"With me?" she asked.
"Yes, my child, with you. We will dispose of it early, and for the rest of the day we will forget it. Come with me to the library."
Wordless, she walked at his side, along the terrace and into the wide, flower-decked reception hall of the Quinta, Carlos opened a tall door to the right and Fenella entered a room into which she had so far only peeped, when Carlos was out. Bookshelves, in a dark carved wood, lined the two long walls to right and left. At the end, near the window, stood a massive desk of the same rich wood, the drawer handles of ornate brass. The few papers on the desk were weighted by a slender buck which had been delicately fashioned from ivory and fitted into a square of heavy, polished quartz. The seats and back panels of the two capacious chairs were covered in a green and gold tapestry which matched the floor-length curtains. Nothing renaissance about this room. It had been refurnished not so long ago to suit the studious moods of a modern man.
Carlos had come in and closed the door, but he did not at once advance to where she had paused, beside the desk. Almost abstractedly, he took a cigarette from his case and tapped it, before slipping it between his lips. As though preoccupied, he moved on, past Fenella and round to the back of the desk.
His voice came cold and inflexible. "I have a most unpleasant duty to perform, Fenella. Perhaps you had better sit down."
Her breathing had become painfully irregular and a reasonless constriction had control of her throat. The utter change in him from the charm and suavity of a few minutes ago had shattered most of her self-possession. She could only grope her way to the nearest chair, close her fingers tight over the carved wooden arms, and wait.
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER TWELVE
CARLOS did not hasten to elucidate. He remained backing the window, unmoving except for the fingers which sensitively explored the pointed horns of the ivory buck.
Fenella heard the poignant trill of a morning bird and, from away in the trees, the thin sweetness of his mate's reply; the dry rustle of palms and the distant yelp of a dog. Would Carlos never speak!
"Perhaps my task will be more simple," he said at last, "if I first tell you that Frankland came to see me yesterday evening."
Frankland. The paralysis passed off and Fenella's brain resumed its functioning. An hour or two after going from the doctor's house, Austin had come here, to Carlos. For what? To confess his dilemma over Maria de Cardena and throw himself on the senhor's mercy? No. Austin lacked stamina but he owned a shade too much pride to behave like that. In some way he had implicated Fenella. . . .
"You were not aware," Carlos stated inexorably, "that this cachorrinho of yours has precipitately concluded that the climate of Mozambique is too warm for his health?"
Fenella did not query the epithet. She well knew that cachorrinho meant "puppy."
"Is he leaving?"
"Yes, he is leaving. In fact, it would not amaze me to hear that he has already left."
"You have allowed him to go without notice?"
"I have not only allowed him, senhorita—I have ordered him to go."
"Then, why . . ."
"Permit me to explain." Carlos twisted and rested back on the edge of the desk. Now, his glance was less direct, but his speech lost none of its terseness. "Under his first year's contract with me Frankland was entitled to six weeks' holiday, which he desired to save till later. The contract was not renewed but the terms of it naturally continued to apply. In about seven weeks from now Frankland would have been due to take the accumulation of leave—three months. Last night he asked to have his
holiday right away, because the climate was . . . getting him down."
"Oh." So Austin had temporarily soothed Maria and decided to rat till she was safely married. From his point of view a fool-proof solution. He had lost little time between coming to a decision and acting upon it. Unevenly, Fenella added, "Perhaps he does need a break."
"I did not think you would be so obtuse, senhorita," said Carlos coolly. "Frankland is more jaded by the climate than I am. He is merely trying to escape the consequences of being a handsome adventurer."
This was so close to fact that Fenella felt her nerves tightening up again. She played safe, and said nothing.
"Frankland," said Carlos with an icy deliberation, "had no desire to lose his position on the plantation—but neither had he any intention of marrying the woman he has hypnotised. He concluded, without, I believe, much regret, that it would be convenient to be away from Mozambique till she has left Machada, for England."
Fenella could tell, by the sudden cold dew at her temples, that she had whitened; but she was not conscious that her eyes mirrored pain. The hurt seemed to be right at the centre of her being, and for a minute she was dumb with its intensity.
Carlos had his facts right but he had fastened on the wrong girl. His jaws were hard with a cold, merciless anger. Because she had ignored his warnings against Austin, he was being as cruel as he knew how. His enmity was tangible and vicious, and although he believed her deeply wounded, he was pitiless. How could she deal with him?
She would have liked to stand up and confront him with his own lethal brand of sarcasm, but that was something beyond her abilities, even had she dared to divulge Maria's indiscretion.
"You were sorry for me during your interview with Austin last night, senhor—more sorry than you are now." she said slowly. "You ordered him to get out at once, and to stay out, because you thought he was hurting me. I suppose it's useless to tell you that I was never in love with him?"
"I have mentioned before that you are a girl of courage," he said distantly. "You will recover from the affair more quickly if you can convince yourself that the man has never affected your emotions."
Which meant that she would never convince him of it. Perhaps in time it might not seem so imperative that she should. Time was a valuable ally. With a show of resolution she got to her feet.
"Your unpleasant duty is successfully performed, senhor," she said, inclining her head. "You won't object if I return to the mission?"
"I will object most vigorously," he replied. "I stayed this morning particularly to have this word with you. It is finished, and I do not wish ever to refer to it again. After I have escorted Miss Brean through the morning-room and the gallery, I must attend a meeting in town, and after that there will be other business to attend to. Until late this afternoon you senhoras will have the Quinta to yourselves. So you will see that it is not necessary for you to return to the mission in order to avoid me."
Fenella managed a shrug which might have been the inimical ghost of one of his. "I'll stay, senhor . . . for Miss Brean's sake."
"Exactly, for Miss Brean's sake." He slipped a fresh cigarette from his case. "For the sake of this admirable Englishwoman you might also come to our party next Friday—which it pleases Antonie to call a ball. Perhaps you know that your father has already accepted?"
Fenella had endured just a shade too much. The scene over Austin had been gruelling enough; mockery on top of it was not to be tolerated.
"My father and Miss Brean will do as they please," she said rapidly, "but after today nothing will force me to enter the Quinta."
"Because," he said, narrow-eyed, "it is here that one has pricked the pretty bubble of your romance, which turned out to be—not quite so pretty. About that I have nothing more to add. Let us join the others."
He opened the door and followed her out. As silently as they had entered the Quinta they walked side by side back to the terrace.
Antonie sprang up from the cushion which had been placed between the feet of Tia Supervia and Miss Brean. It was a graceful movement and full of colour, for she wore a gaily striped frock and scarlet sandals. She slid an arm into the crook of Carlos' white sleeve. Her black curls, loose and glossy, brushed his shoulder as she lifted to him her glowing eyes and reddened mouth.
"Born dia, Carlos. I apologise that I was so late. Is it that you are with us all day?"
"It is not," he said, smiling in a teasing manner "But you will have two guests for several hours, so your day will not be dull. And do not forget that tonight we have Senhor Daflos and his son to dinner."
"That foolish boy!" Her laughter was high-pitched and clear. "Always when he comes I am afraid he will ponderously beg your permission to take me into the garden and make love to me—but I do not think he would know how to make love."
"He is older than you are."
"But too young, nevertheless, by several years. The young are so . . . estupido!"
Tia Supervia looked at the girl fondly. "You have spoiled her, Carlos. You hear how she talks about this excellent young Senhor Daflos! She will measure other men by you, and always they disappoint."
"I will start to be strict with her, Tia. Then she will look for a man who is very different!"
Like an affectionate kitten, Antonie turned her cheek against him. "That is just a big joke, Carlos. You know it is. You could not be strict."
"You are wrong. At this moment I command you to help Tia with her silks while Miss Brean and I take a stroll through the Quinta."
Fenella had had to shut out the picture of domestic felicity. She stood at the terrace wall staring into the transparent green depths of the pool. Pink petals from the bordering beds floated on the surface of the water and a sly breeze teased it into ripples. Among the blue stars of the passion-flowers which encrusted the stone balustrades new growth was appearing, and down on the lawns the garden boys were trimming the bombax and coral vine, while others sought over the cropped green
turf for the daring weed. Spring was beginning in this hemisphere, but it could not possibly bring greater glory to the countryside.
When Antonie came beside her, Fenella realised that Carlos and Miss Brean had gone.
"You look very well, Antonie," she said quietly. "Mozambique suits you."
"That is because I am happy," the girl answered. "So happy that I could dance and sing. At first I was not in the least happy. I was sad and had no spirit. But Carlos has been so kind to me in every way that I have not been homesick, and my sadness is gone."
"Fenella also has helped you, cara," Tia Supervia reminded her, from her seat at the back of them.
"Yes—and you, Fenella," Antonie admitted perfunctorily. "We have done many things together. You remember the water-colour that we painted—the best one, of the fountain with the background of palms? I have posted it to my father, so that he may show it to my relatives. And the silk scarf we designed for Carlos . . . that is complete and he is delighted." She leaned towards the steps and plucked a sprig of plumbago; then cast a swift, recollective glance at Fenella. "Your Senhor Frankland," she said. "You have heard that he is leaving Alimane at noon today?"
At noon. Carlos had omitted that information, and Fenella had a good notion why. It was tied up with his keenness to keep her here till late this afternoon. He had determined that she was not to see Austin again.
She nodded. "He's not the sort to stick in one place for very long."
"You do not mind?"
"No. Why should I?"
Antonie's head bent over the blue flowers in her hands. Her mouth drew in and her chin appeared to tremble uncontrollably for a second. "You English are so . . . stony. It is terrible to lose the man one loves."
A chill crept up Fenella's spine. This was a new Antonie, a woman capable of heart-whole love. She wasn't just intriguing for a husband. She had come fully alive to love Carlos in a way at which even he could hardly guess. Or maybe he didn't have to guess. Mrs.
Westwood had said that engagements in Machada were often kept secret till the wedding day was fixed, and Carlos had more reason than most for such a procedure. No one was more adept than he at concealing his feelings.
In a sickening flash it came to Fenella that the party next Friday—it was Antonie's first since coming to Machada —might have as its object the announcement of an engagement and marriage date. Now the idea presented itself, several things pointed that way. The gist of the conversation she had heard a few minutes ago might have been regarded as a superb jest by Carlos, Antonie and Tia Supervia. Tia had an air of quiet confidence. Antonie had confessed to being wonderfully happy and she had certainly acquired the vital sparkle of a woman who is needed. As for Carlos, where his heart was concerned he was impenetrable. Only the woman he loved would know the heights and depths of his passion, the breadth of his tenderness.
"Come and rest with Tia," said Antonie. "One cannot be energetic in such a climate. I tell Carlos this sun is getting too hot."
An hour of desultory conversation loitered by before Miss Brean reappeared, and Carlos waved from the car before speeding away down the drive. While the women drank their glasses of coffee and ate small nut cookies, Miss Brean talked industriously about the senhor's paintings and the baroque ornamentation which had made so deep an impression upon Fenella. Later, Fenella and Antonie bathed and dried off in the sun.
After lunch the two Portuguese women retired as usual to their rooms, and the two English ones sat on the armchairs on the front terrace. Her studied geniality no longer necessary, Miss Brean drew an audible breath and shifted, so that she could see Fenella's contour against the whiteness of a marble pillar."
"I shall be sorry if the senhor marries his cousin," she said bluntly. "She's by no means the right woman for a man of his kind."
"Why do you say that?"
"For one thing, she's spoiled and selfish, and for another she's too shallow She's always been the darling of a rich family and had everything she wanted. I wouldn't mind betting that she fell for Senhor Pereira when he went
to Lisbon a couple of years ago, and plagued her father till he agreed to write and get the senhor to invite her." "I think she'd make a perfect wife for Carlos."
"I don't," said Miss Brean flatly. "She's the type who would entice him away to Portugal for the six hottest months of the year. To her, Machada is just a small town with too few 'shops and no theatre. The estate is only to be reckoned in escudos on the credit side of a bank book. There's no soul in the girl. You would never make her see that to create and maintain beauty in such a country is something worthwhile. Her own beauty is her first concern."
"That's rather a harsh judgment. She cares a great deal for Carlos."
"Does she?" Miss Brean sounded sceptical. "I'll grant that she means to do her utmost to marry him—which isn't quite the same. The aunt is a first-rate propagandist . . . and incidentally a most likeable person, but I predict it will take more than propaganda and Antonie's clinging tactics to capture Carlos Pereira."
Miss Brean was new to Machada, and her outlook correspondingly fresh and uninformed. Fenella had never told her of the trouble Carlos had taken in order that Antonie should not miss her family and friends; nor about his almost daily gifts to his cousin and the sharpness with which he had at first watched for signs of fatigue. Nor did it seem necessary to tell her now.
"You haven't shown any curiosity about my nine am. session with Carlos," she observed.
"Antonie said it was probably on your father's business, and I naturally assumed that she ought to know."
"It was about Austin. Carlos has sacked him and he's departing today."
Miss Brean went grave. "So Maria's been tumbled to. What will happen now?"
"Maria's safe, so long as she keeps quiet. Austin saw Carlos last night and asked for his vacation to be put forward so that he could take it at once. I suppose Carlos gave him an outsize cheque and dismissed him."
"But why? Isn't that an extraordinary thing to do if he had no inkling about Maria?"
"That's Carlos," said Fenella quickly. "It's pointless to question anything he does. Thank heaven it's all ended. You certainly came to Machada at the right time. Miss Brean. I'd never have got out of that tangle without you." She jumped up. "Let's take the shady path down to the chapel, shall we? The building has a lovely exterior."
At five o'clock Fenella and Miss Brean drove away from
the Quinta. They met the blue car on the road, and the chauffeur of the burgundy one in which they were travelling obeyed a signal to stop. Carlos came to their window.
"You have had an interesting day, Miss Brean? I am glad. And you, Fenella?"
"Most interesting, senhor."
"But you wish you had not come," he said quite pleasantly. "That is a pity, but one day you will forgive me for being the bearer of ill tidings."
He bowed and said good-bye, and the cars swiftly drew apart. Miss Brean sat back and showed phenomenal restraint by making no enquiries.
Tuesday was uneventful. Fenella lent a hand at the mission and spent the evening over a book while her father and Miss Brean played bezique.
On Wednesday morning came an air-mailed letter from Aunt Anna. Fenella had collected the doctor's mail from the post-boy, and immediately took out the envelope addressed to herself and slit it open. She read through the two sheets, then laughed a little, dropped the other mail on to a table and went over to tap on the surgery door.
Dr. Harcourt called, "Who it is?"
"Fenella. Can you spare a moment?"
"Wait a bit, my dear. I have a patient."
So Fenella read through the letter again and willed him to hurry.
"Come in!"
She pushed open the door and grabbed at the cuff of his white drill jacket. "Here's a letter from Aunt Anna. You'll never guess what it says."
"I won't try. Read it out to me."
"Listen to this—penned, mind you, in her worst writing. `How it came about is still hazy in my mind, but it seems that I have promised to marry Henry Gilson—in fact
to marry him as soon as you come home. He's rather a
dear, and I'm sure you'll enjoy him as an uncle.'" Fenella
raised her head. "She's going to be married. Isn't it grand!"
Robert Harcourt was smiling. "It's certainly a surprise. I thought she was a confirmed woman bachelor, Isn't Gilson the Headmaster of the Grammar School?"
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