Red Lotus

by Catherine Airlie

  Suddenly she shivered, and as suddenly Philip turned from strapping up her ankle with a bandage from the first-aid kit to lead her gently but firmly away from the crater with its views over all the island she had come to love in so short a space of time.

  They went slowly downwards by a little twisting path leading eventually to a cave, at the bottom of which was a small, still pool of ice.

  She wanted to run then, to hurry away from this frozen place whose chill seemed to have entered her heart, but Philip decided that they should stay.

  "Julio will look for us here," he said. "We can't attempt the journey down to Altavista without him."

  Sisa roamed round the cave, touching the stalagmites with wondering fingers, but in spite of her small cries of delight, it seemed to Felicity that she and Philip were alone. They were both intensely aware of each other. Felicity could sense that, but surely Philip could only be finding her a nuisance in this high place where already the stars had paled and the night was gone?

  He had withdrawn behind a mask of silence, yet she knew that he was still intently watchful and anxious about her comfort.

  When Julio came sliding down to the cave entrance half an hour later he explained the position as tersely as possible.

  "Felicity has had an accident. We must get her down as easily as we can without further trouble."

  "You are hurt, querida!" Julio murmured with sudden

  tenderness, bending over her. "I shall carry you—" "There's no need for that." Philip's tone was practical

  and a trifle curt. "Felicity can walk quite well now that

  her foot is bandaged. She will only need a little support." Julio scowled at him but evidently decided not to argue. "There is an easy way," he said. "Come! I will show

  you."

  He took Felicity's hand, leading the way, with Philip and Sisa bringing up the rear. Philip had extinguished the lanterns and carried them now slung across his back, his torch thrust into the wide leather belt he wore over his wind-cheater.

  When Felicity looked back at him from time to time, he seemed like some giant of the mountains striding there behind her, a dark-browed Peer Gynt in restless pursuit of an ideal, perhaps, or maybe just a man fleeing from his own tormenting thoughts.

  Whatever Maria had been to him, whatever Isabella de Barrios was to him now, it was no light emotion which had left its mark on Philip Arnold's face. He was not the man to love lightly, nor would she have had it so, but Isabella was Rafael de Barrios' wife and she felt her heart turn over at the inevitability of pain.

  Julio, too, it would appear, believed himself in love. When they eventually reached Altavista and were safely in the refuge, he looked at Felicity with longing eyes.

  "I shall play for you while you rest," he offered, taking up his guitar when Philip had gone out to saddle the horses for the ride down to Las Canadas. "The music will make you feel good and help you to forget your pain."

  Felicity smiled. Julio's panacea for every ill was the music he made; sweet music, passionate music, sometimes wild music which was a protest straight from his lonely heart, but music which she had tried to understand.

  If she had failed at times it was not Julio's fault, she considered. It was something in herself, no doubt, which did not appreciate the true bond between this typical son of a southern race and the music he made so easily.

  Conchita had forgotten her sulks and was all kindness. She rushed about the refuge, making coffee, bringing an extra blanket to put behind Felicity's head, watching

  Philip to see if he were angry or just very anxious because there had been an accident so high up on the perilous sides of El Teide. She said that they should not have gone, that they should have heeded her warning and returned with her, and Philip said that perhaps she was right.

  He had come in to announce that the horses were ready, and he looked in Felicity's direction and frowned.

  "I'm all right, Philip," she assured him, trying to stand without showing her pain. "It was only a little thing—"

  He smiled wryly, taking her arm to help her round the end of the hut.

  "Little things can sometimes develop alarmingly," he said. "We're not taking any risks with this."

  Lifting her up into the saddle, he steadied her on the small, honey-coloured pony in spite of her protests. For a moment his hands lingered on her waist and their eyes met. His were very dark, although in the next instant he was smiling.

  "That should be better," he said. "Don't attempt to do anything. I'll lead Cinders down."

  "But the distance, Philip?" she protested. "And the heat?"

  He shrugged indifferently.

  "It makes no matter," he said. "I am used to riding about the canyons."

  Did he come this way alone? Often alone? Did he ride through the canyons thinking about the past, loving Maria still? And what of Isabella? Felicity could not think of Isabella de Barrios without a desperate pain in her heart, and she turned her head away so that Philip might not see its reflection in her far too candid eyes.

  They rode slowly and took a long time in reaching the sandy plain of Las Canadas, where the heat was a fiery breath straight out of Africa. It met them in a stupefying wave, beading Felicity's upper lip with tiny drops of perspiration and causing Philip to mop his brow.

  The lethargic, timeless peace that encompasses all southern habitations at the hour of the siesta lay on the old house behind its high stone wall and on the surrounding boulders and on the cacti and the still, white sand. Nothing moved. Even the little buff-coloured goats had disappeared behind convenient clumps of tamarisk and the

  few trees within the shelter of the wall drooped in the heat.

  Philip, however, seemed to be determined to get back to San Lozaro in the shortest possible time. With many apologies, he woke the custodian of the gate and brought out the car. The man he had called Santiago came and stood before them with wine and cheese and bread on a wooden platter, while the old woman with the wrinkled-walnut face peered at them from behind a grille in the inner door. It was too hot, Felicity supposed, for her to come out, or perhaps she was merely overcome by shyness at this second visit, remembering Philip's generosity of the day before.

  They drank the coarse red wine and were on the point of getting into the car when a great bird rose protestingly from a pinnacle of rock far down the winding road to San Lozaro and circled twice above their heads.

  Philip's eyes narrowed as he looked up at it and he turned sharply to where the road appeared out of a sparse belt of fir. A little cloud of dust came creeping up the valley towards them, and Felicity saw Conchita's eager gaze following his as she clasped her hands before her in quick expectation.

  "Someone is coming, Philip," she said. "Let us wait and see who it is."

  Philip's eyes seemed to snap their disagreement, but he answered reasonably enough.

  "It will be tourists from Orotava. Who but the English `go out in the mid-day sun'?"

  Conchita smiled, but she was not entirely convinced, and when the de Barrios's black Mercedes breasted the final rise she threw Philip a quick look of triumph.

  "I knew!" she cried. "I knew it would be Rafael. No one drives a car as he does—so fast, so assured!"

  Rafael de Barrios had his family with him. Andrea sat in front, prim and sedate in a white panama hat and white cotton dress, while Isabella and Celeste occupied the rear seat.

  Rafael's sisters were not at all like him, Felicity thought, as the newcomers spilled out of the car, but that was no doubt due to their upbringing. The closely-guarded life of the young Spanish girl of good family would account for their natural shyness, and they patently

  adored their brother. An only son, Rafael must have been the darling of the household ever since he had first drawn breath, and now that he had succeeded to the title, his will was absolute. Perhaps that alone accounted for his assurance.

  His manners were impeccable, however. He bowed over Felicity's hand, touched Conchita's lightly with his lips,
did the same for Sisa, which pleased her immensely, although she glanced swiftly in Philip's direction as she drew her hand away.

  "This is surely one of the many advantages of so small an island," Rafael mused, smiling down into Felicity's eyes. "We meet often when perhaps we thought that we would not see each other again till the fiesta!"

  "We've been climbing The Peak," Felicity explained unnecessarily because he had already glanced at her workmanlike outfit of linen jeans and checked cotton shirt. "It was a wonderful experience."

  "But you have been hurt!" he noticed quickly. "You have a bandaged foot."

  She drew back. He had probed too deeply, and his felicitations were something she did not want now even in a friendly way, because underlying them she sensed danger.

  "I'm sorry," Isabella said, coming forward as if to extricate her from an embarrassing situation. "How did it happen?"

  "I was foolish enough to slip going up over a stretch of rough scree." Felicity wished that the limelight of their interest was not quite so fully upon her and the cause of her accident. "It's nothing," she added. "It will soon mend."

  "You must see a doctor," Rafael advised. "Allow me to contact Doctor Gondalez for you as soon as we get back to Zamora."

  "That won't be necessary," Philip said, coming up behind them. "I shall take Felicity direct to Orotava from here."

  "It's too long a journey," Rafael warned, but he shrugged, as if it no longer concerned him, and turned to where Conchita was waiting.

  She had been standing behind Felicity, willing Rafael to notice her, one small foot tapping impatiently, her dark

  eyes star-bright as she watched the Marques' every movement and hung on his every word. Convention had demanded that he should enquire about Felicity's accident, of course, but there was no need to enlarge upon it, her impatience seemed to say, and certainly no need to consider the necessity for a doctor's attention. That was surely Philip's job!

  "We must not delay you if you wish to go to Orotava." Isabella said. One long, understanding look had passed between her and Philip when they had met, but that was all. Now Isabella appeared calm and serene as ever, with only the hint of a shadow in her eyes. "I hope your ankle will not pain you too much, Felicity," she added sincerely. "And, most of all, I hope it will not keep you from coming to our fiesta."

  "It will be mended long before that," Philip said abruptly. "If there is anything you want us to do for you, Isabella, you will let me know?"

  Isabella looked at him again, steadily, affectionately.

  "I will let you know," she said. "I have Rafael back with us, of course," she added slowly. "He tells me he will stay, at least till the fiesta is over."

  There had been no hint of complaint in her pleasant voice, no suggestion that her husband might have spent more of his time in his own home, yet it was not an abject acceptance of her fate that shone in those clear dark eyes. There was acceptance, but it was of a kind that transcended defeat—an inner calm, a rising above the unhappiness and frustrations of life, which set a strange glow upon this woman who had married without knowing the true meaning of love.

  "We will need Sisa and Conchita with us the day before," Rafael suggested lazily. "There is a lot to do."

  Sisa glanced at Andrea and smiled. They had already made their youthful plans. It was Conchita who took the invitation as a purely personal one.

  "I shall come whenever you say, Rafael," she agreed eagerly. "Philip must not be allowed to refuse when it is in so good a cause!"

  "Why should Philip wish to refuse?" Rafael de Barrios looked amused. "He is only your guardian."

  "Which is most important!" Isabella retorted with a

  small flash of anger. "Sisa will come, and Conchita, too. I shall promise Philip to look after them both."

  Rafael laughed, but there was uneasiness in the atmosphere now and he made a movement towards the rest-house and its acceptable patch of shade.

  Philip helped Felicity into the car, in front, this time, where he could watch her as they drove along. Her face looked white and strangely pinched about the mouth, as if she smiled under strain, and when she said goodbye to Isabella she did it hurriedly.

  Isabella did not look at Philip again. She stood back between her sisters-in-law, waving as he turned the car in a wide circle on the beaten sand, and when Felicity looked back before they plunged down the mountain road, Isabella was already seated in the shade of the wall unpacking the picnic hamper which Rafael had produced from the Mercedes' capacious boot.

  On the way down the trees gave them shade, but there was no wind, and the heat began to affect Felicity—the heat and the increasing pain in her ankle whenever she moved. Over and above all these physical discomforts, too, she could feel the pain in her heart like a deep, dull ache that must remain with her all her life from now on.

  She loved Philip. She loved him madly, and he had nothing to offer her in return except, perhaps, his friendship in the end.

  "Felicity," Sisa asked anxiously from the back seat, "are you feeling faint? You look so pale."

  "No. No—I'm all right!"

  The words had been a tremendous effort and Philip slowed down the car to look at her.

  "Are you sure?" he asked.

  "Quite sure. Please don't stop, Philip! I'm not going to faint or do anything silly like that."

  "We are near Lozaro Alto," Conchita pointed out. "Could we not go there, Philip, so that Felicity can rest? The road is only a little way ahead."

  Philip's mouth tightened and his jaw had the cut of granite as a fury of indecision struggled in his eyes.

  "No!" Felicity decided sharply. "You must not, Philip. There is no need."

  He did not want to take her to Lozaro Alto and she did

  not want to go. She did not want to travel with him over that road where another car had plunged to destruction, bearing his love and his future happiness with it down into some desolate barranco where only the stark rocks and the soaring eagle had been dumb witnesses to its fate. It was his own personal tragedy, to be shared by no one. Ever since, he had gone to the valley alone.

  "I don't think it would really help," he returned, tight-lipped. "If there was any point in taking you there, I would, but it will only put added time on to our journey to Orotava."

  "Need we go to Orotava?" Felicity asked. "If I rest when we get back to San Lozaro it may be all right by the morning."

  He shook his head.

  "I'm not taking any risks," he said decisively.

  They reached Orotava by late afternoon and the little Spanish doctor they consulted there reassured them immediately.

  "A severe sprain," he said. "That is all. Nothing broken, but it must be very painful. It has been strapped up so well by Don Philip that it will soon be useful again!" he smiled. "He is a most reliable person, you know!" he added encouragingly.

  Felicity bit her lip, aware that it had trembled. Here was someone who evidently knew Philip well, who liked and admired him in spite of all the rumours. She looked at the little doctor and felt the tears stinging behind her eyes. If only there could be nothing but kindness in the world, she thought weakly—no pain, no intrigue, nobody playing at love!

  Philip took her arm and led her gently out towards the waiting car. He had ordered tea at the Hotel Taoro, a large, white edifice standing high on the cliff above the waving banana fields and looking down on Puerto de la Cruz. It formed three sides of a great square and they found a table on the sheltered verandah looking towards The Peak, but very soon Philip was looking at the sky beyond the giant mountain, as if he were impatient to be on their homeward way.

  There was no cloud to be seen. The sky looked blue and innocent, but above The Peak a faint haziness had ap-

  peared and the breathless atmosphere suggested thunder. They were, it seemed, due for a storm, and Philip was impatient about getting back before it broke.

  They followed the road by which he had first brought her to San Lozaro, the geranium-bordered highway hanging b
etween El Teide and the sea, and the beauty of it caught at Felicity's throat like a hurt, urging the tears to her eyes again. This land—this happy land which was Philip's home seemed to be holding out eager arms to her, but she could not accept their comfort. Its beauty stirred all that was lonely in her and all that was sublime. She could have stayed here forever, if forever could have given her Philip's love.

  But how could she stay, loving him without return? Could she remain beside him, seeing him day by day, knowing herself necessary to him, perhaps, in time, but not in the way she wanted to be necessary? He had promised to keep her uncle's home intact and she had made a similar promise, if not in so many words. She could not run away. She was sure of that, even if to stay must mean heartbreak.

  Even Sisa was tired by the time they reached San Lozaro and they went early to bed. Julio came home at nights now instead of remaining sulkily attached to the workers' quarters surrounding the packing sheds, and Felicity was genuinely relieved at his return. It did not mean, of course, that he would not go off when the mood took him once more, but at least the family were together and that was what Robert Hallam had wanted.

  Unable to sleep because the night was hot and sticky and her foot ached at every movement, she sat for a long time before her window listening to the approach of the storm. It came at first as a barely-perceptible movement among the palms, a stirring frond, a rustle and a stillness which suggested tension, and she found herself straining to catch the ordinary, accepted little sounds of the night. They appeared to be silenced, however, before the stealthy whisperings of the palms. There was no moon and the sky had become rapidly overcast, making the night as black as jet.

  Then, suddenly, beyond the palms and the leaning tamarisks which fringed the cliffs, she could hear the sea.