"He is very fond of you?"
"I am the only daughter," Maria said simply.
"And he has forbidden an engagement between you and Austin ?"
"Minha fe, Fenella!" Maria was smiling again, with her head thrown back as if she were on the point of laughter. "Would I take my father into my confidence? Besides, Austin has not yet asked me to marry him, and I am afraid he never will if we cannot see one another more often and without strain."
Fenella was afraid so, too, but there was nothing she could do about it, besides advising Maria to take every care. She felt sorry for Austin, isolated at the camp near Ibana and in love, perhaps genuinely for the first time, with someone who was financially beyond his reach. And she had compassion for Maria, who must be deeply in love to risk so much for a few brief moments with him. "It is
sad that you are living out of town," Maria lamented. "I would so like that we were friends."
"Wouldn't your mother allow you to visit us?"
"Oh, yes." Maria positively glittered. "She has enormous respect for the missionaries. Always, when the yearly sub-scription list is presented she persuades my father to give a very large cheque, because she is so grateful for their work among the natives. My father is pleased with the doctor, also," she added ingenuously. "He has said your father is a conscientious man."
"Then you must come to lunch or tea—just whenever it suits you."
"You are kind, Fenella—so very sweet and kind. You have the lovely, casual kindness which Austin has, too. I will gladly visit you."
The girl's English was good, much better than that of her contemporaries; the older people could manage only a halting "Good day." Fenella suspected Austin's influence, and felt a pang for him. During his year and a half on the estate he had picked up a good knowledge of Portuguese, but he was anxious that Maria should understand him perfectly. In a marriage it was imperative that each should have a thorough knowledge of the other's language. Fenella's thoughts switched quickly from the perilous path to the Quinta.
They were joined by two jolly young men, and Fenella had nothing to do for the next quarter of an hour but smile and finish her drink. Then Maria had to leave in the car which had been sent for her, and Fenella decided to accept her offer of a lift. When she hung on at these parties till seven there were always several escorts available—for in Mozambique, as in other parts of Africa, the men outnumbered the women—but the longish ride to the mission at the side of a good-looking and politely ardent cavalier had once or twice proved trying. The fact that she was blonde among so many brunettes seemed to have a special significance among the men.
She took her place beside Maria in the back of a car of luxurious proportions and ancient vintage. The driver, a half-bred Portuguese, as were many of the servants of the rich, drove the half-mile to the de Cardena residence with precision and without haste. Maria was still talking
fast when he pulled up at moss-grown marble pillars.
"Pedro will take you home, Fenella. I insist. My mother would wish it. Women do not walk here, particularly after dark." The small brown hand rested on the door handle, and the black eyes shone. "Perhaps I will take you at your word and come to the mission sooner than you anticipate. I feel I can confide in you as I would not dare to confide in my other friends. You are discreet."
"And you're hoping discretion is infectious?"
"Who knows?" she said roguishly. "In any case, you land I may meet at other houses if I can coax my mother to let me go out more often. Our season for entertaining has begun. One does not give parties during the rains; it is too hot, too tiring, and some families move to the coast or go to Europe for that period. This season is going to be the most thrilling that we in Machada have ever known."
Unthinking, Fenella enquired, "Why?"
"But you have not heard? The Senhor Pereira is to marry his cousin! Everyone is full of it, and most people are glad that he has finally made a choice. My mother believes it is a good thing that he is to have a wife from Lisbon; a bride chosen from among us who were born here would not be popular—there would be jealousy." Maria's ever-ready laughter bubbled out. "As soon as the engagement is announced there will be picnics and festas at the Quinta, and magnificent parties. The great salon will be thrown wide, and the dining-hall . . . with their huge chandeliers blazing and the gold candelabra on the table. You should see that candelabra, Fenella! It was given to the last Marquez de Castilho Pereira when Portugal became a republic and he voluntarily relinquished the ancient title." Maria paused momentarily for breath. "My mother was present at the last grand ball at the Quinta, when the senhor welcomed everybody after his return from the war. She has described to me the elegance, the splendour, the beauty of the dresses, and the senhor himself wearing full-dress uniform for the last time. Imagine, then, how it will be when he becomes betrothed to Antonie de Bordone. She will perhaps wear some of the Pereira jewels—and they are exquisite, Fenella. My mother says . . ."
It was like a ghastly dream, one of those nightmares in which every second is more grotesque and menacing than the one before. Fenella spoke not at all till Maria at last emitted a whole-hearted, "It has been lovely to see you. Boas noites, cara!" and got out of the car.
Slowly, the driver negotiated the quiet roads edged by tulip-trees and palms. He took a steep by-way, and below, to the right, Fenella saw the lake spangled by the same moon which had been young and impressive on the night of the festa. Beyond, glimmered the lights of the centre of the town, and the floodlit dome of the Hotel da cidade.
She shivered and sank further into the polished leather upholstery which smelled of age. Natural fortitude and the Oporto wine had sustained her during Maria's irresponsible monologue, but now the effects of both were diminishing, and a peculiar ache made itself felt at the base of her heart. Fantastic that it should have any connection with Carlos and the beautiful cousin from Lisbon!
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER SIX
MRS. Westwood was hardly on her feet after the fever before a small party of tourists descended upon the mission. When Fenella heard that they had arrived in town a hope gleamed at the back of her mind that Miss Brean would be of their number; the little woman's personality was as stimulating as a sea wind and would be particularly welcome just now. But when the car load came up to look over the mission it comprised only an English man and wife, two young American schoolmasters on long vacation and a middle-aged brother and sister from Holland. There was no Miss Brean, of course, because Miss Brean would never be seen with a "drove of tourists." If she did keep her promise to come to Machada she would arrive alone.
Fenella was in her father's surgery, deciphering his notes and transferring them to the card index, when the car disgorged its inquisitive passengers. Five minutes later she was summoned to the mission for introductions and the pleasure of contacting people from the outside world.
Alicia Westwood, pale and rather less exuberantly chatty than usual, explained the origins of the mission and the lines upon which it was managed, and called over a couple of piccanins to sing Tonga songs for the visitors in their soft, clear voices. The children obeyed, shyly at first, though they soon forgot their audience sufficiently to strut a little to the rhythm. Their performance was a complete success.
The tourists were then conducted along to the main clinic, where they marvelled at the modern fittings and apparatus. They were allowed to peep through a porthole type of window into the room in which Dr. Harcourt was performing an operation, and afterwards they accepted coffee and shortbread fingers. Five of them seemed relieved to be offered chairs in the shade of the veranda. The sixth, one of the Americans, was examining the town through his binoculars, and commenting upon the mixtures of periods in the Portuguese architecture, and the beauty of the trees.
"Our show place," said Mrs. Westwood, "is unfortunately not on view. Perhaps you saw the Quinta Agostinhos from the hill as you entered Machada?"
"A sort of palace set above the town
on the other side?" the man exclaimed. "We remarked on it,. and wondered about the place. It looked absolutely great in the sun. Who lives there?"
Mrs. Westwood gave the information. "The senhor's family have been at the Quinta for something like three hundred years, though the place has been modernised from time to time. The original painted ceilings remain and much of the architecture is Manueline. In the reception rooms there are Aubusson and Gobelin tapestries which were bought in France by the old Marquez. The senhor himself had added many famous paintings to the gallery and he has also had the family portraits restored. It is said that when he marries he will commission a Portuguese artist to come out and paint himself and his wife."
"Doesn't he ever let anyone else enjoy the stuff?"
Mrs. Westwood shrugged. "His friends bring their friends; but he doesn't encourage sight-seers."
"That's tough." The man turned suddenly to Fenella, who sat near him on the veranda wall, and said with a grin, "I'll bet you're a friend of his. How about taking me along?"
She paused for a minute and then hedged. "Would your companions like that?"
"They wouldn't mind. They've been groaning because I made them come here. I'm the only cultured member of this gang. Isn't that so, chaps?"
The others smiled, and the English woman said, "You'd be amazed how much Burt knows about art and buildings, Miss Harcourt. He's almost a connoisseur. I'm sure none of us would object to waiting here for him."
"I'm not doubting his sincerity but I've only been in Machada a few weeks. I haven't seen much of the Quinta myself."
"The senhor wouldn't refuse you," said Mrs. Westwood unexpectedly. "You know how he is. Even if the whole party turned up he would welcome you cordially and with dignity. Perhaps he wouldn't exhibit his treasures, but the grounds alone are a revelation."
"There you are. What about it?" the young American amiably persisted.
Fenella stubbornly shook her head. "I'm not a close friend of the senhor."
For the moment that seemed to be that. Fenella drank her coffee and, in order to take the edge from her refusal, accepted the loan of the binoculars, adjusted them and focussed them upon various buildings in the town. They were large and powerful, so powerful, in fact, that the junction where the mission path met the road at the bottom of the hill appeared to adjoin the mission itself.
She watched an ox-cart laden with, logs plod along the strip of road under the beating sun; a half-clad piccanin was in the lead and a very old native had the long rein in one gnarled hand while the other held a rod of sugarcane at which he chewed contentedly. Another ox-team, seven span this time, drawing a load of bagged maize or rice.
And now came a car. Fenella's fingers tightened over the binoculars. She didn't need the ducal shield nor the extravagant size of the car to tell her whose it was. Carlos himself was at the wheel. Fenella thought the distinguished head etched at that arrogant angle would plague her memory for ever.
She watched the saloon take the turn from the road, and slowly she lowered the glasses and handed them back to their owner.
"You'll be able to ask the senhor himself for permission to inspect the Quinta," she said. "That's his car coming up the track."
"What priceless luck," murmured the American.
In mute excitement the company waited. The blue limousine swept up to a standstill and Carlos got out. He stood for a moment, hatless, in the strong light, and Fenella felt a painful drawing of her heart into her throat.
He came forward and tip into the veranda, bowed over Mrs. Westwood's hand and enquired about her health, smiled aloofly at Fenella and said good morning, and turned readily towards the visitors.
"We are happy to greet you in Machada," he said pleasantly. "I trust our climate does not tire you?"
"I'm afraid it does," the English woman admitted. "But what we have seen has been worth a little fatigue. We didn't imagine such a thoroughly civilised town could exist
inside a wild country like Mozambique."
"Wild? Nao quero aceita-lo!" Carlos was mockingly affronted. "A country is not wild because its forest hide leopard and lion. The jungle beasts must live somewhere. Mozambique is an old colony, senhora. You will find beauty in all her cities, beauty initiated by the early few to be maintained and perfected by those who have come after. You have, perhaps, walked in the Vasco da Gama gardens at Lourenco Marques, and admired the Museum and the buildings in the Avenida da Republica?"
"We saw a bull-fight in Lourenco Marque, too?" put in the second American, who had the husky shoulders of a full-back. "We got a kick out of that."
Amused, Carlos commented, "A certain grandeur also exists in bull-fighting, the way it is done by the Portuguese. Our matadors do not kill the bull—they conquer it; which you will agree is an improvement on the more bloodthirsty sport." He accepted coffee from Mrs. Westwood but remained standing while he drank it. "You are rejoining a boat a Alimane, my friends?"
"We have to. The captain wishes us to be aboard by lunch time."
"So you will be returning almost at once?"
Burt Winsten slung the binoculars in their case over his shoulder and assumed a wide, placating smile. "Maybe this is cheek, but I was wondering if I might have a walk through the castle before we leave, sir."
Carlos turned upon him a glance of cool appraisal which, to Fenella, was familiarly tinged with distaste. It was an expression peculiar to Carlos. "Do you mean the Quinta? My house has not been called the Castelo Agostinhos for many years now. I'm afraid there would not be time."
The young man grimaced ruefully at Fenella. "I'd have stood a better chance if you'd pleaded for me."
As the dark grey gaze of Carlos settled upon the pale hair and pink-tan cheeks if went cold and withdrawn.
"You two young people have met before today?"
"No," she replied, averting her eyes. "Mr. Winsten has a wide knowledge of art and he was anxious to see the Quinta. It was suggested that I should accompany him and ask you to permit him a short tour."
"And you declined?" queried Carlos inexorably.
"Miss Harcourt got out of it by saying that she wasn't a close enough friend of yours," Burt Winsten submitted boyishly.
"I see." Carlos put down his cup. "It was to speak to the doctor that I came this morning. However, the matter is not supremely urgent and he is no doubt engaged." With an inclination of his head, he added, "If you are seriously interested in seeing the Quinta I can spare you an hour. Miss Harcourt will accompany us."
Fenella looked blank and startled, but Carlos had taken obedience to his command so much for granted that he was already moving towards the car. And however intolerable his enmity towards her, there was a hurting sweetness in being near him and hearing his voice. She hastened up to the house for a hat, and came back, breathless, to where he stood at the open door of the car.
"You will not run in this heat," he sternly reprimanded her. "One does not trifle with the sub-tropical sun, but it is easily borne if one is calm and moderate."
Fenella wondered if calmness and moderation would ever again be hers.
For the next forty minutes or so Carlos assumed the role which suited him perfectly, that of the sauve host displaying with a certain sophisticated pride the dazzling reception rooms of the Quinta, the portraits, the azulejos, the morning-room with canvases by Goncalves and the ceiling panelled by gold baroque woodwork; the Gothic door which opened to the back terrace in the rococo facade above which, in glorious tiling, shone the Pereira coat-ofarms. He did not, of course, conduct them up the curved ornamental staircase to the bedrooms, nor did he mention the chapel.
Quiet and absorbed, the American followed him, and when they had circled once more to the front terrace he gulped his whisky and soda as it were water, and had his glass filled up again.
"I can't say how grateful I am, sir—and to you, Miss Harcourt. Even though you did turn me down, I've got a hunch that the senhor wouldn't have bothered with me if you hadn't been on the spot."
Fenella was weary and overheated; she had drunk too quickly the tall glass of passion-fruit juice with a dash of
gin which Carlos had poured for her, and her dress clung to her back with perspiration. Also, it had become patent that Carlos had insisted on her company in order to demonstrate his complete indifference to her presence. She was not to get any mistaken impressions! As far as he was concerned the night of the festa had been no different from any other night, before or since. She had merely spoken impulsively and caused him almost to lose his temper. Almost, was the key word.
So she smiled perfunctorily at Burt Winsten, and privately was inclined to agree with him.
They were winding down towards the lake when Winsten asked agreeably, "Would you be good enough to drop me somewhere near the post office and tell the bunch to pick me up there? I'd like to send a line to my folks and I shan't have time in Alimane."
Carlos complied, said a crisp good-bye to the American and waved away his repeated thanks The car sped down the Avenida and angled towards the mission. Through her window Fenella surveyed the luxuriant sub-tropical growth in the gardens they passed, but she was not thinking of orange and pomegranate trees or date palms and banana thickets.
The man at her side was without a heart in the accepted meaning of the word. He was generous in the lordly sense, but there was no softness in him, none of the yielding that goes with a tender heart. She experienced a sudden fervent longing for the end of her holiday, so that she could assure herself that his imperviousness did not touch her and sail away from him with a smile on her lips. For a second or two she even juggled with the idea of telling her father that she was bored with the heat and foreignness of Mozambique; uneasily she reflected that it would be safer to leave before it became too late. Too late for what, her reasoning did not specify. Maybe both mind and emotions were already irrevocably entangled.
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