CONCLUSION.
What is it you would see?
If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.
*****
And let me speak to the yet unknowing world
How these things came about: so shall you hear
Of accidental judgments...
purposes mistook.
... let this same be presently performed
... lest more mischance
On plots and errors happen.--_Hamlet._
|LITTLE more remains to be told to complete the story of the few months
of the lives of the people whose names have appeared in these pages in
illustration of how hardly things go right.
Upon that night, after the bishop's little dinnerparty, every one,
except Mr. Despard, seemed to have a bitter consciousness of how
terribly astray things had gone. It seemed hopeless to think that
anything could possibly be made right again. If Mrs. Crawford had not
been a pious woman and a Christian, she would have been inclined to say
that the Fates, which had busied themselves with the disarrangement of
her own carefully constructed plans, had become inebriated with their
success and were wantoning in the confusion of the mortals who had been
their playthings. Should any one have ventured to interpret her thoughts
after this fashion, however, Mrs. Crawford would have been indignant
and would have assured her accuser that her only thought was how hardly
things go right. And perhaps, indeed, the sum of her thoughts could not
have been expressed by words of fuller meaning.
She had been careful beyond all her previous carefulness that her plans
for the future of Daireen Gerald should be arranged so as to insure
their success; and yet, what was the result of days of thoughtfulness
and unwearying toil, she asked herself as she was driving homeward under
the heavy oak branches amongst which a million fire-flies were flitting.
This feeling of defeat--nay, even of shame, for the words Colonel
Gerald had spoken to her in his bitterness of spirit were still in her
mind--was this the result of her care, her watchfulness, her skill of
organisation? Truly Mrs. Crawford felt that she had reason for thinking
herself ill-treated.
“Major,” she said solemnly to the Army Boot Commissioner as he partook
of some simple refreshment in the way of brandy and water before
retiring for the night--“Major, listen to me while I tell you that I
wash my hands clear of these people. Daireen Gerald has disappointed me;
she has made a fool both of herself and of me; and George Gerald grossly
insulted me.”
“Did he really now?” said the major compassionately, as he added another
thimbleful of the contents of the bottle to his tumbler. “Upon my soul
it was too bad of George--a devilish deal too bad of him.” Here the
major emptied his tumbler. He was feeling bitterly the wrong done to his
wife as he yawned and searched in the dimness for a cheroot.
“I wash my hands clear of them all,” continued the lady. “The bishop is
a poor thing to allow himself to be led by that son of his, and the son
is a----”
“For God's sake take care, Kate; a bishop, you know, is not like the
rest of the people.”
“He is a weak thing, I say,” continued Mrs. Crawford firmly. “And his
son is--a--puppy. But I have done with them.”
“And _for_ them,” said the major, striking a light.
Thus it was that Mrs. Crawford relieved her pent-up feelings as she went
to her bed; but in spite of the disappointment Daireen had caused her,
and the gross insult she had received from Daireen's father, before she
went to sleep she had asked herself if it might not be well to forgive
George Gerald and to beg of him to show some additional attention to Mr.
Harwood, who was, all things considered, a most deserving man, besides
being a distinguished person and a clever. Yes, she thought that this
would be a prudent step for Colonel Gerald to take at once. If Daireen
had made a mistake, it was sad, to be sure, but there was no reason
why it might not be retrieved, Mrs. Crawford felt; and she fell asleep
without any wrath in her heart against her old friend George Gerald.
And Arthur Harwood, as he stood in his room at the hotel and looked out
to the water of Table Bay, had the truth very strongly forced upon him
that things had gone far wrong indeed, and with a facility of error
that was terrifying. He felt that he alone could fully appreciate how
terribly astray everything had gone. He saw in a single glance all of
the past; and his scrupulously just conscience did not fail to give him
credit for having at least surmised something of the truth that had
just been brought to light. From the first--even before he had seen
the man--he had suspected Oswin Markham; and, subsequently, had he not
perceived--or at any rate fancied that he perceived--something of the
feeling that existed between Markham and Daireen?
His conscience gave him ample credit for his perception; but after all,
this was an unsatisfactory set-off against the weight of his reflections
on the subject of the general error of affairs that concerned him
closely, not the least of which was the unreasonable conduct of the
Zulu monarch who had rejected the British ultimatum, and who thus
necessitated the presence of a special correspondent in his dominions.
Harwood, seeing the position of everything at a glance, had come to the
conclusion that it would be impossible for him, until some months had
passed, to tell Daireen all that he believed was in his heart. He knew
that she had loved that man whom she had saved from death, and who had
rewarded her by behaving as a ruffian towards her; still Mr. Harwood,
like Mrs. Crawford, felt that her mistake was not irretrievable. But if
he himself were now compelled by the conduct of this wretched savage
to leave Cape Town for an indefinite period, how should he have an
opportunity of pointing out to Daireen the direction in which her
happiness lay? Mr. Harwood was not generously disposed towards the Zulu
monarch.
Upon descending to the coffee-room in the morning, he found Mr. Despard
sitting somewhat moodily at the table. Harwood was beginning to think,
now that Mr. Despard's mission in life had been performed, there could
be no reason why his companionship should be sought. But Mr. Despard
was not at all disposed to allow his rapidly conceived friendship for
Harwood to be cut short.
“Hallo, Mr. Editor, you're down at last, are you?” he cried. “The
colonel didn't go up to, your room, you bet, though he did to me--fine
old boy is he, by my soul--plenty of good work in him yet.”
“The colonel? Was Colonel Gerald here?” asked Harwood.
“He was, Mr. Editor; he was here just to see me, and have a friendly
morning chat. We've taken to each other, has the colonel and me.”
“He heard that Markham had gone? You told him, no doubt?”
“Mr. Editor, sir,” said Despard, rising to his feet and keeping himself
comparatively steady by grasping the edge of the table,--“Mr. Editor,
there are things too sacred to be divulged even to the Press. There are
feelings--emotions--chords of the human heart--you know all that sort
of thing--the bond of friendship between the colonel and me is something
like that. What I told him will never be divulged while I'm sober. Oswin
had his faults, no doubt, but for that matter I have mine. Which of us
is perfect, Mr. Editor? Why, here's this innocent-looking lad that's
coming to me with another bottle of old Irish, hang me if he isn't a
walking receptacle of bribery and corruption! What, are you off?”
Mr. Harwood was off, nor did he think if necessary to go through the
formality of shaking hands with the moraliser at the table.
It was on the day following that Mrs. Crawford called at Colonel
Gerald's cottage at Mowbray. She gave a start when she saw that the
little hall was blocked up with packing-cases. One of them was an old
military camp-box, and upon the end of it was painted in dimly white
letters the name “Lieutenant George Gerald.” Seeing it now as she had
often seen it in the days at the Indian station, the poor old campaigner
sat down on a tin uniform-case and burst into tears.
“Kate, dear good Kate,” said Colonel Gerald, laying his hand on her
shoulder. “What is the matter, my dear girl?”
“Oh, George, George!” sobbed the lady, “look at that case there--look at
it, and think of the words you spoke to me two nights ago. Oh, George,
George!”
“God forgive me, Kate, I was unjust--ungenerous. Oh, Kate, you do not
know how I had lost myself as the bitter truth was forced upon me. You
have forgiven me long ago, have you not?”
“I have, George,” she said, putting her hand in his. “God knows I have
forgiven you. But what is the meaning of this? You are not going away,
surely?”
“We leave by the mail to-morrow, Kate,” said the colonel.
“Good gracious, is it so bad as that?” asked the lady, alarmed.
“Bad? there is nothing bad now, my dear. We only feel--Dolly and
myself--that we must have a few months together amongst our native Irish
mountains before we set out for the distant Castaways.”
Mrs. Crawford looked into his face earnestly for some moments. “Poor
darling little Dolly,” she said in a voice full of compassion; “she has
met with a great grief, but I pray that all may yet be well. I will
not see her now, but I will say farewell to her aboard the steamer
to-morrow. Give her my love, George. God knows how dear she is to me.”
Colonel Gerald put his arms about his old friend and kissed her
silently.
Upon the afternoon of the next day the crowd about the stern of the mail
steamer which was at the point of leaving for England was very large.
But it is only necessary to refer to a few of the groups on the deck.
Colonel Gerald and his old friend Major Crawford were side by side,
while Daireen and the major's wife were standing apart looking together
up to the curved slopes of the tawny Lion's Head that half hid the dark,
flat face of Table Mountain. Daireen was pale almost to whiteness, and
as her considerate friend said some agreeable words to her she smiled
faintly, but the observant Standish felt that her smile was not real,
it was only a phantom of the smiles of the past which had lived upon her
face. Standish was beside his father, who had been so fortunate as to
obtain the attention of Mr. Harwood for the story of the wrongs he had
suffered through the sale of his property in Ireland.
“What is there left for me in the counthry of my sires that bled?”
he inquired with an emphasis that almost amounted to passion. “The
sthrangers that have torn the land away from us thrample us into the
dust. No, sir, I'll never return to be thrampled upon; I'll go with my
son to the land of our exile--the distant Castaway isles, where the
flag of freedom may yet burn as a beacon above the thunderclouds of our
enemies. Return to the land that has been torn from us? Never.”
Standish, who could have given a very good guess as to the number of
The Macnamara's creditors awaiting his return with anxiety, if not
impatience, moved away quickly, and Daireen noticed his action. She
whispered a word to Mrs. Crawford, and in another instant she and
Standish were together. She gave him her hand, and each looked into the
other's face speechlessly for a few moments. On her face there was a
faint tender smile, but his was full of passionate entreaty, the force
of which made his eyes tremulous.
“Standish, dear old Standish,” she said; “you alone seem good and noble
and true. You will not forget all the happy days we have had together.”
“Forget them?” said Standish. “Oh, Daireen, if you could but know
all--if you could but know how I think of every day we have passed
together. What else is there in the world worth thinking about? Oh,
Daireen, you know that I have always thought of you only--that I will
always think of you.”
“Not yet, Standish,” she whispered. “Do not say anything to me--no,
nothing--yet. But you will write every week, and tell me how the
Castaway people are getting on, until we come out to you at the
islands.”
“Daireen, do all the days we have passed together at home--on the
lough--on the mountain, go for nothing?” he cried almost sadly. “Oh, my
darling, surely we cannot part in this way. Your life is not wrecked.”
“No, no, not wrecked,” she said with a start, and he knew she was
struggling to be strong.
“You will be happy, Daireen, you will indeed, after a while. And you
will give me a word of hope now--one little word to make me happy.”
She looked at him--tearfully--lovingly. “Dear Standish, I can only give
you one word. Will it comfort you at all if I say _Hope_, Standish?”
“My darling, my love! I knew it would come right in the end. The world I
knew could not be so utterly forsaken by God but that everything should
come right.”
“It is only one word I have given you,” she said.
“But what a word, Daireen! oh, the dearest and best word I ever heard
breathed. God bless you, darling! God bless you!”
He did not make any attempt to kiss her: he only held her white hand
tightly for an instant and looked into her pure, loving eyes.
“Now, my boy, good-bye,” said Colonel Gerald, laying his hand upon
Standish's shoulder. “You will leave next week for the Castaways, and
you will, I know, be careful to obey to the letter the directions of
those in command until I come out to you. You must write a complete
diary, as I told you--ah, there goes the gun! Daireen, here is Mr.
Harwood waiting to shake hands with you.”
Mr. Harwood's hand was soon in the girl's.
“Good-bye, Miss Gerald. I trust you will sometimes give me a thought,”
he said quietly.
“I shall never forget you, Mr. Harwood,” she said as she returned his
grasp.
In another instant, as it seemed to the group on the shore, the good
steamer passing out of the bay had dwindled down to that white piece of
linen which a little hand waved over the stern.
“Mr. Harwood,” said Mrs. Crawford, as the special correspondent brought
the major's wife to a wagonette,--“Mr. Harwood, I fear we have been
terribly wrong. But indeed all the wrong was not mine. You, I know, will
not blame me.”
“I blame you, Mrs. Crawford? Do not think of such a thing,” said
Harwood. “No; no one is to blame. Fate was too much for both of us, Mrs.
Crawford. But all is over now. All the past days with her near us are
now no more than pleasant memories. I go round to Natal in two days, and
then to my work in the camp.”
“Oh, Mr. Harwood, what ruffians there are in this world!” said the lady
just before they parted. Mr. Harwood smiled his acquiescence. His own
experience in the world had led him to arrive unassisted at a similar
conclusion.
Arthur Harwood kept his work and left by the steamer for Natal two
days afterwards; and in the same steamer Mr. Despard took passage
also, declaring his intention to enlist on the side of the Zulus.
Upon reaching Algoa Bay, however, he went ashore and did not put in an
appearance at the departure of the steamer from the port; so that Mr.
Harwood was deprived of his companionship, which had hitherto been
pretty close, but which promised to become even more so. As there was in
the harbour a small vessel about to proceed to Australia, the anxiety of
the special correspondent regarding the future of the man never reached
a point of embarrassment.
The next week Standish Macnamara, accompanied by his father, left for
the Castaway Islands, where he was to take up his position as secretary
to the new governor of the sunny group. Standish was full of eagerness
to begin his career of hard and noble work in the world. He felt that
there would be a large field for the exercise of his abilities in the
Castaways, and with the word that Daireen had given him living in his
heart to inspire all his actions, he felt that there was nothing too
hard for him to accomplish, even to compelling his father to return to
Ireland before six months should have passed.
It was on a cool afternoon towards the end of this week, that Mrs.
Crawford was walking under the trees in the gardens opposite Government
House, when she heard a pleasant little musical laugh behind her,
accompanied by the pat of dainty little high-heeled shoes.
“Dear, good Mrs. Crawford, why will you walk so terribly fast? It quite
took away the breath of poor little me to follow you,” came the voice of
Lottie Vincent Mrs. Crawford turned, and as she was with a friend, she
could not avoid allowing her stout hand to be touched by one of Lottie's
ten-buttoned gloves. “Ah, you are surprised to see me,” continued the
young lady. “I am surprised myself to find myself here, but papa would
not hear of my remaining at Natal when he went on to the frontier with
the regiment, so I am staying with a friend in Cape Town. Algernon is
here, but the dear boy is distressed by the number of people. Poor Algy
is so sensitive.”
“Poor who?” cried Mrs. Crawford.
“Oh, good gracious, what have I said?” exclaimed the artless little
thing, blushing very prettily, and appearing as tremulous as a fluttered
dove. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Crawford, I never thought of concealing it
from you for a moment. I meant to tell you the first of any one in the
world--I did indeed.”
“To tell me what?” asked the major's wife sternly.
“Surely you know that the dear good bishop has given his consent
to--to--do help me out of my difficulty of explaining, Mrs. Crawford.”
“To your becoming the wife of his son?”
“I knew you would not ask me to say it all so terribly plainly,” said
Lottie. “Ah yes, dear Algy was too importunate for poor little me to
resist; I pitied him and promised to become his for ever. We are
devoted to each other, for there is no bond so fast as that of artistic
sympathy, Mrs. Crawford. I meant to write and thank you for your dear
good-natured influence, which, I know, brought about his proposal. It
was all due, I frankly acknowledge, to your kindness in bringing us
together upon the day of that delightful lunch we had at the grove
of silver leaves. How can I ever thank you? But there is darling Algy
looking quite bored. I must rush to him,” she continued, as she saw Mrs.
Crawford about to speak. Lottie did not think it prudent to run the
risk of hearing Mrs. Crawford refer to certain little Indian affairs
connected with Lottie's residence at that agreeable station on the
Himalayas; so she kissed the tips of her gloves, and tripped away to
where Mr. Algernon Glaston was sitting on one of the garden seats.
“She is a wicked girl,” said Mrs. Crawford to her companion. “She has
at last succeeded in finding some one foolish enough to be entrapped by
her. Never mind, she has conquered--I admit that. Oh, this world, this
world!”
And there can hardly be a doubt that Miss Lottie Vincent, all things
considered, might be said to have conquered. She was engaged to marry
Algernon Glaston, the son of the Bishop of the Calapash Islands and
Metropolitan of the Salamander Group, and this to Lottie meant conquest.
Of Oswin Markham only a few words need be spoken to close this story,
such as it is. Oswin Markham was once more seen by Harwood. Two months
after the outbreak of the war the special correspondent, in the
exercise of his duty, was one night riding by the Tugela, where a fierce
engagement had taken place between the Zulus and the British troops.
The dead, black and white, were lying together--assagai and rifle
intermixed. Harwood looked at the white upturned faces of the dead men
that the moonlight made more ghastly, and amongst those faces he saw the
stern clear-cut features of Oswin Markham. He was in the uniform of a
Natal volunteer. Harwood gave a start, but only one; he stood above the
dead man for a long time, lost in his own thoughts. Then the pioneers,
who were burying the dead, came up.
“Poor wretch, poor wretch!” he said slowly, standing there in the
moonlight. “Poor wretch!... If she had never seen him... if... Poor
child!”