Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  Again Mary surveyed her sister with some uneasiness, realising how unlike her usual clinging, artless, mildness was this petulant assumption of assurance, but although she felt troubled in her mind, she decided that this must be the result simply of a natural anxiety at the nearness of the examination and she said, gently:

  ‘I’ll go and let you get on then, dear! But please don’t tire yourself out too much. I’m anxious for you.’ Then as she picked up the empty tumbler and retreated to the door she said, tentatively: ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like to come out for a few minutes? I’m going out for my walk now.’

  ‘No,’ cried Nessie with a vehement shake of her head, ‘ I’ll not bother about it. I’ll get on well and I’ll be as right as the mail.’ She smiled at Mary with a curious complacency – she who a moment ago had been shaken by bitter sobs and whose invariable attitude towards her sister was one of utter dependency. ‘Away and have your walk, woman!’ she added. ‘I want to have a quiet think to myself.’

  ‘About the Euclid?’ said Mary doubtfully, from the door.

  ‘Ay! about the Euclid,’ cried Nessie, with a short laugh. ‘Away and don’t bother me.’

  Mary shut the parlour door and, as the kitchen was closed to her by its consecration to Brodie’s sleep, went slowly up to her room, still bearing in her hand the tumbler which had contained Nessie’s milk. She gazed at this empty glass, trying to comfort herself by the recollection of all the care which she had lately bestowed upon her sister, of the additional nourishment which she had obtained for her and induced her to take; but in spite of the reassuring nature of her thoughts she sighed, unable to dismiss from her mind the sudden outburst which had recently occurred, and in which she thought she detected still some evidence of that lack of balance which, since her return, had troubled her in Nessie. While she put on her hat and gloves to take her customary walk, she determined to maintain a closer and more careful observation upon her sister during the climax of Nessie’s endeavours, which would be manifested during the coming week.

  Outside, the air was warm and still, and the street deserted to that quietude which induced her on Sundays to take her stroll invariably in the afternoon, rather than in the evening, when the same road was crowded by promenading couples. At this time, too, she felt safe in the knowledge that, with Brodie asleep, Nessie would be immune from his hectoring attention for an hour or two, and this assurance gave her a sense of freedom which now she rarely experienced. She proceeded to the head of the road and chose, to-day, the left-hand turn, which led directly towards the distant Winton Hills that stood away from her, rendered more remote by the shimmering haze of heat which almost veiled them. This haze lay also upon the roadway, rising in faint vibrations of the air like a mirage, and giving the illusion of pools of water lying wetly at a distance upon the path in front of her. But there was no wetness, everything was dry with dust which soon covered her shoes with a white, impalpable powder and stirred in little puffs about her skirt with every step she took. The day was delicious, the country lying in a basking warmth, but it was not the hour for walking, and soon the small, front curl which defied always the severity of her brush, lay wisping damply against the whiteness of her brow; her paces dwindled, and she felt tired. With her tiredness came a returning consciousness of Nessie’s strange manner to her earlier in the afternoon, the heat all at once became overpowering, and she had made up her mind to turn back towards home when, suddenly, she observed a dogcart coming rapidly in her direction along the road. Immediately, she perceived the nature of the vehicle and the identity of the driver and, in a quick flutter of confusion, she made to turn and retreat, halted, stood indecisively for a moment, looking this way and that as though seeking some place of concealment, then, realising perhaps the futility of flight, she lowered her head and walked rapidly to meet it. As she progressed, she made every effort to compose her features, hoping that she would pass without being observed, but, to her growing agitation, though she observed nothing, she heard the crunching of the advancing wheels gradually subside and come to a halt beside her, heard Renwick’s voice saying:

  ‘Good day to you – Miss Brodie!’

  She felt it impossible for her to look up to disclose, in her face, the revealing turmoil of her feelings as, thinking unhappily that she was now Miss Brodie to him and not Miss Mary, or even Mary, she stammered out an acknowledgment of his greeting.

  ‘It’s a wonderful day,’ he exclaimed cheerily. ‘Quite perfect; but it’s too hot to be on foot. It must be like crossing the Sahara to walk to-day.’

  Had he, she asked herself, observed her hot face and the dust upon her boots which must give her the appearance of some dishevelled and disreputable tramp!

  ‘I ought to say, in politeness, that it’s a coincidence our meeting here,’ he continued, ‘but that’s hardly so. I was aware that you took this walk on Sundays when I drove out here to-day. I wanted to know about Nessie.’

  How wonderful his words would have been without that last explanatory sentence, but, as she stood foolishly with downcast head, she became aware that she must say something in reply or he would consider that she was stupid or uncouth, or both; with a great effort she slowly lifted her eyes to his, thought instantly, despite her embarrassment, how clean cut was his dark, eager face against the background of the sky – and murmured feebly, irrelevantly:

  ‘I haven’t been able to tell you about Nessie. I haven’t seen you for a long time.’

  ‘Far too long,’ he cried; ‘and it’s been of your own seeking. I haven’t seen you about for weeks. I thought you had flown again from Levenford without bidding me good-bye.’

  ‘I’m here for good, now,’ she replied slowly. ‘It’s you that will be saying good-bye to Levenford soon.’

  His face clouded slightly.

  ‘Yes! it’s only another fortnight now. How time flies – like an arrow in its flight.’ He sighed. ‘It’s curious, but as the day draws near I’m losing interest in the prospect. I was glad to think of going at first, but this old town has its grip on me after all.’

  ‘You’ve so many friends, now, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s it! I’ve got friends.’

  He played idly with his whip, his eyes fixed unseeingly upon the twitching ears of the horse, then he looked at her seriously and said: ‘Are you free to come for a drive with me, Miss Brodie? I may not see you again and I rather wished to talk to you about one or two matters. Do come if you would care to!’

  Of course she would care to come and, thinking of her father resting until five, she realised that no more propitious hour could have been chosen; still, she hesitated, and replied:

  ‘I’m – I’m not dressed for driving, and I should have to be back at five, and—’

  ‘And in that case you’re coming,’ he answered, with a smile, stretching out his hand. ‘We’ve got a good hour and a half. As for your dress, it’s too good for this old trap of mine.’

  She was up beside him almost before she knew how, seated close to him on the red velvet cushion, and he had tucked the light, dust cover around her, touched up the horse and she was off with him, gliding forward in an easy yet exhilarating movement. The breeze of their progress through the still air fanned her cheek, the sky lost its glare and became halcyon, the dust was nothing – merely a soft powder to ease the horse’s stepping gait – and, after the tedium and fatigue of walking, she was content to sit silent, happy, watching the vivid countryside flit gently past her. But, though she was too conscious of his nearness to look upon him, out of the corner of her gaze she observed the smooth, soft leather of his hand-sewn driving gloves, the silver-plated harness, the monogrammed dust cover, the smart appointments of what he had designated his ‘old trap,’ and again, as in his house, she was seized by a feeling of the difference between his life and hers. Now, whatever his early struggles might have been, the manner of his life did not comprise the weighing of every farthing before it was spent the wearing of clothes until they disintegrated, the st
ifling of every pleasurable impulse out with the sphere of a most rigid economy. But she suppressed this rising sense of her inferiority, stifled her thoughts of future sadness and, telling herself that she would not mar her solitary hour of this unusual luxury, abandoned herself to the unfamiliar delight of enjoying herself.

  Renwick, on his part, observed her clear profile, the faint colour stirring in her soft cheek, her unwonted animation, with a strange satisfaction, a sense of pleasure more acute than that with which she viewed the countryside. A sudden pressing whim took him to make her turn to him so that he might see into her eyes and he broke the silence, saying:

  ‘You are not sorry you came.’

  But still she did not look at him, although her lips curved in a faint smile, as she answered:

  ‘I’m glad I came. It’s all so wonderful to me. I’m not used to this and I’ll be able to look back on it.’

  ‘We’ll have time to drive up to the Loch shore,’ he replied pleasantly, ‘and, if Tim steps out, time for tea there as well.’

  She was enchanted by the prospect which he proposed and, considering Tim’s smoothly groomed back, hoped that he would hasten sufficiently for tea without going so fast as to hurry her home before time.

  ‘Tim,’ she remarked idly; ‘what a good name for a horse.’

  ‘And a good horse he is too,’ he replied, calling out in a louder tones, ‘aren’t you, Timmy?’

  Tim pricked up his ears at the words and, as though he appreciated them, put a little more mettle into his measured jogtrot.

  ‘You see?’ Renwick continued, watching with approval her smile. ‘He knows that I’m talking about him and is trying not to blush – the wretched hypocrite. He’ll be lazier than ever in Edinburgh. Too many oats and not enough exercise!’

  ‘You’re taking him with you, then?’ she queried.

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t sell Timmy. I’m like that somehow.’ He paused, then continued meditatively: ‘It’s a ridiculous trait in me, but when I’ve become fond of a thing I can’t let it go – pictures, books, a horse – it’s the same in every case. When I like a thing I like it. I’m obstinate. I accept no standard of judgment but my own. A critic may tell me a dozen times that such a picture is good, but if I don’t like it I won’t have it. I take a picture that I do like then, when it’s grown upon me, I couldn’t bear to part with it.’

  She looked straight in front of her and remarked:

  ‘That was an exquisite picture in your dining-room.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied authoritatively, ‘that is a fine thing – I’m glad you liked it. It’s company to me, that picture. I bought it at the Institute.’ Then he added, slyly, ‘It’s not exclusively my taste, though – the critics liked it, too.’

  The memory of the picture brought before her mind the purpose of her visit to him and, anticipating his interrogation regarding Nessie, she said:

  ‘I’m grateful for all that you’ve done about Nessie. You have been more than kind to us both.’ She had never told him about the tragedy of the grapes, and his favours, these fortunately undiscovered, had continued.

  ‘I wanted to help you,’ he replied. ‘How is she getting along, under all the work?’

  ‘She seems better in her health,’ she answered, with a trace of anxiety in her voice, ‘but she varies so much. At times she is quite peculiar to me. She’s worrying about the nearness of her examination. It’s on Saturday. I’ve done everything I can for her.’

  ‘I know you have – everything,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Now that she’s gone so far without breaking down she ought to be all right! I hope she gets the thing for her own sake.’ Then, after a considerable silence, he remarked in a serious tone: ‘ I should keep near to her when the results come to hand; and if you want me call on me at once.’

  She was aware that he would be gone when the result was announced, but, feeling that already he had done enough for her, she made no comment, and remained silent, engrossed by her thoughts. As he had said, Nessie would be all right! She would see to that. She would be with her – watch her, protect her, safeguard her, should she be unsuccessful, from any sudden action of her father.

  She was aroused from her meditation, from this strengthening of her resolution, by his voice.

  ‘They’ve widened the road here. We can get through quite easily, and it’s cooler than the other way.’ Looking up, she was overcome to see that, unconscious of its significance for her, he had branched off the main road and taken that very passage through the fir wood where she had lost herself upon the night of the storm. With a set, startled face she gazed at the wood as it again enclosed her, not now rocking and surging to the passion of the gale, nor crashing with the thunder of uprooting trees, but quiet, appeased, passive with a serene tranquillity. The bright sunbeams stole amongst the sombre foliage of the dark trees, softening them, encrusting their rough branches with gold, and tracing upon their straight dry trunks a gaily fretted pattern of shimmering light and shadow. As she passed, in her present comfort and security, through the wood, she was stricken by the incredible memory of her own tortured figure, filled then with her living child, rushing blindly through the darkness, staggering, falling, transfixing her hand upon the sharp spear of the branch, beset by mad voices, unseen, unheard.

  A tear trembled upon the brink of her humid eye but, clenching her fingers tightly over the long cicatrix upon her palm as though to fortify herself with the remembrance of her endurance then, she refused to let it fall and instead, turned her gaze, as they emerged from the wood, down into the distant valley. Yes! there was the croft where she had lain in her extremity! it stood against the smooth green of the lush meadowland adjoined by the small shed which had contained her anguished body, its white walls, rising squarely to its yellow thatched roof, the smoke rising straight from its single chimney like a long, blue ribbon lifting itself tenuously to the sky.

  With a wrench she withdrew her eyes and, holding her body tense in the effort to control her emotion, looked straight ahead, whilst Tim’s ears blurred and wavered before her swimming gaze. Renwick, perceiving, perhaps instinctively, that some sudden sadness had induced her silence, did not speak for a long time, but as they swept over the crest of Markinch Hill and the placid, smoothly shining sheet of the Loch was revealed stretching below them, he remarked, quietly:

  ‘There’s beauty and serenity for you.’

  It was an exquisite sight The water, bearing the deep, brilliant blue of the unclouded sky, lay cool and unruffled as a sheet of virgin ice from whose edges the steep and richly wooded slopes of the hills reached back and upwards to the sharp, ridged mountains beyond. Breaking the surface of this still expanse were a series of small islands lying upon the bosom of the Loch like a chain of precious emeralds, green and wooded like the banks, and each mirrored with such perfection that it was impossible for the eyes to distinguish between the islet and its meticulous reflection. Upon the shore nearest to them stood a small hamlet, its aggregation of cottages showing whitely against the vivid background of blue and green, and now Renwick pointed to it significantly.

  ‘There’s Markinch – which means tea for you, Mary! Don’t let the grandeur of nature spoil your appetite.’

  Her face, that was serene, and beautiful as the surface of the lake, responded to his words, and she smiled with a faint, returning glow of happiness. He had called her Mary!

  They descended the winding hill to Markinch where, disdaining the small, somewhat ineffectual inn which stood at the head of the village, Renwick drove on to the last cottage of the row that fringed the shore of the Loch, and with a wise look towards Mary, jumped out and knocked upon the door. The cottage was in perfect harmony with the surrounding beauty, its white walls splashed by the rich yellows of nasturtiums, its green porch embowered by red rambler roses, its garden fragrant with the poignant scent of mignonette – such a cottage, indeed, as she had once visioned for herself in Garshake; and to the door of this small house came a small, bent body of a woman who
now lifted her hands and cried, delightedly:

  ‘Doctor! Doctor! It’s not yourself? Guidsakes alive! Is it you yourself?’

  ‘Indeed it is, Janet,’ cried Renwick, in her own tone. ‘It is I, myself, and a young lady, herself. And the two of us, ourselves, are fair famished from our drive. If we don’t get one of your lovely teas, with your own scones, and jam and butter and heaven knows a’ what, then we’ll just sadly fade awa’ and never come back.’

  ‘Ye’d no’ do that, though,’ cried Janet vigorously. ‘ Na, na! ye’ll have the finest tea in Markinch inside five minutes.’

  ‘Can we have it in the garden, Janet?’

  ‘Of course ye can, doctor! Ye can have it on the roof o’ my cottage gin ye say the word.’

  ‘The garden will do, Janet,’ replied Renwick with a smile. ‘And – Janet! let the wee lad look after Tim. And give us a call when you’re ready. We’ll go along the shore a bit.’

  ‘Right! Right, doctor! Ye’ve only to say the word,’ answered Janet eagerly, and as she departed to do his bidding, he turned and came back to Mary.

  ‘Shall we go a little way along?’ he asked; and at her assent he assisted her from her seat to the ground, saying:

  ‘Janet won’t keep us waiting five minutes, but you may well as stretch your legs. You must be cramped from sitting.’

  How delighted the old woman had been to see him, thought Mary, and like all who were in contact with him, how eager to rush to serve him! Thinking of this, as they proceeded along the fine firm shingle of the shore she remarked:

  ‘Janet’s an old friend of yours! Her eyes actually leaped when she saw you.’

  ‘I did something for a son of hers in Levenford once,’ he replied lightly. ‘She’s a sweet old soul with a tongue like an energetic magpie,’ – here he looked at her across his nose, adding – ‘ but better than that, she makes delicious scones. You must eat exactly seven of them.’

  ‘Why seven?’ she queried.

  ‘It’s a lucky number,’ he answered, ‘ and just the right amount of scone food for a healthy, hungry young lady.’ He looked at her critically. ‘I wish I had the dieting of you, Miss Mary. There’s a sad loveliness in that faint hollow of your cheek, but it means that you’ve been neglecting your butter and milk. I’ll wager you gave all those things I sent you to that wee Nessie of yours.’