by A. J. Cronin
‘She is, indeed! A charming girl!’
This time Cameron nearly had a fit He choked and spluttered, but finally coughed the paroxysm away.
‘It’s these damned kippers,’ he wheezed. ‘They’re full of bones! What was it you were saying about Miss Malcolm?’
‘Just that she was charming,’ I answered absently. ‘I must look her up one day soon.’
Cameron scraped back his chair decisively.
‘You’re far too busy for any such damned thing. You’re a working doctor, man. Not a blasted troubadour.’
It was curious, in the light of that remark, how hard Dr Cameron kept me at work during the next few days. He was so merciless that for two weeks I had scarcely a moment of leisure in which I might have called to see Miss Malcolm. At the end of that period, however, a note arrived, written on plain white paper, hand-made, matt surface, deckle edges, smelling delicately of verbena.
‘I had expected you to come and see me as a friend. Now, alas! I must invoke you as a doctor. I am not quite well. Nothing serious. But a nuisance rather. Come in the evening if you can, and I shall give you coffee.’
I sniffed the note. What a charming perfume! So she was ill, poor soul, and I had neglected her shamefully. Ah, it was too bad, altogether too bad.
‘There’s a call for Miss Malcolm,’ I informed Cameron at lunch-time.
Cameron’s brows jerked up, and he looked as though he might rap out an oath. But he said nothing.
‘I’ll do it, of course,’ I answered calmly.
A pause.
‘I’ll go round and see her …’
‘In the evening!’ shouted Cameron. And putting down his head he began to sup his Scotch broth like a lunatic.
I admired Miss Malcolm’s house the moment I entered it. Miss Malcolm’s abode was – like Miss Malcolm and Miss Malcolm’s notepaper – charming, perfectly charming. It was not a villa – the mere word alone was too obnoxious – but a gracious old house of weathered red sandstone in a crescent with a carriage step in front, its rooms were large and spacious, and its furnishings breathed a tasteful refinement.
Miss Malcolm had travelled greatly and had picked up many bits and pieces on her travels.
‘You like my painted chest? It is rather good. I got it from a funny little Gasthof in the Tyrol.’ Or: ‘These old candlesticks. They’re Quimper ware, of course. I bought them from the dearest old peasant woman in Brittany.’
Miss Malcolm was in the drawing-room reclining in a long chair beside the fire. An old silver tray with Spode china and a Georgian coffee-pot stood at her elbow.
‘Faithless one!’ she exclaimed brightly. ‘ If I hadn’t been taken ill I believe I should never have seen you again.’
I protested.
‘Oh, no, Miss Malcolm! I’ve been wanting to come round. But I’ve been so busy. Tell me, though, what’s the trouble?’
‘I think we danced together too much the other night. My heart – it’s nothing, of course, a mere nothing.’
Full of concern, I examined her heart. As my head bent over her, she closed her full eyes. There was not much wrong that I could make out – a faint murmur, perhaps, but no perceptible lesion. I straightened myself, addressed her solicitously:
‘You must rest. That’s it. You must rest for a bit. And take a little tonic. I’ll make it up myself. Trust me. I’ll look after you.’
She thanked me, adding:
‘Ever since I went climbing in Switzerland I’ve had a slight cardiac condition. I’m perfectly strong, of course. Perfectly sound in wind and limb.’
While she gave me coffee I talked to her of winter sports, at which we both agreed I would excel. The coffee was delicious – not like Janet’s coffee, which was good in a homely way, but darkly aromatic, full of sensuous essences that suggested Turkey, Samarkand, the closed courtyards of the East. She begged me, please, to smoke my pipe. She adored a pipe. Then we talked of travel, of the fascinating, exotic places of the Orient, of books. She talked intelligently, provocatively, amusingly. She had read widely. Occasionally she slipped into French or German – a little phrase unostentatiously introduced.
I was not forgetful of that sweet and faithful nut-brown maid, now struggling through the final stages of her medical curriculum, who, with truth and tenderness in her shining glance, had pledged herself to me; nevertheless I gazed across at Miss Malcolm with indulgence. She was on the thin side, it is true, and her liquid, brownish eyes were too large, with specks of yellow on the eyeball and bistre shadows beneath. Her teeth, too, were rather prominent. The skin of her neck had a dry look, and her nose, from certain angles, had a queer sharpness. But she had a way of holding herself, a way of animating her features which dispelled critical analysis. She had fine, well-cared-for hands. She was elegant. She was so right, assured, well-bred. She gave me a sense of my own value, a feeling that I was lost in a wretched hamlet in the Highlands. I began, with her, to despise Tannochbrae. It was ten o’clock when I rose to go. I promised to look in without fail the following evening. As we shook hands in goodbye, I was aware of the gentle pressure of her fingers on mine.
The following evening came. And I ‘looked in’ to see Miss Malcolm. The next evening, too, and the next. They were professional visits, she emphatically insisted – she was comfortably off, she said; she demanded to be treated like an ordinary patient, and every time, before coffee and conversation, I listened most assiduously to her heart.
About ten days later Cameron approached me in the dispensary. He hummed and hawed a little, then abruptly declared:
‘You’re calling pretty often to see Miss Malcolm!’
‘Why, yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘ She’s knocked up her heart a little.’
‘Her heart?’ Cameron echoed dryly. ‘Ay, ay. So they’re all professional visits.’
‘Certainly!’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? I’ve been perfectly correct towards Miss Malcolm. But if you must know, I enjoy going to see her immensely. She’s got a brilliant mind …’
‘Are you entangled with the damned woman?’ Cameron demoded violently.
I flushed to the roots of my hair.
‘She’s not a damned woman! She’s a lady! And my very good friend.’
Cameron threw up his hands.
‘My God!’ he groaned. ‘And I thought ye had sense.’
Then he walked out of the room.
That evening I went round determinedly to Miss Malcolm’s house. My senior colleague’s attitude had made me more stubborn. I gave an extra pressure to her hand. I said how glad I was to see her. And then I took out my stethoscope and bent to sound her heart. As I did so, encouraged perhaps by my extra cordiality, Miss Malcolm lay back and entwined her arms tenderly around my neck.
‘You’re sweet,’ she murmured, ‘too sweet for words.’
I recoiled as though a snake had stung me.
‘Good Heavens!’ I stammered. ‘You mustn’t do that.’
Everything in my training revolted at the idea. Conduct unbecoming in a professional respect! A man might lose his diploma, be struck off the register, for less. Panic seized me. I stared at her as she lay there with her big, brown eyes melting up at me. I blurted out an excuse and bolted from the room.
Back at Arden House I went straight to Cameron and told him everything. The old man looked at me in his shrewd and canny style.
‘So you’ve had your lesson at last. I’ll not say I’m sorry. Listen, now that you’re in a condition to understand: how old do you think your braw Miss Malcolm is?’
I mumbled.
‘I don’t know.’
‘She’s forty-two if she’s a day! Forty-two! And she’s been lookin’ for a man these last four-and-twenty years. Listen! Have ye ever seen her in the mornin’?’
‘No,’ I said feebly. ‘She’s always asked me to come…’
‘In the evening.’ Cameron acidly cut in. He paused impressively. ‘But if you’d seen her in the morning’ as I have,
when she had the bile…’ And that was all.
Next day Dr Cameron made the visit to Miss Malcolm himself. He went in the morning, and he didn’t stay long. But the. Odd fact is that Miss Malcolm’s strained heart got better instantly.
Poor Miss Malcolm! She was really a nice creature, starved of affection, a lonely spinster – and I … I was a blundering clod.
Chapter Thirteen
I had now been in Tannochbrae for more than a year, and although I liked the place and the people, and had moreover a genuine affection for the testy old party who employed me, with the coming of another spring I was conscious of a restive feeling, and my thoughts began to turn towards the future. Ambition still burned bright within me. I wanted to have my own home, my own practice. I was now more than ever in love with Mary, and since so many obstacles were already in the way of our marriage, I felt I must at least try to offset them with some material advantages. Could this be achieved within the narrow confines of a small West Highland village?
At this stage of uncertainty and doubt, a series of events took place which, in a singularly irrational manner, were instrumental in determining the next phase of my unimportant destiny. It all began, ridiculously enough, with a fishbone.
The fishbone was in the throat of Mr George McKellor, and because of it, one April evening about nine o’clock I was called to the McKellor villa, which stood in its own grounds on the outskirts of the village. I found McKellor in considerable pain, although making little fuss about it. He was a taciturn man, a confirmed bachelor, with the uncommunicative abruptness of one who has made his way in life entirely through his own efforts. By profession a grain merchant, he travelled every day to his office in Glasgow, where he was a highly successful operator on the commodity markets, known to be worth a tidy fortune. Actually his home was in the city, but partly from inclination, partly also because of his business associations with the neighbouring farmers, he chose to spend the spring and summer at his country residence in Tannochbrae.
Under the bright light of the handsomely furnished dining-room – McKellor had been at his solitary dinner when the mishap occurred – it was easy to locate the trouble, and with one quick stroke of the forceps I removed the offending bone, which was bedded deep down in the soft part of the gullet.
The relief was instantaneous. McKellor drew a deep breath of ease, swallowed once or twice wryly, then smiled his slow, unwilling smile.
‘Must Lave hurt you a bit,’ I remarked, inspecting the jagged bone. ‘ It’s a nasty little article.’
‘Ay,’ replied McKellor reflectively. ‘ It was hardly pleasant while it lasted. I must say I’m obliged to you for looting in so quickly.’ He paused significantly. ‘And now – I’m a man for prompt settlements, Doctor. How much do I owe you?’
I put the question aside with a deprecating smile.
‘It was nothing. Just a neighbourly action to run in and tweak it out for you. We’ll charge you no fee at all.’
George McKellor’s stare became even more shrewdly appraising, the look of a man with the money sense who has struck many a hard bargain in his day.
‘Are you actually serious?’
‘Certainly,’ I replied. ‘It was just a good turn I was able to do you. Perhaps some day you will be able to do one for me.’
There was a silence. McKellor’s expression remained inscrutable, but after stroking his square chin reflectively, he finally exclaimed:
‘Sit down. I’m not minding for any more food. We’ll have a drop of Scotch and a chat, you and me.’
When he had poured the whisky, and we had lit our pipes, McKellor went on, noncommittally enough, yet with something compelling and confidential in his tone.
‘I’ve heard of you, Doctor, one way and another, and it hasn’t all been to your discredit.’ A dry smile. ‘I’m not given to sudden likings – no, I’m not that kind of man – but, as you say, one good turn deserves another.’ He paused and took a deliberate pull at his whisky. ‘Tell me, young fellow, have you ever heard of Roan Vlei?’
Half amused, I shook my head.
‘Never,’ I said. ‘It’s a share, I suppose. Anyhow, it sounds like it.’
‘Ay,’ retorted McKellor, with a grim humour. ‘It’s a share, all right, a Kaffir gold mine, to be exact.’ He lowered his voice and spoke from between closed lips, as though the words were drawn from some secret fount of knowledge. ‘A few of us have information on the inside, over this Kaffir mine. We’ve formed a pool. It’s in for a rise, a real big rise.’ Another long pause. ‘ Doctor, I advise you to buy yourself a few Roan Vleis.’
Again I laughed, pleased, yet embarrassed.
‘It’s kind of you, I’m sure, Mr. McKellor, but – well, that’s not my line of business.’
McKellor fixed me with his friendly but enigmatic stare.
‘You take my tip,’ he said, tapping the table in emphasis. ‘I promise you’ll not regret it.’ And with a solemn gesture he pushed the whisky decanter towards me.
That same night, on my return to Arden House, I questioned Cameron about McKellor.
‘What kind of man is he? I must say he seems genuine.’
‘Ay, he’s one of the best, is McKellor,’ Dr Cameron replied. ‘A bit fond o’ the siller may be, but straightforward and honest, and his word is his bond. And, since we’re speaking of money, land sakes, he’s worth a pickle out.’
In spite of myself, I was impressed by this testimonial. At the outset I had not had the least intention of following the advice which had been offered me. But now the seed was sown there developed in my mind the enticing idea that here was a chance to acquire the capital so necessary for my future plans – for house, practice, and marriage alike – a miraculous opportunity, which it would be folly to ignore.
The thought kept hammering, hammering away inside my head. I had a snug little nest egg of about one hundred pounds, saved since I had begun my assistantship and reposing securely in the bank. What was to prevent me doubling, trebling it, perhaps turning it into a real bonanza?
I slept little that night. All sorts of golden fancies kept flashing gloriously before me, and in the morning when I rose I went directly to the telephone. McKellor, who had not yet left for the office, approved my decision.
‘Right!’ he said. Then added crisply and unemotionally, ‘ You’re a wise man, Doctor. Get in touch with Hamilton, my broker, in Ingram Street. He’ll look after you. Mark my words, you’ll not be sorry.’
I had no difficulty in establishing contact with Hamilton who, on McKellor’s recommendation, proved exceptionally helpful. As the sum at my disposal for investment was not large and the price of Roan Vleis rather high – they stood that morning at just under a pound per share – the broker proposed that I should operate on margin. Thus I should be able to purchase not one hundred, but five hundred shares. Who could have refused such a favour, with its prospects of greater gain? Over the telephone, the momentous transaction was completed.
The next few days passed in a state of tension and excitement. Indeed, as time went on in this prolonged suspense, I began to ask myself in a kind of anguish if I had not been over credulous. For nothing happened! There was nothing in the newspapers, not one word from George McKellor. The stock market was as flat as a pancake, and the wretched shares stood at a few pence below the figure at which I had bought them. I chafed and worried; only my pride prevented me from rushing to McKellor‘s house and demanding the reason for this hopeless inactivity.
But at last, one morning towards the end of the second week, when, sick with hope deferred, I opened the Winton Herald, my heart gave a sudden bump. I saw that Roan Vleis had jumped a clear four shillings.
My eyes glistened and the blood went pounding through my veins. I made a rapid calculation. Overnight, I had made practically one hundred pounds. Incredible, but, oh, wonderful, simply marvellous! I raced to the telephone and rang up McKellor, who was on the point of leaving for the city.
‘I’ve just seen the news,’ I stammer
ed delightedly over the wire. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? Shall I … shall I sell?’
‘What!’ McKellor’s voice was calmly incredulous. ‘Are you gone wuddy? Sell out at the very beginning? No, no, not on your life. You wait until I give you the word. Sell at that instant, and not before.’ And, with a click, the receiver went up at the other end.
Flushed and elated, with my head in a whirl, I went into the surgery and tried to settle to my work. It was difficult to concentrate, and during the next few days I hurried through my cases so that I might have more time to watch the progress of my speculation.
A fascinating and profitable occupation, far beyond the humdrum routine of the practice! A great game, indeed! For now they had started, Roan Vleis rose on the market like a rocket. Up and up they went, marking a rise of several shillings each day until by the end of the week they stood at almost double their original figure. The news, which had been discreetly rumoured, was now given out with full publicity – a vein of rich ore had been struck in the mine. In consequence, everyone was rushing to buy.
Monday saw a resumption of the boomlet, bringing me fresh exaltation. I was constantly on the telephone to the stockbroker in Winton, in touch with McKellor morning and evening, kept in a perfect whirl of excitement. My original desire to sell and take a modest profit was long forgotten. Here was the chance of a lifetime to make a fortune. I had faith in McKellor, whose shrewd demeanour impressed me forcibly with the sense that I was following the right man. I went in deeper than ever. Acting on McKellor’ advice, I increased my holding, buying on margin until I held not far short of twelve hundred shares in the Roan Vlei mine. My profit already stood at over seven hundred pounds, and life was wonderful indeed!
The fact, that I had made this money, and made it so easily, mounted like wine to my head. I began to consider not only the legitimate objectives for which I had been striving, but the extra good things of life which riches would bring. My work suffered more and more. When not engrossed by the stock-market reports or busy on telephone conversations, I kept figuring out my profits. Up and up they went. At the end of another four days they stood not far short of nine hundred pounds. Nine hundred pounds! As much as I might make in two years, slogging winter and summer, wet and fine, at the tedious round of medicine. Strung to the highest pitch of tense excitement by the money fever, I awaited McKellor’s final instructions.