The Judas Tree (7 page)

That same day, immediately the evening round was over, he went into the side room and telephoned Ardfillan. After some delay he was put through to the Douglas shop. Aunt Minnie's voice came to him over the humming line.

‘This is David Moray,' he said. ‘I had such a nice card from Willie, I thought I'd ring up and see how you were all getting on.'

There was a slight, though definitive pause.

‘We are quite well, thank you.'

The coldness of her tone took him aback. He hesitated, then said:

‘I have a new job here which keeps me on the go. Otherwise I'd have been in touch with you before.'

She did not answer. He persisted.

‘Is Willie there? I'd like to thank him for his card.'

‘Willie is at his lessons. I'm afraid I can't disturb him.'

‘Mary, then?' He plunged on, almost desperately. ‘I would like a word with her.'

‘Mary is out at present. With her young man. She has been a trifle poorly lately, but now she has quite recovered. I don't expect her back till late.'

Now he was silent. After a moment, he said, very awkwardly:

‘Well, I wish you'd tell her I rang up … and give her my best regards.'

He could hear her sharp intake of breath. Her words came with a rush, as though she found them difficult, but felt constrained to get them out.

‘I cannot undertake to give any such message, and I hope you won't attempt to repeat it. Furthermore, Mr Moray, although I've no wish to hurt your feelings, it will be best for everyone, including yourself, if you refrain in the future from forcing yourself upon us.'

The receiver at the other end went down with a click. He hung up slowly and turned away, blinking, as if he'd been hit in the face. What was wrong? Forcing himself upon them! What had he done to deserve such an unexpected and stinging rebuff? Back in the resident's office at the end of the corridor he sat down at the desk and tried to find the answer.

The aunt had never been too favourably disposed towards him, and because of her frequent headaches – due, he suspected, to a chronic nephritis – her temper was often, and understandably, short. Yet surely the cause lay deeper – probably in her devotion to Stoddart, coupled with the sudden dislike which Walter had apparently developed towards him. Reasoning in this fashion, though rather dejectedly, Moray still could not believe that Mary was a party to his abrupt dismissal, and on an impulse he took a sheet of prescription paper from the drawer and wrote her a short letter, asking if there might not be some opportunity of meeting her. As he was on emergency duty that night he could not leave the hospital even for a moment, but he got one of the probationers to go out and post the letter.

During the next few days, he awaited an answer with increasing impatience and anxiety. He had almost given up when, towards the end of the week, it arrived.

Dear David,

I shall be coming to Winton with my aunt to do some shopping on Thursday the 9th. If you can manage to be at the clock in the Caledonian Station about six o'clock I believe I could meet you there, but only for half an hour, since I must take the half-past six train home. I do trust that you are well and not working too hard.

Mary.

PS. Willie hopes you received his postcard.

The letter was as lifeless as a railway timetable, yet beneath its dullness ran an undercurrent which stirred Moray deeply. The absence of that animation which she had displayed which indeed marked everything she had ever done in his company, was painfully evident to him. But he would see her on Thursday next. This at least had been gained.

When the day came his plans were already made. He had arranged with Kerr, another houseman, to take over for two hours in the evening. Professor Drummond never made his evening visit until eight o'clock, so with luck he would be safe. The afternoon had turned wet and a fog was settling on the city as he left the hospital and boarded a yellow tram at Eldongrove. He feared he might be late, but well before the appointed time he was in the Caledonian Station, standing beneath the big central clock. The rush hour was in progress and under the high glass dome, impenetrably coated with the grime of years, crowds were streaming towards the local trains. The place reeked of steam, fog and sulphur fumes, echoed with the shrill blast of departing engines. From the underground platforms of the ‘low level' a poisonous smoke welled up in snakey coils as from the inferno.

The clock struck six. Searching amongst all those unknown faces, Moray at last caught sight of her. His heart throbbed as she came towards him, carrying a number of parcels, looking unusually small and unprotected in that thrusting mob. She was wearing a dark brown costume with a short jacket, a thin necklet of fur and small brown hat. Nothing could have better suited her. He had never seen her so formally dressed. It gave her an unsuspected distinction and suddenly he coveted her.

‘Mary!' He relieved her of her parcels, untwisting the string from her small gloved fingers. She smiled at him, a trifle wanly, for she seemed tired. The fog had smeared her cheek and marked faint shadows under her eyes.

‘So you managed to get away?'

‘Yes,' he said, looking at her. There was silence between them, then he added: ‘ You've been shopping?'

‘There were some things I had to get. Aunt Minnie's had a regular field day.' She was making an effort to speak lightly. ‘Now she's gone to see a friend … or I couldn't have got away.'

‘Can't you stay longer?'

She shook her head, with lowered gaze.

‘They'll be meeting me at Ardfillan.'

Was there a hint of surveillance in her answer? Whether or not, her apparent fatigue troubled him, as did her listless tone, the manner in which she hesitated to meet his eye.

‘You look as though you needed your tea. Shall we go in there?'

He pointed with some misgivings to the buffet which, flaring with light and packed to the doors, bore slight resemblance to the quiet refreshment room at Craigdoran. But she had already shaken her head.

‘I had tea with my aunt at Fraser's.'

He knew this as the big household furnishing emporium. He felt the blood rush to his head.

‘Then let's not stand here in this confounded rush. We'll take a walk outside.'

They went out of the main exit and took the back street that led to Argyle Place and the lower end of the station. The fog had thickened. It swirled about them, blurring the street lamps and deadening the sound of the traffic. They seemed to move in a world of their own, but he could not reach her, did not dare to take her arm. Even their words were stilted, formal, utterly meaningless.

‘How is the study going?' she asked him.

‘All right … I hope. And how have things been with you? All well at home?'

‘Quite well, thank you.'

‘And Walter?'

She did not immediately reply. Then, as though resolved to reveal and explain beyond all question of doubt:

‘He's been upset, but he's better now. You see … he wanted to fix the date of our wedding. I felt it was a little early … I thought we ought to wait a bit. But now it's all settled … for the first of June.'

A long pause followed. The first of June, he repeated dully to himself – it was only three weeks away.

‘And you're happy about it?' he asked.

‘Yes,' she reasoned, in a tone of practical common sense, and with words that seemed to him to have been instilled in her. ‘ It's the right thing for people to settle down early and get used to each other's ways. Walter's a good man and he'll make a good husband. Besides…'. She faltered slightly but went on, ‘… his connections in the town will help our business. Father's not been doing near so well these last few years.'

A few large drops fell upon them and in a moment it was raining heavily. They sheltered in the entrance to a shuttered shop.

‘I'm sure I wish you the best of luck, Mary.'

‘And I do you, David.'

It was completely dark in the narrow passageway. He could not see her but with all his senses he felt her near him. He heard her breathing, quietly yet quickly, and the scent of her wet fur came to him. A frightful weakness came over him, his mouth was dry, and his joints so loosened they barely supported him.

‘I mustn't miss my train,' she said, almost in a whisper.

They went back to the station. There was only a minute to spare. Her train was at the platform. He found her a corner seat in a third-class compartment. While he stood on the footboard she lowered the window. The whistle shrilled, the engine emitted a hiss of steam. She leaned out of the window. She was fearfully pale. The rain had streaked the smut on her cheek and draggled her little necklet. The pupils of her eyes were wide and dark. A little vein in her neck was pulsing frantically.

‘Goodbye then, David.' Her voice trembled.

‘Goodbye … Mary.' The hurt in his side was unendurable. She was leaving him for good, he would never see her again.

Then as the train began to move, together, with an instinctive irresponsible, predestined movement, each reached out towards the other. They clung together, closely, blindly, passionately, and their lips met in a wild, delirious, exquisite kiss. Drunkenly, at the end of the platform, the train now moving fast, he jumped from the footboard, staggered and almost fell. Still leaning from the window she was borne into the darkness of the tunnel. His heart was beating like mad with delight, tears had formed under his eyelids and, to his consternation, were running down his cheeks.

Suddenly, as from a great distance, he remembered that his chief was due at eight o'clock to perform a lumbar puncture – a case which had come into the ward that afternoon. He must rush to the hospital to relieve Kerr. Dashing out of the station into the fog he was fortunate in finding an Eldongrove tram which, though its progress was laborious, took him back in time. Yet how he got through the next two hours he never fully understood. Speech and movements were automatic, he was barely conscious of his own presence in the ward. Once or twice he felt Drummond glancing at him oddly, but he made no comment, and at last, towards ten o'clock, Moray was able to go to his own room and give way to his feelings.

He was in love and, with the ecstasy of her kiss still lingering he knew that she loved him. It was an eventuality which, even remotely, had never entered his mind. All his thoughts, his energy and endeavours, had been concentrated exclusively on one objective, his career: to lift himself out of the swamp of poverty and make a dazzling success of his life. Well, he reasoned, with an upsurge of emotion, if he could achieve this alone, could he not do so with her, encouraged and fortified by one who, despite her modest social status, possessed all the qualities of the perfect helpmate? He could not lose her – the mere idea made him wince, like the prospect of sudden death.

He knitted his brows: what was to be done? The situation in which she was placed, with the date of her wedding fixed, and no more than three weeks off, demanded immediate action. Suppose by some fearful mischance he could not stop it. The thought of Walter, painstakingly precise, exacting the full-resources of his connubial rights to their most intimate extent came to him with horrifying vividness. It was enough to drive him frantic. He must write to Mary, write at once, and send the letter to her express.

Suddenly, as he reached towards his desk for paper, the emergency phone rang. With an exclamation of annoyance he took up the receiver. Macdonald, the switchboard night operator, was speaking.

‘Mr Moray …'.

‘Damn it, Mac – what is it? Another false run?'

‘It's a personal call for you. I'll put you through.'

There was a whirring on the line. Then:

‘David…'

He caught his breath sharply.

‘Mary, is it really you?'

Her voice came to him, guarded yet intense.

‘I've come down to the shop.… The others are asleep and I'm all in the dark.… But I simply had to speak to you.… Dearest David, I'm so happy.'

He had a swift, sweet vision of her in her nightdress and slippers in the darkness of the little shop.

‘I am too, dearest Mary.'

‘Ever since that first minute at Craigdoran, when I saw you in the mirror … I
knew
, David. And when I thought you didn't care, it fair broke my heart.'

‘But you know I do. I'm just wild about you.'

He could hear her long, softly indrawn breath, more thrilling than any answer.

‘I can't stop, dearest David. I only wanted you to know that I'll never marry Walter. Never – never. I didn't ever want to, I just let myself be talked into it. And then, when I thought you didn't want me.… But now I'll tell him, first thing tomorrow.'

He could not let her face this alone.

‘I'll come with you, Mary. I'll ask Drummond for time off.'

‘No, David,' she said firmly, ‘ You have your exam. That's the important thing, for you to get through. After that, come straight away. I'll be waiting for you.' She hesitated. ‘And … and if you've a wee minute you can write to me in the meantime.'

‘I will, Mary. I've already begun a letter.'

‘I can't wait till I get it. Now I must go. Goodnight, Davie dear.'

The receiver was replaced. Now she would be creeping upstairs in the silent house to the room beside Willie's. Seizing pen and paper he dashed off a long and fervent letter; then, undressing in a kind of trance, he flung himself into bed.

Next morning, like one inspired, he redoubled his work for the finals. In the intensity of this last spurt time flew. When the day of the examination arrived he entered the Eldon Hall, tense but confident, and took his place at one of the desks. The first papers were distributed. He saw, after a rapid run through, that the questions suited him. He began to write, never once looking up, covering the pages with a flowing legible script. During the next three days, coming and going between the hospital and the University, he took his place at the same desk, set himself to do his utmost, not only for his own sake but for hers.