Hatter's Castle
Page 69
‘Nessie hanged herself in this kitchen because she lost the Latta and, in the sight of God, you are responsible for her death.’ Then, taking Mary with him he drew out of the room and they passed together out of the house.
Brodie did not hear them go, but, stunned by Renwick’s last words and by the strange stillness of the figure before him, he muttered:
‘They’re tryin’ to frighten me! Wake up, Nessie! It’s your father that’s speakin’ to ye. Come on, pettie, wake up!’ Putting forward his hand haltingly, to shake her, he perceived the paper on her breast and, seizing it, he plucked it from her dress and raised it tremulously to his eyes.
‘Grierson!’ he whispered, in a stricken voice. ‘ Grierson’s got it. She did lose it then!’
The paper dropped from his hand and involuntarily his glance fell upon her neck, marked by a livid red weal. Even as he saw it, he touched again her inert, flaccid form with his face grew livid like the weal upon her white skin.
‘God!’ he muttered. ‘ She has – she has hanged herself.’ He covered his eyes as though unable to bear the sight longer. ‘My God,’ he mumbled again, ‘she has – she has –’ And then, as though he panted for breath, ‘I was fond of my Nessie.’ A heavy groan burst from his breast. Staggering like a drunken man he backed blindly from the body, and sank unconsciously into his chair. A rush of dry sobs racked him, rending his breast in anguish. With his head sunk into his hands he remained thus, his tortured mind filled by one obsessing thought, yet traversed by other fleeting thoughts, by an endless stream of images which slipped past the central figure of his dead daughter like a procession of shadows floating round a recumbent body on a catafalque.
He saw his son and Nancy, together in the sunshine, saw the drooping form and pathetically inclined head of his wife, the sneering face of Grierson mocking at his distress, Renwick holding Mary in his arms, the bold figure of young Foyle bearding him in his office; he saw the obsequious Perry, Blair, Paxton, Gordon, even Dron – they all marched silently before – his shuttered eyes, all with heads averted from him, all condemning him, their eyes turned sadly to the body of his Nessie as she reposed upon the bier.
As though unable to bear longer the torment of these inward visions he raised his head from his hands, uncovered his eyes, and looked furtively towards the sofa. At once his eyes fell upon the thin arm of the dead child as it hung over the edge of the couch – limp, pendent, immobile, the pale waxen fingers of the hand drooping from the small palm. With a shudder he raised his eyes and looked blindly out of the window. As he sat thus the door opened slowly and his mother came into the room. Her recent terror had faded from her senile mind – the whole sad event lost in the maunderings of her doting brain – and now, tottering to her chair, she seated herself opposite her son. Her eyes sought him as she sounded his mood with her dim gaze, then, sensing his silence to be propitious, she muttered:
‘I think I’ll make myself a bit soft toast.’ At this she rose – oblivious to all but her own needs – hobbled to the scullery and, returning again, sat down and began to toast the slice of bread she had obtained. ‘I can soak it in my broth,’ she muttered to herself, sucking in her cheeks. ‘It suits my stomach brawly that way.’ Then, as she again looked at her son across the fireplace, she noticed at last the strangeness of his eyes, her head shook agitatedly, and she exclaimed:
‘You’re not angry wi’ me, are ye, James? I’m just makin’ myself some nice, soft toast. I was aye fond o’t ye ken. I’ll make you a bit yoursel’, gin ye want it,’ and she tittered uneasily, propitiatingly, across at him with a senile, senseless sound that broke the heavy silence of the room. But he did not reply, and still gazed stonily out of the window, where the warm summer wind moved gently amongst the thin leaves of the straggling bushes that fringed his garden. The breeze freshened, disporting itself amongst the shoots of the currant bushes then, circling, it touched the leaves of the three, tall, serene, silver trees, flickering them dark and light with a soft caress, when suddenly, striking the house, it chilled, and passed quickly onwards to the beauty of the Winton Hills beyond.
Copyright
First published in 1931 by Gollancz
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © A. J. Cronin, 1931
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