Storm looked so smooth and fragile, yet he knew she had the strength of braided whipcord. He knew also that though she had the innocence of a newly opened bloom, yet she could sting like a serpent; she had the brightness and beauty that dazzled, and yet below that were depths that mystified and awed him; and when her moods changed so swiftly, like this unaccountable spurt of anger, he was enchanted by her, under her fairy spell.
He frowned heavily now to hide his feelings.
Yes, Missy, what is it now? he grumped at her. He's going away, she said, and Sean blinked at her, swaying back in his chair.
What are you talking about? he demanded. Mark. He's going away. How do you know that? Something deep inside of Sean cringed at the prospect of losing another son. I know, I just know, she said, and came to her feet with a flash of long sleek limbs, like a gazelle rising in alarm from its grassy bed. She stood over him. You didn't think he would be your lap dog for ever? she asked, a biting scorn in her tone that at another time would have brought from him a sharp retort. Now he stared at her speechless.
Then suddenly she was gone, crossing the lawn in the sunlight that gilded her loose dark hair with stark white light and struck through the flimsy stuff of her dress, . revealing her long slim body in a stark dark silhouette, surrounding her with a shimmering halo of light, that made her seem like some lovely unearthly vision. Don't you see that it's better you cry a little now, than cry for the rest of your life? Mark asked gently, trying not to let her see how the tears had eroded his resolve. Won't you ever come back? Marion Littlejohn was not one of those women who cried well. Her little round face seemed to smear and lose its shape like unfired clay, and her eyes swelled and puffed pinkly. Marion, I don't even know where I am going. How can I know if I'm coming back? I don't understand, Mark, I truly don't understand. She twisted the damp linen handkerchief in her hands, and she sniffed wetly. We were so happy. I did everything I knew to make you happy, even thatIt's not you, Marion, Mark assured her hurriedly. He did not want to be reminded of that which Marion always referred to as that. it was as though she had loaned him a treasure which had to be returned with interest at usurious rates. Didn't I make you happy, Mark? I tried so hard. Marion, I keep trying to tell you. You are a fine, pretty girl, you're kind and good and the nicest person I know. Then why don't you want to marry me? Her voice rose into a wall, and Mark glanced with alarm down the length of the porch. He knew that sisters and brothers-in-law were probably straining their hearing for snatches of the conversation. It's that I don't want to marry anybody She made a low moaning sound and then blew her nose loudly on the inadequate scrap of sodden linen. Mark took his own handkerchief from his inside pocket, and she accepted it gratefully.
I don't want to marry anybody, not yet, he repeated. Not yet, she seized the words. But some day? Some day, he agreed. When I have discovered what it is I want out of my life and how I am going to get it. I will wait for you. She tried to smile, a brave watery pink smile. I'll wait for you, Mark. No! Mark felt alarm flare through every nerve of his body. It had taken all his courage to tell her, and now it seemed that he had achieved nothing. God knows how long it will be, Marion. There will be dozens of other men - you're a kind sweet loving person, I'll wait for you, she repeated firmly, her features regaining their usual pleasant shape, and her shoulders losing their dejected droop.
Please, Marion. It's not fair on you, Mark tried desperately to dissuade her, realizing that he had failed dismally.
But she gave one last hearty sniff and swallowed what was left of her misery, as though it were a jagged piece of stone.
Then she smiled at him, blinking the last tears from her
eyes. Oh, it doesn't matter. I am a very patient person. You'll see, she told him comfortably. You don't understand, Mark shrugged with helpless frustration. Oh, I do understand, Mark, she smiled again, but now it was the indulgent smile of a mother for a naughty child. When you are ready, you come back here to me. She stood up and smoothed down the sensible skirts. Now come along, they are waiting lunch for us. Storm had taken great care choosing her position. She had wanted to catch the play of afternoon light and the run of the clouds across the escarpment, and yet to be able to see into the gorge, for the white plume of falling spray to be the focus of the painting.
She wanted also to be able to see down along the Ladyburg road, and yet not be overlooked by a casual observer.
She placed her easel on the lip of a small saucer of folded ground near the eastern boundary peg of Lion Kop, positioning both easel and herself with an artist's eye for aesthetic detail. But when she posed on the lip of the saucer, with the palette cradled in the crook of her left arm and the brush in the other, she lifted her chin and looked up at the powerful sweep of land and forest and sky, at the way the light was working and at the golden- tinged turquoise of the sky, and immediately she was intrigued.
The pose was no longer theatrical, and she began to work, tilting her head to appraise a colour mix, moving about the canvas in a slow ritual, like a temple maid making the sacrifice, so completely absorbed that when she heard the faint putter of Mark's motorcycle, it did not penetrate into the silken cocoon of concentration she had woven about herself.
Although her original intention in coming to this place had been to way-lay him, now he was almost past before she was aware of him, and she paused with the brush held high in one hand, caught in the soft golden light of late afternoon, a much more striking picture than she could have composed with studied care.
The dusty strip of road snaked five hundred feet below here she stood, making its first big loop on to the slope of the escarpment, and, as he came into the bend, Mark's eyes were drawn naturally to the small delicate figure on the slope.
There were clouds along the summit of the escarpment, and the late sun burned through the gaps, cutting long shimmering beams across the valley, and one of these fell full on Storm.
She stood completely still, staring down the slope at him, making no gesture of recognition or welcome.
He pulled the big machine into the side of the road, and sat astraddle, pushing the goggles on to his forehead.
Still she did not move, and they stared at each other.
Mark made a move at last as though to restart the machine, and Storm felt a shock of deprivation, although it did not show either on her face nor in the stillness of her body.
She exerted all her will, trying consciously to reach him with mind, and he paused and looked up at her again. Come! she willed him, and with an impatient, almost defiant gesture, he pulled the goggles off his head and stripped the gloves off his hands. - serenely, she turned back to the painting, a small secret smile playing like light across her softly parted lips and she did not watch him climbing up through the yellow knee-high grass.
She heard his breathing behind her, and she smelled him. He had a special smell that she had learned to know,
