tenderness. But, although at his words she ceased to weep, she still ran and did not speak again until they reached the edge of the town.
There she stopped abruptly.
'Don't come any farther, Denis,' she panted. 'This is enough! We might meet him my father.'
“But it's so dark on the road,' he said. 'I'm afraid to leave you.'
'You must go, Denis! He might come on us together.'
'But the darkness?'
'I can't help that. I'll run all the way.'
'It'll hurt you if you race home like that, Mary, and it's so black, the road seems so lonely now.'
'Leave me! You must!' she cried. 'I'll go myself! Good-bye!'
With a last touch of his hand she fled from him; her figure dissolved into the blackness and was gone.
As he gazed into the impenetrable gloom, vainly trying to follow her rapid flight, wondering if he should call to her or follow her, he raised his arms in perplexity, as though beseeching her to return to him, then slowly he lowered them and, after a long passivity, turned heavily upon his heel and took his dejected way towards his own home.
Meanwhile, in a panic of urgency, Mary forced her tired body along the road, the same road that she had so lightly traversed earlier on this same evening, having lived, it seemed to her, a whole century in time and experience during the space of these few intervening hours. It was unthinkable that she, Mary Brodie, should be at this time of night alone in the open streets; the sound of her solitary footsteps frightened her, echoing aloud like a reiterated accusation for her father, for every one to hear, shouting out the madness, the iniquity of her present situation. Denis wanted to marry her! He must be mad too madly unaware of her father and of the circumstances of her life. The echoes of her steps mocked her, whispering that she had been bereft of her senses to plunge herself in this predicament, making the very contemplation of her love for Denis a painful and grotesque absurdity.
As she neared her home, suddenly she became aware of another figure in front of her, and the dread that it might be her father filled her with numb apprehension. Although he frequently did not return from the club until after eleven o'clock, sometimes he was earlier, and as she drew nearer, silently gaining upon the figure, she felt that it must be he. But, all at once, a gasp of relief escaped her, as she perceived that it was her brother, and, abandoning her caution, she ran up to him, panting.
'Matt! Oh! Matt! Wait!' and stumbling against him, she clutched his arm like a drowning woman.
'Mary!' he exclaimed, starting violently, hardly able to believe his eyes.
'Yes! It's me, Matt, and thank God it's you! I thought it was Father, at first.'
'But But what on earth are you out for at this time of night?' he cried, in shocked amazement. 'Where have you been?'
'Never mind just now, Matt,' she gasped. 'Let us get in quick before Father. Please, Matt, dear! Don't ask me anything!'
'But what have you been up to? Where have you been?' he repeated. 'What will Mamma think?'
'Mamma will think I've gone to bed, or that I'm reading in my room. She knows I often do that when I'm sitting up for you.'
'Mary! This is a terrible escapade. I don't know what to do about it. It's shameful to find you out in the street at this time of night.'
He moved on a few steps then, as a thought struck him, stopped abruptly. 'I wouldn't like Miss Moir to know about this. It's disgraceful! Such a going-on by my sister might prejudice me in her eyes.'
'Don't tell her, Matt! Don't tell anybody! Only let us get in. Where is your key?' Mary urged.
Muttering under his breath, Matthew advanced to the front steps, and while Mary gasped with relief to see that the outer door was unbolted, which meant that her father had not returned, he opened the door.
The house was still, no one awaited her, no recriminations or accusations were hurled at her, and realising that she was miraculously undiscovered, in a transport of thanksgiving Mary took her brother's hand, and in the darkness they crept noiselessly up the stairs.
Inside her own room she drew a deep breath, and as she felt her way securely about its known confines, the very touch of familiar objects reassured her. Thank God she was safe! Nobody would know! She tore off her clothes in the dark and crept into bed, when instantly the cool sheets soothed her warm weariness and the soft pillow caressed her aching head. Her hot, tired body relaxed in an
exquisite abandon, her trembling eyelids closed, her fingers uncurled from her palms, her head drooped towards her shoulder, and with her last waking thought of Denis, her breathing grew regular and tranquil. She slept.
III
JAMES BRODIE awoke next morning with the sun streaming in through his window. He had especially designated this room at the back of the house as his bedroom because, with an animal appreciation of sunshine, he loved the bright morning rays to strike in and waken him, to soak through the blankets into his receptive body and saturate his being with a sense of power and radiance. 'There's no sun
like the morning sun,' was one of his favourite sayings, one of his stock of apparently profound axioms which he drew upon largely in his conversation and repeated with a knowing and astute air. 'The mornin' sun's the thing! We don't get enough o' it, but in MY room I’ve made sure o' all that's goin'.'
He yawned largely and stretched his massive frame luxuriously,observed with half-opened yet appreciative eyes the golden swarm of motes that swam around him, then, after a moment, blinked questioningly towards the clock on the mantelpiece, the hands of which marked only eight o'clock; becoming aware that he had another quarter of an hour in bed, he put his head down, rolled over on his side, and dived beneath the blankets like a gigantic porpoise.
But soon he came up again. Despite the beauty of the morning, despite the brosy odour of the boiling porridge which his wife was preparing downstairs and which, arising, gently titillated his nostrils, his present humour lacked the full complacency which he felt it should have held.
Moodily, as though seeking the cause of his discontent, he turned and surveyed the hollow on the other side of the big bed, which his wife had left a full hour ago when, according to custom, she had arisen in good time to have everything in order and his breakfast ready upon the table the moment he came down. What good, he reflected resentfully, was a woman like that to a man like him? She might cook, wash, scrub, darn his socks, brush his boots, aye, and lick his boots too; but what kind of armful was she now? Besides, since her last confinement, when she had borne him Nessie, she had been always ailing, in a weak, whining way, offending his robust vigour by her flaccid impotence and provoking his distaste by her sickly habits. Out of the corner of his eye when she thought herself unobserved, as in the early hours of the morning when she left the bed before him, he would contemplate her almost stealthy dressing with disgust. Only last Sunday he had detected her in the act of concealing some soiled garment and had roared at her like an angry ram:
'Don't make a midden of my bedroom! It's bad enough for me to put up with you without havin' your dirty clothes flung in my face!' She had, he considered bitterly, long since been repugnant to him; the very smell of her was obnoxious to him, and had he not been a decent man, he might well have looked elsewhere. What had he dreamed last night? He thrust out his lower lip longingly and stretched his legs powerfully as he played with the vision of his sleep, thinking of the tantalising young jade he had chased through the woods who, though he had run like a stag, had been saved by the fleetness of her foot. She had run, faster than a deer, her long hair flying behind her, and with not a stitch on her back to cumber her, but still, despite her speed, had turned to smile at him enticingly, provokingly. If he had only gotten a grip of her, he thought, allowing his erotic fancy to riot delightfully as he lay back, basking his ponderous body in the sun, his parted lips twitching with a half-lewd, half-sardonic amusement, he would have made her pipe to a different tune.
Suddenly he observed that it was quarter past eight and without warning, he jumped out of bed, put on his socks, trousers and slippers, and pulled off his long nightgown. His naked torso gleamed sleekly and the muscles of his shoulders and back undulated like pliant knotted ropes under the white skin which shone like smooth satin, except where the thick brown hair was felted on the chest,
