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 mankind; 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.
SCENE VIII
THE DAWN BREAKS
When consciousness returned, he found himself stretched at full length upon the couch.
Lady Tintagel knelt beside him, her arms around him.
He could feel the rapid beating of her heart; her soft, quick breathing, mingled with kisses, on his brow and hair. Words of tenderness unthinkable poured from her lips.