The Silent Valley

by Jean S. MacLeod

  THE SILENT VALLEY

  Jean S Macleod

  If I should meet thee, after long years, how should I greet thee? With silence and tears. . . . . It would be with silence and tears, Nurse Jane Calvert knew, that she greeted Stewart Hemingway when he came as surgeon to Conyers Park Nursing Home. Years ago, when he had begged her to marry him, her love had been great enough to ask him to wait, in the interests of his career: but he had not understood. He had stormed against her “faithlessness”, her “puny love”, and gone away in bitterness to win brilliant success, vowing never to forgive Jane as long as he lived. And yet, even when Jane’s head denied all hope, her heart stubbornly kept hope alive.

  In one of the great romantic novels of our time, “The Silent Valley,” Jean S. MacLeod tells this story of two lovers who parted — and met again.

  To Topsy

  CHAPTER ONE

  When Stuart Hemmingway had been turned down by the girl he loved four years ago, he had taken it bitterly. He had told himself, on that dark January night, standing on the high ridge above Norchester with the bleak wind in his face, that there was nothing of faithfulness in life, no trust, only selfishness and disillusionment, and when the mood of passionate self-pity had passed he told himself that nothing mattered now but success. That he must have, to bolster up his shattered self-esteem.

  An hour before he had been standing at a cross-roads in life. Along one way lay the comparative security of routine hospital work; upon the other lay the chance to specialise. He had been offered the job at the Zurich clinic several weeks before and he had known that was the way for him to go, but Jane had not seen eye to eye with him. He had sought her out full of a boy's enthusiasm, confident in the future, confident in his own ability and the sheer animal strength which would carry him through, as it had carried him through his student days. Jane had advised him to accept the Zurich job because his heart was in it, but she had refused to go with him.

  Chagrined and bitterly disappointed, he had stormed and accused her. Her puny love, he had called it, unable to face the uncertainty, the near-poverty of beginnings, and she had stood, white-faced, and let him have his say. When he had finished she had told him that she would wait for him, but he had flung away from her in angry denunciation, telling her that it was then he needed her, not in some secure tomorrow. He had said that he understood, that he saw that the sacrifice was too great for her to make.

  'There are people who give and others who take, all through life!' he had flung at her in his wild frenzy of disappointment. 'It's easier to be one of the taking kind, apparently!'

  Jane 'had not answered that, and he had wondered bitterly, then, how much he really knew about her.

  A nurse at the City General, where he had just completed his training, she had lived outside the town and he had never thought very much about her background. He knew that her father was dead and that her mother divided her time between her own home and that of a married daughter somewhere in Devon. He had intended to meet her family one day, but it had never quite come about.

  All that was behind him now, four years away, yet the bitterness still remained, crystallised rather than softened by the success he had made of his career—success beyond his wildest dreams. He told himself that he looked at life more sanely these days, that passion had become mellowed by experience and that ideals, for him, were things of the past, yet he had come back to Norchester because of an ideal.

  Standing before the fireplace in Sir Gervaise Cortonwell's library, he recalled how much he owed to the man whose portrait in oils adorned the alcove above the wide marble mantelpiece, and some of the coldness of reserve passed from his face as he looked into the painted eyes.

  He was still studying the portrait when its owner came into the room.

  'Stuart, my boy! It's good to see you again,' Sir Gervaise held out a hand which the younger man clasped eagerly. 'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting these few minutes, but I had a consultation. I'm still old-fashioned enough to do all my private work from the house.' He crossed to the cocktail cabinet against one of the walls. 'What will you have? You're not starting in at Conyers till tomorrow, I hear, so there's no need to worry about a steady hand!'

  Stuart made his request for a dry martini, and when Sir Gervaise handed him his glass be raised it to the light.

  'To you, sir,', he said.

  The older man's eyes gleamed and he lifted his own glass high.

  'To your continuing success, my boy!' he answered. 'There's no limit to the road you can travel now.'

  'Thanks to you!' Stuart put his glass down on the small Sheraton table between the two windows. 'I'm not very good at saying this sort of thing,' he added almost apologetically, 'but I am most definitely grateful for all you've done for me.'

  'I owed it to your father, my boy,' Sir Gervaise said in a voice that was just a little pompous. 'But that's an old story.'

  His eyes went to the window, ranging across the neat flower beds in the garden beyond. 'We were together during the war and his gallantry was the means, of sparing my life, so it was as little as I could do to see that your training was completed afterwards. Your mother didn't live very long after he was killed. She was never an ambitious woman, but your father would have been proud of you today.'

  'I wanted to talk to you about Della,' continued Sir Gervaise when they had moved across the richly carpeted hall to the dining-room where their lunch was set. 'We won't be interrupted. She's gone to Malvern for the day, to buy clothes or some other woman's diversion.

  'Frankly,' he went on when the first course had been put before them, 'I'm worried about that girl of mine. She ought to have been a boy.' There was irritation as well as affection in his voice. 'Last year she was off again on one of her mad skiing holidays, this time to Iceland, and she made the return trip on a trawler. They met foul weather in the Minch and she was ill for days. There was no adequate accommodation, of course, and she came back with a cough which has never quite cleared up. I've had her to Sir Aukland Trevor,' he ended somewhat despondently.

  Stuart's expression sharpened at the mention of the famous lung specialist's name, but before he could say anything his host added :

  'It's your line, too. I want you to take her in hand. She'll listen to you, I think. There's nothing very serious, you understand, but they have found a patch on the right lung.'

  Stuart nodded.

  'I'll have a look at the plates,' he said. His face had gone slightly pale under its fine coating of tan and his lips had firmed. This, at least, was something he could do for the Cortonwells, but it was difficult to imagine anyone like Della in such a plight. He concluded that her father's anxiety was naturally a little exaggerated. 'Do you wish me to see her at Conyers—professionally, I mean?'

  'I don't quite know.' Sir Gervaise hesitated. 'Perhaps it would be best. You know how difficult Della can be.'

  Stuart smiled. When his mouth was relaxed he looked years younger and a certain tension went out of his expression as the habitual aloofness faded in his grey eyes.

  'I know how intelligent she is,' he answered. 'We've met frequently in Switzerland these past few years, you know.'

  'Yes, she told me,' Sir Gervaise regarded him keenly, almost speculatively. 'It was Della who supplied us with all the important news about your career,' he added. 'But for that daughter of mine, we would never have heard of your amazing progress until your appointment struck the local Press!'

  Stuart smiled whimsically.

  'And I thought I had kept in touch !'

  'Oh, yes! The usual enigmatical notes that told us nothing we wanted to know!' Sir Gervaise smiled at him indulgently. 'Anyway, I'm glad you and Della were good friends,' he said.

  The hint of anticipation was there a
gain, the note of eagerness in the well-bred voice, as if Sir Gervaise hoped the friendship had already developed into something deeper, but if his guest was aware of the expectant undercurrent he made no sign. Long ago he had schooled himself to keep his emotions in check—as long ago as the day on the ridge out there above the old town when he had faced disillusionment and despair and thrust them both determinedly behind him—or so he thought.

  They spoke of his temporary appointment at Conyers. The Board of Management had invited him to work there while he remained in Norchester, putting a comfortable consulting-room at his disposal in the hope that he would eventually settle in the town and add his personal brilliance to their name. For some time the Board had been painfully aware of their dwindling finances, and it was necessary to maintain a steady flow of private patients. A name like Hemmingway's would greatly enhance their reputation and a brilliant operation or two would soon restore their fading prestige. People were still snobbish enough, or fearful enough to pay for individual attention when they were ill, and a certain type of young mother liked to have babies in luxurious surroundings. The maternity wing still continued to pay its way, and moneyed old ladies died without being too great a burden on their relatives.

  'How long can we hope to keep you?' Sir Gervaise asked. 'Until the call of the Swiss clinics becomes too great again, I suppose?'

  'At least until Doktor Frey expounds a new theory and is ready to put it into practice!' Stuart smiled as he rose from his chair. 'And now, if you'll excuse me, I must go. I haven't really settled in at my hotel yet, and my books are still to unpack.'

  Sir Gervaise moved with him to the door.

  'Why not come over here?' he asked. 'I know we're a semi-bachelor establishment, but that ought to suit you.'

  Stuart had half expected the invitation, but for some peculiar reason he shook his head.

  'I won't inflict myself on Della,' he said. 'She may feel that she is being hedged round by the medical profession at present.'

  Going out to the main door, Sir Gervaise put a hand on his arm.

  'She'll count on you in this, my boy,' he said rather unevenly. 'Della's not so hard-boiled as she may seem.'

  Which, agreed Stuart, was possibly quite true. The strange part was that he hadn't expected Della's father to realise it.

  'I'll do all I can for her,' he said.

  He felt that he owed that much at least to the man who had treated him as a son for the greatest part of his student days, and he went away remembering Sir Gervaise's obvious pride in him when he had graduated with honours, and, later, when he had taken his surgeon's degree. Yes, it was the least he could do to look after Della Cortonwell and see her safely through the next few exacting months, although he was quite sure that she would be a most difficult patient.

  CHAPTER TWO

  To Jane Calvert, treading the long corridors of the Conyers Park Nursing Home, the past was like an unpleasant dream which she had done her best to thrust behind her, but incidents from it came up to haunt her at the most unexpected times. A trick of nostalgic memory was to invade the mind on the wings of a half-forgotten melody, or in a word, or at the fleeting glimpse of a half-turned head, but quite often she let her defences down and confessed that the memory itself was ever-present in her heart.

  She had lived with it, day by day, had known regret and loneliness and tears, but she still believed that she had done the right thing, the only possible thing, when she had refused to marry Stuart.

  There was no reason why her mind should have plunged deep into the past because she had been summoned to Matron's room, she tried to assure herself as she ran down the stone staircase connecting the first and second floors. Rather, it should have been wrestling with the future, wondering what had gone wrong and how she had become involved. There could, of course, be the possibility that she was about to be promoted.

  She tapped on Matron's door, and without hesitation a voice said:

  'Come in!'

  A woman in her early fifties, in a well-cut sage-green frock, sat behind the mahogany desk set at an angle across the window, and her eyes regarded Jane critically as she crossed the carpeted floor.

  'Sit down, Sister.' She glanced at her watch. 'I know that you have just come off duty, but I won't keep you many minutes.' The dark eyes under their heavy brows did not leave Jane's face. 'I suppose you will have heard that Sister Harrison has handed in her resignation? She is going to be married.'

  Jane wondered if there had been the faintest suggestion of dryness in Matron's tone when she offered that piece of information, the barest hint of disapproval, and she found herself pondering over the problem of women like Agnes Lawdon who did not marry, who were content to give all of themselves to their chosen careers. Matron must have done that. Had she dried up inside and lost some of the milk of human kindness in the process? She looked across the desk into Agnes Lawdon's steady eyes, thinking that, if she stayed at Conyers, she might even come to look like Matron in time.

  The dark eyes were still regarding her critically.

  'I've decided to give you a trial in the theatre,' Matron said. 'I think that you have the necessary stamina for the work and the necessary intelligence. I've been quite pleased with your progress this past year and I know that you are anxious to succeed. You have the makings of a fine nurse, and I understand that there is nothing to stand in your way. You have no—ties, I gather. You're not—attached in any way?'

  Jane's heart twisted with an old, familiar pain, but her grey-green eyes were steady on the brown ones opposite as she said :

  'No, I have no ties, Matron. Not in the way you mean.'

  Agnes Lawdon looked down at the chart lying on the desk before her. Jane had an instant impression of a woman on guard, which was as swiftly dismissed as Agnes Lawdon said:

  'You will start your duties in the theatre on Monday.' She rose to her feet, holding out her hand across the desk. 'I have the greatest confidence in you, Sister.'

  Jane felt that her own elation was excusable. There was a feeling of treading on air as she walked towards the door and she could still feel the firm clasp of Matron's fingers on her own. It was like an accolade.

  This would make everything so much easier at home! Pride in her work surged up, too, and she knew the gratification of acknowledgement.

  'Don't tell me you've been on the carpet and can come out from the Presence looking like that!'

  She turned swiftly, waylaid by a tall, fair-haired • young man in a white coat with a stethoscope dangling from one pocket and a most unprofessional gleam in his eyes.

  'We're not always called to Matron's room to be reprimanded, you know, Tom!' she smiled. 'There might possibly be another reason, although I didn't know I was looking particularly pleased with myself.'

  'Pleased wasn't the word for it, my dear Jane!' he told her. 'You looked positively elated! So much so that I strongly suspect there may even be room for a celebration!'

  Jane, already well acquainted with the recurring nature of Doctor Sark's celebrations, endeavoured to curb her natural excitement. Tom was apt to forget that they were still within the confines of Conyers and that he was, ostensibly, still on duty.

  'I'm going into the theatre,' she told him with the necessary dignity. 'Naturally I'm pleased about it, though I should hate to tell you how nervous I feel!'

  'Well! Well! Well!' Tom regarded her with a quizzical half-smile and his head slightly on one side. 'Our little Jane wallowing among the blood and gore and liking it! May I suggest that it takes all sorts to make a world?'

  'And may I remind you that you are still on duty and I am not? I want to carry the good news back to my family.'

  He glanced down at his watch.

  'Let me help you carry it,' he suggested. 'Give me five minutes and I'll drive you out to Heppleton much more quickly than you could possibly go by bus.'

  Jane hesitated.

  'Why should you?' she asked.

  'Because I want to. I thought I might be in on th
is celebration.'

  'There isn't going to be a celebration.'

  'Oh, isn't there? You've no idea what can happen when Doctor Sark is in charge!'

  'Unfortunately, I have,' Jane remarked dryly, but she smiled and waited for him to find his coat.

  Going out into the sunshine of the late October day she still felt that strangely elated sensation, yet deep down beneath it was the realisation of all her new position would mean. Harder work, certainly, but more rewarding work. Her mind fastened on after-care, but she knew that she had always wanted to be in the theatre, to be there at the actual working of the miracle. Surgery was her real bent.

  'Let's make it something worth while,' Doctor Sark suggested. 'A week-end jaunt. We could have all day on Sunday.' He had not stopped to consider that she might want to spend her one full day off duty with her family, although his voice sobered a little as he suggested: 'I'd like to take you down to the sea.'

  She knew that he spent most of his free time down on the Channel, somewhere round about Avonmouth, but apart from that her knowledge of young Doctor Sark was limited. Nobody, Jane realised, knew very much about him really. His background remained a mystery, and he had never taken anyone into his confidence, although he was free enough in other respects.

  'Isn't it rather late in the year for walking along the promenade?' she suggested. 'I know about the winds that can beat up out of the Bristol Channel, even in summer!'

  'Since we're having an Indian summer at present, that wouldn't apply,' he assured her as they reached the battered old car standing in the shade of the cloister wall. Conyers had once been a priory, its many rooms and walled garden closed in from the frustrations of the outside world. 'Say you'll come, Jane,' he pleaded. 'I've meant to ask you—quite apart from the celebration.'

  The suggestion of seriousness in his voice and the fact that the mocking light had disappeared from his eyes made it difficult for Jane to refuse him, but there was Hazel to think about. Thinking about Hazel and Linda Jane had become second nature to her these days. Her grey-green eyes, set under their finely arched brows, mirrored genuine regret as she said: