When a Man's Single: A Tale of Literary Life

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 remonstrating. 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 private 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 distributes glory or consternation, sometimes with niggardly hand, and occasionally like an African explorer scattering largess among the natives. Mr. Rowbotham 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 anything, and some people think that his politics are to explain away to-day the position he took up yesterday. He seldom writes himself, and, while directing 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 implying 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 villainously bad. Are you prepared to join us?'

'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. Moderate 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.'

'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. Rowbotham, 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 drowning 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, 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 because 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 afterwards 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 weeks ago.'

'No,' said Dick, 'she was not, though for all I know she may be now.'

Then Dick told his tale under the fire of Rob's eyes. When it was 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 telegraphs me now and again, when a messenger from the Lodge happens to be in Thrums.'

'Miss Abinger writes?'

'Yes. I know from her that Dowton is still there, but that is all.'

'He would not have remained so long,' said Rob, 'unless—unless——'

'I don't know,' Dick answered. 'You see it would all depend on Mary. She had a soft heart for Dowton the day she refused him, but I am 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?'

'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 she 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 come 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 the two hundred that cannot get it.'

'You think I should go north?' said Rob, with the whistle of the train already in his ears.

'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 contemptuously.

'There is no reason,' he said, looking at Dick defiantly, '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 Friday.'

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. Angus 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!

'I wonder, is it my fault that my passion burned 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 qualities 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 necessarily 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?

'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 Gladstone 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 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 possession of him compared with which the emotions of any other person described in this book were but children's fancies. By and by he became calm, and began to undress. Suddenly 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.'

THE AUDACITY OF ROB ANGUS

Colonel Abinger had allowed the other sportsmen 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 grey 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 by 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 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 schoolhouse, 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 him. 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 pedestrian 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 recognised his daughter, and his face was troubled.

During all the time they had been at the Lodge he had never mentioned Rob Angus's 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 anticipated his wants in a way that gratified him at the moment but disturbed him afterwards. In his presence she seemed quite gaily happy, but he had noticed that she liked to slip away on to the hillside by herself, 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 finding himself taking for granted her purity to be something 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 themselves. Thus the natural goodness of mankind asserted 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. Evidently he and the rider would meet near the schoolhouse, 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 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 schoolhouse, muttering as he ran:

'It's Rob Angus come home in a lum hat, and that's one o' the leddies frae the Lodge. I maun awa to Thrums wi' this. Rob Angus, Robbie Angus, 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 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 instance, 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 talking to a man whom he recognised 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.

'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 question 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 house-boat 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 understand what is detaining Sir Clement.'

'I thought——' Rob began.

'You should not,' said Mary, looking at the schoolhouse.

'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 said, but Mary did not answer.

'I would not have done so,' he continued, 'if I had known that you knew why I stayed away from the house-boat.'

'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 remained there. 'You thought it better,' he went on huskily, 'that, whatever the cause, I should not see you 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 greater 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 sister'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 schoolhouse; 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.

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—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.'

'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-bye here, now.'

Rob turned on her with all the dourness of the Anguses in him.

'Good-bye,' 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.

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 close, 'you can't have her. She's mine.'

'Yes,' the colonel said sadly; 'she's yours.'

THE VERDICT OF THRUMS

On 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 towards 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 a death,' Sandersy replied. 'Na, na, far frae that. I daurna tell ye what it is, because it's 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 Haggart'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, eyeing the telegram as something that might go off at any moment; 'ye'll better tak it on to 'imsel. He's takkin a dander through the buryin' ground wi' Snecky Hobart.'

Sandersy marched through the east town end at the head of his following, and climbed 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, '"Tenements, Thrums."' Then he stared thoughtfully at his neighbours 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 thinkin'.'

'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."'

'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, London."'

'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 Lisbeth.'

'Keep us a',' said Tammas, 'so it is. I didna un'erstan' 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 telegram proper yet, Tammas. What mair does it say?'

The stone-breaker conned over the words, and by and by 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 strong an' snod when he was here i' the back-end o' last year.'

'He's no deid,' cried Tammas, 'he's mairit. Listen, 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 hersel 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's weel spent in this case,' retorted Tammas, sticking up for his own; 'there hasna been sic a startler in Thrums since the English kirk steeple fell.'

'Ye can see Angus's saw-mill frae here,' exclaimed 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 pretentious 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 London; she'll 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 hae manage't him. Weel, I will say this for Rob Angus, he was a crittur 'at was terrible fond o' gettin' his ain wy.'

'The leddy had smoothed the thing ower wi' her faither,' 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 were.'

'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 mysel.'

'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 Deuchars, 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 hoose in London by this time, wi' twa or three servants, an' a lad in knickerbuckers to stan' ahent his chair and reach ower him to cut the roast beef.'

'It may be so,' said Snecky, who had heard of such things, 'but if it is it'll irritate Rob michty no to get cuttin' the roast 'imsel. Thae Anguses aye likit to do a'thing for themsels.'

'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 tombstone.

'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'll do weel in the noospaper 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 me. Lads, I was fair 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, 'forgettin' what a grand man he was noo, an', of coorse, I corrected mysel, 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 Rob 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 wast toon end,' he said, and by and by 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-breaker.

'It's an experiment,' said Silva.

'Ye may say so, but Rob was aye venturesome.'

'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 favourably 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 weel.'

'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'erstan', so he keeps them lockit up in a press.'

'They say in the toon,' said Silva, ''at Rob would never hae got on sae weel if Mr. Dishart hadna helpit him. Do you think there's onything in that?'

Tammas was sunk in reverie, and Silva at last departed. 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 are 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, 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

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press