by Jane Arbor
“I suppose Sara was right really,” she added. “But she must have put her case very tactlessly, because I think they both flared up before they had even discussed it.”
“The young idiots,” mused Barbara affectionately. “Fortunately they’re young enough to have time before them to do everything they want. But when I tell Victor that it’s all right between them again, he’ll either insist that there was never anything wrong, or he’ll say, ‘What did I tell you?—as if his tiresome do-nothing policy was proved to the hilt!”
“Well, isn’t it?” laughed Kathryn.
“In their case, perhaps. Not always.” Barbara was suddenly grave. She added hesitantly: “You’re not very happy yourself, Kathryn, are you?”
In face of the gentle concern in her friend’s voice, Kathryn found it impossible to lie, or even to resort to evasion. A little tremulously she said: “When you’ve dreamt the impossible, it’s hateful to wake up to hard, plain fact. And I—have been doing some dreaming!”
Barbara’s brow furrowed. “What is it, then? Is Steven being difficult? Or has Thelma interfered again?”
“Steven?” Kathryn’s repetition of the name was quite blank, as if she had had to wrench her memory over to its owner. And in that instant Barbara’s intuition told her the truth.
“It’s not Steven. It’s someone else. It’s—Adam Brand. And I think I’ve known since the night I telephoned about Carol, when you were so caustic about his praise of you.” Barbara was stating facts now, not asking questions. She did not need Kathryn’s nod of confirmation and went on gently: “My poor sweet, why did you have to let your dreams stray there! He is a dear at heart, and quite brilliant at his work, as we all know only too well. But he’s not for you, is he?”
“No, of course not. Off the ward I simply don’t exist for him. Or rather, I gather that he resents finding that I do exist elsewhere,” added Kathryn a little bitterly.
“What do you mean?”
“Thelma told Sara to give me a hint that he considers he sees more than enough of me at work; that to meet me socially as well—here, for example—calls upon the last straw of his endurance.”
Barbara’s jaw dropped. “Of all the impertinent arrogance!” she declared. “But I don’t believe it, Kathryn. I just don’t believe it. Adam can’t appreciate your work as he does and be capable of saying such a thing.”
Kathryn’s lips curved. “But you can understand now that I’m wary of any opinion he expresses about me.”
“You are doubting what he said to Victor! But I know he said it, and that he was utterly sincere. But this other thing—why, it reeks of the sort of evil that we know Thelma has been capable of before. Kathryn, why do you let yourself be hurt by it?”
(Because I had let him hurt me even before 1 began to dream my silly dreams. Because he kissed me, believing I was Thelma. Because his indifference says it all the while, even if his tongue does not.) Aloud she asked: “You think it’s weak of me to care, don’t you?”
“No—no, of course I don’t. You would mind, loving the man. But if Thelma made this up, as I’m convinced she did doesn’t that say anything to you? Doesn’t it show that she is a bit afraid of what you may mean to Adam? Are you sure he cares nothing for you? After all, he and Thelma aren’t officially engaged, are they?”
“No, but I’m quite sure. If you care for a girl, you—don’t try to thrust her almost literally into the arms of another man.”
“Adam did that?”
“Yes. When he first came to the Wardrop he took me to task for throwing over Steven Carter without cause. When he found out he was wrong he apologized—and begged me to give Steven another chance. As Thelma had done the same, I could only conclude the idea was mutual.”
“But Thelma was against your marrying Steven! Why the change? And why should Adam—”
“In their different ways they both care a great deal for Steven,” Kathryn reminded her rather wearily.
“And neither had any scruples against making use of you to get him what he wanted! As if they could hope to succeed by interfering like that!”
“I thought it was Victor who advised against interference!” suggested Kathryn with a wry smile.
“Oh, it was!” Barbara was too indignant to see the joke against herself. “But wanting to help is one thing, and this sort of manoeuvring of people, for your own ends, is another. In fact,” she added thoughtfully, “so far as Thelma is concerned, I suspect that that is just what it is—for her own ends—not for Steven’s at all. Kathryn, listen—”
But at that moment Victor came in, and at the sight of Kathryn he came to take both her hands in his, drawing her to her feet. A little huskily he said: “Bless you, Kathryn. This time at least you have the reward you deserve.”
She knew that he was speaking of the baby who had not lived, and that he did so without any bitter comparisons—only a deep gratitude that Carol was safe.
She reminded him gently: “I did nothing alone either time. Nobody in hospital does.”
“I know that, my dear. But Barbara and I tend to see it all in terms of the work of two people we know and are fond of—yours and Brand’s—”
She flinched suddenly, and turned to kiss Barbara good night without answering him. When she had gone Barbara burst out: “Victor, do you realise—she’s in love with Adam!”
Victor was dragging at the knot of his tie. “And you think he should be in love with her?”
“Well, naturally I do. But he isn’t. That’s why she is so unhappy, as I told you she was. He is all tied up with Thelma Carter, and when Steven Carter came back from Africa, Adam fairly thrust him and Kathryn together. He wouldn’t have done that if he cared for her at all, would he?”
Victor sat down on the end of his bed and began to untie his shoes. “You’d think not,” he said noncommittally.
“Unless—Victor darling, here’s an idea—” Barbara cocked her head on one side while she considered it. “Supposing he were in love with her, and had deliberately stood aside to give Steven the first chance with her?”
Victor grinned. “You insist on your bit of wishful thinking, my pet! I thought you said Brand’s designs were on Thelma? You can’t have it both ways.”
“I don’t want it both ways,” pouted Barbara. “Only one way—the way Kathryn wants it, Victor we’ve got to do something. Couldn’t you give Adam a hint?”
Her husband went over to her bedside and stooped to kiss her. “I could not,” he said firmly. “If all your theorising happens to be wrong, how do suppose Kathryn would like having her feelings laid bare to Brand—to no purpose?”
“But!”
“No.” He was smiling down at her, but there was decision in his tone.
“Oh, men!” declared Barbara in exasperation as she reached for the light-switch.
But she was soon asleep, wrapped in the sweet weariness of her own relief from tension and anxiety, while Victor lay awake in the darkness, wondering why women should frequently imagine that they could run the world better than the Deity himself.
CHAPTER NINE
Across the room made hazy by their cigarette-smoke Thelma and Steven faced each other. Thelma asked: “How true do you suppose the story is?”
“It’s true, all right,” returned Steven. “The chap I had it from got it from Sir Paul’s private secretary. The old man wants to leave England for his health, but doesn’t mean to get out of harness. Hence this plan of a privately-run clinic in South Africa, staffed by a hand-picked team from this end. The point is—how do I sell him the idea that I’d give anything to be a member of it?”
“Well, your qualifications are good and you’ve got experience, and after all, Sir Paul has known you all your life—”
“Without acquiring much of an opinion of me, I gather,” interposed Steven drily. “And remember that my previous African fiasco might count against me.”
“Oh, forget that—it’s finished!”
“—and that I lack one of the major conditions Sir Paul has
laid down.”
“You mean—about his preferring married men? But Steven”—Thelma stubbed out her cigarette and lit another irritably—“surely you’re going to do something about that before long?”
Steven said slowly. “It’s not so easy. I can’t forget Kathryn—”
“Then why try?”
He looked up, surprised. “We’ve agreed to be friends, no more than that. It’s an arrangement that would have pleased you once.”
Thelma brushed the implied accusation aside. “I didn’t know then how much you cared for her. And if she’s still willing to see you and isn’t engaged to anyone else doesn’t that say anything to you?”
“Should it?”
“Of course. She refused you, didn’t she? Then how in decency’s name, could she accept you when you came back from Africa, without sheltering behind this excuse of ‘friendship’ first? You don’t know much about women, Steven dear, if you think Kathryn Clare isn’t still interested.”
“As my friend, I know she is. But she wouldn’t marry me.”
“Have you asked her lately?”
“No, and it would be betraying our pact of friendship if I did. She doesn’t want me in that way, and never has done. She has always been honest, at least.”
“But you love her; she isn’t engaged to anyone else, and yet you won’t make another bid for her, even if doing so achieved for you this other thing as well! Steven, you really are spineless.”
Steven stood up and moved towards the door. “All right. I’m spineless. But I’m not using Kathryn as a lever to get me a desirable job.”
“By that I suppose you mean that you wouldn't approach Sir Paul and, without saying anything definite, give him and idea that there might be a chance you would be married before he wanted you to go out?”
“I certainly would not.”
“Then will you go to him, anyway—strike while the iron is hot, before he’s had a chance to pick anyone else for the job he might offer you?”
“When the whole thing is no more than a rumour? How can I?” protested Steven as he left her, not guessing the extent to which he left the whole field open to her plans. She picked up the telephone, asked for an appointment, and sat back well satisfied.
That night Sir Paul rang up Adam and asked him to dine. During dinner their conversation was general until, over their liqueurs, Sir Paul remarked: “I hadn’t supposed that plans I considered confidential would become public property to soon.”
Adam looked up. “Are you speaking of the clinic project mentioned to me?”
“The same.”
“You aren’t suggesting, sir, that I’ve not treated them in confidence?”
“No, but there’s been a leakage—through my own staff, no doubt. It doesn’t matter, as I meant to implement them very soon, but I can see that I’m going to be urgently canvassed for the vacancies I have to offer. I’ve already had the first applicant—young Carter.”
“Steven Carter?” There was no mistaking Adam’s surprise. He recovered himself to ask: “You know, don’t you, that he came back from Africa somewhat disillusioned about foreign appointments?”
“Yes. But the circumstances were rather different, you’ll agree. The man was ill, and never had the chance to acclimatise himself properly.”
“You mean to take him, then?”
“Yes, I think I shall, though not starting level with specialist chaps like you, of course.” Sir Paul drew thoughtfully upon his cigar. “You know, I’ve a feeling that I may have misjudged him earlier, or that he’s learnt something since. I must say I like a courage that faces failure and grapples with it on its own ground.”
“I like it, too,” was Adam’s quiet reply. “It’s the stuff I knew Steven had in him, given the chance to prove it. I’d hoped that he would find his feet by returning to the familiar ground of the Wardrop, but this is better still.”
“I hope so, though I’ve yet to interview him personally. It was Thelma who came to me on the first reconnaissance. She has always made Steven’s interests her own, hasn’t she? She hinted, by the way, that he probably wouldn’t be going out alone, and though, as I told you, I’d prefer to have you all married men, in Steven’s case his gain is likely to be our loss—yours as well as mine.”
“Ours? How so?” Adam’s fingers tightened imperceptibly upon the stem of his liqueur glass.
“Because, according to Thelma, Steven’s bride will be your Sister Clare, whom I’d hoped you would persuade to come put as your colleague. Unfortunate, that, unless she would consider continuing her work when she got out there. Incidentally, does the news surprise you?”
There was a pause. Then: “Not really,” said Adam carefully. “It’s the best possible thing that could happen—for Steven.”
“I gather that you hadn’t yet put our project to Miss Clare?”
Again silence. At last Adam said: “No, I hadn’t I supposed that you would wish to make different arrangements if I decided against coming myself. And, sir, I’ve decided against it.”
The older man stared at him in dismayed belief. “You’re not coming?”
“No, though I can’t say how much I appreciate your wanting me. But I feel I owe the Wardrop more of my experience than I’ve yet given it, and that it still has a good deal of experience to offer me. I think I can hope that you’ll understand that?”
Sir Paul nodded, muttering: “Yes, indeed. It does you credit. All the same, I’d hardly reckoned on doing without you, Adam.”
“There are other men who are more than my equal.”
“I daresay—only with less of my confidence, as it happens. However, if that’s your decision I suppose I must accept it?”
“It is my decision, sir.” Adam did not add that though conviction had been growing for some time, decision had not been reached until that night.
On the day of Carol’s, homecoming from hospital, Kathryn and Sara were both free of duty and had been to lunch with Barbara. Now Sara had gone by taxi to fetch Carol, leaving the other two to put some last touches to preparations for her welcome. While Kathryn laid up a bed-table with nursery-rhyme china in readiness for her first meal at home, Barbara was finishing a little smocked dress she had made for the child.
When she had snipped off the last thread, she handed it across for Kathryn’s inspection.
“It’s delightful. She’ll love it,” declared Kathryn, handing it back.
“There’s a suit for Edward, too. They both want pressing. I’ll do them presently.” But for the moment Barbara sat idly, hands in lap, watching Kathryn.
She said sadly: “I wish you hadn’t decided to go, Kathryn. We’re all going to miss you so much!”
“I’m going to miss you too. But don’t try to dissuade me, Barbara. It—it would be so easy to give in!”
Barbara’s hand went out to grip her friend’s momentarily. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I know your mind is made up, however much it hurts.”
“You don’t consider I’m just—running away?”
“No, dear, of course not. You are doing a wise, brave thing. I only wish you hadn’t to do it. Have you actually handed in your resignation to Matron yet?”
“No, but I’ve written it. To-morrow, I thought—”
“Or told Sara?”
“Yes, I’ve told her. It was difficult, because I think she regards me as one of the permanent fixtures in hospital. And she believes the Children’s Ward to be my whole life—as, of course, until recently it was,” added Kathryn in a low voice.
“You didn’t tell her—why?”
“No, and she didn’t question the reason I gave her—that I felt I wanted a change of scene and of work. I didn’t want to have to tell her the real reason, so my pride was thankful for the clouds of bliss that she is wrapped in at the moment.”
“Bless her, she is ecstatic about Simon, isn’t she?” agreed Barbara. “And now Carol is better, and her precious Sister Bridgeworth saw fit to commend her specially for helping Simon to save
the life of that Daddy Fosdick on her ward, I think she asks nothing more of fate, except to marvel, ‘All this—and heaven too?’ ”
They both laughed, but Barbara was grave again as she ventured: “Does Adam know that you mean to leave the Wardrop?”
“No, though Matron may tell him, and of course he’ll know officially before I go.”
“When it’s too late for you to change your mind, I suppose? Oh, Kathryn, I do wish—” began Barbara, only to break off with a little helpless shrug. In the face of her friend’s stony determination to cut adrift from all that spelt frustration and heartbreak, she had come to a reluctant agreement with Victor. Of all the fulfilments she longed for for Kathryn, there was not on which either friendship or loyalty could arrange.
Outside there was the sound of a taxi drawing up, and after the customary noisy scurry of arrival, Sara and Carol were in the room. Carol, chattering excitedly, soon became flushed, and Barbara flashed an unspoken question at Kathryn, who nodded. “Yes, I think so,” she said, and it was agreed that Carol should go to bed at once, and that they should all have tea with her in her room.
Sara unpacked for her, while Kathryn helped her to undress, and presently she was propped up on pillows, with Edward beside her, ready to act as hostess in her own right.
“How did Edward like leaving hospital?” asked Kathryn.
Carol’s gaze was round-eyed and concerned. “He’s not very well, really,” she admitted. “You see, he began a new disease this morning. Dr. Brand said so, but I can’t quite remember what it’s called—”
“Tactless of Dr. Brand,” murmured Sara, grimacing at Kathryn. “I do think we might have expected Edward to be discharged cured of all his ills, don’t you?” She broke off as Carol uttered a little yelp of triumph. “I’ve remembered, I’ve remembered!” she crowed. “He’s got con—convalescence!” She glanced anxiously at the grown-ups’ superbly controlled faces before she added in an awestruck voice: “I daresay it’s awfully rare—don’t you?”