CHAPTER V

THE WATERCRESS-BED


Barnard's practice, like most others, was subject to those fluctuations
that fill the struggling practitioner alternately with hope and despair.
The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almost complete stagnation.
One of these intermissions occurred on the day after my visit to
Nevill's Court, with the result that by half-past eleven I found myself
wondering what I should do with the remainder of the day. The better to
consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to the Embankment, and,
leaning on the parapet, contemplated the view across the river; the grey
stone bridge with its perspective of arches, the picturesque pile of the
shot-towers, and beyond, the shadowy shapes of the Abbey and St.
Stephen's.

It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and a
hint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle arch
of the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned
woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep by upon the
moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the careful
helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distant
shore--and thought of Ruth Bellingham.

What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep an
impression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself, and
not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt. But what