"Today?" demanded Fenella, startled.
"Well, I'm free of engagements today, and some sort of action seems to be indicated. I certainly don't intend to sit around brooding upon the fact that I've done something which has upset you."
"You haven't," Fenella automatically inserted.
"I have, my dear . . . though with the best will in the world. Now that I see how opposed you are to it I wish to heaven I hadn't invited the senhor, but it's done, and we must carry it off in the best mission tradition. He's coming at seven, for seven-thirty dinner. Can't we forget it till then?"
Fenella warmed slightly. "Of course we can. Am I being horrid?"
"Not in the least. You're just behaving a little like a damp hen, and I don't blame you a bit because I'm the cause of it." She brightened, visibly. "Why don't we both forget our woes and go out for the day? You'd love that tour, Fenella, and we can be back by five."
"But I can't!" Yet even as she spoke the suggestion took hold. It would be good to have the hours till five taken care of. "Supposing the boy should need me for something."
"He never does. I'll bet my hat that he considers himself a better judge of the senhor's tastes than you are."
This was probably true. "Perhaps we ought first to have a word with my father," Fenella said.
"He's busy, and we can't hang on till lunch-time." Miss Brean was at her most commanding. "We'll go now, and leave him a note. You've hardly moved from Machada in four months. You don't know how thrilling it can be to drive through almost virgin country in a hot, moist climate You see the most staggering things growing. Let's call the boy now and tell him to pack a basket. We shan't have to take much."
It was easy for Fenella to give in. Apart from the unattractive prospect of a day at home alone, it would be a help to have several hours' respite from Machada and the atmosphere which was peculiarly Carlos Pereira's.
Away from the mission there would be less temptation to count the hours till she should see him again; she would not be drugged by his all-pervading personality.
The lunch-box was stowed into Miss Brean's coupe, the two women got in and the car set off down the track. Soon they were out on the road, speeding along between those monotonous walls of coconut palms which seemed to stretch for many more miles than the eleven into Alimane. They had never before seemed so monotonous to Fenella.
The streets of the port were busy, particularly the main shopping centre which ran parallel to the sea front. Dawdling through the traffic the small car throbbed with the heat of an oven. Fenella breathed in dust and the sticky wind, and the mixture of smells which had so romantically filled her nostrils the day she had landed from the boat. Today it was so much part of the air that she hardly noticed it. And the names on the shopfronts had lost their fascination.
The pavements were crowded, chiefly with natives, though here and there an Indian flower-seller provided a colourful relief, both with her wares and her costume.
At a kerb near one of these women a car was parked, a glittering sapphire blue car with a crest emblazoned on its side. Through the window Antonie was selecting a spray of pale green orchids, and placing them against the front of her jade silk dress to note their suitability and effect. Carlos, from his position behind the wheel, was smiling and nodding at the blend of the two shades so near to the bright olive cheeks and the white silk lace mantilha. Fenella had time to notice that no one occupied the back seat of the car before Miss Brean accelerated with unusual viciousness and swept out to the sea front.
"They're going to a festa — a sort of garden party, I think," she said, her voice edged with vexation. "The senhor mentioned it yesterday, but I forgot."
"Antonie looked very lovely," said Fenella quietly.
The car passed the small customs house at an illegal speed and made towards the rising coast road. Miss Brean let out an angry breath.
"You annoy me, Fenella! Don't you ever make friends with a mirror? The way you sit back and let Antonie make all the running, no one would imagine you a darned
good-looking girl with plenty of intelligence. You're enough to make anyone furious, let alone a man like Carlos Pereira. I'm not a nitwit. The minute you two get within sight of each other the blades are drawn, and the fault is yours. Maybe it's a natural throwing up of defences because you're afraid he'll guess you're in love with him, but the way I see it, it's a fatal sign that you're giving up without a fight—without even a drowning struggle. What is it about English girls? Modesty is all very well, but it should never be allowed to develop into hopelessness."
Fenella had nothing to offer. She hadn't been aware that her feeling for Carlos was so apparent. What could one answer to the accusation of hopelessness? What reason had she to feel other than hopeless? There was Carlos in the car with Antonie, buying her flowers to wear with her dress; a beautiful dress, with a ravishing white mantilha from the hands of the best lacemaker in Portugal and worn as only a woman born to such attire could wear it. Antonie was of his own race, his own tongue. She pleased him because she knew what a cavalheiro expected of a woman and went all out to provide it.
Yet Fenella could not help but reflect that depth and mutual understanding would be lacking from their union. Antonie was already complaining about the heat; how would she bear torrential rains and the tropical blaze of summer? She had no love of Machada, no ingrained belief in the place of the Pereira family in the Province —a belief that was essential in a woman destined to become a Pereira.
An intensity of emotion welled chokingly into Fenella's throat, an agglomeration of smaller emotions dominated by her undeniable love for Carlos. Impossible that Antonie could feel like this, as if her whole being ran together in a fire of need for him.
And what of Carlos, the incalculable? Would it content him to have a wife who possessed beauty and breeding and an old name? Would he gladly give in to the plea that the steamy half of the year be spent away from his beloved Machada? No one would ever know. If he married Antonie he would accord her the utmost fidelity in every particular; whatever lay underneath, to the world he would
present a completely successful marriage. That was Carlos.
The pain of such thoughts! Why had she come with Miss Brean today and laid herself open to the torture of seeing them together like that? What malicious force had compelled her to look into the back of the blue saloon for Tia Supervia—who was not there? There was no necessity, of course, for the aunt to accompany them on every jaunt, and the woman herself might have declined to do so.
Half-seeing, Fenella watched the passing scene. Ahead, low hills billowed against the sky, and on each side stretched neglected timber among which grew banana, giant bamboos and wild fruit bush. The track, of the red soil of Africa and badly pitted, was narrow and treacherous. All Miss Brean's attention had to be concentrated on avoiding tree-boles which had once been levelled to the earth but which now, as a result of devastating rains, stood eight or ten inches high in the path.
There were monkeys in the trees, though not many showed themselves. They could be located by the sudden violent agitation of branches. Now and then, to the right, the car came out above the ocean, which washed white over the great rough boulders, or frothed calmly along a beach where an expanse of copra lay drying in the sun. Near the beaches there would be fishermen a short way out at sea. They lived in the grass huts among the thinner trees at the back of the rocks, and existed almost entirely on wild fruit and berries, and what they caught.
"I suppose you're resenting me for butting in on your privacy," Miss Brean remarked when she had become accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of the track. "But you realise by now that that's the sort of interfering person I am." She jerked the wheel to avoid trouble. "Have you heard anything from Austin Frankland's little victim?"
This subject was more to Fenella's taste. "Not a word. Do you advise getting in touch with her?"
"Goodness, no. A girl like Maria has a certain shrewdness which will pull her through. It was fortunate that Austin
didn't choose someone more sensitive who might have been seriously hurt."
"Where do you think he's gone?"
"To England, where he probably has a fond relative or two. They will bolster his ego and perhaps line his pocket, and eventually he'll embark on a new enterprise. The resilience of the rolling stone is phenomenal."
After that Miss Brean talked spasmodically about any and everything, except Carlos. The road was less interesting than she had promised. No buck emerged from the the forest, and the few natives they encountered were indistinguishable from the Tonga who visited the mission. True, there were the glimpses of the Indian Ocean, but after a while even these failed to provoke comment.
They rested for lunch on the edge of a sugar plantation where the crop was young. The boy had packed rolls, fruit and cheese, but Fenella ate only fruit. She crumbled her rolls for the grey, crested birds with scarlet beaks and legs which popped from their nests among the cane to examine the intruders. Pretty birds, which were remarkably tame.
Miss Brean became engrossed in her map and did some thumb-measuring. "We're only thirty miles from Porto Alva," she announced. "Not much to see there—it's smaller than Alimane—but there'll be a filling station. After that we'll make inland towards the river. According to my guide book it's hippo-ridden."
"Oughtn't we to get going now."
"Plenty of time." Miss Brean yawned lazily in the shade of the umbrella tree. "No one hurries in a hot country. That's what I like about them. You go slow, and miss nothing."
"It's nearly two, you know."
"So it is, but there's an excellent flat road most of the way back. Still, we may as well move. Cane fields are not so entrancing, are they?"
During the afternoon Miss Brean showed none of the morning's anxiety for haste. As they threaded a rubber plantation and, farther on, a belt of oil palms, she expatiated about other lands in which she had seen the same things. Her powers of observation were acute.
Porto Alva turned out to be a small settlement of white planters who owned the surrounding lands. Instead of each burying himself away on a small estate, they composed a tiny community and journeyed each day to
their work. The blessings of companionship, especially for their womenfolk, far outweighed the trouble of travelling. Miss Brean learned all this, and a few other facts, from a Portuguese garage man who had at first appeared rather truculent at being stirred from his snooze but had later allowed himself to be flattered into garrulousness.
"The whole town is at siesta," she said as they once more took the road. "It's a wonderful habit, if you can cultivate it. I'm still so English that if I lie down during the day I feel a fraud."
They crossed the wide road which led to Ibana and jolted along a trail even more tortuous than the coast road. On each hand stretched the grey-green foliage of pineapples, among which a desultory picking was in progress. The pineapples ended and fallow land extended in all directions, awaiting the rains which would flood the ground for the feverish planting of rice. Orchards on a grand scale; avocado pears, papaws, mangoes, bananas. More miles of the productive palm, and finally crude ungoverned jungle which was scored with native footpath; and teemed with monkeys and small game.
The track narrowed and disappeared, and Miss Brean braked. "The mechanic back there assured me that we could drive right to the river bank, but I don't see a river anywhere. Do you smell water, Fenella?"
"There's a damp odour, but it's stale. The trees are not too thick here. Why don't we take a walk?"
"On foot in these places I prefer to be equipped with a compass and a good hefty stick. We might go a little way, and keep to a footpath."
The path they chose was quite pretty. A few large crimson blossoms were scattered over the vines, and between the trees, on tall, bamboo-like stems, hung bunches of pale lilac flowers and tufts of dark-green leaves.
"We're near water, or I'm a Dutchman," said Miss Brean. Then she held up her hand. Voices sounded, the gossip and laughter of native women. "That proves it," she added.
A few minutes later they found the river, but not the women. As if sensing aliens in their glade they had vanished, silently and completely. A few yards of trodden
bank near a brownstone boulder showed where they washed and drew their water and paused to chew cane while they talked.
Only a short curve of river was visible. They seemed to have contacted it on a fairly sharp bend, so that it had the appearance of a bow of dark water imprisoned by tall trees. The surface was sluggish and uninviting.
"Do you suppose the natives drink it?" Fenella queried.
"Why not? They're immune to all sorts of fevers that we'd die of."
"Well, there's not a single hippo. We've been had." "Have we? Watch this."
Miss Brean delicately handled a fair-sized stone, took a firm stand and heaved it into the river. The plop was enormous, the ripples widened and the water smoothed out to its erstwhile treacliness. Then it happened; a strange, convulsive sucking of the water in long streaks and whirls, an angry stirring, and the emergence of the great ugly head followed by the grotesque unwieldy body. Other hippos surfaced and the young ones played, deriving tremendous joy from head-on collisions and broadside evasions. Their antics were fascinating and somehow unreal. When a crocodile snaked in among them Fenella held her breath. But to the hippos he was a neighbour with whom they dwelt in amity. Their silly big mouths went on grinning, their tiny, lidded eyes blinked foolishly and their clumsy bodies continued to bump each other with the greatest zest.
The sun had left the water and was resting its rays along the treetops. After the heat of midday the air was distinctly chilly.
"It's half-past four," Fenella exclaimed. "We shan't be home till after six. Do let's go at once."
"We actually have till a quarter to seven," said Miss Brean equably. "We can tub and change in half an hour and still have fifteen minutes to spare before dinner. So long as we reach Ibana before dark, we'll be all right."
"It's dark at half-past six. I must be home by then."
"Don't fuss, my dear. On a good road my trusty bus will do seventy."
But the trusty bus seemed to have mislaid itself. Fenella had relied on Miss Brean's remembering which of the
numerous paths from the bank was theirs. The older woman was used to this type of adventure. In this instance, however, Miss Brean had shown less than her usual sagacity. They lost a precious half-hour wandering along the wrong paths before they found the right one, and when at last they reached the coupe, Miss Brean stated that if they were going to speed the radiator had better be filled to the top. So a trip back to the river with cans became necessary. It was twenty minutes to six before the car was reversed and picking a cautious route out of the trees.
By now Fenella was really anxious. At best they could not reach the mission before seven-thirty, and to turn up there all grubby and tired at a time when Carlos expected to be entertained to a meal was something which she felt she could not face. All day Miss Brean had been oddly lackadaisical, nothing like her usual smartly efficient self. She had behaved so thoroughly out of character that Fenella suspected a touch of heat-stroke; a suspicion which was rather frightening, particularly as she herself could not drive.
However, it heartened her to see how cleverly the other woman negotiated the jungle track. Perhaps now that day was dying and the cool evening breeze aired the car, Miss Brean's energy would return. As she turned towards Fenella she looked cheerful enough.
"Once we're through this wild stuff and the plantations we'll go like the wind," she said confidently. "We'll be more in need of that dinner the boy is preparing than the senhor himself !"
Whether she thought they would arrive at the mission before Carlos, Fenella did not enquire. Miss Brean had reverted to her normal self and there was no point in worrying her. If they were late an apology would have to suffice and the dinner be put back till a quarter to eight while they washed and changed.
"It is the left fork we take here, is
n't it?" said Miss Brean suddenly.
"I don't know." Fenella stared in front at the divided track. "I don't recollect this at all."
"Nor do I." Miss Brean almost groaned. "The second track would be invisible coming the other way, because
of all these overgrown bushes. I expect we were talking as we came by this afternoon. Well, here goes."
They bumped left, and she accelerated as hard as she dared. Here among the trees night was descending with threatening rapidity, and cold breaths of mist wreathed the trunks A buck fled across from one group of trees to another but neither remarked on it. Then came a sheer drop to the left, which they might, or might not, have passed this morning.
Miss Brean said, "When we do catch up with those plantations, I, for one, will be so relieved that I might even be tempted to sing."
Fenella made no reply. She was thinking of Carlos, who at this moment was preparing to dine at the mission, and she was recalling the loveliness of Antonie in the car this morning. They had gone to a festa of some sort, and perhaps danced. They had eaten dainty trifles at a table under a tree and drunk the wine of their country. Perhaps there had been a battle of flowers and Antonie had caught a posy of blue passion-flower—for pure love and constancy. And Carlos would have looked into her eyes all those things which perhaps to-night, on the dark terrace, he would speak softly in the language which belonged to them both.
Fenella saw the dark head, still covered by the white mantilha, outlined against the azulejos on the terrace; and that other, beloved, imperious head bent above her. Carlos touching his lips to the peeping ear, the smooth cheek, the curved red mouth, while triumph burned into a flame in the dark eyes of Antonie.
Trembling, her nails curled painfully tight into her palms, Fenella witnessed the final blotting out of day. Night was come, and with it her mood developed into a fatalistic acceptance of the worst.
The coupe crawled, and presently stopped. Miss Brean let fall a sorrowful sigh.
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