The Coral Tree (8 page)

“Pull in,” called a voice sharply. Through her agitation it came to Cary that she had heard that voice before. Someone from Sunset, she wondered vaguely, someone she had known? And yet she had known so few in Sunset. There had not been any opportunity, any chance.

“Pull in, you utter oaf!” The voice was dominant now.

“I can
’
t. There were tears in her admission not caused entirely by her precarious situation. It was unpleasant to be shouted down as an utter oaf.

“Then hold tight,” resumed the voice, “I
’
m coming.”

She had scarcely time to obey when he reached her. She saw a lean hand shoot out for her rein. There were a few nightmarish seconds while Toby was on his hind legs and she felt herself slipping. Then, just as her feet cleared the stirrups, she was whipped out of the saddle, deposited in front of the rider until they cleared the rearing Toby, then dropped, none too gently, to the ground.

She stood there badly shaken, unreasonably angry, wondering whether to thank or abuse him, wondering whether
h
e would speak first and apologize for what he had said.

He was galloping after Toby now, and the chestnut, at length subdued, was submitting to being led back. As he came closer Cary put any idea of receiving an apology from him right out of her mind. He would never apologize, whether right or wrong, she thought blankly. He was not the type to regret his words, either here—or in Mungen at the foot of the Horn at Lannwild Mountain.

He was not that sort of man.

“So,” said Richard Stormer.

He still held Toby, but he had released his own horse, who was quietly cropping. “So we meet again, and in similar circumstances.”

Cary was more controlled now. Brightly, too brightly, she returned: “I wouldn
’
t say that. Europe is a long way from Australia.”

“I said circumstances, not location. If you recall, madam, there also you were determined to ride me down.”

“And was censured for so doing,” nodded Cary. “One thing, here there is no one to whom to report.”

“No?” His eyebrows had shot up. She remembered this habit of his as they had sat over a bottle of Spiezer and a tankard of ski-water in the lounge of the Palace.

“What about your host?” he reminded coolly. “He might not take such a generous view of a guest
’
s misuse of one of his horses.” Evidently he had taken it for granted that Cary was visiting one of the properties that finished in this no man
’
s land. She saw no reason why she should enlighten him.

“I was not misusing Toby,” she said.

“You were not riding him in a proper manner.”

“It was your fault. The chestnut got a scare. He never expected to find you there.”

“Nor did you, I dare suggest.” The tone was a drawl.

Cary did not answer his question. Instead, she retaliated: “Perhaps I could remark the same about you. Did you expect me?” He was rolling a cigarette. “You don
’
t smoke, I seem to recall. No, madam, you
’
re wrong about my not expecting to find you here, for never once have you even remotely intruded into my thoughts.”

“You haven
’
t in mine.” She flung it back spitefully, and knew that it sounded childishly tit for tat. It sounded an echo because she could find nothing of her own to retort.

“I suppose now you will make a banal remark about the world being small and fancy meeting you here,” he said, handing her Toby
’
s reins and reaching for his own lead.

She did not answer; she could not trust herself even to look up. “To satisfy your curiosity, I must inform you that it
’
s no wild coincidence, but merely a cog in the wheel of time, another turn of destiny. My late uncle owned this estate, and eventually it has reached me.”

“What estate?” she did find her tongue this time, and she asked the question almost rudely.

“The estate on which you stand—Currabong.”

“
You
are Mr. Willoughby
’
s heir?” To herself she said:
“
You
are my future neighbor.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“But this is not Currabong property,” Cary dismissed triumphantly. “This creek is no man
’
s land.”

“It is Currabong, madam; rest assured of that. You might also inform your host
’
s household when you return today. Incidentally, you
should
tell them to prevent any future trespass.
”

“Trespass?”

“You are trespassing at this moment. This is my country.”

As she still looked unconvinced, he said: “Would you care to accompany me to the homestead to refer to the map and legend?” Not so sure of herself as she would have liked, Cary evaded pettishly: “What good will Currabong be to you, a doctor?”

He smoked a moment.

“I see you recall my profession.”

“Most certainly. You assured me you did not attend litt
le
Paul Masser as a skier or skater, remember?”

He shrugged carelessly. “Was any of our encounter worth remembering?” He appeared sardonically amused when she flushed with annoyance.

As they climbed the bank to the corner of the paddock where Toby had bolted, Cary thought wistfully: “Now any pipedream I ever had of attaining Currabong in the distant future and using it as an annex to Clairhill is dissolved forever.” It came forcibly to her how very satisfactory it would have been, when eventually she did attain an interview with the great Richard Stormer, to have added the advantage of the handy proximity of a medical man to her schemes for the functioning of Clairhill. A sister, a doctor—what more could be asked? But, of course, she would not dare to. Not with this man. Any subsequent report of
his
to Mr. Stormer of anything to do with
her
would be depreciative, she realized bitterly, biased, adverse.

She stood, still holding Toby, frankly dreading to mount. Her lack of exercise had made her slack. She gravely doubted whether she could clamber up unaided. The gallop had made her unbearably stiff.

Fortunately she was spared the indignity of making an exhibition of herself. With a curt good afternoon and the barest nod he swung himself into the saddle of his own horse and in a few moments was out of sight.

She stood hesitant a while, then, being the coward she was, especially as no one was there to see, decided to walk back.

Her foot kicked at something. It was a hook, a slim volume, she found, bending over, of poems. Evidently he had been relaxing in the sun reading, the horse cropping, when she had almost ridden him down.

The book was open. Curiously she glanced at it, wondering at this man
’
s taste for poetry. She would not have believed that he would read that sort of literature at all.

Instinctively her eye fell on the verse he had been absorbing. She knew he must often have lingered over the lines, for the book fell open naturally at this point.

Slowly, wonderingly, she read:

“
...
Music, laughter, fireside embers,

All the things the heart remembers
—”

She closed the book again, put it in her pocket, then led Toby over the northern paddock back to the house.

CHAPTER NINE

THE PLEASANT canter that had turned into a wild gallop—or had it been that unexpected meeting?—had unsettled her.

As soon as she had stabled the chestnut she went into the homestead and lay down on one of the many dust-sheeted divans. I
’
m out of practice, she thought ruefully; six weeks of shipboard idleness, a luxury holiday before that, have made me soft. I must toughen up; I have a tough job ahead.

She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on practical things—trying not to think of the unpleasant encounter, the man
’
s cold, hard look, his probing, derisive stare. The air was warm and heavy, the cicadas were drumming, she fell asleep.

She woke with a start to find it was almost dusk. She had been dreaming, and in the dream she had been arguing that it was much too hot for a fire. Why had she dreamed that, she puzzled, lying relaxed and inert on the couch. Then she recalled the words of that verse.

“
...
Music, laughter, fireside embers
...”

Fireside embers, that had set her off, she decided. She smiled, yawned and stretched.

Then, like the returning theme of a song, came the second line of the poem.

“All the things the heart remembers.”

What
did
a heart remember? she wondered curiously. She had believed up till now that it remembered everything—including Mrs. Marlow
’
s legion persecution—but was it only the
mind
that retained those latter images? Already she believed she was half way
to forgetting the unhappiness of this house and recalling, instead, an ol
d
woman
’
s last gentle wish, her final piteous plea. Those are the things the heart remembers, Cary thought; the others belong only to the mind. And it is the heart things, she decided quietly, that will bring the blossoming. They must.

She got up and made her way through the darkening house. She wished now that Mr. O
’
Flynn had had time to start the electric plant. She would dearly have liked a deep, hot bath to take away that stiffness. She made do with a sponge of hot water, heated over the primus. Lucky for her that the thoughtful O
’
Flynn had included a bottle of kerosene in the supplies. It was too mild an evening to light the stove, and anyway, unlike Mr. O
’
Flynn, she had never been a good stoker.

After the makeshift bath she boiled a kettle for a pot of tea. There was ample food in the hamper, so she had no need to raid the pantry, which, she recalled, Mrs. Marlow had always kept fully equipped. She did hunt out a lamp, however, and as soon as the shadows were deep she lit it and sat watching the yellow glow search into the corners to soak up the gloom.

Her eyes fell on the notes she had been compiling to show to Mr. Farrell. She must not ask him for too much at once, although she felt sorely tempted. She thought practically: Perhaps if I wrote air-mail to Jan she could tell me the necessities and I could start on those.

She pulled the pad to her and took out her pen. “Dear Mrs. Bokker—” she began, then she sat, pen in mouth, recalling that tall, quiet woman with the lovely steadfast eyes and the mission in life.

She tore out the page.

“My very dear Jan—” she wrote in its place.

For a few moments she was not in the wide, airy room with the determined leaves of an encroaching coral tree tapping at the window, but in that lodge in Mungen, sitting with the two women and drinking coffee and talking by the fire.

She remembered the soft fall of snow outside the house
—
then was aware, though without any actual alarm, that there was a soft fall of feet at this very moment outside
this
house.

She got up and went to the door to open it, but it was opened before she could touch it. She stepped back, really alarmed this time, watching the lamp make a widening shaft across the threshold; then a man stepped in.

For a moment she stared at him almost stupidly, and he stared in amazement back at her.

“You again,” she said.

He did not answer for a few seconds. He came right into the room and up to the light before he spoke.

“I thought you were staying with the Fortescues,” he said bluntly at length, “or over at Ten Mile. I never associated you with Clairhill.”

When she did not comment he proceeded in explanation: “I knew this place should be empty, so when I saw the light I anticipated an uninvited guest and slipped across to investigate.”

“That was considerate of you.” She spoke stiffly.

“Not at all. I would expect the same from you.”

A silence fell between them. He had given her the reason for his intrusion, and she had thanked him. What was he waiting for? she thought, irritated.

He was not only waiting, she soon realized, he was
weighing her up again—as he had been estimating her that first morning when he had turned away from Lannwild Mountain to regard her with that speculative, cool stare.

“So you are the new owner,” he said heavily. “Odd that I never guessed it today. It should have been apparent.”

“Apparent?” she asked.

“Isn
’
t it obvious? Only well-to-do young women, financially enfranchised young women, can afford to spend long luxury holidays in alpine resorts and spread themselves to the advantage of a solo guide.”

She opened her mouth indignantly to correct his conjectures, then shut it almost at once. It was nothing to do with him, nothing at all. Let him think what he liked.

Carelessly, indifferently, he resumed:

“The local Sunset grapevine has it that, unlike myself, when you inherited you were an employee, not a relative. I must say it did not take you long to get into your stride.”

“How do you mean?”

“That expensive tour abroad—the immediate checking on what you were to receive as soon as you came back to Australia. No—it
’
s futile to try to protest. You must have been very eager, madam, very anxious. No woman not driven by greed would have raced out so soon to an unopened house, now would she? Well, are you satisfied with your new lot?”

She did not answer until she had found control of herself. Then she said: “And are you finished?”

He returned coldly. “I am not, I have been considering things and I have now decided to fetch you back with me to Currabong.
”

“You what?”

He ignored her interruption. “I won
’
t tolerate the idea of your spending the night here alone, as obviously”—glancing around—“you intend. Hasn
’
t it occurred to you that other people might have the same possessive trait as you yourself, only backed up by a more vicious determination? In short, madam, there are such people as thugs and tramps.”

“I am quite capable of looking after myself, thank you.”

“Of that I am easily convinced. You have the knack of escaping yourself while endangering others, I
’
ve found. However, there is always a turn of fortune, in which case you had better come across with me.”

“I
’
m not coming.”

“Have no qualms if propriety is upsetting you. The excellent Mrs. Williams is ensconced in the house and will be a satisfactory chaperone.”

“I am not coming.”

“If that
’
s an invitation for me to try cave-man methods you are wasting your time. I like compliance, but it doesn
’
t amuse me to enforce it.”

“I am not coming. Also I might add something that you yourself said this afternoon. You spoke of trespass.”

“Yes?”

“Well, you are trespassing now, and I ask you to go.”

He had advanced to the table
.
His eyes had fallen on the book.

He said sharply: “Where did you get this?”

“You left it behind you down in no man
’
s land
.
”

“At the bottom of my property,” he corrected. “So you took it.”

“You would have preferred me to leave it to the elements?”

He did not answer. He took up the volume, open.at the same page as when she had found it.

“
...
Music,
laughter, fireside embers,” he quoted, entirely without expression.

“All the things the heart remembers,” he finished.

He snapped the book shut and slipped the volume into his pocket.

“In case you are marvelling at the fact that I am addicted to verse I must tell you I am not. The book happens to have been written by—my brother.”

“Oh,” she said. She remembered too late that she had not noted the name of the author.

“I am still waiting,” he said tersely.

“For what?”

“For you to get your gown or toothbrush or whatever it is you women need and come back to Currabong.”

“I told you I was not coming.”

What might have happened then, Cary did not know. In spite of his cool assertion that cave-man tactics were not his penchant, she did not believe he would ever have willingly countenanced the stubborn rebellion she offered him now. Advancing a pace, he came nearer to her—and to the letter she had been writing. Her round, rather childish hand fairly jumped up at them both. “My very dear Jan
...”

She glanced across at him, half in explanation, half in embarrassment, and was surprised at the suddenly frigid expression in his face. It was never a kind face, she thought, but now it was even more bitter and hard. What had caused it? Had he interpreted that Jan as Jan Luknit, and even if she had been writing to the guide, what business was it of his?

To her relief he did not comment, for now she had stubbornly determined she would not explain.

“You are not coming?” He said it almost casually.

“No.”

“Then I
’
m sorry to do this, but I must lock you in.”

Before she could protest he had crossed to the door, removed the key, opened and shut it behind him. She heard the key turning in the lock outside.

She ran to the window, but it was still nailed, nailed very tightly. There would be no exit there.

“Push the key under the door this instant,” she called.

“I
’
m
doing no such thing. Not because of you but because of my own peace of mind.”

“Please give me that key. I may need it. If I promise to lock up again—”

“Sorry, I don
’
t trust you. Good night, madam.”

He was gone. She could hear his steps dying away on the thick undergrowth. She sat down, more furious than she ever remembered. In a gust of temper she threw the letter-pad to the floor. She would have thrown the book of verse after it, but it was gone.

As her temper ebbed she began to wonder if the encounter might have gone differently if she had taken the pains to correct his muddled version of her inheritance. Evidently his source of information, his grapevine which was probably his housekeeper, Mrs. Williams, had not been aware in what circumstances she was to step into Clairhill.

Perhaps she should have related it, yet to have done so—to
him
—seemed suddenly humiliating. He was the sort of man who instinctively made you want to stand upright, unaided, independent and on your own two feet. He was a challenge, a spur. It was that entire lack of even ordinary, normal sympathy in him, Cary thought.

“No, I
’
ll never tell him,” she resolved. “I
’
ll let him think what he likes.”

She went upstairs to bed. There was plenty of linen in the cupboards, but she did not take out any sheets. She just lay in her old crib in her old room, thinking, planning, hoping for sleep. The afternoon
’
s rest had ruined any hope of complete oblivion. Any naps she did snatch were brief and unsettled. The house was full of the silent noises all old houses seem to accumulate with their years. Perhaps he was right, after all, she thought nervously. Perhaps she should have gone across to Currabong.

At last it was grey dawn. The first yellow fingers of light pushed through the closed window into her room. Thankfully she rose, washed and went downstairs. How long, she wondered, am I to be kept a prisoner in my own house?

And then she saw that, early though she was, someone had been earlier.

He must have been very quiet, else surely she would have heard him through her light, uneasy rest.

The door was still shut, but evidently unlocked, for the key was on the table beside the tidily replaced letter-pad—still open at the page beginning “My very dear Jan.”

It gave Cary an odd feeling to know that he had been here while she slept.