SIX WOMEN

I

CHAPTER I

Listless and despondent, feeling that he hated everything in life, Hamilton walked slowly down the street.  The air was heavy, and the sun beat down furiously on the yellow cotton awnings stretched over his head.  Clouds of dust rose in the roadway as the white bullocks shuffled along, drawing their creaking wooden carts, and swarms of flies buzzed noisily in the yellow, dusty sunshine.  Hamilton went on aimlessly; he was hot, he was tired, his eyes and head ached, he was thirsty; but all these disagreeable sensations were nothing beside the intense mental nausea that filled him, a nausea of life.  It rose up in and pervaded him, uncontrollable as a physical malady.  In vain he called upon his philosophy; he had practised it so long that it was worn out.  Like an old mantle from the shoulders, it fell from him in rags, and he was glad.  He felt he hated his philosophy only less than he hated life—­hated, yet desired as the man hates a mistress he covets, and has never yet possessed.  “Never had anything, never done anything, never felt anything decent yet,” he mused.

He was an exceptionally handsome and attractive individual, and though in reality forty years of age, he had the figure, the look, and air of twenty-eight.  Masses of black hair, without a white thread, waved above a beautifully-cut and modelled face, of which the clear bronze skin, with its warm colour in the cheeks, was not the least striking feature.  He was about six feet or a little over in height, and had a wonderfully lithe, well-knit figure, and a carriage full of grace and dignity.  A bright, charming smile that came easily to his face, and an air of absolute unconsciousness of his own good looks, completed the armoury of weapons Venus had endowed him with for breaking hearts.  But Hamilton neglected his vocation:  he broke none.  He got up early, and slaved away at his duties for the Indian Civil Government in his office all day, and went to bed dead tired at night, with nothing but a dreary consciousness of duty done and more duty waiting for him the following day, as a sleeping companion.

Hamilton’s life had been ruined by an early and an unsuccessful marriage.  At twenty, when full of the early, divine fires of life, he had married a girl of his own age and rank, dazzled by the beauty she then, in his eyes, possessed, and in that amazing blindness to character that make women view men with wondering contempt.  His blindness, however, ended with the ceremony.  On his wedding-night the woman, who, it must be admitted, had acted her part of loving submissiveness, of gentle devotion, admirably, mocked at him and his genuine, ardent passion.