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“Supposing she dislikes the island,” suggested Phil. “Exactly,” the Portuguese returned blandly. “We cannot risk it, especially as our younger son, Tome, has declared that he will choose his own wife. Tome is wild and daring; he means what he says. Amino is the solid, the stable one.” He turned to Phil, and added with animation: “You would make friends with Tome ... he has the nature of the explorers you admire. I would like you to be among my guests at Novada for my elder son’s wedding festa.”

Julian did not ask Phil to dinner that evening, nor did he call her to say goodbye to the Portuguese next morning. It was Rodrigo who waddled over and cried a farewell through her window.

After lunch Julian brought over the portable gramophone and a pile of records.

“I haven’t used it since the Fosters were here,” was his reply to her protest. “In any case, we can’t have people we hardly know loading us with expensive gifts. I turned down the piano on your behalf.”

“Did you? I’m sorry.”

His brow met in a straight line. “Sorry? Both his pianos are baby grands and cost at least four hundred each. Would you care to be that much in his debt?”

“I didn’t mean I wanted his piano. I was thinking of his feelings. You injured them pretty badly yesterday.”

“Rodrigo is a continental,” he said with a trace of contempt, “and born to intrigue, especially for his own ends. A piano is rich bait, but he thinks you worth it.”

She jeered. “Not so long ago you advised me to consider entering the family. Tome sounds interesting.”

“He’s little different from an English boy of twenty-three, except that he smells of garlic and perfume.” Julian shrugged offhandedly, and leaned in a familiar posture against the doorframe. “I’d sooner see you married to young Crawford.”

The smile faded. Her glance on his hard, averted jaw, she said, “If I were to marry without love I’d marry for money. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“There are Englishmen with money on the coast.”

Phil’s tongue damped her lips. “Are you back on the old theme of how to get rid of me, or repenting your kindness in letting me live here on the plantation?’’

“Neither.” His tone was cynical. “I’m merely warning you that now Rodrigo has seen you he won’t relax his pursuit of you for his son unless you leave Valeira or become another man’s property.”

“You invited me to meet him!”

“Only because you interested him at a range of a hundred yards or so and he insisted on closer acquaintance. It was bound to happen some time.” He shifted and quizzed down at her coolly. “How much longer are you going to kid yourself you’re having fun?”

Her chin rose, the hazel eyes glinted. “This is a fine time to ask that, when all I own is my skin. You needn’t make it so obvious that it irritates you to have me near. Till my money comes there’s not much I can do about it —except move in with Matt.”

“And what,” he queried deliberately, “will you do when your money comes?”

“I shall pay my debts,” she flashed, “and take the first boat for the coast. I’m sick of your domineering and intolerance, your perpetual stony moods. I hate your inflexibility and grudging kindness. . . .”

“Shut up,” he said brusquely, “you’re ranting like a schoolgirl. God knows you’re welcome to anything I’ve been able to do for you. If you hadn’t been such a stubborn little fool . . .” he stopped, and then said “It’s a bargain? When your cheque arrives you’ll move out?”

Phil hadn’t meant anything so final as that. It made her tremble inside to hear him state it, unequivocally. She moved to the table and took one of the records between her fingers, twisting and examining it.

“In a bargain
two
people gain in some way,” she said. “I don’t have to make any promises to you, Julian, except that I’ll leave your property as soon as I can.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I wouldn’t let you live anywhere else on the island.”

“No?” She faced him, curious. “Why?”

“You’re going to stay where you’re least trouble.” His lean jaw twitched. “If it helps at all, I’ve disliked you less since you’ve camped here.”

Her mouth quivered into a sudden smile. “Thanks. I’ve tried not to be a pest.”

“You haven’t succeeded—but don’t bother, little one. I’m getting used to having a husky-voiced girl around. I’ll miss you.”

Now she laughed up at him. “Maybe! I made no promises.”

But he was no longer smiling. His eyes glittered and his mouth thinned as he straightened and answered: “This position can last for a certain time, but the day will come when you’ll have to get out or get married. Think it over. So long.”

Five minutes later Phil still stood by the table, the tip of her forefinger tracing the tiny groove in a black disc. She was recalling a remark of Matt’s: “As soon as he notices you have eyes and hips he’ll give you hell.”

It sounded ... exciting.

PERHAPS the person most unsettled by Rodrigo Astartes’ visit was Roger Crawford, Quite by chance he had been the one to drive the stout little Portuguese to the end of the road, where his boys and mules were camped. Rodrigo, stinging from Julian’s high-handed behaviour the previous evening, had basked in the deference accorded him by the young overseer. Expansively, he had issued another invitation to Amino’s wedding feast and, his small black eyes shrewd, he had guided the conversation round to Roger’s duties and the plantation.

“Besides supervising the copra and cinchona, you also arrange all shipping?” Rodrigo had gasped expressively. “That is very responsible work for a man so young. Doubtless you are well paid?”

“A thousand a year,” Roger admitted.

“In pounds sterling? But how scandalous!”

“With bonus added I top twelve hundred—not too bad. There’s nothing to spend it on.”

“But you have an ambition?” Rodrigo suggested. ‘The money you save on Valeira is accumulating for a purpose, is it not?”

Warmed by the wealthy man’s interest, Roger nodded. “I suppose most white men in the tropics have an object or they’d soon degenerate. Mine’s a bookshop.”

With a little sigh Rodrigo leaned back and waved short, thick fingers. “Me, I would pay good money to a man of your type. Already you have much experience of the cacao, and you have the Englishman’s aplomb for handling natives. If some time you should need a change of wind, a different view of the mountain and a house that is comfortable and all your own, come to the Novada. I will give you two thousand a year.”

To Roger’s credit he was not dazzled. His pulses drummed, but simultaneously with a swift succession of rosy pictures he saw himself ostracized by both English and Portuguese on the island. Besides, Phil lived this side of the mountain.

“You are kind, senhor,” he said. “Unfortunately, I am under contract.”

“Contracts can be ended.”

“Mine would cost me three months’ salary.”

“So? If you came to me I would be willing to put that right and allow you an extra sum for expenses.” He smiled, his plump, swarthy cheeks ballooning each side of well-shaped teeth. “I do not ask for a prompt decision. In three years you can earn three thousand pounds. Consider it well, my son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Rodrigo watched the passing trees, nodding appreciatively at a clean, wide cross-path. The Portuguese planters were less meticulous, but capable of great admiration for what they deemed unnecessary labour.

“Mr. Caswell is a fine manager. He gets things done. You find him a hard master?”

“Occasionally, but he generally turns out to be right.”

“There is no . . . trouble between you white men?” The enquiry was suave, unpointed, except for the hesitation.

“Trouble? No, why should there be?”

A shrug. “One woman, four suitors. She is refreshingly unsubtle, that girl, and too young for a man like Caswell.”

The car shuddered over an exposed root. Sweat gathered in the palms of Roger’s hands and under the open revers of his collar. For the first time in his adult life he knew a murderous impulse; he wasn’t quite sure against whom.

Two full minutes passed before he was able to say: “Mr. Caswell dislikes women. He’s tried all ways to get Phil to leave the island.”

“I believe that,” Rodrigo assured him. “However the girl attracted him, his duty would come first. But once the duty is done, once the girl has chosen to stay . . .” He snapped his fingers. ‘Tell me, my boy, have you heard him coaxing the young lady to go since she is installed close to him? No? I thought not. Is it your opinion that he still dislikes women?”

“He speaks to her as if she were a child!”

“You are deceived? I am not.” He gave a throaty laugh. “No man could dwell within yards of an appealing young woman in this climate and these conditions without being aware and desirous. Not even cold-blooded Mr. Caswell. There was an incident yesterday afternoon when this girl . . . but never mind.” Rodrigo laughed magnanimously. “She is able to take her pick. Who will blame her if she prefers the manager to his employees?”

Further comment from Roger was unnecessary. Astartes hummed an airy tune which nicely filled in till they reached the abrupt termination of the road, and when they parted he held out a moist hand and reiterated his earlier invitation. Roger returned thanks and a blank smile, and politely waited till the mule procession was out of sight.

He was half-way back to the waterfront before he could think clearly, and by that time the guttural insinuations had grown a thin skin of unreality.

Still, like the worm that curls at the heart of a peach without apparently damaging the fruit, during the following days the talk with Rodrigo sometimes made itself felt and caused him restlessness and dissatisfaction.

Roger slid back into his groove, but derived less and less pleasure from contemplation of the future. When Phil taxed him with being morose he blamed the appalling heat, yet he still asked her up for tennis.

One Saturday, when she appeared with her racquet, looking sweet in crisp white shorts and a silk shirt, he linked an arm in hers and persuaded her to walk through the bush to the rocks that overhung the beach. He dropped down in the shade of a tree, tugging her hand and patting the springy turf beside him.

“It’s too soon after lunch to play. Talk to me, Phil.” He touched the racquet which lay across her knees. “Did Caswell give you this?”

“No. Julian’s spare was too heavy. Matt got this for me from Lagos. It’s warping already.”

“Aren’t we all?” Quickly, he amended, “Not you, Phil, because for the time being you’ve got all you want.” His fair skin darkened, but whatever he had been about to add remained unsaid. Instead he pulled his mouth into a grin and raked through his lank, wheaten hair. “Lord, I need a haircut! Don’t you long for shops and hairdressers and parties?”

She nodded. “About once a week I go through all the yearnings just to remind myself of what I’m missing. After that I thank heaven I’m still on the island among people I know.”

Meeting her candid hazel stare, his own eyes hot with sudden emotion, he muttered: “Phil ... if you knew how hard it is! I can’t help loving you and wanting you. We’re the youngest here—it’s normal for us to be together. I know you don’t love me yet, but you do like me, and the other will come. Phil... darling ...”

His cheek burned into her shoulder, and against her chin she felt his forehead, cold and clammy. Involuntarily—for his need tugged at her heart and he was too decent to hurt —she held him and turned her mouth to his temple as if he were a small boy seeking comfort.

“You see!” came his stifled exclamation. “It wouldn’t be so difficult to love me. I’d promise not to take you back to England, Phil. We’d settle at the Cape, anywhere. We might even stay on Valeira. I could stick it if we were married.”

His nearness disturbed her. Tiny fires leapt in her blood and a strange weight of love burdened her heart. Through half-closed lids she saw eyes like blue stones and a straight ironic mouth. With a sound of distress she pushed Roger from her.

“Don’t. I can’t stand it. I don’t love you, Roger. I don’t love anyone.”

She scrambled to her feet and avoided the hand that strove to detain her. In the white sunshine she sped between wild banana and tree ferns till he caught her up and clung to her elbow.

“Don’t run away,” he whispered. “Anything rather than that.”

She answered him with a strained smile. “It’s all right, Roger. No harm done. Could you find me a long drink?”

For the rest of the afternoon Phil was quiet, and when it was time to go she mentioned that the walk up to the plantation had tonic properties which might be of benefit to Mr. Drew. She went home between the two men and bade them goodbye where the track met the clearing.

To Julian, who was taking a sundowner on his veranda, Phil called an abrupt “Good night,” to which he replied as briefly. She spent the evening paging through the dozen novels which Rodrigo had sent round by a Novada freighter.

In the middle of the night a squall roared in from the sea, heralding ten days of torrential storms. The storms mostly came up in daylight and spent themselves before dusk, so that the evenings were cool and freer from pests than usual. Some friends of Matt’s from Cotonou had sheltered in the Bay, and for a week he gave a series of drink and gambling parties. Phil went to them, in Julian’s car, and enjoyed the gossip which circulated round the wicker table in Matt’s veranda. The chairs were low and comfortable, made either of woven grass or canvas with footrests and padded arms. The drinking was leisurely, pipes and cigarettes created a grey haze.

The rains ended, or rather they shifted a few miles south to shed unwanted moisture on the emerald mountain slopes. The plantation was enveloped in a hot, enervating mist which kept the sweat glands perpetually working and tried the nerves. Phil’s books became glued together with mildew and shoes unworn for a day or two grew blotches of fungus. The atmosphere was more drenching and debilitating than at any time during her stay on the island, and she felt mentally sick besides. How she longed for a letter from the lawyer in Cape Town.

SHE was in the back room of Matt’s store when the Portuguese official came up with the mail. He handed over Matt’s batch of envelopes and newspapers and shook his head in response to Phil’s enquiry. No, there was nothing for the senhora. See, the plantation packet was secured separately with string, and there were just these few for the Senhores Drew and Crawford. He was sorry, but in a fortnight there might be more letters.