Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

“I’m no good at thanking you, Laura. But you know how I feel. I’ll see you again. One day soon. Perhaps I can do something for you then.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed.

Her unresponsive manner left him rather helpless; he stood in the narrow hall as though he did not quite know what to do. He released her hands.

“Good-bye then, Laura.”

“Good-bye.”

He turned and walked into the street. A gusty wind holding a spatter of rain blew against him all the way down College Row, but he reached the station by twenty minutes past ten and took his ticket for Sleescale.

The 10.15 local was almost empty and he had a third-class compartment to himself. As the train puffed its way out of Tynecastle, through the interminable sequence of stations, past familiar landmarks, across the Canal Bridge, through Brent Tunnel and finally drew near to Sleescale, Arthur had a strange sense of at last returning to consciousness.

It was half-past eleven when he stepped out on the Sleescale platform. Another passenger was at that moment in the act of alighting from the rear end of the train, and as they both converged upon the ticket collector Arthur saw with a sudden constriction of his heart that it was David Fenwick. David recognised Arthur instantly, but he gave no sign, nor did he try to avoid him. They met and passed through the narrow passage to the street.

“You’ve come back about the inquest,” Arthur said, in a low voice. He had to speak.

David nodded silently. He walked along Freehold Street in his faded uniform and Arthur walked with him. A thin rain, driving in from the sea, met them at the corner. Together they began to climb Cowpen Street.

Arthur took a startled side glance at David, intimidated by his silence, the stem composure of his face. But in a moment David spoke, as if forcing himself to be tranquil and at ease.

“I’ve been back two days,” he said quietly. “My wife is living in Tynecastle with her own people. My little boy, too.”

“Yes,” Arthur murmured. He knew now why David was on the train. But he could find nothing more to say.

Again silence, until opposite Inkerman Terrace and his old home, David abruptly paused. Fighting that secret bitterness in his voice, he said:

“Come in here a minute, will you? There’s something I must show you.”

Mastered by an unknown emotion, overwhelming and intense, Arthur followed David along the broken pavement and into No. 23. They entered the front room. The blinds were drawn but in the dim light Arthur saw two coffins, still open, laid upon boards in the centre of the room. Arthur’s senses seethed within him like waves battling in a narrow sea. With a thudding heart he advanced towards the first coffin and his eyes met the dead eyes of Robert Fenwick. Robert’s body was four years old: the face perfectly saponified, waxy white in colour, the skin moulded on the shrunken bones, like an effigy. Recoiling, Arthur covered his eyes. He could not meet those dead eyes, the eyes of the victim, blank yet accusing. He wanted to retreat, shuddering, and yet he could not; he was numbed, helpless.

David spoke again, still fighting the bitterness in his tone.

“I found this,” he said, “on my father’s body. No one else has seen it.”

Slowly, Arthur uncovered his face. He stared at the paper in David’s hand, then with a sudden movement he took it, held it close to him. It was Robert’s letter; and Arthur read the letter. For one second he thought he was going to die.

“You see,” David exclaimed in a strained voice. “This makes things clear at last.”

Arthur kept staring at the letter. He had turned an earthy grey, he looked as if he might fall down.

“I don’t intend to take this any further,” David said in a tone of dead finality. “But it’s only right you ought to know.”

Arthur lifted his eyes from the letter and stared away through David. He put out his hand, supporting himself against the wall. The interior of the room spun round him. It was as though the cumulation of all his sufferings, his suspicions and his fears had struck him at one tremendous blow. He seemed at last to discover David. He folded the letter and handed it back to him. David restored the letter to his inside pocket. Then, in a cracked voice, Arthur said: “You can leave this to me. I’ll let my father know.” A shiver ran over him. Feeling that he must reach the outer air, he turned blindly and went out of the house.

He walked up to the Law through the heavy shower sweeping the bleak Avenue. But the rain pelted against him without effect. He walked in a kind of trance. The folded slip of paper which had lain for four years against the dead heart of Robert Fenwick had made everything plain to Arthur, everything which he had suspected and feared. Now he neither suspected nor feared. He knew.

An overwhelming surge of conviction broke over him: it was preordained that he should see this letter. The meaning of the letter enlarged and magnified itself and took upon itself many and unfathomable meanings, each diverse and beyond his present understanding but all leading to one common end. His father’s guilt. A sick rage blazed up in Arthur; he wanted to see his father.

He went to the steps of the Law and tugged at the bell. Aunt Carrie opened the door herself. She stood motionless, framed in the doorway, gazing at him with wide and startled eyes, then with a cry of thankfulness and pity she flung her arms round his neck.

“Oh, Arthur, my dear,” she sobbed. “I’m so glad to see you. I wondered… I didn’t know… oh, you’re not looking well, my poor boy, you’re looking simply dreadful, but oh, it’s wonderful you’ve come back.” Controlling herself with difficulty, she shepherded him into the hall, helped him out of his coat, took possession of his dripping hat, Little phrases of affection and pity kept breaking from her lips. Her delight that he should be home again was pathetic. She fluttered about him, her hands agitated, her pinched lips tremulous.

“You’ll take something now, Arthur dear, at once. A glass of milk, a biscuit, something, dear…”

“No thank you, Aunt Carrie.”

Outside the dining-room towards which she guided him, he paused:

“Is my father back yet?”

“Why no, Arthur,” Aunt Carrie stammered, discomposed by the strangeness of his manner.

“Will he be home for lunch?”

Aunt Carrie gave another little gasp. Her mouth pinched closer and turned down nervously at the corners.

“Yes, Arthur, of course. About one, he said. I know he’s got a great many arrangements to make this afternoon. About the funeral. Everything’s to be done most handsomely.”

He made no attempt to reply. He glanced about him, observing all the changes which had taken place since he had been away: the new furniture, the new carpets and curtains, the new electric fittings in the hall. He remembered his cell, his sufferings in prison, and a shudder of revulsion passed over him at this luxury, a hatred of his father which made him tremble in all his limbs. A nervous excitement, a kind of ecstasy such as he had never known took possession of him. He felt himself strong. He became aware of what he wanted to do and of an almost painful longing to do it. He turned to Aunt Carrie.

“I’ll go upstairs for a bit.”

“Yes, Arthur, yes,” she fluttered even more agitatedly. “Lunch is at one, such a nice lunch.” She hesitated, her voice a whisper of distress. “You won’t… you won’t upset your father, dear. He’s got so much on his hands, he’s… he’s a little irritable these days.”

“Irritable,” Arthur repeated. He seemed to try to fathom the meaning of the word. Then he moved away and went steadily upstairs. He did not go to his own room but to his father’s study, the room which, since his childhood days, had been sealed with a taboo, making it a sacred, forbidden room. Exactly in the centre of the room stood his father’s desk, a solid richly grained mahogany desk with beaded edges, heavy brass locks and handles, more sacred, more forbidden than the room. Hostility burned in Arthur’s face as he studied this desk. It stood there large and solid, impregnated with the personality of Barras, a thing hateful to Arthur, the symbol of everything which had destroyed him.