“I am too, dearest Mary.”
“Ever since that first minute at Craigdoran, when I saw you in the mirror . . . I knew, David. And when I thought you didn’t care, it fair broke my heart.”
“But you know I do. I’m just wild about you.”
He could hear her long, softly indrawn breath, more thrilling than any answer.
“I can’t stop, dearest David. I only wanted you to know that I’ll never marry Walter. Never—never. I didn’t ever want to, I just let myself be talked into it. And then, when I thought you didn’t want me. . . . But now I’ll tell him, first thing tomorrow.”
He could not let her face this alone.
“I’ll come with you, Mary. I’ll ask Drummond for time off.”
“No, David,” she said firmly, “You have your exam. That’s the important thing, for you to get through. After that, come straight away. I’ll be waiting for you.” She hesitated. “And . . . and if you’ve a wee minute you can write to me in the meantime.”
“I will, Mary. I’ve already begun a letter.”
“I can’t wait till I get it. Now I must go. Goodnight, Davie dear.”
The receiver was replaced. Now she would be creeping upstairs in the silent house to the room beside Willie’s. Seizing pen and paper he dashed off a long and fervent letter; then, undressing in a kind of trance, he flung himself into bed.
Next morning, like one inspired, he redoubled his work for the finals. In the intensity of this last spurt time flew. When the day of the examination arrived he entered the Eldon Hall, tense but confident, and took his place at one of the desks. The first papers were distributed. He saw, after a rapid run through, that the questions suited him. He began to write, never once looking up, covering the pages with a flowing legible script. During the next three days, coming and going between the hospital and the University, he took his place at the same desk, set himself to do his utmost, not only for his own sake but for hers.
Then the clinical examination began. In medicine he spotted his case at once: a bronchiectasis with secondary cerebral abscess. He believed he was doing well. On the last day of the examination he went in for his oral. Drummond, sitting with old Murdo Macleish, Regius Professor of Midwifery, known as the Heiland Stat, and Purvis, the external examiner, gave him a friendly nod, remarking to his colleagues:
“This is the fellow with the bedside manner.”
“He’s got rather more than that,” said Purvis, glancing through Moray’s case-report.
They began to question him, and Moray—fluent, ready to agree, to smile respectfully, and always, always deferential—felt he was giving of his best. Yet the Stat worried him. This formidable character, both a terror and support to generations of Highland students, was already legendary for his brutal frankness and bawdy humour. At his opening lecture of the session it was his habit to summon some shrinking youth to the floor before the entire class, throw him an end of chalk and, pointing to the blackboard with a grim smile, indicate in the coarsest terms his wish to have a pictoral representation of the female private parts. At present he was not saying much but watching Moray intently, with a suspicious look in his small red eye. However, the interview was soon over and Purvis said with a smile: “I don’t think we need keep you.”
When Moray had gone and the door closed behind him he added: “Nice young fellow.”
The Stat shook himself irritably.
“Smart enough,” he grunted. “But a bluidy young humbug.” The other two laughed. At his age, no one took old Murdo seriously.
The results were to be posted on Saturday morning. As Moray walked up the long hill to the University, all his assurance left him. He had been mistaken, he had not done well, he had failed. He scarcely dared approach the notice-board beside the main archway. Bracketed with two others, his name was at the head of the list. He had passed with honours.
He felt faint. After all his years of striving and self-denial the triumph of that moment was beyond belief. It was all the greater because of the sweet knowledge that he would soon share it with her. Barely waiting to receive the congratulations of the others gathered round the board, he went directly to the branch post office at the foot of Gilmore Hill and sent off a telegram.
Arriving Ardfillan 530 p. m. train today.
He hoped she would have returned from Craigdoran at that hour, and indeed, when he arrived, she was at the station to meet him. Quickly, quickly, her eyes shining, looking pale yet prettier than ever before, she advanced and, breathlessly unheeding of the others on the platform, offered him her lips. If, in these last hectic days, he had forgotten the warm freshness of her kiss, now it was renewed. As they went out of the station and started towards her home he still held her hand. Overcome, neither had so far spoken a single intelligible word. He saw that she dared not ask the question uppermost in her mind, and though he had planned a long and suspenseful recital of his success he merely said, humbly, not looking at her:
“I’ve passed, Mary . . . at the top, with honours.”
A sudden nervous tightening of her fingers on his; then, in a voice stifled by feeling, “I knew you’d do it, Davie dear. But, oh, I’m so glad, so terribly glad you have. Now we can face up to things together.”
He bent towards her in concern.
“It’s been difficult for you here?”
“Not exactly easy.” She softened the words by a tender upward glance. “When I went to tell Walter, at first be thought I was joking. He couldn’t believe his ears, that any woman would turn him down. When he found I was in earnest . . . he wasn’t . . . nice. Then his parents came to see Father. That was bad too.” She smiled wryly. “I was called a few fancy names.”
“Oh God,” he groaned, “to think of you having to suffer that and me not there. I’d like to break that damn fellow’s neck.”
“No,” she said seriously. “I suppose I was to blame. But I can only thank Heaven for being spared the awfulness of getting into that family and,” she pressed close to him, “for finding you. I love you, Davie.”
“And I you, Mary.”
“That’s everything,” she sighed. “Nothing else matters.”
“But didn’t your own family stand up for you?”
“In a way,” she said. “But except for Willie they’re not too pleased with me for all that. However, here we are, and first we’d better see my father.”
Through an entrance in the near side of the yard she took him into the bakery. It was low and dark, hot from the glow of two draw-plate ovens, and honey-sweet with the smell of a batch of new bread. Douglas, with his foreman, John Donaldson, was shelving the heavy board on which the double Scotch loaves, black crust upwards, were ranged in rows. The baker was in his shirt sleeves, wearing a floury apron, and old white canvas shoes. Over his shoulder he saw Moray enter, yet he finished the shelving, then slowly divested himself of the apron before coming forward.
“It’s yourself, then,” he said, unsmiling, offering his hand.
“Father,” Mary burst out, “David has passed his examination with honours, and come out top of the list.”
“So you’re a doctor now. Well, that’s something gained.”
He led the way out of the bakery and upstairs to the front parlour, where Willie was at the cleared table doing his lessons and Aunt Minnie seated knitting by the window. The boy gave Moray a swift welcoming smile but the aunt, frowning at her flashing needles, did not once look up.
“Sit down, man, sit down,” said the little baker. “We’ve had our tea earlier nor usual today. But . . . well, maybe afterwards, if ye’re hungry, Mary’ll get you a bite.”