“Y-yes?” She had not thought of Max as a charmer. Just as the best surgeon she had ever known and the man she loved.
It was not so easy to keep her attention on her companions, now that she knew Max was in the same room. But for quite a while now she had been trained to give every sign of attention while part of her thoughts were elsewhere, and so she was able to smile and comment and question at all the appropriate moments.
By the end of the evening it had been firmly decided that she should explain her circumstances to the Matron in the morning, and ask for leave of absence.
“She’s bound to fill your place while you’re away,” Juliet remarked. “Will you have to tell her how long you want?”
“No. I shall probably just—leave.”
“But I thought you were so happy there!” Her stepmother looked rather concerned.
“Not everything turned out quite as well as seemed likely at first,” Alma said composedly. “I’m not exactly sorry to go.”
“O-oh.” For a moment Juliet glanced away across the room to the distant table where Maxwell Perring and his companion—another well-known surgeon, Alma had noted—were reaching the coffee stage. “Well, then, perhaps it’s a good thing we came along at this moment.”
“It was the best possible thing for me,” Alma told her. And beneath the affectionate smile there was the shadow of something else.
Juliet was blessedly incurious by nature—or else she had the even rarer quality of controlling her curiosity. Neither she nor Alma’s father asked any tiresome questions. And the evening ended very pleasantly with their driving Alma back to the nursing home by taxi.
Her interview with Matron next morning was not particularly easy.
“It’s difficult and unsettling for us to have frequent changes, Sister. I wish you could have stayed with us at any rate until your marriage,” Matron said a trifle severely,
“But it’s natural for me to want to take this opportunity of visiting my parents f-first,” Alma pointed out.
“I know. But we didn’t envisage anything of the kind when you came here, did we?”
“No,” said Alma meekly, and waited.
“Well, of course, we didn’t envisage your getting married to Mr. Perring, either,” Matron conceded with a smile.
“No,” said Alma again.
She hated herself for using this as a lever to obtain what she wanted—pretending that something made the case urgent when, in fact, that something no longer existed. But—she had to go. She had to get away from here.
“All right, Sister. I’ll do everything I can to fill your place in time.” Matron began to flick over the pages of her telephone books as she spoke. “With Mr. Perring going away for a couple of weeks, it becomes a little easier, of course. We’ll probably have someone else well trained in our ways by the time he returns.”
“Yes, Matron. Thank you very much,” said Alma, with difficulty controlling a great desire to ask about Max’s holiday plans. But it would never do, of course, to appear ignorant of these. To everyone at the nursing home she was his devoted fiancée, and so would naturally know what all his future plans would be.
She could not even ask which was to be his last day at the nursing home. Unless she could find the courage to ask Max himself, she must simply go on not knowing at which point she was seeing him for the last time.
In the end, it was she who went first. For Matron, who was an exceedingly kind as well as capable woman, found a substitute sooner than anyone would have believed possible. And, within two days of Alma’s making her request, she was informed that, if she really wanted to be released as soon as possible, she could make the next day her last one at the nursing home.
It was both a relief and a shock. But there was no question of anything but accepting. For one thing, it would give her a few days with Juliet and her father, in which to shop, clear her flat in Chelsea and make arrangements to sublet this while she was away.
At the nursing home everyone was under the impression that lucky Sister Miles was taking a trip to New York with her parents, merely as a preliminary to her marriage to Mr. Perring, and Alma was continually finding herself the object of congratulation and good-humored envy.
Only Geraldine—who knocked on her door and came into her room while she was packing—took any other point of view. She came straight to the point and asked frankly,
“Have you and Max quarrelled?”
“Quarrelled?” Alma bent over a case and appeared to be checking something. “No. Of course not. What makes you think we might have?”
“You’re so quiet and he’s so—odd. Almost bad-tempered, for Max.”
“Nonsense. You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, no, I’m not. I suppose you’ll say it isn’t my business.”
“Well, it isn’t, you know,” Alma said, but she smiled faintly.
“Except that it makes me so anxious.”
“Anxious?” Alma looked astonished. “About me, you mean?—or about Max?”
“No, no. About my own affairs,” the other girl said, with naive candor. “I’m so afraid you’ll go back to Jeremy.”
“Go back to Jeremy? Nothing on earth would make me go back to Jeremy,” replied Alma almost violently. “I don’t want to go back to Jeremy.”
“Don’t you really?” Geraldine seemed to find it hard to believe that anyone wouldn’t want to go back to Jeremy.
“No. Do you?” asked Alma bluntly.
Geraldine nodded, and the tears came into her eyes.
“Oh, my dear”—Alma sat down on the bed and took the other girl’s hand—“I’m so sorry. Have you heard anything from him since he went to the convalescent home?”
“Yes. I had a letter from him today. He wants me to go down and see him on Sunday. He sounded very—low, and seemed very anxious to see me. I thought—I must go. And then I wondered if you and Max had quarrelled, since you both seemed so queer, and if I’d find Jeremy engaged to you again in a few weeks.”
“We never were engaged at all,” Alma pointed out, in the interests of accuracy. “You were the one for whom that ring was intended. And I suppose, Geraldine, he might well be coming round to think that he was a fool not to have completed that intention long ago.”
“I hope so.” Geraldine brightened considerably. “That’s what I’m daring to count on. Provided you keep off.”
“I’ll keep off,” Alma promised with a smile, glad that they had not returned to the subject of her relations with Max. “Go down on Sunday and chance your luck. But, Geraldine—”
“Yes?”
“May I give you a bit of advice?”
“About Jeremy? Well yes”—for once, Geraldine looked almost friendly—“I suppose so. What is it?”
“He’s got lots of good qualities, and I think he could make you very happy. But he has one bad fault. He doesn’t like committing himself to any responsibility. See he gives you that ring before he starts turning your affections inside out again.”
“Oh, I mean to,” said Geraldine, with such cheerful determination that Alma thought amusedly, as she watched her go, “She’ll manage Jeremy—if anyone can.”
The last day was very hard. The more so as there seemed no possible chance for a private word with Max. Either luck was against her, or else he deliberately engineered it that way.
As she watched those strong, beautiful, clever hands busy on the last case of the day, she thought, “I’ll never see him do that again.”
And then, because deep down inside her a little vein of humor still existed, she wondered if anyone else had ever been so silly as to indulge in romantic nostalgia over an appendectomy.
She had almost given up hope of a final word with him, and then, at almost the very last moment, when he was washing his hands, he turned and looked over his shoulder at her and said,
“When do you sail?”
It was a question which would pass muster, even if someone else overheard it. And, as she moved a step towards the a
naesthetist, who was the only other person in the room, went back into the theatre for something.
“On Tuesday. About six in the evening. So you know about my going?”
“Yes, of course.”
She wondered why “of course”, and how he had managed to check up on her affairs more accurately than she had on his.
“You know I’m leaving here tonight? I—I shan’t see you again.”
“No. I suppose not.” He took the towel she held out for him.
“I—don’t know quite how to—say goodbye.”
“Then let’s not say it,” he suggested. “I hope you enjoy New York, Alma.”
“Thank you.”
She would have given anything to say more—to beg him, even now, to let her try to explain. But the words would not come. And, anyway, the moment was past, for someone came in to say that he was wanted on the telephone.
He nodded carelessly to Alma and went out. That was all.
She thought, “He just nodded to me—and it was over. No—it was really over days ago. Oh, I could die with wretchedness.”
But instead, she had to make the round of goodbyes, once more the object of envy and congratulation. And then at last it was finished, and she could go to Juliet and her father, and begin the long, long process of forgetting.
Fortunately her last days in London were extremely busy, and she had little time to think about anything but the affairs of the moment. But just below the top layer of consciousness was a dull, continual ache. And from time to time something would touch this into a flare of anguish.
One of these occasions was when, on the last evening in London, she posted her ring back to Max, with no more than a couple of formal lines of explanation. It didn’t really make things any more final, but it was like cutting a nerve.
Next day, in the early afternoon, she boarded the boat train, with her father and Juliet, and travelled down through the pleasant countryside of Surrey and Hampshire, to the immense luxury liner which lay waiting at Southampton.
It was to be Alma’s first ocean voyage, and it was impossible not to experience a thrill of fascination and wonder as she walked up the gangway behind Juliet. High above her towered the great funnels, and the shimmer of white paint, polished brass, and spotless scrubbed decks dazzled her no more than the thought that she was stepping aboard one of the great maritime monsters which sail the Seven Seas—through day and night, dawn and dusk, rain and sunshine. Proud, graceful and ever miraculous to those who have a scrap of imagination.
Juliet, who was more used to this sort of thing, made immediately for their very beautiful suite. And here Alma was introduced to the enchanting cabin which was to be hers for the voyage.
“We shall be sailing in half an hour or so,” Juliet told her. “You’d better go on deck, dear, if you want to see the departure. I won’t, if you don’t mind. It’s nothing new to me, and I like to unpack as soon as possible.”
Alma found that her father also had his own affairs to attend to. And so she went out on deck alone, and watched the final stages of the great ship’s departure. It made her feel melancholy all at once. And, indeed, there are few people who are impervious to the sight of a widening strip of water between themselves and their own shore.
It was not by any means dark yet, but the light was changing subtly, and the real radiance of the day was gone. In addition, a cool wind was blowing by the time Alma went back to her cabin. For a while she too busied herself with her unpacking. And she thought of Max and felt almost terribly alone and even wished she had never come.
Then Juliet came in, full of gossip and information, and anxious to know if there were anything she could do for Alma.
“Nothing, thanks. Except—stay and talk to me for a bit,” Alma told her with a smile.
“Why, honey, you’re not feeling melancholy, are you?” Juliet was immediately sympathetic. “It’s funny how a ship leaving the shore always makes one feel a bit like that. But you’re going to have a wonderful time, you know.”
“Yes I’m sure I am,” Alma declared, a little remorsefully.
“The voyage itself is fun. And—I meant to tell you when I first came in—it’s the most extraordinary thing. Do you know who’s on board? That good-looking surgeon of yours that you called Max. I passed him as I came back from the purser’s office.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You saw—Max? Here, on board?” Alma repeated. “But—you couldn’t have. He’s not here.”
“Yes, he is.” Juliet was cheerfully confident about that. “I passed him, on the way back from the purser’s office—as I told you.”
“But you couldn’t have,” Alma insisted. “You must have been mistaken. It was someone else.”
“Oh, indeed no, it wasn’t,” Juliet laughed. “He isn’t the sort of man you mistake for someone else.” That was true, of course. There was only one Maxwell Perring. But that still didn’t make it possible that he was on board or that Juliet could have seen him. Unless—
“He must have come down to see someone off,” Alma said. “You saw him some time ago, I take it. Before the visitors went ashore. Though even that—”
“No, I didn’t. It wasn’t like that at all.” Juliet laughed, a trifle impatiently, at having to stand up to so much opposition. “I saw him just now. Just as I was coming along here to speak to you. Anyway, why not? I suppose even busy surgeons take a holiday sometimes, and come on an Atlantic voyage.”
“Not Max. Not on this boat.”
“Ship,” corrected Juliet automatically. “And why shouldn’t he choose this one?”
“Because I’m on it. And he knew I would be,” Alma replied, with devastating simplicity.
To which Juliet said, “O-oh,” and looked tactful. Then, after a short silence, she added,
“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, dear. But—did you and this good-looking surgeon—quarrel or something?”
“We were engaged,” Alma said flatly. “And we broke it off.”
“Oh, I see.” Juliet looked grave. “Then you mean it’s embarrassing for you to find him here on board?”
“No. I mean”—Alma got up and began to walk agitatedly backwards and forwards across the room—“I mean it’s quite inexplicable. It was he who wanted to avoid me. Why should he appear in the one place where it would be most difficult to avoid me?”
“Perhaps,” Juliet suggested diffidently, “it’s nothing to do with your being here at all. Perhaps he’s had an urgent professional call to the States. It does happen sometimes with well-known doctors.”
“Then he would have flown. Why not?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Oh—Max!” Alma was so tom with conflicting doubts and rapture that she could not attempt to hide her feelings, and as she paced about the room, Juliet watched her anxiously.
“Who broke the engagement, Alma?” she asked at last.
“What?—Oh, it was mutual, I suppose. The whole thing was a mistake.”
“Do you mean the engagement was? Or the breaking of it?” enquired Juliet, who had an exact mind.
“Both, perhaps. It’s so difficult to say now.” Alma put up her hands to her cheeks and found they were hot—though whether from excitement or distress she hardly knew.
“I don’t want to sound curious, honey, or to comment out of turn,” Juliet said. “But, for a girl who’s just managed to get shot of a man she didn’t want, you are showing the most amazing degree of interest.”
“But I did want him! I wanted him terribly.” Alma stared, wide-eyed, at her stepmother, but rather as though she didn’t see her. “I still do,” she added, half to herself.
“Well, that’s different, of course,” Juliet said kindly, and, to her credit, she contrived to look as though what Alma was saying made sense.
She stayed for a little while longer. But then, with the really remarkable instinct which she had for arriving or leaving at exactly the right moment,
Juliet judged t
he point at which Alma wanted to be alone, and rose to go.
“You know where to find me, if you want me, my dear,” she said. “I don’t expect anyone’s dressing up much for dinner on the first night, and your father usually likes to eat late. So you have plenty of time for a rest. Don’t let this business upset you too much. It’s really astonishing, you know, how things have a way of working out for the best.”
And, on this uninspired, but singularly true and comforting, piece of philosophy, Juliet went away to her own state-room, leaving Alma to pursue her conjectures alone.
“If he hadn’t known about my being on this ship, it would have been understandable,” she told herself. “It would have been the most extraordinary coincidence, but it would have been understandable. Only—he did know. He asked me himself, that very last afternoon. And I told him the day and time of sailing. There couldn’t have been any mistake. Unless ’
She stopped in her restless pacing suddenly.
Perhaps that was it! Perhaps he also had had plans to go to the States during his holiday. And because he knew she was going, he wanted to make absolutely sure that he avoided her ship. Was that why he had asked? So that he could avoid her.
“But I gave him the correct information.” Alma went cold at the thought of anything else. “Surely I did? I couldn’t possibly have made a mistake about anything so vital. And, anyway, there can’t be so many ships going about this time. Or can there? I’ll have to ask Father. He’ll know. Only, of course, that’s too late, anyway. Oh, this is terrible! I’ll have to make excuses to stay in my room for most of the trip.”
Surgeon of Distinction Page 18
