The Rosary

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.