Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Stronger Influence
By F.E. Mills Young
Published by George H. Doran Company, New York.
This edition dated 1922.
The Stronger Influence, by F.E. Mills Young.
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THE STRONGER INFLUENCE, BY F.E. MILLS YOUNG.
Book 1--CHAPTER ONE.
Among the passengers which the train disgorged on to the little platform
at Coerney, the station from which visitors to the Zuurberg proceeded on
their journey up the steep mountain road by cart, were an elderly woman
and her husband; a middle-aged man, who was acquainted but not otherwise
connected with them; and a young girl, who was neither connected nor
acquainted with any of her fellow-travellers, and who, after the first
cursory glance towards them, evinced no further curiosity in their
movements, but walked alone across the sunlit space to where in the
shade of the trees the cart waited until such time as it should please
the driver to bring up his horses and inspan them in preparation for the
long drive up the mountain.
The girl's three fellow-travellers had gone in quest of refreshment; the
driver was invisible; an atmosphere of languorous repose brooded over
the place, which, with the departure of the train, seemed utterly
deserted, given over to the silences and the hot golden light of the
afternoon sun.
The girl approached the cart with no thought of taking her seat therein:
she preferred to walk and stretch her cramped limbs; and it was obvious
that the cart would not start for some while. But the cart stood in the
shade, and the day was hot: the girl sought the shadows instinctively
and nibbled chocolate while she scrolled about under the trees, and
awaited developments.
She had been ill, and was taking a holiday to hasten the period of
convalescence so that she would be ready to resume her duties as a
teacher of music when the vacation ended. The air of the Zuurberg was
more bracing than that of the Bay. She was looking forward to the
change with pleasurable anticipation; looking for adventures, as girls
in the early twenties do look for the development of unusual and
exciting events. Teaching was dull work; routine is always dull; the
holiday adventure offers promise of immense distraction when one sets
forth in the holiday mood.
Esme Lester's mood, which at starting had been high with expectation,
was a little damped. The journey in the train had tired her more than
she had realised; and the appearance of her fellow-travellers--people
whom she would meet daily, be under the same roof with--was not
calculated to excite her curiosity. She wanted companionship. She
wanted youth about her--not the immature youth with which her work
brought her into daily contact, but contemporaries whose thoughts and
tastes would assimilate with her own. The nice elderly couple who had
repaired to the small hotel for refreshment, and the rather heavy
middle-aged man who had followed them with the same purpose in view, did
not answer her requirement in any sense. If this was all the
companionship her holiday promised she would find it dull.
At the end of half an hour, during which time Esme had tired of
wandering and had seated herself on the pole of the cart, she saw her
fellow-travellers emerge from the hotel and come towards her, and in the
distance the driver appeared leading two of his horses, followed by a
native with the second pair.
Esme stood up and showed a renewed interest in the proceedings. The
passengers looked on while the natives inspanned the lean reluctant
team, the leader of which, despite a sorry appearance, showed signs of
temper, which caused the elderly woman passenger considerable alarm.
She took her seat in the back between her husband and Esme; and when,
after the start, the leader kicked over the traces, the business of
persuading her to remain in her seat occupied all the husband's
attention. Esme considered his patience wonderful. The driver handed
the reins to the middle-aged man and got down; and after much shouting
and jerking and unbuckling and rebuckling matters were righted and the
journey resumed. But the old lady was nervous and apprehensive that the
team would bolt. The mountain road was sufficiently steep to have
conveyed to any reasonable intelligence the improbability of this
mischance; but fear lends wings to reason, and the old lady refused to
be comforted.
Panting and sweating the horses laboured up the steep incline at a pace
that was steady enough to reassure any one; but the further they
proceeded along the winding track the deeper yawned the precipice at the
side of the road: it fell away sheer in places till it lost itself in
the black-green depths of the gorge. The old lady was so positive that
the horses would plunge over the precipice and hurl every one to certain
death that she closed her eyes in preparation, and clung to her
husband's arm in the determination not to be separated from him when the
fatal moment arrived.
The old gentleman smiled whimsically at Esme over his wife's drooping
head. The girl, feeling that an understanding was established, returned
the smile, and then gave her attention to the scenery, which was new to
her and which, in its wild beauty, with the tangle of trees below and
the green luxuriance of the mountain road revealing ever fresh and
greater beauties the higher they climbed it, held her in silent wonder
at the surprising incongruities of this great country which is Africa; a
country of amazing contrasts, in parts a tangle of luxuriant vegetation,
in other parts sterile and savage in the stark nakedness of the land.
She had seen something of its sterility, not much; and, save for a brief
view of the Cape Peninsular, she had not seen a great deal of its beauty
either. The wild green splendour of this mountain journey she found
restful and pleasantly stimulating. The air was cooler than in the
plains. A soft wind blew furtively down from the heights and met them
as they toiled upward in the hot sunshine behind the panting team. The
horses' sides were dark and damp with sweat; foam flecked their chests
and the greasy leather of the loosened reins. But they kept doggedly
on. They were used to the journey, and the end of the journey promised
rest. The beat of their hoofs upon the road, the rumbling of the cart,
were the only sounds to disturb the stillness. No bird winged its
flight across the quivering blue; there was no song of bird from the
bush, no sign of any life, save for a number of grey monkeys which
infested the trees lower down: these were left behind as the cart
travelled upward. But down in the black-green depths of the
undergrowth, moving noiselessly and unseen, countless insects and
reptiles pursued their busy way; and the boomslaang wound its heavy
brown coils around the limbs of trees.
Esme leaned back against the hot cushions of the cart and looked about
her with quiet enjoyment. Despite fatigue and the weariness behind her
eyes caused by the hard brightness of the day, she experienced a feeling
of exhilaration. Every sense was on the alert to note and appreciate
each fresh beauty along the rugged road. The scenery became tamer as
the ascent was neared. Coarse grass and stunted bush took the place of
the massed foliage of the trees. The land at the summit was flat and
shadeless. But the air was light and wonderfully invigorating; and
patches of green showed in places where the land dipped abruptly and
lost itself in a kloof, amid a tangle of vegetation in the stony bed of
a mountain stream.
The horses took a fresh spurt when the level road was reached and
trotted briskly towards the hotel and drew up in style before the
entrance. Esme surveyed the low rambling building with interested eyes.
It was a quaint old-fashioned place, this hotel on the veld,
one-storied, with a stoep in front and a flight of low steps leading up
to it. The garden gate stood open, and a man, who was possibly the
proprietor Esme decided, waited at the gate to receive the arrivals. A
coloured boy came out to help with the luggage.
Esme alighted and walked up the garden path, conscious of the curious
gaze of a little knot of people gathered on the stoep to participate in
the great excitement of the day,--the arrival of the cart with its load
of passengers. The hotel was fairly full; there were men and women on
the stoep and several children. The girl was too shy to note any of
these people particularly; she took them in collectively at a glance and
passed on and went inside. A woman stepped forward out of the gloom of
the narrow passage, took her name and conducted her to her room.
Left alone in her room, Esme crossed to the open window and stood
looking out upon the wild bit of garden with its kei-apple hedge and the
small vley quite close to the window. The glint of the water in the
sunshine was pleasing to watch. That the water would breed mosquitoes,
and other things likely to disturb one's repose at night, did not
trouble her; she liked to see it. It stretched cool and clear as a
mirror reflecting the blue of the unclouded sky.
The scene from the window was peaceful and pleasing. The whole place
was peaceful: an atmosphere of drowsy detachment hung over everything.
One felt out of the world here, and at the same time intensely alive. A
sense of well-being and of contentment came to the girl while she knelt
before the window with her arms on the low sill, looking out upon the
unfamiliar scene. She had come to this isolated spot in search of
health; and already she felt invigorated by the fresh pure air; her mind
worked more clearly, threw off its morbid lethargy in newly kindled
interest in everything about her. The clean homelike simplicity of her
little bedroom pleased her; the view from the window pleased her; it was
expansive, uncultivated--a vast stretch of veld, green and brown in the
glow of the declining day, with the azure sky overhead remotely blue as
a sapphire is blue, a jewel lit with the yellow flame of the sun.
Book 1--CHAPTER TWO.
The dining-room at the hotel was a low, narrow room, rather dark. Its
French windows opened on to the stoep, which was creeper veiled and
shaded with the shrubs in the garden. Down the centre of the room was a
long table. A smaller room led off from the principal dining-room,
where the guests with families took their meals.
Esme, entering later than the rest, found a seat at the principal table
reserved for her. On her right was seated the old gentleman who had
been her fellow-traveller. He looked up when she took her seat and
spoke to her. She turned from answering him and took quiet observation
while she leisurely unfolded her napkin of the man who was seated on her
left.
He was a man of about twenty-eight, tall and broadly built, with however
an air of delicacy about him altogether inconsistent with his physique.
He was round-shouldered, and his hands, long and remarkably white,
suggested that their owner had never performed any hard work in his
life. His face was altogether striking, strong and fine, with clear cut
features, and keen dominating grey eyes. When Esme sat down he was
bending forward over his plate and did not once glance in her direction.
He seemed wholly unaware of her entrance, unaware of, or indifferent to
the presence of any one in the room. He confined his attention to his
food, and did not talk, or evince any interest in the talk about him.
Esme, while she looked at him, was keenly alive to the fact that he was
conscious of her presence and of her scrutiny, though he chose to ignore
both. A faint colour showed in his face and mounted to the crisp light
brown hair, which, cut very short, had a tight kink in it as though it
might curl were it allowed to grow. She liked the look of this man,
and, oddly, she was attracted rather than repelled by his taciturn and
unsociable manner. Why should a man staying at a sanatorium not remain
aloof if he wished? The fact of being under the same roof with other
people should not of itself enforce an obligation to be sociable when
one inclines towards an opposite mood. Doubtless, like herself, he had
come to the Zuurberg in quest of health. He looked as if he had been
ill. His hand, she observed when he lifted his glass, was unsteady.
She watched his hands, fascinated and puzzled. It was obvious that he
could not control their shaking, that he was aware of this shakiness and
was embarrassed by it. She felt intensely sorry for him. She also felt
surprise at his self-consciousness. She noticed that he ate very
little. He rose before the sweets, and went out by the window and
seated himself on the stoep.
Conversation brightened with his exit. The people near her seemed in
Esme's imagination to relax: the talk flowed more freely. Even the old
gentleman on her right appeared to share in the general relief: he
turned more directly towards her and entered into conversation. While
the man outside sat alone, smoking his pipe, and looking into the
shadows as the dusk drew closer to the earth.
With the finish of dinner Esme walked out on to the stoep with the
purpose of going for a stroll before bedtime. The long straight road
beyond the gate looked inviting in the evening gloom. She would have
welcomed a companion on her walk; but, save for her fellow-travellers,
she knew no one; and her fellow-travellers showed no desire for further
exercise.
When she appeared on the stoep she was aware that the man who interested
her so tremendously looked up as she passed close to him. He followed
her with his eyes as she went down the steps, down the short path to the
gate, through the gate, out on to the open road. But he did not move.
Esme was conscious of his gaze though she could not see it; she was
conscious of his interest. The certainty that she had caught his
attention even as he had arrested hers pleased her. A restrained
excitement gripped her. She laughed softly to herself as she stepped
into the shadowed road. It was good to know that she left some one
behind in whom she had provoked a faint curiosity in this place where
she was a stranger and alone. He, too, was alone. She had thought when
she passed him that he looked lonelier than any one she had ever seen or
imagined, seated amid a crowd of people, saying nothing, doing nothing;
sitting still and solitary, smoking and looking into the shadows.
What was wrong with this man, she wondered, that he should remain so
aloof from his fellows. He was not a newcomer, as she was; he had
indeed, though she did not know this, been many months at the hotel; yet
he seldom spoke to any one. The coming and going of visitors was viewed
by him with indifference. They were nothing to him, these people; he
was less than nothing to them. Occasionally some man came to the hotel
with whom he entered into conversation; but more often people came and
went and held no intercourse with him at all. They summed him up very
quickly for the most part; looked askance at him, and left him severely
alone. He did not care. It pleased him to remain undisturbed, and the
general disapproval troubled him very little. But that night a girl's
clear eyes, a girl's sweet serious face, got between him and his
egotism, got between his vision and the shadowy dusk, and mutely asked a
question of him: "What was he making of life?"
What was he making of it? What was he giving in return for the gifts
which he received? What was he doing, what had he ever done, to justify
his existence? Nothing.
The light wind carried the answer on the dusky wings of night. It beat
into his consciousness and stirred him out of his easy acquiescence in
things. He was flotsam on the sea of life--waste matter drifting
aimlessly, to be finally ejected and flung, spent and useless, on the
shore. Dust which returns to the dust, for which God in His inscrutable
reason finds some use which eludes man's understanding.
Esme Lester walked along the quiet road and thought of the man she had
left seated alone on the stoep, the man whom she believed to be ill.
And the man sat on and waited for her return and wondered about her with
an interest which equalled her interest in him. She was just a girl, a
bright, sweet, wholesome young thing, who had happened along as the
other guests at the sanatorium had happened along, and who would vanish
again as they vanished, leaving him seated there still to watch further
arrivals and departures as he had done for many weeks, as he would
probably do for many months. He had never seen any one until this girl
came who had held his attention even momentarily. She stood out from
these others, some one apart and distinctive. It was not merely that
she was pretty; many pretty women came there, but they did not interest
him. There was something vivid and arresting about her, some elusive
quality which caught his fancy, and which he could not define. He
thought she looked sympathetic.
When Esme returned an hour later he was still seated on the stoep. She
saw his figure against the lighted doorway at his back: to all
appearance he had not moved his position since she had passed him on
setting forth. But the last of the daylight had departed, and the night
was dark; there was no moon and the starlight was obscured by a mist of
thin clouds which trailed across the sky. She could not see his face
clearly. But as she stepped up to the stoep the light from the passage
illumined her features and revealed her fully to the man's gaze. He
watched her covertly from under his brows, saw the startled look in her
eyes as they caught the artificial light, their curious bewildered blink
as the warm glow fell on her face.
Her look of blank surprise amused him. It was like the look of a child
which steps abruptly into the light out of darkness and finds perplexity
in the sudden change.
She passed him and went inside; and it seemed to him that the light
glowed more dimly, that the night grew darker when she disappeared. He
rose and went into the bar and remained there, as was his nightly
custom, until the bar closed, when he went to bed.
Book 1--CHAPTER THREE.
The daylight woke Esme early. The sunbeams found their way through the
open window and flashed upon her face and startled her from sleep. She
had not drawn her blind overnight; and she lay still for a while and
looked at the golden riot without, resting comfortably, with a feeling
of lazy contentment and intense ease of mind and body. The sweet
freshness of the air poured over her in health-giving breaths. The
beauty of the day, the brilliance of the sunshine called her to go out
into it and enjoy the morning in its early freshness.
She rose and dressed and opening her window wider, put her foot over the
sill and dropped down on to the grass.
The heavy dew silvered the ground and sparkled like diamonds in the
sunlight. She felt exhilarated, surprisingly happy and glad to be
alive. No one seemed to be abroad at that hour except herself. The
hotel presented the appearance of a house in which the inmates are all
asleep. She went through the garden, past the low hedge, and out into
the road. The road, too, looked deserted. She had the world to
herself. A sense of freedom gripped her. She was not conscious of
feeling lonely; the sunshine was companionable, and the novelty of
everything held her attention and kept her interest on the alert.
The daylight disclosed all which the night had hidden from her when she
travelled the same road on the previous evening. It had appeared then a
land of shadows, of velvety dark under a purple sky; the shadows had
rolled back, and the scene revealed wide stretches of veld, with here
and there a clump of trees or low bushes to break the sameness of the
view. The veld glowed with an intensity of colour that strove with a
sort of hard defiance against the golden light of the sun. The sense of
space, of solitude, was bewildering in this vast picture of sun-drenched
open country, where no sound disturbed the silence save the muffled
tread of her own footsteps in the powdery dust of the road.
She broke into a little song as she walked briskly forward, but checked
the song almost instantly because the sound of her own voice struck
intrusively on the surrounding quiet: the note of a bird would have
sounded intrusive even here, where the silence of forgetfulness seemed
to have fallen upon the land.
A tiny breath of wind came sighing across the veld; the girl lifted her
face to meet it, and her eyes smiled. This was the cradle of the wind;
here it had its source upon the mountain. She loved the wind as she
loved the sunlight; she loved the warmth and the crudely brilliant
colour, the untempered heat of this land of eternal sunshine, of vast
spaces, and fierce and splendid life. She loved, too, the dark-skinned
people of the country; loved them for their happy dispositions and the
childlike simplicity of their natures.
Further along the road a Kaffir woman passed her with a tiny black baby
slung in a shawl, native fashion, on her back. Esme stopped to admire
the baby, and touched its soft dark skin with her finger. The native
woman and the English girl spoke in tongues incomprehensible to one
another; but the language of baby worship is universal; and the Kaffir
mother smiled appreciatively, pleased at the notice taken of her babe.
She went on her way with the light of the sun in her eyes, which met its
fierceness as the eyes of the animals meet the sun, unblinking and
without inconvenience. Esme looked after her and admired her free
graceful walk, the upright poise of her head. The people who live in
the sun show a superb indifference to its power.
With the disappearance of the native woman a sudden feeling of
loneliness came over her, stayed with her, despite the brightness of the
day and the sense of returning health which came to her in the wonderful
lightness and purity of the air. She walked a little further, to where
a curve in the road brought her to a belt of trees which threw a
pleasing shade across the path. She halted in the shade and looked
about her with inquiring gaze.
It was very beautiful here, and restful, and the air was fragrant with
the pungent scent of the mimosa blossoms. She gathered a branch of the
flowers and thrust some of them in her belt. Looking upward at the road
she had travelled she saw that the descent was greater than she had
imagined; the return would necessitate a steady climb.
She rested for a while, leaning against one of the trees, idly watching
the play of sunlight through the branches. The shadows of the trees lay
along the road in grotesque shapes. The brooding stillness of the day,
the brightness and the warmth, were soothing: but the feeling of
loneliness deepened; there was something a little awe-inspiring in the
general hush. And then, with an abruptness that startled her, a sound
struck upon her ears, a sound that was not loud but which was curiously
audible in the silence. It was the sound of footsteps crunching upon
the road. The figure of a man appeared round the bend and came on
quickly, his footstep beating in measured muffled rhythm in the dust.
He was quite close to her before he saw her; when he caught sight of her
he hesitated for a second; it looked as though he contemplated beating a
retreat. Then, coming apparently to a decision, he walked on. When he
was abreast of her he raised his hat.
Esme regarded him curiously. It was the man whose seat was next hers at
table, the man whose personality had arrested her attention, in whom she
felt unaccountably interested. He carried a stick, which he used
occasionally to walk with and more frequently to strike with at the
grass which bordered the roadside. He carried it as a man carries
something from which he derives a sense of companionship. It was all
the companionship he ever had upon his walks.
"Good-morning," the girl said in response to his mute salutation; and
added, after a barely perceptible pause: "It is glorious, the air up
here."
"Yes," he said, and halted irresolutely.
She believed that he resented, not only her speaking to him, but her
presence there. He resented neither; but he felt averse from beginning
an acquaintance which, once started, it would be impossible to draw back
from, and which he foresaw might develop into something of very deep
significance. Instinctively he feared this acquaintance. But courtesy
demanded some response from him; he made it reluctantly and in a manner
which did not encourage her to persevere.
"You are an early riser," he said. "Usually at this hour I have the day
to myself."
Again it seemed to her that he looked on her presence as an intrusion,
that he preferred to take his rambles without the thought of
encountering any one. An emotion that was a mixture of impatience and
anger seized her at his selfishness.
"There is room for both of us," she said with a touch of scorn in her
voice. "And we travel in opposite directions."
The man's features relaxed in a smile, the first she had seen cross his
face, an involuntary, whimsical smile. A gleam of understanding lit his
eye.
"Yes," he allowed briefly, and lifted his hat again, and walked on,
leaving the girl with the feeling of having suffered a snub.
She looked after him, as he went on, still hitting aimlessly at the
grass with his thick stick as he walked, until he rounded the bend and
disappeared from her view. Then, dispirited and out of humour with the
day, she left the shade of the trees and took her way upward and
returned to the hotel.
At breakfast she saw the man again. He came in late, and dropped into
his seat beside her with an air of weariness, as though he had walked
far and was tired. She did not look at him; but she felt his gaze on
her when he came behind her chair and drew his own chair back from the
table. When he sat down he glanced at her deliberately. She went on
with her breakfast and ignored his presence. Later, this struck her as
unkind and somewhat childish. But it was not possible to make amends;
the opportunity was past.
He sat, as he always sat at table, with his head bent over his plate in
complete disregard of every one. But the presence of the girl beside
him, her partly averted face, the nearness of a projecting elbow with
its white, prettily rounded arm, forced themselves on his notice, made
him intensely self-conscious. He put out a hand for the glass of milk
and soda which stood beside his plate and lifted it unsteadily. The
sight of his own shaking hand unnerved him, made him horribly and
painfully alive to this ugly physical defect. Impatiently he jerked his
arm upward; the glass tilted and the contents foamed over, ran down the
cloth and on to the girl's skirt. He fumbled awkwardly, almost dropped
the glass in his agitation, righted it clumsily and turned, napkin in
hand, his face crimson, and began to sop up the liquid.
"I'm awfully sorry," he mumbled. "I can't think how I came to do that.
I'm sorry."
Esme turned quietly and watched him while with increasing embarrassment
he timidly wiped her dress. In pity for him she put out a hand and took
the napkin from him.
"Don't trouble," she said. "It's nothing really."
"I've spoilt your dress," he said.
"Oh! no. It's a frock on friendly terms with the wash-tub. That will
be all right."
"It's kind of you to make light of it," he said. "But I'm ashamed of my
clumsiness."
She felt intensely sorry for him as he turned again to his breakfast and
resumed eating with a sort of uncomfortable shyness that was painful to
witness. His hands, she noticed, shook more than usual. He did not
attempt to lift his glass again, though it had been placed refilled
before him; he was physically incapable of making the effort. Out of
consideration for him she did not address him again, but finished her
breakfast quickly and got up silently and left the room.
She went down the passage and into her own room and changed into a clean
frock. It was her smartest dress which had been soiled. She took it
off with a sorry little smile at the pang which it cost her vanity to
have to lay it aside. But her earlier resentment against the man whose
clumsiness had caused the mishap gave place to a deep compassion when
she recalled the confused crimson of his face and the fierce yet
diffident embarrassment in his eyes. She was sorry for him without
understanding why she should feel pity for a man who made no appeal to
her sympathy. His solitary condition was the result of his deliberate
choice. When a man shuns the society of his fellows the fault lies
within himself.
But the look in his eyes continued to distress her. She resolved that
when next she encountered him she would make him talk to her.
Book 1--CHAPTER FOUR.
During the morning Esme played tennis with two girls and a man who were
staying at the hotel. The tennis court was rough, and a rope stretched
across it did service for a net. But the tennis players had brought
balls and racquets with them, and, these being good, the defects of the
ground were regarded good-naturedly as part of the fun.
The girls were about Esme's own age; the man, a little older, paid
marked attention to Miss Lester. She introduced an element of new life
into the place, and the attractions of the Zuurberg were beginning to
pall. There was nothing for a man to do, he explained as they strolled
back together towards lunch time.
"But it is pleasant," the girl said, "to do nothing when one is having a
holiday. It is very beautiful here."
He offered to show her some good walks in the neighbourhood, and put
himself very much at her disposal for the remainder of his stay. It
transpired that he was leaving at the end of the week.
"There are some beautiful spots to be enjoyed at the expense of a little
climbing," he said. "I'll show you if you care about it. There's a
kloof within walkable distance that well repays the effort. They found
the spoor of a couple of tigers there about a month ago. It's the sort
of place one can imagine wild beasts prowling about in--a tangle of
undergrowth, with the moss hanging in long green ribbons from the dead
branches of trees. The ferns growing in the water are a sight."
"It sounds exciting," Esme said. "But I'm not keenly anxious to meet
wild beasts."
"No great likelihood of that," he returned. "They are no, more keen
than you are for an encounter. I wish you would let me take you there
to-morrow. We could start after lunch. It's the coolest spot in which
to spend a hot afternoon. But you mustn't play tennis beforehand: it's
quite a good stretch. Will you come?"
Looking up to answer in the affirmative, she became aware as they
approached the stoep of the presence in his customary seat near the
entrance of the man who excited her curiosity and her sympathy in equal
degrees.
"Who is that?" she asked her companion.
He glanced towards the object of her inquiry; and instantly on
perceiving the expression in his eyes she regretted having asked the
question.
"That! Oh! that's Hallam--an awful rotter. Drinks like a fish. I've
not seen him drunk, but I believe he never goes to bed sober."
"I wish you hadn't told me that," she said in a voice that was blank
with disappointment.
He stared at her in surprise and changed colour slightly as a man might
do who is conscious of being rebuked.
"Perhaps I should have left you to discover it for yourself," he
replied. "But it's common knowledge. He doesn't trouble to conceal the
weakness. The odd part of it is I have never seen him drink anything
stronger than milk and soda. But the thing is obvious enough. He
soaks. I don't suppose there are two people in the hotel with whom he
troubles to exchange a remark."
This speech let in a big ray of light upon her understanding. It became
abruptly as clear as the daylight why this man shrunk from intercourse
with every one, why he had seemed to shun her society, to almost resent
her attempts to converse. She wondered whether her new acquaintance,
whose name was Sinclair, had noticed the incident at the breakfast-table
and deliberately offered this information with the purpose of putting
her on her guard. If this were the case she determined to show him that
she did not need advice.
She walked on in silence, and stepped on to the stoep alone, and paused
beside the chair of the man whom they had been discussing and smiled
down at him. He gazed back at her, surprise and uncertainty struggling
in his look.
"I'm so hot," she said. "We've been playing tennis. You look cool
sitting there."
He rose awkwardly to his feet, and stood with his hand resting on the
back of the chair, and regarded her steadily.
"It is cool here," he said. "Take my seat. You have done more to earn
the right to it than I have."
"Thank you, no. It's a shame to disturb you. I'm going inside to
change."
"That's the second change this morning," he said, his eyes on her face.
She laughed brightly.
"It's something to do," she replied.
"Yes," he said.
The old reserve settled upon him once more. She noticed that he looked
hesitatingly from her to the wicker chair beside which he stood, looked
from it almost furtively towards the entrance. She believed that he
purposed retreat, and forestalled him by turning away with a little
friendly smile and going within herself.
He did not look after her. There were people present on the stoep: he
knew very certainly, without glancing in their direction, the interest
they were taking in the little scene. That they had observed the girl's
action in stopping to speak to him, that, with her departure, they
continued their observation of himself, he knew instinctively. Their
curiosity was a matter of indifference to him.
But the girl's insistent friendliness troubled him. He sat down again
heavily in his seat and reflected deeply, sitting with his elbow on the
arm of the chair and his chin sunk on his hands. The gong sounded for
luncheon, but he remained where he was and watched the rest go in, and
listened to the talk and laughter which came to his ears through the
open windows, until, after a while, the lunchers came out again, when he
got up quietly and went inside.
Esme, passing the open windows later on her way into the garden, saw the
man seated alone at the table in the deserted room, eating in solitary
discomfort, while the coloured servant cleared the table in a manner of
sulky protest against this belated service. She quickened her steps and
her face flushed warmly. She felt as though she had had her ears boxed.
Indignant and angry, she walked as far as the vley and seated herself
in the shade of the trees with a book, which she did not read, open on
her lap. She could not at the moment concentrate her attention on
reading. Her cheeks burned. Twice this man had seemed to snub her,
whether intentionally or not she could not determine; but she felt
furious, less with the man than with herself for courting a repulse by
her persistence. Why should she seek to thrust her society on him when
very clearly he did not desire it? Her importunity embarrassed him.
That thought rankled. In a desire to be kind to a man whose lonely
condition excited her compassion she had been guilty of intruding
unwarrantably upon his seclusion. What right had she to force her
acquaintance upon him? She had had her lesson; she would profit by it
and not repeat the blunder.
Idly she turned the pages of her book; but the printed matter upon which
her eyes rested conveyed no meaning to her: between her vision and the
open page a man's face obtruded itself, a face with fine, strongly
marked features, and keen, unsmiling eyes. She could not switch her
thoughts off this man, in whom, she realised with a sort of impatience,
she was more than ordinarily interested. He piqued her curiosity.
Oddly, the ugly fact which she had learned concerning him had not
repelled her so much as deepened her sympathy. She wondered about him;
wondered what his life had been, what had made him, still a young man,
derelict and at enmity with his fellows. He had possibly suffered a
great sorrow, she decided; and, womanlike, longed to know the nature of
the tragedy which had spoilt his life.
That his weakness awoke pity and not repugnance in her, filled her with
a vague surprise. She knew that in another man she would have
considered the weakness contemptible. Why should she except this man
from censure in her thoughts when she would have held another unworthy
for the same failing? A person who drank to excess had always seemed
horrible to her. She would have shrunk in fear from a drunken man. But
she felt no shrinking from this man: she felt an almost motherly
tenderness for him. She would have liked to help him--with sympathy,
with her friendship; and the only kindness she could do him was to
humour his misanthropy and leave him to himself.
When she passed him again on her return at the tea hour she took no
notice of him, but walked along the stoep with an air of not seeing him,
and yet with a mind so intent on him that a consciousness of this
penetrated his understanding, possibly because he in his turn was
thinking about her with a curiosity equal to her own, with an interest
which surpassed hers.
He followed her with his glance until she reached the open window of the
dining-room and disappeared within. He did not move. Tea was a meal he
never attended; he did not drink tea. When Esme came out again on to
the stoep his chair was empty.
Book 1--CHAPTER FIVE.
The frankness of Esme's nature was opposed to the role of dignified
silence, which she assumed deliberately out of consideration for the man
who had shown so plainly his objection to social amenities. She was
resolved that unless he spoke to her she would not address him again.
The event of his venturing on a spontaneous remark was so improbable
that it seemed unlikely that the silence between them would be broken.
To sit daily at meals beside a person with whom the exchange of the
ordinary commonplace is denied becomes embarrassing. His silent
presence caused her to feel uncomfortable and unhappy. Had it been
possible to do so without exciting remark she would have changed her
seat.
Her old friend on her right helped her largely in this difficulty. He
made himself particularly agreeable to his young companion. But his
conversational efforts rendered the other man's silence more marked; and
the awkwardness of sitting down to breakfast without offering a friendly
good-morning appalled her in view of the many breakfasts which must
follow with increasing strain each morning during her stay.
The point which troubled her most in regard to her new line of conduct
was the certainty that the man who had furnished her with the gratuitous
information concerning Hallam would conclude that the frozen alteration
in her demeanour was the result of his unsought confidence. Absurdly,
she wanted him to know that this breaking off of all intercourse was on
Hallam's initiative and not hers. It was a little thing to trouble her;
but it did trouble her exceedingly. She did not wish Sinclair to think
that because of what he had told her she was treating with contempt a
man for whom she felt no contempt in her heart--nothing but compassion.
In accordance with the arrangement that had been made the previous day
she accompanied Sinclair down the kloof; but her pleasure in the
excursion was not so keen as it had been in anticipation; she was
prejudiced slightly against her companion. She suggested going in a
party; but he refused to entertain the idea. He hated crowds, he said.
"I took a party down one day," he explained, "and they just fooled about
and dug up ferns. Desecration, I call it. The ferns were thrown away,
of course. That's what happens. People must pick things. I wonder
why? Sheer destructiveness. I like to see things growing."
He was helpful and agreeable during the walk; and his appreciation of
everything when they descended into the green twilight of the kloof
pleased the girl: she shared in his enthusiasm. She stood silent amid
the cool, green restfulness of this shadowed place, and viewed with
amazed eyes the wonder of its vegetation which grew in a tangled
luxuriance of varying shades of green; particularly she noticed the long
trailing moss which hung festooned from the trees over the stream; the
longer trails of clinging vine that wound itself about every plant and
tree and linked the whole together in an ordered and pleasing confusion.
Huge boulders, lichen covered, stood out of the water which purled
round them, and, with the brown trunks of the trees, struck the only
separate note of colour in a scene that was wholly green and lit with a
soft green light. The sun did not penetrate here through the massed
foliage of the locked boughs overhead. There was no view of the sky.
The stream wound in and out among the loose stones like a narrow
footpath cut through the dense vegetation. Ferns grew rankly beside the
water, in the water, in the crevices of the boulders, and in the rotting
trunks of trees. Maidenhair ferns were everywhere with long succulent
fronds, and the feathery leaves of the wild asparagus trailed gracefully
above the banks.
Esme gazed about her in silent wonder; and her companion stood beside
her and watched her pleasure in the scene.
"Makes one feel good, doesn't it?" he said.
She turned to him reluctantly. His voice had broken the quiet spell of
the place and caught her back from enchantment to everyday things.
"I want to sit on one of those boulders," was all she said. "I want
just to rest and be still."
"Yes," he said. "But when you are rested we'll explore a bit. It's
worth it. It goes on like this for ever so far, opening out and closing
in again between green walls. It's difficult to break through in
places; but I'll go first and make a clearing for you. Take my hand.
These stones are treacherous."
"I'm glad you brought me here," she said, accepting his aid readily.
"I'm glad I came. I've never seen anything quite like this before.
It's wonderful. You are right: one can imagine wild beasts here. One
can imagine anything here... snakes. I should be terribly frightened if
I saw a snake."
She sat on a large boulder with her hands clasping her knees, and peered
into the black-green shadows nervously. The man, standing upon the
stones which just escaped the water, watched her with an expression of
interest and of satisfaction in his eyes. The grace of her unstudied
pose, the serious look on the bright, fair face, appealed pleasantly to
him. In his preoccupation he scarcely heeded what she said, until she
turned her face and looked up at him inquiringly.
"Are there snakes here?" she asked.
"I don't know. I've not seen one. I think we are more likely to
discover them higher up. They like warmth. It is always wise to tread
cautiously though."
"Ugh!" She drew her feet a little higher above the water and shivered
apprehensively and looked about her. "It rather spoils one's enjoyment,
thinking of these things."
"Don't think of them," he returned. "There are plenty of people in
Africa and plenty of snakes, but it's very rarely that we hear of any
one being bitten. I come here often; it's the only cool place on a hot
day."
"Well, I shan't come here often--although I love it," she added.
"Anything might happen here. It's difficult to believe that the sun is
shining somewhere--blazing right over our heads. Here it is always
twilight, which later will deepen into night. It's lovely, with a sort
of eerie beauty. I don't want to talk. I want just to enjoy it and be
quiet."
He understood her mood. The place had impressed him in much the same
way when he first beheld it. Familiarity with it had made its wild
beauty less assertively striking; but the girl's keen pleasure in
everything recalled his own earlier impressions and added to them. He
strolled off and left her in undisturbed contemplation while he explored
along the bank of the stream and considered the best spots to show her
when she wearied of inactivity and expressed the wish to go on.
But Esme's mind at the moment was detached from her surroundings. She
was thinking very earnestly of the man who held aloof from friendship,
who seemed to regard with mistrust, almost with dislike, every one about
him. She had never before met any one who was at enmity with mankind.
The experience interested her immensely, troubled her. It occurred to
her as altogether sad and incomprehensible that a man should shun his
fellows and enclose himself in a stronghold of impenetrable reserve.
She longed to pierce the hard crust of his egotism, to draw him out of
himself. It was unthinkable that a man of intelligence should be
misanthropic from choice and without cause. Possibly at some time he
had suffered, been badly hurt by some one. Yet it was difficult to
believe that a man could vent on the world at large his sense of injury
for the fault of an individual.
She leaned down towards the water and looked into its still brown pools
and frowned thoughtfully. It vexed her that this man should have laid
such a grip on her imagination: his personality obtruded itself
persistently on her thoughts. The thing was beginning to worry her.
She turned her head to look for her companion. He was not in sight.
Abruptly a feeling of loneliness, a loneliness that was almost
terrifying, seized her. That Sinclair was somewhere near at hand she
knew, but the sense of being alone in that eerie spot frightened her;
the silence of the place frightened her. Yet when the silence snapped
suddenly, and her attention was caught by the sound of some one or
something breaking through the undergrowth and coming towards her, her
fear of these sounds was greater than her fear of the silence. She
wanted to move, wanted to cry out; and she could not move, could not
utter a word. She sat staring in the direction of the noise, staring,
and waiting for she knew not what.
The sounds were not made by Sinclair; they came from the opposite
direction to that which he had taken. Thoughts of wild beasts flashed
into her mind. She wondered what she would do if out of the green
tangle a tiger suddenly appeared. She believed that she would do
nothing, that she would remain there staring, rooted to the spot. The
crashing sounds grew louder, came nearer. She saw the boughs bend,
their massed foliage shake and quiver as if a wind swept through it. A
branch snapped loudly. Then out of the swaying greenery a man's arm
protruded, and the next moment Hallam emerged and stood still, looking
at her with a surprise greater than her own. Esme gave a little gulp of
relief and laughed weakly.
"Oh?" she said, and sat still clutching at the boulder with her hands.
"Did I frighten you?" he asked.
She nodded without speaking; and he advanced a little nearer to her, and
stood still again, leaning on his stick.
"I'm sorry. I had no idea any one was here. You aren't alone?"
"No. Mr Sinclair is somewhere--over there. I thought--I thought you
were a tiger."
Involuntarily he smiled.
"You've been listening to the chatter at the hotel," he said.
"It's stupid, I know." She tapped her foot on a stone with a movement
of impatience and looked away from him. "It's easy to imagine anything
in this jungle. There is something awesome even in its beauty."
"It's the dim light," he said, "and the suggestion of things hidden from
sight. With your nerves you should remain in the sunlight."
Esme laughed suddenly. She turned her face towards him again and
scrutinised him with greater attentiveness.
"Yes," she said. "I like the sunlight. I like things which are
revealed and comprehensive; the furtiveness of secrecy terrifies me. I
prefer to move in the open."
"And miss the surprises which life conceals," he said.
"I hadn't thought of that. But I'm not particularly inquisitive," she
replied.
Why it should vex her to see him smile at this, she did not know; but
that he did smile, and that she resented his doing so, was certain. She
flushed and looked round for her escort, whom she now saw coming towards
them, leaping agilely across the boulders in the stream. He showed
surprise on seeing Hallam; his manner was not cordial.
"If you are rested, we'll go on," he said, addressing himself to Esme.
She stood up. Hallam raised his hat and turned back in the direction
whence he had come. The girl felt sorry as she watched him go; she
would have liked it had he joined their walk. But she believed that to
propose such a thing would have been acceptable neither to him nor to
Sinclair. In any case he would probably have declined. Already the
ice, so unexpectedly broken, was forming again, a thin crust of
resistance upon the surface of his temporary geniality.
Book 1--CHAPTER SIX.