The Rosary
Chapter XXXIII
"Something Is Going To Happen!"
Wednesday dawned; an ideal First of May: Garth was in the garden before
breakfast. Jane heard him singing, as he passed beneath her window.
"It is not mine to sing the stately grace,
The great soul beaming in my lady's face."
She leaned out.
He was walking below in the freshest of white flannels; his step so light and
elastic; his every movement so lithe and graceful; the only sign of his
blindness the Malacca cane he held in his hand, with which he occasionally
touched the grass border, or the wall of the house. She could only see the top
of his dark head. It might have been on the terrace at Shenstone, three years
before. She longed to call from the window; "Darling — my Darling! Good
morning! God bless you to-day."
Ah what would to-day bring forth; — the day when her full confession, and
explanation, and plea for pardon, would reach him? He was such a boy in many
ways; so light-hearted, loving, artistic, poetic, irrepressible; ever young, in
spite of his great affliction. But where his manhood was concerned; his love;
his right of choice and of decision; of maintaining a fairly-formed opinion, and
setting aside the less competent judgment of others; she knew him rigid,
inflexible. His very pain seemed to cool him, from the molten lover, to the bar
of steel.
As Jane knelt at her window that morning, she had not the least idea whether
the evening would find her travelling to Aberdeen, to take the night mail south;
or at home forever in the heaven of Garth's love.
And down below he passed again, still singing:
"But mine it is to follow in her train;
Do her behests in pleasure or in pain;
Burn at her altar love's sweet frankincense,
And worship her in distant reverence."
"Ah, beloved!" whispered Jane, "not 'distant.' If you want her, and call her,
it will be to the closest closeness love can devise. No more distance between
you and me."
And then, in the curious way in which inspired words will sometimes occur to
the mind quite apart from their inspired context, and bearing a totally
different meaning from that which they primarily bear, these words came to Jane:
"For He is our peace, Who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle
wall of partition between us . . . that He might reconcile both . . . by the
cross." "Ah, dear Christ!" she whispered. "If Thy cross could do this for Jew
and Gentile, may not my boy's heavy cross, so bravely borne, do it for him and
for me? So shall we come at last, indeed, to 'kiss the cross.'"
The breakfast gong boomed through the house. Simpson loved gongs. He
considered them "Haristocratic." He always gave full measure.
Nurse Rosemary went down to breakfast.
Garth came in, through the French window, humming "The thousand beauties that
I know so well." He was in his gayest, most inconsequent mood. He had picked a
golden rosebud in the conservatory and wore it in his buttonhole. He carried a
yellow rose in his hand.
"Good day, Miss Rosemary," he said. "What a May Day! Simpson and I were up
with the lark; weren't we, Simpson? Poor Simpson felt like a sort of 'Queen of
the May,' when my electric bell trilled in his room, at 5 A.M. But I couldn't
stay in bed. I woke with my something-is-going-to-happen feeling; and when I was
a little chap and woke with that, Margery used to say: 'Get up quickly then,
Master Garth, and it will happen all the sooner.' You ask her if she didn't,
Simpson. Miss Gray, did you ever learn: 'If you're waking call me early, call me
early, mother dear'? I always hated that young woman! I should think, in her
excited state, she would have been waking long before her poor mother, who must
have been worn to a perfect rag, making all the hussy's May Queen-clothes,
overnight."
Simpson had waited to guide him to his place at the table. Then he removed
the covers, and left the room.
As soon as he had closed the door behind him, Garth leaned forward, and with
unerring accuracy laid the opening rose upon Nurse Rosemary's plate.
"Roses for Rosemary," he said. "Wear it, if you are sure the young man would
not object. I have been thinking about him and the aunt. I wish you could ask
them both here, instead of going away on Thursday. We would have the 'maddest,
merriest time!' I would play with the aunt, while you had it out with the young
man. And I could easily keep the aunt away from nooks and corners, because my
hearing is sharper than any aunt's eyes could be, and if you gave a gentle
cough, I would promptly clutch hold of auntie, and insist upon being guided in
the opposite direction. And I would take her out in the motor; and you and the
young man could have the gig. And then when all was satisfactorily settled, we
could pack them off home, and be by ourselves again. Ah, Miss Gray, do send for
them, instead of leaving me on Thursday."
"Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary, reprovingly, as she leaned forward and
touched his right hand with the rim of his saucer, "this May-Day morning has
gone to your head. I shall send for Margery. She may have known the symptoms, of
old."
"It is not that," said Garth. He leaned forward and spoke confidentially.
"Something is going to happen to-day, little Rosemary. Whenever I feel like
this, something happens. The first time it occurred, about twenty-five years
ago, there was a rocking- horse in the hall, when I ran downstairs! I have never
forgotten my first ride on that rocking-horse. The fearful joy when he went
backward; the awful plunge when he went forward; and the proud moment when it
was possible to cease clinging to the leather pommel. I nearly killed the cousin
who pulled out his tail. I thrashed him, then and there, WITH the tail; which
was such a silly thing to do; because, though it damaged the cousin, it also
spoiled the tail. The next time — ah, but I am boring you!"
"Not at all," said Nurse Rosemary, politely; "but I want you to have some
breakfast; and the letters will be here in a few minutes."
He looked so brown and radiant, this dear delightful boy, with his gold-brown
tie, and yellow rose. She was conscious of her pallor, and oppressive
earnestness, as she said: "The letters will be here."
"Oh, bother the letters!" cried Garth. "Let's have a holiday from letters on
May Day! You shall be Queen of the May; and Margery shall be the old mother. I
will be Robin, with the breaking heart, leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel
tree; and Simpson can be the 'bolder lad.' And we will all go and 'gather knots
of flowers, and buds, and garlands gay.'"
"Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary, laughing, in spite of herself, "you
really must be sensible, or I shall go and consult Margery. I have never seen
you in such a mood."
"You have never seen me, on a day when something was going to happen," said
Garth; and Nurse Rosemary made no further attempt to repress him.
After breakfast, he went to the piano, and played two-steps, and rag-time
music, so infectiously, that Simpson literally tripped as he cleared the table;
and Nurse Rosemary, sitting pale and preoccupied, with a pile of letters before
her, had hard work to keep her feet still.
Simpson had two-stepped to the door with the cloth, and closed it after him.
Nurse Rosemary's remarks about the post-bag, and the letters, had remained
unanswered. "Shine little glowworm glimmer" was pealing gaily through the room,
like silver bells, — when the door opened, and old Margery appeared, in a black
satin apron, and a blue print sunbonnet. She came straight to the piano, and
laid her hand gently on Garth's arm.
"Master Garthie," she said, "on this lovely May morning, will you take old
Margery up into the woods?"
Garth's hands dropped from the keys. "Of course I will, Margie," he said.
"And, I say Margie, SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN."
"I know it, laddie," said the old woman, tenderly; and the expression with
which she looked into the blind face filled Jane's eyes with tears. "I woke with
it too, Master Garthie; and now we will go into the woods, and listen to the
earth, and trees, and flowers, and they will tell us whether it is for joy, or
for sorrow. Come, my own laddie."
Garth rose, as in a dream. Even in his blindness he looked so young, and so
beautiful, that Jane's watching heart stood still.
At the window he paused. "Where is that secretary person?" he said, vaguely.
"She kept trying to shut me up."
"I know she did, laddie," said old Margery, curtseying apologetically towards
Jane. "You see she does not know the 'something-is-going-to-happen-to-day'
awakening."
"Ah, doesn't she?" thought Jane, as they disappeared through the window. "But
as my Garth has gone off his dear head, and been taken away by his nurse, the
thing that is going to happen, can't happen just yet." And Jane sat down to the
piano, and very softly ran through the accompaniment of The Rosary. Then, —
after shading her eyes on the terrace, and making sure that a tall white figure
leaning on a short dark one, had almost reached the top of the hill, — still
more softly, she sang it.
Afterwards she went for a tramp on the moors, and steadied her nerve by the
rapid swing of her walk, and the deep inbreathing of that glorious air. Once or
twice she took a telegram from her pocket, stood still and read it; then tramped
on, to the wonder of the words: "Special license easily obtained." Ah, the
license might be easy to obtain; but how about his forgiveness? That must be
obtained first. If there were only this darling boy to deal with, in his white
flannels and yellow roses, with a May-Day madness in his veins, the license
might come at once; and all he could wish should happen without delay. But this
is a passing phase of Garth. What she has to deal with is the white-faced man,
who calmly said: "I accept the cross," and walked down the village church
leaving her — for all these years. Loving her, as he loved her; and yet leaving
her, — without word or sign, for three long years. To hire, was the confession;
his would be the decision; and, somehow, it did not surprise her, when she came
down to luncheon, a little late, to find HIM seated at the table.
"Miss Gray," he said gravely, as he heard her enter, "I must apologise for my
behaviour this morning. I was what they call up here 'fey.' Margery understands
the mood; and together she and I have listened to kind Mother Earth, laying our
hands on her sympathetic softness, and she has told us her secrets. Then I lay
down under the fir trees and slept; and awakened calm and sane, and ready for
what to-day must bring. For it WILL bring something. That is no delusion. It is
a day of great things. That much, Margery knows, too."
"Perhaps," suggested Nurse Rosemary, tentatively, "there may be news of
interest in your letters."
"Ah," said Garth, "I forgot. We have not even opened this morning's letters.
Let us take time for them immediately after lunch. Are there many?"
"Quite a pile," said Nurse Rosemary.
"Good. We will work soberly through them."
Half an hour later Garth was seated in his chair, calm and expectant; his
face turned towards his secretary. He had handled his letters, and amongst them
he had found one sealed; and the seal was a plumed helmet, with visor closed.
Nurse Rosemary saw him pale, as his fingers touched it. He made no remark; but,
as before, slipped it beneath the rest, that it might come up for reading, last
of all.
When the others were finished, and Nurse Rosemary took up this letter, the
room was very still. They were quite alone. Bees hummed in the garden. The scent
of flowers stole in at the window. But no one disturbed their solitude.
Nurse Rosemary took up the envelope.
"Mr. Dalmain, here is a letter, sealed with scarlet wax. The seal is a helmet
with visor — "
"I know," said Garth. "You need not describe it further. Kindly open it."
Nurse Rosemary opened it. "It is a very long letter, Mr. Dalmain."
"Indeed? Will you please read it to me, Miss Gray."
A tense moment of silence followed. Nurse Rosemary lifted the letter; but her
voice suddenly refused to respond to her will. Garth waited without further
word.
Then Nurse Rosemary said: "Indeed, sir, it seems a most private letter. I
find it difficult to read it to you."
Garth heard the distress in her voice, and turned to her kindly.
"Never mind, my dear child. It in no way concerns you. It is a private letter
to me; but my only means of hearing it is through your eyes, and from your lips.
Besides, the lady, whose seal is a plumed helmet, can have nothing of a very
private nature to say to me."
"Ah, but she has," said Nurse Rosemary, brokenly.
Garth considered this in silence.
Then: "Turn over the page," he said, "and tell me the signature."
"There are many pages," said Nurse Rosemary.
"Turn over the pages then," said Garth, sternly. "Do not keep me waiting. How
is that letter signed?"
"YOUR WIFE," whispered Nurse Rosemary.
There was a petrifying quality about the silence which followed. It seemed as
if those two words, whispered into Garth's darkness, had turned him to stone.
At last he stretched out his hand. "Will you give me that letter, if you
please, Miss Gray? Thank you. I wish to be alone for a quarter of an hour. I
shall be glad if you will be good enough to sit in the dining-room, and stop any
one from coming into this room. I must be undisturbed. At the end of that time
kindly return."
He spoke so quietly that Jane's heart sank within her. Some display of
agitation would have been reassuring. This was the man who, bowing his dark head
towards the crucifixion window, said: "I accept the cross." This was the man,
whose footsteps never once faltered as he strode down the aisle, and left her.
This was the man, who had had the strength, ever since, to treat that episode
between her and himself, as completely closed; no word of entreaty; no sign of
remembrance; no hint of reproach. And this was the man to whom she had signed
herself: "Your wife."
In her whole life, Jane had never known fear. She knew it now.
As she silently rose and left him, she stole one look at his face. He was
sitting perfectly still; the letter in his hand. He had not turned his head
toward her as he took it. His profile might have been a beautiful carving in
white ivory. There was not the faintest tinge of colour in his face; just that
ivory pallor, against the ebony lines of his straight brows, and smooth dark
hair.
Jane softly left the room, closing the door behind her.
Then followed the longest fifteen minutes she had ever known. She realised
what a tremendous conflict was in progress in that quiet room. Garth was
arriving at his decision without having heard any of her arguments. By the
strange fatality of his own insistence, he had heard only two words of her
letter, and those the crucial words; the two words to which the whole letter
carefully led up. They must have revealed to him instantly, what the character
of the letter would be; and what was the attitude of mind towards himself, of
the woman who wrote them.
Jane paced the dining-room in desperation, remembering the hours of thought
which had gone to the compiling of sentences, cautiously preparing his mind to
the revelation of the signature.
Suddenly, in the midst of her mental perturbation, there came to her the
remembrance of a conversation between Nurse Rosemary and Garth over the
pictures. The former had said: "Is she a wife?" And Garth had answered: "Yes."
Jane had instantly understood what that answer revealed and implied. Because
Garth had so felt her his during those wonderful moments on the terrace at
Shenstone, that he could look up into her face and say, "My wife" — not as an
interrogation, but as an absolute statement of fact, — he still held her this,
as indissolubly as if priest, and book, and ring, had gone to the wedding of
their union. To him, the union of souls came before all else; and if that had
taken place, all that might follow was but the outward indorsement of an
accomplished fact. Owing to her fear, mistrust, and deception, nothing had
followed. Their lives had been sundered; they had gone different ways. He
regarded himself as being no more to her than any other man of her acquaintance.
During these years he had believed, that her part in that evening's wedding of
souls had existed in his imagination, only; and had no binding effect upon her.
But his remained. Because those words were true to him then, he had said them;
and, because he had said them, he would consider her his wife, through life, —
and after. It was the intuitive understanding of this, which had emboldened Jane
so to sign her letter. But how would he reconcile that signature with the view
of her conduct which he had all along taken, without ever having the slightest
conception that there could be any other?
Then Jane remembered, with comfort, the irresistible appeal made by Truth to
the soul of the artist; truth of line; truth of colour; truth of values; and, in
the realm of sound, truth of tone, of harmony, of rendering, of conception. And
when Nurse Rosemary had said of his painting of "The Wife": "It is a triumph of
art"; Garth had replied: "It is a triumph of truth." And Jane's own verdict on
the look he had seen and depicted was: "It is true — yes, it is true!" Will he
not realise now the truth of that signature; and, if he realises it, will he not
be glad in his loneliness, that his wife should come to him; unless the
confessions and admissions of the letter cause him to put her away as wholly
unworthy?
Suddenly Jane understood the immense advantage of the fact that he would hear
every word of the rest of her letter, knowing the conclusion, which she herself
could not possibly have put first. She saw a Higher Hand in this arrangement;
and said, as she watched the minutes slowly pass: "He hath broken down the
middle wall of partition between us"; and a sense of calm assurance descended,
and garrisoned her soul with peace.
The quarter of an hour was over.
Jane crossed the hall with firm, though noiseless, step; stood a moment on
the threshold relegating herself completely to the background; then opened the
door; and Nurse Rosemary re-entered the library.