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?"
"I don't mind hard work," she said lightly. "It did me good; took my thoughts away from my own wretched troubles."
"You were never made for that sort of thing," he exclaimed reproachfully. "It's scandalous! It was downright wicked of you to run away as you did. We could have found something more suitable for you to do."
"I wanted to escape from everything then” she answered sadly. "I wished help from no one."
"Well, don't do it again," he retorted with some asperity. "Will you rush away like that again, without saying good-bye to a man?"
"No," she replied mildly.
He could not forbear to smile at her air of submission as he motioned her to sit down and, drawing a small chair close up beside her, said:
"I have been forgetting such manners as I have, to keep you standing like this, but really, Miss Mary, it is such a sudden and unexpected pleasure to see you again! You must be lenient with me." Then after a pause he asked, "You would get my letters? They were dismal reminders of this place, were they not?"
She shook her head.
"I want to thank you for them. I would never have known of Mamma's death if you hadn't written. Those letters brought me back."
He looked at her steadily and replied:
"I knew you would come back some day. I felt it." Then he added, "But tell me what has actually brought you back?"
"Nessie! My sister Nessie!" she said slowly. "Things have been dreadful at home and she has suffered. She needed me so I came home. It's because of her I've come to see you. It's a great liberty on my part after you’ve done so much for me already. Forgive me for coming! I need help!"
"Tell me how you wish me to help you and I'll do it," he exclaimed. "Is Nessie ill?"
"Not exactly ill," said Mary, "although somehow she alarms me; she is so nervous, so easily excited. She laughs and cries by turns and she has got so thin, seems to eat so little. But although it worries me, I really did not come about that." She paused for a moment, gathering courage to tell him, then continued bravely: "It is about my father. He treats her so peculiarly, not unkindly, but forcing her so unreasonably to work at her lessons, to study all the time, not only at school, but the whole long evening and every evening. She is shut up by herself and made to 'stick in' as he calls it, so that she will win the Latta Bursary. He has set his mind on that. She tells me that he throws it at her head every time she sees him, threatening her with all manner of penalties if she fails. If he would leav
e her alone, she would do it in her own way, but he drives and drives at her and she is so fragile I am afraid of what is going to happen. Last night she cried for an hour in my arms before she went to sleep. I am very anxious!"
He looked at her small, sad, earnest face, was filled with a quick vision of her comforting and consoling her sister, thought suddenly of the child which, despite his every effort, had been lost to her, and with a grave face answered:
"I can see you are anxious, but it is a difficult matter to interfere in. We must consider it. Your father is not actually cruel to her?"
"No! But he terrifies her. He used to be fond of her but he is so changed now that even his fondness is changed to something strange and terrible."
He had heard, of course, the stories concerning Brodie's altered habits but forbore to question her more deeply on this particular point and, instead, he exclaimed:
"Why is he so eager for her to win the Latta? It's usually a boy that wins that is it not never a girl?"
"That may be the reason," replied Mary sadly; "he's always been mad for some unusual kind of success to bring credit on himself; always wanted Nessie to do well because of his own pride. But now I'm certain he doesn't know what he'll do with her when she's won it. He's shoving her on to no purpose."
"Is young Grierson in the running for the Bursary?" queried Renwick, after a moment's consideration. "Your father and Grierson are not exactly on good terms, I believe."
Mary shook her head.
"It's deeper than that, I'm sure," she answered. "You would think the winning of it was going to make Father the envy of the whole town the way he talks."
He looked at her comprehendingly.
"I know your father, Mary, and I know what you mean. I'm afraid all is not right with him. There was always something Well I've come across him in the past too…", he did not say that it had been chiefly on her behalf, "and we have never agreed. There would be little use in my going to see him if, indeed, it were permissible for me to do so. Any direct action of mine would serve only to aggravate him and make his conduct worse."
As she sat observing him while, with an abstracted gaze, he pondered the question, she thought how wise, how kind and considerate he was towards her, not rushing blindly, but reasoning coherently on her behalf; her eyes moved slowly across his strong dark face, vital yet austere, over his spare, active and slightly stooping form, until they fell at length upon his hands, showing sensitive, strong, and brown against the immaculate white bands of his starched linen cuffs. These firm, delicate hands had probed the mysteries of her inanimate body, had saved her life, such as it was, and as she contrasted them in her mind with her own blotched and swollen fingers, she felt the gulf which separated her from this man whose help she had been bold enough to seek. What exquisite hands! A sudden sense of her own inferiority, of her incongruity amongst the luxury and taste of her present surroundings afflicted her, and she diverted her gaze quickly from him to the ground, as though afraid that he might
intercept and interpret her glance.
"Would you care for me to see the Rector of the Academy about Nessie?" he asked at length. "I know Gibson well and might in confidence ask his assistance in the matter. I had thought at first of speaking to Sir John Latta, but your father is engaged at the office of the shipyard now and it might prejudice him there. We doctors have got to be careful of what we are about. It's a precarious existence," he smiled. "Would you like me to see Gibson, or would you rather send Nessie to me to let me have a look at her?"
"I think if you saw the Rector, it would be splendid. He had great influence with Father once," she replied gratefully. "Nessie is so frightened of Father she would be afraid to come here."
"And were you not afraid to come?" he asked, with a look which seemed to comfort her with its knowledge of her past fortitude.
"Yes," she answered truthfully. "I was afraid you would refuse to see me. I have no one to ask for help for Nessie but you. She is so young. Nothing must happen to her!" She paused, then added in a low tone, "You might not have wished to see me. You know all about me, what I have been!"
"Don't! Don't say that, Mary! All that I know of you is good. I have remembered you for these years because of your goodness, your gentleness and your courage." As he looked at her now he would have added, "and your loveliness," but he refrained and said instead, "In all my life I never met such a sweet, unselfish spirit as yours. It graved itself unforgettably upon my mind. I hate to hear you belittle yourself like that."
She flushed at the warm comfort of his words and replied:
"It's like you to say that, but I don't deserve it. Still, if I can do something for Nessie to make up for my own mistakes, I'll be happy."
"Are you an old woman to talk like that! What age are you?" he cried impetuously. "You're not twenty-two yet. Good Lord! You Ye only a child, with a whole lifetime in front of you. All the pain you've suffered can be wiped out you've had no real happiness yet worth the name. Begin to think of yourself again, Mary. I saw you looking at that picture of mine when I came in. I saw how it took you out of yourself. Make your life a whole gallery of these pictures you must amuse yourself read all the books you can get take up some interest. I might get you a post as companion where you could travel abroad."
She was, in spite of herself, strangely fascinated by his words and, casting her thoughts back, she recollected how she had been thrilled in like fashion by Denis, when he had opened out entrancing avenues for her with his talk of Paris, Rome and of travel through wide, mysterious lands. That had been a long time ago, when he had moved horizons for her with a sweep of his gay, audacious hand and whirled fier abroad on the carpet of his graphic, laughing speech. He read her thoughts with a faculty of intuition which confounded her and said slowly:
"You still think of him, I see."
She looked up in some slight dismay, divining that he misjudged the full tendency of her emotion, which was merely a retrospective sadness, but, feeling that she could not be disloyal to the memory of Denis, she did not speak.
"I would like to do something for you, Mary," he resumed quietly, "something which would make you happy. I have some influence. Will you allow me to find some post which is suited to you and to your worth, before I go away from here?"
She started at his words, bereft suddenly of her warm feeling of comfort, and stammered:
"Are you going away, then?"
"Yes," he replied, "I'm off within six months. I'm taking up a special branch of work in Edinburgh. I have the chance to get on the staff there something bigger than the Cottage Hospital. It's a great opportunity for me."
She saw herself alone, without his strong, resolute support, vainly endeavouring to protect Nessie from her father, interposing her own insignificant resolution between Brodie's drunken unreason and her sister's weakness, and in a flash she comprehended how much she had built on the friendship of this man before her, understood how great was her regard for him.
"It's splendid for you to have got on so well," she whispered. "But it's only what you deserve. I know you'll do as well in Edinburgh as you've done here. I don't need to wish you success."
"I don't know," he replied, "but I shall like it. Edinburgh is the city to live in grey yet beautiful. Take Prince's Street in the autumn with the leaves crackling in the gardens, and the Castle russet against the sky, and the blue smoke drifting across Arthur's Seat, and the breeze tingling, as clean and crisp as fine wine. No one could help but love it." He glowed at the thought of it and
continued, "It's my native place, of course you must forgive my pride. Still, everything is bigger there finer and cleaner, like the air."
She followed his words breathlessly, seeing vividly the picture that he drew for her, but filling it always with his own figure, so that it was not only Prince's Street which she saw but Renwick striding along its grey surface, against the mellow background of the Castle Gardens.
"It sounds beautiful. I have never been there but I can picture it
all," she murmured, meaning actually that she could picture him there.
"Let me find something for you to do before I go away," he persisted; "something to take you out of that house."
She could feel that he was anxious for her to accept his offer, but she thrust the enticing prospect away from her, saying:
"I came back of my own choice to look after Nessie! I couldn't leave her now. It's been a terrible life for her for the last few months and if I went away again, anything might happen to her."
He perceived then that she was fixed upon remaining and immediately a profound concern for her future disturbed him, as if he saw her already immolated on the altar of her own unselfishness, a sacrifice, despite his intervention, to the outrageous pride of her father.
What purpose had it served for him to save her, to have helped her to escape from death, were she to drift back once again into the same environment, the same danger in a more deadly form? He was affected even to the point of marvelling at his own emotion, but quickly masking his feelings he exclaimed cheerfully:
"I'll do my best for Nessie! I'll see Gibson to-day or to-morrow. Everything that I can do shall be done. Don't worry too much about her. Take more heed of yourself."
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