Hatter's Castle

by Арчибальд Джозеф Кронин

  "Did ye not speak to Mr. Waldie about it, Matt?" she queried, sharing his resentment. "He's a Levenford man and a good man He has a great name for fairness."

  "It's him I mean, the soor!" retorted Matthew bitterly. "He's the very one that tried to drive me like a coolie. Not a gentleman!" he added. "Nothing but a damned, psalm-singing slave driver."

  Mamma's expression grew vaguely troubled and confused.

  "Was that the reason of it, son? It wasna right if he did that to you." She paused, then ventured timidly, "We thought it might be your health?"

  "Health's as sound as a bell," said Matthew sulkily. "It was the blasted job. I liked everything else out there. It was a fine life if I had been left alone. But he won't cook me, the old swine. I'll go abroad again Burma! Or Malay this time. I'll never stay in this rotten place after what I've seen."

  Mrs. Brodie's heart sank. Here was her son barely home, restored only this moment to her arms, and in the next breath he talked of leaving her, of returning, like Alexander, to attempt fresh conquests in these wild foreign lands which terrified her.

  "Yell not be thinkin' of that for a bit, dear," she quavered. "Maybe you'll get a post at home that would suit you better. Then you wouldna need to leave me again."

  He laughed shortly.

  "Do you believe I could live in a hole like this after the kind of life I've had out there ? What can you offer me here to make up for it? Think of it," he cried. "I had the club, dinners at the mess, dances, the races, polo matches, servants to wait on me hand and foot every single thing I could want."

  He dazzled her with his romantic mendacity so that she saw him mixing in exclusive Society, at regimental dinners, rubbing shoulders with officers in their red mess jackets, with ladies in gleaming satin, and, overcome by the inadequacy of anything that she could offer in return, she could only say weakly:

  "I know there's not much of that at home, son. But I'll I'll do my best to attend to you, to make you comfortable here." He made no reply and, at his eloquent silence, she hesitated, dismayed that the conversation should languish in this fashion, as though after two years he had nothing to to tell her, no eagerness to discover how she had fared in his absence.

  "Did ye have a good voyage home?" she ventured at last.

  "Tolerable! Quite tolerable," he admitted. "Weather was good but 1 got very bored towards the end. I left the ship at Marseilles."

  "That was where I sent ye the your money," she remarked haltingly. "Ye got it safe?"

  "Yes, I got it all right," he replied negligently. "Took a devilish age to come through though. Long to come and quick to go."

  "I suppose ye had some grave need of a' that siller, Matt?"

  "That's right," he replied. "I needed it that was enough, wasn't it?"

  "True enough, Matt," she answered. "I knew from your wire you had sore need of it. But it was such a sum of money."

  "Sum of fiddlesticks," he retorted angrily. "You would think it wasn't my own the way you talk. I worked for it, didn't I? I didn't rob ye for it. It was mine to spend as I liked."

  "Spend," she echoed; "ye needed it for something more than jus’ the spendin' of it."

  He burst into a high laugh.

  "Mamma! You'll be the death of me! You know I came back overland. How could a man get along without a little pocket money?" He broke off and regarded her with mock solemnity. "I tell you what I did, Mamma. I went around all the blind beggars in Paris and shared out the cash amongst them. That was the last little fling I had in gay Paree before getting home to this excitin' spot."

  She was totally submerged, and the vision of Paris rose before her, indicating clearly that she had demeaned herself, thrust herself into the clutches of unchristian money-lenders for the sole purpose of sending him with a full purse into the unchaste delights of a wicked city. For what wild and reckless extravagances on his part would she be compelled to pay tribute over the next two years? Despite her burning love she said reproachfully, and at the grave risk of offending him:

  "Oh! Matt, I would rather ye hadna visited such a like place. I'm not saying you did wrong with the money, dear, but that that city must be full of temptations for a young man. I'm afraid it was a mistaken thing to do and I'm sure Agnes would think the same."

  Again he laughed rudely.

  "What Agnes thinks or says means as much to me now as the squeak of an old boot. I know what she would think, all right, and as for her talk, there's too much hymn book about that for my taste. I'll never sit on her sofa again. No! She's not the woman for me, Mamma! I'm finished with her."

  "Matt! Matt!" burst out Mamma. "Don't talk like that. Ye can't mean what you say. Agnes is devoted to you."

  "Devoted!" he retorted. "Let her keep that for them that wants it. What else has she got? Nothing! Why," he continued expansively, "I've met women with more in their little finger than she has in her whole body. Charm! Vivacity! Life!"

  Mrs. Brodie was horrified and, as she gazed at her son appealingly, a sudden thought struck her.

  "Ye havena broken the pledge, have ye, son?" she quavered anxiously.

  He looked at her queerly, asking himself if the old girl thought he was still at her apron strings. Perhaps he had been too unguarded with her.

  "Just a spot of Hollands occasionally," he replied smoothly. "We have to take it out there, you know, for the good of the liver."

  She immediately visioned his liver as a dry, absorbent sponge, driving him to imbibe spirits to saturate it, and feeling the mercy of his return to what was, in a double sense, a more temperate climate, she returned bravely to the charge.

  "Agnes is a good girl, Matt! She would be the salvation of any man. She's waited on you faithfully. It would break her heart if ye gave her up now."

  "All right, Mamma," he replied suavely. "Don't worry! Don't get excited! I'll see her if you like." It suddenly occurred to him that, imbued with his more potent worldly experience, it might be amusing to see Miss Moir again.

  "That's good of you, son. You go and see her. I knew you would do that for me." She was at once relieved, feeling the power of her love over him, knowing that when the young people came together everything would be right again. If he had strayed, Agnes would bring him back to the narrow pathway, and now hastily, for fear he might suddenly take back his promise, she passed on, reclaiming him further.

  "I'm afraid you have had a very gay life out there, Matt. I don't blame ye, my boy, but it would be difficult to keep your mind fixed on the more godly matters of life." His vague allusions had shocked her; she must know more, be at all costs reassured. And she continued interrogatively: "Still, you did read your chapter every day, didn't you, son?"

  He moved restlessly in his chair, glanced at her resentfully.

  "That sounds just like old Waldie, Mamma," he replied impatiently. "You'll be asking me if I walked down Chowringee Road with a text slung round my neck or thumped a Bible out on the maidan in the evenings."

  "Don't, Matt! Don't! I don't like to hear you talk so lightly," trembled Mamma. Far from allaying her suspicions, he was increasing them. "Maybe you'll go to the meeting again with Agnes, now you're back. You mean so much to me now. I want ye to be happy and there's never any happiness apart from goodness in this life, dear."

  "What do you know about happiness?" he retorted. "You always looked miserable enough before."

  "You'll go to the meeting with Agnes, won't ye, Matt?" she persisted. "Try just the once to please me."

  "I'll see," he replied evasively. "I'll go if I want to go but don't sermonise me any more. I don't like it; I'm not used to it and I won't have it."

  "I know that you'll go for my sake," she whispered, placing her worn hand on his knee. "Ye ken that Mary's away now and that I've nobody but you. You were aye my own boy!"

  "I knew Mary was away, all right," he snickered. "Where is she since her little accident?"

  "Hush! Hush! Don't speak like that," she returned hastily. "That's shameful talk!" She paused, shocked, then added
, "She's in London, we think, but her name's forbidden in the house. For goodness sake, don't talk that way before your father."

  He threw off her caressing hand.

  "What do I care for Father," he blustered. "I'm a man now. I can do what I like. I'm not afraid of him any longer."

  "I know that, Matt! You're a fine big man," she wheedled, “but your father's had an awfu' time since ye left. I'll rely on ye not to try his temper too much. Til just get the brunt of it if ye do. Don't tell him any of these things you've told me. He's that touchy nowadays he mightna like it. He's worried business is not what it used to be."

  "It serves him right," he said sulkily, as he rose, feeling that she had, as usual, rubbed him the wrong way. "You would think I cared an anna piece what happened to him. Let him try any tricks on me and it'll be the worse for him." He made his way to the door, adding, "I'm going up for a wash now."

  "That's right, Matt! Your own room's prepared. I've kept it ready for you since the day ye left. Not a soul has been in it and not a hand has touched it but my own. The bed has been well aired for you too. You go and freshen yourself up and Til lay the tea while you're upstairs." She watched him eagerly, awaiting some expression of appreciation for her forethought, but he was still offended at her and went into the hall without a word. She heard him pick up a bag and march upstairs and, straining her ears, listened to every movement he made above. She heard him go into Grandma's room, heard this new, swaggering laugh of his as he greeted the old woman with a boisterous flourish. Despite her confused disquiet, the sounds which he made above comforted her and she became filled with a glowing sense of gratitude at the feeling of his proximity; she had her own son actually in the house beside her after all these weary months of separation. She breathed a prayer of gratitude as she quickly began to make preparations for the evening meal.

  Soon Nessie came bounding in. She had seen the trunks in the hall and rushed up to Manwna in a flutter, crying:

  "Is he home, Mamma? What great big boxes! Where is he? I wonder if he's brought me a present from India. Oh! I want to see Matt! Where is he?" At Mrs. Brodie's word she dashed upstairs, calling out expectantly to Matt, all eagerness to see him. In a few moments, however, she came down slowly, stood again before Mamma,

  this time dejectedly, frowning her little petulant frown, her swelling excitement entirely collapsed.

  "I hardly knew him," she remarked, in her old-fashioned way. "He's not like our Matt a bit. He didn't seem in the least glad to see me."

  "Tuts, Nessie!" exclaimed Mamma. "You're haverin'. He's had a long journey. Give him time to settle down."

  "When I went in he was drinkin' something out a wee leather bottle. He said not to bother him."

  "He would be doing his unpackin', child. Don't be so impatient. He's got other things to think of just now, f orb ye you."

  "When I asked him about my compass he said he had thrown it away he said something I didna understand something about it bein' like your nose."

  Mrs. Brodic coloured deeply, but made no reply. She felt sure that Nessie must be making some mistake, must have misconstrued the remark, yet her heart was heavy at the thought of what might have been implied.

  "I thought he might have brought me a wee string o' coral beads or something like that," persisted Nessie. "Grandma's real upset too; she thought he might have minded her with a keepsake. He seems to have brought nothing for anybody."

  "Don't be selfish, Nessie!" cried Mamma sharply, venting all her pent-up feeling in this rebuke. "Your brother has enough to do with his money without squandering it on you. Not another word out of your head! Away and call Grandma down to make the toast," and, pursing her lips closely together, Mrs. Brodie inclined her head more rigidly to its angle of endurance, set herself resignedly to arrange the tea things upon the table.

  When tea time drew near, Matthew came down to the kitchen, A faint flush tinged the yellow of the skin around his prominent cheek bones, his speech was more profuse than when he had arrived, and, detecting a faint but suggestive odour upon his breath, instantly Mamma knew that he had been fortifying himself for the meeting with his father. Observing him covertly she perceived that, despite

  his vaunting talk, he dreaded this coming encounter; at once her recent humiliation was forgotten and all her instincts rose again to his protection.

  "Sit down by the table, on your chair, son! Don't tire yourself out any more."

  "'S all right, Mamma," he replied. "I'll keep on my pins. Been cramped up travelling these last few days. I like to stretch myself a bit." He moved restlessly about the room, nervously fingering everything within reach, looking repeatedly at the clock, and getting in her way as she passed to and from the table.

  Grandma Brodie, who had entered behind him and now sat by the fireside, called out:

  "Man! You're like a knotless thread. Is that a habit you've picked up off these black men, to wander about like that? It fair makes my head giddy to look at ye." She was still bitter about not having received a present from him.

  Eventually he sat down, joining the others at the table. In spite of all his resistance, the approach of half-past five was cowing him; all the firm resolutions which he had formed for days past to stand up to his father and assert himself as a man of the world began to ooze from him, and his especial determination to maintain a nonchalant assurance at this first interview gradually wilted. Coming home, it had been easy for him to tell himself that he cared nothing for his father now, as he sat in his old chair at the same table and within the same unaltered room, waiting, his ears anxiously alert for that firm heavy footstep, the overwhelming sweep of old associations deluged him and, losing all his acquired dash and hardihood, he became the nervously expectant youth once more. Instinctively he turned to his mother and to his annoyance found her limpid eye regarding him with a sympathetic understanding. He saw that she appreciated his emotions, that his apprehension was apparent to her, and a furious resentment against her stirred him as he exclaimed:

  "What are you looking at now? It's enough to make a man jump when you look at him like that." He stared at her angrily until she lowered her eyes.

  At half-past five the well-remembered click of the door startled him; the sound was exactly to the second, for Brodie, after a prolonged period of irregularity in his meals, had now resumed, with an utter disregard for business, his habits of scrupulous punctuality. Now, as his father came into the room, Matthew gathered himself together, controlled the movements of his hands, prepared himself for a bitter onslaught of words. But Brodie did not speak, did not once

  look at his son. He sat down and began to partake comfortably of his tea, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. Matthew was abashed. In all his visualisations of the meeting, nothing like this had ever occurred and now he had an almost irresistible impulse to cry out, like a schoolboy in disgrace, "Look, Father, I'm here! Take notice of me!"

  Brodie, however, took no notice of him, but went quietly on with his meal, staring straight ahead of him and saying no word, until it seemed as though he had no intention of recognising his son. But at last, after a long time, when the tension in the room had grown almost unbearable, he turned and looked at Matthew. It was a penetrating gaze which saw everything and expressed everything, pierced the outside shell of hard bravado into the soft, shrinking flesh beneath, permeated and illuminated the deep recesses of Matthew's mind, and which said:

  "You've returned at last, then. I know you! Still a weakling and now a failure!"

  Under that glance Matthew seemed to diminish visibly in stature and, although he fought with all the strength in him to meet his father's eyes, he could not. His own gaze wavered, quailed, and to the intense humiliation of his swaggering vanity fell downwards to the ground.

  Brodie smiled grimly, then having, without uttering one word, brow-beaten the other to subjection, he spoke, saying only, with a cutting inflection:

  "You've arrived!" Yet expressed within the short compass of these simple words were a do
zen sarcastic, objectionable meanings. Mamma trembled. The baiting of her son had begun and, though she saw that it was going to be worse than she had feared, she dared not say a word for fear of aggravating her husband's mood. Her eyes fell upon her Matt with a terrified, compassionate sympathy as Brodie continued, "It's a real pleasure to see your braw, handsome face again, although it has turned as yellow as a guinea. Ye were aye a bit pasty-faced, now I think o't, but all the gold ye've been savin' out by there has fair jaundiced ye." He surveyed Matthew critically, warming to his work, finding an outlet in this sardonic onslaught for all his bitter sufferings of the past months.

  "It's worth it, though, no doubt it's worth it," he continued. "You'll have brought us a hantle o' gold from these foreign parts ye've been slavin' in. Ye'll be a rich man now? Are ye rich?" he shot out suddenly.

  Matthew shook his head dismally, and at this silent negation Brodie's eyebrows lifted in a stupendous sneer.

  "What!" he cried. "Ye havena brought back a fortune? That beats a 5 ! I thought from the way you've been jauntin' about Europe and from those grand big boxes in the hall that ye must be worth a mint o' money at least. Then, if ye're not as rich as all that, why did ye get yoursef thrown out o' your position?"

  "I didn't like it," muttered Matthew.

  "Dear! Dear!" remarked Brodie, appearing to address the company at large. "He didna like his position. He maun be a big man to be so hard to please as all that; and the downright honesty of the man to admit that he didna like it." Then, turning to Matthew and hardening his tone, he exclaimed, "Do ye not mean that it didna like you? I've been told here in Levenford that you were soundly kicked out o' it. That they got as sick of the sight o' ye out there as I am already." He paused, then continued suavely, "Still, I may be wronging you. I've no doubt ye've got something splendid in view some marvellous new position. Have ye not?"