Doctor's Assistant

by Celine Conway

  “But that’s foolish...”

  Laurette jumped up, but before she could move Ben came round the corner of the house. He stared for a moment at their smudged faces and arms, at the frizzled ends of Laurette’s hair at her temple.

  “Great heaven,” he said quietly, helping Irene to her feet. “The garden boy called me; I got the impression there’d be a couple of corpses to cart away. Aren’t you hurt?”

  Laurette shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Irene said swiftly, “We’ve each got a scratch or two, but that’s all. Ben, will you take us back to the bungalow?”

  Apparently he had understood the situation at first glance. The wrecked carpet, the blank resignation in Laurette and Irene’s urgent need to get them all away from the Kelsey house. “Of course I will,” he said. “Let’s go at once.”

  When, presently, they entered the living-room of the bungalow, Laurette could still find nothing to say to him. She hesitated near the table with her lip pulled tight between her teeth, gave a hopeless little shrug and went through to her bedroom. In the acute silence which followed they heard the key turn in her lock.

  Studiously, Ben propped his medical case open on the table. “I have noticed a small burn on your arm,” he said. “Let me have a look at it.”

  Irene came closer and raised her arm. Her tone as careful as his, she said, “You musn’t mind Laurette going off like that. She feels absolutely horrid about that fire. It occurred so quickly after we’d left the house.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  While he used cotton wool and a soothing jelly she explained what had happened. “Laurette was like one possessed,” she ended. “Her haste was so frantic that it was all over in about twenty minutes.”

  He nodded comprehendingly. “And now she’s hating herself. Unfortunately, there’s nothing you or I can do. She’s always had to get over things in her own way.”

  Irene was silent till he had tied the bandage. Then she moved away and said, “I think she might open her door to you. She needs comforting.”

  “Not by me,” he said on a sigh. “You’re sure she hadn’t any burns?”

  “No, I’m not, but she was so quick, such a maniac, that I don’t believe she had time to get hurt—if you know what I mean. Her hair caught and she slapped it out with her hand.” Irene shivered, violently, but tried to smile. Apologetically, she added, “I hate fire, you know. With me, it’s a bit of a phobia.”

  Concerned, he took her chin and looked into her eyes. “You’re a heroine, Irene.”

  She colored, and blinked away the threat of tears. “No, I wasn’t being brave. I just didn’t think first.”

  “But your instincts must have been against entering that room.” He let fall his hand, but still looked at her. “Only a strong stimulus would have made you go in there after Laurette.”

  “I had to help her,” she said simply, “for your sake.”

  A few awkward moments elapsed before he said, “Why for my sake?”

  “I know you love her,” came the almost inaudible response. “I knew it when I first saw you together, and wished she’d come round to loving you that way.”

  Ben, who never debated the emotions, felt faint electric twinges over his skin. Irene was as small as Laurette and rather more pathetic. Not so long ago she had had a serious illness, yet in a moment of what must have been intense fear she had forgotten her weakness ... for his sake. He wasn’t conceited enough to make the obvious inference, but the knowledge did uplift him, queerly.

  “I do love Laurette,” he said, “and at one time I hoped she’d marry me. A good many things have happened since then and the quality of what I feel for her has changed. I know now that I could never make her happy; I wouldn’t even care to try. But I’d give a lot to meet the man who’d value that valiant little heart of hers. Which means, I suppose, that I’ve come to feel for her much as her father did.”

  Irene laughed shakily. “Not father, Ben. You’re not that ancient!”

  He smiled faintly. “Elder brother, then.” He snapped shut his case. “This is very unusual for me—this kind of discussion.”

  “For that reason it’s probably good for you. As a matter of fact,” she admitted in some surprise, “I’ve always found men unapproachable.”

  “That’s as it should be—but you should certainly allow them to approach you. You’re young, Irene, and it would do you all the good in the world to settle down with someone pleasant and understanding. Wasn’t there a schoolmaster in the Free State whom you worshipped from afar?”

  “No, not one.”

  “Maybe you’ll react differently when you go back.”

  To her further complete astonishment she said, “I don’t very much want to go back. I feel so much more alive at the coast. I wish it were possible to start a school in Port Quentin.”

  “It is possible, but you wouldn’t earn much at it. I shouldn’t make any decisions yet, if I were you. Just be yourself and get thoroughly well. You’re an appealing woman.”

  Which was a compliment so unexpected that she gave him a wholehearted, if somewhat unsteady, smile. Fleetingly, Ben wondered what it would be like to come in from the mission or his surgery to find her dark head bent over a book in his lounge, to see it lift, the brown eyes welcoming. Mentally, he shook himself; that kind of reflection could be awfully disturbing.

  He took the handle of his case and went to the door. “Have a rest,” he said. “I’ll come back later this evening.”

  Irene did not watch him go. She stood against the wall, the backs of her hands pressed to her hot cheeks while she reminded herself that she was twenty-seven. It seemed now that it must have been someone else who had found the courage to tell Ben that he was in love with Laurette; but it was certainly herself who had heard him confess that he no longer wished to marry her. Thankfulness flooded through Irene like a warm summer tide. She would get her chance to love him; she knew it! She would make him happy, enliven that grim old house of his, give him something ... someone to work and live for. If only Laurette...

  She stiffened suddenly. A car door had slammed, firm footsteps sounded on the path and she saw a tall figure at the door, the figure of Charles Heron. He had missed Ben by only five minutes.

  “Good evening,” she managed, moving as in a trance towards him. “Have you been home?”

  “I came straight here,” he said, and looked around him at the chintzy lounge. “Where’s Laurette?”

  “She’s in her room.”

  It was only then that he really looked at Irene. “What have you been up to?” he asked. “You’re filthy.”

  “Yes, I know. We ... we did get rather dirty.”

  He was tired—she could see that. He’d probably been travelling throughout the heat of the day without stopping for food. She ought to offer him coffee and sandwiches, and ask him to rest while she and Laurette washed and changed. It was Laurette’s duty to tell him about the fire, but it seemed so unfair, his arriving so soon after the catastrophe. He was a week early, but if he had put off coming only till tomorrow it would have mattered less. That he should come upon them now, still grimy from the charred remnants of his carpet, was too bad. She couldn’t allow Laurette to face him yet.

  “Will you sit down,” she said, pronouncing the syllables with much care. “I’ve some rather grisly news for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHARLES interrupted only once. “Damn the carpet!” he exclaimed violently. “Was she hurt?”

  Irene felt somewhat better after that. She assured Charles that Laurette was all right, but terribly fed up with herself. “I do wish you’d seen her clawing the furniture out of danger; she literally had the strength of an ox. And, afterwards she was so wretched about it all, because you’d trusted her and she’d let you down. Actually, it was neither Laurette’s nor the boy’s fault. It was mine. You see, it was I who recommended the paraffin stoves, and I ought to have known better, because I’ve lived with African servants all my lif
e, and Laurette hasn’t. If you’re angry,” she finished in some trepidation, “you’d better be angry with ... me.”

  “Laurette is now in her bedroom?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell her I’m here. No”—at once he rescinded the command. “I’ll tell her myself.”

  Apprehensively Irene called after him, “Her door is locked!”

  She heard his loud rap at the panel, stood still and frightened for a second, then ran out of the house and up the road away from the town. She looked too much of a fright to risk meeting people, but she felt so free and happy that a walk was just what she needed. She would stop at a stream and bathe her face, and perhaps she would sit there a while, and dream. Guiltily, she was glad the fire had occurred in Charles’ library; but for that Ben would never have had to dress a burn on her arm.

  Laurette, meanwhile, had creamed most of the marks from her face, taken off her frock and got into a dressing-gown. She had sat on the stool and stared unseeing at her bruised-looking eyes, and wondered how she was going to live through the coming week. She kept seeing the off-white carpet with the huge jagged hole in the centre, and her imagination soot-blackened the walls and ceiling of the library. The floor, too, seemed in her memory to have sustained tremendous damage. Wildly, she saw herself emptying the library and cream-washing the walls, sand-papering the great scorch mark from the parquet and touching it up and polishing it to match the rest. It could be done, she was sure. It wouldn’t be so bad if the library was normal, but carpetless. That beautiful carpet.

  She was still on the stool in front of the dressing-table when Charles knocked at the door. The sound of his voice was like a death-blow to her hopes.

  “Laurette,” he said peremptorily, “open the door.”

  She had no reason to deny him, but her knees were so weak that before she had crossed the room he banged again.

  “Laurette! Open the door, or I’ll smash it.”

  This was beyond everything. What a mood in which to have to confront him! She snicked the key and stepped back. The door opened sharply, and he stood there, breathing a little heavily, the green eyes leaping. He came into the room and swung the door closed behind him. For fully half a minute they measured each other, like old opponents, then she made a small helpless gesture and turned aside.

  She asked the question Irene had put. “Have you been home?”

  “No, but I’ve just heard about the fire in the library from Irene. It isn’t important, Laurette. You should have let the boy do what he could, and left it.” He came nearer. “You’ve singed your pretty hair.”

  The cream had left her face shiny and her hair was dark and clinging with sweat, but she was too sickened to care. “I’ll never forgive myself for ruining that lovely carpet. If I could promise to replace it, I would...”

  “Shut up, do you hear me! The fire doesn’t matter, so long as you got out of it without injury. For Pete’s sake get the right perspective on this. Almost every fire in the world is caused by an accident of some kind, and this was no exception. If it’ll comfort you, the place is insured up to the hilt.” He put out a hand but she backed, quivering. “You’ve upset yourself terribly, and all for nothing. I couldn’t be angry with you over a thing like that. It isn’t worth it.”

  But during the last hour or so, Laurette had borne just a scrap too much. “Please leave me alone, Charles,” she implored. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You’ll see me tonight as well,” he told her a trifle grimly. “Would you like me to wait in the lounge while you dress?”

  “I want you to go away—leave me alone till tomorrow.”

  “I’m staying,” he said firmly.

  Then, Laurette, who thought she would have died rather than collapse in front of Charles, felt something snap within her. She drooped on to the side of her bed, crumpled and turned over, pushing her face into the pillow. The next moment he was beside her, holding her shoulders and pressing his cheek to the back of her head.

  “Darling, you musn’t,” he said gently. “You’ve worked yourself up for nothing at all. And you know why it is, don’t you? It’s simply because you wouldn’t let yourself grieve properly for your father. Things just add themselves on till the weight become insupportable, and when you do give way it’s pretty devastating. I somehow knew you were putting yourself through a private hell, and that’s why I moved heaven and earth to come this week, instead of next. You can’t go on alone like this, my sweet. I won’t let you. I know you’re young, and that you haven’t much notion of what it is to love a man, but you’ll come to it, in time.”

  Her quivering ceased, as if she were straining every nerve to listen. She was terribly aware of those firm hands on her silk-clad shoulders, the apparently unconscious movement of his thumbs over the fine bones; his breath was warm against the side of her neck.

  “I’ve never done so much thinking in my whole life as I have during the past three weeks,” he was saying. “While your father was here there was not a lot I could do except come to Port Quentin for a break whenever I could manage one. To me, that didn’t seem very satisfactory, because I knew you were bound to take a long time to ... well, awaken. In many ways you’re such a strong and wise little person that I was fairly sure that seeing you often wouldn’t help much; when you did fall in love, you’d know it. What I’m trying to say is this: I love you, Laurette. I hadn’t known you a week when I decided to marry you, but I realized it was no use staying anything about it then. I had to try to be patient, wait for you to come alive.” Rather thickly, he added, “Not putting this too well, am I?”

  She moved, and he saw that the hand on which she lay had clenched into a fist. “No,” she said against the pillow, “you’re not.”

  “I’d better speak plainer, then. Laurette, we’ll have to get married. I know you’re not ready for it, and I’ll assure you straight away that I won’t demand anything of you till you are. But I’ll be able to look after you without the frightful worry of all that distance between us.”

  Gently, but firmly, he turned her, so that she lay facing up at him, her eyes wide in the pallor of her face.

  “You’re just being ... accommodating,” she whispered.

  He gave her the shadow of a smile. “Hardly. A man seldom marries for that reason. You will marry me, won’t you, Laurette?”

  “No,” she said, “I won’t. I don’t want you to lie out of pity for me, Charles. If you loved me you wouldn’t suggest a farcical half-marriage...”

  “It’s only through loving you that I can,” he broke in savagely. “You’ve only to let yourself fall in love with me, and I’ll do the rest. I won’t leave you down here and I can’t arrange for you to live in Mohpeng indefinitely. Once the Seymours have gone there’ll be no one you can stay with. Besides, it would look too silly if I were to have a fiancée there when there’s nothing at all to prevent my being married.”

  “As you say, too silly,” she echoed, husky with pain. “What am I supposed to answer? ‘Thank you very much, Charles. I’d love to live in your house and pretend to be your wife. And if we ever fall in love with each other we’ll drop each other a postcard.” Her tones grew hard and reckless. “What sort of person do you think I am—apart from the wisdom and strength! Do you think I’d marry a man who cares a thousand times more for his job than he’d ever care for me. And what makes you so sure that I’m incapable of loving you now?...”

  His mouth stopped whatever she had been going to add. He had bent over her, blazing, had slipped arms under her and hauled her close. The kiss was long-lasting, and merciless. It bent back her head over his arm, numbed her lips and blocked her throat. He let her go suddenly, twisted up on to his feet and went to the window.

  Indistinctly, he said, “If you hadn’t accused me of caring more for my job than for you, that wouldn’t have happened. I’m not going to apologize. If you ask for it, you’ll get it again.”

  She got up and moved his way. Gingerly, she fingered her throat.
“I won’t take that chance,” she said unsteadily. “Do I now have to believe that I do mean more to you than Mohpeng?”

  Deliberately, vibrantly, he said, “You mean more to me than anything or anyone.” He looked down, at her in a brief fury of impatience. “Of course I love you! I loved you when I found you all brave and worn out that morning in the native reserve. I loved you at ‘Tumbling Waters’, and when I kissed you good-bye at the end of my leave. And more than ever I loved you at Mohpeng.”

  “But you were such a beast,” she acclaimed incredulously.

  “I hated you as well—hated what you were doing to me. I’d have given everything to hold you and kiss you and tell you I couldn’t wait for you to grow older.”

  “Oh, Charles—if only you had! I was so despondent after that first night.”

  He was grasping her elbows and searching her face. His eyes cleared, and glinted. “You’re not so young,” he said softly. “In spite of yourself you’re beginning to love me.”

  “I began to love you months ago,” she said tremendously. “Charles, kiss me again, but not so cruelly.”

  He complied. He kissed her mouth and her neck, and he pushed aside the collar of her dressing-gown so that he could kiss her shoulder. “You have such deliciously smooth skin,” he murmured, “and your lips are just as soft and clinging as I used to dream them.” Then, on an odd note, “You’re not banking on a half-marriage after this, are you? Flesh and blood couldn’t stand it.”

  She gave a breathy little laugh. “It was unspeakably rash of you even to suggest it. Not a bit like you.”

  “I just had to have you, on any terms.” The old crispness returned to his voice. “God knows how long it could have lasted, but I’d have made the attempt.” He drew down her arms and held her wrists, looking at her. “You mean it—you do love me as much as you can?”

  “I do—and it’s considerable,” she said, a cautious heaven lighting up her eyes.