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SIR NIGEL
“It is half done still, holy father.”
“How is this, my daughter? Have you then so many calls?”
“Nay, holy father, her thoughts are otherwhere,” Sir John
answered. “She will sit an hour at a time, the needle in her
hand and her soul a hundred leagues from Cosford House.
Ever since the Prince’s battle –”
“Good father, I beg you –”
“Nay, Mary, none can hear me, save your own confessor,
Father Matthew. Ever since the Prince’s battle, I say, when
we heard that young Nigel had won such honor she is brainwode, and sits ever – well, even as you see her now.”
An intent look had come into Mary’s eyes; her gaze was fixed
upon the dark rain-splashed window. It was a face carved from
ivory, white-lipped and rigid, on which the old priest looked.
“What is it, my daughter? What do you see?”
“I see nothing, father.”
“What is it then that disturbs you?”
“I hear, father.”
“What do you hear?”
“There are horsemen on the road.”
The old knight laughed. “So it goes on, father. What day is
there that a hundred horsemen do not pass our gate, and yet
every clink of hoofs sets her poor heart a-trembling. So strong
and steadfast she has ever been, my Mary, and now no sound too
slight to shake her to the soul! Nay, daughter, nay, I pray you!”
She had half-risen from her chair, her hands clenched and
her dark, startled eyes still fixed upon the window. “I hear
them, father! I hear them amid the wind and the rain! Yes, yes,
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
they are turning – they have turned! My God, they are at our
very door!”
“By Saint Hubert, the girl is right!” cried old Sir John, beating his fist upon the board. “Ho, varlets, out with you to the
yard! Set the mulled wine on the blaze once more! There are
travelers at the gate, and it is no night to keep a dog waiting
at our door. Hurry, Hannekin! Hurry, I say, or I will haste you
with my cudgel!”
Plainly to the ears of all men could be heard the stamping
of the horses. Mary had stood up, quivering in every limb. An
eager step at the threshold, the door was flung wide, and there
in the opening stood Nigel, the rain gleaming upon his smiling face, his cheeks flushed with the beating of the wind, his
blue eyes shining with tenderness and love. Something held
her by the throat, the light of the torches danced up and down;
but her strong spirit rose at the thought that others should
see that inner holy of holies of her soul. There is a heroism of
women to which no valor of man can attain. Her eyes only carried him her message as she held out her hand.
“Welcome, Nigel!” said she.
He stooped and kissed it.
“Saint Catharine has brought me home,” said he.
A merry supper it was at Cosford Manor that night, with
Nigel at the head betwixt the jovial old knight and the Lady
Mary, whilst at the farther end Samkin Aylward, wedged between two servant maids, kept his neighbors in alternate
laughter and terror as he told his tales of the French Wars.
Nigel had to turn his doeskin heels and show his little golden
spurs. As he spoke of what was passed Sir John clapped him on
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SIR NIGEL
the shoulder, while Mary took his strong right hand in hers,
and the good old priest smiling blessed them both. Nigel had
drawn a little golden ring from his pocket, and it twinkled in
the torchlight.
“Did you say that you must go on your way to-morrow, father?” he asked the priest.
“Indeed, fair son, the matter presses.”
“But you may bide the morning?”
“It will suffice if I start at noon.”
“Much may be done in a morning.” He looked at Mary,
who blushed and smiled. “By Saint Paul! I have waited long
enough.”
“Good, good!” chuckled the old knight, with wheezy laughter. “Even so I wooed your mother, Mary. Wooers were brisk
in the olden time. To-morrow is Tuesday, and Tuesday is ever
a lucky day. Alas! that the good Dame Ermyntrude is no longer
with us to see it done! The old hound must run us down, Nigel,
and I hear its bay upon my own heels; but my heart will rejoice
that before the end I may call you son. Give me your hand,
Mary, and yours, Nigel. Now, take an old man’s blessing, and
may God keep and guard you both, and give you your desert,
for I believe on my soul that in all this broad land there dwells
no nobler man nor any woman more fitted to be his mate!”
There let us leave them, their hearts full of gentle joy, the
golden future of hope and promise stretching out before their
youthful eyes. Alas for those green spring dreaming! How often do they fade and wither until they fall and rot, a dreary
sight, by the wayside of life! But here, by God’s blessing, it
was not so, for they burgeoned and they grew, ever fairer and
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
more noble, until the whole wide world might marvel at the
beauty of it.
It has been told elsewhere how as the years passed Nigel’s
name rose higher in honor; but still Mary’s would keep pace
with it, each helping and sustaining the other upon an ever
higher path. In many lands did Nigel carve his fame, and ever
as he returned spent and weary from his work he drank fresh
strength and fire and craving for honor from her who glorified
his home. At Twynham Castle they dwelled for many years,
beloved and honored by all. Then in the fullness of time they
came back to the Tilford Manor-house and spent their happy,
healthy age amid those heather downs where Nigel had passed
his first lusty youth, ere ever he turned his face to the wars.
Thither also came Aylward when he had left the “Pied Merlin”
where for many a year he sold ale to the men of the forest.
But the years pass; the old wheel turns and ever the thread
runs out. The wise and the good, the noble and the brave,
they come from the darkness, and into the darkness they go,
whence, whither and why, who may say? Here is the slope of
Hindhead. The fern still glows russet in November, the heather still burns red in July; but where now is the Manor of Cosford? Where is the old house of Tilford? Where, but for a few
scattered gray stones, is the mighty pile of Waverley? And yet
even gnawing Time has not eaten all things away. Walk with
me toward Guildford, reader, upon the busy highway. Here,
where the high green mound rises before us, mark yonder
roofless shrine which still stands foursquare to the winds. It
is St. Catharine’s, where Nigel and Mary plighted their faith.
Below lies the winding river, and over yonder you still see the
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SIR NIGEL
dark Chantry woods which mount up to the bare summit, on
which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel of the Martyr
where the comrades beat off the archers of the crooked Lord
of Shalford. Down yonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills
one traces the road by which they made their journey to the
wars. And now turn hither to the north, down this sunken
winding path! It is all unchanged since Nigel’s day. Here is
the Church of Compton. Pass under the aged and crumbling
arch. Before the steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed, lies the dust of Nigel and of Mary. Near them is that of
Maude their daughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse
she was; their children and children’s children are lying by
their side. Here too, near the old yew in the churchyard, is the
little mound which marks where Samkin Aylward went back
to that good soil from which he sprang.
So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish
forever that great old trunk of England, which still sheds forth
another crop and another, each as strong and as fair as the last.
The body may lie in moldering chancel, or in crumbling vault,
but the rumor of noble lives, the record of valor and truth, can
never die, but lives on in the soul of the people. Our own work
lies ready to our hands; and yet our strength may be the greater
and our faith the firmer if we spare an hour from present toils
to look back upon the women who were gentle and strong, or
the men who loved honor more than life, on this green stage
of England where for a few short years we play our little part.
THE END
Литературно-художественное издание
Arthur Conan Doyle
Sir Nigel
Выпускающий редактор: И. Краснова
Редактор: П. Воронин
Корректор: И. Иванова
Компьютерная верстка: Т. Серёгина
Художественное оформление: М. Кылосова
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