The Coral Tree (23 page)

“No.”

“I suppose you do understand it won
’
t be for long—. That child is—”

“Yes, Sorrel,” said Cary, “I understand. It won
’
t be for long.” She waited for Sorrel to say more, but now the nurse was silent. When she did speak she said gently: “Very well, my dear.”

There was no doubt that Phyllida was happy. She laughed often, and her laugh was not like the other children
’
s; it was a little chime of sound.

Sorrel had put her cot at the window. All day long she watched the boys and girls, and when they trotted past on the ponies she clapped her thin hands.

When her parents came to see her she greeted them with affection, but she did not worry when they left again. Her new friends filled her life. In her big home, surrounded by every luxury but deprived of the company of children, she had never been glad like this.

Cary watching her lovingly, not only for the girl
’
s sake, but because she found in her something of Richard himself, felt an uprush of joy in her heart. She had been right to agree to Annette
’
s request. She had done right to admit this child.

The summer had faded into autumn. The sky at evening had a hint of rose-color in it that told of the fires already starting to be lit in Clairhill
’
s hearths. The coral trees were budding—all except the last one. How long, thought Cary, must she leave it there before she gave permission to have it out?

One thing, the inclusion of Phyllida into their family had helped Cary to lose her self-absorption. She had been treading a mill, she thought; she had been obsessed with her own worries. Now she tended the child and knew a cessation of her pain.

It was not just to Cary that Phyl made a difference. It was to others as well. The children all loved her. William would sit for hours by her crib.

Then there was Maysie
...

The change in Maysie was the most noticeable. Reluctantly at first, then unable to stand aloof, Maysie had become her devoted slave. A self-contained girl, not even affected usually by the Clairhill children, something in Phyllida must have torn at Maysie
’
s heart. I suppose in some things, thought Cary, we all of us possess a paper heart.

Because she did not want the girl to be too distressed when at last the thing happened, Cary spoke gently to her. Maysie nodded without speaking. Her eyes, on Cary as she told her were rather pathetic, as though she wanted to say something. But Maysie was still not up to that.

It was June when Phyl died. The coral trees were a flame of scarlet now. The children had advanced further and further up the forehead of Pudding Basin Hill for their ski-ing activities. Jan and Sorrel had become very enthusiastic over the prospect. They went often together, and Cary encouraged it. Anyway, she did not want to join in while Phyl still lay like this.

Together she and Maysie watched the baby. Once Cary spoke to Mrs. Heard of sending Maysie away, but her mother shook her head.

“Takes different sorts of things to make a girl a woman, Miss Cary. I want my Maysie a woman. Besides, it would break her heart.”

“It might break it now.”

“I don
’
t think so. She
’
s ready.”

Maysie was ready for something else. Cary found one day that she was ready to tell her about something she had done.

“It was that time Doctor Stormer came home, Miss Porter. I thought you
’
d told on me. I didn
’
t believe Mum when she said how she
’
d found out.”

“
Maysie, it doesn
’
t matter now.”

“It does to me.” Maysie frowned. “It does when I
’
m sitting like this watching little Phyl. Miss Porter, if you went and told him that all I said was a lie, do you think it would be all right again?”

“I tell you, dear, it doesn
’
t matter. If—if he had wanted to, he would have remained whatever you said.”

“But I said
awful
things. I—I hated you.”

“You don
’
t now?”

Maysie looked down at the child. “You love her the same as I do,” she said.

Presently she tried again. “I
’
d like him to know. I
’
d like you to tell him.”

Cary
’
s voice was weary. “We couldn
’
t if we wanted to, Maysie. He is far away.”

“But he
’
ll come back when—” Maysie
’
s voice trailed off. Her eyes dropped significantly to the sleeping child. At least she thought she was sleeping
...

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE DAYS after Phyllida
’
s passing were as quiet as the passing itself.

Annette Stanton and her husband came later to Clairhill, at Cary
’
s request, for their daughter
’
s things, but they did not take any away, not even a ribbon, for remembrance. “She is living in our hearts,” they said.

They were not sad. “I might have been had Phyl not been so happy this last month,” smiled Annette.

“We shall never forget our debt to you,” declared Frank Stanton.

Cary refused any payment from them, even as a donation to Clairhill. Frank was inclined to persist, but his wife put her arm on his sleeve.

“Wait,” she said thoughtfully. “Cary might accept payment in another way one day. I trust not, but we will be ready if that occasion arises.” She came and kissed the girl, took a last look at the corner that had known Phyl
’
s small chime of laughter, and went.

The children, as Annette had anticipated when she first had brought Phyllida to Clairhill, had taken the news that their little girl who always stayed in bed was now gone home quite philosophically.

William summed it up for
everyone
when he remarked safely: “I fink she was tired.”

“She was, darling,” agreed Cary, a sob in her throat. “Phyl was tired, so she went home to rest.”

Cary believed that she and Maysie missed her most of all. Maysie because for the first time in her life she had given love instead of accepting it, because she had become a woman instead of a girl—herself because a little part of Phyllida surely had been Richard, so for a month, anyway, she had been near to Richard, and now even that was taken away.

Maysie
’
s problem settled itself in the arrival of a couple to live in Mark Bennow
’
s boundary cottage. Old Bennow, on being received very coldly when he complained about the children making too much noise, had packed up and gone.

The Willards were young, and Maysie found pleasure in helping renovate the shack. When Mrs. Willard confided she was having a baby, Maysie
’
s world began again. The week-end helping hand for Mr. Willard
’
s younger brother who was working at Ten Mile also was not amiss.

All but one of the children now had improved to a very marked degree. The monthly health check stated this beyond any doubt. Garry was walking with only one crutch; Marilyn could go further afield with far less fatigue; Robert was moving along often too fast for Cary
’
s peace of mind because he was a mischievous imp and she liked to keep track of him. If he kept on improving as, he was improving, she would have to run in pursuit, not walk.

She remarked this laughingly to Doctor Phillips, and he nodded agreement. “It
’
s remarkable what you
’
ve achieved here at Clairhill. Stormer never comments in any way, but I know, too, he must be bucked.”

“Richard Stormer—” said Cary, “but he has nothing to do with us now.”

“He has to send in your report.”

“But you do that, Doctor Phillips; you told me so yourself.”

“Well, I do in a way, but only to Richard. He still decides on that final good word.”

The doctor looked around. “This little bloke”—he touched Jim
’
s head—“could do with more fat.”

“Yes,” said Cary, looking troublously at her own little boy, “Jim could.” She turned back to the doctor again. “You have to send these reports to India, then?”

Phillips was packing his case. “I did, but now that he is back—” Richard back ... As she stood there, Cary knew that everything was not so quiet, after all. There was her heart, for instance. It was beating furiously. There was a premonition in her, too. It was their little pond that had become so placid after Phyl
’
s death. She knew it was going to be tossed by a gale this time, not a gentle wind. The gale would be Richard Stormer.

The first indication of what was to come was voiced over the wires. Annette Stanton said unhappily: “Cary, Richard called at Byways. He was unbearably unreasonable. I
’
ve never seen him quite like this before.”

“Why, Annette? Was it—”

“Yes, it was—Phyllida. He was in a dark rage because I took her to Clairhill, because you accepted her. Cary, he said dreadful things. He even said”—Annette
’
s voice shook— “that between us we shortened her little life.”

Her husband took the phone from his wife and resumed.

“Cary, you must try to make allowances for Richard. He was very fond of Phyl. He is still suffering out of all proportion because of Gerard
’
s death. They were identicals, remember. Try to understand a little the uncanny bond of love between them. Gerry
’
s going blinded Richard. He is still blind and full of hate.”

“Cary,” called Annette in agitation, “I believe he could try to close Clairhill. In a way I anticipated this. Do you remember the day we came for Phyl
’
s things—”

And never took them,” reminded Cary.

“They were for the others,” dismissed Annette. “That day I told Frank you might accept payment in another way in the future. Darling, it still stands.”

“I don
’
t understand you.”

“Byways awaits you. If Richard clamps down on Clairhill, you can continue the home here.”

“That would be useless, Annette,” said Cary sadly. “If Richard wanted to he could prevent even that. “But”—her voice lifting—“he wouldn
’
t want to.”

“He would,” said Annette bitterly, “he does.”

A pause, and then: “I have talked and talked. Frank as well. I love Richard, Cary; but he always had brick-wall i
m
penetrability about him. He had it as a child. Cary, you must think of moving here.”

“It would be impossible. Richard has to approve these things—”

“You could come in a non-professional manner.”

“Oh, Annette, you don
’
t know what you
’
re saying. Places like Clairhill aren
’
t just moved into; they take months and much money to prepare.”

“You have our time. You know the money is already yours.” Annette spoke warmly.

“There still wouldn
’
t be enough,” said Cary of the latter. “We only function now because of Mrs. Marlow
’
s inheritance. If we left Clairhill that would stop.”

Eventually she rang off, but Annette
’
s words stayed with her long after she had replaced the phone.

Then, almost as though timing its arrival, came a letter from England. It was from the Misses Whitney—and in it was a cheque.

It was a cheque so large that Cary gasped in astonishment. She had suspected t
h
at the Whitneys were comfortable, but this amount proclaimed they were rich.

“
...
We were coming to see you,” wrote Alice in her thin, spidery writing, “but when we got as far as London we were Kent-sick, so we took the train right back. But our hearts are with you, and in your marvellous project. We intended to do a lot for you at Clairhill, so instead we are sending you a sum of money for you to do it, plus what we would have spent on our fares.

“Good luck to Clairhill, good luck to you, you dear, brave girl.” It was signed Alice and Maud.

Cary held the cheque uncertainly. Instantly her mind went to Annette at Byways. With this amount she could make the move that Annette suggested.

She looked around her.

This was the house that had never blossomed, that Mrs. Marlow had left to her to bring the home years to—and she had failed. She would never do it now. She could see that. She might move to Byways, manage with the Whitneys
’
and the Stantons
’
and perhaps some local monetary help, but the house whose windows she had opened would close once more, the doors would be barred, the g
h
osts of Ian, Megan and Alison take up residence as before.

“I
’
m sorry,” she said aloud, “I
’
m sorry, Mrs. Marlow. I did my best, but the task was too hard.”

Unaware of Cary
’
s unhappiness in their own happiness, Sorrel and Jan came to her that night. Cary knew that s
h
e should have known before, but somehow it had passed her by. She looked with surprise at Sorrel
’
s left hand.

“
We
’
re asking for time off, darling,” said Sorrel. “I want to take Jan home to meet Mum and Dad.”

Cary was relieved that in their self-absorption they did not notice that s
h
e was not talking much.

“I have no one,” regretted Jan, “to show my red rose.”

Sorrel flushed as prettily as the rose he spoke of, and told Cary they would be back.

“
We
’
ll be married at Clairhill. Mr. Flett can do it when he comes out the first Friday for Sunday School. The children will love it. All the girls can be my bridesmaids.”

“Yes,” nodded Jan, “and t
h
e boys my grooms, even the naughty Robert. We will talk of it when we come back.”

Come back
...
Cary glanced quickly away. Will there be a Clairhill when you come back?

A letter arrived from Mr. Ansley.

“...
Miss Porter, you know how I feel over Jim. I have
indicated it before. I told you we were trying to sell out here, and at last we have a buyer. The wife wants to go home to England. We could—but for Jim. There is no legal obligation for us to remain on for him, only the obligation of our hearts.

“Have you thought about this boy, Miss Porter? I know how fond you are of him, for it
’
s apparent in your letters, and I am certain how he feels for you. He is a dear little chap. He would be happy with his Aunty Cary, and a place like Clairhill could easily accept him—”

A place like Clairhill
...
or a place like Clairhill
once
...

In that uncanny way he always had, Jimmy seemed to sense the letter. He looked at Cary often, searchingly, appealingly. Cary longed to gather him to her, to tell him tenderly: “You are mine, darling, mine and Clairhill
’
s; you are ours.” But she could
not.

She waved Sorrel and Jan away in the train after driving them into Sunset. She came back to see the car waiting in the drive. This time she knew it was Richard
’
s.