But as he watched Diana’s face during the service, he was puzzled. The look on her face was not the usual one when she was getting a new crush on somebody. It was wistful, troubled, sad, utterly unself-conscious, and that was something he never before remembered to have seen in Diana. She was always absolutely conscious of every pose she took, absolutely calculating about her clothes and her expression and her actions. What had happened to her now? He must get her out of this atmosphere at once. Perhaps it was Ted! He had never taken Ted seriously, nor counted him even half a rival. Ted had always seemed to belong to everybody. He had always been so impersonal in his friendships. But perhaps Diana had really fallen for him more than they all knew! Well, he would get her away, whether it was Ted or the preacher. She was better off as far from Briarcliffe as possible. He would phone his aunt up in the Adirondacks to invite her there for the next week, and they would have a good time, and she would forget.
So he sat planning, hearing no smallest word of the sermon, thinking his own selfish thoughts.
Mr. Whitney listened to his nephew in amazement, frowned over some of the unusual things he was saying, and remarked to himself that the boy seemed to know his Bible. For almost everything he said John read a confirmation in the little worn black Bible he held in his hand. Mr. Whitney looked around on the congregation, noting their rapt attention, and swelled with pride that his nephew was able to hold people like that.
“But they were very common people, most of them,” said Leila Whitney afterward when he remarked about it. “Oh, of course, there were a few. The Desmonds were there. I’ve heard she makes a point of patronizing that chapel. It was built as a memorial to her son she lost in the war, I think. Yes, and the Chesneys. Mrs. Chesney had on one of the new hats they are bringing over from Paris. I was reading about it last night, up from the face and down over one ear, you know.”
“One would think to hear you, Leila, that you had a hat down over both ears this morning!” remarked her husband disgustedly. “Where’s my ashtray? Yes, I certainly was proud of a nephew that can preach like that. When we get back to the city I must see what I can do to get him into some big church. He deserves to succeed. He’s made himself, you know, no big fortunes financing him in college, no big crowds lauding every turn he makes, no newspapers photographing his grin and broadcasting it all over the earth!”
“I don’t see why you always have to hit at my poor dear Theodore!” began Leila Whitney. “Now that he’s in trouble, too!”
“How do you know he’s in trouble?” snapped her husband. “I wasn’t hitting at him. Ted’s all right, in spite of the things you and his poor, dear, mistaken grandfather did to him. But there, there, there! Leila, for mercy’s sake, don’t turn on the faucets again, I can’t stand any more today. I haven’t been to church in a year, and it’s a strain. You must be considerate! Whose car is that driving up? Is that that unspeakable cur of a Marsden again? Say, are you going to stand him around Doris? Because I’m not, if you are. I think I’ll go out and shoo him off today. We’ve had him all the week, and it’s time we had a little letup.” He passed out of the range of his wife’s tears, knowing that they would cease as soon as her audience was removed; knowing also that he had just given her a counterirritant that would soon make her forget her other grievance.
Amory, in her room as usual, where she spent most of her time, could not help but hear the dialogue and was ready both to laugh and to cry. How true it was that wealth did not always bring happiness. And yet these two people, who quarreled most of the time that they were together, had both been young once and probably thought they were in love with each other. How had they lost the vision of life? How infinitely happier than they was dear Aunt Hannah lying on her bed of pain and submitting sweetly to whatever the dear Lord sent her!
How much these two people needed the “peace … which passeth … understanding” that John Dunleith had been preaching about today! Had they taken in any of its wonderful meaning at all? Their talk did not sound as if they had.
And then her heart beat back to the same question that had been crying out silently day after day ever since the silence had dropped down between Gareth Kingsley and the world. Would the mystery never be solved this side of heaven? Would they never find out what became of him? Was the world really so large that a man in a big plane like that could actually be lost utterly and never found?
Chapter 14
When Gareth Kingsley at last came out of that long swoon that the shock of his fall had caused, he opened his eyes and looked about him. For a long time he had no thoughts. It was not even a question with him where he might be or why he was there. He was merely getting accustomed to being alive again.
Gradually, however, his surroundings detached themselves from each other, bit by bit, and came to his attention. There were little, close, dark walls about him everywhere, composed of frames filled with smooth dark panels. One of the panels must be open, for he felt crisp, cold air coming in. He presently became aware of light shining sharp and keen across him and realized that he was lying slumped in an uncomfortable heap and yet could do nothing about it.
The first thing that really recalled him to himself was the wheel. Ah! He knew that. He had not sat for long hours clinging to that faithful wheel to forget it! This was the cabin of his plane. And he had been going—where?
Bit by bit it all came back to him, and then in a flash he remembered what had happened. And now he was—here! Where was here?
Slowly, carefully, he tried himself, first a finger at a time, then his arm, and then he tried to raise himself, but found pain in every joint. Was his leg broken, or was it only sprained? He could not tell. But he must find out. He must do something at once. Perhaps he could repair the damage done to his plane and proceed after the first soreness was over. He had learned long ago, on the football team and later in the army, that the cure for sore muscles was action. Perhaps this was only pain from his cramped muscles. He would force himself to get out. Besides, he must discover where he was before night came and shut him in. How long was it since he had lost consciousness? Only a few minutes, or had he been wasting precious hours? He looked at his watch, but it had stopped! That meant he had no time!
Painfully he drew himself up to the seat in the cockpit, for the shock of the landing had slumped him on the floor. Painfully he studied his chart and compass, but they seemed to mean nothing, and the glass over the compass was shattered in minute particles.
He reached for his supplies and ate a little food, but hunger seemed to have passed from him. However, it revived him. He drank a few drops of the precious water in his canteen and then realized that the thing he must do at once was to find out his whereabouts as nearly as possible and radio his situation to the people who were waiting anxiously to know. That he had failed of his perfect purposes, as planned from the start, was a foregone conclusion, but he might yet be not so far from his first goal. If he could get out and get his oil line fixed up, he might be able to make Nome yet, that is unless the oil had all leaked out.
Painfully he made a supreme effort and got himself out of his cabin and into a cold bright world that he did not know.
Never before had he dreamed such ice, such clear, still beauty of whiteness sat in cold blue. He stared about him, one hand holding to the side of his plane, and felt his strong limbs tremble under him and his broad shoulders slump with weariness and exhaustion.
Nowhere in any direction could he see anything but white ice heaving and churning or towering up in forbidding crystal mountains against the bluest sky he ever saw, a cold blue sky.
He ventured to hobble off a few steps and found he could still stand alone, though it hurt him amazingly to do so. He looked at his poor, proud plane and found its landing gear torn off. Even though he might repair the oil line, could he ever get her free without help? From all he had read of icebergs, this must be one. Below the tail of the plane ran a wide crevasse like a black yawning chasm. When that grew wider, as it seemed it m
ight do at any moment, what would be the effect on his plane? Would it sink into those everlasting cold depths and carry him with it? Would a grave in the frozen seas be any worse than a grave onshore?
Then it came to him. He was a child of God! He had been born again. On sea or land, or beneath the ice, God knew and cared were he was. This was all in the plan, the good plan!
And what message should he send back to the world who had sent him here, from this Nowhere to which he had come? It wasn’t necessary to make a great fuss and get everybody writing up fool headlines. Better make it snappy, practical!
“Oil line broken, made landing on iceberg, can’t tell how far from shore, ought to be somewhere near Nome. Landing gear gone, compass broken. Need help for repairs. Don’t worry!”
That would sound all right. Now, if he could get back into that cabin without too much pain, he had better get that message off as soon as possible.
But the radio lay dead. Something gone wrong with that, too! He examined and found the batteries shattered by the blow when the plane’s nose crashed into the ice. So! That was that!
He was here alone with God!
He tried his engine. That had gone dead, too! By and by, when he was rested, he would look into it and see if there was anything he could do about that. When help came—of course they would come—that was one thing he could depend upon—that they would come, always supposing they came in time before the iceberg parted and let him down in the icy waters. So when help came, he would want to be in good shape to fly as soon as his oil line was repaired. They would bring him oil, of course, if his was gone. Meanwhile, that deadly sleep had come down upon him again. Didn’t that prove that it wasn’t long since he had landed?
He made himself as comfortable as possible and slept. How long, he did not know. It was daylight when he went to sleep; it was daylight when he awoke. He knew that at this season of the year there was almost continuous daylight, so he could judge nothing by that. He would set his watch at an hour and see what happened. But his watch acted strangely and ticked off a few paces then stopped! Ha! Was even his watch smashed?
Well, he had passed to a place where time meant nothing anymore! That was startling! If he ever did get back, he would not be able to give any definite report. His experience would have to count for nothing on the records. That was bad luck, but why worry?
He began to look into his supplies and examine the different parts of his plane. He got out some of his tools and feeling rested and less sore in his muscles, climbed out upon the ice again, rejoicing that he did not have to count a broken leg among his troubles. With the few tools in his kit, he went at his plane with the idea of dislodging it from the ice. Perhaps he could construct some kind of a frail boat out of the materials of the plane still undamaged. But he soon found that it would take power more mighty than any at his command to dislodge the plane, and the idea of making a boat and attempting to launch it single-handedly was impossible. But since his plane could not fly it was well that it had a strong harbor, for the present at least.
Finding that he could walk more comfortably, he took a short tramp around his prison, never venturing very far in any direction from the plane lest some sudden crevasse separate him from even that shelter.
He got out his binoculars and looked earnestly in every direction, but still there was not a sign of anything but whiteness against the deep cold blue. The grandeur of it all impressed him tremendously and filled him with awe. This was his Father’s world. He was glad he was seeing this far part of it. He was not anxious to remain here long, for there were strong drawings in other directions, but since he was here, he would take it in and store it up in his memory. He felt he could never again be quite so blind to the wonders of earth since he had looked upon all this empty beauty, with no one by to see except himself.
And now he began to calculate just how long he could wait alive upon this floating island.
It was not so bitter cold as he had supposed it would be. In fact it was warmer than flying high in a gale of hail and storm. But when the night should come down, even if it was brief, or when a terrible northern wind should blow as he knew it did up here sometimes, could he hold out for even an hour or two?
Certainly he ought to get at that engine and see what it needed. Get at that oil line and find out if it could be repaired and whether the oil was all gone, or if there was a little, just enough to warrant his flying off and trying to get to the mainland—always supposing he could get off!
So he went to work.
But the oil line showed at once that there was no hope there, even if he repaired it, for the oil was gone entirely, and a slimy black line showed where the last had leaked out and drained toward the crevasse. He went and gazed down into the heaving blackness below that crack and wondered if there might be some way to gather again that oil that had slipped down on the water, but gave it up as impossible.
He tinkered awhile at the oil line but did not accomplish much. It would need help beyond his own to get that plane in working order. He worked at the engine awhile, cleaning and polishing certain parts and making right what he could, as one will pet a cherished animal. It was good to be standing on a firm foundation and petting up the old plane, just as he did on the airstrip at home, trying to pretend it was not smashed—only in need of minor adjustments; trying to feel that land was just around the corner and help was coming soon through the air.
But when he turned around and saw that still emptiness in every direction, his heart failed him.
He thought of the morning he left Briarcliffe and of the little girl with the blue eyes and the Testament, who wanted him to be “saved.” Well, he was saved—so far—saved from immediate death, and saved also for eternity, for he believed now with all his heart that God had accepted him in Christ. He had contemplated a swift death, and believed that he would have been safe forever under those circumstances, but he had never contemplated this utter desolation, this wild waste of living death. How long did it take to starve to death? Or would freezing come before that? He had rations for several days and with careful economy could make them last twice as long. But safety did not depend upon himself. It did not depend upon that little box of supplies in the cabin. He had given himself to God, and God could make him safe here upon this island of ice alone between sea and heaven, as well as if he had been driven to earth in a storm and his body suffered swift death. He had put himself into God’s hands and promised to trust Him, and this was what being safe meant. It did not necessarily mean getting back to Briarcliffe to see those blue eyes of Amory’s again. But it did mean that someday with his own eyes he could see God, and see Amory again, too.
These things were borne in upon him gradually as he stood at last, his tools laid down, his arms folded helplessly, and looked up.
“God, I am Yours!” he said aloud, slowly, solemnly, like a consecration. “Do with me what You want to do.”
He stood for an instant with bowed head, as if waiting before the One whom he had addressed, and then he looked up with his old smile.
“And now I have time to read that little book!” he said aloud again and felt that it was pleasant to hear his own voice in this empty loneliness. “I will read it through!”
He climbed into his cabin and read for hours, until sleep claimed him again, and when he awoke, he read again.
A brief night with a sunset effect in it hovered over the place now and then. He had no means of telling how long it lasted nor how often it came. He could only judge that it was an Arctic night.
Several of these succeeded one another. He made notches with his knife on the cabin windowsill lest he should forget how many there had been.
Life began to settle down into a routine. He doled out his food in tiny quantities, counting how long it would last. He planned a schedule so that he would not get into a rut. He must keep fit. He must have exercise. He walked so many times around his prison every little while. He did sit-ups and drilled himself as if he were in the army. He
laughed aloud and tried to keep up good cheer. He slept a good deal, because he knew that sleep often did in place of food, and he must be careful with that precious little store of food that was growing less and less so rapidly. How many more midnight suns would rise and set before it would be entirely gone? Were there fish in this icy sea, fish that were fit for food, fish small enough to catch with crude tackle? He even rigged up a line with a bent pin, put a bit of canned meat on for bait, and tried fishing in the crevasse, but nothing came of it.
No birds flew over his cold white harbor that he might have shot. Nothing, nothing, but what he had brought with him! Nothing but the little book. For he was reading it through as he had said, and it was teaching him wonderful things.
There was perhaps no spot in His wide universe where God might have tucked His newborn child, where he would have been so shut down to feed upon the Word of truth and be led by the Holy Spirit, as on that wide white island of Nowhere, shut in by the eternal sky and the heaving icy sea.
Day by day he watched the sky, the sea, but no ships appeared in sea or air. Day by day he awoke with new hope and looked out, but still that stretch of cold blue and white, and only himself and God. For now he had come to feel that God was very real, and quite near at hand.
He had finished the little book. He had read it through again, reading it book by book this time, and studying it till much became plain that he had not noticed the first time. Among other things that he had found was a statement, made several times, that “this same Jesus” should come again, and that with Him were to come “the dead in Christ.” That was a strange statement. He had never heard that Christian people believed that, but it was good. It was reasonable. It certainly was interesting to think about. “The dead in Christ.” Well, he would be one of those dead! It would not be many days now till some night, some short Arctic night, he would lie down, with a gnawing hunger working at his vitals, and in the morning he would not wake up. Then he would be one of the dead in Christ!
Silver Wings Page 17