“I thought you had done with all that when you passed your examination.”
“A medical man has never done learning. Medical science is progressive. The tyro of today knows more than the adept of a century ago.”
As Mr. Gerard had only one day to spend at the Vicarage, Celia gave herself up to the task of making that one day agreeable to him, with the utmost benevolence and amiability. Her brother seemed dull and morose, and shut himself in his den all day, upon the pretence of polishing a lyric he had flung off, in a moment of inspiration, for one of the magazines; so Celia had the visitor thrown altogether on her hands, as she complained afterwards rather plaintively, though she bore the infliction pretty cheerfully at the time.
The two young people spent the morning in conversation beside the breakfast-room fire, Celia pretending to work very hard at an antimacassar in crewels; while Gerard paced the room, and stared out of the window, and fidgeted on his chair, after the manner of a young man, not belonging to the tame cat species, when he finds himself shut up in a country house with a young woman. In spite of this restlessness, however, the surgeon seemed particularly well pleased with his idle morning. He found a great deal to talk about—people—places books—life in the abstract—and, finally, his own youth and boyhood in particular. He told Celia much more than it was his habit to tell an acquaintance. Those blue eyes of hers expressed such gentle sympathy; the pretty, pouting, under lip had a tender look that tempted him to trust her. As a physiognomist he was inclined to think well of Celia, despite her frivolity. As a young man he was inclined to admire her.
“You must have had a very hard youth,” she said compassionately, when he had given her a sketch, half sad, half humorous, of his life at the Marischal College, Aberdeen.
“Yes, and I am likely to have a hard manhood,” he answered gravely. “How can I ever dare ask a woman to share a life which has at present so little promise of sunshine?”
“But do not all your great men begin in that kind of way?” interrogated Celia; “Sir Astley Cooper, for instance, and that poor dear who found out the separate functions of the nerves that direct our thoughts and movements—though goodness knows what actual use that discovery could have been to anybody—”
“I think you must mean Sir Charles Bell,” suggested Gerard, rather disgusted at this flippant mention of genius.
“I suppose I do,” said Celia. “He wrote a book about hands, I believe. I only wish he had written a book about gloves; for your glove-maker’s idea of anatomy is simply absurd. I never yet could find a maker who understands my thumb.”
“What an advantage my sex has over yours in that respect,” remarked Gerard.
“How so?”
“We never need wear gloves, except when we dance or when we drive.”
“Ah,” sighed Celia, with her wondering look. “I suppose there are sane men in big places like London and Manchester, who walk about without gloves. They wouldn’t do it here, where everybody knows everybody else.”
“I think I have bought about two pairs of gloves since I attained to man’s estate,” said Gerard.
“But your dances? How do you manage for those?”
“Easily. I never dance.”
“What, are you never tired of playing the wallflower? Do not German waltzes inspire you?”
“I never go in the way of being inspired. I have never been to a party since I came to London.”
“Good gracious! Why don’t you go to parties?”
“I could give you fifty reasons, but perhaps one will do as well. Nobody ever asks me.”
“Poor fellow!” cried Celia, with intense compassion. Nothing he had told her of his early struggles had touched her like this. Here was the acme of desolation. “What, you live in London all the season, and nobody asks you to dances and things?”
“In that part of London I inhabit there is no season. Life there runs on the same monotonous wheels all the year round—poverty all the year round—hard work all the year round—debt, and difficulty, and sickness, and sorrow all the year round.”
“You are making my heart bleed,” said Celia; “at least I suppose that’s anatomically impossible, and I ought not to mention such an absurdity to a doctor; but you are making me feel quite too unhappy.”
“I should be sorry to do that,” returned Gerard gently, “and it would be a very bad return for your kindness to me. Do not imagine that the kind of life I lead is a silent martyrdom. I am happy in my profession. I am getting on quite as fast as I ever expected to get on. I believe—yes, I do honestly believe, that I shall make name and fortune sooner or later, if I live long enough. It is only when I reflect how long it must be before I can conquer a position good enough for a wife to share, that I am inclined to feel impatient.”
Celia became suddenly interested in the shading of a vine leaf, and bent her face so low over her work, that a flood of crimson rushed into her cheeks, and she felt disinclined to look up again.
She gave a little, nervous cough presently, and, as Gerard was pacing the room in silence, felt herself constrained to say something.
“I dare say the young lady to whom you are engaged will not mind how long she has to wait,” Celia suggested; “or, if she is very brave, she will not shrink from sharing your early struggles.”
“There is no such young lady in question,” answered Gerard. “I am not engaged.”
“I beg your pardon. Ah, I forgot you had said you didn’t go to parties.”
“Do you think a man should choose a wife at a dance?”
“I don’t know. Such things do happen at dances, don’t they?”
“Possibly. For my own part, I would rather see my future wife at home, by her father’s
