“Then you like your job?”
She simply nodded, with a reserve more convincing than any outburst of enthusiasm. “At the same time, there isn’t quite enough scope here. But—well, I have something much better in view.”
At this remark, and the reserve with which she made it, a disconcerting thought crossed his mind. Although he knew it to be bad taste, he had to say it.
“You mean to get married?”
She laughed outright, showing even white teeth against healthy pink gums, a wonderful laugh that fell sweetly, reassuringly on his ears.
“Good gracious, no,” she exclaimed, composing herself at last. “Who would I find round here but a few farm laddies that think of nothing but their Saturday night dances and the movies in Dalhaven? Besides,” she continued, slowly and very seriously, “I’m—well, so set on my work, I scarcely think I could ever give it up for anything—or anyone.”
All this was exactly as he would have wished it. Quite alone and without encumbrances, sensibly though not permanently attached to a worthy but dull and unrewarding profession, she could not have been a more perfect subject for his affectionate and philanthropic attention. His thoughts flashed ahead. Unacquainted with the law, he wondered if she might be made his ward: adoption seemed to him unfeasible, reminiscent of orphanages and partaking of frustrated parenthood. Be that as it may, his heart swelled with genuine feeling. He was, always had been, a most generous man, no one could deny him that slight virtue. What couldn’t he do for her! He mustn’t force things unduly least he alarm her, since it was apparent that she had taken him for a man of moderate means. Yet this was an aspect of the situation which struck him as being rich, in the double sense of that word, with the most delightful possibilities of revelation and fulfilment.
In the silence that had fallen between them, he considered her as, with lowered gaze, she put together the used tea things on the tray. She was, after all, not quite the living replica of her mother he had fancied in that first emotional shock. She had the same fresh complexion, dark brown eyes and short slightly thickened nose, the same soft chestnut hair clustering naturally on her neck. Yet her expression was different, reflective, almost reserved, the mouth wider, fuller, more sensitively curved, and in the set of the lips he saw evidence of a nature less given to gaiety. There was a certain aloofness about her that he liked—a sense of detachment. She smiled rarely, yet when she did it was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. But what struck him most was her touching look of youthfulness. Mary had been a sturdy lass with rounded breasts and well marked hips. This girl was slender, almost undeveloped—an immaturity contrasting with her serious air that strongly aroused his most protective instincts. He meant no injury to the dead when he concluded that this sweet child, equal in looks, had more depth, perhaps even greater capacity for feeling. . . . He came to himself. A hint of emabrrassment, something in her manner which she was unwilling to express, made him suddenly recollect that Fotheringay, the minister, had told him her dispensary began at five. Glancing at his watch, he discovered it to be ten minutes past the hour. He rose precipitously.
“My dear Kathy, I’ve stayed much too long,” he apologised. “I’m keeping you from your patients.”
“They’ll not mind waiting a few minutes. It’s not every day I have visitors.”
“Then just let me say quickly what a joy it’s been for me to . . . to discover you. I hope this fortunate meeting will be the first of many, for you must understand that I’ve much to repay for the kindness of your family.”
When she had seen him to the door he walked to his car, and drove back to the hotel meditating emotionally on the events of this extraordinary, this memorable afternoon. Sadness mingled with a kind of exhilaration. Here he had come, from the highest motives, and instead of an ageing woman who might have met him with reproaches, even rancour, remaining unresponsive to his offers of amendment and assistance, he had found a poor, hard-working girl who stood in need of, and must benefit by, his help. He deplored the loss of the mother, it had been a blow, yes, had cut him to the heart. But there was compensation in this dear child, who might, but for unavoidable circumstances, have been his own daughter, and on her, in reparation for the past, he would bring to bear, readily and freely, a benign influence, wise, helpful, paternal. The ways of Providence were indeed wise and inscrutable, beyond the mind of man.
Chapter Five
That evening after dinner he arranged with the manageress of the hotel to have a sitting-room. Fortunately there was one adjoining his bedroom, a large comfortable apartment with a good fireplace which Miss Carmichael confidently assured him “drew well”. This settled, he put through a trunk call to his villa, in Switzerland.
When Arturo answered, almost comically delighted to hear his voice, Moray instructed him to dispatch golf clubs and additional clothing by air freight from Zurich. As to mail, he should use his discretion and forward those letters which seemed important. Was there any news? Everything was going well, Arturo replied, the weather kept fine, they had picked the damsons and the plums, Elena had made ten kilos of jam, one of the pier-master’s children had been sick but was well again, and Madame von Altishofer had telephoned twice asking for his address: should he give it? Although gratified by her solicitude Moray, after considering for a moment, indicated that he would be writing to Madame himself.
But later, as he prepared for bed, his mood changed unexpectedly. Reviewing this eventful day he was struck, suddenly, by a chilly wave of self-condemnation. How quick he had been to find consolation in the prospect of exercising his charity on Kathy. How wrong to forget his own dear Mary, to accept the daughter and forget the mother, with no more than momentary sorrow. An ageing woman who might have received him with rancour—had he actually thought of her in such terms a bare hour after viewing her lonely grave? Never, never, would she have met him with anything but forgiveness and love. Standing in his long silk monogrammed sleeping-jacket, one of the individual coats specially tailored for him by Gruenmann in Vienna, he raised his eyes to the ceiling and swore he would make reparation openly, tomorrow. The thought comforted him.
Next day, true to his vow of the previous evening, he obtained from Miss Carmichael the name of Edinburgh’s premier florist and telephoned his order. Presently there arrived by special delivery a great gorgeous wreath of arum lilies. This he took personally to the cemetery and placed reverently beneath the Celtic cross. Then, setting forth freely, swinging his stick, he turned towards the sea and walked upon the links, taking deep breaths of the bracing air. Resisting all inclination, he did not go near Markinch, wisely reflecting that whatever Kathy might be to him he was to her still more or less a stranger. However, on the day after, which was Sunday, he dressed in a dark suit and sombre tie, ascertained the time of morning service from the invaluable Miss Carmichael, and set out for the village kirk.
He had not been to church for more years than he could readily remember. On Sundays in America he had played golf with Bert Holbrook, gone through the routine of the usual exurbia weekend at the local Country Club, where the course bore the surprising name of Wee Pinkie Burn. The members, for the most part New York executives who bedecked themselves in remarkable sporting attire, ranging from chartreuse shorts to scarlet tam-o’-shanters, were a friendly and congenial group. But he had never felt quite at home there. He was not the type who could readily be at ease in the exuberant bonhomie of mass masculine society; and besides, he felt that they all knew of his unfortunate domestic situation and must therefore pity him. Still, it was a good course and he enjoyed the golf, at which he excelled. When the Sunday was too wet for play he usually went to the laboratory at the works. On one rainy and fortunate Sunday he had come up with the formula for, of all things, a new perfume, which Bert, with his unerring instinct for a selling name, had immediately christened Church Parade, and which, marketed as a sideline, had made a small fortune for the firm. It must, he estimated, be a matter of fifteen years since, on that Friday when Doris was finally certified and taken away to Wilenski’s clinic at Appletree Farm, he had sneaked into the back seat of St. Thomas’s Church on Fifth Avenue. On his way to the University Club almost next door his eye had fallen on the sign: “Open all day for prayer and meditation.” He was feeling so abject, almost psycho himself, that he had thought it might help him to go in. But it hadn’t: although he had crouched in a back seat, gazing furtively towards the dim altar, and had even shed a few miserable tears—for he could weep on appropriate occasions—he emerged without the faintest sense of benefit or improvement, obliged to fall back on his original intention: a Turkish bath at the Club.