JANE REPORTS PROGRESS
Letter from the Honourable Jane Champion to Sir Deryck Brand.
Castle Gleneesh, N. B.
My dear Deryck: My wires and post-cards have not told you much beyond
the fact of my safe arrival. Having been here a fortnight, I think it
is time I sent you a report. Only you must remember that I am a poor
scribe. From infancy it has always been difficult to me to write
anything beyond that stock commencement: "I hope you are quite well;"
and I approach the task of a descriptive letter with an effort which is
colossal. And yet I wish I might, for once, borrow the pen of a ready
writer; because I cannot help knowing that I have been passing through
experiences such as do not often fall to the lot of a woman.
Nurse Rosemary Gray is getting on capitally. She is making herself
indispensable to the patient, and he turns to her with a completeness
of confidence which causes her heart to swell with professional pride.
Poor Jane has got no further than hearing, from his own lips, that she
is the very last person in the whole world he would wish should come
near him in his blindness. When she was suggested as a possible
visitor, he said: "Oh, my God, NO!" and his face was one wild,
horrified protest. So Jane is getting her horsewhipping, Boy,
and--according to the method of a careful and thoughtful judge, who
orders thirty lashes of the "cat," in three applications of ten--so is
Jane's punishment laid on at intervals; not more than she can bear at a
time; but enough to keep her heart continually sore, and her spirit in
perpetual dread. And you, dear, clever doctor, are proved perfectly
right in your diagnosis of the sentiment of the case. He says her pity
would be the last straw on his already heavy cross; and the expression
is an apt one, her pity for him being indeed a thing of straw. The only
pity she feels is pity for herself, thus hopelessly caught in the
meshes of her own mistake. But how to make him realise this, is the
puzzle.
Do you remember how the Israelites were shut in, between Migdol and the
sea? I knew Migdol meant "towers," but I never understood the passage,
until I stood upon that narrow wedge of desert, with the Red Sea in
front and on the left; the rocky range of Gebel Attaka on the right,
towering up against the sky, like the weird shapes of an impregnable
fortress; the sole outlet or inlet behind, being the route they had
just travelled from Egypt, and along which the chariots and horsemen of
Pharaoh were then thundering in hot pursuit. Even so, Boy, is poor Jane
now tramping her patch of desert, which narrows daily to the measure of
her despair. Migdol is HIS certainty that HER love could only be pity.
The Red Sea is the confession into which she must inevitably plunge, to
avoid scaling Migdol; in the chill waters of which, as she drags him in
with her, his love is bound to drown, as waves of doubt and mistrust
sweep over its head,--doubts which he has lost the power of removing;
mistrust which he can never hope to prove to have been false and
mistaken. And behind come galloping the hosts of Pharaoh; chance,
speeding on the wheels of circumstance. At any moment some accident may
compel a revelation; and instantly HE will be scaling rocky Migdol,
with torn hands and bleeding feet; and she--poor Jane--floundering in
the depths of the Red Sea. O for a Moses, with divine commission, to
stretch out the rod of understanding love, making a safe way through;
so that together they might reach the Promised Land! Dear wise old Boy,
dare you undertake the role of Moses!
But here am I writing like a page of Baedeker, and failing to report on
actual facts.
As you may suppose, Jane grows haggard and thin in spite of old
Margery's porridge--which is "put on" every day after lunch, for the
next morning's breakfast, and anybody passing "gives it a stir." Did
you know that was the right way to make porridge, Deryck? I always
thought it was made in five minutes, as wanted. Margery says that must
be the English stuff which profanely goes by the name. (N.B. Please
mark the self-control with which I repeat Scotch remarks, without
rushing into weird spelling; a senseless performance, it seems to me.
For if you know already how old Margery pronounces "porridge," you can
read her pronunciation into the sentence; and if you do not know it, no
grotesque spelling on my part could convey to your mind any but a
caricatured version of the pretty Scotch accent with which Margery
says: "Stir the porridge, Nurse Gray." In fact, I am agreeably
surprised at the ease with which I understand the natives, and the
pleasure I derive from their conversation; for, after wrestling with
one or two modern novels dealing with the Highlands, I had expected to
find the language an unknown tongue. Instead of which, lo! and behold,
old Margery, Maggie the housemaid, Macdonald the gardener, and
Macalister the game-keeper, all speak a rather purer English than I do;
far more carefully pronounced, and with every R sounded and rolled.
Their idioms are more characteristic than their accent. They say
"whenever" for "when," and use in their verbs several quaint variations
of tense.)
But what a syntactical digression! Oh, Boy, the wound at my heart is so
deep and so sore that I dread the dressings, even by your delicate
touch. Where was I? Ah, the porridge gave me my loophole of escape.
Well, as I was saying, Jane grows worn and thin, old Margery's porridge
notwithstanding; but Nurse Rosemary Gray is flourishing, and remains a
pretty, dainty little thing, with the additional charm of fluffy,
fly-away floss-silk, for hair,--Dr. Rob's own unaided contribution to
the fascinating picture. By the way, I was quite unprepared to find him
such a character. I learn much from Dr. Mackenzie, and I love Dr. Rob,
excepting on those occasions when I long to pick him up by the scruff
of his fawn overcoat and drop him out of the window.
On the point of Nurse Rosemary's personal appearance, I found it best
to be perfectly frank with the household. You can have no conception
how often awkward moments arose; as, for instance, in the library, the
first time Garth came downstairs; when he ordered Simpson to bring the
steps for Miss Gray, and Simpson opened his lips to remark that Nurse
Gray could reach to the top shelf on her own tiptoes with the greatest
ease, he having just seen her do it. Mercifully, the perfect training
of an English man-servant saved the situation, and he merely said:
"Yessir; certainly sir," and looked upon, me, standing silently by, as
a person who evidently delighted in giving unnecessary trouble. Had it
been dear old Margery with her Scotch tongue, which starts slowly, but
gathers momentum as it rolls, and can never be arrested until the full
flood of her thought has been poured forth, I should have been
constrained to pick her up bodily in my dainty arms and carry her out.
So I sent for Simpson and Margery to the dining-room that evening, when
the master was safely out of ear-shot, and told them that, for reasons
which I could not fully explain, a very incorrect description of my
appearance had been given him. He thought me small and slim; fair and
very pretty; and it was most important, in order to avoid long
explanations and mental confusion for him, that he should not at
present be undeceived. Simpson's expression of polite attention did not
vary, and his only comment was: "Certainly, miss. Quite so." But across
old Margery's countenance, while I was speaking, passed many shades of
opinion, which, fortunately, by the time I had finished, crystallized
into an approving smile of acquiescence. She even added her own
commentary: "And a very good thing, too, I am thinking. For Master
Garth, poor laddie, was always so set upon having beauty about him.
'Master Garthie,' I would say to him, when he had friends coming, and
all his ideas in talking over the dinner concerned the cleaning up of
the old silver, and putting out of Valentine glass and Worstered china;
'Master Garthie,' I would say, feeling the occasion called for the apt
quoting of Scripture, 'it appears to me your attention is given
entirely to the outside of the cup and platter, and you care nothing
for all the good things that lie within.' So it is just as well to keep
him deceived, Miss Gray." And then, as Simpson coughed tactfully behind
his hand, and nudged her very obviously with his elbow, she added, as a
sympathetic after-thought: "For, though a homey face may indeed be
redeemed by its kindly expression, you cannot very well explain
expression to the blind." So you see, Deryck, this shrewd old body, who
has known Garth from boyhood, would have entirely agreed with the
decision of three years ago.
Well, to continue my report. The voice gave us some trouble, as you
foresaw, and the whole plan hung in the balance during a few awful
moments; for, though he easily accepted the explanation we had planned,
he sent me out, and told Dr. Mackenzie my voice in his room would
madden him. Dr. Rob was equal to the occasion, and won the day; and
Garth, having once given in, never mentioned the matter again. Only,
sometimes I see him listening and remembering.
But Nurse Rosemary Gray has beautiful hours when poor anxious, yearning
Jane is shut out. For her patient turns to her, and depends on her, and
talks to her, and tries to reach her mind, and shows her his, and is a
wonderful person to live with and know. Jane, marching about in the
cold, outside, and hearing them talk, realises how little she
understood the beautiful gift which was laid at her feet; how little
she had grasped the nature and mind of the man whom she dismissed as "a
mere boy." Nurse Rosemary, sitting beside him during long sweet hours
of companionship, is learning it; and Jane, ramping up and down her
narrowing strip of desert, tastes the sirocco of despair.
And now I come to the point of my letter, and, though I am a woman, I
will not put it in a postscript.
Deryck, can you come up soon, to pay him a visit, and to talk to me? I
don't think I can bear it, unaided, much longer; and he would so enjoy
having you, and showing you how he had got on, and all the things he
had already learned to do. Also you might put in a word for Jane; or at
all events, get at his mind on the subject. Oh, Boy, if you COULD spare
forty-eight hours! And a breath of the moors would be good for you.
Also I have a little private plan, which depends largely for its
fulfilment on your coming. Oh, Boy--come!
Yours, needing you,
Jeanette.
From Sir Deryck Brand to Nurse Rosemary Gray, Castle Gleneesh, N. B.
Wimpole Street.
My dear Jeanette: Certainly I will come. I will leave Euston on Friday
evening. I can spend the whole of Saturday and most of Sunday at
Gleneesh, but must be home in time for Monday's work.
I will do my best, only, alas! I am not Moses, and do not possess his
wonder-working rod. Moreover, latest investigations have proved that
the Israelites could not have crossed at the place you mention, but
further north at the Bitter Lakes; a mere matter of detail, in no way
affecting the extreme appositeness of your illustration, rather, adding
to it; for I fear there are bitter waters ahead of you, my poor girl.
Still I am hopeful, nay, more than hopeful,--confident. Often of late,
in connection with you, I have thought of the promise about all things
working together for good. Any one can make GOOD things work together
for good: but only the Heavenly Father can bring good out of evil; and,
taking all our mistakes and failings and foolishnesses, cause them to
work to our most perfect well-being. The more intricate and involved
this problem of human existence becomes, the greater the need to take
as our own clear rule of life: "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart;
and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge
Him, and He shall direct thy paths." Ancient marching orders, and
simple; but true, and therefore eternal.
I am glad Nurse Rosemary is proving so efficient, but I hope we may not
have to face yet another complication in our problem. Suppose our
patient falls in love with dainty little Nurse Rosemary, where will
Jane be then? I fear the desert would have to open its mouth and
swallow her up. We must avert such a catastrophe. Could not Rosemary be
induced to drop an occasional H, or to confess herself as rather "gone"
on Simpson?
Oh, my poor old girl! I could not jest thus, were I not coming shortly
to your aid.
How maddening it is! And you so priceless! But most men are either
fools or blind, and one is both. Trust me to prove it to him,--to my
own satisfaction and his,--if I get the chance.
Yours always devotedly,
Deryck Brand.
From Sir Deryck Brand to Dr. Robert Mackenzie.
Dear Mackenzie: Do you consider it to be advisable that I should
shortly pay a visit to our patient at Gleneesh and give an opinion on
his progress?
I find I can make it possible to come north this week-end.
I hope you are satisfied with the nurse I sent up.
Yours very faithfully,
Deryck Brand.
From Dr. Robert Mackenzie to Sir Deryck Brand.
Dear Sir Deryck: Every possible need of the patient's is being met by
the capable lady you sent to be his nurse. I am no longer needed. Nor
are you--for the patient. But I deem it exceedingly advisable that you
should shortly pay a visit to the nurse, who is losing more flesh than
a lady of her proportions can well afford.
Some secret care, besides the natural anxiety of having the
responsibility of this case, is wearing her out. She may confide in
you. She cannot quite bring herself to trust in
Your humble servant,
Robert Mackenzie.