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The Rosary

BY

Florence L. Barclay




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I ENTER--THE DUCHESS
II INTRODUCES THE HONOURABLE JANE
III THE SURPRISE PACKET
IV JANE VOLUNTEERS
V CONFIDENCES
VI THE VEIL IS LIFTED
VII GARTH FINDS HIS ROSARY
VIII ADDED PEARLS
IX LADY INGLEBY'S HOUSE PARTY
X THE REVELATION
XI GARTH FINDS THE CROSS
XII THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
XIII THE ANSWER OF THE SPHINX
XIV IN DERYCK'S SAFE CONTROL
XV THE CONSULTATION
XVI THE DOCTOR FINDS A WAY
XVII ENTER--NURSE ROSEMARY
XVIII THE NAPOLEON OF THE MOORS
XIX THE VOICE IN THE DARKNESS.
XX JANE REPORTS PROGRESS
XXI HARD ON THE SECRETARY
XXII DR. ROB TO THE RESCUE
XXIII THE ONLY WAY
XXIV THE MAN'S POINT OF VIEW
XXV THE DOCTOR's DIAGNOSIS
XXVI HEARTS MEET IN SIGHTLESS LAND
XXVII THE EYES GARTH TRUSTED
XXVIII IN THE STUDIO
XXIX JANE LOOKS INTO LOVES MIRROR
XXX "THE LADY PORTRAYED"
XXXI IN LIGHTER VEIN
XXXII AN INTERLUDE
XXXIII "SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN!"
XXXIV "LOVE NEVER FAILETH"
XXXV NURSE ROSEMARY HAS HER REWARD
XXXVI THE REVELATION OF THE ROSARY
XXXVII "IN THE FACE OF THIS CONGREGATION"
XXXVIII PERPETUAL LIGHT




THE ROSARY




CHAPTER I

ENTER THE DUCHESS.


The peaceful stillness of an English summer afternoon brooded over
the park and gardens at Overdene. A hush of moving sunlight and
lengthening shadows lay upon the lawn, and a promise of refreshing
coolness made the shade of the great cedar tree a place to be
desired.

The old stone house, solid, substantial, and unadorned, suggested
unlimited spaciousness and comfort within; and was redeemed from
positive ugliness without, by the fine ivy, magnolia trees, and
wistaria, of many years' growth, climbing its plain face, and now
covering it with a mantle of soft green, large white blooms, and a
cascade of purple blossom.

A terrace ran the full length of the house, bounded at one end by a
large conservatory, at the other by an aviary. Wide stone steps, at
intervals, led down from the terrace on to the soft springy turf of
the lawn. Beyond--the wide park; clumps of old trees, haunted by shy
brown deer; and, through the trees, fitful gleams of the river, a
narrow silver ribbon, winding gracefully in and out between long
grass, buttercups, and cow-daisies.

The sun-dial pointed to four o'clock.

The birds were having their hour of silence. Not a trill sounded
from among the softly moving leaves, not a chirp, not a twitter. The
stillness seemed almost oppressive. The one brilliant spot of colour
in the landscape was a large scarlet macaw, asleep on his stand
under the cedar.

At last came the sound of an opening door. A quaint old figure
stepped out on to the terrace, walked its entire length to the
night, and disappeared into the rose-garden. The Duchess of Meldrum
had gone to cut her roses.

She wore an ancient straw hat, of the early-Victorian shape known as
"mushroom," tied with black ribbons beneath her portly chin; a loose
brown holland coat; a very short tweed skirt, and Engadine
"gouties." She had on some very old gauntlet gloves, and carried a
wooden basket and a huge pair of scissors.

A wag had once remarked that if you met her Grace of Meldrum
returning from gardening or feeding her poultry, and were in a
charitable frame of mind, you would very likely give her sixpence.
But, after you had thus drawn her attention to yourself and she
looked at you, Sir Walter Raleigh's cloak would not be in it! Your
one possible course would be to collapse into the mud, and let the
ducal "gouties" trample on you. This the duchess would do with
gusto; then accept your apologies with good nature; and keep your
sixpence, to show when she told the story.

The duchess lived alone; that is to say, she had no desire for the
perpetual companionship of any of her own kith and kin, nor for the
constant smiles and flattery of a paid companion. Her pale daughter,
whom she had systematically snubbed, had married; her handsome son,
whom she had adored and spoiled, had prematurely died, before the
death, a few years since, of Thomas, fifth Duke of Meldrum. He had
come to a sudden and, as the duchess often remarked, very suitable
end; for, on his sixty-second birthday, clad in all the splendours
of his hunting scarlet, top hat, and buff corduroy breeches, the
mare he was mercilessly putting at an impossible fence suddenly
refused, and Thomas, Duke of Meldrum, shot into a field of turnips;
pitched upon his head, and spoke no more.

This sudden cessation of his noisy and fiery life meant a complete
transformation in the entourage of the duchess. Hitherto she had had
to tolerate the boon companions, congenial to himself, with whom he
chose to fill the house; or to invite those of her own friends to
whom she could explain Thomas, and who suffered Thomas gladly, out
of friendship for her, and enjoyment of lovely Overdene. But even
then the duchess had no pleasure in her parties; for, quaint rough
diamond though she herself might appear, the bluest of blue blood
ran in her veins; and, though her manner had the off-hand abruptness
and disregard of other people's feelings not unfrequently found in
old ladies of high rank, she was at heart a true gentlewoman, and
could always be trusted to say and do the right thing in moments of
importance: The late duke's language had been sulphurous and his
manners Georgian; and when he had been laid in the unwonted quiet of
his ancestral vault--"so unlike him, poor dear," as the duchess
remarked, "that it is quite a comfort to know he is not really
there"--her Grace looked around her, and began to realise the
beauties and possibilities of Overdene.

At first she contented herself with gardening, making an aviary, and
surrounding herself with all sorts of queer birds and beasts; upon
whom she lavished the affection which, of late years, had known no
human outlet.

But after a while her natural inclination to hospitality, her
humorous enjoyment of other people's foibles, and a quaint delight
in parading her own, led to constant succession of house-parties at
Overdene, which soon became known as a Liberty Hall of varied
delights where you always met the people you most wanted to meet,
found every facility for enjoying your favourite pastime, were fed
and housed in perfect style, and spent some of the most ideal days
of your summer, or cheery days of your winter, never dull, never
bored, free to come and go as you pleased, and everything seasoned
everybody with the delightful "sauce piquante" of never being quite
sure what the duchess would do or say next.

She mentally arranged her parties under three heads--"freak
parties," "mere people parties," and "best parties." A "best party"
was in progress on the lovely June day when the duchess, having
enjoyed an unusually long siesta, donned what she called her "garden
togs" and sallied forth to cut roses.

As she tramped along the terrace and passed through the little iron
gate leading to the rose-garden, Tommy, the scarlet macaw, opened
one eye and watched her; gave a loud kiss as she reached the gate
and disappeared from view, then laughed to himself and went to sleep
again.

Of all the many pets, Tommy was prime favourite. He represented the
duchess's one concession to morbid sentiment. After the demise of
the duke she had found it so depressing to be invariably addressed
with suave deference by every male voice she heard. If the butler
could have snorted, or the rector have rapped out an uncomplimentary
adjective, the duchess would have felt cheered. As it was, a fixed
and settled melancholy lay upon her spirit until she saw in a
dealer's list an advertisement of a prize macaw, warranted a grand
talker, with a vocabulary of over five hundred words.

The duchess went immediately to town, paid a visit to the dealer,
heard a few of the macaw's words and the tone in which he said them,
bought him on the spot, and took him down to Overdene. The first
evening he sat crossly on the perch of his grand new stand,
declining to say a single one of his five hundred words, though the
duchess spent her evening in the hall, sitting in every possible
place; first close to him; then, away in a distant corner; in an
arm-chair placed behind a screen; reading, with her back turned,
feigning not to notice him; facing him with concentrated attention.
Tommy merely clicked his tongue at her every time she emerged from a
hiding-place; or, if the rather worried butler or nervous under-
footman passed hurriedly through the hall, sent showers of kisses
after them, and then went into fits of ventriloquial laughter. The
duchess, in despair, even tried reminding him in a whisper of the
remarks he had made in the shop; but Tommy only winked at her and
put his claw over his beak. Still, she enjoyed his flushed and
scarlet appearance, and retired to rest hopeful and in no wise
regretting her bargain.

The next morning it became instantly evident to the house-maid who
swept the hall, the footman who sorted the letters, and the butler
who sounded the breakfast gong, that a good night's rest had
restored to Tommy the full use of his vocabulary. And when the
duchess came sailing down the stairs, ten minutes after the gong had
sounded, and Tommy, flapping his wings angrily, shrieked at her:
"Now then, old girl! Come on!" she went to breakfast in a more
cheerful mood than she had known for months past.




CHAPTER II

INTRODUCES THE HONOURABLE JANE


The only one of her relatives who practically made her home with the
duchess was her niece and former ward, the Honourable Jane Champion;
and this consisted merely in the fact that the Honourable Jane was
the one person who might invite herself to Overdene or Portland
Place, arrive when she chose, stay as long as she pleased, and leave
when it suited her convenience. On the death of her father, when her
lonely girlhood in her Norfolk home came to an end, she would gladly
have filled the place of a daughter to the duchess. But the duchess
did not require a daughter; and a daughter with pronounced views,
plenty of back-bone of her own, a fine figure, and a plain face,
would have seemed to her Grace of Meldrum a peculiarly undesirable
acquisition. So Jane was given to understand that she might come
whenever she liked, and stay as long as she liked, but on the same
footing as other people. This meant liberty to come and go as she
pleased; and no responsibility towards her aunt's guests. The
duchess preferred managing her own parties in her oven way.

Jane Champion was now in her thirtieth year. She had once been
described, by one who saw below the surface, as a perfectly
beautiful woman in an absolutely plain shell; and no man had as yet
looked beneath the shell, and seen the woman in her perfection. She
would have made earth heaven for a blind lover who, not having eyes
for the plainness of her face or the massiveness of her figure,
might have drawn nearer, and apprehended the wonder of her as a
woman, experiencing the wealth of tenderness of which she was
capable, the blessed comfort of the shelter of her love, the perfect
comprehension of her sympathy, the marvellous joy of winning and
wedding her. But as yet, no blind man with far-seeing vision had
come her way; and it always seemed to be her lot to take a second
place, on occasions when she would have filled the first to infinite
perfection.

She had been bridesmaid at weddings where the charming brides,
notwithstanding their superficial loveliness, possessed few of the
qualifications for wifehood with which she was so richly endowed.

She was godmother to her friends' babies, she, whose motherhood
would have been a thing for wonder and worship.

She had a glorious voice, but her face not matching it, its
existence was rarely suspected; and as she accompanied to
perfection, she was usually in requisition to play for the singing
of others.

In short, all her life long Jane had filled second places, and
filled them very contentedly. She had never known what it was to be
absolutely first with any one. Her mother's death had occurred
during her infancy, so that she had not even the most shadowy
remembrance of that maternal love and tenderness which she used
sometimes to try to imagine, although she had never experienced it.

Her mother's maid, a faithful and devoted woman, dismissed soon
after the death of her mistress, chancing to be in the neighbourhood
some twelve years later, called at the manor, in the hope of finding
some in the household who remembered her.

After tea, Fraulein and Miss Jebb being out of the way, she was
spirited up into the schoolroom to see Miss Jane, her heart full of
memories of the "sweet babe" upon whom she and her dear lady had
lavished so much love and care.

She found awaiting her a tall, plain girl with a frank, boyish
manner and a rather disconcerting way as she afterwards remarked, of
"taking stock of a body the while one was a-talking," which at first
checked the flow of good Sarah's reminiscences, poured forth so
freely in the housekeeper's room below, and reduced her to looking
tearfully around the room, remarking that she remembered choosing
the blessed wall-paper with her dear lady now gone, whose joy had
been so great when the dear babe first took notice and reached up
for the roses. "And I can show you, miss, if you care to know it
just which bunch of roses it were."

But before Sarah's visit was over, Jane had heard many undreamed-of-
things; amongst others, that her mother used to kiss her little
hands, "ah, many a time she, did, miss; called them little rose-
petals, and covered them with kisses."

The child, utterly unused to any demonstrations of affection, looked
at her rather ungainly brown hands and laughed, simply because she
was ashamed of the unwonted tightening at her throat and the queer
stinging of tears beneath her eyelids. Thus Sarah departed under the
impression that Miss Jane had grown up into a rather a heartless
young lady. But Fraulein and Jebbie never knew why, from that day
onward, the hands, of which they had so often had cause to complain,
were kept scrupulously clean; and on her birthday night, unashamed
in the quiet darkness, the lonely little child kissed her own hands
beneath the bedclothes, striving thus to reach the tenderness of her
dead mother's lips.

And in after years, when she became her own mistress, one of her
first actions was to advertise for Sarah Matthews and engage her as
her own maid, at a salary which enabled the good woman eventually to
buy herself a comfortable annuity.

Jane saw but little of her father, who had found it difficult to
forgive her, firstly, for being a girl when he desired a son;
secondly, being a girl, for having inherited his plainness rather
than her mother's beauty. Parents are apt to see no injustice in the
fact that they are often annoyed with their offspring for possessing
attributes, both of character and appearance, with which they
themselves have endowed them.

The hero of Jane's childhood, the chum of her girlhood and the close
friend of her maturer years, was Deryck Brand, only son of the
rector of the parish, and her senior by nearly ten years. But even
in their friendship, close though it was, she had never felt herself
first to him. As a medical student, at home during vacations, his
mother and his profession took precedence in his mind of the lonely
child, whose devotion pleased him and whose strong character and
original mental development interested him. Later on he married a
lovely girl, as unlike Jane as one woman could possibly be to
another; but still their friendship held and deepened; and now, when
he was rapidly advancing to the very front rank of his profession,
her appreciation of his work, and sympathetic understanding of his
aims and efforts, meant more to him than even the signal mark of
royal favour, of which he had lately been the recipient.

Jane Champion had no close friends amongst the women of her set. Her
lonely girlhood had bred in her an absolute frankness towards
herself and other people which made it difficult for her to
understand or tolerate the little artificialities of society, or the
trivial weaknesses of her own sex. Women to whom she had shown
special kindness--and they were many--maintained an attitude of
grateful admiration in her presence, and of cowardly silence in her
absence when she chanced to be under discussion.

But of men friends she had many, especially among a set of young
fellows just through college, of whom she made particular chums;
nice lads, who wrote to her of their college and mess-room scrapes,
as they would never have dreamed of doing to their own mothers. She
knew perfectly well that they called her "old Jane" and "pretty
Jane" and "dearest Jane" amongst themselves, but she believed in the
harmlessness of their fun and the genuineness of their affection,
and gave them a generous amount of her own in return.

Jane Champion happened just now to be paying one of her long visits
to Overdene, and was playing golf with a boy for whom she had long
had a rod in pickle on this summer afternoon when the duchess went
to cut blooms in her rose-garden. Only, as Jane found out, you
cannot decorously lead up to a scolding if you are very keen on
golf, and go golfing with a person who is equally enthusiastic, and
who all the way to the links explains exactly how he played every
hole the last time he went round, and all the way back gloats over,
in retrospection, the way you and he have played every hole this
time.

So Jane considered her afternoon, didactically, a failure. But, in
the smoking-room that night, young Cathcart explained the game all
over again to a few choice spirits, and then remarked: "Old Jane was
superb! Fancy! Such a drive as that, and doing number seven in three
and not talking about it! I've jolly well made up my mind to send no
more bouquets to Tou-Tou. Hang it, boys! You can't see yourself at
champagne suppers with a dancing-woman, when you've walked round the
links, on a day like this, with the Honourable Jane. She drives like
a rifle shot, and when she lofts, you'd think the ball was a
swallow; and beat me three holes up and never mentioned it. By Jove,
a fellow wants to have a clean bill when he shakes hands with her!"




CHAPTER III

THE SURPRISE PACKET


The sun-dial pointed to half past four o'clock. The hour of silence
appeared to be over. The birds commenced twittering; and a cuckoo,
in an adjacent wood, sounded his note at intervals.

The house awoke to sudden life. There was an opening and shutting of
doors. Two footmen, in the mulberry and silver of the Meldrum
livery, hurried down from the terrace, carrying folding tea-tables,
with which they supplemented those of rustic oak standing
permanently under the cedar. One, promptly returned to the house;
while the other remained behind, spreading snowy cloths over each
table.



The macaw awoke, stretched his wings and flapped them twice, then
sidled up and down his perch, concentrating his attention upon the
footman.

"Mind!" he exclaimed suddenly, in the butler's voice, as a cloth,
flung on too hurriedly, fluttered to the grass.

"Hold your jaw!" said the young footman irritably, flicking the bird
with the table-cloth, and then glancing furtively at the rose-
garden.

"Tommy wants a gooseberry!" shrieked the macaw, dodging the table-
cloth and hanging, head downwards, from his perch.

"Don't you wish you may get it?" said the footman viciously.

"Give it him, somebody," remarked Tommy, in the duchess's voice.

The footman started, and looked over his shoulder; then hurriedly
told Tommy just what he thought of him, and where he wished him;
cuffed him soundly, and returned to the house, followed by peals of
laughter, mingled with exhortations and imprecations from the angry
bird, who danced up and down on his perch until his enemy had
vanished from view.

A few minutes later the tables were spread with the large variety of
eatables considered necessary at an English afternoon tea; the
massive silver urn and teapots gleamed on the buffet-table, behind
which the old butler presided; muffins, crumpets, cakes, and every
kind of sandwich supplemented the dainty little rolled slices of
white and brown bread-and-butter, while heaped-up bowls of freshly
gathered strawberries lent a touch of colour to the artistic effect
of white and silver. When all was ready, the butler raised his hand
and sounded an old Chinese gong hanging in the cedar tree. Before
the penetrating boom had died away, voices were heard in the
distance from all over the grounds.

Up from the river, down from the tennis courts, out from house and
garden, came the duchess's guests, rejoicing in the refreshing
prospect of tea, hurrying to the welcome shade of the cedar;--
charming women in white, carefully guarding their complexions
beneath shady hats and picturesque parasols;--delightful girls, who
had long ago sacrificed complexions to comfort, and now walked
across the lawn bareheaded, swinging their rackets and discussing
the last hard-fought set; men in flannels, sunburned and handsome,
joining in the talk and laughter; praising their partners, while
remaining unobtrusively silent as to their own achievements.

They made a picturesque group as they gathered under the tree,
subsiding with immense satisfaction into the low wicker chairs, or
on to the soft turf, and helping themselves to what they pleased.
When all were supplied with tea, coffee, or iced drinks, to their
liking, conversation flowed again.

"So the duchess's concert comes off to-night," remarked some one. "I
wish to goodness they would hang this tree with Chinese lanterns
and, have it out here. It is too hot to face a crowded function
indoors."

"Oh, that's all right," said Garth Dalmain, "I'm stage-manager, you
know; and I can promise you that all the long windows opening on to
the terrace shall stand wide. So no one need be in the concert-room,
who prefers to stop outside. There will be a row of lounge chairs
placed on the terrace near the windows. You won't see much; but you
will hear, perfectly."

"Ah, but half the fun is in seeing," exclaimed one of the tennis
girls. "People who have remained on the terrace will miss all the
point of it afterwards when the dear duchess shows us how everybody
did it. I don't care how hot it is. Book me a seat in the front
row!"

"Who is the surprise packet to-night?" asked Lady Ingleby, who had
arrived since luncheon.

"Velma," said Mary Strathern. "She is coming for the week-end, and
delightful it will be to have her. No one but the duchess could have
worked it, and no place but Overdene would have tempted her. She
will sing only one song at the concert; but she is sure to break
forth later on, and give us plenty. We will persuade Jane to drift
to the piano accidentally and play over, just by chance, the opening
bars of some of Velma's best things, and we shall soon hear the
magic voice. She never can resist a perfectly played accompaniment."

"Why call Madame Velma the `surprise packet'?" asked a girl, to whom
the Overdene "best parties" were a new experience.

"That, my dear," replied Lady Ingleby, "is a little joke of the
duchess's. This concert is arranged for the amusement of her house
party, and for the gratification and glorification of local
celebrities. The whole neighbourhood is invited. None of you are
asked to perform, but local celebrities are. In fact they furnish
the entire programme, to their own delight, the satisfaction of
their friends and relatives, and our entertainment, particularly
afterwards when the duchess takes us through every item, with
original notes, comments, and impersonations. Oh, Dal! Do you
remember when she tucked a sheet of white writing-paper into her
tea-gown for a dog collar, and took off the high-church curate
nervously singing a comic song? Then at the very end, you see--and
really some of it is quite good for amateurs--she trots out Velma,
or some equally perfect artiste, to show them how it really can be
done; and suddenly the place is full of music, and a great hush
falls on the audience, and the poor complacent amateurs realise that
the noise they have been making was, after all, not music; and they
go dumbly home. But they have forgotten all about it by the
following year; or a fresh contingent of willing performers steps
into the breach. The duchess's little joke always comes off."

"The Honourable Jane does not approve of it," said young Ronald
Ingram; "therefore she is generally given marching orders and
departs to her next visit before the event. But no one can accompany
Madame Velma so perfectly, so this time she is commanded to stay.
But I doubt if the 'surprise packet' will come off with quite such a
shock as usual, and I am certain the fun won't be so good
afterwards. The Honourable Jane has been known to jump on the
duchess for that sort of thing. She is safe to get the worst of it
at the time, but it has a restraining effect afterwards."

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