“What’s holding you up?” Douglas swept her forward, a hand tucked securely beneath her elbow. “They’re just ahead. I can see Treverson towering, head and shoulders, above everybody else! Yes, he’s spotted us now. Iona must be in the train.”
Christine watched Huntley come toward them with a bittersweet joy in her heart. Here was meeting and parting, here was all the majesty of love and the devastation of despair. He was going home, where her heart belonged, and she was letting him go alone!
Yet how could she say to him “I love you now” when no word of love had ever been spoken between them?
They shook hands and she could not speak, leaving it to Douglas to say, “We cut it rather fine, I’m afraid. You know, one of those mornings when everything went wrong—every light was red.”
Iona was standing at the open doorway of the carriage speaking quietly to Bob Niven, and when they had exchanged greetings Christine stepped back to give them the last few minutes alone.
“Don’t worry about your cousin,” Huntley said when she turned to him. “I’ll see that nothing goes wrong.”
In spite of the warmth of his promise, she imagined that his tone was slightly offhand, as if he had dismissed anything of a personal nature between them and was only anxious to discharge a friendly obligation to the best of his ability. The thought chilled her more than it had any right to do. After all, it was my way of behaving not so very long ago, she thought fairly. I can’t expect him to crawl even though I’ve suddenly discovered I love him.
He did not mention Lochaber, and in a way she was grateful, although all her thoughts would undoubtedly follow him there, and when he finally got into the train he stood back to let Iona have the last few words with them.
I’ll never be able to forget him, she thought. I can never forget him now!
The guard blew his whistle and her heart turned over at the sound. She stood back and they waved to each other as the train slowly pulled out, Iona still close to the window, Huntley beside her now, watching through the glass. And then, as the train gathered speed, Christine became conscious of someone else watching them from the next compartment, a tall, exquisitely dressed girl in a dark traveling coat.
Laura Bramshaw looked at her, and Christine thought that there was a little smile of amusement on the full, crimson lips.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In spite of its teeming multitudes, in spite of the busy necessity of every day, Glasgow seemed curiously empty to Christine during the weeks that followed, and letters from home took on a new importance. Rhona had never been a good correspondent, but Iona wrote regularly, filling several pages with the details of her daily life in Lochaber.
It had been a stormy month, with the tyrannical old dentist who employed her putting every obstacle in the way of her success.
She was still living at Merrivale. After Iona’s departure for Lochaber Mrs. Lamington had plunged into a round of social activities, but for some reason she still encouraged her niece to remain under her roof.
Often in Iona’s letters there was mention of Huntley. He had come to see her and brought her flowers and books, but he had not stayed long, and there had been no direct message for Christine.
She wondered what she had expected. A constant begging for favors? He was not like that. He had made his proposal of marriage and she had refused it, and there, as far as he was concerned, was an end to the whole matter.
She tried not to think of Laura Bramshaw. She seemed in no way suited to be Huntley’s life’s partner, but such things happened. He might have already made up his mind to marry Laura, but Christine was quite sure that Laura would never agree to settle down in Lochaber. She would drag Huntley back to Glasgow.
Quite frequently at this point in her unhappy reasoning she would pause to wonder, and back would come the memory of a more determined streak in the nature of the man she loved, the relentless will of a man who saw a goal far ahead and would let very little stand in the way of obtaining it. Yes, Huntley was like that, but love was strong and determined, too. It was no use pretending that Laura was a weak character. The look she had given Christine through the carriage window seemed to say that all the cards were stacked high in her favor.
“You’re not worrying about old MacDornoch?” Douglas asked one morning, feeling that her silence had become introspective. “He’s not the only dentist in Glasgow, if you still think you would like to carry on with the work.”
So Douglas, too, was firmly convinced that she was not going to last a day longer than her month’s probation! Christine smiled ruefully.
“I must have been a terrible trial to him, poor man!” she acknowledged. “My predecessor was a veritable doormat until she went off with a nervous breakdown!”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t let him get you into a state of prostration!” Douglas counseled.
“He hasn’t a chance! I’ll probably be out of work by this time next week.”
“It isn’t worrying you, Chris, is it? Seriously, I mean?”
“Not very much, though I don’t like a lot of changes. I shall probably be able to find another job, even if it’s only licking stamps in an office somewhere!”
She had spoken lightly, but she was worried at the prospect of her dismissal all the same. Constant changes were not her idea of a job well done, and in some ways she quite liked “old MacDornoch.” Surprisingly, she had discovered in him a dry humor that entirely changed some aspects of their relationship. Quite often lately he had looked up under his shaggy brows to demand what she thought on a subject in a voice of thunder which was meant to suggest that it didn’t matter a great deal anyway.
On the whole, it seemed that “old MacDornoch” and his shabby surgery, into which she had endeavored to introduce a warmer and more pleasant atmosphere, had filled a vacant place in her life—the need for service, perhaps, which had been fostered in her from infancy by her father. It had filled up some of the loneliness in her heart, and “old MacDornoch’s” way had already become familiar.
She went to work next morning, therefore, with a sense of loss at the back of her mind and was surprised to find her employer already shouting at the mechanic in the workroom on the floor above. He came lumbering down the uncarpeted stairs as she was tidying the periodicals on the waiting-room table.
“Are you late, too?” he growled belligerently. “I was here at ten past eight this morning,” he went on without waiting for confirmation or excuse, “and no sign of Ross! Missed his bus! Bah! In my young days we walked to work and then we had no chance of missing buses!”
“Perhaps there weren’t any buses the way you came,” Christine suggested blandly, going on with her tidying. “And Mr. Ross has a long journey in the morning. Your first appointment isn’t until half-past nine,” she pointed out. “Had you forgotten?”
“No,” he growled, going through to sit down at his desk. “I have work to do. Never sleep in when I have work to do!”
She wondered how long it would be before he called her in and gave her her notice, accompanied, no doubt, by a lengthy harangue on the merits of the people of his own day. He did not call her in until after the mid-morning break, a concession he had granted reluctantly when she had first come to work for him.
“How long have you been here?” he demanded, although he knew very well.
“Exactly a month today.”
“Hmm! Said I would take you on a month’s trial, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Christine agreed, “that was the bargain. I’m sorry I have not been suitable, Mr. MacDornoch”
He glowered at her.
“Suitable? Suitable? Who said you weren’t suitable? The trouble with you young people nowadays is that you think you know the answer to everything!” His brow darkened. “It’s for me to say whether I think you suitable or not,” his eyes almost disappearing beneath his beetling eyebrows. “Isn’t it?” Then, when she did not answer, “Well, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Christine agreed weakly, too utt
erly dumbfounded to say anything else.
“And I’m well enough suited. You’ll do, but, mind you, I’ve no intention of raising your salary or anything like that—not till you’ve proved yourself a lot more.”
“No, Mr. MacDornoch.”
She was still so surprised that she could find nothing else to say. She told herself that she would know whether to be glad or sorry when he finally dismissed her, and now she knew that she was glad, overwhelmingly glad that she was to stay.
“Bring in my next patient,” old MacDornoch barked. “No need to waste time. I see it’s that woman Mullet with her badly behaved child. In my day...”
Christine closed the door between them and leaned back against it, shaking with silent laughter. In spite of everything he had found her efficient and this was his way of saying it!
I’m not the kind of person that likes to be uprooted, she thought on her way back to Merrivale that evening. I would have felt badly if old MacDornoch had told me to go!
Her aunt seemed gratified that she had not been dismissed, though. “You needn’t have worried, Christine,” she added. “I could really do with you in the house. I’ve not been sleeping well lately, and I often feel tired.”
It was the last thing Christine wanted to do, but it was also the first intimation she had ever had that Flora Lamington’s health was not of the very best.
“Iona has no idea what her thoughtless behavior has done to me,” her aunt went on.
“If you’re worrying about Iona,” she suggested slowly, “why not go to Kinaird for a few days and see her? She’s been up there a month now and she’s bound to be much better.”
Flora’s mouth tightened. “If my daughter has no desire to come to see me I shall not seek her out,” she declared bitterly. “Iona has only to admit that she has made a mistake over this library clerk and I shall accept her back without any recrimination whatever.” Christine sighed. “She won’t give up Bob, Aunt Flora. I wish you could see that and ... and try to accept it. Iona is in love with him. I wish you could understand what it means to her, how much happier she would be if only you were reconciled.”
“I’ll never become reconciled to such a marriage!” her aunt snapped, “and I am surprised that you expect it of me, Christine. I thought you sympathized with me. I thought that was why you stayed here.”
“I thought perhaps I could have helped you to understand—”
“If you hoped to sway my will you have been wasting your time.”
“I thought I could persuade you.”
“I am not the sort of woman who is easily persuaded against her better judgment.”
“But, if your judgment was wrong—”
“There’s no question of it being wrong. All my friends are quite sure that I have done the right thing.”
Christine lifted steady eyes to hers. “But are you sure, Aunt Flora?”
Flora Lamington’s face remained frozen in its hard lines for a moment and then a curious change came over it, dissolving the hardness and wiping some of the bitterness out of it. She seemed to hesitate between the truth and what she thought was the truth, and then some memory of the past, or perhaps it was just the discipline of the years, hardened her.
“No, Christine, I simply can’t give in.”
Christine felt baffled, because a moment before her heart had been high with hope. Now, however, it appeared that nothing would ever soften her aunt’s heart.
Iona’s next letter made her feel that she had no right to accept defeat in this way, however, because it was plain to read between the lines that her cousin was far from happy even now that she had almost returned to normal health.
Your father says that I am quite well now, only I’m not to get excited about anything, and Rhona says there’s nothing to get excited about up here, but you know the way it is with Rhona. She really loves Kinaird but doesn’t show her feelings very much. I’ve guessed, though, that she is in love with Nigel. (He’s so nice, Christine!) I think you can see that other people are in love much more quickly when you are in love yourself. (Your father says I’m at the ‘mooney’ stage whatever that is, but he doesn’t say much about Rhona. She’s rather sensitive, isn’t she? I thought I was—dreadfully—until I came up here and took all your dad’s teasing without a quiver!)
Iona’s letters were nearly all bracketed in this way, just her thoughts jotted down quite haphazardly, but they were very refreshing.
I do think Nigel must care for Rhona quite a lot, because they have been constantly together since I came. (I try to help a little in the house, though your mother says just to rest.) Yesterday Mr. Treverson came to see how I was.
Christine’s heart gave a great leap and she had to steady her eyes to the line again before she could read on.
I mean Huntley, of course, not his uncle. What a fiery man old Mr. Treverson is! He goes around shouting at all his workmen, it seems, and even when we see him coming out of church he doesn’t say good morning normally—he just barks it! Quite often Huntley is in church with him, but they don’t speak much. I wonder if they agree. Rhona says the villagers don’t seem to think so. (Isn’t this an awful gossipy letter?)
As with Iona’s letters, it went on to describe her daily activities, her walks along the glen and her occasional drives with the doctor to a distant farm. As always, a great wave of homesickness came flooding over Christine as she read. She could see Iona sitting in the familiar old car beside her father. But beyond the home scene was the vital nearness of Huntley, brought close by his thought for her cousin. She wondered how often he visited her home, and then her mind fastened on the hope which Iona’s words about Nigel had stirred in her heart. “Nigel must care for Rhona quite a lot because they have been constantly together...”
Had she achieved her end? Had her absence drawn her sister and Nigel together in spite of all his protestations of eternal fidelity only a few short weeks ago? Christine was forced to smile. Such things happened. But I must be sure, she told herself.
CHAPTER NINE
“This is the third time this week that Douglas hasn’t come home for tea,” Mrs. Lamington complained as soon as Christine had opened the front door. “Have you any idea where he is?”
“None, I’m afraid.” Christine hung up her hat and coat. “He said he was going to Largs, and really that’s all I know.”
Flora paused a moment and then said anxiously, “Do you think there’s ... a girl?”
“It’s very sudden, if there is,” Christine answered, restraining a smile with difficulty.
“This is not a joking matter,” her aunt told her severely. “It is very unkind of Douglas to keep us in the dark like this—almost as if he were ashamed of the girl.”
“We haven’t any proof that it is a girl,” Christine pointed out patiently.
“What else would take him all the way to Largs at five in the evening!”
Christine sat down at the table.
“He’ll probably tell you, Aunt Flora, as soon as he comes home.”
“I’m going to tackle him about it as soon as he arrives!”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Christine advised. “Doug will only shut up like a clam if he thinks his confidence is being forced.”
“Yes,” her aunt admitted, “I suppose you know him well enough now to realize that.” She sighed heavily.
“No mail?” Christine asked. “I thought there might be a letter from home.”
“Oh, I almost forgot!” her aunt exclaimed. “There was a telephone call for you.” She looked at Christine suspiciously. “I didn’t recognize the voice, but he said he was from Kinaird and would ring again later.”
Christine’s heart bounded forward and all the color rushed to her cheeks as Huntley Treverson’s name came to mind. And she thought how utterly like Huntley it was to have given the noncommittal message over the telephone.
“You’re sure he didn’t say who he was?” she asked vaguely, while she sought to collect her scattered thoughts.
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“My dear Christine, I am quite capable of taking a telephone call!” her aunt assured her somewhat stiffly. “Of course I asked his name, but he refused by saying he wanted to surprise you.”
Was that like Huntley? Christine could not make up her mind, but the foolish hope in her heart remained.
“There’s really no need to neglect your tea,” her aunt reminded her dryly. “He said he would not ring again before seven.”
When the telephone did ring she felt almost too nervous to answer it. What could Huntley want to say to her?
She did not doubt for one moment now that it was Huntley Treverson at the other end of the line, so it was some few seconds before acute disappointment gave way to surprise and recognition. “Chris,” Nigel Kilbridge said urgently. “I must see you.”
“Is there anything wrong at home, Nigel? Is the family all right?”
“They’re all more or less flourishing,” he admitted, “but that’s part of my reason for wanting to see you. Could it possibly be this evening? I should push on to Edinburgh tomorrow morning.”
She wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but knew that they must wait.
“Of course you can see me!” She cast her mind around for inspiration, knowing that they would have no privacy if she asked him to the house. “I would ask you out here, but—”
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