Rapidly he tore a leaf out of his pocketbook and scribbled on it, in pencil, a short message, telling Mary that he loved her and asking her to meet him outside the Public Library on the following 'evening. He would, for preference, have selected a more secluded meeting place, but he feared that the only pretext she might advance for leaving the house would be to visit the Library. When he had finished he rolled the paper into a small, neat square, pressed it tight in his palm, and, flicking the dust from his clothing, sprang up. He turned his head briskly towards his objective and had assumed all the ingenuous artlessness of a simple visitor, when all at once his face fell, his brow darkened, and he flung himself violently back into his hiding place. Coming along the pavement, and approaching the house from the lower end of the road, was Brodie himself, his wrist bandaged, his arm supported by a sling.
Denis bit his lip. Nothing, apparently, went right with him! It was impossible for him to approach the house now and he realised bitterly that Brodie, in his resentment, would almost certainly caution the household against him and so jeopardise his chances of utilising the scheme successfully upon another occasion. With a heavy heart he considered, also, that Brodie's anger might react upon Mary, although he had so carefully protected her during his unhappy interview at the shop. He watched Brodie draw nearer, detected with concern that
the injured wrist was encased in plaster, observed the thunder blackness ot his face, saw him crash open the gate and finally let himself into the house. Denis experienced a strong sense of misgiving. So long as Mary lived beside that monstrous man, and in that monstrous house, he realised that he would never be at rest. Straining his ears for some sound, some cry, some call for help, he waited outside interminably. But there was only silence silence from behind the cold, grey walls of that eccentric dwelling. Then, finally, he got up and walked dejectedly away.
IX
MARY BRODIE sat knitting a sock for her father. She leaned slightly forward, her face pale and shadowed, her eyes directed towards the long steel needles which flashed automatically under her moving fingers. Click-click went the needles! Nowadays she seemed to hear nothing but that sound, for in every moment of her leisure she knitted. Mamma had decreed sententiously that, as the devil found work more readily for idle hands, Mary must keep hers employed, even in her spare moments, and she had'been set the task of completing one pair of socks each week. She was now finishing her sixth pair!
Old Grandma Brodie sat watching, with her lips pursed up as if they had been stitched together. She sat with her withered legs crossed, the pendent foot beating time to the clinking music, saying nothing, but keeping her eyes perpetually fixed upon Mary, inscrutable, seeming to think all manner of things that no one, least of all Mary, could know of. Sometimes, Mary imagined that those bleared, opaque eyes were penetrating her with a knowing, vindictive suspicion, and when her own eyes met them, a spark of antagonism was struck from
the stony pupils. She had, of late, felt as if the eyes of the old sibyl were
binding some spell upon her which would compel her to move her tired fingers ceaselessly, unwillingly, in the effort to utilise an unending skein of wool.
It was an agreeable diversion for the crone to watch the young girl, but, in addition, it was her duty, the task assigned to her six weeks ego. Her head shook slightly as she recollected that incredible afternoon when her son had come in, with his arm bandaged and his face black as night, remembered the solemn conclave between Brodie and his wife behind the locked door of the parlour. There had been none of the usual bluster, no roaring through the house, only a dour grinding silence! What it had been about she had been unable to
guess, but certainly some grave disaster had been in the air. Her daughter-in-law's face had been drawn with fright for days afterwards; her lips had twitched while she had enrolled her as an auxiliary in the watching of Mary, saying only, "Mary's not allowed out of the house. Not a step beyond the front gate. It's an order." Mary was a prisoner, that was all, and she, in effect, the gaoler. Behind the mask of her face she revelled in the thought of it, of this disgrace
for Mary. She had never liked the girl and her occupation now afforded her the deepest gratification and delight.
Her present meditations were interrupted by the entry of Mrs. Brodie. Mamma's eyes sought out Mary.
"Have you turned the heel yet?" she enquired, with a forced assumption of interest.
"Nearly," replied Mary, her pale face unchanging from its set, indifferent apathy.
"You're getting on finely! You'll set your father up in socks for the winter before you've finished."
"May I go out in the garden a minute?"
Mamma looked out of the window ostentatiously. "It's smirring of rain, Mary. I think you better not go just now. When Nessie comes in maybe it'll be off, and you can take her out for a stroll around the back."
Mamma's feeble diplomacy! The will of Brodie, wrapped up in too plausible suggestions or delivered obviously in the guise of uplifting quotations from Scripture, had pressed round Mary like a net for six weeks, each week of which had seemed like a year a year with long, long days. So oppressed and weakened in her resistance was she now that she felt obliged to ask permission for her
every action.
"May I go up to my room for a little, then?" she said dully.
"Certainly, Mary! If you would like to read, tear, take this;" and, as her daughter went slowly out of the room, Mrs. Brodie thrust upon her a bound copy of Spurgeon's sermons that lay conveniently ready upon the dresser. But immediately Mary had gone, a glance passed between the two women left in the room and Mamma nodded her head slightly. Grandma at once got up, willingly forsaking her warm corner by the fire, and hobbled into the parlour, where she sat down at the front window, commanding from this vantage a complete view of any one who might attempt to leave the house. The constant observation ordained by Brodie was in operation. Yet Mamma had hardly been alone a moment before another thought crossed her mind. She pondered, then nodded to herself, realising this to be a favourable opportunity to execute her husband's mandate, and, holding her skirts, she mounted the stairs, and entered her daughter's
room, determined to say a "good word" to Mary.
"I thought I would come up for a little chat," she said brightly. "I havena had a word with you ror a day or two."
"Yes, Mamma!"
Mrs. Brodie considered her daughter critically. "Have you seen the light yet, Mary?" she asked slowly.
Mary knew instinctively what was coming, knew that she was to receive one of Mamma's recently instituted pious talks which had made her at first either tearful or rebellious, which had never at any time made her feel better spiritually, and which now merely fell senselessly upon her stoic ears. These elevating discourses had become intolerable during her incarceration and, together with every other form of high-minded exhortation, had been thrust upon her, heaped upon her head like reproaches, at all available opportunities. The
reason was not far to seek. At the conclusion of that awful session in the parlour Brodie had snarled at his wife, "She's your daughter! It's your job to get some sense of obedience into her. If you don't, by God! I'll take the strap across her back again and over yours too."
"Do you feel yourself firm on the rock yet, Mary?" continued Mamma earnestly.
"I don't know," replied Mary, in a stricken voice.
"I can see yoi haven't reached it yet," Mamma sighed gently. "What a comfort it would be to your father and me if we saw you more-abounding in faith, and goodness, and obedience to your parents." She took Mary's passive hand. "You know, my dear, life is short. Suppose we were called suddenly before the Throne in a state of unworthiness What then? Eternity is long. There is no chance to