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.”