The Stronger Influence

by F. E. Mills Young

He stood still on the sands, looking seaward, with hands clasped behind him, his shoulders bent. He became suddenly conscious of great physical fatigue. He had walked far and for many hours—walked, as he had been thinking, in a circle which brought him back to the starting point, no whit further advanced towards the solving of the problem which harassed his mind, and which, on setting forth, he had determined to solve before another dawn broke. And already the first sign of dawn showed in the pallid skyline where it touched the sea. The feel of the air was fresh and pure; it followed upon the hot darkness of the passing night like a revivifying breath. Hallam felt its coolness on his forehead and lifted his face to meet it, and beheld the stars glowing fainter, and the darkness yielding reluctantly to the grey of the creeping dawn.

Another day was advancing upon him, another day of perplexity and doubt and bitter torment; creeping upon him like a cold shadow out of the darker shadows, bringing with it no hope, only a deeper sense of despair.

What ought he to do?

Was it clearly his duty, as Bainbridge had sought to indicate, to leave Esmé in the undisturbed belief in his death and in her false position as George Sinclair’s wife? That course raised so many points, legal and ethical, which made its adoption difficult, if not impossible. There was the question of income. Why should his income, as well as his wife, be enjoyed by the man who, even though unwittingly, had nevertheless robbed him of everything? There was the other resource of collusive divorce. But that was only practicable by agreement, which would involve the disturbing of Esmé’s peace of mind, and invest her with the responsibility of decision. There was the third course of claiming her as his wife. Here again the difficulty of the child obtruded itself, an insuperable barrier to the happiness of all concerned. He wanted his wife, but he did not want the child; on that point he was firmly resolved. It was the one point in the series of complications upon which he entertained no doubt. The child was not his; he had no thought of adopting it as his: he was jealous of it, more jealous of it than he was of Sinclair. Its very helplessness made it a tremendous factor in the case.

He wondered dully how Esmé, when she learned of it, would receive the news of his return? Judged by ordinary standpoints, his manner of leaving her, of allowing her to remain uninformed as to his whereabouts, was unpardonable. Practically it amounted to desertion, as Bainbridge said. But his mental condition at the time he left his home was responsible for his amazing conduct. The voyage to England had been undertaken for the purpose of regaining strength, of regaining control of his nerves; the rest had been due to the unfortunate accident of circumstances: it might have happened to any one; it had happened to other men. Plenty of fellows reported missing had turned up again. He wondered whether any man, beside himself, had returned to his home to find his wife married again? And, if so, how he had acted? No precedent could have aided him in his dilemma; each case called for individual action which must be governed largely by circumstances. The big stumbling block in his own case was the child. Everything worked round to that one point and stuck there; it formed a cul-de-sac to every line of thought.

Wearily Hallam returned to his hotel and went to bed and fell into the heavy, unrefreshing sleep of physical and mental exhaustion.

Later in the day he went again to Jim Bainbridge’s office. Bainbridge was not in; his return was expected any minute. Hallam decided to wait for him. He waited a long time. No one came to disturb him. His presence was, as a matter of fact, forgotten in the excitement of the unusual doings outside the Court House. The Square and the streets leading to it were choked with natives, agitators, angrily demanding the release of their leader, whom the authorities had arrested as a disturber of, and a menace to, the peace of the community.

Hallam knew of these matters only through the talk overheard at the hotel. He had noticed an unusually large crowd of natives when he descended the hill on his way to see Bainbridge. The crowd had swelled its numbers since then, though it had not yet attained to the dangerous proportions which it did later, when the serious rioting took place, and the massed ranks of dark forms surged in ugly rushes upon the building which was held by a brave handful of Europeans.

The angry murmur of the mob rose and died down, and rose again, louder and more continuous. The sounds penetrated to the quiet room where Hallam sat, so engrossed with the turmoil of his own thoughts that these signs of men’s passions aroused beyond control excited in him merely a faint curiosity. He rose and went out into the street to ascertain what the disturbance was about.

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 attitude 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.