Free The Citadel by A. J. Cronin Page A

towards him. He longed to kiss her. Fumblingly he pressed her hand, turned, clattered down the path and was on his way home with dancing thoughts, walking on air along that dizzy path which millions have tritely followed and still believed themselves unique, rapturously predestined, eternally blessed. Oh! She was a wonderful girl! How well she had understood his meaning when he spoke of his difficulties in practice! She was clever, far cleverer than he. What a marvellous cook too! And he had called her Christine!

Chapter Eight
    Though Christine now occupied his mind more than ever the whole complexion of his thoughts was altered. He no longer felt despondent but happy, elated, hopeful. And this change of outlook was immediately reflected in his work. He was young enough to create in fancy a constant situation wherein she observed him at his cases, watched his careful methods, his scrupulous examinations, commended him for the searching accuracy of his diagnosis. Any temptation to scamp a visit, to reach a conclusion without first sounding the patient’s chest, was met by the instant thought: ‘Lord, no! What would she think of me if I did that!’
    More than once he found Denny’s eye upon him, satirical, comprehensive. But he did not care. In his intense, idealistic way he linked Christine with his ambitions, made her unconsciously an extra incentive, in the great assault upon the unknown.
    He admitted to himself that he still knew practically nothing. Yet he was teaching himself to think for himself, to look behind the obvious in an effort to find the proximate cause. Never before had he felt himself so powerfully attracted to the scientific ideal. He prayed that he might never become slovenly or mercenary, never jump to conclusions, never come to write ‘the mixture as before’. He wanted to find out, to be scientific, to be worthy of Christine.
    In the face of his ingenuous eagerness it seemed a pity that his work in the practice should suddenly and uniformly turn dull. He wanted to scale mountains. Yet for the next few weeks he was presented by a series of insignificant mole-hills. His cases were trivial, supremely uninteresting, a banal run of sprains, cut fingers, colds in the head. The climax came when he was called two miles down the valley by an old woman who asked him, peering yellow faced from beneath her flannel mutch, to cut her corns.
    He felt foolish, chafed at his lack of opportunity, longed for whirlwind and tempest.
    He began to question his own faith, to wonder if it were really possible for a doctor in this out-of-the-way place to be anything more than a petty, common hack. And then, at the lowest ebb of all, came an incident which sent the mercury of his belief soaring once again towards the skies.
    Towards the end of the last week in June, as he came over the station bridge he encountered Doctor Bramwell. The Lung Buster was slipping out of the side door of the Railway Inn, stealthily wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. He had the habit, when Gladys departed, gay and dressed in her best, upon her enigmatic ‘shopping’ expeditions to Toniglan, of soothing himself unobtrusively with a pint or two of beer.
    A trifle discomfited at being seen by Andrew he nevertheless carried off the situation with a flourish.
    ‘Ah, Manson! Glad to see you. I just had a call to Pritchard.’
    Pritchard was the proprietor of the Railway Inn and Andrew had seen him five minutes ago, taking his bull terrier for a walk. But he allowed the opportunity to pass. He had an affection for the Lung Buster whose highflown language and mock heroics were offset in a very human way by his timidity and the holes in his socks which the gay Gladys forgot to darn.
    As they walked up the street together they began to talk shop. Bramwell was always ready to discuss his cases and now, with an air of gravity, he told Andrew that Emlyn Hughes, Annie’s brother-in-law, was on his hands. Emlyn, he said, had been acting