"You appear to be great friends with Mr Hallam," the old lady who was nervous of the mountain road observed one day to Esme. "What a terrible thing it is to see a young man deliberately making wreck of his life.

Don't you think so?"

"I do," Esme answered gravely. "One day he will come to think so too; and then he will change."

The old lady shook her head.

"I should doubt it very strongly," she said. She considered it regrettable that the girl should cherish hopes of so improbable a reform.

"There is nothing that the human will cannot accomplish, when the will to accomplish a thing is strong enough," Esme said with quiet conviction.

"You think that?"

"I am sure of it."

"Then, why does not Mr Hallam make some effort to overcome his failing?"

"I suppose because he has not felt a sufficiently strong incentive. It is difficult to understand these things. But I cannot help believing he will make good."

The old lady was manifestly unconvinced; but Esme's faith remained unshaken. She believed in the eventual triumph of Hallam's better nature. The man was not insensible of her faith in him. Her influence over him was stronger than either of them realised. Each day he felt his interest in her deepening; but it was not until her visit came to the finish that he knew exactly what her friendship meant to him.

On the last morning when they sat at breakfast, and the talk turned naturally to the journey down the mountain, it came to him with unpleasant clearness that he was going to miss her very much. He saw the regret in her eyes at the thought of going away, and he knew that a similar regret was in his heart. They had come to the parting of the ways, and neither wished to part.

"Can't you stay a little longer?" he asked her. But she shook her head and answered no.

"I hate these comings and goings," he said gruffly; "they make life uncomfortable."

"I loved the coming," she replied softly; "but I hate going. I have been happy here."

"I expect you are happy anywhere," he said. And she laughed, but she did not answer him. "I shall miss our walks," he added.

"I shall miss them to," she replied. "I shall miss many things. One day I shall come up here again."

"Will you?" He looked surprised. "I shall not do that after I go away.

To revisit a familiar spot is like walking among tombstones. Each point recalls a memory, and memory belongs to the past."

"But when one's memories are pleasant," she argued, "it is good to recall them."

"They come back to us with the dust on them," he insisted. "It is more comfortable to live in the present. You'll forget the Zuurberg when you are back in the town. You'll be engrossed with other matters. You'll forget."

"Not one hour," she breathed softly. "I'll forget nothing. Will you?"

He laughed bitterly.

"Life is not so full of pleasant things that I can afford to bury in oblivion the pleasantest that has happened to me," he said. "When you drive down the mountain to-day, I will go with you and see you on your way."

If anything could have given her pleasure at leaving it was this resolve on Hallam's part to drive with her down the mountain road. His accompanying her gave to the excursion an air of adventure and decreased the sense of parting. It was not, she found when she came to say goodbye to the little group of people a.s.sembled on the stoep to watch the departure of the cart, these general leave-takings which were distressing; nor did it concern her to turn her back on the hotel on the veld; the real parting was to follow, but for the moment that did not weigh with her. Her holiday was not yet at an end.

There were other pa.s.sengers for the journey besides themselves. Hallam waited until these had taken their seats in the back; then he helped the girl up to the front seat next the driver, and, to the amazement of the beholders, got up after her and sat down by her side. They concluded that he was leaving also; it did not occur to any one to suppose that he was going to see the girl off by the train and would return that evening. An act of such supererogatory courtesy was not expected of him.

The horses started, and the cart swung along with its load of pa.s.sengers and luggage, travelling at a good pace along the hard smooth road. Esme leaned back in her seat and looked about her with happy appreciative eyes. On the upward journey she had longed for a companion to share her joy in the scenery. She recalled her first impressions, as she drove now with Hallam beside her. She had been very tired on that occasion, eye and brain both had been weary. To-day she felt surprisingly well and very alert. The air, the movement, the strong light, all added to her sense of enjoyment; and the presence of the man beside her, his nearness, his un.o.btrusive care of her, his interest in all which interested her, made the return journey infinitely more wonderful than the journey up the mountain had seemed. She felt extraordinarily happy.

And yet she was going away. Soon she and her companion would be parted. It might be that she would never see him after that day. But she could not realise these things. She felt him beside her, heard his voice speaking to her against the mountain wind which blew across them, saw the kindness in the keen eyes when he turned his head to look at her and mark her appreciation of some beauty along the route; and she knew that he mattered to her tremendously; that her feeling for him was a real and profoundly significant emotion, something which had sprung to life suddenly, which would go on growing in her heart after they had separated and gone their different ways.

This was the thing which had happened to her. She had looked for something to happen, but she had not dreamed it would be anything like this.

She fell to wondering how she would feel when they came to say good-bye, whether she would realise the parting and feel lonely, whether her face would betray her regret? Whether he would see and understand...

The journey down occupied considerably less time than the journey up had done; everything seemed to lend itself to speed her departure. But at Coerney there was a wait before the train came in. Hallam took her to the hotel and ordered refreshments, and afterwards they went and sat in the shade of the trees and talked away their last minutes together. She felt that she would have liked to prolong that talk indefinitely; and the minutes slipped away so fast.

"It was nice of you to come," she said. "I should be feeling horribly lonely now if I had had this wait alone."

"The train's late," he said. "G.o.d bless the lack of unpunctuality.

I've half a mind to go with you. I don't know why I don't go. I don't know why I stay on in a G.o.d-forsaken hole on the top of a mountain which leads nowhere. Do you?"

She laughed.

"I suppose you like it," she said. "And the air is fine."

"A man can't live on air."

"But you don't live there," she said. For the first time it occurred to her that she did not know where he lived; she knew surprisingly little about him.

"I don't live anywhere; I drift," he said.

He met her eyes and read the curiosity in them, their unspoken criticism, and smiled. But he did not give her any information. He started to talk again on impersonal matters, while she looked away into the green tangle of the trees and wondered about him.

On the way to the station he gave her a book, which he took from his pocket and handed to her with the remark that it would relieve the tedium of the train journey. She read the t.i.tle, "David Harum," and flushed with pleasure as she thanked him.

"I hope you will like it," he said. "I have found him a good companion."

He discovered an empty compartment and settled her in it and stood by the door. She leaned from the window, with her arms on it, and looked down at him, earnestly, intently, with the light of unsaid things shining in her eyes.

"I hate going," she said.

"I know. Partings are beastly things."

But he said nothing to lead her to hope that this parting was not final; no intimation of it being otherwise entered his thoughts.

"To-morrow," he said, "I shall go alone to watch the sunrise."

A little wistful smile curved her lips.

"I shall think of you," she said.

"I shall probably have _you_ in my thoughts," he replied, and smiled also. "We have spent some pleasant times together."

She leaned further out and held out a hand to him as the train was about to start. He took it and pressed it warmly.

"Thank you for your kindness to me," she said simply.