of contagion or infection, still he wondered if he himself might be contaminated, and immediately the recollection of her previous nearness to him, of past contacts, rushed over him, making him feel unclean. Involuntarily he glanced over his muscular body as if it might reveal already some sinister index of the malady. His glance reassured him, but following the thought came, inevitably, a small wave of resentment against his wife. 'Could she no’ have watched herself better?' he muttered, as if she were in measure responsible for her own calamity.
He shook himself and braced out his barrel chest to rid himself of all the oppressive, conflicting ideas within him. Without realising it, he wandered into the cold, unused parlour and sat down in the inhospitable room where he again set himself to decide what he must do. Although he must, of course, justify his threat to Renwick and call in Doctor Lawrie, already he knew it to be useless. This had been merely the spiteful taunt of his inferior mind and, in his inmost heart, he knew Lawrie's skill to be far below the other's. He realised, too, that he must go up to his wife, but he had no heart for his duty, for under the stigma of this awful distemper she had become to him even more unwelcome and repugnant than before. He shrank equally from her and from his onerous duty to visit her. Shifting his mind quickly from her, he began to consider the domestic
situation. What a mess, he thought; and not unlike the state of his business! A look that was almost piteous in its perplexity slowly invaded the hard, massive face, softening its harshness, driving out the bitterness, lifting the frown from the brow. But that compassionate expression was for himself! He was thinking, not of his wife but of himself, sympathising with himself, pitying James Brodie for the troubles that beset him.
'Ay,' he muttered gently, 'it's a good job you're a man amongst a' this injustice. Ye have a wee thing or two to thole.' With these words he rose and ascended the stairs as slowly and heavily as if clambering up a ladder; outside Mamma's room he paused, drew himself up, and went in. She had heard him coming up and already was turned to greet him with a pleading, ingratiating smile.
'I'm sorry, father,' she immediately murmured. 'I tried hard to get up but it was just beyond me. I'm real sorry ye've been so upset. Did ye get a decent breakfast?'
He seemed to be seeing her with new eyes, observing now that her face looked ghastly, with hollowed temples and jaws, that her form appeared to have become suddenly wasted. He did not know what to say. It was so long since he had addressed a kind word to her that his tongue refused to utter one, and in his hesitation he felt uncomfortable, incongruous, absurd. His motive in life was to drive, to demand, to chastise, to flagellate; he could not sympathise. He stared
at her desperately.
'You're not angry, I hope, Father,' she said timidly, misconstruing his look. 'I'll be up in a day or two. He says a bit rest is what I need. I'll see that you're not put about more than need be.'
'I'm not angry, woman,' he said hoarsely. Then after a pause, with an effort, he added, 'Ye maun lie still till we see what Doctor Lawrie can do for ye.'
Immediately she flinched.
'Oh! No! No! Father,' she cried, 'It's not him I want. I like Doctor Renwick so much I feel he'll make me well. He's so kind and so clever. His medicine made me feel better at once.'
He gritted his teeth impotently as her protests rang on endlessly. Previously he would have rammed his intention in her teeth and left her to swallow it as best she liked, but now, in the novelty of her condition, and indeed, of his, he knew not what to say. He resolved that she would have Lawrie, that he would send him in, but modifying his retort with an effort, he exclaimed:
'Well see then! Well see how ye get on.'
Mrs. Brodie gazed at him doubtfully, feeling that if he took Renwick from her she would surely die. She had loved this doctor's serene assurance, had expanded under his unusual gentleness. Unconsciously she was drawn to him as the one who had attended her daughter, and he had already spoken to her of Mary in terms that paid tribute to the patience and fortitude of her child under the trials of an almost mortal illness. Now she sensed at once that her husband was antagonistic to her desire, but she knew better than to argue; hastily she sought to propitiate him.
'What are we goin' to do about you, James?' she ventured. 'Ye must be looked after properly. You must have your comforts.'
'Ill be all right,' he managed to say. 'The old lady will do her best.'
'No! No!' she urged. 'IVe been thinkin' out plans all morning. I must get up as soon as I'm able, but in the meantime, could we not get a girl in, some one who would get your meals as ye like them. I could tell her tell her just what to do how to make the broth as ye like it, and how to season your porridge, and the airin' o' your flannels and '
He interrupted her by a definite, intolerant shake of his head. Could she not realise that it cost money to keep a servant ? Did she think he was rolling in wealth? He wanted to say something crushing that would shut off her silly twaddle. 'Does she think I'm a helpless wean, the way she's going on?' he asked himself. 'Does she think the house couldna go on without her?' Yet he knew that if he opened his mouth to speak he would blunder into some blunt rejoinder the niceties of expression were beyond him so he closed his lips and maintained a chafing silence.
She looked at him closely, encouraged by his silence, wondering fearfully if she dared to venture the subject nearest her heart. His unaccustomed placidity made her brave and, with a sudden gasp, she exclaimed:
'James! To mind the house now could we not could we not have Mary back?'
He recoiled from her. His assumed serenity was not proof against this, and losing control of himself, he shouted:
'No! We will not. I warned ye not even to lift her name. She'll not come back here till she crawls on her bended knees. Me as’ her to come back! Never! Not even if ye lay on your deathbed.'
The last word rang through the room like a trumpet call and slowly a frightened look came into Mamma's eyes.
'As you say, James,' she trembled. 'But please dinna mention that awfu' word. I'm not wantin' to die yet. I'm goin' to get better, ye ken. I'll be up soon.'
Her optimism exasperated him. He did not realise that the habits of half a lifetime had ingrained in her the feeling that she must always exhibit in his presence this spurious cheerfulness, nor did he understand that the desire to get up arose from an ever pricking urge to fulfill the innumerable demands that harassed her.
'The doctor didna say much,' she continued propitiatingly, 'beyond that it was a kind of inflammation. When that goes down, I'm sure I'll get my strength up in no time. I cianna bear this lyin' in bed. I've got so many things to think of.' She was worrying about the payment of her debt. 'Just wee bits o' things that nobody would bother about but me,' she added hastily, as if she feared he might read her mind.
He looked at her gloomily. The more she glossed over her illness the more he became convinced that she would not survive it; the more she spoke of the future the more futile she became in his eyes. Would she be as inept when confronted by death as she had been in the face of life? He tried desperately to find something to say; what could he say to this doomed but unconscious woman?
And now his manner began to puzzle her. At first she had assumed gratefully that his quiet had betokened a forbearance in the face of her sickness, a modification of the same feeling which made her move throughout the house on tiptoes when she had nursed him, on such rare occasions as he had been ill. But a curious quality in his regard now perturbed her, and suddenly she queried:
'The doctor didna say anything about me to you, did he? He didna tell you something that he keepit from me? He seemed a long time downstairs before I heard him drive away.'
He looked at her stupidly. His mind seemed, from a long distance off, to consider her question slowly, detachedly, without succeeding in arriving at an appropriate answer.
'Tell me if he did, James,' she cried apprehensively. 'I would far rather know. Tell me.' The whole of her appearance had altered, her demeanour, from being calm and sanguine, had become agitated, disturbed.
He had come into the room with no fixed motive as to how he should deal with her. He had no sympathy, no tact, and now no ingenuity to lie to her. He felt confused, trapped, like a blundering animal before the frail, raddled creature on the bed. His temper flared suddenly.
'What do I care what he thinks!' he found himself saying harshly. 'A man like him would say ye were dyin' if ye had a toothache. He knows nothing less than nothing. Haven't I told ye I'm goin' to get Lawrie to ye!' His angry, ill-chosen words struck her like a thunderbolt. Instantly she knew, knew with a fearful conviction, that her illness
