slipped from the heights and now she sat realising the hopelessness of ever obtaining sanction to see Denis, asking herself how she could live without him, wondering what would become of her.
As she pondered, carelessly holding the letter in her hand, old Grandma Brodie entered unobserved.
'What's that you're reading?' she demanded suddenly, peering at Mary.
'Nothing, Grandma, nothing at all,' Mary blurted out with a start, stuffing the crushed paper into her pocket.
'It looked to me gey like a letter and ye seemed in a big hurry to hide it. You're always mopin' and moonin' over something now. I wish I had my specs. I would soon get to the bottom o' it.' She paused, marking the result of her observation malevolently on the tablets of her memory. 'Tell me,' she resumed, 'where's that glaikit brother o' yours?'
'Gone to get quinine at the chemist's with Mamma.'
'Pah! what he needs is gumption not quinine. He would need a bucket o' that to stiffen him up. Forbye, some strained castor oil and a drop of good spirits would be more useful to him outbye there. I've no time for sich a palaver that has been goin' on. Everything's upset in the house with the fiddle faddle of it a'. Tell me, is tea earlier to-night?' She clicked her teeth hopefully, scenting like a harpy the nearness of sustenance.
“I don't know, Grandma,' replied Mary. Usually the old woman's unbashful eagerness for food left her indifferent, but to-night, in her own troubled perplexity, it nauseated her; without further speech she got up and, feeling that she must be alone and in a less congested atmosphere, went out into the back garden. As she paced back and forth across the small green she felt it strangely cruel that life should continue to move heedlessly around her in the face of all her sadness and confusion, that Grandma Brodie should still crave greedily for her tea, and the progress of Matt's departure march indifferently along. The current of her thoughts had never flowed so despondently as, with restless movements, she seemed dimly to perceive that the circumstances of her life were conspiring to entrap her. Through the back window she saw Matthew and her mother return, saw Mamma buslle to prepare the table, observed Matthew sit down and begin to eat. What did they care that her brain throbbed with perplexity behind a burning forehead, that she wished one word of compassionate advice but knew not where to seek it? The barren drabness of this back garden, the ridiculous rear view of the outlines of her home, enraged her, and she desired with bitter vehemence to have been born into a family less isolated, less exacting, less inhuman, or, better, not to have been born at all. She envisaged the figure of her father, bestriding, like a formidable colossus, the destiny of the Brodies and directing her life tyrannically with an ever watchful, relentless eye. His word it was which had withdrawn her at the age of twelve from school, which she loved, to assist in the duties of the household; he had terminated her budding friendships with other girls because this one was beneath her, or that one lived in a mean house, or another's father had incensed him; his mandate had forbidden her to attend the delightful winter concerts in the Mechanic's Hall on the grounds that she demeaned herself by going; and now he would destroy the sole happiness that life now held for her.
A torrent of rebellion swirled through her; as she felt the injustice of such unnatural restraint, such unconditional limitation of her freedom, she stared defiantly at the meek currant shoots which grew half-heartedly in the hard soil around the garden walls. It was easier, alas, to put them out of countenance than Brodie, as though they too, infected by the tyranny of their environment, had lost the courage to hold their slender tendrils erect.
A touch on her shoulder startled her, she who just had dared to show fight. It was, however, merely Matthew, who had come to speak to her for a moment before leaving to visit Miss Moir.
'I'll be home early to-night, Mary,' he said, 'so don't worry about you know, staying up. And,' he added hastily, 'now that I'm going abroad I know you'll never mention it to a soul I would never like it to be known and thank you a lot for what you've done for me.'
This unexpected gratitude from her brother, although its origin lay in a premature wave of nostalgia and was fostered by the cautious instinct to safeguard his memory against his absence, touched Mary.
'That was nothing to do for you,' she replied. 'I was only too pleased, Matt. You'll forget all about that worry out there.'
'I'll have other things to bother about, I suppose.' She had never seen him so subdued, or less self- complacent, and a glow of affection for him warmed her, as she said, 'You'll be oil to see Agnes now. I'll walk to the gate with you.'
As she accompanied him around the side of the house, taking his arm in hers, she sensed the change from the modish young man about town of a fortnight ago to this uncertain, timorous youth now by her side.
'You'll need to cheer up a bit, Matt,' she remarked kindly.
'I don't feel like going, now it's come to the bit,' he ventured casually.
'You should be glad to get out of here,' she replied. 'I know I would gladly go. This house seems like a trap to me. I feel I'll never get away from it, as if I might wish to but could not.' She paused a moment, then added, 'But then, you're leaving Agnes behind! That's bound to make all the difference. That's what's making you sad and upsetting you.'
'Of course,' agreed Matthew. The idea had not occurred to him before in this particular light, but as he turned it over in his mind it was distinctly comforting, and, to his vacillating self-esteem, profoundly reassuring.
'What does Father think of Agnes and you ?' Mary asked suddenly.
He gazed at her with astonished eyes before he replied, indignantly:
'What do you mean, Mary? Miss Moir is a most estimable girl. No one could think a word against her. She's a remarkably fine girl! What made you ask that?'
“Oh! Nothing in particular, Matt,' she replied vaguely, refusing to liberate the absurd conception which had arisen in her mind. Agnes Moir, worthy and admirable in every other way, was simply the daughter of a small and completely undistinguished confectioner in the town, and as Brodie himself, in theory at least, kept a shop, he could not repudiate Agnes on that score. But it was he who had obtained this position for Matthew, had insisted upon his going; and Matthew would be absent five years in India. She remembered like a flash the grim, sardonic humour in her father's eyes when he had first announced to his shrinking wife and his startled son his intention of sending the latter abroad, and for the first time a faint glimmering dawned upon her of her father's mentality. She had always feared and respected him, but now, at the sudden turn of her thoughts, she began almost to hate him.
'I'm off then, Mary,' Matthew was saying. 'Ta-ta just now.'
Her lips opened to speak, but even as her mind grappled dimly with her suspicions, her eyes fell upon his weak, daunted countenance striving ineffectually against discouragement, and she let him go without a word.
When he left Mary, Matthew tramped along more confidently, warming his enervated self-assurance at the glow she had unconsciously kindled within him. To be sure, he was afraid of leaving Agnes! He felt that at last he had the reason of his dejection, that stronger men than he would have wavered for a slighter cause, that his despondency did him credit as a noble-hearted lover. He began to feel more like Livingstone again and less like the raw recruit, whistled aloud a few bars of 'Juanita', recollected his mandolin, thought, rather inconsistently, of the ladies on the Irrawaddy, or possibly in Calcutta, and felt altogether better. He had regained a faint shadow of his normal dash by the time he reached the Moir domicile and he positively leaped up the stairs to the door, for as, unhappily, the Moirs were compelled to live above their shop, there were many stairs, and, worse, an entry by a close. He had, indeed, so far recovered that he used the knocker with considerable decision and his manner had the appearance of repudiating the slightly inferior aspect of his surroundings as unworthy of a man whose name might one day shine in the annals of the Empire. He gazed, too, with a superior air, at the small girl who helped in the shop and who, now lightly disguised as a maid, admitted him and ushered him into the parlour where Agnes, released from the bondage of the counter although business hours were not yet over sat awaiting her Matt; to- morrow she could not be spared from her post of duty and would be unable to accompany him to Glasgow, but to- night she had him for her own.
The parlour was cold, damp, unused, and formal, with large mahogany furniture whose intricate design lost itself in a voluptuous mystery of curves, with antimacassars veiling the sheen of horsehair, and wax-cloth on the floor that glittered like a wet street. From the walls Highland cattle, ominous in oils, looked down dispiritedly upon the piano, that hall-mark of gentility, which bore upon its narrow, crowded surface three stuffed birds of an unknown species, perched mutely under a glass case amidst a forest of photographs. Agnes as an infant, as a baby, as a child, as a girl, as a young woman, Agnes in a group at the bakers' and confectioners' annual trip, at the Band of Hope social, at the church workers' outing all were there!
Here, too, was Agnes in the flesh: literally, for although short in stature she was already inclined, like the
