On Monday, Mr. Kelsey gave a dinner for the local polo players and their wives. It was an uproarious evening which finished with solemn promises that a proper club would be formed with Charles as the absent president.
On Tuesday, Laurette dined with Ben. She hadn’t wanted to because Charles’ last days were speeding, but Ben had begged for her assistance in entertaining his cousin and she could not refuse. The picnic, it seemed, had been something of a fiasco because he’d given too little thought to its organization. He had to make up for it to Alix by arranging a pleasurable evening in his own house, and he hadn’t the first idea of how to set about it.
Laurette got busy. She had Bwazi come down, and between them they contrived a meal for a dozen. She cut flowers from the bungalow garden—Ben’s was packed with undipped evergreens—and she made the lounge as attractive as the drab furniture would permit.
When Alix entered the house that evening her glance at the flowers and brighter lights was enigmatic. She greeted the others, took the drink Ben poured, jutted her cigarette to his lighter and firmly but unostentatiously persuaded him to sit with her in the chesterfield.
Being a woman of much poise and confidence, it was not long before she approached the subject which had precedence in her mind.
“Ben, do you remember when you used to talk about specializing in diseases of the heart?”
He nodded and gave her his rather weary smile. “I daresay all medical students visualize themselves specializing, but only about twenty per cent do so.”
“What was it that prevented you from becoming one of the twenty per cent?”
A shrug. “Circumstances.”
“Plus the missionary complex which made you sink your money in this practice,” she said. “How many times have you regretted it?”
Not, “Have you regretted it?” “How many times?” Ben looked at his cousin, bent away from her to tap ash into a tray. Alix was clever and discerning. He found her cleverness slightly distasteful yet admired her for it. “I often had regrets in the first year or so,” he answered.
“And now?”
Perhaps it was mere chance that drew his glance across the room to where Laurette, in the off-the-shoulder coral pink, stood smiling and talking with a large young man who was in Port Quentin on a fishing and painting holiday. Alix leaned back, watching Ben narrowly. She saw him take a breath and shift his glance.
“One settles down,” he commented, “and some things make up for what one’s missed.”
“Are you sure that those things have substance?” she queried softly, her dark eyes alight with malice. “Perhaps one of these days you’ll wake up to realize that life has passed you by, and you’ll wish then that you’d gone all out for a specialist’s career.”
Because he was not looking her way at that moment her expression evaded him. But even had he seen her glinting glance and the curling of long red nails into her palms, Ben would not have associated either with his cousin’s plans for himself; he was a singularly modest man. However, her next remark did cause him to turn towards her.
“It isn’t too late, you know, Ben.”
“I’m afraid it is,” he stated. “I’m committed to Port Quentin.”
“Because of money?”
“Partly. I’d never be able to sell this practice.”
“Perhaps not.” she conceded, carefully excluding eagerness from her voice, “but it wouldn’t be difficult to employ a young doctor at a salary. Then you could go to Johannesburg. The Golden City is big, and at an altitude of six thousand feet you’d have no difficulty in finding heart cases to study.” She smiled and rested her fingers on the back of his hand. “Think about it, Ben; no more disillusionment, no more striving with this irritating job. In two or three years you could have your own suite of offices in the centre of Johannesburg. Don’t dwell on the money aspect. My father would have given his wholehearted approval to a loan for such a purpose. You know that.”
His hand twisted and briefly grasped her fingers. “It’s a sweet thought, Alix,” he said, “but I can’t accept your generosity.”
“You don’t have to, Ben, my dear. We’ll leave it for the present. May I have another drink, or is it too near dinner?”
Alix’s offer had stirred Ben more than he would have cared to admit. Never having disguised to himself his dislike of his present conditions of existence, he was able dispassionately to see himself away from Port Quentin and doing research work and other work of the type to which he could give himself gladly and tirelessly. But he did not seriously consider relinquishing the practice. She had sketched a dream, that was all, and it is open to everyone—even to a disappointed medical man—to indulge his fancies.
Possibly the very knowledge that if he were willing he could break away lent gaiety to Ben’s mood that evening. Or he might have decided that his cousin deserved the best of him. Whatever it was, the dinner and the ensuing chatter and games were moderately successful, which was all he asked.
At about ten-thirty the warm and starry night drew Laurette down the steps into the front garden. She stood still and listened to the turbulence of the waves. Somewhere, maybe in the next garden beyond Ben’s tangle of growth, a house-boy was pinging at a home-made guitar. She could imagine the instrument: a slat of wood with a rectangular oil can attached to one end and a length of fuse wire drawn tightly over it. Bwazi had one which was a shade less primitive because her father had collaborated in its construction.
Few lights were visible through the trees. Apart from the main street, Port Quentin had no set thoroughfares; the houses were sprinkled over the hillsides and joined up by a network of rough paths. The outlook from Ben’s garden included with the usual lush trees a couple of red iron roofs, a hump of headland and a triangle of sea.
It was time she went home. The young painter had promised to walk up with her, which would leave Ben free to escort his cousin to the hotel. She turned from contemplation of the trees but did not move towards the house, for someone was approaching; a woman in emerald and white. It was Alix Brooke.
Alix slowed as she approached, and said pleasantly, “I hoped it was you. We’ve hardly had a word together all evening.”
“It’s getting late.”
“Not so very.” Alix sniffed at the pink blossom drooping from a branch. “Port Quentin’s an extraordinary place, isn’t it? You imagine it must be populated by people who are afraid of the world.”
“But it isn’t.” Laurette was quickly defensive. “Most of the people here have led extremely active lives in other parts of the world.”
“What about you? Is this only an interlude?”
“I don’t know. While I can be of use I don’t yearn to get away.”
“You’re not particularly happy, though, are you?”
Laurette paused. The other’s eyes were unreadable, her tone had been even, yet the words savored of knowledge and insight. “As a matter of fact,” she replied with caution, “I’ve been happier since coming to Port Quentin than at any time in my life.”
Alix lifted her shoulders. “I don’t doubt it. But extreme mental elation always leaves one flat, especially if there seems to be no hope of renewing it.” She flicked away the flower and asked through narrowed lips, “How long have you been in love with Ben?”
Laurette stared, and locked her hands. She was still foggy how to deal with Alix Brooke. The woman had a way of asking questions which contained a misstatement, and her manner made one want to lead her on and defy her. Yet to anger her would be perilous, though one couldn’t allow her to have all her own way.
“I’ll work it out and let you know,” she said flippantly. “Or you could ask Ben himself. He’d be most amused.”
Alix stiffened. Not only was she unaccustomed to opposition, but she could not forget that this girl was only nineteen—the age at which she herself had captivated Ben. True, Laurette Delaney attracted the mature man, but Alix felt she knew too much about her own sex to believe the Delaney girl was any diffe
rent from the rest.
“Listen to me,” she said in cool, vibrant tones. “I knew Ben when you were still at school. We were in love but he couldn’t afford to marry. Unfortunately, my father had plenty of cash, so Ben has never considered it feasible for us to marry. Do you understand?”
Of course. Ben would hate to marry money ... Exactly! Her crispness had-an almost masculine ring.
“Well, I have a difficult task. My father’s income is now mine, and I intend that Ben shall realize his ambition to become a heart specialist. I’m not leaving Port Quentin yet, Miss Delaney. I’m staying till I can persuade him to let me help him financially.”
“I hope you’ll be successful,” said Laurette inadequately. “It; didn’t occur to me that he’d been in love before.”
Before? Alix took her up sharply. “If you’ve been deceiving yourself you’d better see the light straight away. Ben doesn’t really want you; he needs neither your assistance nor the posy you probably place on his desk every morning. If you genuinely have his well-being at heart, you’ll tell him tomorrow that you can’t work with him any longer. Leave the rest to me.”
“Ben and I are friends. We’d have to discuss it. Besides, only a little while ago he insisted that he couldn’t do without my help.”
Alix came very near. She grasped Laurette’s wrist and spoke quietly, through closed teeth. “I hadn’t arrived here then; he thought he was stuck in this place for ever. For his good, you must finish with him. I can give him the chance to throw off his weariness and disillusionment, to achieve his desires, and I won’t have you stand in the way.”
As Laurette gazed into the pale face just above her own, she quailed; the expression she met there was vindictive and vicious. But loyalty to Ben demanded that she make a further effort. “I want him to have whatever is best for him—but I doubt if you can give him that. You’re not in love with him. There’s something else in your mind. Why are you doing this?”
This was a query Alix could not answer. Impossible to tell this clear-skinned, smoky-eyed girl that she, Alix Brooke, was jealous of her, that every means in her power had to be employed to stop Ben wanting Laurette. For the rest, Alix was hazy herself. She had never created anything; beyond an occasional cheque to a charity she had never done any good. She was thirty, and her only friends those she had willingly left behind in England—would not have crossed the street to speak to her had she been penniless.
In a strange, inexplicable way, Ben pulled. He wasn’t interested in her bank balance and he was honest. To some extent, she thought, he was malleable; with the right wife he could become whatever he wished. Yet she was by no means certain that she wanted to marry him. All she was sure of was that she could not let him marry this nineteen-year-old girl, Laurette Delaney.
“You forget he’s my cousin,” she said. “Ben and I have always been close.”
Youthfully, recklessly, Laurette retorted, “So close that you’ve never corresponded since Ben left England all those years ago. Your interest in his ambition is rather sudden, isn’t it? Has it flared up because you’re bored and don’t know what to do with your money? Or are you so dissatisfied with what you’ve made of your own life that you can’t bear to see Ben comfortably dug into his practice...”
She broke off on a startled cry. Rage had flared in Alix; nostrils dilated and eyes glittering, she had grabbed at the creamy curve between Laurette’s neck and shoulder and brutally buried her nails.
“You’ve finished with Ben! Do you hear? You needn’t come here again—I’ll explain to him myself. And if you dare to try going to him behind my back it’ll be the worse for you.” Her breath came fast and deep as she ended, “Don’t flatter yourself that you’re indispensable to him. Ben told me only this evening that he can’t afford your salary, and that you’re not worth the money he pays you. He’s had to tolerate having a half-fledged nurse because there’s no one else! He told me himself!”
Laurette heard no more. White to the lips she moved and felt the night air stinging against her neck. Automatically she pressed a handkerchief to the spot, drew it down and looked blankly at the long smear of blood.
Alix had gone ahead swiftly, like an eagle in flight. She was in the porch when Laurette reached it, and she was panting a little as she stood between Ben and the young painter who had been waiting to escort Laurette to the Kelsey mansion. Laurette entered the circle without looking at the others; her coat was drooped about her shoulders.
In the dim light Ben said, “Sure you two won’t have a nightcap before you go?” And when they had declined, “Good night, then. Thanks for doing so well with the dinner, Laurette.”
Walking at her side, Laurette’s companion made several polite remarks to which she managed adequate replies. He left her on the drive and she went on slowly up the steps into the veranda. Only the porch light shone and she guessed it had been left on especially for her. She stepped into the large hall, pushed nervous fingers through her hair.
Charles had come to the lounge doorway. “My, my,” he said. “You look as though you’ve had a rough time. I thought a dinner at Ben’s would be a sedate affair.”
“The wind has blown my hair.”
He straightened, his gaze narrow and critical. “You’re very pale. Aren’t you well?”
“I’m all right.” She came to the carved table and laid her purse upon it. “Has my father gone to bed?”
“He and Uncle Gilbert turned in about half an hour ago. I promised to wait up for you.”
“Thanks.”
He crossed the few yards which divided them, slipped a hand under her chin and raised it. She met his eyes for a second, then turned her head aside.
“What’s the tragedy?” he demanded.
“There isn’t one. May I have a cigarette?”
He got out his case but held it, closed. “Come on, out with it. You’re trembling. Was it the man who brought you home?”
“Of course not. The cigarette, please, Charles.”
But he dropped the case back into his pocket and lowered himself to the edge of the table so that his face was level with hers. “What has Ben done?” he asked curtly.
“Charles, I’m tired...”
“Not merely tired. You’re frightened, you’ve had some sort of upset.”
“It’s nothing catastrophic I’m not working for Ben any more, that’s all.”
He was silent a moment, his eyes hard and speculative. “That’s as it should be,” he said. “Was it a joint decision?”
She shook her head. “He made it.”
“It’s not worth crying about,” he said harshly.
“I’m not crying.”
“No, you’re past tears. Ben has made up his mind to do without you and it hurts. You have an alternative. You could marry him!”
She took an unsteady pace away from him. “So I could—if he asked me. I think I’d better go to bed.”
“You’ll never sleep.”
“I’ll go just the same. Good night.”
Charles made no reply. Laurette went along the corridor, hesitated at her father’s door, but passed it and entered her own room. She threw off the coat and crossed to the mirror. But it was not her own reflection she saw. Alix was there with her thin, smooth-featured face drawn into lines of hate.
The realization that she really did possess an enemy was an unfamiliar emotion to Laurette. She could hardly believe that Alix, for no apparent reason, had taken a violent antipathy to Ben’s assistant, but on the whole that aspect was not particularly important. More difficult to absorb was the fact that Ben had told his cousin he could not afford a nurse. Not for a moment did Laurette credit that he had put it as baldly as that, but he must have said something on the subject or Alix would never have dared to be so final in her pronouncements.
Laurette tried to reconcile this with what she knew of Ben, but her head was spinning and the whole incident with Alix blurred. She sat on the edge of the bed and pushed off her shoes. Then a knock came at the d
oor.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Charles. May I come in?”
Without pausing for her consent he thrust wide the door. He was carrying a glass set in a saucer.
“Warm milk with a dash of whisky,” he said as he placed it on the bedside table. “It’ll help you to sleep.” He smiled as she stood beside him. “Not much of you without shoes, is there?”
“It’s good of you to bring the milk.”
“I’m like that,” he began, sharply mocking, but he broke off with an exclamation. “What have you done to your shoulder?”
Involuntarily, her head and shoulders went back, but Charles was above her, bending over.
“I scratched it in Ben’s garden. I’d forgotten it.”
“Don’t pretend it was caused by a twig,” he said sternly. “It looks more as if you’d been mauled by a wildcat. Now we’re coming to it, aren’t we? You quarrelled with someone ... it wouldn’t be Ben; he’d never hurt you physically.”
“I didn’t quarrel with anyone!” She held herself completely rigid, willing herself to pay no attention to his hand on her arm.
He spoke quietly, but it was easy to see he was furious. “I want the truth, Laurette. Your father is incapacitated and in matters of this sort I’m your temporary guardian. Tell me who did this and what else happened.”
Gently, she pulled away from him. Her voice shook. “It isn’t your business, Charles. You don’t have to dispense justice in Port Quentin. Save it for Basutoland.”
He strode out and within seconds returned with a pad of soaked cotton wool which smelled of antiseptic. She felt the cool smarting of the water, thought despairingly that the bloodstained runnel would mark her frock Intently, he examined the three small wounds.
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