"It's nearly eight as it is, I'm afraid. You'll have to be stirring now or you'll be late," and she made as though to move.
"Just a minute, though, Mamma!"
"Yes, dear!"
"I wanted to ask you another thing!" He hesitated and looked at her soulfully, having, from his point of view, reached the critical point of the interview. u Mamma," he murmured irresolutely.
"What is it, Matt, my dear?"
'It's just like this, Mamma! I may as well be honest with you! I've been an awful spendthrift," he confessed. "People have taken advantage of my generosity. I have no money just now. How can I go about with Agnes with nothing in my pocket?" He had the air of one, the victim of his own open-handedness, from whom the words fell shamefully. "I'm used to having some cash always with me. It makes me feel so small to be without it, specially when I'm with a lady, back in my own town. Could you not help me, Mamma, until I get started again?"
She saw at once that it was a supremely reasonable request. She had been right in assuming that her boy, accustomed to high and lavish society, could not confront Levenford penniless; still less could he encounter Miss Moir in such a penurious predicament. In the flush of her reunion to him she threw caution to the winds and, with a magnificent sacrifice, she arose silently, unlocked her drawer and withdrew from it the square box which contained her accumulated savings for the initial repayment of her heavy debt. She looked adoringly at Matthew, heedless of the future, remembering only that she was the mother of this loving and devoted son.
"This is my all, Matt," she said soberly, "and I've saved it dearly for a most important and necessary cause. But I'm going to give ye some of it."
His eyes gleamed as she opened the box and took out a pound.
"Take this for your pocket, son," she said simply, holding out the note to him in her outstretched hand, her worn face softened by love, her bent figure drooping a little towards him. "I give it to you gladly. It's yours!" It was a sacrifice of supreme and touching beauty.
"How much have ye altogether?" asked Matthew ingenuously, rising up and going close to her. "You've got a lot in there, right enough."
"There's nearly three pounds here," she replied, "and it's been a weary job for me to save it. Times are hard with us now, Matt harder than ye might think. I'll need every penny of this by the end of the month."
"Mamma! Let me keep it for you," he said wheedlingly. "I'll keep it till the end of the month. I'll not spend it. I might as well keep it in my pocket as let you lock it in that old tin box. What a funny place to keep your money!" He made the idea of her little box as a receptacle for money appear almost ludicrous. "I'll be your banker, Mamma! It's nice for me to feel I have something to fall back on, even if I never have the need for it. Just the feel of it beside me would make me comfortable. Come on, Mamma! A pound is nothing, really, to a fellow like me." He held out his hand coaxingly.
She looked at him with a vague, frightened doubt in her eyes.
"It's most important for me to have this money by the end o' the month," she stammered. "I don't know what'll happen if I haven't got it."
"You shall have it then," he assured her. "What a worrier you are! Leave it to me. I'm as safe as the Bank of England!" He took the money out of the open box as he continued talking volubly, reassuringly. "You're not going to let your Matt go about like a pauper, are you, Mamma!" He laughed at the very idea. "A gentleman needs a little ready brass to give him assurance. You'll be right as rain, Mamma," he continued, edging into the hall. "I'll see to that! Don't sit up for me now; I'll like as not be late."
He was out and away with a last, gay wave and she was left with the open, empty box in her hands, staring at the panels of the front door that had closed behind him. She sighed convulsively whilst the piano chattered i& her ears with a false sprightliness. Blindly she suppressed the recurrent thought of her missing watch and an inchoate doubt as co the wisdom of so weakly allowing him to take the money. Matt was a good boy! He was hers again and their mutual love would surmount any obstacle and conquer all difficulties. He was on his way to worship God with a good Christian girl. Happiness flowed into her heart once more and she returned to the kitchen, well content with what she had done.
She sat down, gazing into the fire, a faint reminiscent smile upon her face at the memory of his tenderness to her. "He did relish that fish, the boy," she murmured to herself. "I maun make him some more nice dishes." Then, suddenly, as she was about to recall Nessie to her lessons, the door bell rang with a short, trenchant peal. Mamma felt startled as she got up, it was so far beyond the time of an ordinary visitor. Matthew had his key, he could not have returned like this; the least thing upset her nowadays, she reflected, as she cautiously opened the door. Miss Moir, palely outlined in the glimmer of the lobby lamp, stood before her.
"Oh! Aggie dear, it's you," she exclaimed in some relief, pressing her hand to her side. "I got quite a fright. You've just missed Matthew by a few minutes."
"Can I come in, Mrs. Brodie?" Again Mamma was startled. Not once in the space of three years had Agnes addressed her in such terms and never in such a strange, unnatural voice.
"Come in of course ye can come in, but but I'm telling you Matthew has gone out to meet ye."
"I would like to speak to you, please." '
In amazement Mamma admitted a frozen-faced Agnes. They went into the kitchen.
"What's it a' about, dear?" she faltered. "I don't understand this in the least. Matt's away to meet you. Are ye not well?"
"Quite well, thank you," came from Miss Moir's stiff lips. "Did you know that that Matthew came to see me this afternoon?"
She had the utmost difficulty in uttering his name.
"Yes! He's just told me. He's gone to take you to the meeting; Matt has gone to get you” repeated Mrs. Brodie stupidly, mechanically, as a fearful spasm gripped her heart.
"It's a lie!" exclaimed Agnes. "He's not gone to see me or to look near any meeting."
"What!" faltered Mamma.
"Did he tell you what happened to-day?" said Agnes, sitting up straight and gazing in front of her with hard eyes.
"No! No!" halted Mamma. "He said he couldna speak about it yet."
"I can well believe that," cried Agnes bitterly.
"What was it, then?" whimpered Mrs. Brodie. "Tell us, for God's sake."
Agnes paused for a moment, then, with a quick indrawing of her breath, she steeled herself to her humiliation. "He came in smelling of drink; in fact, he was nearly the worse of it. In spite of that, I was glad to see him. He went into the back shop. He talked a lot of nonsense and then he tried to borrow to borrow money off me."
She sobbed dryly. "I would have given him it but I saw he would just spend it on spirits. When I refused he called me awful names. He swore at me. He said I was a " She broke down completely.
Her big eyes gushed tears. Her full bosom panted with hard sobs; her large mouth drew into gibbering grimaces. In a frenzy of lamentation she flung herself at Mrs. Brodie's feet.
"But that wasna everything," she cried. "I had to go into the shop a minute. When I came back he tried to he tried to insult me, Mamma. I had to struggle with him. Oh! If only he had been kind to me, I would have given him what he wanted. I don't care whether I'm wicked or not. I would! I would!" she shrieked. Her sobs strangled her. "I love him, but he doesn't love me. He called me an ugly bitch. He tried to take to take advantage of me. Oh! Mamma, it's killing me. I wanted him to do it, if only he had loved me. I wanted it!" she repeated in a high hysteria. "I had to tell ye. I'm worse than Mary was. I wish I was dead and finished."
She flung back her head and gazed wildly at Mrs. Brodie. The eyes of the two women met and fused in a dull horror of despair, then Mamma's lips twisted grotesquely, her mouth drew to one side, she made as though to speak but could not, and with an incoherent cry she fell back helplessly in her chair. As Agnes gazed at the limp figure, her eyes slowly grew startled, her thoughts withdrew gradually from her own sorrow.
"Are ye ill?" she gasped. "Oh! I didn't think it would take you like that. I'm so upset myself I never thought it might make you feel as bad as that. Can I not get you anything?"
Mamma's eyes sought the other's face, but still she did not speak.
"What can I do for you?" cried Agnes again. "You look so bad I'm frightened. Will I get you some water will I get the doctor? Speak to me."
At last Mamma spoke.
"I thought my boy was going out with ye to worship the Lord," she whispered in a strange voice. "I prayed that it should be so."
"Oh! Don't talk like that," exclaimed Agnes. "You'll need to corns and lie down a wee. Come and lie down till you're better!"
"My side hurts me," said Mamma dully. "It must be that my heart is broken. Let me go to my bed. I want to be quiet and by my lone in the darkness."
"Let me help you, then," cried Agnes, and taking the other's passive arm she drew her to her feet, supported her, and led her unresistingly up the stairs to her bedroom. There she undressed her and assisted her to bed. "What else can I do for you?" she said, finally. "Would you like the hot bottle?"
"Just leave me," replied Mamma, lying on her back and looking directly upwards. "Ye've been kind to help me, but I want to be by myself now."
"Let me sit with you for a bit! I don't like to go away yet awhile."
"No! Agnes. I want ye to go!" said Mrs. Brodie, in a dull flat voice. "I want to shut myself in the darkness. Turn out the gas and leave me. Just leave me be."
"Will I not leave the gas in a peep?" persisted Agnes. "No matter what's happened I can't think to go away like this."
"I wish the darkness," commanded Mrs. Brodie, "and I wish to be alone,"
Agnes made as though to speak but, feeling the futility of further protest, she took a last look at the inert figure upon the bed, then, as she had been bidden, turned out the gas. Leaving the room in blackness she passed silently from the house.
IX
As Matthew shut the front door upon Mamma and ran lightly down the steps, he was filled with a lively humour and as he smiled knowingly, the sham meekness fell from his face like a mask. "That's the way to work the old woman. Smart! Done like an artist too," he chuckled to himself, "and not bad for a first touch." He was proud of his achievement and felt in agreeable anticipation that he would do even better next time, that Mamma must have a tidy sum tucked away in a safe place. It would be his for the asking! The few shillings which he had received by pawning her watch had disgusted him, for he had expected it to be worth considerably more, but now that he had a few pounds in his pocket, his prestige and cheerfulness were restored. Just let him have the cash, he told himself gleefully, and he was all right. He knew how to disport himself with it!
The lights of the town twinkled invitingly. After Calcutta, Paris, London, he would find Levenford contemptibly small, yet this very disdain filled him with a delightful self-esteem. He, the man of the world, would show them a few things in the town to-night. Yes, by gad! he would paint it a bright, vermilion red! At his thoughts, a throaty laugh broke from him exultantly and he looked about him eagerly. As he swung along he saw dimly on the other side of the street the moving figure of a woman and, looking after the indistinct figure, he leered to himself, "That one's not much good to a man, she's in too much of a hurry. What does she want to run like that for?" He did not know that it was Agnes Moir on her way to see his mother.
He quickened his steps through the darkness that wrapped him like a cloak, revelling in this obscurity which made him feel more dashing, alive than the broad light of day. What manner of youth had he once been, to be afraid of this stimulating opacity? It was the time when a man woke up, when he could have some fun! Memories of lotus-eating nights he had spent in India recurred to him and, as they rose before him, whetting his anticipation, he muttered, "These were the nights. These were the splurges. I'll go back, all right. Trust me!" Gaily he plunged into the first public house in the street.
"Gin and angostura," he cried in an experienced tone, banging a pound note down on the bar. When the drink came he drained it in a gulp and nodded his head affirmatively, sophisticatedly. With the second glass in his hand he gathered up his change, slipped it into his pocket, tilted his hat to a rakish angle and looked round the saloon.
It was a poor sort of place, he noted indifferently, with drab red walls, poor lights, dirty spittoons and sawdust on the floor. Heavens! Sawdust on the floor, after the rich, thick-piled carpet into which his feet had sunk so seductively in that little place in Paris. Despite his demand, there had been no bitters in his gin. Still, he did not care: this was only the opener! His first and invariable proceeding on these jovial excursions was to get a few drinks into himself quickly. "When I've got a bead in me," he would say, "I'm as right as the mail. Man! I'm a spunky devil then." Until he felt the airy spinning of wheels within his brain he lacked drive, daring and nerve; for, despite his bluster, he was at heart the same soft, irresolute weakling as before and he required this blurring of his impressionable senses before he could enjoy himself in perfect self-confidence. His susceptible nature reacted quickly to the suggestive urge of alcohol and his bold dreams and pretentious longings were solidified thereby into actualities, so that he assumed with every glass a more superior aspect, a more mettled air of defiance.
"Anything happening in this hole to-night?" he enquired largely of the barman it was the class of tavern which, of necessity, had a large, powerful male behind the bar. The barman shook his close-cropped bullet head, looking curiously at the other, wondering who the young swell might be.
"No!" he replied cautiously, "I don't think so. There was a mechanics' concert in the Borough Hall on Thursday!"
"Gad!" replied Matthew, with a guffaw. "You don't call that sort of thing amusement. You're not civilised here. Don't you know anything about a neat little place to dance in, with a smart wench or two about. Something in the high-stepping line."
"You'll no' get that here," replied the tapman shortly, wiping the bar dry with a cloth, and adding sourly, "This is a decent town you're in."
"Don't I know it," cried Matt expansively, embracing with his glance the only other occupant of the room a labouring man who sat on a settle against the wall, watching him with a fascinated eye from behind a pint pot of beer. "Don't I know it. It's the deadest, most sanctimonious blot on the map of Europe. Aha! But you should see what I've seen. I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end. But what's the odds. You don't know the difference here between a bottle of Pommeroy and a pair of French corsets."
He laughed loudly at his own humour, viewing their incredulous faces with an increasing merriment, then suddenly, although gratified at the impression he had created, he perceived that no further amusement, no further adventure was to be had there, and, moving to the door with a nod of his head and a tilt of his hat, he lounged out through the swing doors into the night.
He sauntered slowly along Church Street. That delicious woolly numbness was already beginning to creep around the back of his ears and infiltrate his brain. An easy sensation of well-being affected him; he wanted lights, company, music. Disgustedly he looked at the blank, shuttered shop windows and the few quickly moving pedestrians, and parodying contemptuously the last remark of the barman, he muttered to himself, "This is a decent graveyard you're in." He was seized by a vast and contemptuous loathing for Levenford. What good was a town of this kind to a seasoned man like him whose worldly knowledge stretched from the flash houses in Barrackpore to the Odeon bar in Paris?
Moodily, at the corner of Church Street and High Street, he turned into another saloon. Here, however, his glance immediately brightened. This place was warm, well lit, and filled with the animated chatter of voices; a glitter of mirrors and cut glass threw back myriads of coruscating lights; stacks of bottles with vivid labels were banked behind the bar and through half -drawn curtains he saw, in another room, the smooth, green cloth of a billiard table.
"Give me a Mackay'
s special," he ordered impressively. "John Mackay's and no other for me."
A plump, pink woman with jet drop earrings served him delicately. He admired the crook of her little finger as she decanted the spirits, considering it the essence of refinement, and although she was matronly he smiled at her blandly. He was such a lion with the ladies! A reputation like his must be sustained at all costs!
"Nice snug little place you've got here," he remarked loudly. "Reminds me of Spinosa's bar in Calcutta. Not so large but pretty well as comfortable!" There was a hush in the conversation, and feeling with satisfaction that he was being stared at, he sipped his whisky appreciatively, with the air of a connoisseur, and went on, "They don't give you the right stuff out there, though! Not unless you watch them! Too much blue vitriol in it. Like the knock-out gin at Port Said. Nothing like the real John Mackay." To his satisfaction, a few people began to collect round him; an English sailor in the crowd nudged him familiarly and said, thickly:
"You been out there too, cocky?"
"Just back!" said Matt affably, draining his glass. "Back across the briny from India."
"And so have I," replied the other, staring at Matthew with a fixed solemnity, then gravely shaking hands with him, as though the fact that they had both returned from India made them brothers now and for all time. "Bloody awful heat out there, isn't it, cocky? Gives me a thirst that lasts till I get back."
"Have a wet, then?"
"Naow! You have one along o' me!"
Agreeably they argued the point until they finally decided by tossing.
"Lovely lady," cried Matthew, with a killing glance at the fat barmaid. He won and the sailor ordered drinks for every one in the small coterie. "Right with the ladies every time," sniggered Matthew. He was glad that he had won and the sailor, in the exuberance of his drunken hospitality, glad to have lost. Whilst they drank, they compared their amazing experiences and the mob gaped whilst they discussed mosquitoes, monsoons, bars, bazaars, ship biscuits, pagodas, sacred and profane cows and the contours and anatomical intimacies of Armenian women. Stories circulated as freely as the drinks until the sailor, far ahead in the matter of inebriation, began to grow incoherent, maudlin, and Matt, at the outset of his night's enjoyment and swollen with an exuberant dignity, set himself to look for an excuse to shake him off.
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