Silver Wings

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Obeying a stealthy paddle, the boat came to a standstill while the two stood up, openmouthed, and gazed at the great bird lying there with its silver wings outstretched, helpless.

  The younger of the two Eskimos began to speak in a low growl under his breath. He had heard of an airship. Perhaps had seen one. He was telling his comrade about it.

  The other nodded slowly, still gazing, awestruck.

  They stood for a long minute more gazing, with heads cocked in a listening attitude, then the young one spoke in a low tone again and stepping softly from the boat, climbed up the bank of frozen snow to the side of the plane. Almost at once he discovered Gareth and coming close, watched him intently for an instant. Was he dead? He climbed closer and bent his head, listening, watching this strange birdman cautiously. Then suddenly he straightened up and called something to the other man, who anchored the boat and came swiftly, going through the same process of listening, watching, caution. There ensued an argument, but the end of it was they pulled and hauled at Gareth till they got him up and out of the cockpit and down on the snow. Then they carefully went through the cabin and picked up all they could find, nodding knowingly when they came to the knife in the biscuit tin, their quick eyes taking in the newly cut letters on the wood of the cabin.

  They made a trip to the walrus boat with all the trifles they had found and then picked up the big man. Puffing, pulling, lifting, at last they managed to get him down the bank and into their boat. There he lay on the bottom, inert and unconscious. He looked like a dead man.

  There was scarcely room for the owners of the boat when they were ready to start, but they managed to get in and began their long silent journey back to land, the elder man occasionally looking stolidly at Gareth, lying so still and white. He said something to his mate, shaking his head and pointing.

  After perhaps an hour’s hard pulling they reached a white stretch of coast that was scarcely distinguishable from the sea of ice and wended their way expertly into a cove, where they beached their boat with some difficulty. Turning toward a hut covered over with snow, the older man called out in loud, raucous voice.

  There was a tiny thread of smoke coming out of the top of the snow mound that was a house, and presently from a small door beneath, out came a young man and an old woman, and they hurried down to the boat.

  They carried Gareth between the four of them and got him inside the hut. They laid him on a kind of mat on the floor. They felt his face, listened to his heart, and chattered above him, and then the old woman brought a cup of something hot and began to try to feed him.

  He could not swallow, and at first they were not sure that even a drop had gone down his throat, but they kept patiently at their task, and at last they began to hope that a little of the warm fluid had been taken.

  They chafed his hands and feet, they plied him with all their native remedies; and at last after three hours they were rewarded with a slow, quivering sigh.

  They took off his helmet and unfastened the coat that seemed so heavy. They piled logs on the fire that was built on the floor in the middle of the room, and they did their best to make him comfortable.

  Every hour they fed him a few more drops of the warm broth and were glad when they found he was trying to swallow. But he did not open his eyes, nor seem to know anything, and now he was growing hot, very hot, and beginning to toss and moan.

  There was not doubt in the minds of the anxious men and one woman but that the sick man was very ill indeed, and they did not relax their vigilance for a moment, even though it looked for days as if there was no hope. Day after day the fever held Gareth in its clutches. Day after day, hour after hour, his life hung in the balance, and sometimes it seemed to the old woman who hovered over him that his breath was gone.

  And all this time Amory was bearing him up in the arms of prayer, knowing not if he was yet alive. She prayed continually, “Lord, if he is alive, keep him safely, bring him back!”

  One day the fever left him, and he was very weak. They thought he was gone more than once, as they tried to make him eat. They tried to make him more comfortable and then sat in a solemn little circle around their smoky fire and watched him, wondering if he would ever open his eyes. They discussed who he was and where he came from and then went patiently on caring for him.

  Only his splendid constitution kept him alive from day to day and brought him finally to the day when he opened his eyes and looked around the room.

  The old woman with her cup of broth hovered between his vision and the roof of snow, and he focused his dazed eyes on her round face framed in its scraggly fur fringe, and wrinkled his weak lips into a grin. The same grin that the papers had broadcasted from coast to coast he gave to the old woman in the snow hut who was bringing him back from death’s door.

  That grin was all he did that day. He swallowed the spoonfuls of broth they put into his mouth, but he did not open his eyes again until the next morning. Perhaps he preferred to dream he was still back in his ship waiting for help to come.

  There was great excitement the next morning when he opened his eyes again and gave another grin, looking from one to another of them.

  They bustled about him, murmuring, and he only grinned.

  It was several hours later that he began to try to get something across to them. They stood around him and tried to puzzle out his meaning.

  His voice was very weak, not at all like the big, hearty cheer that used to be his natural tone. He said something to them that had they understood they could not have heard because it was so faint and far down in his throat. They talked to him, and he gestured, but they got nowhere at all, and he was weak, and so tired. At last, he managed to lift one finger and turn his sick eyes toward his coat, which was hanging on a pole that stood against the wall of snow.

  Their eyes gleamed, and they brought him the coat, and he tried to reach to the pocket when they laid it beside him. With weak fingers that would not obey his direction, he touched the breast pocket and was thrilled to feel the Testament still there. They saw what he wanted, took the package out, and gave it to him. He smiled, a tired grin, and then with almost superhuman effort he motioned them to take the envelope, and made a feeble sweep with his arm to indicate far away. “Post office!” he whispered faintly and dropped his eyelids shut over the effort. He thought that he was dying, and Amory would not get her Testament.

  The Eskimos took the package and studied it curiously. Then the elder man pointed to the younger men and motioned far, handing one the letter.

  Gareth opened his eyes with worry in them and saw one of the men preparing to go out, fixing up as for a journey. They nodded to him and motioned to his letter. Perhaps they understood. Anyhow, he could do no more. He grinned a feeble thanks and closed his eyes again. What an effort that had been! How nearly detached from his body he had become! Think how he used to fly in the air, to drive a car, and play polo! Soon he would be gone!

  He thought he heard a chanting over his head. “Child of God—Name of the Father! Name of the Son! Name of the Holy Ghost—Gareth—Child of God!”

  He slept, and murmured in his sleep, “Amory, darling!”

  The old woman hovered, gave him something to swallow, and he slept again.

  Four days later the two younger men returned, and Gareth was still alive. He followed them with his eyes, but it was too much trouble to try and find out what they had done with his package. He must just trust that to God. He had done the best he could. How long it took him to die! Almost as long as it had taken to wait for flying time to come.

  When Amory received that package, she studied it in astonishment some minutes before she opened it. Who would be sending her a package addressed in an unknown hand?

  It looked as if it had been on a long journey. It was worn almost through on the corners, and the writing blurred in places as if it had been rained upon, and blistered. It could not belong to her, and yet, there could not be two Amory Lorrimers. That was an unusual name. And Briarcliffe, too! But
it bore a New York hotel address at the top of the envelope, and the blurred postmark at last gave out the word Alaska!

  Then with trembling fingers she tore it open, a wild hope leaping into her heart!

  When she brought to light her own little Testament, the tears were filling her eyes—glad tears; for whether he was dead or alive, it meant that he had thought of her. Or did it? Perhaps he was dead and someone had found the Testament and sent it back to her. But no, he must have addressed it, or at least dictated the address, for no one else would know that she was at Briarcliffe unless he told them.

  She sat down and turned the pages one by one and saw where they had been read the most; noticed a turned-down corner here and there as if to mark a special place, and finally just beyond the words “The End,” she saw a faint impress, like a signature, “Gareth,” and a date! How startling! That date was many days after all hope of finding him had been given up. What did it mean?

  She compared the writing in the Testament and the writing on the envelope and was assured they were the same. She sat for a long time with the Testament in her hand, thinking it all out, and then she knelt in thanksgiving.

  When she rose her eyes were shining.

  “I am sure he is alive!” she said aloud.

  But it was several hours after that before it became quite clear to her just what she ought to do about it.

  She thought first of consulting John Dunleith, but that would mean telling everything to Diana, and she could not do that.

  She waited until Mrs. Whitney had gone out to the country club to meet some ladies for tea and she knew it would be at least two hours before she would return. Neddy and Diana and the minister were down in the woods. They were usually off together somewhere, for Neddy had taken Diana into his heart and was teaching her how to fish.

  She knew that Mr. Whitney was somewhere about the house, and quietly she took the Testament with its wrappings and went to seek him.

  She found him on the east porch by himself, surrounded by a sheaf of newspapers and puffing at one of his big black cigars.

  It took a good deal of courage to interrupt him, but when he saw her approaching, he looked up pleasantly.

  “May I bother you a minute or two with something, Mr. Whitney?” she asked shyly.

  “No bother at all, Miss Lorrimer,” smiled Whitney genially. “Sit down. There’s a chair. Just as easy to sit as stand!”

  Amory sat down, her cheeks very pink and her eyes very bright.

  “Something has happened,” she began, “that I think perhaps someone ought to know, but I shouldn’t like everyone to know.”

  He looked at her keenly.

  “I see,” he said in a low tone. “You want me to keep it under my hat. I don’t blame you in a house like this, whatever it is. You may trust me. What is it? Some of the servants been doing something they ought not to? Someone been bothering you?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Whitney,” said Amory, trying to get courage to say what she had planned. “It’s nothing like that. It’s not about me at all. It’s about Mr. Kingsley. You see I—knew him—a little!”

  Amory had thought this over carefully and decided that this at least was a truthful statement.

  But the master of the house frowned a bit anxiously.

  “You mean Teddy?” he asked, flinging down his paper and watching her. “You knew him?”

  “Yes,” said Amory, hurrying on, “and when he went away he took a little Testament of mine with him.”

  “The dickens he did!” exclaimed Gareth’s uncle in surprise. “Ted with a Testament! Well, that’s news, anyway! Well, what about it?” He shot her another glance, wondering what this mysterious revelation was, anyway. “Well, you see, today it came back!”

  “Came back?”

  “Yes, came back to me through the mail!”

  “You don’t say!” said Whitney, sitting up very straight. “Where from? Do you know?”

  Was this girl trying to put something over on him?

  “Why, it was wrapped in a New York hotel envelope, but the postmark is Alaska, somewhere in Alaska. I can’t make it all out.”

  “You don’t say!” said Whitney, excitedly. “Have you got that envelope with you? Can I see it? I’d like to see it. I’d like to see the Testament, too, if you don’t mind.”

  He studied the wrapper carefully and then turned to examine the book. He read Amory’s name on the fly leaf, lingered over it in fact, and then slowly turned the pages, noting the marked passages.

  “Well, I suppose the explanation is simple enough,” he said. “Somebody probably picked this up, some of the fliers who found the plane, maybe, and mailed it to you. It is interesting to have it back, of course, but nothing to worry about.”

  “Yes, but there is a date at the end,” explained Amory anxiously, “and the date is only two days before those airmen were there; and I’m almost sure he wrote it himself! He signed his name.”

  Whitney fluttered the leaves to the end and found the penciled lines.

  “Why, what’s this?” said the man. “Gareth! That’s not his name! He’s Theodore!”

  “Gareth was the name his mother used to call him,” explained Amory gently. “I don’t think most people knew him by that name.” She had thought this all out and knew it was the only way to explain her part in the matter.

  Whitney looked at her with interest.

  “Oh, I see! And he asked you to call him by that name? Hmm! But say, wasn’t that the name they found carved on the plane, some peculiar sentence. Wasn’t it Gareth?”

  Amory’s cheeks were pink, but she answered with dignity: “Yes, Mr. Whitney.”

  “Well, say, why didn’t you come forward and explain that when the whole world was in a rumpus about it?”

  “Why, I—I didn’t see that it would help anything. It couldn’t possibly help to find him. They knew it was his plane without that identification. And I thought it might be misunderstood!”

  She was looking him bravely in the eyes, and he warmed to her story.

  “I see,” he said, “and that’s why you want me to keep this under my hat, too, is it?”

  “If you feel that you can, Mr. Whitney.”

  “I sure can, and I sure will!” he said heartily. “There are too many cats around this house to set one of them on a poor little brave mouse like you. I certainly honor you for your courage and self-control. And now, what do you think I ought to do about this? I know you have some idea up your sleeve, or you would not have come to me now.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything unless you think you ought to. I just wasn’t sure, that’s all!”

  “But what was your idea?”

  “Well, I couldn’t help thinking that he might be alive somewhere and maybe needing some help, and I didn’t want to take the responsibility of keeping this to myself. But I do hope nobody else will have to know about it. We were just good friends, you know.”

  “I see,” said Whitney, eyeing her with growing admiration. “Well, I think Ted was very fortunate to have a friend like you. I’ll take care, however, that nobody else knows anything about this. You think he’s alive, don’t you?”

  Amory looked up with a lighting of her eyes.

  “I can’t help but feel that way sometimes.”

  “Well, I’ve had a sneaking thought like that myself sometimes. It’s like Ted to shut his mouth till he’s good and ready to appear again, say he’s been hurt or sick or anything. Well, we’ll see. Do you happen to know whether there are any of the folks around? I’d like a little privacy around that telephone, if it is a possible thing.”

  “I think the girls have gone to the country club with Mrs. Whitney,” said Amory, “and Mr. Dunleith and Miss Dorne are with Neddy somewhere.”

  “Good! Then you stick around nearby while I telephone. I might want to ask you a question.”

  Amory, lingering in the hall, heard the master of the house telephoning to New York.

  “Yes, this is Whitney. I’m still thin
king of sending out that search expedition, but I want it done in strict privacy, see? No broadcasting or newspapers butting in. And I’ve got a line on something that makes me think the boy’s alive perhaps, but I wouldn’t have Mrs. Whitney get onto it for the world till we’re sure. She’s too nervous to be stirred up again. So keep this strictly under your hat. Yes, something new has happened. I don’t mind telling if you keep it to yourself. Don’t even let Mallory know. He can’t keep his mouth shut. But you see, it’s this way. A member of the family has received a little book through the mail that Ted had with him, and it’s postmarked Alaska and addressed in his own handwriting. Looks like a new line, doesn’t it? But it may be just another false alarm. However, go ahead and get busy. I’ll run up tomorrow and tell you more, if I can get away without exciting suspicion. Mrs. Whitney is in a terribly nervous state, you know, and it wouldn’t do to excite her hopes again. It might prove serious. Yes, he was her favorite nephew.”

  When Whitney was through at the telephone he smiled at Amory.

  “There, little girl, I’ve got the ball rolling, and we’ll find that kid if we have to comb the whole of Alaska. I have a hunch that you’re right, but keep it under your hat, and I’ll do the same. Even if he is ‘just a friend’ as you say, I guess it hasn’t been an easy time for you all these weeks. You’ve been a brave little girl, and I don’t mind saying I’m glad you’re in our house.”

  Amory went to her room with shining eyes and a heart more at rest than it had been since Gareth’s disappearance. In fact there seemed to be a songbird down in her being somewhere that was singing at the top of his lungs, “Darling! Darling! Darling!” and she pressed her hand over the silver wings hiding over her heart and rejoiced.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning at the breakfast table Henry Whitney laid down his newspaper and addressed his wife.

  “Where’s that secretary of yours, Leila? Can she take dictation? I’d like her to get out a few letters this morning if you don’t need her all the time.”