Hospital Corridors

by Mary Burchell.

  “I mustn’t let the romance of the place and the circumstances run away with me,” Madeline assured herself very sensibly. But her last waking thought was of herself in Morton’s arms and his kisses warm on her cheek and lips.

  She awoke early to a radiant summer morning, and went down to swim in the lake, hoping that Morton would join her there.

  It seemed, however, that she was too early for the other house guests, and for a while she had the place to herself. Then Nat Lanyon, not Morton, came down to join her. He was a strong swimmer and a rather spectacular diver, and after a while she climbed out of the water and, wrapping herself in her towelling wrap, sat for a few minutes in the early morning sun, watching him.

  Then presently he swam to the side of the terrace and called,

  “Aren’t you coming in again?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. I’ve been in long enough. But go on doing your exhibition stuff. I like it.”

  He laughed at that, however, and, supporting himself by his arms on the edge of the terrace, looked up at her quizzically and said,

  “Someone else was doing his exhibition stuff down here yesterday evening,, wasn’t he?”

  “Swimming, do you mean?”

  “No. Fishing,” retorted Nat Lanyon, with an unexpectedly flashing smile, which half attracted, half annoyed her.

  She flushed.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said rather coldly.

  “Well, I see you do,” was the amused reply. “But I suppose it’s not my business. Still—be careful. Warier fish have been caught with poorer lines than that.” And he swam off again across the lake, leaving Madeline feeling disturbed, annoyed, and with it all a little amused.

  During the day there were few opportunities for tête-à-têtes, romantic or otherwise, but the programme was a fascinating one. After breakfast, which was eaten, like most meals, on the upper terrace, the guests all piled into their own or someone else’s car and drove off, first to visit the Fish Hatchery of the Province at St Faustin, and then on to Mont Tremblant Lodge for lunch.

  At the Hatchery, Madeline was fascinated to make the round of the ponds in the great gardens, which, she was told, contained trout ranging from six months to six years in age. Some of them were more than a foot in size, but others were hardly bigger than her own finger.

  “When they’re about six or eight months old,” Don Elliott explained, “they’re taken by plane and dropped into the various lakes scattered throughout the Laurentians. And that’s the way we keep this a fisherman’s paradise.”

  Madeline laughed incredulously as she watched the tiny darting shadows in the ponds, and said, “What a surprise it must be for them when it happens!”

  “I guess it is,” Don agreed good-humouredly. While Dr. Lanyon added reflectively,

  “But then life is full of surprises for little fish.”

  Madeline turned away, annoyed, almost sure that he was teasing her. And when Morton came over from one of the other ponds, she slipped her arm into his with a feeling of something like defiance.

  Morton glanced down at her and smiled. There was the slightest pressure of his arm on her fingers, which no one but Madeline could know about, of course. But, even so, she had the odd impression that nothing in the whole incident had really escaped Dr. Lanyon’s uncannily keen observation.

  Then the party drove on to the five-thousand-acre property surrounding Mont Tremblant Lodge, and here Madeline was introduced to a perfect reproduction of a French-Canadian village, complete even to its church.

  Some of the cottages were architectural gems, and, later, when they went into the Lodge for lunch, Judy took her through some of the rooms, where everything was complete in its original French-Canadian style.

  “Even the bedspreads are hand-woven in Quebec Province,” Judy explained. “Isn’t it darling?—like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “All this weekend is like something out of a fairy tale,” Madeline declared. “I don’t know how I’m going to describe it all in letters to my people at home.”

  “They will want to come out and see it for themselves, I guess,” Judy Elliott said with a smile.

  “I hope my stepmother will,” Madeline declared. “Will come out here eventually, I mean. She half promised to do so before I left.”

  “Will she come on her own? Aren’t there any other members of the family to come?”

  “No. Only my sister, and she is married now,” Madeline explained. And then suddenly she remembered that, if things had been different, Clarissa might also have been here this weekend as the wife of Nat Lanyon, and somehow the idea reduced her to astonished silence.

  Judy did not notice this, however, merely thinking that they had exhausted the subject of Madeline’s family. And so they rejoined the others and had lunch beside the inevitable swimming pool.

  The journey home in the lengthening afternoon shadows was a leisurely one, and if Madeline and Morton had been alone in the car it would have been an occasion for further heart-to-heart talk of themselves. But, as on the outward journey, they were giving a lift to two of the other guests, and Madeline was not entirely sure whether she was glad or sorry because of this.

  It was over dinner that night that Dr. Lanyon said to her, “May I give you a lift back into town tomorrow evening? I hear that Sanders is staying on up here and that you need someone to drive you in.”

  It was an invitation which, Madeline knew, half the staff of the Dominion would have given much to have, and, in spite of her momentary annoyance with him, she was by no means indifferent to the distinction. So she thanked him and said she would be very glad to accept his offer, and only when he had turned away did she see how glum Morton was looking.

  “I meant to drive you in myself,” he said, as she met his rather sombre glance.

  “But, Morton, you came out here to stay!”

  “Well, I could come back, couldn’t I?”

  The retort was so unlike his usual casual, good-humoured, half-mocking utterances that she stared in astonishment.

  “But it isn’t necessary,” she pointed out patiently. “Dr. Lanyon is driving in to Montreal anyway. It’s very natural that he should take me. Isn’t it?” she pressed, as he was silent.

  “If you think so.”

  “Morton”—she laughed exasperatedly but, for all her self-control, a little tenderly—“don’t be silly. You don’t mind his taking me, really, do you?”

  “Not,” he said, with something of his usual smile, “if you promise me that you won’t enjoy the journey home so much as the journey here.”

  “It would be impossible,” Madeline assured him quite sincerely. And with that he appeared to be satisfied.

  She thought a lot about that foolish little incident afterwards. She was too kind and too sensible to enjoy exciting jealousy in anyone for the sheer self-satisfaction of proving that she could do so. But she could not be blind to the fact that jealousy must be a very rare occurrence in anyone so handsome, so self-assured and so successful as Morton.

  He was used to moulding events and people to suit himself, she was quite sure, and it could not have been often that he felt doubtful of his effect on any woman. What was it about herself that seemed to shake his assurance?

  “I’m not wonderfully unusual or beautiful or anything like that,” Madeline thought “Was it that I undervalued his good fortune and presumed to be sorry for him, when no one else even suspects that there is any reason to be so?”

  Whatever it might be, Madeline went out of her way the next day to make Morton feel that it was his company she wanted out at Bonaventure, and that, whoever took her home, it was the coming with him that had been important. As a result, his good humour and good spirits were completely restored, and that afternoon he took her out in a boat on the lake and made love to her in his charming, half-mocking, half-serious way, until Madeline wished that she could stay here for weeks and weeks, and forget that such a place as the Dominion Hospital ever ex
isted.

  However, practical considerations never yet stood aside for romantic ones, and presently she had to insist that Morton should take her back to the landing-stage, so that they would be in time for an early dinner and her departure with Dr. Lanyon.

  “I don’t know why the fellow wants to start out so early,” Morton said impatiently. “You don’t need to be in by twelve like Cinderella, do you?”

  “I have a late pass,” Madeline agreed with a smile, “but I don’t want to use it unless it’s necessary. I do have to go on duty tomorrow morning at seven, you know. And—much more important—Dr. Lanyon will be operating tomorrow, from an early hour.”

  “Looks after himself well, doesn’t he?” Morton grumbled.

  “No. He looks after his patients,” Madeline replied firmly. “No conscientious surgeon goes on duty feeling less than his best if he can possibly help it. You wouldn’t want to have a tired surgeon operating on you, would you, Morton?”

  Morton laughed.

  “I’d adore being nursed by you afterwards,” was all he would say.

  There was not much time left together after that, and it seemed a very short while until she was saying good-bye to the Elliotts and thanking them for their friendly insistence that she must come again soon.

  “Morton or Nat will drive you out,” declared Judy, with fine impartiality. “Or, if Don is in town and you have some off-duty time, he can always pick you up from the hospital. Just phone when you’re free to come, and we’ll lay on transport somehow.”

  Madeline thanked her again and turned to say good-bye to Morton. But, putting his arm round her, he came with her to the front of the house, and there, out of sight of the house-party, but in full view of Dr. Lanyon, who was already at the wheel of his car, he kissed her with an almost possessive tenderness that left her trembling a little.

  “I must go, Morton, I must go!” she insisted, acutely aware of the waiting figure in the car.

  “Let him wait,” said Morton, laughing down into her eyes.

  “No, I can’t!” she declared and, tearing herself away, she ran towards the car, frightened as much by the thought of keeping Dr. Lanyon waiting as by the strange and inexplicable sensations she experienced when Morton kissed her like that.

  “Ready?” said Dr. Lanyon drily, leaning forward to open the door for her.

  “Quite ready,” Madeline assured him a little breathlessly. And, as soon as she had slipped into the seat beside him and shut the door, he started the car, hardly giving her time to wave to the solitary figure of Morton, standing on the steps of Bonaventure.

  For quite a while they drove in silence, Madeline pretending to be interested in the scenery and Dr. Lanyon presumably concerned with his driving, or perhaps with his cases on the morrow.

  Then, as they turned at last from the mountain path into the main road, he said quite pleasantly,

  “So you thought it worth the risk?”

  She glanced at him, but he was looking straight ahead, and nothing in his expression suggested that he thought his remark either personal or peculiar.

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “No? I was thinking of our conversation a few days ago. I thought we agreed—or perhaps you didn’t altogether agree with me—that the price of Morton Sanders’ attentions would inevitably be the jealous fury of his mother.”

  She wished she could have told him to mind his own business. But, in all fairness and gratitude, she remembered that there had been occasions when she had been profoundly glad that he had not. So, instead, she said quite peaceably, “Mrs. Sanders knew all about this visit and was quite—quite happy about my coming.”

  “Indeed?” He looked amusedly incredulous. “Whose assurance did you have for that?”

  “Dr. Lanyon, this really is my own affair, you know,” Madeline said bravely. “But—since you ask me—I had Morton’s own assurance.”

  “Oh—I see.”

  The faintly disparaging tone nettled her, and she bit her lip angrily.

  “In addition, Mrs. Sanders herself spoke to me in quite a friendly way about it. She even”—Madeline glanced down at the lapel of her jacket—“gave me this brooch I’m wearing and said she hoped I would forget any unpleasantness there might have been between us.”

  “My dear Miss Gill, I hope you had the good sense to shudder with apprehension,” the great surgeon said drily.

  “But why?” She was half angry, half alarmed.

  “From the earliest times there have always been people who should be most mistrusted when they bring gifts, you silly child. Even savage tribes have learned that, to their cost You don’t really suppose Mrs. Sanders gave you that very charming brooch on the promptings of pure love, do you?”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Madeline, remembering the scene, laughed reluctantly and said, “No.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Very well. I know she doesn’t like my being friendly with Morton. But, except for some pin-pricks which she administers for her own satisfaction occasionally, she’s resigned to the situation, I think,” Madeline said.

  There was silence for a few moments. Then Madeline glanced at her companion again, a little anxiously, and said, “What is it?”

  “I’m trying to see resignation and Mrs. Sanders in some relation to each other,” was the sceptical reply. “And I’m also trying to decide why she should give you a present at all.”

  “Oh, well,” Madeline conceded, “that was really only a necessary preliminary to humiliating me, I’m afraid. She gave me the brooch, with an air of discharging all obligations to an outsider, and then asked me to be the bearer of this to Mrs. Elliott’s daughter.” She produced the diamond bracelet from her handbag, and Dr. Lanyon glanced at it in some astonishment.

  “Very handsome,” he observed.

  “Yes. She’s already told me that she hoped it would go to Morton’s—wife.”

  “Anne? But didn’t she know that Anne was away? She has been away some time.”

  “I think she did. She told me that if Anne Elliott were not there, I was to say nothing to anyone but bring the bracelet back.”

  “Whereupon you very wisely told me.”

  “Oh—well, that’s different.” Madeline laughed and flushed. “She meant I wasn’t to tell any of the family.”

  “Not even Morton?”

  “No.”

  “A safe way of getting it back, without any harm being done.”

  “I—I rather thought the same.”

  There was another silence. Then he said drily,

  “And you still think him worth the risk?”

  “Dr. Lanyon,” she said angrily, “you’ve interfered once or twice in my affairs to such welcome purpose that I can’t, without ingratitude, tell you to mind your own business. But I—I like Morton, and it’s no affair of yours.”

  “Except,” he replied imperturbably, “that you are a nice child and not, I think, quite able to look after yourself where a practised philanderer is concerned.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve used that term of Morton, and you have no right to do so!” exclaimed Madeline hotly.

  “It’s the right of anyone who can judge people, my dear,” he said, apparently unmoved by her anger.

  “And you think you’re such a good judge of people?” she flung at him.

  “Moderately good,” he said with a slight smile.

  “You weren’t a very good judge of Clarissa, were you?” she retorted angrily—and then was completely silent, knowing that her rage had betrayed her into something as unwise as it was unpardonable.

  There was quite a long silence, while she miserably stared at his hands on the wheel. They were strong, good, beautiful hands and they had saved many lives. But at that moment she could only see that they were white at the knuckles and tense with either anger or some other very strong emotion. Then at last he said, flatly and coldly,

  “What do you know about Clarissa?”

  “I’m sorr
y.” Madeline already felt chilled with dismay and remorse. “I shouldn’t have said that—it was horrid of me. But I—I’m Clarissa’s sister. At least, her half-sister.”

  “I see. So you know all about her making a fool of me?”

  “I—No, I don’t look at it that way at all.”

  “Well, whether you do or not is immaterial. She certainly did make a fool of me. There’s nothing else to say about it.” Silence again fell, like a stone.

  “Dr. Lanyon,” Madeline said softly at last, “please forgive me for what I said.”

  “My dear girl, you stated an unpalatable truth, that’s all,” was the cold reply, and Madeline felt suddenly that he had moved a thousand miles away from her in everything but physical fact.

  “But—”

  “Do you mind not talking about it any more? At least, not to me. I suppose you’ve already talked it well over with your colleagues. It would be too good to keep.”

  “I have not!” Madeline stated indignantly. “What sort of girl do you think I am?”

  “Clarissa’s sister,” he replied. “And that being so, I withdraw my remark about your not being able to look after yourself. I hope Morton Sanders can look after himself as well.”

  “You have no right to say anything so perfectly beastly to me!” Madeline exclaimed. “How do you know that I have anything in common with Clarissa at all?”

  “I don’t,” he agreed drily. “But you must forgive me if I say that I quail from the dangers of finding out.”

  The rest of the journey, with its long, ghastly silences and its occasional polite observations, was something Madeline never forgot. Again and again she was moved to try to explain and excuse herself, but each time she glanced at him the words died on her lips. She remembered once having heard a lively medical student declare that he would rather face a charging elephant than an angry Dr. Lanyon, because, as he said, “You could at least take a pot-shot at the elephant.” She had laughed at the time, but now she thought she knew what the student had meant.