“Never?”
“If he walks, perhaps, but not otherwise. They are of an age to enjoy each other—let them do so. If the chemical reaction is right, your cousin will soon stir himself to take the cure!”
Dane was non-committal. “Thanks for your advice, anyway. Wine or coffee?”
Regretfully, Dr. Demaire had to decline both; he took his departure. He had to drive out to one of the kasbahs for the day. Dane left his unlighted cheroot on an ashtray and remained standing.
“We’ll go up
and
see Mike at once—but I can wait while you change into something more delicious, if you like.”
Sally stood up and shook her head. “I prefer to look what I am.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said offhandedly.
They walked across the grounds, and guests in gay playsuits and swimming gear smiled at Dane and eyed his companion. His dark head inclined this way and that as he passed the groups, and, instinctively, Sally knew that he would be glad when this particular crowd had given way to another which did not know him. These people had regarded him as the manager during Pierre de Chalain’s absence and he was forced to be friendly with them; but it was a friendliness which, she was sure, he did not feel.
She wondered about him as a man. He was the lone type, shrewd, far-seeing and daring in anything he undertook; that much was obvious to anyone. But somewhere behind that lean, faintly mocking and rather distinguished exterior there was a human being—a being, anyway, she qualified philosophically, even if he was only slightly human. Yet he did feel some things, she conceded; and, somewhat surprisingly, she came to the conclusion that he disliked and distrusted everything that made him even faintly aware of emotion. In fact, a many-faceted character.
He took her to a car, which stood in a bougainvillaea
-
covered shelter, and saw her seated, backed out on to the wide main drive and swung round towards the esplanade. He turned left along a narrow, cobbled street between sheer, windowless white walls, and impatiently followed a laden donkey till the road widened into an offshoot from the souks. There were shops full of wickerware and carved wood, sticky sweetmeats and spices, and then they turned left again and drove straight out of the main part of the town and up the hillside. Sally saw olive trees and date palms, the remains of crenellated walls, which had once surrounded a fort, a few houses set in gardens full of flowering bushes and fruit frees.
It was to one of these houses that Dane took Sally. He turned between a couple of low white pillars and drove along a well-kept path which had a modest lawn at each side and the usual profusion of bignonia and grapevine, mandarin and passion fruit in the background. The house was small and white, with an arched terrace in the front and much climbing greenery at the sides, and a thin dark boy was clipping a leaf here and there and standing back to admire the effect.
As the car pulled in below the porch, Dane said quickly and quietly, “You’re just someone staying at the hotel. A holiday-maker.”
“Do I look like a holiday-maker?” she retorted. “Besides, I’m not up to Mirador standards.”
He glanced at her with cold appraisal. “Don’t ever say a thing like that again—don’t even think it
!
You’re way above most of the people we get here.”
“Good lord,” she said soberly, staring at him.
Sarcasm came back into his voice. “That’s about enough softness for one morning. Come in and meet Mike. If he’s in a good mood, you’ll like him.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Seeing that you’re a little contrary by nature, it’s possible you’ll still like him, Miss Yorke.” Then, more quietly, “Play along, there’s a good girl.”
Astonished, and with an odd quiver in her throat, Sally went with him up the three shallow steps into the dimness of a tiled porch. Dane opened the door and she stepped into a cool hall, which showed a charming sitting room through an archway.
Dane went first, called, “Mike! Where are you?”
He came from another room into the sitting room, a red-haired young man propelling himself in a wheel chair. Sally watched him as he looked up at his cousin, saw a tight smile on thin features, which once had been healthily tanned. Then she met Mike Ritchie’s eyes, and was aware that the next moment they had deliberately looked past her.
Dane shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sally, this is my cousin, Mike Ritchie,” he said conversationally. “Thought you might like to meet a friend of mine, Mike. Miss Yorke has just come over from England.”
“How do you do?” said the young man perfunctorily. “Sit down, won’t you?”
Sally sat. She watched the young man’s profile as he turned to Dane. It was good but not handsome, and there were lines in his face that should not have appeared for another fifteen years. His mouth seemed to be perpetually drawn in and his eyes, which had once been a soft hazel, were now an opaque brown and permanently narrowed. With pain? she wondered, and thought not. This cousin of Dane Ryland’s was no more than twenty-six or seven, but his mind had twisted and his outlook become bitter because he had lost the use of a limb.
Sally had often tried to put herself in the patient’s place, to feel lost and worried and bitter and without trust. She had never quite succeeded because she was so well aware of the orthopaedic miracles which were happening every day, but she had realized the hopelessness of a healthy young man who is suddenly and completely laid low. Mike Ritchie’s case, she thought, was a fairly simple one, and, considering he had smashed himself up in a sports car, he did have quite a lot to be thankful for.
Dane was saying, “I’m sorry I didn’t get along yesterday, Mike. The Caid gave a party, and Pierre didn’t get back till late in the afternoon. By the way, Tony is with him.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
“You don’t have to.” Dane leaned back in his chair. “He wants a date plantation in the El Riza district.”
This drew no comment. Mike Ritchie sat there as conscious of Sally as she was of him, yet he looked only at Dane, or at the window beyond the broad shoulders. Obviously, this girl could go back to wherever she had sprung from.
Sally’s compassion grew. She said softly; “This is such a tranquil house, and you have incredible views. You know, I saw bougainvillaea for the first time when I arrived yesterday.”
“I suppose it’s more exciting than rambler roses,” Mike commented stiffly.
She nodded. “The flowers here are so gaudy, but there always seems to be a cypress in the background to tone things down. And I haven’t yet seen a
garden
without
some kind of pavilion in it. Didn’t I see a
sort of
pillared
sun house as we came along the
drive?”
“It’s never used, except by the
doves.”
“It looked an ideal spot for day-dreaming.”
“Could be.”
Dane said nothing. He just sat back and watched, casually, but Sally knew that nothing escaped those grey
-
green eyes. She was also fairly sure that he considered her approach rather feeble, but it was no use caring.
“May we go into the garden now?” she asked.
Mike hesitated, as if the request startled him. Then he said, “Dane will take you.”
She stood up brightly. “Can’t we all go? Let me push the chair—I know the wheels dirty your hands when you’re outdoors.”
For the first time Mike looked at her, rather queerly. He shook his head abruptly. “Dane will take you! I’ll have drinks ready for you when you come in.”
“I much prefer to see a garden with the owner of it,” she confessed.
“Well, Dane
is
the owner!”
“I’m sure he doesn’t know much about gardens.”
“You’re wrong, young Sally,” remarked Dane, with a
lazy inflection. “I designed the grounds of the Hotel Mirador. A Frenchwoman planned this garden many years ago and, in my opinion, it’s the untidiest in the district. It has a certain something, but if has as much form as a rag rug.” He paused. “Come up here some other morning and look round by yourself. Perhaps we’d better have that drink now and get moving. I’ll fetch some ice.”
He went out, and Sally remained standing, only a foot or so from the wheel chair and looking through the window, as Mike did. Dane had left her purposely, she knew, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say to the young man
—
nothing that made sense, anyway. He was so tight within himself.
She prevaricated. “You remind me of someone I once knew. He wrote songs.”
“What are you trying to say?” he asked tautly. “That I should forget my body and try to find some way of using my brain?”
“It helps, you know.” Then, very suddenly, she said, “I can do quite a lot for you, Mr. Rit
c
hie—physically, I mean. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be driving a car again within a year.”
He swung the chair, blazed up at her with those brown eyes. “So you’re a nurse! Dane brought you here as a friend, because he hoped you’d make an impression on me. Well, you have, but the wrong kind of impression. Do me a favor, Miss Yorke. Go back to the Hotel Mirador and have fun with the playboys, and when you’re fed up with it, go home! I don’t want to see you again!”
Sally kept her balance. “Not very polite, are you? It’s time someone taught you that having a game leg doesn’t entitle you to be a boor and a burden. You’re sick to death of yourself—I know that. I also know that you could get round on crutches
...”
“I do, when it’s necessary!”
“I’m glad to hear it, but it should be necessary more often. Exercise is vital—you don’t need me to tell you that.”
“No, I don’t I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me anything!”
Dane sauntered into an atmosphere which was slightly electrical. He poured tall drinks and handed them, raised
his own and smiled nonchalantly.
“Happy days,” he said, and drank.
Five minutes later he was driving Sally back to the hotel. She sat beside him, perplexed but not defeated, and told him of the exchange between his cousin and herself.
Dane gestured. “You’re in too much of a hurry. You ought to have had half a dozen companionable talks with him before letting him guess you were brought here expressly for him. We’ll go up again in a couple of days.” She shook her head decisively. “No. From now on, I’ll manage him alone. It so happens that he can’t kick me out or escape. I’ll be like the Old Man of the Sea. He’ll see that it’s easier to give in a little than to shake me off.”
“You’ll find it wearing.”
“Not if it does some good.” She thought before asking, “What was he, before the accident?”
“A journalist. He reported on North African affairs for a couple of English papers.”
“That’s splendid. He could write something else—or even carry on with the reporting to some extent.”
“Possibly. He dropped everything, though, and I doubt whether you could make him pick up the ends. Get him fit and he’ll start living again.” He smiled at her tolerantly. “You might have done better if you’d worn something continental.”
“I’m not selling myself,” she said shortly, “not even to a patient.”
“In any case,” he commented equably, “you might look odd in anything but clinical linen or English tweeds. All right, child, go ahead in your own way. Don’t forget what I promised you.”
“The trousseau? I won’t.”
He looked her way again. “Got someone in mind?”
“Not yet. Supposing I earn the trousseau before I find the husband?”
“It’s a problem, isn’t it? Not fair to make the offer without providing a man to go with it. Very well, I’ll have a go at that angle, too. Any particular type you prefer?”
His mood and the topic excited her a little, but she sounded modest as she answered, “I like them solid, with
a sense of humor and not too much imagination.”
“Just what I’d expect. What about cash?”
“It’s not important, but I would like him to be good with his hands—you know, someone who’s keen on making things.”
“Such as cow-pens and kids’ toys?” he asked with lifted brow.
Something in his voice put her quickly on the defensive. “Why not? They’re both necessary.”
“Oh, sure. I think I know the brand, but we don’t get many of them in Shiran. Maybe after you’ve lived here a week or two you’ll change your ideas. Who knows, even the centenarian charm of the farmhouse may go a little dim for you.”
“It won’t,” she said positively. “All this is a little too gilded to be real.”
“There’s no gilt—you’re looking at the genuine article.” He had gone cool again. “Get that very firmly in your mind, because before long you’ll come up against reality right here in Shiran. If you were older, you might be able to skim along the surface, but being so young and untried you’re bound to catch a few sharp
corner
s.” He slowed to enter the courtyard of the Mirador, said abruptly, “I’ve just decided something. We’ll forget the trousseau and I’ll give you a bonus cheque instead.”
“Very well, Mr. Ryland,” she answered, as distantly. “Thank you for the lift I shall now be able to find my own way up to Mr. Ritchie’s house each day.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he said evenly, as he braked. “A car will be at your disposal. All you have to do is ring the desk when you want it.”