The Rosary

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE REV­ELA­TION OF THE ROSARY

Simp­son was cross­ing the hall just be­fore half-​past six o’clock. He had left his mas­ter in the li­brary. He heard a rus­tle just above him; and, look­ing up, saw a tall fig­ure de­scend­ing the wide oak stair­case.

Simp­son stood trans­fixed. The soft black evening-​gown, with its trail­ing folds, and old lace at the bo­som, did not im­press him so much as the qui­et look of cer­tain­ty and pow­er on the calm face above them.

“Simp­son,” said Jane, “my aunt, the Duchess of Mel­drum, and her maid, and her foot­man, and a rather large quan­ti­ty of lug­gage, will be ar­riv­ing from Ab­erdeen, at about half-​past sev­en. Mrs. Graem knows about prepar­ing rooms; and I have giv­en James or­ders for meet­ing the train with the brougham, and the lug­gage-​cart. The duchess dis­likes mo­tors. When her Grace ar­rives, you can show her in­to the li­brary. We will dine in the din­ing-​room at a quar­ter past eight. Mean­while, Mr. Dal­main and my­self are par­tic­ular­ly en­gaged just now, and must not be dis­turbed on any ac­count, un­til the duchess’s ar­rival. You quite un­der­stand?”

“Yes, miss-​m’la­dy,” stam­mered Simp­son. He had been boot-​boy in a ducal house­hold ear­ly in his ca­reer; and he con­sid­ered duchess­es’ nieces to be peo­ple be­fore whom one should bow down.

Jane smiled. “‘Miss’ is quite suf­fi­cient, Simp­son,” she said; and swept to­wards the li­brary.

Garth heard her en­ter, and close the door; and his quick ear caught the rus­tle of a train.

“Hul­lo, Miss Gray,” he said. “Packed your uni­form?”

“Yes,” said Jane. “I told you I was pack­ing.”

She came slow­ly across the room, and stood on the hearth-​rug look­ing down at him. He was in full evening-​dress; just as at Shen­stone on that mem­orable night; and, as he sat well back in his deep arm- chair, one knee crossed over the oth­er, she saw the crim­son line of his favourite silk socks.

Jane stood look­ing down up­on him. Her hour had come at last. But even now she must, for his sake, be care­ful and pa­tient.

“I did not hear the song,” she said.

“No,” replied Garth. “At first, I for­got. And when I re­mem­bered, I had been think­ing of oth­er things, and some­how–ah, Miss Gray! I can­not sing to-​night. My soul is dumb with long­ing.”

“I know,” said Jane, gen­tly; “and I am go­ing to sing to you.”

A faint look of sur­prise crossed Garth’s face. “Do you sing?” he asked. “Then why have you not sung be­fore?”

“When I ar­rived,” said Jane, “Dr. Rob asked me whether I played. I said: ‘A lit­tle.’ There­upon he con­clud­ed I sang a lit­tle, too; and he for­bade me, most peremp­to­ri­ly, ei­ther to play a lit­tle; or sing a lit­tle, to you. He said he did not want you driv­en al­to­geth­er mad.”

Garth burst out laugh­ing.

“How like old Rob­bie,” he said. “And, in spite of his in­junc­tions, are you go­ing to take the risk, and ’sing a lit­tle,’ to me, to- night?”

“No,” said Jane. “I take no risks. I am go­ing to sing you one song. Here is the pur­ple cord, at your right hand. There is noth­ing be­tween you and the pi­ano; and you are fac­ing to­wards it. If you want to stop me–you can come.”

She walked to the in­stru­ment, and sat down.

Over the top of the grand pi­ano, she could see him, lean­ing back in his chair; a slight­ly amused smile play­ing about his lips. He was ev­ident­ly still en­joy­ing the hu­mour of Dr. Rob’s pro­hi­bi­tion.

The Rosary has but one open­ing chord. She struck it; her eyes up­on his face. She saw him sit up, in­stant­ly; a look of sur­prise, ex­pec­ta­tion, be­wil­der­ment, gath­er­ing there.

Then she be­gan to sing. The deep rich voice, low and vi­brant, as the soft­est tone of ‘cel­lo, thrilled in­to the star­tled si­lence.

“The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, ev’ry one apart, My rosary,–my rosary. Each hour a pearl–“

Jane got no fur­ther.

Garth had risen. He spoke no word; but he was com­ing blind­ly over to the pi­ano. She turned on the mu­sic-​stool, her arms held out to re­ceive him. Now he had found the wood­work. His hand crashed down up­on the bass. Now he had found her. He was on his knees, his arms around her. Hers en­veloped him–, yearn­ing, ten­der, hun­gry with the re­pressed long­ing of all those hard weeks.

He lift­ed his sight­less face to hers, for one mo­ment. “You?” he said. “YOU? You–all the time?”

Then he hid his face in the soft lace at her breast.

“Oh, my boy, my dar­ling!” said Jane, ten­der­ly; hold­ing the dear head close. “Yes; I, all the time; all the time near him, in his loss and pain. Could I have stopped away? But, oh, Garth! What it is, at last to hold you, and touch you, and feel you here! . . . Yes, it is I. Oh, my beloved, are you not quite sure? Who else could hold you thus? . . . Take care, my dar­ling! Come over to the couch, just here; and sit be­side me.”

Garth rose, and raised her, with­out loos­ing her; and she guid­ed her­self and him to a safer seat close by. But there again he flung him­self up­on his knees, and held her; his arms around her waist; his face hid­den in the shel­ter of her bo­som.

“Ah,–dar­ling, dar­ling,” said Jane soft­ly, and her hands stole up be­hind his head, with a touch of un­speak­able pro­tec­tive ten­der­ness; “it has been so sweet to wait up­on my boy; and help him in his dark­ness; and shield him from un­nec­es­sary pain; and be al­ways there, to meet his ev­ery need. But I could not come my­self–un­til he knew; and un­der­stood; and had for­giv­en–no, not ‘for­giv­en’; un­der­stood, and yet still LOVED. For he does now un­der­stand? And he does for­give? . . . Oh, Garth! . . . Oh–hush, my dar­ling! . . . You fright­en me! . . . No, I will nev­er leave you; nev­er, nev­er! . . . Oh, can’t you un­der­stand, my beloved? . . . Then I must tell you more plain­ly. Dar­ling,–do be still, and lis­ten. Just for a few days we must be as we have been; on­ly my boy will know it is I who am near him. Aunt ‘Gi­na is com­ing this evening. She will be here in half an hour. Then, as soon as pos­si­ble we will get a spe­cial li­cense; and we will be mar­ried, Garth; and then–” Jane paused; and the man who knelt be­side her, held his breath to lis­ten–“and then,” con­tin­ued Jane in a low ten­der voice, which gath­ered in depth of sa­cred mys­tery, yet did not fal­ter–“then it will be my high­est joy, to be al­ways with my hus­band, night and day.”

A long sweet si­lence. The tem­pest of emo­tion in her arms was hushed to rest. The eter­nal voice of per­fect love had whis­pered: “Peace, be still”; and there was a great calm.

At last Garth lift­ed his head. “Al­ways? Al­ways to­geth­er?” he said. “Ah, that will be ‘per­pet­ual light!’”

* * * * * * *

When Simp­son, pale with im­por­tance, flung open the li­brary door, and an­nounced: “Her Grace, the Duchess of Mel­drum,” Jane was seat­ed at the pi­ano, play­ing soft dreamy chords; and a slim young man, in evening dress, ad­vanced with ea­ger hos­pi­tal­ity to greet his guest.

The duchess ei­ther did not see, or chose to ig­nore the guid­ing cord. She took his out­stretched hand warm­ly in both her own.

“Good­ness gra­cious, my dear Dal! How you sur­prise me! I ex­pect­ed to find you blind! And here you are strid­ing about, just your old hand­some self!”

“Dear Duchess,” said Garth, and stoop­ing, kissed the kind old hands still hold­ing his; “I can­not see you, I am sor­ry to say; but I don’t feel very blind to-​night. My dark­ness has been light­ened by a joy be­yond ex­pres­sion.”

“Oh ho! So that’s the way the land lies! Now which are you go­ing to mar­ry? The nurse,–who, I gath­er, is a most re­spectable young per­son, and high­ly rec­om­mend­ed; or that hussy, Jane; who, with­out the small­est com­punc­tion, or­ders her poor aunt from one end of the king­dom to the oth­er, to suit her own con­ve­nience?”

Jane came over from the pi­ano, and slipped her hand through her lover’s arm.

“Dear Aunt ‘Gi­na,” she said; “you know you loved com­ing; be­cause you en­joy a mys­tery, and like be­ing a dear old ‘deus ex machi­na,’ at the right mo­ment. And he is go­ing to mar­ry them both; be­cause they both love him far too dear­ly ev­er to leave him again; and he seems to think he can­not do with­out ei­ther.”

The duchess looked at the two ra­di­ant faces; one sight­less; the oth­er, with glad proud eyes for both; and her own filled with tears.

“Hoity-​toity!” she said. “Are we in Salt Lake City? Well, we al­ways thought one girl would not do for Dal; he would need the com­bined per­fec­tions of sev­er­al; and he ap­pears to think he has found them. God bless you both, you ab­surd­ly hap­py peo­ple; and I will bless you, too; but not un­til I have dined. Now, ring for that very ner­vous per­son, with side-​whiskers; and tell him I want my maid, and my room, and I want to know where they have put my tou­can. I had to bring him, Jane. He is so LOV­ING, dear bird! I knew you would think him in the way; but I re­al­ly could not leave him be­hind.”