“Well,” Walter moodily extended his hand, “I don’t suppose we’ll meet again . . .”.
“Come again soon,” Willie cut in quickly. “Be sure and come.”
“Goodbye, Mary,” Moray said.
For the first time since they left the hotel she looked at him, breathing quickly and with moist eyes. She remained silent, quite silent. But in that steady glance there was something lingering and intense. He saw too that she was no longer holding the little bunch of bluebells: she had pinned them to her blouse and was wearing them upon her breast.
Chapter Four
At the end of the following week Moray had a real stroke of luck. By special favour of the registrar he was moved from the out-patients’ department of the Infirmary and given a month’s appointment as house assistant in Professor Drummond’s wards, which meant, of course, that he could leave his wretched lodging and live in hospital until his final examination. It was Professor Drummond who, after listening to Moray interrogate a patient, had once remarked, though somewhat dryly: “You’ll get on, my boy. You’ve the best bedside manner of any student I’ve ever known.” Moreover, Drummond was one of the examiners in clinical medicine, a significant fact that did not escape Moray and which he intended to make the most of during the next four weeks. He would be alert and assiduous, available at all hours, a demon for work, a regular fixture in the ward. For an eager and willing young man there seemed little hardship in this prospect. Yet in one sense it caused Moray an unaccountable vexation: he would be unable to take sufficient time off to make the journey to Ardfillan.
Ever since that moment of departure after the return from Gairsay, strange forces had been at work in his absorbed and ambitious soul. Mary’s final glance, so quiet and intense, had struck him like a wounding arrow. He could not escape the vision of her strained little face, nor—and this was most ominous—did he wish to do so. Despite all his precautions, at odd moments of the day, in the ward or the test room, he would discover himself gazing absently into space. It was she, whom he saw, in all her sweetness and simplicity, and he would then be seized by a longing to be with her, the wish to win a smile from her, to be acknowledged as her friend—he did not so far permit himself to frame a stronger and more compromising word.
He had hoped there might be news from her, or from her father, perhaps another invitation which, though he could not accept it, would give him the opportunity to get in touch with the family again. Why did he not hear from them? Since all the attentions had come from their side he had no wish to impose himself further without some hint that he would be welcome. Yet surely he must do something . . . something to clear up this . . . well, this uncertainty. At last, after ten days, when he had brought himself to a state of considerable tension, a postcard, showing a view of Ardfillan, arrived for him at the hospital. Its message was brief.
Dear David,
I hope you are well. I have been reading more about Africa. There’s been some ructions here. When are you coming to see us? I’ve been missing you.
Yours ever, Willie.
That same day, immediately the evening round was over, he went into the side room and telephoned Ardfillan. After some delay he was put through to the Douglas shop. Aunt Minnie’s voice came to him over the humming line.
“This is David Moray,” he said. “I had such a nice card from Willie, I thought I’d ring up and see how you were all getting on.”
There was a slight, though definitive pause.
“We are quite well, thank you.”
The coldness of her tone took him aback. He hesitated, then said:
“I have a new job here which keeps me on the go. Otherwise I’d have been in touch with you before.”
She did not answer. He persisted.
“Is Willie there? I’d like to thank him for his card.”
“Willie is at his lessons. I’m afraid I can’t disturb him.”
“Mary, then?” He plunged on, almost desperately. “I would like a word with her.”
“Mary is out at present. With her young man. She has been a trifle poorly lately, but now she has quite recovered. I don’t expect her back till late.”
Now he was silent. After a moment, he said, very awkwardly:
“Well, I wish you’d tell her I rang up . . . and give her my best regards.”
He could hear her sharp intake of breath. Her words came with a rush, as though she found them difficult, but felt constrained to get them out.
“I cannot undertake to give any such message, and I hope you won’t attempt to repeat it. Furthermore, Mr Moray, although I’ve no wish to hurt your feelings, it will be best for everyone, including yourself, if you refrain in the future from forcing yourself upon us.”
The receiver at the other end went down with a click. He hung up slowly and turned away, blinking, as if he’d been hit in the face. What was wrong? Forcing himself upon them! What had he done to deserve such an unexpected and stinging rebuff? Back in the resident’s office at the end of the corridor he sat down at the desk and tried to find the answer.
The aunt had never been too favourably disposed towards him, and because of her frequent headaches—due, he suspected, to a chronic nephritis—her temper was often, and understandably, short. Yet surely the cause lay deeper—probably in her devotion to Stoddart, coupled with the sudden dislike which Walter had apparently developed towards him. Reasoning in this fashion, though rather dejectedly, Moray still could not believe that Mary was a party to his abrupt dismissal, and on an impulse he took a sheet of prescription paper from the drawer and wrote her a short letter, asking if there might not be some opportunity of meeting her. As he was on emergency duty that night he could not leave the hospital even for a moment, but he got one of the probationers to go out and post the letter.
During the next few days, he awaited an answer with increasing impatience and anxiety. He had almost given up when, towards the end of the week, it arrived.
Dear David,
I shall be coming to Winton with my aunt to do some shopping on Thursday the 9th. If you can manage to be at the clock in the Caledonian Station about six o’clock I believe I could meet you there, but only for half an hour, since I must take the half-past six train home. I do trust that you are well and not working too hard.
Mary.
P.S. Willie hopes you received his postcard.
The letter was as lifeless as a railway timetable, yet beneath its dullness ran an undercurrent which stirred Moray deeply. The absence of that animation which she had displayed which indeed marked everything she had ever done in his company, was painfully evident to him. But he would see her on Thursday next. This at least had been gained.
When the day came his plans were already made. He had arranged with Kerr, another houseman, to take over for two hours in the evening. Professor Drummond never made his evening visit until eight o’clock, so with luck he would be safe. The afternoon had turned wet and a fog was settling on the city as he left the hospital and boarded a yellow tram at Eldongrove. He feared he might be late, but well before the appointed time he was in the Caledonian Station, standing beneath the big central clock. The rush hour was in progress and under the high glass dome, impenetrably coated with the grime of years, crowds were streaming towards the local trains. The place reeked of steam, fog and sulphur fumes, echoed with the shrill blast of departing engines. From the underground platforms of the “low level” a poisonous smoke welled up in snakey coils as from the inferno.
The clock struck six. Searching amongst all those unknown faces, Moray at last caught sight of her. His heart throbbed as she came towards him, carrying a number of parcels, looking unusually small and unprotected in that thrusting mob. She was wearing a dark brown costume with a short jacket, a thin necklet of fur and small brown hat. Nothing could have better suited her. He had never seen her so formally dressed. It gave her an unsuspected distinction and suddenly he coveted her.