The Rosary

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.