Within the Tides | Page 4

arms gleamed with an extraordinary splendour,
and when she advanced her head into the light he saw the admirable
contour of the face, the straight fine nose with delicate nostrils, the
exquisite crimson brushstroke of the lips on this oval without colour.
The expression of the eyes was lost in a shadowy mysterious play of jet
and silver, stirring under the red coppery gold of the hair as though she
had been a being made of ivory and precious metals changed into living
tissue.
". . . I told her my people were living in Canada, but that I was brought
up in England before coming out here. I can't imagine what interest she
could have in my history."
"And you complain of her interest?"
The accent of the all-knowing journalist seemed to jar on the Planter of
Malata.
"No!" he said, in a deadened voice that was almost sullen. But after a
short silence he went on. "Very extraordinary. I told her I came out to
wander at large in the world when I was nineteen, almost directly after
I left school. It seems that her late brother was in the same school a
couple of years before me. She wanted me to tell her what I did at first
when I came out here; what other men found to do when they came
out--where they went, what was likely to happen to them--as if I could
guess and foretell from my experience the fates of men who come out
here with a hundred different projects, for hundreds of different
reasons--for no reason but restlessness--who come, and go, and
disappear! Preposterous. She seemed to want to hear their histories. I
told her that most of them were not worth telling."
The distinguished journalist leaning on his elbow, his head resting
against the knuckles of his left hand, listened with great attention, but
gave no sign of that surprise which Renouard, pausing, seemed to

expect.
"You know something," the latter said brusquely. The all-knowing man
moved his head slightly and said, "Yes. But go on."
"It's just this. There is no more to it. I found myself talking to her of my
adventures, of my early days. It couldn't possibly have interested her.
Really," he cried, "this is most extraordinary. Those people have
something on their minds. We sat in the light of the window, and her
father prowled about the terrace, with his hands behind his back and his
head drooping. The white-haired lady came to the dining-room window
twice--to look at us I am certain. The other guests began to go
away--and still we sat there. Apparently these people are staying with
the Dunsters. It was old Mrs. Dunster who put an end to the thing. The
father and the aunt circled about as if they were afraid of interfering
with the girl. Then she got up all at once, gave me her hand, and said
she hoped she would see me again."
While he was speaking Renouard saw again the sway of her figure in a
movement of grace and strength--felt the pressure of her hand-- heard
the last accents of the deep murmur that came from her throat so white
in the light of the window, and remembered the black rays of her steady
eyes passing off his face when she turned away. He remembered all this
visually, and it was not exactly pleasurable. It was rather startling like
the discovery of a new faculty in himself. There are faculties one would
rather do without--such, for instance, as seeing through a stone wall or
remembering a person with this uncanny vividness. And what about
those two people belonging to her with their air of expectant solicitude!
Really, those figures from home got in front of one. In fact, their
persistence in getting between him and the solid forms of the everyday
material world had driven Renouard to call on his friend at the office.
He hoped that a little common, gossipy information would lay the ghost
of that unexpected dinner-party. Of course the proper person to go to
would have been young Dunster, but, he couldn't stand Willie
Dunster--not at any price.
In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his desk, and
smiled a faint knowing smile.

"Striking girl--eh?" he said.
The incongruity of the word was enough to make one jump out of the
chair. Striking! That girl striking! Stri . . .! But Renouard restrained his
feelings. His friend was not a person to give oneself away to. And, after
all, this sort of speech was what he had come there to hear. As,
however, he had made a movement he re- settled himself comfortably
and said, with very creditable indifference, that yes--she was, rather.
Especially amongst a lot of over-dressed frumps. There