With their arrival in Muizenberg Pamela took entirely upon herself the
care of the children. She informed Miss Maitland that she was to regard
her stay there in the light of a holiday; she was to go and come as she
chose, and leave the children with her.
"But that won't be any holiday for you," objected Blanche.
"It is my holiday being with them," Pamela answered.
Robbed of her occupation, Miss Maitland sat on the sands alone and read
a book; while Pamela, with the aid of Maggie, the coloured nurse, bathed
and put to bed two very weary and rather fretful little people, tired
out with the excitement of the day, with a surfeit of undiluted
sunlight, and strong salt air. They had rebelled at going to bed. The
boy had howled his hardest when he was forcibly removed from the beach.
They had been naughty over tea, and cross at being undressed. Pamela
had to be coaxed into saying her prayers. But eventually they were put
into bed, and within five minutes of being there were sleeping soundly.
Arnott came in when they were asleep, and expressed surprise at finding
Pamela there. She raised a cautious finger.
"Why don't you let Miss Maitland do this?" he asked.
"Because I like to do it myself," she replied in an undertone.
"Aren't you coming out?"
"No."
He left the room quietly, and strolled down to the beach.
The sun had set, and the turquoise of the sea had deepened; its waves no
longer shone with glancing lights. The long stretch of white sand was
almost deserted; one or two people loitered on it, and down by the
water's edge, watching the incoming tide, the solitary figure of a girl
in a blue linen frock lent an unexpected touch of harmonious colour
against the silvery background of sand. Arnott's glance fell on the
girl, and, his interest quickening at sight of her, he hastened his
steps. She looked up at his approach, flushed warmly, and made a
movement as if to rise. He stayed her.
"Don't move," he said, and dropped on the sands beside her. "You looked
deliciously lazy. What were you pondering over when I interrupted that
deep train of thought?"
She had been thinking about him, but she did not say so. She kept her
gaze fixed on the long waves, rolling in in ceaseless regularity and
sweeping lazily up the beach, as she answered:
"I was thinking how beautiful it is here."
"So you like Muizenberg?" he said. "I hoped you would. Doesn't the sea
look jolly?"
"I'm afraid of the sea," she said slowly.
He was watching her intently, admiring the rich colour under her skin,
and the way in which the little tendrils of dark hair curled over the
small ears, admiring too the long line of her shoulder, and the soft
contour of the partly averted face. At her admission he suddenly
smiled.
"So I heard," he replied. "You must get better acquainted with it, and
then you will lose your fear. I brought the gown along in my suit case.
We will christen it to-morrow."
"No," she said, startled, and flashed a quick, almost terrified look at
him. There was a strong appeal in her tones. "I don't wish to bathe--
really."
"Not to please me--Blanche?" he said, and dropped on his elbow on the
sand and possessed himself of her hand.
"Oh, don't!" she cried. "Some one will see us."
"There is no one to see," he answered, with a cautious look about him.
"What a timid little mouse it is!" He ran his hand up the loose sleeve
of her blouse and caressed her elbow with his fingers. "Your skin is
like satin," he said, and smiled into her shrinking eyes. "You mustn't
be angry with me, Blanche. I have a very great affection for you. And
I want you to be very happy with us,--I want you to consider yourself as
one of the family. What would you say to my adopting you?"
"That you are talking nonsense," she answered.
He laughed quietly.
"I'll adopt you informally," he said. "We needn't particularise the
relationship,--only you must understand that it places me in authority.
We will start with the order for sea-bathing. To-morrow I give you your
first swimming lesson."
She made no verbal response to this. With her disengaged hand she
played nervously with the sand, piling it in small heaps, and scattering
these to pile them anew. He watched her in idle amusement.
"She is going to be good," he murmured.
"I think," Blanche said abruptly, "I ought to go in now. The children
will be in bed."
"They are asleep," he replied. "You know quite well you aren't wanted.
There is half an hour yet before we need bother about returning. Talk
to me, you silent person. Give me the benefit of all those repressed
thoughts of yours. Whenever I watch you, you are always dreaming. Do
you never tell your dreams?"
"They aren't worth telling," she answered coldly, with difficulty
restraining a desire to cry.
She wanted to beg him to desist from tormenting her, to leave her alone,
to ignore her as he used to do. This persistent persecution worried
her. She was no match for a man of his years and ripe experience. She
was attracted by his personality, and at the same time afraid of him, a
dangerous combination of emotions for a girl of twenty-two.
"I would like to judge that for myself," he said. "I incline to believe
I should find those day dreams interesting. Is it love you think about
so much?"
"No," she answered bluntly. "Love doesn't come my way. I have no time
for it."
"It seems to me," he said, "that it comes very much your way... You are
turning your shoulder on it now. Come! let me see your face--dear."
"You must not talk to me like that," Blanche exclaimed with sudden
passion. "You would not dare if your wife were here."
"My wife!" he echoed, and laughed. "Thank God! she isn't here. I don't
want any one just now but you,--you, with the sea and the salt wind and
that delicious shy look in your eyes... You aren't angry, really? I so
want to enjoy my holiday--here with you. I don't believe you are angry,
but I think you are a little afraid of me."
She kept her face averted, and gazed steadily out to sea. The waves
were sweeping up the wet sands until they almost reached her feet. When
they came near enough to force her to move, she determined that she
would then return to the hotel. She felt that she could not, while he
still held her hand, make an effort of herself to rise.
"Yes, I am afraid," she muttered. "I am afraid."
Her lip quivered, and the hand lying unresponsively in his was icy cold.
He gripped it hard.
"You need not be afraid," he said. "I have only a very kindly feeling
for you,--a tender feeling. I want to give you pleasure. One day you
will understand. I do not wish you to be frightened of me. I want you
to trust me. There isn't the slightest reason why we shouldn't be the
closest of chums."
"There is every reason," she answered; "the secrecy of it alone proves
that. You dare not give me your friendship openly."
"But it's the secrecy which makes it so jolly," he insisted.
"Scuffling in the dark!" she said scornfully.
He fondled her hand.
"It isn't dark now," he said.
"No. But there is no one to heed us. Presently we shall go back. I
shall walk on ahead,--or follow--whichever suits you; and for the rest
of the evening we shall be distantly formal." She faced him with an
expression of hard resentment in her eyes. "You may find it amusing,"
she added bitterly; "but to me it is only humiliating. I wish you would
leave me alone."
He sat up, and drawing his knees up, clasped them with his arms.
"Perverse!" he murmured, watching the encroachment of the waves with a
seemingly absorbed interest, and evading the girl's scornful, accusative
gaze. "And I believed she was going to be sweet... My dear girl," he
exclaimed, suddenly facing about, "you have made two misstatements which
it behoves me to correct. We are not going to spend a formal evening,--
we are going for a walk in the moonlight. You are not going to precede
me, nor will I permit you to follow me off the beach now. We return
together. It would be far more indiscreet to pursue the tactics you
have laid down, as it will be far pleasanter to adopt mine. Better
leave yourself in my hands, my dear. My knowledge of the world is more
profound than yours. The greater length of time I have lived in it
justifies that assumption. And my experience of life has taught me that
to deny oneself a single pleasure for the sake of some foolish scruple
is wasteful; it only brings regret, and profits one nothing. The moral
is obvious."
"That is an unworkable theory," she answered.
"Not so," he returned. "Take our own case, for instance. We enjoy
being together. What do we gain by denying ourselves that pleasure?
Nothing. What do we lose by making the most of these opportunities?
Nothing. It is absurd to lead a life of suppressions, to deny one's
self enjoyment, for purely imaginary reasons. I delight in your
friendship. I like you, your quiet, dark-eyed thoughtfulness. I think
you would be kind to me, only you won't allow yourself to be kind. Why?
Can't you see that I stand in need of your friendship?"
"There is your wife," she reminded him.
He made an impatient sound, and looked annoyed.
"Haven't you discovered yet that the children are more to her than I
am?" he demanded. "I don't like second place. I want to stand first in
some one's life. I have no right to say such things to you, of course.
But that is how I feel." He turned to her quickly, and spoke in swift
impassioned tones. "Blanche, be a little kind to me. It will cost you
nothing, and it will mean so much to me... Will you try?"
"You don't consider me," she said, in a low, tremulous voice. "Can't
you see how difficult it is for me to refuse? ... I made a great
mistake in ever allowing you to kiss me. I blame myself greatly for
that I didn't consider... Be generous, and leave me alone."
Her appeal would have moved any one less deliberately selfish to desist;
its effect upon Arnott, to whom it appeared tantamount to a confession
of weakness, was merely gratifying. He felt pleasantly confident, and
was satisfied for the present to rest at this stage in the development
of his pursuit.
It was beginning to matter to him more than he realised, the subjugation
of this girl's will to his own. The quest he had begun in idle
amusement was becoming a serious business; it was a game no longer, but
a matter of deadly earnest. Its very importance to him was hourly
increasing her value and desirability in his eyes.
He rose without a word, and offered her his hand and assisted her to her
feet. They tramped back over the fine white sand in silence. The girl
walked with her gaze fixed on the far horizon, where one blue expanse
melted into the other as sea and sky took on the grey shades of evening.
Her calm face masked successfully the whirl of emotions which stirred
her, but the eyes, staring out to sea, were eloquent of many unquiet
thoughts.
When they left the beach and stepped upon the firm road, he broke the
silence abruptly.
"Don't be too hard on me, Blanche," he said. "I'm a lonely sort of
fellow. You fit into the blanks, somehow. I've been happier since you
came into my life. Don't begrudge me any scrap of comfort I derive from
your society, my dear."
She made no response to this. She crossed the road with heightened
colour and entered the hotel. He followed her, and stood at the foot of
the stairs, looking after her as she slowly mounted and passed on to her
room. Then he went to his own room to change.
He surveyed himself in the glass, and twisted the ends of his moustache,
and smiled complacently. The glass told him that he had passed his
first youth; but it further assured him that he was still a good-looking
man, and that the lines which showed between his brows and about the
corners of his eyes, added the weight of a matured dignity which might
very well prove attractive in the eyes of a girl. A girl would
naturally feel flattered by attentions from him. Blanche, he knew, was
flattered. She was interested in him; but she was fighting against the
influence he exercised over her. When she ceased to fight she would
prove an easy conquest, he told himself.