In this varnished chamber, decorated with a collection of barbarous surgical instruments, survivals of the Middle Ages, Edwin unbosomed himself. The manager listened in silence, screwing up his eyes from time to time, to show that he was taking in Edwin’s story.
“Well,” he said at the end of it. “Do you want me to tell you what I think of it, doctor? Candidly, you know.”
Edwin was only too anxious for another opinion.
“Well, I think you don’t know when you’re well off. To tell you the truth, doctor, I think you’re a damned fool. That’s straight. See?”
“I’m not surprised,” said Edwin. “Still, I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to stay at home. I can’t do it, that’s all. I’m only wondering if you can put me in the way of a job of some kind.”
“Well, doctor, that’s easier said than done. When you’re qualified, it’ll be a different matter altogether. I think I can promise to keep you in ‘locums’ at four or five guineas a week, as long as you like to take them; but I can’t honestly say there’s anything for you at present. It’s not like the old days when doctors were allowed to keep unqualified assistants.”
“I’m through my fourth exam., you know. I could do dispensing.”
“Dispensing. . . . Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. Well, doctor, I’ll see what I can do for you. You know what I think of it, don’t you? In the meantime you’d better leave your address. No good writing to Halesby, I suppose?”
Edwin gave him the address of W.G.’s diggings, and went off, hopelessly discouraged, to find his friend. W.G., however, was at present far too engrossed in the charms of Sister Merrion to be available. So Edwin went on to the Boyce’s house in Alvaston, only to find that Matthew had cycled down to Overton again with his father. It was impossible for him to settle to any work; so he took an afternoon train to Halesby, at a time when he knew his father would be busy at the shop, and collected the few belongings that he felt he must take with him.
The atmosphere of the house was inexpressibly poignant. Within its walls, he reflected, dwelt the ghost of all his childhood, and memories of his mother, that had lain submerged in his consciousness for many years, rose to meet him wherever he went. Well, he would never see the place again. This exile, it pleased him to think, was his final sacrifice to her memory. That was the best way in which he could express it. At the worst, another voice whispered, it was an excess of mawkish sentiment.