“Now,” said Lady Tintagel, as he put down his empty coffee-cup, “you may talk. There is no further need to wait.” “I want to tell you things from the beginning,” he said. “Will it bore you if I begin at the beginning?”
“You could not bore me; and I would not miss one moment of the beginning. Tell me all.”
“My name is Luke Sparrow, so named by the matron of the Foundlings’ Institution to which I was carried when a month old, or thereabouts, by the arm of the Law. I began life on a door-step—a suburban door-step. I have never known home, or kith, or kin. Like Melchisedec of old, I am without father, without mother, without 80descent; but there the resemblance ends; for Melchisedec was King of Salem, which is King of Peace, whereas I, from my infancy, have been possessed by a most restless demon. I was ‘Returned Empty’ and marked ‘Glass with Care’——”
“Returned empty?” There was horror in her voice. “What—what do you mean?”
“The label,” he said; “the label pinned to the unwanted bundle had, printed in bold letters, on one side: Returned Empty, under which somebody who knew it, had written, presumably, the date of my birth. On the other side was printed Glass with Care, beneath which the same careful person had taken the trouble to write a Bible reference, most explicitly explaining the exact value of the said bundle: Luke xii. 6. ‘Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings?’ This apt quotation inspired the matron, on christening Sunday, to bestow upon me the name of Luke Sparrow. She was a good woman and meant well. But 81it was, ever after, a standing joke at the institution.”
“Not one of them is forgotten before God,” said Lady Tintagel.
“Yes, I know. But the close of the verse did not appear to be applicable, the bundle not containing a genuine sparrow but merely a lonely little human child, ‘Returned Empty.’”
“Returned?” she said; “Empty!” There was tragedy in her voice.
He laughed. “Yes; very empty—so the nurses said. Well, it was a bad beginning. The physical emptiness was soon remedied; but the mental and spiritual void remained unfilled. I’ve lived an utterly lonely life; and the misery of it was, I didn’t seem able to accept companionship; I had no capacity for friendship, no wish for homelife. I have always been seeking, seeking, seeking for something I could not find. Lots of people wanted to be friendly; heaps of people tried to be kind; but I could not take their friendship, or accept their kindness. 82To misquote a well-known saying, I was ‘in the world but not of the world.’ And then I had a vice.”
“A vice?” Her eyes, which never left his face, darkened with apprehension.
“Yes; a vice. Oh, not drink, or drugs, or other depravity. I have kept my body sane and clean, and without much effort either. I love the sea too well, and swim in it too often, for any form of moral squalor to have a chance.”
“Squalor!” she exclaimed, with a fine disdain. “You would have had no need for squalor, you beautiful boy! All women must have loved you.”
“Boy?” He laughed. “Good Lord! I was never a boy! I was born with a grown-up soul. Yes, they were kind; but I wanted none of their kindness. All women were to me mere shadows. Love never called to me.”
“The vice?” she said. “What was it?”
“A mental thing. A morbid craving to look on at other people’s joys; to view 83them, without sharing them; an absolute hunger to see home life, though I had none of my own. This led me into the low-down practice of prowling about after dark, peering in at lighted windows, like a lonely soul from another world, spying on bliss he might not share. I began it as quite a little chap, peeping and running away. The passion grew as I grew. When my day’s work was over, I would walk miles to stalk unshuttered windows. Many a time I have narrowly escaped being run in as a probable burglar. Many a fright I have given to innocent people who looked up suddenly and surprised my uncanny face pressed against the glass. I know now what I was seeking. In some sub-conscious part of me I knew that somewhere in the world was a window through which I should look and see at last a room which would be HOME.
“So I prowled on. I was prowling to-night. But I never before wanted to be invited to enter. I preferred to be outside. And—until to-night—I never realised what 84a low-down habit it was. To my morbid emptiness it seemed no wrong toward happy people, that I should just look upon their joys.”
“But why—to-night?”
“Ah, because all is different. You have done something to me; I don’t know what, or why. Something in your sub-consciousness must have reached mine. You have burst the bars of my prison and set my spirit free. I shall leave here and go back to the world, a man among men. Hitherto I have felt—do you know the weird Schubert song?—a Doppelg?nger. Good Lord, the horror of it! But you have broken the spell. I don’t know how you did it. Perhaps it was because you asked me in.”
“Why did you come in?” she whispered: “You, who always preferred to remain outside.”
“Dare I tell you?” he asked. “Will you think it awful cheek? It was because—at last—at last—it was Home.”
85The woman on the couch opened wide her arms and leaned toward him with a movement of extraordinary tenderness. Her face was illumined by a radiance almost unearthly in its sublime joy.
“It was Home,” she said. “It is Home. Ah, do you not remember, belovèd? Never call yourself Luke Sparrow again. Never call yourself a foundling—you, whom I have found at last! I can tell you your name, if there be still need to tell it: Nigel Guido Cardross Tintagel.”
“What?” The blood leapt into his face. His outstretched hands almost met hers. “Are you—are you—my mother?”
“No, belovèd, no! Oh, Nigel, think again! Remember! You must remember!”
His hands clutched his knees. He looked full into her eyes; a long, steady gaze.
At last: “I remember nothing,” he said. “You will have to tell me. I would to God you were my mother. But, if that may not be, then—in Heaven’s name—what are you to me?”
86Her voice was a p?an of triumphant joy.
“I am your wife.”
The man in the chair sat before her, petrified. His hands gripped his knees. Twice he essayed to speak; but no sound would pass his lips.
At length: “Great God!” he said: “Am I mad, or are you?”
“Nigel,” she said, “my dearest, you have come back to me. My boundless love, my desperate grief, my passionate prayers, have brought you back to me. My lover, my husband, my heart’s dearest, try to remember!”
“I remember nothing,” he said. “This is the madness of a strange, wild dream. Presently I shall wake and find myself lying on golden bracken, while the dawn breaks in the east, and the stars pale in the sky. I have dreamed this dream before. I shall wake. It will mean losing you; but I must wake.” He leapt to his feet and shouted the last words; “I must wake!”
87“Hush, my dearest, hush!” She spoke as if soothing a startled child. “Sit down, and I will explain. I can make all clear, if you will listen patiently. To you it is startling. But I have waited so long; I have known so long that you were coming. Sit down and listen. Striding about the room will not wake you, because this is no dream. It is blessed, blessed reality. Listen, Nigel! Listen, belovèd! I will make it all quite clear.”
She rose, poured out a glass of wine and brought it to him.
“Drink this. How your hand shakes!... No; I will not touch you; but I beg of you to drink it.”
She crossed the room, unlocked a bureau, took from it a despatch-box and placed it beside her on the couch.
“Now help me to tell you by listening calmly.
“We had three years of most perfect married life. No woman ever had such a lover, such a husband, as you were to me. 88No man was ever so adored by his wife as you were by me. We were old enough to understand our happiness and to take it to the full. I was twenty-eight and you were thirty when I lost you; but you were so gloriously young, so full of life and love and laughter. I used to say you would never grow up. Sometimes I felt like wife and mother in one, my heart overflowing with the tenderness of both. Yet you were so wise and strong and grandly good. In all things spiritual and mental I leaned on you and learned of you.
“We had one little daughter, a year old on that fatal 12th of August; but, dear though she was to us both, you were my All. My whole body and soul were yours, wrapped up in you. And your love for me was such a sweet deep mystery of tenderness that I scarce dared think of it, save when you were near me. Surely it is given to few to love as we loved, to experience what we experienced.
“We lived much in the open; riding, 89walking, climbing together. You were a magnificent swimmer and loved the sea. Often at dawn, on a summer morning, you would leave our bed, dash down to the shore, and swim up the golden pathway, straight toward the rising sun.
“Our room is over this one. Our windows open on to a broad balcony running along the top of the veranda. There a powerful telescope is mounted.
“My heart always failed me over these early swims. You were so far from the shore, out in the ocean; no possible help at hand. I used to watch you through the telescope, and, knowing this, you would turn and smile and wave to me and speak my name. Often you dived into the bottomless deep of waters. Then your anxious wife could see nothing but an expanse of sky and ocean. After what seemed an hour of suspense, you would re-appear in the sparkling ripples, laughing, shaking the salt water from your eyes, and bounding along with the strength and grace of a splendid 90sea-lion. Then I would breathe again and slip back to bed as you neared the shore and I lost you under the lee of the cliff.
“But, when you came back to my arms, I used to hold you close to my beating heart and say: ‘Oh, Nigel, my dearest! Some day those treacherous waters will swallow you up, and you will come back to me no more.’
“‘I shall always come back to you, my sweet,’ you would make answer. ‘If I lay fifty fathoms deep, and you called, I should hear and come back.’
“Then you would quite suddenly fall asleep; but I would keep vigil, praying Heaven that you might never lie fifty fathoms deep, and loving the salt on my lips, as I softly kissed your damp hair.
“Nigel, do you remember?”
The man in the chair put out his hand, groping blindly for the glass, and moistened his lips before he made answer.
“I remember nothing,” he said.
“One lovely August evening we sat together on the shore. It was our baby’s 91birthday. She was a year old. It had been a happy, merry day. We had been up to the nursery, where, surrounded by soft, furry toys, she slept. We stood together on either side of her crib, looking down at the rose-petal face with its aureola of tumbled golden hair.
“‘Nothing of the Italian there,’ you remarked. Your dark colouring and vivid vitality came from an Italian grandfather on your mother’s side, from whom you also took your second name.
“‘I want a little Guido, some day,’ I whispered, as we turned away.
“‘All in good time,’ you answered, laughing softly, and slipped your arm through mine.
“We strolled down to the beach and watched a blood-red sunset.
“A sudden wind arose, gusty and fitful, blowing countless little white caps across the bay.
“A French woman, who, with her two daughters, had taken a hunting lodge near 92by for the season, joined us on the beach. We found them pleasant neighbours, vivacious and amusing. Madame de Villebois had walked along the shore. ‘Mes filles’ were out sailing, in their little ‘barquette à voile.’ Presently it leapt into view, rounding the point; a pretty picture in the sunset glow.
“Seated upon the rocks just below this cliff, we watched the tiny skiff dancing and curtseying toward the middle of our bay.
“‘Gusty for sailing,’ you remarked; and the next moment we could see that they were in difficulties. The sail flapped loose, then bellied suddenly, and the boat lurched.
“‘Oh, Sir Nigel,’ cried madame, with clasped hands, ‘bring out your rowing boat and go to help them!’
“‘I’m awfully sorry,’ you said; ‘but the boat is under repairs.’
“At that instant the sail belched again; the girls stood up; the skiff heeled over, and they were flung into the water.
“Then followed a pandemonium of 93screaming. Madame shrieked, and flew to the water’s edge, crying: ‘Sir Nigel, save them! Save them! Oh, mon Dieu! Mes enfants!’
“The girls screamed in the water, catching at the bottom of the upturned boat. They could swim enough just to keep their heads above water. Their shrieks of terror were appalling.
“You flung off your coat and dashed down the beach in your flannels.
“‘Keep madame out of the sea, darling,’ you shouted out to me, as I ran behind you. ‘I will bring the girls in, one at a time.’
“I put my arms round the frantic mother, and we stood together watching you.
“Even in such a moment, my heart thrilled at sight of your magnificent swimming, as you forged through the waves at almost incredible speed. It did not occur to me to be afraid. Often, when I had misjudged my strength or been caught by the current, you had brought me safely to shore, swimming on your back with one arm around 94me, while I lay on your chest in perfect security, hearing your voice close to my ear, saying: ‘All right, my darling! We can’t sink. Breathe, and rest, and trust yourself to me.’ These slim French girls would be nothing, compared with my height and weight.
“‘He will save them easily, madame,’ I said. ‘Keep calm. He will bring them in, one at a time.’
“The frantic screams of the girls became more ear-piercing. I had never heard a sound so appalling.
“‘Hold on!’ you shouted. ‘Hold on! I am coming! Hold on!’
“Just before you reached them, one lost her grip of the boat; it slipped away from her clinging fingers, and, turning, she swam and struggled toward you. In an instant you had her by the arm, holding her up.
“I remember wondering why she did not cease screaming. You were evidently reasoning 95with her and trying to draw her on to your chest.
“At that moment the other girl left the boat, swam up behind you, and clasped you frantically round the throat.
“You let go of the first, in order to seize those throttling fingers; but she caught at your wrists and held them.
“Instantly you all went under, in a churning mass; then came to the surface—you fighting desperately—only to disappear again.
“Then, for one instant I saw a brown hand appear, pointing heavenward; a girl’s white fingers locked around the wrist.
“Then that also vanished, and nothing remained, but the boat, drifting bottom upwards, and the fainting French woman in my arms.
“My Man, my Life, my All, lay drowning fathoms deep in the treacherous, cruel sea, while I stood helpless on the shore.
96“When the precious body was recovered a week later, those gripping fingers had to be cut from throat and wrists, that it might lie alone in the graveyard on the hill. I was not allowed to see It; so my last memory of my Darling was that vision of him in his glorious strength, as he swam through the waters, with no thought of personal danger, shouting to the drowning girls: ‘Hold on! I am coming!’
“And, when the chill waters of my own despair threatened to engulf me, I seemed to hear again those ringing tones: ‘Hold on! I am Coming!’
“Then something happened which gave them a new meaning, and awakened in my own mind a train of thought which surely saved my reason.
“Your will was found, leaving all you possessed to me, and with it a letter addressed: ‘To my wife: for her eye alone.’
“I had been so haunted by the remembrance of that right hand, pointing skyward from the sea, and now I was to receive 97a message, penned by those precious fingers, which should indeed point out a ray of hope in the black sky of my sunless future.
“Nigel, do you remember?”
The man in the chair slipped his brown hands into the pockets of his coat. He did not lift his eyes from the floor.
“I remember nothing,” he said, very low.
“Then I must shew you your letter, which no eye save my own has ever seen.”
She unlocked the despatch-box, took from it a small jewel-case, opened this with a gold key hanging from a chain around her wrist; then, from a sealed envelope, drew some half-dozen sheets of closely written manuscript. Leaning forward, she held them toward him.
Slowly, with evident reluctance, the lean brown hand came out of the coat pocket.
He took them from her, and let his eyes rest on the first page.
98There followed moments of tense silence.
The tall clock, in a corner of the room, ticked loudly.
Out seaward, a nightbird screeched.
An owl in the fir wood behind the house, hooted thrice.
The fire fell together, and shot up tongues of flame.
At last he lifted hunted eyes to her face.
“It is my handwriting,” he said, “or something very like it. But it is dated August 12th, 1882, thirteen months before my birth.”
“Read it,” said Lady Tintagel.
“I cannot.”
“You must.”
She rose, placed a shaded electric lamp on the table at his elbow; then switched off all other lights.
Seated in shadow on the couch, she watched the dark face, so fine in its stern intentness, bending over the paper; the strong, nervous hand waiting to turn each 99page; the dark hair, from which no cropping could cut the curl.
“God in heaven,” she sighed, “he has come back to me in answer to the insistence of my frantic prayer; but he has returned emptied of all memory. Oh, of Thine infinite mercy, let there rise in his mind the floodtide of remembrance.”
Thus she prayed and yearned and hoped, while the man in the chair slowly read the letter, written, in his own handwriting, a year before his birth.
“August 12th, 1882.
“My own sweet Wife,
“You and I are so full of happy, buoyant life, that it seems a strange anomaly that I should sit down to write to you of death: we are so intimately one in heart and mind, so wedded in each moment of our perfect life together, that there seems no need to face the possibility of parting. Yet, lately, there has come to me a chill presentiment that, in the very midst of life and joy, a 100sudden death may come with one swift stroke; that you and I, belovèd, counting on fifty blissful years together, may, in one fatal moment, be wrenched apart.
“So I have made my will, leaving everything to you. All is in order. Fergusson will manage the estate. Thomas and his wife can be wholly trusted in the house. I leave my wife in faithful hands.
“So much for outward things. But what can I say to comfort you, my Love, my Own, in the utter loneliness of heart and soul, which will, alas, be yours when you read this?
“Try to realise that we are not lost to one another.
“‘Nothing can untwine
Thy life from mine.’
“We are eternally one, belovèd. Time is made up of uncertainties; not so Eternity. ‘Lord, Thou hast been our Dwelling Place in all generations.’ When we pass out of Time, we just go home again to that safe 101Dwelling Place. We are so safe in Eternity.
“And our love, yours and mine, being eternal, we shall find one another again. Don’t think of me as dead. Think of me as more vividly alive than ever; yours still; always wholly, utterly yours.
“But, my belovèd, however hard you find it to bear the sudden silence, however much you long for just one word, one sign—never turn to a spiritualistic medium, or to spiritualism in any form. I hold that thing to be a most damnable device of the Devil’s for bamboozling the minds of men; leading stricken hearts to believe they are holding converse with their Dead, when, in reality, demons intervene and whisper foolish nothings, till they trap the soul, confuse the mind, and wreck the moral and spiritual life. Better a holy silence, than a lying whisper. Better a parting bravely borne in faith and patience, than an attempt to bridge the chasm by forbidden means.
“Yet we may meet again on earth, if it be God’s will for us, before we spend our 102great Eternity together. We have often talked of this. You know how firmly we believe that we have met before, in other times, in other climes; that we have lived and loved, striven together, risen together to God’s great purposes of fresh development. We may yet meet again in Time; find each other, know each other; ‘rise, on stepping-stones of our dead selves, to higher things.’ Many adventures into Time may be necessary to our full completion for Eternity. Remember all we have said of this subject, and do not think of Death as the end. It is but a passing on to fuller life, to fresh beginnings, to greater opportunities.
“Of course we must bear in mind that all this is necessarily speculative. We cannot dogmatise upon uncertainties. Ideas of our own concerning the future state can be but theoretical. The only certainties are to be found in Divine revelation, and our theories, if they are worth anything, 103will harmonise with the Word of God.
“However, two great certainties I leave you to cling to in your loneliness:—Our eternal Dwelling Place is in the love of God; and our own perfect love remains to us eternally. Wherever I may be while you read this, I am loving you still, with my whole being; I am all your own, and I hold you mine for ever.
“Now I will lock away this letter with my will and other papers. Please God, it may be fifty years before your dear eyes rest upon it. The fact that I have written it, lifts from me the dull weight of vague apprehension.
“As I sit writing in the Oak Room, you lie in our chamber overhead, with our little one in your arms. Your precious life has been spared, and a new life has been given. Heaviness endured for a night, but joy came in the morning. You have come safely through this dreaded ordeal. Why should I apprehend an unknown danger?
“So I will put away all apprehension 104with this letter, and go up to the radiance of your smile and the glad certainty which is mine when I clasp you closely in my arms, my wife, my own!
“Your lover and your husband, in Time and in Eternity,
“Nigel Tintagel.”
He folded the many sheets and returned them to the envelope.
A strange calm had entered into his soul, a quiet strength which seemed to say: “Knowing so much, I must know more; I must know all.”
He ceased to feel hunted and haunted. He had been brought face to face, in these pages, with a great love; whether his own or another’s seemed at that moment scarcely to matter. The very knowledge of such a love lifted him to a higher plane. Luke Sparrow had seen deep into the most sacred recesses of the heart of Nigel Tintagel. His own empty heart received this as a trust. A patient strength replaced his restive horror of resentment at a situation 105so utterly beyond all human understanding.
He laid the letter on the table beside him, switched off the light, turned his chair so that he looked into the fire and did not face the woman on the couch, and said, very gently: “What happened next?”
“Nigel,” she said: “Do you remember?”
“I remember nothing,” he answered; but the harshness was gone from his voice; its tone was infinitely sad and tender. “I remember nothing. But I am ready to listen. I want you to tell me all. I will try to understand. You need not fear any wild outbursts now. For the sake of what you believe—whether it be true or not—I would give my life to bring you comfort. Tell me all.”
The firelight flickered on the tragic face. She saw a look of peace it had not held before. She saw a faint suggestion of the look of youth which, in its appeal to her tenderness, had made the man she loved so adorable.
106“Oh, Nigel,” she whispered; “Nigel, belovèd!”
“What happened next?”
“I read your letter many times. Your arms seemed to steal around me as I read. I turned my face against your breast, and wept myself to calmness. It mattered not that my head was buried in my pillow. Your letter had brought you so near; you came between me and all outward things. I repeated again and again: ‘Nothing can untwine my life from thine.’
“The warning against spiritualism reached me just in time. The poor French ‘Madame’ was an ardent spiritualist. She had secured a medium, and was already in communication with her daughters. They had told her their favourite flowers and had reminded her that they used to prefer ‘Chocolat’ to ‘café au lait,’ for breakfast. Also that ‘Antoinette’ used to darn their stockings. Antoinette was an old ‘bonne’ who had been with them many years.
“These undeniable facts filled ‘Madame’ 107with a holy rapture. She implored me to come and receive like comfort. I might have yielded, had it not been for your timely warning.
“Madame’s husband, sons, another daughter and two cousins, had come to her in her sorrow. She was quickly growing resigned—comforted—almost elated. Her ‘deuil’ was infinitely becoming.
“But I? I had been robbed of my All. I dreaded Madame de Villebois’ frequent visits, yet knew my darling would not wish me to refuse to see her, lest she should think I resented the awful part her children had played in my life’s tragedy. And, after all, it was madame’s outpourings which first caused the Great Idea to formulate in my mind.
“‘Ah,’ she cried one day, ‘the brave, the wonderful Sir Nigel! So full of “joie de vivre”! So life abounding! No; he cannot stay parmi les morts. Such as he, must live again.... Quite soon, quite soon, he will live again. Il reviendra!’
108“‘Quite soon? Quite soon?’ I repeated the words, when my visitor had departed. Quite soon! Ah, what it would be to know that my darling was on earth again; breathing the same air; seeing the same sunshine. Oh, if he came back quite soon!
“I remembered all you had thought and said on this great subject. You took the Bible instance of the prophet Elijah reappearing in John the Baptist—‘More than a prophet’ because a prophet twice born—as giving important data from which to draw conclusions.
“Christ Himself had said, in unmistakable language: ‘If ye will receive it, this is Elijah which was for to come.... And they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they listed.’ These clear statements, you said, swept away all possibility of explaining John the Baptist as a mere type of Elijah. He was, without doubt, a reincarnation of the great prophet of fire. Elijah, caught away on the banks of the river Jordan, his mission incomplete, 109reappearing on the same spot more than eight centuries later, to continue his work of ‘turning the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just.’
“It would take too long were I to endeavour to remind you of the perfect working out of every detail in the wonderful, inspired story—the comparatively slight stress laid upon the preparation of the little earthly body, miraculous though it was; the thirty years of silence and mystery in the deserts; then the triumphant heralding of the full-grown prophet: ‘There was a man, sent from God, whose name was John’: his very appearance exactly corresponding to the Old Testament descriptions of Elijah.
“You held that, though the actual physical body of a child is prepared by his parents, according to nature’s laws, his spirit—his ego—comes direct from God, entering the body, at the moment of birth, with the first independent breath the baby draws. ‘God breathed into his nostrils 110the breath of life; and man became a living soul.’ This followed the forming of the body. ‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God Who gave it.’ You cannot return to a place, unless you have been there before.
“From this you argued that, though a certain amount of likeness to the parents might be inherited, the ego, being the essential part, would mould the body into the appearance it had worn before. A strongly developed spirit, rich with many former experiences, would probably stamp its own likeness so strongly on the bodily development that very little resemblance to the immediate parents would obtain. This is why, in brilliant, gifted children we see so little family likeness; whereas in families in which all are as alike as peas in a pod, you find a lack of gifts, a poverty of mental development, a want of originality, which point to no previous experiences. Having no individual ego of its own, the 111newly created spirit in its first existence, allows the body to become an exact copy of its parents. ‘Adam begat a son in his own likeness, after his image.’
“With all reverence, you regarded the incarnation of our blessed Lord as throwing important light upon this point. From all eternity He had had an outward form. Man was created in His image. He was the pattern from which man was fashioned. In Old Testament records we find that He appeared many times upon earth and was seen of men: to Adam, to Abraham, to Joshua, to Gideon, to Manoah, to Daniel. These all knew Him, as we say in human parlance, by sight. The hosts of heaven knew Him and adored Him in His divinely glorious outward form. Now comes the time when He is to lay aside that glory and be born, very man, of the substance of an earthly mother. The little body, stainless and sinless, is prepared of a pure virgin through the operation of the Holy Ghost. ‘A body hast Thou prepared for 112me.’ At the moment of its birth, the great ego of the Son of God enters into it. Then ‘When He bringeth in the first begotten into the world, He saith, And let all the angels of God worship Him’—the scene on Bethlehem’s hills. By degrees that body grows, moulded by the ego within, into the perfect likeness of what a body must ever be, indwelt by the great Ego—the Son of God. He is seen by angels, and recognised. He is seen by demons, and recognised. He is seen by Moses and Elijah on the holy mount and, undoubtedly, recognised. Then—the work of redemption accomplished—raised from the grave and glorified, He takes that same body, bearing the actual scars of crucifixion, back into the Heavens. Would their King return to them in wholly different guise?
“No; the ego, in its changeless consistency, has done its perfect work. Whether ‘in the beginning, with God,’ or born of the Virgin Mary in Bethlehem’s stable, or ascending triumphant ‘far above all principality, 113and power, and might, and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this world but also in that which is to come’—He is, in outward appearance, as well as in nature and character, Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.
“From these sacred facts you deduced that any reincarnation of a fully developed ego would probably reproduce again the likeness to its previous bodily appearance, modified to a certain extent by a diversity of parents, less or more, according to the strength and richness of the ego.
“From this it follows that if one lived who still held the conscious recollection of a person in one incarnation, and if a second incarnation followed so quickly that a meeting on this earth could take place between the newly-arrived and the one who remembered, there would probably be recognition on the part of the latter.
“You also believed that the handwriting, with certain modifications, would be the 114same; handwriting being so closely allied to character, when allowed free development.
“You believed that the sub-conscious mind is an eternal thing, and holds stored within it every detail of every episode in every incarnation, be they many or few. But the conscious mind and memory, being dependent upon the growth and development of the actual physical brain, knows and remembers the happenings of that body’s life, only. The sub-conscious mind cannot be drawn upon consciously; but sometimes there springs up from it, into the conscious mind, a haunting memory of previous existence: ‘I have been there before! I have done this before!’
“Love being so largely a matter of the sub-consciousness, lovers are quick to find and to recognise one another, when they meet again reincarnate. This accounts for the sudden instinctive attraction known as ‘love at first sight.’ It is, in reality, two faithful lovers hailing one another with joy 115and delight by the unconscious means of the sub-conscious memory. After marriage this sub-conscious memory may become an exquisite certainty, adding a richness to the bliss of newly-wedded love.
“Great gifts can also be handed up to the new body from the sub-conscious ego. A born musician is one who, having become a great musician before by means of long study and practice, is re-born rich in the possession of the gift of musical expression. A born orator has been a practised speaker in a former life, and now, without knowing that he does so, draws freely on his sub-conciousness for inspiration.
“Genius is the natural intellect so attuned to the sub-conscious mind that its fount of inspiration flows through it unhindered.
“Madness is the sub-conscious mind gaining undue control, bursting the dams of reason and restraint, and carrying all before it into mental chaos. A writer who, discovering that he can do more vividly imaginative work when his sub-consciousness is 116in the ascendency, puts himself under the influence of drugs in order to obtain this mental condition, may, for a time, produce work which will astonish the world; but, before long, there will come the inevitable fiasco—loss of will power, loss of mental and moral perspective; nerve and brain irritation; insanity!
“Ah, how crudely and disjointedly I am repeating all this! It was your favourite subject, and I might give you essays of your own to read, with chapter and verse, and carefully worked out illustration. I have them all here. I almost know them by heart. But this hurried outline must serve to remind us of all you held and believed.
“Well—to take up the thread of the happenings of those sad days—first, your letter; secondly, Madame de Villebois’ remark; thirdly, my recollection of all you had taught and told me, awakened in me the passionate desire that your rebirth into the world should take place at once. 117In my awful loss and loneliness it seemed to me that such unspeakable comfort would come from the knowledge that my belovèd was actually on earth again; even if, at first, he were but a little, helpless babe.
“I had always loved the photographs of my baby Nigel so tenderly—I seemed to have known and loved you at every age. At times I saw each age in you and adored it as I saw it.
“And the years would pass, and you would grow up. After all, when you were a man of twenty, I should only be forty-eight. We should certainly have found each other by then, and my darling would know me, and would not think me old, for had he not written: ‘Wherever I may be I am loving you still, with my whole being. I am all your own, and I hold you mine for ever.... We may meet again on earth, if it be God’s will for us.’ I knew you meant by this, a fresh incarnation for both; but I could not see why I must wait during long, lonely years, or why death must come first.
118“I began to pray with desperate, frantic energy that my darling might come back without delay.
“A wild, sweet joy and comfort came to soothe my agony.
“I walked along the shore and prayed aloud. I roamed the moors in paroxysms of petition. I prayed all night. I thought of the many little bodies there must be, prepared and ready, just waiting for a splendid, eager spirit to enter them at the moment of birth. Could not my darling be sent to one of these and, growing up in it to his full beauty and stature, come and find his wife again?
“At last, one night, I remembered that morning when you came in from a swim at sunrise, when I had been so fearful for your safety, and how I had said: ‘Oh, Nigel, my dearest! Some day those treacherous waters will swallow you up, and you will come back to me no more.’ But you, lying in my arms, had made answer: ‘I shall always come back to you, my sweet. 119If I lay fifty fathoms deep and you called, I should hear and come back.’
“I remembered this, just before midnight, on the 11th of September.
“I had begun to feel as if all my prayers and pleadings with heaven had been useless, had failed to obtain any response.
“Now, I would take my husband at his word, and call him—call him—call him!
“I slipped from my bed, opened the French window and went out on to the balcony.
“There stood the telescope through which I used to watch you while you swam!
“A high wind blew, warm but boisterous.
“The sea roared and pounded against the rocks at the base of the cliff.
“I stood in the wind-swept darkness and lifted my eyes to the distant stars.
“‘Nigel!’ I called aloud: ‘Oh, Nigel, my lover, my husband, come back to earth! Come out of Eternity, back into Time. I cannot live on this earth without you. You promised—you promised to come from fifty 120fathoms deep, if I called. NIGEL! COME! Ask to be born once more. Then grow up quickly, and seek, and seek, and seek, belovèd, until you find me. Nigel, your own wife calls! Oh, Nigel! COME!’
“Long I stood, with clasped hands, gazing upward to the stars.
“The wind moaned and shrieked through the pines. The sea roared in the distance. Behind the house, an owl hooted, like a lost soul in agony, and seemed to mock my prayer.
“Up on the hill, the church bell tolled thrice.
“Suddenly an intense drowsiness overcame me—I, who for a month past had scarcely slept. I crept back to bed and fell asleep as my head touched the pillow.
“I slept until ten o’clock the next morning, then woke with such a sense of comfort and joy, that I could not understand what had happened.
“Then I remembered my call to you at midnight. And then I knew—knew with 121an unhesitating certainty—that my belovèd had kept his word; that some time between midnight and ten o’clock, on this 12th of September, 1883, he had come back, for my sake, and was now on earth once more, spending his first day as a little living, growing, beautiful man-child.
“Oh, the wonder of those hours! My breasts thrilled and ached with joy and longing. Ah, if I could but press his baby lips against them! The wife in me was merged in the wish that I could be his mother! I lived again. I smiled and laughed. For a long, weary month I had trailed about. I now ran up and down stairs. I lifted my arms to the sun and blessed him, as he rose in the heavens, because he was shining on my little boy. I tried to picture his nursery, his bassinet, his little gowns and flannels.
“My household evidently thought me demented; but I knew that this joy had saved my reason.
“During the next few days I scanned 122with eager eyes the births’ column in the ‘Times,’ making a list of the names and addresses of all the parents who had had sons on the 12th of September.
“Oh, Nigel, Nigel! I little thought—a door-step! A deserted bundle! A Foundlings’ Institution! Oh, my dear, if I could have flown to that door-step and found you, and brought you home! But—did you not say there was a date on the label, the date of your birth, written beneath ‘Returned Empty’?”
“Yes,” he said. “You shall see the label. There is a date.”
He drew his chair near to the couch, so that he could reach her hands with his own. He took the label from his pocket-book, and laid it upon her lap. She lifted it and, bending toward him, read it by the firelight.
RETURNED EMPTY
September 12th, 1883.
123“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.”
124Suddenly 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 who 125shouted 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. 126Then I was left alone, and I was glad. Little Nigel was born, and he was so like 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. 127He 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, 128because 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.
129“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 all 130mankind; 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.