Sound of the Trumpet

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Yes, that’s that!” echoed her mother, smiling, “and now I’m going to bed. Don’t study too late, dearest. Good night!” She stooped and kissed Lisle tenderly, then went out with Lisle’s responsive kiss warm upon her lips and tears of relief in her eyes. Oh, it was good to have fears end this way. But was this really the end? Or would the question return and have to be all worked out again? Victor wasn’t one to give up easily. She half wished she could take her girl and fly to the ends of the earth, away from that selfish, pestiferous, harmful young man who felt he owned Lisle, who thought he could go where he pleased and do what he wished and still come back to her when he got ready. She went to sleep that night with something like a prayer of thanksgiving in her heart.

  But Victor wended his way to a haunt of his where he felt fairly sure he would find his new secretary, Erda Brannon. He would take her places, some of the high spots of the city, and show her a good time. They would dance all night if they liked, and to heck with the plant! If they wanted to take the next day off and sleep it through, they had a right to, didn’t they? It was his office, wasn’t it? What did the government have to say about it? It was his father’s plant, wasn’t it? And besides, it was easy enough to explain that some supplies or steel or something hadn’t been delivered on time and had held up the work. He could work that out when the time came. Of course, if the old man found it out, he would raise a heck of a fuss, but he’d been in other fusses with his father before, and he knew pretty well how to get around him, and get his cooperation, too.

  But though he went on the rounds of the night spots where he expected to find Erda, she was not there anywhere. And then, at last, he questioned some like-minded croney and was told that Erda had said she was on duty at the plant tonight. Surely that couldn’t be so. But in his fuddled brain he figured out that he ought to go and see. And so it was at the plant that he found Erda finally, sometime in the middle of the night.

  Erda had told him that she was busy that evening. She had a date with an old friend who was passing through the city and had telephoned her to meet him for dinner and the evening.

  The old friend who was meeting her was named Lacey, and the dinner they shared together was in a little Chinese restaurant in the downtown part of the city which the Vandinghams’ friends did not frequent. And when their brief talk and dinner was over, and Erda’s latest instructions were explained to her and notes were passed into her hands of certain definite facts she was to obtain at once, she went by a devious way back to the plant.

  When the night watchman challenged her, she showed her pass and told him she was Mr. Vandingham Junior’s secretary come for some papers that had been forgotten and some letters she had promised to mail before midnight, and he let her pass. Later, when the night watchman of the midnight shift passed through the hall and saw the light through the transom over the office door and came to see about it, she smiled at him her best ash-blonde smile and said, “It’s all right. I’m Victor Vandingham’s secretary. I came here on some business for him. I’m just hunting now for my compact I left here, and then I’m going.”

  The night watchman went on after a steady look into her eyes, but later he met the night foreman and told him about it, his conscience being tender and his instructions having been definite that no one was to be there that he did not know and was sure should be. The foreman frowned and volunteered to go and look at her. He said he had seen Vandingham with his secretary once. So the foreman went up, and Erda exercised her charms on him. He was a lanky, homely fellow and was unconsciously flattered with her smiles. They talked a moment or two as Erda got out her lipstick and did a few repairs on her sensuous lips. Then she looked up confidently, as if it was giving her great pleasure to have this bit of conversation with him.

  “You’re the foreman on the night shift, aren’t you? Your name is Hatteras. Arthur Hatteras. Isn’t that right? I know, because I’ve seen it on the payroll. That comes through our office, you know. Aren’t you just thrilled to death to have such a wonderful job? Such a responsible position for so young a man? I should think you would be. Why, you’re as important as any general in the army, for without the work that’s being done in this plant, the whole war might drag on for years and years! And to think it all rests on you sometimes, whether we win or not.”

  “Oh, no,” said the young man, grinning and embarrassed. “You know I’m not the only one. There are a lot of us.”

  “Yes, but only one foreman—when you’re on duty, of course, I mean—and while you’re on duty it all depends on you whether the job goes right. And it’s such an important job! You know, it must be wonderful to stand in that big building and watch those engines going, those strong men working with all their might, those machines pounding away like human beings, all for one thing, that we may win this war and make the world free for—well, for freedom. It’s a great work! My, how you must be thrilled to have all that power in your hands for even a single night! It thrills me to even be connected just this much here in the office with working out figures and correspondence that help to make this work go on. And those wonderful machines down there! They tell me there are no other machines in the world quite like those. And they’re making such marvelous, mysterious things that are almost human, why—almost divine, aren’t they? Of course, no one says just what it is they are going to be able do when they get the things made and assembled and all, but it must be so important. I know no one is supposed to go in and see what is going on, and I wouldn’t for the world desire to break any rules, which I understand are very necessary for this country’s safety, but I have so wished that there was some little window or doorway up above it all where I could have a tiny glimpse of the general whole, just to carry in my mind as something great with which I was connected. There isn’t, is there? Just a gallery or something, where I could get a glimpse of the great, dark factory, with its brilliant bursts of light and its hurrying working figures down below? Think! Isn’t there such a spot somewhere?”

  The man grinned at this romantic idea of making a sort of poetic scene of what he considered mere hard labor, but so winning was this beautiful girl, with her eyes alight and eager, that he actually began to consider. Yes, of course there was the door at the head of the outside stairs that went from one building to the next and opened on a gallery. One could look down from there. They couldn’t see anything much. It wouldn’t be against any rules he had been given. He wasn’t letting anybody into the buildings without a pass signed by the boss, but if she just wanted to get a view of the lights and the men working in the distance, why, that wouldn’t hurt anything. And besides, she was the young boss’s secretary. She likely knew everything about the whole show anyway.

  And so, little by little, her smiles and her dreamy eagerness wore down his conscience, and he told her there was a place, but she couldn’t see anything much, only light and shadow. And before long he found himself piloting her across the dark yard, up those narrow spiral stairs, and opening the door to the tiny gallery so that she might peer in and get her glimpse.

  But trust Erda. Her glimpse was plenty. She knew how to edge her way into the place of privilege she craved. She crept unobtrusively over to the slender rail that was put there to guard a workman when for mechanical reasons he had to observe the workings of the important machinery of which he was in charge, and she looked straight down at the bright spinning wheels, the busy gadgets, the sharp cutting teeth that gashed through bright steel with the ease of the wild beast champing up its prey.

  “Oh, isn’t that wonderful!” she breathed into the ear of the astonished and half worried young man as he watched her enraptured face in the flickering light of the furnaces down below.

  And even while this was going on, Erda was wearing on the lapel of her coat a little button set modestly like the center of a flower among cheerful petals of metal and sham jewels, glittering brightly and entirely concealing one of the most ingenious cameras that was ever invented. The entirely trustworthy young foreman did not s
ee the white fingers as they touched a spot in the flower and manipulated the turning of another film. Neither did he see the tiny trinket that weighted the end of the soft scarf that she wore around her neck so gracefully and that responded so silently to the touch of those soft fingers on the fine pliable wire that regulated its operations and took in mighty secrets in the breast of another tricky camera. No, he didn’t see those things nor dream of their importance in the great job he was so proud of doing. He only looked in amusement at the pretty girl who stood and cooed and asked silly questions and some almost wise ones.

  “Oh, isn’t it thrilling to be looking down at these wonderful things? Now, what is that strange, funny, almost human machine down there supposed to be doing? Cutting up tin biscuits, it looks like. Are all those funny little gadgets it is making really useful? I’m not very wise in machinery, but of course they mean something, don’t they, and they all work into this great scheme to win the war, Mr. Hatteras, and that makes them almost sacred, don’t you think? And what do they do, Mr. Hattras? Do they fit into some other gadgets that are important, and do really important things for munitions? Of course, I know you’re not supposed to talk about these things, but then, I’m a part of it all and am in on all these secrets, so you needn’t mind explaining a little of it to me, you know. I’m not a mechanic myself, but I should like to understand a little of what this wonderful machine below me can do. Is this machine the one they call—now what is that name? I can’t think of it, but the one that is really the heart and center of the whole mechanism?”

  The young man looked at her sharply. Was she actually as innocent as she seemed? Did she really know these secrets, or was he wrong in letting her have even so brief a glimpse?

  Then he became aware that she was waiting for an answer and started in hurriedly.

  “Yes, something like that idea,” was all he said, and then wondered just what he had been assenting to. Tapping her shoulder he added firmly, “Come, we’ll have to go now. I’m needed down below.”

  “Yes,” she said dreamily, “just a little minute more, please. This is too divine, this whole scene. I can’t tear myself away from it. Couldn’t you just leave me here a minute or two more? I can find my way down alone, I’m sure I can, and I would love so to watch the working of those machines down there and the movements of all those workers. It is like a moving picture. How I would love to ask a lot of questions about it all. Suppose I just stay here a few minutes while you go down and give what orders you have to, and then you can come back here and talk to me five minutes. By that time I’ll have such a lot of questions to ask. What, for instance, is that other machine doing on the far side? Is it—”

  But the foreman’s strong fingers had grasped her shoulder and turned her about.

  “We’re going down now, lady, and this door will be fastened. I couldn’t leave you here. It would be as much as my job was worth. And I can’t answer any questions either. The government orders that. If you know so much about things, you ought to know that.”

  “What, not even to me? Why, I write the letters for the firm. I wouldn’t be counted an outsider.”

  “Not even to you, no matter how much confidential stuff you know. It isn’t my business to talk about these things to anybody. Now, we better get you across this piece of the yard before the night boss comes around. He doesn’t like visitors, and above all he doesn’t like women around the plant. I heard him say so. Now, down these stairs, and here we turn to go around the other side of the yard. That will take you nearer the office door. Shall I call a taxi for you? It’s pretty late, you know, for a lady to be going around this neighborhood alone.”

  “Oh, I’ll be all right. I’ll go back to the office and get my compact.”

  “Better let that go till morning, lady. That part of the building’ll be all locked up now and under the care of the night watch. You better stay here by the door. I’ll call a taxi.”

  And then came Victor’s voice from the taxi that had brought him down that way.

  “That’s all right, you c’n wait. I gotta lady friend around here somewhere!” His syllables were thick, for he had a good too many drinks, and his steps were uncertain, but he was coming down the hall as they entered the back door. Then they saw him halt in the dim light and scan the length of the empty corridor.

  “Shay!” he called. “Ish that you, Erda? I been looking everywhere for you. Wantta go danshing?”

  Erda’s steps quickened as he spoke, and the frightened foreman melted into the night, stepping out the back door into the shadows of the yard. Had the boss seen him or not?

  But the boss was drunk. Would he stop to think what all this might mean? And would that girl tell him what he had allowed her to do? And would he lose his job? Well, no one had seen them, he was sure of that. He hurried into the edge of the shadows over to the other building and was presently hard at work in the thick of industry. But once, he looked up from where he stood by the side of glowing furnaces, into the shadows, above a certain noble machine, to a frail gallery in the dimness, and wondered if any of the workmen could possibly have seen that girl as she hung over the railing to look down, and could have known who let her in. Then he turned his eyes to the great machine and wondered what the girl could have made of the glimpse she had caught. Of course, the whole operation was in its earlier stages, and an outsider could not possibly understand anything important yet, but a thing like this must never happen again, not while he was foreman, not if she was fifty times the young boss’s secretary—or anyone else! Then he put the whole matter out of his mind and devoted his energies to the work before him. But even so, the memory recurred occasionally, uneasily, and made him uncomfortable, as if he were greatly to blame. He had always considered himself entirely trustworthy and didn’t like to suspect himself of having weaknesses, even for a lovely, flattering lady.

  Chapter 11

  Several times Lisle went to the Bible class during the fall and winter. She always went in the car and had the chauffeur call for her at the close. John Sargent was not there, and another man was acting as janitor. She decided that John must still be working on the night shift. She wondered how his grandmother was and thought perhaps she would venture to send her more flowers. But then she hesitated, lest he would think her presuming or putting him under obligation.

  But one evening at the close of the lesson the teacher made an announcement.

  “Word has just come to me that our brother John Sargent’s beloved grandmother went to be with the Lord last week. The funeral services were held yesterday, conducted by her old family pastor from Thurston, under whom she united with the church as a young girl. We should bear our brother John Sargent in prayer, that he may be comforted in his bereavement. I understand that his grandmother was his only remaining near relative, and that she has been ill for some months. Her death was for her a happy release, but it leaves our friend practically alone in the world. Let us remember him in prayer.”

  Lisle was startled. So, the dear old lady was gone! And with her death would likely come the end of all possible touch she might have had with the grandson. If she had only sent flowers again before it was too late! She had not seen a death notice, and therefore had not even sent flowers to the funeral!

  She went out from the mission with a grieved feeling that somehow she had lost a dear one, too. Strange, when she had never seen the woman. Just heard about her from one who loved her. She had a mental picture in her mind of a sweet-faced, white-haired woman. A gentle, lovely lady, she was sure, both from her grandson’s description, and also from what John himself was. Even though she had seen him but twice, her brief contact with him had taught her that he must have a refined background.

  Lisle, as she made her way to the door, felt greatly saddened that she had not known to send flowers at least. She bowed and smiled to those members who greeted her shyly. She wished she knew them well enough to speak about John Sargent and ask if he had been at the mission lately, though of course she did not.
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  But when she reached the door there stood one of the men who had seemed to follow her several times lately. He came up to her as she started to step into the street.

  “I have a message for you from your chauffeur,” said the man in a low tone. “Something has gone wrong with your car and he sent me to escort you home. If you will step this way, I have a car here.”

  Lisle gave a startled look, recognized the shifty eyes, the crafty, cringing attitude. He was the same man whom she had seen before. She was sure he was. Her instinct warned her to beware.

  “Oh,” she said, backing away into the hall again, “thank you! That won’t be necessary. I have friends here. I would rather go with them.” She turned around and went back to stand among the group around the teacher.

  Mr. Evans was standing with his open Bible, explaining some point in the lesson he had just given that had not quite been understood by some of his listeners. Lisle stood with the rest and listened, her frightened heart quieting as she heard the trustful words the leader was speaking. Eagerly, her mind reached out to grasp the help this man could give her spirit.

  Then suddenly, as he was speaking, the teacher looked right at her, as if they two were the only ones in the room, as if he was talking just for her benefit. There was a pleasant smile on his lips, as though the words he was saying meant a great deal to him. “You know,” he said, “the beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by Him; and the Lord shall cover him all the day long. That makes a refuge surer, safer, than any earth can give, doesn’t it?” And he smiled again, as if the message was all her own.

  Lisle smiled shyly back, with new wonder in her eyes.

  “Do you mean,” she said, “that one can so live that he can be sure he is beloved of the Lord, so that no matter what perils loom, he need not be afraid?”

  A light came into the teacher’s eyes that reminded her of the light she had seen in John Sargent’s eyes once.