Book Two—Chapter Fourteen.
The receipt of those weekly letters and the pleasurable occupation of replying to them engrossed Esmé’s thoughts, changed all her outlook, filled her life completely. She was falling very deeply in love. And she believed that Paul Hallam loved her. He did not tell her so in words, but every letter which came from him conveyed the idea that it was for her sake entirely he was attempting what no other influence would have led him to attempt, that when he was sure of himself he would come to her. She waited and hoped and hugged her secret to herself, determined to guard from others the knowledge of his weakness, which he was so earnestly endeavouring to conquer.
He had left the Zuurberg for the coast, and was staying at Camp’s Bay, right on the beach, he explained, in writing her a description of his new quarters.
“You would love it here,” he wrote. “The road between Camp’s Bay and Seapoint surpasses everything for beauty. You’ve no idea how fine it is in the early morning.”
In another letter he said: “The moonlight on the sea has set me thinking of you. If only we were watching it together! The surface of the sea is all splashed with silver, broken up and spread over it in a running liquid fire. One day I hope you will watch it with me. I see it from the window as I write.”
She treasured these letters and tied them about and locked them away from sight. They brought him very near to her; and his detailed descriptions of his walks, his surroundings, helped her to visualise him. She longed to see him again; but she never allowed a breath of her longing to find expression in the cheery letters she wrote in answer to his.
In the meantime Sinclair pursued his courtship in blissful unconsciousness of the hopelessness of his cause. Esmé had come to accept Sinclair’s friendship as a matter of course. Their relations were very fraternal. They called one another by their christian names. Sinclair was George to everyone in the Bainbridge household, down to the children, who viewed him with affectionate interest as a person who understood small people’s tastes in the matter of sweets.
Every Saturday he came in for tennis, and returned with Esmé to the house in Havelock Street for supper. Usually on Sundays he took Esmé and the children to Red House, and they spent the day on the river. He brightened life for her considerably. She liked him. In a friendly, wholly unsentimental fashion she was fond of him. Had there been no one else in her life her affection would probably have developed into a warmer sentiment. But she never thought of George Sinclair in the light of a possible lover. He never made love to her. Not once in their pleasant intercourse had he said anything she could have construed into an attempt at love-making. His manner was affectionate and kind always. He was a good chum. That was how she thought of him, as a good chum. The awakening therefore was all the more startling when it came.
Sinclair seized his opportunity during the tennis tournament. With considerable difficulty he persuaded her to partner him in the mixed doubles. She was reluctant on account of being a weak player; but he overruled her objections, and she gave way.
“You’ll lose—with me,” she warned him. “I’m not good at games ever.”
“I’ll take my chance of that,” he replied. “Anyway, I’d rather lose with you than win with any one else.”
Esmé practised untiringly before the event. She had never attended the tournament before other than as a spectator, and the sight of the crowds which gathered each day to view the events shook her nerve. She played badly, and felt rather aggrieved that her partner managed to drag her victoriously through their first set. After their game she sat with him below the stand and reproached him for winning.
“It would be all over now if you hadn’t cribbed half my balls,” she complained.
“But you don’t want to be out of it really?” he said, surprised.
“I do—and I don’t. It makes me jumpy.”
“That’s all right. You’ll get your tail up later. I’m going to win, you know. I’m going to pull this off.”
“You’ve got your work cut out,” she said, and laughed. “You’ll get very little help from me.”
“I only ask your co-operation,” he returned confidently. “Take what you can, and leave the rest to me. I’m out to win. You see, we are coming through together.”
She did see. And with each set they played and won her astonishment deepened. She had always known that he was a good player, but she had not realised the reserve force which he could bring into his game when he wanted it. It was something more than play, she decided, which carried him through; it was sheer determination not to be beaten. They came through the finals with a hard-won victory.
Jim and Rose were present to watch the finish. According to Jim, his sister-in-law played a footling game.
“At least she didn’t hamper her partner,” Rose said.
“Hamper him! No. She might as well have been off the court altogether.”
“Her service is good,” Rose insisted.
“Yes—for a girl.” He chuckled. “She leaves him to make all the running.”
“Well, they won anyhow.”
“He won,” he corrected. “Shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t win all along the line. He has only a bundle of letters to compete against. My money is on the man on the spot all the time.”
“Hush!” Rose said warningly. “Here they come.”
She hailed the winners with smiling congratulations, and complimented Sinclair on his play.
“We pulled it off all right, Mrs Bainbridge,” he said, laughing, looking hot and young and immeasurably contented with life. “Esmé funked right to the finish, but she played up like a good ’un. Whew! I’m hot. Come on, partner; let’s go and have a lemon squash.”
The girl, flushed and tired and less elated with success than he was, followed him to the back of the pavilion, and stood drinking lemonade, and talking to a little knot of competitors who were there for a similar purpose. Some of the players she knew, but a number of them were visitors down for the tournament. A dance that night at the Town Hall was to celebrate the finish of the festivities. A group of flannel-clad young men and white-frocked young women were discussing the ball and booking dances in advance. Some one came up to Esmé and asked her for a dance, which she promised willingly. In a very short while she had given a number of dances away. Sinclair touched her arm.
“I want some,” he said. “I want quite a lot.”
His tone was urgent, and when she turned to look at him she saw that his face was strained and very determined. The expression in his eyes puzzled her.
“Of course,” she said, “I should feel a little hurt if you didn’t.”
“Look here!” he said in an undertone. “Come out of this. I don’t want you to give away any more—not at present. I’m going to have the supper dance, and everything after that. Is it a promise?”
“Well,” she said, and looked somewhat doubtful. “That means that you are booked for the entire half of my programme.”
He nodded.
“That’s it,” he said.
“But,”—she was beginning, when he took hold of her arm and led her outside, with a muttered reference to the stifling heat.
“Come and sit under the trees,” he said. “I want to watch the set on the far court.”
It was one of the less interesting sets, and there were fewer spectators, which was probably why he decided for it. He conducted her to an unoccupied seat and sat down beside her.
“It’s jolly here and cool and out of the crush. You don’t want to watch the Johannesburg chap, do you?”
She would have preferred to watch the play on the centre court. It was clear that the Johannesburg man would carry off the championship in the men’s singles; but she gave in to his wish and decided to remain where she was.
Sinclair’s manner was nervous and preoccupied; but the girl did not appear to notice it; she did not want to talk. Her companion smoked cigarettes and stared with a sort of strained attention at the game and jerked out an occasional comment. Presently he remarked apropos of nothing:
“I had a rise yesterday. That was an altogether unexpected stroke of luck.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, turning an interested, unsuspicious face towards him. “I am pleased. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
He laughed.
“Too absorbed in our game,” he said, “to think of it. But I’m thinking of it now. It makes a difference.”
“I suppose it does. You’ll be bursting forth into extravagances. Why don’t you keep a car?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I want other things more urgently than that.”
“What things?”
“I’ll tell you to-night,” he said, reddening.
“Yes,” she said, her thoughts reverting to the discussion in the pavilion. “During half a programme you’ll find time enough to tell me a good deal.”
He glanced at her quickly.
“You didn’t mind?” he said. “It’s only the second half; and you’ll be tired. You won’t want to dance much.”
“Oh, indeed! Then what do you propose we shall do? If we don’t dance we might as well remain at home.”
“We’ll dance all you want to,” he replied. “And we’ll go for a stroll along the sea wall. The weather is too hot for being inside. You shall do what you like anyhow.”
“You are always so amenable, George,” she said, smiling. “And you always get your own way in the end.”
He smiled back at her with gay confidence.
“My luck’s in,” he replied. “The gods smile on me. I told you, Esmé, that I meant to win.”
“I did my utmost to prevent you,” she said.
“You understand co-operation, partner,” he returned coolly. “That’s good enough for me.”
She did not in the least understand the drift of his remarks, although he believed he was tactfully preparing her for the declaration he intended making that night. The last thing she anticipated was the proposal which hovered continually in the forefront of Sinclair’s mind. He intended to put his luck to the test that evening, and felt fairly confident as to the result. He had not the remotest suspicion of possessing a rival. The road ahead, so far as he could see, was perfectly clear.