“I seem to know Burny. We need no introduction; we’ve met once or twice at the club.”
That voice—of course, she was certain now! Kay or Seymour, the name didn’t matter; Patricia glanced again at the lean, tanned face of the newcomer, but in the gaze that met hers she could read no sign of recognition.
“Miss Dare, I owe you my thanks for looking after Maimie! I hope she hasn’t been too troublesome? I’m sure she must have been rather a handful.” The fond look Seymour Warinder bestowed on his fiancé as he spoke belied his words.
“I’ve loved it. I am sorry the journey is over.” Patricia hoped that her voice was steady; she still felt as though she were living in a dream, and her customary poise had entirely deserted her.
“Don’t call her Miss Dare; her name is Patricia, and naturally she must call you Seymour.” Without awaiting a reply, Maimie prattled on excitedly: “You haven’t told me how you got on board. I’ve been looking out for you for hours. I thought you had forgotten to meet the ship.”
“I got a permit and came on board ten minutes ago, and have been hunting round for you ever since. Dr. Wane and his sister were with me; they are meeting a man named Ian Alastar who is to go into partnership with Wane.”
Maimie pouted. “And to think I’ve been scanning the quay for hours.” She paused, then added. “We were just having a farewell drink.” She pushed her fiancé down into a chair and seated herself on the arm beside him. “Have a drink with us. I don’t believe we shall be allowed ashore for ages yet. Claud introduced us to Ian Alastar, and we see, I’ve lots of friends in my new country already!”
“You’ll have hundreds before you’ve been in Singapore a month!” Seymour looked at her fondly. “I’m sure you’re going to love it.”
“Yes, Claud says I will. I’m longing to see your bungalow. Is it nice? Shall I like it?” Maimie inquired excitedly. “Patricia is going to stay with us until we marry; she’s never been out either so you’ll have to see that she has a lovely time.”
Patricia rose to her feet. She felt there was only one thing she wanted, and that was to be alone. She longed for a few moments of solitude in which to collect her thoughts, to assure herself that she wasn’t dreaming. Over and over again she asked herself the question: Could she possibly have made a mistake? Could this be the same man of her adventure? “Excuse me,” she murmured. “There are one or two things I want to attend to before we go ashore. Down in our cabin ... the luggage ... there are a few cases to be fastened.”
“But it’s all done,” Maimie interrupted her friend.
“I want to make sure...” Patricia hurried away before Maimie could make any further protest, and, edging her way past her fellow passengers grouped on the deck, she sought the shelter of her cabin.
How different the little room appeared now, denuded of their own possessions, the beds unmade, the luggage stacked ready for removal. Patricia turned the key in the lock and sank on to the bunk. Cupping her chin in her hands, she leaned forward and stared unseeingly before her. No, she decided, she hadn’t made a mistake. Seymour Warinder and Kay were one and the same man. Even then ... he had shown no sign of recognition. That was hardly surprising when she recalled that during those endless months she had changed from an untidy, unsophisticated child into an independent young woman. A sad smile curved Patricia’s lips. She had no doubt changed in appearance too. She lifted her head and stared into the mirror over the wash basin. How different she looked in her lavender linen dress and soft white shady hat from the girl who had stood in the station that night, a beret pulled over her rain-soaked hair and a mackintosh, the worse for wear, buttoned closely to her neck. Even the clothes she had worn in London had been shabby. Patricia jumped to her feet and, removing a powder-puff from her bag, carefully powdered her nose. It had been a shock, but, she decided, she must certainly pull herself together. Suddenly she paused and an expression of hurt dimmed her eyes. Kay must have recognized her, even if she had changed. Surely her name must have stirred some chord in his memory. She replaced her compact in her bag and stared, thoughtfully before her. How could she have imagined for one moment that he hadn’t known? He had been acting, playing a part, conveying to her more surely than any words could have done that he wanted that episode wiped out; that, as far as he was concerned, she had never before crossed his path. Patricia stifled the sob that rose to her lips. It was only natural ... he couldn’t wish to remember that miserable adventure now, with his future bride by his side, his marriage but a matter of days. She must respect his unspoken desire; it was the least, the only, thing she could do.
She turned toward the door, then hesitated; she must be absolutely certain of her ground, she decided, before rejoining the others. She hadn’t mentioned any names when telling the story of her adventure to Maimie. That had been easy; she had never known her rescuer’s real name. ... Of course, one day Maimie might find out that Seymour had been the man, although it wouldn’t really matter because, in recounting her adventure, she had never admitted the most important point of all—that since that memorable night Seymour Warinder had filled her heart to the exclusion of all others.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Patricia reclined on a wicker chair on the wooden verandah fronting Seymour Warinder’s bungalow and stared out at the vista before her. The still warmth of the tropical night enveloped her and the deep blue canopy of the sky reached down to meet the seemingly endless rows of grey-hued tree-tops, which in the dim light of evening, resembled the density of a forest. Patricia recalled her first impression; by daylight and in the heat of the sun, they had that afternoon reached the bungalow. Then the rubber trees planted in long lines had stretched in regular columns, like files of soldiers, far into the distance. Only a few hours ago ... Patricia sighed. Already it seemed days since, from the deck of the Rajah, they had first discerned the green richness of Malaya stretching across the horizon, its background of mountains rising against the azure sky. Such a long day it had been, and a day crowded with emotion, excitement, and a strange premonition of the future. What would this exotic and beautiful country do to her? In its first moment of welcome it had played a trick on her: it had brought her face to face with someone who had become a mere memory, a dream. Patricia started forward in her chair and stared fixedly into the distance, as if there she would find an answer to her questions, something to allay the fear she felt in her heart. For a moment she sat immobile, then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she sank against the cushioned back of her chair. What was the matter with her? She was unaccustomed to such sensations; independence had taught her to stand on her own feet and, whatever happened, to face life happily and unafraid. Surely she was not allowing herself to be influenced by a memory, a memory upon which, she now realized, she had always dwelt, perhaps subconsciously, far too much? As far as the future was concerned, she had weighed it all up before embarking upon this adventure; she wouldn’t allow herself to be scared now. She had arrived at her journey’s end, and as she had always found on previous occasions, something would turn up; she utterly refused to believe otherwise. No one could feel anything else but exaltation in such surroundings; the sensuous warmth of the air was as intoxicating and exhilarating as wine.
Dreamily she recalled the diverse emotions of that long day—the thrill of arrival, of landing, meetings, and farewells. They had lunched at an hotel with Claud, Ian, and the Wanes. Patricia had found herself surreptitiously watching the bewildering intrigue layed around her. Seymour and Maimie, how affectionate they had appeared, how delighted with one another’s company, and yet Maimie was subtly different with Seymour; perhaps it was because he treated her rather as if she were a child, whereas Claud had always met her on her own level and their relationship had consequently appeared to be one of mutual irresponsibility. Maimie now seemed more subdued, more restrained, and altogether different from the carefree girl of the voyage. Patricia had marvelled at the easy manner in which Claud and Maimie had adapted themselves to their changed circumstances. N
ot by one glance did either betray the intimate understanding that must have existed between them.
Patricia had taken a liking to Kitty Wane. From the moment of reunion with Ian, the friend of her childhood days, she had seemed to have no interest in anyone else. Ian appeared equally engrossed and more animated than at any time during the voyage.
She hadn’t, after all, been wrong in her surmise that Ian’s quiet demeanor had concealed a hidden happiness. Kitty Wane, rose cheeked and gay, possessed the happy knack of drawing Ian out of his shell, and Patricia felt a glow of gratitude towards the girl who, she felt sure, would be a tremendous aid in helping Ian to adjust himself to the new life.
Dr. Wane, strangely like his sister, immediately inspired Patricia with confidence. Surely with Maimie, Claud, Ian, and the Wanes, even in this far country, she would not have to count herself friendless.
Patricia had been so preoccupied with her thoughts during the whole of that luncheon that she had been scarcely conscious of the food set before her. From Claud and Maimie her thoughts had strayed to Seymour. He hadn’t changed; with every nuance of expression, every inflection of his voice, she saw him again as she had always visualized him in her memory. There had been instants when she had believed that he, too, was not completely at ease. At unavoidable moments, his blue-grey eyes met hers, yet with quick decision turned away from her. With deliberate intention Patricia turned her thoughts from Seymour to other incidents of that absorbing day.
Her reverie was abruptly interrupted by the sound of voices. Seymour and Maimie had left the seclusion of the lounge where she had left them alone after dinner, feeling that, after so long an absence, they must have much to discuss together.
“Good night, darling. Sleep well.” Seymour’s words came clearly to her ears through the wide-open doors leading to the verandah. So Maimie was going to bed. She stretched her arms lazily above her head. She supposed she ought to be thinking of bed too, but somehow she hated to go in; it seemed as if, by sleeping, she would be losing something precious. The night appeared too intoxicating to waste in sleep. She dropped her arms as footsteps, resounding loudly on the wooden floor of the verandah, approached.
“Fallen asleep?” Seymour’s voice penetrated her consciousness.
“Of course not. I’ve no idea what time it is, but I heard you bid Maimie good night, so I suppose it’s late.” Patricia made to rise.
“Not very late. You needn’t go in yet; it’s barely midnight, but Maimie was very sleepy. I’m afraid the child has had rather a tiring day.”
Patricia could not repress a smile. Seymour’s words only served to verify the impression she had already formed: that, to Seymour, Maimie appeared a child; to be petted, cajoled, and altogether spoiled. Yet Maimie was not nearly so childish as she appeared, and their few weeks of acquaintance had taught Patricia that Maimie’s youthful air was no indication of her practical and sophisticated mind. Maimie might enjoy being treated as a child—for a time, but Patricia doubted whether constant petting wouldn’t eventually irritate a temperament so alert and restless.
“What are you considering so seriously?” There was a teasing quality in Seymour’s voice as ne asked the question.
“Nothing ...” Patricia hesitated, and then, as if coming to a sudden decision, spoke. “Don’t treat Maimie like a child. She won’t like it.”
Seymour dropped down on to a chair by her side before asking, “Is that the conclusion you have reached—so quickly?”
Patricia forced a laugh. She felt inexplicably embarrassed as she tried to decide whether there hadn’t been a hint of sarcasm in her questioner’s voice. It was foolish of her to have offered an opinion—in fact, a criticism; after all, it was no affair of hers how Seymour chose to treat his future wife. “I’m afraid I have a habit of being horribly outspoken. Don’t take any notice of what I said.”
He turned impulsively to his companion. “But don’t you see that she is the sort of girl that arouses a protective instinct?’
“Yes, I appreciate that but, you know, protection, when overdone, becomes a little tiring.”
“You never wanted protection, as you call it; that’s why you ran away.”
Patricia was glad of the covering darkness as she felt the warm color flood her cheeks. There was no need to ask the meaning of that statement; it was all too clear, too obvious.
“I recognized you at once. I felt it better to remain silent.” There was a hint of appeal in his voice as he added, “It seemed kinder to Maimie to keep any question of our previous meeting to ourselves. After all, it was so brief. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” There was no hesitation in Patricia’s answer. “After all, it was a long time ago.”
“Did you realize that Maimie’s fiancé and your casual acquaintance of last year were the same person?”
Patricia looked up at the bronzed face close to her own. In the light from the moon the features were clearly defined—the high forehead and strong, square chin, the finely shaped lips, firm yet strangely sensitive.
“You haven’t answered me ... Didn’t you know?”
“Naturally I didn’t. How should I? You never told me your real name,” Patricia exclaimed a trifle resentfully.
“For the moment I had forgotten you knew me as Kay. My mother, and in fact most of my intimate friends, call me that; it’s my middle name, and Seymour is rather a mouthful, although Maimie always insists on using it. I’m sorry I hadn’t told you. I don’t think that I’d realized you didn’t know, although of course,” he added, “I signed my name in the letter I sent you.” He stopped abruptly, then added, “But then, I’d forgotten; you never received my letter.”
“Letter?” Patricia murmured in faint surprise. What was he talking about? Of course she’d never received a letter from him. She smiled; so little had their brief meeting meant to him that he had probably got her mixed up with some other girl.
“Patricia! Patricia!” Maimie’s voice called from the interior of the bungalow. “Aren’t you coming to bed? I’m nearly asleep!”
Seymour rose quickly to his feet. “I mustn’t keep you talking. Maimie is quite right; you ought to be getting to bed. You too have had a tiring day.” He field out his hand and assisted Patricia to her feet. For a moment he stood silently beside her, then, still grasping her hand in his, he continued speaking. “I am glad that this meeting was as much a surprise to you as to me. Somehow it seems more natural that way...” He paused for a moment as if searching for words, then, his eyes seeking hers, he continued, “Shall we both decide to forget that we have ever met before? It will be better, fairer to Maimie...” He stumbled over his words, then, his lips twisting into an apologetic smile, added, “Don’t misunderstand me; we have met before, and I, for one, shall always remember it, but under present circumstances it would be fairer if we never mentioned it again ... even between ourselves. I’m afraid I’ve explained myself very badly.” He laughed ruefully.
Patricia returned the pressure of Seymour’s hand. “I really do understand. It would be a nuisance explaining an acquaintance that didn’t even include the knowledge of your name!”
“Thank you.” Seymour stooped and, lifting her hand again, pressed it for a fleeting second to his lips. “I knew you would agree. It’s better this way, better that we should meet again as strangers.”
“Of course ... I’ve told you, I won’t say a word to Maimie.” Patricia pulled her hand from Seymour’s clasp; she felt she couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer. All her self-confidence was deserting her. It was as if this man’s very presence deprived her of her normal powers of discrimination. Nothing had changed; the months had swept across her as if they had never been. Kay was as irresistible to her now as he had been on that night, so long ago ... if he held out his arms now she would go to him, give herself up again to the rapture of his embrace.
“Good night, Pat ... little stranger!”
Patricia was scarcely conscious of Seymour’s whispered wo
rds as she turned blindly and groped her way back to the bungalow.
It wasn’t until Patricia was lying on her bed, tucked beneath her mosquito net, that part of Seymour’s conversation recurred to her. Surely he had made a mistake in mentioning a letter? Had he been mixing her up with someone else or had he really meant it? Patricia turned uneasily on her pillow. If he had written to her she could never have received it; in her hurried departure from the hotel to which Seymour had taken her she had purposely refrained from leaving an address. Her one idea had been to escape; yet, in her ignorance, she had escaped from the only man to whom in the whole of her twenty-three years she had ever given a second thought. It wasn’t any use speculating as to what was in the letter, or, indeed, if she were the person to whom it had been sent; in the morning she would ask him and clear up the matter once and for all; but, even as she came to that excellent decision, she remembered her promise to Seymour that in no circumstances would she ever refer to the fact that Singapore had not been their first place of meeting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Patricia sat in her favorite spot on the verandah, a corner which, during the first few days of her stay, had become her sanctuary and resting place. She never tired of the half-wild foliage of the garden, and the unchanging panorama of hills and sky. For the hundredth time she found herself wondering about the contents of that letter, the one and only letter Kay had ever written her, a possession that might have been hers but for her ill-timed flight. Again and again she asked herself why fate had brought this man across her path again, why she should be forced to spend a whole month in his company, for she no longer denied to herself the frightening truth that Kay inspired within her an emotion dangerously akin to love.
As a rule, Patricia was not given to self-commiseration. Possibly had her own emotions been the only thing she had to combat she would have managed to submerge her feelings and, enveloped with the glory of her surroundings, attain a certain measure of contentment. Unfortunately, Maimie was also causing her no little distress. Maimie seemed entirely oblivious of the danger of furthering her friendship with Claud, and despite Patricia’s persuasion, insisted on carrying on a clandestine affair with her shipboard friend.
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