The Judas Tree (25 page)

‘I do, very much,' she answered, with impetuous sincerity. ‘I've never met anyone who's made such … such an impression on me.'

‘Thank you, Kathy dear. So now I'm free to tell you, with all the humility in the world, that I am rather well off. I'm sorry I can't put it less crudely, for in fact, I'm lamentably and outrageously rich – for which I was never more grateful than at this moment, because of what it'll enable me to do for you. No, please,' he raised his hand again, ‘you must let me finish.' Then after a pause, in a graver manner, he went on. ‘I'm a lonely man, Kathy. My marriage was unhappy … well, let's face it, a tragedy. My poor wife was for years confined to a mental institution, and she died there. I have no children, no one like you to occupy me. All my life I've worked hard. Now, at an early age, I've retired, with ample leisure and more material possessions than I need, or deserve.' He paused again. ‘I've already told you that I owe a great debt to your family – don't ask me what it is, or you'll remind me of my graceless and ungrateful youth. All I need to say is that I must repay that debt, and I want to do so by interesting myself in you, by taking you out of this drab environment, giving you a fitting background, and all the things that you deserve. A full, rich, and rewarding life, and not of course an idle one, for as you have humanitarian ideals you may fulfil them with my co-operation, and with the resources I can put at your disposal.'

While he was speaking she had been looking at him with growing agitation, and now that he had finished she lowered her eyes and for an appreciable moment remained silent. At last she said:

‘You are very kind. But it is impossible.'

‘Impossible?'

She inclined her head.

‘Why?' he asked, persuasively.

Again there was a silence.

‘You have probably forgotten … but that first day I told you I was giving up the district work for something better. At the end of next month I'm going out to Angola … to work with Uncle Willie at the Mission.'

‘Oh, no,' he exclaimed in a loud, startled voice.

‘But I am.' Smiling faintly, she looked up and met his eyes. ‘Uncle Willie is coming home to fetch me on the 7th of next month. We'll fly back together on the 28th.'

Almost stupidly he asked:

‘And how long do you mean to stay there?'

‘For good,' she answered simply. ‘I gave my notice to the M.O.H. yesterday.'

A prolonged stillness descended on the room. She was leaving – he calculated quickly – in five weeks' time. The news devastated him – his hopes blasted, plans fatally ruined – no, he could not, would not accept it. The projects, so well considered, which he entertained, had reached possessive force, not only for her sake, but for his own. She was to be
his
mission in life. Nothing so inane as this wild desire for self-immolation in the wilds of a tropical jungle must interfere. Never, never. But his wits were coming back to him, he saw the danger of opposing her outright and risking an immediate break. He must work for time and opportunity to change her mind. When he spoke his voice was calm, with the right note of regret.

‘This is a severe disappointment, Kathy, a blow in fact. But I can see how intensely, how close this lies to your heart.'

She had been prepared for opposition. At this quiet acceptance her eyes brimmed with grateful sympathy.

‘You understand so well.'

‘And I'll help, too.' The thought seemed to revive him. ‘Willie will have a donation for the Mission – and a handsome one – by the next mail. You've only to let me have his address.'

‘Oh, I will, I will. How can I thank you!'

‘But that is only the beginning, my dear. Didn't I tell you how much I want to do for you? And the future will prove it. As for the present – let me think. When did you say Willie would return?'

‘In about a fortnight's time. We leave three weeks after.'

He was silent, his brows contracted in thought.

‘I believe I have it,' he said at length. ‘As you're to disappear so unexpectedly and so soon I think you might reasonably give me a little of your remaining time. Furthermore, I'm worried about your health, You're quite run down and if you're to stand up to hard work in tropical heat you owe yourself a holiday, or at least a rest. So I suggest, with all reserve, that you take the two weeks' vacation still owing to you and spend it at my home among the mountains. Willie, on his return, will join us there, and even though neither of you can stay long, we'll have the happiest reunion in the world!'

For five fatal seconds he thought she would refuse. Surprise and doubt clouded her open expression, but this, merging through indecision, was followed by a hesitant smile. He saw that his inclusion of Willie in the invitation had been sheer inspiration. But was it enough? Doubt had returned to her eyes.

‘It would be nice,' she said slowly. ‘But wouldn't it be too much trouble for you?'

‘Trouble! I don't know the meaning of the word.'

‘The mountain air would be good for Uncle Willie,' she reflected, ‘coming beck from Kwibu.'

‘And for you, going out there.' With an effort he maintained a matter-of-fact tone. ‘ So you'll come?'

‘I want to,' she said in a low voice, looking small and unprotected in the deep armchair. ‘But there are difficulties. My work, for instance. Then as I've given notice I might not be allowed my vacation. I'd have to see Matron or the M.O.H. about it.' She took a long breath. ‘I'm on duty at the hospital for the rest of this week. Will you please let me think it over till then?'

At that moment he saw there was nothing he could do but agree.

He drove her back to Markinch for the evening clinic. When they arrived, afraid of saying something injudicious in his present state of mind, he confined himself to a few words of goodbye and a restrained though speaking glance. Then he started back slowly towards the hotel.

The rain had ceased, and, with that perversity of Scottish weather which occasionally at the end of a drenching day affords an illusory promise of better things, a bar of dear light appeared on the horizon. But this transient brightness did little to raise his spirits, and presently he drew into the side of the road to think things over and switched off the ignition.

Yes, it was a nasty set-back, made worse since it was the last thing he'd expected. Who could have foreseen it? A sweet young girl bent on throwing herself away on a pack of primitive, painted savages who could no more appreciate her than – well, than they could the lovely little Bonnard that hung in his study at Schwansee. His hand shook with vexation as he thumbed at his gold lighter and drew deeply at a cigarette. Of course, he could not deny that he had heard or read of such extraordinary cases. Hadn't some rich young society woman renounced her fortune recently and gone to live on bananas with some eccentric doctor in the Brazilian jungle? Then again, nuns went out as nursing sisters, but that was part of their vocation. And he supposed that the wives of missionaries, if they felt it their duty, might accompany their husbands. Yet in this instance there was no need for renunciation, no moral or matrimonial obligation; in all its aspects the project appeared to him preposterous and futile.

What could he do about it? – that was the question. Lighting one cigarette after another, an excess completely foreign to his moderate habit, he applied himself to the problem with a concentration made possible by the force of his indignation. The simplest solution, of course, would be to abandon his plans, to give up, spare himself all further trouble, and go home. No, no, that he could never do: he rejected the thought outright. Apart from his tacit obligation to her and to himself, he had in the short time become fond, yes, extremely fond of little Kathy. The mere idea of never seeing her again was too defeatist, too dismal to be entertained.

The more he reflected, the more he became convinced that his best chance of winning her from her obsession lay in showing her, even briefly, the fullness and richness of the life he could give her. Brought up so strictly, isolated, one might say, from the world, she hadn't the faintest idea of what he could do for her. If only he might take her to Europe, demonstrate the charm and elegance of the great Continental cities he knew so intimately: Paris, Rome, Vienna, with their art galleries, historic buildings, famous monuments and churches, their choice restaurants and fine hotels, and introduce her thereafter to the comfort and resources of his home, she must surely swing to reason and be convinced. His invitation, then, made on the spur of the moment, had been a brilliant stroke, which now after serious deliberation he could not improve upon. All that remained was to ensure that she accept. But how? Casting around for assistance and support, it was not long before the obvious person came to mind.

At this, he stubbed out his cigarette, pushed hard on the starter button, then swung round and drove back through Markinch to the manse. Within five minutes he was there. As he parked the car and entered the drive he made out a rough scaffolding on the upper part of the tower and heard Fotheringay's voice raised commandingly within, all of which seemed to indicate that the bell was in process of being removed. But he had no wish to meet the minister, to be embarrassed by further expressions of gratitude; and with relief, as he passed through the overgrown laurel shrubbery, he saw Mrs Fotheringay in the vegetable garden at the side of the house. He went straight towards her. She wore a man's battered felt hat, an old stained mackintosh and heavy tackety boots, and in her hand she held a pair of garden shears.

‘You have really caught me in my braws,' she exclaimed, with a wry though welcoming smile, as he approached. ‘I've been slaughtering slugs. After the rain they fairly go for my cauliflowers. But I seem to have done for most of them. Come away ben the house.'

‘If you don't mind,' he hesitated, ‘might I speak to you here?'

She studied his expression frankly, then without a word led the way to a green-painted trellis summer-house that stood at the foot of the garden. Seating herself on the wooden bench, she: indicated a place beside her, then, after a further scrutiny, she said:

‘So Kathy has finally told you?'

Her penetration surprised him, but it was helpful, giving him a lead.

‘I heard only an hour ago.'

‘And ye don't approve?'

‘Who would?' he said in a suppressed voice. ‘ The very idea, a young girl burying herself for life in that wilderness. I'm … I'm inexpressibly distressed.'

‘Ay, I thought you might be upset.' She spoke slowly, wrinkling up her broad weatherbeaten brow. ‘And ye're not the only one. My guid man is against it, though as the minister it's hard for him to speak out. But I'm just the minister's wife and I say that it's an awfu' pity.'

‘It would be bad enough at any time. But now especially, when trouble seems to be stirring in Africa …'

She nodded soberly, restrainingly, but he was not to be held back.

‘She's not fit for it. After her work today she was quite done up. Why is she going? What's the reason of it all? Is it this uncle of hers that's responsible?'

‘Ay, in a way, I suppose she's going for Willie's sake, But for her own too.'

‘You mean from religious motives?'

‘Well, maybe … though not entirely.'

‘But she is religious?'

‘She's good, in the best sense of the word.' She spoke with feeling, lapsing more and more into the doric. ‘She helps us in the church, teaches the bairns, but – she's not the kind that aye has a Bible under her oxter and the whites of her eyes turned up. No, to understand her reasons for going, ye must understand Kathy. I don't have to tell ye that she's unusual in this shameless day and age, different as chaff from good Lothian corn from the horse-tailed, empty-headed sexy little besoms ye see gaddin' around, wi' their jazz and their rock and roll, out for nothing but a good time, or a bad one I might say. She's a serious, sensitive lass, quiet mind ye, but high strung, with a mind and ideals of her own. Her upbringing – for her mother was unco' strict – has had a deal to do with it. And living away out here in the country has kept her very much to herself. Then, since Willie went out to Angola, where apparently there's baith sickness and starvation, she seems, as was only nat'ral, to have become more and more taken up with this idea of helping him. Help where it's maist needed – service, that's her word for't. It's become the one thing, ay, the mainspring of her life.'

He was silent, biting his lip in protest.

‘But she can be of service without burying herself.'

‘Hav'na I told her that, again and again.'

‘Why doesn't Willie tell her? He must realise that the whole thing is utterly impractical.'

‘Willie is not practical.' She seemed about to say more but merely added: ‘He doesna' really live in this world.'

‘Well, I do,' he exclaimed, with nervous feeling. ‘I'm interested in Kathy. You must have seen that. I want to
do
things – for her own good. Give her all that she needs and deserves.'

She made no reply but continued to look at him with questioning eyes, in which also there was such open sympathy that he was seized by the sudden emotional necessity to unburden himself, to justify his motives and win her completely to his side by a full admission of the past. The impulse was irrestible. Yielding, he took an agitated breath; then rapidly, at times almost inarticulately, and sparing himself considerably in the narration, he told her all that had brought him to Markinch.

‘So, you see, I've every reason, every right, to make up for the past. Why, if I hadn't taken that unlucky voyage, Kathy,' his voice almost broke, ‘might well have been my own daughter.'

In the pause that followed he kept his eyes lowered. When he raised them her smile was kinder than before.