by A. J. Cronin
“Jean,” I said, striving to take a grip upon myself. “Apart from your lecture, your days are free now … I mean, after ten o’clock you have nothing much to occupy you?”
“Yes.” There was a note of inquiry in her eyes and, as I did not speak, she added: “Why?”
“I need your help,” I answered firmly and sincerely, aware that I spoke the truth. Gazing at her steadily, I went on. “I’m halfway through my investigation, ready to begin the next step, and I’m quite wildly excited about it. You know the difficulty I’ve had, going on by myself … Oh, I’m not complaining, but now for this new phase I must have some assistance. There are tests which I can’t possibly manage single-handed. Professor Challis has given me a room.” I paused. “ Would you … will you work with me?”
She had flushed slightly and now, for a moment, she looked at me eagerly, then slowly she lowered her eyes. There was a silence.
“Oh, Robert, I wish I could. But I can’t. Surely you know how it is with me now? My parents … I owe so much to them … they’ve built everything on me … I love them … Mother especially … she’s the best in the whole world. And they … while they haven’t exactly forced me”—she seemed to seek for words to temper the blow—“they don’t want me to see you. Even at this moment … I’m disobeying them.”
I bit my lip. For all her softness there was something irreconcilable about her, a strong fidelity, loyalties that were not mine, a sense of duty which gave her a horror of dissimulation.
“They must hate me pretty thoroughly.”
“No, Robert. They simply understand that our ways must be apart.”
“It isn’t as if this were a personal matter,” I burst out. “You’re a doctor now and it’s for science.”
“I’d love to do it. I’m so interested. But it isn’t possible.”
“It’s entirely possible,” I insisted. “No one need know. Your people would merely think you were doing some practical work in tropical medicine …”
She silenced me with a strained glance.
“It isn’t that I’m afraid of, Robert.”
“What then?”
“We’d be together.”
“Is that so terrible?”
She raised her dark lashes, and gazed at me mournfully.… “I know I’m to blame … I didn’t realize at first that our feeling for each other was … so deep. And if we go on it will get deeper. That will only make it worse for us in the end.”
This simple declaration brought back warmth to my heart. I took a quick breath, resolved, at all costs, to persuade her.
“Listen, Jean. If I promise, swear to you that I’ll never once make love to you, never even mention the word, will you assist me? I need help so badly. If I don’t get it, I’m done.”
A long, still pause. She gazed at me doubtfully, her colour coming and going, lost in a trance of uncertainty. And quickly I pressed home my advantage.
“It’s such a wonderful chance. I’m on the verge of something tremendous. Come and see for yourself.”
Carried away, I jumped up and held out my hand. After a moment she got slowly to her feet.
It was not a long walk to Apothecaries’ Hall. We were there in ten minutes. I led her directly to my work-room and there, taking from my small incubator one of the culture tubes which I had inoculated with the recent specimens from Duthie, I held it eagerly before her.
“There,” I said. “ I have it. And it’s growing pretty fast. You don’t recognize it?”
She shook her head, her interest awakened, a quick look of interrogation in her wide dark pupils.
I returned the tube to the water bath, glanced at the regulator and closed the zinc door. Then, quite simply, I explained what was in my mind.
A flush of enthusiasm crept into her cheeks. Her eyes, bright yet deeply troubled, wandered round the room, back to the culture, then again to me. My heart was beating fast. To hide my emotion, I went to the window and threw it up, letting in a flood of sunlight. Outside, fleecy clouds were racing in the bright blue sky. I turned towards her.
“Robert,” she said slowly. “ If I work with you … because I believe your work to be important … will you promise, faithfully, to keep your word?”
“Yes,” I said.
I saw her breast heave in a sudden sigh. While I kept my gaze upon her, she put down her book, removed her hat, and began to take off her gloves.
“Very well,” she said. “ Let’s begin.”
Chapter Five
Every morning regularly, shortly after ten o’clock, when her lecture was over, Jean came into the room where I was already at work and, taking her smock from the hook behind the door, slipped it on and began to busy herself, methodically, at the other end of the long table. We did not exchange more than a few words, perhaps only a smile of greeting. Sometimes, when I was occupied with a calculation, I pretended not to notice her arrival—an impersonal attitude which I felt might reassure her. Yet she was there, and later when I guardedly looked up I would see her, measuring and titrating, behind the clamped burettes, entering each reading in the battered black record-book, her expression serious and intent.
As I had foreseen, her neatness and careful accuracy were of the utmost help to me, especially in preparing the hundreds of slides which it was necessary to examine. It was a difficult staining technique, and a dangerous one, for these mass bouillon cultures were highly virulent. But working quietly, with steady fingers, her features deeply absorbed, her eyes unwavering, she never once made a mistake. When she felt my gaze upon her she would give me, interrupting her work, a silent yet speaking glance, binding us more closely in this community of effort to which we were pledged. The light spring airs streamed through the wide open window into our dim little room, bringing faintly the sounds of another-world—a hum of traffic, the whistle of a steamboat, a strain of tinkling music from a distant barrel-organ. Her presence, with its control and quietude, stimulated me to a pitch I had never known before.
At one o’clock we stopped for lunch. Although there were one or two good cafés in the neighbourhood, it was easier, more agreeable, and cheaper to take our meal in the laboratory. To this end we clubbed our money, and from the market, which she passed through, on her way from the train, Jean would bring, each day, an assortment of provisions. Having steeped our hands for three minutes in corrosive sublimate solution, a precaution which I insisted upon with inflexible firmness, we sat on the window-sill and, balancing a plate upon our knees, enjoyed an alfresco repast. When the day was grey and chilly we had soup, heated over the Bunsen burner. But usually our fare consisted of fresh scones, slices of cold sausage, and Dunlop cheese, with an apple, or a bag of cherries, for dessert. In the courtyard outside there was a blackbird which came faithfully every day, to share our good things. When he saw that we had cherries, he would perch upon Jean’s wrist, whistling his heart out with greedy delight.
Upon the seventh afternoon, as we worked in silence, I heard a step and turned round. Professor Challis stood on the threshold, bent and buttoned-up in his faded frock coat, plucking at his silver moustache, his eyes screwed up towards us.
“I thought I’d look in on you, Robert,” he said, “to see how you were getting on.”
I rose at once and introduced him to Jean, to whom he bowed with his old-world air. He was surprised, I could see, and although too courteous to show it, both curious and doubtful. But soon it was evident that she pleased him and, reassured, he gave me his twinkling smile.
“Half the battle in research, Robert, is a suitable assistant.”
He chuckled at that, as though he had made an excellent joke, then wandered about the room, gently activating the cultures, examining the slides, peering through the pages of our notes in silence, but with a quiet approval more exciting to us than words.
When the survey was complete he turned and gazed at us.
“I shall get you more samples, more specimens from other areas … from the Continent … where they still have some reg
ard for me.” He broke off and threw out his hands. “ Go on, go on. Pay no attention to an old fossil like me. Simply go on.”
The words were nothing, but in his eyes I saw a lively gleam which had not been there before.
After that he came regularly to visit us, often at the lunch hour, bringing not only the promised specimens but, more than once, a contribution to our meal. Seated in a chair, his stick between his knees, leaning forward rather shakily on the bone handle, he watched us from beneath his bushy brows, with bright eyes, while we divided a meat pie or a jar of Strasbourg pâté. His attachment to Jean had steadily increased, and his manner to her was charming, gently chivalrous, yet with a kind of mischievous benevolence, like a schoolboy. He never ate anything, but when she made coffee he would accept a cup and, having asked her permission with that special gallantry he now displayed towards her, would snip delicately and light one of the small cigars he occasionally permitted himself. While the blue spirate drifted upwards and dispersed, he would recount to us his early experiences as a young research student in Paris, at the Sorbonne, where he worked under the great Duclaux.
“I had no money then.” He chuckled, after describing to us a Sunday spent at Barbizon. “And I’ve none now. But I’ve always been happy, doing the work that’s not like anything else in the world.”
When he had gone Jean drew a deep breath. Her eyes were glowing.
“He’s sweet, Robert. A great man. And I love him.”
“If I’m any judge, the old chap loves you too.” I smiled a trifle wryly. “But would your family approve of him?”
She lowered her gaze.
“Let’s get back to work.”
We had by this time isolated in a pure state, from the numerous milk samples, a Gram-negative organism which I identified as Bang’s bacillus, originally discovered by the Danish scientist Bang, and shown by him to be the cause of acute disease in cattle widely prevalent all over the world. This, therefore, was the cause of the trouble in the dairy herds. Indeed, from figures which I worked out, we estimated that probably 35 per cent of all cattle in the country, to say nothing of sheep, goats, and other farm stock, were harbourers of this germ which we now had cultivated in massive quantity, in a special broth medium.
We also possessed, in a pure state, the Bruce bacillus of Malta fever, which, of course, during my sojourn at Dalnair, I had recovered from human beings stricken during the epidemic of so-called influenza, and which also we had in many instances isolated from the recent human specimens procured by Challis. Thus we were in a position to compare these two organisms—the one from cattle, the other from man—to analyse their varying reactions, and to discover the possible relationship between them.
The tests which we employed were exceedingly complex and at first it was difficult to assess their value. But gradually, as one positive result succeeded another, there emerged a supposition, built in the beginning upon conjecture, but later upon solid proof, which truly staggered us. When it dawned upon us, we gazed at each other incredulously.
“It can’t be,” I said slowly. “ It’s impossible.”
“It could be,” she answered, logically. “And it is just possible.”
I pressed both hands to my head, irritated for once by her quiet simplicity. Dr. Mathers had kept me late at the surgery the night before; he was increasing his demands upon me, and the strain of this double duty was beginning to tell.
“For God’s sake,” I said, “don’t let’s cross bridges before we come to them. We’ve weeks of work yet before we make the final antigen test.”
But still the evidence piled up and, at the end of three months, as we drew nearer to this crucial test, a deep and increasing excitement imposed itself upon us. In the hours when we were obliged to wait for the process of agglutination to take place, we found this nervous strain almost unbearable—and since there was no need to remain in the laboratory we sought relief by escaping for an hour or so to the country immediately surrounding Winton.
Now there was no question of the motor-cycle, for even Luke was unaware that we were together; but the tramway was convenient and took us in twenty minutes to our favourite resort, the Longcrag Hill, a wooded height, not yet built upon, which overlooked the river. Here, on a mossy rock, we would sit and watch the ferry boats and tiny paddle steamers plying up and down the broad stream, with the city, lost in a golden haze, revealed only by a glittering dome or tenuous spire, lying far below at our feet. We spoke mainly of the problems confronting us in our work, and discussed, with agitated hope, the prospects of success. Sometimes, tired out, yet overcome by the magic of the moment, I would lie back, shut my eyes and, with all the longing of my provincial soul, dream aloud, dream of the Sorbonne, pictured so vividly to us by Challis, dream of a life of pure, unhampered research.
Faithful to my promise, although it was not easy, I did not once speak to her of love. Aware of her scruples, of the niceties of conscience she had overcome to help me, I was resolved to prove to her how false was her suspicion that she could not really trust me. Only thus could I justify myself in her eyes and my own.
When the day of decision arrived we set the final batch of agglutinin tubes and went out. It was Thursday, the last day of June, a more than usually lovely afternoon; and, afraid almost of what we might find on our return, we were disinclined to leave the Hill. As we sat there, a little steamer, away beneath us, was setting out upon an evening cruise to the islands of the lower estuary, and upon its after-deck we could see the tiny figures of a German band. They were playing a Strauss waltz. The little ship with flags flying, and paddles churning, swept gaily down the river, and disappeared from sight. But behind there lingered a whisper of the melody, ascending to us faintly yet sweetly, tender as a caress. It was a precious moment. I dared not look at my companion, but in a dazzling flash I felt the exaltation of these days of joint endeavour which, almost without my knowledge, had deepened and strengthened our intimacy. I knew now that, in every way, she had become indispensable to me.
We rose to go. I had no surgery that evening, and Jean, because of the importance of the occasion, had arranged to remain in Winton until eight o’clock.
Five o’clock was striking when we got to our little laboratory. It was now or never. I went to the incubator, and opening the door, made an abrupt gesture to my companion to remove the racked tray of tubes. There were, in that tray, twenty-four tubes, each containing a liquid, perfectly clear some hours ago, but which, if the test were successful, would now show a cloudy deposit. Holding my breath, I watched her nervously take out the tray. Then I gave a short gasp.
Every tube in the rack showed a flocculent white precipitate. I could not speak. Caught by a sudden weakness, I sat down on the leather settee while Jean, still holding the tray of tubes, continued to gaze at me with a transfigured face.
It was true then: these two organisms, regarded for twenty-one years as separate and unrelated species, were the same. Yes, I had proved it. Morphologically, culturally, and by agglutination tests, they were identical. This widespread disease of cattle was intensely communicable to humans, not only by direct contact, but through milk, butter, cheese, and every variety of dairy produce. The Bang’s disease of animals was the Malta fever of Bruce and the “influenza” epidemic, all in one, all due to the same bacillus, which we had cultivated here in the lab. I shut my eyes dizzily. We had actually established the existence, and the cause, of a new infection in man, not a minor condition of local interest, but a serious disease capable of producing major epidemics as well as continued ill-health in its milder and more chronic forms, a disease which must number its victims in hundreds of thousands in every country all over the world. As I considered these ramifications I swallowed dryly. Like Cortez, upon his mountain peak, I saw, with startling clarity, the vast extent of our discovery.
At last Jean broke the silence.
“It’s wonderful,” she said in a low voice. “ Oh, Robert, you can publish everything now.”
I sho
ok my head. Before me, in a shining glow, I saw a still more splendid vision. Holding down my swelling excitement, trying to behave with modesty and dignity, like a real scientist, I answered:
“We have discovered the disease. And the germ which causes that disease. Now we must produce the vaccine which will cure it. When we have that, we have everything, perfect and complete.”
It was a glorious, a dazzling thought. Her eyes kindled.
“We should telephone Professor Challis.”
“To-morrow,” I said. I felt, jealously, that for the present our triumph must belong to us alone.
She seemed to understand, and as she smiled, a further surge of elation swept over me, toppling my dignity, undermining my pretence of calm.
“My dear Dr. Law” I smiled back at her, “ this is an occasion which will go down in history. We really ought to celebrate. Will you have dinner with me to-night?”
She hesitated, her cheeks still warm with ardour, and glanced at her watch.
“They’ll be expecting me at home.”
“Oh, do come,” I said eagerly. “It’s early. You’ll get your train all right.”
As she looked at me with bright eyes in which there lay also a faint entreaty, I jumped to my feet, full of confidence and joy. I laughed as I helped her into her coat.
“We’ve worked pretty hard. We deserve a little treat.”
I took her arm gaily as we went out.
Chapter Six
In old George Street, not far away, there stood a small French restaurant, the Continental, which I had occasionally patronized in company with Spence and which I now decided was exactly right for our present entertainment. Kept by a widow, an Alsatian named Madame Brossard, whose husband had taught languages at the neighbouring public school, it was a humble establishment, but it was clean, the cuisine was good, and even in this northern atmosphere it had maintained something of a native character. The floor was sanded, the coarse checked napkins were folded like fans and tucked into tinted wine glasses, each little table bore a red-shaded rush-light which cast a romantic glow upon the bone-handled cutlery.
