The Coral Tree (24 page)

She went slowly, apprehensively into the house.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

THE MAN who was standing by the window did not turn at once.

A moment went past in silence, then Richard Stormer wheeled slowly around to look at Cary.

What was there in that long, deep look? She tried to fathom it, but was unsuccessful. Was it anger, censure, reproach—or was it,
could
it be—

His first words, too, surprised her.

He said simply, humbly: “I
’
m sorry.”

“For what, Doctor Stormer?”

He spread his palms helplessly. “There is so much that it would take too long to tell. First of all, most of all, for my going away as I did. For judging without hearing. For what I said to Annette and what, I can tell it by your eyes, s
h
e has passed along.”

“You mean the end of Clairhill?”

He nodded, then shrugged. “Had you given it any thought, Miss Porter, you would have seen how improbable it was that I could have manoeuvred you out of the place. No man is so important that he can override
every
opinion, and I know that every opinion would be with you—Phillips, Farrell, a score of important visitors
—
everyone who has been here and has seen what Clairhill does.”

A little vaguely she said: “Annette suggested Byways. It could have been done. The Misses Whitney sent me a large cheque.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“You know?”

“They told me about it when I visited them.”

“You visited them? You were in India.”

“And England.”

There was a moment
’
s silence.

“Why did you visit Maud and Alice?” Cary asked.

The look was on his face again now, the dark, unfathomable look. He said simply and humbly as before: “Because you had been there.”

She did not understand him. What was more, she was afraid to understand him, for fear it might not be true.

“You said we shortened Phyllida
’
s life,” she evaded.

“I said more than that. When a man is full of pain he says anything, in hope that it will drain away his desolation.”

Childishly, she burst out: “I couldn
’
t tell Jan as I promised you. People came—a journalist, a visiting dentist, V.I.P.
’
s—”

“Be quiet,” he said.

“But you must listen. They are going to be married—Jan and Sorrel. I said
Jan
and
Sorrel
;
don
’
t you understand?”

“It wouldn
’
t have mattered if they hadn
’
t,” he answered. “You don
’
t have to produce any facts.”

“Maysie said things to you, but they weren
’
t true. She will tell you so.
”

“I never even heard her. I only heard my own bitter voice. My heart was determined to remember, Cary—but the remembrance was not what the heart wanted it to be; it was something else.”

“What?” she breathed.

“Not the spite and the distrust and the suspicion and the determined loathing, but a girl with fair hair and gentle eves, a girl who came back to a house to make it live. Cary, I have fought the loveliness of you from the moment I first met you in Mungen. To me you were Julia—and someone to hate. I fostered the hate. I poured oil on its fires. I have tried everything. Now I face defeat.”

She said tremblingly: “You
’
ve found out about Julia, then? It was not as you thought—”

He said harshly: “I have not found out. I shall never think of it again. Perhaps Gerard was mistaken. I have seen by Luknit that men can presume too quickly. No, that was not my defeat.”

“Then what was it?”

“The remembering heart—the remembering you, Cary. That—and something else. I came here today to spill more poison.” He half turned to the window. “I did not anticipate—
that
.”

“What are you talking of, Richard?”

“Presently I shall show you, my love.”

My love
...
The words remained around Cary. She wanted to hold them in her hand to imprison them. She looked across at the man.

Unable to meet his glance more than a moment, she asked a little unreally: “What else did the Whitneys have to say?”

He gave a low laugh. “They seemed to see things I was incapable of seeing just then. Although I had gone there only because you had once been there, the inspiration to do so meant little to me. Or so I thought.”

“What did they say?”

“Among other things—congratulations.”

“Congratulations?”

“To both of us.”

“Because of Clairhill?”

“No,” said Richard, “not because of that.”

He broke the silence with another chuckle. “I must add, to my disfavor, that they finished the congratulations with their usual proclamation that you were a dear, brave girl.” Once more he laughed.

Cary was laughing back now, but it was hysterical laughter. She could not understand this man. She never had. How much did he mean? How far was he baiting her?

As though to reply, he took a step towards where she stood. Afraid all at once, she retreated. She went and stood by the window and looked out.

Jimmy was walking down the avenue. There was something different about him. She looked again, aware of a great surging excitement. His back was straighter. He walked awkwardly, but unaided. His little crumpled face was almost though not absolutely straight. Her gasp brought Richard to her side.

“Jim—” she said.

He stared with her.

“His condition was always emotionally controlled and founded, not physically,” he marvelled. “Once in a great many years a miracle like this can happen. Can you explain it, Cary?”

She told him tremblingly of Mr. Ansley
’
s letter.

“I wanted Jim, I
’
ve always wanted him. But the answer had to be no, of course.”

“On your lips, but not in your heart. Hearts know first, Cary, and because Jim
’
s heart is attuned to yours, he, too, knew in advance. He knew he belonged. To you. To us.”

“You mean to us at Clairhill?”

“To us wherever we go—Currabong, Clairhill, the two of them together, as I know you always dreamed of; but I don
’
t think it will ever be far from Sunset, my girl.
The house has blossomed, Cary. One does not leave a place of flowers.

“I have another thing to tell you—no,
show
you. As well as the remembering heart, Clairhill was my defeat. When I came into this room just now I went and stood at the window. There I saw it—and I knew you had done it. You alone, because you are a flower yourself, Cary. You pinned your sweetness on the barren old tree.” Suddenly she was shivering with excitement. Leaning out, she looked to where his hand pointed.

It was only a small bud yet—a blunt, soft, pink thing, but it was robust and it would grow bigger, and when the other trees had finished blooming, it would be warm and glowing and red.

“The coral,” she called gladly. “My coral tree is blooming.”

“The home years have started,” he whispered, “the harvest has come back.”

His lips were on hers, gently seeking. Love and tenderness were there, protection, passion; all so intertwined that they were inseparable as once he and Gerard had been.

S
h
e put her arms up to him trembling with a rush of feeling so poignant that no words could express it.

They stood there together—and in the sweet silence they heard the small noises.

Somewhere a door closing ...

Somewhere a final footfall
...

They looked at each other, and knew the answer.

The ghosts had left the house.