The High Valley. Anne Mather
as Luis had said he was.
Now, Ruth regarded her regretfully, and said: “I shall miss you, Morgana. These two weeks have been marvellous for me. Having someone to go about with, someone to share things with.”
Morgana smiled. “They've been wonderful for me, too, Ruth,” she replied, warmly. “You must persuade your parents to allow you to come to England and stay with us. Not that I can promise you a very exciting life at Friars Warren, but at least we could go to concerts and the theatre, and there are several young men, suitably unattached, I could introduce you to.”
Ruth chuckled. “Now when would a young man notice me with you around?” she enquired, with resigned amusement.
Morgana frowned. “Don't be silly, Ruth, I'm serious. I should hazard a guess that you'd be quite a sensation in our small town with all that russet-coloured hair, and that marvellous tan!”
Ruth sighed. “We'll see.” She traced the pattern in the wood of the bar counter. “I would like to take you up on that some time, though. I'd like to see your father again.”
Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? I shall begin to think it's my father you're most interested in shortly!” she laughed.
Ruth shrugged. “Well, he is unattached, isn't he”
Morgana stared at her incredulously. “Are you serious?”
“Of course.” Ruth smiled. “No, don't worry, Morgana, I'm sure your father isn't interested in me.”
Morgana shook her head. “I never suspected,” she exclaimed.
“What? What was there to suspect? I guess it was just that he was there, and I was young enough to become enamoured of him. Don't alarm yourself. He did not give me any encouragement. He just regarded me, as he regarded you, I suppose.”
Morgana cupped her chin in her hand. “Thank you for confiding in me. Don't you think though it was just a schoolgirl crush? After all, we're twenty-two now, and you haven't seen him for three years.”
“I know.” Ruth bent her head. “Maybe you're right. In retrospect, though, those times I spent at Friars Warren seem the most happy times of my childhood.”
Morgana frowned. “I don't believe it. Why, your parents used to take you everywhere in the long summer vac. I remember you going to Switzerland and Italy, even to the States.”
“Yes, but that's not the same, is it? I mean, they didn't talk to me, not like your father talked to you. Somehow Mummy and Daddy have always seemed remote from childish contact. We went everywhere, as you say, but just as in Rio they attend these continual social functions when we were abroad they attended others. You see – wherever they go, they have friends, and they give parties …” She sighed. “I suppose now I'm supposed to appreciate it, too, and to a certain extent I do, but just now and then I wish we had an ordinary life, like you and your father.”
Morgana regarded her sympathetically. “Well, as soon as I get home we'll get something arranged,” she promised, gently. “I can't promise you my father's company though. Since he joined the university he's been kept pretty busy.”
“He must be clever,” said Ruth, with interest. “I mean – Daddy's work is so – so boring.”
Morgana smiled. “Economics are not exactly exciting,” she commented dryly.
Ruth squeezed her arm. “Oh, any minute now they're going to call your flight. Couldn't you ring your father and tell him you've been delayed, or something, and stay another couple of days?”
Morgana shook her head regretfully. “No, I've got to go. But I'll write, just as soon as I get home.”
Ruth nodded. “See you do.” She looked round the bar speculatively. “I wonder if all these people are waiting for your flight?”
Morgana looked about her. “Maybe,” she was saying casually, when her palms suddenly moistened, and the colour drained from her cheeks. A man was standing across from them with his back to them. His height and the set of his shoulders were remarkably like those of the Salvador brothers, but then he turned and Morgana saw that he was a stranger.
Ruth had noticed Morgana's sudden tension, and glanced round quickly. “Who is it? What's wrong, Morgana?” she exclaimed.
Morgana let out a deep breath, unaware until that moment that she had been holding it. “Why – nothing,” she denied, awkwardly.
Ruth frowned and looked round again. “It was that man, wasn't it? That dark man. You thought it was Ricardo Salvador.”
Morgana lifted her shoulders indifferently, the colour returning to her cheeks. Sipping her lager, she said: “So what if I did?”
“Well, he had some effect on you, didn't he? What did he say to you that should cause you such a degree of tension? You never did say much about that affair.”
“There was nothing to say,” replied Morgana, wishing she had not caused this topic to be raised.
“No?” Ruth looked sceptical. “And you turn pale at the suggestion of sight of him? Honestly, Morgana, what do you take me for?”
Morgana bent her head. Ruth had been honest with her about Morgana's father. She deserved honesty in return. “It – it wasn't Ricardo Salvador I was concerned about,” she said, slowly. “It was Luis.”
“Luis!” Ruth stared at her in astonishment. “But you don't know Luis, do you?”
Morgana sighed. “Only slightly. I danced with him, too.”
“I see. So that's why you were so long.” Ruth nodded. “And – and was he – well – fresh with you?”
Morgana could have laughed, but there was no mirth in this situation. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, not at all.”
Ruth was intrigued. “Then I simply don't understand,” she said, frowning.
Morgana looked at her through her long lashes. “Well, nor do I, actually,” she confessed wryly.
As Ruth would have said more, the tannoy system came into operation and Morgana's flight was called. Morgana finished her drink and slid off her stool. But when Ruth would have accompanied her, she shook her head. “No, please,” she said. “Don't come with me. I hate goodbyes. Let's just say cheerio here, and I'll see you in London – soon.”
Ruth compressed her lips. “If that's what you want, Morgana,” she agreed. “Until – until London then!”
“That's right. Goodbye, Ruth.” Morgana squeezed her hand gently, and then turned and walked blindly through the tables to the exit.
The aircraft was barely half full when it took off from Galeao. It was a smaller plane than the one which had brought Morgana from New York after she had left her father to fly on to California and she was lucky enough to have a window seat. Looking down on the sweep of shore line that bordered the thickly populated environs of Rio de Janeiro, she felt a pang of regret at leaving so much beauty behind. There was poverty, too, of course, but the rugged coves that could be found only a few miles’ drive out from the city centre with their white beaches and foaming surf more than compensated for the ugliness of the favellas. And yet the remarkable thing was that despite deplorable housing conditions and lack of amenities the people maintained a wholly vital spirit that no amount of misery could destroy. The massive statue of Christ passed away below them and the plane turned inland to cross the jagged peaks of the sierras. Faint patches of cloud dispersed slowly below them as the shadows lengthened and Morgana could distinguish the arid slopes,’ sun-burned above the lush foliage below. It was a panorama of grey and brown and blue, the valleys shadowed by the high slopes of the ranges that towered one above the other. It seemed impossible that the sun should ever penetrate those tropical forests that bordered swiftly running rivers and she felt a quiver of excitement pass through her.
The sun went down in a blaze of glory, and darkness hid the majesty of the primitive