BY A. J. CRONIN 36 страница

As the almost incredible words left her lips, the expression on her pinched, tear-stained face grew suddenly transfigured, illuminated as from a sudden light within. Hope again shone in the sorrowful eyes, mingled with a purpose so rash that only her present despair could have induced her to consider it. Why, she thought, should she not write to her sister? A terrible consideration, but her only chance of succour! Upstairs, hidden in a secret corner of her bedroom, lay the letter which Mamma had given her some days before she died and which bore the address in London where Mary lived.

If she acted carefully, her father would never know; she knew, too, that Mary would never betray her, and with the renewed consciousness of her sister's love, she got up from her chair, and, as though walking in a dream, went out of the room and tiptoed silently upstairs. After a moment she returned and shutting the door, listened attentively, trembling violently in all her limbs. She had the letter, but she was terrified at what she had done, at what she proposed to do. Nevertheless she persisted in her purpose. At the table she tore out a leaf from one of her copy-books and hurriedly composed a short note of pathetic entreaty, telling Mary in a few words how she was situated and imploring her assistance, entreating her to come to her if she could. As she wrote, she looked up from time to time with agitated glances, as though expecting her father to enter, but soor the few scribbled lines, blotted by haste and the fall of an irrepressible

tear, were completed. She folded the ragged-edged sheet and thrust it in the envelope she had brought from upstairs. Then she addressed the envelope, copying each word carefully, and thrust it into the bosom of her dress; finally, with a pale face and palpitating heart, she resumed her bent position over her books and made pretence to study. But her precaution was unnecessary. No one entered the room during the whole evening. She was undiscovered and, early next morning, on her way to school, she posted the letter.

IV

JAMES BRODIE was awakening. No sun streamed through his window to stimulate gently his recumbent figure or set the golden motes swimming through straight rivers of light across his sleep-filled gaze.

Instead, a cold fine rain smirred the dripping panes, dulling the interior of the room to one drab monotone and meeting his half-opened eye like a melancholy reminder of his altered condition. He marked the unhappy aspect of the weather moodily, then from the window, his visible eye, now more fully opened to reveal the sticky, white coagulum at its corner, turned to the clock, and observing that the dim hands pointed to ten minutes past eight, ten minutes beyond his appointed but unkept hour of rising, grew more gloomy. To-day he would, he realised, be late at the office once again, would suffer another sharp rebuke from the upstart chief clerk who now attempted to control his working hours, who had threatened even to report him to the under manager should he fail to observe a more constant punctuality.

At this reflection his face, against the lighter background of the pillow, seemed to darken, the lines that marked it deepened like sharp incisions, and the eyes, losing their innate melancholy, were filled instead by a dull, morose obstinacy. Be damned to them all, he thought, they would not order him about; he would have another five minutes in bed in spite of the whole board of directors of the Latta Shipyard! He would, of course, make up the time by omitting to shave, which struck him now, as it frequently did, as a cunning way of defeating the powers which sought to move him to their rule and pattern of life. Such a ruse as this suited him too, in his own inclination, for he was now averse to shaving in the mornings, when his unsteady hand so often behaved erratically, trying his temper to control it, and on occasions making him gash his cheek. The early hours of the day never found him at his best for not only did his hand refuse to obey him, but his head ached, or his tongue felt like dry wood, or his stomach turned within him at the mere consideration of his breakfast. It was, he was well aware, the whisky which was responsible for these unwelcome visitations, and in this grey morning's light he felt, with a gloomy insight, that he must cut down his allowance. When he had made such resolutions in the past he had never, he told himself, been really serious, but now he must definitely make up his mind to take himself in hand, to drink nothing before dinner and thereafter to abstain until the evening, when he would be moderate, when indeed, he must be moderate if he were to please Nancy, whose favour was now of such vital necessity to him. Certainly she had been better disposed towards him during the last two days, and he reflected, with a more equable turn of mind, that although she had not come back to his room since their quarrel on the night of her visit to the aunt at Overton, the obvious reason which she had

advanced in excuse must surely be correct, in view of her recent kindness and more tolerant treatment of him. He could not do without Nancy! She had become as necessary to him and as indispensable as breath to his body, and for this reason alone he must be careful how he addressed himself to the bottle in future. Impossible that he should ever live without her! She would come to him again to-night, the fresher for his enforced abstinence, or he would know the reason why!

Some semblance of his old complacency seemed to flow into him at this last thought and, flinging off the bedclothes, he got out of bed; but as the cold air of the room struck his body he shivered, frowned, and losing his satisfied look, reached hurriedly for his clothes, which lay in a disordered heap upon a near-by qhair. He struggled into these garments with the utmost dispatch, giving his face alone some transient attention with water and soap before assuming his soiled linen collar, knotting his stringy tie and throwing on his baggy coat and waistcoat. The economy in time was considerable, for the whole process of dressing had not taken five minutes, and now he was ready, albeit after a fashion, to descend the stairs and consume his morning meal.

"Good mornin' to you, Brodie," cried Nancy agreeably, as he entered the kitchen. "You're on time all right to-day! How did ye sleep?"

"Not so weel as I would have liked," he replied heavily. "I was cold! Still, I've a feeling I'll be cosier to-night."

"You're not blate so early in the mornin'," she answered, with a toss of her head. "Sup up your porridge and be quiet."

He considered the porridge with pursed lips and some show of repugnance as he exclaimed:

"I don't feel like them somehow, Nancy. They're heavy on a man's stomach at breakfast time. They might do for supper but I can't think of them the now. Have ye anything else?"

"I've got a nice, sweet kipper in the pan just done to a turn," she cried complacently. "Don't eat the porridge if ye're not in the mood. I'll get ye the other this very minute."

He followed her active figure, observing the swirl of her skirts, the fluent movements of her neat feet and ankles as she rushed to carry out her words, and he was filled by a sudden appreciation of the marked improvement in her attitude towards him. She was coming near to him again, no longer looking at him with that sparkle of animosity in her eyes, but was even now running after him in a fashion strangely reminiscent of his wife's eagerness to serve him. He felt the comfort of being once more looked after with this devotion, especially as it came from his beloved but independent Nancy, and when she returned with the dish, he looked at her from the corner of his eyes and remarked:

"You're drawin' round to me again, I see. I can mind of mornings when some burnt porridge was good enough to fling at a poor man for his breakfast, but this juicy kipper is more to my taste, and your way o' lookin' at me is more to my likin' still. You're fond of me, Nancy, aren't ye?"

She gazed down at his tired face, lined, hollowed, disfigured by a two days' stubble of beard and split by a forced and unbefitting smile, envisaged his bowed and slovenly figure, his tremulous hands and uncared-for finger nails, and with a shrill little laugh, she cried:

"True enough, man! I've such a feelin' for ye now that I hardly like to own it. It fair makes my heart loup when I look at ye sometimes."

His smile was extinguished, his eyes puckered intently, and he answered:

"It's a treat for me to hear ye say that, Nancy! I know it's downright wrong o' me to tell ye, but I can't help it, I've got to depend on ye now something extraordinar'." Then, still disregarding his breakfast, he continued almost apologetically, as though he defended his conduct, "I never would have believed I could draw to anybody so much. I didna think I was that kind o' man, but ye see, I had to do without for so lang that when when we came thegither weel ye've fair taken hold of me. That's pkfin truth. Ye're not angry at me for tellin' ye a' this, are ye now?"

"No! No!" she exclaimed hurriedly. "Not a bit, Brodie. I should understand ye by this time. But come on now, don't waste the good kipper Pve taken the trouble to cook ye. I'm wantin' to hear how ye like it. And I’m anxious for ye to make a good breakfast, for you'll have to take your dinner out to-day."

"Take my dinner out! What for?" he exclaimed, in some surprise.

"Ye were away at Overton only last week ye're surely not goin' to see that aunt o' yours again?"

"No, I'm not!" she cried, with a pert toss of her head, "but she's comin' to see me! And I'm not wantin' you runnin' round after me, with her, that's a decent unsuspectin' body ay, and one that's fond o' me starin' the eyes out of her heid at your palavers. Ye can come home in the evenin'. Then I'll be ready for ye."

He glared at her for a moment with a dark countenance, then, suddenly relaxing, he shook his head slowly. "Damnation, woman! But ye have the cheek on ye. To think that you've got the length o' entertain! n' your friends in my house! Gad! It makes me see how far ye can go with me. I should have warmed the backside o' ye for doin' a thing like that without first askin' me but ye know I canna be angry with ye. It seems there's no end to the liberties you'll take with me."

"What's the harm?" she demanded primly. "Can an honest housekeeper body not see her relations if she wants to? It'll do ye good to have a snack outside; then I'll have a surprise all ready for ye when ye come."

He looked at her doubtfully.

"Surprise is the right word, after the way you've been treatin' me." He paused and added grimly, "I'm damned if I know what makes me so soft wi' ye."

"Don't talk like that, Brodie," she reprimanded mildly. "Your language is like a heathen Chinaman's sometimes."

"What do you know about Chinamen?" he retorted moodily, at last turning his attention towards the kipper and beginning to consume it in slow, large mouthfuls. After a moment he remarked, in an altered tone, "This has a relish in it, Nancy it's the sort of thing I can fancy in the mornin's now."

She continued to look at him in an oddly restrained fashion as he conveyed the food to his lowered mouth, then suddenly a thought seemed to strike her, and she cried:

"Guidsakes, what am I dreamin' about! There's a letter came for ye this mornin' that I forgot a' about."

"What!" he retorted, arresting his movements and glancing up in surprise from under his thick, greying eyebrows. "A letter for me!"

"Ay! I clean forgot in the hurry to get your breakfast. Here it is," and she took a letter from the corner of the dresser and handed it to him. He held the letter for a moment in his outstretched hand, drew it near to him with a puzzled look in his eyes, observed that it was stamped by the postmark of London, then, carelessly inserting his thick thumb, ripped the envelope open and drew out the sheet within. Watching him with some slight interest as he read the written words, Nancy observed the expressions of bewilderment, amazement, enlightenment, and triumph sweep across his face with the rapidity of clouds traversing a dark and windy sky. Finally his expression assumed a strange satisfaction as he turned the letter, again read it slowly through, and, lifting his eyes, fixed them upon the distance.

"Would ye believe it," he muttered, "and after all this time!"

"What?" she cried. "What is it about?"

"She has climbed down and wants to come crawlin' back!" He paused, absorbed in his own considerations, as though his words had been sufficient to enlighten her fully.

"I don't know what you mean," she exclaimed sharply. "Who are ye talkin' about?"

"My daughter Mary," he replied slowly; "the one that I kicked out of my house. I swore she would never get back until she had licked my boots, ay, and she said she never would come back, and here she is, in this very letter, cadging to win home and keep house for me. God! It's a rich recompense for me after a' these years!" He held up the letter between his tense fingers as though his eyes would

never cease to gloat upon it, sneering as he read: " 'Let the past be forgotten! I want you to forgive me.' If that doesna justify me my name's not Brodie. 'Since Mamma has gone I would like to come home. I am not unhappy here but sometimes lonely,' " he continued with a snarl. "-Lonely! By God, it's what she deserves. Lonely! Long may it continue. If she thinks she'll gel back here as easy as that, she's far mistaken. I'll not have her. No! Never!" He returned

his eyes to Nancy as though to demand her approval and, with twisted lips, resumed, "Don't ye see how this puts me in the right, woman! She was proud, proud as ye make them, but I can see she's broken now. Why else should she want home? God! What a comedown for her to have to whine to get taken back like this and and what a triumph for me to refuse her. She wants to be my housekeeper!" He laughed harshly. "That's a good one, is it no', Nancy? She doesna know that I've got you She's wantin' your job!"

She had picked the letter from his hand and was reading it.

"I don't see much of a whine here," she replied slowly. "It's a decent enough written letter."

"Bah!" he cried, "It's not the way it's written I'm thinkin' of! It's the meanin' of it all that concerns me. There's no other explanation possible, and the very thought of it lifts me like a dram o' rare spirits."

"You're not goin' to let her come back, then?" she queried tentatively.

"No!" he shouted. "I'm not! I've got you to look after me now. Does she think I want the likes o' her? She can stop in this place in London that she's in, and rot there, for all I care."

"Ye mustna decide in a hurry," she admonished him; "after all, she's your own daughter. Think it over well before ye do anything rash."

He looked at her sulkily.

"Rash or not rash, I'll never forgive her," he growled, "and that's all there is to it." Then his eye suddenly lighted as he exclaimed, "I tell ye what might be a bawr though, Nancy and something that would cut her to the quick. Supposin' ye were to write back and tell her that the post she applied for was filled. That would make her feel pretty small, would it not? Will ye do't, woman?"

"No, I will not," she cried immediately; "the very idea. Ye maun do it yoursel' when you're about it."

"Well, at least ye'll help me to write my answer," he protested, "Suppose you and me do it thegether to-night when I come home. That smart head o' yours is sure to think on something clever for me to put in."

"Wait till to-night then," she replied, after some consideration, "and I'll think about it in the meantime."

"That's grand," he cried, playing in his mind with the idea of collaborating with her in the evening over this delightful task of composing a cutting reply to his daughter. "We'll lay our heads together. I know what you can do when you try."

As he spoke a faint horn sounded in the distance, swelling and falling at times, but always audible, entering the room with gentle though relentless persistency.

"Gracious," cried Nancy quickly, "there's the nine o'clock horn and you not out of the house yet. Ye'll be late as can be if ye don't hurry. Come on now, away with ye!"

"I'm not carin' for their blasted horns," he replied sullenly. "I'll be late if I like. You would think I was the slave of that damned whistle the way it draws me away from ye just when I'm not wantin' to go."

"I don't want ye to get the sack though, man! What would ye do if ye lost your job?"

"I would get a better one. I've just been thinkin' about that lately myself. What I've got is not near good enough for me."

"Wheesht! Now, Brodie," she conciliated him, "you're well enough as ye are. Ye might look further and fare worse. Come on and I'll see ye to the door!"

His expression softened as he looked at her and rose obediently, exclaiming:

"Don't you worry anyway, Nancy. I'll always have enough to keep you." At the front door he turned to her and said, in a voice which sounded almost pathetic, "It'll be a' day until I see you again."

She drew back a little and half shut the door as she replied irrelevantly:

"What a mornin', too. Ye should take an umbrella instead o' that auld stick. Are you minding about gettin' your dinner out to-day?"

"I'm mindin' about it," he answered submissively. "You know I heed what you tell me. Come on now give us a kiss before I go."

She was about to shut the door in his face when, at his attitude, something seemed to melt within her and, raising herself on her toes, inclining her head upwards, she touched with her lips the deep furrow that marked the centre of his forehead.

"There," she whispered under her breath, "that's for the man that ye were."

He stared at her uncomprehcndingly with eyes that gazed at hers appealingly, inquiringly, like the eyes of a devoted dog.

"What were ye say in'?" he muttered stupidly.

"Nothing," she cried lightly, withdrawing herself again. "I was just biddin' ye good-bye."

He hesitated, stammered uncomfortably:

"If it was If ye were thinkin' about about the drink, I want to tell ye that I'm going to cut it down to something reasonable. I know ye don't like me to take so much and I want to please ye, woman."

She shook her head slowly, looking at him curiously, intently.

"'Twasna that at all. If ye feel ye need a dram, I suppose ye maun have it. It's the only it's a comfort to ye, I suppose. Now away with ye, man."

"Nancy, dear, ye understand a man weel," he murmured in a moved voice. "There's nothing I couldna do for ye when you're like this."

He shifted his feet heavily, in some embarrassment at his own outburst, then in a gruflf voice full of his suppressed feeling exclaimed,

"I'll I'll away, then, woman. Good-bye just now."

"Good-bye," she replied evenly.

With a last look at her eyes he turned, faced the grey and melancholy morning, and moved off into the rain, a strange figure, coatless, crowned extravagantly by the large, square hat, from under which thick tuffs of uncut hair protruded fantastically, his arms behind his back, his heavy ash plant trailing grotesquely behind him in the mud.

He walked down the road, his brain confused by conflicting thoughts amongst which mingled a sense of abashment at the unexpected exhibition of his own emotion; but, as he progressed, there emerged from this confusion a single perception the worth to him of Nancy. She was human clay like himself, and she understood him, knew the needs of a man, appreciated, as she had just remarked, that he required sometimes the comfort of a glass. He did not feel the rain as it soaked into his clothing, so enwrapped was he in the contemplation of her, and into the dullness of his set face small gleams of light from time to time appeared. As he approached the shipyard, however, his reflections grew less agreeable, evidenced by the unrelieved harshness of his countenance, and he was concerned by his lateness, by the possibility of a reprimand, and affected by a depressing realisation, which time had not eradicated, of the very humiliating nature of his employment. He thought, too, in a different light of the letter that he had just received, which appeared to him as an intolerable presumption on the part of her who had once been his daughter and which now reminded him bitterly of the past. An acrid taste came into his mouth at his own recollection whilst the salt, smoked fish which he had eaten for breakfast made him feel parched and thirsty; outside the "Fitter's Bar" he deliberately paused and, fortified by Nancy's parting remark, muttered, "Gad, but I'm dry, and I'm half an hour late as it is. I may as weel make a job o' it while I'm about it."

He went in with a half -defiant glance over his shoulder at the block of offices that lay opposite and, when he emerged, a quarter of an hour later, his bearing had regained something of its old challenging assertion. In this manner he entered the main swing doors of the offices and, threading the corridors, now with the facility of habit, entered his own room with his head well in ihe air, surveying in turn the two young clerks who looked up from their work to greet him.

"Has that auld, nosey pig been round yet?" he demanded; "because if he has, I don't give a tinker's curse about it."

"Mr. Blair?" replied one of the pair. "No! he hasn't been round yet!"

"Humph!" cried Brodie, fiercely annoyed at the sudden feeling of relief which had swept involuntarily over him. "I suppose ye think I'm lucky. Well! Let me tell ye both that I don't give a damn whether he knows I've been late or not. Tell him if ye like! It's all one to me," and, flinging his hat upon a peg and his stick into a corner, he sat heavily down upon his stool. The other clerks exchanged a glance and after a slight pause, the spokesman of the two remarked diffidently;

"We wouldn't say a word, Mr. Brodie. You surely know that, but look here, you're wringing wet will you not take your jacket off and dry it?"

"No! I'll not take it off!" he replied roughly, opening his ledger, lifting his pen and beginning to work; but after a moment he raised his head and said in a different tone, "But thank ye all the same You're good lads both and I know you've lent me a hand in the past. The truth is, I've had some news that upset me, so I'm just not quite my usual this mornin'."

They knew something of his affdirs from certain bouts of rambling dissertations during the past months and the one who had not yet spoken remarked:

"Not Nessie, I hope, Mr. Brodie?"

"No!" he answered. "Not my Nessie! She's as right as the mail, thank God, workin' like a trooper and headin' straight for the Latta! She's never given me a moment's trouble. It was just something else, but I know what to do. I can win through it like I've done with all the rest."

They forbore to question him further and the three resumed work in a silence broken only by the scratching of pens on paper, the rustle of a turning page, the restless scrape of a stool and the mutter from Brodie's lips as he strove to concentrate his fogged brain in the effort to contend with the figures before him.

The forenoon had advanced well upon its course when a precise step sounded in the corridor outside and the door of the room opened to admit the correct figure of Mr. Blair. With a sheaf of papers in his hand he stood for a moment, adjusting his gold-rimmed pince-nez upon his elevated nose, and scrutinising at some length the three clerks now working under his severe eyes. His gaze eventually settled upon the sprawling form of Brodie from whose damp clothing the steam now rose in a warm, vaporous mist, and as he looked his glance became more disapproving; he cleared his throat warningly and strode forward, fluttering the papers in his grasp like feathers of his ruffled plumage. "Brodie," he began sharply, "a moment of your attention, please!"

Without changing his posture Brodie lifted his head from the desk and regarded the other mordantly.

"Well," he replied, "what is it this time?"

"You might get up when you address me," expostulated Blair. "Every other clerk does so but you. It's most irregular and unusual."

"I'm a kind o' unusual man, ye see; that's maybe the reason o' it," retorted Brodie slowly. "I'm just as well where I am! What is't you're wantin'?"

"These accounts," shot out the other angrily. "Do you recognize them? If you don't, I may inform you that they represent your work or so-called work! Every one of them is in error. Your figures are wrong the whole way through and your total is outrageously incorrect. I'm sick of your blundering incompetence, Brodie! Unless you can explain this I shall have to report the whole matter to my superior."

Brodie glowered from the papers to the other's starched and offended face, and, filled by a sense of the insupportable indignity of his position he replied sullenly, in a low voice:

"I did the best I could. I can do no more."

"Your best is not good enough, then," retorted Blair in a high, almost a shrill tone. "Lately your work has become atrociously bad and your behaviour is, if anything, worse. Your very appearance is lowering to the dignity of this office. I'm sure if Sir John knew he would never permit it. Why," he stuttered, choked by indignation, "already your breath is reeking with the smell of drink. It's abominable!"

Brodie sat quite still, his eyes lowered, his mind blurred, wondering if it were he, James Brodie, who remained passive under the insults of this primly insignificant creature. He saw himself leap up, seize the other by the throat, shake him within an inch of his life then hurl him, as he had hurled a man twice his size, ignominiously out of the door. But no, he was still sitting motionless upon his stool, muttering in a dull voice:

"My time is my own outside this place. I can use it how I like."

"You must come to this office in a fit condition to work," insisted Blair coldly. "You're a bad example to these young men here the look of you is a slur on the whole place!"

"Leave my appearance alone, damn you," ground out Brodie with a sudden fierceness. "I'd rather be as I am than have your smug face on me."

"None of your impertinence, please," cried Blair, a flush rising to his pale countenance. "Ill report you for insolence."

"Well, leave me alone," cried Brodie, looking up from his crouched position on the desk like a wild animal, broken by captivity, but still ferocious. "Don't push me too far or it'll be the worse for ye."

A sense of the latent danger to himself in the other's wild eye restrained Blair from further disparaging comment but, thrusting the file of papers disdainfully upon Brodie's desk, he remarked icily:

"Let me have these corrected at once faultless, if you please or I'll know the reason of it!" Then, turning, he stepped formally out of the office.

With the closing of the door no outburst occurred, but the stillness of the room became more oppressive than any storm. Brodie sat like an effigy in stone, turning over within his mind the insults he had just endured; feeling, in his humiliation, that the combined glances of the other two were fixed upon him derisively. Out of the corner of his eye he observed a hand appear over the edge of his desk and silently remove the offending accounts and, although he knew that he was again being aided through the good nature of his colleagues, the hard-hewn moroseness of his features did not relax. He sat thus for an interminable time without lifting his pen, observed, without speaking, the corrected documents slide back again in front of him, maintained his attitude of rigid indifference until the dinner whistle blew at one o'clock; then he rose immediately from his stool, seized his hat and walked quickly from the room. Some insults might be washed out in blood, but he now sought urgently, in a different manner, to eradicate the memory of his indignity.

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