his nightly practice was uncertain; doubtless her desire had leaned that
way from the beginning of their acquaintance; but it was not until she
was well into the second week of her holiday that she summoned up
sufficient courage one evening while they sat at dinner to propose that
he should accompany her for a walk. It was too beautiful a night to
spend indoors, she urged.
The man hesitated. She believed that he was going to refuse. It was
easy to see that her suggestion was not acceptable to him. It took him
aback, and for quite an appreciable while he did not reply to her. Then
he said, somewhat brusquely:
"Have you not had walking enough for one day?"
"Come and sit with me on the stoep," she said, "if you do not care to
walk."
Some quality in her voice, something, too, in the expression of her
face, when he turned his face to look at her, arrested his attention.
He scrutinised her more closely, and into his eyes, as he watched her,
leapt a light of understanding.
"I never met any one quite so indefatigable as you," he said. "If you
really desire exercise, of course I'll accompany you. There will be a
moon to-night. She is young, but she will serve our purpose. Why do
you want to walk?"
The question was jerked out abruptly. There was an inflection of
curiosity in his tones. Esme answered quietly, without looking at him.
"I suppose because I feel it is a sin to remain indoors on such a
night."
Had not her eyes been averted from his face she must have seen his lips
compress themselves at her words. A sort of hardness came into his
voice.
"Your language is somewhat exaggerated," he returned. "The physical
benefit is more obvious than the moral, I think. However, if it gives
you a sense of righteousness, so much the better. I will lend myself
readily to further that end. What do you usually do in the evenings?"
"Sit on the stoep generally. I don't care about cards. When Mr
Sinclair was here we used to walk."
"Sinclair!--yes... The fellow who fancied he possessed all the virtues
because he had not certain vices. You must miss him."
"That isn't a very kind description," she said.
"I was not trying to be kind," he answered. "I am not of a kindly
disposition. You may observe that I do not lay claim to any of the
virtues. It is safe to conclude that what you don't claim will never be
conceded to you. These facts once grasped simplify life enormously.
But I waste time in attempting to teach you worldly wisdom. You live in
a world of illusions."
He spoke very little during the remainder of the time he sat at table.
His manner was preoccupied, and his face looked grim. Esme felt that he
regretted having yielded to her request; he resented interference with
his routine. When he rose from the table, which he did before any of
the others, he turned to her and said in his curt way:
"Please be ready in half an hour from now."
Then he pushed his chair back and walked quickly from the room.
The old gentleman on her right asked Esme to make a fourth at bridge.
He looked disappointed when she declined. She explained that she was
going for a walk.
"It is good to be young. But don't overdo it," he counselled.
"The air is so wonderful; I am never tired up here," she replied.
"I have heard that said of the air in other places," he said, and
smiled. "If I were twenty years younger I would go with you."
The old gentleman was not on the stoep to see Esme start on her walk.
He would have been astonished equally with the rest who viewed her
departure to see Hallam come out of the house and join her and walk with
her into the road. The people on the stoep who witnessed these things,
wondered, and spoke of their wonder to one another. No one before had
seen Hallam in the evenings after he left the dinner table. No one,
except this girl, who seemed on terms of easy friendliness with him,
ever spoke to him. It is not easy to talk to a man who deliberately
ignores your existence. It was plain that he wanted to be left alone:
yet he made an exception in favour of the girl. There was only one
construction likely to be placed on this amazing preference. And so the
people at the hotel looked after the disappearing figures, and
criticised the growing intimacy between the man and girl long after they
had vanished from sight amid the shadows of the early dusk.
When they were well away from the hotel Hallam took the pipe from his
mouth and looked down at the girl's unconscious face and smiled dryly.
He wondered whether she realised that they were objects of curiosity to
the people they had left behind, whether, if she did realise it, it
would trouble her at all? Her eyes, lifted to his in response to his
steady scrutiny, showed darkly shadowed in the uncertain light; they
smiled frankly up at him. He knew while he gazed down at her that he
would miss her when she had gone, that life would seem emptier, more
purposeless, than before. From the first he had realised the danger of
the acquaintance; yet he had drifted into it with very little effort to
evade the danger. He had not made the advances, but he had responded to
them; and now he was regretting, with a sense of bitter futility, the
folly of allowing her to become a significant influence in his life. He
could not end the thing now; he did not want to; her companionship had
become necessary to him.
But he could prevent her liking for him from developing, could, if he
chose, crush it outright. To crush it outright was perhaps the wiser
course.
"You know," he said quietly, "those people who watched us away are
deploring your indiscretion in associating with me. I am not resenting
it. They are perfectly right. I am not a desirable companion for any
one. Why did you first speak to me? Why do you persist in the
acquaintance? I often wonder. Don't you know what I am?"
"Perhaps I do," she answered in so low a voice that, but for the
stillness of the night, he would scarce have heard the faltered words.
"I think that is one reason why I spoke to you."
"You mean," he said, "that you were sorry? That's kind of you. But I
am not conscious of needing sympathy. What other reason had you?"
"Isn't it only natural to talk to people one meets daily?" she asked.
"I talk to every one in the hotel."
He smiled.
"I have observed that. But you don't walk with them. Why did you
insist on my coming out to-night?"
"Oh!" she said, and felt her face aflame, and was grateful for the
darkness which concealed her confusion. "I cannot give a reason for
every impulse that moves me. I wanted to walk."
"Excuse me if I accuse you once more of insincerity," he said. "It was
no impulse that prompted you to ask me. It was a deliberate and
premeditated request which cost you some effort to make. Your concern
for me is very flattering. But you waste your sympathy. What do you
imagine you accomplish by this display of energy? You will overtire
yourself, that is all. For me, it is merely a long time between
drinks."
Tears came into her eyes. She hoped he did not see them, but she could
not have kept them back. He hurt her even more than he intended to.
"I don't care," she said, a little unsteadily, "how hard you box my
ears. I am glad I asked you to come. I'm glad you came." She raised
her face suddenly and lifted defiant eyes to his.
"I am sorry I was insincere. You got me there. I didn't know you were
so observant. In future I'll be absolutely frank with you. I'll be
frank now, even if it angers you. I asked you to come out because I
think it is a shame for you to spend your evenings as you do. I think
it is a shame that you should waste your life. I'm not so much sorry
for you as savage with you. It's hateful in you. It's the one thing
which spoils you from being absolutely fine."
She broke off abruptly, startled at her own vehemence, immensely
embarrassed, and horrified with herself. The man was staring at her,
staring in amazement, incredulous and almost bewildered by the
surprising rush of words. He had never in his life been so
thunderstruck, nor had he ever before listened to such plain speaking.
He was silent in face of this retort for which he had been in no sense
prepared.
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, aghast at her own daring. "What must you
think of me? I never meant to attack you like this. It's--abominable."
"Whatever I think of you," he answered, "I can never again call you
insincere. You have hurled truths at me to-night. You were quite right
in everything you said; but--forgive me--you were quite wrong in saying
them. However, largely that's my own fault for provoking you. It was
inconsiderate to push my inquiries; it would be illogical if I
complained because you answered them. We'll wipe the incident out. At
least we understand one another. In future, when I see you making your
social effort, I shall recognise that you are started on your morality
campaign."
"Please don't," she said falteringly, with a catch so suggestive of
repressed emotion in her tones that he repented the ill-nature of his
words.
He glanced down at her as she walked beside him along the dim road,
hatless, with the soft hair shading her partly averted face; then he
straightened his stooping shoulders with a jerk, and looked about him at
the darkening landscape, and up at the sky, where the young moon rode
serenely in a star-strewn cloudless sky. It was a fine night, warm and
still; the wan moonlight pierced the dusk palely, revealing the road
cutting like a path of silver across the velvety darkness of the veld.
Some softening quality in the quiet beauty of the night, or it may have
been in the sight of the partly turned face, with its look of hurt
distress, penetrated the man's consciousness. His mood changed; a
kinder note banished the harshness from his voice. He had wounded her
deliberately, and he regretted it.
"I'm a brute," he said in altered tones. "Don't heed my roughness; it
is not meant. I had no wish to offend."
"You did not offend," she answered. "But I am afraid that I did."
"No," he said, but without conviction, she thought. "I asked for truth,
and I got it. Perhaps that is what surprised me. The last thing a man
expects to hear is the truth about himself. I didn't credit you with
the possession of so much courage."
"It has all evaporated," she said.
"The courage!" he laughed. "Oh! I think not. It has merely gone under
for the time."
And then he turned the conversation, and closed the matter, as she felt,
finally. She had no means of knowing whether his resentment of her
plain speaking still rankled. A sort of constraint had fallen between
them. She felt self-conscious, and rather like a child who has been
rebuked. But she did not regret having spoken as she had done. The
barriers of pretence were down; there existed a clear understanding
between them. As she walked rather silently with him in the moonlight
she resolved that on the morrow she would invite him to accompany her
again.
Book 1--CHAPTER ELEVEN.
That walk by the ineffectual light of a young moon brought about a
significant change in the relations between the man and girl. The last
reserves were swept away. The sweeping had been drastic; it left not so
much as a shadow of doubt in the mind of each in regard to the other.
They were profoundly interested in one another, with an interest which
struck deeper than the repugnances which both were conscious existed.
The girl liked the man and was horrified at his weakness; the man liked
the girl and resented her interference: their mutual regard was stronger
than their antagonism.
The people at the hotel watched the development of the friendship
distrustfully. They did not approve of the man. All they knew of him
was to his discredit. The general opinion was that it was well the girl
was leaving so soon.
"You appear to be great friends with Mr Hallam," the old lady who was
nervous of the mountain road observed one day to Esme. "What a terrible
thing it is to see a young man deliberately making wreck of his life.
Don't you think so?"
"I do," Esme answered gravely. "One day he will come to think so too;
and then he will change."
The old lady shook her head.
"I should doubt it very strongly," she said. She considered it
regrettable that the girl should cherish hopes of so improbable a
reform.
"There is nothing that the human will cannot accomplish, when the will
to accomplish a thing is strong enough," Esme said with quiet
conviction.
"You think that?"
"I am sure of it."
"Then, why does not Mr Hallam make some effort to overcome his
failing?"
"I suppose because he has not felt a sufficiently strong incentive. It
is difficult to understand these things. But I cannot help believing he
will make good."
The old lady was manifestly unconvinced; but Esme's faith remained
unshaken. She believed in the eventual triumph of Hallam's better
nature. The man was not insensible of her faith in him. Her influence
over him was stronger than either of them realised. Each day he felt
his interest in her deepening; but it was not until her visit came to
the finish that he knew exactly what her friendship meant to him.
On the last morning when they sat at breakfast, and the talk turned
naturally to the journey down the mountain, it came to him with
unpleasant clearness that he was going to miss her very much. He saw
the regret in her eyes at the thought of going away, and he knew that a
similar regret was in his heart. They had come to the parting of the
ways, and neither wished to part.
"Can't you stay a little longer?" he asked her. But she shook her head
and answered no.
"I hate these comings and goings," he said gruffly; "they make life
uncomfortable."
"I loved the coming," she replied softly; "but I hate going. I have
been happy here."
"I expect you are happy anywhere," he said. And she laughed, but she
did not answer him. "I shall miss our walks," he added.
"I shall miss them to," she replied. "I shall miss many things. One
day I shall come up here again."
"Will you?" He looked surprised. "I shall not do that after I go away.
To revisit a familiar spot is like walking among tombstones. Each
point recalls a memory, and memory belongs to the past."
"But when one's memories are pleasant," she argued, "it is good to
recall them."
"They come back to us with the dust on them," he insisted. "It is more
comfortable to live in the present. You'll forget the Zuurberg when you
are back in the town. You'll be engrossed with other matters. You'll
forget."
"Not one hour," she breathed softly. "I'll forget nothing. Will you?"
He laughed bitterly.
"Life is not so full of pleasant things that I can afford to bury in
oblivion the pleasantest that has happened to me," he said. "When you
drive down the mountain to-day, I will go with you and see you on your
way."
If anything could have given her pleasure at leaving it was this resolve
on Hallam's part to drive with her down the mountain road. His
accompanying her gave to the excursion an air of adventure and decreased
the sense of parting. It was not, she found when she came to say
goodbye to the little group of people assembled on the stoep to watch
the departure of the cart, these general leave-takings which were
distressing; nor did it concern her to turn her back on the hotel on the
veld; the real parting was to follow, but for the moment that did not
weigh with her. Her holiday was not yet at an end.
There were other passengers for the journey besides themselves. Hallam
waited until these had taken their seats in the back; then he helped the
girl up to the front seat next the driver, and, to the amazement of the
beholders, got up after her and sat down by her side. They concluded
that he was leaving also; it did not occur to any one to suppose that he
was going to see the girl off by the train and would return that
evening. An act of such supererogatory courtesy was not expected of
him.
The horses started, and the cart swung along with its load of passengers
and luggage, travelling at a good pace along the hard smooth road. Esme
leaned back in her seat and looked about her with happy appreciative
eyes. On the upward journey she had longed for a companion to share her
joy in the scenery. She recalled her first impressions, as she drove
now with Hallam beside her. She had been very tired on that occasion,
eye and brain both had been weary. To-day she felt surprisingly well
and very alert. The air, the movement, the strong light, all added to
her sense of enjoyment; and the presence of the man beside her, his
nearness, his unobtrusive care of her, his interest in all which
interested her, made the return journey infinitely more wonderful than
the journey up the mountain had seemed. She felt extraordinarily happy.
And yet she was going away. Soon she and her companion would be
parted. It might be that she would never see him after that day. But
she could not realise these things. She felt him beside her, heard his
voice speaking to her against the mountain wind which blew across them,
saw the kindness in the keen eyes when he turned his head to look at her
and mark her appreciation of some beauty along the route; and she knew
that he mattered to her tremendously; that her feeling for him was a
real and profoundly significant emotion, something which had sprung to
life suddenly, which would go on growing in her heart after they had
separated and gone their different ways.
This was the thing which had happened to her. She had looked for
something to happen, but she had not dreamed it would be anything like
this.
She fell to wondering how she would feel when they came to say good-bye,
whether she would realise the parting and feel lonely, whether her face
would betray her regret? Whether he would see and understand...
The journey down occupied considerably less time than the journey up had
done; everything seemed to lend itself to speed her departure. But at
Coerney there was a wait before the train came in. Hallam took her to
the hotel and ordered refreshments, and afterwards they went and sat in
the shade of the trees and talked away their last minutes together. She
felt that she would have liked to prolong that talk indefinitely; and
the minutes slipped away so fast.
"It was nice of you to come," she said. "I should be feeling horribly
lonely now if I had had this wait alone."
"The train's late," he said. "God bless the lack of unpunctuality.
I've half a mind to go with you. I don't know why I don't go. I don't
know why I stay on in a God-forsaken hole on the top of a mountain which
leads nowhere. Do you?"
She laughed.
"I suppose you like it," she said. "And the air is fine."
"A man can't live on air."
"But you don't live there," she said. For the first time it occurred to
her that she did not know where he lived; she knew surprisingly little
about him.
"I don't live anywhere; I drift," he said.
He met her eyes and read the curiosity in them, their unspoken
criticism, and smiled. But he did not give her any information. He
started to talk again on impersonal matters, while she looked away into
the green tangle of the trees and wondered about him.
On the way to the station he gave her a book, which he took from his
pocket and handed to her with the remark that it would relieve the
tedium of the train journey. She read the title, "David Harum," and
flushed with pleasure as she thanked him.
"I hope you will like it," he said. "I have found him a good
companion."
He discovered an empty compartment and settled her in it and stood by
the door. She leaned from the window, with her arms on it, and looked
down at him, earnestly, intently, with the light of unsaid things
shining in her eyes.
"I hate going," she said.
"I know. Partings are beastly things."
But he said nothing to lead her to hope that this parting was not final;
no intimation of it being otherwise entered his thoughts.
"To-morrow," he said, "I shall go alone to watch the sunrise."
A little wistful smile curved her lips.
"I shall think of you," she said.
"I shall probably have _you_ in my thoughts," he replied, and smiled
also. "We have spent some pleasant times together."
She leaned further out and held out a hand to him as the train was about
to start. He took it and pressed it warmly.
"Thank you for your kindness to me," she said simply.
"Thank _you_ for your bright companionship," he returned, and the regret
he felt at parting crept into his voice.
He released her hand and stood back while the train moved slowly out of
the station. The girl, leaning from the open window, saw the tall
stooping figure on the platform, with face turned towards her, until she
drew back suddenly and sat down in the corner seat, a feeling of great
loneliness in her heart, and in her eyes the brightness of unshed tears.
She took up the book he had given her, and opened it, and read on the
fly-leaf his name, written in small, unsteady characters,--Paul Hallam.
She sat with the book open in her lap, gazing at his name.
Book 2--CHAPTER TWELVE.
Esme Lester lived with a married sister at Port Elizabeth in a little
house in Havelock Street. Her brother-in-law was junior partner in a
store which was not a particularly flourishing concern, and the family
finances were generally at low ebb. There were two children, a boy and
a girl, named respectively John and Mary. When the family were all at
home the little house seemed full to overflowing.
Esme had a tiny bedroom at the back, overlooking a cemented yard. There
was one beauty in this yard, a huge oleander tree, the dark green leaves
of which and the clusters of sweet-scented pink blossoms reared
themselves against her window and shaded and perfumed her little room.
If the oleander had been stricken by drought, or any other mischance had
befallen it to cause it to die, the house would have been unbearable to
the girl. As it was, the oleander made life possible, even when the
children were troublesome, and when her sister and her husband
quarrelled. They quarrelled frequently; over the children, over the
housekeeping expenses, over the lack of money. Lack of money was the
principal grievance.
Esme boarded with them, because it seemed more natural to stay with her
own people than with strangers, and because her sister liked to have
her. But she was not fond of her brother-in-law; and the constant
disagreements worried her.
It seemed to her, when she entered the house after her pleasant holiday,
that she had left all the peace and romance behind and returned to the
drab reality of the common daily round. Her sister welcomed her with
restrained pleasure, but the children hung about her in unqualified
delight, bubbling over in childish fashion with excitement at her
return.
"You are looking well," her sister remarked. "I wish I could take a
holiday. Single girls don't realise how lucky they are until after they
are married. Jim and I spent our honeymoon at the Zuurberg. I thought
it dull."
Esme reflected, while she regarded her sister with a puzzled scrutiny,
that it was scarcely surprising her marriage had proved on the whole a
disappointing affair. To feel dull on one's honeymoon is not a
promising beginning.
"I thought it wonderful," she said.
"You had a good time, I suppose. Were there many people there?"
"A fair number. But it's the place itself. It is lovely."
Mrs Bainbridge looked unconvinced.
"People, not places, make a holiday enjoyable," she said with a certain
worldly wisdom which jarred on her hearer. "Were there any men there?"
"A few--yes."
Her sister laughed.
"You always get on with men," she said. "I wonder you don't marry."
"But, according to your view, that would be a mistake."
"Not if the man were well off. It is having to cheese-pare that makes
the shoe pinch. Marriage has its compensations." Her gaze rested
reflectively on the children. "One grumbles," she said; "but one
wouldn't undo all of it."
"_I'm_ never going to marry," John, aged eight, announced with sturdy
determination. "I've seen too much of it."
His mother laughed, and Esme caught him up and kissed him.
"That's for you, you stony-hearted little misogynist," she said, as he
struggled to elude her embrace.
"John's a silly kid," Mary, his senior by two years, announced in the
crushing tones of a person who resents a slight to her sex.
John freed himself from his aunt's detaining hold in order to vindicate
his insulted manhood; and Esme left them to their scuffling and went
upstairs to unpack.