How often I sit, poring o’er

     My strange distorted youth,

Seeking in vain, in all my store,

     One feeling based on truth; . . .

So constant as my heart would be,

     So fickle as it must,

‘Twere well for others and for me

     ‘Twere dry as summer dust.

Excitements come, and act and speech

Flow freely forth:—but no,

Nor they, nor aught beside can reach

     The buried world below.

—A. H. Clough, Poem (1840)

The door was opened by the housekeeper. The doctor, it seemed, was in his dispensary; but if Charles would like to wait upstairs ... so, divested of his hat and his Inverness cape he soon found himself in that same room where he had drunk the grog and declared himself for Darwin. A fire burned in the grate; and evidence of the doctor’s solitary supper, which the housekeeper hastened to clear, lay on the round table in the bay window overlooking the sea. Charles very soon heard feet on the stairs. Grogan came warmly into the room, hand extended.

“This is a pleasure, Smithson. That stupid woman now— has she not given you something to counteract the rain?”

“Thank you ...” he was going to refuse the brandy decan-ter, but changed his mind. And when he had the glass in his hand, he came straight out with his purpose. “I have some-thing private and very personal to discuss. I need your advice.”

A little glint showed in the doctor’s eyes then. He had had other well-bred young men come to him shortly before their marriage. Sometimes it was gonorrhea, less often syphilis; sometimes it was mere fear, masturbation phobia; a wide-spread theory of the time maintained that the wages of self-abuse was impotence. But usually it was ignorance; only a year before a miserable and childless young husband had come to see Dr. Grogan, who had had gravely to explain that new life is neither begotten nor born through the navel.

“Do you now? Well I’m not sure I have any left—I’ve given a vast amount of it away today. Mainly concerning what should be executed upon that damned old bigot up in Marlborough House. You’ve heard what she’s done?”

“That is precisely what I wish to talk to you about.”

The doctor breathed a little inward sigh of relief; and he once again jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“Ah, of course—Mrs. Tranter is worried? Tell her from me that all is being done that can be done. A party is out searching. I have offered five pounds to the man who brings her back ...” his voice went bitter “... or finds the poor creature’s body.”

“She is alive. I’ve just received a note from her.”

Charles looked down before the doctor’s amazed look. And then, at first addressing his brandy glass, he began to tell the truth of his encounters with Sarah—that is, almost all the truth, for he left undescribed his own more secret feelings, He managed, or tried, to pass some of the blame off on Dr. Grogan and their previous conversation; giving himself a sort of scientific status that the shrewd little man opposite did not fail to note. Old doctors and old priests share one thing in common: they get a long nose for deceit, whether it is overt or, as in Charles’s case, committed out of embarrassment. As he went on with his confession, the end of Dr. Grogan’s nose began metaphorically to twitch; and this invisible twitching signified very much the same as Sam’s pursing of his lips. The doctor let no sign of his suspicions appear. Now and then he asked questions, but in general he let Charles talk his increas-ingly lame way to the end of his story. Then he stood up.

“Well, first things first. We must get those poor devils back.” The thunder was now much closer and though the curtains had been drawn, the white shiver of lightning trem-bled often in their weave behind Charles’s back.

“I came as soon as I could.”

“Yes, you are not to blame for that. Now let me see ...” The doctor was already seated at a small desk in the rear of the room. For a few moments there was no sound in it but the rapid scratch of his pen. Then he read what he had written to Charles.

“’Dear Forsyth, News has this minute reached me that Miss Woodruff is safe. She does not wish her whereabouts disclosed, but you may set your mind at rest. I hope to have further news of her tomorrow. Please offer the enclosed to the party of searchers when they return. ‘Will that do?”

“Excellently. Except that the enclosure must be mine.” Charles produced a small embroidered purse, Ernestina’s work, and set three sovereigns on the green cloth desk beside Grogan, who pushed two away. He looked up with a smile.

“Mr. Forsyth is trying to abolish the demon alcohol. I think one piece of gold is enough.” He placed the note and the coin in an envelope, sealed it, and then went to arrange for the letter’s speedy delivery.

He came back, talking. “Now the girl—what’s to be done about her? You have no notion where she is at the moment?”

“None at all. Though I am sure she will be where she indicated tomorrow morning.”

“But of course you cannot be there. In your situation you cannot risk any further compromise.”

Charles looked at him, then down at the carpet.

“I am in your hands.”

The doctor stared thoughtfully at Charles. He had just set a little test to probe his guest’s mind. And it had revealed what he had expected. He turned and went to the book-shelves by his desk and then came back with the same volume he had shown Charles before: Darwin’s great work. He sat before him across the fire; then with a small smile and a look at Charles over his glasses, he laid his hand, as if swearing on a Bible on The Origin of Species.

“Nothing that has been said in this room or that remains to be said shall go beyond its walls.” Then he put the book aside.

“My dear Doctor, that was not necessary.”

“Confidence in the practitioner is half of medicine.”

Charles smiled wanly. “And the other half?”

“Confidence in the patient.” But he stood before Charles could speak. “Well now—you came for my advice, did you not?” He eyed Charles almost as if he was going to box with him; no longer the bantering, but the fighting Irishman. Then he began to pace his “cabin,” his hands tucked under his frock coat.

“I am a young woman of superior intelligence and some education. I think the world has done badly by me. I am not in full command of my emotions. I do foolish things, such as throwing myself at the head of the first handsome rascal who is put in my path. What is worse, I have fallen in love with being a victim of fate. I put out a very professional line in the way of looking melancholy. I have tragic eyes. I weep without explanation. Et cetera. Et cetera. And now...” the little doctor waved his hand at the door, as if invoking magic “...enter a young god. Intelligent. Good-looking. A perfect specimen of that class my education has taught me to ad-mire. I see he is interested in me. The sadder I seem, the more interested he appears to be. I kneel before him, he raises me to my feet. He treats me like a lady. Nay, more than that. In a spirit of Christian brotherhood he offers to help me escape from my unhappy lot.”

Charles made to interrupt, but the doctor silenced him.

“Now I am very poor. I can use none of the wiles the more fortunate of my sex employ to lure mankind into their power.” He raised his forefinger. “I have but one weapon. The pity I inspire in this kindhearted man. Now pity is a thing that takes a devil of a lot of feeding. I have fed this Good Samaritan my past and he has devoured it. So what can I do? I must make him pity my present. One day, when I am walking where I have been forbidden to walk, I seize my chance. I show myself to someone I know will report my crime to the one person who will not condone it. I get myself dismissed from my position. I disappear, under the strong presumption that it is in order to throw myself off the nearest clifftop. And then, in extremis and de profundis—or rather de altis—I cry to my savior for help.” He left a long pause then, and Charles’s eyes slowly met his. The doctor smiled, “I present what is partly hypothesis, of course.”

“But your specific accusation—that she invited her own...”

The doctor sat and poked the fire into life. “I was called early this morning to Marlborough House. I did not know why—merely that Mrs. P. was severely indisposed. Mrs. Fairley—the housekeeper, you know—told me the gist of what had happened.” He paused and fixed Charles’s unhappy eyes. “Mrs. Fairley was yesterday at the dairy out there on Ware Cleeves. The girl walked flagrantly out of the woods under her nose. Now that woman is a very fair match to her mistress, and I’m sure she did her subsequent duty with all the mean appetite of her kind. But I am convinced, my dear Smithson, that she was deliberately invited to do it.”

“You mean ...” The doctor nodded. Charles gave him a terrible look, then revolted. “I cannot believe it. It is not possible she should—“

He did not finish the sentence. The doctor murmured, “It is possible. Alas.”

“But only a person of ...” he ............