Chapter XIX: The Great Chance 239 (3)

He was too tired to breathe. He clasped his hands, lifted them slowly above his head, and went down for the third time.

As he sank he heard the head-master say: “Luke Sparrow—first prize”; he saw the glitter of the Mayor’s grand chain. All his school life rushed backward through his mind, and then—he was flinging down a rattle on the nursery floor, and the matron’s voice was saying: “Poor little ‘Returned Empty.’ He won’t even play with his rattle.”

“I’m really drowning now,” he thought. “The fools are right. This is my past life.”

“_What does he want?_” said the matron’s voice. “_Who is he calling?_”

Then—something burst in his brain, and in flaming letters of living fire a name illumined the icy blackness.

“MIRIAM! My wife! Miriam, my Love, my life! Good God, I can’t leave her!... Miriam, I’m coming! Hold on, I am coming!”

The weeds had him this time, but he fought like a madman.

“Miriam! Belovèd!”

His lungs were bursting, but he kept out the water. Tons weight pressed down his hands, but he lifted them.

“Miriam, my Love! I am coming!”

The sun reappeared, a pale disc—no, by God! a dead face!

He was caught again. Sea-weed? No; white hands, catching at his throat, throttling him. Curse them! What matter they, while his wife waits. He fought on.

“My Love, I am coming!” He broke free and rose—rose—rose.

The sun—Great God!—the air!

He breathed, choked, gasped, breathed again; lay on the surface, and panted. His ribs seemed jammed upon his heart; but, as he breathed, they lifted. His lungs expanded; his sight cleared; his heart beat more steadily.

“Oh, belovèd! Miriam! Miriam! Are you there? All else is a dream, save our great love, my perfect, perfect mate.”

Slowly he turned and looked toward the shore.

Far away, so far away; but he could see the line of cliffs and the house—his home and hers—standing clear against the fir woods. The upper windows seemed on fire, as they reflected the gold of the sunrise.

He measured the distance between himself and the shore. Could he swim it?

He started a slow breast stroke, his eyes upon those flaming windows.

Then he remembered the telescope. He made out the balcony.

Dear God! Was she watching? Of course she was watching.

He fancied he could see a white figure.

He waved his arm and smiled. A glory of love was on his face.

“Miriam,” he said, knowing the powerful lens brought him quite near and she would see him speak; “Miriam, you said I should remember all, if I remembered your name. And I do; oh, my belovèd, I do!”

As he swam, the sunlight caught the wedding-ring—her wedding-ring-upon his finger. He missed a stroke to hold it up, then press it to his lips.

“I am coming, Sweet! I am coming!”

Then he swam on.

Love, surging through his soul, gave him strength.

The shore drew nearer. He could see her now, standing at the telescope.

“Miriam! Miriam!”

Her dear arms would be waiting. Her lips—her tenderness.

Could he last out? He swam feebly, but steadily.

As he neared the shore, a swiftly flowing current caught him. It held him stationary, and his strength was ebbing.

One chance remained. He might win through under water. He took a deep breath, dived, and disappeared.

Swift, quick strokes—“Miriam! Miriam!” Desperate work; but for her dear sake!

He rose at last. He was through the current and under the lee of the cliff. He could see the house no longer, but the zigzag path was there. His coat and his boots lay under the rocks.

He fought feebly with the water. His breath came in groans.

No; he could not do it, after all. Not another stroke. He must sink; he must give up, and sink.

He sank—and felt sand beneath his feet.

With a great cry he struggled through the water, reeled up the beach, and dropped like a log beside the rocks.

SCENE XI
“MY LIFE FOR HIS!”

When Lady Tintagel stepped out on to the balcony and took her stand beside the telescope, a deathly sense of faintness almost overcame her. She gripped the balustrade to keep herself from falling.

Gradually she revived in the fresh morning air.

Then she adjusted the telescope and focussed it on the dark head in the water.

The powerful lens brought the swimmer so near, that it seemed as if she had but to put out her hand to touch him.

He was swimming in direct line between herself and the rising sun. The water through which he moved, sparkled and glittered. She could see every strand of his wet hair, her wedding-ring on his brown finger.

She marked the strong, quick strokes. Rapidly he put distance between himself and the shore. She had to keep adjusting the focus to hold him near.

“Oh God,” she prayed, “do not let him do this thing. Do not let him drown. If a life must be given, my life for his. Oh, by the mercy of Christ, my life for his!”

She saw the wild birds swoop above him.

After a while he began to flag. She watched him fold his arms, turn upon his back, and lie, like a tired child, upon the bosom of the sparkling ocean.

Then she could see his face, ghastly in the sunlight. There was madness in it—madness.

“O God of infinite mercy! My punishment is greater than I can bear. I bow to Thy Divine Will. I give up my belovèd; I give him up, if need be, for all eternity; but save him from the doom of the suicide. My life for his, O Lord, my life for his!”

He had turned, and was swimming on; but his movements were vague and uncertain. He clove the water feebly, pausing between each stroke and raising his head.

Suddenly he disappeared. The sparkling highway held no sign of him.

“Nigel!” she shrieked, “Nigel!”

The brown hands reappeared; the dark head rose out of the sea. But making no attempt to swim, he lifted his face to the sun, then raised his arms and went down again.

“O God, have mercy!”

Oh, mocking, vast expanse of gaily sparkling sea!

She held her breath and watched.

Ah! His hands again! His face—the eyes now wide and staring. He gasped; his chest heaved. He raised his head and shoulders out of the water; then slowly clasped his hands, lifted them above his head, and sank instantly.

She was silent in her agony; yet, speechless, her heart still cried to God.

“Save him! Save him! My soul for his! O God, my soul for his!”

O empty, sunlit sea!

The floor rocked and swayed beneath her feet. She clung to the telescope, striving to keep in view the rippling surface where last she had seen him.

No sign, no hope. This was the end.

An awful calmness held her. “Fifty fathoms deep,” and this time no return. She and Despair must company together through all the years to come, and after.

No! O God, his hands! And now his head, his heaving, gasping chest!

He fought and struck the water, then straightened out and lay upon his back, heaving, breathing; breathing, heaving; gasping with closed eyes; then quite still, resting; a weary child upon its mother’s breast; a lover in the tender arms of his belovèd. The water rocked him gently. So near he seemed. She clung to the telescope, speaking softly to him.

“Nigel, my dearest, God has heard my prayer. Rest there, dear Heart. The arms of Eternal Love are beneath you. Oh, if the wish to live returns, you will be given strength to reach the shore. Heart of my heart, my life for yours; my _soul_ for yours, if need be.”

His eyes were open. He was gazing skyward. A look of ineffable joy and peace was on his face.

“Oh, what does he see? Visions of God? Promise of life and peace and joy restored? Or is he dying; dying there, before my eyes? Nigel, my own, what is it?”

Slowly he turned and looked toward the shore; then started swimming, a steady breast stroke, slow but sure.

Her trembling fingers adjusted the focus, keeping pace with him.

His eyes met hers. A glory of love was on his face. He waved his arm and smiled. His lips moved and formed a word.

Yes, it was her name!

“Miriam,” he said; and again, “Miriam!”

“Oh, wonder beyond belief. He has remembered and is coming back to me; coming back a second time from the dead; but this time God-sent, God-given.”

She laughed softly and whispered tender words.

“Yes, darling, I know. Yes, your wife is here; just waiting here, as on those dear mornings long ago.... Swim carefully, my dearest boy. I do so dread the sea—so deep and treacherous.... Yes, I see the ring.... Oh, is that how you love me? No, don’t stop to answer ... Nigel, it takes so long.... Are you exhausted, darling? Oh, turn again and rest.... Nigel, you make no progress. Oh, my God, he is swimming, but he is not moving! He is caught by the current!... Ah!... No!... Yes! He is gone!”

She flew into her room and pealed the bell. Then back to the balcony, shrieking wildly. So near the shore, but gone.

An empty sea; a cruel, sparkling, empty sea!

The sound of hurrying feet within. She staggered back into the room, clutching at the window-frame and curtains.

“Quick, Thomas, quick! Sir Nigel—drowning—below the cliff—a boat—a rope—”

Then she fell forward on her face.

SCENE XII
THE DEEP WELL

When Luke Sparrow awoke from a long sleep, he found himself in bed, wrapped in softest blankets, in the room to which he had been taken on the previous evening.

His entire being was permeated by that extraordinary sense of comfort which accompanies returning strength after violent exertion. He had no desire to move, yet he lifted his right arm and looked with a perplexed smile at the sleeve of a blue silk sleeping suit. Then he saw the wedding-ring upon his finger.

“Miriam!”

He let a flood of tender memory sweep over him.

“Miriam! My wife.”

Presently he looked round the room, taking in every detail. It was familiar in a strange, double way. His conscious brain remembered each impression of the night before, when he thought it “Colin’s” dressing-room; but a vague, dream-like memory, working slowly, like drawing water from the depths of a deep well, remembered it as his own.

He studied the engravings on the walls, seeing them consciously for the first time; but when he looked away, it seemed to him that he had known, before looking, that each would be in its place.

He looked along the row of books in the bookcase. His conscious mind mastered their titles; but, from the deep well of his sub-consciousness he drew the knowledge of what, if he could open them, he would find written on the fly-leaves.

This experiment soon tired him. He lifted his hand again and fixed his mind upon the wedding-ring, and upon her whose ring it was.

Nothing vague here, nothing indefinite. His love for her, his memory of her love, flowed through him like new wine. Her loveliness, her tenderness, her sweet fidelity.

He held the ring against his lips. “My bride”—what memories! “My wife, my perfect mate!”

To him, who had never loved, it came as an overwhelming wonder to find himself in sudden possession of a love full grown.

“Miriam! Miriam!”

Soon he would see her. She was somewhere quite near.

Oh, heart of gold, beating beneath the garment of soft woman’s flesh!

He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the exquisite enchantment. The purity of each remembrance of her love and his, filled him with a sense of heavenly rapture.

“My perfect one; my Angel of Delight!”

The door opened softly. An elderly woman appeared, stout and matronly, carrying a cup on a small tray. She advanced to the side of the bed.

He had never seen her before. He studied the kind, homely face, the neat black gown, the silk apron, the cairngorm brooch. Then from the depths of the well came up an intuition and, almost before he knew it, he had said: “Hullo, Mary.”

The ruddy face paled. The hand holding the tray shook.

“Yes, Sir Nigel. We thought you might have wakened, Sir Nigel. I have made bold to bring you broth.”

Broth? Yes, of course. Broth and Mary would go together. He sat up, took it from her hand, and supped it hungrily.

She watched him, with eyes which held a strange mingling of love, fear, and wonder. The love, a life-long fidelity. The fear came with the remembrance of a coffin, beside which she had stood; of a grave in the churchyard on the hill side. The wonder was born of a mystery, unexplained, unaccountable, but accepted with the simple faith of a mind ruled by the heart.

“How did I get here, Mary?”

“Thomas will tell you, Sir Nigel.”

“You tell me. I like hearing your dear old voice.”

“Thomas found you by the rocks, Sir Nigel. He fetched the foresters, and they brought you up on a hurdle.”

“How did Thomas know I had been swimming?”

“Her ladyship gave the alarm.”

“Ah! Who put me to bed?”

“Thomas and the doctor.”

“The doctor? What doctor.”

“They fetched the doctor, Sir Nigel.”

“I see. Thank you, Mary; the broth was very good. Now, where are my clothes? I want to get up.”

“I will send Thomas, Sir Nigel.”

Left alone, he pondered. What had they told this doctor? Would he also rise, a familiar figure, from the well of sub-conscious memory?

The door opened again. The old butler entered, closing it carefully behind him.

“Thomas, come here. I have been talking to Mary.”

“So I hear, Sir Nigel.”

“She tells me the foresters carried me up from the shore. Do they know me, Thomas?”

“No, Sir Nigel. They are young men, sons of Fergusson and Graem.”

“I see. How about this doctor?”

“He has been her ladyship’s medical attendant for a matter of twenty-five years, Sir Nigel.”

“Twenty-five years? Ah! What did you say to him? How did you explain my presence here?”

“We told him you were an old friend of her ladyship’s whom she had met abroad.”

“Abroad?” He dived into the well. “Ah, yes! That was true, wasn’t it? Where——”

“Italy, Sir Nigel.”

“Yes; Florence. Good Lord! What else did you tell the doctor?”

“That you dined here last evening, and spent the night; went for an early swim this morning, and got caught by the current.”

“Good. Who else—er—remembers, beside you and Mary?”

“No one, Sir Nigel. We alone are left, of the old staff.”

“Thomas, bring my clothes. I must get up.”

“See the doctor first, Sir Nigel.”

“No need. I am all right. There is but one person I want to see. Where is she, Thomas?”

“Her ladyship is in her room, Sir Nigel.” The old man’s face worked. “The doctor is with her ladyship.”

“The doctor? What’s up, Thomas? Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong? Wrong, Sir Nigel! Merciful God!” He wrung his hands helplessly. “It’s best you should hear it from me, Sir Nigel. Our dear lady is dying. We thought she was gone when we found her. But the doctor brought remedies in his bag. He revived her. She is conscious again, and knows us. But he says she can’t last through the day.”

He leapt from the bed.

“Quick! My clothes.”

“For God’s sake, sir, be calm! For her ladyship’s sake; for all our sakes. It will seem like madness. Don’t do aught that might disturb her peace. The country side will ring with it. They have talked for years. They will say she died insane.”

“My clothes, Thomas.”

“Those you came in are soaked with sea water, Sir Nigel. But we have plenty here. Her ladyship had them all kept ready, and always brushed and aired.”

He went to a chest of drawers and fumbled blindly.

“Your flannels, Sir Nigel? She would like best to see you in what you wore that day. The coat you flung to her as you ran down the beach, she keeps in her own room. But here are others all complete.”

With trembling hands, he laid them on a chair. “All you need is here, Sir Nigel.”

“Then leave me, Thomas. But come back in five minutes.”

He dressed rapidly.

“Dying! My wife dying! She shall not die. By heaven, she shall not die!”

As he slipped on the coat, there came a quick rap on the door.

“Yes; come in! Now, Thomas——” Ah, the doctor. With an effort he pulled himself together. “Good morning.”

“So you’re up and dressed? I thought you would soon be all right when that stupor of exhaustion passed into natural sleep. You’ll do. I did what I could for you, Mr.——”

“My name is Luke Sparrow.”

“Ah, Mr. Sparrow. But my hands were full, from the first, with poor Lady Tintagel. Sad business, very. And the daughter and son-in-law went off motoring early this morning a four days’ tour, leaving no address. Haven’t traced them yet. Stupid thing to do. Not that she wants them, poor lady. And the quieter she is, the better. But she is asking for you.”

The little man jerked over to the window, and fussed with the blind cord.

“Is there immediate danger?”

“Danger? My dear sir, she is dying, would have been dead now, had I not had powerful restoratives handy. She can’t last out the day. Her heart has been dicky for years. Any shock might have done this. Thirty years ago her husband was drowned before her eyes—as you may have heard—down on this beach. A most devoted couple, so I’m told. Wrapped up, etc.; you know the sort of thing. The shock nearly killed her. Look at that wonderful white hair! It isn’t age. It was as white as it is to-day, when they went to her the morning after he was drowned, and she only twenty-eight, and beautiful as a June morning. I came to these parts a couple of years later. Sad case! She recovered physically, bar the heart trouble; but her mind has been touched on one point ever since. Always expecting him back. Sea give up its dead, I suppose. You know the kind of thing? I always say they should have let her see the corpse; might have cured her. But, after a week in the water! Not a pretty sight, you know. Acted for the best no doubt. Oh, she never speaks of it to me. But people talk you know; say she always keeps his room ready, and so forth. Mania, of course, but harmless, poor lady. Why do fine chaps such as he, throw away their lives for worthless young women; couldn’t sail a boat; better drowned. Thousand pities. So she watches the sea and, I suppose, saw you in difficulties. Gave her a shock; brought back the scene. Thomas and his wife are very close; told me nothing. But her maid—nice girl—said she shrieked: ‘Sir Nigel is drowning below the cliff; a boat! a rope!’ Poor soul! Sane enough, now; but heart done for.”

“May I see her?”

“Why not? She keeps asking for you, so Mrs. Thomas tells me. She will be gone at once, if she makes any effort or sits up. But she can’t last out the day, and she may as well have what she wants and die happy, as die, three hours later, wanting it. I had a patient once who was dying; apparently nothing could save her; and she wanted to go out into her garden, lovely garden it was, too. Nurses and relations wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Why, doctor, it might kill her!’ ‘Good Lord,’ said I, ‘and if it does? Let her die in the garden, if she wishes. Isn’t it a sweeter place to die in than her bed?’ So they carried her out, and blest if she didn’t rally from that hour and get well! Queer things, bodies! Well, I must be off. There’s nothing further to be done here; and I’ve a baby on hand, waiting to enter the world, which is, after all, of more importance than a lady waiting to make her exit.”

“Can nothing be done to relieve——”

“She is in no pain, and won’t be. I will be back in three hours. You will stay on, I suppose, and being an old friend, you can see to things, until these motorists are found. A shock for them, but they deserve it; going off and leaving no address! And, between ourselves, they’ll be pleased to come into the property and the money. They’ve not been much to her, nor she to them. She was what I called ‘a _one man_ woman.’ While she had him, because he filled her heart, it was open to all. But when she lost him, she lost her all, and her empty heart closed to others. That is why I curse those French girls; throttling that splendid fellow with their foolish fingers. Who wanted them? And at such a cost! Well, goodbye, for the present——”

“Can you not leave instructions as to what is to be done for Lady Tintagel?”

“The housekeeper has full instructions, and I have left stimulating draughts with her. Keep the patient quiet. Give her all she wants. Do, without question, everything she asks. Don’t let more than one person be in her room at the same time, unless help is needed. Don’t attempt to move her. She lies where they put her at first, on a couch near the window, looking out over the sea. I wouldn’t let them move her. It’s such a silly fad always to want people to die in their beds. It rejoices my heart when I hear of a parson dying in the pulpit. Please God, I’ll either die in my gig or on the links. Good morning, Mr. Sparrow. See you later on.”

Silence at last.

He went over to the window, and leaned his forehead against the glass.

He must go to her now. She wanted him, and the time was short. Thank God, he would have her alone. Surely Divine interposition had given them thus to each other. He must just wait until he could be sure that the noisy little man, who had filled the room with babel, was clear out of the house.

Mrs. Thomas tapped and entered.

“Her ladyship asks for you, Sir Nigel. She is alone.”

“Shew me her room, Mary,” he said; but, in the same moment, turning from her, walked across the room, drew back a curtain and found the door of communication behind it. He opened it. Double doors. Yes, of course. She had liked the absolute security of double doors to their own room.

One moment he waited, took a deep breath, laid firm hold upon himself; then opened the door, and passed into the quiet room beyond.

SCENE XIII
“NEVERTHELESS——”

She lay upon the couch, near the open window, very white and still.

She was gazing out across the sea; but, as he closed the door, she turned her eyes and watched him, while he walked over to the couch; and those patient eyes were so full of unutterable love and longing, that his throat closed on the words he had meant to say.

He knelt down beside her, took both her hands in his, and laid his lips upon them.

“Miriam! Miriam!”

“Nigel, you do remember?”

“Yes, my belovèd, my wife, my own—thank God, I do remember. And I love you with every fibre of my being.”

He knew the time was short. There must be no delay.

He drew her wedding-ring from his finger, slipped it back to its rightful place, and laid his lips on ring and finger together.

“I love you utterly,” he said, “and I hold you mine for ever.”

“Nigel, my husband, this time it is I who go, and you who remain behind. You will be braver than I.”

“My own,” he answered, “we shall be together in the place where alone true joys are to be found; safe within the circle of the Will of God. Since I left you and went out into the sunrise, I, who before was empty, have become rich beyond all human comprehension in the possession of three different memories. I remember the thirty years of this present life. I remember the precious love which was ours in the life before, and, remembering that, my heart has grown so rich that I care not to remember aught else of that life, but just the utter sweetness of our wedded love. And, best of all, it has been granted me to remember something of the wonder of that eternal Dwelling Place—that short while in Eternity, before our great love drew me back to Time—not in detail, but in its larger lines of truth.”

“Ah, tell me that,” she whispered. “I know the precious past. I know much of the present. Tell me of the Eternity between.”

“God’s love,” he said, “is the great Dwelling Place; God’s Will, the very air we breathe. The passionate desire of every soul, freed from the earthly prison of the flesh, is to return that love, to do that Will. The Son of God, walking the earth as man—though emptied, for the time being, of His eternal memory—remembered this, and gave His fellow men the perfect prayer: ‘Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven.’ When that prayer finds its complete fulfilment, earth’s hard perplexities will all be solved, earth’s tears all wiped away. His perfect Will ensures man’s perfect joy. The next petition in the pattern prayer bears out this thought. ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ What food is to the body, doing the Will of God is to the soul. He Who taught us thus to pray, was the one man who could say with absolute honesty: ‘My meat is to do the Will of Him that sent me.’

“All souls know this by instinct. The sinner knows it in his sin, and fails to find in sin a lasting pleasure. The agnostic knows it in his search after something which can meet and satisfy the craving of his mind. The martyr knows it, and laughs at the cruel flame. The angels know it, and fly swiftly on strong wings. Christ knew it, in Gethsemane, and hushed the natural protest of his human agony, and summed up His life’s purpose in those perfect words: ‘Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done.’ When the last rebel soul has yielded and understood, then the great End will come; God will be All in all.”

He paused and laid his forehead upon her folded hands.

“My wife, our sacred love must stand this test. This is the fire which burns up all the dross, but leaves us, as eternal treasure, the gold and precious stones.

“Just now I woke, filled with the rapture of our love, the joy, beyond all words, of having found you. Almost at once, I heard that I must lose you. My flesh cried out: ‘I cannot let her go!’ Then came the Angel of His love and pity, and laid a strengthening hand upon my soul, and said: ‘This is God’s Will, His perfect way for her and you.’ Belovèd, to that Will we both must bow. Thus shall we find our purest joy, and love which has no ending.”

“Nigel,” she whispered, “I brought you back empty, and I leave you desolate.”

He waited till his voice was steady, then replied:

“Listen, sweet wife of mine! Our love has brought me Home. Through you there comes to me this chance to put myself once more within the Will of God. Together we accept, in faith and patience, this parting we are called upon to face, and thus atone for the mistaken past. Mine is the harder part, I know; but I would have it so. I left you to the harder part before. I shall be lonely, but not desolate. I owe a debt to life for thirty selfish, wasted years. If a great chance comes, I may pay it soon. That will be as God wills. But, be the parting long or short, always I shall know you watch and wait for me; and, thanks again to you, I shall not be earth-bound; for, where my Treasure is, there will my heart be also.”

At last he lifted his head and looked at her.

Then his courage almost broke. That lovely face, so dear, so well-remembered. Those lips, parting in soft surrender. The tenderness his heart so hungered for, dwelling upon him in those dying eyes.

“Oh, I can’t!” he said, and hid his face against her breast. “My God, give us one year! If it be possible, let this cup pass.”

She laid her hands upon his head and held him close.

“‘Nevertheless——’” she said: “Oh, Nigel, finish it!”

And, in a voice broken by sobs, he spoke the sacred words which make complete a brave soul’s sacrifice.

SCENE XIV
“NO SADNESS OF FAREWELL”

The hours which followed seemed to him the nearest approach to heaven a man could know on earth.

Sometimes she lay in his arms and gently slept; then roused herself to drink what Mary brought, and rallying a little, let her eyes dwell on his face, as he sat beside her in the sunshine, talking softly of many things—the past, the future; all their love had meant; would mean.

Deep peace enveloped them. Time stood still and waited while they drank deeply of a fount of love, slaking the thirst of years. Words could scarce carry the tender emotion of all they had to say to one another. Because of her great weakness, it was chiefly he who spoke and she who listened. But sometimes she rallied, and uttered words which he knew he would carry in his heart for ever.

Twice he left her; when the doctor returned amazed to find her still alive, and so content; and when she sent for Thomas, to bid the faithful old man farewell, and to give him last instructions.

This time, when Luke returned, she beckoned to him anxiously.

“Nigel, all this is yours; the house, the property; all should be yours.”

He smiled. “My dearest, no! Not this time. _You_ are mine, and I want nothing more. I arrived with a knapsack; I shall depart with a knapsack. I am just a tramp, you know; but a happy tramp, with a kingdom in my heart.”

“Nigel—one thing—you will not refuse? My despatch-box—full of letters—yours and mine; and the photographs. You will take that?”

“Yes, my belovèd, I gladly will.”

“A few other things are in it—sacred to us; a miniature you had done of me the year before—you went. And lately—I have kept—in a sealed envelope-a thousand pounds in bank notes, in case of just such an emergency as this. Nigel—you will? To please me? It is all yours, really. You might wish to go abroad—travel——”

He hesitated. “Miriam, I have all I need.” Her eyes pleaded. “All right, my darling. The case and all that’s in it. Your gift to me.” He bent and kissed her fluttering fingers. “Don’t be troubled, dear Heart. Such a perfect thought of yours. I will do beautiful things with it; things you would have liked to plan. They will be my own wife’s gifts to me.”

She smiled and closed her eyes, content.

At sunset he knew their one day was over.

He gave her the draught the doctor had left for a last emergency, and momentarily she revived.

Her eyes left his face, to gaze across the sea.

“‘Sunset and evening star,’” she whispered, “‘And one clear call for me.’ Say it, Nigel.”

His great love made him brave.

He repeated the lines, and the deep, sweet music of his voice, as it reached her, held no tremor. Only, he looked away across the sea; not at the dying face.

“‘No sadness of farewell’,” she said. “Nigel, is that possible?”

Then he turned, smiling bravely.

“All is possible, my dearest, to a perfect love.”

“Oh, raise me,” she whispered, “and take me in your arms.”

He held her close.

She lifted her face to his.

That look of love unspeakable, broke his iron self-control.

His tears fell on her face.

“I know!” she said, and suddenly her voice was strong and full. “My lover and my husband! But it is all joy—no sadness, really. And such a little while——”

“All joy, my wife,” he answered; then, bending, laid his lips on hers.

And in that perfect kiss, her spirit passed.

SCENE XV
“THE SECRETS OF OUR HEARTS”

The stranger from the inn stood with the mourners at the open grave, in the churchyard on the hillside.

The son and daughter glanced across, and wondered vaguely who he was, and why he stood so near.

Another coffin, hidden during thirty years, had seen the light that day; for the bricked grave had been so planned that two might lie within it, side by side.

Into the empty space they lowered the new coffin, with its bright silver fittings and polished wood, slipping it carefully into place beside the one which had rested there so long.

The mourners bent and looked into the grave, while the new coffin slowly passed from view; but the stranger kept his eyes lifted to the tree tops. His quiet face, so striking in its dark beauty, shewed no signs of deep emotion; yet, to many there, he seemed to be chief mourner.

=Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.=

=In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of Thee, O Lord, Who for our sins art justly displeased?=

=Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.=

=Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not Thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, Thou most worthy Judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from Thee.=

As the handful of earth fell with a sudden thud upon the coffin, the stranger started, seemed to awake to the actualities around him, took a step forward, and looked down into the grave.

Yes; side by side they lay—the two. One looked very grand and new beside the other, though careful hands had polished that and made it passable, to face the light of day.

The inscription on the large brass plate was clearly legible, and left no doubt as to what lay beneath the lid.

NIGEL GUIDO CARDROSS TINTAGEL

Aged 30

Drowned August 12th, 1883.

_Greater love hath no man than this: that a
man lay down his life for his friends._

While he pondered these words, in solemn awe and silence, there fell upon his ears the Church’s triumphant promise of Life, which overcomes the grave; of faith, which changes death to life eternal.

=O merciful God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Who is the resurrection and the life; in Whom whosoever believeth shall live, though he die; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in Him, shall not die eternally.... We meekly beseech Thee, O Father, to raise us from the death of sin unto the life of righteousness; that, when we shall depart this life, we may rest in Him, as our hope is this our sister doth——=

“This our sister?” The shadow of a smile passed across the dark face, gazing so intently at the two coffins. How well he knew that the one, whatever its brass plate might say, held only a suit of clothes, spoilt by sea water, empty and done with. How easy it made it for him to realise that this new coffin, inscribed

MIRIAM TINTAGEL

also held naught save an empty gown—a very lovely robe, sacred and precious, because worn by her, but nothing more.

“Miriam, belovèd! Do you smile to see us standing here in our trappings of woe? Can you look back through that open door by which you passed into the radiance of Eternity, and see this little patch of Time, and mark the pomp and ceremony with which your worn-out garment is laid to rest beside mine? Do you see your husband, as he stands looking down upon his own coffin? And do you understand how strange is the experience, one through which probably no other man has ever passed?”

=The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore.= _Amen._

It was over at last, that tenderest of all the sacred services in the great Church’s Liturgy. Living and Dead were alike dismissed with those comprehensive words of grace, love, and fellowship; the threefold blessing of the Triune God.

SCENE XVI
“WHO WAS HE?”

Colin and Eva walked down the hill together, sympathetic friends and humble dependents standing aside to let them pass.

They talked in low voices, decorously; but the sense of relief from tension which follows on a funeral, shewed in their brightening faces, as they turned with undisguised pleasure toward the beautiful house which was now their own possession.

“Colin, I know why that man’s face seemed familiar to me. You remember I whispered to you when we noticed him in the church, that I was certain I had seen him before?”

“Well? Had you?”

“No. But—it’s very curious. Just as we turned from the grave—you saw how he stood gazing down at the coffins?—he looked up, and his eyes met mine. Then I remembered. He is extraordinarily like the photographs of my father.”

“Could he be a relation?”

“Not that I know of. My father was an only child, and I never heard of cousins.”

“Well, we can tell Thomas to find out who he is. I say, dear! Won’t tea be nice! Let’s have it in the Oak Room. I shall make that my smoking-room, if you have no objection.”

SCENE XVII
IN THE PINE WOOD

Luke Sparrow strode through the pine woods, taking a short cut from the churchyard back to the inn.

His train for the south, left in an hour.

Hurrying footsteps came behind him. At first he took them for an echo of his own; then realised that he was being followed, and walked the faster. He had no wish to be accosted.

“Sir Nigel! Sir Nigel!”

He stopped and turned sharply.

Old Thomas, breathless, in deepest black, was hastening down the stony path.

“Your pardon, Sir Nigel. May I speak with you?”

“What is it, old friend?”

“Sir Nigel, you are going? Don’t leave us behind, Mary and me. Now we have lost our dear lady, we cannot stay here. Already there are changes. We shall not be wanted. We know too much about our lady’s ways and wishes. Pipes in the Oak Room she never did allow, nor whisky and soda in the morning. Her ladyship’s last word to me was: ‘If possible, go with Sir Nigel, Thomas, you and Mary. You know his ways, and I would like to feel Mary was there to do his mending and airing, and see that he has properly cooked meals.’ Our dear lady has left an annuity of two hundred a year between us, and we have our savings, and no encumbrances, thank God. It isn’t a question of wages; it’s a question of home, and the Fam’ly—boy and man, Sir Nigel, for over fifty years.”

He paused for breath and a pocket-handkerchief.

“Your pardon, Sir Nigel.” He wiped the tears from his furrowed cheeks. “Boy and man, Sir Nigel, for half a century. I ran beside your pony, sir, as you may remember.”

“I don’t remember, Thomas; but _She_ did; and I have no doubt you do.”

He considered.

Was it really Her wish?

He thought of the thousand pounds in bank notes in the despatch-box at the inn.

“Of course you shall come, old friend; and Mary with you. But I have no home, as yet. We must make one together. I am going south by the express. Could you be happy in London? I will find a cosy flat. As soon as I have found it, I will send for you and Mary.”

The old man blew his nose.

“Beg pardon, Sir Nigel.” His relief was pathetic. “We felt if we lost you again, we lost all. It isn’t a matter of money. It’s service, and our lady’s wishes, and love of you, Sir Nigel. Boy and man——”

“Right. Tell Mary the thing’s settled. I’m off in an hour, Thomas. I don’t want any awkward questions.”

“True, Sir Nigel. The doctor wanted to know why you had left the house before the new master and mistress arrived. He had counted on you to give them full particulars of our lady’s last hours. He has been hindered from coming over until to-day, by a very serious case. As I say to Mary, there are always dispensations! But he has gone down to the house now. And you were noticed at the grave. There will be talk in every home by nightfall. Douglas saw you, and Fergusson and old Nannie Steer. You remember them, Sir Nigel?”

No. The sub-conscious well was rapidly growing deeper, its memories more elusive. Douglas, Fergusson, old Nannie Steer, conveyed nothing to him. Only his Treasure in the heavens was inalienably his own. But he began to realise how largely his sub-consciousness had drawn from hers. With her departure from this earthly setting, all its memories were fading into dream-like vagueness.

“To see you standing at the grave, Sir Nigel, looking down at _that_ coffin! It was like the Judgment Day. It made my blood run cold; and Mary well-nigh swooned.”

“It need not have, Thomas; any more than when I stood looking down into that drawer when you shewed me my old suits, folded and laid away by careful hands.”

He stood, looking upwards. A shaft of sunlight, piercing through the pines, fell on his face.

“Neither my wife nor I are in that grave. There is no death, old friend. That which we call death is fuller life—life more abundant.”

“Speaking of clothes, Sir Nigel, and such like, her ladyship gave me orders to pack everything in the dressing-room in two trunks and keep them in our quarters until I knew where to send them. Her ladyship wished you to have the things she had so treasured. None ever went into that room, save her ladyship and myself; or Mary, if our lady was away. So no questions will be asked when they find it bare. Her ladyship also gave me a list of furniture she has left to me and Mary, meaning it for you; her couch in the Oak Room, your pipe-rack, her writing-table, her easy chair, and a few other things. She dictated the paper and signed it that morning while the doctor was with her; but she told me, by word of mouth, they were left to us, for you.”

So this was her way of making sure that he should have a home, filled with sweet memories of her. Oh, Miriam, belovèd! Now it was for him to find that home, for himself and these two faithful souls.

“Very well, Thomas. They can come with you and Mary when the home is ready. I will try for a jolly little house, not a flat. It will be more home-like. Whatever she wished, or said, or did, is right. Only be careful no questions are asked. You know what people would say if they knew of the happenings of this past week? They would say that she, and you, and I, were mad.”

The old man smiled. “It don’t matter what folk say, Sir Nigel. All that really matters, is what our own hearts know; and that her ladyship died happy.”

As Luke Sparrow walked on alone, at a rapid pace, through the pine woods, he repeated those words to himself. “All that really matters is what our own hearts know.” Aye, how true! That, and one thing more. “Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts.”

SCENE XVIII
THE HOME SHE PLANNED

_Three months later_

Luke Sparrow sat at his writing-table reading “proof.”

The cosy study was filled with books and littered with the work he loved.

Presently, with noiseless step, entered old Thomas; turned on the lights, made the fire blaze, stealthily tidied the room, moved a small table to the couch, and brought in the tea.

“Take it while it’s hot, Sir Nigel.”

“All right, Thomas.”

“Mary has made a dish of those bannocks, Sir Nigel, of which you and her ladyship used to be so fond.”

“Mary is a wonder, Thomas. Her memory is as excellent as her cooking. All right; I’ll take half an hour off. I’ve done a good day’s work already.... No; don’t draw the curtains yet awhile. There may be some lonely soul passing by, in the cold and dark out there, who will enjoy the sight of this cosy warmth and brightness. I will draw them, when I get back to work.”

As the old man left the room, closing the door behind him, Luke Sparrow pushed aside his mass of papers, rose, flung himself upon the couch, stretched his limbs, and shook off the strain of long hours of concentration.

A tempting tea tray, arranged with much care and thought, was at his elbow. Mary’s golden bannocks stood for memories—memories not his own; but he took them, on trust, from Mary.

The room was a perfect combination of work and comfort; outside interests and home.

He took a miniature-case from his pocket and opened it. Exquisitely painted on ivory, the lovely face looked out at him; the lips smiled their message of abiding tenderness. It had been painted before the night which turned that bright hair white. Of all the treasures he had found in the despatch-box, this meant the most to him.

He looked long at it now, as he sat alone upon that couch on which he had once lain with her arms wrapped around him.

“Miriam, belovèd,” he said, “I think you would like this home of ours. And I believe you would like my book. And I am sure you would be amused to know that Mary drags old Thomas out ‘of an evening’ to see ‘the pictures.’ Mary is having the time of her life, and Thomas thinks it is bad for Mary’s soul. But you and I would agree that Mary’s soul can stand a little more gaiety than her life with Thomas has hitherto provided.

“Now I must pour out my own tea from your beautiful William the Fourth silver teapot, so solid and embossed, and sturdy on its little feet, with a pair of acorns on the lid.

“Miriam, do you know how lonely it is to have all this, yet not to have you? And so slowly the months pass; and so many years are yet to come.

“Oh, my belovèd! Send me thoughts of hope and patience, and strength to play the man.”

SCENE XIX
THE GREAT CHANCE

_Ten months later_

Luke Sparrow, erect and vigorous, in the khaki uniform which had begun to mean so much to England, stood on his study hearth-rug, giving final instructions to his old servant.

“I’m in luck, Thomas. So early in the day; but I lost no time, and it’s France for me to-morrow; and, please God, that means Belgium, and in the thick of it. You will look after things, till I get back. Don’t let Mary fret. Give her a cheerful time.

“If I don’t return, my things will come back to you. My will is in that drawer. Everything will belong to you two faithful souls. That is what her ladyship would wish.... That’s all right, Thomas. Yes, I know all about it. Goodbye, old friend....

“And now send Mary to me. I must have one dear woman to hug me goodbye before I go!”

SCENE XX
“COMING!”

_Four years later_

A forest of white crosses on the battlefields of France.

Two British soldiers moved among them, seeking a special name.

At length they found it.

LUKE SPARROW

“Ah, here it is! Here he lies. Well, there are many above ground, hale and hearty, who but for him would be lying as he lies to-day; and I’m one of them.

“Brave? Good Lord, he didn’t know what fear meant! Each time he went over the top you might have thought he was going to his bridal. He used to call this bloody war the Great Chance. And such a pal! Do you mind how it kept our spirits up only to look at him, let alone his hand on your shoulder or his voice in your ear?

“But life-saving was his passion. No place was too hot for him, if a helpless man lay there to be brought in. V.C.? He earned it thirty times over! And always came through all right.

“But at last they got him, and no mistake about it. Both legs, and through the chest; past operating.

“I was with him at the end. He’d been lying very still, just groaning a bit on the quiet; when suddenly he rises up on his elbow and shouts, ‘Coming!’ clear as a bugle call. ‘Coming!’ he says, and falls back dead.”

The two stood looking at the simple white cross and the grave it marked; then turned to watch an old man, in sombre clothing, who moved among the graves, anxiously seeking. He carried in his hand a wreath of immortelles.

At last he drew near, read Luke Sparrow’s name, and, baring his head, fell upon his knees beside the cross, and sobbed.

The soldiers turned away, respecting the old man’s grief.

After a while he rose, laid the wreath at the foot of the cross, and went his way.

Luke Sparrow’s comrades came back and stooped to read what was written on a card attached to the wreath.

“Hullo!” said one, “The old chap has made a mistake. See here!”

To

SIR NIGEL GUIDO CARDROSS TINTAGEL, BART.,

in faithful and loving remembrance
from his humble servants
Mary and Thomas

_Greater love hath no man than this: that a
man lay down his life for his friends._

“Leave it alone,” said the other soldier. “He was worth a score of barts! Let him keep the wreath.”

Then they also went their way.

And the winds of God blew gently over that forest of plain crosses, bearing the vast army of heroic names, which are not forgotten before God, but inscribed for ever in the Book of Life.

O years! And Age! Farewell:
Behold I go,
Where I do know
Infinity to dwell.

And these mine eyes shall see
All times, how they
Are lost i’ the Sea
Of vast Eternity.

Where never Moon shall sway
The Stars; but she
And Night, shall be
Drown’d in one endless Day.

ROBERT HERRICK (1629).

_BY FLORENCE L. BARCLAY_

THE WHEELS OF TIME
THE ROSARY
THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE
THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR
THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE
THE UPAS TREE
THE BROKEN HALO
THE WALL OF PARTITION
MY HEART’S RIGHT THERE
IN HOC ✠ VINCE
THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER
RETURNED EMPTY

→ _The Author of “The Rosary”_ ←

Florence L. Barclay

If sales are a criterion of popularity, Mrs. Barclay’s novels have
certainly achieved a prodigious success.

The publication of her books has now reached upwards of 2,000,000
copies, with an ever growing demand. And all of this is due to the
author’s extraordinary ability in handling her theme, for her genius
in blending material luxury and spiritual mystery, and for her
skillful working out of well rounded plots.

Here is a list of Mrs. Barclay’s books:

_Novels_:

Returned Empty
The Rosary
The Mistress of Shenstone
Through the Postern Gate
The Upas Tree
The Broken Halo
The Following of the Star
The Wall of Partition
The White Ladies of Worcester

_Shorter Works_:

In Hoc Signo Vince
My Heart’s Right There

_A List of Good Fiction_

Sunny Ducrow By Henry St. John Cooper

The story of a factory girl, a merry madcap, who by sheer force of character becomes stage star and successful business woman.

The Tidal Wave By Ethel M. Dell

Ethel Dell writes fiction the whole world reads. Here are six of her “long short” stories, each one containing unusual and strikingly dramatic situations.

A Pawn in Pawn By Hilda M. Sharp

The romance of a young girl rescued, from a convent for illegitimate children, by a poet, and of her stormy but successful attainment.

Jane By Anna Alice Chapin

A real American novel. Sentiment without sentimentality; drama without melodrama; happy but not gushing.

The Rose of Jericho By Ruth Holt Boucicault

A brilliant novel of stage life, with an unusual and unconventional heroine. A frankly daring discussion of the sex problem.

The Gate of Fulfillment By Knowles Ridsdale

The charming, amusing, and original story of a semi-invalid and his secretary companion.

Poor Dear Theodora By Florence Irwin