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.
