The Hollow

His eyes, sympathetic and encouraging 5 watched her as she described-explained-went into details. Now and then he nodded his head understandingly. He asked questions, gave directions. A gentle glow pervaded the sufferer. Dr. Christow was really wonderful! He was so interested-so truly concerned. Even talking to him made one feel stronger.

John Christow drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write. Better give her a laxative, he supposed. That new American proprietary-nicely put up in cellophane and attractively coated in an unusual shade of salmon pink. Very expensive, too, and difficult to get-not every chemist stocked it. She'd probably have to go to that little place in Wardour Street. That would be all to the good-probably buck her up no end for a month or two, then he'd have to think of something else. There was nothing he could do for her. Poor physique and nothing to be done about it! Nothing to get your teeth into. Not like old Mother Crabtree …

A boring morning. Profitable financially -but nothing else. God, he was tired! Tired of sickly women and their ailments. Palliation, alleviation-nothing to it but that.

Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it … but always then he remembered St.

Christopher's, and the long row of beds in the Margaret Russell Ward, and Mrs. Crabtree grinning up at him with her toothless smile.

He and she understood each other! She was a fighter, not like that limp slug of a woman in the next bed. She was on his side, she wanted to live-though God knew why, considering the slum she lived in, with a husband who drank and a brood of unruly children, and she herself obliged to work day in day out, scrubbing endless floors of endless offices. Hard, unremitting drudgery and few pleasures! But she wanted to live-she enjoyed life-just as he, John Christow, enjoyed life! It wasn't the circumstances of life they enjoyed, it was life itself-the zest of existence. Curious-a thing one couldn't explain.

He thought to himself that he must talk to Henrietta about that.

He got up to accompany his patient to the door. His hand took hers in a warm clasp, friendly, encouraging. His voice was encouraging, too, full of interest and sympathy.

She went away revived, almost happy.

Dr. Christow took such an interest!

As the door closed behind her, John Christow forgot her, he had really been hardly aware of her existence even when she had been there. He had just done his stuff. It was all automatic. Yet, though it had hardly ruffled the surface of his mind, he had given out strength. His had been the automatic response of the healer and he felt the sag of depleted energy.

God, he thought again, I'm tired…

Only one more patient to see and then the clear space of the week-end. His mind dwelt on it gratefully. Golden leaves tinged with red and brown, the soft moist smell of Autumn-the road down through the woods-the wood fires. Lucy, most unique and delightful of creatures-with her curious, elusive, will-o'-the-wisp mind. He'd rather have Henry and Lucy than any other host and hostess in England. And The Hollow was the most delightful house he knew.

On Sunday he'd walk through the woods with Henrietta-up onto the crest of the hill and along the ridge. Walking with Henrietta he'd forget that there were any sick people in the world. Thank goodness, he thought, there's never anything the matter with Henrietta.

And then with a sudden quick twist of humour, she'd never let on to me if there was!

One more patient to see. He must press the bell on his desk… Yet, unaccountably, he delayed. Already he was late. Lunch would be ready upstairs in the dining room.

Gerda and the children would be waiting.

He must get on…

Yet he sat there motionless. He was so tired-so very tired.

It had been growing on him lately, this tiredness. It was at the root of the constantly increasing irritability which he was aware of but could not check. Poor Gerda, he thought, she has a lot to put up with… If only she was not so submissive-so ready to admit herself in the wrong when, half the time, it was he who was to blame! There were days when everything that Gerda said or did conspired to irritate him, and mainly, he thought ruefully, it was her virtues that irritated him. It was her patience, her unselfishness, her subordination of her wishes to his, that aroused his ill humour. And she never resented his quick bursts of temper, never stuck to her own opinion in preference to his, never attempted to strike out a line of her own. (Well, he thought, thafs why you married her, isn't it? What are you complaining about?