RETURNED EMPTYSeptember 12th, 1883.
RETURNED EMPTYSeptember 12th, 1883.
RETURNED EMPTY
September 12th, 1883.
“Oh, Nigel,” she said, “the day—the very day!”
“I know,” he answered. “I was listening for it as you talked. I felt it would come.”
“And it is to-day,” she said. “To-day! This is your thirtieth birthday.”
He looked at her with a wistful smile; a smile of such pathetic melancholy that it chilled her heart.
“It is,” he said. “And nobody in the whole world knows it, save you and I.”
She stretched out her hands.
He took them in his and held them firmly. They looked into each other’s eyes in silence.
“Speak to me,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” he said. “You have more to tell. And it has always been my way to think long and steadily, and then to speak—and to speak to the point. You and I are facing an awful mystery; but at least we are facing it together.”
Suddenly she felt herself before a judgment-seat.
“Oh, Nigel,” she whispered, “I am afraid.”
“You need not be,” he answered and, bending, laid his lips upon her hand. “I have read Nigel Tintagel’s letter.”
“And do you remember?”
“I remember nothing. But my soul is slowly struggling up into the light. After long years in outer darkness, at last I am finding the way home to God.”
Again he laid his lips upon her hands; but they were cold as death, and her heart trembled.
“Tell me the rest,” he said.
She steadied her voice with an effort.
“There is not much to tell. It has been a long, long time of seeking and waiting. I kept count of each year. I made little clothes of the right size, and gave them away. In the summers I went from one seaside place to another and roamed about the shore, seeking among the little boys whoshouted and played, rode donkeys, wielded their wooden spades, and made sand castles. I neglected my little daughter because I wanted only the boy who was doubly my own. Then I remembered she was yours, and flew back to make amends.
“When the right time came, I went to the public schools, Eton, Harrow, Marlborough, Rugby. I watched the sports; I saw the prize-givings. Crowds of fine British lads were there; but the face I sought was not among them.
“Later, I went to Oxford and Cambridge. I saw degrees conferred; I viewed the races. I went to Lord’s; you had been keen on cricket. But you were not there.
“At last I knew your education must be over. You must have taken your place in the world—a man among men. Then I gave up my search, and waited here—just waited. Your room was always ready. I felt certain you would come to me at last.
“Eight years ago our daughter married.Then I was left alone, and I was glad. Little Nigel was born, and he wassolike you. But that was no comfort to me; it was you I wanted, not a likeness. I never doubted that you would find me at last.
“And to-night—to-night, after thirty years—I looked up and saw my husband’s eyes gazing in at me through the window.
“The very greatness of the moment kept me calm. I had just to make sure you would not go. I could not tell Colin and Eva; they would have thought me mad. But old Thomas knew. He recognised you at once.”
“Recognised me?”
“Yes, Nigel. He had known and loved and served you from boyhood. He ran beside your pony the first time you rode alone. He and his wife are the only people left among the household who remember you. When I sent him to fetch you in, I told him you had come at last, and warned him to give no sign of recognition until I had found out how much you knew.He has shared with me the long years of vigil.”
Luke Sparrow buried his face in his hands.
“Good God,” he muttered; “let me keep my reason.”
Midnight sounded slowly from a distant belfry.
The old clock in the corner whirred its warning, and struck the hour.
Lady Tintagel took up her jewel-case.
“Come and sit here beside me, and see why Thomas could not fail to know you.”
He rose. His knees shook. He felt queer and dizzy. It had been a long time of mental strain.
Lady Tintagel turned on a light behind her, and moved the despatch-box.
He took his seat beside her on the couch.
A packet of faded photographs were in her hand.
“This is the first. Your mother gave it to me; my baby Nigel; six months old. She used to call you her little Black Prince,because of your dark eyes and regal bearing.”
He took the faded picture and bent over it.
The bright eyes of the baby had survived the yellowing process of sixty years. They held a look of baby omniscience as they stared into the haunted eyes of the man who bent and looked. The little figure sat erect, one finger lifted as if solemnly pointing a moral. The mother, on whose lap the baby sat, was so much absorbed in watching its expression, that her back was turned. He could see only a gracious figure and smoothly braided hair.
“Aged three,” said Lady Tintagel, passing another.
The same bright eyes, now merry with childish laughter, and half hidden in a mass of tumbled curls. Bare legs, white socks, strap shoes, a wooden horse. The marvel was that he stayed still ten seconds to be photographed. He must have whooped and run, the moment it was over.
“Aged seven,” said Lady Tintagel. “I love him in his kilt.”
A graceful little figure in full Highland dress; standing, as if just arrested in a dance, one hand above his head; his dark eyes shining, his curls escaping from the Glengarry bonnet.
The man’s hand shook, as he laid it down.
“No more just now,” he said, thickly. “I don’t—see very clearly.”
“Just the last,” she insisted, “the last of all; that you may understand how it was that Thomas knew you.”
She drew out a cabinet portrait and placed it in his hands. Beneath it was written: “Nigel, one week before I lost him. August, 1883.”
A man in flannels, carrying a pair of sculls over his shoulder; smiling that he should be caught by a photographer on his way to the boats; his whole face and figure radiating health and happiness; a look of well-being, of honest, genial love to allmankind; of innate goodness, purity, strength—a man made for love and for companionship; a man to whom a woman would trust herself, body and soul, and never regret it.
No contrast could have been more marked than that between the man portrayed and the man who now looked at the portrait; but the contrast was one of heart, mind, and character, not of outward semblance. For, as he looked, seeing only the portrait, in a room growing suddenly black, he knew he looked upon himself—himself, as he might have been; himself, as he once was.
Lady Tintagel returned the others to their place of safety. She fitted them all in with loving care; then turned to take the last.
“Can you wonder——” she began; then paused dismayed.
The man beside her tried to rise, groped blindly for support, then swayed slowly forward, and fell senseless at her feet.