The Coral Tree (17 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THEY were moving into the house. In a vague sort of way Cary realized that Jan and Richard were talking together. She had hoped that Richard would slip quietly back to Currabong, but that was a forlorn hope. He
’
knew Jan just as she knew him. Courtesy demanded that he pass a few pleasantries with him before he went.

But they were more than pleasantries. They were sharp interrogations cloaked in Richard
’
s inimitable manner in smooth, friendly words. Jan would never guess at the antagonism beneath them. Sorrel, delighted at a visitor, especially such an attractive visitor, would not guess either. Only Cary realized the trend.

All that she longed hesitantly to ask of Jan was being asked unhesitantly now by Richard.

“Which way did you come?”

“I came by air.”

“A good trip?”

“Excellent, Doctor.”

“You had booked in advance?”

“Yes, as soon as Cary went I made reservations. I would have come at once, only such things take time. Leaving a country, digging up one
’
s roots, takes time.”

“You mean you have come to stay?”

“Yes, this is now my place.”

“You like surprising people, Mr. Luknit?”

“No, no, it is not a surprise, is it, Cary?”

Now they were all looking at her—Jan with a tenderness she had not recognized, never suspected, before; Sorrel questioningly and perhaps a little resentfully, since Cary
’
s cabin confidences had not included this man; Richard—

How
did
Richard look?

In the brief quick glance she dared at him she saw only the cool regard, the tightened lips, the end of all that had bound them invisibly together these last weeks, she saw distrust, contempt—hate.

She wanted to call out: “You
’
re wrong Richard. It
’
s not as you think. I never encouraged Jan—at least, I never thought I did. He has mistaken my friendliness for something else. If I had had any idea it was like this I would have made things clear before I left.” But she could not say all this. Not until she had spoken privately to Jan. She liked him too much to embarrass him. She did not want to hurt him unduly. What had to be said would have to be said quietly, gradually. It must not come as a shock. He must slowly absorb the facts.

Now Jan was talking again. The exhilaration of the reunion had loosened his tongue. To Cary
’
s horror, he had taken out the little opal pin.

“See,” he said, “I have obeyed a lady
’
s bidding. I have come to the land of the black opal. In its way you could call it a quest. As a small boy I read your
King Arthur
,” he
laughed almost excitedly—“and now I am a knight, am I not, and Cary the fair lady.”

There was a little silence. Cary thought miserably that he looked rather like a Galahad, so tall, so straight, so fair.

Richard said dryly: “I must compliment you on your knowledge of English fairy-tales. I am afraid I
’
m not so cognizant of the Brothers Grimm.”

“But the Round Table surely is no fairy-tale. It is rather a pattern, an example; it is something you wish to come true.”

“And intend to make come true?” This time it was Sorrel speaking. Her brown eyes were sparkling with bright interest.

Jan turned his gaze on the nurse. “You, now,” he said with gallantry, “are more the dark opal than Miss Cary.” He bowed gravely. “We have not met.”

Cary introduced them briefly. “Sorrel is our nursing sister here. You do not know of our work, Jan.” She glanced a little triumphantly, a little appealingly in Richard
’
s direction. “I never told you, did I?”

“You
told me only of this place Clairhill that is Australia. You told me you would be here. It was enough.” Again he spoke the wrong words.

Richard handed round his cigarettes and lit one himself.

“You are a lucky fellow, Luknit, to be in such a position as to be able to follow your fancy when it comes to change of location.”

“It was not a fancy, Doctor; it was a knowledge that here was where I must be.”

“But still fortunate financially?” persisted Stormer relentlessly. Cary saw the inference.

Jan smiled broadly. “Yes, fortunate. I am indeed fortunate in that respect.”

“I am sure,” Richard said smoothly, “that Miss Porter was always pleased over that.” Before she could interpose he added: “Money is never despicable. It does too many things. This home, for instance, depends for its existence on money. Did you know that Clairhill only functions from month to month?”

“In the short time I have been here I have realized several things,” nodded Jan seriously. “My heart is very full, Doctor. More than ever am I glad I have come to Australia. Perhaps I, too, can work for these children, and, of course, what I have would be theirs.”

Another silence. Cary said correctly: “You must not be premature, Jan. You must think things over.”

“What would there be to think? I know already.” He smiled at her and added, touching his breast: “Is it not here?”

The ordeal went on and on, Richard drawing him out, Jan expanding, Sorrel listening, Cary standing helpless and appalled.

At length she appealed to Mrs. Heard for tea.

“It
’
s ready,” smiled the housekeeper. “I knew the visitor would be stopping, and I hoped Doctor Dick would, too.”

“The doctor is busy. He has to get back to the city.”

“A little later won
’
t hurt,” put in Richard smoothly. He looked beyond Cary. “Thank you, Mrs. Heard.”

Cary did not even escape when it came to the children
’
s bedtime. Jan came with her, and, because Sorrel wanted the doctor
’
s advice on a few of the patients, Richard came as well.

Mechanically Cary fetched several glasses of water, pointed ou
t
to Robert that tonight one did not need to switch off the dark because outside the window there were stars and a big country moon.

She went to Jim
’
s corner. Little Jim, he had always helped her, but he could not help now.

“God guess, Jim.” She said it tremblingly.

Jan said: “Good-night,
liebchen
,”
but his eyes were on Cary. Richard, standing with Sorrel at another crib, heard the endearment, watched the glance. His face was expressionless.

They came out of the dormitories, and Mrs. Heard announced dinner. Would it ever stop? asked Cary, of herself. She was tired, every bit of her—legs, shoulders, feet, crown of her aching head. She had a drugged feeling.

Again and again throughout the dinner conversation she felt Richard
’
s contemplative eyes upon her. They were half-lidded, very cold. He would never listen to any explanation, she thought desperately, and, after all, what explanation was there to give? And if I found one, how could I offer it? Those cold eyes would chill the first words.

With determination she put aside her hopeless lethargy and began talking with metallic animation. No one but she would know that it was only scratch-deep.

The meal went on. Mrs. Heard even prolonged it by black coffee. “The gentleman
’
s room is ready,” she said softly.

Cary looked up startled. “But—”

“How nice for you to be the first Clairhill guest,” put in Richard blandly.

“We
’
re glad to break the ice of that room,” beamed Sorrel.

“I am very honored,” bowed Jan.

The conversation came back to the children and the work being done. Cary learned that Jan knew a lot about remedial therapy. “There are other methods as well as pony-riding that can help,” he said earnestly. “I have one of my own—it is grass skiing. I notice you have a hill.”

“That
’
s Pudding Basin Hill,” said Sorrel, leaning forward with interest. She liked this tall, fair man.

“Then Pudding Basin will be excellent. A gentle slope, a grass landing area. All one could ask. I have often practised it for my friend Jan Bokker.”

Cary glanced quickly at Richard. She was remembering the letter she had started to Jan. “My very dear Jan,” she had written. He had taken it up and believed it was to this man. She had not cared what he believed then. It had not mattered. But she cared now, and it did matter. It mattered a lot.

She knew that this could be an opportunity to defend herself. She could make a laughing reference to the letter she had written that night .
.
. go on from there
...

But suddenly she was too tired. All the accumulated anxiety of the last weeks, the strain, the overwork seemed to have descended upon her. She was too weary to begin. All she yearned for was comfort. She wanted the sheltering comfort that she had known a few hours ago behind the wing of the plane—she wanted those sheltering arms.

But there was no comfort any longer. Something despairing in her told her there never would be—
there
—again. When Richard said he must go because tomorrow he intended an early take-off, she tried to go to the door with him, but adroitly he included all in his farewells.

“Good-night, Sister. Good-night, Luknit. Glad your quest has ended. Good-night, Miss Porter.” He was gone.

With his departure all Cary wanted to do was avoid Jan. Tomorrow she might be braver, more rational, less prone to foolish tears.

Pretending she heard Jim calling, she excused herself and ran along to the dormitory. From there she went quietly up the stairs. Below she could hear Sorrel taking Jan along to the guest-room. They talked a while; then Sorrel, too, came upstairs.

She tapped on Cary
’
s door. “Can I come in?”

“I
’
d sooner not. I have a foul headache. It must have been the plane.”—The plane, she thought, Pan
’
s Meadow, the green field, the knotting of trees, the little stream, the air of peace.

“Can I get you something?”

“It
’
ll go.”

“What a shame! I have heaps to natter over. He
’
s nice, Cary. I don
’
t blame you for keeping him to yourself.”

“But, Sorrel, I didn
’
t. You
’
re wrong. It
’
s all a mistake—”

The door was opening. Sorrel came in and got busy with tablet and water.

“Even adults contract whoopee cough as Robert calls it,” she said busily, once more the nurse. “You
’
re overwrought, Cary, and I don
’
t wonder. Here, take this.”

Cary took it readily, and pretended instant drowsiness. It seemed the only way to avoid the confidences that Sorrel sought.

But when the nurse had gone she lay wide-eyed and sleepless in spite of the tablet, aware of the two men again, hearing Jan
’
s quiet
“
liebchen
”,
seeing Richard
’
s thinned lips as he watched Jan
’
s eyes on
her,
not Jim—feeling heavily the situation she had brought unwittingly upon herself through some unremembered gesture, some unintentional word.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SHE MUST have slept at last, for when she opened her eyes again shafts of morning greyness were pushing through the muslin curtains. In the half-light she could pick out the top branches of the coral tree, her tree that had never bloomed. Would it bloom, she wondered drearily, or would it remain forever withdrawn, showing only the beauty of its foliage, holding the rest locked jealously away?

She became aware that she was still tired, as bone-tired as she had felt at the dinner-table last night, legs, shoulders, feet, head, all of her tired and unwilling to face the day.

“Cary—”

She had not heard Sorrel come in. She opened heavy eyes and looked at her stupidly.

“You
’
re not well, are you? I suspected as much last night.”

“I
’
m all right. Just give me a few minutes. I
’
ll be up.”

“You won
’
t be up. You
’
re stopping right where you are. Any pain? Feel feverish? Keep still while I check your temperature.”