THE REVELATION
All the impatience in the world could not prevent dinner at Shenstone
from being a long function, and two of the most popular people in the
party could not easily escape afterwards unnoticed. So a distant clock
in the village was striking ten, as Garth and Jane stepped out on to
the terrace together. Garth caught up a rug in passing, and closed the
door of the lower hall carefully behind him.
They were quite alone. It was the first time they had been really alone
since these days apart, which had seemed so long to both.
They walked silently, side by side, to the wide stone parapet
overlooking the old-fashioned garden. The silvery moonlight flooded the
whole scene with radiance. They could see the stiff box-borders, the
winding paths, the queerly shaped flower-beds, and, beyond, the lake,
like a silver mirror, reflecting the calm loveliness of the full moon.
Garth spread the rug on the coping, and Jane sat down. He stood beside
her, one foot on the coping, his arms folded across his chest, his head
erect. Jane had seated herself sideways, turning towards him, her back
to an old stone lion mounting guard upon the parapet; but she turned
her head still further, to look down upon the lake, and she thought
Garth was looking in the same direction.
But Garth was looking at Jane.
She wore the gown of soft trailing black material she had worn at the
Overdene concert, only she had not on the pearls or, indeed, any
ornament save a cluster of crimson rambler roses. They nestled in the
soft, creamy old lace which covered the bosom of her gown. There was a
quiet strength and nobility about her attitude which thrilled the soul
of the man who stood watching her. All the adoring love, the passion of
worship, which filled his heart, rose to his eyes and shone there. No
need to conceal it now. His hour had come at last, and he had nothing
to hide from the woman he loved.
Presently she turned, wondering why he did not begin his confidences
about Pauline Lister. Looking up inquiringly, she met his eyes.
"Dal!" cried Jane, and half rose from her seat. "Oh, Dal,--don't!"
He gently pressed her back. "Hush, dear," he said. "I must tell you
everything, and you have promised to listen, and to advise and help.
Ah, Jane, Jane! I shall need your help. I want it so greatly, and not
only your help, Jane--but YOU--you, yourself. Ah, how I want you! These
three days have been one continual ache of loneliness, because you were
not there; and life began to live and move again, when you returned.
And yet it has been so hard, waiting all these hours to speak. I have
so much to tell you, Jane, of all you are to me--all you have become to
me, since the night of the concert. Ah, how can I express it? I have
never had any big things in my life; all has been more or less
trivial--on the surface. This need of you--this wanting you--is so
huge. It dwarfs all that went before; it would overwhelm all that is to
come,--were it not that it will be the throne, the crown, the summit,
of the future.--Oh, Jane! I have admired so many women. I have raved
about them, sighed for them, painted them, and forgotten them. But I
never LOVED a woman before; I never knew what womanhood meant to a man,
until I heard your voice thrill through the stillness--'I count each
pearl.' Ah, beloved, I have learned to count pearls since then,
precious hours in the past, long forgotten, now remembered, and at last
understood. 'Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,' ay, a passionate
plea that past and present may blend together into a perfect rosary,
and that the future may hold no possibility of pain or parting. Oh,
Jane--Jane! Shall I ever be able to make you understand--all--how
much--Oh, JANE!"
She was not sure just when he had come so near; but he had dropped on
one knee in front of her, and, as he uttered the last broken sentences,
he passed both his arms around her waist and pressed his face into the
soft lace at her bosom. A sudden quietness came over him. All
struggling with explanations seemed hushed into the silence of complete
comprehension--an all-pervading, enveloping silence.
Jane neither moved nor spoke. It was so strangely sweet to have him
there--this whirlwind of emotion come home to rest, in a great
stillness, just above her quiet heart. Suddenly she realised that the
blank of the last three days had not been the miss of the music, but
the miss of HIM; and as she realised this, she unconsciously put her
arms about him. Sensations unknown to her before, awoke and moved
within her,--a heavenly sense of aloofness from the world, the
loneliness of life all swept away by this dear fact--just he and she
together. Even as she thought it, felt it, he lifted his head, still
holding her, and looking into her face, said: "You and I together, my
own--my own."
But those beautiful shining eyes were more than Jane could bear. The
sense of her plainness smote her, even in that moment; and those
adoring eyes seemed lights that revealed it. With no thought in her
mind but to hide the outward part from him who had suddenly come so
close to the shrine within, she quickly put both hands behind his head
and pressed his face down again, into the lace at her bosom. But, to
him, those dear firm hands holding him close, by that sudden movement,
seemed an acceptance of himself and of all he had to offer. For ten,
twenty, thirty exquisite seconds, his soul throbbed in silence and
rapture beyond words. Then he broke from the pressure of those
restraining hands; lifted his head, and looked into her face once more.
"My wife!" he said.
* * * * *
Into Jane's honest face came a look of startled wonder; then a deep
flush, seeming to draw all the blood, which had throbbed so strangely
through her heart, into her cheeks, making them burn, and her heart die
within her. She disengaged herself from his hold, rose, and stood
looking away to where the still waters of the lake gleamed silver in
the moonlight.
Garth Dalmain stood beside her. He did not touch her, nor did he speak
again. He felt sure he had won; and his whole soul was filled with a
gladness unspeakable. His spirit was content. The intense silence
seemed more expressive than words. Any ordinary touch would have dimmed
the sense of those moments when her hands had held him to her. So he
stood quite still and waited.
At last Jane spoke. "Do you mean that you wish to ask me to be--to be
THAT--to you?"
"Yes, dear," he answered, gently; but in his voice vibrated the quiet
of strong self-control. "At least I came out here intending to ask it
of you. But I cannot ask it now, beloved. I can't ask you TO BE what
you ARE already. No promise, no ceremony, no giving or receiving of a
ring, could make you more my wife than you have been just now in those
wonderful moments."
Jane slowly turned and looked at him. She had never seen anything so
radiant as his face. But still those shining eyes smote her like
swords. She longed to cover them with her hands; or bid him look away
over the woods and water, while he went on saying these sweet things to
her. She put up one foot on the low parapet, leaned her elbow on her
knee, and shielded her face with her hand. Then she answered him,
trying to speak calmly.
"You have taken me absolutely by surprise, Dal. I knew you had been
delightfully nice and attentive since the concert evening, and that our
mutual understanding of music and pleasure in it, coupled with an
increased intimacy brought about by our confidential conversation under
the cedar, had resulted in an unusually close and delightful
friendship. I honestly admit it seems to have--it has--meant more to me
than any friendship has ever meant. But that was partly owing to your
temperament, Dal, which tends to make you always the most vivid spot in
one's mental landscape. But truly I thought you wanted me out here in
order to pour out confidences about Pauline Lister. Everybody believes
that her loveliness has effected your final capture, and truly, Dal,
truly--I thought so, too." Jane paused.
"Well?" said the quiet voice, with its deep undertone of gladness. "You
know otherwise now."
"Dal--you have so startled and astonished me. I cannot give you an
answer to-night. You must let me have until to-morrow--to-morrow
morning."
"But, beloved," he said tenderly, moving a little nearer, "there is no
more need for you to answer than I felt need to put a question. Can't
you realise this? Question and answer were asked and given just now.
Oh, my dearest--come back to me. Sit down again."
But Jane stood rigid.
"No," she said. "I can't allow you to take things for granted in this
way. You took me by surprise, and I lost my head utterly--unpardonably,
I admit. But, my dear boy, marriage is a serious thing. Marriage is not
a mere question of sentiment. It has to wear. It has to last. It must
have a solid and dependable foundation, to stand the test and strain of
daily life together. I know so many married couples intimately. I stay
in their homes, and act sponsor to their children; with the result that
I vowed never to risk it myself. And now I have let you put this
question, and you must not wonder if I ask for twelve hours to think it
over."
Garth took this silently. He sat down on the stone coping with his back
to the lake and, leaning backward, tried to see her face; but the hand
completely screened it. He crossed his knees and clasped both hands
around them, rocking slightly backward and forward for a minute while
mastering the impulse to speak or act violently. He strove to compose
his mind by fixing it upon trivial details which chanced to catch his
eye. His red socks showed clearly in the moonlight against the white
paving of the terrace, and looked well with black patent-leather shoes.
He resolved always to wear red silk socks in the evening, and wondered
whether Jane would knit some for him. He counted the windows along the
front of the house, noting which were his and which were Jane's, and
how many came between. At last he knew he could trust himself, and,
leaning back, spoke very gently, his dark head almost touching the lace
of her sleeve.
"Dearest--tell me, didn't you feel just now--"
"Oh, hush!". cried Jane, almost harshly, "hush, Dal! Don't talk about
feelings with this question between us. Marriage is fact, not feeling.
If you want to do really the best thing for us both, go straight
indoors now and don't speak to me again to-night. I heard you say you
were going to try the organ in the church on the common at eleven
o'clock to-morrow morning. Well--I will come there soon after half-past
eleven and listen while you play; and at noon you can send away the
blower, and I will give you my answer. But now--oh, go away, dear; for
truly I cannot bear anymore. I must be left alone."
Garth loosed the strong fingers clasped so tightly round his knee. He
slipped the hand next to her along the stone coping, close to her foot.
She felt him take hold of her gown with those deft, masterful fingers.
Then he bent his dark head quickly, and whispering: "I kiss the cross,"
with a gesture of infinite reverence and tenderness, which Jane never
forgot, he kissed the hem of her skirt. The next moment she was alone.
She listened while his footsteps died away. She heard the door into the
lower hall open and close. Then slowly she sat down just as she had sat
when he knelt in front of her. Now she was quite alone. The tension of
these last hard moments relaxed. She pressed both hands over the lace
at her bosom where that dear, beautiful, adoring face had been hidden.
Had she FELT, he asked. Ah! what had she not felt?
Tears never came easily to Jane. But to-night she had been called a
name by which she had never thought to be called; and already her
honest heart was telling her she would never be called by it again. And
large silent tears overflowed and fell upon her hands and upon the lace
at her breast. For the wife and the mother in her had been wakened and
stirred, and the deeps of her nature broke through the barriers of
stern repression and almost masculine self-control, and refused to be
driven back without the womanly tribute of tears.
And around her feet lay the scattered petals of crushed rambler roses.
* * * * *
Presently she passed indoors. The upper hall was filled with merry
groups and resounded with "good-nights" as the women mounted the great
staircase, pausing to fling back final repartees, or to confirm plans
for the morrow.
Garth Dalmain was standing at the foot of the staircase, held in
conversation by Pauline Lister and her aunt, who had turned on the
fourth step. Jane saw his slim, erect figure and glossy head the moment
she entered the hall. His back was towards her, and though she advanced
and stood quite near, he gave no sign of being aware of her presence.
But the joyousness of his voice seemed to make him hers again in this
new sweet way. She alone knew what had caused it, and unconsciously she
put one hand over her bosom as she listened.
"Sorry, dear ladies," Garth was saying, "but to-morrow morning is
impossible. I have an engagement in the village. Yes--really! At eleven
o'clock."
"That sounds so rural and pretty, Mr. Dalmain," said Mrs. Parker Bangs.
"Why not take Pauline and me along? We have seen no dairies, and no
dairy-maids, nor any of the things in Adam Bede, since we came over. I
would just love to step into Mrs. Poyser's kitchen and see myself
reflected in the warming-pans on the walls."
"Perhaps we would be DE TROP in the dairy," murmured Miss Lister archly.
She looked very lovely in her creamy-white satin gown, her small head
held regally, the brilliant charm of American womanhood radiating from
her. She wore no jewels, save one string of perfectly matched pearls;
but on Pauline Lister's neck even pearls seemed to sparkle.
All these scintillations, flung at Garth, passed over his sleek head
and reached Jane where she lingered in the background. She took in
every detail. Never had Miss Lister's loveliness been more correctly
appraised.
"But it happens, unfortunately, to be neither a dairy-maid nor a
warming-pan," said Garth. "My appointment is with a very grubby small
boy, whose rural beauties consist in a shock of red hair and a whole
pepper-pot of freckles."
"Philanthropic?" inquired Miss Lister.
"Yes, at the rate of threepence an hour."
"A caddy, of course," cried both ladies together.
"My! What a mystery about a thing so simple!" added Mrs. Parker Bangs.
"Now we have heard, Mr. Dalmain, that it is well worth the walk to the
links to see you play. So you may expect us to arrive there, time to
see you start around."
Garth's eyes twinkled. Jane could hear the twinkle in his voice. "My
dear lady," he said, "you overestimate my play as, in your great
kindness of heart, you overestimate many other things connected with
me. But I shall like to think of you at the golf links at eleven
o'clock to-morrow morning. You might drive there, but the walk through
the woods is too charming to miss. Only remember, you cross the park
and leave by the north gate, not the main entrance by which we go to
the railway station. I would offer to escort you, but duty takes me, at
an early hour, in quite another direction. Besides, when Miss Lister's
wish to see the links is known, so many people will discover golf to be
the one possible way of spending to-morrow morning, that I should be
but a unit in the crowd which will troop across the park to the north
gate. It will be quite impossible for you to miss your way."
Mrs. Parker Bangs was beginning to explain elaborately that never,
under any circumstances, could he be a unit, when her niece
peremptorily interposed.
"That will do, aunt. Don't be silly. We are all units, except when we
make a crowd; which is what we are doing on this staircase at this
present moment, so that Miss Champion has for some time been trying
ineffectually to pass us. Do you golf to-morrow, Miss Champion?"
Garth stood on one side, and Jane began to mount the stairs. He did not
look at her, but it seemed to Jane that his eyes were on the hem of her
gown as it trailed past him. She paused beside Miss Lister. She knew
exactly how effectual a foil she made to the American girl's white
loveliness. She turned and faced him. She wished him to look up and see
them standing there together. She wanted the artist eyes to take in the
cruel contrast. She wanted the artist soul of him to realise it. She
waited.
Garth's eyes were still on the hem of her gown, close to the left foot;
but he lifted them slowly to the lace at her bosom, where her hand
still lay. There they rested a moment, then dropped again, without
rising higher.
"Yes," said Mrs. Parker Bangs, "are you playing around with Mr. Dalmain
to-morrow forenoon, Miss Champion?"
Jane suddenly flushed crimson, and then was furious with herself for
blushing, and hated the circumstances which made her feel and act so
unlike her ordinary self. She hesitated during the long dreadful
moment. How dared Garth behave in that way? People would think there
was something unusual about her gown. She felt a wild impulse to stoop
and look at it herself to see whether his kiss had materialised and was
hanging like a star to the silken hem. Then she forced herself to
calmness and answered rather brusquely: "I am not golfing to-morrow;
but you could not do better than go to the links. Good-night, Mrs.
Parker Bangs. Sleep well, Miss Lister. Good-night, Dal."
Garth was on the step below them, handing Pauline's aunt a letter she
had dropped.
"Good-night, Miss Champion," he said, and for one instant his eyes met
hers, but he did not hold out his hand, or appear to see hers half
extended.
The three women mounted the staircase together, then went different
ways. Miss Lister trailed away down a passage to the right, her aunt
trotting in her wake.
"There's been a tiff there," said Mrs. Parker Bangs.
"Poor thing!" said Miss Lister softly. "I like her. She's a real good
sort. I should have thought she would have been more sensible than the
rest of us."
"A real plain sort," said her aunt, ignoring the last sentence.
"Well, she didn't make her own face," said Miss Lister generously.
"No, and she don't pay other people to make it for her. She's what Sir
Walter Scott calls: 'Nature in all its ruggedness.'"
"Dear aunt," remarked Miss Lister wearily, "I wish you wouldn't trouble
to quote the English classics to me when we are alone. It is pure waste
of breath, because you see I KNOW you have read them all. Here is my
door. Now come right in and make yourself comfy on that couch. I am
going to sit in this palatial arm-chair opposite, and do a little very
needful explaining. My! How they fix one to the floor! These ancestral
castles are all right so far as they go, but they don't know a thing
about rockers. Now I have a word or two to say about Miss Champion.
She's a real good sort, and I like her. She's not a beauty; but she has
a fine figure, and she dresses right. She has heaps of money, and could
have rarer pearls than mine; but she knows better than to put pearls on
that brown skin. I like a woman who knows her limitations and is
sensible over them. All the men adore her, not for what she looks but
for what she is, and, my word, aunt, that's what pays in the long run.
That is what lasts. Ten years hence the Honourable Jane will still be
what she is, and I shall be trying to look what I'm not. As for Garth
Dalmain, he has eyes for all of us and a heart for none. His pretty
speeches and admiring looks don't mean marriage, because he is a man
with an ideal of womanhood and he can't see himself marrying below it.
If the Sistine Madonna could step down off those clouds and hand the
infant to the young woman on her left, he might marry HER; but even
then he would be afraid he might see some one next day who did her hair
more becomingly, or that her foot would not look so well on his Persian
rugs as it does on that cloud. He won't marry money, because he has
plenty of it. And even if he hadn't, money made in candles would not
appeal to him. He won't marry beauty, because he thinks too much about
it. He adores so many lovely faces, that he is never sure for
twenty-four hours which of them he admires most, bar the fact that, as
in the case of fruit trees, the unattainable are usually the most
desired. He won't marry goodness--virtue--worth--whatever you choose to
call the sterling qualities of character--because in all these the
Honourable Jane Champion is his ideal, and she is too sensible a woman
to tie such an epicure to her plain face. Besides, she considers
herself his grandmother, and doesn't require him to teach her to suck
eggs. But Garth Dalmain, poor boy, is so sublimely lacking in
self-consciousness that he never questions whether he can win his
ideal. He possesses her already in his soul, and it will be a fearful
smack in the face when she says 'No,' as she assuredly will do, for
reasons aforesaid. These three days, while he has been playing around
with me, and you and other dear match-making old donkeys have gambolled
about us, and made sure we were falling in love, he has been
worshipping the ground she walks on, and counting the hours until he
should see her walk on it again. He enjoyed being with me more than
with the other girls, because I understood, and helped him to work all
conversations round to her, and he knew, when she arrived here, I could
be trusted to develop sudden anxiety about you, or have important
letters to write, if she came in sight. But that is all there will ever
be between me and Garth Dalmain; and if you had a really careful regard
for my young affections you would drop your false set on the marble
wash-stand, or devise some other equally false excuse for our immediate
departure for town to-morrow.--And now, dear, don't stay to argue;
because I have said exactly all there is to say on the subject, and a
little more. And try to toddle to bed without telling me of which cute
character in Dickens I remind you, because I am cuter than any of them,
and if I stay in this tight frock another second I can't answer for the
consequences.--Oui, Josephine, entrez!--Good-night, dear aunt. Happy
dreams!"
But after her maid had left her, Pauline switched off the electric
light and, drawing back the curtain, stood for a long while at her
window, looking out at the peaceful English scene bathed in moonlight.
At last she murmured softly, leaning her beautiful head against the
window frame:
"I stated your case well, but you didn't quite deserve it, Dal. You
ought to have let me know about Jane, weeks ago. Anyway, it will stop
the talk about you and me. And as for you, dear, you will go on sighing
for the moon; and when you find the moon is unattainable, you will not
dream of seeking solace in more earthly lights--not even poppa's best
sperm," she added, with a wistful little smile, for Pauline's fun
sparkled in solitude as freely as in company, and as often at her own
expense as at that of other people, and her brave American spirit would
not admit, even to herself, a serious hurt.
Meanwhile Jane had turned to the left and passed slowly to her room.
Garth had not taken her half-proffered hand, and she knew perfectly
well why. He would never again be content to clasp her hand in
friendship. If she cut him off from the touch which meant absolute
possession, she cut herself off from the contact of simple comradeship.
Garth, to-night, was like a royal tiger who had tasted blood. It seemed
a queer simile, as she thought of him in his conventional evening
clothes, correct in every line, well-groomed, smart almost to a fault.
But out on the terrace with him she had realised, for the first time,
the primal elements which go to the making of a man--a forceful
determined, ruling man--creation's king. They echo of primeval forests.
The roar of the lion is in them, the fierceness of the tiger; the
instinct of dominant possession, which says: "Mine to have and hold, to
fight for and enjoy; and I slay all comers!" She had felt it, and her
own brave soul had understood it and responded to it, unafraid; and
been ready to mate with it, if only--ah! if only--
But things could never be again as they had been before. If she meant
to starve her tiger, steel bars must be between them for evermore. None
of those sentimental suggestions of attempts to be a sort of
unsatisfactory cross between sister and friend would do for the man
whose head she had unconsciously held against her breast. Jane knew
this. He had kept himself magnificently in hand after she put him from
her, but she knew he was only giving her breathing space. He still
considered her his own, and his very certainty of the near future had
given him that gentle patience in the present. But even now, while her
answer pended, he would not take her hand in friendship. Jane closed
her door and locked it. She must face this problem of the future, with
all else locked out excepting herself and him. Ah! if she could but
lock herself out and think only of him and of his love, as beautiful,
perfect gifts laid at her feet, that she might draw them up into her
empty arms and clasp them there for evermore. Just for a little while
she would do this. One hour of realisation was her right. Afterwards
she must bring HERSELF into the problem,--her possibilities; her
limitations; herself, in her relation to him in the future; in the
effect marriage with her would be likely to have upon him. What it
might mean to her did not consciously enter into her calculations. Jane
was self-conscious, with the intense self-consciousness of all reserved
natures, but she was not selfish.
At first, then, she left her room in darkness, and, groping her way to
the curtains, drew them back, threw up the sash, and, drawing a chair
to the window, sat down, leaning her elbows on the sill and her chin in
her hands, and looked down upon the terrace, still bathed in moonlight.
Her window was almost opposite the place where she and Garth had
talked. She could see the stone lion and the vase full of scarlet
geraniums. She could locate the exact spot where she was sitting when
he--Memory awoke, vibrant.
Then Jane allowed herself the most wonderful mental experience of her
life. She was a woman of purpose and decision. She had said she had a
right to that hour, and she took it to the full. In soul she met her
tiger and mated with him, unafraid. He had not asked whether she loved
him or not, and she did not need to ask herself. She surrendered her
proud liberty, and tenderly, humbly, wistfully, yet with all the
strength of her strong nature, promised to love, honour, and obey him.
She met the adoration of his splendid eyes without a tremor. She had
locked her body out. She was alone with her soul; and her soul was
all-beautiful--perfect for him.
The loneliness of years slipped from her. Life became rich and
purposeful. He needed her always, and she was always there and always
able to meet his need. "Are you content, my beloved?" she asked over
and over; and Garth's joyous voice, with the ring of perpetual youth in
it, always answered: "Perfectly content." And Jane smiled into the
night, and in the depths of her calm eyes dawned a knowledge hitherto
unknown, and in her tender smile trembled, with unspeakable sweetness,
an understanding of the secret of a woman's truest bliss. "He is mine
and I am his. And because he is mine, my beloved is safe; and because I
am his, he is content."
Thus she gave herself completely; gathering him into the shelter of her
love; and her generous heart expanded to the greatness of the gift.
Then the mother in her awoke and realised how much of the maternal
flows into the love of a true woman when she understands how largely
the child-nature predominates in the man in love, and how the very
strength of his need of her reduces to unaccustomed weakness the strong
nature to which she has become essential.
Jane pressed her hands upon her breast. "Garth," she whispered, "Garth,
I UNDERSTAND. My own poor boy, it was so hard to you to be sent away
just then. But you had had all--all you wanted, in those few wonderful
moments, and nothing can rob you of that fact. And you have made me SO
yours that, whatever the future brings for you and me, no other face
will ever be hidden here. It is yours, and I am yours--to-night, and
henceforward, forever."
Jane leaned her forehead on the window-sill. The moonlight fell on the
heavy coils of her brown hair. The scent of the magnolia blooms rose in
fragrance around her. The song of a nightingale purled and thrilled in
an adjacent wood. The lonely years of the past, the perplexing moments
of the present, the uncertain vistas of the future, all rolled away.
She sailed with Garth upon a golden ocean far removed from the shores
of time. For love is eternal; and the birth of love frees the spirit
from all limitations of the flesh.
* * * * *
A clock in the distant village struck midnight. The twelve strokes
floated up to Jane's window across the moonlit park. Time was once
more. Her freed spirit resumed the burden of the body.
A new day had begun, the day upon which she had promised her answer to
Garth. The next time that clock struck twelve she would be standing
with him in the church, and her answer must be ready.
She turned from the window without closing it, drew the curtains
closely across, switched on the electric light over the writing-table,
took off her evening gown, hung up bodice and skirt in the wardrobe,
resolutely locking the door upon them. Then she slipped on a sage-green
wrapper, which she had lately purchased at a bazaar because every one
else fled from it, and the old lady whose handiwork it was seemed so
disappointed, and, drawing a chair near the writing-table, took out her
diary, unlocked the heavy clasp, and began to read. She turned the
pages slowly, pausing here and there, until she came to those she
sought. Over them she pondered long, her head in her hands. They
contained a very full account of her conversation with Garth on the
afternoon of the day of the concert at Overdene; and the lines upon
which she specially dwelt were these: "His face was transfigured....
Goodness and inspiration shone from it, making it as the face of an
angel.... I never thought him ugly again. Child though I was, I
could differentiate even then between ugliness and plainness. I have
associated his face ever since with the wondrous beauty of his soul.
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, shining 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 passage. 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 passion of
desperate, silent weeping.