The Magic of Two Hearts

Cozy and beautiful that night! No air that stirred; the black smoke from the funnels of the steamer Atlantis lie low over the surface of the sea like vast, floating plumes from an ostrich that vanished one by one in the starlight. Agnes Flora Brenard, for that was her full name, had been christened Agnes after her mother and Flora after her father’s only sister, leaning lazily over the corridor rail, thought to herself that a child might have sailed that sea in a boat of bark and come safely into port. Then a tall man of about thirty-two years of age, who was smoking a cigarette, walked up to her. As he approached, she moved aside a little to make room for him beside her, and there was something in the motion which, had anyone been there to observe it, might have suggested that these two were having an intimate friendship, or still greater intimacy. For a moment he hesitated, and while he did so an expression of doubt, of distress even, gathered on his face. It was as though he understood that a great deal depended on whether he accepted or declined that gentle invitation, and knew not what to do. Indeed, much did depend upon it, no less than the destinies of both of them. If Anthony Holmes had gone by to finish his cigarette in solitude, then this story would have had a very different ending; or, rather, who can say how it might have ended? The dreaded, fore-doomed event which came with this night would have come to its awful birth, leaving certain words unspoken. Violent separation must have ensued, and even if both of them had survived the terror, what prospect was there that their lives would have again crossed each other in that wide Africa? But it was not so fated, for just as he put his foot forward to continue his march, Agnes spoke in her low and pleasant voice. “Are you going to the smoking room or to the bar to dance, Mr. Holmes? "One of the officers just told me that there was to be a dance,” she added, in explanation, “because it is so calm that we might get along ashore.” “No,” he answered. The smoking room is stuffy, and my dancing days are over. No; I intend to exercise after that big dinner, and then to sit in a chair and fall asleep. "But, he added, and his voice grew interested, “how did you know that it was I? You never turned your head.” “I have ears in my head as well as eyes,” she answered with a little laugh, “and after we have been nearly a month together on this ship I ought to know your step.” “I never remember that anyone ever recognized it before,” he said, more to himself than to her, then came and leaned over the rail at her side. His doubts were gone. Fate had spoken. For a while there was silence between them, then he asked her if she was not going to the dance. Agnes shook her head. “Why not? You are fond of dancing, and you dance very well. Also, there are plenty of officers to choose as dance partners, especially Captain——” and he checked himself. “I know,” she said; it would be pleasant, but—Mr. Holmes, will you think I am foolish if I tell you something?” “I have never thought you foolish yet, Miss Agnes, so I don’t know why I should begin now. What is it?” “I am not going to the dance because I am afraid, yes, horribly afraid.” “Afraid! Afraid of what?” “I don’t quite know, but, Mr. Holmes, I feel as though we were all of us upon the edge of some dreadful catastrophe—as though there were about to be a mighty change, and beyond it another life, something new and unfamiliar. It came over to me at dinner—that was why I left the table. Quite suddenly, I looked, and all the people were different. Yes, all except a few.” “Was I different?” he asked curiously. “No, you were not,” and he thought he heard her add “Thank God!” beneath her breath. “And were you different?” “I don’t know. I never looked at myself; I was the seer, not the seen. I have always been like that.” “Indigestion,” he said reflectively. We ate too much on board the ship, and the dinner was very long and heavy. I told you so, that’s why I’m taking it—I mean why I wanted to take exercise.” “And to go to sleep afterward.” “Yes, first the exercise, then sleep. Miss Agnes, that is the rule of life and death. With sleep, thought ends, therefore for some of us your catastrophe is much to be desired, for it would mean long sleep and no thought.” “I said that they had changed, not that they had ceased to think. Perhaps they thought more.” “Then let us pray that your catastrophe may be averted. I prescribe carbonated soda for you. Also, in this weather, it seems difficult to imagine such a thing. "Look now, Miss Agnes,” he added, with a note of enthusiasm in his voice, pointing towards the east, “look.” Her eyes followed his outstretched hand, and there, above the level ocean, rose the great orb of the African moon. Suddenly all that ocean turned to silver, a wide path of rippling silver stretched from it to them. It might have been the road of angels. The sweet soft light beat upon their ship, showing its tapering masts and every detail of the rigging. It passed on beyond them, and revealed the low, foam-fringed coast-line rising here and there, dotted with kloofs and their clinging bush. Even the round huts of Kaffir kraals became faintly visible in that radiance. Other things became visible also—for instance, the features of this pair. The man was light in his coloring, fair-skinned, with fair hair which already showed a tendency towards grayness, especially in the mustache, for he wore no beard. His face was clean cut, not particularly handsome, since, their fineness notwithstanding, his features lacked regularity; the cheekbones were too high and the chin was too small, small faults redeemed to some extent by the steady and cheerful gray eyes. For the rest, he was broad-shouldered and well-set-up, sealed with the indescribable stamp of a gentleman. Such was the appearance of Anthony Kuffour. In that light, the girl at his side looked lovely, though, in fact, she had no real claims to loveliness, except perhaps as regards her figure, which was agile, rounded, and peculiarly graceful. Her foreign-looking face was unusual, dark-eyed, a somewhat large and very mobile mouth, fair and waving hair, a broad forehead, a sweet and at times wistful face, thoughtful for the most part, but apt to be irradiated by sudden smiles. Not a beautiful woman at all, but exceedingly attractive, like one possessing magnetism. She gazed, first at the moon and the silver road beneath it, then, turning, at the land beyond. “We are very near to Africa, at last,” she said. “Too near, I think,” he answered. “If I were the captain, I would stand out a point or two. It is a strange country, full of surprises. Miss Agnes, will you think me rude if I ask you why you are going there? You have never told me—quite.” “No, because the story is rather a sad one; but you shall hear it if you wish. Do you?” He nodded, and drew up two deck chairs, in which they settled themselves in, a corner made by one of the inboard boats, their faces still towards the sea. “You know, I was born in Africa,” she said, “and lived there till I was thirteen years old—why, I find I can still speak Zulu; I did so that afternoon. My father was one of the early settlers in Natal. His father was a clergyperson, a younger son of Lincoln Bernards. They are great people there still, though I don’t think that they are aware of my existence.” “I know them,” answered Anthony Holmes. “Indeed, I was shooting at their place last November—when the smash came,” and he sighed; “but go on.”