“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 so 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.
“Oh, Nigel,” she whispered; “Nigel, belovèd!”