The Judas Tree Read online

  Chapter Five

  Suddenly, as from a great distance, he remembered that his chief was due at eight o’clock to perform a lumbar puncture—a case which had come into the ward that afternoon. He must rush to the hospital to relieve Kerr. Dashing out of the station into the fog he was fortunate in finding an Eldongrove tram which, though its progress was laborious, took him back in time. Yet how he got through the next two hours he never fully understood. Speech and movements were automatic, he was barely conscious of his own presence in the ward. Once or twice he felt Drummond glancing at him oddly, but he made no comment, and at last, towards ten o’clock, Moray was able to go to his own room and give way to his feelings.

  He was in love and, with the ecstasy of her kiss still lingering he knew that she loved him. It was an eventuality which, even remotely, had never entered his mind. All his thoughts, his energy and endeavours, had been concentrated exclusively on one objective, his career: to lift himself out of the swamp of poverty and make a dazzling success of his life. Well, he reasoned, with an upsurge of emotion, if he could achieve this alone, could he not do so with her, encouraged and fortified by one who, despite her modest social status, possessed all the qualities of the perfect helpmate? He could not lose her—the mere idea made him wince, like the prospect of sudden death.

  He knitted his brows: what was to be done? The situation in which she was placed, with the date of her wedding fixed, and no more than three weeks off, demanded immediate action. Suppose by some fearful mischance he could not stop it. The thought of Walter, painstakingly precise, exacting the full-resources of his connubial rights to their most intimate extent came to him with horrifying vividness. It was enough to drive him frantic. He must write to Mary, write at once, and send the letter to her express.

  Suddenly, as he reached towards his desk for paper, the emergency phone rang. With an exclamation of annoyance he took up the receiver. Macdonald, the switchboard night operator, was speaking.

  “Mr Moray . . .”.

  “Damn it, Mac—what is it? Another false run?”

  “It’s a personal call for you. I’ll put you through.”

  There was a whirring on the line. Then:

  “David . . .”

  He caught his breath sharply.

  “Mary, is it really you?”

  Her voice came to him, guarded yet intense.

  “I’ve come down to the shop. . . . The others are asleep and I’m all in the dark. . . . But I simply had to speak to you. . . . Dearest David, I’m so happy.”

  He had a swift, sweet vision of her in her nightdress and slippers in the darkness of the little shop.

  “I am too, dearest Mary.”

  “Ever since that first minute at Craigdoran, when I saw you in the mirror . . . I knew, David. And when I thought you didn’t care, it fair broke my heart.”

  “But you know I do. I’m just wild about you.”

  He could hear her long, softly indrawn breath, more thrilling than any answer.

  “I can’t stop, dearest David. I only wanted you to know that I’ll never marry Walter. Never—never. I didn’t ever want to, I just let myself be talked into it. And then, when I thought you didn’t want me. . . . But now I’ll tell him, first thing tomorrow.”

  He could not let her face this alone.

  “I’ll come with you, Mary. I’ll ask Drummond for time off.”

  “No, David,” she said firmly, “You have your exam. That’s the important thing, for you to get through. After that, come straight away. I’ll be waiting for you.” She hesitated. “And . . . and if you’ve a wee minute you can write to me in the meantime.”

  “I will, Mary. I’ve already begun a letter.”

  “I can’t wait till I get it. Now I must go. Goodnight, Davie dear.”

  The receiver was replaced. Now she would be creeping upstairs in the silent house to the room beside Willie’s. Seizing pen and paper he dashed off a long and fervent letter; then, undressing in a kind of trance, he flung himself into bed.

  Next morning, like one inspired, he redoubled his work for the finals. In the intensity of this last spurt time flew. When the day of the examination arrived he entered the Eldon Hall, tense but confident, and took his place at one of the desks. The first papers were distributed. He saw, after a rapid run through, that the questions suited him. He began to write, never once looking up, covering the pages with a flowing legible script. During the next three days, coming and going between the hospital and the University, he took his place at the same desk, set himself to do his utmost, not only for his own sake but for hers.

  Then the clinical examination began. In medicine he spotted his case at once: a bronchiectasis with secondary cerebral abscess. He believed he was doing well. On the last day of the examination he went in for his oral. Drummond, sitting with old Murdo Macleish, Regius Professor of Midwifery, known as the Heiland Stat, and Purvis, the external examiner, gave him a friendly nod, remarking to his colleagues:

  “This is the fellow with the bedside manner.”

  “He’s got rather more than that,” said Purvis, glancing through Moray’s case-report.

  They began to question him, and Moray—fluent, ready to agree, to smile respectfully, and always, always deferential—felt he was giving of his best. Yet the Stat worried him. This formidable character, both a terror and support to generations of Highland students, was already legendary for his brutal frankness and bawdy humour. At his opening lecture of the session it was his habit to summon some shrinking youth to the floor before the entire class, throw him an end of chalk and, pointing to the blackboard with a grim smile, indicate in the coarsest terms his wish to have a pictoral representation of the female private parts. At present he was not saying much but watching Moray intently, with a suspicious look in his small red eye. However, the interview was soon over and Purvis said with a smile: “I don’t think we need keep you.”

  When Moray had gone and the door closed behind him he added: “Nice young fellow.”

  The Stat shook himself irritably.

  “Smart enough,” he grunted. “But a bluidy young humbug.” The other two laughed. At his age, no one took old Murdo seriously.

  The results were to be posted on Saturday morning. As Moray walked up the long hill to the University, all his assurance left him. He had been mistaken, he had not done well, he had failed. He scarcely dared approach the notice-board beside the main archway. Bracketed with two others, his name was at the head of the list. He had passed with honours.

  He felt faint. After all his years of striving and self-denial the triumph of that moment was beyond belief. It was all the greater because of the sweet knowledge that he would soon share it with her. Barely waiting to receive the congratulations of the others gathered round the board, he went directly to the branch post office at the foot of Gilmore Hill and sent off a telegram.

  Arriving Ardfillan 530 p. m. train today.

  He hoped she would have returned from Craigdoran at that hour, and indeed, when he arrived, she was at the station to meet him. Quickly, quickly, her eyes shining, looking pale yet prettier than ever before, she advanced and, breathlessly unheeding of the others on the platform, offered him her lips. If, in these last hectic days, he had forgotten the warm freshness of her kiss, now it was renewed. As they went out of the station and started towards her home he still held her hand. Overcome, neither had so far spoken a single intelligible word. He saw that she dared not ask the question uppermost in her mind, and though he had planned a long and suspenseful recital of his success he merely said, humbly, not looking at her:

  “I’ve passed, Mary . . . at the top, with honours.”

  A sudden nervous tightening of her fingers on his; then, in a voice stifled by feeling, “I knew you’d do it, Davie dear. But, oh, I’m so glad, so terribly glad you have. Now we can face up to things together.”

  He bent towards her in concern.

  “It’s been difficult f
or you here?”

  “Not exactly easy.” She softened the words by a tender upward glance. “When I went to tell Walter, at first be thought I was joking. He couldn’t believe his ears, that any woman would turn him down. When he found I was in earnest . . . he wasn’t . . . nice. Then his parents came to see Father. That was bad too.” She smiled wryly. “I was called a few fancy names.”

  “Oh God,” he groaned, “to think of you having to suffer that and me not there. I’d like to break that damn fellow’s neck.”

  “No,” she said seriously. “I suppose I was to blame. But I can only thank Heaven for being spared the awfulness of getting into that family and,” she pressed close to him, “for finding you. I love you, Davie.”

  “And I you, Mary.”

  “That’s everything,” she sighed. “Nothing else matters.”

  “But didn’t your own family stand up for you?”

  “In a way,” she said. “But except for Willie they’re not too pleased with me for all that. However, here we are, and first we’d better see my father.”

  Through an entrance in the near side of the yard she took him into the bakery. It was low and dark, hot from the glow of two draw-plate ovens, and honey-sweet with the smell of a batch of new bread. Douglas, with his foreman, John Donaldson, was shelving the heavy board on which the double Scotch loaves, black crust upwards, were ranged in rows. The baker was in his shirt sleeves, wearing a floury apron, and old white canvas shoes. Over his shoulder he saw Moray enter, yet he finished the shelving, then slowly divested himself of the apron before coming forward.

  “It’s yourself, then,” he said, unsmiling, offering his hand.

  “Father,” Mary burst out, “David has passed his examination with honours, and come out top of the list.”

  “So you’re a doctor now. Well, that’s something gained.”

  He led the way out of the bakery and upstairs to the front parlour, where Willie was at the cleared table doing his lessons and Aunt Minnie seated knitting by the window. The boy gave Moray a swift welcoming smile but the aunt, frowning at her flashing needles, did not once look up.

  “Sit down, man, sit down,” said the little baker. “We’ve had our tea earlier nor usual today. But . . . well, maybe afterwards, if ye’re hungry, Mary’ll get you a bite.”

  David took a stiff chair by the table. Mary drew another over and sat down by his side.

  “Leave the room, Willie,” the aunt said, finally forking her needles into the knitting and favouring Moray with a chilly scrutiny. “Did you hear me, Willie!”

  Willie went out.

  “Now, David,” the baker began, “yet must understand that this has been a bit of a shock to us . . .”

  “And to everybody else,” Aunt Minnie cut in, her head shaking with indignation. “The whole town is ringing with it. It’s a positive scandal and disgrace.”

  “Ay,” Douglas resumed. “It has placed us in a most unfortunate position. My daughter had given her plighted word to a worthy man, well connected and highly respected in the borough. Not only was she engaged to be married, the wedding day bad been set; when suddenly, without rhyme or reason, she breaks the whole thing off in favour of a total stranger.”

  “There was a very good reason, sir. Mary and I fell in love.”

  “Love!” exclaimed the aunt in an indescribable tone. “Before you appeared on that blessed bike of yours, like some—some half-baked Lochinvar, she was in love with Walter.”

  “Not at all.” Moray felt Mary’s hand steal towards his under the table. “She never was. And I’m convinced she would never have been happy with him. You’ve called Stoddart a worthy man. I think he’s a pompous, conceited, unfeeling ass.”

  “That’ll do now,” Douglas interposed sharply. “Walter may have his peculiarities, but we know he’s sound enough underneath.”

  “Which is more than we know of you!” threw out the aunt.

  “I’m sorry you have such a poor opinion of me.” Moray glanced deprecatingly towards Minnie. “I hope later on you may change your mind. This isn’t the first time an engagement has been broken. Better late than never.”

  “It’s true,” Mary murmured. “I never wanted Walter.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so before, you wicked besom? Now you’ve put the Stoddarts against us. They’ll hate us for ever. And you know what that means to your father.”

  “Ay, it’s not a pretty prospect. But the least said on that score the better.”

  “But I will speak, James.” The aunt bent forward towards Moray. “You may think everything is easy osey with us here. But it’s not. Far from it. What with the big combines and their machine-made bread and their motor delivery trucks rampaging the whole countryside, to say nothing of the alterations we’re supposed to make under the new Factory Act, my brother-in-law’s had a hard fight this many a year, and him not in the best of health forbye. And Walter, through his father, had definitely promised . . .”.

  “That’s enough, Minnie.” Douglas raised his hand. “Least said soonest mended. I’ve aye managed to stand on my own two legs in the past, and with the help of Providence I hope I’ll keep on them in the future.”

  A silence followed; then Moray, pressing Mary’s hand, addressed himself to the baker. He had never shown to better advantage, his fresh, clever young face alight with feeling and sincerity.

  “I realise that I’ve caused you a lot of trouble, sir, and pain. I’m truly sorry. But some things just can’t be helped. Like lightning . . . they strike you. That’s the way it happened with Mary and me. You mayn’t think too much of me now,” he half turned towards Aunt Minnie, “but I’ll show you. You’ll not regret having me as a son-in-law. I have my degree, and it’s a good one. I’ll get a job in no time, and it won’t be so very long before I’ve a first-class practice. All I want is to have Mary with me, and I’m sure that’s what she wants, too.” He smiled, from one to the other, his diffident, taking, heart-warming smile.

  There was a pause. Despite his determination to be firm, the baker could not restrain his nod of approval.

  “That’s well said, David. And now ye’ve spoken out I’ll allow that from the first . . . like my daughter here . . .” he smiled at Mary, “I was real taken with ye . . . and wi’ all ye have done. Since what maun be maun be, I’ll agree ye can be engaged. As for the marriage, there maun be a decent interval, ay, a decent interval to prevent scandal in the town. Take a job for three or four months, then we’ll see. What do you say to that, Minnie?”

  “Well . . .” the aunt temporised, “There’s no use crying over spilt milk.” Even she had softened, impressed by the tone of Moray’s moving little speech. “Maybe you’re right. We mustn’t be too hard on them.”

  “Oh, thank you, Father . . . thank you, Aunt Minnie.” Mary jumped up a little wildly and kissed them both. Her cheeks were flushed, a lock of hair hung loose across her forehead. She tossed it back triumphantly. “I knew you’d make everything all right. And now will I get Davie something to eat, Auntie?”

  “Fetch him in biscuits and cheese. And some of the new batch of cherry cakes. I ken ye likes them.” She shot a wry glance at Moray. “He ate six of them the last time he was here.”

  “Just one thing more, Father,” Mary pleaded, angelically. “Can Davie stay the night? Please. I’ve seen so little of him lately.”

  “Well, just for tonight. Tomorrow he’ll have to be off seeking that job.” A thought struck the little baker. He added severely: “And if you’re thinking of walking out tonight, Willie’ll have to go with you.”

  Hurrying between the kitchen and the parlour she put a choice little meal before him, but in the wonder of this magic day, food had become a sordid thing; he had little appetite. When he had finished, she put on her hat and coat. Every movement that she made seemed to him special and significant, precious, unique, adorably feminine. Then they went out and, arm in arm in the darkness, walked along the Esplanade wit
h Willie at their side. The boy, excited by the turn of events, was in a talkative mood, putting all sorts of questions to Moray, who had not the heart to tell him he was in the way. Mary, on fire with an equal longing, was more resourceful.

  “Willie dear,” she said sweetly, as they reached the end of the promenade, “I’ve just remembered I forgot to get Auntie’s black striped balls for tomorrow. Here’s a threepenny bit. Run back to McKellar’s for twopence-worth and get a Fry’s chocolate bar for yourself. There’s a good boy. Davie and I’ll be sitting here when you get back.”

  When Willie had scudded off they went into the wooden shelter. It was empty. Seated in the corner, protected from the wind, they clung to each other, the beat of the tide lost in the beating of their hearts. The waves rolled in, a star flashed unseen through the sky. Her lips were dry and warm; the innocence of her kiss, in its ardour and passion, moved him as never before.

  “Oh, Davie darling,” she whispered, her cheek against his. “I’m so happy I could die. I love you so much it’s like as if my breast would break.”

  Chapter Six

  The graduation ceremony took place a few days later. Immediately he had turned in his hired cap and gown, Moray set about finding a suitable job. At least two house appointments were his for the asking in the infirmary. But here, not only was the salary a pittance, he had long ago wisely decided against the long toiling road of academic promotion. Again, several assistantships were available, mainly from country practitioners, but these he dismissed on sight. These rural G.P.s, he well knew, were not looking for honours graduates; they wanted husky youngsters who would eat anything and, unencumbered by a wife, get out of bed for a midwifery call at any hour of the night. No, he would be lost in such a situation, nor would he accept any stopgap offer: locums, dispensary work, temporary employment with one of the shipping companies, all were rejected. For his own sake and Mary’s he must find something better. Intently he scanned the columns of the Lancet and the Medical Journal, pored over the advertisements of the local newspapers in the reading-room of the Carnegie Public Library. He found nothing that would do. He was worried stiff when at last he came on an unobtrusive panel in the appointments column of the Winton Herald.