



Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
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The Rosary


BY

Florence L. Barclay




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

       I   ENTER--THE DUCHESS
      II   INTRODUCES THE HONOURABLE JANE
     III   THE SURPRISE PACKET
      IV   JANE VOLUNTEERS
       V   CONFIDENCES
      VI   THE VEIL IS LIFTED
     VII   GARTH FINDS HIS ROSARY
    VIII   ADDED PEARLS
      IX   LADY INGLEBY'S HOUSE PARTY
       X   THE REVELATION
      XI   GARTH FINDS THE CROSS
     XII   THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
    XIII   THE ANSWER OF THE SPHINX
     XIV   IN DERYCK'S SAFE CONTROL
      XV   THE CONSULTATION
     XVI   THE DOCTOR FINDS A WAY
    XVII   ENTER--NURSE ROSEMARY
   XVIII   THE NAPOLEON OF THE MOORS
     XIX   THE VOICE IN THE DARKNESS.
      XX   JANE REPORTS PROGRESS
     XXI   HARD ON THE SECRETARY
    XXII   DR. ROB TO THE RESCUE
   XXIII   THE ONLY WAY
    XXIV   THE MAN'S POINT OF VIEW
     XXV   THE DOCTOR'S DIAGNOSIS
    XXVI   HEARTS MEET IN SIGHTLESS LAND
   XXVII   THE EYES GARTH TRUSTED
  XXVIII   IN THE STUDIO
    XXIX   JANE LOOKS INTO LOVES MIRROR
     XXX   "THE LADY PORTRAYED"
    XXXI   IN LIGHTER VEIN
   XXXII   AN INTERLUDE
  XXXIII   "SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN!"
   XXXIV   "LOVE NEVER FAILETH"
    XXXV   NURSE ROSEMARY HAS HER REWARD
   XXXVI   THE REVELATION OF THE ROSARY
  XXXVII   "IN THE FACE OF THIS CONGREGATION"
 XXXVIII   PERPETUAL LIGHT




THE ROSARY




CHAPTER I

ENTER THE DUCHESS.


The peaceful stillness of an English summer afternoon brooded over the
park and gardens at Overdene. A hush of moving sunlight and lengthening
shadows lay upon the lawn, and a promise of refreshing coolness made
the shade of the great cedar tree a place to be desired.

The old stone house, solid, substantial, and unadorned, suggested
unlimited spaciousness and comfort within; and was redeemed from
positive ugliness without, by the fine ivy, magnolia trees, and
wistaria, of many years' growth, climbing its plain face, and now
covering it with a mantle of soft green, large white blooms, and a
cascade of purple blossom.

A terrace ran the full length of the house, bounded at one end by a
large conservatory, at the other by an aviary. Wide stone steps, at
intervals, led down from the terrace on to the soft springy turf of the
lawn. Beyond--the wide park; clumps of old trees, haunted by shy brown
deer; and, through the trees, fitful gleams of the river, a narrow
silver ribbon, winding gracefully in and out between long grass,
buttercups, and cow-daisies.

The sun-dial pointed to four o'clock.

The birds were having their hour of silence. Not a trill sounded from
among the softly moving leaves, not a chirp, not a twitter. The
stillness seemed almost oppressive. The one brilliant spot of colour in
the landscape was a large scarlet macaw, asleep on his stand under the
cedar.

At last came the sound of an opening door. A quaint old figure stepped
out on to the terrace, walked its entire length to the right, and
disappeared into the rose-garden. The Duchess of Meldrum had gone to
cut her roses.

She wore an ancient straw hat, of the early-Victorian shape known as
"mushroom," tied with black ribbons beneath her portly chin; a loose
brown holland coat; a very short tweed skirt, and Engadine "gouties."
She had on some very old gauntlet gloves, and carried a wooden basket
and a huge pair of scissors.

A wag had once remarked that if you met her Grace of Meldrum returning
from gardening or feeding her poultry, and were in a charitable frame
of mind, you would very likely give her sixpence. But, after you had
thus drawn her attention to yourself and she looked at you, Sir Walter
Raleigh's cloak would not be in it! Your one possible course would be
to collapse into the mud, and let the ducal "gouties" trample on you.
This the duchess would do with gusto; then accept your apologies with
good nature; and keep your sixpence, to show when she told the story.

The duchess lived alone; that is to say, she had no desire for the
perpetual companionship of any of her own kith and kin, nor for the
constant smiles and flattery of a paid companion. Her pale daughter,
whom she had systematically snubbed, had married; her handsome son,
whom she had adored and spoiled, had prematurely died, before the
death, a few years since, of Thomas, fifth Duke of Meldrum. He had come
to a sudden and, as the duchess often remarked, very suitable end; for,
on his sixty-second birthday, clad in all the splendours of his hunting
scarlet, top hat, and buff corduroy breeches, the mare he was
mercilessly putting at an impossible fence suddenly refused, and
Thomas, Duke of Meldrum, shot into a field of turnips; pitched upon his
head, and spoke no more.

This sudden cessation of his noisy and fiery life meant a complete
transformation in the entourage of the duchess. Hitherto she had had to
tolerate the boon companions, congenial to himself, with whom he chose
to fill the house; or to invite those of her own friends to whom she
could explain Thomas, and who suffered Thomas gladly, out of friendship
for her, and enjoyment of lovely Overdene. But even then the duchess
had no pleasure in her parties; for, quaint rough diamond though she
herself might appear, the bluest of blue blood ran in her veins; and,
though her manner had the off-hand abruptness and disregard of other
people's feelings not unfrequently found in old ladies of high rank,
she was at heart a true gentlewoman, and could always be trusted to say
and do the right thing in moments of importance: The late duke's
language had been sulphurous and his manners Georgian; and when he had
been laid in the unwonted quiet of his ancestral vault--"so unlike him,
poor dear," as the duchess remarked, "that it is quite a comfort to
know he is not really there"--her Grace looked around her, and began to
realise the beauties and possibilities of Overdene.

At first she contented herself with gardening, making an aviary, and
surrounding herself with all sorts of queer birds and beasts; upon whom
she lavished the affection which, of late years, had known no human
outlet.

But after a while her natural inclination to hospitality, her humorous
enjoyment of other people's foibles, and a quaint delight in parading
her own, led to constant succession of house-parties at Overdene, which
soon became known as a Liberty Hall of varied delights where you always
met the people you most wanted to meet, found every facility for
enjoying your favourite pastime, were fed and housed in perfect style,
and spent some of the most ideal days of your summer, or cheery days of
your winter, never dull, never bored, free to come and go as you
pleased, and everything seasoned everybody with the delightful "sauce
piquante" of never being quite sure what the duchess would do or say
next.

She mentally arranged her parties under three heads--"freak parties,"
"mere people parties," and "best parties." A "best party" was in
progress on the lovely June day when the duchess, having enjoyed an
unusually long siesta, donned what she called her "garden togs" and
sallied forth to cut roses.

As she tramped along the terrace and passed through the little iron
gate leading to the rose-garden, Tommy, the scarlet macaw, opened one
eye and watched her; gave a loud kiss as she reached the gate and
disappeared from view, then laughed to himself and went to sleep again.

Of all the many pets, Tommy was prime favourite. He represented the
duchess's one concession to morbid sentiment. After the demise of the
duke she had found it so depressing to be invariably addressed with
suave deference by every male voice she heard. If the butler could have
snorted, or the rector have rapped out an uncomplimentary adjective,
the duchess would have felt cheered. As it was, a fixed and settled
melancholy lay upon her spirit until she saw in a dealer's list an
advertisement of a prize macaw, warranted a grand talker, with a
vocabulary of over five hundred words.

The duchess went immediately to town, paid a visit to the dealer, heard
a few of the macaw's words and the tone in which he said them, bought
him on the spot, and took him down to Overdene. The first evening he
sat crossly on the perch of his grand new stand, declining to say a
single one of his five hundred words, though the duchess spent her
evening in the hall, sitting in every possible place; first close to
him; then, away in a distant corner; in an arm-chair placed behind a
screen; reading, with her back turned, feigning not to notice him;
facing him with concentrated attention. Tommy merely clicked his tongue
at her every time she emerged from a hiding-place; or, if the rather
worried butler or nervous under-footman passed hurriedly through the
hall, sent showers of kisses after them, and then went into fits of
ventriloquial laughter. The duchess, in despair, even tried reminding
him in a whisper of the remarks he had made in the shop; but Tommy only
winked at her and put his claw over his beak. Still, she enjoyed his
flushed and scarlet appearance, and retired to rest hopeful and in no
wise regretting her bargain.

The next morning it became instantly evident to the house-maid who
swept the hall, the footman who sorted the letters, and the butler who
sounded the breakfast gong, that a good night's rest had restored to
Tommy the full use of his vocabulary. And when the duchess came sailing
down the stairs, ten minutes after the gong had sounded, and Tommy,
flapping his wings angrily, shrieked at her: "Now then, old girl! Come
on!" she went to breakfast in a more cheerful mood than she had known
for months past.




CHAPTER II

INTRODUCES THE HONOURABLE JANE


The only one of her relatives who practically made her home with the
duchess was her niece and former ward, the Honourable Jane Champion;
and this consisted merely in the fact that the Honourable Jane was the
one person who might invite herself to Overdene or Portland Place,
arrive when she chose, stay as long as she pleased, and leave when it
suited her convenience. On the death of her father, when her lonely
girlhood in her Norfolk home came to an end, she would gladly have
filled the place of a daughter to the duchess. But the duchess did not
require a daughter; and a daughter with pronounced views, plenty of
back-bone of her own, a fine figure, and a plain face, would have
seemed to her Grace of Meldrum a peculiarly undesirable acquisition. So
Jane was given to understand that she might come whenever she liked,
and stay as long as she liked, but on the same footing as other people.
This meant liberty to come and go as she pleased; and no responsibility
towards her aunt's guests. The duchess preferred managing her own
parties in her oven way.

Jane Champion was now in her thirtieth year. She had once been
described, by one who saw below the surface, as a perfectly beautiful
woman in an absolutely plain shell; and no man had as yet looked
beneath the shell, and seen the woman in her perfection. She would have
made earth heaven for a blind lover who, not having eyes for the
plainness of her face or the massiveness of her figure, might have
drawn nearer, and apprehended the wonder of her as a woman,
experiencing the wealth of tenderness of which she was capable, the
blessed comfort of the shelter of her love, the perfect comprehension
of her sympathy, the marvellous joy of winning and wedding her. But as
yet, no blind man with far-seeing vision had come her way; and it
always seemed to be her lot to take a second place, on occasions when
she would have filled the first to infinite perfection.

She had been bridesmaid at weddings where the charming brides,
notwithstanding their superficial loveliness, possessed few of the
qualifications for wifehood with which she was so richly endowed.

She was godmother to her friends' babies, she, whose motherhood would
have been a thing for wonder and worship.

She had a glorious voice, but her face not matching it, its existence
was rarely suspected; and as she accompanied to perfection, she was
usually in requisition to play for the singing of others.

In short, all her life long Jane had filled second places, and filled
them very contentedly. She had never known what it was to be absolutely
first with any one. Her mother's death had occurred during her infancy,
so that she had not even the most shadowy remembrance of that maternal
love and tenderness which she used sometimes to try to imagine,
although she had never experienced it.

Her mother's maid, a faithful and devoted woman, dismissed soon after
the death of her mistress, chancing to be in the neighbourhood some
twelve years later, called at the manor, in the hope of finding some in
the household who remembered her.

After tea, Fraulein and Miss Jebb being out of the way, she was
spirited up into the schoolroom to see Miss Jane, her heart full of
memories of the "sweet babe" upon whom she and her dear lady had
lavished so much love and care.

She found awaiting her a tall, plain girl with a frank, boyish manner
and a rather disconcerting way as she afterwards remarked, of "taking
stock of a body the while one was a-talking," which at first checked
the flow of good Sarah's reminiscences, poured forth so freely in the
housekeeper's room below, and reduced her to looking tearfully around
the room, remarking that she remembered choosing the blessed wall-paper
with her dear lady now gone, whose joy had been so great when the dear
babe first took notice and reached up for the roses. "And I can show
you, miss, if you care to know it just which bunch of roses it were."

But before Sarah's visit was over, Jane had heard many
undreamed-of-things; amongst others, that her mother used to kiss her
little hands, "ah, many a time she, did, miss; called them little
rose-petals, and covered them with kisses."

The child, utterly unused to any demonstrations of affection, looked at
her rather ungainly brown hands and laughed, simply because she was
ashamed of the unwonted tightening at her throat and the queer stinging
of tears beneath her eyelids. Thus Sarah departed under the impression
that Miss Jane had grown up into a rather a heartless young lady. But
Fraulein and Jebbie never knew why, from that day onward, the hands, of
which they had so often had cause to complain, were kept scrupulously
clean; and on her birthday night, unashamed in the quiet darkness, the
lonely little child kissed her own hands beneath the bedclothes,
striving thus to reach the tenderness of her dead mother's lips.

And in after years, when she became her own mistress, one of her first
actions was to advertise for Sarah Matthews and engage her as her own
maid, at a salary which enabled the good woman eventually to buy
herself a comfortable annuity.

Jane saw but little of her father, who had found it difficult to
forgive her, firstly, for being a girl when he desired a son; secondly,
being a girl, for having inherited his plainness rather than her
mother's beauty. Parents are apt to see no injustice in the fact that
they are often annoyed with their offspring for possessing attributes,
both of character and appearance, with which they themselves have
endowed them.

The hero of Jane's childhood, the chum of her girlhood and the close
friend of her maturer years, was Deryck Brand, only son of the rector
of the parish, and her senior by nearly ten years. But even in their
friendship, close though it was, she had never felt herself first to
him. As a medical student, at home during vacations, his mother and his
profession took precedence in his mind of the lonely child, whose
devotion pleased him and whose strong character and original mental
development interested him. Later on he married a lovely girl, as
unlike Jane as one woman could possibly be to another; but still their
friendship held and deepened; and now, when he was rapidly advancing to
the very front rank of his profession, her appreciation of his work,
and sympathetic understanding of his aims and efforts, meant more to
him than even the signal mark of royal favour, of which he had lately
been the recipient.

Jane Champion had no close friends amongst the women of her set. Her
lonely girlhood had bred in her an absolute frankness towards herself
and other people which made it difficult for her to understand or
tolerate the little artificialities of society, or the trivial
weaknesses of her own sex. Women to whom she had shown special
kindness--and they were many--maintained an attitude of grateful
admiration in her presence, and of cowardly silence in her absence when
she chanced to be under discussion.

But of men friends she had many, especially among a set of young
fellows just through college, of whom she made particular chums; nice
lads, who wrote to her of their college and mess-room scrapes, as they
would never have dreamed of doing to their own mothers. She knew
perfectly well that they called her "old Jane" and "pretty Jane" and
"dearest Jane" amongst themselves, but she believed in the harmlessness
of their fun and the genuineness of their affection, and gave them a
generous amount of her own in return.

Jane Champion happened just now to be paying one of her long visits to
Overdene, and was playing golf with a boy for whom she had long had a
rod in pickle on this summer afternoon when the duchess went to cut
blooms in her rose-garden. Only, as Jane found out, you cannot
decorously lead up to a scolding if you are very keen on golf, and go
golfing with a person who is equally enthusiastic, and who all the way
to the links explains exactly how he played every hole the last time he
went round, and all the way back gloats over, in retrospection, the way
you and he have played every hole this time.

So Jane considered her afternoon, didactically, a failure. But, in the
smoking-room that night, young Cathcart explained the game all over
again to a few choice spirits, and then remarked: "Old Jane was superb!
Fancy! Such a drive as that, and doing number seven in three and not
talking about it! I've jolly well made up my mind to send no more
bouquets to Tou-Tou. Hang it, boys! You can't see yourself at champagne
suppers with a dancing-woman, when you've walked round the links, on a
day like this, with the Honourable Jane. She drives like a rifle shot,
and when she lofts, you'd think the ball was a swallow; and beat me
three holes up and never mentioned it. By Jove, a fellow wants to have
a clean bill when he shakes hands with her!"




CHAPTER III

THE SURPRISE PACKET


The sun-dial pointed to half past four o'clock. The hour of silence
appeared to be over. The birds commenced twittering; and a cuckoo, in
an adjacent wood, sounded his note at intervals.

The house awoke to sudden life. There was an opening and shutting of
doors. Two footmen, in the mulberry and silver of the Meldrum livery,
hurried down from the terrace, carrying folding tea-tables, with which
they supplemented those of rustic oak standing permanently under the
cedar. One, promptly returned to the house; while the other remained
behind, spreading snowy cloths over each table.


The macaw awoke, stretched his wings and flapped them twice, then
sidled up and down his perch, concentrating his attention upon the
footman.

"Mind!" he exclaimed suddenly, in the butler's voice, as a cloth, flung
on too hurriedly, fluttered to the grass.

"Hold your jaw!" said the young footman irritably, flicking the bird
with the table-cloth, and then glancing furtively at the rose-garden.

"Tommy wants a gooseberry!" shrieked the macaw, dodging the table-cloth
and hanging, head downwards, from his perch.

"Don't you wish you may get it?" said the footman viciously.

"Give it him, somebody," remarked Tommy, in the duchess's voice.

The footman started, and looked over his shoulder; then hurriedly told
Tommy just what he thought of him, and where he wished him; cuffed him
soundly, and returned to the house, followed by peals of laughter,
mingled with exhortations and imprecations from the angry bird, who
danced up and down on his perch until his enemy had vanished from view.

A few minutes later the tables were spread with the large variety of
eatables considered necessary at an English afternoon tea; the massive
silver urn and teapots gleamed on the buffet-table, behind which the
old butler presided; muffins, crumpets, cakes, and every kind of
sandwich supplemented the dainty little rolled slices of white and
brown bread-and-butter, while heaped-up bowls of freshly gathered
strawberries lent a touch of colour to the artistic effect of white and
silver. When all was ready, the butler raised his hand and sounded an
old Chinese gong hanging in the cedar tree. Before the penetrating boom
had died away, voices were heard in the distance from all over the
grounds.

Up from the river, down from the tennis courts, out from house and
garden, came the duchess's guests, rejoicing in the refreshing prospect
of tea, hurrying to the welcome shade of the cedar;--charming women in
white, carefully guarding their complexions beneath shady hats and
picturesque parasols;--delightful girls, who had long ago sacrificed
complexions to comfort, and now walked across the lawn bareheaded,
swinging their rackets and discussing the last hard-fought set; men in
flannels, sunburned and handsome, joining in the talk and laughter;
praising their partners, while remaining unobtrusively silent as to
their own achievements.

They made a picturesque group as they gathered under the tree,
subsiding with immense satisfaction into the low wicker chairs, or on
to the soft turf, and helping themselves to what they pleased. When all
were supplied with tea, coffee, or iced drinks, to their liking,
conversation flowed again.

"So the duchess's concert comes off to-night," remarked some one. "I
wish to goodness they would hang this tree with Chinese lanterns and,
have it out here. It is too hot to face a crowded function indoors."

"Oh, that's all right," said Garth Dalmain, "I'm stage-manager, you
know; and I can promise you that all the long windows opening on to the
terrace shall stand wide. So no one need be in the concert-room, who
prefers to stop outside. There will be a row of lounge chairs placed on
the terrace near the windows. You won't see much; but you will hear,
perfectly."

"Ah, but half the fun is in seeing," exclaimed one of the tennis girls.
"People who have remained on the terrace will miss all the point of it
afterwards when the dear duchess shows us how everybody did it. I don't
care how hot it is. Book me a seat in the front row!"

"Who is the surprise packet to-night?" asked Lady Ingleby, who had
arrived since luncheon.

"Velma," said Mary Strathern. "She is coming for the week-end, and
delightful it will be to have her. No one but the duchess could have
worked it, and no place but Overdene would have tempted her. She will
sing only one song at the concert; but she is sure to break forth later
on, and give us plenty. We will persuade Jane to drift to the piano
accidentally and play over, just by chance, the opening bars of some of
Velma's best things, and we shall soon hear the magic voice. She never
can resist a perfectly played accompaniment."

"Why call Madame Velma the `surprise packet'?" asked a girl, to whom
the Overdene "best parties" were a new experience.

"That, my dear," replied Lady Ingleby, "is a little joke of the
duchess's. This concert is arranged for the amusement of her house
party, and for the gratification and glorification of local
celebrities. The whole neighbourhood is invited. None of you are asked
to perform, but local celebrities are. In fact they furnish the entire
programme, to their own delight, the satisfaction of their friends and
relatives, and our entertainment, particularly afterwards when the
duchess takes us through every item, with original notes, comments, and
impersonations. Oh, Dal! Do you remember when she tucked a sheet of
white writing-paper into her tea-gown for a dog collar, and took off
the high-church curate nervously singing a comic song? Then at the very
end, you see--and really some of it is quite good for amateurs--she
trots out Velma, or some equally perfect artiste, to show them how it
really can be done; and suddenly the place is full of music, and a
great hush falls on the audience, and the poor complacent amateurs
realise that the noise they have been making was, after all, not music;
and they go dumbly home. But they have forgotten all about it by the
following year; or a fresh contingent of willing performers steps into
the breach. The duchess's little joke always comes off."

"The Honourable Jane does not approve of it," said young Ronald Ingram;
"therefore she is generally given marching orders and departs to her
next visit before the event. But no one can accompany Madame Velma so
perfectly, so this time she is commanded to stay. But I doubt if the
'surprise packet' will come off with quite such a shock as usual, and I
am certain the fun won't be so good afterwards. The Honourable Jane has
been known to jump on the duchess for that sort of thing. She is safe
to get the worst of it at the time, but it has a restraining effect
afterwards."

"I think Miss Champion is quite right," said a bright-faced American
girl, bravely, holding a gold spoon poised for a moment over the
strawberry ice-cream with which Garth Dalmain had supplied her.

"In my country we should call it real mean to laugh, at people who had
been our guests and performed in our houses."

"In your country, my dear," said Myra Ingleby, "you have no duchesses."

"Well, we supply you with quite a good few," replied the American girl
calmly, and went on with her ice.

A general laugh followed; and the latest Anglo-American match came up
for discussion.

"Where is the Honourable Jane?" inquired someone presently.

"Golfing with Billy," said Ronald Ingram. "Ah, here they come."

Jane's tall figure was seen, walking along the terrace, accompanied by
Billy Cathcart, talking eagerly. They put their clubs away in the lower
hall; then came down the lawn together to the tea-tables.

Jane wore a tailor-made coat and skirt of grey tweed, a blue and white
cambric shirt, starched linen collar and cuffs, a silk tie, and a soft
felt hat with a few black quills in it. She walked with the freedom of
movement and swing of limb which indicate great strength and a body
well under control. Her appearance was extraordinarily unlike that of
all the pretty and graceful women grouped beneath the cedar tree. And
yet it was in no sense masculine--or, to use a more appropriate word,
mannish; for everything strong is masculine; but a woman who apes an
appearance of strength which she does not possess, is mannish;--rather
was it so truly feminine that she could afford to adopt a severe
simplicity of attire, which suited admirably the decided plainness of
her features, and the almost massive proportions of her figure.

She stepped into the circle beneath the cedar, and took one of the
half-dozen places immediately vacated by the men, with the complete
absence of self-consciousness which always characterised her.

"What did you go round in, Miss Champion?" inquired one of the men.

"My ordinary clothes," replied Jane; quoting Punch, and evading the
question.

But Billy burst out: "She went round in--"

"Oh, be quiet, Billy," interposed Jane. "You and I are practically the
only golf maniacs present. Most of these dear people are even ignorant
as to who 'bogie' is, or why we should be so proud of beating him.
Where is my aunt? Poor Simmons was toddling all over the place when we
went in to put away our clubs, searching for her with a telegram."

"Why didn't you open it?" asked Myra.

"Because my aunt never allows her telegrams to be opened. She loves
shocks; and there is always the possibility of a telegram containing
startling news. She says it completely spoils it if some one else knows
it first, and breaks it to her gently."

"Here comes the duchess," said Garth Dalmain, who was sitting where he
could see the little gate into the rose-garden.

"Do not mention the telegram," cautioned Jane. "It would not please her
that I should even know of its arrival. It would be a shame to take any
of the bloom off the unexpected delight of a wire on this hot day, when
nothing unusual seemed likely to happen."

They turned and looked towards the duchess as she bustled across the
lawn; this quaint old figure, who had called them together; who owned
the lovely place where they were spending such delightful days; and
whose odd whimsicalities had been so freely discussed while they drank
her tea and feasted off her strawberries. The men rose as she
approached, but not quite so spontaneously as they had done for her
niece.

The duchess carried a large wooden basket filled to overflowing with
exquisite roses. Every bloom was perfect, and each had been cut at
exactly the right moment.




CHAPTER IV

JANE VOLUNTEERS


The duchess plumped down her basket in the middle of the strawberry
table.

"There, good people!" she said, rather breathlessly. "Help yourselves,
and let me see you all wearing roses to-night. And the concert-room is
to be a bower of roses. We will call it 'LA FETE DES ROSES.' ... No,
thank you, Ronnie. That tea has been made half an hour at least, and
you ought to love me too well to press it upon me. Besides, I never
take tea. I have a whiskey and soda when I wake from my nap, and that
sustains me until dinner. Oh yes, my dear Myra, I know I came to your
interesting meeting, and signed that excellent pledge 'POUR ENCOURAGER
LES AUTRES'; but I drove straight to my doctor when I left your house,
and he gave me a certificate to say I MUST take something when I needed
it; and I always need it when I wake from my nap.... Really, Dal, it
is positively wicked for any man, off the stage, to look as picturesque
as you do, in that pale violet shirt, and dark violet tie, and those
white flannels. If I were your grandmother I should send you in to take
them off. If you turn the heads of old dowagers such as I am, what
chance have all these chickens? ... Hush, Tommy! That was a very
naughty word! And you need not be jealous of Dal. I admire you still
more. Dal, will you paint my scarlet macaw?"

The young artist, whose portraits in that year's Academy had created
much interest in the artistic world, and whose violet shirt had just
been so severely censured, lay back in his lounge-chair, with his arms
behind his head and a gleam of amusement in his bright brown eyes.

"No, dear Duchess," he said. "I beg respectfully to decline the
commission, Tommy would require a Landseer to do full justice to his
attitudes and expression. Besides, it would be demoralising to an
innocent and well-brought-up youth, such as you know me to be, to spend
long hours in Tommy's society, listening to the remarks that sweet bird
would make while I painted him. But I will tell you what I will do. I
will paint you, dear Duchess, only not in that hat! Ever since I was
quite a small boy, a straw hat with black ribbons tied under the chin
has made me feel ill. If I yielded to my natural impulses now, I should
hide my face in Miss Champion's lap, and kick and scream until you took
it off. I will paint you in the black velvet gown you wore last night,
with the Medici collar; and the jolly arrangement of lace and diamonds
on your head. And in your hand you shall hold an antique crystal
mirror, mounted in silver."

The artist half closed his eyes, and as he described his picture in a
voice full of music and mystery, an attentive hush fell upon the gay
group around him. When Garth Dalmain described his pictures, people saw
them. When they walked into the Academy or the New Gallery the
following year, they would say: "Ah, there it is! just as we saw it
that day, before a stroke of it was on the canvas."

"In your left hand, you shall hold the mirror, but you shall not be
looking into it; because you never look into mirrors, dear Duchess,
excepting to see whether the scolding you are giving your maid, as she
stands behind you, is making her cry; and whether that is why she is
being so clumsy in her manipulation of pins and things. If it is, you
promptly promise her a day off, to go and see her old mother; and pay
her journey there and back. If it isn't, you scold her some more. Were
I the maid, I should always cry, large tears warranted to show in the
glass; only I should not sniff, because sniffing is so intensely
aggravating; and I should be most frightfully careful that my tears did
not run down your neck."

"Dal, you ridiculous CHILD!" said the duchess. "Leave off talking about
my maids, and my neck, and your crocodile tears, and finish describing
the portrait. What do I do, with the mirror?"

"You do not look into it," continued Garth Dalmain, meditatively;
"because we KNOW that is a thing you never do. Even when you put on
that hat, and tie those ribbons--Miss Champion, I wish you would hold
my hand--in a bow under your chin, you don't consult the mirror. But
you shall sit with it in your left hand, your elbow resting on an
Eastern table of black ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You will turn
it from you, so that it reflects something exactly in front of you in
the imaginary foreground. You will be looking at this unseen object
with an expression of sublime affection. And in the mirror I will paint
a vivid, brilliant, complete reflection, minute, but perfect in every
detail, of your scarlet macaw on his perch. We will call it
'Reflections,' because one must always give a silly up-to-date title to
pictures, and just now one nondescript word is the fashion, unless you
feel it needful to attract to yourself the eye of the public, in the
catalogue, by calling your picture twenty lines of Tennyson. But when
the portrait goes down to posterity as a famous picture, it will figure
in the catalogue of the National Gallery as 'The Duchess, the Mirror,
and the Macaw.'"

"Bravo!" said the duchess, delighted. "You shall paint it, Dal, in time
for next year's Academy, and we will all go and see it."

And he did. And they all went. And when they saw it they said: "Ah, of
course! There it is; just as we saw it under the cedar at Overdene."

"Here comes Simmons with something on a salver," exclaimed the duchess.
"How that man waddles! Why can't somebody teach him to step out? Jane!
You march across this lawn like a grenadier. Can't you explain to
Simmons how it's done? ... Well? What is it? Ha! A telegram. Now what
horrible thing can have happened? Who would like to guess? I hope it is
not merely some idiot who has missed a train."

Amid a breathless and highly satisfactory silence, the duchess tore
open the orange envelope.

Apparently the shock was of a thorough, though not enjoyable, kind; for
the duchess, at all times highly , became purple as she read,
and absolutely inarticulate with indignation. Jane rose quietly, looked
over her aunt's shoulder, read the long message, and returned to her
seat.

"Creature!" exclaimed the duchess, at last. "Oh, creature! This comes
of asking them as friends. And I had a lovely string of pearls for her,
worth far more than she would have been offered, professionally, for
one song. And to fail at the last minute! Oh, CREATURE!"

"Dear aunt," said Jane, "if poor Madame Velma has a sudden attack of
laryngitis, she could not possibly sing a note, even had the Queen
commanded her. Her telegram is full of regrets."

"Don't argue, Jane!" exclaimed the duchess, crossly. "And don't drag in
the Queen, who has nothing to do with my concert or Velma's throat. I
do abominate irrelevance, and you know it! WHY must she have her
what--do--you--call--it, just when she was coming to sing here? In my
young days people never had these new-fangled complaints. I have no
patience with all this appendicitis and what not--cutting people open
at every possible excuse. In my young days we called it a good
old-fashioned stomach-ache, and gave them Turkey rhubarb!"

Myra Ingleby hid her face behind her garden hat; and Garth Dalmain
whispered to Jane: "I do abominate irrelevance, and you know it!" But
Jane shook her head at him, and refused to smile.

"Tommy wants a gooseberry!" shouted the macaw, having apparently
noticed the mention of rhubarb.

"Oh, give it him, somebody!" said the worried duchess.

"Dear aunt," said Jane, "there are no gooseberries."

"Don't argue, girl!" cried the duchess, furiously; and Garth,
delighted, shook his head at Jane. "When he says 'gooseberry,' he means
anything GREEN, as you very well know!"

Half a dozen people hastened to Tommy with lettuce, water-cress, and
cucumber sandwiches; and Garth picked one blade of grass, and handed it
to Jane; with an air of anxious solicitude; but Jane ignored it.

"No answer, Simmons," said the duchess. "Why don't you go? ... Oh,
how that man waddles! Teach him to walk, somebody! Now the question is,
What is to be done? Here is half the county coming to hear Velma, by my
invitation; and Velma in London pretending to have appendicitis--no, I
mean the other thing. Oh, 'drat the woman!' as that clever bird would
say."

"Hold your jaw!" shouted Tommy. The duchess smiled, and consented to
sit down.

"But, dear Duchess," suggested Garth in his most soothing voice, "the
county does not know Madame Velma was to be here. It was a profound
secret. You were to trot her out at the end. Lady Ingleby called her
your 'surprise packet.'"

Myra came out from behind her garden hat, and the duchess nodded at her
approvingly.

"Quite true," she said. "That was the lovely part of it. Oh, creature!"

"But, dear Duchess," pursued Garth persuasively, "if the county did not
know, the county will not be disappointed. They are coming to listen to
one another, and to hear themselves, and to enjoy your claret-cup and
ices. All this they will do, and go away delighted, saying how cleverly
the dear duchess, discovers and exploits local talent."

"Ah, ha!" said the duchess, with a gleam in the hawk eye, and a raising
of the hooked nose-which Mrs. Parker Bangs of Chicago, who had met the
duchess once or twice, described as "genuine Plantagenet"--"but they
will go away wise in their own conceits, and satisfied with their own
mediocre performances. My idea is to let them do it, and then show them
how it should be done."

"But Aunt 'Gina," said Jane, gently; "surely you forget that most of
these people have been to town and heard plenty of good music, Madame
Velma herself most likely, and all the great singers. They know they
cannot sing like a prima donna; but they do their anxious best, because
you ask them. I cannot see that they require an object lesson."

"Jane," said the duchess, "for the third time this afternoon I must
request you not to argue."

"Miss Champion," said Garth Dalmain, "if I were your grandmamma, I
should send you to bed."

"What is to be done?" reiterated the duchess. "She was to sing THE
ROSARY. I had set my heart on it. The whole decoration of the room is
planned to suit that song--festoons of white roses; and a great
red-cross at the back of the platform, made entirely of crimson
ramblers. Jane!"

"Yes, aunt."

"Oh, don't say 'Yes, aunt,' in that senseless way! Can't you make some
suggestion?"

"Drat the woman!" exclaimed Tommy, suddenly.

"Hark to that sweet bird!" cried the duchess, her good humour fully
restored. "Give him a strawberry, somebody. Now, Jane, what do you
suggest?"

Jane Champion was seated with her broad back half turned to her aunt,
one knee crossed over the other, her large, capable hands clasped round
it. She loosed her hands, turned slowly round, and looked into the keen
eyes peering at her from under the mushroom hat. As she read the
half-resentful, half-appealing demand in them, a slow smile dawned in
her own. She waited a moment to make sure of the duchess's meaning,
then said quietly: "I will sing THE ROSARY for you, in Velma's place,
to-night, if you really wish it, aunt."

Had the gathering under the tree been a party of "mere people," it
would have gasped. Had it been a "freak party," it would have been
loud-voiced in its expressions of surprise. Being a "best party," it
gave no outward sign; but a sense of blank astonishment, purely mental,
was in the air. The duchess herself was the only person present who had
heard Jane Champion sing.

"Have you the song?" asked her Grace of Meldrum, rising, and picking up
her telegram and empty basket.

"I have," said Jane. "I spent a few hours with Madame Blanche when I
was in town last month; and she, who so rarely admires these modern
songs, was immensely taken with it. She sang it, and allowed me to
accompany her. We spent nearly an hour over it. I obtained a copy
afterwards."

"Good," said the duchess. "Then I count on you. Now I must send a
sympathetic telegram to that poor dear Velma, who will be fretting at
having to fail us. So 'au revoir,' good people. Remember, we dine
punctually at eight o'clock. Music is supposed to begin at nine.
Ronnie, be a kind boy, and carry Tommy into the hall for me. He will
screech so fearfully if he sees me walk away without him. He is so very
loving, dear bird!"

Silence under the cedar.

Most people were watching young Ronald, holding the stand as much at
arm's length as possible; while Tommy, keeping his balance wonderfully,
sidled up close to him, evidently making confidential remarks into
Ronnie's terrified ear. The duchess walked on before, quite satisfied
with the new turn events had taken.

One or two people were watching Jane.

"It is very brave of you," said Myra Ingleby, at length. "I would offer
to play your accompaniment, dear; but I can only manage Au clair de la
lune, and Three Blind Mice, with one finger."

"And I would offer to play your accompaniment, dear," said Garth
Dalmain, "if you were going to sing Lassen's Allerseelen, for I play
that quite beautifully with ten fingers! It is an education only to
hear the way I bring out the tolling of the cemetery chapel bell right
through the song. The poor thing with the bunch of purple heather can
never get away from it. Even in the grand crescendo, appassionata,
fortissimo, when they discover that 'in death's dark valley this is
Holy Day,' I give then no holiday from that bell. I don't know what it
did 'once in May.' It tolls all the time, with maddening persistence,
in my accompaniment. But I have seen The Rosary, and I dare not face
those chords. To begin with, you start in every known flat; and before
you have gone far you have gathered unto yourself handfuls of known and
unknown sharps, to which you cling, not daring to let them go, lest
they should be wanted again the next moment. Alas, no! When it is a
question of accompanying The Rosary, I must say, as the old farmer at
the tenants' dinner the other day said to the duchess when she pressed
upon him a third helping of pudding: 'Madam, I CANNOT!'"

"Don't be silly, Dal," said Jane. "You could accompany The Rosary
perfectly, if I wanted it done. But, as it happens, I prefer
accompanying myself."

"Ah," said Lady Ingleby, sympathetically, "I quite understand that. It
would be such a relief all the time to know that if things seemed going
wrong, you could stop the other part, and give yourself the note."

The only two real musicians present glanced at each other, and a gleam
of amusement passed between them.

"It certainly would be useful, if necessary," said Jane.

"_I_ would 'stop the other part' and 'give you the note,'" said Garth,
demurely.

"I am sure you would," said Jane. "You are always so very kind. But I
prefer to keep the matter in my own hands."

"You realise the difficulty of making the voice carry in a place of
that size unless you can stand and face the audience?" Garth Dalmain
spoke anxiously. Jane was a special friend of his, and he had a man's
dislike of the idea of his chum failing in anything, publicly.

The same quiet smile dawned in Jane's eyes and passed to her lips as
when she had realised that her aunt meant her to volunteer in Velma's
place. She glanced around. Most of the party had wandered off in twos
and threes, some to the house, others back to the river. She and Dal
and Myra were practically alone. Her calm eyes were full of quiet
amusement as she steadfastly met the anxious look in Garth's, and
answered his question.

"Yes, I know. But the acoustic properties of the room are very perfect,
and I have learned to throw my voice. Perhaps you may not know--in
fact, how should you know?--but I have had the immense privilege of
studying with Madame Marchesi in Paris, and of keeping up to the mark
since by an occasional delightful hour with her no less gifted daughter
in London. So I ought to know all there is to know about the management
of a voice, if I have at all adequately availed myself of such golden
opportunities."

These quiet words were Greek to Myra, conveying no more to her mind
than if Jane had said: "I have been learning Tonic sol-fa." In fact,
not quite so much, seeing that Lady Ingleby had herself once tried to
master the Tonic sol-fa system in order to instruct her men and maids
in part-singing. It was at a time when she owned a distinctly musical
household. The second footman possessed a fine barytone. The butler
could "do a little bass," which is to say that, while the other parts
soared to higher regions, he could stay on the bottom note if carefully
placed there, and told to remain. The head housemaid sang what she
called "seconds"; in other words, she followed along, slightly behind
the trebles as regarded time, and a major third below them as regarded
pitch. The housekeeper, a large, dark person with a fringe on her upper
lip, unshaven and unashamed, produced a really remarkable effect by
singing the air an octave below the trebles. Unfortunately Lady Ingleby
was apt to confuse her with the butler. Myra herself was the first to
admit that she had not "much ear"; but it was decidedly trying, at a
moment when she dared not remove her eyes from the accompaniment of
Good King Wenceslas, to have called out: "Stay where you are, Jenkins!"
and then find it was Mrs. Jarvis who had been travelling upwards. But
when a new footman, engaged by Lord Ingleby with no reference to his
musical gifts, chanced to possess a fine throaty tenor, Myra felt she
really had material with which great things might be accomplished, and
decided herself to learn the Tonic sol-fa system. She easily mastered
mi, re, do, and so, fa, fa, mi, because these represented the opening
lines of Three Blind Mice, always a musical landmark to Myra. But when
it came to the fugue-like intricacies in the theme of "They all ran
after the farmer's wife," Lady Ingleby was lost without the words to
cling to, and gave up the Tonic sol-fa system in despair.

So the name of the greatest teacher of singing of this age did not
convey much to Myra's mind. But Garth Dalmain sat up.

"I say! No wonder you take it coolly. Why, Velma herself was a pupil of
the great madame."

"That is how it happens that I know her rather well," said Jane. "I am
here to-day because I was to have played her accompaniment."

"I see," said Garth. "And now you have to do both. 'Land's sake!' as
Mrs. Parker Bangs says when you explain who's who at a Marlborough
House garden party. But you prefer playing other people's
accompaniments, to singing yourself, don't you?"

Jane's slow smile dawned again.

"I prefer singing," she said, "but accompanying is more useful."

"Of course it is," said Garth. "Heaps of people can sing a little, but
very few can accompany properly."

"Jane," said Myra, her grey eyes looking out lazily from under their
long black lashes, "if you have had singing lessons, and know some
songs, why hasn't the duchess turned you on to sing to us before this?"

"For a sad reason," Jane replied. "You know her only son died eight
years ago? He was such a handsome, talented fellow. He and I inherited
our love of music from our grandfather. My cousin got into a musical
set at college, studied with enthusiasm, and wanted to take it up
professionally. He had promised, one Christmas vacation, to sing at a
charity concert in town, and went out, when only just recovering from
influenza, to fulfil this engagement. He had a relapse, double
pneumonia set in, and he died in five days from heart failure. My poor
aunt was frantic with grief; and since then any mention of my love of
music makes her very bitter. I, too, wanted to take it up
professionally, but she put her foot down heavily. I scarcely ever
venture to sing or play here."

"Why not elsewhere?" asked Garth Dalmain. "We have stayed about at the
same houses, and I had not the faintest idea you sang."

"I do not know," said Jane slowly. "But--music means so much to me. It
is a sort of holy of holies in the tabernacle of one's inner being. And
it is not easy to lift the veil."

"The veil will be lifted to-night," said Myra Ingleby.

"Yes," agreed Jane, smiling a little ruefully, "I suppose it will."

"And we shall pass in," said Garth Dalmain.




CHAPTER V

CONFIDENCES


The shadows silently lengthened on the lawn.

The home-coming rooks circled and cawed around the tall elm trees.

The sun-dial pointed to six o'clock.

Myra Ingleby rose and stood with the slanting rays of the sun full in
her eyes, her arms stretched over her head. The artist noted every
graceful line of her willowy figure.

"Ah, bah!" she yawned. "It is so perfect out here, and I must go in to
my maid. Jane, be advised in time. Do not ever begin facial massage.
You become a slave to it, and it takes up hours of your day. Look at
me."

They were both looking already. Myra was worth looking at.

"For ordinary dressing purposes, I need not have gone in until seven;
and now I must lose this last, perfect hour."

"What happens?" asked Jane. "I know nothing of the process."

"I can't go into details," replied Lady Ingleby, "but you know how
sweet I have looked all day? Well, if I did not go to my maid now, I
should look less sweet by the end of dinner, and at the close of the
evening I should appear ten years older."

"You would always look sweet," said Jane, with frank sincerity; "and
why mind looking the age you are?"

"My dear, 'a man is as old as he feels; a woman is as old as she
looks,'" quoted Myra.

"I FEEL just seven," said Garth.

"And you LOOK seventeen," laughed Myra.

"And I AM twenty-seven," retorted Garth; "so the duchess should not
call me 'a ridiculous child.' And, dear lady, if curtailing this
mysterious process is going to make you one whit less lovely to-night,
I do beseech you to hasten to your maid, or you will spoil my whole
evening. I shall burst into tears at dinner, and the duchess hates
scenes, as you very well know!"

Lady Ingleby flapped him with her garden hat as she passed.

"Be quiet, you ridiculous child!" she said. "You had no business to
listen to what I was saying to Jane. You shall paint me this autumn.
And after that I will give up facial massage, and go abroad, and come
back quite old."

She flung this last threat over her shoulder as she trailed away across
the lawn.

"How lovely she is!" commented Garth, gazing after her. "How much of
that was true, do you suppose, Miss Champion?"

"I have not the slightest idea," replied Jane. "I am completely
ignorant on the subject of facial massage."

"Not much, I should think," continued Garth, "or she would not have
told us."



"Ah, you are wrong there," replied Jane, quickly. "Myra is
extraordinarily honest, and always inclined to be frank about herself
and her foibles. She had a curious upbringing. She is one of a large
family, and was always considered the black sheep, not so much by her
brothers and sisters, as by her mother. Nothing she was, or said, or
did, was ever right. When Lord Ingleby met her, and I suppose saw her
incipient possibilities, she was a tall, gawky girl, with lovely eyes,
a sweet, sensitive mouth, and a what-on-earth-am-I-going-to-do-next
expression on her face. He was twenty years her senior, but fell most
determinedly in love with her and, though her mother pressed upon him
all her other daughters in turn, he would have Myra or nobody. When he
proposed to her it was impossible at first to make her understand what
he meant. His meaning dawned on her at length, and he was not kept
waiting long for her answer. I have often heard him tease her about it.
She looked at him with an adorable smile, her eyes brimming over with
tears, and said: 'Why, of course. I'll marry you GRATEFULLY, and I
think it is perfectly sweet of you to like me. But what a blow for
mamma!' They were married with as little delay as possible, and he took
her off to Paris, Italy, and Egypt, had six months abroad, and brought
her back--this! I was staying with them once, and her mother was also
there. We were sitting in the morning room,--no men, just half a dozen
women,--and her mother began finding fault about something, and said:
'Has not Lord Ingleby often told you of it?' Myra looked up in her
sweet, lazy way and answered: 'Dear mamma, I know it must seem strange
to you, but, do you know, my husband thinks everything I do perfect.'
'Your husband is a fool!' snapped her mother. 'From YOUR point of view,
dear mamma,' said Myra, sweetly."

"Old curmudgeon!" remarked Garth. "Why are people of that sort allowed
to be called 'mothers'? We, who have had tender, perfect mothers, would
like to make it law that the other kind should always be called
'she-parents,' or 'female progenitors,' or any other descriptive title,
but not profane the sacred name of mother!"

Jane was silent. She knew the beautiful story of Garth's boyhood with
his widowed mother. She knew his passionate adoration of her sainted
memory. She liked him best when she got a glimpse beneath the surface,
and did not wish to check his mood by reminding him that she herself
had never even lisped that name.

Garth rose from his chair and stretched his slim figure in the slanting
sun-rays, much as Myra had done. Jane looked at him. As is often the
case with plain people, great physical beauty appealed to her strongly.
She only allowed to that appeal its right proportion in her estimation
of her friends. Garth Dalmain by no means came first among her
particular chums. He was older than most of them, and yet in some ways
younger than any, and his remarkable youthfulness of manner and
exuberance of spirits sometimes made him appear foolish to Jane, whose
sense of humour was of a more sedate kind. But of the absolute
perfection of his outward appearance, there was no question; and Jane
looked at him now, much as his own mother might have looked, with
honest admiration in her kind eyes.

Garth, notwithstanding the pale violet shirt and dark violet tie, was
quite unconscious of his own appearance; and, dazzled by the golden
sunlight, was also unconscious of Jane's look.

"Oh, I say, Miss Champion!" he cried, boyishly. "Isn't it nice that
they have all gone in? I have been wanting a good jaw with you. Really,
when we all get together we do drivel sometimes, to keep the ball
rolling. It is like patting up air-balls; and very often they burst,
and one realises that an empty, shrivelled little skin is all that is
left after most conversations. Did you ever buy air-balls at Brighton?
Do you remember the wild excitement of seeing the man coming along the
parade, with a huge bunch of them--blue, green, red, white, and yellow,
all shining in the sun? And one used to wonder how he ever contrived to
pick them all up--I don't know how!--and what would happen if he put
them all down. I always knew exactly which one I wanted, and it was
generally on a very inside string and took a long time to disentangle.
And how maddening it was if the grown-ups grew tired of waiting, and
walked on with the penny. Only I would rather have had none, than not
have the one on which I had fixed my heart. Wouldn't you?"

"I never bought air-balls at Brighton," replied Jane, without
enthusiasm. Garth was feeling seven again, and Jane was feeling bored.

For once he seemed conscious of this. He took his coat from the back of
the chair where he had hung it, and put it on.

"Come along, Miss Champion," he said; "I am so tired of doing nothing.
Let us go down to the river and find a boat or two. Dinner is not until
eight o'clock, and I am certain you can dress, even for the ROLE of
Velma, in half an hour. I have known you do it in ten minutes, at a
pinch. There is ample time for me to row you within sight of the
minster, and we can talk as we go. Ah, fancy! the grey old minster with
this sunset behind it, and a field of cowslips in the foreground!"

But Jane did not rise.

"My dear Dal," she said, "you would not feel much enthusiasm for the
minster or the sunset, after you had pulled my twelve stone odd up the
river. You would drop exhausted among the cowslips. Surely you might
know by now that I am not the sort of person to be told off to sit in
the stern of a tiny skiff and steer. If I am in a boat, I like to row;
and if I row, I prefer rowing stroke. But I do not want to row now,
because I have been playing golf the whole afternoon. And you know
perfectly well it would be no pleasure to you to have to gaze at me all
the way up and all the way down the river; knowing all the time, that I
was mentally criticising your stroke and marking the careless way you
feathered."



Garth sat down, lay back in his chair, with his arms behind his sleek
dark head, and looked at her with his soft shining eyes, just as he had
looked at the duchess.

"How cross you are, old chap," he said, gently. "What is the matter?"

Jane laughed and held out her hand. "Oh, you dear boy! I think you have
the sweetest temper in the world. I won't be cross any more. The truth
is, I hate the duchess's concerts, and I don't like being the duchess's
'surprise-packet.'"

"I see," said Garth, sympathetically. "But, that being so, why did you
offer?"

"Ah, I had to," said Jane. "Poor old dear! She so rarely asks me
anything, and her eyes besought. Don't you know how one longs to have
something to do for some one who belongs to one? I would black her
boots if she wished it. But it is so hard to stay here, week after
week, and be kept at arm's length. This one thing she asked of me, and
her proud old eyes pleaded. Could I refuse?"

Garth was all sympathy. "No, dear," he said thoughtfully; "of course
you couldn't. And don't bother over that silly joke about the 'surprise
packet.' You see, you won't be that. I have no doubt you sing vastly
better than most of them, but they will not realise it. It takes a
Velma to make such people as these sit up. They will think THE ROSARY a
pretty song, and give you a mild clap, and there the thing will end. So
don't worry."

Jane sat and considered this. Then: "Dal," she said, "I do hate singing
before that sort of audience. It is like giving them your soul to look
at, and you don't want them to see it. It seems indecent. To my mind,
music is the most REVEALING thing in the world. I shiver when I think
of that song, and yet I daren't do less than my best. When the moment
comes, I shall live in the song, and forget the audience. Let me tell
you a lesson I once had from Madame Blanche. I was singing Bemberg's
CHANT HINDOU, the passionate prayer of an Indian woman to Brahma. I
began: 'BRAHMA! DIEU DES CROYANTS,' and sang it as I might have sung
'DO, RE, MI.' Brahma was nothing to me. 'Stop!' cried Madame Blanche in
her most imperious manner. 'Ah, vous Anglais! What are you doing?
BRAHMA, c'est un Dieu! He may not be YOUR God. He may not be MY God.
But he is somebody's God. He is the God of the song. Ecoutez!' And she
lifted her head and sang: 'Brahma! Dieu des croyants! Maitre des cites
saintes!' with her beautiful brow illumined, and a passion of religious
fervour which thrilled one's soul. It was a lesson I never forgot. I
can honestly say I have never sung a song tamely, since."

"Fine!" said Garth Dalmain. "I like enthusiasm in every branch of art.
I never care to paint a portrait, unless I adore the woman I am
painting."

Jane smiled. The conversation was turning exactly the way she had hoped
eventually to lead it.

"Dal, dear," she said, "you adore so many in turn, that we old friends,
who have your real interest at heart, fear you will never adore to any
definite purpose."

Garth laughed. "Oh bother!" he said. "Are you like all the rest? Do you
also think adoration and admiration must necessarily mean marriage. I
should have expected you to take a saner and more masculine view."

"My dear boy," said Jane, "your friends have decided that you need a
wife. You are alone in the world. You have a lovely home. You are in a
fair way to be spoiled by all the silly women who run after you. Of
course we are perfectly aware that your wife must have every
incomparable beauty under the sun united in her own exquisite person.
But each new divinity you see and paint apparently fulfils, for the
time being, this wondrous ideal; and, perhaps, if you wedded one,
instead of painting her, she might continue permanently to fulfil it."

Garth considered this in silence, his level brows knitted. At last he
said: "Beauty is so much a thing of the surface. I see it, and admire
it. I desire it, and paint it. When I have painted it, I have made it
my own, and somehow I find I have done with it. All the time I am
painting a woman, I am seeking for her soul. I want to express it on my
canvas; and do you know, Miss Champion, I find that a lovely woman does
not always have a lovely soul."

Jane was silent. The last things she wished to discuss were other
women's souls.

"There is just one who seems to me perfect," continued Garth. "I am to
paint her this autumn. I believe I shall find her soul as exquisite as
her body."

"And she is--?" inquired Jane.

"Lady Brand."

"Flower!" exclaimed Jane. "Are YOU so taken with Flower?"

"Ah, she is lovely," said Garth, with reverent enthusiasm. "It
positively is not right for any one to be so absolutely flawlessly
lovely. It makes me ache. Do you know that feeling, Miss Champion, of
perfect loveliness making you ache?"

"No, I don't," said Jane, shortly. "And I do not think other people's
wives ought to have that effect upon you."

"My dear old chap," exclaimed Garth, astonished; "it has nothing to do
with wives or no wives. A wood of bluebells in morning sunshine would
have precisely the same effect. I ache to paint her. When I have
painted her and really done justice to that matchless loveliness as I
see it, I shall feel all right. At present I have only painted her from
memory; but she is to sit to me in October."

"From memory?" questioned Jane.

"Yes, I paint a great deal from memory. Give me one look of a certain
kind at a face, let me see it at a moment which lets one penetrate
beneath the surface, and I can paint that face from memory weeks after.
Lots of my best studies have been done that way. Ah, the delight of it!
Beauty--the worship of beauty is to me a religion."

"Rather a godless form of religion," suggested Jane.

"Ah no," said Garth reverently. "All true beauty comes from God, and
leads back to God. 'Every good gift and every perfect gift is from
above, and cometh down from the Father of lights.' I once met an old
freak who said all sickness came from the devil. I never could believe
that, for my mother was an invalid during the last years of her life,
and I can testify that her sickness was a blessing to many, and borne
to the glory of God. But I am, convinced all true beauty is God-given,
and that is why the worship of beauty is to me a religion. Nothing bad
was ever truly beautiful; nothing good is ever really ugly."

Jane smiled as she watched him, lying back in the golden sunlight, the
very personification of manly beauty. The absolute lack of
self-consciousness, either for himself or for her, which allowed him to
talk thus to the plainest woman of his acquaintance, held a vein of
humour which diverted Jane. It appealed to her more than buying
 air-balls, or screaming because the duchess wore a mushroom
hat.

"Then are plain people to be denied their share of goodness, Dal?" she
asked.

"Plainness is not ugliness," replied Garth Dalmain simply. "I learned
that when quite a small boy. My mother took me to hear a famous
preacher. As he sat on the platform during the preliminaries he seemed
to me quite the ugliest man I had ever seen. He reminded me of a
grotesque gorilla, and I dreaded the moment when he should rise up and
face us and give out a text. It seemed to me there ought to be bars
between, and that we should want to throw nuts and oranges. But when he
rose to speak, his face was transfigured. Goodness and inspiration
shone from it, making it as the face of an angel. I never again thought
him ugly. The beauty of his soul shone through, transfiguring his body.
Child though I was, I could differentiate even then between ugliness
and plainness. When he sat down at the close of his magnificent sermon,
I no longer thought him a complicated form of chimpanzee. I remembered
the divine halo of his smile. Of course his actual plainness of feature
remained. It was not the sort of face one could have wanted to live
with, or to have day after day opposite to one at table. But then one
was not called to that sort of discipline, which would have been
martyrdom to me. And he has always stood to my mind since as a proof of
the truth that goodness is never ugly; and that divine love and
aspiration shining through the plainest features may redeem them
temporarily into beauty; and, permanently, into a thing one loves to
remember."

"I see," said Jane. "It must have often helped you to a right view to
have realised that so long ago. But now let us return to the important
question of the face which you ARE to have daily opposite you at table.
It cannot be Lady Brand's, nor can it be Myra's; but, you know, Dal, a
very lovely one is being suggested for the position."

"No names, please," said Garth, quickly. "I object to girls' names
being mentioned in this sort of conversation."

"Very well, dear boy. I understand and respect your objection. You have
made her famous already by your impressionist portrait of her, and I
hear you are to do a more elaborate picture 'in the fall.' Now, Dal,
you know you admire her immensely. She is lovely, she is charming, she
hails from the land whose women, when they possess charm, unite with it
a freshness and a piquancy which place them beyond compare. In some
ways you are so unique yourself that you ought to have a wife with a
certain amount of originality. Now, I hardly know how far the opinion
of your friends would influence you in such a matter, but you may like
to hear how fully they approve your very open allegiance to--shall we
say--the beautiful 'Stars and Stripes'?"

Garth Dalmain took out his cigarette case, carefully selected a
cigarette, and sat with it between his fingers in absorbed
contemplation.

"Smoke," said Jane.

"Thanks," said Garth. He struck a match and very deliberately lighted
his cigarette. As he flung away the vesta the breeze caught it and it
fell on the lawn, flaming brightly. Garth sprang up and extinguished
it, then drew his chair more exactly opposite to Jane's and lay back,
smoking meditatively, and watching the little rings he blew, mount into
the cedar branches, expand, fade, and vanish.

Jane was watching him. The varied and characteristic ways in which her
friends lighted and smoked their cigarettes always interested Jane.
There were at least a dozen young men of whom she could have given the
names upon hearing a description of their method. Also, she had learned
from Deryck Brand the value of silences in an important conversation,
and the art of not weakening a statement by a postscript.

At last Garth spoke.

"I wonder why the smoke is that lovely pale blue as it curls up from
the cigarette, and a greyish-white if one blows it out."

Jane knew it was because it had become impregnated with moisture, but
she did not say so, having no desire to contribute her quota of pats to
this air-ball, or to encourage the superficial workings of his mind
just then. She quietly awaited the response to her appeal to his deeper
nature which she felt certain would be forthcoming. Presently it came.

"It is awfully good of you, Miss Champion, to take the trouble to think
all this and to say it to me. May I prove my gratitude by explaining
for once where my difficulty lies? I have scarcely defined it to
myself, and yet I believe I can express it to you." Another long
silence. Garth smoked and pondered.

Jane waited. It was a very comprehending, very companionable silence.
Garth found himself parodying the last lines of an old
sixteenth-century song:

    "Then ever pray that heaven may send
     Such weeds, such chairs, and such a friend."

Either the cigarette, or the chair, or Jane, or perhaps all three
combined were producing in him a sublime sense of calm, and rest, and
well-being; an uplifting of spirit which made all good things seem
better; all difficult things, easy; and all ideals, possible. The
silence, like the sunset, was golden; but at last he broke it.

"Two women--the only two women who have ever really been in my
life--form for me a standard below which I cannot fall,--one, my
mother, a sacred and ideal memory; the other, old Margery Graem, my
childhood's friend and nurse, now my housekeeper and general tender and
mender. Her faithful heart and constant remembrance help to keep me
true to the ideal of that sweet presence which faded from beside me
when I stood on the threshold of manhood. Margery lives at Castle
Gleneesh. When I return home, the sight which first meets my eyes as
the hall door opens is old Margery in her black satin apron, lawn
kerchief, and lavender ribbons. I always feel seven then, and I always
hug her. You, Miss Champion, don't like me when I feel seven; but
Margery does. Now, this is what I want you to realise. When I bring a
bride to Gleneesh and present her to Margery, the kind old eyes will
try to see nothing but good; the faithful old heart will yearn to love
and serve. And yet I shall know she knows the standard, just as I know
it; I shall know she remembers the ideal of gentle, tender, Christian
womanhood, just as I remember it; and I must not, I dare not, fall
short. Believe me, Miss Champion, more than once, when physical
attraction has been strong, and I have been tempted in the worship of
the outward loveliness to disregard or forget the essentials,--the
things which are unseen but eternal,--then, all unconscious of
exercising any such influence, old Margery's clear eyes look into mine,
old Margery's mittened hand seems to rest upon my coat sleeve, and the
voice which has guided me from infancy, says, in gentle astonishment:
`Is this your choice, Master Garthie, to fill my dear lady's place?' No
doubt, Miss Champion, it will seem almost absurd to you when you think
of our set and our sentiments, and the way we racket round that I
should sit here on the duchess's lawn and confess that I have been held
back from proposing marriage to the women I have most admired, because
of what would have been my old nurse's opinion of them! But you must
remember her opinion is formed by a memory, and that memory is the
memory of my dead mother. Moreover, Margery voices my best self, and
expresses my own judgment when it is not blinded by passion or warped
by my worship of the beautiful. Not that Margery would disapprove of
loveliness; in fact, she would approve of nothing else for me, I know
very well. But her penetration rapidly goes beneath the surface.
According to one of Paul's sublime paradoxes, she looks at the things
that are not seen. It seems queer that I can tell you all this, Miss
Champion, and really it is the first time I have actually formulated it
in my own mind. But I think it so extremely friendly of you to have
troubled to give me good advice in the matter."

Garth Dalmain ceased speaking, and the silence which followed suddenly
assumed alarming proportions, seeming to Jane like a high fence which
she was vainly trying to scale. She found herself mentally rushing
hither and thither, seeking a gate or any possible means of egress. And
still she was confronted by the difficulty of replying adequately to
the totally unexpected. And what added to her dumbness was the fact
that she was infinitely touched by Garth's confession; and when Jane
was deeply moved speech always became difficult. That this young
man--adored by all the girls for his good looks and delightful manners;
pursued for his extreme eligibility by mothers and chaperons; famous
already in the world of art; flattered, courted, sought after in
society--should calmly admit that the only woman really left IN his
life was his old nurse, and that her opinion and expectations held him
back from a worldly, or unwise marriage, touched Jane deeply, even
while in her heart she smiled at what their set would say could they
realise the situation. It revealed Garth in a new light; and suddenly
Jane understood him, as she had not understood him before.

And yet the only reply she could bring herself to frame was: "I wish I
knew old Margery."

Garth's brown eyes flashed with pleasure.

"Ah, I wish you did," he said. "And I should like you to see Castle
Gleneesh. You would enjoy the view from the terrace, sheer into the
gorge, and away across the purple hills. And I think you would like the
pine woods and the moor. I say, Miss Champion, why should not _I_ get
up a 'best party' in September, and implore the duchess to come and
chaperon it? And then you could come, and any one else you would like
asked. And--and, perhaps--we might ask--the beautiful 'Stars and
Stripes,' and her aunt, Mrs. Parker Bangs of Chicago; and then we
should see what Margery thought of her!"

"Delightful!" said Jane. "I would come with pleasure. And really, Dal,
I think that girl has a sweet nature. Could you do better? The exterior
is perfect, and surely the soul is there. Yes, ask us all, and see what
happens."

"I will," cried Garth, delighted. "And what will Margery think of Mrs.
Parker Bangs?"

"Never mind," said Jane decidedly. "When you marry the niece, the aunt
goes back to Chicago."

"And I wish her people were not millionaires."

"That can't be helped," said Jane. "Americans are so charming, that we
really must not mind their money."

"I wish Miss Lister and her aunt were here," remarked Garth. "But they
are to be at Lady Ingleby's, where I am due next Tuesday. Do you come
on there, Miss Champion?"

"I do," replied Jane. "I go to the Brands for a few days on Tuesday,
but I have promised Myra to turn up at Shenstone for the week-end. I
like staying there. They are such a harmonious couple."

"Yes," said Garth, "but no one could help being a harmonious couple,
who had married Lady Ingleby."

"What grammar!" laughed Jane. "But I know what you mean, and I am glad
you think so highly of Myra. She is a dear! Only do make haste and
paint her and get her off your mind, so as to be free for Pauline
Lister."

The sun-dial pointed to seven o'clock. The rooks had circled round the
elms and dropped contentedly into their nests.

"Let us go in," said Jane, rising. "I am glad we have had this talk,"
she added, as he walked beside her across the lawn.

"Yes," said Garth. "Air-balls weren't in it! It was a football this
time--good solid leather. And we each kicked one goal,--a tie, you
know. For your advice went home to me, and I think my reply showed you
the true lie of things; eh, Miss Champion?"

He was feeling seven again; but Jane saw him now through old Margery's
glasses, and it did not annoy her.

"Yes," she said, smiling at him with her kind, true eyes; "we will
consider it a tie, and surely it will prove a tie to our friendship.
Thank you, Dal, for all you have told me."

Arrived in her room, Jane found she had half an hour to spare before
dressing. She took out her diary. Her conversation with Garth Dalmain
seemed worth recording, particularly his story of the preacher whose
beauty of soul redeemed the ugliness of his body. She wrote it down
verbatim.

Then she rang for her maid, and dressed for dinner, and the concert
which should follow.




CHAPTER VI

THE VEIL IS LIFTED


"MISS CHAMPION! Oh, here you are! Your turn next, please. The last item
of the local programme is in course of performance, after which the
duchess explains Velma's laryngitis--let us hope she will not call it
'appendicitis'--and then I usher you up. Are you ready?"

Garth Dalmain, as master of ceremonies, had sought Jane Champion on the
terrace, and stood before her in the soft light of the hanging Chinese
lanterns. The crimson rambler in his button-hole, and his red silk
socks, which matched it, lent an artistic touch of colour to the
conventional black and white of his evening clothes.

Jane looked up from the comfortable depths of her wicker chair; then
smiled at his anxious face.

"I am ready," she said, and rising, walked beside him. "Has it gone
well?" she asked. "Is it a good audience?"

"Packed," replied Garth, "and the duchess has enjoyed herself. It has
been funnier than usual. But now comes the event of the evening. I say,
where is your score?"

"Thanks," said Jane. "I shall play it from memory. It obviates the
bother of turning over."

They passed into the concert-room and stood behind screens and a
curtain, close to the half-dozen steps leading, from the side, up on to
the platform.

"Oh, hark to the duchess!" whispered Garth. "My NIECE, JANE CHAMPION,
HAS KINDLY CONSENTED TO STEP INTO THE BREACH--' Which means that you
will have to step up on to that platform in another half-minute. Really
it would be kinder to you if she said less about Velma. But never mind;
they are prepared to like anything. There! APPENDICITIS! I told you so.
Poor Madame Velma! Let us hope it won't get into the local papers. Oh,
goodness! She is going to enlarge on new-fangled diseases. Well, it
gives us a moment's breathing space.... I say, Miss Champion, I was
chaffing this afternoon about sharps and flats. I can play that
accompaniment for you if you like. No? Well, just as you think best.
But remember, it takes a lot of voice to make much effect in this
concert-room, and the place is crowded. Now--the duchess has done. Come
on. Mind the bottom step. Hang it all! How dark it is behind this
curtain!"

Garth gave her his hand, and Jane mounted the steps and passed into
view of the large audience assembled in the Overdene concert-room. Her
tall figure seemed taller than usual as she walked alone across the
rather high platform. She wore a black evening gown of soft material,
with old lace at her bosom and one string of pearls round her neck.
When she appeared, the audience gazed at her and applauded doubtfully.
Velma's name on the programme had raised great expectations; and here
was Miss Champion, who certainly played very nicely, but was not
supposed to be able to sing, volunteering to sing Velma's song. A more
kindly audience would have cheered her to the echo, voicing its
generous appreciation of her effort, and sanguine expectation of her
success. This audience expressed its astonishment, in the dubiousness
of its faint applause.

Jane smiled at them good-naturedly; sat down at the piano, a Bechstein
grand; glanced at the festoons of white roses and the cross of crimson
ramblers; then, without further preliminaries, struck the opening chord
and commenced to sing.

The deep, perfect voice thrilled through the room.

A sudden breathless hush fell upon the audience.

Each syllable penetrated the silence, borne on a tone so tender and so
amazingly sweet, that casual hearts stood still and marvelled at their
own emotion; and those who felt deeply already, responded with a yet
deeper thrill to the magic of that music.

  "The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
    Are as a string of pearls to me;
   I count them over, ev'ry one apart,
    My rosary,--my rosary."

Softly, thoughtfully, tenderly, the last two words were breathed into
the silence, holding a world of reminiscence--a large-hearted woman's
faithful remembrance of tender moments in the past.

The listening crowd held its breath. This was not a song. This was the
throbbing of a heart; and it throbbed in tones of such sweetness, that
tears started unbidden.

Then the voice, which had rendered the opening lines so quietly, rose
in a rapid crescendo of quivering pain.

  "Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,
    To still a heart in absence wrung;
   I tell each bead unto the end, and there--
    A cross is hung!"

The last four words were given with a sudden power and passion which
electrified the assembly. In the pause which followed, could be heard
the tension of feeling produced. But in another moment the quiet voice
fell soothingly, expressing a strength of endurance which would fail in
no crisis, nor fear to face any depths of pain; yet gathering to itself
a poignancy of sweetness, rendered richer by the discipline of
suffering.

  "O memories that bless and burn!
    O barren gain and bitter loss!
   I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn
    To kiss the cross ... to kiss the cross."

Only those who have heard Jane sing THE ROSARY can possibly realise how
she sang "I KISS EACH BEAD." The lingering retrospection in each word;
breathed out a love so womanly, so beautiful, so tender, that her
identity was forgotten--even by those in the audience who knew her
best--in the magic of her rendering of the song.

The accompaniment, which opens with a single chord, closes with a
single note.

Jane struck it softly, lingeringly; then rose, turned from the piano,
and was leaving the platform, when a sudden burst of wild applause
broke from the audience. Jane hesitated, paused, looked at her aunt's
guests as if almost surprised to find them there. Then the slow smile
dawned in her eyes and passed to her lips. She stood in the centre of
the platform for a moment, awkwardly, almost shyly; then moved on as
men's voices began to shout "Encore! 'core!" and left the platform by
the side staircase.

But there, behind the scenes, in the semi-darkness of screens and
curtains, a fresh surprise awaited Jane, more startling than the
enthusiastic tumult of her audience.

At the foot of the staircase stood Garth Dalmain. His face was
absolutely colourless, and his eyes shone out from it like burning
stars. He remained motionless until she stepped from the last stair and
stood close to him. Then with a sudden movement he caught her by the
shoulders and turned her round.

"Go back!" he said, and the overmastering need quivering in his voice
drew Jane's eyes to his in mute astonishment. "Go back at once and sing
it all over again, note for note, word for word, just as before. Ah,
don't stand here waiting! Go back now! Go back at once! Don't you know
that you MUST?"

Jane looked into those shining eyes. Something she saw in them excused
the brusque command of his tone. Without a word, she quietly mounted
the steps and walked across the platform to the piano. People were
still applauding, and redoubled their demonstrations of delight as she
appeared; but Jane took her seat at the instrument without giving them
a thought.

She was experiencing a very curious and unusual sensation. Never before
in her whole life had she obeyed a peremptory command. In her
childhood's days, Fraulein and Miss Jebb soon found out that they could
only obtain their desires by means of carefully worded requests, or
pathetic appeals to her good feelings and sense of right. An
unreasonable order, or a reasonable one unexplained, promptly met with
a point-blank refusal. And this characteristic still obtained, though
modified by time; and even the duchess, as a rule, said "please" to
Jane.

But now a young man with a white face and blazing eyes had
unceremoniously swung her round, ordered her up the stairs, and
commanded her to sing a song over again, note for note, word for word,
and she was meekly going to obey.

As she took her seat, Jane suddenly made up her mind not to sing The
Rosary again. She had many finer songs in her repertoire. The audience
expected another. Why should she disappoint those expectations because
of the imperious demands of a very highly excited boy?

She commenced the magnificent prelude to Handel's "Where'er you walk,"
but, as she played it, her sense of truth and justice intervened. She
had not come back to sing again at the bidding of a highly excited boy,
but of a deeply moved man; and his emotion was of no ordinary kind.
That Garth Dalmain should have been so moved as to forget even
momentarily his punctilious courtesy of manner, was the highest
possible tribute to her art and to her song. While she played the
Handel theme--and played it so that a whole orchestra seemed marshalled
upon the key-board under those strong, firm finger--she suddenly
realised, though scarcely understanding it, the MUST of which Garth had
spoken, and made up her mind to yield to its necessity. So; when the
opening bars were ended, instead of singing the grand song from Semele
she paused for a moment; struck once more The Rosary's; opening chord;
and did as Garth had bidden her to do.

  "The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
    Are as a string of pearls to me;
   I count them over, ev'ry one apart,
    My rosary,--my rosary.
  "Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,
    To still a heart in absence wrung;
   I tell each bead unto the end, and there--
    A cross is hung!
  "O memories that bless and burn!
    O barren gain and bitter loss!
   I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn
    To kiss the cross ... to kiss the cross."

When Jane left the platform, Garth was still standing motionless at the
foot of the stairs. His face was just as white as before, but his eyes
had lost that terrible look of unshed tears, which had sent her back,
at his bidding, without a word of question or remonstrance. A wonderful
light now shone in them; a light of adoration, which touched Jane's
heart because she had never before seen anything quite like it. She
smiled as she came slowly down the steps, and held out both hands to
him with an unconscious movement of gracious friendliness. Garth
stepped close to the bottom of the staircase and took them in his,
while she was still on the step above him.

For a moment he did not speak. Then in a low voice, vibrant with
emotion: "My God!" he said, "Oh, my God!"

"Hush," said Jane; "I never like to hear that name spoken lightly, Dal."

"Spoken lightly!" he exclaimed. "No speaking lightly would be possible
for me to-night. 'Every perfect gift is from above.' When words fail me
to speak of the gift, can you wonder if I apostrophise the Giver?"

Jane looked steadily into his shining eyes, and a smile of pleasure
illumined her own. "So you liked my song?" she said.

"Liked--liked your song?" repeated Garth, a shade of perplexity
crossing his face. "I do not know whether I liked your song."

"Then why this flattering demonstration?" inquired Jane, laughing.

"Because," said Garth, very low, "you lifted the veil, and I--I passed
within."

He was still holding her hands in his; and, as he spoke the last two
words, he turned them gently over and, bending, kissed each palm with
an indescribably tender reverence; then, loosing them, stood on one
side, and Jane went out on to the terrace alone.




CHAPTER VII

GARTH FINDS HIS ROSARY


Jane spent but a very few minutes in the drawing-room that evening. The
fun in progress there was not to her taste, and the praises heaped upon
herself annoyed her. Also she wanted the quiet of her own room in order
to think over that closing episode of the concert, which had taken
place between herself and Garth, behind the scenes. She did not feel
certain how to take it. She was conscious that it held an element which
she could not fathom, and Garth's last act had awakened in herself
feelings which she did not understand. She extremely disliked the way
in which he had kissed her hands; and yet he had put into the action
such a passion of reverent worship that it gave her a sense of
consecration--of being, as it were, set apart to minister always to the
hearts of men in that perfect gift of melody which should uplift and
ennoble. She could not lose the sensation of the impress of his lips
upon the palms of her hands. It was as if he had left behind something
tangible and abiding. She caught herself looking at them anxiously once
or twice, and the third time this happened she determined to go to her
room.

The duchess was at the piano, completely hidden from view by nearly the
whole of her house party, crowding round in fits of delighted laughter.
Ronnie had just broken through from the inmost circle to fetch an
antimacassar; and Billy, to dash to the writing-table for a sheet of
note-paper. Jane knew the note-paper meant a clerical dog collar, and
she concluded something had been worn which resembled an antimacassar.

She turned rather wearily and moved towards the door. Quiet and
unobserved though her retreat had been, Garth was at the door before
her. She did not know how he got there; for, as she turned to leave the
room, she had seen his sleek head close to Myra Ingleby's on the
further side of the duchess's crowd. He opened the door and Jane passed
out. She felt equally desirous of saying two things to him,--either:
"How dared you behave in so unconventional a way?" or: "Tell me just
what you want me to do, and I will do it."

She said neither.

Garth followed her into the hall, lighted a candle, and threw the match
at Tommy; then handed her the silver candlestick. He was looking
absurdly happy. Jane felt annoyed with him for parading this gladness,
which she had unwittingly caused and in which she had no share. Also
she felt she must break this intimate silence. It was saying so much
which ought not to be said, since it could not be spoken. She took her
candle rather aggressively and turned upon the second step.

"Good-night, Dal," she said. "And do you know that you are missing the
curate?"

He looked up at her. His eyes shone in the light of her candle.

"No," he said. "I am neither missing nor missed. I was only waiting in
there until you went up. I shall not go back. I am going out into the
park now to breathe in the refreshing coolness of the night breeze. And
I am going to stand under the oaks and tell my beads. I did not know I
had a rosary, until to-night, but I have--I have!"

"I should say you have a dozen," remarked Jane, dryly.

"Then you would be wrong," replied Garth. "I have just one. But it has
many hours. I shall be able to call them all to mind when I get out
there alone. I am going to 'count each pearl.'"

"How about the cross?" asked Jane.

"I have not reached that yet," answered Garth. "There is no cross to my
rosary."

"I fear there is a cross to every true rosary, Dal," said Jane gently,
"and I also fear it will go hard with you when you find yours."

But Garth was confident and unafraid.

"When I find mine," he said, "I hope I shall be able to"--
Involuntarily Jane looked at her hands. He saw the look and smiled,
though he had the grace to colour beneath his tan,--"to FACE the
cross," he said.

Jane turned and began to mount the stairs; but Garth arrested her with
an eager question.

"Just one moment, Miss Champion! There is something I want to ask you.
May I? Will you think me impertinent, presuming, inquisitive?"

"I have no doubt I shall," said Jane. "But I am thinking you all sorts
of unusual things to-night; so three adjectives more or less will not
matter much. You may ask."

"Miss Champion, have YOU a rosary?"

Jane looked at him blankly; then suddenly understood the drift of his
question.

"My dear boy, NO!" she said. "Thank goodness, I have kept clear of
'memories that bless and burn.' None of these things enter into my
rational and well-ordered life, and I have no wish that they should."

"Then," deliberated Garth, "how came you to sing THE ROSARY as if each
line were your own experience; each joy or pain a thing--long passed,
perhaps--but your own?"

"Because," explained Jane, "I always live in a song when I sing it. Did
I not tell you the lesson I learned over the CHANT HINDOU? Therefore I
had a rosary undoubtedly when I was singing that song to-night. But,
apart from that, in the sense you mean, no, thank goodness, I have
none."

Garth mounted two steps, bringing his eyes on a level with the
candlestick.

"But IF you cared," he said, speaking very low, "that is how you would
care? that is as you would feel?"

Jane considered. "Yes," she said, "IF I cared, I suppose I should care
just so, and feel as I felt during those few minutes."

"Then it was YOU in the song, although the circumstances are not yours?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Jane replied, "if we can consider ourselves apart
from our circumstances. But surely this is rather an unprofitable
'air-ball.' Goodnight, 'Master Garthie!'"

"I say, Miss Champion! Just one thing more. Will you sing for me
to-morrow? Will you come to the music-room and sing all the lovely
things I want to hear? And will you let me play a few of your
accompaniments? Ah, promise you will come. And promise to sing whatever
I ask, and I won't bother you any more now."

He stood looking up at her, waiting for her promise, with such
adoration shining in his eyes that Jane was startled and more than a
little troubled. Then suddenly it seemed to her that she had found the
key, and she hastened to explain it to herself and to him.

"Oh, you dear boy!" she said. "What an artist you are! And how
difficult it is for us commonplace, matter-of-fact people to understand
the artistic temperament. Here you go, almost turning my steady old
head by your rapture over what seemed to you perfection of sound which
has reached you through the ear; just as, again and again, you worship
at the shrine of perfection of form, which reaches you through the eye.
I begin to understand how it is you turn the heads of women when you
paint them. However, you are very delightful in your delight, and I
want to go up to bed. So I promise to sing all you want and as much as
you wish to-morrow. Now keep your promise and don't bother me any more
to-night. Don't spend the whole night in the park, and try not to
frighten the deer. No, I do not need any assistance with my candle, and
I am quite used to going upstairs by myself, thank you. Can't you hear
what personal and appropriate remarks Tommy is making down there? Now
do run away, Master Garthie, and count your pearls. And if you suddenly
come upon a cross--remember, the cross can, in all probability, be
persuaded to return to Chicago!"

Jane was still smiling as she entered her room and placed her
candlestick on the dressing-table.

Overdene was lighted solely by lamps and candles. The duchess refused
to modernise it by the installation of electric light. But candles
abounded, and Jane, who liked a brilliant illumination, proceeded to
light both candles in the branches on either side of the dressing-table
mirror, and in the sconces on the wall beside the mantelpiece, and in
the tall silver candlesticks upon the writing-table. Then she seated
herself in a comfortable arm-chair, reached for her writing-case, took
out her diary and a fountain pen, and prepared to finish the day's
entry. She wrote, "SANG 'THE ROSARY' AT AUNT 'GINA'S CONCERT IN PLACE
OF VELMA, FAILED (LARYNGITIS)," and came to a full stop.

Somehow the scene with Garth was difficult to record, and the
sensations which still remained therefrom, absolutely unwritable. Jane
sat and pondered the situation, content to allow the page to remain
blank.

Before she rose, locked her book, and prepared for rest, she had, to
her own satisfaction, clearly explained the whole thing. Garth's
artistic temperament was the basis of the argument; and, alas, the
artistic temperament is not a very firm foundation, either for a
theory, or for the fabric of a destiny. However, FAUTE DE MIEUX, Jane
had to accept it as main factor in her mental adjustment, thus: This
vibrant emotion in Garth, so strangely disturbing to her own solid
calm, was in no sense personal to herself, excepting in so far as her
voice and musical gifts were concerned. Just as the sight of paintable
beauty crazed him with delight, making him wild with alternate hope and
despair until he obtained his wish and had his canvas and his sitter
arranged to his liking; so now, his passion for the beautiful had been
awakened, this time through the medium, not of sight, but of sound.
When she had given him his fill of song, and allowed him to play some
of her accompaniments, he would be content, and that disquieting look
of adoration would pass from those beautiful brown eyes. Meanwhile it
was pleasant to look forward to to-morrow, though it behooved her to
remember that all this admiration had in it nothing personal to
herself. He would have gone into even greater raptures over Madame
Blanche, for instance, who had the same timbre of voice and method of
singing, combined with a beauty of person which delighted the eye the
while her voice enchanted the ear. Certainly Garth must see and hear
her, as music appeared to mean so much to him. Jane began planning
this, and then her mind turned to Pauline Lister, the lovely American
girl, whose name had been coupled with Garth Dalmain's all the season.
Jane felt certain she was just the wife he needed. Her loveliness would
content him, her shrewd common-sense and straightforward, practical
ways would counterbalance his somewhat erratic temperament, and her
adaptability would enable her to suit herself to his surroundings, both
in his northern home and amongst his large circle of friends down
south. Once married, he would give up raving about Flower and Myra, and
kissing people's hands in that--"absurd way," Jane was going to say,
but she was invariably truthful, even in her thoughts, and substituted
"extraordinary" as the more correct adjective--in that extraordinary
way.

She sat forward in her chair with her elbows on her knees, and held her
large hands before her, palms upward, realising again the sensations of
that moment. Then she pulled herself up sharply. "Jane Champion, don't
be a fool! You would wrong that dear, beauty-loving boy, more than you
would wrong yourself, if you took him for one moment seriously. His
homage to-night was no more personal to you than his appreciation of
the excellent dinner was personal to Aunt Georgina's chef. In his
enjoyment of the production, the producer was included; but that was
all. Be gratified at the success of your art, and do not spoil that
success by any absurd sentimentality. Now wash your very ungainly hands
and go to bed." Thus Jane to herself.

      *      *      *      *      *

And under the oaks, with soft turf beneath his feet, stood Garth
Dalmain, the shy deer sleeping around unconscious of his presence; the
planets above, hanging like lamps in the deep purple of the sky. And
he, also, soliloquised.

"I have found her," he said, in low tones of rapture, "the ideal woman,
the crown of womanhood, the perfect mate for the spirit, soul, and body
of the man who can win her.--Jane! Jane! Ah, how blind I have been! To
have known her for years, and yet not realised her to be this. But she
lifted the veil, and I passed in. Ah grand, noble heart! She will never
be able to draw the veil again between her soul and mine. And she has
no rosary. I thank God for that. No other man possesses, or has ever
possessed, that which I desire more than I ever desired anything upon
this earth, Jane's love, Jane's tenderness. Ah, what will it mean? 'I
count each pearl.' She WILL count them some day--her pearls and mine.
God spare us the cross. Must there be a cross to every true rosary?
Then God give me the heavy end, and may the mutual bearing of it bind
us together. Ah, those dear hands! Ah, those true steadfast eyes! ...
Jane!--Jane! Surely it has always been Jane, though I did not know it,
blind fool that I have been! But one thing I know: whereas I was blind,
now I see. And it will always be Jane from this night onward through
time and-please God--into eternity."

The night breeze stirred his thick dark hair, and his eyes, as he
raised them, shone in the starlight.

      *      *      *      *      *

And Jane, almost asleep, was roused by the tapping of her blind against
the casement, and murmured "Anything you wish, Garth, just tell me, and
I will do it." Then awakening suddenly to the consciousness of what she
had said, she sat up in the darkness and scolded herself furiously.
"Oh, you middle-aged donkey! You call yourself staid and sensible, and
a little flattery from a boy of whom you are fond turns your head
completely. Come to your senses at once; or leave Overdene by the first
train in the morning."




CHAPTER VIII

ADDED PEARLS


The days which followed were golden days to Jane. There was nothing to
spoil the enjoyment of a very new and strangely sweet experience.

Garth's manner the next morning held none of the excitement or outward
demonstration which had perplexed and troubled her the evening before.
He was very quiet, and seemed to Jane older than she had ever known
him. He had very few lapses into his seven-year-old mood, even with the
duchess; and when someone chaffingly asked him whether he was
practising the correct deportment of a soon-to-be-married man,

"Yes," said Garth quietly, "I am."

"Will she be at Shenstone?" inquired Ronald; for several of the
duchess's party were due at Lady Ingleby's for the following week-end.

"Yes," said Garth, "she will."

"Oh, lor'!" cried Billy, dramatically. "Prithee, Benedict, are we to
take this seriously?"

But Jane who, wrapped in the morning paper, sat near where Garth was
standing, came out from behind it to look up at him and say, so that
only he heard it "Oh, Dal, I am so glad! Did you make up your mind last
night?"

"Yes," said Garth, turning so that he spoke to her alone, "last night."

"Did our talk in the afternoon have something to do with it?"

"No, nothing whatever."

"Was it THE ROSARY?"

He hesitated; then said, without looking at her: "The revelation of THE
ROSARY? Yes."

To Jane his mood of excitement was now fully explained, and she could
give herself up freely to the enjoyment of this new phase in their
friendship, for the hours of music together were a very real delight.
Garth was more of a musician than she had known, and she enjoyed his
clean, masculine touch on the piano, unblurred by slur or pedal; more
delicate than her own, where delicacy was required. What her voice was
to him during those wonderful hours he did not express in words, for
after that first evening he put a firm restraint upon his speech. Under
the oaks he had made up his mind to wait a week before speaking, and he
waited.

But the new and strangely sweet experience to Jane was that of being
absolutely first to some one. In ways known only to himself and to her
Garth made her feel this. There was nothing for any one else to notice,
and yet she knew perfectly well that she never came into the room
without his being instantly conscious that she was there; that she
never left a room, without being at once missed by him. His attentions
were so unobtrusive and tactful that no one else realised them. They
called forth no chaff from friends and no "Hoity-toity! What now?" from
the duchess. And yet his devotion seemed always surrounding her. For
the first time in her life Jane was made to feel herself FIRST in the
whole thought of another. It made him seem strangely her own. She took
a pleasure and pride in all he said, and did, and was; and in the hours
they spent together in the music-room she learned to know him and to
understand that enthusiastic beauty-loving, irresponsible nature, as
she had never understood it before.

The days were golden, and the parting at night was sweet, because it
gave an added zest to the pleasure of meeting in the morning. And yet
during these golden days the thought of love, in the ordinary sense of
the word, never entered Jane's mind. Her ignorance in this matter
arose, not so much from inexperience, as from too large an experience
of the travesty of the real thing; an experience which hindered her
from recognising love itself, now that love in its most ideal form was
drawing near.

Jane had not come through a dozen seasons without receiving nearly a
dozen proposals of marriage. An heiress, independent of parents and
guardians, of good blood and lineage, a few proposals of a certain type
were inevitable. Middle-aged men--becoming bald and grey; tired of
racketing about town; with beautiful old country places and an
unfortunate lack of the wherewithal to keep them up--proposed to the
Honourable Jane Champion in a business-like way, and the Honourable
Jane looked them up and down, and through and through, until they felt
very cheap, and then quietly refused them, in an equally business-like
way.

Two or three nice boys, whom she had pulled out of scrapes and set on
their feet again after hopeless croppers, had thought, in a wave of
maudlin gratitude, how good it would be for a fellow always to have her
at hand to keep him straight and tell him what he ought to do, don't
you know? and--er--well, yes--pay his debts, and be a sort of
mother-who-doesn't scold kind of person to him; and had caught hold of
her kind hand, and implored her to marry them. Jane had slapped them if
they ventured to touch her, and recommended them not to be silly.

One solemn proposal she had had quite lately from the bachelor rector
of a parish adjoining Overdene. He had often inflicted wearisome
conversations upon her; and when he called, intending to put the
momentous question, Jane, who was sitting at her writing-table in the
Overdene drawing-room, did not see any occasion to move from it. If the
rector became too prosy, she could surreptitiously finish a few notes.
He sank into a deep arm-chair close to the writing-table, crossed his
somewhat bandy legs one over the other, made the tips of his fingers
meet with unctuous accuracy, and intoned the opening sentences of his
proposition. Jane, sharpening pencils and sorting nibs, apparently only
caught the drift of what he was saying, for when he had chanted the
phrase, "Not alone from selfish motives, my dear Miss Champion; but for
the good of my parish; for the welfare of my flock, for the advancement
of the work of the church in our midst," Jane opened a despatch-box and
drew out her cheque-book.

"I shall be delighted to subscribe, Mr. Bilberry," she said. "Is it for
a font, a pulpit, new hymn-books, or what?"

"My dear lady," said the rector tremulously, "you misunderstand me. My
desire is to lead you to the altar."

"Dear Mr. Bilberry," said Jane Champion, "that would be quite
unnecessary. From any part of your church the fact that you need a new
altar-cloth is absolutely patent to all comers. I will, with the
greatest pleasure, give you a cheque for ten pounds towards it. I have
attended your church rather often lately because I enjoy a long, quiet
walk by myself through the woods. And now I am sure you would like to
see my aunt before you go. She is in the aviary, feeding her foreign
birds. If you go out by that window and pass along the terrace to your
left, you will find the aviary and the duchess. I would suggest the
advisability of not mentioning this conversation to my aunt. She does
not approve of elaborate altar-cloths, and would scold us both, and
insist on the money being spent in providing boots for the school
children. No, please do not thank me. I am really glad of an
opportunity of helping on your excellent work in this neighbourhood."

Jane wondered once or twice whether the cheque would be cashed. She
would have liked to receive it back by post, torn in half; with a few
wrathful lines of manly indignation. But when it returned to her in due
course from her bankers, it was indorsed P. BILBERRY, in a neat
scholarly hand, without even a dash of indignation beneath it; and she
threw it into the waste-paper basket, with rather a bitter smile.

These were Jane's experiences of offers of marriage. She had never been
loved for her own sake; she had never felt herself really first in the
heart and life of another. And now, when the adoring love of a man's
whole being was tenderly, cautiously beginning to surround and envelop
her, she did not recognise the reason of her happiness or of his
devotion. She considered him the avowed lover of another woman, with
whose youth and loveliness she would not have dreamed of competing; and
she regarded this closeness of intimacy between herself and Garth as a
development of a friendship more beautiful than she had hitherto
considered possible.

Thus matters stood when Tuesday arrived and the Overdene party broke
up. Jane went to town to spend a couple of days with the Brands. Garth
went straight to Shenstone, where he had been asked expressly to meet
Miss Lister and her aunt, Mrs. Parker Bangs. Jane was due at Shenstone
on Friday for the week-end.




CHAPTER IX

LADY INGLEBY'S HOUSE PARTY


As Jane took her seat and the train moved out of the London terminus
she leaned back in her corner with a sigh of satisfaction. Somehow
these days in town had seemed insufferably long. Jane reviewed them
thoughtfully, and sought the reason. They had been filled with
interests and engagements; and the very fact of being in town, as a
rule, contented her. Why had she felt so restless and dissatisfied and
lonely?

From force of habit she had just stopped at the railway book-stall for
her usual pile of literature. Her friends always said Jane could not go
even the shortest journey without at least half a dozen papers. But now
they lay unheeded on the seat in front of her. Jane was considering her
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and wondering why they had merely
been weary stepping-stones to Friday. And here was Friday at last, and
once in the train en route for Shenstone, she began to feel happy and
exhilarated. What had been the matter with these three days? Flower had
been charming; Deryck, his own friendly, interesting self; little
Dicky, delightful; and Baby Blossom, as sweet as only Baby Blossom
could be. What was amiss?

"I know," said Jane. "Of course! Why did I not realise it before? I had
too much music during those last days at Overdene; and SUCH music! I
have been suffering from a surfeit of music, and the miss of it has
given me this blank feeling of loneliness. No doubt we shall have
plenty at Myra's, and Dal will be there to clamour for it if Myra fails
to suggest it."

With a happy little smile of pleasurable anticipation, Jane took up the
SPECTATOR, and was soon absorbed in an article on the South African
problem.

Myra met her at the station, driving ponies tandem. A light cart was
also there for the maid and baggage; and, without losing a moment, Jane
and her hostess were off along the country lane at a brisk trot.

The fields and woods were an exquisite restful green in the afternoon
sunshine. Wild roses clustered in the hedges. The last loads of hay
were being carted in. There was an ecstasy in the songs of the birds
and a transporting sense of sweetness about all the sights and scents
of the country, such as Jane had never experienced so vividly before.
She drew a deep breath and exclaimed, almost involuntarily: "Ah! it is
good to be here!"

"You dear!" said Lady Ingleby, twirling her whip and nodding in
gracious response to respectful salutes from the hay-field. "It is a
comfort to have you! I always feel you are like the bass of a
tune--something so solid and satisfactory and beneath one in case of a
crisis. I hate crises. They are so tiring. As I say: Why can't things
always go on as they are? They are as they were, and they were as they
will be, if only people wouldn't bother. However, I am certain nothing
could go far wrong when YOU are anywhere near."

Myra flicked the leader, who was inclined to "sugar," and they flew
along between the high hedges, brushing lightly against overhanging
masses of honeysuckle and wild clematis. Jane snatched a spray of the
clematis, in passing. "'Traveller's joy,'" she said, with that same
quiet smile of glad anticipation, and put the white blossom in her
buttonhole.

"Well," continued Lady Ingleby, "my house party is going on quite
satisfactorily. Oh, and, Jane, there seems no doubt about Dal. How
pleased I shall be if it comes off under my wing! The American girl is
simply exquisite, and so vivacious and charming. And Dal has quite
given up being silly--not that _I_ ever thought him silly, but I know
YOU did--and is very quiet and pensive; really were it any one but he,
one would almost say 'dull.' And they roam about together in the most
approved fashion. I try to get the aunt to make all her remarks to me.
I am so afraid of her putting Dal off. He is so fastidious. I have
promised Billy anything, up to the half of my kingdom, if he will sit
at the feet of Mrs. Parker Bangs and listen to her wisdom, answer her
questions, and keep her away from Dal. Billy is being so abjectly
devoted in his attentions to Mrs. Parker Bangs that I begin to have
fears lest he intends asking me to kiss him; in which case I shall hand
him over to you to chastise. You manage these boys so splendidly. I
fully believe Dal will propose to Pauline Lister tonight. I can't
imagine why he didn't last night. There was a most perfect moon, and
they went on the lake. What more COULD Dal want?--a lake, and a moon,
and that lovely girl! Billy took Mrs. Parker Bangs in a double canoe
and nearly upset her through laughing so much at the things she said
about having to sit flat on the bottom. But he paddled her off to the
opposite side of the lake from Dal and her niece, which was all we
wanted. Mrs. Parker Bangs asked me afterwards whether Billy is a
widower. Now what do you suppose she meant by that?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Jane. "But I am delighted to hear
about Dal and Miss Lister. She is just the girl for him, and she will
soon adapt herself to his ways and needs. Besides, Dal MUST have
flawless loveliness, and really he gets it there."

"He does indeed," said Myra. "You should have seen her last night, in
white satin, with wild roses in her hair. I cannot imagine why Dal did
not rave. But perhaps it is a good sign that he should take things more
quietly. I suppose he is making up his mind."

"No," said Jane. "I believe he did that at Overdene. But it means a lot
to him. He takes marriage very seriously. Whom have you at Shenstone?"

Lady Ingleby told off a list of names. Jane knew them all.

"Delightful!" she said. "Oh! how glad I am to be here! London has been
so hot and so dull. I never thought it hot or dull before. I feel a
renegade. Ah! there is the lovely little church! I want to hear the new
organ. I was glad your nice parson remembered me and let me have a
share in it. Has it two manuals or three?"

"Half a dozen I think," said Lady Ingleby, "and you work them up and
down with your feet. But I judged it wiser to leave them alone when I
played for the children's service one Sunday. You never know quite what
will happen if you touch those mechanical affairs."

"Don't you mean the composition pedals?" suggested Jane.

"I dare say I do," said Myra placidly. "Those things underneath, like
foot-rests, which startle you horribly if you accidentally kick them."

Jane smiled at the thought of how Garth would throw back his head and
shout, if she told him of this conversation. Lady Ingleby's musical
remarks always amused her friends.

They passed the village church on the green, ivy-clad, picturesque,
and, half a minute later, swerved in at the park gates. Myra saw Jane
glance at the gate-post they had just shaved, and laughed. "A miss is
as good as a mile," she said, as they dashed up the long drive between
the elms, "as I told dear mamma, when she expostulated wrathfully with
me for what she called my 'furious driving' the other day. By the way,
Jane, dear mamma has been quite CORDIAL lately. By the time I am
seventy and she is ninety-eight I think she will begin to be almost
fond of me. Here we are. Do notice Lawson. He is new, and such a nice
man. He sings so well, and plays the concertina a little, and teaches
in the Sunday-school, and speaks really quite excellently at temperance
meetings. He is extremely fond of mowing the lawns, and my maid tells
me he is studying French with her. The only thing he seems really
incapable of being, is an efficient butler; which is so unfortunate, as
I like him far too well ever to part with him. Michael says I have a
perfectly fatal habit of LIKING PEOPLE, and of encouraging them to do
the things they do well and enjoy doing, instead of the things they
were engaged to do. I suppose I have; but I do like my household to be
happy."

They alighted, and Myra trailed into the hall with a lazy grace which
gave no indication of the masterly way she had handled her ponies, but
rather suggested stepping from a comfortable seat in a barouche. Jane
looked with interest at the man-servant who came forward and deftly
assisted them. He had not quite the air of a butler but neither could
she imagine him playing a concertina or haranguing a temperance meeting
and he acquitted himself quite creditably.

"Oh, that was not Lawson," explained Myra, as she led the way upstairs.
"I had forgotten. He had to go to the vicarage this afternoon to see
the vicar about a 'service of song' they are getting up. That was Tom,
but we call him 'Jephson' in the house. He was one of Michael's stud
grooms, but he is engaged to one of the housemaids, and I found he so
very much preferred being in the house, so I have arranged for him to
understudy Lawson, and he is growing side whiskers. I shall have to
break it to Michael on his return from Norway. This way, Jane. We have
put you in the Magnolia room. I knew you would enjoy the view of the
lake. Oh, I forgot to tell you, a tennis tournament is in progress. I
must hasten to the courts. Tea will be going on there, under the
chestnuts. Dal and Ronnie are to play the final for the men's singles.
It ought to be a fine match. It was to come on at about half-past four.
Don't wait to do any changings. Your maid and your luggage can't be
here just yet."

"Thanks," said Jane; "I always travel in country clothes, and have done
so to-day, as you see. I will just get rid of the railway dust, and
follow you."

Ten minutes later, guided by sounds of cheering and laughter, Jane made
her way through the shrubbery to the tennis lawns. The whole of Lady
Ingleby's house party was assembled there, forming a picturesque group
under the white and scarlet chestnut-trees. Beyond, on the beautifully
kept turf of the court, an exciting set was in progress. As she
approached, Jane could distinguish Garth's slim, agile figure, in white
flannels and the violet shirt; and young Ronnie, huge and powerful,
trusting to the terrific force of his cuts and drives to counterbalance
Garth's keener eye and swifter turn of wrist.

It was a fine game. Garth had won the first set by six to four, and now
the score stood at five to four in Ronnie's favour; but this game was
Garth's service, and he was almost certain to win it. The score would
then be "games all."

Jane walked along the line of garden chairs to where she saw a vacant
one near Myra. She was greeted with delight, but hurriedly, by the
eager watchers of the game.

Suddenly a howl went up. Garth had made two faults.

Jane found her chair, and turned her attention to the game. Almost
instantly shrieks of astonishment and surprise again arose. Garth had
served INTO the net and OVER the line. Game and set were Ronnie's.

"One all," remarked Billy. "Well! I never saw Dal do THAT before.
However; it gives us the bliss of watching another set. They are
splendidly matched. Dal is lightning, and Ronnie thunder."

The players crossed over, Garth rather white beneath his tan. He was
beyond words vexed with himself for failing in his service, at that
critical juncture. Not that he minded losing the set; but it seemed to
him it must be patent to the whole crowd, that it was the sight, out of
the tail of his eye, of a tall grey figure moving quietly along the
line of chairs, which for a moment or two set earth and sky whirling,
and made a confused blur of net and lines. As a matter of fact, only
one of the onlookers connected Garth's loss of the game with Jane's
arrival, and she was the lovely girl, seated exactly opposite the net,
with whom he exchanged a smile and a word as he crossed to the other
side of the court.

The last set proved the most exciting of the three. Nine hard-fought
games, five to Garth, four to Ronnie. And now Ronnie was serving, and
fighting hard to make it games-all. Over and over enthusiastic
partisans of both shouted "Deuce!" and then when Garth had won the
"vantage," a slashing over-hand service from Ronnie beat him, and it
was "deuce" again.

"Don't it make one giddy?" said Mrs. Parker Bangs to Billy, who
reclined on the sward at her feet. "I should say it has gone on long
enough. And they must both be wanting their tea. It would have been
kind in Mr. Dalmain to have let that ball pass, anyway."

"Yes, wouldn't it?" said Billy earnestly. "But you see, Dal is not
naturally kind. Now, if I had been playing against Ronnie, I should
have let those over-hand balls of his pass long ago."

"I am sure you would," said Mrs. Parker Bangs, approvingly; while Jane
leaned over, at Myra's request, and pinched Billy.

Slash went Ronnie's racket. "Deuce! deuce!" shouted half a dozen voices.

"They shouldn't say that," remarked Mrs. Parker Bangs, "even if they
are mad about it."

Billy hugged his knees, delightedly; looking up at her with an
expression of seraphic innocence.

"No. Isn't it sad?" he murmured. "I never say naughty words when I
play. I always say 'Game love.' It sounds so much nicer, I think."

Jane pinched again, but Billy's rapt gaze at Mrs. Parker Bangs
continued.

"Billy," said Myra sternly, "go into the hall and fetch my scarlet
sunshade. Yes, I dare say you WILL miss the finish," she added in a
stern whisper, as he leaned over her chair, remonstrating; "but you
richly deserve it."

"I have made up my mind what to ask, dear queen," whispered Billy as he
returned, breathless, three minutes later and laid the parasol in Lady
Ingleby's lap. "You promised me anything, up to the half of your
kingdom. I will have the head of Mrs. Parker Bangs in a charger."

"Oh, shut up, Billy!" exclaimed Jane, "and get out of the light! We
missed that last stroke. What is the score?"

Once again it was Garth's vantage, and once again Ronnie's arm swung
high for an untakable smasher.

"Play up, Dal!" cried a voice, amid the general hubbub.

Garth knew that dear voice. He did not look in its direction, but he
smiled. The next moment his arm shot out like a flash of lightning. The
ball touched ground on Ronnie's side of the net and shot the length of
the court without rising. Ronnie's wild scoop at it was hopeless. Game
and set were Garth's.

They walked off the ground together, their rackets under their arms,
the flush of a well-contested fight on their handsome faces. It had
been so near a thing that both could sense the thrill of victory.

Pauline Lister had been sitting with Garth's coat on her lap, and his
watch and chain were in her keeping. He paused a moment to take them up
and receive her congratulations; then, slipping on his coat, and
pocketing his watch, came straight to Jane.

"How do you do, Miss Champion?"

His eyes sought hers eagerly; and the welcoming gladness he saw in them
filled him with certainty and content. He had missed her so unutterably
during these days. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday had just been weary
stepping-stones to Friday. It seemed incredible that one person's
absence could make so vast a difference. And yet how perfect that it
should be so; and that they should both realise it, now the day had
come when he intended to tell her how desperately he wanted her always.
Yes, that they should BOTH realise it--for he felt certain Jane had
also experienced the blank. A thing so complete and overwhelming as the
miss of her had been to him could not be one-sided. And how well worth
the experience of these lonely days if they had thereby learned
something of what TOGETHER meant, now the words were to be spoken which
should insure forever no more such partings.

All this sped through Garth's mind as he greeted Jane with that most
commonplace of English greetings, the everlasting question which never
receives an answer. But from Garth, at that moment, it did not sound
commonplace to Jane, and she answered it quite frankly and fully. She
wanted above all things to tell him exactly how she did; to hear all
about himself, and compare notes on the happenings of these three
interminable days; and to take up their close comradeship again,
exactly where it had left off. Her hand went home to his with that firm
completeness of clasp, which always made a hand shake with Jane such a
satisfactory and really friendly thing.

"Very fit, thank you, Dal," she answered. "At least I am every moment
improving in health and spirits, now I have arrived here at last."

Garth stood his racket against the arm of her chair and deposited
himself full length on the grass beside her, leaning on his elbow.

"Was anything wrong with London?" he asked, rather low, not looking up
at her, but at the smart brown shoe, planted firmly on the grass so
near his hand. "Nothing was wrong with London," replied Jane frankly;
"it was hot and dusty of course, but delightful as usual. Something was
wrong with ME; and you will be ashamed of me, Dal, if I confess what it
was."

Garth did not look up, but assiduously picked little blades of grass
and laid them in a pattern on Jane's shoe. This conversation would have
been exactly to the point had they been alone. But was Jane really
going to announce to the assembled company, in that dear, resonant,
carrying voice of hers, the sweet secret of their miss of one another?

"Liver?" inquired Mrs. Parker Bangs suddenly.

"Muffins!" exclaimed Billy instantly, and, rushing for them, almost
shot them into her lap in the haste with which he handed them,
stumbling headlong over Garth's legs at the same moment.

Jane stared at Mrs. Parker Bangs and her muffins; then looked down at
the top of Garth's dark head, bent low over the grass.

"I was dull," she said, "intolerably dull. And Dal always says 'only a
dullard is dull.' But I diagnosed my dulness in the train just now and
found it was largely his fault. Do you hear, Dal?"

Garth lifted his head and looked at her, realising in that moment that
it was, after all, possible for a complete and overwhelming experience
to be one-sided. Jane's calm grey eyes were full of gay friendliness.

"It was your fault, my dear boy," said Jane.

"How so?" queried Garth; and though there was a deep flush on his
sunburned face, his voice was quietly interrogative.

"Because, during those last days at Overdene, you led me on into a time
of musical dissipation such as I had never known before, and I missed
it to a degree which was positively alarming. I began to fear for the
balance of my well-ordered mind."

"Well," said Myra, coming out from behind her red parasol, "you and Dal
can have orgies of music here if you want them. You will find a piano
in the drawing-room and another in the hall, and a Bechstein grand in
the billiard-room. That is where I hold the practices for the men and
maids. I could not make up my mind which makers I really preferred,
Erard, Broadwood, Collard, or Bechstein; so by degrees I collected one
of each. And after all I think I play best upon the little cottage
piano we had in the school-room at home. It stands in my boudoir now. I
seem more accustomed to its notes, or it lends itself better to my way
of playing."

"Thank you, Myra," said Jane. "I fancy Dal and I will like the
Bechstein."

"And if you want something really exciting in the way of music,"
continued Lady Ingleby, "you might attend some of the rehearsals for
this 'service of song' they are getting up in aid of the organ deficit
fund. I believe they are attempting great things."

"I would sooner pay off the whole deficit, than go within a mile of a
'service of song,'" said Jane emphatically.

"Oh, no," put in Garth quickly, noting Myra's look of disappointment.
"It is so good for people to work off their own debts and earn the
things they need in their churches. And 'services of song' are
delightful if well done, as I am sure this will be if Lady Ingleby's
people are in it. Lawson outlined it to me this morning, and hummed all
the principal airs. It is highly dramatic. Robinson Crusoe--no, of
course not! What's the beggar's name? 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'? Yes, I knew
it was something black. Lawson is Uncle Tom, and the vicar's small
daughter is to be little Eva. Miss Champion, you will walk down with me
to the very next rehearsal."

"Shall I?" said Jane, unconscious of how tender was the smile she gave
him; conscious only that in her own heart was the remembrance of the
evening at Overdene when she felt so inclined to say to him: "Tell me
just what you want me to do, and I will do it."

"Pauline will just love to go with you," said Mrs. Parker Bangs. "She
dotes on rural music."

"Rubbish, aunt!" said Miss Lister, who had slipped into an empty chair
near Myra. "I agree with Miss Champion about 'services of song,' and I
don't care for any music but the best."

Jane turned to her quickly, with a cordial smile and her most friendly
manner. "Ah, but you must come," she said. "We will be victimised
together. And perhaps Dal and Lawson will succeed in converting us to
the cult of the 'service of song.' And anyway it will be amusing to
have Dal explain it to us. He will need the courage of his convictions."

"Talking of something 'really exciting in the way of music,'" said
Pauline Lister, "we had it on board when we came over. There was a nice
friendly crowd on board the Arabic, and they arranged a concert for
half-past eight on the Thursday evening. We were about two hundred
miles off the coast of Ireland, and when we came up from dinner we had
run into a dense fog. At eight o'clock they started blowing the
fog-horn every half-minute, and while the fog-horn was sounding you
couldn't hear yourself speak. However, all the programmes were printed,
and it was our last night on board, so they concluded to have the
concert all the same. Down we all trooped into the saloon, and each
item of that programme was punctuated by the stentorian BOO of the
fog-horn every thirty seconds. You never heard anything so cute as the
way it came in, right on time. A man with a deep bass voice sang ROCKED
IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP, and each time he reached the refrain, 'And
calm and peaceful is my sle-eep,' BOO went the fog-horn, casting a
certain amount of doubt on our expectations of peaceful sleep that
night, anyway. Then a man with a sweet tenor sang OFT IN THE STILLY
NIGHT, and the fog-horn showed us just how oft, namely, every thirty
seconds. But the queerest effect of all was when a girl had to play a
piano-forte solo. It was something of Chopin's, full of runs and trills
and little silvery notes. She started all right; but when she was
half-way down the first page, BOO went the fog-horn, a longer blast
than usual. We saw her fingers flying, and the turning of the page, but
not a note could we hear; and when the old horn stopped and we could
hear the piano again, she had reached a place half-way down the second
page, and we hadn't heard what led to it. My! it was funny. That went
on all through. She was a plucky girl to stick to it. We gave her a
good round of applause when she had finished, and the fog-horn joined
in and drowned us. It was the queerest concert experience I ever had.
But we all enjoyed it. Only we didn't enjoy that noise keeping right on
until five o'clock next morning."

Jane had turned in her chair, and listened with appreciative interest
while the lovely American girl talked, watching, with real delight, her
exquisite face and graceful gestures, and thinking how Dal must enjoy
looking at her when she talked with so much charm and animation. She
glanced down, trying to see the admiration in his eyes; but his head
was bent, and he was apparently absorbed in the occupation of tracing
the broguing of her shoes with the long stalk of a chestnut leaf. For a
moment she watched the slim brown hand, as carefully intent on this
useless task, as if working on a canvas; then she suddenly withdrew her
foot, feeling almost vexed with him for his inattention and apparent
indifference.

Garth sat up instantly. "It must have been awfully funny," he said.
"And how well you told it. One could hear the fog-horn, and see the
dismayed faces of the performers. Like an earthquake, a fog-horn is the
sort of thing you don't ever get used to. It sounds worse every time.
Let's each tell the funniest thing we remember at a concert. I once
heard a youth recite Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade with much
dramatic action. But he was extremely nervous, and got rather mixed. In
describing the attitude of mind of the noble six hundred, he told us
impressively that it was"

  "'Theirs not to make reply;
  Theirs not to do or die;
  Theirs BUT TO REASON WHY.'"

"The tone and action were all right, and I doubt whether many of the
audience noticed anything wrong with the words."

"That reminds me," said Ronald Ingram, "of quite the funniest thing I
ever heard. It was at a Thanksgiving service when some of our troops
returned from South Africa. The proceedings concluded by the singing of
the National Anthem right through. You recollect how recently we had
had to make the change of pronoun, and how difficult it was to remember
not to shout:"

"'Send HER victorious'? Well, there was a fellow just behind me, with a
tremendous voice, singing lustily, and taking special pains to get the
pronouns correct throughout. And when he reached the fourth line of the
second verse he sang with loyal fervour."

   "'Confound HIS politics,
     Frustrate HIS knavish tricks!'"

"That would amuse the King," said Lady Ingleby. "Are you sure it is a
fact, Ronnie?"

"Positive! I could tell you the church, and the day, and call a whole
pewful of witnesses who were convulsed by it."

"Well, I shall tell his Majesty at the next opportunity, and say you
heard it. But how about the tennis? What comes next? Final for couples?
Oh, yes! Dal, you and Miss Lister play Colonel Loraine and Miss
Vermount; and I think you ought to win fairly easily. You two are so
well matched. Jane, this will be worth watching."

"I am sure it will," said Jane warmly, looking at the two, who had
risen and stood together in the evening sunlight, examining their
rackets and discussing possible tactics, while awaiting their
opponents. They made such a radiantly beautiful couple; it was as if
nature had put her very best and loveliest into every detail of each.
The only fault which could possibly have been found with the idea of
them wedded, was that her dark, slim beauty was so very much just a
feminine edition of his, that they might easily have been taken for
brother and sister; but this was not a fault which occurred to Jane.
Her whole-hearted admiration of Pauline increased every time she looked
at her; and now she had really seen them together, she felt sure she
had given wise advice to Garth, and rejoiced to know he was taking it.

      *      *      *      *      *

Later on, as they strolled back to the house together,--she and Garth
alone,--Jane said, simply: "Dal, you will not mind if I ask? Is it
settled yet?"

"I mind nothing you ask," Garth replied; "only be more explicit. Is
what settled?"

"Are you and Miss Lister engaged?"

"No," Garth answered. "What made you suppose we should be?"

"You said at Overdene on Tuesday--TUESDAY! oh! doesn't it seem weeks
ago?--you said we were to take you seriously."

"It seems years ago," said Garth; "and I sincerely hope you will take
me--seriously. All the same I have not proposed to Miss Lister; and I
am anxious for an undisturbed talk with you on the subject. Miss
Champion, after dinner to-night, when all the games and amusements are
in full swing, and we can escape unobserved, will you come out onto the
terrace with me, where I shall be able to speak to you without fear of
interruption? The moonlight on the lake is worth seeing from the
terrace. I spent an hour out there last night--ah, no; you are wrong
for once--I spent it alone, when the boating was over, and thought
of--how--to-night--we might be talking there together."

"Certainly I will come," said Jane; "and you must feel free to tell me
anything you wish, and promise to let me advise or help in any way I
can."

"I will tell you everything," said Garth very low, "and you shall
advise and help as ONLY you can."

      *      *      *      *      *

Jane sat on her window-sill, enjoying the sunset and the exquisite
view, and glad of a quiet half-hour before she need think of summoning
her maid. Immediately below her ran the terrace, wide and gravelled,
bounded by a broad stone parapet, behind which was a drop of eight or
ten feet to the old-fashioned garden, with quaint box-bordered
flower-beds, winding walks, and stone fountains. Beyond, a stretch of
smooth lawn sloping down to the lake, which now lay, a silver mirror,
in the soft evening light. The stillness was so perfect; the sense of
peace, so all-pervading. Jane held a book on her knee, but she was not
reading. She was looking away to the distant woods beyond the lake;
then to the pearly sky above, flecked with rosy clouds and streaked
with gleams of gold; and a sense of content, and gladness, and
well-being, filled her.

Presently she heard a light step on the gravel below and leaned forward
to see to whom it belonged. Garth had come out of the smoking-room and
walked briskly to and fro, once or twice. Then he threw himself into a
wicker seat just beneath her window, and sat there, smoking
meditatively. The fragrance of his cigarette reached Jane, up among the
magnolia blossoms. "'Zenith,' Marcovitch," she said to herself, and
smiled. "Packed in jolly green boxes, twelve shillings a hundred! I
must remember in case I want to give him a Christmas present. By then
it will be difficult to find anything which has not already been
showered upon him."

Garth flung away the end of his cigarette, and commenced humming below
his breath; then gradually broke into words and sang softly, in his
sweet barytone:

    "'It is not mine to sing the stately grace,
     The great soul beaming in my lady's face.'"

The tones, though quiet, were so vibrant with passionate feeling, that
Jane felt herself an eavesdropper. She hastily picked a large magnolia
leaf and, leaning out, let it fall upon his head. Garth started, and
looked up. "Hullo!" he said. "YOU--up there?"

"Yes," said Jane, laughing down at him, and speaking low lest other
casements should be open, "I--up here. You are serenading the wrong
window, dear 'devout lover.'"

"What a lot you know about it," remarked Garth, rather moodily.

"Don't I?" whispered Jane. "But you must not mind, Master Garthie,
because you know how truly I care. In old Margery's absence, you must
let me be mentor."

Garth sprang up and stood erect, looking up at her, half-amused,
half-defiant.

"Shall I climb the magnolia?" he said. "I have heaps to say to you
which cannot be shouted to the whole front of the house."

"Certainly not," replied Jane. "I don't want any Romeos coming in at my
window. 'Hoity-toity! What next?' as Aunt 'Gina would say. Run along
and change your pinafore, Master Garthie. The 'heaps of things' must
keep until to-night, or we shall both be late for dinner."

"All right," said Garth, "all right. But you will come out here this
evening, Miss Champion? And you will give me as long as I want?"

"I will come as soon as we can possibly escape," replied Jane; "and you
cannot be more anxious to tell me everything than I am to hear it. Oh!
the scent of these magnolias! And just look at the great white
trumpets! Would you like one for your buttonhole?"

He gave her a wistful, whimsical little smile; then turned and went
indoors.

"Why do I feel so inclined to tease him?" mused Jane, as she moved,
from the window. "Really it is I who have been silly this time; and he,
staid and sensible. Myra is quite right. He is taking it very
seriously. And how about her? Ah! I hope she cares enough, and in the
right way.--Come in, Matthews! And you can put out the gown I wore on
the night of the concert at Overdene, and we must make haste. We have
just twenty minutes. What a lovely evening! Before you do anything
else, come and see this sunset on the lake. Ah! it is good to be here!"




CHAPTER X

THE REVELATION


All the impatience in the world could not prevent dinner at Shenstone
from being a long function, and two of the most popular people in the
party could not easily escape afterwards unnoticed. So a distant clock
in the village was striking ten, as Garth and Jane stepped out on to
the terrace together. Garth caught up a rug in passing, and closed the
door of the lower hall carefully behind him.

They were quite alone. It was the first time they had been really alone
since these days apart, which had seemed so long to both.

They walked silently, side by side, to the wide stone parapet
overlooking the old-fashioned garden. The silvery moonlight flooded the
whole scene with radiance. They could see the stiff box-borders, the
winding paths, the queerly shaped flower-beds, and, beyond, the lake,
like a silver mirror, reflecting the calm loveliness of the full moon.

Garth spread the rug on the coping, and Jane sat down. He stood beside
her, one foot on the coping, his arms folded across his chest, his head
erect. Jane had seated herself sideways, turning towards him, her back
to an old stone lion mounting guard upon the parapet; but she turned
her head still further, to look down upon the lake, and she thought
Garth was looking in the same direction.

But Garth was looking at Jane.

She wore the gown of soft trailing black material she had worn at the
Overdene concert, only she had not on the pearls or, indeed, any
ornament save a cluster of crimson rambler roses. They nestled in the
soft, creamy old lace which covered the bosom of her gown. There was a
quiet strength and nobility about her attitude which thrilled the soul
of the man who stood watching her. All the adoring love, the passion of
worship, which filled his heart, rose to his eyes and shone there. No
need to conceal it now. His hour had come at last, and he had nothing
to hide from the woman he loved.

Presently she turned, wondering why he did not begin his confidences
about Pauline Lister. Looking up inquiringly, she met his eyes.

"Dal!" cried Jane, and half rose from her seat. "Oh, Dal,--don't!"

He gently pressed her back. "Hush, dear," he said. "I must tell you
everything, and you have promised to listen, and to advise and help.
Ah, Jane, Jane! I shall need your help. I want it so greatly, and not
only your help, Jane--but YOU--you, yourself. Ah, how I want you! These
three days have been one continual ache of loneliness, because you were
not there; and life began to live and move again, when you returned.
And yet it has been so hard, waiting all these hours to speak. I have
so much to tell you, Jane, of all you are to me--all you have become to
me, since the night of the concert. Ah, how can I express it? I have
never had any big things in my life; all has been more or less
trivial--on the surface. This need of you--this wanting you--is so
huge. It dwarfs all that went before; it would overwhelm all that is to
come,--were it not that it will be the throne, the crown, the summit,
of the future.--Oh, Jane! I have admired so many women. I have raved
about them, sighed for them, painted them, and forgotten them. But I
never LOVED a woman before; I never knew what womanhood meant to a man,
until I heard your voice thrill through the stillness--'I count each
pearl.' Ah, beloved, I have learned to count pearls since then,
precious hours in the past, long forgotten, now remembered, and at last
understood. 'Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,' ay, a passionate
plea that past and present may blend together into a perfect rosary,
and that the future may hold no possibility of pain or parting. Oh,
Jane--Jane! Shall I ever be able to make you understand--all--how
much--Oh, JANE!"

She was not sure just when he had come so near; but he had dropped on
one knee in front of her, and, as he uttered the last broken sentences,
he passed both his arms around her waist and pressed his face into the
soft lace at her bosom. A sudden quietness came over him. All
struggling with explanations seemed hushed into the silence of complete
comprehension--an all-pervading, enveloping silence.

Jane neither moved nor spoke. It was so strangely sweet to have him
there--this whirlwind of emotion come home to rest, in a great
stillness, just above her quiet heart. Suddenly she realised that the
blank of the last three days had not been the miss of the music, but
the miss of HIM; and as she realised this, she unconsciously put her
arms about him. Sensations unknown to her before, awoke and moved
within her,--a heavenly sense of aloofness from the world, the
loneliness of life all swept away by this dear fact--just he and she
together. Even as she thought it, felt it, he lifted his head, still
holding her, and looking into her face, said: "You and I together, my
own--my own."

But those beautiful shining eyes were more than Jane could bear. The
sense of her plainness smote her, even in that moment; and those
adoring eyes seemed lights that revealed it. With no thought in her
mind but to hide the outward part from him who had suddenly come so
close to the shrine within, she quickly put both hands behind his head
and pressed his face down again, into the lace at her bosom. But, to
him, those dear firm hands holding him close, by that sudden movement,
seemed an acceptance of himself and of all he had to offer. For ten,
twenty, thirty exquisite seconds, his soul throbbed in silence and
rapture beyond words. Then he broke from the pressure of those
restraining hands; lifted his head, and looked into her face once more.

"My wife!" he said.

      *      *      *      *      *

Into Jane's honest face came a look of startled wonder; then a deep
flush, seeming to draw all the blood, which had throbbed so strangely
through her heart, into her cheeks, making them burn, and her heart die
within her. She disengaged herself from his hold, rose, and stood
looking away to where the still waters of the lake gleamed silver in
the moonlight.

Garth Dalmain stood beside her. He did not touch her, nor did he speak
again. He felt sure he had won; and his whole soul was filled with a
gladness unspeakable. His spirit was content. The intense silence
seemed more expressive than words. Any ordinary touch would have dimmed
the sense of those moments when her hands had held him to her. So he
stood quite still and waited.

At last Jane spoke. "Do you mean that you wish to ask me to be--to be
THAT--to you?"

"Yes, dear," he answered, gently; but in his voice vibrated the quiet
of strong self-control. "At least I came out here intending to ask it
of you. But I cannot ask it now, beloved. I can't ask you TO BE what
you ARE already. No promise, no ceremony, no giving or receiving of a
ring, could make you more my wife than you have been just now in those
wonderful moments."

Jane slowly turned and looked at him. She had never seen anything so
radiant as his face. But still those shining eyes smote her like
swords. She longed to cover them with her hands; or bid him look away
over the woods and water, while he went on saying these sweet things to
her. She put up one foot on the low parapet, leaned her elbow on her
knee, and shielded her face with her hand. Then she answered him,
trying to speak calmly.

"You have taken me absolutely by surprise, Dal. I knew you had been
delightfully nice and attentive since the concert evening, and that our
mutual understanding of music and pleasure in it, coupled with an
increased intimacy brought about by our confidential conversation under
the cedar, had resulted in an unusually close and delightful
friendship. I honestly admit it seems to have--it has--meant more to me
than any friendship has ever meant. But that was partly owing to your
temperament, Dal, which tends to make you always the most vivid spot in
one's mental landscape. But truly I thought you wanted me out here in
order to pour out confidences about Pauline Lister. Everybody believes
that her loveliness has effected your final capture, and truly, Dal,
truly--I thought so, too." Jane paused.

"Well?" said the quiet voice, with its deep undertone of gladness. "You
know otherwise now."

"Dal--you have so startled and astonished me. I cannot give you an
answer to-night. You must let me have until to-morrow--to-morrow
morning."

"But, beloved," he said tenderly, moving a little nearer, "there is no
more need for you to answer than I felt need to put a question. Can't
you realise this? Question and answer were asked and given just now.
Oh, my dearest--come back to me. Sit down again."

But Jane stood rigid.

"No," she said. "I can't allow you to take things for granted in this
way. You took me by surprise, and I lost my head utterly--unpardonably,
I admit. But, my dear boy, marriage is a serious thing. Marriage is not
a mere question of sentiment. It has to wear. It has to last. It must
have a solid and dependable foundation, to stand the test and strain of
daily life together. I know so many married couples intimately. I stay
in their homes, and act sponsor to their children; with the result that
I vowed never to risk it myself. And now I have let you put this
question, and you must not wonder if I ask for twelve hours to think it
over."

Garth took this silently. He sat down on the stone coping with his back
to the lake and, leaning backward, tried to see her face; but the hand
completely screened it. He crossed his knees and clasped both hands
around them, rocking slightly backward and forward for a minute while
mastering the impulse to speak or act violently. He strove to compose
his mind by fixing it upon trivial details which chanced to catch his
eye. His red socks showed clearly in the moonlight against the white
paving of the terrace, and looked well with black patent-leather shoes.
He resolved always to wear red silk socks in the evening, and wondered
whether Jane would knit some for him. He counted the windows along the
front of the house, noting which were his and which were Jane's, and
how many came between. At last he knew he could trust himself, and,
leaning back, spoke very gently, his dark head almost touching the lace
of her sleeve.

"Dearest--tell me, didn't you feel just now--"

"Oh, hush!". cried Jane, almost harshly, "hush, Dal! Don't talk about
feelings with this question between us. Marriage is fact, not feeling.
If you want to do really the best thing for us both, go straight
indoors now and don't speak to me again to-night. I heard you say you
were going to try the organ in the church on the common at eleven
o'clock to-morrow morning. Well--I will come there soon after half-past
eleven and listen while you play; and at noon you can send away the
blower, and I will give you my answer. But now--oh, go away, dear; for
truly I cannot bear anymore. I must be left alone."

Garth loosed the strong fingers clasped so tightly round his knee. He
slipped the hand next to her along the stone coping, close to her foot.
She felt him take hold of her gown with those deft, masterful fingers.
Then he bent his dark head quickly, and whispering: "I kiss the cross,"
with a gesture of infinite reverence and tenderness, which Jane never
forgot, he kissed the hem of her skirt. The next moment she was alone.

She listened while his footsteps died away. She heard the door into the
lower hall open and close. Then slowly she sat down just as she had sat
when he knelt in front of her. Now she was quite alone. The tension of
these last hard moments relaxed. She pressed both hands over the lace
at her bosom where that dear, beautiful, adoring face had been hidden.
Had she FELT, he asked. Ah! what had she not felt?

Tears never came easily to Jane. But to-night she had been called a
name by which she had never thought to be called; and already her
honest heart was telling her she would never be called by it again. And
large silent tears overflowed and fell upon her hands and upon the lace
at her breast. For the wife and the mother in her had been wakened and
stirred, and the deeps of her nature broke through the barriers of
stern repression and almost masculine self-control, and refused to be
driven back without the womanly tribute of tears.

And around her feet lay the scattered petals of crushed rambler roses.

      *      *      *      *      *

Presently she passed indoors. The upper hall was filled with merry
groups and resounded with "good-nights" as the women mounted the great
staircase, pausing to fling back final repartees, or to confirm plans
for the morrow.

Garth Dalmain was standing at the foot of the staircase, held in
conversation by Pauline Lister and her aunt, who had turned on the
fourth step. Jane saw his slim, erect figure and glossy head the moment
she entered the hall. His back was towards her, and though she advanced
and stood quite near, he gave no sign of being aware of her presence.
But the joyousness of his voice seemed to make him hers again in this
new sweet way. She alone knew what had caused it, and unconsciously she
put one hand over her bosom as she listened.

"Sorry, dear ladies," Garth was saying, "but to-morrow morning is
impossible. I have an engagement in the village. Yes--really! At eleven
o'clock."

"That sounds so rural and pretty, Mr. Dalmain," said Mrs. Parker Bangs.
"Why not take Pauline and me along? We have seen no dairies, and no
dairy-maids, nor any of the things in Adam Bede, since we came over. I
would just love to step into Mrs. Poyser's kitchen and see myself
reflected in the warming-pans on the walls."

"Perhaps we would be DE TROP in the dairy," murmured Miss Lister archly.

She looked very lovely in her creamy-white satin gown, her small head
held regally, the brilliant charm of American womanhood radiating from
her. She wore no jewels, save one string of perfectly matched pearls;
but on Pauline Lister's neck even pearls seemed to sparkle.

All these scintillations, flung at Garth, passed over his sleek head
and reached Jane where she lingered in the background. She took in
every detail. Never had Miss Lister's loveliness been more correctly
appraised.

"But it happens, unfortunately, to be neither a dairy-maid nor a
warming-pan," said Garth. "My appointment is with a very grubby small
boy, whose rural beauties consist in a shock of red hair and a whole
pepper-pot of freckles."

"Philanthropic?" inquired Miss Lister.

"Yes, at the rate of threepence an hour."

"A caddy, of course," cried both ladies together.

"My! What a mystery about a thing so simple!" added Mrs. Parker Bangs.
"Now we have heard, Mr. Dalmain, that it is well worth the walk to the
links to see you play. So you may expect us to arrive there, time to
see you start around."

Garth's eyes twinkled. Jane could hear the twinkle in his voice. "My
dear lady," he said, "you overestimate my play as, in your great
kindness of heart, you overestimate many other things connected with
me. But I shall like to think of you at the golf links at eleven
o'clock to-morrow morning. You might drive there, but the walk through
the woods is too charming to miss. Only remember, you cross the park
and leave by the north gate, not the main entrance by which we go to
the railway station. I would offer to escort you, but duty takes me, at
an early hour, in quite another direction. Besides, when Miss Lister's
wish to see the links is known, so many people will discover golf to be
the one possible way of spending to-morrow morning, that I should be
but a unit in the crowd which will troop across the park to the north
gate. It will be quite impossible for you to miss your way."

Mrs. Parker Bangs was beginning to explain elaborately that never,
under any circumstances, could he be a unit, when her niece
peremptorily interposed.

"That will do, aunt. Don't be silly. We are all units, except when we
make a crowd; which is what we are doing on this staircase at this
present moment, so that Miss Champion has for some time been trying
ineffectually to pass us. Do you golf to-morrow, Miss Champion?"

Garth stood on one side, and Jane began to mount the stairs. He did not
look at her, but it seemed to Jane that his eyes were on the hem of her
gown as it trailed past him. She paused beside Miss Lister. She knew
exactly how effectual a foil she made to the American girl's white
loveliness. She turned and faced him. She wished him to look up and see
them standing there together. She wanted the artist eyes to take in the
cruel contrast. She wanted the artist soul of him to realise it. She
waited.

Garth's eyes were still on the hem of her gown, close to the left foot;
but he lifted them slowly to the lace at her bosom, where her hand
still lay. There they rested a moment, then dropped again, without
rising higher.

"Yes," said Mrs. Parker Bangs, "are you playing around with Mr. Dalmain
to-morrow forenoon, Miss Champion?"

Jane suddenly flushed crimson, and then was furious with herself for
blushing, and hated the circumstances which made her feel and act so
unlike her ordinary self. She hesitated during the long dreadful
moment. How dared Garth behave in that way? People would think there
was something unusual about her gown. She felt a wild impulse to stoop
and look at it herself to see whether his kiss had materialised and was
hanging like a star to the silken hem. Then she forced herself to
calmness and answered rather brusquely: "I am not golfing to-morrow;
but you could not do better than go to the links. Good-night, Mrs.
Parker Bangs. Sleep well, Miss Lister. Good-night, Dal."

Garth was on the step below them, handing Pauline's aunt a letter she
had dropped.

"Good-night, Miss Champion," he said, and for one instant his eyes met
hers, but he did not hold out his hand, or appear to see hers half
extended.

The three women mounted the staircase together, then went different
ways. Miss Lister trailed away down a passage to the right, her aunt
trotting in her wake.

"There's been a tiff there," said Mrs. Parker Bangs.

"Poor thing!" said Miss Lister softly. "I like her. She's a real good
sort. I should have thought she would have been more sensible than the
rest of us."

"A real plain sort," said her aunt, ignoring the last sentence.

"Well, she didn't make her own face," said Miss Lister generously.

"No, and she don't pay other people to make it for her. She's what Sir
Walter Scott calls: 'Nature in all its ruggedness.'"

"Dear aunt," remarked Miss Lister wearily, "I wish you wouldn't trouble
to quote the English classics to me when we are alone. It is pure waste
of breath, because you see I KNOW you have read them all. Here is my
door. Now come right in and make yourself comfy on that couch. I am
going to sit in this palatial arm-chair opposite, and do a little very
needful explaining. My! How they fix one to the floor! These ancestral
castles are all right so far as they go, but they don't know a thing
about rockers. Now I have a word or two to say about Miss Champion.
She's a real good sort, and I like her. She's not a beauty; but she has
a fine figure, and she dresses right. She has heaps of money, and could
have rarer pearls than mine; but she knows better than to put pearls on
that brown skin. I like a woman who knows her limitations and is
sensible over them. All the men adore her, not for what she looks but
for what she is, and, my word, aunt, that's what pays in the long run.
That is what lasts. Ten years hence the Honourable Jane will still be
what she is, and I shall be trying to look what I'm not. As for Garth
Dalmain, he has eyes for all of us and a heart for none. His pretty
speeches and admiring looks don't mean marriage, because he is a man
with an ideal of womanhood and he can't see himself marrying below it.
If the Sistine Madonna could step down off those clouds and hand the
infant to the young woman on her left, he might marry HER; but even
then he would be afraid he might see some one next day who did her hair
more becomingly, or that her foot would not look so well on his Persian
rugs as it does on that cloud. He won't marry money, because he has
plenty of it. And even if he hadn't, money made in candles would not
appeal to him. He won't marry beauty, because he thinks too much about
it. He adores so many lovely faces, that he is never sure for
twenty-four hours which of them he admires most, bar the fact that, as
in the case of fruit trees, the unattainable are usually the most
desired. He won't marry goodness--virtue--worth--whatever you choose to
call the sterling qualities of character--because in all these the
Honourable Jane Champion is his ideal, and she is too sensible a woman
to tie such an epicure to her plain face. Besides, she considers
herself his grandmother, and doesn't require him to teach her to suck
eggs. But Garth Dalmain, poor boy, is so sublimely lacking in
self-consciousness that he never questions whether he can win his
ideal. He possesses her already in his soul, and it will be a fearful
smack in the face when she says 'No,' as she assuredly will do, for
reasons aforesaid. These three days, while he has been playing around
with me, and you and other dear match-making old donkeys have gambolled
about us, and made sure we were falling in love, he has been
worshipping the ground she walks on, and counting the hours until he
should see her walk on it again. He enjoyed being with me more than
with the other girls, because I understood, and helped him to work all
conversations round to her, and he knew, when she arrived here, I could
be trusted to develop sudden anxiety about you, or have important
letters to write, if she came in sight. But that is all there will ever
be between me and Garth Dalmain; and if you had a really careful regard
for my young affections you would drop your false set on the marble
wash-stand, or devise some other equally false excuse for our immediate
departure for town to-morrow.--And now, dear, don't stay to argue;
because I have said exactly all there is to say on the subject, and a
little more. And try to toddle to bed without telling me of which cute
character in Dickens I remind you, because I am cuter than any of them,
and if I stay in this tight frock another second I can't answer for the
consequences.--Oui, Josephine, entrez!--Good-night, dear aunt. Happy
dreams!"

But after her maid had left her, Pauline switched off the electric
light and, drawing back the curtain, stood for a long while at her
window, looking out at the peaceful English scene bathed in moonlight.
At last she murmured softly, leaning her beautiful head against the
window frame:

"I stated your case well, but you didn't quite deserve it, Dal. You
ought to have let me know about Jane, weeks ago. Anyway, it will stop
the talk about you and me. And as for you, dear, you will go on sighing
for the moon; and when you find the moon is unattainable, you will not
dream of seeking solace in more earthly lights--not even poppa's best
sperm," she added, with a wistful little smile, for Pauline's fun
sparkled in solitude as freely as in company, and as often at her own
expense as at that of other people, and her brave American spirit would
not admit, even to herself, a serious hurt.

Meanwhile Jane had turned to the left and passed slowly to her room.
Garth had not taken her half-proffered hand, and she knew perfectly
well why. He would never again be content to clasp her hand in
friendship. If she cut him off from the touch which meant absolute
possession, she cut herself off from the contact of simple comradeship.
Garth, to-night, was like a royal tiger who had tasted blood. It seemed
a queer simile, as she thought of him in his conventional evening
clothes, correct in every line, well-groomed, smart almost to a fault.
But out on the terrace with him she had realised, for the first time,
the primal elements which go to the making of a man--a forceful
determined, ruling man--creation's king. They echo of primeval forests.
The roar of the lion is in them, the fierceness of the tiger; the
instinct of dominant possession, which says: "Mine to have and hold, to
fight for and enjoy; and I slay all comers!" She had felt it, and her
own brave soul had understood it and responded to it, unafraid; and
been ready to mate with it, if only--ah! if only--

But things could never be again as they had been before. If she meant
to starve her tiger, steel bars must be between them for evermore. None
of those sentimental suggestions of attempts to be a sort of
unsatisfactory cross between sister and friend would do for the man
whose head she had unconsciously held against her breast. Jane knew
this. He had kept himself magnificently in hand after she put him from
her, but she knew he was only giving her breathing space. He still
considered her his own, and his very certainty of the near future had
given him that gentle patience in the present. But even now, while her
answer pended, he would not take her hand in friendship. Jane closed
her door and locked it. She must face this problem of the future, with
all else locked out excepting herself and him. Ah! if she could but
lock herself out and think only of him and of his love, as beautiful,
perfect gifts laid at her feet, that she might draw them up into her
empty arms and clasp them there for evermore. Just for a little while
she would do this. One hour of realisation was her right. Afterwards
she must bring HERSELF into the problem,--her possibilities; her
limitations; herself, in her relation to him in the future; in the
effect marriage with her would be likely to have upon him. What it
might mean to her did not consciously enter into her calculations. Jane
was self-conscious, with the intense self-consciousness of all reserved
natures, but she was not selfish.

At first, then, she left her room in darkness, and, groping her way to
the curtains, drew them back, threw up the sash, and, drawing a chair
to the window, sat down, leaning her elbows on the sill and her chin in
her hands, and looked down upon the terrace, still bathed in moonlight.
Her window was almost opposite the place where she and Garth had
talked. She could see the stone lion and the vase full of scarlet
geraniums. She could locate the exact spot where she was sitting when
he--Memory awoke, vibrant.

Then Jane allowed herself the most wonderful mental experience of her
life. She was a woman of purpose and decision. She had said she had a
right to that hour, and she took it to the full. In soul she met her
tiger and mated with him, unafraid. He had not asked whether she loved
him or not, and she did not need to ask herself. She surrendered her
proud liberty, and tenderly, humbly, wistfully, yet with all the
strength of her strong nature, promised to love, honour, and obey him.
She met the adoration of his splendid eyes without a tremor. She had
locked her body out. She was alone with her soul; and her soul was
all-beautiful--perfect for him.

The loneliness of years slipped from her. Life became rich and
purposeful. He needed her always, and she was always there and always
able to meet his need. "Are you content, my beloved?" she asked over
and over; and Garth's joyous voice, with the ring of perpetual youth in
it, always answered: "Perfectly content." And Jane smiled into the
night, and in the depths of her calm eyes dawned a knowledge hitherto
unknown, and in her tender smile trembled, with unspeakable sweetness,
an understanding of the secret of a woman's truest bliss. "He is mine
and I am his. And because he is mine, my beloved is safe; and because I
am his, he is content."

Thus she gave herself completely; gathering him into the shelter of her
love; and her generous heart expanded to the greatness of the gift.
Then the mother in her awoke and realised how much of the maternal
flows into the love of a true woman when she understands how largely
the child-nature predominates in the man in love, and how the very
strength of his need of her reduces to unaccustomed weakness the strong
nature to which she has become essential.

Jane pressed her hands upon her breast. "Garth," she whispered, "Garth,
I UNDERSTAND. My own poor boy, it was so hard to you to be sent away
just then. But you had had all--all you wanted, in those few wonderful
moments, and nothing can rob you of that fact. And you have made me SO
yours that, whatever the future brings for you and me, no other face
will ever be hidden here. It is yours, and I am yours--to-night, and
henceforward, forever."

Jane leaned her forehead on the window-sill. The moonlight fell on the
heavy coils of her brown hair. The scent of the magnolia blooms rose in
fragrance around her. The song of a nightingale purled and thrilled in
an adjacent wood. The lonely years of the past, the perplexing moments
of the present, the uncertain vistas of the future, all rolled away.
She sailed with Garth upon a golden ocean far removed from the shores
of time. For love is eternal; and the birth of love frees the spirit
from all limitations of the flesh.

      *      *      *      *      *

A clock in the distant village struck midnight. The twelve strokes
floated up to Jane's window across the moonlit park. Time was once
more. Her freed spirit resumed the burden of the body.

A new day had begun, the day upon which she had promised her answer to
Garth. The next time that clock struck twelve she would be standing
with him in the church, and her answer must be ready.

She turned from the window without closing it, drew the curtains
closely across, switched on the electric light over the writing-table,
took off her evening gown, hung up bodice and skirt in the wardrobe,
resolutely locking the door upon them. Then she slipped on a sage-green
wrapper, which she had lately purchased at a bazaar because every one
else fled from it, and the old lady whose handiwork it was seemed so
disappointed, and, drawing a chair near the writing-table, took out her
diary, unlocked the heavy clasp, and began to read. She turned the
pages slowly, pausing here and there, until she came to those she
sought. Over them she pondered long, her head in her hands. They
contained a very full account of her conversation with Garth on the
afternoon of the day of the concert at Overdene; and the lines upon
which she specially dwelt were these: "His face was transfigured....
Goodness and inspiration shone from it, making it as the face of an
angel.... I never thought him ugly again. Child though I was, I
could differentiate even then between ugliness and plainness. I have
associated his face ever since with the wondrous beauty of his soul.
When he sat down, at the close of his address, I no longer thought him
a complicated form of chimpanzee. I remembered the divine halo of his
smile. Of course it was not the sort of face one COULD have wanted to
live with, or to have day after day opposite one at table, but then one
was not called to that sort of discipline, which would have been
martyrdom to me. And he has always stood to my mind since as a proof of
the truth that goodness is never ugly, and that divine love and
aspiration, shining through the plainest features, may redeem them,
temporarily, into beauty; and permanently, into a thing one loves to
remember."

At first Jane read the entire passage. Then her mind focussed itself
upon one sentence: "Of course it was not the sort of face one COULD
have wanted to live with, or to have day after day opposite one at
table, ... which would have been martyrdom to me."

At length Jane arose, turned on all the lights over the dressing-table,
particularly two bright ones on either side of the mirror, and, sitting
down before it, faced herself honestly.

      *      *      *      *      *

When the village clock struck one, Garth Dalmain stood at his window
taking a final look at the night which had meant so much to him. He
remembered, with an amused smile, how, to help himself to calmness, he
had sat on the terrace and thought of his socks, and then had counted
the windows between his and Jane's. There were five of them. He knew
her window by the magnolia tree and the seat beneath it where he had
chanced to sit, not knowing she was above him. He leaned far out and
looked towards it now. The curtains were drawn, but there appeared
still to be a light behind them. Even as he watched, it went out.

He looked down at the terrace. He could see the stone lion and the vase
of scarlet geraniums. He could locate the exact spot where she was
sitting when he--

Then he dropped upon his knees beside the window and looked up into the
starry sky.

Garth's mother had lived long enough to teach him the holy secret of
her sweet patience and endurance. In moments of deep feeling, words
from his mother's Bible came to his lips more readily than expressions
of his own thought. Now, looking upward, he repeated softly and
reverently: "'Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and
cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness,
neither shadow of turning.' And oh, Father," he added, "keep us in the
light--she and I. May there be in us, as there is in Thee, no
variableness, neither shadow which is cast by turning."

Then he rose to his feet and looked across once more to the stone lion
and the broad coping. His soul sang within him, and he folded his arms
across his chest. "My wife!" he said. "Oh! my wife!"

      *      *      *      *      *

And, as the village clock struck one, Jane arrived at her decision.

Slowly she rose, and turned off all the lights; then, groping her way
to the bed, fell upon her knees beside it, and broke into a passion of
desperate, silent weeping.




CHAPTER XI

GARTH FINDS THE CROSS


The village church on the green was bathed in sunshine as Jane emerged
from the cool shade of the park. The clock proclaimed the hour
half-past eleven, and Jane did not hasten, knowing she was not expected
until twelve. The windows of the church were open, and the massive
oaken doors stood ajar.

Jane paused beneath the ivy-covered porch and stood listening. The
tones of the organ reached her as from an immense distance, and yet
with an all-pervading nearness. The sound was disassociated from hands
and feet. The organ seemed breathing, and its breath was music.

Jane pushed the heavy door further open, and even at that moment it
occurred to her that the freckled boy with a red head, and Garth's slim
proportions, had evidently passed easily through an aperture which
refused ingress to her more massive figure. She pushed the door further
open, and went in.

Instantly a stillness entered into her soul. The sense of unseen
presences, often so strongly felt on entering an empty church alone,
the impress left upon old walls and rafters by the worshipping minds of
centuries, hushed the insistent beating of her own perplexity, and for
a few moments she forgot the errand which brought her there, and bowed
her head in unison with the worship of ages.

Garth was playing the "Veni, Creator Spiritus" to Attwood's perfect
setting; and, as Jane walked noiselessly up to the chancel, he began to
sing the words of the second verse. He sang them softly, but his
beautifully modulated barytone carried well, and every syllable reached
her.

    "Enable with perpetual light
     The dulness of our blinded sight;
     Anoint and cheer our soiled face
     With the abundance of Thy grace;
     Keep far our foes; give peace at home;
     Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come."

Then the organ swelled into full power, pealing out the theme of the
last verse without its words, and allowing those he had sung to repeat
themselves over and over in Jane's mind: "Where Thou art Guide, no ill
can come." Had she not prayed for guidance? Then surely all would be
well.

She paused at the entrance to the chancel. Garth had returned to the
second verse, and was singing again, to a waldflute accompaniment,
"Enable with perpetual light--."

Jane seated herself in one of the old oak stalls and looked around her.
The brilliant sunshine from without entered through the stained-glass
windows, mellowed into golden beams of soft amber light, with here and
there a shaft of crimson. What a beautiful expression--perpetual light!
As Garth sang it, each syllable seemed to pierce the silence like a ray
of purest sunlight. "The dulness of--" Jane could just see the top of
his dark head over the heavy brocade of the organ curtain. She dreaded
the moment when he should turn, and those vivid eyes should catch sight
of her--"our blinded sight." How would he take what she must say? Would
she have strength to come through a long hard scene? Would he be
tragically heart-broken?--"Anoint and cheer our soiled face"--Would he
argue, and insist, and override her judgment?--"With the abundance of
Thy grace"--Could she oppose his fierce strength, if he chose to exert
it? Would they either of them come through so hard a time without
wounding each other terribly?--"Keep far our foes; give peace at
home"--Oh! what could she say? What would he say? How should she
answer? What reason could she give for her refusal which Garth would
ever take as final?--"Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come."

And then, after a few soft, impromptu chords; the theme changed.

Jane's heart stood still. Garth was playing "The Rosary." He did not
sing it; but the soft insistence of the organ pipes seemed to press the
words into the air, as no voice could have done. Memory's pearls, in
all the purity of their gleaming preciousness, were counted one by one
by the flute and dulciana; and the sadder tones of the waldflute
proclaimed the finding of the cross. It all held a new meaning for
Jane, who looked helplessly round, as if seeking some way of escape
from the sad sweetness of sound which filled the little church.

Suddenly it ceased. Garth stood up, turned, and saw her. The glory of a
great joy leaped into his face.

"All right, Jimmy," he said; "that will do for this morning. And here
is a bright sixpence, because you have managed the blowing so well.
Hullo! It's a shilling! Never mind. You shall have it because it is
such a glorious day. There never was such a day, Jimmy; and I want you
to be happy also. Now run off quickly, and shut the church door behind
you, my boy."

Ah! how his voice, with its ring of buoyant gladness, shook her soul.

The red-headed boy, rather grubby, with a whole pepper-pot of freckles,
but a beaming face of pleasure, came out from behind the organ,
clattered down a side aisle; dropped his shilling on the way and had to
find it; but at last went out, the heavy door closing behind him with a
resounding clang.

Garth had remained standing beside the organ, quite motionless, without
looking at Jane, and now that they were absolutely alone in the church,
he still stood and waited a few moments. To Jane those moments seemed
days, weeks, years, an eternity. Then he came out into the centre of
the chancel, his head erect, his eyes shining, his whole bearing that
of a conqueror sure of his victory. He walked down to the quaintly
carved oaken screen and, passing beneath it, stood at the step. Then he
signed to Jane to come and stand beside him.

"Here, dearest," he said; "let it be here."

Jane came to him, and for a moment they stood together, looking up the
chancel. It was darker than the rest of the church, being lighted only
by three narrow stained-glass windows, gems of colour and of
significance. The centre window, immediately over the communion table,
represented the Saviour of the world, dying upon the cross. They gazed
at it in reverent silence. Then Garth turned to Jane.

"My beloved," he said, "it is a sacred Presence and a sacred place. But
no place could be too sacred for that which we have to say to each
other, and the Holy Presence, in which we both believe, is here to
bless and ratify it. I am waiting for your answer."

Jane cleared her throat and put her trembling hands into the large
pockets of her tweed coat.

"Dal," she said; "my answer is a question. How old are you?"

She felt his start of intense surprise. She saw the light of expectant
joy fade from his face. But he replied, after only a momentary
hesitation: "I thought you knew, dearest. I am twenty-seven."

"Well," said Jane slowly and deliberately, "I am thirty; and I look
thirty-five, and feel forty. You are twenty-seven, Dal, and you look
nineteen, and often feel nine. I have been thinking it over, and--you
know--I cannot marry a mere boy."

Silence--absolute.

In sheer terror Jane forced herself to look at him. He was white to the
lips. His face was very stern and calm--a strange, stony calmness.
There was not much youth in it just then. "ANOINT AND CHEER OUR SOILED
FACE"--The silent church seemed to wail the words in bewildered agony.

At last he spoke. "I had not thought of myself," he said slowly. "I
cannot explain how it comes to pass, but I have not thought of myself
at all, since my mind has been full of you. Therefore I had not
realised how little there is in me that you could care for. I believed
you had felt as I did, that we were--just each other's." For a moment
he put out his hand as if he would have touched her. Then it dropped
heavily to his side. "You are quite right," he said. "You could not
marry any one whom you consider a mere boy."

He turned from her and faced up the chancel. For the space of a long
silent minute he looked at the window over the holy table, where hung
the suffering Christ. Then he bowed his head. "I accept the cross," he
said, and, turning, walked quietly down the aisle. The church door
opened, closed behind him with a heavy clang, and Jane was alone.

She stumbled back to the seat she had left, and fell upon her knees.

"O, my God," she cried, "send him back to me, oh, send him back! ...
Oh, Garth! It is I who am plain and unattractive and unworthy, not you.
Oh, Garth--come back! come back! come back! ... I will trust and not
be afraid ... Oh, my own Dear--come back!"

She listened, with straining ears. She waited, until every nerve of her
body ached with suspense. She decided what she would say when the heavy
door reopened and she saw Garth standing in a shaft of sunlight. She
tried to remember the VENI, but the hollow clang of the door had
silenced even memory's echo of that haunting music. So she waited
silently, and as she waited the silence grew and seemed to enclose her
within cruel, relentless walls which opened only to allow her glimpses
into the vista of future lonely years. Just once more she broke that
silence. "Oh, darling, come back! I WILL RISK IT," she said. But no
step drew near, and, kneeling with her face buried in her clasped
hands, Jane suddenly realised that Garth Dalmain had accepted her
decision as final and irrevocable, and would not return.

How long she knelt there after realising this, she never knew. But at
last comfort came to her. She felt she had done right. A few hours of
present anguish were better than years of future disillusion. Her own
life would be sadly empty, and losing this newly found joy was costing
her more than she had expected; but she honestly believed "she had done
rightly towards him, and what did her own pain matter?" Thus comfort
came to Jane.

At last she rose and passed out of the silent church into the breezy
sunshine.

Near the park gates a little knot of excited boys were preparing to fly
a kite. Jimmy, the hero of the hour, the centre of attraction, proved
to be the proud possessor of this new kite. Jimmy was finding the day
glorious indeed, and was being happy. "Happy ALSO," Garth had said. And
Jane's eyes filled with tears, as she remembered the word and the tone
in which it was spoken.

"There goes my poor boy's shilling," she said to herself sadly, as the
kite mounted and soared above the common; "but, alas, where is his joy?"

As she passed up the avenue a dog-cart was driven swiftly down it.
Garth Dalmain drove it; behind him a groom and a portmanteau. He lifted
his hat as he passed her, but looked straight before him. In a moment
he was gone. Had Jane wanted to stop him she could not have done so.
But she did not want to stop him. She felt absolutely satisfied that
she had done the right thing, and done it at greater cost to herself
than to him. He would eventually--ah, perhaps before so very long--find
another to be to him all, and more than all, he had believed she could
be. But she? The dull ache at her bosom reminded her of her own words
the night before, whispered in the secret of her chamber to him who,
alas, was not there to hear: "Whatever the future brings for you and
me, no other face will ever be hidden here." And, in this first hour of
the coming lonely years, she knew them to be true.

In the hall she met Pauline Lister.

"Is that you, Miss Champion?" said Pauline. "Well now, have you heard
of Mr. Dalmain? He has had to go to town unexpectedly, on the 1.15
train; and aunt has dropped her false teeth on her marble wash-stand
and must get to the dentist right away. So we go to town on the 2.30.
It's an uncertain world. It complicates one's plans, when they have to
depend on other people's teeth. But I would sooner break false teeth
than true hearts, any day. One can get the former mended, but I guess
no one can mend the latter. We are lunching early in our rooms; so I
wish you good-by, Miss Champion."




CHAPTER XII

THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION


The Honourable Jane Champion stood on the summit of the Great Pyramid
and looked around her. The four exhausted Arabs whose exertions,
combined with her own activity, had placed her there, dropped in the
picturesque attitudes into which an Arab falls by nature. They had
hoisted the Honourable Jane's eleven stone ten from the bottom to the
top in record time, and now lay around, proud of their achievement and
sure of their "backsheesh."

The whole thing had gone as if by clock-work. Two mahogany-,
finely proportioned fellows, in scanty white garments, sprang with the
ease of antelopes to the top of a high step, turning to reach down
eagerly and seize Jane's upstretched hands. One remained behind, unseen
but indispensable, to lend timely aid at exactly the right moment. Then
came the apparently impossible task for Jane, of placing the sole of
her foot on the edge of a stone four feet above the one upon which she
was standing. It seemed rather like stepping up on to the drawing-room
mantelpiece. But encouraged by cries of "Eiwa! Eiwa!" she did it; when
instantly a voice behind said, "Tyeb!" two voices above shouted,
"Keteer!" the grip on her hands tightened, the Arab behind hoisted, and
Jane had stepped up, with an ease which surprised herself. As a matter
of fact, under those circumstances the impossible thing would have been
not to have stepped up.

Arab number four was water-carrier, and offered water from a gourd at
intervals; and once, when Jane had to cry halt for a few minutes'
breathing space, Schehati, handsomest of all, and leader of the
enterprise, offered to recite English Shakespeare-poetry. This proved
to be:

    "Jack-an-Jill
     Went uppy hill,
     To fetchy paily water;
     Jack fell down-an
     Broke his crown-an
     Jill came tumbling after."

Jane had laughed; and Schehati, encouraged by the success of his
attempt to edify and amuse, used lines of the immortal nursery epic as
signals for united action during the remainder of the climb. Therefore
Jane mounted one step to the fact that Jack fell down, and scaled the
next to information as to the serious nature of his injuries, and at
the third, Schehati, bending over, confidentially mentioned in her ear,
while Ali shoved behind, that "Jill came tumbling after."

The familiar words, heard under such novel circumstances, took on fresh
meaning. Jane commenced speculating as to whether the downfall of Jack
need necessarily have caused so complete a loss of self-control and
equilibrium on the part of Jill. Would she not have proved her devotion
better by bringing the mutual pail safely to the bottom of the hill,
and there attending to the wounds of her fallen hero? Jane, in her
time, had witnessed the tragic downfall of various delightful jacks,
and had herself ministered tenderly to their broken crowns; for in each
case the Jill had remained on the top of the hill, flirting with that
objectionable person of the name of Horner, whose cool, calculating way
of setting to work--so unlike poor Jack's headlong method--invariably
secured him the plum; upon which he remarked "What a good boy am I!"
and was usually taken at his own smug valuation. But Jane's entire
sympathy on these occasions was with the defeated lover, and more than
one Jack was now on his feet again, bravely facing life, because that
kind hand had been held out to him as he lay in his valley of
humiliation, and that comprehending sympathy had proved balm to his
broken crown.

"Dickery, dickery, dock!" chanted Schehati solemnly, as he hauled
again; "Moses ran up the clock. The clock struck 'one'--"

THE CLOCK STRUCK "ONE"?--It was nearly three years since that night at
Shenstone when the clock had struck "one," and Jane had arrived at her
decision,--the decision which precipitated her Jack from his Pisgah of
future promise. And yet--no. He had not fallen before the blow. He had
taken it erect, and his light step had been even firmer than usual as
he walked down the church and left her, after quietly and deliberately
accepting her decision. It was Jane herself, left alone, who fell
hopelessly over the pail. She shivered even now when she remembered how
its icy waters drenched her heart. Ah, what would have happened if
Garth had come back in answer to her cry during those first moments of
intolerable suffering and loneliness? But Garth was not the sort of man
who, when a door has been shut upon him, waits on the mat outside,
hoping to be recalled. When she put him from her, and he realised that
she meant it he passed completely out of her life. He was at the
railway station by the time she reached the house, and from that day to
this they had never met. Garth evidently considered the avoidance of
meetings to be his responsibility, and he never failed her in this.
Once or twice she went on a visit to houses where she knew him to be
staying. He always happened to have left that morning, if she arrived
in time for luncheon; or by an early afternoon train, if she was due
for tea. He never timed it so that there should be tragic passings of
each other, with set faces, at the railway stations; or a formal word
of greeting as she arrived and he departed,--just enough to awaken all
the slumbering pain and set people wondering. Jane remembered with
shame that this was the sort of picturesque tragedy she would have
expected from Garth Dalmain. But the man who had surprised her by his
dignified acquiescence in her decision, continued to surprise her by
the strength with which he silently accepted it as final and kept out
of her way. Jane had not probed the depth of the wound she had
inflicted.

Never once was his departure connected, in the minds of others, with
her arrival. There was always some excellent and perfectly natural
reason why he had been obliged to leave, and he was openly talked of
and regretted, and Jane heard all the latest "Dal stories," and found
herself surrounded by the atmosphere of his exotic, beauty-loving
nature. And there was usually a girl--always the loveliest of the
party--confidentially pointed out to Jane, by the rest, as a certainty,
if only Dal had had another twenty-four hours of her society. But the
girl herself would appear quite heart-whole, only very full of an
evidently delightful friendship, expressing all Dal's ideas on art and
colour, as her own, and confidently happy in an assured sense of her
own loveliness and charm and power to please. Never did he leave behind
him traces which the woman who loved him regretted to find. But he was
always gone--irrevocably gone. Garth Dalmain was not the sort of man to
wait on the door-mat of a woman's indecision.

Neither did this Jack of hers break his crown. His portrait of Pauline
Lister, painted six months after the Shenstone visit, had proved the
finest bit of work he had as yet accomplished. He had painted the
lovely American, in creamy white satin, standing on a dark oak
staircase, one hand resting on the balustrade, the other, full of
yellow roses, held out towards an unseen friend below. Behind and above
her shone a stained-glass window, centuries old, the arms, crest, and
mottoes of the noble family to whom the place belonged, shining thereon
in rose- and golden glass. He had wonderfully caught the charm
and vivacity of the girl. She was gaily up-to-date, and frankly
American, from the crown of her queenly little head, to the point of
her satin shoe; and the suggestiveness of placing her in surroundings
which breathed an atmosphere of the best traditions of England's
ancient ancestral homes, the fearless wedding of the new world with the
old, the putting of this sparkling gem from the new into the beautiful
mellow setting of the old and there showing it at its best,--all this
was the making of the picture. People smiled, and said the painter had
done on canvas what he shortly intended doing in reality; but the tie
between artist and sitter never grew into anything closer than a
pleasant friendship, and it was the noble owner of the staircase and
window who eventually persuaded Miss Lister to remain in surroundings
which suited her so admirably.

One story about that portrait Jane had heard discussed more than once
in circles where both were known. Pauline Lister had come to the first
sittings wearing her beautiful string of pearls, and Garth had painted
them wonderfully, spending hours over the delicate perfecting of each
separate gleaming drop. Suddenly one day he seized his palette-knife,
scraped the whole necklace off the canvas with a stroke and, declared
she must wear her rose-topazes in order to carry out his scheme of
colour. She was wearing her rose-topazes when Jane saw the picture in
the Academy, and very lovely they looked on the delicate whiteness of
her neck. But people who had seen Garth's painting of the pearls
maintained that that scrape of the palette-knife had destroyed work
which would have been the talk of the year. And Pauline Lister, just
after it had happened, was reported to have said, with a shrug of her
pretty shoulders: "Schemes of colour are all very well. But he scraped
my pearls off the canvas because some one who came in hummed a tune
while looking at the picture. I would be obliged if people who walk
around the studio while I am being painted will in future refrain from
humming tunes. I don't want him to scoop off my topazes and call for my
emeralds. Also I feel like offering a reward for the discovery of that
tune. I want to know what it has to do with my scheme of colour,
anyway."

When Jane heard the story, she was spending a few days with the Brands
in Wimpole Street. It was told at tea, in Lady Brand's pretty boudoir.
The duchess's Concert, at which Garth had heard her sing THE ROSARY,
was a thing of the past. Nearly a year had elapsed since their final
parting, and this was the very first thought or word or sign of his
remembrance, which directly or indirectly, had come her way. She could
not doubt that the tune hummed had been THE ROSARY.

    "The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
     Are as a string of pearls to me;
     I count them over, every one, apart."

She seemed to hear Garth's voice on the terrace, as she heard it in
those first startled moments of realising the gift which was being laid
at her feet--"I have learned to count pearls, beloved."

Jane's heart was growing cold and frozen in its emptiness. This
incident of the studio warmed and woke it for the moment, and with the
waking came sharp pain. When the visitors had left, and Lady Brand had
gone to the nursery, she walked over to the piano, sat down, and softly
played the accompaniment of "The Rosary." The fine unexpected chords,
full of discords working into harmony, seemed to suit her mood and her
memories.

Suddenly a voice behind her said: "Sing it, Jane." She turned quickly.
The doctor had come in, and was lying back luxuriously in a large
arm-chair at her elbow, his hands clasped behind his head. "Sing it,
Jane," he said.

"I can't, Deryck," she answered, still softly sounding the chords. "I
have not sung for months."

"What has been the matter--for months?"

Jane took her hands off the keys, and swung round impulsively.

"Oh, boy," she said. "I have made a bad mess of my life! And yet I know
I did right. I would do the same again; at least--at least, I hope I
would."

The doctor sat in silence for a minute, looking at her and pondering
these short, quick sentences. Also he waited for more, knowing it would
come more easily if he waited silently.

It came.

"Boy--I gave up something, which was more than life itself to me, for
the sake of another, and I can't get over it. I know I did right, and
yet--I can't get over it."

The doctor leaned forward and took the clenched hands between his.

"Can you tell me about it, Jeanette?"

"I can tell no one, Deryck; not even you."

"If ever you find you must tell some one, Jane, will you promise to
come to me?"

"Gladly."

"Good! Now, my dear girl, here is a prescription for you. Go abroad.
And, mind, I do not mean by that, just to Paris and back, or
Switzerland this summer, and the Riviera in the autumn. Go to America
and see a few big things. See Niagara. And all your life afterwards,
when trivialities are trying you, you will love to let your mind go
back to the vast green mass of water sweeping over the falls; to the
thunderous roar, and the upward rush of spray; to the huge perpetual
onwardness of it all. You will like to remember, when you are bothering
about pouring water in and out of teacups, 'Niagara is flowing still.'
Stay in a hotel so near the falls that you can hear their great voice
night and day, thundering out themes of power and progress. Spend hours
walking round and viewing it from every point. Go to the Cave of the
Winds, across the frail bridges, where the guide will turn and shout to
you: 'Are your rings on tight?' Learn, in passing, the true meaning of
the Rock of Ages. Receive Niagara into your life and soul as a
possession, and thank God for it."

"Then go in for other big things in America. Try spirituality and
humanity; love and life. Seek out Mrs. Ballington Booth, the great
'Little Mother' of all American prisoners. I know her well, I am proud
to say, and can give you a letter of introduction. Ask her to take you
with her to Sing-Sing, or to Columbus State Prison, and to let you hear
her address an audience of two thousand convicts, holding out to them
the gospel of hope and love,--her own inspired and inspiring belief in
fresh possibilities even for the most despairing."

"Go to New York City and see how, when a man wants a big building and
has only a small plot of ground, he makes the most of that ground by
running his building up into the sky. Learn to do likewise.--And then,
when the great-souled, large-hearted, rapid-minded people of America
have waked you to enthusiasm with their bigness, go off to Japan and
see a little people nobly doing their best to become great.--Then to
Palestine, and spend months in tracing the footsteps of the greatest
human life ever lived. Take Egypt on your way home, just to remind
yourself that there are still, in this very modern world of ours, a few
passably ancient things,--a well-preserved wooden man, for instance,
with eyes of opaque white quartz, a piece of rock crystal in the centre
for a pupil. These glittering eyes looked out upon the world from
beneath their eyelids of bronze, in the time of Abraham. You will find
it in the museum at Cairo. Ride a donkey in the Mooskee if you want
real sport; and if you feel a little slack, climb the Great Pyramid.
Ask for an Arab named Schehati, and tell him you want to do it one
minute quicker than any lady has ever done it before."

"Then come home, my dear girl, ring me up and ask for an appointment;
or chance it, and let Stoddart slip you into my consulting-room between
patients, and report how the prescription has worked. I never gave a
better; and you need not offer me a guinea! I attend old friends
gratis."

Jane laughed, and gripped his hand. "Oh, boy," she said, "I believe you
are right. My whole ideas of life have been focussed on myself and my
own individual pains and losses. I will do as you say; and God bless
you for saying it.--Here comes Flower. Flower," she said, as the
doctor's wife trailed in, wearing a soft tea-gown, and turning on the
electric lights as she passed, "will this boy of ours ever grow old?
Here he is, seriously advising that a stout, middle-aged woman should
climb the Great Pyramid as a cure for depression, and do it in record
time!"

"Darling," said the doctor's wife, seating herself on the arm of his
chair, "whom have you been seeing who is stout, or depressed, or
middle-aged? If you mean Mrs. Parker Bangs, she is not middle-aged,
because she is an American, and no American is ever middle-aged. And
she is only depressed because, even after painting her lovely niece's
portrait, Garth Dalmain has failed to propose to her. And it is no good
advising her to climb the Great Pyramid, though she is doing Egypt this
winter, because I heard her say yesterday that she should never think
of going up the pyramids until the children of Israel, or whoever the
natives are who live around those parts, have the sense to put an
elevator right up the centre."

Jane and the doctor laughed, and Flower, settling herself more
comfortably, for the doctor's arm had stolen around her, said: "Jane, I
heard you playing THE ROSARY just now, such a favourite of mine, and it
is months since I heard it. Do sing it, dear."

Jane met the doctor's eyes and smiled reassuringly; then turned without
any hesitation and did as Flower asked. The prescription had already
done her good.

At the last words of the song the doctor's wife bent over and laid a
tender little kiss just above his temple, where the thick dark hair was
streaked with silver. But the doctor's mind was intent on Jane, and
before the final chords were struck he knew he had diagnosed her case
correctly. "But she had better go abroad," he thought. "It will take
her mind off herself altogether, giving her a larger view of things in
general, and a better proportioned view of things in particular. And
the boy won't change; or, if he does, Jane will be proved right, to her
own satisfaction. But, if this is HER side, good heavens, what must HIS
be! I had wondered what was sapping all his buoyant youthfulness. To
care for Jane would be an education; but to have made Jane care! And
then to have lost her! He must have nerves of steel, to be facing life
at all. What is this cross they are both learning to kiss, and holding
up between them? Perhaps Niagara will sweep it away, and she will cable
him from there."

Then the doctor took the dear little hand resting on his shoulder and
kissed it softly, while Jane's back was still turned. For the doctor
had had past experience of the cross, and now the pearls were very
precious.

So Jane took the prescription, and two years went by in the taking; and
here she was, on the top of the Great Pyramid, and, moreover, she had
done it in record time, and laughed as she thought of how she should
report the fact to Deryck.

Her Arabs lay around, very hot and shiny, and content. Large backsheesh
was assured, and they looked up at her with pleased possessive eyes, as
an achievement of their own; hardly realising how large a part her
finely developed athletic powers and elastic limbs had played in the
speed of the ascent.

And Jane stood there, sound in wind and limb, and with the exhilarating
sense, always helpful to the mind, of a bodily feat accomplished.

She was looking her best in her Norfolk coat and skirt of brown tweed
with hints of green and orange in it, plenty of useful pockets piped
with leather, leather buttons, and a broad band of leather round the
bottom of the skirt. A connoisseur would have named at once the one and
only firm from which that costume could have come, and the hatter who
supplied the soft green Tyrolian hat--for Jane scorned pith
helmets--which matched it so admirably. But Schehati was no connoisseur
of clothing, though a pretty shrewd judge of ways and manners, and he
summed up Jane thus: "Nice gentleman-lady! Give good backsheesh, and
not sit down halfway and say: `No top'! But real lady-gentleman! Give
backsheesh with kind face, and not send poor Arab to Assouan."

Jane was deeply tanned by the Eastern sun. Burning a splendid brown,
and enjoying the process, she had no need of veils or parasols; and her
strong eyes faced the golden light of the desert without the aid of
smoked glasses. She had once heard Garth remark that a sight which made
him feel really ill, was the back view of a woman in a motor-veil, and
Jane had laughingly agreed, for to her veils of any kind had always
seemed superfluous. The heavy coils of her brown hair never blew about
into fascinating little curls and wisps, but remained where, with a few
well-directed hairpins, she each morning solidly placed them.

Jane had never looked better than she did on this March day, standing
on the summit of the Great Pyramid. Strong, brown, and well-knit, a
reliable mind in a capable body, the undeniable plainness of her face
redeemed by its kindly expression of interest and enjoyment; her wide,
pleasant smile revealing her fine white teeth, witnesses to her perfect
soundness and health, within and without.

"Nice gentleman-lady," murmured Schehati again: and had Jane overheard
the remark it would not have offended her; for, though she held a
masculine woman only one degree less in abhorrence than an effeminate
man, she would have taken Schehati's compound noun as a tribute to the
fact that she was well-groomed and independent, knowing her own mind,
and, when she started out to go to a place, reaching it in the shortest
possible time, without fidget, fuss, or flurry. These three feminine
attributes were held in scorn by Jane, who knew herself so deeply
womanly that she could afford in minor ways to be frankly unfeminine.

The doctor's prescription had worked admirably. That look of falling to
pieces and ageing prematurely--a general dilapidation of mind and
body--which it had grieved and startled him to see in Jane as she sat
before him on the music-stool, was gone completely. She looked a calm,
pleasant thirty; ready to go happily on, year by year, towards an
equally agreeable and delightful forty; and not afraid of fifty, when
that time should come. Her clear eyes looked frankly out upon the
world, and her sane mind formed sound opinions and pronounced fair
judgments, tempered by the kindliness of an unusually large and
generous heart.

Just now she was considering the view and finding it very good. Its
strong contrasts held her.

On one side lay the fertile Delta, with its groves of waving palm,
orange, and olive trees, growing in rich profusion on the banks of the
Nile, a broad band of gleaming silver. On the other, the Desert, with
its far-distant horizon, stretching away in undulations of golden sand;
not a tree, not a leaf, not a blade of grass, but boundless liberty, an
ocean of solid golden glory. For the sun was setting, and the sky
flamed into colour.

"A parting of the ways," said Jane; "a place of choice. How difficult
to know which to choose--liberty or fruitfulness. One would have to
consult the Sphinx--wise old guardian of the ages, silent keeper of
Time's secrets, gazing on into the future as It has always gazed, while
future became present, and present glided into past.--Come, Schehati,
let us descend. Oh, yes, I will certainly sit upon the stone on which
the King sat when he was Prince of Wales. Thank you for mentioning it.
It will supply a delightful topic of conversation next time I am
honoured by a few minutes of his gracious Majesty's attention, and will
save me from floundering into trite remarks about the weather.--And now
take me to the Sphinx, Schehati. There is a question I would ask of It,
just as the sun dips below the horizon."




CHAPTER XIII

THE ANSWER OF THE SPHINX


Moonlight in the desert.

Jane ordered her after-dinner coffee on the piazza of the hotel, that
she might lose as little as possible of the mystic loveliness of the
night. The pyramids appeared so huge and solid, in the clear white
light; and the Sphinx gathered unto itself more mystery.

Jane promised herself a stroll round by moonlight presently. Meanwhile
she lay back in a low wicker chair, comfortably upholstered, sipping
her coffee, and giving herself up to the sense of dreamy content which,
in a healthy body, is apt to follow vigorous exertion.

Very tender and quiet thoughts of Garth came to her this evening,
perhaps brought about by the associations of moonlight.

    "The moon shines bright:--in such a night as this,
     When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
     And they did make no noise--"

Ah! the great poet knew the effect upon the heart of a vivid reminder
to the senses. Jane now passed beneath the spell.

To begin with, Garth's voice seemed singing everywhere:

    "Enable with perpetual light
     The dulness of our blinded sight."

Then from out the deep blue and silvery light, Garth's dear adoring
eyes seemed watching her. Jane closed her own, to see them better.
To-night she did not feel like shrinking from them, they were so full
of love.

No shade of critical regard was in them. Ah! had she wronged him with
her fears for the future? Her heart seemed full of trust to-night, full
of confidence in him and in herself. It seemed to her that if he were
here she could go out with him into this brilliant moonlight, seat
herself upon some ancient fallen stone, and let him kneel in front of
her and gaze and gaze in his persistent way, as much as he pleased. In
thought there seemed to-night no shrinking from those dear eyes. She
felt she would say: "It is all your own, Garth, to look at when you
will. For your sake, I could wish it beautiful; but if it is as you
like it, my own Dear, why should I hide it from you?"

What had brought about this change of mind? Had Deryck's prescription
done its full work? Was this a saner point of view than the one she had
felt constrained to take when she arrived, through so much agony of
renunciation, at her decision? Instead of going up the Nile, and then
to Constantinople and Athens, should she take the steamer which sailed
from Alexandria to-morrow, be in London a week hence, send for Garth,
make full confession, and let him decide as to their future?

That he loved her still, it never occurred to Jane to doubt. At the
very thought of sending for him and telling him the simple truth, he
seemed so near her once more, that she could feel the clasp of his
arms, and his head upon her heart. And those dear shining eyes! Oh,
Garth, Garth!

"One thing is clear to me to-night," thought Jane. "If he still needs
me--wants me--I cannot live any longer away from him. I must go to
him." She opened her eyes and looked towards the Sphinx. The whole line
of reasoning which had carried such weight at Shenstone flashed through
her mind in twenty seconds. Then she closed her eyes again and clasped
her hands upon her bosom.

"I will risk it," she said; and deep joy awoke within her heart.

A party of English people came from the dining-room on to the piazza
with a clatter. They had arrived that evening and gone in late to
dinner. Jane had hardly noticed them,--a handsome woman and her
daughter, two young men, and an older man of military appearance. They
did not interest Jane, but they broke in upon her reverie; for they
seated themselves at a table near by and, in truly British fashion,
continued a loud-voiced conversation, as if no one else were present.
One or two foreigners, who had been peacefully dreaming over coffee and
cigarettes, rose and strolled away to quiet seats under the palm trees.
Jane would have done the same, but she really felt too comfortable to
move, and afraid of losing the sweet sense of Garth's nearness. So she
remained where she was.

The elderly man held in his hand a letter and a copy of the MORNING
POST, just received from England. They were discussing news contained
in the letter and a paragraph he had been reading aloud from the paper.

"Poor fellow! How too sad!" said the chaperon of the party.

"I should think he would sooner have been killed outright!" exclaimed
the girl. "I know I would."

"Oh, no," said one of the young men, leaning towards her. "Life is
sweet, under any circumstances."

"Oh, but blind!" cried the young voice, with a shudder. "Quite blind
for the rest of one's life. Horrible!"

"Was it his own gun?" asked the older woman. "And how came they to be
having a shooting party in March?"

Jane smiled a fierce smile into the moonlight. Passionate love of
animal life, intense regard for all life, even of the tiniest insect,
was as much a religion with her as the worship of beauty was with
Garth. She never could pretend sorrow over these accounts of shooting
accidents, or falls in the hunting-field. When those who went out to
inflict cruel pain were hurt themselves; when those who went forth to
take eager, palpitating life, lost their own; it seemed to Jane a just
retribution. She felt no regret, and pretended none. So now she smiled
fiercely to herself, thinking: "One pair of eyes the less to look along
a gun and frustrate the despairing dash for home and little ones of a
terrified little mother rabbit. One hand that will never again change a
soaring upward flight of spreading wings, into an agonised mass of
falling feathers. One chance to the good, for the noble stag, as he
makes a brave run to join his hinds in the valley."

Meanwhile the military-looking man had readjusted his eye-glasses and
was holding the sheets of a closely written letter to the light.

"No," he said after a moment, "shooting parties are over. There is
nothing doing on the moors now. They were potting bunnies."

"Was he shooting?" asked the girl.

"No," replied the owner of the letter, "and that seems such hard luck.
He had given up shooting altogether a year or two ago. He never really
enjoyed it, because he so loved the beauty of life and hated death in
every form. He has a lovely place in the North, and was up there
painting. He happened to pass within sight of some fellows
rabbit-shooting, and saw what he considered cruelty to a wounded
rabbit. He vaulted over a gate to expostulate and to save the little
creature from further suffering. Then it happened. One of the lads,
apparently startled, let off his gun. The charge struck a tree a few
yards off, and the shot glanced. It did not strike him full. The face
is only slightly peppered and the brain quite uninjured. But shots
pierced the retina of each eye, and the sight is hopelessly gone."

"Awful hard luck," said the young man.

"I never can understand a chap not bein' keen on shootin'," said the
youth who had not yet spoken.

"Ah, but you would if you had known him," said the soldier. "He was so
full of life and vivid vitality. One could not imagine him either dying
or dealing death. And his love of the beautiful was almost a form of
religious worship. I can't explain it; but he had a way of making you
see beauty in things you had hardly noticed before. And now, poor chap,
he can't see them himself."

"Has he a mother?" asked the older woman.

"No, he has no one. He is absolutely alone. Scores of friends of
course; he was a most popular man about town, and could stay in almost
any house in the kingdom if he chose to send a post-card to say he was
coming. But no relations, I believe, and never would marry. Poor chap!
He will wish he had been less fastidious, now. He might have had the
pick of all the nicest girls, most seasons. But not he! Just charming
friendships, and wedded to his art. And now, as Lady Ingleby, says, he
lies in the dark, helpless and alone."

"Oh, do talk of something else!" cried the girl, pushing back her chair
and rising. "I want to forget it. It's too horribly sad. Fancy what it
must be to wake up and not know whether it is day or night, and to have
to lie in the dark and wonder. Oh, do come out and talk of something
cheerful."

They all rose, and the young man slipped his hand through the girl's
arm, glad of the excuse her agitation provided.

"Forget it, dear," he said softly. "Come on out and see the old Sphinx
by moonlight."

They left the piazza, followed by the rest of the party; but the man to
whom the MORNING POST belonged laid it on the table and stayed behind,
lighting a cigar.

Jane rose from her chair and came towards him.

"May I look at your paper?" she said abruptly.

"Certainly," he replied, with ready courtesy. Then, looking more
closely at her: "Why, certainly, Miss Champion. And how do you do? I
did not know you were in these parts."

"Ah, General Loraine! Your face seemed familiar, but I had not
recognised you, either. Thanks, I will borrow this if I may. And don't
let me keep you from your friends. We shall meet again by and by."

Jane waited until the whole party had passed out of sight and until the
sound of their voices and laughter had died away in the distance. Then
she returned to her chair, the place where Garth had seemed so near.
She looked once more at the Sphinx and at the huge pyramid in the
moonlight.

Then she took up the paper and opened it.

    "Enable with perpetual light
     The dulness of our blinded sight."

Yes--it was Garth Dalmain--HER Garth, of the adoring shining eyes--who
lay at his house in the North; blind, helpless, and alone.




CHAPTER XIV

IN DERYCK'S SAFE CONTROL


The white cliffs of Dover gradually became more solid and distinct,
until at length they rose from the sea, a strong white wall, emblem of
the undeniable purity of England, the stainless honour and integrity of
her throne, her church, her parliament, her courts of justice, and her
dealings at home and abroad, whether with friend or foe. "Strength and
whiteness," thought Jane as she paced the steamer's deck; and after a
two years' absence her heart went out to her native land. Then Dover
Castle caught her eye, so beautiful in the pearly light of that spring
afternoon. Her mind leaped to enjoyment, then fell back stunned by the
blow of quick remembrance, and Jane shut her eyes.

All beautiful sights brought this pang to her heart since the reading
of that paragraph on the piazza of the Mena House Hotel.

An hour after she had read it, she was driving down the long straight
road to Cairo; embarked at Alexandria the next day; landed at Brindisi,
and this night and day travelling had brought her at last within sight
of the shores of England. In a few minutes she would set foot upon
them, and then there would be but two more stages to her journey. For,
from the moment she started, Jane never doubted her ultimate
destination,--the room where pain and darkness and despair must be
waging so terrible a conflict against the moral courage, the mental
sanity, and the instinctive hold on life of the man she loved.

That she was going to him, Jane knew; but she felt utterly unable to
arrange how or in what way her going could be managed. That it was a
complicated problem, her common sense told her; though her yearning
arms and aching bosom cried out: "O God, is it not simple? Blind and
alone! MY Garth!"

But she knew an unbiased judgment, steadier than her own, must solve
the problem; and that her surest way to Garth lay through the doctor's
consulting-room. So she telegraphed to Deryck from Paris, and at
present her mind saw no further than Wimpole Street.

At Dover she bought a paper, and hastily scanned its pages as she
walked along the platform in the wake of the capable porter who had
taken possession of her rugs and hand baggage. In the personal column
she found the very paragraph she sought.

"We regret to announce that Mr. Garth Dalmain still lies in a most
precarious condition at his house on Deeside, Aberdeenshire, as a
result of the shooting accident a fortnight ago. His sight is
hopelessly gone, but the injured parts were progressing favourably, and
all fear of brain complications seemed over. During the last few days,
however, a serious reaction from shock has set in, and it has been
considered necessary to summon Sir Deryck Brand, the well-known nerve
specialist, in consultation with the oculist and the local practitioner
in charge of the case. There is a feeling of wide-spread regret and
sympathy in those social and artistic circles where Mr. Dalmain was so
well-known and so deservedly popular."

"Oh, thank you, m'lady," said the efficient porter when he had
ascertained, by a rapid glance into his palm, that Jane's half-crown
was not a penny. He had a sick young wife at home, who had been ordered
extra nourishment, and just as the rush on board began, he had put up a
simple prayer to the Heavenly Father "who knoweth that ye have need of
these things," asking that he might catch the eye of a generous
traveller. He felt he had indeed been "led" to this plain, brown-faced,
broad-shouldered lady, when he remembered how nearly, after her curt
nod from a distance had engaged him, he had responded to the
blandishments of a fussy little woman, with many more bags and rugs,
and a parrot cage, who was now doling French coppers out of the window
of the next compartment. "Seven pence 'apenny of this stuff ain't much
for carrying all that along, I DON'T think!" grumbled his mate; and
Jane's young porter experienced the double joy of faith confirmed, and
willing service generously rewarded.

A telegraph boy walked along the train, saying: "Honrubble Jain
Champyun" at intervals. Jane heard her name, and her arm shot out of
the window.

"Here, my boy! It is for me."

She tore it open. It was from the doctor.

"Welcome home. Just back from Scotland. Will meet you Charing Cross,
and give you all the time you want. Have coffee at Dover. DERYCK."

Jane gave one hard, tearless sob of thankfulness and relief. She had
been so lonely.

Then she turned to the window. "Here, somebody! Fetch me a cup of
coffee, will you?"

Coffee was the last thing she wanted; but it never occurred to any one
to disobey the doctor, even at a distance.

The young porter, who still stood sentry at the door of Jane's
compartment, dashed off to the refreshment room; and, just as the train
began to move, handed a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of
bread-and-butter in at the window.

"Oh, thank you, my good fellow," said Jane, putting the plate on the
seat, while she dived into her pocket. "Here! you have done very well
for me. No, never mind the change. Coffee at a moment's notice should
fetch a fancy price. Good-bye."

The train moved on, and the porter stood looking after it with tears in
his eyes. Over the first half-crown he had said to himself: "Milk and
new-laid eggs." Now, as he pocketed the second, he added the other two
things mentioned by the parish doctor: "Soup and jelly"; and his heart
glowed. "Your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of these
things."

And Jane, seated in a comfortable corner, choked back the tears of
relief which threatened to fall, drank her coffee, and was thereby more
revived than she could have thought possible. She, also, had need of
many things. Not of half-crowns; of those she had plenty. But above all
else she needed just now a wise, strong, helpful friend, and Deryck had
not failed her.

She read his telegram through once more, and smiled. How like him to
think of the coffee; and oh, how like him to be coming to the station.

She took off her hat and leaned back against the cushions. She had been
travelling night and day, in one feverish whirl of haste, and at last
she had brought herself within reach of Deryck's hand and Deryck's safe
control. The turmoil of her soul was stilled; a great calm took its
place, and Jane dropped quietly off to sleep. "Your heavenly Father
knoweth that ye have need of these things."

      *      *      *      *      *

Washed and brushed and greatly refreshed, Jane stood at the window of
her compartment as the train steamed into Charing Cross.

The doctor was stationed exactly opposite the door when her carriage
came to a standstill; mere chance, and yet, to Jane, it seemed so like
him to have taken up his position precisely at the right spot on that
long platform. An enthusiastic lady patient had once said of Deryck
Brand, with more accuracy of definition than of grammar: "You know, he
is always so very JUST THERE." And this characteristic of the doctor
had made him to many a very present help in time of trouble.

He was through the line of porters and had his hand upon the handle of
Jane's door in a moment. Standing at the window, she took one look at
the firm lean face, now alight with welcome, and read in the kind,
steadfast eyes of her childhood's friend a perfect sympathy and
comprehension. Then she saw behind him her aunt's footman, and her own
maid, who had been given a place in the duchess's household. In another
moment she was on the platform and her hand was in Deryck's.

"That is right, dear," he said. "All fit and well, I can see. Now hand
over your keys. I suppose you have nothing contraband? I telephoned the
duchess to send some of her people to meet your luggage, and not to
expect you herself until dinner time, as you were taking tea with us.
Was that right? This way. Come outside the barrier. What a rabble! All
wanting to break every possible rule and regulation, and each trying to
be the first person in the front row. Really the patience and good
temper of railway officials should teach the rest of mankind a lesson."

The doctor, talking all the time, piloted Jane through the crowd;
opened the door of a neat electric brougham, helped her in, took his
seat beside her, and they glided swiftly out into the Strand, and
turned towards Trafalgar Square.

"Well," said the doctor, "Niagara is a big thing isn't it? When people
say to me, 'Were you not disappointed in Niagara? WE were!' I feel
tempted to wish, for one homicidal moment, that the earth would open
her mouth and swallow them up. People who can be disappointed in
Niagara, and talk about it, should no longer be allowed to crawl on the
face of the earth. And how about the 'Little Mother'? Isn't she worth
knowing? I hope she sent me her love. And New York harbour! Did you
ever see anything to equal it, as you steam away in the sunset?"

Jane gave a sudden sob; then turned to him, dry-eyed.

"Is there no hope, Deryck?"

The doctor laid his hand on hers. "He will always be blind, dear. But
life holds other things beside sight. We must never say: 'No hope.'"

"Will he live?"

"There is no reason he should not live. But how far life will be worth
living, largely depends upon what can be done for him, poor chap,
during the next few months. He is more shattered mentally than
physically."

Jane pulled off her gloves, swallowed suddenly, then gripped the
doctor's knee. "Deryck--I love him."

The doctor remained silent for a few moments, as if pondering this
tremendous fact. Then he lifted the fine, capable hand resting upon his
knee and kissed it with a beautiful reverence,--a gesture expressing
the homage of the man to the brave truthfulness of the woman.

"In that case, dear," he said, "the future holds in store so great a
good for Garth Dalmain that I think he may dispense with sight.--
Meanwhile you have much to say to me, and it is, of course, your right
to hear every detail of his case that I can give. And here we are at
Wimpole Street. Now come into my consulting-room. Stoddart has orders
that we are on no account to be disturbed."




CHAPTER XV

THE CONSULTATION


The doctor's room was very quiet. Jane leaned back in his dark green
leather arm-chair, her feet on a footstool, her hands gripping the arms
on either side.

The doctor sat at his table, in the round pivot-chair he always
used,--a chair which enabled him to swing round suddenly and face a
patient, or to turn away very quietly and bend over his table.

Just now he was not looking at Jane. He had been giving her a detailed
account of his visit to Castle Gleneesh, which he had left only on the
previous evening. He had spent five hours with Garth. It seemed kindest
to tell her all; but he was looking straight before him as he talked,
because he knew that at last the tears were running unchecked down
Jane's cheeks, and he wished her to think he did not notice them.

"You understand, dear," he was saying, "the actual wounds are going on
well. Strangely enough, though the retina of each eye was pierced, and
the sight is irrecoverably gone, there was very little damage done to
surrounding parts, and the brain is quite uninjured. The present danger
arises from the shock to the nervous system and from the extreme mental
anguish caused by the realisation of his loss. The physical suffering
during the first days and nights must have been terrible. Poor fellow,
he looks shattered by it. But his constitution is excellent, and his
life has been so clean, healthy, and normal, that he had every chance
of making a good recovery, were it not that as the pain abated and his
blindness became more a thing to be daily and hourly realised, his
mental torture was so excessive. Sight has meant so infinitely much to
him,--beauty of form, beauty of colour. The artist in him was so
all-pervading. They tell me he said very little. He is a brave man and
a strong one. But his temperature began to vary alarmingly; he showed
symptoms of mental trouble, of which I need not give you technical
details; and a nerve specialist seemed more necessary than an oculist.
Therefore he is now in my hands."

The doctor paused, straightened a few books lying on the table, and
drew a small bowl of violets closer to him. He studied these
attentively for a few moments, then put them back where his wife had
placed them and went on speaking.

"I am satisfied on the whole. He needed a friendly voice to penetrate
the darkness. He needed a hand to grasp his, in faithful comprehension.
He did not want pity, and those who talked of his loss without
understanding it, or being able to measure its immensity, maddened him.
He needed a fellow-man to come to him and say: 'It is a fight--an
awful, desperate fight. But by God's grace you will win through to
victory. It would be far easier to die; but to die would be to lose;
you must live to win. It is utterly beyond all human strength; but by
God's grace you will come through conqueror.' All this I said to him,
Jeanette, and a good deal more; and then a strangely beautiful thing
happened. I can tell you, and of course I could tell Flower, but to no
one else on earth would I repeat it. The difficulty had been to obtain
from him any response whatever. He did not seem able to rouse
sufficiently to notice anything going on around him. But those words,
'by God's grace,' appeared to take hold of him and find immediate echo
in his inner consciousness. I heard him repeat them once or twice, and
then change them to 'with the abundance of Thy grace.' Then he turned
his head slowly on the pillow, and what one could see of his face
seemed transformed. He said: 'Now I remember it, and the music is
this'; and his hands moved on the bedclothes, as if forming chords.
Then, in a very low voice, but quite clearly, he repeated the second
verse of the VENI, CREATOR SPIRITUS. I knew it, because I used to sing
it as a chorister in my father's church at home. You remember?"

   "'Enable with perpetual light
     The dulness of our blinded sight.
     Anoint and cheer our soiled face
     With the abundance of Thy grace.
     Keep far our foes; give peace at home;
     Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come.'"

"It was the most touching thing I ever heard."

The doctor paused, for Jane had buried her face in her hands and was
sobbing convulsively. When her sobs grew less violent, the doctor's
quiet voice continued: "You see, this gave me something to go upon.
When a crash such as this happens, all a man has left to hold on to is
his religion. According as his spiritual side has been developed, will
his physical side stand the strain. Dalmain has more of the real thing
than any one would think who only knew him superficially. Well, after
that we talked quite definitely, and I persuaded him to agree to one or
two important arrangements. You know, he has no relations of his own,
to speak of; just a few cousins, who have never been very friendly. He
is quite alone up there; for, though he has hosts of friends, this is a
time when friends would have to be very intimate to be admitted; and
though he seemed so boyish and easy to know, I begin to doubt whether
any of us knew the real Garth--the soul of the man, deep down beneath
the surface."

Jane lifted her head. "I did," she said simply.

"Ah," said the doctor, "I see. Well, as I said, ordinary friends could
not be admitted. Lady Ingleby went, in her sweet impulsive way, without
letting them know she was coming; travelled all the way up from
Shenstone with no maid, and nothing but a handbag, and arrived at the
door in a fly. Robert Mackenzie, the local medical man, who is an
inveterate misogynist, feared at first she was an unsuspected wife of
Dal's. He seemed to think unannounced ladies arriving in hired vehicles
must necessarily turn out to be undesirable wives. I gather they had a
somewhat funny scene. But Lady Ingleby soon got round old Robbie, and
came near to charming him--as whom does she not? But of course they did
not dare let her into Dal's room; so her ministry of consolation
appears to have consisted in letting Dal's old housekeeper weep on her
beautiful shoulder. It was somewhat of a comedy, hearing about it, when
one happened to know them all, better than they knew each other. But to
return to practical details. He has had a fully trained male nurse and
his own valet to wait on him. He absolutely refused one of our London
hospital nurses, who might have brought a little gentle comfort and
womanly sympathy to his sick-room. He said he could not stand being
touched by a woman; so there it remained. A competent man was found
instead. But we can now dispense with him, and I have insisted upon
sending up a lady nurse of my own choosing; not so much to wait on him,
or do any of a sick-nurse's ordinary duties--his own man can do these,
and he seems a capable fellow--but to sit with him, read to him, attend
to his correspondence,--there are piles of unopened letters he ought to
hear,--in fact help him to take up life again in his blindness. It will
need training; it will require tact; and this afternoon I engaged
exactly the right person. She is a gentlewoman by birth, has nursed for
me before, and is well up in the special knowledge of mental things
which this case requires. Also she is a pretty, dainty little thing;
just the kind of elegant young woman poor Dal would have liked to have
about him when he could see. He was such a fastidious chap about
appearances, and such a connoisseur of good looks. I have written a
descriptive account of her to Dr. Mackenzie, and he will prepare his
patient for her arrival. She is to go up the day after to-morrow. We
are lucky to get her, for she is quite first-rate, and she has only
just finished with a long consumptive case, now on the mend and ordered
abroad. So you see, Jeanette, all is shaping well.--And now, my dear
girl, you have a story of your own to tell me, and my whole attention
shall be at your disposal. But first of all I am going to ring for tea,
and you and I will have it quietly down here, if you will excuse me for
a few minutes while I go upstairs and speak to Flower."

      *      *      *      *      *

It seemed so natural to Jane to be pouring out the doctor's tea, and to
watch him putting a liberal allowance of salt on the thin
bread-and-butter, and then folding it over with the careful accuracy
which had always characterised his smallest action. In the essentials
he had changed so little since the days when as a youth of twenty
spending his vacations at the rectory he used to give the lonely girl
at the manor so much pleasure by coming up to her school-room tea; and
when it proved possible to dispose of her governess's chaperonage and
be by themselves, what delightful times they used to have, sitting on
the hearth-rug, roasting chestnuts and discussing the many subjects
which were of mutual interest. Jane could still remember the painful
pleasure of turning hot chestnuts on the bars with her fingers, and how
she hastened to do them herself, lest he should be burned. She had
always secretly liked and admired his hands, with the brown thin
fingers, so delicate in their touch and yet full of such gentle
strength. She used to love watching them while he sharpened her pencils
or drew wonderful diagrams in her exercise books; thinking how in years
to come, when he performed important operations, human lives would
depend upon their skill and dexterity. In those early years he had
seemed so much older than she. And then came the time when she shot up
rapidly into young womanhood and their eyes were on a level and their
ages seemed the same. Then, as the years went on, Jane began to feel
older than he, and took to calling him "Boy" to emphasise this fact.
And then came--Flower;--and complications. And Jane had to see his face
grow thin and worn, and his hair whiten on the temples. And she yearned
over him, yet dared not offer sympathy. At last things came right for
the doctor, and all the highest good seemed his; in his profession; in
his standing among men; and, above all, in his heart life, which Flower
had always held between her two sweet hands. And Jane rejoiced, but
felt still more lonely now she had no companion in loneliness. And
still their friendship held, with Flower admitted as a third--a
wistful, grateful third, anxious to learn from the woman whose
friendship meant so much to her husband, how to succeed where she had
hitherto failed. And Jane's faithful heart was generous and loyal to
both, though in sight of their perfect happiness her loneliness grew.

And now, in her own hour of need, it had to be Deryck only; and the
doctor knew this, and had arranged accordingly; for at last his chance
had come, to repay the faithful devotion of a lifetime. The
conversation of that afternoon would be the supreme test of their
friendship. And so, with a specialist's appreciation of the mental
effect of the most trivial external details, the doctor had ordered
muffins, and a kettle on the fire, and had asked Jane to make the tea.

By the time the kettle boiled, they had remembered the chestnuts, and
were laughing about poor old Fraulein's efforts to keep them in order,
and the strategies by which they used to evade her vigilance. And the
years rolled back, and Jane felt herself very much at home with the
chum of her childhood.

Nevertheless, there was a moment of tension when the doctor drew back
the tea-table and they faced each other in easy-chairs on either side
of the fireplace. Each noticed how characteristic was the attitude of
the other.

Jane sat forward, her feet firmly planted on the hearth-rug, her arms
on her knees, and her hands clasped in front of her.

The doctor leaned back, one knee crossed over the other, his elbows on
the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers meeting, in absolute
stillness of body and intense concentration of mind.

The silence between them was like a deep, calm pool.

Jane took the first plunge.

"Deryck, I am going to tell you everything. I am going to speak of my
heart, and mind, and feelings, exactly as if they were bones, and
muscles, and lungs. I want you to combine the offices of doctor and
confessor in one."

The doctor had been contemplating his finger-tips. He now glanced
swiftly at Jane, and nodded; then turned his head and looked into the
fire.

"Deryck, mine has been a somewhat lonely existence. I have never been
essential to the life of another, and no one has ever touched the real
depths of mine. I have known they were there, but I have known they
were unsounded."

The doctor opened his lips, as if to speak; then closed them in a
firmer line than before, and merely nodded his head silently.

"I had never been loved with that love which makes one absolutely first
to a person, nor had I ever so loved. I had--cared very much; but
caring is not loving.--Oh, Boy, I know that now!"

The doctor's profile showed rather white against the dark-green
background of his chair; but he smiled as he answered: "Quite true,
dear. There is a distinction, and a difference."

"I had heaps of friends, and amongst them a good many nice men, mostly
rather younger than myself, who called me 'Miss Champion.' to my face,
and 'good old Jane' behind my back."

The doctor smiled. He had as often heard the expression, and could
recall the whole-hearted affection and admiration in the tones of those
who used it.

"Men as a rule," Continued Jane, "get on better with me than do women.
Being large and solid, and usually calling a spade 'a spade;' and not
'a garden implement,' women consider me strong-minded, and are inclined
to be afraid of me. The boys know they can trust me; they make a
confidante of me, looking upon me as a sort of convenient elder sister
who knows less about them than an elder sister would know, and is
probably more ready to be interested in those things which they choose
to tell. Among my men friends, Deryck, was Garth Dalmain."

Jane paused, and the doctor waited silently for her to continue.

"I was always interested in him, partly because he was so original and
vivid in his way of talking, and partly because"--a bright flush
suddenly crept up into the tanned cheeks-"well, though I did not
realise it then, I suppose I found his extraordinary beauty rather
fascinating. And then, our circumstances were so much alike,--both
orphans, and well off; responsible to no one for our actions; with
heaps of mutual friends, and constantly staying at the same houses. We
drifted into a pleasant intimacy, and of all my friends, he was the one
who made me feel most like `a man and a brother.' We discussed women by
the dozen, all his special admirations in turn, and the effect of their
beauty upon him, and I watched with interest to see who, at last, would
fix his roving fancy. But on one eventful day all this was changed in
half an hour. We were both staying at Overdene. There was a big house
party, and Aunt Georgina had arranged a concert to which half the
neighbourhood was coming. Madame Velma failed at the last minute. Aunt
'Gina, in a great state of mind, was borrowing remarks from her macaw.
You know how? She always says she is merely quoting `the dear bird.'
Something had to be done. I offered to take Velma's place; and I sang."

"Ah," said the doctor.

"I sang The Rosary--the song Flower asked for the last time I was here.
Do you remember?"

The doctor nodded. "I remember."

"After that, all was changed between Garth and me. I did not understand
it at first. I knew the music had moved him deeply, beauty of sound
having upon him much the same effect as beauty of colour; but I thought
the effect would pass in the night. But the days went on, and there was
always this strange sweet difference; not anything others would notice;
but I suddenly became conscious that, for the first time in my whole
life, I was essential to somebody. I could not enter a room without
realising that he was instantly aware of my presence; I could not leave
a room without knowing that he would at once feel and regret my
absence. The one fact filled and completed all things; the other left a
blank which could not be removed. I knew this, and yet--incredible
though it may appear--I did not realise it meant LOVE. I thought it was
an extraordinarily close bond of sympathy and mutual understanding,
brought about principally by our enjoyment of one another's music. We
spent hours in the music-room. I put it down to that; yet when he
looked at me his eyes seemed to touch as well as see me, and it was a
very tender and wonderful touch. And all the while I never thought of
love. I was so plain and almost middle-aged; and he, such a beautiful,
radiant youth. He was like a young sun-god, and I felt warmed and
vivified when he was near; and he was almost always near. Honestly,
that was my side of the days succeeding the concert. But HIS! He told
me afterwards, Deryck, it had been a sudden revelation to him when he
heard me sing The Rosary, not of music only, but of ME. He said he had
never thought of me otherwise than as a good sort of chum; but then it
was as if a veil were lifted, and he saw, and knew, and felt me as a
woman. And--no doubt it will seem odd to you. Boy; it did to me;--but
he said, that the woman he found then was his ideal of womanhood, and
that from that hour he wanted me for his own as he had never wanted
anything before."

Jane paused, and looked into the glowing heart of the fire.

The doctor turned slowly and looked at Jane. He himself had experienced
the intense attraction of her womanliness,--all the more overpowering
when it was realised, because it did not appear upon the surface. He
had sensed the strong mother-tenderness lying dormant within her; had
known that her arms would prove a haven of refuge, her bosom a soothing
pillow, her love a consolation unspeakable. In his own days of
loneliness and disappointment, the doctor had had to flee from this in
Jane,--a precious gift, so easy to have taken because of her very
ignorance of it; but a gift to which he had no right. Thus the doctor
could well understand the hold it would gain upon a man who had
discovered it, and who was free to win it for his own.

But he only said, "I do not think it odd, dear."

Jane had forgotten the doctor. She came back promptly from the glowing
heart of the fire.

"I am glad you don't," she said. "I did.--well, we both left Overdene
on the same day. I came to you; he went to Shenstone. It was a Tuesday.
On the Friday I went down to Shenstone, and we met again. Having been
apart for a little while seemed to make this curious feeling of
`togetherness,' deeper and sweeter than ever. In the Shenstone house
party was that lovely American girl, Pauline Lister. Garth was
enthusiastic about her beauty, and set on painting her. Everybody made
sure he was going to propose to her. Deryck, I thought so, too; in fact
I had advised him to do it. I felt so pleased and interested over it,
though all the while his eyes touched me when he looked at me, and I
knew the day did not begin for him until we had met, and was over when
we had said good-night. And this experience of being first and most to
him made everything so golden, and life so rich, and still I thought of
it only as an unusually delightful friendship. But the evening of my
arrival at Shenstone he asked me to come out on to the terrace after
dinner, as he wanted specially to talk to me. Deryck, I thought it was
the usual proceeding of making a confidante of me, and that I was to
hear details of his intentions regarding Miss Lister. Thinking that, I
walked calmly out beside him; sat down on the parapet, in the brilliant
moonlight, and quietly waited for him to begin. Then--oh, Deryck! It
happened."

Jane put her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her clasped
hands.

"I cannot tell you--details. His love--it just poured over me like
molten gold. It melted the shell of my reserve; it burst through the
ice of my convictions; it swept me off my feet upon a torrent of
wondrous fire. I knew nothing in heaven or earth but that this love was
mine, and was for me. And then--oh, Deryck! I can't explain--I don't
know myself how it happened--but this whirlwind of emotion came to rest
upon my heart. He knelt with his arms around me, and we held each other
in a sudden great stillness; and in that moment I was all his, and he
knew it. He might have stayed there hours if he had not moved or
spoken; but presently he lifted up his face and looked at me. Then he
said two words. I can't repeat them, Boy; but they brought me suddenly
to my senses, and made me realise what it all meant. Garth Dalmain
wanted me to marry him."

Jane paused, awaiting the doctor's expression of surprise.

"What else could it have meant?" said Deryck Brand, very quietly. He
passed his hand over his lips, knowing they trembled a little. Jane's
confessions were giving him a stiffer time than he had expected. "Well,
dear, so you--?"

"I stood up," said Jane; "for while he knelt there he was master of me,
mind and body; and some instinct told me that if I were to be won to
wifehood, my reason must say `yes' before the rest of me. It is
`spirit, soul, and body' in the Word, not `body, soul, and spirit,' as
is so often misquoted; and I believe the inspired sequence to be the
right one."

The doctor made a quick movement of interest. "Good heavens, Jane!" he
said. "You have got hold of a truth there, and you have expressed it
exactly as I have often wanted to express it without being able to find
the right words. You have found them, Jeanette."

She looked into his eager eyes and smiled sadly. "Have I, Boy?" she
said. "Well, they have cost me dear.--I put my lover from me and told
him I must have twelve hours for calm reflection. He was so sure--so
sure of me, so sure of himself--that he agreed without a protest. At my
request he left me at once. The manner of his going I cannot tell, even
to you, Dicky. I promised to meet him at the village church next day
and give him my answer. He was to try the new organ at eleven. We knew
we should be alone. I came. He sent away the blower. He called me to
him at the chancel step. The setting was so perfect. The artist in him
sang for joy, and thrilled with expectation. The glory of absolute
certainty was in his eyes; though he had himself well in hand. He kept
from touching me while he asked for my answer. Then--I refused him,
point blank, giving a reason he could not question. He turned from me
and left the church, and I have not spoken to him from that day to
this."

A long silence in the doctor's consulting-room. One manly heart was
entering into the pain of another, and yet striving not to be indignant
until he knew the whole truth.

Jane's spirit was strung up to the same pitch as in that fateful hour,
and once more she thought herself right.

At last the doctor spoke. He looked at her searchingly now, and held
her eyes.

"And why did you refuse him, Jane?" The kind voice was rather stern.

Jane put out her hands to him appealingly. "Ah, Boy, I must make you
understand! How could I do otherwise, though, indeed, it was putting
away the highest good life will ever hold for me? Deryck, you know
Garth well enough to realise how dependent he is on beauty; he must be
surrounded by it, perpetually. Before this unaccountable need of each
other came to us he had talked to me quite freely on this point, saying
of a plain person whose character and gifts he greatly admired, and
whose face he grew to like in consequence: 'But of course it was not
the sort of face one would have wanted to live with, or to have day
after day opposite to one at table; but then one was not called to that
sort of discipline, which would be martyrdom to me.' Oh, Deryck! Could
I have tied Garth to my plain face? Could I have let myself become a
daily, hourly discipline to that radiant, beauty-loving nature? I know
they say, 'Love is blind.' But that is before Love has entered into his
kingdom. Love desirous, sees only that, in the one beloved, which has
awakened the desire. But Love content, regains full vision, and, as
time goes on, those powers of vision increase and become, by means of
daily, hourly, use,--microscopic and telescopic. Wedded love is not
blind. Bah! An outsider staying with married people is apt to hear what
love sees, on both sides, and the delusion of love's blindness is
dispelled forever. I know Garth was blind, during all those golden
days, to my utter lack of beauty, because he wanted ME so much. But
when he had had me, and had steeped himself in all I have to give of
soul and spirit beauty; when the daily routine of life began, which
after all has to be lived in complexions, and with features to the
fore; when he sat down to breakfast and I saw him glance at me and then
look away, when I was conscious that I was sitting behind the
coffee-pot, looking my very plainest, and that in consequence my boy's
discipline had begun; could I have borne it? Should I not, in the
miserable sense of failing him day by day, through no fault of my own,
have grown plainer and plainer; until bitterness and disappointment,
and perhaps jealousy, all combined to make me positively ugly? I ask
you, Deryck, could I have borne it?"

The doctor was looking at Jane with an expression of keen professional
interest.

"How awfully well I diagnosed the case when I sent you abroad," he
remarked meditatively. "Really, with so little data to go upon--"

"Oh, Boy," cried Jane, with a movement of impatience, "don't speak to
me as if I were a patient. Treat me as a human being, at least, and
tell me--as man to man--could I have tied Garth Dalmain to my plain
face? For you know it is plain."

The doctor laughed. He was glad to make Jane a little angry. "My dear
girl," he said, "were we speaking as man to man, I should have a few
very strong things to say to you. As we are speaking as man to
woman,--and as a man who has for a very long time respected, honoured,
and admired a very dear and noble woman,--I will answer your question
frankly. You are not beautiful, in the ordinary acceptation of the
word, and no one who really loves you would answer otherwise; because
no one who knows and loves you would dream of telling you a lie. We
will even allow, if you like, that you are plain, although I know half
a dozen young men who, were they here, would want to kick me into the
street for saying so, and I should have to pretend in self-defence that
their ears had played them false and I had said, 'You are JANE,' which
is all they would consider mattered. So long as you are yourself, your
friends will be well content. At the same time, I may add, while this
dear face is under discussion, that I can look back to times when I
have felt that I would gladly walk twenty miles for a sight of it; and
in its absence I have always wished it present, and in its presence I
have never wished it away."

"Ah, but, Deryck, you did not have to have it always opposite you at
meals," insisted Jane gravely.

"Unfortunately not. But I enjoyed the meals more on the happy occasions
when it was there."

"And, Deryck--YOU DID NOT HAVE TO KISS IT."

The doctor threw back his head and shouted with laughter, so that
Flower, passing up the stairs, wondered what turn the conversation
could be taking.

But Jane was quite serious; and saw in it no laughing matter.

"No, dear," said the doctor when he had recovered; "to my infinite
credit be it recorded, that in all the years I have known it I have
never once kissed it."

"Dicky, don't tease! Oh, Boy, it is the most vital question of my whole
life; and if you do not now give me wise and thoughtful advice, all
this difficult confession will have been for nothing."

The doctor became grave immediately. He leaned forward and took those
clasped hands between his.

"Dear," he said, "forgive me if I seemed to take it lightly. My most
earnest thought is wholly at your disposal. And now let me ask you a
few questions. How did you ever succeed in convincing Dalmain that such
a thing as this was an insuperable obstacle to your marriage?"

"I did not give it as a reason."

"What then did you give as your reason for refusing him?"

"I asked him how old he was."

"Jane! Standing there beside him in the chancel, where he had come
awaiting your answer?"

"Yes. It did seem awful when I came to think it over afterwards. But it
worked."

"I have no doubt it worked. What then?"

"He said he was twenty-seven. I said I was thirty, and looked
thirty-five, and felt forty. I also said he might be twenty-seven, but
he looked nineteen, and I was sure he often felt nine."

"Well?"

"Then I said that I could not marry a mere boy."

"And he acquiesced?"

"He seemed stunned at first. Then he said of course I could not marry
him if I considered him that. He said it was the first time he had
given a thought to himself in the matter. Then he said he bowed to my
decision, and he walked down the church and went out, and we have not
met since."

"Jane," said the doctor, "I wonder he did not see through it. You are
so unused to lying, that you cannot have lied, on the chancel step, to
the man you loved, with much conviction."

A dull red crept up beneath Jane's tan.

"Oh, Deryck, it was not entirely a lie. It was one of those dreadful
lies which are 'part a truth,' of which Tennyson says that they are 'a
harder matter to fight.'"

     "'A lie which is all a lie
     May be met and fought with outright;
     But a lie which is part a truth
     Is a harder matter to fight,'"

quoted the doctor.

"Yes," said Jane. "And he could not fight this, just because it was
partly true. He is younger than I by three years, and still more by
temperament. It was partly for his delightful youthfulness that I
feared my maturity and staidness. It was part a truth, but oh, Deryck,
it was more a lie; and it was altogether a lie to call him--the man
whom I had felt complete master of me the evening before--'a mere boy.'
Also he could not fight it because it took him so utterly by surprise.
He had been all the time as completely without self-consciousness, as I
had been morbidly full of it. His whole thought had been of me. Mine
had been of him and--of myself."

"Jane," said the doctor, "of all that you have suffered since that
hour, you deserved every pang."

Jane bent her head. "I know," she said.

"You were false to yourself, and not true to your lover. You robbed and
defrauded both. Cannot you now see your mistake? To take it on the
lowest ground, Dalmain, worshipper of beauty as he was, had had a
surfeit of pretty faces. He was like the confectioner's boy who when
first engaged is allowed to eat all the cakes and sweets he likes, and
who eats so many in the first week, that ever after he wants only plain
bread-and-butter. YOU were Dal's bread-and-butter. I am sorry if you do
not like the simile."

Jane smiled. "I do like the simile," she said.

"Ah, but you were far more than this, my dear girl. You were his ideal
of womanhood. He believed in your strength and tenderness, your
graciousness and truth. You shattered this ideal; you failed this faith
in you. His fanciful, artistic, eclectic nature with all its unused
possibilities of faithful and passionate devotion, had found its haven
in your love; and in twelve hours you turned it adrift. Jane--it was a
crime. The magnificent strength of the fellow is shown by the way he
took it. His progress in his art was not arrested. All his best work
has been done since. He has made no bad mad marriage, in mockery of his
own pain; and no grand loveless one, to spite you. He might have done
both--I mean either. And when I realise that the poor fellow I was with
yesterday--making such a brave fight in the dark, and turning his head
on the pillow to say with a gleam of hope on his drawn face: `Where
Thou art Guide, no ill can come'--had already been put through all this
by you--Jane, if you were a man, I'd horsewhip you!" said the doctor.

Jane squared her shoulders and lifted her head with more of her old
spirit than she had yet shown.

"You have lashed me well, Boy," she said, "as only words spoken in
faithful indignation can lash. And I feel the better for the pain.--
And now I think I ought to tell you that while I was on the top of the
Great Pyramid I suddenly saw the matter from a different standpoint.
You remember that view, with its sharp line of demarcation? On one side
the river, and verdure, vegetation, fruitfulness, a veritable 'garden
enclosed'; on the other, vast space as far as the eye could reach;
golden liberty, away to the horizon, but no sign of vegetation, no hope
of cultivation, just barren, arid, loneliness. I felt this was an exact
picture of my life as I live it now. Garth's love, flowing through it,
as the river, could have made it a veritable 'garden of the Lord.' It
would have meant less liberty, but it would also have meant no
loneliness. And, after all, the liberty to live for self alone becomes
in time a weary bondage. Then I realised that I had condemned him also
to this hard desert life. I came down and took counsel of the old
Sphinx. Those calm, wise eyes, looking on into futurity, seemed to say:
'They only live who love.' That evening I resolved to give up the Nile
trip, return home immediately, send for Garth, admit all to him, asking
him to let us both begin again just where we were three years ago in
the moonlight on the terrace at Shenstone. Ten minutes after I had
formed this decision, I heard of his accident."

The doctor shaded his face with his hand. "The wheels of time," he said
in a low voice, "move forward--always; backward, never."

"Oh, Deryck," cried Jane, "sometimes they do. You and Flower know that
sometimes they do."

The doctor smiled sadly and very tenderly. "I know," he said, "that
there is always one exception which proves every rule." Then he added
quickly: "But, unquestionably, it helps to mend matters, so far as your
own mental attitude is concerned, that before you knew of Dalmain's
blindness you should have admitted yourself wrong, and made up your
mind to trust him."

"I don't know that I was altogether clear about having been wrong,"
said Jane, "but I was quite convinced that I couldn't live any longer
without him, and was therefore prepared to risk it. And of course now,
all doubt or need to question is swept away by my poor boy's accident,
which simplifies matters, where that particular point is concerned."

The doctor looked at Jane with a sudden raising of his level brows.
"Simplifies matters?" he said.

Then, as Jane, apparently satisfied with the expression, did not
attempt to qualify it, he rose and stirred the fire; standing over it
for a few moments in silent thought. When he sat down again, his voice
was very quiet, but there was an alertness about his expression which
roused Jane. She felt that the crisis of their conversation had been
reached.

"And now, my dear Jeanette," said the doctor, "suppose you tell me what
you intend doing."

"Doing?" said Jane. "Why, of course, I shall go straight to Garth. I
only want you to advise me how best to let him know I am coming, and
whether it is safe for him to have the emotion of my arrival. Also I
don't want to risk being kept from him by doctors or nurses. My place
is by his side. I ask no better thing of life than to be always beside
him. But sick-room attendants are apt to be pig-headed; and a fuss
under these circumstances would be unbearable. A wire from you will
make all clear."

"I see," said the doctor slowly. "Yes, a wire from me will undoubtedly
open a way for you to Garth Dalmain's bedside. And, arrived there, what
then?"

A smile of ineffable tenderness parted Jane's lips. The doctor saw it,
but turned away immediately. It was not for him, or for any man, to see
that look. The eyes which should have seen it were sightless evermore.

"What then, Deryck? Love will know best what then. All barriers will be
swept away, and Garth and I will be together."

The doctor's finger-tips met very exactly before he spoke again; and
when he did speak, his tone was very level and very kind.

"Ah, Jane," he said, "that is the woman's point of view. It is
certainly the simplest, and perhaps the best. But at Garth's bedside
you will be confronted with the man's point of view; and I should be
failing the trust you have placed in me did I not put that before you
now.--From the man's point of view, your own mistaken action three
years ago has placed you now in an almost impossible position. If you
go to Garth with the simple offer of your love--the treasure he asked
three years ago and failed to win--he will naturally conclude the love
now given is mainly pity; and Garth Dalmain is not the man to be
content with pity, where he has thought to win love, and failed. Nor
would he allow any woman--least of all his crown of womanhood--to tie
herself to his blindness unless he were sure such binding was her
deepest joy. And how could you expect him to believe this in face of
the fact that, when he was all a woman's heart could desire, you
refused him and sent him from you?--If, on the other hand, you explain,
as no doubt you intend to do, the reason of that refusal, he can but
say one thing: 'You could not trust me to be faithful when I had my
sight. Blind, you come to me, when it is no longer in my power to prove
my fidelity. There is no virtue in necessity. I can never feel I
possess your trust, because you come to me only when accident has put
it out of my power either to do the thing you feared, or to prove
myself better than your doubts.' My dear girl, that is how matters
stand from the man's point of view; from his, I make no doubt, even
more than from mine; for I recognise in Garth Dalmain a stronger man
than myself. Had it been I that day in the church, wanting you as he
did, I should have grovelled at your feet and promised to grow up.
Garth Dalmain had the iron strength to turn and go, without a protest,
when the woman who had owned him mate the evening before, refused him
on the score of inadequacy the next morning. I fear there is no
question of the view he would take of the situation as it now stands."

Jane's pale, startled face went to the doctor's heart.

"But Deryck--he--loves--"

"Just because he loves, my poor old girl, where you are concerned he
could never be content with less than the best."

"Oh, Boy, help me! Find a way! Tell me what to do!" Despair was in
Jane's eyes.

The doctor considered long, in silence. At last he said: "I see only
one way out. If Dal could somehow be brought to realise your point of
view at that time as a possible one, without knowing it had actually
been the cause of your refusal of him, and could have the chance to
express himself clearly on the subject--to me, for instance--in a way
which might reach you without being meant to reach you, it might put
you in a better position toward him. But it would be difficult to
manage. If you could be in close contact with his mind, constantly near
him unseen--ah, poor chap, that is easy now--I mean unknown to him; if,
for instance, you could be in the shoes of this nurse-companion person
I am sending him, and get at his mind on the matter; so that he could
feel when you eventually made your confession, he had already justified
himself to you, and thus gone behind his blindness, as it were."

Jane bounded in her chair. "Deryck, I have it! Oh, send ME as his
nurse-companion! He would never dream it was I. It is three years since
he heard my voice, and he thinks me in Egypt. The society column in all
the papers, a few weeks ago, mentioned me as wintering in Egypt and
Syria and remaining abroad until May. Not a soul knows I have come
home. You are the best judge as to whether I have had training and
experience; and all through the war our work was fully as much mental
and spiritual, as surgical. It was not up to much otherwise. Oh, Dicky,
you could safely recommend me; and I still have my uniforms stowed away
in case of need. I could be ready in twenty-four hours, and I would go
as Sister--anything, and eat in the kitchen if necessary."

"But, my dear girl," said the doctor quietly, "you could not go as
Sister Anything, unfortunately. You could only go as Nurse Rosemary
Gray; for I engaged her this morning, and posted a full and explicit
account of her to Dr. Mackenzie, which he will read, to our patient. I
never take a case from one nurse and give it to another, excepting for
incompetency. And Nurse Rosemary Gray could more easily fly, than prove
incompetent. She will not be required to eat in the kitchen. She is a
gentlewoman, and will be treated as such. I wish indeed you could be in
her shoes, though I doubt whether you could have carried it
through--And now I have something to tell you. Just before I left him,
Dalmain asked after you. He sandwiched you most carefully in between
the duchess and Flower; but he could not keep the blood out of his thin
cheeks, and he gripped the bedclothes in his effort to keep his voice
steady. He asked where you were. I said, I believed, in Egypt. When you
were coming home. I told him I had heard you intended returning to
Jerusalem for Easter, and I supposed we might expect you home at the
end of April or early in May. He inquired how you were. I replied that
you were not a good correspondent, but I gathered from occasional
cables and post-cards that you were very fit and having a good time. I
then volunteered the statement that it was I who had sent you abroad
because you were going all to pieces. He made a quick movement with his
hand as if he would have struck me for using the expression. Then he
said: 'Going to pieces? SHE!' in a tone of most utter contempt for me
and my opinions. Then he hastily made minute inquiries for Flower. He
had already asked about the duchess all the questions he intended
asking about you. When he had ascertained that Flower was at home and
well, and had sent him her affectionate sympathy, he begged me to
glance through a pile of letters which were waiting until he felt able
to have them read to him, and to tell him any of the handwritings known
to me. All the world seemed to have sent him letters of sympathy, poor
chap. I told him a dozen or so of the names I knew,--a royal
handwriting among them. He asked whether there were any from abroad.
There were two or three. I knew them all, and named them. He could not
bear to hear any of them read; even the royal letter remained unopened,
though he asked to have it in his hand, and fingered the tiny crimson
crown. Then he asked. 'Is there one from the duchess?' There was. He
wished to hear that one, so I opened and read it. It was very
characteristic of her Grace; full of kindly sympathy, heartily yet
tactfully expressed. Half-way through she said: 'Jane will be upset. I
shall write and tell her next time she sends me an address. At present
I have no idea in which quarter of the globe my dear niece is to be
found. Last time I heard of her she seemed in a fair way towards
marrying a little <DW61> and settling in Japan. Not a bad idea, my dear
Dal, is it? Though, if Japan is at all like the paper screens, I don't
know where in that Liliputian country they will find a house, or a
husband, or a what-do-you-call-'em thing they ride in, solid enough for
our good Jane!' With intuitive tact of a very high order, I omitted
this entire passage about marrying the <DW61>. When your aunt's letter was
finished, he asked point blank whether there was one from you. I said
No, but that it was unlikely the news had reached you, and I felt sure
you would write when it did. So I hope you will, dear; and Nurse
Rosemary Gray will have instructions to read all his letters to him."

"Oh, Deryck," said Jane brokenly, "I can't bear it! I must go to him!"

The telephone bell on the doctor's table whirred sharply. He went over
and took up the receiver.

"Hullo! ... Yes, it is Dr. Brand.... Who is speaking? ... Oh, is
it you, Matron?"--Jane felt quite sorry the matron could not see the
doctor's charming smile into the telephone.--"Yes? What name did you
say? ... Undoubtedly. This morning; quite definitely. A most
important case. She is to call and see me to-night ... What? ...
Mistake on register? Ah, I see ... Gone where? ... Where? ...
Spell it, please ... Australia! Oh, quite out of reach! ... Yes, I
heard he was ordered there ... Never mind, Matron. You are in no way
to blame ... Thanks, I think not. I have some one in view ... Yes....
Yes.... No doubt she might do ... I will let you know if I
should require her ... Good-bye, Matron, and thank you."

The doctor hung up the receiver. Then he turned to Jane; a slow,
half-doubtful smile gathering on his lips.

"Jeanette," he said, "I do not believe in chance. But I do believe in a
Higher Control, which makes and unmakes our plans. You shall go."




CHAPTER XVI

THE DOCTOR FINDS A WAY


"And now as to ways and means," said the doctor, when Jane felt better.
"You must leave by the night mail from Euston, the day after to-morrow.
Can you be ready?"

"I am ready," said Jane.

"You must go as Nurse Rosemary Gray."

"I don't like that," Jane interposed. "I should prefer a fictitious
name. Suppose the real Rosemary Gray turned up, or some one who knows
her."

"My, dear girl, she is half-way to Australia by now, and you will see
no one up there but the household and the doctor. Any one who turned up
would be more likely to know you. We must take these risks. Besides, in
case of complications arising, I will give you a note, which you can
produce at once, explaining the situation, and stating that in agreeing
to fill the breach you consented at my request to take the name in
order to prevent any necessity for explanations to the patient, which
at this particular juncture would be most prejudicial. I can honestly
say this, it being even more true than appears. So you must dress the
part, Jane, and endeavour to look the part, so far as your five foot
eleven will permit; for please remember that I have described you to
Dr. Mackenzie as 'a pretty, dainty little thing, refined and elegant,
and considerably more capable than she looks.'"

"Dicky! He will instantly realise that I am not the person mentioned in
your letter."

"Not so, dear. Remember we have to do with a Scotchman, and a Scotchman
never realises anything 'instantly.' The Gaelic mind works slowly,
though it works exceeding sure. He will be exceeding sure, when he has
contemplated you for a while, that I am a 'verra poor judge o' women,'
and that Nurse Gray is a far finer woman than I described. But he will
have already created for Dalmain, from my letter, a mental picture of
his nurse; which is all that really matters. We must trust to
Providence that old Robbie does not proceed to amend it by the
original. Try to forestall any such conversation. If the good doctor
seems to mistrust you, take him on one side, show him my letter, and
tell him the simple truth. But I do not suppose this will be necessary.
With the patient, you must remember the extreme sensitiveness of a
blind man's hearing. Tread lightly. Do not give him any opportunity to
judge of your height. Try to remember that you are not supposed to be
able to reach the top shelf of an eight-foot bookcase without the aid
of steps or a chair. And when the patient begins to stand and walk, try
to keep him from finding out that his nurse is slightly taller than
himself. This should not be difficult; one of his fixed ideas being
that in his blindness he will not be touched by a woman. His valet will
lead him about. And, Jane, I cannot imagine any one who has ever had
your hand in his, failing to recognise it. So I advise you, from the
first, to avoid shaking hands. But all these precautions do not obviate
the greatest difficulty of all,--your voice. Do you suppose, for a
moment, he will not recognise that?"

"I shall take the bull by the horns in that case," said Jane, "and you
must help me. Explain the fact to me now, as you might do if I were
really Nurse Rosemary Gray, and had a voice so like my own."

The doctor smiled. "My dear Nurse Rosemary," he said, "you must not be
surprised if our patient detects a remarkable similarity between your
voice and that of a mutual friend of his and mine. I have constantly
noticed it myself."

"Indeed, sir," said Jane. "And may I know whose voice mine so closely
resembles?"

"The Honourable Jane Champion's," said the doctor, with the delightful
smile with which he always spoke to his nurses. "Do you know her?"

"Slightly," said Jane, "and I hope to know her better and better as the
years go by."

Then they both laughed. "Thank you, Dicky. Now I shall know what to say
to the patient.--Ah, but the misery of it! Think of it being possible
thus to deceive Garth,--Garth of the bright, keen all--perceiving
vision! Shall I ever have the courage to carry it through?"

"If you value your own eventual happiness and his you will, dear. And
now I must order the brougham and speed you to Portland Place, or you
will be late--for dinner, a thing the duchess cannot overlook 'as you
very well know,' even in a traveller returned from round the world. And
if you take my advice, you will tell your kind, sensible old aunt the
whole story, omitting of course all moonlight details, and consult her
about this plan. Her shrewd counsel will be invaluable, and you may be
glad of her assistance later on."

They rose and faced each other on the hearth-rug.

"Boy," said Jane with emotion, "you have been so good to me, and so
faithful. Whatever happens, I shall be grateful always."

"Hush," said the doctor. "No need for gratitude when long-standing
debts are paid.--To-morrow I shall not have a free moment, and I
foresee the next day as very full also. But we might dine together at
Euston at seven, and I will see you off. Your train leaves at eight
o'clock, getting you to Aberdeen soon after seven the next morning, and
out to Gleneesh in time for breakfast. You will enjoy arriving in the
early morning light; and the air of the moors braces you
wonderfully.--Thank you, Stoddart. Miss Champion is ready. Hullo,
Flower! Look up, Jane. Flower, and Dicky, and Blossom, are hanging over
the topmost banisters, dropping you showers of kisses. Yes, the river
you mentioned does produce a veritable 'garden of the Lord.' God send
you the same, dear. And now, sit well back, and lower your veil. Ah, I
remember, you don't wear them. Wise girl! If all women followed your
example it would impoverish the opticians. Why? Oh, constant focussing
on spots, for one thing. But lean back, for you must not be seen if you
are supposed to be still in Cairo, waiting to go up the Nile. And, look
here"--the doctor put his head in at the carriage window--"very plain
luggage, mind. The sort of thing nurses speak of as 'my box'; with a
very obvious R. G. on it!"

"Thank you, Boy," whispered Jane. "You think of everything."

"I think of YOU," said the doctor. And in all the hard days to come,
Jane often found comfort in remembering those last quiet words.




CHAPTER XVII

ENTER--NURSE ROSEMARY


Nurse Rosemary Gray had arrived at Gleneesh.

When she and her "box" were deposited on the platform of the little
wayside railway station, she felt she had indeed dropped from the
clouds; leaving her own world, and her own identity, on some
far-distant planet.

A motor waited outside the station, and she had a momentary fear lest
she should receive deferential recognition from the chauffeur. But he
was as solid and stolid as any other portion of the car, and paid no
more attention to her than he did to her baggage. The one was a nurse;
the other, a box, both common nouns, and merely articles to be conveyed
to Gleneesh according to orders. So he looked straight before him,
presenting a sphinx-like profile beneath the peak of his leather cap,
while a slow and solemn porter helped Jane and her luggage into the
motor. When she had rewarded the porter with threepence,
conscientiously endeavouring to live down to her box, the chauffeur
moved foot and hand with the silent precision of a machine, they swung
round into the open, and took the road for the hills.

Up into the fragrant heather and grey rocks; miles of moor and sky and
solitude. More than ever Jane felt as if she had dropped into another
world, and so small an incident as the omission of the usual respectful
salute of a servant, gave her a delightful sense of success and
security in her new role.

She had often heard of Garth's old castle up in the North, an
inheritance from his mother's family, but was hardly prepared for so
much picturesque beauty or such stateliness of archway and entrance. As
they wound up the hillside and the grey turrets came into view, with
pine woods behind and above, she seemed to hear Garth's boyish voice
under the cedar at Overdene, with its ring of buoyant enjoyment,
saying: "I should like you to see Castle Gleneesh. You would enjoy the
view from the terrace; and the pine woods, and the moor." And then he
had laughingly declared his intention of getting up a "best party" of
his own, with the duchess as chaperon; and she had promised to make one
of it. And now he, the owner of all this loveliness, was blind and
helpless; and she was entering the fair portals of Gleneesh, unknown to
him, unrecognised by any, as a nurse-secretary sort of person. Jane had
said at Overdene: "Yes, ask us, and see what happens." And now this was
happening. What would happen next?

Garth's man, Simpson, received her at the door, and again a possible
danger was safely passed. He had entered Garth's service within the
last three years and evidently did not know her by sight.

Jane stood looking round the old hall, in the leisurely way of one
accustomed to arrive for the first time as guest at the country homes
of her friends; noting the quaint, large fireplace, and the shadowy
antlers high up on the walls. Then she became aware that Simpson,
already half-way up the wide oak staircase, was expecting the nurse to
hurry after him. This she did, and was received at the top of the
staircase by old Margery. It did not require the lawn kerchief, the
black satin apron, and the lavender ribbons, for Jane to recognise
Garth's old Scotch nurse, housekeeper, and friend. One glance at the
grave, kindly face, wrinkled and rosy,--a beautiful combination of
perfect health and advancing years,--was enough. The shrewd, keen eyes,
seeing quickly beneath the surface, were unmistakable. She conducted
Jane to her room, talking all the time in a kindly effort to set her at
her ease, and to express a warm welcome with gentle dignity, not
forgetting the cloud of sadness which hung over the house and rendered
her presence necessary. She called her "Nurse Gray" at the conclusion
of every sentence, with an upward inflection and pretty rolling of the
r's, which charmed Jane. She longed to say: "You old dear! How I shall
enjoy being in the house with you!" but remembered in time that a
remark which would have been gratifying condescension on the part of
the Honourable Jane Champion, would be little short of impertinent
familiarity from Nurse Rosemary Gray. So she followed meekly into the
pretty room prepared for her; admired the chintz; answered questions
about her night journey; admitted that she would be very glad of
breakfast, but still more of a bath if convenient.

And now bath and breakfast were both over, and Jane was standing beside
the window in her room, looking down at the wonderful view, and waiting
until the local doctor should arrive and summon her to Garth's room.

She had put on the freshest-looking and most business-like of her
uniforms, a blue print gown, linen collar and cuffs, and a white apron
with shoulder straps and large pockets. She also wore the becoming cap
belonging to one of the institutions to which she had once been for
training. She did not intend wearing this later on, but just this
morning she omitted no detail which could impress Dr. Mackenzie with
her extremely professional appearance. She was painfully conscious that
the severe simplicity of her dress tended rather to add to her height,
notwithstanding her low-heeled ward shoes with their noiseless rubber
soles. She could but hope Deryck would prove right as to the view Dr.
Mackenzie would take.

And then far away in the distance, along the white ribbon of road,
winding up from the valley, she saw a high gig, trotting swiftly; one
man in it, and a small groom seated behind. Her hour had come.

Jane fell upon her knees, at the window, and prayed for strength,
wisdom, and courage. She could realise absolutely nothing. She had
thought so much and so continuously, that all mental vision was out of
focus and had become a blur. Even his dear face had faded and was
hidden from her when she frantically strove to recall it to her mental
view. Only the actual fact remained clear, that in a few short minutes
she would be taken to the room where he lay. She would see the face she
had not seen since they stood together at the chancel step--the face
from which the glad confidence slowly faded, a horror of chill
disillusion taking its place.

   "Anoint and cheer our soiled face
   With the abundance of Thy grace."

She would see that dear face, and he, sightless, would not see hers,
but would be easily deluded into believing her to be some one else.

The gig had turned the last bend of the road, and passed out of sight
on its way to the front of the house.

Jane rose and stood waiting. Suddenly she remembered two sentences of
her conversation with Deryck. She had said: "Shall I ever have the
courage to carry it through?" And Deryck had answered, earnestly: "If
you value your own eventual happiness and his, you will."

A tap came at her door. Jane walked across the room, and opened it.

Simpson stood on the threshold.

"Dr. Mackenzie is in the library, nurse," he said, "and wishes to see
you there."

"Then, will you kindly take me to the library, Mr. Simpson," said Nurse
Rosemary Gray.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE NAPOLEON OF THE MOORS


On the bear-skin rug, with his back to the fire, stood Dr. Robert
Mackenzie, known to his friends as "Dr. Rob" or "Old Robbie," according
to their degrees of intimacy.

Jane's first impression was of a short, stout man, in a sealskin
waistcoat which had seen better days, a light box-cloth overcoat three
sizes too large for him, a Napoleonic attitude,--little spindle legs
planted far apart, arms folded on chest, shoulders hunched up,--which
led one to expect, as the eye travelled upwards, an ivory-white
complexion, a Roman nose, masterful jaw, and thin lips folded in a line
of conscious power. Instead of which one found a red, freckled face, a
nose which turned cheerfully skyward, a fat pink chin, and drooping
sandy moustache. The only striking feature of the face was a pair of
keen blue eyes, which, when turned upon any one intently, almost
disappeared beneath bushy red eyebrows and became little points of
turquoise light.

Jane had not been in his presence two minutes before she perceived
that, when his mind was working, he was entirely unconscious of his
body, which was apt to do most peculiar things automatically; so that
his friends had passed round the remark: "Robbie chews up dozens of
good pen-holders, while Dr. Mackenzie is thinking out excellent
prescriptions."

When Jane entered, his eyes were fixed upon an open letter, which she
instinctively knew to be Deryck's, and he did not look up at once. When
he did look up, she saw his unmistakable start of surprise. He opened
his mouth to speak, and Jane was irresistibly reminded of a tame
goldfish at Overdene, which used to rise to the surface when the
duchess dropped crumbs. He closed it without uttering a word, and
turned again to Deryck's letter; and Jane felt herself to be the crumb,
or rather the camel, which he was finding it difficult to swallow.

She waited in respectful silence, and Deryck's words passed with
calming effect through the palpitating suspense of her brain. "The
Gaelic mind works slowly, though it works exceeding sure. He will be
exceeding sure that I am a verra poor judge o' women."

At last the little man on the hearth-rug lifted his eyes again to
Jane's; and, alas, how high he had to lift them!

"Nurse--er?" he said inquiringly, and Jane thought his searching eyes
looked like little bits of broken blue china in a hay-stack.

"Rosemary Gray," replied Jane meekly, with a curtsey in her voice;
feeling as if they were rehearsing amateur theatricals at Overdene, and
the next minute the duchess's cane would rap the floor and they would
be told to speak up and not be so slow.

"Ah," said Dr. Robert Mackenzie, "I see."

He stared hard at the carpet in a distant corner of the room, then
walked across and picked up a spline broken from a bass broom; brought
it back to the hearth-rug; examined it with minute attention; then put
one end between his teeth and began to chew it.

Jane wondered what was the correct thing to do at this sort of
interview, when a doctor neither sat down himself nor suggested that
the nurse should do so. She wished she had asked Deryck. But he could
not possibly have enlightened her, because the first thing he always
said to a nurse was: "My dear Nurse SO-AND-SO, pray sit down. People
who have much unavoidable standing to do should cultivate the habit of
seating themselves comfortably at every possible opportunity."

But the stout little person on the hearth-rug was not Deryck. So Jane
stood at attention, and watched the stiff bit of bass wag up and down,
and shorten, inch by inch. When it had finally disappeared, Dr. Robert
Mackenzie spoke again.

"So you have arrived, Nurse Gray," he said.

"Truly the mind of a Scotchman works slowly," thought Jane, but she was
thankful to detect the complete acceptance of herself in his tone.
Deryck was right; and oh the relief of not having to take this
unspeakable little man into her confidence in this matter of the
deception to be practised on Garth.

"Yes, sir, I have arrived," she said.

Another period of silence. A fragment of the bass broom reappeared and
vanished once more, before Dr. Mackenzie spoke again.

"I am glad you have arrived, Nurse Gray," he said.

"I am glad TO have arrived, sir," said Jane gravely, almost expecting
to hear the duchess's delighted "Ha, ha!" from the wings. The little
comedy was progressing.

Then suddenly she became aware that during the last few minutes Dr.
Mackenzie's mind had been concentrated upon something else. She had not
filled it at all. The next moment it was turned upon her and two swift
turquoise gleams from under the shaggy brows swept over her, with the
rapidity and brightness of search-lights. Dr. Mackenzie commenced
speaking quickly, with a wonderful rolling of r's.

"I understand, Miss Gray, you have come to minister to the patient's
mind rather than to his body. You need not trouble to explain. I have
it from Sir Deryck Brand, who prescribed a nurse-companion for the
patient, and engaged you. I fully agreed with his prescription; and,
allow me to say, I admire its ingredients."

Jane bowed, and realised how the duchess would be chuckling. What an
insufferable little person! Jane had time to think this, while he
walked across to the table-cloth, bent over it, and examined an ancient
spot of ink. Finding a drop of candle grease near it, he removed it
with his thumb nail; brought it carefully to the fire, and laid it on
the coals. He watched it melt, fizzle, and flare, with an intense
concentration of interest; then jumped round on Jane, and caught her
look of fury.

"And I think there remains very little for me to say to you about the
treatment, Miss Gray," he finished calmly. "You will have received
minute instructions from Sir Deryck himself. The great thing now is to
help the patient to take an interest in the outer world. The temptation
to persons who suddenly become totally blind, is to form a habit of
living entirely in a world within; a world of recollection,
retrospection, and imagination; the only world, in fact, in which they
can see."

Jane made a quick movement of appreciation and interest. After all she
might learn something useful from this eccentric little Scotchman. Oh
to keep his attention off rubbish on the carpet, and grease spots on
the table-cloth!

"Yes?" she said. "Do tell me more."

"This," continued Dr. Mackenzie, "is our present difficulty with Mr.
Dalmain. There seems to be no possibility of arousing his interest in
the outside world. He refuses to receive visitors; he declines to hear
his letters. Hours pass without a word being spoken by him. Unless you
hear him speak to me or to his valet, you will easily suppose yourself
to have a patient who has lost the power of speech as well as the gift
of sight. Should he express a wish to speak to me alone when we are
with him, do not leave the room. Walk over to the fireplace and remain
there. I desire that you should hear, that when he chooses to rouse and
make an effort, he is perfectly well able to do so. The most important
part of your duties, Nurse Gray, will be the aiding him day by day to
resume life,--the life of a blind man, it is true; but not therefore
necessarily an inactive life. Now that all danger of inflammation from
the wounds has subsided, he may get up, move about, learn to find his
way by sound and touch. He was an artist by profession. He will never
paint again. But there are other gifts which may form reasonable
outlets to an artistic nature."

He paused suddenly, having apparently caught sight of another grease
spot, and walked over to the table; but the next instant jumped round
on Jane, quick as lightning, with a question.

"Does he play?" said Dr. Rob.

But Jane was on her guard, even against accidental surprises.

"Sir Deryck did not happen to mention to me, Dr. Mackenzie, whether Mr.
Dalmain is musical or not."

"Ah, well," said the little doctor, resuming his Napoleonic attitude in
the centre of the hearth-rug; "you must make it your business to find
out. And, by the way, Nurse, do you play yourself?"

"A little," said Jane.

"Ah," said Dr. Rob. "And I dare say you sing a little, too?"

Jane acquiesced.

"In that case, my dear lady, I leave most explicit orders that you
neither sing a little nor play a little to Mr. Dalmain. We, who have
our sight, can just endure while people who 'play a little' show us how
little they can play; because we are able to look round about us and
think of other things. But to a blind man, with an artist's sensitive
soul, the experience might culminate in madness. We must not risk it. I
regret to appear uncomplimentary, but a patient's welfare must take
precedence of all other considerations."

Jane smiled. She was beginning to like Dr. Rob.

"I will be most careful," she said, "neither to play nor to sing to Mr.
Dalmain."

"Good," said Dr. Mackenzie. "But now let me tell you what you most
certainly may do, by-and-by. Lead him to the piano. Place him there
upon a seat where he will feel secure; none of your twirly, rickety
stools. Make a little notch on the key-board by which he can easily
find middle C. Then let him relieve his pent-up soul by the painting of
sound-pictures. You will find this will soon keep him happy for hours.
And, if he is already something of a musician,--as that huge grand
piano, with no knick-knacks on it indicates,--he may begin that sort of
thing at once, before he is ready to be worried with the Braille
system, or any other method of instructing the blind. But contrive an
easy way--a little notch in the wood-work below the note--by means of
which, without hesitation or irritation, he can locate himself
instantly at middle C. Never mind the other notes. It is all the SEEING
he will require when once he is at the piano. Ha, ha! Not bad for a
Scotchman, eh, Nurse Gray?"

But Jane could not laugh; though somewhere in her mental background she
seemed to hear laughter and applause from the duchess. This was no
comedy to Jane,--her blind Garth at the piano, his dear beautiful head
bent over the keys, his fingers feeling for that pathetic little notch,
to be made by herself, below middle C. She loathed this individual who
could make a pun on the subject of Garth's blindness, and, in the back
of her mind, Tommy seemed to join the duchess, flapping up and down on
his perch and shrieking: "Kick him out! Stop his jaw!"

"And now," said Dr. Mackenzie unexpectedly, "the next thing to be done,
Nurse Gray, is to introduce you to the patient."

Jane felt the blood slowly leave her face and concentrate in a terrible
pounding at her heart. But she stood her ground, and waited silently.

Dr. Mackenzie rang the bell. Simpson appeared.

"A decanter of sherry, a wine-glass, and a couple of biscuits," said
Dr. Rob.

Simpson vanished.

"Little beast!" thought Jane. "At eleven o'clock in the morning!".

Dr. Rob stood, and waited; tugging spitefully at his red moustache, and
looking intently out of the window.

Simpson reappeared, placed a small tray on the table, and went quietly
out, closing the door behind him.

Dr. Rob poured out a glass of sherry, drew up a chair to the table, and
said: "Now, Nurse, sit down and drink that, and take a biscuit with it."

Jane protested. "But, indeed, doctor, I never--"

"I have no doubt you 'never,'" said Dr. Rob, "especially at eleven
o'clock in the morning. But you will to-day; so do not waste any time
in discussion. You have had a long night journey; you are going
upstairs to a very sad sight indeed, a strain on the nerves and
sensibilities. You have come through a trying interview with me, and
you are praising Heaven it is over. But you will praise Heaven with
more fervency when you have drunk the sherry. Also you have been
standing during twenty-three minutes and a half. I always stand to
speak myself, and I prefer folk should stand to listen. I can never
talk to people while they loll around. But you will walk upstairs all
the more steadily, Nurse Rosemary Gray, if you sit down now for five
minutes at this table."

Jane obeyed, touched and humbled. So, after all, it was a kind,
comprehending heart under that old sealskin waistcoat; and a shrewd
understanding of men and matters, in spite of the erratic, somewhat
objectionable exterior. While she drank the wine and finished the
biscuits, he found busy occupation on the other side of the room,
polishing the window with his silk pocket-handkerchief; making a queer
humming noise all the time, like a bee buzzing up the pane. He seemed
to have forgotten her presence; but, just as she put down the empty
glass, he turned and, walking straight across the room, laid his hand
upon her shoulder.

"Now, Nurse," he said, "follow me upstairs, and, just at first, speak
as little as possible. Remember, every fresh voice intruding into the
still depths of that utter blackness, causes an agony of bewilderment
and disquietude to the patient. Speak little and speak low, and may God
Almighty give you tact and wisdom."

There was a dignity of conscious knowledge and power in the small
quaint figure which preceded Jane up the staircase. As she followed,
she became aware that her spirit leaned on his and felt sustained and
strengthened. The unexpected conclusion of his sentence, old-fashioned
in its wording, yet almost a prayer, gave her fresh courage. "May God
Almighty give you tact and wisdom," he had said, little guessing how
greatly she needed them. And now another voice, echoing through
memory's arches to organ-music, took up the strain: "Where Thou art
Guide, no ill can come." And with firm though noiseless step, Jane
followed Dr. Mackenzie into the roam where Garth was lying, helpless,
sightless, and disfigured.




CHAPTER XIX

THE VOICE IN THE DARKNESS


Just the dark head upon the pillow. That was all Jane saw at first, and
she saw it in sunshine. Somehow she had always pictured a darkened
room, forgetting that to him darkness and light were both alike, and
that there was no need to keep out the sunlight, with its healing,
purifying, invigorating powers.

He had requested to have his bed moved into a corner--the corner
farthest from door, fireplace, and windows--with its left side against
the wall, so that he could feel the blank wall with his hand and,
turning close to it, know himself shut away from all possible prying of
unseen eyes. This was how he now lay, and he did not turn as they
entered.

Just the dear dark head upon the pillow. It was all Jane saw at first.
Then his right arm in the sleeve of a blue silk sleeping-suit,
stretched slightly behind him as he lay on his left side, the thin
white hand limp and helpless on the coverlet.

Jane put her hands behind her. The impulse was so strong to fall on her
knees beside the bed, take that poor hand in both her strong ones, and
cover it with kisses. Ah surely, surely then, the dark head would turn
to her, and instead of seeking refuge in the hard, blank wall, he would
hide that sightless face in the boundless tenderness of her arms. But
Deryck's warning voice sounded, grave and persistent: "If you value
your own eventual happiness and his--" So Jane put her hands behind her
back.

Dr. Mackenzie advanced to the side of the bed and laid his hand upon
Garth's shoulder. Then, with an incredible softening of his rather
strident voice, he spoke so slowly and quietly, that Jane could hardly
believe this to be the man who had jerked out questions, comments, and
orders to her, during the last half-hour.

"Good morning, Mr. Dalmain. Simpson tells me it has been an excellent
night, the best you have yet had. Now that is good. No doubt you were
relieved to be rid of Johnson, capable though he was, and to be back in
the hands of your own man again. These trained attendants are never
content with doing enough; they always want to do just a little more,
and that little more is a weariness to the patient.--Now I have brought
you to-day one who is prepared to do all you need, and yet who, I feel
sure, will never annoy you by attempting more than you desire. Sir
Deryck Brand's prescription, Nurse Rosemary Gray, is here; and I
believe she is prepared to be companion, secretary, reader, anything
you want, in fact a new pair of eyes for you, Mr. Dalmain, with a
clever brain behind them, and a kind, sympathetic, womanly heart
directing and controlling that brain. Nurse Gray arrived this morning,
Mr. Dalmain."

No response from the bed. But Garth's hand groped for the wall; touched
it, then dropped listlessly back.

Jane could not realise that SHE was "Nurse Gray." She only longed that
her poor boy need not be bothered with the woman! It all seemed, at
this moment, a thing apart from herself and him.

Dr. Mackenzie spoke again. "Nurse Rosemary Gray is in the room, Mr.
Dalmain."

Then Garth's instinctive chivalry struggled up through the blackness.
He did not turn his head, but his right hand made a little courteous
sign of greeting, and he said in a low, distinct voice: "How do you do?
I am sure it is most kind of you to come so far. I hope you had an easy
journey."

Jane's lips moved, but no sound would pass them.

Dr. Rob made answer quickly, without looking at her: "Miss Gray had a
very good journey, and looks as fresh this morning as if she had spent
the night in bed. I can see she is a cold-water young lady."

"I hope my housekeeper will make her comfortable. Please give orders,"
said the tired voice; and Garth turned even closer to the wall, as if
to end the conversation.

Dr. Rob attacked his moustache, and stood looking down at the blue silk
shoulder for a minute, silently.

Then he turned and spoke to Jane. "Come over to the window, Nurse Gray.
I want to show you a special chair we have obtained for Mr. Dalmain, in
which he will be most comfortable as soon as he feels inclined to sit
up. You see? Here is an adjustable support for the head, if necessary;
and these various trays and stands and movable tables can be swung
round into any position by a touch. I consider it excellent, and Sir
Deryck approved it. Have you seen one of this kind before, Nurse Gray?"

"We had one at the hospital, but not quite so complete as this," said
Jane.

In the stillness of that sunlit chamber, the voice from the bed broke
upon them with startling suddenness; and in it was the cry of one lost
in an abyss of darkness, but appealing to them with a frantic demand
for instant enlightenment.

"WHO is in the room?" cried Garth Dalmain.

His face was still turned to the wall; but he had raised himself on his
left elbow, in an attitude which betokened intent listening.

Dr. Mackenzie answered. "No one is in the room, Mr. Dalmain, but myself
and Nurse Gray."

"There IS some one else in the room!" said Garth violently. "How dare
you lie to me! Who was speaking?"

Then Jane came quickly to the side of the bed. Her hands were
trembling, but her voice was perfectly under control.

"It was I who spoke, sir," she said; "Nurse Rosemary Gray. And I feel
sure I know why my voice startled you. Dr. Brand warned me it might do
so. He said I must not be surprised if you detected a remarkable
similarity between my voice and that of a mutual friend of yours and
his. He said he had often noticed it."

Garth, in his blindness, remained quite still; listening and
considering. At length he asked slowly: "Did he say whose voice?"

"Yes, for I asked him. He said it was Miss Champion's."

Garth's head dropped back upon the pillow. Then without turning he said
in a tone which Jane knew meant a smile on that dear hidden face: "You
must forgive me, Miss Gray, for being so startled and so stupidly,
unpardonably agitated. But, you know, being blind is still such a new
experience, and every fresh voice which breaks through the black
curtain of perpetual night, means so infinitely more than the speaker
realises. The resemblance in your voice to that of the lady Sir Deryck
mentioned is so remarkable that, although I know her to be at this
moment in Egypt, I could scarcely believe she was not in the room. And
yet the most unlikely thing in the world would be that she should have
been in this room. So I owe you and Dr. Mackenzie most humble apologies
for my agitation and unbelief."

He stretched out his right hand, palm upwards, towards Jane.

Jane clasped her shaking hands behind her.

"Now, Nurse, if you please," broke in Dr. Mackenzie's rasping voice
from the window, "I have a few more details to explain to you over
here."

They talked together for a while without interruption, until Dr. Rob
remarked: "I suppose I will have to be going."

Then Garth said: "I wish to speak to you alone, doctor, for a few
minutes."

"I will wait for you downstairs, Dr. Mackenzie," said Jane, and was
moving towards the door, when an imperious gesture from Dr. Rob stopped
her, and she turned silently to the fireplace. She could not see any
need now for this subterfuge, and it annoyed her. But the freckled
little Napoleon of the moors was not a man to be lightly disobeyed. He
walked to the door, opened and closed it; then returned to the bedside,
drew up a chair, and sat down.

"Now, Mr. Dalmain," he said.

Garth sat up and turned towards him eagerly.

Then, for the first time, Jane saw his face.

"Doctor," he said, "tell me about this nurse. Describe her to me."

The tension in tone and attitude was extreme. His hands were clasped in
front of him, as if imploring sight through the eyes of another. His
thin white face, worn with suffering, looked so eager and yet so blank.

"Describe her to me, doctor," he said; "this Nurse Rosemary Gray, as
you call her."

"But it is not a pet name of mine, my dear sir," said Dr. Rob
deliberately. "It is the young lady's own name, and a pretty one, too.
'Rosemary for remembrance.' Is not that Shakespeare?"

"Describe her to me," insisted Garth, for the third time.

Dr. Mackenzie glanced at Jane. But she had turned her back, to hide the
tears which were streaming down her cheeks. Oh, Garth! Oh, beautiful
Garth of the shining eyes!

Dr. Rob drew Deryck's letter from his pocket and studied it.

"Well," he said slowly, "she is a pretty, dainty little thing; just the
sort of elegant young woman you would like to have about you, could you
see her."

"Dark or fair?" asked Garth.

The doctor glanced at what he could see of Jane's cheek, and at the
brown hands holding on to the mantelpiece.

"Fair," said Dr. Rob, without a moment's hesitation.

Jane started and glanced round. Why should this little man be lying on
his own account?

"Hair?" queried the strained voice from the bed.

"Well," said Dr. Rob deliberately, "it is mostly tucked away under a
modest little cap; but, were it not for that wise restraint, I should
say it might be that kind of fluffy, fly-away floss-silk, which puts
the finishing touch to a dainty, pretty woman."

Garth lay back, panting, and pressed his hands over his sightless face.

"Doctor," he said, "I know I have given you heaps of trouble, and
to-day you must think me a fool. But if you do not wish me to go mad in
my blindness, send that girl away. Do not let her enter my room again."

"Now, Mr. Dalmain," said Dr. Mackenzie patiently; "let us consider this
thing. We may take it you have nothing against this young lady
excepting a chance resemblance in her voice to that of a friend of
yours now far away. Was not this other lady a pleasant person?"

Garth laughed suddenly, bitterly; a laugh like a hard, sob. "Oh, yes,"
he said, "she was quite a pleasant person."

"'Rosemary for remembrance,'" quoted Dr. Rob. "Then why should not
Nurse Rosemary call up a pleasant remembrance? Also it seems to me to
be a kind, sweet, womanly voice, which is something to be thankful for
nowadays, when so many women talk, fit to scare the crows; cackle,
cackle, cackle--like stones rattling in a tin canister."

"But can't you understand, doctor," said Garth wearily, "that it is
just the remembrance and the resemblance which, in my blindness, I
cannot bear? I have nothing against her voice, Heaven knows! But I tell
you, when I heard it first I thought it was--it was she--the
other--come to me--here--and--" Garth's voice ceased suddenly.

"The pleasant lady?" suggested Dr. Rob. "I see. Well now, Mr. Dalmain,
Sir Deryck said the best thing that could happen would be if you came
to wish for visitors. It appears you have many friends ready and
anxious to come any distance in order to bring you help or cheer. Why
not let me send for this pleasant lady? I make no doubt she would come.
Then when she herself had sat beside you, and talked with you, the
nurse's voice would trouble you no longer."

Garth sat up again, his face wild with protest. Jane turned on the
hearth-rug, and stood watching it.

"No, doctor," he said. "Oh, my God, no! In the whole world, she is the
last person I would have enter this room!"

Dr. Mackenzie bent forward to examine minutely a microscopic darn in
the sheet. "And why?" he asked very low.

"Because," said Garth, "that pleasant lady, as you rightly call her,
has a noble, generous heart, and it might overflow with pity for my
blindness; and pity from her I could not accept. It would be the last
straw upon my heavy cross. I can bear the cross, doctor; I hope in time
to carry it manfully, until God bids me lay it down. But that last
straw--HER pity--would break me. I should fall in the dark, to rise no
more."

"I see," said Dr. Rob gently. "Poor laddie! The pleasant lady must not
come."

He waited silently a few minutes, then pushed back his chair and stood
up.

"Meanwhile," he said, "I must rely on you, Mr. Dalmain, to be agreeable
to Nurse Rosemary Gray, and not to make her task too difficult. I dare
not send her back. She is Dr. Brand's choice. Besides--think of the
cruel blow to her in her profession. Think of it, man!--sent off at a
moment's notice, after spending five minutes in her patient's room,
because, forsooth, her voice maddened him! Poor child! What a statement
to enter on her report! See her appear before the matron with it! Can't
you be generous and unselfish enough to face whatever trial there may
be for you in this bit of a coincidence?"

Garth hesitated. "Dr. Mackenzie," he said at last, "will you swear to
me that your description of this young lady was accurate in every
detail?"

"'Swear not at all,'" quoted Dr. Rob unctuously. "I had a pious mother,
laddie. Besides I can do better than that. I will let you into a
secret. I was reading from Sir Deryck's letter. I am no authority on
women myself, having always considered dogs and horses less ensnaring
and more companionable creatures. So I would not trust my own eyes, but
preferred to give you Sir Deryck's description. You will allow him to
be a fine judge of women. You have seen Lady Brand?"

"Seen her? Yes," said Garth eagerly, a slight flush tinting his thin
cheeks, "and more than that, I've painted her. Ah, such a
picture!--standing at a table, the sunlight in her hair, arranging
golden daffodils in an old Venetian vase. Did you see it, doctor, in
the New Gallery, two years ago?"

"No," said Dr. Rob. "I am not finding myself in galleries, new or old.
But"--he turned a swift look of inquiry on Jane, who nodded--"Nurse
Gray was telling me she had seen it."

"Really?" said Garth, interested. "Somehow one does not connect nurses
with picture galleries."

"I don't know why not," said Dr. Rob. "They must go somewhere for their
outings. They can't be everlastingly nosing shop windows in all
weathers; so why not go in and have a look at your pictures? Besides,
Miss Rosemary is a young lady of parts. Sir Deryck assures me she is a
gentlewoman by birth, well-read and intelligent.--Now, laddie, what is
it to be?"

Garth considered silently.

Jane turned away and gripped the mantelpiece. So much hung in the
balance during that quiet minute.

At length Garth spoke, slowly, hesitatingly. "If only I could quite
disassociate the voice from the--from that other personality. If I
could be quite sure that, though her voice is so extraordinarily like,
she herself is not--" he paused, and Jane's heart stood still. Was a
description of herself coming?--"is not at all like the face and figure
which stand clear in my remembrance as associated with that voice."

"Well," said Dr. Rob, "I'm thinking we can manage that for you. These
nurses know their patients must be humoured. We will call the young
lady back, and she shall kneel down beside your bed--Bless you! She
won't mind, with me to play old Gooseberry!--and you shall pass your
hands over her face and hair, and round her little waist, and assure
yourself, by touch, what an elegant, dainty little person it is, in a
blue frock and white apron."

Garth burst out laughing, and his voice had a tone it had not yet held.
"Of all the preposterous suggestions!" he said. "Good heavens! What an
ass I must have been making of myself! And I begin to think I have
exaggerated the resemblance. In a day or two, I shall cease to notice
it. And, look here, doctor, if she really was interested in that
portrait--Here, I say--where are you going?"

"All right, sir," said Dr. Rob. "I was merely moving a chair over to
the fireside, and taking the liberty of pouring out a glass of water.
Really you are becoming abnormally quick of hearing. Now I am all
attention. What about the portrait?"

"I was only going to say, if she the nurse, you know--is really
interested in my portrait of Lady Brand, there are studies of it up in
the studio, which she might care to see. If she brought them here and
described them to me I could explain--But, I say, doctor. I can't have
dainty young ladies in and out of my room while I'm in bed. Why
shouldn't I get up and try that chair of yours? Send Simpson along; and
tell him to look out my brown lounge-suit and orange tie. Good heavens!
what a blessing to have the MEMORY of colours and of how they blend!
Think of the fellows who are BORN blind. And please ask Miss Gray to go
out in the pine wood, or on the moor, or use the motor, or rest, or do
anything she likes. Tell her to make herself quite at home; but on no
account to come up here until Simpson reports me ready."

"You may rely on Nurse Gray to be most discreet," said Dr. Rob; whose
voice had suddenly become very husky. "And as for getting up, laddie,
don't go too fast. You will not find your strength equal to much. But I
am bound to tell you there is nothing to keep you in bed if you feel
like rising."

"Good-bye, doctor," said Garth, groping for his hand; "and I am sorry I
shall never be able to offer to paint Mrs. Mackenzie!"

"You'd have to paint her with a shaggy head, four paws, and the softest
amber eyes in the world," said Dr. Rob tenderly; "and, looking out from
those eyes, the most faithful, loving dog-heart in creation. In all the
years we've kept house together she has never failed to meet me with a
welcome, never contradicted me or wanted the last word, and never
worried me for so much as the price of a bonnet. There's a woman for
you!--Well, good-bye, lad, and God Almighty bless you. And be careful
how you go. Do not be surprised if I look in again on my way back from
my rounds to see how you like that chair."

Dr. Mackenzie held open the door. Jane passed noiselessly out before
him. He followed, signing to her to precede him down the stairs.

In the library, Jane turned and faced him. He put her quietly into a
chair and stood before her. The bright blue eyes were moist, beneath
the shaggy brows.

"My dear," he said, "I feel myself somewhat of a blundering old fool.
You must forgive me. I never contemplated putting you through such an
ordeal. I perfectly understand that, while he hesitated, you must have
felt your whole career at stake. I see you have been weeping; but you
must not take it too much to heart that our patient made so much of
your voice resembling this Miss Champion's. He will forget all about it
in a day or two, and you will be worth more to him than a dozen Miss
Champions. See what good you have done him already. Here he is wanting
to get up and explain his pictures to you. Never you fear. You will
soon win your way, and I shall be able to report to Sir Deryck what a
fine success you have made of the case. Now I must see the valet and
give him very full instructions. And I recommend you to go for a blow
on the moor and get an appetite for lunch. Only put on something warmer
than that. You will have no sick-room work to do; and having duly
impressed me with your washableness and serviceableness, you may as
well wear something comfortable to protect you from our Highland nip.
Have you warmer clothing with you?"

"It is the rule of our guild to wear uniform," said Jane; "but I have a
grey merino."

"Ah, I see. Well, wear the grey merino. I shall return in two hours to
observe how he stands that move. Now, don't let me keep you."

"Dr. Mackenzie," said Jane quietly, "may I ask why you described me as
fair; and my very straight, heavy, plainly coiled hair, as fluffy,
fly-away floss-silk?"

Dr. Rob had already reached the bell, but at her question he stayed his
hand and, turning, met Jane's steadfast eyes with the shrewd turquoise
gleam of his own.

"Why certainly you may ask, Nurse Rosemary Gray," he said, "though I
wonder you think it necessary to do so. It was of course perfectly
evident to me that, for reasons of his own, Sir Deryck wished to paint
an imaginary portrait of you to the patient, most likely representing
some known ideal of his. As the description was so different from the
reality, I concluded that, to make the portrait complete, the two
touches unfortunately left to me to supply, had better be as unlike
what I saw before me as the rest of the picture. And now, if you will
be good enough--" Dr. Rob rang the bell violently.

"And why did you take the risk of suggesting that he should feel me?"
persisted Jane.

"Because I knew he was a gentleman," shouted Dr. Rob angrily. "Oh, come
in, Simpson--come in, my good fellow--and shut that door! And God
Almighty be praised that He made you and me MEN, and not women!"

A quarter of an hour later, Jane watched him drive away, thinking to
herself: "Deryck was right. But what a queer mixture of shrewdness and
obtuseness, and how marvellously it worked out to the furtherance of
our plans."

But as she watched the dog-cart start off at a smart trot across the
moor, she would have been more than a little surprised could she have
overheard Dr. Rob's muttered remarks to himself, as he gathered up the
reins and cheered on his sturdy cob. He had a habit of talking over his
experiences, half aloud, as he drove from case to case; the two sides
of his rather complex nature apparently comparing notes with each
other. And the present conversation opened thus:

"Now what has brought the Honourable Jane up here?" said Dr. Rob.

"Dashed if I know," said Dr. Mackenzie.

"You must not swear, laddie," said Dr. Rob; "you had a pious mother."




CHAPTER XX

JANE REPORTS PROGRESS


Letter from the Honourable Jane Champion to Sir Deryck Brand.

Castle Gleneesh, N. B.

My dear Deryck: My wires and post-cards have not told you much beyond
the fact of my safe arrival. Having been here a fortnight, I think it
is time I sent you a report. Only you must remember that I am a poor
scribe. From infancy it has always been difficult to me to write
anything beyond that stock commencement: "I hope you are quite well;"
and I approach the task of a descriptive letter with an effort which is
colossal. And yet I wish I might, for once, borrow the pen of a ready
writer; because I cannot help knowing that I have been passing through
experiences such as do not often fall to the lot of a woman.

Nurse Rosemary Gray is getting on capitally. She is making herself
indispensable to the patient, and he turns to her with a completeness
of confidence which causes her heart to swell with professional pride.

Poor Jane has got no further than hearing, from his own lips, that she
is the very last person in the whole world he would wish should come
near him in his blindness. When she was suggested as a possible
visitor, he said: "Oh, my God, NO!" and his face was one wild,
horrified protest. So Jane is getting her horsewhipping, Boy,
and--according to the method of a careful and thoughtful judge, who
orders thirty lashes of the "cat," in three applications of ten--so is
Jane's punishment laid on at intervals; not more than she can bear at a
time; but enough to keep her heart continually sore, and her spirit in
perpetual dread. And you, dear, clever doctor, are proved perfectly
right in your diagnosis of the sentiment of the case. He says her pity
would be the last straw on his already heavy cross; and the expression
is an apt one, her pity for him being indeed a thing of straw. The only
pity she feels is pity for herself, thus hopelessly caught in the
meshes of her own mistake. But how to make him realise this, is the
puzzle.

Do you remember how the Israelites were shut in, between Migdol and the
sea? I knew Migdol meant "towers," but I never understood the passage,
until I stood upon that narrow wedge of desert, with the Red Sea in
front and on the left; the rocky range of Gebel Attaka on the right,
towering up against the sky, like the weird shapes of an impregnable
fortress; the sole outlet or inlet behind, being the route they had
just travelled from Egypt, and along which the chariots and horsemen of
Pharaoh were then thundering in hot pursuit. Even so, Boy, is poor Jane
now tramping her patch of desert, which narrows daily to the measure of
her despair. Migdol is HIS certainty that HER love could only be pity.
The Red Sea is the confession into which she must inevitably plunge, to
avoid scaling Migdol; in the chill waters of which, as she drags him in
with her, his love is bound to drown, as waves of doubt and mistrust
sweep over its head,--doubts which he has lost the power of removing;
mistrust which he can never hope to prove to have been false and
mistaken. And behind come galloping the hosts of Pharaoh; chance,
speeding on the wheels of circumstance. At any moment some accident may
compel a revelation; and instantly HE will be scaling rocky Migdol,
with torn hands and bleeding feet; and she--poor Jane--floundering in
the depths of the Red Sea. O for a Moses, with divine commission, to
stretch out the rod of understanding love, making a safe way through;
so that together they might reach the Promised Land! Dear wise old Boy,
dare you undertake the role of Moses!

But here am I writing like a page of Baedeker, and failing to report on
actual facts.

As you may suppose, Jane grows haggard and thin in spite of old
Margery's porridge--which is "put on" every day after lunch, for the
next morning's breakfast, and anybody passing "gives it a stir." Did
you know that was the right way to make porridge, Deryck? I always
thought it was made in five minutes, as wanted. Margery says that must
be the English stuff which profanely goes by the name. (N.B. Please
mark the self-control with which I repeat Scotch remarks, without
rushing into weird spelling; a senseless performance, it seems to me.
For if you know already how old Margery pronounces "porridge," you can
read her pronunciation into the sentence; and if you do not know it, no
grotesque spelling on my part could convey to your mind any but a
caricatured version of the pretty Scotch accent with which Margery
says: "Stir the porridge, Nurse Gray." In fact, I am agreeably
surprised at the ease with which I understand the natives, and the
pleasure I derive from their conversation; for, after wrestling with
one or two modern novels dealing with the Highlands, I had expected to
find the language an unknown tongue. Instead of which, lo! and behold,
old Margery, Maggie the housemaid, Macdonald the gardener, and
Macalister the game-keeper, all speak a rather purer English than I do;
far more carefully pronounced, and with every R sounded and rolled.
Their idioms are more characteristic than their accent. They say
"whenever" for "when," and use in their verbs several quaint variations
of tense.)

But what a syntactical digression! Oh, Boy, the wound at my heart is so
deep and so sore that I dread the dressings, even by your delicate
touch. Where was I? Ah, the porridge gave me my loophole of escape.
Well, as I was saying, Jane grows worn and thin, old Margery's porridge
notwithstanding; but Nurse Rosemary Gray is flourishing, and remains a
pretty, dainty little thing, with the additional charm of fluffy,
fly-away floss-silk, for hair,--Dr. Rob's own unaided contribution to
the fascinating picture. By the way, I was quite unprepared to find him
such a character. I learn much from Dr. Mackenzie, and I love Dr. Rob,
excepting on those occasions when I long to pick him up by the scruff
of his fawn overcoat and drop him out of the window.

On the point of Nurse Rosemary's personal appearance, I found it best
to be perfectly frank with the household. You can have no conception
how often awkward moments arose; as, for instance, in the library, the
first time Garth came downstairs; when he ordered Simpson to bring the
steps for Miss Gray, and Simpson opened his lips to remark that Nurse
Gray could reach to the top shelf on her own tiptoes with the greatest
ease, he having just seen her do it. Mercifully, the perfect training
of an English man-servant saved the situation, and he merely said:
"Yessir; certainly sir," and looked upon, me, standing silently by, as
a person who evidently delighted in giving unnecessary trouble. Had it
been dear old Margery with her Scotch tongue, which starts slowly, but
gathers momentum as it rolls, and can never be arrested until the full
flood of her thought has been poured forth, I should have been
constrained to pick her up bodily in my dainty arms and carry her out.

So I sent for Simpson and Margery to the dining-room that evening, when
the master was safely out of ear-shot, and told them that, for reasons
which I could not fully explain, a very incorrect description of my
appearance had been given him. He thought me small and slim; fair and
very pretty; and it was most important, in order to avoid long
explanations and mental confusion for him, that he should not at
present be undeceived. Simpson's expression of polite attention did not
vary, and his only comment was: "Certainly, miss. Quite so." But across
old Margery's countenance, while I was speaking, passed many shades of
opinion, which, fortunately, by the time I had finished, crystallized
into an approving smile of acquiescence. She even added her own
commentary: "And a very good thing, too, I am thinking. For Master
Garth, poor laddie, was always so set upon having beauty about him.
'Master Garthie,' I would say to him, when he had friends coming, and
all his ideas in talking over the dinner concerned the cleaning up of
the old silver, and putting out of Valentine glass and Worstered china;
'Master Garthie,' I would say, feeling the occasion called for the apt
quoting of Scripture, 'it appears to me your attention is given
entirely to the outside of the cup and platter, and you care nothing
for all the good things that lie within.' So it is just as well to keep
him deceived, Miss Gray." And then, as Simpson coughed tactfully behind
his hand, and nudged her very obviously with his elbow, she added, as a
sympathetic after-thought: "For, though a homey face may indeed be
redeemed by its kindly expression, you cannot very well explain
expression to the blind." So you see, Deryck, this shrewd old body, who
has known Garth from boyhood, would have entirely agreed with the
decision of three years ago.

Well, to continue my report. The voice gave us some trouble, as you
foresaw, and the whole plan hung in the balance during a few awful
moments; for, though he easily accepted the explanation we had planned,
he sent me out, and told Dr. Mackenzie my voice in his room would
madden him. Dr. Rob was equal to the occasion, and won the day; and
Garth, having once given in, never mentioned the matter again. Only,
sometimes I see him listening and remembering.

But Nurse Rosemary Gray has beautiful hours when poor anxious, yearning
Jane is shut out. For her patient turns to her, and depends on her, and
talks to her, and tries to reach her mind, and shows her his, and is a
wonderful person to live with and know. Jane, marching about in the
cold, outside, and hearing them talk, realises how little she
understood the beautiful gift which was laid at her feet; how little
she had grasped the nature and mind of the man whom she dismissed as "a
mere boy." Nurse Rosemary, sitting beside him during long sweet hours
of companionship, is learning it; and Jane, ramping up and down her
narrowing strip of desert, tastes the sirocco of despair.

And now I come to the point of my letter, and, though I am a woman, I
will not put it in a postscript.

Deryck, can you come up soon, to pay him a visit, and to talk to me? I
don't think I can bear it, unaided, much longer; and he would so enjoy
having you, and showing you how he had got on, and all the things he
had already learned to do. Also you might put in a word for Jane; or at
all events, get at his mind on the subject. Oh, Boy, if you COULD spare
forty-eight hours! And a breath of the moors would be good for you.
Also I have a little private plan, which depends largely for its
fulfilment on your coming. Oh, Boy--come!

Yours, needing you,

Jeanette.


From Sir Deryck Brand to Nurse Rosemary Gray, Castle Gleneesh, N. B.

Wimpole Street.

My dear Jeanette: Certainly I will come. I will leave Euston on Friday
evening. I can spend the whole of Saturday and most of Sunday at
Gleneesh, but must be home in time for Monday's work.

I will do my best, only, alas! I am not Moses, and do not possess his
wonder-working rod. Moreover, latest investigations have proved that
the Israelites could not have crossed at the place you mention, but
further north at the Bitter Lakes; a mere matter of detail, in no way
affecting the extreme appositeness of your illustration, rather, adding
to it; for I fear there are bitter waters ahead of you, my poor girl.

Still I am hopeful, nay, more than hopeful,--confident. Often of late,
in connection with you, I have thought of the promise about all things
working together for good. Any one can make GOOD things work together
for good: but only the Heavenly Father can bring good out of evil; and,
taking all our mistakes and failings and foolishnesses, cause them to
work to our most perfect well-being. The more intricate and involved
this problem of human existence becomes, the greater the need to take
as our own clear rule of life: "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart;
and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge
Him, and He shall direct thy paths." Ancient marching orders, and
simple; but true, and therefore eternal.

I am glad Nurse Rosemary is proving so efficient, but I hope we may not
have to face yet another complication in our problem. Suppose our
patient falls in love with dainty little Nurse Rosemary, where will
Jane be then? I fear the desert would have to open its mouth and
swallow her up. We must avert such a catastrophe. Could not Rosemary be
induced to drop an occasional H, or to confess herself as rather "gone"
on Simpson?

Oh, my poor old girl! I could not jest thus, were I not coming shortly
to your aid.

How maddening it is! And you so priceless! But most men are either
fools or blind, and one is both. Trust me to prove it to him,--to my
own satisfaction and his,--if I get the chance.

Yours always devotedly,

Deryck Brand.


From Sir Deryck Brand to Dr. Robert Mackenzie.

Dear Mackenzie: Do you consider it to be advisable that I should
shortly pay a visit to our patient at Gleneesh and give an opinion on
his progress?

I find I can make it possible to come north this week-end.

I hope you are satisfied with the nurse I sent up.

Yours very faithfully,

Deryck Brand.

From Dr. Robert Mackenzie to Sir Deryck Brand.

Dear Sir Deryck: Every possible need of the patient's is being met by
the capable lady you sent to be his nurse. I am no longer needed. Nor
are you--for the patient. But I deem it exceedingly advisable that you
should shortly pay a visit to the nurse, who is losing more flesh than
a lady of her proportions can well afford.

Some secret care, besides the natural anxiety of having the
responsibility of this case, is wearing her out. She may confide in
you. She cannot quite bring herself to trust in

Your humble servant,

Robert Mackenzie.




CHAPTER XXI

HARD ON THE SECRETARY


Nurse Rosemary sat with her patient in the sunny library at Gleneesh. A
small table was between them, upon which lay a pile of letters--his
morning mail--ready for her to open, read to him, and pass across,
should there chance to be one among them he wished to touch or to keep
in his pocket.

They were seated close to the French window opening on to the terrace;
the breeze, fragrant with the breath of spring flowers, blew about
them, and the morning sun streamed in.

Garth, in white flannels, wearing a green tie and a button-hole of
primroses, lay back luxuriously, enjoying, with his rapidly quickening
senses, the scent of the flowers and the touch of the sun-beams.

Nurse Rosemary finished reading a letter of her own, folded it, and put
it in her pocket with a feeling of thankful relief. Deryck was coming.
He had not failed her.

"A man's letter, Miss Gray," said Garth unexpectedly.

"Quite right," said Nurse Rosemary. "How did you know?"

"Because it was on one sheet. A woman's letter on a matter of great
importance would have run to two, if not three. And that letter was on
a matter of importance."

"Right again," said Nurse Rosemary, smiling. "And again, how did you
know?"

"Because you gave a little sigh of relief after reading the first line,
and another, as you folded it and replaced it in the envelope."

Nurse Rosemary laughed. "You are getting on so fast, Mr. Dalmain, that
soon we shall be able to keep no secrets. My letter was from--"

"Oh, don't tell me," cried Garth quickly, putting out his hand in
protest. "I had no idea of seeming curious as to your private
correspondence, Miss Gray. Only it is such a pleasure to report
progress to you in the things I manage to find out without being told."

"But I meant to tell you anyway," said Nurse Rosemary. "The letter is
from Sir Deryck, and, amongst other things, he says he is coming up to
see you next Saturday."

"Ah, good!" said Garth. "And what a change he will find! And I shall
have the pleasure of reporting on the nurse, secretary, reader, and
unspeakably patient guide and companion he provided for me." Then he
added, in a tone of suddenly awakened anxiety: "He is not coming to
take you away, is he?"

"No," said Nurse Rosemary, "not yet. But, Mr. Dalmain, I was wanting to
ask whether you could spare me just during forty-eight hours; and Dr.
Brand's visit would be an excellent opportunity. I could leave you more
easily, knowing you would have his companionship. If I may take the
week-end, leaving on Friday night, I could return early on Monday
morning, and be with you in time to do the morning letters. Dr. Brand
would read you Saturday's and Sunday's--Ah, I forgot; there is no
Sunday post. So I should miss but one; and he would more than take my
place in other ways."

"Very well," said Garth, striving not to show disappointment. "I should
have liked that we three should have talked together. But no wonder you
want a time off. Shall you be going far?"

"No; I have friends near by. And now, do you wish to attend to your
letters?"

"Yes," said Garth, reaching out his hand. "Wait a minute. There is a
newspaper among them. I smell the printing ink. I don't want that. But
kindly give me the rest."

Nurse Rosemary took out the newspaper; then pushed the pile along,
until it touched his hand.

Garth took them. "What a lot!" he said, smiling in pleasurable
anticipation. "I say, Miss Gray, if you profit as you ought to do by
the reading of so many epistles written in every possible and
impossible style, you ought to be able to bring out a pretty
comprehensive 'Complete Letter-writer.' Do you remember the condolences
of Mrs. Parker-Bangs? I think that was the first time we really laughed
together. Kind old soul! But she should not have mentioned blind
Bartimaeus dipping seven times in the pool of Siloam. It is always best
to avoid classical allusions, especially if sacred, unless one has them
accurately. Now--" Garth paused.

He had been handling his letters, one by one; carefully fingering each,
before laying it on the table beside him. He had just come to one
written on foreign paper, and sealed. He broke off his sentence
abruptly, held the letter silently for a moment, then passed his
fingers slowly over the seal.

Nurse Rosemary watched him anxiously. He made no remark, but after a
moment laid it down and took up the next. But when he passed the pile
across to her, he slipped the sealed letter beneath the rest, so that
she should come to it last of all.

Then the usual order of proceedings commenced. Garth lighted a
cigarette--one of the first things he had learned to do for
himself--and smoked contentedly, carefully placing his ash-tray, and
almost unfailingly locating the ash, in time and correctly.

Nurse Rosemary took up the first letter, read the postmark, and
described the writing on the envelope. Garth guessed from whom it came,
and was immensely pleased if, on opening, his surmise proved correct.
There were nine to-day, of varying interest,--some from men friends,
one or two from charming women who professed themselves ready to come
and see him as soon as he wished for visitors, one from a blind asylum
asking for a subscription, a short note from the doctor heralding his
visit, and a bill for ties from a Bond Street shop.

Nurse Rosemary's fingers shook as she replaced the eighth in its
envelope. The last of the pile lay on the table. As she took it up,
Garth with a quick movement flung his cigarette-end through the window,
and lay back, shading his face with his hand.

"Did I shoot straight, nurse?" he asked.

She leaned forward and saw the tiny column of blue smoke rising from
the gravel.

"Quite straight," she said. "Mr. Dalmain, this letter has an Egyptian
stamp, and the postmark is Cairo. It is sealed with scarlet
sealing-wax, and the engraving on the seal is a plumed helmet with the
visor closed."

"And the writing?" asked Garth, mechanically and very quietly.

"The handwriting is rather bold and very clear, with no twirls or
flourishes. It is written with a broad nib."

"Will you kindly open it, nurse, and tell me the signature before
reading the rest of the letter."

Nurse Rosemary fought with her throat, which threatened to close
altogether and stifle her voice. She opened the letter, turned to the
last page, and found the signature.

"It is signed 'Jane Champion,' Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary.

"Read it, please," said Garth quietly. And Nurse Rosemary began.

Dear Dal: What CAN I write? If I were with you, there would be so much
I could say; but writing is so difficult, so impossible.

I know it is harder for you than it would have been for any of us; but
you will be braver over it than we should have been, and you will come
through splendidly, and go on thinking life beautiful, and making it
seem so to other people. _I_ never thought it so until that summer at
Overdene and Shenstone when you taught me the perception of beauty.
Since then, in every sunset and sunrise, in the blue-green of the
Atlantic, the purple of the mountains, the spray of Niagara, the cherry
blossom of Japan, the golden deserts of Egypt, I have thought of you,
and understood them better, because of you. Oh, Dal! I should like to
come and tell you all about them, and let you see them through my eyes;
and then you would widen out my narrow understanding of them, and show
them again to me in greater loveliness.

I hear you receive no visitors; but cannot you make just one exception,
and let me come?

I was at the Great Pyramid when I heard. I was sitting on the piazza
after dinner. The moonlight called up memories. I had just made up my
mind to give up the Nile, and to come straight home, and write asking
you to come and see me; when General Loraine turned up, with an English
paper and a letter from Myra, and--I heard. Would you have come, Garth?

And now, my friend, as you cannot come to me, may I come to you? If you
just say: "COME," I will come from any part of the world where I may
chance to be when the message reaches me. Never mind this Egyptian
address. I shall not be there when you are hearing this. Direct to me
at my aunt's town house. All my letters go there, and are forwarded
unopened.

LET ME COME. And oh, do believe that I know something of how hard it is
for you. But God can "enable."

Believe me to be,

Yours, more than I can write,

Jane Champion.

Garth removed the hand which had been shielding his face.

"If you are not tired, Miss Gray, after reading so many letters, I
should like to dictate my answer to that one immediately, while it is
fresh in my mind. Have you paper there? Thank you. May we begin?-- Dear
Miss Champion ... I am deeply touched by your kind letter of sympathy
... It was especially good of you to write to me from so far away amid
so much which might well have diverted your attention from friends at
home."

A long pause. Nurse Rosemary Gray waited, pen in hand, and hoped the
beating of her heart was only in her own ears, and not audible across
the small table.

"I am glad you did not give up the Nile trip but--"

An early bee hummed in from the hyacinths and buzzed against the pane.
Otherwise the room was very still.

--"but of course, if you had sent for me I should have come."

The bee fought the window angrily, up and down, up and down, for
several minutes; then found the open glass and whirled out into the
sunshine, joyfully.

Absolute silence in the room, until Garth's quiet voice broke it as he
went on dictating.

"It is more than kind of you to suggest coming to see me, but--"

Nurse Rosemary dropped her pen. "Oh, Mr. Dalmain," she said, "let her
come."

Garth turned upon her a face of blank surprise.

"I do not wish it," he said, in a tone of absolute finality.

"But think how hard it must be for any one to want so much to be near
a--a friend in trouble, and to be kept away."

"It is only her wonderful kindness of heart makes her offer to come,
Miss Gray. She is a friend and comrade of long ago. It would greatly
sadden her to see me thus."

"It does not seem so to her," pleaded Nurse Rosemary. "Ah, cannot you
read between the lines? Or does it take a woman's heart to understand a
woman's letter? Did I read it badly? May I read it over again?"

A look of real annoyance gathered upon Garth's face. He spoke with
quiet sternness, a frown bending his straight black brows.

"You read it quite well," he said, "but you do not do well to discuss
it. I must feel able to dictate my letters to my secretary, without
having to explain them."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Nurse Rosemary humbly. "I was wrong."

Garth stretched his hand across the table, and left it there a moment;
though no responsive hand was placed within it.

"Never mind," he said, with his winning smile, "my kind little mentor
and guide. You can direct me in most things, but not in this. Now let
us conclude. Where were we? Ah--'to suggest coming to see me.' Did you
put `It is most kind' or `It is more than kind?'"

"'More than kind,'" said Nurse Rosemary, brokenly.

"Right, for it is indeed more than kind. Only she and I can possibly
know how much more. Now let us go on ... But I am receiving no
visitors, and do not desire any until I have so mastered my new
circumstances that the handicap connected with them shall neither be
painful nor very noticeable to other people. During the summer I shall
be learning step by step to live this new life, in complete seclusion
at Gleneesh. I feel sure my friends will respect my wish in this
matter. I have with me one who most perfectly and patiently is
helping--Ah, wait!" cried Garth suddenly. "I will not say that. She
might think--she might misunderstand. Had you begun to write it? No?
What was the last word? 'Matter?' Ah yes. That is right. Full stop
after 'matter.' Now let me think."

Garth dropped his face into his hands, and sat for a long time absorbed
in thought.

Nurse Rosemary waited. Her right hand held the pen poised over the
paper. Her left was pressed against her breast. Her eyes rested on that
dark bowed head, with a look of unutterable yearning and of passionate
tenderness. At last Garth lifted his face. "Yours very sincerely, Garth
Dalmain;" he said. And, silently, Nurse Rosemary wrote it.




CHAPTER XXII

DR. ROB TO THE RESCUE


Into the somewhat oppressive silence which followed the addressing and
closing of the envelope, broke the cheery voice of Dr. Rob.

"Which is the patient to-day? The lady or the gentleman? Ah, neither, I
see. Both flaunt the bloom of perfect health and make the doctor shy.
It is spring without, but summer within," ran on Dr. Rob gaily,
wondering why both faces were so white and perturbed, and why there was
in the air a sense of hearts in torment. "Flannels seem to call up
boating and picnic parties; and I see you have discarded the merino,
Nurse Gray, and returned to the pretty blue washables. More becoming,
undoubtedly; only, don't take cold; and be sure you feed up well. In
this air people must eat plenty, and you have been perceptibly losing
weight lately. We don't want TOO airy-fairy dimensions."

"Why do you always chaff Miss Gray about being small, Dr. Rob?" asked
Garth, in a rather vexed tone. "I am sure being short is in no way
detrimental to her."

"I will chaff her about being tall if you like," said Dr. Rob, looking
at her with a wicked twinkle, as she stood in the window, drawn up to
her full height, and regarding him with cold disapproval.

"I would sooner no comments of any kind were made upon her personal
appearance," said Garth shortly; then added, more pleasantly: "You see,
she is just a voice to me--a kind, guiding voice. At first I used to
form mental pictures of her, of a hazy kind; but now I prefer to
appropriate in all its helpfulness what I DO know, and leave unimagined
what I do not. Did it ever strike you that she is the only person--bar
that fellow Johnson, who belongs to a nightmare time I am quickly
forgetting--I have yet had near me, in my blindness, whom I had not
already seen; the only voice I have ever heard to which I could not put
a face and figure? In time, of course, there will be many. At present
she stands alone to me in this."

Dr. Rob's observant eye had been darting about during this explanation,
seeking to focus itself upon something worthy of minute examination.
Suddenly he spied the foreign letter lying close beside him on the
table.

"Hello!" he said. "Pyramids? The Egyptian stamp? That's interesting.
Have you friends out there, Mr. Dalmain?"

"That letter came from Cairo," Garth replied; "but I believe Miss
Champion has by now gone on to Syria." Dr. Rob attacked his moustache,
and stared at the letter meditatively. "Champion?" he repeated.
"Champion? It's an uncommon name. Is your correspondent, by any chance,
the Honourable Jane?"

"Why, that letter is from her," replied Garth, surprised. "Do you know
her?" His voice vibrated eagerly.

"Well," answered Dr. Rob, with slow deliberation, "I know her face, and
I know her voice; I know her figure, and I know a pretty good deal of
her character. I know her at home, and I know her abroad. I've seen her
under fire, which is more than most men of her acquaintance can claim.
But there is one thing I never knew until to-day and that is her
handwriting. May I examine this envelope?" He turned to the
window;--yes, this audacious little Scotchman had asked the question of
Nurse Rosemary. But only a broad blue back met his look of inquiry.
Nurse Rosemary was studying the view. He turned back to Garth, who had
evidently already made a sign of assent, and on whose face was clearly
expressed an eager desire to hear more, and an extreme disinclination
to ask for it.

Dr. Mackenzie took up the envelope and pondered it.

"Yes," he said, at last, "it is like her,--clear, firm, unwavering;
knowing what it means to say, and saying it; going where it means to
go, and getting there. Ay, lad, it's a grand woman that; and if you
have the Honourable Jane for your friend, you can be doing without a
few other things."

A tinge of eager colour rose in Garth's thin cheeks. He had been so
starved in his darkness for want of some word concerning her, from that
outer light in which she moved. He had felt so hopelessly cut off from
all chance of hearing of her. And all the while, if only he had known
it, old Robbie could have talked of her. He had had to question Brand
so cautiously, fearing to betray his secret and hers; but with Dr. Rob
and Nurse Gray no such precautions were needed. He could safely guard
his secret, and yet listen and speak.

"Where--when?" asked Garth.

"I will tell you where, and I will tell you when," answered Dr. Rob,
"if you feel inclined for a war tale on this peaceful spring morning."

Garth was aflame With eagerness. "Have you a chair, doctor?" he said.
"And has Miss Gray a chair?"

"I have no chair, sir," said Dr. Rob, "because when I intend thoroughly
to enjoy my own eloquence it is my custom to stand. Nurse Gray has no
chair, because she is standing at the window absorbed in the view. She
has apparently ceased to pay any heed to you and me. You will very
rarely find one woman take much interest in tales about another. But
you lean back in your own chair, laddie, and light a cigarette. And a
wonderful thing it is to see you do it, too, and better than pounding
the wall. Eh? All of which we may consider we owe to the lady who
disdains us and prefers the scenery. Well, I'm not much to look at,
goodness knows; and she can see you all the rest of the day. Now that's
a brand worth smoking. What do you call it--'Zenith'? Ah, and
'Marcovitch.' Yes; you can't better that for drawing-room and garden
purposes. It mingles with the flowers. Lean back and enjoy it, while I
smell gun-powder. For I will tell you where I first saw the Honourable
Jane. Out in South Africa, in the very thick of the Boer war. I had
volunteered for the sake of the surgery experience. She was out there,
nursing; but the real thing, mind you. None of your dabbling in
eau-de-cologne with lace handkerchiefs, and washing handsome faces when
the orderlies had washed them already; making charming conversation to
men who were getting well, but fleeing in dread from the dead or the
dying. None of that, you may be sure, and none of that allowed in her
hospital; for Miss Champion was in command there, and I can tell you
she made them scoot. She did the work of ten, and expected others to do
it too. Doctors and orderlies adored her. She was always called 'The
Honourable Jane,' most of the men sounding the H and pronouncing the
title as four syllables. Ay, and the wounded soldiers! There was many a
lad out there, far from home and friends, who, when death came, died
with a smile on his lips, and a sense of mother and home quite near,
because the Honourable Jane's arm was around him, and his dying head
rested against her womanly breast. Her voice when she talked to them?
No,--that I shall never forget. And to hear her snap at the women, and
order along the men; and then turn and speak to a sick Tommy as his
mother or his sweetheart would have wished to hear him spoken to, was a
lesson in quick-change from which I am profiting still. And that big,
loving heart must often have been racked; but she was always brave and
bright. Just once she broke down. It was over a boy whom she tried hard
to save--quite a youngster. She had held him during the operation which
was his only chance; and when it proved no good, and he lay back
against her unconscious, she quite broke down and said: 'Oh, doctor,--a
mere boy--and to suffer so, and then die like this!' and gathered him
to her, and wept over him, as his own mother might have done. The
surgeon told me of it himself. He said the hardest hearts in the tent
were touched and softened. But, it was the only time the Honourable
Jane broke down."

Garth shielded his face with his hand. His half-smoked cigarette fell
unheeded to the floor. The hand that had held it was clenched on his
knee. Dr. Rob picked it up, and rubbed the scorched spot on the carpet
carefully with his foot. He glanced towards the window. Nurse Rosemary
had turned and was leaning against the frame. She did not look at him,
but her eyes dwelt with troubled anxiety on Garth.

"I came across her several times, at different centres," continued Dr.
Rob; "but we were not in the same departments, and she spoke to me only
once. I had ridden in, from a temporary overflow sort of place where we
were dealing with the worst cases straight off the field, to the main
hospital in the town for a fresh supply of chloroform. While they
fetched it, I walked round the ward, and there in a corner was Miss
Champion, kneeling beside a man whose last hour was very near, talking
to him quietly, and taking measures at the same time to ease his pain.
Suddenly there came a crash--a deafening rush--and another crash, and
the Honourable Jane and her patient were covered with dust and
splinters. A Boer shell had gone clean through the roof just over their
heads. The man sat up, yelling with fear. Poor chap, you couldn't blame
him; dying, and half under morphine. The Honourable Jane never turned a
hair. 'Lie down, my man,' she said, 'and keep still.' 'Not here,'
sobbed the man. 'All right,' said the Honourable Jane; 'we will soon
move you.' Then she turned and saw me. I was in the most nondescript
khaki, a non-com's jacket which I had caught up on leaving the tent,
and various odds and ends of my outfit which had survived the wear and
tear of the campaign. Also I was dusty with a long gallop. 'Here,
serjeant,' she said, 'lend a hand with this poor fellow. I can't have
him disturbed just now.' That was Jane's only comment on the passing of
a shell within a few yards of her own head. Do you wonder the men
adored her? She placed her hands beneath his shoulders, and signed to
me to take him under the knees, and together we carried him round a
screen, out of the ward, and down a short passage; turning unexpectedly
into a quiet little room, with a comfortable bed, and photographs and
books arranged on the tiny dressing-table. She said: 'Here, if you
please, serjeant,' and we laid him on the bed. 'Whose is it?' I asked.
She looked surprised at being questioned, but seeing I was a stranger,
answered civilly: 'Mine.' And then, noting that he had dozed off while
we carried him, added: 'And he will have done with beds, poor chap,
before I need it.' There's nerve for you!--Well, that was my only
conversation out there with the Honourable Jane. Soon after I had had
enough and came home."

Garth lifted his head. "Did you ever meet her at home?" he asked.

"I did," said Dr. Rob. "But she did not remember me. Not a flicker of
recognition. Well, how could I expect it? I wore a beard out there; no
time to shave; and my jacket proclaimed me a serjeant, not a surgeon.
No fault of hers if she did not expect to meet a comrade from the front
in the wilds of--of Piccadilly," finished Dr. Rob lamely. "Now, having
spun so long a yarn, I must be off to your gardener's cot in the wood,
to see his good wife, who has had what he pathetically calls 'an
increase.' I should think a decrease would have better suited the size
of his house. But first I must interview Mistress Margery in the
dining-room. She is anxious about herself just now because she 'canna
eat bacon.' She says it flies between her shoulders. So erratic a
deviation from its normal route on the part of the bacon, undoubtedly
requires investigation. So, by your leave, I will ring for the good
lady."

"Not just yet, doctor," said a quiet voice from the window. "I want to
see you in the dining-room, and will follow you there immediately. And
afterwards, while you investigate Margery, I will run up for my bonnet,
and walk with you through the woods, if Mr. Dalmain will not mind an
hour alone."

When Jane reached the dining-room, Dr. Robert Mackenzie was standing on
the hearth-rug in a Napoleonic attitude, just as on the morning of
their first interview. He looked up uncertainly as she came in.

"Well?" he said. "Am I to pay the piper?"

Jane came straight to him, with both hands extended.

"Ah, serjeant!" she said. "You dear faithful old serjeant! See what
comes of wearing another man's coat. And my dilemma comes from taking
another woman's name. So you knew me all the time, from the first
moment I came into the room?"

"From the first moment you entered the room," assented Dr. Rob.

"Why did you not say so?" asked Jane.

"Well, I concluded you had your reasons for being 'Nurse Rosemary
Gray,' and it did not come within my province to question your
identity."

"Oh, you dear!" said Jane. "Was there ever anything so shrewd, and so
wise, and so bewilderingly far-seeing, standing on two legs on a
hearth-rug before! And when I remember how you said: 'So you have
arrived, Nurse Gray?' and all the while you might have been saying.
'How do you do, Miss Champion? And what brings you up here under
somebody else's name?"

"I might have so said," agreed Dr. Rob reflectively; "but praise be, I
did not."

"But tell me" said Jane "why let it out now?"

Dr. Rob laid his hand on her arm. "My dear, I am an old fellow, and all
my life I have made it my business to know, without being told. You
have been coming through a strain,--a prolonged period of strain,
sometimes harder, sometimes easier, but never quite relaxed,--a strain
such as few women could have borne. It was not only with him; you had
to keep it up towards us all. I knew, if it were to continue, you must
soon have the relief of some one with whom to share the secret,--some
one towards whom you could be yourself occasionally. And when I found
you had been writing to him here, sending the letter to be posted in
Cairo (how like a woman, to strain at a gnat, after swallowing such a
camel!), awaiting its return day after day, then obliged to read it to
him yourself, and take down his dictated answer, which I gathered from
your faces when I entered was his refusal of your request to come and
see him, well, it seemed to me about time you were made to realise that
you might as well confide in an old fellow who, in common with all the
men who knew you in South Africa, would gladly give his right hand for
the Honourable Jane."

Jane looked at him, her eyes full of gratitude. For the moment she
could not speak.

"But tell me, my dear," said Dr. Rob, "tell me, if you can: why does
the lad put from him so firmly that which, if indeed it might be his
for the asking, would mean for him so great, so wonderful, so
comforting a good?"

"Ah, doctor," said Jane, "thereby hangs a tale of sad mistrust and
mistake, and the mistrust and mistake, alas, were mine. Now, while you
see Margery, I will prepare for walking; and as we go through the wood
I will try to tell you the woeful thing which came between him and me
and placed our lives so far apart. Your wise advice will help me, and
your shrewd knowledge of men and of the human heart may find us a way
out, for indeed we are shut in between Migdol and the sea."

As Jane crossed the hall and was about to mount the stairs, she looked
towards the closed library door. A sudden fear seized her, lest the
strain of listening to that tale of Dr. Rob's had been too much for
Garth. None but she could know all it must have awakened of memory to
be told so vividly of the dying soldiers whose heads were pillowed on
her breast, and the strange coincidence of those words, "A mere
boy--and to suffer so!" She could not leave the house without being
sure he was safe and well. And yet she instinctively feared to intrude
when he imagined himself alone for an hour.

Then Jane, in her anxiety, did a thing she had never done before. She
opened the front door noiselessly, passed round the house to the
terrace, and when approaching the open window of the library, trod on
the grass border, and reached it without making the faintest sound.

Never before had she come upon him unawares, knowing he hated and
dreaded the thought of an unseen intrusion on his privacy.

But now--just this once--

Jane looked in at the window.

Garth sat sideways in the chair, his arms folded on the table beside
him, his face buried in them. He was sobbing as she had sometimes heard
men sob after agonising operations, borne without a sound until the
worst was over. And Garth's sob of agony was this: "OH, MY WIFE--MY
WIFE--MY WIFE!"

Jane crept away. How she did it she never knew. But some instinct told
her that to reveal herself then, taking him at a disadvantage, when Dr.
Rob's story had unnerved and unmanned him, would be to ruin all. "IF
YOU VALUE YOUR ULTIMATE HAPPINESS AND HIS," Deryck's voice always
sounded in warning. Besides, it was such a short postponement. In the
calm earnest thought which would succeed this storm, his need of her,
would win the day. The letter, not yet posted, would be rewritten. He
would say "COME"--and the next minute he would be in her arms.

So Jane turned noiselessly away.

Coming in, an hour later, from her walk with Dr. Rob, her heart filled
with glad anticipation, she found him standing in the window, listening
to the countless sounds he was learning to distinguish. He looked so
slim and tall and straight in his white flannels, both hands thrust
deep into the pockets of his coat, that when he turned at her approach
it seemed to her as if the shining eyes MUST be there.

"Was it lovely in the woods?" he asked. "Simpson shall take me up there
after lunch. Meanwhile, is there time, if you are not tired, Miss Gray,
to finish our morning's work?"

Five letters were dictated and a cheque written. Then Jane noticed that
hers to him had gone from among the rest. But his to her lay on the
table ready for stamping. She hesitated.

"And about the letter to Miss Champion?" she said. "Do you wish it to
go as it is, Mr. Dalmain?"

"Why certainly," he said. "Did we not finish it?"

"I thought," said Jane nervously, looking away from his blank face, "I
thought perhaps--after Dr. Rob's story--you might--"

"Dr. Rob's story could make no possible difference as to whether I
should let her come here or not," said Garth emphatically; then added
more gently: "It only reminded me--"

"Of what?" asked Jane, her hands upon her breast.

"Of what a glorious woman she is," said Garth Dalmain, and blew a long,
steady cloud of smoke into the summer air.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE ONLY WAY


When Deryck Brand alighted at the little northern wayside station, he
looked up and down the gravelled platform, more than half expecting to
see Jane. The hour was early, but she invariably said "So much the
better" to any plan which involved rising earlier than usual. Nothing
was to be seen, however, but his portmanteau in the distance--looking
as if it had taken up a solitary and permanent position where the guard
had placed it--and one slow porter, who appeared to be overwhelmed by
the fact that he alone was on duty to receive the train.

There were no other passengers descending; there was no other baggage
to put out. The guard swung up into his van as the train moved off.

The old porter, shading his eyes from the slanting rays of the morning
sun, watched the train glide round the curve and disappear from sight;
then slowly turned and looked the other way,--as if to make sure there
was not another coming,--saw the portmanteau, and shambled towards it.
He stood looking down upon it pensively, then moved slowly round,
apparently reading the names and particulars of all the various
continental hotels at which the portmanteau had recently stayed with
its owner.

Dr. Brand never hurried people, He always said: "It answers best, in
the long run, to let them take their own time. The minute or two gained
by hurrying them is lost in the final results." But this applied
chiefly to patients in the consulting-room; to anxious young students
in hospital; or to nurses, too excitedly conscious at first of the fact
that he was talking to them, to take in fully what he was saying. His
habit of giving people, even in final moments, the full time they
wanted, had once lost him an overcoat, almost lost him a train, and won
him the thing in life he most desired. But that belongs to another
story.

Meanwhile he wanted his breakfast on this fresh spring morning. And he
wanted to see Jane. Therefore, as porter and portmanteau made no
advance towards him, the doctor strode down the platform.

"Now then, my man!" he called.

"I beg your pardon?" said the Scotch porter.

"I want my portmanteau."

"Would this be your portmanteau?" inquired the porter doubtfully.

"It would," said the doctor. "And it and I would be on our way to
Castle Gleneesh, if you would be bringing it out and putting it into
the motor, which I see waiting outside."

"I will be fetching a truck," said the porter. But when he returned,
carefully trundling it behind him, the doctor, the portmanteau, and the
motor were all out of sight.

The porter shaded his eyes and gazed up the road.

"I will be hoping it WAS his portmanteau," he said, and went back to
his porridge.

Meanwhile the doctor sped up into the hills, his mind alight with
eagerness to meet Jane and to learn the developments of the last few
days. Her non-appearance at the railway station filled him with an
undefinable anxiety. It would have been so like Jane to have been
there, prompt to seize the chance of a talk with him alone before he
reached the house. He had called up, in anticipation, such a vivid
picture of her, waiting on the platform,--bright, alert, vigorous, with
that fresh and healthy vigour which betokens a good night's rest, a
pleasant early awakening, and a cold tub recently enjoyed,--and the
disappointment of not seeing her had wrought in him a strange
foreboding. What if her nerve had given way under the strain?

They turned a bend in the winding road, and the grey turrets of
Gleneesh came in sight, high up on the other side of the glen, the moor
stretching away behind and above it. As they wound up the valley to the
moorland road which would bring them round to the house, the doctor
could see, in the clear morning light, the broad lawn and terrace of
Gleneesh, with its gay flower-beds, smooth gravelled walks, and broad
stone parapet, from which was a drop almost sheer down into the glen
below.

Simpson received him at the hall door; and he just stopped himself in
time, as he was about to ask for Miss Champion. This perilous approach
to a slip reminded him how carefully he must guard words and actions in
this house, where Jane had successfully steered her intricate course.
He would never forgive himself if he gave her away.

"Mr. Dalmain is in the library, Sir Deryck," said Simpson; and it was a
very alert, clear-headed doctor who followed the man across the hall.

Garth rose from his chair and walked forward to meet him, his right
hand outstretched, a smile of welcome on his face, and so direct and
unhesitating a course that the doctor had to glance at the sightless
face to make sure that this lithe, graceful, easy-moving figure was
indeed the blind man he had come to see. Then he noticed a length of
brown silk cord stretched from an arm of the chair Garth had quitted to
the door. Garth's left hand had slipped lightly along it as he walked.

The doctor put his hand into the one outstretched, and gripped it
warmly.

"My dear fellow! What a change!"

"Isn't it?" said Garth delightedly. "And it is entirely she who has
worked it,--the capital little woman you sent up to me. I want to tell
you how first-rate she is." He had reached his chair again, and found
and drew forward for the doctor the one in which Jane usually sat,
"this is her own idea." He unhitched the cord, and let it fall to the
floor, a fine string remaining attached to it and to the chair, by
which he could draw it up again at will. "There is one on this side
leading to the piano, and one here to the window. Now how should you
know them apart?"

"They are brown, purple, and orange," replied the doctor.

"Yes," said Garth. "You know them by the colours, but I distinguish
them by a slight difference in the thickness and in the texture, which
you could not see, but which I can feel. And I enjoy thinking of the
colours, too. And sometimes I wear ties and things to match them. You
see, I know exactly how they look; and it was so like her to remember
that. An ordinary nurse would have put red, green, and blue, and I
should have sat and hated the thought of them knowing how vilely they
must be clashing with my Persian carpet. But she understands how much
colours mean to me, even though I cannot see them."

"I conclude that by 'she' you mean Nurse Rosemary," said the doctor. "I
am glad she is a success."

"A success!" exclaimed Garth. "Why, she helped me to live again! I am
ashamed to remember how at the bottom of all things I was when you came
up before, Brand,--just pounding the wall, as old Robbie expresses it.
You must have thought me a fool and a coward."

"I thought you neither, my dear fellow. You were coming through a
stiffer fight than any of us have been called to face. Thank God, you
have won."

"I owe a lot to you, Brand, and still more to Miss Gray. I wish she
were here to see you. She is away for the week-end."

"Away! J--just now?" exclaimed the doctor, almost surprised into
another slip.

"Yes; she went last night. She is week-ending in the neighbourhood. She
said she was not going far, and should be back with me early on Monday
morning. But she seemed to want a change of scene, and thought this a
good opportunity, as I shall have you here most of the time. I say,
Brand, I do think it is extraordinarily good of you to come all this
way to see me. You know, from such a man as yourself it is almost
overwhelming."

"You must not be overwhelmed, my dear chap; and, though I very truly
came to see you, I am also up, about another old friend in the near
neighbourhood in whom I am interested. I only mention this in order to
be quite honest, and to lift from off you any possible burden of
feeling yourself my only patient."

"Oh, thanks!" said Garth. "It lessens my compunction without
diminishing my gratitude. And now you must be wanting a brush up and
breakfast, and here am I selfishly keeping you from both. And I say,
Brand,"--Garth  hotly, boyishly, and hesitated,--"I am awfully
sorry you will have no companion at your meals, Miss Gray being away. I
do not like to think of you having them alone, but I--I always have
mine by myself. Simpson attends to them."

He could not see the doctor's quick look of comprehension, but the
understanding sympathy of the tone in which he said: "Ah, yes. Yes, of
course," without further comment, helped Garth to add: "I couldn't even
have Miss Gray with me. We always take our meals apart. You cannot
imagine how awful it is chasing your food all round your plate, and
never sure it is not on the cloth, after all, or on your tie, while you
are hunting for it elsewhere."

"No, I can't imagine," said the doctor. "No one could who had not been
through it. But can you bear it better with Simpson than with Nurse
Rosemary? She is trained to that sort of thing, you know."

Garth  again. "Well, you see, Simpson is the chap who shaves
me, and gets me into my clothes, and takes me about; and, though it
will always be a trial, it is a trial to which I am growing accustomed.
You might put it thus: Simpson is eyes to my body; Miss Gray is vision
to my mind. Simpson's is the only touch which cores to me in the
darkness. Do you know, Miss Gray has never touched me,--not even to
shake hands. I am awfully glad of this. I will tell you why presently,
if I may. It makes her just a MIND and VOICE to me, and nothing more;
but a wonderfully kind and helpful voice. I feel as if I could not live
without her."

Garth rang the bell and Simpson appeared.

"Take Sir Deryck to his room; and he will tell you what time he would
like breakfast. And when you have seen to it all, Simpson, I will go
out for a turn. Then I shall be free, Brand, when you are. But do not
give me any more time this morning if you ought to be resting, or out
on the moors having a holiday from minds and men."

The doctor tubbed and got into his knickerbockers and an old Norfolk
jacket; then found his way to the dining-room, and did full justice to
an excellent breakfast. He was still pondering the problem of Jane, and
at the same time wondering in another compartment of his mind in what
sort of machine old Margery made her excellent coffee, when that good
lady appeared, enveloped in an air of mystery, and the doctor
immediately propounded the question.

"A jug," said old Margery. "And would you be coming with me, Sir
Deryck,--and softly, whenever you have finished your breakfast?"

"Softly," said Margery again, as they crossed the hall, the doctor's
tall figure closely following in her portly wake. After mounting a few
stairs she turned to whisper impressively: "It is not what ye make it
IN; it is HOW ye make it." She ascended a few more steps, then turned
to say: "It all hangs upon the word FRESH," and went on mounting.
"Freshly roasted--freshly ground--water--freshly-boiled--" said old
Margery, reaching the topmost stair somewhat breathless; then turning,
bustled along a rather dark passage, thickly carpeted, and hung with
old armour and pictures.

"Where are we going, Mistress Margery?" asked the doctor, adapting his
stride to her trot--one to two.

"You will be seeing whenever we get there, Sir Deryck," said Margery.
"And never touch it with metal, Sir Deryck. Pop it into an earthenware
jug, pour your boiling water straight upon it, stir it with a wooden
spoon, set it on the hob ten minutes to settle; the grounds will all go
to the bottom, though you might not think it; and you pour it
out--fragrant, strong, and clear. But the secret is, fresh, fresh,
fresh, and don't stint your coffee."

Old Margery paused before a door at the end of the passage, knocked
lightly; then looked up at the doctor with her hand on the door-handle,
and an expression of pleading earnestness in her faithful Scotch eyes.

"And you will not forget the wooden spoon, Sir Deryck?"

The doctor looked down into the kind old face raised to his in the dim
light. "I will not forget the wooden spoon, Mistress Margery," he said,
gravely. And old Margery, turning the handle whispered mysteriously
into the half-opened doorway: "It will be Sir Deryck, Miss Gray," and
ushered the doctor into a cosy little sitting-room.

A bright fire burned in the grate. In a high-backed arm-chair in front
of it sat Jane, with her feet on the fender. He could only see the top
of her head, and her long grey knees; but both were unmistakably Jane's:

"Oh, Dicky!" she said, and a great thankfulness was in her voice, "is
it you? Oh, come in, Boy, and shut the door. Are we alone? Come round
here quick and shake hands, or I shall be plunging about trying to find
you."

In a moment the doctor had reached the hearth-rug, dropped on one knee
in front of the large chair, and took the vaguely groping hands held
out to him.

"Jeanette?" he said. "Jeanette!" And then surprise and emotion silenced
him.

Jane's eyes were securely bandaged. A black silk scarf, folded in four
thicknesses, was firmly tied at the back of her smooth coils of hair.
There was a pathetic helplessness about her large capable figure,
sitting alone, in this bright little sitting-room, doing nothing.

"Jeanette!" said the doctor, for the third time. "And you call this
week-ending?"

"Dear," said Jane, "I have gone into Sightless Land for my week-end.
Oh, Deryck, I had to do it. The only way really to help him is to know
exactly what it means, in all the small, trying details. I never had
much imagination, and I have exhausted what little I had. And he never
complains, or explains how things come hardest. So the only way to find
out is to have forty-eight hours of it one's self. Old Margery and
Simpson quite enter into it, and are helping me splendidly. Simpson
keeps the coast clear if we want to come down or go out; because with
two blind people about, it would be a complication if they ran into one
another. Margery helps me with all the things in which I am helpless;
and, oh Dicky, you would never believe how many they are! And the
awful, awful dark--a black curtain always in front of you, sometimes
seeming hard and firm, like a wall of coal, within an inch of your
face; sometimes sinking away into soft depths of blackness--miles and
miles of distant, silent, horrible darkness; until you feel you must
fall forward into it and be submerged and overwhelmed. And out of that
darkness come voices. And if they speak loudly, they hit you like
tapping hammers; and if they murmur indistinctly, they madden you
because you can't SEE what is causing it. You can't see that they are
holding pins in their mouths, and that therefore they are mumbling; or
that they are half under the bed, trying to get out something which has
rolled there, and therefore the voice seems to come from somewhere
beneath the earth. And, because you cannot see these things to account
for it, the variableness of sound torments you. Ah!--and the waking in
the morning to the same blackness as you have had all night! I have
experienced it just once,--I began my darkness before dinner last
night,--and I assure you, Deryck, I dread to-morrow morning. Think what
it must be to wake to that always, with no prospect of ever again
seeing the sunlight! And then the meals--"

"What! You keep it on?" The doctor's voice sounded rather strained.

"Of course," said Jane. "And you cannot imagine the humiliation of
following your food all round the plate, and then finding it on the
table-cloth; of being quite sure there was a last bit somewhere, and
when you had given up the search and gone on to another course,
discovering it, eventually, in your lap. I do not wonder my poor boy
would not let me come to his meals. But after this I believe he will,
and I shall know exactly how to help him and how to arrange so that
very soon he will have no difficulty. Oh, Dicky, I had to do it! There
was no other way."

"Yes," said the doctor quietly, "you had to do it." And Jane in her
blindness could not see the working of his face, as he added below his
breath: "You being YOU, dear, there was no other way."

"Ah, how glad I am you realise the necessity, Deryck! I had so feared
you might think it useless or foolish. And it was now or never; because
I trust--if he forgives me--this will be the only week-end I shall ever
have to spend away from him. Boy, do you think he will forgive me?"

It was fortunate Jane was blind: The doctor swallowed a word, then:
"Hush, dear," he said. "You make me sigh for the duchess's parrot. And
I shall do no good here, if I lose patience with Dalmain. Now tell me;
you really never remove that bandage?"

"Only to wash my face," replied Jane, smiling. "I can trust myself not
to peep for two minutes. And last night I found it made my head so hot
that I could not sleep; so I slipped it off for an hour or two, but
woke and put it on again before dawn."

"And you mean to wear it until to-morrow morning?"

Jane smiled rather wistfully. She knew what was involved in that
question.

"Until to-morrow night, Boy," she answered gently.

"But, Jeanette," exclaimed the doctor, in indignant protest; "surely
you will see me before I go! My dear girl, would it not be carrying the
experiment unnecessarily far?"

"Ah, no," said Jane, leaning towards him with her pathetic bandaged
eyes. "Don't you see, dear, you give me the chance of passing through
what will in time be one of his hardest experiences, when his dearest
friends will come and go, and be to him only voice and touch; their
faces unseen and but dimly remembered? Deryck, just because this
hearing and not seeing you IS so hard, I realise how it is enriching me
in what I can share with him. He must not have to say: 'Ah, but you saw
him before he left.' I want to be able to say: 'He came and went,--my
greatest friend,--and I did not see him at all.'"

The doctor walked over to the window and stood there, whistling softly.
Jane knew he was fighting down his own vexation. She waited patiently.
Presently the whistling stopped and she heard him laugh. Then he came
back and sat down near her.

"You always were a THOROUGH old thing!" he said.

"No half-measures would do. I suppose I must agree."

Jane reached out for his hand. "Ah, Boy," she said, "now you will help
me. But I never before knew you so nearly selfish."

"The 'other man' is always a problem," said the doctor. "We male
brutes, by nature, always want to be first with all our women; not
merely with the one, but with all those in whom we consider, sometimes
with egregious presumption, that we hold a right. You see it
everywhere,--fathers towards their daughters, brothers as regards their
sisters, friends in a friendship. The 'other man,' when he arrives, is
always a pill to swallow. It is only natural, I suppose; but it is
fallen nature and therefore to be surmounted. Now let me go and forage
for your hat and coat, and take you out upon the moors. No? Why not? I
often find things for Flower, so really I know likely places in which
to search. Oh, all right! I will send Margery. But don't be long. And
you need not be afraid of Dalmain hearing us, for I saw him just now
walking briskly up and down the terrace, with only an occasional touch
of his cane against the parapet. How much you have already
accomplished! We shall talk more freely out on the moor; and, as I
march you along, we can find out tips which may be useful when the time
comes for you to lead the 'other man' about. Only do be careful how you
come downstairs with old Margery. Think if you fell upon her, Jane! She
does make such excellent coffee!"




CHAPTER XXIV

THE MAN'S POINT OF VIEW


A deep peace reigned in the library at Gleneesh. Garth and Deryck sat
together and smoked in complete fellowship, enjoying that sense of calm
content which follows an excellent dinner and a day spent in moorland
air.

Jane, sitting upstairs in her self-imposed darkness, with nothing to do
but listen, fancied she could hear the low hum of quiet voices in the
room beneath, carrying on a more or less continuous conversation.

It was a pity she could not see them as they sat together, each looking
his very best,--Garth in the dinner jacket which suited his slight
upright figure so well; the doctor in immaculate evening clothes of the
latest cut and fashion, which he had taken the trouble to bring,
knowing Jane expected the men of her acquaintance to be punctilious in
the matter of evening dress, and little dreaming she would have,
literally, no eyes for him.

And indeed the doctor himself was fastidious to a degree where clothes
were concerned, and always well groomed and unquestionably correct in
cut and fashion, excepting in the case of his favourite old Norfolk
jacket. This he kept for occasions when he intended to be what he
called "happy and glorious," though Lady Brand made gentle but
persistent attempts to dispose of it.

The old Norfolk jacket had walked the moors that morning with Jane. She
had recognised the feel of it as he drew her hand within his arm, and
they had laughed over its many associations. But now Simpson was
folding it and putting it away, and a very correctly clad doctor sat in
an arm-chair in front of the library fire, his long legs crossed the
one over the other, his broad shoulders buried in the depths of the
chair.

Garth sat where he could feel the warm flame of the fire, pleasant in
the chill evening which succeeded the bright spring day. His chair was
placed sideways, so that he could, with his hand, shield his face from
his visitor should he wish to do so.

"Yes," Dr. Brand was saying thoughtfully, "I can easily see that all
things which reach you in that darkness assume a different proportion
and possess a greatly enhanced value. But I think you will find, as
time goes on, and you come in contact with more people, there will be a
great readjustment, and you will become less consciously sensitive to
sound and touch from others. At present your whole nervous system is
highly strung, and responds with an exaggerated vibration to every
impression made upon it. A highly strung nervous system usually
exaggerates. And the medium of sight having been taken away, the other
means of communication with the outer world, hearing and touch, draw to
themselves an overplus of nervous force, and have become painfully
sensitive. Eventually things will right themselves, and they will only
be usefully keen and acute. What was it you were going to tell me about
Nurse Rosemary not shaking hands?"

"Ah, yes," said Garth. "But first I want to ask, Is it a rule of her
order, or guild, or institution, or whatever it is to which she
belongs, that the nurses should never shake hands with their patients?"

"Not that I have ever heard," replied the doctor.

"Well, then, it must have been Miss Gray's own perfect intuition as to
what I want, and what I don't want. For from the very first she has
never shaken hands, nor in any way touched me. Even in passing across
letters, and handing me things, as she does scores of times daily,
never once have I felt her fingers against mine."

"And this pleases you?" inquired the doctor, blowing smoke rings into
the air, and watching the blind face intently.

"Ah, I am so grateful for it," said Garth earnestly. "Do you know,
Brand, when you suggested sending me a lady nurse and secretary, I felt
I could not possibly stand having a woman touch me."

"So you said," commented the doctor quietly.

"No! Did I? What a bear you must have thought me."

"By no means," said the doctor, "but a distinctly unusual patient. As a
rule, men--"

"Ah, I dare say," Garth interposed half impatiently. "There was a time
when I should have liked a soft little hand about me. And I dare say by
now I should often enough have caught it and held it, perhaps kissed
it--who knows? I used to do such things, lightly enough. But, Brand,
when a man has known the touch of THE Woman, and when that touch has
become nothing but a memory; when one is dashed into darkness, and that
memory becomes one of the few things which remain, and, remaining,
brings untold comfort, can you wonder if one fears another touch which
might in any way dim that memory, supersede it, or take away from its
utter sacredness?"

"I understand," said the doctor slowly. "It does not come within my own
experience, but I understand. Only--my dear boy, may I say it?--if the
One Woman exists--and it is excusable in your case to doubt it, because
there were so many--surely her place should be here; her actual touch,
one of the things which remain."

"Ah, say it," answered Garth, lighting another cigarette. "I like to
hear it said, although as a matter of fact you might as well say that
if the view from the terrace exists, I ought to be able to see it. The
view is there, right enough, but my own deficiency keeps me from seeing
it."

"In other words," said the doctor, leaning forward and picking up the
match which, not being thrown so straight as usual, had just missed the
fire; "in other words, though She was the One Woman, you were not the
One Man?"

"Yes," said Garth bitterly, but almost beneath his breath. "I was 'a
mere boy.'"

"Or you thought you were not," continued the doctor, seeming not to
have heard the last remark. "As a matter of fact, you are always the
One Man to the One Woman, unless another is before you in the field.
Only it may take time and patience to prove it to her."

Garth sat up and turned a face of blank surprise towards the doctor.
"What an extraordinary statement!" he said. "Do you really mean it?"

"Absolutely," replied the doctor in a tone of quiet conviction. "If you
eliminate all other considerations, such as money, lands, titles,
wishes of friends, attraction of exteriors--that is to say, admiration
of mere physical beauty in one another, which is after all just a
question of comparative anatomy; if, freed of all this social and
habitual environment, you could place the man and the woman in a mental
Garden of Eden, and let them face one another, stripped of all shams
and conventionalities, soul viewing soul, naked and unashamed; if under
those circumstances she is so truly his mate, that all the noblest of
the man cries out: 'This is the One Woman!' then I say, so truly is he
her mate, that he cannot fail to be the One Man; only he must have the
confidence required to prove it to her. On him it bursts, as a
revelation; on her it dawns slowly, as the breaking of the day."

"Oh, my God," murmured Garth brokenly, "it was just that! The Garden of
Eden, soul to soul, with no reservations, nothing to fear, nothing to
hide. I realised her my WIFE, and called her so. And the next morning
she called ME 'a mere boy,' whom she could not for a moment think of
marrying. So what becomes of your fool theory, Brand?"

"Confirmed," replied the doctor quietly. "Eve, afraid of the immensity
of her bliss, doubtful of herself, fearful of coming short of the
marvel of his ideal of her, fleeing from Adam, to hide among the trees
of the garden. Don't talk about fool theories, my boy. The fool-fact
was Adam, if he did not start in prompt pursuit."

Garth sat forward, his hands clutching the arms of his chair. That
quiet, level voice was awakening doubts as to his view of the
situation, the first he had had since the moment of turning and walking
down the Shenstone village church three years ago. His face was livid,
and as the firelight played upon it the doctor saw beads of
perspiration gleam on his forehead.

"Oh, Brand," he said, "I am blind. Be merciful. Things mean so terribly
much in the dark."

The doctor considered. Could his nurses and students have seen the look
on his face at that moment, they would have said that he was performing
a most critical and delicate operation, in which a slip of the scalpel
might mean death to the patient. They would have been right; for the
whole future of two people hung in the balance; depending, in this
crisis, upon the doctor's firmness and yet delicacy of touch. This
strained white face in the firelight, with its beads of mental agony
and its appealing "I am blind," had not entered into the doctor's
calculations. It was a view of "the other man" upon which he could not
look unmoved. But the thought of that patient figure with bandaged eyes
sitting upstairs in suspense, stretching dear helpless hands to him,
steadied the doctor's nerve. He looked into the fire.

"You may be blind, Dalmain, but I do not want you to be a fool," said
the doctor quietly.

"Am I--was I--a fool?" asked Garth.

"How can I judge?" replied the doctor. "Give me a clear account of the
circumstances from your point of view, and I will give you my opinion
of the case."

His tone was so completely dispassionate and matter-of-fact, that it
had a calming effect on Garth, giving him also a sense of security. The
doctor might have been speaking of a sore throat, or a tendency to
sciatica.

Garth leaned back in his chair, slipped his hand into the breast-pocket
of his jacket, and touched a letter lying there. Dare he risk it? Could
he, for once take for himself the comfort of speaking of his trouble to
a man he could completely trust, and yet avoid the danger of betraying
her identity to one who knew her so intimately?

Garth weighed this, after the manner of a chess-player looking several
moves ahead. Could the conversation become more explicit, sufficiently
so to be of use, and yet no clue be given which would reveal Jane as
the One Woman?

Had the doctor uttered a word of pressure or suggestion, Garth would
have decided for silence. But the doctor did not speak. He leaned
forward and reached the poker, mending the fire with extreme care and
method. He placed a fragrant pine log upon the springing flame, and as
he did so he whistled softly the closing bars of Veni, Creator Spiritus.

Garth, occupied with his own mental struggle, was, for once, oblivious
to sounds from without, and did not realise why, at this critical
moment, these words should have come with gentle insistence into his
mind:

    "Keep far our foes; give peace at home;
     Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come."

He took them as an omen. They turned the scale.

"Brand," he said, "if, as you are so kind as to suggest, I give myself
the extreme relief of confiding in you, will you promise me never to
attempt to guess at the identity of the One Woman?"

The doctor smiled; and the smile in his voice as he answered, added to
Garth's sense of security.

"My dear fellow," he said, "I never guess at other people's secrets. It
is a form of mental recreation which does not appeal to me, and which I
should find neither entertaining nor remunerative. If I know them
already, I do not require to guess them. If I do not know them, and
their possessors wish me to remain in ignorance, I would as soon think
of stealing their purse as of filching their secret."

"Ah, thanks," said Garth. "Personally, I do not mind what you know. But
I owe it to her, that her name should not appear."

"Undoubtedly," said the doctor. "Except in so far as she herself,
chooses to reveal it, the One Woman's identity should always remain a
secret. Get on with your tale, old chap. I will not interrupt."

"I will state it as simply and as shortly as I can," began Garth. "And
you will understand that there are details of which no fellow could
speak.--I had known her several years in a friendly way, just staying
at the same houses, and meeting at Lord's and Henley and all the places
where those in the same set do meet. I always liked her, and always
felt at my best with her, and thought no end of her opinion, and so
forth. She was a friend and a real chum to me, and to lots of other
fellows. But one never thought of love-making in connection with her.
All the silly things one says to ordinary women she would have laughed
at. If one had sent her flowers to wear, she would have put them in a
vase and wondered for whom they had really been intended. She danced
well, and rode straight; but the man she danced with had to be awfully
good at it, or he found himself being guided through the giddy maze;
and the man who wanted to be in the same field with her, must be
prepared for any fence or any wall. Not that I ever saw her in the
hunting-field; her love of life and of fair play would have kept her
out of that. But I use it as a descriptive illustration. One was always
glad to meet her in a house party, though one could not have explained
why. It is quite impossible to describe her. She was just--well, just--"

The doctor saw "just Jane" trembling on Garth's lips, and knew how
inadequate was every adjective to express this name. He did not want
the flood of Garth's confidences checked, so he supplied the needed
words.

"Just a good sort. Yes, I quite understand. Well?"

"I had had my infatuations, plenty of them," went on the eager young
voice. "The one thing I thought of in women was their exteriors. Beauty
of all kinds--of any kind--crazed me for the moment. I never wanted to
marry them, but I always wanted to paint them. Their mothers, and
aunts, and other old dowagers in the house parties used to think I
meant marriage, but the girls themselves knew better. I don't believe a
girl now walks this earth who would accuse me of flirting. I admired
their beauty, and they knew it, and they knew that was all my
admiration meant. It was a pleasant experience at the time, and, in
several instances, helped forward good marriages later on. Pauline
Lister was apportioned to me for two whole seasons, but she eventually
married the man on whose jolly old staircase I painted her. Why didn't
I come a cropper over any of them? Because there were too many, I
suppose. Also, the attraction was skin-deep. I don't mind telling you
quite frankly: the only one whose beauty used to cause me a real pang
was Lady Brand. But when I had painted it and shown it to the world in
its perfection, I was content. I asked no more of any woman than to
paint her, and find her paintable. I could not explain this to the
husbands and mothers and chaperons, but the women themselves understood
it well enough; and as I sit here in my darkness not a memory rises up
to reproach me."

"Good boy," said Deryck Brand, laughing. "You were vastly
misunderstood, but I believe you."

"You see," resumed Garth, "that sort of thing being merely skin-deep, I
went no deeper. The only women I really knew were my mother, who died
when I was nineteen, and Margery Graem, whom I always hugged at meeting
and parting, and always shall hug until I kiss the old face in its
coffin, or she straightens me in mine. Those ties of one's infancy and
boyhood are among the closest and most sacred life can show. Well, so
things were until a certain evening in June several years ago. She--the
One Woman--and I were in the same house party at a lovely old place in
the country. One afternoon we had been talking intimately, but quite
casually and frankly. I had no more thought of wanting to marry her
than of proposing to old Margery. Then--something happened,--I must not
tell you what; it would give too clear a clue to her identity. But it
revealed to me, in a few marvellous moments, the woman in her; the
wife, the mother; the strength, the tenderness; the exquisite
perfection of her true, pure soul. In five minutes there awakened in me
a hunger for her which nothing could still, which nothing ever will
still, until I stand beside her in the Golden City, where they shall
hunger no more, neither thirst any more; and there shall be no more
darkness, or depending upon sun, moon, or candle, for the glory of God
shall lighten it; and there shall be no more sorrow, neither shall
there be any more pain, for former things shall have passed away."

The blind face shone in the firelight. Garth's retrospection was
bringing him visions of things to come.

The doctor sat quite still and watched the vision fade. Then he said:
"Well?"

"Well," continued the young voice in the shadow, with a sound in it of
having dropped back to earth and finding it a mournful place; "I never
had a moment's doubt as to what had happened to me. I knew I loved her;
I knew I wanted her; I knew her presence made my day and her absence
meant chill night; and every day was radiant, for she was there."

Garth paused for breath and to enjoy a moment of silent retrospection.

The doctor's voice broke in with a question, clear, incisive. "Was she
a pretty woman; handsome, beautiful?"

"A pretty woman?" repeated Garth, amazed: "Good heavens, no! Handsome?
Beautiful? Well you have me there, for, 'pon my honour, I don't know."

"I mean, would you have wished to paint her?"

"I HAVE painted her," said Garth very low, a moving tenderness in his
voice; "and my two paintings of her, though done in sadness and done
from memory, are the most beautiful work I ever produced. No eye but my
own has ever seen them, and now none ever will see them, excepting
those of one whom I must perforce trust to find them for me, and bring
them to me for destruction."

"And that will be--?" queried the doctor.

"Nurse Rosemary Gray," said Garth.

The doctor kicked the pine log, and the flames darted up merrily. "You
have chosen well," he said, and had to make a conscious effort to keep
the mirth in his face from passing into his voice. "Nurse Rosemary will
be discreet. Very good. Then we may take it the One Woman was
beautiful?"

But Garth looked perplexed. "I do not know," he answered slowly. "I
cannot see her through the eyes of others. My vision of her, in that
illuminating moment, followed the inspired order of things,--spirit,
soul, and body. Her spirit was so pure and perfect, her soul so
beautiful, noble, and womanly, that the body which clothed soul and
spirit partook of their perfection and became unutterably dear."

"I see," said the doctor, very gently. "Yes, you dear fellow, I see."
(Oh, Jane, Jane! You were blind, without a bandage, in those days!)

"Several glorious days went by," continued Garth. "I realise now that I
was living in the glow of my own certainty that she was the One Woman.
It was so clear and sweet and wonderful to me, that I never dreamed of
it not being equally clear to her. We did a lot of music together for
pure enjoyment; we talked of other people for the fun of it; we enjoyed
and appreciated each other's views and opinions; but we did not talk of
ourselves, because we KNEW, at least _I_ knew, and, before God, I
thought she did. Every time I saw her she seemed more grand and
perfect. I held the golden key to trifling matters not understood
before. We young fellows, who all admired her, used nevertheless to
joke a bit about her wearing collars and stocks, top boots and short
skirts; whacking her leg with a riding-whip, and stirring the fire with
her toe. But after that evening, I understood all this to be a sort of
fence behind which she hid her exquisite womanliness, because it was of
a deeper quality than any man looking upon the mere surface of her had
ever fathomed or understood. And when she came trailing down in the
evening, in something rich and clinging and black, with lots of soft
old lace covering her bosom and moving with the beating of her great
tender heart; ah, then my soul rejoiced and my eyes took their fill of
delight! I saw her, as all day long I had known her to be,--perfect in
her proud, sweet womanliness."

"Is he really unconscious," thought the doctor, "of how unmistakable a
word-picture of Jane he is painting?"

"Very soon," continued Garth, "we had three days apart, and then met
again at another house, in a weekend party. One of the season's
beauties was there, with whom my name was being freely coupled, and
something she said on that subject, combined with the fearful blankness
of those three interminable days, made me resolve to speak without
delay. I asked her to come out on to the terrace that evening. We were
alone. It was a moonlight night."

A long silence. The doctor did not break it. He knew his friend was
going over in his mind all those things of which a man does not speak
to another man.

At last Garth said simply, "I told her."

No comment from the doctor, who was vividly reminded of Jane's
"Then--it happened," when SHE had reached this point in the story.
After a few moments of further silence, steeped in the silver moonlight
of reminiscence for Garth; occupied by the doctor in a rapid piecing in
of Jane's version; the sad young voice continued:

"I thought she understood completely. Afterwards I knew she had not
understood at all. Her actions led me to believe I was accepted, taken
into her great love, even as she was wrapped around by mine. Not
through fault of hers,--ah, no; she was blameless throughout; but
because she did not, could not, understand what any touch of hers must
mean to me. In her dear life, there had never been another man; that
much I knew by unerring instinct and by her own admission. I have
sometimes thought that she may have had an ideal in her girlish days,
against whom, in after years, she measured others, and, finding them
come short, held them at arm's length. But, if I am right in this
surmise, he must have been a blind fool, unconscious of the priceless
love which might have been his, had he tried to win it. For I am
certain that, until that night, no man's love had ever flamed about
her; she had never felt herself enveloped in a cry which was all one
passionate, in-articulate, inexplicable, boundless need of herself.
While I thought she understood and responded,--Heaven knows I DID think
it,--she did not in the least understand, and was only trying to be
sympathetic and kind."

The doctor stirred in his chair, slowly crossed one leg over the other,
and looked searchingly into the blind face. He was finding these
confidences of the "other man" more trying than he had expected.

"Are you sure of that?" he asked rather huskily.

"Quite sure," said Garth. "Listen. I called her--what she was to me
just then, what I wanted her to be always, what she is forever, so far
as my part goes, and will be till death and beyond. That one word,--no,
there were two,--those two words made her understand. I see that now.
She rose at once and put me from her. She said I must give her twelve
hours for quiet thought, and she would come to me in the village church
next morning with her answer. Brand, you may think me a fool; you
cannot think me a more egregious ass than I now think myself; but I was
absolutely certain she was mine; so sure that, when she came, and we
were alone together in the house of God, instead of going to her with
the anxious haste of suppliant and lover, I called her to me at the
chancel step as if I were indeed her husband and had the right to bid
her come. She came, and, just as a sweet formality before taking her to
me, I asked for her answer. It was this: 'I cannot marry a mere boy.'"

Garth's voice choked in his throat on the last word. His head was bowed
in his hands. He had reached the point where most things stopped for
him; where all things had ceased forever to be as they were before.

The room seemed strangely silent. The eager voice had poured out into
it such a flow of love and hope and longing; such a revealing of a soul
in which the true love of beauty had created perpetual youth; of a
heart held free by high ideals from all playing with lesser loves, but
rising to volcanic force and height when the true love was found at
last.

The doctor shivered at that anticlimax, as if the chill of an empty
church were in his bones. He knew how far worse it had been than Garth
had told. He knew of the cruel, humiliating question: "How old are
you?" Jane had confessed to it. He knew how the outward glow of adoring
love had faded as the mind was suddenly turned inward to
self-contemplation. He had known it all as abstract fact. Now he saw it
actually before him. He saw Jane's stricken lover, bowed beside him in
his blindness, living again through those sights and sounds which no
merciful curtain of oblivion could ever hide or veil.

The doctor had his faults, but they were not Peter's. He never, under
any circumstances, spoke BECAUSE he wist not what to say.

He leaned forward and laid a hand very tenderly on Garth's shoulder.
"Poor chap," he said. "Ah, poor old chap."

And for a long while they sat thus in silence.




CHAPTER XXV

THE DOCTOR'S DIAGNOSIS


"So you expressed no opinion? explained nothing? let him go on
believing that? Oh, Dicky! And you might have said so much!"

In the quiet of the Scotch Sabbath morning, Jane and the doctor had
climbed the winding path from the end of the terrace, which zigzagged
up to a clearing amongst the pines. Two fallen trees at a short
distance from each other provided convenient seats in full sunshine,
facing a glorious view,--down into the glen, across the valley, and
away to the purple hills beyond. The doctor had guided Jane to the
sunnier of the two trunks, and seated himself beside her. Then he had
quietly recounted practically the whole of the conversation of the
previous evening.

"I expressed no opinion. I explained nothing. I let him continue to
believe what he believes; because it is the only way to keep you on the
pinnacle where he has placed you. Let any other reason for your conduct
than an almost infantine ignorance of men and things be suggested and
accepted, and down you will come, my poor Jane, and great will be the
fall. Mine shall not be the hand thus to hurl you headlong. As you say,
I might have said so much, but I might also have lived to regret it."

"I should fall into his arms," said Jane recklessly, "and I would
sooner be there than on a pinnacle."

"Excuse me, my good girl," replied the doctor. "It is more likely you
would fall into the first express going south. In fact, I am not
certain you would wait for an express. I can almost see the Honourable
Jane quitting yonder little railway station, seated in an empty
coal-truck. No! Don't start up and attempt to stride about among the
pine needles," continued the doctor, pulling Jane down beside him
again. "You will only trip over a fir cone and go headlong into the
valley. It is no use forestalling the inevitable fall."

"Oh, Dicky," sighed Jane, putting her hand through his arm; and leaning
her bandaged eyes against the rough tweed of his shoulder; "I don't
know what has come to you to-day. You are not kind to me. You have
harrowed my poor soul by repeating all Garth said last night; and,
thanks to that terribly good memory of yours, you have reproduced the
tones of his voice in every inflection. And then, instead of comforting
me, you leave me entirely in the wrong, and completely in the lurch."

"In the wrong--yes," said Deryck; "in the lurch--no. I did not say I
would do nothing to-day. I only said I could do nothing last night. You
cannot take up a wounded thing and turn it about and analyse it. When
we bade each other good-night, I told him I would think the matter over
and give him my opinion to-day. I will tell you what has happened to me
if you like. I have looked into the inmost recesses of a very rare and
beautiful nature, and I have seen what havoc a woman can work in the
life of the man who loves her. I can assure you, last night was no
pastime. I woke this morning feeling as if I had, metaphorically, been
beaten black and blue."

"Then what do you suppose _I_ feel?" inquired Jane pathetically.

"You still feel yourself in the right--partly," replied Deryck. "And so
long as you think you have a particle of justification and cling to it,
your case is hopeless. It will have to be: 'I confess. Can you
forgive?'"

"But I acted for the best," said Jane. "I thought of him before I
thought of myself. It would have been far easier to have accepted the
happiness of the moment, and chanced the future."

"That is not honest, Jeanette. You thought of yourself first. You dared
not face the possibility of the pain to you if his love cooled or his
admiration waned. When one comes to think of it, I believe every form
of human love--a mother's only excepted--is primarily selfish. The best
chance for Dalmain is that his helpless blindness may awaken the mother
love in you. Then self will go to the wall."

"Ah me!" sighed Jane. "I am lost and weary and perplexed in this
bewildering darkness. Nothing seems clear; nothing seems right. If I
could see your kind eyes, Boy, your hard voice would hurt less."

"Well, take off the bandage and look," said the doctor.

"I will not!" cried Jane furiously. "Have I gone through all this to
fail at the last?"

"My dear girl, this self-imposed darkness is getting on your nerves.
Take care it does not do more harm than good. Strong remedies--"

"Hush!" whispered Jane. "I hear footsteps."

"You can always hear footsteps in a wood if you hearken for them," said
the doctor; but he spoke low, and then sat quiet, listening.

"I hear Garth's step," whispered Jane. "Oh, Dicky, go to the edge and
look over. You can see the windings of the path below."

The doctor stepped forward quietly and looked down upon the way they
had ascended. Then he came back to Jane.

"Yes," he said. "Fortune favours us. Dalmain is coming up the path with
Simpson. He will be here in two minutes."

"Fortune favours us? My dear Dicky! Of all mis-chances!" Jane's hand
flew to her bandage, but the doctor stayed her just in time.

"Not at all," he said. "And do not fail at the last in your experiment.
I ought to be able to keep you two blind people apart. Trust me, and
keep dark--I mean, sit still. And can you not understand why I said
fortune favours us? Dalmain is coming for my opinion on the case. You
shall hear it together. It will be a saving of time for me, and most
enlightening for you to mark how he takes it. Now keep quiet. I promise
he shall not sit on your lap. But if you make a sound, I shall have to
say you are a bunny or a squirrel, and throw fir cones at you."

The doctor rose and sauntered round the bend of the path.

Jane sat on in darkness.

"Hullo, Dalmain," she heard Deryck say. "Found your way up here? An
ideal spot. Shall we dispense with Simpson? Take my arm."

"Yes," replied Garth. "I was told you were up here, Brand, and followed
you."

They came round the bend together, and out into the clearing.

"Are you alone?" asked Garth standing still. "I thought I heard voices."

"You did," replied the doctor. "I was talking to a young woman."

"What sort of young woman?" asked Garth.

"A buxom young person," replied the doctor, "with a decidedly touchy
temper."

"Do you know her name?"

"Jane," said the doctor recklessly.

"Not 'Jane,'" said Garth quickly,--"Jean. I know her,--my gardener's
eldest daughter. Rather weighed down by family cares, poor girl."

"I saw she was weighed down," said the doctor. "I did not know it was
by family cares. Let us sit on this trunk. Can you call up the view to
mind?"

"Yes," replied Garth; "I know it so well. But it terrifies me to find
how my mental pictures are fading; all but one."

"And that is--?" asked the doctor.

"The face of the One Woman," said Garth in his blindness.

"Ah, my dear fellow," said the doctor, "I have not forgotten my promise
to give you this morning my opinion on your story. I have been thinking
it over carefully, and have arrived at several conclusions. Shall we
sit on this fallen tree? Won't you smoke? One can talk better under the
influence of the fragrant weed."

Garth took out his cigarette case, chose a cigarette, lighted it with
care, and flung the flaming match straight on to Jane's clasped hands.

Before the doctor could spring up, Jane had smilingly flicked it off.

"What nerve!" thought Deryck, with admiration. "Ninety-nine women out
of a hundred would have said 'Ah!' and given away the show. Really, she
deserves to win."

Suddenly Garth stood up. "I think we shall do better on the other log,"
he said unexpectedly. "It is always in fuller sunshine." And he moved
towards Jane.

With a bound the doctor sprang in front of him, seized Jane with one
strong hand and drew her behind him; then guided Garth to the very spot
where she had been sitting.

"How accurately you judge distance," he remarked, backing with Jane
towards the further trunk. Then he seated himself beside Garth in the
sunshine. "Now for our talk," said the doctor, and he said it rather
breathlessly.

"Are you sure we are alone?" asked Garth. "I seem conscious of another
presence."

"My dear fellow," said the doctor, "is one ever alone in a wood?
Countless little presences surround us. Bright eyes peep down from the
branches; furry tails flick in and out of holes; things unseen move in
the dead leaves at our feet. If you seek solitude, shun the woods."

"Yes," replied Garth, "I know, and I love listening to them. I meant a
human presence. Brand, I am often so tried by the sense of an unseen
human presence near me. Do you know, I could have sworn the other day
that she--the One Woman--came silently, looked upon me in my blindness,
pitied me, as her great tender heart would do, and silently departed."

"When was that?" asked the doctor.

"A few days ago. Dr. Rob had been telling us how he came across her
in--Ah! I must not say where. Then he and Miss Gray left me alone, and
in the lonely darkness and silence I felt her eyes upon me."

"Dear boy," said the doctor, "you must not encourage this dread of
unseen presences. Remember, those who care for us very truly and deeply
can often make us conscious of their mental nearness, even when far
away, especially if they know we are in trouble and needing them. You
must not be surprised if you are often conscious of the nearness of the
One Woman, for I believe--and I do not say it lightly, Dalmain--I
believe her whole heart and love and life are yours."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Garth, and springing up, strode forward
aimlessly.

The doctor caught him by the arm. In another moment he would have
fallen over Jane's feet.

"Sit down, man," said the doctor, "and listen to me. You gain nothing
by dashing about in the dark in that way. I am going to prove my words.
But you must give me your calm attention. Now listen. We are confronted
in this case by a psychological problem, and one which very likely has
not occurred to you. I want you for a moment to picture the One Man and
the One Woman facing each other in the Garden of Eden, or in the
moonlight--wherever it was--if you like better. Now will you realise
this? The effect upon a man of falling in love is to create in him a
complete unconsciousness of self. On the other hand, the effect upon a
woman of being loved and sought, and of responding to that love and
seeking, is an accession of intense self-consciousness. He, longing to
win and take, thinks of her only. She, called upon to yield and give,
has her mind turned at once upon herself. Can she meet his need? Is she
all he thinks her? Will she be able to content him completely, not only
now but in the long vista of years to come? The more natural and
unconscious of self she had been before, the harder she would be hit by
this sudden, overwhelming attack of self-consciousness."

The doctor glanced at Jane on the log six yards away. She had lifted
her clasped hands and was nodding towards him, her face radiant with
relief and thankfulness.

He felt he was on the right tack. But the blind face beside him clouded
heavily, and the cloud deepened as he proceeded.

"You see, my dear chap, I gathered from yourself she was not of the
type of feminine loveliness you were known to admire. Might she not
have feared that her appearance would, after a while, have failed to
content you?"

"No," replied Garth with absolutely finality of tone. "Such a
suggestion is unworthy. Besides, had the idea by any possibility
entered her mind, she would only have had to question me on the point.
My decision would have been final; my answer would have fully reassured
her."

"Love is blind," quoted the doctor quietly.

"They lie who say so," cried Garth violently. "Love is so far-seeing
that it sees beneath the surface and delights in beauties unseen by
other eyes."

"Then you do not accept my theory?" asked the doctor.

"Not as an explanation of my own trouble," answered Garth; "because I
know the greatness of her nature would have lifted her far above such a
consideration. But I do indeed agree as to the complete oblivion to
self of the man in love. How else could we ever venture to suggest to a
woman that she should marry us? Ah, Brand, when one thinks of it, the
intrusion into her privacy; the asking the right to touch, even her
hand, at will; it could not be done unless the love of her and the
thought of her had swept away all thoughts of self. Looking back upon
that time I remember how completely it was so with me. And when she
said to me in the church: 'How old are you?'--ah, I did not tell you
that last night--the revulsion of feeling brought about by being turned
at that moment in upon myself was so great, that my joy seemed to
shrivel and die in horror at my own unworthiness."

Silence in the wood. The doctor felt he was playing a losing game. He
dared not look at the silent figure opposite. At last he spoke.

"Dalmain, there are two possible solutions to your problem. Do you
think it was a case of Eve holding back in virginal shyness, expecting
Adam to pursue?"

"Ah, no," said Garth emphatically. "We had gone far beyond all that.
Nor could you suggest it, did you know her. She is too honest, too
absolutely straight and true, to have deceived me. Besides, had it been
so, in all these lonely years, when she found I made no sign, she would
have sent me word of what she really meant."

"Should you have gone to her then?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," said Garth slowly. "I should have gone and I should have
forgiven--because she is my own. But it could never have been the same.
It would have been unworthy of us both."

"Well," continued the doctor, "the other solution remains. You have
admitted that the One Woman came somewhat short of the conventional
standard of beauty. Your love of loveliness was so well known. Do you
not think, during the long hours of that night,--remember how new it
was to her to be so worshipped and wanted,--do you not think her
courage failed her? She feared she might come short of what eventually
you would need in the face and figure always opposite you at your
table; and, despite her own great love and yours, she thought it wisest
to avoid future disillusion by rejecting present joy. Her very love for
you would have armed her to this decision."

The silent figure opposite nodded, and waited with clasped hands.
Deryck was pleading her cause better than she could have pleaded it
herself.

Silence in the woods. All nature seemed to hush and listen for the
answer.

Then:--"No," said Garth's young voice unhesitatingly. "In that case she
would have told me her fear, and I should have reassured her
immediately. Your suggestion is unworthy of my beloved."

The wind sighed in the trees. A cloud passed before the sun. The two
who sat in darkness, shivered and were silent.

Then the doctor spoke. "My dear boy," he said, and a deep tenderness
was in his voice: "I must maintain my unalterable belief that to the
One Woman you are still the One Man. In your blindness her rightful
place is by your side. Perhaps even now she is yearning to be here.
Will you tell me her name, and give me leave to seek her out, hear from
herself her version of the story; and, if it be as I think, bring her
to you, to prove, in your affliction, her love and tenderness?"

"Never!" said Garth. "Never, while life shall last! Can you not see
that if when I had sight, and fame, and all heart could desire, I could
not win her love, what she might feel for me now, in my helpless
blindness, could be but pity? And pity from her I could never accept.
If I was 'a mere boy' three years ago, I am 'a mere blind man' now, an
object for kind commiseration. If indeed you are right, and she
mistrusted my love and my fidelity, it is now out of my power forever
to prove her wrong and to prove myself faithful. But I will not allow
the vision of my beloved to be dimmed by these suggestions. For her
completion, she needed so much more than I could give. She refused me
because I was not fully worthy. I prefer it should be so. Let us leave
it at that."

"It leaves you to loneliness," said the doctor sadly.

"I prefer loneliness," replied Garth's young voice, "to disillusion.
Hark! I hear the first gong, Brand. Margery will be grieved if we keep
her Sunday dishes waiting."

He stood up and turned his sightless face towards the view.

"Ah, how well I know it," he said. "When Miss Gray and I sit up here,
she tells me all she sees, and I tell her what she does not see, but
what I know is there. She is keen on art, and on most of the things I
care about. I must ask for an arm, Brand, though the path is wide and
good. I cannot risk a tumble. I have come one or two awful croppers,
and I promised Miss Gray--The path is wide. Yes, we can walk two
abreast, three abreast if necessary. It is well we had this good path
made. It used to be a steep scramble."

"Three abreast," said the doctor. "So we could--if necessary." He
stepped back and raised Jane from her seat, drawing her cold hand
through his left arm. "Now, my dear fellow, my right arm will suit you
best; then you can keep your stick in your right hand."

And thus they started down through the wood, on that lovely Sabbath
morn of early summer; and the doctor walked erect between those two
severed hearts, uniting, and yet dividing them.

Just once Garth paused and listened. "I seem to hear another footstep,"
he said, "besides yours and mine."

"The wood is full of footsteps," said the doctor, "just as the heart is
full of echoes. If you stand still and listen you can hear what you
will in either."

"Then let us not stand still," said Garth, "for in old days, if I was
late for lunch, Margery used to spank me."




CHAPTER XXVI

HEARTS MEET IN SIGHTLESS LAND


"It will be absolutely impossible, Miss Gray, for me ever to tell you
what I think of this that you have done for my sake."

Garth stood at the open library window. The morning sunlight poured
into the room. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers, resonant
with the songs of birds. As he stood there in the sunshine, a new look
of strength and hopefulness was apparent in every line of his erect
figure. He held out eager hands towards Nurse Rosemary, but more as an
expression of the outgoing of his appreciation and gratitude than with
any expectation of responsive hands being placed within them.

"And here was I, picturing you having a gay weekend, and wondering
where, and who your friends in this neighbourhood could be. And all the
while you were sitting blindfold in the room over my head. Ah, the
goodness of it is beyond words! But did you not feel somewhat of a
deceiver, Miss Gray?"

She always felt that--poor Jane. So she readily answered: "Yes. And yet
I told you I was not going far. And my friends in the neighbourhood
were Simpson and Margery, who aided and abetted. And it was true to say
I was going, for was I not going into darkness? and it is a different
world from the land of light."

"Ah, how true that is!" cried Garth. "And how difficult to make people
understand the loneliness of it, and how they seem suddenly to arrive
close to one from another world; stooping from some distant planet,
with sympathetic voice and friendly touch; and then away they go to
another sphere, leaving one to the immensity of solitude in Sightless
Land."

"Yes," agreed Nurse Rosemary, "and you almost dread the coming, because
the going makes the darkness darker, and the loneliness more lonely."

"Ah, so YOU experienced that?" said Garth. "Do you know, now you have
week-ended in Sightless Land, I shall not feel it such a place of
solitude. At every turn I shall be able to say:--'A dear and faithful
friend has been here.'"

He laughed a laugh of such almost boyish pleasure, that all the mother
in Jane's love rose up and demanded of her one supreme effort. She
looked at the slight figure in white flannels, leaning against the
window frame, so manly, so beautiful still, and yet so helpless and so
needing the wealth of tenderness which was hers to give. Then, standing
facing him, she opened her arms, as if the great preparedness of that
place of rest, so close to him must, magnet-like, draw him to her; and
standing thus in the sunlight, Jane spoke.

Was she beautiful? Was she paintable? Would a man grow weary of such a
look turned on him, of such arms held out? Alas! Too late! On that
point no lover shall ever be able to pass judgment. That look is for
one man alone. He only will ever bring it to that loving face. And he
cannot pronounce upon its beauty in voice of rapturous content. He
cannot judge. He cannot see. He is blind!

"Mr. Dalmain, there are many smaller details; but before we talk of
those I want to tell you the greatest of all the lessons I learned in
Sightless Land." Then, conscious that her emotion was producing in her
voice a resonant depth which might remind him too vividly of notes in
The Rosary, she paused, and resumed in the high, soft edition of her
own voice which it had become second nature to her to use as Nurse
Rosemary: "Mr. Dalmain, it seems to me I learned to understand how that
which is loneliness unspeakable to ONE might be Paradise of a very
perfect kind for TWO. I realised that there might be circumstances in
which the dark would become a very wonderful meeting-place for souls.
If I loved a man who lost his sight, I should be glad to have mine in
order to be eyes for him when eyes were needed; just as, were I rich
and he poor, I should value my money simply as a thing which might be
useful to him. But I know the daylight would often be a trial to me,
because it would be something he could not share; and when evening
came, I should long to say: 'Let us put out the lights and shut away
the moonlight and sit together in the sweet soft darkness, which is
more uniting than the light.'"

While Jane was speaking, Garth paled as he listened, and his face grew
strangely set. Then, as if under a reaction of feeling, a boyish flush
spread to the very roots of his hair. He visibly shrank from the voice
which was saying these things to him. He fumbled with his right hand
for the orange cord which would guide him to his chair.

"Nurse Rosemary," he said, and at the tone of his voice Jane's
outstretched arms dropped to her sides; "it is kind of you to tell me
all these beautiful thoughts which came to you in the darkness. But I
hope the man who is happy enough to possess your love, or who is going
to be fortunate enough to win it, will neither be so unhappy nor so
unfortunate as to lose his sight. It will be better for him to live
with you in the light, than to be called upon to prove the kind way in
which you would be willing to adapt yourself to his darkness. How about
opening our letters?" He slipped his hand along the orange cord and
walked over to his chair.

Then, with a sense of unutterable dismay, Jane saw what she had done.
She had completely forgotten Nurse Rosemary, using her only as a means
of awakening in Garth an understanding of how much her--Jane's--love
might mean to him in his blindness. She had forgotten that, to Garth,
Nurse Rosemary's was the only personality which counted in this
conversation; she, who had just given him such a proof of her interest
and devotion. And--O poor dear Garth! O bold, brazen Nurse
Rosemary!--he very naturally concluded she was making love to him. Jane
felt herself between Scylla and Charybdis, and she took a very prompt
and characteristic plunge.

She came across to her place on the other side of the small table and
sat down. "I believe it was the thought of him made me realise this,"
she said; "but just now I and my young man have fallen out. He does not
even know I am here."

Garth unbent at once, and again that boyish heightening of colour
indicated his sense of shame at what he had imagined.

"Ah, Miss Gray," he said eagerly, "you will not think it impertinent or
intrusive on my part, but do you know I have wondered sometimes whether
there was a happy man."

Nurse Rosemary laughed. "Well, we can't call him a happy man just now,"
she said, "so far as his thoughts of me are concerned. My whole heart
is his, if he could only be brought to believe it. But a
misunderstanding has grown up between us,--my fault entirely,--and he
will not allow me to put it right."

"What a fool!" cried Garth. "Are you and he engaged?"

Nurse Rosemary hesitated. "Well--not exactly engaged," she said,
"though it practically amounts to that. Neither of us would give a
thought to any one else."

Garth knew there was a class of people whose preliminary step to
marriage was called "keeping company," a stage above the housemaid's
"walking out," both expressions being exactly descriptive of the
circumstances of the case; for, whereas pretty Phyllis and her swain go
walking out of an evening in byways and between hedges, or along
pavements and into the parks,--these keep each other company in the
parlours and arbours of their respective friends and relations. Yet,
somehow, Garth had never thought of Nurse Rosemary as belonging to any
other class than his own. Perhaps this ass of a fellow, whom he already
cordially disliked, came of a lower stratum; or perhaps the rules of
her nursing guild forbade a definite engagement, but allowed "an
understanding." Anyway the fact remained that the kind-hearted, clever,
delightful little lady, who had done so much for him, had "a young man"
of her own; and this admitted fact lifted a weight from Garth's mind.
He had been so afraid lately of not being quite honest with her and
with himself. She had become so necessary to him, nay, so essential,
and by her skill and devotion had won so deep a place in his gratitude.
Their relation was of so intimate a nature, their companionship so
close and continuous; and into this rather ideal state of things had
heavily trodden Dr. Rob the other day with a suggestion. Garth, alone
with him, bad been explaining how indispensable Miss Gray had become to
his happiness and comfort, and how much he dreaded a recall from her
matron.

"I fear they do not let them go on indefinitely at one case; but
perhaps Sir Deryck can arrange that this should be an exception," said
Garth.

"Oh, hang the matron, and blow Sir Deryck," said Dr. Rob breezily. "If
you want her as a permanency, make sure of her. Marry her, my boy! I'll
warrant she'd have you!"

Thus trod Dr. Rob, with heavily nailed boots, upon the bare toes of a
delicate situation.

Garth tried to put the suggestion out of his mind and failed. He began
to notice thoughts and plans of Nurse Rosemary's for his benefit, which
so far exceeded her professional duties that it seemed as if there must
be behind them the promptings of a more tender interest. He put the
thought away again and again, calling Dr. Rob an old fool, and himself
a conceited ass. But again and again there came about him, with Nurse
Rosemary's presence, the subtile surrounding atmosphere of a watchful
love.

Then, one night, he faced and fought a great temptation.

After all why should he not do as Dr. Rob suggested? Why not marry this
charming, capable, devoted nurse, and have her constantly about him in
his blindness? SHE did not consider him "a mere boy." ... What had he
to offer her? A beautiful home, every luxury, abundant wealth, a
companionship she seemed to find congenial ... But then the Tempter
overreached himself, for he whispered: "And the voice would be always
Jane's. You have never seen the nurse's face; you never will see it.
You can go on putting to the voice the face and form you adore. You can
marry the little nurse, and go on loving Jane." ... Then Garth cried
out in horror: "Avaunt, Satan!" and the battle was won.

But it troubled his mind lest by any chance her peace of heart should
be disturbed through him. So it was with relief, and yet with an
unreasonable smouldering jealousy, that he heard of the young man to
whom she was devoted. And now it appeared she was unhappy through her
young man, just as he was unhappy through--no, because of--Jane.

A sudden impulse came over him to do away forever with the thought
which in his own mind had lately come between them, and to establish
their intimacy on an even closer and firmer basis, by being absolutely
frank with her on the matter.

"Miss Gray," he said, leaning towards her with that delightful smile of
boyish candour which many women had found irresistible, "it is good of
you to have told me about yourself; and, although I confess to feeling
unreasonably jealous of the fortunate fellow who possesses your whole
heart, I am glad he exists, because we all miss something unless we
have in our lives the wonderful experience of the One Woman or the One
Man. And I want to tell you something, dear sweet friend of mine, which
closely touches you and me; only, before I do so, put your hand in
mine, that I may realise you in a closer intimacy than heretofore. You,
who have been in Sightless Land, know how much a hand clasp means down
here."

Garth stretched his hand across the table, and his whole attitude was
tense with expectation.

"I cannot do that, Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary, in a voice which
shook a little. "I have burned my hands. Oh, not seriously. Do not look
so distressed. Just a lighted match. Yes; while I was blind. Now tell
me the thing which touches you and me."

Garth withdrew his hand and clasped both around his knee. He leaned
back in his chair, his face turned upwards. There was upon it an
expression so pure, the exaltation of a spirit so lifted above the
temptations of the lower nature, that Jane's eyes filled with tears as
she looked at him. She realised what his love for her, supplemented by
the discipline of suffering, had done for her lover.

He began to speak softly, not turning towards her. "Tell me," he said,
"is he--very much to you?"

Jane's eyes could not leave the dear face and figure in the chair.
Jane's emotion trembled in Nurse Rosemary's voice.

"He is all the world to me," she said.

"Does he love you as you deserve to be loved?"

Jane bent and laid her lips on the table where his outstretched hand
had rested. Then Nurse Rosemary answered: "He loved me far, FAR more
than I ever deserved."

"Why do you say 'loved'? Is not 'loves' the truer tense?"

"Alas, no!" said Nurse Rosemary, brokenly; "for I fear I have lost his
love by my own mistrust of it and my own wrong-doing."

"Never!" said Garth. "'Love never faileth.' It may for a time appear to
be dead, even buried. But the Easter morn soon dawns, and lo, Love
ariseth! Love grieved, is like a bird with wet wings. It cannot fly; it
cannot rise. It hops about upon the ground, chirping anxiously. But
every flutter shakes away more drops; every moment in the sunshine is
drying the tiny feathers; and very soon it soars to the tree top, all
the better for the bath, which seemed to have robbed it of the power to
rise."

"Ah,--if my beloved could but dry his wings," murmured Nurse Rosemary.
"But I fear I did more than wet them. I clipped them. Worse still,--I
broke them."

"Does he know you feel yourself so in the wrong?" Garth asked the
question very gently.

"No," replied Nurse Rosemary. "He will give me no chance to explain,
and no opportunity to tell him how he wrongs himself and me by the view
he now takes of my conduct."

"Poor girl!" said Garth in tones of sympathy and comprehension. "My own
experience has been such a tragedy that I can feel for those whose
course of true love does not run smooth. But take my advice, Miss Gray.
Write him a full confession. Keep nothing back. Tell him just how it
all happened. Any man who truly loves would believe, accept your
explanation, and be thankful. Only, I hope he would not come tearing up
here and take you away from me!"

Jane smiled through a mist of tears.

"If he wanted me, Mr. Dalmain, I should have to go to him," said Nurse
Rosemary.

"How I dread the day," continued Garth, "when you will come and say to
me: 'I have to go.' And, do you know, I have sometimes thought--you
have done so much for me and become so much to me--I have sometimes
thought--I can tell you frankly now--it might have seemed as if there
were a very obvious way to try to keep you always. You are so immensely
worthy of all a man could offer, of all the devotion a man could give.
And because, to one so worthy, I never could have offered less than the
best, I want to tell you that in my heart I hold shrined forever one
beloved face. All others are gradually fading. Now, in my blindness, I
can hardly recall clearly the many lovely faces I have painted and
admired. All are more or less blurred and indistinct. But this one face
grows clearer, thank God, as the darkness deepens. It will be with me
through life, I shall see it in death, THE FACE OF THE WOMAN I LOVE.
You said 'loved' of your lover, hesitating to be sure of his present
state of heart. I can neither say 'love' nor 'loved' of my beloved. She
never loved me. But I love her with a love which makes it impossible
for me to have any 'best' to offer to another woman. If I could bring
myself, from unworthy motives and selfish desires, to ask another to
wed me, I should do her an untold wrong. For her unseen face would be
nothing to me; always that one and only face would be shining in my
darkness. Her voice would be dear, only in so far as it reminded me of
the voice of the woman I love. Dear friend, if you ever pray for me,
pray that I may never be so base as to offer to any woman such a husk
as marriage with me would mean."

"But--" said Nurse Rosemary. "She--she who has made it a husk for
others; she who might have the finest of the wheat, the full corn in
the ear, herself?"

"She," said Garth, "has refused it. It was neither fine enough nor full
enough. It was not worthy. O my God, little girl--! What it means, to
appear inadequate to the woman one loves!"

Garth dropped his face between his hands with a groan.

Silence unbroken reigned in the library.

Suddenly Garth began to speak, low and quickly, without lifting his
head.

"Now," he said, "now I feel it, just as I told Brand, and never so
clearly before, excepting once, when I was alone. Ah, Miss Gray! Don't
move! Don't stir! But look all round the room and tell me whether you
see anything. Look at the window. Look at the door. Lean forward and
look behind the screen. I cannot believe we are alone. I will not
believe it. I am being deceived in my blindness. And yet--I am NOT
deceived. I am conscious of the presence of the woman I love. Her eyes
are fixed upon me in pity, sorrow, and compassion. Her grief at my woe
is so great that it almost enfolds me, as I had dreamed her love would
do ... O my God! She is so near--and it is so terrible, because I do
not wish her near. I would sooner a thousand miles were between us--and
I am certain there are not many yards! ... Is it psychic? or is it
actual? or am I going mad? ... Miss Gray! YOU would not lie to me. No
persuasion or bribery or confounded chicanery could induce YOU to
deceive me on this point. Look around, for God's sake, and tell me! Are
we alone? And if not, WHO IS IN THE ROOM besides you and me?"

Jane had been sitting with her arms folded upon the table, her yearning
eyes fixed upon Garth's bowed head. When he wished her a thousand miles
away she buried her face upon them. She was so near him that had Garth
stretched out his right hand again, it would have touched the heavy
coils of her soft hair. But Garth did not raise his head, and Jane
still sat with her face buried.

There was silence in the library for a few moments after Garth's
question and appeal. Then Jane lifted her face.

"There is no one in the room, Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary, "but
YOU--and ME."




CHAPTER XXVII

THE EYES GARTH TRUSTED


"So you enjoy motoring, Miss Gray?"

They had been out in the motor together for the first time, and were
now having tea together in the library, also for the first time; and,
for the first time, Nurse Rosemary was pouring out for her patient.
This was only Monday afternoon, and already her week-end experience had
won for her many new privileges.

"Yes, I like it, Mr. Dalmain; particularly in this beautiful air."

"Have you had a case before in a house where they kept a motor?"

Nurse Rosemary hesitated. "Yes, I have stayed in houses where they had
motors, and I have been in Dr. Brand's. He met me at Charing Cross once
with his electric brougham."

"Ah, I know," said Garth. "Very neat. On your way to a case, or
returning from a case?"

Nurse Rosemary smiled, then bit her lip. "To a case," she replied quite
gravely. "I was on my way to his house to talk it over and receive
instructions."

"It must be splendid working under such a fellow as Brand," said Garth;
"and yet I am certain most of the best things you do are quite your own
idea. For instance, he did not suggest your week-end plan, did he? I
thought not. Ah, the difference it has made! Now tell me. When we were
motoring we never slowed up suddenly to pass anything, or tooted to
make something move out of the way, without your having already told me
what we were going to pass or what was in the road a little way ahead.
It was: 'We shall be passing a hay cart at the next bend; there will be
just room, but we shall have to slow up'; or, 'An old red cow is in the
very middle of the road a little way on. I think she will move if we
hoot.' Then, when the sudden slow down and swerve came, or the toot
toot of the horn, I knew all about it and was not taken unawares. Did
you know how trying it is in blindness to be speeding along and
suddenly alter pace without having any idea why, or swerve to one side,
and not know what one has just been avoiding? This afternoon our spin
was pure pleasure, because not once did you let these things happen. I
knew all that was taking place, as soon as I should have known it had I
had my sight."

Jane pressed her hand over her bosom. Ah, how able she was always to
fill her boy's life with pure pleasure. How little of the needless
suffering of the blind should ever be his if she won the right to be
beside him always.

"Well, Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary, "I motored to the station
with Sir Deryck yesterday afternoon, and I noticed all you describe. I
have never before felt nervous in a motor, but I realised yesterday how
largely that is owing to the fact that all the time one keeps an
unconscious look-out; measuring distances, judging speed, and knowing
what each turn of the handle means. So when we go out you must let me
be eyes to you in this."

"How good you are!" said Garth, gratefully. "And did you see Sir Deryck
off?"

"No. I did not SEE Sir Deryck at all. But he said good-bye, and I felt
the kind, strong grip of his hand as he left me in the car. And I sat
there and heard his train start and rush away into the distance."

"Was it not hard to you to let him come and go and not to see his face?"

Jane smiled. "Yes, it was hard," said Nurse Rosemary; "but I wished to
experience that hardness."

"It gives one an awful blank feeling, doesn't it?" said Garth.

"Yes. It almost makes one wish the friend had not come."

"Ah--" There was a depth of contented comprehension in Garth's sigh;
and the brave heart, which had refused to lift the bandage to the very
last, felt more than recompensed.

"Next time I reach the Gulf of Partings in Sightless Land," continued
Garth, "I shall say: 'A dear friend has stood here for my sake.'"

"Oh, and one's meals," said Nurse Rosemary laughing. "Are they not
grotesquely trying?"

"Yes, of course; I had forgotten you would understand all that now. I
never could explain to you before why I must have my meals alone. You
know the hunt and chase?"

"Yes," said Nurse Rosemary, "and it usually resolves itself into 'gone
away,' and turns up afterwards unexpectedly! But, Mr. Dalmain, I have
thought out several ways of helping so much in that and making it all
quite easy. If you will consent to have your meals with me at a small
table, you will see how smoothly all will work. And later on, if I am
still here, when you begin to have visitors, you must let me sit at
your left, and all my little ways of helping would be so unobtrusive,
that no one would notice."

"Oh, thanks," said Garth. "I am immensely grateful. I have often been
reminded of a silly game we used to play at Overdene, at dessert, when
we were a specially gay party. Do you know the old Duchess of Meldrum?
Or anyway, you may have heard of her? Ah, yes, of course, Sir Deryck
knows her. She called him in once to her macaw. She did not mention the
macaw on the telephone, and Sir Deryck, thinking he was wanted for the
duchess, threw up an important engagement and went immediately. Luckily
she was at her town house. She would have sent just the same had she
been at Overdene. I wish you knew Overdene. The duchess gives perfectly
delightful 'best parties,' in which all the people who really enjoy
meeting one another find themselves together, and are well fed and well
housed and well mounted, and do exactly as they like; while the dear
old duchess tramps in and out, with her queer beasts and birds,
shedding a kindly and exciting influence wherever she goes. Last time I
was there she used to let out six Egyptian jerboas in the drawing-room
every evening after dinner, awfully jolly little beggars, like
miniature kangaroos. They used to go skipping about on their hind legs,
frightening some of the women into fits by hiding under their gowns,
and making young footmen drop trays of coffee cups. The last
importation is a toucan,--a South American bird, with a beak like a
banana, and a voice like an old sheep in despair. But Tommy, the
scarlet macaw, remains prime favourite, and I must say he is clever and
knows more than you would think."

"Well, at Overdene we used to play a silly game at dessert with
muscatels. We each put five raisins at intervals round our plates, then
we shut our eyes and made jabs at them with forks. Whoever succeeded
first in spiking and eating all five was the winner. The duchess never
would play. She enjoyed being umpire, and screaming at the people who
peeped. Miss Champion and I--she is the duchess's niece, you
know--always played fair, and we nearly always made a dead heat of it."

"Yes," said Nurse Rosemary, "I know that game. I thought of it at once
when I had my blindfold meals."

"Ah," cried Garth, "had I known, I would not have let you do it!"

"I knew that," said Nurse Rosemary. "That was why I week-ended."

Garth passed his cup to be refilled, and leaned forward confidentially.

"Now," he said, "I can venture to tell you one of my minor trials. I am
always so awfully afraid of there being a FLY in things. Ever since I
was a small boy I have had such a horror of inadvertently eating flies.
When I was about six, I heard a lady visitor say to my mother: 'Oh, one
HAS to swallow a fly--about once a year! I have just swallowed mine, on
the way here!' This terrible idea of an annual fly took possession of
my small mind. I used to be thankful when it happened, and I got it
over. I remember quickly finishing a bit of bread in which I had seen
signs of legs and wings, feeling it was an easy way of taking it and I
should thus be exempt for twelve glad months; but I had to run up and
down the terrace with clenched hands while I swallowed it. And when I
discovered the fallacy of the annual fly, I was just as particular in
my dread of an accidental one. I don't believe I ever sat down to
sardines on toast at a restaurant without looking under the toast for
my bugbear, though as I lifted it I felt rather like the old woman who
always looks under the bed for a burglar. Ah, but since the accident
this foolishly small thing HAS made me suffer! I cannot say: 'Simpson,
are you sure there is not a fly in this soup?' Simpson would say:
'No--sir; no fly--sir,' and would cough behind his hand, and I could
never ask him again."

Nurse Rosemary leaned forward and placed his cup where he could reach
it easily, just touching his right hand with the edge of the saucer.
"Have all your meals with me," she said, in a tone of such complete
understanding, that it was almost a caress; "and I can promise there
shall never be any flies in anything. Could you not trust my eyes for
this?"

And Garth replied, with a happy, grateful smile: "I could trust your
kind and faithful eyes for anything. Ah! and that reminds me: I want to
intrust to them a task I could confide to no one else. Is it twilight
yet, Miss Gray, or is an hour of daylight left to us?"

Nurse Rosemary glanced out of the window and looked at her watch. "We
ordered tea early," she said, "because we came in from our drive quite
hungry. It is not five o'clock yet, and a radiant afternoon. The sun
sets at half-past seven."

"Then the light is good," said Garth. "Have you finished tea? The sun
will be shining in at the west window of the studio. You know my studio
at the top of the house? You fetched the studies of Lady Brand from
there. I dare say you noticed stacks of canvases in the corners. Some
are unused; some contain mere sketches or studies; some are finished
pictures. Miss Gray, among the latter are two which I am most anxious
to identify and to destroy. I made Simpson guide me up the other day
and leave me there alone. And I tried to find them by touch; but I
could not be sure, and I soon grew hopelessly confused amongst all the
canvases. I did not wish to ask Simpson's help, because the subjects,
are--well, somewhat unusual, and if he found out I had destroyed them
it might set him wondering and talking, and one hates to awaken
curiosity in a servant. I could not fall back on Sir Deryck because he
would have recognised the portraits. The principal figure is known to
him. When I painted those pictures I never dreamed of any eye but my
own seeing them. So you, my dear and trusted secretary, are the one
person to whom I can turn. Will you do what I ask? And will you do it
now?"

Nurse Rosemary pushed back her chair. "Why of course, Mr. Dalmain. I am
here to do anything and everything you may desire; and to do it when
you desire it."

Garth took a key from his waistcoat pocket, and laid it on the table.
"There is the studio latch-key. I think the canvases I want are in the
corner furthest from the door, behind a yellow Japanese screen. They
are large--five feet by three and a half. If they are too cumbersome
for you to bring down, lay them face to face, and ring for Simpson. But
do not leave him alone with them."

Nurse Rosemary picked up the key, rose, and went over to the piano,
which she opened. Then she tightened the purple cord, which guided
Garth from his chair to the instrument.

"Sit and play," she said, "while I am upstairs, doing your commission.
But just tell me one thing. You know how greatly your work interests
me. When I find the pictures, is it your wish that I give them a mere
cursory glance, just sufficient for identification; or may I look at
them, in the beautiful studio light? You can trust me to do whichever
you desire."

The artist in Garth could not resist the wish to have his work seen and
appreciated. "You may look at them of course, if you wish," he sail.
"They are quite the best work I ever did, though I painted them wholly
from memory. That is--I mean, that used to be--a knack of mine. And
they are in no sense imaginary. I painted exactly what I saw--at least,
so far as the female face and figure are concerned. And they make the
pictures. The others are mere accessories." He stood up, and went to
the piano. His fingers began to stray softly amongst the harmonies of
the Veni.

Nurse Rosemary moved towards the door. "How shall I know them?" she
asked, and waited.

The chords of the Veni hushed to a murmur, Garth's voice from the piano
came clear and distinct, but blending with the harmonies as if he were
reciting to music.

"A woman and a man ... alone, in a garden--but the surroundings are
only indicated. She is in evening dress; soft, black, and trailing;
with lace at her breast. It is called: 'The Wife.'"

"Yes?"

"The same woman; the same scene; but without the man, this time. No
need to paint the man; for now--visible or invisible--to her, he is
always there. In her arms she holds"--the low murmur of chords ceased;
there was perfect silence in the room-"a little child. It is called:
'The Mother.'"

The Veni burst forth in an unrestrained upbearing of confident petition:

"Keep far our foes; give peace at home"--and the door closed behind
Nurse Rosemary.




CHAPTER XXVIII

IN THE STUDIO


Jane mounted to the studio; unlocked the door, and, entering, closed it
after her.

The evening sun shone through a western window, imparting an added
richness to the silk screens and hangings; the mauve wistaria of a
Japanese embroidery; or the golden dragon of China on a deep purple
ground, wound up in its own interminable tail, and showing rampant
claws in unexpected places.

Several times already Jane had been into Garth's studio, but always to
fetch something for which he waited eagerly below; and she had never
felt free to linger. Margery had a duplicate key; for she herself went
up every day to open the windows, dust tenderly all special treasures;
and keep it exactly as its owner had liked it kept, when his quick eyes
could look around it. But this key was always on Margery's bunch; and
Jane did not like to ask admission, and risk a possible refusal.

Now, however, she could take her own time; and she seated herself in
one of the low and very deep wicker lounge-chairs, comfortably
upholstered; so exactly fitting her proportions, and supporting arms,
knees, and head, just rightly, that it seemed as if all other chairs
would in future appear inadequate, owing to the absolute perfection of
this one. Ah, to be just that to her beloved! To so fully meet his
need, at every point, that her presence should be to him always a
source of strength, and rest, and consolation.

She looked around the room. It was so like Garth; every detail perfect;
every shade of colour enhancing another, and being enhanced by it. The
arrangements for regulating the light, both from roof and windows; the
easels of all kinds and sizes; clean bareness, where space, and freedom
from dust, were required; the luxurious comfort round the fireplace,
and in nooks and corners; all were so perfect. And the plain brown
wall-paper, of that beautiful quiet shade which has in it no red, and
no yellow; a clear nut-brown. On an easel near the further window stood
an unfinished painting; palette and brushes beside it, just as Garth
had left them when he went out on that morning, nearly three months
ago; and, vaulting over a gate to protect a little animal from
unnecessary pain, was plunged himself into such utter loss and anguish.

Jane rose, and took stock of all his quaint treasures on the
mantelpiece. Especially her mind was held and fascinated by a stout
little bear in brass, sitting solidly yet jauntily on its haunches, its
front paws clasping a brazen pole; its head turned sideways; its small,
beady, eyes, looking straight before it. The chain, from its neck to
the pole denoted captivity and possible fierceness. Jane had no doubt
its head would lift, and its body prove a receptacle for matches; but
she felt equally certain that, should she lift its head and look, no
matches would be within it. This little bear was unmistakably Early
Victorian; a friend of childhood's days; and would not be put to common
uses. She lifted the head. The body was empty. She replaced it gently
on the mantelpiece, and realised that she was deliberately postponing
an ordeal which must be faced.

Deryck had told her of Garth's pictures of the One Woman. Garth,
himself, had now told her even more. But the time had come when she
must see them for herself. It was useless to postpone the moment. She
looked towards the yellow screen.

Then she walked, over to the western window, and threw it wide open.
The sun was dipping gently towards the purple hills. The deep blue of
the sky began to pale, as a hint of lovely rose crept into it. Jane
looked heavenward and, thrusting her hands deeply into her pockets,
spoke aloud. "Before God" she said,--"in case I am never able to say or
think it again, I will say it now--I BELIEVE I WAS RIGHT. I considered
Garth's future happiness, and I considered my own. I decided as I did
for both our sakes, at terrible cost to present joy. But, before God, I
believed I was right; and--I BELIEVE IT STILL."

Jane never said it again.




CHAPTER XXIX

JANE LOOKS INTO LOVE'S MIRROR


Behind the yellow screen, Jane found a great confusion of canvases, and
unmistakable evidence of the blind hands which had groped about in a
vain search, and then made fruitless endeavours to sort and rearrange.
Very tenderly, Jane picked up each canvas from the fallen heap; turning
it the right way up, and standing it with its face to the wall.
Beautiful work, was there; some of it finished; some, incomplete. One
or two faces she knew, looked out at her in their pictured loveliness.
But the canvases she sought were not there.

She straightened herself, and looked around. In a further corner,
partly concealed by a Cairo screen, stood another pile. Jane went to
them.

Almost immediately she found the two she wanted; larger than the rest,
and distinguishable at a glance by the soft black gown of the central
figure.

Without giving them more than a passing look, she carried them over to
the western window, and placed them in a good light. Then she drew up
the chair in which she had been sitting; took the little brass bear in
her left hand, as a talisman to help her through what lay before her;
turned the second picture with its face to the easel; and sat down to
the quiet contemplation of the first.

The noble figure of a woman, nobly painted, was the first impression
which leapt from eye to brain. Yes, nobility came first, in stately
pose, in uplifted brow, in breadth of dignity. Then--as you marked the
grandly massive figure, too well-proportioned to be cumbersome, but
large and full, and amply developed; the length of limb; the firmly
planted feet; the large capable hands,--you realised the second
impression conveyed by the picture, to be strength;--strength to do;
strength to be; strength to continue. Then you looked into the face.
And there you were confronted with a great surprise. The third thought
expressed by the picture was Love--love, of the highest, holiest, most
ideal, kind; yet, withal, of the most tenderly human order; and you
found it in that face.

It was a large face, well proportioned to the figure. It had no
pretensions whatever to ordinary beauty. The features were good; there
was not an ugly line about them; and yet, each one just missed the
beautiful; and the general effect was of a good-looking plainness;
unadorned, unconcealed, and unashamed. But the longer you looked, the
more desirable grew the face; the less you noticed its negations; the
more you admired its honesty, its purity, its immense strength of
purpose; its noble simplicity. You took in all these outward details;
you looked away for a moment, to consider them; you looked back to
verify them; and then the miracle happened. Into the face had stolen
the "light that never was on sea or land." It shone from the quiet grey
eyes,--as, over the head of the man who knelt before her, they looked
out of the picture--with an expression of the sublime surrender of a
woman's whole soul to an emotion which, though it sways and masters
her, yet gives her the power to be more truly herself than ever before.
The startled joy in them; the marvel at a mystery not yet understood;
the passionate tenderness; and yet the almost divine compassion for the
unrestrained violence of feeling, which had flung the man to his knees,
and driven him to the haven of her breast; the yearning to soothe, and
give, and content;--all these were blended into a look of such
exquisite sweetness, that it brought tears to the eyes of the beholder.

The woman was seated on a broad marble parapet. She looked straight
before her. Her knees came well forward, and the long curve of the
train of her black gown filled the foreground on the right. On the
left, slightly to one side of her, knelt a man, a tall slight figure in
evening dress, his arms thrown forward around her waist; his face
completely hidden in the soft lace at her bosom; only the back of his
sleek dark head, visible. And yet the whole figure denoted a passion of
tense emotion. She had gathered him to her with what you knew must have
been an exquisite gesture, combining the utter self-surrender of the
woman, with the tender throb of maternal solicitude; and now her hands
were clasped behind his head, holding him closely to her. Not a word
was being spoken. The hidden face was obviously silent; and her firm
lips above his dark head were folded in a line of calm self-control;
though about them hovered the dawning of a smile of bliss ineffable.

A crimson rambler rose climbing some woodwork faintly indicated on the
left, and hanging in a glowing mass from the top left-hand corner,
supplied the only vivid colour in the picture.

But, from taking in these minor details, the eye returned to that calm
tender face, alight with love; to those strong capable hands, now
learning for the first time to put forth the protective passion of a
woman's tenderness; and the mind whispered the only possible name for
that picture: The Wife.

Jane gazed at it long, in silence. Had Garth's little bear been
anything less solid than Early Victorian brass; it must have bent and
broken under the strong pressure of those clenched hands.

She could not doubt, for a moment, that she looked upon herself; but,
oh, merciful heavens! how unlike the reflected self of her own mirror!
Once or twice as she looked, her mind refused to work, and she simply
gazed blankly at the minor details of the picture. But then again, the
expression of the grey eyes drew her, recalling so vividly every
feeling she had experienced when that dear head had come so
unexpectedly to its resting-place upon her bosom. "It is true," she
whispered; and again: "Yes; it is true. I cannot deny it. It is as I
felt; it must be as I looked."

And then, suddenly; she fell upon her knees before the picture. "Oh, my
God! Is that as I looked? And the next thing that happened was my boy
lifting his shining eyes and gazing at me in the moonlight. Is THIS
what he saw? Did I look SO? And did the woman who looked so; and who,
looking so, pressed his head down again upon her breast, refuse next
day to marry him, on the grounds of his youth, and her superiority?...
Oh, Garth, Garth! ... O God, help him to understand! ... help him
to forgive me!"

In the work-room just below, Maggie the housemaid was singing as she
sewed. The sound floated through the open window, each syllable
distinct in the clear Scotch voice, and reached Jane where she knelt.
Her mind, stunned to blankness by its pain, took eager hold upon the
words of Maggie's hymn. And they were these.

     "O Love, that will not let me go,
     I rest my weary soul in Thee;
     I give Thee back the life I owe,
     That in Thine ocean depths its flow
     May richer, fuller be."

     "O Light, that followest all my way,
     I yield my flick'ring torch to Thee;
     My heart restores its borrowed ray,
     That in Thy sunshine's blaze its day
     May brighter, fairer be."

Jane took the second picture, and placed it in front of the first.

The same woman, seated as before; but the man was not there; and in her
arms, its tiny dark head pillowed against the fulness of her breast,
lay a little child. The woman did not look over that small head, but
bent above it, and gazed into the baby face.

The crimson rambler had grown right across the picture, and formed a
glowing arch above mother and child. A majesty of tenderness was in the
large figure of the mother. The face, as regarded contour and features,
was no less plain; but again it was transfigured, by the mother-love
thereon depicted. You knew "The Wife" had more than fulfilled her
abundant promise. The wife was there in fullest realisation; and, added
to wifehood, the wonder of motherhood. All mysteries were explained;
all joys experienced; and the smile on her calm lips, bespoke ineffable
content.

A rambler rose had burst above them, and fallen in a shower of crimson
petals upon mother and child. The baby-fingers clasped tightly the soft
lace at her bosom. A petal had fallen upon the tiny wrist. She had
lifted her hand to remove it; and, catching the baby-eyes, so dark and
shining, paused for a moment, and smiled.

Jane, watching them, fell to desperate weeping. The "mere boy" had
understood her potential possibilities of motherhood far better than
she understood them herself. Having had one glimpse of her as "The
Wife," his mind had leaped on, and seen her as "The Mother." And again
she was forced to say: "It is true--yes; it is true."

And then she recalled the old line of cruel reasoning:

"It was not the sort of face one would have wanted to see always in
front of one at table." Was this the sort of face--this, as Garth had
painted it, after a supposed year of marriage? Would any man weary of
it, or wish to turn away his eyes?

Jane took one more long look. Then she dropped the little bear, and
buried her face in her hands; while a hot blush crept up to the very
roots of her hair, and tingled to her finger-tips.

Below, the fresh young voice was singing again.

     "O Joy, that seekest me through pain,
     I cannot close my heart to Thee;
     I trace the rainbow through the rain,
     And feel the promise is not vain
     That morn shall tearless be."

After a while Jane whispered: "Oh, my darling, forgive me. I was
altogether wrong. I will confess; and, God helping me, I will explain;
and, oh, my darling, you will forgive me?"

Once more she lifted her head and looked at the picture. A few stray
petals of the crimson rambler lay upon the ground; reminding her of
those crushed roses, which, falling from her breast, lay scattered on
the terrace at Shenstone, emblem of the joyous hopes and glory of love
which her decision of that night had laid in the dust of disillusion.
But crowning this picture, in rich clusters of abundant bloom, grew the
rambler rose. And through the open window came the final verse of
Maggie's hymn.

     "O Cross, that liftest up my head,
     I dare not ask to fly from Thee;
     I lay in dust life's glory dead,
     And from the ground there blossoms red
     Life that shall endless be."

Jane went to the western window, and stood, with her arms stretched
above her, looking out upon the radiance of the sunset. The sky blazed
into gold and crimson at the horizon; gradually as the eye lifted,
paling to primrose, flecked with rosy clouds; and, overhead, deep
blue--fathomless, boundless, blue.

Jane gazed at the golden battlements above the purple hills, and
repeated, half aloud: "And the city was of pure gold;--and had no need
of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it: for the glory of God
did lighten it. And there shall be no more death; neither sorrow, nor
crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are
passed away."

Ah, how much had passed away since she stood at that western window,
not an hour before. All life seemed readjusted; its outlook altered;
its perspective changed. Truly Garth had "gone behind his blindness."

Jane raised her eyes to the blue; and a smile of unspeakable
anticipation parted her lips. "Life, that shall endless be," she
murmured. Then, turning, found the little bear, and restored him to his
place upon the mantelpiece; put back the chair; closed the western
window; and, picking up the two canvases, left the studio, and made her
way carefully downstairs.




CHAPTER XXX

"THE LADY PORTRAYED"


"It has taken you long, Miss Gray. I nearly sent Simpson up, to find
out what had happened."

"I am glad you did not do that, Mr. Dalmain. Simpson would have found
me weeping on the studio floor; and to ask his assistance under those
circumstances, would have been more humbling than inquiring after the
fly in the soup!"

Garth turned quickly in his chair. The artist-ear had caught the tone
which meant comprehension of his work.

"Weeping!" he said. "Why?"

"Because," answered Nurse Rosemary, "I have been entranced. These
pictures are so exquisite. They stir one's deepest depths. And yet they
are so pathetic--ah, SO pathetic; because you have made a plain woman,
beautiful."

Garth rose to his feet, and turned upon her a face which would have
blazed, had it not been sightless.

"A WHAT?" he exclaimed.

"A plain woman," repeated Nurse Rosemary, quietly. "Surely you realised
your model to be that. And therein lies the wonder of the pictures. You
have so beautified her by wifehood, and glorified her by motherhood,
that the longer one looks the more one forgets her plainness; seeing
her as loving and loved; lovable, and therefore lovely. It is a triumph
of art."

Garth sat down, his hands clasped before him.

"It is a triumph of truth," he said. "I painted what I saw."

"You painted her soul," said Nurse Rosemary, "and it illuminated her
plain face."

"I SAW her soul," said Garth, almost in a whisper; "and that vision was
so radiant that it illumined my dark life. The remembrance lightens my
darkness, even now."

A very tender silence fell in the library.

The twilight deepened.

Then Nurse Rosemary spoke, very low. "Mr. Dalmain, I have a request to
make of you. I want to beg you not to destroy these pictures."

Garth lifted his head. "I must destroy them, child," he said. "I cannot
risk their being seen by people who would recognise my--the--the lady
portrayed."

"At all events, there is one person who must see them, before they are
destroyed."

"And that is?" queried Garth.

"The lady portrayed," said Nurse Rosemary, bravely.

"How do you know she has not seen them?"

"Has she?" inquired Nurse Rosemary.

"No," said Garth, shortly; "and she never will."

"She must."

Something in the tone of quiet insistence struck Garth.

"Why?" he asked; and listened with interest for the answer.

"Because of all it would mean to a woman who knows herself plain, to
see herself thus beautified."

Garth sat very still for a few moments. Then: "A woman
who--knows--herself--plain?" he repeated, with interrogative amazement
in his voice.

"Yes," proceeded Nurse Rosemary, encouraged. "Do you suppose, for a
moment, that that lady's mirror has ever shown her a reflection in any
way approaching what you have made her in these pictures? When we stand
before our looking-glasses, Mr. Dalmain, scowling anxiously at hats and
bows, and partings, we usually look our very worst; and that lady, at
her very worst, would be of a most discouraging plainness."

Garth sat perfectly silent.

"Depend upon it," continued Nurse Rosemary, "she never sees herself as
'The Wife'--'The Mother.' Is she a wife?".

Garth hesitated only the fraction of a second. "Yes," he said, very
quietly.

Jane's hands flew to her breast. Her heart must be held down, or he
would hear it throbbing.

Nurse Rosemary's voice had in it only a slight tremor, when she spoke
again.

"Is she a mother?"

"No," said Garth. "I painted what might have been."

"If--?"

"If it HAD been," replied Garth, curtly.

Nurse Rosemary felt rebuked. "Dear Mr. Dalmain," she said, humbly; "I
realise how officious I must seem to you, with all these questions, and
suggestions. But you must blame the hold these wonderful paintings of
yours have taken on my mind. Oh, they are beautiful--beautiful!"

"Ah," said Garth, the keen pleasure of the artist springing up once
more. "Miss Gray, I have somewhat forgotten them. Have you them here?
That is right. Put them up before you, and describe them to me. Let me
hear how they struck you, as pictures." Jane rose, and went to the
window. She threw it open; and as she breathed in the fresh air,
breathed out a passionate prayer that her nerve, her voice, her
self-control might not fail her, in this critical hour. She herself had
been convicted by Garth's pictures. Now she must convince Garth, by her
description of them. He must be made to believe in the love he had
depicted.

Then Nurse Rosemary sat down; and, in the gentle, unemotional voice,
which was quite her own, described to the eager ears of the blind
artist, exactly what Jane had seen in the studio.

It was perfectly done. It was mercilessly done. All the desperate,
hopeless, hunger for Jane, awoke in Garth; the maddening knowledge that
she had been his, and yet not his; that, had he pressed for her answer
that evening, it could not have been a refusal; that the cold
calculations of later hours, had no place in those moments of ecstasy.
Yet--he lost her--lost her! Why? Ah, why? Was there any possible reason
other than the one she gave?

Nurse Rosemary's quiet voice went on, regardless of his writhings. But
she was drawing to a close. "And it is such a beautiful crimson
rambler, Mr. Dalmain," she said. "I like the idea of its being small
and in bud, in the first picture; and blooming in full glory, in the
second."

Garth pulled himself together and smiled. He must not give way before
this girl.

"Yes," he said; "I am glad you noticed that. And, look here. We will
not destroy them at once. Now they are found, there is no hurry. I am
afraid I am giving you a lot of trouble; but will you ask for some
large sheets of brown paper, and make a package, and write upon it:
'Not to be opened,' and tell Margery to put them back in the studio.
Then, when I want them, at any time, I shall have no difficulty in
identifying them."

"I am so glad," said Nurse Rosemary. "Then perhaps the plain lady--"

"I cannot have her spoken of so," said Garth, hotly. "I do not know
what she thought of herself--I doubt if she ever gave a thought to self
at all. I do not know what you would have thought of her. I can only
tell you that, to me, hers is the one face which is visible in my
darkness. All the loveliness I have painted, all the beauty I have
admired, fades from my mental vision, as wreaths of mist; flutters from
memory's sight, as autumn leaves. Her face alone abides; calm, holy,
tender, beautiful,--it is always before me. And it pains me that one
who has only seen her as MY hand depicted her should speak of her as
plain."

"Forgive me," said Nurse Rosemary, humbly. "I did not mean to pain you,
sir. And, to show you what your pictures have done for me, may I tell
you a resolution I made in the studio? I cannot miss what they
depict--the sweetest joys of life--for want of the courage to confess
myself wrong; pocket my pride; and be frank and humble. I am going to
write a full confession to my young man, as to my share of the
misunderstanding which has parted us. Do you think he will understand?
Do you think he will forgive?"

Garth smiled. He tried to call up an image of a pretty troubled face,
framed in a fluffy setting of soft fair hair. It harmonised so little
with the voice; but it undoubtedly was Nurse Rosemary Gray, as others
saw her.

"He will be a brute if he doesn't, child," he said.




CHAPTER XXXI

IN LIGHTER VEIN


Dinner that evening, the first at their small round table, was a great
success. Nurse Rosemary's plans all worked well; and Garth delighted in
arrangements which made him feel less helpless.

The strain of the afternoon brought its reaction of merriment. A little
judicious questioning drew forth further stories of the duchess and her
pets; and Miss Champion's name came in with a frequency which they both
enjoyed.

It was a curious experience for Jane, to hear herself described in
Garth's vivid word-painting. Until that fatal evening at Shenstone, she
had been remarkably free from self-consciousness; and she had no idea
that she had a way of looking straight into people's eyes when she
talked to them, and that that was what muddled up "the silly little
minds of women who say they are afraid of her, and that she makes them
nervous! You see she looks right into their shallow shuffling little
souls, full of conceited thoughts about themselves, and nasty
ill-natured thoughts about her; and no wonder they grow panic-stricken,
and flee; and talk of her as 'that formidable Miss Champion.' I never
found her formidable; but, when I had the chance of a real talk with
her, I used to be thankful I had nothing of which to be ashamed. Those
clear eyes touched bottom every time, as our kindred over the water so
expressively put it."

Neither had Jane any idea that she always talked with a poker, if
possible; building up the fire while she built up her own argument; or
attacking it vigorously, while she demolished her opponent's; that she
stirred the fire with her toe, but her very smart boots never seemed
any the worse; that when pondering a difficult problem, she usually
stood holding her chin in her right hand, until she had found the
solution. All these small characteristics Garth described with vivid
touch, and dwelt upon with a tenacity of remembrance, which astonished
Jane, and revealed him, in his relation to herself three years before,
in a new light.

His love for her had been so suddenly disclosed, and had at once had to
be considered as a thing to be either accepted or put away; so that
when she decided to put it away, it seemed not to have had time to
become in any sense part of her life. She had viewed it; realised all
it might have meant; and put it from her.

But now she understood how different it had been for Garth. During the
week which preceded his declaration, he had realised, to the full, the
meaning of their growing intimacy; and, as his certainty increased, he
had more and more woven her into his life; his vivid imagination
causing her to appear as his beloved from the first; loved and wanted,
when as yet they were merely acquaintances; kindred spirits; friends.

To find herself thus shrined in his heart and memory was infinitely
touching to Jane; and seemed to promise, with sweet certainty, that it
would not be difficult to come home there to abide, when once all
barriers between them were removed.

After dinner, Garth sat long at the piano, filling the room with
harmony. Once or twice the theme of The Rosary crept in, and Jane
listened anxiously for its development; but almost immediately it gave
way to something else. It seemed rather to haunt the other melodies,
than to be actually there itself.

When Garth left the piano, and, guided by the purple cord, reached his
chair, Nurse Rosemary said gently "Mr. Dalmain, can you spare me for a
few days at the end of this week?"

"Oh, why?" said Garth. "To go where? And for how long? Ah, I know I
ought to say: 'Certainly! Delighted!' after all your goodness to me.
But I really cannot! You don't know what life was without you, when you
week-ended! That week-end seemed months, even though Brand was here. It
is your own fault for making yourself so indispensable."

Nurse Rosemary smiled. "I daresay I shall not be away for long," she
said. "That is, if you want me, I can return. But, Mr. Dalmain, I
intend to-night to write that letter of which I told you. I shall post
it to-morrow. I must follow it up almost immediately. I must be with
him when he receives it, or soon afterwards. I think--I hope--he will
want me at once. This is Monday. May I go on Thursday?"

Poor Garth looked blankly dismayed.

"Do nurses, as a rule, leave their patients, and rush off to their
young men in order to find out how they have liked their letters?" he
inquired, in mock protest.

"Not as a rule, sir," replied Nurse Rosemary, demurely. "But this is an
exceptional case."

"I shall wire to Brand."

"He will send you a more efficient and more dependable person."

"Oh you wicked little thing!" cried Garth. "If Miss Champion were here,
she would shake you! You, know perfectly well that nobody could fill
your place!"

"It is good of you to say so, sir," replied Nurse Rosemary, meekly.
"And is Miss Champion much addicted to shaking people?"



"Don't call me 'sir'! Yes; when people are tiresome she often says she
would like to shake them; and one has a mental vision of how their
teeth would chatter. There is a certain little lady of our acquaintance
whom we always call 'Mrs. Do-and-don't.' She isn't in our set; but she
calls upon it; and sometimes it asks her to lunch, for fun. If you
inquire whether she likes a thing, she says: 'Well, I do, and I don't.'
If you ask whether she is going to a certain function, she says: 'Well,
I am, and I'm not.' And if you send her a note, imploring a straight
answer to a direct question, the answer comes back: 'Yes AND no.' Miss
Champion used to say she would like to take her up by the scruff of her
feather boa, and shake her, asking at intervals: 'Shall I stop?' so as
to wring from Mrs. Do-and-don't a definite affirmative, for once."

"Could Miss Champion carry out such a threat? Is she a very massive
person?"

"Well, she could, you know; but she wouldn't. She is most awfully kind,
even to little freaks she laughs at. No, she isn't massive. That word
does not describe her at all. But she is large, and very finely
developed. Do you know the Venus of Milo? Yes; in the Louvre. I am glad
you know Paris. Well, just imagine the Venus of Milo in a tailor-made
coat and skirt,--and you have Miss Champion."

Nurse Rosemary laughed, hysterically. Either the Venus of Milo, or Miss
Champion, or this combination of both, proved too much for her.

"Little Dicky Brand summed up Mrs. Do-and-don't rather well," pursued
Garth. "She was calling at Wimpole Street, on Lady Brand's 'at home'
day. And Dicky stood talking to me, in his black velvets and white
waistcoat, a miniature edition of Sir Deryck. He indicated Mrs.
Do-and-don't on a distant lounge, and remarked: 'THAT lady never KNOWS;
she always THINKS. I asked her if her little girl might come to my
party, and she said: "I think so." Now if she had asked ME if I was
coming to HER party, I should have said: "Thank you; I am." It is very
trying when people only THINK about important things, such as little
girls and parties; because their thinking never amounts to much. It
does not so much matter what they think about other things--the
weather, for instance; because that all happens, whether they think or
not. Mummie asked that lady whether it was raining when she got here;
and she said: "I THINK not." I can't imagine why Mummie always wants to
know what her friends think about the weather. I have heard her ask
seven ladies this afternoon whether it is raining. Now if father or I
wanted to know whether it was raining we should just step over to the
window, and look out; and then come back and go do with really
interesting conversation. But Mummie asks them whether it is raining,
or whether they think it has been raining, or is going to rain; and
when they have told her, she hurries away and asks somebody else. I
asked the thinking lady in the feather thing, whether she knew who the
father and mother were, of the young lady whom Cain married; and she
said: "Well, I do; and I don't." I said: "If you DO, perhaps you will
tell me. And if you DON'T, perhaps you would like to take my hand, and
we will walk over together and ask the Bishop--the one with the thin
legs, and the gold cross, talking to Mummie." But she thought she had
to go, quite in a hurry. So I saw her off; and then asked the Bishop
alone. Bishops are most satisfactory kind of people; because they are
quite sure about everything; and you feel safe in quoting them to
Nurse. Nurse told Marsdon that this one is in "sheep's clothing,"
because he wears a gold cross. I saw the cross; but I saw no sheep's
clothing. I was looking out for the kind of woolly thing our new curate
wears on his back in church. Should you call that "sheep's clothing"? I
asked father, and he said: "No. Bunny-skin." And mother seemed as
shocked as if father and I had spoken in church, instead of just as we
came out. And she said: "It is a B.A. hood." Possibly she thinks "baa"
is spelled with only one "a." Anyway father and I felt it best to let
the subject drop.'"

Nurse Rosemary laughed. "How exactly like Dicky," she said. "I could
hear his grave little voice, and almost see him pull down his small
waistcoat!"

"Why, do you know the little chap?" asked Garth.

"Yes," replied Nurse Rosemary; "I have stayed with them. Talking to
Dicky is an education; and Baby Blossom is a sweet romp. Here comes
Simpson. How quickly the evening has flown. Then may I be off on
Thursday?"

"I am helpless," said Garth. "I cannot say 'no.' But suppose you do not
come back?"

"Then you can wire to Dr. Brand."

"I believe you want to leave me," said Garth reproachfully.

"I do, and I don't!" laughed Nurse Rosemary; and fled from his
outstretched hands.

      *      *      *      *      *

When Jane had locked the letter-bag earlier that evening, and handed it
to Simpson, she had slipped in two letters of her own. One was
addressed to

         Georgina, Duchess of Meldrum

              Portland Place

The other, to

         Sir Deryck Brand

             Wimpole Street

Both were marked: Urgent. If absent, forward immediately.




CHAPTER XXXII

AN INTERLUDE


Tuesday passed uneventfully, to all outward seeming.

There was nothing to indicate to Garth that his secretary had sat up
writing most of the night; only varying that employment by spending
long moments in silent contemplation of his pictures, which had found a
temporary place of safety, on their way back to the studio, in a deep
cupboard in her room, of which she had the key.

If Nurse Rosemary marked, with a pang of tender compunction, the worn
look on Garth's face, telling how mental suffering had chased away
sleep; she made no comment thereupon.

Thus Tuesday passed, in uneventful monotony.

Two telegrams had arrived for Nurse Gray in the course of the morning.
The first came while she was reading a Times leader aloud to Garth.
Simpson brought it in, saying: "A telegram for you, miss."

It was always a source of gratification to Simpson afterwards, that,
almost from the first, he had been led, by what he called his "unHaided
HintuHition," to drop the "nurse," and address Jane with the
conventional "miss." In time he almost convinced himself that he had
also discerned in her "a Honourable"; but this, Margery Graem firmly
refused to allow. She herself had had her "doots," and kept them to
herself; but all Mr. Simpson's surmisings had been freely expressed and
reiterated in the housekeeper's room; and never a word about any
honourable lead passed Mr. Simpson's lips. Therefore Mrs. Graem berated
him for being so ready to "go astray and speak lies." But Maggie, the
housemaid, had always felt sure Mr. Simpson knew more than he said.
"Said more than he knew, you mean," prompted old Margery. "No,"
retorted Maggie, "I know what I said; and I said what I meant." "You
may have said what you meant, but you did not mean what you knew,"
insisted Margery; "and if anybody says another word on the matter, _I_
shall say grace and dismiss the table," continued old Margery,
exercising the cloture, by virtue of her authority, in a way which
Simpson and Maggie, who both wished for cheese, afterwards described as
"mean."

But this was long after the uneventful Tuesday, when Simpson entered,
with a salver; and, finding Jane enveloped in the Times, said: "A
telegram for you, miss."

Nurse Rosemary took it; apologised for the interruption, and opened it.
It was from the duchess, and ran thus:

MOST INCONVENIENT, AS YOU VERY WELL KNOW; BUT AM LEAVING EUSTON
TO-NIGHT. WILL AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS AT ABERDEEN.

Nurse Rosemary smiled, and put the telegram into her pocket. "No
answer, thank you, Simpson."

"Not bad news, I hope?" asked Garth.

"No," replied Nurse Rosemary; "but it makes my departure on Thursday
imperative. It is from an old aunt of mine, who is going to my 'young
man's' home. I must be with him before she is, or there will be endless
complications."

"I don't believe he will ever let you go again, when once he gets you
back," remarked Garth, moodily.

"You think not?" said Nurse Rosemary, with a tender little smile, as
she took up the paper, and resumed her reading.

The second telegram arrived after luncheon. Garth was at the piano,
thundering Beethoven's Funeral March on the Death of a Hero. The room
was being rent asunder by mighty chords; and Simpson's smug face and
side-whiskers appearing noiselessly in the doorway, were an
insupportable anticlimax. Nurse Rosemary laid her finger on her lips;
advanced with her firm noiseless tread, and took the telegram. She
returned to her seat and waited until the hero's obsequies were over,
and the last roll of the drums had died away. Then she opened the
orange envelope. And as she opened it, a strange thing happened. Garth
began to play The Rosary. The string of pearls dropped in liquid sound
from his fingers; and Nurse Rosemary read her telegram. It was from the
doctor, and said: SPECIAL LICENSE EASILY OBTAINED. FLOWER AND I WILL
COME WHENEVER YOU WISH. WIRE AGAIN.

The Rosary drew to a soft melancholy close.

"What shall I play next?" asked Garth, suddenly.

"Veni, Creator Spiritus," said Nurse Rosemary; and bowed her head in
prayer.




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.




CHAPTER XXXIV

"LOVE NEVER FAILETH"


Garth was standing at the open window, when Nurse Rosemary re-entered
the library; and he did not turn, immediately.

She looked anxiously for the letter, and saw it laid ready on her side
of the table. It bore signs of having been much crumpled; looking
almost as a letter might appear which had been crushed into a ball,
flung into the waste-paper basket, and afterwards retrieved. It had,
however, been carefully smoothed out; and lay ready to her hand.

When Garth turned from the window and passed to his chair, his face
bore the signs of a great struggle. He looked as one who, sightless,
has yet been making frantic efforts to see. The ivory pallor was gone.
His face was flushed; and his thick hair, which grew in beautiful
curves low upon his forehead and temples, and was usually carefully
brushed back in short-cropped neatness, was now ruffled and disordered.
But his voice was completely under control, as he turned towards his
secretary.

"My dear Miss Gray," he said, "we have a difficult task before us. I
have received a letter, which it is essential I should hear. I am
obliged to ask you to read it to me, because there is absolutely no one
else to whom I can prefer such a request. I cannot but know that it
will be a difficult and painful task for you, feeling yourself an
intermediary between two wounded and sundered hearts. May I make it
easier, my dear little girl, by assuring you that I know of no one in
this world from whose lips I could listen to the contents of that
letter with less pain; and, failing my own, there are no eyes beneath
which I could less grudgingly let it pass, there is no mind I could so
unquestioningly trust, to judge kindly, both of myself and of the
writer; and to forget faithfully, all which was not intended to come
within the knowledge of a third person."

"Thank you, Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary.

Garth leaned back in his chair, shielding his face with his hand.

"Now, if you please," he said. And, very clearly and quietly, Nurse
Rosemary began to read.

"DEAR GARTH, As you will not let me come to you, so that I could say,
between you and me alone, that which must be said, I am compelled to
write it. It is your own fault, Dal; and we both pay the penalty. For
how can I write to you freely when I know, that as you listen, it will
seem to you of every word I am writing, that I am dragging a third
person into that which ought to be, most sacredly, between you and me
alone. And yet, I must write freely; and I must make you fully
understand; because the whole of your future life and mine will depend
upon your reply to this letter. I must write as if you were able to
hold the letter in your own hands, and read it to yourself. Therefore,
if you cannot completely trust your secretary, with the private history
of your heart and mine, bid her give it you back without turning this
first page; and let me come myself, Garth, and tell you all the rest."

"That is the bottom of the page," said Nurse Rosemary; and waited.

Garth did not remove his hand. "I do completely trust; and she must not
come," he said.

Nurse Rosemary turned the page, and went on reading.

"I want you to remember, Garth, that every word I write, is the simple
unvarnished truth. If you look back over your remembrance of me, you
will admit that I am not naturally an untruthful person, nor did I ever
take easily to prevarication. But, Garth, I told you one lie; and that
fatal exception proves the rule of perfect truthfulness, which has
always otherwise held, between you and me; and, please God, always will
hold. The confession herein contained, concerns that one lie; and I
need not ask you to realise how humbling it is to my pride to have to
force the hearing of a confession upon the man who has already refused
to admit me to a visit of friendship. You will remember that I am not
naturally humble; and have a considerable amount of proper pride; and,
perhaps, by the greatness of the effort I have had to make, you will be
able to gauge the greatness of my love. God help you to do so--my
darling; my beloved; my poor desolate boy!"

Nurse Rosemary stopped abruptly; for, at this sudden mention of love,
and at these words of unexpected tenderness from Jane, Garth had risen
to his feet, and taken two steps towards the window; as if to escape
from something too immense to be faced. But, in a moment he recovered
himself, and sat down again, completely hiding his face with his hand.

Nurse Rosemary resumed the reading of the letter.

"Ah, what a wrong I have done, both to you, and to myself! Dear, you
remember the evening on the terrace at Shenstone, when you asked me to
be--when you called me--when I WAS--YOUR WIFE? Garth, I leave this last
sentence as it stands, with its two attempts to reach the truth. I will
not cross them out, but leave them to be read to you; for, you see
Garth, I finally arrived! I WAS your wife. I did not understand it
then. I was intensely surprised; unbelievably inexperienced in matters
of feeling; and bewildered by the flood of sensation which swept me off
my feet and almost engulfed me. But even then I knew that my soul arose
and proclaimed you mate and master. And when you held me, and your dear
head lay upon my heart, I knew, for the first time the meaning of the
word ecstasy; and I could have asked no kinder gift of heaven, than to
prolong those moments into hours."

Nurse Rosemary's quiet voice broke, suddenly; and the reading ceased.

Garth was leaning forward, his head buried in his hands. A dry sob rose
in his throat, just at the very moment when Nurse Rosemary's voice gave
way.

Garth recovered first. Without lifting his head, with a gesture of
protective affection and sympathy, he stretched his hand across the
table.

"Poor little girl," he said, "I am so sorry. It is rough on you. If
only it had come when Brand was here! I am afraid you MUST go on; but
try to read without realising. Leave the realising to me."

And Nurse Rosemary read on.

"When you lifted your head in the moonlight and gazed long and
earnestly at me--Ah, those dear eyes!--your look suddenly made me
self-conscious. There swept over me a sense of my own exceeding
plainness, and of how little there was in what those dear eyes saw, to
provide reason, for that adoring look. Overwhelmed with a shy shame I
pressed your head back to the place where the eyes would be hidden; and
I realise now what a different construction you must have put upon that
action. Garth, I assure you, that when you lifted your head the second
time, and said, 'My wife,' it was the first suggestion to my mind that
this wonderful thing which was happening meant--marriage. I know it
must seem almost incredible, and more like a child of eighteen, than a
woman of thirty. But you must remember, all my dealings with men up to
that hour had been handshakes, heartiest comradeship, and an occasional
clap on the shoulder given and received. And don't forget, dear King of
my heart, that, until one short week before, you had been amongst the
boys who called me 'good old Jane,' and addressed me in intimate
conversation as 'my dear fellow'! Don't forget that I had always looked
upon you as YEARS younger than myself; and though a strangely sweet tie
had grown up between us, since the evening of the concert at Overdene,
I had never realised it as love. Well--you will remember how I asked
for twelve hours to consider my answer; and you yielded, immediately;
(you were so perfect, all the time, Garth) and left me, when I asked to
be alone; left me, with a gesture I have never forgotten. It was a
revelation of the way in which the love of a man such as you exalts the
woman upon whom it is outpoured. The hem of that gown has been a sacred
thing to me, ever since. It is always with me, though I never wear
it.--A detailed account of the hours which followed, I shall hope to
give you some day, my dearest. I cannot write it. Let me hurl on to
paper, in all its crude ugliness, the miserable fact which parted us;
turning our dawning joy to disillusion and sadness. Garth--it was this.
I did not believe your love would stand the test of my plainness. I
knew what a worshipper of beauty you were; how you must have it, in one
form or another, always around you. I got out my diary in which I had
recorded verbatim our conversation about the ugly preacher, whose face
became illumined into beauty, by the inspired glory within. And you
added that you never thought him ugly again; but he would always be
plain. And you said it was not the sort of face one would want to have
always before one at meals; but that you were not called upon to
undergo that discipline, which would be sheer martyrdom to you."

"I was so interested, at the time; and so amused at the unconscious way
in which you stood and explained this, to quite the plainest woman of
your acquaintance, that I recorded it very fully in my journal.--Alas!
On that important night, I read the words, over and over, until they
took morbid hold upon my brain. Then--such is the self-consciousness
awakened in a woman by the fact that she is loved and sought--I turned
on all the lights around my mirror, and critically and carefully
examined the face you would have to see every day behind your
coffee-pot at breakfast, for years and years, if I said 'Yes,' on the
morrow. Darling, I did not see myself through your eyes, as, thank God,
I have done since. And I DID NOT TRUST YOUR LOVE TO STAND THE TEST. It
seemed to me, I was saving both of us from future disappointment and
misery, by bravely putting away present joy, in order to avoid certain
disenchantment. My beloved, it will seem to you so coolly calculating,
and so mean; so unworthy of the great love you were even then lavishing
upon me. But remember, for years, your remarkable personal grace and
beauty had been a source of pleasure to me; and I had pictured you
wedded to Pauline Lister, for instance, in her dazzling whiteness, and
soft radiant youth. So my morbid self-consciousness said: 'What! This
young Apollo, tied to my ponderous plainness; growing handsomer every
year, while I grow older and plainer?' Ah, darling! It sounds so
unworthy, now we know what our love is. But it sounded sensible and
right that night; and at last, with a bosom that ached, and arms that
hung heavy at the thought of being emptied of all that joy, I made up
my mind to say 'no.' Ah, believe me, I had no idea what it already
meant to you. I thought you would pass on at once to another fancy; and
transfer your love to one more able to meet your needs, at every point.
Honestly, Garth, I thought I should be the only one left
desolate.--Then came the question: how to refuse you. I knew if I gave
the true reason, you would argue it away, and prove me wrong, with
glowing words, before which I should perforce yield. So--as I really
meant not to let you run the risk, and not to run it myself--I lied to
you, my beloved. To you, whom my whole being acclaimed King of my
heart, Master of my will; supreme to me, in love and life,--to YOU I
said: 'I cannot marry a mere boy.' Ah, darling! I do not excuse it. I
do not defend it. I merely confess it; trusting to your generosity to
admit, that no other answer would have sent you away. Ah, your poor
Jane, left desolate! If you could have seen her in the little church,
calling you back; retracting and promising; listening for your
returning footsteps, in an agony of longing. But my Garth is not made
of the stuff which stands waiting on the door-mat of a woman's
indecision."

"The lonely year which followed so broke my nerve, that Deryck Brand
told me I was going all to pieces, and ordered me abroad. I went, as
you know; and in other, and more vigorous, surroundings, there came to
me a saner view of life. In Egypt last March, on the summit of the
Great Pyramid, I made up my mind that I could live without you no
longer. I did not see myself wrong; but I yearned so for your love, and
to pour mine upon you, my beloved, that I concluded it was worth the
risk. I made up my mind to take the next boat home, and send for you.
Then--oh, my own boy--I heard. I wrote to you; and you would not let me
come."

"Now I know perfectly well, that you might say: 'She did not trust me
when I had my sight. Now that I cannot see, she is no longer afraid.'
Garth, you might, say that; but it would not be true. I have had ample
proof lately that I was wrong, and ought to have trusted you all
through. What it is, I will tell you later. All I can say now is: that,
if your dear shining eyes could see, they would see, NOW, a woman who
is, trustfully and unquestioningly, all your own. If she is doubtful of
her face and figure, she says quite simply: 'They pleased HIM; and they
are just HIS. I have no further right to criticise them. If he wants
them, they are not mine, but his.' Darling, I cannot tell you now, how
I have arrived at this assurance. But I have had proofs beyond words of
your faithfulness and love."

"The question, therefore, simply resolves itself into this: Can you
forgive me? If you can forgive me, I can come to you at once. If this
thing is past forgiveness, I must make up my mind to stay away. But,
oh, my own Dear,--the bosom on which once you laid your head waits for
you with the longing ache of lonely years. If you need it, do not
thrust it from you."

"Write me one word by your own hand: 'Forgiven.' It is all I ask. When
it reaches me, I will come to you at once. Do not dictate a letter to
your secretary. I could not bear it. Just write--if you can truly write
it--'FORGIVEN'; and send it to 'Your Wife.'"

The room was very still, as Nurse Rosemary finished reading; and,
laying down the letter, silently waited. She wondered for a moment
whether she could get herself a glass of water, without disturbing him;
but decided to do without it.

At last Garth lifted his head.

"She has asked me to do a thing impossible," he said; and a slow smile
illumined his drawn face.

Jane clasped her hands upon her breast.

"CAN you not write 'forgiven'?" asked Nurse Rosemary, brokenly.

"No," said Garth. "I cannot. Little girl, give me a sheet of paper, and
a pencil."

Nurse Rosemary placed them close to his hand.

Garth took up the pencil. He groped for the paper; felt the edges with
his left hand; found the centre with his fingers; and, in large firm
letters, wrote one word.

"Is that legible?" he asked, passing it across to Nurse Rosemary.

"Quite legible," she said; for she answered before it was blotted by
her tears.

Instead of "forgiven," Garth had written: "LOVED."

"Can you post it at once?" Garth asked, in a low, eager voice. "And she
will come--oh, my God, she will come! If we catch to-night's mail, she
may be here the day after to-morrow!"

Nurse Rosemary took up the letter; and, by an almost superhuman effort,
spoke steadily.

"Mr. Dalmain," she said; "there is a postscript to this letter. It
says: 'Write to The Palace Hotel, Aberdeen.'"

Garth sprang up, his whole face and figure alive with excitement.

"In Aberdeen?" he cried. "Jane, in Aberdeen! Oh, my God! If she gets
this paper to-morrow morning, she may be here any time in the day.
Jane! Jane! Dear little Rosemary, do you hear? Jane will come
to-morrow! Didn't I tell you something was going to happen? You and
Simpson were too British to understand; but Margery knew; and the woods
told us it was Joy coming through Pain. Could that be posted at once,
Miss Gray?"

The May-Day mood was upon him again. His face shone. His figure was
electric with expectation. Nurse Rosemary sat at the table watching
him; her chin in her hands. A tender smile dawned on her lips, out of
keeping with her supposed face and figure; so full was it of the
glorious expectation of a mature and perfect love.

"I will go to the post-office myself, Mr. Dalmain," she said. "I shall
be glad of the walk; and I can be back by tea-time."

At the post-office she did not post the word in Garth's handwriting.
That lay hidden in her bosom. But she sent off two telegrams. The first
to

    The Duchess of Meldyum,

    Palace Hotel, Aberdeen.

    "Come here by 5.50 train without fail this evening."

The second to

    Sir Deryck Brand,

    Wimpole Sheet, London.

    "All is right."




CHAPTER XXXV

NURSE ROSEMARY HAS HER REWARD


"Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary, with patient insistence, "I really
do want you to sit down, and give your mind to the tea-table. How can
you remember where each thing is placed, if you keep jumping up, and
moving your chair into different positions? And last time you pounded
the table to attract my attention, which was already anxiously fixed
upon you, you nearly knocked over your own tea, and sent floods of mine
into the saucer. If you cannot behave better, I shall ask Margery for a
pinafore, and sit you up on a high chair!"

Garth stretched his legs in front of him, and his arms over his head;
and lay back in his chair, laughing joyously.

"Then I should have to say: 'Please, Nurse, may I get down?' What a
cheeky little thing you are becoming! And you used to be quite
oppressively polite. I suppose you would answer: 'If you say your grace
nicely, Master Garth, you may.' Do you know the story of 'Tommy, you
should say Your Grace'?"

"You have told it to me twice in the last forty-eight hours," said
Nurse Rosemary, patiently.

"Oh, what a pity! I felt so like telling it now. If you had really been
the sort of sympathetic person Sir Deryck described, you would have
said: 'No; and I should so LOVE to hear it!'"

"No; and I should so LOVE to hear it!" said Nurse Rosemary.

"Too late! That sort of thing, to have any value should be spontaneous.
It need not be true; but it MUST be spontaneous. But, talking of a high
chair,--when you say those chaffy things in a voice like Jane's, and
just as Jane would have said them--oh, my wig!--Do you know, that is
the duchess's only original little swear. All the rest are quotations.
And when she says: 'My wig!' we all try not to look at it. It is
usually slightly awry. The toucan tweaks it. He is so very LOVING, dear
bird!"

"Now hand me the buttered toast," said Nurse Rosemary; "and don't tell
me any more naughty stories about the duchess. No! That is the thin
bread-and-butter. I told you you would lose your bearings. The toast is
in a warm plate on your right. Now let us make believe I am Miss
Champion, and hand it to me, as nicely as you will be handing it to
her, this time to-morrow."

"It is easy to make believe you are Jane, with that voice," said Garth;
"and yet--I don't know. I have never really associated you with her.
One little sentence of old Rob's made all the difference to me. He said
you had fluffy floss-silk sort of hair. No one could ever imagine Jane
with fluffy floss-silk sort of hair! And I believe that one sentence
saved the situation. Otherwise, your voice would have driven me mad,
those first days. As it was, I used to wonder sometimes if I could
possibly bear it. You understand why, now; don't you? And yet, in a
way, it is NOT like hers. Hers is deeper; and she often speaks with a
delicious kind of drawl, and uses heaps of slang; and you are such a
very proper little person; and possess what the primers call 'perfectly
correct diction.' What fun it would be to hear you and Jane talk
together! And yet--I don't know. I should be on thorns, all the time."

"Why?"

"I should be so awfully afraid lest you should not like one another.
You see, YOU have really, in a way, been more to me than any one else
in the world; and SHE--well, she IS my world," said Garth, simply. "And
I should be so afraid lest she should not fully appreciate you; and you
should not quite understand her. She has a sort of way of standing and
looking people up and down, and, women hate it; especially pretty
fluffy little women. They feel she spots all the things that come off."

"Nothing of mine comes off," murmured Nurse Rosemary, "excepting my
patient, when he will not stay on his chair."

"Once," continued Garth, with the gleeful enjoyment in his voice which
always presaged a story in which Jane figured, "there was a fearfully
silly little woman staying at Overdene, when a lot of us were there. We
never could make out why she was included in one of the duchess's 'best
parties,' except that the dear duchess vastly enjoyed taking her off,
and telling stories about her; and we could not appreciate the
cleverness of the impersonation, unless we had seen the original. She
was rather pretty, in a fussy, curling-tongs, wax-doll sort of way; but
she never could let her appearance alone, or allow people to forget it.
Almost every sentence she spoke, drew attention to it. We got very sick
of it, and asked Jane to make her shut up. But Jane said: 'It doesn't
hurt you, boys; and it pleases her. Let her be.' Jane was always extra
nice to people, if she suspected they were asked down in order to make
sport for the duchess afterwards. Jane hated that sort of thing. She
couldn't say much to her aunt; but we had to be very careful how we
egged the duchess on, if Jane was within hearing. Well--one evening,
after tea, a little group of us were waiting around the fire in the
lower hall, to talk to Jane. It was Christmas time. The logs looked so
jolly on the hearth. The red velvet curtains were drawn right across,
covering the terrace door and the windows on either side. Tommy sat on
his perch, in the centre of the group, keeping a keen lookout for
cigarette ends. Outside, the world was deep in snow; and that wonderful
silence reigned; making the talk and laughter within all the more gay
by contrast--you know, that PENETRATING silence; when trees, and
fields, and paths, are covered a foot thick in soft sparkling
whiteness. I always look forward, just as eagerly, each winter to the
first sight--ah, I forgot! ... Fancy never seeing snow again! ...
Never mind. It is something to remember HAVING seen it; and I shall
hear the wonderful snow-silence more clearly than ever. Perhaps before
other people pull up the blinds, I shall be able to say: 'There's been
a fall of snow in the night.' What was I telling you? Yes, I remember.
About little Mrs. Fussy. Well--all the women had gone up to dress for
dinner; excepting Jane, who never needed more than half an hour; and
Fussy, who was being sprightly, in a laboured way; and fancied herself
the centre of attraction which kept us congregated in the hall. As a
matter of fact, we were waiting to tell Jane some private news we had
just heard about a young chap in the guards, who was in fearful hot
water for ragging. His colonel was an old friend of Jane's, and we
thought she could put in a word, and improve matters for Billy. So Mrs.
Fussy was very much de trop, and didn't know it. Jane was sitting with
her back to all of us, her feet on the fender, and her skirt turned up
over her knees. Oh, there was another one, underneath; a handsome silk
thing, with rows of little frills,--which you would think should have
gone on outside. But Jane's best things are never paraded; always
hidden. I don't mean clothes, now; but her splendid self. Well--little
Fussy was 'chatting'--she never talked--about herself and her
conquests; quite unconscious that we all wished her at Jericho. Jane
went on reading the evening paper; but she felt the atmosphere growing
restive. Presently--ah, but I must not tell you the rest. I have just
remembered. Jane made us promise never to repeat it. She thought it
detrimental to the other woman. But we just had time for our confab;
and Jane caught the evening post with the letter which got Billy off
scot-free; and yet came down punctually to dinner, better dressed than
any of them. We felt it rather hard luck to have to promise; because we
had each counted on being the first to tell the story to the duchess.
But, you know, you always have to do as Jane says."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know! I can't explain why. If you knew her, you would not
need to ask. Cake, Miss Gray?"

"Thank you. Right, this time."

"There! That is exactly as Jane would have said: 'Right, this time.' Is
it not strange that after having for weeks thought your voice so like
hers, to-morrow I shall be thinking her voice so like yours?"

"Oh, no, you will not," said Nurse Rosemary. "When she is with you, you
will have no thoughts for other people."

"Indeed, but I shall!" cried Garth. "And, dear little Rosemary, I shall
miss you, horribly. No one--not even she--can take your place. And, do
you know," he leaned forward, and a troubled look clouded the gladness
of his face, "I am beginning to feel anxious about it. She has not seen
me since the accident. I am afraid it will give her a shock. Do you
think she will find me much changed?"

Jane looked at the sightless face turned so anxiously toward her. She
remembered that morning in his room, when he thought himself alone with
Dr. Rob; and, leaving the shelter of the wall, sat up to speak, and she
saw his face for the first time. She remembered turning to the
fireplace, so that Dr. Rob should not see the tears raining down her
cheeks. She looked again at Garth--now growing conscious, for the first
time, of his disfigurement; and then, only for her sake--and an almost
overwhelming tenderness gripped her heart. She glanced at the clock.
She could not hold out much longer.

"Is it very bad?" said Garth; and his voice shook.

"I cannot answer for another woman," replied Nurse Rosemary; "but I
should think your face, just as it is, will always be her joy."

Garth flushed; pleased and relieved, but slightly surprised. There was
a quality in Nurse Rosemary's voice, for which he could not altogether
account.

"But then, she will not be accustomed to my blind ways," he continued.
"I am afraid I shall seem so helpless and so blundering. She has not
been in Sightless Land, as you and I have been. She does not know all
our plans of cords, and notches, and things. Ah, little Rosemary!
Promise not to leave me to-morrow. I want Her--only God, knows how I
want her; but I begin to be half afraid. It will be so wonderful, for
the great essentials; but, for the little every-day happenings, which
are so magnified by the darkness, oh, my kind unseen guide, how I shall
need you. At first, I thought it lucky you had settled to go, just when
she is coming; but now, just because she is coming, I cannot let you
go. Having her will be wonderful beyond words; but it will not be the
same as having you."

Nurse Rosemary was receiving her reward, and she appeared to find it
rather overwhelming.

As soon as she could speak, she said, gently: "Don't excite yourself
over it, Mr. Dalmain. Believe me, when you have been with her for five
minutes, you will find it just the same as having me. And how do you
know she has not also been in Sightless Land? A nurse would do that
sort of thing, because she was very keen on her profession, and on
making a success of her case. The woman who loves you would do it for
love of you."

"It would be like her," said Garth; and leaned back, a look of deep
contentment gathering on his face. "Oh, Jane! Jane! She is coming! She
is coming!"

Nurse Rosemary looked at the clock.

"Yes; she is coming," she said; and though her voice was steady, her
hands trembled. "And, as it is our last evening together under quite
the same circumstances as during all these weeks, will you agree to a
plan of mine? I must go upstairs now, and do some packing, and make a
few arrangements. But will you dress early? I will do the same; and if
you could be down in the library by half-past six, we might have some
music before dinner."

"Why certainly," said Garth. "It makes no difference to me at what time
I dress; and I am always ready for music. But, I say: I wish you were
not packing, Miss Gray."

"I am not exactly packing up," replied Nurse Rosemary. "I am packing
things away."

"It is all the same, if it means leaving. But you have promised not to
go until she comes?"

"I will not go--until she comes."

"And you will tell her all the things she ought to know?"

"She shall know all I know, which could add to your comfort."

"And you will not leave me, until I am really--well, getting on all
right?"

"I will never leave you, while you need me," said Nurse Rosemary. And
again Garth detected that peculiar quality in her voice. He rose, and
came towards where he heard her to be standing.

"Do you know, you are no end of a brick," he said, with emotion. Then
he held out both hands towards her. "Put your hands in mine just for
once, little Rosemary. I want to try to thank you."

There was a moment of hesitation. Two strong capable hands--strong and
capable, though, just then, they trembled--nearly went home to his; but
were withdrawn just in time. Jane's hour was not yet. This was Nurse
Rosemary's moment of triumph and success. It should not be taken from
her.

"This evening," she said, softly, "after the music, we will--shake
hands. Now be careful, sir. You are stranded. Wait. Here is the
garden-cord, just to your left. Take a little air on the terrace; and
sing again the lovely song I heard under my window this morning. And
now that you know what it is that is 'going to happen,' this exquisite
May-Day evening will fill you with tender expectation. Good-bye,
sir--for an hour."

"What has come to little Rosemary?" mused Garth, as he felt for his
cane, in its corner by the window. "We could not have gone on
indefinitely quite as we have been, since she came in from the
post-office."

He walked on; a troubled look clouding his face: Suddenly it lifted,
and he stood still, and laughed. "Duffer!" he said. "Oh, what a
conceited duffer! She is thinking of her 'young man.' She is going to
him to-morrow; and her mind is full of him; just as mine is full of
Jane. Dear, good, clever, little Rosemary! I hope he is worthy of her.
No; that he cannot be. I hope he knows he is NOT worthy of her. That is
more to the point. I hope he will receive her as she expects. Somehow,
I hate letting her go to him. Oh, hang the fellow!--as Tommy would say."




CHAPTER XXXVI

THE REVELATION OF THE ROSARY


Simpson was crossing the hall just before half-past six o'clock. He had
left his master in the library. He heard a rustle just above him; and,
looking up, saw a tall figure descending the wide oak staircase.

Simpson stood transfixed. The soft black evening-gown, with its
trailing folds, and old lace at the bosom, did not impress him so much
as the quiet look of certainty and power on the calm face above them.

"Simpson," said Jane, "my aunt, the Duchess of Meldrum, and her maid,
and her footman, and a rather large quantity of luggage, will be
arriving from Aberdeen, at about half-past seven. Mrs. Graem knows
about preparing rooms; and I have given James orders for meeting the
train with the brougham, and the luggage-cart. The duchess dislikes
motors. When her Grace arrives, you can show her into the library. We
will dine in the dining-room at a quarter past eight. Meanwhile, Mr.
Dalmain and myself are particularly engaged just now, and must not be
disturbed on any account, until the duchess's arrival. You quite
understand?"

"Yes, miss-m'lady," stammered Simpson. He had been boot-boy in a ducal
household early in his career; and he considered duchesses' nieces to
be people before whom one should bow down.

Jane smiled. "'Miss' is quite sufficient, Simpson," she said; and swept
towards the library.

Garth heard her enter, and close the door; and his quick ear caught the
rustle of a train.

"Hullo, Miss Gray," he said. "Packed your uniform?"

"Yes," said Jane. "I told you I was packing."

She came slowly across the room, and stood on the hearth-rug looking
down at him. He was in full evening-dress; just as at Shenstone on that
memorable night; and, as he sat well back in his deep arm-chair, one
knee crossed over the other, she saw the crimson line of his favourite
silk socks.

Jane stood looking down upon him. Her hour had come at last. But even
now she must, for his sake, be careful and patient.

"I did not hear the song," she said.

"No," replied Garth. "At first, I forgot. And when I remembered, I had
been thinking of other things, and somehow--ah, Miss Gray! I cannot
sing to-night. My soul is dumb with longing."

"I know," said Jane, gently; "and I am going to sing to you."

A faint look of surprise crossed Garth's face. "Do you sing?" he asked.
"Then why have you not sung before?"

"When I arrived," said Jane, "Dr. Rob asked me whether I played. I
said: 'A little.' Thereupon he concluded I sang a little, too; and he
forbade me, most peremptorily, either to play a little; or sing a
little, to you. He said he did not want you driven altogether mad."

Garth burst out laughing.

"How like old Robbie," he said. "And, in spite of his injunctions, are
you going to take the risk, and 'sing a little,' to me, to-night?"

"No," said Jane. "I take no risks. I am going to sing you one song.
Here is the purple cord, at your right hand. There is nothing between
you and the piano; and you are facing towards it. If you want to stop
me--you can come."

She walked to the instrument, and sat down.

Over the top of the grand piano, she could see him, leaning back in his
chair; a slightly amused smile playing about his lips. He was evidently
still enjoying the humour of Dr. Rob's prohibition.

The Rosary has but one opening chord. She struck it; her eyes upon his
face. She saw him sit up, instantly; a look of surprise, expectation,
bewilderment, gathering there.

Then she began to sing. The deep rich voice, low and vibrant, as the
softest tone of 'cello, thrilled into the startled silence.

     "The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
      Are as a string of pearls to me;
      I count them over, ev'ry one apart,
      My rosary,--my rosary.
      Each hour a pearl--"

Jane got no further.

Garth had risen. He spoke no word; but he was coming blindly over to
the piano. She turned on the music-stool, her arms held out to receive
him. Now he had found the woodwork. His hand crashed down upon the
bass. Now he had found her. He was on his knees, his arms around her.
Hers enveloped him--, yearning, tender, hungry with the repressed
longing of all those hard weeks.

He lifted his sightless face to hers, for one moment. "You?" he said.
"YOU? You--all the time?"

Then he hid his face in the soft lace at her breast.

"Oh, my boy, my darling!" said Jane, tenderly; holding the dear head
close. "Yes; I, all the time; all the time near him, in his loss and
pain. Could I have stopped away? But, oh, Garth! What it is, at last to
hold you, and touch you, and feel you here! ... Yes, it is I. Oh, my
beloved, are you not quite sure? Who else could hold you thus? ...
Take care, my darling! Come over to the couch, just here; and sit
beside me."

Garth rose, and raised her, without loosing her; and she guided herself
and him to a safer seat close by. But there again he flung himself upon
his knees, and held her; his arms around her waist; his face hidden in
the shelter of her bosom.

"Ah,--darling, darling," said Jane softly, and her hands stole up
behind his head, with a touch of unspeakable protective tenderness; "it
has been so sweet to wait upon my boy; and help him in his darkness;
and shield him from unnecessary pain; and be always there, to meet his
every need. But I could not come myself--until he knew; and understood;
and had forgiven--no, not 'forgiven'; understood, and yet still LOVED.
For he does now understand? And he does forgive? ... Oh, Garth! ...
Oh--hush, my darling! ... You frighten me! ... No, I will never
leave you; never, never! ... Oh, can't you understand, my beloved? ...
Then I must tell you more plainly. Darling,--do be still, and
listen. Just for a few days we must be as we have been; only my boy
will know it is I who am near him. Aunt 'Gina is coming this evening.
She will be here in half an hour. Then, as soon as possible we will get
a special license; and we will be married, Garth; and then--" Jane
paused; and the man who knelt beside her, held his breath to
listen--"and then," continued Jane in a low tender voice, which
gathered in depth of sacred mystery, yet did not falter--"then it will
be my highest joy, to be always with my husband, night and day."

A long sweet silence. The tempest of emotion in her arms was hushed to
rest. The eternal voice of perfect love had whispered: "Peace, be
still"; and there was a great calm.

At last Garth lifted his head. "Always? Always together?" he said. "Ah,
that will be 'perpetual light!'"

      *      *      *      *      *

When Simpson, pale with importance, flung open the library door, and
announced: "Her Grace, the Duchess of Meldrum," Jane was seated at the
piano, playing soft dreamy chords; and a slim young man, in evening
dress, advanced with eager hospitality to greet his guest.

The duchess either did not see, or chose to ignore the guiding cord.
She took his outstretched hand warmly in both her own.

"Goodness gracious, my dear Dal! How you surprise me! I expected to
find you blind! And here you are striding about, just your old handsome
self!"

"Dear Duchess," said Garth, and stooping, kissed the kind old hands
still holding his; "I cannot see you, I am sorry to say; but I don't
feel very blind to-night. My darkness has been lightened by a joy
beyond expression."

"Oh ho! So that's the way the land lies! Now which are you going to
marry? The nurse,--who, I gather, is a most respectable young person,
and highly recommended; or that hussy, Jane; who, without the smallest
compunction, orders her poor aunt from one end of the kingdom to the
other, to suit her own convenience?"

Jane came over from the piano, and slipped her hand through her lover's
arm.

"Dear Aunt 'Gina," she said; "you know you loved coming; because you
enjoy a mystery, and like being a dear old 'deus ex machina,' at the
right moment. And he is going to marry them both; because they both
love him far too dearly ever to leave him again; and he seems to think
he cannot do without either."

The duchess looked at the two radiant faces; one sightless; the other,
with glad proud eyes for both; and her own filled with tears.

"Hoity-toity!" she said. "Are we in Salt Lake City?  Well, we always
thought one girl would not do for Dal; he would need the combined
perfections of several; and he appears to think he has found them. God
bless you both, you absurdly happy people; and I will bless you, too;
but not until I have dined. Now, ring for that very nervous person,
with side-whiskers; and tell him I want my maid, and my room, and I
want to know where they have put my toucan. I had to bring him, Jane.
He is so LOVING, dear bird! I knew you would think him in the way; but
I really could not leave him behind."




CHAPTER XXXVII

"IN THE FACE OF THIS CONGREGATION"


The society paragraphs would have described it as "a very quiet
wedding," when Garth and Jane, a few days later, were pronounced "man
and wife together," in the little Episcopal church among the hills.

Perhaps, to those who were present, it stands out rather as an unusual
wedding, than as a quiet one.

To Garth and Jane the essential thing was to be married, and left to
themselves, with as little delay as possible. They could not be induced
to pay any attention to details as to the manner in which this desired
end was to be attained. Jane left it entirely to the doctor, in one
practical though casual sentence: "Just make sure it is valid, Dicky;
and send us in the bills."

The duchess, being a true conservative, early began mentioning veils,
orange-blossom, and white satin; but Jane said: "My dear Aunt! Fancy
me--in orange-blossom! I should look like a Christmas pantomime. And I
never wear veils, even in motors; and white satin is a form of clothing
I have always had the wisdom to avoid."

"Then in what do you intend to be married, unnatural girl?" inquired
the duchess.

"In whatever I happen to put on, that morning," replied Jane, knotting
the silk of a soft crimson cord she was knitting; and glancing out of
the window, to where Garth sat smoking, on the terrace.

"Have you a time-table?" inquired her Grace of Meldrum, with dangerous
calmness. "And can you send me to the station this afternoon?"

"We can always send to the station, at a moment's notice," said Jane,
working in a golden strand, and considering the effect. "But where are
you going, dear Aunt 'Gina? You know Deryck and Flower arrive this
evening."

"I am washing my hands of you, and going South," said the duchess,
wrathfully.

"Don't do that, dear," said Jane, placidly. "You have washed your hands
of me so often; and, like the blood of King Duncan of Scotland, I am
upon them still. 'All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this
little hand.'" Then, raising her voice: "Garth, if you want to walk,
just give a call. I am here, talking over my trousseau with Aunt 'Gina."

"What is a trousseau?" came back in Garth's happy voice.

"A thing you get into to be married," said Jane.

"Then let's get into it quickly," shouted Garth, with enthusiasm.

"Dear Aunt," said Jane, "let us make a compromise. I have some quite
nice clothes upstairs, including Redfern tailor-mades, and several
uniforms. Let your maid look through them, and whatever you select, and
she puts out in readiness on my wedding morning, I promise to wear."

This resulted in Jane appearing at the church in a long blue cloth coat
and skirt, handsomely embroidered with gold, and suiting her large
figure to perfection; a deep yellow vest of brocaded silk; and old lace
ruffles at neck and wrists.

Garth was as anxious about his wedding garments, as Jane had been
indifferent over hers; but he had so often been in requisition as
best-man at town weddings, that Simpson had no difficulty in turning
him out in the acme of correct bridal attire. And very handsome he
looked, as he stood waiting at the chancel steps; not watching for his
bride; but obviously listening for her; for, as Jane came up the church
on Deryck's arm, Garth slightly turned his head and smiled.

The duchess--resplendent in purple satin and ermine, with white plumes
in her bonnet, and many jewelled chains depending from her, which
rattled and tinkled, in the silence of the church, every time she
moved--was in a front pew on the left, ready to give her niece away.

In a corresponding seat, on the opposite side, as near as possible to
the bridegroom, sat Margery Graem, in black silk, with a small quilted
satin bonnet, and a white lawn kerchief folded over the faithful old
heart which had beaten in tenderness for Garth since his babyhood. She
turned her head anxiously, every time the duchess jingled; but
otherwise kept her eyes fixed on the marriage service, in a large-print
prayer-book in her lap. Margery was not used to the Episcopal service,
and she had her "doots" as to whether it could possibly be gone through
correctly, by all parties concerned. In fact this anxiety of old
Margery's increased so painfully when the ceremony actually commenced,
that it took audible form; and she repeated all the answers of the
bridal pair, in an impressive whisper, after them.

Dr. Rob, being the only available bachelor, did duty as best-man; Jane
having stipulated that he should not be intrusted with the ring; her
previous observations leading her to conclude that he would most
probably slip it unconsciously on to his finger, and then search
through all his own pockets and all Garth's; and begin taking up the
church matting, before it occurred to him to look at his hand. Jane
would not have minded the diversion, but she did object to any delay.
So the ring went to church in Garth's waistcoat pocket, where it had
lived since Jane brought it out from Aberdeen; and, without any
fumbling or hesitation, was quietly laid by him upon the open book.

Dr. Rob had charge of the fees for clerk, verger, bell-ringers, and
every person, connected with the church, who could possibly have a tip
pressed upon them.

Garth was generous in his gladness, and eager to do all things in a
manner worthy of the great gift made fully his that day. So Dr. Rob was
well provided with the wherewithal; and this he jingled in his pockets
as soon as the exhortation commenced, and his interest in the
proceedings resulted in his fatal habit of unconsciousness of his own
actions. Thus he and the duchess kept up a tinkling duet, each hearing
the other, and not their own sounds. So the duchess glared at Dr. Rob;
and Dr. Rob frowned at the duchess; and old Margery looked tearfully at
both.

Deryck Brand, the tallest man in the church, his fine figure showing to
advantage in the long frock coat with silk facings, which Lady Brand
had pronounced indispensable to the occasion, retired to a seat beside
his wife, just behind old Margery, as soon as he had conducted Jane to
Garth's side. As Jane removed her hand from his arm, she turned and
smiled at him; and a long look passed between them. All the memories,
all the comprehension, all the trust and affection of years, seemed to
concentrate in that look; and Lady Brand's eyes dropped to her dainty
white and gold prayer-book. She had never known jealousy; the doctor
had never given her any possible reason for acquiring that cruel
knowledge. His Flower bloomed for him; and her fragrance alone made his
continual joy. All other lovely women were mere botanical specimens, to
be examined and classified. But Flower had never quite understood the
depth of the friendship between her husband and Jane, founded on the
associations and aspirations of childhood and early youth, and a
certain similarity of character which would not have wedded well, but
which worked out into a comradeship, providing a source of strength for
both. Of late, Flower had earnestly tried to share, even while failing
to comprehend, it.

Perhaps she, in her pale primrose gown, with daffodils at her waist,
and sunbeams in her golden hair, was the most truly bridal figure in
the church. As the doctor turned from the bride, and sought his place
beside her in the pew, he looked at the sweet face, bent so demurely
over the prayer-book, and thought he had never seen his wife look more
entrancingly lovely. Unconsciously his hand strayed to the white
rosebud she had fastened in his coat as they strolled round the
conservatory together that morning. Flower, glancing up, surprised his
look. She did not think it right to smile in church; but a delicate
wave of colour swept over her face, and her cheek leaned as near the
doctor's shoulder, as the size of her hat would allow. Flower felt
quite certain that was a look the doctor had never given Jane.

The service commenced. The short-sighted clergyman, very nervous, and
rather overwhelmed by the unusual facts of a special license, a blind
bridegroom, and the reported presence of a duchess, began reading very
fast, in an undertone, which old Margery could not follow, though her
finger, imprisoned in unwonted kid, hurried along the lines. Then
conscious of his mistake, he slowed down, and became too impressive;
making long nerve-straining pauses, fled in by the tinkling of the
duchess, and the chinking in Dr. Rob's trousers-pockets.

Thus they arrived at the demand upon the congregation, if they could
show any just cause why these two persons might not lawfully be joined
together, NOW to speak--and the pause here was so long, and so
over-powering, that old Margery said "nay"; and then gave a nervous
sob. The bridegroom turned and smiled in the direction of the voice;
and the doctor, leaning forward, laid his hand on the trembling
shoulder, and whispered: "Steady, old friend. It is all right."

There was no pause whatever after the solemn charge to the couple; so
if Garth and Jane had any secrets to disclose, they had perforce to
keep them for after discussion.

Then Jane found her right hand firmly clasped in Garth's; and no
inadequacy of the Church's mouth-piece could destroy the exquisite
beauty of the Church's words, in which Garth was asked if he would take
her to be his own.

To this, Garth, and old Margery, said they would; with considerable
display of emotion.

Then the all-comprehensive question was put to Jane; the Church seeming
to remind her gently, that she took him in his blindness, with all
which that might entail.

Jane said: "I will"; and the deep, tender voice, was the voice of The
Rosary.

When the words were uttered, Garth lifted the hand he held, and
reverently kissed it.

This was not in the rubric, and proved disconcerting to the clergyman.
He threw up his head suddenly, and inquired: "Who giveth this woman to
be married to this man?" And as, for the moment, there was no response,
he repeated, the question wildly; gazing into distant corners of the
church.

Then the duchess, who up to that time had been feeling a little bored,
realised that her moment had come, and rejoiced. She sailed out of her
pew, and advanced to the chancel step. "My dear good man," she said;
"_I_ give my niece away; having come north at considerable
inconvenience for that express purpose. Now, go on. What do we do next?"

Dr. Rob broke into an uncontrollable chuckle. The duchess lifted her
lorgnette, and surveyed him. Margery searched her prayer-book in vain
for the duchess's response. It did not appear to be there.

Flower looked in distressed appeal at the doctor. But the doctor was
studying, with grave intentness, a stencilled pattern on the chancel
roof; and paid no attention to Flower's nudge.

The only people completely unconscious of anything unusual in the order
of proceedings appeared to be the bride and bridegroom. They were
taking each other "in the sight of God, and in the face of this
congregation." They were altogether absorbed in each other, standing
together in the sight of God; and the deportment of "this congregation"
was a matter they scarcely noticed. "People always behave grotesquely
at weddings," Jane had said to Garth, beforehand; "and ours will be no
exception to the general rule. But we can close our eyes, and stand
together in Sightless Land; and Deryck will take care it is valid."

"Not in Sightless Land, my beloved," said Garth; "but in the Land where
they need no candle neither light of the sun. However, and wherever, I
take YOU as my wife, I shall be standing on the summit of God's heaven."

So they stood; and in their calmness the church hushed to silence. The
service proceeded; and the minister, who had not known how to keep them
from clasping hands when the rubric did not require it, found no
difficulty in inducing them to do so again.

So they took each other--these two, who were so deeply each other's
already--solemnly, reverently, tenderly, in the sight of God, they took
each other, according to God's holy ordinance; and the wedding ring,
type of that eternal love which has neither beginning nor ending,
passed from Garth's pocket, over the Holy Book, on to Jane's finger.

When it was over, she took his arm; and leaning upon it, so that he
could feel she leaned, guided him to the vestry.

Afterwards, in the brougham, for those few precious minutes, when
husband and wife find themselves alone for the first time, Garth turned
to Jane with an eager naturalness, which thrilled her heart as no
studied speech could have done. He did not say: "My wife." That unique
moment had been theirs, three years before.

"Dearest," he said, "how soon will they all go? How soon shall we be
quite alone? Oh, why couldn't they drive to the station from the
church?"

Jane looked at her watch. "Because we must lunch them, dear," she said.
"Think how good they have all been. And we could not start our married
life by being inhospitable. It is just one o'clock; and we ordered
luncheon at half-past. Their train leaves the station at half-past
four. In three hours, Garth, we shall be alone."

"Shall I be able to behave nicely for three hours?" exclaimed Garth,
boyishly.

"You must," said Jane, "or I shall fetch Nurse Rosemary."

"Oh hush!" he said. "All that is too precious, to-day, for chaff.
Jane"--he turned suddenly, and laid his hand on hers--"Jane! Do you
understand that you are now--actually--my wife?"

Jane took his hand, and held it against her heart, just where she so
often had pressed her own, when she feared he would hear it throbbing.

"My darling," she said, "I do not understand it. But I know--ah, thank
God!--I know it to be true."




CHAPTER XXXVIII

PERPETUAL LIGHT


Moonlight on the terrace--silvery, white, serene. Garth and Jane had
stepped out into the brightness; and, finding the night so warm and
still, and the nightingales filling the woods and hills with
soft-throated music, they moved their usual fireside chairs close to
the parapet, and sat there in restful comfort, listening to the sweet
sounds of the quiet night.

The solitude was so perfect; the restfulness so complete. Garth had
removed the cushion seat from his chair, and placed it on the gravel;
and sat at his wife's feet leaning against her knees. She stroked his
hair and brow softly, as they talked; and every now and then he put up
his hand, drew hers to his lips, and kissed the ring he had never seen.

Long tender silences fell between them. Now that they were at last
alone, thoughts too deep, joys too sacred for words, trembled about
them; and silence seemed to express more than speech. Only, Garth could
not bear Jane to be for a moment out of reach of his hand. What to
another would have been: "I cannot let her out of my sight," was, to
him, "I cannot let her be beyond my touch." And Jane fully understood
this; and let him feel her every moment within reach. And the bliss of
this was hers as well as his; for sometimes it had seemed to her as if
the hunger in her heart, caused by those long weeks of waiting, when
her arms ached for him, and yet she dared not even touch his hand,
would never be appeased.

"Sweet, sweet, sweet--thrill," sang a nightingale in the wood. And
Garth whistled an exact imitation.

"Oh, darling," said Jane, "that reminds me; there is something I do so
want you to sing to me. I don't know what it is; but I think you will
remember. It was on that Monday evening, after I had seen the pictures,
and Nurse Rosemary had described them to you. Both our poor hearts were
on the rack; and I went up early in order to begin my letter of
confession; but you told Simpson not to come for you until eleven.
While I was writing in the room above, I could hear you playing in the
library. You played many things I knew--music we had done together,
long ago. And then a theme I had never heard crept in, and caught my
ear at once, because it was quite new to me, and so marvellously sweet.
I put down my pen and listened. You played it several times, with
slight variations, as if trying to recall it. And then, to my joy, you
began to sing. I crossed the room; softly opened my window, and leaned
out. I could hear some of the words; but not all. Two lines, however,
reached me distinctly, with such penetrating, tender sadness, that I
laid my head against the window-frame, feeling as if I could write no
more, and wait no longer, but must go straight to you at once."

Garth drew down the dear hand which had held the pen that night; turned
it over, and softly kissed the palm.

"What were they, Jane?" he said.

   "'Lead us, O Christ, when all is gone,
     Safe home at last.'"

"And oh, my darling, the pathos of those words, 'when all is gone'!
Whoever wrote that music, had been through suffering such as ours. Then
came a theme of such inspiring hopefulness and joy, that I arose, armed
with fresh courage; took up my pen, and went on with my letter. Again
two lines had reached me:"

     "'Where Thou, Eternal Light of Light,
       Art Lord of All.'"

"What is it, Garth? And whose? And where did you hear it? And will you
sing it to me now, darling? I have a sudden wish that you should sing
it, here and now; and I can't wait!"

Garth sat up, and laughed--a short happy laugh, in which all sorts of
emotions were mingled.

"Jane! I like to hear you say you can't wait. It isn't like you;
because you are so strong and patient. And yet it is so deliciously
like you, if you FEEL it, to SAY it. I found the words in the
Anthem-book at Worcester Cathedral, this time last year, at even-song.
I copied them into my pocket-book, during the reading of the first
lesson, I am ashamed to say; but it was all about what Balak said unto
Balaam, and Balaam said unto Balak,--so I hope I may be forgiven! They
seemed to me some of the most beautiful words I had ever read; and,
fortunately, I committed them to memory. Of course, I will sing them to
you, if you wish, here and now. But I am afraid the air will sound
rather poor without the accompaniment. However, not for worlds would I
move from here, at this moment."

So sitting up; in the moonlight, with his back to Jane, his face
uplifted, and his hands clasped around one knee, Garth sang. Much
practice had added greatly to the sweetness and flexibility of his
voice; and he rendered perfectly the exquisite melody to which the
words were set.

Jane listened with an overflowing heart.

   "The radiant morn hath passed away,
    And spent too soon her golden store;
    The shadows of departing day
    Creep on once more.
   "Our life is but a fading dawn,
    Its glorious noon, how quickly past!
    Lead us, O Christ, when all is gone,
    Safe home at last.
   "Where saints are clothed in spotless white,
    And evening shadows never fall;
    where Thou, Eternal Light of Light,
    Art Lord of All."

The triumphant worship of the last line rang out into the night, and
died away. Garth loosed his hands, and leaned back, with a sigh of vast
content, against his wife's knees.

"Beautiful!" she said. "Beautiful! Garthie--perhaps it is because YOU
sang it; and to-night;--but it seems to me the most beautiful thing I
ever heard. Ah, and how appropriate for us; on this day, of all days."

"Oh, I don't know," said Garth, stretching his legs in front of him,
and crossing his feet the one over the other. "I certainly feel 'Safe
home at last'--not because 'all is gone'; but because I HAVE all, in
having you, Jane."

Jane bent, and laid her cheek upon his head. "My own boy," she said,
"you have all I have to give--all, ALL. But, darling, in those dark
days which are past, all seemed gone, for us both. 'Lead us, O
Christ'--It was He who led us safely through the darkness, and has
brought us to this. And Garth, I love to know that He is Lord of
All--Lord of our joy; Lord of our love; Lord of our lives--our wedded
lives, my husband. We could not be so safely, so blissfully, each
other's, were we not ONE, IN HIM. Is this true for you also, Garth?"

Garth felt for her left hand, drew it down, and laid his cheek against
it; then gently twisted the wedding ring that he might kiss it all
round.

"Yes, my wife," he said. "I thank God, that I can say in all things:
'Thou, Eternal Light of Light, art Lord of All.'"

A long sweet silence. Then Jane said, suddenly: "Oh, but the music,
Garthie! That exquisite setting. Whose is it? And where did you hear
it?"

Garth laughed again; a laugh of half-shy pleasure.

"I am glad you like it, Jane," he said, "because I must plead guilty to
the fact that it is my own. You see, I knew no music for it; the
Anthem-book gave the words only. And on that awful night, when little
Rosemary had mercilessly rubbed it in, about 'the lady portrayed'; and
what her love MUST have been, and WOULD have been, and COULD have been;
and had made me SEE 'The Wife' again, and 'The--' the other picture; I
felt so bruised, and sore, and lonely. And then those words came to my
mind: 'Lead us, O Christ, when all is gone, safe home at last.' All
seemed gone indeed; and there seemed no home to hope for, in this
world." He raised himself a little, and then leaned back again; so that
his head rested against her bosom. "Safe home at last," he said, and
stayed quite still for a moment, in utter content. Then remembered what
he was telling her, and went on eagerly.

"So those words came back to me; and to get away from despairing
thoughts, I began reciting them, to an accompaniment of chords."

   "'The radiant morn hath passed away,
     And spent too soon her golden store;
     The shadows of departing day--'"

"And then--suddenly, Jane--I SAW it, pictured in sound! Just as I used
to SEE a sunset, in light and shadow, and then transfer it to my canvas
in shade and colour,-so I heard a SUNSET in harmony, and I felt the
same kind of tingle in my fingers as I used to feel when inspiration
came, and I could catch up my brushes and palette. So I played the
sunset. And then I got the theme for life fading, and what one feels
when the glorious noon is suddenly plunged into darkness; and then the
prayer. And then, I HEARD a vision of heaven, where evening shadows
never fall: And after that came the end; just certainty, and worship,
and peace. You see the eventual theme, worked out of all this. It was
like making studies for a picture. That was why you heard it over and
over. I wasn't trying to remember. I was gathering it into final form.
I am awfully glad you like it, Jane; because if I show you how the
harmonies go, perhaps you could write it down. And it would mean such a
lot to me, if you thought it worth singing. I could play the
accompaniment--Hullo! Is it beginning to rain? I felt a drop on my
cheek, and another on my hand."

No answer. Then he felt the heave, with which Jane caught her breath;
and realised that she was weeping.

In a moment he was on his knees in front of her. "Jane! Why, what is
the matter; Sweet? What on earth--? Have I said anything to trouble
you? Jane, what is it? O God, why can't I see her!"

Jane mastered her emotion; controlling her voice, with an immense
effort. Then drew him down beside her.

"Hush, darling, hush! It is only a great joy--a wonderful surprise.
Lean against me again, and I will try to tell you. Do you know that you
have composed some of the most beautiful music in the world? Do you
know, my own boy, that not only your proud and happy wife, but ALL
women who can sing, will want to sing your music? Garthie, do you
realise what it means? The creative faculty is so strong in you, that
when one outlet was denied it, it burst forth through another. When you
had your sight, you created by the hand and EYE. Now, you will create
by the hand and EAR. The power is the same. It merely works through
another channel. But oh, think what it means! Think! The world lies
before you once more!"

Garth laughed, and put up his hand to the dear face, still wet with
thankful tears.

"Oh, bother the world!" he said. "I don't want the world. I only want
my wife."

Jane put her arms around him. Ah, what a boy he was in some ways! How
full of light-hearted, irrepressible, essential youth. Just then she
felt so much older than he; but how little that mattered. The better
could she wrap him round with the greatness of her tenderness; shield
him from every jar or disillusion; and help him to make the most of his
great gifts.

"I know, darling," she said. "And you have her. She is just ALL YOURS.
But think of the wonderful future. Thank God, I know enough of the
technical part, to write the scores of your compositions. And,
Garth,--fancy going together to noble cathedrals, and hearing your
anthems sung; and to concerts where the most perfect voices in the
world will be doing their utmost adequately to render your songs. Fancy
thrilling hearts with pure harmony, stirring souls with tone-pictures;
just as before you used to awaken in us all, by your wonderful
paintings, an appreciation and comprehension of beauty."

Garth raised his head. "Is it really as good as that, Jane?" he said.

"Dear," answered Jane, earnestly, "I can only tell you, that when you
sang it first, and I had not the faintest idea it was yours, I said to
myself: 'It is the most beautiful thing I ever heard.'"

"I am glad," said Garth, simply. "And now, let's talk of something
else. Oh, I say, Jane! The present is too wonderful, to leave any
possible room for thoughts about the future. Do talk about the present."

Jane smiled; and it was the smile of "The Wife"--mysterious;
compassionate; tender; self-surrendering. She leaned over him, and
rested her cheek upon his head.

"Yes, darling. We will talk of this very moment, if you wish. You
begin."

"Look at the house, and describe it to me, as you see it in the
moonlight."

"Very grey, and calm, and restful-looking. And so home-like, Garthie."

"Are there lights in the windows?"

"Yes. The library lights are just as we left them. The French window is
standing wide open. The pedestal lamp, under a crimson silk shade,
looks very pretty from here, shedding a warm glow over the interior.
Then, I can see one candle in the dining-room. I think Simpson is
putting away silver."

"Any others, Jane?"

"Yes, darling. There is a light in the Oriel chamber. I can see Margery
moving to and fro. She seems to be arranging my things, and giving
final touches. There is also a light in your room, next door. Ah, now
she has gone through. I see her standing and looking round to make sure
all is right. Dear faithful old heart! Garth, how sweet it is to be at
home to-day; served and tended by those who really love us."

"I am so glad you feel that," said Garth. "I half feared you might
regret not having an ordinary honeymoon--And yet, no! I wasn't really
afraid of that, or of anything. Just, together at last, was all we
wanted. Wasn't it, my wife?"

"All."

A clock in the house struck nine.

"Dear old clock," said Garth, softly. "I used to hear it strike nine,
when I was a little chap in my crib, trying to keep awake until my
mother rustled past; and went into her room. The door between her room
and mine used to stand ajar, and I could see her candle appear in a
long streak upon my ceiling. When I saw that streak, I fell asleep
immediately. It was such a comfort to know she was there; and would not
go down again. Jane, do you like the Oriel chamber?"

"Yes, dear. It is a lovely room; and very sacred because it was hers.
Do you know, Aunt Georgina insisted upon seeing it, Garth; and said it
ought to be whitened and papered. But I would not hear of that; because
the beautiful old ceiling is hand-painted, and so are the walls; and I
was certain you had loved those paintings, as a little boy; and would
remember them now."

"Ah, yes," said Garth, eagerly. "A French artist stayed here, and did
them. Water and rushes, and the most lovely flamingoes; those on the
walls standing with their feet in the water; and those on the ceiling,
flying with wings outspread, into a pale green sky, all over white
billowy clouds. Jane, I believe I could walk round that room,
blindfold--no! I mean, as I am now; and point out the exact spot where
each flamingo stands."

"You shall," said Jane, tenderly. These slips when he talked,
momentarily forgetting his blindness, always wrung her heart. "By
degrees you must tell me all the things you specially did and loved, as
a little boy. I like to know them. Had you always that room, next door
to your mother's?"

"Ever since I can remember," said Garth. "And the door between was
always open. After my mother's death, I kept it locked. But the night
before my birthday, I used to open it; and when I woke early and saw it
ajar, I would spring up, and go quickly in; and it seemed as if her
dear presence was there to greet me, just on that one morning. But I
had to go quickly, and immediately I wakened; just as you must go out
early to catch the rosy glow of sunrise on the fleeting clouds; or to
see the gossamer webs on the gorse, outlined in diamonds, by the
sparkling summer dew. But, somehow, Margery found out about it; and the
third year there was a sheet of writing-paper firmly stuck to the
pincushion by a large black-headed pin, saying, in Margery's careful
caligraphy: 'Many happy returns of the day, Master Garthie.' It was
very touching, because it was meant to be so comforting and tactful.
But it destroyed the illusion! Since then the door has been kept
closed."

Another long sweet silence. Two nightingales, in distant trees, sang
alternately; answering one another in liquid streams of melody.

Again Garth turned the wedding ring; then spoke, with his lips against
it.

"You said Margery had 'gone through.' Is it open to-night?" he asked.

Jane clasped both hands behind his head--strong, capable hands, though
now they trembled a little--and pressed his face against her, as she
had done on the terrace at Shenstone, three years before.

"Yes, my own boy," she said; "it is."

"Jane! Oh, Jane--" He released himself from the pressure of those
restraining hands, and lifted his adoring face to hers.

Then, suddenly, Jane broke down. "Ah, darling," she said, "take me away
from this horrible white moonlight! I cannot bear it. It reminds me of
Shenstone. It reminds me of the wrong I did you. It seems a separating
thing between you and me--this cruel brightness which you cannot share."

Her tears fell on his upturned fate.

Then Garth sprang to his feet. The sense of manhood and mastery; the
right of control, the joy of possession, arose within him. Even in his
blindness, he was the stronger. Even in his helplessness, for the great
essentials, Jane must lean on him. He raised her gently, put his arms
about her, and stood there, glorified by his great love.

"Hush, sweetest wife," he said. "Neither light nor darkness can
separate between you and me: This quiet moonlight cannot take you from
me; but in the still, sweet darkness you will feel more completely my
own, because it will hold nothing we cannot share. Come with me to the
library, and we will send away the lamps, and close the curtains; and
you shall sit on the couch near the piano, where you sat, on that
wonderful evening when I found you, and when I almost frightened my
brave Jane. But she will not be frightened now, because she is so my
own; and I may say what I like; and do what I will; and she must not
threaten me with Nurse Rosemary; because it is Jane I want--Jane, Jane;
just ONLY Jane! Come in, beloved; and I, who see as clearly in the dark
as in the light, will sit and play THE ROSARY for you; and then Veni,
Creator Spiritus; and I will sing you the verse which has been the
secret source of peace, and the sustaining power of my whole inner
life, through the long, hard years, apart."

"Now," whispered Jane. "Now, as we go."

So Garth drew her hand through his arm; and, as they walked, sang
softly:

    "Enable with perpetual light,
     The dulness of our blinded sight;
     Anoint and cheer our soiled face
     With the abundance of Thy grace.
     Keep far our foes; give peace at home;
     Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come."

Thus, leaning on her husband; yet guiding him as she leaned; Jane
passed to the perfect happiness of her wedded home.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rosary, by Florence L. Barclay

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