AN INTERLUDE
"AS A DREAM, WHEN ONE AWAKETH"
When Miss Charteris opened her eyes, the sun was streaming into herroom. The sense of having slept heavily and unnaturally lay upon her.She had not heard Martha's entry; but her blinds were up, and the teaon the tray beside her bed was still fresh and hot.
She took a cup, and the after-effects of the bromide seemed to leaveher.
She dressed, and went downstairs.
On the breakfast-table, beside her plate, lay the Professor's letter.When she had poured out her coffee and buttered her toast, she openedand read it.
The letter was exactly such as she had always dreamed the Professorwould write, if he ever came to the point of making her a proposal. Hetouched on their long friendship; on how much it had meant to themboth. He said he had often hoped for the possibility of a closer tie,but had not felt justified in suggesting it, until he was in a positionto offer her a suitable home and income. This was now fortunately thecase; therefore he hastened to write and plead his cause, though keenlyconscious of how little there was in himself calculated to call forthin a woman the affection which it was his earnest hope and desire towin. She had trusted him as a friend, an intellectual guide andcomrade, during many years. If she could now bring herself to trusthim in a yet more intimate relation, he would endeavour never todisappoint or fail her.
The letter was signed:
"_Yours in sincere devotion,_ "_KENRICK HARVEY._"
A postscript requested to be allowed to call, at the usual hour, thatafternoon, for a reply.
Miss Charteris wrote a brief note of thanks and appreciation, and gavethe Professor leave to call at three.
The Professor called at three.
He knocked and rang, and fumbled long over the umbrella-stand in thehall. He seemed to be taking all the umbrellas out, and putting themback again.
At last he appeared at the door of the drawing-room, where MissCharteris awaited him. He was very nervous. He repeated the substanceof his letter, only rather less well expressed. He alluded to MissAnn, and to the extreme happiness and pleasure to her of havingChristobel as a sister. But he completely ignored, both in the letterand in conversation, Miss Ann's betrayal of Christobel's confidence.For this she was grateful to him.
As soon as the Professor, having floundered through the unusual watersof expressed sentiment, stepped out on to the high and dry path of anactual question, Miss Charteris answered that question in theaffirmative, and accepted the Professor's offer.
He rose, and held her hand for a few moments, looking at her with greataffection through his glasses, which did not at all impede the warmthof his regard; in fact, being powerful convex lenses, they magnifiedit. Then he kissed her rather awkwardly on the brow, and hurried backto his seat.
A somewhat strained silence would have followed, had not the Professorhad an inspiration.
Drawing a book from his pocket, he looked at her as you look at a childfor whom you have a delightful surprise in store.
"That--er--matter being satisfactorily settled, my dear Christobel," hesaid, "should we not find it decidedly--er--refreshing to spend an hourover our Persian translation?"
Miss Charteris agreed at once; but while the Professor read,translated, and expounded, expatiating on the interest and beauty ofvarious passages, her mind wandered.
She found herself picturing the Boy under similar circumstances; howthe Boy would have behaved during the first hour of engagement; whatthe Boy would have said; what the Boy would have done. She was notquite sure what the Boy would have done; she had never experienced theBoy with the curb completely off. But she suddenly remembered:"Millions, or would it be billions?" and the recollection gave her ashock of such vivid reaction, that she laughed aloud.
The Professor paused, and looked up in surprise. Then he smiled,indulgently.
"My dear--er--Christobel, this passage is not intended to be humorous,"he said.
"I know it is not," replied Miss Charteris. "I beg your pardon. Ilaughed involuntarily."
The Professor resumed his reading.
No; she was not quite sure as to _all_ the Boy would have done; but sheknew quite well what he would have said.
And here the Boy, quite unexpectedly, took a First in classics; forwhat the Boy would have said would certainly have been Greek to theProfessor.
* * * * *
After this, events followed one another so rapidly that the whole thingbecame dream-like to Miss Charteris. She found herself helpless in thegrip of Miss Ann's iron will--up to now, carefully shrouded in Shetlandand lace. At last she understood why Emma's old mother had had to diealone in a little cottage away in Northumberland; Emma, good soul,being too devoted to her mistress to ask for the necessary week, inorder to go home and nurse her mother. Emma had seemed a broken woman,ever since; and Christobel understood now the impossibility of any oneever asking Miss Ann for a thing which Miss Ann had made up her mindnot to grant.
She and the Professor now became puppets in Miss Ann's delicate hands.Miss Ann lay upon her couch, and pulled the wires. The Professordanced, because he had not the discernment to know he was dancing; MissCharteris, because she had not the heart to resist. The Boy havinggone out of her life, nothing seemed to matter. It was her duty tomarry the Professor, and there is nothing to be gained by thepostponement of duty.
But it was Miss Ann who insisted on the wedding taking place within aweek. It was Miss Ann who reminded them that, the Long Vacation havingjust commenced, the Professor could easily be away, and there wereresearches connected with his Encyclopedia which it was of the utmostimportance he should immediately make in the museums and libraries ofBrussels. It was Miss Ann who insisted upon a special licence beingobtained, and who overruled Christobel's desire to be married by herbrother, the bishop. Miss Ann had become quite hysterical at the ideaof the bishop being brought back from a tour he was making in Ireland,and Christobel yielded the more readily, because her brother's arrivalwould undoubtedly have meant Mollie's; and Mollie's presence, even ifshe refrained from protest and expostulation, would have brought suchpoignant memories of the Boy.
So it came to pass, with a queer sense of the whole thing beingdream-like and unreal, that Miss Charteris--who should have had themost crowded and most popular wedding in Cambridge--found herselfstanding, as a bride, beside the Professor, in an ill-ventilatedchurch, at ten o'clock in the morning, being married by an oldclergyman she had never seen before, who seemed partially deaf, andpartially blind, and wholly inadequate to the solemn occasion; withMiss Ann and her faithful Emma, sniffing in a pew on one side; whileJenkins breathed rather heavily in a pew, on the other. Martha hadflatly refused to attend; and when Miss Charteris sent for her to bidher good-bye, Martha had appeared, apparently in her worst and mostmorose temper; then had suddenly broken down, and, exclaiming wildly:"'Ow about _'im_?" had thrown her apron over her head, and left theroom, sobbing.
"_How about him? How about him?_"
Each turn of the wheels reiterated the question as she drove to Shilohto pick up Miss Ann; then on to the church where the Professor waited.
_How about him_? But _he_ had left her to do that which she felt to beright, and she was doing it.
Nevertheless, Martha's wild outburst had brought the Boy very near; andhe seemed with her as she walked up the church.
Her mind wandered during the reading of the exhortation. In thisnightmare of a wedding she seemed to have no really important part toplay. The Boy would burst in, in a minute; and a shaft of light wouldcome with him. He would walk straight up the church to her, saying:"We have jolly well had enough of this, Christobel!" Then they wouldall wake up, and he would whirl her away in a motor and she would say:"Boy dear; don't exceed the speed-limit."
But the Boy did not burst in; and the Professor's hands, lookingunusually large in a pair of white kid gloves, were twitchingnervously, for an emphatic question was being put to him by the oldclergyman, who had eme
rged from his hiding-place behind thePrayer-book, as soon as the exhortation was over.
The Professor said: "I will," with considerable emotion; while Miss Annsobbed audibly into her lace pocket-handkerchief.
Christobel looked at the Professor. His outward appearance seemedgreatly improved. His beard had been trimmed; his hair--what there wasof it--cut. He had not once looked at her since she entered the churchand took her place at his side; but she knew, if he did look, his eyeswould be kind--kind, with a magnified kindness, behind the convexlenses. The Boy had asked whether she loved the Professor's mouth,eyes, and hair. What questions the amazing Boy used to ask! And shehad answered----
But here a silence in the church recalled her wandering thoughts. Theall-important question had been put to her. She had not heard one wordof it; yet the church awaited her "I will."
The silence became alarming. This was the exact psychological momentin which the Boy should have dashed in to the rescue. But the Boy didnot dash in.
Then Christobel Charteris did a thing perhaps unique in the annals ofbrides, but essentially characteristic of her extreme honesty.
"I am sorry," she said, in a low voice; "I did not hear the question.Will you be good enough to repeat it?"
Miss Ann, in the pew behind, gasped audibly. The old clergyman peeredat her, in astonishment, over his glasses. His eyes were red-rimmedand bloodshot.
Then he repeated the question slowly and deliberately, introducing atone of reproof, which made of it a menace. Miss Charteris listenedcarefully to each clause and at the end she said: "I will."
Whereupon, with much fumbling, the Professor and the old clergymanbetween them, succeeded in finding a ring, and in placing it upon thethird finger of her left hand. As they did so, her thoughts wanderedagain. She was back in the garden with the Boy. He had caught herleft hand in both his, and kissed it; then, dividing the third fingerfrom the others, and holding it apart with his strong brown ones, hehad laid his lips upon it, with a touch of unspeakable reverence andtenderness. She understood now, why the Boy had kissed that fingerseparately. She looked down at it. The Professor's ring encircled it.
Then the old clergyman said: "Let us pray"; and, kneeling meekly uponher knees, Christobel Charteris prayed, with all her heart, that shemight be a good wife to her old friend, the Professor.
* * * * *
From the church, they drove straight to the station, Miss Ann's planfor them being, that they should lunch in London, reach Folkestone intime for tea, and spend a day or two there, at a boarding-house kept byan old cronie of Miss Ann's, before crossing to Boulogne, _en route_for Brussels.
Christobel disliked the idea of the boarding-house, extremely. She hadnever, in her life, stayed at a boarding-house; moreover it seemed toher that a wedding journey called imperatively for hotels--and the bestof hotels. But Miss Ann had dismissed the question with anauthoritative wave of the hand, and a veiled insinuation thathotels--particularly _Metropole_ hotels--were scarcely proper places.Dear Miss Slinker's boarding-house would be so safe and nice, and thecompany so congenial. But here the Professor had interposed, layinghis hand gently on Christobel's: "My dear Ann, we take our congenialcompany with us."
This was the farthest excursion into the realm of sentiment, upon whichthe Professor had as yet ventured. The sober, middle-aged side of MissCharteris had appreciated it, with a certain amount of gratefulemotion. But the youthful soul of Christobel had suddenly realized howthe Boy would slap his leg, and rock, over the recital of such asentence; and, between the two, she had been reduced to a conditionbordering on hysterics.
They travelled from Cambridge in a first-class compartment, had it tothemselves, and fell quite naturally into the style of conversationwhich had always characterized their friendship; meeting each other'sminds, not over the happenings of a living present, but in a mutualappreciation of the great intellects of a dead and gone past. Beforelong, the Professor had whisked his favourite Persian poet from thetail-pocket of his coat, Christobel had provided paper and pencil, andthey were deep in translation.
Arrived at Liverpool Street station, they entered a four-wheeler, andtrundled slowly off to Cannon Street. Christobel had imaginedfour-wheelers to be obsolete; but the Professor dismissed hersuggestion of a taxi, as being "a needlessly rapid mode of progression,indubitably fraught with perpetual danger," and proceeded to hail thesleepy and astonished driver of a four-wheeled cab.
(Oh, Boy dear, what would you have said to that four-wheeler--you dearrecord-breaking, speed-limit-exceeding, astonishingly rapid Boy? Thatancient four-wheeler, trundling past the Bank of England, the RoyalExchange, the Mansion House, up King William Street, and round intoCannon Street, endlessly blocked, continually pulling up; then startingon, only to be stopped again; and your Beloved inside it, Boy dear,looking out of the ramshackle old window, in a vain endeavour to seesomething of the London you had planned to show her in your owndelightful extravagant way. Oh, Boy dear, keep out of this! It is notyour show. This four-wheeler has been hailed and engaged by theProfessor. The lady within is the bride of the Professor. Hands off,Boy!)
They drew up, for a few minutes, outside a bookseller's in New BroadStreet, on the left-hand side, just after they had trundled into it--adelightful little place, crammed, lined, almost carpeted, with books.The Professor plunged in, upsetting a pile of magazines in his hastyentrance through the narrow doorway. Here he always found preciselythe book he happened to be requiring for his latest research. With anincoherent remark to the proprietor, who advanced to meet him, theProfessor became immediately absorbed, in a far corner of the shop,oblivious of his cab, his bride, and his train. Christobel hadfollowed him, and stood, a dignified, but somewhat lonely figure, justwithin the doorway. She had been to this shop with her father, duringhis lifetime, on several occasions, and had since often written forbooks. The bookseller came forward. He was a man possessed of theuseful faculty of remembering faces and the names appertaining to them.Also he had cultivated the habit of taking an intelligent interest inhis customers. But he did not connect this beautiful waiting figure,with the absorbed back of the Professor.
"What can I do for you to-day, Miss Charteris?" he inquired, with readycourtesy.
Christobel started. "Nothing to-day, thank you, Mr. Taylor. But I ammuch obliged to you for so often supplying my requirements by return ofpost. And, by the way, you have an excellent memory. It is many yearssince I came here last, with my father."
"Professor Charteris was one of my best customers," said thebookseller, in an undertone of deferential sympathy. "I never knew afiner judge of a book than he. If I may be allowed to say so, I deeplydeplored his loss, Miss Charteris."
Christobel smiled, and gently unbent, allowing the kindly expression ofappreciation and regret to reach her with comfort in these moments ofdream-like isolation. A friendly hand seemed to have been outstretchedacross the chasm which divides the passionately regretted past, fromthe scarcely appreciated present. She could see her father's tallscholarly figure, as he stood lovingly fingering a book, engaged inearnest conversation with Mr. Taylor, regardless of the passing oftime; until she was obliged to lay her hand on his arm, and hurry himthrough the crowded streets, down the steep incline, to the platformfrom which the Cambridge express was on the point of starting. Andwhen safely seated, with barely a minute to spare, he would turn toher, with a smile of gentle reproof, saying: "But, my dear child, wehad not concluded our conversation." And she would laugh and say: "Butwe had to get home to-night, Papa." Whereupon he would lean back,contentedly, replying: "Quite right, my dear. So we had."
Ah, happy those whose fathers and mothers still walk the earth besidethem. Youth remains, notwithstanding the passing of years, while thereis still a voice to say, in reproof or approbation: "My child."
But the bookseller, not yet connecting her with the Professor, stillwaited her pleasure; and suddenly a thought struck Christobel. Aneager wish awoke within he
r.
"Mr. Taylor," she said, hurriedly; "can you supply me with the verynewest thing on the subject of aviation? I want to learn all there isto know about propellers, steering-gear, cross-currents, and how toavoid the dangers----"
She stopped short. The Professor had found what he wanted, and wasfumbling for his purse.
The bookseller turned quickly to a pile at his elbow, took up apaper-covered book, and placed it in her hands. "The very latest," hesaid. "Published yesterday. You will find in it all you want toknow." Then, as he handed the Professor his change, "Allow me to placeit to your account, Miss Charteris," he said.
Experiencing a quite unaccountable sense of elation and fresh interestin life, Christobel, armed with her book on aviation, re-entered thefour-wheeler. The Professor, absorbed in his own purchase, had notnoticed her private transaction. He followed her into the cab, andmade three ineffectual attempts to close the door. Just as the driverwas slowly beginning to prepare to climb down, Mr. Taylor came acrossthe crowded pavement, to their rescue; released the Professor'scoat-tail, shut them in, and signed to the cabman to drive on. With agood deal of "gee-up" and whip-flourishing, they re-commenced totrundle. Mr. Taylor was not merely a provider of literature; he wasalso a keen observer of life, and of human nature. As Christobelleaned forward to acknowledge his help, and to smile her farewell, hisexpression seemed to say: "A four-wheeler, Professor Harvey, and thelatest work on aviation! An unusual combination." "Very unusual," shesaid to herself, and smiled again. Then it seemed to her that herfriend of the bookshop had said: "You will find what you want, on page274." She knew he had not, as a matter of fact, mentioned any page;but the figures came into her mind. She opened the book, and glancedat page 274. It was headed: "Fine performances by Mr. Guy Chelsea."She shut it quickly. There was no room for the actual presence of theBoy in the Professor's four-wheeler.
They lunched at a depot of the Aerated Bread Company, close to CannonStreet station. While Christobel was struggling with a very largeplateful of cold tongue, she suddenly remembered that one of the Boy'smany plans had been to take her to lunch at his favourite restaurant inPiccadilly; where she would be able to order any dish she fancied, andfind it better served than she had ever known it before; or to dine atthe Hotel Metropole, where Monsieur Delma's perfect orchestra wouldplay for her any mortal thing for which she chose to ask, and play itbetter than she had ever heard it played.
These memories, and a really excellent cup of coffee, helped Christobelin her struggles with the round of cold tongue; and she looked acrossthe little marble-topped table brightly at the Professor, and spokewith a cheerful hopefulness which surprised herself.
But something, other than his own plate of cold tongue, seemed weighingon the Professor. He had become preoccupied and distrait.
When they reached the Folkestone train, Christobel found out the causeof his preoccupation.
"My dear Ann--I should say Christobel," remarked the Professor,hurriedly, as he put her into an empty compartment, and hesitated inthe doorway. "I am always accustomed at this hour to have my pipe anda nap. Should you object, my dear Ann--er--that is, Christobel, if Isought a smoking compartment?"
"Oh, _please_ do!" she exclaimed, eagerly. The idea of two hours offreedom and solitude suddenly seemed an undreamed of joy. "Don't thinkof me. I am quite happy here."
"I will provide you with a paper," said the Professor, and hailed apassing boy. He laid the paper on her lap, and disappeared.
The train started.
Christobel looked out of the window as they slowly steamed across thebridge over the Thames. She loved the flow of the river, with itsconstant procession of barges, dredges, boats, and steamers; a silent,moving highway, right through the heart of the noisy whirl of Londonstreet-traffic. They ran past old St. Saviour's Church, now promotedto be Southwark Cathedral; out through the suburbs, until streetsbecame villas, woods and meadows appeared, and the train ran throughChislehurst--peaceful English resting-place where lie entombed thebright Imperial hopes of France--then on through Sevenoaks, into thebowery green of the Kentish hop-gardens.
After passing Sevenoaks, she took up the Professor's paper and glancedat it. Somehow she had felt sure it would be the _Daily Graphic_. Itwas the _Daily Mirror_! She had never held a halfpenny illustratedpaper in her hands before. No doubt it was an excellent paper, and metthe need of an immense number of people, to whom an additionalhalfpenny a day would be a consideration. But, that the Professor,when providing her with one paper, should have chosen a halfpennyinstead of a penny paper, seemed to hold a curious significance, andcalled up sudden swift memories of the Boy. He would have bought_Punch_, the _Graphic_, the _Illustrated_, the _Spectator_, and a_Morning Post_, plumped them all down on the seat in front of her; thensat beside her, and talked, the whole journey through, so that shewould not have had a moment in which to open one of them.
(Oh, Boy dear! Don't look at this _Daily Mirror_. You might misjudgethe good Professor. With your fifty thousand a year, how can you beexpected to understand a mind which _must_ consider ha'pence, even whenbrides and wedding journeys are concerned. _Do_ keep away, Boy dear.This is not your wedding journey.)
Then she opened the _Daily Mirror_, and there looked out at her, fromits central page, the merry, handsome, daring face of her own LittleBoy Blue!
He was seated in his flying machine, steering-wheel in hand, lookingout from among many wires. His cap was on the back of his head; hisbright eyes looked straight into hers; his firm lips, parted in asmile, seemed to be saying: "I jolly well mean to do it." Beneath wasan account of him, and a description of the flight he was to attempt onthat day, across the Channel, circling round Boulogne Cathedral, andback. He was to start at two o'clock. At that very moment he must bein mid-air.
Oh, Little Boy Blue! Little Boy Blue! You have a way of making heartsstand still.
* * * * *
The boarding-house proved to be a place decidedly conducive to thetaking of a fresh-air cure; because nobody remained within its fourwalls, if the weather could possibly admit of their going out.
As soon as Christobel and the Professor had taken tea, and replied toMiss Slinker's many questions, they went out to walk on the Leas untilsunset. It was a radiant afternoon, and the strong wind which hadsuddenly arisen, blowing, in unexpected gusts, from the sea, acted as atonic to weary heart and brain. Christobel, holding on her hat as shewalked, battled her way beside the Professor, up a cross street, intothe Sandgate Road.
There they went to the telegraph office, and sent Miss Ann news oftheir safe arrival, and of the extreme comfort they felt sure ofexperiencing at Miss Slinker's delightful abode. (This was theProfessor's wording.)
They looked in at Parson's Library _just_ to order a book Miss Annwanted; and, on a little farther, _just_ to match some crewel silks fora tea-cosy Miss Ann was making.
These commissions duly executed, they were free to make their way tothe Leas parade, whence they would look down upon the beach, and enjoya distance view across the Channel. They took the side street whichbrought them out upon the esplanade, close to the lift by which peoplecontinuously mounted or descended the steep face of the cliff.
A considerable crowd lined the esplanade railing, looking over eagerly.Apparently there was some object of particular interest to be seenbelow.
Christobel and the Professor advanced to the railing, and also lookedover.
She saw a strange thing floating in the sea, between the promenade pierand the harbour. It seemed a huge insect, with broken wings. Its bodywas a mass of twisted wires. Around this, a little fleet ofrowing-boats had gathered. They looked black, on the blue wind-sweptwaters, like water-boatmen on a village pond. They darted in and outand round about the wreckage of the huge wings and twisted wire, andseemed waiting for a chance to help.
A man stood next to Christobel and the Professor; a man who talked tohimself.
"Ah, poor chap," he said; "poor chap!
So nearly back! So nearly brokethe record! Such a sport!"
"What is that thing in the water?" inquired the Professor.
The man turned and looked at him.
"An aeroplane," he said, slowly, speaking with a sort of stoliddeliberation. "A wrecked aeroplane. Caught in a cross-current, worseluck! Just accomplished one of the finest flights on record. Startedfrom up here; skimmed over the Channel to Boulogne; circled round thecathedral--such a clear day; we could watch the whole flight withfield-glasses--came gaily back without a stop; was making for the cliffagain, when a cross-current caught him; something went wrong with thesteering-gear; and down it goes, with a plunge, head first into thesea."
"And the--er--occupant?" inquired the Professor.
"The aeronaut? Ah, he didn't fall clear, worse luck, or they couldsoon have fished him out. He stuck to his seat and his wheel, and fellsmash in among his wires. They are trying to extricate him now. Badluck, poor chap! Such a sport."
"Do you know his name?" asked the Professor, peering down at thewaiting crowd which lined the beach.
"Guy Chelsea," said the man. "And I give you my word, he was thefinest, pluckiest young amateur we had among the airmen."
Then Christobel's heart began to beat again, and her limbs seemed toregain the power to move.
"He is mine," she said. "I must go to him. He is my own Little BoyBlue." And she began to run along the Leas toward the stone stepswhich zigzag down to the shore.
She heard the Professor running after her.
"Ann," he called, "Ann! Stay! This is--most--unnecessary!"
She flew on.
"At least take the lift!" bawled the Professor.
She hurried on and reached the steps, pausing an instant to glance back.
The Professor had stopped at the lift, and was waving to her with hisumbrella.
She could never remember running down those steps. In what seemed buta moment from the time she reached them, she found herself stumblingpainfully down the steep slope of shingle to the water's edge.
The lift, bearing the Professor, had just begun to crawl down the faceof the cliff. She could see him gesticulating through the glasswindows.
The crowd on the shore, chiefly composed of rough men, was thickestround the base of a wide stone breakwater, jutting out into the sea.On this break-water stood an empty stretcher. A coast-guardsmanmarched up and down, keeping the crowd off the breakwater.
Christobel reached the outskirts of the crowd, and could get no farther.
"Please let me through," she said. "I belong to him. He is mine."
They turned and looked at her.
"She's 'is mother," said a voice. "Let 'er through."
"Mother be blowed!" said another voice, hoarsely. "Get out! She's 'is_wife_."
"Yes," she cried eagerly. "Yes! Oh, do let me through! I am hiswife."
Suddenly she knew it was true. The Boy's great love had made her hiswife. Had he not said: "You and I are one, Christobel; eternally,indissolubly _one_. You will find it out, when it is too late"?
The crowd parted, making a way for her, straight to the foot of thebreakwater.
She mounted it, and walked towards the empty stretcher.
The coast-guardsman confronted her.
"He is mine," she said, quietly. "I have the right to be here."
The man saluted, in respectful silence.
She stood gazing out to where the crowd of boats hovered about thegreat insect with broken wings.
The sea gleamed golden in the sunset.
One boat, larger than the rest, slowly detached itself from the generalmelee, pulling with measured stroke toward the breakwater.
Something lay very still in the bow, covered with a sail-cloth.
Two coast-guardsmen rowed; one steered.
The boat came toward the breakwater, in a shaft of sunlight.
Christobel turned to the man beside her.
"Is there any hope?" she asked.
"'Fraid not, lady. My mate just signalled: all U P."
"Ah!" she said, looking wide-eyed into his face. "Ah!--But there mustbe pioneers."
The coast-guardsman turned and walked toward the crowd.
"She's 'is wife, men," he said, with a jerk of his thumb over hisshoulder. "She's 'is wife; yet when I told her it was all U P, shesaid: 'There must be pioneers.'"
The crowd of roughs doffed their caps.
The boat drew slowly nearer.
Then she saw the Professor, hurrying down the shingle, waving hisumbrella.
He must not come yet.
She advanced to the shore end of the breakwater, and spoke to the crowd.
"Please," she said, "oh, please, if possible, prevent that gentlemanfrom reaching the breakwater."
They turned, and saw the advancing figure of the Professor, flurriedand irate.
"'Ullo, Bill," cried a voice. "She says: Don't let the old blokethrough."
They passed the word from one to the other. "Don't let the old blokethrough." They closed the outer ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder.The Professor's umbrella waved wildly on the outskirts.
She moved along the breakwater. Yes, that was it. "Don't let the oldbloke through." She had never used such a word in her life before, butit just met the needs of the case. "Don't let the old bloke through."
The boat drew nearer.
A bugle, away up on the cliff, sounded the call to arms.
"Little Boy Blue, come blow me your horn! The cow's in the meadow; thesheep, in the corn. Where is the boy who looks after the sheep? Ah,dear God! Where is the Boy? Where is the Boy? Where is theBoy?--He's under the sailcloth--fast asleep."
The boat drew nearer. She could hear the measured plash of the oars;the rhythmic rattle of the rowlocks. They advanced, to the beat of thewords in her brain.
"There must--be pion--eers! Don't let the old bloke through. Oh,where is the boy who looks after the sheep? He's under the sail-cloth,fast asleep."
The boat drew level with the breakwater, grating against it.
"Under the sail-cloth, Boy dear; under the sail-cloth--fast asleep."
Tenderly, carefully, they lifted their burden. As the boat rocked, andtheir feet shuffled beneath the weight, she closed her eyes. When sheopened them once more, the quiet Thing under the sail-cloth lay uponthe stretcher. Every man within sight stood silent and bareheaded.
The bugle on the cliff sounded: "lights out."
The golden shaft of sunlight died from off the sea.
Then she came forward, and knelt beside her Boy.
Suddenly she understood the cry of anguish wrung from the loving heartof a woman at a tomb: "Tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I willtake Him away!" Oh, faithful heart of woman, alike through all theages; ready, with superhuman effort, to prove a limitless love and ameasureless grief!
She knelt beside the stretcher, and lifted the sail-cloth.
Yes, it was the Boy--her own Little Boy Blue.
His curly hair was matted with blood and salt water. There was a deepgash across his temple, from the ear, right up into the hair His eyeswere closed; but his lips smiled, triumphant. "There must be pioneers!Every good life given, advances the cause." "Yes, Little Boy Blue.But has it ever struck you, that, if you marry, your wife will mostprobably want you to give up flying; not being able to bear that a manwho was her ALL, should do these things?" She lifted the sail-clothquite away, and stood looking down upon him, so shattered, yet sobeautiful, in his triumphant sleep.
Suddenly her arm was seized from behind. She turned.
The Professor had succeeded in pushing his way through the crowd, andin mounting the breakwater. His cravat was awry; his top-hat was onthe back of his head. He looked at her through his glasses, in amazedindignation.
"Christobel," he said, "this is no place for you. Come away at once.Do you hear? I _bid_ you come with me at once."
The only thing she really minded was that his hat was on, in thepresence of h
er Dead.
She could not free her arm from the grip of the Professor.
She turned and pointed to the stretcher, with her left hand.
"My place is here," she said, clearly and deliberately. "I have theright to be here. This is all a fearful nightmare, from which we arebound before long to wake. But meanwhile, I tell you plainly--as Iought to have told you before--_this is the body of the man I love_."
At that moment, one of the crowd, springing on to the breakwater behindthe Professor, struck off his hat with a cane. It fell into the sea.
The Professor let go her arm, and turned to see who had perpetrated theoutrage, and whether the hat could be recovered.
Then she bent over the stretcher.
"Boy dear," she whispered, in tones of ineffable tenderness; "this iswhere they have laid you; but _I_ will take you away."
She put her arms beneath the body; then, with an almost superhumaneffort, lifted it, and gathered it to her. It felt limp and broken.The head fell heavily against her breast. The blood and salt-watersoaked through her thin muslin blouse. But she held him, and would notlet him go. "I will take him away," she whispered; "I will take himaway."
She knew she was losing her reason, but she had known that, ever sinceshe first looked down from the top of the cliff, and saw the brokenwings floating on the sea. Now, with her Boy in her arms, her one ideawas to get away from the Professor; away from the coast-guardsmen; awayfrom the crowd.
Turning her back upon the beach, she staggered along the breakwater,toward the open sea.
"I will take him away," she repeated; "I will take him away."
Then her foot slipped. She still held the Boy, but she felt herselffalling.
She closed her eyes.
She never knew which she struck first, the stone breakwater, or thesea----
Through the Postern Gate: A Romance in Seven Days Page 7
