by A. J. Cronin
He looked down at her, and his laugh was savage in her ears.
“Have I ever done anything foolish in all my life? Don’t fret yourself, mother. I’m the model son, the model citizen, the model husband-to-be. I couldn’t be anything else if I tried, God pity me!”
And with that she had to be content, standing long in the doorway, watching his swinging figure disappear into the darkness of the Wynd, in the direction of Church Street.
Up the length of Church Street Murray went, then back again at the same violent pace, his head down, his blank pipe between his teeth, like a man driven to furious movement by some torturing indecision in his blood.
Suddenly he broke to the right and entered College Row. Opposite No. 3, but on the other side of the Row, he drew up. It was quite dark in the narrow passage, for the street lamps at the end threw but a blur of shadows. Pressed back against an archway Davie let his eyes fall feverishly upon the lodging-house of Margaret Glen. Should he go in or should he not?
Before he could make up his mind he became conscious of a waft of cigarette smoke travelling towards him, and a moment later he discerned someone in a light dustcoat, high collar and soft hat pacing the pavement with a slow but gallant tread. In a flash Davie recognised the weedy elegant—it was Edward Mowat, the minister’s son—and his gorge rose at the sight. He stepped out across the path of the troubadour.
“Why, hello, Murray!” exclaimed the bold Edward. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s precisely what I want to ask you.”
Creishy’s son sniggered. He was a long link of a youth, with a slack mouth, a watery eye, and a doggy air of knowing his way about. A student at the University of Winton, he stood in his own and his parents’ eyes as a paragon of wit and manliness.
“Might ask you the same question, old man. Haw, haw! Woman, lovely woman, eh? Takes a college man to appreciate the form divine. Never know your luck on a night like this. Haw, haw! Have a cigarette. Shall we join forces and hunt together?”
Murray breathed hard. Has it come to this, he thought, that the half-baked whelps of the town were hanging around her? He took young Mowat by the collar.
“Get out of here,” he hissed. “If you’re not away in ten seconds, I’ll haul you straight home to your reverend father and tell him where I found you.”
“Oh! I say,” Edward flustered. “Look here now—”
“Quick!” said Murray. “You’ve got five seconds left!”
Don Juan flung a pale glance at David, then with a scared, “ What about yourself?” slunk hurriedly away.
Murray moistened his lips, as though to remove a bad and bitter taste. At least he had saved her from that indignity.
He took up his vigil again and soon his heart beat violently. The door of No. 3 opened and Gracie came out, without a hat and with a coat thrown over her shoulders.
She hesitated, and it was obvious that she was worried. Since Daniel’s visit she had thought of nothing but her son, the child she had abandoned so many years before. These strange feelings, she told herself, were not affection but a mixture of anxiety and fear—yes, fear of the responsibility that her uncle wanted her to assume, and to which she did not feel equal. Could she start her life again on this new basis? She did not know. She dreaded this new experience.
Invisible in the shadows, David watched her stop at the foot of the steps, as though to enjoy the freshness of the evening air. Then she moved on. After a brief struggle he came to a decision. He followed Gracie.
She walked slowly but without hesitation, as if towards a definite destination. When she reached the outskirts of the town, at the corner of the old road to Garshake, she paused under the last lamp-post. Before he had time to think, David joined her.
“Gracie!”
She turned, and her eyes shone in the pale light of the street-lamp. She was silent. Perhaps she was moved? He could not be sure. When she spoke her voice was calm and firm.
“Well, here is our dear Davie Murray! The Count Murray himself!”
“Make mock of me, if you wish. I daresay I deserve it all. But Gracie!” Murray’s tone suddenly was urgent. “I must talk to you.”
“The Earl wants to talk,” she reasoned, with deeper irony. “But it’s too late for talking now, surely. Besides, I have an appointment with a gentleman. I’m waiting on him now.”
“You don’t mean Harmon?”
“Why not?” Gracie answered carelessly.
The truth was that she had half promised to join the agent for a short walk that evening but, in her stress of mind, had felt herself quite unable to fulfil the engagement. She had come, actually, to their meeting place for the purpose of conveying to him this decision. But now, before David, she chose to ignore this, and to magnify the significance of the occasion.
Murray ground his teeth together.
“He’s a bad lot, Gracie … selfish and ruthless under that smooth manner … and so inordinately vain. He’s had other affairs with women here. And they haven’t ended very nicely. Harmon is too dangerous to fool around with. He isn’t to be trusted. For all his posing as a gay bachelor, he has a wife somewhere, in England. He’s a married man.”
“And you soon will be, David.”
“For heaven’s sake, Gracie, don’t be so hard on me. I know I’ve got myself tangled up. But I’m—I’m fond of you, woman. And it drives me crazy to see you in a pass like this, with the whole town talking about you, Gracie! Let’s go somewhere and try to straighten things out for you.”
“Haven’t I told you I can’t?” She paused, struck by a thought which made her sad eyes flash with bitter mockery. “Unless you would like to come with us … if you’re not afraid of Frank!”
He flushed again.
“I’m only afraid for you.”
She seemed to smile into herself, her eyes travelling beyond him, as footsteps sounded on the pavement. It was, in fact, Harmon who approached them.
“Good evening, Frank,” Gracie greeted him with that same pretended gaiety. “Now, don’t scowl like that. You must behave yourself. It seems we’re to have company tonight. The Earl of Murray is coming with us for a stroll.”
Harmon was plainly put out by Murray’s unexpected presence and by Gracie’s dark and reckless mood.
“Hasn’t he something better to do?” he asked pointedly.
“Oh dear, oh dear!” Gracie exclaimed, in assumed rebuke. “ Where are your manners, Frank? The Earl’s not used to such rough talk. If you’re not more careful he’ll run home to his mother.”
In spite of his suspicions, a slow smile broke over Harmon’s face.
“Let him come if he wants,” he declared indifferently. “ Where shall we go?”
“To Ladywell, Frank. That’s the place for select company.”
Frank merely shrugged his shoulders and they began to move along the Garshake road, Harmon taking one side of Gracie and Murray, in a kind of dogged fury, the other. Now that he had gone so far, David would not turn back. The thought of Gracie meeting Harmon here and walking out with him to Ladywell rankled like wormwood in his breast.
“Now, don’t look so upset,” Gracie spoke with ironic solicitude. “I know it’s not what you’re accustomed to, but it’s the only place about here. And what can’t be cured must be endured.”
The inn, indeed, was small and primitive, no more than a long, low room with a bar at one end and a fireplace, wherein smouldered a log of green wood, at the other. Two tables were spaced on the wooden floor, and from the smoky ceiling there hung an oil swing-lamp with a cracked and sooty chimney. At present the place was empty.
There was a moment’s pause after they entered, then the door behind the bar creaked open and a tall, raw-boned woman emerged, holding her knitting in one hand. She was a gaunt creature, the landlady, with harsh features and an inflammation of her eyelids. Shading her gaze against the lamplight, she peered at Gracie and her face drew into a sycophantic smile.
“It’s yourself, my dearie, with y
our fine, free-handed friend: and another gentleman besides.” Advancing, she dusted a corner of one table with her sleeve. “ What’ll you have?”
“I’ll take whisky,” Harmon said shortly.
“And what’s the Earl’s will?” Gracie inquired.
“I’ll have whisky, too,” Davie said angrily.
“And I’ll have my usual glass of port.” She seated herself at the table between Harmon and Murray with a sigh of feigned contentment.
Murray took up his whisky, his eyes fixed on Gracie, a dark flush still burning on his brow. Never, never had he known her like this, so wild and wanton, so mingling laughter with dark bitterness, and through it all masking with unconcern a sadness so unbearable it seemed about to break her heart.
He loved and pitied her, at once. And all the puritan in him recoiled against her presence here in such a mood, at such a questionable hour. Though he said nothing, she must have read this in his face. For her glance met his and mocked it.
“Are you at your devotions, Davie, dear? You’ve such a look of piety. I believe you’d like to get us started on a psalm tune. Or would it be the wedding march? Out of respect to dear Miss Waldie and the elect of Levenford.”
Harmon, helping himself to more whisky, laughed shortly, enjoying the mortification which flooded Murray’s face. Gracie’s eyes flashed. The raw wine now was singing in her head.
“You may well laugh, Frank.” Her voice shook unexpectedly. “It’s the only thing to do. Poor Uncle Dan, with his ‘love one another and be kind!’ Hate one another, under the veil of godliness—that’s the watchword in this town. And if some poor wretch gets out of step in the church parade, then heaven help him or her.”
With a passionate gesture she drank her wine, then stared remotely at the empty glass. Her tone turned softer. “ When I came back to Levenford my heart was filled with joy. I loved the place, I felt it was my own, that I was home again. And what has happened to me?” Her eyes filled up with tears. “But I’m not caring. Since they don’t want me here, I’ll go away. Yes, away, David Murray, if it’s any comfort for you to know it. Uncle Dan has arranged it, and he’s the best man among you… I’m going.…”
Here she broke off with something very near a sob, checking her impulse to reveal the full prospect which lay ahead for her and which, through all this evening, had lain oppressively upon her heart.
“Listen,” Gracie said, “and I’ll sing you a song. It’s the sweetest of them all, about a lass named Annie Laurie, who might just as well have been me.”
Rising to her feet, she faced them giddily. The smoky lamp made shadows all around her and the scent of burning wood had filled her hair. Her voice came sweet and true, with a wild yet tender quality which would have melted any heart.
Murray’s spirit groaned within him. Even Harmon seemed, in some way, moved. His eyes travelled over Gracie with heavy appreciation, a sudden intensification of his possessiveness. And when the song was ended he stood up.
“That was fine, Gracie … too good for this den. Let’s get out of it.” He took her arm. “You can sing some more in my rooms.”
Murray could hold himself in check no longer. All at once he forgot discretion, his position, and the circumstances of his life. He jumped up with a nervous violence that sent his chair clattering behind him.
“Let her be,” he said in a choking voice. “It’s time she went home.”
Still with Gracie’s arm in his, Harmon gave Murray a sultry look. “Are you addressing me?”
“I’m telling you to leave her alone.”
“Or what?” said Harmon, without moving a muscle.
Gracie clapped her hands with a wild exclamation. David’s face was white as paper. Within him, his tortured sensibilities writhed like serpents, but the whisky he had drunk made him dead outside, like a man coated with rubber. He had no fear. And suddenly the over mastering desire to get at Harmon broke through the veneer of his caution. He swung his fist with all his force full upon Frank’s mouth.
It was a powerful blow but the agent took it without flinching. He was hard, was Harmon, and used to many a rough and tumble water-front fight. Before Murray could strike again he sprang up and hit him fair on the chin. David staggered and sank down on his knees.
“There!” Gracie whispered. “ You’ve made him say his prayers.”
With a distorted face Davie got to his feet and came at Harmon again.
The next minute he lay on his back bleeding and half-stunned upon the floor. He could not rise.
“Oh, Frank,” Gracie cried childishly. “ You struck him very hard.”
Harmon took the fine linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his damaged mouth. Gracie, her hands tightly clenched, her breast heaving, turned away her head.
“Take me home,” she said in a frozen voice. “At once, please.”
Chapter Six
Next day, shortly after one o’clock, Daniel walked briskly down the main street of Kirkbridge. Before setting out from his home he had left a note for Kate on the kitchen table telling her that he would not be back that night—a step so reckless, so inconceivable, it was perhaps the bravest thing he had ever done in all his life.
On the way to the station he had posted a letter to Gracie reminding her to meet him the following afternoon at the houseboat.
The weather was clear and bright. As he neared the foot of the High Street of Kirkbridge Daniel, with that same intent expression, swung into the Kirkbridge Clothing Company, a large emporium, devoted to children’s outfitting. Here, without hesitation, he demanded a small ready-made tweed suit, a pair of boots, woollen stockings, and a flannel shirt.
Despite his apparent hardihood, the little photographer could not repress a physical tremor as he handed over the money for his purchases. That morning, before quitting Levenford, he had withdrawn from the Savings Bank the enormous sum of £25, and ever since a vision of Kate, discovering this irreparable subtraction from their hard-won savings, had tormented him. But by an effort he mastered this weakness. With the brown paper parcel under his arm he thanked the assistant and left the shop. Presently he reached Clyde Place and vanished into the darkness of the tenement.
Ten minutes later he emerged with pale, compressed lips and a nervous flush upon his cheeks. The 20 remaining sovereigns had left his purse, and tagging along beside him, with one hand in his, the other clutching the parcel to his narrow chest, was Robert.
So deep and complex was Daniel’s feeling that he simply could not speak, and they reached the tramway terminus without a word being exchanged between them. It was possible, from Kirkbridge, to reach the loch directly by tram, for the old horse coaches had recently been superseded by an electric trolley system. The journey was long and bumpy, yet Daniel had elected to take it in preference to the train, since it spared him the necessity of passing through Levenford.
Once or twice Robert glanced sideways at Daniel, but immediately he encountered Daniel’s eyes he glanced away again. It was impossible to guess what his thoughts were, except that in the depths of his eyes there lurked a dark glimmer of the fear and suspicion that fought together in his breast.
Daniel could stand it no longer. He exclaimed hurriedly: “Don’t be frightened.”
It was about the worst thing he could have said. The boy’s face shut down to a stony immobility. After an interval he muttered:
“I’m not frightened. It’s just…” In spite of his control his mouth quivered like a puppy’s. “It’s just that I don’t know anything about you. When I saw you that first day I didn’t know you were going to take me away. If I had I wouldn’t have let you up the stairs.”
Daniel gave an inarticulate murmur of sympathy, and patted the small adjacent knee. But Robert was not to be cajoled. “ I’m not a baby,” he said. His underlip stuck out: he emphasised his words with strong, serious nods of his head. “I can fight.”
They ran into Gielston, the terminus of the tramway, towards three o’clock in the afternoon. The
town, clustered whitely at the foot of the loch, lay basking in brilliant sunshine, its wooden pier jutting into the clear water as though reaching out for coolness.
Daniel and Robert descended here. Hurriedly, since they had only fifteen minutes to spare, Daniel made some purchases at the Pier Provision stores. Then they took their places on the Lomond, a small steam ferry which left every afternoon to serve the lochside villages, and soon they were chugging across towards the opposite mountains.
And at length, higher up the winding shore, they rounded a promontory and came upon a small bay of sunbaked sand, facing due south and completely sheltered by the woods. Here, at anchor in the centre of the bay, bleached and blistered to a washed-out blue, was a queer boxed-in craft. It was Hay’s houseboat. Whatever the druggist’s views on the heavenly hereafter, he had chosen for his present delectation a perfect paradise on earth.
For Robert, at least, it was the final evocation. When they reached the old warped dinghy beached on the soft sand he leaned against it and drew a long, spent breath.
“Is this the place?” he inquired in a husky voice.
Daniel nodded. “This is Cantie Bay.”
A silence.
“Jesus Christ!” said Robert gravely, as though this were, indeed, the only thing to be said.
A spasm shot up Daniel’s spine at the gentle blasphemy.
“Robert, you must not speak like that!”
For the moment he could say no more. Tugging on the oars, they reached the houseboat and went aboard, after tying up the dinghy. It was a battered old tub, hardly deserving to be called a pleasure boat. In its early years it had towed coal barges on the Firth and Clyde before being left to rot in harbour. Hay had found her there and looked her over with an experienced eye. After weeks of acrimonious bargaining with the owners, he had bought her, as he declared triumphantly, for the price of a poultice. He added a shaky superstructure to the hull and roughly splashed a coat of paint on the splintering timbers before having it towed to Cantie Bay. After years of sun and mud and rain the boat now blended with its surroundings and no longer looked out of place.