“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 assembled 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 passengers 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 passengers and luggage, travelling at a good pace along the hard smooth road. Esmé 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 unobtrusive 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.