The Rosary [129]
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. I have 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 I can 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,
"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. I have 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 I can 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,