It is the nineteenth of May. S. S. has returned, and the east wind which
has long been vexing our souls has departed for the moment, and a soft
caressing zephyr blows seductively. The garden, comforted by recent
showers, is smiling one broad smile from the red steps at the top of it
to the new pergola at the bottom. And now this morning comes the news of
the Relief of Mafeking. Joy for the victors; joy for the nation; joy for
everything and everybody. Flags flutter from all the posts; the dogs
strut about in new tricolor rosettes; “the air breaks into a mist with
bells.” All this is well, very well. Only; only. A few lines coming by
the same post, a single short note, and for one person that May sunshine
is blotted out as effectually as though the very orb itself had
perished. The garden with all its flowers; the copse surrounding it, new
clad in gala attire; the whole cheerful little picture has become
darkened; its atmosphere changed; its pleasant anticipations turned
into a simple mockery. Even to-day’s news sounds thin and unreal, and
the tale of Mafeking is as it were the tale of some defence read of long
since in an ancient, a seldom-opened history, the actors and heroes of
which have long vanished and been forgotten. We are but poor, bedimmed
mirrors all of us, and what we reflect is rarely the real thing, more
often only some blurred and distorted image projected by our own sad
selves.