Flowering Wilderness

Flowering Wilderness by Kathryn Blair A rubber plantation in Africa was no place for a woman as far as David Raynor was concerned. Nicky Graham had a great deal of courage, and she was determined to stay. Alas, before long, Nicky was forced to leave, but now she was very much in love with David Raynor. "Nicky has grit," David remarked casually. "But she's the nice, gentle type who ought to be running her home in an English suburb." As far as David Raynor was concerned, Africa was no place for Nicky Graham, or any other woman. But Nicky was in love with David. She wouldn't leave him to be ensnared by a woman interested only in his money.

CHAPTER ONE

A SILVERY LIGHT filtered through the porthole. Nicky stirred to the sharp hiss of spray against metal, as she had awakened at home to the trilling of birds, drowsily with a smile on her lips and an airy sensation in her limbs. This was not quite the same, for she had the feeling of being gently tossed in a huge feather bed. Nicky gave a long sigh of delicious content and opened her eyes. She was on her way to Africa! In the bed on the opposite side of the cabin Helen Raynor. was still fast asleep. Nicky could see the dark mass of her hair, the slant of her nose and a rather sweet, rounded cheek, but the humorous mouth was turned the other way. Helen was the serene sort of woman. As soon as she knew that she was to be parted no longer from her husband in West Africa, her preparations had been accomplished with that smoothness that characterized everything she did. A room in the lovely old house at Baybridge had been cleared, and trunks and tin-lined chests installed there. Within a month, every case was full. Clothes, bedding, books, records, shining pans; everything Helen could think of to make the shanty in the wilderness look very nearly like home. Remembering the morning when the letter containing John 's joyful consent arrived, Nicky smiled blissfully to herself. She had been living with Helen and her small daughter for nearly a year then—ever since the car accident that had robbed her of both parents in one dreadful blow. That morning Helen had ripped open the envelope, read a little of its contents and gone pale and speechless. For fully a minute Nicky stared, all sorts of horrors chasing each other through her mind. Fever, shipwreck, forest fire. Then Helen laughed and her tears sprang. "John says yes . . . at last he says yes . . . so long as you'll go with me. Nicky, I can't believe it." Nicky Graham couldn't believe it, either. Like most girls, she was excited by the prospect of travel, and had the choice been in her own hands, she would have plumped wholeheartedly for Africa; though perhaps not quite so near the Equator as Port Fargas, where the Raynor family plantations were situated. Helen had married John Raynor nine years before, while he was on furlough in England.

Nicky's father had been a busy doctor in the small Midlands town in which she had been born and had grown up, and inevitably her home life was full. She sent out the accounts and kept the ledgers; answered endless telephone calls and sterilized his instruments. Evenings and weekends she danced and played tennis with the other young folk of Bayridge. Life had been full of gaiety and interest . . . till the car accident. Nicky had been staying with friends when it happened. It was the first time she and her parents had parted for holidays, and they had exchanged a few jolly letters. Then came the stark telegram from her aunt that shattered Nicky's world into painful fragments. Afterward, nothing was the same. When grief had subsided a little she accepted Helen's offer of a home in the Raynor mansion on the outskirts of the town. Margaret, the seven year-old daughter of the house, had started school late and needed help with her lessons, and Helen herself rather liked the idea of a young companion on the premises. Though it was in the capacity of companion-governess that Nicky entered the Raynor household, it was not long before Helen was treating her as a younger sister, and confiding to her all her hopes and plans for the future. Now that Margaret was old enough to be left for a few years with her grandparents, Helen was wild to go out and join her husband. John wanted it, too. It was David, his older brother, who had withheld consent. But even David had at last agreed that Helen could come out for a while, though he was certain that she had no conception

of what she was in for. According to the letter from John, David doubted whether she would last three months. Helen was determined to last a lot longer than three months. She had packed for a year and talked optimistically of sending home for further supplies after that. She described to Nicky what she knew of the Raynor plantations. Started thirty years ago by John's father, they stretched for three hundred square miles behind the African port. The two sons had been educated in England, and John, who was now thirty-two, had gone straight from public school to the jungle. David, the brother whom Helen had never seen, had always side-tracked John's suggestion that he'd be more human if he took an occasional vacation. He liked the bush and had no inclination to leave it. "He must be thirty-seven," Helen told Nicky. "He ought to marry, but he won't leave the tropics to find a wife. According to John, all the local women are married to officials and planters. The few unmarried ones don't stay. It's a pity. The Raynor plantations are the richest on the coast, but riches aren't much if you have to live alone to get them." Nor if you have to exist in mud huts right away from civilization, thought Nicky. But it might be good fun, with spots of real excitement, and if it were true that the heat had a devastating effect on one's complexion, it might be equally true that a milk-and-orangejuice diet back in England would soon put it right again. Nicky was rather proud of her complexion. She was not particularly pretty; her nose was ordinary, her upper lip a trifle on the short side, and her chin more pointed than she would have chosen. Her eyes were a lucent gray and her hair had tawny lights in its russet depths. It was the delicate pink sheen of her lips and her creamy skin, so transparent-looking over the temples, that made her look young and tender, especially in the pearly beam from the porthole. She drew up her knees and hugged them, and her expression went dreamy and remote as her memory drifted over the final details of departure. Farewells to her

friends and promises to write; young Margaret, tearless and thrilled with the prospect of weird and colorful gifts from the tropics; the crowded quay and the queer catch at heart felt by everyone English as gangplanks are withdrawn and the black space of water widens between the homeland and the wanderer. But the sadness was fleeting. After a rocky day in the Bay of Biscay, when she and Helen had deemed it wiser to stay flat in their beds, both had emerged, pale but resolute, and set about enjoying the voyage in the many ways provided. Now they were nearing the tropics and had to take out the sun hats that Helen said were correct wear for the equatorial weather. It was pleasant to take part in the elegant strolling on deck, and to discard clothes and take a mid-morning swim in the pool. But of all the hours aboard ship, Nicky decided, this was the most exciting. Awakening to the beat of the engine and knowing oneself one day nearer the dark, brooding fastnesses of Africa. "Good morning, Nicky," came Helen's sleepy voice. "You're always awake first. What can you see through the porthole?" "Spray and the rollers, and a little way out there's a heat haze. How many more days, Helen?" "You asked that yesterday. It's just one less. I believe you're as mad to get there as I am." Nicky laughed. "I'm longing to see banana trees, and a rubber tree, and peanuts. .. ." "And cacaos and kola trees, and sisal and piassava. Lovely names. I won't mind seeing them, either, but to begin with I'll be more concerned about beds and baking. John says they cook in a kerosene stove. Once, down in Cornwall, I tasted scones baked that way; they were nauseating." "You probably get used to it," Nicky consoled her. "Have you ever seen a photograph of the house where John and his brother live?" Helen shook her head. "It's built of mud and has a palm-thatch roof. Every so often ants get busy eating away the foundations and once in a while they lose the roof in a squall. Apart from that," she finished breezily, "I believe it's habitable." "We're in for some high jinks," observed Nicky, "holding on to the roof while we stamp out the ants." She smiled, stretched ecstatically, and swung out her legs. She swayed, as if to seductive music, while she became accustomed to the rhythm of the ship, and then began to dress. Three days later they reached Port Fargas. The town came to them out of a mist, and lay white and glittering in the blazing sun, the harbor thick with idle, expectant locals. The film dried from the sky, leaving an inverted bowl of blue metal that pressed down and hurt the eyes. The sun released odors, hot, spicy and muddy. The blend was one that Nicky was never likely to forget. The ship was piloted through the sandbanks, so close to them at times that one could have reached and caught the branch of a mangrove. White houses and brilliant gardens glided by fringes of palms, and then the Customs Wharf, where John Raynor was already waiting, waving his hat in that rather shamefaced fashion of the usually undemonstrative Englishman. In no time at all Helen was being hugged in those big strong arms, and Nicky, too, felt one of them fling around her shoulder and squeeze, and a warm smoky mouth against her forehead. "How's the infant?" he eagerly demanded of his wife. "And your parents? Darling, you look worth a million!"

"Margaret's written you a letter which I shall probably have to translate," replied Helen practically, "and everyone else is well and happy. Where's David?" John grinned. "He couldn't come." "You mean he wouldn't come?" "I expect he's decided to avoid the feminine invasion till the last moment. You'll see him at dinner tonight. I've arranged for us to lunch at the club." "I'd rather go straight to the house." "It isn't altogether convenient," he said reluctantly. "You see, I'd ordered a special lunch but everything went wrong. The cook had toothache, the houseboy contracted indigestion, and the cook's assistant's idea of a good feed is snake meat or caterpillars. I yelled daylights into them, so there should be something for dinner. I did tell you what to expect, darling." So they lunched at the club, in a long, cool room where only a few of the tables were occupied. Tomato soup, with cubes of fried bread, tinned salmon with a highlyseasoned sauce, and chicken braised in palm oil—all of which went down very well. Behind a screen of palmettoes a phonograph played ballet music, which was occasionally cut across by the discordant chanting of the workers in the kitchen. Helen grew impatient. "I'm sure all our goods are loaded into the lorry by now," she said. "Do let's get started, John." Nicky sat in the back of the little station wagon, fanning herself with a plantain leaf. She pushed back her hat, flicked a blue-winged bug from the lapel of her dress and settled comfortably to enjoy the drive through the port. Straight up the Marine Drive, with the sprawling official buildings on one side and the sea on the other, and then right, to wind through two or three quiet terraces where white bungalows stood back from the road, each shaded by thick tree growth and tall palms. Trickles of purple and scarlet and orange in the gardens amid the dark green of tropic vegetation. Abruptly, the houses ended and the forest began. It was a good road, wide and toughsurfaced, walled in by gigantic cottonwoods and jungle weed. A few birds screeched in the branches and once Nicky saw a curious monkey perched high above the track. In less than an hour the car emerged into a clearing, and five minutes later John stopped the car in a spot of breathtaking beauty. "Here we are," he said. "Why the gasp, Helen?" "Is this the ... shack?" As usual when startled or excited she had gone pale. "Of course." Suddenly he gave a great gust of laughter, and turned his head so that he, too, could view the house. It rose, creamy and splendid, a low dwelling of perfect symmetry, its pointed palmthatch roof extended to cover a wide, luxurious veranda. The facade was pitted by a level row of circular holes, to admit light and air, and above the central door the roof was formed into a peak that broke the flatness of outline. Investigation discovered a rock garden and a beautiful lawn, and all the way up the path archways foamed with purple bougainvillea and the orange trumpets of bignonia, while on each side coral vine and jarcarandas, lantana and hibiscus spattered glorious color in wanton profusion. At the foot of the wide stone steps Helen halted. Her amazement had muted into a sort of pleased chagrin. "You wrote that the roof blew off last year," she reproached him. "So it did, my angel. You can see this is a new one." "Those piles look strong enough to support the house forever."

"They won 't, though. Come inside and see the worst." Nicky and Helen wandered happily around those rooms many times before they could be persuaded to take a bath and change. For coolness the lounge and dining room ran the depth of the house, with slatted windows at each end. The bedrooms, two of them, were tacked on at each side, and at the back were a bathroom and a kitchen. From the typically comfortable bachelor lounge, down to the smaller bedroom, which was to be Nicky 's, the place was furnished in smooth mahogany, fruitwood and wicker. The davenport in the living room was huge and generously heaped with cushions. Native grass mats covered the wooden floor, and a fine leopard skin draped the sofa that stood under the main window. Bookshelves were packed with a wild assortment of novels, pamphlets and technical books, and next to them a writing desk was invisible beneath a clutter of letters, cartridges, male underwear in need of repair, shoe studs, cigarettes, razor blades, and a lot more. Nicky liked her austere little room. The white enameled iron bed did not look a bit odd with its canopy of green mosquito netting, though she rather thought that in time she would embroider the bedspread. A large, damp-streaked mirror hung above a mahogany chest of drawers, and the wardrobe, also of mahogany, reeked of moth repellent. A small upright chair and a baggy wicker one completed the picture. "This must have been David's room," said Helen. "Even men leave an imprint, don't they? That poor old chair, for instance, and the cigarette burns on the floor." She put her head through the doorway. "John, where's David going to sleep?" Her husband came and leaned against the wall. "You won 't see much of him. He's built another house down the track." "Good lord! You don't mean we've turned him out?" "Not exactly. Dave's obstinate. You mustn't mind him." "But this house is his even more than yours. He's lived here with you all these years." "I'm the one who's turned him out," said Nicky. "Couldn't I have a camp bed in the living room, or somewhere?" "Of course not," said Helen, "but something could have been managed till a room had been built for him. Can't you persuade him to come back?" she asked John. "I wouldn't want to upset him. After all, he did finally give in to our coming out here." "Don't worry, he's not upset. Dave's a solitary beggar, and I shouldn't wonder if he's been aching for an excuse to give up living with me. Now he has it, and we're all satisfied." The lorry had arrived with their trunks-and household gear. Nicky unpacked her own large trunk of clothes, hanging them in the wardrobe and arranging them in the drawers. Knowing there was no electricity in the house, they had brought two oldfashioned flatirons, and tomorrow or the next day they both would have to get busy with the unwieldy things. It seemed that there would be plenty to keep the women occupied for the next few weeks. Changing her dress in her bedroom, Nicky could hear a breeze in the trees and nearer, within the house, the undertone song of the young men at work. Rather queer, that spiritless singing, yet one grew as accustomed to it as to the chirring of insects. She found Helen in the kitchen, trying out a crazy-sounding pidgin on Samuel, the young cook. He, it appeared, had never bothered to use the table. The pastry board lay flat on the dusty floor, flanked by regiments of kitchen cutlery. The flour he proposed to use he kept in a lard pail that had never been thoroughly scoured of its original contents. It smelled frankly sour.

"Nicky, make him use the table," groaned Helen, "while I get someone else to clean out the oven." Mournfully, Samuel did as he was told, all the while hanging onto his jaw with a floury black hand. "If we could do something for his toothache he might perk up," observed Nicky. "Shall I give him a spot of whisky on a shred of cotton batten and get him to poke it into the hole, and bite on it?" "You might try," Helen agreed. "He can hardly be more miserable." The remedy worked well, especially when Nicky supplemented it with a strip of flannel bound around his head. As long as it was obvious that he must be suffering deeply, Samuel was happy. Nicky had no idea then that she was to repeat the dose so many times that John, with masculine exasperation, pulled the tooth and two or three potential offenders as well. By the time the oven was usable the pastry had collected so many ants and soot blacks, cotton wisps and spots of whisky that Helen suggested Samuel might sole his sandals with it—if he had any. Comically, she lifted her brows. "We're too ambitious, Nicky. Let's eat from tins tonight and be thankful if we get hot coffee." In the living room she paused thoughtfully. "On the boat there was a woman who advised me about cooking out here. She said that if I hadn't time to inspect my kitchen regularly I'd better remain out of it altogether. I rather wondered what she was getting at, but now I understand. A case of what the eye doesn't see the stomach won't jib at. You were rather good with that boy. Would you like to take over the kitchen?" "I'll have a go at it—get it scrubbed right through with gallons of disinfectant, and then start from scratch. Helen, we're going to have a whale of a time here!" Humor quirked at the corners of Helen's mouth. "I believe you're right, but we were prepared to enjoy even a shack. D'you know, Nicky the floors and furniture are going to look marvelous when they're polished." She gave a contentedly weary sigh. "I'd like a bath, but I don't fancy that mildewed canvas thing. Wait till John sees our new white enamel one! Oh, well, you can do quite a lot with a bowl of water and a little eau-de-cologne. I'll go and change." Deciding to leave Helen alone with John for a while, Nicky went out through the veranda into the compound. In the rich evening light she found the track they had traversed in the car and followed it toward the slight eminence at the end of the clearing. From there she could see the new white bungalow built by David Raynor, a smaller affair than John's, of only two rooms, between which a plain wooden door was set. Coarse grass grew right up to the veranda, and not a single tree sprouted within a hundred yards of it. Circling the clearing stretched impregnable forest. It was impossible to see where the Raynor plantations began; probably there was a short path through the trees at the back of the houses. The stillness was almost tangible, and it seemed incredible that only fifteen or twenty miles away were life and civilization. She wandered happily around, and then leaned against a tree and dreamily watched the bend and glitter of the palm saplings, beyond which the native settlement was barely discernible in the purpling light. Fascinated by the brilliance of the tropic horizon, she was unaware of the imminence of night, and when it fell, like the dropping of a curtain over a glimmering scene, she was startled to find herself in complete darkness

with no means but an uncertain memory of finding her way back to the red path that led to the house. She laughed to herself, confident that she would easily find the right direction. She took off her hat and shook out her hair. What a relief to feel the cool breeze searching over her scalp. A bit of a nuisance, having to wear a hat most of the time. She found the track but had to pick her way carefully over the logs that had been bedded in for footholds during the rains. Among the trees, not even the pale radiance of early stars could guide her progress. Night moths came out and fireflies winged into her hair, whirred frenziedly and escaped. There were no lights ahead, but Nicky had decided not to be nervous. Of course, she might have turned right when she should have turned left ... or the other way around. It wouldn't be too jolly to come up against a wall of jungle alive with night prowlers.

She began to run, slithering over the footholds with haste. And then, coming toward her, appeared a white blur that swiftly took the height and figure of a man. Even taller than John but not quite so heavily built. As he neared she gave a scared but relieved laugh. "Who is it?" he demanded sharply in a voice that was scarcely less frightening than the dark. "Is it John 's wife . . . Helen?" Before she could reply he had struck a match and held the flame close to her face. It picked out the short straight nose and large, questioning eyes, darkened the redness of raised, parted lips. "My name is Nicola Graham. I'm afraid I've been all sorts of an idiot and lost my way." She caught a glimpse of chiseled jaw and the bony, dominant chin, before the flame died. When he spoke again she sensed a change in him. "You're a guest of my brother, John. I'm David Raynor." "I rather thought you might be. How do you do?" From habit she held out a hand. He laughed briefly and took "I'll escort you back to the house." She stumbled at his side, wishing to heaven she had thought a second time before venturing beyond the compound on her very first day. "Can you manage?" he asked. "These logs were set a pace apart for men." His slight emphasis on the final word set her tingling. "I can reach them quite well," she replied stiffly, and thereafter remained half a pace behind him till they reached the house. He leapt the steps of his brother's veranda and waited for her to come up with him. And there, in the slatted glow from the living room window she saw the rocky contours of his face and the brown skin of his neck vanishing into the open collar of a white silk shirt. His hair was tough and black, yet his eyes were . . There was a curious tightness in her chest. He was looking down at her with curiosity, watching the beat in her temple where the breeze slicked back the curls, and his eyes, fixed on that lavender vein of life made visible, were the keen blue of tempered steel. "Didn't my brother warn you not to go out after dark?" he inquired in cool, clipped tones. "It was light when I started. The darkness came suddenly." "Everything's like that out here, unexpected and violent—between patches of deadly monotony. Women don't often stand up to plantation life."

"Helen and I aren't aiming to plant," she retorted. "Merely to keep house." The corners of his mouth turned downward in a small, mocking smile. "Poor John. He'll have to use an ashtray and keep his feet off the chairs." The manner of their meeting had made her feel girlish and inadequate. Now, her chin tilted. "John hasn't much use for your pity. He seems exuberant at the prospect." "He's always accepted good and bad with the same philosophy. A great chap, John." The words were spoken sincerely enough, yet a note of satire lurked in them. Before she could frame a reply he spoke again, with abrupt force. "In case my brother, in his exuberance, forgets to enlighten you, I'll give you a few tips. Here, it always gets dark early, so it's wise to stay the safe side of the hedge after six. Never be tempted to sleep without a mosquito net, and don't be afraid to sweat; it's a safety valve in the tropics." He stood aside and thrust open the door. In the bright light his expression was withdrawn and tantalizing. It appeared to add quite a lot more unspoken, brutally frank advice. Nicky hesitated, aware of a pine-scented fragrance about him, which took her mind for a moment from his undisguised antagonism. Then, annoyed that she should be trembling a little, she slipped past him into the house.

CHAPTER TWO

THE RAYNOR ESTATE actually began some two miles back along the Port Fargas road, but the plantations spread beyond the belt of trees at the end of the clearing, embracing six villages and a long, winding piece of dark river that was extensively used for canoe transport. Their products were many. Palm oil, cocoa beans, coffee, peanuts, sisal, rubber, and timber, with many catch crops between harvests. All the heavy products were taken straight down to the river mouth, near Port Fargas, and towed around into the port. Smaller produce, more easily handled, was stored in sheds and sold by sample through an agent. Raynor goods were known up and down the coast as true to sample. Therefore, if you took a walk toward the storage depot, it was no unusual thing to see a small fleet of lorries being loaded with fiber or coffee or peanuts. Before the arrival of his wife, John Raynor had shared equally with his brother the routine of superintending the plantations. They took turns at visiting the farther reaches beyond the river, and split between them the burden of tending sick workers and disputes in the villages under their control. But now John was unwilling to leave his house for long periods. He had suggested appointing a white manager resident in one of the outlying villages, but David was against that. He would take the long treks. Consequently, the women did not see much of David Ray-nor. John mostly came in for lunch, and quite often he brought along an agent or a government inspector who had driven in on business from the port. Helen talked of throwing parties as soon as the house was under control. It certainly wasn't yet. The pests, for instance. It seemed as though the men must have invited them in and told them to make themselves at home. Crevices everywhere were choked with silverfish. The smallest crumb on the floor attracted troops of ants; it was fascinating to watch a finger of cake turn into a molten black mound that finally disintegrated, leaving no trace of food. At least, it was fascinating for the first time. After that you kept a pan of boiling water handy, scooped up the disgusting hord and plunged it to sudden death.

It is not often that you find a picture rail in a tropical house, but old Mr. Raynor had installed this homely detail in the first house he had built in the clearing, and the brothers, both unimaginative where interior decorations were concerned, had copied the previous design even down to baseboards. Helen was rather pleased with the picture rails, though she possessed no pictures to hang from them. She thought in time they might hit upon some pretty plates to lodge up there and break the whiteness of the walls. "What about some of those flat clay bowls the locals use?" suggested Nicky blithely. "We could paint designs on them and glaze them with varnish." "I'll get John to talk to his head man about it," said Helen. "I don't think my pidgin can be very good. This morning I asked Amos to fetch my scissors. He disappeared for ten minutes and came back with a tin of dried banana. He looked so pleased I hadn't the heart to correct him." "Scissors is easy. Snip-snip, tone time ... and waggle your fingers as though cutting something." Nicky mounted the rough stepladder and peered into the top of the wooden rail. "Good grief, you should see the bunches of moth eggs! Give me the spray and I'll squirt 'em dead." Though the house had presented so delightful an appearance when they arrived, it took no time at all for the feminine eye to discern the faded and threadbare condition of curtains and cushions, the worn places in the mats and the heaps of impedimenta ruffed into corners where they did not belong. It was in an old golf bag bursting with male odds and ends

that Nicky found the crumpled snapshot of David Raynor. He wore a uniform, South African, she thought, with a dark-colored Stetson pinched up to a point at the crown. The face was more or less as she knew it, hard and self-assured, its single yielding feature the well-cut lower lip. Even that looked as though it might be pulled in in the next second. Nicky's experience of men was not particularly extensive. John Raynor was of similar pattern to the men she had known at home; her father, and the sons of other men like him. Living in West Africa had not changed the essential kindly Englishman in him, and she felt as much at ease with him as if he were a rather nice brother. David, on the other hand, might have been of a different breed. Physically, there was a resemblance between the Raynors, but in the younger, a slight thickness overlaid the clipped Raynor features and the lean body. In other ways, they were seas apart. John was tolerant. He smoked a pipe and wore disreputable_ slippers around the house. He sang "Mother Macree" in his bath, was unconscionably fond of the local substitute for gorgonzola cheese, and took tremendous pride in his garden. You knew where you were with John. "What have you got there?" Helen's head poked over her shoulder and she gave a long, critical stare at the snapshot. "He's rather a mystery, isn't he?" said Nicky. "Because he prefers his own company to ours? I suppose the existence of women in this house rather makes him wonder what can possibly happen next. David is suspicious of us." "Did he go to England during the war?" "No, he only came in for the very tail end of the show, so he joined up at the Cape and spent a year in Burma. I did wonder why he didn't collect himself a wife before he came back. Now that I've met him I'm not surprised. He's the sort you'd have to know for a year before he'd even shake hands."

Nicky threw back her head and laughed. "I shook hands with him that first night. He thinks me a complete half-wit." "Frankly, Nicky, you can be a half-wit sometimes. You always close up when the men come in." "I'd rather listen. Their talk is so strange and exciting. Nothing I might say could possibly interest them." "Don't be too sure. Men need relaxation, even the toughfibered ones like Dave. It's my guess that, living entirely alone as he does, and knowing that only a few hundred yards away is an entirely happy mixed household, he'll begin to feel the pinch of his shell. See if I'm not right." Privately, Helen was puzzled and somewhat irritated by her brother-in-law. That wellbred restraint of his was a veneer of many years' standing. There seemed to be no piercing it. And yet she wondered. According to John, his brother was not unversed in the ways of women. At different times he had shown interest in the daughter of a bank official and in the sister of a forestry man. As usual, in such places, gossip had run rampant but taxed with it, Dave had merely shrugged and used a few terse phrases to describe his opinion of the tattlers. Each girl had eventually returned to England without so much as an engagement ring. What was the matter with the man? It would be pleasant, thought Helen, if he were to marry some nice girl who could stand the climate. She visualized two households, domestic fun between the women and happy parties. It was criminal for a man to have his sort of life, giving his years and his strength to wresting wealth from the jungle which, if there was no one to carry on after him, would creep back and blanket the fruits of his toil. He was altogether too immersed in rubber and palm oil. "Dave's not a fool," said John, when she voiced this to him. "He does nothing in a hurry. Every action is planned, and probably he'll give his usual calm deliberation to the subject of marriage, if he ever comes around to thinking about it." "You're a Raynor, and you didn't." John smiled. "There's nothing headlong about Dave. If you're hoping to see him plunge into a white-hot passion of emotion over some girl, you're going to be disappointed. His sort never lose their heads." He paused, and added: "Not that I shouldn't like to see him married. He'd be easier to get along with—marriage tames a man." To which Helen made no verbal reply. She caught David one evening outside his bungalow as he swung down from his horse. "Hail," she greeted him. "You look hot and tired. May I come in for a minute?" "Sure. Have a drink with me." In the bare living room, uncurtained and without a single cushion, she poured him a long drink. He gave her a faint grin, and took it in three gulps. "John always leaves his boots off as soon as he gets in," she remarked. "Don 't mind me if you want to do the same." "Thanks." From his tone she got the impression that he'd been about to do that, anyway. "Shall I pour some more lime?" she asked. "No, thanks," Then rather pointedly, "I expect the house-boy has my bath ready." "David," she hesitated, "will you come over to dinner tonight?" "I've letters to write. Another time." "It's chicken pie," she said hopefully.

He raised an amused glance from the task of unlacing his boots. "Sounds good. You can send some down." "I think you might be more sociable," she told him severely. "You've only had dinner with us once in the month we've been here, and that was on our first evening, when you couldn't very well refuse. You let us push you out of your house, and now won't even come into if for a meal. You 're a bit of a pig, David." "Not intentionally. Don't work yourself up about it. This is a busy time for us, before the rains. I ride a good many miles each day and often I'm not back till well after nightfall." "I know." She was instantly sympathetic. "But you're at home on Sundays. You could be matey one day a week." He smiled. "All right. Dinner on Sunday. Does that eliminate my chance of a slice of chicken pie tonight?" "You shall have it," she promised, "in about half an hour." Critically, her gaze roved the room. "This place looks awfully bleak. Would you like us to make you some curtains?" "I was afraid of something like that when I invited you in." He was jeering now. "Don't take me on, Helen. I'm an unappreciative blighter." "We might humanize you in time!" He stood up, unstrapping the watch from his wrist, his mouth derisive. "I doubt it. I've lived too long like a savage. Like me to prove it? Then get out! I want that bath." Helen came away from the interview fairly pleased with herself. Already she was planning a menu for the coming Sunday. A pity the main course had to be either chicken or tinned meat, but there were still a few, a very few, fresh potatoes left in the bottom of the sack brought from home, and so far the tinned peas had turned out well. From the store of tinned fruits it would be easy to concoct a tasty sweet. Goat's milk cheese was rather sickening, but men didn't seem to mind it, and those biscuits Nicky and Samuel turned out between them were more crunchy and appetizing than any that could be purchased in Port Fargas. EARLY SUNDAY there was a squall, the first of the season. Dazed with the might of it, Nicky watched the bending trees in the compound through the slats of the main door. All other doors and windows had been shuttered. The palms thrashed their fans in fury, branches snapped, the vines strained away from their roots and flailed the grass, while overhead great clouds rolled up and swept inland, over the jungle. Seaward, lightning flickered among the bouncing tops of cottonwoods and mahogany trees. Above the noise of the wind she could hear the sullen creaking of the roof; John said it was safe when it did that, but Nicky wasn't so sure. The air, even shut up indoors, was quite cool—for which Nicky was grateful—when the hour came to start preparations for dinner. Samuel had decided that she was the "chop missy," and whenever Helen poked a tentative nose into the kitchen he went idiotically wooden. He still sat cross-legged on the floor to prepare the vegetables, and he had been seen to whet a knife in his spittle-greased palm before cutting the bread. Samuel could find no use at all for a bread knife. He was talkative. Nicky learned all about his wife, for whom he had not yet finished paying, and the three fine children who were going to be taught in a mission school as soon as it could be arranged. He stood near, entranced, when she used pastry cutters and decorators, and later she saw him furtively trying them out on a mixture of red mud from the path in the compound. He sampled potato and considered it poor stuff, no substitute at all for the sticky gray cassava paste his wife beat up for almost every meal.

When the dinner had reached a stage where Nicky could be reasonably certain of moderate success, she went away to dress. The wind had dropped now and she was able to open her window and feel the air on her skin before slipping into the thin green dress. She dusted her nose with powder and sadly wiped it off again. It was bound to grow hot in the dining room, and heat did all sorts of things to makeup. She wished she didn't feel so stupid and unsettled. The dinner was remarkably good. David made no comment on it, but he tried everything, and took a second helping of the orange trifle. In the living room, over coffee, he mentioned that he would be spending the following weekend in Port Fargas. Helen darted a sharp look at Nicky. There you are, it cried triumphantly, what did I tell you! The man is beginning to tire of his own company. "I had a letter a few days ago from Bramwell, the lawyer," said David to his brother. "It appears they're winding up Godfrey's affairs, and they want to know if we'll take that part of his plantation which adjoins ours." "Rank stuff," remarked John. "The man he left in charge when he joined up was trash. As cultivated land it's worthless. What do they want for it?" "No figure is given. It seems that when Godfrey died the agent's salary was reduced. He stuck it for a while and then cleared off." He shrugged. "It's in a hell of a mess there, now. Squatters have swarmed over the place and made the deuce of a muddle, the sheds are down and the coagulation tanks have disappeared altogether. We could do with more rubber, but not that sort." "We've as much land as we can work," said John easily. "I'm always telling you it's time you slacked off and took some fun. What's the attraction in Port Fargas?" "Business," was the dry rejoinder. "The executor of the Godfrey estate has just arrived from England, and Bramwell wants you or me to give him advice. I guessed you'd prefer me to take it on, you lazy hound. You're growing fat, John." "I know," said John with pride. "It's Nicky's cooking. What did you think of tonight's meal?" "Excellent. I imagined the art of cooking had gone out with bustles, especially in England." "As a matter of fact," said Nicky quietly, but very firmly, "the present-day Englishwoman is a much-maligned cook. She's more efficient than most people imagine." He looked at her, as though surprised at so sturdy a tone from one so slim and usually self-effacing. "My larder would give her a shock. What can you do besides cook?" "The ordinary things. Tennis, swimming. . . ." "We might lay out a court," put in John. "A foursome gives just the right amount of exercise in this climate. Dave prefers singles," he confided to Nicky. "But maybe a few of your dinners will slow him down." To Nicky, the subject of cooking had outworn itself. Turning to David, she said, "Tell me about the plantations. Don't you think Helen and I might go over them? You did promise, and I'm longing to see cacao and rubber, and all the other things, growing." "We can't both go the same day," protested Helen. "When I make the journey I shall want to know there's a good dinner waiting for me when I come back, and I daresay you 'll feel the same. David —" the hazel eyes rested eagerly upon him "—would you mind if Nicky tagged along with you one day? She wouldn't be any trouble. Nicky never is." "Charmed," he replied unsmilingly, and then to Nicky, "Do you ride?"

"I tried a bit around Baybridge." "I expect we could find a mount for you." "It wouldn't be any good. I've no riding kit." "You could wear the blue linen slacks with a white shirt," inserted Helen. Something within Nicky protested vehemently against Helen's insistence. David was obviously opposed to trailing a girl around his precious trees, and she was quite sure that a day alone with him in such a mood would be unbearable. The set of his mouth now was an omen of what she might expect. "Slacks are hopeless for riding," she said. "And anyway, a whole day in the saddle would be too much till I've had some practice. I'd feel happier in the car." Helen pressed her suggestion no further, and soon the men were talking crops and the imminence of rain, and Nicky was able to escape onto the veranda. It was one of those still, clear nights when the moon thrusts up in yellow glory from the trees and the silhouettes of palms are like pasteboard on a gilt ground. But soon the moon grew an aura and paled. It was a moon of impending change. The very next day it rained. For three hours an avalanche flung itself at the house and washed down the paths, turning them into narrow red torrents. Beyond the compound nothing was visible. Helen looked out at the gray wall of rain and lifted those expressive brows. "The cue for sewing, Nicky. We have to try and cultivate a benevolent attitude toward the rain." THE RAIN HAD released pungent scents, and the paths were drying. It would be months before the thirsting land was sated. A pool had formed in the concreted cavity in the lawn, and already lizards darted there, orange and brown and yellow. Huge fern fronds pushed through the bare soil at its rim; Nicky was certain they were not there yesterday. She thought she understood a little how it must feel to be a planter in this climate. Growth was swift and luxuriant, yields abundant, and there was no season without its harvest. The rain-washed air drew her out onto the track, and there, coming toward her, was David Raynor. "Good evening," she said with reserve. "John's in the house. The rain sent him home early." "Me, too." He flicked a fly from his bare brown knee. "It was you I came to see, not John. Were you serious last night about driving over the plantation?" "Yes. But I suppose there's little chance of it now the rains have started." "It's up to you. I have to use a lorry tomorrow to bring in some machinery that can't be left in the open. It won't be a picnic, but there's a spare seat if you care to use it." She was silent a moment, looking out over the trees. "I'd like to go if you're sure I won't be in the way." "That's up to you, too. But the sooner we explode any notions you still cherish about the glamorous tropics, the better. It won't take you long to realize that the bush is no place for a white woman." His tone was hard and expressionless. "Wear those slacks you were talking about with knee-length socks pulled up over them, and stout shoes." "Thanks. I will." A lengthening pause.

"And you'd better slip some aspirin into your pocket," he advised with a trace of irony. "You may not be as tough as you think." "It's awfully good of you to trouble," she pointedly replied. The mockery was candid now, in a smile. "I'm a reckless driver. Ask John. If your feet haven't cooled off by morning, be ready at seven. So long." She was ready at seven next morning, rather miserably surveying slices of her person in the spotty mirror. Royal blue linen slacks and knee-length socks looked undeniably awful, though the silk shirt blowing open at the neck was appropriate. With the cream jacket she had the appearance of a peasant in a musical comedy. When she went out to the lorry David looked her over and grinned. "You look terrible," he said cheerfully. "Hop in, and shove this cushion into the small of your back, or you'll get a spinal ache. The track 's pretty rocky in spots. Cigarette? Right. Here we go." For an hour or so after that he scarcely spoke. Quite soon they left the rough belt of forest and were traveling a narrow road through many acres of superb oil palms, some of them fifty feet high. A crossroad divided the palms from a huge cacao plantation, where the tops of the great healthy trees spread vital shade over trunk and root. "The bananas between the trees are planted as props and windbreaks," he explained, as if determined to make the trip an educational excursion. "We don't grow bananas as a crop. The workers take them as part of their pay." Farther on, where the trees ended and a brassy sun beat down, he indicated an expanse of dry-looking vines. "Peanuts," he told her. 'Last year we had trouble with white ant; even so the yield was nine hundred pounds to the acre." She heard a note of pride in the sardonic voice, and in answering a sympathy with his love of this land quickened in her veins. David Raynor apart, there was no set of adjectives to describe the country and its bounty. Presently he asked, "Why did you let Helen drag you out here? You must have gathered from John's letters that you'd be running into all kinds of trouble." "Didn't you ache for experience when you were twenty?" Nicky didn't wait for an answer. "I'm not the sort to launch out on my own, but I could face most things with Helen." "The climate will get you down, of course. What then?" "Why should it affect us any more than it affects you and John? We're not so exposed to infection and other dangers as you are." He shrugged. "We're different. I've never had a fever in my life, and John's single bout was negligible. But fever's the least of it. Women's nerves crack up even in Port Fargas." His tone taunted. "What's the betting you won't go crawling home within six months?" Nicky was silent with a new and shattering sensation. It prickled in her chest and set her teeth together. The red mouth compressed and the gentleness had vanished from the gray eyes that stared ahead at the dusty red track. She heard his brief, tolerant laugh. "Don't get your back up," he bantered. "You're not bound to accept the challenge." A few minutes later he was describing the processes of timber felling and rolling. Then she saw the rubber trees, orderly rows of them with their little cups below the triangular cutting and natives moving between them, retapping and collecting latex. It was in a cleared space near these trees that they stopped for lunch.

Nicky was stiff and almost too hot to move. Proximity to the engine had parboiled her feet and legs, and she could feel her shirt clinging where it touched. In spite of the cushion, her back ached intolerably, and every step sent a stab straight through to the nape of her neck. She was thankful that he left her to eat alone, for she quickly discovered that she couldn't swallow a thing. All she craved was to lie flat in the shade and close her eyes. -Two hours passed before David came back to direct, with crisp phrases, the loading and covering of the machinery. By that time Nicky had sufficiently recovered to walk around a little and whip up her flagging courage. Perhaps she overestimated the necessity for maintaining the fearless eye and unquivering lip. Had she allowed herself to look as spent as she felt he might have hurried and taken her back before the storm broke. As it happened, the threatening darkness fell upon them in the cocoa trees. The driving seat was utterly exposed. He stopped and got out his oilskin. "Put this on," he commanded. "There's a sou'wester in the pocket." "But, good heavens, what about you?" "It won't be my first drenching. Put it on," peremptorily. She had no sooner obeyed than the lightning stabbed red, thunder rocked the earth and the sky opened. He drove like mad, lurching through axle-deep water, evading floating logs, muttering an odd curse or two under his breath when the lorry slithered. In a flare of lightning he turned to her a taut, streaming grin. "Frightened?" Nicky shook her head. No, this great turmoil in her wasn't fright. At the moment she was incapable of analyzing just what it was, but she didn't think it could possibly be fright. The approach of the lorry was drowned in the bellowing of the storm. For an hour Helen had paced between the two main rooms, worrying herself sick for Nicky, stuck out on the front seat of a lorry. The thunder and lightning were terrifying enough indoors ... but poor Nicky. Her head was thudding with anxiety when the sound came from the hall. At first she thought it must be a servant, but as

she came near the open door her heart leapt with relief. The voice was David's. "I won't come in," he was saying. "I'll go back and get a bath and you'd better do the same. Your feet and legs must be soaked." The whisper of oilskins. "Sure you're all right?" "Yes, quite all right," brightly from Nicky. "Thank you for the day. I didn't mind the storm." "I ought to have got a move on at the depot," on a note of masculine anger. "Have that bath and take some whisky." Helen pulled wide the door. "Thank goodness you two are safe. Won't you have a drink before you go, David?" "Not just now. Is John back?" "He'll be here at any minute." "I want to see him about recruiting more labour. I'll go home and change and be up again in half an hour. " Nicky slipped away to her bedroom. Helen, bless her, had had a tin bath lifted in, and at once the houseboy came to tip into it a few gallons of tepid water. She closed the door behind him and sat down to peel off sodden socks. Now she felt agreeably weary. It was lovely to linger over the bath and get into a cool, candy-striped dress. As she brushed her hair in front of the mirror her lips smiled back. Considering

her newness to the tropics and the tricks of the elements, she had not acquitted herself too badly today. Not many women would have survived the storm with so little fuss. Congratulations, Nicky, she said to herself, and gave an extra pat to the curl above her ear. Flicking up the catch of her bedroom door, which opened into the lounge, she pushed a little, and listened. Was there time before dinner for the houseboy to empty the bath? Perhaps the task had better wait till the rain lessened, so that it could be done via the veranda. She trod into sandals and rummaged out a clean hanky. As Nicky straightened from the drawer she heard voices in the living room, men's voices. Bother it. She did dislike having to appear straight from her bedroom into the living room. At the door she hesitated. The tinkle of glasses and John 's voice, reasonable and placating. "I don 't see your point, Dave. Both of them seem to Flowering. Wilderness be standing up to it very well. They get quite a kick out of housekeeping in the jungle." "I'm not speaking of Helen. She's your responsibility." "You mean Nicky? Well, you've had a day out with her. You'll admit she has pluck?" Nicky was unaware of the tenseness in her attitude as she awaited the reply. David spoke coolly, causally. "She has grit all right—the screwed-up, feminine sort, as though she were hoping for a quick death. But she's quite out of her setting here in the bush. She's the nice, gentle type who ought to be running a home in an English suburb." Nicky's hand went up to her throat. Her eyes stung. She moved a couple of paces, felt behind her for the bed and sank against the frame of the mosquito net. The bald cruelty of those words. The faintly humorous sneer in them hurt most, the suggestion that only by a superlative effort of will had she refrained from making a hysterical ass of herself out there in the storm. How dared he! Nicky did not move till Helen called her to dinner. The following afternoon Helen threw out a suggestion. "Nicky, d 'you realize we've been here nearly six weeks and haven't once visited Port Fargas? Shall we get John to drive us down on the weekend?" Nicky brightened. "I'm longing to dance. Do they have dancing at the club?" "Sure to. I believe they even have a band. We could stay there for the night and pay a few of those visits we promised on the boat, on Sunday." Nicky snatched up a cushion and whirled around the room. The prospect of the simple weekend's enjoyment was exciting. Nicky ruefully admitted to herself that to have a taste for dancing rather confirmed David's diagnosis that she would be more at home in suburbia than in Africa. She wondered if he danced, and decided that if he did, it was probably to prove that he could master anything. So she chose her white evening dress and a tailored linen one to wear on Sunday, agreed, with Helen, to brave the mosquitoes and wear nylons, and finally risked a little makeup. David had gone into town straight after lunch. He was hoping to take in a game of polo during the afternoon, and had arranged to meet them for dinner at the club. After that he must get in touch with the solicitor over the Godfrey business. Helen had extracted a promise from him to come back to the club for dancing. It was an oppressive, starless evening, and from the hill as John's car entered the town, Port Fargas was a floating crescent of twinkling lights. When he switched off the

ignition the roll of the sea was like distant thunder. He predicted more rain and came around to the other side to help them out. David, in impeccabale white with a cummerbund at the waist, was already at the bar, sipping a drink while he waited, and as soon as he saw them he came through to the dining room, reached the table he had reserved earlier just in time to pull out Nicky's chair. If she had expected from him the merest flicker of a glance at her dress, she, was disappointed. He smiled on them impartially, ordered sherry and Madeira, told them the dinner had already been chosen by himself and the chef, and lazily offered cigarettes. Tacitly, it was understood that they were his guests. This was a different David, who nodded to other diners and exchanged pleasantries with the club manager. To the usual arrogance was added just a hint of suave charm. While they ate he talked of the afternoon 's polo. "A dangerous sport," observed his brother. "But if you have to take your pleasures so hard, why don't you go in for a string of ponies?" "Haven 't the time. Training polo ponies takes months of patience. But I joined the Polo Club this afternoon as an official member. That entitles me to use four of Morrison 's ponies every Saturday." "Every Saturday?" John's brows went up at least two inches. "That's wonderful," contributed Helen enthusiastically. "We'll come and watch you play, won't we, Nicky? And afterward we'll all come here to celebrate or commiserate." The meal concluded gaily. David said he would have to ive them for a while, but he lingered a few minutes in the bby. Looking down at Nicky he murmured, "Save me a dance." She nodded wonderingly, and her whole body began to His head lifted and his gaze was drawn over the top of her head toward the main entrance of the club. Now his smile was incredulous. Nicky turned. She saw a woman pause in the doorway and slowly advance; lovely creature with ripecorn hair fluffed in silky waves bout an assured little head, and a cool, matt complexion. She wore something green and flowing, and over it a well-cut wrap in pale pink sequined silk. She came up to the little group and smiled, charmingly embarrassed. "Don't you remember me, David?" Already he was extending a hand. "Diana Godfrey! I never thought I'd ever see you in West Africa again. Don 't tell me you 're the executor I'm supposed to be meeting this evening?" "I'm afraid so. My husband named the lawyer and myself in his will, though, of course, I'm pretty helpless where such things are concerned. I'm so very glad to meet you again, David ... after so long. We did share some lovely times, didn't we?" The soft voice paused. " Won't you introduce me?" Nicky's mouth went painfully pleasant and set. Unconsciously, her hands clenched at her side.

CHAPTER THREE

THE RAINS CONTINUED, relentless, enervating and destructive. A lush greenness appeared in the compound, weeds sprang a foot high almost in a night. Metals

tarnished and rusted, goods laid away gathered mold, books stuck fast together with it, and it grew like a green blanket on the walls, outside and in. Nicky looked out upon the swimming compound and saw, through the downpour, the substantial ghosts of palms and coffee trees. Men worked there cheerfully beneath their umbrellas. She felt her clothes sticking where they touched and slapped flies from her face and neck; her hair had grown too longs and already her dresses were showing signs of rot. But there was no other spot in the world where she would rather be. Occasionally, even John came in exhausted and irritable, but he was soon over it and apologizing in that easy way of his. Nicky thought he worried too much about "his girls," as he termed them. He stood over them while they took their daily dose of quinine, pleated his brow when they looked fagged, and was quite angry if they undertook tasks that the servants could do equally well. "We're now waging the battle of the rains," Helen privately told Nicky. "If we get through till October with nothing worse than a few lost inches, John will at last be able to convince David that we are no less husky than other women who stick years of it out here. We ought to wear mosquito boots more often." "They're frightful," protested Nicky. "I wonder why mosquitoes always make for the legs?" "That's about the height they keep from the floor. The stuff we spray is effective. I shouldn't think it would spoil the polish on the boards." It did show a little, but it helped. To deter the ants the legs of the table and other heavy furniture fitted into small clay cups filled with kerosene. If they were not watched the servants, too lazy to bother with the intricacies of moving the table for cleaning, would crawl around the cups on their knees blowing hard, either with their mouths or with an old bicycle pump. Every sixteen days the mail arrived from England. Friends and relatives wrote of a rainy summer and backward crops, of new shows in town, new books, smarter dresses in the shops and delicious, ridiculous shoes. Margaret, practical daughter of Helen, dictated long letters to her grandmother and pompously signed them herself; each effort included an installment of the rambling adventures of a wooden pig. Mail days were grand, and provided gossip for a week. Though Helen mostly insisted that they drive into Port Fargas each Saturday, Nicky resisted her efforts to reach there in time to watch the polo. If David wanted them to go, she said, he would ask them. Since that first jaunt into the town Helen had made some rather obvious moves. Though they were well intentioned, Nicky didn't care for them. She had no wish to run after David and guessing what Helen and John hoped for her only intensified her sense of personal inadequacy. Her youth and inexperience had become a burden. Last Saturday Helen's encouraging stare had even caused her to return a curt refusal to David's invitation to dance. She was coming to dread Saturdays and the certainty of meeting Diana Godfrey. It turned out that seven years ago Diana had spent the first months of her marriage in Port Fargas. David had been a friend of the Godfreys; a close friend, if Diana 's oblique references were based on fact. Nicky tried not to form an opinion on the matter; in fact, she did her best to keep her mind altogether free of Diana Godrey. She withdrew into her own immediate difficulties of baking bread without yeast and serving dinner without potatoes. The heat and the flies in the kitchen were intensely trying, and these were times when Samuel's eccentricities no longer

amused. It was the rain, of course. Everything that went wrong could be traced back to the rain. Then came a lull, a few fine days when the sun poured out its molten beams and the sky was a metal lid, compressing the heat. On an evening toward the end of this period, Nicky contrived a cold salad for dinner. Upon a bed of nutty green bamboo shoots she arranged tinned beetroot and peas sprinkled with dry boiled rice and grated cassava. Over this she trickled a seasoned mayonnaise made from tinned milk, eggs and palm oil. John liked his dressing highly peppered, but neither Helen nor Nicky could believe his assertion that the virulent red peppers of West Africa were cooling to the blood. Nicky sliced a jar of tongue, and then began to chivy Samuel over the soup and dessert. She looked up as Helen came into the kitchen, and pressed the back of her hand against her fiery cheek, and across her damp forehead. "Samuel's spoilt the flan," she sighed. "It'll have to be pancakes." "Oh, dear, that would happen when we have a visitor." "Have we? Who is it?" "Diana Godfrey. Dave just brought her in. They've been out together all day, weighing up the damage and so on at her plantation." "Only one guest?" "Dave wouldn't stay. He's gone home to eat and change. He asked me to give her dinner and said he'd be in later, to drive her back to Port Fargas. It seems the trek around the Godfrey plantation took longer than he'd expected." She drew a dissatisfied breath. "How does that beastly woman always manage to look so cool? She's wearing a silk pantsuit and there's hardly a wrinkle in it, and I'll swear not one hair is out of place. I don't believe she ever perspires." To avoid Helen's eyes, Nicky spooned flour into a basin, paddled a hole in the center and plopped in four diminutive eggs. "Will you warn John to go easy on the pancakes? We haven't any more eggs." "Bother Diana," muttered Helen as she went out. It was a thought that repeated itself more than once during the following hour. When, hot and fed up, Nicky entered the dining room, Diana was gently sipping a lime soda laced with gin. One arm hung negligently over the arm of her wicker chair, the fingertips like pale rose petals drifting a few inches from the floor. "Hello, Nicola. " Miss Graham was distant, and Nicky bespoke a familiarity that Diana deemed unnecessary. "They tell me you were in the kitchen when I arrived. What on earth do you find to do there?" "I rather enjoy cooking," was the brief reply. "So do I . in a reasonable temperature. No white woman cooks out here. It isn't necessary." "We prefer it, and it gives me something to do." Diana smiled, a pleasant but not drastic widening of very red lips. "You're one of those people who aim to bring England into the bush. It can't be done, you know. The white woman in Africa has to lead a leisurely existence or she goes under." Perfunctorily Nicky smiled back. "I'm the sort of idiot who never learns anything except by experience." The meal which followed was not a happy one. Diana took a little soup and tried the salad. No tongue, thank you; in a small, polite voice. She couldn't eat tinned meat unless she was famished. And after the first mouthful of pancake she quietly laid down

her fork. Nicky was not surprised. At the last moment Samuel must have decided that the stove needed more kerosene. She did not apologize; the humiliation was too sharp for that. In the living room, with coffee at her elbow and a cigarette between her fingers, she felt more able to cope with the guest. John had gone up to the storage sheds and Helen was still in the dining room scribbling a hurried order for David to leave with a supplier in the town. For a while Diana went on smoking with annoying tranquility; annoying, because tranquility was a quality which had deserted Nicky of late. "Wasn't it rather a blow to find your husband's plantations so neglected?" she asked. "Dave had prepared me for it. They're almost worthless, which means I'm practically penniless." "Surely land so close to Port Fargas is worth something?" "Only a few hundred." "Is that all ... for an estate of that size?" "It's no larger than the Raynor rubber acreage. Why did you think it was?" Nicky made a complication of knocking ash from her cigarette. "A misunderstanding. I had the impression that it took you all day to look over it." "Good lord, no! Dave had his car and we circled the whole place in three hours. The rest of the time we were driving through the Raynor land." Meditatively, she emitted a delicate stream of smoke. "David and his brother, between them, must make a huge income. He says they don 't even know how much. Their last figures are three years old, but they're impressive." She shrugged. "I suppose it was shortsighted of my husband to concentrate on ,rubber, but planting takes money, and we hadn't much to start on." "Are you going to sell the plantation?" "We haven't decided. Dave thinks that if we cleared a few acres and left only the healthy trees standing, it would be easy to gauge the highest figure we could ask for the land. I shall have to leave it to him. I'm no business woman." Diana leaned over the coffee table and pressed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She blew daintily on her fingers, then dusted them with a tiny silk handkerchief. Nicky supposed it was experience and a few more years than her own that gave the other woman an air of assurance and indifference to criticism, though it became her so naturally that she might have been born with it. Dave says ... Dave thinks . . . . "Did your husband start his plantation from crude jungle?" she asked desperately. "No. Rubber trees have to be five years old before they're tapped, and we couldn't afford to wait so long. We sank our all in three-year-old trees, then my husband was called away on business, so he left a manager in charge. But he was no judge of character, and the man let us down." Nicky offered another comment. "It's criminal to allow land to fall back so badly." "I agree." Diana's tone altered, became tinged with a new significance. "If things had been different it wouldn't have happened, even with a poor manager. David was away at the time, but my husband could have asked John Raynor to keep an eye on production. But you see, his friendliness with the Raynors was largely pretense; he refused to ask favors of them." Nicky had a sudden premonition that if she heard any more she might never again know peace, but it was her turn to speak. Diana seemed almost to await her comment with genuine interest. "You mean," Nicky said with surprising control, "that your husband disliked them?"

Diana shrugged. "He seldom met John. It was David 's friendship with me that troubled him. If I hadn't forced him to realize that David wasn't the sort to tangle himself with another man's wife, there would have been open scandal." Diana uncrossed her ankles. "Well, the past takes care of one's mistakes—my sort, anyway. Some of us are even lucky enough to be given a second chance." Beauty and experience are invaluable assets, thought Nicky, as she managed a trivial reply. Beside Diana she felt impossibly young and foolish. Diana got up and sauntered over to the window to peer through the slats. "D'you think we might send a boy along to Dave's bungalow?" she inquired. "Mrs. Carlyn will think I'm lost in the forest." ABOUT AN HOUR LATER David 's car, an open convertible, pulled in outside the white villa where Diana was staying as the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyn. The woman at his side turned to him a smiling face. "Thanks for bothering with my bit of jungle,David. " "That's about all it is, Diana," he said. "Clearing is going to be the deuce at this season." "When you can spare the time we'll got into it. Tell me if I'm a nuisance." "You know I'll do what I can, but don 't hope for tog much. We could buy it from you as it stands, though it would be little good to us, and you mightn't like charity." "I hope it won't come to that. Can I entice you to have a nightcap?" He smiled. "You've used enough of my time. There's a long day before me tomorrow." "See you on Saturday, then?" "Yes—at the Club, unless the polo is washed out—in which case I shan't come into town. This fine weather can 't hold." He leaned across and pushed open the door at her side. "Still the savage," she twitted him, getting out. On the path she paused and, bent toward him, placing her hand over his on the wheel. "It wasn't very pleasant, seeing the place gone derelict like that," she said softly, a tremor in her voice, "but it would have been so much worse if I'd gone there with a stranger. You did take the impact for me, David, and I'm very grateful." His hand turned and held her fingers for a moment. "It must have been rotten for you, Di. I did realize that, though it doesn't do to allow such things too much importance. Don't worry. It's the law in these places to help neighbors." "I hope we're more than neighbors, David. We were good friends once." "We are still, my dear. Keep your chin up. Good night, Diana." She answered in those same tremulous tones, and turned and walked up the path to the house. Mrs. Carlyn sat alone in the living room. She was a small, faded woman with slack movements. Her sense of humor had been dried up years ago by the tropical sun, and she lived for the day when her husband's time would be up and she could return to provincial England. "I heard the car," she said. "You're very late. Was the plantation as dreadful as you expected?" Diana threw her hat on to a chair and sank into a corner of the sofa. "Every bit. You can't see the rubber for jungle weed and saplings, and all the equipment has simply disappeared." "It's very hard, for a young widow," the older woman murmured. "But Mr. Bramwell did warn you by cable that the journey would be an unnecessary expense. I can't think why any woman should come here when she doesn't have to."

"You've stuck it too long, darling. Now if your husband were a planter instead of a government official—the born sort of planter like the Raynors, making mounds of cash—you need only visit this red hell often enough to keep him devoted." "I'm glad you can be flippant," Mrs. Carlyn remarked wearily. "You're young and sufficiently pretty to take your choice of the men out here—or anywhere else, for that matter." She yawned. "I'm going to bed. The houseboy will bring you a supper tray if you're peckish." But Diana was not the least bit peckish. Thoughtfulness and hunger do not usually go together. She was remembering a certain morning six weeks ago when two letters, both postmarked from ports in West Africa, had lain beside her breakfast plate in the London flat. Deliberately she had set one of them aside, and read the other. It was from Bramwell, the Port Fargas lawyer, advising her to throw the plantation on the market and to accept at once the best offer. Having decided to sign his power of attorney, she took a spoonful of porridge, and then another, while her gaze roved with anticipatory pleasure over the writing on the second envelope, now propped against the sugar bowl. A piece of toast and a second cup of coffee, and at last the feel of the letter between finger and thumb, the slow drawing of the single sheet from its envelope. As- she read, twin furrows appeared between her brows. Twice, before she had finished, her eyes lifted to reread the written address: "Aboard S.S. Merino." Two days after the receipt of those letters, Diana wrote to Bramwell, telling him she would be sailing on the next boat. His return cable had had no particle of effect upon her resolve. She only wished she dared afford to go by plane. Port Fargas was very much as she had left it. Many of the old familiar faces she had known were there still. Some planters had given up, drifted away, but these had been replaced by newcomers. There were bridge parties and anniversary parties and patties for no reason at all; there was the same old snatching at illusory delights, and the usual horde of impecunious young men aching to marry. And there was David Raynor. At twenty-two she had been rather fascinated by David. He was different from other men of thirty, neither married nor apparently interested in women, with a subdued violence about him that had stirred her pulses and made her reckless. Had she dared rouse the devil in him, she would have used all the feminine arts to force some declaration from him. She never did discover just what degree of response her attractions had kindled within that enigmatic breast. David seven years older was an even more complex problem. His eyes rarely softened from that stony blue, and his words were clipped and to the point. When he relaxed, cynicism tinctured his humor. About the middle of this afternoon she had reminded him of a trifling incident that had occurred in those youthful exotic days. He had given his brief laugh. "How unspeakably callow we were. You should have known better, Di. You were married." "Surely you don 't believe that marriage should seclude a wife entirely from other men?" "Things might work out healthier for some couples if it did." "David, that's positively feudal!" "Entirely out of date," he'd agreed mockingly. "Come to that, so is marriage, with divorce so easy." She'd twinkled at him, watchfully. "Is that why you haven 't married?"

"Maybe," noncommittally. Then a glance at his watch. "Time's getting short. I'm going to step on it. Hold tight." She believed she knew why he had avoided discussion on the subject. He was beginning to feel the need of a wife. Perhaps her sudden reappearance in Port Fargas had disturbed him; it was even possible that he had mastered a desperate love for her seven years ago, when she was another man's wife. With David, one wouldn't know. No doubt, in the years between, other women had attemped to pierce his defenses; a rich planter was glittering bait for the mercenary. Diana paused in her thoughts. Was she mercenary? Was it unnatural in a woman to place love no higher than a man's pocket? But she was fond of David, and if he married her she would see that he got value for money. If he married her. Canny does it, she thought. A process of gradual emotional infiltration spiced with a dash of feminine helplessness. Pleased with the thought, Diana stretched her arms contentedly and gathered herself for bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

NICKY WAS strengthening the sleeve seams of one of her dresses. This was a task that had to be done fairly frequently, for cottons quickly rotted in the damp heat. The darning needle was clumsy, but all the others, of varying sizes, had rusted into the flannel leaves of the needle book, and the stores in Port Fargas were always expecting needles from England, but seemed never to receive them. Helen had taken to her bed with a headache, and the house was somnolent in the afternoon blaze. Even the flies had sunk into apparent quiescence and, but for the occasional apethetic thump of his tail on the veranda, the dog also was silent. Presently Samuel began to stir in the kitchen. All Morning he had complained of "one big pain" due, probably, to eating for his breakfast all the leftover pancakes from the night before. She had given him magnesia but it had neither looked nor tasted horrible enough to cure Samuel. He had loped off to the village for a brew of his own pet medicine. As a car spurted up the track Nicky raised her head. She heard it stop, and a quick step on the path, followed within a few seconds by the click of fingernails on the panel. Before the door opened she knew who it was. Her breath came quick and unsteady, and in the moment of his entering her needle caught in a tough seam and snapped. An exclamation escaped her. "Now, now," reproved David, kicking the door shut behind him. "What is it?" "My needle—the only one that works." Carefully she laid the fragments on the table, keeping her head bent. "John isn't home yet. D'you want to see Helen?" "Not particularly, my child. Why are you always so certain it's someone else I come to see?" "Your visits are mostly on business." He picked up the needle case. "You've let these go shockingly. I wouldn't have believed it of you." "They were mislaid, and that's the condition in which they turned up."

He was withdrawing the needles one by one from the brown-pitted flannel. "Does Helen still allow John to keep tools and other junk on the bottom shelf in the kitchen cupboard?" She ignored the sarcasm. "Yes, but it's in a box now." He went out and returned with a square of emery paper that he laid, business side up, on the table. Hastily, she thrust a magazine under it. He grinned as he sat down, folded a needle within the emery and rubbed it till it was free from rust, when it was set aside and another took its place. "I believe Samuel's preparing tea," said Nicky. "Would you like some?" "I told him to make it tea for two when I went in there just now. You didn't say why Helen's not around." "She had a headache and went to bed after lunch." "Any temperature?" "No. That was the first thing John asked, too. It's just a headache that anyone might get in this steamy heat." "Do you get them?" He placed the second needle with the first and took up another. "Sometimes. " For a minute she watched the strong brown fingers, and then raised her eyes to look at his thick black hair. He kept it short, but right in the center it twisted with the suggestion of a wave. She wondered if it were wiry to the touch, and if anyone had ever laid a cheek against it. He looked up and intercepted her glance. Pink crept up under her skin, a little pain started in her throat and hurriedly, she folded the dress and cleared away the threads. Samuel brought a pot of tea, a dish of raisin biscuits and another of small cakes, and by the time she had poured, the needles were back in their case. "Thank you," she said. "You'll have to examine them often. They'll rust quicker now that the surfaces are less smooth." He went off to wash his hands before trying one of the biscuits, and soon he began to talk about the plantation. She listened quietly, wholeheartedly, wishing he would do this sort of thing more often. His tones were level and easy, and whenever he mentioned a crop or a process that was beyond her, he digressed, and explained. His manner was warmer than on the day when he had driven her through the estate, and there was no satire in him. Over his second cup of tea he regarded her quizzically. "Did you listen or go to sleep inside?" "Question me," she countered at once. But he didn't. Instead, his smile faded and his eyes sharpened and were less impersonal. "Answer me truthfully. Aren't you ever sorry you came here?" She shook her had. "I wouldn't have missed one mosquito of it. Before I wondered if I were the type to stand up to the trials of heat and insects. Now I seldom think about either." "Sure it's not bravado?" he demanded a little roughly. "When are you going home?" She avoided his glance. "Why should you ask?" "I've told you before that this is the wrong sort of place for a girl like you. I suppose when Helen asked you to come out here you were thrilled with the adventure of it. After all, you weren't so very much more than a schoolgirl. Well, you 've had your thrill. If you're sensible you won't hang on too long." "Am I . . . in the way?"

He did not answer, but took cigarettes from his pocket and offered them, staring at her with intent inquiry. Again she shook her head. From his silence she took courage to repeat the question. "David, am I in the way?" "That isn't the point," he said impatiently. "I'm responsible for this estate and the people on it. I told John in the beginning that he could only have you and Helen out for a short while. I can 't force him to send his wife back to England, but I believe I do have a certain amount of authority over you." Her head remained lowered. "You haven't any, David. I've felt your resentment since I first came. Tell me this. If I went home would you share this house with Helen and John?" "Good heavens, no!" "Then I don't see that it can possibly matter to you whether I go or stay." Her voice became faintly tinged with the bitterness in her heart as she asked, "Are you going to wait for John?" Her change of tone hardened him. "No, I'm not. I came down to borrow some tinned food. I'm going up to Nagoli for a fortnight, and my stocks are low." "Where is Nagoli?" "At the other end of the plantations. We have native superintendents there and check up on them every three months. What can you spare?" "As much as you need. Tell Samuel what you want." She felt his scrutiny still burning into the top of her head, and when she looked up his expression was a baffling blend of anger and something less definable. "Mighty good of you," he said shortly, and at once shoved back his chair and strode into the kitchen. She heard him biting out orders and a final injunction to have the stuff sent down to the bungalow "quick sharp." Back in the dining room he paused near the table to drop his cigarette into the ashtray. "Will you be going into Port Fargas on Saturday?" he queried. "I suppose so. It's becoming a habit, unless it teems." "Diana's expecting me at the club. If you get a chance will you explain that I'd forgotten this Nagoli trip when we made the arrangement? Tell her I've put on a squad of men to start clearing, and that I'll cut this journey as short as I can." She nodded. "Very well, David." "Thanks for the tea," he added, with blunt irony. "Goodbye." For some while after he had gone Nicky stayed seated at the table, her cheeks sunk into the palms of her hands. The picture was achingly clear in her mind. David, though he might not yet have admitted as much to himself, was in love with Diana Godfrey. It had started all those years ago when Diana was a young bride, the forbidden possession of another man. Now she was free, and needing him, and there is no more potent charm than that of a lovely, penniless widow for the man who has come to idealize her. For that, obviously, was what happened. In the years following his first friendship with Diana he had known other women, had even picked out two of them for special attention, but he had never married. Well, thought Nicky wearily, he could put that right as soon as he wished. When Samuel came through with Helen 's tray she pushed herself away from the table. "I'll take it."

Helen was up and seated in front of her mirror. "How's the head?" asked Nicky. "It fits again, thank goodness. But look at my hair!" The dark tresses were lank and lackluster, but they would curl again when dry weather came. "Never mind," Nicky consoled her. "Mine's as bad. Here, at least, we've no competition." Helen sipped her tea. "Did I hear a visitor?" "It was David. He's going to Nagoli for a fortnight and he came to beg tinned food." "Was that all?" "He had some tea." Helen frowned over the top of her cup into the mirror. Her mouth parted with indecision, as though she were about to deliver something of importance, but the next moment it closed again, just as firmly. Pensively, she nibbled around a biscuit. "Nicky, is it next month you 're twenty-one?" "Yes ... three weeks tomorrow." "Good. We'll give our first party in your honor. How many can we cater for?" "About a dozen." "More than that," protested Helen. "At least twenty." "We haven't that many friends." "John will help. I shall insist on all young people. Will you like that, Nicky?" "Of course. You're a dear." Meditatively, Helen took another biscuit. "I suppose we'll have to invite Diana Godfrey, as she's such an old friend of David's. Or should I have said an old flame?" "Maybe you should. She had a husband when he knew her before." "I wish she had one now. I'm pretty sure that a second husband is what She's after, and she has her eye on Dave. Diana's just a shade too clever and beautiful to be trusted." A REALLY GOOD dinner party in such places as Port Fargas is a miracle of ingenuity. On important occasions it is bad form to serve anything from tins, and the more European in flavor the dishes, the greater the success of the function. Steamed fish, roast lamb and fresh fruit pie would be an ideal menu ... were one able to obtain fish, lamb and the sort of fruit that cooks well under a crust. In the stores near the docks, on lucky days, one might pick up a box of oranges or a few South African apples, canary tomatoes and, very rarely, a piece of boiling bacon straight from a ship's refrigerator. There were no shop windows, for nothing could be displayed without being ruined by the sun, and the shops were merely small, gloomy warehouses stacked from floor to ceiling with an amazing variety of goods. Car tires, bales of cotton and ships' hawsers dwelt in amity with tinned food, frying pans and household soap. Every shop was a medley of grocery, hardware and drapery, with car accessories thrown in as makeweight. Most of the stores were run by Hausa traders, smooth-tongued, good looking men who would indefatigably turn their wares upside down to produce what you wanted, and smile charmingly if what they offered were refused. In this way Helen gathered two very beautiful lamps for the dining table, a punch bowl, a weird collection of phonograph records discarded by a government official at the end of his years of service, and a priceless bushel of English new potatoes. Gradually she accumulated dried fruit, icing sugar, a cake frill and two large white jars of caviar.

Because of her familiarity with the vagaries of Samuel and the oven, Nicky had to bake her own birthday cake, but as soon as it was cool, Helen took over the icing. Cautiously, she made up a trial quantity of stiff white coating and waited for it to set. It didn't, so she prepared a stiffer paste—and yet a stiffer. At the fifth she acknowledged defeat. "The climate again," she groaned. "I'm so sorry, Nicky. Will you have a try with the last of the sugar?" "It doesn't matter. The frill is pretty and we'll lay the gilt key across the top. Birthday cake doesn't go with dinner anyway." A week before the party the whole menu was planned. Bean and tomato soup, caviar, savory nut cutlets with egg sauce, braised chicken with stuffing, meat and new potatoes, fresh fruit compote and a whole, very fine cheese that John had coaxed from an agent. Helen would have liked to hang fairy lights among the vines and palmettoes, but when John pointed out that the things would be blown away or drenched, she compromised; if the night of the party were fine the semicircular garden seat could be brought out and set near the pool, and a lamp fixed to a bush at each end. Sixteen invitations were dispatched and every one of them was accepted. Altogether twelve men and eight women would sit down to dinner; seven married couples, Diana Godfrey and Nicky, and four bachelors, among them David, and a very fair young civil engineer named Peter Wilshaw. Several reasons had drawn Nicky and Peter together. During their first meeting at a club dance Peter had revealed the fact that once, when changing trains, he had spent two hours in Baybridge. After that he had disclosed more about himself. There was a girl in London whom he hoped to marry, and he was never tired of chanting her charms to so pleasant and compassionate a listener as Nicola Graham. Nicky liked Peter. His fresh young face reminded her of the young men, boys almost, with whom she had danced and had fun at home, and it was good to feel girlish and irresponsible again, with a proportion of one's self-esteem restored. The Saturday afternoon before her birthday Peter took Nicky for her first trip upriver. After yesterday's rain the atmosphere was sticky and enervating, but the sun glared from the white-hot arc of sky above the still tops of the trees, drawing a mist along the surface of the water. The rowers sang and splashed their paddles, and Nicky and Peter reclined one each end of the canoe, smiling occasionally at each other, but otherwise only moving when a bird squawked overhead, or a monkey viewed them from a branch. "You're always smiling," he said suddenly. "Do you like Africa?" "Yes," she replied slowly, as though unwilling to have to voice it again. "Yes. I do." "But plantation life must be awfully dull for a girl." She laughed. "That's the last word I'd use to describe it. Dull! We have a minor household disaster every day. Yesterday the kerosene can caught fire in the kitchen, and the day before my bedroom window fell apart with rot. The storm last week shook down from one of our walls a set of clay plates we'd taken weeks to design and paint. John had warned us, of course, but they looked so pretty up there." Peter's gold-flecked eyes laughed back. "You're a sport, Nicky. I believe you'd make yourself happy anywhere." She took it for the usual conventional compliment. There was nothing particularly hazardous about dousing a kerosene blaze or sleeping in a room that had canvas where the window should be. If such incidents were inseparable from life in Africa, they could not only be borne, but enjoyed.

Halfway back to Port Fargas coppery clouds blotted out the sun. Trees began to wave lazily and scared parrots gave hoarse warning as they swerved homeward. Peter told the men to go faster, and they were only half a mile from the landing steps when the rain began. It started in the usual way: a blob or two smacking clean upon wrist or forehead, a sparse pitting of the dark surface of the river. Then, as though released by a lever, the deluge. Rain—the deliberate anger of a tropical downpour. Nicky, rolled in a ground sheet, felt the boat beneath her filling with water. It seeped into her cocoon, but it was not unpleasant. She Pr"-tried to tell Peter not to distress himself, but he was wildly brandishing a third paddle and nearly capsizing them. It was not far from the landing stage to the club. Peter, like a worried big brother, draped his raincoat around the two of them and hauled her close, making her race to keep up with his long stride. Outside the club he pulled her under a tree and stopped abruptly. "We can't go in there like this!" "Helen will have brought my dress. I can slip into the rest room and change." "You look pretty awful, Nicky." As a car drew in nearby he dragged her back. "We'll go in by the residents' entrance and slide upstairs. I'll send a boy to ask Mrs. Raynor for your dress and you can use my room. I'm terribly sorry about this. I was certain it would stay fine." "Don't fuss, Peter. I've been wet before. Let's be quick." Like children they sped up the dimly lit back staircase and gained his room. He collected his dinner suit and left her. When he knocked twenty minutes later she was ready, her hair curling and tawny from rain water, her gray eyes alight. "Perhaps we'd better go back the way we came, and walk around the terrace to the main door," he suggested. "But it's still raining!" "Oh, dear! Couldn't you ... ?" He looked from the dainty apricot silk dress to the gilt sandals. "I suppose you couldn't. Oh, well, we'll brazen it out. If anyone's inquisitive we can tell them what happened." No one was curious enough to throw out an inquiry, not even Diana, who stood at the head of the main staircase chatting with the Carlyns and two of the club residents. Nicky hoped she was too unimportant for comment. Later, when dinner had reached the coffee stage, Diana stopped at the Raynors' table on her way out of the dining room. She smiled charmingly on all four. "A message for you," she said to John. "I had a letter from David this morning. He asked me to tell you that the roof of the sawmill at Nagoli has collapsed and he's staying on while the repairs are done. He says he should be through about next weekend." Helen shot a swift glance at Nicky and followed it with a smile at Diana. "Thank you. Would you care to join us for a drink?" But Diana was going off to a house gathering. "See you on Thursday at the party," she promised over her shoulder as she left them. The torrent outside did not affect the gay atmosphere of the club that evening, and it was after midnight when John 's car eventually nosed through the downpour toward home.

CHAPTER FIVE

NEXT MORNING, while Nicky was gone for her morning stroll down to the track, Helen tackled her husband. "It wasn't fair of Dave to pass a message to you through Diana Godfrey," she said. "It should have been the other way about." "Dave's always been like that," he answered with a shrug. "I've never questioned any of his actions. If he hadn't been writing to Mrs. Godfrey he wouldn't have let us know at all." "What had he to say to Diana, I wonder?" His eyes crinkled. "There's quite a lot of things you can write to a pretty woman. Probably even Dave can think up a few." "I'm serious." She frowned. "Do you realize that if he stays away till next weekend he'll miss Nicky's party?" He sobered. "I hadn't thought of that. Nicky's one of us, and so is he, however aloof he likes to keep himself. Will it spoil it for her if he's not there?" "I don't know," she said helplessly. "Nicky smiles through everything. She seems a bit down sometimes, but so do most of us. I thought she looked a little bruised last night for a few minutes after Diana sprang it, but I may have been mistaken. You must write to Dave." John demurred. "He and I don't do that sort of thing." "Then, darling, it's time you started. You're brothers, after all. Tell him we're giving our first party and we'd like him to be here. Casually mention that we've chosen Nicky's twenty-first birthday for the party." "How do you casually mention anything in black and white?" I Exasperated, she thrust the writing block in front of him and told him what to write. "He'll know I did no more than pen this letter," he resignedly commented as he finished and sealed the envelope. "How long will it take a messenger to get to Nagoli?" "About five hours. He can bike as far as the river, but he'll have to do the rest on foot. I'll send one first thing in the morning." "Why not today?" "It's Sunday. Dave would think me mad, when it could wait equally well till Monday. Helen contented herself with the reflection that there would be three whole days between Monday afternoon, when the messenger would reach David 's camp, and Thursday afternoon, which was the latest he should arrive back at the bungalow. Surely his silly roof could be repaired in that time. Meanwhile, perhaps it were better to say nothing about the matter to Nicky. Monday was fine and the gardeners were engaged in cutting the lawn, pruning the new long growths from the bushes and trees, and tying back the bougainvillea. They hoed the flower beds and switched the paths free of grass clippings and twigs. Through the dining room window Nicky watched with interest when they broke for food. Squatting, they circled a large dish of plaintain cakes and chunks of dried jungle meat that Samuel had sent out from the kitchen. Samuel himself was far too grand to consort with compound workers.

When they went back to work she smiled. Their pace, which was never breakneck, had slowed considerably. The pushed back their plaited grass hats, dragged at the necks of faded shirts, and leaned on their garden tools, exchanging remarks in their own clicking tongue. The pool in the garden bronzed with sunset. The gardeners packed their tools away and padded out of the compound. To Nicky, this was always the rather sad hour of the day, though it was also one of relief, when evening breezes stirred and a wandering scent pervaded the house. In the middle of Tuesday morning the messenger arrived from Nagoli. Helen had just discovered that she possessed only eighteen table napkins and, reluctantly, she had cut two squares from a plain white linen tablecloth. When the man came in, unannounced, she and Nicky were hemstitching one square each, Nicky in a chair by the window while Helen took up the greater part of the wicker sofa. Blandly the man imparted his news. The master at Nagoli had read the letter, told him to take food with the laborers and get back to the Raynor house. "Nothing more?" demanded Helen. "Him say eat and get going," repeated the messenger. "Sawmill roof—one time new again?" Helen always felt a fool when she spoke pidgin. "No roof," came the brief reply. "You try, Nicky," begged Helen. At last it was plain that though the sawmill was without a roof, a new thatched one was at an advanced stage of construction on the ground. This would have to be raised into position in sections, thonged together with fiber, and fixed to the bamboo struts that pierced the top of the wattle-and-daub walls. The previous tin roof had rusted in the grooves and could not be repaired. After the man had gone Helen protested, "You'd think he could leave a foreman in charge of that work." "Machinery's expensive and almost impossible to replace just now," said Nicky. "He'd have to make sure it was protected." She went on drawing threads, her face bent over the task, but her lip was drawn in tight between her teeth. Helen watched the deft fingers and what she could see of the pale young brow. "John wrote to David asking him to come home in time for the party," she said. "He won't come. Parties aren't much in his line." "A twenty-first is rather special." "Oh." Nicky paused. "You told him Thursday's my birthday?" "Why not? Half Port Fargas knows." Helen dried the perspiration from her hands, dusted them with the talcum powder that was never far away, and threaded her needle. "I shall be angry with him if he doesn't come home in time." The corners of Nicky's mouth rose in a slight smile. "You should have put that in the letter. He's quite fond of you." "What on earth makes you think that?" "Well ... who wouldn't be? He watches your health." "That's for John's sake." Helen puckered her forehead, ruminatively. "As brothers, they're very odd. They've lived alone together for years without quarreling, but neither have they been really close. David 's to blame, of course. He's skeptical of human

affection, even John 's." With sudden vehemence, she added, "Sometimes I dislike David intensely. No man should be so ruthlessly sure of himself as he is. I'd like to see him knocked quite flat by a girl." To which Nicky made no reply. ON HER BIRTHDAY MORNING she was awakened by the mighty clattering of thunder. The burlap stretched across the window space had come away at the bottom, and now it flapped horizontally into the room, allowing rain to sweep over the floor in gusts. Nicky crawled from her mosquito net, levered the tacks from the window frame with a nail file, and, standing in a puddle, managed to secure the canvas back where it belonged. Although her thumb bled with the pressure, she had little hope that the improvement would last long. After stamping on the skin rug beside the bed to dry her feet, she slipped back between the sheets. In spite of the wind outside, the bedroom atmosphere was sultry, pressing in like a steamy blanket, stifling the breath. A horrid start to a birthday, Nicky thought, wincing from a great crack of thunder. At home, the end of August brought dew on the grass and a clear sky. Apples reddened and sheaves of grain lolled yellow and silky in the fields. Gardens were splashed with the blue and gold of asters and chrysanthemums. She couldn't remember a birthday when it had even showered. Twenty-one. It had a round sound, a finished echo in its depths, as though a phase of one's existence were irretrievably gone. Considered that way, life was rather frightening. Ought she to feel different today, from all the other birthdays? Surely this miserable, weighted feeling was entirely misplaced? With heat and noise and the constant jab of lightning, her thoughts became so confused that she almost dozed. By the time the houseboy brought morning tea the storm was passing over. She sat up and sipped the thick, hot liquid, moisture springing fresh at her temples and forehead and trickling down the sides of her face. She saw herself sweating and shivering a little, her hair untidy and lifeless, and a queer, rending unhappiness broke over her in a tide. Africa was overwhelming and brutal and greedy. For a few minutes she yearned quite throbbingly to go home, away from the pain of loving a man she could never hope to possess. Then the yelp of a dog at the door and John's "Hello, you old rascal. My word, you're wet!" laid steadying fingers on her nerves. So she slid out of bed, scooped the dead flies from the surface of the water in the jug, and poured some of it into the basin. By the time she entered the dining room, neat and slim in blue linen, the oppressive half hour in bed was almost forgotten. Helen kissed her, and John heartily did the same. Their gift was an antique silver bracelet set with jade, which, it transpired, Helen had thoughtfully brought with her from England for this very occasion. There would be other presents in a couple of days when the mail arrived, she reminded Nicky. Thunder and lightning had ceased, but not so the rain. Water tumbled and gurgled around the house from a sky so low and leaden that it looked about to fall bodily through the treetops. "Thank heaven John has had one of the storage sheds emptied for use as a garage," said Helen. "Cars left out in this would soon be waterlogged." "They won't come if it doesn't clear," answered Nicky. "They will," Helen was confident. "Besides, the rain started early, and it can't keep on forever. Shall we have cold lunch and save Samuel's energies for this evening?"

But the cook, who had sloshed his way down to the village midmorning, did not return to prepare lunch. Another helper was dispatched to fetch him, but he came back bearing a plea from Samuel, who was an exemplary family man, that he might stay for a while with his youngest child who had been stung "sick bad" in the face. "Poor baby," said Nicky. "I'll send down some cotton batten and a mild antiseptic." "Just like Samuel and his children to choose today to be stung," grumbled Helen. She, who so seldom suffered from despondency, today found herself in the grip of foreboding. Was the rain going to wash out Nicky's party? Certainly it precluded David's getting through. John said the river would be a torrent, and David would have to swim for it and make his horse do the same. He would hardly consider a party worth that bother when he might wait a day or two and come down by car. And Samuel, unless his baby were very nearly recovered by this afternoon, could not be expected to spend much time in the kitchen. It was still raining, though less furiously, when Nicky waded down to the village late in the afternoon. She knew which of the forlorn circle of huts was Samuel's, for he had proudly brought her here a few weeks ago to show off his family. She rattled the door made of grass matting. "Samuel!" she called. At once the door was thrust aside and he appeared, grinning. He invited her in and at once began a rambling recital of all the baby had gone through. Nicky, having stumbled over a gourd set just inside the door and knocked her head on one of the hunks of dried meat strung across the hut, stood in the center of the dim, smoky place and gradually made out the figures of Samuel's wife and children. The youngest child lay close to the fire, practically the whole of his face swathed in cotton batten. Samuel loved cotton batten. The flesh around the bite was still swollen, but the child slept so deeply that Samuel, on the strength of Nicky's promise of extra salt and rice, agreed to come to the house at once. Thankfully, Nicky escaped from the fetid hut. All day she had been trying to banish the imperative ache of which she had been conscious for the last three weeks. She had grown so sensitive that everything stabbed: Helen's determined brightness in face of the flood; the sight of the gilt key set in a pasteboard door on top of the birthday cake; and John's teasing, "Make the most of it, Nicky. It'll be your wedding next.' The path from the village met the main track just in front of David's bungalow. Nicky slowed. She had never been inside that small, austere habitation, and now it was locked and shuttered as though totally abandoned. As shut up and empty as her own heart. Samuel was already in the kitchen when she reached the house, and at once she set him to work. The chickens, stewed tender, were jointed and cut up into a huge casserole, and she poured upon them a thick gravy, adding fried onions, boiled rice, a few currants and peppers, before replacing the lid. Samuel turned to peeling potatoes while Nicky formed the nut cutlets and gathered ingredients for the sauce. Now the meatballs. A pity so much had to be left so late, but in this heat food spoiled so quickly. She heard a measured tread on the veranda and then John poked his head in the window. "You smell savory in there. Want any more help?" "You might send the small boy to clear away the rubbish,"

Nicky assented, a trifle wearily. "Have you seen Helen?" "She's down on the lawn, superintending garden seat operations." "Garden seat?" Nicky permitted herself a moment's gaze into the compound. "Has the rain stopped?" "Not only stopped, but the sky's clearing. It's going to be a lovely night." He paused. "Need you stay there, Nicky? Helen's bothered about your doing all this work." "I'll be through in about a quarter of an hour." "No longer, then. A bath will be ready for you." He walked on. Nicky made the final addition of sliced banana to the bowls of fruit salad, wiped and trimmed the cheese and examined the tin of biscuit straws. There was no room to tinker with the coffee just yet. After the broiling heat of the kitchen the dining room struck almost chill. The table, which was really two pushed together, gleamed and twinkled in the twin glows of Helen's prized lamps, and in the center a clay bowl laden with scarlet and pink waxlike blossoms dripped its profusion over the stark white cloth. Nicky had had no idea that the house held so much glass and cutlery. Helen was in the living room, sorting records. "I think we'll have music during dinner," she observed as Nicky entered. "It'll fill up awkward pauses—not that there should be any, with so many of us. Still, light classics, suitably muted, help digestion." She straightened. "Poor Nicky. The day hasn't been too bright for you, has it? From now on you're going to forget everything else and enjoy yourself. I'm glad this room is so large; the windows each end make it just right for dancing. Cheer up, my sweet." "I shall be ready for anything after a bath," Nicky smiled, as she went out. Helen punched a cushion, and took a last critical survey of the cabinet loaded with glasses and drinks. She called the houseboy and made him repeat the order of the courses; then she sent him down the track. In a few minutes he returned, shaking his head. The bungalow was dark; no white master. Not that Helen expected him at this hour. . . . Oh, dear, she supposed it was time to get into the parchment silk. Nicky wore white, with a gilt ribbon in her hair. When she was ready she came out onto the veranda, hoping the cool night air would dispel her depression. Gratefully, she breathed in the strong clean scent of the flowers after rain. The palms gossiped quietly, ferns whispered. Nicky pulled on mosquito boots and trod softly along the path to the gap in the hedge that led to the track. She turned left, toward the Port Fargas road, thinking that probably Peter Wilshaw and his two bachelor friends would be the first corners, although no one was due for half an hour yet. The road was wide, bordered with acacia scrub that reached overgrown tentacles for her skirt. Suddenly from the darkness a car appeared, racing toward her at a frightful speed. For a panicky second she thought of her dress and the acacia, and she decided to cling to the middle of the track, hoping for a miracle. It happened. The car screamed to a vibrant halt and a figure leaped out. She stiffened, and a spot of dusky color burned on each cheek. "What the devil!" he exclaimed. "You had me scared pink." "I'm sorry." "What are you doing out here?"

"Just taking a walk," she said breathlessly. "We didn't expect you after the rain. How did you get through?" "I started early but the horse went lame and I had to go back and use the car. The log bridge was under water so I drove the long way around into Port Fargas and back up this road." A hint of the old derision glinted under David 's smile. "I knew I shouldn't be forgiven if I missed this party." "I'm glad you came," she said simply. "How does it feel to be twenty-one?" "I don't know . . . yet." He bent closer, his brows contracted. "You look a bit rocky. Had a fever?" She laughed. "No. It must be the poor light. I feel splendid." Which was true! He still looked down at the bright gray eyes and the warm responsive mouth, but now his expression was mocking. "You're a likable child, Nicky." It was the first time she had heard her name on his lips. "Want a lift up to the house? I warn you, both I and the car are filthy." But Nicky didn't mind. She snuggled into the seat that he had dusted for her and wondered at the rapturous beating of her pulses. Miraculously, her world had righted itself. At the house David stopped and slipped open her door. "I'll be back inside half an hour. Have a cocktail ready for me." She nodded happily, and waited till the car had moved off again before flitting up the pathway to the house. In the darkness of the veranda she paused and pressed her fingers along burning cheeks. This was to be her party, after all. Soon another pair of headlights announced Peter Wilshaw and his friends, and within a few minutes more guests arrived, and still more. The lounge filled with gay, laughing people. Glasses clinked, the air became warm and gray with smoke. Nicky was kindly

bantered and presented with conventional gifts. Even Diana offered a few lace handkerchiefs and a charming smile. Bright-eyed and flushed, Nicky turned to greet David. Undaunted by the cynical twist to his teasing grin, she handed him his cocktail. "To your years," he pronounced solemnly, "the wisdom that should go with them. ' Helen announced dinner and David gravely offered Nicky his arm. But at the table they were separated, and Nicky found herself between John and Peter Wilshaw. The meal was a glorious success, and nearly all the men attempted some sort of speech. The music, meticulously doled out from the phonograph in the living room, droned on unheeded. Later they split up for games and dancing. Four of the men, David among them, played cards on the screened part of the veranda; a mixed four sat over bridge in one corner of the living room, while others glided to the rhythm of last year's dance music. Tirelessly, Nicky danced with Peter and the other men, but she couldn't help watching the door, and hoping. A servant brought refreshment, and the bridge players gave up and joined in the noisier fun. Then the other men came in. The tray nearest Nicky held a jug of limeade and a solitary glass. Impulsively, she filled it. "For me?" asked David at her elbow. She held it up and he took it, wrinkling his nose at her over the top of the glass. "Pleased with your party?"

"It's perfect," she said. "Would you like something stronger in that drink?" "I'll brave it out." Swiftly, he drained the glass. "Come outside with me for a minute." He guided her to the hall and swept up a parcel from the table on the way to the porch, where he firmly bade her sit down. A little dazed she heard the rustle of paper, felt her shoe leave her foot and something else cover it. She blinked down at the exquisitely soft slipper in thin, blue leather that snugly clothed her foot. "Guessed the size pretty well, didn't I?" he said. "I knew there'd be no time for shopping, so I had them made for you up at Nagoli. Color all right?" "They're beautiful!" "It's the neat filling of them that does the trick," he jibed softly. "Sorry it was nothing better." For Nicky there couldn't be anything better. She allowed him to replace her shoe, and when he straightened, and tipped slippers and wrapping into her lap, she fingered the silky leather and looked up at him. "Glad you like them," he said quickly. "Shall we go back and dance?"

CHAPTER SIX

THIS WAS Nicky's first polo match. Seated between Peter Wilshaw and Helen, her shoulders rigid, hands locked tensely in her lap, she followed the pounding horses, the bend of a white-clad body, the sweep of a tanned arm. The rest of the audience, squashed within the shade of the grass-thatched stand, laughed and cheered and exchanged banter, but Nicky could neither move nor speak. The excitement of the match was spoiled for her by a horrid, sick feeling in her throat and a conviction that the match could not possibly end without distaster. It did, though, and David cantered off the field with the rest of the players. "Shall we take tea in the pavilion or go to the club?" queried Peter. "It's better at the club." "We ought to wait for David," said Helen, "though I'm horribly dry. Peter, be a dear and fetch us a tea tray." "Why didn't I think of that?" he observed agreeably. "That's the best idea of all." The crowd was clearing quickly, although at the other end of the stand another group had come to a similar decision and were already setting out cups on the vacant chairs around them. John stood up and lit a cigarette. He glanced down tolerantly at his wife. "I suppose I can't tempt you to cross the field with me to look at the ponies?" And after she had puckered her brow and shaken her head, "What about you, Nicky?" Nicky jumped up. "Are we allowed? I'd love it." She pulled the wide-brimmed hat over her hair, accepted Helen 's parasol but didn't put it up, and set off at John's side. The paddocks sheltered behind a thicket of bamboo and palms. Grooms rubbed down the horses; great quivering beasts with twitching nostrils and shining coats. Some of the players stood around, exchanging views on the match. David was with a group at the end of the stalls, but when he saw his brother and Nicky he excused himself and broke away. As he approached he slapped a gelding's flanks. "Bonny brutes, aren't they?" he said. "How would you like to ride one, Nicky?"

"A long way to fall," she answered dubiously. "At home I rode a little brown mare." He slipped a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dry his palms and forehead. "We ought to get you riding," he said seriously. "Has your kit come yet from England?" "Kit?" she echoed. "I asked Helen to send your measurements." "She kept it as a surprise," put in John. "I believe the stuff's due with the next mail." "I've got just the right filly for you to start on," David told Nicky. "A sure-footed gray with beautiful manners. Come and make friends with her tomorrow." "I've been thinking, Dave," said John as they crossed the field. "Now that the rains are ending we might take leave. The girls can do with it. Mightn't we have a spell out at Bolende?" Across the top of Nicky's head David stared hard at his brother. "The two of us away together? What's bitten you?" "I know we've never done it before, but it could be managed. The superintendents know their job." "They also know how to slack, when no one's around. You can go if you like. I'll hang on." John's voice had an unwonted edge. "Everyone needs a vacation and you're no exception—even if you think you are." "We've had this out before," David said in a clipped voice. "When I want a holiday I'll take one, but it won't be at Bolende." "It's as cool a spot as you'll find in these parts," John retorted. "The trouble with you, Dave, is that you overestimate the importance of the plantation. We don't have to kill ourselves for it. Suppose we were both away for a month and in our absence every kind of catastrophe happened. It would only take money and patience to put things right again—and that would be the price we'd pay for our holiday." "Simple, isn't it?" agreed David, in a tone that made John jerk at him an irritated smile. Nicky did not realize till the argument ended how desperately she had been hoping that John would win. The hope had nothing to do with the proposed visit to Bolende; it was simply a desire to see David capitulate for once, and do it gracefully. Peter Wilshaw had arranged a circle of chairs in the stand and was helpfully depositing cups and plates as Helen poured. "Come and sit next to me, Dave," called Helen gaily, and, as he lowered himself, "How can you bear to be so energetic in this heat! Swallow that macaroon before the flies do. You can have my cakes as well. It's tea I want." "When you've abandoned us, Helen," he said lazily, "and John and I are two lone bachelors once more, I shall always think of you with a cup of tea in your hand." "Don't talk about my leaving," she begged. "Because if I ever have to go, John must go with me." "Does he know about it?" with a gentle jeer. Smiling, she tossed her head at him. "You 're sorry for poor, henpecked John, aren't you? Yet you've only to look at him to see he enjoys it. In my opinion, David, bachelors are a pathetic lot, especially in Africa." His grin widened. With a nod he indicated Peter Wilshaw, who was eagerly chattering something into Nicky's ear. " What's pathetic about that? You're onetrack, my dear. You see only what you choose to see." He paused, drank some tea, and asked casually, "Is it quite playing the game to keep Nicky here?"

Helen raised startled eyes. "What's wrong with Nicky staying, if I do? She's ten years younger than I am, and tough as they're made." "She doesn't look particularly tough." "That fragile appearance is deceptive. Her stamina's remarkable. You must have noticed it." "Where's the sense in wearing it out?" he demanded. "She isn't in your position. There's no man to keep her here." Helen's lips moved into a sharp smile. Her gaze rested on Peter while her words came slowly, as full of meaning as she could make them. "On the whole, David, your knowledge of Nicky is negligible. How can you be sure there isn't a man to keep her here?" "You mean Wilshaw?" "It's possible, isn't it? He's rather sweet." David made a sound that might have conveyed disbelief or contempt. "I hope to heaven she's more sense than to marry in Africa!" "You forget that Peter is a civil engineer, on contract. In less than two years he'll be going back to England, for good." Her shoulders lifted. "It 's Nicky's business, not ours." She emptied her cup and allowed him to take it and set it on a chair with the • others. "What about you, David? When are you going to build a home worthy of a bride?" His smile was more savage than her question warranted. "I've been expecting that from you for the last six months. For a woman, Helen, you've shown extraordinary restraint." "But you've no intention of answering me?" "None whatever." "Don't snap at me," she said. "I only want you to be happy." He got out his cigarette case and flicked it upon. "I get along very well. Quite sure you wouldn't like another cup of tea?" Helen laughed and took the hint. Next morning David came early to the villa. Professing disgust at the lateness of their breakfast hour, he accepted a cup of coffee and dropped astride a chair to drink it, looking across at Nicky. "I'm keeping you to yesterday's promise. A stroll down to the horses and then tennis. Game?" "I'd rather play tennis first, before the sun is too deadly. ' Shall we make it a foursome?" "Count me out," said John comfortably. "And me," from Helen. "You're both mad. No one out here plays tennis or golf before four-thirty. The heat is trying enough without working up some more." "You won't want to play with only me," Nicky objected.

"You're not bad, for a girl," David said. "A little more muscle behind your drive wouldn't hurt, and you should take more chances. You hold back." She smiled. "I'm used to more orthodox partners than you. You're unpredictable." "The game's the more exciting for that," he replied teasingly. "Would you like me to play the gentleman and let you win sometimes?" "There'd be no fun in that. If I don't win fairly—and I can't see how any woman could, against you—I'll take defeat philosophically." "Admirably put. A subtle blend of flattery and independence. You're growing up, Nicky."

He did beat her at tennis, but not unmercifully. Purposely he kept the game slow and deliberate; an armchair match, he termed it. When it was over he vaulted the net, a strange-looking contrivance made from sisal, and suggested a drink. "We're nearer my place," he said. "Come into the planter's den." A little pulse beat in the hollow of Nicky's throat. This was more than she had dared hope. She stood quite still, glancing around that long, bare room, while he squeezed a lime into cold water and added sugar. "Sit down," he said, as he gave it to her. "The easy chair is solid enough—one of John 's." He squatted on the edge of the table, one brown knee drawn up over the other, and regarded her amusedly over the top of his glass, waiting for her to speak. "It's quiet here," she said. "Much quieter than John's house." "You've confounded me, Nicky. I was certain your first remark would condemn the starkness of this place. Helen did it with a look, so did Diana." Diana had been here then. Nicky's fingers curled tighter about her glass. "The bareness is typically . . . you. It's just what I expected." The blue eyes went keen. "Why should it be? I used to live where you live now, and you'll admit the comfort there is almost lush." "Perhaps you think of this as only temporary." "Even so, why should you consider this bungalow, which has no personality at all, as typically me?" he pressed on, meeting her gaze unsmilingly. "I didn't mean that." Beneath his stare she floundered. "This is a dwelling and nothing more—at least to the visitor. In the same way, to the world you're just a planter. No one knows what either of you hides." Bright red petals sprang up in her cheeks as she tacked on hastily, "You made me say it. I'm not probing." "If the subject interest you, go ahead and dig," he invited her mockingly. "Not afraid, are you?" "A little," she admitted. "My training didn't include a course on how to combat cynicism." His eyes narrowed. "You're doing very well. You pack some pretty little punches in those innocent remarks of yours. Another drink?" "No, thanks." It was as though he was determined to see her as anything but the person she really was. It was his fault that she tried to be clever, yet the minute she voiced a retort with a sting in it he harped on it as if to emphasize that she was no different from the rest of the women. "Does hurting people give you pleasure?" she asked. "Don't be a sensitive little idiot," avoiding her eyes. "You take everything too personally. Of course I don't want to hurt you, but neither can I let you get away with calling me a cynic. A realist, perhaps, who has little patience with sentiment—but not a cynic. There's a world of difference between the two." "Even realism sounds somewhat unpleasant. There's no shame in expressing the gentler feelings once in a while." She was prepared for a jibe, but none came. A minute later they stood up, in a simultaneous movement that brought them close. Almost imperceptibly he drew back a fraction, though now he was no longer averted. "No shame," he admitted with a shrug. "But when it can't get you anywhere there's not much wisdom, either." Her lids lowered. "Perhaps I haven't your capacity for sanity."

A small sound from him made her look up quickly. The blue of his eyes had darkened, and they smoldered. "None at all, I daresay," he replied softly. "But I shouldn't despair. You have an outsize capacity in one or two other directions. Shall we go down to the stables?" Tingling with some nameless emotion, she preceded him from the bungalow, and in silence accompanied him along the track, past John's house and the sheds and through the path that led to the stalls. A groom brought out the gray filly. Her mane had been plaited and clubbed into little bangs all the way down her neck, her coat glistened and the saddle gleamed with polish. The groom had obviously been told to make an attractive job of her. "Like to try her?" David asked. Tennis shorts were even less convenient and prepossessing than slacks for riding. She shook her head. "Not today. May I come and see her each morning?" "Of course, but don't try her out alone. Wait till I can go with you." "It's very good of you, David." "It is, isn't it?" he said, as if considering that aspect for the first time. Their laughter mingled. He was standing with one hand in his pocket, the other pulling at the filly's ear. Nicky, facing him, was unconsciously in an identical position, except that as she couldn't reach the ear without straining, her fingers stroked the silky nose. David's hand slid down between the horse's eyes and came to rest against Nicky's fingers. She felt it, warm and strong, lingering with experimental frankness for a moment before it was withdrawn, without haste, and thrust into his other pocket. He moved away. "Her name's Toni. Don't feed her too much sugar," he said. As she walked from the stables at his side and stumbled a little over the great tree roots that arched into the red path, Nicky would have given anything to throw off the agony of shyness and slip a hand within his elbow. On such a path she would have done so with John; but John's hand over hers was kindly, brotherly. It didn't stream with magnetism and fire her with longing. She cast a swift glance up at the lean brown face. The love in her heart surged together with tremendous hope ... and despair. Before the end of the following week the riding breeches arrived, together with a record batch of correspondence. Helen had left Margaret's fat wad till last. "Listen to this, Nicky: So Pimple, the wooden pig, made up his mind to go to America, which was quite easy because he had only to crawl into a meat ship and act like dead. Of course, he was very hungry by the time he got there, but he had said he would climb a skyscraper, and he meant to. Pigs don't generally walk about in the streets of America. . .." Helen broke off and flicked away a smiling tear. "Margaret sounds happy enough. I'm glad she doesn't miss me as I miss her. I do miss her, Nicky, even now, but it's foolish to brood. Some time we'll all three be together in England." Nicky looked up from one of her own letters. "You really believe John will give up the plantation?" "I don 't see why not—eventually. David 's the obstacle. The plantations. are his life and his love—and they're likely to remain so, unless he marries." "David will never leave this place," said Nicky with conviction. "The woman he marries will have to be prepared to stay."

Helen sighed and went on reading. Where David was concerned nothing was going as she had hoped and planned. He liked Nicky, she was sure of that, but his attitude toward her was occasionally impatient and overbearing, and he reverted too often to the subject of her going home to England. She was quite certain that nothing soulsearching had ever occurred between them, for Nicky was no dissembler when joy ran in her veins. She was beginning to wonder whether John, in his exasperating masculine fashion, did not know most about his brother after all. A car came racketing along the track. Helen consulted the temperamental clock, worked out that it needed a little more than an hour to dinner, and exchanged glances with Nicky. "That doesn't sound like either of our cars," she observed. Nicky went to the window. "It isn't. Here's Diana—and Mrs. Carlyn." Helen had just time to mutter a fervent hope that they wouldn't stay to dinner before the two women came in, the older wearing gray linen and Diana cool and assured in blue and white stripes. Both accepted the usual drink and a cigarette. For a while talk was general, but at last Diana came to the point of her visit. "I had a call from the lawyer this morning," she told them. "It seems I'm in a predicament, financially. I came here to consult Dave." She gave a small deprecating laugh. "Money—or rather lack of it—can be embarrassing. I'm quite worried." She did not look it, but then Diana never did look anything, except perfect. "The winding up of your husband 's plantation is a protracted business," Helen remarked. "We're not going to wind up. Didn't you know?" "Will the trees yield again?" She nodded. "In time. The income will never be colossal, but Dave thinks it worth the trouble. He'll get it working for me, and perhaps later incorporate it with the Raynor estate. Meanwhile, I have to exist." Calmly, while the others gossiped of parties and pests, Diana smoked her cigarette, adding a nod or a monosyllable to the conversation when her opinion was sought. Presently she changed the subject. "I noticed camp beds and suitcases airing outside. Is someone going on a visit?" Helen was involved with Mrs. Carlyn, whom heat and apathy had made partially deaf, so Nicky answered. "John's anxious for us all to take a holiday. He says it's very lovely at this season at Bolende." "Bolende! I know Bolende very well. Is David going?" "No," Nicky replied swiftly. "John begged him to, but he refused."

Diana's eyes half closed, reminiscently. "I can understand that. Years ago we spent a few days there—David, my husband and I. It wasn't a particularly happy time for any of us." Something shrank within Nicky. She remembered David's decisive, "If I want a holiday I'll take one, but it won't be at Bolende." Apparently, even after so long the name of the place could rasp a sore spot. "The Falls there are miraculous," Diana went on, "And the mountain views are incredible. I should like to go there again." Her voice rose with such unusual eagerness that Helen and Mrs. Carlyn ceased speaking to listen. "Would you mind if I came along? The rest house is large enough for three women, and the men will sleep on the

veranda. Your Peter might wangle a short leave, Nicola, and if I can persuade David to come, that will make six—just the right number." "Of course we'd like to have you," said Helen politely. `` But David has already refused." Diana smiled winningly. "Let me have a try. I believe I could change his mind." "Don't be long about it," complained Mrs. Carlyn. "We have guests to dinner." A servant sent out earlier brought the information that a lamp was burning in the bungalow. Diana rose at once and, bidding Mrs. Carlyn await her in the car, she said goodbye and went out. When the older woman also had departed, Nicky escaped to the kitchen. Exactly twenty-five minutes passed before Mrs. Carlyn's car reversed and remained chugging on the path. Nicky lost a small battle with her conscience. She stepped on to the dark veranda in time to see Diana reach a hand to David 's cheek in farewell. Dinner was a silent meal. Even Helen, who could mostly be relied on to provide comic relief, was preoccupied and almost gloomy. Fortunately, John was in a hurry to get busy on some production sheets and he noticed nothing unusual. He settled at the desk in the living room, the women got out their books and, except for the turning of a page or the rustle of his notes, all was quiet. Fully an hour had elapsed when the bull terrier set up a racket in the compound. An authoritative voice told him to shut up, and a minute or two later David came in, his pockets bulging with reports. He smiled pleasantly upon Nicky- and Helen, hooked his foot around the rail of a chair and, highly amused at Helen's horrified exclamation, scraped it into position beside John's, at the desk. The brothers began to compare figures. This must be how it was before she and Helen came, thought Nicky, watching their backs. It was late when the men shuffled their papers together and transferred to more comfortable chairs. The houseboy brought coffee and snacks. Nicky played Stravinsky and Delius on the phonograph, and they all sat listening to airs nostalgic and lively, hardly conversing till she put the music to rest. Then, inevitably, David returned to shop talk. "The peanuts are twelve hundred to the acre—the best yield so far. That's an average. I haven't got out the palm oil figures yet."" Will you have them soon?" "What's the hurry?" "I hoped to leave everything clear before we start for Bolende. " "When do you want to go?" "In about a week." "For a month?" "Yes, if it's all right with you. Are you still set on staying here while we're gone?" David, examining the tip of his cigarette, took his time before replying. "I've been thinking about it. The idea of a trip to Bolende has some attractions. If you're going for a month, I'll come for the middle fortnight. Nothing much can happen in that time." "Good lord," burst from John. "Feeling low, Dave?" "Entirely the reverse," said David, rising. "I'll get along so that you people can go to bed." Afterward Nicky was not sure whether his glance across the room at her as he said good night held a question or plain mockery. It was decided to take the three houseboys to Bolende Amos, Samuel and "small boy." Other servants would travel

ahead with the gear and set the rest house in order. John hoped they would not be too enthusiastic with their fires for airing the place. It would be the deuce to arrive there and find the house razed. Both Nicky's and Helen's nerves were on edge, and they leaped at the activity that preparations involved. The excitement of packing was infectious. There was so much to take. Baths and bedding, household china and hardware, mosquito nets, tinned foods, flour, coffee, tea, sugar, dried fruits, water filters, and a plentiful supply of clothes. The boxes were loaded onto a lorry and the three houseboys swarmed up on top of it. The driver, thrilled with the change from carting cocoa and palm kernels, danced into his seat and spluttered away. Diana came once more to the plantation. She was sorry she would not be able to spend the whole month with them, but other engagements intervened. David had promised to drive her out and bring her back when he made the journeys himself. It was terribly sweet of them to let her butt in on their holiday. . . . All Nicky wanted now was to get away. New sights, new sounds and plenty to do. From what she could gather the rest house was the sort of shack in the wilds that she and Helen had visualized in England. There might be snakes in the rafters and monkeys swarming the surrounding trees. There might even be buffalo, said John optimistically. The weather was vividly clear, and only in the early dawn did mist veil the palms and shrubs. By the time they were ready to start the air was dry and the sky a metallic blue with the merciless sheen that is inseparable from good weather in the tropics. Nicky would never forget that day. The first seventeen miles took them through the Raynor plantations, and then the car rollicked over a perilous log bridge into a narrow highway hacked from dense jungle. Later, emerging into blinding sunlight, she wished herself back in the forest, but soon the car began to climb and a distant purple haze showed where the mountains would lift their peaks. Twice John had to cool his engine with river water, and each time they ate a little, to save long delays. Eighty miles on jungle tracks that cross rivers by slim rocking bridges is a formidable journey. A steep, bouncing climb and once more they were among trees, but these were fine, healthy walnut trees and cottonwoods. The few palms were fat and hairy of trunk and tufted with a green so brilliant that the sight of one against the sky brought a definite physical pain to the eyes. Then, when it seemed they must go on forever biting red dust and blinking and easing away the clothes that clung to their bodies, they were there. Into the languid stillness that followed the switching off of the engine, stole the remote rush of water. "The falls," John explained. "They're ten minutes away. You can't see them, but you can hear them the whole time." "Can you stand in them?" croaked Helen. "Poor old girl. You need a bath and a cup of tea." John helped her out, but as soon as she had taken a few steps Helen revived, for they had come within view of the rest house. It was a rectangular mud but with a roof of banana leaves overhanging all around to form a veranda. There were two rooms separated from one another by a crude, grassthatch wall, a portion of which had to be lifted aside to provide a doorway. The inner walls were rough and dark, the single window an open square. Furniture scarcely existed. A rough table in what was meant to be the living room, three hefty stools, a chair with one of its legs eaten away by ants, and a long bench under the window.

But the table was soon covered by a cloth. Teacups appeared, and a metal teapot, a biscuit tin, and a dish of fruit. Helen smiled with her old serenity. "Nicky, we'll even be able to bathe!" "And pot a few quail," added John. "No cocoa, no oil palms," Helen whispered blissfully. "And a whole week just to ourselves." "One does tire of the crowds at the plantation," Nicky laughingly agreed. "It's the feel of this place," Helen declared. "So remote, and ... well, peaceful. Our house isn't . . . always." Nicky knew what she meant; hopes and desires and undercurrents; moods, gay and grim; the disproportionate importance of a word, a look; the unsettling, nerve squealing incidents, in themselves small, yet painfully cumulative. This primitive but in its setting of leafy trees and glittering streams, possessed a tranquil, embracing quality entirely unrelated to the jungle. As she and Helen went about the tasks of bed-making and stacking the clothes Nicky almost found herself wishing that both David and Diana would abandon their plan to come to Bolende next week.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AT THE LAST MOMENT, and against almost overwhelming opposition from his chief, Peter Wilshaw managed to fit in a fortnight's break. He made the journey alone in his ramshackle two-seater and arrived, incredibly grimy but noisily triumphant, two days after David and Diana. He professed himself willing to sit on the floor, to sleep on the roof and to eat from a can. Six people are a rather tight fit in a but built to accommodate a single government officer for an occasional night. To allow additional space for lazing and eating, John had the roof extended and held up by poles. In the shade thus provided, deck chairs were set around a card table that held drinks or the phonograph or served its intended purpose. Fun and banter lasted till midnight, and soon after seven in the morning they were all together again, taking a quick bathe before the sun was torrid. After breakfast they split up. Sometimes the men went off carrying guns and left the women to potter alone for a couple of hours. Then Diana would indolently sink into a chair beneath the "awning" and read a book or write a letter. She was not a bit perturbed that Nicky and Helen had to pleat their foreheads trying new dishes from tinned goods. Her way at meals was to eat just as much as was necessary to keep her going and, with an air of pathetic apology, to refuse the rest. The men remarked on her sparrow's appetite. They obviously thought Diana awfully sporting to cause so little trouble when she detested meals from tins. "She knew what she was in for," railed Helen privately to Nicky. "And she jolly well asked herself. If she twists that fastidious nose at the roast quail for lunch I shall instruct the `small boy' to tip gravy all over her latest creation!" For somehow, even in this outpost, Diana contrived an exquisite charm in appearance. Her dresses hung spotless and straight, her honey-tan legs showed never a bloodstain

from an insect bite, and her hair clung like a polished golden helmet, unruffled by breeze or heat. One morning, when Diana took to her deck chair, Nicky loitered, perusing a page of the open book that Peter had left on the card table before breakfast. Diana yawned and patted the small cavity with those slender, pink-pointed fingers. "Only three more days," she stated, dropping the hand back into her lap and eyeing it appreciatively. "I shall be sorry to leave Bolende. This holiday has made up for all the unhappiness of that other time." "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Nicky responded quickly ... too quickly. Being alone with Mrs. Godfrey always made her vaguely uneasy. Diana raised her arms and crossed them under her head. "My husband bought his first piece of land here," she said. "Bought it without seeing it. We discovered it was rocky stuff, unfit for planting, but before giving it up we asked David 's opinion. He confirmed that it was hopeless for planting, but said it might contain mineral or metal. The men ... well, they had words. Shortly after that I had to beg David's help again in choosing a plantation." She drew a long breath. "He's been marvelous to me." "Was he . . . very different in those days?" "He was younger, of course, and perhaps not quite so self-assured, though the Raynors must have been fairly rich even then. He seems to have grown away from women in general, but he and I understand each other." Diana brought down a hand to flick away a fly. "I married when I was your age and found out afterward that it was too early. My next venture will be a superb success." She smiled, almost playfully, and settled back sleepily in her chair. Nicky uttered a small conventional noise and slipped away. She was tired of hearing Diana reiterate her claims to intimacy with David. Alone, she took the path that wound through the trees to the hillside. There, seated in the shade of a mango, she could look straight across the chasm toward the lather of the falls, which tumbled a sheer hundred yards to the stony bed below, where it boiled out among the ferns and tough little tree roots before narrowing into the sparkling stream in which they bathed. She sat entranced with the wonder of it, till a movement down there among the rocks and red soil caught her attention. Recognizing Peter, she cupped her hands and called. He looked up with that spontaneous, boyish smile. "Will you come down or shall I come up?" he shouted. "I'll come down." He clambered halfway to meet her, reached a hand and helped her the rest of the way. On a square stone where he had been standing lay a piece of white paper heaped with fragments of red rock with green streaks in them. Reverently, Peter parceled them and inserted them into his pocket. "Shouldn't you have grown out of hoarding stones in your pockets?" inquired Nicky. " Where are the others?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "After wild duck." Patting his bulky pocket, he added, "I've several little packets in here. Collecting samples of soil is a hobby of mine. The analyses are wonderfully interesting. For instance. . . ." He described a recent discovery of pitchblende a little way south by a chap who made a habit of toting around with him a trowel and a supply of canvas bags. "I shan't discover anything," he finished ingenuously. "But these red soils are rich and fascinating. My time here is up in sixteen months, and I don't suppose I shall ever come to West Africa again." "What will you do when you leave here, Peter?"

"My father's a civil engineer, too. I shall join his business. He let me take this job as a sort of bonus for passing my exams." "A doubtful reward! "I don't know. I like Port Fargas. But when the time comes I shall be in a tearing hurry to go home and marry Sarah. To start with we'll have a cottage and a dog and a couple of cats." "It sounds heavenly." The glance he bent on her was tinged with affection. "You're a funny little cove, Nicky, not at all like anyone else I've met out here. You're the sort of girl one feels awfully safe with. You never obtrude, and one isn't reminded every minute that you're a woman." "In fact, my appeal is in my capacity as a listener!" "In your compassion and generosity," he amended. "I could talk to you for hours—in fact, I do—but though I like Diana she has me tongue-tied." Inwardly, Nicky sighed. Diana again. How could she possibly hope to compete with Diana when even Peter was caught? During the next ten minutes Peter was betrayed; his words floated, unheeded. The waters bounded and chuckled, flies darted and from nearby rose the drone of bush bees. Upon the precipitous slope of the falls, David and John appeared, waving darkplumaged ducks in greeting. They leaped and waded across the torrent, and when they reached the other two John slapped Peter's back. "How many emeralds did you find? Well, Nicky, d 'you fancy duck for dinner?" She suppressed a qualm and smiled. "She prefers them shorn and unidentifiable," guessed David. "You'll have to make the climb over the way, Nicky. The views are indescribable." "Too much for a woman," growled John. "Not if we start when it's cool, about an hour before sunset . ..." "It's tricky descent in the dark." "The view is worth the hazard." "Don't listen to him, Nicky," said John. Just then David did not pursue the question. He stalked at Nicky's side, describing a flight of duck and buffalo tracks that had disappeared into the bush. He wished there were time to organize a buffalo hunt. He took his pleasures as he managed his work, lavishing on them the same energy and resourcefulness. Even idling one was aware of a muzzled zest in him, an unconquerable vitality. As they reached the rest house he reminded her of the ascent at the falls. "You may never visit Bolende again. Be a pity to miss it. Will you try it with me, Nicky? I won't let you come to grief " "All right," she nodded. "After tea. Shall we ask Helen and Diana?" "Helen wouldn't come, even if John would let her," he scoffed. "That's what marriage does for you, Nicky. Handcuffs without tears. Diana hasn't any head for heights. Never had." Nicky was not too sure of her own equilibrium at anything over thirty feet, but if David had asked her to climb Everest with him she'd have made a brave bid. The day stretched sweetly in front of her. Shortly after five, with no more equipment than a pocket flashlight, Nicky set off with David. For the sake of appearances she had asked Diana to come along, but the carmined mouth had quivered a hesitant refusal. Diana hoped David wouldn't mind,

but he knew she wasn't the athletic type; maybe they could spend tomorrow morning downriver in the canoe, trying for fish? Nicky hummed a little as they took the track to the river bank. "It won't be easy," he warned. "You've got to do as you're told." "A model of obedience," she assured him. "David, look!" They had reached the end of the path and entered the shadowy well at the foot of the falls. Nicky had raised her head and was blinded by the bronze glory of the dying sun upon the summit of the cascade. David stared, too. "Not bad, is it?" he commented. At the typical understatement she smiled. "Not bad at all. Do we cross here?" "Just beyond the ferns. It's quite shallow. Keep your shoes on and wade. Don't try to hurry." He took long jumps between stones, waiting each time for her to paddle alongside. He reached the bank first and waited, grinning. "You look about ten. Give me your hand." Straight in front of them rose the shrub-crusted wall that had to be scaled. David moved a few paces each way, searching for the path he and John had made. He found it, tested the strength of the branches. "Most of this will bear your weight. Follow every step I take, but keep a little to the right of my shoes, just in case one slips and so that I can see you. Button your jacket. Now . . . are you ready?" She nodded. He took the first step and looked back sharply. "It isn't so very far, but we can't stop once we've started. You realize that?" "Go ahead," she said, with some of his own crispness. He gave a grunt of approval and pulled upward slowly, twisting his head at each step to see that she followed, and leaning, ready to help, when she appeared uncertain. Two-thirds of the way up Nicky was seized with dizziness. She flattened and closed her eyes. Within a few seconds he had swung down beside her and clamped an arm across her back. "You little idiot! You looked down." "I . . . didn't." "You did. I saw you." Nicky couldn't remember looking down. His anger sobered her completely. "I can go on now," she said steadily. She caught a brief glimpse of tight teeth and hard eyes as he tried a branch and went ahead once more. Now he kept hold of her arm, forcing her upward with him, giving her an occasional grim glance which dared her to look down again. In this way the top was reached, and Nicky found herself stretched on a small green plateau spattered with leaning palms. Heart and temples were pounding, and for long minutes she could neither move nor speak. David had taken a few paces over the grass and was standing with his back to her, hands deep in his pockets. A forbidding stiffness in his attitude filled her with misgiving. Unhappily she sat up and clasped her knees, while her gaze wandered over the huge vista of small conical hills, shaded with saffron and burnt sienna, and beyond to the two shot-silk peaks rising from the purple chain of mountains. A faint shrouding of mist softened the extravagant tints of sunset. He turned. "Feel better?"

She got up quickly. "I'm sorry, David." "My fault," he said shortly. "I shouldn't have brought you." Nicky felt the need to justify herself. "Aren't you rather magnifying a tiny incident? I just went giddy for a second. If you hadn't been looking I'd have recovered and gone on without your knowing. Anyone might go giddy on a climb like that." "Exactly. I'm not doubting your pluck. When you've seen enough we'll go back." The expedition, which had started so brightly, seemed to have missed fire. Nicky drew in her lip, averting her head. "There's no need to be beastly. It was you who persuaded me to come." "I've told you I'm not blaming you," he bit out. "John was right. The exertion is too much for a woman, but I didn't want you to miss it." "I am missing it, though." She nodded toward the hills. "This sort of experience demands a special peace of mind." For a further few minutes he held aloof. The sun, at its lowest before dark, sent fiery shafts across the hills. The mountains beyond melted into the sky, a fusion of violet and smoky gold. When he spoke his voice had changed. "Like the edge of the world, isn't it? Each time I've been here I've wanted to pitch camp and stay." "Solitude appeals to you, doesn't it?" "Sometimes I prefer to share it," he admitted, with the faintest of smiles. "You can have too much even of solitude." "You're the most inscrutable man I ever knew." "Am I? Because I don't tire of my own company? But I do. Why else would I spend Saturday in Port Fargas, or come here for a vacation? You measure me by the men you knew in England, the Peter Wilshaw type. I don't belong to England. I belong to Africa." "Will you . . . always?" He shrugged. "I suppose so." "David," her voice was not too even. "Supposing John and Helen decided to go back to England, what would you do?" "John go back!" An incredulous laugh. "What would he do in England? What is there for a planter to do in England?" With an effort she spoke lightly. "His fortune is made. He could buy land and farm it." "Has Helen been talking to you about this?" he demanded shrewdly. And when she made no reply: "So that's why she's been less cordial lately. I'm the bear in the garden of her domestic bliss. Why be distressed, Nicky? Helen has a right to protect her own happiness. Don't worry," teasingly, "I shan't tell a soul you let me guess it." Powerless, Nicky saw misunderstanding pile on misunderstanding. Impossible to explain the real cause of Helen's faint antagonism—his continued indifference to Nicola Graham! "Helen's motives are never selfish," she said hurriedly. "Oughtn't we to go now?" "Afraid of the shadows?" he jeered. "Come on, then. It's dark down there already. Perhaps I'd better hang onto your waist. You take the flashlight and for the love of Mike, don't drop it." He lowered himself over the edge of the precipice, reached up and, as she sat with her legs dangling, fitted his shoulder beneath hers. His arm closed around her and her hand passed across his back and grabbed at his other sleeve. The clean scent of him was strong in her nostrils, his breath warm upon her cheek. Once, as they took the first part of the descent, she felt his hair brush her mouth. But a minute later his foot slipped and he muttered, forcibly. In sudden terror she clutched a branch ... and lost the

flashlight. She was thankful that he had not noticed, but darkness was coming up so swiftly that it could not be long before they would need it. Her hand stung piercingly from the thorns on that branch. Very soon he made the inevitable request. "We must be near the bottom. Show a light, will you?" She could have wept. "David... I should be whipped." His movements ceased, ominously. "You haven't dropped it?" "I'm afraid so." "Of all the exasperating. . . ." he began furiously, then stopped abruptly. "Don't shake like that. I suppose it was an accident. We'll manage." By the time his feet reached the river bank complete darkness had swept right in. He released her, raked fingers over his hair, and flipped open his shirt collar. "That was hot work. Are you all right?" "Yes, thank you," in a small, cold voice. "I think we deserve a cigarette." He brought out a packet and offered them. As she fumbled he caught her wrist to steady it. "Were you scared?" "A bit." But it was not with fear that she trembled. The match scraped, and she inhaled, watching through the smoke the lean angles of his face and the muscle that moved in his jaw as he smoked. He spun the match into the water, and in the renewal of night she was vividly aware of the roar of the falls above them, and the foam and clatter of the water at their feet. "Tuck your arm in mine," he said calmly. "Come to the other side. That arm aches a little." Without further speech he led per into the stream. Anxious to cause no more bother, Nicky trod with ridiculous care. The water sucked at their ankles and the larger stones loomed just in time to be avoided. He did not halt on the other bank, but turned at right angles along the path. Presently the light from the rest house filtered through the trees. He slowed. "Nicky," his tone was odd. "It was rotten of me to lose my temper when you went lightheaded on the way up. You weren't the one I was annoyed with. I suppose I was just jumpy." He gave a short, strained laugh. "I never had a woman's life in my hands before." "It doesn't matter... now." The torn palm of her hand hurt abominably. She withdrew it from his arm and held it cupped within her other hand. "You forgive me, then?" in a manner that was only half bantering. "Entirely. David, are we at the track?" "Just about." He struck another match. "It's a few yards back. Hello!" in swift concern. "Is this blood on my sleeve . . . and on your dress? You're hurt!" caught my hand on some thorns." He took it in a grip that bruised. She heard his jaw snap. believe it looks worse than it is," she added hastily. His clasp shifted to her elbow as he said roughly, "I really am angry with you now. You behave with me as though I were a stranger." He was compelling her on, along the track. "You wouldn't have held out on John, or young Wilshaw." felt such a fool over the torch." "Torch!" he echoed, with the uttermost scorn, and thereafter was silent till they reached the house.

Before they went in he stopped her in the pale glow from the window, and stared down at the white oval of her face. His cheekbones and chin stood out, strangely taut. "I can't decide whether to kiss you or spank you," he muttered. And then, "Get inside!" It was hopeless to expect to enter unnoticed. Dinner was ready and the other four were taking a drink while they waited. "Well, you two," from Helen. "How did you get on?" And in the next breath: "Oh dear . . . your coat, Dave. Which of you is hurt?" Small cries from the others increased Nicky's discomfiture. "It was my own fault. I lost my head and grabbed a branch." She was edging around the table toward the bedroom. "It won't look nearly so bad when it's clean." Helen vanished after her, and David went outside to wash and grope through his belongings for a fresh jacket. When he came back into the house Diana had a drink ready for him. He looked at his brother. "Has Nicky had one—a drink?" John nodded. "They won't be long. What was it like up there? " "Yes, tell us about it," begged Diana. " Was it worth it?" He was noncommittal. The view hadn't changed since this morning, and John was right; the descent was the deuce in the dark. What little expression crept into his tone intimated that he blamed himself for Nicky's injury. Diana murmured something soothing, but under the lowered lashes her eyes became watchful.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FOR THE REMAINING DAYS of her stay Diana was sweet and helpful. It was she who exclaimed first when Nicky came to breakfast next morning pale and dark-eyed through lack of sleep; she who later stood by while the wound was unwrapped and bathed; and she who voiced the thought in the minds of the others. "It's either taken poison or there's something embedded." Above the bent heads of the women David met his brother's eyes. Both nodded, and at once John suggested a stroll outside. Peter hovered anxiously. "Would you like me to stay, Nicky?" She smiled weakly. "You couldn't help if you did. Thank you just the same, Peter." The houseboy brought boiling water and antiseptic cream. David opened his penknife and sterilized the blade. His attention was centered on the palm of her hand, and when he spoke his lips scarcely moved. "This is going to hurt like blazes. John's taken them out of earshot, so you can yell your head off. Don't mind me." She lay back in the deck chair, her eyes closed and, except for a single convulsive clutch at the first probe of the knife, she was still. She heard his breathing, heavy and regular; then a long-drawn sigh. A shattering pain, as he smothered the wound with antiseptic which dulled to a throbbing ache as a pad of cotton was fitted to her palm and the hand gently bandaged. She did not see the murderous thorn he had extracted; of the sudden sweat he had wiped from his forehead. Nor was she quite certain what had set her tingling; it felt like a ... like a firm warm mouth pressed against the pulse in her wrist.

But when her eyes opened he was standing well away from her, drying his hands on a towel. He smiled. "It wasn't poison after all. Only a thorn. Sorry to have to hurt you." Still uncertain and bemused, she swallowed the aspirin and brandy he brought. She was dominated by a sense of unreality caused, in part, by his solicitude. Another cushion; her feet raised to rest on a stool; a screen contrived to mute the strong ight from the glassless window. "I'll see that the servants keep quiet," he said. "Get some sleep." Before she slipped into a doze it seemed to Nicky that the pain in her hand had merged with the fine drawn anguish that is part of love. The wound, though it healed fast, restricted her activities. Embarrassed by the limelight, she stayed close to the house with Helen. Diana accompanied the men in their excursions down the river, but as soon as she returned each time she inquired after Nicky, and set about helping in different ways. When Peter chose to remain behind and talk to Nicky, Diana teased him and winked at David. Imperceptibly, she managed to create an atmosphere of romantic isolation for the young couple. David's suggestion, on his last evening, that he should stay on for the rest of the holiday caused a mild stir. Helen was frankly astonished. "Thanks for the compliment," she remarked with a trace of irony. "Or is that due to someone else? Stay and welcome, brother dear." He wrinkled his nose at her and turned to Nicky. "Does everyone else agree that I shan't be in the way?" Color tinged her cheeks, but she said nothing. "We might hunt buffalo," contributed John. "There's a lot that's sadly wrong with me," came plaintively from Peter. "I never want to see wild animals outside a zoo, and the feel of a gun sends a chill down my spine." Diana was smiling, diffidently, though with a tiny pout. "I'm afraid I still have to go back tomorrow. If you're travelling with the others, I might borrow your car, David." "You can't do the journey alone." "If you're staying, I'll have to." "Why is it so urgent?" "A couple of parties." "Cut them." "I would, darling—" it slipped out so naturally and reasonably that no one seemed to notice "—but there's also a boat calling at Port Fargas this weekend that I really can't miss. I have a friend on board." "The liner should have been in last Friday. There isn't another till next week." "The boat I mean is a merchant vessel, the Merino. My—my cousin is an officer in her." Her tone took the suspicion of a tremor. "Honestly, Dave, I'd do anything rather than spoil your holiday. If you'll trust me with your car. . . ." The trailing off was quite effective. "Blast your cousin, Diana." He paused and shrugged. "Oh, well, I suppose that settles it. You won't have to stretch the rations, Helen." At once he stood up and turned on the phonograph. Peter began to croon the light, popular air, and soon the others joined in; even David whistled a few bars. More music and talk were followed by a card game, and then the house boy brought supper drinks and a dish of leftovers. The night had become very cool, and for a change few moths worried the glow of the lamp, though an occasional insect hit the shade with a startling crack.

Helen emptied her glass and yawned. "I'm for bed. Good night, everyone." The men stood and stretched and decided to take a walk. Diana bade a separate good night to each of them, infusing the last one, to David, with a subtle undertone of emotion. Nicky, so sleepy that it was an effort to move, pushed up out of her chair. Peter and John had already drifted beyond the circle of light, and Diana was disappearing indoors. "It'll be more restful with fewer of us here," said David quietly. "How much longer has young Wilshaw?" "Four more days, and three days after he goes we others return to the plantation." "Has the holiday been good, Nicky . in spite of this?" indicating her hand. "Very good." "John talks of returning on Saturday. Persuade him to make it Friday so that we can spend the next day together. There's a good visiting team for polo and a celebration dinner that night." He laughed. "Be my guest, Nicky?" Tiredness made tender the light that shone in her eyes. "I'd love that. Thank you, David." "Good night, then." "Good night." Diana had not yet gone in to her camp bed. She stood just inside the open doorway of the house, her face a grave mask which broke into a smile as Nicky came in. "You look awfully tired," she said. "It must be rather nice to have everyone falling over themselves to be sweet and generous. Would you like me to help you undress?" Diana and David left early next morning, hoping to reach the forest before the heat became too blistering. Diana, in a cork hat with a thick gauze scarf tied over it, shrank into her corner and was unusually silent. For a while he, too, seemed disinclined for conversation, and when at last he voiced a comment it was to the effect that it hadn't been such a bad vacation, had it? "Why were you so against it in the beginning?" she asked. "Were old associations so distasteful?" Intent upon the road in front he answered, "I've been to Bolende twice since that trip with you and Roy. No," the car leaped a rut, "I'm not the sort to look back. You know that. When John first mentioned it the idea wasn't attractive. It looked like merely a transference of the four at the plantation to uncomfortably close quarters at the rest house. Your suggestion that the party by increased to six altered the whole aspect." "But it made the quarters even closer!" "Not in a way that mattered." For a moment or two she meditated. Her next remark was unexpected. "Peter's a charming boy." "That describes him exactly." "You don't dislike him, do you?" "One never dislikes a nice boy," with a mocking elevation of the brows, "but I see no reason to ape the ladies and fall for him." "So you've noticed it? Well, they're rather well matched, aren't they?" "Aren't who?" he queried coolly. "Peter and Nicola, of course. I think they must be secretly engaged." "Why should you? What would be the object in keeping it secret?"

"They might get fun out of the situation. Young people are always a little foolish. We're both well aware of that." She noticed a compression of his mouth, which might have been due to the execrable condition of the track; but she was taking no chances. "Nicola's essentially the good type of girl. She wouldn't compromise herself with a man unless she intended marrying him." Driving seemed to demand concentration. "So Nicky's been compromising herself," he observed evenly. "Just when and where?" "It was a few weeks ago. I saw them come out together from Peter's room at the club. " "She might have slipped up there for any reason." "Yes—" hesitantly "—except that I'd seen your brother and his wife about an hour before, and they were worried about a storm coming up. They knew Nicky was somewhere with Peter. She might even have got wet and gone to his room to change." She smiled up at him, almost impishly. "Don't tell anyone, David. It was a weeny bit unwise of Nicola, but it doesn't matter a scrap so long as they're going to be married." She snuggled into her seat like a kitten preparing for a snooze in the sun. It was late afternoon when they reached Port Fargas. Diana uncurled and yawned with her usual daintiness. "Come in for a wash and a meal," she invited. He came around to her side and opened the door. She gave him her hand and stepped lightly out beside him. "Pleasant to be back, isn't it? Can you smell the sea?" They entered the cool dimness of the Carlyn's hall. She tilted her head at him, challenging the hard glint in his eyes. "Cross about something?" "Not a bit. What do you say to a final splash to wind up the holiday? Dinner at the club and whatever else offers in the way of excitement." Her chin went higher, provocatively. " Wonderful. I adore you in this mood. Come into the lounge, darling. I'm sure you're aching for a drink." THE THREE WERE BACK at the Raynor house hardly a week when Helen began to talk of Christmas. Life in such places is like that. As soon as one diversion has spent itself another must be sought before time has a chance to drag. Helen visualized a comfortable Christmas party amid artificial holly and mistletoe, mock turkey and mock plum pudding, and even some sort of Christmas tree. At odd times she had acquired in the market many trinkets and other objects that would make useful gifts, and already she had her eye on one of John's wooden tubs that would be cleaned and painted, ready to hold the parcels. To Nicky it was rather pleasant to make an experimental batch of mincemeat early in November. The ingredients, though not strictly cookery book, were fairly adequate. Lime juice instead of lemon; a little chopped pineapple replaced the Bramley seedlings; suet had to be left out altogether, and to help preserve the mixture, half a wine glass of whisky was tipped in. The result was rich and spicy, and about as similar to English mincemeat as mock chestnuts are like to genuine—looked the part but smelled and tasted deliciously of something else. It kept exactly a fortnight before fermenting alarmingly all over the larder shelves and attracting every ant for miles. So once more it was expedient to leave festive cooking till the last few days. In previous years, John informed them, he and David had gone to the club for Christmas dinner, and he thought it might not be a bad plan for all of them to do the same again this year. It would save the girls a lot of work and worry. "And do us out of the fun," added Helen. "We won't have

that, especially now that we've gathered so many friends. I wish we had more bedrooms." "Thank heaven we haven't," was John's sober response. Helen and Nicky were already filling boxes with gifts for England. Ivory and beaten metals were their choice, as being the least likely to spoil if they got damp. For Margaret, one of the craftsmen in the village fashioned a model native but complete with grass-thatch and even a tiny gourd or two lying around on an imitation earth floor. It was a work of exquisite precision, made without the aid of a ruler or any other tool but a rough knife and strong fingers. The toy was packed in a box among thick rubbery moss from the bush and left in the living room with other parcels to await mail day. Helen, doubtful whether the energy acquired at Bolende would last much. longer, decided to spring-clean. Not that she did much besides chivvying the boys, but that alone was exhausting enough when the temperature was somewhere near a hundred in the shade. Paint and distemper had streaked and blistered with sun and rain; woodwork had warped and green mold had crept a little way up the other walls. It was easy to see how quickly even such a solid and lovely dwelling as this would fall into decay unless rigorously checked once or twice a year. The garden, under John 's management, bloomed magnificently. Blood red cannas grew shoulder high; lobelia, which Nicky remembered as small blue puddles in English gardens, here attained the thickness and height of shrubs, and all the plants and trees indigenous to the soil dripped their rich colors over the dark foliage in glorious array. And always, with the first curtain of night, scents came up, strong and tantalizing; musk and frangipani, moonflower and hibiscus. This year the jiggers were particularly troublesome. The boys complained first. Though they were provided with rope-soled sandals they could seldom be prevailed upon to wear them, wring them instead for an occasional full-dress promenade in Port Fargas. Consequently, their feet were normally quite often sore and callused, and now that the jiggers were active many of them hobbled as though treading on hot cinders. Helen, from the depths of grim experience, said that was exactly what it felt like. The jigger, a tiny flea that penetrates the skin of the foot, lays its eggs and then dies. It is the dozens of offspring that it leaves behind that cause the bother. A toe irritates and gradually a lump appears, and this has to be cut and the mass of white maggots scooped out. "To think I've been living with those disgusting things," said Helen faintly, when John showed them to her. "The jigger is one of the minor tortures," he grinned as he plugged a couple of holes in her big toe with iodine. "I think I must be growing horny. They haven't attacked me for years. What about you, Nicky? Do your toes itch?" No, Nicky hadn't any white lumps yet. She had a nasty sting on the back of her neck from a chrysops fly, that cute little beggar who dances just out of reach till you're not looking and then pounces; and she was just getting over a mild prickly-heat rash, which was enough to be going on with at the moment. Samuel's feet were so badly affected by jiggers that another fellow had to come into the kitchen; a lanky chap who straightway boiled a dead snake in one saucepan and christened all the others with the resultant fluid. "What for?" demanded Nicky severely. "Kill magic which spoil chop," was the answer.

"Good saucepan—no magic, " she said firmly. He shrugged sorrowful shoulders. These white people didn't know what they were letting themselves in for. Apathetically, he followed her instructions to clean every pan, and then gave up trying. The food he prepared was uneatable. So for a while Nicky had to spend much time in the kitchen. She didn't mind. Since the holiday at Bolende neither heat nor pests nor a vacuous cook could subdue the elation in her heart. David had been absent since her return. On their arrival at the Raynor house, John had received a note through one of his workers in which David mentioned that he was going off to settle a grievance at one of the villages; he thought he would ride on from there and check up on the timber felling. He would be back within a fortnight. Perhaps it did strike Nicky as unconventional that he should have made no allusion to the polo match and dinner to which he had invited her, but it was obvious that if he was miles away he could neither play polo nor dine in Port Fargas. He was economical of social gestures. Doubtless when he returned he would apologize with a mocking smile, and suggest another outing to repair the omission. At last she was beginning to feel that he valued her in some degree. Up at the rest house they had been close. Though he was too cautious, too much The lone hand, to drop the mask of banter and cynicism in front of others, alone with her he had been natural and kind. And once or twice she had sensed something deep and pulsing between them; it couldn't all have been on her own side. The pressure of his lips upon her wrist, for instance. At the time her brain had been fogged with pain and weariness. So brief a caress could easily be imagined . . . except that at that moment kisses were a long way from her mind, and the sensation had come in the form of an exquisite shock. Nicky was bewildered, but pleasantly so. Soon after midday the following Friday, David came home. They knew he was there, for smoke rose from the chimney of the but which held his brick oven, and newly washed male clothing drooped over his veranda rail, to dry. "We'll give him time to rest," said Helen, "and then send along an invitation to dinner. He oughtn't to need asking, the brute." Nicky laughed. Her spirits had risen to the height of the gay plume of smoke from that chimney. "What shall we have for dinner? Definitely not chicken. D 'you think he'd like some of the new tinned pork?" Helen smiled maternally. "Anything will taste good to him after a fortnight on trek. Cook whatever you like and make it a surprise for all of us." She bent to feel the cool tickle of the flowers on the dining-room table. "His shell cracked a little wider at Bolende. The savage responds passably well to feminine society." "Or, rather, we respond to him," amended Nicky truthfully. "The most maddening thing about him is his unbending will. It's always the other person who gives in. Never David." Helen looked at her quizzically. "I wonder. He came to Bolende after once refusing." There was a short silence before Nicky spoke. "Diana has a persuasive beauty." "Why give Diana all the credit? Isn't it possible he'd already thought better of his refusal before she got to work on him?" Nicky had no wish to think about Diana. She would rather look forward to an evening of David in his natural position as head of the household. Although tea was only just over, she began to ponder the next meal.

It was not until the cooking was well on its way that Helen despatched a note to the bungalow. The answer came promptly, a terse scribble on the back of her epistle: "Sorry, Helen, but not tonight. ." She grew hot and annoyed. How dare he turn aside her carefully worded invitation in so abrupt a manner! And what about Nicky, singing softly to herself as she changed into a fresh dress, and expecting him along to enjoy the food she had prepared with so much pleasure? He couldn't be such a beast as to let Nicky down, fumed Helen, as she flung a scarf over her head and hastened out to the track. The light in his living room seemed to pierce the darkness with an unusual glitter. David himself answered her rapping and invited her in. "I can't stop," she said breathlessly. "No one knows I've come. Dave, be a dear and have dinner with us." "Is it important enough to bring you out in the dark?" His voice was cool, impersonal. He was still in riding breeches, but his shirt was clean and lavender-smelling and his chin newly shaved. "You needn't change or stay late. I expect you're tired." "Not very. But I think I'll keep to my own hutch tonight, Helen." "You have to eat dinner somewhere—why not with us?" "I'm not in a sociable mood." "We might put you into one. Please come, Dave." He shuffled books and papers together on the table. "Why the anxiety? What's on tonight, particularly?" "Nothing. Only— " she raised her shoulders "—we were sure you'd come and Nicky 's rather spread herself over the dinner. She'll be disappointed." His tone was unyeilding. "Apologize for me. Tell John I'll have a word with him tomorrow morning before I go up to Port Fargas." Helen stiffened. "Dave, you're insufferable! Haven't you an atom of feeling? Don't you mind hurting Nicky?" He spoke deliberately. "I built this bungalow so that I could live my own way, without interference. Surely you don't expect me to fabricate a motive whenever I prefer to be alone? Will you have a drink?" "No, thank you. But, Dave. . ." "Then I'll see you up to the house." At once he opened the door and stood aside for her to pass. She hurried a little ahead of him, disliking him more than she ever remembered disliking a man before. At the opening to her own compound he stopped, and she turned to him. "Won't you even slip in and say hello?" "It'll keep. Good night, Helen." Without answering she hastened up the path. Nicky, wearing a crisp pink frock, was in the dining room, patting out the table linen. "Been out?" she inquired in surprise. "I thought I'd go myself and invite Dave. He . . . isn't coming to dinner." "Oh " Nicky's tone was uninformative. "Is he too tired?" "Something like that. I suppose he's had a rotten fortnight. You mustn’t mind, Nicky." "No." Though the light in her eyes had noticeably dimmed, she smiled. "You'd think he'd be glad of companionship after a trek. We might send down a small casserole of pork and onions. He likes onion dishes." "I'm afraid he's not in a mood to care what he eats. Never mind. We like onions, too, and when he does honor us with his presence at dinner, we'll tell him what he missed."

She patted Nicky's arm. "We'll all four dine together at the club tomorrow night. By the way, you've never yet had a chance of riding the gray filly. That's a treat for Sunday." She sniffed ostenta-

tiously. "Smells good. I'll wager that will bring John from his bath within five minutes." It seemed to Nicky that they were back where they had been before the visit to Bolende. She was sure now that it was David's tall figure she had glimpsed from the kitchen window. He had walked as far as the compound with Helen and felt no impulse to look in, even for a minute. A word, or a brief smile, would have softened his refusal till it didn't matter anymore. With an effort she forced herself to take an interest in the dinner that had lost all point and savor.

CHAPTER NINE

BY THE TIME Nicky was ready to take her usual saunter along the track next morning, the bungalow was shuttered and locked as if David had never returned. She moved around the squat building and entered the outhouse in which the primitive brick oven was still warm from breakfast. Although he didn't know it, she had been here before and made the servants scrub the rough table and scour the beaten earth floor with disinfectant. Now she fingered the saucepan that hung from the ceiling, and pitched out an old ant trap. With a plantain leaf she swept out dust and dead flies, and afterward she dropped to her knees and hooked out the weeds sprouted from the crevices between floor and walls. She doubted whether David had ever entered this place since it was first built, nearly a year ago. Perspiring freely, she went out into the sun and continued her walk to her favorite spot, the small slope at the far end of the path. The primeval beauty of the view had never yet failed to soothe the unquiet places of her mind. She stayed too long, and had only just reached the house when John came in to lunch. He drank thirstily of the limeade she poured for him, and smiled at her as she took his glass. "Well, Nicky, are you going to the polo this afternoon?" "I'd like to. Is it a special match?" "Nothing startling. Just a couple of club teams. The best game was this morning." Helen, who always picked up the thread of a conversation the instant she entered a room, put in, "Do they play mornings as well?" "It isn't usual, but the military have been in Port Fargas and they're sailing after lunch. This morning's was a final match between them and the club's first team. Dave was playing." "He might have mentioned it," said Helen tartly. "He evidently keeps in touch with Port Fargas while he's away." "Dave's his own boss," her husband replied easily. "I saw him early this morning, before he set off. He seemed to be looking forward to the match." "Will he play again this afternoon?" "No. He's lunching at the club and then going upriver with the Carlyns to see some friends of theirs at a bush station. He said if they were back in time he'd drop in at the club before midnight for a drink." He laughed a little. "Dave's certainly started going places, and it's about time, too."

In the end it was decided to cut the polo. Christmas parcels were stacked beside Nicky in the back of the car, and when the town was reached they were transferred to the post office ready for the mailboat. Helen decided that they would call for tea at the home of some friends who lived in a wide-browed white house overlooking the bay, where she chatted and John smoked and exchanged crop prices with their host, while Nicky played with a litter of puppies in the shade of a bokungu tree on the lawn. Later, all three changed and drove on to the club for dinner. Peter Wilshaw, Nicky learned from one of his young colleagues, was down with a bout of fever. From his bedroom upstairs he sent his apologies, and the fervent hope that he would be up and around again within a day or two. So the three who dined together every night sat over the usual meal of chicken and cold dessert, and at least one of them wished herself back at the plantation. Nicky danced with John and with other men. At about nine-thirty she was drawn into a young group and begged to "go for a ride with the gang." In Port Fargas an overloaded car taking a moonlight drive through the winding terraces was a common sight. It was a perennial, fairly harmless form of excitement in which Nicky had indulged a few times before, and this evening she grasped the chance eagerly. The night was warm and very light, with the moon riding almost dead center above the town. Squashed on somebody's knee, she sang with the others and whooped with them whenever the car managed a hairpin bend or zipped down a hill. Something very like gaiety bubbled on her lips and flowed out into the wellknown songs. Nicky had thought she would find Helen and John waiting on the club terrace, but apparently they had not yet come out. She entered the foyer and stood in a wide doorway, scanning the room full of people. The band slipped into a waltz and, as the couples began to move, she caught sight of Helen talking to someone . . . yes, it was David. Behind Helen hovered John, and Diana in close-fitting sea-green was at David's left side, her hand upon his arm. The corn-colored hair was combed back into a chignon, and even at this distance Nicky caught the glitter of expensive earrings. Nicky watched David finish what he was saying and turn to take Diana into his arms. She saw him nod once more to Helen and then sweep Diana out among the dancers. She turned and made her way out to the terrace. Diana had spent the whole day with him. She had watched this morning's polo, had lunched with him, and had gone up the river and back again by moonlight. He might conceivably have fancied a change of partners for dancing. But no, it was Diana again. At the beat of music they turned naturally, possessively, to each other. At last Nicky allowed herself to ponder the whisperings about them in Port Fargas. It was presumed that the merging of the Godfrey plantation with Raynors' would coincide with a more romantic partnership. An engagement at least, though an immediate marriage was more likely. Nicky, even in her heartache and despair, had to admit that Diana was an appropriate match for a rich man. Her poise and superficial charm would be inevitable in running a Raynor home. Perhaps David cared little about humanizing the bungalow because he was full of other plans, featuring Diana. How much of the woman's feeling for him sprang from her financial plight, wondered Nicky. Suddenly she was flooded with panic. Supposing David, with his shrewdness and greater experience, had guessed at her

own unfledged emotions where he was concerned, and on that account was deliberately keeping her at arm's length? That would completely explain his avoidance of her. The idea was utterly unbearable. She must disabuse him at the first opportunity, convince him as firmly as her poor torn heart would allow of her ability to survive—without the aid of David Raynor. Somehow she must extricate her pride from threatened disaster. All through that night Nicky tossed and sweated in a nightmare of useless torment. She saw now the reason behind his repeated assertions that she was the wrong type for West Africa. He knew she loved him, and what looked like consideration for health was really pity for a woman he could not love in return. Sunday morning was half through before David strolled in. Nicky was learning chess from John, and he was congratulating her upon a stroke of novice's luck. "That was brilliant," he exclaimed, and looked up as his brother approached the table" Nicky's the most teachable girl in the world! You never have to tell her anything twice." "With some women even once telling is too much," David replied cryptically. "Got any matches? My stock seems to have run out." He grasped the box in midair. "Thanks. Go on with your game, if you don't mind an audience." Nicky said she had had enough and John drew himself up to pour drinks. She stacked the chessmen into the box and, when she had put it away, went outside to where Helen was reading on the veranda. Helen flickered her a glance and closed the book. "A woman at the club last night gave me a recipe for sweet pickle," she mentioned. "I don't suppose it's as good as the one you and Samuel concocted, but you might like to try it." "Mango chutney?" Nicky asked, without much interest. "I believe it does contain mango. It's in my evening bag written on the back of an envelope. She promised me a recipe for candies that actually set hard." A chagrined smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "It seems we're not the only ones contemplating jollity. The Carlyns are giving quite a big affair on Christmas Day." Nicky shivered with renewed premonition. David would be favored with two invitations. Which of them would he accept? Did it matter . . . now? "We must send out our invitations," Helen was saying. "The Carlyns will be bound to clash with us in some quarters, and we shall have to try to get it first. We'll put our heads together over a card design, Nicky. Something truly Old English and colorful." "Sleigh bells and robins in the snow," lazily suggested David from the porch. "Very sensible." "Refreshing, anyway," retorted Helen. "Have you forgotten Christmas in England?" "It was good fun, for young people," he conceded. "Better remembered than repeated. Nicky, have you ridden Toni yet?" "There hasn't been time," she answered, without looking at him. "Cut along in and change, and we'll try her out now." "No, thanks, David." Feeling both their glances sharply upon her, Nicky added in a more normal tone, "I'm too hot to ride." "You're a shade pale," Helen sympathized. "A head?" It was the readiest excuse. "Just vaguely." "The chess got you down," commented David. "Unless it's a hangover from last night's binge. What do they do on those gang rides?" "Haven 't you ever been on one?" she queried coolly. "Not for at least ten years, and mostly I drove. Are they still noisy and unrestrained . . . a release of animal spirits?" "Something like that."

"They never ask me," lamented Helen. "You're a Raynor," he told her, gently mocking. "We Raynors are considered to have grown beyond car rides and kisses in the dark." Anger rose within Nicky, a hot stinging in her chest and at the back of her eyes. Fearful that her expression might betray her, she moved along the veranda to the corner of the house, where she leaned against the rail, grateful for its supporting hardness in her side. The other two went on talking, conversationally. She could hear their voices, but not what they said. There was laughter as Helen allowed herself to be heaved from her chair, and then silence, as though they had gone indoors. But only Helen had gone. A firm, purposeful step sounded behind Nicky. "Cigarette?" She shook her head and kept her gaze resolutely on the pool in the compound. The match rasped quite close to her ears and she caught the odor of smoke blended with that male fragrance which always set her longing. "We might try that ride later, when it's cool," he said. "Leaving her idle is no way to treat a horse. You ought to take a canter every day." "You told me not to ride her till you could go with me," she replied stiffly. "That was weeks ago, before the vacation in Bolende. John could have nursed you first time out. Why didn't you ask him?" "He wouldn't have consented to my riding one of your horses without your permission." Bitterness crept in. "Nothing ever is done here without your permission, is it?" "That's going rather far." His voice was maddeningly calm. "Toni's yours, for as long as you stay. I'll tell John—" "You needn't. When I want to ride I'll beg a horse elsewhere." "That's very childish of you, Nicky." She kept her head averted to hide the unsteadiness of her lips. "To you, everything I do and say is childish. I suppose I must seem incredibly young and stupid to a man of your age and experience, but I'm certain the years won't warp me as they've warped you." His hand dropped upon her shoulder and swung her around. "What's all this?" he demanded. She tried to shrug off his hold. "Don't do that. You think that being nearly twice my age entitles you to treat me as though I were an infant, but I won't stand it even from the great David Raynor. You may have the whip over your brother and even his wife, but I'm free and answerable to no one." His eyes narrowed. "What's that got to do with riding one of my horses? Would you like to know what I think —" "I don't care what you think," she burst in recklessly. "Everyone else cares, but I don't. I know you despise me, but I don't care about that, either!" His grip tightened. "You little fool, to lose control of yourself like this. Stop that trembling, d 'you hear me!" In sudden heat she dashed down his wrist, but he twisted his arm and grabbed her elbow. "Listen to me," he said through his teeth. "When a woman's nerves begin to snap it's time she left the tropics. I can't force you to go, but I can appeal to what's left of your reason. Go home before the climate gets you."

"I'll please myself," she panted. "You're right. I've been a fool. So has Helen. We've gone out of our way tp please and placate you because we were afraid you'd send us back to England. It never occurred to you that a woman will suffer a good deal to be with her husband. You wouldn't know about those things, of course." She laughed, a brittle, husky sound. "We were scared of you, but here's one who isn't any longer. I won't be bullied into going home, and if you can't bear the sight of a girl losing her looks you'd better stay clear of this house. That won't come hard." The unexpected outburst seemed to have amazed him into silence. He stared down at the fever-bright gray eyes and the red flags in her cheeks, the usually soft mouth gone thin with the effort of control. It was as though, for the first time, he saw an entirely different woman. "Let's go of my wrist," she cried. "Be quiet. They'll hear you in the house." "Let them. I'm not ashamed of anything I've said . . . only sorry I haven't the vocabulary to say it more forcibly." "You've put it over pretty well," he answered grimly. "I gather that you're not going home and I'm a first-class bully to try and make you. From your tone I take it that you dislike me pretty thoroughly, too." Her chin rose and she spoke slowly, above the sickening pounding of her heart in her throat. "Dislike is too mild a word. I I. . . hate you. Hate you!" For a further moment he stood above her, his breath hot upon her forehead. Then he jerked away, swept up his hat from a chair in the porch and dropped down the steps into the compound. Nicky's fingers curved tightly into her palms. Her eyes closed. The anger was melting into a terrible sea of anguish. She had convinced him that her heart was not given to David Raynor, but at what a price! The following week was the longest and most wretched of Nicky's whole existence. Much though she would have liked to confide in Helen, natural reserve and apprehension prevented it. So Helen and her husband were allowed to blame the heat for Nicky's continued pallor and listlessness. At the weekend there was no suggestion that they should attend the polo. They drove into Port Fargas just in time for dinner. Peter Wilshaw, looking a little less than his buoyant self, dined with them. The fever had been rather ghastly, he admitted, and his brain was still featherweight at times. He hoped Nicky wouldn't mind sitting out a dance or two with him. Nicky went out with him to the cool terrace and stood beside him near a bougainvilleaclad pillar, looking out over the lights of the town. She scarely felt his arm slip around her waist, but the hoarse murmur of his voice brought her around to face him. "I've had such a rotten week, Nicky. Be nice to me." "Why, Peter," she smiled. "Is this any way for an engaged young man to behave?" "Sarah wouldn't mind if she knew you." "I'm not quite sure that's a compliment." It was good to feel a man's arm holding her, and a man's jacket brushing against her skin. "You must have been awfully ill, Peter." "All day I've been looking forward to tonight. You're so sweet and understanding. Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?" "You'd be sorry afterward." "Not if you weren't. Please, Nicky. . . " She was about to force a laughing rejoinder, to tell him that malaria and the garden scents had gone to his head. But over

his shoulder she saw a white figure with the inevitable cigarette glowing from the shadows. From his height and the arrogance of his posture she knew it was David Raynor; and from the jut of his chin she knew he was looking her way. She steeled herself. Her hands stole up Peter's arms and she raised her lips. The next time she looked along the terrace it was deserted. A FEW DAYS LATER John came in early, his shoulders hunched and the spring gone from his step. He bathed and changed without recourse to "Mother Machree," and served himself such a small portion of chicken that Helen paused with the water jug in the air and stared. "Feeling blue, or under the weather?" she asked quickly. "I'm all right," was his gruff reply. "A rotten day, that's all." As soon as dinner was over he went to his desk in the living room. When Nicky and Helen came in some time later he was engrossed in a map of the plantations. Nicky took to a chair, while Helen bent over his shoulder. "Quite a fair-sized estate," she observed. "I haven 't seen this map before. Where do you keep it?" "Dave made it a couple of years ago. He gave it to me this afternoon with some suggestions." His voice lowered with sudden weariness. "They were the sort of suggestions I never expected to hear from Dave." "I knew there was something! Tell me, John." "I'll go," said Nicky, rising. John waved his hand. "Don't run away. You may as well know now as later." He stood up and came into the center of the room, his face grave. "Dave talks of dividing the plantations. He's penciled a line which gives me slightly larger portion nearer the coast. He plans to halve the capital between us. There was a startled silence. "He wouldn't do that!" his wife exclaimed. "Why should he? There's never been trouble between you." John gave a tired shrug. "Before you came we took turns at the long journeys. NQW he does them all. The rubber's farthest and he's keen on rubber. It's up there that the Godfrey plantation adjoins ours." "Is the Godfrey place connected with this decision of his?" "I suppose he's going to buy it. He must own a large part of it already." "How do you mean?" Nicky put in. "Dave has been paying Mrs. Godfrey cheques from his private account. Two of them came back to me in error." The worried frown deepened. "He said that if I ever want to sell and leave, he'll buy from me. Buy!" he repeated bitterly. "That sort of talk between Dave and me." "What did you say?" Helen demanded fiercely. "Not much. I suppose I looked as fed up as I felt, because he just handed me the map and told me to sleep on it." "Where does he propose to live?" "He's going to build upriver." "Soon?" from Nicky. "Sure to be. He never brings any plan into the open until it's cut and dried. He's obviously been turning this over in his mind for weeks."

Since Bolende, thought Nicky drearily. He must have come home resolved in his mind to marry Diana, and this proposition was the logical first step to joining up with the Godfrey plantation. He was going to build a home worthy of Diana. "Ask him in for a conference," said Helen. "Together we might be able to dissuade him." "What argument can we put up? He's behaving generously over the division of land and money. He'll give me this house, which is rightly his. Where he's going there'll be roads and a landing to make, new sheds—everything." "You're brothers." Helen was exasperated. "Surely that counts for something." "Sentimental grounds are the least likely to carry weight. I'm not begging for sarcasm." John felt around in his pockets and automatically Helen took his pipe from the desk and thrust it into his hand. "Don't look so miserable, darling. There's sure to be a way out. It's my guess that David had a bit of a struggle with himself over this. You two have been close for too many years to separate for no real reason. The trouble is, neither of you will admit to having an affection for each other. Look at you. The very mention of the word horrifies you. Now if you'd only get David here, we women could clear the air between you." John shuddered. "I think we'd better do as he advised, and sleep on it." Helen squeezed his hand as she passed him, and came to rest in a corner of the sofa. "Nicky and I have caused this upheaval," she said. "If we hadn't come here you and David would still be jogging along together in this house. But it wasn't good for either of you, particularly David. We set something working and it's taken him all these months to realize he wants a wife and home of his own. If," she hesitated, and dropped her voice a tone, "if, after his deliberations, he's decided to marry Diana Godfrey, this idea of partitioning the estate is wise, from all view points. John, can't you find out if marriage with Diana is his intention?" "Good lord, no! And anyway, I can't see that it makes much difference." "All the difference in the world," she returned warmly. "If Diana 's going to be his wife, the farther away they live the better. If she's not, we'll use every weapon at our command to keep him here." She smiled across at Nicky before adding: "We are his family, darling—all he has. He owes us some sort of explanation for such a drastic step." "He's not likely to give one," John forecast gloomily. "I've never yet known Dave to explain an action. I don't see there's anything we can do about it. As a matter of fact," he became busy with his pipe, "I did ask him to take this house and let me build higher up the clearing." Helen leaned forward, intently. "What was his reaction?" "That it wasn't modern enough. He means to have a built-in bathroom, better kitchen arrangements, and upstairs bedrooms." John prodded down the tobacco in his pipe with a matchstick. "It's the first time he's ever shown interest in house building." Helen relaxed. In abrupt tones she said, "In that case, John, I rather agree with you. His plans are complete and there's nothing we can do to alter them. Let him go. We'll get over the hurt of it." John nodded dejectedly, got his pipe going and went out. For a while the two women sat in silence. "Well," Helen sighed. "That's how it happens. She whistles him back and he comes, loping. It proves one thing. The invulnerable David is not so different from the rest."

"He doesn't make mistakes," Nicky stated mechanically. "I hope not, for his own sake. As for Diana—marry for love, but love where money is— is her motto. She went all out for the most eligible man in the district . . . and got him. Well, Nicky, that washes out our Christmas party." "I think we should go on with it." "David won't come. He said as much when I asked him a week ago, but this hadn't happened then. I thought between us we might change his mind." Cold at heart, Nicky repeated, "A week ago?" "I put on my best manners and trotted down to the bungalow. His refusal was brutal and resolute." Brutal and resolute. Nicky believed that they were the two most appropriate adjectives with which to describe him. Her present unhappiness became so much easier to bear if she remembered only his stony reserve, his implacable resistance to invasion. By subtle means Diana had penetrated his defenses, yet it was possible that even she had gained but slight contact with the essential man. Nicky would not credit that he was in love in a deep, spiritual sense, nor that he was capable of tender emotions. His gentleness when she had hurt her hand at the falls was the pitying softness one uses with a child. She had deceived herself into warm, exciting dreams, and because of them, her awakening was the more shatteringly painful.

CHAPTER TEN

IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED it seemed that the usual quiet harmony had deserted the household. John was touchy and reticent, Helen's serenity gave way to bouts of crossness and despondency, and Nicky carried on with taut heartstrings and the ghost of a smile on her lips. Acceptance of their invitations began to come in. Helen was in favor of writing apologetic cancellations, but Nicky, shrinking from the bleak monotony of the prospect of nothing whatever to look forward to and work for, urged even greater endeavors to make their first Christmas one to be remembered. One day John announced heavily, "Dave wants me to go up with him to see the lawyer on Saturday morning. He aims to make the division legal and watertight." "It's going through, then?" said Helen. "The sooner it's over now, the happier for all of us." "I told him I'd prefer it not to be legalized, but he said that wouldn't be fair to you and Margaret. I wish I could see what he's getting at." "It's very clear. Half to you and your heirs; half to David and his." She smiled sadly. "He's going to ensure that his grandchildren have no cause to quarrel with ours." "The way I feel at the moment," John asserted morosely, "West Africa will be a dusty legend in our family by the time I have grandchildren." For several minutes both were quiet. At last Helen said slowly, "I could take it philosophically if he were friendly over parting. In spite of his dictatorial behavior with us I've grown fond of David. If he hadn't taken a high hand—if he'd discussed it with us and made promises to keep in touch...." Her voice tailed. Her breath caught as she added, "He hasn't once been to see us since you brought the news about the split. Do we deserve that?" "Don't, darling. It's no use upsetting yourself."

Nicky, her hands clasped over the open pages of the book in her lap, heard some of their conversation from the veranda. The desolation in Helen's voice filled her with a compassion that had nothing to do with her own despair. Helen, who was goodness itself, had been cavalierly shouldered out of the matter. Not only that, but her invitation for Christmas had been summarily declined. Nothing Helen had ever done to David warranted such cruelly offhand treatment. Nicky's whole being was suddenly suffused with heat. Was he taking out on Helen his anger with herself? Was it her presence that kept him from the house, her existence that had finally forced him into action? Surely not. David was master of any situation. But he had not been able to drive her from John's house against her will. Supposing there was method in his cruelty? He knew that she was as able to add up two and two as any other woman; he was aware, also, of her deep love for Helen. His cool, calculating brain might have forseen this situation: Helen's distress and her own realization of the contributory part she had played. He could even have visualized her remorse, and subsequent flight. It sounded crazy, yet there was just sufficient fact to support the notion. His withdrawal from the sweet friendliness of Bolende, his cold indifference ever since. And there was the almost fanatical necessity always to be dominant. The whole bewildering business set Nicky yearning for the power to put things right, especially for Helen. A thought crept into her mind and took hold, yet she shied from putting it to the test. She couldn't bear to face him in his present inflexible mood. But on Saturday the painful process of severing the partnership would be set in motion, and Nicky could not cast off the idea that in some measure she was responsible for the catastrophe: Were her wounds important compared with those of Helen and John? She owed them, in generosity and affection, more than she could ever hope to repay, and here was one way in which she might help. Could she submerge her own feelings and plead for them? The sorry silence during dinner and after it stretched Nicky's nerves. What had she to lose? Maybe a little more self-respect, a little more face, but there was the chance of gaining something for Helen and dear, inarticulate John. What David thought of her now hardly mattered; she had already destroyed the slender bond that had existed between them. It was easy to slip on a coat and say, "Just going outside for a breath of air." But out on the track her courage almost failed. She stood quite still, heedless of the fireflies that jeweled the languorous night. The palms, static in the pellucid radiance of the stars, seemed to have spread their fans in warning ... or did they beckon? Within the arc of light from the bungalow she paused again. An uncanny sense of freedom came to her aid. She was not here to beg mercies for herself, but to state the case for Helen, the sister-in-law whom he liked. She would gladly consume a large helping of humble pie for Helen. With new resolution she tapped at the door. A chair clattered over the bare boards, followed by his quick, firm stride. The door opened. "Good evening, David," she said quietly. "May I have a few words with you?" His frame filled the doorway. Backing the light, his face was dark and expressionless, his bearing forbidding, but when he moved aside she detected no hostility in his gesture. "Come in." He closed the door and indicated a chair. He allowed her to settle and placed on a small table beside her a glass of water flavored with cordial, before lowering himself to the arm of the other chair. She hoped

he did not notice how hard she was pressing upon her knees, to still their trembling. This was going to be an intolerable ordeal. She swallowed. "David. ..." "Take your time. I think I know what you came for." "That makes it easier. But before we speak about the others, I ... I want to apologize for flaring up the other Sunday. That was unpardonable after your kindness in offering Toni. I can't think what made me do it." "I can. It was the natural revolt of a girl against a man . . . twice her age." So that had flicked him. Well, by scorning her youth he'd more or less asked for it. "I didn't mean half I said that day," she went on, her head bent. "In the heat of the moment one often bursts out with things which are nearly impossible to retract." "If you hate me, you've a perfect right to say so," he coolly remarked. "I don't hate you," in a low vice. "You're so difficult to understand. In one breath you gave me Toni—and told me to go home. It didn't make any sense." "Perhaps it will comfort you to know that I shall neither offer you another horse, nor again ask you to go." "So you won't accept my apology?" He jerked to his feet and began mixing a drink for himself. "All right," he said. "You're sorry for what you flung at me a fortnight ago. Where does that get us?" She saw that he was going to make it as difficult for her as he knew how. His attitude intimated very plainly that this interview was not of his choice and seeking. Nicky sipped from her glass and held it clasped between her hands. She took a deep breath. "You'll consider it presumptuous on my part, but for Helen's sake I must get it said. She's terribly hurt over your plan to divide the plantations." "John hasn't said so." "He probably thought it useless to appeal to your feelings once the decision was made. They're both very down about it." He took a pull at his drink and looked into the glass, speculatively. His speech was brusque. "I should have thought that a plantation of their own was what they wanted. You yourself told me that I was the blight on Helen's private life." "That isn't true! You made a guess and I wasn't in a position to deny it." "You mean there were other reasons for Helen's strained behavior with me? How the devil was Ito know! If, as you've suggested, she and John have discussed returning to England some day, it's better to have the whole works now so that he will have a choice of selling at market value or appointing a manager. It's the reasonable procedure." "Have you put the matter to John like that?" He shrugged impatiently. "It's none of my business," she added quickly. "My concern is for Helen. She'd feel so much happier if you'd talk it over with them both at the house. It isn't a lot to ask." "John's already agreed to go to Port Fargus with me, to draw up the deeds." "Couldn't you postpone the visit to the lawyer? It's against your principles, I know, to climb down, but this is different. It would give new life to Helen if you consented to leave everything till after Christmas." Deliberately, he finished his drink and slid the glass on to the table, before once more taking to the arm of the chair. His glance swerved and met hers, piercingly.

"If Helen's displeasure with me was not on account of the plantations, what else could have been the cause?" She stammered: "I ... don't know." "I see. You're begging a favor from me but you're not prepared to be entirely frank. Through you, I've treated my brother's wife shabbily, and you haven't a word of explanation to offer. A little while ago I'd have expected better from you." "David, please...." Shakily, she got up, spilling the drink over her hand. Half-blinded by a wrenching emotion, she reached to set it down and fumbled for a handkerchief. Unmercifully, he watched her dab at the spots on her dress, making no attempt to lessen the tension that sprang, almost tangible, between them. He said curtly, "If I climb down, as you call it, it will be for Helen's sake." "That's all I ask," she whispered. Somehow, she slipped her coat buttons into their holes and tied the belt. He came across to pick up her handkerchief and stuffed it into her pocket. She turned toward the door. "I'd rather go alone." He took no notice, but pulled the door shut behind them and followed her down the steps. To shorten the agony she hastened, managing to keep a small pace in front of his long one. Before they reached the compound he began to speak, in more normal tones. "It's pleasant at Palmer's Reach, where I'm planning to build. Rubber trees are not like jungle; you can walk among them and they're cool and peaceful. The river there runs swift and wide. Till the roads are made, I shall have my stuff canoed down to the port." He paused. "It'll be pretty good to have a home I can undoubtedly call my own, and a chance of scenery through my windows." "You'll be farther from the coast," she managed. "Only six miles farther. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking of buying the Carlyn's house as well—they leave in a few months. Weekends in Port Fargas will cut out monotony." He came a little way into the garden and stopped. "David," she murmured huskily. "If you could give in just a shade more and come to the Christmas party—perhaps just to dinner. You might go on to the Carlyns' party afterward." She felt his instant withdrawal. "Say nothing to the others when you go in. I'll deal with it all tomorrow. Good-night." Nicky went straight into the house. Utterly exhausted, she said good night and at once sought her bed. NEXT DAY John came in to lunch whistling. He tilted Helen's chin and kissed her lips. "We've declared a half-holiday," he grinned. "Dave's corning in at about three for a powwow. Don't count on it, but I believe the split is off, for the moment. He says we'll talk it over before we do anything irrevocable." Helen hugged him, found Nicky in the kitchen, and hugged her, too. Magically the air lightened and became jolly. This was well worth last night's humiliation, thought Nicky. She left the house before David came, and made her way up to the stables. Toni was in her stall, sleek and plaited, pawing and whining in her delight at Nicky's visit. She mouthed up the loose sugar and some ants with it from the proffered palm, and nosed the feminine shoulder. Nicky stroked her neck and whispered nonsense. The touch of the silky coat held infinite balm.

Toward the end of the week Peter Wilshaw drove up to the plantation. He was going to Bolende with his chief and he might be away two or three weeks. He looked excited and mysterious, and hinted at wonderful news to be written to his father and Sarah. He seemed completely to have forgotten the moment's madness on the club terrace, and Nicky wished it were as easy for women to dispel incidents they would rather not remember. There had been only bitterness in kissing Peter, the scathing bitterness of self-contempt. Well, she supposed that was the sort of thing one lived down, within one's conscience. But for Helen's renewed exuberance, those last weeks would have been dark indeed for Nicky. Helen sparkled with hope and enthusiasm. Even the heat, which was working up to an equatorial zenith, did not dry up her enjoyment of the season. Though she and John had been married nine years, this was the first December they had ever spent together, and she meant to pack into it as much of the festive spirit as it would hold. Margaret wrote that she had at last exploded the theory of Santa Claus. When the sweep came in the summer he actually brought down with the soot the note I sent up nannny's chimney last Christmas, you know, the one asking for a toy xylophone. That means Santa didn't get the note, but I got the xylophone. I believe grandpa bought it, though he says he can't remember. Two more teeth have come out, and the gardener says if I don't keep my mouth shut I'll have buses backing in. Another tooth is hanging like a door on one hinge. Please ask Nicky to write me some more about Samuel, the cook. The child had included a further chapter of adventures concerning Pimple, the wooden pig—who had now reached Bagdad in his travels—and a diminutive embroidered mat, which had obviously been washed and tidied up by nanny. When Helen had duly wept over the epistle and set it aside for John, she leaned back in her favorite corner of the sofa and thought, not of her small daughter away in England, but of Nicky, who was just across the room, wrestling with appliqué flowers intended for her bedspread. The small parcel of cutouts had arrived two or three mails previously from a store at the Cape, but Nicky, apparently disinclined from the tedious job, had continually put off starting it. Even now, her expression was bleak, not all sweet and engrossed as it usually was when she was engaged upon this sort of task and Helen rather thought that she tackled it merely because any occupation was better than none. Once or twice of late, Nicky had fallen into a silent mood. Helen wondered how deeply her feelings had become involved with David, and whether his rumoured connections with Diana were in the nature of a death blow. At the interview with him the other day she had put out a feeler. He had mentioned the house he meant to build and the specially treated wood he had ordered for floors; the tiled hall and kitchen. "Sounds like a palace in the wilderness," she chaffed him. He gave her a tight-lipped smile. "I'll tell you something, Helen. This project first entered my mind when I heard that you were coming out to John. I thought you wouldn't last longer than three months. . . ." "You hoped it, too!" "Maybe," he admitted, "though from what he had told me about you I was fairly certain it would be the devil of a job to send you away once you were here. I made up my mind then that if you stayed we'd separate, and I'd build the kind of home a man of our means could be proud of."

"You know, David, sooner or later you'll have to admit that a house isn't a home without a woman to run it." Suprisingly he answered, "No one's to know that I haven't acknowledged it already—to myself." Then with a return of cynicism, "You may scorn us bachelors, Helen, but life for us is singularly uncomplicated." She laughed. "So that's why you aren't married. You simply haven't the nerve!" "Courage is the least of it," he returned mockingly. "Up to now I haven't had the time." "And now?" His only reply was a satirical twist of the mouth, but Helen had the impression that the subject irritated him. Perhaps he had got wind of the rumor and conjecture surrounding himself and Diana, and was heartily sick of being the center of gossip. Helen cast a tender glance across at Nicky. "Are the appliqués going to work out well?" "Fairly. Two poppies and three leaves in each corner. You don't think they will be too much?" "No. It's a full-size bed and your room is really awfully stark and white. It would be nice if you could get it done before the party." "I'll try." She swept up the trimmings into one hand. "You've never told me whether David 's refusal is still . . . brutal and resolute." "He's compromised, most charmingly. Dinner and an hour or two with us and the rest of the evening to the Carlyns'. I feel specially pleased about that, because it appears the Carlyns asked him first." So that was all right, thought Nicky. Helen and John would be thankful. David would enjoy the best of two parties, and she herself might know the wry satisfaction of having righted an unintended wrong. And after Christmas? Could she go on like this, the heart pressed out of her with love for David, and watch him grow farther and farther away from her? Congratulate him when at last he announced his engagement to Diana, make one of the assembly to witness his marriage and offer a hand in conventional congratulations? And when the couple had settled six miles away at Palmer's Reach, could she remain in John's house, receive them as guests, visit them and exclaim over the grand new home? No, that was a great deal more than flesh and blood could be expected to stand.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BY THE WEEKEND before Christmas everything except the usual last-minute preparations was ready for the party. An invitation to dinner on the Sunday decided them to spend Saturday night in Port Fargas, and John drove in to arrive at the club by seven-thirty. The few trimmings that festooned the club lampshades were faded and damp-streaked from storage, though new sprays of artificial holly poked from the vases on the tables, and a bouquet of real mistletoe, yellow and withered by heat but still retaining a number of berries, hung upside down from the center lamp of the ballroom. The gathering that evening was particularly hilarious. Many offices had closed down for the whole week, and the men were anticipating a riot of eating, polo, dancing, and all the usual incidental holiday fun.

It was toward the end of the evening, in the ladies' lounge, that Nicky came upon a girl of her own age, spread forlornly over a very large chair, her shoes kicked off and her light, sandy curls gone dark at the temples with sweat. The brown eyes opened and looked at Nicky with pathetic inquiry. "Does it get much hotter than this?" "A few degrees. You're new to Port Fargas, aren't you?" "Straight from the boat, and already I'm beginning to wonder what's hit me. I've read of the tropics, but I didn't imagine it could ever be as bad as this. I believe I shouldn't dwell so much upon the heat and flies if everything else hadn't gone wrong." "Has it? Poor dear. Can an old hand help?" "It's sweet of you, but I don't think so." The girl shifted into a more graceful position and went on ruefully, "I came here

expecting to spend a month with my fiancé, and now I find that he's in the jungle somewhere, and may not return for weeks. The people I've met have been awfully kind, but no one can tell me exactly where he is, and it does look as though my journey might be altogether wasted. On no account can I stay longer than a month, because I have to sail with my mother." "Is she in Port Fargas with you?" "Heavens, no! It was as much as I could do to induce her to come ashore for half an hour. Mother's gone on to the Cape to see my elder sister. I have to pick up her boat when she returns. I did telegraph Peter, but when I got here they told me the cable is still in the club, awaiting him." "Did you say Peter? Peter Wilshaw?" "Do you know him, too? Everyone seems to. I'm Sarah Kent." Nicky laughed. "I ought to have guessed it. He's talked to me about you for hours." Sarah sat up, and her little snub nose took a sparkle all its own. "Did he tell you we're going to be married some day, when he can convince my father that he hasn't any more wild oats to sow? Daddy's the reason we have to keep our engagement secret. He's quite certain Peter's not sober enough to hold a job and a wife as well. Please say that you don't agree with him." Nicky had taken to this talkative young woman with the blatant dusting of freckles across her nose. "Then you're not officially engaged?" she asked. "We don't talk about it at home, but I'm twenty-two and could marry Peter tomorrow—if he were here!" She added miserably: "I promised mother I wouldn't do anything foolish, or I'd jolly well find out where Peter is and follow him. Honestly, you can't think how I feel, stranded in this awful place alone, after looking forward so frantically to seeing him. It's nearly two years since we met." Her eyes widened, expressive with fright. "Oh, dear, supposing he's changed towards me!" "He hasn't," Nicky reassured her. "You may be sure that every word he's written to you has come from the heart. With Peter it's Sarah first, last, and all the time." Sarah forgot her own troubles for a minute. "You're Nicola Graham, aren't you? Peter says you've pulled him through no end of bad patches." "You're the one who needs a leg up now. Where are you staying?" "In the ladies' wing of this club. It's pretty ghastly, because scarcely anyone lives here and I have whole corridor to myself." "You can't go on living here. Women never do; they stay with friends." She smiled suddenly. "I live out at the Raynor plantation. If you wouldn't mind sharing a bedroom

with me, I'm sure Helen and John would love to have you—at least for Christmas week." "What about Peter? How am I going to see him?" she wailed. "A messenger could take a letter from you to Bolende. It's about six hours' journey by car." "Bolende. Are you sure that's where he is? No one else could tell me where he might be. Is it a secret?" "He didn't say so, though he went off very mysteriously. Peter's there with his chief " Sarah looked reverent and at the same time downcast. "That finishes it. I can't possibly send a special messenger to Peter with his chief there. He's an ogre, and even Peter's afraid of him." "After all, it is Christmas," Nicky returned lightly. "Think about it for a day or two. When you've recovered we'll go out and find Helen. You'll like Helen." Groaning, Sarah fitted her feet back into the gold slippers and it was Nicky's turn to take a seat while the other girl washed and made up her face. Sarah was exactly as Peter had described her; she even wore the smoky tone of blue that he said suited her more ravishingly than any other color, though Nicky, skeptical of masculine choice, thought that the brown eyes and pale hair would respond to tangerine tints. To Peter, Sarah's habit of chatter was the adorable bubbling of a delightful brook, and Nicky had to admit that in this girl it was attractive. That night Sarah slept at the club, but the next morning she IPaccompanied the Raynors back to the plantation. A camp bed was set up for her in Nicky's room, and there she talked them both to sleep. "You won't tell anyone that Peter and I are engaged, will you—well, maybe Helen, if she has to know—but no one else. My father would be furious if he thought it was being gossiped about all over West Africa." This artless phrase slipped out with the greatest gravity. "Of course, you knew already, but I think Peter must consider you very discreet. I'm glad I met you, Nicky. You're nice." Nicky lay in bed and thought how strange it was that she should be the receptacle for confidence of both Peter and his fiancée. In a way they were much alike; too much alike, some would have said, to make a success of marriage together. Yet they were still quite crazy with love for each other after two years' separation. She was glad for Peter—and for the bride-to-be. Sarah racily gave out tidbits of the kind of news that seemed never to seep into the letters from England. She joked about the latest films and new hair styles, an exhibition of modes from Paris. "I wonder if anyone ever does wear those outrageous hats and dresses?" she queried naively. "In photographs, Frenchwomen look just as human as we do!" Sarah also knew dozens of quite adult games that could be played with pencil and paper. She helped decorate the rooms and arrange the presents, and fell into a fit of laughter at Helen's substitute for a Christmas tree—a branch of bokungu trimmed and snipped out of recognition. Her effervescent humor, though frequently interspersed with lamentations over Peter's absence, infected the whole household. On Christmas evening, as soon as it was dark, two huge lamps sent out beams of greeting at the entrance to the compound. Cars parked on the tennis court, and by a quarter to eight the house was thronged with gaily dressed women and men in white, with here and there a gaudy cummerbund.

Nicky was well down the table from David. She noticed that he often turned to Sarah, who was on his right, and smiled in the tolerant, mocking way he used to smile at herself. It was the sardonic, though gentle amusement of the mature West Coaster for the female tenderfoot, but with Sarah he appeared to unbend to an unusual degree. When dancing began he swung around with Helen and one or two others. He stayed for a crowded Paul Jones. Helen was manipulating the record player, and the point at which the music first ceased might have been intentional. It caught Nicky between David and a young bank official, and David between Nicky and a friend of Helen's. Without hesitation David led the older woman into the waltz. Over her head he cast Nicky a brief but quite pleasant nod. She might have been a girl of distant acquaintance invited in from Port Fargas. It was their only contact before he left, at ten, for the Carlyns'. The party ended on an exalted note at three in the morning, and all except two young bachelor friends of Peter's left in their cars. These two took a couch each for a few hours and stayed to breakfast, after which they drove the two girls into the port for lunch, polo and a spontaneously joyful evening at the club. So Christmas was come and gone. Sarah again grew vocally desperate. "Mr. Rivers must be the horridest man in the world," she complained. "You'd have thought he'd let Peter come back for Christmas." "He may have given Peter the option and he preferred to stay." "When he could have had a gorgeous time in Port Fargas?" "Peter doesn't know you're here, remember, and Bolende is lovely. I heard at the club last night that Mrs. Rivers is there, too." Sarah's disconsolate pout magically smoothed itself out. Her eyes snapped. "Nicky, I promised mother to do nothing foolish. Could the journey to Bolende be considered in that category?" "Chasing into the wilds after a young man? Wouldn't it be wiser to send a messenger first?" "And have Old Man Rivers refuse to let Peter come away! I should be in a worse mess and loads of time wasted. Once I'm in Bolende he can't help but be polite, and even if he isn't, I'll have Peter." "John might lend you a car and driver. It's a most uncomfortable journey to make alone, if you're unused to the jungle and laid out by heat. I still think . ..." Sarah chipped in, "Not alone, Nicky. You're going with me. We'll make a real holiday of it and confront old father Thames as bold as brass—at least, I'll be bold, and if he threatens to burst his banks you can pour on the oil. Let's find Helen and enlist her on our side." Nicky allowed herself to be swept along by Sarah's impetuosity. She remembered the peace of Bolende, the cool rush of the falls, and the purple gold mist over the mountains, but if Sarah's objective had been a pest ridden village in the swamps, she was just as likely to have agreed to accompany her. Just now she would have grasped any means of escape. Helen disliked the plan, but was drawn into it by Nicky's pleading. Sarah was scatterbrained and couldn't be allowed to trail off alone through tropical forest and white-hot scrub country. So, two days before the holiday week ended, Helen stood out on the road and wished them goodbye. The driver and an extra man occupied the front seats of the station

wagon, and in the body of it, the two girls sat surrounded by the heaps of gear necessary for the briefest stay at the rest house. She watched the car vanish in a cloud of red dust, and then turned to walk back through her garden. Of Sarah she thought not at all. That young woman could exclaim her way through anything. It was again with Nicky, grave-eyed, efficient, retiring, that her mind was occupied. For the hundredth time she questioned whether she had done right in dragging her out to the heat and monotony of Africa. BLANDLY, SARAH IGNORED the grandeur of the oil palms. "They bore me," she said in answer to Nicky's short explanation. "Miles of hairy old palms sticking their silly little tops straight into the sky." Of the cacao trees she admitted grudgingly, "They're quite lovely, but the leaves are too dark. Give me the linden and the beech." Just off the track among the rubber trees, they saw a tethered horse that Nicky recognized. As they took a bend in the track Sarah laughed. "Here's David Raynor. He'll wonder where the dickens we're off to, but I bet he won't ask. Hi, David!" That was typically Sarah. It was a matter of no import to her that the most successful planter on the coast should be in conclave with a superintendent. She made the driver stop and jumped out of the car. Reluctantly, Nicky followed. David sent the man about his business and gave Sarah an ironic bow. "Good morning, ladies. Do you happen to have a spare flask of coffee with you?" "Not a whole flask, but we'll give you a cupful," Sarah promised. " Aren 't you surprised to see us?" "Jungle roads are noted for startling phenomena. It's a grand morning for a drive." "You call this withering temperature grand! Is he kidding, Nicky?" "It's going to be hotter. We oughtn't to stay." "Half a jiff. Let David have his coffee." She climbed back into the car and looked for the flask. Nicky, left with David, stared away at the trees. "They're looking very healthy," she commented offhandedly. "Most things are healthy in their own environment," he answered as distantly, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he moved over to the car and rallied Sarah for being a slowpoke. The tilted nose emerged and she twinkled up at him. He took the hard biscuit covered with a square of tinned meat and bit into it with strong white teeth, letting her hold the cup for him till the last mouthful was gone. "Very nice," he stated when his cup was empty. "The more acceptable for being unexpected. For that, I'll go with you a little way and we can take the path down to Palmer's Reach. If you're very good I'll show you the beginnings of my new house." Perhaps it was the trickle of sweat down Nicky's spine that made her shiver. "We really must get on," she said. "Sorry, David," airily from Sarah. "We'll give your new house the once-over on our way back." "When will that be?" "In a week's time—or even two." "I noticed the stuff in the car," he said coolly. "Are you up to something mad?" "Are we, Nicky?" Sarah demanded mischievously. "Shall we trust him?" "He won't be interested," Nicky replied with an effort. "Do let's be going, Sarah."

"There's only one place you can be making for on this road," he said, "and that's Bolende." "He works everything out, doesn't he?" asked Sarah admiringly. She winked openly. "I wonder if his calculations reveal the name of the person we're going to visit?" "Sorry to have kept you," he remarked abruptly. "In you get, Sarah. I hope you're not going to regret this journey." As the car started up he flicked a glance at Nicky. "Remember me to young Wilshaw." "Isn't he clever?" gurgled Sarah irrepressibly. Not so clever as vindictive, was Nicky's mental comment, recalling the derisive glitter in his eyes. He thought she was running after Peter Wilshaw and using Sarah as company. Not that it was important, but it did seem as if he forgot her existence except when there was something to taunt her with. The trip was longer and hotter even than the previous one. Poor Sarah collapsed and Nicky nearly joined her, but one way and another so much time had been wasted that they daren 't stop for more than a few minutes at a time, to cool the engine. On the final climb the air freshened and Sarah recovered, but she tottered from the car like a lame calf. As they came within sight of the rest house she gave a cry, for there was Peter, his dripping head just rising from a bucket. He looked, shook his head like a dog, and looked again, blear eyed and incredulous. "Peter!" "Sarah!" The sudden ache in her throat couldn't be envy, protested nicky to herself. It was gladness for the young couple locked in each other's arms as though they could never again be prised art. OLD MAN RIVERS was only slightly offended by the invasion of two young ladies. For some reason he was so pleased with peter that he forgot to be shocked, and soon he was persuading s wife to share sleeping quarters with the unexpected guests. Mrs. Rivers, like Mrs. Carlyn and many others who overstay their stamina in the tropics, had prematurely reached middle . She showed neither delight nor disappointment with the trip, and when Nicky, having no Peter to fill her mind and her me, offered her services as general domestic servant, she was accepted with apathy. Nicky knew that it was not selfishness which sent Peter and sarah off alone together. Two years' parting is a long time to rake up for, and they did invite her, though without effusion, come too. Watching them around the camp was as much as le could bear. Intimate wordless exchanges sandwiched between ecstatic chatter and serious discussion; her opinion aught and disregarded; and in both of them a light-hearted contempt for most things that could have no part in their future. It was not long before Nicky learned what had brought Peter and his chief to Bolende. "Remember the little packets of soil I used to collect, Vicky?" Peter reminded her eagerly. "Some of them—from the other side of the river—showed traces of minerals that are usually found in the surface soil above copper. I told Mr. Rivers and he planned this trip, and brought along an expert. He's camping at the diggings now. It's copper, all right, and the old man is going to float a company and give me a directorship. What do you know about that, Sally, my sweet? Your father can't look down his nose at a company director for your husband." Sarah was glum. "I think my skin must be the wrong pigment for Africa. Peter, if you could see the rash all round my waist!" "We shouldn't have to live here, silly Sally. I don't know a

thing about copper mining. The directorship will be a courtesy gesture for stumbling on the site. Of course," he added cautiously, "these matters take time. Nobbling an option on the land is the first step. The old man is going straight to the Land Office when we get back next week." "Could you possibly hustle him to get things through before my month is up?" Sarah wanted to know. "I mean, if we could confront mother with a big businessman for a son-in-law, she might even risk giving us daddy's consent to marry in Port Fargas before I leave." The fair Peter and his freckled Sarah gazed at each other in a new, awestruck silence, that shut out Nicky entirely. The days were long and languorous. When Peter went off with his chief the two girls picnicked down the river amid the sandbanks, which were dry and white in this, the hottest season of the year. On Sunday Peter came, too, and brought the copper expert to make four. Between them, they contrived plenty of fun, and the weekend soon slipped away, to be followed by a few blank days before Peter announced that Mr. Rivers had decided to return to Port Fargas on Friday, and he and the girls must drive down on Thursday. This was sooner than Nicky had anticipated. It brought close her own problem. At Bolende she could mark time, stave off the immediate future with jobs around the rest house and tiring walks. Suddenly she realized how grateful she was to Sarah for providing a means of temporary escape from her mental prison ... yes, prison, for even had she been willing to confide her despair, there was only one woman she would have asked to listen. And Helen, by the very fact of being a Raynor, was out of the question. So it was with a mixture of depression and half-formed resolution that she set about packing and ordering the gear to be stowed in the car. The addition of Peter and one of his suitcases to the load in the body of the car caused a tight fit, but the journey home from Bolende was always less torrid than the trip out. The scrub country could be crossed before the sun was painfully high, and a slight down gradient most of the way encouraged reckless driving. Mid-afternoon they reached the fringe of the Raynor plantations. A mile or two in, at the corner of a branch track through the rubber, a new sign had been erected, a plain white painted post bearing an arm which, in black letters, announced Palmer's Reach. Sarah, from her pillow of blankets, said, "Peter, be a darling and tell the driver to back the car and go down to Palmer's Reach. We promised David Raynor to look over his house." Peter obeyed first and then protested. "We're all too fagged to go visiting, and I'm sure you're not a bit interested in his house." "We promised, didn't we, Nicky?" "I doubt if he expected us to keep it," Nicky answered. She had already decided to take her view of the new abode from the car. The rubber trees ended and the path twisted through a thicket of bamboo and palm saplings to the edge of a large rectangular clearing stretching down to the river. Nicky's heart turned when she saw the house, so huge and slendid, only the shell completed; but its tall clay-distempered walls and thick thatched roof predicted an interior luxury to match the best on the coast. The laborers had finished for the day and the place looked deserted, but Nicky would not leave the car. Stiffly, the other two climbed out and walked the couple of hundred

yards to the house. Nicky saw them stand still in front of the building, and then meander around it. They had almost returned to the front steps when David came out. Nicky sank back into her corner, thankful she had resisted a swift desire to look at the house from facing the river. The three mounted the steps into the house. Fully ten minutes passed before they reappeared, and at once turned toward the car. Possibly Sarah had dropped one of her usual bricks, for she looked slightly injured and the men were smiling. Automatically, Nicky stepped out and took the few paces to meet them. Without a hat, David's hair looked tougher and springier, and his skin a shade paler than the usual mahogany tan. The open collar of his shirt lifted in a faint breeze. He said nothing till Peter had vanished inside the car with Sarah, after which he bent upon Nicky the old baffling expression. "So you weren't interested in seeing inside the mudpile?" "Is there anything to see?" "You might have taken the trouble to find out. The rooms are marked out and some of the interior walls up. I thought women enjoyed wandering over houses in all stages of erection." "Perhaps another time. I'm rather tired." His glance sharpened. "You look thoroughly washed out. What have you been doing to yourself at Bolende?" "Nothing strenuous. I didn't climb the falls." An instant's pause before he retorted, "If you had, it wouldn't have given you eyes like holes in a blanket and that clammy look around the temples. Sure you haven't a temperature?" "It may be subnormal," with an attempt at flippancy. "I must have been thinking too much." "What about?" His tone, peremptory, domineering, assuming rights he did not possess, checked Nicky's impulse to talk. She shrugged. "Toting up the balance sheet after nearly a year in Africa." "How did it come out?" "Fairly even." "No dead losses?" "No," slowly. "No dead losses." Nicky felt weary, no match at all for his wits. Her hand went up to push back her hair and she swayed. She tried to withdraw from the arm he slipped around her shoulders, but he kept it there till she had reached the door of the car. "Look here," he said below his breath. "Forget the quarrel and be friends. I hate fighting as much as you do. Is it agreed?" She nodded weakly. "And, Nicky, promise me you won't trail off again with that irresponsible young woman. She's a menace." Entirely overcome by the new soft, vibrant tones of his voice, Nicky nodded again. "You're flat out. Go straight home and rest. Tell John I may drop in after dinner tonight. " It was an entranced, bewildered Nicky who sank down between a traveling bag and a mattress and, as the car moved off, smiled a hazy goodbye. Sarah had slumped into a doze, but now she roused and cried, "Cheer ho!" through the window, before raising

her feet to the summit of a pile of saucepans and clasping her knees. Her snubby little face veered from the sleeping Peter to Nicky. "Peter's going to be the most convenient husband. He always takes refuge in sleep when he's cross." Nicky would rather have been silent, but silence and Sarah didn't mix. "What's he cross about?" "My tongue slipped. I told David Raynor we're engaged." Was that why...? "But Peter's in favor of telling the world," Nicky said quickly. "Yes. I was the one who wouldn't let him. But David asked questions, and I've never been able to lie convincingly." Nicky began to understand. David, sure now that her interest in Peter was purely friendly, was willing to overlook the past month or two and revert to a more companionable relationship for the last few weeks of his stay at the plantation. Why should he care whether or not she were in love with Peter? Was it possible that he had been certain in his own mind that Peter meant nothing to her? Mightn't he have blamed his own lack of response to Nicola Graham for throwing her into the arms of another for consolation? Her cheeks burned. David was incalculable, his mind a well-guarded mystery. But back at Palmer's Reach she had been palpitatingly aware of a change in him, a noticeable softening of his whole manner, a subdued emotion in him that she wanted to believe was not pity for her weariness, nor compassion for a disappointed woman. She could feel the iron of his arm across her back, the grip of his fingers upon her shoulder, and an unprecedented gentleness in him. She would have liked to close her eyes and sink into a waking dream in which hard words and distances were wiped out, and only that strong arm and his warm breath were close and real. But Sarah still chattered. "That little shack of David's is going to be some place when it's finished. I believe he means to break right out and entertain on a lavish scale. Is he going to marry Mrs. Godfrey?" Nicky sat up straight and still. " Why do you ask?" "No particular reason," came the nonchalant reply. "She certainly looked cozy in there—very much at home. There was a marvelous picnic basket on a box near the wall, and she sat on a cushioned seat improvised from a couple of jerricans and his jacket. It looked as if we interrupted a pretty little tea party. She's quite beautiful." "Quite," Nicky acknowledged bleakly. Her eyes swam in a hot mist. "Sorry to be such a rotten listener, Sarah, but I'm sleepy. Mind if I drowse?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT SEEMED that one could return to England with much less trouble than it took to leave the country. No vaccinations and inoculations were necessary, no fighting for priorities on the steamers. One was expected to take one's turn on the waiting list of passengers, but it was not unduly long. She could sail in four to six weeks, the clerk told her. Nicky came from the shipping office feeling numb. She walked in the shade of the stores near the waterfront and wondered best how to tell Helen. Breezily, she thought, with a dig at the climate and a lighthearted confession that at twenty-one most girls

began looking around for somewhere to settle. Africa was all right, but she couldn't see her future in the tropics. Helen would not be deceived, of course, but she would valiantly take her cue and "understand perfectly. She could be certain that Helen would ease her going, however hard she felt it personally. And when she reached England? A job, she supposed. Companion to some woman, or receptionist in a clinic. She had a little nursing experience, and it would not be difficult to contact former associates and patients of her father. It was not the idea of seeking a post that frightened, but the stark loneliness of a future that held no David, nor even the bittersweet likelihood of seeing him sometimes, hearing his firm step and the crisp tones which never failed to quicken her heart. She was slowly threading among locals who already traded the salt and tobacco brought in by the merchant vessel lying in the harbor. The clack and quarrel of tongues was ugly and continuous, and some of the traders came unpleasantly close to thrust their produce right under her nose. In avoiding one of these she stepped aside and her shoe caught one of the mugs displayed on the ground by a copper-skinned Hausa. The man at once set up a racket that ignored all Nicky's attempts to pay for the damage—a broken handle. Suddenly a coin spun into the air and landed cleanly on the man 's nose. "Quit your row," a voice ordered, "or you'll be lugged aboard the Merino and set to scrub decks for your keep!" Nicky smiled her thanks at the thick-set man whose brown hair curled tightly over the band of his peaked naval cap. The cap's starchy cover was his only concession to abnormal heat. In other respects his uniform was that of any officer in the merchant service, carefully preserved for going ashore. "That was kind of you," she said. "You're welcome. Don't worry about the cash. I'll have my money's worth out of him when I come back. Can I take you anywhere?" His voice, slightly nasal but not unpleasant, belonged to nowhere in particular. The slight familiarity with which he lounged along at her side was the casual friendliness of a sailor in port—any port. He brought out cheap cigarettes and offered her one, and when she declined he screwed up his small green eyes in a smile. "I don't blame you. You need a seaman's constitution to stand them." They came to the corner of the wide, white avenue that led up to the residential quarter. "Is this where we part? It's me for a shave and a haircut before I make any social calls." "Thanks so much for putting the trader in his place," said Nicky. "The name's Kendall—Jeff Kendall of the Merino. See you again, maybe. So long." He flipped his cap and swung away. The Merino. Where had she heard that name before, and in what connection? Had Helen mentioned it on her excursions to the stores, or John, when arranging cargoes? And then she remembered. Diana had more or less forced David to drive her back from Bolende because the Merino was in port. She had a friend aboard—a cousin or something. Having traced the connection, Nicky at once forgot the sailor and his ship. She found Helen resting on the club terrace. John had gone off with other men to the polo, and the club was quiet and cool, its palms gently gesticulating in the afternoon breeze. "What did you buy?" Helen asked lazily. "Nothing. Apart from the usual pottery there was only tobacco and salt."

"You might have saved your energy. It's delicious here." Nicky sank beside her onto the wicker couch. " While I was down that end I slipped into the steamship office. The shipping position is much easier than when we came." "It was bound to improve. By the time we're ready to go home there'll be no difficulty at all." Struck by a disturbing thought she squared around to face Nicky. "Why did you make enquiries about shipping?" "No harm in knowing," she replied evasively, "After all, I can't "stay here forever, and if I'm going it might as well be before the rains." The tone and flush told Helen a great deal. She leaned sideways into her cushions. "I've never contemplated your leaving us, except to get married. You're part of our family, Nicky. We'd miss you terribly." "Still, you must admit the heat is a little too much of a good thing," Nicky said lightly. "I've gone thin and my complexion isn't what it was. It's all very well for you. You've got your man." "There are plenty of men here who'd jump at the chance of marrying you. " "For instance?" "Any of the bachelors who live at the club, or the planters who come in at weekends." Nicky was still smiling, a tight, defensive smile. "Are you advising me to marry without love?" "Of course not. But . . . well, second best is preferable to none at all." Nicky paled a little. "You know even better than I do that in marriage there's no such thing as second best," she said. "Perhaps I ought to tell you that my name is on the passenger list at the shipping office. The clerk thought I might leave in about six weeks." "Nicky, I'm sorry . . . so very sorry. I know how you feel, but it'll be ten times worse if you're lonely and without an anchor. You're not a coward—you won't run away." An abrupt little laugh broke from Nicky. "Which do you mean ... that it'll be pluckier to go or stay?" "I want you to stay, my dear, at least until . . . well, until David has left the plantation. See how you like it with just us there. We'll give regular parties and keep a few horses." Helen spoke pleadingly. "You can drive a car into Port Fargas whenever you like—go really gay and have a whale of a time. You've stuck too close to the house. Please consider it, Nicky." She couldn't refuse so reasonable a request. "I'll try it, Helen." But her name would stay on the shipping list. That door of escape must be left wide open. Helen's hand closed over hers and squeezed, and Nicky quelled an almost overpowering desire to turn her hot cheeks into the broad shoulder and weep. Both women were relieved when the waiter brought tea. John came back and drank thirstily, afterward suggesting a run around the coast and through the hills before dinner. At Helen's command, he let Nicky take the wheel, and the excitement of driving and his heavy attempts at sarcasm when she took a corner wide or accelerated in the wrong places, helped to dispel some of the shadows. They dined at the private house of friends. Toward ten o'clock someone remarked that an hour's dancing at the club would be jolly, so the group walked through the sweet, sea-smelling night, reaching the ballroom just as the band struck up a waltz. Nicky danced several times before David came in, alone. She saw him leaning carelessly against a pillar, a drink in his hand. He caught her eye and smiled, and as

the music ended he pushed his glass onto a table and came across to her in the way he had: making straight for his objective in spite of the crowd that intervened. "Dance?" he asked, and reading her acquiescence in the two spots that flared on her cheekbones, he guided her out to the floor. They danced in silence till David said, "You weren't at the polo this afternoon." "We rested at the club. John went." "I saw him. He said you'd gone shopping." "I shopped, then rested." For a minute they danced on. Then, "We haven't forgiven each other yet, have we, Nicky? You still think me insufferably overbearing." "And you?" she asked, not daring to look up. "And I," he said in a harsh undertone, "still feel an intense scorn for the silly creature who kissed another girl's fiancé as a balm to her injured vanity." The words, sharp as flints and totally unexpected, caught Nicky like a whiplash. She stopped dead and dropped her arms. Another couple shouldered into her and she turned blindly, unaware that he was close behind, and made for one of the doors to the terrace. She ran down the steps into the grounds. He caught a fold of her dress and she pulled up, panting. "Look here, my child, it's time the air was cleared between us!" "If you think I'm going to stand here while you hurl your insults—" "Is it insulting to tax a woman with the truth?" "It isn't the truth!" "Are you asking me to doubt the evidence of my own eyes, or denying that injured vanity had anything to do with your behavior with young Wilshaw that night?" "I did kiss Peter, but only because he was feeling low after malaria." "And also because I was watching I didn't know it at the time. Till Sarah Kent told me differently the other day, I took it that you and Wilshaw were secretly engaged." His face bent near, his attitude grim. "Just how far have things gone between you and that young man?" She backed away, till her hair caught a twig from an overhanging bough. "I don't understand. You've just admitted that you know he and Sarah are engaged," she began helplessly. "This is the tropics where feelings are apt to run high," he cut in firmly. "You were here and she wasn't. I know that you've been to his room in the Club at least once. . . ." Nicky stared, the horror of what he was implying taking gradual shape in her mind. "You hateful beast!" she breathed. He seemed suddenly to realize that her hair was caught and she was trembling, for his hands came up as though to free her and he muttered an unconvincing apology. The next minute Diana appeared through the trees, with a man at her side—a man whose evening attire was odd; a navy blue uniform with a light blue silk shirt. "Darling, we wondered where you'd got to," said Diana. "We couldn't wait all night at the bar. Oh, Jeff, this is Nicola Graham. Mr. Kendall." Nicky didn't notice the intended slight in the introduction. She was gathering her scattered senses, mustering a nervous smile for the obliging sailor of this afternoon. "Hello," he said. "Will you have a drink with me on the terrace?" His earlier jauntiness had slipped. He was a man privately at war. Thankfully, Nicky took his arm and a separate path from the one followed by the others. As they reached

the terrace, of one accord they halted and watched the approach of those other two figures, the tall, wide-shouldered man in white, and the woman in flowing gold. "Striking couple, aren't they?" he said, and from his tone she suspected that his mouth was wry. In an instinctive flash she knew that this man was in love with Diana Godfrey. DIANA SAILED into the Carlyns' lounge ahead of her escort. She allowed him to take her wrap and then lifted the napkin from the tray on the table. "Cheese savories and coffee. Like some, Jeff?" "Is everyone else in bed?"

"Naturally. It's nearly two." She offered him a plate with one hand and the dish with the other. "Try one." He relieved her of both burdens and replaced them on the tray. The action was purposeful, the set of his mouth unpleasant. "You're not putting me off any longer, Di. I've waited long enough. When are you going to marry me?" "Jeff, we've had it all out before. Last year in England, and here a couple of months ago. You know in your heart that I'd never make a sailor's wife." "I'll leave the sea and live wherever you like." "And what would you use for money—rose petals and silver horse shoes?" "Money! Money's your yardstick, isn't it? I'd nail a job all right, and we'd get through like other couples till we found our feet." He came near her and his voice went low. "It's got to be, Di. That last time in England you practically promised." She increased the distance between them by a few inches, .k up a cheese straw and nibbled it. "Circumstances have changed since then." "Yes," he returned bitterly. "You've discovered rich pickings. Who paid for that dress?" "Jeff, that's horrible! You know very well I bought my clothes in England with the last of Roy's ready money." "You haven't denied taking cash from Raynor." "I have to live," she flung at him. "You don't suppose I let he Carlyns keep me!" "Why ask him for cash? Why not raise a mortgage on the plantation?" "That's what's happened . sort of. David will ultimately take over the plantation, so he's paying me a little on account." she flicked the cheese straw onto a plate and turned to him. `Jeff ... darling, please don't spoil these few days we have together. Time's so short . . . so dreadfully short." Silenced by the quiver in her voice he took her shoulders and drew her within his arms, and for a while Diana ceased to act and became responsive and dependent. Holding her, he spoke close to her ear. "You couldn't feel like this about anyone else. It doesn't happen twice in a lifetime. It's no use posing with me, Di. I know you're hoping to marry Raynor for his money, but I won't let you do it. We wouldn't be poverty poor if we married. I've a bit put by and you'd have the money from the plantation for yourself." "I'm afraid the plantation is of more moral value than financial. David Raynor has spent hundreds on clearing and restarting production." "Then why are you hanging onto the title deeds?" He paused for her reply, and when none came he thrust her away from him. "You don't have to tell me. I know. You're

clinging to the fiction that everyone's babbling around here. I've heard it, too! The merging of the Godfrey and Raynor plantations. You're clever, Di, and thoroughly unscrupulous." "Don't Jeff. It's as much for you as for myself that I'm doing this." He glared, shoving back the brown hair with an angry gesture. "For me! Where do I come in after you've married the Fargas bank?" "I shouldn't stay here all the time. We could meet in England, or Las Palmas . . . anywhere." She warmed with eagerness. "No worries about keeping a wife, Jeff. Just grand holidays together." "You little cheat! By heaven, Di, you deserve a beating." For a moment she gazed at him, afraid; then she smiled, parting her lips into their most charming curves. "You'll feel differently when you've thought it over, out at sea. Be sweet to me, Jeff, for these three days." "I'm signing off the Merino," he said coolly, "and taking up residence in Port Fargas. If there's going to be a society wedding, I'll stay on the spot to watch it." He snatched up his cap and twirled it. "Seems to me, Di Godfrey, that David Raynor will get the thin edge of the bargain if he marries you. Good night." She let him go without a word. When the door had thudded shut, Diana quickly poured black coffee and drank it. The scene had unnerved her to an unusual degree. Jeff, with his rough sailor's ways, was the only man who could frighten her. She believed that if he were tried too far he would really give her a beating and hurt himself immeasurably in the process. It was unbearable to think of Jeff scarred in mind through her selfishness. Yet what other course could she follow? To live narrowly, without lovely clothes and lots of fun, was unthinkable. In obscurity she would shrivel and die. Even with Jeff it was not to be faced. She moved a little and saw her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. Exquisitely dressed silky hair only a shade paler than the gold tissue dress; perfectly molded cheekbones, eyes mysterious from mascara, a splendid neck. Mrs. David Raynor. Mrs. Jeff. . . . No! She had fought too hard and long for this to give up now. Money and jewels and attentions were the stuff of life itself. Jeff must be made to see it her way, the same way, and when he did all would be well again. She would be Mrs. David Raynor, but Jeff would hold her heart. SARAH KENT was back in the ladies' wing of the club. She had cabled her father about the discovery that had led to Peter's being offered a directorship, and awaited his blessing before making public her intention to marry in Port Fargas. Her mother would be easily won over once the paternal consent was obtained, but the days were narrowing, and it was a tossup whether Mr. Kent's cable or Mrs. Kent's boat would appear first. Peter was worried about the mining site. The land records showed it was private property, which meant negotiations with a private individual, who would stick out for a fabulous figure or insist that they had jumped his rights and claim damages. Silly Sarah wouldn't understand, he said, but he really must stick close to the office till the matter was settled. Alone, Sarah was disconsolate. Had there been plenty to do she would still have felt laid out by the hot, clinging wind that blew off the sea. When Nicky drove in alone midweek, Sarah welcomed her with a moist hug. They lunched with Peter and, when

he had gone back to his office, strolled out to the belt of palms above the beach. Sarah subsided into the sandy soil and reached a hand to pull Nicky down beside her. "I wish you lived in Port Fargas, Nicky. No one else here is approachable. The women are all married." "You talk as though they were a different race of people." "They are—practically. They're used to this life, and I couldn't ever be. You might, though, Nicky. You haven't gone hard-boiled, like the others. How long are you going to stay here?" "I don't know. Sarah," Nicky's voice changed a little. "Just when is your mother due?" "Tomorrow week. I believe the boat docks at dawn and leaves again about two in the afternoon." "You're quite determined not to sail with her?" "Unless Peter refuses to marry me!" "He won't do that," Nicky smiled. "Have you canceled your berth on board?" "I daren't, till the last minute." That was all Nicky wished to know. She stayed with Sarah till it was time to saunter back for a cup of tea at the club. Peter was there, impatiently pacing while he awaited their return. "Sarah, cut in and change into a nice frock. We're invited out for tea." When she had gone, Peter opened the car door for Nicky to enter. "You don't mind us dashing away, do you, Nicky? It means rather a lot to both of us. We've traced the owner of the land at Bolende, and now we have to sue for easy terms." He gave her his disarming grin. "I'll tell you about it some time. You're the best listener a fellow ever had ... including Sarah!" When she had left behind the twisting terraces of Port Fargas, Nicky became thoughtful. She wondered what was the quality that other women had and she lacked; the force that had hurled Sarah into Peter's arms; the subtle charm by which Diana had captured two hearts—not counting that of the husband who had died. She was too ordinary, Nicky told herself sadly. Even in this climate, where love and hate were close neighbors and tenderness was crowded out by the harsher emotions, she remained Nicky Graham, unsophisticated and vulnerable. Eleven months' contact with the steaming jungle, furious sun and myriads of pests had left her singularly untouched. She was older and, in some things, ten years wiser, but she had never ost her belief in the essential goodness of other people. That was why she was convinced that if, of the two men who oved her, Diana had chosen David, then it must be David whom she loved. David, who thought that Nicky's correct setting was a 'villa in an English suburb.' He was probably right. She felt no kinship with the adventuress, Diana. For Jeff Kendall, Nicky had sympathy. Jeff and she had loved a long way above themselves, he a woman to whom adulation and comfort were the salt of life, and she a man of steel who had lost few opportunities of openly scorning her youth and inexperience. Nicky's mouth twisted into a bitter little smile. She and Jeff should have consoled each other. At the sheds a driver took over, and she made her way to the house. The splitting up of the plantations was seldom alluded to. Tacitly, it was understood that when the house at Palmer's Reach was ready, David would move there and

automatically superintend all the land west of the dividing line on the map. No legal steps would be taken unless experience proved them prudent. Helen, as good as her promise, had already arranged a dinner party for the coming Saturday, and insisted on managing the catering without Nicky's help. Samuel, after a rebellious day during which he reverted to all the revolting habits that Nicky had taken so much trouble to cure, was bought over with an old suit of John's. Each morning Nicky walked up for a talk with Toni. Once, when she knew David was miles away, she rode into the jungle and found a stream that she couldn't remember having seen before. The ground around it sank with every footfall, but the horse trod delicately to a certain spot and took a drink. This must be a place to which he was often galloped for exercise. The idea pleased and comforted Nicky. David had not been asked to the dinner party. John had brought the information that his brother intended driving into Port Fargas on Saturday morning and spending the night at the club. He might not return till Monday. Nicky was relieved. She felt she would go to any lengths to avoid further contact with him, though it was not unnatural to pause and ponder what could keep him three days at the port. Their guests were two married couples, Peter and Sarah and a young friend of Peter's; a quieter, more homely affair than previous parties. After dinner John suggested cards. "Perhaps you younger ones would prefer to dance?" Helen remarked. "I'd rather take a walk," stated Nicky. "So would I," from Peter. Finally, the two girls with the two young men went out into the night. A strong breeze fluttered the trees and sent moths stinging against their faces; fireflies swept zigzag across the path. Where the track widened the four joined arms and crooned a little French song. At the little hill they stood and gazed at the unearthly red smoke from the village fires wreathing the trees and puffing a gray pall into the sky. Sarah shuddered. "How do you stand it, Nicky?" she whispered tensely. "I'd hate to live so near a native village." "You wouldn't, if you knew the people by name and doled out pills at the back door," Nicky answered softly. "There's nothing the least bit frightening about them, and their babies are lovely. We'll go back, if you like." The men lingered to light cigarettes. Sarah linked up with Nicky. At David's bungalow she shivered again. "There's something queer about men who live alone as he does," she declared. "I wonder why he hasn't married before. How old is he?" "Thirty-eight." Nicky waved her hand to indicate the palms and the village. "Men strike roots in the strangest places, and their women simply have to adapt themselves, as Helen has done." "That house at Palmer's Reach is going to be ravishing, but do you believe Diana will be happy there? She appears to me as worldly, and very much out for a good time." In a tight voice Nicky answered, "David talks of buying the Carlyns' house in Port Fargas, for weekends. If he ... marries Diana, he'll see that she gets a good time." "If he marries her! How extraordinary that you should say that. Surely you folk already know about it . . . the engage-tent, I mean?" "Engagement?" echoed Nicky blankly.

"Of course. Peter and I ran into them just as we were leaving. come here tonight. Diana and David, the Carlyns and one or two others. They were in the lobby at the club and Diana ,as flashing her ring, and everyone was talking. Suddenly here was a roar of laughter because Diana had her arms round david and was kissing him. I wanted to stay and congratulate them, but Peter said there wasn't time. . ." The voice went on without meaning for Nicky, and when he entered the house she slipped away for a few minutes lone in her bedroom.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THIS STRETCH OF RIVER between the fastnesses of the jungle was dark and still. The splash of paddles echoed along the channel and attracted an occasional bird or an inquisitive monkey. Once, some large creatures disturbed the undergrowth and peered between the rakelike roots of a mangrove. Entirely unmoved by the mystery of the gargantuan trees that arched overhead, almost shutting out the blue metal sky, Nicky lay in the canoe, wishing that Helen had allowed, her to spend the day alone with this brooding river. But Helen had greeted the idea of a day out in a canoe with delight. Now she fanned a fly from her brow and smiled the length of the canoe at Nicky. "This was a grand notion of yours," she said comfortably. "It's cool and dim. Why the dickens haven't we done it before?" "I didn't know the river was so close to the house till I found a branch of it, a few days ago." "I'd have said you knew everything within walking distance." "That day I rode, on Toni, and went farther." "We must come here often. It's so cool and peaceful, I almost wish I'd brought some sewing." So cool and peaceful, so completely the reverse of Nicky's hot, disordered mind. Somehow she had lived through the nightmare of Sunday. She had gone to bed, but not to sleep. By the time dawn had penciled the walls her mind was a wretched blur, though one fact emerged clear-cut. She was too much of a coward to see David again. Panic had driven her to suggest this excursion. Today was

Monday, when he would drive home from Port Fargas, content with himself and the world. Helen's instant agreement might be attributed to a renewed desire to keep Nicky bright and occupied; it was equally possible that Helen knew everything and, in her compassion, was trying to shield Nicky from the heaviest weight of the blow. She was just a shade too casual; her laughter reached half a pitch into sharpness. Apart from sympathy, which Nicky shrank from, Helen could have nothing to offer. Nicky's love for David had never been aired between them; hinted at, perhaps, and fostered, but always that implacable quality in the man had forbidden confidences. So very much relied on David himself. Unbidden, incidents of the past months slipped into focus. The first day out in the plantation when the storm had caught them; the mixture of masterfulness and gentle banter with which he had banished her fears, and the hard impersonality of his subsequent remarks about her to John. Another time he'd talked to her easily of crops and seasons and processes, filling her with the tranquil happiness of comradeship;

only to shatter the sweet interlude with brutal candor. She had shown herself undaunted, and at Bolende it really had seemed as though he accepted her as a gallant partner; at parting he had winked down at her, as if sharing an intimate secret. By such slender threads had hung her whole life and meaning. Looking back, she saw that the growing sweetness in their relationship had finished with Bolende. Since then he had scarcely addressed her without cynicism. She gathered that it was neither convenient nor comfortable to have two women in love with him at the same time. "Have you gone to sleep, Nicky?" inquired Helen. "No. No, I haven't." "You've been very quiet. Shall we pull in here for lunch?" It was only lunchtime. The rest of the day and another night to be lived through before she could take action. She ate a little and drank tepid orange juice, and later read a book while Helen slept. So the day passed. Another paddle upriver and a halt for tea that extended into early dusk, when they started back for the plantation. Samuel had scratched together a cold meal, and John showed as much pleasure in their return as if they had been gone a month. The next afternoon Nicky said carelessly, "Would John mind if I used the car to go into Port Fargas this evening? If he can spare it I'd like to stay a night or two with Sarah." "A very sensible suggestion," agreed Helen briskly. "Of course you may take the car. John can use the station wagon. Is there anything special on?" "Nothing more than usual. There's always dancing." "You'll stay two nights?" A tiny pause. "Would it matter?" "Not a bit, so long as we know where you are. It'll mean packing two evening frocks. Take the white and that apricot one." "The white has a stain from an accident with cocktails. I must pack my last and only . . . the green." "The green skirt stands out so; you'll need a portmanteau to carry it. Shall I help you?" "I'll manage. Thanks, Helen." Nicky left at five-thirty, a huge case wedged into the back of the car and an extra coat flung over it. She gave Helen a quick, unexpected kiss, bit back the farewell that quivered on her lips, and set off. She was still so new to driving that at first it demanded all her concentration, but there was no traffic, and as she grew accustomed to the long, winding jungle road, she reviewed her plan. It looked watertight enough, but it was safer to search for possible flaws. She couldn't bear it if things went awry and she had to crawl back and wait a month or more. First she would visit the shipping office. The car swung down into the town and twisted through to the waterfront. Resolutely, Nicky approached the shipping clerk. "You have my name on your passenger list," she began. "Miss Graham." Out came the list. "Yes, that's right. What can I do for you, Miss Graham?" "I believe there's a boat due in tomorrow morning from the Cape to England." Flowering Wilderness it's full up, I'm afraid, and if it weren't, you're some way n the list." icky persevered. "I happen to know there'll be one vacant h. Miss Kent, who was to have sailed, is staying on in Port fargas. Do you think you could possibly . . . I mean, it's rather desperate. I'd be awfully obliged if you could manage it for " The clerk, on the point of an officious refusal, hesitated. may have been affected by the gray eyes, so

large and pleading, or the unsteady tones, or her general appearance of weariness and defeat. Well, I suppose it might be arranged. No one else seems to in a tearing hurry." Another book appeared before him, I he flipped over the pages, halted, and ran his finger down lines till he found what he sought. "Miss Kent hasn't cancelled her passage." 'I'm certain she isn't leaving.' `She'll have to cancel before we can issue another. Are you friends?" the nodded. `Then why not ask her to come down with you? I could easily make the transfer then." For the present she could see there was nothing more to be ne. "Thank you. Perhaps I'd better." Nicky reversed the car and made for the club. Sarah was a nuisance, leaving the cancelation so late. Unless . . . unless she'd changed her mind, and was sailing! The thought ought Nicky out in a cold sweat. She booked her room and had her things carried up. Sarah is out, no one knew where. After a rest, Nicky bathed her face, dusted her nose and rubbed in a little lipstick, and then went down to dinner. The Carlyns were there but, thank heaven, no Diana. Peter's two young associates smiled across from their table. Like a trapped bird Nicky kept watch on the door, waiting for Sarah, or Peter. Neither came, and when someone invited her outside for a chat she insisted on staying near the main entrance. The clock was moving up to midnight before Sarah appeared, flushed and perspiring from a party at the Rivers's. "A celebration," she sighed victoriously. "And Old Father Thames himself announced to the whole crowd that Peter and I are to be married here in a few weeks. I can't remember when I've had such a glorious time. If I'd known you were in town, Nicky, I'd have asked you along. It was.. . it was. . . ." It was apparently indescribable. Nicky accepted Sarah's invitation into her bedroom and patiently stood by whilst the dinner and guests and the peak of the evening were eulogized in detail. At last she was able to interpolate, "Well, it seems that your mother is in for a surprise tomorrow. Sarah, did you cancel your passage?" "I forgot, but if they do sting me for the fare again, it's not important," was the negligent reply. "Marriage doesn't happen more than once or twice in a lifetime. Just think, Nicky, if Peter hadn't gone to Bolende in the first place—" "You ought to have let the shipping office know you wouldn't be sailing," said Nicky. "They have a waiting list, and someone else might like to take, our berth." "Too late now." "It isn't. They often have last-minute requests. Do pop in there first thing in the morning." Sarah yawned. "I suppose I ought. Come down to the boat with me to meet mummy. She's rather a pet." With that half-promise Nicky had to be content. Tonight Sarah was too near the stars to bother with the homespun of other folks' lives. Nicky went to her room and got into the strange bed. Everything was unreal; this bed and the musty-smelling walls, the tossing casuarinas beyond the window, the loud cracking of an insect imprisoned in the lamp glass. The ceaseless roar of the sea came like muted thunder right into the room, and she found herself straining to hear what was beyond it.

Sarah's mood next morning was even more loquacious than that of the night before. She prattled of the shock in store for her mummy and bemoaned the short while they would have together. Had she told Nicky that daddy's cable had arrived, handsomely acknowledging defeat? Wasn't she lucky to have things turn out so well just in time? And Nicky must admit that life could be just .. . wonderful! It was ten before Nicky persuaded Sarah down to the harbor. Port Fargas attracted only the hardiest sightseers from the liners. Most people from England and the Cape were not deceived by the glitter of white buildings in tropical sunshine; they were convinced that the atmosphere teemed with fevers. In her last letter Mrs. Kent had stated that she would come ashore to spend half an hour with Peter, and that Sarah must be ready to embark at noon. They would lunch aboard ship. With an airy grumble at the earliness of the hour, Sarah at last consented to an interview with the shipping clerk. "I'll wait for you here," said Nicky hastily. "Don't stay talking in case your mother comes." "She won't be yet, but I shan't be long." Nicky strolled almost to the club and back before Sarah showed up again. Desperately she hoped the clerk was too discreet to mention names, but she ought to have been prepared with an excuse. Acting lies was effort enough; baldly stating them might be an ordeal. But Sarah only smiled. "That's that. Isn't it funny—I've actually committed my good deed. It appears that yesterday a woman simply begged for a ticket on this boat. I hope mother won't have to share her cabin with someone awful." The worst was over, Nicky comforted herself. Now she had to rid herself of Sarah and go back to the shipping office. She prayed that Mrs. Kent would be among the first off the boat that had already tied up. Noise and smells increased with the heat of the sun. Sarah groaned and collapsed among some bales of sisal. "I said you were yanking me down here too early, Nicky. If I keep perspiring like this mummy will think I'm sickening for something. Can you see Peter anywhere?" "I'll telephone his office, if you like," Nicky offered, hopefully. "Don't bother. I'm certain he'll turn up, but this is such a filthy place to hang around." Soon he did come, and Nicky was able to slip away. The business at the shipping office was soon put through. "She sails at two," the man informed her. "Passengers embark between twelve and one, but luggage should be sent down immediately." Nicky snapped shut her bag and thanked him. Back at the club she secured her suitcase with an extra strap, gummed on the cabin label and tipped a boy to carry it straightway to the boat. Then she sat down to write to Helen. This was the most difficult task of all, for she could say so little. Please forgive me for going like this. If I'd told you, you would have stopped me and, honestly, Helen, I'm about finished. Perhaps I shall be able to write you more fully from England. Just now all I want is to leave Africa. You'll understand, I'm sure. May I ask you one last favor? Will you and John let David think my departure had been prearranged? I'd hate him to imagine he might have influenced it.

Nicky read over the epistle. An unsatisfactory, jerky effort, but it embodied all the facts. She added a phrase or two of affection and gratitude, and sealed it. Hateful to have to hurt Helen like this. Downstairs, she arranged with the club manager to have the car driven back to the plantation late in the afternoon, and the letter delivered at the same time. And now what? It was eleven-thirty. Could she bear to look her last on Port Fargas, or should she stay here and sip a cool drink in the lounge till noon? She had her hat and her bag, a light coat over her arm as though prepared for a day out along the coast. A walk, or a long drink? A swing of the main doors settled it. For Sarah and Peter had entered, and between them drooped a middle-aged woman in pale blue. "Nicky! " cried Sarah in relief. "Do come and help me revive poor mommy. She's overcome with emotion and the midday sun." HELEN WAKENED that morning with a bad head, a genuine snorter. It felt like a band of iron around her brow, hammered down over one eye. When she was no better after breakfast, John insisted that she swallow aspirin and return to bed. He would leave the house quiet, but she could send to the sheds if she needed him. For two hours Helen dozed and then, still feeling flat but clear of head pains, she swayed into the living room and drank coffee with brandy. It was queer without Nicky to talk to, though it was pleasant to imagine her having high times with Peter and his friends at the port. At the moment, Nicky needed gaiety more than anything. Almost, Helen loathed David. Since Saturday she had helped Nicky to avoid meeting him, for she herself had, no wish to face a brother-in-law who had gone off and become engaged without so much as a hint to his own relatives. That was something she would never understand nor forgive. Thank goodness only that flighty little thing of Peter's knew that he had left his family out of the celebrations. At the moment Sarah was too engrossed with Sarah to gossip about her acquaintances. Irritated, Helen switched her thoughts to the future. Nicky should have a new evening dress. Materials rotted so quickly out here and good soaps were scarce, and now that she danced more she needed changes. Her measurements might be sent down to a Cape Town store. A new white dress to replace the spoiled one, for Nicky's warm coloring responded beautifully to white. Meanwhile, what about an attempt at removing the stain? It wasn't there to find. She recalled now what had happened. Here was the seam where Nicky had snipped out a thin wedge of flare; a dainty, expert job that had not altered the hang of the dress by a fraction. Surely Nicky hadn't forgotten? Helen gathered the dress over her arm. Odd of Nicky to prevaricate over so trifling a thing. No one would prevent her packing the green dress if she preferred it to the white, but Helen doubted if she did prefer it. Thoughtfully, she carried the dress back to Nicky's wardrobe, and there she met a shock. For the green dress and the apricot one hung behind the other, and on the shoe rack rested her three pairs of evening sandals—white, gilt and silver. In bewilderment, Helen surveyed the room. Nothing missing, except ... except the small framed photograph of Nicky's parents that had always stood on the dressing table. Hastily, she dragged open the drawers. Almost empty.

Weak at the knees, Helen sagged into the wicker chair. What was Nicky up to? Where could she possibly have gone with a case full of everyday wear? She had said she would be away two nights, but one did not ransack the drawers of one's dressing table, not pack half a dozen linen dresses for so brief a stay in Port Fargas. And the photograph. It had never left this room, even for the two trips to Bolende. Now Helen became really frightened. She sprang up and searched feverishly for a letter or some clue to Nicky 's intentions, but the little room was starkly unresponsive. She saw Nicky, heartsick and alone, driving along the treacherous coast road to . . . to anywhere, so long as the miles widened between herself and the plantation. Helen stood holding onto the mosquito rail of the bed. There must be some action she and John could take. "Amos," she cried. "Go bring master from the sheds. Quick!" From her own bedroom she fetched a thin scarf, and back in the living room she poured a drink for John, and paced between the windows, watching for him. It was not John who came, but David, striding up the path ahead of Amos. He entered with a loud thud of the door. "John's held up with Mason, from the docks. Anything I can do?" Resentment hardened her tone. "Nothing. I sent for John." "I met Amos. He can go back for him if it's imperative." "That's good of you, but you might not think it imperative." "You could give me the chance to help." He looked around, and as the light caught his face she couldn't help noticing the slight pinched appearance of his nostrils. "Where's Nicky?" "She's gone." "Gone!" It came like a pistol shot. "Gone where?" "I wish I knew. That's why I sent for John. She left late yesterday afternoon, aparrently to spend a couple of days in Port Fargas. This morning I discovered that she'd taken most of her clothes." "She must be staying with friends in town." "We lent her the car." "I wasn't even aware she could drive." "That worries me, too. Nicky's only been driving a week or two. She's grown used to the road into Port Fargas, but supposing she takes it into her head to run down the coast. . .." "You fool, Helen!" "You dare to stand there shouting me down for a fool when all I did was to try every way to make her happy! If only I'd let her go ahead and book her passage home when she asked." "Nicky . . . asked to go home?" His tone had altered. "When was this?" "After she and Sarah came back from Bolende. I can't explain. All I'm sure of is that whatever Nicky's done, we've forced her to it, between us." "They'll know more than we do at the club," he said swiftly. "I'll drive into town right away." "I'll go with you. Toss this down first." But he didn't wait for the drink. Helen left a message for John and ran out to the track just as David started up the car. For some while neither spoke. Then he said curtly, "You'd better tell me everything. I mean to find her." "I've told you all I know," she replied shortly.

"You haven't stated a single reason why she should suddenly behave so out of character." "A lot you know about her character," Helen retorted angrily. " We aren't all as obvious as Diana." "Cut it out. This is no time for temperament. Your grouch against me can wait. I'm pretty sure there's a lot you're keeping back. What if she isn't at the club?" "Then . . . then. . ." Helen's voice caught. "All right," he inserted, less sharply. "We'll come up with her somewhere. A girl doesn't vanish as easily as that. I wish to heaven, though," he added in a furious undertone, "you'd had more sense than to let her take the car." He drove all the way with his foot jammed hard on the accelerator, taking the hairpin bends of the terraces with a recklessness that normally would have wrenched screams from Helen. But she sat silent, her hands locked. When he pulled in outside the club she jumped out and followed him into the vestibule. The manager was called. Yes, Miss Graham had stayed here last night, but had paid her bill after breakfast and departed half an hour ago. She had left a letter to be delivered at the plantation late this afternoon. "Where is it?" demanded David. The letter was produced. "It's addressed to me," Helen protested. Impatiently he slit the envelope and read the note before letting her take it. His mouth had thinned and a muscle jerked in his lean, dark cheek. She looked up from the sheet of paper. "David, what are you going to do?" "It's nearly one. She'll be aboard. I'm going to get her off that boat." She touched his sleeve. "That was my first thought, too. But I wonder if it wouldn't be kinder to . . . let her go? She's not happy here. .. ." He cut her short with an oath. "She's not running out on us like this. I'm going to the boat. Coming?" Startled by the clipped violence in his voice, Helen nodded. Nicky couldn't possible be left to face this savage alone. So the car moved off again, this time toward the customs yard. "Is one allowed aboard without a permit?" she queried. "I haven't a permit," came the succinct reply. "But I'm going aboard." He swerved to a halt at the shipping office. "May as well confirm that she's booked on this boat before we break any heads to board her," he remarked. After the tall figure had shouldered through the slatted door, Helen relaxed into her corner, exhausted. IT TOOK A LIBERAL DOSE of whiskey and several whiffs of smelling salts to restore Mrs. Kent to pallid, but nearly complete, composure. Never, she querulously declared, had she encountered such heat, such smells. Sarah was mad to contemplate staying on in this inferno even to get married, and she was not entirely sure of Peter's suitability as a son-in-law if he experienced no qualms in keeping Sarah in a climate that obviously did not suit her. "I'm coming home when we've had a little honeymoon, darling," Sarah soothed her. "Mr. Rivers is going to release Peter as soon as the new copper mining company is formed, and we shall settle in England. Have some lunch and you'll feel heaps better."

Mrs. Kent shuddered. One could see ants and mosquitoes and other pollutors chasing each other through her mind. Nothing to eat, thank you, but she would like to rest before facing that blistering walk back to the boat. Nicky, Sarah and Peter sat with her in the cool, shadowy lounge, while Sarah chattered, showering blessings on daddy and messages on friends, and occasionally pausing to bestow a sympathetic kiss upon poor mummy. It was nearly twelve-thirty before the small party left the club. As they slowly traversed the waterfront Nicky felt sick and trembling. Her courage ebbed. "Seedy, Nicky?" asked Peter in a whisper. "You needn't come the whole way." She had an urgent desire to tell Peter what she was doing, the ghastly mess she had made of things, and how badly she wished she were already on board and shut up within a cabin, out of sight of Port Fargas, beyond the reach of some of the pain. But his smile, kindly ordinary, rather distant because he was immersed in his own problems, brought an answering movement to her lips. "I'll rest in the shipping office," she said. Mrs. Kent murmured goodbye. Not for long, thought Nicky. She was past caring that the heart-stricken Mrs. Kent would be her cabin mate. Thankfully, she entered the office and saw that a different clerk had charge of the counter. "May I write a letter?" she asked. "Of course, miss." She sat down at the desk provided, with her back to the man, and drew before her a sheet of paper. Her watch said twelvefifty. Less than ten minutes to the time when she must make her dash to the boat. If Peter and Sarah still lingered near the deck it couldn't be helped. She would laugh at them and run on. Her face fell forward into her hands. She was so worn and dispirited. Quite what happened then Nicky didn't know. A queer pressure pinned her shoulders and lifted her to her feet at the same time. Her hands dropped from a face blank with grief, and there was a floating sensation in her limbs. She was gripping the back of the chair and looking dazedly into the taut, blue gaze of David Raynor.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CONSCIOUS OF THE speculative interest of the clerk, Nicky gathered her bag and coat. "I've come to take you home," said David. "I'm sailing for England," she answered dully. "Not yet," still in that soft, deadly tone. "Give me your coat and come outside." Like a child in a painful dream she obeyed. Out in the white sunshine she broke away from his hold on her elbow. "I must go, David. I must." And then tremulously, "My case is on board." "Never mind your case. You're going home." The next second Helen was near, excited and half crying. "Nicky. Nicky, darling!" "Get in the back of the car, both of you," he ordered grimly. "And for the love of Peter, no hysterics. I've stood about enough." As he slid into his seat Helen spared him a glance. He looked no different from usual except that a faint line of strain had appeared at each corner of his mouth. But as the

car circled and headed back along the waterfront, all her attention turned to Nicky, pale and rigid at her side. "I did understand, Nicky," she whispered. Nicky couldn't talk. It seemed that all her desperate planning had been in vain. She was being hauled back like a problem child to be discussed and disposed of in more orthodox fashion than she had chosen. Unseeing, her eyes surveyed the speeding cottonwoods and palms. Her body jerked to the ruts and swayed to the well-known bends in the road. Here came the final, right-angled turn beyond which rose the familiar roof from its nest of trees. The car slowed to a halt. David twisted and faced them. "D'you mind leaving us, Helen?" She bridled. "I do, indeed. You're not the only one who's stood enough. Come along, Nicky." Nicky threw out a weary hand. "We may as well have it out." "You're back, and that's all that matter's just now," Helen declared firmly. "Dave can become the tyrant when you've rested." His eyes glittered. " You 're very helpful, Helen!" "I'm human." John resolved the situation. He lounged out to the car and opened the back door. "Thank the stars you're back. Heaven knows what Samuel's cooking for lunch, but it smells like dead dogs." He helped the two women out and, as they walked away up the path, said to his brother, "Those cargo receipts were genuine, after all. Mason enjoys a row. Coming in to take pot luck?" David hesitated. Surprised at his indecision, John waited. "No," was the answer. "I'll be down to dinner tonight. There are things I want to talk over with all of you." "Plantation?" Shrewdly, David met his brother's glance. "You're keen to get back to England, aren't you?" John fidgeted. "I wouldn't say ... keen. I've lived here too long not to feel a pull at parting, but ... well, we don't get any younger, and Helen's always said we'd have at least two offspring. Can't pretend that I'd relish living here without her again." "Of course not." David ignored the quick lift of the other's brows. "It's only half a life here, for a woman. I told you that before they arrived, and I'm a thousand times more sure of it now. We'll come to some arrangement." He restarted the car. "Don't discuss it in the house without me. See you this evening." As he watched the car slide down the road, John felt pleased with himself. Dave had expressed willingness to thrash out a subject that had troubled him for some time, though he himself hadn't known how best to approach it. Contrary to Helen's commands, Nicky went straight to the kitchen. She had not the slightest desire to sleep, and to lie thinking with a woolly brain did not attract her. She would far rather chide Samuel for a slacker and get him busy on a late lunch. Now that she must accept the inevitability of spending a few more weeks at the plantation, Nicky felt calmer and her energy was returning. She squared her shoulders. Whatever the future held, she could take it. John, bless his solid heart, wolfed lunch with the utmost appetite, and generally behaved as though Nicky 's escapade were part of the daily routine. When he had gone out again Helen turned practical.

"I expect it's goodbye to your clothes, Nicky. We'll have to take in two or three of my dresses for your immediate use. Which do you fancy?" "The ones you dislike most. I suppose it's lucky that I had some of my underwear in the wash. I seem to have bungled things entirely." Helen made no comment. She measured a flowered print and pink linen, and began snipping at the seams. Amos brought in the sewing machine and Nicky stitched. They broke for a cup of tea and biscuits, but Helen was reserved, noncommittal, so unlike herself that Nicky felt a fresh pain for the hurt she had caused her. When the time came to prepare dinner, Helen observed, "David's invited himself up for chop. Samuel might open the last of the tinned pork." "There aren 't any onions," Nicky said drearily. "In that case we'll have to serve it with beans and dry toast fingers." Nicky helped in the kitchen and then took her bath before slipping into the made-over pink linen. The dress deepened her pallor and accentuated the dark curves beneath her eyes. Examining her reflection, Nicky shivered. Between them, heat and despair had stolen her color and pointed her features. She heard a firm tread on the porch, and her heart set up a sickening pounding. Though she ached to see David again, her impulse was similar to that which had urged her to escape to England. So strong was it that, instead of leaving her room by way of the living room, she noiselessly opened the door to the veranda. It was dark and moonless and an accumulation of clouds blanketed the stars. No wind stirred the trees and tonight the scents were elusive, the air tantalizing with its warm African flavor and density. For several minutes Nicky stood gripping the rail till the primitive, agelesss quality in the atmosphere steadied her nerves. She moved along toward the living-room door. It opened and David appeared. "I thought I saw you moving out here," he said. She was silent and they remained side by side till he exclaimed sharply. "There's something moving in your hair. Come into the light." He drew her to the door and she stood with her eyes closed, breathing in the familiar male fragrance, feeling his fingers in her hair, tugging a little until the pest was removed. "A flying beetle," he said. "He'd got comfortable. Your hair's ruffled. Do you mind?" She stepped back, uncertainly. "I'll comb it up." "Please don't. It looks pretty that way. Nicky," his hand grasped hers and pulled her with him into the living room. "Sometime this evening we're going to finish that little chat we began in the club grounds about ten days ago." "Little chat! " she echoed with a return of spirit. "That night you barked and glared as though you'd have liked to strangle me." A tiny smile came to his lips. "Maybe that's how I felt—just then." At a sound from the hall he dropped her hand and made a complication of pouring drinks. Nicky noticed that dark blood had crept up under his tan, and the knowledge that he was just a little less sure of himself amazed and rather alarmed her. Throughout dinner he was charming and afterward, over coffee, he made the announcement that John was anticipating. "Helen, my dear," the usual trace of sarcasm when he

addressed her in this way was nearly absent, "John tells me that you two have had enough of West Africa. You 'd like to get back to England and go in for a different sort of empire building. I think you're wise, both of you, and there's no reason at all why it shouldn't easily be arranged. I'd advise you to sell outright for the largest penny." John's jaw fell. "You mean . . . shove it on the market! You'd actually consent to let the land go outside Raynors?" David nodded. "We've never sentimentalized our pioneering grandfather. He saw wealth here, and took it. We've done the same. The way I see it, if we go on in this way we're packing a nasty load for our ... heirs. You and I have sunk ourselves in the estate, but it's neither wise nor desireable that the next generation should do the same." "But you, Dave. You couldn't ever live anywhere else." David flipped open the box of cigarettes and pushed it across to Helen, who sat rather close to Nicky, on the sofa. When they had declined and he and John had lit up, he leaned back, eyeing them in turn through the smoke. "I shan't stay here forever," he said. "I'll train a good manager and come back occasionally to inspect." "How long has this been in your mind?" asked Helen. "Several months." "Then why are you building the palatial establishment at Palmer's Reach?" "Why not? I shall live there for a while, and a trustworthy manager deserves a decent dwelling." John began an eager description of the type of farm he would like to buy in England, and David listened, the old cynical smile hovering about his mouth. "Will you farm, Dave?" he wanted to know. "Probably, but not in England. It's irksome to plan in square yards when you've been used to square miles. I fancy somewhere else in Africa." Nicky rose. "Does anyone mind if I go to bed?" David, too, was standing, a peculiar expression on his face. "I mind. We've a conversation to continue, if you remember." "I'm rather tired. We could talk tomorrow." His eyes sparked. "Not afraid, are you?" "No, but. . . ." "Then ask John's permission to walk down to the bungalow with me." John said, "Since when am I the head of the house?" Hesitantly, Nicky crossed to the door. David, close behind her, threw a mocking glance at his indignant sister-in-law. "This happens to be my business, Helen." As soon as they were out in the dark David turned a flashlight beam onto the path. "Sticky sort of night," he remarked. "Shouldn't be surprised if we were in for an early squall." Receiving no reply, he attempted no further conventionalities, but stalked at her side till they reached the bungalow. When she stopped he moved around her and up the steps. He entered and she heard the rasp of a match, and saw the swift blossoming of the lamp. From the threshold he said, "Come in, Nicky. Her knees felt stiff, her shoes weighted. The handkerchief between her palms was a sodden ball. A sharp silence followed the click of the door. Then, "Well, Nicky. Why did you try to run away?"

She had withdrawn to the center of the room. "You've no right to question me," she said in a low voice. "It was just ... bad luck for me that you happened to be working near the house today." "You're still mad with me for accusing you of going rather too far with young Wilshaw. I apologize, abjectly. I ought to have known better, but that sort of thing plays the devil with a man. I must know what drove you to so drastic a step this morning." His voice had gone curiously tight. "Nicky, look at me." Intent upon a moth, which flung itself in frenzy against the lamp shade, she said hurriedly, "You brought me here to lecture me, to impress upon me that it was by your permission I came to Africa, and that only with your consent I can leave. I accept that. Now let me go." "I asked you here for no such thing," he answered tersely. "D'you suppose I'd chase around Port Fargas or be willing to fight my way aboard a ship for any other woman!" Her gaze wavered from the lamp to the breast pocket of his jacket. "Helen begged you. You did it for her." He took half a pace toward her. "She told you that?" "We haven't spoken of it," she retracted swiftly. "What's going on?" he demanded savagely. "You arranged to clear off to England as though I don't exist, and Helen's as poisonous as she knows how. What's at the back of it?" Nicky was spent. "I think Helen and John were a little upset that you ... got engaged without telling them." "What!" He sounded startled. "Engaged? Who told you that?" "Sarah, when she came here to dinner last Saturday." "Nice of Sarah. Did she name the lady?" "Who could it be but Diana?" He paused for so long that at last she was forced to look at him. His eyes glinted angrily, but his mouth was tender. He spoke with deliberate coolness. "So you decided to put me through hell, Nicky, because you were jealous of Diana." Her heart gave a frightened leap. "I wasn't jealous, David. I wanted you to be happy, but I couldn't stay and watch it." Her eyes had filmed, her lashes were wet and lustrous. "If you love Diana —" "Shut up!" Nicky's breath choked in her lungs. She felt his arms close around her like a steel cage, yet she was too shaken with terror and delight to do anything but clutch tensely at his shoulders and dig her face hard into his jacket. But soon his hand slipped up the back of her neck to grasp a handful of her hair and tug it gently, till her head was raised. For a long moment he looked down into her eyes. "If you knew how long I've wanted to feel you like this, in my arms." His head lowered and he met her lips. A little later he had her sitting in his easy chair, while he perched nearby on the edge of the table. "So you all had it in for me because you imagined I was going to marry Diana? I'd have credited you with more sense, Nicky." "You must admit it looked that way. The rumor was all over Port Fargas." "Diana started that, at a time when I little cared what people said. You'd just told me you hated me and kissed Peter Wilshaw to prove it. You hit way below the belt, there."

"I know. It was beastly behavior, but I was terrified you'd guess I loved you." She looked up searchingly. "You did once care for Diana, didn't you?" "In a way. When she first came out about eight years ago she was prettier—less the hard beauty. Her husband was spineless and Diana yearned for fun. If she hadn't been married I might have fallen rather a long way. There wasn't the slightest chance of that happening this time. I'd already met you." He went on in crisp tones. Diana had begged his help over the plantation and he'd felt bound to se her right financially. She was a widow; her husband was lost to her, while David was not only alive but comfortably off into the bargain. It was the least he could do. In time he realized that she was angling for marriage. "It was money she was after," he said laconically. "That was Helen's opinion, too." "And yours?" "I was a hopeless coward," she confessed. "I had to believe she loved you. Was there a . . . ring, David?" "There was, a solitaire, and I'm afraid I bought it, although Jeff Kendall slipped it on her finger. Hasn't Wilshaw explained about the find at Bolende?" "The copper mine? I went there." "I had the impression that that young man tipped everything into your little ear, Sarah or no Sarah." He smiled to gloss the slight hardness of his words. "The land on which they discovered copper was Diana 's. Her husband bought his first piece at Bolende, and not being growing land, it was counted a dead loss. But the lawyer unearthed the deeds and the new mining company bought for a biggish figure. When she found herself no longer poor, Diana admitted to being in love with Jeff Kendall." "Where does the ring—your ring—come in?" He laughed a little. "So that stings, does it? I'm glad. I'd

offered a cheque for the plantation, but Diana insisted I'd already paid for it three times over. I knew she felt badly about one thing. She hated the idea of her friends discovering that Jeff was pretty hard up. So—" he shrugged "—I provided the ring, a wedding gift to the two of them. They were married and left by the evening boat for Las Palmas." "I'm glad for Jeff's sake," said Nicky. "I do hope she'll be good to him." "From what I've seen of Jeff, she'd better be." Hands in pockets he came and stood in front of her chair, regarding her intently. "Enough about Diana. It's you and me, now. What I'm going to ask of you won't be easy to give. There's the difference in years; you reminded me of it once." "Only because I thought you used it unfairly! I'm young, but not stupid, and... loving you does bridge the years, David." "It's like you to say that. I want to believe it. I confess to having a sleepless night when you hurled my age at me." At her wondering look he grinned faintly. "You see, as soon as I knew I was in love with you, I began to plan for our future. That's the sort of chap I am." "When was it?" "Not long after you came." "Then why did you continually harp on my going home?" "Partly for your health's sake and partly in self-defense. The plantation had always come first with me and I resented the intrusion of a gray-eyed slip of a thing whom I

thought obviously cut out for domestic life in small-town England. As the weeks passed and you stayed sweet and smiling in spite of rains and other evils, I let go of all my resolutions." He made a gesture almost of self-disgust. "You see the crawling idiot you've made of me!" "You still resent me." "I've never been in a woman's power before." His laugh was brief and strained. She smiled back at him tenderly. "You're a strange lover, David." "Don't say that." He reached for her wrists and pulled her against him. "All this had to be said before I could tell you I love you. It isn't just love, Nicky—the need of a man for a woman." His head bent till he spoke among her hair. "With me this thing goes right down to the roots. It makes everything else . . . the plantation . . . everything, seem trivial." His voice roughened. "Marry me soon, Nicky." He tilted her chin and kissed her, gently at first, then more urgently, and finally he swept her close and kissed her with draining insistence. NICKY WOKE LATE next morning. She was aroused by sounds in the living room that drifted away to the dining room. Relief and gratitude rose over her in a flood as she recognized David's decisive tones. It hadn't been a dream, then. He was confirming to the others what her bright eyes and flushed cheeks had revealed when she came in last night. Even remembering his kisses and the rare unsteadiness of his voice, it was hard to believe that he loved her and wished to marry her. David, the lone hand, the self-assured, the inscrutable, was seriously considering taking to wife Nicky Graham, whose chief recommendation was that she loved him with every heartbeat. Nicky stepped out of bed as though expecting even the floor to behave extraordinarily. But there was the jug of pink, brackish water, bearing its usual quota of dead flies, and the flowered dress had become jammed in the wardrobe door as if to remind her with its protruding edge that today was a day for garlands and bare feet and dancing on the grass. It was disappointing to see in her mirror that she was still as thin as yesterday. Nicky smoothed her skirt and patted a tawny tendril into place at her temple. A bubble of elation rose in her throat. She was ready. The dining-room door stood open, and as she appeared three smiles greeted her; Helen's welcoming but preoccupied, a teasing grimace from John, and from David a guarded,. intimate softening of his features. Breakfast was over, but John and Helen sat sideways in their dining chairs, facing David, who leaned against the record player, a cup of coffee in his hand. "I'm disgustingly late," Nicky apologized, "but not hungry. Go on talking while I have some coffee. She stirred her coffee. "Did I butt in on a family discussion?" "We're all family," said John prosaically. "Spill it, Dave." "They're making much of little," said David. "I've told them we're getting married at once. That seems to meet with approval," he wrinkled his nose familiarly at Helen. "But neither of them will cooperate in persuading you to go home when they go, in a few weeks." Nicky's mouth went dry. "Go home!" she repeated. "Leave you?" "There you are," cried Helen triumphantly. David clattered his cup onto the table, slipped astride a chair opposite Nicky, and leaned across the table.

"I did a lot of thinking last night. When John and Helen go you'll be alone. It's not long before the rains, and we may get stuck out at Palmer's Reach for weeks without a break. You couldn't stand up to it, Nicky. No woman could." "What David means," explained Helen clearly, "is that while you remain in West Africa he's going to worry himself sick over your health. Take no notice. They all do it." "Helen, if you won't help, don't hinder," said David angrily. "Try to see it my way, Nicky," he went on, with less heat. "It will take time to engage and train a manager. I'd feel happier with you safe in England till I can come to you." "Is that the truth, David? I can't think of anything more heartbreaking than to marry and part within a short time. I'd . . . almost rather not marry." "So would I," put in Helen flatly. "I'm speaking from experience." "It's like losing a limb," was John's unexpected contribution. "I'm concerned about you, Nicky," said David. "I hate this climate already for what it's taken out of you. Even if I could get through here in six months it would mean wading through another spell of rain. There'll probably be storms with you alone in the house, you might get ill, and no doctor for thirty miles. .. ." Flowering Wilderness "Or a chameleon might eat you," interposed helen, Dave, but you asked for it. I can't see you going fa house if there's a storm in the offing—you smell away. As to illness.. . well, we've heard that haven't we, Nicky? You've doctored the worker various diseases; surely you could pull your wife bout of fever?" "It isn't a question of cure, but prevention!" Helen made a theatrical display of washing "Your conscience is clear, David. You've put it square. woman, now let her decide." He shot her a glance of angry amusement, thrusting back the. chair as he stood up. "And Nicky," said Helen, undismayed, "teach him to show respect for floors and furniture. Not going, Dave?" she added sweetly. "You mean well, Helen," he told her. "But your diplomacy 's haywire. We'll get along without your assistance." He waited at the door for Nicky to precede him, and closed it hard behind them. Helen moved to the window. She saw them walk slowly down the compound path, David talking with his usual economy of gesture. Near the hedge they slowed, and Nicky spoke a word; apparently a telling word, for David stopped and gripped her shoulders as if to shake sense into her. Nicky 's only retaliation was to stare up at him, and David was vanquished. He flung a quick look at the house before taking her into his arms and holding onto her as though he would never let her go. Helen turned back into the room, a satisfied smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Good for Nicky," she murmured.