Part 32 (1/2)

The good woman's face was one broad grin of welcome. Summers was in the confidence of her mistress, and had long known of the efforts made by the baronet and his wife to induce Miss Lys to give up her work at the hospital and take up her residence in Berkeley Square.

Only that morning Lady Kirwan had said, ”Everything is really turning out quite well, after all, Summers, though, of course, one could not see it at first. The arrival of this eccentric Joseph person has really been a blessing in disguise. Sir Thomas Ducaine is more devoted to Miss Mary than ever, since they are both mixed up in this mission affair. We shall see everything come right before very long.”

”Your rooms are prepared, miss,” said Summers. ”Bryce has told you why m'lady and Miss Marjorie couldn't be home to welcome you. But I'll send some lunch up at once to your boudoir. And there's a letter come this morning. Sir Thomas' valet brought it himself. I've put it on your writing-table, miss.”

There was a world of meaning and kindly innuendo in the woman's voice as she ushered Mary into the luxurious suite of rooms which had been made ready for her.

But the girl noticed nothing of it. Her thoughts were in far distant places.

Nothing could have been more dainty and beautiful than the rooms which were to be hers.

The most loving care had been lavished on them by her aunt and cousin.

One of the head men from Waring's had been there on that very morning to put the finis.h.i.+ng touches.

Mary's eyes took in all the comfort and elegance, but her brain did not respond to their message. She was still thinking of and praying for the man who loved her and whom she loved, but the man who had not yet--despite all his marvellous generosity--bowed his head and murmured, ”I believe.”

Then she saw his letter upon the writing-table--the firm, strong handwriting, with the up-stroke ”d” and the Greek ”e,” which denote a public school and University training.

Her heart throbbed as she took up the square envelope and opened it.

This is what she read--

”Lady Kirwan has told me you are coming to them to-day. I want to see you most particularly. I bring you a message from Joseph, and I bring you news of myself. At four o'clock I will call, and please see me. Dearest and best,

”THOMAS SHOLTO DUCAINE.”

She smiled at the signature. Tom always signed his full name, even in the most intimate letters. It was a trick, a habit he always had. For the moment Mary was like any other girl who dwells fondly on some one or other little peculiarity of the man she loves--making him in some subtle way more than ever her own.

Mary lunched alone. Her luxurious surroundings seemed to strike an alien note. She was not as yet at home in them, though when the meal was over she drew up her chair to the glowing fire with a certain sense of physical ease and enjoyment.

In truth, she was very tired. The strongly emotional incidents of her farewell at the hospital, the concentration of nervous force during her drive to Berkeley Square, had left her exhausted for the moment. She was glad of the comfortable silence, the red glow from the cedar logs upon the hearth, and, as the afternoon lengthened into the early dusk of a London fog, she sighed herself to sleep.

Death has been defined as the cessation from correspondence with environment--a logical and scientific statement which, while it is perfectly accurate, still leaves room for every article of the Christian faith. Sleep, in a sense, is this also: and we have the authority of Holy Writ itself that many revelations have come to the dreamer of dreams.

Mary lay back in her arm-chair, and the dewy loveliness of her face would, in its perfection, have shown no trace of what was pa.s.sing in her sub-conscious mind to an onlooker. But all her life was being unfolded to her in a strange panorama as she slept. From first to last everything that had ever happened to her was unwound as if from the spool of Fate itself. She saw all the events of her life as if she were standing apart from them and they were another's. But, more than all this, she saw also, in a dread and mysterious revelation, the purpose, the controlling purpose of G.o.d, which had brought these events about.

It was as though she was vouchsafed a glimpse into the workings of the Divine mind; as if all the operations of G.o.d's providence, as they had been connected with her past, were now suddenly made clear.

On some dark and mysterious fabric, half seen and but little understood, the real pattern had flashed out--clear, vivid, and unmistakable, while the golden threads that went through warp and woof were plain at last.

On and on went the strange procession of events, until she found herself upon the lonely mountain-tops of Wales. Her dead brother was there, and praying for her. She heard his pa.s.sionate, appealing voice, she saw with his very mind itself. Joseph was there also, and Mary began to understand something of the miracle that had made the Teacher what he was, that had changed him as Saul was changed.

And at this moment the color of the dream began to be less real and vivid, while its panoramic movement was greatly accelerated.

She was as though suddenly removed to a great distance, and saw all things with a blurred vision as the present approached. Then her sensations entirely changed. She no longer saw pictures of the past explained for her in the light of a supernatural knowledge. All that was over. Her whole heart and mind were filled with the sense of some strange presence which was coming nearer and nearer--nearer and nearer still.

Then, quite suddenly and plainly, she saw that the figure of Lluellyn Lys was standing in the centre of the room, clear and luminous. The figure was that of her dead brother as she had last seen him, and seemed perfectly substantial and real. It was seen in the darkness by an aurora of pale light that seemed to emanate from it, as if the flesh--if flesh indeed it was--exhaled an atmosphere of light.

Mary fell upon her knees. ”Brother--brother!” she cried, stretching out her hands in supplication. ”Dear brother, speak to me! Tell me why you are here from the grave!”

There was no answer in words. The face of the figure grew much brighter than the rest, and the weeping, imploring girl saw upon it a peace so perfect, a joy so serene and high, a beat.i.tude so unspeakable, that her sobs and moans died away into silence as she gazed at the transfigured countenance in breathless awe and wonder.