Paul was caught at last. “Neither are you!” he almost snarled. “You can afford to be cocksure and generous because she’s yours. In fact, it makes you feel good to know that other men want something that belongs to you so unquestionably! Well, I can get along without your magnificent gestures, and I shouldn’t be surprised if I’ll get more pleasure out of sweating my hide off for someone else.”
He made to fling away, but David gripped his shoulder and thrust him back.
“Why won’t you listen to sense? This that you’re going through means nothing, nothing at all. It never does when it’s all on one side. You’ll get over it and laugh at yourself, and next thing you know you’ll be marrying some nice girl who has the same tastes as yourself.”
“I don’t want your brotherly advice.” Paul suddenly wrenched himself from the firm grasp. “And I’ve had enough of Willowfield.”
A clap of thunder carried away David’s reply, but Susan saw his face in the queer light, saw it drawn and angry, the lips moving over closed teeth. Then he turned and strode rapidly back to the house, while Paul disappeared through the archway towards the cottage.
Momentarily, Susan was paralyzed. She had pressed back so urgently among the leaves and flowers that she felt trapped; but her heart began to beat loudly and insistently and a more vivid flash of lightning warned her that she must act quickly. But how? What was she to do?
She stepped on to the path and pushed a couple of leaves from her hair. Through the archway she looked at the cottage and was chilled to find it unlighted. Before she could wonder she heard the muted thudding of hoofs. Paul hadn’t gone indoors, hadn’t had the courage to plunge into the confined loneliness of his bedroom. But to gallop away at this hour was something he had never done before and the implications of it were terrifying, particularly with a storm coming up.
After those minutes of fright and indecision, Susan was only vaguely conscious of her actions. Her limbs moved of their own volition, sent her running to the stables to mount one of the placid farm ponies, and made her dig her heels into the warm flanks and head for the track. Her need was desperate, her intentions hazy. She only knew she had to catch up with Paul, that what might come after would be of secondary importance.
The gusts of wind were stronger now. They forced the pony to sway in its stride, snapped twigs from the trees and whipped up the dust from the track into a nightmare of shapes, and the thunder was like an endless avalanche, but it was not raining yet. Susan urged on the little pony, felt a branch rip the skirt of her frock and didn’t care.
“Paul, for heaven’s sake,” she panted aloud. “Where are you?”
The furious wind tore at her, the rain cascaded over her as if emptied from some gargantuan container, the violet lightning streaked in and about the trees, and thunder now broke overhead with the noise of a million furies. It did not occur to Susan that the pony’s behavior was nothing short of miraculous, though afterwards she did admit, ruefully, that he might be forgiven the rearing that almost dragged her arm from the shoulder socket.
The night was immense and noisy, but somehow it had no power to terrify. Susan became concerned only with getting back to Willowfield. An eternity seemed to pass before she re-entered the garden and urged the pony towards the cottage.
And there, she knew the shock of anti-climax. There was a light in Paul’s bedroom. Even in his anguish he had been wiser than she.
She put the pony back into his stable, remembered like one in a trance to give him a feed of oats, and walked out once more into the rain. Though it still beat at her, she couldn’t hurry any more. She went up into the veranda, wondered at herself dully for having left the light on in her bedroom, and turned the handle of the french window.
Inside the room she paused, panting. Water ran from her on to the polished floor, plugged her ears so that the sudden comparative silence was almost unbearable.
“My God,” said a low, half-amused voice. “Is this the African peasant’s way of welcoming the raindrops?”
Susan stared at Deline Maynton. She saw her seated upon the side of the bed and lounging sideways upon the pillow, one white arm supporting her head, the burnished hair true titian in the light from the bedside lamp. As she watched, the other woman straightened and let her china blue glance wander over the slim drenched figure.
Deline spoke again. “I’ll admit the frock was somewhat outmoded,” she said in those smiling, contemptuous tones, “but I shouldn’t have thought you could afford to ruin it. If you had to be brash, why didn’t you put on a swimsuit?”
“Do you mind ... leaving,” Susan managed. “I have to get out of these things.”
Deline flicked an airy finger, drew the chiffon gown closer about her and lifted her slippered feet up on to the bed-cover. “Don’t mind me. I came in here to have a word with you, and I don’t intent your childish pursuits to put me off. Get out of your clothes, by all means, and put on that terry-towel robe that’s hanging on the door.” She turned negligently and looked at it, asked, “Is that all you own in the way of a wrap? No wonder you’re trying so hard.”
Susan was in no condition for a scene, but neither could she tolerate the other’s nerve in coming to this room and lying in wait for its occupant. “We can talk just as well in the morning,” she said, fighting with the zipper at her side. “It’s very late, and I’m tired.”
‘Too bad, but I don’t intend to be put off. I’ve stood a great deal from you, Susan, and this is where we have our little showdown. So you’d better get into that robe quickly, hadn’t you?”
Susan crossed to the other side of the room and struggled out of her wet clothes. She put on the robe and belted it, used the wide end of the girdle to dry her face, then bent over a drawer in the wardrobe to find a towel. When she straightened, Deline was lying flat on her back in the centre of the bed, with her hands crossed under her head. The sight of her made Susan feel that she never wanted to sleep in the bed again. She sat on the stool near the dressing-table and began to dry her hair.
Deline said, “You must have more than half an idea of what I’m going to say, but in case the rain has rusted your memory, I’ll remind you that at dinner this evening Clive Carlsten invited you to go with him to Zimbabwe.”
“Well, what of it?” said Susan wearily, as she rubbed. “Why do you have to be jealous when any man you know happens to show any attention to someone else?”
The recumbent form stiffened slightly. “My dear Susan”—the words dropped like weights into a hollow—“if I became jealous of you I should know that my life was over, but as a matter of fact, it’s only beginning. Before we go any further, I’m going to tell you something about Clive Carlsten.”
“I know it already. You were engaged to him some years ago, but married someone richer.”
“Quite, but that’s not all. Clive pestered me all the time I was married, and after my husband’s death, while I was in the nursing home, he came to see me every day. Rhodesia isn’t my idea of heaven, but David’s here, and for the present this is where I want to be. More than anything, at the moment, I wish to get rid of Clive.”
“Well, why not ask him to go?”
Deline still spoke to the ceiling. “How little you know about men in love. Clive refused to be shaken off when I was married; now that I’m free he’s almost impossible, even though he’s realized that in due course I shall marry David.”
Susan was too worn to feel much pain. “Where do I come in?” she asked.
“Clive likes you—or pretends he does. More important, he believes what you say, but he doesn’t think you have the brains to be a good liar. But we both knew, don’t we, that women are the best liars in the world?”
“I still don’t get it.”
“It’s simply this, I’ve told Clive that I’m going to marry David. David himself, of course, won’t say a word about it to anyone till we’re officially engaged, so I’m afraid I have to fall back on you. I want a favor from you, Susan, a small lie. I want you to
tell Clive that David has told you he means to marry me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!”
Slowly, Deline sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. In the way of men David is something special, and once Clive’s made to believe that David wants me to marry him he’ll clear off, out of my life. If I ever meet him as David’s wife, he’ll be most respectful; I’m sure of that. But if I tell him, he’ll simply scoff; it has to be someone like you, who knows David fairly well and might conceivably have been taken into his confidence.”
Susan was trembling. She put down the hairbrush and stared at Deline. “David would never tell me anything of that kind.”
Deline’s eyes narrowed. “But he does speak to you confidentially, doesn’t he? This morning, I believe, he asked you to be nice to me. In fact, I begged him to.”
The remaining color in Susan’s cheeks drained away. “With tears in your eyes, no doubt!”
“Just one tear. It’s far more effective than ugly stained cheeks. You didn’t think David was so vulnerable, did you?”
“I’m beginning to believe anything of anybody. But I’m not helping you in this, Mrs. Maynton. If you want Clive Carlsten to leave Willowfield, you must set about it in some other way.”
Deline stood up, the chiffon gown adjusting itself to her slender height; it flowed out from her shoulders, creating an odd shadow behind her. “You’ve no option, my dear. At first I thought of offering you a nice-sized cheque for the service, but when your brother came in after dinner I had a less costly idea. If you don’t do this thing for me, Susan, I’ll wreck your brother, both emotionally and financially.”
It was said so calmly that it was some moments before Susan got the full impact of its viciousness, and when she did it was difficult to line it up with the smiling grace of the woman who stood before her. She became aware of the ceaseless hammering of the storm outside, of her own chilled bare feet, and, strangely, of the small china clock ticking away merrily on the dressing-table.
Her voice sounded small in her own ears. “I could tell everyone exactly what you’re saying to me now. Where would you be then?”
“Only Clive would believe it, and I could still ruin your brother. He has a very acute attack of calf love which is all the more intense for being belated. I can literally do as I please with him.”
Unwisely, Susan said, “Maybe your luck isn’t in just now. I believe my brother is going to leave Willowfield.”
Deline’s head went up, and she said deliberately, “Thanks for the information; I’ll see he doesn’t leave for a while.”
“You really expect to intimidate me into lying for you?”
Deline shrugged. “I know it will be difficult for you because your juvenile heart is already panting a little after David on its own account, but I don’t see that you have much choice. I’ve no wish to discuss this any further, Susan. In a day or two you’ll be going out for the day with Clive Carlsten—and don’t cry off, because that won’t save you! Some time during those hours when you’re out together you must tell him that you have David’s own word that as soon as I’m quite well he’s going to marry me. I assure you it’s all that will be necessary. Clive hasn’t the conceit to regard himself as a rival to David, and in a few days he’ll suavely pack up and go. When he has gone”—with gentle emphasis—“I’ll be gently frank with your brother. I promise I won’t hurt him any more than I can help.”
“It seems to me,” said Susan, “that you just can’t avoid hurting everybody you know. I hope that some day you’ll come a frightful cropper.”
“Only the woman who’s a failure makes such wild wishes,” said Deline softly. She had moved round the foot of the bed, but now turned, facing Susan across it “I mean every word I’ve said, so you won’t do anything rash, will you? Remember that all I’m asking is one very small lie which is, nevertheless, based on truth. David’s actions have spoken, and his lips have been more restrained out of consideration for me. Goodnight.”
Susan remained there on the stool for so long that her back suddenly gave in and she had to ease it. She got up and looked down at the bed which still bore the imprint of Deline’s beautiful body. Yes, Deline had been here in this room, she had said all those things, and meant them. No woman but Deline could have acted in that way—setting an ultimatum that was both daring and ruthless. But only a ruthless woman could have accomplished what Deline had accomplished during her adult life. An engagement, a husband, practically another engagement, and now the prospect of a second husband.
Susan could have wept—for Paul, whose first real venture into love had to have so unworthy a partner; and for herself, trapped into a situation which held no hope.
But when, eventually, she slipped into a light sleep, it was not agony she took with her but a poignant hopelessness that in its way was far more deadly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE next day was odd. The worst of the storm had passed long before dawn, but the rain kept up its battering so that no work was possible on the farm. David went out in the early morning, but after an hour or so he was back, working at his desk or talking with Clive.
Susan read and did some mending in her own room. She would have liked to spend a few hours with Paul at the cottage, but these days they could find so little to talk about. She knew too much of what was happening to him, perhaps he even felt her sympathy and resented it. But he hated loneliness so much that by lunch-time she had decided to run over and test his mood.
She put on the waterproof she had not worn for five or six months and pulled the hood over her hair, went quietly to the kitchen—and found David there, attending to a burn on Sam’s wrist.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To see Paul,” she answered equally abruptly.
He pressed jelly from a tube on to dark skin. “He’s out for the day,” he said, “spending it with one of his friends in Kumati. He took the jeep.”
“Oh, I’m glad. You might have told me before.”
“I might,” he agreed, “if you hadn’t been behaving as if I were non-existent.” And to Sam, “There. Pain go soon.”
It would be pleasant, thought Susan with a sigh, if one could spread a balm as easily over mental wounds. She put away the rainproof, changed back into light shoes, and after lunch helped Clive to make a list of his growing hoard of native curios.
Dusk fell early, just after six, and with it came Wyn Knight in her small rakish car. Susan was gathering up the twigs and wet leaves from the veranda floor, and she arrived at the top of the steps as the other girl came up them. In a dull blue suit and white blouse Wyn looked almost sober.
“Hallo, Sue.” She sounded subdued, too. “I’m glad to find you here, so that I needn’t come in. Been damp, hasn’t it?”
Susan dropped a last bedraggled spray of bougainvillea into the basket. “It’ll probably clear up now for a week or two. Why don’t you want to come in?”
“Well, I only came to see you.” She gave the familiar toss of her head to flick back the black curls which had risen in the wind. “I really came to say goodbye because I’m going away for a bit. Those friends of ours who keep the Mountain Peak Hotel have invited Bill and me several times, and this time I’m accepting. Bill can’t get away, so I’m going alone, tomorrow morning. I shall have fun—there’s heaps of life up there.”
“Isn’t the decision rather sudden?”
“Not really.” Wyn’s smile wasn’t quite as spontaneous as her usual grin. “I made up my mind during the weekend, and I intended having the bunch over for a farewell dinner tonight—any excuse for a party! But it’s been such a dripping day that I couldn’t get round to give invitations, so I’m just making a few calls now.”
“I’m afraid you’ve missed Paul,” said Susan. “He’s been in town all day—probably with the Manleys.”
“Oh, well,” Wyn nodded, a little too carelessly, “I shall be calling at the Manleys, so I’ll see him there. I’d better be
going.”
“Will you be away long?”
“For the rest of the summer. I’ll send you a postcard.”
“Yes, do. Have a good time.”
“Good time is my second name,” said Wyn, as she went back to the car. She waved cheerily. “Don’t let things get you down, Sue. It’ll be all the same in a hundred years!” Susan was thoughtful as she went into the house, but as usual of late, thinking seemed to get her nowhere, and she finished up by admitting that she would miss Wyn more than somewhat.
After dinner Susan heard the jeep come up the drive. Her heart beating unevenly, she waited for Paul to rap on the main door and come in, but as the minutes passed she gradually relaxed. He had gone straight to the cottage.
She closed her book, felt David’s glance follow her as she went from the room.
Without waiting to collect a coat she passed through the kitchen to the garden. In the cottage porch she paused, and then flipped at the door panel as she went in.
Paul was in the living-room, twisting the knobs of the radio, and he looked round at her with the guarded half-smile to which she was becoming accustomed.
“Been the devil of a day, hasn’t it?” he said.
She answered him casually. “Not so bad for you as for some of us. What have you been doing?”
His twiddling produced a vast amount of electricity to background music, and he switched off and straightened. “Card-playing, mostly. I had a consistent run of luck.”
“That must have pepped things up for you.”
“In a way.” His smile was crooked. “Luck at cards is supposed to mean that one’s unlucky in other directions, but a lot depends on the outlook. If you’re lucky in love you take on outlandish responsibilities.” He changed the topic. “Has it been ghoulish over at the house?”
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