第104章

I cannot write it.Let me hurl on to paper, in all its crude ugliness, the miserable fact which parted us; turning our dawning joy to disillusion and sadness.Garth--it was this.I did not believe your love would stand the test of my plainness.I knew what a worshipper of beauty you were; how you must have it, in one form or another, always around you.I got out my diary in which I had recorded verbatim our conversation about the ugly preacher, whose face became illumined into beauty, by the inspired glory within.And you added that you never thought him ugly again; but he would always be plain.And you said it was not the sort of face one would want to have always before one at meals; but that you were not called upon to undergo that discipline, which would be sheer martyrdom to you.""I was so interested, at the time; and so amused at the unconscious way in which you stood and explained this, to quite the plainest woman of your acquaintance, that I recorded it very fully in my journal.--Alas! On that important night, I read the words, over and over, until they took morbid hold upon my brain.Then--such is the self-consciousness awakened in a woman by the fact that she is loved and sought--I turned on all the lights around my mirror, and critically and carefully examined the face you would have to see every day behind your coffee-pot at breakfast, for years and years, if I said 'Yes,' on the morrow.Darling, I did not see myself through your eyes, as, thank God, I have done since.And I DID NOTTRUST YOUR LOVE TO STAND THE TEST.It seemed to me, I was saving both of us from future disappointment and misery, by bravely putting away present joy, in order to avoid certain disenchantment.My beloved, it will seem to you so coolly calculating, and so mean; so unworthy of the great love you were even then lavishing upon me.But remember, for years, your remarkable personal grace and beauty had been a source of pleasure to me; and I had pictured you wedded to Pauline Lister, for instance, in her dazzling whiteness, and soft radiant youth.So my morbid self-consciousness said: 'What! This young Apollo, tied to my ponderous plainness; growing handsomer every year, while I grow older and plainer?' Ah, darling! It sounds so unworthy, now we know what our love is.But it sounded sensible and right that night; and at last, with a bosom that ached, and arms that hung heavy at the thought of being emptied of all that joy, Imade up my mind to say 'no.' Ah, believe me, I had no idea what it already meant to you.I thought you would pass on at once to another fancy; and transfer your love to one more able to meet your needs, at every point.Honestly, Garth, I thought I should be the only one left desolate.--Then came the question: how to refuse you.I knew if I gave the true reason, you would argue it away, and prove me wrong, with glowing words, before which I should perforce yield.So--as Ireally meant not to let you run the risk, and not to run it myself--I lied to you, my beloved.To you, whom my whole being acclaimed King of my heart, Master of my will; supreme to me, in love and life,--to YOU I said: 'I cannot marry a mere boy.' Ah, darling! I do not excuse it.I do not defend it.I merely confess it; trusting to your generosity to admit, that no other answer would have sent you away.Ah, your poor Jane, left desolate! If you could have seen her in the little church, calling you back; retracting and promising;listening for your returning footsteps, in an agony of longing.But my Garth is not made of the stuff which stands waiting on the door-mat of a woman's indecision."

"The lonely year which followed so broke my nerve, that Deryck Brand told me I was going all to pieces, and ordered me abroad.I went, as you know; and in other, and more vigorous, surroundings, there came to me a saner view of life.In Egypt last March, on the summit of the Great Pyramid, I made up my mind that I could live without you no longer.I did not see myself wrong; but I yearned so for your love, and to pour mine upon you, my beloved, that I concluded it was worth the risk.I made up my mind to take the next boat home, and send for you.Then--oh, my own boy--I heard.I wrote to you; and you would not let me come.""Now I know perfectly well, that you might say: 'She did not trust me when I had my sight.Now that I cannot see, she is no longer afraid.' Garth, you might, say that; but it would not be true.Ihave had ample proof lately that I was wrong, and ought to have trusted you all through.What it is, I will tell you later.All Ican say now is: that, if your dear shining eyes could see, they would see, NOW, a woman who is, trustfully and unquestioningly, all your own.If she is doubtful of her face and figure, she says quite simply: 'They pleased HIM; and they are just HIS.I have no further right to criticise them.If he wants them, they are not mine, but his.' Darling, I cannot tell you now, how I have arrived at this assurance.But I have had proofs beyond words of your faithfulness and love.""The question, therefore, simply resolves itself into this: Can you forgive me? If you can forgive me, I can come to you at once.If this thing is past forgiveness, I must make up my mind to stay away.

But, oh, my own Dear,--the bosom on which once you laid your head waits for you with the longing ache of lonely years.If you need it, do not thrust it from you.""Write me one word by your own hand: 'Forgiven.' It is all I ask.

When it reaches me, I will come to you at once.Do not dictate a letter to your secretary.I could not bear it.Just write--if you can truly write it--'FORGIVEN'; and send it to 'Your Wife.'"The room was very still, as Nurse Rosemary finished reading; and, laying down the letter, silently waited.She wondered for a moment whether she could get herself a glass of water, without disturbing him; but decided to do without it.

At last Garth lifted his head.

"She has asked me to do a thing impossible," he said; and a slow smile illumined his drawn face.

Jane clasped her hands upon her breast.

"CAN you not write 'forgiven'?" asked Nurse Rosemary, brokenly.

"No," said Garth."I cannot.Little girl, give me a sheet of paper, and a pencil."Nurse Rosemary placed them close to his hand.

Garth took up the pencil.He groped for the paper; felt the edges with his left hand; found the centre with his fingers; and, in large firm letters, wrote one word.

"Is that legible?" he asked, passing it across to Nurse Rosemary.

"Quite legible," she said; for she answered before it was blotted by her tears.

Instead of "forgiven," Garth had written: "LOVED.""Can you post it at once?" Garth asked, in a low, eager voice."And she will come--oh, my God, she will come! If we catch to-night's mail, she may be here the day after to-morrow!"Nurse Rosemary took up the letter; and, by an almost superhuman effort, spoke steadily.

"Mr.Dalmain," she said; "there is a postscript to this letter.It says: 'Write to The Palace Hotel, Aberdeen.'"Garth sprang up, his whole face and figure alive with excitement.

"In Aberdeen?" he cried."Jane, in Aberdeen! Oh, my God! If she gets this paper to-morrow morning, she may be here any time in the day.

Jane! Jane! Dear little Rosemary, do you hear? Jane will come to-morrow! Didn't I tell you something was going to happen? You and Simpson were too British to understand; but Margery knew; and the woods told us it was Joy coming through Pain.Could that be posted at once, Miss Gray?"The May-Day mood was upon him again.His face shone.His figure was electric with expectation.Nurse Rosemary, sat at the table watching him; her chin in her hands.A tender smile dawned on her lips, out of keeping with her supposed face and figure; so full was it of the glorious expectation of a mature and perfect love.

"I will go to the post-office myself, Mr.Dalmain," she said."Ishall be glad of the walk; and I can be back by tea-time."At the post-office she did not post the word in Garth's handwriting.

That lay hidden in her bosom.But she sent off two telegrams.The first to The Duchess of Meldyum, Palace Hotel, Aberdeen.

"Come here by 5.50 train without fail this evening."The second to Sir Deryck Brand, Wimpole Sheet, London.

"All is right."