“The truth was felt by instinct here—
Process which saves a world of time.”
DESPERATION, when it does not rave, becomes a calm; and it was with an
almost listless quiet that Cynthia, sitting opposite her brother in his
office, told him she was going away.
He nodded briefly, and went on writing prescriptions. He had not quite
finished his evening’s work. The boy was to deliver them to his
patients. The room was bare and light, with the usual rows of medical
books, long suggestive chair, and the sturdy boy standing near a
forbidding cupboard.
Cynthia’s eyes took in the surroundings as if they had been new to her.
She had argued bitterly with her brother over having no lamp-shades, and
the naked bright skeleton roused in her now a sense of irritation. Would
Geoff never be done, and why was he so little interested in her going
away?
But he had always been a man of one idea, she thought, and what interest
he had was buried in his prescriptions. Ten minutes later he sent off
the boy with a curt order or two, then he turned and looked at his
sister.
“Going away, are you?” he said. He might have been drawing out a shy
child, or encouraging a nervous patient. Cynthia shrugged her shoulders.
“So I told you.”
“Have you thought why, or where, or when?”
“I am going to a place in Somerset on the red Bristol Channel, where
they have mud, and sunsets, and one can be alone.”
“The desire for mud is very modern, and sunsets only happen once a day,”
he replied thoughtfully. “And as for being alone, you couldn’t be in a
better place than London, you know, for that. People can’t stand so much
in the country. However, I daresay a rest would do you good. Mind you
take some books—light ones; and be careful where you go for milk—it’s
disgraceful how they adulterate it in out-of-way places.” He was giving
her time, and observing with keen watching eyes the lines of trouble and
pain marked in Cynthia’s face.
“Geoff!” she cried with a sudden wail in her voice, “I want you! I want
you!” He knew that she did not mean him; but he took her in his arms and
stroked her hair. Cynthia sobbed a little in a hard choked way; she
could not let herself go completely even in a breakdown.
“Shall we go to Paris?” he asked gently. “I have always wanted to study
under the professors there.” He looked around his meagre office-room
peopled with his love, his work, his dreams, to stay there another year
till success lay in his grasp, to win life for his cases, each one
meaning to him what a battle means to a soldier; all that went to make
interest, satisfaction, attainment, must go because a woman
wanted—another man. He did not mince matters, he only repeated the
magnificent lie that rang better than most truths, “I have always hoped
for a chance like this!”
“But you couldn’t leave your practice?” she protested.
“I could get an assistant for a time to take my place. It’s only for six
months or a year, isn’t it?”
“There’s Muriel—Geoff!” she reminded him.
“You told me to get the idea of her out of my head—perhaps six months
or a year will do it,” said Dr. Grant. He was smiling grimly to himself
as he spoke. When a man attempts endurance it makes for something very
fine. When Cynthia looked at him she saw nothing but kind, half-amused
and wholly sympathetic eyes.
“I think it’s splendid you’re so placid,” she said; “I don’t believe you
feel things at all.”
“I feel very much being kept away from my supper after working hard all
day!” he laughed mischievously.
“Oh, you poor, dear thing! I’ll see about it at once!” she cried running
from the room.
The doctor flung open the window wide and stood watching the streaming
crowd in the dusk. The lights seemed alive against the dark masses of
houses—impenetrable, mysterious, holding life-histories—and showing
nothing but blank strong faces to the passers-by.
The doctor believed in no God at all; but when he looked above the
house-tops to the sky, peopled by myriad stars, he felt a moment’s
emotion, a thrill of hope, courage and strength.
God believed in him perhaps, and because he would not draw near with
faith led him by his most unreasonable passion—love of humanity—nearer
than he knew to the divine in humanity.