The Golden Ball and Other Stories

by Agatha Christie

can't,"

  cried Hamer. "I can't .... "

  A few

  people turned to look at the big man who ss talking to

  himself.

  So sacrifice

  aas being asked of him, the sacrifice of th:

  which was most dear to him, that which was part of himself

  Part of himself--he remembered the man without legs...

  IV

  "What in the name of Fortune brings you here?'' asked

  Borrow.

  Indeed the east-end mission was an unfamiliar back

  ground to Hamer.

  "I've listened to a good many sermons," said the mil

  lionalre, "all saying what could be done if you people ha

  funds. I've just come to tell you this: you can have th

  funds."

  "Very good of you," answered Borrow, with some su

  prise. "A big subscription, eh?"

  Hamer smiled dryly. "I should say so. lust every penn

  I've got."

  "What?"

  Hamer rapped out details in a brisk, businesslike mannel

  Borrow's head was whirling.

  "You--you mean to say that you're making over yot

  entire fortune to be devoted to the relief of the poor in th

  East End, with myself appointed as trustee?"

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  "That's it."

  "But why--why?"

  "I can't explain," said Harrier slowly. "Remember our talk about visions last Febcuary? Well, a vision has got hold

  of me."

  "It's splendid!" Borrow leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

  "There's nothing particularly splendid about it,', said Hamer grimly. "I don't c0xe a button about poverty in the

  East End. All they want is grit! I was poor enough--and

  I got out of it. But I've got to get rid of the money, and

  these tom-fool societies shan't get hold of it. You're a man

  I can trust. Feed bodies or souls with it--preferably the

  former. I've been hungry, but you can do as you like."

  "There's never been stch a thing known," stammered Borrow.

  "The whole thing's dore and finished with," corltinued Hamer. "The lawyers have fixed it up at last, and I've silned

  everything. I can tell you I've been busy this last fortnight.

  It's almost as difficult getting rid of a fortune as aking

  one."

  "But you--you've kept something?"

  "Not a penny," said Hamer cheerfully. "At least---.that,s not quite tree. I've just twopence in my pocket." He laughed.

  He said good-bye to his bewildered friend and Walked out of the mission into the narrow evil-smelling streets. The

  words he had said so gaily just now came back to him with

  an aching sense of loss. "Not a penny!" Of all his vast

  wealth he had kept nothing. He Was afraid now--afraid of

  poverty and hunger and cold. Sacrifice had no SWeetness

  for him.

  Yet behind it all he was conscious that the weight and menace of things had lifted; he was no longer oppressed

  and bound down. The severing of the chain had seared and

  torn him, but the vision of freedom was there to strergthen

  him. His material needs might dim the Call, but they could

  not deaden it, for he knew it to be a thing of immortality

  that could not die.

  There was a touch of autumn in the air, and the wind blew chill. He felt the cold and shivered, and then, tt)o, he

  THE CALL OF WINGS 197

  was hungry--he had forgotten to have any lunch. It brought

  the future very near to him. It was incredible that he should

  have given it all up; the ease, the comfort, the warmth! His

  body cried out impotently .... And then once again there

  came to him a glad and uplifting sense of freedom.

  Hamer hesitated. He was near a tube station. He had

  twopence in his pocket. The idea came to him to journey

  by it to the park where he had watched the recumbent idlers

  a fortnight ago. Beyond this whim he did not plan for the

  future. He believed honestly enough now that he was mad--sane

  people did not act as he had done. Yet, if so, madness

  was a wonderful and amazing thing.

  Yes, he would go now to the open country of the park,

  and there was a speciai significance to him in reaching it

  by tube. For the tube represented to him all the horrors of buried, shut-in life .... He would ascend from its imprisonment

  free to the wide green and the trees that concealed

  the menace of the pressing houses.

  The lift bore him swiftly and relentlessly downward. The

  air was heavy and lifeless. He stood at the extreme end of

  the platform, away from the mass of people. On his left

  was the opening of the tunnel from which the train, snakelike,

  would presently emerge. He felt the whole place to be

  subtly evil. There was no one near him but a hunched-up

  lad sitting on a seat, sunk, it seemed, in a drunken stupor.

  In the distance came the faint menacing roar of the train.

  The lad rose from his seat and shuffled unsteadily to Hamer's

  side, where he stood on the edge of the platform peering

  into the tunnel.

  Then--it happened so quickly as to be almost incredible-he

  lost his balance and fell ....

  A hundred thoughts rushed simultaneously to Hamer's

  brain. He saw a huddled heap run over by a motor 'bus,

  and heard a hoarse voice saying: "Dahn't yet blime yerself,

  guv'nor. Yer couldn't 'a done nothin'." And with that came

  the knowledge that this life could only be saved, if it were

  saved, by himself. There was no one else near, and the train

  was close .... It all passed through his mind with lightning

  rapidity. He experienced a curious cairn lucidity of thought.

  He had one short second in which to decide, and he knew

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  in that moment that his fear of Death was unabated. He was horribly afraid. And ihen--was it not a forlorn hope? A

  useless throwing away of two lives?

  To the terrified spectators at the other end of the platform there seemed no gap between the boy's fall and the man's

  jump after him--and then the train, rushing round the curve

  of the tunnel, powerless to pull up in time.

  Swiftly Hamer caught up the lad in his arms. No natural gallant impulse swayed him, his shivering flesh was but

  obeying the command of the alien spirit that called for

  sacrifice. With a last effort he flung the lad forward onto

  the platform, falling himself ....

  Then suddenly his fear died. The material world held him down no longer. He was free of his shackles. He fancied

  for a moment that he heard the joyous piping of Pan. Then--nearer

  and louder--swallowing up all else--came the glad

  rushing of innumerable Wings... enveloping and encircling

  him ....

  Magnolia Blossom

  Vincent Easton was waiting under the clock at Victoria Station l Now and then he glanced up at it uneasily. He thought to himself: "How many other men have waited here

  for a woman who didn't come?"

  A sharp pang shot through him. Supposing that Theo didn't come, that she had changed her mind? Women did

  that sort of thing. Was he sure of her--had he ever been

  sure of her? Did he really know anything at all about her?

  Hadn't she puzzled him from the first? There had seemed

  to be two women--the lovely, laughing creature who was
/>
  Richard Darrell's wife, and the other--silent, mysterious,

  who had walked by his side in the garden of Haymer's

  Close. Like a magnolia flower--that was how he thought

  of her--perhaps because it was under the magnolia tree

  that they had tasted their first rapturous, incredulous kiss.

  The air had been sweet with the scent of magnolia bloom,

  and one or two petals, velvety-soft and fragrant, had floated

  down, resting on that upturned face that was as creamy and

  as soft and as silent as they. Magnolia blossom--exotic,

  fragrant, mysterious.

  - That had been a fortnight ago--the second day he had met her. And now he was waiting for her to come to him

  forever. Again incredulity shot through him. She wouldn't

  come. How could he ever have believed it? It would be

  giving up so much. The beautiful Mrs. Darrell couldn't do

  this sort of thing quietly. It was bound to be a nine days'

  wonder, a far-reaching scandal that would never quite be

  forgotten. There were better, more expedient ways of doing

  these things--a discreet divorce, for instance.

  But they had never thought of that for a moment--at

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  200 Agatha Christie

  least he had not. Had she, he wondered? He had never

  known anything of her thoughts. He had asked her to come

  away with him almost timorously--for after all, what was

  he? Nobody in particular--one of a thousand orange-growers

  in the Transvaal. What a life to take her to--after the

  brilliance of London! And yet, since he wanted her so desperately,

  he must needs ask.

  She had consented very quietly, with no hesitations or

  protests, as though it were the simplest thing in the world

  that he was asking her.

  "Tomorrow?" he had said, amazed, almost unbelieving.

  And she had promised in that soft, broken voice that was

  so different from the laughing brilliance of her social manner.

  He had compared her to a diamond when he first saw

  her--a thing of flashing fire, reflecting light from a hundred

  facets. But at that first touch, that first kiss, she had changed

  .miraculously to the clouded softness of a pearl--a pearl

  like a magnolia blossom, creamy-pink.

  She had promised. And now he was waiting for her to

  fulfil that promise.

  He looked again at the clock. If she did not come soon,

  they would miss the train.

  Sharply a wave of reaction set in. She wouldn't come!

  Of course she wouldn't come. Fool that he had been ever

  to expect it! What were promises? He would find a letter

  when he got back to his rooms--explaining, protesting,

  saying all the things .that women do when they are excusing

  themselves for lack of courage.

  He felt anger--anger and the bitterness of frustration.

  Then he saw her coming towards him down the platform,

  a faint smile on her face. She walked slowly, without haste

  or fluster, as one who had all eternity before her. She was

  in black--soft black that clung, with a little black hat that

  framed the wonderful creamy pallor of her face.

  He found himself grasping her hand, muttering stupidly:

  "So you've come--you have come. After all!"

  "Of course."

  How calm her voice sounded! How calm!

  "I thought you wouldn't," he said, releasing her hand

  and breathing hard.

  Her eyes opened--wide, beautiful eyes. There was won

  MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM

  201

  der in them, the simple wonder of a child.

  "Why?"

  He didn't answer. Instead he turned aside and requisitioned a passing porter. They had not much time. The next

  few minutes were all bustle and confusion. Then they were

  sitting in their reserved compartment and the drab houses

  of southern London were drifting by them.

  II

  Theodora Darrell was sitting opposite him. At last she was his. And he knew now how incredulous, up to the very

  last minute, he had been. He had not dared to let himself

  believe. That magical, elusive quality about her had frightened

  him. It had seemed impossible that she should ever

  belong to him.

  Now the suspense was over. The irrevocable step was taken. He looked across at her. She lay back in the corner,

  quite still. The faint smile lingered on her lips, her eyes

  were cast down, the long, black lashes swept the creamy

  curve of her cheek.

  He thought: "What's in her mind now? What is she thinking of? Me? Her husband? What does she think about him

  anyway? Did she care for him once? Or did she never care?

  Does she hate him, or is she indifferent to him?" And with

  a pang the thought swept through him: "I don't know. I

  never shall know. I love her, and I don't know anything

  about her--what she thinks or what she feels."

  His mind circled round the thought of Theodora Darrell's husband. He had known plenty of married women who were

  only too ready to talk about their husbands--of how they

  were misunderstood by them, of how their finer feelings

  were ignored. Vincent Easton reflected cynically that it was

  one of the best-known opening gambits.

  But except casually, Theo had never spoken of Richard Darrell. Easton knew of him what everybody knew. He was

  a popular man, handsome, with an engaging, carefree manner.

  Everybody liked Darrell. His wife always seemed on

  excellent terms with him. But that proved nothing, Vincent

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  reflected. Theo was well-bred--she would not air her grievances in public.

  And between them, no word had passed. From that second evening of their meeting, when they had walked together

  in the garden, silent, their shoulders touching, and

  he had felt the faint tremor that shook her at his touch, there

  had been no explainings, no defining of the position. She

  had returned his kisses, a dumb, trembling creature, shorn

  of all that hard brilliance which, together with her cream-androse

  beauty, had made her famous. Never once had she spoken of her husband. Vincent had been thankful for that

  at the time. He had been glad to be spared the arguments

  of a woman who wished to assure herself and her lover that

  they were justified in yielding to their love.

  Yet now the tacit conspiracy of silence worried him. He had again that panic-stricken sense of knowing nothing about

  this strange creature who was willingly linking her life to

  his. He was afraid.

  In the impulse to reassure himself, he bent forward and laid a hand on the black-clad knee opposite him. He felt

  once again the faint tremor that shook her, and he reached

  up for her hand. Bending forward, he kissed the palm, a

  long, lingering kiss. He felt the response of her fingers on

  his and, looking up, met her eyes, and was content.

  He leaned back in his seat. For the moment, he wanted no more. They were together. She was his. And presently

  he said in a light, almost bantering tone: "You're very silent?"

  "Am I?"

  "Yes." He waited a minute, then said in a graver tone: "You're sure you don't--regret?"

  Her eyes opened wide at that. "Oh, no!"

  He did not doubt the reply. There
was an assurance of sincerity behind it.

  "What are you thinking about? I want to know." In a low voice she answered: "I think I'm afraid."

  "Afraid?"

  "Of happiness."

  He moved over beside her then, held her to him and kissed the softness of her face and neck.

  "I love you," he said. "I love you--love you."

  MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM 203

  Her answer was in the clinging of her body, the abandon of her lips.

  Then he moved back to his own corner. He picked up a magazine and so did she. Every now and then, over the top

  of the magazines, their eyes met. Then they smiled.

  They arrived at Dover just after five. They were to spend the night there, and cross to the Continent on the following

  day. Theo entered their sitting room in the hotel with Vincent

  close behind her. He had a couple of evening papers

  in his hand which he threw down on the table. Two of the

  hotel servants brought in the luggage and withdrew.

  Theo turned from the window where she had been standing looking out. In aaother minute they were in each other's arms.

  There was a discreet tap on the door and they drew apart again.

  "Damn it all," said Vincent, "it doesn't seem as though we were ever going to be alone."

  Theo smiled. "It doesn't look like it," she said softly. Sitting down on the sofa, she picked up one of the papers.

  The knock proved to be a waiter beating tea. He laid it on the table, drawing the latter up to the sofa on which

  Theo was sitting, cast a deft glance round, inquired if there

  were anything further, and withdrew.

  Vincent, who had gone into the adjoining room, came back into the sitting room.

  "Now for tea," he said cheerily, but stopped suddenly in the middle of the room. "Anything wrong?" he asked.

  Theo was sitting bolt upright on the sofa. She was staring in front of her with dazed eyes, and her face had gone deathly

  white.

  Vincent took a quick step towards her.

  "What is it, sweetheart?"

  For answer she held out the paper to him, her finger pointing to the headline.

  Vincent took the paper from her. "FAILURE OF HOBSON, JEKYLL AND LUCAS," he read. The name of the big city firm

  conveyed nothing to him at the moment, though he had an