"Don't let him see ye like that. Don't hing thegither and show you're so fond o' one another in front of him. Na! Na! He'll have no interference wi' Nessie. Let her be, let her be." The edge in her voice was blunted as she uttered these last words, her gaze again became opaque and, with a slow, unconcealed yawn she turned away, muttering,
"I'm wantin' my tea. Is it not tea time yet? Is't not time for James to be in?"
Mary looked interrogatively at her sister and the shadow fell again on Nessie's brow as she remarked moodily:
"You can infuse the tea. He'll be in any minute now. Then you'll see for yourself the minute I've finished a cup it'll be the signal for me to be shoved off into the parlour. I'm tired to death of it."
Mary did not reply but went into the scullery to infuse the tea, and filled now by a sudden, private fear at the immediate prospect of meeting her father, the unselfish consideration of her sister slipped for the moment from her mind and she began to anticipate, tremblingly, the manner of his greeting. Her eyes, that were fixed unseeingly upon the steamy clouds issuing from the boiling kettle, flinched as she recollected how he had kicked her brutally as she lay in the hall, how that blow had been in part responsible for the pneumonia which had nearly killed her, and she wondered vaguely if he had ever regretted that single action; if he had, indeed, even thought of it during the four years of her absence. As for herself, the memory of that blow had lived with her for months; the pain of it had lasted during the long delirium of her illness, when she had suffered a thousand savage kicks from him with each stabbing repiration; the indignity had remained until long afterwards, when she would lie awake at night, turning in her mind the outrage upon her body of the inhuman impact of his heavy boot.
She thought again of these thick-soled boots which she had so often brushed for him, which she would, in her voluntary servitude, brush for him again, and as she remembered, too, the heavy tread which had habitually announced his entry, she started, listened, and once again heard his foot in the hall, slower, even sluggish, less firm, almost dragging, but still her father's step. The moment which she had foreseen, had visualised a thousand times, which, though she dreaded it, was of her own seeking, was upon her and, though she shook in all her limbs, she turned and advanced bravely, but with a fluttering heart, to meet him.
They came face to face in the kitchen, where the man who had come in looked at her silently, swept the room, the table, the brightly burning hearth with his dark eye, then returned his glance to her. Only when he spoke did she know actually that it was her father, when his old bitter sneer distorted his furrowed visage and he said:
"You've come back then, have ye?" and walked without further speech to his chair. The devastating change in him, such a change that she had failed almost to recognise him, shocked her so profoundly that she was unable to speak. Could this be her father, this old, shrunken man with his unkempt hair, his stained, untidy clothing, his morose unshaven face, his wild, wretched, malignant eye. Nessie had been right! She could not have believed the magnitude of this change until she had seen it, and even now she could scarcely credit the evidence of her eyes. In a dazed manner she moved herself forward and began to pour out and hand around the tea and, when she had accomplished this, she did not sit down with the others, but remained standing, waiting to serve them, still filled with an incredulous dismay at her father's dreadful appearance. He, on his part, continued to ignore her and to partake of his meal silently, with a careless, almost slovenly manner of eating, apparently regardless of what he consumed or the fashion in which he consumed it. His glance was distrait, oblique, and when it assumed a cognisance of his surroundings, it fell not upon her but always upon Nessie, as though some rooted conception of his brain was centred upon her,
making her the focus of his conscious attention. The others ate without speaking and, although she had not yet had the opportunity to address her father, to break that period of silence now four years long, she passed quietly out of the kitchen into the scullery, where she remained intent, listening and perturbed. When she had determined to sacrifice herself for Nessie's sake and return home, she had pictured herself in combat with an oppression of a different nature, loud, hectoring, even savage, but never with such a strange, inhuman preoccupation as this which she now felt to have possessed her father. His strong and virile character seemed, like his flesh, to have crumbled from him, leaving a warped structure of a man engrossed with something, she knew not what, which had mastered him and now controlled each thought, each action of his body.
She had been in the scullery only a few minutes considering him thus, when to her straining ears came the harsh, different sound of his voice, saying:
"You've finished, Nessie! You can get into the parlour and begin your work now!" Immediately she steeled herself and reentered the kitchen and, observing Nessie rising in a sad, dejected manner with a cowed look in her eyes to obey his command, at the submission of the child she felt a sudden rush of courage within her and in a quiet voice she addressed her father.
"Father, could Nessie not come for a walk with me before she begins her work?"
But he might have been deaf to her words and utterly oblivious of her presence, for any evidence which he manifested of having heard or seen her; continuing to look at Nessie, he resumed, in a harder tone:
"Off with you, now. And see you stick into it. I'll be in to see how you're getting on."
As Nessie went humbly out of the door, Mary bit her lip and flushed deeply, finding in his silent contempt of her first words to him the realisation of how he proposed to treat her. She could be there, but for him she would not exist! She made no comment, but when he had arisen from the table, and the old woman too had finished and gone out of the room, she began to clear away the dishes into the scullery, observing as she passed in and out of the kitchen that he had taken a bottle and glass from the dresser and had settled himself to drink steadily, with an appearance of habitual exactitude as though he proposed to continue imbibing regularly for the course of the entire evening.
She washed and dried the dishes, cleaned and tidied the scullery, then, with the intention of joining Nessie in the parlour, she entered the kitchen and was about to pass through it, when suddenly, and without looking at her, Brodie shouted from his corner in a fierce, arresting tone:
"Where are you going?"
She halted, looking at him appealingly as she replied:
"I was only going in to see Nessie for a moment, Father not to speak only to watch her."
"Don't go, then," he shot at her, still fixing his eye upon the ceiling and away from her. “I’ll do all the watching of Nessie that's required. You'll kindly keep away from her."
"But, Father," she faltered, "I'm not going to disturb her. I haven't seen her for so long I like to be near her."
"And I like that you shouldn't be near her," he replied bitterly. "You're not the company I want for my daughter. You can cook and work for her and for me too, but keep your hands off her. I'll brook no interference with her or with the work she's set on." This indeed was what she expected, and asking herself why she had come back if it were not to succour Nessie, she stood firmly contemplating him with her quiet gaze, then, mustering all her courage, she said:
"I'm going to Nessie, Father," and moved towards the door.
Only then he looked at her, turning the full force of his malignant eyes upon her, and seizing the bottle by his side he drew himself to his feet and advanced slowly towards her.
"Move another step towards that door," he snarled, "and I'll smash your skull open;" then, as though he hoped that she might disobey him, he stood confronting her, ready to swing fiercely at her head, She retreated, and as she slipped back from him he watched her sneeringly, crying, "That's better. That's much better! We'll have to teach ye manners again, I can see. But, by God! Keep away from Nessie and don't think you can fool me. No woman living can do that now. Another step and I would have finished ye for good."
Then suddenly his ferocious manner dropped from him and he returned to his chair, sat down and, sinking back into his original air of morose and brooding apathy, he resumed his drinking, not apparently for the achievement of gaiety, but as though in a vain, despairing endeavour to obtain oblivion from some secret and unforgettable misery.
Mary sat down at the table. She was afraid to leave the room. Her fear was not physical, not for herself, but for Nessie, and had she not been concerned solely for her sister, she would a moment ago have advanced straight into the threatening sweep of the weapon with which her father had menaced her. Life was of little value to her now, but nevertheless she realised that if she were to help Nessie from the frightful danger which threatened her in this house, she must be not only brave, but wise. She saw that her presence and, indeed, her purpose in the house would mean a bitcer perpetual struggle with her father for the possession of Nessie, and she felt that her own resources were insufficient to cope with this situation to which she had returned. As she sat there watching Brodie soak himself steadily, yet ineffectually, in liquor, she determined to seek assistance without delay and planned carefully what she would do on the following day. When her conception of what she must do lay clearly defined in her mind, she looked around for something to occupy her, but could find nothing no book to read no sewing which she might do, and she was constrained to remain still in the silence of the room, gazing at her father, yet never finding his gaze upon her.
The evening dragged slowly on with lagging hours until she felt that it would never end, that her father would never move, but at last he got up and saying, coldly, "You have your own room. Go to it, but leave Nessie alone in hers", went out and into the parlour where she heard his voice questioning, admonishing Nessie. She put out the light and went slowly upstairs to her own, old room where she undressed and sat down to wait, hearing first Nessie come up, then her father, hearing the sounds of their undressing, finally hearing nothing. Silence filled the house. She waited a long time in this small room where she had already known so much waiting and so much bitter anguish. Fleeting visions of the past rushed before her, of her vigils at the window when she gazed so ceaselessly at the silver trees, of Rose where was she now ? and the throwing of
the apple, of the storm, of her discovery, and in the light of her own sad experience she resolved that she would save Nessie from unhappiness, even at the sacrifice of herself, if it lay within her human power. At this thought she arose noiselessly, opened her door, crept across the landing without a sound, passed into Nessie's room, and slipped into bed beside her sister. She folded her arms around the cold, fragile figure of the child, chafing her frigid feet, warming her against her own body, stilling her sobs, comforting her in endearing whispers and at last soothing her into sleep. There, holding in her embrace the sleeping form of her sister, she remained awake long into the night, thinking.
VI
MARY looked at the picture which hung in solitary distinction against the rich, deep red background of the wall of the room with a rapt contemplation which removed her momentarily from the anxiety and confusion which beset her. She stood, her clear profile etched against the window beyond, head thrown back, lips faintly parted, her luminous eyes fixed absorbedly upon the painting out of which breathed a cool, grey mist that lay upon still, grey water, shrouding softly the tall, quiet trees as silvery as her own trees and sheathing itself around the thin, immobile wands of the rushes which fringed the pool; she was elevated from the confusion of mind in which she had entered this house by the rare and melancholy beauty of the picture which, exhibiting with such restraint this passive mood of nature, seemed to move from out its frame and touch her like a reverie, like a sad yet serene meditation upon the sorrow of her own life.
So engrossed was she by her consideration of the picture, which had caught her eye as she sat embarrassed amongst the tasteful furnishings of the room, so moved from her conflicting feelings by the strange, appealing beauty of the painting which had compelled her to rise involuntarily to stand before it, that she failed to observe the smooth movement of the polished mahogany door as it swung open upon its quiet hinges; nor did she observe the man who had entered the room, and who now gazed at her pale, transfigured profile with a sudden intentness, as silent and as entranced as her own contemplation of the picture. He stood as motionless as she did, as though afraid to break the spell which her appearance had laid upon him, but regarding her with pleasure; waiting, too, until she should have filled her eyes enough with the loveliness of the placid pool.
At last she withdrew her glance, sighed, turned unconsciously and, again raising her dark eyes, suddenly perceived him. Immediately all her dispelled confusion rushed back upon her, heightened now to the point of shame, and she flushed, hung her head as he advanced towards her and warmly took her hand.
"It is Mary," he said, "Mary Brodie come back again to see me."
With a great effort she forced her disconcerted gaze upwards, looked at him and replied in a low tone:
"You remember me then. I thought you would have forgotten all about me. I've I've changed so much."
"Changed!" he cried. "You haven't changed, unless it's that you're bonnier than ever! Tut! Don't look so ashamed of it, Mary. It's not a crime to look as lovely as you do."
She smiled faintly at him as he continued cheerfully, "As for forgetting you, how could I forget one of my first patients, the one who did me most credit, when I was struggling along with nothing in this very room but the empty packing case that my books had come in."
She looked round the present rich comfort of the room and, still slightly discomposed, she replied, at a tangent to her main thoughts:
"There's more than that here now, Doctor Renwick!"
"You see! That's what you've done for me," he exclaimed. "Made my name by your pluck in pulling through. You did the work and I got the credit!"
"It was only the credit you got," she replied slowly. "Why did you return the fee I sent you?"
"I got your address from the letter you that ran away without saying good-bye," he cried; "that was all the fee I wanted." He seemed strangely pleased to see her and strangely near to her, as though four years had not elapsed since he had last spoken to her and he still sat by her bedside compelling her back to life by his vital animation.
"Tell me all that you've been doing," he ran on, endeavouring to put her at her ease. "Wag your tongue! Let me see you haven't forgotten your old friends."
"I haven't forgotten you, Doctor, or I wouldn't be here now. I'll never forget all that you've done for me."
"Tuts! I don't want you to wag the tongue that way! I want to hear about yourself. Fm sure you've got all London on its knees before you by this time."
She shook her head at his words and, with a faint humour lurking in her eyes, replied:
"No! I've done the kneeling myself scrubbing floors and washing steps!"
"What!" he cried, in amazed concern. "You haven't been working like that?"