The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04

by Anthology

  She gazed at the faces of the two men in startled amaze and faltered backward a step as if to ward off an expected blow.

  "Come out and shut the door," commanded Jim in a low tone. "Mabs, this is Lieutenant Hooker of the Naval Division. He's just brought the news that Leslie is—"

  "Not dead?" breathed the girl almost inaudibly, staring with wide, frightened eyes.

  "I'm afraid so," said Jim, turning his face away.

  Suddenly Mabel bowed her head in her hands and sobbed aloud.

  "Oh, poor, poor Eve! This will kill her!"

  The kind-hearted Lieutenant shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and at last, fearful of losing his composure, hurriedly resumed his story.

  "I wirelessed headquarters so as to be sure of my ground before I came here. All they knew was that reports had come in regularly until about three weeks ago, when they unaccountably stopped, and since then no word of any kind had been received from him. That, and the fact that he was overdue, led them to fear the worst. Although, of course, they wouldn't tell me anything about the kind of work he had been sent to do or what part of the world he was in, I was given to understand that his failure to turn up when he was expected could mean only one thing — that his plans had miscarried. And the nature of his mission was such that failure meant death."

  As he was speaking the girl had grown calmer and now she turned her tear-wet, appealing face up to her friend.

  "How can we tell her?" she besought him tremulously. "How can we tell her? Oh, Jimmy, help me!"

  Merriam tugged thoughtfully at his watch chain, with deep puckers in his forehead between his eyes.

  "She mustn't know about it today of all days," he said at last, "and when tomorrow comes — why, I can tell her as well as any one else, I suppose. That is if you think you can act your part today, Mabs."

  "You can trust me," she returned in a low voice. "And now I think we'd better go in or they'll be missing us inside."

  "Well," observed the Lieutenant in a relieved tone, "then I'll be off before any one notices me. Here's the packet." And he held out a small parcel wrapped in a blank official form.

  Mabel took it from his hand, hesitated, and glanced at Merriam as if seeking his assistance, and finally suggested somewhat uncertainly, "Perhaps — don't you think she might want to speak to you after — when she knows? You see, he gave the message to you personally and — and you were the last one to be with him."

  "That's so," agreed Jim quickly, "I hadn't thought of that."

  "Oh, well," assented the officer heartily, "in that case I'll camp out at the Inn until you want me."

  "You won't do anything of the kind," returned the girl, remembering herself even in her sorrow. "Do you think after all you've done for us, we're going to spoil your Christmas for you? You must come right in and have dinner with us. Jim, you take charge of him and do the honours, please."

  "But I say," protested the Lieutenant in alarm, "I'm not prepared for anything like that and besides I never was much of a social light anyhow."

  "Nonsense!" exclaimed Mabel. "It's nothing for you to be afraid of — just a family party — and — let me think a minute — Oh, I know! I met you at a college dance and asked you here today and forgot all about it until you suddenly appeared. I've done things like that more than once before and they won't think it strange."

  And before the Lieutenant could expostulate further, he was carried off by the Professor, who helped him to remove the stains of travel and guided him to the dining-room, where Mabel was still explaining to her amused, but perfectly credulous, family his unexpected appearance.

  All through the dinner, Hooker watched her whenever he could manage to do so undetected and when the meal was over and the men had gathered around the big fireplace over their cigars, his eyes continually wandered to the little group clustered about the big piano at the far end of the room. She was singing a merry Christmas song with a jolly little trill running through it like her own rippling laughter and as the last clear note soared, hung an instant and died away amid a little burst of feminine applause, the Lieutenant smote his knee appreciatively, but to himself he was saying, "By the Lord, she's a thoroughbred! To listen to her, you wouldn't think she had a care in the world."

  You would have thought so even less had you beheld her, a little later on, playing hide-and-seek with an enthusiasm one-half of which expended on her studies would have graduated her with the highest honours a full year ahead of time; or teaching the Lieutenant the intricacies of the old-fashioned waltz — which was just then coming into favour once more after a sleep of nearly half a century — despite his repeated protestations that he couldn't dance anything but the hornpipe and that only by proxy. Under her irresistible influence the Lieutenant forgot the sombre duty that had brought him there, Merriam put aside his many cares and frankly relapsed into childhood, and even Evelyn felt a lightening of the daily-increasing load of vague, unformed dread which she bore.

  And there was a game of hunt-the-slipper, at the proposal of which pretty Dolly McPherson made a great outcry that she never, never, never would submit to having the Professor undergo such an indignity as being asked to sit upon the floor; nor would she be quieted until the unresisting Jimmy was enthroned in the tallest chair that the combined efforts of the Lieutenant and Mr. McPherson could produce. Whereupon Constance Coleman, exalted beyond her natural timidity, promptly invested him with a huge brown paper fool's-cap, hastily improvised by Mabel, and then in sudden terror at her own unheard-of audacity, retired precipitately into the coat closet and could not be persuaded to emerge again until her victim assured her through the keyhole that he bore no malice and considered it rather a good joke than otherwise.

  Last of all, as the short winter's day drew to a close, they made a semicircle about the light of the roaring fire and apples and nuts in dainty baskets of thin silver were passed around, while under the expert care of some of the younger members of the party the marshmallows grew to a luscious brown in the warmth of the blaze and the popcorn danced in the popper and flew with sudden reports into masses of tantalising whiteness.

  At length when the stories came at longer and longer intervals and finally even Hooker insisted that he could not recall a single other adventure, the circle began to disintegrate. Constance Coleman, suddenly recollecting the passing of time and opportunity, captured the Professor and drew him aside into an obscure corner, from which presently issued such sounds as, "— and then when you add HN03 —" "But, Professor Merriam, when I do it, it doesn't." The two businessmen vanished into the library, ostensibly to decide a disputed matter of financial rating, but as they failed to reappear, it was evident that they found their own society all-sufficient. Jack Coleman, having a passion for music when rendered by a musician of acceptable beauty, dragged Evelyn off to the piano, while the deserted wives affected to listen, but rather spoiled the impression they desired to convey by a constant murmur of, "And, my dear, I never would have believed it of her —" to the intense satisfaction of young Mrs. McPherson, who felt that her wedding ring was at last gaining her admission to the conversation of the grownup married world with all its delightful scandal-swapping.

  "Tell me," said Mabel, shielding from the firelight the tired lines that aged her girl face, "did I do well?"

  "Do well?" repeated the Lieutenant. "Say, Miss Thornton, I wish you'd let me spread out on the floor and then walk on me awhile. You ought to get a Distinguished Service Medal for what you did today — only it wouldn't be half reward enough."

  She smiled a little wearily and twisted and untwisted her fingers in the gold chain about her smooth throat.

  "It hasn't been easy," she said with a little catch in her voice, "but I could do it all the rest of my life if I thought it would help sister."

  She took the packet the Lieutenant had given her from the bosom of her dress and unfolding the wrapping, turned the broken circlet it contained idly in her hands, watching the wavering firelight flicker and flame fr
om the red gold.

  "It all seems so cruel and — and unnecessary," she went on. "Why should she have to suffer so when her only fault was to love a man too well? It isn't as though she'd ever done anything to merit this — this that's come to her. Evelyn's always been such a good girl — so thoughtful and kind and unselfish and patient with us all. And goodness knows" — with a sorrowful little smile —"there are times when the Angel Gabriel himself couldn't exist in the same house with me. Even mother can be awfully exasperating when she wants to, but Eve never got cross with us or nagged and if we were ever in any trouble — And now this — Oh, it isn't fair! It isn't! It isn't!"

  She stopped, choking back a sob and her bosom strained at its silken covering as if it would burst the shimmering fabric asunder.

  "It's life, little lady," said the Lieutenant soberly. "When we're young, we can't get over the feeling that for every sorrow we endure there should be a compensating joy and that there ought to be and must be some great, equalising power that evens things up so that the good live happily ever after and the wicked repent in sackcloth and ashes. Then, as we get a little older, we begin to find out that there isn't a universal justice in life. Very often there isn't any justice in it at all — at least not the kind we expect. We see ignorance punished as if it were a deadly sin and excellent intention become a curse where it should have been a help, and worst and hardest of all to bear, we see over and over again the innocent suffering for the mistakes of the guilty; or even from no human fault at all, but just through a combination of circumstances which could not be foreseen and for which, apparently, no one is to blame."

  "And is that all we come into life for? — Just to live and suffer, often through no fault of our own?" she whispered with a strange, hard look on her young face.

  "I don't know," replied the Lieutenant, staring at the firelight, "I don't know. Perhaps in spite of the anxiety she has borne and the anguish she is doomed to bear, your sister would say that life has given her one thing which makes up for all and that is — love."

  For many minutes they were silent while the blue and yellow and crimson flames ebbed and flowed and threw fantastic lights and shadows on the rugged features of the sailor and the youthful, mutinous face of the girl. Occupied with their own thoughts, they did not notice that the piano had stopped and when at last Mabel raised her head in sudden terror, she looked into the wide, staring eyes of her sister.

  "Mabel," said Evelyn hoarsely, pointing to the broken bracelet, which the other still unconsciously held in her hand, "where did that come from? Tell me! I must know!"

  Instinctively the younger girl glanced at the man beside her, but he made a helpless gesture. The situation was beyond him.

  "Tell me!" breathed Evelyn again, her face slowly whitening as she devoured them with her eyes.

  Then Mabel rose with a new dignity that had cloaked her on the instant, and putting a slender arm about her sister's trembling body, drew Eve's white cheek down against her own.

  "Dear heart," she said softly, "come with me. I have something to say to you." And she led her tenderly from the room. They slowly mounted the broad stairway, Mabel clinging more and more tightly to the handrail as Evelyn's weight dragged more and more heavily upon her, and gained the tall-windowed, blue-and-gold bedroom which they had shared from babyhood; and here Evelyn sank mutely into the big, wide-armed chair while her sister knelt beside her, clasping her hands in a close, loving grip.

  "It's Leslie," said Mabel simply.

  Why was it that the old dread should clutch at Evelyn's heart with such a new and sinister meaning? She knew the answer that would be given even before she asked the question, "Is he —?"

  "Yes," choked Mabel and hid her face on her sister's shoulder.

  She did not cry out in a passion of grief as Mabel half feared, half hoped she would. She only uttered a single little moan like a stricken animal and then remained mute and trembling and clutching at her sister's hands. Even when Mabel began in a low voice to repeat what the Lieutenant had told, she made no sign. But her eyes darted about the room as if she were some trapped wild thing, seeking a loophole of escape from the unconceived and strange enemy.

  "So at least," ended Mabel, "he died as a soldier and a gentleman should, doing his duty to the end and leaving his honour unstained like a true knight, even though he failed in his task."

  But Evelyn twisted herself free from her sister's arms with a very bitter cry.

  "Honour! What is honour to me if it will not bring him back to me? Can the knowledge that he has done his duty fill the empty years that lie before me?"

  "But Eve — dear sister, could you have loved him so well if, to save himself for you, he had turned coward and brought shame and disgrace both on himself and you?"

  "Disgrace!" she returned wildly, "shame! They are only words! Could they hurt us while we had our love? Do you think the scorn of the whole world would have mattered to me while he held me in his arms?"

  "And your children?" said Mabel quietly; "what would you have said to them?"

  Evelyn swayed against the bedstead and stood for a long moment, crushing the broken golden circlet to her white breast until crimson drops rose under the jagged ends and stained the red metal.

  "My children?" she repeated dully.

  Suddenly her hand went to her throat and with a little, choking sob she crumpled into a heap on the bed and burst into a storm of weeping. Mabel regarded her for a moment with pitying eyes and then went softly from the room and slowly descended the wide stairway. And her face was the face of a woman, made wise by great sorrow.

  In the hall she met the Lieutenant nervously pacing the polished floor with his short, black pipe clenched unconsciously in his teeth.

  "You've told her?" he asked.

  "Yes," she answered simply.

  "Did she ask for me?"

  "No."

  "Then I'll be off," he said with quick tact. "I have to report for duty first thing tomorrow morning and it'll take me most of the night to get up to Chatham."

  "Thank you," she replied gratefully as he struggled into his overcoat. "I — we can't begin to tell you how much we appreciate all your kindness —"

  "Oh, that's all right," he interrupted with some embarrassment, "you've given me a day that more than makes up for any trouble I may have taken." He paused irresolutely for an instant and then added impulsively, "Say, Miss Thornton, I've always been sort of a lonely individual and led a rather hard, lonely life and — and I'd be awfully much obliged if you'd let me come and see you sometimes."

  "Why, surely," she replied quickly, holding out a friendly hand, "come down whenever you feel like it. We'd be glad to see you any time."

  She watched his square figure until it disappeared in the darkness with a smile on her lips, and then sighed wearily and turned back into the house.

  "I wonder why it is," observed the Lieutenant to himself as he tramped down the winding driveway, turning up the big collar of his overcoat against the first flakes of the expected snowstorm, "that a girl always says 'we' when she knows what you really want her to use is the first person singular?"

  But as no one appeared to reply to the officer's question and as his own philosophy was quite unequal to the task, he remained unanswered.

  Chapter IX

  At The Eleventh Hour

  Two hours more of the old year in London. Two hours more before another milestone on the journey of life would be passed; two hours more for wiping out old scores to leave the slate clean for the beginning of a new account; two hours more in which to forget old enmities and renew old friendships; two hours more in which to reflect upon the sorry record of the year gone by in preparation for faint-hearted resolutions of amendment that would scarce stay warm until the bells had ceased pealing in the new year; two hours more before the curtain would fall on another act in the great drama of humanity, only to rise again on the same characters, portraying the same passions of selfishness, greed, cruelty, and self-seeking and the
same virtues of generosity, kindness, and love through the next scene and the next and the next to the last great scene of all, whose outcome none of the actors knew and few dared to imagine.

  Two hours more of the old year in Colonel Villon's comfortable old house in Brompton. The fire burned brightly in the sitting-room, lighting up the calm face of Corinne as she sat sewing by the little square table; lighting up also the features of the good Colonel as he smoked in unwonted silence with a worried frown marring his usually serene brow. Presently the girl, folded up her work and seating herself on the arm of her father's chair, nestled her young body against his plump figure and rested her smooth cheek on his grizzled hair.

  "Thinking, father dear?" she asked.

  "Eh, yes, my child," he answered moodily, "thinking of all that has happened in the year gone by — in the many years that have gone by since your mother died, little daughter, and of what may happen in the years to come."

  "And that makes you sad, dear father? Why should it make you sad?"

  "It reminds me that I grow old, Corinne beloved. What is it the English poet has written? 'So the old order changeth, yielding place to new.' The old order is changing very swiftly, my child, and I, alas! have put too many years behind me to change with it. Soon I will be useless and worn out and then —?"

  "You must not think such things — you who have been the eyes and ears of the Federation for so long. Ah, you are troubled because the mission to China has failed, but believe me, dear father, all will come right in the end — it must. And then the people will know of your cleverness and loyalty and patience, and give you the honour that belongs to you as they have done so often in years gone by."

  But the Colonel shook his head sorrowfully. "We have failed, little daughter— failed in the supreme test. To-day the order has gone into effect which weakens our defences by half, and now nothing is left but to await the deluge."

  "But the President, dear father—"