by A. J. Cronin
Murdoch, bathed in solemn abstraction, shrugged his shoulders, which his work had made big and heavy.
“I wouldn’t get myself into the lawyers’ hands.”
Papa winced visibly and, after a moment, a pained sigh of agreement was forced from him.
“What am I to do then, what am I to do?”
Murdoch began to speak. Always ponderous, he had, during these past months, become invested with a new profundity.
“No one ever paid much attention to me in this house, Father.” With surprise I noted that he had dropped the familiar “ Papa.” “The fact remains, I’ve made my own way in spite of everything. I have my partnership with Dalrymple, I’m happy in my work in the garden, I’m doing well. At the Flower Show this spring I mean to bring out my new carnation and, if God wills it,” again I started with surprise, “I’ll maybe have a chance of the Alexandra Gold Medal for the best exhibit in the Show.” Murdoch smiled at us all owlishly through his big glasses. “Adam always made a fool out of me, Father. His ways are not mine. Nevertheless he’s my brother and I love him. That’s the answer to everything. Love.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Papa burst out. “I want my money back plus the interest.”
Sophie had come into the kitchen with a scuttle of coal and was replenishing the fire. Papa kept still while she was in the room, but the moment she returned to the scullery he rose with an outraged air, removed the top lump of coal, and put it back in the scuttle. He was flushed, as though the exasperation in his breast had suddenly flared beyond endurance. “No one knows what I have to contend with. One thing after another. Adam! That old fool upstairs who ought to be in Glenwoodie! Cleghorn coming through his kidney operation! What a man could do about it I don’t know.”
“You could love, Father,” Murdoch said kindly.
“What!” Papa exclaimed.
“Yes, Father,” Murdoch continued gently. “ I mean exactly what I say. If only you could taste, as I have come to taste, the joy of universal love.”
He stood up in a peculiar manner. I knew instinctively that he was going to make one of those pronouncements, majestic and terrible, which reared themselves, like sea serpents from a placid sea—intimations from the depths which stunned by their magnificent unexpectedness, and of which to my knowledge, he actually made three: the first at Ardfillan Fair, when he said “I am going to kill myself”; the third, not yet born, when he declared, after the Flower Show, “I am going to be married”; and the second, now, when, as though breathing the Holy Spirit upon us, he announced:
“I’m saved. I’m now a soldier of the Lord.”
No more than that, not a single word. Wearing that same rapt smile, he took his hat and went out.
While Papa sat, stupefied, in the kitchen, Kate and I followed him, equally dazed, to the door. And there, sure enough, was the explanation, the pure fount of his conversion: Bessie Ewing, walking sedately up and down in the road outside, waiting on him. She took his arm with a proud, possessive smile. Neither of them saw us, as they walked off, communing, Murdoch’s chest expanded, as if already supporting the big drum of the Salvation Army Band.
A long pause followed.
“Well, that’s that,” Kate said. “ Religion takes this family in funny ways.” There was an odd look in her eyes as she turned to me. “We’re a queer lot. Why you stay on in this house beats me.”
I did not answer.
Seeing my hesitancy, Kate gave a little laugh and slipped her arm about my shoulders, pressing her cheek, still dry and chapped, against mine.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “ Life’s an awful business.”
She turned and went back to the kitchen, while I slowly climbed the stairs and, still wearing my dungarees, lay down on my bed, not yet having the energy to change. Kate had persuaded Papa and Grandma to accompany her to Barloan for tea. Presently I heard the sound of the front door as they went out. Sophie had already departed for her half-day. Grandpa and I were alone in the house.
The afternoon was very quiet. With my hands behind my head I tried to conjure those visions which were my splendid avenues of escape—no wonder Reid had named me “ the melancholy dreamer.” But I was held to earth, bogged in the recollection of that scene which had just taken place downstairs; my mind kept turning back to it, like a dog worrying a dry bone—no hope of nutriment, a kind of nervous persistence.
It was like a conspiracy to destroy what illusions were left to me. Murdoch’s conversion simply parodied my past religious fervour. Papa’s obsession with money, ludicrous and degrading, had become a mania. Now he took his tea without sugar and milk, practically lived on pease brose, undressed in the dark to save the gas. His manipulations with the ends of soap and candles were unbelievable. When anything broke in the house, he mended it himself. The other day I had caught him with a strip of leather and some nails, resoling his own shoes.
Oh, God, how I hated money, the very thought of it revolted me. Yet, at the same time, I spent my days longing for enough to take me to the University to pursue the work I loved. Kate’s question kept buzzing in my head. Why didn’t I leave this house? Perhaps I was weak, afraid to venture into the unknown. Yet there was another reason. Less from affection than from a grinding sense of responsibility, which I inherited no doubt from some Covenanting ancestor on Grandma’s side, I felt myself unable to leave Grandpa. He would be sure to meet disaster if I didn’t stay to keep an eye on him. Whatever the causes, I seemed doomed to extinction in this small town.
Instinctively I thought of Alison, cut by the cruel injustice of her calmness, and, although I yearned for her, Lewis’s stories of his adventures came before my mind. They were cheap enough no doubt, yet I had begun to feel it a sign of lamentable weakness that I had never enjoyed such an experience as he described. In novels which I read, young men in my position were always brought to maturity by some nice woman, separated from her husband, not a raging beauty of course, but usually a charming little creature, with humorous eyes and a wide and generous mouth. But did such a one exist in Levenford? I smiled bitterly at the utter futility of the thought. Several of the girls who worked in the dye-works were well known to the apprentices but the look of their bold red faces, the rough slang which they exchanged as they clattered past in shawls and clogs, were enough to damp even Lewis’s ardour, let alone my shrinking heart. I sighed heavily, got up and started to change my working clothes.
Suddenly I heard a ring at the bell. Although the ring was polite it disturbed me: now more than ever it was a formidable business answering the front door.
I went downstairs. It was a woman who stood on the threshold, a decent middle-aged and completely strange woman, dressed in dark grey, with limp grey cotton gloves, a black hat and handbag. She looked as though she worked with her hands, perhaps a housekeeper, yet altogether a superior person and she was, strangely, more nervous than I. She conveyed the impression of having waited for the benevolent cloak of evening before venturing to approach the doorstep of Lomond View.
“Is this Mr. Gow’s house?”
My heart, which had been emboldened by her timidity, dropped back into my boots. “ Yes, he lives here.”
A pause. Was she blushing? At least she was uncertain of how to proceed for, studying me, she went off at a tangent. “Are you his son?”
“No, not exactly … a relation.” While I refused to commit myself I perceived the situation to be altogether too obscure, delicate, and dangerous to be handled on the doormat, in full view of the road. “Won’t you come in a moment?”
“Thank you kindly, young man.” She spoke with careful gentility, and followed me into the parlour where, since it was dim, I found it necessary to light the gas. Without being asked she took a chair, seated herself upon its edge and let her eyes travel round the chill sanctuary, appraising this object and that with guarded approval.
“Quite right. A nice place you have here. That’s a bonny picture.”
I waited in mystified silenc
e while, not without coyness, she removed her eyes from “The Monarch of the Glen” and inspected me.
“I believe you are his son.” She gave a little laugh. “And he told you not to say so. Never mind, I respect your discretion. Is he in?”
“If you will be so kind as to tell me your business …” I suggested.
“Well, I may as well tell you.” Again that little laugh quickly subdued. “ Mind you, I am a respectable widow woman. I think this will explain.”
. She opened her bag, produced and handed to me two papers. One I recognized with trepidation as a letter in Grandpa’s unmistakable handwriting. The other was a marked advertisement from the Matrimonial Post.
Highly respectable widow, age forty-four, dark, medium build, affectionate nature, artistic, moderate means, would like to hear from gentleman of agreeable disposition, preferably churchgoer, with good home and genuine intentions. Small family no objection. References given and exchanged. Reply Box 314 M.T.
I was stunned. No need for me to read Grandpa’s letter; she herself modestly referred to it.
“I had six good replies … but your … Mr. Gow’s was so beautiful I just had to see him first.”
I could have rocked with laughter, if I had not felt like weeping. I exclaimed, quite wildly: “ See him then, madam. Go up straight away. The top floor, first door on the right.”
She took back the papers, replaced them tidily in her handbag and stood up, self-conscious as a girl.
“Just tell me one thing. Is he dark or fair? My first husband was dark and I thought it would be a nice change …”
“Yes, yes,” I broke in, waving her on. “He’s fair. But go up and see for yourself.… Go up.”
She went upstairs and I stood waiting for the short, sharp sounds of her immediate disillusionment. But there was no scene—a good half-hour passed before she descended, and then her expression, though mystified, was pleased rather than resentful.
“Your uncle is a very nice gentleman,” she confided to me in a vaguely puzzled voice. “ But scarcely so young as I expected.”
When, with a suggestion of reluctance, she had gone, I hastened to Grandpa’s room.
He was seated, pen in hand, at his table, absorbed in the composition of his favourite “ Bullets.”
“Robert,” he declared. “I have a sure winner here. Just listen to this …”
“But your visitor?” I interrupted.
“Oh, her!” He dismissed the lady with disdain. “She would have wearied me to death. Besides, comparatively speaking, she hasn’t a curdie to her name.”
I could not help myself. I turned away in a fit of laugher that was half hysterical, while he gazed after me over his spectacles, mildly astonished, yet unperturbed, a monument of respectability.
Downstairs, I put on my cap and muffler. The dusk was deepening and it held the promise of lights and Saturday night movement in the town. My spirits, unaccountably, had risen. There would probably be music in Reid’s rooms, Alison and her mother might perhaps be there. I decided that I would go and make my peace with Jason. But first there was The Flying Highlander.
Every Saturday night at five o’clock the Port Doran-London express made a two-minute stop at Levenford to pick up West Coast passengers. It was a superb train, painted red and gold, complete with sleepers and dining cars where white napery and gleaming silver could be seen, through the windows, beneath shaded electric candles. Simply to watch that shining train pull out slowly for the great city of the South was enough to stir the blood, to raise in my breast the wild, vain, but still undying hope that one day I, too, would take my place upon its rich upholstery, beneath its soft rose lights.
I glanced at the clock. There was just time. I hurried down the dark road.
Chapter Four
That winter the Levenford Philosophical Club was making an effort to recover from the run-down condition which, at an earlier date, had provoked Reid’s sarcasm. It had once been a fine club, modelled upon the Edinburgh Speculative Society. Mr. McKellar was the new president, and he had arranged for the resumption of the course of public lectures for which the Philosophical had been famous.
Papa did not now belong to the Club. Overanxious to advance his promotion, he had suffered some sad rebuffs from the other members and had come to regard the annual subscription as an unjustifiable expense.
I knew nothing of the lectures until one day towards the end of November when, passing me in the street, Mr. McKellar handed me a ticket without a word. He was a silent man and this uncommunicative gesture, effected without even stopping, was typical of him. The ticket read:
A Lecture will be Delivered
by
PROFESSOR MARK FLEMING
on
THE STORY OF MALARIA
at
The Philosophical Rooms
Admit one Nov. 30th.
I went eagerly to the Rooms on the specified evening, yet with the feeling that wounds scarcely healed would be painfully reopened. I sat wedged incongruously amongst stout red-faced townsmen, sedate and prosperous in their fine broadcloth suits. I reddened when McKellar let his eye drift over me without the slightest recognition. But the moment Professor Fleming began to speak I fell under the fascination of the subject and the man.
Mark Fleming was Professor of Zoology at Winton University, a spare dark figure of about forty, with sharp features, a clipped moustache and bright penetrating eyes. He had done some brilliant research work on the lungfish, Lepidosiren, adventuring into unexplored country on the upper waters of the Amazon. To-night, since he was addressing laymen, his address was semipopular. But there was enough of science in it to stir my blood.
He traced the origin of the disease, discussed its ravages and the earlier mistaken theories regarding its cause. Then he passed to the first really scientific approach to the problem, describing the attempts of Ronald Ross to isolate the parasite, that magnificent and painstaking research which was finally crowned by the discovery of “sporozoites” in the salivary glands of a special mosquito. On the white screen at the end of the room Fleming showed us lantern slides, coloured micro-photographs, demonstrating the exquisitely symmetrical stages of development of the parasite. He revealed its life history, its cycle through the blood of various hosts, of which man was one. He summarized the preventive measures which had exterminated the scourge from large tracts of country and which—he gave the classic example—had made possible the building of the Panama Canal.
When he concluded, I drew a long deep breath. I had questions to ask which would show him my burning interest in his subject. But he was surrounded by important people who, although saying stupid and unimportant things, effectually prevented my approach. And presently, looking at his watch, he departed amidst smiles and many handshakes to catch his train.
The stimulation of this lecture, which revived all my passionate love of science, lingered for a few days. It was followed by a reaction of profound depression. For a week I walked with my eyes on the ground, suffering the desolation of a lost cause. Then, quite suddenly I had a great idea. Usually my great ideas crumbled overnight. Seemingly brilliant, they failed to withstand the remorseless logic which I myself unleashed against them. But this was different—it grew steadily, like a shaft of dawn piercing the haggard gloom. I made my plans excitedly, yet with care.
On the following Saturday, I kept back five shillings of my wages, changed quickly, made a parcel of certain articles upon my chest of drawers, and came down to the kitchen for dinner.
“Hurry, Grandma.” I smiled at her. “ I want to catch the one-thirty train. Big doings on hand.”
The old woman was alone in the room. She brought me a plate of mutton stew, but with no answering smile, which surprised me, in view of the new friendship that had sprung up between us. Then, before sitting down with her crochet work to wait for Papa, who was always late on Saturdays, she handed me silently, with an expression of peculiar reserve, a postcard.
I took it, and read it wi
th a gathering frown. Why couldn’t people leave me alone? The interfering card bore the stamped heading, PRESBYTERY OF THE HOLY ANGELS, and it said: Will you call and see me Sunday afternoon at four o’clock? It was signed: J. J. ROCHE.
Still frowning, but with a passing uneasiness, I crumpled the card and threw it into the fire.
Grandma seemed very busy with her hook, but a moment later, without looking up, she said:
“So you won’t go?”
I shook my head stubbornly.
Grandma’s lacework appeared to please her greatly. Yet her tone was cautious.
“Suppose he comes here. What am I to tell him?”
“Tell him I’m not in,” I mumbled, red-faced.
She raised her eyes and stared at me. Gradually a smile appeared on her face, a slow smile which deepened, as she got up.
“Let me give you some more stew, my man.”
Grandma’s flattering approval helped me to recover my self-possession. This communication from the beyond—for so I chose to regard my fervent past—had, to be frank, given me something of a shock. I really liked Canon Roche, and felt that my behaviour towards him had been shabby; also my proud indifference towards religion hadn’t saved me some rather bad moments of remorse. However, my spirits were too high to be daunted. I put the matter out of my mind and was soon racing elatedly with my bundle for the Winton train.
My purpose buoyed me during the journey. When I reached Winton at three o’clock I took the green tram to Gilmore Hill and was again confronted by the grey, immovable, inspiring edifice of my dreams. I was older now and less easily intimidated, yet as I entered the University and approached the Zoology Department I felt my heart beating rapidly. I knew my way about here fairly well. I had longingly scanned the exterior of the department when sitting the Marshall with Gavin. Now I took one swift look at the big empty lecture theatre, then knocked on the door, panelled in ground glass, and marked LABORATORY. A moment later I knocked more loudly. Then, as no one answered, I boldly pushed open the door.
