All night, between fitful, frustrated dreams, Kathryn had been blaming herself for not realising the danger of allowing Steven to draw her away from the crowds; for letting her pity for him betray her into the gentleness of that gesture which both he and the other man who had witnessed it could have read as an expression of love.
It was sheer cruel chance that had brought Adam to the recess at that moment, but she would not let even that excuse her. For a quirk of memory reminded her that at almost their first meeting, when he had blamed her so bitterly on Steven’s behalf, she had recognised and admired the strength of the friendship which had driven him on. To him, then, Steven’s welfare had mattered more than anything. And at Barbara Thorley’s he had revealed to her how much it still mattered. Believing that she could serve Steven best by keeping away from him, Adam had been upon the point of asking her help in that, and he had checked in his purpose only upon her own hot, resentful retort.
He had not known that as soon as she had made it she had resolved to keep faith with him in what he asked.
She had been thrown into Steven’s company that day and she had known that they would have to meet again often. But she had resolved that she
wouldn’t encourage him.
And yet—and yet
—
at his first appeal to her pity she
had
yielded. So that, even if Adam had not been there to see that gesture of tenderness, she would still feel that she had broken an unspoken promise to him.
And she had not even helped Steven.
Panic-stricken, she had run away, leaving him to guess at her feeling for him, perhaps betraying him to Adam’s scorn for even thinking of approaching her again.
Passingly she wondered why they all—she and Adam Brand and Thelma—should be so concerned to fend for Steven. Was it the primitive instinct of the strong to gather about the weak? Or, less creditably, was it that each of them derived a personal satisfaction when Steven turned particularly to him or her? In which case mightn’t it be better if he learned to stand upon his own feet, getting neither pity nor protection from any of them? But her mind was too fogged to follow that reasoning through.
Once only during the night she asked herself what that scene might have told Adam about herself. She knew that it was the very last thing she wanted him to believe—that she was in love with Steven, or that she would marry him if he should ask her again. But did it matter what he believed about her, so long as he came to understand that her gesture towards Steven had been the merest impulse, and that friendship alone had betrayed her into an intimacy from which he had wanted to guard his friend?
Yes, that was important. Hazily her mind pinned upon it—the only important thing. To explain to Adam Brand at the first chance she had. To tell him that she had realised that she should have trusted to his judgment as to what was best for Steven; that her feeling about Steven was unchanged and she had had no intention of encouraging him to think otherwise. She meant to keep him at a distance in future
...
Upon that resolve she allowed herself to fall deeply asleep at last. Strangely, there was no que
s
tion in her mind but that she owed that explanation to Adam Brand.
She knew that she would not bring herself to broach so personal a matter while they were both on duty on the ward. Adam Brand might do it with impunity, but she could not—she must await a more suitable opportunity. What she did not foresee was that, though she was to have the opportunity the next day, the explanation would go unspoken.
She had the morning off duty, and planned to walk down into the town, where, among other errands, she was to take a message for Matron to one of the local supply contractors to the hospital.
The morning was crisp and sunny, and the walk down the long hill would be invigorating. Moreover, she was glad that she was to be out. Steven knew that she was to be off duty; he might telephone, and she wanted time in which to think out what she was to say to him.
On the way down she noticed that the roadway was being hacked up for the second time within a few months. It was strange, she reflected, how the authorities who buried pipes and cables underground rarely seemed to agree on when they should be dug up and looked at. But this time it was the surface itself that was under repair. Already portions of it were far below the kerbs, and here and there men were propping notices on the pavements—“Warning. Deep drop.”
The far side of the road, however, was still open to vehicles.
As no one wished to step down into the road, the pavements were unusually crowded, and at a point where it was impossible for an old lady’s bath-chair to pass unless someone gave away, Kathryn stepped aside unguardedly. Her foot came down upon rough clinkers, and though for a moment she believed she had sprained it, she found to her relief that the heel of her shoe had taken the strain. It had been partly wrenched from the sole, and though she was disconcerted, at least she was not hurt.
She stood for a moment, pressing gingerly downward, wondering if she could get as far as the next shoe-maker’s and, if not, what she was to do. She did not hear the sharp slam of a car door on the far side of the rope-barriers, and she didn’t look up until Adam Brand was at her side and his fingers were pressing deeply into her arm.
“You’re not hurt?” he demanded, his tone crisp with something that she read as reproach for her carelessness. (Once she had heard a similar note in Victor Thorley’s voice when Barbara had stepped backwards from a ladder. But Victor loved Barbara. That was different.)
Her smile was rueful. “No, not at all. Onl
y
rather disconcerted by—this.” She indicated the partially dislodged heel.
“Well, I can help you with that.” Adam nodded meaningly at his car. “Shall I take you back to hospital, or would you rather go on? I was on my way into the town, but could easily take you back.”
“I’d rather go on,” said Kathryn quickly. “I am doing a message for Matron, and this can be remedied
at the first shoe-shop we come to, if you would drop
me.
”
“Can you get over to the car?”
“Oh yes
—
” But as, aided by his hand beneath
her elbow, she hobbled beside him, she felt incredibly foolish. Why had it to be Adam who had come upon her in such a plight? She wished it could have been anyone else—anyone else at all.
They drove in silence until she saw the hanging sign of a shoe-shop ahead.
“You can put me down here if you will.”
She thanked him and alighted, not looking back as she crossed the pavement. But though the repair took several minutes, to her surprise the car was still waiting when she left the shop.
She flushed with embarrassment as Adam leaned across to open the nearside door for her. “You shouldn’t have waited,” she protested.
“I told you I was going all the way. Where next?”
“Wherever you usually park. Or on Ship Market”
—
mentioning the town’s main thoroughfare.
“There’s no parking in Ship Market. I park at the Ulverstone, as I sometimes lunch there. Will that do?”
“Perfectly, thanks.”
“When are you on duty again?” Adam a
s
ked.
“At two.”
“And you are going back to lunch in hospital beforehand?”
“Yes.”
Adam was negotiating the drive-in to the hotel’s courtyard, and said no more until he had pulled up and was reaching for his gloves. Then: “In that case”
—
his tone was casually polite—“perhaps, when you’ve done what you have to do, you would lunch here with
me? We could make it as early as you like, so that I could get you back in time for duty.”
For a moment Kathryn felt as if she had been trapped into the admission that she had nothing but a morning’s shopping and a routine hospital meal before her. Now, however reluctant she was to accept his invitation, she could not possibly refuse it. But in the next instant she realised that if her last night’s resolve had been anything more than the mere stuff of a false courage, here probably, was her chance to offer the explanation she had planned. Across a luncheon table they would achieve a brief intimacy that would have nothing of permanence behind it, of course, but which should give her an opportunity to bring in Steven’s name and to refer without too much embarrassment to last night’s occurrence, at which she still blushed.
They parted, agreeing to meet in the lounge of the Ulverstone at twelve-thirty. Kathryn, meanwhile, went about her errands in a kind of daze, and in the end was a little late for the appointment, owing to some delay over Matron’s business.
Adam chose the luncheon with a flattering concern for her preferences, and if only she had not had the shadow of that explanation hanging over her, Kathryn could have given herself up to the sheer, rare pleasure of being with him in such circumstances.
She had not realised, however, how difficult it would prove to bring Steven’s name into their talk of t
heir
young patients on the ward and of some research, involving many hours of his time, which Adam declared he wanted to do. At each brief silence she was tempted to try to switch on to personal matters, but Adam would always have begun to speak again before she
ha
d
plucked up courage and words for it. And in the
end it was he who surprised her utterly.
They were having their coffee in the lounge, and as he took the cup she handed him he said: “I’m glad you were able to lunch. Otherwise I should have had to make some other opportunity to tell you that I owe
y
ou a very deep apology. Last night
—
”
Because her fingers were trembling so, Kathryn set down her own cup. She began desperately: “Last
night was
—”
But Adam went on: “Mine was an unpardonable intrusion, I know. But it was entirely accidental, I assure you.” He paused for so long that Kathryn raised her eyes questioningly to his. And his glance held hers unerringly as he went on: “I mentioned last night because it is since then that I’ve wondered just why at our first meeting, you did not deny the outrageous accusation I made against you?”
“I tried to deny it
—
”
“No. You denied the possible effect upon Steven. You didn’t attempt to deny what I accused you of—a wanton, heartless rejection of him that any man would despise you for—if it were true. It wasn’t. And yet you let me go on believing it
!”
Across the small table between them two of his fingers came to rap its surface imperiously. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
(Because you were intolerant and unjust. Because later, when I learned that you had accused me on Thelma’s evidence alone, pride would not let me. Because even now you are judging me by your own standards
—
not mine at all.)
But she could not say any of that, and was silent.
“Why did you?” repeated Adam. His tone was more gentle, but still demanding.
At last, with a false diffidence, she managed: “I
knew the truth. Steven knew it too. And as the whole thing was over, it hadn’t much significance, had it?” She was baffled and shaken by the instant of rebuffed pain in Adam’s eyes. But he said coolly enough: “For you, I see that it never had. But it would have been tactful of you to enlighten
me,
don’t you think? As it was, anxiety for Steven led me to accuse you again
—
this time to him. And you should know that a man in love—as Steven still is with you—doesn’t brook that sort of thing, even from his best friend. Any more,” Adam added distastefully, “than I take kindly to being forced to eat my own words. But I daresay you consider I deserved that.”
It is his pride, his self-esteem that is hurt. He does not care for what he did to me at all, thought Kathryn with a flash of insight. She said: “I’m sorry. I thought it could not matter as the break between Steven and me had been complete, and he was not unhappy about it, I believed. I—couldn’t know that he would be coming back.”
“And now that he has come back? He’s still deeply in love with you you know.
Did
you know?” Adam’s eyes were intent upon his coffee-cup.
“He said so—last night.” (Now,
now
was the moment in which to add,
But I don’t love him and never shall! And if anything you saw last night made you think otherwise you’re wrong, utterly wrong!)
But the rehearsed words sounded false and over-dramatic, and before she could choose others Adam was saying: “And if now I should back-pedal and urge you to listen to him, would that be asking too much?”
You, too thought Kathryn bitterly. First Thelma, and now you! She felt sick and betrayed by what she saw as a conspiracy to thrust her upon Steven, whatever her feelings. It became too clear. Thelma and Adam Brand, allied for Steven and using her as no more than the merest pawn
—
that was what it added up to. She was glad she could feel so resentful, so angry. For, briefly at least, anger could drown despair
—
the despair of knowing now for certain that in this, as in everything else, Adam and Thelma were one.
Trying to hide her distaste she said evasively: “Steven might think it too much.”
“You mean that he might resent my pleading his cause with you?”