Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument.
So much was our love
We would not understand what was most fit.
She is so conjunctive to my life and soul
That, as the star moves not but in his sphere,
I could not but by her.
How should I your true love know
From another one?--_Hamlet_.
|ALL was not well with Mr. Standish MacDermot in these days. He was
still a guest at that pleasant little Dutch cottage of Colonel Gerald's
at Mowbray, and he received invitations daily to wherever Daireen
and her father were going. This was certainly all that he could have
expected to make him feel at ease in the strange land; but somehow he
did not feel at ease. He made himself extremely pleasant everywhere he
went, and he was soon a general favourite, though perhaps the few words
Mrs. Crawford now and again let fall on the subject of his parentage had
as large an influence as his own natural charm of manner in making the
young Irishman popular. Ireland was a curious place most of the people
at the Cape thought. They had heard of its rebellions and of its
secret societies, and they had thus formed an idea that the island was
something like a British colony of which the aborigines had hardly been
subdued. The impression that Standish was the son of one of the kings of
the land, who, like the Indian maharajahs, they believed, were allowed
a certain revenue and had their titles acknowledged by the British
Government, was very general; and Standish had certainly nothing
to complain of as to his treatment. But still all was not well with
Standish.
He had received a letter from his father a week after his arrival
imploring him to return to the land of his sires, for The MacDermot
had learned from the ancient bard O'Brian, in whom the young man had
confided, that Standish's destination was the Cape, and so he had been
able to write to some address. The MacDermot promised to extend his
forgiveness to his son, and to withdraw his threat of disinheritance, if
he would return; and he concluded his letter by drawing a picture of
the desolation of the neighbourhood owing to the English projectors of
a railway and a tourists' hotel having sent a number of surveyors to
the very woods of Innishdermot to measure and plan and form all sorts of
evil intentions about the region. Under these trying circumstances, The
Mac-Dermot implored his son to grant him the consolation of his society
once more. What was still more surprising to Standish was the enclosure
in the letter of an order for a considerable sum of money, for he
fancied that his father had previously exhausted every available system
of leverage for the raising of money.
But though it was very sad for Standish to hear of the old man sitting
desolate beside the lonely hearth of Innishdermot castle, he made up his
mind not to return to his home. He had set out to work in the world, and
he would work, he said. He would break loose from this pleasant life
he was at present leading, and he would work. Every night he made this
resolution, though as yet the concrete form of the thought as to what
sort of work he meant to set about had not suggested itself. He would
work nobly and manfully for her, he swore, and he would never tell her
of his love until he could lay his work at her feet and tell her that it
had been done all for her. Meantime he had gone to that garden party at
Government House and to several other entertainments, while nearly every
day he had been riding by the side of Daireen over The Flats or along
the beautiful road to Wynberg.
And all the time that Standish was resolving not to open his lips in an
endeavour to express to Daireen all that was in his heart, another man
was beginning to feel that it would be necessary to take some step to
reveal himself to the girl. Arthur Harwood had been analyzing his own
heart every day since he had gazed out to the far still ocean from the
mountain above Funchal with Daireen beside him, and now he fancied he
knew every thought that was in his heart.
He knew that he had been obliged to deny himself in his youth the luxury
of love. He had been working himself up to his present position by his
own industry and the use of the brains that he felt must be his capital
in life, and he knew he dared not even think of falling in love. But,
when he had passed the age of thirty and had made a name and a place for
himself in the world, he was aware that he might let his affections
go fetterless; but, alas, it seemed that they had been for too long in
slavery: they refused to taste the sweets of freedom, and it appeared
that his nature had become hard and unsympathetic. But it was neither,
he knew in his own soul, only he had been standing out of the world of
softness and of sympathy, and had built up for himself unconsciously an
ideal whose elements were various and indefinable, his imagination only
making it a necessity that not one of these elements of his ideal should
be possible to be found in the nature of any of the women with whom he
was acquainted and whom he had studied.
When he had come to know Daireen Gerald--and he fancied he had come to
know her--he felt that he was no longer shut out from the world of love
with his cold ideal. He had thought of her day by day aboard the steamer
as he had thought of no girl hitherto in his life, and he had waited
for her to think of him and to become conscious that he loved her.
Considering that one of the most important elements of his vague ideal
was a complete and absolute unconsciousness of any passion, it was
scarcely consistent for him now to expect that Daireen should ever
perceive the feeling of his secret heart.
He had, however, made up his mind to remain at the Cape instead of going
on to the Castaway Islands; and he had written long and interesting
letters to the newspaper which he represented, on the subject of the
attitude of the Kafir chief who, he heard, had been taking an attitude.
Then he had had several opportunities of riding the horse that Colonel
Gerald had placed at his disposal; but though he had walked and
conversed frequently with the daughter of Colonel Gerald, he felt that
it would be necessary for him to speak more directly what he at least
fancied was in his heart; so that while poor Standish was swearing every
night to keep his secret, Mr. Harwood was thinking by what means he
could contrive to reveal himself and find out what were the girl's
feelings with regard to himself.
In the firmness of his resolution Standish was one afternoon, a few days
after the garden party, by the side of Daireen on the furthest extremity
of The Flats, where there was a small wood of pines growing in a sandy
soil of a glittering whiteness. They pulled up their horses here amongst
the trees, and Daireen looked out at the white plain beyond; but poor
Standish could only gaze upon her wistful face.
'I like it,' she said musingly. 'I like that snow. Don't you think it is
snow, Standish?'
'It is exactly the same,' he answered. 'I can feel a chill pass over me
as I look upon it. I hate it.'
'Oh!' cried the girl, 'don't say that when I have said I like it.'
'Why should that matter?' he said sternly, for he was feeling his
resolution very strong within him.
She laughed. 'Why, indeed? Well, hate it as much as you wish, Standish,
it won't interfere with my loving it, and thinking of how I used to
enjoy the white winters at home. Then, you know, I used to be thinking
of places like this--places with plants like those aloes that the sun is
glittering over.'
'And why I hate it,' said Standish, 'is because it puts me in mind of
the many wretched winters I spent in the miserable idleness of my
home. While others were allowed some chance of making their way in the
world--making names for themselves--there was I shut up in that gaol.
I have lost every chance I might have had--everyone is before me in the
race.'
'In what race, Standish? In the race for fame?'
'Yes, for fame,' cried Standish; 'not that I value fame for its own
sake,' he added. 'No, I don't covet it, except that--Daireen, I think
there is nothing left for me in the world--I am shut out from every
chance of reaching anything. I was wretched at home, but I feel even
more wretched here.'
'Why should you do that, Standish?' she asked, turning her eyes upon
him. 'I am sure everyone here is very kind.'
'I don't want their kindness, Daireen; it is their kindness that makes
me feel an impostor. What right have I to receive their kindness? Yes, I
had better take my father's advice and return by next mail. I am useless
in the world--it doesn't want me.'
'Don't talk so stupidly--so wickedly,' said the girl gravely. 'You are
not a coward to set out in the world and turn back discouraged even
before you have got anything to discourage you.'
'I am no coward,' he said; 'but everything has been too hard for me. I
am a fool--a wretched fool to have set my heart--my soul, upon an object
I can never reach.'
'What do you mean, Standish? You haven't set your heart upon anything
that you may not gain in time. You will, I know, if you have courage,
gain a good and noble name for yourself.'
'Of what use would it be to me, Daireen? It would only be a mockery to
me--a bitter mockery unless--Oh, Daireen, it must come, you have forced
it from me--I will tell you and then leave you for ever--Daireen, I
don't care for anything in the world but to have you love me--a little,
Daireen. What would a great name be to me unless----'
'Hush, Standish,' said the girl with her face flushed and almost angry.
'Do not ever speak to me like this again. Why should all our good
friendship come to an end?' She had softened towards the close of her
sentence, and she was now looking at him in tenderness.
'You have forced me to speak,' he said. 'God knows how I have struggled
to hold my secret deep down in my heart--how I have sworn to hold it,
but it forced itself out--we are not masters of ourselves, Daireen. Now
tell me to leave you--I am prepared for it, for my dream, I knew, was
bound to vanish at a touch.'
'Considering that I am four miles from home and in a wood, I cannot
tell you to do that,' she said with a laugh, for all her anger had been
driven away. 'Besides that, I like you far too well to turn you away;
but, Standish, you must never talk so to me again. Now, let us return.'
'I know I must not, because I am a beggar,' he said almost madly. 'You
will love some one who has had a chance of making a name for himself in
the world. I have had no chance.'
'Standish, I am waiting for you to return.'
'Yes, I have seen them sitting beside you aboard the steamer,' continued
Standish bitterly, 'and I knew well how it would be.' He looked at her
almost fiercely. 'Yes, I knew it--you have loved one of them.'
Daireen's face flushed fearfully and then became deathly pale as she
looked at him. She did not utter a word, but looked into his face
steadily with an expression he had never before seen upon hers. He
became frightened.
'Daireen--dearest Daireen, forgive me,' he cried. I am a fool--no,
worse--I don't know what I say. Daireen, pity me and forgive me. Don't
look at me that way, for God's sake. Speak to me.'
'Come away,' she said gently. 'Come away, Standish.'
'But tell me you forgive me, Daireen,' he pleaded.
'Come away,' she said.
She turned her horse's head towards the track which was made through
that fine white sand and went on from amongst the pines. He followed her
with a troubled mind, and they rode side by side over the long flats
of heath until they had almost reached the lane of cactus leading to
Mowbray. In a few minutes they would be at the Dutch cottage, and yet
they had not interchanged a word. Standish could not endure the silence
any longer. He pulled up his horse suddenly.
'Daireen,' he said. 'I have been a fool--a wicked fool, to talk to you
as I did. I cannot go on until you say you forgive me.'
Then she turned round and smiled on him, holding out her hand.
'We are very foolish, Standish,' she said. 'We are both very foolish.
Why should I think anything of what you said? We are still good friends,
Standish.'
'God bless you!' he cried, seizing her hand fervently. 'I will not make
myself a fool again.' 'And I,' said the girl, 'I will not be a fool
again.'
So they rode back together. But though Standish had received forgiveness
he was by no means satisfied with the girl's manner. There was an
expression that he could not easily read in that smile she had given
him. He had meant to be very bitter towards her, but had not expected
her to place him in a position requiring forgiveness. She had forgiven
him, it was true, but then that smile of hers--what was that sad wistful
expression upon her face? He could not tell, but he felt that on the
whole he had not gained much by the resolutions he had made night
after night. He was inclined to be dissatisfied with the result of his
morning's ride, nor was this feeling perceptibly decreased by seeing
beneath one of the broad-leaved trees that surrounded the cottage the
figure of Mr. Arthur Harwood by the side of Colonel Gerald.
Harwood came forward as Daireen reined up on the avenue.
'I have come to say good-bye to you,' he said, looking up to her face.
'Good-bye?' she answered. 'Why, you haven't said good-morning yet.'
Mr. Harwood was a clever man and he knew it; but his faculty for reading
what was passing in another person's mind did not bring him happiness
always. He had made use of what he meant to be a test sentence to
Daireen, and the result of his observation of its effect was not wholly
pleasant to him. He had hoped for a little flush--a little trembling of
the hand, but neither had come; a smile was on her face, and the pulses
of the hand she held out to him were unruffled. He knew then that the
time had not yet come for him to reveal himself.
But why should you say good-bye?' she asked after she had greeted him.
'Well, perhaps I should only say _au revoir_, though, upon my word, the
state of the colony is becoming so critical that one going up country
should always say good-bye. Yes, my duties call me to leave all this
pleasant society, Miss Gerald. I am going among the Zulus for a while.'
'I have every confidence in you, Mr. Harwood,' she said. 'You will
return in safety. We will miss you greatly, but I know how much the
people at home will be benefited by hearing the result of your visit; so
we resign ourselves to your absence. But indeed we shall miss you.'
'And if a treacherous assegai should transfix me, I trust my fate will
draw a single tear,' he said.
There was a laugh as Daireen rode round to dismount and Harwood went
in to lunch. It was very pleasant chat he felt, but he was as much
dissatisfied with her laugh as Standish had been with her smile.