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.