"When can we be married?" It cost her a powerful effort to utter the words, but in her new-found knowledge she felt dimly that her body would remain unchaste until she knew when he would marry her.
He reflected.
"I have a big business trip towards the end of the year it means a lot. Could you wait until after then?" he asked doubtfully. "I could fix up everything by then and we could be married and go straight into a little cottage somewhere not in Darroch or Levenford but perhaps in Garshake."
His idea of a cottage in Garshake cheered them both and each immediately visioned the quiet, old village that clustered so snugly around an arm of the estuary.
"I could wait for that," Mary replied wistfully, viewing in her mind's eye one of the small, whitewashed cottages of which the village was composed one smothered in red rambler roses, with a doorway festooned by creeping nasturtiums in which her baby would mysteriously come into her arms. She looked at Denis and
almost smiled.
"I'll not fail you, dear," he was saying. "If you will be brave and hold out as long as ever you can."
The train was now in the station, and the old woman, the farm servants and the two workmen were scrambling to their places. She had time only to take a hurried farewell of him as he helped her into a seat, but, as the train began to move, he ran along beside her until the last moment, holding her hand, and before he was forced to let go, she called to him, courageously:
"I'm remembering your motto, Denis, dear!" He smiled and waved his cap bravely, encouragingly, in reply, until the train circled the bend and they were torn from each other's sight.
She was certainly valiant, and now that she knew the worst she was prepared to exercise all her hardihood to achieve her only hope of happiness. Seeing Denis had saved her. He was, and would be, her salvation, and strengthened by the thought that he shared her secret, she now felt fortified to endure anything until he would take her away with him for good. She shuddered at the recollection of her visit to the doctor but firmly she blotted out from her mind the odious experiences of the last two hours. She would be brave for Denis!
Back again in Levenford she hastened to deliver the letter to Agnes Moir and discovered to her relief that Agnes had gone upstairs for tea. She therefore left the letter for her at the shop with all Mrs. Brodie’s messages of attachment and affection and escaped, mercifully, without questioning.
As she took the way home she reflected that her mother was sure to discover at a later date her defection in the matter of the parcel, but, involved in a deeper and more serious trouble, she did not care. Let Mamma scold, weep, or bewail, she felt that she had only a few months more until she would be out of a house which she now detested.
Every sense within her turned towards the suggestion Denis had tentatively advanced and in her imagination she consolidated it into actuality; thrusting the thought of her present condition from her, she concentrated her sanguine hopes eagerly upon the cottage she would share with him in Garshake.
VIII
BRODIE sat in his office reading the Levenford Advertiser, with the door slightly open so that he could, at infrequent intervals, raise a vigilant eye towards the shop without interfering with the comfortable perusal of his paper. Perry was ill, confined to bed, as his agitated mother had announced to Brodie that morning, with a severe boil which partially prevented his walking and debarred him entirely from sitting down. Brodie had muttered disagreeably that he required his assistant to stand up, not to sit down, but on being assured
that the sufferer would certainly be relieved through constant poulticing and be fit for duty in the morning, he had consented with a bad grace to allow him the day off. Now, enthroned on his chair at the top of the steps leading to his sanctum, Brodie devoted an almost exclusive attention to the report of the Cattle Show. He was glad that business was quiet this morning and that he was not constrained to lower himself to the menial work of the shop, which he detested and which was now entirely Perry's obligation. A few moments ago he had been obliged to leave his seat to serve a labouring man who had rolled uncouthly in, and, in his indignation, he had hustled the man out with the first hat he could lay hands on. What did he care, he asked himself, whether or not the thing suited ? He couldn't be bothered over these infernal trifles; a thing like that was Perry's job; he wanted to read his paper in peace, like any other gentleman.
With an outraged air he had come back and began again at the opening lines of the report.
"The Levenford and District Annual Cattle Show," he read, "took place on Saturday the 21 st inst. and was attended by a large and distinguished gathering." He perused the whole report slowly, carefully, sedulously, until at the finish of the article he came upon the paragraph beginning: "Amongst those present." His eye glimmered anxiously then flared into triumph, as he saw that his name was there! Amongst the distinguished names of the borough and county, towards the end of the list, no doubt, but not absolutely at the end, stood the name of James Brodie. He banged his fist triumphantly upon his desk. By Gad! That would show them! Every one read the Levenford Advertiser which was published once a week, on Friday and every one would see his name flourishing there, near to no less a personage than the Lord Lieutenant of the County. Brodie glowed with vanity. He liked the look of himself in print. The capital "J" of the James had a peculiar, arresting curl and as for his surname nay, his family name spelt in the correct manner, not with a "y" but with the terminal "ie", he was prouder of this than of all his other possessions together. He cocked his head to one side, never removing his eyes from this arresting name of his. Actually he had read through the wordy report, tantalising in its verbosity, simply to find himself living in the public eye through the medium of these two printed words. He gloated over them.
James Brodie! His lips unconsciously formed the words as he rolled them silently over upon his tongue. "You're a proud man, Brodie," he whispered to himself. "Eh! You're proud; and by God! you have reason to be." His eyes blurred with the intensity of his feeling and the entire list of dazzling personages, with their titles, honours and distinctions, fell out of focus into one solitary name which seemed indelibly to have stamped its image upon his retina. James Brodie!
Nothing seemed to surpass these simple yet suggestive words.
A slight deviation of the current of his ideas caused his nostrils to dilate with resentment at the thought of having been called upon to lower himself in his own eyes, by serving a common workman diis very morning. That had been well enough twenty years ago when he was a struggling man forced into business by necessities over which he had no control. But now he had his hired servant to
do this work for him. He felt the encounter of this morning a slur upon his name and a choleric indignation swelled within him at the unfortunate Perry for having failed him.
"Ill boil him," he cried, "the pimply little snipe." He had never been meant for business, that he had always known, but, as he had been compelled to adopt it, he had transmuted its substance into something more appropriate to his name and bearing. He had never considered himself a man of commerce but had, from the first, adopted the part of the impoverished gentleman obliged to live by an unfitting and unbecoming occupation. Yet his very personality had, he felt, strangely dignified that occupation into something worthy of him. It had ceased to be paltry and had become unique. From the outset he had never run after people; they had, indeed, been obliged to whistle to his tune and to meet him in all his foibles and vagaries.
In his early days he had once thrown a man out of his shop for an impolite word; he had startled the town into recognising him; he did not curry favour but stood bluntly as if to say, "Take me as I am or leave me"; and his anomalous policy had been singularly successful. He had achieved a reputation for rude honesty and downright dealing; the more arbitrary of his maxims were repeated like epigrams in the gossip of the town; amongst the gentry he had been recognised in the local term as a "character", and his original individuality had acquired for him their patronage. Yet, the more his personality had unfolded, the more he had disdained the vehicle of its expansion.