All that lingering summer, which, by the dreamlike beauty of its days, conspired to defeat the force of reason, we had drawn more closely to each other. I, perhaps, was a willing victim, but my companion, by her temperament and denomination, by every intimate beat of her family life, was better able to appreciate the barrier to our attachment which, on that evening at Markinch, had been blindingly revealed to her. Bound by the web of parental ties, enclosed by the inexorable limits of her creed, no nightmare was more fearful to her than the grim phantom of my religion. More than once she had, with tears, protested that our relationship was impossible. But when, after a sad goodbye, I returned to Dalnair, the telephone in my room would ring and her voice would tremble across the wire.
“Oh, no, Robert, no … we can’t give each other up.”
Rent by the wonder of this new emotion, swept away as by a cataract, we were hopelessly in love.
In Winton, half an hour later, an autumn rain was falling as I left the train and hastened to the quiet café which we had discovered near the Central Station. She was already there, a lonely figure, at the far end of the almost deserted lounge.
“Jean,” I exclaimed, going forward and taking both her hands, “I’ve got it at last.”
Seating myself beside her on the wall settee, I poured out the account of my success.
“Don’t you see the tremendous significance of it? Not just goats’ milk … on the island of Malta. But cows’ milk, everywhere. Cows’ milk, cheese, butter, all dairy produce … the most generally used foods in the world … that’s how this germ is transmitted. And there’s more. I telephoned Alex Duthie this morning. He told me they had a lot of trouble with their dairy herd just before the epidemic. Several of the animals died. That’s no coincidence … must be some relationship. In fact, he said there’s been severe outbreaks among cattle herds all over the country … 35 per cent affected. If they get another sick animal at Dreem, Alex’s going to let me have milk samples. Don’t you see the possibility, Jean … heavens, if there should be a connection between the two …”
I broke off, in a ferment of feeling, while she gazed at me with quiet sympathy.
“I’m so glad, Robert.” She hesitated, and her smile became subdued. “I wouldn’t mind if they gave me that question at my exam to-morrow.”
There was a pause, during which my effervescence slowly ebbed. I had actually forgotten that it was the eve of that important event, her degree examination, and her anxiety for the ordeal which would begin upon the following morning and endure for five days was now so apparent it awakened in me a sudden stab of contrition. I had pushed ahead with my research, every night, pressing on, full of inexhaustible energy, avoiding pitfalls by a kind of magic. But what of her? When she spoke palely of hours filled with anxiety for the future I had remonstrated that she also had her work, and I had, it is true, from time to time, at Dalnair, taken her over certain subjects which I thought likely to crop up in her papers. Yet could I not have coached her more thoroughly, more patiently, instead of proving a perpetual distraction?
“You’ll be all right,” I said encouragingly. “ You’ve studied pretty hard.”
“I suppose so,” she answered, wanly. “I don’t seem to have much confidence. Professor Kennerly’s the examiner … and he’s very strict.”
Again my heart and conscience smote me. Was this the same bright and bustling neophyte who, fervent for her mission, with enthusiasm to heal, had come to my room to probe the exciting mysteries of trypanosomes?
“Jean,” I said in a low voice, “I’ve been a selfish brute.”
She shook her head listlessly, with drooping lip.
“I’m as much to blame as you.”
In silence I bent forward and pressed her fingers tight. She whispered:
“At least we have each other.”
When we left the café I was still accusing myself and, on our way to the station, in an effort to cheer her, also, perhaps, to appease my sense of guilt, I stopped at a little antique shop at the corner of Woolmarket. In my journeyings through this back street I had observed in the window a green necklace, extremely simple, for the beads were only of glass, but pretty, in good taste, and genuinely old. Before my companion knew what I was about I asked her to wait, went in and purchased it. A moment later, as we entered the station and stood at our usual place of leave-taking, under the bookstall clock, I gave the beads to her.
“That’s for good luck,” I said. “Green is my lucky colour.”
She flushed with surprise and her face, losing its despondency, slowly lit up with pleasure. I had never given her anything before.
“They’re beautiful,” she said.
“No, no. They’re nothing. But let me put them on.”
I took the beads and fastened them around her neck, then, carried away by this new tenderness, careless of the passing crowds, the public place, I held her in my arms and kissed her.
She had to leave immediately for her train. As I turned away, I suddenly caught sight of a tall and ladylike figure, standing as though petrified, her eyes fixed upon me in a shocked and unbelieving stare. With a sinking of my heart, I recognized her, knew instantly that she had witnessed the gift of the necklace, the close embrace. I took a step towards her, but with the glassiest of glances, and a frigid, an imperceptible inclination of her head, she had begun already to move away. It was Miss Beth Dearie.
For the rest of that week, according to our arrangement, I made no attempt to communicate with Jean. But while I worked hard at Dalnair, I thought of her, and on the following Monday morning I rose early and hurried down to the lodge to get the Herald before it was sent into Miss Trudgeon’s parlour. The medical passes appeared always at the top of the last page, and standing in the drive in my pyjamas and overcoat, I ran my eye hastily over the printed list. Then again, more carefully, but with a growing sense of misgiving, I scanned it.
Jean’s name was not there. I could not believe it. She had failed.
Although she had warned me not to do so, swept by a deep commiseration, I felt I must telephone her at once. I went to the switchboard in the hall and, while Sister Peek scurried around with her ears alertly cocked, I called the number in Blairhill.
“Hello. I want to speak to Miss Law.”
It was a woman’s voice that answered, not Jean’s, alas! but almost certainly her mother’s.
“Who is speaking?”
I hesitated.
“A friend.”
There was a pause, then the voice came back.
“I am sorry. Miss Law is not here.”
“But please listen,” I said. Then I broke off, for the sharp crackle against my ear-drum told me that the other party had hung up.
All that day, scarcely knowing what to do, I laboured under a dismal oppression. After supper, when seven o’clock struck, I was preparing to restore myself by my nightly session in the laboratory when Katie, the maid, who had already cleared away the dishes, tapped upon my door.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir.”
“Is it a patient?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Relative?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
I gazed at her in perplexity: I wasn’t used to visitors at this hour.
“Well … you’d better show him in.”
There must, that evening, have been a blind spot upon my intelligence. I got the shock of my life when, with a firm tread, Daniel Law came into the room.
As the door closed behind him, he bestowed upon me his grave and steady gaze.
“I hope I am not intruding at an awkward time, Doctor? If convenient, I should greatly like to have a word with you.”
“Why … certainly,” I stammered.
At this he bowed and removed his heavy black coat, which he folded methodically and placed, with his hat, upon the couch. Then, pulling a hard chair near to me, he sat down, very formal in his best dark suit, white dickey, and string tie, laid his hands upon his knees, and aga
in transfixed me with unhesitating eyes.
“Doctor,” he quietly began. “ It was not an easy step for me to come to you like this. Before doing so I wrestled long in prayer.” He paused. “ You have been seeing much of my daughter lately?”
I turned extremely red.
“I’m afraid I have.”
“Might one ask why?”
“Well … as a matter of fact … I’m very fond of her.”
“Ah!” There was neither irony nor condemnation in the simple exclamation, merely a sombre, somewhat cold concern. “We are fond of her too, Doctor. Indeed, ever since she became a child of light, she has been to us as the lamb to the shepherd. You will appreciate, therefore, how great was our disappointment when we learned to-day that she had failed to obtain her medical degree. And I fear the main reason was that, instead of working, she was wasting her time in frivolous pursuits.”
I was silent.
“Of course,” he went on, with a visionary air, “I have every confidence in my daughter. We must bear the hand of the Lord when it presses upon us, and she will be sanctified by this affliction. My sainted wife and I have taken counsel with her and she will try again, after some months of uninterrupted study. What concerns us is a much more serious issue. I do not know how far your acquaintance has gone, Doctor—I can get no word of this from my daughter and am indebted to Miss Dearie for the little information I possess—nevertheless, I fear you must agree that, under the circumstances, it has gone far enough.”
“I don’t understand,” I said quickly. “ Why do you object to my knowing your daughter?”
He made no immediate answer. Pressing his finger tips together, he meditated intently.
“Doctor,” he said suddenly and with greater firmness, “ I hope my daughter will marry. One day I hope she will be a happy wife. But she will never find that happiness except with one of her own religious persuasion.”
We were in deep water now, but, uncaring, I plunged forward.
“I don’t agree with you,” I said. “ Religion is a private affair. We can’t help what creed we’re born into. It’s quite possible for two people to be tolerant of each other’s belief.”
He shook his head, darkly, with a cold and strangely baffling smile which seemed, if anything, to indicate his exclusive familiarity with the ways and ordinances of an Omniscient God.
“I make allowance for your youth and inexperience. There can be only one true testimony to the Blood, one true congregation of the saints. In that true congregation of the Lord’s anointed my daughter has been reared. She can never commingle with the waters of Babylon.”
As he spoke, by some strange antithesis, my thoughts flew suddenly, and heavily, to the lovely waters of Markinch, beside which Jean and I had wandered, to exchange, under the soft, indulgent dome of heaven, our first sweet kiss.
“Young man.” Observing my bitterness, and the signs of rebellion in my face, his tone grew harsh. “ I wish you well, and hope that light will one day break upon you. But it is only just that you should understand, finally, that my daughter is not for you. There is, in our communion, a ministering brother to whom she is virtually affianced. I refer to Malcolm Hodden. You have met him under my roof. At present he is a teacher, but he aspires one day to be a minister of the Gospel and to bear the torch into the wilderness. By every affinity of mind and spirit he has shown himself worthy to lead and guide her along the pathways of this earthly life.”
There was a silence. He seemed to wait for me to speak but as, sunk in my chair, I said nothing, he rose, quiet as ever, and methodically put on his coat. When the last button was in place he gazed at me between sad forbearance and frigid admonition.
“I am glad that our conversation has been salutary, Doctor. We must all learn to submit to the Lord … to come to a true knowledge of His will.… In parting, I commit you to His care.”
Taking up his hat, with firm footsteps, and that air of serene and steady discipline, he passed from the room.
I did not move for a long time. Despite his rigid and narrow views, I was constrained, in honesty, to admit that he was acting according to his lights. This did not help me. The tone of his discourse, as though every word were sacred and prophetic, drawn from Revelation, had cut me to the quick. And Hodden … ah, that was a bitter pill to swallow.
Full of hurt and angry love, I thought of Jean. I set my jaw firmly. At least I had not promised not to see her.
Chapter Seven
In this restless and uneasy mood I made my night round of the wards. When I had given Sister Peek her instructions, I went, as usual, to the isolation pavilion, but I could not concentrate. The pursuit of pure science, to which I was dedicated, demanded complete detachment from all the entanglements of life. Yet now I cared nothing for that solemn covenant. The vision of Jean was before me, slim and fresh, her brown eyes misted with the bloom of youth. I loved her. I must see her.
On the following afternoon, the moment I was free, I hurried to the garage. Twice already I had telephoned to the villa Siloam, but on each occasion the voice of Mrs. Law had answered, and without a word, as though it were a hot iron, I had dropped the receiver back upon its hook. Now, despite the drizzle, I set off upon the motor-cycle for Blairhill.
At the rear of Siloam, with beating heart, I made my way to the summer-house. I found it empty, the chair untenanted, the rustic table bare of Osler’s Practice of Medicine. Uncertainly, I sat on the wall watching the rain drip from the green-painted lattice-work; then, dropping down on the near side, I skirted the garden and gained the front of the house. For almost half an hour, I hung about in the bushes, straining my eyes towards the mysterious lace-curtained windows. But although I several times caught sight of her mother, moving about in the dim interior of the “front room,” I was not once rewarded by a glimpse of Jean.
Suddenly I heard the sound of approaching footsteps in the avenue. At first I thought that it was Daniel Law, but a moment later Luke’s figure swung into view. I came forward.
“Luke!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“Yes, I’m back,” he admitted.
“Why didn’t you let me know? You’re the very one who can help me.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, Luke. Now listen.” I spoke with painful urgency. “I must see Jean, at once.”
“You’ll not do that,” he answered, hesitantly, glancing from me to the silent front of the house. Then, taking apparently a decision in my favour, he added: “ We can’t talk here. Come on down the street with me.”
He led the way back to the town, gazing occasionally over his shoulder, then at a rather disreputable corner near the Market Square, dived into a gaudily painted saloon which bore the sign: BLAIRHILL SPORTS BAR. Seated in a booth at the back of this depressing emporium, which from its convenient array of pin-ball and fruit machines, I saw to be the resort of Blairhill’s gilded youth, Luke ordered two glasses of beer. Then he gave me a long, equivocal stare.
“You’ve done it this time,” he said at last. “If you ask me … it’s all up.”
I leaned forward quickly.
“What happened?”
“The worst I remember. When Mother heard from Miss Dearie, about you I mean, she took Jean aside, very quiet and sad, and had her crying all over the place. When Father came in at tea-time there was a long consultation. Then, while Mother went and fetched Malcolm, Father went up and prayed with Jean, for about an hour, in her room. Even in the kitchen, I could hear her sobbing, as if her heart would break. When they came down she had stopped. She was white-looking, but quiet. You see, it was all over then.”
“Luke! What do you mean?”
“I think they made her promise she would never see you again.”
It took me a minute to fully grasp his meaning, but presently there fell upon me an iron conviction that he spoke the truth. Although in this age of progress one could barely credit the fact, there existed in this family an authority which went back to those days of t
he Old Testament, when the tribes of Gilead and Gad followed their destiny across the plains of Moab, tending their flocks and herds, submitting to the elders, trusting blindly in the Lord.
Daniel Law was such a patriarch. He still lived in and by the books of Kings, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. And amidst the roar of the machine age, the distracting blare of jazz, and the enticing flicker of the cinema, he had raised his children in that tradition, not by fear, for he was no tyrant, but by a rule of tempered firmness, above all by the inflexible display of his conviction, the unwavering light of his example. The popular, slightly comic conception of the street-corner evangelist was as remote from Daniel Law as a sickly weed from a stalwart oak. He was no weak-kneed tract-passer, no whining intoner of the Psalms. He was, indeed, a veritable Paul, righteous and valiant, with a gleam in his eye which cowed the evil serpent before he crushed it beneath his heel. He had, of course, the defect of his qualities. His gaze was steady, yet he could see only straight ahead. Compromise was beyond him—a thing, to him, was either black or white. Outside the shining orbit of his own interior light, there existed only darkness, beset with temptations for the elect and, like twisted roots in a dark forest, the snares of Satan. Tolerance was a forbidden weakness, indeed, a word he did not understand. If one were not “saved” then, alas! one was eternally damned. This it was which for years had kept his daughter upon the stony path, saved her from the iniquities of dances, card playing and the theatre, reduced her reading to Good Words and Pilgrim’s Progress, and now, by the exercise of prayer and pressure, had wrung from her that tearful promise to renounce her unworthy lover.
All this flashed across my mind as I sat opposite Luke in the cheap and chilly beer parlour, and although my reflections gave me the dizzy sensation of having run into a stone wall, although also I felt a smouldering resentment against Jean for having surrendered me, nevertheless, I could not, simply could not, give her up.
“Luke,” I said, tensely. “ You’ve got to help me.”
“Yes?” he queried, without much conviction.