She flew into her room and pealed the bell. Then back to the balcony, shrieking wildly. So near the shore, but gone. An empty sea; a cruel, sparkling, empty sea! The sound of hurrying feet within. She staggered back into the room, clutching at the window-frame and curtains. “Quick, Thomas, quick! Sir Nigel—drowning—below the cliff—a boat—a rope—” Then she fell forward on her face. SCENE XII THE DEEP WELL When Luke Sparrow awoke from a long sleep, he found himself in bed, wrapped in softest blankets, in the room to which he had been taken on the previous evening. His entire being was permeated by that extraordinary sense of comfort which accompanies returning strength after violent exertion. He had no desire to move, yet he lifted his right arm and looked with a perplexed smile at the sleeve of a blue silk sleeping suit. Then he saw the wedding-ring upon his finger. “Miriam!” He let a flood of tender memory sweep over him. “Miriam! My wife.” Presently he looked round the room, taking in every detail. It was familiar in a strange, double way. His conscious brain remembered each impression of the night before, when he thought it “Colin’s” dressing-room; but a vague, dream-like memory, working slowly, like drawing water from the depths of a deep well, remembered it as his own. He studied the engravings on the walls, seeing them consciously for the first time; but when he looked away, it seemed to him that he had known, before looking, that each would be in its place. He looked along the row of books in the bookcase. His conscious mind mastered their titles; but, from the deep well of his sub-consciousness he drew the knowledge of what, if he could open them, he would find written on the fly-leaves. This experiment soon tired him. He lifted his hand again and fixed his mind upon the wedding-ring, and upon her whose ring it was. Nothing vague here, nothing indefinite. His love for her, his memory of her love, flowed through him like new wine. Her loveliness, her tenderness, her sweet fidelity. He held the ring against his lips. “My bride”—what memories! “My wife, my perfect mate!” To him, who had never loved, it came as an overwhelming wonder to find himself in sudden possession of a love full grown. “Miriam! Miriam!” Soon he would see her. She was somewhere quite near. Oh, heart of gold, beating beneath the garment of soft woman’s flesh! He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the exquisite enchantment. The purity of each remembrance of her love and his, filled him with a sense of heavenly rapture. “My perfect one; my Angel of Delight!” The door opened softly. An elderly woman appeared, stout and matronly, carrying a cup on a small tray. She advanced to the side of the bed.