Shannon's Way

by A. J. Cronin

  As we entered, Madame bowed to us from her desk behind the caisse and the youthful waiter, clad in a seedy dress suit too large for him, showed us to a table in the corner. We were early and, apart from some regular customers dining at a long table in the centre of the room, the place was pleasantly empty. In high spirits we discussed the menu, written with violet copying ink in an angular hand, and ordered soupe aux oignons, escalope de veau, soufflé â l’orange, and coffee.

  “It’s awfully nice here,” Jean said, looking about her with an animated expression. “ We might be in Paris.” She saved herself with a little grimace. “ For all I know about it.”

  “Let’s pretend we are,” I answered gaily. “We’ve come in from the Sorbonne … as described by our friend Challis. We’re immensely famous scientists … can’t you see my beard! … And we’ve just made a world-shaking discovery which will cover us with unbounded glory.”

  “So we have,” she exclaimed, practically.

  I gave a little shout of laughter. Thrilled by a sense of triumph, escaped from the heavy harness of routine, my usual reticence was gone, a joyous intoxication pervaded me. When the waiter brought our soup and a long thin crusty roll I addressed him in French. As he shook his head, looked apologetic, and answered me in broad Scots, Jean burst out laughing too.

  “What were you saying to that poor boy?” she asked when he had gone.

  “Something he was too young to understand.” I leaned across the table. “I shall tell you later.”

  We began our soup, which was delicious, filled with thin slices of crisp onion and heaped with grated cheese. In the elation which possessed us we were lifted high above ourselves, buoyant on the crest of our success. The waiter, now our friend, brought, with an air, the carafe of red wine which was included with the table d’hôte. Tremulous with excitement, my heart singing with happiness, I poured out two glasses of this simple vintage which was still foaming from the cask.

  “Let’s drink to our success.”

  Her gaze wavered slightly, but only for an instant for, as though carried away by a consciousness of the occasion, she took first a sip, then finished the glass.

  “Not bad.” I nodded approvingly. “When in Paris do as the Parisians. Besides … remember that you are now a stout, though still attractive, middle-aged woman who has had a hard day chasing agglutinins at the Sorbonne. As Saint Paul suggested, you need a little wine for your stomach’s sake.”

  She gazed at me reprovingly then, unexpectedly, her composure gave way, she smiled, and a moment later was again dissolved in laughter, a gay and playful laughter which sprang from nothing but the sweet exhilaration of her mood.

  “Oh, Robert, you shouldn’t …” she cried, wiping her eyes. “ We’re behaving like children.”

  From behind the cash register Madame Brossard, a stately figure, was regarding us with a benign and sympathetic eye.

  When the escalope arrived I refilled our glasses and, irresistibly drawn, we began to discuss our adventures during the past three months, smiling now at the difficulties we had encountered, savouring again in every detail the splendour of achievement.

  “Do you remember that day you lost your temper, Robert?”

  “I deny, emphatically, that I ever lost my temper.”

  “Oh yes, you did. When I broke the centrifuge. You nearly boxed my ears!”

  “Well, now I wish I had.”

  It was enough to set us off again.

  As I bent towards my companion, now so bright and animated, with flushed cheeks and mischievous, laughing eyes, I saw more clearly than ever before the dual nature of her personality. The grave, devoted little Calvinist was gone, and from beneath that imprint of her upbringing, there emerged a warm and vivid creature who, having taken off her hat, leaned her elbows intimately on the table and surrendered unconsciously to her instincts as a woman.

  A ground-swell of emotion caught me. As a vision of our relationship flashed before me I felt suddenly that I could not continue to endure the alternate blows of suffering and joy which had composed it. I had kept my word in this strange comradeship; yet, without my knowing it, the deep and painful charm of her presence in the laboratory had worn me down. Freed from the obsession of my work, I could no longer suppress the natural instinct of my heart. I swallowed the last of my coffee to get rid of the sudden choking in my throat.

  “Jean,” I said. “ You’ve helped me so much in these last three months. Why?”

  “Sense of duty.” She smiled.

  “Then you haven’t minded working with me?”

  “I’ve loved it!” she exclaimed, and added absently, “The experience will be so useful to me when I get to the settlement at Kumasi.”

  The remark, uttered without thinking, sent a knife into my heart.

  “Don’t,” I said. “For God’s sake … not to-night.”

  “No, Robert.” She gave me a swift and swimming glance.

  An immediate silence followed. As though fearful of having betrayed herself, she let her eyes fall.

  This evening there was about her a warmth, a quick and vivid pulse of life which made me catch my breath. Overcome with love, I fought to preserve my sanity against this mounting enchantment. It was useless, everything yielded to the wild sweetness of this hour. In my side, fostered by our nearness, there came an actual pain, an inexpressible longing which found a momentary ease when, involuntarily, I took her hand and pressed it tight in mine.

  She made no effort to withdraw her imprisoned fingers but, as though she too were striving to be calm, at last she sighed:

  “I suppose we ought to go.”

  During these silent moments which brought us closer than ever before, which seemed formed of the longing that swirled between us, I had quite lost count of time. Now, as I summoned the waiter for the bill while Jean, with a subdued air, slowly put on her hat, I caught sight of the clock above the cash desk. It showed five minutes past eight.

  “It’s later than I thought,” I said, in a low voice. “I’m afraid you’ve missed your train.”

  She turned to glance at the clock, then looked back at me. The warmth in her cheeks had deepened, her eyes were bright as stars, so bright that once again, she lowered her lashes in defence.

  “I don’t suppose it matters.”

  “When is the next?”

  “Not until quarter to ten.”

  There was a pause. She had begun, almost agitatedly, to crumble a fragment of roll. The nervous movement of her fingers, her downcast gaze, the quick pulse in her throat, made my heart miss a beat.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  I paid the bill and we went outside. The street was quiet, the sky overcast, the night air warm and still.

  “What shall we do?” I only spoke for the sake of something to say. “Take a stroll in the Gardens?”

  “Don’t they close the gates at eight?”

  “I forgot,” I muttered. “ I think they do.”

  We were standing under a street lamp in the deserted thoroughfare. A wave of recklessness passed over me. She was near to me, so near that all my resolutions were swept away in a wild torrent of desire. My heart was beating like mad. I could scarcely speak.

  “Let’s go back to the laboratory for a bit.”

  As we started to walk along the pavement I took her arm. We did not say a word. When we reached the Hall I opened the door of our work-room with my key. It was dark, but from the old gas-lamp in the courtyard there stole in a faint glimmer, which cast a lustre that was like a spell, both fatal and predestined, upon her upturned face. Her eyes were closed, the lids translucent, expectant and fore doomed. I felt her sweet breath upon my cheek. As though to still the trembling of her limbs, she clung to me, then we were in each other’s arms, upon the little couch.

  In the timeless and enchanted twilight, a warm numbness drugged my limbs, a stupor of happiness. The past was forgotten, the future extinguished, this moment now was everything. Her head lay back, exposing the thin arch of her thr
oat, the tender hollow of her neck. Her eyes still were shuttered against the unearthly light, and her pale brow, gathered in a strange deep furrow, was drawn as though by pain. Then, through her quick and troubled breathing, and the rapid pulsing of her heart, which fluttered against her thin, opened blouse, like a frightened bird, I felt the upward rushing of all her being, uniting, soaring into oblivion with mine. Nothing, no tie of heaven or earth, restrained that ecstasy of flight.

  Chapter Seven

  On Monday afternoon, four days later, Professor Challis came to see me. He had been away for the week-end at a hydropathic in Bute which he frequented occasionally to have treatment for the arthritis which was slowly crippling him. Finding my message upon his return, he had taken a cab from his house to the laboratory.

  When he had shaken hands he laid down his hat and, flicking the raindrops from his umbrella, gazed round the room with an air of mild inquiry.

  “Where is our young friend?”

  Although I had been prepared for the question, to my annoyance, I coloured slightly.

  “She isn’t here to-day.”

  Standing warming his finger tips at the little charcoal stove, he gave me an oddly searching glance, as though surprised to find me here, alone, with a silent air.

  “So everything has turned out well.”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head.

  “You are suffering from reaction, Robert. You are tired. Sit still and let me look for myself.”

  A few minutes later he turned to the bench and for the next half-hour occupied himself intently with the report I had prepared, making calculations in pencil upon the margin. Then, with great deliberation, he examined all my cultures. He stooped for a long time over the microscope, and finally slewed round stiffly upon the stool. He looked old, worn, and a little wistful, his cheeks more hollow than before. I saw that he was considerably affected.

  “Robert …” He said, at last, with his mild eyes fixed on mine: “You must not become proud. Never. Science has no place for vanity or self-seeking. And after all, you are only at the beginning of your career. You have been lucky. Also, you have much to learn—everything, in fact. But what you have done warms my old heart.”

  After a moment of complete silence he went on:

  “Of course, you could announce your discovery immediately. It is without doubt of immense importance. But I agree that it would be better, more perfect and scientific, to take a further three months and finish the work completely by producing a vaccine therapeutically effective in controlling this new disease. Is that what you wish to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you shall do it. But”—his eyes swept the room—“you cannot do it here.”

  He acknowledged my look of surprise with a slow nod of his head.

  “It would be quite impossible to effect the final highly technical stages of your research under these makeshift conditions. I make no apologies, Robert; this was the best I could do for you at the time. But now I must do better. You require, absolutely, a modern, well-equipped laboratory. And there are three possible ways in which you can secure it.”

  Despite my suffering, I was listening to him with attention.

  “In the first place, you can go to one of the large manufacturing drug houses, such as Wilson’s or Harlett’s. In the face of your present findings, either would be delighted, unquestionably, to offer you all their resources, a highly trained staff, and a large salary to produce your vaccine for sale, commercially, in bulk.” He added: “That would be very profitable for everyone concerned.”

  He waited. Then, as I continued to gaze at him in silence, without attempting to answer, a faint smile irradiated his lined features.

  “So far so good,” he said. “ The second possibility: To go to Professor Usher.”

  This time I started involuntarily, but before I could speak he made a gesture of restraint with his thin brown hand.

  “The good Professor is beginning to regret that he let you go.” He gave a short chuckle, amused, rather than malicious. “From time to time I have caused him some curiosity … not to say chagrin … by speaking about your work.”

  “No,” I said, in a low tone, and all the secret unrest now within me found expression in that single word.

  “Why not? I assure you he would welcome you back to the Department.”

  “He put me out of the Department,” I answered, from between my teeth. “I must go through with this on my own.”

  “Very well,” Challis said. “There remains … Eastershaws.”

  Forgetting momentarily the turmoil seething in my breast, I stared at him in utter amazement. Was he joking? Or had he suddenly gone out of his wits?

  “You know that place?” he inquired.

  “Of course.”

  Again he gave me his faint, grave smile.

  “I am quite serious, Robert. They have a vacancy there for a resident medical officer. I have made representations to the superintendent, Dr. Goodall, and he is agreeable that you have the position for the next few months. It is an old institution, you understand, but they have made a recent addition, a complete modern laboratory, in which you would have full and unrestricted opportunity to finish, absolutely, your work.”

  There was a pause. I looked round the improvised test-room which I had at first despised, but to which I had now, in every way, become attached. Another change, I thought: why can’t I for once be left alone?

  “I’d rather not leave,” I said slowly. “ I’m used to it here.”

  He shook his head.

  “It is a necessity, my boy, which was bound to arise. Not even Pasteur could produce a vaccine with this equipage. That is why I have all along been seeking another opening for you.” As I still hesitated he asked mildly: “Perhaps you object to living in such a place as Eastershaws?”

  “No,” I answered, after a moment. “I suppose I could stick it.”

  “Then think it over, and let me know to-night. Without question, it is a laboratory of which one dreams.” He stood up, patted me on the shoulder and pulled on his light-coloured gloves. “Now I must go. Again my congratulations.” He took his umbrella, glanced at me over his shoulder. “And do not forget to give my regards to Dr. Law.”

  I made an indistinct answer as he went out.

  I could not bring myself to tell him that I had not seen Jean for the past four days, that in my pocket there burned a letter from her, a pitiful tear-stained note, filled with self-reproaches, with the deepest, the most desperate anguish of remorse.

  Oh, God, what a fool I had been. In the warm delirium of those irretrievable moments I had not paused to consider how deeply the sense of wrong-doing would wound her artless and unaffected soul. I could still see her, as she left me, late that night, her face white and piteous, her lips quivering, and in her eyes the look of a wounded bird, a look so hurt, so mournful and despairing, it almost rent my heart.

  Goodness was something one never thought of, at which perhaps one laughed. Yet it was the very substance of her being.

  Once, when a child, I had broken a fragile vase of crystal. The same cruel sense of unconsolable bereavement occasioned by those scattered fragments was striking at me now. There were others, I knew, who went through “ an affair” with apparent carelessness. Yet we, alas! unlike in every way, had this in common: we could not lay upon our wounds the salve of indifference. A phrase from her letter kept grinding through my brain.

  The mistake we made was in thinking we could be together. We must never make that mistake again. I cannot, must not see you again.

  A deep sigh broke from me. I felt, desolately, as though I had cast away, and lost for ever, a pearl of great price. Weary and unsettled, filled with a sort of burning sickness, I blamed myself bitterly. Yet we had crossed this invisible brink less because we were together than because of those forces which would have drawn us apart. And now? The end of enchantment … death of the heart? No. I longed for her more than ever, desired her with all my s
oul.

  Abruptly, I stood up. Although since I had received her letter I had thought of nothing else, I made a great effort now to shake off my despondency and to fix my mind on this offer which had come from Challis. My mood was not attuned to the idea, yet I had to admit the justice of his arguments. And after, in restless brooding fashion, I had paced the floor for perhaps an hour, I decided to accept. As it was nearly half-past five. I locked up and set out for the surgery in the Trongate.

  The waiting-room, as usual, was hot and overcrowded, filled with a prevailing odour, with hushed murmurs, coughs, heavy breathing and the shuffling of feet on the bare floor. Condensed moisture was running down the chocolate-coloured walls. As I took my place at the desk, Dr. Mathers came bustling in with a slip of paper in his hand.

  “Full house to-night, Shannon. Business is good. I wonder if you’d mind doing these calls for me when you get through.”

  There were five visits written on the slip he handed me. Gradually, in an off-hand, genial manner, he had been increasing my work until now I was doing far more than that originally agreed between us.

  “All right,” I said, in a flat voice. “But I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m afraid I’m leaving.”

  According to his custom, he had begun to transfer handfuls of cash, the fees taken during his afternoon round, from his trouser pockets into the chamois bag, but now he stopped abruptly and looked at me sharply. After a moment he began to laugh.

  “I wondered how long it would be before you tried to hold me up for a rise. How much do you want?”

  “Nothing.”