This last clause of his request was a tolerably comprehensive one, as, from the doctor’s well-known migratory habits, the summons might possibly be indited from Mongolia, or the farthest recesses of Crim-Tartary. But to pacify him, for I saw that my old friend was strangely perturbed, I said that I would do what he wished, at any time, if I could; which latter clause covered the aforesaid difficulty so far. He seemed relieved by my assurance. His manner grew calmer.
“I cannot tell you more just at present,” he said (this with a glance at the boy), “except that I am in sore trouble, from which, at another time, not now, the counsel of a friend may relieve me. It concerns one near and dear to me” (ah! then the secret did lie there), “and you are the only one I could trust. Perhaps, in time, my trouble may be dissipated” (this with a hopeless, sickly smile), “and then you will be glad I have not bored you with it, but if not, and if I seek fulfilment of your promise, remember!” With which words he abruptly broke off the conversation.
Shortly afterwards my fellow-travellers reached their destination. Dr. Wygram had, by this time, completely recovered his vivacity. When wishing me good-bye, a silent pressure of the hand, more prolonged than usual, alone betrayed any recollection, on his part, of our midnight conversation. I did not recover my own equanimity so rapidly; the interview came back upon me, as I sat alone for the rest of the journey, somewhat too vividly for that. A nameless uneasiness possessed me. I wearied myself with possible explanations of Wygram’s alleged troubles. Money difficulties were out of the question in the case of one so well off as he, so simple and unostentatious in his mode of life, and he would be the last man to gamble. His son—pooh! The birch was the best cure for boyish peccadilloes, and he would get that on going back to school. Still, reason with myself as I might, Dr. Wygram’s nameless trouble remained with me; the boy’s sleeping face in the lamplight, the father’s urgent entreaty “remember,” these did not pass away. After all, I would reproach myself for having promised to obey the summons of my friend whenever it might come; how awkward that might be! Why could not he, if so anxious for my counsel, arrange to come to me? Altogether, it was not until several days had elapsed that I shook off the disagreeable impression left by the journey. As for Dr. Wygram’s possible summons, I looked for that, more or less confidently, for several months, then my expectation of its coming began to fade. As a matter of fact, it did come after all, but not for fifteen years. Then it came upon this wise. I had been from home for some days. On returning, a pile of letters awaited me. Sorting them over one by one, the last in the heap was addressed in an unmistakable handwriting. “Wygram’s summons at last,” I said to myself, as the mist of the years rolled away and I was once more travelling northwards in the train; once more my friend’s voice in my ear, “remember!” once more the lamplight on his son’s sleeping face.
Opening the letter, I read as follows:—
Low Tor Cottage, by Liskeard, Cornwall,
Sept. 3, 188—.
Dear F.:—Remember promise given long ago. Pray come as soon as possible!
Thine