Dolan of Sugar Hills (8 page)

She was aware of a still hush, a perfection of silence.

Somewhere else she had been aware of a perfection of silence. She leaned back on the pine needles, remembering. It had been there in the picture that Cane had turned to the wall. She recalled it all clearly again, the frozen magnificence, the wastes of snow, the impression, the same as now, of utter detachment from the rest of the world. She remembered feeling that silence as she felt this silence.

Cane was leaning against a tree and smiling down on her. She was instantly conscious once more of the companionship they had found on this island, the serenity.

“Cane...?” she breathed.

“Sheila?”

“That picture.” She could ask him now. There was somehow something between them. No need to try to analyze what that something was, it was simply there.

“The picture has worried me,” she said. “I never meant to intrude.”

He had crossed to sit beside her on her pile of pine needles. For a long time he did not speak.

“They call these hoop pines,” he said of the trees above them. Then very abruptly he answered, “I knew you weren’t intruding. It was just my foul temper, that’s all.”

“But that’s not all,” she persisted. “It’s really much more than that. It’s something you can’t bear to face, I think. Can’t you tell me, please?”

Again there was silence, this time a stubborn silence. Sheila watched him get up and go back to lean against the tree again.

“Was ... was the photograph taken somewhere in the Antarctic?” she ventured.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s very beautiful.” She said that to give him time. One look at his face told her he needed time. It was suddenly tired and drawn.

He stirred restlessly. “Yes,” he admitted, “it is beautiful. It’s white and silver and blue beauty, that—and the black clothes of the men.” Again he was silent. Then: “But one man did not return.”

“You knew him?”

“As I know myself.”

“You loved him, Cane.” She stated more than asked it.

The man did not answer. A long moment went by.

“You went there on an expedition?” Sheila persisted.

“We—both went.”

“Both?”

“I—and my brother.”

Another pause.

“Australia has these expeditions,” Cane said almost expressionlessly. “It has a scientific station at the South Pole.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve read about it.” Sheila looked steadily at him. “So you’re not only a cane farmer.”

“No, I’m sometimes a scientist.”

“And—your brother?” She said it carefully, feeling that care was needed.

“He was—as well.”

This time the silence really grew. This time Sheila knew she could not break it with questions.

Suddenly, impulsively, Sheila got up from the bed of leaves and went over to the man leaning against the tree.

“I’m sorry, Cane,” she said.

He looked hopelessly down on her. “I was a fool,” he burst out futilely, “to love him so much. Only fools permit love.”

“You’re wrong,” she answered directly. “The foolishness would have been not to permit love. You are only foolish when you stop reaching out for love. Love is never lost, never wasted, it follows, it finds you.” She stopped, a little embarrassed, hanging her head.
Now I know,
she thought,
why that picture brought such pain.
She became aware that Cane Dolan was staring down at her.

“You know a lot about love,” she heard him saying slowly—but his arms, as all at once they swept her up, were not slow but quick, they were big, tight hard, demanding, they shut out the rest of the world.

“Sheila...” he whispered.

“Cane...” she heard herself answer unsteadily.

Then his lips came down on hers.

For a long moment Sheila simply stood there, not thinking anything, letting thoughts come to her.

This is what unconsciously you’ve been waiting for ever since you came to North Queensland,
said the thoughts,
what you’ve been waiting for ever since you met this man, waiting for this moment of his encirclement, waiting for his mouth against yours.

But in spite of her unconscious waiting, her instinctive response just now, in spite of encircling arms, of lips, in spite of it all, this was not what it should have been, not spring and wonder, not dew and shining, not tall and on tiptoe, not like that at all. She could not have explained it, put a finger on it, but something seemed to be standing between them, something—or somebody—keeping them apart.

Cane must have felt it too. His arms dropped to his sides. He stepped back.

“It’s no good, is it?” he said hoarsely. “I should have known.” He looked out on the sea beneath them, then looked back on her. It was a tired, a hopeless look. “I’ll signal
The Star,
”
he told her. “Then we’ll go down and collect our bags.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“What are you talking about? There is no boat. If there is why didn’t you—”

“Why didn’t I signal it before? Because I was a fool. I believed for a little time I could forget about it all.” He shrugged. “As you see I can’t. Not, anyway, till it’s done.”

“What’s done, Cane?”

He did not reply.

Sheila turned away from him. Out in the dark water she could now see the outline of a little ship. She could see a row of lights.

“You knew it was there,” she whispered.

“I knew it when we came to the top of the hill.”

She nodded listlessly. She remembered him gazing as she had out on the aspect ... abruptly turning away as though something had displeased him. It had been the boat that had been the displeasure. He had not wanted to leave the island ... not then.

But now he did.

“I can’t understand you,” she told him.

“Then that’s good,” he replied.

He lit a dry branch of the pandanus tree, then waved it back and forth. He had not been waving long before someone on the boat signaled back.

“They’ve seen us. They’ll guess what’s happened and send someone in. We’d better start down now if we’re to get our bags and cross to the other side.”

Sheila did not comment. She did not speak as she walked behind him down the hill.

The silence between them was heavy. No longer was it that companionable silence of this morning, that understanding silence that had followed his quiet: “It’ll be all right, mate,” as they had climbed the hill to gather their beds.

Only once he spoke, and then he taunted with his old sharpness, his hateful acerbity. “No need to worry now, is there, Miss Guthrie, what Miss Whittaker thinks.”

CHAPTER TEN

They stood a little apart on the empty beach, waiting to be picked up.

In the distance Sheila could hear the low throb of an outboard motor, each successive beat became more distinct.

The moon-whitened water had wind ruffles on it, the wet part of the sand shone like glass.

It was an enfolding night—but somehow now they seemed to stand outside the fold. Sheila remembered Cane’s enfolding of her ... how, for a moment, his arms around her had seemed as though they belonged there ... how she had been unable to steady her heart.

But none of it had lasted ... none of the magic. This lovely island would not last, the engine throbs were coming closer now.

She thought wistfully that she would have liked to have remembered this beautiful place ... the white and the blue of it, its underwater enchantment, the poised frigate bird, rock oysters on a pandanus leaf ... but she must put it all out of her mind. It was over ... if it had ever really begun. Standing here now, she tried to make herself feel remote from it all, as though it had not happened to her.

Aloud she said banally to the silent man beside her, “What will the passengers think?” and Cane shrugged uninterestedly.

“Frankly, we’ll be a welcome diversion. A week of nothing but coral sometimes palls. The captain welcomes anything out of the usual. It makes for an interesting trip.”

“Then you should charge him an entertainment fee,” Sheila suggested coldly.

“I would consider that if he didn’t have to board us for several days,” Cane returned just as coldly.

“Several days?”

“Yes.”

“Is Silverwake so far distant?”

“It’s no distance, but you can’t expect
The
Star
to change its usual route just for us.”

The boat was coming in now, it left a silver pleat behind it on the indigo sea. “Ahoy there,” called a voice.

“Dolan here. Dolan and lady,” called back Cane.

“Skipper here. Sorry to intrude and all that, Dolan, but you
did
wave first.” The captain laughed.

The boat scraped bottom and stopped, Cane lifted Sheila in and then the bags. He pushed the boat off and hopped in himself. “Captain McAllister, Sheila Guthrie,” he introduced.

The captain smiled at Sheila in frank admiration. “Personally,” he admitted disarmingly, “I wouldn’t have waved, Cane.”

In spite of herself Sheila had to smile.

Only Dolan did not join in. He sat there silent and moody.

“Cat got your tongue?” queried McAllister, enjoying the situation.

“No, but the coral got my boat,” Cane returned.

“You don’t tell me you were reefed.” McAllister leaned back and roared. “You landlubbers,” he chuckled.

He steered delightedly out toward the bobbing lights.

“Don’t think for a minute I’m going to change my route just to put you off, Dolan,” he said good-naturedly, “though it might be an idea after all with a face like yours.”

Cane stirred himself and summoned an unwilling grin.

“I’m in no desperate hurry,” he returned.

“Just as well. The guests are looking forward to seeing the marooned couple.” The skipper cut the engine and the boat drifted to the little ship’s steps.

There were hands to help them up. Sheila was aware of many faces, many voices. People peered at them, someone asked had she been frightened, she heard Cane Dolan being teased by the young crew as a landlubber again.

She was glad to escape with the kindly hostess, Mrs. Edwards. She accepted gratefully her offer of tea in bed.

When she opened her eyes the next morning
The
Star
was already under way.

“That’s Daydream outside your porthole,” indicated Mrs. Edwards who had come in with tea. “Lindeman is on our starboard. Breakfast in half an hour, dear, and you can meet the guests.”

“Are there many?”

“Twenty—and all anxious to hear about your experiences.” Mrs. Edwards looked a little apologetic. “You know how it is when you’re on a trip, everyone is interested in everyone else.”

Sheila put on a pantsuit and went upstairs when the gong sounded.

The little saloon was already filled. “It’s the one order on this ship,” smiled Mrs. Edwards. “Everyone must come and eat.”

But one person was not there.

“Mr. Dolan is breakfasting with the captain,” Mrs. Edwards explained.

The guests were eagerly friendly, some of the younger ones produced books to be autographed. “When I go south again,” giggled a girl, “I’ll say this was from a member of a shipwrecked crew who had been marooned on a desert island for years.” Protesting would have spoiled the fun, so Sheila smiled and signed instead.

She had regained her appetite now and ate with relish. After the meal she joined the rest of the guests on the sunny upper deck, talking, reading, dozing, playing games, or simply watching the panoramic unfolding of island after island, all islands like
her
island, she thought, and yet, with a stab at her heart, never the same. Not any island could be that again.

At noon the boat stopped at a little bay.

“This is an excellent place for live coral viewing,” Cane Dolan, who had appeared at last, informed Sheila.
“
The Star
makes it a practice here to take the guests out to view the reef through a glass-bottomed boat.”

The little dinghy carried six people. It was rowed to a likely spot and then the oarsman let it drift slowly back and forth.

Sheila bent over and peered through the glass, seeing once more the cool green world through which she had wreathed yesterday. The reef proved, as Cane had said, an excellent spot for viewing. There were coral tiers like Buddhist temples, coral grottos, coral caves, blue staghorn coral edged with rosy pink, coral limitless in shape and hue.

Rowing back to
The Star,
she remembered suddenly her own coral. She had put it away for safety behind a special rock on the beach. It was still there.

She told Cane as soon as she came aboard.

“Sorry we can’t go back for it,” he shrugged carelessly. “Anyway, if you had fetched it along, probably, with all our moving, like the heart the Mandalay man compared it to, it would break.”

“It hasn’t broken, it’s been left behind,” she murmured a little dully.

“The heart?” he queried, but he did not wait for her answer, he went up to the bridge.

They stopped that night off Molle Island, and the guests went ashore to see the aquatic museum and zoo. Sheila went with them and later stood watching the young people dance.

She did not know Cane had come ashore too, until he came up behind her. Perhaps, as at the cane dance, he
did
bow and ask her ... just as on that occasion Sheila could not now have said. She only knew that for a second time she moved in rhythm to music and to his steps.

Once she dared to look up to meet the charcoal-dark eyes only a few inches away.
Cane,
she found she wanted to cry out,
what is it, what
’
s wrong, what is it standing between us, what is it all about?

She felt his arms tighten instinctively around her, she heard him say, “Sheila...”

Then all at once she was remembering the night of the other dance ... Molly reminding him warningly, “You had no right to ask her as you did.”

Suddenly she wanted to run away.

Cane must have felt her withdrawal. His hands dropped from her waist to his sides.

“It’s too hot for dancing,” he said, and lit a cigarette.

They were circling Pentecost Island the next morning, and Sheila—at the skipper’s invitation and assisted by Cane—was at the wheel, when Mrs. Edwards arrived with tea.

She sat and drank hers, too. Conversationally she said to Cane, “Your two girls didn’t stop long on Silverwake, Mr. Dolan.”

The effect was instant. Cane whirled around.

“What girls?”

Mrs. Edwards obviously was startled. “Why, the maids you took across.”

“You mean they’ve gone?”

“A week ago.”

“You mean—” Cane’s voice was quite thick now “—that the women are by themselves?”

“There’s the handyman,” Mrs. Edwards said.

She might just as well not have spoken. Cane turned to Captain McAllister. “I want a word with you, skip.”

“Certainly, Cane.” The captain looked at the hostess.

“Take Miss Guthrie with you, too,” Cane called.

Sheila went below with the older woman, as obviously puzzled as she was. Neither discussed the matter, however. Mrs. Edwards went to attend her guests, Sheila found a warm corner and turned the pages of a book, but could not have repeated one word of what she read.

She became quite aware abruptly that the little ship was turning course. It made a steep banking turn, much to the younger passengers’ delight, then set straight across Whit Sunday Passage.

Sheila closed the book to watch the swishing water. They were cutting the wind, and though there was no actual sting there she found her cotton sweater insufficient warmth. She put the book back in the library and went down for her jacket.

She was standing swaying a little in the small cabin, for the Passage was proving a little rough, when someone knocked peremptorily on the door, then without waiting turned the knob and entered.

Cane Dolan stood there.

“All right, Miss Guthrie, pack up,” he said briskly.

“Pack up?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Where are we going to this time?”

“What do you mean, ‘this time?’ Do you think all that has been happening has just been my idea of a Cook’s Tour?”

“I only asked you where we were going,” replied Sheila indignantly.

“Where we intended when we set off—Silverwake, of course.”

“But you said
The Star
wouldn’t alter its route, that we’d be aboard for a few days.”

“
The Star
has altered its route, we’ll be off within the quarter hour.”

Sheila stood a moment, confused. McAllister had said they would have to continue the cruise until it suited him to put them off, and Cane had appeared to be satisfied by that.

She became aware that Cane was standing regarding her, that he wore a hostile look.

“When you’ve finished considering it all, trying to put it in place, you might start to throw a few things in your bags,” he remarked acidly.

She turned and gathered up an armful, sensing reluctantly that the man was under some sort of strain. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dolan,” she proffered.

The apology did not satisfy him.

“Finish your packing,” he ordered. “One of the crew will bring your bags up. I’ll be waiting on deck.”

“Has Silverwake a jetty?”

“No, we’re rowed ashore, either that or Tress will come out.”

“The handyman?”

“Yes.” He hesitated a moment, then went to the door. “Don’t take too long.”

But Sheila took much longer than she need have in spite of there being really little to pack. Somehow she found she could not move quickly.

She was still in the cabin when one of the boys came breezing in. “The dinghy’s down to take you and Mr. Dolan in, Miss Guthrie. These your bags?”

“Yes,” said Sheila. She followed behind him up the steps.

The Star
had anchored some hundred yards from an island ... an island like the other Barrier Reef islands, pine-clad, white-beached, a little ring of reef.

She stood looking at it silently. This was the island her father had fallen in love with, had believed to be his. This was the island that had brought her these thousands of miles from England, for her it was to have been journey’s end.

Journey’s end? The fact came strongly and certainly to Sheila that she was looking at this island with more distaste than enchantment. Somehow, she could not have put a finger on it, expressed it in words, she knew that she did not like the place.

Her other island, yes, her blue and white island, her frigate bird island, but not this one, never Silverwake.
Why,
she realized,
I
don
’
t even want to go ashore.

In her surprise at her reactions she had not noticed the house upon the island. Now she did—and widened her eyes.

It was a large, costly house, easily, the largest of any of the island houses she had seen on the trip.

“Why, it’s a mansion,” she murmured aloud.

“Not exactly that, but it’s certainly no shanty,” Cane Dolan drawled dryly. “It cost a penny, and it’s worth many more pennies, of that you ... and someone else ... can be sure.”

There was bitterness in his tone. There was also ... and Sheila was surprised when she considered the prepossessing size of the place ... no pride in it at all.

She bade her farewells, shook hands with the skipper, then descended the steps.

Dolan called, “Thanks, McAllister, I appreciate this,” and the captain nodded his head.

The dinghy came closer and closer to shore. Looking only at the house, Sheila did not see the three people under the palms just above the beach until they were almost in.

Cane carried her through the shallow water to the sand, and the
Star
man brought in the bags. He waved goodbye and pushed off back to the little ship. Sheila waved to him, to the passengers beyond, then turned to Silverwake again.

Cane took up the heavier bags and indicated to Sheila to carry the small things. In silence they advanced up the beach.

As they drew closer Sheila saw that the little group awaiting them consisted of one man and two women. The man was a great awkward giant of a fellow, the first woman was big and elderly and she sat in a wheelchair, the girl...

The girl was exquisite. She was ash fair, fragile, ethereal, a feather, a reed, a slender wraith, she was a gossamer girl.

Cane came right up to the group before he spoke. Then he said briefly, “This is Sheila Guthrie. She’s staying. Tress, Miss Guthrie.” He nodded to the big awkward man.

“Mrs. Dolan, my aunt—by marriage.” He nodded to the tight-lipped woman in the chair.

Then he turned to the frail, exquisitely lovely girl and said, “Fleur Dolan.” He wheeled and looked directly at the elderly woman and added clearly, “My wife.”