Silver Wings

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Most of the company resorted to cards as a quiet and decent manner of passing this time of solemn uncertainty. But there was no interest in the games, and finally Diana flung down her cards and got up.

  “Count me out,” she said. “I can’t seem to put my mind on the cards. Here, you, Sam Marsden”—looking at the young neighbor who had just dropped in—“you take my place.”

  Barry glared, but Diana went out of the room.

  She went restlessly from room to room, as if searching for someone, and then stepped out on the terrace.

  Dunleith was down at the end of the garden, sitting in a rose arbor with a book, and Ned, not far away by the basin of the big fountain, was working away at a miniature ship, repairing its tiny sails.

  Diana went straight down to the arbor and appeared suddenly before Dunleith.

  “What becomes of people when they die?” she asked abruptly without preamble. “Do they know anything afterward? Do they go somewhere?”

  “Most certainly!” answered Dunleith with a quick lighting of his eyes.

  “But, where do they go?”

  “If they are Christ’s they go immediately to be with Him.”

  Diana’s eyes widened perplexedly.

  “I don’t believe Ted was,” she said sorrowfully. “He never talked about such things. I don’t believe he ever thought anything about them.”

  “You can’t ever tell when a soul may have met God and become His child. It takes only an instant for such a transaction to take place.”

  “You mean, if he knew he was falling, he could do something about it—even then?”

  Dunleith nodded. “God is always close at hand. It does not take time to take God.”

  “But he would not know what to do,” said Diana, her eyes full of tears.

  “God has ways of talking to souls that we do not understand. The Holy Spirit would show him what to do.”

  The tears were falling now, much to Diana’s astonishment. She was not a crying girl, and she brushed them away almost angrily and turned her face from him to hide them.

  “Was he very close to you?” asked Dunleith with keen pity in his voice.

  “Ted? Oh, no, but we’ve been pals since we could creep. It just seems so awful, that’s all!” she said, dabbing her eyes with a bright little Paris handkerchief and facing about with an attempt at a smile.

  “But they have not given up hope yet,” said Dunleith kindly. “Any one of a hundred different things may have happened to him. He may have had to come down in some lonely place where no one saw him, and his radio may be out of order. Perhaps he’ll turn up again and surprise everybody. He may have stopped to sleep, you know. That’s the greatest danger, really, on those long flights, that a man will fall asleep at the wheel. I imagine Kingsley has a lot of sense, and if he found himself in danger of dropping off, he would feel it was far more sensible to come down when he found a good landing place and take a little rest before he went on. A flier has to think of all sorts of things. Or, he may have come down to repair some of his machinery. I wouldn’t give up hope.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “You talk as if you knew all about it,” she said.

  “Well, I did quite a bit of flying when I was in the army,” he said, “but nothing of course in the line that Kingsley has taken. Mine was only in the way of duty.” Diana stared at him.

  “You’re rather wonderful yourself, aren’t you?” she said, and again, for the third time, Dunleith noticed something genuine in her voice that made him look at her and wonder.

  But he had no opportunity to reply, for suddenly Barry appeared on the scene.

  “We’re going to ride, Di!” he announced as if he had all right to order her doings. “Come on!”

  Diana frowned but went, and Dunleith sat for a long time looking out through the rose-draped arbor.

  “Poor little girl!” he said to himself. “Poor little girl!”

  The day wore on and the crowd still played cards, the stakes growing higher and higher as they felt the need of keener excitement to keep them from thinking what might be happening to Kingsley. Mrs. Whitney had forbidden them to go to the country club. She said it didn’t look right for them to be over there having a good time publicly when their cousin was dead, perhaps. Mrs. Whitney’s greatest anxiety always was how her actions would appear to an onlooking world. She did not relish the idea of a published snapshot of Caroline, perhaps, playing tennis at the country club, and labeled, “Cousin of the lost flier taken this morning at Briarcliffe.” One must be careful about those things. The family was going to be rather prominent just now, anyway, whatever was the outcome.

  So the house party stayed at home or drove quietly in country lanes. They did not dance, they did not even sing. They were not readers, so their only recourse was cards.

  From time to time came messages over the radio, most of them speculations or false leads. A man down in the mountains of West Virginia had seen a strange plane flying over his head that acted as if it were in trouble, and had telegraphed the government. Another man in North Dakota had seen a man in flier’s clothes driving madly by his house toward the north in an old Ford car, and he had sent a telegram to a New York paper. Every edition of the newspapers had some new theory as to what had become of Ted Kingsley.

  By this time several search parties had been organized and sent to the rescue, and Mr. Whitney had been at the telephone for two hours arranging a private rescue party that the Whitney family should send out after their beloved nephew.

  “It will certainly look awfully well in the papers, Henry,” Leila Whitney had reminded him, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “You know people expect things of the family when they are at all able to do it.”

  “I don’t give a hang what people expect!” roared the annoyed master of the house, hoarse with feeling and furious at the telephone company for keeping him on the line so long. “I’m doing this for Ted! If there’s anything that can save that kid’s life, I’m only too glad to do it! As for the rest, poppycock! Spending a lot of money to make people think something of you that isn’t so! That’s your idea! But it isn’t mine by a long shot. What is the matter with this infernal telephone? I wish you’d go away and leave me alone. I can’t hear what they say, Leila! Operator! Operator!”

  Down on the terrace everybody was having an attack of nerves.

  “Great cats! I can’t stand this!” said Susanne. “If the gloom doesn’t lift, I’m going to beat it! Everybody as long-faced as a funeral director! Barry drinking himself to death and Diana gone fluey! What’s one flier? He knew this might happen when he went, didn’t he? Well, he went, didn’t he? Well, then that’s that! Let’s live our lives and forget it!”

  The next morning she sweetly professed to have a letter from her mother calling her home, and departed bag and baggage. But Mrs. Whitney promptly replaced her with Mary Lou Westervelt, and the house party dragged itself along.

  These were hard days for Amory. She could not understand herself. Why should a man whom she had seen but twice, and then only for a few minutes each time, have taken such a hold upon her heart that she could think of nothing else? Of course the peril of even a stranger was a thing that stirred anyone, but this was different. This man had taken a place in her life that no one had ever taken before, and his few words, especially his good-bye over the telephone, rang over and over again in her ears as she went about her tasks.

  She was glad that there was much work to be done. There were some invitations to be recalled; there were people calling constantly on the telephone to learn the latest news of Kingsley. She had schooled her voice to answer calmly, gravely, when they asked the inevitable question, “Do you think he is still alive?” As if anybody knew that! As if anybody could do anything but hope and fear. Why put these awful things into words that cut and tortured one?

  Amory came and went as a part of the machinery of the household. She had come to be accepted as such now by the guests and the daughters
of the house. Since they saw that she did not presume upon the privileges that were granted her socially, they no longer resented her presence among them, almost as one of them. Yet she was never one of them, and she felt as aloof as if she were dwelling in another world, a sort of spirit world, where they could not see her and thought as little of her as if she had been but a spirit.

  She prayed continually for Gareth as she went about her work or sat down just to think about it all.

  When she wrote to Aunt Hannah and Aunt Jocelyn, she shrank from mentioning the calamity that had overtaken the household in which she had come to abide for a time. Yet after long thought she decided that she should. Sometime something would be said, even if Aunt Jocelyn did not read the whole account in the papers and notice that Kingsley was connected with the Whitney family. Yes, of course, there were the papers, and she would have to talk about the occurrence or they would think it strange. So she wrote briefly of the sadness and anxiety everybody there was going through, and then after another pause to consider, she wrote:

  He was here for a short time just before he left. He showed me how his engine worked, and I saw him fly away. He has nice, merry blue eyes and is very pleasant, his smile is just like sunshine, and he has brown curly hair with gold lights in it. Everybody here seems to be very fond of him! I suppose you have seen about his flight in the papers.

  That was all, but she sat back as if she had written a biography, her hands cold and tremulous, her cheeks burning with consciousness. It almost seemed to her that it was blazoned across that letter: “He called me darling when he said good-bye!” Her heart throbbed wildly every time she remembered that. It seemed to have changed the relationship of everything in her world. Nothing would ever be quite the same again after that!

  Yet, if he came back, he would probably never think of it again. She hated to acknowledge to herself that such a thing could be possible, but she knew the world from which he came, knew the lightness with which modern young people look upon things that to her were sacred. How could she hope that there would be any following up of such a casual word flung out into the night across hundreds of miles on a mere wire, by a man who was saying good-bye through her to his world, perhaps forever? Oh, she must not judge him! Yet she knew in her heart that if he should never return, she would always hold that dear word as hers alone and cherish it to the end of life. She knew, too, that there would never in the world be anyone else like him for her.

  And so she prayed constantly, her petitions mixed with thanksgiving for the little word he had given her at the last, that all was right with him, whatever came! Surely that meant that somehow he had found God. And her heart thrilled again at the wonder of having some of her prayers answered so quickly and so perfectly. Surely he was hers in a special sense, whatever came in life, even if she never saw him again—yes, and even if he came back alive and well and still she never saw him again. All was in the Father’s hands, and all would be well. She must always be happy and trust in that—whatever came.

  Yet she would not have been human if she had not watched the papers anxiously, walking often to the village to get the latest edition; often stealing in to the radio when no one was by. For the radio was kept constantly turned on now at a point where news of the lost one would be likely to come. It spoke out eerily whether anyone was listening or not. The library where it was installed was almost wholly deserted by the young people, as if a corpse were lying there, but Amory found much comfort in lingering near with ears attuned to anything that might give hope that Gareth lived.

  There came one terrible rumor, that a great light had been seen for a little while from a point on the coast of Alaska, looking off toward a small uninhabited island, and the fear grew into almost a statement that the plane had caught fire and the pilot had perished. But rescuers immediately flew to investigate, and the story was not substantiated. No sign of any remains of a burnt plane were anywhere to be found within miles of the region named, and the matter was dropped from the calculations. Yet the rumor lingered as a tragic background for all the other rumors that followed. Day followed anxious day, and still no word came of the lost plane. The newspapers had almost omitted all mention of the matter, to make room for later thrills, and still the heaviness hung over the Whitney house.

  One by one the guests had made excuses and gone away. Fred and Clarence were invited to a yachting party, and it was sailing sooner than they had expected. One girl’s mother was ill, and another girl had to go home and get a dress fitted to be a bridesmaid at a wedding. Barry Blaine lingered sullenly on, and one night late, when he had been deliberately drinking too much, he went down in the garden under the stars and had it out with Diana Dorne.

  Blaine left the next morning, early, before anyone was up. He left a note for Mrs. Whitney saying he had been called away, but everyone had heard his loud words with Diana in the garden, though they could not hear her replies, and they all understood. He said he might return later, but the master of the house openly hoped he would not. And so the others all drifted away, one at a time, Mary Lou Westervelt lingering longer than the rest because she had come latest. All except Diana. She asked Mrs. Whitney if she might stay a few days longer. She said she liked it at Briarcliffe and had nothing much to do for another week. Of course Mrs. Whitney said she would be delighted to have her.

  “She’s just staying to carry out that infernal joke on John,” said the master of the house when he heard it. “She’s like a bulldog—when she once gets her little white teeth in anyone, she won’t let go. She’s not good enough for John, and she’s too insignificant to be allowed to make him suffer.”

  “Suffer? Henry, what can you mean? How could Diana make your nephew suffer?”

  “Humph! How could she? Don’t ask me! Because every young man, no matter how sensibly he may be constituted otherwise, seems not to be able to keep from losing his soul sooner or later to every yellow eyelash that comes in his neighborhood. He’s beginning to fall for her, I can see; and I don’t like it! I wish she’d take herself and her pretty little curly head out of the neighborhood for good. John’s worth too much to be allowed to be wrecked.”

  “The very idea, Henry! John has more sense than to think that Diana could possibly ever want to marry him! She wouldn’t look at him!”

  “Well, she’s done a good deal of looking the last few days, I should say,” snorted her husband, “but I should like to know why she wouldn’t look at my nephew? He’s a long sight better than she is. And if you mean money, I always meant that what should have been my sister’s share of the estate would go to him. I didn’t give it to him sooner, because I didn’t want him to get spoiled the way your nephew was by knowing he belonged to the idle rich.”

  “Now, Henry!” said Leila Whitney tearfully. “I wish you wouldn’t speak of the dead in that way. I wish you would at least confine your ugly remarks to the living.”

  “Dead?” sniffed Henry. “So you count him dead now, do you? You said this morning that you were sure he was alive!”

  “Well, it begins to look that way!” sobbed his wife.

  “Well, dead or alive, Ted knows what I think of him, and it’ll be all right with him even if he’d overheard it now. He understands what I mean.”

  The interview was abruptly terminated at that point by the arrival of the afternoon mail, and Leila Whitney made good her retreat before her husband would remember to bring up the subject again.

  But Diana did not give cause for further criticism. She spent most of her time with Caroline and Doris and openly kept aloof from Dunleith. Leila Whitney began to wonder whether possibly she might have overheard their conversation and was trying to show them that she was not interested in the young minister.

  The Sabbath came again, and the master of the house suddenly developed an interest in hearing his nephew preach. He ordered that the family should all attend church in a body. He said the car would be at the door in plenty of time and that John was to go with them. But John ordered differently. H
e said he had promised to teach that class of boys again, so he and Neddy were driven down early, alone.

  Barry had arrived again the night before, his coming as unexplained as his departure had been, but Diana had not received him with her usual graciousness. She was polite to him, that was all, and he fell into his sulks again.

  “You needn’t go to church, you know, Diana,” said Caroline to her guest, after the command had gone forth that the family must attend church in a body. “Dad won’t mind what you do.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” said Diana lazily. “It will rather break the monotony, you know.”

  “Don’t try to keep her at home, Caroline,” said her mother. “I quite agree with your father that we ought to go. It will be really expected of the family after what has happened, that we attend service somewhere, you know, and of course since your cousin John is a regular minister, no one would think it strange that we went to the chapel in the village instead of our regular church. It isn’t as if we were in the city, either, you know. This church out here is only a summer one. I think it will look quite all right!”

  So they went to church to hear John Dunleith, and Barry went also. There was nothing else for him to do unless he went home again, which he was not yet ready to do. He had been counting on having the morning in the woods with Diana.

  But this time Diana went into the seat first and put herself away up at the end next to the wall—for they were too late to get seats in the middle section of the little chapel—and Caroline and Doris came next. Barry had to content himself with a seat just behind them all so that his host might sit next to his wife. Seated thus, he was able to get a continuous glimpse of Diana’s face and to read in it something more than the passing interest of a flirt as she listened to the morning service. There seemed to be something awakened and alert, something wistful and new in the eyes of the girl whom he had grown to consider of late as his own property. Was there a new fineness there that he had not suspected before, a something restless that was not going to be satisfied with the giddy, reckless life of the past? Was it that fool of a preacher that had fascinated her? They had all made a fuss over him since that night when he was half stewed and couldn’t see the road, but anyone might have been in the same fix, and any good driver might have saved the situation.