Shannon's Way

by A. J. Cronin

  Outside it was raining, a heavy shower which darkened the sky and cast a stormy shadow over all the grounds. I mounted the staircase slowly to my room. Then, as I entered, I perceived in the indistinct light that someone was seated on the sofa, at the far side of the fire. I switched on the shaded lamp above the bookcase and, with dull surprise, I saw that my visitor was Adrian Lomax.

  Without altering his position, he met my long, heavy stare in a manner which at least simulated his habitual and superior calm, but which, at the same time, betrayed, underneath, uncertainty as to how I might receive him.

  “Lomax,” I said, finally, as from a distance. “ You’re the last person I expected here.”

  “You don’t seem very glad to see me.”

  I made no answer. There was a pause. He had not changed much, indeed, scarcely at all. I had imagined that, after what he had come through, he must be broken up by a sense of responsibility and guilt. On the contrary, he was still as well turned out as ever, paler perhaps, with a more listless droop to his lips, but perfectly composed, and prepared to defend himself.

  “You didn’t know I was back?”

  “No.”

  Although actually there had been little scandal, I saw that his pride had driven him to return. He lit a cigarette, with an attempt at his former ease. Yes, he was embarrassed and was trying, with this air of bravura, to hide it.

  “I suppose you have your knife in me. But I wasn’t altogether to blame.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Far from it. From the very beginning it was Muriel who ran after me. Wouldn’t leave me alone. Oh, I dare say it was foolish of me, but I just couldn’t disentangle myself.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I offered to marry her. I wanted to do the right thing. But we had a filthy row. She’s gone back to her people. I’m not sorry. She would have been a damned nuisance.”

  “You’ve got out of it very well. Better than Spence.”

  “You know it was an accident. It was a foggy night. He missed his footing on the platform. It all came out at the inquest.”

  “For God’s sake don’t excuse yourself. You sound as though you felt you’d pushed him over.”

  The colour went out of his face.

  “Don’t you think that was a little uncalled-for? At any rate, I mean to show that I’m not the rotter they say I am. I’m going to work, really work at the Department, do something this time that’ll make them all sit up.”

  He gave the impression that he had been the victim of uncontrollable circumstances, and that the future would completely justify him. I knew that he would never achieve anything, that he was, under his air of brilliant superiority weak, vapid, and self-indulgent. It made me uneasy to have him in the room. I stood up and poked the fire, hoping that he would take the hint and go.

  But he did not go. He kept looking at me in a curious manner.

  “You’ve been doing good work lately.”

  Standing away from him, I made a gesture of dissent. “ They were very excited about it at the Department.”

  I raised my eyes slowly. Through the mists which encircled me his use of the past tense struck me as strange. A moment’s silence followed.

  He sat up and leaned towards me, that odd, thin smile of condolence more apparent upon his lips.

  “Usher has aked me to come and see you, Shannon … to break the news. You’ve been forestalled. Someone has published your work before you.”

  I stared at him, wondering, dully, what he was driving at; then suddenly I started.

  “What do you mean?” I could scarcely bring out the words. “ I checked all the literature before I began. There was nothing.”

  “No, Shannon, there wasn’t. But now there is. A research worker in America, a woman doctor named Evans, has just come out in this month’s Medical Review with a full report of her experiments. Two years’ work. Her conclusions are practically the same as yours. She has isolated the bacillus, shown the world-wide incidence of the disease—the figures are amazingly large—identified the infection in dairy herds, in fact, everything.”

  A long silence. The room was spinning round me.

  Lomax was speaking again, with too obvious tact.

  “It was Smith who told us first. He’s been following Dr. Evans’s work for months. He actually had an advance proof of the report in his possession. He brought it into the Department yesterday.”

  “I see.”

  My lips were stiff and cold, I felt as though I had been turned to stone. Eighteen months of unsparing effort, of feverish application by day and night, in the face of every difficulty, all wasted, and of no avail. If the results were already before the scientific world, proved and published, I should get no credit now for what I had done, the problems I had solved at such cost to myself. It had happened before, of course; as though by some strange telepathy, a current passed between two workers, continents apart, starting them off, unknown to each other, upon the same quest. And doubtless it would happen again. Yet this did not ease the frightful pang of finding another at the goal before me, nor dull the deathly bitterness of defeat.

  “It’s a damned shame.” Lomax spoke without looking at me. “I needn’t say how sorry I am.”

  His pretence of pity was more crushing than indifference. He got up from his chair.

  “By the by, in case you wanted to read it, I brought along the article.” He took some printed sheets from his coat pocket and laid them upon the table. “Now I’ll push off. Good night, Shannon.”

  “Good night.”

  When he had gone I sat staring at nothing, in a hollow, hopeless calm. Then, with a deep sigh, which seemed to spring from the bottom of my heart, I rose, went over to the table, and taking up the report, steeled myself to read it.

  As Lomax had said, it was a masterly investigation of the disease, later to be named brucellosis, and one that came to be regarded as a monumental work. When I had twice gone over it carefully I had to acknowledge, with a swift surge of jealousy, that Dr. Evans was a brilliant and resourceful scientist, whose work was perhaps better than mine.

  I folded the sheets with intense calm, and stood up. This new calm, false though it might be, was like a sudden intoxication filling my head with a sense of power and light. It was now three o’clock and time for me to ring Dalnair again. Without a tremor, I went towards the telephone. But before I could take up the instrument there came a knock upon the door, the maid entered and handed me a telegram. I opened it with steady fingers.

  “ACCEPT MY SINCERE SYMPATHY PUBLICATION IN REVIEW WHICH IN NO WAY DETRACTS INTRINSIC MERIT YOUR EFFORT. AM STILL UNABLE TO TRAVEL BUT HOPE SEE YOU SOON TO ARRANGE FUTURE WORK. REGARDS. WILFRED CHALLIS.”

  If reaction had been delayed, now it fell upon me with an added force. I had leaned on Challis, forgetful of his years and gathering enfeeblement. This message of condolence struck away the last support, and as I gazed at the blurred words I felt, suddenly, a queer snap behind my brow, as though an elastic band, stretched too tight, had finally yielded to the strain. At the same instant my nerves escaped me, the world spun round, and the splendid humour of the whole thing came before me in a flash. I smiled, at first vaguely, yet after a moment with growing conviction, until, presently, I began to laugh … at myself, my present situation—then, like a quick-change artist upon whom is forced the necessity of another part, I suddenly became sedate, serious and resourceful.

  With an air of purpose, I looked at my watch, forgetful that I had done so a few minutes before. It was only a quarter after three, which reassured me, for I suddenly was filled by a pressing desire to be busy. All sense of disappointment was gone and, through the general insensibility which affected me, I was conscious of a vague pervading comfort, a recognition that what occurred outside, at the Department or Dalnair, was of slight importance in the general movement of my life. Was I not safe here, well-housed and fed, insulated from the shocks and sadness of the outer world, in this splendid, this sheltered, retreat
? For that matter, if it pleased me, I need never leave it.

  Reinforced by this thought, I set out briskly to the West Wing, there, on Maitland’s day off, it was my duty to make the afternoon round. Lately I had been remiss in this obligation, perhaps I had not been pulling my full weight in the Place. That would not do at all, it was not fair to Dr. Goodall, not up to Eastershaws standards. Reproachfully, I told myself I must make fitting reparation. There were many things I could attend to before the day was over.

  In the West vestibule I joined Sister Shadd and made a thorough round of the six galleries. I did not rush or scamp the work, but was painstaking and solicitous. The quiet of the galleries was strangely soothing, and I talked at length with several of the inmates, even drank a cup of tea with the Duchess in her own room, a lofty apartment with faded green curtains, a bearskin hearthrug and an ormolu chandelier. She wore a mauve velvet dress with a great deal of ornate jewellery and several necklaces of freshly strung melon seeds. At first she kept her beady eyes appraisingly upon me, but as I exerted myself to please she gradually unbent and, when I rose to go, extended to me, coquettishly, her parchment-yellow hand.

  Mildly amused by my success, I turned to Shadd as we stood together at the outer door.

  “Remarkable, Sister, isn’t it … how the Duchess, despite her extravagances, epitomizes certain phenomena observable amongst your ladies here.”

  “Most remarkable.” All through my visit she had been constrained and silent. Now, she gave me a peculiar, sharply disapproving look.

  “I mean,” I smiled, “ they’re all interested in dress. Even the oldest of them keeps trying to come out with something new, adding a ribbon here, altering a flounce there, in an effort to outvie the rest. Often their creations are grotesque, yet if they’re sufficiently different they immediately become the vogue. Of course, the Duchess’s large wardrobe enables her to reign supreme.”

  Sister Shadd, still staring at me, opened her lips, then compressed them tightly in acute displeasure.

  “Their attitude towards the opposite sex is interesting also …” I went on. “Take, for example, the passive virgins who blench at the very sight of man … and those others, of a mild romantic strain, who give coy glances while walking in the grounds, towards the male of their fancy … And those desperate creatures who alternately beseech and complain of ravishment by lightning, thunderbolt, electric waves, solar and lunar rays, or even through the supernatural visitation of Goodall himself!”

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Shadd cut in abruptly. “Miss Indre wants me. I have to go now.” As she went off, her brow like thunder, she added, “Really, you surprise me. Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit?”

  So she thought I had been drinking, confound her. Philosophy was wasted on her, anyhow. I resented her departure, yet refused, positively, to permit it to upset me. I turned with renewed briskness, and made my way to the dispensary.

  The stock solutions had got very low. It took a full hour’s work to replenish them. As I measured the crystals of chloral hydrate and shook them into the blue glass bottles I found myself humming—Palfrey’s favourite phrase from Carmen … by poor, unhappy Bizet. Very pleasant and agreeable. If my head had not felt so numb, as though beaten by hammers, I should have been thoroughly at ease.

  Suddenly the house phone rang. The sharp, shrill note gave me an agonizing start. Yet I was calm as I picked up the receiver.

  “Dr. Shannon?” It was the porter at the lodge.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been trying to find you all over the building. There’s a young fellow here who wants to speak with you.”

  “With me?” I stared blankly at the wall in front of me. “What’s his name?”

  “Law … he says, Luke Law.”

  Oh, of course, I remembered Luke, my young friend with the motor-cycle. What did he want at this time of day?

  I’d barely time to begin humming again when Luke’s voice came through, eager and excited, the words tumbling over one another.

  “Is that you, Robert … come down at once … I want to see you.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing … everything … it’s good news … Jean’s much better.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She’s out of danger. At two o’clock this afternoon she had her crisis. She’s conscious now. She’s talked to us. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Quite so. I’m delighted.”

  “I just had to get on the bike and come flying over to tell you. Come down to the lodge. I want to see you.”

  “Sorry, dear boy.” My tone conveyed the polite regret of one preoccupied by many affairs. “I couldn’t possibly manage it at the moment.”

  “What!” A pause. “After me coming all that way …? Robert … Hello … hello …”

  Although, remotely, it hurt me to do so, I cut him off, hooking up the receiver with a quiet smile. Much as I liked Luke, I had no time to waste on futile errands! Naturally, it was quite a relief that Miss Law should be better, no doubt very gratifying to her relatives. A quiet sort of girl, she was, with brown eyes and hair. I recollected the song … Jeannie with the light brown hair … Charming melody, I must mention it to Palfrey. I remembered her, vaguely, as a student in my class, clever, but something of a nuisance. Of course, I bore her no ill-feeling, not the slightest ill-will in the world.

  Bizet, again … poor, unhappy Bizet … I try not to own that I tremble … I finished my stock solutions, tidied up the dispensary, and again, briskly, with unclear gaze, deciphered the time on my watch.

  Seven o’clock. I had always disliked duty in the refectory, but now, despite the pain in my head, it seemed a pleasing, a logical necessity.

  Supper had begun when I entered the dining-hall, and the waitresses were bringing tray after tray of food to the long tables, where, amidst a great clatter of dishes, scraping of chairs, and chatter of voices, everyone had begun to eat.

  I stood for a moment; then, not mounting the dais, strolled up and down, watching with benign, possessive interest. The rising clouds of steam and the spicy smell of food made me feel my lack of sleep, and as my thoughts drifted, the scene grew rich and warm, feudal, almost, in its trenchered assembly of hind and gentle, its constant flow of servitors, like a canvas by Breughel in its life and colour, its bizarre diversity of human physiognomy, its abundance, movement, and high hubbub.…

  Ah, I was back in the subway again, returning, with measured paces to my room. Outside the pantry of Balaclava the night attendant had come on duty and was mixing the evening cocoa.

  “I brought up the mail, Doctor. There’s a letter for you.”

  “Thank you, my good fellow.”

  In passing, I took the stiff envelope, stamped with the University crest. My smile was fixed now, as though printed upon my face, a mask for all the whirling chaos that went on behind. The heavy sledges struck harder on my skull, a sudden sweat broke over me, and in a transient, haggard gleam I knew that I was ill. But swiftly, the light went out, and eager to go on, aware of work waiting to be done, smiling more fixedly, I entered the vestibule and opened the letter.

  Department of Pathology, University of Winton. From Usher, Professor Usher, head of that most excellent foundation. A nice letter, yes, indeed, a charming letter. The good Professor regretted, in fact, he deeply regretted that, under the circumstances, it was impossible to hold out any hope of the new appointment. If only the results had been published sooner. The delay was tragic, the disappointment intense, and his feelings quite understandable. There was a postscript over the page. Ah, yes, the dinner party was off too. Most unfortunate, when the invitation for Monday was extended, a previous engagement had been overlooked. Profuse excuses. Some other time. Why, yes, of course, it was all perfectly agreeable and correct. Come back to your bench in the laboratory. Work under me in a less intractable spirit with proper co-operation and supervision. A generous offer. But thank you, no.

  Under the high light in the vesti
bule, beside the statue of Demeter and the tall buhl cabinets, I tore the letter carefully into four pieces. I wanted suddenly to shout out loud. But my lips were too stiff, as though glued together, and the pain in my head had risen, swelled in a crescendo of sound and shivering vibrations, as though someone were smashing wood with blunt axes on the back of my neck. In spite of this, I saw at last, with my wavering and dreamlike gaze, what I wanted to do. Essential and important. On, on … don’t stop … not an instant to be lost.

  I went outside and hastened towards the laboratory. It was quite dark now and a wind had risen, swaying the trees and bushes, sending strange whisperings across the night. A leaf, brushing my cheek like ghostly fingers, made me spur my flagging footsteps to a stumbling run.

  Now I was in the laboratory. Surveying the scene of my labours with an expressionless yet tortured eye, I advanced, independent of my own volition, and opened up the storage cabinet. The round, cotton-wool-stoppered flasks stood there in a row, opalescent and glittering, like luminous suns. Dazzled, I faltered and hung back. But that weakness was momentary. Collecting myself, I took up the precious flasks and smashed them quietly and carefully in the porcelain sink. I turned on both taps. When the last drop of fluid had run through the drain I bunched together the sheaf of papers on the bench, those pages filled with my calculations and conclusions, the toil of many midnight hours. Again, quietly, carefully, I struck a match to set a light to them, to hold them, burning, over the sink until the last charred fragment should be destroyed. But before I could do so the sound of quick footsteps made me turn round, slowly, balancing the insufferable burden of my head. Maitland stood in the doorway.

  “Don’t, Shannon,” she cried, and hurried forward.

  The match scorched my fingers and went out. The hammer strokes rang harder in my brain. I put both hands to my brow. Then everything gave way.

  Chapter Ten

  The October afternoon was still and golden, filled with tranquil space. In my old room at Lomond View the slanting daylight made a bright patch upon the wallpaper, brought to life from beneath the yellow varnish its faded roses, glinted also, upon the brass end knobs of my bed, dented years ago, when I had tried to straighten a crooked skate. Through the window I could see the early tinge of autumn upon the crimson curled leaves of the beech across the road, and in the distance, above the violet haze, the blue humped shoulders of Ben Lomond. As a boy, in this same room, I had often gazed with ardour upon that far-off prospect of the mountain. I gazed upon it now.