Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  She turned, closing the door behind her, and, realising that she need not return to that dismal parlour which she hated so much, traversed the hall without a sound and entered the empty kitchen. Then she immediately rid her hand of the letter by placing it upon the table. Then she returned to the door by which she had just entered, satisfied herself that it was firmly shut, advanced to the scullery door, which she inspected in like fashion, and finally, as though at last convinced of her perfect seclusion, came back and seated herself at the table. Everything was as she desired it, everything had befallen as she had so cleverly foreseen, and now, alone, unobserved, concealed, with nothing more to do, nothing for which to wait, she was free to open the letter.

  Her eye fell upon it again, not fixedly, as when she had received it, but with a growing, flickering agitation. Her lips suddenly felt stiff, her mouth dried up, and she shook violently from head to foot She perceived – not the long, white oblong of the letter – but her own form, bent eternally over a book, at school, at home, in the examination hall of the University, and always overcast by the massive figure of her father, which lay above and upon her like a perpetual shadow. The letter seemed to mirror her own face which looked up, movingly, telling her that all she had worked for, all she had been constrained to work for, that the whole object of her life, lay there, upon the table, crystallised in a few written words upon one hidden sheet of paper.

  Her name was upon the envelope, and the same name must be upon that hidden sheet within, or else everything that she had done, her very life itself, would be futile. She knew that her name was inside, the single name that was always sent without mention of the failures, the name of the winner of the Latta, and yet she was afraid to view it.

  That, clearly, was ridiculous! She need not be afraid of her name which, as her father rightly insisted, was a splendid name, a noble name, and one of which she might justly be proud. She was Nessie Brodie – she was the winner of the Latta! It had all been arranged months beforehand, everything had been settled between her father and herself. My! but she was the clever, wee thing – the smartest lass in Levenford – the first girl to win the Bursary – a credit to the name of Brodie! As in a dream her hand stole towards the letter.

  How curious that her fingers should tremble in this strange fashion, as under her own eyes, they opened the stiff envelope. How thin her fingers were! She had not willed them to open the letter and yet they had done so; even now they held the inner sheet in their faintly trembling clasp.

  Well! she must see her name – the name of Nessie Brodie. That, surely, was no hardship – to view for one moment her own name. That moment had come!

  With a heart that beat suddenly with a frantic, unendurable agitation she unfolded the sheet and looked at it.

  The name which met her shrinking gaze was not hers – it was the name of Grierson. John Grierson had won the Latta!

  For a second she regarded the paper without comprehension, then her eyes filled with a growing horror, which widened her pupils until the words before her blurred together then faded from her view. She sat motionless, rigid, scarcely breathing, the paper still within her grasp, and into her ears flowed a torrent of words, uttered in her father’s snarling voice. She was alone in the room, he at the office a mile away – yet in her tortured imagination she heard him, saw him vividly before her.

  ‘Grierson’s won it! You’ve let that upstart brat beat you. It wouldna have mattered so much if it had been anybody else – but Grierson – the son o’ that measly swine. And after all I’ve talked about ye winnin’ it. It’s damnable! damnable, I tell ye! You senseless idiot – after the way I’ve slaved with ye, keepin’ ye at it for all I was worth! God! I canna thole it. I’ll wring that thin neck o’yours for ye.’

  She sank deeper into her chair, shinking from his invisible presence, her eyes still horrified, but cowering too, as though he advanced upon her with his huge open hands. Still she remained motionless, even her lips did not move, but she heard herself cry, feebly:

  ‘I did my best, father. I could do no more. Don’t touch me, father.’

  ‘Your best,’ he hissed. ‘Your best wasna good enough to beat Grierson. You that swore ye had the Latta in your pocket! I’ve got to sit down under another insult because of ye. I’ll pay ye. I told ye it would be the pity of ye if ye failed.’

  ‘No! No! father,’ she whispered. ‘ I didn’t mean to fail. I’ll not do it again – I promise you! You know I’ve always been the top of the class. I’ve always been your own Nessie. You wouldna hurt a wee thing like me. I’ll do better next time.’

  ‘There’ll be no next time for you,’ he shouted at her. ‘I’ll – I’ll throttle ye for what you’ve done to me.’

  As he rushed upon her she saw that he was going to kill her and, while she shrieked, closing her eyes in a frantic, unbelievable terror, the encircling band that had bound her brain for the last weary months of her study snapped suddenly and gave to her a calm and perfect peace. The tightness around her head dissolved, she was unloosed from the bonds that had confined her, her fear vanished, and she was free. She opened her eyes, saw that her father was no longer there, and smiled – an easy, amused smile which played over her mobile features like ripples of light and passed insensibly into a high, snickering laugh. Though her laughter was not loud, it moved her like a paroxysm, making the tears roll down her cheeks and shaking her thin body with its utter abandon. She laughed for a long time then, as suddenly as her mirth had begun it ceased, her tears dried instantly, and her face assumed a wise, crafty expression like a gigantic magnification of that slight artfulness which it had worn when she stood thinking in the parlour. Now, however, clearly guided by a force within her, she did not think; she was above the necessity for thought. Pressing her lips into a prim line, she laid the letter, which had all this time remained within her grasp, carefully upon the table like a precious thing, and rising from her chair stood, casting her gaze up and down, moving her head like a nodding doll. When the nodding ceased, a smile, transient this time, flickered across her face and whispering softly, encouragingly to herself: ‘What ye do, ye maun do well, Nessie dear,’ she turned and went tiptoeing out of the room. She ascended the stairs with the same silent and extravagant caution, paused in a listening attitude upon the landing, then, reassured, went mincing into her room. There, without hesitation, she advanced to the basin and ewer, poured out some cold water and began carefully to wash her face and hands. When she had washed meticulously, she dried herself, shining her pale features to a high polish by her assiduous application of the towel, then, taking off her old, grey beige dress she took from her drawer the clean cashmere frock which was her best. This, apparently, did not now wholly please her, for she shook her head and murmured:

  ‘That’s not pretty enough for ye, Nessie dear. Not near pretty enough for ye, now!’ Still, she put it on with the same unhurried precision, and her face lightened again as she lifted her hands to her hair. As she unplaited it and brushed it quickly with long, rapid strokes she whispered, from time to time, softly, approvingly: ‘My bonnie hair! My bonnie, bonnie hair!’ Satisfied at last with the fine, golden sheen which her brushing had produced, she stood before the mirror and regarded herself with a far away, enigmatical smile; then, taking her only adornment, a small string of coral beads, once given her by Mamma to compensate for Matthew’s forgetfulness, she made as though to place them round her neck when, suddenly, she withdrew the hand that held them. ‘They’re gey and sharp, these beads,’ she murmured, and laid them back gently upon her table.

  Without further loss of time she marched softly out of her room, descended the stairs, and in the hall put on her serge jacket and her braw hat with the brave, new, satin ribbon that Mary had bought and sewn for her. She was now dressed completely for the street – in her best – dressed, indeed, as she had been on the day of the examination, but she did not go out of the house; instead, she slid stealthily back into the kitchen.

  Here her actions quickened
. Taking hold of one of the heavy wooden chairs, she moved it accurately into the centre of the room, then turned to her heaped books upon the dresser and transferred these to the chair, making a neat, firm pile which she surveyed with a pleased expression, adjusting some slight deviations from the regular symmetry of the heap with light, fastidious touches of her fingers. ‘That’s a real neat job, my dear,’ she murmured contentedly. ‘You’re a woman that would have worked well in the house.’ Even as she spoke she moved backwards from the chair, still admiring her handiwork, but when she reached the door she turned and slipped lightly into the scullery. Here she bent and rummaged in the clothes basket at the window, then, straightening up with an exclamation of triumph, she returned to the kitchen bearing something in her hand. It was a short length of clothes line. Now her movement grew even more rapid. Her nimble fingers worked feverishly with one end of the thin rope, she leaped on the chair and, standing upon the piled books, corded the other end over the iron hook of the pulley on the ceiling. Then, without descending from the chair, she picked up the letter from the table and pinned it upon her bosom, muttering as she did so: ‘First prize, Nessie! What a pity it’s not a red card.’ Finally, she inserted her neck delicately into the noose which she had fashioned, taking heed that she did not disarrange her hat and, passing the rope carefully under the mane of her hair, tightened it and was ready. She stood gaily poised upon the elevation of the books like a child perched upon a sand castle, her gaze directed eagerly out of the window across the foliage of the lilac tree. As her eyes sought the distant sky beyond, her foot, resting upon the back of the chair, pushed the support from beneath her, and she fell. The hook in the ceiling wrenched violently upon the beam above which still securely held it. The rope strained, but did not break. She hung suspended, twitching like a marionette upon a string, while her body, elongating, seemed to stretch out desperately, one dangling foot straining to reach the floor, yet failing by a single inch to reach it. The hat tilted grotesquely across her brow, her face darkened slowly as the cord bit into her thin, white neck; her eyes that were placating, pleading even, and blue like speedwells, clouded with pain, with a faint wonder, then slowly glazed; her lips purpled, thickened, and fell apart, her small jaw dropped, a thin stream of froth ran silently across her chin. To and fro she oscillated gently, swinging in the room in a silence broken only by the faint flutter of the lilac leaves against the window panes, until, at last, her body quivered faintly and was still.

  The house was silent, as with the silence of consummation, but after a long hush the sound was heard of some person stirring above, and slowly, haltingly, descending the stairs. At length the kitchen door opened and Grandma Brodie came into the room. Drawn from her room by the approach of another meal-time and the desire to make herself some especially soft toast, she now tottered forward, her head lowered, totally unobservant, until she blundered against the body.

  ‘T ch! Tch! where am I going?’ she mumbled, as she recoiled, mazedly looking upwards out of dim eyes at the hanging figure which the thrust of her arm had once more set in motion, and which now swung lightly against her. Her aged face puckered incredulously as she peered, fell suddenly agape and, as the body of the dead girl again touched her, she staggered back and screamed: ‘Oh! God in heaven! What – what is’t? – She’s – she’s—’ Another scream rent her! Mouthing incoherently, she turned, shambled from the room, and flinging open the front door, stumbled headlong from the house.

  Her agitated gait had taken her through the courtyard and into the roadway when, turning to continue her flight, she collided with and almost fell into the arms of Mary, who gazed at her in some distress, and cried:

  ‘What’s the matter, Grandma? Are you ill?’

  The old woman looked at her, her face working, her sunken lips twitching, her tongue speechless.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Grandma?’ repeated Mary in amazement ‘Are you not well?’

  ‘There! In there!’ stuttered the other, pointing her stark hand wildly to the house. ‘Nessie! Nessie’s in there! She’s – she’s hangit herself – in the kitchen.’

  Mary’s glance leaped to the house, observed the open door, with a stricken cry she rushed past the old woman, and, still holding the white box of headache powders in her hand, flung herself up the steps, along the lobby, and into the kitchen.

  ‘O God!’ she cried, ‘my Nessie!’ She dropped the box she carried, tore out the drawer of the dresser, and, snatching a knife, turned and hacked furiously at the tense rope. In a second this parted, and the warm body of Nessie sagged soundlessly against her and trailed upon the floor. ‘O God!’ she cried again. ‘ Spare her to me. We’ve only got each other left. Don’t let her die!’ Flinging her arms around her dead sister, she lowered her to the ground; throwing herself upon her knees, with trembling fingers she plucked at the cord sunk in the swollen neck and finally unloosed it She beat the hands of the body, stroked the brow, cried inarticulately, in a voice choked by sobs: ‘Speak to me, Nessie! I love you, dearest sister! Don’t leave me.’ But no reply came from those parted, inanimate lips and in an agony of despair Mary leaped to her feet and rushed again out of the house into the roadway. Looking wildly about, she espied a boy upon a bicycle bearing down on her.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried, waving her arms frantically; and as he drew up wonderingly beside her she pressed her hand to her side and gasped, her words tumbling one upon another: ‘Get a doctor! Get Dr Renwick! Quick, my sister is ill! Go quickly! Quickly!’ She sped him from her with a last cry and, returning to the house, she rushed for water, knelt again, raised Nessie in her arms, moistened the turgid lips, tried to make her drink. Then, laying the flaccid head upon a cushion, she sponged the dark face, murmuring brokenly:

  ‘Speak to me, dearest Nessie! I want you to live! I want you to live! I should never have left you, but oh! why did you send me away?’

  When she had sponged the face, she knew of nothing more to do and remained upon her knees beside the prostrate form, tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands pressed distractedly together.

  She was kneeling thus when hurried footsteps came through the still open door and Renwick entered the room. He failed at first to observe Nessie’s body which was masked by her kneeling form, and seeing only her, stood still, crying in a loud voice:

  ‘Mary! what is wrong?’

  But, coming forward, he dropped his gaze, saw the figure upon the floor and in a flash knelt down beside her. His hands moved rapidly over the body while she watched him dumbly, agonisingly, then after a moment he raised his eyes to her across the form of her sister and said, slowly:

  ‘Don’t kneel any longer, Mary! Let me – let me put her on the sofa.’

  She knew then from his tone that Nessie was dead, and while he lifted the body on to the sofa she stood up, her lips quivering, her breast torn by the throbbing anguish of her heart.

  ‘I’m to blame,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘I went out to get her headache powders.’

  He turned from the couch and looked at her gently.

  ‘It’s not you that is to blame, Mary! You did everything for her.’

  ‘Why did she do it?’ she sobbed. ‘I loved her so much. I wanted to protect her.’

  ‘I know that well! She must have lost her reason, poor child,’ he replied sadly. ‘Poor, frightened child.’

  ‘I would have done anything in life for her,’ she whispered. ‘ I would have died for her.’

  He looked at her, her pale face ravaged by her grief, thinking of her past, her present sadness, of the grey uncertainty of her future, and as he gazed into her swimming eyes, an overwhelming emotion possessed him also. Like a spring which had lain deeply buried for long years and now welled suddenly to light, his feelings gushed over him in a rushing flow. His heart swelled at her grief and, swept by the certain knowledge that he could never leave her, he advanced to her, saying in a low voice:

  ‘Mary! don’t cry, dear. I love you.’

  She looked at him blin
dly through her tears as he drew near to her and in an instant she was in his arms.

  ‘You’ll not stay here, dear,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll come with me, now. I want you to be my wife.’ He comforted her as she lay sobbing in his arms, telling her how he must have loved her from that moment when first he saw her, yet never known it till now.

  While they remained thus, suddenly a loud voice addressed them, breaking upon them with an incredulous yet ferocious intensity.

  ‘Damnation! what is the meaning of this in my house?’ It was Brodie. Framed in the doorway, his view of the sofa blocked by the open door, he stood still, glaring at them, his eyes starting from his head in rage and wonder. ‘So this is your fancy man,’ he cried savagely, advancing into the room. ‘This is who these bonnie black grapes came from. I wondered who it might be, but by God! I didna think it was this – this fine gentleman.’

  At these words, Mary winced and would have withdrawn from Renwick but he restrained her and, keeping his arm around her, gazed fixedly at Brodie.

  ‘Don’t come that high and mighty look over me,’ sneered Brodie, with a short, hateful laugh. ‘ You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. It’s me that’s got the whip hand o’ you this time. You’re a bonnie pillar of the town right enough, to come to a man’s house and make a brothel o’t.’

  In answer Renwick drew himself up more rigidly, slowly raised his arm, and pointed to the sofa.

  ‘You are the presence of death,’ he said.

  Despite himself, Brodie’s eyes fell under the coldness of the other’s gaze.

  ‘Are ye mad? You’re all mad here,’ he muttered. But he turned to follow the direction of the other’s finger and as he saw the body of Nessie he started, stumbled forward. ‘ What – what’s this?’ he cried dazedly. ‘ Nessie! Nessie!’

  Renwick led Mary to the door and, as she clung to him, he paused and cried sternly: