"The car was nearly half an hour late," he said. "Where did you get to?"
"I rested in the hammock. I think I must have dozed for a while." Fenella hoped her voice did not reflect the rasping quality of her thoughts. "Austin, can't you do something about Maria?"
He leaned comfortably against the corner post and folded his arms. "Are we back at this once more? Any suggestions, my sweet?"
"Well . . . what about seeing her father again?"
"Again?" He let a moment slip by. "You don't suppose I've ever approached him seriously, do you? I'm not the sort to chase trouble."
"But you said . . ." she began spiritedly.
"I said that Senhor de Cardena had given me to understand that his future son-in-law must have money. So he did. He probably trots out the same warning to any man who looks twice at Maria, in order to discourage the impecunious from the outset. Large-hearted of the old boy, really."
Fenella was silent, aware of a hardness in him which had never before been noticeable. The truth was that the situation had grown beyond her. Five weeks ago, when Maria had first contrived a meeting with Austin at the doctor's house, the affair had worn an aura of romance and naive simplicity. The next step, allowing them a brief time alone together, had happened so naturally that Fenella was not sure whether it had been managed by herself or Austin. With dangerous speed other elements had crept in . . . and Maria was more in love with Austin than ever. And what of Austin? Did he intend to allow the affair to drag on for months?
"It's my opinion," he said conversationally, "that women flay themselves with their own intensity. You're as bad as the rest, Fenella. I'm surprised at you."
"You've no reason to be—I'm anxious for Maria, that's all. Where will it end?"
"Why should it end? I've known her for over a year and we understand each other. I wouldn't harm her for the world—she's well aware of that."
"Then why not go to her father? He's fond of her, and if he can be convinced that she loves you he may help you both financially."
Austin's shrug was careless. "As I said once before, you don't know the Portuguese. It's a long, long time since I was last invited to the de Cardenas. They haven't a ghost of a notion that I've been seeing Maria, and a sudden declaration now would send all the masculine hands to the sword-hilts. After they'd cut my heart out they'd make her marry me without a dowry. You don't realise how important the dowry becomes when you marry
a girl from the idle rich. Maria's a nice child, but an unpractical one. She's never worked in her life."
"Need you regard it from such a drastic angle? Can't you call on her family a few times, to break down their prejudice? I'm sure they'd give in eventually, if you were completely open with them."
"Bless your innocence. You don't see the half of it, my pet." In comradely fashion he lightly placed a hand on her shoulder. "The trouble is, we don't really belong here, Fenella. Owing to the dominance of the Pereira family, Machada is more Portuguese than any other town in Mozambique—if you'd travelled in the rest of the Province you'd know what I'm getting at. The fact that Carlos Pereira is going to marry his cousin will influence the rest of the inhabitants. The English are popular here, but the conservative families down in the old town won't want them as in-laws."
Rather dully, she said, "Aren't you looking a little far ahead? Carlos isn't even engaged yet, and you could become engaged to Maria tomorrow, if you wished, and settle everything quickly."
He smiled easily. "Stop worrying, you delightful idiot. Plenty of time for that when Maria starts losing her sparkle. May we have a cup of tea?"
Fenella left him and went to the kitchen. The square, white-tiled room gleamed from all surfaces: streamlined cooker and refrigerator, china cupboard with glass doors, the white-enamelled surfaces of the table and two chairs. She made tea and piled a dish with home-made biscuits.
She pushed back her hair and stood for a moment gazing through the window at the well-worn grass between the house and Antonio's hut, and at the bed of cannas which bloomed prodigally without attention and were already six feet high. Beyond the hibiscus hedge rose the magnolias; their sweetness was suddenly too lush and sickening.
Swallowing resolutely on the constriction in her throat, she picked up the tray and bore it out to the veranda. She would be glad to give ,Austin his tea and get rid of him.
Fenella spent that Sunday evening alone in the lounge, writing to Aunt Anna. She had a great deal to tell Miss
Harcourt, though there was much more that she dare not put into writing. The pages were filled with gay references to her days at the Quinta—when she and Antonie painted materials or did still-life water-colours—and with more detailed descriptions of incidents at the mission among the natives. She included news about her progress in learning Portuguese, and finished with a message of goodwill to Mr. Gilson, the tenacious schoolmaster. Her father came home with the tale of how they had had to abandon the golf match and devote their energies to hunting hundreds of land crabs from the Alimane course, so Fenella added that piece of information in an entertaining postscript.
Breakfast had just been cleared the following morning when a note came by hand from Maria. Mystified, Fenella read the large, untidy scribble.
"Please come to us for coffee at eleven this morning, but behave as if you had called for a moment, unasked. There is a letter which you must deliver for me, but I dare not trust it to the driver, who already knows too much. Do come, Fenella."
The request was inconvenient, to say the least. Apart from the fact that Fenella was due at the Quinta at ten, there happened to be the matter of transport down to the other side of town. Carlos would not object if she kept the car which would call at a quarter to ten, but Antonie, and particularly Tia Supervia, might become anxious if she did not arrive at the Quinta on time; they might even feel compelled to send another car and create a situation which would entail extensive explanations that might prove extremely awkward. No, she must think up some other way to travel the three miles to the de Cardena residence.
So when the Pereira car turned up, she gave the chauffeur a note for Antonie and told him to call again at twelve. And then she went out to enquire if a car were available for a short, visit to town. Dr. Harcourt's two-seater stood outside the clinic ready to take him to the native reserve; even had she been able to drive Fenella could not have appropriated it. The only other vehicles were the mission
jeep and the sedan which belonged to Senhor Seixas. The latter had taken the Seixas family to the coast an hour ago, and the jeep was having a wheel changed. There seemed to be no alternative to walking.
It was no hotter than usual but in her anxiety to accomplish her errand quickly Fenella may have set off too briskly. Before long her pulses were pounding, and her head, moist under the straw crown of her hat, had a dull, concentrated ache. With every step her opinion of Maria deteriorated. This was no joke, having to tramp all the way in grilling heat merely to satisfy some whim of Maria's. For whim it must be. Less than a day had elapsed since the girl had gaily and securely parted from Austin.
Soon Fenella could not think with much clarity. The streets of Machada encompassed her in a wet, throbbing heat. She was relieved when the church came into view and the trees were more thickly clustered in the gardens. Senhora de Gardena would doubtless consider her mad, but there would be coolness and a chair to sink into.
She turned along the curved drive, entered an arched porch and pulled a worn rope which connected with a cracked-sounding bell at the back of the premises. A servant answered and she stepped into the dark hall. An inner door opened, letting in a slant of light, and Maria was framed there, her hands outstretched.
"Fenella! You are too good to call. How my mother will be pleased!"
It was all well-handled by a surprisingly competent if somewhat brittle Maria. The senhora was taking coffee with two middle-aged friends, and the English of all the older women was practically non-existent. Maria made glib references to her own devout attend
ance at the mission services; Fenella became the target for three pairs of eyes and was offered a glass of coffee, which brought a fresh ooze to her temples.
The room was cool, yet stifling because the windows were closed against the hot wind which might deposit a few particles of dust upon the furniture. Fenella was not sorry when Maria made a signal and begged to be excused while she accompanied Fenella to the door. She was a minx. this Maria, and more full of cunning than a monkey.
Yet when they were in the porch with the door shut behind them, it was obvious that beneath a touch of rouge Maria's face had the stark pallor of fright.
"What's happened?" Fenella demanded quickly.
"A mishap, an unfortunate occurrence," came the jerky reply. "I cannot explain, Fenella, but Austin must be told as soon as possible, so that he can decide what we are to do. I have written it in this letter"—she drew it from a pocket and thrust it upon Fenella. "How soon can you see him?"
"Not till he comes next weekend. You know that."
"But you must do this for me. It is . . ." she searched frantically for .the word and fell back on an idiom she had no doubt gleaned from Austin. "It is life and death. You must go to the camp."
"That's fantastic, Maria. I have no business at all at the camp and if I were seen there it would cause a rumpus. I haven't a car at my disposal, as you have, and even if I could hire one in the town the thing would be too risky."
"Once you have the car there is no risk for you. An English woman can go anywhere, without question. No one would dare to stop you."
"If Senhor Pereira heard about it he'd be furious. I'll try to send the letter for you . . ."
"No, no!" Her tone was terrified. "There is no one I can trust but you. I would go myself as I have gone before, but . . . things have happened, and I am unable to leave the house, even while my mother rests."
"What things?"
"I am afraid to tell you. You are so straight, you could not do mean things. Do not believe that I am bad—there is nothing like that about me—but I love Austin so much that I would do anything to be with him. If I have lied and deceived it is only for that reason. Now, everything is threatened."
"Has your father found out about him?"
Maria was trembling. "It is not yet as terrible as that." She flung a glance at a large window. "Go now, Fenella, and please take the letter to Austin, if not today tomorrow. No later than tomorrow morning. I will feel so much happier once he has it. You promise?",
"How can I promise?"
"Your father will drive you this evening, when his duties are finished You will say it is a pleasure trip—anything to stay his curiosity. I must go in. My mother will be calling me. Adeus, Fenella!"
Maria squeezed her arm and fled inside. Her caution was so odd that Fenella had walked several blocks before she dismissed it and set her mind to work on the immediate problem. Maria's assumption that the doctor should be dragged into it was irresponsible and selfish. She didn't care who was implicated so long as her own ends were satisfactorily met. Fenella had no intention of stealing her father's well-earned leisure, for Maria or anyone else; in fact she was half-inclined to write to Austin herself, telling him that she held an important letter to him from Maria and that he had better come and get it. But almost at once she knew that that would not do. She was already in this up to the neck, and there could be no avoiding its unpleasant complications.
She came out into the Avenida. The wide thoroughfare, with its dividing line of palms and flowering trees, appeared to extend ahead into eternity. Native boys, large baskets slung on their arms or balanced on their heads, were shopping for the residents of the more populous part of the town. Indians dawdled negligently along the kerb. The few white folk on the pavement were men, on business bent.
The headache was pressing in again. A little desperately Fenella examined the few passing cars, hoping to recognise an acquaintance. In hospitable Machada one had only to ask even a stranger for a lift for the plea to be granted. But natural reticence is not so easily overcome. Fenella continued walking till the Avenida was left behind and she reached the long, deserted road from which the track to the mission was an offshoot.
What to do about the letter for Austin she had not so far decided. The news it contained might be urgent—she recalled the bleakness and fear in Maria's expression—and Fenella would be to blame if anything went amiss because Austin had not received it in time to act in some way or other. Hopeless to try and work it out while hammers beat so unmercifully inside her skull. She must take aspirin and rest.
In the distance an ox-wagon plodded, and Fenella was reminded of the morning the tourists had come to the mission and she had viewed this road through the American's binoculars. There had been two ox-carts then, followed by Carlos in his car.
Hazily, she heard a "beep" behind her. A car passed and pulled into the grass at the edge of the road. A man jumped out and came striding towards her. It couldn't be Carlos; thinking a miracle couldn't make it materialise.
But it was Carlos; very much so.
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
HIS voice had the ring of metal as he demanded, "What are you doing? Why are you walking here in the sun?"
"I had to go to town." Fenella didn't know that anxiety and the headache had darkened her eyes. "There was no car, so I had to foot it."
"You are a lunatic!" he said violently. "Get into the car immediately."
She did, and straightway felt the prickle of sweat as she lay back. Carlos got in, too, and slammed his door. But he made no effort to start the car. He sat sideways, his mouth tight as he stared at her.
"Is it . . . warmer today?" she enquired dazedly.
"It is much warmer. I thought you were at the Quinta." "I had a message early this morning, so when your car
came at a quarter to ten I sent it back."
"Why, in the name of sanity, did you not use it!"
She gestured helplessly. "I didn't need it till nearly eleven. I couldn't keep it hanging about for an hour or more. Antonie might have wondered."
"In an hour there was time to send a note to Antonie and for the car to return to the mission."
"Good heavens," she said, with a small show of spirit. "I don't do that sort of thing. I've no right to use your car as if it were a taxi."
"Yet you knew," he said emphatically, "that that is what I would have wished. You knew it when you sent the car back to the Quinta, didn't you?"
"I suppose so, but I felt I couldn't do it without your permission." She hesitated. "To be honest, six miles didn't seem so far before I started."
"Six miles! So you have not been to the post office or to a shop. You have walked to the old town. You have trudged through the hot streets because you were too proud to borrow my car. I was going to apologise for calling you a lunatic, but now I shall not. You are worse than a fool, Fenella. You deserve to be whipped." His thumb jabbed the starter. "We will go now to the Quinta and you will lie down before lunch."
"I'd rather go home," she said quietly.
The engine purred. Carlos turned and looked at her. "You feel you cannot relax at the Quinta? I have suspected it. Tell me why."
"I'd prefer to go home," she evaded. "So that I can put on a fresh dress."
"Something is changing you and I do not like it," he said critically. "You are no longer as candid as when you first came to Machada. I would still trust you—it is not that. But you hide your thoughts and purposely make yourself difficult to comprehend. Is it possible that you are unhappy, pequena?"
Since he had last called her "pequena" Fenella had learned that in the sense he used it the word meant "little one." She stiffened against this rare gentleness.
"On the contrary, senhor. I can imagine no greater happiness than to go on living with my father."
"That is not true," he said, ignoring her tone. "To live with one's father is only the beginning. You must have realised that, since you are now experiencing your first
affair." Hard mockery overlaid the gentleness. "It is painful é nao, this first squeezing of the heart, this dreadful longing for the touch of hands and lips? You did not know it could hurt so much!"
On the point of mentioning the headache Fenella changed her mind. She would not trot out so obvious a bid for his sympathy while he was baiting her with such deliberate cruelty. She clasped her hands in her lap and raised her chin.
"You are right, senhor, but for all that I would not be without heart. The cynic may avoid pain, but he also misses the sweet things in life."
The grey glance went steely. "For 'cynic' you would doubtless substitute 'Carlos.' Because I will not treat gravely this childish infatuation of yours for a spineless creature who happens to be English, I am a man without heart and understanding. There are times, Fenella, when I dislike you . . . just a little."
And I you, she thought sincerely. Where was the sense in arguing with him? While Austin continued to be a regular weekend visitor at the doctor's house, Carlos would never be convinced that he did not come at her invitation,
and expressely to see her. Carlos hadn't got over what he deemed the personal affront of her choosing Sunday lunch with Austin in preference to a weekend on the yacht. He considered his superintendent negligible and unworthy, and admitted that he kept him on at the camp merely because one does not cast off an old friendship like a shoddy cloak.
In a way it was a relief that he misconstrued Austin's frequent presence at the mission. Better that he should attribute her malaise to an unsatisfactory flirtation than guess at the truth. That would be intolerable.
She became conscious of the almost imperceptible vibration of the engine.
"I'm sorry I annoy you," she said. "Will you please take me to the mission, Carlos?"
"I will take you to the mission," he agreed, "and wait while you change your dress. I must ask you to be quick, so that Antonie shall not be too disturbed."
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