“Believe me, I am not unsympathetic. I do understand what your feelings must be, but are you not, in effect, in the state we all have known searching for an ideal young woman who has never been born? We must face the facts: if she exists, or did exist, I should have heard of her, Somerset House would have a record of her, your own extensive researches would have revealed something positive. I do urge you for your own good to accept it, my boy. With all this against you, you simply have no case.”
“Only my own positive conviction,” Cohn put in. “It’s against reason, I know but I still have it.”
“You must try to rid yourself of it. Don’t you see there are layers of assumptions? If she did exist she might be already married.”
“But to the wrong man,” Cohn said promptly.
“Even that does not follow. Your counterpart varied from you, you say. Well, her counterpart if she existed would have had an entirely different upbringing in different circumstances from the other; the probability is that there would only be the most superficial resemblance. You must see that the whole thing goes into holes wherever you touch it with reason.” He regarded Cohn for a moment, and shook his head. “Somewhere at the back of your mind you are giving houseroom to the proposition that unlike causes can produce like results. Throw it out.”
Cohn smiled.
“How Newtonian, Doctor, No, a random factor is random. Chance therefore exists.”
“Young man, you’re incorrigible,” the doctor told him. If there weren’t little point in wishing success with the impossible I’d say your tenacity deserves it. As things are, I advise you to apply it to the almost attainable.”
His pipe had gone out, and he lit it again.
“That,” he went on, “was a professional recommendation. But now, if it isn’t too late for you, I’d like to hear more. I don’t pretend to guess at the true nature of your experience, but the speculations your plane of might have been arouses are fascinating. Not unnaturally one feels a curiosity to know how one’s own counterpart made out there and failing that, how other people’s did. Our present Prime Minister, for instance did both of him get the job? And Sir Winstonor is he not Sir Winston over there? how on earth did he get along with no Second World War to make his talents burgeon? And what about the poor old Labour Party…? The thing provokes endless questions..
After a late breakfast the next morning Dr. Harshom helped Cohn into his coat in the hail, but held him there for a final word.
“I spent what was left of the night thinking about this,” he said, earnestly. “Whatever the explanation may be, you must write it down, every detail you can remember. Do it anonymously if you like, but do it. It may not be unique, someday it may give valuable confirmation of someone else’s experience, or become evidence in support of some theory. So put it on record but then leave it at that… Do your best to forget the assumptions you jumped at they’re unwarranted in a dozen ways. Size does not exist. The only Ottilie Harshoms there have been in this world died long ago. Let the mirage fade. But thank you for your confidence. Though I am inquisitive, I am discreet. If there should be any way I can help you…”
Presently he was watching the car down the drive. Cohn waved a hand just before it disappeared round the corner. Dr Harshom shook his head. He knew he might as well have saved his breath, but he felt in duty bound to make one last appeal. Then he turned back into the house, frowning. Whether the obsession was a fantasy, or something more than a fantasy, was almost irrelevant to that fact that sooner or later the young man was going to drive himself into a breakdown During the next few weeks Dr Harshom learnt no more, except that Cohn Trafford had not taken his advice, for word filtered through that both Peter Harshom in Cornwall and Harold in Durham had received requests for information regarding a Miss Ottilie Harshom who, as far as they knew, was nonexistent.
After that there was nothing more for some months. Then a picture postcard from Canada. On one side was a picture of the Parliament Buildings, Ottawa. The message on the other was brief. It said simply: “Found her. Congratulate me. C. T.”
Dr Harshom studied it for a moment, and then smiled slightly. He was pleased. He had thought Cohn Trafford a likeable young man; too good to run himself to pieces over such a futile quest. One did not believe it for a moment, of course, but if some sensible young woman had managed to convince him that she was the reincarnation, so to speak, of his beloved, good luck to her and good luck for him… The obsession could now fade quietly away. He would have liked to respond with the requested congratulations, but the card bore no address.
Several weeks later there was another card, with a picture of St. Mark’s Square, Venice, The message was again laconic, but headed this time by an hotel address. It read: “Honeymoon. May I bring her to see you after?”
Dr Harshom hesitated. His professional inclination was against it; a feeling that anything likely to recall the young man to the mood in which he had last seen him was best avoided. On the other hand, a refusal would seem odd as well as rude. In the end he replied, on the back of a picture of Hereford Cathedraclass="underline" “Do. When?”
Half August had already gone before Cohn Trafford did make his reappearance. He drove up looking sunburnt and in better shape all round than he had on his previous visit. Dr Harshom was glad to see it, but surprised to find that he was alone in the car.
“But I understand the whole intention was that I should meet the bride,” he protested.
“It was, it is,” Cohn assured him. “She’s at the hotel. I, well, I’d like to have a few words with you first.”
The doctor’s gaze became a little keener, his manner more thoughtful.
“Very well. Let’s go indoors. If there’s anything I’m not to mention, you could have warned me by letter, you know.”
“Oh, it’s not that. She knows about that. Quite what she makes of it, I’m not sure, but she knows, and she’s anxious to meet you. No, it’s well, it won’t take more than ten minutes.”
The doctor led the way to his study. He waved Cohn to an easy-chair, and himself took the swivel-chair at the desk.
“Unburden yourself,” he invited, Cohn sat forward, forearms on knees, hands dangling between them.
“The most important thing, Doctor, is for me to thank you. I can never be grateful enough to you never. If you had not invited me here as you did, I think it is unlikely I ever would have found her.”
Dr Harshorn frowned. He was not convinced that the thanks were justified. Clearly, whoever Cohn had found was possessed of a strong therapeutic quality, nevertheless: “As I recollect, all I did was listen, and offer you unwelcome advice for your own good which you did not take,” he remarked.
“So it seemed to me that the time,” Cohn agreed. “It looked as if you had closed all the doors. But then, when I thought it over, I saw one, just one, that hadn’t quite latched.”
“I don’t recall giving you any encouragement,” Dr Harshorn asserted.
“I am sure you don’t, but you did. You indicated to me the last, faintly possible line and I followed it up. No, you’ll see what it was later, if you’ll just bear with me a little.
“When I did see the possibility, I realised it meant a lot of groundwork that I couldn’t cover on my own, so I had to call in the professionals. They were pretty good, I thought, and they certainly removed any doubt about the line being the right one, but what they could tell me ended on board a ship bound for Canada. So then I had to call in some enquiry agents over there. It’s a large country. A lot of people go to it. There was a great deal of routine searching to do, and I began to get discouraged, but then they got a lead, and in another week they came across with the information that she was a secretary working in a lawyer’s office in Ottawa.