love, the scene he had just witnessed, with all its implications, hurt him like a physical pain. He felt slightly sick. It had only wanted this conclusion to make the day thoroughly depressing. His mood seemed to undergo a complete revulsion. A shadow had fallen on his joyfulness. He longed with all his soul to have a long quiet talk with Christine, to open his heart to her, to straighten out their stupid little disagreement. He longed, above everything, to be quite alone with her. But the up-valley train, when it came in, was overcrowded. They had to be content with a compartment packed with miners, loudly discussing the City football match.
It was late when they reached Drineffy and Christine looked very tired. He was convinced that she had seen Mrs Bramwell and Gabell. He could not possibly speak to her now. There was nothing for it but to see her to Mrs Herbert’s and unhappily bid her good night.
Chapter Ten
Though it was nearly midnight when Andrew reached Bryngower he found Joe Morgan waiting on him, walking up and down with short steps between the closed surgery and the entrance to the house. At the sight of him the burly driller’s face expressed relief.
‘Eh, doctor, I’m glad to see you. I been back and forward here this last hour. The missus wants ye – before time too.’
Andrew, abruptly recalled from the contemplation of his own affairs, told Morgan to wait. He went into the house for his bag, then together they set out for No 12 Blaina Terrace. The night air was cool and deep with quiet mystery. Usually so perceptive, Andrew now felt dull and listless. He had no premonition that this night-call would prove unusual, still less that it would influence his whole future in Drineffy. The two men walked in silence until they reached the door of No 12, then Joe drew up short.
‘I’ll not come in,’ he said and his voice showed signs of strain. ‘But, man, I know ye’ll do well for us.’
Inside, a narrow stair led up to a small bedroom, clean but poorly furnished, and lit only by an oil lamp. Here Mrs Morgan’s mother, a tall grey-haired woman of nearly seventy, and the stout elderly midwife waited beside the patient, watching Andrew’s expression as he moved about the room.
‘Let me make you a cup of tea, doctor, bach,’ said the former quickly, after a few moments.
Andrew smiled faintly. He saw that the old woman, wise in experience, realised there must be a period of waiting, that she was afraid he would leave the case, saying he would return later.
‘Don’t fret, mother. I’ll not run away.’
Down in the kitchen he drank the tea which she gave him. Overwrought as he was, he knew he could not snatch even an hour’s sleep if he went home. He knew, too, that the case here would demand all his attention. A queer lethargy of spirit came upon him. He decided to remain until everything was over.
An hour later he went upstairs again, noted the progress made, came down once more, sat by the kitchen fire. It was still, except for the rustle of a cinder in the grate and the slow tick-tock of the wall clock. No, there was another sound – the beat of Morgan’s footsteps as he paced in the street outside. The old woman opposite him sat in her black dress, quite motionless, her eyes strangely alive and wise, probing, never leaving his face.
His thoughts were heavy, muddled. The episode he had witnessed at Cardiff station still obsessed him morbidly. He thought of Bramwell, foolishly devoted to a woman who deceived him sordidly, of Denny, living unhappily, apart from his wife. His reason told him that all these marriages were dismal failures. It was a conclusion which, in his present state, made him wince. He wished to consider marriage as an idyllic state, yes, he could not otherwise consider it with the image of Christine before him. Her eyes, shining towards him, admitted no other conclusion. It was the conflict between his level, doubting mind and his overflowing heart which left him
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