The Stronger Influence

by F. E. Mills Young

The war with its harvest of death and suffering had put her own trouble further into the background than time itself could have succeeded in doing. So much had happened within the past four years that was sad and stirring and broad in its appeal to the sympathies of even those outside the reach of these terrific happenings that the egotism of personal grief was merged with the wider sorrow in which the world shared. It was no time for brooding: a common tragedy called for the utmost effort of endurance from all.

In a sense the war proved helpful to Esmé; the horror of the calamity took her out of herself, and prevented her from growing morbid through the overwhelming shock of her own great loss. It had taken her a long time to reconcile herself to the belief that Paul was dead. Conviction came to her slowly with the passing of time, and the absence of any word from him. If he had been alive he would have contrived to let her know. It was unthinkable that he should have left her deliberately in a terrible suspense. Hope died hard within her, but it died surely. She mourned him as dead in her thoughts. But she could never bring herself to visit the grave where he was laid to rest, above which had been erected a simple granite cross, inscribed with his name and the date of the year in which he died. Jim had seen to these matters for her; she had been satisfied to leave them to him, and to ask no questions. In his way her brother-in-law had been kind and helpful. And John, who spent all his leisure time at her house, which had become a second home for him, proved a great comfort and companion.

John was now sixteen, and his only regret was that he was not old enough to join up. He admired and envied George Sinclair profoundly. To return after three years’ fighting with a pierced lung and covered with glory was a splendid record in young John’s estimation. He awaited Sinclair’s return impatiently, eager for first-hand information of the wonderful doings in which he had longed to take part; while Esmé awaited his coming with misgivings, and wondered what she would find to say to him when they met. She recalled very vividly his coming to say goodbye to her on the evening before he sailed.

“I am going to write to you,” he had said, with his blue eyes on her face. “Please don’t forbid me that pleasure; it will be a tremendous help to me to be able to talk to you on paper. I may never come back, you know; but if I do I shall come straight to you.”

He had gone away wearing a photograph of her which Rose had given him; that, and her friendly occasional letters, had proved the greatest happiness during those days of war and horror and discomfort. And now he was returning, with her photograph worn in a locket, and with her letters, so frequently read that they tore where they were folded, tied together with a piece of ribbon that once had adorned a box of chocolates, and was faded and discoloured even as the package which it secured.

He came to her, as he had said he would do, as soon as he arrived in the Bay. He was shy, and a little uncertain of the welcome likely to be accorded to him. The sudden cessation of her letters had damped his hopes considerably.

She was walking in the garden when his taxi stopped at the gate. He caught a glimpse of her through the mimosa trees, pacing the path slowly with the dog, Regret, walking beside her, close to her, his nose touching the hand which hung loosely at her side.

Sinclair dismissed his driver and opened the gate and advanced swiftly along the path towards her. She saw him and stood still, flushed and obviously nervous, waiting for him, while the dog bounded forward and sniffed the newcomer inquisitively, and finally leapt upon him in boisterous greeting. He patted the dog’s head, pushed it aside, and approached the woman, who remained still, watching him with eyes which smiled their welcome. He took her outstretched hand and held it while he looked long and steadily into the face which had lived in his memory from the time when years ago he had met and loved her at the Zuurberg. Outwardly she had changed little: life had scored far deeper impressions on his face than on hers.

“So glad to see you back, George,” she said, with a faint show of embarrassment in her manner under his continued scrutiny. “So very glad to see you safe and sound.”

He approached his face a little nearer to hers, still retaining her hand, which he held in a firm grip.