BROOKE REALIZED SHE had begun to look forward to Gareth Montrose’s visits. Warned to be careful, she had been inactive so long that she had started comparing herself mythically to Tennyson’s wistful Lady of Shallot, who saw life only as a reflection in the mirror above her loom. But Gareth’s vigorous, alive presence was making a difference; she was using this metaphor less and less. She could feel his energy, his vitality, his strength. In spite of warning herself not to become dependent, she had begun to anticipate his arrival.
It was only once in a while that she worried a little that his feelings for her might be growing deeper than friendship, perhaps even becoming romantic. But she ignored it. She didn’t want anything to disturb this pleasant relationship. Why not enjoy this attractive, interesting young man’s company? After all, she wouldn’t be here that long. She had only signed a six-month lease.
But Brooke was a sensitive, introspective woman—or had become so in her long illness, the nature of which she had not fully disclosed to Gareth. In her years in Japan, Brooke had absorbed something of the Oriental stoicism, the reluctance to reveal personal problems. Possibly there was an even deeper reason why she had not discussed her condition with Gareth, one she found hard to admit even to herself.
She was afraid. Her illness had once robbed her of a happiness she had felt sure was hers. She had been young, just nineteen, recently returned to Japan, hopeful, idealistic, romantic. She met Justin Wilburn, a young missionary newly out of seminary. He had been full of zeal for the life he had chosen, and he wanted Brooke to share it. She had fallen in love with him almost at once, long before he expressed a similar attraction to her. They spent hours together, reading the Bible, discussing it—well, not really discussing, because Justin expounded on it to her. He was working as an assistant in the local church while awaiting a mission assignment from his denomination’s missionary board in the States. Knowing that Justin’s appointment would be enhanced if his wife were a trained nurse, Brooke entered nurses’ training school at the American mission hospital. Upon her graduation they could marry and go into the mission field as a team.
The rigorous training had been physically too much for Brooke, and she had collapsed. She was diagnosed with tuberculosis. The treatment of choice then was complete bed rest, isolation in a mountain sanitarium. No visitors were allowed, because the disease was considered highly contagious.
Brooke had tried to be brave, had tried to believe that this was somehow part of God’s plan for her life, that there was something important for her to learn from this. All during the long months as she lay in bed on the sanitarium’s screened porch, bundled against the cold, clear mountain air, Brooke prayed for patience. She clung to the faith that eventually she would be healed so she and Justin could go on with their plans.
But that didn’t happen. Fifteen months crept by, and then she received two letters. The first was a short one from Justin, saying only that he had received his assignment and would be leaving Japan for Kenya on the next ship. The second letter was from her mother, breaking the news as kindly as possible that Justin was marrying a woman missionary who had recently arrived in Japan, that they had been seeing each other since shortly after Brooke had been taken to the sanitarium.
Brokenhearted as she had been at the time, Brooke did not blame Justin. She had always known that she had come second to his life’s calling, the Lord’s work. She had been an asset only as she could fulfill and support his vocation. Now that she could no longer share that goal, he had to be free. Slowly she began to understand and feel less and less sorry for herself. Perhaps if she and Justin had married, it would have been a disaster—maybe she would have failed him, maybe her health would have broken later in Africa. There were a hundred may bes….
In the end she admitted that God’s ways are not our ways and that maybe some other role was hers to play. When she improved and was released from the hospital, she returned to her parents’ home. She began to teach private English lessons, tutoring students who were going to the States for special education. Soon she had other challenges to face. Brooke had been a late child of middle-aged parents. Now they were both aging and in failing health. Eventually both died and Brooke was alone. A year after their deaths Brooke had a relapse and was hospitalized for a short period. It was during this time that she decided to come to the States and seek further medical treatment.
The American doctor, a medical missionary who had known her parents, was the one who had suggested that she see a colleague of his at the university hospital in his native state of Virginia, then spend a few months there for rest and relaxation.
Going over all that had happened to her, Brooke wondered if it had all been for some purpose. Was it so that she would come to Arbordale and meet Gareth Montrose? Nothing happens by chance for a Christian. Everything that comes into a person’s life does so by God’s permissive will. It seemed ironic that she would travel all this way and see the possibility of happiness and love so far from the land she had come to think of as her own.
But to love Gareth and to allow him to love her was too dangerous. It would mean taking too great a chance. And always there was the risk of her health. She could not be a real wife to any man now. Especially to someone like Gareth, a man of the outdoors, a man of strength, and younger than she at that. A man who would certainly want a family … something Brooke could never give him. She had been told earlier, even when she was still quite young, that childbearing might kill her. This was her secret sorrow.
The weeks of summer passed in enjoyable companionship. Gareth brought flowers and vegetables from his abundant gardens at Avalon, and Brooke always asked him to stay for some refreshment, served by the shyly smiling Mitsuiko.
These times lengthened. Gareth urged her to tell him more about her life in Japan. She delighted in telling him, because he was so interested, attentive.
“As a little girl, I wanted desperately to be Japanese like my friends. I wanted to wear a kimono and zoris and, of course, to celebrate Girls Day like the others.”
“Girls Day?”
“Yes, in Japan March third is Girls Day. Sort of a national birthday celebration for girls. There are parties and special gifts for the girl in the family, and she invites her friends to come see the new doll she probably got to add to her collection.” Brooke’s smile was nostalgic. “My mother was very wise; she allowed me to enjoy Girls Day. As a result I have a wonderful doll collection, as you probably noticed.” She pointed with a delicate hand to the china cabinet.
Embarrassed that he had not noticed, Gareth glanced at the china cabinet, where in most American homes precious pieces of heirloom china or cut glass were displayed. Now he saw that its shelves were filled with dolls of all sizes, in all sorts of Japanese costumes.
“Oh, my niece would love those!” he commented.
“Your niece?”
“Yes, the Maynards’ daughter.”
Brooke smiled. “Well, you must bring her by someday to see my dolls.”
“Are you sure?” Gareth looked concerned, as if he’d spoken out of turn.
“Of course. I’d be delighted.”
“But you’re supposed to be recuperating, aren’t you? Not having company or entertaining?”
For a moment a shadow seemed to pass over her face, darkening the violet blue eyes for a few seconds. Then Brooke said gently, “I’m not an invalid, Gareth. I like having guests, and I enjoy sharing what I love. My dolls, for instance.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—,” Gareth began.
“I know you were just being considerate.” Brooke smiled, then added, “You are a very nice man.”
As it turned out, Gareth did not bring Cara-Lyn to meet Brooke or see her dolls, after all. Somehow he didn’t want to share any of his time with Brooke. He had the feeling that the days of summer were going by fast, speeding in fact, faster than in any summer he had ever known. He was careful not to stay too long on his visits. He was conscious of the watchful presence of Mitsuiko. She was ever alert to the slightest hint of tiredness in Brooke. Then she would immediately but tactfully let it be known that it was time for Gareth to make his departure.
The day came when Gareth took Brooke to Avalon. Brooke looked lovely in a lavender dress, its V-neck ruffled in delicate lace. As she seated herself in the boat, she raised a gaily decorated Japanese paper parasol with a bamboo handle. Before he pulled away from the dock, Gareth impulsively said, “My father would love to paint you.”
She smilingly accepted the compliment. Gareth hoped he hadn’t embarrassed her with the remark. But it was true. The sun, shadowed by the parasol, gave a special light to her face, an iridescent quality to her dress. They rowed across in silence, hearing only the dipping of the oars, the sound of the water splashing against the side of the boat, a birdsong from somewhere in the top of the trees lining the banks.
When he secured the boat at the dock, he helped her out, then led her up the stone path to the garden. Where the little rise gently sloped down to the lily pond, there was a gracefully shaped bench over which a gentle breeze lifted the drifting fronds of a weeping willow tree.
Brooke drew a long breath. “Oh, Gareth, this is beautiful. It’s like a fairyland.”
“Actually, it started out as an English country garden. My mother was English—well, no, she was really an American; both my grandparents were Americans, but Mama was born in England. Anyway, she liked the random look of a garden, with flowers and colors all mixed up, no formal beds nor paths, nothing that looked too planned or arranged.”
“Japanese gardens are just the opposite,” Brooke told him. “They have a beauty all their own. No profusion of colors, variety of flowers. Rocks are more important almost—the arrangement of them is a real art. There is something quite serene…. Providing serenity seems to be the underlying purpose of gardens in Japan. And water, the sound of running water, flowing musically over rocks perhaps—it is hard to describe but really soul-refreshing.”
“Which do you like best?” Gareth asked, knowing that what he really wanted was for her to express a preference for his. Brooke looked at him with tender amusement.
“Do I have to choose?” she asked, laughing lightly. “Rather, ask me what kind of garden I would have for my own if I could.”
“All right. Tell me.”
“I don’t know really. I never imagined having one of my own or thought about what I would like to grow and have my eyes feast upon. When I was in the sanitarium and lying outside, I would daydream about being well, try to place myself in some beautiful, tranquil place—a garden. Of course, having grown up with Japanese gardens, I suppose that’s what I envisioned. Japanese gardens are usually small but are created to seem larger, the ends of paths and tiny streams concealed. This gives the impression of hidden space. Symbols are important to Japanese gardeners, and they use them in planning their gardens. Pines, for example, symbolize longevity; the bamboo for strength, the plum tree for delicate beauty, water in small fountains, flowing over rocks into little pools—all combine to express serenity. Japanese gardens tell a secret story not told in bold colors but left to the imagination of the viewer to reflect upon in quietude. In my make-believe garden there were blurred soft colors and meandering paths leading—I don’t really know where they led; I never got that far.” Brooke halted and laughed softly. “I think I must have drowsed off by then. Still, I remember it made me happy to think about it. A lovely fantasy.”
“It doesn’t have to be a dream, Brooke. Tell me what you want, and I’ll make a garden for you.”
Brooke touched his arm gently. “Oh, Gareth, you are reckless! Maybe it is best just to have an inward garden, to contemplate, to wander through, a kind of spiritual place where one can meditate, refresh oneself from everyday realities.”
“A real garden could be that.”
“Maybe,” Brooke sighed. Then she gestured to the expanse of rocks, of pinks, lobelia, dahlias, in shades from yellow to pale lavender. “To create a garden like this takes a long time …” Her voice trailed away, and for some reason Gareth felt a chill on his heart. It was almost as if Brooke were saying too long, as though … but he didn’t even want to finish the thought.
Gareth sat quietly, watching Brooke. He still thought her the loveliest creature he had ever seen. She had stopped talking and seemed lost in thought.
It was then he knew he loved her and would go on loving her for the rest of his life, no matter what.
Later when he took her inside the house, she exclaimed, “Oh, Gareth, it’s just the way I imagined William Morris’s Kenscott.”
“Maybe that’s what my parents intended; it’s probably where the idea came from. Morris, Burne-Jones, and the others in that group were my father’s inspiration.”
“Everything is so beautiful.” Brooke glanced around appreciatively, taking in the tapestries, the heavy carved Jacobean furniture, the panels with scenes of festivities and medieval village fairs that Jeff Montrose had painted.
“My parents often quoted William Morris’s golden rule for decorating: ‘Have nothing in your houses which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’”
Brooke turned to smile at Gareth. “That’s very much the same philosophy the Japanese have for their homes.”
And you fit in perfectly, Gareth thought, gazing at her fondly. Her classic features, the dark hair that waved softly about her face, the slender neck, the flowing ruffles on her pastel dress … Oh, Brooke, my darling, you belong here if ever anyone belonged at Avalon. Gareth’s heart was near to bursting. He longed to sweep Brooke into his arms, kiss her lovely mouth, tell her how much he loved her, longed for her to fill his life, which had been so empty until now….
“I think you’d better take me back now, Gareth,” her low voice broke into his thoughts.
Suddenly he felt contrite. There were shadows under her eyes, a look of weariness on her face. It had been too much for her, he thought guiltily. After all, she was recovering from a long illness.
“Of course. We’ll leave right now.”
She leaned on his arm as they went down the winding path to the dock, so light a weight it might have been a child holding on to him. He carefully put her in the boat, and they rowed across the river to the other bank, where he helped her out. Then as he assisted her up into the passenger seat of the pickup, Gareth belatedly was struck by its inappropriateness. He should have borrowed Lynette’s sedan. All the way back on the short ride to Shadowlawn, he chastised himself for his thoughtlessness. Brooke deserved a better vehicle to ride in than this.
As he escorted her up to the porch steps, a worried-looking Mitsuiko came out. Speaking rapidly in Japanese, she came rushing to Brooke’s other side and assisted her up the porch steps. She gave Gareth a fierce look. It was the first time the Japanese lady had ever directly looked him in the eyes. Why, she’s angry, Gareth thought with surprise. Then he realized Mitsuiko was upset because she felt the day had been too much for her friend.
And he was responsible. At the door Brooke turned to Gareth with a wan smile. “Thank you for a beautiful afternoon, Gareth. I enjoyed it very much.” Gareth felt dismissed. He also felt concerned and unhappy. He wanted to do something to help. He wanted to get back into Mitsuiko’s good graces, to explain he hadn’t meant to keep Brooke longer than was good for her. But he didn’t have a chance. “Good evening, Gareth,” Brooke said and went into the house. Mitsuiko firmly closed the door, leaving him standing on the porch.
The next afternoon he came by with a huge bouquet of mixed flowers. Mitsuiko met him at the door and coolly told him Brooke was resting. She took the flowers and bowed politely and thanked him.
“Please give Miss Leslie my regards,” he said. “Tell her I hope she will be feeling better”—the door was already closing—“soon,” he finished weakly.
That evening Gareth could not settle down. He was worried and not a little irritated with the high-handed way Mitsuiko had treated him. All the way home Gareth fumed. Had the trip over to Avalon been too much for her? He blamed himself if it had exhausted her.
In the morning he drove back over to Shadowlawn. This time he kept Mitsuiko from shutting the door on him, by opening the screen and planting himself firmly in the frame. “I’m concerned about Miss Leslie, Mitsuiko. I don’t know if she has a local doctor, but if she doesn’t—”
Just then he heard Brooke’s voice calling. Mitsuiko inclined her head, listening intently. A slight frown brought her dark-winged eyebrows over her almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth pursed slightly, then she stepped back, bowed. “Miss Leslie say she would like to see you, Mr. Montrose. She is out on the side porch.”
Relieved, Gareth went inside the house and out to where Brooke was reclining on the wicker chaise. She was wearing a kimono and looking well. In fact, he thought she looked blooming. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. He didn’t realize she was running a fever, always a danger sign for one with her condition.
“Mitsuiko is sometimes overprotective,” Brooke said, smiling. She took the bouquet Gareth handed her. “I have to remind myself sometimes not to overdo it. Especially when I am having such a good time.”
Gareth felt relieved. Everything was all right. “I’m glad. I was afraid I’d worn you out, bored you …”
“Bored me?” Brooke laughed her marvelous lilting laugh. “Heavens, no! You’d never do that, Gareth. I loved seeing your garden, your home. It gave me a real window into your childhood and why you grew up to be such”—she hesitated, as if not sure how to say it—“an interesting man.” It wasn’t exactly what she had intended to say, but she had not wanted to embarrass him by using words like “sensitive” or “poetic.” American men took great pride in being thought masculine.
However, Gareth felt a warmth sweep all through him. The fact that Brooke understood and appreciated even the things he left unspoken made him happy and grateful. I love you, Brooke Leslie, don’t you know that? Dare I tell you?
“Thank you again for your thoughtfulness,” Brooke said.
She was tactful but he also felt he wasn’t to stay longer. At least not today.
He got back into his pickup. But he felt too elated, too full of excess energy, to go back to Avalon, to be alone. He had to tell someone, talk about Brooke to someone. Not reveal everything he was feeling but just talk about her. He’d go see Lynette.