Adventures in Two Worlds

by A. J. Cronin

  All this time, while my satisfaction increased, I had been conscious of a growing disapproval on the part of my employer. Once or twice he made to speak, but restrained himself. At last, however, at supper on the Thursday of that second week, when I came in late following an interview with McKellor, the old man darted a glance at me and growled:

  ‘Late again, eh?’ What’s come over you these days?’ He inspected me with a critical annoyance. ‘ Don’t stand there fidgeting, man. You’re like a cat on hot bricks. You can’t be still. You don’t eat, either. And you look as if you can’t sleep.’

  ‘I’ll be all right presently,’ I excused myself, as I sat in at the table.

  ‘Presently!’ exclaimed Cameron. ‘And why not immediately?’

  ‘Well … as a matter of fact, I have something on my mind at the moment.’

  Cameron rose abruptly, rebuke stamped on every lineament.

  ‘Ay,’ he said sternly. ‘I’ve a good idea what it is, too, and God knows I don’t like it. Let me tell you plainly you’re not the man you were. You’re changing … losing your sense of values. And more. You’re doing rank bad work. I’m both disappointed and dissatisfied with it.’ And coldly, he turned and walked out of the room.

  Utterly taken aback, I sat with lowered gaze, cut to the quick by Cameron’s rebuke, which I felt, under my veneer of satisfaction, to be justified. A pang of compunction took me. Was I really doing bad work? Being slack and slipshod, in order to have more time to devote to this business of getting rich? I could barely touch my supper. In a sober, chastened mood I rose from the table and went immediately to bed.

  Towards sis o’clock on the following morning I was awakened by an early call. Stung by Cameron’s remarks – they still burned in my mind – and eager to justify myself, I welcomed this summons, tumbled into my clothes, summoned the gig, picked up my bag of instruments, and set out on a long drive to Marklea.

  A soft mist lay upon the loch and shrouded the forms of the budding trees. The morning was so pure and still, it struck into my heart. Though Jamie, the groom, once or twice attempted a remark, I was in no mood for conversation. I sat hunched up in my seat, silent.

  Neglecting my work, I thought bitterly, between indignation and remorse; not the man I was – I’ll show him!

  In this frame of mind, about an hour later, I reached the whitewashed cottage home of George and Elizabeth Dallas, which stood by the lochside in a remote moorland glen, below Marklea.

  Elizabeth had been stillroom maid at Dun drum Castle, a worthy, capable person, but already in her fortieth year, when Dallas, one of the shepherds on the estate, married her. The marriage had proved to be a happy one and now, rather confounding the prophets, Elizabeth was expecting a child. I had seen her several times recently at the surgery and knew that, more than anything, she wished to justify herself by presenting her husband with a son.

  Attended by her aged mother, she was already in labour, although not far advanced, when I arrived. Outside, hanging about the back door, too anxious to return to his work, was Dallas. I could see him from the window of the tiny bedroom as I pulled off my coat and rolled up my sleeves. At least there was work for me to do, in plenty. And there was waiting too.

  An hour passed quickly, morning merged insensibly into afternoon. The patient’s pains, slight at first, became deeper and more prolonged. It was now apparent that the case would not be an easy one. Elizabeth’s age, and other circumstances, her anxiety that she should do her part, that the baby should be well and healthy – all this worked against her. And her heart was not strong.

  The afternoon drew in, then at last the moment came for action. Taking mask and ether, I put the poor woman, mercifully, to sleep. And that was but the beginning. A full hour I struggled through the dark ways of difficulty and danger, before the instrumental delivery was complete. And then, alas, it seemed that half my efforts had been in vain. The child came into the world pale and still. A sigh broke from the old woman.

  ‘God save us, Doctor, the barn’s dead!’

  Perspiration was streaming from my brow, and there was deep anxiety in my eyes, for the mother was herself in a serious condition. Removing the mask from her face, I applied restoratives, and at last succeeded in bringing her round. When she was out of danger I turned hurriedly to the baby, which lay inert and apparently lifeless, wrapped in a rough blanket, at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear,’ moaned the old woman, rocking to and fro in her grief. ‘ To think it should be stillborn, Doctor. A boy, too. And her that’s never like to have another.’

  I interrupted her harshly.

  ‘Bring some hot water. And cold as well.’

  At the same time I began to apply artificial respiration to the lifeless child. When the two full basins were brought I lifted the frail, limp body and plunged it first in the warm water, then in the icy cold. Again and again I repeated the process, trying to galvanise the child by shock, using the methods of respiration in between – working desperately, feverishly, with a kind of passionate anger. I toiled and toiled until, when all seemed lost, a faint, feeble, convulsive gasp stirred the infant’s chest.

  A cry, as if in answer, broke from my dry lips. More desperately still I increased my efforts. Another feeble gasp and another, now less feeble, from the child … a little shiver, then shallow but regular respiration. Triumph swelled in me, and the old dame gave out a cry of thankfulness and joy.

  ‘It breathes, Doctor!’ she gasped. ‘ Oh, God in Heaven, it’s come to life!’

  Within an hour the little bedroom, restored from its disorder, freed from suffering and sadness, was again neat and clean, the bed made up, the fire burning brightly in the grate, and the mother, pale but joyful, with the baby breathing and nestling at her breast, following all my movements with swimming eyes which tried, humidly, to express her gratitude.

  Nor was the old lady to be outdone. She would not let me go until she had fed me well – a meal I badly needed – while Dallas himself, following sheepishly at my heels, wrung my hand with inexpressible gratitude again and again.

  It was almost dusk when I set out on the return drive to Tannochbrae, and after seven o’clock in the evening when I reached the outskirts of the town. In the intensity of my endeavour, time had passed unconsidered. What of it? I had vindicated myself, had answered Cameron’s taunt. I felt strangely rested and at peace. And yet, as the gig rattled down the main street and brought me back to the haunts of men, the mood slipped from me, and all at once, with a quickening of my heart, I thought of my Roan Vleis and how much they would have risen that day.

  Impulsively I stopped the gig, and dismounting, told Jamie to go home. Proceeding on foot, I bought an evening paper at the village store.

  Then, as I rapidly scanned the financial page, avid for the news that would put more money in my pocket, my eyes almost leapt from my head. Across the top of the page stretched a glaring headline: ‘Bottom Drops Out of Roan Vleis Boom.’

  With a sickening sensation in my breast, I rapidly read on. The report of the new vein in Roan Vleis had proved to be erroneous. The mine had struck a fault. In the course of the day Roan Vleis had slumped a full thirty shillings!

  Overcome by bewilderment and dismay, I stood a moment facing this incredible disaster; then, with trembling hands, I stuck the paper in my pocket and set out at a run for George McKellor’s house.

  I had no difficulty in finding McKellor. Indeed, the grain merchant was waiting on me, pacing up and down the hall, glowing with ill-suppressed satisfaction.

  ‘Come in, Doctor,’ he cried, slapping me on the back with unusual gaiety. ‘ We did it this time right enough, eh?’

  I stared at him aghast.

  ‘Did it? How do you mean?’

  McKellor’s expression changed slowly until, quite nonplussed by my chalky countenance, he exclaimed:

  ‘You’ve sold, haven’t ye – sold like I told you?’

  A pause, then I muttered:

  ‘No, I have
n’t sold.’

  ‘What!’ shouted McKellor in a tone of horror. ‘Ye haven’t sold? In the name of heaven! Why man? I rang you at nine this morning and left the message. To make doubly sure I even sent you a telegram. I told you to get out at the peak of the market before the news of the fault was made public. I told you to sell everything and go a bear on the fall. If you’d done as I told you you’d have doubled your profit.’

  There was another heavy silence. He was waiting for me to speak.

  ‘I had a case’ – I averted my eyes – ‘ up at Marklea. I never had your message. You see – I’ve been away all day.’

  McKellor exploded between exasperation and disgust.

  ‘Away all day! Didn’t I tell you to keep in touch with me?’ he raged. ‘Wasn’t that more important than your miserable case?’

  I did not answer. McKellor bit his lips, controlling himself with difficulty.

  ‘You’re a fine man to take trouble over,’ he said, turning away angrily. ‘It’ll be long enough before I give you another tip.’

  I walked home slowly with a set and sombre face, all my plans, my grand ideas of riches shattered and in ruins at my feet. Dr Cameron was seated by the dining-room fire when I went in, and for a moment neither spoke. The old doctor’s eyes fell upon me as I flung myself into a chair and dejectedly poured myself a cup of tea.

  ‘You’ve had a long day,’ said Cameron at last, not unkindly.

  ‘Ay,’ I replied, and in a brief sentence I reported how the case had gone at Marklea.

  ‘Well,’ said Cameron, and his tone held a hint of the old friendship, ‘you did right to stay there all day.’ He paused. ‘By the by, there’s been an uncommon commotion while you’ve been away. They were trying to get you from Glasgow all morning. Something about buying and selling.’ He paused again, significantly. ‘But I had to tell them you were busy.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said slowly, ‘I was busy.’ And all at once a lightness came over me as I remembered the faces of Elizabeth Dallas and her husband, of the old woman, her mother, and, above all, the face of the little child as colour stole into the pallid features, and life reanimated the tiny form!

  When settling day arrived I found that the brokers had sold me out the moment my margin was exhausted. Their statement showed that not only were my paper profits gone, but all my hundred pounds as well … at least, not quite all, for by some technicality, an arithmetical juggling with eights and sixteenths far beyond my comprehension, ther actually remained of my original capital the sum of seven pounds fifteen shillings. A cheque for this amount was enclosed with the firm’s compliments.

  Gazing in silent bitterness at that infernal strip of paper, I was overcome by a strange impulse. I went that afternoon to the town of Knoxhill where, in the High Street, stood the establishment of a country jeweller named Jenkins. We spoke together, Jenkins and I. The cheque, to my immense relief, passed out of my hands. And a week later a christening mug was delivered to that lonely cottage on the lochside, a fine silver mug which made the eyes of Elizabeth Dallas gleam with pride, a mug which, she handled reverently, and fondly displayed to the child she held so tenderly in her arms.

  Upon the mug was inscribed her little son’s name, Georgie Dallas, and, below, this odd inscription: What money can’t buy.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Scots – I still stoutly maintain – are an emotional people, and Dr Cameron was, fundamentally, a sentimental man. But with this difference, shared by most of the northern race – he was not demonstrative. Any display of feeling he regarded as a sign of weakness, and one gruff word from him meant more than a score of impassioned speeches. Thus, he gave me no warning of what was in his mind until, one Sunday morning, some weeks after the incident I have just related, he looked across the Britannia-metal coffee-pot as we sat at breakfast and remarked dryly:

  ‘I find that I no longer need you as an assistant.’

  There was a dead silence. I had, true enough, considered the possibility of leaving Cameron, but only in my own interest. This dismissal was a different matter, and I turned pale with mortification and surprise. Then, before I had recovered from the shock, his sterm expression merged into a twisted smile.

  ‘But I could very well do with you as a partner. How about going halves with me in the practice, lad? I’ll make the terms as easy as you please.’

  The blood rushed back into my cheeks with such violence that my head swarn. He went on:

  ‘Take a few weeks to think about it. Talk it over with your friends and …’ – his eyes twinkled as he got up from the table and went to the door – ‘with that young lady who is brave enough to be interested in you.’

  It was a tremendous, if unmerited, tribute he had paid me, and to this day I treasure my achievement in winning the regard of this hard-headed and high-principled old country doctor, a man who said little but observed everything, who ‘saw through’ people with a single shrewd and penetrating glance, who would certainly never have chosen for his associate one whom he did not like and esteem. There was reason, too, in his proposal. In his own phrase, he ‘was not getting any younger’, he wanted someone to share equally in the cares and responsibilities of his beloved practice, someone who would eventually succeed him.

  My first impulse was to accept warmly, but Cameron insisted I act on his suggestion and first of all seek advice. I went, accordingly, to my former chief, Professor Stockman, whose opinion I greatly valued. To my surprise, he strongly opposed my remaining in Tannochbrae. He considered that it was not at all the proper place for me and, while in no way belittling rural practice, declared that I should be foolish in the extreme to bury myself and, he added, my talents, in a remote West Highland glen. These forcible words placed me in a dilemma. My heart told me I should stay with Cameron, my head counseled me to leave him.

  While I was in this state of indecision, winter took a last vile fling in a burst of abominable and atrocious weather. It snowed and rained, snowed again, then rained on top of that, until the roads were almost impassable with slush and mud. Wicked going and weary work it made for us. My costume day after day was heavy boots, leggings, and the thickest ulster in my wardrobe. Sleep became a luxury. Pleurisy, pneumonia, and every form of chill and congestion ravaged the countryside.

  It was the worst time of all the year, when to work a busy, scattered practice was little better than slavery in its crudest form. And yet, perversely, the very torture of this treadmill inclined me to remain. How could I desert the old man at such a time?

  Late one January night I stamped into the dining-room after a particularly killing day, tugged off my boots and leggings, drew on my soft slippers, and sank into a chair. With a sigh of incredible relief I relaxed for a moment before the blazing fire, then silently accepted the both of steaming broth which Janet, having heard me come in, brought through from the kitchen. Outside, the wind howled and scuffled in the darkness, battering the hailstones against the window panes like a fusillade of icy shot.

  ‘Please, God,’ I thought, with a little shiver, ‘I’ll not be out again tonight.’ And, standing on no ceremony, I supped the scalding soup as I sat there by the fire.

  Half an hour later Cameron came in, equally worn out, his gaunt, weather-beaten features pinched with cold and fatigue, his figure bowed a little, his whole aspect utterly fagged. He came forward slowly and stretched out his hands to the fire while the steam rose from his damp clothing. A silence of sympathetic understanding linked us, the knowledge of common endeavour, of work done in the face of difficulty and hardship. Then Cameron, with a long expiration of his breath, nodded to me, went to the sideboard, poured out some whisky, added a little sugar, then marched to the fireplace and picked up the little kettle which always sang there upon the hob. With an eye which thanked Providence for the small mercies of life, he smacked his lips and cannily mixed some toddy. But, alas, just as Cameron gratefully raised the steaming brew to his lips, the phone bell rang.

  ‘Dimmit to hell,’ muttered Ca
meron, lowering his toddy untouched. We both listened apprehensively, fully conscious that the cursed bell might mean a summons into the icy darkness of the night.

  Two minutes of waiting; then Janet came in, her eyes falling, not upon me, whose duty it usually was to take the night calls, but upon Cameron himself, and in Janet’s face there was a genuine reproach.

  ‘It’s from Mr Currie, of Langloan,’ she announced, with a baleful shake of her head. ‘ They’ve been expecting you all day long’ pause – ‘and now they want to know if you’re coming at all.’ Crossing her arms upon her bosom, Janet gazed at the old doctor like a schoolmistress sorely put out by a favourite pupil.

  Cameron groaned. Then, for all his casehardened imperturbability, he let out another heartfelt oath.

  ‘The de’il dang for me an idiot! What on earth was I thinking of to forget Neil Currie? And me passed his very door twice!’

  I was silent. I well knew the misery of missing a call in the rush of the day’s work and having to retrace weary steps to make good the oversight. Quickly I swallowed the last of my broth and reached again for my boots, when Janet, interposing, stopped me with a gesture.

  ‘It’s no use you goin’, Doctor. They’re fair upset at Langloan. It’s Dr Cameron or nobody.’

  At this information, so stoically conveyed by Janet, Cameron’s lined face took on a deeper shade.

  ‘Dang my bones!’ he exclaimed, seriously distressed. ‘Neil thinks I’m neglecting him.’

  He put down the glass on the mantelpiece and buttoned his coat resolutely.