was thick with choking red dust. The spectacle, vivid in the leaping glare of the fires, lost its appeal. Even Charles’ commentary, conducted below his breath for her express benefit, ceased, after the first hour, to amuse.
But like all things, good and bad, it had to come to an end. Kaffir beer was tipped into gourds, and when it had been drunk the people straggled off to their huts. Laurette went back across the village with Charles and, apprehensively, she entered the circular mud hut with its central pole supporting the conical roof. He rested the lamp on the floor and surveyed the wide, cool interior.
“Clever, isn’t it, and it costs nothing but the effort of collecting materials and building.” He nodded down at the camp bed. “The chief’s son is civilized, but I expect the mattress is filled with mealie straw. It will tickle. Think you’ll be all right?”
“Yes. I’m so drowsy I could sleep on the floor.”
“Poor kid. Perhaps I’ve made you do too much, but you can be lazy all day tomorrow.” His face was bronze in the glow and he seemed overwhelmingly big. “Pull the matting down over the doorway when I’ve gone, and don’t forget to put out the lamp—it may give off fumes.”
Her eyes as she looked up at him were big and sleepy, her face a small and appealing oval. “Thank you, Charles.”
“Not sorry you came, are you?”
“No, not a bit! It’s been wonderful.”
“It’ll be better still in retrospect.”
There came a pause. The village at last was hushed, and because of the noise which had gone before, the quietude had a deep and brooding quality. One felt the trees pressing in, the throbbing magic of Africa.
Perhaps what followed was the most difficult part of that evening to credit, afterwards. Charles’ arm about her, his mouth pressing so hard upon hers that her neck became painfully stretched; then his cheek alongside hers as he said softly, mockingly,
“You’re used to a good night kiss from your father, aren’t you? Tonight you’ll have to make do with one from me. If you get frightened, give a shout I won’t be far away.”
The next moment he was gone, and she sank suddenly on to the crackling mattress and felt for the reassuring navy blanket from the Barracuda. Her whole body was jumping, her lips tingled, and her heart threatened to escape from its prison.
It was much later, when she lay in the darkness staring at the pale shaft of light which fell through the high, slatted window, that she realized the devastating truth. She must be in love with Charles Heron.
CHAPTER NINE
JOHN DELANEY was not very good on crutches. He tried hard but they annoyed him, chiefly because they pushed his disciplined shoulders out of shape. Several times a day he would hop to the veranda wall, stand on his sound leg and exercise vigorously, and propel himself back to his long chair. He overflowed with energy and truth to tell, he had done so much sketching recently that he was weary of pencil and paper. He needed a change, he told Laurette. He wanted to walk round his bananas, to pick a pawpaw from one of his own trees and do a bit of weeding now and then.
“Everything is neat at the bungalow,” she told him. “Two of Mr. Kelsey’s boys keep the garden trim, and Bwazi goes over the house twice a week.”
“Are you still longing to get back there?”
“Mr. Kelsey’s very generous, but there’s no home like one’s own.”
She knew that when Charles had gone she wouldn’t be able to bear this house. She was fond of eagle-eyed Mr. Kelsey and she adored her father, but they could never bring the house alive for her, as Charles did. Without his footstep in the corridor, his indolent and satirical conversation at the meal-table, his lifted brow and gently-mocking answer when she bade him good night, the place would be desolate, her life here impossible. She would rather be unhappy in the small, familiar rooms of the bungalow.
Instinctively, she was preparing herself to
But like all things, good and bad, it had to come to an end. Kaffir beer was tipped into gourds, and when it had been drunk the people straggled off to their huts. Laurette went back across the village with Charles and, apprehensively, she entered the circular mud hut with its central pole supporting the conical roof. He rested the lamp on the floor and surveyed the wide, cool interior.
“Clever, isn’t it, and it costs nothing but the effort of collecting materials and building.” He nodded down at the camp bed. “The chief’s son is civilized, but I expect the mattress is filled with mealie straw. It will tickle. Think you’ll be all right?”
“Yes. I’m so drowsy I could sleep on the floor.”
“Poor kid. Perhaps I’ve made you do too much, but you can be lazy all day tomorrow.” His face was bronze in the glow and he seemed overwhelmingly big. “Pull the matting down over the doorway when I’ve gone, and don’t forget to put out the lamp—it may give off fumes.”
Her eyes as she looked up at him were big and sleepy, her face a small and appealing oval. “Thank you, Charles.”
“Not sorry you came, are you?”
“No, not a bit! It’s been wonderful.”
“It’ll be better still in retrospect.”
There came a pause. The village at last was hushed, and because of the noise which had gone before, the quietude had a deep and brooding quality. One felt the trees pressing in, the throbbing magic of Africa.
Perhaps what followed was the most difficult part of that evening to credit, afterwards. Charles’ arm about her, his mouth pressing so hard upon hers that her neck became painfully stretched; then his cheek alongside hers as he said softly, mockingly,
“You’re used to a good night kiss from your father, aren’t you? Tonight you’ll have to make do with one from me. If you get frightened, give a shout I won’t be far away.”
The next moment he was gone, and she sank suddenly on to the crackling mattress and felt for the reassuring navy blanket from the Barracuda. Her whole body was jumping, her lips tingled, and her heart threatened to escape from its prison.
It was much later, when she lay in the darkness staring at the pale shaft of light which fell through the high, slatted window, that she realized the devastating truth. She must be in love with Charles Heron.
CHAPTER NINE
JOHN DELANEY was not very good on crutches. He tried hard but they annoyed him, chiefly because they pushed his disciplined shoulders out of shape. Several times a day he would hop to the veranda wall, stand on his sound leg and exercise vigorously, and propel himself back to his long chair. He overflowed with energy and truth to tell, he had done so much sketching recently that he was weary of pencil and paper. He needed a change, he told Laurette. He wanted to walk round his bananas, to pick a pawpaw from one of his own trees and do a bit of weeding now and then.
“Everything is neat at the bungalow,” she told him. “Two of Mr. Kelsey’s boys keep the garden trim, and Bwazi goes over the house twice a week.”
“Are you still longing to get back there?”
“Mr. Kelsey’s very generous, but there’s no home like one’s own.”
She knew that when Charles had gone she wouldn’t be able to bear this house. She was fond of eagle-eyed Mr. Kelsey and she adored her father, but they could never bring the house alive for her, as Charles did. Without his footstep in the corridor, his indolent and satirical conversation at the meal-table, his lifted brow and gently-mocking answer when she bade him good night, the place would be desolate, her life here impossible. She would rather be unhappy in the small, familiar rooms of the bungalow.
Instinctively, she was preparing herself to
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