The sight of the vast concourse of natives amazed him. From every direction dark running figures appeared, many of them armed with sticks, and all making for the same point, wedging themselves into the crowd like stray pieces in one gigantic whole. There was no possibility of getting past them; it would be dangerous, he realised, to go among them.

Their att.i.tude was threatening. He had had experience of the native when he was out of control. Lacking in discipline and all sense of responsibility, and with an utter disregard for consequences, he was a difficult proposition to tackle.

Hallam turned down a side street, which was silent and deserted, pa.s.sed a number of warehouses, and came out upon the fringe of the crowd. So far nothing had happened to fan the smouldering hate into a conflagration. It needed only, the white man realised, the throwing of a missile or the random discharge of a firearm, to rouse the mob to a frenzy of murderous activity. But so far the situation was in hand; the rioting came later.

It was difficult to say who started it, from which direction came that first shot that turned the sea of black swaying figures into a frenzied rabble of monomaniacs with a common enemy, the white man, the ruler, who, terribly outcla.s.sed in numbers, yet held the coloured man at bay.

They were there, behind the walls, a handful of white men, police and ex-soldiers, armed, determined, cool-headed, maintaining law and authority against the vast rabble of native insurgents.

Hallam heard several shots fired; heard the yells of the mob; watched the ugly rush as it surged forward in one mighty wave of humanity.

Sticks were wielded freely, stones and other missiles came into use; the noise swelled to pandemonium. To remain in the streets was unsafe. A white man would receive no quarter if the mob got hold of him. Aware of his danger, Hallam turned to retreat; and, as he made for the side street down which he had come, the sound of a woman's scream arrested his attention. He halted and looked round. A white woman was struggling with a native a few yards from where he stood. It was the work of a minute to reach her; the next, he had the native by the throat and was choking the life out of him. The woman had fallen to the ground. She might be hurt, or she might have fainted: Hallam did not pause to find out. A couple of natives had seen them and were running towards them; if they came up with them, though he might succeed in shooting them, for he carried a revolver, it would bring the crowd upon them; and he and the woman he had rescued would inevitably perish.

Stooping, he picked her up in his arms, and ran with her up the street, darting through the open door of a wool-shed, where he dropped her unceremoniously on a bale of hides and ran back to the door and secured it.

But there was no sign without of their pursuers. The chase of fugitive whites was less exciting than the bigger business in hand. The street was quiet, and wore an air of desertion, as if every man had left his post for the scene of greater activity.

Hallam turned from securing the door, and leaned with his shoulders against it, breathing hard, in quick short breaths. With the abrupt shutting out of the sunlight the interior of the building appeared dark; the insufficient light, which penetrated through the dirty windows, revealed everything dimly, like objects seen in the dusk. Neither Hallam nor the woman had spoken. They did not speak now. She was sitting up, looking about her with dazed eyes. She put a hand over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the tall figure confronting her, uncovered them again, and looked straight into the eyes of the man, who stood with his shoulders against the door, watching her.

He had recognised her when he stooped over her in the street to lift her; she had recognised him sooner. But to her it had seemed that fear had deranged her reason; she believed that her imagination had given to her rescuer the features of some one whom she knew to be dead. Now, while she watched him, listened to his deep breathing, conviction came to her that this was Paul himself, no creation of her fancy; and suddenly, while she looked at him, the room grew dark about her, his face faded in a mist, disappeared: she dropped back on the hides and lay still.

Book 4--CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

As Hallam looked down on the white face, with the eyes closed, and the dark lashes resting on the colourless cheeks, there came back very vividly to his memory a picture of his wife lying senseless at the foot of the stairs, and the horror which had gripped his heart at the sight of her lying thus, the remorse and the self-accusation which had all but unhinged his reason. In recalling these painful memories he felt his heart softening towards her; the jealousy which had embittered his thoughts of her yielded to the more generous instincts of love and a pitiful tenderness, which desired only to shield her from the distress and embarra.s.sment of her position.

Fate had resolved the point as to whether she should know of his return; the responsibility of decision had been lifted from his shoulders. At least his presence had been the means of saving her from a dreadful and violent death. It was horrible to contemplate what might have happened had he not been on the spot.

Deliberately he moved away from the door and approached the unconscious figure lying on the pile of evil-smelling hides. For a while he remained standing, looking down on the quiet form; then he took a seat on the hides and sat still and watched for a sign of returning consciousness. As soon as she was equal to walking he meant to take her to Jim Bainbridge's office. He was not satisfied of their safety while they remained where they were.

Esme recovered from her faint to find him seated beside her, watching her with those keen eyes which seemed to search her soul. She lay still for a while, staring back at him, too bewildered to realise at once where she was and what had happened. Then abruptly memory came sweeping back in a confusing rush, and the events immediately preceding her swoon crowded into her mind. She sat up; and the man and the woman looked steadily at one another.

"Paul!" she whispered.

"Esme!"

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, my dear! Oh, my dear!" she wailed.

She broke down and cried uncontrollably. He made no move to comfort her, or to attempt explanations; he let her cry; tears were more often a relief than otherwise. And there was nothing he could find to say.

There was nothing, it seemed to him, to be said. Matters had reached a deadlock. Here they were, husband and wife, together after long years of separation; and, dividing them more effectually than the years, was the fact of Esme's second marriage and the existence of her child.

Presently she looked up at him through her tears with eyes that were infinitely sad, that held, too, in their look an expression of yearning tenderness for this man, whom she had loved in the past, whom she still loved better than any one in the world. The sight of him brought back so many memories of the happiness which their great love for one another had put into their lives. Why had she forgotten? The memory of the beauty of their love should have satisfied her. What had she done by forgetting so soon?

"They told me you were dead," she said.

"I know."

"At first I wouldn't believe it. But you sent no word, and the years pa.s.sed... Oh, my dear! Oh, my dear! Why did you leave me like that?-- without a word or a sign from you all these years?"

"I will explain later," he answered, speaking as calmly as his emotion permitted. "For the present you must just believe that it wasn't altogether my fault. I was ill for a long time after I left home. It was touch and go. If there is a purpose which governs our destinies, I suppose there was some reason why I should live. Anyhow I pulled through with all the odds against me. And again, when men were dying all about me, my life was preserved--I know not why, nor for what. I have no place in the world. I am just so much dust enc.u.mbering the earth. My return is only a distress to you. I come back to find you gone from me."

She hid her face in her hands and wept afresh. Gone from him! That was how he saw it. She had not been faithful to his memory even.

"Tell me about yourself," she pleaded. "I want you to fill in the blank. I want to know where you've been--all about everything. I don't understand. Tell me."

"Not now--nor here," he said, rising. "It's a long story; and we should be moving out of this. Can you walk as far as Jim's office? I think we should be safer there."

As though reminded by his caution of the disturbance in the streets, which the sight of him had driven temporarily from her thoughts, she stood up and remained in an attentive att.i.tude, listening to the din, which penetrated to their quiet shelter with horrible distinctness. Men were out there a few yards away, fighting and being injured, killed perhaps, as she might have been but for Paul. She lifted frightened eyes to his face.

"What is it?" she asked. "What is happening?"

"It's a riot," he answered. "The gaol will be overfull as a result of this noisy disturbance. I hope some of the brutes will get shot."

"You saved my life, Paul," she said, looking at him gravely.

He made no answer to that. He went to the door and unfastened it and looked out into the street. With the opening of the door the tumult seemed to swell in volume, but the street itself was quiet; there was no one within sight. He turned to her swiftly and took hold of her arm and led her outside.

"There is nothing to be nervous about," he said. "We shan't meet a soul. I came this way just before I saw you."

None the less, he carried his revolver in his hand, and hurried her up the street, keeping a sharp look-out against surprise, until he got her safely to Bainbridge's office. The room when they entered it was empty as when he had left it, and showed no sign of its owner having been there.

Esme sat down, white and shaken, and leaned back in her chair without speaking. A clerk came to the door and inquired whether he could do anything. Her appearance, hatless and dishevelled and white, had struck him when she entered. She asked for water; and he went away to fetch it. Hallam took the gla.s.s from him when he returned with it and carried it to her himself.

"Mrs Sinclair isn't hurt, I hope?" the clerk asked.

"No," Hallam answered curtly; and the clerk withdrew.

At the sound of her name, Esme's eyes sought Hallam's face. She saw it harden, saw the lips compress themselves, as he turned with the gla.s.s in his hand and approached her chair. She took the gla.s.s from him with a word of thanks, and drank the contents slowly, while he paced the carpet with long, uneasy strides, backwards and forwards, before the open window.

"Paul," she asked suddenly, "have you seen Jim?"

"I saw him yesterday," he answered, without pausing in his walk.

"Yesterday!" she echoed, her thoughts reverting to the dinner party, and to the curious preoccupation of her brother-in-law's manner. Jim had known yesterday that Paul was alive; and he had said nothing.

"He told you--about me?" she said.

"Yes--everything that matters."

She put the gla.s.s down on the desk and stood up and confronted him.

"What am I to do?" she wailed. "Oh! what am I to do?"

"That," he answered with surprising quietness, "is a question which no one can resolve but yourself. It is for you to decide."

"But I don't know what to do," she returned distressfully. "I--Oh, dear heaven! what a terrible position to be placed in!"

She wrung her hands and turned away from him and stood leaning against the frame of the window, where the warm fresh air poured in on her, and the distant sounds of the din in the streets came to her ears like something far off, something altogether outside her own concerns. The horror of her encounter with the Kaffir was submerged, almost forgotten, in the bewilderment of Paul's return. Paul knew of her second marriage--which was no marriage. He must know, since he had spoken with Jim, of her child. The child's future welfare was her chief concern.

She resented the injury done to it as a deliberate wrong wrought through the agency of this man by his long absence, his inexplicable silence.

She felt bitter when she thought of it.

"Why did you leave me in ignorance of your whereabouts?" she asked.