by A. J. Cronin
“Come off it, Shannon. You’re not a bad chap. I’ll give you another guinea a week.”
“No,” I said, with averted eyes.
“Two guineas, then, damn it.”
When I shook my head his expression altered and became serious. With his foot he closed the door in the face of the waiting patients, sat down on the edge of the desk and considered me.
“This is a fine thing to land on a man when he’s going off for the evening. I’m taking the missus and Ada to Hengler’s Circus. You’ve no idea how much they liked you when they met you the other day. Now tell me. How much do you really want?”
I had to hold myself in check. In my present state of mind, it revolted me, the manner in which he reduced everything to the common denominator of cash.
“Money has nothing to do with it.”
He did not believe me—impossible that I should not care for the precious stuff. He bit his thumbnail, eyeing me calculatingly, all the time.
“Look here, Shannon.” It came with a rush. “ I’ve taken to you. We’ve all taken to you. I don’t say you’re much of a doctor yet, but I could teach you. The thing is, you’re dependable. You’re honest. You don’t let the half-crowns stick to your fingers. I’ve been meaning to put this proposition up to you for a long time. Now listen. Come in with me here, as a full-time assistant, at two-fifty, no, say even three hundred a year. If you do well, in twelve months, I’ll take you into partnership, and let you pay out of receipts. Can you beat that? This practice is a regular gold-mine. We’ll work it together. Why, if Ada and you was to hit it off, we might make it a family business, and in the fullness of time you would succeed me.”
“Oh, go to hell.” My nerves suddenly gave way. “I don’t want to succeed you. I don’t want your money. Or anything else.”
“Oh, come now,” he muttered, quite taken aback. “ I gave you a job, didn’t I, when you were down and out?”
“Yes,” I almost shouted. “And I’m grateful for it. That’s why I’ve let you sweat me to death these past three months. But now I’ve had enough. I’m sick of picking half-crowns out of one-room tenements to shove in your shammy bag. Keep your gold-mine to yourself. I want no part of it.”
“It’s not possible,” he said, staring at me. “I make you a gilt-edged offer. And you throw it in my teeth. You’re crazy.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll leave it that way. Now let me get on with the work.”
I banged the admission bell on the desk and straight away the first patient, an old man, came shambling in. As I began to examine him Dr. Mathers continued to stare at me with his hat pushed back on his head, in complete bewilderment. Finally, he took up the bag of money, locked it securely in the safe and, without another word, went out. I regretted my outburst immediately he had gone. He was not a bad-hearted fellow, and he gave good service to the district, but his relentless quest of a full money-bag was more than I could bear.
It was past eleven o’clock when I finished the last call. I made my way towards the Globe, tired out, yet knowing that I would not sleep. Now that I was no longer occupied, the pain returned and, like a sharp-toothed animal, started gnawing at my breast. Yet, as I tramped through the damp streets, I sneered at my suffering. What a model I would make for the gay, successful Lothario! Young Romeo … Casanova … these were the names I threw at myself with bitter self-derision.
When I reached my hotel room I tore off my clothing and flung myself into bed. I lay there in the darkness, stiffly, with tight-shut eyes. But as I tried to get to sleep these words branded themselves upon my brain: I must never see you again … never … never.
Book Four
Chapter One
A week later, towards nine o’clock in the evening, I was carrying my bag along a deserted road, straining my eyes in the misty darkness for the first sight of Eastershaws Place, still quite invisible in the illusory emptiness of the night. I had missed my train at Winton and, arriving an hour late at Shaws Junction, which lies in the lonely, wooded pastures of Lothian, some forty miles from the city, I found no conveyance awaiting me. At the village station they had given me directions, yet in that deserted countryside I would almost certainly have lost my way but for striking a high and solid wall, topped by a row of iron spikes. I had followed this for the past ten minutes and now, with a sudden sweep, it brought me to the entrance gates, sentinelled by a turreted stone lodge with a lantern in the window.
Setting down my bag, I knocked upon the heavy, nail-studded door which gave access to the lodge. After a short interval someone plucked the lantern from the window and came out of the lodge, an unseen figure peering from behind the gate.
“Who is it?”
I gave him my name, adding:
“You’re expecting me, I think.”
“I know nothing about you. Where’s your pass?”
“I haven’t a pass. But surely they told you I was coming?”
“They did not.”
The gateman appeared on the point of returning to the lodge and of leaving me in the outer darkness. But at that moment, another lantern swung into being, and a feminine voice, high, rather pretentiously cultured, and with an Irish accent, came from behind the porter.
“Is that Dr. Shannon? All right, Gunn, open up and let him in.”
Not without some grumbling from the lodge-keeper, the wrought-iron gates swung open. I picked up my bag and stepped forward.
“You’ve got your gear with you. Good. Come along.”
My conductress, so far as could be made out by the sickly lantern light, was a woman of about forty, bareheaded, wearing blue glasses and a loose ulster of rough tweed. As the gates clanged shut, while we set off up a long, dark drive, she introduced herself.
“I’m Dr. Maitland, in charge of the Women’s Side.” I brushed against a clump of shrubs, and almost missed my footing. “Dr. Palfrey would have met you … he looks after Men’s East and West, but it’s his half-day and he has gone to Winton.” After a due pause, she added: “That’s our main building straight ahead.”
I raised my eyes. Some distance in front, upon a slight eminence, a castellated shape was dimly visible, a honeycomb of lights which swam hazily in the moist blackness. The mist subdued these lights, gave to them a quality luminous and elusive. As I watched, striding on, some lights went out and others came to being, which made the constellation dance and flutter.
The end of the avenue brought us at last under the high façade, and Maitland advanced to a stone portico illuminated by an overhead lamp in a metal grille. Pausing, key in hand, at the top of the wide and shallow granite steps, she explained:
“This is Gentlemen’s South. Your quarters are here.”
Within, the hall was large and lofty, tessellated in black and white marble, with an alabaster statue at the end and three dark enormous landscapes, in oils and heavy gilt, upon the walls. Two buhl cabinets flanked by green-and-gold state chairs completed a picture which stupefied the senses by its rococo splendour.
“I hope you approve.” Maitland seemed to be hiding a smile. “Entrance to Valhalla, eh?”
Without waiting for an answer, she continued up the broad carpeted staircase, to the third floor. Here, using, with remarkable dexterity, the same key, which I now saw to be attached to her waist by a thin steel cable, she threw open the door of a self-contained suite.
“Here we are. And you know the worst. Bedroom, sitting-room and bath. Complete Victorian-Gothic.”
Despite her cool amusement, the rooms, although somewhat archaic in their style of furnishing, were unusually comfortable. In the sitting-room, where the chenille curtains were already drawn, a coal fire threw a warm glow upon the brass fender and red pile carpet. There were two easy chairs and a sofa, a reading lamp beside a secretaire which held shelves of leather-bound books. The bedroom beyond showed a snug mahogany bed, the tub in the bathroom was of thick rounded porcelain. I was tempted, with a stab of bitterness, to tell my superior companion that, by contrast with t
he inadequacies I had experienced at the Globe, this was luxury.
“Want to unpack?” she asked, standing discreetly near the doorway. “ Or perhaps you’d like some supper sent up?”
“Yes, I would. If it isn’t too much trouble.”
I dropped my bag behind the sofa, and while she rang the bell beside the mantelpiece and ordered something for me, I had a better look at her. She was extremely plain, with a mottled, shiny pink complexion and drab-coloured hair untidily gathered into a knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were obviously weak, for even behind her violet lenses, the lids were visibly red and everted. As though deliberately to accentuate her lack of beauty, she was dowdily dressed, beneath her ulster, in a pink-striped flannel blouse and a baggy tweed skirt.
In five minutes a maidservant wearing a bulgy black uniform and starched white apron came in silently with the tray. She was short and stocky, almost a dwarf, with muscular black-stockinged calves and a grey, expressionless face.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Maitland said pleasantly. “That seems nice. By the by, this is Dr. Shannon. I know you’ll look after him well.”
The maid kept her eyes upon the carpet, with no relaxation of her drawn blankness. But suddenly she bobbed, an automatic little curtsy. Without speaking, she went out.
I followed her with my eyes, then turned to my companion in meaning interrogation.
“Yes.” Maitland nodded carelessly. She watched me with her challenging, half-mocking smile as I poured a cup of coffee and began to eat a sandwich.
“They do one rather well here. Miss Indre, who looks after the housekeeping, is most efficient. Incidentally, I’m not going to drag you round the staff for introductions. Falfrey is the man you’ll see most of; you breakfast with him at Men’s East every morning. Then there’s Dr. Goodall … our Chief … that was his house, with the red blinds, on the left of your entrance.”
“Oughtn’t I to report to him to-night?” I looked up.
“I’ll let him know you’re here,” Maitland answered.
“What are my duties?”
“Morning and evening rounds. Deputize for Palfrey on his day off and for me on mine. Official duty in the refectory. Occasional dispensary. Otherwise make yourself generally useful and agreeable to the good people of our little world. It’s quite simple. I understand you’re doing some research. You’ll have ample chance for that between times. Here’s your pass key.”
From her coat pocket she produced a key, similar to her own, with a length of fine steel chain attached.
“You’ll soon get the knack of it. I warn you that you’ll get nowhere without it in Eastershaws. Don’t lose it.”
There was no mockery in Maitland’s manner as she handed over the large, old-fashioned key, incredibly smooth and polished like silver from constant use.
“Well, I fancy that’s about everything. I’m off now to see the Duchess. She’s been quite obstreperous and needs a good lecture and a spot of heroin.”
When she had gone I finished my supper, which was very different from the usual hospital food, and altogether in keeping with this sumptuous establishment. I wondered if I should make a short tour of inspection with my new, indispensable key. As I came up the staircase with Maitland I had observed, on each landing, a mahogany door with faded lettering above, and thick glass panels through which there was a vista of a long gallery, faintly illumined, reaching out mysteriously to another door, a further gallery.
Despite Professor Challis’s recommendation, already borne out, that this place was one of the best of its kind, a vague disquiet troubled me. In the profession one always tends to look askance at asylum work as being just a little off the normal track. There are some splendid people in that service, of course, but on the other hand some who are distinctly queer—and who get queerer, as time goes on. It is an easy life and much medical flotsam drifts into it. Besides, once you’re in, somehow it is less easy to get out. Not to put too fine a point on it, some of these peculiar mental states are as “catching” as the infectious fevers.
However, I would have to take these chances. I got up abruptly. My bed had been neatly turned down, disclosing linen whiter and finer than any I had known. Retrieving my bag from behind the sofa, I unpacked, distributing my text-books, papers, and few poor belongings to the best advantage. The previous incumbent, name unknown, had not troubled to remove all his possessions, leaving a half-tin of cigarettes, an old red-striped bath robe, several novels, and a score of knick-knacks scattered in careless profusion.
I had only one small photograph, cheaply framed in passe-partout, a snapshot taken, one sunny day, on the moors behind Gowrie: a simple, open little face, in sepia, with wind-blown curls and a pointed, courageous chin … with dark eyes smiling … could one believe it … actually smiling with a strange awakened happiness. Were they smiling now? At least, as I placed it on the mantelpiece, beside the clock, I had no answering smile. Instead, I went over to the calendar on the secretaire and, with a queer, fixed expression, I put a mark opposite the date JULY 31.
At that moment, a quick knock upon the door caused me instinctively to start and, as I saw the tall and craggy figure upon the threshold, I realized that my visitor was the Superintendent.
“Good evening, Dr. Shannon.” His voice was mild and halting. “Welcome to Eastershaws.”
Long and loosely built, Dr. Goodall had a gaunt and sagging air, with iron-grey hair that needed cutting hanging untidily over his collar. His face was long and saturnine, with a biggish nose, undershot chin, and heavy-lidded, jaundiced eyes which, although aloof, were deeply human, warm with understanding, and holding strange hypnotic depths.
“I have heard much of you from Professor Challis.” He smiled meditatively. “It struck me you must be anxious to see our laboratory.”
With a gesture, he indicated that I should accompany him. We went downstairs and, by a tiled subway, lit by electric frosted domes, be led me a considerable distance under the main building, then up an incline to a small central courtyard, open to the stars, but surrounded by high walls. Silently unlocking another door, he switched on the light.
“Here we are then, Dr. Shannon. I trust you will find it satisfactory.”
I was speechless. I could only gaze in dumb wonder, completely overcome. Naturally I had hoped for a reasonably good work-room, although in the light of my past experience I had not dared to build upon it. But this exceeded even my wildest expectation. It was the finest small unit I had ever seen, better even than the Department laboratory, with rack upon rack of stoppered reagents, an Exton scopometer, conditioned hoods, electric grinder, and sterilizing vault—all fitted up, from the tiled walls to the last pipette, regardless of expense.
“I’m afraid,” Goodall commented with mild apology, “it hasn’t been used much. Some of the apparatus may need adjusting.”
“But it’s perfect.” My voice failed me.
He smiled faintly.
“It is a recent addition. And we had the best technical advice when we installed it. I am happy to think that it is to see some service.”
In that remote yet sympathetic manner he concluded:
“We shall expect great things of you. I am a lonely bachelor, Dr.
Shannon. Eastershaws is my child. If you can bring credit to it, you will make me happy.”
We retraced our steps. In the hallway, beneath the staircase which led to my rooms, he paused, that heavy-lidded gaze once again barely touching mine.
“I trust you are satisfied with what Eastershaws can do for you. Your quarters are quite comfortable?”
“More than comfortable.”
Another pause.
“Good night then, Dr. Shannon.”
“Good night.”
When he had gone, I entered my room, my head whirling from the impact of his strange, compelling personality.
I undressed slowly, took a hot bath, and got into bed. As I settled myself to sleep I heard, through the overhanging silence, a sudden, wailing cry. It
came like the wild and desolate hooting of an owl. I knew that it was not an owl, yet I did not care. I had no place now for dismay.
The cry was repeated, facing slowly into the outer darkness.
Chapter Two
Next morning, from the small iron balcony which spanned the coping of my window, I was able to view the impressive prospect of Eastershaws.
The mansion, built of grey granite, shimmering in the morning air, was in the baronial style, with castellated gables, and four massive turrets. In front lay a broad, balustrated terrace with a central fountain surrounded by ornamental designs in boxwood. A lawn, edged by rose beds, stretched beyond, merging to a stretch of playing sward, served by a little Tyrolean chalet. Avenues cut across the green acres, and the high stone wall which circled the wide estate gave to it an air of privacy, as though it were some privileged domain.
I shaved and dressed; then, as it struck eight o’clock, I set out to breakfast with Dr. Palfrey. In the sitting-room above Men’s East I discovered a short, plump, pink, baldish man of fifty seated at table eating vigorously behind the morning paper. Our eyes met.
“My dear fellow, come along in.” Still eating, he raised his hand in welcome, then completed the gesture by filling his mouth with buttered toast. “You’re Shannon, of course. I’m Palfrey—Edinburgh man, took my degree in ’99. Kedgeree, bacon and eggs over there … and here … the coffee. A lovely morning … blue sky and clear air … what we call a ‘ real Eastershaws day.’”
Palfrey had a warm, inoffensive, and slightly foolish air, his cheeks were smooth and chubby—with every movement they wobbled like jellies. He looked thoroughly washed and manicured, his cuffs were starched, gold pince-nez hung primly round his neck by an invisible cord. Across his pink scalp a few strands of pale hair, faintly speckled with ginger, were carefully arranged from the fringe behind his ears. He kept dabbing his rosy lips and white moustache with his napkin.
“I should have made your acquaintance last night. But I was out. Out in the outland, as we say. At the opera. Carmen. Ah! Wonderful, unhappy Bizet. To think that he died, broken-hearted, after the failure of the opening production at the Opéra Comique, without an inkling of the glorious success it would afterwards attain. I have been to that opera precisely thirty-seven times. I have heard Bressler-Gianoli, Lehmann, Mary Garden, Destinn … de Reszke as Don José, Amato as Escamillo. We are most fortunate to have a Carl Rosa season in Winton.” He hummed a few bars from the “ Toreador Song,” strumming with his fingers on the Herald before him. “In the critique here it says Scotti was in good voice. I should think so! Ah, that moment when Micaela, emblem of sweetness, enters the wild and rocky defile of the smugglers’ camp! ‘I try not to own that I tremble.’ Exquisite … melodious … superb! Are you interested in music?”