"I'll have to see you sometimes; it would be too hard to do without that," she murmured, and added ingenuously, "Every Tuesday I go to the Library to change Mamma's book, and sometimes my own."
"Didn't I find that out for myself, you spalpeen!" smiled Denis. "Sure enough I'll know all about your mother's taste in literature before I'm finished. And don't I know the Library! I'll be there, you may be sure. But can you not give me a photo of your own dear self to keep me going, in between times?"
She hung her head a little, conscious of her own deficiencies and the oddity of her up-bringing, as she replied, "I haven't got one. Father didn't approve of it."
"What! Your parents are behind the times, my girl. We'll have to waken them up. To think that you've never been taken is a shame; but never mind, I'll have your sweet face before the camera the moment we're married. How do you like this?" he enquired, as he produced a misty brown photograph of a jaunty young man stand-
ing with cheerful fortitude, mingled with an inappropriate air of hilarity, amongst what appeared to be an accumulation of miniature tombstones.
"Denis Foyle at the Giants' Causeway last year," he explained. "That old woman that sells shells there, you know, the big curly ones that sing in your ear, told my fortune that day. She said I was going to be the lucky, lucky gossoon, and indeed she must have known I was going to meet you."
"Can I have this, Denis?" she asked shyly. "I think it's lovely."
"It's for you and no other, provided you wear it next your heart."
"I must wear it where nobody sees it," she answered innocently.
"That'll suit me," he replied, and smiled teasingly at the sudden rush of colour and understanding which flooded her modest brow. But immediately he amended honourably:
"Don't mind me, Mary. As the Irishman said, Tm always puttin' me foot in it with me clumsy tongue."
They both laughed, but as she dissolved in gaiety, feeling that she could have listened to his banter for ever, she saw the purpose behind it and loved him for the attempt to hearten her against their separation. His courage made her valiant, his frank but audacious attitude towards life stimulated her as a clear cold wind might arouse a prisoner after a long incarceration in stagnant air. All this rushed upon her as she said involuntarily, simply:
"You make me glad and free, Denis. I can breathe when I'm with you. I did not know the meaning of love until I met you. I had never thought of it did nor understand but now I know that, always, for me, love is to be with you, to breathe with the same breath as you."
She broke off abruptly, covered with confusion, at her boldness in speaking to him like this. A faint recollection of her previous existence, of her life apart from him, dawned upon her, and, as her eye fell upon the heap of parcels beside her, she remembered Mamma who would be wondering what had become of her; she thought of her already appalling lateness, of the necessity for prudence and caution, and starting up abruptly, she said, with a short sigh:
"I'll really need to go now, Denis."
Her words burdened him suddenly with the imminence of her departure, but he did not plead with her to stay, and he stood up, like a man, at once, saying:
"I don't want you to go, dear, and I know you don't want to go either, but we've got the future straightened out better now. We've only got to love each other and wait."
They were still alone. Bertorelli, in vanishing irrevocably, had, monster though he might be, betrayed none the less a human understanding and a tactful appreciation of their situation which might weigh in the balance however lightly against the atrocities that had been imputed to him. They kissed quickly, when her lips swept his like the brush of a butterfly's wing. At the door they shared one last look, a silent communion of all their secret understanding, confidence and love, which passed between them like a sacred talisman before she turned and left him.
Her reticule, now a featherweight, her steps rapid, fluent to her dancing heart, her head in the air, her curls straying and sailing buoyantly behind her, she was home before the rapture of her thoughts had abated. As she swept into the kitchen Mrs. Brodie looked at her questioningly from around the inclination of her nose.
"What kept you, girl ? You took a long time to get that pickle of messages. Did you meet any one you knew? Was anybody speirin' ‘bout Matt?"
Mary almost giggled in Mamma's face. For a ridiculous instant she considered the effect upon her mother were she to tell her she had just eaten an ambrosial sweetmeat, served by an outrageous ruffian, who tortured bambinos with macaroni, in a forbidden haunt of iniquity, and in company with a young man who had virtually proposed a honeymoon in Paris. It was well that she refrained, for had she yielded to this absurdity in the exhilaration of her spirits Mrs. Brodie, if she had not doubted her daughter's sanity, would certainly have swooned immediately.
"The air must have done you good, anyway," continued Mamma, somewhat suspiciously. "You've got quite a colour."
Credulous as she was, the maternal instinct that was in her doubted such immediate efficacy in the usually impotent Levenford air.
"Yes! I feel much better now," replied Mary truthfully, with twitching lips and sparkling eyes.
"Grandma was saying something when you were out, about a letter she had seen you reading," persisted Mrs. Brodie, trailing after her nebulous idea. "I hope you're not up to any mischief your father would disapprove of. Don't set yourself up against him, Mary. Them that has tried it have aye regretted it. There's only one finish to that!"
She sighed reminiscently, and added, "He finds out eventually, and he'll be at you in the end, ay, and make it a bitter, bitter end."
Mary shook off her mantle with a shrug of her shoulders. In the space of the last hour her slim figure had regained its youthful and imperious vitality. She stood erect, filled with a fierce and confident joy.
"Mamma," she said gaily, "don't worry about me. My motto is now, 'Mary never knows defeat!'"
Mrs. Brodie shook her pathetically inclined head sadly, and, filled with a vague, uncomprehending foreboding, gathered up the messages; with a more melancholy inclination of her head, like an incarnate presage of misfortune and ill-omen, she passed slowly out of the room.
VI
"NESSIE! Mary!" shrilled Mrs. Brodie, in a fine frenzy of service, as she skittled about, helping Brodie to dress, "come and put on your father's gaiters."
It was the morning of Saturday the twenty-first of August, and one of the red-letter days in James Brodie's calendar. In a large-patterned, black-and-white check, knickerbocker suit he sat, his face like a full red sun, trying to struggle into his gaiters, which had not been used since a year that day, when, though he now chose to forget the fact, he had experienced the same difficulty in assuming them.
"What kind o witless trick was it to put a man's gaiters away damp?" he girned at his wife. "They'll not meet on me now. Desh it all, can't a man keep a thing decent in this house? These have shrunk."
Inevitably, when anything went wrong, the onus was thrust upon his wife's narrow shoulders.
"A man can't leave a thing about, but some senseless creature wastes it for him. How am I to go to the Show without gaiters? Ye'll be askin' me to go without my collar and tie next."
"But, Father," meekly replied Mrs. Brodie, "I think you must be wearing a shade larger boot this year. This new pair I ordered for you myself were something broader than the others."
"Nonsense!" he grunted. "You'll be saying that my feet have got bigger next."
Here Nessie burst into the room like a young foal, followed more slowly by Mary.
"Quick, girls," urged Mamma, "do up your father's gaiters for him. Look sharp now, he's behind time!" The young handmaidens launched themselves upon their knees, applying their nimble fingers with dexterity and strength to the task before them, whilst Brodie lay back, simmering, darting black glances at the apologetic figure of his wife. The catastrophe was the more unfortunate for Mrs. Brodie as, upon this day in particular, he might reasonably be relied upon t
o be in a good temper, and the thought of spoiling for herself the rare chance of a day without a rage, of having activated the passive volcano, was more humiliating to her than the actual insults of the moment.
It was the day of the Levenford Cattle Show, an outstanding agricultural event, which drew the pedigree of the county as regards both its stock and its human inhabitants. Brodie loved the show and made his attendance of it an unfailing annual institution. He loved the sleek cattle with their swollen udders, the full-muscled Clydesdale stallions, the high-stepping cobs in the ring, the fat-flanked porkers and thick, close-knit sheep, and he prided himself on his judgment of a best.
"I, a hatter!" he seemed to say, as he stood close to the judges, one hand gripping his famous ash plant, the other deep in his front pocket, "I'm more fitted for the job than them."
He was in his element, in the forefront of the judging, prominent amongst the best of them. Then, sauntering around the marquees with his hat well back on his head, he would slice with his penknife a sliver from this cheese and a sliver from that, tasting them critically; savour the different butters, the cream, the buttermilk; rakishly chaff the sonsiest of the dairymaids, who stood behind their exhibits.
That part of him which lay close to the soil flourished on days like these. From his mother's family, the Lumsdens, who had for generations farmed in the Barony of Winton, he drew that deeply rooted inheritance of the love of the land, its produce and beasts. His body craved the hardy exercise of the farm, for in his youth he had driven his team through the loam of Winton and had known also the thrill of the feel of the gun butt against his cheek. From his father, James Brodie, that bitter, morose, implacable man, of whom he was the sole child, he had derived a pride which nourished itself upon a desire to possess the land. Only the vicissitudes following his impoverished father's death, when the latter had killed himself by falling from his horse, had driven him, as a young man, into the abomination of trade.
But another, and a stronger reason existed which impelled him tothe Show, namely, the craving to associate on equal terms with the gentry of the county and the borough. Conducting himself there not obsequiously, but rather with a trace of arrogance, nevertheless a nod of recognition, a word of greeting, or a few moments' conversation with a notability of rank or distinction gratified him inwardly and intoxicated him with delight.
"I've done it, Father. I've finished first!" cried Nessie triumphantly. With her small fingers she had succeeded in buttoning up one of the refractory spats.
"Come along, Mary," implored Mrs. Brodie. "You're such a slow-coach. Your father hasn't got all day to wait."
"Let her take her time," said Brodie sardonically. "I might as well be late, now I'm about it. In fact, you might like to keep me here all day between you."
"She is never as quick at a thing as Nessie," sighed Mamma.
"That's it," at last said Mary, standing up with benumbed fingers.
Her father eyed her critically.
"You know you're getting lazy, that's what's wrong with you, my girl. Good sakcs, now I look at you you're getting as big as the side of a house. You should eat less and work more."
He stood up, contemplating himself in the mirror, whilst Mamma led the girls from the room, and, as his reflection gazed back at him from the glass with gradually increasing approval, his self-complacency was eventually restored. His thick muscular legs were set off to perfection by the rough knickerbockers, and under the fleecy homespun stockings his calves swelled nobly; his shoulders were as broad and straight as a wrestler's; not an ounce of fat marred his body; his skin was as unblemished as a child's. He was the perfect figure of a country gentleman and, as the fact which he already knew was borne in upon him more forcibly by the glamour of his image, he twirled his moustache and smoothed his chin with satisfied vanity.
At this point the door of his room slowly opened and Grandma Brodie put her head around the door jamb insinuatingly, espying how his mood lay before she spoke.
"Can I have a look at you before you go, James?" she wheedled, after a cautious pause. This day produced upon her decaying sensibility an emotion akin to excitement, sponsored by the almost forgotten memories of her youth which rushed incoherently in upon her. "You look real grand. Ye're the fine figure o' a man," she told her son. "Losh! But I wish I was going with ye."
"You're too old in the tooth for me to show you, Mother," jibed Brodie. "although ye might get a ribbon for toughness."
Her dull ears prevented her from hearing properly, her distant thoughts from understanding the full import of his remark. "Ay, I'm gettin' a trifle old to go," she lamented, "but I've seen the day I would have been among the foremost there at the milkin', and the showin', and the jiggin' after, and then the tig-taggin' on the lang drive hame in the cool o' the night air. It a' comes back to me." Her dull eyes glistened. "What grand scones and bannocks we used to have there, though I paid but little heed to them in they days." She sighed regretfully at her lost opportunities.
"Tuts, woman, can ye not keep you mind off your meat? You would think you were starved to hear you," Brodie chided her.
"No! No! James. I'm very grateful for all that you give me, and that's plenty. But maybe to-day if you were to see a nice, wee bit Cheddar cheese, no too dear there's a wheen o' bargains to be had at the end o' the day perhaps you might pick it up for me." She leered at him ingratiatingly.
Brodie burst into loud laughter. "Gad! You'll be the death of me, woman. Your god's in your belly. I expect to be seeing Sir John Latta to-day. Do you want me to be carrying pokes and parcels when I meet him," he shouted uproariously at her as he strode out of the room.
His mother hastened to the window of her room to see him swagger out of the house. She would sit there most of the day, straining her vision upon any passing stock; feasting her eyes upon the coloured cards the red firsts, the blue seconds, the green thirds and the indifferent yellows, which meant only highly commended; revelling in the press and bustle of the country throng; trying, but always unsuccessfully, to catch a glimpse of some old, familiar face amongst the passing crowd. There was always the chance too, ever present in her mind its very improbability whetting her fancy provokingly that her son might bring her back some small gift. She had asked for this, at any rate, and could do no more, she reflected complacently, as she settled herself eagerly in her chair to begin her pleasant vigil.
Downstairs on his way out, Brodie turned to Mary. "You better go down to the business and remind that ass Perry I'll not be in all day." The shop was known in the Brodie household only under the term of "the business"; the former term would have been considered paltry, even degrading. "He mightna remember that there's no holiday for him to-day. He's quite capable of forgetting his head, that one is. And run all the way, my lassie; it'll take some of the beef off you."
To Mamma he said, "I'll be back when you see me!" This was his valediction on such rare occasions as he chose to bid his wife farewell, but it was, in reality, a mark of unusual magnanimity, and Mamma accepted it with an appropriate gratitude.
"I hope you'll enjoy yourself, James," she said timidly, suiting her reply to his mood and the memorable nature of the event. Only on such infrequent and remarkable occasions did she dare use his baptismal name, but when they arose she ventured it in her reply, feeling that it consolidated what small and unsubstantial position she held in his esteem.
She did not dare to consider the attraction which the Show might offer to her; it was deemed sufficient gratification for her to admire the retreating, well-set-up figure of her husband, as he went off by himself upon any excursion of pleasure, and the preposterous idea that she might accompany him never entered her head. She had no clothes, she was required at home, her strength was insufficient to support the hardships of a day in the fresh air any one of these, or of a dozen further reasons, was, by her timid logic, sufficient to debar her from going. "I hope it'll keep fine for him," she murmured as, well pleased, she went back to wash the breakfast dishes, whilst N
essie waved good-bye to her father's back from the parlour window.
When the door had closed behind the master of the house Mary went slowly upstairs to her room, sat down on the edge of her bed and looked out of the window. She did not, in the clear brightness of the morning, see the three tall birch trees, their smooth boles shining with a lustrous sheen, standing upright like silver masts; she did not hear the whispered rustle of the leaves, flickering dark and light as they turned in the faint breeze. Engrossed within herself, she sat thinking of that remark which her father had made, turning it over in her mind uneasily, unhappily. "Mary, you're getting as big as a house," he had sneered, meaning, she fully realised, that she
was developing, filling out, as befitted her age and rapid growth.
Nevertheless, that single utterance, like a sudden shaft of light darting in, then out, of the darkness of her ignorance, had suddenly originated in her mind a profound disquiet.
Her mother, like a human ostrich, burying her head nervously at the slightest suggestion of the subject when it appeared on the domestic horizon, had not enlightened her on even the most elementary aspects of sex, and to any direct, ingenuous question which her daughter might address to her in this connection, Mamma would reply, in horror, "Hush at once, Mary! It's not a nice thing to talk
about. Good girls don't think of such things. That was a shameful thing to ask." Her acquaintance with other girls had been always so slight that she had never achieved information on this matter through the light, tittering remarks in which even the most simpering, pink and white maidens of the town occasionally indulged. Stray fragments of such conversations which she might have overheard
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