by A. J. Cronin
Murray’s fingers stiffened round his glass. He saw it all—how Waldie had led him on under the bland pretence of belief in his denials. Damnation! He was no simpleton, the bold contractor, he knew, and no mistake! And now the threat behind his pleasantry was unmistakable. He loved his Isabel. Heaven help the man who failed her.
For a moment David sat in sullen silence, then, all at once, his mood turned upside down and he had an hysterical impulse to laugh. It was all so idiotic. Did Waldie think he would run away? Didn’t he realise that their interests were bound together inseparably?
Yes, yes, his whole future lay with Waldie, the road to power and fortune. He couldn’t give it up. There was no reason for him to hesitate. Why should he concern himself with Gracie Lindsay? She had betrayed him with Woodburn, had married Nisbet Vallance, she could be nothing to him now: she was less than nothing, a slightly damaged character for all her charm and beauty, a woman upon whom the eyes of the world would always rest with misgiving and distrust.
In a flash his mind was made up. He lifted his glass and drained it. Without flinching he met Waldie’s eye. “The sooner you put up the banns the better it suits me.”
There was a brief silence while Waldie’s eyes searched Murray’s face. Then slowly the contractor’s smile broadened. Gently he patted Murray on the back.
“I knew you were a good lad, Davie. We’ll have the wedding come September.” Rising, he linked his arm with David’s. “ Come away now, and we’ll tell the ladies.”
It was the following evening, and Gracie had finished her day’s work at the Khedive Line offices. Preparatory to her departure she stood before the small mirror above her desk adjusting her hat with the coquettish gestures of a pretty woman.
The office boy and the senior clerk had already gone, but Gracie, with an hour to spare before six o’clock, had no need of haste. In leisurely fashion she picked up her gloves and was moving towards the door when the bell rang from Mr Harmon’s room. She paused, turned and went in.
Harmon was in his swing chair, with his feet up and a newly-lighted cigar between his full lips. He smiled at her in a friendly manner, and moved his bulky frame from its position of ease.
“Oh, Gracie,” he exclaimed, “ I wondered if they’d telephoned me from the shipyard this afternoon?”
“No, indeed. If they had I should certainly have let you know.”
“Good. You’re picking up the job very quickly. You don’t find it too difficult?”
“Not a bit. I used to type out reports for Nisbet.” Harmon smiled indulgently. He gazed at her, secretly gloating over the lines of her graceful body. She had never been more beautiful, and there was a brightness in her eyes that he had never seen before.
“Were you happy with him?” he asked softly.
She hesitated for a moment. “Fairly happy.”
“Fairly happy!” his smile deepened. “Marriage is a lottery, my dear.”
Then, as she did not answer:
“In any case, I hope you are happy here… do you understand me?”
“Yes, Frank. You are very kind.”
“Not at all. In one way, our situations are similar. We have both travelled the world and now we have to live in this grubby little town.”
“Oh, no!” she protested. “ It isn’t like that.”
He laughed.
“Wait and you’ll see. I could not stay here myself unless I was able to escape from time to time. You know I travel a lot, combining business with pleasure. This autumn I am going to Spain. It is a charming country. I recommend it for the time when you are bored with life here.”
He stopped suddenly, as if struck by a happy thought, and glanced at the clock.
“Time is getting on. Why don’t we have a drive? One can’t breathe here. And we could have dinner at the Markinch Arms.”
Masculine attentions always pleased her, and she had waited for this invitation for several days. However, she shook her head and smiled.
“I am sorry, Frank, but I am already engaged this evening.”
Except that his heavy brows contracted slightly, his expression did not change. He examined his finger-nails, which were closely and carefully trimmed.
“A man?”
She countered gaily. “Am I one to go out with women?”
“Who is he, then? A handsome stranger?”
“In this wretched little town?” She parodied his words. “ Don’t be absurd, Frank.”
He drew on his cigar, placated.
“Well, in that case I shan’t insist. But don’t forget, as a friend I have a very definite interest in you. I shall count on you for another evening.”
She made a playful gesture of reproof, her smile still brightly noncommittal. She was not unaware of the sensual gleam in his apparently benignant eye, yet she felt that she could always handle men of Frank Harmon’s type. Or any man, for that matter. She had had so many of them at her feet.
A few minutes later, walking along the High Street, she decided she would not go home to tea. In a resigned fashion Kate had been difficult lately, for what reason Gracie could not guess; and Daniel, still bent upon his search, was absent, somewhat distant in his manner. Gracie did not wish to dampen that sense of freedom and expectation which now swelled within her breast. Indeed, ever since Daniel had raised the matter, Gracie had refused, subconsciously yet stubbornly, to lend herself to his intention. The episode with Woodburn was an act of folly which she had buried in the past and now had no desire to resurrect.
The child, removed by her father before she had even seen it, meant nothing to her; and she, of course, could mean nothing to the child, for whom other ties and loyalties had now been forged. Why should she disturb a situation well settled and adjusted, break up the healing tissues which time had slowly formed around this wound?
No, she would not, now especially, when she had won back Murray’s love and so could build her future on a happy marriage. Nothing must interfere with that.
Daniel, she was confident, would soon tire of his wild-goose chase and be content to leave things as they were … or rather, as she felt they would be, when her hopes materialised and the true flowering of her individuality had come to pass.
The town was quite deserted: it was that zero hour when the Yard “ was out” and the children at their lessons, when most housewives were “busy with the dishes”, when nobody—beyond a few old men and a stray dog at the Cross—was in the streets. Gracie did not mind. She took her ease by idling before the shops.
At Paton’s, the bookseller’s a few doors down, she went in and bought a newspaper, the Levenford Advertiser. She might have stopped a moment to pass the time of day with Eliza Paton, still the same Miss Paton, with her high sateen blouse and net fringe, who in the old days had been reputed a great “ reader” and a noted “recommender” of a novel from her small but select circulating library. Yet Miss Paton, for some reason, was in no mood to talk with Gracie. She answered with civility, but was gone quickly from her counter.
Why did she look at me like that? thought Gracie, puzzled, as she left the shop. Oh well, never mind! She dismissed it with a smile. Perhaps Eliza was in the middle of the latest thriller, and anxious to know if the man with the moustache was really a count.
Still with that same tenderness touching the corners of her mouth, Gracie turned down Clydeview Road, and, passing through the eastern outskirts of Levenford, she came at length to the foot of Dumbreck Hill.
Here, with the wide estuary of the river in front and the park-like land of Dumbreck estate behind her, she might have been miles from any sign of the town, and with a sigh of contentment she sat down on the low stone wall which bordered the roadway. This was their usual meeting-place, and David would be here at any minute now. She looked at her watch. Perhaps she was a little early. Yet she did not mind the wait.
Absently, she was conscious of her mood as being particularly and exquisitely happy, like a physical delight within the centre of her being. Things were going ri
ght for her at last.
Dreamily she planned ahead, thinking of the home which she would make, of how she would help David to a better career than ever he could have with Isabel Waldie. She would cultivate people for his sake, steer him into a Crown appointment, a judgeship, and finally to Parliament.
She took off her hat and let the sun beat upon her bare head. Even in that light her skin was so fine that the brightness of the evening enhanced its beauty. Her colouring, already warm, was illuminated by the setting sun, and she had an air, a quality of style, which was individual, her own. A little brown scarf, for instance, which she had wound round her throat, gave to her a piquancy, a queer fastidious charm far beyond the value of the simple stuff.
And she had, above everything, such freshness. Gazing at her, perched upon that old wall, one felt that she might walk for 20 miles along these dusty roads in this summer heat and never lose a whit of her cool spruceness, but would still be neat and smiling, full of that secret and inexhaustible vitality at the end of it.
But meanwhile, David was late, he must have had difficulty in getting away, and in idle fashion she began to glance through her, paper, which, indeed, she had bought with some such idea of passing the time. Like Miss Paton, it had changed little—the same advertisements and announcements, the same sonorous and stately promulgations: “ Interest in the burgh is again being aroused by the forthcoming Flower Show …”
Gracie looked at her watch again. Goodness! David was late—half-an-hour now! And there was still no sight of his dark, hastening figure on the long white stretch of road. A tiny cloud of perplexity gathered behind Gracie’s eyes.
She turned over the paper, trying to find some item of news to interest her. Then, all at once, she saw the paragraph. It was not a large paragraph—though it took due precedence at the head of a column of local gossip which had existed from time immemorial under the heading “Jottings by the Way”—yet it seemed to leap from the printed page, to strike at her with malicious, frightful violence. It was the intimation that David and Isabel Waldie would be married at the parish church on the first day of September.
Gracie stared at the paragraph, her whole body suddenly motionless, as though she had forgotten how to breathe. Her gaze travelled swiftly up the deserted road, then swiftly fell.
She began, without knowing it, to fold the paper into a small, tight square. When it would fold no further she pressed it stupidly between her hands. A moment passed and then a thought struck her. She rose hurriedly, as if ashamed that someone might find her waiting there, waiting patiently for a man who would never arrive. She set off, her head lowered, back the way that she had come.
As she entered the town and gradually approached the Cross there were more people in the streets, and of those quite a few turned to look after her. But Gracie was unconscious of their stares. Her mind was whirling, whirling in a giddy haze of doubt and pain. Yes, yes, a mistake. Some stupid rumour had been printed, that was all. It wasn’t true. Davie simply could not do a thing like this: he was hers, he always had been hers. She lifted her head, her breathing coming faster. Instinctively she hastened her pace. Four minutes later she crossed Church Wynd and ran direct, through the side door, into Murray’s office.
“Davie,” she cried, “I had to come and find you.”
He started at the sight of her. Seated there with his elbows on his desk and the fine silver photograph in front of him, he changed colour and his eyes dropped to the paper which she still held clenched in her right hand. For a minute neither of them spoke, then Murray, angered at his own weakness, made an effort to collect himself.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Gracie, I’m busy.”
Under the soft muslin of her blouse her breast gave a small, convulsive movement like a bird struggling to be free.
“I waited and waited for you at Dumoreek.”
“Well!” His eyes evaded hers. There was a pause. “You know how it is. There’s no need to make a fuss.”
“Davie!” She reached out her hand to him as if to capture something he had withdrawn. “Why do you talk to me that way? And why didn’t you tell me … properly?”
“You knew everything there was to tell.” He spoke stiffly, sullenly, his gaze still fixed upon the floor. “Long before you came back I was engaged to Isabel Waldie. And now I’m going to marry her.”
“But what about you and me, Davie? We’ve always belonged to each other, really and truly, since the very beginning, in spite of all the wrong and stupid things that happened. Isabel isn’t the wife for you. Don’t you remember what you said at Dunbeg?”
“That was midsummer madness,” he went on, defending himself. “Besides, you know how I was placed. It was asking for trouble.”
“Then you don’t care for me, Davie?” she asked, her voice low. “You know I’m fond of you.”
He raised his head at last and looked at her. She was so pretty, in his dull, old office, yes, even prettier in her distress, that his anger and compunction deepened. He hated and despised himself. And because of that he wished to hurt, her more. He said:
“That’s just it, Gracie. You get fond of men too easily.”
She drew back as if he had struck her in the face. Her eyes, fixed upon him, showed the hurt his words gave her. Her face darkened, and despite herself, her voice rose.
“I see what you mean. A very pretty, gentlemanly, remark. And after I’d given my word I loved you.”
“I don’t believe you,” he answered doggedly. “ Nor would anybody else in Levenford. No, no! Your reputation’s not exactly healthy here. Oh, damn it all! Why do I have to argue with you? I’ve got my own position to look to. I can’t afford to get mixed up with anything not above board. We must never see each other again. It’s all over and finished between us.”
“I see … you’re a public figure now, Davie. Likely you’ll be Provost one day. You couldn’t be mixed up with the likes of me.”
Her voice, quivering with passionate scorn, echoed through the office.
“For God’s sake, don’t speak so loud.” Nervously he glanced towards the inner door. “I’ve people waiting … Mrs Stott and the minister’s wife.”
“What do I care? Let them all hear what a miserable, cheap, petty coward you are. If I made a mistake, at least it was a generous one. I didn’t sell myself for a partnership in a law office.”
“Gracie… the whole street’ll hear you.”
“How much did you get with her, Davie? Be sure you take it in gilt-edged bonds.…”
Scalding, bitter tears broke from her eyes, she sobbed convulsively, and thinking only of escape went wildly through the front waiting-room, unconscious of the women who sat there.
When she had gone Murray remained stiff and pale, staring at the empty space before him. Suddenly, with a violent gesture, he took up the paper-weight on his desk as though to hurl it against the wall. But he checked himself. Composing his features, he rose to admit the two clients who were waiting for him.
About a week later, towards four o’clock on a grey Saturday afternoon, Kate Nimmo sat at home alone— Gracie was out and Daniel had again departed upon one of these trips which were proving an increasing source of disappointment to him and of irritation to herself.
There was, indeed, upon Kate’s face a faint unconscious frown, and it deepened at her thoughts. She was not satisfied with the way things were going in her hitherto well-regulated household. Still less was she pleased with the rumours which reached her from the town.
At that moment the front doorbell rang. In some surprise, for she was little used to visitors, Kate rose to answer it. And there, upon her doorstep, stood the tall angular figure of Mrs Mowat, the minister’s wife.
“I happened to be this way,” Susan Mowat remarked, “ I thought I might call.”
“How kind of you,” Kate replied. “Won’t you come in?”
Although her tone was polite, Kate’s nerves had drawn together tensely, and as she led the way into the parlour she felt a
warm patch of colour mounting on her cheek. The minister’s wife was everything that she, Kate Nimmo, might have been—mistress of the manse, arbiter of the destinies of the Sewing Circle and the monthly Table Teas, a personage of high social consequence in the town. Kate’s unobtrusive bosom had no great capacity for envy. But the other woman, with her sharp tongue and patronising ways, had often wounded Kate, and so aroused in her a deep antipathy.
“I trust you are well,” said Kate with false brightness when Susan was seated. “And your husband.”
“The minister,” said Mrs Mowat, gravely repudiating familiarity, “is well.”
Silence. By all the rules of Levenford etiquette the visitor should now have made inquiry for the husband of her hostess, but Susan Mowat did not do so, and the omission cut Kate to the quick. Hiding her vexation under a pretence of sprightliness she declared:
“Isn’t the weather glorious for the time of year? Daniel was remarking yesterday it’s the finest July he can remember. I must say his sweet peas are looking wonderful.”
“Hmm!” said Susan Mowat briefly. She placed her gold-rimmed pince-nez on her long, bony nose and glanced round the room as though seeking signs of deficiency or neglect.
“Is he still holding these open-air prayer meetings at Dalreoch?”
The spot of red burned deeper into the earthy colour of Kate’s cheek. With a great effort she managed to answer reasonably.
“Yes, he still goes there. It’s his way of labouring in the vineyard. Humble work, maybe! But it’s the Lord’s work none the less.”
Another silence. Kate struggled with her temper, reminding herself how fatal it would be to lose it. No, no, she must not let herself get touchy. Perhaps she was exaggerating. Or even imagining things. And, after all, surely the social importance of Susan Mowat’s call was sufficiently gratifying to enable her to withstand any little slights or snubs. She forced a hospitable smile.