by A. J. Cronin
‘You still think of him, I see.’
She looked up in some slight dismay, divining that he misjudged the full tendency of her emotion, which was merely a retrospective sadness, but, feeling that she could not be disloyal to the memory of Denis, she did not speak.
‘I would like to do something for you, Mary,’ he resumed quietly, ‘something which would make you happy. I have some influence. Will you allow me to find some post which is suited to you, and to your worth, before I go away from here.’
She started at his words, bereft suddenly of her warm feeling of comfort, and stammered:
‘Are you going away, then?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’m off within six months. I’m taking up a special branch of work in Edinburgh. I have the chance to get on the staff there – something bigger than the Cottage Hospital. It’s a great opportunity for me.’
She saw herself alone, without his strong resolute support, vainly endeavouring to protect Nessie from her father, interposing her own insignificant resolution between Brodie’s drunken unreason and her sister’s weakness, and in a flash she comprehended how much she had built on the friendship of this man before her, understood how great was her regard for him.
‘It’s splendid for you to have got on so well,’ she whispered. ‘But it’s only what you deserve. I know you’ll do as well in Edinburgh as you’ve done here. I don’t need to wish you success.’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but I shall like it Edinburgh is the city to live in – grey yet beautiful. Take Princes Street in the autumn with the leaves crackling in the gardens, and the Castle russet against the sky, and the blue smoke drifting across Arthur’s Seat, and the breeze tingling, as clean and crisp as fine wine. No one could help but love it.’ He glowed at the thought of it and continued: ‘It’s my native place of course – you must forgive my pride. – Still, everything is bigger there – finer and cleaner, like the air.’
She followed his words breathlessly, seeing vividly the picture that he drew for her, but filling it always with his own figure, so that it was not only Princes Street which she saw but Renwick, striding along its grey surface, against the mellow background of the Castle Gardens.
‘It sounds beautiful. I have never been there but I can picture it all,’ she murmured, meaning actually that she could picture him there.
‘Let me find something for you to do before I go away,’ he persisted; ‘something to take you out of that house.’
She could feel that he was anxious for her to accept his offer, but she thrust the enticing prospect away from her, saying:
‘I came back of my own choice to look after Nessie! I couldn’t leave her now. It’s been a terrible life for her for the last few months and if I went away again anything might happen to her.’
He perceived then that she was fixed upon remaining and immediately a profound concern for her future disturbed him, as if he saw her already immolated on the altar of her own unselfishness, a sacrifice, despite his intervention, to the outrageous pride of her father. What purpose had it served for him to save her, to have helped her to escape from death, were she to drift back once again into the same environment, the same danger in a more deadly form? He was affected even to the point of marvelling at his own emotion, but quickly masking his feelings he exclaimed, cheerfully:
‘I’ll do my best for Nessie! I’ll see Gibson to-day or to-morrow. Everything that I can do shall be done. Don’t worry too much about her. Take more heed of yourself.’
She felt when he said these words that the purport of her visit had been achieved and, diffident of occupying his time longer, she at once arose from her chair and prepared to go. He, too, got up but made no movement to the door, remaining silent, watching her face which, as she stood erect, was touched lightly by an errant beam of the pale March sunshine, so pale in the interior of the room, that it gleamed upon her skin like moonlight. Moved as another man had been moved by her in moonlight he caught his breath at the sight of her beauty, luminous in this light, showing against the foil of her indifferent and inelegant garments, and in his imagination he clothed her in satin of a faint lavender, visioned her under the silver radiance of a soft Southern moon in a garden in Florence or upon a terrace in Naples. As she poised her small foot in its rough shoe courageously towards her departure, he wished strangely to detain her, but found no words to utter.
‘Good-bye,’ he heard her say, softly. ‘Thank you for what you have done for me, now, and before.’
‘Good-bye,’ he said mechanically, following her into the hall, realising that she was going. He opened the door for her, saw her move down the steps and with the sudden sense of his deprivation he responded to an appeal within him and called out hurriedly, awkwardly, like a schoolboy: ‘ You’ll come and see me again soon, won’t you?’ Then ashamed of his own clumsiness he came down the steps to her and proffered an explanation of his remark, exclaiming: ‘ When I’ve seen Gibson I’ll want you to know what the outcome is to be.’
Again she looked at him gratefully and, exclaiming: ‘ I’ll come next week,’ entered the road and walked rapidly away.
As he turned and slowly re-entered his own house he became gradually amazed at his own recent action, at his sudden outspoken request that she should revisit him shortly; but although, at first, he somewhat ashamedly attributed this to the poignant appeal of her beauty in the light that had encircled her in his room, later he more honestly admitted to himself that this was not the sole reason of his conduct Mary Brodie had always been for him a strangely beautiful figure, a noble, courageous spirit, who had woven her life through his existence in the town with a short and tragic thread. From the moment when he had first seen her unconscious, in the sad predicament of her condition, and against the gross contamination of her surroundings, like a lily uprooted and thrown on the dung hill, he had been drawn to her in her helplessness and immaturity; later he had been fired by her patience and uncomplaining fortitude during her long period of illness and in the suffering visited upon her by the death of her child; he had seen too, and clearly, that, though she had been possessed by another, she was pure, chaste as that light which had recently encompassed her. His admiration and interest had been aroused and he had promised himself that he would assist her to rebuild her life, but she had run from the town the moment her strength had permitted, fluttering away from the net of opprobrium which she must have felt around her. During the years of her absence he had, from time to time, thought of her; often the memory of her figure, thin, white, fragile, had risen before him with a strange insistent appeal, as if to tell him that the thread of her life would return to weave itself once more into the texture of his existence. He sat down at his desk, considering her deeply, praying that there would be no further tragedy in this return of Mary Brodie to the house of tribulation from which she had been so grievously outcast. After a few moments his thoughts moved into another channel, and from a pigeon-hole in his desk he drew out an old letter, the writing of which, now slightly faded after four years’ preservation, sloped in rounded characters across the single page. He read it once more, this, her only letter to him, in which she had sent him some money, the pathetic accumulation, no doubt, of her meagre wages, in an attempt to recompense him in some degree for his service to her. With the letter clasped in the fine tapering fingers of his hand he remained staring in front of him, seeing her working as she had now told him she worked, upon her knees, scrubbing, washing, scouring, performing the menial duties of her occupation – working like a servant.
At length he sighed, shook himself, restored the letter to the desk, and observing that he had a full hour before his afternoon consultations were due to begin, determined to visit the Rector of the Academy at once, to enquire discreetly into the condition of Nessie Brodie. Accordingly, having instructed his housekeeper that he would return before four o’clock he left the house and walked slowly towards the school, wrapped in a strange and sober meditation.
It was but a sh
ort way to the Academy, that old foundation of the Borough which lay within the town, backing a little from Church Street to exhibit the better the severe, yet proportioned architecture of its weathered front, and now, in the paved space that lay before it, displaying proudly the two high-wheeled Russian guns captured at Balaclava by Maurice Latta’s company of the Winton Yeomanry. But Renwick, when he shortly reached the building, passed inside without seeing its frontage or its guns; mounting the shallow, well-worn stone stairs he advanced along the passage, tapped with a preoccupied manner at the head master’s door and, as he was bidden, entered.
Gibson, a youngish-looking man for his position, whose face was not yet completely set into the scholastic mould, was seated at his littered desk in the middle of the small book-lined study, and he did not at once look up, but, an engrossed yet unpedantic figure in his smooth suit of dark brown – a colour he habitually affected – continued to observe a document that lay in front of him. Renwick, a faint smile finally twisting his grave face at the other’s preoccupation, remarked whimsically, after a moment:
‘Still the same earnest student, Gibson,’ and as the other looked up with a start, continued, ‘it takes me back again to the old days to see you grinding at it like that’
Gibson, whose eye had brightened at the sight of Renwick, lay back in his chair and, motioning the other to sit down, remarked easily:
‘I had no idea it was you, Renwick. I imagined rather one of my inky brigade trembling in the presence, awaiting a just chastisement It does the little beggars good to keep them in awe of the imperial dignity.’
A smile passed between them that was almost as spontaneous as a grin of their schooldays, and Renwick murmured:
‘You’re the very pattern of old Bulldog Morrison. I must tell him when I get back to Edinburgh. He’d appreciate the compliment’
‘The humour of it, you mean,’ cried Gibson, surveying the past with a distant eye. ‘ Gad! how I wish I were going back to the old place like you! You’re a lucky dog.’ Then fixing his glance on the other suddenly, he remarked: ‘You haven’t come to say goodbye, already?’
‘No! No! man,’ returned Renwick lightly. ‘I’m not off for six months. I’m not leaving you in the wilderness yet awhile.’ Then his face changed and he contemplated the floor for a moment before raising his gaze to Gibson and resuming seriously: ‘My errand is a peculiar one, I want you to treat it in confidence! You’re an old friend, yet it is hard for me to explain what I’m about.’ He again paused, and continued with some difficulty: ‘ You have a child at school here that I am interested in – even anxious about. It is Nessie Brodie. I’m indirectly concerned about her health and her future. Mind you, Gibson, I haven’t the least right to come here like this. I’m well aware of that, but you’re not like a board of governors. I want your opinion and, if necessary, your help.’
Gibson looked at the other intently, then away again, but he made no enquiry as to Renwick’s motive and instead replied, slowly:
‘Nessie Brodie! she’s a clever child. Yes! very intelligent, but with a curious turn of her mind. Her memory is marvellous, Renwick; you could read her a whole page of Milton, and she would repeat it almost word for word; her perception, too, is acute, but her reasoning, the deeper powers of thought, are not proportionate.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s what I call a smart pupil, quick as a needle, but with, I’m afraid, some pervading shallowness in her intellect.’
‘She’s going up for the Latta,’ persisted Renwick. ‘ Is she fit for it – will she win it?’
‘She may win it,’ replied Gibson with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘but to what purpose! And indeed I can’t say if she will do so. The matter is not in our hands. The standards of the University are not school standards. Her vocation is teaching – after a Normal education.’
‘Can’t you keep her back, then?’ remarked Renwick, with some slight eagerness. ‘I have information that her health is suffering from the strain of this preparation.’
‘It’s impossible,’ returned the other. ‘As I’ve just said, the matter is out of our hands. It is a scholarship open to the Borough, set by the University authorities, and everyone may enter who is eligible. To be frank, I did drop a hint to her – her esteemed parent,’ he frowned here momentarily, ‘but it was useless. He’s set on it grimly. And indeed she has such an excellent chance of winning that it sounds like pure folly to wish her to stand down. And yet –’
‘What?’ demanded Renwick.
In reply the other took the sheet of paper from his desk and, examining it for a moment, handed it to his friend, saying slowly:
‘It is a strange coincidence, but I was studying this when you came in. What do you make of it?’
Renwick took the paper and, perceiving that it was a translation of Latin prose – Cicero, probably, he imagined – written in a smooth yet unformed hand, he began to read the free and ingenuously worded rendering, when suddenly his eye was arrested. Interpolated between two sentences of the interesting and artless interpretation lay the words, written in the doric, and in a cramped and almost distorted hand: ‘Stick in, Nessie! What’s worth doing is worth doing well. Ye maun win the Latta or I’ll know the reason why’; then, the easy flow of the translation continued undisturbed. Renwick looked up at the other in astonishment.
‘Sent along by her form master this morning,’ explained gibson, ‘from Nessie Brodie’s exercise book.’
‘Was this done at home or in school?’ enquired the doctor sharply.
‘In school! She must have written these words, unconsciously, of course, but none the less written them with her own hand. What does it mean? – some reversion to these famous Scottish ancestors we used to hear so much about from the old man. Or is it dual personality? – you know more about that sort of thing than I do.’
‘Dual personality be hanged!’ retorted Renwick in some consternation. ‘This is a pure lapse of mind, a manifestation of nervous overstrain, induced, I’m positive from the nature of these words, by some strong force that has been driven into her. Don’t you see, man. She became fatigued in the middle of this exercise, her attention wavered and instantly that something beneath the surface of her mind leaped up – tormenting her – forcing her on, so that, indeed, before she resumed coherently, she had unconsciously written this passage.’ He shook his head. ‘It reveals only too clearly, I’m afraid, what she fears!’
‘We don’t work her too hard here,’ expostulated Gibson; ‘she’s spared in many ways!’
‘I know! I know,’ replied Renwick. ‘The mischief is being done outside. It’s that madman of a father she has got. What are we to do about it? You say you’ve spoken to him and I’m like a red rag to a bull where he’s concerned. It’s difficult,’ then, as he laid the paper again on Gibson’s desk he added: ‘This really alarms me. It’s a symptom that I’ve seen before to presage a thundering bad breakdown. I don’t like it a bit.’
‘You surprise me,’ said the head master after a pause, during which he regarded his friend shrewdly. ‘Are you sure you’re not taking an extreme view from – from prejudice perhaps?’ then, as the other silently shook his head, he continued tentatively: ‘ Would you like to see the child? – only for a moment of course – otherwise we’ll alarm her.’
The doctor considered for a moment, then replied, decisively:
‘Indeed I would! I would like to see for myself. It’s good of you to suggest it.’
‘I’ll fetch her along, then,’ said Gibson, getting to his feet and adding, as he went to the door, ‘I know you’ll not scare her! I want nothing of this slip in her exercise mentioned on any account’
Renwick agreed silently with a motion of his head, and when the other had gone out of the room remained motionless, his brow slightly bent, his eye clouded and fixed upon the writing across the square of paper, as though the strange, incoherent, intruding words had shaped themselves before his gaze into a vision which startled and distressed him. He was aroused by the return of the head
master, now accompanied by Nessie, whom Renwick had never seen before, and now, as he observed her thin, drooping body, her mild placating eye, her white, fragile neck, the irresolution of her mouth and chin, he was not surprised that she desired to lean clingingly on Mary, nor that Mary on her part should desire to protect her.
‘This is one of our prize pupils,’ said Gibson diplomatically, turning towards Renwick as he resumed his chair. ‘We show her off to all the visitors. She has the best memory in the upper school. Is that not so, Nessie?’ he added, touching her lightly with his gaze.
Nessie flushed proudly, filled in her small spirit by a profound gratification and a deep awe, amongst which mingled, also, some confusion as to the obscure purpose which had compelled her suddenly before the combined majesty of Dr Renwick and the Rector. She was, however, silent, and remained with lowered eyes, her thin legs shaking a little in her long well-worn boots and coarse woollen stockings – not from fear, but from the mere agitation of their imposing presence – knowing that the question had been rhetorical. Not for her to speak unless directly addressed!
‘You’re fond of your work?’ enquired Renwick kindly.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Nessie timidly, raising her eyes to his like a young and startled doe.
‘Does it never tire you?’ he continued mildly, afraid to shape his question in a more definite form.
She looked at the Rector for permission to speak, and reassured by his look, replied:
‘No, sir! not much! I get a headache, sometimes.’ She announced this fact diffidently as though it might be a presumption on her part to have a headache, but she continued with more assurance: ‘My father took me to Dr Lawrie about six months ago and he said it was nothing.’ She even added, naïvely: ‘He said I had a good head on me.’
