. He even made 
 several light-hearted jests, at which his nurses laughed 
 heartily because he was an invalid. 
 
 Rob's improvement dated from the moment he 
 opened his eyes, and heard the soft rustle of a lady's 
 skirts in the next room. He lay quietly listening, 
 and realized by-and-bye that he had known she was 
 Mary Abinger all along. 
 
 "Who is that?" he said abruptly to Dick, who 
 was swinging his legs on the dressing-table. Dick 
 came to him as awkwardly as if he had been asked 
 to hold a baby, and saw no way of getting out of it. 
 Sick-rooms chilled him. 
 
 "Are you feeling better now, old fellow?" he asked. 
 
 " Who is it?" Rob repeated, sitting up in bed. 
 
 " That is my sister," Dick said. 
 
 Rob's head fell back. He could not take it in all 
 
 at once. Dick thought he had fallen asleep, and 
 197
 
 198 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 tried to slip gently from the room, discovering for 
 the first time as he did so that his shoes creaked. 
 
 "Don't go," said Rob, sitting up again. "What 
 is your sister's name?" 
 
 "Abinger, of course Mary Abinger," answered 
 Dick, under the conviction that the invalid was still 
 off his head. He made for the door again but Rob's 
 arm went out suddenly and seized him. 
 
 "You are a liar, you know," Rob said feebly; 
 "she's not your sister." 
 
 " No, of course not," said Dick, humoring him. 
 
 " I want to see her," Rob said authoritatively. 
 
 "Certainly," answered Dick, escaping into the 
 other room to tell Mary that the patient was raving 
 again. 
 
 " I heard him," said Mary. 
 
 "Well, what's to be done?" asked her brother. 
 " He's madder than ever." 
 
 " Oh, no, I think he's getting on nicely now," Mary 
 said, moving toward the bedroom. 
 
 "Don't," exclaimed Dick, getting in front of her; 
 " why, I tell you his mind is wandering. He says 
 you're not my sister." 
 
 " Of course he can't understand so long as he thinks 
 your name is Simms." 
 
 " But he knows my name is Abinger. Didn't I tell 
 you I heard him groaning it over to himself?" 
 
 "Oh, Dick," said Mary, "I wish you would go 
 away and write a stupid article."
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 199 
 
 Dick, however, stood at the door, ready to come 
 to his sister's assistance if Rob got violent. 
 
 "He says you are his sister," said the patient to 
 Mary. 
 
 " So I am," said Mary softly. " My brother writes 
 under the name of Noble Simms, but his real name 
 is Abinger. Now you must lie still and think about 
 that; you are not to talk any more." 
 
 " I won't talk any more," said Rob slowly. "You 
 are not going away, though?" 
 
 "Just for a little while," Mary answered. "The 
 doctor will be here presently." 
 
 "Well, you have quieted him," Dick admitted. 
 
 They were leaving the room when they heard Rob 
 calling. 
 
 "There he goes again," said Dick, groaning. 
 
 " What is it?" Mary asked, returning to the bedroom. 
 
 "Why did he say you were not his sister?" Rob 
 said very suspiciously. 
 
 "Oh, his mind was wandering," Mary answered 
 cruelly. 
 
 She was retiring again, but stopped undecidedly. 
 Then she looked from the door to see if her brother 
 was within hearing. Dick was at the other end of 
 the sitting-room, and she came back noiselessly to 
 Rob's bedside. 
 
 "Do you remember," she asked in a low voice, 
 "how the accident happened? You know you were 
 struck by a cab."
 
 200 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Yes," answered Rob at once, " I saw him kissing 
 you. I don't remember anything after that." 
 
 Mary, looking like a culprit, glanced hurriedly at 
 the door. Then she softly pushed the invalid's un- 
 ruly hair off his brow, and glided from the room 
 smiling. 
 
 "Well?" asked Dick. 
 
 " He was telling me how the accident happened," 
 Mary said. 
 
 " And how was it?" 
 
 " Oh, just as yon said. He got bewildered at a 
 crossing, and was knocked over." 
 
 " But he wasn't the man to lose his reason at a 
 crossing," said Dick. " There must have been some- 
 thing to agitate him." 
 
 " He said nothing about that," replied Mary, with- 
 out blushing. > 
 
 " Did he tell you how he knew my name was Ab- 
 inger?" Dick asked, as they went downstairs. 
 
 " No," his sister said, " I forgot to ask him." 
 
 "There was that Christmas-card, too," Dick said 
 suddenly. " Nell says Angus must be in love, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 " Nell is always thinking people are in love," Mary 
 answered severely. 
 
 "By-the-way," said Dick, "what became of the 
 card? He might want to treasure it, you know." 
 
 "I I rather think I put it somewhere," Mary 
 said.
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 201 
 
 "I wonder," Dick remarked curiously, "what sort 
 of girl Angus would take to?" 
 
 "I wonder," said Mary. 
 
 They were back in Dick's chambers by this time, 
 and he continued with some complacency for all 
 men think they are on safe ground when discussing 
 an affair of the heart : 
 
 " We could build the young lady up from the card, 
 which, presumably, was her Christmas offering to 
 him. It was not expensive, so she is a careful young 
 person ; and the somewhat florid design represents a 
 blue bird sitting on a pink twig, so that we may haz- 
 ard the assertion that her artistic taste is not as yet 
 fully developed. She is a fresh country maid, or the 
 somewhat rich coloring would not have taken her 
 fancy, and she is short, a trifle stout, or a big man 
 like Angus would not have fallen in love with her. 
 Reserved men like gushing girls, so she gushes and 
 says 'Oh my!' and her nicest dress (here Dick shiv- 
 ered) is of a shiny satin with a dash of rich velvet 
 here and there. Do you follow me?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mary; "it is wonderful. I suppose, 
 now, you are never wrong when you 'build up' so 
 much on so little?" 
 
 " Sometimes we go a little astray," admitted Dick. 
 " I remember going into a hotel with Rorrison once, 
 and on a table we saw a sailor-hat lying, something 
 like the one Nell wears or is it you?"
 
 202 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " The idea of your not knowing !" said his sister 
 indignantly. 
 
 " Well, we discussed the probable owner. I con- 
 cluded, after narrowly examining the hat, that she 
 was tall, dark,' and handsome, rather than pretty. 
 Rorrison, on the other hand, maintained that she was 
 a pretty, baby-faced girl, with winning ways." 
 
 " And did you discover if either of you was right?" 
 
 "Yes," said Dick slowly. "In the middle of the 
 discussion a little boy in a velvet suit toddled into 
 the room, and said to us, 'Gim'me my hat.'" 
 
 In the weeks that followed, Rob had many deli- 
 cious experiences. He was present at several tea- 
 parties in Abinger's chambers, the guests being 
 strictly limited to three ; and when he could not pre- 
 tend to be ill any longer, he gave a tea-party himself 
 in honor of his two nurses his one and a half nurses, 
 Dick called them. At this Mary poured out the tea, 
 and Rob's eyes showed so plainly (though not to Dick) 
 that he had never seen anything like it, that Nell 
 became thoughtful, and made a number of remarks 
 on the subject to her mother as soon as she returned 
 home. 
 
 " It would never do," Nell said, looking wise. 
 
 "Whatever would the colonel say!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Meredith. " After aU, though, " she added for 
 she had been to see Rob twice, and liked him because 
 of something he had said to her about his mother 
 "he is just the same as Richard."
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 203 
 
 "Oh, no, no," said Nell; "Dick is an Oxford man, 
 you must remember, and Mr. Angus, as the colonel 
 would say, rose from obscurity." 
 
 "Well, if he did," persisted Mrs. Meredith, " he 
 does not seem to be going back to it, and universities 
 seem to me to be places for making young men 
 stupid." 
 
 "It would never, never do," said Nell, with dole- 
 ful decision. 
 
 "'What does Mary say about him?" asked her 
 mother. 
 
 " She never says anything/' said Nell. 
 
 " Does she talk much to him?" 
 
 "No; very little." 
 
 "That is a good sign," said Mrs. Meredith. 
 
 " I don't know," said Nell. 
 
 " Have you noticed anything else?" 
 
 " Nothing except well, Mary is longer in dressing 
 now than I am, and she used not to be." 
 
 "I wonder," Mrs. Meredith remarked, "if Mary 
 saw him at Silchester after that time at the Castle?" 
 
 "She never told me she did," Nell answered, "but 
 some times I think however, there is no good in 
 1 thinking." 
 
 " It isn't a thing you often do, Nell. By-the-way, 
 he saw the first Sir Clement at Dome Castle, did he 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes,". Nell said, " he saw the impostor, and I don't 
 suppose he knows there is another Sir Clement. The
 
 204 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Abingers don't like to speak of that. However, they 
 may meet on Friday, for Dick has got Mr. Angus a 
 card for the Symphonia, and Sir Clement is to be 
 there." 
 
 "What does Richard say about it?" asked Mrs. 
 Meredith, going back apparently upon their conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " We never speak about it, Dick and I," said Nell. 
 
 "What do you speak about, then?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing," said Nell. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith sighed. 
 
 "And you such an heiress, Nell," she said; "you 
 could do so much better. He will never have any- 
 thing but what he makes by writing ; and, if all sto- 
 ries be true, half of that goes to the colonel. I'm 
 sure your father never will consent." 
 
 " Oh yes, he will," NeU said. 
 
 " If he had really tried to get on at the bar," Mrs. 
 Meredith pursued, " it would not have been so bad, 
 but he is evidently to be a newspaper man all his 
 life." 
 
 " I wish you would say journalist, mamma," Nell 
 said, pouting, " or literary man. The profession of 
 letters is a noble one." 
 
 "Perhaps it is," Mrs. Meredith assented with an- 
 other sigh, " and I dare say he told you so, but I can't 
 think it is very respectable." 
 
 Hob did not altogether enjoy the Symphonia, 
 which is a polite club attended by the literary fry of
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 205 
 
 both sexes ; the ladies who write because they cannot 
 help it, the poets who excuse their verses because 
 they were young when they did them, the clergymen 
 who publish their sermons by request of their congre- 
 gations, the tourists who have been to Spain and 
 cannot keep it to themselves. The club meets once 
 a fortnight, for the purpose of not listening to music 
 and recitations; and the members, of whom the ladies 
 outnumber the men, sit in groups round little lions 
 who roar mildly. The Symphonia is very fashion- 
 able and select, and, having heard the little lions 
 a-roaring, you get a cup of coffee and go home again. 
 
 Dick explained that he was a member of the Sym- 
 phonia because he rather liked to put on the lion's 
 skin himself now and again, and he took Mrs. Mere- 
 dith and the two girls to it to show them of what 
 literature in its higher branches is capable. The 
 elegant dresses of the literary ladies, and the suave 
 manner of the literary gentlemen, impressed Nell's 
 mother favorably ; and the Symphonia, which she had 
 taken for an out-at-elbows club, raised letters in her 
 estimation. 
 
 Rob, however, who never felt quite comfortable in 
 evening dress, had a bad time of it ; for Dick carried 
 him off at once, and got him into a group round the 
 authoress of " My Baby Boy," to whom Bob was in- 
 troduced as a passionate admirer of her delightful 
 works. The lion made room for him, and he sat 
 sadly beside her, wishing he was not so big.
 
 206 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Both of the rooms of the Symphonia club were 
 crowded, but a number of gentlemen managed to 
 wander from group to group over the skirts of ladies' 
 gowns. Rob watched them wistfully from his cage, 
 and observed one come to rest at the back of Mary 
 Abinger's chair. He was a medium-sized man, and 
 for five minutes Rob thought he was Sir Clement 
 Dowton. Then he realized that he had been deceived 
 by a remarkable resemblance. 
 
 The stranger said a great deal to Mary, and she 
 seemed to like him. After a long time the authoress' 
 voice broke in on Rob's cogitations, and when he saw 
 that she was still talking without looking tired, a cer- 
 tain awe filled him. Then Mary rose from her chair, 
 taking the arm of the gentleman who was Sir Clem- 
 ent's double, and they went into the other room 
 where the coffee was served. 
 
 Rob was tempted to sit there stupidly miserable, 
 for the easiest thing to do comes to us first. Then 
 he thought it was better to be a man, and, drawing 
 up his chest, boldly asked the lion to have a cup of 
 coffee. In another moment he was steering her 
 through the crowd, her hand resting on his arm, and 
 to his amazement he found he rather liked it. 
 
 In the coffee-room Rob could not distinguish the 
 young lady who moved like a swan, but he was 
 elated with his social triumph, and cast about for any 
 journalist of his acquaintance who, he thought, 
 might like to meet the authoress of " My Baby Boy."
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 207 
 
 It struck Rob that he had no right to keep her all to 
 himself. Quite close to him his eye lighted on Marri- 
 ott, the author of " Mary Hooney : a Romance of the 
 Irish Question," but Marriott saw what he was after, 
 and dived into the crowd. A very young gentleman, 
 with large, empty eyes, begged Rob's pardon for 
 treading on his toes, and Rob, who bad not felt it, 
 saw that this was his man. He introduced him to 
 the authoress as another admirer, and the round-faced 
 youth seemed such a likely subject for her next work 
 that Rob moved off comfortably. 
 
 A shock awaited him when he met Dick, who had 
 been passing the time by taking male guests aside 
 and asking them in an impressive voice what they 
 thought of his great book, "Lives of Eminent 
 Washerwomen," which they had no doubt read. 
 
 "Who is the man so like Dowton?" he repeated, 
 in answer to Rob's question. "Why, it is Dow- 
 ton." 
 
 Then Dick looked vexed. He remembered that 
 Rob had been at Dome Castle on the previous Christ- 
 mas Eve. 
 
 "Look 'here, Angus," he said bluntly, "this is a 
 matter I hate to talk about. The fact is, however, 
 that this is the real Sir Clement. The fellow you 
 met was an impostor, who came from no one knows 
 where. Unfortunately, he has returned to the same 
 place." 
 
 Dick bit his lip while Rob digested this.
 
 208 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "But if you know the real Dowton," Rob asked, 
 "how were you deceived?" 
 
 " Well, it was my father who was deceived rather 
 than myself, but we did not know the real baronet 
 then. The other fellow, if you must know, traded 
 on his likeness to Dowton, who is in the country now 
 for the first time for many years. Whoever the im- 
 postor is he is a humorist in his way, for when he 
 left the Castle in January he asked my father to call 
 on him when he came to town. The fellow must 
 have known that Dowton was coming home about 
 that time ; at all events, my father, who was in Lon- 
 don shortly afterward, looked up his friend the bar- 
 onet, as he thought, at his club, and found that he 
 had never set eyes on him before. It would make a 
 delicious article if it had not happened in one's own 
 family." 
 
 "The real Sir Clement seems great friends with 
 Miss Abinger, " Rob could not help saying. 
 
 "Yes," said Dick, "we struck up an intimacy with 
 him over the affair, and stranger things have hap- 
 pened than that he and Mary " 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "My father, I believe, would like it," he added 
 carelessly, but Rob had turned away. Dick went 
 after him. 
 
 "I have told you this," he said, "because, as you 
 knew the other man, it had to be done, but we don't 
 like it spoken of."
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 209 
 
 " I shall not speak of it," said miserable Rob. 
 
 He would have liked to be tearing through London 
 again, but as that was not possible he sought a soli- 
 tary seat by the door. Before he reached it his mood 
 changed. What was Sir Clement Dowton, after all, 
 that he should be frightened at him? He was mere- 
 ly a baronet. An impostor who could never have 
 passed for a journalist had succeeded in passing for 
 Dowton. Journalism was the noblest of all profes- 
 sions, and Rob was there representing it. The seat 
 of honor at the Symphonia was next to Mary Ab- 
 inger, and the baronet had held it too long already. 
 Instead of sulking, Rob approached the throne like 
 one who had a right to be there. Sir Clement had 
 risen for a moment to put down Mary's cup, and when 
 he returned Rob was in his chair, with no immediate 
 intention of getting out of it. The baronet frowned, 
 which made Rob say quite a number of bright things 
 to Miss Abinger. When two men are in love with 
 the same young lady, one of them must be worsted. 
 Rob saw that it was better to be the other one. 
 
 The frightfully bohemian people at the Symphonia 
 remained there even later than eleven o'clock, but 
 the rooms thinned before then, and Dick's party were 
 ready to go by half-past ten. Rob was now very 
 sharp. It did not escape his notice that the gentle- 
 men were bringing the ladies' cloaks, and he calmly 
 made up his mind to help Mary Abinger on with 
 hers. To his annoyance, Sir Clement was too quick 
 14
 
 210 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 for him. The baronet was in the midst of them with 
 the three ladies' cloaks, just as Rob wondered where 
 he would have to go to find them. Nell's cloak Sir 
 Clement handed to Dick, but he kept Mary's on his 
 arm while he assisted Mrs. Meredith into hers. It 
 was a critical moment. All would be over in five 
 seconds. 
 
 "Allow me, "said Rob. 
 
 With apparent coolness he took Mary's cloak from 
 the baronet's arm. He had not been used to saying 
 "Allow me," and his face was white, but he was de- 
 termined to go on with this thing. 
 
 "Take my arm," he said to Mary, as they joined 
 the crowd that swayed toward the door. After he 
 said it he saw that he had spoken with an air of pro- 
 prietorship, but he was not sorry. Mary did it. 
 
 It took them some time to reach their cab, and on 
 the way Mary asked Rob a question. 
 
 " I gave you something once," she said, " but I sup- 
 pose you lost it long ago." 
 
 Rob reddened, for he had been sadly puzzled to 
 know what had become of his Christmas-card. 
 
 " I have it still," he answered at last. 
 
 "Oh," said Mary coldly; and at once Rob felt a 
 chill pass through him. It was true, after all, that 
 Miss Abinger could be an icicle on occasion. 
 
 Rob, having told a lie, deserved no mercy, and got 
 none. The pity of it is that Mary might have 
 thawed a little had she known that it was only a lie.
 
 THE STUPID SEX. 211 
 
 She thought that Rob was not aware of his loss. 
 A man taking fickleness as the comparative degree 
 of an untruth is perhaps only what may be looked 
 for, but one does not expect it from a woman. Prob- 
 ably the lights had blinded Mary. 
 
 Rob had still an opportunity of righting himself, 
 but he did not take it. 
 
 "Then you did mean the card for me," he said, in 
 foolish exultation ; " when I found it on the walk I 
 was not certain that you had not merely dropped it 
 by accident." 
 
 Alas, for the fatuity of man ! Mary looked up in 
 icy surprise. 
 
 "What card?" she said. " I don't know what you 
 are talking about." 
 
 "Don't you remember?" asked Rob, very much 
 requiring to be sharpened again. 
 
 He looked so woebegone that Mary nearly had 
 pity on him. She knew, however, that, if it was 
 not for her sex, men would never learn anything. 
 
 " No," she replied, and turned to talk to Sir Clement. 
 
 Rob walked home from the Langham that night 
 with Dick, and, when he was not thinking of the two 
 Sir Clements, he was telling himself that he had 
 climbed his hill valiantly, only to topple over when 
 he neared the top. Before he went to bed he had an 
 article to finish for the Wire, and, while he wrote, 
 he pondered over the ways of woman which, when 
 you come to think of it, is a droll thing to do.
 
 212 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Mr. Meredith had noticed Rob's dejection at the 
 hotel, and remarked to Nell's mother that he thought 
 Mary was very stiff to Angus. Mrs. Meredith looked 
 sadly at her husband in reply. 
 
 "You think so," she said mournfully shaking her 
 head at him, " and so does Richard Abingsr. Mr. 
 Angus is as blind as the rest of you." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Mr. Meredith, with 
 much curiosity. 
 
 "Nor do they," replied his wife contemptuously; 
 " there are no men so stupid, I think, as the clever 
 ones." 
 
 She could have preached a sermon that night, with 
 the stupid sex for her text.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE HOUSEBOAT "TAWNY OWL.'* 
 
 " MR. ANGUS, what is an egotist?" 
 
 "Don't you know, Miss Meredith?" 
 
 " Well, I know in a general sort of way, but not 
 precisely." 
 
 "An egotist is a person who but why do you 
 want to know?" 
 
 " Because just now Mr. Abinger asked me what I 
 was thinking of, and when I said 'of nothing,' he 
 called me an egotist." 
 
 " Ah ! that kind of egotist is one whose thoughts 
 are too deep for utterance." 
 
 It was twilight. Rob stood on the deck of the 
 houseboat Tawny Owl, looking down at Nell, who 
 sat in the stern, her mother beside her, amid a blaze 
 of Chinese lanterns. Dick lay near them, prone, as 
 he had fallen from a hammock whose one flaw was 
 that it gave way when any one got into it. Mr. 
 Meredith, looking out from one of the saloon win- 
 dows across the black water that was now streaked 
 with glistening silver, wondered whether he was 
 enjoying himself, and Mary, in a little blue nau- 
 tical jacket with a cap to match, lay back in a 
 camp-chair on deck with a silent banjo in her 
 213
 
 214 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 hands. Rob was brazening it out in flannels, and 
 had been at such pains to select colors to suit him 
 that the effect was atrocious. He had spent several 
 afternoons at Molesey during the three weeks the 
 Tawny Owl had lain there, but this time he was to 
 remain overnight at the Island Hotel. 
 
 The Tawny Owl was part of the hoop of houseboats 
 that almost girded Tagg's Island, and lights sailed 
 through the trees, telling of launches moving to their 
 moorings near the ferry. Now and again there was 
 the echo of music from a distant houseboat. For a 
 moment the water was loquacious as dingeys or 
 punts shot past. Canadian canoes, the ghosts that 
 haunt the Thames by night, lifted their heads out of 
 the river, gaped, and were gone. An osier wand 
 dipped into the water under a weight of swallows, 
 all going to bed together. The boy on the next 
 houseboat kissed his hand to a broom on board the 
 Tawny Owl, taking it for Mrs. Meredith's servant, 
 and then retired to his kitchen smiling. From the 
 boat-house across the river came the monotonous tap 
 of a hammer. A reed-warbler rushed through his 
 song. There was a soft splashing along the bank. 
 
 "There was once a literary character," Dick mur- 
 mured, " who said that to think of nothing was an 
 impossibility, but he lived before the days of house- 
 boats. I came here a week ago to do some high 
 thinking, and I believe I have only managed four 
 thoughts first, that the cow on the island is an irate
 
 THE HOUSEBOAT "TAWNY OWL." 215 
 
 cow ; second, that in summer the sun shines brightly ; 
 third, that the trouble of lighting a cigar is almost as 
 great as the pleasure of smoking it ; and fourth, that 
 swans the fourth thought referred to swans/ but it 
 has slipped my memory." 
 
 He yawned like a man glad to get to the end of his 
 sentence, or sorry that he had begun it. 
 
 "But I thought," said Mrs. Meredith, "that the 
 reason you walk round and round the island by your- 
 self so frequently is because you can think out arti- 
 cles on it?" 
 
 "Yes," Dick answered; "the island looks like a 
 capital place to think on, and I always start off on 
 my round meaning to think hard. After that all is 
 a blank till I am back at the Tawny Owl, when I 
 remember that I have forgotten to think." 
 
 " Will ought to enjoy this," remarked Nell. 
 
 "That is my brother, Mr. Angus," Mary said to 
 Rob; " he is to spend part of his holidays here." 
 
 " I remember him, " Rob answered, smiling. Mary 
 blushed, however, remembering that the last time 
 Will and Greybrooke met Rob there had been a lit- 
 tle scene. 
 
 "He will enjoy the fishing," said Dick. "I have 
 only fished myself three or four times, and I am con- 
 fident I hooked a minnow yesterday." 
 
 "I saw a little boy," Nell said, "fishing from the 
 island to-day, and his mother had strapped him to a 
 tree in case he might fall in."
 
 216 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "When I saw your young brother at Silchester," 
 Rob said to Mary, "he had a schoolmate with 
 him." 
 
 "Ah, yes," Dick said; "that was the man who 
 wanted to horsewhip you, you know." 
 
 " I thought he and Miss Meredith were great 
 friends," Rob retorted. He sometimes wondered 
 how much Dick cared for Nell. 
 
 "It was only the young gentleman's good-nature," 
 Abinger explained, while Nell drew herself up in- 
 dignantly ; " he found that he had to give up either 
 Nell or a cricket match, and so Nell was reluctantly 
 dropped." 
 
 "That was not how you spoke," Nell said to Dick 
 in a low voice, " when I told you all about him, poor 
 boy, in your chambers." 
 
 "You promised to be a sister to him I think," re- 
 marked Abinger. "Ah, Nell, it is not a safe plan 
 that. How many brothers have you now?" 
 
 Dick held up his hand for Mary's banjo, and, set- 
 tling himself comfortably in a corner, twanged and 
 sang, while the lanterns caught myriads of flies, and 
 the bats came and went : 
 
 When Coelebs was a bolder blade, 
 
 And ladies fair were coy, 
 His search was for a wife, he said, 
 
 The time I was a boy. 
 But Coelebs now has slothful grown 
 
 (I learn this from her mother) : 
 Instead of making her his own, 
 
 He asks to be her brother.
 
 THE HOUSEBOAT "TAWNY OWL." 217 
 
 Last night I saw her smooth his brow : 
 
 He bent his head and kissed her ; 
 They understood each other now 
 
 She's going to be his sister. 
 Some say he really does propose 
 
 And means to gain or lose all, 
 And that the new arrangement goes 
 
 To soften her refusal. 
 
 He talks so wild of broken hearts, 
 
 Of futures that she'll mar, 
 He says on Tuesday he departs 
 
 For Cork or Zanzibar. 
 His death he places at her door, 
 
 Yet says he won't resent it ; 
 Ah, well, he talked that way before, 
 
 And very seldom meant it. 
 
 Engagements now are curious things 
 
 "A kind of understandin' ; " 
 Although they do not run to rings, 
 
 They're good to keep your hand in. 
 No rivals now, Tom, Dick and Hal : 
 
 They all love one another, 
 For she's a sister to them all, 
 
 And every one's her brother. 
 
 In former days when men proposed, 
 
 And ladies said them No, 
 The laws that courtesy imposed 
 
 Made lovers pack and go. 
 But now that they may brothers be, 
 
 So changed the way of men is, 
 That, having kissed, the swain and she 
 
 Resume their game at tennis. 
 
 Ah, Nelly Meredith, you may 
 
 Be wiser than your mother, 
 But she knew what to do when they 
 
 Proposed to be her brother.
 
 218 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Of these relations best have none 
 They'll only you encumber ; 
 
 Of wives a man may have but one, 
 Of sisters any number. 
 
 Dick disappeared into the kitchen with Mrs. Mere- 
 dith to show her how they make a salad at the Wig- 
 wam, and Nell and her father went a-fishing from the 
 bedroom window. The night was so silent now that 
 Rob and Mary seemed to have it to themselves. A 
 canoe in a blaze of colored light drifted past without 
 a sound. The grass on the bank parted, and water- 
 rats peeped out. All at once Mary had nothing to 
 say, and Rob shook on his stool. The moon was out 
 looking at them. 
 
 " Oh !" Mary cried, as something dipped suddenly 
 in the water near them. 
 
 "It was only a dabchick," Rob guessed, looking 
 over the rail. 
 
 "What is a dabchick?" asked Mary. 
 
 Rob did not tell her. She had not the least desire 
 to know. 
 
 In the river, on the opposite side from where the 
 Tawny Owl lay, a stream drowns itself. They had 
 not known of its existence before, but it was roaring 
 like a lasher to them now. Mary shuddered slightly, 
 turning her face to the island, and Rob took a great 
 breath as he looked at her. His hand held her brown 
 sunshade that was ribbed with velvet, the sunshade 
 with the preposterous handle that Mary held upside
 
 THE HOUSEBOAT "TAWNY OWL." 219 
 
 down. Other ladies carried their sunshades so, and 
 Rob resented it. Her back was toward him, and he 
 sat still, gazing at the loose blue jacket that only 
 reached her waist. It was such a slender waist that 
 Rob trembled for it. 
 
 The trees that hung over the houseboat were black, 
 but the moon made a fairyland of the sward beyond. 
 Mary could only see the island between heavy 
 branches, but she looked straight before her until 
 tears dimmed her eyes. Who would dare to seek the 
 thoughts of a girl at such a moment? Rob moved 
 nearer her. Her blue cap was tilted back, her chin 
 rested on the rail. All that was good in him was 
 astir when she turned and read his face. 
 
 " I think I shall go down now," Mary said, becoming 
 less pale as she spoke. Rob's eyes f oh 1 owed her as 
 she moved toward the ladder. 
 
 "Not yet," he called after her, and could say no 
 more. It was always so when they were alone, and 
 he made himself suffer for it afterward. 
 
 Mary stood irresolutely at the top of the ladder. 
 She would not turn back, but she did not descend. 
 Mr. Meredith was fishing lazily from the lower deck, 
 and there was a murmur of voices in the saloon. On 
 the road running parallel to the river traps and men 
 were shadows creeping along to Hampton. Lights 
 were going out there. Mary looked up the stretch 
 of water and sighed. 
 
 "Was there ever so beautiful a night?" she said.
 
 220 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Yes," said Rob, at her elbow, "once at Dome 
 Castle, the night I saw you first." 
 
 "I don't remember," said Mary hastily, but with- 
 out going down the ladder. 
 
 "I might never have met you," Rob continued 
 grimly, "if some man in Silchester had not mur- 
 dered his wife." 
 
 Mary started and looked up at him. Until she 
 ceased to look he could not go on. 
 
 "The murder," he explained, "was of more im- 
 portance than Colonel Abinger's dinner, and so I was 
 sent to the castle. It is rather curious to trace these 
 things back a step. The woman enraged her hus- 
 band into striking her, because she had not prepared 
 his supper. Instead of doing that she had been gos- 
 siping with a neighbor, who would not have had 
 time for gossip had she not been laid up with a 
 sprained ankle. It came out in the evidence that 
 this woman had hurt herself by slipping on a mar- 
 ble, so that I might never have seen you had not two 
 boys, whom neither of us ever heard of, challenged 
 each other to a game at marbles." 
 
 "It was stranger that we should meet again in 
 London," Mary said. 
 
 "No," Rob answered, "the way we met was 
 strange, but I was expecting you." 
 
 Mary pondered how she should take this, and then 
 pretended not to hear it.
 
 THE HOUSEBOAT "TAWNY OWL." 221 
 
 "Was it not rather 'The Scorn of Scorns' that 
 made us know each other?" she asked. 
 
 "I knew you after I read it a second time," he 
 said; " I have got that copy of it still." 
 
 "You said you had the card." 
 
 "I have never been able to understand," Eob an- 
 swered, "how I lost that card. But," he added 
 sharply, " how do you know that I lost it?" 
 
 Mary glanced up again. 
 
 "I hate being asked questions, Mr. Angus," she 
 said sweetly. 
 
 "Do you remember," Rob went on, "saying in 
 that book that men were not to be trusted until they 
 reached their second childhood?" 
 
 "I don't know," Mary replied laughing, "that 
 they are to be trusted even then." 
 
 "I should think," said Rob, rather anxiously, 
 " that a woman might as well marry a man in his 
 first childhood as in his second. Surely the golden 
 mean " Rob paused. He was just twenty-seven. 
 
 "We should strike the golden mean, you think?" 
 asked Mary demurely. " But you see it is of such 
 short duration." 
 
 After that there was such a long pause that Mary 
 could easily have gone down the ladder had she 
 wanted to do so. 
 
 " I am glad that you and Dick are such friends," 
 she said at last.
 
 222 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " Why?" asked Rob quickly. 
 
 " Oh, well," said Mary. 
 
 " He has been the best friend I have ever made," 
 Rob continued warmly, "though he says our only 
 point in common is a hatred of rice pudding." 
 
 "He told me," said Mary, "that you write on poli- 
 tics in the Wire" 
 
 " I do a little now, but I have never met any one 
 yet who admitted that he had read my articles. Even 
 your brother won't go so far as that." 
 
 " I have read several of them," said Mary. 
 
 " Have you?" Rob exclaimed, like a big boy. 
 
 "Yes," Mary answered severely; "but I don't 
 agree with them. I am a Conservative, you know." 
 
 She pursed up her mouth complacently as she 
 spoke, and Rob fell back a step to prevent his going 
 a step closer. He could hear Mr. Meredith's line 
 tearing the water. The boy on the next houseboat 
 was baling the dingey, and whistling a doleful ditty 
 between each canful. 
 
 "There will never be such a night again," Rob 
 said in a melancholy voice. Then he waited for 
 Mary to ask why, when he would have told her, but 
 she did not ask. 
 
 "At least not to me," he continued, after a pause, 
 "for I am not likely to be here again. But there 
 may be many such nights to you." 
 
 Mary was unbuttoning her gloves and then button- 
 ing them again. There is something uncanny about
 
 THE HOUSEBOAT "TAWNY OWL." 223 
 
 a woman who has a chance to speak and does not 
 take it. 
 
 "I am glad to hear," said Eob, "that my being 
 away will make no difference to you." 
 
 A light was running along the road to Hampton 
 Court, and Mary watched it. 
 
 " Are you glad?" asked Rob desperately. 
 
 "You said I was," answered Mary, without turn- 
 ing her head. Dick was thumming the banjo below. 
 Her hand touched a camp-chair, and Rob put his 
 over it. He would have liked to stand like that and 
 talk about things in general now. 
 
 "Mary," said Rob. 
 
 The boy ceased to whistle. All nature in that 
 quarter was paralyzed, except the tumble of water 
 across the river. Mary withdrew her hand, but said 
 nothing. Rob held his breath. He had not even 
 the excuse of having spoken impulsively, for he had 
 been meditating saying it for weeks. 
 
 By-and-bye the world began to move again. The 
 boy whistled. A swallow tried another twig. A 
 moor-hen splashed in the river. They had thought 
 it over, and meant to let it pass. 
 " Are you angry with me?" Rob asked. 
 
 Mary nodded her head, but did not speak. Sud- 
 denly Rob started. 
 
 " You are crying, " he said. 
 
 "No, I'm not," said Mary, looking up now. 
 
 There was a strange light in her face that made
 
 224 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Rob shake. He was so near her that his hands 
 touched her jacket. At that moment there was a 
 sound of feet on the plank that communicated be- 
 tween the Tawny Owl and the island, and Dick 
 called out : 
 
 " You people up there, are you coming once round 
 the island before you have something to eat?" 
 
 Rob muttered a reply that Dick fortunately did not 
 catch, but Mary answered, "Yes," and they de- 
 scended the ladder. 
 
 "You had better put a shawl over your shoulders," 
 said Rob in rather a lordly tone. 
 
 "No," Mary answered, thrusting away the shawl 
 he produced from the saloon ; " a wrap on a night like 
 this would be absurd." 
 
 Something caught in her throat at that moment, 
 and she coughed. Rob looked at her anxiously. 
 
 "You had better," he said, putting the shawl over 
 her shoulders. 
 
 "No," said Mary, flinging it off. 
 
 "Yes," said Rob, putting it on again. 
 
 Mary stamped her foot. 
 
 " How dare you, Mr. Angus?" she exclaimed. 
 
 Rob's chest heaved. 
 
 "You must do as you are told," he said. 
 
 Mary looked at him while he looked at her, but she 
 did not take off the shawl again, and that was the 
 great moment of Rob's life. 
 
 The others had gone on before. Although it was
 
 THE HOUSEBOAT "TAWNY OWL." 225 
 
 a white night the plank was dark in shadow, and as 
 she stepped off it she slipped back. Rob's arm went 
 round her for a moment. They walked round the 
 island together behind the others, but neither uttered 
 a word. Rob was afraid even to look at her, so he 
 did not see that Mary looked once or twice at him. 
 
 Long after he was supposed to be in the hotel Rob 
 was still walking round the island, with no one to 
 see him but the cow. All the Chinese lanterns were 
 out now, but red window-blinds shone warm in 
 several houseboats, and a terrier barked at his foot- 
 steps. The grass was silver-tipped, as in an en- 
 chanted island, and the impatient fairies might only 
 have been waiting till he was gone. He was wonder- 
 ing if she was offended. While he paced the island 
 she might be vowing never to look at him again, but 
 perhaps she was only thinking that he was very much 
 improved. 
 
 At last Rob wandered to the hotel, and reaching 
 his bedroom sat down on a chair to think it out again 
 by candle-light. He rose and opened the window. 
 There was a notice over the mantelpiece announcing 
 that smoking was not allowed in the bedrooms, and 
 having read it thoughtfully he filled his pipe. A piece 
 of crumpled paper lay beneath the dressing-table, and 
 he lifted it up to make a spill of it. It was part of 
 an envelope, and it floated out of Rob's hand as he 
 read the address in Mary Abinger's handwriting, 
 "Sir Clement Dowton, Island Hotel." 
 15
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 
 
 A PUNT and a rowing-boat were racing lazily 
 toward Sunbury on a day so bright that you might 
 have passed women with their hair in long curls and 
 forgiven them. 
 
 "I say, Dick," said one of the scullers, "are they 
 engaged?" 
 
 Will was the speaker, and in asking the question 
 he caught a crab. Mary, with her yellow sleeves 
 turned up at the wrist, a great straw hat on her head, 
 ran gayly after her pole, and the punt jerked past. 
 If there are any plain girls, let them take to punting 
 and be beautiful. 
 
 Dick, who was paddling rather than pulling stroke, 
 turned round on his young brother sharply. 
 
 "Whom do you mean?" he asked, speaking low, 
 so that the other occupants of the boat should not 
 hear him, "Mary and Dowton?" 
 
 "No," said Will, "Mary and Angus. I wonder 
 what they see in her." 
 
 They were bound for a picnicking resort up the 
 river; Mrs. Meredith, Mary, and Sir Clement in the 
 226
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 227 
 
 punt, and the others in the boat. If Rob was en- 
 gaged he took it gloomily. He sat in the stern with 
 Mr. Meredith, while Nell hid herself away beneath a 
 many-colored umbrella in the prow; and when he 
 steered the boat into a gondola, he only said vacantly 
 to its occupants: "It is nothing at all," as if they 
 had run into him. Nell's father said something 
 about not liking the appearance of the sky, and Rob 
 looked at him earnestly for such a length of time be- 
 fore replying that Mr. Meredith was taken aback. 
 At times the punt came alongside, and Mary ad- 
 dressed every one in the boat except Rob. The only 
 person in the punt who Rob never looked at was 
 Mary. Dick watched them uneasily, and noticed 
 that once, when Mary nearly followed her pole into 
 the water, Rob, who seemed to be looking in the op- 
 posite direction, was the first to see what had hap- 
 pened. Then Dick pulled so savagely that he turned 
 the boat round. 
 
 That morning at breakfast in his chambers Rob 
 had no thought of spending the day on the river. 
 He had to be at the Wire office at ten o'clock in the 
 evening, and during the day he meant to finish one 
 of the many articles which he still wrote for other 
 journals that would seldom take them. The knowl- 
 edge that Sir Clement Dowton had been to Molesey 
 disquieted him, chiefly because Mary Abinger had 
 said nothing about it. Having given himself fifty 
 reasons for her reticence, he pushed them from him,
 
 228 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 and vowed wearily that he would go to the houseboat 
 no more. Then Dick walked in to suggest that they 
 might run down for an hour or two to Molesey, and 
 Rob agreed at once. He shaped out in the train a 
 subtle question about Sir Clement that he intended 
 asking Mary, but on reaching the plank he saw her 
 feeding the swans, with the baronet by her side. 
 Rob felt like a conjurer whose trick has not worked 
 properly. Giving himself j ust a half a minute to reflect 
 that it was all over, he affected the coldly courteous, 
 and smiled in a way that was meant to be heartrend- 
 ing. Mary did not mind that, but it annoyed her to 
 see the band of his necktie slipping over his collar. 
 
 It was the day of the Sunbury Regatta, but the 
 party from the Tawny Owl twisted past the racers, 
 leaving Dick, who wanted a newspaper, behind. 
 When he rejoined them beyond the village, the boat 
 was towing the punt. 
 
 "Why," said Dick, in some astonishment to Rob, 
 who was rowing now, " I did not know you could 
 scull like that." 
 
 "I have been practising a little," answered Rob. 
 
 "When became down here the first time," Mrs. 
 Meredith explained to Sir Clement, " he did not know 
 how to hold an oar. I am afraid he is one of those 
 men who like to be best at everything." 
 
 " He certainty knows how to scull now," admitted 
 the baronet, beginning to think that Rob was per- 
 haps a dangerous man. Sir Clement was a manly
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 229 
 
 gentleman, but his politics were that people should 
 not climb out of the station they were born into. 
 
 " No," Dick said, in answer to a question from Mr. 
 Meredith, "I could only get a local paper. The 
 woman seemed surprised at my thinking she would 
 take in the Scalping Knife or the Wire, and said, 
 " We've got a paper of our own. ' " 
 
 "Read out the news to us, Richard," suggested 
 Mrs. Meredith. Dick hesitated. 
 
 "Here, Will," he said to his brother, "you got that 
 squeaky voice of yours specially to proclaim the news 
 from a boat to a punt ten yards distant. Angus is 
 longing to pull us up the river unaided." 
 
 Will turned the paper round and round. 
 
 " Here is a funny thing," he bawled out, "about a 
 stick. 'A curious story, says a London correspond- 
 ent, is going the round of the clubs to-day about the 
 walking-stick of a well-known member of Parlia- 
 ment, whose name I am not at liberty to mention. 
 The story has not, so far as I am aware, yet appeared 
 in print, and it conveys a lesson to all persons who 
 carry walking-sticks with knobs for handles, which 
 generate a peculiar disease in the palm of the hand 
 The member of Parliament referred to, with whom I 
 
 am on intimate terms ' " Rob looked at Dick, 
 
 and they both groaned. 
 
 "My stick again," murmured Rob. 
 
 "Read something else," cried Dick, shivering. 
 
 "Eh, what is wrong?" asked Mr. Meredith.
 
 230 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "You must know," said Dick, "that the first time 
 I met Angus he told me imprudently some foolish 
 story about a stick that bred a disease in the owner's 
 hand, owing to his pressing so heavily on the ball it 
 had by way of a handle. I touched the story up a 
 little, and made half-a-guinea out of it. Since then 
 that note has been turning up in a new dress in the 
 most unlikely places. First the London correspond- 
 ents swooped down on it, and telegraphed it all over 
 the country as something that had happened to well- 
 known Cabinet Ministers. It appeared in the Paris 
 Figaro as a true story about Sir Gladstone, and soon 
 afterward it was across the Channel as a reminiscence 
 of Thiers. Having done another tour of the prov- 
 inces it was taken to America by a lecturer, who ex- 
 hibited the stick. Next it travelled the Continent, 
 until it was sent home again by Paterfamilias Abroad, 
 writing to the Times, who said that the man who 
 owned the stick was a well-known Alpine guide. Since 
 then we have heard of it fitfully as doing well in Mel- 
 bourne and Arkansas. It figured in the last volume, 
 or rather two volumes, of autobiography published ; 
 and now, you see, it is going the round of the clubs 
 again, preparatory to starting on another tour. I 
 wish you had kept your stick to yourself, Angus." 
 
 "That story will never die," Rob said, in a tone of 
 conviction. " It will go round and round the world 
 till the crack of doom. Our children's children will 
 tell it to each other."
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 231 
 
 "Yes," said Dick, "and say it happened to a friend 
 of theirs." 
 
 A field falls into the river above Sunbury, in which 
 there is a clump of trees of which many boating par- 
 ties know. Under the shadow of these Mrs. Mere- 
 dith cast a table-cloth and pegged it down with salt- 
 cellars. 
 
 "As we are rather in a hurry," she said to the 
 gentlemen, " I should prefer you not to help us." 
 
 Rob wandered to the river-side with Will, who 
 would have liked to know whether he could jump a 
 gate without putting his hands on it ; and the other 
 men leaned against the trees, wondering a little, per- 
 haps, why ladies enjoy in the summer time mak- 
 ing chairs and tables of the ground. 
 
 Rob was recovering from his scare, and made 
 friends with Mary's young brother. By particular 
 request he not only leaped the gate but lifted it off its 
 hinges, and this feat of strength so impressed Will 
 that he would have brought the whole party down to 
 see it done. Will was as fond of Mary as a proper 
 respect for himself would allow, but he thought she 
 would be a lucky girl if she got a fellow who could 
 play with a heavy gate like that. 
 
 Being a sharp boy, Will noticed a cloud settle on 
 Rob's face, and looking toward the clump of trees, he 
 observed that Mary and the baronet were no longer 
 there. In the next field two figures were disappear- 
 ing, the taller, a man in a tennis jacket, carrying a
 
 232 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE, 
 
 pail. Sir Clement had been sent for water, and Mary 
 had gone with him to show him the spring. Rob 
 stared after them ; and if Will could have got hold of 
 Mary he would have shaken her for spoiling every- 
 thing. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was meditating sending some one 
 to the spring to show them the way back, when Sir 
 Clement and Mary again came into sight. They did 
 not seem to be saying much, yet were so engrossed 
 that they zigzagged toward the rest of the party like 
 persons seeking their destination in a mist. Just as 
 they reached the trees Mary looked up so softly at 
 .her companion that Rob turned away in an agony. 
 
 " It is a long way to the spring," were Mary's first 
 words, as if she expected to be taken to task for their 
 lengthened absence. 
 
 " So it seems," said Dick. 
 
 The baronet crossed with the pail to Mrs. Meredith, 
 and stopped half-way like one waking from a dream. 
 Mrs. Meredith held out her hand for the pail, and the 
 baronet stammered with vexation. Simultaneously 
 the whole party saw what was wrong, but Will only 
 was so merciless as to put the discovery into words. 
 
 "Why," cried the boy, pausing to whistle in the 
 middle of his sentence, "you have forgotten the 
 water !" 
 
 It was true. The pail was empty. Sir Clement 
 turned it upside down, and made a seat of it. 
 
 " I am so sorry," he said to Mrs. Meredith, trying
 
 MARY OF THE STOXY HEART. 233 
 
 to speak lightly. " I assure you I thought I had filled 
 the pail at the spring. It is entirely my fault, for I 
 told Miss Abinger I had done so." 
 
 Mary's face was turned from the others, so that 
 they could not see how she took the incident. It 
 gave them so much to think of that Will was the 
 only one of the whole part} 7 " who saw its ridiculous 
 aspect. 
 
 "Put it down to sunstroke, Miss Meredith," the 
 baronet said to Nell ; " I shall never allow myself to 
 be placed in a position of trust again." 
 
 "Does that mean," asked Dick, "that you object 
 to being sent back again to the spring?" 
 
 " Ah, I forgot," said Sir Clement. " You may de- 
 pend on me this time." 
 
 He seized the pail once more, glad to get away by 
 himself to some place where he could denounce his 
 stupidity unheard, but Mrs. Meredith would not let 
 him go. As for Mary, she was looking so haughty 
 now that no one would have dared to mention the 
 pail again. 
 
 During the meal Dick felt compelled to talk so 
 much that he was unusually dull company for the 
 remainder of the week. The others were only genial 
 now and again. Sir Clement sought in vain to 
 gather from Mary's eyes that she had forgiven him 
 for making the rest of the party couple him and her 
 in their thoughts. Mrs. Meredith would have liked 
 to take her daughter aside and discuss the situation,
 
 234 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 and Nell was looking covertly at Rob, who, she 
 thought, bore it bravely. Rob had lately learned 
 carving from a handbook, and was dissecting a fowl, 
 murmuring to himself, " Cut from a to b along the 
 line / </, taking care to sever the wing at the point k. " 
 Like all the others, he thought that Mary had 
 promised to be the baronet's wife, and Nell's heart 
 palpitated for him when she saw how gently he 
 passed Sir Clement the mustard. Such a load lay on 
 Rob that he felt suffocated . Nell noticed indignantly 
 that Mar}- was not even "nice" to him. For the 
 first time in her life, or at least for several weeks, 
 Miss Meredith was wroth with Miss Abinger. Mary 
 might have been on the rack, but she went on proudly 
 eating bread and chicken. Relieved of his fears, 
 Dick raged internally at Mary for treating Angus 
 cruelly, and Nell, who had always dreaded lest things 
 should not go as they had gone, sat sorrowfully be- 
 cause she had not been disappointed. They all knew 
 how much they cared for Rob now, all except Mary 
 of the stony heart. 
 
 Sir Clement began to tell some traveller's tales, 
 omitting many things that were . creditable to his 
 bravery, and Rob found himself listening with a 
 show of interest, wondering a little at his own audac- 
 ity in competing with such a candidate. By-and-bye 
 some members of the little party drifted away from 
 the others, and an accident left Mary and Rob to- 
 gether. Mary was aimlessly plucking the berries
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 235 
 
 from a twig in her hand, and all the sign she gave 
 that she knew of Rob's presence was in not raising 
 her head. If love is ever unselfish his was at that 
 moment. He took a step forward, and then Mary, 
 starting back, looked round hurriedly in the direction 
 of Sir Clement. What Rob thought was her mean- 
 ing flashed through him, and he stood still in pain. 
 
 " I am sorry you think so meanly of me," he said, 
 and passed on. He did not see Mary's arms rise 
 involuntarily, as if they would call him back. But 
 even then she did not realize what Rob's thoughts 
 were. A few yards away Rob, moving blindly, 
 struck against Dick. 
 
 "Ah, I see Mary there," her brother said; "I want 
 to speak to her. Why, how white you are, man !" 
 
 "Abinger," Rob answered, hoarsely, "tell me. I 
 must know. Is she engaged to Dowton?" 
 
 Dick hesitated. He felt sore for Rob. " Yes, she 
 is, " he replied. " You remember I spoke of this to 
 you before." Then Dick moved on to have it out 
 with Mary. She was standing with the twig in her 
 hand, just as Rob had left her. 
 
 "Mary," said her brother bluntly, "this is too 
 bad. I would have expected it from any one sooner 
 than from you." 
 
 "What are you talking about?" asked Mary 
 frigidly. 
 
 " I am talking about Angus, my friend. Yes, you 
 may smile, but it is not play to him."
 
 236 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "What have I done to your friend?" said Mary, 
 looking Dick in the face. 
 
 " You have crushed the life for the time being out 
 of as fine a fellow as I ever knew. You might at 
 least have amused yourself with some one a little 
 more experienced in the ways of women." 
 
 " How dare you, Dick?" exclaimed Mary, stamp- 
 ing her foot. All at once Dick saw that though she 
 spoke bravely her lips were trembling. A sudden 
 fear seized him. 
 
 " I presume that you are engaged to Dowton?" he 
 said quickly. 
 
 "It is presumption certainly," replied Mary. 
 
 " Why, what else could any one think after that 
 ridiculous affair of the water?" 
 
 "I shall never forgive him for that," Mary said, 
 flushing. 
 
 " But he " 
 
 " No. Yes, he did, but we are not engaged. " 
 
 "You mean to say that you refused him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Dick thought it over, tapping the while on a tree- 
 trunk like a woodpecker. 
 
 "Why?" he asked at last. 
 
 Mary shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing. 
 
 "You seemed exceedingly friendly," said Dick, 
 "when you returned here together." 
 
 "I suppose," Mary said bitterly, "that the proper
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 237 
 
 thing in the circumstances would have been to wound 
 his feelings unnecessarily as much as possible?" 
 
 "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 be- 
 come marble again. 
 
 Dick was not deceived. He dropped her hands, 
 and leaned despondently against a tree.
 
 238 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " 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 noth- 
 ing. 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 toward 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 un- 
 pleasant for Sir Clement." 
 
 "Well, I can't say," Dick answered. 
 
 " At all events, he did not?" 
 
 " Who is he?"
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 239 
 
 "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 re- 
 member 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 shoot- 
 ing 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. An- 
 gus," Mary said. 
 
 Possibly she meant that had she known he had to 
 return to London she would have begun to treat him
 
 240 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 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 noth- 
 ing. 
 
 " I had better try it," he said. 
 
 With difficulty the punt was brought near a land- 
 ing-stage, and Rob jumped out. 
 
 " Good-by," he said to Mary. 
 
 "Good-night," 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
 
 MARY OF THE STONY HEART. 241 
 
 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 be- 
 tween the two men. They might have been soldiers 
 guarding a deserter. 
 
 What were Mary's feelings? She did not fully 
 realize 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 con- 
 sideration; 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 afterward. 
 
 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 leaned out of the carriage window to say good- 
 by, and Dick, ill at ease, turned his back on the 
 16
 
 242 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 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 
 pic-nic, Dick found himself a prisoner in the quad- 
 rangle 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 mid- 
 night in London. The windows of the inn had dark- 
 ened one by one, until for hours the black buildings 
 had slept heavily with only one eye open. Dick rec- 
 ognized 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." 
 
 243
 
 244 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "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 be- 
 fore he goes to bed." 
 
 "Does he walk so late as this?" asked Dick, to 
 whom six in the morning was an hour of the 
 night. 
 
 " I never knew such a gentleman for walking," re- 
 plied 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 good-by to Mary at Sunbury Sta- 
 tion 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
 
 COLONEL ABINGER TAKES COMMAND. 245 
 
 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 inter- 
 ested 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 mis- 
 erable business might be transferred to the colonel's 
 shoulders, frequently went into Rob's rooms to com- 
 fort him, but did not know how to do it. They sat 
 silently on opposite sides of the very hearth-rug 
 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
 
 246 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Rob's rooms, where, as it was, and despite his friend- 
 ship 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 sa- 
 loon 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
 
 COLONEL ABINOER TAKES COMMAND. 247 
 
 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 con- 
 viction. 
 
 " Did she tell you so?" 
 
 "No, she said she didn't," answered Nell, as if 
 that made 110 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 Oivl. It was 
 a very nice note in Mary Abinger's handwriting, 
 and Dick would have liked to drop it over the Hun- 
 gerfield Bridge. He gave it to Rob, however, and 
 stood on the defensive. 
 
 " The note began : " Dear Mr. Angus, Mrs. Mere- 
 dith would be very pleased if you could 
 
 The blood came to Rob's face as he saw the hand- 
 writing, 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, defy- 
 ing 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.
 
 248 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 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 inter- 
 fere 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 noth- 
 ing of his attachment for Mary, saw no reason why 
 he should not return to the houseboat, and that cir- 
 cumstances had compelled Mary to write the invi- 
 tation. 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 tow- 
 path, 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 dilap- 
 idated 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
 
 COLONEL ABINGER TAKES COMMAND. 249 
 
 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 in- 
 voluntarily for Molesey, but, realizing 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 w T hich 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 fig-
 
 250 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 ures 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 him 
 self. You have met him, I believe." 
 
 " What did you say his name was?" 
 
 " His name is Angus." 
 
 " 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, poach- 
 ing 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 col- 
 onel.
 
 COLONEL ABINOER TAKES COMMAND. 251 
 
 " I have something more to tell you of him," con- 
 tinued Dick remorselessly. " I have reason to be- 
 lieve, 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."
 
 252 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "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 be- 
 half of a Thrums man? Well, Angus is that man. 
 Is it not strange how this has come about?" 
 
 " It is enough to make me hate myself," replied the 
 irate colonel, though it had not quite such an effect 
 as that. 
 
 When his father had subsided a little, Dick told 
 him of what had been happening in England during 
 the last month or two. There had been a change of 
 government, but the chief event was the audacity 
 of a plebeian in casting his eyes on a patrician's 
 daughter. What are politics when the pipes in the 
 bath-room burst? 
 
 "So you see," Dick said in conclusion, "I have 
 acted the part of the unrelenting parent fairly well, 
 and I don't like it." 
 
 "Had I been in your place," replied the colonel, 
 " I would have acted it a good deal better." 
 
 " You would have told Angus that you considered 
 him, upon the whole, the meanest thing that crawls, 
 and that if he came within a radius of five miles of
 
 COLONEL ABINGER TAKES COMMAND. 253 
 
 your daughter you would have the law of him ? Yes ; 
 but that sort of trespassing is not actionable nowa- 
 days ; and besides, I don't know what Mary might 
 have said." 
 
 " Trespassing !" echoed the colonel ; " I could have 
 had the law of him for trespassing nearly a year ago." 
 
 " You mean that time you caught him fishing in 
 the Dome? I only heard of that at second-hand, but 
 I have at least no doubt that he fished to some effect." 
 
 " He can fish, " admitted the colonel ; " I should 
 like to know what flies he used." 
 
 Dick laughed. 
 
 " Angus," he said, " is a man with natural aptitude 
 for things. He does not, I suspect, even make love 
 like a beginner. " 
 
 "You are on his side, Richard." 
 
 " It has not seemed like it so far, but I confess I 
 have certainly had enough of shuffling." 
 
 " There will be no more shuffling," said the colonel 
 fiercely. " I shall see this man and tell him what I 
 think of him. As for Mary 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Yes," said Dick, "Mary is the difficulty. At 
 present I cannot even tell you what she is thinking 
 of it all. Mary is the one person I could never look 
 in the face when I meditated an underhand action 
 I remember how that sense of honor of hers used to 
 annoy me when I was a boy and so I have not 
 studied her countenance much of late."
 
 254 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "She shall marry Dowton," said the colonel de- 
 cisively. 
 
 "It is probably a pity, but I don't think she will," 
 replied Dick. " Of course you can prevent her mar- 
 rying Angus by simply refusing your consent." 
 
 "Yes, and I shall refuse it." 
 
 " Though it should break her heart she will never 
 complain," said Dick, "but it does seem a little hard 
 on Mary that we should mar her life rather than 
 endure a disappointment ourselves." 
 
 "You don't look at it in the proper light," said the 
 colonel, who, like most persons, made the proper light 
 himself; " in saving her from this man we do her the 
 greatest kindness in our power." 
 
 "Urn," said Dick, "of course. That was how I 
 put it to myself; but just consider Angus calmly, 
 and see what case we have against him." 
 
 " He is not a gentleman," said the colonel. 
 
 " He ought not to be, according to the proper light, 
 but he is." 
 
 "Pshaw!" the colonel exclaimed pettishly. "He 
 may have worked himself up into some sort of posi- 
 tion, like other discontented men of his class, but he 
 never had a father." 
 
 " He says he had a very good one. Weigh him, 
 if you like against Dowton, who is a good fellow in 
 his way, but never, so far as I know, did an honest 
 day's work in his life. Dowton 's whole existence
 
 COLONEL ABINGER TAKES COMMAND. 255 
 
 has been devoted to pleasure-seeking, while Angus 
 has been climbing up ever since he was born, and 
 with a heavy load on his back, too, most of the time. 
 If he goes on as he is doing, he will have both a good 
 income and a good position shortly." 
 
 " Dowton's position is made," said the colonel. 
 
 "Exactly," said Dick, "and Angus is making his 
 for himself. Whatever other distinction we draw 
 between them is a selfish one, and I question if it 
 does us much credit." 
 
 "I have no doubt," said the colonel, "that Mary's 
 pride will make her see this matter as I do." 
 
 " It will at least make her sacrifice herself for our 
 pride, if you insist on that." 
 
 Mary's father loved her as he had loved her mother, 
 though he liked to have his own way with both of 
 them. His voice broke a little as he answered Dick. 
 
 " You have a poor opinion of your father, my boy," 
 he said. " I think I would endure a good deal if 
 Mary were to be the happier for it." 
 
 Dick felt a little ashamed of himself. 
 
 "Whatever I may say," he answered, "I have at 
 least acted much as you would have done yourself. 
 Forgive me, father." 
 
 The colonel looked up with a wan smile. 
 
 "Let us talk of your affairs rather, Richard," he 
 said. " I have at least nothing to say against Miss 
 Meredith."
 
 256 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Dick moved uncomfortably in his chair, and then 
 stood up, thinking he heard a knock at the door. 
 
 " Are you there, Abinger?" some one called out. 
 " I have something very extraordinary to tell you." 
 
 Dick looked at his father, and hesitated. " It is 
 Angus," he said. 
 
 " Let him in," said the colonel.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE BARBER OF ROTTEN ROW. 
 
 ROB started when he saw Mary's father. 
 
 " We have met before, Mr. Angus," said the colonel 
 courteously. 
 
 "Yes," answered Rob without a tremor; "at 
 Dome Castle, was it not?" 
 
 This was the Angus who had once been unable to 
 salute anybody without wondering what on earth 
 he ought to say next. This was the colonel whose 
 hand had gaped five minutes before for Rob's throat. 
 The frown on the face of Mary's father was only 
 a protest against her lover's improved appearance. 
 Rob was no longer the hobbledehoy of last Christ- 
 mas. He was rather particular about the cut of 
 his coat. He had forgotten that he was not a colo- 
 nel's social equal. In. short, when he entered the room 
 now he knew what to do with his hat. Their host 
 saw the two men measuring each other. Dick never 
 smiled, but sometimes his mouth twitched, as now. 
 
 " You had something special to tell me, had you 
 not?" he asked Rob. 
 
 "Well," Rob replied with hesitation, "I have 
 
 something for you in my rooms. " 
 
 17 257
 
 258 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Suppose my father," began Dick, meaning to in- 
 vite the colonel upstairs, but pausing as he saw Rob's 
 brows contract. The colonel saw too, and resented 
 it. No man likes to be left on the outskirts of a 
 secret. 
 
 "Run up yourself, Abinger," Rob said, seating 
 himself near Mary's father ; " and, stop, here are my 
 keys. I locked it in." 
 
 "Why," asked Dick, while his father also looked 
 up, " have you some savage animal up there?" 
 
 " No," Rob said, " it is very tame." 
 
 Dick climbed the stair, after casting a quizzical 
 look behind him, which meant that he wondered how 
 long the colonel and Rob would last in a small room 
 together. He unlocked the door of Rob's chambers 
 more quickly than he opened it, for he had no notion 
 of what might be caged up inside, and as soon as he 
 had entered he stopped, amazed. All men of course 
 are amazed once in their lives when they can get a 
 girl to look at them. This was Dick's second time. 
 
 It was the hour of the evening when another ten 
 minutes can be stolen from the day by a readjust- 
 ment of one's window-curtains. Rob's blind, how- 
 ever, had given way in the cords, and instead of 
 being pulled up was twisted into two triangles. Just 
 sufficient light straggled through the window to let 
 Dick see the man who was standing on the hearth-rug 
 looking sullenly at his boots. There was a smell of 
 oil in the room.
 
 THE BARBER OF ROTTEN ROW. 259 
 
 "Dowton!" Dick exclaimed; "what masquerade 
 is this?" 
 
 The other put up his elbow, as if to ward off a 
 blow, and then Dick opened the eyes of anger. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "it is you, is it?" 
 
 They stood looking at each other in silence. 
 
 "Just stand there, my fine fellow," Dick said, "un- 
 til I light the gas. I must have a better look at you." 
 
 The stranger turned longing eyes on the door as 
 the light struck him. 
 
 "Not a single step in that direction," said Dick, 
 "unless you want to go over the banisters." 
 
 Abinger came closer to the man who was Sir 
 Clement Dowton's double, and looked him over. He 
 wore a white linen jacket, and an apron to match, 
 and it would have been less easy to mistake him for 
 a baronet aping the barber than it had been for the 
 barber to ape the baronet. 
 
 "Your name?" asked Dick. 
 
 "Josephs," the other mumbled. 
 
 " You are a barber, I presume?" 
 
 "I follow the profession of hair-dressing," replied 
 Josephs, with his first show of spirit. 
 
 Had Dick not possessed an inscrutable face, Josephs 
 would have known that his inquisitor was suffering 
 from a sense of the ludicrous. Dick had just remem- 
 bered that his father was downstairs. 
 
 " Well, Josephs, I shall have to hand you over to 
 the police."
 
 260 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "I think not," said Josephs in his gentlemanly 
 voice. 
 
 "Why not?" asked Dick. 
 
 "Because then it would all coine out." 
 
 " What would all come out?" 
 
 " The way your father was deceived. The society 
 papers would make a great deal of it, and he would 
 not like that." 
 
 Dick groaned, though the other did not hear him. 
 
 "You read the society journals, Josephs?" 
 
 " Rather !" said Josephs. 
 
 "Perhaps you write for them?" 
 
 Josephs did not say. 
 
 "Well, how were you brought here?" Dick asked. 
 
 "Your friend," said Joseph, sulkily, "came into 
 our place of business in Southampton Row half an 
 hour ago and saw me. He insisted on bringing me 
 here at once in a cab. I wanted to put on a black 
 coat, but he would not hear of it." 
 
 " Ah, then, I suppose you gave Mr. Angus the full 
 confession of your roguery as you came along?" 
 
 " He would not let me speak," said Josephs. " He 
 said it was no affair of his." 
 
 "No? Then you will be so good as to favor me 
 with the pretty story." 
 
 Dick lit a cigar and seated himself. The sham 
 baronet looked undecidedly at a chair. 
 
 "Certainly not," said Dick, "you can stand." 
 
 Josephs told his talc demurely, occasionally with a
 
 THE BARBER OF ROTTEN ROW. 261 
 
 gleam of humor, and sometimes with a sigh. His 
 ambition to be a gentleman, but with no desire to 
 know the way, had come to him one day in his youth 
 when another gentleman flung a sixpence at him. 
 In a moment Josephs saw what it was to belong to 
 the upper circles. He hurried to a street corner to 
 get his boots blacked, tossed the menial the sixpence, 
 telling him to keep the change, and returned home 
 in an ecstasy, penniless, but with an object in life. 
 That object was to do it again. 
 
 At the age of eighteen Josephs slaved merrily dur- 
 ing the week, but had never any money by Monday 
 morning. He was a gentleman every Saturday 
 evening. Then he lived ; for the remainder of the 
 week he was a barber. One of his delights at this 
 period was to have his hair cut at Truefitt's, and 
 complain that it was badly done. Having reproved 
 his attendant in a gentlemanly way, he tipped him 
 handsomely and retired in a glory. It was about this 
 time that he joined a Conservative association. 
 
 Soon afterward Josephs was to be seen in Rotten 
 Row, in elegant apparel, hanging over the railing. 
 He bowed and raised his hat to the ladies who took 
 his fancy, and, though they did not respond, glowed 
 with the sensation of being practically a man of 
 fashion. Then he returned to the shop. 
 
 The years glided by, and Josephs discovered that 
 he was perfectly content to remain a hair-dresser if 
 he could be a gentleman now and again. Having
 
 262 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 supped once in a fashionable restaurant, he was sat- 
 isfied for a fortnight or so with a sausage and onions 
 at home. Then the craving came back. He saved 
 up for two months on one occasion, and then took 
 Saturday to Monday at Cookham, where he passed 
 as Henry K. Talbot Devereux. He was known to 
 the waiters and boatmen there as the gentleman who 
 had quite a pleasure in tossing them half-crowns, 
 and for a month afterward he had sausage without 
 onions. So far this holiday had been the memory 
 of his life. He studied the manners and language of 
 the gentlemen who came to the shop in which he was 
 employed, and began to dream of a big thing an- 
 nually. He had learned long ago that he was remark- 
 ably good-looking. 
 
 For a whole year Josephs abstained from being a 
 gentleman except in the smallest way, for he was 
 burning to have a handle to his name, and feared 
 that it could not be done at less than twenty pounds. 
 
 His week's holiday came, and found Josephs not 
 ready for it. He had only twelve pounds. With a 
 self-denial that was magnificent he crushed Lis as- 
 pirations, took only two days of delight at Brighton, 
 and continued to save up for the title. Next summer 
 saw him at the Angler's Retreat, near Dome Castle. 
 " Sir Clement Dowton " was the name on his Glad- 
 stone bag. A dozen times a day he looked at it till 
 it frightened him, and then he tore the label off. 
 Having done so, he put on a fresh one.
 
 THE BARBER OF ROTTEN ROW. 263 
 
 Josephs had selected his baronetcy with due care. 
 Years previously he had been told that he looked like 
 the twin-brother of Sir Clement Dowton, and on in- 
 quiry he had learned that the baronet was not in 
 England. As for the Angler's Retreat, he went 
 there because he had heard that it was frequented by 
 persons in the rank of life to which it was his inten- 
 tion to belong for the next week. He had never 
 heard of Colonel Abinger until they met. The rest 
 is known. Josephs dwelt on his residence at Dome 
 Castle with his eyes shut, like a street arab lingering 
 lovingly over the grating of a bakery. 
 
 "Well, you are a very admirable rogue," Dick 
 said, when Josephs had brought his story to an end, 
 "and though I shall never be proud again, your 
 fluency excuses our blindness. Where did you pick 
 it up?" The barber glowed with gratification. 
 
 " It came naturally to me," he answered. " I was 
 intended for a gentleman. I dare say, now, I am 
 about the only case on record of a man who took to 
 pickles and French sauces the first time he tried them. 
 Mushrooms were not an acquired taste with me, nor 
 black coffee, nor caviare, nor liqueurs, and I enjoy 
 celery with my cheese. What I liked best of all was 
 the little round glasses you dip your fingers into when 
 the dinner is finished. I dream of them still." 
 
 " You are burst up for the present, Josephs, I pre- 
 sume?" 
 
 "Yes, but I shall be able to do something in a
 
 264 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 small way next Christmas. I should like to put it 
 off till summer, but I can't." 
 
 "There must be no more donning the name of 
 Dowton," said Dick, trying to be stern. 
 
 " I suppose I shall have to give that up," the barber 
 said with a sigh. " I had to bolt, you see, last time, 
 before I meant to go." 
 
 " Ah, you have not told me yet the why and where- 
 fore of those sudden disappearances. Excuse my 
 saying so, Josephs, but they were scarcely gentle- 
 manly." 
 
 "I know it," said Josephs sadly, "but however 
 carefully one plans a thing, it may take a wrong 
 turning. The first time I was at the castle I meant 
 to leave in a carriage and pair, waving my handker- 
 chief, but it could not be done at the money." 
 
 " The colonel would have sent you to Silchester in 
 his own trap. " 
 
 " Ah, I wanted a brougham. You see I had been 
 a little extravagant at the inn, and I could not sum- 
 mon up courage to leave the castle without tipping 
 the servants all round." 
 
 " So you waited till you were penniless, and then 
 stole away?" 
 
 "Not quite penniless," said Josephs; "I had three 
 pounds left, but 
 
 He hestitated. 
 
 "You see," he blurted out, blushing at last, "my
 
 THE BARBER OF ROTTEN ROW. 2G5 
 
 old mother is dependent on me, and I kept the three 
 pounds for her." 
 
 Dick took his cigar from his mouth. 
 
 "I am sorry to hear this, Josephs," he said, "be- 
 cause I meant to box your ears presently, and I don't 
 know that I can do it now. How about the sudden 
 termination to the visit you honored the colonel with 
 last Christmas?" 
 
 "I had to go," said Josephs, "because I read that 
 Sir Clement Dowton had returned to England. Be- 
 sides, I was due at the shop." 
 
 " But you had an elegant time while your money 
 held out?" 
 
 Josephs wiped a smile from his face. 
 
 "It was grand," he said. "I shall never know 
 such days again." 
 
 "I hope not, Josephs. Was there no streak of 
 cloud in those halcyon days?" 
 
 The barber sighed heavily. 
 
 "Ay, there was," he said, "hair oil." 
 
 "Explain yourself, my gentle hairdresser." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Josephs, "don't use hair oil. 
 I can't live without it. That is my only stumbling- 
 block to being a gentleman." 
 
 He put his fingers through his hair, and again 
 Dick sniffed the odor of oil. 
 
 " I had several bottles of it with me," Josephs con- 
 tinued, "but I dared not use it."
 
 26G WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "This is interesting," said Dick. "I should like 
 to know now, from you, who have tried both profes- 
 sions, whether you prefer the gentleman to the 
 barber." 
 
 "I do and I don't," answered Josephs. "Hair- 
 dressing suits me best as a business, but gentility 
 for pleasure. A fortnight of the gentleman sets me 
 up for the year. I should not like to be a gentleman 
 all the year round." 
 
 " The hair oil is an insurmountable obstacle. " 
 
 " Yes, " said the barber ; " besides, to be a gentleman 
 is rather hard work. " 
 
 "I dare say it is," said Dick, "when you take a 
 short cut to it. Well, I presume this interview is at 
 an end. You may go." 
 
 He jerked his foot in the direction of the door, but 
 Josephs hesitated. 
 
 "Colonel Abinger well?" asked the barber. 
 
 "The door, Josephs," replied Dick. 
 
 "And Miss Abinger?" 
 
 Dick gave the barber a look that hurried him out 
 of the room and down the stairs. Abinger's mouth 
 twitched every time he took the cigar out of it, until 
 he started to his feet. 
 
 '* I have forgotten that Angus and my father are 
 together," he murmured. "I wonder," he asked 
 himself, as he returned to his own chambers, " how 
 the colonel will take this? Must he be told? I think
 
 THE BARBER OF ROTTEN ROW. 267 
 
 Colonel Abinger was told, as soon as Rob had left, 
 and it added so much fuel to his passion that it put 
 the fire out. 
 
 "If the story gets abroad," he said, with a shud- 
 der, " I shall never hold up my head again." 
 
 "It is a safe secret," Dick answered ; "the fellow 
 would not dare to speak of it anywhere. He knows 
 what that would mean for himself." 
 
 " Angus knows of it. Was it like the chivalrous 
 soul you make him to flout this matter before us?" 
 
 " You are hard up for an argument against An- 
 gus, father. I made him promise to let me know if 
 he ever came on the track of the impostor, and you 
 saw how anxious he was to keep the discovery from 
 you. He asked me at the door, when he was going 
 out, not to mention it to either you or Mary." 
 
 "Confound him!" cried the colonel testily; "but 
 he is right about Mary ; we need not speak of it to 
 her. She never liked the fellow." 
 
 "That was fortunate," said Dick, "but you did, 
 father. You thought that Josephs was a gentleman, 
 and you say that Angus is not. Perhaps you have 
 made a mistake in both cases." 
 
 "I say nothing against Angus," replied the colo- 
 nel, "except that I don't want him to marry my 
 daughter. " 
 
 " Oh, you and he got on well together, then?" 
 
 " He can talk. The man has improved." 
 
 "You did not talk about Mary?" asked Dick.
 
 268 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "We never mentioned her; how could I, when he 
 supposes her engaged to Dowton? I shall talk about 
 him to her, though." 
 
 Two days afterward Dick asked his father if he 
 had talked to Mary about Angus yet. 
 
 "No, Richard," the old man admitted feebly, "I 
 hare not. The fact is, that she is looking so proud 
 and stately just now that I feel nervous about 
 broaching the subject." 
 
 " That is exactly how I feel," said Dick; " but Nell 
 told me to-day that, despite her hauteur before us, 
 Mary is wearing her heart away." 
 
 The colonel's fingers beat restlessly on the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 " I'm afraid she does care for Angus," he said. 
 
 "As much as he cares for her, I believe," replied 
 Dick. "Just think," he added bitterly, "that these 
 two people love each other for the best that is in them, 
 one of the rarest things in life, and are nevertheless 
 to be kept apart. Look here." 
 
 Dick drew aside his blind, and pointed to a light 
 cast on the opposite wall from a higher window. 
 
 "That is Angus' light," he said. "On such a 
 night as this, when he is not wanted at the Wire, 
 you will see that light blazing into the morning. 
 Watch that moving shadow ; it is the reflection of 
 his arm as he sits there writing, writing, writing 
 with nothing to write for, and only despair to face 
 him when he stops. Is it not too bad?"
 
 THE BARBER OF ROTTEN ROW. 269 
 
 "They will forget each other in time," said the 
 colonel. " Let Dowton have another chance. He is 
 to be at the Lodge." 
 
 "But if they don't forget each other; if Dowton 
 fails again, and Mary continues to eat her heart in 
 silence, what then?" 
 
 "We shall see." 
 
 " Look here, father, I cannot play this pitiful part 
 before Angus forever. Let us make a bargain. 
 Dowton gets a second chance ; if he does not succeed, 
 it is Angus' turn. Do you promise me so much?" 
 
 "I cannot say," replied the colonel thoughtfully. 
 " It may come to that." 
 
 Eob was as late in retiring to rest that night as 
 Dick had predicted, but he wrote less than usual. 
 He had something to think of as he paced his room, 
 for, unlike her father and brother, he knew that 
 when Mary was a romantic school-girl she had dressed 
 the sham baronet, as a child may dress her doll, in 
 the virtues of a hero. He shuddered to think of her 
 humiliation should she ever hear the true story of 
 Josephs as she never did. Yet many a lady of 
 high degree has given her heart to a baronet who 
 was better fitted to be a barber.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 
 
 IN a London fog the street-lamps are up and about, 
 running maliciously at pedestrians. He is in love 
 or writing a book who is struck by one without re- 
 monstrating. One night that autumn a fog crept 
 through London a month before it was due, and Rob 
 met a lamp-post the following afternoon on his way 
 home from the Wire office. He passed on without a 
 word, though he was not writing a book. Something 
 had happened that day, and, but for Mary Abinger, 
 Rob would have been wishing that his mother could 
 see him now. 
 
 The editor of the Wire had called him into a pri- 
 vate room, in which many a young gentleman, who 
 only wanted a chance to put the world to rights, has 
 quaked, hat in hand, before now. It is the dusty 
 sanctum from which Mr. Rowbotham wearily distrib- 
 utes glory or consternation, sometimes with nig- 
 gardly hand and occasionally like an African explorer 
 scattering largess among the natives. Mr. Row- 
 botham might be even a greater editor than he is if 
 he was sure that it is quite the proper thing for so 
 
 distinguished a man as himself to believe in any- 
 270
 
 ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 271 
 
 thing, and some people think that his politics are to 
 explain away to-day the position he took up yester- 
 day. He seldom writes himself, and, while direct- 
 ing the line to be adopted by his staff, he smokes a 
 cigar, which he likes to probe with their pens. He is 
 pale and thin, and has roving eyes, got from always 
 being on the alert against aspirants. 
 
 All the chairs in the editorial room, except Mr. 
 Rowbotham's own, had been converted, like the 
 mantelpiece, into temporary bookcases. Rob tumbled 
 the books off one (your " Inquiry into the State of 
 Ireland" was among them, gentle reader) much as a 
 coal-heaver topples his load into a cellar, or like a 
 housewife emptying her apron. 
 
 "You suit me very well, Angus," the editor said. 
 " You have no lurking desire to write a book, have 
 you?" 
 
 "No," Rob answered; "since I joined the Press 
 that ambition seems to have gone from me." 
 
 "Quite so," said Mr. Rowbotham, his tone imply- 
 ing that Rob now left the court 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 had just come in for review. 
 
 " As you know," the editor continued, " I have been 
 looking about me for a leader-writer for the last year. 
 You have a way of keeping your head that I like, 
 and your style is not so villanously bad. Are you 
 prepared to join us?"
 
 272 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " I should think so," said Rob. 
 
 "Very well. You will start with 800 a year. 
 Ricketts, as you may have heard, has half as much 
 again as that, but he has been with us some time." 
 
 " All right, " said Rob calmly, though his chest 
 was swelling. He used to receive 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 to Marriott ; 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 think Marriott 
 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 a man to be trusted. Moder- 
 ate Radicalism is our policy, and not even Ricketts 
 can advocate moderation so vehemently as you do. 
 You fight for it 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 will difficulty. Have you got over 
 that yet." 
 
 "No," Rob said sadly, "and never will."
 
 ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 273 
 
 " 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 Garrick on 
 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. Row- 
 botham, who is a bachelor. " You would be worth 
 another two hundred a year to us then. I wish I 
 could find the time to do it myself." 
 
 Rob left the office a made man, but looking as if it 
 all had happened some time ago. There were men 
 shivering in Fleet Street as he passed down it who 
 had come to London on the same day as himself, 
 every one with a tragic story to tell now, and some 
 already seeking the double death that is called drown- 
 ing care. Shadows of university graduates passed 
 him in the fog who would have been glad to carry 
 his bag. That night a sandwich-board man, who 
 had once had a thousand a year, crept into the 
 Thames. Yet Rob bored his way home, feeling that 
 it was all in vain. 
 
 He stopped at Abinger's door to tell him what had 
 
 happened, but the chambers were locked. More like 
 
 a man who had lost 800 a year than one who had 
 
 just been offered it, he mounted to his own rooms, 
 
 18
 
 274 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 hardly noticing that the door was now ajar. The 
 blackness of night was in the sitting-room, and a 
 smell of burning leather. 
 
 "Another pair of slippers gone," said a voice from 
 the fireplace. It was Dick, and if he had not jumped 
 out of one of the slippers he would have been on fire 
 himself. Long experience had told him the exact 
 moment to jump. 
 
 " I tried your door," Rob said. " I have news for 
 you." 
 
 "Well," said Dick, " I forced my way in here be- 
 cause I have something to tell you, and resolved not 
 to miss you. Who speaks first? My news is bad 
 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 me yours. " 
 
 Dick spoke first, however, and ever afterward was 
 glad that he had done so. 
 
 "Look here, Angus," he said, bluntly, "I don't 
 know that Mary is engaged to Dowton." 
 
 Rob stood up and sat down again. 
 
 "Nothing is to be gained by talking in that way," 
 he said shortly. " She was engaged to him six 
 
 "No," said Dick, "she was not, though for all 1 
 know she may be now." 
 
 Then Dick told his tale under the fire of Rob's
 
 ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 275 
 
 eyes. When it was ended Rob rose from his chair, 
 and stared silently for several minutes at a vase on 
 the mantelpiece. Dick continued talking, but Rob 
 did not hear a word. 
 
 "I can't sit here, Abinger," he said; "there is not 
 room to think. I shall be back presently." 
 
 He was gone into the fog the next moment. "At 
 it again," muttered the porter, as Rob swung past and 
 was lost ten paces off. He was back in an hour, 
 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 tele- 
 graphs 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 not sure 
 how she would take his reappearance on the scene 
 again. If she resented it, I don't think the boldest 
 baronet that breathes would venture to propose to 
 Mary in her shell." 
 
 " The colonel might press her?"
 
 276 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " Hardly, I think, to marry a man she does not 
 care for. No, you do him an injustice. What my 
 father would like to have is the power to compel her 
 to care for Dowton. No doubt he would exercise 
 that if it was his." 
 
 " Miss Abinger says nothing sends no messages 
 I mean, does sho ever mention 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. If 
 the mountain won't go to her, she will never como to 
 the mountain." 
 
 Rob started and looked at his hat. 
 
 " You can't walk to Glen Quharity Lodge to-night," 
 said Dick, following Rob's eyes. 
 
 "Do you mean that I should go at all?" 
 
 " Why well, you see, it is this awkward want of 
 an income that spoils everything. Now, if you could 
 persuade Rowbotham to give you a thousand a year, 
 that might have its influence on my father." 
 
 "I told you," exclaimed Rob; "no, of course I did 
 not. I joined the staff of the Wire to-day at 800." 
 
 "Your hand, young man," said Dick, very nearly 
 becoming excited. " Then that is all right. On the 
 Press every one with a good income can add two 
 hundred a year to it. It is only those who need tho 
 two hundred that cannot get it." 
 
 "You think I should go north?" said Rob, with 
 the whistle of the train already in his ears.
 
 ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 277 
 
 " Ah, it is not my affair," answered Dick ; " I have 
 done my duty. I promised to give Dowton a fair 
 chance and he has had it. I don't know what use 
 he has made of it, remember. You have overlooked 
 my share in this 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 if Mary thinks you 
 better " 
 
 Dick shrugged his shoulders to signify that he had 
 freed them of a load of 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 with me at Christmas?" 
 
 Rob pushed the invitation from him contempt- 
 uously. 
 
 " There is no reason," he said, looking at Dick de- 
 fiantly, "why I should not 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 Thrums just now, for a few days at 
 any rate. Rowbotham does not need me until Fri- 
 day."
 
 278 WHEX A MAX'S SIXGLE. 
 
 Rob looked up and saw Dick's mouth twitching. 
 He tried to stare Mary's brother out of countenance, 
 but could not do it. 
 
 Night probably came on that Tuesday as usual, for 
 Nature is as much as man a slave to habit ; but it was 
 not required to darken London. If all the clocks and 
 watches had broken their mainsprings no one could 
 have told whether it was at noon or midnight that 
 Rob left for Scotland. It would have been equally 
 impossible to say from his face whether he was off 
 to a marriage or a funeral. He did not know himself. 
 
 "This human nature is. a curious thing," thought 
 Dick as he returned to his rooms. " Here are two 
 of us in misery, the one because he fears he is not 
 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. An- 
 gus is not, for he is in 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 chairs to lie upon, and a 
 tobacco jar at his elbow? I fancy, though, that I 
 am just 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's eyebrows. Ah, 
 poor Nell! 
 k " I wonder, is it my fault that my passion burned
 
 ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 279 
 
 itself out in one little crackle? With most men, if 
 the books tell true, the first fire only goes out after 
 the second is kindled, but I seem to have no more 
 sticks to light. 
 
 " I am going to be married, though I would much 
 rather remain single. My wife will be the only girl 
 I ever loved, and I like her still more than any other 
 girl I know. Though I shuddered just now when I 
 thought of matrimony, there can be little doubt that 
 we shall get on very well together. 
 
 " I should have preferred her to prove as fickle as 
 myself ; but how true she has remained to me ! Not 
 to me, for it is not the real Dick Abinger she cares 
 for, and so I don't know that Nell's love is of the 
 kind to make a man conceited. Is marriage a rash 
 experiment when the woman loves the man for quali- 
 ties he does not possess, and has not discovered in 
 years 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 do mean ; she reads 
 my writings upside down, as one might say; she 
 cries if I speak to her of anything more serious than 
 flowers and waltzes, but she thinks me divine when 
 I treat her like an infant. 
 
 " Is it weakness or strength that has kept me what 
 the world would call true to Nell? Is a man neces- 
 sarily a villain because love dies out of his heart, or 
 has his reason some right to think the affair over and 
 show him where he stands?"
 
 280 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 "Yes, Nell after all gets the worse of the bargain. 
 She will have for a husband a man who is evidently 
 incapable of a lasting affection for anybody. That, 
 I suppose, means that I find myself the only really 
 interesting person I know. Yet, I think, Richard, 
 you would at times rather be somebody else anybody 
 almost would do. 
 
 " It is a little humiliating to remember that I have 
 been lying to Angus for the last month or two I, 
 who always thought I had such a noble admiration 
 for the truth. I did it very easily too, so I suppose 
 there can be no doubt that I really am a very poor 
 sort of creature. I wonder if it was for Mary's sake 
 I lied, or merely because it would have been too 
 troublesome to speak the truth? Except by fits and 
 starts I have ceased apparently to be interested in 
 anything. The only thing nowadays that rouses my 
 indignation is the attempt on any one's part to draw 
 me into an argument on any subject under the sun. 
 Here is this Irish question; I can pump up an 
 article in three paragraphs on it, but I don't really 
 seem to care whether it is ever settled or not. Should 
 we have a republic? I don't mind ; it is all the same 
 to me; but don't give me the casting vote. Is Glad- 
 stone a god? is Gladstone the devil? They say he is 
 one or other, and I am content to let them fight it out. 
 How long is it since I gave a thought to religion? 
 What am I? There are men who come into this room 
 and announce that they are agnostics, as if that were
 
 ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 281 
 
 a new profession. Am I an agnostic? I think not; 
 and if I was I would keep it to myself. My soul 
 does not trouble me at all, except for five minutes 
 or so now and again. On the whole I seem to be 
 indifferent as 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 everything he had told himself. His lips 
 quivered and his whole body shook. He stood in an 
 agony against the mantelpiece with his head in his 
 hands, and emotions had possessions of him compared 
 with which the emotions of any other person de- 
 scribed in this book were but children's fancies. By- 
 and-bye he became calm and began to undress. Sud- 
 denly he remembered something. He rummaged 
 for his keys in the pocket of the coat he had cast off, 
 and, opening his desk, wrote on a slip of paper that 
 he took from it : " Scalping Knife, Man Frightened 
 to Get Married (humorous) !" 
 
 " My God !" he groaned, " I would write an article, 
 I think, on my mother's coffin."
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 THE AUDACITY OP ROB ANGUS. 
 
 COLONEL ABINGER had allowed the other sports- 
 men to wander away from him, and now lay on his 
 back on Ben Shee, occasionally raking the glen of 
 Quharity through a field-glass. It was a purple 
 world he saw under a sky of gray and blue ; with a 
 white thread that was the dusty road twisting round 
 a heavy sweep of mountain-side, and a broken thread 
 of silver that was the Quharity straggling back and 
 forward in the valley like a stream reluctant to be 
 gone. To the naked eye they were bare black peaks 
 that overlooked the glen from every side but the 
 south. It was not the mountains, however, but the 
 road that interested the colonel. By-and-bye he was 
 sitting up frowning, for this is what he saw. 
 
 From the clump of trees to the north that keeps 
 Glen Quharity Lodge warm in winter a man and a 
 lady emerged on horseback. They had not advanced 
 a hundred yards when the male rider turned back, as 
 if for something he had forgotten. The lady rode 
 forward alone. 
 
 A pedestrian came into sight about the same time, 
 
 a mile to the south of the colonel. The field-glass 
 
 282
 
 THE AUDACITY OF ROB ANGUS. 283 
 
 lost him a dozen times, but he was approaching 
 rapidly, and he and the rider must soon meet. 
 
 The nearest habitation to Colonel Abinger was the 
 school-house, which was some four hundred yards 
 distant. It stands on the other side of the white 
 road, and is approached by a straight path down 
 which heavy carts can jolt in the summer months. 
 Every time the old dominie goes up and down this 
 path, his boots take part of it along with them. 
 There is a stone in his house, close to the door, which 
 is chipped and scarred owing to his habit of kicking 
 it to get the mud off his boots before he goes inside. 
 The dominie was at present sitting listlessly on the 
 dyke that accompanies this path to the high road. 
 
 The colonel was taking no interest in the pedes- 
 trian as yet, but he sighed as he watched the lady 
 ride slowly forward. Where the road had broken 
 through a bump in the valley her lithe form in green 
 stood out as sharply as a silhouette against the high, 
 ragged bank of white earth. The colonel had recog- 
 nized his daughter, and his face was troubled. 
 
 During all the time they had been at the lodge he 
 had never mentioned Rob Angus' name to Mary, 
 chiefly because she had not given him a chance to 
 lose his temper. She had been more demonstrative 
 in her love for her father than of old, and had antici- 
 pated his wants in a way that gratified him at the 
 moment but disturbed him afterward. In his pres- 
 ence she seemed quite gayly happy, but he had noticed
 
 284 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 that she liked to slip away on to the hill-side by her- 
 self, and sit there alone for hours at a time. Sir 
 Clement Dowton was still at the lodge, but the 
 colonel was despondent. He knew very well that, 
 without his consent, Mary would never give her hand 
 to any man, but he was equally aware that there his 
 power ended. Where she got her notions he did not 
 know, but since she became his housekeeper she had 
 impressed the colonel curiously. He was always find- 
 ing himself taking for granted her purity to be some- 
 thing so fine that it behoved him to be careful. Mary 
 affected other people in the same way. They came 
 to know that she was a very rare person, and so in 
 her company they became almost fine persons them- 
 selves. Thus the natural goodness of mankind as- 
 serted itself. Of late the colonel had felt Mary's 
 presence more than ever ; he believed in her so much 
 (often to his annoyance) that she was a religion to 
 him. 
 
 While Colonel Abinger sat in the heather, perturbed 
 in mind and trying to persuade himself that it was 
 Mary's fault, the pedestrian drew near rapidly. Evi- 
 dently he and the rider would meet near the school- 
 house, and before the male rider, who had again 
 emerged from the clump of trees, could make up on 
 his companion. 
 
 The dominie, who did not have such a slice of the 
 outer world as this every day, came to the end of his 
 path to have a look at the persons who were nearing
 
 THE AUDACITY OF ROB ANGUS. 285 
 
 him from opposite directions. He saw that the 
 pedestrian wore an elegant silk hat and black coat, 
 such as were not to be got in these parts. Only the 
 delve with which he walked suggested a man from 
 Thrums. 
 
 The pedestrian made a remark about the weather 
 as he hurried past the dominie. He was now so near 
 the colonel that his face could be distinctly seen 
 through the field-glass. The colonel winced, and 
 turned white and red. Then the field-glass jumped 
 quickly to the horsewoman. The pedestrian started 
 as he came suddenly in sight of her, and at the same 
 moment her face lit up with joy. The colonel saw it 
 and felt a pain at his heart. The glass shook in his 
 hand, thus bringing the dominie accidentally into 
 view. 
 
 The dominie was now worth watching. No sooner 
 had the pedestrian passed him than the old man 
 crouched so as not to seem noticeable, and ran after 
 him. When he was within ten yards of his quarry 
 he came to rest, and the field-glass told that he was 
 gaping. Then the dominie turned round and hurried 
 back to the school-house, muttering as he ran : 
 
 " It's Rob Angus come home in a him hat, and 
 that's one o' the leddies frae the lodge. I maun 
 awa to Thrums wi' this. Rob Angus, Robbie An- 
 gus, michty, what a toon there'll be aboot this !" 
 
 Rob walked up to Mary Abinger, feeling that to 
 bid her good afternoon was like saying, "Thank
 
 286 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 you," in a church when the organ stops. He felt 
 himself a saw-miller again. 
 
 The finest thing in the world is that a woman can 
 pass through anything, and remain pure. Mary had 
 never been put to the test, but she could have stood 
 it. Her soul spoke in her face, and as Rob looked at 
 her the sound of his own voice seemed a profanation. 
 Yet Mary was not all soul. She understood, for in- 
 stance, why Rob stammered so much as he took her 
 hand, and she was glad that she had on her green 
 habit instead of the black one. 
 
 Sir Clement Dowton rode forward smartly to make 
 up on Miss Abinger, and saw her a hundred yards 
 before him from the top of a bump which the road 
 climbs. She was leaning forward in her saddle talk- 
 ing to a man whom he recognized at once. The 
 baronet's first thought was to ride on,but he drew rein. 
 
 "I have had my chance and failed," he said to 
 himself grimly. " Why should not he have his?" 
 
 With a last look at the woman he loved, Sir 
 Clement turned his horse, and so rode out of Mary 
 Abinger's life. She had not even seen him. 
 
 " Papa has been out shooting," she said to Rob, who 
 was trying to begin, " and I am on my way to meet 
 him. Sir Clement Dowton is with me." 
 
 She turned her head to look for the baronet, and 
 Rob, who had been aimlessly putting his fingers 
 through her horse's mane, started at the mention of 
 Sir Clement's name.
 
 THE AUDACITY OF ROB ANGUS. 287 
 
 " Miss Abinger," he said, " I have come here to ask 
 you one question. I have no right to put it, but Sir 
 Clement, he " 
 
 "If you want to see him," said Mary, "you have 
 just come in time. I believe he is starting for a tour 
 of the world in a week or so." 
 
 Rob drew a heavy breath, and from that moment 
 he liked Dowton. But he had himself to think of at 
 present. He remembered that he had another ques- 
 tion to ask Miss Abinger. 
 
 " It is a very long time since I saw you," he said. 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, sitting straight in her saddle, 
 " you never came to the houseboat those last weeks. 
 I suppose you were too busy." 
 
 "That was not what kept me away," Rob said. 
 "You know it was not." 
 
 Mary looked behind her again. 
 
 " There was nothing else," she said ; " I cannot un- 
 derstand what is detaining Sir Clement." 
 
 " I thought " Rob began. 
 
 "You should not," said Mary looking at the school- 
 house. 
 
 " But your brother " Rob was saying, when he 
 
 paused, not wanting to incriminate Dick. 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Mary, whose intellect was very 
 clear to-day. She knew why Rob stopped short, and 
 there was a soft look in her eyes as they were turned 
 upon him. 
 
 "Your brother advised me to come north," Rob
 
 288 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 said, but Mary did not answer. " I would not have 
 done so," he continued, "if I had known that you 
 knew I stayed away from the houseboat." 
 
 " I think I must ride on," Mary said. 
 
 "No," said Rob, in a voice that put it out of the 
 question. So Mary must have thought, for she re- 
 mained there. "You thought it better," he went 
 on huskily, " that, whatever the cause, I should not 
 see } T ou again." 
 
 Mary was bending her riding-whip into a bow. 
 
 " Did you not?" cried Rob a little fiercely. 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 " Then why did you do it?" he said. 
 
 " I didn't do anything," said Mary. 
 
 " In all London," said Rob, speaking at a venture, 
 "there has not been one person for the last two 
 months so miserable as myself." 
 
 Mary's eyes wandered from Rob's face far over 
 the heather. There might be tears in her eyes at any 
 moment. The colonel was looking. 
 
 "That stream," said Rob with a mighty effort, 
 pointing to the distant Whunny, " twists round the 
 hill on which we are now standing, and runs through 
 Thrums. It turns the wheel of a saw-mill there, and 
 in that saw-mill I was born and worked with my 
 father for the great part of my life." 
 
 "I have seen it," said Mary, with her head turned 
 away. " I have been in it." 
 
 " It was on the other side of the hill that my sis-
 
 THE AUDACITY OF ROB AtfGUS. 289 
 
 ter's child was found dead. Had she lived I might 
 never have seen you." 
 
 "One of the gamekeepers," said Mary, "showed 
 me the place where you found her with her foot in 
 the water." 
 
 " I have driven a cart through this glen a hundred 
 times," continued Rob doggedly. "You see that 
 wooden shed at the school-house ; it was my father 
 and I who put it up. It seems but yesterday since I 
 carted the boards from Thrums." 
 
 "The dear boards," murmured Mary. 
 
 " Many a day my mother has walked from the saw- 
 mill into this glen with my dinner in a basket." 
 
 "Good mother," said Mary. 
 
 "Now," said Rob, "now when I come back here 
 and see you, I remember what I am. I have lived 
 for you from the moment I saw you, but however 
 hard I might toil for you there must always be a 
 difference between us." 
 
 He was standing on the high bank, and their faces 
 were very close. Mary shuddered. 
 
 "I only frighten you," cried Rob. 
 
 Mary raised her head, and, though her face was 
 wet, she smiled. Her hand went out to him, but she 
 noticed it and drew it back. Rob saw it too, but did 
 not seek to take it. They were looking at each other 
 bravely. His eyes proposed to her, while he could 
 not say a word, and hers accepted him. On the hills 
 
 men were shooting birds. 
 19
 
 290 WHEN A MAX'S SINGLE. 
 
 Rob knew that Mary loved him. An awe fell 
 upon him. " What am I?" he cried, and Mary put 
 her hand in his. "Don't, dear," she said, as his face 
 sank on it; and he raised his head and could not 
 speak. 
 
 The colonel sighed, and his cheeks were red. His 
 head sank upon his hands. He was young again, 
 and walking down an endless lane of green with a 
 maiden by his side, and her hand was in his. They 
 sat down by the side of a running stream. Her fair 
 head lay on his shoulder, and she was his wife. The 
 colonel's lips moved as if he were saying to himself 
 words of love, and his arms went out to her who had 
 been dead this many a year, and a tear, perhaps the 
 last he ever shed, ran down his cheek. 
 
 "I should not," Mary said at last, "have let you 
 talk to me like this." 
 
 Rob looked up with sudden misgiving. 
 
 " Why not?" he cried. 
 
 " Papa, " she said, " will never consent, and I knew 
 that; I have known it all along." 
 
 "I am not going to give you up now," Rob said 
 passionately, and he looked as if he would run away 
 with her at that moment. 
 
 " I had no right to listen to you," said Mary. " I 
 did not mean to do so, but I I" her voice sank 
 into a whisper " I wanted to know " 
 
 " To know that I loved you ! Ah, you have known 
 all along."
 
 THE AUDACITY OF ROB ANGUS. 291 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, "but I wanted I wanted to 
 hear you say so yourself." 
 
 Rob's arms went over her like a hoop. 
 
 "Rob, dear," she whispered, "you must go away, 
 and never see me any more." 
 
 "I won't," cried Rob; "you are to be my wife. 
 He shall not part us." 
 
 " It can never be," said Mary. 
 
 " I shall see him I shall compel him to consent." 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 " You don't want to marry me," Rob said fiercely, 
 drawing back from her. " You do not care for me. 
 What made you say you did?" 
 
 " I shall have to go back now," Mary said, and the 
 softness of her voice contrasted strangely with the 
 passion in his. 
 
 "I shall go with you," Rob answered, "and see 
 your father." 
 
 "No, no," said Mary; "we must say good-by 
 here, now." 
 
 Rob turned on her with all the dourness of the An- 
 guses in him. 
 
 "Good-by," he said, and left her. Mary put her 
 hand to her heart, but he was already turning back. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " do you not see that it is so much 
 harder to me than to you?" 
 
 "Mary, my beloved," Rob cried. She swayed in 
 her saddle, and if he had not been there to catch her 
 she would have fallen to the ground.
 
 292 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 Rob heard a footstep at his side, and, looking up, 
 saw Colonel Abinger. The old man's face was 
 white, but there was a soft look in his eye, and he 
 stooped to take Mary to his breast. 
 
 "No," Rob said, with his teeth closed, "you can't 
 have her. She's mine." 
 
 "Yes," the colonel said sadly; "she's yours."
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE VERDICT OF THRUMS. 
 
 OF a mild Saturday evening in the following May, 
 Sandersy Riach, telegraph boy, emerged from the 
 Thrums post-office, and, holding his head high, 
 strutted off toward the Tenements. He had on his 
 uniform, and several other boys flung gutters at it, 
 to show that they were as good as he was. 
 
 "Wha's deid, Sandersy?" housewives flung open 
 their windows to ask. 
 
 "It's no death," Sandersy replied. "Na, na, far 
 frae that. I daurna tell ye what it is, because its 
 agin' the regalations, but it'll cause a michty wy doin' 
 in Thrums this nicht." 
 
 "Juist whisper what it's aboot, Sandersy, my 
 laddie." 
 
 " It canna be done, Easie ; na, na. But them 'at 
 wants to hear the noos, follow me to Tammas Hag- 
 gart's." 
 
 Off Sandersy went, with some women and a dozen 
 children at his heels, but he did not find Tammas in. 
 
 "I winna hae't lyin' aboot here," Chirsty, the wife 
 of Tammas, said, eying the telegram as something 
 that might go off at any moment; "ye'll better tak'
 
 294 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 it on to 'imsel'. He's takkin' a dander through the 
 bury in '-ground wi' Snecky Hobart." 
 
 Sandersy marched through the east town end at the 
 head of his following and climed the steep, straight 
 brae that leads to the cemetery. There he came upon 
 the stone-breaker and the bellman strolling from grave 
 to grave. Silva McQuhatty and Sam'l Todd were 
 also in the burying-ground for pleasure, and they 
 hobbled toward Tammas when they saw the telegram 
 in his hand. 
 
 " 'Thomas Haggart, ' " the stone-breaker murmured, 
 reading out his own name on the envelope, "'Tene- 
 ments, Thrums. ' " Then he stared thoughtfully at 
 his neighbors to see whether that could be looked 
 upon as news. It was his first telegram. 
 
 "Ay, ay, deary me," said Silva mournfully. 
 
 "She's no very expliceet, do ye think?" asked 
 Sam'l Todd. 
 
 Snecky Hobart, however, as an official himself, had 
 a general notion of how affairs of state are conducted. 
 
 "Rip her open, Tammas," he suggested. "That's 
 but the shell, I'm thinkinV 
 
 "Does she open?" asked Tammas with a grin. 
 
 He opened the telegram gingerly, and sat down 
 on a prostrate tombstone to consider it. Snecky's 
 fingers tingled to get at it. 
 
 "It begins in the same wy," the stone-breaker 
 said deliberately: "'Thomas Haggart, Tenements, 
 Thrums. ' "
 
 THE VERDICT OF THRUMS. 295 
 
 "Ay, ay, deary me," repeated Silva. 
 
 " That means it's to you," Snecky said to Tammas. 
 
 "Next," continued Tammas, "comes 'Elizabeth 
 Haggart, 101 Lower Fish Street, Whitechapel, Lon- 
 don.'" 
 
 "She's a' names thegether," muttered Sam'l Todd 
 in a tone of remonstrance. 
 
 "She's a' richt," said Snecky, nodding to Tammas 
 to proceed. " Elizabeth Haggart that's wha the 
 telegram comes frae." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the stone-breaker doubtfully, "but 
 I ken no Elizabeth Haggart." 
 
 "Hoots," said Snecky; "it's your ain dochter Lis- 
 beth." 
 
 "Keeps us a'," said Tammas, "so it is. I didna 
 unerstan' at first ; ye see we aye called her Leeby. 
 Ay, an' that's whaur she bides in London too." 
 
 "Lads, lads," said Silva, "an' is Leeby gone? 
 Ay, ay, we all fade as a leaf ; so we do. " 
 
 "What!" cried Tammas, his hand beginning to 
 shake. 
 
 " Havers," said Snecky, "ye hinna come to the tele- 
 gram proper yet, Tammas. What mair does it say?" 
 
 The stone-breaker conned over the words, and by- 
 and-bye his face wrinkled with excitement. He 
 puffed his cheeks, and then let the air rush through 
 his mouth like an escape of gas. 
 
 "It's Rob Angus," he blurted out. 
 
 "Man, man," said Silva, "an' him lookit sae
 
 296 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 strong an* snod when he was here i' the back end o' 
 last year. " 
 
 " He's no deid," cried Tammas, " he's mairit. Lis- 
 ten, lads: 'The thing is true Rob Angus has married 
 the colonel's daughter at a castle Rob Angus has 
 married the colonel.'" 
 
 "Losh me!" said Sam'l, "I never believed he 
 would manage't." 
 
 "Ay, but she reads queer," said Tammas. " First 
 she says Rob's mairit the dochter, an' neist 'at he's 
 mairit the colonel." 
 
 " Twa o' them !" cried Silva, who was now in a 
 state to believe anything. 
 
 Snecky seized the telegram and thought it over. 
 
 "I see what Leeby's done," he said admiringly. 
 " Ye 're restreected to twenty words in a telegram, 
 an' Leeby found she had said a' she had to say 
 in fourteen words, so she's repeated herseP to get her 
 full shilling's worth." 
 
 " Ye've hit it, Snecky, " said Tammas. " It's juist 
 what Leeby would do. She was aye a michty thrifty, 
 shrewd crittur." 
 
 " A shilling's an awfu' siller to fling awa, though," 
 said Sam'l. 
 
 "It'sweel spent in this case," retorted Tammas, 
 sticking up for his own; "there hasna ben sich a 
 startler in Thrums since the English kirk-steeple 
 fell." 
 
 "Ye can see Angus' saw -mill frae here," ex-
 
 THE VERDICT OF THRUMS, 297 
 
 claimed Silva, implying that this made the affair 
 more wonderful than ever. 
 
 " So ye can," said Snecky, gazing at it as if it were 
 some curiosity that had been introduced into Thrums 
 in the night time. 
 
 " To think," muttered Tammas, " 'at the saw-miller 
 doon there should be mairit in a castle. It's beyond 
 all. Oh, it's beyond, it's beyond." 
 
 "Sal, though," said Sam'l suspiciously, "I wud 
 like a sicht o' the castle. I mind o' readin' in a 
 booky 'at every Englishman's hoose is his castle, so 
 I'm thinkin' castle's but a name in the sooth for an 
 ord'nar hoose." 
 
 " Weel a wat, ye never can trust thae foreigners," 
 said Silva; "it's weel beknown 'at English is an 
 awful pertentious langitch too. They slither ower 
 their words in a hurried wy 'at I canna say I like ; 
 no, I canna say I like it." 
 
 " Will Leeby hae seen the castle?" asked Sam'l. 
 
 "Na," said Tammas; "it's a lang wy frae Lon- 
 don; she'U juist hae heard o' the mairitch." 
 
 " It'll hae made a commotion in London, I dinna 
 doot," said Snecky, "but, lads, it proves as the 
 colonel man stuck to Rob." 
 
 " Ay, I hardly expected it." 
 
 "Ay, ay, Snecky, ye're richt. Rob'll hao man- 
 age't him. Weel, I will say this for Rob Angus, 
 he was a crittur 'at was terrible fond o' gettin' his 
 ain wy."
 
 293 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 " The leddy had smoothed the thing ower wi' her 
 f aither," said Tammas, who was notorious for his 
 knowledge of women ; " ay, an' there was a brither, 
 ye mind? Ane o' the servants up at the lodge said 
 to Kitty Wobster 'at they were to be mairit the same 
 day, so I've nae doot they w.ere." 
 
 "Ay," said Sam'l, pricking up his ears, "an' wha 
 was the brither gettin'?" 
 
 " Weel, it was juist gossip, ye understan'. But I 
 heard tell 'at the leddy had a tremendous tocher, an' 
 'at she was called Meredith." 
 
 "Meredith!" exclaimed Silva McQuhatty ; " what 
 queer names some o' thae English fowk has; ay; I 
 prefer the ord'nar names inysel'." 
 
 "I wonder," said Snecky, looking curiously at the 
 others, "what Rob has in the wy o' wages?" 
 
 " That's been discuss't in every hoose in Thrums," 
 said Sam'l; "but there's no doubt it's high, for it's 
 a salary; ay, it's no wages." 
 
 " I dinna ken what Rob has," Silva said, " but some 
 o' thae writers makes awfu' sums. There's the 
 yeditor o' the Tilliedrum Weekly Herald noo. I 
 canna tell his income, but I have it frae Dite Deu- 
 chars, wha kens, 'at he pays twa-an' -twenty pound 
 o' rent for's hoose." 
 
 " Ay, but Rob's no a yeditor," said Sam'l. 
 
 " Ye're far below the mark wi' Rob's salary," said 
 Tammas. " My ain opeenion is 'at he has a great
 
 THE VERDICT OF THRUMS. 299 
 
 hoose in London by this time, wi' twa or three ser- 
 vants, an' a lad in knickerbuckers to stan' ahent his 
 chair and reach ower him to cut the roast beef." 
 
 "It may be so," said Sneclry, who had heard of 
 such things, " but if it is it'll irritate Rob michty no 
 to get cuttin' the roast 'imsel'. Thae Angus' aye 
 like't to do a'thing for themsel's." 
 
 "There's the poseetion to think o'," said Tammas. 
 
 "Thrums'll be a busy toon this nicht," said Sam'l, 
 " when it hears the noos. Ay, I maun awa an' tell 
 the wife." 
 
 Having said this, Sam'l sat down on the tomb- 
 stone. 
 
 "It'll send mair laddies on to the papers oot o' 
 Thrums," said Tammas. " There's three awa' to the 
 printin' trade since Rob was here, an' Susie Byars 
 is to send little Joey to the business as sune as he's 
 auld eneuch." 
 
 "Joey '11 do weel in thenoospaper line," said Silva; 
 " he writes a better han' than Rob Angus already." 
 
 " Weel, weel, that's the main thing, lads." 
 
 Sam'l moved off slowly to take the news into the 
 east town end. 
 
 "It's to Rob's creedit," said Tammas to the two 
 men remaining, " 'at he wasna at all prood when he 
 came back. Ay, he called on me very frank like, as 
 ye'll mind, an' I wasna in, so Chirsty dusts a chair 
 for 'im, and comes to look for mo. Lads, I was fair
 
 300 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 ashamed to see 'at in her fluster she'd gien him a 
 common chair, when there was hair-bottomed anes in 
 the other room. Ye may be sure I sent her for a 
 better chair, an' got him to change, though he was 
 sort o' mad like at havin' to shift. That was his 
 ind'pendence again." 
 
 "I was aye callin' him Rob," said Snecky, "for- 
 gettin' what a grand man he was noo, an', of coorse, 
 I corrected myseP, and said Mr. Angus. Weel, when 
 I'd dune that mebbe a dozen times he was fair 
 stampin's feet wi' rage, as ye micht say. Ay, there 
 was a want o' patience aboot Rob Angus." 
 
 "He slippit a gold sovereign into my hand," said 
 Silva, " but, losh, he wudna lat me thank 'im. " Hold 
 yer tongue,' he says, or words to that effec', when I 
 insistit on't." 
 
 At the foot of the burying-ground road Sam'l Todd 
 could be seen laying it off about iiob to a little crowd 
 of men and women. Snecky looked at them till he 
 could look no longer. 
 
 "I maun awa wi' the noos to the w"ast toon end," 
 he said, and by-and-bye he went, climbing the dyke 
 for a short cut. 
 
 "Weel, weel, Rob Angus is mairit," said Silva to 
 Tammas. 
 
 "So he is, Silva," said the stone-maker. 
 
 " It's an experiment, " said Silva. 
 
 " Ye may say so, but Rob was aye venturesome."
 
 THE VERDICT OF THRUMS. 301 
 
 "Ye saw the leddy, Tammas?" 
 
 " Ay, man, I did mair than that. She spoke to 
 me, an' speired a lot aboot the wy Rob took on when 
 little Davy was fund deid. He was fond o' his 
 fowk, Rob, michty fond." 
 
 " What was your opeenion o' her then, Tammas?" 
 
 " Weel, Silva, to tell the truth I was oncommon 
 favorably impreesed. She shook hands wi' me, man, 
 an' she had sic a saft voice an' sic a bonny face I 
 was a kind o' carried awa; yes, I was so." 
 
 " Ay, ye say that, Tammas. Weel, I think I'll be 
 movin'. They'll be keen to hear aboot this in the 
 square." 
 
 " I said to her," continued Tammas, peering through 
 his half -closed eyes at Silva, " 'at Rob was a lucky 
 crittur to get sic a bonny wife." 
 
 "Ye did!" cried Silva. "An' hoo did she tak' 
 that?" 
 
 "Ou,"said Tammas complacently, "she took it 
 
 wee!." 
 
 "I wonder," said Silva, now a dozen yards away, 
 " 'at Rob never sent ony o' the papers he writes to 
 Thrums juist to lat's see them." 
 
 " He sent a heap," said Tammas, "to the minister, 
 meanin' them to be passed roond, but Mr. Dishart 
 didna juist think they were quite the thing, ye un'er- 
 stan', so he keeps them lockit up in a press." 
 
 " They say in the toon," said Silva, " 'at Rob would
 
 302 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 
 
 never hae got on sae weel if Mr. Dishart hadna helpit 
 him. Do you think ther's onything in that?" 
 
 Tammas was sunk in revery, and Silva at last de- 
 parted. He was out of sight by the time the stone- 
 breaker came to. 
 
 "I spoke to the minister aboot it," Tammas 
 answered, under the impression that Silva was still 
 there, "an' speired at him if he had sent a line aboot 
 Rob to the London yeditors, but he wudna say." 
 
 Tammas moved his head round, and saw that he 
 was alone. 
 
 "No," he continued thoughtfully, addressing the 
 tombstones, " he would neither say 'at he did nor 'at 
 he didna. He juist waved his han' like, to lat's see 
 'at he was at the bottom o't, but didna want it to be 
 spoken o'. Ay, ay." 
 
 Tammas hobbled thoughtfully down one of the 
 steep burying-ground walks, until he came to a piece 
 of sward with no tombstone at its head. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " there's mony an Angus lies buried 
 there, an' Rob's the only ane left noo. I hae helpit 
 to hap the earth ower five, ay, sax o' them. It's no 
 to "be expeckit, no, i' the course o' natur' it's no to 
 be expeckit, 'at I should last oot the seventh : no, 
 but there's nae sayin'. Ay, Rob, ye wasna sae fu' 
 o' speerits as I'll waurant ye are the noo, that day ye 
 buried Davy. Losh, losh, it's a queer warld." 
 
 "It's a pretty spot to be buried in," he muttered,
 
 THE VERDICT OF THRUMS. 303 
 
 after a time ; and then his eyes wandered to another 
 part of the burying-ground. 
 
 " Ay," he said, with a chuckle, " but I've a snod bit 
 cornery up there for mysel'. Ou ay," 
 
 THE END.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIl 
 
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