Call Of The Veld Part 2

'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 embarra.s.sed, 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 succ.u.mbing 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. '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 s.h.i.+vering body. It was a relief to put her clothes outside the door, and she determinedly thrust out any embarra.s.sing 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 k.n.o.b. 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 a.n.a.lyse 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. 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 impossible.'

'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?'

She frowned at the question, and sent him a look of bewilderment.

'I don't quite understand you, Mr van der Linden?' And she added before he could speak, 'You've taken an extraordinarily keen interest in my sister which, I'm willing to admit, puzzles me, since I wouldn't have expected you to concern yourself with other people's troubles.'

He lifted one arrogant brow and said, 'You're outspoken, if nothing else, Miss Morgan.'

She blushed, lowering her lovely long eyelashes to hide her expression.

'I must apologise, I suppose, but----- '

'There's no need for an apology,' he broke in with a touch of impatience. 'Apologies are, for the most part, merely superfluous, spoken more for politeness than regret.'

She smiled at this; the man was certainly perceptive-and forthright.

'You're amused about something, Miss Morgan?' he inquired smoothly.

'You accused me of being outspoken, but I find you equally direct---- ' She broke off as the door opened and Carl's houseboy entered carrying a tray.

'Thank you, Paulo. Put it down here, on this table.'

The boy obeyed, glanced at Sara with a stolid expression, then left the room.

'It's beef-tea,' Carl told Sara, taking up a beaker and handing it to her. 'It'll put some warmth into you.'

'Thank you very much.' She was learning about him with every moment that pa.s.sed, learning things which, until now, she would not ever have connected with so austere a man, a man who rarely smiled, whose att.i.tude towards her had been one of indifference or contempt, depending on his mood. Now, however, she was seeing a more human side of his nature. He had antic.i.p.ated her need and so had fetched her handbag; he had been so casually unaffected by the necessity of offering her the use of the cloakroom, the loan of a gown while her clothes were washed and dried, and now this very practical offering of the hot beef-tea.

'Is it to your taste?' he was asking. 'Is it strong enough for you?' he added, watching her take a sip.

'It's just right, thank you,' she returned with a smile. 'As you say, it will put some warmth into me.'

There was another beaker on the tray, which Sara realised was black coffee. Carl took it up but held the beaker without drinking its contents. Sara stole a glance at him, noting the crisp brown hair, the straight dark brows, the enigmatic expression in the faintly- narrowed eyes. He half-turned, to look through the window, and she saw the set stern profile with its straight nose, its taut jawline and the thrusting chin. A formidable man but one whose masculinity was most profoundly marked, not only in his outstanding good looks and physique but also in his personality.

'I'm afraid this storm's not going to abate yet awhile,' he said slowly as he turned again to look at her. And if it does continue you're not going to be able to get back to Njangola unless you walk, which is certainly not to be recommended even were the rain to case long enough for you to have the time.' He was thoughtful, obviously wondering how she was to get home.

'Won't you be able to take your runabout on the mad later, if the storm does abate?' she asked, realising only now that she had not given much thought to the possibility of being stranded here for any appreciable length of time. She supposed that, subconsciously, she had been waiting for the sky to clear, and for the appearance of the sun to dry up the path, just as it usually did. But there had never been a storm of such violence since she came out here, and in consequence I lie road leading to Njangola had never been reduced to the impa.s.sable state it was in at present.

'We'll have to wait and see,' answered Carl non- committally. 'Meanwhile, we can have lunch.' His glance flickered over her. 'Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if you had your clothes? They should be ready in about half an hour. Would you prefer to wait?'

She nodded instantly.

'I would-if you don't 'mind.'

'Not at all.' The silence which followed was brief but thoughtful. 'To return to what I was saying about your sister,' he remarked at last, taking a drink from the beaker. 'It so happens that I am concerned, Miss Morgan, in spite of your fixed opinion that I'm not the person to trouble myself with other people's problems. Irma's condition is one that I've come across before, so I know what might be the result of it.' So serious the tone, so direct his stare... Sara felt her heart jerk with a fear she could not understand.

'What are you trying to say, Mr van der Linden?'

Another pause, but longer this time.

'I believe you can take the truth.' He stopped, his expression taking on the familiar look of contempt. 'Your sister must not be allowed a free hand with those sleeping tablets she so often appears to ask for.'

'You--- !' Sara's eyes opened to their full extent.

'Just what are you hinting at, Mr van der Linden?' she demanded with suppressed anger.

'I did say that I'd come Across that particular condition before,' answered Carl quietly. 'A friend of mine had a cousin who had an accident similar to Irma's. She became so low in spirit that she eventually ended her life.'

'Ended her life...' Sara repeated, hollow-voiced.

'You think that Irma might try-try------- ' She shook her head vehemently. 'No, she would never do a thing like that!'

'It's possible, Miss Morgan, quite possible... if her position becomes unbearable.'

A silence fell upon the room. Sara, no longer able to enjoy the drink which had been given her, leant over to place the beaker on the tray. She thought of Irma's anxiety about the relations.h.i.+p which might develop between her husband and her sister. Irma would obviously become more and more troubled as time went on. Sara had of course been over this before, but she was seeing an added danger now, a danger brought starkly to her notice by the words just spoken by Carl. And it certainly was a fact that Irma was always referring to oblivion, and saying that total oblivion must be wonderful. Moreover, Irma had actually said she would kill herself. Sick at heart, and with a fearful dread taking full possession of her mind, Sara looked across at Carl, his final phrase ringing in her ears, '... if her position becomes unbearable.'

He was looking at her, the contempt still lingering in his expression. Sara lowered her head, experiencing shame and guilt where none existed. He was blaming her for Irma's mental state, for her abject misery. The injustice of his condemnation stung in a way she would never have believed possible, since she had always told herself that she cared not one jot for the opinion of Carl van der Linden. Yet at this moment, as she suffered under the accusation in his manner, she knew that were she to follow the instinct which was strong within her, she would talk to Carl, explaining just how she had come to be in love with Ray; she would tell him that she had fallen in love with him at their first meeting, and that she had lost him to Irma the moment she introduced them to one another. Carl might then understand, and sympathise rather than blame.

As it was, Sara knew instinctively that he was convinced she had come over here to be near Ray rather than to care for her sister. Yes, it was so very plain what he was thinking. Sara could read it all over his face.

CHAPTER THREE.

Three-quarters of an hour later Sara, feeling much more at her ease since discarding Carl's dressing-gown in favour of her own clothes, was sitting opposite to Carl in the dining-room, taking lunch with him. The conversation concerning Irma had been brought to an end by the entrance of Paulo to say that Sara's clothes had been washed, dried and ironed and were in the cloakroom.

Sara, glad to escape any more questioning from Carl who, she strongly suspected, had several questions ready, took rather longer than she need have done in getting into her clothes. She lingered over her hair, which was still very wet even though she had rubbed it vigorously with the towel. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed and her heart heavy when at last she joined Carl again in" the sitting-room. He had taken one look at her and it did seem that he made a sudden decision to let the matter of Irma drop for the present.

Soon afterwards lunch was announced and they went along to the dining-room where a delicious meal of grilled steak and mushrooms was served with Bearnaise sauce. Carl had said that if the storm kept on he would send Paulo to the farm to let Ray know where Sara was. She thanked him but said no more; she felt disinclined to talk about Ray, fearing that some evidence of her feelings might come through, thus increasing the contempt which Carl already had for her.

The storm raged intermittently for the whole of the afternoon and at half-past four Paulo was sent off to deliver a message to Ray, informing him that Sara was at Ravenspark and that it would be most unlikely that she would return to Njangola until the following afternoon. Sara had opened her mouth to protest, but instantly closed it again, realising that she was completely in Carl's hands and whatever his decision she had no alternative than to adhere to it.

'I'm putting you to such a lot of trouble,' she said apologetically. 'I ought not to have gone out------ ' She stopped, spreading her hands in a little gesture of self- deprecation. 'It's not much help to express regret now, though.'

'It's none at all,' was his dry rejoinder. They were in the living-room, Sara by the window, frowning at the scone outside, and Carl sitting on the couch, a file on his knees. He had taken this from a desk a short while earlier when Sara was glancing through one of the flossy magazines which she had taken from the wicker- work rack by the side of the fireplace. Now, however, they had both discarded what they were reading and Sara knew instinctively that Carl was about to broach the subject of Irma even yet again. And because she both resented and feared what he would say she spoke swiftly into the silence, forestalling him and hoping successfully to steer him right away from what was in his mind at this moment.

'Do you often have storms as bad as this out here?'

'It's several years since we had one as violent as this. It'll do a great deal of damage, not only to growing things but to buildings as well. I'm afraid that some of Kay's outbuildings will already have suffered.'

She nodded, twisting round to face him.

'He was saying the other day that one or two of the roofs needed to be repaired.' Would they have blown off? she wondered, sighing inaudibly. Ray had enough problems on his shoulders without the added ones of things going wrong on the farm.

'The dairy roof certainly needed repairing. It was held on with rocks of various shapes and sizes.'

Sara asked curiously, 'What was Ray's uncle like?'

'A nice enough chap, but not much of a farmer.'

She felt her hackles rise at his tone. It was just like the clever Carl van der Linden to disparage someone else's endeavours 1 He seemed to forget that the wealth he himself possessed had a great deal to do with the remarkable proficiency with which his own estate was run.

'I hope Ray won't be put to too much expense by the damage,' she said, keeping the tinge of anger from her voice.

'He'll probably be able to manage the repairs himself, with the help of his boys, of course. If not, then I'll send over some of my boys who happen to have some experience of such things.' Carl spoke coolly, impersonally, and yet his gaze was fixed and searching, as if he were more than a little interested in her.

'It's good of you,' murmured Sara. 'You've done a lot for Ray.'

The hint of a sardonic smile touched the corners of Carl's mouth; his voice had a dry, ironic quality when he spoke.

'You're becoming very gracious all of a sudden, Miss Morgan.'

'I'm your guest,' she reminded him with quiet emphasis.

'My unwilling guest. I hope the ordeal won't be too hara.s.sing for you,' he said.

She coloured at his sarcasm, wis.h.i.+ng she could retaliate. Instead she was forced to maintain an att.i.tude of politeness, although she very much doubted if she could keep it up indefinitely if he continued to adopt this objectionable manner with her.

'I think you have the wrong idea, Mr van der Linden. I'm not finding anything outstandingly uncomfortable in my position-except of course that I'm very conscious of inconveniencing you.'

Carl shot her a satirical glance.

'Painfully conscious,' he corrected, stressing the first of the two words.

She lifted her chin.

'You have no justification for that remark, Mr van der Linden!' she flashed.