The Citadel
Page 43
He went into the cloak-room, desiring only to be alone, and sat on the edge of one of the washbasins, mechanically feeling for a cigarette. But the smoke was tasteless on his parched tongue and he crushed the cigarette beneath his heel. It was strange, despite the hard things, the true things he had said of the profession a few moments ago, how miserable he should feel at being cast out from it. He realised that he might find work with Stillman. But this was not the work he wanted. No! He wished to be with Denny and Hope, to develop his own bent, drive the spearhead of his scheme into the hide of apathy and conservatism. But all this must be done from within the profession, it could never, in England, never, never be accomplished from outside. Now Denny and Hope must man the Trojan horse alone. A great wave of bitterness swept over him. The future stretched out before him desolately. He had already that most painful sense of all – the feeling of exclusion – and allied to it, the knowledge that he was finished, done for – this was the end.
The sound of people moving in the corridor brought him wearily to his feet. As he joined them and re-entered the council chamber he told himself sternly that only one thing remained to him. He must not grovel. He prayed that he would give no sign of subservience, of weakness. With his eyes fixed firmly on the floor immediately before him, he saw no one, gave no glance towards the high table, remained passive, motionless. All the trivial sounds of the room re-echoed maddeningly about him – the scraping of chairs, the coughing, whispering, even the incredible sound of someone tapping idly with a pencil.
But suddenly there was silence. A spasm of rigidity took hold of Andrew. Now, he thought, now it is coming! The President spoke. He spoke slowly, impressively.
‘Andrew Manson, I have to inform you that the Council has given very careful consideration to the charge brought against you and to the evidence brought in support of it. The Council is of opinion that, despite the peculiar circumstances of the case and your own particularly unorthodox presentation of it, you were acting in good faith and were sincerely desirous of complying with the spirit of the law demanding a high standard of professional conduct. I have to inform you, accordingly, that the Council has not seen fit to direct the Registrar to erase your name.’
For one dazed second he did not comprehend. Then a sudden shivering thrill passed over him. They had not struck him off. He was free, clear, vindicated.
He raised his head shakily towards the Council table. Of all the faces, strangely blurred, turned towards his own, the one he saw most distinctly was that of Robert Abbey. The understanding in Abbey’s eyes distressed him even more. He knew, in one illuminating flash, that it was Abbey who had got him off. Gone now was his pretence of indifference. He muttered feebly – and though he addressed the President it was to Abbey that he spoke:
‘Thank you, sir.’
The President said:
‘That terminates the case.’
Andrew stood up, instantly surrounded by his friends, by Con, Mary, the astounded Mr Hopper, by people he had never seen before, who now shook him warmly by the hand. Somehow he was in the street outside, still being beaten about the shoulders by Con, oddly reassured in his nervous confusion by the passing buses, the normal stream of traffic, recapturing every now and then, with a start of joy, the unbelievable ecstasy of his release. He looked down unexpectedly to see Mary gazing up at him, her eyes still filled with tears.
‘If they’d done anything to you – after all you’ve done for me, I’d – oh! I’d have killed that old President.’
‘In the name of God!’ Con irrepressibly declared, ‘ I don’t know what ye were worrying about! The minute old Manson started to get goin’, sure, I knew he would knock the stuffing outa them.’
Andrew smiled weakly, doubtfully, joyously.
The three reached the Museum Hotel after one o’clock. And there, waiting in the lounge, was Denny. He sauntered towards them, gravely smiling. Hopper had telephoned the news. But he had no comment to make. He merely said:
‘I’m hungry. But we can’t feed here. Come along, all of you, and lunch with me.’
They lunched at the Connaught Restaurant. Though no flicker of emotion crossed Philip’s face, though he talked mainly of motor-cars to Con, he made it a happy celebration. Afterwards he said to Andrew:
‘Our train leaves at four o’clock. Hope’s in Stanborough – at the hotel, waiting on us. We can get that property dirt cheap. I’ve got some shopping to do. But I’ll meet you at Euston at ten to four!’
Andrew gazed at Denny, conscious of his friendship, of all that he owed him since the first moment of their meeting, in the little Drineffy surgery. He said suddenly.
‘Supposing I’d been struck off?’
‘You’re not.’ Philip shook his head. ‘And I’ll see to it that you never will be.’
When Denny left to make his purchases Andrew accompanied Con and Mary to their train at Paddington. As they waited on the platform, rather silent now, he repeated the invitation he had already given them.
‘You must come and see us at Stanborough.’
‘We will that,’ Con assured him. ‘In the spring – whenever I get the little bus tuned up.’
When their train steamed out he still had an hour to spare. But there was no doubt in his mind as to what he wished to do. Instinctively, he boarded a bus and soon he was in Kensal Green. He entered the cemetery, stood a long time at Christine’s grave, thinking of many things. It was a bright, fresh afternoon, with that crispness in the breeze which she had always loved. Above him, on the branch of a grimy tree, a sparrow chirped merrily. When at last he turned away, hastening for fear he should be late, there, in the sky before him, a bank of cloud lay brightly, bearing the shape of battlements.
Copyright
First published in 1937 by Gollancz
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