His tone demanded a reply and Matthew muttered "No" sulkily, hating his father now with a violence which shook him, feeling it an unbearable humiliation that he, the travelled, the experienced, the sophisticated buck, should be spoken to like this. He swore inwardly that though at present he made no resistance, when he was stronger, more recovered from his journey, he would be revenged for every
insult.
"No new post to go to!" Brodie continued, with assumed affability. "No post and no money! You've just come back to live off your father. Come back like a beaten dog. Ye think it's easier to sponge on me than to work, I suppose."
A tremor ran through Matthew's frame.
"What!" cried Brodie. "Are ye cold ? It's the sudden change from the great heat ye've been called upon to endure when you were workin' yourself into the jaundice outbye. Your dear mother will have to get ye some warm clothes out o' these grand, big cases o' yours. I mind weel she was aye plaisterin' ye with flannels when ye were a boy; And now that you're a braw, full-grown man she mustna let ye get a chill. Na! Na! You're too precious and valuable for that."
He passed up his cup for more tea, remarking, "I havena made such a good tea for a long time! It fair gives me an appetite to see your pookey face back again."
Matthew could endure these taunts no longer, and giving up the pretence of eating he got up, mumbling to Mamma in a broken voice:
"I can't stand this any longer. I don't want any tea. I'll away out!"
"Sit down!" thundered Brodie, pushing the other back with his closed fist. "Sit down, sir. Ye can go when I tell ye to and not before. I'm not done with ye yet." Then, as Matthew subsided into his seat, he continued cuttingly, "Are we not to have the privilege of your society, next? Ye've been away two years and yet you canna bide in the house two minutes. Can ye not see that we're all waiting to hear about these wonderful adventures you’ve had out there ? We're just hanging on the words that are ready to drop from your lips. Come on! Tell us all about them."
"Tell you about what?" answered Matthew sullenly.
"About the grand, excitin' time ye've had outbye. About the rajahs and princes you've been hobnobbin' with about the elephants and the tigers ye've shot tell us quick before ye've time to mak' it up. Yell be a perfect daredevil now, I suppose ? There'll be no end to what ye can do?"
"I can maybe do more than you think," muttered Matthew under his breath.
"Indeed, now!" sneered Brodie, catching at the other's words. "You're going to surprise us, are ye? It's the same story as before, always what you're goin' to do. Never what ye've done, mind ye, but always what's comin' off next! Gad! When I look at ye there with that cringin' look about ye and all these fine, flashy clothes on ye, it makes me wonder what ye will do." His anger rose until it almost choked him, but with an effort he controlled it and continued in his smooth, ironic voice, "Never mind, though! It's such a treat to have ye back that we mustna be too hard on ye. The main thing is that you've come back safe and sound from all the terrible dangers that ye're too modest to speak about. We must have the notice o' your return put in the Advertiser. Then all your braw friends especially your lady friends will ken that you're home. They'll be swarmin' round ye like flies round a honey pot. That's what ye like, isn't it to have the women pettin' ye and runnin' after ye?"
Matthew made no reply and after a moment's pause Brodie continued, drawing back his lips sardonically:
"I suppose next Sunday that mother o' yours will have ye all toshed up and have ye out at the kirk for the general admiration o' her braw congregation. Ye might even squeeze your way into the choir again, if ye were sleekit enough, to let them all hear your bonnie voke lifted up in praise o' the Lord. It would be a real manly thing to sing in the choir again would it not? Answer me, ye dummy. Do ye hear what I'm sayin' to ye?"
"I'll not sing in any choir," retorted Matthew, thinking sullenly that it was like his father to bring up this memory of the past and use it derisively to force him into a ridiculous position.
"The prodigal son refuses to sing," sneered Brodie. "Did ye ever hear the like o't and him that had the lovely, lovely voice. Well, my fine man," he continued with a snarl, "if ye'll not sing for your mother, you'll sing for me. You'll sing to the tune I pipe. Don't think that I can't see through ye. I do! Ye've disgraced yourself and me. Ye hadna the grace to stick to your job like a man ye must come running back home to your soft mother like a beaten cur. But don't think ye can try that with me. Keep yourself in order when I'm about or, by God! it'll be the waur o' ye. Do ye understand what I mean?" He rose from the table abruptly and stood glaring down at his son. "I'm not finished with ye yet. I'll knock the fancy notions out o' your head before I'm done with ye. I warn ye keep
out of my path, sir, or I'll smash ye down as ye stand. Do ye hear me?"
Matthew, emboldened by seeing that his father was about to go and goaded by the very humiliation of his position, raised his head and looked sideways at the other, muttering:
"I'll keep out of your way, all right."
Brodie's eye flamed fiercely in return. He grasped Matthew's shoulder.
"You dog!" he shouted. "Don't look at me like that. Don't dare to do it or I'll break you. You thing that calls yourself by the name o' Brodie. You're a disgrace to me, sir. Yes! A bigger disgrace than your bitch of a sister." Then, as Matthew's eye again fell, he continued, disgust mingling with his anger, "It scunners me to think a man of noble blood could beget a whelp like you. You're the first Brodie to be called a coward, but, by God, you are one, none the less. You're a hangdog coward and I'm ashamed o' ye!" He shook his son like a sack of bones, then suddenly relaxed his hold and allowed him to collapse inertly back into the chair.
"Watch what you're about, my man. I'll have my eye on ye," he cried forbiddingly, as he walked out of the room.
When he had gone Nessie and Grandma continued silently to look at Matthew. But Mamma dropped on her knees beside him and placed her arm around his shoulder,
"Never mind. Matt! Never mind, my own son! I love ye onyway!" she wept.
He thrust down her arm whilst the muscles of his face twitched under the pale skin.
"I'll pay him out yet," he whispered, as he arose. "I'll get even with him. If he's not done with me, I'm not done with him."
"You're not going out now, son," cried Mrs. Brodie fearfully. "Ye'll bide in with me to-night, won't you? I want ye to be beside me."
He shook his head.
"No!" he said, controlling his voice with an effort. "I must go out." He licked his dry lips. "I've got some some old friends to look up. I'm goin' out now. Give me a key."
"Don't go, son," she implored. "Don't let what your father said upset ye. He doesna mean it. He's worried himself. Stay in with your mother now, there's a good lad. Ye've had no tea at all. Stay in and I'll make ye something nice. I love ye, Matt. I love ye so much I would do anything for ye!"
"Give me the key, then," he replied. "That's what I want."
Silently she gave him her own key. He thrust it into his pocket, saying, "I'll be late! Don't sit up for me."
She followed him, wavering in fear, to the door. "Ye'll be careful, Matt, won't ye. Keep out o' mischief for my sake, son. Don't let him drive ye to anything rash. I couldna bear it now that you're safely back to me."
He made no reply but was gone, disappearing rapidly into the darkness beyond. Her ears followed his steps until they died into the quiet of the night, then, with a short, dry sob, she turned and went back to the kitchen. She did not know what was going to happen, but she feared exceedingly.
VIII
NEXT morning Mrs. Brodie woke early, while it was still almost dark, but as she stirred she heard in the distance the first faint, challenging cock crow, betokening, despite the obscurity, the imminent dawn of another day. Although she had waited up late on the night before, she had not seen Matthew come in and now, after a troubled sleep, her first thought was to assure herself that he was
well. As she dressed there was no nee
d for her to be timorously silent for fear of disturbing her husband, since she was now alone in the small room that had been Mary's, yet from long habit her actions were as stealthy and inaudible as the movements of a shadow. The dim light entered the window of the bedroom and vaguely revealed her ghostly, drooping figure as she shivered into her clothes. Her underclothing was so patched, darned and repaired as to become at any time a puzzle to assume and now, in the cold obscurity of the chill February air, her insensitive, roughened fingers fumbled confusedly with the coarse, worn garments. As she dressed thus, by sense of touch, her teeth chattered slightly, giving the sole audible indication of her presence and activity.
When she had covered her body, she rubbed her hands soundlessly together to induce some sign of circulation and slid out of the room in her stocking feet.
Matthew's bedroom, being at the back of the house and facing east, was better illuminated; as she silently entered it she saw, amongst the disordered confusion of bedclothes, the outlines of his regularly breathing form, and she too again breathed regularly with relief. His face looked leaden in the bluish pallor of the morning light; at the corners of his mouth dry sordes had formed, and his dark hair lay tangled upon his brow. Between his lips his tongue seemed to protrude slightly as though it had become too swollen and bulky for its normal confines, and with each respiration it acted as a dull sounding board for the hoarse passage of his breath.
Mamma gently restored the blankets and coverlet to a more orderly comfort, ventured even to stroke the tumbled locks of hair from his eyes but as, at her touch, he stirred uneasily and muttered, she drew back, quickly removing her hand, yet leaving it poised in mid-air above his head as though unconsciously she blessed him in his sleep. Her gaze, too, was like a benediction, maintained for many moments. At length, reluctantly, she slowly withdrew her eyes from his face and turned to go. On her way out of the room she observed that his coat, vest and trousers were strewn in disarray on the floor, that his shirt had been flung into one corner, his collar and tie into another and, as though glad to render him service, she stooped, picked up the scattered garments, folded them neatly upon a chair, looked again at his sleeping face and went quietly away.
Downstairs, everything lay exposed in the stale, repugnant ebb of the low tide of early daybreak; the night, receding like an ocean, had left the furniture disordered, the dead fire dirty with grey, powdered ashes, the pile of unwashed dishes cluttering the scullery sink obscenely, like wreckage upon a desolate shore.
In the usual way, before she stirred herself into jerky activity to lay and light the fire, blacklead the grate, wash the dishes, sweep the floor, boil the porridge and perform the endless necessities of the morning, she would first indulge herself with a cup of strong tea, feeling, in her own words, that it drew her together. The hot, fragrant liquid was like a healing draught, comforting her, warming her, clearing away the mists in her brain and resigning her to the hardships of another day.
This morning, however, although she hurriedly infused and poured out a cup of tea, she did not herself drink it but, having carefully cut and delicately buttered two thin slices of bread, she placed these, together with the tea, appetisingly upon a tray, which she then carried up to Matthew's room.
"Matt," she whispered, touching him lightly upon the shoulder, "here's some tea for ye, son. It'll freshen ye up." Although she bent over him he still snored on, exuding with each breath the reeking odor of stale liquor, which disturbed her deeply, made her, in her agitation, speak more loudly. "Matt! Here's something nice for ye!"
That was what she used to say to him, coaxingly, when he was a boy, and at her words he stirred, half awake, twisted impatiently, and with eyes still closed, muttered:
"Let me sleep, boy. Go to hell. Don't want any chota hazri"
Unhappily, she shook him.
"Matt, dear, this tea will do you good. It's nice for ye in the morning."
At this he opened his eyes and surveyed her from under listless, stuporous lids; within his dark pupils she could see the dull, unhappy comprehension of his position slowly reawaken.
"It's you, is it," he slurred. "What you want wakenin' me like this. Let me sleep."
"But the nice tea, dear! So refreshing. I went straight down and made it myself."
"You're always flinging tea at me! Let me sleep, damn it all!" He hunched round his back at her and was at once asleep again.
Mamma looked miserably from his prone figure to the tray still in her hands, as though unable to comprehend his refusal or the full force of his abuse; then, moved by the thought that he might later reconsider his decision, she laid the tray down on a chair by the bedside, covered the cup warmly with the saucer, inverted the plate protectingly over the fresh bread, and turned disconsolately away.
He was on her mind all morning. The fire was kindled, the dishes were washed, the boots were brushed, the porridge bubbled; she took up her husband's shaving water, then began to lay the table whilst she thought of him, lamenting the words he had used to her, mourning the revealing odour of his breath, yet all the time excusing him in her mind. The shock of coming home, of his father's treatment, had upset him; as for his language, he had, poor boy, been in a rough land and had not been fully awakened when he spoke to her. Whilst she forgave him, the still house began to stir; light and heavy sounds vibrated through the ceiling, doors were opened and shut upstairs, and now, confronted by the fear that some further disturbance irneht arise between Brodie and her son, she listened anxiously for the noise of some sudden outburst, the clash of angry voices, even for the sound of a blow. To her intense relief none came, and, after Nessie had come downstairs and been hurriedly fed and packed off with her satchel of books, Brodie descended and began to breakfast in sombre, solitary silence. She had taken the utmost care that everything should be perfect for him this morning in order to lull him into a more amiable mood; was prepared, even,
to lie blatantly about Matt's coming in late: but although his mood seemed to her unpropitious, her fear proved to be unfounded and he departed without a single reference to his son.
When he had gone she breathed more easily and, her tranquillity further restored by a belated cup of tea, she prepared Grandma's breakfast and took it upstairs shortly before ten o'clock. When she had visited the old woman she tiptoed across the landing and listened with her ear to the door of Matt's room; hearing only the rise and fall of his breathing, she softly opened the door. She saw at once that nothing had been touched and, to her wounded feelings, it seemed as though the undisturbed tray mutely rebuked her, that the plate still investing the untouched bread and butter, and the saucer still uselessly covering the long since cold tea were like tokens of her folly and presumption. He still slept. Confusedly she wondered if his removal from what she considered to be an antipodean hemisphere might not have inverted the hours of his repose, and, in rendering him active at night and drowsy by day, have thus made it a necessity for him to sleep through certain hours of the forenoon. Unconvinced in mind but none the less eased a little in heart, feeling that if not this, perhaps some kindred reason existed for his behaviour, she did not disturb him and again passed quietly out of the room.
Hesitatingly she addressed herself to her household duties in an effort to divert her attention, but as the forenoon drew on, uneasiness gradually possessed her; she comprehended that if their son was still in bed when Brodie returned for dinner, a disastrous scene might take place. Anxiously she pricked her ears for the first evidence of his retarded activity and, towards noon, was rewarded by hearing the faint creak of his bed as it surrendered his body, the sound of his step upon the boards above. Hastily decanting water into a jug from the kettle which stood ready boiling, she rushed upstairs to leave it outside his door.
He was a long time dressing, but about quarter to one he carne slowly downstairs and entered the kitchen. She greeted him fondly.
"I'm that glad you've had a nice long sleep, dear, but you've had no breakfast. Will you have a bite befor
e your dinner? Just say the word; it'll not be the least bother for me to get ye a " It had been on her tongue to offer him the universal panacea a cup of tea but mercifully she recollected his remark of the morning in time and added, "anything that's in the house."
"I never eat much in the morning." He was smartly dressed in a different suit from the day before, in a smooth, fawn hopsack with a puce shirt and natty brown tie to match; as he fingered the bow of his tie with white plastic fingers that trembled slightly, he eyed her doubtfully, judging erroneously from her adulatory manner that she could not fully have realised his discomfiture of the night before.
"I miss the fresh fruit my servants used to bring me," he asserted, feeling that some further explanatory remark might be required of him.
"You'll have some nice apples to-morrow, Matt," she replied eagerly. "Ill put in the order sure. If ye just tell me what you'd like, or the kind of food you've been used to outbye, I'll do my best to get it for ye."
His attitude repudiated the idea of such sour wizened apples as she might obtain for him in this unproductive land; he waved his hand eloquently and retorted shortly:
"I meant mangos, fairy bananas, pineapple. Nothing but the best is any use to me."
"Well, son, we'll do our utmost, anyway," she replied bravely, although somewhat out of countenance at the grandiloquence of his remark. "I've got a nice dinner for ye, now. Then, if ye feel like it afterwards, I was thinking maybe we might have a bit stroll together."
"I'm going out for tiffin" he answered coldly, as though her suggestion was ridiculous and to be seen walking with her decrepit, outlandish figure the last thought his superior mind woyld entertain,
Her face fell and she stammered:
"I I had such nice nourishin' broth for ye, boy, as sweet as anything."
"Give it to the old man," he retorted bitterly. "Give him a bucketful. He can stand it." He paused for a moment, then continued in a more ingratiating tone, "I wonder though, Mamma, if you would lend me a pound or two for to-day. It's such a confounded nuisance, but my bank drafts have not come through from Calcutta yet." He frowned at the annoyance of it all. "It's causing me no end of inconvenience. Here am I stuck up for a little ready cash all through their beastly delay. Lend me a fiver and you shall have it next week."
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