The Young Physician

by Francis Brett Young

“I don’t think I’ll come in,” he said. He knew that he must make an end somewhere.

“Not even to be thanked? I’ve enjoyed myself most awfully.”

She stood before him in the gloom of the hall as though she were waiting for something. It felt as if the dark space between them must break into flame. Their lips met.

“Good God! . . . how wonderful you are!” he said.

“Next week,” she whispered.

III

Edwin had arranged to spend the following day with the Boyces at their house in Alvaston. He found it difficult to contain himself, for the delicious memory of their parting the night before swamped his efforts at conversation with the persistency of waves that follow one another in a rising tide. It seemed to him impossible that his state should not be evident to the whole household, and particularly to Matthew, who knew him so well.

In the afternoon, when they sat smoking together in Boyce’s study at the top of the house, he felt that he was on the brink of a confession. The only thing that restrained him from it was the memory of the epigram and of his friend’s translation. He felt in his bones that Boyce would not be sympathetic and though his infatuation suggested that he wouldn’t much care whether Boyce were sympathetic, or suspicious, an intuitive dread of suspicion and its possible effects on his own reason made him hold his tongue. It was in the nature of Boyce, who didn’t happen, for the moment, to be in love, to be critical, to sweep away Rosie’s perfections in a generalisation: and the appeal of a generalisation to the mind of youth is so strong that Edwin was afraid to hear it. Somewhere in his submerged reason he admitted that Boyce’s judgment on the matter would probably be sound, and reason was the last tribunal in the world before which he wished this exceptional case to be presented. An unsatisfactory day. For the first time in their lives, the relations of the two friends were indefinitely strained.

He left Alvaston early in the evening. On his way to his lodging he passed the gloomy entrance to Prince Albert’s Place. It would have been easy, so easy, to call at Number Ten, but he had determined, once and for all, that the examination week should be free from distractions, and pride in his own strength of mind held him to his course, though he realised, almost gladly, that even if he were master of his feet he could not control his thoughts. He wondered if he would dream of her . . .

Next day the rigours of the final examination overtook him. This was the supreme ordeal in which every moment of his professional life from the day when he first entered the dissecting room to the night of the last midwifery case, would stand the test of scrutiny. He was not exactly afraid of it. He knew that his knowledge and technical skill were at least above the average of his year, and felt that with ordinary luck he would be among the first four of a field of twelve. The year was not one of exceptional brilliance, and comparisons were therefore in his favour.