support my boast in a practical manner."
"I will consider your sensitiveness in preference to my comfort," she
said.
"You have not known me very long," he returned; "but in the time I
should have thought that a person of ordinary discernment would have
discovered that I possess no sensibilities to disturb."
"I have discovered one or two things about you," she answered gently,
"but not that."
She felt relieved that he did not pursue the subject. He lifted his
stick and pointed with it away to the right, where the white wall of a
building showed among the trees.
"That is where we shall breakfast on our return," he said.
"On our return! Then you mean to go further?"
"We shall walk a good mile--two miles, if you are equal to it--beyond
the house," he said. "The road gets more beautiful the further you
travel. But we will stop when you wish. After you have breakfasted you
shall rest as long as you like before making the journey back."
Book 1--CHAPTER EIGHT.
It seemed to Esme as they walked rapidly along in the clear light air
that nature revealed herself in her fairest mood that morning. Surely
never had sunlight shone more golden, never had the blue of the sky
appeared more intense, nor the veld glowed with such splendour of
colour. A blue haze, liquid in the golden light, quivered before her
vision like a thing alive with iridescent wings outspread in the
untempered sunlight that poured itself out upon the earth with a
brilliance hurtful to the eyes. Everywhere her gaze turned some fresh
wonder met the view. Green mingled with brown and orange, shot with
vivid colours, where the hardy veld flowers blossomed in the grass and
among the piles of hot-looking yellow stones by the side of the road.
It was a scene of wide and glowing colour, of immense blue distances lit
by the fierce flame of the sun.
How much of her enjoyment was due to the beauty of the day, and how much
to the companionship of the man who shared these things with her, she
did not at the time pause to consider. Her senses were steeped in the
delight which is born of the mysterious magic of beauty. Everywhere she
looked she saw this magic pictured; in her heart she felt its influence;
it permeated all her being, all her brain. And again the expectation of
adventure gripped her. The belief that something was about to happen,
something of tremendous personal importance, took hold of her
imagination, stirred her deeply with a mingling of awe and joyous
anticipation like nothing she had ever known before. Something was
going to happen to her; something surely had happened to her already to
work this change in her calm practical nature. For the first time in
her quiet uneventful life her latent womanhood rose to the surface and
found expression in a number of new emotions, emotions which she vaguely
realised without understanding their significance.
She felt intensely alive. Her face was radiant with the joy of life.
But she did not talk much. Hallam was not a talkative companion, and
his silence affected her. Occasionally he paused to draw her attention
to a particular spot; and once he called a halt and seated himself
beside her in the shade of some bushes to rest. When he was seated he
lit his pipe. He had brought apples with him, and he offered Esme one,
and a knife to peel it with. She returned the knife and set her teeth
in the fruit and ate it with keen enjoyment.
"I get these from a farm in the neighbourhood," he explained. "You
should walk there one day. They grow quite good fruit, and they are
always glad to see visitors. It's not far from the hotel."
"You appear to know every one around here," she remarked.
"I have been here some months," he replied.
"And you seek your friends outside the hotel?" she said.
"I neither seek nor find friends," he answered bluntly. "I have some
slight acquaintance with these people which they do not discourage
because it is profitable to them. I do not understand disinterested
friendship. I do not believe in it."
"Which is to say you have never felt a disinterested friendship for any
one," she said. "You don't know what you miss."
"In that case, I miss nothing," he replied. "One has to be conscious of
a need in order to appreciate its absence. Life is a huge business of
bluff. A few persons only remain sincere because they will not take the
trouble to pose. To be sincere is to become unpopular. But
unpopularity is less irksome than maintaining a pose of sociability. I
believe there are very few people who honestly love their kind."
"That is too cynical a belief to be worth discussing," she said, pausing
with the half eaten fruit in her hand to look at him with puzzled eyes.
He seemed amused rather than vexed at her answer, and smoked for a
moment reflectively before resuming the talk.
"I doubt whether you are quite sincere in making that assertion," he
contended. "It is an easy way of disposing of a subject which one feels
unequal to combat in argument. Friendship is mere sentiment, so is love
of one's fellows; let either interfere with self-interest, and what
becomes of it? It is only with a few rare souls that altruism becomes a
workable theory."
"So long as there are a few souls great enough for disinterested love,"
she said quietly, "there is a little light of hope in the world."
She got up and threw away the remains of the apple as though her
pleasure in the fruit were spoiled. She hated this cynical bitter talk;
at the moment she almost hated the speaker. Because of his own wasted
life, his morbid views and perverted ideals, he was trying to poison her
mind with the hopeless doctrine of his deliberate self-deception. There
was something mean in her opinion in this wilful attempt to darken the
world for others.
"Let us go on," she said. "Active exercise puts you in a better mood.
I do not like your ideas. I'm sorry; but I don't wish to listen to
them."
"No one likes my ideas," he answered, rising. "I don't like them
myself. Truth is rarely agreeable; that is why so many people affect
lies. I think we had better turn and see about breakfast. Your lack of
patience suggests to me that you are hungry."
She broke into a laugh. At the sound of her mirth his face cleared
immediately; he stood still in the road and looked at her curiously.
"I am glad that the sun still shines," he said, and started again to
walk along the uphill path.
It was rather a silent walk back to the little house among the trees.
Esme felt shy at having been so outspoken. He had taken her rebuke in
good part; she liked him for that. She liked, too, the quiet way in
which he assumed command of herself and of everything when they reached
the house and stepped up to the little stoep. He presented a new and
more forceful side to his character.
The woman of the house fetched two chairs at his request, which she
placed side by side in a corner of the stoep beyond the reach of the
sun's rays that fell slantwise upon the white stone floor under the low
roof. Hallam separated the chairs and pushed a little deal table
between them and sat down opposite the girl.
"It is pleasanter to eat out of doors," he said. "I didn't consult your
wishes, because I knew it was unnecessary to do so. And even if you
preferred breakfasting inside it would not be good for you."
"I am satisfied with your choice," she answered, smiling, and took off
her hat and dropped it on the floor. "I could eat anywhere; I am so
hungry."
"Good!" he exclaimed, looking pleased, and surveying her across the
narrow table, which the housewife had spread with a much-darned
snow-white cloth.
It gave him an odd satisfaction to see her there, seated opposite to
him, hatless and very much at her ease, a pleasing picture of fresh
bright girlhood, with the glow of returning health showing in her
cheeks.
The woman came out from the house and made further preparations towards
their meal. Occasionally she addressed a remark to Hallam; but she was
not loquacious. She stared a good deal at his companion: it doubtless
caused her surprise to see him with any one. During all the months
since he first came to her house he had never brought a friend with him
before. She was obviously familiar with Hallam's requirements. Without
consulting him she placed a glass of milk on the table beside him, and
inquired whether the lady drank tea or coffee. Esme looked at the glass
of milk and made up her mind quickly.
"Neither. I will have milk also," she said.
The woman departed with the order, and the girl and the man sat gazing
out on the sunny road and saying nothing. But the silence which hung
between them was the silence of comradeship. There was an absence of
all constraint in their manner; they were like old friends between whom
speech is unnecessary.
With the arrival of breakfast the girl drew her chair nearer the table,
and served the omelette and passed his plate across to Hallam; assisting
him unobtrusively, because of the shaking of his hands and his pitiful
consciousness of it. The sight of those nervous unsteady hands hurt
her. She was always painfully aware of them and keenly anxious to
conceal the fact. She observed that the man endeavoured to control
their trembling, and that his inability to do so distressed him. He
bent low over his plate. It was this habit of bending over his meals
and of looking down when he walked which caused the stoop of the
shoulders, giving him an appearance of ill health.
While she ate and attended to his needs and her own she wondered about
him. What could be the secret of his downfall? Life had been generous
to him in some respects; possibly in other, more important matters, it
had treated him ill. She continued her study of him while she sat at
the little table opposite to him and watched the sunlight slowly
encroaching on the patch of shade in which they breakfasted. Before
they had finished their meal it had reached Hallam, dividing them like a
curtain of fire which wrapped him about in its radiant warmth and left
her in the shadows.
"Hadn't you better move your seat?" she suggested. "The sun strikes on
your head."
He got up, dragged his chair nearer to hers, and sat down again. Their
chairs were side by side now. She leaned back in hers and smiled at
him.
"This is infinitely pleasanter than breakfasting at a long table among a
crowd. They will wonder at the hotel what has become of me."
"They will certainly never suppose that you are in my company," he said.
"Why not?"
A dry smile twisted his lips. He scrutinised her for a brief moment,
and then answered abruptly:
"They wouldn't credit the possibility of my inviting you to come."
"You didn't," she answered, and laughed with amusement. The laugh was
infectious; Hallam joined in it.
"I wish you hadn't such an awkward memory for blunt facts," he said. "I
know I was abominably rude. I am always rude. As a rule that doesn't
trouble me; but in your case I regret my lack of manners."
"I did not notice it," she replied. "I think perhaps I was preoccupied
with the lack of manners betrayed on my part. You must think me rather
pushing."
Again he smiled dryly, but in the keen eyes shone a kindly look.
"One day, if it will interest you to hear it," he said, "I will tell you
what I think of you. But at the moment I do not feel equal to so much
frankness. If you have finished breakfast, let me carry your chair into
the shade of the trees. Since there is no one to whom your absence will
cause anxiety we will suit our own convenience as to the time of our
return."
Book 1--CHAPTER NINE.
The two or three guests at the hotel who witnessed Esme's return in the
company of Hallam were filled with amazement at the unusual spectacle of
the man who was never known to associate with any one, walking beside
the girl and carrying her coat across his shoulder, with an air of being
on perfectly friendly terms with his companion and with himself. The
two were laughing when they neared the gate; but the man's expression
settled into its habitual boredom as he followed the girl up the path
and mounted the steps on to the stoep.
He removed the coat from his shoulder and handed it to her with a brief
smile.
"I have enjoyed my walk," he said. "Thank you."
"Thank _you_ for taking me," she answered, conscious of the curious eyes
observing her. "I have enjoyed it also."
Then she went inside. Hallam waited for a minute or two before
entering, the hotel, while the people on the stoep watched him, puzzled
and immensely interested in these proceedings. He did not appear to
notice them; and presently he went in, and the restraint which his
presence always imposed on the rest relaxed perceptibly.
They started to discuss him, to deplore his friendship with the girl;
they pondered the question whether it was the particular duty of any one
to warn her against pursuing the acquaintance: every one thought that
she ought to be warned; but no one volunteered to undertake this
friendly office; they were all a little in awe of the man of whom they
disapproved.
Esme went to her room with the intention of remaining there and writing
letters until lunch time. She was tired and wanted to rest. But while
she sat at her window with her writing materials on her knee she saw
Sinclair approaching from the direction of the garden beyond the
kei-apple hedge. She remembered that he was leaving that morning. The
early walk, and her pleasure in it, had caused her to forget.
He strolled as far as the vley, and stood by the edge, moodily kicking
little stones into the water. He looked up and saw her at the window
and looked away again, making pretence that he did not know she was
there. She leaned out and spoke to him.
"Isn't it a perfectly wonderful day?" she called softly.
"Is it?" he said, and came towards her slowly, frowning, and with his
hands in his pockets. "It's much like any other day, I think."
He leaned with his shoulder against the wall of the house, and regarded
her with sulky reproach as she sat on the low sill, facing him, smiling
into the hurt boyish eyes. She liked him, and he was going away. She
decided to ignore his irritable mood.
"It's the finish of your holiday," she said, "and you are sorry. In a
fortnight's time my holiday will have ended. I, too, shall regret
leaving this place."
"It is not the place I mind leaving; it's dull enough," he said
ungraciously. "There is nothing to do except moon around. Where did
you have breakfast this morning?"
"At a little house along the road. I went to see the sun rise."
"It is possible to view that astronomical phenomenon from your bedroom
window," he retorted disagreeably.
"I dare say it is. But I wanted the walk."
"You went with Hallam, I suppose?" he said. And, without waiting for
her reply, added: "I think you might have remembered that it was my last
morning. I would have taken you to see the sun rise if you had
expressed the desire. I counted on a last walk."
"I walked with you last night," she said, surprised at the extravagance
of his demands.
"I am not forgetting that," he said, with less aggression in his manner.
"But my last morning... I think it was a little unkind. There will be
plenty of opportunities for sun-gazing after I have gone. I am full up
with things I want to say to you, and you seem such a long way off,
perched up there."
She laughed, and twisted round on the sill preparatory to alighting.
"Look the other way for a minute. I'm coming out."
He swung round with a pleased smile, and before she realised what he was
about he had seized her by the waist and lifted her down. She stood on
the grass beside him and surveyed him with amazed eyes.
"Well!" she said.
"It was by far the easier way," he excused himself. "I have a couple of
chairs fixed up under the trees. It's jolly and cool in the garden."
He led her to the spot he had selected and settled her in one of the two
canvas chairs, which faced towards a little arbour covered with a pale,
cool-looking creeper with long sprays of minute white blossoms thrusting
out between the leaves. The chairs had been placed at the end of the
roughly made path, and stood side by side with their backs towards the
house. Esme dropped into one, and looked about her with lazy
satisfaction. It was restful out here under the trees, and strangely
quiet. The hum of the bees sounded reposeful in the sunny stillness.
She felt very tired, and was glad to sit still. She did not want to
talk. But it was not possible to sit in silence with this man, as it
was with Hallam. The necessity to make conversation was imperative. It
surprised and puzzled her that this was so.
She glanced at Sinclair curiously, and discovered him, with his face
turned towards her, observing her intently. He smiled when he met her
eyes with their curious questioning look; his own expressed admiration,
and something more, which he strove to suppress.
"You were quite right," he said. "It is a wonderful day. But I wish
you had not discovered that before you came out here. I didn't. It
seemed to me this morning a rotten sort of day altogether. I wasn't
sure even that I should see you before I left. I have just half an
hour. If it wasn't for the thought of seeing you again at the other end
I should feel pretty sick at leaving. I've only known you a few days;
but I seem to have known you for quite a long time. That's odd, isn't
it? I've enjoyed the last of my holiday more than words can express."
He talked quickly, eagerly. His face was flushed, and a sort of boyish
shyness showed in his eyes. She regarded him with an air of faint
perplexity and said nothing. His abrupt confidences were disconcerting.
"You won't forget these few days altogether, will you?" he urged.
Her composed face, her air of increasing surprise, damped his ardour
considerably. The light died out of his eyes.
"I shan't forget a single day of all the days I spend here," she
replied, not knowing that she was unkind, not meaning to be.
She was not thinking of Sinclair. Her appreciation had nothing to do
with him. She was reviewing her earlier impressions, feeling again the
joy which the sense of beauty gives; the complete satisfaction of that
walk towards the sunrise, and the magic splendour of the morning when
the world stirred out of slumber, dew-drenched and asparkle in the
golden radiance of the newly risen sun. She had realised, as she
stepped confidently forward in its warmth, the wonder and the goodness
of being alive. That sense of well-being remained with her, would
remain with her when the boy, who looked to her for a response she was
unable to make, was gone down the mountain road out of her dream. He
was no part of the dream: he was merely a transitory figure flitting
through the gold-blue mist.
"I don't know what it is about the place which grips me so, unless it is
that it is unlike any place I've ever seen. I love the brooding silence
and the warmth and the soft mountain air. There is health in every
breath of it. Down at the Bay the winds rend one. It's all heat and
noise and rush."
"Oh! the Bay's not half a bad place," he protested. "Most people at the
beginning of a holiday feel as you do; but it wears off. You will be
jolly well bored at the end of a fortnight. Travelling always along one
old road grows monotonous. And whichever way you go it's the same old
road. You may strike across the veld, but sooner or later you have to
come back to the road."
"After all,"--she looked at him quickly,--"it isn't monotony that bores
one really. We like doing the familiar thing."
"Not necessarily," he returned. "When it is a case of returning to
work, the familiar thing becomes a nuisance. I wish you were driving
down the mountain with me. Don't come out to see the start. I don't
wish you to make one of the crowd. I'm going to say good-bye to you
here. I am leaving my racquet behind. I want you to use it, will you?
I've another at my digs, so you needn't feel you are depriving me. I
want you to have it."
"That's very kind of you," she said, touched by this act of generosity,
and secretly embarrassed. She could not without ungraciousness refuse,
but she wished that he had not placed her under this obligation.
"It will serve to pass an hour or two when you weary of the same old
road," he said, smiling.
He was jealous because she had found a companion for the road; that this
companion did not play games was a source of satisfaction to him.
"But you break up the set when you leave," she said.
"We played three before you arrived," he reminded her. "When you get
back to the Bay I'm coming in sometimes to play with you at the Club
courts. You're a member, I suppose?"
She nodded.
"Are you?"
"I am about to become one," he answered, with an amused look at her
surprised face. "I've thought of joining often. You know the
acquaintance isn't going to end here. I may see you again?"
He looked at her with great earnestness, and waited with such obvious
anxiety for her reply that it seemed to her there was only one possible
answer to his question. And indeed she was very willing to continue a
friendship which had been on the whole agreeable.
"I should be sorry if I thought it would be otherwise," she said, with
kind sincerity. "It would seem strange not to meet, seeing that we have
been such good friends."
"Good friends!" he repeated. "Yes; we have been that... Well, that's
the gist of what I wanted to say. When I travel down the mountain I
shall remember your words and your sweetness. We are good friends,
whose friendship started amid the heights."
He rose from his seat. She looked up at him with eyes that held a
wondering interest in their look. The phrase took hold of her
imagination. Until that moment he had always seemed just a boy to her;
but in that moment she thought of him as a man, with a man's thoughts
and a man's feelings. She stood up a little shyly and gave him her
hand.
"I am sorry you are going away," was all she said.
Book 1--CHAPTER TEN.
During the days which followed time sped on amber wings. It sped so
swiftly that her fortnight's holiday seemed to Esme the shortest
fortnight her life had ever known. Oddly, she did not realise why the
hours were so mysteriously curtailed. In reality her days were longer
than usual; they started at sunrise.
This practice of early rising, which was new to her, developed into a
daily habit. If by chance she overslept, as she did occasionally, her
day was robbed of its chief pleasure--the early morning walk in Hallam's
company. He never waited for her. He never referred to her absence
when she failed to put in an appearance on the stoep at the time he came
out, stick in hand, ready for his walk. But he always looked for her;
and when he saw her waiting for him he appeared pleased. They set forth
together as a matter of course.
He grew to look forward to her companionship. His manner had lost its
rough unsociability; he talked to her readily. Occasionally he left the
seat, which had come by tacit recognition to be considered especially
his, for a chair beside hers on the stoep. His behaviour excited
considerable surprise and comment among the other guests; but to Esme it
appeared less remarkable than his former attitude of almost hostile
aloofness. She derived a quiet happiness from his society.
As she came to know him better her amazement at his weakness grew
enormously. That a man of such striking personality, possessed of
considerable will-power, should yield himself to the influence of a
sordid vice, be dominated by it, surprised her beyond words. It was the
one thing about him which she hated. It was ugly and inconsistent and
degrading. She never saw him drink; he took nothing but milk and soda
with his meeds. In the daytime he always appeared perfectly sober; but
at night, after dinner, it was his invariable custom to disappear, where
she did not know; but sometimes she heard his stumbling step going along
the stoep after every one else was in bed. She would lie awake and
listen for these sounds, but it was only occasionally she heard him go
unsteadily to his room. Then her heart would beat faster, and the tears
would come to her eyes, and always, she offered up a prayer for him in
the quiet darkness of her little room. Her pity for him and her liking
grew like a flower, unconscious of its expansion as it opens to the sun.