The Coral Tree

by Joyce Dingwell

  They were still without words as they made their way to Clairhill, fingers brushing but not clasping as they passed under the darkness of the trees and moved towards the house.

  The man was standing on the veranda, and it was only when she saw him that Cary remembered Sorrel calling: “Someone waiting for you.”

  For an instant she stopped, but only for an instant—for Richard now was impelling her on.

  But there was no gentleness this time in his touch, there was almost a ruthless compulsion. Perhaps his keen surgeon’s eyes had seen before hers who this man was.

  As she came closer she could not believe it. It could not be him. He was thousands of miles away, even this minute stemming down Lannwild Mountain from the Horn. It was only a likeness to him.

  Then Jan Luknit was stepping down, his pleasant, handsome face wreathed in smiles, his big hand extended.

  “Miss Porter,” he said eagerly, “Cary.”

  She extended her own hand automatically, still bereft of words. He did not shake it, he held it a moment; then, bending over, he kissed it.

  It was a long moment before he straightened again.

  “It was as you said,” he smiled, “good luck until I see you. I am here as you asked, Cary, I am here at your word.”

  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 out 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.”

  “I’m not in pain and I’m not feverish. I just feel tired, that’s all. If you’ll clear out, Solly, I’ll be right up.”

  “And be right down again after that foolish attempt, my friend. You’re running a little too high a temp for my liking. Just stay where you are.”

  It was a temptation she could not resist. She shut her eyes and obeyed.

  In the distance she heard Sorrel murmuring “... too much excitement ... too much emotional pleasure ... Jan’s unexpected arrival...”

  “No,” she tried to say; “you’re wrong, Sorrel, quite wrong,” but the words would not come. The children’s chirrup died away. She slept.

  Steps wakened her. They were firm steps, a man’s steps. They echoed unfalteringly along the passage to her room.

  Through her half-closed eyes she could see Richard Stormer coming to the bedside, then she felt his hand reach under the sheet to take hers.

  The hold as her pulse was marked was firm, yet quite indifferent.

  She would not have thought that a grasp could say so clearly: I am a doctor; you are a patient; that is all.

  Her eyes opened. She looked straight at him.

  “Richard, you must understand that I—”

  He cut her short. “I do understand,” he said remotely; “you are undergoing an emotional shock. You didn’t expect Mr. Luknit just yet, did you? It’s only to be expected that you suffer a reaction like this.”

  “But you’re wrong. The whole idea is wrong. I must explain to Jan at once.”

  He was looking narrowly back at her, and she knew that she had never seen such disgust, such loathing in anyone before. The intensity of it appalled her into silence. It crumpled her resolve to speak to him first.

  He waited a long, deliberate moment, then he spoke bitterly himself.

  “Yes, you must tell Luknit,” he taunted. “That’s very important to you, isn’t it? That telling—to somebody else. But does it matter what the telling does to him?”

  “What could it do? Why is he thinking on the lines he is? I never gave him reason, I never—”

  He had taken out a stethoscope. Adroitly he put it to his ears and upon her breast. As he listened he was remembering Gerard, and how Julia, also, had found some telling that had to be done. All the old pain and futility surged up in him again. For a while he had been able to put it behind him, now it was more salient than ever before. He swung the stethoscope back into its box.

  “Best stay there today; perhaps tomorrow.”

  “I’m all right—I mean I’ll be all right when I’ve cleared things up, explained—”

  “You really mean passed on your disagreeable symptoms to the next victim, don’t you? That’s the way with most contagious diseases, and this, in its way, is only another form of contagious disease. Yes, Miss Porter, pass it on, pass it on, so long as you get rid of it yourself.”

  “Richard, I don’t understand you, but one thing I do know—I want you to understand me.”

  “I already understand perfectly, and as for the other, your comprehension of me, there is nothing to understand, Miss Porter, nothing at all.”

  She wanted to cry out: But there was something once, and you know i
t. There was that afternoon in Pan’s Meadow, those minutes behind the plane, the little shared moments between, all those shining times. She wanted to remind him of this, but the set face above her was bitter and forbidding. It took away her words.

  Still she would have tried, for something within her told her that she must try, that it was all-important, had not Jan knocked and walked in at that moment, his broad, pleasant face creased with concern.

  “Cary, Cary, my dear—”

  “I’m all right, Jan; just a little tired.” She knew that her agitated voice belied her words.

  He looked at her tenderly, then he turned to Richard. “It is all this suddenness, is it not, Doctor? The little one did not think of me as coming yet. It is excitement that has done all this.”

  Richard was fastening his bag. He said laconically: “You are a good diagnostician.”

  “And your advice?”

  “A day’s rest, Mr. Luknit. Perhaps several days.” Richard paused, then added: “You might see that she does that.”

  Sorrel had come into the room. “I’ll see to it,” she assured cheerily. “Jan was wondering if he could travel down in Paul, Richard, with you.”

  “Yes, I have details to attend to in Sydney that perhaps I should have attended before I came up here. But I was anxious, you understand—”

  “Naturally.” Stormer’s sharp word was revealing.

  He added more courteously: “You will be welcome, sir.”

  It became suddenly important to Cary that Jan should not go with Richard. There were things she must say to Jan, and as soon as possible. If he went before she could speak out it would delay the saying and so make it all the harder. She would have to wait longer before she could know the relief of being clear in her heart again.

  She also shrank sensitively at what she felt sure, knowing the impulsive nature of Jan, would be revealed in that downward night. All the man’s misconceived thoughts of her would be confided to Richard, who would instantly misconstrue them even as Jan had. “No,” she said sharply, “I don’t want you to go.”