“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.