The Stronger Influence

F.E. Mills Young

"The Stronger Influence"

Book One—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.

Esmé 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 Esmé 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.

Esmé 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 Esmé; 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. Esmé 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 Esmé 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.

Esmé 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. Esmé 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 Esmé decided, waited at the gate to receive the arrivals. A coloured boy came out to help with the luggage.

Esmé 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, Esmé 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 One—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.

Esmé, 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 Esmé 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.

Esmé, 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 Esmé’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 Esmé 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. Esmé 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.

Esmé 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 Esmé 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 One—Chapter Three.

The daylight woke Esmé 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. Esmé 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. Esmé 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.

Esmé 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.”

Esmé 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 One—Chapter Four.

During the morning Esmé 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 Esmé’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,” Esmé 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.

Esmé, 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 Esmé came out again on to the stoep his chair was empty.

Book One—Chapter Five.

The frankness of Esmé’s nature was opposed to the rôle 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.

Esmé 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 Esmé’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. Esmé 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.”

Esmé 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 Esmé.

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 One—Chapter Six.

That night Esmé lay wakeful in the darkness with a brain too active for sleep, courting slumber, which refused to come to her aid, physically tired, yet not overtired, and mentally very clear and wide awake.

Outside her window the crickets were chirruping noisily, and in the warm darkness, which pressed about her as she lay wide-eyed and very still in her narrow white bed, the mosquitoes hummed annoyingly close to her ears. The sounds of people moving in the rooms adjoining hers had ceased long since; the night was quiet, with the listening hush which settles upon a place when the activities of the day are ended and people sleep. It seemed to Esmé that she alone of all the household was awake.

She believed that it must be long past midnight. It had not as a matter of fact struck twelve o’clock; and some one besides herself was awake, had not yet gone to bed. She heard him go later; heard a stumbling step going clumsily and heavily along the stoep. Through the thin walls the noise of the footsteps was distinctly audible. She lay still on her pillow and listened to them, her heart beating quickly and the pulses in her temples throbbing like tiny hammers. A sick horror gripped her. She knew, without seeing the man, who it was who thus disturbed the silence, and, with the uncertain blundering step of a man under the influence of drink, lurched heavily along the stoep to his room. He made so much noise in getting there that she felt certain all the occupants of the rooms he passed would wake and hear him.

Her cheeks burned with shame for him, and her heart was filled with a great pity. What joy could he derive from this terrible misuse of life? What a waste of his manhood and of his intellect!

With the cessation of the sounds a deeper hush than before seemed to settle upon the night; even the crickets became less insistent: the world slept; every one slept, save herself. She alone of all the household kept wakeful vigil until the dawn broke, and brought with its hopeful promise of a new day rest and forgetfulness to her weary brain.

Esmé woke late, and had barely time to dress before the gong sounded for breakfast. With a curious reluctance to meet again the man whose noisy movements had disturbed her overnight, she went into the coffee-room and seated herself at table. Hallam’s seat was empty. It was still empty when she rose at the finish of breakfast and went out on to the stoep into the sunshine.

She was relieved that she had been spared the ordeal of meeting him, of sitting beside him while the memory of last night was still so painfully vivid in her thoughts. Her whole being shrank from witnessing his degradation. He must feel, far more acutely than she felt for him, the embarrassment of appearing in public, of meeting the criticism in unsympathetic eyes.

She played tennis during the morning, and played badly; her heart was not in the game, and the careless gaiety of her companions jarred on her sober mood. They rallied her on her preoccupation, until she pleaded a headache; when Sinclair, leaving the others to play singles, led her away to a quiet corner in the garden where she could sit and rest.

He was glad to get her alone. He was leaving on the morrow, going back to his job in a stuffy office in a dull little town.

“Uitenhage is about the sleepiest hole in South Africa,” he grumbled.

“I think it is lovely,” the girl returned. “I went there once when the roses were in bloom.”

“Oh! it’s pretty enough. And it’s handy to the Bay. I shall look you up when you return—may I?”

“I shall be very pleased,” she answered. “But you’ll have to choose a holiday. I am going back to my job too. I teach music.”

“Oh, really! That’s fairly strenuous, I should think. What a bore for you.”

She laughed.

“It’s my bread and butter. There are less pleasant methods of making a livelihood. But of course one gets tired.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“I want you to rest this afternoon and get rid of the headache. I’d like to take you for a walk after dinner if you care about going. It’s my last night. Until you came there was no one to walk with—except Hallam. And he’s such an unsociable beast. I wish you wouldn’t talk to him. He is not a suitable companion for you.”

“Don’t say those things,” she interposed quickly. “It’s ungenerous.”

She felt angry with Sinclair, felt an inexplicable necessity to defend the man he spoke of in such slighting terms. It was not merely because he was absent and unable to defend himself; there was something more than that to account for her indignation; she realised that much without understanding its nature. Never in all her life had she met any one who interested her so profoundly, who so deeply stirred her pity. She wanted to help this man—with her friendship. There was no other thought in her mind. And he would not let her. He demanded simply to be left alone. A girl could not thrust her friendship on a man who did not want it. But she could defend him in her thoughts and in her speech without fear of his resentment.

“I think Mr Hallam is a very remarkable man,” she said. “I should hesitate to criticise him.”

Sinclair looked at her in surprise.

“Do you know,” he said, “that is the second time I have annoyed you in reference to the same subject.”

“Not annoyed,” she corrected,—“disappointed me, rather. I hate to hear a man speak disparagingly of another.”

The young man was vexed, and showed it. Her ready championship of Hallam displeased him. It was a sort of feminine instinct, he supposed, to shed the light of a tender compassion on the derelict. Women were absurdly sentimental.

“You do jump on a fellow,” he said, aggrieved. “I had no idea you would take my words amiss. Forget them, please.”

“And you forget my irritable mood.”

She smiled at him with kind brown eyes, eyes which expressed liking in fuller measure than their displeasure of a moment before. She regretted her outburst. What did it concern her what he thought, what any one thought of a man who was almost a stranger to her, whom a few days ago she did not know.

“I slept badly last night,” she added, as if to account for her ill-humour.

“How was that?” he asked, more with a view to turning the talk than from curiosity.

His question recalled the ugly memories of the night very vividly to her. She heard again in imagination the stumbling footsteps going along the stoep. Her face clouded.

“What does keep one wakeful at times?” she inquired. “The mind works, I suppose. I think perhaps I was tired.”

“I took you too far,” he said contritely. “It was inconsiderate of me. But you seemed so interested.”

“I was. I wouldn’t have missed a bit of it. It was worth a sleepless night.”

“I doubt whether I should consider anything worth the sacrifice of a night’s sleep,” he said, and laughed. “It would take a lot to spoil my rest. The air here acts like a narcotic with me.”

“That’s odd,” she said. “It makes me alert. There’s something in the atmosphere of this place—I don’t know what it is—which influences me strangely. I go about in a state of expectant curiosity. I’m looking for things to happen. That’s absurd, I know; but the feeling’s there.”

He scrutinised her intently. In this lonely spot what could happen out of the ordinary run of events? Nothing surely in the nature of change—unless the change were in one’s self.

“The state of your mind is provocative,” he said. “By invoking things to happen you may precipitate a crisis. It is always a dangerous practice to tempt the gods.”

“I don’t agree with that. I’m something of a fatalist,” she said. “I believe, not that our lives are prearranged, but that the event which happens is inevitable, that we must accept things as they come to us. The manner of our acceptance alone is left to our choice.”

“I should hesitate to adopt that theory,” he said. “I like to feel that I have some say in the arrangement of my life. According to your idea a man might hold himself immune for any evil he contrived. It relieves the individual of all responsibility.”

“No.” She flushed slightly. “The qualities of good and evil are ours to develop at will. The individual is always responsible for his own nature.”

“I don’t like your theory any better as you enlarge it,” he replied. “It’s rough on any one to have to keep good with all the odds against him. And if he fail, what then?”

“I don’t believe in complete human failure,” she answered quietly. “Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

He was thinking of Hallam, considering him a fair example of failure; she also was thinking of Hallam, but with greater kindness. Derelict though the man appeared, the belief held with her that one day he would pull himself together and make good. She got up suddenly.

“We are growing too serious,” she said; “and it’s nearly lunch time. What a blessed break in the day one’s meals make.”

Hallam was in his accustomed seat when she returned, but he did not look up when she passed him on her way inside. He was reading a newspaper. His hands, holding the printed sheet, shook more than usual, she fancied; otherwise he looked much the same. She believed that he was aware of her presence, though he made no sign that he saw her. She passed him and entered the narrow passage and went direct to her room. An unaccountable shyness had come over her. She shrank from going into lunch, shrank from the thought of sitting beside him in the embarrassing silence which his taciturnity imposed. The thing was getting on her nerves. In the case of any other man, she believed that she would not have minded this blunt ungraciousness; but this man had the power to hurt her. The thing was incomprehensible and astonished her greatly. Why should his behaviour wound her when in another man it would merely have given offence?

The gong for luncheon sounded; but still she lingered in her room, reluctant to leave this quiet haven for the dining-room and the disquieting influence of her unresponsive neighbour. But the ordeal had to be faced. It was ridiculous to allow her nervousness to get the upper hand. With an action that was almost violent in the suddenness of her resolve, she opened the door, and stepping into the passage went swiftly along to the dining-room. At the door of the dining-room she and Hallam met face to face. He was going in, but he drew back to allow her to precede him. Thanking him briefly, she passed him and went on and took her seat. He followed leisurely. When he was seated and waiting to be served, he turned to her with unexpected suddenness and observed:

“You missed a great deal this morning through oversleeping. I have never seen a finer sunrise in my life than the one I witnessed on my walk.”

“You were up at sunrise?”

Her surprised tone, the almost incredulous look in her eyes, drew a wondering glance from him. She saw it and felt furious with herself for her stupidity. She had imagined him sleeping late that morning, had supposed his non-appearance at breakfast was the result of his overnight excess; and she had been tactless enough to betray surprise on learning that he had been abroad so early. She flushed with confusion and averted her eyes.

“I am always up before the sun,” he said. “I do most of my walking before breakfast. It’s the best time of the day.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “I suppose it is. I slept late.”

An inexplicable vindictiveness came over her. She turned to him again and added almost brusquely:

“I was extraordinarily wakeful last night. I did not get to sleep before the dawn broke.”

“You should cultivate the habit of sleeping in a hurry,” he advised. “I get all the rest I need in a few hours.”

He began to eat. She watched him for a moment in silence and with a swift compunction for her recent ill-humour.

“I am sorry I missed the sunrise,” she said, relenting, and wishful to make amends. “Tell me about it.”

He smiled faintly.

“Can any one describe a sunrise?” he asked. “Are there any words in our language which will paint nature in her most wonderful aspects? If there are I am ignorant of them. You must go out and see these things for yourself.”

This was not encouraging, but she persevered. A sort of inflexible determination to abolish finally the frigid distances he insistently maintained armed her with a temporary bravado which amazed herself. It probably amazed him equally, but he made no sign if so.

“I do not like seeing things by myself. Won’t you let me accompany you some morning?”

“Most assuredly,” he answered, after a barely perceptible hesitation. “But quite possibly you will miss your breakfast. I tramp far.”

“I shall not complain,” she said. “If you are equal to fasting I have no doubt I can stand it.”

Hallam looked quietly amused. He surveyed her quite steadily for the fraction of a second, and then very deliberately turned his attention again to his plate.

“Do you really think,” he asked presently, “that your endurance is equal to mine? You don’t look to me very strong.”

She was thinking the same about him, but she did not voice her thought. Possibly he read what she was thinking in her face when he glanced again momentarily towards her; whether this were so or not, he added after a pause:

“My constitution is made of cast iron. If it were not it would have broken down long ago. Notwithstanding that my hand has difficulty in raising this glass without spilling its contents, I could lift you with it as easily as I could lift a feather.”

She looked at the hand stretched out towards the glass of milk and soda beside his plate, and noticed how it shook, and wondered that he should draw her attention to it. He had done so intentionally, mastering his usual self-consciousness in regard to this physical defect, for what reason she failed to understand. Oddly, she felt no embarrassment while she looked at his hand, and he betrayed none either. He lifted the glass unsteadily and drank from it and set it down again on the cloth.

“I have travelled for a week on a pocketful of dried mealies, and been none the worse for it,” he said. “But I shouldn’t recommend that diet for you.”

“I think,” she said unexpectedly and without annoyance, “that you don’t wish to be bothered with my company.”

“From the fear that I may have to carry you?” he suggested. “You are mistaken. If you like to be energetic to-morrow I will show you where best to view the sunrise. And I promise you that if we miss our breakfast here I will take you to a house where I can obtain a meal at any hour of the day.”

“You breakfasted there this morning?” she said, turning a face flushed with pleasure to his.

“I breakfasted there this morning. They are accustomed to my irregular habits, and they don’t mind.”

“That will be nice,” she said.

He laughed.

“I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Disappointed in what?—the sunrise, or the breakfast?”

“I pay you the compliment of supposing that such material pleasures as food do not interest you,” he returned; “nevertheless, you will find the fare sufficient. The air in the early morning is chilly, so dress warmly.”

With which advice he closed the conversation as resolutely as a man who, talking over a telephone, shuts off communication by replacing the receiver. He bent over his plate and went on eating as though he had forgotten entirely the girl’s existence. He finished his breakfast before she did and got up and went out by the window.

Book One—Chapter Seven.

During the twenty-two unenlivening and, latterly, busy years of her life Esmé Lester had never been in love, had not known the excitement which many girls of her age enjoy of possessing a lover. She was not a sentimental young woman, and she had not had much time in which to indulge in these distractions. The woman who earns her livelihood has her mind occupied with graver matters generally. Love, if it succeed in penetrating her preoccupation, takes her usually unaware and remains sometimes unsuspected for quite an appreciable while.

It was possibly not love which in the early stages of their acquaintance aroused her interest in Hallam. Mainly her feeling for him was a mixture of womanly compassion and of repugnance so intense that at times it shouldered pity into the background, and left her chilled with disgust for his weakness and bitterly ashamed for him.

Her acquaintance with Hallam developed surprisingly. The occasion of their walk to view the sunrise advanced it to a stage of easy intimacy. The tentacles of friendship reached out and struck deep into the natures of both. The man accepted rather than welcomed the change in their relations. He deplored, despite its agreeableness, the growing intimacy as something dangerous to his peace, something which might not be pursued and developed beyond a certain point, which, because of its limitation, was disturbing and undesirable. No man cares to set a boundary line to his intercourse with a woman who attracts him; immediately with the appearance of the barrier the desire to surmount it is bred.

The state of Hallam’s mind was that of paralysed initiative. He was incapable of making any sustained effort. He drifted into this friendship as he drifted into less desirable practices. Hereditary tendencies and inclination both led him to follow his present mode of life; nor had it seemed to him in any degree shameful until this girl stepped suddenly across his path and altered his view of things. But her influence was not yet sufficiently strong to cause him more than a passing regret for the waste he was making of life. His life was his own affair; it was no one’s business how he elected to use it.

On the morning of their first walk together he came out on to the stoep, stick in hand, ready to start, and found Esmé waiting for him. He returned her greeting unsmilingly, and scrutinised her attentively with brows drawn together above the keen eyes.

“You had better fetch a coat,” he said. “The morning air is chilly.”

“It is fresh,” she agreed; “but I thought perhaps walking—it may be very hot before we return.”

“It probably will be,” he replied. “But I would prefer that you wore a coat. When it gets hot I will carry it for you.”

Smiling, she went inside to follow his instruction. When she came out again she wore a woollen sport’s coat over her thin dress.

“That’s better,” he said. “It is unpleasant to feel cold.”

He walked down the little path beside her and out on to the open road. A pale mist, like a thin white fog, shrouded the prospect and lent a bracing coldness to the air, which felt fresh and clean with the crisp purity of mountain air, washed by the overnight dews. The girl felt the benefit of the extra warmth of the coat; it was fresher than she had supposed out on the open road. A little wind that had more than a touch of sharpness in its breath blew in their faces as they walked.

“I had no idea the mornings were so good,” she said. “I’ve not been out so early before.”

“People miss more than they realise through lying between the sheets,” he said. “In a country like this the bulk of the day’s work should be accomplished before breakfast.”

“Is that the principle you act on?” she asked.

He looked grimly ahead of him and was slow in replying.

“That is the principle I should act upon if I did any work,” he said at length.

Esmé lifted wondering eyes to his face.

“It must be a great responsibility to be independent of work,” she said.

Hallam laughed suddenly.

“Do you really think so? Most people would reverse that opinion. The weight of it does not press on me unduly.”

He flicked at the dust of the road with his stick and at the grass which grew beside the road, and was silent for a space. When he spoke again it was on an entirely different subject.

They were swinging along down the road at a smart pace, and with every yard of ground they covered the aspect of the land changed, became more luxuriant in its growth, and altogether more rugged and assertive. The sky was flushed with a soft pink like the flush on the face of a child newly wakened from sleep. Before them as they walked the mist rolled back, a gradually thinning vapour dispersing before the warmth of the coming day, revealing with a startling unexpectedness in its reluctant retreat the wonder of contrasting colour, the beauty of the curving road with the shadows of the trees across it, and the great green silences stretching above and below; the silence of the heights, and the more secretive silence of the hidden places in the furtive darkness of the gorge.

The rose pink in the sky deepened, spread itself warmly over the blue expanse, reflected warmly upon the silent, neutral tinted world; changed the face of the land as it changed the face of the sky; brightening and intensifying the colour in the grass, in the leaves of the trees, painting the flowers wonderfully; transforming everything with the glow and warmth of life. The world threw off its lethargy of slumber and lifted its face wakefully to the flood of sunlight which broke through the rose and azure in a flash of gold.

Esmé stood transfixed, with eyes turned to the sunrise. She felt the warmth of the sun on her face, on her hands, on her body. It was like being gripped in a warm embrace, startling and a little disconcerting by its very suddenness. The gold of it poured over her like an amber flame. The man, standing beside her, watched the sun-bathed, radiant figure, and saw the wonder in her eyes, and remained silent, attentive, marking nothing of the glory in the changing heavens, seeing only the startled gladness in a girl’s sweet face, and the glowing brightness of her figure against the sunlit dust of the road.

While he stood observing her the thought took shape in his mind and grew, as he watched her simple delight in what at another time would have delighted him equally, but which now he scarcely heeded, that it was an eternal shame he should of his own act, through his lack of endeavour, reduce himself to a level which divided him from her, and from women like her, as widely as the gorge was divided from the heights. But a steep uphill road connected gorge and heights. He looked down the road and up at the heights and frowned. Then deliberately he turned his attention away from the girl and started idly to trace patterns with his stick in the dust. She looked round at him with happy eyes, in which surprise gathered as she noted his preoccupation.

“But you are not watching the sunrise!” she exclaimed.

“It is disappointing,” he replied. “Yesterday it was finer. It is one of nature’s exhaustless perplexities that she never reveals herself in the same guise twice. Shall we go on?”

She started to walk again, a little chilled, she scarcely knew why, by his manner. She decided that possibly he enjoyed best seeing these things alone. Some people take their pleasures selfishly; he might be one of these. To her the sunrise had been wonderful; and she longed to express her admiration, to share it; but this grave and silent companion made her silent also. She felt disappointed. He stole a glance at her serious face, and his features relaxed; a smile played about the corners of his mouth.

“You had better take off your coat,” he said. “The sun soon makes his power felt.”

He helped her to remove the coat, and threw it over his shoulder and walked on, holding it with his disengaged hand.

“If the people at the hotel could see us they would be amazed,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, a fine colour coming into her cheeks, which deepened as she met his eyes.

“Because no one there has ever seen me do a service for any one,” he replied.

“Perhaps no one has demanded service of you,” she said quietly.

“No one has,” he answered, with a certain grimness that suggested such a demand might have met with small response. “In this instance I believe the idea originated with me.”

She laughed brightly.

“You made me bring the coat,” she said. “It is only fair you should carry it.”

“I am not complaining. When you are tired, say so, and we will rest by the wayside. We have a long way to go yet; and I do not wish to carry you as well as your coat.”

Again she laughed brightly and looked up into his face with merry eyes.

“You boasted that you could do that as easily as you could lift a feather. I should not mind carrying a feather,” she said.

He looked down at her, quietly amused.

“Think of the amazement at the hotel if I were seen carrying you back!” he said, and smiled at the quick flush which overspread her face.

“I do not concern myself about the opinion of other people, as you appear to do,” she retorted.

“Very well,” he replied. “Then, when you are tired, say so, and I will 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 One—Chapter Eight.

It seemed to Esmé 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 Esmé 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.”