by A. J. Cronin
Lying comfortably on my side, I felt relaxed, conscious that my indolence was sanctioned, since Dr. Galbraith, supported by Grandma Leckie, was always insisting that I must rest. Yet the splendour of the afternoon was irresistible—I decided I must be up. Was I not practically well again and able to be about, after lunch, for a few hours each day? I threw off the bedclothes and began to dress, carefully, however, for I was still unsteady on my feet and had proved how slowly one may gather strength after a complete breakdown. Well, I had deserved it. All my own misguided fault.
I went downstairs, demonstrating my progress towards recovery by not even holding to the banister. I had not yet got used to the queer sensation of living again in this house which, during my childhood in Levenford, had been my home. Now the property of my grandmother, it was quite unchanged, and although peopled only by the shades of most of its former inhabitants, still maintained its familiar air of pinched but aspiring respectability. They had brought me here after my smash-up, and with a grim devotion which made me heartily ashamed of all the hard things I had said of her, the old woman had nursed me back to health.
In the parlour the paper fan had been removed, a good fire burned in the black-leaded grate. Grandma had lit it for me before departing upon one of those shopping pilgrimages to the town, from which she returned, slowly, encumbered by packages of good things for me to eat. She had nourished me nobly, and according to her own peculiar precepts, on such proved restoratives as were sanctioned by her country traditions. Ten minutes ago, before leaving, she had whispered in my ear, with an air of significant promise:
“A nice boiled fowl for to-night, Robert.” She was a staunch believer in a boiled fowl, served with the broth, which she named “the goodness” of the dish.
Alone in the house, this silent house filled with memories of the past, I had always to struggle against reverie, and the intolerable nostalgia which it evoked in me. Here was the couch on which Dandie Gow had bade me rest when I came in from my schoolboy combat with Gavin Blair. There, on the mantelpiece, lay the old wooden pen he had used for his legal copying. On that window-seat I had studied hard and fruitlessly to win the Marshall Bursary. At this very table they had told me I could not go to the University to study medicine. But I had gone. Ah, yes, I had always followed stubbornly my own solitary path, that tortuously winding path which had brought me back to where I had begun.
Quickly, I took myself in hand and, with a glance at the weather, decided on a short walk. In the hall, conscious of my cropped head, I pulled my cap well down, slid the key under the doormat in case the old woman should return before me, and set out.
Although the air was crisp and cool, my paces were not lively, and once or twice I had to pause as I strolled up the road to the hamlet of Drumbuck. It was the same quiet little village, set beneath a slow rise of moors, traversed by a brook which ran beneath two stone bridges. Some children were bowling their hoops towards the smithy, and their thin, high cries broke cheerfully upon the scene. On the village green I rested upon the seat under the great Scots fir which had stood there for a hundred years. From fissures in the blue-grey trunk little streams of sap had run and hardened. I scraped one with my finger nail and, rubbing the grey dust between my palms, inhaled the clean resinous tang. It made me feel that strength was coming back to me, that my life, after all, was not without a future.
Yet by the time I had made the round of Barloan Toll, I had more than had enough. I was glad to get back to the armchair, to put on my slippers and warm my feet at the fire. The morning paper lay folded on the table beside me, the Herald, which I always enjoyed, the main diversion in my convalescent day. I lifted it and laid it upon my knees, at the same time hearing the front door open and shut. There were steps in the hall, sounds of bustling movements in the back of the house. Presently the old woman came into the parlour. We looked at each other. I smiled.
“Did you get your fowl?”
“I got two,” she answered. “ I’ve asked McKellar for supper.”
“That sounds like a party.”
“Aye.” She nodded calmly. “ Dr. Galbraith will be here as well.”
“I see.”
Before I could engage her in controversy, she changed the subject.
“It’s time you had your hot milk. Don’t scorch your shoes like that. They’ll go through in the soles.”
She turned and went out, leaving me thoughtful and subdued.
I had sensed for some time what was coming, and now I knew that it was here. Dr. Galbraith was getting on in years. His large practice, which extended widely from Levenford town into the Winton countryside, had become too much for him. He wanted a partner and, to my sorrow, the suggestion had been made that he might want me.
Yes, the trap had been long and patiently prepared, the hands that had set the trap were kind and friendly hands. Yet, alas, despite the promise I had given, I shrank away from it. It touched me that the hard-headed McKellar should be willing to advance the purchase price—a thousand pounds was a deal of money to a Scots lawyer. I liked the old doctor well enough, with his weather-beaten face, his grey goatee beard, and that dry twist to his lips, his manner, once abrupt and choleric, now mellowed by age. As I drowsed by the fire I tried to see myself driving a Ford along the country roads, bumping over dry ruts in summer, ploughing through winter snow, calling at outlying farms, bearing my black bag into snug steadings and white-washed cottages standing lonely on the moor. But my heart was not in it. I understood myself too well to feel anything but unwillingness towards such a prospect. I was not suited to general practice, and from my past experience I knew that I should grind along, without interest, blunting the edges of my ambition, mediocre, indifferent, and defeated.
Suppressing a sigh, I took up the paper and in an effort to distract my mind began to scan the sheets. I read here and there, all the pieces that looked interesting. There was not much news. I was turning to the editorial columns when, on the back page, an item caught my eye. It was a small item, a bare three lines, but it caused me to start painfully; then, for a long time, held me motionless.
Under the heading, Departure of Ships, was the simple announcement:
“The Clan Liner, S.S. Algoa, sailed to-day from Winton for Lagos and the Gold Coast. She carries a group of workers bound for the settlement at Kumasi.”
I read the notice several times, like a child learning a lesson, as though uncertain of its meaning, and as I did so, the warm room chilled, and that faint quickening, sanguine and instinctive, which I had felt in the afternoon beneath the pine tree, diminished within me. So that was over, too … finished for ever. Since I had known that Jean would sail upon this ship I had dreaded the moment of its departure. Now it had gone. And, in that act, that separation of the vessel from these shores, that slow recession towards the horizon, there was a sense of final, irrevocable cleavage … a lonely lighthouse searching the empty sea, the flickering beam extinguished. And she had not come, had not even written her goodbye. That failure was the real martyrdom of love, it hurt me most of all.
For a long time, perhaps an hour, yet how long I did not know, I remained staring into the fire. Distantly, through my sad and painful thoughts, I heard the sound of an arrival, of footsteps and voices in the hall. I did not stir. Whether it was McKellar or the doctor, I could not bring myself to face the hearty handclasp, the tactful sympathy, which either would surely offer me.
Then, as I sat mute and motionless, the door opened almost without sound, behind me. Awaiting the impact of a robust voice, I did not trouble to move, but gradually the consciousness of someone standing there, standing with perfect stillness, at my back, caused me to turn my head. And then, slowly, I raised my apathetic eyes.
At first I thought I was ill again. This must be some fresh hallucination, another of these fevered visions which had not so long ago afflicted me. Then, in a flash of understanding, I saw that it was she, saw also the explanation of her presence.
I had forgotten that out-going
vessels often lay overnight at the tail of the Bank to pick up passengers, and await a favourable tide. She had come, after all, to say goodbye.
The heavy thudding of my poor heart sounded in my ears, and a mist rose up before me, through which I gazed at her in utter silence. In equal silence she gazed at me. Although she still was thin, with a slight pallor persisting in her cheeks, little trace of her recent illness could be seen in those brown eyes, that clear complexion and lustrous hair. I could not but contrast my own condition with this serenity. Here I crouched, spent and broken, while she set out, steady and intent, almost fully restored to health. Her dress, too, of dark grey material edged with a lighter braid of silk, was quite new, bought, no doubt, in preparation for her journey. I saw, with a further stab of pain, that around her neck were clasped the green beads I had given her.
Slowly, I straightened in my chair. I could see her lips shaping to speak to me. I wanted to be ready to meet the blow.
“How are you, Robert?”
“Never better. Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you.” Her voice was low, yet controlled.
She seated herself, opposite me, very erect, her gloved hands clasped together, her eyes still bent upon me. Like a little plaster saint, I told myself, embittered by a composure that I could not match. I gritted my teeth to keep back the weak exhibition of my emotion.
“You have quite recovered,” I said.
“I was very lucky.”
“The sea voyage should set you up.”
She took no notice of this thrust. Her silence caused me a fresh paroxysm of heartache. I tapped the news sheet on my knee.
“I just happened to read that you were sailing. Nice of you to look me up. How is Malcolm? Has he gone on board?”
“Yes, Robert; he has gone on board.”
The barb, turned back, gently, without rancour, sank deep in my breast. I tried not to flinch. Because of her glove, I could not see the ring, but if Malcolm were going with her they must certainly be married.
“Well——” I tried, casually, to smile, but my pale lips were drawn back in an anguished spasm. “I ought to congratulate you. He’s a good fellow. I hope you have a nice trip.”
She did not immediately answer; then, seriously, she said:
“And what about you, Robert?”
“I’m quite all right. I have a chance to get into a good practice here in Levenford.”
“No.”
The single word, uttered with a burst of feeling, drew me up short.
“What do you mean? It’s virtually settled.”
“No,” she repeated. “You must not do it.”
A short, strained pause. She was less calm now, and her eyes had taken on a sudden depth.
“Robert,” she said, earnestly. “ You cannot, you must not throw yourself away in a country practice. Oh, I’m not decrying country doctors. But they are not you. You’ve had a bitter disappointment, a terrible reverse, but that isn’t the end. You’ll try again, you’ll do finer, greater work. You can’t bury your talents. You must, you must go on.”
“Where?” I asked, bitterly. “In another back room … another asylum?”
With greater earnestness she leaned a little forward.
“You feel badly towards Professor Challis, don’t you? It was a mistake to send you to Eastershaws. But he’s an old man, and he never really had an opportunity to put you in the right place.” Her throat swelled. “ Well, now he has. Robert, how would you like to lecture in Bacteriology at the University of Lausanne?”
I gazed at her, immobile, in fact scarcely breathing, as she went on, more rapidly.
“They wrote to Professor Challis, asking him to recommend the best man he knew, a young man who could organize the laboratory. He sent them a full report of your research. Yesterday he showed me their reply. If you wish it, the appointment is yours.”
I brushed my hand across my eyes as though shading them from too bright a light. A fresh start, away from the restrictions of this narrow land, in Lausanne, that lovely Swiss city on the sparkling waters of Lake Leman. But no, no … my confidence was gone … I dared not undertake it.
“I couldn’t,” I muttered. “ I’m not fit.”
Her lips came together. Under her cloak of stiff formality I saw a sudden trembling of resolution. She took a quick grave breath.
“You must, Robert. All your future is at stake. You cannot admit that you are beaten.”
I was silent, my eyes, unseeing, fixed upon the floor.
“I am beaten,” I said, in a leaden voice. “ I’ve given them my word. They are coming here to-night. It’s easy to fight one’s enemies. But against friends … and kindness … and my own promise … I can’t argue … I can’t fight any more.”
“I will help you.”
In slow surprise, I raised my gaze.
“You? … You’ll be away.”
She was very pale, and for a moment her lips quivered so convulsively that she was unable to answer. She sat looking at her clasped hands.
“I am not going.”
“But Malcolm?” I cried.
“The Algoa sailed at six this morning. Malcolm was on board.”
There was a mortal silence. Bewildered, incapable of believing, I felt myself grow rigid. Before I could speak, she went on again in a voice that seemed strangled by the immensity of her effort.
“When I was ill, Robert … and afterwards, I seemed to see things which were not apparent to me before.” She almost broke down, but forced herself to go on. “ I had always recognized my obligations to my parents, to the people with whom I meant to work. I didn’t realize my obligation to you … and because I love you most in all the world, it is a greater obligation than to any of the others. If you had succeeded, if you hadn’t had your breakdown, I might never have understood this … but now … I do.”
She paused, striving for breath, gazing at me with strained intensity, as though burdened by the burning necessity of conveying to me difficult and unformed thoughts which recently had come to her. In the stress of her emotion tears began to roll down her cheeks. Her words came quickly.
“All the time, as I was lying there, in a kind of dream, I kept wondering why I had refused to marry you … I loved you … really I had got ill through loving you, and not caring what I did in the wards … but behind that love there was pride and fear and prejudice against your religion, of which I really knew nothing. God had caused you to be born a Catholic and me a member of the Brethren. Did that mean He hated one of us and loved the other … wished that one should live in the darkness of lies, and the other in the light of truth? If so, Christianity was meaningless. Oh, Robert, you were kinder towards my belief than I was to yours. And I felt so terribly ashamed I told myself, if I got better, I would come and beg you to forgive me.”
Now she was weeping uncontrollably and, while I sat white and rigid, unable to move my stiff lips, she whispered:
“Robert, dear Robert, you must think me the most difficult … the most inconsistent person in the world. But there is a pressure in events we cannot withstand. Oh, my dear, I’ve left Blairhill, left my parents, left everything, for good. And if you still want me, I will marry you, when and where you wish.… We will go to Lausanne … work together … be kind and considerate of each other.…”
The next instant she was in my arms, her heart against mine, her voice stifled by sobs. My lips moved without making a sound. My breast, dilated with an immense joy, seemed about to burst.
As from a distant world I heard the front door open again, heard the stamping arrival of McKellar and Dr. Galbraith, the cautious undertones of the old woman as she met them in the hall.
It did not matter now. I was no longer alone, darkness had turned to the light of day, life was for ever remade. We should make our way into the unknown together. Yes, in the mystical warmth of that moment everything became possible, there was no thought of failure, and happiness seemed eternal.
Copyright
; First published in 1948 by Gollancz
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © A. J. Cronin, 1948
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