“Atmospheric, layered, and rich with emotion, SmallGodsof Calamityis a satisfyingly fresh spin on supernatural noir.”
—Premee Mohamed, Nebula award winner and author of And WhatCanWeOfferYouTonight
“A thrilling five-star read delving into the delicacy of Korean Shamanism and the horror of evil spirit possession. This ethereal glide into Korean shamanism combined with a sensory exploration brings to life a paranormal horror that delivers hope.”
—E.J. Dawson, author of BehindtheVeil
“An expertly-layered detective mystery filled with folkloric spirits, rich atmosphere, and a pulsing, emotional core, Small GodsofCalamitystays riveting from intriguing opening to beautiful conclusion. Yoo’s unforgettable debut is a wonderfully queer exploration of grief, trauma, and reckoning with the past that will leave your heart aching in the best way.”
—Kelsea Yu, Shirley Jackson Award-nominated author of Bound Feetand It’sOnlyaGame
“A refreshing urban occult detective story about imperfect heroes and confronting the roots of trauma. It is a tale of aching quiet beauty led by broken souls, yet it is also one of warmth and reconciliation.”
—Ai Jiang, Nebula finalist and author of Linghunand IAmAI
“A gripping, absolutely un-put-downable novella. Yoo hooks you from the first page to the last with a riveting supernatural murder mystery that plays out partly in our everyday world and partly in the perilous world of spirits and ghosts. In the midst of soul-destroying danger and darkness, the main characters are infused with a bright and gentle light, and I hope this isn’t the last time I get to meet Detective Kim Han-gil.”
—Maria Haskins, author of Wolves&Girlsand SixDreams AbouttheTrain
SMALL GODS OF CALAMITY
Sam Kyung Yoo
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author and publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Holly Lyn Walrath. Proofread by Douglas Soules.
Published by Interstellar Flight Press Houston, Texas.
The dead man is wearing cherry-red high-top sneakers. They’re in good condition; the leather is glossy and uncreased, the tread still intact. The laces are tied loosely, probably to make the shoes easier to slip on and off. The rest of the body is covered by a white sheet, in stark contrast with the black pavement of the parking lot.
Han-gil breathes in and tastes saltwater in the air. He grips his right hand with his left, pressing his thumb into the scar that runs across his palm. He traces the edge where the faded scar tissue cuts through the base of his thumb.
“You know,” Wonshik remarks from his place at the other end of the dead man’s body. “I read an article once that said suicide is the fourth-highest cause of death in South Korea.”
Han-gil’s new partner, Choi Wonshik, could be the poster boy for a police recruitment program. Bright-eyed and energetic the ideal fresh-faced newcomer. Han-gil feels old and tired in comparison, despite the fact they’re both twenty-eight. Even Wonshik’s tidy crew cut makes Han-gil self-conscious about his own disheveled and overgrown mop of hair.
Han-gil cranes his neck back, squinting as he takes in all twenty floors of the dead man’s apartment building. It’s one of those luxury high-rise apartments with a pretentious name, Seyang Garden Le Ciel, as if tagging some random English and French words onto the end of a corporate brand name will make it sound more appealing.
At least the Le Ciel is somewhat removed from the general public— surrounded by resident-only outdoor facilities and private park grounds. There are significantly fewer onlookers hovering around the police cordon and making a nuisance of themselves as a result.
One of the building residents found the body, identified as Hwang Do-hyun, in the visitor’s parking lot earlier this morning. Forensics has already sent people up to collect the rest of their analysis from the man’s apartment, as well as the roof. Han-gil wonders how long it’ll take for them to make it all the way up there.
The seawater smell still hangs thick in the air.
“People usually take off their shoes before they jump,” Han-gil says. The sound of his own voice seems bland and far away to him.
“I suppose that’s true,” Wonshik concedes. “Not everyone follows that tradition, though. Maybe he just really liked the shoes and wanted to die in them.”
There is the sound of a water droplet hitting the surface of a very still pool. It rings sweetly, like a bell.
Han-gil turns his head.
A boy stands at the far side of the parking lot. He looks young, probably middle school age, and he’s wearing a summer school
uniform, even though it’s already well into the fall. He seems unconcerned with the police cordon. None of the patrol officers act like they notice him. The boy’s face drips red, his hair plastered to his forehead. His arms are skinned raw with road rash burns. He stares at Han-gil.
Han-gil meets the boy’s eyes and inclines his head in acknowledgment.
Wonshik clears his throat. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about something,” he says. “I was in the break room the other day, and some of the guys were swapping work stories. And your name kind of came up?”
So it’s begun. Han-gil’s surprised the others held out for this long. They’re already on week three since Choi Wonshik’s arrival at the station. Usually the other detectives waylay newcomers with the full force of all the gossip from day one. Han-gil is genuinely curious how many of the different “crazy Kim Han-gil” stories Wonshik knows about now, especially considering how much juicy ammunition everyone has after what happened to Han-gil’s last partner during the Changshin Station case.
Wonshik adds awkwardly, “Well, your name came up a couple of times actually, but—”
The boy ghost points to somewhere near the side of the apartment complex, his form flickering in a way that’s almost insistent.
“What are you looking at?” Wonshik asks.
Han-gil very intentionally doesn’t react, keeping his body language bored and disinterested as he turns to Wonshik. “Nothing.”
“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”
Han-gil cracks a half smile. “I’m listening.” He glances back across the parking lot. The blood-covered boy has vanished.
“Why don’t you head up to Hwang Dohyun’s apartment first? I’ll meet you there in a bit,” Han-gil says.
“What? Wait, where are you—”
Han-gil doesn’t wait for Wonshik’s reply, already heading in the direction the boy had gestured.
“Maybe they weren’t exaggerating about him after all,” Wonshik mutters behind him.
Han-gil huffs a mirthless laugh but keeps walking.
Seoul is a landlocked city—the Seyang Garden Le Ciel apartment complex is over thirty kilometers away from the sea. And yet, all Hangil can smell is ocean water and brine.
He knows what killed this man.
Han-gil finds the ghost in the Le Ciel’s residential playground. The boy stands weightlessly on the top end of a seesaw.
“Hey,” Han-gil says.
The boy moves toward him, walking down the slope of the seesaw. It doesn’t move or even shudder beneath his feet.
Han-gil pulls a box of incense and a lighter from one of his field jacket’s many pockets, knocking a stick of incense out like a cigarette. He lights it, gently blowing out the flame to leave only an ember
burning. He holds it upright in one hand, returning the box and lighter to his pocket with the other. “You wanted to tell me something?”
The boy’s eyes fixate on the white thread of smoke that begins to unwind from the glowing end of the incense stick.
Ghosts cannot speak. They cannot communicate in any form of human language. The soul doesn’t have the means after becoming severed from the living body. It’s like all understanding of language stays behind in the brain.
“Hwang Dohyun, the man who died here last night,” Han-gil says. “Did you know him?”
Han-gil hears that waterdrop sound again as the boy stares at him. The incense smoke remains placid and unaffected. Han-gil takes this as a no.
“Then did you see what happened to him?”
The tip of the incense glows brighter, the smoke twisting a little faster.
“There was something latched onto his soul, wasn’t there? Something like a parasite.”
The smoke blooms outwards, quivering. Han-gil takes that as a yes. Then it branches off, winding out in two separate tendrils.
Han-gil exhales. “There were two.”
It’s bad enough he’s found another worm possession case while his sister Azuna is back in Kyoto. They’ve never seen multiple worm spirits working together before.
“Were there two spirits burrowed inside of the same person? Or were they possessing two different people?” Han-gil says urgently. He’s not really sure which option he would prefer, but at the very least if it’s the former, he won’t have to chase down two different possession victims while he’s on his own.
The smoke reverts to a single plume, going back to neutral. It seems he’s wrong on both guesses.
The boy’s eyes sharpen, the ripples-in-water sound of his presence growing louder, more focused. The smoke roils in agitation before it splits again, but this time, the divide is uneven. Han-gil watches as a narrow thread of smoke breaks away from the main column, spiraling out and rising up.
But then, impossibly, the thread of incense smoke flows downward as if falling. The larger smoke column engulfs the thread again, swallowing it up.
Han-gil stares. “So it was two, but not really,” he says slowly.
He and Azuna have already seen how the worm spirits can reproduce, splitting themselves like flatworms. Copy after copy. He hasn’t seen a worm using a complex strategy like this before, though. It’s like a salamander dropping its tail.
“Was the smaller one inside of Hwang Dohyun?” Han-gil asks.
The smoke ripples in agreement.
A fragment would still have at least some degree of the same mind-controlling abilities of the primary worm spirit. Han-gil thinks of the parasitic cordyceps fungus that infests the body of an ant,
influencing it to climb up somewhere high where it can die and provide nutrients for the fungus’s fruiting body. In the case of the worm spirit, Han-gil imagines the worm fragment forcing the victim to climb up somewhere—just to hurl themselves to the ground below. An easy kill for the primary worm, waiting to feed.
“There was someone else, wasn’t there? Waiting for when he hit the ground.”
The smoke twirls faster. The ashes from the end of the incense crumble, sprinkling down Han-gil’s fingers. The stick is already half gone, the boy’s more complicated answers burning through the incense rapidly.
“You saw what happened to his soul, didn’t you,” Han-gil says quietly.
The boy’s face twists, his eyes looking far older than his age. Hangil wonders how long this ghost has been here, how long ago it was that he died.
“Who was it? Can you tell me how to find them?”
It’s bad phrasing, clumsy and imprecise, but Han-gil is running out of time. He can see the boy growing translucent and hazy, his entire being going out of focus.
The lines of smoke start to splinter, coils roiling and colliding with one another, sending some of the smoke scattering in nondistinctive spirals.
“Oppa?” says a small voice that feels like a wind in the reeds. The boy turns his head.
A little girl is standing at the edge of the playground, maybe six or seven years old. Her arms are wrapped snugly around a white stuffed rabbit with buttons for eyes, one blue and one pink.
She runs up to the ghost boy. “Oppa, can this ajusshi see you too?” she whispers to him. Her voice is just a little too loud to be properly secretive, and her glances in Han-gil’s direction aren’t exactly subtle.
The corner of Han-gil’s mouth twitches. He’s only twenty-eight, but he’s already getting called “ajusshi” like he’s a middle-aged man. He supposes that, to a small child, the age difference between Han-gil and the ghost boy must seem astronomical.
Hot ash showers across Han-gil’s hand. He turns back to see the incense stick has burnt down to his fingers. The smoke blooms into a chaos of colliding threads, corkscrewing out in all directions.
The boy’s gaze is sharp and insistent as he stares at Han-gil before he points at the little girl. Then he vanishes.
The ember at the end of the incense stick dies. Han-gil lets the remaining stub fall to the ground, shaking his hand out to knock some of the ash off his skin.
The girl makes a noise of protest, her hand outstretched to where the ghost had just been.
“It’s okay,” Han-gil says quickly. “Your oppa was just answering some of my questions, so he used up a lot of his energy. He’ll be back later.”
The girl turns in place, searching around the playground as if hoping her friend might just be hiding from her as a prank and will jump out and surprise her any second. When she realizes this isn’t the case, she scuffs one of her shoes on the playground’s rubber-tiled ground cover.
“But he was supposed to play with me,” she says. She hugs her stuffed rabbit closer, pressing her chin into the top of its head.
Now that she’s closer, Han-gil can see her eyes are red and puffy. The breath goes out of him as his chest constricts, and his pulse rises to a dull roar in his ears. It could just be from crying, allergies, normal things, but the boy drew Han-gil’s attention to this girl for a reason. Please,nother . She’ssosmall,Han-gil thinks.
“I’m sorry,” Han-gil says. “If you’d like, I could play with you for a bit instead.” He kneels, getting to her level. “I’m Kim Han-gil,” he says.
“What’s your name?”
“Dajung.” She peers up at him through her bangs shyly. “Ajusshi, you can really see them too?”
Han-gil smiles. “Yeah, ever since I was born. My mom was the same way.”
Dajung’s eyes widen. “That’s so cool,” she says. “My mom can’t see them at all. Even when I try to tell her about the songs they make, she just gets all confused and acts like she doesn’t believe me.” Her voice trails off a little toward the end.
Han-gil’s smile turns a little rueful. “That must be hard, I’m sorry.” He leans in a little closer, pitching his voice a little lower like he’s
sharing an exciting secret. “But I believe you. When I see them, I hear things too. Sometimes it’s music, sometimes it’s just weird noises.”
Dajung brightens again. “Really?”
“Yeah. There are smells, too, for some of them. And sometimes it’s like there’s a taste in my mouth out of nowhere.”
“You can taste the ghosts?” Dajung whisper-shouts. “That’s so weird!” She looks delighted.
Han-gil laughs. He listens to the sound Dajung’s soul makes, reeds rustling softly in the breeze. There’s a musical clarity to it that Han-gil usually only finds in ghosts and spirits, but in living humans, it’s a sign of their potential. Dajung could become a powerful spiritualist if she chose to go down that path.
Han-gil leans forward, scrutinizing her face. The morning sky is clear, the sunlight unfiltered. Her pupils constrict against the brightness, still responsive to light. He can’t smell any seawater, but he thinks about the threadlike strand of incense the ghost boy showed him. If the worm is very small, he might not be able to sense it.
“Hey, Dajung, do you remember the last time you went to the eye doctor?” Han-gil asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tabbing through his apps.
“Yeah, back in the spring,” she chirps. “If I ever get glasses, I want blue frames like my dad. But the doctor said my eyes are good.” She says this with a hint of almost disappointment.
“Blue would look very nice on you,” Han-gil says. “Then, could you cover one of your eyes real quick?”
She complies without even questioning him, holding her hand up in front of her right eye.
Han-gil’s heart melts a little. Just a couple of shared secrets, and he’s gone from being a stranger to an adult who is safe. He really should be warning her against trusting so easily.
“All right, now look at this chart and go down the list for me.” He holds up his phone, showing Dajung the screen. He watches her eye flick to him, then back to his phone’s screen.
“A house, an apple, a circle, another apple, a square,” she says, her eye scanning down the rows of symbols as they get progressively smaller. “Apple, square, house, circle, square . . .” She keeps going without any difficulty.
She tests safely within average range for both eyes, in terms of visual acuity. Han-gil switches over to the contrast sensitivity version of the test, where instead of getting smaller, the symbols gradually become lighter and lighter against the white background as they go down the chart. Dajung has no problem with that, either.
When he switches over to the color vision assessment, though, she hesitates.
Han-gil’s fingers clench around his phone. The image on the screen is a dense circular array of colored dots, each with subtle color differences. “Look carefully. Do you see anything in the center?” he asks, willing his voice to stay even.
“Twenty-seven,” Dajung reads slowly, enunciating each syllable carefully.
Han-gil’s grip loosens just a little. He taps the screen, triggering the randomizer so the screen shuffles to a new image. “How about now?” he says.
“Six,” she says. He taps the screen again. “Nine.”
She gets all of them right. Her eyes are working fine. Her vision is perfectly fine.
There’s a slight tremor in his hand as the tension that seized his muscles releases, and he’s left feeling even more tired and wrung out than before. His arm drops down to his side.
“Have you ever felt like you could sense the ocean here at the apartment?” Han-gil asks. “Maybe a song that reminded you of the sea or something like that?”
Dajung shakes her head.
He sighs and sits down, grateful for the playground’s padded ground cover. The clamor of anxiety has subsided for now, leaving only a faint ringing in his head. The vision test isn’t a perfect evaluation method, but at the very least, she’s not exhibiting the physical signs of worm spirit possession.
Han-gil expects her to ask him about vision tests or maybe ask him more about his experience with spirits.
“Ajusshi, are you scared of the ocean?” Dajung says instead.
That startles a chuckle out of him. “Not exactly,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
“My mom is scared all the time,” Dajung says. “She wants me to stop seeing and hearing scary things and be normal instead.” She squeezes her stuffed rabbit, nuzzling her cheek against it. “But Junhee-unnie helped me not be scared. She showed me that oppa was really nice and just wanted to play.”
Han-gil sits more upright. “Is your Junhee-unnie like us, too?” he asks.
Dajung nods. “Yeah! She’s the first person I met who could see them. She said just because the other kids make fun of me and call me a liar doesn’t mean I am. She said that we’re different, but different isn’t a bad thing.” Dajung holds out her stuffed rabbit, a shy smile on her face. “And she made Apple for me. To keep me safe from the ghosts that aren’t nice.”
Han-gil realizes the ringing in his head from earlier hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s become more distinct, less of a ringing, and more like an echo of something musical caught in an endless loop. It’s the sound Han-gil has come to associate with a protective ward. Now that he’s focusing on it, he notices a slight aroma of fresh ink, that blend of charcoal and incense that inksticks give off when freshly ground against an inkstone. He can also make out the smell of freshly cut grass.
He considers Apple more carefully. The source of the protection is most likely tucked inside the rabbit’s stuffing, maybe a talisman or an amulet. He also notes the additional embroidery on the rabbit’s ears
that appears to have been copied from a spell for repelling calamity spirits. It’s a little unusual, considering most people are primarily concerned with trying to ward against resentful ghosts—human spirits bearing grudges. A calamity spirit is something else entirely. Something that was never human.
The threadwork hums more quietly than whatever is sewn inside. There might be two different energy signatures here, but it’s always hard for him to tell when they’re entwined like this.
“Your Junhee-unnie sounds really nice,” he says. “When did she give this to you?”
“For my birthday, last month.”
Han-gil smiles. “Does she live nearby? I’d love to meet her.”
Dajung presses her chin into the top of Apple’s head. “I don’t know where she lives. She never told me. She said her apartment isn’t a good place to play and that it’s better to meet outside.”
Han-gil’s thoughts race. Maybe this Junhee set up these wards herself, or she was the client of a practitioner. Either way, these protections she gave Dajung are a bit too specific to have been a general precautionary measure.
Still, though the wards on Apple are professional grade, worm spirits often can find ways to wriggle through the seams of most standard protections. Han-gil draws a multicolored bundle of kumihimo braided cords from one of his jacket’s many inner pockets.
“Your unnie is right. Being different doesn’t mean anything bad,” Han-gil says to Dajung. He separates out one cord that’s a sunflower
yellow. He holds an end in each hand, focusing his intent, before yanking them apart. The cord snaps down the middle.
One segment of cord he wraps around his left wrist, positioning it just below his watch so he doesn’t have to roll up his sleeve. He pinches the ends of the yellow cord together, sending a spark of energy through it that seals the fibers together as if they’d never been split.
Dajung’s eyes go round with awe. Han-gil can’t help but smile a little at the sincere wonder in her expression. It makes him feel like he’s performing a simple magic trick purely for entertainment. He wishes that were all it needed to be.
“Sometimes, though, because we’re different, bad things can be drawn to us,” he says. He holds the other length of cord to Dajung, who wordlessly offers him her own wrist.
“This will let me know if something happens to you,” he explains, securing the yellow cord to her.
He hesitates only for a split second before he reaches into his shirt and pulls out his personal omamori that Azuna made for him. Energy thrums through the brocaded silk and intricately knotted cord, smelling of ozone and the chill of a mountain breeze. He removes it from his neck and ties a new knot in the string to shorten it. He leans forward and loops the amulet over Dajung’s head. “And just in case, this will also help keep you safe. Just like Apple,” he says.
Dajung studies the omamori and the yellow cord. “If it’s not the ocean, what’re you so scared of?” she asks.
Han-gil tries to smile in a way that won’t be fake. It’s difficult to figure out how to be reassuring while still being honest.
Since as early as Han-gil can remember, he was able to see “scary things.” But he never felt scared because his mother was there. She was the person who helped him not be afraid.
But now, he’s always a little bit scared.
He hands Dajung one of his business cards.
“If your eyes ever start to hurt, your vision gets blurry, or you’re having trouble being able to tell what colors things are, give my card to your mom or dad, okay? And if your Junhee-unnie comes by, ask her to call me too.”
Chapter 2
CRIMSON INK ON YELLOW PAPER
Han-gil walks through the entrance to Hwang Dohyun’s apartment unit and is immediately struck by a charcoal ink smell he recognizes from the playground, the musical hum of spirit energy prickling down the back of his neck. He spins around, scanning the doorframe for any markings or talismans, but finds nothing except for a handembroidered tapestry of a ginkgo tree hanging from the inside of the door itself.
It’s soothing to look at, the ginkgo’s fan-shaped leaves elegantly stitched in a blend of spring green and gold thread that makes them seem to glow, but there is nothing in the design that would account for the barrier he’s sensing. He lifts the bottom of the tapestry up and finds a peachwood panel painting of Shen Tu and Yu Lei. They’re the two oldest Chinese menshen, door gods depicted as warriors of heaven, dressed in armor and flowing robes. The peachwood is saturated with spirit energy, the charcoal ink presence so distinct Hangil can make out a sound like a calligraphy brush whispering across paper.
He tilts his head to one side, brow furrowing. Traditionally, door god charms were meant to protect against outside threats. But for
some reason, the wards on this piece are directed inwards, as if these guardian spirits have been tasked with protecting the outside world instead.
It could just be a mistake. A painting like this could have drawn the eye of an average consumer simply interested in Chinese cultural traditions. Any spiritualist with a moral compass would have avoided selling the real deal to someone that didn’t know any better, but there are people of all types in any community.
Han-gil spots what looks like a signature stamped into the corner of the wooden panel. It’s not something as straightforward as a name, more of a stylized logo with an equally stylized Chinese character that could be the hanja for a Korean name, or it could be a hanzi for something in actual Mandarin or Cantonese. He snaps a photo of it with his phone.
He hears footsteps behind him, coming down the hallway. Han-gil lets the tapestry fall back into place.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in,” Wonshik says.
“Find anything?” Han-gil asks in lieu of a greeting.
“Forensics checked the balcony but didn’t find any sign that he jumped from here, so they headed off to the roof. I was just going through his bedroom. No suicide note yet. Where’d you go earlier, anyway?”
“Just checking something,” Han-gil says, keeping his tone casually disinterested. He walks past Wonshik, heading into the hallway where he can already feel the musical hum of more spirit wards.
“No sign of the girlfriend so far,” Wonshik calls after him. “Neighbors say she didn’t come back last night, but that’s not unusual. Apparently, she works crazy long hours and rarely comes home. And they’re not exaggerating. Her room is legitimately dusty compared to the boyfriend’s.”
Energy reverberates throughout the hallway. The sensation of ink brushes on paper fills his ears and whispers across his skin.
Han-gil glances at the picture frames on the walls and notes that none of them are photos. He would’ve expected at least one couple photo, but he only sees more pieces of embroidery art and one image that actually might just be the stock photo the picture frame came with.
He unhooks one of the picture frames and turns it over.
The back of the frame is plastered with paper bujeok. The crimson ink of the seal script characters stands out vividly against the traditional yellow paper. Half of the paper talismans are spelled with protection against calamity; the other half are designed to absorb and suppress energy.
Han-gil replaces the picture frame. He goes to check another and finds the exact same array of talismans. It’s a strange combination. And just like the wards he found inside of Dajung’s stuffed rabbit, there are no protections against ghosts.
“What’s that?” Wonshik says from the end of the hallway.
Han-gil twitches, but it’s too late to put the frame back now.
Wonshik comes closer. “Wow, I didn’t realize they were so superstitious.” He glances around the hall, taking in the other wall hangings. “Are they all like this?”
“Looks like it,” Han-gil says.
“Huh. Okay, that’s . . . ” Wonshik trails off, peering at the layers of yellow paper and the spidery red script of the intricately layered characters. “Kind of creepy.”
Han-gil makes a generically conversational humming sound. “You think so?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many packed together like this. And it’s kind of weird that they’re all sort of hidden.”
“Well, who knows,” Han-gil says in a bland voice, returning the frame to its place. “Maybe they were trying to avoid looking creepy.”
“Right,” Wonshik clears his throat. “So, about what I was trying to ask you earlier,” he says. “Some other detectives at the station were telling me some things about your last partner, Kang Seongmin, and I kind of wanted to ask you about it?”
Han-gil keeps his eyes on the wall. He wonders if he can get away with pretending he isn’t listening again. But he can’t exactly put off having this conversation indefinitely. “Sure, maybe later,” he says. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Which room is Hwang Dohyun’s?”
“Hm? Oh, it’s that one.” Wonshik gestures over his shoulder. “The girlfriend’s is the one across from it.”
“Thanks,” Han-gil says as he skirts around Wonshik.
The charcoal ink painting smell gets fainter as he goes deeper into Hwang Dohyun’s room—it doesn’t seem like there are any talismans like the ones in the hallway hidden in here. What Han-gil notices instead is a lingering scent of greenery.
He traces the smell to the trash can in the corner of the room by the nightstand. There’s an embroidered handkerchief inside, halfcovered by some empty eye drop bottles. The handkerchief also rings of protective wards, but these ones are less refined and give off the sweet aroma of grass that has just been cut. Han-gil stares at it for a moment.
He turns around and crosses the hallway to the girlfriend’s room.
The girlfriend’s bedroom is neat and tidy to the extent it seems barely lived in. There are two laptop computers set up at the desk alongside an external monitor—presumably, one of them is her work computer. Han-gil also notes the sewing machine set up in the corner and the folded piles of fabrics and other sewing materials. There are also various sewing projects that all appear to be her attempts at creating her own talismans, all of them giving off that same freshly cut grass presence he remembers from Dajung’s stuffed rabbit.
“What was the girlfriend’s name again?” Han-gil asks.
“Lee Junhee,” Wonshik replies. “Why?”
“I have to go make a call,” Han-gil says.
The Le Ciel’s roof is vacant. It seems the CSI’s already finished collecting evidence from up here and went to rejoin the rest of the forensics team on the ground. The section of railing where they found
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begging a favour from his relations. That would be Bram’s way Just a diffident hint, but nothing that could involve her too deeply.
That Monday evening Nancy paid Miss Fewkes her bill and stared at the few pounds that remained. Of course, she could carry on for a little while by pawning, but had she any right to imperil by such methods Letizia’s well-being? Besides, now that the Kinos were going away, there was the problem of looking after Letizia during the day. At a pinch she could ask Mrs. Pottage to look after her for a week or two; but did not everything point to Brigham at this moment? Could she still have any pride after that account she had heard today of her father’s degradation? No, her duty was clear. She would make one more round of the agents, and then if she was still without an engagement on Thursday, she would take Letizia to her husband’s relations.
CHAPTER XIII
LEBANON HOUSE
Of all the great stations in the world Euston alone preserves in its Tartarian architecture the spirit in which the first railway travellers must have set out. So long as Euston endures, whatever improvements humanity may achieve in rapidity of travel and transport, we shall understand the apprehension and awe with which the original adventure must have filled the imagination of mankind. Mrs. Browning took to her bed in order to recover from the effects of a first view of Paddington Station; but Paddington is merely an overgrown conservatory set beside Euston, impressive in its way but entirely lacking in that capacity for permanently and intensely expressing the soul of an epoch, which makes Euston worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as St. Peter’s, or the Pyramids of Gizeh, or even the sublime Parthenon itself. Not only does Euston express the plunge of humanity into a Plutonian era, a plunge more lamentable and swift than Persephone’s from Enna in the dark chariot of Hades; but it peculiarly expresses within the lapse of a whole period the descent of the individual Londoner to the industrial Hell.
On an iron-bound day in early March the grimy portico of Euston might oppress the lightest heart with foreboding as, passing through to the eternal twilight of those cavernous and funereal entries, the fearful traveller embarks for the unimaginable North. The high platforms give the trains a weasel shape. The departure bell strikes upon the ear like a cracked Dies Iræ. The porters, in spite of their English kindliness, manage somehow to assume the guise of infernal guardians, so that we tip them as we might propitiate old Charon with an obol or to Cerberus fling the drugged sop. St. Pancras and its High Anglican embellishments impress the observer as simply a Ruskinian attempt to make the best of both worlds. King’s Cross is a mere result of that ugliness and utility of which
Euston is the enshrinement. Paddington is an annexe of the Crystal palace. Victoria and Charing Cross are already infected with the fussiness and insignificance of Boulogne. Waterloo is a restless improvisation, Liverpool Street a hideous ant-heap. To get a picture of the spirits of damned Londoners passing for ever from their beloved city, one should wait on a frozen foggy midnight outside the portals of Euston.
Nancy may not have read Virgil, but her heart was heavy enough with foreboding when with Letizia, a tiny Red Riding Hood, she entered the train for Brigham on that iron-bound morning early in March. She wished now that she had waited for an answer to the letter announcing her visit. Visions of a severe man-servant shutting the door in her face haunted her. She tried to recall what Bram had told her about the details of his family life, but looking back now she could not recall that he had told her anything except his hatred of it all. And anyway, what could he have known of the present state of his family, apart from the sardonic commentary upon it in his grandmother’s infrequent letters? It was twelve years since he had escaped from Lebanon House. His brother had been a boy of fourteen; his father was still alive then; his grandfather too; and that strange old grandmother, the prospect of meeting whom had kept Nancy from wavering in her resolution, was not bedridden in those days.
“Muvver,” said Letizia, who had been looking out of the window at the Buckinghamshire fields, “I can count to fifteen. I counted fifteen moo-cows, and then I counted fifteen moo-cows again.”
“You are getting on, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” Letizia echoed, whereupon she burst into a chant of triumph, which caused an old gentleman in the opposite corner of the compartment to look up in some alarm over the top of his newspaper.
“Hush, darling, don’t sing like that. You’ll disturb the ladies and gentlemen who want to read.”
“Why do they want to read?”
“To pass the time away.”
“I would like to read, muvver.”
Nancy produced her book.
“A cat sat on a mat. A fat rat sat on a mat,” she proclaimed aloud.
“No, darling, if you’re going to read you must read to yourself. The gentleman opposite isn’t reading his paper aloud.”
“Why isn’t he?”
“Because it might worry other people and wouldn’t be good manners.”
“Is that gentleman good manners?”
“Of course, he has. Hush, darling, don’t go on asking silly questions.”
“When I make a rude noise with my mouf I put my hand up and say ‘Pardon.’”
“Of course.”
“Well, that gentleman maided lots and lots of very rude noises, and he didn’t put his hand up to his mouf and say ‘pardon.’ Why didn’t he, muvver?”
“Darling, please don’t go on making remarks about people. It’s not kind.”
Letizia was dejected by this insinuation, and sat silent for a space. Then she cheered up:
“Muvver, if that gentleman makes a rude noise again, would it be kind for me to put up my hand to my mouf and say ‘pardon’?”
Nancy thought that her daughter’s present humour of critical observations augured ill for her success at Lebanon House, and she began to wish that she had left her behind in London.
“Listen, darling. I don’t want you to be a horrid little girl and go on chattering when mother asks you to keep quiet. If you behave like this, your Uncle Caleb won’t like you.”
“If he doesn’t like me, I won’t like him,” said Letizia confidently
Nancy shook a reproachful head.
“Well, I shan’t talk to you any more. In fact, I’ve a very good mind to leave you behind in the train when we get to Brigham.”
“Where would I go?” Letizia asked, perfectly undismayed by this threat.
“I’m sure I don’t know where you would go.”
“I would ask a porter,” Letizia suggested. “I would say, ‘Please, Mr. Porter, where shall I go to?’ and then he’d tell me, and I’d say, ‘Oh, that’s where I shall go, is it?’”
Suddenly a cloud passed across the mother’s mind. It might be that to-morrow she would be travelling back through these same fields without her little girl. Ah, nothing that Letizia said could justify her in making mock threats of abandoning her in the train when in her heart was the intention of abandoning her in the house of that unknown brother-in-law. In swift contrition she picked Letizia up and kissed her.
“My sweetheart,” she whispered.
Rugby was left behind, Lichfield in its frosty vale, the smoky skies of Crewe and Stafford. The country outraged by man’s lust for gold writhed in monstrous contortions. About the refuse heaps of factories bands of children roamed as pariahs might, and along the squalid streets women in shawls wandered like drab and melancholy ghosts.
“Brigham, Brigham,” cried the porters.
On the cold and dreary platform Letizia in her scarlet hood made the people turn round to stare at her as if she were a tropical bloom or some strange bird from the sweet South.
“Lebanon House?” the driver of the fly repeated in surprise. “Mr. Fuller’s, do you mean, ma’am?”
And every time he whipped up the smoking horse his perplexity seemed to be writing on the grey air a note of interrogation.
Letizia drew a face on the mildewed window strap and another larger face on the window itself.
“Aren’t you making your gloves rather messy, darling?” her mother enquired anxiously.
“I was droring,” her daughter explained. “This teeny little face is Tizia.” She pointed to the inscribed strap. “And this anormous big face is you.” She indicated the window.
The horse must have been startled by the sound of Letizia’s laughter which followed this statement, for it broke into a bony canter at the unwonted sound. A corpse chuckling inside a coffin would not have sounded so strange as the ripple of a child’s laughter in this fly musty with the odour of old nose-bags and dank harness.
Looking out at the landscape, Nancy perceived a wilderness covered with sheds, some painted grey, some scarlet. A hoarding was inscribed in huge letters FULLER’S FIREWORKS. That must be the factory. Presently the fly began to climb a gradual slope between fields dotted with swings, giant-strides, and various gymnastic frames. Another hoarding proclaimed THE FULLER RECREATION PARK. Nancy did not think much of it. She did not know that Joshua Fuller might perhaps have swung himself into Parliament from one of those swings, had he only lived a little longer.
At the top of the slope the fly passed through a varnished gate, swept round a crackling semicircle of gravel between two clumps of frost-bitten shrubs, and pulled up before the heavy door of Lebanon House. Nancy looked in dismay at the grim stucco walls stained with their aqueous arabesques and green pagodas of damp. That the bright little form beside her could be left within those walls was beyond reason. Better far to flee this spot, and, whatever happened in London, rejoice that her baby was still with her. Yet perhaps Bram had really fretted over his separation from his family, perhaps in dying he had wished that Letizia might take his place in this house. Before she could be tempted to tell the driver to turn round, Nancy jumped out of the fly and rang the front-door bell. It was answered, not by that severe man-servant of her anxious prefigurations, but by an elderly parlourmaid, who must have been warned of her arrival,
for she immediately invited her to step in. Nancy hesitated a moment, for now that she was here it seemed too much like taking everything for granted to send the fly away and ask the maid to accept the custody of her dressing-case. She had not liked to presume an inhospitable reception by arriving without any luggage at all, and yet, now that she saw her dressing-case standing on the hall chair, she wished she had not brought it. However, it would really be too absurdly self-conscious to keep the fly waiting while she was being approved. So, she paid the fare and tried not to resemble an invader, a thief, or a beggar
“What is this house, muvver?” Letizia asked as they were following the elderly maid along the gloomy hall. “Is it a house where bad people go?”
“No, it’s where your Uncle Caleb lives, and your two aunts——” Nancy broke off in a panic, for she simply could not remember either of their names. Were they Rachel and Sarah? This was serious.
“How is Mrs. Fuller?” she asked, in the hope that the elderly maid would feel inclined to be chatty about the health of the whole family and so mention the names of the two aunts in passing.
“Mrs. Fuller is the same as usual,” said the maid.
“And Miss Fuller?” Nancy ventured.
“Miss Achsah and Miss Thyrza are both quite well.”
What was the name of the first one? The stupid woman had said it so quickly. However, she had got the name of one. Thyrza—Thyrza. She must not forget it again.
The elderly maid left Nancy and Letizia in a sombre square room overcrowded with ponderous furniture and papered with dull red flock. On the overmantel was a black marble clock with an inscription setting forth that it was presented to Caleb Fuller, Esquire, by his devoted employees on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday. But did she not remember that Caleb had sacked all his employees on that auspicious occasion? Perhaps he had not liked the gift, she thought with a smile. Above the clock hung a large steel engraving of what Nancy at first imagined was intended to represent the Day of
Judgment; but on examining the title she found that it was a picture of the firework-display by Messrs. Fuller and Son in Hyde Park on the occasion of the National Thanksgiving for the recovery of H. R. H. the Prince of Wales.
“Why does this room smell like blot-paper, muvver?” Letizia inquired.
“Now, darling, I beg of you not to ask any more questions at all. Will you be kind to mother and do that?”
Letizia wriggled one fat leg against the other for a moment.
“Yes,” she whispered at last resignedly.
“There’s a pet,” said Nancy, lifting her on a mahogany chair, the seat of which was covered with horsehair.
“Ouch!” Letizia exclaimed, rubbing her leg. “It’s all fistles, and where my drawses have gone away and left a piece of my leg the fistles have bitten it. Your drawses don’t go away and leave a piece of your leg. So the fistles don’t bite you.”
At this moment the heavy door opened quietly to admit Caleb Fuller, a plump-faced young man with brown curly hair and a smile of such cordial and beaming welcome that Nancy’s heart sank, for of course he would be delighted to accept the responsibility of Letizia’s upbringing.
“How do you do? How kind of you to come and see us,” said Caleb. “So very kind. I can’t say how much we appreciate it. You’ll stay and have tea with us, won’t you?”
“Thank you very much,” said Nancy, wondering how on earth she was going to suggest what she had come all the way from London to suggest.
“You’ll excuse our lack of ceremony? We’re such simple people. I suppose you drove up from the station? And this is poor Bram’s little girl, I suppose?”
Caleb’s beaming expression had changed in a flash to one of extreme wide-eyed mournfulness.
“Will you give your Uncle Caleb a kiss, my dear?” he asked in smugly sentimental accents.
“No, fank you,” Letizia replied, evidently supposing that she was behaving extra well in refusing so politely.
Nancy could not bring herself to reprove her daughter’s disinclination. She felt that, if she had been a little girl of Letizia’s age, she should not have cared to kiss this very old young man.
Caleb turned on his smile to dispose of the rebuff.
“Let me see, how old is she?”
“Five next July.”
“Can she talk much?”
“I’m afraid she can talk a great deal too much,” Nancy laughed. “Being with grown-up people all the time has made her a very precocious little girl, I’m afraid.”
She was wondering how she could manage to keep the conversation trained on Letizia until she could muster up the courage to ask her brother-in-law the favour she desired.
“I think it’s such a pity to let children grow up too soon,” Caleb sighed in a remote and dreamy tone that trembled like the vox humana stop with the tears of things. “I like all little things so much; but I think people and animals deteriorate when they grow big. I had a dear little cream-coloured kitten, and now that lovely little kitten has grown into an enormous hulking cat and spends all its time in the kitchen, eating. I noticed when I was going through the household books that we were getting extra fish, so I went into the matter most carefully, and do you know....” The horror of the story he was telling overcame Caleb for a moment, and he had to gulp down his emotion before he could proceed. “Do you know I found that they were actually buying special fish for this great cat?” His voice had sunk to an awe-struck whisper. “It came as a terrible shock to me that such a pretty little tiny kitten which only seemed to lap up a small saucer of milk every now and then should actually have become an item in the household expenditure nowadays.... Of course,” he added hastily, “I
told the cook she had no business to give it anything except scraps that couldn’t be used for anything else. But still....” Caleb allowed his narrative to evaporate in a profound sigh.
“Bram spoke of you just before he died,” Nancy began abruptly.
“How very kind of him,” Caleb observed, reassuming quickly that expression of devout and wide-eyed sentimentality, though in the tone of his voice there was an implication of the immense gulf between Bram’s death and his own life.
“He seemed to regret the breach between himself and his family,” she continued.
“It was always a great grief to us,” Caleb observed. He was still apparently as gently sympathetic; yet somehow Nancy had a feeling that behind the wide-eyed solemnity there was a twinkle of cunning in the grey shallow eyes, a lambent twinkle that was playing round the rocky question of what she was leading up to, and of how he should deal with any awkward request she might end by making.
“He was anxious that I should bring Letizia to see you all,” Nancy pressed.
There was a reproach in her brother-in-law’s gaze that made her feel as if she were being utterly remorseless in her persistency. Nevertheless, Caleb turned on quite easily that cordial welcoming smile.
“I’m so glad,” he murmured from the other side of the universe. “I don’t think tea will be long now.”
“Oh, please don’t bother about tea,” she begged.
Caleb beamed more intensely.
“Oh, please,” he protested on his side. “My aunts and I would be very much upset indeed if you didn’t have tea. And to-day’s Thursday!”
Nancy looked puzzled.
“I see I shall have to let you into a little family secret. We always have a new cake on Thursday,” he proclaimed, smiling now with a
beautifully innocent archness. Turning to Letizia he added playfully, “I expect you like cakes, don’t you?”
“I like the cakes what Mrs. Porridge makes for me,” Letizia replied.
“Oatmeal cakes?” Caleb asked in bewilderment.
“Letizia,” her mother interrupted quickly, “please don’t answer your uncle in that horrid rude way. Mrs. Pottage was our landlady at Greenwich,” she explained.
Caleb looked coldly grave. He disapproved of landladies with their exorbitant bills.
“You must find it very unpleasant always being robbed by landladies,” he said.
“Bram and I were very lucky usually. We met far more pleasant landladies than unpleasant ones.”
Nancy paused. She was wondering if she should be able to explain her mission more easily if the subject of it were not present.
“I wonder if Letizia’s aunts would like to see her?”
“Oh, I’m sure they would,” Caleb answered. “We’ll all go into the drawing-room. I’m sure you must be wanting your tea.”
“If we could leave Letizia with her aunts, I would like very much to talk to you for a minute or two alone.”
Caleb squirmed.
“Don’t be anxious,” Nancy laughed. “I’m not going to ask you to lend me any money.”
“Oh, of course not,” he said with a shudder. “I never thought you were going to do that. I knew Bram would have explained to you that I really couldn’t afford it. We have had the most dreadful expenses lately in connection with the factory. I have had to lock up several thousand pounds.”
He made this announcement with as much judicial severity as if he had actually condemned the greater part of his fortune to penal servitude for life.
“Yes, it must be horrible to have a lot of money that can’t behave itself,” Nancy agreed.
Her brother-in-law regarded her disapprovingly He resented few things more than jokes, for he objected to wasting those ready smiles of his almost as much as he hated wasting his ready money.
“Well, shall we go into the drawing-room?” he asked, trying to make his guest feel that merely to lead her from one room to another in Lebanon House was giving her much more than he would give many people for nothing.
“Are those aunts?” Letizia exclaimed in disgusted astonishment when she was presented to the two drab middle-aged women with muddy faces and lace caps who, each wearing a grey woollen shawl, sat on either side of a black fire from which one exiguous wisp of smoke went curling up the chimney.
“Yes, those are your aunts, darling,” said Nancy, hoping that Letizia’s generic question had not been understood quite in the way that it was intended. “Run and give them a kiss.”
There must have been a note of appeal in her mother’s voice, for Letizia obeyed with surprising docility, even if she did give an impression by the slowness of her advance that she was going to stroke two unpleasant-looking animals at the invitation of a keeper. Then it was Nancy’s turn to embrace the aunts, much to the amazement of her daughter, who exclaimed:
“You kissed them too! Was you told to kiss them?”
“May I leave Letizia with you while I finish my talk with Caleb?” Nancy asked her aunts.
Caleb looked positively sullen over his sister-in-law’s pertinacity, and he was leading the way back to what was apparently known as the library, when the elderly maid appeared with the tea. He beamed again.
“You must have tea first. I’m sure you must be wanting your tea. I was telling—er—Nancy about our Thursday cake, Aunt Achsah.”
Caleb’s face was richly dimpled by the smile for which the family joke was responsible, and at which Aunt Achsah and Aunt Thyrza tittered indulgently. Nancy was saying over in her head the name of the elder aunt so that she should be able to remember it in future. Then she gazed round in depression of spirit at the curtains and upholstery and wall-paper, all in sombre shades of brown, and at the bunches of pampas-grass, dyed yellow, blue, and red, which in hideous convoluted vases on bamboo stands blotched the corners of the room with plumes of crude colour. Could she leave Letizia in this house? Would Bram really wish it?
Aunt Achsah and Aunt Thyrza had by now wound themselves up to express the sorrow that they felt convention owed to Nancy.
“He was a wild boy and a great anxiety to us,” Aunt Thyrza sighed. “But we were very fond of him.”
“It nearly killed his poor father when he took to the stage,” Aunt Achsah moaned. “He had such a beautifully religious bringing-up that it seemed particularly dreadful in his case. Of course, we do not believe that there may not be some good men and women on the stage, but all the same it was terrible—really terrible for us when Bram became an actor.”
“But didn’t you have a sister who went on the stage?” Nancy asked.
The two drab women stared at her in consternation. How did this creature know the story of the lost Caterina? Why, their mother must have told Bram. The shameful secret was a secret no more.
Caleb knitted his brows, and his granite-grey eyes gleamed. So, this was the woman’s game. Blackmail! This was why she wanted to talk to him alone. He would soon show her that he was not the kind of man to be frightened by blackmail. As a matter of fact, Caleb himself, who had only heard when he came of age about the shameful past of his Aunt Caterina, had been much less impressed by the awfulness of the family secret than his aunts had expected.
“Yes, we did have a sister who went on the stage,” Aunt Thyrza tremulously admitted. “But that was many, many years ago, and she
has long been dead.”
Nancy was merciful to the aunts and forbore from pressing the point about the existence of good people on the stage. She was not merciful, however, to Caleb when tea came to an end and he showed no sign of adjourning with her to the library.
“Are you sure you won’t have another piece of cake? Do have another piece of cake,” he begged, turning on the smile almost to its full extent. That he could not quite manage the full extent was due to the irritation this obtrusive young woman’s pertinacity was causing him.
“No, indeed, I really couldn’t,” said Nancy, donning a bright little smile herself as a cyclist hopes his oil-lamp will avail to protect him against the dazzling onrushing motor-car. “Letizia, darling,” she added firmly. “I’m going to leave you here with Aunt Achsah and Aunt Thyrza for a little while. You will be good, won’t you?”
“But I’d like to stroke the puss-cat.”
“The cat?” Aunt Achsah exclaimed. “What cat?”
“The puss-cat what that man was talking about to muvver,” Letizia explained.
“The cat isn’t allowed in the drawing-room,” Aunt Thyrza said primly.
“Why isn’t he? Does he make messes?”
The two aunts shuddered. It was only too sadly evident that the stage had already corrupted even this four-year-old child.
“Cats live in kitchens,” Aunt Achsah laid down dogmatically.
“Well, can I go to the kitchen, muvver?” Letizia asked. “Because I would like to see the puss-cat. I fink puss-cats are much, much nicer than aunts.”
“No, darling, I want you to stay here,” and with this Nancy hurried out of the room, followed reluctantly by her brother-in-law.
When they were back in the library, which, now that she had a clue to its status, Nancy perceived did contain half-a-dozen bound volumes of the Illustrated London News, three or four books of religious reading, and a decrepit Bradshaw, she came straight to the point.
“Caleb, times are rather bad for theatrical business, and....”
“Business is bad everywhere,” Caleb interrupted. “Of course, you know that I am engaged in manufacturing fireworks? My brother no doubt has told you that. Trade has never been so bad as it is this year, and only recently an Order in Council has made it illegal to use chlorate of potash with sulphur compounds. That is a very serious matter indeed for firework manufacture. Indeed, if it had not been for our discovery that aluminium can be successfully used for brightening our colour effects, I don’t know what would have happened to the business. Luckily I was one of the first, if not the first manufacturer to realise the advantages of aluminium, and so I had already ceased to use chlorate of potash with sulphur for quite a long time, in fact, ever since as a boy of twenty I found myself practically in sole charge of our factory My brother’s desertion of his father twelve years ago ruined all my chances. I was getting on so splendidly at school. I was winning prizes for Latin and Scripture and all kinds of subjects, and my masters were so enthusiastic about my education. But when I was only fifteen, my father said to me: ‘Caleb, you can either go on with your school work or you can give up school and enter the business at once on a small salary.’ It was a hard choice, but I didn’t hesitate. I gave up all my schoolwork, because after my brother’s desertion I felt it was my duty to enter the business. And I did. You don’t know how hard I’ve worked while my brother was amusing himself on the stage. But I don’t bear his memory any grudge. Please don’t think that I’m criticising him, because of course I wouldn’t like to say anything about one who is no longer with us. I only want you to understand that my position is by no means easy. In fact, it’s terribly difficult. So, though I would be happy to lend you lots of money, if I had any to spare, I’m sure you’ll understand that, with all the expenses I’ve been put to over this
Order in Council and changing my factory and one thing and another, it simply isn’t possible.”
“I’m not asking you to lend me any money,” Nancy said, as soon as her brother-in-law paused for a moment to take breath. “But Bram when he was dying....”
“Oh, please don’t think that I don’t sympathise with you over my brother’s death. It was a shock to us all. I read about it in the local paper. I’d had a little trouble with the proprietor over our advertisements, so he printed all about Bram being a clown in great headlines. But in spite of the shocking way he died like that on the stage, I showed everybody in Brigham how much upset we all were by asking for the Recreation Ground to be closed for two whole days. So please don’t think we weren’t very much shocked and upset.”
“Bram, when he was dying in my arms,” she went on, “told me if I was ever in difficulties to go to you, because he was sure that you would want to help me.”
“Yes, that’s just the kind of thing my brother would say,” said Caleb indignantly. “He never cared a straw about the business. He hated the factory. He always had an idea that money was only made to be spent.”
“I don’t think that Bram expected me to borrow any money from you,” said Nancy. “But he thought that you might care to assume the responsibility of bringing up Letizia. He thought that she might be a link between him and his family.”
“Bring up Letizia?” Caleb gasped. “Do you mean, pay for her clothes and her keep and her education?”
“I suppose that is what Bram fancied you might care to do. I would not have come here to-day, if I had not believed that I owed it to his child to give her opportunities that her mother cannot give her. Please don’t think that I want to lose Letizia. It has cost me a great deal ...” her voice wavered.
“But you could have told me what you wanted in the letter, and that would have saved you your railway fare,” said Caleb reproachfully.
“I didn’t mean the money it cost. I meant the struggle with my own feelings.”
“I think it would be wrong of me to try and persuade you to give up your child,” said Caleb solemnly. “I wouldn’t do it, even if I could. But I can’t. You must remember that I still have my old grandmother to keep. Of course, she’s bedridden now, and she can’t waste money as she used to waste it, for she was shockingly extravagant whenever she had an opportunity. But even as it is she costs a great deal. I have to pay a nurse-companion; and the doctor will come once a week. You know how ready doctors always are to take advantage of anybody in a house being ill. They just profit by it,” he said bitterly. “That’s what they do, they just profit by illness. And besides my grandmother, I have to pay annuities to my two aunts. I’m not complaining. I’m only too glad to do it. But I’m just telling you what a load of domestic responsibilities I have on my shoulders already, so that you can appreciate how utterly impossible it would be for me to do anything for my brother’s little girl. Well, you heard what I told you about that cat, and if I can’t afford the extra amount on the household books for a cat, how can I possibly afford what a child would cost? I’m only so distressed you should have gone to the expense of coming all this way to find out something that I could have told you so well in a letter. I can’t imagine why you didn’t write to me about this child. You do see my point of view, don’t you? And I’m sure that you would rather not have your little girl brought up here. The air of Brigham is very smoky. I’m sure it wouldn’t be good for children.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Nancy. “I’ve done what Bram asked me to do, but I’m just dazed. I just simply can’t understand how you and Bram came out of the same womb.”
Caleb winced.
“Of course, I know that you do talk very freely on the stage,” he said deprecatingly “But I wish you wouldn’t use such words in this house. We’re simply provincial people, and we think that kind of expression rather unpleasant. I daresay we may appear oldfashioned, but we’d rather be old-fashioned than hear a lady use
words like that. I’m afraid, by what you just said, that you haven’t really understood my point of view at all. So, I’m going to take you into my confidence, because I do want you to understand it and not bear me any ill-will. My motives are so often misjudged by people,” he sighed. “I suppose it’s because I’m so frank and don’t pretend I can do things when I can’t. So I’m going to give you a little confidence, Nancy.” Here Caleb beamed generously. “It’s still a secret, but I’m hoping to get married in June, and of course that means a great deal of extra expense, especially as the lady I am going to marry has no money of her own.”
“I hope you’ll be happy,” Nancy said.
“Thank you,” said Caleb in a tone that seemed to express his personal gratitude for anything, even anything so intangible as good wishes, that might contribute a little, a very little toward the relief of the tremendous weight of responsibility that he was trying so humbly and so patiently to support. “Thank you very much.”
Nancy was wishing now with all her heart that she had not been so foolish as to bring that dressing-case with her. She only longed now to be out of this house without a moment’s delay. She wished too that she had not dismissed the fly, for it would be impossible to carry the dressing-case and Letizia all the way to the railway station. Here she would have to remain until another fly could be fetched.
“There’s a good train at half-past seven,” said Caleb, who was observing Nancy’s contemplation of her dressing-case on the hallchair. “If you like, I’ll telephone to the hotel for a fly to be sent up. But I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse me from waiting any longer. I have rather a lot of work to do this evening. I’m trying to save expense wherever I possibly can,” he added with a martyr’s ecstatic gaze toward a lovelier world beyond this vale of tears.
“Oh, please don’t trouble to wait an instant. I’ll go back to the drawing-room.”
“Yes, there’s a fire in there,” Caleb observed, it seemed a little resentfully.
At this moment a neat young woman with bright intelligent eyes came down the stairs.
“Excuse me, Mr Fuller, but Mrs. Fuller would like Mrs. Bram Fuller and her little girl to go up and see her.”
Caleb’s face darkened.
“But surely it’s too late for Mrs. Fuller to see visitors? Besides, Mrs. Bram Fuller wants to catch the seven-thirty train.”
“It’s only half-past five now,” said Nancy eagerly. “And I should not care to leave Brigham without seeing Letizia’s great-grandmother.”
In her disgust at Caleb she had forgotten that there was still a member of this family who might compensate for the others.
“Mrs. Fuller will be very annoyed, Mr. Fuller, if she doesn’t see Mrs. Bram Fuller and her little girl,” the young woman insisted.
“Very well, nurse, if you think it’s wise,” Caleb said. “But I hope this won’t mean an extra visit from the doctor this week.”
The bright-eyed young woman was regarding Caleb as a thrush regards a worm before gobbling it up.
“It would be extremely unwise to disappoint Mrs. Fuller. She has been counting on this visit ever since she heard yesterday that Mrs. Bram Fuller was coming to Brigham.”
“My poor old grandmother works herself up into a great state over every domestic trifle,” Caleb said angrily “It’s a great pity an old lady like her can’t give up fussing over what happens in the house.”
Nancy went into the drawing-room to rescue Letizia from her aunts.
“Good-bye—er—Nancy,” said Aunt Achsah. “I hope you won’t think that I am intruding on your private affairs if I say to you how grieved both your Aunt Thyrza and myself are to find that our poor little grand-niece apparently knows nothing whatever about our Heavenly Father. We do hope that you will try to teach her something about Him. Of course, we know that Roman Catholics do not regard God with the same reverence and awe as we do, but still
a forward little girl like Letizia should not be allowed to remain in a state of complete ignorance about Him. It’s very shocking.”
“Oh, I do so agree with my sister,” Aunt Thyrza sighed earnestly
