Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “That’s your doing,” said Henry smiling.

  “No, honestly. I don’t bother him about things like that. In fact I don’t bother him much about anything. I want him to develop naturally along his own lines.” She paused and then added, “If you can help Duggie I’m sure you won’t regret it.”

  Henry nodded. “That’s settled then,” he said. “We’ll decide later what’s to be done with Duggie.”

  Rhoda was delighted. Henry’s offer was a great relief to her mind, for she had been wondering about Duggie’s future. The time would come when she could teach him no more; he would outstrip her and what would happen then? She had even gone so far as to wonder whether she was doing right to encourage the boy and to set his feet upon a path which led to uncertainty and perhaps to disappointment. Now his future was assured. Henry would help him. He must go abroad of course; she was determined upon that.

  The picture was almost finished now, there was little more she could do to it. Rhoda knew it was good; it was one of the best things she had done. The strong face was so sad in repose but it glowed with the light of eager intelligence when its owner was interested … and somehow she had caught that glow. She laid down her brush and looked at the picture with the immense satisfaction of an artist in a job of work well done.

  But there was something else she meant to do (it was because of this that she had sent Duggie away) and although it was more difficult now after Henry’s generous offer she was determined to do it. She had waited until the picture was finished. Now was the time.

  “Henry,” said Rhoda. “There was a friend of yours here the other day. She recognised your portrait.”

  “A friend of mine?” enquired Henry with interest.

  “Yes, Nan Forrester.”

  “Oh!” said Henry.

  “I’m very fond of Nan,” Rhoda told him.

  “Yes — well — I’m not surprised,” said Henry in an uncertain voice. “I mean you and — and Nan are the sort of people who — who would naturally like one another.”

  “I thought the same about you and Nan,” said Rhoda frankly.

  There was a short but very uncomfortable silence.

  “Look here, I can’t help it!” exclaimed Rhoda. “I can’t sit back and not interfere with things — with people. I expect you’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry at all.”

  “You will be in a minute. I’m going to say something — unpardonable.”

  “You couldn’t,” he said in a low voice. “Nothing you could say would be unpardonable. Nothing you could say would be worse than what I’ve said to myself. I behaved abominably.”

  “But why?” cried Rhoda. “Why did you?”

  He rose and went over to the fire. “I can’t tell you,” he said unsteadily. “I can’t explain. I wanted to marry Nan and then I found it was impossible. I thought Nan would forget me. I hoped she had.”

  “She hasn’t.”

  He made a helpless gesture with his hands. It was a curiously foreign gesture, very expressive. Rhoda had seen his mother use her hands like that.

  “Mysteries are horrible,” Rhoda said. “I know I’m being awful and I’ve absolutely no excuse except that I — I like you both so much — so very much, Henry — but honestly, couldn’t you tell Nan?”

  He was looking down into the fire. “You think I should?” he asked.

  Rhoda hesitated and then she said slowly, “It’s difficult for me to answer because I don’t know what it is, and I’m not Nan, but if it were me I would rather know. I’d always rather know things even if they were — horrible.”

  “It isn’t horrible, just hopeless,” he said.

  There was a moment’s silence and then the door opened and James came in. He found an odd sort of atmosphere in the room, an atmosphere of tension, and he did not like it at all. His heart gave a curious twist which was actually physically painful. This fellow had no right to create an odd sort of atmosphere in Rhoda’s studio; he was too vital or something.

  “Hullo,” James said. “Am I interrupting the sitting?”

  “We’ve finished,” Rhoda replied. “We’re just going down to tea. Come and see how you like it.”

  He moved forward and looked at the picture. He could not say he liked it. All he could think of was that it was horribly like the fellow.

  “I think it’s simply marvellous,” Henry declared. “The parents will be delighted — more than delighted. Not only is it a magnificent piece of work but it’s a wonderful likeness. Yes, that’s the somewhat cadaverous countenance I see every morning in my shaving mirror.”

  “I’ve got a clever wife, haven’t I?” James said. The words were spoken in rather a nasty way and for a moment Rhoda felt chilled. This reaction was so different from his usual reaction to her work, which was one of unqualified admiration. Rhoda had got used to the unqualified admiration and was hurt when it was not forthcoming. What was the matter with James? Then suddenly she realised that the poor lamb was jealous! She was surprised and amused and glad and sorry all at the same time, but amusement predominated. If only James knew! The scene he had interrupted was far from a scene of amorous dalliance. To all intents and purposes she had told Henry he was a cad.

  “It’s much more than clever,” Henry was saying. “It’s much more than a picture of my face. It’s a picture of my personality.”

  That was exactly what James had thought and that was why he did not like it. Rhoda knew too much about the fellow’s personality.

  “I was interested,” said Rhoda as if that explained the whole thing. She slipped her hand through James’s arm and they went downstairs to tea.

  “I wish I could tell you how grateful I am,” declared Henry. “It’s so nice to be able to give the parents something they will really value. That sounds conceited but I know you understand.”

  “Of course,” said Rhoda.

  James’s arm was like a piece of wood. She wished Henry would go away so that she could comfort James and explain matters to him but she could hardly turn the man out. She would have to give him tea. Rhoda had a feeling that tea would be a less pleasant meal than usual.

  24

  IT WAS a very cold wet evening. The Forresters had had their supper and settled down beside their fire. Nan was knitting a pullover and Adam was reading The Lancet. Now and then Adam read out something that he thought would interest Nan and they talked about it. Although Nan knew little or nothing about medical matters she took an intelligent interest in Adam’s work; she realised that it helped him to talk to her about his patients and gradually it had become a habit. Nan was perfectly safe, there was no chance of a leakage of information.

  “This is nice,” said Nan. “I like this time of the day best of all.”

  “Yes,” agreed Adam. “It’s a cosy time of day.”

  The telephone bell rang.

  Nan hated the telephone; sometimes she envied Rhoda whose home was free from the plague. She watched Adam’s face as he took up the receiver and said, “Doctor Forrester here.”

  “Yes,” said Adam, his face suddenly grave. “Yes, yes, I see … Yes, I was afraid of it … No, don’t do that … Yes, I’ll come.”

  “Oh, Adam!” Nan exclaimed.

  “Mrs. Wood,” he said. “Sounds rather serious. I shall have to go up to the hospital at once. I may be there all night. Don’t wait up.” He struggled into his waterproof, seized his hat and was gone.

  Nan had gone to the door with him. It was a wretched night, dark as pitch and raining. She heard Adam’s quick footsteps going up the street, almost running. Mrs. Wood had been on Adam’s mind for days. She was well over forty and she was having her first baby and the baby was not behaving as babies should. Adam had explained the whole thing to Nan.

  Nan sighed and shut the door. She was very sorry for Mrs. Wood. It seemed dreadful that she should have to go through so much pain and misery and perhaps lose her baby after all, but Adam would save it if he could.

  She went back to the fire and sat
down. It was too early to go to bed. She took up a book which she had got from the library and at that moment the door-bell rang.

  It was quite a common occurrence for the door-bell to ring, almost as common an occurrence as the telephone, and the caller was usually a patient or the relative of a patient requiring the services of the doctor. Well, they couldn’t have Adam tonight, thought Nan as she opened the door.

  A tall slender figure in a waterproof coat was standing upon the doorstep. The light from the fanlight above the door shone down upon his cap.

  It was Henry Ogylvie Smith.

  For some reason she was not really surprised to see him, perhaps it was because she had been thinking about him so much. Since she had seen his portrait in Rhoda’s studio she had not been able to get him out of her mind. She had seen him at the dance but they had not really talked together.

  “Oh,” said Nan. “I’m afraid Adam is out.”

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  She opened the door wider and he came into the little hall, wiping his feet on the mat.

  “Adam will be sorry,” she said. “He had to go to the hospital.”

  “Who would be a G.P.!” Henry exclaimed.

  “Adam would,” said Nan smiling. She had control of herself now and felt more confident of her ability to play the role he had assigned to her, the role of calm friendship. It was all over long ago. She had thought he was fond of her and then found he was not, but that was no reason why they should not be friends. Henry had been Adam’s friend before he had become hers.

  “So Adam likes it?” Henry was saying. “I’m glad of that, because I feel responsible for his being here.”

  “Yes, Adam likes Drumburly, and so do I. We’re very grateful to you.”

  They were standing in the hall beneath the light and the hall was so tiny that they were very close to one another. Nan did not ask him to come into the sitting room because he had come to see Adam and Adam was out.

  “There’s nothing to be grateful for,” Henry said. “It’s Doctor Black who should be grateful, and to do him justice he is. Adam is the best assistant he ever had. As a matter of fact he wants Adam to go into partnership with him. He asked me to sound Adam about it.”

  “Adam will be pleased!” exclaimed Nan.

  “But should he accept, that’s the question. He might do better elsewhere. He shouldn’t accept without thinking about it very seriously.”

  “I’ll tell him,” said Nan.

  Now that the message had been given Nan expected Henry to go away, but evidently he intended to stay for he was taking off his coat. She could hardly turn him out without offering him some sort of hospitality.

  “I was just going to make tea; perhaps you would like some,” she said. “I’m sorry I haven’t anything stronger to offer you.”

  “Tea would be nice,” he replied.

  He looked just the same: his keen eyes beneath the delicately arched eyebrows, his dark hair brushed back from his forehead. Perhaps he looked a trifle older; she noticed new lines in the face she had known so well. His hands — Nan had always loved his hands with the long tapering fingers! Above all she had loved his voice; a deep voice with a curiously vibrant quality so that although he spoke quite softly you could hear every word. Nan had always felt sure that it was his voice which made him such a successful doctor, it seemed to go straight to one’s heart and awaken a response. She had tried very hard to forget Henry’s voice but now she knew she had not forgotten it and never would. If I were dying his voice would call me back, thought Nan miserably. Her hands shook as she took out the cups and saucers and filled the teapot.

  When she carried in the tray she found him sitting by the fire holding out his hands to the warmth.

  “What a difference you have made in this little house!” he said. “It’s charming, Nan. So comfortable and cosy.”

  “It’s a home,” Nan replied. “Adam and I have never had a home before and, as you know, we always wanted one. We’re both very happy.” She made the statement with quiet dignity, for she had her pride, and as she spoke she met his eyes squarely.

  “You’re very lucky,” said Henry.

  For a moment Nan could not speak; then she said, “Yes, I know,” but her voice was unsteady.

  “People with homes are lucky,” said Henry carefully. “I have my parents’ home of course but that isn’t the same. I shall never have a home of my own.”

  Nan tried to speak but her voice would not come.

  “I shall never marry,” he continued. “I thought at one time it would be possible for me to marry and then I found it was impossible.”

  Nan felt her heart contract. It was as if the whole world stood still. The room was very quiet and shadowy. The only light in it came from the reading lamp and from the fire. The whole world was quiet. There was the sound of footsteps in the street outside, they came nearer and passed and went on.

  Henry had been listening to them too and it was not until the sound of them had died away in the distance that he spoke again.

  “Nan,” he said. “I wonder if you would like to know why I can never marry. You have a right to know if you want to. I would have told you before but I thought it would be better for you if I just went away and said nothing. I thought if I said nothing you would — would forget me more easily. Perhaps I was wrong.”

  “I should like to know,” whispered Nan.

  “It’s a long story,” he said. He was sitting forward in the big chair, looking into the fire and his face was reddened with its glow. His eyes were on the fire as if he were reading the long story amongst the burning coals. “It begins — I suppose it begins when I was born, or even before that. Stories do. There’s such a lot of our forebears in us. If I hadn’t been the sort of person I am, it wouldn’t have happened, but I won’t worry you with that.” He paused for a few moments, thinking.

  Nan was sitting far back in her chair with one leg tucked beneath her; she had pushed the chair away from the light so that her face was in shadow. She did not want Henry to see her face. She did not want him to see that she was trembling … shaking all over uncontrollably.

  “Once upon a time,” said Henry in his deep, quiet voice, “there was a boy. He was an only child and I’m afraid his parents spoilt him. He wanted to be a doctor so when he left school he went to Glasgow University to study medicine. He lived in lodgings, quite comfortable lodgings, but he was very lonely. This boy had never been lonely before. He had enjoyed the companionship of other boys at school and he had been spoilt at home by his parents. He was rather a clever boy so he didn’t have to work very hard. It would have been better — safer — if he had had an ordinary sort of brain because he wouldn’t have had so much time to feel lonely. It would have been safer if he hadn’t had so much money to play about with. There was a girl (you see, Nan, this is a very banal story); her name was Elizabeth and she lived next door to the house where the boy was lodging. Elizabeth was very young, she was even younger than the boy, and she was a pretty, rather pathetic little creature. Elizabeth had no parents, in fact she had nobody belonging to her at all so she was lonely too. They got to know one another quite naturally. Elizabeth worked in a shop; sometimes she was very tired when she got home, too tired to do anything, but other times she liked to go, out. They were both free on Sundays of course so they used to meet and go for walks together, but Sundays in Glasgow are very dreary and these two young creatures had nowhere to go and nothing to do except to walk about in the streets. It wasn’t so bad in fine weather but in wet weather it was dreadful … so they got married.”

  He paused but Nan said nothing. She could not have spoken to save her life.

  “They got married,” he repeated. “It seemed the best thing to do. It seemed the natural thing to do. They took a little flat and furnished it and moved in. It was a very small flat but it was comfortable and for a time they were happy. Instead of walking about the streets or going to the pictures, they could sit by their own fireside. Yes, for
a time they were happy. The boy didn’t tell his parents about his marriage; his idea was to keep his marriage a secret from his parents until he had trained his wife. That was his idea. The young fool!” said Henry bitterly. “The young blackguard!”

  “Oh, no,” whispered Nan. “He meant well, I know.”

  Henry glanced at her for the first time since he had begun his story and then he looked away. “Yes, he meant well. I suppose that’s some excuse. As a matter of fact he thought he was doing a fine thing; he thought he was doing something worth while. Elizabeth had no parents and very few friends, she was lonely and was obliged to work very hard to keep herself. The boy meant to train her so that she could take her proper position in the world — in his world — and then he meant to take her to Drumburly and present her to his parents. ‘Here is your daughter-in-law,’ he would say.

  “Elizabeth knew his plan; he had explained the whole thing to her and she had listened and agreed. She thought it would be fun. It was fun at first; he chose her clothes and tried to teach her how to wear them; he made her do her hair differently. Sometimes she remembered what he had told her, but more often she forgot. He was disappointed because he had thought it would be quite easy to teach her parlour tricks, but it wasn’t easy; there was nothing of Eliza Doolittle about her.

  “It all went wrong. It was bound to go wrong. They quarrelled and made it up and quarrelled again. The boy was sitting his finals and Elizabeth was going to have a baby, so they were both nervous and irritable and things went from bad to worse. Quite often she wept and the boy put aside his work and comforted her.

  “Somehow or other the boy passed his exams and no sooner had he done so than war was declared. He joined the Navy and was appointed almost immediately to a destroyer as Surgeon Lieutenant. It was not until he received orders to join his ship forthwith and discovered that it was destined for service in the Mediterranean that he realised what a swine he had been. He was leaving Elizabeth to have her child alone. He might never see her again. What would happen to her if he were killed? Obviously the right thing to do was to write to his parents and tell them about her. He wrote the letter but Elizabeth refused to allow him to send it. They were both very miserable indeed when they said good-bye.