Silver Wings (21 page)

That was all, but she sat back as if she had written a biography, her hands cold and tremulous, her cheeks burning with consciousness. It almost seemed to her that it was blazoned across that letter: “He called me darling when he said good-bye!” Her heart throbbed wildly every time she remembered that. It seemed to have changed the relationship of everything in her world. Nothing would ever be quite the same again after that!

Yet, if he came back, he would probably never think of it again. She hated to acknowledge to herself that such a thing could be possible, but she knew the world from which he came, knew the lightness with which modern young people look upon things that to her were sacred. How could she hope that there would be any following up of such a casual word flung out into the night across hundreds of miles on a mere wire, by a man who was saying good-bye through her to his world, perhaps forever? Oh, she must not judge him! Yet she knew in her heart that if he should never return, she would always hold that dear word as hers alone and cherish it to the end of life. She knew, too, that there would never in the world be anyone else like him for her.

And so she prayed constantly, her petitions mixed with thanksgiving for the little word he had given her at the last, that all was right with him, whatever came! Surely that meant that somehow he had found God. And her heart thrilled again at the wonder of having some of her prayers answered so quickly and so perfectly. Surely he was hers in a special sense, whatever came in life, even if she never saw him again—yes, and even if he came back alive and well and still she never saw him again. All was in the Father’s hands, and all would be well. She must always be happy and trust in that—whatever came.

Yet she would not have been human if she had not watched the papers anxiously, walking often to the village to get the latest edition; often stealing in to the radio when no one was by. For the radio was kept constantly turned on now at a point where news of the lost one would be likely to come. It spoke out eerily whether anyone was listening or not. The library where it was installed was almost wholly deserted by the young people, as if a corpse were lying there, but Amory found much comfort in lingering near with ears attuned to anything that might give hope that Gareth lived.

There came one terrible rumor, that a great light had been seen for a little while from a point on the coast of Alaska, looking off toward a small uninhabited island, and the fear grew into almost a statement that the plane had caught fire and the pilot had perished. But rescuers immediately flew to investigate, and the story was not substantiated. No sign of any remains of a burnt plane were anywhere to be found within miles of the region named, and the matter was dropped from the calculations. Yet the rumor lingered as a tragic background for all the other rumors that followed. Day followed anxious day, and still no word came of the lost plane. The newspapers had almost omitted all mention of the matter, to make room for later thrills, and still the heaviness hung over the Whitney house.

One by one the guests had made excuses and gone away. Fred and Clarence were invited to a yachting party, and it was sailing sooner than they had expected. One girl’s mother was ill, and another girl had to go home and get a dress fitted to be a bridesmaid at a wedding. Barry Blaine lingered sullenly on, and one night late, when he had been deliberately drinking too much, he went down in the garden under the stars and had it out with Diana Dorne.

Blaine left the next morning, early, before anyone was up. He left a note for Mrs. Whitney saying he had been called away, but everyone had heard his loud words with Diana in the garden, though they could not hear her replies, and they all understood. He said he might return later, but the master of the house openly hoped he would not. And so the others all drifted away, one at a time, Mary Lou Westervelt lingering longer than the rest because she had come latest. All except Diana. She asked Mrs. Whitney if she might stay a few days longer. She said she liked it at Briarcliffe and had nothing much to do for another week. Of course Mrs. Whitney said she would be delighted to have her.

“She’s just staying to carry out that infernal joke on John,” said the master of the house when he heard it. “She’s like a bulldog—when she once gets her little white teeth in anyone, she won’t let go. She’s not good enough for John, and she’s too insignificant to be allowed to make him suffer.”

“Suffer? Henry, what can you mean? How could Diana make your nephew suffer?”

“Humph! How could she? Don’t ask me! Because every young man, no matter how sensibly he may be constituted otherwise, seems not to be able to keep from losing his soul sooner or later to every yellow eyelash that comes in his neighborhood. He’s beginning to fall for her, I can see; and I don’t like it! I wish she’d take herself and her pretty little curly head out of the neighborhood for good. John’s worth too much to be allowed to be wrecked.”

“The very idea, Henry! John has more sense than to think that Diana could possibly ever want to marry him! She wouldn’t look at him!”

“Well, she’s done a good deal of looking the last few days, I should say,” snorted her husband, “but I should like to know why she wouldn’t look at my nephew? He’s a long sight better than she is. And if you mean money, I always meant that what should have been my sister’s share of the estate would go to him. I didn’t give it to him sooner, because I didn’t want him to get spoiled the way your nephew was by knowing he belonged to the idle rich.”

“Now, Henry!” said Leila Whitney tearfully. “I wish you wouldn’t speak of the dead in that way. I wish you would at least confine your ugly remarks to the living.”

“Dead?” sniffed Henry. “So you count him dead now, do you? You said this morning that you were sure he was alive!”

“Well, it begins to look that way!” sobbed his wife.

“Well, dead or alive, Ted knows what I think of him, and it’ll be all right with him even if he’d overheard it now. He understands what I mean.”

The interview was abruptly terminated at that point by the arrival of the afternoon mail, and Leila Whitney made good her retreat before her husband would remember to bring up the subject again.

But Diana did not give cause for further criticism. She spent most of her time with Caroline and Doris and openly kept aloof from Dunleith. Leila Whitney began to wonder whether possibly she might have overheard their conversation and was trying to show them that she was not interested in the young minister.

The Sabbath came again, and the master of the house suddenly developed an interest in hearing his nephew preach. He ordered that the family should all attend church in a body. He said the car would be at the door in plenty of time and that John was to go with them. But John ordered differently. He said he had promised to teach that class of boys again, so he and Neddy were driven down early, alone.

Barry had arrived again the night before, his coming as unexplained as his departure had been, but Diana had not received him with her usual graciousness. She was polite to him, that was all, and he fell into his sulks again.

“You needn’t go to church, you know, Diana,” said Caroline to her guest, after the command had gone forth that the family must attend church in a body. “Dad won’t mind what you do.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Diana lazily. “It will rather break the monotony, you know.”

“Don’t try to keep her at home, Caroline,” said her mother. “I quite agree with your father that we ought to go. It will be really expected of the family after what has happened, that we attend service somewhere, you know, and of course since your cousin John is a regular minister, no one would think it strange that we went to the chapel in the village instead of our regular church. It isn’t as if we were in the city, either, you know. This church out here is only a summer one. I think it will look quite all right!”

So they went to church to hear John Dunleith, and Barry went also. There was nothing else for him to do unless he went home again, which he was not yet ready to do. He had been counting on having the morning in the woods with Diana.

But this time Diana went into the seat first and put herself away up at the end next to the wall—for they were too late to get seats in the middle section of the little chapel—and Caroline and Doris came next. Barry had to content himself with a seat just behind them all so that his host might sit next to his wife. Seated thus, he was able to get a continuous glimpse of Diana’s face and to read in it something more than the passing interest of a flirt as she listened to the morning service. There seemed to be something awakened and alert, something wistful and new in the eyes of the girl whom he had grown to consider of late as his own property. Was there a new fineness there that he had not suspected before, a something restless that was not going to be satisfied with the giddy, reckless life of the past? Was it that fool of a preacher that had fascinated her? They had all made a fuss over him since that night when he was half stewed and couldn’t see the road, but anyone might have been in the same fix, and any good driver might have saved the situation.

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?

W
hen 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.