BY A. J. CRONIN 39 страница

VI

MARY looked at the picture which hung in solitary distinction against the rich, deep red background of the wall of the room with a rapt contemplation which removed her momentarily from the anxiety and confusion which beset her. She stood, her clear profile etched against the window beyond, head thrown back, lips faintly parted, her luminous eyes fixed absorbedly upon the painting out of which breathed a cool, grey mist that lay upon still, grey water, shrouding softly the tall, quiet trees as silvery as her own trees and sheathing itself around the thin, immobile wands of the rushes which fringed the pool; she was elevated from the confusion of mind in which she had entered this house by the rare and melancholy beauty of the picture which, exhibiting with such restraint this passive mood of nature, seemed to move from out its frame and touch her like a reverie, like a sad yet serene meditation upon the sorrow of her own life.

So engrossed was she by her consideration of the picture, which had caught her eye as she sat embarrassed amongst the tasteful furnishings of the room, so moved from her conflicting feelings by the strange, appealing beauty of the painting which had compelled her to rise involuntarily to stand before it, that she failed to observe the smooth movement of the polished mahogany door as it swung open upon its quiet hinges; nor did she observe the man who had entered the room, and who now gazed at her pale, transfigured profile with a sudden intentness, as silent and as entranced as her own contemplation of the picture. He stood as motionless as she did, as though afraid to break the spell which her appearance had laid upon him, but regarding her with pleasure; waiting, too, until she should have filled her eyes enough with the loveliness of the placid pool.

At last she withdrew her glance, sighed, turned unconsciously and, again raising her dark eyes, suddenly perceived him. Immediately all her dispelled confusion rushed back upon her, heightened now to the point of shame, and she flushed, hung her head as he advanced towards her and warmly took her hand.

"It is Mary," he said, "Mary Brodie come back again to see me."

With a great effort she forced her disconcerted gaze upwards, looked at him and replied in a low tone:

"You remember me then. I thought you would have forgotten all about me. I've I've changed so much."

"Changed!" he cried. "You haven't changed, unless it's that you're bonnier than ever! Tut! Don't look so ashamed of it, Mary. It's not a crime to look as lovely as you do."

She smiled faintly at him as he continued cheerfully, "As for forgetting you, how could I forget one of my first patients, the one who did me most credit, when I was struggling along with nothing in this very room but the empty packing case that my books had come in."

She looked round the present rich comfort of the room and, still slightly discomposed, she replied, at a tangent to her main thoughts:

"There's more than that here now, Doctor Renwick!"

"You see! That's what you've done for me," he exclaimed. "Made my name by your pluck in pulling through. You did the work and I got the credit!"

"It was only the credit you got," she replied slowly. "Why did you return the fee I sent you?"

"I got your address from the letter you that ran away without saying good-bye," he cried; "that was all the fee I wanted." He seemed strangely pleased to see her and strangely near to her, as though four years had not elapsed since he had last spoken to her and he still sat by her bedside compelling her back to life by his vital animation.

"Tell me all that you've been doing," he ran on, endeavouring to put her at her ease. "Wag your tongue! Let me see you haven't forgotten your old friends."

"I haven't forgotten you, Doctor, or I wouldn't be here now. I'll never forget all that you've done for me."

"Tuts! I don't want you to wag the tongue that way! I want to hear about yourself. Fm sure you've got all London on its knees before you by this time."

She shook her head at his words and, with a faint humour lurking in her eyes, replied:

"No! I've done the kneeling myself scrubbing floors and washing steps!"

"What!" he cried, in amazed concern. "You haven't been working like that?"

"I don't mind hard work," she said lightly. "It did me good; took my thoughts away from my own wretched troubles."

"You were never made for that sort of thing," he exclaimed reproachfully. "It's scandalous! It was downright wicked of you to run away as you did. We could have found something more suitable for you to do."

"I wanted to escape from everything then” she answered sadly. "I wished help from no one."

"Well, don't do it again," he retorted with some asperity. "Will you rush away like that again, without saying good-bye to a man?"

"No," she replied mildly.

He could not forbear to smile at her air of submission as he motioned her to sit down and, drawing a small chair close up beside her, said:

"I have been forgetting such manners as I have, to keep you standing like this, but really, Miss Mary, it is such a sudden and unexpected pleasure to see you again! You must be lenient with me." Then after a pause he asked, "You would get my letters? They were dismal reminders of this place, were they not?"

She shook her head.

"I want to thank you for them. I would never have known of Mamma's death if you hadn't written. Those letters brought me back."

He looked at her steadily and replied:

"I knew you would come back some day. I felt it." Then he added, "But tell me what has actually brought you back?"

"Nessie! My sister Nessie!" she said slowly. "Things have been dreadful at home and she has suffered. She needed me so I came home. It's because of her I've come to see you. It's a great liberty on my part after you’ve done so much for me already. Forgive me for coming! I need help!"

"Tell me how you wish me to help you and I'll do it," he exclaimed. "Is Nessie ill?"

"Not exactly ill," said Mary, "although somehow she alarms me; she is so nervous, so easily excited. She laughs and cries by turns and she has got so thin, seems to eat so little. But although it worries me, I really did not come about that." She paused for a moment, gathering courage to tell him, then continued bravely: "It is about my father. He treats her so peculiarly, not unkindly, but forcing her so unreasonably to work at her lessons, to study all the time, not only at school, but the whole long evening and every evening. She is shut up by herself and made to 'stick in' as he calls it, so that she will win the Latta Bursary. He has set his mind on that. She tells me that he throws it at her head every time she sees him, threatening her with all manner of penalties if she fails. If he would leave her alone, she would do it in her own way, but he drives and drives at her and she is so fragile I am afraid of what is going to happen. Last night she cried for an hour in my arms before she went to sleep. I am very anxious!"

He looked at her small, sad, earnest face, was filled with a quick vision of her comforting and consoling her sister, thought suddenly of the child which, despite his every effort, had been lost to her, and with a grave face answered:

"I can see you are anxious, but it is a difficult matter to interfere in. We must consider it. Your father is not actually cruel to her?"

"No! But he terrifies her. He used to be fond of her but he is so changed now that even his fondness is changed to something strange and terrible."

He had heard, of course, the stories concerning Brodie's altered habits but forbore to question her more deeply on this particular point and, instead, he exclaimed:

"Why is he so eager for her to win the Latta? It's usually a boy that wins that is it not never a girl?"

"That may be the reason," replied Mary sadly; "he's always been mad for some unusual kind of success to bring credit on himself; always wanted Nessie to do well because of his own pride. But now I'm certain he doesn't know what he'll do with her when she's won it. He's shoving her on to no purpose."

"Is young Grierson in the running for the Bursary?" queried Renwick, after a moment's consideration. "Your father and Grierson are not exactly on good terms, I believe."

Mary shook her head.

"It's deeper than that, I'm sure," she answered. "You would think the winning of it was going to make Father the envy of the whole town the way he talks."

He looked at her comprehendingly.

"I know your father, Mary, and I know what you mean. I'm afraid all is not right with him. There was always something Well I've come across him in the past too…", he did not say that it had been chiefly on her behalf, "and we have never agreed. There would be little use in my going to see him if, indeed, it were permissible for me to do so. Any direct action of mine would serve only to aggravate him and make his conduct worse."

As she sat observing him while, with an abstracted gaze, he pondered the question, she thought how wise, how kind and considerate he was towards her, not rushing blindly, but reasoning coherently on her behalf; her eyes moved slowly across his strong dark face, vital yet austere, over his spare, active and slightly stooping form, until they fell at length upon his hands, showing sensitive, strong, and brown against the immaculate white bands of his starched linen cuffs. These firm, delicate hands had probed the mysteries of her inanimate body, had saved her life, such as it was, and as she contrasted them in her mind with her own blotched and swollen fingers, she felt the gulf which separated her from this man whose help she had been bold enough to seek. What exquisite hands! A sudden sense of her own inferiority, of her incongruity amongst the luxury and taste of her present surroundings afflicted her, and she diverted her gaze quickly from him to the ground, as though afraid that he might

intercept and interpret her glance.

"Would you care for me to see the Rector of the Academy about Nessie?" he asked at length. "I know Gibson well and might in confidence ask his assistance in the matter. I had thought at first of speaking to Sir John Latta, but your father is engaged at the office of the shipyard now and it might prejudice him there. We doctors have got to be careful of what we are about. It's a precarious existence," he smiled. "Would you like me to see Gibson, or would you rather send Nessie to me to let me have a look at her?"

"I think if you saw the Rector, it would be splendid. He had great influence with Father once," she replied gratefully. "Nessie is so frightened of Father she would be afraid to come here."

"And were you not afraid to come?" he asked, with a look which seemed to comfort her with its knowledge of her past fortitude.

"Yes," she answered truthfully. "I was afraid you would refuse to see me. I have no one to ask for help for Nessie but you. She is so young. Nothing must happen to her!" She paused, then added in a low tone, "You might not have wished to see me. You know all about me, what I have been!"

"Don't! Don't say that, Mary! All that I know of you is good. I have remembered you for these years because of your goodness, your gentleness and your courage." As he looked at her now he would have added, "and your loveliness," but he refrained and said instead, "In all my life I never met such a sweet, unselfish spirit as yours. It graved itself unforgettably upon my mind. I hate to hear you belittle yourself like that."

She flushed at the warm comfort of his words and replied:

"It's like you to say that, but I don't deserve it. Still, if I can do something for Nessie to make up for my own mistakes, I'll be happy."

"Are you an old woman to talk like that! What age are you?" he cried impetuously. "You're not twenty-two yet. Good Lord! You Ye only a child, with a whole lifetime in front of you. All the pain you've suffered can be wiped out you've had no real happiness yet worth the name. Begin to think of yourself again, Mary. I saw you looking at that picture of mine when I came in. I saw how it took you out of yourself. Make your life a whole gallery of these pictures you must amuse yourself read all the books you can get take up some interest. I might get you a post as companion where you could travel abroad."

She was, in spite of herself, strangely fascinated by his words and, casting her thoughts back, she recollected how she had been thrilled in like fashion by Denis, when he had opened out entrancing avenues for her with his talk of Paris, Rome and of travel through wide, mysterious lands. That had been a long time ago, when he had moved horizons for her with a sweep of his gay, audacious hand and whirled fier abroad on the carpet of his graphic, laughing speech. He read her thoughts with a faculty of intuition which confounded her and said slowly:

"You still think of him, I see."

She looked up in some slight dismay, divining that he misjudged the full tendency of her emotion, which was merely a retrospective sadness, but, feeling that she could not be disloyal to the memory of Denis, she did not speak.

"I would like to do something for you, Mary," he resumed quietly, "something which would make you happy. I have some influence. Will you allow me to find some post which is suited to you and to your worth, before I go away from here?"

She started at his words, bereft suddenly of her warm feeling of comfort, and stammered:

"Are you going away, then?"

"Yes," he replied, "I'm off within six months. I'm taking up a special branch of work in Edinburgh. I have the chance to get on the staff there something bigger than the Cottage Hospital. It's a great opportunity for me."

She saw herself alone, without his strong, resolute support, vainly endeavouring to protect Nessie from her father, interposing her own insignificant resolution between Brodie's drunken unreason and her sister's weakness, and in a flash she comprehended how much she had built on the friendship of this man before her, understood how great was her regard for him.

"It's splendid for you to have got on so well," she whispered. "But it's only what you deserve. I know you'll do as well in Edinburgh as you've done here. I don't need to wish you success."

"I don't know," he replied, "but I shall like it. Edinburgh is the city to live in grey yet beautiful. Take Prince's Street in the autumn with the leaves crackling in the gardens, and the Castle russet against the sky, and the blue smoke drifting across Arthur's Seat, and the breeze tingling, as clean and crisp as fine wine. No one could help but love it." He glowed at the thought of it and

continued, "It's my native place, of course you must forgive my pride. Still, everything is bigger there finer and cleaner, like the air."

She followed his words breathlessly, seeing vividly the picture that he drew for her, but filling it always with his own figure, so that it was not only Prince's Street which she saw but Renwick striding along its grey surface, against the mellow background of the Castle Gardens.

"It sounds beautiful. I have never been there but I can picture it all," she murmured, meaning actually that she could picture him there.

"Let me find something for you to do before I go away," he persisted; "something to take you out of that house."

She could feel that he was anxious for her to accept his offer, but she thrust the enticing prospect away from her, saying:

"I came back of my own choice to look after Nessie! I couldn't leave her now. It's been a terrible life for her for the last few months and if I went away again, anything might happen to her."

He perceived then that she was fixed upon remaining and immediately a profound concern for her future disturbed him, as if he saw her already immolated on the altar of her own unselfishness, a sacrifice, despite his intervention, to the outrageous pride of her father.

What purpose had it served for him to save her, to have helped her to escape from death, were she to drift back once again into the same environment, the same danger in a more deadly form? He was affected even to the point of marvelling at his own emotion, but quickly masking his feelings he exclaimed cheerfully:

"I'll do my best for Nessie! I'll see Gibson to-day or to-morrow. Everything that I can do shall be done. Don't worry too much about her. Take more heed of yourself."

She felt when he said these words that the purport of her visit had been achieved and, diffident of occupying his time longer, she at once arose from her chair and prepared to go. He, too, got up but made no movement to the door, remaining silent, watching her face which, as she stood erect, was touched lightly by an errant beam of the pale March sunshine, so pale in the interior of the room that it gleamed upon her skin like moonlight. Moved as another man had been moved by her in moonlight, he caught his breath at the sight of her beauty, luminous in this light, showing against the foil of her indifferent and inelegant garments, and in his imagination he clothed her in satin of a faint lavender, visioned her under the silver radiance of a soft Southern moon in a garden in Florence or upon a terrace in Naples. As she poised her small foot in its rough shoe courageously towards her departure, he wished strangely to detain her, but found no words to utter.

"Good-bye," he heard her say softly. "Thank you for what you have done for me, now and before."

"Good-bye," he said mechanically, following her into the hall, realising that she was going. He opened the door for her, saw her move down the steps and with the sudden sense of his deprivation he responded to an appeal within him and called out hurriedly, awkwardly, like a schoolboy, "You'll come and see me again soon, won't you?" Then ashamed of his own clumsiness, he came down the steps to her and proffered an explanation of his remark, exclaiming,

"When I've seen Gibson I'll want you to know what the outcome is to be."

Again she looked at him gratefully and, exclaiming, "I'll come next week," gained the road and walked rapidly away.

As he turned and slowly reentered his own house, he became gradually amazed at his own recent action, at his sudden outspoken request that she should revisit him shortly; but although at first he somewhat ashamedly attributed this to the poignant appeal of her beauty in the light that had encircled her in his room, later he more honestly admitted to himself that this was not the sole reason of his conduct. Mary Brodie had always been for him a strangely beautiful figure, a noble, courageous spirit who had woven her life through his existence in the town with a short and tragic thread. From the moment when he had first seen her unconscious, in the sad predicament of her condition and against the gross contamination of her surroundings, like a lily uprooted and thrown on the dung hill, he had been drawn to her in her helplessness and immaturity; later he had been fired by her patience and uncomplaining fortitude during her long period of illness and in the suffering visited upon her by the death of her child; he had seen too, and clearly, that though she had been possessed by another, she was pure, chaste as that light which had recently encompassed her. His admiration and interest had been aroused and he had promised himself that he would assist her to rebuild her life, but she had run from the town the moment her strength had permitted, fluttering away from the net of opprobrium which she must have felt around her. During the years of her absence he had, from time to time, thought of her; often the memory of her figure, thin, white, fragile, had risen before him with a strange insistent appeal, as if to tell him that the thread of her life would return to weave itself once more into the texture of his existence. He sat down at his desk, considering her deeply, praying that there would be no further tragedy in this return of Mary Brodie to the house of tribulation from which she had been so grievously outcast. After a few moments his thoughts moved into another channel, and from a pigeon- hole in his desk he drew out an old letter, the writing of which, now slightly faded after four years' preservation, sloped in rounded character across the single page. He read it once more, this, her only letter to him, in which she had sent him some money, the pathetic accumulation, no doubt, of her meagre wages, in an attempt to recompense him in some degree for his service to her. With the letter clasped in the fine tapering fingers of his hand he remained staring in front of him, seeing her working as she had now told him she worked, upon her knees, scrubbing, washing, scouring, performing the menial duties of her occupation working like a servant.

At length he sighed, shook himself, restored the letter to the desk, and observing that he had a full hour before his afternoon consultations were due to begin, determined to visit the Rector of the Academy at once, to enquire discreetly into the condition of Nessie Brodie. Accordingly, having instructed his housekeeper that he would return before four o'clock, he left the house and walked slowly towards the school, wrapped in a strange and sober meditation.

It was but a short way to the Academy, that old foundation of the Borough which lay within the town, backing a little from Church Street to exhibit the better the severe, yet proportioned architecture of its weathered front, and now, in the paved space that lay before it, displaying proudly the two high-wheeled Russian guns captured at Balaclava by Maurice Latta's company of the Winton Yeomanry.

But Renwick, when he shortly reached the building, passed inside without seeing its frontage or its guns; mounting the shallow, well-worn stone stairs, he advanced along the passage, tapped with a preoccupied manner at the headmaster's door and, as he was bidden, entered.

Gibson, a youngish looking man for his position, whose face was not yet completely set into the scholastic mould, was seated at his littered desk in the middle of the small book-lined study and he did not at once look up, but, an engrossed yet unpedantic figure in his smooth suit of dark brown a colour he habitually affected, continued to observe a document that lay in front of him. Renwick, a faint smile finally twisting his grave face at the other's preoccupation, remarked whimsically, after a moment:

"Still the same earnest student, Gibson," and as the other looked up with a start, continued, "It takes me back again to the old days to see you grinding at it like that."

Gibson, whose eye had brightened at the sight of Renwick, lay back in his chair and, motioning the other to sit down, remarked easily:

"I had no idea it was you, Renwick. I imagined rather one of my inky brigade trembling in the presence, awaiting a just chastisement. It does the little beggars good to keep them in awe of the imperial dignity."

A smile passed between them that was almost as spontaneous as a grin of their schooldays and Renwick murmured:

"You're the very pattern of old Bulldog Morrison. I must tell him when I get back to Edinburgh. He'd appreciate the compliment."

"The humour of it, you mean," cried Gibson, surveying the past with a distant eye. "Gad! How I wish I were going back to the old place like you! You're a lucky dog." Then fixing his glance on the other suddenly, he remarked, "You haven't come to say good-bye, already?"

"No! No, man," returned Renwick lightly. "I'm not off for six months. I'm not leaving you in the wilderness yet awhile." Then his face changed and he contemplated the floor for a moment before raising his gaze to Gibson and resuming seriously, "My errand is a peculiar one; I want you to treat it in confidence! You're an old friend, yet it is hard for me to explain what I'm about." He again paused and continued with some difficulty, "You have a child at

school here that I am interested in even anxious about. It is Nessie Brodie. I'm indirectly concerned about her health and her future. Mind you, Gibson, I haven't the least right to come here like this. I'm well aware of that, but you're not like a board of governors; I want your opinion and, if necessary, your help."

Gibson looked at the other intently, then away again, but he made no enquiry as to Renwick's motive and instead replied slowly:

"Nessie Brodie! She's a clever child. Yes! Very intelligent, but with a curious turn of her mind. Her memory is marvelous, Renwick; you could read her a whole page of Milton and she would repeat it almost word for word; her perception, too, is acute, but her reasoning, the deeper powers of thought, are not proportionate." He shook his head. "She's what I call a smart pupil, quick as a needle, but with, I'm afraid, some pervading shallowness in her intellect."

"She's going up for the Latta," persisted Renwick. "Is she fit for it will she win it?"

"She may win it," replied Gibson with a shrug of his shoulders, "but to what purpose! And indeed I can't say if she will do so. The matter is not in our hands. The standards of the University are not school standards. Her vocation is teaching after a Normal education."

"Can't you keep her back, then?" remarked Renwick with some slight eagerness. "I have information that her health is suffering from the strain of this preparation."

"It's impossible," returned the other. "As I've just said, the matter is out of our hands. It is a scholarship open to the Borough, set by the University authorities, and every one may enter who is eligible. To be frank, I did drop a hint to her her esteemed parent," he Towned here momentarily, "but it was useless. He's set on it grimly. And indeed she has such an excellent chance of winning that it sounds like pure folly to wish her to stand down. And yet… "

"What?" demanded Renwick.

In reply, the other took the sheet of paper from his desk and, examining it for a moment, handed it to his friend, saying slowly:

"It is a strange coincidence, but I was studying this when you came in. What do you make of it?"

Renwick took the paper, and perceiving that it was a translation of Latin prose Cicero, probably, he imagined written in a smooth yet unformed hand, he began to read the free and ingenuously worded rendering, when suddenly his eye was arrested. Interpolated between two sentences of the interesting and artless interpretation lay the words, written in the doric, and in a cramped and almost

distorted hand, "Stick in, Nessie! What's worth doing is worth doing well. Ye maun win the Latta or I'll know the reason why." Then the easy flow of the translation continued undisturbed. Renwick looked up at the other in astonishment.

"Sent along by her form master this morning," explained Gibson, "from Nessie Brodie's exercise book."

"Was this done at home or in school?" enquired the doctor sharply.

"In school! She must have written these words, unconsciously, of course, but none the less written them with her own hand. What does it mean? Some reversion to these famous Scottish ancestors we used to hear so much about from the old man? Or is it dual personality? You know more about that sort of thing than I do."

"Dual personality be hanged!" retorted Renwick in some consternation. "This is a pure lapse of mind, a manifestation of nervous overstrain induced, I'm positive from the nature of these words, by some strong force that has been driven into her. Don't you see, man? She became fatigued in the middle of this exercise, her attention wavered and instantly that something beneath the surface of her mind leaped up tormenting her forcing her on, so that, indeed before she resumed coherently, she had unconsciously written this passage," He shook his head. "It reveals only too clearly, I'm afraid, what she fears!"

"We don't work her too hard here," expostulated Gibson; "she's spared in many ways!"

"I know! I know," replied Renwick. "The mischief is being done outside. It's that madman of a father she has got. What are we to do about it? You say you've spoken to him and I'm like a red rag to a bull where he's concerned. It's difficult." Then, as he laid the paper again on Gibson's desk, he added, "This really alarms me. It's a symptom that I've seen before to presage a thundering bad breakdown. I don't like it a bit."

Дата добавления: 2015-08-20