Dare, as he sat at the Arnotts' dinner-table that evening, making the
extra man, the odd number, as he had done on a former occasion, was
conscious of two discrepant facts; namely, that he had not decided a
moment too soon to quit the danger zone of Pamela's seductive influence,
and that he was sincerely sorry he was leaving on the morrow. The
regret was, perhaps, the keener sensation of the two; it balanced his
sense of moral satisfaction to a nicety. The dinner was the funeral
feast of his only real love affair. He intended, when he parted from
Pamela that night, never to see her again.
"I was a fool to come," he told himself. "No one can handle fire and
expect to escape unhurt. And I knew it was fire I was playing with."
Yet he would gladly have continued to act foolishly. The strongest
inducement towards wisdom was the fear that Pamela herself might get
singed; fire which spreads ends in a conflagration.
One thing he noticed after the women had withdrawn, and it was not the
first time he had observed the same thing, was that Arnott drank more
than was good for him. This possibly accounted for the coarsening so
evident in the man's general deportment. It disgusted him; though
probably had he not been in love with the man's wife it would not have
struck him so unpleasantly. It was revolting to think of a sweet,
refined woman contaminated by close association with a man of
intemperate habits. Arnott was inclined to be offensive when he had
been drinking; it was on these occasions that he displayed discourtesy
towards his wife. It enraged Dare to see how readily she recognised
these symptoms, and how tactful she was in her avoidance of friction.
It was as much as he could do at times to be civil to his host.
Arnott's self-indulgence was, he supposed, the cause of the cloud which
had disturbed the domestic peace. If the man persistently made a beast
of himself, it was not surprising that his wife should lose her
affection for him.
He was thankful to escape from the dining-room and join Pamela and Mrs
Carruthers on the stoep.
Mrs Carruthers, doubtless as a sign of her approval of the decision he
had arrived at, acted that evening with a considerate kindness of which
he was keenly sensible and gratefully appreciative: she contrived with
admirable skill to engage her host and her husband in a political
discussion which bored her exceedingly, and which roused Arnott to a
heated denunciation of the Hertzog faction. Like many men sufficiently
indifferent to public affairs to take no active part in them, Arnott was
a fiery critic of anti-imperialism, indeed of any opinions which failed
to accord with his own way of thinking. Mrs Carruthers threw in the
necessary challenge at intervals in order to keep the talk from
flagging, and, to her own amazement, found herself defending some of the
backveld ideals.
"I am a staunch believer in race preservation," she announced. "I
admire the Dutch for defending their principles, and insisting on the
recognition of their language."
"Language!" Arnott sneered.
"Oh! it's a language of sorts, though we may not consider it exactly
important. But it's a kind of instinct with them, like the Family
Bible, and a contempt for the natives. I don't see why they shouldn't
uphold these things."
Dare, talking a little apart with Pamela, gazed thoughtfully at the
quiet darkness of the garden and proposed walking in it. She hesitated
for the fraction of a second, and then complied. He noted the slight
hesitation, and felt glad that she conquered her reluctance. To have
refused his request would have seemed to suggest a want of confidence in
him. Nevertheless, some impulse, prompted by the recollection of that
slight hesitation, impelled him to turn before they got beyond view of
the others on the lighted stoep, and confine their walking to the limit
of the path in front of the house. He had not intended this at the
start; he longed for darkness and solitude. The murmur of voices, the
little disjointed scraps of conversation overheard as they passed and
repassed, disturbed him irritatingly; Arnott's frequently raised,
assertive tones sounded intrusive, broke upon the quiet of the garden
discordantly, reminding the two who walked in it of his presence with a
needlessly aggressive insistence.
Dare tried to ignore these things, but they jarred his nerves none the
less. He had not suspected until recently that he possessed any nerves;
but they had made many disquieting manifestations of their actuality of
late.
"I can't grow accustomed to the thought that you are leaving to-morrow,"
Pamela said to him presently. Her voice was low, and betrayed
unmistakable regret. The back of her hand brushed his lightly as they
paced the gravel slowly side by side. The contact gave him immense
satisfaction; he was grateful to her for not increasing the space
between them and thus denying him this small pleasure. "Of course I
knew you were only down for a short while; but your departure is a
little unexpected, isn't it?"
"I came for a week," he answered with a brief laugh. "It's been a long
one as days are reckoned, but time skips along when one is enjoying
oneself... It was sweet of you to say that, to allow me to think that
you will miss me a little. We have had some pleasant times together.
The worst of these things is there always has to be an end. I shall
miss you more than you will miss me."
"I wonder!" said Pamela.
He turned his head suddenly and looked her squarely in the eyes. The
light from the stoep shone on her face and showed it very fair and pale
and pure. She turned aside as though unwilling to bear his earnest
scrutiny.
"One grows used to people," she said. "Somehow, I have always felt at
home with you. When you go away I have a feeling that you won't come
back. I had that feeling last time."
"Yet here I am," he said in a lighter tone.
"Yes," she said. "I know. It's stupid of me. I hate losing sight of
friends. I have so few."
"Few!" he echoed. "I expect if I had half the number I should reckon
myself rich."
"You don't use the word in the sense I do," she returned. "I meant the
friends one can depend upon... who wouldn't fail one under any
circumstances."
"I understand," he said, and added quietly: "I am glad you place me in
that category."
"You head the list," she answered with a faint smile. "I'm not quite
sure your name doesn't stand alone."
While she was speaking the belief was suddenly confirmed in her that
this man was entirely sincere in his protestations of friendship, that
even if he heard the shameful story of her life with Arnott, he would
not withdraw his friendship. She felt that she could rely on him, trust
him implicitly. She also knew that if she needed help at any time he
was the one person in the world she would ask for it. He was so
sympathetic that she believed he would understand, as no one else
without a similar experience could understand, her position. He, at
least, would recognise that she had not acted solely from base motives.
"I shouldn't like to believe that," he said gently; "but I am proud to
top the list. I have a feeling to-night," he added slowly,
unconsciously watching Arnott as the latter leaned forward in excited
argument with Mrs Carruthers, "that we shall yet prove our belief in
one another's sincerity. Don't think I am suggesting all manner of
unnameable tragedies in your life,--the proof of loyal friendship is to
be helpful also in little things. It's rather a rotten idea--isn't
it?--that a man can't be pals with a married woman."
"I think so," Pamela answered. "Besides, you've disproved that in your
friendship with Connie."
Dare was silent for a moment. There was, he knew, a very substantial
difference in the quality of his friendship with Mrs Carruthers and his
friendship with Pamela; sentiment was entirely absent in his feeling for
the one; in the latter case the whole fabric of his regard was built
upon it. He had a fairly strong conviction that he would throw, over
Connie, throw over the whole world if need be, for this other woman.
But he also realised with an equal certainty that the one thing he would
not do was to allow her fair name to be sullied through his
indiscretion. If it were necessary to the maintenance of a platonic
friendship to remain at a distance, he would avoid any future
possibility of their paths crossing. That much he could do for her. It
was the strongest proof of his regard.
"Men and women disprove that theory continually," he returned. "But we
only hear of the failures, and that brings discredit on the idea. One
might as reasonably argue that the divorce court brings discredit on the
married state. The whole thing is absurd."
"I wonder why you never married," Pamela said suddenly. "Somehow, I
can't think of you as a married man; and yet you must surely have
contemplated marriage. Most men do at some time or another."
"I suppose," he said, "that you, like Connie, regard me as an old fogey
and past such things?"
"No," she answered simply. "My husband was older than you when I--
when--"
She floundered helplessly, and paused in swift confusion. It was
impossible, she found, to refer to her marriage; the word stuck in her
throat. Always, it seemed to her in her distress, this galling
knowledge that she was not legally married was being forced upon her
realisation to her further humiliation. Unable to complete the
sentence, she added lamely:
"A man is never too old."
He laughed.
"You think I might find some one to take pity on me even now?"
"I think," she returned warmly, "that the woman who wins you will be
very fortunate. And you are only quizzing me in respect of age; you are
quite young yet."
"Only recently," he explained, "I have been called middle-aged, and it
hurt my vanity. Age, like most things, is relative. When one is in
one's teens forty appears senility; when one approaches forty it wears
quite another aspect,--a comfortably matured, youthful aspect compared
with which the teens are puerile. The heart defies wrinkles. I resent
being described as middle-aged: it tempts me to the committal of
youthful follies."
They had reached the end of the path and were beyond the circle of light
from the stoep. Dare brought up abruptly, and instead of turning,
halted, and faced her in the gloom of the overhanging trees. His eyes
scrutinised her face in the dimness with tender intensity.
"This is the last lap," he said. "I'm going to take you back now, and
you'll sing for me. `Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix.' ... Don't you love
the words? They express better than any words in our language could
just exactly how the dear particular voice affects one... Oh! little
friend, I wish that fate did not decree that our paths in life must
diverge just here, and so seldom cross."
"That bears out what I have felt," said Pamela slowly, gazing steadily
bade at him. "You won't come again."
"Who can say?" he returned. "I feel--and I think you do too, though you
are too wise and sweet to say so--that it is better I should stay away.
I want you to bear me always kindly in your thoughts. And when I am
near you I am never quite confident that I shall not say something which
may lower me in your esteem. I shouldn't like to do that. Man is but
human, and humanity has some of the brute instincts, though we flatter
ourselves we are only a little lower than the angels,--that little makes
all the difference. Shall we turn back?"
Pamela acquiesced in silence, and walked in silence to the house. She
was conscious that Dare talked, but she scarcely heard what he said in
her troubled preoccupation. What he had said beyond there in the shadow
of the trees was repeating itself over and over in her mind. She could
not misunderstand the purport of his words; and she felt sorry. She
liked him so well. She wanted to keep and enjoy his friendship,--wanted
him to be in her life, not forced by a recognition of the weakness he
hinted at to stand always outside. Why could they not have remained
friends in the real sense of the word, as he had first suggested? His
admission made it impossible. She felt angry with him. She wanted his
friendship so urgently.
"You are not offended with me?" he asked presently, struck by her
unheeding silence which insensibly conveyed a hurt resentment. He put
the question twice before she answered him.
"No," she replied. "But--"
"But?" he prompted gently.
"I want your friendship," she said quickly, with a little nervous catch
of her breath. "I thought I had it... And you are making it
impossible."
"Oh! no," he answered. "I am making it very possible. It is because I
feel I may perhaps be useful as a friend that I have been so honest with
you. Don't make any mistake about that."
She made no response. They were approaching within hearing of the
others, and Mrs Carruthers was leaning on the rail of the stoep,
watching their slow advance, observing them, it occurred to Pamela, from
the concentrated earnestness of her look, with an unaccountable
interest. She leaned towards them as they came up.
"I'm on the verge of quarrelling with every one," she said with
remarkable cheerfulness. "You've only arrived in time to prevent
bloodshed. If you have tired of doing the romantic, come in and let us
have some music."
"Sing to us, Mrs Arnott," pleaded Carruthers,--"something soothing. My
wife has been most extraordinarily aggravating."
Pamela made some laughing response, and joined him. Mrs Carruthers
turned towards Dare, who remained standing alone at the top of the
steps.
"I have saved the situation for you this evening," she said, "and lost
my own temper. But I am thankful for three things."
"And they are?" he inquired.
"That there is no moon,--that you turned back when you did,--and that
to-morrow is not many hours off."
"I never believed before," he returned drily, "that it was in your
nature to be unpleasant."
She smiled encouragingly.
"You are only beginning," she said, "to gauge my possibilities."