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.
