GARTH FINDS THE CROSS
The village church on the green was bathed in sunshine 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 massive
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 disassociated 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 passed easily through an aperture which
refused ingress to her more massive 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 worshipping 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 worship 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 sunshine from without entered through the stained-glass
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.
"All right, Jimmy," he said; "that will do for this morning. And here
is a bright sixpence, because you have managed the blowing so well.
Hullo! It's a shilling! Never mind. You shall have it because it is
such a glorious day. There never was such a day, Jimmy; and I want you
to be happy also. Now run off quickly, and shut the church door behind
you, my boy."
Ah! how his voice, with its ring of buoyant gladness, shook her soul.
The red-headed boy, rather grubby, with a whole pepper-pot of freckles,
but a beaming face of pleasure, came out from behind the organ,
clattered down a side aisle; dropped his shilling on the way and had to
find it; but at last went out, the heavy door closing behind him with a
resounding clang.
Garth had remained standing beside the organ, quite motionless, without
looking at Jane, and now that they were absolutely alone in the church,
he still stood and waited a few moments. To Jane those moments seemed
days, weeks, years, an eternity. Then he came out into the centre of
the chancel, his head erect, his eyes shining, his whole bearing that
of a conqueror sure of his victory. He walked down to the quaintly
carved oaken screen and, passing beneath it, stood at the step. Then he
signed to Jane to come and stand beside him.
"Here, dearest," he said; "let it be here."
Jane came to him, and for a moment they stood together, looking up the
chancel. It was darker than the rest of the church, being lighted only
by three narrow stained-glass windows, gems of colour and of
significance. The centre window, immediately over the communion table,
represented the Saviour of the world, dying upon the cross. They gazed
at it in reverent silence. Then Garth turned to Jane.
"My beloved," he said, "it is a sacred Presence and a sacred place. But
no place could be too sacred for that which we have to say to each
other, and the Holy Presence, in which we both believe, is here to
bless and ratify it. I am waiting for your answer."
Jane cleared her throat and put her trembling hands into the large
pockets of her tweed coat.
"Dal," she said; "my answer is a question. How old are you?"
She felt his start of intense surprise. She saw the light of expectant
joy fade from his face. But he replied, after only a momentary
hesitation: "I thought you knew, dearest. I am twenty-seven."
"Well," said Jane slowly and deliberately, "I am thirty; and I look
thirty-five, and feel forty. You are twenty-seven, Dal, and you look
nineteen, and often feel nine. I have been thinking it over, and--you
know--I cannot marry a mere boy."
Silence--absolute.
In sheer terror Jane forced herself to look at him. He was white to the
lips. His face was very stern and calm--a strange, stony calmness.
There was not much youth in it just then. "ANOINT AND CHEER OUR SOILED
FACE"--The silent church seemed to wail the words in bewildered agony.
At last he spoke. "I had not thought of myself," he said slowly. "I
cannot explain how it comes to pass, but I have not thought of myself
at all, since my mind has been full of you. Therefore I had not
realised how little there is in me that you could care for. I believed
you had felt as I did, that we were--just each other's." For a moment
he put out his hand as if he would have touched her. Then it dropped
heavily to his side. "You are quite right," he said. "You could not
marry any one whom you consider a mere boy."
He turned from her and faced up the chancel. For the space of a long
silent minute he looked at the window over the holy table, where hung
the suffering Christ. Then he bowed his head. "I accept the cross," he
said, and, turning, walked quietly down the aisle. The church door
opened, closed behind him with a heavy clang, and Jane was alone.
She stumbled back to the seat she had left, and fell upon her knees.
"O, my God," she cried, "send him back to me, oh, send him back! ...
Oh, Garth! It is I who am plain and unattractive and unworthy, not you.
Oh, Garth--come back! come back! come back! ... I will trust and not
be afraid ... Oh, my own Dear--come back!"
She listened, with straining ears. She waited, until every nerve of her
body ached with suspense. She decided what she would say when the heavy
door reopened and she saw Garth standing in a shaft of sunlight. She
tried to remember the VENI, but the hollow clang of the door had
silenced even memory's echo of that haunting music. So she waited
silently, and as she waited the silence grew and seemed to enclose her
within cruel, relentless walls which opened only to allow her glimpses
into the vista of future lonely years. Just once more she broke that
silence. "Oh, darling, come back! I WILL RISK IT," she said. But no
step drew near, and, kneeling with her face buried in her clasped
hands, Jane suddenly realised that Garth Dalmain had accepted her
decision as final and irrevocable, and would not return.
How long she knelt there after realising this, she never knew. But at
last comfort came to her. She felt she had done right. A few hours of
present anguish were better than years of future disillusion. Her own
life would be sadly empty, and losing this newly found joy was costing
her more than she had expected; but she honestly believed "she had done
rightly towards him, and what did her own pain matter?" Thus comfort
came to Jane.
At last she rose and passed out of the silent church into the breezy
sunshine.
Near the park gates a little knot of excited boys were preparing to fly
a kite. Jimmy, the hero of the hour, the centre of attraction, proved
to be the proud possessor of this new kite. Jimmy was finding the day
glorious indeed, and was being happy. "Happy ALSO," Garth had said. And
Jane's eyes filled with tears, as she remembered the word and the tone
in which it was spoken.
"There goes my poor boy's shilling," she said to herself sadly, as the
kite mounted and soared above the common; "but, alas, where is his joy?"
As she passed up the avenue a dog-cart was driven swiftly down it.
Garth Dalmain drove it; behind him a groom and a portmanteau. He lifted
his hat as he passed her, but looked straight before him. In a moment
he was gone. Had Jane wanted to stop him she could not have done so.
But she did not want to stop him. She felt absolutely satisfied that
she had done the right thing, and done it at greater cost to herself
than to him. He would eventually--ah, perhaps before so very long--find
another to be to him all, and more than all, he had believed she could
be. But she? The dull ache at her bosom reminded her of her own words
the night before, whispered in the secret of her chamber to him who,
alas, was not there to hear: "Whatever the future brings for you and
me, no other face will ever be hidden here." And, in this first hour of
the coming lonely years, she knew them to be true.
In the hall she met Pauline Lister.
"Is that you, Miss Champion?" said Pauline. "Well now, have you heard
of Mr. Dalmain? He has had to go to town unexpectedly, on the 1.15
train; and aunt has dropped her false teeth on her marble wash-stand
and must get to the dentist right away. So we go to town on the 2.30.
It's an uncertain world. It complicates one's plans, when they have to
depend on other people's teeth. But I would sooner break false teeth
than true hearts, any day. One can get the former mended, but I guess
no one can mend the latter. We are lunching early in our rooms; so I
wish you good-by, Miss Champion."