by Anne Hampson
'I don't know that I'd be making an effort to walk,' returned Sara doubtfully. 'It's early days yet… but when you're stronger…' She let her voice fade, thinking of the way Irma seemed to have abandoned all hope of ever being able to leave that bed. 'I do feel,' continued Sara, 'that I couldn't ever resign myself to being an——-'
'Don't say it! I hate the word! It's almost as bad as "cripple" I And so you'd never resign yourself to being laid up for the rest of your life? Well, you haven't lain here and heard the doctor—his face apologetic and his voice regretful—telling my husband that there's no hope whatsoever!'
'The doctor shouldn't have said a thing like that in your hearing,' rejoined Sara with angry indignation.
'I wanted to know! I'm no coward, even though you might secretly brand me one!'
'I've never done any such thing,' returned Sara gently. 'On the contrary, I consider you very brave indeed, because it's not often you break down as you did just now.'
For a long moment there was silence in the room, broken only by the wind and a far-off rumble of thunder.
'I told you, didn't I, that Ray wouldn't want to stay with me.' The merest hint of a sob caused Irma's voice to quiver slightly.
'Carl's here, love. I expect Ray was remembering all that Carl's done for him and feeling he ought not to leave him alone for too long.'
'You could have stayed with him, but you don't like him, do you?'
'I've already admitted I don't like him.' Sara's eyes wandered to the window and the scene outside where the threatening cumulo-nimbus clouds were totally obscuring the sun. Lightning flashed from one horizon to another and within seconds the rain came down in torrents, reducing visibility to a few yards.
'Why did we ever come here!' cried Irma distractedly. 'Just look at that storm! Why was I ever fool enough to agree to come to this God-forsaken part of the world I Just think, if we'd stayed at home I would never have had that accident with the car—Oh, what's the use 1 Go away, Sara, and let me sleep!'
'But, darling———— '
'Go away!'
Sara turned, and went blindly to the door. Once outside she allowed the tears to fall unchecked down on to her cheeks. If only something could be done for Irma! If only she, Sara, were not so helpless. She put her closed fists to her temples, an unconscious act but one which illustrated the terrible anguish that filled her whole being. She was frustrated by her inability to help her sister battle against this soul-shattering depression. If only Irma would take an interest in something it would at least occupy her mind for part of the time. But all she did was to read or to sit there staring into space. She wanted Ray to sit with her for long hours at a time, but this was not possible. He did spend time with her in the evenings, though, but recently Irma had complained to Sara that he scarcely ever opened his mouth from the time he entered her room until he left it. Perhaps, thought Sara, bringing out her handkerchief and drying her eyes, it would improve matters if they had some games with which to while away the time. Irma and Sara used to play chess together, and they always supported local whist-drives which were held in aid of various charities. Even when Sara moved some distance away when she went to nurse the titled lady, she still managed to attend the whist- drives.
'Yes,' said Sara as she moved away from the door and proceeded towards her own bedroom, 'that's what's needed! I'll go into Paulsville immediately and buy some playing cards, and some games!' Without any further hesitation she bathed her face and hands, changed into clean denim slacks and a white short- sleeved shirt, grabbed her bag and made her way back to the living-room. 'I'm going into town,' she informed her brother-in-law. 'I've some shopping to do.'
'Is it urgent?' frowned Ray, glancing towards the window. 'It's not exactly the time to be driving the ranch wagon. The roads can be treacherous when they're flooded.'
'The main road will be okay.' Sara, aware of the studied interest with which Carl was regarding her brother-in-law, felt a little spurt of annoyance with Ray for making his concern so obvious. Carl, she felt sure, was putting an altogether wrong interpretation upon Ray's anxiety. However, Carl himself supported Ray by saying,
'Unless your errand's important you ought not to venture out in this storm, Miss Morgan.'
She looked at him a trifle belligerently, as if to inform him that she would please herself.
'The storm won't last,' was all she said, and turned away towards the open door.
'Might I ask what you're going into town for?' Ray's voice halted her and she swung around again.
'I'd rather not say.' Her eyes were caught by the glint in Carl's. He was obviously annoyed that she had not taken his advice, although she could not see why. He ought to have known that he was the last person of whom she would take notice. 'I must go,' she added, returning her attention to Ray. 'It's important to me that this shopping's done today.'
'Be careful, then. We don't want another accident.'
She went out, Ray's words ringing in her ears. That he hated the idea of her going out in the storm was plain, but she wished he had not made reference to Irma's accident. It was so tragic an occurrence that Sara had begun to shirk thinking about it. It was enough to be continually aware that her sister was condemned to that room for all day and every day; there was no need for the reminder of what had put her there.
Although the storm continued to rage, the lane leading from the farm to the main road presented no problems to Sara, having been baked hard by the recent long dry spell. And by the time she reached Paulsville the rain had stopped altogether. But the sky was still sullen, with black clouds pressing close to the earth; and an eerie mauve-grey dimness was creating conditions reminiscent of twilight, although it was not yet eleven o'clock. She should be home in plenty of time to prepare the lunch, thought Sara as, having parked the ranch wagon, she hurried along to the shop at which she hoped to be successful with her requirements. And she was successful, being able to buy the playing cards, a chess set and board, and some draughts. She saw no one whom she knew, much to her relief, as she had no wish to waste time chatting, not with the lunch to get ready for one o'clock.
The journey back was far more difficult, as the heavens opened immediately she got into the ranch wagon and the road became a river in no time at all. Lightning zigzagged through a distant line of kopjes and darted down on to the veld; the reverberating crash of thunder followed, and this pattern was repeated incessantly. Visibility was reduced to a few yards. Reaching the lane at last, she turned cautiously into it, afraid of skidding. The surface had become a quagmire and she was soon admitting that she was in for trouble. The wheels were spinning, throwing up a continual shower of ochre-coloured mud, and progress was reduced to about five miles an hour.
She still had more than three miles to go when, to her dismay, the vehicle squelched to a standstill and no matter how hard she tried she was unable to get it moving again. The wheels were in fact being driven deeper and deeper into the mud and she stopped the engine altogether. The rain was a cataract of silver all around her as she stepped from the vehicle; it lashed at her body, driven by the fury of the wind. The lightweight waterproof she had on was useless in a storm so violent as the one raging at present and she was soon feeling the penetration of water on her back. She had never seen anything like this in the whole of her life; it was frightening in its intensity, with the lightning's vivid blue flashes tearing threateningly across the blackness of the sky.
She looked at the wheels, saw that they were half buried in the mud. What was to be done? She would have to walk, she supposed, but the prospect of trudging through all that mud daunted her, and she looked longingly at the house, Ravenspark, where Carl van der Linden lived. It was fairly close… but she could never bring herself to ask his help—no, never! And so she began to walk, becoming drenched to the skin almost immediately. She found herself turning to look at the house again. The lightning scared her, and she tried to keep to the middle of the path, away from the trees, but the quagmire sucked her into its s
limy depths and she had a terror-stricken few seconds before she was able to extricate herself. She looked down at her legs and turned again to glance at the house. Lights had appeared in several windows, inviting beacons which caused her to stop and stare… and to throw her pride to the four winds.
That she looked just about as unprepossessing as it was possible to be struck her forcibly as she rang the bell, but she was past caring. Carl's opinion of her could not fall much lower than it was at present. His houseboy opened the door, but Carl happened to be in the hall, and he was staring at his visitor over the boy's shoulder.
'It's all right, Paulo,' he said, advancing to the door.
'Come in, Miss Morgan————— ' Carl swept a hand; she entered the lighted hall without even a glance at her surroundings. Never in her life had she felt so embarrassed, as she stood there, drenched to the skin, her hair like rats' tails sprawling over her shoulders, her legs and feet thick with mud which, to her horror, was dripping on to his polished oak floor.
'I—I—er—I'm terribly sorry, Mr van der Linden,' she stammered, 'but the ranch wagon became stuck in the mud and I can't get it out. I hope you don't mind my coming here? It was so much nearer than the farm.' She noticed the houseboy had disappeared, noticed also the immaculate appearance of the man standing there, his lynx-like eyes roving her from the scalp-clinging wetness of her hair right down to her mud-begrimed legs and feet. She went hot all over, furious with herself for succumbing to the temptation offered by the sight of those lighted windows. Far better to have trudged on home, enduring the discomfort, rather than to have found herself in such a humiliating position as this.
'Where is the ranch wagon?' he inquired, at the same time moving to close the door behind her.
'Along the lane———— ' She gestured, but her gaze was on the little pool of muddy water gathering at her feet. 'I ought not to have come,' she murmured apologetically. 'I'll go—————-'
'I did advise you not to venture out in the storm,' Carl reminded her, just as if he had to. 'However, that's not important now. What is important is that you get out of those clothes.' He pointed towards a door just a few yards farther along the hall. 'That's a cloakroom. Go in there and take off those things. There's a shower, and towels. I'll get you a dressing- gown.' He stopped, quirking one straight dark eyebrow in a gesture of amusement. 'It'll be somewhat large, but it'll suffice until your clothes have been washed and dried———'
'Oh, I couldn't put you to all that trouble,' she interrupted hurriedly. 'If you would be so kind as to run me home in your station wagon———-'
'I have no intention of taking a vehicle out in this,' broke in Carl implacably. 'Do you suppose I'd risk any station wagon becoming stuck in the mud the way yours has?' He spoke with that kind of inflection which told her plainly that he thought her every kind of a fool to expect him to run the sort of risk she had run.
'No… I spoke without thinking.'
'Do as I say and get those clothes off at once.' His tone had changed to one so imperious that she felt her hackles rising. However, she did as she was told, moving towards the door he had indicated. 'Put your clothes outside the door; I'll have them washed and dried right away.'
Sara made no further demur. Ray had told her that Carl had every modern convenience in his home, making his own electricity, so Sara concluded that his servant would be using a clothes washer and a tumbler drier. Nevertheless, this would take some time, and she was troubled about her sister. She was used to Sara waiting on her at meal times, and she would be upset if Sadie took her place. Perhaps, though, Ray would give her her lunch, explaining that Sara had gone into Paulsville and obviously could not get back. Sara hoped he would not worry too much, hoped he would conclude that she was still in town, waiting for the storm to abate before venturing on the roads again.
She undressed, having to drag her underwear from her shivering body. It was a relief to put her clothes outside the door, and she determinedly thrust out any embarrassing thoughts that might have intruded. The shower was heavenly, warm and comforting; the soap had a masculine smell—like the waft of pine-scent carried on a breeze blowing down from a hillside. The towel was large and soft and she wrapped it around her, waiting for the dressing-gown which Carl was lending her. A feeling of languor and well-being enveloped her; the storm raging outside seemed a million miles away.
A quiet knock on the door and the voice of the houseboy telling her that the dressing-gown was there, hanging on the knob. She called out, thanking him, then, opening the door, she took the garment in her hand. It was of towelling material, bright orange in colour, with white trimming on the collar and cuffs. Sara put it on, smiling at the way it buried her. She tied the girdle, took a look at herself in the mirror, and gave a deep, deep sigh. Dared she use that comb? Carl had not given her permission to do so, and to her sensitive mind it would have been wrong for her to use it without first asking him, as a comb was such a personal thing. She emerged from the cloakroom; Carl had anticipated her requirement and was there, handing her bag to her. Surprised, she found herself smiling, saw his response and, to her astonishment, her feeling of well-being was increased to an intoxicating lightness of mind and body.
'Thank you,' she murmured, accepting the bag. But she made no immediate move to go back into the cloakroom. His eyes on her face were watchfully intent, giving her the impression that, for the very first time since they had met, he was affording her some measure of interest. 'I'll—I'll comb my hair,' she murmured, shy all at once, and a little vexed with herself because of it.
'Come into the room opposite to this,' he said, and pointed to indicate the door. 'Your clothes are already being washed.' He wheeled away before she could thank him, leaving her with a strange sensation of unreality. She supposed, on trying to analyse this as she stood before the mirror combing her hair, that his changed manner with her was making her feel as if the whole position she was in had an unreality about it. Here she was, in his home for the first time, clad in nothing more than the dressing-gown he had offered her. She coloured a little, then shrugged. Since coming to Africa she had begun to take life as it came to her, accepting each day—each hour, even—for what it was worth.
Carl was leafing idly through a magazine when she entered the living-room. Elegant, and furnished with an eye both to beauty and comfort, it was the kind of apartment to which she had become used when working for her last employer. The walls were white with one or two valuable paintings hung upon them; the long window, which extended the full length of one wall, was draped with crimson curtains of expensive Italian brocatelle, and this same material had been used to cover the sofa and the three large armchairs. Several charming antique tables had a familiar look and Sara recalled that her employer had had a piecrust table that was almost identical to the one she saw here. Valuable Persian rugs covered the tiled floor, with one particularly fine one in front of the black marble fireplace. In an antique display cabinet was a collection of Chelsea-Derby porcelain, while on a set of small shelves occupying a corner by the fireplace, was a collection of Sevres snuffboxes. Undoubtedly Carl van der Linden was a man of refined and cultivated taste. He had put down the magazine and for a fleeting moment his eyes roved her figure, his mouth curving in an unexpected smile of amusement. However, he quite naturally made no reference to the ill-fitting garment, merely asking if she now felt more comfortable.
'Yes, indeed! I've never had a soaking like that before.'
'You needn't have had it now, had you taken my advice.' He gestured with his hand. 'Sit down, Miss Morgan. I've a warm drink coming for you in a moment or two.'
'Thank you; you're very kind.'
The lazy amber eyes were unfathomable as he said, abruptly changing the subject,
'I was speaking to you about your sister earlier today. You do realise just how deep her depression is?'
Sara nodded.
'Of course I do, Mr van der Linden. I try to get her out of these moods, but sometimes I find it impossi
ble.'
'What exactly are your methods when endeavouring to coax her out of these fits of depression?'
'I sit with her and chat. I try to convince her that later on, when she's not feeling so low in spirit, there'll be things to live for.'
Carl appeared to be considering this.
'She needs to have a hobby of some kind.'
Sara nodded in agreement.
'I've bought some games today—they're in the ranch wagon, and I do hope they'll not get wet. If Ray and Irma play games together it might make it easier for them both.'
Carl looked at her strangely; he seemed to be seeing her in an entirely new light, she thought, but she was still very conscious of the fact that in all probability he knew she was in love with her brother-in-law.
'So that's what took you out in the storm,' he said slowly. 'Was it so urgent that you got these games today?'
'It seemed urgent at the time,' admitted Sara deprecatingly. 'I know now, of course, that it was foolish to venture out in that dreadful storm.'
He was nodding thoughtfully.
'You mentioned the word "easier" just now. Wasn't that a rather odd word to use?'
Sara had already admitted to herself that it was an odd word to use when speaking to anyone like Carl, who would not understand just how difficult the situation between Ray and Irma was becoming. The word had slipped out, having fitted Sara's own thoughts.
'Perhaps I should have used the word "interesting",' she said.
'Perhaps, but you didn't,' remarked Carl with an odd inflection which sounded very much like a hint of censure—or was it accusation? 'Tell me, Miss Morgan, why should your sister and her husband need to play games in order to make things easier for them both?'
