The Judas Tree Read online

  “There’s a nice little Scotch trout, Lindsay. Better than anything you landed this morning.”

  There was a general laugh as the other two turned to stare at Mary.

  “Come now, get on with your soup,” said Lindsay.

  “Oh, hang the soup. Let’s have the little lady over to our table. She doesn’t seem too happy with her Scotch uncle. What do you say, chaps? Shall I do the needful?”

  He looked at the others for confirmation and encouragement.

  “You’ll never chance it, Harris,” grinned one of his friends.

  “What do you bet?” He pushed back his chair and got up.

  Walter, disturbed at his mathematics, had been nervously aware of them from the moment they entered the room. Now, extremely grey about the gills, he averted his head.

  “Take no notice,” he muttered. “They won’t let him come over.”

  But Harris was already advancing and with an exaggerated bow he leant over Mary, took possession of her hand.

  “Pardon me, my dear. May we have the pleasure of your company?”

  Moray saw her shrink back. She had at first blushed deeply but now all the colour had drained from her face. Her lips were colourless and quivering. She looked pleadingly at Walter. Willie too was staring at Stoddart with wide, frightened, yet indignant eyes.

  “Sir,” Walter stammered, swallowing with difficulty, “are you aware you are addressing my fiancée? This is an imposition. I shall be obliged to summon the manager.”

  “Quiet, Uncle. We’re not interested in you. Come along, dearie.” He tried to draw her to her feet. “We’ll give you a ripping time.”

  “Please go,” Mary said in a small, pained voice.

  Something in the tone struck home. He hesitated, then with a grimace released her hand.

  “No accounting for tastes.” He shrugged. “Well, if I can’t have you, I’ll take a lee-itle souvenir.” He picked up Mary’s flowers and, pressing them affectedly to his lips, wavered back to his place.

  There was a hollow silence. Everyone seemed to be looking at Walter. In particular the man in the weather-stained kilt was observing him with a cruelly satiric twist of his lip. Walter, indeed, was pitifully agitated. Forgetting his intention to query the bill, he fumbled in his pocket-book, hurriedly threw down some notes, and rose like a ruffled hen.

  “We are leaving now, Mary.”

  Moray got up. There was nothing heroic in his nature, he had no strong leanings towards mortal combat, but be was angry—most of all perhaps at his own wasted day. And a sudden nervous impulse, almost predestined, sent him over to the other table, down at Harris, who did not seem greatly to relish his appearance.

  “Weren’t you told to get on with your soup? It’s a little late now. But let me help you.”

  Taking him by the back of the neck, Moray pushed him forward, ground his face hard once, twice, three times into the plate of soup. It was the thick soup, the Potage à la Reine Alexandra, which in the interim had nicely set, so that Harris came up for breath dripping with yellowish glue. Dead silence from the others while, with a swimming motion, he groped for his napkin. Moray picked up the bunch of bluebells, gave them back to Mary, waited a minute with a fast beating heart, then as nothing seemed to happen, except that now the man in the kilt was smiling, he followed the others from the restaurant. Outside, on the steps, Willie was waiting for him. The boy wrung his hand fervently again and again.

  “Well done, Davie. Oh, man, I like ye fine.”

  “There was no need for you to interfere,” Walter broke out, as they started down through the woods. “We were completely within our rights. As if decent people couldn’t have a meal in peace. I know about that Lindsay—a kailyard laird—not a fish or a bird on his property, he’ll rent to the lowest cockneys from London, but I’ll . . . I’ll report the matter . . . to the authorities. I won’t let it pass, it’s a public scandal.” He continued in this strain until they reached the pier, dwelling largely on the rights of the individual and the dignity of man, and concluding with a final vindictive burst. “I shall certainly put the entire affair before my father.”

  “And what will he do?” Willie said. “Turn off your gas?”

  The return journey was sad and silent. It had started to drizzle and they sat in the saloon. Nursing his injuries, Walter had at last ceased his monologue, while Mary, who gazed fixedly ahead, uttered scarcely a word. Willie had taken Moray away to show him the engines.

  At Ardfillan, Walter, with a forgiving air, offered his arm to Mary. They walked to the bakery and into the yard, where Moray started up his bike.

  “Well,” Walter moodily extended his hand, “I don’t suppose we’ll meet again . . .”.

  “Come again soon,” Willie cut in quickly. “Be sure and come.”

  “Goodbye, Mary,” Moray said.

  For the first time since they left the hotel she looked at him, breathing quickly and with moist eyes. She remained silent, quite silent. But in that steady glance there was something lingering and intense. He saw too that she was no longer holding the little bunch of bluebells: she had pinned them to her blouse and was wearing them upon her breast.

  Chapter Four

  At the end of the following week Moray had a real stroke of luck. By special favour of the registrar he was moved from the out-patients’ department of the Infirmary and given a month’s appointment as house assistant in Professor Drummond’s wards, which meant, of course, that he could leave his wretched lodging and live in hospital until his final examination. It was Professor Drummond who, after listening to Moray interrogate a patient, had once remarked, though somewhat dryly: “You’ll get on, my boy. You’ve the best bedside manner of any student I’ve ever known.” Moreover, Drummond was one of the examiners in clinical medicine, a significant fact that did not escape Moray and which he intended to make the most of during the next four weeks. He would be alert and assiduous, available at all hours, a demon for work, a regular fixture in the ward. For an eager and willing young man there seemed little hardship in this prospect. Yet in one sense it caused Moray an unaccountable vexation: he would be unable to take sufficient time off to make the journey to Ardfillan.

  Ever since that moment of departure after the return from Gairsay, strange forces had been at work in his absorbed and ambitious soul. Mary’s final glance, so quiet and intense, had struck him like a wounding arrow. He could not escape the vision of her strained little face, nor—and this was most ominous—did he wish to do so. Despite all his precautions, at odd moments of the day, in the ward or the test room, he would discover himself gazing absently into space. It was she, whom he saw, in all her sweetness and simplicity, and he would then be seized by a longing to be with her, the wish to win a smile from her, to be acknowledged as her friend—he did not so far permit himself to frame a stronger and more compromising word.

  He had hoped there might be news from her, or from her father, perhaps another invitation which, though he could not accept it, would give him the opportunity to get in touch with the family again. Why did he not hear from them? Since all the attentions had come from their side he had no wish to impose himself further without some hint that he would be welcome. Yet surely he must do something . . . something to clear up this . . . well, this uncertainty. At last, after ten days, when he had brought himself to a state of considerable tension, a postcard, showing a view of Ardfillan, arrived for him at the hospital. Its message was brief.

  Dear David,

  I hope you are well. I have been reading more about Africa. There’s been some ructions here. When are you coming to see us? I’ve been missing you.

  Yours ever, Willie.

  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.

  P.S. 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.