Free Winds of Enchantment by Rosalind Brett Page A

exclaim over its weight. During those few days’ rest which Doctor Piers had ordered, Pat dully watched her sympathetic visitors come and go, the statuette affording them a kind of respite from her ravaged young face.
    Pat lay among divan cushions and wished they would all stop coming and leave her entirely alone with her grief. Shock, was the doctor’s verdict; extreme nervous shock, for which the only immediate remedy was rest. She had no wish to get up, no desire for anything or anyone.
    The third day, Cliff Grey came in. He looked down at her and away again.
    “You’re not bothered about work, I know, Pat, but I thought I’d just tell you that we’re carrying on as usual. Barker’s helping a bit and I’ve engaged another clerk. A boat leaves this afternoon—another is due tomorrow with hardware. Shall I trade it?”
    “Just as you like.” She didn’t care if he dumped the lot in the sea.
    His lined young face was distressed. “We’re just unloading a big consignment from Makai. There’ll be enough to make up the French order.”
    “All right—fine.”
    “Is there anything you want, Pat?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Then I’ll be getting back.”
    Her eyelids drooped. Her arms lay slackly along the sides of her dress. For an hour she did not move.
    The boy brought in tea and biscuits. “I pour, missy?” he asked.
    “No.” It was a thread of sound between her dry lips.
    He slipped away and presently Elizabeth Piers came in, carrying a parcel. She smiled breezily, took off her hat and ran her fingers through her short dark hair. She was small and wiry, a little over thirty.
    “My husband says you may read,” she announced, “so I’ve brought you a couple of novels.” She broke off. “Oh—tea. May I have some? Boy, another cup!”
    She insisted that Pat drink a cup, after which she wandered round the room, admiring the rugs, the ornaments, and the furniture which Pat and Bill had chosen together. She talked of England, and of her small son who was at school there. Finally she asked: “Do you think you could sleep now?”
    “I could with a couple of tablets.” Pat wished the woman gone.
    “They’re only for the night. Try having a read—it may send you off. And I’ll drop in tomorrow. Goodbye, my dear.”
    Once more Pat closed her eyes, feeling a searing pain at the back of her eye sockets. She could hear the palms and the casuarinas whispering together, and the song of the mow-boy in the garden, the buzz of insects and the hoarse note of a bird—also the seductive murmur of the sea. The sea...
    A trickle of sweat coursed across her temple and into her hair.
    At a small sound her brow creased. She was so sick of visitors. She lifted her eyelids wearily.
    “I came as soon as I heard,” Nick said quietly from the foot of the divan.
    “Thanks,” she answered tonelessly.
    His face was stern and he needed a shave. He stood staring down at her, his hands dug deep into the pockets of creased slacks.
    “I ran into Mrs. Piers and she gave me details. It must have been frightful for you, Pat. I don’t quite know what to say.”
    “There isn’t anything.” Her eyes were dull with the tears she had been unable to shed; her heart was weighted with them.
    He gent l y shifted her feet and sat beside them. “You mustn’t grieve too much, child. Bill wouldn’t want that. It was a quick end, one to be envied.” Nick reached for the tips of her fingers. “Pat, I want you to know that you’re not alone.”
    “They all say that,” she stated, in a flat tired whisper.
    “I mean it. I know just how you’re feeling. Bill was rare.” As she winced, his grip tightened on her fingers. ‘You’ve got to face it—be able to speak his name and look at the sea that took him — It sounds hard, but it’s sane. Bill’s gone, and you’ve got to be grateful for having known him. He who loved life wouldn’t want you to lie here like this. D’you hear, Pat?”
    She turned her face to the window. “I wish