Арчибальд Кронин: Hatter's Castle

"You'll clear up, won't you, Mary?" she said mildly. "I feel kind of tired and far through to-night. It'll do me no harm to have a look at my book."

“Mamma," replied Mary, adding dutifully as was expected of her every evening, "You've earned a rest. I'll wash up the dishes myself."

Mrs. Brodie nodded her inclined head deprecatingly, but none the less in agreement, as she arose and, going to her own drawer in the dresser, took from its place of concealment a book, "Devenham's Vow," by one Amelia B. Edwards, which, like every book she read, was on loan from the Levenford Borough Library. Holding the volume tenderly against her heart she sat down, and soon Margaret

Brodie had sunk her own tragic, broken individuality in that of the heroine, comforting herself with one of the few solaces which life now held for her.

Mary quickly cleared the dishes from the table and spread upon it a drugget cover, then, retiring to the scullery, she rolled up her sleeves from her thin arms and began her task of washing up.

Nessie, confronted by the unencumbered table, which mutely reminded her of her father's incitement to work, glanced first at the engrossed figure of her mother, at her grandmother's unheeding back, at Matt now tilted back in his chair and picking his teeth with an air, then with a sigh began wearily to withdraw her books from her school satchel, laying them reluctantly one by one in front of her.

"Come and play draughts first, Mary," she called out.

"No, dear, Father said home work. Perhaps we'll have a game after," came the reply from without.

"Will I not dry the dishes for you to-night?" she suggested, insidiously trying to procrastinate the commencement of her toil.

"I'll manage all right, dear," replied Mary.

Nessie sighed again and remarked to herself sympathetically, in a voice like her mother's,

"Oh! dear me!"

She thought of the other children she knew who would be fraternising to play skipping ropes, rounders, cat and bat, and other magical frolics of the evening, and her small spirit was heavy within her as she began to work.

Matthew, disturbed in his transitory reverie, by the reiterated murmurs close to his ear of: je suis, tu es, il est, now restored his quill to his vest pocket and got up from his chair. Since his father had gone his manner had changed, and he now adopted the air of being slightly superior to his surroundings, as he shot his cuffs, looked at the clock significantly and went out of the room, with a slight but pronounced swagger.

The room was now silent but for the rustle of a turning page, the slight clink of china invading it from without and the harrowing murmur: nous sommes, vous etes, ils sont; but in a few moments the audible evidence of activity in the scullery ceased and shortly afterwards Mary slipped quietly through the room into the hall, mounted the stairs and tapped at her brother's room. This was a nightly pilgrimage, but had she now been suddenly bereft of every sense but that of smell, she could still have found this room by the rich, unctuous odour of cigar smoke which emanated from it.

"Can I come in, Matt?" she murmured.

"Enter," came a studied voice from within.

She entered. As she came in he who had spoken so dispassionately did not look up, but seated in his shirt sleeves upon the bed in the exact position where, with the looking-glass upon his chest of drawers tilted to the correct angle, he could best see himself, continued placidly to admire himself and to puff great clouds of smoke appreciatively towards his image.

"What a lovely smell your cigar has, Matt," she remarked, with ingenuous approval.

Matthew removed the weed from his lips in a dashing manner, still regarding himself approvingly.

"Yes," he agreed, "and it should have at the money. This is a Supremo, meaning the best. Five for sixpence, but this single one cost me three halfpence. It was a sample and if I like it I’ll go in for a few. The smell is good, Mary, but the bouquet is what we smokers appreciate. No cigar is really first class unless it has bouquet. This has what is called a nutty bouquet." He removed his eyes unwillingly from the mirror and contemplating his cigar more closely added,

"Now I'll stop; I think I've smoked enough."

"Oh! Go on," she encouraged. "It's lovely! Far nicer than a pipe!"

"No! I must keep the other half for this evening' he replied firmly, carefully extinguishing the glowing end against the cold china of his wash basin and preserving the stubb in his waistcoat pocket.

"Does Aggie Moir like you to smoke?" she murmured, drawing her conclusions from his actions.

"Agnes, if you please not Aggie," he replied in a pained voice. "How often have I told you not to be familiar like that. It's vulgar. It's it's a liberty on your part."

She lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry, Matt."

"I should hope so! Remember, Mary, that Miss Moir is a young lady, a very worthy young lady, and my intended as well. Yes, if you must know, she does like me to smoke. She was against it at first but now she thinks it manly and romantic. But she objects to the odour of the breath afterwards and therefore gives me cachous. She prefers the variety called 'Sweet Lips.' They're very agreeable."

"Do you love Agnes very much, Matt?" she demanded earnestly.

"Yes, and she loves me a great deal," he asserted. "You shouldn't talk about things you know nothing about, but you've surely the sense to know that when people are walking out they must be fond of one another. Agnes worships me. You should see the things she gives me. It's a great thing for a young man to have an affinity like that. She's a most estimable girl."

Mary was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed upon him intently, then suddenly pressing her hand to her side, she asked involuntarily, wistfully:

"Does it hurt you when you think of Agnes when you're away from her?"

"Certainly not," replied Matthew primly. "That's not a nice thing to ask. If I had that pain I should think I had indigestion. What a girl you are for asking questions and what questions you do ask! We'll have no more of it, if you please. I'm going to practise now, so don't interrupt."

He rose up and stooping carefully to avoid creasing his best trousers, took a mandolin case from under the bed and extracted a mandolin decorated with a large bow of pink satin ribbon. Next he unrolled a thin yellow-covered music book entitled in large letters: "First Steps in the Mandolin", and in smaller print below: "Aunt Nellie's Guide for Young Mandolin Players, after the method of the famous Sefior Rosas", opened it at page two, laid it flat upon the bed before him, and sitting down beside it, in an attitude of picturesque ease, drew the romantic instrument to him and began to play. He did not, alas, fulfil the expectation which his experienced posture aroused, or dash ravishingly into an enchanting serenade, but with a slow and laborious touch picked out two or three bars of "Nelly Ely", until his execution grew more and more halting and he finally broke down.

"Begin again," remarked Mary helpfully.

He rewarded her with an aggrieved look.

"I think I asked you to remain silent, Miss Chatterbox. Remember this is a most difficult and complicated instrument. I must perfect myself in it before I leave for India. Then I can play to the ladies on board during the tropical evenings. A man must practise! You know, I'm getting on splendidly, but perhaps you would like to try as you're so clever."

He did, however, begin again and eventually tweaked his way through the piece. The succession of tuneless discords was excruciating to the ear, and, in common with the art of smoking, could only be indulged in during the absence of his father; but Mary, nevertheless, with her chin cupped in her hands, watched, rather than listened, admiringly.