I had not long to wait. The first time we met after my proposal, she was gay and airy, and I could not match her spirits. The second time, she told me, quite casually, that she had visited the town the day before.
‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ The cry forced itself out.
She frowned, and said: ‘I thought we’d cleared the air.’
‘Not in that way.’
She said: ‘I thought now we knew where we stood.’
I had no intention then. But, unknown to me, one was forming.
Three days later, we met again, in the usual alcove in the usual café. She had come from her hairdresser’s, and looked immaculately beautiful. I thought, with resentment, with passion, that I had seen her dishevelled in my arms. Through tea we kept up a busy conversation. She made some sarcastic jokes, to which I replied in kind. She said that she was going to a dance. I did not say a word, but went back to the previous conversations. We were talking about books, as though we were high-spirited, literary-minded students, who had met by accident.
She went on trying to reach me — but she knew that I was not there. Her face had taken on an expression of puzzled, almost humorous distress. Her eyes were quizzically narrowed.
She asked the time, and I told her five o’clock.
‘I’ve got lots of time. I needn’t go home for hours,’ she said.
I did not speak.
‘What shall we do?’ she persisted.
‘Anything you like,’ I said, indifferently.
‘That’s useless.’ She looked angry now.
Automatically I said, as I used to: ‘Come to my room.’
‘Yes,’ said Sheila, and began powdering her face.
Then my intention, which up to then I had not known, broke out.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘What?’ She looked up from her mirror.
‘Sheila,’ I said, ‘I am going to send you away.’
‘Why?’ she cried.
‘You ought to know.’
She was gazing at me, steadily, frankly, unrelentingly. She said: ‘If you send me away now, I shall go.’
‘That’s what I want.’
‘Once I shouldn’t have. I should have come back and apologized. I shan’t do that now, if you get rid of me.’
‘I don’t expect you to,’ I said.
‘If I do go, I shall keep away. I shall take it that you don’t want to see me. This time I shan’t move a single step.’
‘That’s all I ask,’ I replied.
‘Are you sure? Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am sure.’
Without another word, Sheila pulled on her coat. We walked through the smoky café. I noticed our reflections in a steam-filmed mirror. We were both white.
At the door we said the bare word, goodbye. It was raining hard, and she ran for a taxi. I saw her go.
One day, between my proposal to Sheila and our parting, I met Marion. I was refreshed to see her. I found time to speculate whether Jack had, in fact, slipped in a word. She was much more certain of herself than she used to be. Of us all, owing to her acting, she had become most of a figure in the town. She threw her head back and laughed, confidently and with a rich lilt. I had no doubt that she had found admirers, and perhaps a lover. Her old earnestness had vanished, though she would always stay the least cynical of women.
With me she was friendly, irritated, protective. Like many others at that time, like Mrs Knight at the ball, she noticed at once that I was looking physically strained. It was easy to perceive, for I had a face on which wear and tear painted itself. The lines, as with Sheila, were etching themselves while I was young.
Marion was perturbed and cross.
‘We’ve got to deliver you in London on the—’ It was like her to have remembered the exact date of Bar Finals. ‘We don’t want to send you there on a stretcher, Lewis.’
She scolded George.
‘You mustn’t let him drink,’ she said. ‘Really, you’re like a lot of children. I think I’m the only grown-up person among the lot of you.’
Against my will, she made me promise that, if I did not feel better, I would go to a doctor.
I was afraid to go. Partly I had the apprehension of any young man who does not know much of his physical make-up. There might be something bad to learn, and I was frightened of it.
But also I had a short-term fear, a gambler’s fear. Come what may, I could not stop working. It was imperative to drive myself on until the examination. Nothing should stop that; a doctor might try to. After the examination I could afford to drop, not now.
I parted from Sheila on a Friday afternoon. The next morning, as I got out of bed, I reeled with giddiness. The room turned and heaved; I shut my eyes and clutched the mantelpiece. The fit seemed to last, wheeling the room round outside my closed eyelids, for minutes. I sat back on the bed, frightened and shaken. What in God’s name was this? Nevertheless, I got through my day’s quota of reading. If I broke the programme now, I was defeated. I felt well enough to remember what I worked at. But the next morning I had another attack, and for two days afterwards, usually in the morning, once at night.
I was afraid: and above all I was savagely angry. It would be intolerable to be cheated at this stage. Despite Sheila, despite all that had happened to me, I had got myself well-prepared. That I knew. It was something I had to know; I should suffer too much if I deceived myself this time. George was speaking not with his cosmic optimism, but as a technical expert, when he encouraged me. Recently I had asked him the chances. George did not think naturally in terms of odds, but I pressed him. What was the betting on my coming out high in the first class? In the end, George had answered that he thought the chances were better than even.
It would be bitter beyond bearing to be cheated now. My mind was black with rage. But I was also ignorant and frightened. I had no idea what these fits meant. My fortitude had cracked. I had to turn to someone for help.
I thought of calling on old Dr Francis — but, almost involuntarily one evening, after struggling through another day’s work, I began walking down the hill to the infirmary. I was going to ask for Tom Devitt. The infirmary was very near, I told myself, I should get it over quicker; Tom was a modern doctor, and the old man’s knowledge must have become obsolete; but those were excuses. She had spoken of him the afternoon that I proposed, and I went to him because of that.
At the infirmary I explained to a nurse that I was an acquaintance of Devitt’s, and would like to see him in private. She said, suspiciously, formidably, that the doctor was busy. At last I coerced her into telephoning him. She gave him my name. With a bad grace she told me that he was free at once.
I was taken to his private sitting-room. It overlooked the garden, from which, in the April sunshine, patients were being wheeled. Devitt looked at me with a sharp, open, apprehensive stare. He greeted me with a question in his voice. I was sure that he expected some dramatic news of Sheila.
‘I’m here under false pretences,’ I had to say. ‘I’m presuming on your good nature — because we met once. I’m not well, and I wondered if you’d look me over.’
Devitt’s expression showed disappointment, relief, a little anger.
‘You ought to have arranged an appointment,’ he said irritably. But he was a kind man, and he could no more forget my name than I could his.
‘I’m supposed to be off duty,’ he said. ‘Oh well, You’d better sit down and tell me about yourself.’