Part 12 (2/2)

When he sat down, at the close of his address, I no longer thought him a complicated form of chimpanzee. I remembered the divine halo of his smile. Of course it was not the sort of face one COULD have wanted to live with, or to have day after day opposite one at table, but then one was not called to that sort of discipline, which would have been martyrdom to me. And he has always stood to my mind since as a proof of the truth that goodness is never ugly, and that divine love and aspiration, s.h.i.+ning through the plainest features, may redeem them, temporarily, into beauty; and permanently, into a thing one loves to remember.”

At first Jane read the entire pa.s.sage. Then her mind focussed itself upon one sentence: ”Of course it was not the sort of face one COULD have wanted to live with, or to have day after day opposite one at table, ... which would have been martyrdom to me.”

At length Jane arose, turned on all the lights over the dressing-table, particularly two bright ones on either side of the mirror, and, sitting down before it, faced herself honestly.

When the village clock struck one, Garth Dalmain stood at his window taking a final look at the night which had meant so much to him. He remembered, with an amused smile, how, to help himself to calmness, he had sat on the terrace and thought of his socks, and then had counted the windows between his and Jane's. There were five of them. He knew her window by the magnolia tree and the seat beneath it where he had chanced to sit, not knowing she was above him. He leaned far out and looked towards it now. The curtains were drawn, but there appeared still to be a light behind them. Even as he watched, it went out.

He looked down at the terrace. He could see the stone lion and the vase of scarlet geraniums. He could locate the exact spot where she was sitting when he--

Then he dropped upon his knees beside the window and looked up into the starry sky.

Garth's mother had lived long enough to teach him the holy secret of her sweet patience and endurance. In moments of deep feeling, words from his mother's Bible came to his lips more readily than expressions of his own thought. Now, looking upward, he repeated softly and reverently: ”'Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.' And oh, Father,” he added, ”keep us in the light--she and I. May there be in us, as there is in Thee, no variableness, neither shadow which is cast by turning.”

Then he rose to his feet and looked across once more to the stone lion and the broad coping. His soul sang within him, and he folded his arms across his chest. ”My wife!” he said. ”Oh! my wife!”

And, as the village clock struck one, Jane arrived at her decision.

Slowly she rose, and turned off all the lights; then, groping her way to the bed, fell upon her knees beside it, and broke into a pa.s.sion of desperate, silent weeping.

CHAPTER XI

GARTH FINDS THE CROSS

The village church on the green was bathed in suns.h.i.+ne as Jane emerged from the cool shade of the park. The clock proclaimed the hour half-past eleven, and Jane did not hasten, knowing she was not expected until twelve. The windows of the church were open, and the ma.s.sive oaken doors stood ajar.

Jane paused beneath the ivy-covered porch and stood listening. The tones of the organ reached her as from an immense distance, and yet with an all-pervading nearness. The sound was disa.s.sociated from hands and feet. The organ seemed breathing, and its breath was music.

Jane pushed the heavy door further open, and even at that moment it occurred to her that the freckled boy with a red head, and Garth's slim proportions, had evidently pa.s.sed easily through an aperture which refused ingress to her more ma.s.sive figure. She pushed the door further open, and went in.

Instantly a stillness entered into her soul. The sense of unseen presences, often so strongly felt on entering an empty church alone, the impress left upon old walls and rafters by the wors.h.i.+pping minds of centuries, hushed the insistent beating of her own perplexity, and for a few moments she forgot the errand which brought her there, and bowed her head in unison with the wors.h.i.+p of ages.

Garth was playing the ”Veni, Creator Spiritus” to Attwood's perfect setting; and, as Jane walked noiselessly up to the chancel, he began to sing the words of the second verse. He sang them softly, but his beautifully modulated barytone carried well, and every syllable reached her.

”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.”

Then the organ swelled into full power, pealing out the theme of the last verse without its words, and allowing those he had sung to repeat themselves over and over in Jane's mind: ”Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come.” Had she not prayed for guidance? Then surely all would be well.

She paused at the entrance to the chancel. Garth had returned to the second verse, and was singing again, to a waldflute accompaniment, ”Enable with perpetual light--.”

Jane seated herself in one of the old oak stalls and looked around her.

The brilliant suns.h.i.+ne from without entered through the stained-gla.s.s windows, mellowed into golden beams of soft amber light, with here and there a shaft of crimson. What a beautiful expression--perpetual light!

As Garth sang it, each syllable seemed to pierce the silence like a ray of purest sunlight. ”The dulness of--” Jane could just see the top of his dark head over the heavy brocade of the organ curtain. She dreaded the moment when he should turn, and those vivid eyes should catch sight of her--”our blinded sight.” How would he take what she must say? Would she have strength to come through a long hard scene? Would he be tragically heart-broken?--”Anoint and cheer our soiled face”--Would he argue, and insist, and override her judgment?--”With the abundance of Thy grace”--Could she oppose his fierce strength, if he chose to exert it? Would they either of them come through so hard a time without wounding each other terribly?--”Keep far our foes; give peace at home”--Oh! what could she say? What would he say? How should she answer? What reason could she give for her refusal which Garth would ever take as final?--”Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come.”

And then, after a few soft, impromptu chords; the theme changed.

Jane's heart stood still. Garth was playing ”The Rosary.” He did not sing it; but the soft insistence of the organ pipes seemed to press the words into the air, as no voice could have done. Memory's pearls, in all the purity of their gleaming preciousness, were counted one by one by the flute and dulciana; and the sadder tones of the waldflute proclaimed the finding of the cross. It all held a new meaning for Jane, who looked helplessly round, as if seeking some way of escape from the sad sweetness of sound which filled the little church.

Suddenly it ceased. Garth stood up, turned, and saw her. The glory of a great joy leaped into his face.

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