by A. J. Cronin
“Frank has offered me a job in the Khedive office.” Gracie made the announcement with a more than usual display of feeling. “Good hours and generous pay. Isn’t that sweet of him?”
“Indeed it is,” said Kate with a quick breath of satisfaction.
“Not at all,” Harmon protested easily. “Only too happy to be of service.” He glanced at his watch, a fine gold hunter, and stood up. “ Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment at the shipyard. When the warm days come, Mrs Nimmo, you must let me drive you to the loch. My little runabout goes very well… I’ll guarantee we don’t break down.”
He shook hands all round, very massive and agreeable, then pulled on his gloves. Daniel showed him to the door and, when the chugging of the machine had died away, stood a moment to readjust his thoughts.
It was good, yes, splendid that Gracie should have settled work. He must not let his dislike of Harmon colour his judgement. This was the first essential step towards the reorganisation of Gracie’s life. As to the next, he, Daniel, must ensure its achievement. After all, some initial difficulty was only to be expected, and the setback which he had experienced in Perth was anything but final. There were other avenues of approach open to him—he would advertise in the Winton newspapers, offer a reward, even write to the chief constable of the county.
At these reflections he felt more confident, pervaded by a slow resurgence of optimism and resource. At all costs he would find Gracie’s child, the one instrument which would stabilise his wayward, his beloved niece. Turning, he went back briskly to the parlour.
Here Kate had already removed evidence of the unprecedented repast. Only the decanter remained, having been returned, reproachfully it seemed, to its place of state upon the chiffonier.
It was, in fact, more than half-empty and as he studied, absently, its seriously depleted state, the suspicion suddenly crossed Daniel’s mind that Gracie must surely have taken more than the single glass which courtesy required of her. He glanced towards her quickly. With flushed cheeks and bright eyes she had gone to the piano and was playing a lively waltz.
Chapter Three
The weather continued fine for several weeks and July came in with a blaze of solar heat. Awnings appeared over the windows of the town and the watering cart went round the cobbled streets.
One Friday night towards the middle of the month David Murray was working late in his office in Church Street. It was not a large office, but it had a certain solid and well-established air. The high desk was of fine mahogany, bound by a heavy brass rail, and the old-fashioned safe set deep into the wall seemed strong enough to stand a siege. Two windows, opening into Church Wynd, were masked by a dark gauze screen on which was painted, in faded gilt, Waldie and Waldie, Solicitors. The same name, almost polished out, was upon the brass doorplate.
The firm had been founded by Archibald Waldie more than 50 years before, then carried on for some time by Alexander, his son. Alex, however, had shown a strong inclination towards commerce, had taken up contracting in lieu of law practice, and succeeded beyond all expectations. This, in the first instance, had given Murray an opportunity.
David’s career as a law student had been brilliant. He had neither money nor standing—his father, who died when he was young, had been merely the janitor of the Burgh Hall—but Davie had that inestimable quality of the Scots youth, not merely brains, but also application. He won every scholarship open to him and took his degree with first-class honours. And then, from being merely “articled”, came his chance, without payment of a premium, with Waldie and Waldie.
For three years now Davie Murray had managed the law business, and with his engagement to Waldie’s daughter, Isabel, recently announced, it was common knowledge that he would succeed to it, and to other things as well.
Davie, with his quick, dark, open face, his eagerness to please, his endless diligence, was liked by everyone. “Yes,” Alex Waldie would frequently remark, with a mixture of complacency and patronage, “our Davie’s a glutton for work.”
At present, however, Murray seemed to find concentration difficult. He had a task to do, the desk was littered with the monthly returns of the County Water Board, yet his thoughts were far away from figures.
With a nervous frown he sat tangling his black hair with his fingers—a habit of his student years—and thinking, yes, thinking of Gracie. Why, oh why, had he let himself get mixed up with her again? It really was not wise, in fact, it was devilish stupid. And yet, she was so sweet, so bonnie, she lifted a man’s heart right out of his body, she was really the only woman he had ever loved.
At their secret stolen meetings it was like living in another world where money, position, prospects, where, indeed, his whole career, did not matter a brass farthing beside the tender shining of her eyes.
Murray groaned, and his gaze strayed to the cabinet photograph of Isabel Waldie in its new silver frame, planted on the desk directly before him. He bit his pen with a deepening frown. Yet David was not really looking at the photograph. He was looking at himself, and the image that he saw was hardly the popular picture he habitually presented to the town.
In Murray there were two personalities, and they lived in ever-growing conflict—the one sensitive, intense, utopian, the other a shrewd and calculating character determined to succeed at any cost. At the university Murray had read the verse of Robert Tannahill and led the Fabian Society debates. Now, though he still sported his old Fabian tie occasionally, he had others of more sedate hue which he wore when meeting the bailies at the local burgh council or when sitting in conference with Alex Waldie over plans for the new Knoxhill Gas Company.
Bitterly, and often with the self-analysis that troubles such a man, Murray told himself that he had the soul of a poet and the heart of an adventurer. He lacked the qualities of a businessman, the application which would gain him the praise of Waldie and his friends. He hated the smiling deference and the favours that were reserved for the nabobs of the little town, and despised their petty intrigues. But how could he resist taking his share of the good things that were offered? Calculating and shrewd, he knew how to work to his own advantage. But as soon as he could afford it, he would return to the delights of poetry.
With a cry of disgust, Murray threw down his pen— he could not do any more work tonight. At that moment he heard a step and Alex Waldie came in briskly.
“I thought I would find you working,” he said. “ It is time to shut up shop.”
Murray lowered his eyes for fear of giving himself away.
“I was just stopping.”
“That’s good. Too much work is bad for the spirits. Come on, then. My car is outside and they are waiting for us at home.”
Murray, his face expressionless, began to arrange his papers while Waldie walked up and down. He was a square, heavy man with a pock-marked face and sly little eyes. He found it impossible to keep still.
Davie was ready at last and the two men left the office. Outside, the heat of the day had given place to a pleasant cool. Waldie tucked the rug with ostentatious friendliness round Murray’s knees and they drove off in his gig towards Knoxhill.
Once or twice it seemed as if, beneath his joviality, he flashed an acute and surreptitious glance at his silent companion. But outwardly he was more cordial than ever. And presently he remarked in an intimate tone:
“Our ‘pauchie’ with Langloan is going through all right.”
A shadow of distaste passed over Murray’s face, but he nodded his head in agreement.
“The deeds will be up for signature tomorrow.”
“Good work, Davie!” complimented Waldie.
David said nothing.
The “pauchie”—a Scottish euphemism for a twisty stroke of business—referred to the purchase of 70 acres of land which would, in the Lord’s good time, become the site of the new gas works. Langloan, the hardworking market gardener to whom the land belonged, was selling it for an old song. Murray, as Waldie’s agent, was the purchaser.
Alexander Waldie was, without doubt, a good man to stand in with; he had his thumb upon most of the affairs of Levenford, and, overflowing the royal burgh, his interests extended to several terraces of houses in Dalreoch. He had also a couple of tramp steamers coasting down to Campbeltown, a controlling share in the Leven tannery, in the dye works in Darroch and the saw-mill at Garshake.
As distinguished from the goods in which he dealt, which were often of the worst, Waldie had a motto for his own possessions, “Nothing but the best”. And his house—a grey sandstone affair in the Scote baronial style, surrounded by a gravelled terrace and circular beds of red geraniums—expressed this opulent philosophy to the full.
Within, the furniture was massive. The dining-room especially, into which Waldie led Murray immediately on their arrival, was distinguished by a ponderous sideboard reaching almost to the ceiling, two huge stags’ heads—not shot by Waldie—upon the wall, a set of chairs specially carved in black walnut, and a heavy table of the same wood, already set for supper.
Despite this formidable magnificence Waldie, like many another self-made man, made a virtue of his plainness. “Take us as you find us” was his favourite phrase, and tonight, in his usual blunt fashion, he did not stand on ceremony.
“Are you ready for us, woman?” he called out to his wife, then explained to David, with a smile, “They’ll be upstairs at their titivating.”
Almost immediately, however, Isabel and her mother came down. And when the usual greetings had passed Waldie rubbed his hands and chuckled.
“Come away now, Davie! We’ll sit in and have a bite!”
The “bite” was less supper than a late high tea— the main dish was a fine cut of salmon, flanked by a saddle of lamb and a cold boiled ham. In addition, there were ample supplies of bread, toast and scones, a plateful of oatcakes, another of pastries and yet another of shortbread, a large wedge of cheese, a barrel of biscuits, and finally, a shuddering pink blancmange. Enough food lay upon the table—and Waldie often remarked the fact—to feed an ordinary family for a week. And now, as he set about it, he kept genially exhorting Murray to do the same.
Despite his abstraction, David was not unaware that the contractor was more expansive than usual in his manner, and his wife considerably less so. There was a watchful, a “put-out” look on Mrs Waldie’s homely face, and she sat very upright in her chair with an air rather different from her ordinary fond indulgence. She answered his remarks without enthusiasm and seemed alert for even his slightest lapse.
“Pass the vinegar to Mr Waldie, David!” Her voice held an unaccustomed inflection of reproach.
Isabel, on the other hand, was more openly affectionate than ever. She wore a new blue dress, cut low at the neck, with an edging of fichu upon the short sleeves. It was clear she had taken a great deal of trouble with her appearance and had liberally besprinkled herself with the new perfume, Jockey Club. In her manner there was all the coyness of an affianced young woman, and her doll-like blue eyes languished possessively upon David whenever he glanced across at her. He had a suspicion that her hand, lingering beneath the table, was ready to link with his.
“You haven’t tried the shortbread,” she pouted. “ I made it specially for you.”
He took a piece, and a flush of gratification flooded her face. Murray, in spite of himself, was touched. He had no conceit. He felt suddenly that her fondness for him was something which he should prize. Although not endowed with grace or wit, she was a sensible girl of a safe, conventional pattern, not unattractive, really, with her high colour and plump figure. Tonight, because of the way she had done her hair, her features lost their heaviness and her mouth its petulant droop.
“Isabel’s a rare hand at the shortbread.” The contractor gave an approving nod as he helped himself.
“Yes,” Mrs Waldie agreed, “ Her baking never gives me the wind!”
Isabel’s expression changed and, conscious of the vulgarity, she glanced at her mother with annoyance. That worthy woman was always offending her daughter’s sense of refinement.
This refinement of Isabel’s was peculiar, a queer physical reaction which affected her when she was confronted even by the minor indelicacies of life, by the use of words like sweat and saliva, even in their proper context, by the hair on the back of her father’s hands as he reached out to pat her by anything even remotely gross.
For a long time she had yearned to be in love and had tried to care for various young men of Levenford, who, because of her father’s position, readily paid court to her. But in each case the physical reaction intervened. Young Edward Mowat, the minister’s son, deemed an admirable match, had displeased her because he always had a frost of dandruff on his coat collar. Mungo Crawford, student of medicine and successor to his father’s practice, had been banished because once when he kissed her he placed his tongue against her lips. As to young Dickie, Isabel, alone in the sanctuary of her bedroom, had rocked herself to and fro in cosmic anguish; “Oh dear, oh dear! The very odour of him sickens me!”
And then came Davie Murray, pleasant, handsome, and “ nice”. Here, however carefully she might seek—ah, here was nothing to revolt her. And so, free of her obsession, Isabel made of Davie the paragon. The true Sir Launcelot. She pined in his absence, hung upon his words, basked in the sunshine of his smile.
Tonight, however, Davie had few smiles for her. The suspicion was growing upon him that something hidden and impending hung above the groaning board. Indeed, when they had finished, an imperceptible interchange of glances took place between Waldie and his wife. Mrs Waldie rose:
“Come, Isabel! We’ll let your father and David have their smoke. They’ll join us in the parlour later.”
“But, mother,” Isabel protested with a drooping lip, “I’d rather stop with David.”
“Tut, tut,” Waldie intervened, eyeing his daughter with affectionate remonstrance. “You can spare him for a minute, surely.”
“Then let me light his cigar,” Isabel pouted. She fetched over the big silver box and made quite a ceremony of it, forgetting that Waldie also wished to smoke, until her mother’s reproving voice rang out from the door. “Your father, Isabel, if you please.”
When the two men were alone, Waldie, his cigar between his moist lips, winked at David, very jovial and masculine, and produced the whisky from the sideboard. He poured a stiff tot for each of them, then lay back with a sigh, surrounded by the remnants of the feast, a well-fed citizen, his fingers twiddling the gold chain on his projecting paunch, his foot, swinging rhythmically beneath the table.
“Well, here’s to us.” He brought out his usual toast, adding before he drank, “Who’s like us!”
There was a pause while Waldie drew his breath in over the spirits, audibly, reflectively.
“You know, Davie,” he exclaimed suddenly, “ I’m very fond of Isabel. She’s a nice lass!”
Murray received his glass awkwardly.
“Come to that,” Waldie went on, “I’m fond of you yourself, lad. Now, now, don’t interrupt me. I mean what I say. And I’m glad to see you getting on. Mind you, though maybe I shouldn’t mention the fact, it was I who gave you your start. And if you handle yourself properly, with me behind you, there’s no knowing to what heights you may go.” He lowered his voice seductively. “After all, this law business is only a means to an end. You and I could be partners, Davie, in time, if we matched our steps up the hill together!”
Murray, eyes still fixed on the tablecloth, made an indistinct murmur of gratitude, and his heart beat a trifle faster at the thought.
“You see,” Waldie continued in a guileless voice, “my lass is in love with you, Davie. She wants you. And she’s our ewe lamb you und
erstand, I wouldn’t have her disappointed for all the gold in China. That’s why”— Waldie smiled and poured more whisky for each of them—“ that’s why I was upset by a piece of information that came my way today.” Murray felt his pulse miss a beat.
“What information?”
“I may as well be candid with you, Davie. I heard that you’re carrying on with that Lindsay woman.”
Murray, though scarcely taken by surprise, reddened to the roots of his hair. He answered hurriedly, defensively:
“You know what a place Levenford is for gossip.”
“Ay, ay, I know,” Waldie answered with a sympathetic laugh which caused Murray’s flush to deepen. His lips twitched back in a nervous grimace.
“It’s a complete exaggeration. I’ve only seen her once or twice.”
Waldie laughed again.
“Of course. There’s not a grain of truth in it. The idea! But mind you, it wasn’t exactly pleasant hearing for me. And of course I had to mention it to the wife. Needless, to say, Isabel doesn’t know a word of it.”
“I’m glad of that.” Davie kept his eyes averted and something made him add: “Although it’s so damned absurd.”
“Ay, ay, damned absurd,” agreed Waldie smoothly. “But still I had to speak to you about it. You see, the remedy’s so simple.”
There was a pause, then Murray lifted his head, meeting the contractor’s gaze with a struggle, a great effort. Behind the unctuous merriment, the jovial good fellowship in those deep-set eyes, he sensed a sudden challenge, a menace it was impossible to ignore.
“What remedy?” he muttered.
“Just this, Davie man,” said Waldie slowly. “ That we fix the day of the wedding.” His teeth were together firmly, but his voice, dropping out the words, was smooth as oil. “When will we put up the banns?”