Your visitation shall receive such thanks
As fits... remembrance.
... Thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
With windlasses and with assays of bias,
By indirections find directions out.
More matter with less art.--_Hamlet._
|THE thin white silk thread of a moon was hanging in the blue twilight
over the darkened western slope of the island, and almost within the
horns of its crescent a planet was burning without the least tremulous
motion. The lights of the town were glimmering over the waters, and the
strange, wildly musical cries of the bullock-drivers were borne faintly
out to the steamer, mingling with the sound of the bell of St. Mary's on
the Mount.
The vessel had just begun to move away from its anchorage, and Daireen
Gerald was standing on the deck far astern leaning over the bulwarks
looking back upon the island slope whose bright green had changed to
twilight purple. Not of the enjoyment of the day she had spent up among
the vines was the girl thinking; her memory fled back to the past days
spent beneath the shadow of a slope that was always purple, with a robe
of heather clinging to it from base to summit.
“I hope you don't regret having taken my advice about going on shore,
Miss Gerald,” said Mr. Harwood, who had come beside her.
“Oh, no,” she said; “it was all so lovely--so unlike what I ever saw or
imagined.”
“It has always seemed lovely to me,” he said, “but to-day it was very
lovely. I had got some pleasant recollections of the island before, but
now the memories I shall retain will be the happiest of my life.”
“Was to-day really so much pleasanter?” asked the girl quickly. “Then I
am indeed fortunate in my first visit. But you were not at any part of
the island that you had not seen before,” she added, after a moment's
pause.
“No,” he said quietly. “But I saw all to-day under a new aspect.”
“You had not visited it in September? Ah, I recollect now having heard
that this was the best month for Madeira. You see I am fortunate.”
“Yes, you are--fortunate,” he said slowly. “You are fortunate; you are a
child; I am--a man.”
Daireen was quite puzzled by his tone; it was one of sadness, and she
knew that he was not accustomed to be sad. He had not been so at any
time through the day when they were up among the vineyards looking down
upon the tiny ships in the harbour beneath them, or wandering through
the gardens surrounding the villa at which they had lunched after being
presented by their guide--no, he had certainly not displayed any sign of
sadness then. But here he was now beside her watching the lights of the
shore twinkling into dimness, and speaking in this way that puzzled her.
“I don't know why, if you say you will have only pleasant recollections
of to-day, you should speak in a tone like that,” she said.
“No, no, you would not understand it,” he replied. If she had kept
silence after he had spoken his previous sentence, he would have been
tempted to say to her what he had on his heart, but her question made
him hold back his words, for it proved to him what he told her--she
would not understand him.
It is probable, however, that Mrs. Crawford, who by the merest accident,
of course, chanced to come from the cabin at this moment, would have
understood even the most enigmatical utterance that might pass from his
lips on the subject of his future memories of the day they had spent
on the island; she felt quite equal to the solution of any question of
psychological analysis that might arise. But she contented herself now
by calling Daireen's attention to the flashing of the phosphorescent
water at the base of the cliffs round which the vessel was moving, and
the observance of this phenomenon drew the girl's thoughts away from the
possibility of discovering the meaning of the man's words. The major and
his old comrade Doctor Campion then came near and expressed the greatest
anxiety to learn how their friends had passed the day. Both major and
doctor were in the happiest of moods. They had visited the hotel they
agreed in stating, and no one on the deck undertook to prove anything to
the contrary--no one, in fact, seemed to doubt in the least the truth of
what they said.
In a short time Mrs. Crawford and Daireen were left alone; not for long,
however, for Mr. Glaston strolled languidly up.
“I cannot say I hope you enjoyed yourself,” he said. “I know very well
you did not. I hope you could not.”
Daireen laughed. “Your hopes are misplaced, I fear, Mr. Glaston,” she
answered. “We had a very happy day--had we not, Mrs. Crawford?”
“I am afraid we had, dear.”
“Why, Mr. Harwood said distinctly to me just now,” continued Daireen,
“that it was the pleasantest day he had ever passed upon the island.”
“Ah, he said so? well, you see, he is a newspaper man, and they all look
at things from a popular standpoint; whatever is popular is right, is
their motto; while ours is, whatever is popular is wrong.”
He felt himself speaking as the representative of a class, no doubt,
when he made use of the plural.
“Yes; Mr. Harwood seemed even more pleased than we were,” continued the
girl. “He told me that the recollection of our exploration to-day would
be the--the--yes, the happiest of his life. He did indeed,” she added
almost triumphantly.
“Did he?” said Mr. Glaston slowly.
“My dear child,” cried Mrs. Crawford, quickly interposing, “he has got
that way of talking. He has, no doubt, said those very words to every
person he took ashore on his previous visits. He has, I know, said them
every evening for a fortnight in the Mediterranean.”
“Then you don't think he means anything beyond a stupid compliment to
us? What a wretched thing it is to be a girl, after all. Never mind, I
enjoyed myself beyond any doubt.”
“It is impossible--quite impossible, child,” said the young man.
“Enjoyment with a refined organisation such as yours can never be
anything that is not reflective--it is something that cannot be shared
with a number of persons. It is quite impossible that you could have
any feeling in common with such a mind as this Mr. Harwood's or with
the other people who went ashore. I heard nothing but expressions of
enjoyment, and I felt really sad to think that there was not a refined
soul among them all. They enjoyed themselves, therefore you did not.”
“I think I can understand you,” said Mrs. Crawford at once, for she
feared that Daireen might attempt to question the point he insisted on.
Of course when the superior intellect of Mr. Glaston demonstrated that
they could not have enjoyed themselves, it was evident that it was their
own sensations which were deceiving them. Mrs. Crawford trusted to the
decision of the young man's intellect more implicitly than she did her
own senses: just as Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burton Heath, came
to believe the practical jesters.
“Should you enjoy the society and scenery of a desert island better
than an inhabited one?” asked the girl, somewhat rebellious at the
concessions of Mrs. Crawford.
“Undoubtedly, if everything was in good taste,” he answered quietly.
“That is, if everything was in accordance with your own taste,” came the
voice of Mr. Harwood, who, unseen, had rejoined the party.
Mr. Glaston made no reply. He had previously become aware of the
unsatisfactory results of making any answers to such men as wrote for
newspapers. As he had always considered such men outside the world
of art in which he lived and to the inhabitants of which he addressed
himself, it was hardly to be expected that he would put himself on a
level of argument with them. In fact, Mr. Glaston rarely consented to
hold an argument with any one. If people maintained opinions different
from his own, it was so much the worse for those people--that was all he
felt. It was to a certain circle of young women in good society that
he preferred addressing himself, for he knew that to each individual
in that circle he appeared as the prophet and high priest of art. His
tone-poems in the college magazine, his impromptus--musical _aquarellen_
he called them--performed in secret and out of hearing of any earthly
audience, his colour-harmonies, his statuesque idealisms--all these were
his priestly ministrations; while the interpretation, not of his
own works--this he never attempted--but of the works of three poets
belonging to what he called his school, of one painter, and of one
musical composer, was his prophetical service.
It was obviously impossible that such a man could put himself on that
mental level which would be implied by his action should he consent
to make any answer to a person like Mr. Harwood. But apart from these
general grounds, Mr. Glaston had got concrete reasons for declining to
discuss any subject with this newspaper man. He knew that it was
Mr. Harwood who had called the tone-poems of the college magazine
alliterative conundrums for young ladies; that it was Mr. Harwood who
had termed one of the colour-harmonies a study in virulent jaundice;
that it was Mr. Harwood who had, after smiling on being told of the
_aquarellen_ impromptus, expressed a desire to hear one of these
compositions--all this Mr. Glaston knew well, and so when Mr. Harwood
made that remark about taste Mr. Glaston did not reply.
Daireen, however, did not feel the silence oppressive. She kept her eyes
fixed upon that thin thread of moon that was now almost touching the
dark ridge of the island.
Harwood looked at her for a few moments, and then he too leaned over the
side of the ship and gazed at that lovely moon and its burning star.
“How curious,” he said gently--“how very curious, is it not, that the
sight of that hill and that moon should bring back to me memories of
Lough Suangorm and Slieve Docas?”
The girl gave a start. “You are thinking of them too? I am so glad. It
makes me so happy to know that I am not the only one here who knows all
about Suangorm.” Suddenly another thought seemed to come to her.
She turned her eyes away from the island and glanced down the deck
anxiously.
“No,” said Mr. Harwood very gently indeed; “you are not alone in your
memories of the loveliest spot of the world.”
Mrs. Crawford thought it well to interpose. “My dear Daireen, you must
be careful not to take a chill now after all the unusual exercise you
have had during the day. Don't you think you had better go below?”
“Yes, I had much better,” said the girl quickly and in a startled
tone; and she had actually gone to the door of the companion before
she recollected that she had not said good-night either to Glaston or
Harwood. She turned back and redeemed her negligence, and then went down
with her good guardian.
“Poor child,” thought Mr. Glaston, “she fears that I am hurt by her
disregard of my advice about going ashore with those people. Poor child!
perhaps I was hard upon her!”
“Poor little thing,” thought Mr. Harwood. “She begins to understand.”
“It would never do to let that sort or thing go on,” thought Mrs.
Crawford, as she saw that Daireen got a cup of tea before retiring.
Mrs. Crawford fully appreciated Mr. Harwood's cleverness in reading the
girl's thought and so quickly adapting his speech to the requirements of
the moment; but she felt her own superiority of cleverness.
Each of the three was a careful and experienced observer, but there are
certain conditional influences to be taken into account in arriving at a
correct conclusion as to the motives of speech or action of every human
subject under observation; and the reason that these careful analysts of
motives were so utterly astray in tracing to its source the remissness
of Miss Gerald, was probably because none of the three was aware of
the existence of an important factor necessary for the solution of the
interesting problem they had worked out so airily; this factor being the
sudden appearance of Standish Macnamara beside the girl in the morning,
and her consequent reflections upon the circumstance in the evening.
But as she sat alone in her cabin, seeing through the port the effect
of the silver moonlight upon the ridge of the hill behind which the moon
itself had now sunk, she was wondering, as she had often wondered during
the day, if indeed it was Standish whom she had seen and whose voice she
had heard. All had been so sudden--so impossible, she thought, that
the sight of him and the hearing of his voice seemed to her but as the
memories of a dream of her home.
But now that she was alone and capable of reflecting upon the matter,
she felt that she had not been deceived. By some means the young man to
whom she had written her last letter in Ireland was aboard the steamer.
It was very wonderful to the girl to reflect upon this; but then she
thought if he was aboard, why should she not be able to find him and ask
him all about himself?