"Yes, thank you," she tried to match his distance, but suddenly thinking 'This is ridiculous !' went on : "As a matter of fact I ran into Charles Cunningham—"
"Yes, so Flossie told me," he put in, showing that he was not quite so absorbed as he seemed to be.
"I hope she also told you that Blanche Cartwright was with him," Ronnie rapped out tartly.
"Should she have done?" Phil's eyes were on her now and there was mockery in them which made her feel like a silly schoolgirl. "As a matter of fact she did mention that he had some dowager in tow. Would that be your friend Blanche Cartwright?"
"Yes—we had tea together and talked over old times. Then we saw her off at Euston and—and as I thought you were going to be late with your meeting I went to a film with Charles at the Academy Cinema."
"I hope it was good?"
"It was quite amusing." She couldn't remember now what the film had been about
"Really?" Phil's eyebrows shot up derisively and the corners of his mouth twitched.
"What on earth are you getting at?" she demanded.
"It seems a trifle odd that after a hilarious evening with old friends you should come home and cry yourself to sleep—unless it was with regret that all good things have to come to an end."
Ronnie's mouth dropped. "I thought you were asleep! Withers said—"
"Really, my dear, Withers has a great many admirable qualities, but I really don't think you can attribute to him the power to see through closed doors."
"He didn't—I thought—" Ronnie gave it up and said instead, "Why didn't you say you weren't asleep?"
"You weren't there to say it to. I could hardly go round the house shouting `I'm not asleep' to all and sundry, now could I? I hope that bed was aired—it would be a pity if you caught a cold."
Ronnie did not answer that one, but sipped coffee in silence, not because she was enjoying it but because it gave her something to do. She had somehow managed to hurt Phil again, and when he was hurt he grew an extra skin that made it harder then ever to get close to him, or even to guess what he was thinking.
There was silence for a few minutes while Phil read and Ronnie sipped and frowned. A sudden thought struck her, and she looked up. "If you knew I was crying why didn't you come in and comfort me or something?" she asked.
"You know I never intrude in your sanctuary," he said without looking up, and then with a little quirk, "It's interesting to know that my surmise was correct."
Ronnie's cup was half way up, but annoyance at having been caught in his trap made her clatter it to the saucer, spilling hot drops on to her hand. That added to the annoyance, and she let out a loud "Damn !" at the same instant as the telephone bell shrilled.
Phil pretended not to notice the real cause of her annoyance, and with a resigned shrug got up, saying : "One of the penalties of marrying a medico, I'm afraid, my dear," and went off to answer the phone.
He came back a few minutes later, gathered up his mail and said : "Duty calls. I'm off now. Don't forget we promised to have cocktails with the Marchants this evening."
"I shan't forget," she said sulkily. There was a great deal more she would like to have said, but Phil always got the better of her. As he bent to kiss her cheek coolly Ronnie had a shrewd idea that he knew what some of those things were—but he was wrong about the reason for her tears last night.
The expected message from Stanhope arrived a few days later, at the beginning of November. A special messenger brought it one damp, foggy night when Phil had been called back to the hospital to deal with an emergency following a road accident in the fog.
"This will be It, miss," Withers said apprehensively as he brought the envelope in to her. Instinctively they both knew that the news was not good, otherwise Stanhope would have telephoned.
"Will you give it to him, madam, or shall I put it in the study? He may be late, and you'll want to go on up."
"No, Withers, leave it here. I shall stay up until he comes home. But you get off as soon as you're ready. Have you put the coffee flask out?"
He had, of course. 'Dear Withers, he never fails Ronnie thought, as with a remorseful look as though he would have liked to be able to alter the course of events for his `Mr. Philip,' Withers said goodnight and went downstairs to his quarters.
When he had gone Ronnie put out the lights in the big sitting room. The firelight was enough. It was the room in which they had held that cocktail party—so long ago it seemed. The double doors were closed now, so that the the room was not too large to be homelike,
and in the warm glow that other evening came back to Ronnie's mind very vividly. It was the first time Phil had kissed her.
She remembered a lot of other little half-forgotten incidents too, and she knew that, whatever news that letter contained, the future—their future—was in her hands.
From time to time she threw another log on to the fire so that the blaze did not die.
It was very late when Phil at last came in, and he looked tired, she thought—almost as tired as he had done that night of the air crash.
"Still up ?" he asked, coming over to the fire. "I thought you'd have been in bed ages ago."
"I waited for you," she told him. "There's a letter for you ... it's from Stanhope."
He picked up the envelope from the mantelpiece and slit it with his finger. That was the only sign he gave of its importance to him—he was usually meticulous in his use of the paper knife.
He read it in silence, and looking up at him from her fireside seat Ronnie could gain no inkling of his feelings. He had put on the fireside lamp to read the letter, and in its light his face looked proud and arrogant.
He dropped both letter and envelope into the flames, and Ronnie knew then what it had contained, but she waited for him to speak.
"It was a nice dream while it lasted," he said, staring at the paper as it flared up and then died to ash. He put out his hand and switched off the lamp again, as if to hide his expression from her.
"They've turned it down?" Ronnie asked quietly. "Flatly and finally. Not a hope."
"Oh, Phil, I'm so sorry ! But it isn't a reflection on your work and plans. The whole of Africa is in the melting pot, and it isn't really surprising that the Government don't feel able to launch out on an ambitious project."
"Thanks," he said shortly. "But that doesn't help me much, does it? What are you going to do now—divorce me for marrying you under false pretences?"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Well, I did dangle the bait of a return to Bazualiland and a job in the hospital there when I asked you to marry me, didn't I?"
Ronnie met his gaze fearlessly. "Yes, you did—but I only pretended to swallow the bait," she said. It was a moment fraught with danger, a moment upon which the whole future hung, but she felt suddenly confident.
A quick frown of puzzlement drew his dark brows together as he stood looking down at her. "Pretended? Why? Didn't you want to go back? Weren't you happy there?"
"Oh yes, I was happy, but I was very young then. I've grown up since. Now I know that places are unimportant—it's people who matter. But as you didn't offer me any other inducement to marry you I had to pretend that was what I wanted."
"Why did you marry me, then?"
"Because I loved you," she told him simply.
"But it was you who insisted on the business relationship," he accused, but there was a dawning light in his eyes.
"No, I didn't," she contradicted. "The way you asked me to marry you, it sounded as though that was what you wanted. And when I asked you, you just confirmed it, that was all."
"And—Rome?" he queried.
"I tried to explain about that, but you always put me off. I guess I was so excited about marrying you that I forgot I couldn't fly. It was all a ghastly mistake that got worse as time went on."
"What a lot of misunderstandings we do seem to have had," he said ruefully. "Poor Ronnie—what can I do to make up?"
Ronnie sighed. "You coul
d try starting from the beginning," she suggested.
For answer he scooped her up out of her chair, sat down in it himself, and pulled her down as well. When they were comfortably settled he began : "All right, from the beginning. I fell for you hook, line and sinker on board the Talisman Castle. I knew then you were the only girl I'd ever want. But I wasn't free to tell you so... and besides, you pretty well hated me then, didn't you?"
"I don't think I did really." Ronnie tried to remember her feelings of nearly two years ago. "I caught Daddy's prejudice when he thought of you as 'the Government Wallah,' but what annoyed me most, I think, was your utter indifference. I'd been rather spoiled, you see. There weren't many girls in Lemumba and I could always interest any man I wanted. But you were so beastly superior and indifferent."
"Didn't it occur to you that I wasn't at all surprised when you turned up at St. Chad's?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I did wonder. Why weren't you? ... oh, I suppose Aunt Mary told you I was going there."
"She said she had recommended you to try there, and hoped that you might qualify one day and be of use to me in the Bazualiland hospital scheme. Even though she and I clash as personalities I believe she respects me professionally ! Then when I heard you were definitely applying I got Adela to put in a word— bless her, she knew which way the wind was blowing, and I can tell you it puzzled her a lot that we were so slow about it !"
"Talking about the scheme," Ronnie said, "all that business about Daddy and me being able to help you with social contacts—that was all eyewash, wasn't it?"
"Well, it could have helped a lot—"
"I don't think I believe you. I think you did it just to give Daddy a feeling of being important again, a chance to meet his old friends, now didn't you?"
"Well, partly—" he admitted. "But mostly because I—I couldn't find any other reasonable excuse for getting near you. That evening went to my head—I forgot myself and kissed you, didn't I?" he asked, doing it again.
"Yes, and afterwards you said it was just your way of saying thank you."
"You said it," he corrected. "And I agreed. You see, I still wasn't free, and I was beginning to hope that you —cared a little. I felt a cad, and so I seized on the let-out you offered me."
"I wasn't beginning to care," Ronnie told him. "By that time I was hopelessly in love with you !"
"You didn't know how hopeless it was. Neither did I until you gave me Carolyn's message ... "
There was silence for a while in which the only sound was the hissing and spitting of the logs. Both were thinking the same thought—the grim price that had had to be paid for their marriage.
"I felt terrible that night," Phil said slowly, knowing that he need not specify which night. "I had wanted my freedom so badly that I almost felt as though I had willed Carolyn's death. I tried to tell you how it was —but you didn't seem to understand—"
"You didn't tell me why you wanted your freedom," Ronnie pointed out softly.
"I thought you understood—but when you just threw my rose aside and let it wither I thought you couldn't care—Ronnie, what on earth are you laughing at?"
"Oh, Phil, it was so silly ! I thought Withers had put the rose there—especially when I got a second-hand book from Charing Cross Road a few days later telling me the meaning of flowers— !"
"Trust Withers ! He was worried by your lack of response—but not so worried as I was ! It was the end as far as I was concerned. If you didn't care nothing else mattered—"
"Then you put off your cruise because you knew Daddy was going to die soon."
"I didn't want to spoil your last few weeks together, so I didn't tell you. But I had to stand by in case I could be of any help."
"I don't think I could have borne it without you,"
she told him simply. "I think Daddy knew how we both felt."
"He knew how I felt," Philip said. "We'd talked of it. But I think he wasn't sure of you. I promised him I'd look after you."
"Dear Daddy ! That must have been what he meant when he said once that he wasn't worried any longer."
"I'm glad it made him happy, but my worries weren't solved at all, and when that she-dragon of an aunt of yours threatened to take you off up north I just panicked and blurted out my proposal with no frills, I'm afraid. Poor Ronnie—no courtship, no flowers, none of the things a girl has the right to expect. Perhaps I can make it up now—"
He slid out of the chair and knelt before her, drawing her close within the circle of his arms until their lips were almost touching.
"I love you. I love you. I need you—I can't do anything worthwhile without you ... now will you forgive me?" he whispered.
"Oh, Phil, you know there isn't anything to forgive—" "Not even my stopping your career as a nurse?"
"To save me the ignominy of failing my exams.
Besides—"
"Besides what?"
"You said it wasn't my vocation—and you were right. I know my true vocation now."
His eyes were very bright as he prompted : "And that is—?"
"To be the wife of a great surgeon—and the mother
of his children," she told him softly.
Nurse Ronnie's Vocation Page 17