The Coral Tree

by Joyce Dingwell

  THE CORAL TREE

  Joyce Dingwell

  Cary had been given a difficult task—to bring life and happiness to a house that for years had been darkened by bitterness and frustration.

  She planned to do it by establishing a home for crippled children. But she could only do this with the help of a certain doctor and he appeared to have taken a violent dislike to her, which she as violently returned.

  The scene is set first in the Swiss Alps, then in Joyce Dingwell’s own country, Australia.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MORNING WAS at eight o’clock.

  It came with fragrant coffee, crisp rolls, yellow butter and cherry jam—that, anyway, was how it had seemed to Cary since her arrival in this little alpine town.

  She would hear the breakfast trolley rattling down the corridor, the maid’s knock; then the tray would be on her lap, the curtains drawn aside, and the nursery slopes with soaring Lannwild Mountain behind them almost attacking her with their sparkle and glitter. It was, thought Cary in never-diminishing enchantment, like a white shout of surprise.

  She wondered if the other hotel guests felt the same magic as she did, but perhaps coming fairly recently from Australia made one more responsive to this shining fairytale world of feathery, swirling snow. “I’m fortunate,” she gloated continually. “I’m getting twice the rapture for the same money.” She was glad Mr. Beynon had persuaded her to come.

  As elderly Hilde now fastened back the flowery chintz with a corded loop, Cary sat up high in her bed to peer out. Even this early the skiers were abroad. She could see them through the window. Then Cary turned her attention from the scene outside to the breakfast tray.

  “Hilde,” she accused, “I never ordered this.”

  The maid beamed over the bacon and eggs. Today was an important day, though Miss Porter did not realize it. Jan Luknit had told Hilde so when she had encountered him in the lobby. “This morning,” the ski-ing instructor had announced with pride, “our Miss Porter will graduate from the nursery slopes and take the chair-lift to the Horn for her first run alone. She had done well, that little one,” he had smiled; “she is attentive, eager.”

  Hilde, in her practical village manner, had thought: “A run alone, then she must eat up. I shall take some bacon and eggs. She is from Australia, she says, but that, of course, is England, so it must be bacon and eggs. She must be strong for her first run alone.”

  She did not tell Cary of this, however. That pleasure, she decided, must be for Jan. A nice boy, Jan. He and the little miss had made a charming couple on the slopes. With a satisfied chuckle, Hilde went out.

  After the door had closed, Cary leaned back in unaccustomed luxury, hardly believing, as she had not believed now for three weeks, that this outrageously pampered person was Cary Porter, that only two months ago she had been doing the pampering, that practically all her life before that she had been doing it as well.

  First it had been to her semi-invalid mother, then, when Mrs. Porter had died, it had been to Mrs. Marlow, first in Australia, later in England. Paid companion to a rich old lady did not sound so arduous, but it all depended, thought Cary ruefully, on who one was companion to, and Mrs. Marlow had been the overbearing, demanding, difficult, must-be-pampered type.

  They had not been exactly joyous years, those years between her seventeenth birthday, when she had undertaken the care of Ellen Marlow, and her twenty-second birthday and Mrs. Marlow’s death—and her own release.

  Release?—It had seemed when Mr. Beynon had read the Marlow will that she was never to be released, though just now, looking out on the ageless beauty of the snowy peaks, Cary knew temporary release at least. Here, she thought, was the quiet that Mr. Beynon had promised her, the contentment, the rest.

  “I have taken a great liberty, Miss Porter,” the London solicitor had announced. “I have booked you up for an alpine holiday in Europe. Oh, no”—as Cary had opened her mouth to protest—“there is no need for you to worry about the cost. It will not be extortionate, that I promise—at least, not too extortionate for something I really believe is essential, my dear.”

  “Essential, Mr. Beynon?”

  “That is what I said. You are feeling rather down, aren’t you?”

  “Yes—yes, I am.” It would have been useless to try to hide her feelings, Cary had thought. A little wearily she had asked: “But how can an alpine holiday help?”

  “Miss Porter, those mountains will not only help, they will solve. You will adore Mungen. It is blissfully quiet. If you don’t reach your decision there, you will never reach it. Those snowy giants inspire calm.” Mr. Beynon’s eyes had grown dreamy, Cary remembered now, and he had looked through his office window as though he was seeing something else.

  “We had our honeymoon at Mungen,” he confided. “Twenty-seven years ago. You, too, Miss Porter, will be accommodated at the Palace Inn.”

  Twenty-seven years ago ... Cary had smiled politely and wondered privately—and a little dubiously—if Mungen after all that time was still blissfully quiet and if Mr. Beynon’s “snowy giants” still inspired calm.

  —She had found out.

  This was the end of her third week now, and she had never felt before as she felt at this moment, at ease, perfectly relaxed, contented—no solution or decision yet, admittedly, but that could still come.

  With a happy smile Cary set to and cleared her platter of bacon and eggs, her crisp rolls, cherry jam and coffee.

  Outside the Palace Inn the nursery slopes continued to enchant her, Lannwild Mountain to accost her with its grandeur. A girl in the flag-bright suit, she noted with fellow-feelings, was taking more than her share of spills.

  Unable to resist the call of the snow any longer, Cary threw back the rugs and jumped from her bed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE LOBBY of the Palace Inn was crowded with intending skiers, skaters, hikers and sightseers. Voices babbled gaily in at least four different languages. Those guests who intended remaining indoors had taken up vantage positions by the wide, uncurtained windows. It was a revelation simply to sit and gaze skyward to the heights.—It was also deliciously warm.

  Cary paused a while to speak to her hotel friends, the Misses Whitney. They were elderly, apparently comfortably situated, and they had claimed Cary because she spoke the same language as they and also had travelled from Kent. They had been Kent-sick five minutes after their departure, they had laughingly declared, and they always insisted on calling Cary “brave,” “courageous,” “valiant”—because she had to admit she felt no qualms at all.

  “Not going out again today, Miss Alice?” Cary greeted now. “Spectator sports once more, Miss Maud?”

  “My dear, we like it much better this way. Bumps are fun only when they’re not your bumps.”

  The slightly junior Miss Maud said feelingly: “No snow down one’s neck.”

  Cary shivered appropriately, and Miss Maud, accepting the shiver as acknowledgement of Mungen’s dreadful cold as compared to that of the home county, said: “It’s like a refrigerator outside, and to think I ever complained about Kent.”

  “But the sun when it gets up is delightful,” reminded Cary fairly. Miss Alice smiled at Miss Maud, and they both acclaimed her once more as being a valiant girl.

  Cary wished they wouldn’t, especially as Miss Maud’s voice was particularly clear, even shrill.

  But: “It’s brave of you—quite courageous,” Miss Maud extravagantly persisted, and the words carried unmistakably down the long entrance hall.

  A man was standing at the swinging glass door. He had his back to them and was apparently staring up to Lannwild Mountain. He was a tall, rather lean person, dark, square-shouldered, with long, decisive hands. Apart from his height and disciplined build,
there was nothing outstanding about him, however. Cary, glancing idly across, wondered why he had attracted—no, riveted her attention from the two ladies; then suddenly she understood. It was his definite air of extreme remoteness, she discovered, his deliberate detachment from everybody and everything around him. For all he appeared to care, there was no other existence in the world at all.

  Then she saw that she was mistaken. He was not entirely cut off. Something—a voice?—had reached and alerted him and made him turn his gaze from the snowy peaks.

  To her embarrassment, she realized that it was Miss Maud’s words that had attracted his attention. She was still calling shrilly that Cary was a “dear brave girl.”

  Cary had a humiliating impression of patronizing dark eyes, of a thin twist to a derisive mouth, of an unmistakable air of instinctive dislike and scorn.

  She flushed instantly and vividly, for the Whitneys as well as for herself. We are none of us perfect, she was thinking; we all have our little failings and whims.

  Who is this paragon who looks down on us as though he was standing on Lannwild Mountain itself? She was relieved that Miss Maud was still chattering, Miss Alice intervening. Thank goodness they, anyway, were unaware of his contempt.

  He was taking his time in turning his gaze away. She had the feeling that he was weighing her up, and the thought made her feel awkward and uncomfortable.

  She stared down to the floor, through the windows, at Miss Alice, at Miss Maud—anywhere but in the direction of those two unfriendly eyes.

  But at last she had to turn to go. Jan Luknit would be waiting. Her lesson was at ten.

  With a murmured hope that the morning’s entertainment through the windows would excel other mornings, Cary wheeled round to the door. Not daring to meet again that bland, inscrutable look, she slipped hurriedly through and descended the steps of the hotel.

  Outside, the cold took her breath away. It was always like this, she shuddered, when one first started off in the morning. She waved an arm to the waiting Jan, and he picked his way through the groups of intending skiers and came to her side.

  “Good morning, Jan.” The words became little puffs of mist in the air.

  “Good morning, Miss Porter.” Jan was tall, as fair as she was, and he spoke excellent English. He had a wide, charming smile.

  To her surprise, he put his hands beneath her elbow and veered her left instead of right. Right was the nursery slopes, left was—

  “Jan, where are we going?” she asked.

  The smile was a beam now, the beam of a proud teacher of a diligent pupil.

  “Today, Miss Porter, you run alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “From the Horn.”

  Cary said faintly: “From the Horn—”

  “Of course. Come, we shall take the chair-lift,” and Jan waved his arm to the landing dais.

  As she hesitated, he looked down on her and smiled. “Have no qualms, you can do it. I must first tighten that lace, though.” His quick blue eyes had noted the slack in one of the small boots. He knelt down on the snow.

  Cary stood very pleased with herself, as well as a little incredulous. She had followed Mr. Beynon’s advice and engaged a solo instructor instead of joining a class, but even then she had never believed she would advance sufficiently to be permitted a run alone from the Horn.

  She recalled Jan’s first simple lesson of standing up unaided, his quiet insistence that confidence combined with looseness of limb was the only essential. She remembered her initial kick turn, the Christy stop that he had whimsically suggested was a much pleasanter way with which to finish a run than a fall. She remembered the many times she still fell, looked down on Jan with suddenly doubtful grey eyes.

  “You are sure, Jan?”

  “But of course. You have been a good girl.” His own blue eyes looked, back from the boot-lacing and the skin around them creased as he smiled.

  He looked at her a long time, much longer than he had need to. The smile faded, leaving a curious wistfulness instead.

  “Am I right, Jan?” Cary, unaware of the long, deep look, was testing the boot.

  The instructor remembered he was still kneeling, and got up. “Quite right, Miss Porter. Here is the lift. Shall we go?”

  They were on the summit in a short time. The prospect was magnificent, but on this important occasion Cary did not pause to glance around. She had the feeling that if she did she would never leave the Horn. She would not summon up the necessary courage.

  So instead she looked nervously, appealingly to Jan, and he nodded gravely, expectantly back. She gathered confidence in his confidence, and started off.

  Peering below him, he had the heartening sight of her slim black figure stemming expertly downhill between the trees. She was all right; but, then, he had known it. He was always pleased with a successful pupil, but this time there was more than mere pleasure in him; there was pride, there was—

  With a ghost of a sigh he, too, started off.

  Two thousand feet below he caught up with her. Her cheeks were pink carnations, her eyes were stars.

  “Miss Porter enjoyed it?”

  Cary breathed; “Oh, Jan!” She could say no more.

  The tall, blond instructor made a significant gesture with his arms. “It is finished, then. The class is over.”

  Cary looked regretful, but only fleetingly so. She was sorry, of course, but the exhilaration, the triumph of a first run was not to be diminished.

  “I must do it again,” she said.

  If he was disappointed at her dismissal of the subject, he did not betray it.

  “But of course. Here is the chair-lift now.”

  She hesitated. “Aren’t you coming too?”

  “The lessons are over. I have just told you. I teach you no more.”

  “But Jan—”

  “I have other pupils waiting. I must go.” For all his resolution, though, he still stood irresolute.

  Cary was silent a moment. Although she was inexperienced in such things, she knew that this was the time she should reward him for his kindness and care. The fees had been paid in advance, but Jan had been more than an instructor, he had been a friend.

  She had meant to inquire among guests at the hotel as to how much she should tip him, yet as the thought came to her, with it came a sensitive reluctance to proffer money at all.

  Glancing diffidently at his pleasant face, she believed there would be a reluctance there as well. He was not merely an instructor attached to the Palace Inn, he was Jan, and she could not offer a gratuity to this man.

  On a sudden impulse she put her gloved hand to the collar of her tunic and drew out a slim gold pin. It fastened in neatly the one touch of color to her black outfit, a pale primrose kerchief that almost matched her deep cream hair.

  She handed it shyly to the man. “Thank you for everything, Jan.”

  He looked first at her and then at the pin. “This is very beautiful, Miss Porter.”

  “It is a black opal from Australia.”

  “You are Australian?” He seemed surprised.

  “I am half my age English and half Australian.” Cary smiled ruefully at the admission. It made one sound a little homeless, she thought.

  “What is it like, this Australia?”

  She paused at the magnitude of that question, then shrugged. “The easiest answer, Jan, would be that it is very different from Mungen, very different indeed.”

  He said eagerly: “I shall go one day, Miss Porter.”

  “I hope so, Jan.”

  “Do you?” He was looking at her very intently, but she did not notice.

  “It is absurd my calling you Jan, yet you calling me Miss Porter,” she was saying. “My name is Cary. Can you remember that?”

  “Cary.” He said it softly, experimentally. He repeated it twice. “If you did come to Australia you could always instruct at Kosciusko,” she encouraged him, then, as he shook his head emphatically, “I see you want to see Australia, not another M
ungen, so, of course, you must visit me.”

  “There it is Australia?” he asked.

  Cary had a quick vision of Clairhill standing in its wide paddocks, had a quick memory of the bordering scallops of hills, ad a quick sensation of space and more space, and nodded.

  “Yes, there it is Australia.” From her tunic pocket she took a card and scribbled an address.

  As he took it and read it, Cary felt a quick start of surprise in herself.

  Was this then, she wondered, the beginning of that “solution”, that “decision” that Mr. Beynon had promised her? She had not known she would return to Australia, she had not known what she would do, yet the card she had just handed to Jan Luknit read clearly: “Cary Porter, Clairhill, Western Slopes, New South Wales.”

  “Wales,” inquired Jan frowning, “but that surely is in England?”

  “Australia, too.”

  He held on to the card, but handed back the little pin. “I must not accept this personal token,” he said significantly.

  Cary, in her anxiety to give him something to express her gratitude, missed the subtle emphasis on the adjective. With a gentle thrust she pushed it on him and turned away. When he glanced up again from the fiery beauty of the dark gem she was above his head in the ski-lift and soaring upward once more.

  Gallantly he pulled off his great glove, put his lips to his hand and waved the arm aloft. Without any hesitation Cary caught and returned the pleasantry with a blown kiss of her own. It meant nothing more to her than a further sealing of a very pleasing friendship. If it meant anything to the man she did not guess...

  A lone runner who had just finished the Horn descent stood watching the tableau without amusement.

  He saw the instructor put the pin and the card in his breast pocket, then he turned his hard dark eyes on the ascending girl. The excellent cut of her well-chosen clothes, the grooming and the fair bloom of her seemed to displease rather than please him. Without difficulty he placed her as the young woman in the hotel lobby earlier today, the one who had talked with the elderly spinster with the too-insistent voice.