nodded. “About once a week I go through all the yearnings just to remind myself of what I’m missing. After that I thank heaven I’m still on the island among people I know.”
Meeting her candid hazel stare, his own eyes hot with sudden emotion, he muttered: “Phil ... if you knew how hard it is! I can’t help loving you and wanting you. We’re the youngest here—it’s normal for us to be together. I know you don’t love me yet, but you do like me, and the other will come. Phil... darling ...”
His cheek burned into her shoulder, and against her chin she felt his forehead, cold and clammy. Involuntarily—for his need tugged at her heart and he was too decent to hurt —she held him and turned her mouth to his temple as if he were a small boy seeking comfort.
“You see!” came his stifled exclamation. “It wouldn’t be so difficult to love me. I’d promise not to take you back to England, Phil. We’d settle at the Cape, anywhere. We might even stay on Valeira. I could stick it if we were married.”
His nearness disturbed her. Tiny fires leapt in her blood and a strange weight of love burdened her heart. Through half-closed lids she saw eyes like blue stones and a straight ironic mouth. With a sound of distress she pushed Roger from her.
“Don’t. I can’t stand it. I don’t love you, Roger. I don’t love anyone.”
She scrambled to her feet and avoided the hand that strove to detain her. In the white sunshine she sped between wild banana and tree ferns till he caught her up and clung to her elbow.
“Don’t run away,” he whispered. “Anything rather than that.”
She answered him with a strained smile. “It’s all right, Roger. No harm done. Could you find me a long drink?”
For the rest of the afternoon Phil was quiet, and when it was time to go she mentioned that the walk up to the plantation had tonic properties which might be of benefit to Mr. Drew. She went home between the two men and bade them goodbye where the track met the clearing.
To Julian, who was taking a sundowner on his veranda, Phil called an abrupt “Good night,” to which he replied as briefly. She spent the evening paging through the dozen novels which Rodrigo had sent round by a Novada freighter.
In the middle of the night a squall roared in from the sea, heralding ten days of torrential storms. The storms mostly came up in daylight and spent themselves before dusk, so that the evenings were cool and freer from pests than usual. Some friends of Matt’s from Cotonou had sheltered in the Bay, and for a week he gave a series of drink and gambling parties. Phil went to them, in Julian’s car, and enjoyed the gossip which circulated round the wicker table in Matt’s veranda. The chairs were low and comfortable, made either of woven grass or canvas with footrests and padded arms. The drinking was leisurely, pipes and cigarettes created a grey haze.
The rains ended, or rather they shifted a few miles south to shed unwanted moisture on the emerald mountain slopes. The plantation was enveloped in a hot, enervating mist which kept the sweat glands perpetually working and tried the nerves. Phil’s books became glued together with mildew and shoes unworn for a day or two grew blotches of fungus. The atmosphere was more drenching and debilitating than at any time during her stay on the island, and she felt mentally sick besides. How she longed for a letter from the lawyer in Cape Town.
CHAPTER XII
SHE was in the back room of Matt’s store when the Portuguese official came up with the mail. He handed over Matt’s batch of envelopes and newspapers and shook his head in response to Phil’s enquiry. No, there was nothing for the senhora. See, the plantation packet was secured separately with string, and there were just these few for the Senhores Drew and Crawford. He was sorry, but in a fortnight there might be more letters.
Matt said, “What d’you want money for ... a new dress for the Astartes’ party? It’s
Meeting her candid hazel stare, his own eyes hot with sudden emotion, he muttered: “Phil ... if you knew how hard it is! I can’t help loving you and wanting you. We’re the youngest here—it’s normal for us to be together. I know you don’t love me yet, but you do like me, and the other will come. Phil... darling ...”
His cheek burned into her shoulder, and against her chin she felt his forehead, cold and clammy. Involuntarily—for his need tugged at her heart and he was too decent to hurt —she held him and turned her mouth to his temple as if he were a small boy seeking comfort.
“You see!” came his stifled exclamation. “It wouldn’t be so difficult to love me. I’d promise not to take you back to England, Phil. We’d settle at the Cape, anywhere. We might even stay on Valeira. I could stick it if we were married.”
His nearness disturbed her. Tiny fires leapt in her blood and a strange weight of love burdened her heart. Through half-closed lids she saw eyes like blue stones and a straight ironic mouth. With a sound of distress she pushed Roger from her.
“Don’t. I can’t stand it. I don’t love you, Roger. I don’t love anyone.”
She scrambled to her feet and avoided the hand that strove to detain her. In the white sunshine she sped between wild banana and tree ferns till he caught her up and clung to her elbow.
“Don’t run away,” he whispered. “Anything rather than that.”
She answered him with a strained smile. “It’s all right, Roger. No harm done. Could you find me a long drink?”
For the rest of the afternoon Phil was quiet, and when it was time to go she mentioned that the walk up to the plantation had tonic properties which might be of benefit to Mr. Drew. She went home between the two men and bade them goodbye where the track met the clearing.
To Julian, who was taking a sundowner on his veranda, Phil called an abrupt “Good night,” to which he replied as briefly. She spent the evening paging through the dozen novels which Rodrigo had sent round by a Novada freighter.
In the middle of the night a squall roared in from the sea, heralding ten days of torrential storms. The storms mostly came up in daylight and spent themselves before dusk, so that the evenings were cool and freer from pests than usual. Some friends of Matt’s from Cotonou had sheltered in the Bay, and for a week he gave a series of drink and gambling parties. Phil went to them, in Julian’s car, and enjoyed the gossip which circulated round the wicker table in Matt’s veranda. The chairs were low and comfortable, made either of woven grass or canvas with footrests and padded arms. The drinking was leisurely, pipes and cigarettes created a grey haze.
The rains ended, or rather they shifted a few miles south to shed unwanted moisture on the emerald mountain slopes. The plantation was enveloped in a hot, enervating mist which kept the sweat glands perpetually working and tried the nerves. Phil’s books became glued together with mildew and shoes unworn for a day or two grew blotches of fungus. The atmosphere was more drenching and debilitating than at any time during her stay on the island, and she felt mentally sick besides. How she longed for a letter from the lawyer in Cape Town.
CHAPTER XII
SHE was in the back room of Matt’s store when the Portuguese official came up with the mail. He handed over Matt’s batch of envelopes and newspapers and shook his head in response to Phil’s enquiry. No, there was nothing for the senhora. See, the plantation packet was secured separately with string, and there were just these few for the Senhores Drew and Crawford. He was sorry, but in a fortnight there might be more letters.
Matt said, “What d’you want money for ... a new dress for the Astartes’ party? It’s
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