Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

in the deep recess of some pocket. When she was in any trouble, either of her own or others’ doing, she relied on him confidently to see her through it; and even when she had suffered any childish pain, to hold Peter’s hand was a distinct ease and help to her. Naturally between the two had grown up a rare confidence, and up to now in her life Esse had never had a secret which Peter Blyth had not shared. The years that had passed had not aged him in any way, except in the limiting of his physical buoyancy, and in strewing a few white hairs through the thickness of his curly brown beard. This beard of Peter Blyth’s was the feature on which a physiognomist would have lingered longest in the setting forth of his character, for it gave a distinctive quality to other features which, though altogether good, were in no wise remarkable. From his beard, and what was all around it, could be deduced the fact that he belonged to the antique rather than the modern world, and distinctly to the pagan school of life. It was not that he was sceptical, for he was not; nor that he was assailed with unconquered doubts, for he had his moods of acquiescence in the fitness of things, and the opposite, as have all men in whose veins the red blood of life flows freely. But there was about him a large-hearted, easy tolerance which made any limited phase of thought a thing rather despicable to him than abhorrent. For all “isms” he had only contempt, from Calvin to Ibsen; all who held with the ungenerous side of beliefs could not move him from intellectual placidity. His throat had the broad smooth lines which we see in the old busts of Jupiter, and his mouth and chin, which, taken separately, showed the two poles of resolution and of power of enjoyment, pronounced, when taken together, for a conscious joie de vivre, which was most certainly not a characteristic of his time.

      When he saw Esse his instinct and his knowledge jumped to one conclusion — that there was some secret cause for her low condition, but with characteristic caution he did not betray himself. He then and there determined to take an early opportunity of learning from the girl herself how matters stood. To this end he had a long talk with Mrs. Elstree, and in the course of it gathered all the events, great and small, of the life at Shasta. Not content with Mrs. Elstree’s confidence, he took an opportunity of learning the opinions of Miss Gimp, and thus armed, he felt himself fairly confident of finding out in his talk with Esse the true inwardness of things.

      The next morning he came to breakfast with his mind made up as to how he should discuss affairs with Esse. He knew already from her mother all that that dear lady knew, including her put-aside suspicion of an attachment between Esse and Dick, and as he had discovered her mother was manifestly not in Esse’s secret, whatever it might be, he knew that there was need for extreme caution. To this end he determined that time should not be of vital importance, for the telling of a secret means on a woman’s part a gradual yielding to her own wishes, and a not impossible accompaniment of tears; so he opened the matter with a frank remark:

      “You’re not looking well, Esse! Too many dances and sittings-out in the conservatory. Suppose you put on your bonnet and come with me for a drive. A whiff of sea air will do us both good.”

      Esse looked at her mother appealingly, and on her nodding acquiescence, assented joyfully, so Peter Blyth went off to look for a buggy suitable to the occasion. He shortly drove up in a very snappy one, with a pair of horses that looked like 2:40 speed. Esse came to the stoop with a lighter footstep than she had used for many a day, and, her mother noticing it, said to herself, with a sigh of relief, “The dear child is only tired. She feels already with Peter like her old self.”

      As they swept up and down the steep hills that lay between them and the Pacific Peter Blyth tried his best to put and keep Esse in a gay humour. He told her all his best and newest stories, and so interested her with all the little things which had happened in her London home since she had last seen it, that when they came to Sutro Heights Esse was looking more like her old — or, rather, her new — self than she had done since she had parted with Dick at Shasta.

      Peter put up his trap at the Cliff House, and having ordered luncheon for a couple of hours later, the two strolled out along the beach to the southward. When they had gone some distance they sat down on a patch of sea grass and looked around them. Below their feet, beyond a narrow strip of yellow sand, was the vast blue of the silent Pacific, its breast scarcely moved by the ripple of a passing breeze. Southwards the headlands, dimly blue and purple, ran out, tier upon tier, into the sea; northwards the mountains towered brown above the Golden Gate. Both were impressed with the full, silent beauty of the scene, and for a time neither spoke. Then Peter, turning to Esse, said:

      “What is it, dear, that is troubling you?”

      Esse started, and a vivid blush swept swiftly over her face, and then left her pale.

      “What do you mean?” was her answer, given in a faint voice.

      For reply Peter took both her hands in his, and said:

      “Look here, little girl, that’s the first time in all your life that you ever asked me what I meant. Do you really mean, Esse, that you don’t understand? Tell me, dear! I only want to help you! Don’t you know what I mean?”

      Esse’s “yes,” came in a faint voice. Peter went on:

      “Now that clears the ground. We understand each other. Tell me all about it, Esse! Confession is good for the soul; and I don’t think you’ll ever find a softer-hearted father confessor than your old friend.”

      “Must I tell, Peter?” She spoke in an appealing way, but it was manifest to him that she wished to be treated in such a way that her natural obedience would help her.

      So he smiled a broad, genial smile, and seeing that her face brightened, he attempted a chastened laugh, and flung some of his good-humoured man-of-the-world philosophy at her:

      “Look here, little girl, when we human beings have any secret that’s pretty difficult to tell, and that we had rather not tell our mothers, it’s generally about the opposite sex. When it’s a girl that has to do the telling, well! she’s best off when she can get it off her chest to some sympathetic soul that won’t give her away. Nature demands that she tells some one, and that some one must be either a friend or the Other Fellow. If it’s the Other Fellow then there’s no need to tell the friend! But in that case there are rosy cheeks instead of pale ones, and the harmonies of life are set in a full major key instead of the minor. See?”

      Esse nodded. Peter continued:

      “I’ll help you all I can, little girl, now and hereafter. Your father was my dearest friend, and one of his last acts was to write to me asking me to look after you and your mother, and to do what I could for you both. If he were here, my dear, you wouldn’t need to talk to me! Shut your eyes, little girl, and pretend that he is with you, and open out your heart to him. Don’t fear to! Every girl has to, and it is well for them that there are fathers and brothers and friends, to whom they can speak; for otherwise there would be a deal more sorrow in the world even than there is!”

      Esse took his hand in hers and turned away her head, hiding her face with her other hand, and said in a low voice:

      “I want to see Dick!”

      Peter’s reply was given with heartiness, although her words sent a mild chill through him. He had almost come to this conclusion already, and he saw trouble — possibly great trouble — ahead for his little friend:

      “Grizzly Dick! I’ve heard all about him, and a mighty fine fellow he must be. No wonder you want to see him, little girl, after all you and he went through together. When your mother was telling me last night about the bears, I was looking at the skins of the two monsters, and thinking that I’d like to shake hands with the fellow that shared that danger with you, and that you were so good to!”

      Esse said nothing, but he could tell by the pressure of her fingers on his hand that his words touched her, so he waited a minute or two before going on. Then he asked suddenly:

      “Esse, do you want to see him so badly? Is he all the world to you, so that his not being here makes life, with all the good things which it has for you, of no account? Tell me! Speak freely; don’t be afraid!”

      Esse turned her face round, and her eyes were all swimming with unfallen