The Judas Tree (39 page)

He got up, parted the curtains of the side window and peered out at the dark driveway. No car – it couldn't be a caller, must be a tradesman or a travelling pedlar; he had no need to worry. Yet the conversation at the door appeared to be prolonged. Straining his ears he heard Arturo say, almost entreatingly: ‘ Please, if you will wait here, I will see.'

‘But there's no need,' a thin voice answered, with a strained note of urgency. ‘I'm expected. I'll go straight in.'

Moray's heart contracted. My God, he thought, it can't be. I'm dreaming, or out of my mind. Instinctively he took a few steps backwards. Futile retreat. There came the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall and the next instant Kathy was before him.

‘David!' she cried, in sheer relief. ‘ I thought from Arturo you weren't here.' All her body seemed to incline towards him: then, running forward, she put her arms round him and laid her head against his breast.

He had turned deathly white, his face blank with horror and amazement. It was a nightmare, unreal, couldn't be true. He stood frozen into paralysed stillness.

‘Oh, David, dear David,' she kept murmuring. ‘ Just to be with you again.'

He could not speak, the skin around his mouth had suddenly become tight. But at last he gasped: ‘Kathy … what … why are you here?'

‘Because I need you now … so much more …'. Still close to him, she looked up as though uncomprehending. ‘You know that Uncle Willie sent me?'

‘Willie?' he echoed, like a parrot.

‘Didn't you get my letter?'

‘No – yes – at least … I've been away.'

‘Then you don't know. Oh, David, it's too terrible. The entire Mission is destroyed, burned to the ground. There's been a fearful outbreak by armed terrorists. They're fighting all around, and almost all of our people are dead. All Uncle Willie's work, the labour of twenty years, destroyed.' Tears were beginning to flow down her cheeks. ‘Uncle Willie has gone out to see the worst, if they'll allow him to get there, but he knows it's finished. He wouldn't let me go with him. He's broken-hearted. I think he'll have to give up. And for me, there's nothing out there now … I have … only you, dear David. Oh, I thank God for that. But for you, I think I would have lost my mind.'

Silence. A cold sweat of panic beaded his forehead; his heart kept banging irregularly in his side. He broke away slightly, hand pressed against his brow, still struggling for speech.

‘This … dreadful, Kathy. A great shock. If I had only known …'

She looked at him with faithful, uncomprehending eyes.

‘But, David, when you didn't come to the airport I felt sure you had my letter telling you everything.'

‘Yes, precisely … it's just … so difficult … having been away.' What he was saying he scarcely knew, and she had begun to look at him strangely, nervously too, with a sudden anxiety in her tired, thin little face.

‘David, is anything wrong?'

‘Nothing, except … it's all so unfortunate … so unforeseen.'

Now all the joy that was in her died. She showed real alarm, seemed to shrink into herself.

‘David, please, for pity's sake.'

Oh God, he thought, this can't go on, I must, I'll have to tell her. He tried to pull himself together.

‘Kathy …'. He braced himself. ‘Dear Kathy …'.

He could not go on, could not to save his life have spoken the words. There followed a moment of complete and frightful silence. His mouth filled with bitter water, and through it all he kept thinking, I could have had her here, on my own terms, if only I had waited. It was agony. And as he stood rigid with clenched hands, unable/to meet her frightened eyes, the door opened and Frida came into the room. Arrested by the scene, with one comprehensive glance she took it in; then, without change of expression, came quietly forward.

‘Kathy, you are here,' she said, and kissed her on the cheek. At the same time she made towards Moray a brusque gesture of dismissal which said decisively, go, this you must leave to me.

Still rooted, he seemed unable to set himself in motion, but somehow, stumbling forward, he got himself out of the room. Kathy was very pale, but had stopped crying. Bewilderment and alarm had dried her tears.

‘What is wrong with David? Is he ill?'

‘I think he is unwell slightly, at this moment. The shock, you see. But come, dear child, we must sit down and be composed and have a little talk together.' Persuasively, an arm round Kathy's shoulder, she led her to the settee. ‘ Now first, my dear, how did you arrive here?'

‘By plane to Zurich, train to Melsburg, then the little steamboat to Schwansee.'

‘What a tiring journey. Wouldn't you like to rest or have some refreshment?'

‘No, thank you, no.' Kathy was shivering slightly, her teeth pressed together to prevent them chattering.

‘At least a cup of tea. It can be brought so quickly.'

‘Oh, nothing, please. I only want to know about David.'

‘Yes, of course, we must speak of David, for he is, like that nice book says, the heart of the matter. But we must speak plainly of him, for even if it gives pain we must establish the truth.' She paused and took Kathy's hand in hers. ‘You see, dear child, this David whom you love is a very nice man, so full always with good intentions, yet, alas, not always with the strength to perform them, which is often sad for him and for others. Have you not an English proverb, the pavement of hell is made of good intentions? Did you never ask yourself, dear little Kathy, for what real reason he came back to discover your family in Scotland? You thought, to repay a youthful kindness. That was not so. It pains me to tell you, and it will pain you to hear. It was because as a young man this David was the lover of your mother, really her lover if you understand me, had promised marriage, then cruelly left her, for a rich man's only daughter.'

‘No – no.' She took a sharp anguished breath, her pupils wide with shock. ‘It's impossible. You're making this up.'

‘How do I make it up when I have heard it all from David himself? Yes, he is the kind of man who seeks to discharge his guilt by an emotional confession. And succeeds. With weeping too, for, like other great men, he weeps easily – like a woman.'

‘I won't … I won't listen to you.'

‘But you must, dear Kathy, for your own sake. So our David came back full of the best intentions to make his wrong completely right. And when your mother was untortunately not available, you became the object of his kind attentions. And it was all good in the beginning, yes, beautifully good and proper, but then things changed a little, he wished very nobly to do even more for you, and so – for those soft charming men have so much a way with women – on the promise to marry and go to your mission he became your lover, as with your mother.'

‘Stop!' Distractedly she covered her ears. ‘I can't – I'll not hear any more. It's too horrible.'

‘Certainly it is not a nice thought, to seduce first the mother, then the daughter, and all with the highest intentions. Yet I assure you he is not altogether bad, compared with others, for I know men, dear child, and some are by far more horrible, as you say, than David, who is only selfish and weak, avoiding trouble and difficulty for himself at all costs. No, do not run away.' Detainingly, as Kathy tried to rise, she held her arm. ‘Can't you see I speak for your own good. I must show you your mistake. If you had married this famous David he would have tired of you and in six months broken your heart. You are altogether different, not of the same kind. You would never convert him to religion, or even to work again as a doctor. Nor could he have made you like his stupid antiques or his famous pictures, all a mode created by the dealers. Your marriage would have been a fatal disaster.'

Kathy sat quite still, her expression blurred, as though the structure of her face had given way. There was something terrifying in her immobility. She felt feverishly sick, stripped of all that she had prized, degraded and unclean. She wanted to get away but there was no strength in her, only weakness and self-disgust.

‘So, is it not evident? The wife this David needs is not a sweet, gentle girl such as you, but a woman strong enough to master him, one who will make him obey, and do always, always what is needed.'

Kathy's eyes widened suddenly, great pools of darkness in her small white face.

‘You,' she gasped.

‘Yes. Today we were married in Basle.'

Silence again. Kathy's brows, knit in pain, gave her a twisted look. What thoughts raced through her tortured mind! Her head drooped, could not contain or combat them – the meeting at her mother's grave, that charming, serious smile, a friend of your family, the day in Edinburgh, so gay and generous, the round of visits, what a wonderful nurse, but quite worn out, a cup of soup, my dear, so tenderly, and then Vienna, strange and whirling confusion of lights, sounds, music, Pinkerton, dear David, you could never be like that, Switzerland next, a mantle of purity, yes, I will come with you, the little mission church, one in the sight of heaven, and then, like her dear dead mother.… Oh God, she could not bear it. She jumped up, wildly, frantically, bent only on escape.

But Frida had risen quickly and stood at the door, blocking the way.

‘Wait, Kathy, you must be sensible. Believe me, I mean well by you. There is much we can do for you.'

‘Let me go. All I want is to go away … to go home.'

‘Kathy, the car will take you to the hotel.'

‘No, no … I'll take the boat … I only want to go home.'

The doorway was still blocked. She looked feverishly round, ran to the french window, flung it open.

‘Stop, Kathy.'

But she had already dashed across the terrace and the lawn to the narrow garden path that led to the village. Down the steep path she ran, into the darkness, mindless of the unseen steps, falling to her knees in her desperate haste, rising again, straining through the vicious shadows, seeking only to escape. Dark shapes of bushes whipped against her like things alive, stinging her with all the malice of mankind. Shocked out of sorrow, she was no longer herself, not altogether living, moving in a confused and tragic dream. In the dim world in which she ran, everything within her drifted away but pain, all was gone. She was lost.

Frida could not follow. Standing silent and distressed at the open french window, which threw out a following beam, she watched, watched until the stumbling, wavering little figure was lost as the brutal night took possession of it. Then, turning slowly, she shook her head, closed the window and, advancing into the hall, called upstairs. He came down slowly, nervously, with watery eyes and a veal-white face. He had been seated on the upper landing, trying to steady himself with one of his monogrammed Sobranies.

‘It is all settled,' she told him calmly. ‘She has gone.'

‘But where … and how' His voice shook.

‘I offered the car but she prefers to return as she came, by boat. She goes home at once. All she wishes is to go home.'

‘But Frida …' he faltered. ‘She has given up her job. She can't go to Willie. Where is her home?'

‘You have put the question. You had better answer it.'

A pause.

‘Was she – much hurt?'

‘Yes.'

‘In – in what way?'

‘Cannot you guess?'

‘What did you tell her?'

‘The truth. For her sake and ours it was necessary to perform a surgical operation. And I did so.'

‘You told everything?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you – explained that I had meant well.'

‘All was explained.'

‘And yet – she was hurt – badly?'

‘Yes.' With increasing sharpness: ‘Have I not already said it.'

‘Surely she understood I couldn't go out there.'

‘She did not come here for you to go.'

He threw up his hands.

‘But how in God's name was I to know the Mission would burn down.'

‘In the present circumstances it was more than a possibility. They are making bonfires of all the missions.'

‘My God, Frida, I feel horribly upset. I worry about her getting back.' He looked at the clock. ‘She may have missed the boat – and it's the last to Melsburg. I should go after her … if she's still on the pier.'

‘Then go.'

She said it cuttingly. The look in her yellow eyes, with their narrow slits of pupils, made him flush and wilt.

‘No,' he said. ‘You're quite right. It wouldn't be wise.'

Silence again. Then firmly she put her hand on his shoulder.

‘For the sake of pity, pull yourself into something like a man. She is young and, like her mother, will get over it. You can afford to make a settlement to her, and a large one. Later you must send it in proper legal form.'

‘Yes.' His face lifted slightly. ‘I can do that, thank God, and I will. Make her comfortable for life. But, Frida …'. He hesitated, then, after a longish pause, said pleadingly, ‘I don't want to be alone tonight.'

She seemed to study him, with almost a clinical curiosity, seemed about to refuse, then relented.

‘Well, then, though you should be punished, I shall stay. You must go upstairs and take your bath. Then to bed, for you are tired. I will speak with the servants and have a tray brought to you. Afterwards I will come.'

He looked at her abjectly.

‘Bless you, Frida.'

She waited until he had climbed the stairs; then, passing through the drawing-room, she went out upon the terrace. The moon, behind ragged clouds, shone faintly. It was thawing, the snow on the lawn had turned a dirty yellow, a damp sensual smell of leaves filled the air. She gazed out across the lake. Yes, there was the steamer, a little fountain of light, cosy and bright, already on its way, quite far on its way, to Melsburg. A faint thrum of the engines came back to her. Kathy must just have managed to get on board. Turning, she looked down at the little pier. Yes. All quiet and deserted. The single yellow lamp that was kept alight all night shone upon the solitary wooden bench. No one was seated there.