The Silent Valley

by Jean S. MacLeod

  A nurse got up from the bedside and went noiselessly away and Matron picked up the chart from the chest of drawers and submitted it to Stuart.

  While Sir Gervaise made his examination she stood back in the shadows, a lone, erect figure, watching and waiting for the final verdict.

  'I believe you met my daughter in Switzerland,' Sir Gervaise said as he bent over his patient. 'Mr. Hemmingway has just been telling me that you stayed at the Oberzach hotel. I sent her away for a cure and I think it has worked. Wonderful fellows these Swiss, when it comes to lungs!'

  Tom nodded.

  'I'd like to have stayed there for a while,' he said. 'Doktor Frey was most helpful, but then I caught this packet and I wasn't a great deal of use.' He gave the older man a long, searching look. 'Hemmingway thinks you may be able to patch me up,' he added slowly. 'What are the odds?'

  Sir Gervaise stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  'It would be difficult to say,' he evaded. 'We'll have to be quite sure about your heart, for one thing, but you can safely leave that to us.'

  Stuart was conscious of Agnes Lawdon taking a step forward, as if she might intervene, but she did not speak. She stood aside as Sir Gervaise went out of the room, following them with a brief word to the hovering nurse.

  As they paused outside her study door a telephone shrilled somewhere along the corridor and the brisk little secretary who had spoken to Stuart on several occasions came into the study on their heels.

  'There's a telephone call for Mr. Hemmingway,' she announced. 'I've left it through in the office,' she added to Stuart as he turned to follow her.

  When he had gone the silence in the room deepened until it became tension and it was the man who finally broke it.

  'Agnes!' he said. 'It must be all of thirty years ‑'

  Agnes Lawdon looked at him across the breadth of the room, unsmiling and remote.

  'Every minute of them,' she said. 'Thirty years is a long time, Gervaise. We've both come a long way since then.'

  He appeared to clutch at some wisp of dignity, subconsciously straightening his stooped shoulders.

  'Yes, indeed. I've done quite well for myself,' he admitted. 'And you?'

  'Well enough.' Her eyes were hard, forcing him to meet their steady, prolonged gaze. 'Are you going to operate on this case?' she demanded harshly.

  He looked away.

  'The indications are all against success ‑'

  'Is that all you care about?' she asked savagely. 'Success! Never to operate on a poor chance in case your precious reputation might suffer in the process of failure? I tell you,' she added more slowly, mistress of herself again, 'you must operate! You're the man for the job and—it's the least you can do.' The dark eyes still held his, compelling him. 'It's the very least you can do,' she repeated firmly.

  In the tense, waiting silence which followed her ultimatum he moved towards her, a man groping in the mists of the past.

  'What are you trying to tell me?' he demanded. 'This boy? What does he mean to you?'

  'He is my son.' The calm voice stated the fact without emotion. 'I never told him the facts of his birth because I knew how they would cripple him. Ada and Joe Sark adopted him and I paid them for his keep. Afterwards, I was able to put him through college—make him a doctor.'

  She flung the details at him one by one, as if they scarcely mattered. They were the shabby fabric of the past and all she was concerned with now was the present and perhaps the future. The man facing her moistened his lips twice before he spoke.

  'Are you trying to tell me that—that ‑'

  'I am telling you that the boy you have just examined is your son,' she said quietly. 'But for this accident, you would never have known.'

  He looked for a moment as if he would strike her and then his hands fell to his sides.

  'Why didn't you tell me—long ago?' he demanded. 'I had a right to know.'

  'What right?' She put the question calmly, watching his heated face grow pale again as he was forced to meet her eyes. 'You would have given anything for a son of your marriage, but that was denied to you, yet you would not have recognised my child. You married well, Gervaise, and your marriage took you even further than you had hoped, for I still do not think you were a very brilliant doctor in the beginning, although I made my own particular contribution to your career.' She paused, adding when he did not answer her: 'I thought I could guide my son's life, hoping that he, too, would marry to his advantage, but recently I've wondered if that was where I went wrong. Love and faithfulness may count in a man's life, after all. This girl he's fond of,' she continued almost introspectively. 'Maybe she's the type who will make him happy. I tried to split their friendship up by getting rid of her, but Tom got the better of me there. He went out after what he wanted. He was determined sometimes—as determined as you were.'

  Her voice ebbed into the silence of the room while Sir Gervaise stared out of the window at the spires of the cathedral church across the way. His face was quite colourless when he turned to look at her again.

  'I couldn't operate, even if I wanted to,' he said. 'It's hopeless, I tell you—hopeless!'

  'You are the authority,' she told him inexorably. 'You have operated in a case like this before. I have followed your career, Gervaise—very closely.'

  'You're asking the impossible!' he cried. 'Knowing— realising all you have just told me, how could I?'

  'Would it have been easier for you if you had not known?' she asked coldly. 'You were never an emotional man, Gervaise. You took what you wanted .even in your youth. Your daughter came here and I found her very like you— selfish and headstrong, considering herself before everything else. She had, however, the saving grace of charity.'

  He strode back to the window.

  'What does all this add up to?' he asked more cautiously. 'You want my help. Very well, but I must, ask for your silence as payment.'

  For the first time she allowed emotion to disturb her expression. Her lip curled perceptibly.

  'You shall have it,' she promised. 'After thirty years, it should come easily enough.'

  When Stuart came back into the room they were still standing with its width between them, the silence fraught with a thousand unsaid things.

  'Are we ready to leave?' Sir Gervaise asked, glancing at his watch. 'I have another appointment at the City General.'

  When they were safely in the car Stuart looked at his companion keenly.

  'I propose to operate on that case,' Sir Gervaise said stiffly.

  'But sir‑'

  The older man held up a cautioning hand.

  'Allow me to be the best judge of this, Hemmingway,' he said, 'I have my own reasons for going on with the job.'

  Suddenly, as if something in him had crumbled, he leaned forward and put his face in his hands.

  'You're ill, sir!' Stuart said. 'Let me stop the car.'

  'No! No, I'm all right! Just a dizzy spell.' He mopped his brow. 'Working too hard, I expect. After this—business is over I may go out to Zurich and join Della for a few weeks.' He looked at Stuart anxiously. 'You're quite sure this cure is Working in her case, my boy?' he asked. 'You did say it was practically a hundred per cent, didn't you?'

  'I might go so far as to say that it has worked with Della,' Stuart assured him, 'but I think you would be wise to keep her out there for the remainder of this winter. Doktor Frey will co-operate, and I'm quite sure Della herself will be willing if she is told that she may do a little judicious skiing later on. She could even go up to Zermatt for the end of the season.'

  'She'll need that nurse of yours if she leaves the clinic,' Sir Gervaise said, frowning. 'I was surprised when you said you had brought the girl back with you, by the way. Her salary was a mere fleabite.'

  'Miss Calvert came back with Doctor Sark,' Stuart said stiffly. 'They are engaged.'

  He watched the remaining colour recede from his companion's face, leaving him grey and haggard-looking.

  'Too much rests with me,' he said th
ickly. 'I would have done what I could for the boy under other circumstances ‑'

  'You still mean to do that,' Stuart reminded him rather grimly, for he had little faith in the success of the operation. 'It is—very generous of you.'

  There was no reply, and after a few minutes Stuart asked if he might be dropped at Jane's hotel.

  'The City's only a couple of blocks farther on,' he said, 'but if you like I'll come the rest of the way with you, sir.'

  'There's no need,' Sir Gervaise assured him, hastily swallowing one of the tiny capsules he kept in a phial in his waistcoat pocket. 'I shall be all right. Have dinner with me tonight, my boy, and we'll talk about Della. I think you should still be keeping an eye on that girl of mine, you know!' he added with a heavy playfulness.

  He drove away, and Stuart was left on the pavement, frowning and wondering what had upset him so much during those few minutes at Conyers when he had been left alone with Matron.

  The telephone call had been from Jane. She had spent the morning curbing her anxiety in order to allay Aunt Ada's suspicions and it had not been an easy task, but even when Stuart had answered her call he had not been able to tell her very much.

  When she saw Stuart getting down from Sir Gervaise's Rolls she almost ran across the foyer to meet him, restraining herself with the utmost difficulty and ordering coffee to be brought to their table instead. She was on her feet as he came towards her.

  'Is there any news, Stuart?' she asked. 'Anything definite?'

  He just avoided meeting her eyes.

  'Sir Gervaise is going to operate,' he said.

  'Then there is hope?' Her eyes were suddenly misted with tears and relief flooded over her like a great tide. 'There's bound to be if he's going to take the risk!'

  'Don't force me to a platitude, Jane,' he, said almost wearily as he sat down.

  'But quite often it is true that where there's life there's hope,' she reminded him. 'You're tired, Stuart. You've done so much!'

  , 'No more than anyone else would have done for you in the circumstances, Jane. "Old acquaintances", remember!'

  When the coffee came Ada Sark began to pour it out with an unsteady hand. She had listened to their conversation without a word, plunged in her own unhappy thoughts of Tom.

  'Maybe I should go home for an hour or two,' she said, pursuing the domestic pattern of these thoughts. 'I never really shut up the house—not properly, and I'd have to ask a neighbour to see to my cat. I'll want to be here, of course, when Tom goes through this operation,' she added firmly. 'You'll tell me when it's to be?' she asked Stuart plaintively.

  'Jane will know,' he said, getting to his feet: 'I'll keep in touch with her, Mrs. Sark, and she'll bring you to the nursing home when you get back.' He bent to take the plump hand in his, holding it firmly for a moment. 'Try not to worry too much about Tom,' he advised. 'These things are in higher hands than ours.'

  'He's such a nice young gentleman,' Ada Sark mused as she watched him stride away towards the swing doors. 'It's funny that he's never found himself a wife, isn't it?'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Stuart went straight back to Conyers. To say that he was worried about Tom Sark was an understatement, and he had to force himself to accept Sir Gervaise's decision to operate as encouraging. It could not be that the old man was slipping. He had been an authority on this sort of thing for years, more years than Stuart could count as his lifetime. Tom was asleep when he got to the nursing home and he would not have him disturbed for a routine check-up. He stood looking down at the still figure on the bed, conscious of a growing unhappiness about the whole business for which he could not account. The issue involved him because of Jane, and she seemed to be demanding the future from him, Tom's future and her own.

  His eyes ran over the fair, ruffled hair on the pillow, the high, narrow brow and the suggestion of weakness about the relaxed jaw, not critically but with a new compassion. The man had so much to live for that it seemed almost sacrilege to voice his own grave doubts.

  He turned away, going slowly along the wide corridor to the main door where a draught of freezing air met him, and when he turned the corner he was confronted by a small girl in a scarlet coat holding open the swing door for the slim young woman who followed her.

  Mother and daughter, he thought idly, meeting two pairs of identical blue eyes. Surely they must have misunderstood about the visiting hours?

  'I wonder if you could help me?' He saw without its making a great deal of impression on his mind that the mother walked with a slight limp. 'I'm looking for my sister. I had a letter from her from Switzerland saying that she was coming home and the only address she could give me was this one. Do you think I could see her? Do you think she might be here?'

  'I've no idea.' His mind was still very much with Tom Sark and Jane. 'But if you will tell me your name, I'll ask Matron to see you.'

  'We've met before,' Hazel Bridgewater told him. 'You came to Heppleton once to see Jane.'

  Stuart stared back at her, as if Jane's name could only have been an echo of his own bitter reflections, and then he opened the office door, ushering mother and daughter into the warmth of a glowing electric fire.

  'We can talk here in comfort,' he said. 'Of course, I remember you now! Please forgive me for not recognising you straight away. I travelled back from Zurich with Jane and Doctor Sark,' he explained, wondering if she had been told about her sister's sudden engagement. 'We're quite old friends, you know.'

  Hazel bit her lip.

  'I wondered—when you came to the house,' she said. 'You—you were engaged to Jane at one time, weren't you?'

  He nodded briefly, as if he did not want to remember that time.

  'Yes. I believe you lived in Devon then. Jane was to take me to see you, but she never did.'

  'It—all ended so suddenly.' Hazel paused, as if what she had been about to add had suddenly become difficult, and then she raised stormy blue eyes to his. 'Why did you throw her over like that?'

  Stuart took a swift turn to the window and back again.

  'Did Jane tell you that I threw her over?' he demanded.

  'She couldn't very well.' Hazel was still frankly resentful. 'It happened round about the time of the accident, I guess. My husband was killed in a car crash and I was so severely injured that it was thought I might have to be pushed in a wheel chair for the rest of my life.'

  Stuart wheeled round, staring down at her incredulously.

  'You say all this happened four years ago?' he asked slowly and deliberately, like a man weighing up evidence. 'And afterwards Jane gave you the impression that I had "thrown her over"? That was the way you put it, wasn't it?'

  'Well, it was true!' Hazel retorted belligerently. 'I've never seen anyone so unhappy as Jane was at that time and for years afterwards, yet she was always kind and considerate to me. She had to work to help support us all, too. I had very little left when my husband's affairs were straightened out, and my mother was a widow. There was Linda Jane, too.' She looked across at the child sitting in the sunlight on the broad window-sill. 'She was little more than a baby at the time and I could do nothing for her. Mother looked after her through the day and Jane took over when she had time off from Conyers.'

  'Go on,' Stuart commanded stonily.

  'There isn't a lot more to be said, is there?' Hazel asked.

  'You let Jane down in the cruellest way possible when she must have needed the comfort of your love most. You went abroad or something, didn't you?'

  Stuart knew that Hazel was prepared to dislike him, but he could do nothing about that at the moment. In five brief minutes she had given the lie to four of the bitterest years of his life, vindicating Jane, turning the past upside down. At first it was difficult to believe, but there was no gainsaying the proof before his eyes—Hazel with her slight limp which would always remain as evidence of the accident which had changed so much in all their lives, and the fair-haired little girl who was not quite five years old.

  Why had Jan
e done it? Why hadn't she come to him and explained everything? He knew the answer before the question had formed properly in his mind. He had been desperately poor, a penniless graduate determined to rise to the heights, and she had seen herself and her family as a drag on his career. He might have been able to support a wife in comparative comfort if he had been willing to stay in England and accept a regulation hospital job, but his heart had been set on that post-graduate course in Zurich which his ability as a student had made possible and Jane had known that she could not leave England. Nor would she saddle him with the responsibility of her family or even the choice of making a decision!

  He saw it all now quite clearly. She had not permitted him any choice because she had known of his ambition, how much his career meant to him.

  He felt sick with the knowledge, revolted by his own unforgiving bitterness which he had been at little pains to conceal from her even after four years. He had been harsh and intolerant at their parting and again at their meeting at Conyers, and now he saw the years when she had stayed behind in England and fought her battle alone. Much that had puzzled him about Jane during these past few months came into clear perspective at last. He saw the reflection of hurt in her eyes at his own unkindness and recoiled at the thought of all he had said and done to her. What paltry satisfaction had he hoped to get out of it? In what way did he believe himself justified?

  Linda Jane came across the room to lean heavily against her mother's knees, surveying him with candid blue eyes.

  'Why don't you take me to my Aunt Jane?' she demanded. 'We've come from Nottin'ham to see her—on a bus.'

  He pulled himself together with a supreme effort.

  'I'm going to take you straight away,' he said. 'She's living at a nice hotel quite near here where we can have something to eat. Would you like to come with me in my car?'

  'Oh yes, please!' Linda Jane's eyes fairly shone. 'I like riding in a car. There's a big yellow one outside.'