Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

WHERE I DID BEGIN
"Is that true?" queried the old man turning to me.
I nodded. "This cottage was divided into three in those days and
Williker's parents occupied this end."
"His life is run his compass," muttered the doctor as he covered
the naked foot with a blanket, then holding his hands towards me,
"May I wash?" I took him to my bedroom.
"Well, what can we do?" I asked.
The methodical hands, no longer young but still sensitive, passed
swiftly over each other as he answered. "Keep him warm and give
him anything that he wants." And then after a pause he added, "It
won't be long."
"Do you mean he's dying?"
"Yes. Is it very . . . ?"
I stopped him. "Oh no, not that. I'm very glad I found him.
But such a thought had not entered my head. Poor chap."
"With that foot and his damaged hand what chance has he now?"
The doctor did not wait for my reply, but laying aside the towel
descended the dark twisting old stairs.
"Sorry I can't stay," he whispered over his shoulder, "A maternity
case you understand. Can I send anyone?"
"Well if you would not mind telling Mrs. Ritchie at the Post
Office ..." I suggested. "I don't like leaving him to go myself."
"Quite, quite." He bent over Williker for an instant. "Comfortable,
old chap? That's right. I expect the warmth will make you sleep.
Good-night." And suddenly the clean hand gripped the ragged
shoulder. As he passed me at the door he shot into my ear, "There'll
be no pain—at least——" but the self-starter drowned the rest and
the car was swallowed in the mist.
Shortly after Mrs. Ritchie looked in and her calm practical nature
guessed what was to be done almost without telling. She made Williker
some warm milk and persuaded him to sip a little, and she insisted
on my eating, though I never felt less inclined. We talked in undertones
by the shaded lamp while our patient dosed by the fire.
"Did you know him when he was young?" I asked.
"Yes, I did. As a young man he wasn't a bit like you've known
him; quite respectable he were."
I knew my Ritchie well enough to understand what she meant by
respectability. She was no lover of the Scribes and Pharisees.
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