The Coral Tree (18 page)

“I
’
m not in pain and I
’
m not feverish. I just feel tired, that
’
s all. If you
’
ll clear out, Solly, I
’
ll be right up.”

“And be right down again after that foolish attempt, my friend. You
’
re running a little too high a temp for my liking. Just stay where you are.”

It was a temptation she could not resist. She shut her eyes and obeyed.

In the distance she heard Sorrel murmuring “
...
too much excitement
...
too much emotional pleasure
...
Jan
’
s unexpected arrival
...”

“No,” she tried to say; “you
’
re wrong, Sorrel, quite wrong,” but the words would not come. The children
’
s chirrup died away. She slept.

Steps wakened her. They were firm steps, a man
’
s steps. They echoed unfalteringly along the passage to her room.

Through her half-closed eyes she could see Richard Stormer coming to the bedside, then she felt his hand reach under the sheet to take hers.

The hold as her pulse was marked was firm, yet quite indifferent.

She would not have thought that a grasp could say so clearly: I am a doctor; you are a patient; that is all.

Her eyes opened. She looked straight at him.

“Richard, you must understand that I—”

He cut her
short. “I do understand,” he said remotely; “you are undergoing an emotional shock. You didn
’
t expect Mr. Luknit just yet, did you? It
’
s only to be expected that you suffer a reaction like this.”

“But you
’
re wrong. The whole idea is wrong. I must explain
to
Jan at once.”

He was looking narrowly back at her, and she knew that she had never seen such disgust, such loathing in anyone before. The intensity of it appalled her into silence. It crumpled her resolve to speak to him first.

He waited a long, deliberate moment, then he spoke bitter
l
y himself.

“Yes, you must tell Luknit,” he taunted. “That
’
s very important to you, isn
’
t it? That telling—to somebody else. But does it matter what the telling does to
him
?”

“What could it do? Why is he thinking on the lines he is? I never gave him reason, I never—”

He had taken out a stethoscope. Adroitly he put it to his ears and upon her breast. As he listened he was remembering Gerard, and how Julia, also, had found some telling that had to be done. All the old pain and futility surged up in him again. For a while he had been able to put it behind him, now it was more salient than ever before. He swung the stethoscope back into its box.

“Best stay there today; perhaps tomorrow.”

“I
’
m all right—I mean I
’
ll be all right when I
’
ve cleared things up, explained—”

“You really mean passed on your disagreeable symptoms to the next victim, don
’
t you? That
’
s the way with most contagious diseases, and this, in its way, is only another form of contagious disease. Yes, Miss Porter, pass it on, pass it on, so long as you get rid of it yourself.”

“Richard, I don
’
t understand you, but one thing I do know—I want you to understand me.”

“I already understand perfectly, and as for the other, your comprehension of me, there is nothing to understand, Miss Porter, nothing at all.”

She wanted to cry out: But there was something once, and you know it. There was that afternoon in Pan
’
s Meadow, those minutes behind the plane, the little shared moments between, all those shining times. She wanted to remind him of this, but the set face above her was bitter and forbidding. It took away her words.

Still she would have tried, for something within her told her that she
must
try, that it was all-important, had not Jan knocked and walked in at that moment, his broad, pleasant face creased with concern.

“Cary, Cary, my dear—”

“I
’
m all right, Jan; just a little tired.” She knew that her agitated voice belied her words.

He looked at her tenderly, then he turned to Richard. “It is all this suddenness, is it not, Doctor? The little one did not think of me as coming yet. It is excitement that has done all this.”

Richard was fastening his bag. He said laconically: “You are a good diag
n
ostician.”

“And your advice?”

“A day
’
s rest, Mr. Luknit. Perhaps several days.” Richard paused, then added: “You might see that she does that.”

Sorrel had come into the room. “I
’
ll see to it,” she assured cheerily. “Jan was wondering if he could travel down in Paul, Richard, with you.”

“Yes, I have details to attend to in Sydney that perhaps I should have attended before I came up here. But I was anxious, you understand—”

“Naturally.” Stormer
’
s sharp word was revealing.

He added more courteously: “You will be welcome, sir.”

It became suddenly important to Cary that Jan should not go with Richard. There were things she must say to Jan, and as soon as possible. If he went before she could speak out it would delay the saying and so make it all the harder. She would have to wait longer before she could know the relief of being clear in her heart again.

She also shrank sensitively at what she felt sure, knowing the impulsive nature of Jan, would be revealed in that downward night. All the man
’
s misconceived thoughts of her would be confided to Richard, who would instantly misconstrue them even as Jan had. “No,” she said sharply, “I don
’
t want you to go.”

She was aware of three faces with three different expressions turned in her direction; Sorrel
’
s sympathetic, even sentimental,
Jan
’
s full of pleased delight, Richard
’
s cold and fraught with unconcealed dislike.

“It will not be for long, my dear,” assured Jan eagerly.

Cary bit her lip. Why
h
ad she spoken like that?

She heard them reassuring her that Jan would soon be back.

“You
’
ve done without him so long, Cary; you shouldn
’
t mind a little longer,” said Sorrel fatuously.

“It
’
s not that, it
’
s—”

How could she say it? she wondered. How could she ever say it, even without Sorrel and Richard to listen to every unhappy word? He had come all these miles with one thought in his heart, how could she disillusion him without inflicting a hurt?

She half-closed her lids in utter weariness, and at once, as light as a leaf in the wind, a kiss brushed her temple. “Not long, Cary,” reminded Jan
’
s voice, and she felt the hot color rising in her neck and throat, suffusing her cheeks, her whole face. She felt but would not open her eyes to Richard
’
s derisive stare.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CARY got up the next day. The lethargy had not left her, but she knew that so long as she stayed in her room it would never leave her. Only work would shift it, or at least lighten the load. The children needed her, and she flung herself with almost feverish eagerness into their activities. Sorrel watched her doubtfully. “There
’
s no rule I know of,” she stated dryly, “to make a person go from one extreme to the other. Must you expend all that effort?”

“I want to be busy, Sorrel; I have to.” Cary paused a moment, looking into Sorrel
’
s dark eyes.

“I
’
m in trouble, Solly. No doubt you sensed that.”

Sorrel did not answer. She simply waited for Cary to go on.

Cary did. She told her story—and Jan
’
s—as best she could, but as she told it she realized how piteously trite it must sound. There was so little to tell, from her angle. She tried to be honest and leave out nothing. She tried to remember and relate little things that must have passed between them, herself and Jan, to have given Jan that encouragement to travel half-way round the world as he had. But she could not recall many and she still felt honestly entitled to deny that they had ever existed. Her story ended lamely, unconvincingly. She looked appealingly at the nurse.

For a while there was a contemplative silence, then;

“I wish I could be on your side, Cary; but quite frankly I can
’
t. The things you
’
ve told me—the extent of
y
our friendship with Jan, your personal gift to him, your evasion of a farewell, all add up to one thing, I
’
m afraid. Unwittingly, I
’
m sure, but actually, none the less, you encouraged Jan.” Sorrel spread her palms. “And with this result,” she said.

Cary stood confused and downcast. She had not expected a verdict like that.

Sorrel went on more gently. She found excuses for Cary, she judged Jan for being too vulnerable, but her words were unheeded.

Cary pretended concern over William, who had come to hot words with Robert out in the garden, and fled.

The whooping cough had almost vanished. There was only a slight croak from Marilyn now and then and a sniffle from the others to remind her of the recent attacks.

The curtailed pony drill had not put the children back at all. They had returned to their walks around the arena with all their previous enthusiasm. Garry, as well as Janet, was now managing a little trot. Only Jim seemed not to have advanced from his last stage of progress. Did this mean he had reached his peak of improvement? Cary spoke to Matt about the little boy.

Went right off his riding when you were in bed, Miss Cary.” He looked at Jim critically. “And he
’
s not picking up now.”

Cary saddled Candy and trotted after Jim. He smiled as she caught up with him and they went round together.

“Happy, Jim?”

He hesitated, then: “Not unless you are Aunty Cary.”

So that was it, she thought. There
was
a bond between them. She had not been daydreaming when she had known she could help this child. He was as sensitive to her as she was to him. He had thrived when she was happy; in some odd way he had gone back when she was not.

“Funny little man,” she said aloud, trying to bite back a sob in her throat, “of course I
’
m happy. Come on, twice around the arena, Jim. Am I happy? Of all the silly things!”

But she was not, and she knew he sensed it, and although he did his best, there are things not cured by remedial measures, only by the knowledge and the communication of happiness and love.

Jan rang through that night to say he would not return till the end of the week. Now was her moment to tell him, she knew—now, when she did not have his hurt face before her, his reproachful blue eyes. But she could not do it. It was too cold, too unkind like this over the wires. Besides, he had just told her he was staying with Richard. “The good doctor has been most hospitable,” he said. “He is my friend.”

Everyone is your friend, she thought desperately. That
’
s your trouble, Jan.

She rang off without anything achieved. She avoided Sorrel
’
s curious glance as she sank herself more and more into the children
’
s affairs.

Fortunately for her occupation of mind, the “guests” just now seemed to be demanding a great deal of attention. Not physically, she thought with relief, for the whooping cough had left no aftermath—indeed, the extra vitamins that Doctor Stormer had
p
rescribed had rather achieved the opposite effect. Their behaviour,
h
owever, whether due to accelerated health or plain naughtiness, left much to be desired. Children were like that the World over, she supposed ruefully, either angels or fiends, never anything in between, and the period at present was the fiend variety. “Sometimes,” Cary told Sorrel, “all I seem to be at Clairhill for is a referee.”

Janet, usually the sweetest and most generous of souls, had taken to rationing her belongings, which before she had spread among the others like so much largesse.

William, the baby, whose only faults usually were to say things back to front and scribble on walls if anyone was misguided enough to leave behind a pencil, overnight took to being perversely argumentative.

William, why are you so contrary?”

“I are not. Naries are yellow with fur.”

“Feathers,” said Cary.

“Fur,” William said.

Cary sighed and went upstairs and took out a book on child guidance.

As she sat turning over the pages and wondering how she could apply their texts, dealing with physically normal children, to these little ones who made her heart a paper heart every time she looked at them, the phone rang.

She heard Sorrel answer it, then call her name. For some obstinate reason of her own, she did not reply. When she heard Sorrel speaking again and saying: “You will be returning on tomorrow
’
s tram Jan—” she felt glad she had not run along to the nurse
’
s call. She sat very still with the volume open in her hands.

Could she summon up her resources sufficiently to meet Jan and have a showdown tomorrow?
Could
she?

Cary knew she could not.

Taking up the book with the intention of getting in before Sorrel could, s
h
e ran down the stairs calling: “I give up, Solly; these children present problems not even mentioned in
The Modern Minor.
I shall just have to take time off and go to the city and buy something more comprehensive.”

Whether Sorre
l
suspected her motive or not, she suddenly did not care. All she was aware of was that she could not meet Jan. Not yet
...

When the nurse asked briefly: “When?” she answered equally briefly: “Tonight
’
s train from Sunset.”

“Jan will be returning on tonight
’
s train from Sydney,” said Sorrel. “He just rang, Cary. He will arrive tomorrow.”

“He will still be here when I come back,” dismissed Cary with a casualness she did not feel.

Knowing she was deserting, and knowing that Sorrel knew that too, Cary drove the car into the O
’
Flynns, garaged it there, and caught the night express.

She did not book in at the hotel. She decided to visit the reference libraries, then take the night train back. Although she was paying for this trip herself, her conscience pricked her. Because I am an utter coward, she thought, I am wasting money that could be used to better purposes elsewhere. For that reason I will not stop over.

She did not even buy a restaurant lunch. Armed with books and a bag of buns, she went into a park and found a deserted bench. Glancing up, she saw that the seat she had chosen faced Macquarie Street—an
d
the rooms to which she had gone unknowing that day to be interviewed by the great Richard Stormer.

How much had happened since then! Lit
t
le memories flashed through her mind like the colored facets of a kaleidoscope. She recalled Clairhill as it was and what it was now; Richard as he had been, what he had changed to, how he was again since the arrival of Jan.

She thought of Jan
...

“If you are gazing with lovelorn eyes,” said a voice behind her, “you are wasting your time, Miss Porter, Jan Luknit never stayed in my consulting-rooms; he stayed in my home. In any case, he is not there now. He has returned to Clairhill.”

Richard Stormer sat down by Cary
’
s side.

Although he should have been amazed to see her when presumably she was several hundred miles away, it was Cary who was taken by surprise. She half-rose, sank down again, tried awkwardly to shift the books and buns.

The attempt was not successful. He had taken up the volumes and was leafing through them idly. In her nervousness the paper bag fell to the grass and scattered its contents, much to the satisfaction of the sparrows, who pounced down with noisy glee.

Stormer, glancing up from
Suasion, Pro and Con,
loo
k
ed with inquiry at the buns now being rapidly reduced to crumbs.

“Your dinner, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn
’
t the Clairhill exchequer run to something more substantial than replenishment in a paper bag?”

“I was not particularly hungry, an
d
”—flushing—“I am paying for this myself
.
”

“Your city excursion as well?”

“I fail to see how that concerns you.”

His brows met in a dark, stubborn line. “Your city excursion as well, Miss Porter?”

“
...
Yes.”

His attention was on the book again.

“In all fairness,” he stated, “I believe Clairhill should pay. That is, if your errand was solely to purchase these.”

She did not answer.

“Was it?” he probed.

Hopelessly she began telling him that the children had been difficult lately; that methods to deal with physically normal children did not seem to pay dividends with afflicted ones. His eyes did not waver as she babbled on.

“So you came down exclusively to educate yourself?”

She turned her own eyes away. What was there about this man that ruled out all evasion?

“Among other things,” she replied.

“What things?”

“Doctor Stormer, I—”

“
What things,
Miss Porter?”

In a rush she answered: “I came because I was not ready for—Jan.”

“Ah,” he said. It was unrevealing, as his eyes were unrevealing. Presently, he commented: “So Luknit is still on the scales, I gather.”

“He is not, he—” She stopped at a sharp signal of his hand. “You deny you are weighing him up to discover whether he is worth retention or not?”

“I do deny it.” Her answer was fierce. “The idea never occurred to me. I only ran away because I was—afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Of telling him.” She blurted the admission. “Of telling him,” she continued in agitation, “that he has made a dreadful mistake; that any encouragement he had imagined —
imagined,
I say—on my part has not been intentional, that I like him very much, but not—not like that.”

Had she looked up she would have seen a quick light in the, doctor
’
s eyes. It smouldered, lit brightly, then almost as quickly died.

“Women,” he said. His voice was almost expressionless, yet somehow it was sufficient to turn Cary
’
s puzzled eyes to him.

“Why are you so full of hate?” she wondered aloud. “Why are you so hard, so bitter? Why is love locked out?”

“Locked out—” He echoed the two words a little hollowly. Suddenly unable to meet his glance, she turned her own glance away.

Presently he said levelly: “It has not been entirely locked out.
You
sho
u
ld realize—and recall—that.”

Cary flushed vividly.

“It is one of the fundamental laws of nature,” he continued; “it affects all. I”—briefly—“appear to have been no exception to the rule.”

“But you would not permit a continuance?”

Sharply he twisted her question to a question of his own. “Would you have wanted a continuance?”

Cary bit her lip and did not reply.

The buns were a mere scattering of saffron yellow now on the green sward. The sparrows were not even sparing these.

“Come,” he sai
d
tersely, “and we will have a decent meal.”

“I
’
m not hungry.”

He paid no heed to her refusal. He put his fingers under her elbow and prompted her up.

“We will go to the park tea-house. I always go there. I was on my way when I saw you here, Miss Porter.
It
’
s
quiet and we can talk.”

A little bitterly she flung: “Is there anything to talk about?”

“I believe you have several things. I have something of my own.”

“Like?”

“A reason for the locking out of love, as you put it.”

“I don
’
t want to hear it.

“But you will, none the less.” The fingers, light almost to im
pe
rce
pt
ibility, seemed to force her up the path.

T
hey found a secluded table by the window. Outside, an artificial lake reflected leaves and flowers and little scudding clouds. Cary let Richard order and sat staring moodily at the boo
k
s.

“Been having trouble with the nips,” he said conversationally as the waitress hovered around the table. “I wouldn
’
t let that worry you. It
’
s a natural function. All humans are occasionally perverse and
‘
agin
’
.”

“These are
‘
agin
’
at the same time,” sighed Cary. “All” —softly— “except Jim.”

“You love that one, don
’
t you?”

“I love them all.”

“But one especially.”

She still looked at the books. “Is that forbidden?”

He shrugged. “I doubt if love can be forbidden. That”—as the waitress receded—“is what I wanted to tell you. Oh, no”—as she looked up quickly— “not as regards anyone you know. As regards—my brother.”

“Your brother—but how—?”

“How can that concern you?” The eyes had darkened now; they were cold and deliberate.

“I want to tell you,” he said, because it might do you good to know.”

“
Do
me
good?”

“Or someone else good. Jan Luknit, perhaps. It might even”—he paused, then continued harshly—“it might even save a life.”

“Doctor Stormer, I
d
on
’
t understand you.”

“Then perhaps this will explain.”

He put his, elbows on the table and spoke lightly and casually, so that anyone watching would have believed it was a trivial conversation.

But it was not trivial, and Cary knew it. She knew it by the whitened knuckle-bones of his hand
’
s, the throb of his left temple, the occasional twitch to his mouth. It was important; it was vital; he counted every word.

She heard him out in silence. She listened to his story of Gerard, of Julia, of Gerard
’
s letters to him—of a letter in Gerard
’
s hand from Julia when they had picked him up in the street—dead.

“Did you ever speak to Julia?” These were the first words Cary uttered.

“Why should I? She had done enough, hadn
’
t she?”

“There might have been an explanation.”

“An explanation!”

“Richard, you could have been wrong in your findings. You were blinded, you are still blinded, with brotherly love, you might not have read what else
could have been said in that letter. Things unsaid are often as clearly defined as the written word.”