The Coral Tree Read online

  “It will be auctioned.”

  “And the money?”

  “It will go to certain named charities.”

  Cary had brightened at that. “Then there is the answer,” she had said triumphantly. “Someone will benefit, someone worthy. What more blossoming could Mrs. Marlow want than that?”

  Mr. Beynon had not answered. He had just sat looking at Cary. He looked a long time. In agitation at last she had turned on him.

  “I can’t, I can’t, I tell you. It’s a brooding house. It has the ghosts of Ian and Megan and Allie. It has the ghosts of a thousand broken dreams.”

  As she had spoken the names of the Marlow children a thought had struck her. Here was a loophole. The Marlows composed the loophole. They had a right to their mother’s home. Megan was gone, but Ian and Alison were left.

  As though reading her thoughts, Mr. Beynon had spoken quietly. “Ian died four years ago, at sea.”

  “Ian—” Cary had barely whispered the name. She had liked Ian very much. Then another thought had come to her, a frightening, disturbing thought.

  “Alison—” she had breathed unevenly.

  Mr. Beynon had taken a letter from his desk.

  “This is from Alison Greer’s husband. On Mrs. Marlow’s request I eventually traced her daughter.”

  “Allie—” repeated Cary starkly.

  “Died last year. There were no children.” The letter dropped back to the drawer.

  Mr. Beynon said. “They were an ill-fated family, Miss Porter.”

  “As Clairhill is ill-fated,” said Cary. She was not aware that her eyes were bright with tears.

  Mr. Beynon was aware, though, and his own eyes pricked rather embarrassingly.

  Aloud he corrected Cary: “As Clairhill was ill-fated, Miss Porter. In the future, who knows?” Once more he waited for her response.

  Desperately at last Cary had asked: “Mr. Beynon, when can I have my money? I want to train for a position—shorthand, book-keeping, something like that.”

  As he had still sat silent, waiting, she had added unhappily: “After all, it says in this letter ‘if you refuse you cannot be reproached’.”

  “It also says,” had pointed out the solicitor, “ ‘I only beg you at least consider the thought.’ ” He continued, “I want you to go home and consider it. I want you to consider it for a week, and then come and tell me, my dear.”

  In the end she had agreed, but the week had brought no solution, and she had told Mr. Beynon so at her next visit.

  It was then he had taken out the tourist ticket to Mungen, confessed he had booked her in at the Palace Hotel.

  “If you don’t reach a decision there you will never reach it,” he had smiled. “Those snowy giants inspire calm” ... And perhaps they did, admitted Cary now, stemming expertly down her own especial “giant,” perhaps if they did not bring a solution they did bring calm—then all at once she was finding herself anything but calm. It was not because of the big decision yet to be made, it was simply because she was descending much too quickly. In her preoccupation she must have accelerated her speed and not noticed. Trees seemed to be rushing past her, but of course it was she who was racing, and not the trees.

  Before her was another skier. Only a miracle, she realized, could prevent a collision.

  The man—in her blind speed his height and bulk alone told her he was that—looked quickly over his shoulder and veered sharply. He evidently was an accomplished skier, but even then the suddenness of his altered course was too difficult and he fell.

  With a cleared path in front of her, Cary tried the Christy stop that Jan had consistently impressed upon her, but she was running badly. Like the other skier, she took a tumble in the snow.

  It was unpleasant, of course—tumbles were always unpleasant—but one learned to take such punishment and come up smiling.

  Cary came up smiling now, and apology waiting until she had enough breath to utter it. The unwelcome discovery that she had seen this man before, that he was indeed that unfriendly person who had listened derisively to Miss Maud’s extravagant acclamations in the hall this morning, made the act no easier. It had to be done, though, she commanded herself. She really had been running much too fast.

  The other skier did not give her a chance, however. He did not even extend her a helping hand.

  As she clambered clumsily to her feet he said coldly and deliberately: “That was a stupid and dangerous thing to have done. For the sake of other runners I shall certainly put in an adverse report. In the future, madam, I would advise you to stick to the nursery slopes. Without your amatory guide you are a menace on the snow.”

  With that he turned, leaving Cary deflated but furious, the apology that had been on her lips swallowed along with a childish resentful sob.

  Adverse report ... nursery slopes ... amatory guide ... She stared after him confused and bewildered, wondering what he meant. He had not lingered to explain. Evidently he had expected her to understand.

  Then she did understand.

  She understood that he had watched her not only in the lobby of the inn but somewhere else as well. She understood the absurd conclusion he had gathered ... and what such an implication could mean to Jan.

  With mounting indignation and sudden concern for the instructor on whom an adverse report might rebound, she hurried after the man just in time to miss the downward sleigh that bore him, a trip before her, back to the hotel.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN CARY at last reached the inn the man was not in sight.

  She secured a seat near the stairs, and waited. Sooner or later everyone belonging to the hotel, and many not belonging to it, either ascended or descended these stairs. Cary sat and watched.

  Richard Stormer had gone straight to the sick-room. The village nurse in attendance rose and greeted him with a smile. The mother, sitting by the bed, also smiled.

  “The improvement holds, Mr. Stormer,” reported the nurse.

  The mother said nothing, only looked at Richard. The doctor bent over the little boy and took hold of his wrist. With gentle fingers he probed the lower left eyelid and regarded it a long time. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he spoke quietly and humorously with the child, and the little one laughed back at him and opened his mouth.

  At last Stormer pulled back the rugs and got up. The mother and the nurse watched him with eager eyes.

  “He’ll do,” he said briefly. Then he, too, smiled.

  The mother cried a little, very softly, very happily. The nurse beamed wider than before.

  Richard left them to their joy and relief. Feeling, as he always felt on such occasions, uplifted, fulfilled, happy beyond all expression, even for a moment forgetting Gerard, he ran down the last few stairs.

  Instantly, Cary accosted him. In her blind anxiety she childishly imagined his accelerated speed was to deliver that adverse report he had promised her up on the run.

  “Excuse me,” she stammered miserably, hating her humility but feeling it forced on her because of Jan, “may I see you a moment—I mean—”

  Richard Stormer looked down on the girl. For a moment, in his blur of happiness and triumph, he did not recognize her, then he saw the fair hair—and remembered. He remembered how he had associated her with—Julia. He remembered the scene with the young instructor and knew why.

  Apparently her concern now was because of what had happened on the run a little while ago. He could see it in her agitated yes.

  The absurd, almost cruel contrast in the two situations, the shallow episode at the foot of the Horn, the grave drama that had been played in that room upstairs, struck him very forcibly. He felt his lip curling in scorn and derision as he stared coldly at the girl and responded blandly: “Am I mistaken in stating you are seeing me now, madam?”

  “I meant,” said Cary, flushing, “can I have a word with you, Mr.—”

  He did not enlighten her as to his name. Indifferently, almost rudely, he led her to the nearest lounge. In a window alcove h
e found two chairs and a small table. They seated themselves, and the man took out his cigarettes.

  “No, thank you,” said Cary. Now that he had acceded to her request she found it difficult to begin.

  “It’s about Jan,” she blurted, and knew at once that that was a silly opening. “The instructor,” she added in unnecessary explanation, not at all helped by the man’s cool gaze and his metallic: “Yes, I was aware Jan Luknit was an instructor.”

  At that moment they were interrupted. The hotel host, who had learned of the good news, had been looking for Stormer. He hurried across the lounge to the table in the alcove, his plump, florid face creased in smiles, his eyes blinking back unmanly tears. He took the doctor’s hand and said simply: “My friend.”

  Cary watched, surprised and puzzled. The proprietor in his incoherent joy omitted to explain, and her companion, deliberately she guessed, refrained from explaining.

  “But you must drink,” implored their host, “you and your lady. What will it be, my friend?”

  Richard Stormer rejected the proprietor’s proposal of champagne and suggested the house Spiezer, a red wine, instead.

  “And Madame?”

  Cary protested quickly that she wanted nothing, but the doctor said curtly that this would be an affront to Leonide and would she please make up her mind at once.

  “Obviously,” objected Cary stubbornly in a low voice, “you two are celebrating something, and I would be an intruder.”

  Her companion neither elucidated the situation nor reassured her that she would not intrude.

  “Come,” he said impatiently, “what will you drink?”

  Unwillingly but inevitably Cary murmured: “Citron presse, grapillon, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Madame will take the house Ski-water,” said Richard Stormer, ignoring Cary. “Gooseberry, perhaps.”

  “Yes, my friends.” Leonide beamed and hurried off.

  They did not speak until he returned bearing the tray himself. He put the bottle of Spiezer by the doctor and the long hot drink of gooseberries and Kirsch by Cary. She tasted it because she saw that he was watching for her reaction.

  “Delicious,” she nodded.

  He beamed again and smiled himself away.

  Cary waited, her hands cupping the warm tankard, for her companion to open the conversation. She felt, in view of the drink before her, that he must give some explanatory word.

  He did not. He sat regarding her until at last, embarrassed, she spoke.

  “It’s about Jan—”

  “You said so before.”

  “He is a nice person. I would not wish you to cause him distress.”

  Again that eyebrow shot up, again he wore that sardonic look. But when he spoke he gave no indication that he understood her trend.

  “How do you mean, madam? How would I cause him distress?”

  Flushing vividly, Cary murmured: “The adverse report you promised me up on the run just now. I thought it might involve the man who had taught me.” She felt sure he had not forgotten the episode, but she could see he was determined, to make her state the situation.

  “Of course—the amatory guide—” He was lighting another cigarette.

  “He was not.” Cary came to the defence too quickly.

  The eyes were narrowed above the match now, but they looked sharply at Cary.

  “The initiative, then, you wish me to gather, was yours?”

  “No—no, I mean—”

  “Collect yourself, please. Just what do you mean?”

  “I mean you misconstrued anything you thought you saw.”

  “I am not in the habit of thinking I see things. However, this gets us nowhere—at least, it gets you nowhere. Tell me in direct words what it is you want.”

  “I want your promise that you will not report anything that might be of detriment to Jan.”

  “Ah, the good Jan again.” There was a pause while he smoked a moment.

  “Tell me, what is it about this Jan that makes you so anxious to defend him?” he asked at length.

  “It’s not Jan, not Jan particularly. I would feel the same about anyone.”

  “You mean you have that sort of considerate nature,” he baited. “Like all women, you cling tenaciously to your mythical role of the gentler sex.”

  She said, as placidly as she was able, “I don’t want him to get into trouble.”

  “Why not? He should be well able to withstand it. Besides being physically endowed, I have been assured that Jan Luknit is monetarily endowed as well. This instructing business is only because he likes doing it, not because it is necessary. But, of course, you would know that already.”

  She glanced at him sharply. “Why should I know it?”

  For reply he looked at her significantly, then said: “Isn’t it the first knowledge with which women equip themselves when they meet a stranger of the opposite sex? Isn’t money of supreme interest?”

  Evenly, although she had never felt so disturbed in her life, Cary reminded: “I did not equip myself with such knowledge about you.”

  “Ours was not a meeting, madam, it was an encounter. But pray proceed. You do not want me to include Jan in my report. Is that all?”

  Cary said dully: “Yes.”

  “You have no request for yourself? You don’t mind being denounced as a danger on the run?”

  “I have humiliated myself for Jan Luknit,” said Cary. “If you can omit his name as my instructor, I shall be grateful.” She went to rise.

  “Wait,” said Richard Stormer. He said it quietly, but he said it in the manner of a man accustomed to authority.

  To her annoyance, Cary obeyed.

  “Tell me,” he said conversationally, “why you came here to Mungen.”

  She wondered how he would have reacted if she had answered: “To reach a decision.” Aloud, she said: “The usual reason—to ski.”

  Again he drew on the cigarette. “A pity,” he commented rudely, “you have not succeeded. However”—before she could interpose—“you have succeeded otherwise, haven’t you?”

  “Meaning—”

  “The extent of your friendship with the charming and very eligible Jan Luknit. No doubt the friendship has been successful, to judge from your championing now of his cause. No doubt, I dare suggest, he, too, returns the sentiment.

  “But there”—as again Cary moved to rise in anger—“don’t leave until I set your mind at rest. I shall not put in that report against Jan. I have much more serious business on hand. It was probably because of that business that I spoke to you as I did. Usually I ignore such trifling—ill-timed—interludes.”

  Lamely she said: “Thank you, then. I did not want trouble.”

  “I would not have caused it. Luknit is a good fellow. He cannot be blamed if he has fallen for the lure.”—At once, with his own words, he felt the familiar sickening ache again. No longer was he at this table with this girl, but at another table, a desk table in his Sydney surgery, and there was a cable in his hands—and Gerard was dead.

  He was packing his things, booking his seat, he was arriving in London, Professor Hastings was giving him the letter they had found in Gerard’s hand.

  “What happened, sir?” he had asked.

  “I don’t know, Stormer. I only know he received this letter—you have read its contents—then went out. He was run over almost at once. Whether he meant it that way or not I don’t know. None of us will ever know. I’m sorry, but that is all.”

  ... That is all ... That was all they would ever find out. The doctor sat silent, remembering, and his face grew hard.

  Cary had come to the end of her drink. Its warmth gave her a certain courage.

  “And why,” she dared, “did you come to Mungen? Surely not also to ski?”

  “No,” he said bluntly, “I did not come to ski.”

  She raised her brows at that and when he did not enlighten her probed boldly: “Some other reason, then?”

  “If I don’t tell you someone else will,
I suppose. Everyone will know now that it’s all over. Our good host will see to that.”

  Cary recalled the handshakes, the insistence on a celebration. “Yes?” she asked.

  Her companion shrugged. “The Massers’ small son has had a near shave. We’ve been battling for his life for several nights now. Today—noon to be exact—was the crisis. He came through all right.”

  “Oh, I’m glad.” She said it impulsively and from her heart. Looking down on the empty tankard, she remarked: “Strange that none of us knew—”

  She was thinking that she understood this man a lot better now. The contrast in the two situations, her own very shallow one against a mother’s, struck her forcibly even as it had struck Richard Stormer. She opened her mouth to tell him this, but he forestalled her coldly.

  “There is nothing strange about it. This is Leon Masser’s livelihood, and inn business, like show business, must go on. Hotel life must be a cheerful life, and a dangerously ill child is not a cheerful subject. A child who will recover is another matter altogether. It’s a signal for rejoicing. As you see”—with a glance at the table— “we have duly rejoiced.”

  Determined to ignore his sarcasm, Cary asked quietly: “So you came to Mungen because you are a doctor?”

  “I assure you I did not attend small Paul in the role of skier or skater.”

  She bit her lip in annoyance, but forbore. This man had had some anxious hours, she thought. She must make allowances for him.

  “What was the child’s trouble again?” she asked pleasantly.

  “It is not again, madam,” he retorted rudely. “I did not tell you.” His tone implied that he did not intend to tell. This time she could not make allowances for him. Proudly she rose. He rose with her, then sat down again. Evidently he was going to finish his Spiezer first.

  “Just one thing more—” he called, and after a hesitation she turned. “I would not ski from the summit again if I were you. I would return to the nursery slopes.”

  Angrily she flung: “I have graduated from the nursery.”

  “That graduation is withdrawn,” he said evenly but meaningly. “You understand?”