It is hard for the general practitioner who sits among his patients both
morning and evening, and sees them in their homes between, to steal time for one
little daily breath of cleanly air. To win it he must slip early from his bed
and walk out between shuttered shops when it is chill but very clear, and all
things are sharply outlined, as in a frost. It is an hour that has a charm of
its own, when, but for a postman or a milkman, one has the pavement to oneself,
and even the most common thing takes an ever-recurring freshness, as though
causeway, and lamp, and signboard had all wakened to the new day. Then even an
inland city may seem beautiful, and bear virtue in its smoke-tainted air.
But it was by the sea that I lived, in a town that was unlovely enough were
it not for its glorious neighbour. And who cares for the town when one can sit
on the bench at the headland, and look out over the huge, blue bay, and the
yellow scimitar that curves before it. I loved it when its great face was
freckled with the fishing boats, and I loved it when the big ships went past,
far out, a little hillock of white and no hull, with topsails curved like a
bodice, so stately and demure. But most of all I loved it when no trace of man
marred the majesty of Nature, and when the sun-bursts slanted down on it from
between the drifting rainclouds. Then I have seen the further edge draped in the
gauze of the driving rain, with its thin grey shading under the slow clouds,
while my headland was golden, and the sun gleamed upon the breakers and struck
deep through the green waves beyond, showing up the purple patches where the
beds of seaweed are lying. Such a morning as that, with the wind in his hair,
and the spray on his lips, and the cry of the eddying gulls in his ear, may send
a man back braced afresh to the reek of a sick-room, and the dead, drab
weariness of practice.
It was on such another day that I first saw my old man. He came to my bench
just as I was leaving it. My eye must have picked him out even in a crowded
street, for he was a man of large frame and fine presence, with something of
distinction in the set of his lip and the poise of his head. He limped up the
winding path leaning heavily upon his stick, as though those great shoulders had
become too much at last for the failing limbs that bore them. As he approached,
my eyes caught Nature's danger signal, that faint bluish tinge in nose and lip
which tells of a labouring heart.
"The brae is a little trying, sir," said I. "Speaking as a physician, I
should say that you would do well to rest here before you go further."
He inclined his head in a stately, old-world fashion, and seated himself upon
the bench. Seeing that he had no wish to speak I was silent also, but I could
not help watching him out of the corners of my eyes, for he was such a wonderful
survival of the early half of the century, with his low-crowned, curly-brimmed
hat, his black satin tie which fastened with a buckle at the back, and, above
all, his large, fleshy, clean-shaven face shot with its mesh of wrinkles. Those
eyes, ere they had grown dim, had looked out from the box-seat of mail coaches,
and had seen the knots of navvies as they toiled on the brown embankments. Those
lips had smiled over the first numbers of "Pickwick," and had gossiped of the
promising young man who wrote them. The face itself was a seventy-year almanack,
and every seam an entry upon it where public as well as private sorrow left its
trace. That pucker on the forehead stood for the Mutiny, perhaps; that line of
care for the Crimean winter, it may be; and that last little sheaf of wrinkles,
as my fancy hoped, for the death of Gordon. And so, as I dreamed in my foolish
way, the old gentleman with the shining stock was gone, and it was seventy years
of a great nation's life that took shape before me on the headland in the morning.
But he soon brought me back to earth again. As he recovered his breath he
took a letter out of his pocket, and, putting on a pair of horn-rimmed
eye-glasses, he read it through very carefully. Without any design of playing
the spy I could not help observing that it was in a woman's hand. When he had
finished it he read it again, and then sat with the corners of his mouth drawn
down and his eyes staring vacantly out over the bay, the most forlorn-looking
old gentleman that ever I have seen. All that is kindly within me was set
stirring by that wistful face, but I knew that he was in no humour for talk, and
so, at last, with my breakfast and my patients calling me, I left him on the
bench and started for home.
I never gave him another thought until the next morning, when, at the same
hour, he turned up upon the headland, and shared the bench which I had been
accustomed to look upon as my own. He bowed again before sitting down, but was
no more inclined than formerly to enter into conversation. There had been a
change in him during the last twenty-four hours, and all for the worse. The face
seemed more heavy and more wrinkled, while that ominous venous tinge was more
pronounced as he panted up the hill. The clean lines of his cheek and chin were
marred by a day's growth of grey stubble, and his large, shapely head had lost
something of the brave carriage which had struck me when first I glanced at him.
He had a letter there, the same, or another, but still in a woman's hand, and
over this he was moping and mumbling in his senile fashion, with his brow
puckered, and the corners of his mouth drawn down like those of a fretting
child. So I left him, with a vague wonder as to who he might be, and why a
single spring day should have wrought such a change upon him.
So interested was I that next morning I was on the look out for him. Sure
enough, at the same hour, I saw him coming up the hill; but very slowly, with a
bent back and a heavy head. It was shocking to me to see the change in him as he approached.
"I am afraid that our air does not agree with you, sir," I ventured to remark.
But it was as though he had no heart for talk. He tried, as I thought, to
make some fitting reply, but it slurred off into a mumble and silence. How bent
and weak and old he seemed—ten years older at the least than when first I had
seen him! It went to my heart to see this fine old fellow wasting away before my
eyes. There was the eternal letter which he unfolded with his shaking fingers.
Who was this woman whose words moved him so? Some daughter, perhaps, or
granddaughter, who should have been the light of his home instead of—— I smiled
to find how bitter I was growing, and how swiftly I was weaving a romance round
an unshaven old man and his correspondence. Yet all day he lingered in my mind,
and I had fitful glimpses of those two trembling, blue-veined, knuckly hands
with the paper rustling between them.
I had hardly hoped to see him again. Another day's decline must, I thought,
hold him to his room, if not to his bed. Great, then, was my surprise when, as I
approached my bench, I saw that he was already there. But as I came up to him I
could scarce be sure that it was indeed the same man. There were the
curly-brimmed hat, and the shining stock, and the horn glasses, but where were
the stoop and the grey-stubbled, pitiable face? He was clean-shaven and firm
lipped, with a bright eye and a head that poised itself upon his great shoulders
like an eagle on a rock. His back was as straight and square as a grenadier's,
and he switched at the pebbles with his stick in his exuberant vitality. In the
button-hole of his well-brushed black coat there glinted a golden blossom, and
the corner of a dainty red silk handkerchief lapped over from his breast pocket.
He might have been the eldest son of the weary creature who had sat there the morning before.
"Good morning, Sir, good morning!" he cried with a merry waggle of his cane.
"Good morning!" I answered, "how beautiful the bay is looking."
"Yes, Sir, but you should have seen it just before the sun rose."
"What, have you been here since then?"
"I was here when there was scarce light to see the path."
"You are a very early riser."
"On occasion, sir; on occasion!" He cocked his eye at me as if to gauge
whether I were worthy of his confidence. "The fact is, sir, that my wife is
coming back to me to day."
I suppose that my face showed that I did not quite see the force of the
explanation. My eyes, too, may have given him assurance of sympathy, for he
moved quite close to me and began speaking in a low, confidential voice, as if
the matter were of such weight that even the sea-gulls must be kept out of our councils.
"Are you a married man, Sir?"
"No, I am not."
"Ah, then you cannot quite understand it. My wife and I have been married for
nearly fifty years, and we have never been parted, never at all, until now."
"Was it for long?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. This is the fourth day. She had to go to Scotland. A matter of
duty, you understand, and the doctors would not let me go. Not that I would have
allowed them to stop me, but she was on their side. Now, thank God! it is over,
and she may be here at any moment."
"Yes, here. This headland and bench were old friends of ours thirty years
ago. The people with whom we stay are not, to tell the truth, very congenial,
and we have, little privacy among them. That is why we prefer to meet here. I
could not be sure which train would bring her, but if she had come by the very
earliest she would have found me waiting."
"In that case——" said I, rising.
"No, sir, no," he entreated, "I beg that you will stay. It does not weary
you, this domestic talk of mine?"
"On the contrary."
"I have been so driven inwards during these few last days! Ah, what a
nightmare it has been! Perhaps it may seem strange to you that an old fellow
like me should feel like this."
"It is charming."
"No credit to me, sir! There's not a man on this planet but would feel the
same if he had the good fortune to be married to such a woman. Perhaps, because
you see me like this, and hear me speak of our long life together, you conceive
that she is old, too."
He laughed heartily, and his eyes twinkled at the humour of the idea.
"She's one of those women, you know, who have youth in their hearts, and so
it can never be very far from their faces. To me she's just as she was when she
first took my hand in hers in '45. A wee little bit stouter, perhaps, but then,
if she had a fault as a girl, it was that she was a shade too slender. She was
above me in station, you know—I a clerk, and she the daughter of my employer.
Oh! it was quite a romance, I give you my word, and I won her; and, somehow, I
have never got over the freshness and the wonder of it. To think that that
sweet, lovely girl has walked by my side all through life, and that I have been able——"
He stopped suddenly, and I glanced round at him in surprise. He was shaking
all over, in every fibre of his great body. His hands were clawing at the
woodwork, and his feet shuffling on the gravel. I saw what it was. He was trying
to rise, but was so excited that he could not. I half extended my hand, but a
higher courtesy constrained me to draw it back again and turn my face to the
sea. An instant afterwards he was up and hurrying down the path.
A woman was coming towards us. She was quite close before he had seen
her—thirty yards at the utmost. I know not if she had ever been as he described
her, or whether it was but some ideal which he carried in his brain. The person
upon whom I looked was tall, it is true, but she was thick and shapeless, with a
ruddy, full-blown face, and a skirt grotesquely gathered up. There was a green
ribbon in her hat, which jarred upon my eyes, and her blouse-like bodice was
full and clumsy. And this was the lovely girl, the ever youthful! My heart sank
as I thought how little such a woman might appreciate him, how unworthy she
might be of his love.
She came up the path in her solid way, while he staggered along to meet her.
Then, as they came together, looking discreetly out of the furthest corner of my
eye, I saw that he put out both his hands, while she, shrinking from a public
caress, took one of them in hers and shook it. As she did so I saw her face, and
I was easy in my mind for my old man. God grant that when this hand is shaking,
and when this back is bowed, a woman's eyes may look so into mine.