The Rosary

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.