Anne Hampson - Call of The Veld Read online

  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 passed, learning things which, until now, she would not ever have connected with so austere a man, a man who rarely smiled, whose attitude 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 anticipated 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 impassable 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 relationship 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 a
nd 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 harassing for you,' he said.

  She coloured at his sarcasm, wishing she could retaliate. Instead she was forced to maintain an attitude 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.

  'I was merely judging by your expression,' he informed her, the satire in his voice matching to perfection the glance he had given her.

  'I'm sure there was nothing in my expression that could be described as pained!'

  'But you can't see your expression,' he pointed out. 'I can—and it most certainly is one of pained embarrassment.'

  Was he teasing her? she wondered, incredulity in the look she directed at him. He most certainly had never been in a teasing mood before… at least, not with her.

  'I don't understand you, Mr van der Linden,' she said on a note of complaint. 'You talk in riddles.'

  The lazy amber eyes became veiled for a moment, their depths enigmatic. It seemed that, for some obscure reason of his own, he had drifted momentarily on to another plane of thought… and Sara felt unaccountably that Irma was in some way concerned. She looked at him, saw the tightness of the olive skin over a jaw that had suddenly flexed, and her pulses quickened with vexation because she found him so unfathomable. What was he thinking? The last words she had spoken to him came back to her: she had said she did not understand him, that he talked in riddles. And immediately on this recapture of memory came the words which he had spoken earlier, concerning Irma's plight and making the subtle suggestion that she might take her own life, '… if her position becomes unbearable.'

  Sara had it! Like a flash she knew what Carl was thinking. He, too, was recalling the phrase, and dwelling on the fact that Sara had not understood what lay behind those actual words. But he was wrong, of course: she had understood, very plainly indeed. He had been blaming her, but he had been warning her too… warning her that, should her sister take her own life, then Sara would be the one on whose shoulders lay the blame.

  Unconsciously she gave a deep sigh, which Carl heard, and he looked at her. She knew she was pale, most of the colour having left her cheeks. She saw his eyes flicker, noted their slow movement from her face to her hair—which was still falling in damp tendrils on to her shoulders. He seemed to realise that she was uncomfortable under his prolonged unsmiling scrutiny and he spoke, lightly remarking on the fact that the storm seemed to be abating.

  'But you'll not be able to get home tonight,' he added, seeing Sara's eyes widen instinctively with hope. 'It's not the rain, Miss Morgan, it's the state of that road.'

  'Yes, of course.' She glanced through the window. Dusk was falling, and the gardens, already looking forlorn beneath the sombre sky, were losing what little colour they had retained in the face of so much destruction. 'Will it take long for it all to dry up once the storm's over?' Sara turned her head to look up into those lazy amber eyes of his. 'I haven't had any experience of a really bad storm since coming here. Normally, the ground begins to steam immediately the rain stops and within a very short time the sun's dried up most of the surface water.'

  'This time it'll take much longer, especially on that path, which always becomes impassable in a really heavy downpour.'

  She bit her lip.

  'Shall I get home tomorrow?' she asked anxiously.

  'I should think so.'

  'And the ranch wagon…?'

  'Don't worry about it. My boys will soon have it out of the mud.'

  'Will it have taken any harm? It seemed to have sunk quite some way into the mud.'

  'We shall have to see. However, it isn't your worry,' he added casually. 'I shall drive you home, and the rest will be left to Ray.'

  The conversation became inconsequential from then on and Sara wondered whether Carl was as bored as she. Earlier Anna, one of Carl's maids, had shown her to a very attractive bedroom whose colour-scheme of dove-grey and lilac, with bird's-eye maple furniture, seemed to have been the work of a woman's hand rather than that of a man o
f such austere personality as that of Carl van der Linden. Thinking about the bedroom now Sara waited an opportunity to break the boredom of the conversation to ask if she might go and lie down for an hour as she had a slight headache. This excuse was a white lie, but she had no qualms about voicing it, since she was convinced that Carl was just as anxious to rid himself of her company as she was to rid herself of his. She and he would never get along, she decided, not if they knew each other for a hundred years. They had nothing in common…

  Nothing in common… She was musing on this as she went to her room. The truth was that they had one very important thing in common: Irma's welfare. Not for the first time Sara was searching her mind for some logical reason for Carl's interest in her sister. Had he been a long-standing friend of Ray it would have been understandable, but he had known him for little more than five months. It was so puzzling, and Sara felt impatient at her inability to understand Carl's obvious concern for her sister. True, it was natural that the idea of her inflicting harm on herself should trouble him, just as it would trouble anyone else, but Carl was showing something far more personal than mere neighbourly concern.

  'The man's an enigma!' she exclaimed almost angrily. 'I wish I could understand his mind!'

  Dismissing him from her thoughts, she went into the mauve and white bathroom, deciding to take advantage of what it had to offer. The bath was oval-shaped, and sunken into a carpeted floor. The taps, towel-rails and other fitments were gold-plated. A huge oval mirror practically covered one wall, while on another was a scene—in tiles—of an underwater garden, with trees and flowers in coral, and brilliantly-coloured fish swimming in their midst.

  Here again was the hand of a woman, and a clever woman at that. Was it his mother? Sara shook her head, deciding that he had no parents living. Perhaps he had a sister. How little she knew about him—not that she wanted to know much at all. Mere acquaintanceship with a man like Carl was more than enough for anyone!