... What he spake, though it lacked form a little,
Was not like madness. There's something in his soul
O'er which his melancholy sits on brood.
Purpose is but the slave to memory.
Most necessary 'tis that we forget.--_Hamlet._
|THE long level rays of the sun that was setting in crimson splendour
were touching the bright leaves of the silver-fir grove on one side of
the ravine traversing the slope of the great peaked hill which makes
the highest point of Table Mountain, but the other side was shadowy. The
flat face of the precipice beneath the long ridge of the mountain was
full of fantastic gleams of red in its many crevices, and far away a
thin waterfall seemed a shimmering band of satin floating downwards
through a dark bed of rocks. Table Bay was lying silent and with hardly'
a sparkle upon its ripples from where the outline of Robbin Island was
seen at one arm of its crescent to the white sand of the opposite shore.
The vineyards of the lower slope, beneath which the red road crawled,
were dim and colourless, for the sunset bands had passed away from them
and flared only upon the higher slopes.
Upon the summit of the ridge of the silver-fir ravine Daireen Gerald sat
looking out to where the sun was losing itself among the ridges of the
distant kloof, and at her feet was Oswin Markham. Behind them rose the
rocks of the Peak with their dark green herbage. Beneath them the soft
rustle of a songless bird was heard through the foliage.
But it remains to be told how those two persons came to be watching
together the phenomenon of sunset from the slope.
It was Mrs. Crawford who had upon the very day after the departure of
Arthur Harwood organised one of those little luncheon parties which are
so easily organised and give promise of pleasures so abundant. She had
expressed to Mr. Harwood the grief she felt at his being compelled by
duty to depart from the midst of their circle, just as she had said to
Mr. Markham how bowed down she had been at the reflection of his leaving
the steamer at St. Helena; and Harwood had thanked her for her kind
expressions, and made a mental resolve that he would say something
sarcastic regarding the Army Boot Commission in his next communication
to the _Dominant Trumpeter_. But the hearing of the gun of the mail
steamer that was to convey the special correspondent to Natal was the
pleasantest sensation Mrs. Crawford had experienced for long. She had
been very anxious on Harwood's account for some time. She did not by
any means think highly of the arrangement which had been made by Colonel
Gerald to secure for one of his horses an amount of exercise by allowing
Mr. Harwood to ride it; for she was well aware that Mr. Harwood would
think it quite within the line of his duty to exercise the animal at
times when Miss Gerald would be riding out. She knew that most girls
liked Mr. Harwood, and whatever might be Mr. Harwood's feelings towards
the race that so complimented him, she could not doubt that he admired
to a perilous point the daughter of Colonel Gerald. If, then, the girl
would return his feeling, what would become of Mrs. Crawford's hopes for
Mr. Glaston?
It was the constant reflection upon this question that caused the sound
of the mail gun to fall gratefully upon the ears of the major's wife.
Harwood was to be away for more than a month at any rate, and in a month
much might be accomplished, not merely by a special correspondent, but
by a lady with a resolute mind and a strategical training. So she had
set her mind to work, and without delay had organised what gave promise
of being a delightful little lunch, issuing half a dozen invitations
only three days in advance.
Mr. Algernon Glaston had, after some persuasion, promised to join the
party. Colonel Gerald and his daughter expressed the happiness they
would have at being present, and Mr. Standish Macnamara felt certain
that nothing could interfere with his delight. Then there were the two
daughters of a member of the Legislative Council who were reported to
look with fond eyes upon the son of one of the justices of the Supreme
Court, a young gentleman who was also invited. Lastly, by what Mrs.
Crawford considered a stroke of real constructive ability, Mr. Oswin
Markham and Miss Lottie Vincent were also begged to allow themselves to
be added to the number of the party. Mrs. Crawford disliked Lottie,
but that was no reason why Lottie should not exercise the tactics Mrs.
Crawford knew she possessed, to take care of Mr. Oswin Markham for the
day.
They would have much to talk about regarding the projected dramatic
entertainment of the young lady, so that Mr. Glaston should be left
solitary in that delightful listless after-space of lunch, unless
indeed--and the contingency was, it must be confessed, suggested to the
lady--Miss Gerald might chance to remain behind the rest of the party;
in that case it would not seem beyond the bounds of possibility that the
weight of Mr. Glaston's loneliness would be endurable.
Everything had been carried out with that perfect skill which can be
gained only by experience. The party had driven from Mowbray for a
considerable way up the hill. The hampers had been unpacked and the
lunch partaken of in a shady nook which was supposed to be free from the
venomous reptiles that make picnics somewhat risky enjoyments in sunny
lands; and then the young people had trooped away to gather Venus-hair
ferns at the waterfall, or silver leaves from the grove, or bronze-green
lizards, or some others of the offspring of nature which have come into
existence solely to meet the requirements of collectors. Mr. Glaston and
Daireen followed more leisurely, and Mrs. Crawford's heart was happy.
The sun would be setting in an hour, she reflected, and she had great
confidence in the effect of fine sunsets upon the hearts of lovers--.
nay, upon the raw material that might after a time develop into the
hearts of lovers. She was quite satisfied seeing the young people
depart, for she was not aware how much more pleasant than Oswin Markham
Lottie Vincent had found Mr. Glaston at that judge's dinner-party a
few evenings previous, nor how much more plastic than Miss Gerald Mr.
Glaston had found Lottie Vincent upon the same occasion.
Mrs. Crawford did not think it possible that Lottie could be so clever,
even if she had had the inclination, as to effect the separation of
the party as it had been arranged. But Lottie had by a little manouvre
waited at the head of the ravine until Mr. Glaston and Daireen had
come up, and then she had got into conversation with Mr. Glaston upon a
subject that was a blank to the others, so that they had walked quietly
on together until that pleasant space at the head of the ravine was
reached. There Daireen had seated herself to watch the west become
crimson with sunset, and at her feet Oswin had cast himself to watch her
face.
Had Mrs. Crawford been aware of this, she would scarcely perhaps have
been so pleasant to her friend Colonel Gerald, or to her husband far
down on the slope.
It was very silent at the head of that ravine. The delicate splash of
the water that trickled through the rocks far away was distinctly heard.
The rosy bands that had been about the edges of the silver leaves had
passed off. Daireen's face was at last left in shadow, and she turned to
watch the rays move upwards, until soon only the dark Peak was enwound
in the red light that made its forehead like the brows of an ancient
Bacchanal encircled with a rose-wreath. Then quickly the red dwindled
away, until only a single rose-leaf was upon the highest point; an
instant more and it had passed, leaving the hill dark and grim in
outline against the pale blue.
Then succeeded that time of silent conflict between light and
darkness--a time of silence and of wonder.
Upon the slope of the Peak it was silent enough. The girl's eyes went
out across the shadowy plain below to where the water was shining in its
own gray light, but she uttered not a word. The man leant his head upon
his hand as he looked up to her face.
“What is the 'Ave' you are breathing to the sunset, Miss Gerald?” he
said at length, and she gave a little start and looked at him. “What is
the vesper hymn your heart has been singing all this time?”
She laughed. “No hymn, no song.”
“I saw it upon your face,” he said. “I saw its melody in your eyes; and
yet--yet I cannot understand it--I am too gross to be able to translate
it. I suppose if a man had sensitive hearing the wind upon the blades
of grass would make good music to him, but most people are dull to
everything but the rolling of barrels and such-like music.”
“I had not even a musical thought,” said the girl. “I am afraid that if
all I thought were translated into words, the result would be a jumble:
you know what that means.”
“Yes. Heaven is a jumble, isn't it? A bit of wonderful blue here, and
a shapeless cloud there--a few faint breaths of music floating about a
place of green, and an odour of a field of flowers. Yes, all dreams are
jumbles.”
“And I was dreaming?” she said. “Yes, I dare say my confusion of thought
without a single idea may be called by courtesy a dream.”
“And now have you awakened?”
“Dreams must break and dissolve some time, I suppose, Mr. Markham.”
“They must, they must,” he said. “I wonder when will my awaking come.”
“Have you a dream?” she asked, with a laugh.
“I am living one,” he answered.
“Living one?”
“Living one. My life has become a dream to me. How am I beside you? How
is it possible that I could be beside you? Either of two things must
be a dream--either my past life is a dream, or I am living one in this
life.”
“Is there so vast a difference between them?” she asked, looking at him.
His eyes were turned away from her.
“Vast? Vast?” he repeated musingly. Then he rose to his feet and looked
out oceanwards. “I don't know what is vast,” he said. Then he looked
down to her. “Miss Gerald, I don't believe that my recollection of my
past is in the least correct. My memory is a falsehood utterly. For it
is quite impossible that this body of mine--this soul of mine--could
have passed through such a change as I must have passed through if
my memory has got anything of truth in it. My God! my God! The
recollections that come to me are, I know, impossible.”
“I don't understand you, Mr. Markham,” said Daireen.
Once more he threw himself on the short tawny herbage beside her.
“Have you not heard of men being dragged back when they have taken a
step beyond the barrier that hangs between life and death--men who have
had one foot within the territory of death?”
“I have heard of that.”
“And you know it is not the same old life that a man leads when he
is brought from that dominion of death. He begins life anew. He knows
nothing of the past. He laughs at the faces that were once familiar to
him; they mean nothing to him. His past is dead. Think of me, child.
Day by day I suffered all the agonies of death and hell, and shall I not
have granted to me that most righteous gift of God? Shall not my past
be utterly blotted out? Yes, these vague memories that I have are the
memories of a dream. God has not been so just to me as to others, for
there are some realities of the past still with me I know, and thus I am
at times led to think it might be possible that all my recollections are
true--but no, it is impossible--utterly impossible.” Again he leapt to
his feet and clasped his hands over his head. “Child--child, if you knew
all, you would pity me,” he said, in a tone no louder than a whisper.
She had never heard anything so pitiful before. Seeing the agony of the
man, and hearing him trying to convince himself of that at which his
reason rebelled, was terribly pitiful to her. She never before that
moment knew how she felt towards this man to whom she had given life.
“What can I say of comfort to you?” she said. “You have all the sympathy
of my heart. Why will you not ask me to help you? What is my pity?”
He knelt beside her. “Be near me,” he said. “Let me look at you now. Is
there not a bond between us?--such a bond as binds man to his God? You
gave me my life as a gift, and it will be a true life now. God had no
pity for me, but you have more than given me your pity. The life you
have given me is better than the life given me by God.”
“Do not say that,” she said. “Do not think that I have given you
anything. It is your God who has changed you through those days of
terrible suffering.”
“Yes, the suffering is God's gift,” he cried bitterly. “Torture of days
and nights, and then not utter forgetfulness. After passing through
the barrier of death, I am denied the blessings that should come with
death.”
“Why should you wish to forget anything of the past?” she asked. “Has
everything been so very terrible to you?”
“Terrible?” he said, clasping his hands over one of his knees and gazing
out to the conflict of purple and shell-pink in the west. “No, nothing
was terrible. I am no Corsair with a hundred romantic crimes to give
me so much remorseful agony as would enable me to act the part of Count
Lara with consistency. I am no Lucifer encircled with a halo of splendid
wickedness. It is only the change that has passed over me since I felt
myself looking at you that gives me this agony of thought. Wasted time
is my only sin--hours cast aside--years trampled upon. I lived for
myself as I had a chance--as thousands of others do, and it did not seem
to me anything terrible that I should make my father's days miserable to
him. I did not feel myself to be the curse to him that I now know myself
to have been. I was a curse to him. He had only myself in the world--no
other son, and yet I could leave him to die alone--yes, and to die
offering me his forgiveness--offering it when it was not in my power
to refuse to accept it. This is the memory that God will not take away.
Nay, I tell you it seems that instead of being blotted out by my days of
suffering it is but intensified.”
He had bowed down his face upon his hands as he sat there. Her eyes were
full of tears of sympathy and compassion--she felt with him, and his
sufferings were hers.
“I pity you--with all my soul I pity you,” she said, laying her hand
upon his shoulder.
He turned and took her hand, holding it not with a fervent grasp; but in
his face that looked up to her tearful eyes there was a passion of love
and adoration.
“As a man looks to his God I look to you,” he said. “Be near me that the
life you have given me may be good. Let me think of you, and the dead
Past shall bury its dead.”
What answer could she make to him? The tears continued to come to her
eyes as she sat while he looked into her face.
“You know,” she said--“you know I feel for you. You know that I
understand you.”
“Not all,” he said slowly. “I am only beginning to understand myself; I
have never done so in all my life hitherto.”
Then they watched the delicate shadowy dimness--not gray, but full of
the softest azure--begin to swathe the world beneath them. The waters
of the bay were reflecting the darkening sky, and out over the ocean
horizon a single star was beginning to breathe through the blue.
“Daireen,” he said at length, “is the bond between us one of love?”
There was no passion in his voice, nor was his hand that held hers
trembling as he spoke. She gave no start at his words, nor did she
withdraw her hand. Through the silence the splash of the waterfall above
them was heard clearly. She looked at him through the long pause.
“I do not know,” she said. “I cannot answer you yet----No, not yet--not
yet.”
“I will not ask,” he said quietly. “Not yet--not yet.” And he dropped
her hand.
Then he rose and looked out to that star, which was no longer smothered
in the splendid blue of the heavens, but was glowing in passion until
the waters beneath caught some of its rays.
There was a long pause before a voice sounded behind them on the
slope--the musical voice of Miss Lottie Vincent.
“Did you ever see such a sentimental couple?” she cried, raising her
hands with a very pretty expression of mock astonishment. “Watching the
twilight as if you were sitting for your portraits, while here we have
been searching for you over hill and dale. Have we not, Mr. Glaston?”
Mr. Glaston thought it unnecessary to corroborate a statement made with
such evident ingenuousness.
“Well, your search met with its reward, I hope, Miss Vincent,” said
Oswin.
“What, in finding you?”
“I am not so vain as to fancy it possible that you should accept that as
a reward, Miss Vincent,” he replied.
The young lady gave him a glance that was meant to read his inmost soul.
Then she laughed.
“We must really hasten back to good Mamma Crawford,” she said, with a
seriousness that seemed more frivolous than her frivolity. “Every one
will be wondering where we have been.”
“Lucky that you will be able to tell them,” remarked Oswin.
“How?” she said quickly, almost apprehensively.
“Why, you know you can say 'Over hill, over dale,' and so satisfy even
the most sceptical in a moment.”
Miss Lottie made a little pause, then laughed again; she did not think
it necessary to make any reply.
And so they all went down by the little track along the edge of the
ravine, and the great Peak became darker above them as the twilight
dwindled into evening.