Major Kent and Meldon dined at Ballymoy House, and spent a very
pleasant evening. At eleven o'clock they started on their drive home.
"I'm sorry--" said the Major, and then paused.
"I hope not," said Meldon. "You ought not to be."
"I'm not," said the Major. "I merely meant that I'm afraid this rather
unexpected--"
"Go on," said Meldon. "I'd like to get at your exact feelings if I
can."
"Isn't this rather--rather an upset for you, J.J.?"
"For me?"
"Yes. On account of that plan of yours--Simpkins, you know. I was
afraid all the time you would feel disappointed."
"My plan," said Meldon, "is perfectly sound, and is working out
admirably."
"But you said that you meant--"
"You're making one of your usual mistakes, Major. You're confusing the
end I had in view with the means I adopted to bring it about. What I
originally undertook to do was to remove Simpkins from Ballymoy. In
that I have been entirely successful. He can't, simply can't, spend
another week in the place. I mentioned to Doyle this morning that
Simpkins intended to marry Miss King. Doyle evidently told several
other people, for half the town was out to cheer us as we passed
through on our way from Donard. When Simpkins sneaked back at about
six o'clock this evening, looking like a whipped dog, there was sure to
have been a large crowd to meet him. I said he was to tell Doyle the
result as he passed; but whether he did or not, Doyle is sure to have
found it out before night. How do you suppose Simpkins will be
feeling?"
The Major chuckled.
"And what do you suppose will happen?" said Meldon.
"I don't know. They'll laugh at him, I expect."
"Laugh isn't the word," said Meldon. "They'll get out the town band
and play tunes under his window half the night. He won't be able to
put his nose outside the door without being met by a tribe of small
boys grinning. There isn't a woman or a girl in the place, from Sabina
Gallagher up, but will be making fun of him. Doyle and O'Donoghue and
all the police will call round to condole with him. No man could stand
it for a week. He'll go to-morrow, and have his luggage sent after
him. That's the way my plan has worked out with regard to Simpkins,
and I've no reason to be ashamed of it."
"I'm glad you look at it that way, J. J. I was afraid perhaps--"
"You needn't have been. I'm not one of those small-minded men who
allow themselves to be tied to details, and are irritated because
things don't go exactly as they expect. I look to the real object, the
great ultimate end which I hope to achieve. As long as that comes off
all right I don't worry myself about trifles. In this case I
consider--and everybody who takes a large view will also consider--that
I have been entirely successful. And now let's talk of something else.
I'll marry you, of course."
"We both hope you will," said the Major.
"Right. That's settled. What about bridesmaids?"
"We haven't gone into that yet."
"You must have bridesmaids, of course. And I don't think you could do
better than your own god-daughter. She'll be over the whooping-cough
by that time, I hope."
"I'd like that very much," said the Major. "But isn't she rather
small?"
"Not at all. She can be led up the aisle immediately behind the bride.
Sabina Gallagher can lead her. I'm going to engage Sabina as nurse and
general servant. Now that Simpkins is going, Doyle can get that
red-haired girl, Sabina's cousin. She'll do him quite well for all he
wants. And he never properly appreciated Sabina. Shall we regard that
as settled?"
"I suppose it will be all right."
"Quite," said Meldon. "You may safely leave it in my hands. And now,
Major, since everything has worked out in such a satisfactory way for
you, I hope you'll try and feel more kindly towards poor Simpkins.
He'll suffer a lot as it is; and I don't think you ought to make any
further attempt on his life. I always thought you were going too far
in your resentment."
"J. J., I really--"
"The judge will let you fish anywhere you like; so that you haven't a
ghost of a grievance left."
"I'll ask Simpkins to the wedding if you like."
"That," said Meldon, "would be a refinement of cruelty, and I won't
consent to its being done. Wanting to kill the man was bad enough. I
never liked it. But what you propose now is infinitely worse. Why
can't you forgive the wretched creature, and then forget all about him?"
* * * * * *
It was half-past twelve o'clock. Major Kent, in spite of the
excitement of the afternoon, was sound asleep when he was roused by a
sharp knocking at his door. He sat up in bed and struck a match.
"Good gracious, J. J.," he said, "what on earth do you want at this
time of night? Why aren't you asleep?"
"I couldn't sleep," said Meldon, "with the feeling on my mind that I
had been doing a wrong--quite without malice and under circumstances
which excuse it, but still doing a wrong to Miss King."
"You mean in mistaking her--"
"Quite so."
"That'll be all right, J. J. Don't worry about it. Go back to bed
again."
"I'm not worrying in the least," said Meldon. "I never worry; but when
I've done a wrong to anybody, I like to make amends at once."
"You can't do anything to-night. It's too late. Do go back to bed."
"I have done something. I've made amends, and here they are. I want
you to give them to her to-morrow morning."
He held out a sheet of paper as he spoke.
"If that's a written apology," said the Major, "it's quite unnecessary.
But you can leave it on the dressing-table. It's nice of you to think
of making it."
"It's not an apology," said Meldon. "Apologies are futile things.
This is something that will be of some use and real value to Miss King.
It's the end of a novel."
"What are you talking about?"
"I've always understood," said Meldon, "that the last few paragraphs of
a novel are by far the most difficult part to write. Now that I've
found out what Miss King's art really is, I think the best thing I can
do, by way of making amends for my unfortunate mistake, is to hand over
to her the conclusion of a novel, ready written. I've been at it ever
since you went to bed. Here it is. I'll just read it out to you, and
then you can give it to her with my compliments to-morrow morning."
"'The evening closed slowly, a glory still lingering on the shining
waters of the bay, as if day were indeed loth to leave the scene it had
found so fair. A solitary figure breasted the long hill above the
little town, striding steadily along the grey road, which wound
eastwards into the gloom.'"
"It may perhaps be better to mention to you, Major, though Miss King
will recognise the fact at once for herself, that the solitary figure
is Simpkins."
"'At the crown of the hill, just where the road begins to dip again, at
the spot where the last view of the town and the bay is obtained, the
lonely traveller paused. He turned round, and for a while stood gazing
wistfully at the scene he had left behind. The hum of the town's life,
the sudden shoutings of the children at their play, even, as he
fancied, the eternal pathos of the ocean's murmuring, were borne
upwards to him on the evening breeze. Far off, among the trees,
twinkled a solitary light. A great sob shook his frame suddenly.
There, in the warm glow of the lamp, whose rays reached him like those
of some infinitely distant star, sat the woman whom he loved, who might
have been his, who was-- Ah me! He set his teeth. His lips,
bloodless now as the very lips of death, were pressed tight together.
He turned again, and, still walking bravely, descended the hill into
the gloom.
"'So life deals with us. To one is given, and he hath abundance. From
another is taken away even that which he hath. Yet, who knows? It was
towards the east he travelled. The sun had set indeed; but it would
rise again. And it is always in the east that suns rise.'"
"Thanks, J. J.," said the Major sleepily. "It's awfully fine. If you
wouldn't mind putting it on the dressing-table under my brush, it will
be quite safe till morning."