“Explain?” said the man. “That there explains itself. Look at that picture. The woman in that picture is Oswin Markham's wife, the Italian he brought to Australia, where he left her. That's plain enough. A deucedly fine woman she is, though they never did get on together. Hallo! What's the matter with Missy there? My God! she's going to faint.”
But Daireen Gerald did not faint. Her father had his arm about her.
“Papa,” she whispered faintly,—“Papa, take me home.”
“My darling,” said Colonel Gerald. “Do not look like that. For God's sake, Daireen, don't look like that.” They were standing outside waiting for the carriage to come up; for Daireen had walked from the room without faltering.
“Do not mind me,” she said. “I am strong—yes—very—very strong.”
He lifted her into the carriage, and was at the point of entering himself, when the figure of Mrs. Crawford appeared among the palm plants.
“Good heavens, George! what is the meaning of this?” she said in a whisper.
“Go back!” cried Colonel Gerald sternly. “Go back! This is some more of your work. You shall never see my child again!”
He stepped into the carriage. The major's wife was left standing in the porch thunderstruck at such a reproach coming from the colonel. Was this the reward of her labour—to stand among the palms, listening to the passing away of the carriage wheels?
It was not until the Dutch cottage had been reached that Daireen, in the darkness of the room, laid her head upon her father's shoulder.