Shannon's Way Page 4

  “They both liked you—my father and Luke. I could see that. Now you’ll meet my mother.”

  While she spoke, the front door opened and a slight woman, silver-haired and comely, with a delicate, transparent skin, her figure shielded by a black alpaca wrapper, appeared to greet us. After a quick glance at her daughter, making no effort to conceal the feather duster in her hand, she turned upon me for a long moment the scrutiny of her confidently tranquil eyes. Then as though reassured, she fell into the vein of small talk.

  “You caught me before I got changed, Mr. Shannon. I was just finishing my parlour when I happened to see you walking up the avenue. Come in and sit down.”

  “No, Mother,” Miss Jean protested quickly. “ We’re going out to make the best of the afternoon.”

  Mrs. Law bent upon my companion her calm, experienced gaze, which, though fond and tolerant of such youthful impatience, preserved a certain element of maternal condescension.

  “You’ve plenty time, child.”

  “Not for what I’ve planned.”

  “Are you taking Malcolm with you?”

  “Of course not, Mother.” Her daughter answered a trifle fretfully. “You know he’s away this afternoon.”

  Who was Malcolm? I wondered absently, perhaps some juvenile relation, possibly a dog.

  “Well, well… Off you go then,” agreed Mrs. Law with her air of quiet reasoning. “ But be sure you’re back for supper. We’ll all be here and I’ll be ready to dish at six o’clock sharp. Goodbye for just now, Mr. Shannon.”

  While she smiled and retired, competently, to her parlour, Miss Jean Law, with the slightly relieved air of one who has successfully gone through the preliminaries, took me exclusively in hand.

  “Now,” she exclaimed, with energy, “I can show you round.”

  Leading the way, she took me out into the back garden of about half an acre, and toured me painstakingly along its gravel paths, between the tidy beds, the rhubarb patch, the washing green. When I approved its order, she flashed me a grateful smile.

  “Of course, it’s very tiny… suburban you might even say. I’m sure, Mr. Shannon, it’s nothing like your home.”

  Affecting not to hear the mildly searching lift in her tone, I pointed, hastily, to the toolshed, where a red motor-cycle was propped upon its stand.

  “Luke’s.” She answered my unspoken inquiry indulgently. “ He’s mad on motor engines and knows a lot about them, too—although Father doesn’t approve. But poor fellow, he has to go so slow in the van, he likes to make up for it on his Indian.”

  My opinion of Luke, already high, rose considerably. For a long time, as one yearns for the moon, I had coveted such a machine, which was capable of bearing its rider exquisitely through the air at a speed of at least seventy miles an hour. I should have liked to halt to inspect its perfections, but Miss Jean was hastening me back, past the house, and into the public roadway. Tucking her “cool” more firmly upon her curls, she glanced methodically at her watch and remarked crisply:

  “We have a good three hours. We’ll try to get in everything.”

  “Shouldn’t we rest for a bit, first?” I suggested, casting a glance towards two chairs which stood in a sheltered corner of the veranda. I had been up half the night trying to plan out a culture technique for my specimens.

  She laughed quite gaily and remarked, archly, as though I had said something funny:

  “Really, Mr. Shannon, you are a cure. Why, we’ve only just begun.”

  Never was there a more scrupulous sightseer, a more devoted cicerone—that I am prepared to swear—than this pretty daughter of the baker of Blairhill.

  Earnestly, indefatigably, she paraded me round the royal and ancient borough. She showed me the Town Hall, the public library, the Masonic Temple, the ducal mausoleum, the old weavers’ houses on Cottar’s Row, the remains of the Roman wall (three decayed boulders), and, with a reverent air, in Lamb Lane, the Meeting Hall of the Brethren. She even exhibited to me the exact spot at the Cross where Claverhouse, dispersing a Conventicle, had been providentially thrown from his charger.

  Then, while I rejoiced that our pilgrimage was over, she gave me, scarcely pausing for breath and with a bright nod, the mysterious glance of one who has saved the best treat for the end.

  “We can’t miss the White Cattle,” she declared, adding, primly, as though quoting from a guide-book: “They are quite unique.”

  To view these fabulous animals, which, she advised me, were part of the famous herd of Château-le-roi, imported from France by “the late Duke’s father,” we were obliged to retrace our steps for about two miles and to enter, through pillared gates, an extensive demesne known as “the High Parks,” which “the late Duke” had graciously detached from his own policies and donated to the town.

  It was undoubtedly a lovely stretch of woods and meadows, still maintaining—since not a soul was in sight—its previous air of privacy.

  But Miss Law could not find the cattle. Although she sought them vigorously, ardently, as though her honour were at stake, drawing me with her, up hill and down dale, over wooden stiles and under bushy glades, her seeking eyes meanwhile exhibiting an increased concern, her expression lengthening with dismay, she was forced, eventually, to pull up upon the summit of the last grassy hill and, facing me, with shame, to admit defeat.

  “I’m afraid … Mr. Shannon …” Then, with a final explosion of pique: “Really, it’s beyond understanding.”

  “They’re probably hiding from us, up the trees.”

  She shook her head, refusing to see humour in the subject.

  “Such lovely animals. Milky-white and with beautiful curving horns. They must be ‘in’ for the winter. I’ll show you them another time.”

  “Do,” I said. “Meanwhile, let’s sit down.”

  The afternoon was extremely calm, warm for the season, with the sun, partly veiled, diffusing an amber light, which seemed to steep the landscape in the stillness of an undiscovered world. The contours of the muted woods fell away beneath our feet, hiding a little stream which, hushed by the prevailing mood, crept from pool to pool, holding its breath, imposing an equal silence upon us.

  Beside me, chewing a blade of the brown tussocky grass and gazing straight ahead, Miss Jean Law sat erect, still nursing her discomfiture and, as I rested on my elbow, I began, unconsciously, to study her, trying, in a random fashion, to dissect her personality. I could not, of course, revise my opinion of her naïveté, yet I was compelled to admit that of the few young women I had met, she was the most supremely natural. She had, especially in this setting, a striking, youthful freshness. Her brown eyes, hair, and skin matched the woodlands, as did her firm little throat and chin. Her teeth, as she munched the wiry grass, were white and wholesome. Observing from underneath, one could almost see the flow of warm blood through the soft curve of her upper lip. But, more than anything, she looked, and smelled, so extraordinarily clean. I decided, idly, that, since this virtue came next to godliness, she must wash thoroughly, all over, night and morning, with Windsor soap. Everything visible about her and, I felt sure, the invisible also, was neat and spotless.

  Suddenly, while I critically took stock of her, she turned her head and met, unexpectedly, my examining gaze. For a moment she sustained it with her usual fearless honesty, then her modest eyes fell and a slow, sweet flush spread all over her cheeks. There was a strained pause, a silence that was part, somehow, of the greater surrounding stillness of Nature and which, as though inviting a word, an action upon my part that did not come, was filled with an almost painful expectation. Then, almost angrily, as though refusing to surrender to confusion, she glanced at her round silver watch, jumped quickly to her feet.

  “It’s time we got back.” She added in a low voice, which she tried to make practical, “You must be starving for your tea.”

  When we reached Siloam the entire family awaited us in the immaculate back parlour, Mrs. Law wearing her “company” dove-grey silk, Mr. Law and Luke spr
uced-up in linen collars and decent broadcloth suits. There was also present, rather to my surprise, another guest, introduced to me as Mr. Hodden, who answered, with an agreeable smile, to the name Malcolm, who at once attached himself to Jean, and who was, indeed, on terms of devoted intimacy with all the members of the Law family.

  He was a correct, dependable-looking young man of about twenty-five, with a well-set-up figure, an open, faintly serious expression, firm lips, and a square, compact head, dressed with methodical neatness in a brown tweed suit and a high stiff collar. Prone always to envy in others those qualities opposite to my own, I felt myself dim slightly in his presence, for he had about him a calm solidity, the air of one who exercises every day at the Y.M.C.A., a look of manly frankness as though, conscious of his own uprightness, he was resolved to find in his fellow man an equal attribute. His top right vest-pocket carried a tuning fork and a row of sharpened pencils, which served doubtless to facilitate his occupation, which I soon learned was that of a teacher in the Blairhill elementary school.

  When he had offered me a friendly hand, Mrs. Law set the seal upon our meeting.

  “You two young men ought to have much in common. Malcolm is quite one of ourselves, Mr. Shannon. He takes our Sunday School every week. A real worker, I can tell you.”

  Since supper was ready, we took our places at the table, Daniel gravely repeated a lengthy grace in which, with a veiled glance towards her photograph, in nurse’s uniform upon the mantelpiece, he made a rather touching reference to his absent daughter Agnes “now working in foreign fields.” Then Mrs. Law began generously to portion out the large cut of boiled salmon that stood before her.

  Sharp set, I fell to with the appetite to be expected from one of Miss Dearie’s boarders. There was in addition to the generous fish a plentitude of everything, potatoes boiled in their jackets, winter greens, cold ham and tongue, pickles, pots of home-made preserve; indeed, the simple goodness of the meal would have delighted a palate far more expert than mine. In honour of my visit, the baker had made a special sponge cake, iced with marzipan and adorned with frosted cherries. But what pleased me most was the bread. Light and well risen, with a crisp, crackling crust, it exhaled a delicious fragrance and melted upon one’s tongue. When I ventured to compliment him upon his product, Law looked gravely pleased. He picked up a slice from the plate, tested its consistency, sniffed it delicately, then broke it, with a sacramental air, between his fingers. Glancing across the table, professionally, at his son, he remarked:

  “A shade underfired to-day, Luke … but not at all bad.” Then, turning to me, he went on, with great simplicity. “We take our trade seriously, sir. The staff of life, that’s what our bread is to many of the poor country folks. They don’t get much else—colliers, ploughmen, farm labourers, with large families, working maybe for thirty-five shillings a week. That’s why we make it wi’ nowt but the best flour, and the sweetest barm, all mixed by hand.”

  “The finest bread in the country,” Malcolm interposed, with a nod towards me. He was sitting next to Jean and passing plates in an undercurrent of quiet merriment.

  Daniel smiled.

  “Ay, they walk five miles, some of these bodies, to meet our van to buy it.” He paused, drawing himself erect, with dignity. “You are probably aware, Mr. Shannon, of the scriptural significance of the article we produce. You will mind how the Saviour multiplied the loaves to feed the multitude, how He broke bread wi’ His disciples at the Last Supper.”

  I gave a confused murmur of assent and, as Luke relieved my embarrassment by passing me the strawberry jam, with the faintest droop of his left eyelid, I attempted, in an undertone, to engage him in conversation on the merits of his motor-cycle. Daniel, however, was not to be denied. Head of this household, preacher at the Meetings, he was accustomed to hold forth, and now, beaming his grave and well-disposed regard across the table, he seemed determined to sound me out.

  “Of course, Doctor, you follow a noble profession yourself. To heal the sick, restore the maimed, cause the lame to walk, what could be more meritorious? It was a proud and happy moment for me, sir, when my daughter decided to dedicate herself to that great and splendid work.”

  I kept silence, since I could not well advise him that it was my intention never to practise, but to devote myself exclusively to the pursuit of pure science.

  Undeterred by my reticence, and with that strange interplay of dignity and humility which characterized him, Daniel returned to the subject, touched upon the brotherhood of man, upon the Christian virtue of helping one another; then, having worked himself into position, he faced me directly.

  “May I ask, sir, what is your persuasion?”

  I took a prolonged draught of tea. Except for Hodden, whose gaze betrayed a mild alertness, they were all viewing me with kindly attention, waiting in warm interest for my reply as though, in fact, it were the crux, the necessary keystone which would complete the firm edifice of their united approval. Miss Jean in particular, a trifle flushed from the strong, hot beverage, was viewing me with parted lips and starry eyes.

  What on earth was I to say? I knew enough of these small town inter-denomination feuds to realize what a commotion I would cause if I spoke the naked truth—that I was a Catholic, who had strayed occasionally into the less dark corridors of scepticism, but who still, at heart, clung to his first belief. The thought caused me to fall back for support upon the structure I had already created for Miss Law. After all, what did it matter? I should never see this worthy family again, I preferred not to disrupt the harmony of the occasion, and if I were skilful I need not lie.

  “Well, sir,” I said, with a fluency which shocked me, as though this congregation of goodness evoked the worst subtleties of my character, “I must confess that my biological work has somewhat restricted my opportunities for churchgoing. But I was brought up, in Levenford, in an exceedingly strict Noncomformist atmosphere. In fact”—still drawing upon the facts of my chequered upbringing, I improved modestly upon one of my grandmother’s less credible boasts—“a great-uncle on my mother’s side was one of the Covenanters who gave testimony, with his blood, on Marston Moor.”

  There was a pause. Then as my answer slowly sank in, I perceived that its effect was not only satisfactory, but highly impressive.

  “Do you tell me!” Daniel inclined his head with excusable interest. “Marston Moor! Ay, that was a martyrdom of the saints. You should be proud of such a forebear, Mr. Shannon. And,” he added with gentle cunning, “I hope in future you’ll mind his good example.”

  This obstacle surmounted, the evening continued on a note of amiable concord. When Malcolm, with profuse expressions of regret, was obliged to take his departure to conduct some night classes at the Blairhill Institute—extra work, Mrs. Law confided to me, which he was undertaking to support his widowed mother—we adjourned to the parlour, where Miss Jean was induced to perform upon the piano, a piece by Grieg. Then there was talk of the distant Agnes. Her latest letter, extremely cheerful, was proudly read aloud. Snapshots were passed tenderly, one by one, all yellowish and slightly fogged—native children in groups, spindly and large-eyed, wearing white pinafores, strangely pathetic, sustained by a staunch and smiling nurse’s figure; clusters of wooden huts, a glimpse of a barren compound, and always the lush background of forest beyond, strange fernlike trees, the whole shot with shafts of sunlight and sullen, blinding shadow.

  When eight o’clock struck, I rose to leave amidst protests and cordial handclasps.

  “We were honoured, sir,” said Daniel—and, with an unexpected warmth in his eye: “Maybe next time ye visit us, ye’ll bide overnight.”

  “Yes, come again soon.” Mrs. Law pressed a package into my hand, murmuring confidentially, “That’s a nice bit Scots shortbread to help out things at Miss Dearie’s.”

  Darkness had fallen as Luke and his sister escorted me to the station. On the way down Luke generously offered to lend me the motor bike whenever I could use it. As the train gathered s
team, Miss Jean Law walked along beside my window.

  “I hope you enjoyed your visit, Mr. Shannon. I know we all did, very much.”

  Alone, in the compartment, I subsided in a corner, exhausted by this excess of sociability, trying to assess my own reactions to it. To be truthful, contact with this simple, zealous family had filled me with a distaste for myself stronger even than usual—I felt cheap and shabby, yes, for some reason I felt a regular sneak.

  And suddenly I had a vision of Jean Law’s face as, innocently, she blushed with downcast eyes, beside me, in the High Parks. I had slight experience of women, and in this respect was entirely without conceit. But now a thought went through me like an arrow. I started, sat up, shocked, in the empty carriage.

  “Oh, no!” I exclaimed aloud. “She couldn’t … she can’t … It would be too absurd.”

  Chapter Six

  February came in with sharper frost, with cold, clear, sparkling days which stirred the blood. For over a month now I had flung myself, with complete abandon, into my own work. It felt good to be alive.

  Naturally, Lomax and Spence noticed my activity, but Smith, although I occasionally caught him staring at me and biting the ends of his ragged moustache, could not guess what I was up to. Now that Professor Usher was away, he spent most of the day in the bar of the University Arms.

  It was not an easy process I had set myself. Do not imagine that original research is accomplished in a fine poetic rapture; before the dawn appears one must drudge along the labyrinthine ways, or roll the stone like Sisyphus, endlessly uphill.

  Yet, after experimenting with many media, and finding them useless for my purpose, I had at last succeeded in growing, in peptone broth, from the Dreem specimens, a culture which I believed to contain the causal organism of the epidemic disease. As I gazed at the delicate yellow strands forming in saffron threads within the topaz clear liquid, enlarging and coalescing, like a glowing crocus, yet more beautiful to me than the rarest flower, my heart kept pounding with a deep excitement. This was a growth I did not recognize, which gave promise of something strange and new, which reinforced the trembling structure of my hopes.