Red Lotus

by Catherine Airlie

  "Julio," she pleaded when all the lanterns were lit along the miniature stone quay and their reflection as bright as stars in the dark water, "you must take me back to Philip."

  "I will never take you back to him, querida!" he told her

  passionately. "You are mine. He has no right to you. Besides, he is already in love!"

  "No, Julio—"

  He swept her, protesting, into his arms. The dance was over for the moment and they had been sitting on a bench in the shadow of the stone wall surrounding the harbour, with a group of palms behind them and the murmur of the sea in their ears, and suddenly the shadow of the palm fell darkly across them. Julio's lips sought hers, demanding, arrogant, passionate, and her senses swam for a moment before the insistence of his kiss.

  "You will love me," he said. "You do love me. I have seen it in your eyes!"

  The shadow behind them stirred and lengthened. She knew that someone was standing there. It was Philip. He had moved away from the wall, turning his back on them.

  Desperately she struggled to be free, her heart engulfed by humiliation and anger against Julio who could make such light love to her with such seeming passion.

  "Philip," she said, "Were you looking for us?"

  He did not answer her immediately, but he did not turn in surprise at the sound of her voice so that she knew he had seen her sitting there locked in Julio's arms.

  "I came to find you—yes," he said at length, his voice so unlike the resonant, confident voice she knew that she could have mistaken him for a stranger in that deceptive half-light beneath the palms "It is time that we went back to San Lozaro."

  Why had he not said "It is time that we went back home"? So often he had used the word in the past few weeks, making it sound intimate and warm, part of them both, but now she knew that anger or disillusionment or some other fiercely primitive emotion had choked back the word in his throat. He could not bring himself to utter it. He could not believe that they would ever make a home together at San Lozaro after this.

  The effort they were making was no longer congenial, no longer bound together by implicit trust.

  Somehow she knew that she had had his trust. She had earned it during those four weeks of silent endeavour when they had both held fast to an ideal and sought to bring about an old man's dying wish. The atmosphere at San Lozaro had lightened, but now it would be fraught with

  danger again. A danger of her own making. She should have been more firm with Julio. Philip would blame her for her cousin's impetuous love-making, and he had turned from her in anger and scarcely-veiled contempt.

  She felt that she could not reach him in that moment. The atmosphere between them was volcanic, as explosive as the dark soil under the crust of El Teide. One break and a whole torrent of fury must burst upon her defenceless head.

  Anger against Julio crept uppermost. How dared he do a thing like this? She had never encouraged him to make love to her. She had only tried to be kind, to understand him and perhaps to protect him a little from his own swift passions.

  Was kindness a thing, then, that he did not appreciate? Did Julio consider that nothing but love was possible between the sexes? If so, she had been to blame.

  Confused and angry and strangely dispirited, she realized that Philip was not going to do anything to help her. He strode on ahead, leaving her to follow with Julio, who scowled and murmured, complaining that Philip had always interfered.

  "He has always wanted everything to go his way," he declared. "Philip is a tyrant, but one day, we shall see!"

  Conchita was strangely silent on the way back to San Lozaro. Like Julio, she looked almost sullen when her wishes had been thwarted for a reason she refused to accept, and she had wished to stay at Zamora. The dancing and the festivities would continue far into the night, but Isabella had looked tired after her long, exacting day and Philip had been adamant. They had been there since early morning. It was time that they went home.

  Almost before the car had come to rest at the foot of the terrace steps Conchita flung herself out of it and rushed into the house, looking as if she would burst into a flood of angry tears at any moment.

  "Go with her, Sisa," Philip advised. "It is late for you, querida."

  Sisa, whose long, silken lashes were already drooping over her dark eyes, kissed Felicity and obeyed. Julio had been driving and he whisked the car away in the direction of the stables.

  "Goodnight, Felicity!" he called back to her with a laugh. "We will meet again in the morning!"

  Felicity bit her lip. She was standing beside Philip on the top step and he made no effort to follow the others into the house. When the car had disappeared he looked down at the luminous dial of his watch.

  "It's two o'clock," he said. "Are you very tired?"

  "Not very." She felt as if the weariness of the whole world was weighing her down, but she could not tell him so. It was no physical weariness, and that was what he had meant. "Is there something you want me to do?"

  "I want to speak to you," he said, "about Julio."

  Her heart gave a swift lurch and then seemed to lie still. What could he want to say to her about Julio? She could not imagine anything short of censure as she followed him slowly through the house and out on to the patio overlooking the sleeping garden.

  In the light of the new moon all the flowers seemed to have lost their flamboyant colouring and even the lotus looked pale. It hung in great fronds above their heads, cascading from the ornamental urns which topped the wall, but suddenly it was the overpowering scent of stephanotis which filled the night.

  It was everywhere, in the very air they breathed, a heady, disturbing fragrance which she knew she would never be able to forget as long as she lived. It would remind her of this moment always.

  Philip's stern profile was etched sharply against the yellow circle of the one lamp he had lit.

  "What is the position between you and Julio?" he asked harshly. "Are you in love with him?"

  "No!" Her voice felt strangled deep in her throat. "How could I be?"

  "It would not be an unusual thing." His tone had not changed and there was no reaction to her confession to be seen in his hard, set face. "Julio is not without his attraction."

  She pressed her hands together, moistening her suddenly dry lips.

  "I'm not going to marry Julio," she said.

  He moved then, warily, striding to the edge of the patio and back again before he spoke.

  "Would you consider marriage," he asked, "with me?"

  She looked up, stunned by the question for a moment. Philip was not looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the distant pale silhouette of El Teide, which they could see even in that uncertain half-light standing up there, tall and remote, above the valley.

  "We must have some sort of stability at San Lozaro," he went on when she did not—could not—answer him. "If you are not in love with Julio he must be made to see that straight away or all sorts of complications will arise."

  "I have told him that I am not in love with him," she whispered. "I have said that I don't want him to make love to me."

  He turned, coming to stand beside her.

  "Julio will take more convincing than that," he told her dryly. "He is all Spanish, and a Spaniard believes that a woman exists for love, which may be true or untrue. I do not know. The point is that we can't go on here at San Lozaro with a small volcano brewing beneath our feet all the time. These things explode eventually. It is best that

  Julio should understand immediately that you are not for"

  "And so you have asked me to marry you?" Her smile was a small hurt thing which he would barely be able to see in the inadequate lamplight. "What sort of marriage would it be, Philip—without love?"

  He took a full second to answer, turning away again so that she could not see his face.

  "There have been such marriages in the past," he said. "Built on mutual respect and a shared ideal. We have undertaken a task here at San Lozaro. I believe you are as seri
ous about your part as I am about mine. We could live—peaceably enough together, I have no doubt."

  "Because neither of us is in love? But I am in love, Philip! I am in love!"

  It was a heart-cry, driven from her by the intensity and pain of her longing, and he turned to look at her sharply before he said:

  "Are you going to marry this man, then? Is it someone you knew—in England?"

  "No," she said unsteadily. "No, I shall never marry him " Her lips were trembling, but she drove the confession out. "He is not in love with me."

  His eyes searched her face with a ruthlessness which she found hard to bear.

  "You know that for the truth?" he asked.

  "Yes. Yes, I know it."

  He drew in a deep breath.

  "We seem to be very much in the same boat," he acknowledged with surprising bitterness. "Would it be too difficult to suppose that my former suggestion might work out, all the same?"

  "That I should marry you and—and chance our being happy?" Her voice shook. "Oh, Philip! if we could only understand each other! I know you can't be in love with me as you were with Maria, but—"

  He stood waiting for her to continue. His face in profile looked like a mask hewn out of granite and his voice was equally hard when he said, at last:

  "No, I am not in love with you as I was with Maria. That is past."

  But you can't forget! You will never forget, Felicity thought desperately. And now you are in love with Isabella. That is a different sort of love, but equally lost to you because Isabella's faith will never permit her to consider her freedom. She has married Rafael and she will remain his wife. Your love is impossible and your heart is torn asunder. And now you have offered it to me. But is it really in the hope that it might be healed one day? Oh, Philip! Philip, she thought. If only I knew the answer!

  "I'm not asking you to make up your mind immediately," he said. "I couldn't expect that, but we ought to have something concrete to present Julio with. The fact of our engagement, for instance. He will never be convinced otherwise."

  She stood quite still, looking out over the silent garden without seeing the flowers now or any of the beauty of the night.

  "I can't answer you, Philip," she said. "I have to think—to reason it all out. It has been so unexpected. Less than an hour ago I would not have believed it possible—"

  She saw him smile, but he said gravely enough:

  "And now that you know it is possible, how long are you going to take to make up your mind?"

  She thought for a moment, her lower lip gripped tightly between her strong white teeth.

  "Can you give me till tomorrow?"

  He looked surprised.

  "It is a decision that will affect your whole life, remember," he warned.

  "Yes," she said, "that is true. But I shall know, I think, what I want to do—by tomorrow."

  He came behind her, putting a hand heavily on either shoulder, and she could feel the magnetism which she had always known he possessed like something tangible between them.

  "You know that once your decision is made I shall not let you reverse it," he said.

  "I won't want to," she answered steadily. "I have always tried not to go back on a promise."

  "I can believe that," he said, releasing her, although the pressure of his strong fingers still seemed to burn through the thin silk of her dress. "That was what kept you here, wasn't it, after your uncle died?"

  "In a way," she said.

  "What else could there be?" He turned her to face him. "Was it also a way of escape?"

  She looked up at him, not understanding what he meant. "From England," he supplied tersely, "and the man you loved?"

  "No," she whispered, her heart twisting painfully because she could not tell him that she had never been in love until she had come to Tenerife. "No, it wasn't a way of escape."

  "I don't think you would run away," he said briefly, "even from love."

  She stood waiting as he turned to put out the lamp. There were other lights in the hall but here, in the patio, they were surrounded by an intimate darkness. The scent of stephanotis was stronger than ever, heady, powerful, well-nigh overwhelming.

  "Philip," she said, "can you tell me why I should not marry Julio?"

  The lamp flickered and went out. She saw him for a moment, vaguely, in the sudden darkness, his tall figure silhouetted against the paler oblong of the starlit garden and the distant, shining Peak. He moved then and in an instant she was in his arms, lying there submissive to his kiss.

  It was a kiss of passion, sullen and fierce as Julio's might have been in similar circumstances, demanding, powerful, strong as the iron-hard pressure of his encircling arms. She felt the garden reel about her, the light of the stars blotted out as she closed her eyes, and only the scent of the stephanotis merging with the blurred image of her dream.

  Then, just as suddenly, he had thrust reality between them again.

  "I had no right to do that," he said. "Forgive me, if you can." He turned away, facing The Peak. "If it influences your final decision, I have only myself to blame."

  She wanted to say so much to him, but words would not come and his kiss had confused her. She felt unnerved and at a loss, wanting him to take her in his arms again but realizing that he would not. A moment's madness had possessed him. That was all. Perhaps he had even confused her with Isabella or with the dead Maria for that split second when she had lain in his passionate embrace, feeling the warmth of his lips against hers as if they might draw her whole soul from her body with their strength.

  "Go to bed now, Felicity," he said, and his voice was kinder, more tender than she had ever heard it. "Don't try to make any more decisions to-night."

  She turned from him, disappointed yet glad to go. What sort of pride did she possess when she knew that she could have begged him to kiss her again, even if it were only with the thought of Isabella de Barrios in his heart?

  He followed her to the foot of the staircase, but he did not bid her goodnight. He stood watching until she had reached the top, but when she had walked a little way along the gallery and looked over he had gone.

  Out into the night? She did not know, but the first pale streamers of dawn were flying across The Peak before she finally slept herself.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE THING BELOVED

  IN the morning she knew that she was going to give Philip her promise. She was going to marry him.

  Oh, yes, it was second-best--even third-best if she allowed herself to consider Maria—but she had made up her mind to accept it. She had so much love to offer, so much to give that the question of an adequate return didn't seem to enter into it. Did you weigh love, or measure it, and ask how much you were receiving so that the two might be equal and nobody cheated? If she could give Philip peace of mind and some sort of sanctuary here at San Lozaro would that not be enough for her, too?

  She said that it would, convincing herself in spite of the recurring ache in her heart, reiterating for her own comfort the fact that they had something to build together. And in building the home Robert Hallam had wanted for his children might she not be drawn into Philip's heart in the end?

  That was her hope, her prayer, her one desire. Misgivings had haunted her through the hours of darkness, but with the quiet dawn her decision had been made. They could do so much in this sheltered valley—together.

  That was what it amounted to. Being with Philip for the remainder of her life, not cast out into some desert place, alone. They could walk together hand in hand, in trust and companionship, so that the past might, in time, be forgotten or at least buried so deeply that it would rarely affect them.

  She thought how odd it was that she should have come all that way to find her love; odd, too, that she had not known about Philip in that first moment of their meeting, but in the beginning he had seemed to resent her.

  Now there was no resentment left. She was sure of that, at least.

  Dressing slowly, she wondered when sh
e would find the

  opportunity to tell him what she had decided. He had said there was no hurry, and the memory sent a small stab of pain to her heart. She wanted to rush to him now, in the full flush of morning, and cry: "Philip, I love you. I will marry you whenever you like!" She wanted to hold out her arms to him, as any young girl might who had just found her love, but Philip had said there was plenty of time. He had been in no hurry to hear her decision. He might even have felt that he had made a mistake.

  Her heart burned with shame as she thought of that passionate kiss of his and his subsequent withdrawal. Even then was he regretting the impulse which had made him ask her to protect the future for him?

  Sick with uncertainty, she turned away from the mirror where she could see her slim young figure in the lovely blue dress she had selected for this special day in her life, and walked to the window.

  It was open, and the faintly-cloying scent of stephanotis still lingered in the air, rising from the garden at her feet. Beneath the window a bed of tall arum lilies shone, waxlike in the sun, too bridal-looking for her to contemplate without a pang. The whole world about her was full of flowers, but they were flowers which lasted for so short a time. Once you stretched out eager bands to gather them they withered in a day. Even the lilies grew listless and lost their sheen too quickly.

  Suddenly her eyes lifted and she was looking at The Peak. Strong, grey, enduring in the sunlight, El Teide rose above her and above the valley he had guarded since the beginning of time. His granite face was turned to the sky, his smile was inexorable, but beneath the hardness and the mystery and the remoteness there was a sense of peace enduring and the sky behind the snow-capped crest was very blue.