The Judas Tree

by A. J. Cronin

  Kathy.

  PS. Uncle Willie says be sure and be in time.

  With a renewed sense of disappointment, Moray put down the letter which, when it arrived, he had opened so eagerly. Surely he might have expected something better than these few brief, restrained lines. Instead of the bare schedule of their departure, couldn’t she have dwelt more freelingly on her love, said that she was missing him, that she longed to be once again in his arms? In all her vocabulary was there no stronger word than ‘ dear’? He admitted that she was shy, poor child, troubled by the consciousness of their intimacy – so he construed the phrase ‘I will soon be your own true wife’ – and limited by the small size of the note-paper. Yet she had found space to devote to Willie – his lectures, his fever, his anxieties and arrangements, his request not to be late. Not a word, not a single inquiry as to his own state of mind and body, or the distress and difficulties he might be experiencing, away from her. Really, it was too bad. He loved her, he wanted her, and all she could do was to throw Willie at his head.

  This strange feeling that he had been deserted was intensified by the isolation of his present existence. His normal routine was broken, he had said goodbye to his friends in Schwansee, no one came to see him, they had all written him off as a departed member of their group. And Frida – for more than a week he had not set eyes upon her, although on several occasions, in the hope of meeting her, he had essayed a halting walk in the rain round the lake shore towards her domain. He missed the companionship she had so freely given and which, now above all, when certainty and uncertainty chased each other across his mind, he so sorely needed. Bitterly he regretted the rift between them, the result of a few outspoken words on her part which, realising their purpose, he had already condoned. Surely he could not leave her without attempting to resolve their differences. Time was getting so short, so very short; in two days he would be off. He ought to go up the hill to visit her. Yet something, pride perhaps, a restraining gleam of caution, had hitherto intervened.

  The summons to lunch recalled him. He ate in abstracted silence, without appetite; then, as was his Sunday habit, took a short nap. Awakening about three he saw that the rain poured down more mercilessly than ever. He got up, moved about the house, checked his packed suitcases, smoked a cigarette, tried to kill time, but gradually his spirits sank, reached their lowest ebb and, after resisting during the hours of daylight, as the miserable grey afternoon turned to sodden evening, he succumbed to the craving for one word of human comfort. Frida would give it. She was, had always been, his friend. They would not argue, would discuss nothing involving controversy, would simply spend in sympathy one last quiet restorative hour of human intercourse.

  Hurriedly, before he could change his mind, he put on his Aquascutum, took an old golf umbrella from the stand and, letting himself unobtrusively out of the house, hobbled off. The ferry took him across the lake, but for a lame man it was a long walk and a stiff climb up the steep, winding path to the schloss. Yet he was there at last, trembling at the knees like a horse after a stiff pull. God, he thought, what a wreck I’ve become.

  Almost lost in the low clouds, the tall Seeburg towered above him. Built of rough mountain granite in the seventeenth century Swiss style, with a machicolated roof and twin pepperpot towers, it had, in the swollen darkness, a spectral, haunted air, an impression heightened by the harsh croaking of drenched ravens sheltering beneath the overhang of the eaves. Advancing on the mossy terrace outside the narrow double windows that gave on to her sitting-room, he drew up with a catch of breath. Yes, there she sat, alone on the sofa, beside the antique tiled stove, working at her needlepoint under a single shaded light that barely illuminated the large and lofty apartment, sparsely furnished with heavy high-backed walnut chairs and a great Bavarian armoire. Her favourite little weimaraner, Peterkin, lay on the rug at her feet with his nose between his paws.

  The sombre domesticity of the scene touched Moray. With an agitated hand he tapped on the pane. Immediately she raised her head, turned towards the outer darkness; then, putting down her work, she came slowly forward and opened the tall window. For a long moment she looked at him fixedly, then in a calm, firm voice, totally devoid of solicitude, she said:

  ‘My poor friend, how ill you look. Come! I will help you. So.’ Taking his arm she guided him towards the sofa. ‘ Here you must sit and rest.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, breathing with difficulty. ‘As you see, I’m rather under the weather. You may remember I hurt my back. It hasn’t quite cleared up.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, standing over him. ‘Three times I have seen you by the lake, attempting to take your walk. I said to myself, unfortunate man, soon he will come to me.’

  No note, no sign of triumph was evident in her tone or manner, but a kind of calm protectiveness, as though she were dealing with a favoured yet refractory pupil.

  ‘I felt I must come,’ he defended himself hurriedly. ‘I couldn’t bear to leave the breach between us permanently unhealed. I . . I am due to go the day after tomorrow.’

  She did not answer but sat down beside him on the sofa and took his hand, holding it with strong, compelling fingers. For several moments there was absolute silence; then, gazing at him intently and speaking with the calm conviction of accomplished fact:

  ‘My poor friend, you are not quite yourself. And now it is for a woman who knows and understands you, who has for you the best and strongest feelings, yes, it is now time for her to save you from yourself.’

  ‘From myself?’ he repeated, confused and startled.

  ‘You have been led foolishly into a bad situation. Because you are an honourable man and, although ill, would wish to be a brave one, you want to go through with it. Even when it is plain you will not survive.’ She paused quietly. ‘ But for that I will not stand aside.’

  In the ensuing silence, compelled by a strange mixture of attraction and revulsion, he forced himself to raise his head and look at her.

  ‘I must admit,’ he said, trying to assert himself, ‘with this lameness, I’m … almost in doubt. I mean, it has crossed my mind as to whether I’ll be able to go as arranged, or whether I should follow later.’

  ‘You are no longer in doubt, my friend. I do not intend to let you go.’

  A complex shock passed through him, a combination of opposites, positive and negative charges of electricity perhaps, anyhow a decided shock.

  ‘But I’m committed … in every way,’ he protested.

  ‘Yes, you have been wrong.’ She lifted a forefinger in admonition. ‘And stupid also. But listen. When you are walking in the mountains and discover yourself upon the wrong road, do you continue and fall into a crevasse? No. When you have asked directions of someone who knows better you turn and go back. That is what you will do.’

  ‘No, no. I couldn’t. What would Kathy and Willie think of me? Even the people here, after all the talk, my speech at the party, the publicity in the Tageblatt. I’d be the laughing-stock of the canton when they still saw me around.’

  ‘They will not still see you around,’ she answered, almost casually. ‘For you must go away for a long holiday … with me.’

  Again he started visibly, but she held him silent with a faint calm smile, went on in the same even, conversational tone.

  ‘First we go to Montecatini, where there are wonderful baths for your back, and also, once you are better, a fine golf course where I will walk with you and admire your play. After, we take a cruise on that nice select little ship the Stella Polaris. Only then, in the Spring, do we return here, by which time all the silly business is finished and long forgotten.’

  Immobilised by those hypnotic eyes he stared at her as though in a trance, yet perceiving, for the first time, that her hair had been freshly rinsed and set, that – as if she had expected him – she wore a new mauve silk dress, high in the waist, full and pleated in the skirt, a dress at once classic and correct, which enhanced her natural distinction. Certainly a fine figure of a woman an
d still beautiful – at a distance. Yet from close range his dilated pupils mirrored the commencing stigmata of middle-age; the faint reticulated network beneath the orbits, the slight sag of the muscular neckline, the speckled discoloration of the strong even teeth. How could this be compared with that other sweet face, that frail, fresh young body? An inward sigh shook him. And yet – in his present lamentable state – wasn’t she a haven, an anchorage, a lady too, cultured, distinguished, and, in the ultimate analysis, not unbedworthy? He drew a sharp breath, was about to speak when, with a gleam of ridicule, she forestalled him.

  ‘Yes, I am a reasonable bargain. And I will be the proper wife for you – by day and by night. Have I not also had strong longings during the years I have lived alone? We shall fulfil together. And what an interest for us both to restore and redecorate the Seeburg, to fill it with your beautiful things! We shall have a salon more famous than was Coppée in the days of Mme. de Stael.’

  He still mumbled a protest.

  ‘I’m terribly fond of you, dear Frida. But …’.

  ‘But, yes, my poor man, and I of you. For once and all, I will not let you go out there to destroy yourself.’

  A silence. What more could he say, or do? He felt overpowered, dominated, possessed, yet filled with a slow, creeping tide of comfort. The plan she presented was so sane, so agreeable in all respects – vastly different from that dark future which, during these last few days, he had come to dread. Acceptance would be like sliding into a warm bath after a long exhausting journey. He closed his eyes and slid. The relief was indescribable. He lay back on the sofa.

  ‘Oh, my God, Frida … I feel I want to tell you everything … from the very beginning.’

  And he did, at length, with feeling.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she murmured, sympathetically if ambiguously, when he concluded. ‘I see it all.’

  ‘You’re the only woman who has ever understood me.’

  As he spoke the dog stirred from sleep, looked up and, with a bark of recognition, jumped on to his knees.

  ‘You see,’ she nodded, ‘Peterkin accepts you also. Now you are tired. Rest while I bring something to restore you.’ She was soon back, glass in hand. ‘This is from your own country, very old and special. I have kept it for you for a long time. Now, to please me, you must drink all.’

  The one spirit he detested was whisky – it always disagreed with him, soured his stomach, upset his liver. But he did need a stimulant, and he wanted to please her; besides, he hadn’t the will to resist.

  ‘Well done,’ she commended him, resuming her place beside him. ‘Now we will sit quiet as two mice in church until you feel better.’

  As he had expected, the whisky went straight to his head. His face became flushed and in no time at all he felt, not better, but stupid and inflamed. Presently, observing him, she said thoughtfully: ‘I have been considering the best, way to arrange our marriage. It must be done not only most quietly, but also quickly, if we are to get away before all the fuss, which you fear so much, becomes known. Yes?’

  ‘The sooner we clear out the better.’

  ‘Then it is best that we go to Basle, leaving early tomorrow. It will take altogether three days, for there are several formalities. But we can be back here on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘And then, dear Frida?’

  ‘Off on our long holiday next morning.’

  Hazily he saw her smiling down at him. Damn it, she wasn’t a bad-looking gammer, with those wonderful eyes and that solid, Wagnerian body which gave promise of well sprung resilience. What was she saying?

  ‘You were sweet a moment ago. You called me dear Frida.’ ‘You are rather a dear, you know.’ Unexpectedly, he sniggered. ‘A regular Brunnhilde.’

  ‘It is for you to know – in the future. You have never seen the upstairs of the Seeburg. My room, that will be our room, is nice. That we shall not look at this evening. But after? So? You will not find me cold. Some people do not need the love of the body, but with us it will be natural and frequent. Yes? And necessary also, for it puts one at ease. Now let us talk about our so pleasant future.’

  An hour later, the Dauphine bore him triumphantly to the villa. In the close darkness of the little car she patted his cheek and gave a meaning little laugh.

  ‘Now, like me, you will have happy dreams. Goodnight, mein lieber Mann, tomorrow I will come to you early. We must start for Basle before nine o’clock.’

  Dead beat, but dulled and comforted, he stumbled into the house, thankful for the fact that he was so extinguished he must instantly fall asleep.

  ‘I’m going straight to bed,’ he told Arturo, in a voice he made an effort to keep normal. ‘See that you lock up before you turn in. And I’ll want breakfast at eight sharp.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Arturo, somewhat blankly. ‘And tonight, will you have your hot milk and sandwiches upstairs?’

  No, he thought, not after the whisky, he was still not quite sober.

  ‘Nothing tonight.’ He paused, confronted by the necessity of conveying the change in his plans: Well, with Arturo it would not be so difficult; he had been quite broken up at the prospect of his departure.

  ‘By the way,’ he sought for the words, ‘something quite unexpected has come up. I shall not after all be obliged to leave for good, but only for a matter of perhaps three months.’

  Several shades of expression passed over the other’s face before radiance shone from it.

  ‘Oh, sir, I am so happy, so filled with joy, so thankful to the good God and Santa Philomena to whom I pray for you to stay. Only wait till I tell Elena.’

  Arturo’s extravagant delight was an added solace. Such loyalty, such affectionate devotion he thought, on his way up the stairs, and from Elena too, both so deeply attached to him. And now for bed.

  Gazing upwards with a queer expression, Arturo watched him enter his bedroom, then he turned and went back to the pantry. Elena looked at him expectantly. He responded with an affirmative gesture and a significant grimace.

  ‘You were right. The German has hooked him. Got him by the short hairs.’

  ‘Madre d’ Dio.’ She let out the exclamation and broke into broad Neapolitan. ‘Lu viecchio ’nzannaluto.’

  ‘He’s that, all right.’ Arturo shrugged in agreement. ‘And how he will suffer.’

  ‘But so also will we,’ said Elena despondently. ‘That squaldrina will watch the money like a Swiss tax collector. Goodbye to our little ribasso from the market when she gets her claws on the bills.’

  ‘Still, it’s better than having him go. We can still milk him.’

  ‘Llecca ’o culo a chillu viecchio ’ nzannaluto?’

  ‘That’s it, lay on the butter thick.’ He went to the cupboard, took out a bottle and drew the cork. ‘He’s the softest touch I ever handled.’

  ‘Watch out though, with her around.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing. Besides, we have to make the most of him while he’s got it. Before she finishes, that culo will take everything off him.’

  ‘Chella fetente va a ferni c’ ’ o mette ’ nterra,’ said Elena, with meaning.

  At this prediction of complete emasculation for their employer they looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Three days later, at the hour of twilight on Wednesday afternoon, the Humber utility car, mud-bespattered as from a journey, slid unobtrusively through the village of Schwansee, swung discreetly into the familiar acacia drive and drew up at Moray’s villa.

  ‘Well, here we are, Frida.’ Pulling off his driving gloves he stated the obvious with a congratulatory smile, adding, with a glance at the dashboard clock, ‘ and dead on time.’

  The successful secrecy with which they had invested their wedding gave him a distinct glow of achievement; it had all gone exactly according to plan. He squeezed out of the driving seat and, hurrying round the car, helped her with uxorious solicitude to alight. At the same moment the door of the villa swung open and Arturo app
eared, advanced with a determined smile of welcome.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Moray asked aside, as the man removed the suitcases from the boot.

  ‘Quite all right, sir. We have the salon in order again with the china all arranged. But the library and the other rooms will take more time.’

  ‘You’ll have time. We shall be off tomorrow for quite a long spell.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘There were no messages of any kind?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  Impossible to repress that involuntary breath of relief. He had feared the possibility of a last-minute telephone call, a distressing message awaiting his return. But no, they had gone off, without a word, exactly as Frida had predicted, off to the Mission, to their work – not his, it had never been his – yes, their life’s work, which, by its very complexities, its difficulties and dangers, would absorb them, make Kathy speedily forget. How misguided he had been ever to imagine that he could beneficially link his future to that dear dedicated girl, yet how wise, in her interests and his own, to realise his mistake before it was too late. And now there would be no more idealistic nonsense, no more reaching after spiritual moonbeams: safely married to a mature and distinguished woman he experienced a warm feeling of security, a sense of having at last reached journey’s end.