Part 15 (1/2)

She had not written to him on the subject; his information had been gleaned from the papers.

”I see you have been distinguis.h.i.+ng yourself on the tennis courts,” he wrote. ”Why do you leave me to discover the tale of your triumphs from the newspapers? I prefer to hear of these things first hand. The news furnished a further link with the old Zuurberg days. I recall how you practised with Sinclair then. So you keep hold on the thread of that acquaintance also?”

It occurred to Esme that this circ.u.mstance had displeased him. She wished that she had written to him about the tournament and her part in it. It did seem a little odd, when she came to think of it, that she had suppressed this piece of news.

His letter was brief; and contained very little news of personal interest. It read as though it had been written with an effort, and not because he wanted to talk to her. A first fear that he might weary of the correspondence gripped her. If he ceased to write she would be desolate. His letters had come to mean so much to her: they caught her away from the dreary routine of her days; they coloured life for her warmly, kept her interest on the alert. Giving music lessons endlessly through the long, hot days, returning to the stuffy overcrowded little house where numberless small duties constantly demanded her attention, was not an existence calculated to add romance to life. She had grown weary of these things. The blood in her veins was astir like the sap in the trees in the springtime. Love budded in her heart; it only awaited a sign to burst into flower.

There were times when she fancied she read in Hallam's letters an intimation that he wanted her. He spoke often of his loneliness, and made reference to the happiness of their time together. But the months went by and he did not come, and into his letters crept a new note of reserve. Then followed a period of silence, after which he wrote from a totally new address and begged for news of her. She allowed herself twenty-four hours for reflection; then she replied to his letter in the old friendly vein.

It was nearing the vacation, and she spoke of needing a holiday, and told him that she could not decide where to go.

”I've thought of the Zuurberg,” she wrote; ”but your remark about walking among tombstones sticks in my memory unpleasantly. I am afraid it would be just that.”

To which he replied from De Aar:

”There is a dignity about monuments which is soothing. My former remarks were ill-considered. You might do worse than walk among memories. Try the Zuurberg again, and tell me what you feel in respect to resuscitated emotions. I would suggest that you came up here, but it is a long journey and too hot for the time of the year.”

Clearly he did not want her to join him. That thought wounded her. It had been in her mind when she told him of her indecision that he might propose meeting somewhere; that he made no such proposal seemed to prove that he did not desire to see her. She felt vexed with herself for having mentioned the subject to him. Once again the feeling of having been snubbed by this man tormented her. In the old days it had caused her indignation, but now it hurt.

The question of her holiday became a matter for debate in her mind. She no longer desired to go to the Zuurberg; but the fear that he might read in a change of plan her reason for deciding against it stiffened her resolve to do what she did not want to do. The Zuurberg had not lost its attraction for her; but it would be, she knew, haunted with memories, where the ghosts of old pleasures would meet her at every turn.

Fear of these ghosts prompted her to suggest taking the children with her, a proposal which led to a wordy discussion as to ways and means.

Their father did not consider change necessary for them. Rose disputed this; she wished them to go.

”Other people's children go away,” she insisted finally on a softer note. ”If we can't afford a holiday for ourselves we ought to let them have one. I think we might manage it, Jim, don't you?”

This direct appeal from her, to which he was unaccustomed, took him aback. He was indeed surprised into acquiescing. In the end he spoke as if it had been his wish all along. Later, when he left the room, Rose looked across at her sister and smiled quietly.

”That was accomplished through the exercise of a little of the tact you advocate,” she said.

”It's worth it, don't you think?” Esme returned, and laughed. ”All he needs is management.”

”Most men, I suppose, need that. You can't drive them in the direction you wish, but if you can make them believe it's the way they want to go, they start off at the gallop. Funny animals, aren't they?”

”Some of them are rather nice,” Esme ventured.

”Some of them--perhaps. But you don't know; you aren't married. A girl never really knows a man--knows him, I mean, for what he is underneath the veneer of social pretences until she has lived with him. Then little things peep out, selfishnesses--like ugly excrescences upon the smooth surfaces you fancied were rather fine and n.o.ble. A man when he is a lover is all chivalrous gentleness. Well, the chivalry is mostly veneer. Jim always gives up his seat in a tram to a woman; when he is in his own home, you may have noticed, he takes the most comfortable chair. They have to relax sometimes, you see; it isn't possible to live up to that level always. I'd rather a man were a bear outside the home and considerate in it. There are such men, I suppose, but I haven't met them.”

”There are such men,” Esme repeated, and thought of Hallam's lack of social manner. She wondered whether the gentleness which she knew to be in him would manifest itself in the home. She could not imagine him behaving altogether selfishly towards any one for whom he cared.

”Husbands want training, like children,” Rose went on. ”I didn't train my man; I began by spoiling him. That's where most girls make a mistake. Then, when the babies come, the spoiling ceases generally.

But the harm is done. I have often observed that the husbands of selfish women are a long way the nicest. Men like peace; they will sacrifice a great deal in order to get it.”

”It is rather an agreeable thing,” Esme said, reflecting that a little more of it in her sister's household would make life pleasanter.

”I dare say it is; but it can't be had on an insufficient income. If you like peace so much, why do you take the children with you on your holiday? You won't get peace where they are.”

”Oh! we'll get along. We shall be out all day, and there will be other children for them to play with. They won't worry me.”

”It's nice of you to be bothered with them,” Rose said. She scrutinised her sister closely, and, curiosity getting the upper hand, asked bluntly: ”Where is Paul Hallam now?”