Dearest enemy

by Kathryn Blair

  "We're stuck, Fenella, and on the wrong road. If I could reverse in the darkness, I doubt if we'd find our way back to the fork without mishap, especially with that precipice to beware of. Even if we did, I might miss it again in the blackness. As a matter of fact," she finished heavily, "by night one can't be sure of being on

  the right track at all. One piece of jungle is so much like another."

  "What do we do?"

  "I wish I could answer that. We'll have a cigarette and work out something. I'd give a lot to know what your father is thinking at this moment."

  Dr. Harcourt was, in fact, enjoying one of Carlos Pereira's cigars. They were in the small, comfortable lounge which gleamed pleasantly from the ministrations of the houseboy and his helper. The pink and red buds had unfolded their petals to exude a faint scent. Little sparks leapt from the array of glasses on the low centre table, and the two men sat smoking, each with a topaz drink at his side. They conversed quietly and expansively, till the doctor consulted his watch.

  "I can't think what's keeping Fenella. She always changes earlier. Miss Brean, too. I suppose they got back late from the picnic."

  Carlos smiled. "There is a sort of excitement in waiting while a woman dresses, a tingling of the pulses, and a question in one's mind. Do not hurry them, Doctor."

  "I was merely a little disturbed because I haven't seen them all day. I was kept late at the clinic—didn't get away till six-thirty. I took a quick bath and was just about ready when you came. Fenella mostly mixes me a drink when I come in, but I suppose to-night she thought I would wait for you."

  "Perhaps I arrived a few minutes early. I drove straight from the house of Senhor de Cardena. He was giving a little drink party to announce the wedding of his daughter to Luis Gainas "

  The doctor took a pull at the fragrant cigar. "Which daughter would that be?"

  "He has but one daughter, Maria—a frivolous child who has much need of the sobering influence of marriage with a lawyer."

  The doctor laughed. "So I believe. She struck me as a scatterbrain and far too impressionable."

  "You have met the girl?"

  "A few times. Fenella has had her here occasionally. Maria used to sit and make dove's eyes at Frankland."

  "So ! Yet another makes a fool of herself over Frankland."

  The austerity in the clipped tones made the doctor aware of something else. Unsmiling, Carlos showed a hint of strain which Robert Harcourt instantly diagnosed as mental. Somehow, one did not associate strain of any kind with Carlos; he was too much master of himself.

  "Austin had a certain appeal," he replied carelessly. "The young and inexperienced are often magnetised by good looks and easy charm, and he had both in good measure. Was Maria the reason you got rid of him?"

  "No. I had thought all that was over long ago, when I sent Frankland to live at the camp." He shrugged. "It is of no moment now he has gone and this girl is contracting a solid marriage. But it has surprised me, Doctor," Carlos seemed to be striving to keep hardness from his voice, "that you have welcomed that dissipador so freely into your house. I take into consideration that both you and he are English—he still was not a fit associate for your daughter."

  Dr. Harcourt was not put out. Carlos was entitled to strong views in the matter, and Austin did give the impression of being rather the caddish type.

  "Fenella's level-headed," he said reasonably. "She liked Austin, but there was never a chance of her becoming fond of a man she couldn't respect—I saw that almost from the start. I do concede that she showed too much sympathy for Maria. To me, it was plainly a case of girlish infatuation, and candidly, I got heartily sick of having that girl and Frankland here to lunch every Sunday."

  "Meu deus!" Carlos rapped out, springing to his feet, "What are you saying? Is this true, that Fenella wished only to bring them together, this Maria and Frankland? I am afraid there is much of which you are ignorant, Doctor . . . much which I am determined to understand before I leave this house to-night. But first we will dine," he said quickly, "and afterwards I will speak with Fenella . . . alone. Will you please call your daughter?"

  Mildly puzzled, the doctor went out. Carlos strode across the room and back again, bringing up sharply at the bookshelves as if he had believed himself in his long library at the Quinta. As the doctor came in he swung round.

  "What is it?" he said brusquely.

  "Something rather serious. Fenella and Miss Brean are not back yet."

  "Not back! From where?"

  "They went off this morning, about eleven. Fenella left a note saying they were taking a picnic and intended to make a tour. They anticipated being home by five."

  "This tour . . . where were they going?"

  "She mentioned Porto Alva."

  "By main road, or the coast?"

  "She didn't say; the note was very brief. They've gone in Miss Brean's car."

  "I have told that woman she is unwise," said Carlos violently. "She is not only unwise but insane! They are two hours late and in the dark. What does Miss Brean know of the mechanism of a car, how would she deal with a puncture? Does she carry a gun?"

  "I doubt it, but in spite of what you say she's a sound woman. After all, it isn't so very late."

  "But it is very dark, my friend," said Carlos abruptly, "and they may be in some predicament on a wild road where motorists do not go after dusk."

  "I suggest," submitted the doctor practically, "that you have dinner at once, and if they haven't shown up in, say, half an hour, we'll both set out in search of them."

  But Carlos was already at the door. "You, my dear Doctor, will stay here," he commanded. "You will dine and rest. You have work to do tomorrow, work which requires a steady nerve and the precise brain. I will go at once to the Quinta and order that a car shall go to Ibana and along the main road to Porto Alva. Myself, I will take the coast road. Everything will be done!"

  Dr. Harcourt remained standing in the centre of the room. He heard the car race away and turned to find the houseboy at his elbow.

  "The dinner, senhor?"

  "Keep it for a while and bring me some salad here. I may have to go out."

  He finished his drink and automatically ate some crayfish salad and a paozinho. By eight o'clock his opinion of Miss Brean was seriously lowered, and by nine there

  was a hollow in his chest and a definite ache of worry behind his eyes. It was useless to keep assuring himself that Carlos would bring the women home as soon as he found them; as far as he himself was concerned, until they did arrive at the mission they were lost.

  He tried lucidly to enumerate the kinds of misadventure which could have befallen them, but his medical mind switched always to fatigue and hunger, and exposure to night dampness among the trees Miss Brean mostly wore a linen suit which would be some protection, but Fenella almost certainly was clad in a thin frock with the minimum of underwear. What if the coupe had stalled and the two women had valiantly and idiotically set out on foot. No, Miss Brean would have more sense than to do that . . . he hoped.

  Again the houseboy appeared for orders.

  "Put the cold stuff in the frig.," the doctor said, with some irritation, "and go to your hut. I'll call you when they come."

  It was nearly midnight when the Portuguese chauffeur came to the house. The doctor met him in the porch.

  "No good news yet, senhor," the man said. "I have been to Porto Alva on the Ibana road and seen nothing. In Porto Alva I met the senhor, and he also has seen nothing, but at the garage there he questioned a man who directed the two senhoras to the river at about three this afternoon. The senhor instructed me to come back and report to you."

  The thoughtfulness was typical of Carlos. He had gone off in a bewildering blaze of excitement and anxiety, but he hadn't overlooked the miserably inactive role of Fenella's father.

  "Has he gone on to the river?"

  "Yes, senhor."

  "He'll never get through in the dark."

  "The senhor," said the chauffeur in a
tone of flat conviction, "is like a man possessed. He has said he will not return without the senhoras, and he will not."

  The doctor did not go to bed that night. He spent most of the time in the lounge or on the porch, wishing from the depths of his heart that he had never persuaded Fenella to come to Mozambique.

  * * *

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LIGHT was beginning to filter through the branches, the first opalescent radiance of dawn. A bird fluted overhead, and then came the distant chirp of another redwing ready to greet the day. Soon, the air would be filled with the chirring of awakened insects, and the sky would pale into a smooth turquoise.

  Upright behind the wheel, Miss Brean had dozed fitfully for the last couple of hours. Earlier in the night sleep had been impossible. To begin with she had blamed herself too bitterly for the situation in which she had landed them. It was one thing to dawdle just enough to cause them to be late home, but quite another to make the ridiculous error which had cost them a chilly and uncomfortable night in the wilderness.

  Yesterday it had looked clear-cut. For Fenella's sake she would take this chance of testing Carlos Pereira, of agitating him about her being away in the dark, goodness knew where. It had been the best means she could think of to bring whatever existed between them out into the open.

  The manceuvre, as well as its conception, had been utterly absurd, of course. This morning, in the cold gleam of misty dawn, she felt as if she had done something which, by a number of people, would never be forgiven. She also felt very stiff and empty, in no condition at all to face Robert Harcourt. Sickening to think of how he had trusted her with Fenella, and how she had disastrously let him down; his good opinion of her would be difficult to regain unless she could be completely frank with him.

  Just where they were now she was uncertain, but in daylight one could experiment with the hope of eventually arriving at some place which was marked on the map. Her efforts to reverse in the dark last night had doubtless made a horrible mess of the back of the car, but she was in no mood to care. Fenella, though she must have been worried frantic over the inevitable anxiety of her father, had behaved with commendable composure. Nor had she even quivered when, somewhere near midnight, the beasts

  had started to prowl. About food or the longed-for cup of tea neither of them had mentioned a single word, though Miss Bean couldn't avoid remembering that Fenella had eaten only fruit at lunch, and had. scattered her rolls to the birds.

  This was Friday, the day of the ball at the Quinta. Odd, how such thoughts forced themselves to the forefront of one's mind at a time when their importance was at its lowest. As if to emphasize this oddity came the reminder that the first meeting of the organising committee of the proposed arts centre was scheduled for eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. She had promised to take Fenella and to make substantial proposals. The senhor was bringing an architect who would be given the requisite details for incorporation into the design of a new building.

  Well, she would certainly not attend the ball to-night, and her eagerness to contribute to the cultural life of Machada had dimmed considerably. Her vitality was at an ebb, as also was her self-esteem.

  It was nearly day, but still Miss Brean did not stir. She looked at Fenella, who had her head pillowed against the back of the seat, and again was smitten with contrition. To spend a dozen hours caged in a coupe was no joke. Fenella hadn't slept much, either, and unguarded like this she was white and defenceless.

  The blue eyes opened blankly. For a moment they stared at Miss Brean's wryly smiling face, and then Fenella twisted to sit up straight.

  "Hello. Is it morning at last?"

  "Just about. How do you feel?"

  "No worse than you do." She peered at the surrounding trees. "We got ourselves nicely boxed in, didn't we? Think you can get out?"

  "I expect so. The light makes all the difference!" She paused. "An apology just now would not only be futile, Fenella, but a little out of place. When we do get back to the mission I believe I'll pack and leave at once."

  "Don't be silly. My father won't let you. He'll send you to bed, and after a few hours' sleep you'll laugh at this. Can we start right away?"

  Miss Brean patted Fenella's cold fingers. "You're sweet, and I've made such a hash of everything that I don't deserve your sweetness. Yes, we'll get off now and at the very first sign of civilisation we'll beg some coffee."

  Fenella wasn't hungry, though lack of food must be responsible for the floating sensation. She would have liked a brisk walk, but it was more urgent that they should get away from this place, to allay her father's worry as soon as possible. The poor darling must have had a frightful night. So she made do with freshening her face with water from the can in the back of the coupe, and combing her hair.

  With many bumps, which appeared to concern Miss Brean not at all, the car was eventually turned and, very slowly, they struggled between undergrowth and tall trees till they were running over the rough track with the precipice at one side, which they had followed by mistake last night.

  A slight haze obscured the morning sun and the air was fresh and cool and only faintly scented. New buds were opening in the grass beside the track, but the moon-flowers had closed into white spikes upon which the small lavender butterflies alighted in vain.

  Presently Miss Brean said, "Keep a look-out for that beastly fork. We don't want to pass it again."

  When they did come to it, she vowed she would return some time and hack the obscuring scrub clear so that others were not taken in by it.

  Now they were on the trail which connected the Porto Alva plantations with the river. Fenella looked at her watch and calculated that they should be at the mission by eight. She had no desire for anything beyond home.

  She saw the oncoming car a long way off, and wondered what happened on this sort of road when two cars met. One of them would undoubtedly have to pull right off into the trees, but this other car was travelling so fast that it threw up a screen of red dust. It was difficult even to discern the colour of the car until .. .

  Fenella stiffened, and cast a swift glance at Miss Brean. "You'll have to stop," she said, in totally unfamiliar tones. "This is . . . Carlos."

  It was indeed Carlos. He halted nearly level with them and sprang out of the blue car. His eyes blazed, but his features were tight with control. His habitually sleek hair was wild, as if much raked by his fingers, and the white suit was a little less impeccable than one expected of him.

  "You are both safe!" he said, opening Miss Brean's door and offering a hand. "You have driven us nearly out of our minds."

  "It was my fault," said Miss Brean, as she straightened on the path. "I lost the way and we had to park for the night. We're none the worse for it, but I'm so frightfully sorry for the trouble I've caused you."

  "What is the good of that . . ." he begun fiercely, and checked himself "I beg your pardon, Miss Brean. I have spent the night dementedly scouring these roads." He had helped out Fenella and was holding her shoulder, unconsciously moving a thumb over the bone. "I have brought flasks of milk and coffee. You will drink, and then I will take you to the mission." Towards the car he called, "Manuelo! Bring the coffee, and pour it."

  The servant thrust open the back door of the car and got busy with the cups. But Carlos filled a beaker with hot milk and brought it to Fenella.

  "I'd rather have coffee," she said, not looking at him. "You are pale. Drink this first—it is food."

  Rather than argue, she sipped. The smell and taste of the splash of whisky in the milk were nauseating at this hour of the morning, but because Carlos was near and there was nothing she would not do for him, Fenella drained the beaker and let him take it.

  Miss Brean finished her coffee at the same moment. "That was heavenly," she said. "I'll go ahead. I feel a new woman already."

  She appeared as chirpy as the newly roused birds in the branches, and a wee bit roguish.

  But Carlos said, "Manuelo will drive your ca
r. You will come with me."

  "I'd rather not do that. I'd prefer to be the first to meet Dr. Harcourt, and do the explaining."

  Carlos did not insist. "Very well, then. But Manuelo will drive and you will rest."

  It was arranged, while Fenella stood slackly under a tree. As the battered back of the coupe disappeared into a cloud of dust she felt spineless, without will or resistance.

  Carlos came to her side. The long, strong fingers with which he gripped her wrist were warm and vibrant.

  "Look at me, Fenella!"

  Her head lifted, though her eyes remained downcast. "You are well, pequena?"

  "Yes," she replied, below her breath.

  "Let us be honest," he said. "We owe this to each other. Perfect honesty." His hand slipped along to her forearm. "I am in love with you, Fenella, and I must have the truth."

  Feeling almost faint, she raised her eyes. His were hot and dark, and shut out everything but her small, incredulous face.

  "You're . . . tired, Carlos."

  He gave a brief, strained, laugh. "Tired of waiting," he said, his accents very foreign. "Four months is an interminable time At first I told myself that there would come a sign —I would know when you began to feel love for me. I would see it in some little thing you might do, some way you might look at me. You are English, and the blood is perhaps not quite so fast in your veins. Then there was Frankland—you have made me believe you have lost your head over this philanderer."

  "But I told you I didn't care for him."

  "There is more to explain about that—but later. For weeks I have thought of nothing but marrying you. I have wanted to talk to you about the Estremadura and other parts of Portugal where we shall spend our honeymoon. I have wanted to make love to you—so much I have wanted to make love to you!" The fast, impassioned voice went on, "Somehow, I have waited, always torturing myself that it is Frankland with whom you are more at ease, Frankland with whom you share jokes and hold hands. You do not realise how jealousy can rend the heart, Fenella!"