matter of usage. One by one the demands which the ardour of passion
exacts relax imperceptibly, and love finds its level on a practical
basis of mutual interests in the common daily round.
Hallam's marriage was a reversal of the usual order, in which generally
it falls to the woman to adapt herself more or less to the altered
conditions. In their case the change affected him more materially than
it affected Esme: his life had become, as it were, uprooted, and the
roots did not strike freely in new soil. The change was not agreeable
to him; but his love for his wife was of a quality which helped him to
endure with a certain dogged patience many things that formerly he would
not have entertained for a moment. He suppressed his own inclinations:
to a large extent he suppressed his feelings: mentally his life with her
was a series of small deceptions, of pretences practised deliberately
for the purpose of misleading her. He feared to disappoint her. His
mind became a storehouse of reserved thoughts and inhibitions upon which
he turned the key, locking its surprises against her.
In certain respects, though she was unaware of this, he was a stranger
to her: one side of his nature remained hidden from her, the weaker
side, which most urgently needed her loving sympathy, and which shrank
from exposure and misunderstanding with a sensitiveness of which he was
conscious and secretly ashamed. He was not the type of man to make an
appeal even to the woman he loved. He gave more than he exacted. He
gave more than she realised in her ignorance of the sacrifices he made
in his attempts to bridge the abysmal gap in temperaments. For her sake
he endured many things which were to him boring and annoying in the
extreme. He made stupendous efforts to subdue his prejudices and adjust
his life to meet the new demands. But the nature of the man remained
unchanged and suffered as a result of the artificial conditions of his
self-imposed obligations.
Three brief years of married happiness passed; and then Hallam began at
first moderately, and always secretly to drink again.
For a time Esme was unaware of this relapse on his part; for a further
period she suspected it but could not be sure. Then the old symptoms
reappeared with terrible convincingness: she saw his hands grow shaky,
his whole appearance degenerate, till he looked as she had seen him
first on the stoep of the hotel at the Zuurberg, older, ill, nervous and
morose, with a disregard for public opinion and a growing indifference
as to whether she knew or not.
Esme's eyes opened to the condition of things after a short visit paid
to her sister, which Hallam readily agreed to her accepting but refused
to accept for himself. He had no wish to see his wife's relations; he
preferred to remain at home.
She parted from him reluctantly. A feeling of anxiety gripped her at
the thought of leaving him alone. It was their first separation since
their marriage. But she wanted to see her sister again. Rose's letter
was reproachful; it conveyed the suggestion that the writer was hurt by
her neglect. The neglect on Esme's side was not wilful: she had wished
to have her sister to stay with her; but Hallam had always seemed so
disinclined to entertain any member of her family that she had been
obliged to give up the idea. But when Rose's letter came urging her to
take a trip round to the Bay, she decided that she ought to go, unless
she wished for a complete estrangement between them. Hallam was quite
agreeable. He booked her a passage and saw her off by the boat; but at
the last moment he showed a strong disinclination to part from her, and
almost persuaded her to give up the idea and return with him.
"It's too absurd," she said: "we are like a pair of children. Why don't
you come with me?"
"No," he said. "I'll wait at home for you. Don't stay longer than you
need."
She watched him descend to the quay, and, leaning on the rail, looking
down at him, the first intimation that things were not quite as they
should be dawned on her, and filled her with a sense of uneasiness which
grew with every hour of her separation from him.
In the end she curtailed her visit and returned unexpectedly by train.
She had sent a telegram informing Hallam when to expect her; and she
found him on the platform waiting for her, and was struck immediately by
the change in him. Her heart sank within her, but she forced a smile to
her lips and accompanied him out of the station and got into the waiting
taxi. He opened the door for her, fumbling with the catch with unsteady
fingers, and got in after her and sat down heavily.
"It didn't take you long to discover that home's the best place," he
remarked, with a sideways furtive look at her. "How did you find them
all? Jim still grousing, I suppose? And the small boy a perennial note
of interrogation?"
"Everything was much the same," she answered in a dispirited voice.
"They were all a little older in appearance, and the children have grown
tremendously. I wish you had been with me. Rose was hurt, I think,
because you did not go."
"Oh, really! I should have thought she would have felt relieved."
"Why?"
He disregarded the question. Abruptly he put out an unsteady hand and
laid it upon hers.
"Tired?" he asked.
"A little." She twisted her hand round in her lap and her fingers
closed upon his. "What have you been doing during my absence?"
"Mainly missing you," he answered. "A reversion to one's bachelor days
is a dull sort of holiday."
"I know. But what was I to do? I don't want to lose touch altogether
with my ain folk."
"I have no folk," he said, "so I can't understand these family ties. I
think them a bore. But if you had a good time that's the chief thing.
You've a lot of friends at the Bay, and you find pleasure in them. My
friends are silent companions and are better suited to my taste. How
did your people think you were looking? None the worse for being tied
to this dull person, I hope?"
She laughed and squeezed his hand.
"They were impressed with my staid appearance, and the fact that I am
putting on weight," she said. "I didn't realise it myself until Jim
told me I was getting fat."
"That is a Jim-like touch," he returned, and glanced at her cursorily.
"The grossness is not apparent to me. Did you meet Sinclair during your
stay?"
"Yes," she said, and looked surprised that he should ask the question.
That he had once been jealous of Sinclair was unknown to her.
"And does he still wear the willow for your sake?"
"He isn't married," she answered. "But I don't think that has anything
to do with me."
She regretted that he had opened this subject. The memory of Sinclair
was a distress to her. The change in him had struck her more forcibly
than the change in any member of her own family. The difference in him
was not due alone to the passing years. He was altered in manner as
much as in appearance; all the boyish gaiety had departed: he was older,
more thoughtful; the irresponsible gladness of youth, formerly so
noticeable a characteristic of his, was missing. She could have wept at
the change in him. He was still her devoted slave. During her visit he
had haunted her sister's house. He had claimed the privilege of
friendship and put himself at her disposal. He was always at hand when
she needed him. And never once by word or gesture had he attempted to
overstep the boundary of friendship. She felt grateful to him for his
consistent and considerate kindness. She did not want to discuss him,
even with Paul.
Hallam did not pursue the subject. He fell into silence and left her to
do the talking. During the remainder of the drive she chatted
fragmentally and brightly of her doings while she had been away.
Principally she talked about the children. The sight of John and Mary,
the sound of their gay young voices, their insistent claim upon the
general attention, had brought home to her the absence of the one great
interest in her own home. She wanted children intensely; and it did not
seem that her desire would ever be satisfied. A child would have
completed her married happiness.
Something of what was in her thoughts she managed to convey to Hallam
when they reached the house and entered together, her arm within his.
Alone in the drawing-room, when he held her in his embrace and kissed
the bright upturned face, she slipped her hands behind his neck and
looked back at him with tender loving eyes.
"Paul," she whispered, "I wish we had a child of our very own--a wee
scrap of soft pink flesh, with tiny clinging hands. My dear, my
dearest, I do so want a child!"
He gazed down at her, troubled and immeasurably surprised, and gently
kissed the tremulous lips. He had never given any thought to the matter
until now, when he realised the aching mother-hunger expressed in her
desire: she had concealed it so successfully hitherto. He did not
himself wish for children; the thought of them even was an
embarrassment. With clumsy tenderness he stroked her hair.
"It seems as though it is not to be," he said. "I didn't know you cared
so much, sweetheart."
"Don't you care?" she asked. "I!" He seemed surprised. "I've got
you," he said, and drew her close in his embrace.
Book 3--CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
The first real sorrow in Esme's life came to her with the realisation of
the fact that her influence with her husband no longer sufficed to keep
him steady. Gradually, so gradually that she did not suspect it until
the thing was plainly manifest, he fell back upon his former habit of
intemperance and became once more the drunkard whom she had first met at
the Zuurberg, and pitied and despised for the weakness of his character.
Hallam did not give in to his vice without a struggle; but with each
lapse his will weakened, till eventually he ceased to fight his enemy,
ceased even to consider the pain which he was aware he caused his wife.
Esme's grief was deep, and the humiliation of realising that the thing
was becoming publicly known added to her distress. Reluctantly she
withdrew from social intercourse and devoted her time entirely to him,
trusting that the power of love would yet prove the stronger influence.
Her love for him strengthened with her recognition of his need of her:
he was her child, weak and foolish and dependent,--her man and her
child, whom she had to protect from himself.
Matters grew worse. An inkling of the trouble reached Rose through an
acquaintance of her husband who had been in Cape Town and had heard
rumours of the state of affairs. Rose's first impulse was to write to
her sister and ask for information direct; but on reflection she decided
against this course. There flashed into her mind, as once before at the
time of Esme's marriage the same memory had disturbed her peace, the
picture of George Sinclair's face when he heard of Esme's engagement and
the recollection of his incomprehensible agitation. Was it possible
that he had known?
She determined to ask him; and on the first opportunity did so,
observing him attentively while she put a direct question to him. The
quick distress and the absence of surprise in his look confirmed her
suspicion. He had been aware of this thing all along.
"You knew!" she said resentfully. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Good lord!" he exclaimed almost passionately. "It wasn't for me to say
anything. She knew what she was taking on. It wouldn't have made a
fraction of difference if you had done everything in your power to
dissuade her. She went into it with her eyes open."
"You mean that she realised she was marrying a drunkard?"
"Of course she realised it. I suppose she believed she could reclaim
him. For a time no doubt she did. Mrs Bainbridge, I could cheerfully
kill him, if that would help matters."
"It wouldn't," Rose answered practically. "Don't talk like a fool,
George."
"I love her," he said simply, the tears welling in his eyes. "I hate to
think of her life with him. It cuts me."
"Dear old boy," she said, with greater gentleness of manner than she
often displayed, "I know. I wish from my soul that she had married you.
I always mistrusted Paul. But she was fascinated with him; there was
no one else in the picture for her. He may break her heart and spoil
her life, but she'll go on loving him. You could see for yourself when
she was round here; she was restless without him and wanting to go
home."
"That's not surprising in the circumstances," he returned with
bitterness. "I don't suppose that she trusts him out of her sight for
long."
"That wasn't it," Rose said quietly; and added after a brief pause: "She
just wanted him."
It was better, she decided, that he should face matters and give over
cherishing a hopeless attachment. She liked George Sinclair
sufficiently to wish to see him happily married and settled down. He
was a man who would make an admirable husband.
But Sinclair showed no inclination towards marriage. He had met the
girl he wanted, and lost her; no other girl could blot out the memory of
his first real love, nor take her place in his heart. It had been a big
blow when she married; and the bitterness of his disappointment
increased enormously with the knowledge of the disaster which threatened
her happiness. In a measure he had expected it; it did not come as a
surprise, only as an ugly confirmation of his fears. He believed that
he could have borne his own disappointment philosophically had life gone
well for her: but the conviction that she had made a mistake held with
him and inflamed his resentment against Hallam.
"Well, there's one thing," he said, as he got up from his seat and
confronted Rose with grim set face, "if he goes on at the rate he did
when he was at the Zuurberg she will be a widow before many years. A
man can't fool with his constitution like that--not in this country
anyhow."
"Don't count on that, George," she advised. "It's a slow poison."
He laughed shortly.
"I've a feeling that my turn will come," he said, and turned about
abruptly and left the room, left the house, with a sore heart, and his
sense of exasperation deepening as he thought of the girl he loved tied
to a drunkard who was not man enough to conquer his particular vice.
And the girl he pitied was blaming herself for not having gone with her
man into the wilds, for not having allowed him to follow the life he
preferred, hunting and exploring along the unbeaten track. Had life
offered him a sufficient interest this relapse might have been averted.
She had relied overmuch on the strength of character which she believed
was his: she had overestimated his strength, had left him to fight his
battle unaided. He had wearied of the struggle and given in. From the
point where he wearied she took it up, took it up with a tireless
determination to win, that armed itself against all disappointments and
rebuffs; and the rebuffs were many. Hallam resented her attempts at
coercion.
Oddly, he did not mind her knowing of his weakness, but he objected when
she allowed her knowledge to become obvious. He felt that she ought to
have ignored this thing; to embarrass him by thrusting it under his
notice was tactless and annoying.
He shut himself away from her more than formerly, and sat up late into
the night reading in his study. Occasionally he fell asleep in his
chair and remained there until the morning, to wake cramped and
unrefreshed and creep upstairs in the dawn.
Book 3--CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.
These late hours, and the fact that he had taken to sleeping in the
dressing-room from a desire not to disturb her, excited Esme's worst
apprehensions. She fell into the habit of lying awake and listening for
him: she could not rest while she knew that he was downstairs. The old
sickening sensation of terror, which had seized her at the Zuurberg when
she listened to him stumbling along the stoep on his way to his room,
gripped her anew each time that she heard him mount the stairs and go
unsteadily to the dressing-room in his stockinged feet.
The horror of it was as a nightmare which tormented her unceasingly.
She was afraid of him when he had been drinking heavily; not afraid that
he would do her any physical injury; but the look in his eyes terrified
her; it seemed to alter him, to make him a stranger almost. There were
times when he passed her on the stairs or landing with wide-opened eyes
which appeared not to notice her presence: the sight of him thus made
her knees shake under her and blanched her face. It was like meeting a
sleep-walker, only more horrible.
She went to him one night in his study and kneeled on the carpet beside
him and pleaded with him.
"Paul," she said, and lifted sweet, distressed eyes to his, with no
reproach in their look, only a great sadness. "Aren't you neglecting me
a little? Why do you shut yourself away every night? I'm lonely all by
myself."
"I thought you were in bed," he said, and moved restlessly and avoided
her gaze. "You usually go to bed at ten o'clock."
"Not lately," she answered. "I sit up and wait for you. I think to
myself, he may need me. I am always hoping against hope. My dear, why
do you shut yourself away from me? It's unkind. Paul, don't you love
me any longer?"
He brought his eyes back to her face, and looked at her long and
earnestly. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and held her a little
way off, still scrutinising her attentively.
"Do you think it necessary to ask that?" he said.
"Yes," she answered almost passionately. She put her hands over his and
clung to him desperately, exerting all her control to keep back the
rising tears. "Once our love sufficed, dearest heart; you wanted only
to be with me; and now--"
"Aren't you being a little foolish?" he asked. "People who live
together develop a sort of independence of each other after a while.
Because I like to be quiet for an hour or two during the evening, need
that be construed into a sign of indifference?"
"No," she said; "not that in itself. But my love is not strong enough
any longer to hold you. You've slipped back into the old ways, dear.
It's breaking my heart, Paul; I can't bear it."
She dropped her face on to his knees and wept bitterly, with her eyes
hidden in her hands. His own hand, shaky and uncertain, came to rest on
her hair, stroked her hair gently.
"I'm a brute," he said, "an inconsiderate brute." He gathered her in
his arms and drew her up and held her, weeping still, upon his knee.
"Don't cry. Tell me what you want. I'll try, Esme. I didn't think it
was so bad as this. I'll pull myself together. Don't cry, sweetheart.
It distresses me to see you cry. The brute I've been!"
He drew her wet cheek to his and kissed her, and she wound her arms
about his neck and clung to him, sobbing softly, with her head resting
like a tired child's on his shoulder.
When the sounds of her sobs ceased he got up and left the room with her
and went with her upstairs. For that night she had won a victory. But
she did not feel sure any longer that her influence would hold. He had
made her promises before and broken them again. It seemed to her that
his will had weakened considerably: she no longer felt any real
confidence in him.
Perhaps she allowed him to see this, and so lost much of her hold on
him. He was conscious always that she watched him; and his manner
became furtive and suspicious as a result of this supervision. His
moods of repentance did not endure for long; but while they lasted his
hatred of himself for the distress he caused the wife whom he still
tenderly loved was genuine and deep. It was as though his life were
accursed and the curse of his misfortune overshadowed her.
It amazed Hallam and disconcerted him enormously when he began to
realise that he had lost his grip on himself. He had imagined that he
had conquered his vice, that he could keep it under without particular
effort. He had believed in himself with an even greater confidence than
Esme had once believed in him: he had relied, with an almost arrogant
faith in the power of the human will, on his unaided effort to control
his desires. At the time of his marriage he had felt quite sure of
himself; otherwise he would never have injured the girl he loved by
linking her lot with his. He felt as though he had been guilty of a
breach of faith with her; and this thought worried him unceasingly, till
he drugged his mind into temporary oblivion and laid up thereby further
torment for his sober hours.
The state of things became unendurable, and finally worked to a climax.
A few weeks of restraint on Hallam's part, of determined and difficult
self-discipline, and then his devil got the upper hand once more, and
his resolves faded into nothingness before the craving which he could no
longer resist.
He fought the demon of desire for a few days with a fierce despair in
the knowledge that the thing was too strong for him. With each battle
his strength weakened. Realising this he sought diversion, taking Esme
out in the evenings to any entertainment that offered. He feared to be
alone. When he was alone his craving for drink was insistent.
And then one fateful night he gave way to his desire, deliberately and
without further struggle: he flung his scruples aside and relaxed all
effort, as an exhausted swimmer might relax and give up with the shore
and safety in sight.
He had been with Esme to the theatre. The performance had been poor,
both in regard to acting and to plot: he had felt extremely bored. And
Esme was tired, and complained of headache. It had been a boisterous
day, with a black south-easter raging. The wind gathered force towards
evening and blew to a gale, driving the dust before it in swirling
clouds of sticky grit. Small stones rattled against the closed windows
of the taxi in which they drove; the cushions felt damp and sticky, and
the dust penetrated through the cracks.
"What a night to be abroad in!" Hallam said, and observed his wife's
pale face with some concern. "You ought not to have come. It was a
silly sort of show, and it's made your head worse. You should have
stayed at home and rested."
"I'm all right," she answered brightly; and made an effort to be
entertaining during the long drive home. She did not like him to feel
bored when he took her out.
But her head ached badly; and she was relieved when the taxi stopped
before the house, and Hallam got out and opened the door for her and
followed her into the lighted hall. It was good to get inside and shut
out the inclement night. The rush of the wind sweeping round the side
of the house was terrific. She stood for a moment at the foot of the
stairs and listened to it, with her temples throbbing painfully and her
nerves jarred with the noise of the warring elements. Hallam shut the
front door and bolted it. When he turned round he saw her eyes,
dark-ringed in her white face, looking at him gravely with a question in
them.
"You get off to bed," he said. "I'll lock up and follow you in a few
minutes. You look done."
"It's this stupid headache," she said apologetically. "Paul, you won't
be late? The wind makes me nervous."
"Brave person!" he returned, smiling at her indulgently. He removed the
wrap from her shoulders and threw it over his arm. "I will be up before
you are asleep."
He watched her mount the stairs. When she reached the landing she
paused to smile down at him before entering her room. He turned away
and went into his study, switching on the light as he entered. He
became aware that he was still carrying his wife's wrap, and placed the
flimsy thing over the back of a chair, and stood hesitating, looking
towards his easy chair, with the table beside it littered with books and
the reading-lamp in the centre. He touched the switch of the lamp and
turned off the brighter light and remained, still in indecision, looking
no longer at the chair but beyond it towards a cupboard, the key of
which he carried always upon him. He felt in his pocket for the key,
and remained staring at it in his hand and reflecting deeply. His devil
tempted him sorely. Against his volition his gaze travelled to the
flimsy thing of gauze and fur which lay as a mute reminder of his wife
where he had dropped it on entering, and in imagination he heard again
the plaintive note of her question: "Paul, you won't be late?" as she
had turned and looked back at him from the stairs. He had promised to
follow her shortly.
Frowning, he turned the key in his hand. For a while he remained still
irresolute while his will slowly weakened and his craving increased;
then with an abrupt movement he advanced swiftly and, stooping, inserted
the key in the cupboard door.