CHAPTER XXV
AN ENGAGEMENT, AND I TELL JANE MY STORY
The two of them came down the garden path hand in hand. The sun caressed Jane's small, dark head. She wore the pretty, cool, grey gown, and in her belt was tucked a red rose no redder than her cheeks. They stopped in front of the couch, and I held out my hands to them.
"I know," I said. "You needn't tell me. I'm so glad. You two dear things. It is beautiful, and—I like your suit, Dr. Renton; my sartorial instinct is good, I think."
"I don't think it was the suit—altogether, but perhaps I'm vain." He looked gravely at Jane.
She was a little mystified.
"I was telling Dr. Renton the other day that I considered grey flannel was very becoming to men with grey hair."
"Oh," she said, "I didn't notice what he was wearing."
"There!" said the Doctor.
"I don't feel abashed. Unconsciously she would take in the general effect."
Jane wandered to the sweet-pea hedge and hummed a little tune.
"I don't like a conversation conducted in asides," she called. "When you two have finished tell me."
Dr. Renton regarded her with pride and love written on every line of his face.
"You see, she has grown beautiful!" he said.
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly. Don't you?"
"Well, no. I haven't thought so; but I will look more closely. Are the lines there?"
"A few, but not so many as——"
"You had expected?"
"As I had hoped," he finished with a smile.
"Jane," I called, "the Doctor is disappointed not to find you wrinkled."
"Did he wish me to keep him in countenance?"
"Jane, you must learn to be respectful. The Doctor is older than you."
"I cannot learn such a lesson at my time of life. My pupils have respected me."
"I shall be your master, not your pupil."
"These are early days to adopt such a tone, sir."
"You might both be in your teens," I observed. And they laughed as happily as though they were.
A hammering at the drawing-room window attracted our attention.
"It's Dimbie," I explained. "You see, he is a little cross. He went to look up something for me in the encyclopædia, and I told Amelia to lock him in. I was afraid he might worry you, and perhaps follow you about."
"Do you mean to say he knew——" Jane broke off, turning a vivid scarlet.
What was I to say? Here was a pretty dilemma.
"I let it out the other day," said the Doctor bravely.
"Did you know when you invited me here?" Her eyes were full of fire, but her voice was quiet.
"No," I said triumphantly, "not a word. And Dr. Renton didn't exactly tell me; I found out. He was here when your telegram came."
"Mr. Westover will certainly break the window," she said, somewhat inconsequently.
He was waving and war-whooping like an Indian. Amelia came to the door.
"Shall I let him out now, mum?" she asked.
"At once."
When he appeared I said—
"Dimbie, you should try to be more controlled."
"Well, of all the cheek——"
"It wasn't cheek, but common sense," I interposed gently. "I told Amelia to do it."
"But why? You may be the mistress of One Tree Cottage, but I——"
"Come here, and I will whisper to you." I pulled his sunburnt face down to mine.
"Your hair tickles!" He was still a little cross. I pushed it back.
"I was afraid you might follow those two about and stare at them, and I wanted them to get engaged and——"
Dimbie raised his head. (Jane, followed by the Doctor, had strolled away.) Light broke across his face.
"And they've done it?"
"It is not an elegant way of putting it."
"They've been jolly sharp."
"Dr. Renton has been here over half an hour."
"And where have I been?"
"Studying the encyclopædia. Don't you remember I asked you to find me the sneezy man? Who was he?"
"Nietzsche, a bally German who didn't know what he wanted."
He crossed the lawn, and I noticed that the grip he gave the Doctor's hand was pretty severe. To Jane I heard him say: "It's made Marg awfully happy. Her eyes are shining, and she thinks she has brought it all about—a regular match-maker!"
I could not catch Jane's reply, but presently they returned to me.
"You will be wanting to walk and wander down the lanes, as Dimbie and—as all lovers want to wander, and you shall go at once. The evening is lovely. There is a cornfield in the lane after you have passed the four cross-roads. Dimbie has told me of it. The sun is setting—sun on a golden cornfield is a thing of beauty—and later there will be a moon. Please remember that supper is at eight o'clock."
They laughed, and Jane without any more ado put on her hat.
"It seems to me," observed Dimbie, as our eyes followed them round the broom bush and through the gate, "that they are a little old for the game."
"That is so like a man who never knows or understands anything."
"Oh!" He settled himself in a deck-chair and lighted his pipe.
"You see, the hearts of Jane and the Doctor are still quite fresh and young."
"Indeed?"
"Yes," I said, "love has kept them so. As they walk down the lane they are back in their 'twenties.' The years have slipped away. What matters if their faces are tired, if some of the brightness has gone out of their eyes, if some of the freshness has left their voices? They are beautiful to each other, that is sufficient."
"You sound very wise, little wife."
I nodded.
"I am wiser than you in a few things because I am a girl. Only women understand that which pertaineth to love. Men are very ignorant."
Dimbie smiled and smoked for a while in silence, while I thought of the happiness of Jane. We had had a long and intimate talk the previous evening. Dimbie had left us and gone to the fields in search of mushrooms at my special request. Mushrooms, I had felt, were the one thing needed to complete our evening in the garden, for we were to sup under the apple tree; and Dimbie on his return was to hang out our Chinese lanterns and dot fairy lights about the lawn.
"You only want to get rid of me," he had laughed. "I am convinced that there will not be a single mushroom in Surrey after the long, dry summer."
"If I want to get rid of you," I returned, "it will be for the very first and last time in my life; but I want to talk to Jane for a little while—just by ourselves."
He looked at me for a moment jealously and suspiciously.
"You don't mind just for once, dear."
"No, not very much, though I don't approve of secrets between women."
"Good-bye," I said, patting his cheek, "and bring plenty of mushrooms."
Jane sat on a low chair with her arms pillowed behind her head.
"Now," she said, "tell me all, tell me your story from the very beginning. You have suffered much, I can see it in your face, but you are happy. Tell me where you met your husband. I may say at once that I like him tremendously."
"Jane," I said, "my heart goes out to you at your words. To like Dimbie shows that you possess a fine discrimination."
She smiled and said, "I am waiting."
And so in the gentle hush of evening, in the fading light, in the sweet fragrance of the garden, I told her all. Of Dimbie's and my first meeting, of our engagement, of our marriage, of my great happiness —I lingered on that. The pain which had been mine when I recalled those radiant days had gone. I could speak of them now calmly and without any break in my voice. Those were days pulsating with joy, these were days of a great peace. Then briefly I touched upon my accident and suffering, of our hopes only to be dashed to the ground, of my subsequent despair, of my doubts as to the steadfastness of Dimbie's love, followed by the radiance of complete faith and understanding. I told her of Aunt Letitia's money, of my desire to remain at our cottage till the end of the year because—— Should I tell her why? Should I tell her that which I had even withheld from Dimbie? Jane was so sensible, so—— And out of the gathering darkness it came to me that she was crying silently, despairingly.
"Why, Jane," I whispered, "you are crying. You must not do that, Dimbie might come, and it would distress him. Listen, I am not unhappy now. Do not think I am sorry for myself, for— perhaps I cannot make it clear to you, words are so futile, but—one morning just lately, one wonderful dawn when God Himself took out His pallet and brush and touched the clouds with softest grey and pearl, and pink and rose, when the first note of a still sleepy bird broke the silence, when the flowers shook the dew from their fresh morning faces, something came to my room on footsteps light as thistledown, something came to my bed on which I had spent a long, weary, sleepless night, and laid a gentle, healing hand on my aching brow, and sorrow and pain and the fear of death fell from me, and I was comforted. You will say I was fanciful, imaginative, that my mind was overwrought from fatigue; but no, I was calm and clear-eyed, and I knew that it was Peace that had come to me. I opened my arms wide and held it closely, never to let go. 'Dear Comforter,' I whispered, 'you shall never leave me, for now I know a happiness which is not of this world, but is of a life which is eternal.'
"I lay very still thinking about it. I must tell you that during my weeks of suffering I had lost my faith, I had lost God. I felt that He had treated me too cruelly. 'He is not a God of love,' I had cried. 'I cannot believe that. I have done with Him.' So as I lay watching the dawn, waiting for the sun, I wondered and wondered again: 'Has God forgiven me—forgiven my rebellion, taken pity on my loneliness?' For when Dimbie has said his prayers at night with his hand in mine, and entered into His presence, I have felt so lonely and cried in my heart, 'Lord, let me find Thee again, for where Dimbie is there I want to be.'
"'Perhaps He has forgiven me, and wants me—even me,' I said to myself. With my eyes on the glowing east I waited and watched for the sun. At last he appeared, and, as though looking for me, sent a warm shaft of light across my body. And from me came the words, 'God is good! Allah is great!' And I laughed aloud, and Dimbie stirred and woke. 'What is it, girl?' he asked. 'Have you had a good night?'
"'A bad, bad night, but such a dawn. Look! Here from my corner I can see all the beauty of the world—shell-pink softness, the red glory of sunrise, a distant cornfield touched with gold, dewdrops on gossamer web.
"'O world as God has made it, all is beauty;
And knowing this is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for——'
And Dimbie put a gentle arm around me and drew my head on to his shoulder. 'And have you no further need to ask for, sweetheart?' he inquired.
"'Not one,' I whispered. 'I am beginning to understand things—just a little, and I am at peace.'"
I stopped. Night had fallen, my story was finished. Jane got up—I could not see her face—and she walked across the lawn to the sweet-pea hedge. No sound broke the stillness of the garden.
Presently she returned and knelt in front of me.
"Little old pupil."
"Yes," I said.
"I want to say something to you. Most people say things when it is too late. I don't want to be too late. I want to tell you, now, that you have given me all the happiness I have had for the last eight years. An Indian station is a dreary place for a plain, unattached, working woman. I should have become hard, dull, apathetic but for your love, little Marguerite, but for your admiration of my poor qualities. Your bright, loving letters came each month as a draught of fresh water to a tired, thirsty traveller. Your faithfulness cheered me on my way. Your symp——"
"I don't want to hear any more, Jane," I broke in.
"And but for you I should never have returned to England."
"And you would have missed happiness, the crown of your life."
She paused and looked up into my face.
"Happiness!" she said a little bitterly, "the crown of my life! I don't know what you mean. I only know that you suffer; I have just heard your story."
"Ah, don't speak of that! There are other things. There is love."
"Love and I passed each other long years ago," she said. "Love mocked me, laughed at me, left me alone."
"But he may return."
"It is unlikely. I am not young. But I don't want to talk of myself. I want only to speak of you. A little while back you said—you said that the fear of death fell from you. What did you mean?"
"Just what I said," and I bent my head and kissed her. "I think I hear Dimbie."
He came down the lane whistling, through the white gate—a dark, mysterious figure.
"Three mushrooms!" he called gaily. "One for each of us. Now I must light up. You are all in the dark."
"We are all in the dark," said Jane hopelessly.
"And the light is coming," said I.