The Rosary

CHAPTER XXXVIII

PER­PET­UAL LIGHT

Moon­light on the ter­race–sil­very, white, serene. Garth and Jane had stepped out in­to the bright­ness; and, find­ing the night so warm and still, and the nightin­gales fill­ing the woods and hills with soft- throat­ed mu­sic, they moved their usu­al fire­side chairs close to the para­pet, and sat there in rest­ful com­fort, lis­ten­ing to the sweet sounds of the qui­et night.

The soli­tude was so per­fect; the rest­ful­ness so com­plete. Garth had re­moved the cush­ion seat from his chair, and placed it on the grav­el; and sat at his wife’s feet lean­ing against her knees. She stroked his hair and brow soft­ly, as they talked; and ev­ery now and then he put up his hand, drew hers to his lips, and kissed the ring he had nev­er seen.

Long ten­der si­lences fell be­tween them. Now that they were at last alone, thoughts too deep, joys too sa­cred for words, trem­bled about them; and si­lence seemed to ex­press more than speech. On­ly, Garth could not bear Jane to be for a mo­ment out of reach of his hand. What to an­oth­er would have been: “I can­not let her out of my sight,” was, to him, “I can­not let her be be­yond my touch.” And Jane ful­ly un­der­stood this; and let him feel her ev­ery mo­ment with­in reach. And the bliss of this was hers as well as his; for some­times it had seemed to her as if the hunger in her heart, caused by those long weeks of wait­ing, when her arms ached for him, and yet she dared not even touch his hand, would nev­er be ap­peased.

“Sweet, sweet, sweet–thrill,” sang a nightin­gale in the wood. And Garth whis­tled an ex­act im­ita­tion.

“Oh, dar­ling,” said Jane, “that re­minds me; there is some­thing I do so want you to sing to me. I don’t know what it is; but I think you will re­mem­ber. It was on that Mon­day evening, af­ter I had seen the pic­tures, and Nurse Rose­mary had de­scribed them to you. Both our poor hearts were on the rack; and I went up ear­ly in or­der to be­gin my let­ter of con­fes­sion; but you told Simp­son not to come for you un­til eleven. While I was writ­ing in the room above, I could hear you play­ing in the li­brary. You played many things I knew–mu­sic we had done to­geth­er, long ago. And then a theme I had nev­er heard crept in, and caught my ear at once, be­cause it was quite new to me, and so mar­vel­lous­ly sweet. I put down my pen and lis­tened. You played it sev­er­al times, with slight vari­ations, as if try­ing to re­call it. And then, to my joy, you be­gan to sing. I crossed the room; soft­ly opened my win­dow, and leaned out. I could hear some of the words; but not all. Two lines, how­ev­er, reached me dis­tinct­ly, with such pen­etrat­ing, ten­der sad­ness, that I laid my head against the win­dow-​frame, feel­ing as if I could write no more, and wait no longer, but must go straight to you at once.”

Garth drew down the dear hand which had held the pen that night; turned it over, and soft­ly kissed the palm.

“What were they, Jane?” he said.

“‘Lead us, O Christ, when all is gone, Safe home at last.’”

“And oh, my dar­ling, the pathos of those words, ‘when all is gone’! Who­ev­er wrote that mu­sic, had been through suf­fer­ing such as ours. Then came a theme of such in­spir­ing hope­ful­ness and joy, that I arose, armed with fresh courage; took up my pen, and went on with my let­ter. Again two lines had reached me:”

“‘Where Thou, Eter­nal Light of Light, Art Lord of All.’”

“What is it, Garth? And whose? And where did you hear it? And will you sing it to me now, dar­ling? I have a sud­den wish that you should sing it, here and now; and I can’t wait!”

Garth sat up, and laughed–a short hap­py laugh, in which all sorts of emo­tions were min­gled.

“Jane! I like to hear you say you can’t wait. It isn’t like you; be­cause you are so strong and pa­tient. And yet it is so de­li­cious­ly like you, if you FEEL it, to SAY it. I found the words in the An­them-​book at Worces­ter Cathe­dral, this time last year, at even- song. I copied them in­to my pock­et-​book, dur­ing the read­ing of the first les­son, I am ashamed to say; but it was all about what Bal­ak said un­to Bal­aam, and Bal­aam said un­to Bal­ak,–so I hope I may be for­giv­en! They seemed to me some of the most beau­ti­ful words I had ev­er read; and, for­tu­nate­ly, I com­mit­ted them to mem­ory. Of course, I will sing them to you, if you wish, here and now. But I am afraid the air will sound rather poor with­out the ac­com­pa­ni­ment. How­ev­er, not for worlds would I move from here, at this mo­ment.”

So sit­ting up; in the moon­light, with his back to Jane, his face up­lift­ed, and his hands clasped around one knee, Garth sang. Much prac­tice had added great­ly to the sweet­ness and flex­ibil­ity of his voice; and he ren­dered per­fect­ly the exquisite melody to which the words were set.

Jane lis­tened with an over­flow­ing heart.

“The ra­di­ant morn hath passed away, And spent too soon her gold­en store; The shad­ows of de­part­ing day Creep on once more. “Our life is but a fad­ing dawn, Its glo­ri­ous noon, how quick­ly past! Lead us, O Christ, when all is gone, Safe home at last. “Where saints are clothed in spot­less white, And evening shad­ows nev­er fall; where Thou, Eter­nal Light of Light, Art Lord of All.”

The tri­umphant wor­ship of the last line rang out in­to the night, and died away. Garth loosed his hands, and leaned back, with a sigh of vast con­tent, against his wife’s knees.

“Beau­ti­ful!” she said. “Beau­ti­ful! Garthie–per­haps it is be­cause YOU sang it; and to-​night;–but it seems to me the most beau­ti­ful thing I ev­er heard. Ah, and how ap­pro­pri­ate for us; on this day, of all days.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Garth, stretch­ing his legs in front of him, and cross­ing his feet the one over the oth­er. “I cer­tain­ly feel ‘Safe home at last’–not be­cause ‘all is gone’; but be­cause I HAVE all, in hav­ing you, Jane.”

Jane bent, and laid her cheek up­on his head. “My own boy,” she said, “you have all I have to give–all, ALL. But, dar­ling, in those dark days which are past, all seemed gone, for us both. ‘Lead us, O Christ’–It was He who led us safe­ly through the dark­ness, and has brought us to this. And Garth, I love to know that He is Lord of All–Lord of our joy; Lord of our love; Lord of our lives–our wed­ded lives, my hus­band. We could not be so safe­ly, so bliss­ful­ly, each oth­er’s, were we not ONE, IN HIM. Is this true for you al­so, Garth?”

Garth felt for her left hand, drew it down, and laid his cheek against it; then gen­tly twist­ed the wed­ding ring that he might kiss it all round.

“Yes, my wife,” he said. “I thank God, that I can say in all things: ‘Thou, Eter­nal Light of Light, art Lord of All.’”

A long sweet si­lence. Then Jane said, sud­den­ly: “Oh, but the mu­sic, Garthie! That exquisite set­ting. Whose is it? And where did you hear it?”

Garth laughed again; a laugh of half-​shy plea­sure.

“I am glad you like it, Jane,” he said, “be­cause I must plead guilty to the fact that it is my own. You see, I knew no mu­sic for it; the An­them-​book gave the words on­ly. And on that aw­ful night, when lit­tle Rose­mary had mer­ci­less­ly rubbed it in, about ‘the la­dy por­trayed’; and what her love MUST have been, and WOULD have been, and COULD have been; and had made me SEE ‘The Wife’ again, and ‘The- -’ the oth­er pic­ture; I felt so bruised, and sore, and lone­ly. And then those words came to my mind: ‘Lead us, O Christ, when all is gone, safe home at last.’ All seemed gone in­deed; and there seemed no home to hope for, in this world.” He raised him­self a lit­tle, and then leaned back again; so that his head rest­ed against her bo­som. “Safe home at last,” he said, and stayed quite still for a mo­ment, in ut­ter con­tent. Then re­mem­bered what he was telling her, and went on ea­ger­ly.

“So those words came back to me; and to get away from de­spair­ing thoughts, I be­gan recit­ing them, to an ac­com­pa­ni­ment of chords.”

“‘The ra­di­ant morn hath passed away, And spent too soon her gold­en store; The shad­ows of de­part­ing day–’”

“And then–sud­den­ly, Jane–I SAW it, pic­tured in sound! Just as I used to SEE a sun­set, in light and shad­ow, and then trans­fer it to my can­vas in shade and colour,-so I heard a SUN­SET in har­mo­ny, and I felt the same kind of tin­gle in my fin­gers as I used to feel when in­spi­ra­tion came, and I could catch up my brush­es and palette. So I played the sun­set. And then I got the theme for life fad­ing, and what one feels when the glo­ri­ous noon is sud­den­ly plunged in­to dark­ness; and then the prayer. And then, I HEARD a vi­sion of heav­en, where evening shad­ows nev­er fall: And af­ter that came the end; just cer­tain­ty, and wor­ship, and peace. You see the even­tu­al theme, worked out of all this. It was like mak­ing stud­ies for a pic­ture. That was why you heard it over and over. I wasn’t try­ing to re­mem­ber. I was gath­er­ing it in­to fi­nal form. I am aw­ful­ly glad you like it, Jane; be­cause if I show you how the har­monies go, per­haps you could write it down. And it would mean such a lot to me, if you thought it worth singing. I could play the ac­com­pa­ni­ment–Hul­lo! Is it be­gin­ning to rain? I felt a drop on my cheek, and an­oth­er on my hand.”

No an­swer. Then he felt the heave, with which Jane caught her breath; and re­alised that she was weep­ing.

In a mo­ment he was on his knees in front of her. “Jane! Why, what is the mat­ter; Sweet? What on earth–? Have I said any­thing to trou­ble you? Jane, what is it? O God, why can’t I see her!”

Jane mas­tered her emo­tion; con­trol­ling her voice, with an im­mense ef­fort. Then drew him down be­side her.

“Hush, dar­ling, hush! It is on­ly a great joy–a won­der­ful sur­prise. Lean against me again, and I will try to tell you. Do you know that you have com­posed some of the most beau­ti­ful mu­sic in the world? Do you know, my own boy, that not on­ly your proud and hap­py wife, but ALL wom­en who can sing, will want to sing your mu­sic? Garthie, do you re­alise what it means? The cre­ative fac­ul­ty is so strong in you, that when one out­let was de­nied it, it burst forth through an­oth­er. When you had your sight, you cre­at­ed by the hand and EYE. Now, you will cre­ate by the hand and EAR. The pow­er is the same. It mere­ly works through an­oth­er chan­nel. But oh, think what it means! Think! The world lies be­fore you once more!”

Garth laughed, and put up his hand to the dear face, still wet with thank­ful tears.

“Oh, both­er the world!” he said. “I don’t want the world. I on­ly want my wife.”

Jane put her arms around him. Ah, what a boy he was in some ways! How full of light-​heart­ed, ir­re­press­ible, es­sen­tial youth. Just then she felt so much old­er than he; but how lit­tle that mat­tered. The bet­ter could she wrap him round with the great­ness of her ten­der­ness; shield him from ev­ery jar or dis­il­lu­sion; and help him to make the most of his great gifts.

“I know, dar­ling,” she said. “And you have her. She is just ALL YOURS. But think of the won­der­ful fu­ture. Thank God, I know enough of the tech­ni­cal part, to write the scores of your com­po­si­tions. And, Garth,–fan­cy go­ing to­geth­er to no­ble cathe­drals, and hear­ing your an­thems sung; and to con­certs where the most per­fect voic­es in the world will be do­ing their ut­most ad­equate­ly to ren­der your songs. Fan­cy thrilling hearts with pure har­mo­ny, stir­ring souls with tone-​pic­tures; just as be­fore you used to awak­en in us all, by your won­der­ful paint­ings, an ap­pre­ci­ation and com­pre­hen­sion of beau­ty.”

Garth raised his head. “Is it re­al­ly as good as that, Jane?” he said.

“Dear,” an­swered Jane, earnest­ly, “I can on­ly tell you, that when you sang it first, and I had not the faintest idea it was yours, I said to my­self: ‘It is the most beau­ti­ful thing I ev­er heard.’”

“I am glad,” said Garth, sim­ply. “And now, let’s talk of some­thing else. Oh, I say, Jane! The present is too won­der­ful, to leave any pos­si­ble room for thoughts about the fu­ture. Do talk about the present.”

Jane smiled; and it was the smile of “The Wife”–mys­te­ri­ous; com­pas­sion­ate; ten­der; self-​sur­ren­der­ing. She leaned over him, and rest­ed her cheek up­on his head.

“Yes, dar­ling. We will talk of this very mo­ment, if you wish. You be­gin.”

“Look at the house, and de­scribe it to me, as you see it in the moon­light.”

“Very grey, and calm, and rest­ful-​look­ing. And so home-​like, Garthie.”

“Are there lights in the win­dows?”

“Yes. The li­brary lights are just as we left them. The French win­dow is stand­ing wide open. The pedestal lamp, un­der a crim­son silk shade, looks very pret­ty from here, shed­ding a warm glow over the in­te­ri­or. Then, I can see one can­dle in the din­ing-​room. I think Simp­son is putting away sil­ver.”

“Any oth­ers, Jane?”

“Yes, dar­ling. There is a light in the Oriel cham­ber. I can see Margery mov­ing to and fro. She seems to be ar­rang­ing my things, and giv­ing fi­nal touch­es. There is al­so a light in your room, next door. Ah, now she has gone through. I see her stand­ing and look­ing round to make sure all is right. Dear faith­ful old heart! Garth, how sweet it is to be at home to-​day; served and tend­ed by those who re­al­ly love us.”

“I am so glad you feel that,” said Garth. “I half feared you might re­gret not hav­ing an or­di­nary hon­ey­moon–And yet, no! I wasn’t re­al­ly afraid of that, or of any­thing. Just, to­geth­er at last, was all we want­ed. Wasn’t it, my wife?”

“All.”

A clock in the house struck nine.

“Dear old clock,” said Garth, soft­ly. “I used to hear it strike nine, when I was a lit­tle chap in my crib, try­ing to keep awake un­til my moth­er rus­tled past; and went in­to her room. The door be­tween her room and mine used to stand ajar, and I could see her can­dle ap­pear in a long streak up­on my ceil­ing. When I saw that streak, I fell asleep im­me­di­ate­ly. It was such a com­fort to know she was there; and would not go down again. Jane, do you like the Oriel cham­ber?”

“Yes, dear. It is a love­ly room; and very sa­cred be­cause it was hers. Do you know, Aunt Georgina in­sist­ed up­on see­ing it, Garth; and said it ought to be whitened and pa­pered. But I would not hear of that; be­cause the beau­ti­ful old ceil­ing is hand-​paint­ed, and so are the walls; and I was cer­tain you had loved those paint­ings, as a lit­tle boy; and would re­mem­ber them now.”

“Ah, yes,” said Garth, ea­ger­ly. “A French artist stayed here, and did them. Wa­ter and rush­es, and the most love­ly flamin­goes; those on the walls stand­ing with their feet in the wa­ter; and those on the ceil­ing, fly­ing with wings out­spread, in­to a pale green sky, all over white bil­lowy clouds. Jane, I be­lieve I could walk round that room, blind­fold–no! I mean, as I am now; and point out the ex­act spot where each flamin­go stands.”

“You shall,” said Jane, ten­der­ly. These slips when he talked, mo­men­tar­ily for­get­ting his blind­ness, al­ways wrung her heart. “By de­grees you must tell me all the things you spe­cial­ly did and loved, as a lit­tle boy. I like to know them. Had you al­ways that room, next door to your moth­er’s?”

“Ev­er since I can re­mem­ber,” said Garth. “And the door be­tween was al­ways open. Af­ter my moth­er’s death, I kept it locked. But the night be­fore my birth­day, I used to open it; and when I woke ear­ly and saw it ajar, I would spring up, and go quick­ly in; and it seemed as if her dear pres­ence was there to greet me, just on that one morn­ing. But I had to go quick­ly, and im­me­di­ate­ly I wak­ened; just as you must go out ear­ly to catch the rosy glow of sun­rise on the fleet­ing clouds; or to see the gos­samer webs on the gorse, out­lined in di­amonds, by the sparkling sum­mer dew. But, some­how, Margery found out about it; and the third year there was a sheet of writ­ing- pa­per firm­ly stuck to the pin­cush­ion by a large black-​head­ed pin, say­ing, in Margery’s care­ful calig­ra­phy: ‘Many hap­py re­turns of the day, Mas­ter Garthie.’ It was very touch­ing, be­cause it was meant to be so com­fort­ing and tact­ful. But it de­stroyed the il­lu­sion! Since then the door has been kept closed.”

An­oth­er long sweet si­lence. Two nightin­gales, in dis­tant trees, sang al­ter­nate­ly; an­swer­ing one an­oth­er in liq­uid streams of melody.

Again Garth turned the wed­ding ring; then spoke, with his lips against it.

“You said Margery had ‘gone through.’ Is it open to-​night?” he asked.

Jane clasped both hands be­hind his head–strong, ca­pa­ble hands, though now they trem­bled a lit­tle–and pressed his face against her, as she had done on the ter­race at Shen­stone, three years be­fore.

“Yes, my own boy,” she said; “it is.”

“Jane! Oh, Jane–” He re­leased him­self from the pres­sure of those re­strain­ing hands, and lift­ed his ador­ing face to hers.

Then, sud­den­ly, Jane broke down. “Ah, dar­ling,” she said, “take me away from this hor­ri­ble white moon­light! I can­not bear it. It re­minds me of Shen­stone. It re­minds me of the wrong I did you. It seems a sep­arat­ing thing be­tween you and me–this cru­el bright­ness which you can­not share.”

Her tears fell on his up­turned fate.

Then Garth sprang to his feet. The sense of man­hood and mas­tery; the right of con­trol, the joy of pos­ses­sion, arose with­in him. Even in his blind­ness, he was the stronger. Even in his help­less­ness, for the great es­sen­tials, Jane must lean on him. He raised her gen­tly, put his arms about her, and stood there, glo­ri­fied by his great love.

“Hush, sweet­est wife,” he said. “Nei­ther light nor dark­ness can sep­arate be­tween you and me: This qui­et moon­light can­not take you from me; but in the still, sweet dark­ness you will feel more com­plete­ly my own, be­cause it will hold noth­ing we can­not share. Come with me to the li­brary, and we will send away the lamps, and close the cur­tains; and you shall sit on the couch near the pi­ano, where you sat, on that won­der­ful evening when I found you, and when I al­most fright­ened my brave Jane. But she will not be fright­ened now, be­cause she is so my own; and I may say what I like; and do what I will; and she must not threat­en me with Nurse Rose­mary; be­cause it is Jane I want–Jane, Jane; just ON­LY Jane! Come in, beloved; and I, who see as clear­ly in the dark as in the light, will sit and play THE ROSARY for you; and then Veni, Cre­ator Spir­itus; and I will sing you the verse which has been the se­cret source of peace, and the sus­tain­ing pow­er of my whole in­ner life, through the long, hard years, apart.”

“Now,” whis­pered Jane. “Now, as we go.”

So Garth drew her hand through his arm; and, as they walked, sang soft­ly:

“En­able with per­pet­ual light, The dul­ness of our blind­ed sight; Anoint and cheer our soiled face With the abun­dance of Thy grace. Keep far our foes; give peace at home; Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come.”

Thus, lean­ing on her hus­band; yet guid­ing him as she leaned; Jane passed to the per­fect hap­pi­ness of her wed­ded home.

End of Project Guten­berg Etext of The Rosary, by Flo­rence L. Bar­clay