The Judas Tree

Chapter One

If Bryce’s ancient motor-cycle had not broken down they would never have met. But as though fated, on that dusty April Saturday afternoon, when he swung back from a spin round the Doran Hills, the driving belt of the near-derelict machine disintegrated, a flying fragment whipping sharp across his right knee. He skidded to a stop, got off stiffly and inspected the damage to his leg, which was less than he had feared, then looked about him. No promise of assistance in the surrounding unpopulated, bracken-covered hills, the wild rush of the river Doran, the wide stretch of moorland threaded by this lonely road and the narrow single-track railway. Even the small station known as Craigdoran Halt, which he had just passed, seemed deserted.

“Damn,” he exclaimed—it couldn’t have been more awkward. Ardfillan, the nearest town, must be at least seven miles away; he would have to try the Halt.

Turning, he pushed and limped uphill to the solitary platform, drew the heavy bike back on its stand. The little station was embellished with a border of whitewashed stones, its proud sign “Gateway to the West Highlands” showered with trailing honeysuckle, a hawthorn hedge shedding blossoms on the track, but he was in no mood to admire. Not a soul in sight, the waiting-room locked, the booking-office closed as for eternity. He was on the point of giving up when in the frosted glass ornamental window stencilled with the words “Refreshment Room” he caught signs of life: on the inner window-sill a black cat was contentedly washing its face. He pushed on the door, it opened, and he went in.

Unlike the usual station buffet, this was unexpectedly well-ordered and arranged. Four round marble-topped tables occupied the scrubbed boards, there were coloured views of the Highlands upon the walls and, at the far end, a polished mahogany counter behind which hung an oval mirror advertising Brown and Polson’s self-raising flour. Before the mirror a young woman was standing with her back towards him, surprised in the act of putting on her hat. Mutually arrested, immobile as waxwork figures, they gazed at each other in the glass.

“When is the next train for Winton?” He broke the silence, addressing her reflection in a tone which failed to conceal his annoyance.

“The last train’s gone. There’s nothing now till the Sunday-breaker.” She turned and faced him, adding mildly: “Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where’s the porter then?”

“Oh, Dougal’s away home this good half hour. Did you not meet him on the road?”

“No . . . I didn’t . . .”. He suddenly felt stupidly faint and leaned sideways to support himself against a table, a movement which brought his injured leg into view.

“You’ve hurt yourself!” she exclaimed, coming forward quickly. “Here now, sit down and let me see it.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, rather dizzily, finding his way to a chair. “Superficial laceration of the popliteal area. The motor-cycle . . .”

“I thought I heard a bit of a bang. It’s a nasty gash, too. Why didn’t you speak up at once?”

She was hurrying to get hot water, and presently, kneeling, she had bathed and cleaned the wound and bound it neatly with strips of torn-up napkin.

“There!” On a note of accomplishment she rose. “If only I had a needle and thread I could stitch up your trouser leg. Never mind, you’ll get it done when you’re home. What you could do with now is a good cup of tea.”

“No . . . really . . .”, he protested. “I’ve been a complete nuisance. . . . You’ve done more than enough for me.”

But she was already busy with the taps of the metal urn on the counter. He had undoubtedly had a shake, and the hot strong tea made him feel better. Watching him with interested curiosity she sat down. Immediately the cat jumped into her lap and began to purr. She stroked it gently.

“Lucky Darkie and me weren’t away. There’s few enough folks around Craigdoran this early in the year.”

“Or at any other time?” He half smiled.

“No,” she corrected him seriously. “When the fishing and shooting are on we have a wheen of fine customers. That’s why my father keeps this place on. Our bakery is in Ardfillan. If you like we could give you a lift there. He always fetches me at the weekend.” She paused thoughtfully. “Of course, there’s your bike. Is it badly smashed?”

“Not too badly. But I’ll have to leave it here. If they’d put it on the Winton train it would be a big help. You see, it’s not mine. It belongs to a fellow at the hospital.”

“I don’t see why Dougal couldn’t slip it in the guard’s van as a favour. I’ll speak to him first thing Monday. But if your friend’s in the hospital he’ll not be needing it for a while.”

Amused at her conclusion he explained:

“He’s not a patient. A final year medical student, like me.”

“So that’s it.” She laughed outright. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have been so gleg at the bandaging.”

Her laughter was infectious, natural, altogether delightful. There was something warm about it, and about her, due not only to her colouring—she had reddish brown hair with gold lights in it and soft brown eyes, dark as peat, set in a fair, slightly freckled skin—but to something sympathetic and outgiving in her nature. She was perhaps four years younger than himself, not more than nineteen, he guessed, and while she was not tall, her sturdy little figure was trim and well proportioned. She wore a tartan skirt, belted with patent leather at the waist, a home-knitted grey spencer, smart well-worn brown brogues, and a little grey hat with a curlew’s feather in the brim.

A sudden awareness of her kindness swept over Moray, for him a rare emotion. Yes, she had been decent—that was the word—damned decent to him. And, forgetting the nagging discomfort of his knee and the greater calamity of the damage to his only suit, he smiled at her, this time his own frank, winning smile, that smile which had so often served him through hard and difficult years. Although he had a good brow, regular features, and a fresh skin, with fine light brown naturally wavy hair, he was not particularly good-looking in the accepted sense of the word; the lower part of his face lacked strength. Yet the smile redeemed all his defects, lit up his face, invited comradeship, was filled with promise, expressed interest, understanding and concern at will, and above all radiated sincerity.

“I suppose you realise,” he explained, “how grateful I am for your extreme kindness. As you’ve practically saved my life, may I hope that we’ll be friends? My name is Moray—David Moray.”

“And I’m Mary Douglas.”

A touch of colour had come into her cheeks but she was not displeased by this frank introduction. She took the hand he held out to her in a firm clasp.

“Well now,” she said briskly, “if you like to wheel your bike in here I’ll take Darkie and lock up. Father’ll be here any minute.”

Indeed, they had barely reached the road outside when a pony and trap appeared over the brow of the hill. Mary’s father, to whom Moray was introduced, with the full circumstances of his mishap, was a slight little man with a pale, perky face, hands and nails permanently ingrained with flour, and the bad teeth of his trade. A wisp of hair standing up from his forehead and small, very bright brown eyes gave him an odd, bird-like air.

After turning the pony with practised clickings of his tongue, and studying Moray with shrewd, sidelong glances, he summed up Mary’s recital.

“I’ve no use for these machines myself, as ye may observe. I keep Sammy, the pony, for odd jobs, and I’ve a good steady Clydesdale to draw my bread van. But it might have been worse. We’ll see ye safe on the eight o’clock train from Ardfillan. In the meantime, yemaun just come back and have a bite with us.”

“I couldn’t possibly impose on you any more.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary said. “You’ve got to meet the rest of the Douglases—and Walter, my fiancé. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to get acquainted with you. That’s to say,” as a thought occurred to her, “if your folks won’t be anxious about you.”

Moray smiled and shook his head.

“No need to worry. I’m quite on my own.”

“On your own?” Douglas inquired.

“I lost both my parents when I was very young.”

“But ye’ve got relations, surely?”

“None that I have any need of, or that ever wanted me.” The baker’s look of sheer incredulity deepened Moray’s smile, caused him to offer a frank explanation. “I’ve been alone since I was sixteen. But I’ve managed to put myself through college one way and another, and by being lucky enough to win an odd bursary or so.”

“Dear me,” reflected the little baker, quietly but with real admiration. “That’s a maist commendable achievement.”

He seemed to ponder the matter as they jogged along. Then, straightening himself, he began with increased cordiality to point out and describe the features of the countryside, many of which, he asserted, were associated with the events of 1314 that preceded the battle of Bannockburn.

“Father’s a great reader of Scots history,” Mary confided to Moray in apology. “There’s few quirky things he can’t tell you about Bruce, or Wallace, or the rest of them.”

They were now approaching Ardfillan and Douglas drew on the shoe brake to ease the pony as they came down the hill towards the old town lying beneath on the shore of the Firth, shimmering in the hazy sunset. Avoiding the Esplanade, they entered a network of quiet back streets and pulled up before a single-fronted shop with the sign in faded gilt: James Douglas, Baker and Confectioner; and beneath, in smaller letters: Marriages Purveyed; and again, smaller still; Established 1880. The place indeed wore an old-fashioned air, and one that seemed scarcely, prosperous, since the window displayed no more than a many-tiered model of a wedding cake, flanked by a pair of glass urns containing sugar biscuits.

Meanwhile the baker had sheathed his whip. He shouted:

“Willie!”

A bright young boy in an oversized apron that reached from heel to chin ran out of the shop.

“Tell your aunt we’re back, son; then skep round and give me a hand with Sammy.”

With considerable skill Douglas backed the pony through the adjacent narrow pend into a cobbled stable yard.

“Here we are then,” he announced cheerfully. “Take your invalid upstairs, Mary. I’ll be with ye the now.”

They went up by a shallow curving flight of outside stone steps to the house above the shop, where a narrow lobby gave entrance to the front parlour, furnished in worn red plush with tasselled curtains of the same material. In the centre of the room a heavy mahogany table was already set for high tea, and a coal fire glowed comfortably in the grate, before which a black sheepskin rug spread a cosy, tangled pelt. Darkie, released from Mary’s arms, immediately took possession of it. She had taken off her spencer, now seemed at home in her neat white blouse.

“Sit down and rest your leg. I’ll run down for a wee minute and see to things. We close at six this evening.” She added, with a touch of pride: “Father doesn’t go in for the Saturday night trade.”

When she had gone Moray eased himself into a chair, acutely aware of the strangeness of this dim, warm, alien room. A coal dropped quietly to the hearth. From a dark corner came the measured tick-tock of a grandfather clock, unseen but for the glint of firelight on its old brass dial. The blue willow-pattern cups on the table caught the light too. Why on earth was he here, rather than bent strainingly over Osler and Cunningham in the cramped attic that was his lodging? He had taken a spin to clear his head—his one practical concession to leisure—before settling down to a long weekend grind. But with his final examination only five weeks away it was lunacy to waste time here, in this unprofitable manner. And yet, these people were so hospitable, and the food on the table looked so damned inviting. With his money running out it was weeks since he had eaten a proper square meal.

The door opened suddenly and Mary was back, carrying a tea tray and accompanied by a stout, dropsical-looking woman and a tall, thin man of about twenty-six or seven, very correct in a dark blue suit and high stiff collar.

“Here’s some more of us,” Mary laughed. “Aunt Minnie and,” she blushed slightly, “my intended, Mr Walter Stoddart.”

As she spoke her father appeared with the boy, Willie, and after the baker had muttered a quick grace, they all sat down at table.

“I am led to believe,” Stoddart, who, while Mary poured the tea, had been served first with cold ham and great deference by Aunt Minnie, now addressed himself to Moray with a polite smile, “that you have had a somewhat trying experience. I myself had a somewhat similar adventure on the Luss road when a boy. When was it now, let me see, ah, yes, in nineteen oh nine, that hot summer we had. I was just thirteen years of age and growing fast. A push bicycle, naturally, in that era, and a punctured tyre. Fortunately I sustained nothing more serious than an abrasion of the left elbow, though it might well have been a tragedy. May I trouble you for another sugar, Mary. You know, I think, that my preference is for three lumps.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Walter dear.”

Stoddart, evidently, was regarded, not only by himself, but by the family, as a person of definite importance. And presently Aunt Minnie, who seemed his chief admirer, conveyed to Moray in a whispered, wheezy aside that Walter was the Town Clerk’s son, with a splendid position in the accounts department of the Gas Department—a real catch for Mary, she supplemented with a meaning, satisfied nod.

The situation intrigued Moray, provoked his sense of humour. Walter’s excruciating mannerisms, his condescension towards the Douglases exercised, with all the stiff assertiveness of the small-town bureaucrat, even the ostrich-like convulsion of his long thin neck when he drank his tea—all these gave promise of entertainment. While doing full justice to the good things on the table, it amused him to cultivate Stoddart, playing a little on his vanity, and at the same time defining his own position, as coequal, by relating, in a racy style, some of the more interesting aspects of his work in the out-patient’s department of the Infirmary. It was not long before he was rewarded by indications of Walter’s growing esteem. Indeed as the meal drew to its close, Stoddart took out his gold watch and clicked it open—this was another and frequent mannerism—meanwhile favouring Moray with a toothy smile.

“It’s a great pity I am obliged to leave you so soon. I’m escorting Mary to the Band of Hope Social. Otherwise I should have been delighted to have more of your company. However, I have a suggestion. I am of the opinion that it would be highly irregular for you to convey your motor-cycle to Winton without a ticket, sub rosa, as the saying is, in the manner indicated to me by Mary. It might expose you to all sorts of pains and penalties. After all, the North British Railway does not frame its code of bylaws for fun! Huh, huh! Now what I propose,” he smiled hospitably around the table, “is that our friend Moray secure the spare part in Winton, travel down next weekend, fit the part, and drive the machine back. This, naturally, will afford us the opportunity of meeting with him again.”

“What a good idea,” Mary glowed. “Why on earth didn’t we think of it.”

“We, Mary?” queried Walter, repocketing the watch with dignity. “I fancy that I . . .”.

“Ay, ye’re a knowledgeable chap, Walter. I don’t know what we’d do without ye,” interposed the little baker, glancing towards Moray with an ironic twinkle, which indicated that he did not altogether subscribe to the prevailing view of Stoddart’s accomplishments. “Come by all means, lad. Ye’ll be verra welcome.”

It was settled, then, and when Mary rose to put on her hat and coat and, accepting the invitation of Walter’s crooked arm, was led off by him to the Church Social, she smiled at Moray over her shoulder.

“We’ll see you next Saturday, so I won’t say goodbye.”

“Nor will I.” Walter bowed. “I hope to have the pleasure of your further acquaintance.”

Half an hour later Moray left for the station. Willie, who had listened with bright eyes to his stories of the hospital, insisted on accompanying him.

Chapter Two

Moray’s lodging was a small room at the top of a back-to-back tenement near the Blairlaw Docks. The neighbourhood, shut in by a disused city dump known locally as the Tipps, was undoubtedly one of the poorest in Winton. Ragged, rickety children played on the broken, chalk-marked pavements while the women stood gossiping, in shawl and cap, outside the “close-mouths”. On every street there was a pub or a fish-and-chip shop, while, through the Clydeside fog, the three brass balls of the pawnbroker beckoned irresistibly. Tugs hooted from the river and incessant hammering came from the repair yards. The district was certainly not a pleasure resort, but by cutting over Blairhill into Eldongrove it was within reasonable walking distance of the University and the Western Infirmary. Above all, it was cheap.

The brief though striking account Moray had given Baker Douglas of himself was thus, in some respects, though not in all, the truth. The first twelve years of his life, as an only child of indulgent middle-class parents, had been normal; never affluent, but easy and comfortable. Then his father, local agent of the Caledonia Insurance Company in Overton, had come down with influenza, contracted, it was thought, during his door-to-door collections. For a week his wife nursed him while he grew worse. A specialist was called in, and abruptly the diagnosis was altered to typhoid fever, but not before she, too, had contracted the disease. Within the month David found himself thrown upon a distant relative, the widowed half-sister of his mother, a burden accepted unwillingly, an unwanted child. For four years young Moray had undoubtedly suffered neglect, eaten the bitter bread of dependence, but at the age of sixteen an educational policy, prudently taken out by his father, had come into force. It was not much, sufficient only for fees, and a bare subsistence, but it was enough and, helped by a sympathetic schoolmaster who recognised unusual possibilities in his pupil, he had entered for the medical curriculum of Winton University.

But this providential provision was something which Moray, from motives of expediency, or a natural tendency to dramatise his own efforts, sometimes conveniently forgot. With his diffident charm that made most people take to him on sight, it was agreeable, and often helpful, to hint at the tight corners he had been in, the shifts and evasions he had been forced into, the indignities he had endured—shaking the fleas from his trouser ends, using the public convenience on the stair-head, washing his own shirt, eating chips from a greasy newspaper, sustained only by a heroic determination to raise himself out of the ruck and attain the heights.

Admittedly there had been diversions, occasional meals at the home of his friend Bryce, or, through the kindness of one of the Infirmary staff, a free theatre or concert ticket would come his way; and once, in the summer vacation, he had spent an exceptional week at the seaside house of his biology professor. Certainly he had made the most of his opportunities, not only by the profusion of his gratitude when anything was done for him but by a particular earnestness of manner, quite touching, that inspired confidence and affection. “So good of you to give me a leg-up, sir,” or, “Jolly decent of you, old chap.” With that modest, self-disparaging expression and those clear, frank eyes, who could help liking him? He was so absolutely sincere. The truth is that, when he was in the mood, he believed everything he said.

But entertainments are never a conspicuous feature of Scottish universities and in recent months they had been few. For this reason alone his encounter with the Douglas family held the attraction of the unusual. During the week, while he attended the Infirmary by day and studied late at night, it remained agreeably at the back of his mind. He found himself looking forward to his visit on the following Saturday.

The morning came grey but fine. After attending out-patients in the forenoon, he took the one o’clock “workman’s special” from Winton Central. This was a low-fare train—the price of the ticket, unbelievably, was fourpence—which ran down the Clyde estuary, serving the shipyard workers en route. He had the new belt with him—Bryce, anticipating trouble, had actually bought it as a spare some weeks before, and had willingly turned it over to him in his easy-going style. At Levenford Junction he changed to the single line, and just after half-past two, as the sun was breaking through the clouds, drew into Craigdoran.

The little white station with its flowering hawthorn and tangle of climbing honeysuckle now wore a familiar aspect. The scent of the honeysuckle filled the air and he heard the hum of an early bee. Two youths, dressed for climbing, with packs on their backs, got out of the train before him. They went into the refreshment room where, peering through the ground-glass window, he saw Mary wrap in waxed paper the sandwiches they bought. Then the youths came out and Mary, following them to the door, looked searchingly along the platform.

“It’s you.” She smiled. “I was beginning to be afraid you’d not come. Is your knee better?”

She beckoned him in, made him sit down. The cat approached and rubbed against his leg.

“I’m sure you’ve not had your lunch. I’ll fetch you some sandwiches and a glass of milk.”

“Please don’t,” he said. “I’ve had a snack . . . in the . . . the buffet at Levenford Junction.”

“Dear me,” she said quizzically, rather like her father, raising her brows. “That’s extraordinar’ peculiar. There never has been a buffet at the Junction.” From the glass bell on the counter she took a plate of sandwiches, then poured a frothing glass of milk. “There’ll be scarcely another soul in here over the weekend and I can’t see good food go to waste. You’ll just have to oblige me, this once.”

A moment later she seated herself opposite him, struggling, it seemed, against some inner effervescence which grew suddenly beyond control.

“I have news for you,” she exclaimed. “You’ve made a most tremendous hit.”

“What!” He drew back, misunderstanding her.

“Walter,” her lips twitched, “has taken the greatest notion of you. Ever since you left he’s done nothing but sing your praises. You’re such a nice young fellow.” She fought down laughter. “He’s quite cut up at missing you tonight—he’s attending a meeting of the Municipal Officials’ Guild in Winton—and I’m to give you his best regrets.” She went on before he could speak. “He’s fixed up a rare jaunt for us tomorrow. We’re to sail round the Kyles of Bute, stop for lunch at Gairsay, then back home.”

He stared at her with a blank frown.

“But I can’t possibly come down again tomorrow.”

“No need to,” she said calmly. “Father says you’re to stay over with us. You can sleep with our Willie.”

Still he frowned at her; then, gradually, his brow cleared. Never had he met such simple, open-hearted people. He had no out-patients at the Infirmary tomorrow, and surely would not lose much by missing just one day’s work. Besides, Sunday in Winton was an unspeakable day which he had always loathed.

“You’ll come?” she queried.

“With pleasure. And now I must mend the bike.”

“It’s in the left luggage. Dougal put it there out of the way.”

For the next hour he worked, fitting the new belt, which had to be cut and riveted. She came in occasionally to watch, not saying anything, just watching companionably. When he had finished he wheeled out the machine and started it up.

“How about a spin?”

She looked at him doubtfully, a hand on her ear against the frantic blast of the exhaust.

“It’s quite safe,” he reassured her. “You just sit on the carrier and hold tight.”

“I can’t get away till the four-thirty comes in. But afterwards, maybe you could take me home. I could ring up Father from the booking office and spare him coming out.”

“That’s settled then,” he said gaily.

An unusual mood of lightheartedness took possession of him. Whether due to his escape from work, or the fresh green country-side, he felt lifted up, as though breathing a rarer, brighter air. Until she should be free, and to test the machine, he took a fast run over the hill to Tulliehewan. When he returned, she was all ready to leave. Since Darkie must stay behind she had set out a saucer of milk for his supper.

“So this is where I get on,” she said, perching side-saddle on the carrier.

“You can’t sit like that. You’ll fall off. You must sit astride.”

She hesitated, then swung one leg across, modestly, yet so inexpertly that before he averted his eyes a sweet prospect was momentarily revealed to him. Blushing, she said:

“I’m not quite up to it yet.”

“You’re doing famously.”

Quickly he got into the saddle and set off. At first he went slowly, carefully avoiding the bumps, then, as he felt her gain confidence, he opened the throttle. They tore along, over the moors, the wind whistling past their ears. Her arms were clasped round his waist, her head, turned sideways, was pressed against his, shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he shouted.

“Fine,” she called back.

“Enjoying it?”

“It’s . . . it’s glorious. I’ve never gone so fast in all my life.”

They were doing at least thirty miles an hour.

When he pulled up at the shop in Ardfillan her cheeks were glowing, her hair blown and burnished by the breeze.

“What a treat.” She laughed into his eyes, swaying a trifle unsteadily, still drunk with speed. “Come on up. I must run and tidy. I’m sure I’m a perfect sight.”

His welcome by the baker was cordial, and by Willie even more enthusiastic than before. The aunt, however, seemed to accept him with fresh reservations, her eye speculative, at times tending coldly towards suspicion—though he softened her later by listening attentively to her symptoms and suggesting a cordial that might help her shortness of breath. The meal she set before them was macaroni cheese, a wholesome repast though lacking, inevitably, in those refinements that had been produced for Walter. Thereafter the evening passed quietly. Moray played draughts with the baker and was handsomely beaten three times in a row, while Mary, on a low stool by the fireside, worked on a piece of crochet which was clearly intended for her trousseau. Watching it develop, he could not help wondering if it was an edging for a nightdress—a warm, indulgent thought, not lewd. From time to time she would look at the clock and remark, with sedate concern, wholly unlike the girl full of humour and high spirits who had whirled gaily through space with him only an hour ago: “Walter will be at his meeting now.” And again: “Surely he’ll get a chance to give his speech. He wrote it all out so careful, and was so set on making it.” And finally: “He should be on his way to the train by this time. I hope he remembered his overshoes, he’s such a martyr to cold feet.”

They all retired early. In Willie’s back room, which over-looked the yard, Moray had his first real talk with the boy, whose shyness had hitherto kept him silent. It appeared that as a school prize he had recently received an exciting book on David Livingstone, and soon they were in the wilds of Africa together, discovering Lake Nyanza, deploring the ravages of beri-beri and the tsetse fly. Moray had to answer a spate of eager questions, but at last he turned out the light and presently they were asleep.

Chapter Three

Next morning Walter arrived punctually at half-past nine, greeting Moray like an old friend, full of his success on the previous evening. Although a number of ill-bred bounders had left the hall before the conclusion of his address, he had spoken extremely well, and for a good three-quarters of an hour. Having fully earned this day of relaxation he was in the mood to enjoy it. Nothing had pleased him more, he added, than to organise the expedition.

This bumptious effusiveness puzzled Moray. Was there a streak of the woman in Walter or did he, as a man consistently rebuffed by his fellows, so lack male companionship that he fastened on to the first newcomer who came along? Perhaps the prestige of a future doctor attracted him, for he was patently a snob. Or it might be that through vanity he was simply bent on demonstrating his own importance to someone new to the town. With a shrug, Moray gave up.

Mary and her brother had been ready for some time and now they set out, Walter leading the party along the Esplanade towards the pier, obviously determined to do things in style. At the steamer booking office he demanded first-class return tickets, adding casually:

“Three and a half: the boy is under age.”

The booking clerk turned a practised eye on Willie.

“Four full fares,” he said.

“I believe I asked for three and a half.”

“Four,” said the clerk in a tired voice.

An argument then ensued, brief yet fierce on Walter’s side, ending when Willie, interrogated by the clerk, truthfully gave his age, thus disqualifying himself from the reduced rate. Not a good start, thought Moray, ironically observing Walter slap down the extra coins with an injured air.

The little red-funnelled paddle-boat came spanking down river and alongside the pier. She was the Lucy Ashton. Walter, somewhat recovered, explained to Moray that all the North British boats were named after characters in Scott’s novels, but he seemed disappointed that they were not to have the Queen Alexandra, the new two-funnelled Caledonian turbine; its absence seemed a slight impairment of his prestige.

The gangway was skilfully run out, they went on board, and, looking around, he selected seats in the stern. Then the paddles churned and they were off, across the sparkling estuary and out towards the open firth.

“Delightful, is it not?” Walter murmured, settling back. Things were going better now.

But it was fresh upon the water and before long it became apparent that the situation he had chosen was exposed.

“Don’t you think it’s a little breezy on this side, dear?” Mary ventured, after several minutes. Head inclined to the wind, she was holding on to her hat.

“Not a bit of it,” Walter answered curtly. “I want to show Dr Moray all our local points of interest. This gives us an uninterrupted view.”

The view—undoubtedly unimpaired, since most of the other passengers were in the lee of the cabin—was quite lovely, perhaps the most beautiful in all the Western Highlands. But Walter, though complacently owning its charm with all the proprietorship of a cicerone, was more concerned with the commercial import of the towns which fringed the shore.

“That’s Scourie over there.” He pointed. “A thriving community. They put in a new gasholder last year. Twenty thousand cubic feet capacity. There’s progress for you. And they have a new sewage disposal project up before the town council. My father knows the Provost. And across on the other side is Port Doran. Can you make out the municipal buildings behind that steeple . . . ?”

They were all steadily getting colder. Even Willie had turned blue, and had departed, muttering that he was going to look at the engines. But Walter went remorselessly on. What a goddam bore, thought Moray, with his legs stretched out and hands in his pockets. Scarcely listening now, he was watching Mary who, though very silent, occasionally put in a dutiful word of support. He saw that her entire nature changed in the presence of her fiancé. Her sparkle died, all the fun went out of her, she became reserved, sealed up, conscientiously obedient, like a good pupil in the presence of her teacher. She’ll have a hell of a life with that fellow when they’re married, he reflected absently—the wind and Walter’s monologue were making him drowsy.

At last they threaded the Kyles, swung into Gairsay Bay, and manoeuvred to the pier. Willie, after a search, was retrieved from the warmth of the engine-room and they went ashore.

“This is nice,” breathed Mary, with relief.

The town, a popular resort, had an attractive and prosperous air: a circle of good shops on the front, the hotels mounting up on the wooded hill behind, moorland and mountain beyond. “And now for lunch,” Walter exclaimed, in the manner of one who has something up his sleeve.

“Oh, yes,” Mary said cheerfully. “Let’s go to Lang’s. There it is, quite handy.” She indicated a modest but promising-looking restaurant across the road.

“My dear,” Walter said, “I wouldn’t dream of taking Dr Moray to Lang’s. Or you either, for that matter.”

“We always go there when we come with Father,” Willie remarked dourly. “They have rare hot mutton pies. And Comrie’s lemonade.”

“Yes, let’s, Walter dear.”

He stilled her with a raised, gloved hand and calmly produced his pièce de résistance of the day.

“We are going to lunch at the Grand.”

“Oh, no, Walter. Not the Grand. It’s so . . . so snobby . . . and expens . . .”.

Walter threw an intimate, confidential smile at Moray, as though to say, These women!

“It’s the best,” he murmured. “I have reserved a table in advance from my father’s office.”

They began to climb the hill towards the Grand, which towered majestically, high above them. The footpath was long, through woods carpeted with bluebells, and steep, in parts excessively so. Occasionally between the trees they caught sight of expensive cars flashing upwards on the main driveway. Moray perceived that the ascent, which Stoddart led like a deerstalker, was tiring Mary. To allow her to rest he stopped and picked a little bunch of bluebells which he tied with a twist of dried grass, and handed to her.

“Exactly the colour of your dress.” He smiled.

At last they reached the summit and Walter, sweating, breathing heavily, brought them on to the broad terrace of the hotel where a number of guests were seated in the sunshine. An immediate silence fell as the little party appeared, some curious stares were turned towards it, and someone laughed. The main entrance was on the opposite side of the hotel and Walter had some difficulty in finding the terrace door. But finally, after some wandering, they were in the rich, marble-pillared foyer and Stoddart, having asked directions from an imposing figure in a gold-braided uniform, led the way to the restaurant, a huge, overpowering affair done in white and gold with enormous crystal chandeliers and a rich red pile carpet.

It was absurdly early, only just gone twelve o’clock, and although the waiters were on duty, gathered in a group round the head waiter’s desk talking amongst themselves, no one else was in the room.

“Yes, sir?”

The head waiter, a stout, red-faced man in striped trousers, white waistcoat and cutaway, detached himself and came dubiously forward.

“Lunch for three, and a boy,” Stoddart said.

“This way, please.”

His hooded eye had taken them in at a glance: he appeared to lead them off to a distant alcove in the rear, when Walter said pompously:

“I want a table by the window. I have a reservation in the name of the town clerk of Ardfillan.”

The major domo hesitated: he smells a tip, thought Moray satirically, and how wrong he is!

“By the window did you say, sir?”

“That table over there.”

“Sorry, sir. That table is specially reserved for Major Lindsay of Lochshiel and his party of young English gentlemen.”

“The one next to it then.”

“That is Mr Menzies’ table, sir. A resident. Still, as he rarely comes in before one fifteen, and you’ll doubtless have finished by then. . . . If you care to have it . . . ?”

They were seated at Mr Menzies’ table. The menu was handed to Walter. It was in Anglicised French.

“Potage à la Reine Alexandra,” he began, reading it through to them, slowly, remarking complacently, in conclusion:

“Nothing like French cooking. And five courses too.”

While they sat in solitary state the meal was served, rapidly, and with veiled insolence. It was atrocious, a typical Grand Hotel luncheon, but below the usual standard. First came a thick yellowish soup composed apparently of flour and tepid water; next, a bony fragment of fish which had probably travelled from Aberdeen to Gairsay by the long way through Billingsgate, a fact only partially concealed by a coating of glutinous pink sauce.

“It’s not fresh, Mary,” Willie whispered, leaning towards her.

“Hush, dear,” she murmured, struggling with the bones, sitting very straight, her eyes on her plate. Moray saw that under her apparent calm she was suffering acutely. For himself, he did not, in his own phrase, care a tinker’s curse—he was not personally involved—but strangely it worried him to see her hurt. He tried to think of something light and gay that would cheer her but it would not come to him. Across the table Walter was now chewing his way through the next course, a slab of stringy mutton served with tinned peas and potatoes which cut and tasted like soap.

The sweet was a chalky blancmange accompanied by tough prunes. The savoury, which followed swiftly, for now they were really being rushed, took the shape of a stiff, spectral sardine, emitting a kind of bluish radiance, and impaled on a strip of desiccated toast. Then, though it was not yet one o’clock and no other guests had as yet appeared, the bill was brought.

If Stoddart had paid this immediately and they had departed forthwith all would have been well. But by this time Walter, through his unfeeling hide, had become conscious of a sense of slight, scarcely to be tolerated by the son of the Ardfillan town clerk. Besides, he had an actuarial mind. He withdrew one of the pencils with which his waistcoat was invariably armed, and began to make calculations on the bill. As he did so a tall, rakish-looking, weatherbeaten man, grey-haired, with a clipped moustache, wearing a faded Black Watch kilt, strolled in from the bar. He was followed by three young men in rough tweeds who had all, Moray immediately perceived, had more than a few drinks. As they took possession of the adjoining table they were noisily discussing how they had fished a beat on the River Gair—apparently the property of the man in the kilt. One of the three, a flashy-looking article, with blond hair and a slack mouth, was rather less than sober, and as he sat down his eye fell on Mary. Turning, he lolled over the back of his chair, began ogling her while the waiter served their first course, then, with a nudge and a wink, diverted the attention of his companions.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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 for 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 with 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.

He drew a long, deep breath. It was right, exactly right, except perhaps for the date of the appointment—but that, balanced against the other advantages, was a detail, immaterial. He knew the hospital and had often admired it on his weekend excursions from the city. Situated in pleasant rolling country, within a long tram ride of Winton, it was known locally as the “Fever Hospital”, having at one time been devoted exclusively to infectious diseases. Now, however, it was mainly given over to the treatment of tubercular children. It was small, of course, no more than four isolated pavilions, holding about sixty beds, with a central office and laboratory, nurses’ quarters, and a neat, red-tiled gate lodge. Nothing could be better: the salary was generous, a house was available, obviously they wanted a married man, and the laboratory would afford him facilities for research. A gem of a place, he kept repeating to himself. He knew, of course, that competition would be severe, cut-throat in fact, and as he got up from the reading-room bench he had the look of one going into battle.

The campaign which he forthwith conducted was indeed, in its resourcefulness, subtlety and consummate adroitness, fit to be honoured and recorded as the classic example of job-getting. From his University professors he got testimonials and letters of recommendation, from Drummond a personal introduction to the Wintonshire Medical Officer of Health, and through Bryce’s father, who was a baillie of the city, a complete list of the members of the board. He called first on the Medical Officer, whose attitude, though noncommittal, was pleasant, then on the Secretary, who, as a friend and brother Mason of the senior Bryce, was distinctly cordial. Next, he began discreetly, in the evenings, to canvas all the board members at their homes. Here he did well, was even introduced to the sonsie wives of several of these substantial citizens in whom, by judicious shyness, he started warm springs of maternal sympathy. Finally, he cadged a ride in a delivery van to the vicinity of the hospital, made friends with the retiring doctor who was going into practice, shook hands with the head sister and, after a really hard beginning, completely won over the stubby little martinet of a matron. She invited him to tea. The difficulties of his student days, his romantic meeting with Mary, his honours degree, all had by this time been composed into a modest, yet free-flowing tale. In her own cosy sittingroom, over the teacups—it was, he noted, first-rate tea and a delicious homemade sponge—she listened with growing sympathy.

“We’ll have to see what can be done,” she finally declared, throwing out her well-starched bust until it crackled. “And if anyone has influence with that wrong-headed committee, it’s yours truly.”

He murmured thanks.

“Now I’ll be off, Matron. I’ve taken far too much of your precious time.”

“Not at all. How are you getting back?”

“As I came,” he said, offhandedly playing an inspired lead. “On Shanks’s mare.”

“Ye walked out from Winton! All that way?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, Matron,” he smiled confusedly, winningly, looking into her eyes, “I just didn’t have the tram fare. So I’ll walk back too.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, doctor. Our driver will take ye in.” She rang the bell. “Nurse, slip down to the gate lodge and fetch Leckie.”

He rode into the city on the front seat of the old Argyle ambulance. When Leckie returned and reported to the matron, he remarked: “I hope we get Dr Moray. He’s such a nice likeable lad. And keen, forbye. If only I get appointed, says he to me, I’ll work my fingers to the bone.”

No opposition could stand against such a virtuoso, pulling out all the emotional stops. A week later his name appeared on the “short list” of ten candidates and, at the meeting of the board on August 21st, he was unanimously appointed.

Beyond indicating non-committally that he had a possibility in view, Moray had said nothing at Ardfillan of the marvellous prospects offered by Glenburn. Because he had lived so much alone, it was his nature to keep things to himself. Besides, he had been horribly afraid of missing the job. Now, however, with the thrill of anticipation, he prepared for the joys of triumphant revelation.

He made his plans with characteristic thoroughness. He went, in the first place, to Gilhouse the University Bookseller at the foot of Fenner Hill, and sold all his text-books, also his microscope. Since he had spotted a fine oil-immersion Zeiss in the lab. at Glenburn, he would no longer need his own second-hand Wright and Dobson. With a tidy sum in his pocket he crossed Eldongrove Park to a less salubrious neighbourhood and entered the pawnshop at the corner of Blairhill Street where; over the past five years, he had occasionally been an unwilling client. Now the position was reversed. Taking his time, and wisely rejecting the dubious diamond pressed upon him, he selected from the unredeemed pledges a thin gold ring mounted with a nice little aquamarine. Set in velvet in a red leather case it looked extremely handsome, and it was genuine. With this in his pocket he borrowed Bryce’s bike and set off for Craigdoran. He arrived at eleven in the forenoon.

“Mary,” he exclaimed, walking straight into the refreshment room and putting his arm round her waist. “Shut up shop. Now. At once.”

“But, Davie, I still have two more trains . . .”.

“Hang the trains, and the passengers in them, and the entire North British Railway Company. You’re coming with me, this very minute. And while you’re about it, put a few buns and sandwiches in a bag.”

She gazed at him, half doubtful, half smiling, yet conscious of something compelling behind the lightness of his tone.

“Well,” she conceded finally, “I don’t suppose it’ll ruin the company, or Father this once.”

Ten minutes later they were off together on the bike. He took the Stirling road, turned east at Reston, and about one o’clock, swinging round the outskirts of Cranstoun, came to rest a quarter of a mile along the Glenburn lane.

“This is where we take a stroll, Mary.”

She was confused, vaguely disturbed, did not understand why they should be here, but she accompanied him obediently down the lane. Presently they reached the sweep of ornamental railings which enclosed the hospital. He halted, wise enough to know that at this stage they must penetrate no further. They both peered through the neat, painted railings. The sun was shining on the enclosure, some children in red jackets were seated with a nurse on a bench beside the green stretch of lawn, a blackbird sang in a nearby forsythia bush.

“What a dear wee place,” Mary exclaimed.

“You think so?”

“Who wouldn’t, Davie? It’s like a picture.”

“Then listen, Mary,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “This is Glenburn Hospital. These four buildings among the trees are the wards. That’s the administrative block in front of them. And over there, with the garden at the back, is the medical superintendent’s residence. Not a bad house, is it?”

“It’s a sweet wee house,” she answered wonderingly. “And such a nice garden. Do you know someone there?”

Ignoring her question he went on, pale now and breathing rather fast. “The medical superintendent has sole and complete charge of the hospital. He has full facilities for research in, the hospital laboratory. His salary is £500 per annum, plus the produce of the garden and a free house, that house over there, Mary, in which he is lawfully entitled to keep his own lawful wife.” His voice was cracking with excitement. “Mary . . . as from the 1st of January they’ve appointed a new medical superintendent. You’re . . . you’re looking at him now.”

Chapter Seven

He took the return journey slowly, making a wide detour at Overton that would bring them through the Carse of Louden, along the south shore of Loch Lomond, and up across the moors of Glen Fruin. This was a noted route, one of the prettiest in the West, but Mary saw nothing of it . . . nothing . . . nothing . . . not even the majestic crest of Ben Lomond, towering above the shimmering loch. Dumb with happiness, still stricken by all the thrilling wonder of the miracle he had worked for her, she closed her eyes and hugged him to her with all the grateful love of her overflowing heart.

And he was happy too—how could it be otherwise?—excited by the effect he had so carefully planned and so successfully produced. Yet to his credit, he had regained calm, he did not seek praise, his natural air of modesty remained unchanged. He was in love and had wished to impress less from a sense of self-importance than from the desire to make her suddenly rejoice. Unlike Walter, who, exacting the utmost in adulation, pressed the last drop of juice from every favourable situation, he disliked being fussed over—it offended his fastidious sense and made him uncomfortable. Besides, had he not still another surprise in store for her?

As they topped the long hill which led from the loch to Glen Fruin, he checked the machine and turned off the road into one of the grassy sheep tracks which criss-crossed the moor. Following the path for about a quarter of a mile he drew up at the river beside a bank, deep in heather and bracken, sheltered by a clump of silver birches. Beneath them the moor fell away in a great sweep of purple and gold. Now she could see the mountain and the loch, a shimmering landscape that seemed to her of heaven and which she interpreted in her own fashion.

“What a braw spot, Davie.”

“Braw enough for us to eat our grub.” He teased her. “All this chasing around should have given you an appetite.”

“I’m too carried away to eat.”

But when they seated themselves and spread out their lunch upon the checked tablecloth she had brought, he made her eat her share, the more so since, amplifying his instructions, she had packed a substantial lunch. Besides buns and sandwiches there were hard-boiled eggs, Clydeside tomatoes and a sausage roll, with a big bottle of that famous local “mineral”, Barr’s Iron Brew, to quench their thirst. She had even remembered to bring the wooden plug that knocked down the glass marble in the bottle-neck.

“Oh, Davie,” she murmured, between bites. “That bonnie wee house . . . I can’t get it out my head. Just wait till ye see how I’ll look after you there.”

“We have to furnish it,” he warned. “But we have time before January. Now we’re all settled I’ll take a locum or something over the next four months, which should give us enough cash for a start, anyway.”

“Dearest Davie. You think of everything.”

“There’s one thing I nearly forgot.” Offhandedly, he dived into his jacket pocket. “Here it is, lass. Better late than never.”

Watching her as she opened the little red box, he had never been so deeply moved. Completely still she looked at the ring which, like her, was simple yet beautiful. She did not praise the ring, she did not thank him for it, but, turning, she looked into his eyes just as she had done after that day at Gairsay, and in a trembling voice, that he was to remember all his life, she whispered: “Put it on for me, dear.” Then with a little sigh she reached out her arms towards him.

They lay together on the soft bracken under the hot afternoon sun. Bees were droning faintly amongst the heather flowers, a lark sang its way into the blue, the scent of thyme and the wild orchids filled the air. From far off came the whirr of a risen grouse, then again stillness, but for the quiet ripple of the stream. Her skirt had risen as she lay back and his hand fell upon her knee. Caressingly, he stroked it. Her lips were parted, slightly swollen from the sun, and almost purple against the soft pallor of her face. Her eyelids, masking her doe-soft eyes, had a fainter, bluish tinge. Warm in his arms, she trembled as his fingers, moving upwards, came to rest on the soft bare skin above her long stocking.

His heart was thudding against his side so hard, the sound of it made a rushing in his ears. Another gentle movement, and his hand would find what it sought. He longed for her, but was afraid. Then, close to him, she breathed:

“If you want . . . take me, dear.”

The sun passed behind a cloud, the bees ceased their hum, a circling curlew uttered its mournful cry. They lay still, until at last he whispered humbly:

“Did I hurt you, Mary?”

“Dearest Davie.” She burrowed her head into him. “It was the sweetest pain of all my life.”

When at last they stirred and gathered up the picnic things he drove off slowly, a trifle sad and sorry, touched by a rueful sense of regret. Had he not been premature, crushing so much joy into so short a time, snatching so early at the first fruits-of happiness? She was so young, so innocent. A fresh surge of tenderness swept over him: should he not have shown restraint and waited? Indeed, from the beginning, had he not rushed on too fast and heedlessly? No, a thousand times no: he banished the thought and lifted a hand from the controls to press once again the softness of her thigh.

“I’m all yours now, Davie.”

She snuggled against him, laughing softly in his ear. No mournful, injured wistfulness for her! She was renewed, confident, more than ever alive. Half turning, he saw that her eyes were firesh and dewy; he had never known her so radiant. She seemed to sense instinctively his vague depression, and gaily, tenderly, possessive as a mother, she lifted him up.

They had reached the summit above Ardfillan when suddenly the heavy cloud that obscured the sun broke upon them in a drenching shower. Hurriedly he slipped the gear lever into neutral and coasted rapidly down hill. He was at the shop in no time, but not before he was unpleasantly damp. Mary, behind him, had escaped the worst of the rain.

Upstairs she insisted that he change into a suit of her father’s, but he passed the matter off. He was not really wet he said, there was a good fire in the room, he would soon dry off. In the end they compromised: he put on the baker’s carpet slippers and an old tweed jacket Mary found in a cupboard.

Presently the shop was shut and Aunt Minnie appeared, followed a few minutes later by Douglas. The four sat down to the evening meal. Willie, it appeared, was away, spending the weekend at the Boys’ Brigade Camp at Whistlefield. At the outset, as the teacups were passed in silence, Moray was painfully embarrassed, asking himself if some intangible evidence of guilt, a lingering aura of those delirious moments of consummation on the moor, was not observable in Mary and himself. Mary’s cheeks were flushed, his own, he felt, were pale, and Aunt Minnie was directing oddly suspicious glances from one to the other. The baker, too, seemed unusually reserved and more than usually observant.

But when Mary ended the silence the general tension relaxed. Moray had promised to let her break the news of his appointment in her own way, and she did so with a brio and a sense of drama which far surpassed his own effort of the morning.

First she displayed her ring, which was admired—though grudgingly by the aunt, who remarked, aside: “I hope it’s paid for.”

“I don’t think we need worry about that, Auntie dear,” Mary answered kindly, with just a hint of patronage. She began forthwith to describe the hospital at Glenburn, painting it in colours rather more glowing than reality, and working without haste towards the climax, which was tremendous.

A long pause followed, then Douglas said, deeply pleased:

“Five hundred pounds and a house . . . and the bit garden for your vegetables. . . . It’s fine, man, it’s downright handsome.”

“Not to mention the laboratory and the chances of research,” Mary put in quickly.

“This,” the aunt drew in her lips with a hiss of satisfaction, “will be gall and vinegar to the Stoddarts.”

“Hush, Minnie.” The baker offered his hand to Moray. “I congratulate you, David. If ever I had a doubt about you and this whole affair, it’s gone now, and I can only ask your pardon. Ye’re a fine lad. I’m proper glad my daughter is marrying you, and proud to have you as my son-in-law. Now, Minnie, don’t you think this calls for a celebration?”

“Without a doubt!” Minnie was won at last.

“Run down then, Mary, to the wee back press—ye’ll find the key in the top drawer—and bring up a bottle of my old Glenlivet.”

The bottle was brought and the baker, using sugar and lemon, and with due regard to the varying dilutions of the aged spirit, mixed for each of them a glass of good hot toddy. It was a comforting drink but it came too late for Moray. All evening he had felt his shirt clinging damply to his chest. The toddy made his head hot but his feet were leaden cold. He was relieved when they persuaded him to stay overnight, but when he went to bed he was shivering. He took his temperature, 101˚, and knew he had caught a chill.

Chapter Eight

Moray spent a restless, fevered night, and when he awoke from the snatch of sleep into which he had fallen, towards morning, he had no difficulty in diagnosing his own case; he was in for a bout of acute bronchitis. His breathing was tight and painful, even without a stethoscope he could hear the râles in his chest, and his temperature had risen to 103˚. He waited with commendable self-control until nearly seven o’clock, then knocked on the wall which separated him from Mary’s room. He heard her stir, and a few minutes later she came into his room.

“Oh, dear, you’re ill,” she exclaimed at once in dismay. “Half the night I was worrying you’d caught cold.”

“It’s nothing much. But I’ll be laid up for a bit and I can’t make a nuisance of myself here. You’d better ring the hospital.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” She had taken his hand, which felt so hot to the touch that her heart contracted with concern. “You’ll stop with us in this very room. And I’ll look after you. Who else, indeed!”

“Are you sure, Mary?” Suddenly he wanted her to care for him. And what a bore it would be getting the ambulance, trundling back to the Infirmary as a patient. “I’ll only be a few days. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d far rather stay.”

“And so you shall,” she said firmly. “Now, should I send for the doctor?”

“No, no, of course not. I’ll prescribe for myself.”

He raised himself on his elbow and wrote a couple of prescriptions. The effort made him cough.

“That’s all I need, Mary. And occasional hot fluids. . . .” He forced a smile. “And you.”

He was worse than he made out. For ten days he was quite ill, with a high fever and a racking cough. She nursed him devotedly and, for one untrained, with surprising talent. With Aunt Minnie, she poulticed him, brewed him nourishing beef tea, fed him calf’s foot jelly with a spoon, made up his bed, exerted to the full her practical mind and housewifely skill to ease his distress. At the crisis of the attack, when he was obliged to have a steam kettle, she sat up half the night tending him. The dislocation of the household was, of course, acute. Meals were upset; sleep lost; service in the shop disturbed; Willie, back from the camp, had to be farmed out with Donaldson, the foreman. When, at the end of the second week, he was able to be up, and to sit in a long chair by the window, he apologised shamefacedly to Douglas for the trouble he had given them all.

“Not another word, Davie,” the little baker interrupted him. “Ye’re one of the family now.” He smiled. “As good as, anyhow.”

When her father had gone out of the room Mary came over and knelt beside his chair. She gripped his knee tightly.

“Don’t ever say you were a bother, Davie. What do you think would have happened to me if I hadn’t got you well?”

His eyes filled with tears, he was still rather weak.

“What a perfect wife you’ll make me, Mary. Don’t think I haven’t noticed every single thing you’ve done.”

Presently he was out, walking with her on the Esplanade, slowly at first, then at a faster pace. Finally he pronounced himself recovered, and ready to look out for a locum tenens that would carry him through the next few months. He still had a stitch in his side that worried him, but he did not speak of it. To complain now would be a poor way to reward their united efforts on his behalf. However, on the following Monday when he travelled by train to Winton to leave his name at the Medical Employment Agency, he had a sharp bout of pain, and decided it might be wise to look in at his old ward and have his chest gone over by Drummond.

It was unexpectedly late when he arrived, back at Ardfillan, and Mary, who was serving a woman customer in the shop, read at once the dejection in his expression. The moment she was free, she came towards him, looking up into his face.

“No luck, Davie?”

He tried to smile, but the attempt was scarcely a success.

“As a matter of fact I didn’t manage to get to the agency.”

“What went wrong, dear?” she said quickly. She saw that he had something on his mind.

At that moment the shop door pinged and a child came in to buy sweetie biscuits. He broke off, relieved by the interruption. What a cursed nuisance it all was, and what a damned sickly nuisance of a fellow they would all think him.

“Now, Davie?” She turned to him.

“It’s hard to explain, Mary,” he said feebly. “I’ll tell you upstairs.”

It was just on closing time. Hurriedly, she drew the blinds and turned off the lights, then followed him to the upper room. Her father and Aunt Minnie were there with him. He did not know how to begin. There was nothing for it, he had to reveal the reason for his visit to the hospital. Bending forward with elbows on his knees he kept looking at the floor.

“So when I got there Professor Drummond screened me—X-ray that is—and apparently I have a patch of pleurisy on my left lung.”

“Pleurisy!”

“It’s very localised,” he said, refraining from mentioning Drummond’s insistence that neglect would induce tuberculosis. Striving to keep the despondency from his voice, he added: “But apparently it knocks out any possibility of a locum.”

“What’s to be done then?” Douglas said, looking rather blue, while Mary sat silent, her hands pressed together.

“Well, I could go into the country . . . somewhere not too far away . . .”.

“No, Davie,” Mary intervened nervously. “You’re not to leave us. We’ll look after you here.”

He gazed at her dismally.

“Impose myself on you for another two months? Impossible, Mary. How can I hang around here, bone idle, just being a confounded nuisance, on top of all the fearful bother I’ve given you? I’ll . . . I’ll get a job on a farm.”

“No farmer in his right mind is going to employ a sick man,” said Douglas. “Surely the doctor . . . the professor ordered something definite for ye?”

There was a pause. Moray raised his head.

“If you must know, Drummond did say that I need a sea voyage—as a ship’s doctor of course. In fact, he insisted on ringing up the Kinnaird Line. . . . He knows someone there . . .”

Now there was a prolonged silence. Finally the baker said:

“That sounds like sense at last. And if it’s a question of your health, lad, that’s all important. We would keep you here gladly. But would you get better, with the winter coming on? No, no. Your professor’s advice is sound. Did he manage to find ye something?”

Moray nodded, unwillingly.

“There’s a boat, the Pindari, leaving next week from the Tail of the Bank—for Calcutta—a seven weeks’ round trip.”

Another pause followed, then Douglas reflected:

“A voyage to India. Ye’d get sunshine there.”

“Do you want to go?” the aunt asked.

“Good God, no. . . . Sorry, Aunt Minnie. It’s the last thing I want. Except that if I must go the pay is good, ninety pounds in all. We could furnish our house with it, Mary.”

All that evening the matter was threshed out and at last was definitely settled. Despite the divergence of opinion, all, even Mary, yielded in the end to the baker’s simple argument; health came before all other considerations.

“What good will ye be to anyone—to Mary, yourself, or to Glenburn—if ye don’t get yourself well? Ye maun go, lad, that’s all about it.”

On the following Tuesday he crossed to Greenock with Mary. It was a wet, stormy afternoon. He looked and felt ill, and the misery of the coming separation lay upon him. And upon her too, yet she was brave, resolved not to give way. Under her windblown tweed hat, raincoat buttoned to her chin, her face was set in a mould of resolute cheerfulness. The Pindari, which had arrived overnight from Liverpool to take on a cargo of woollens and mill machinery, lay in the estuary veiled by a driving mist. The wind swept in staggering gusts across the docks, but she insisted on coming to the pier end to see him off, her hand beside his, under the handle of his old leather suitcase, sharing its weight. As the tender plunged and bumped in the strong tide beneath, they held each other closely, passionately, under the grey and dismal sky. Rain, like tears, ran down her cold cheeks, but her lips and breath were warm. Sick at heart, he could not bear to part from her.

“I’ll take a chance and stay, Mary. God knows I don’t want to go.”

“But you must, dear, for both our sakes. I’ll write to you, and count every minute till you’re back to me.” Just before she broke away and ran back along the jetty, she took a small package from her raincoat pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Just so you’ll mind me, Davie.”

In the cabin of the heaving tender, on the way out to the ship, he undid the wrappings and looked at what she had given him, It was an old thin gold locket, smaller than a florin piece, that had belonged to her mother. Inside she had placed a little snapshot of herself and in the back, carefully pressed, a single flower of the bluebells he had picked for her at Gairsay.

Chapter Nine

He clambered up the swaying gangway and came aboard. The merchandise from Winton had already been loaded; he had barely time to report to the captain before the tugs were alongside and they began to nose cautiously down the Firth. He stood on deck, striving to penetrate the mist that shrouded the vague line of the shore where Mary would be standing, watching the departure of this spectral ship. His heart was filled with sadness and love. There were few people on deck—he knew they were returning to Tilbury to pick up the main body of passengers—and the damp emptiness and dripping stanchions increased his melancholy. The deep, despondent sounding of the fog-horn gave him a strange sense of foreboding. As the mist closed down, obliterating the shore, he turned and went below to find his quarters.

His cabin was aft, on the starboard side, next to the chief engineer’s, furnished in polished teak wood with red curtains to the ports, a fitted locker and book rack, and a red-shaded bunk lamp, all particularly snug. A washstand with a metal basin that tipped up to let the water away stood in the comer, and above, on a guarded bracket, an electric fan. His consulting room and dispensary, conveniently situated across the alleyway, were both equally well equiped. Although the Pindari was an old ship, originally the Isolde of the Hamburg-Atlantic Line taken over after the war, she had been reconditioned from stem to stem and was now roomy, comfortable and notably seaworthy, capable of a modest seventeen knots, making a slow, sure run to India with cargo and passengers, touching en route at various ports.

When Moray had unpacked his suitcase, containing his own few things, all washed and ironed by Mary, and the two stock uniforms provided by the company’s head office in Winton, he felt completely done; his side was hurting too. A rough Irish Sea and a bad passage up the Channel did not help him. He had difficulty in carrying out his first duty, a medical examination of the native crew, and at nights his cough was so troublesome he got little sleep. Concerned not only for himself but for his engineer neighbour, an elderly Scot named Macrae, whom he must have disturbed, he dosed himself with codeine. However, at Tilbury, where they spent two days at the docks, a letter from Mary put fresh heart in him, and when they cleared the Nore and were actually on their way, he began to feel more himself. The ship had life in her now, the screws thrust forward with a stronger throb, voices and laughter echoed along the companionways.

In the dining saloon each officer took his place at the head of his own table. Moray, at his, was allotted only five passengers, all somewhat elderly and, he had to admit, dull: two well-seasoned Scotch tea planters, Henderson and Macrimmon, returning to Assam, a Mr S. A. G. Mahratta, the Hindu manager of a cotton mill in Cawnpore, and an I.C.S. official and his jaundiced, severe-looking wife, Mr and Mrs Hunt-hunter. Except for the planters, who, particularly after a session in the bar, were inclined to jocularity, and Mahratta, a fussy, hypochondriacal little man with a bad stomach, who was sometimes unintentionally funny, the general tone of the conversation was restrained and promised to be difficult.

But now they were through the grey turbulence of the Bay, sunshine suddenly blazed, sky and sea were blue as they passed through the Straits and cruised up the south-east coast of Spain towards Marseilles, where more cargo was to be taken aboard. Deck games were being set out and Moray was advised by the first officer, a long, lean, goodnatured Irishman named O’Neil, that part of the doctor’s duty was to organise them. So Moray, taking paper and pencil, approached the task of rounding up the passengers, at first with a sense of his unfitness for large-scale social intercourse, yet, after some preliminary self-consciousness, with success. His official position made things easier than he had imagined. He need not seek, he was sought after—a ship’s surgeon was apparently a position of some consequence. When they arrived at Marseilles, lists of competitors for deck quoits, shuffle-board and table tennis had been drawn up and Moray, with a grimace, began to overhear himself referred to as “our nice young doctor.”

At Marseilles a long, five-page letter from Mary awaited him. In his cabin he read it eagerly, smiling at her little bits of news, touched by the simple record of all she had been doing, through which there breathed a constant solicitude for his health. She hoped that his pain was gone, his cough less, that he was taking good care of himself. She sent him all her love. Dear Mary, how he missed her. In the surgery, squaring up to his desk, he wrote his reply, telling of all his activities, and was able to catch the outgoing mail before the sack was closed. The Pindari was no more than twelve hours in port. Loading completed, the hatches were battened down; then, almost at the last moment—the night train from Paris was late—three new passengers came on board. Since most of the tables in the saloon were fully occupied they were seated with the doctor, and their names added to the passenger list: Mr and Mrs Arnold Holbrook, Miss Doris Holbrook. Surreptitiously, Moray examined them, as they sat down to lunch.

Holbrook was a man of about sixty, not tall, but so heavily thickset as to be short of breath, with a red, porous, mottled face partly covered by a short grizzled beard, and small, bloodshot, genially knowing eyes. He was badly dressed in a greenish readymade suit, grey flannel shirt and a stringy maroon tie. His wife a little homely woman with small features and a gentle expression, was, in contrast, wearing heavy, fashionable clothes and an elaborate black-sequined toque. Yet she carried them without ease, as though they encumbered her and she would have preferred much simpler attire—instinctively Moray thought of her in an old loose print wrapper, busy with her household duties in a well-stocked kitchen. She wore also so much jewellery that he erroneously assumed it to be paste. The daughter appeared to be not more than twenty. She was tallish, of a pale, dull complexion, with a good figure, dark hair and slate-grey eyes which, sitting erect and silent, she kept lowered sulkily during most of the meal.

Not so Holbrook. In the accents of Manchester, genially, expansively, with an air of experience, he broke the introductory ice, tactfully set conversation going, jollied the Tamil table boy until he had him grinning, started Mahratta off on a diverting account of his recent gastronomic difficulties in London that brought a smile even to the meagre lips of Mrs Hunt-hunter. When he had awakened the table to life, he casually revealed that his son was in Calcutta opening a branch of his business, that Dorrie—he looked towards his daughter, who ignored the affectionate glance—had just left Miss Wainwright’s Finishing School in Blackpool, and that their voyage to India was pleasure and business combined. It was only when he proposed ordering champagne all round that a reproving glance from his wife drew him up.

“Ah, well, Mother,” he deferred humorously, “we’ll have it at dinner tonight. That suit you, Dorrie?”

Doris gave him a pettish glance.

“You stop it, Dad. The story of your life will keep.”

“That’s my girl.” He laughed indulgently, with a note of pride. “I like to have you keep me right.”

“And about time.”

“Now, Doris,” her mother warned gently: then, looking round the table, she added, as though in extenuation: “Our daughter hasn’t been too well lately. And the night journey was real tiring for her.”

That same afternoon, as Moray came along the companionway towards his surgery, he found Holbrook standing before the notice board with his hands in his pockets, studying the sports lists.

“It looks as though you’ve got everyone pretty well booked up, doctor.”

“I’ve gone through the passenger list fairly thoroughly, sir.”

“Our Dorrie likes a game,” said the other in a reflective tone. “And she’s a dab at most of them. Surely you could find her a partner, doctor.” He paused. “How about yourself? You’re an active young fellow.”

Moray hesitated.

“I’ll be glad to, sir,” he said, adding quickly: “If it’s permitted. I’ll . . . I’ll speak to the first officer.”

“Do that, lad. I’d appreciate it.”

Moray’s impressions of Holbrook’s daughter had not been favourable; he had no wish to be let in for this job. Besides, as a ship’s officer, he doubted if he could participate in the competitions. However, when he had finished his consultations he found O’Neil on the bridge and explained the situation; the big Irishman had already been friendly and helpful, casually tipping him off on his more important duties.

“Sure ye can play, doc,” said O’Neil, in a Belfast accent you could cut with a knife. “Ye’re expected to be nice to the women. Besides, I saw this little bit come aboard. She looks as if she has something.” O’Neil’s blue eyes twinkled. “With luck ye might get a tickle.”

“I wouldn’t be interested,” Moray said flatly. His pure-minded feeling for Mary made the suggestion, however goodnatured, unutterably distasteful to him.

“Well, anyhow, be civil—it’ll do ye no harm and may do ye some good. The old boy’s rolling. Holbrook’s Pharmaceuticals. Began in a back street chemist’s shop in Bootle. Made a fortune out of pills.” He grinned. “Moving the bowels of humanity. The answer was in the purgative. Say, that reminds me. Did you ever hear this one?” O’Neil, a brave and gallant soul who had been torpedoed in the war, swimming for five hours in the Atlantic Ocean before being picked up, had a positive mania for telling off-colour stories. Submitting, Moray prepared his smile as the other went on: “A Yank was coming tearing along the street in Chicago when another Yank standing on the sidewalk stopped him. ‘Can you direct me to a good chemist?’ says he. ‘Brother,’ says the other, in a raging hurry, ‘if ye want God’s own chemist just . . .’ ” At the unprintable punch line O’Neil topped his cap to a more rakish angle and lay back on the binnacle, roaring with laughter.

Moray remained on the bridge for another half hour, pacing up and down with the first officer, watching the French coastline slip away, his cheeks whipped by the invigorating wind, which was always keener up top. Drummond had been right; there was health in the tang of the open sea. How much better he was feeling now, and how agreeable life was on board. He had forgotten his promise to Holbrook but when he went below it came to mind, and, with a shrug, he entered Miss Holbrook’s name and his own in the doubles events.

Chapter Ten

The weather continued fine, the sea calm, the sky brilliant by day, shading through violet sunsets into velvet and luminous nights through which, the Pindari traced its phosphorescent wake. This was the sea of Jason and Ulysses; at dawn the ship seemed suspended between sky and water, timeless and unreal, except that there, on the starboard bow, was Sardinia, the healthy fragrance of the island borne on a soft and fitful breeze.

Drawing deep, free breaths of this aromatic air without pain or hindrance, Moray knew that his pleurisy had gone. No need now to put his stethoscope on his chest. His skin was tanned, he had never felt better. After those years of prolonged grind, the present conditions of his life seemed altogether too good to be true. Awakened at seven by his cabin “boy”, who, padding barefoot from the galley, brought his chota hazri of tea and fresh fruit, he got up half an hour later, took a plunge in the sports deck swimming-pool, then dressed. Breakfast was at nine, after which he made his round of visits or, once a week, accompanied Captain Torrance on the official inspection of the ship. From ten-thirty till noon he was in his surgery. Lunch came at one, and thereafter, except for a nominal surgery at five o’clock, he was free for the rest of the day, expected only to make himself agreeable and obliging to the passengers. At seven-thirty the melodious dinner gong boomed up and down the alleyways—always a welcome sound, since the meals were rich, spicy and plentiful, the native curries especially delicious.

On the following Monday the tournaments began, and just before eight bells, recollecting his engagement, Moray closed the surgery and went up to the sports deck for the first round of the deck-tennis doubles. His partner was already there, wearing a short white skirt and a singlet, standing beside her parents who rather to his embarrassment, had taken deck chairs close to the court so that they might miss nothing of the game. As he apologised for keeping her waiting, although actually he was not late, she did not speak, and barely glanced at him. He scarcely knew whether she was nervous or, as he had suspected at table, merely perverse.

Their opponents arrived, a newly married Dutch couple, the Hendricks, who were on their way out to Chittagong, and the match began. At first Doris was carelessly erratic but, although he had never played the game before, he had a quick eye and managed to cover her mistakes, which he made light of, with his usual good humour. At this, she began to try, and to play brilliantly. She had a straight yet well-developed figure—round, very pretty breasts and hips, and long, well-shaped legs, revealed in motion by her short skirt. The Hendricks, a plump and heavy-footed pair, were no match for them. They won handsomely by six games to two. As he congratulated her, saying, “Your father told me you were good at games, and you are,” she gave him one of her rare direct looks, fleeting and unsmiling.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been taught a few tricks, and picked up some on my own. But aren’t you going to buy me a drink? Let’s have it up here.”

When the deck steward brought two tall lemon squashes, filled with ice, she lay back in her deck chair, with half-closed eyes, sipping her drink through the straw. He glanced at her awkwardly, at a loss as to what to say, a strange predicament for one who could invariably find the right word in the right place. The heat of the game had brought a faint colour into her pale complexion, and caused her singlet to adhere to her breasts, so that the pink of her nipples showed through the thin damp cotton. She’s an attractive girl, thought Moray, almost angrily, but what the devil is the matter with her? Had she lost her tongue? Apparently not, for suddenly she spoke.

“I’m glad we won. I wanted to knock out that sickening pair of Dutch love-birds. Can you imagine them in bed together. ‘Excuse my fat, dear.’ I’d like to win all the tournaments. If only to spite our delightful passengers. What a crowd they are. I hate them all, don’t you?”

“No, I can’t say I do.”

“You can’t mean it. They’re an appalling lot, especially our table. Mrs Hunt-hunter—what a horse-faced hag. Makes me sick. She’s common as mud, really. And the ship’s lousy too. I never wanted to come on this damn trip. My devoted parents dragged me on board by the hair. My cabin is supposed to be one of the best on A deck. Dad paid through the nose for it. You should see it. A dog kennel, with a bath like the kitchen sink. That’s the worst, for, if anything, I like to wash. And can you imagine, natives serving one’s food. Why can’t they have white stewards?”

“Our table boy seems a very decent jolly sort.”

“Haven’t you noticed how he smells? It would kill you. I’m very sensitive about smells, it’s something to do with the olfactory nerves the doctor told Mother. Phooey to him—smarmy windbag. The point is, I like people to smell clean.”

“Do I?” he couldn’t help asking, ironically.

She laughed, stretching her long legs widely apart.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Frankly, you’re the one faint gleam on the horizon. Didn’t you notice me taking you in that first day at lunch? I either take to a person or I don’t. I can tell at a glance. To be quite frank, I asked Father to get you as my partner. He’s not a bad old bird though he is a bit of a soak. And Mother is passable, if only she’d stop clucking over me. But I have to keep them in order, quite often I absolutely freeze them, to get them to do what I want. I’m talking an awful lot. Sometimes I talk all the time, sometimes I say nothing, absolutely nothing. I like to treat people that way. I’m proud. I used to drive old Wainwright out of her mind. When she’d start lecturing me I’d simply look at her and throw myself into a coma.”

“She’s your headmistress?”

“Was,” she said idly. “She threw me out.”

“What on earth for?”

She gave him her slow smile.

“That may be revealed in a later instalment.”

On the following afternoon Doris and the doctor successfully played two rounds at bull board and one at deck quoits, and Doris’s parents were again spectators. Moray quite enjoyed the games. He’d never met anyone like her before, so amusingly prejudiced and intolerant, so sure of her own privileged position, and yet with a streak underneath of commonness, of vulgarity almost, that redeemed her absurd pretensions. The fact that she liked him was flattering. It was now apparent that the Holbrooks doted upon their daughter, unresponsive though she might be, and he was less surprised than he might have been when they rose and came towards him, quite unusually pleased by the triple victory. Mrs Holbrook gave him a noticeably kind smile.

“You brought our Dorrie out, doctor,” she remarked. “And did very well yourself, too.”

Doris herself, who was on the point of leaving, said nothing, but meeting his eye she gave him her peculiar half-smile. He talked to her parents for a bit; then as he left to go down to his surgery he observed them put their heads together, Mrs Holbrook apparently urging her husband to action. Indeed, some minutes later, Holbrook rolled into the dispensary, lush, genial and garrulous.

“Nothing the matter with me, doc. Nothing at all. Just felt like a sup of bishmuth. Nothing like bishmuth to ease the stomach. Where do you keep it? I’ll help myself.”

Moray indicated the bottle of bismuth, wondering, as he watched the other nudge a generous helping into his palm, if he ought not to alert Holbrook to the state of his liver, which was palpably cirrhotic. Most days with Henderson and Macrimmon, the two tea planters, the old boy, except for his ventures to the sports deck and his chat with the captain on the bridge, was practically a fixture in the bar.

“That’s the stuff,” Holbrook exclaimed, licking up the heap of white powder with prehensile thrusts of his furred tongue, “And here’s your fee, doctor.”

“Good heavens, sir, I couldn’t take all that. It’s . . . it’s far too much.”

“Doctor,” said Holbrook, slowly fixing Moray with his small, knowing, injected eye. “If you want the advice of a man who’s seen a lot of this wicked world, when you get the chance of a good thing, take it!”

With warm generosity he pressed a five-pound note into the dector’s hand.

Thoughtfully replacing the bottle on the shelf when Holbrook had gone, Moray, who had been infected by O’Neil’s vocabulary, caught himself smiling: “We’d bloody well better win all the tournaments now.”

This, however, was no more than a pose. The girl had begun to interest him, as a study. At times she seemed far more mature than her years, at others almost backward. One day she would be moodily taciturn, the next full of amusing and provocative talk. What he rather admired in her was her complete indifference to what people thought of her. She never sought popularity and, unlike those who were already first-naming each other in tight little groups, seemed actually to enjoy being an outsider. She had a particular gift for taking off people and could be offensively rude to anyone who tried to flatter or make up to her. Her careless attitude extended even to her personal belongings, of which she had an endless variety. She was always leaving a bag, scarf or sweater on deck, mislaying and losing valuable things without turning a hair. These complexities in her character aroused his curiosity. When at lunch and dinner she would look towards him with her concealed and puzzling smile, he was more at a loss than ever. Oddly enough he was inclined to feel sorry for her.

All this gave an added spice of interest to what the mother had so inaptly phrased as “bringing Dorrie out” in the tournaments. There was not, in fact, much competition in the games, since many of the passengers were elderly. Only one pair seemed to offer serious opposition, the Kindersleys, a couple with two young children who were returning to Kadur in Mysore after three months’ leave. He was about thirty-five, excessively hearty and downright, manager of a small coffee estate that had been hit quite badly by the slump caused by excess production in Brazil. His wife, reputedly a fine lawn tennis player, was a pleasant little woman with a frank, rather serious expression. They sat at the first officer’s table. As the Pindari drew near to the Suez Canal, Moray and his partner, playing well together, were in all three semi-finals. So also were the Kindersleys.

On the eve of their arrival at Port Said Mrs Holbrook, reclining on the promenade deck, beckoned the doctor, indicating the vacant chair beside her. On several occasions he had been honoured by this invitation and, in response to her gentle questioning, had disclosed enough of his early “struggles”—comparable in some degree to her own—to win her sympathy and approval. Now, after a comment on the admirable weather and a query as to when the ship would dock, she leaned towards him.

“We’re going ashore tomorrow to see the sights, and do some shopping. We expect you to come with us.”

He shook his head.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Holbrook. I have to stay on board. I’ve all the health papers to attend to with the port M.O.H. And a sick man in the crew who may have to go to hospital.”

“What a pity,” she said, upset. “Couldn’t Mr Holbrook have a word with Captain Torrance?”

“Oh, no,” he interposed hurriedly. “That’s out of the question. The bill of health’s most important. The ship can’t sail without it.”

“Well,” she said at length, “we were counting on you. Dorrie will be proper disappointed.”

A short pause followed, then in an intimate manner she began to speak about her daughter. Dorrie was such a dear girl, just the apple of her father’s eye, but she had been—well, sometimes a bit of a worry to them. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t given her the best—yes, the very best education that money could buy; Miss Wainwright’s was one of the most select schools in the North of England. She spoke French and could play the piano beautifully, really classical pieces. She’d had all sorts of private lessons in tennis and such-like, elocution and deportment. Father wanted her to have all the advantages. But she was such a highly strung girl, not exactly difficult, but, well, kind of moody and, though, mind you, she could be very lively and outspoken at times, inclined occasionally to get depressed—quite the opposite of her brother Bert who day in and day out was the jolliest chap in the world. Mrs Holbrook paused, her eyes lighting up at the thought of her son. Well, she concluded, she would say no more except that she was really and truly grateful, and Father was too, for the way he had taken an interest in Dorrie, and done her so much good—really, as one might say, wakened her up.

Moray was touched. He liked this homely little woman who, weighted by the expensive trinkets and unbecoming clothes heaped on her by her husband, made no bones about her origin, and was, despite Holbrook’s wealth, entirely devoid of social pretensions, yet was so eagerly and, indeed, anxiously solicitous for her daughter. But he hardly knew what to say, and was compelled to fall back on mere politeness.

“Doris is a fine girl. And I’m sure she’ll grow out of her little difficulties. Just look how she’s doing in the tournaments. And of course, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

“You are good, doctor.” She pressed his hand maternally. “I needn’t tell you we’ve all real taken to you.”

Chapter Eleven

On the following day at ten o’clock they were off Port Said, passed the breakwater with the great de Lesseps statue and, after an hour’s wait in midstream till the yellow quarantine flag came down, drew into the dock and began to take on oil and water. All the passengers who intended going ashore had left the ship by noon. The Holbrooks waved to Moray as they went down the gangway and he regretted not being with them. Viewed from the boat deck, the town had an enticing and mysterious air. Beyond the huddle of dock sheds it lay yellow and white against a flat horizon made hazy by the heat. Bright tiled roofs and balconies gleamed in the sun. The pencil shapes of twin minarets rose delicately above the narrow crowded streets filled with colour, sound and movement. A pity he could not have accepted Mrs Holbrook’s invitation.

However, he had much to occupy him. The Lascar in sick bay was a suspect case of osteomyelitis, and when the port medical officer confirmed the diagnosis there were papers to be signed and irritating delays to be overcome before the man could be moved into the ambulance and transferred to hospital. Then the drinking-water tanks must be checked, after which the captain sent for him, and so it went on. The ship was full of hucksters, policemen, stevedores, Egyptian visitors, and company agents. Four bells struck before he was temporarily free, and as the outgoing post closed in half an hour he scarcely had time to finish and bring up to date the letter to Mary he had been writing at odd moments during the past few days. He felt guil about this, the more so since, when the agent came aboard at six o’clock, three letters were in the mail sack from her, with one, he judged by the handwriting, from Willie. Rather than skim through these now, when he was so pressed for time, he decided to leave them on his locker and enjoy them at leisure after he turned in tonight. He still had to make out duplicate medical supply sheets for the extra emetine which, since an epidemic of amoebic dysentery was reported in the town, he had obtained from the port M.O. as a precautionary measure. When he had completed the company forms, he took them to the purser’s office. Only then did he remember that he was due in the smoke-room, where the Holbrooks had asked him to meet them for a drink before dinner. Aware that he was late he hurried off along the promenade deck, meeting passengers, many in a state of hilarity, wearing fezes and laden with purchases from the bazaars: boxes of Turkish delight and Egyptian cigarettes made, according to O’Neil, from camels’ dung—terracotta models of the Sphinx, brassware covered with hieroglyphics: for the most part junk. Macrimmon, drunkenly draped in a white burnous, had bought a foetus in a glass bottle.

The Holbrooks had returned earlier and were there, all three, when he pushed through the glass swing doors, father, mother and Doris, surrounded by a score of packages. Holbrook, in high good humour, ordered the drinks: double Scotch for himself, champagne cocktails for the others; Mrs Holbrook, who rarely “indulged” and usually tried to restrain her husband, allowed herself to be persuaded on the plea of a special occasion. Then they began to speak animatedly of their expedition. It had been a great success: they had taken a car and driven out along the shore of Lake Manzala, visited the great Mohammedan mosque, watched the performance of a snake charmer, inspected a collection of scarabs in the museum, lunched in the garden of the Pera Palace Hotel, where they had been given a wonderful fish curry served with sunflower seeds and green chillies, and finally, on the way back to the ship they had discovered a marvellous store.

“Not a trashy place like the bazaars,” said Mrs Holbrook. “It’s owned by a man called Simon Artz. We had a proper time, shopping with him.”

“Artz is a man of parts,” Doris laughed. “He keeps everything from everywhere.” Holding up the mirror from her bag, she was putting on lipstick. Either from the sun or from excitement her cheeks were faintly flushed, making her eyes brighter. She had never looked more alive.

“So we bought ever so many things for our friends,” Mrs Holbrook resumed. “And we didn’t forget you, doctor. Working hard for us here while we were off enjoying ourselves.” With an affectionate smile she handed him a small oblong package.

Reddening, he took it awkwardly, not knowing whether or not to open it.

“Go on, have a look,” Holbrook urged slyly. “It won’t bite.”

He opened the case, expecting to find some trivial souvenir. Instead it was a red gold wristlet watch, with a delicately plaited gold strap, a Patek Phillippe too, the best and most expensive hand-made Swiss movement. It must have cost the earth. He was speechless.

“You are quite the kindest and most generous people,” he stammered, at last. “It’s the very thing I want and need . . .”.

“Say no more about it, lad,” Holbrook broke in. “Our Dorrie happened to notice you didn’t wear one. ’Twas her that chose it for you.”

Looking suddenly towards her, Moray caught her gaze fixed directly upon him, that challenging, intimate look which somehow bound them together in a kind of conspiracy.

“Don’t make a song about it, Dad. Let it pass. Or I’ll tell how you asked about the belly dancers.”

Holbrook laughed, drained his glass, and stood up.

“I’m famished. Let’s have the steward move this stuff to the cabin and we’ll all go right down to dinner.”

When the ship was in port dinner became an elastic meal served at almost any hour, and they were the first to arrive at their table. The sense of intimacy begun in the smoke-room was thus maintained and they made a lively party, of which Doris was the liveliest. Her attitude towards her parents, that of a spoiled only daughter, always superior, and varying between sulky and tolerant contempt, was replaced by a sort of bantering raillery, directed mainly towards her father, who responded in the same style. At first Moray assumed, unkindly enough, that Holbrook had bought her something particularly nice ashore. But no, now he was teasing her for having refused all his offers. Some of her remarks, though perhaps too pointed, were very amusing, especially when she began to take off their absent table companions in malicious little impersonations. This, however, drew from her mother a restraining. “Now, Dorrie dear, remember . . . not too much.”

At this Doris did give up with a side glance at Moray, which made him party to the entertainment. Meanwhile the engines had started to vibrate and the ship was now clear of the dock. As it began the slow passage through the canal, Mrs Holbrook, obviously pleased by the resurgence of family harmony, suggested that they take their coffee on the upper deck and watch the sunset over the desert. A word from Holbrook to the head steward was enough to overcome every difficulty, and presently, sheltered by an awning on the starboard side, they were sipping hot coffee at a round table set out with a dessert of fresh fruit, chow-chow, and preserved ginger. As the great molten disc slid into that vast waste of sand, palm trees were outlined in the limitless light, a string of camels slowly plodding, Bedouin tents, a nomad tribe. Then in the indigo sky a moon was revealed, brightening as the night advanced. In the main lounge beneath them the ship’s orchestra began softly to play a medley of the popular tunes of the day. Moray, who was sitting next to Doris, heard her take a restless breath. Lying back in the deck chair with her arms behind her head, she moved about as though unable to find a relaxed position.

“Aren’t you comfortable?” he said. “Let me get you a cushion.”

“A cushion! Pardon me if I smile. I’ll be all right—just a bit worked up tonight.”

“Who wouldn’t be? You can feel we’re in the East. What a sky.”

“And with music,” She hummed a few bars of “My Heart Stood Still”, stopped, hummed again, then exclaimed: “If this goes on I’ll go half-cocked.”

He laughed.

“Before you do, let me thank you for choosing such a beautiful watch.”

“I know what I like. I liked the watch and quite frankly I like you. D’you mind?”

“Not at all. I’m pleased, and grateful.”

Neither spoke for a minute; then she broke out again.

“Doesn’t it do something to you up here? Like bathing in warm milk. Not that I ever have, though it’s an idea. The milky way. But you’d keep losing the soap. I wish we were going swimming. Not in the sickening little pool. On a deserted beach, where we’d have it to ourselves, no need to bother about bathing suits.” She laughed again. “Don’t look so shocked, you fool. Don’t you ever feel that you’re all wound up and excited, right on top of the world?” Tapping her shoe on the deck, she sang: “ ‘I’m sitting on top of the world, singing a song, rolling along . . .’. Such a marvellous sensa . . . shun. When I get it I’m ready for anything. I have it tonight, if you’re interested.” She stretched at full length, hummed again, then sat up. “I can’t get that damned tune out of my head. What a slouch you are! Surely you want to dance. Come on and take a turn.”

There was an awkward pause, then he said:

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much good to you.”

“Why not?”

“It will probably surprise you. I don’t dance.”

“What! Tell me another. You’re having me on.”

“No.” He had to smile at her expression. “I was too busy shoving myself through college to learn any parlour tricks.”

“Well, now’s your big chance. It’s dead easy if you have a good teacher. And that’s just what I am.”

“No, really. I’ll only walk all over your feet and make a complete ass of myself.”

“Who is there to see you up here? The old man’s gone to the bar and Mother’s dozed off. We’ve got the music, and the moon. It’s a perfect opportunity. And all free, gratis, and for nothing.” She stood up and held out her hand, “Come on, I’ll put you in the mood.”

He rose and, rather gingerly, placed his arm round her waist. They started off.

“It’s a foxtrot,” she told him. “Just keep time. Short steps. Now turn. Swing round. Hold me closer, I won’t break. Closer, I said. That’s better. Strange as it may seem, we’re supposed to do this together.”

It was surprisingly easy. The tune was so catchy, she was such a good dancer, so responsive, with such an easy laxness of posture, that he found himself instinctively following the beat of the rhythm, improvising steps, letting himself go. When the band below came to the end of the number she gave him a meaning, condescending nod.

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“It’s tremendous,” he admitted. “I’d no idea. And good exercise too.”

She gave a short odd laugh. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“Of course, you’re an expert—wonderful, in fact.”

“It’s one of the things I’m really gone on. In my last year at school I used to sneak out with another girl on Saturday nights and go to the local Palais. We’d pretend we were pros, you know, sixpence-a-timers. We had some larks, I can tell you, kidding and carrying on—until one night there was a regular shindy . . .”.

“Was that why you had to leave school?”

Unexpectedly she tossed her head back with an injured air.

“That’s a very personal question. I don’t like it brought up just like that. It was no blame of mine. Actually, if you want to know, I’ve danced mostly with Bert, my own brother. And he’s respectable enough.” Suddenly she laughed. “Or is he? Well, never mind, I forgive you. Now get me a cigarette, and bring the lighter. They’re in my bag beside the chairs.”

She leaned against him while he flicked her gold lighter.

“You don’t use these?” He shook his head when she offered a cigarette. “What a lot of things you seem to have done without.”

“I’ll get them all one day.”

“Don’t put it off too long. I always go straight for what I want.”

They stood with their backs to the taffrail until the band struck up again, then she threw away her half-smoked cigarette and turned to him.

“We’re off again. Put some feeling into it. Imagine you’ve just picked me up on the prom at Blackpool and we’ve really clicked.”

“Good Lord,” he grinned. “That’s not my line at all.”

“That’s why you’re so nice,” she murmured, pressing a little closer to him. “But try all the same.”

They danced the next three dances and with each he could feel his improvement. This was a new experience, and exciting that he could pick the steps up so quickly. But with an eye to the proprieties he felt that it must not be overdone. As they approached her mother he drew up.

“Thank you so much, Doris. It’s been simply grand, and now,” he looked at his new watch, “I must say goodnight.”

“Goodnight nothing, it’s quite early and we’re only beginning to have fun.”

“No, really, Doris, I have to go below.”

She stared at him, her slate-blue eyes clouding with anger and disappointment.

“How stupid can you be? Wasting everything, with this moon and when we’re just getting in the mood. We’ll sit out for a bit if you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired. But I do think it’s time we both turned in.”

Mrs Holbrook, who, awakening from her nap, had been watching them indulgently, seemed to think so too. She rose and came towards them.

“Time for bed,” she announced. “We’ve all had a busy day.”

“You’ve certainly made mine a pleasant one,” Moray said gracefully.

“You’ll be sorry you let me down like this,” Doris said in his ear, not moving her lips, as he passed her. “You just wait!”

She’s joking, he thought—can’t really mean it. Goodnights were exchanged, Doris’s a violently sulky one; she looked really put out. Then, with the last bars of “Desiree” still ringing in his ears, he went below to his cabin, switched on the light, and there, on his locker, confronting him like a reproach, were the letters from home.

Instantly his mood changed. Shocked at his own forgetfulness, he undressed quickly, climbed into his bunk and, swept by compunction, settled himself to read. There were in all half a dozen sheets to Mary’s letters filled with her large round careful handwriting. She began by acknowledging his letter from Marseilles, expressing her joy at his improved health. Yet she begged him to be careful still, especially of the night air, and she hoped that his duties were not proving too severe. As for herself, she was well, though missing him badly, marking off the days on her calendar until he would be back. But she was keeping herself busy, with lots of sewing and crochet work. She had bought material for curtains for their house, and also some remnants with which she had begun a patchwork quilt. There was the chance of a nice second-hand parlour suite, very good value, at Grant’s just off the Esplanade. She only wished that he might see it, but he would soon, they had promised to reserve it. Unfortunately her father had been somewhat poorly lately, but she had been able to help by doing a bit with Donaldson, the foreman, in the bakery. She signed herself simply: your own Mary.

He finished reading with a worried frown and an odd constriction of his heart. Did he not detect a note of anxiety, an undercurrent of despondency even, in her words? She wrote naively, always from an open heart, yet it might be that she had not told all. Hastily, he turned to Willie’s letter.

He put down the letter in concern, recognising from the brief and boyish phrases that Mary was having her troubles at home, and missing him too, so badly. His heart melted anew with love and longing, and with contrition, too, when he thought of the comfort, yes, the luxury, of his own pleasant life here. He wished suddenly that he had never taken this voyage. If only he could be beside her now to console and caress her. He must do something something. The need of swift response, of immediate action, grew upon him. He thought for a few moments with knitted brow, then took up the officers’ intercommunication phone. He asked for the wireless room. Saving though he was for their future, he must mortgage a little of his pay to reach Mary at once.

“Sparks, I want to send this radiogram.” He gave the address. “Letters just received Port Said. Don’t worry. Everything all right when I return. All my love David.”

When Sparks had repeated this, word by word, he thanked him and hung up, smiling faintly. How thrilled and delighted she would be to get his message soaring to her across the ocean, and how comforted too! His mind now more at ease, filled with loving thoughts, he switched off the light and settled himself to sleep.

Chapter Twelve

They were in the narrows of the Gulf of Suez, the peaks of Sinai shimmering above in a humid haze. For three days it had been hot, a harsh, insufferable heat. In the Red Sea the sun blazed down upon the Pindari; the rocks of Aden, grilled to a torrid ochre, cracked and fissured by the heat, were truly barren, and the port itself looked so uninviting that few passengers went ashore. The Holbrooks were amongst those who remained on board. Doris, indeed, since the night of the expedition at Suez, had not appeared on deck, being confined to her cabin with a slight indisposition, Mrs Holbrook explained to Moray. He was on the point of offering his services when a certain reserve in her manner, perhaps a hint that this was a delicate subject, deterred him. He decided it must be some mild monthly upset, a conelusion strengthened when Mrs Holbrook murmured intimately: “Dorrie occasionally gets these turns, doctor.” So he merely sent his regards adding that the inhuman heat was enough to knock out anyone.

The weather had suddenly made him extremely busy. Apart from a rush of surgery patients suffering from the usual complaints of dhobie itch, prickly heat and over-zealous endeavours to acquire a tan, he had several quite serious cases. He was particularly worried over the two Kindersley children, who had both gone down with acute colitis. Following on the Suez scare of amoebic dysentery, Mrs Kindersley was in a state of near panic, and as the twins were at one point critically ill he had himself begun to fear the worst. But after being in almost constant attendance for forty-eight hours, there was a sharp improvement just before dawn on the third day, and with an inward sigh of relief he was able to relieve the distracted mother. Red-eyed from weariness, collar undone, hair dishevelled, he straightened stiffly, read his clinical thermometer at the light.

“They’ll be up and around . . . making a nuisance of themselves . . .” he smiled and put his arm round her shoulders, “the beginning of next week.”

She broke down. She was a reserved, self-contained woman but, like Moray, she had barely slept for two nights.

“You’ve been so completely wonderful, doctor. How can I ever thank you?”

“By turning in and getting some rest. You’ve got to get fit for our tournament finals.”

“Yes.” She dried her eyes, trying to answer his smile. “I should like that nice tea-service for our bungalow. But isn’t your partner ill?”

“Oh, nothing much, I imagine.”

She had come with him to the cabin door. Now she hesitated, looking at him intently, then she made up her mind.

“Bill and I think a lot of you, doctor—especially after this. . . . We’ve often wondered if you were, well, beginning to get mixed up with Miss Holbrook.”

“Mixed up?” he repeated blankly, then with a sudden flush, realising her meaning: “Of course not.”

“I’m glad.” She pressed his hand. “She’s attractive, and she’s obviously completely gone on you. But there’s something odd about that girl, something I could never like—Bill says she’s a split personality, she gives him the creeps. Now you do forgive me for having spoken?”

“Quite all right.” He tried to speak easily, although he was both embarrassed and offended. “Now take that triple bromide I gave you and off you go to your bunk.”

Uncomfortably, he went back to his cabin, shaved and showered, drank two cups of coffee, and set out on his round of visits. He had begun to realise that Doris was not popular on the ship. She was often rude, kept a great deal to herself, and doubtless, since she wore an expensive new dress every other night, provoked feminine envy with her nice clothes. Moreover, it seemed to him that their continued success in all the competitions was arousing unfavourable comment. Was this the reason of Mrs Kindersley’s dislike? He could scarcely believe it. Her intervention was well-meaning. Even so, he resented it. What right had she to interfere in his affairs, especially since he had been blameless in the matter? And what the devil did Kindersley mean, with his cheap sneer? He was no paragon—a beery, social type that probably hung around the club at Kadur all day; no wonder his wife was so surprised. All morning Moray brooded, and his train of thought, rather than turning him against Doris, swung him in her favour. Admittedly she was not an ordinary, run-of-the-mill type, but was she any the worse for that? There was something to her. Instinctively he rose to her defence. Still, he decided it might be wiser to cut down their efforts in the tournaments.

At the end of the week it suddenly turned cooler, his work and the weather became less hectic. He had time to write a long, loving letter to Mary, with an enclosure specially for Willie. And that same afternoon he was given a further lift when O’Neil took him aside to say:

“I thought you’d like to know, Doc, the skipper had a good word for you on the bridge this morning. In fact, when he heard about the Kindersley kids, he said you were doing a hell of a nice job. The only sawbones we’ve had yet that didn’t get corns on his behind.” The big Irishman paused, took a long look at Moray’s new watch, and grinned. “Present from a grateful patient? Go to it, my boy. You’ll soon reach pay-dirt or I’m not from County Down.”

“Haven’t I told you I’m not interested,” Moray said, irritably. “I’m only rather sorry for her because she’s such a little outsider.”

“Then why aren’t you a little insider?” said O’Neil, and roared with laughter. “Ah, now, don’t be so backward in coming forward, my boy. We’re all looking for a bit of skirt on this bloody tub—otherwise it would bore the arse off us. Say, did you ever hear this one . . .”

Moray had to laugh. What a decent sort O’Neil was. There wasn’t a bit of harm in his remark, he didn’t really mean it—like his profane limericks, it was just fun. Why couldn’t the Kindersleys see it that way?

On the following day, when it was even cooler, Doris appeared on deck. He came on her reclining in a sheltered spot, her hair bound with a silk scarf, a light cashmere rug over her knees, looking dull and with dark lines beneath her eyes. She did not move, merely flickered her lashes towards him.

“Hello, stranger, where have you been hiding?” He took the chair beside her. “Feeling better?”

Injured by his brightness, she did not reply.

“Quite a few people have been laid out by the heat,” he continued. “But now it’s really lovely.”

They were in the Indian Ocean where the soft monsoon made songs in the rigging and a school of young whales, disporting gaily, blew temperate fountains about the ship.

“You’ve seen our escort,” he went on. “I thought whales were only found in the Arctic, but O’Neil tells me they’re a regular feature of this run.”

She took no notice of the remark, making it sound fatuous. Head pillowed sideways on the chair, she watched him with flat eyes as if she were drugged.

“You’re a nice one,” she said.

“Why, Doris, what’s the matter?”

“Don’t pretend, after what you did. It was an insult. I haven’t forgiven you yet. Who have you been dancing with while I was away?”

“No one. I’ve been waiting on my own special teacher.”

Her expression lightened faintly. She gave him a languid smile.

“Why didn’t you come to see me? Oh, well, there wasn’t any need. And I can’t bear anyone when I have these turns. I don’t get them often, mind you, not more than once in six months.”

He looked at her curiously; it wasn’t what he had imagined.

She went on:

“But they’re not exactly fun. Even when the headache goes, they leave me so blasted low.”

“That’s not you, Dorrie.”

“Don’t give me that, like Mother. When I’m this way I keep thinking what’s the good of anything, why go on, what’s the use. I feel I’m a terrible person, different from other girls, all so full of sweet ideas. You know what I mean. Clapcows!” She laughed suddenly. “Where did I get that word?”

“Well, it’s good to be a little different from the ordinary.”

“Glad you think so. I used to try to work it all out, that time I was off school for a bit, wanting to be respected, to have everything just right. But I couldn’t do anything about it. So now I just do as I feel, you know—what I feel like doing. I can’t fight it. Don’t you agree? You kill everything that’s in you if you don’t give way to your feelings.”

“Well . . .” He stared at her perplexedly. Why was she going on like this? He didn’t follow her at all.

“You know the motto, be yourself. It’s a challenge. I’m glad I’m feminine, made for love, so I just want to be myself. Did you miss me? But you wouldn’t, you beastly rotter, you make friends so easily and get on with everybody. I’ve never made any real friends, I just don’t seem to get on with people, except you.” She paused, said in a low voice: “Can’t you see I’ve a frightful crush on you?”

He was touched by the admission. Her apathetic voice and unusual depression went to his heart. And of course he was flattered, too.

“Come now, Dorrie, you mustn’t give way.” He reached out and pressed her hand. “If you want to know, I did miss you.”

Inclining her head a little more to one side, she looked at him intently; then, retaining his hand as he made to withdraw, she tucked it beneath the cashmere rug.

“That’s cosy. I missed you so much.”

Moray was fearfully embarrassed, not only by the unexpectedness of her action but because, undoubtedly without her knowing it, she had pressed his fingers against the warm softness, of her thigh.

“Now, Doris,” he tried to speak lightly. “you can’t do that there here—not to the ship’s surgeon.”

“But I need a little petting. Mind you, I don’t let anybody into my life. Oh, I’ve been around with boys, some of them high, wide, and handsome, but you’re different. I’ve such an unselfish feeling towards you.”

“Please . . . someone is sure to come along.”

“You can say you’re feeling my pulse.” She gave him a malicious caressing look. “Or else I’ll tell them it’s what the doctor ordered. Oh, you’re doing me so much good. I feel less of a washout already.”

At last with a laugh she released him, but not before a wave of heat brought the blood to his cheeks. Quickly he countered it, forcing a reproving smile.

“You mustn’t try these sort of tricks, my girl, or you’ll come to a sticky end. In the first place you’re too damned attractive, and in the second you might pick the wrong man.”

“But I’ve picked you.”

“Now, listen, and be serious.” He turned the conversation determinedly. “There’s something I’ve been thinking. It’s this. As you’re not quite up to the mark, I feel we ought to scratch from the tournaments.”

“What!” she exclaimed, losing her air of indolence. “Pack up. After we’ve gone all the way to the finals and are practically sure to win?”

“If we do, and scoop in all the prizes, we’re sure to be blamed for pot-hunting.”

“I don’t care about the prizes—that plated tea-service and cheap Woolworth china I frankly wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. But if I start something I have to finish it, convince people I amount to something—especially that prissy Kindersley bitch. I got my self-respect to think of. I want to show that we’re the best in the ship.”

“Well, we may be, but why rub it in?”

“Because I want to rub it in. And when I want a thing I usually get it. I may be a bit down now but I pick up quick. I’ll be on top of my form in no time.”

“All right then,” reluctantly he pacified her. “Have it your way. But we must play Saturday at the latest. It’s the captain’s dinner that night and the presentation comes before the concert.” He rose. “Now I must get on with my round. See you anon.”

Saturday came, they did play—in the afternoon—and, as Moray had anticipated, won all three events. Mrs Kindersley and her husband fought hard in the deck-tennis match, but as Doris, quite herself again, played a fast aggressive game they were scarcely good enough. The climax came in the final set when Kindersley, reaching too far, missed his footing, skidded, then upended himself on the deck with a fearful thud.

“Oh, do be careful.” Doris leaned over the net with mock solicitude. “You’re rocking the boat.”

Not many spectators attended the event and a hollow silence greeted the remark. Indeed, when the match ended the applause that greeted the victors was less unenthusiastic than perfunctory. Moray was annoyed although Doris, who was again in high spirits, did not appear to notice any lack of warmth. Nor did her parents who, inevitably, were present. When Moray came off the court Holbrook took his arm and drew him into the smoke-room.

“I thought you and me ought to have a chat, doctor,” he remarked, with an approving smile, when they had found two armchairs in a quiet corner. “And the better the opportunity the better the deed. Will you have a spot of something? No? You’ll not refuse a lime-juice then. And I’ll just take a chota peg of Scotch and soda.”

When the drinks were brought he raised his glass.

“Good health! You know, lad, you remind me of my own young days. I was ambitious too—a chemist’s assistant in Bootie, making up prescriptions for ignorant G.P.s who didn’t know an acid from an alkali. Many’s the time I had to ring up and say: “Doctor, you’ve prescribed soda bicarb, and hydrochloric acid in the same stomach mixture. If I make it up it’ll blow the bottle to bits.” Maybe ’twas that sort of thing first gave me the idea that there was money in Pharmaceuticals that actually worked. When I’d saved a bit and married the wife and opened my own bit of a shop in Parkin Street, I started off with a few of my own prescriptions: Holbrook’s Headache Powders, Holbrook’s Senna Paste, Holbrook’s Anti-Sprain Liniment. I remember that liniment, it cost me three farthings a bottle, and I sold it for one-and-six. Damn good stuff too, all the Rugby League teams used it, it’s still one of our lines today. Well, that was the beginning, lad.”

He took a slow swallow of his drink, then resumed, explaining the growth and expansion of his business, not boastfully, but with the quiet North Country assurance of a man who has built up an immensely successful enterprise and amassed a fortune from it. Holbrook’s were now one of the biggest manufacturers of chemists’ supplies in the United Kingdom, but the bulk of their profits came from the marketing of a large number of highly profitable proprietary medicines ranging from cough cures to anti-bilious pills.

“And don’t you despise them, doctor, they’re all first-rate prescriptions, I can show you testimonials by the thousands. I’ve kept a personal file of grateful letters that would warm your heart.” Holbrook nodded confidingly and warmed his own cockles with another swallow. “So as we stand now we have the main factory in Bootle, a secondary unit in Cardiff, and big distributing warehouses in London, Liverpool, Glasgow and Belfast. We do a tremendous export trade with the East, and that’s why my son Bert is out opening up new offices and larger stockrooms in Calcutta. But that’s not all, lad,” Holbrook continued, knowingly prodding Moray with a forefinger. “We have plans, big plans, for extending to America. Once Bert gets through with Calcutta I’m sending him to New York. He’s already spied out a good factory site there. Mind you, it’ll be a different kind of trade in the States. Times are changing and we’ll go in for high class stuff, vitamins and such-like. We might even have a go at some of the new barbiturates. But believe me, whatever we do we’ll make a slap-up success of it.”

He sat back, pulled out a cigar and lit up, wheezed a little, then, his twinkling eyes still holding Moray, be smiled.

“These are my prospects, young fellow me lad. Now what about yours?”

“Well, sir,” Moray had coloured slightly at the directness of the question, “when I get back from this trip I have a hospital job waiting on me. A good one too, with opportunity for research work and . . . a salary of five hundred a year.”

“Ay, that’s a job, lad, right enough and, saving your presence, a pretty ordinary one. I asked about your prospects.”

“Naturally, I’m hoping for advancement . . .”.

“What kind of advancement? A move to a bigger hospital? I’m pretty familiar with that line of country; It’ll take years. Once you’re in the hospital service you’re bogged down in it for life. And for a smart young fellow like you, with brains and personality, that would be a crime.”

“I don’t regard it as such,” Moray said stiffly.

“Well, I do. And I wouldn’t tell you so if the missus and I didn’t think the world of ye. Now look here,” he tipped the ash off his cigar end, “I’m not a man to beat about the bush. We could use a young medico like you in our business, especially in the American plant. You could advise us on technique, work out new prescriptions, lay out our advertising and, since ye speak of research, get busy in our new laboratory. There would be plenty of opportunity for you. And from our point of view it would help us to have a professional man on the board. As to salary,” he paused, riveting Moray with a friendly, bloodshot eye, “I would start you at fifteen hundred quid a year, with a possible bonus, and annual increases. Furthermore, I’ll go so far as to say that, in time, if things went well between us, there might even be a partnership in store for ye.”

Thoroughly taken aback, stunned, in fact, Moray averted his gaze. The nature of this startling offer, while it had a sound basis of commercial logic, was in reality as transparent as the porthole through which he now viewed with embarrassment the slowly heaving sky. And Holbrook meant it to be transparent. How to refuse gracefully, without hurting the old boy’s feelings without indeed alienating the entire family, that was the problem. At last he said:

“It’s extremely generous of you, Mr Holbrook, and I feel deeply honoured by your good opinion of me. But I’ve accepted the hospital appointment, given my word. I couldn’t break it.”

“They’ll get somebody else,” Holbrook countered easily. “Ay, without the slightest trouble. There’ll be a regular hard-up rush.”

Moray was silent. He knew that he had only to mention his approaching marriage to kill the offer dead. But for some obscure reason, perhaps an over-sensitivity, an exaggerated delicacy of feeling, he hesitated. He stood so well with this worthy family, that he did not relish the thought of shattering—as he undoubtedly would—a very pleasant and satisfactory relationship. Besides, the question of his engagement had never once come up during the voyage. It was not his fault if he had been mistaken for an unattached young man; he had simply not had the opportunity to introduce the subject. How painfully odd it would seem if he were forced to do so now. He’d look an absolute idiot, or worse, as though he had almost been ashamed to speak of Mary. No, with the end of the trip almost in sight, he could not place himself in so invidious a position. It wasn’t worth it. In a few more days the Holbrooks would be gone, he would never see them again. And on the voyage home he would take good care to declare his position early so that this kind of contretemps could not possibly recur. In the meantime his best course would be to temporise.

“I needn’t say how much I appreciate your interest in me, sir. But naturally, with such an important decision to be made, I’d have to think it over.”

“Do that, lad,” said Holbrook with an encouraging nod. “The more ye think on it the better you’ll like it. And don’t forget my bit of advice. When a good thing comes your way, take it.”

Moray went below to his cabin, and shut himself in. He wanted to be alone—not to consider this extraordinary offer, for he had not the slightest intention of accepting it, but, simply for his own satisfaction, to reason in detail how the thing had come about. In the first place, there was no doubt but that Dorrie’s parents had taken to him from the start. Mrs Holbrook especially had shown great partiality and had lately become almost maternal in her attitude. Old Holbrook was a tougher article, but he too had been won over, either through his wife’s persuasion, or through an actual liking for Moray. In the second place, so far as could be gathered, there would be a definite advantage to Holbrook and his son Bert in the acquisition of an active and clever young doctor for this new American venture. So far so good, thought Moray; but the answer was not yet conclusive. A third decisive motive must have operated to bring the two other factors together.

Moray shook his head unconsciously, in self-disparagement, in immediate renunciation of all conceit, yet there was no escaping the fact that Doris herself must have had an important part in the development of this wholly unexpected situation. Even if he had not the evidence of Mrs Kindersley’s recent remarks, there was proof enough in Dorrie’s own behaviour. She was not the love-sick type, she would not sigh and moon around, but that look in her eye had a specific meaning that only a fool would misconstrue. Add to this the influence which, as a spoiled only daughter, she exercised over parents who were accustomed to yielding to her wishes, and in this instance willing to see her settled in a suitable marriage, and the answer was complete.

During these reflections Moray had been frowning. Now, looking at himself in the glass, he gave a short, troubled laugh. Doris had really gone in off the deep end—head over heels. No, no, it wasn’t funny, not a bit of it. On the contrary—adjusting his expression—he felt put out and embarrassed, although no doubt it was flattering to be sought after and to have a rich, attractive girl so “completely gone on him”—Mrs Kindersley’s absurd phrase came to him again, making him smile—particularly when those moments on the upper deck, and others, came to mind, as they did now, with a sudden disturbing rush.

He checked himself, looked at his watch—that fine Patek Philippe—which showed five minutes to six. Good Lord! He’d forgotten about his surgery hour. He’d have to rush. Life was really exciting these days.

But before he left the cabin he went to his bedside chest and took out the locket Mary had given him. Gazing at her dear sweet face in the little snapshot, a rush of tenderness overwhelmed him. He murmured emotionally:

“As if I’d give you up, my own darling girl.”

Yes, her image would protect him. In future he would be calm and composed, pleasant and agreeable of course, but inflexible to any of that nonsense. Only ten days remained before they would be in Calcutta. He swore by all he held dear that be would maintain this attitude of discretion until the danger was past, and the voyage over.

Chapter Thirteen

The ten days had passed, they were now in the delta of the Hoogly, and Moray, alone in his surgery, viewing that period in retrospect, found every reason to be satisfied with himself. Yes, he had kept his word. At the captain’s dinner, a hilarious affair of paper streamers, toy trumpets, and false noses, he had been a model of discretion. Indeed, he had done better. Resolved not to allow Doris to make an exhibition of herself, and him, before the entire ship, when O’Neil read out the sports prize winners he stood up, diffidently yet calmly, and with an unexpectedness that took everyone by surprise.

“Captain Torrance, Mr O’Neil, ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission may I say that Miss Holbrook and I fully understood from the start that as one of the ship’s officers I was not really eligible to compete in these events. We only went in for the fun of the thing and although we were lucky enough to win, we’ve both completely agreed we couldn’t possibly accept the prizes, which should go in all the events to the runners-up.”

When he sat down, instead of the few desultory handclaps that might have broken out, there was a sudden and sustained eruption of genuine applause. The Holbrooks were delighted, for even they had at last begun to sense the general feeling; Mrs Kindersley went up, smiling, for her tea service; and afterwards the captain actually gave him a word of approval. Only Doris reacted unfavourably with a very dirty look.

“Why the devil did you do that?”

“Just for a change I thought you might like to be popular.”

“Popular my tits. I wanted them to boo us.”

He danced only two dances with her, drank no more than a single glass of champagne, then, on the plea of having letters to write, excused himself and retired to his cabin.

After that, while never easy, it was less difficult. He avoided the boat deck where she usually sat, and when they did meet adopted a tone that was light and jocular. Beyond that, he kept himself strictly busy—the approaching landfall made his plea of extra work a plausible excuse. What Doris thought he did not know: following the dinner she had developed a habit of looking at him with narrowed, almost mocking eyes. Occasionally she smiled, and once or twice, when he made a simple remark, burst out laughing. Certainly her parents suspected nothing; they were more marked in their attentions to him than ever.

He sighed suddenly—it had really been quite a strain—then, rising, he locked up the surgery and went on deck. On the starboard side a group of passengers had gathered, viewing the river bank with an interest made greater by long days at sea. Tall coconut palms rose above the muddy shore lit by a flash of tropical birds, natives knee deep in the yellow water were throwing and drawing their circular nets, catamarans heeled and rippled past, the ship was barely moving, almost stationary, awaiting the river pilot. Amongst the others were the Holbrooks, and finding safety in numbers, Moray joined them. Immediately Mrs Holbrook excitedly took his arm.

“We’re so hoping that our Bert will be coming aboard with the pilot . . . not that it’s easy . . .”.

As she spoke a motor launch shot from the sandy, palm-lined shore and bobbed alongside the ship, and another figure was observed, looking upwards and waving, beside the uniformed pilot.

“It is our Bert,” joyfully exclaimed Mrs Holbrook, and she added proudly to her husband: “Trust Bert to have managed it.”

He was on board and hugging all three of them within a few minutes, a fair, fattish, pink-faced, jolly fellow of about thirty-one or two, wearing a sportily cut, tight-waisted tussore silk suit solar topee at an angle, fine two-tone buckskin shoes and a startling club tie. Bert, indeed, though inclined to flesh and, as now appeared when he removed his topee, rather thin on the top, seemed something of a dandy, exhibiting gold in his teeth and, on his person, certain articles of unessential jewellery. His eyes, alight with good-fellowship, were agreeably blue though they protruded slightly and had a faintly glassy sheen. His ready laugh, full of bonhomie and sportsmanship, a real back-slapping laugh, echoed across the deck. Too much thyroid, but a good sort, thought Moray, who had been standing some paces away, as Bert came forward to be introduced to him.

Their meeting was cordial—anyone, Moray surmised, might be an old friend of Bert’s within a couple of hours—but he could see that as yet Dorrie’s brother had no inkling of his close friendship with the family, so he soon took off tactfully for his cabin. At lunch, however, when Bert and his father came down from the bar, Moray, already seated at table, discovered a fraternal arm around his shoulders while a well-primed voice exhaled into his ear:

“Didn’t rumble you were with us, doc. Couldn’t be more delighted if I’d won the Calcutta Sweep. We’ll have a regular old chinwag later.”

The slow progress up-river gave them, as Bert put it, plenty of time to get together, and it was not long before Moray realised that while Bert might be a sport, a dasher and a josher, just a little flashy perhaps, and with a strong tendency towards pink gins at any hour of the day, he had, like his father, a good heart and a strong sense of family feeling. Moreover, it became equally apparent that for all his gush and gusto Bert had, as his mother put it, a head on his shoulders. He soon revealed himself as a thoroughly knowledgeable fellow, and when it came to business would certainly be a very cool customer with a capacity for getting things done. He had travelled extensively for the firm, had recently spent three months in the United States, and was full of the opportunities and excitements of New York. He talked well, with a man-of-the-world air, a kind of easy intimate verve that exuded cheerfulness and good-fellowship.

In his company Moray found the river passage all too short. He felt an actual disappointment when they reached Calcutta and the Pindari, churning the muddy water, began manoeuvring into Victoria Dock while the usual pandemonium of debarkation descended upon the ship. Amidst the uproar Bert remained cool and collected, everything was arranged and under control, speed and efficiency were the order of the day. As they came into the dock his long open Chrysler car and a truck were drawn up, waiting alongside. With his parents and Doris he came down the baggage gangway, first off the ship. Three stewards followed with the luggage. In the customs shed, while other passengers hung about interminably, a nod from Bert to the chief babu saw the Holbrooks through without formality. Then off they rolled in the big car to their reservations at the North Eastern Hotel.

All this happened so fast it left Moray somewhat dashed. There had been goodbyes of course, but hurried ones, given with such preoccupation as to leave him with the unsatisfactory and slightly painful impression of having been rather summarily discarded. Naturally, he was not at liberty to accompany them, yet he felt there might have been definite mention of a future meeting. However, as the Pindari would be two weeks in harbour, loading teak, tea, rubber and cotton goods, he told himself that he would have an opportunity to be with them later on. In any event, was it not best that they should have gone, leaving him free of all conflict, his mind undisturbed, at peace? He began to busy himself with his official duties. He was occupied most of the forenoon and when the last passenger had finally quitted the ship his first reaction was one of mild relief. The pressures exerted on him had been exacting: it would be good to relax.

By that evening a sudden inexplicable depression descended upon him, nor did it lift during the days that followed. The captain had taken up his usual quarters on shore and O’Neil, departing gaily for a trip along the coast to Kendrapara, had left Jones, the second mate, an elderly uncommunicative Welshman, to supervise the routine operations. Jones, a frustrated man, stuck with a master’s ticket in a subordinate position, had never had much time for Moray, and now he more or less ignored him. He spent much of his day bent over paperback thrillers in the dock canteen, reading and picking his nose, leaving the work in hand to the quartermaster. In the evening he shut himself in his quarters and played his accordion with mournful unction. He never went ashore except to buy ivory elephants to take home to his wife. Already, he assured Moray, he had a glass-cabinetful in his semi-detached house in Porthcawl.

The empty ship, moored to the filthy, mosquito-infested dock, exposed to the racket of unloading, the endless high chatter of the native stevedores, the scream of winches and the rattle of cranes, was unrecognisable as the noble vessel which had so buoyantly breasted the blue water. It made a miserable lodging. The heat was sweltering, mosquitoes swarmed into his cabin, kept him awake at night with their shrill menacing ping, obliged him to take precautionary measures against malaria. Fifteen grains of quinine a day lowered his spirits further. To make matters worse, the agent had issued an advice that the mail boat had been delayed by a strike at Tilbury and would not arrive until the following week. Moray felt himself even more deserted through the absence of letters, and more and more his melancholy thoughts turned towards his departed friends.

Why on earth did he not hear from the Holbrooks? Why . . . why . . . why? First with irritation, then with anxiety, and finally with all the heart-sinking of hope deferred, he kept asking himself that question. It seemed inconceivable that they should have forgotten him, cast him off as a reject, someone they had used on the voyage but had now decided they did not want. Yet this mortifying thought grew within him. He pictured them in their de luxe hotel, every moment of their day delightfully filled with entertainment and sight-seeing, new faces and new friends around them. Amidst such distractions it might after all be easy to forget. And Doris: no doubt she had quickly found another interest, she who had been crazy about him. He winced jealously, between apprehension and anger. This was the most tormenting thought of all. Only his pride and the dread of a rebuff kept him from ringing her at the North Eastern.

In an effort to occupy himself he essayed a tentative expedition ashore. But the docks were miles from the city proper, he could not find a gharry, and after losing himself amongst a huddle of ramshackle huts where squatting natives squirted scarlet betel juice into the pervading dust, he finally acknowledged defeat, and plodded back to the ship, with the wretched sensation that he had reverted to the drab and dismal days of his youth.

It was then that he began really desperately to miss the Holbrooks, and all that he had enjoyed in their society. What a wonderful family they were—how hospitable, generous, and—now he made no bones about it—so rich! He’d never have the luck to meet such people again. Mrs Holbrook was sweet, so kind and motherly. Bert was such a good sort; they had taken to each other on sight. And the offer the old man had made him, admitting that he couldn’t accept it, was fantastically favourable, the chance of a lifetime. Never would such a golden opportunity recur. Never. By comparison his future at the little Glenburn Hospital was dimmed to drab insignificance. And he had called himself ambitious.

And Dorrie, did he not regret her most of all? What a damned attractive girl she was—even her variable moods were somehow fascinating. One could never be bored by her. On the contrary, just to be with her was an excitement. At night, sleepless in his stifling cabin, which lay close against the high dock wall, he tossed about in his bunk, thinking of their dances together, of how, looking into his eyes with that intent and silent invitation, she had pressed against him, of that afternoon on the boat deck when all sorts of possibilities had opened to him. A wave of hot longing swept over him. What a fool he had been to reject that seductive offering. How O’Neil would laugh, if he ever came to hear of it. What a clot she must have thought him. Could she be blamed for having written him off altogether? He buried his face in the pillow in an access of misery and self-contempt.

Chapter Fourteen

At the end of that week, on a sweltering, gritty forenoon, as Moray leaned idly over the deck rail, his spirits at their lowest ebb, he saw, as in a mirage, the big shining Chrysler enter the dock and roll alongside the ship. Stunned, he raised his hand to his eyes. It couldn’t be real, the sun and his imagination had produced a visual hallucination. But no, there, gracefully reclining in the rear, one arm negligently along the upholstered seat back, plump legs nonchalantly crossed, Burma cheroot poised airily between ringed fingers, topee at a rakish tilt, was Bert.

“Do my aged eyes deceive me, or do I perceive the medical officer of the good ship Pindari?” Bert called up with a grin: then, in a different voice, “Bring out your gear, old boy. You’re coming to us.”

Moray’s heart leaped. They had not forgotten him. Pale with excitement and relief he rushed down to his cabin. What an idiot he had been—of course they wanted him, it couldn’t have been otherwise. In less than five minutes he had changed out of his uniform and was in the car with his suitcase, which the native chauffeur bestowed in the boot. As they purred off towards the city, Bert explained the reason for the delay in calling for him—a hitch in the warehouse lease that had taken several days to straighten out. But now the agreement was signed and they were free to let themselves go in a proper good time.

“This is a lively old burg once you savez your way around,” he confided easily. “Some geezer called it the City of Dreadful Night, but I’ve found the nights full of something better than dread. There’s a couple of little Eurasian nurses—hot stuff and pretty as you find them.” He blew an explanatory kiss into the air. “I speak with the voice of experience, m’boy. But there, I know you’re only interested in our Doris. And believe me, though she’s my sister, Dorrie’s a pretty good number herself.”

Clear of the outer straggle of dilapidated shacks, they entered the city proper by the wide, crowded stretch of Chowringhe Road, swept past the broad maidan, green with ficus trees and studded with lamentable equestrian statues, then drew up under the tall portico of the North Eastern Hotel. They were bowed in, through the high marble pillared hall, whirling with ceiling fans, and Bert led the way upstairs to the room he had reserved for Moray adjoining their own apartments on the first floor.

“I’ll leave you to get straight for half an hour,” he said, looking at his watch, “Ma and Dad are out, but we’ll all meet at tiffin, meaning lunch, Dave.”

When he had gone Moray looked round the room. It was most luxurious—large and cool, tastefully tiled, with latticed jalousies and fresh, draped mosquito curtains shading the large high bed which had been turned down to expose fine spotless linen. The furniture was painted a pale shade of green, and a bowl of roses stood on the dressing table. Beyond was the bathroom, white and gleaming, lush with towels, soap, bath salts and a soft white bath robe. He smiled delightedly. What a difference from his small, stuffy, mosquito-ridden cabin: this was the real thing. He unpacked his few things, had a wash, and was brushing his hair when the door opened and Doris came in.

“Hello,” she said briefly.

He swung round.

“Dorrie . . . how are you?”

“Still breathing, if it interests you.”

They gazed at each other in silence, he with admiring ardour, she with an almost expressionless face. She was wearing a smart new clinging frock in soft petunia colours, fine beige silk stockings and high-heeled suède shoes. She had on a lipstick that matched the predominant pink in her frock, and her hair had been freshly set. She looked different, smarter even than on the ship, older, more attractively sophisticated, and, alas, less attainable. Her scent came towards him.

“You look . . . stunning,” he said huskily,

“Yes,” she said coolly, reading his eyes. “I believe you’re slightly glad to see me.”

“More than slightly. The question is . . . what about you?”

She gave him a long direct stare, then barely smiled.

“You’re here, aren’t you? That seems to be the answer.”

“Good of you to have me,” he murmured, submissively, “It was rather miserable down at the docks.”

“I thought it might be,” she said with cold knowledge. “I wanted to punish you.”

He looked at her blankly.

“What on earth for?”

“I just wanted to,” she answered noncommittally. “I like to be cruel sometimes.”

“What a little sadist,” he said, trying to catch the facetious note he had once used towards her. Yet as he spoke he had the odd sensation that the balance of their relationship had altered, passed to her. He felt suddenly, dismally, her wish to establish that on shore he had ceased to be the dashing, sought-after young ship’s surgeon in his natty company uniform, and was no more than an ordinary young fellow in a worn hand-me-down suit that did not fit and was quite unsuitable for the climate. However, although aware of the effect she had created, she had dropped the subject as though it no longer interested her.

“You like my new dress?”

“It’s a dream,” he said, still striving for lightness. “Did you get it here?”

“We bought the silk in the bazaar yesterday. They have lovely native material there. It was made up in twenty-four hours.”

“Fast work,” he commented.

“And about time,” she said coolly. “I can’t stand waiting, or being put off. To be quite frank, I’ve had about enough of that in the last two weeks, the way you’ve been giving me the air. And incidentally, because I’ve told you off, don’t imagine we’re all straightened out. I haven’t forgiven you yet by a long chop. I’ll want a word with you later.” As she turned to go she seemed to relent. Her expression cleared slightly. “I hope you like your room. I put the roses in myself. I’m just across the corridor—” she flashed him a sly glance, “if you need anything.”

When she had gone he remained staring at the panels of the closed door. She was offended, and no wonder, after the way he had cold-shouldered her. How stupid and unmannerly he had been to hurt her feelings. He hoped she would come round in the end.

Below, in the great marbled lounge, his welcome by the Holbrook parents was altogether different, almost that of a returned son. Indeed, Mrs Holbrook kissed him on the cheek. Luncheon was more than a reunion, almost a festival. They had a table by the window, overlooking the gardens, four native servants in white tunics with red sashes and turbans stood behind their chairs, the food, chosen by Bert, was rich, spicy and exotic. This was the first time Moray had been in an hotel since that eventful day at the Gairsay Grand, but if a recollection of that other, so different, lunch crossed his mind it was swiftly gone, swept away by Bert’s explosive laughter. Exuberantly bent on showing them the town, he was, while juicily disposing of a succulent mango, outlining his programme for the coming week. This afternoon he proposed to take them to the Jain Temple and the Gardens of Manicklola, to see the famous fish in the ornamental lake.

“They’re quite remarkable,” he concluded. “They come to the surface and swim over to you when you call them.”

“Now, now, Bert,” Mrs Holbrook smiled in fond protest.

“Seriously, Mater. I’m not joking. They’ll eat out of your hand if you want to feed them.”

“Imagine that! What do fish like best?”

“Chips,” Doris said in a bored voice, then went into fits of laughter.

After a siesta, when the sun had begun to decline, they set off, driving through thronged bazaars where the sacred cattle, garlanded with marigolds, wandered amongst the stalls, butting through the crowds, browsing at will on the fruits displayed. Strange sounds, high-pitched and remote, struck the ear above the high keening of native tongues, a distant temple bell, the booming of a gong, a sudden shrill cry, that lingered, vibrating on the nerves. The air was charged with aromatic scents, heady and provocative, that stung the nostrils and drugged the senses. Moray felt as though he were lifted up, absorbed to a state of extreme excitement and beatitude. His individuality had been extinguished, he was not himself, but had become an altogether different man, entering upon a new and thrilling adventure.

Arrived at the temple, they removed their shoes and entered the incense-misted dusk where the great gold Buddha wore eternally that impassive and ironic smile. They wandered in the gardens of the court jeweller, a network of ornamental filigree, called and fed the huge obedient carp. Moray’s intoxication increased. Doris, wearing her new petunia frock and a little plaited straw hat with a double ribbon that fell over the brim in two tantalising little tags, had taken on the special glamour of the afternoon. Seated beside her on the way home, he turned towards her with a surge of gratitude.

“It’s all been so wonderful, Dorrie . . . and to see it with you . . .”.

She had sensed the change in him, and while her manner since lunch had been increasingly possessive, whenever he advanced she had chosen to retreat. Now she gave him a grudging little nod, as though prepared at last to relent.

“So you’ve decided I make a difference.”

“All the difference,” he murmured fervently, then added disconsolately: “Only you’ve been so cold. I don’t seem to make much difference for you.”

“Don’t you?”

Her eyes seemed to cloud. Then, unobserved by the others, she suddenly lifted his hand and set her teeth in his forefinger, a sharp painful bite that went through the skin.

“That ought to show you if I’m cold,” she said. Then, at the sight of his face as instinctively he nursed the hurt, she began to giggle. “Serve you right, for insulting me these last two weeks.”

Next day Bert took them to the races. He had tickets for the paddock and the club enclosure, also a stable tip for the big race. Nothing could go wrong, nothing, nothing. The horse, Maiden Palm, which Moray backed on his advice, romped home, a winner by three lengths. This was living, this was life! And Doris was being nicer, much nicer, to him. It was as though, having suitably punished him for his past defections, she had finally made up her mind to forget them.

On the day after, they visited the famous Zoological Gardens, crossed to Howrah, and viewed, at a discreet distance, the burning ghats by the Hoogly, drove out to the Royal Calcutta Golf Club for tea, finished with a trip down-river to Sutanati. Money opened the door everywhere. Bert on holiday was a spender, a lavish tipper; Moray saw hundred-rupee notes materialise inexhaustively from Bert’s wallet, pass expertly to expectant palms. How wonderful not to pinch and scrape, to count every miserable coin in a penury he had known all his days, but instead to have money, real money, more than enough to enjoy all the good things of life.

Time flew past as one exhilarating event followed another in swift succession. Moray simply let himself go, inhibiting every warning thought, blocking out the past and the future, living only in the present. Yet always the date of the Pindari’s departure drew near. When it was announced that she would sail on the following Tuesday, the fever in his blood was at its peak. Everything he had longed for all his life was here, ready to his hand, if only he would reach out and take it. Holbrook, suave and amiable, had not again pressed his offer: this had been made and still stood, the solid offer of a man of substance, awaiting Moray’s reply. Mrs Holbrook, through increasing hints and promptings, strongly wished and hoped that he would accept. Bert, however, had no doubts whatsoever on the subject. On Friday afternoon when he came in from the Bengal Club, where he had a guest membership, he found Moray in the hotel lounge and drew up a chair beside him.

“I’ve got a spot of good news, Dave.” They had almost from the beginning been on terms of first-name intimacy. “I’ve been trying to find someone who might sub for you on the return voyage. Well, just now at the club I ran into an I. M.S. doctor going home on leave, fellow by the name of Collins. He jumped at the chance of a free trip with pay. He’s our man.”

As though stung by a wasp, Moray sat up in his chair. Bert’s unexpected announcement, and the assumption of accomplished fact with which he made it, had finally brought the matter to a head. A sudden wave of weakness went over him and, yielding limply, he felt he must at long last unburden himself. After all, to whom could he better disclose and explain his predicament than to a good fellow like Bert?

“Look here, Bert,” he said, haltingly. “You know I’d naturally . . . very much like to accept your father’s offer . . . and especially to work with you. But . . . I wonder if I ought . . .”.

“Good Lord, why not? Dorrie apart, we need a medico in the business. We like you. You like us. I hate to stress it, old boy, but for you it’s an absolute snip. You know how dear old Wagglespear put it—‘There is a tide in the affairs of men.’ ”

“But, Bert . . .” he went on abjectly, then broke off. Yet he had to say it, though every word was dragged up from the pit of his stomach. “There’s someone . . . a girl . . . waiting for me at home.”

Bert stared at him for a long moment, then went into fits of laughter.

“You’ll kill me, Dave. Why, I’ve got girls waiting for me all over Europe—and pretty soon my little Eurasian fancy will be waiting for me in Calcutta.”

“But you don’t understand. I’ve promised to . . . to marry her.”

Bert laughed again, briefly, rather sympathetically and understandingly, then he shook his head.

“You’re young for your age, Dave, and still a bit green behind the ears—that’s partly why we’ve all taken to you, I suppose. Why, if you knew girls as I do . . . You think they’ll pine away and die if you give them the soldier’s farewell? Not on your sweet mucking life—excuse my Hindustani. I’ll lay you a level fiver your little friend will get over her disappointment and forget all about you in six months. As for your own feelings in that direction, which haven’t struck me as too full of cayenne, remember what Plato or some other old Roman geezer said: “All women are alike in the dark.” Seriously, though, I’ve talked it over with Ma and the old man. We all think you’re just the fellow for Dorrie. You’ll steady her down. She needs a bit of ballast, for off and on she’s,” he hesitated, “she’s had a spot of trouble with her nerves. And she’ll give you a bit of tiddley-high which in my humble opinion will knock some of the wool off you and do you a power of good. She’s had fellows before, mind you, she’s no angel, but you’re the one she’s gone right overboard on, she damn well means to have you. And let’s face it, old man, you’ve gone so far with us as a family, it would be a crime if you backed out now. So why don’t you pass the word and we’ll start ringing those old wedding bells? And now we’ll have a couple of chota pegs and drink to the future. Boy—boy!” Leaning back in his chair, he shouted for the khidmutgar.

Chapter Fifteen

Although temporarily lulled by this jovial dismissal of his scruples, Moray did not find Bert’s arguments altogether convincing or conclusive. He spent a troubled night and, awakening next morning still tense with indecision, decided he must at least go down to the ship and have a talk with Captain Torrance. It was only proper for him to enquire if Dr Collins might be an acceptable substitute, in the event . . . well, in the event that he was unable to make the return trip. The skipper was a sensible man whose advice was worth having; and besides, no one need know of his intention, the moment was favourable. Since Dorrie’s mother had pleaded fatigue, nothing definite had been arranged in the way of sightseeing, and he had no engagement with the Holbrooks until the evening, when he was to meet them for the gala dinner and dance which was a regular Saturday night feature at the North Eastern. He got up, shaved and dressed and took a taxi to Victoria Dock.

The sight of the Pindari, now almost clear of dunnage, solid and familiar, struck a note of reality that was reassuring, even comforting, suggestive that once on board he might be safe, even from himself. He hastened up the gangplank. But when he reached the chart-room deck both cabins were locked, the quartermaster on duty told him that neither the captain nor Mr O’Neil was aboard. Going below, he could find only the assistant purser, who explained that none of the senior officers would be back from leave until Sunday evening.

“The second mate’s on the dock if you want to see him.”

Moray shook his head, turned slowly away.

“By the by,” said the other, “there’s some mail for you.”

He went to his desk and fingered through a bundle of letters from which he handed over two. Moray, with a sudden constriction of his heart, recognised that one, rather thin, was from Willie, the other, thick and bulky, from Mary. He could not bring himself to open them. Later, he told himself. As he stepped off the ship to the dock, where the taxi still awaited him, he stuffed them into his inside pocket.

All that day Moray tried to summon up sufficient will, yet he could not bring himself to read the letters; the reproach of their pure and loving contents was more than he could face. And because he did not open them, because he feared them, he was no longer touched and contrite. Instead there crystallised in his mind an exasperation, almost a resentment, that they should have reached him at this crisis in his life. The letters, still sealed, swung him subconsciously towards Doris and all that the Holbrooks could offer him. Defensively, under the twin urges of money and sex, he set out to construct from his earliest beginnings a logical argument in his own favour: the loss of his parents, the unwanted child, the miseries of impoverished dependence, the superhuman efforts to get his medical degree. Surely he was due a rich reward, and now it was within his grasp. Could he be expected to throw it away, as though it were worthless?

True, there was Mary—he forced himself at least to think the name. But hadn’t he been rushed into that affair, carried away by his impulsive nature, inexperience, and the romantic background in which he had discovered her. She too, no doubt, had been swept off her feet by those same untrustworthy and transient influences. He didn’t want to hurt her or to leave her in the lurch, but he did owe something to himself. And who knew but what, later on, he might be able . . . well, to do something for her, to make up for his defection. He didn’t quite know what, but it was a comforting possibility. Young men made mistakes, repented of them, and made amends—were forgiven. Must he be the exception?

This was his frame of mind when, still uncertain and undecided, he went down somewhat broodingly at eight o’clock to join the Holbrooks in the restaurant. Clearly his mood was not keyed to enjoyment, yet it was amazing and in the circumstances doubtless commendable how, not to put a damper on the party, he cast aside his personal problems and reacted to the lively welcome of his friends. Bert especially was in tremendous form, and the moment he set eyes on Doris he knew that she was in one of her sultry, over-charged moods. She had prepared herself with thoroughness and was wearing a short, sleeveless white dress, cut low in the neckline and embroidered with little crystal beads. It looked what it was, a most expensive piece of flimsiness. It did a great deal for her, and she knew it.

The dinner, which was luscious and prolonged, proved a further reviving influence, and when, after the dessert—a delectable compote of pineapple and persimmons served with chapattis—coffee and cognac were brought, Moray saw what an idiot he had been to mope and worry all day. Now he hadn’t a care in the world. Presently they went into the ballroom where the old man had, as usual, done things in style. Champagne stood in an ice-pail beside their orchid-strewn table on the edge of the dance floor, facing the palm-fringed platform occupied by the scarlet-coated band.

“We like to see the young folks enjoying themselves, don’t we, Mother?” As they took their places Holbrook made the remark in a sentimental tone induced by several double brandies. “Couldn’t you have found yourself a nice partner too, Bert?”

“I would have, Dad, only I’m sorry I can’t stay long,” said Bert, with a wink to Moray. “Got to see a dog about a man.”

“Have a drop of bubbly before you go.”

The cork popped. They all had a glass of champagne. Then the lights were dimmed, the band struck up a waltz. Bert got to his feet with a theatrically formal bow to Dorrie that exposed and bisected his tight plump buttocks into two full moons,

“May I claim family privilege, and have the honour, Miss Holbrook?”

They danced this first dance in brother-and-sister fashion, then, after downing a second glass of champagne, Bert breezily consulted his watch.

“Good Lord, I must push off or that little poodle will be barking up the wrong tree. Be sure you all have a good time. Cheerio, chin-chin!”

“Don’t be too late, Bert dear,” remonstrated Mrs Holbrook. “You were last night.”

“Certainly not, Mater.” He bent and kissed her. “Only let’s face it, ducky, Bert’s a big boy now. See you bright and early in the morning.”

He’s off to the little Eurasian, thought Moray. The band struck up a snappy one-step. Mrs Holbrook glanced at Moray, then at Doris, not smiling this time but with serious meaning, as though to say: You two now, and while you’re about it make up your minds. Moray could not take the floor with confidence. Besides, he had sampled the cognac thoroughly after dinner, and it seemed to be going well with the champagne.

“If I may say so, my dears,” Mrs Holbrook commented, when they returned, “you make a very handsome couple.”

Holbrook, smiling indulgently, just a trifle fuzzy, poured them both another glass of champagne. Then they danced again. They danced every dance together, and it seemed as though each time his arm encircled her she drew closer to him, so that every movement of her body provoked an answering movement of his, until they moved as one in a corresponding rhythm that throbbed along his nerves. He could feel that she was wearing very few clothes. At first he had made pretence at a few remarks, commenting on the other dancers and on the band, which was first rate, but she silenced him with a pressure of her arm,

“Don’t spoil it.”

Yet if she maintained silence, there was in her wide bright greedy eyes, which she kept fixed unremittingly upon his, something communicative, not an inquiry now, a message rather, impossible to misunderstand, both possessive and intense. Only once did she speak again when, with an impatient glance towards her parents, she murmured restively:

“I wish they’d go.”

They did not, in fact, stay late. At half past ten Mrs Holbrook touched her husband, who was half asleep, on the shoulder.

“Time we old folks were in bed.” Then, with a restraining smile: “You two can stay just a little while. But don’t wait up too long.”

“We won’t,” Doris said briefly.

For the next number the lights were lowered, and as they swung round behind the band she said, a trifle unsteadily:

“Let’s take a turn outside.”

It was warm and still in the garden and dark under the high screen of greenery. She leaned back against the smooth bole of a great catalpa tree, still looking up at him. Trembling all over, he placed his arm behind her neck and kissed her. In response she pushed her pointed tongue between his lips. Then, as he pressed closer, the button on his cuff caught the string of seed pearls round her throat. The clasp gave way and pearls dropped into the low front of her dress.

“Now you’ve done it,” she said, with a queer strained laugh, passing her hand across her throat. “You’ll have to find them for me.”

His head was whirling, his heart pounding like mad. He began to search for the necklace, first in the yoke of her dress, then moving between her firmly nippled breasts, further down over the smooth flatness beyond.

“I’ll tear your dress.”

“Never mind the dress,” she said, in that same choked voice.

Then he discovered that she was wearing nothing beneath her frock and, since all the time she had the broken necklace in her hand, what he found was not the pearls. He forgot everything; all the suppressed desire of the past weeks went through him in a blinding rush.

“Not here, you fool.” She broke away quickly. “In your room . . . in five minutes.”

He went straight upstairs, tore off his clothes, switched off the light and flung himself into the bed. A shaft of moonlight pierced the darkness as she came in, dosing the door behind her. She took off her dressing gown, stood stark naked, then parted the mosquito curtains. Her body had an almost sultry warmth as she wound her arms tightly round his neck and drew him towards her, fastening her mouth on his so that her teeth edged into his lower lip. She was breathing quickly and under her crushed breast he could hear the hot pulsing of her heart.

“Quick,” she breathed. “Can’t you see I’m dying for you?”

If he had not at once realised that she was not a virgin, now he would have known it by the nature of her response. When at last she lay back, though not releasing him, she gave a long-drawn-out sigh, then pulled his head down beside her on the pillow again.

“You were good, darling. Was I?”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, and meant it.

“What a lot of time we’ve wasted. Couldn’t you see I wanted you, wanted you like mad, right from the start? But it’s going to be perfect from now on. We’ll tell them in the morning. Then we’ll both be off with Bert to New York. Oh, God, couldn’t you have seen how gone I am on you? I’ll never have enough of you—you’ll see.” With her tongue she touched, played with his lips, stroked his body with her finger tips. A sudden rigor passed over her. “Again,” she whispered, “only longer this time . . . and the next. It’s so lovely, make it last.”

She remained with him till the first grey light of dawn.

That morning, after hilarious congratulations at breakfast, he took a walk to clear his head. He felt a trifle listless, but she was really the goods, he could scarcely wait until tonight, and of course there was the job, the money, and the future all secure. Damn it all, a fellow had to look after himself. In the dulled state of his mind, it was less difficult to shut out the past and think only of the future. Passing across the Howrah Bridge he leaned suddenly over the parapet and without looking, taking his hand from his inside pocket, dropped the two letters, still unopened, into the filthy, corpse-polluted waters of the sacred Ganges.