Арчибальд Джозеф Кронин 4 страница

Her breath was like new milk. Again he saw in the arch of her neck the small vein threaded under the smooth skin, like a tiny rivulet through virgin snow, and caressingly he stroked it, gently tracing with his finger tips its lovely downward passage. How firm and round her breasts were, each like a smooth and perfect unplucked fruit enclosed within his palm for him to fondle! The pressure of his hand sent the hot colour into her face, and though her breath came faster, yout she suffered him. She felt these small virgin breasts, the consideration of which had never before invaded the realm of her consciousness, grow turgid, as if an ichor from her blood had filled them, and all her puny strength surged into them as though from her nipples drops might well forth to an invisible suckling.

Then her mind was dazzled, and, as she lay with closed eyous in his embrace, she forgot everything, knew nothing, ceased to be herself, and was his. Her spirit rushed to meet his swifter than a swallow's flight and together uniting, leaving their bodies upon the earth, they soared into the rarer air. Together they floated upwards as lightly as the two moths and as soundlessly as the river. No dimension contained them, no tie of earth restrained the ecstasy of their flight.

The lights in the fair‑ ground went out one by one; an old frog, its large, sad eyous jewelled in the moonlight, broke through the grasses beside them, then noiselessly departed; a dim white mist sheathed the radiance of the river like breath upon a mirror; then, as the lace veils of vapour loomed over the land, crepuscular shadows filled the hollows of the meadows and the earth grew faintly

colder as though its heat had been chilled by the rimed air. With the falling mist all sound was blotted out and the stillness became absolute until after a long time a trout jumped upstream and splashed heavily in its pool.

At the sound, Mary stirred slowly, and consciousness of the world

half returning, she whispered softly:

" Denis, I love you. Dear, dear Denis! But it's late, very late! We must go. "

She lifted her head heavily, moved her drugged limbs slowly, then, like a flash, the recollection of her father, her home, her position here, invaded her mind. She started up, terrified, horrified with herself.

" Oh! What have I done? My father! What will become of us? " she cried. " I'm mad to be here like this. "

Denis stood up.

" No harm will come to you, Mary, " he said, as he essayoud to soothe her. " I love you! I will take care of you. "

" Let me go then, " she replied, while tears ran down her pale cheeks. " Oh! I must be back before he gets in or I’ll be shut out all night. I'd have no home! "

" Don't cry, dear Mary, " he entreated; " it hurts me to see you cry. It's not so very late not eleven o'clock yout! Besides, I am responsible for everything; all the blame is mine. "

" No! No! " she cried. " It's all my fault, Denis. I should never have come. I disobeyoud my father. I'll be the one to suffer. "

Denis placed his arm around her trembling form and, looking again into her eyous, said firmly:

" You will not suffer, Mary! Before we go I want you to understand one thing. I love you. I love you above everything. I am going to marry you. "

" Yous, yous, " she sobbed. " Only let me get home. I must. My father will kill me! If he's not late to‑ night something terrible will happen to me to us both. " She started off at a run up the path, slipping and stumbling in her anxiety to make haste, whilst he followed, trying to console and comfort her, uttering words of the most endearing tenderness. But, although at his words she ceased to weep, she still ran and did not speak again until they reached the edge of the town.

There she stopped abruptly.

" Don't come any farther, Denis, " she panted. " This is enough! We might meet him my father. "

“But it's so dark on the road, " he said. " I'm afraid to leave you. "

" You must go, Denis! He might come on us together. "

" But the darkness? "

" I can't help that. I'll run all the way. "

" It'll hurt you if you race home like that, Mary, and it's so black, the road seems so lonely now. "

" Leave me! You must! " she cried. " I'll go myself! Good‑ byou! "

With a last touch of his hand she fled from him; her figure dissolved into the blackness and was gone.

As he gazed into the impenetrable gloom, vainly trying to follow her rapid flight, wondering if he should call to her or follow her, he raised his arms in perplexity, as though beseeching her to return to him, then slowly he lowered them and, after a long passivity, turned heavily upon his heel and took his dejected way towards his own home.

Meanwhile, in a panic of urgency, Mary forced her tired body along the road, the same road that she had so lightly traversed earlier on this same evening, having lived, it seemed to her, a whole century in time and experience during the space of these few intervening hours. It was unthinkable that she, Mary Brodie, should be at this time of night alone in the open streets; the sound of her solitary footsteps frightened her, echoing aloud like a reiterated accusation for her father, for every one to hear, shouting out the madness, the iniquity of her present situation. Denis wanted to marry her! He must be mad too madly unaware of her father and of the circumstances of her life. The echoes of her steps mocked her, whispering that she had been bereft of her senses to plunge herself in this predicament, making the very contemplation of her love for Denis a painful and grotesque absurdity.

As she neared her home, suddenly she became aware of another figure in front of her, and the dread that it might be her father filled her with numb apprehension. Although he frequently did not return from the club until after eleven o'clock, sometimes he was earlier, and as she drew nearer, silently gaining upon the figure, she felt that it must be he. But, all at once, a gasp of relief escaped her, as she perceived that it was her brother, and, abandoning her caution, she ran up to him, panting.

" Matt! Oh! Matt! Wait! " and stumbling against him, she clutched his arm like a drowning woman.

" Mary! " he exclaimed, starting violently, hardly able to believe his eyous.

" Yous! It's me, Matt, and thank God it's you! I thought it was Father, at first. "

" But But what on earth are you out for at this time of night? " he cried, in shocked amazement. " Where have you been? "

" Never mind just now, Matt, " she gasped. " Let us get in quick before Father. Please, Matt, dear! Don't ask me anything! "

" But what have you been up to? Where have you been? " he repeated. " What will Mamma think? "

" Mamma will think I've gone to bed, or that I'm reading in my room. She knows I often do that when I'm sitting up for you. "

" Mary! This is a terrible escapade. I don't know what to do about it. It's shameful to find you out in the street at this time of night. "

He moved on a few steps then, as a thought struck him, stopped abruptly. " I wouldn't like Miss Moir to know about this. It's disgraceful! Such a going‑ on by my sister might prejudice me in her eyous. "

" Don't tell her, Matt! Don't tell anybody! Only let us get in. Where is your key? " Mary urged.

Muttering under his breath, Matthew advanced to the front steps, and while Mary gasped with relief to see that the outer door was unbolted, which meant that her father had not returned, he opened the door.

The house was still, no one awaited her, no recriminations or accusations were hurled at her, and realising that she was miraculously undiscovered, in a transport of thanksgiving Mary took her brother's hand, and in the darkness they crept noiselessly up the stairs.

Inside her own room she drew a deep breath, and as she felt her way securely about its known confines, the very touch of familiar objects reassured her. Thank God she was safe! Nobody would know! She tore off her clothes in the dark and crept into bed, when instantly the cool sheets soothed her warm weariness and the soft pillow caressed her aching head. Her hot, tired body relaxed in an

exquisite abandon, her trembling eyoulids closed, her fingers uncurled from her palms, her head drooped towards her shoulder, and with her last waking thought of Denis, her breathing grew regular and tranquil. She slept.

III

JAMES BRODIE awoke next morning with the sun streaming in through his window. He had especially designated this room at the back of the house as his bedroom because, with an animal appreciation of sunshine, he loved the bright morning rays to strike in and waken him, to soak through the blankets into his receptive body and saturate his being with a sense of power and radiance. " There's no sun

like the morning sun, " was one of his favourite sayings, one of his stock of apparently profound axioms which he drew upon largely in his conversation and repeated with a knowing and astute air. " The mornin' sun's the thing! We don't get enough o' it, but in MY room I’ve made sure o' all that's goin'. "

He yawned largely and stretched his massive frame luxuriously, observed with half‑ opened yout appreciative eyous the golden swarm of motes that swam around him, then, after a moment, blinked questioningly towards the clock on the mantelpiece, the hands of which marked only eight o'clock; becoming aware that he had another quarter of an hour in bed, he put his head down, rolled over on his side, and dived beneath the blankets like a gigantic porpoise.

But soon he came up again. Despite the beauty of the morning, despite the brosy odour of the boiling porridge which his wife was preparing downstairs and which, arising, gently titillated his nostrils, his present humour lacked the full complacency which he felt it should have held.

Moodily, as though seeking the cause of his discontent, he turned and surveyoud the hollow on the other side of the big bed, which his wife had left a full hour ago when, according to custom, she had arisen in good time to have everything in order and his breakfast ready upon the table the moment he came down. What good, he reflected resentfully, was a woman like that to a man like him? She might cook, wash, scrub, darn his socks, brush his boots, ayou, and lick his boots too; but what kind of armful was she now? Besides, since her last confinement, when she had borne him Nessie, she had been always ailing, in a weak, whining way, offending his robust vigour by her flaccid impotence and provoking his distaste by her sickly habits. Out of the corner of his eyou when she thought herself unobserved, as in the early hours of the morning when she left the bed before him, he would contemplate her almost stealthy dressing with disgust. Only last Sunday he had detected her in the act of concealing some soiled garment and had roared at her like an angry ram:

" Don't make a midden of my bedroom! It's bad enough for me to put up with you without havin' your dirty clothes flung in my face! " She had, he considered bitterly, long since been repugnant to him; the very smell of her was obnoxious to him, and had he not been a decent man, he might well have looked elsewhere. What had he dreamed last night? He thrust out his lower lip longingly and stretched his legs powerfully as he playoud with the vision of his sleep, thinking of the tantalising young jade he had chased through the woods who, though he had run like a stag, had been saved by the fleetness of her foot. She had run, faster than a deer, her long hair flying behind her, and with not a stitch on her back to cumber her, but still, despite her speed, had turned to smile at him enticingly, provokingly. If he had only gotten a grip of her, he thought, allowing his erotic fancy to riot delightfully as he lay back, basking his ponderous body in the sun, his parted lips twitching with a half‑ lewd, half‑ sardonic amusement, he would have made her pipe to a different tune.

Suddenly he observed that it was quarter past eight and without warning, he jumped out of bed, put on his socks, trousers and slippers, and pulled off his long nightgown. His naked torso gleamed sleekly and the muscles of his shoulders and back undulated like pliant knotted ropes under the white skin which shone like smooth satin, except where the thick brown hair was felted on the chest,

dense and adherent as lichen upon a rock. For a moment he stood thus, placed before the small mirror above the washstand, admiring his clear eyous, his strong white teeth, and running his fingers with a bristling sound over the stubble on his heavy jaw. Then, still stripped to the waist, he turned, took up a mahogany box of razors wherein lay seven special hollow‑ ground, Sheffield blades with their ivory handles marked each with a day of the week, carefully picked out the one inlaid with the word Friday, tried the temper appreciatively against his thumb nail and began to strop it slowly upon the leather thong which hung near from its appointed hook. The strap was thick, and, as Matthew and Mary had testified in their younger days, of an enduring toughness, and as Brodic worked the razor slowly up and down upon its tan surface it set the true blade to an infinite keenness. When he had adjusted the edge to his satisfaction, he went to the door, picked up his hot shaving water which was there, steaming, to the minute, returned to the mirror, lathered his face copiously and began to shave with long, precise movements.

He shaved meticulously, leaving his chin and cheeks as smooth as silk, cautiously avoiding the glossy curl of his moustache and sweeping the razor against his tense skin with such firm, measured strokes that it filled the silence of the room with a regularly intermittent rhythm of crisp, rustling sound. Shaved, he cleaned the razor upon a slip of paper taken from a specially cut pile, which it was Nessie's duty to prepare and replenish, re‑ stropped it and replaced it in its case; then, decanting the large ewer into its basin, he washed ex‑ travagantly in cold water, splashing it upon his face and sluicing lavish handfuls about his chest, head, and arms. This prodigal use of cold water even on the iciest mornings of winter was his inflexible habit, maintaining, he claimed, his perfect health, and saving him from the catarrhal colds which so frequently affected his spouse. " I slunge myself in cold water, " he would often boast, " as cold as I can get it. Ay! I wad break the ice to dook myself, and the more frozen it is the warmer it makes me after. It doesna make me chatter or snivel with a red nose, like some folks I could mention. No! No! It makes me glow. Give me plenty cold, cold water there's health in it; " and now, as he vigorously applied a coarse rough towel to his body, whilst he hissed between his teeth like an ostler, he felt a ruddy glow sweep through him and dispel in part the rankncss of his early mood.

He finished his dressing by assuming, with scrupulous care, a shirt of fine, expensive linen, starched Gladstone collar and bird's‑ eyou cravat fixed with a gold horseshoe pin, embroidered grey waist‑ coat, and long coat of superfine broadcloth. Then he went downstairs.

Breakfast he invariably ate alone. Matthew left the house at six, Nessie at half‑ past eight, his mother was never up before ten o'clock, Mrs. Brodie and Mary took their morning meal privately and when they chose, in the dim regions where cooking was performed, and it fell therefore that Brodie sat down to his large bowl of porridge in solitary dignity. He enjoyoud all his meals, but to breakfast in particular he brought, in the freshness of morning, a more lively appetite, and he now addressed himself eagerly to his porridge, and after, to

the two fresh eggs lightly boiled to the requisite second and shelled into a large cup, to the large soft rolls and thick fresh butter, and to his coffee, a beverage of which he was inordinately fond and one permitted to no one else in the household.

As Mary passed soundlessly in and out of the room during the meal to serve him, he noticed from beneath his lowered lids how pale she looked, but he made no remark, for it was his policy not to encourage his womenfolk to consider themselves ill; it gave him, nevertheless, an inward satisfaction as he attributed the subdued look and dark circles under her eyous to the shrewd attack he had launched on her on the previous night.

According to custom, when he had breakfasted, and that in silence, he left the house at nine‑ thirty precisely, and stood for a moment at his front gate, looking back appreciatively at his property. His proud glance swept the small domain, observing that not a weed sprouted in the gravelled yard, not a spot disgraced the paintwork, not a blemish marked the grim grey stone, and approving with intense complacency the work of his own creation. It was his! Five youars ago he had bought the land and approaching Urie the builder, had spoken to him at length, drawn rough diagrams, and described fully the nature of the house he desired. Urie, a blunt man and a man of substance, had looked at him in astonishment, saying:

" Man alive! you're not a stone mason or you wouldna let your ideas run awa' wi' you like that. Your head must be in the clouds. Do you realise what that sketch would look like in stone and mortar? "

" I'm going to live in it, Urie not you, " Brodie had replied steadily.

" But there's so much unnecessary work on it. Just take the expense o' piercin' this wee piece o' parapet! What good is it? " and Urie flicked the pencilled outline before him.

" I'm payin' for it, Urie not you, " again replied Brodie.

The builder had pushed his hat over his ears, scratched his head uncomprehendingly with his pencil, and expostulated: " You're not serious, Brodie! It would be all right if it were ten times as big, but you're only wantin' a six room and kitchen house. It's preposterous. You'll make yoursel' the laughin' stock o' the town. "

" I'll attend to that, " cried Brodie grimly. " God help the man that laughs at James Brodie to his face! "

" Come, come now, Brodie, " the other had conciliated, " let me put you up a solid respectable bit villa, not this wee kind o' sham castle that you're haverin' about. "

Brodie's eyous took on a strange expression, as though a dark fire flickered there, and he shouted out:

" Damn you, Urie! Keep your tongue civil when you speak to me. I want none o' your smug bandboxes. I want a house that befits me; " then in a flash he had recovered himself and in a normal, quiet tone added, " If you don't like it you needna touch it. I'm givin' you the chance, but if you don't wish to take it there are other builders in Levenford. "

Urie stared at him and whistled.

" Sits the wind in that quarter. Well! Well! If you're set on it I'll get a plan and an estimate out for you. A wilful man maun have his way. But don't forget I warned you. Don't come and ask me to take the house down again once it's up. "

" No! No! Uric, " Brodie had sneered. " I'll only come back to you if you don't give me what I'm askin' for, and then it'll not be pleasant hearin' for you. Get ahead wi' it now and don't blabber so much. "

The plans had been prepared, passed by Brodie, and the building begun. From day to day he had seen it grow, going along in the cool evenings to the slowly mantling building, observing the exact adherence to his design, gloating over the smooth, white stone, testing the mortar between his fingers, caressing the shining lead pipes, weighing and fingering approvingly the heavy square slates. Everything had been of the best materials, and though this had taken heavy toll upon his purse, had in fact drained it for he had always spent money freely upon himself, would indeed never have saved but for this one object he was proud to have achieved it, proud to have left the rented house in Levengrove Place, proud in the possession of the inmost desire of his heart. He was right too. Nobody

laughed openly. One night, shortly after the house had been completed, a loafer at the Cross stepped out from the toping gang that loitered there and accosted Brodie.

" Good evening, Mr. Brodie, " he hiccoughed, looking round at his fellows for approbation, then back at Brodie. " And how is the castle to‑ night? "

Brodie looked at him calmly. " Better than you, " he replied, and smashed his fist with terrific violence into the rowdy's face, then, taking the clean linen handkerchief from his pocket, and wiping the blood from his knuckles, he threw it contemptuously on the ground beside the fallen man and walked quietly away.

Certainly Brodie's position in the town had altered sensibly in these last five youars, and since the building of his house he was regarded with more significance, detachment, and misgiving; his social value increased at the price of singularity and he became gradually a more notable figure, with many acquaintances and no friends.

Now he took a final look at his property, squared his shoulders, and set off down the road. He had not proceeded far before he caught a glimpse of a peering face from behind the front‑ room curtains of one of the semi‑ detached houses farther down, and he jeered inwardly to see that it was little Pettigrew, the grocer, who had recently moved into the select neighbourhood and had at first sought to establish himself by walking ingratiatingly to the town with Brodie. The big man had tolerated this liberty for the first day, but when on the second morning he found the diminutive, unimportant grocer again waiting for him, he had stopped short. " Pettigrew, " he had said calmly, " I'm afraid I'm not seein' so weel this mornin'. You're kind o' wee and shilpet to me the day and to‑ morrow I mightna see you ava'. Besides, I'm a fast walker. Gang your own gait, man, but don't strain your bandy wee legs keepin' pace with me. Good morning to you. " Now he smiled sardonically as he passed the house, reflecting that since then the nervous Pettigrew had avoided him like a plague and had formed the habit of watching him well out of sight before venturing into the street.

Soon he had traversed the quieter residential district and entered the town where, at the south end of Church Street, an artisan carrying his bag of tools touched his cap to him in passing. Brodie's chest expanded at this act of deference, accorded only to the most important figures in the town. " Good morning to you, " he cried affably, setting his head farther back in a proud geniality, marching around the corner into the High Street with his stick over his shoulder, and tramping up the incline like a soldier until he reached the crest of this main thoroughfare. There he stopped opposite an inconspicuous shop. The shop was old and quiet, with a narrow, unostentatious front marked by a small single window that displayoud no merchandise, but masked its face discreetly behind an interior screen of fine meshed wire, which, though it veiled the window revealed the hidden secret of the shop by bearing upon its drawn grey filigree, in faded gilt lettering, the one word Hatter. It was, then, apparently a hat shop, but although it held the most commanding situation in the town, it not only disguised its character but seemed to remove itself from public observation, receding slightly from the common frontage of the street and permitting the adjacent buildings to project beyond and above it, as though it wished to remain, despite the fixed solidity of its position, as unobserved and unobtrusive as it might, reserving its contents, and striving to conceal itself and all that lay within from vulgar, prying eyous. Above its doorway the sign, too, was bleached by age and weather, its paint finely cracked by sun and smoothly washed by rain; but, still distinguishable upon it in thin, sloped letters across its surface, was the name James Brodie. This was Brodie's shop. Each morning, as he regarded it, the fact that he should possess it never failed to amuse him, and for twenty youars he had inwardly regarded his business with a tolerant derision. It was of course the sole means of his livelihood, the unimpressive source of his stately and inspiring habitation, its solid, steady business the origin of his fine clothes and the money he rattled so easily in his pockets; yout his attitude towards it was that of a man who views with

an indulgent yout contemptuous air some trifling and unbecoming foible within his own nature. He Brodie was a hatter! He was not ashamed of the fact, but gloried in its ridiculous incongruity, revelled in the contrast between himself and the profession of his adoption which he knew must continually present itself to the world at large. He turned and surveyoud the street from his elevated position like a monarch offering himself freely to the public gaze. He was only a hatter! The richness of the absurdity of his position was always before him, inevitably appealed to him, and now an internal diversion shook him as he moved into his shop to start another day's work.

Inside, the shop was dark, neglected, and almost dingy, its dim interior bisected by a long counter which ran the length of the room, acting as a barrier between the public and the private divisions of the establishment and bearing upon its worn, indented surface at one end a graduated series of tarnished brass stands, each supporting a kat or cap of different style and colour. At the other distant end, the counter joined the wall as a ledge capable of elevation, thus permitting ingress to a short row of steps leading to a door with a ground‑ glass

window on which was inscribed the word Office. Running backwards, beside and underneath this elevated compartment, was a small L‑ shaped cupboard of a back shop that, deprived of its original dimensions by the more recent imposition of the Office, contained with some difficulty in its limited extent an ironing board and an iron stove which, with its perpetual blast, dried more thoroughly the already sapless and vitiated air. In the shop itself the walls were covered in a drab crimson paper upon which hung several old prints; although few hats were to be seen and upon these no prices were displayoud, behind the counter stood a series of wide mahogany drawers for caps and a long line of shelves upon which stacks of cardboard boxes ranged from floor to ceiling.

Behind the counter, and in front of this abundant but hidden stock, stood a young man whose appearance suggested that his stock of virtues must also be concealed. He was thin, with an etiolated countenance which palely protested against the lack of sunlight in the shop and which was faintly pitted with honourable scars gained in his perpetual struggle against an addiction to boils, a disorder to which he was unhappily subject, attributed by his devoted mother to thin blood and against which she continually fortified him with Pepper's Quinine and Iron tonic.

The general engaging aspect of his features was not, however, marred to any extent by these minor blemishes, nor by a small but obtrusive wart which had most inconsiderately chosen its location upon the extremity of his nose, and was well set off by a shock of dark hair, feathered, despite its careful oiling, and so frosted with dandruff that it shed its surplus flakes and formed a perpetual rime upon his coat collar.

The remainder of his person was pleasing and his dress suited soberly his position; but about him clung a peculiar, sour odour occasioned by a tendency towards free perspiration, particularly from his feet, a regrettable but unavoidable misfortune that occasionally induced Brodie to fling him out of the back door, which abutted upon the Leven, together with a cake of soap and a profane injunction to wash the offending members. This was Peter Perry, messenger, assistant, salesman, disciple of the stove and ironing board, lackey of the master, and general factotum rolled in one.

As Brodie entered he inclined his body forward, his hands pressed deeply on the counter, fingers extended, elbows flexed, showing more of the top of his head than his face and, in a passion of obsequiousness, awaited his master's greeting.

" Mornin', Perry. "

" Good morning, Mr. Brodie, sir, " replied Perry with nervous haste, showing a little less of his hair and a little more of his face.

" A very beautiful morning again, sir! Wonderful for the time of youar. Delightful! " He paused appreciatively before continuing, " Mr. Dron has been in to see you this morning, on business he said, sir. "

" Dron! What the devil does he want? "

" I'm sure I couldn't say, sir. He said he'd come back later. "

" Humph! " grunted Brodie. He strode into his office, flung himself into a chair and, disregarding the several business letters that lay on the desk, lit his pipe. Then he tilted his hat well back on his head it was a sign of personal superiority that he never removed it at his business and took up the Glasgow Herald, that had been placed carefully to his hand.