THE first time she heard it was in the silk-hung and flower-scented peace of the little drawing room in Curzon Street. His sister Rosemary had wanted to come up to London to get some clothes—Victory clothes they called them in those first joyous1 months after the armistice2, and decked their bodies in scarlet3 and silver, even when their poor hearts went in black—and Janet had been urged to leave her own drab boarding-house room to stay with the forlorn small butterfly. They had struggled through dinner somehow, and Janet had finished her coffee and turned the great chair so that she could watch the dancing fire (it was cool for May), her cloudy brown head tilted4 back against the rose-red cushion, shadowy eyes half closed, idle hands linked across her knees. She looked every one of her thirty years—and mortally tired—and careless of both facts. But she managed2 an encouraging smile at the sound of Rosemary’s shy, friendly voice at her elbow.
“Janet, these are yours, aren’t they? Mummy found them with some things last week, and I thought that you might like to have them.”
She drew a quick breath at the sight of the shabby packet.
“Why, yes,” she said evenly. “That’s good of you, Rosemary. Thanks a lot.”
“That’s all right,” murmured Rosemary diffidently. “Wouldn’t you like something to read? There’s a most frightfully exciting Western novel——”
“Don’t bother about me, my dear. You see, I come from that frightfully exciting West, and I know all about the pet rattlesnakes and the wildly Bohemian cowboys. Run along and play with your book; I’ll be off to bed in a few minutes.”
Rosemary retired7 obediently to the deep chair in the corner, and with the smile gone but the irony8 still hovering9, she slipped the cord off the packet. A meagre and sorry enough array; words had never been for her the swift, docile10 servitors that most people found them. But the thin gray sheet in her fingers started out gallantly11 enough—“Beloved.” Beloved! She leaned far forward, dropping it with deft12 precision into the glowing pocket3 of embers. What next? This was more like; it began: “Dear Captain Langdon” in the small, contained writing that was her pride, and it went on soberly enough, “I shall be glad to have tea with you next Friday—not Thursday, because I must be at the hut then. It was stupid of me to have forgotten you; next time I will try to do better.” Well, she had done better the next time. She had not forgotten him again—never, never again. That had been her first letter; how absurd of Jerry, the magnificently careless, to have treasured it all that time, the miserable13, stilted14 little thing! She touched it with curious fingers. Surely, surely he must have cared, to have cared so much for that!
It seemed incredible that she hadn’t remembered him at once when he came into the hut that second time. Of course she had only seen him for a moment and six months had passed, but he was so absurdly vivid, every inch of him, from the top of his shining, dark head to the heels of his shining, dark boots—and there were a great many inches! How could she have forgotten, even for a minute, those eyes dancing like blue fire in the brown young face, the swift, disarming15 charm of his smile, and, above all, his voice—how, in the name of absurdity16, could any one who had once heard it ever forget Jeremy Langdon’s voice? Even now she4 had only to close her eyes, and it rang out again, with its clipped British accent and its caressing17 magic, as un-English as any Proven?al troubadour’s! And yet she had forgotten; he had had to speak twice before she had even lifted her head.
“Miss America—oh, I say, she’s forgotten me, and I thought that I’d made such an everlasting18 impression!” The delighted amazement19 reached even her tired ears, and she had smiled wanly20 as she pushed the pile of coppers22 nearer to him.
“Have you been in before? It’s stupid of me, but there are such hundreds of thousands of you, and you are gone in a minute, you see. That’s your change, I think.”
“Hundreds of thousands of me, hey?” He had leaned across the counter, his face alight with mirth. “I wish to the Lord my angel mother could hear you—it’s what I’m for ever tellin’ her, though just between us, it’s stuff and nonsense. I’ve got a well-founded suspicion that I’m absolutely unique. You wait and see!”
And she had waited—and she had seen! She stirred a little, dropped the note into the flames, and turned to the next, the quiet, mocking mouth suddenly tortured and rebellious23.
“No, you must be mad,” it ran, the trim writing strangely shaken. “How often have you seen me—five5 times? Do you know how old I am? How hard and tired and useless? No—no, a thousand times. In a little while we will wake up and find that we were dreaming.”
That had brought him to her swifter than Fate, triumphant24 mischief25 in every line of his exultant26 face. “Just let those damn cups slip from your palsied fingers, will you? I’m goin’ to take your honourable27 age for a little country air—it may keep you out of the grave for a few days longer. Never can tell! No use your scowlin’ like that. The car’s outside, and the big chief says to be off with you. Says you have no more colour than a banshee, and not half the life—can’t grasp the fact that it’s just chronic28 antiquity29. Fasten the collar about your throat—no, higher! Darlin’, darlin’, think of havin’ a whole rippin’ day to ourselves. You’re glad, too, aren’t you, my little stubborn saint?”
Oh, that joyous and heart-breaking voice, running on and on—it made all the other voices that she had ever heard seem colourless and unreal——
“Darlin’ idiot, what do I care how old you are? Thirty, hey? Almost old enough to be an ancestor! Look at me—no, look at me. Dare you to say that you aren’t mad about me!”
Mad about him; mad, mad. She lifted her hands to her ears, but she could no more shut out6 the exultant voice now than she could on that windy afternoon.
“Other fellow got tired of you, did he? Good luck for us, what? You’re a fearfully tiresome30 person, darlin’. It’s goin’ to take me nine tenths of eternity31 to tell you how tiresome you are. Give a chap a chance, won’t you? The tiresomest thing about you is the way you leash32 up that dimple of yours. No, by George, there it is! Janie, look at me——”
She touched the place where the leashed dimple had hidden with a delicate and wondering finger—of all Jerry’s gifts to her, the most miraculous33 had been that small fugitive34. Exiled now, for ever and for ever.
“Are you comin’ down to White Orchards35 next week-end? I’m off for France on the twelfth and you’ve simply got to meet my people. You’ll be insane about ’em; Rosemary’s the most beguilin’ flibbertigibbet, and I can’t wait to see you bein’ a kind of an elderly grandmother to her. What a bewitchin’ little grandmother you’re goin’ to be one of these days——”
Oh, Jerry! Oh, Jerry, Jerry! She twisted in her chair, her face suddenly a small mask of incredulous terror. No, no, it wasn’t true, it wasn’t true—never—never—never! And then, for the first time, she heard it. Far off but clear, a fine7 and vibrant36 humming, the distant music of wings! The faint, steady pulsing was drawing nearer and nearer—nearer still; it must be flying quite high. The letters scattered37 about her as she sprang to the open window; no, it was too high to see, and too dark, though the sky was powdered with stars, but she could hear it clearly, hovering and throbbing38 like some gigantic bird. It must be almost directly over her head, if she could only see it.
“It sounds—it sounds the way a humming-bird would look through a telescope,” she said half aloud, and Rosemary murmured sleepily but courteously41, “What, Janet?”
“Just an airplane; no, gone now. It sounded like a bird. Didn’t you hear it?”
“No,” replied Rosemary drowsily42. “We get so used to the old things that we don’t even notice them any more. Queer time to be flying.”
“It sounded rather beautiful,” said Janet, her face still turned to the stars. “Far off, but so clear and sure. I wonder—I wonder whether it will be coming back?”
Well, it came back. She went down to White Orchards with Rosemary for the following week-end, and after she had smoothed her hair and given a scornful glance at the pale face in the mirror, with its shadowy eyes and defiant43 mouth, she slipped out to the lower terrace for a breath8 of the soft country air. Half way down the flight of steps she stumbled and caught at the balustrade, and stood shaking for a moment, her face pressed against its rough surface. Once before she had stumbled on those steps, but it was not the balustrade that had saved her. She could feel his arms about her now, holding her up, holding her close and safe. The magical voice was in her ears.
“Let you go? I’ll never let you go! Poor little feet, stumblin’ in the dark, what would you do without Jerry? Time’s comin’, you cheeky little devils, when you’ll come runnin’ to him when he whistles! No use tryin’ to get away—you belong to him.”
Oh, whistle to them now, Jerry—they would run to you across the stars!
“How’d you like to marry me before I go back to-morrow? No? No accountin’ for tastes, Miss Abbott—lots of people would simply jump at it! All right, April, then. Birds and flowers and all that kind o’ thing—pretty intoxicatin’, what? No, keep still, darlin’ goose. What feller taught you to wear a dress that looks like roses and smells like roses and feels like roses? This feller? Lord help us, what a lovely liar44!”
And suddenly she found herself weeping helplessly, desperately45, like an exhausted46 child, shaken to the heart at the memory of the rose-coloured dress.
9 “You like me just a bit, don’t you, funny, quiet little thing? But you’d never lift a finger to hold me; that’s the wonder of you—that’s why I’ll never leave you. No, not for heaven. You can’t lose me—no use tryin’.”
But she had lost you, Jerry; you had left her, for all your promises, to terrified weeping in the hushed loveliness of the terrace, where your voice had turned her still heart to a dancing star, where your fingers had touched her quiet blood to flowers and flames and butterflies. She had believed you then. What would she ever believe again? And then she caught back the despairing sobs47 swiftly, for once more she heard, far off, the rushing of wings. Nearer—nearer—humming and singing and hovering in the quiet dusk. Why, it was over the garden! She flung back her head, suddenly eager to see it; it was a friendly and thrilling sound in all that stillness. Oh, it was coming lower—lower still—she could hear the throb39 of the propellers48 clearly. Where was it? Behind those trees, perhaps? She raced up the flight of steps, dashing the treacherous49 tears from her eyes, straining up on impatient tiptoes. Surely she could see it now! But already it was growing fainter—drifting steadily50 away, the distant hum growing lighter51 and lighter—lighter still——
“Janet!” called Mrs. Langdon’s pretty, patient10 voice. “Dinner-time, dear! Is there any one with you?”
“No one at all, Mrs. Langdon. I was just listening to an airplane.”
“An airplane? Oh, no, dear; they never pass this way any more. The last one was in October, I think——”
The plaintive52 voice trailed off in the direction of the dining room and Janet followed it, a small, secure smile touching53 her lips. The last one had not passed in October. It had passed a few minutes before, over the lower garden.
She quite forgot it by the next week; she was becoming an adept54 at forgetting. That was all that was left for her to do! Day after day and night after night she had raised the drawbridge between her heart and memory, leaving the lonely thoughts to shiver desolately55 on the other side of the moat. She was weary to the bone of suffering, and they were enemies, for all their dear and friendly guise57; they would tear her to pieces if she ever let them in. No, no, she was done with them. She would forget, as Jerry had forgotten. She would destroy every link between herself and the past, and pack the neat little steamer trunk neatly58 and bid these kind and gentle people good-bye, and take herself and her bitterness and her dulness back to the classroom in the Western university11 town—back to the Romance languages. The Romance languages!
She would finish it all that night, and leave as soon as possible. There were some trinkets to destroy, and his letters from France to burn; she would give Rosemary the rose-coloured dress—foolish, lovely little Rosemary, whom he had loved, and who was lying now fast asleep in the next room, curled up like a kitten in the middle of the great bed, her honey-coloured hair falling about her in a shining mist. She swept back her own cloud of hair resolutely59, frowning at the candle-lit reflection in the mirror. Two desolate56 pools in the small, pale oval of her face stared back at her—two pools with something drowned in their lonely depths. Well, she would drown it deeper!
The letters first; lucky that they still used candlelight! It would make the task much simpler—the funeral pyre already lighted. She moved one of the tall candelabra to the desk, sitting for a long time quite still, her chin cupped in her hands, staring down at the bits of paper. She could smell the wall-flowers under the window as though they were in the room; drenched60 in dew and moonlight, they were reckless of their fragrance61. All this peace and cleanliness and ordered beauty—what a ghastly trick for God to have played—to have taught her to adore them, and then to snatch them12 away! All about her, warm with candlelight, lay the gracious loveliness of the little room with its dark waxed furniture, its bright glazed62 chintz, its narrow bed with the cool linen63 sheets smelling of lavender, and its straight, patterned curtains—oh, that hateful, mustard-coloured den5 at home with its golden-oak day-bed!
She wrung64 her hands suddenly in a little hunted gesture. How could he have left her to that, he who had sworn that he would never leave her? In every one of those letters beneath her linked fingers he had sworn it—in every one perjured—false half a hundred times. Pick up any one of them at random——
“Janie, you darling stick, is ‘dear Jerry’ the best that you can do? You ought to learn French! I took a perfectly65 ripping French kid out to dinner last night—name’s Liane, from the Varietiés—and she was calling me ‘mon grand chéri’ before the salad, and ‘mon p’tit amour’ before the green mint. Maybe that’ll buck66 you up! And I’d have you know that she’s so pretty that it’s ridiculous, with black velvet67 hair that she wears like a little Oriental turban, and eyes like golden pansies, and a mouth between a kiss and a prayer, and a nice affable nature into the bargain. But I’m a ghastly jackass—I didn’t get any fun out of it at all—because I really didn’t even see her. Under the13 pink shaded candles to my blind eyes it seemed that there was seated the coolest, quietest, whitest little thing, with eyes that were as indifferent as my velvety68 Liane’s were kind, and mockery in her smile. Oh, little masquerader! If I could get my arms about you even for a minute—if I could kiss so much as the tips of your lashes—would you be cool and quiet and mocking then? Janie, Janie, rosy-red as flowers on the terrace and sweeter—sweeter—they’re about you now—they’ll be about you always!”
Burn it fast, candle—faster, faster. Here’s another for you!
“So the other fellow cured you of using pretty names, did he—you don’t care much for dear and darling any more? Bit hard on me, but fortunately for you, Janie Janet, I’m rather a dab69 at languages, ’specially when it comes to ‘cozy names.’ Querida mi alma, douchka, Herzliebchen, carissima, and bien, bien-aimée, I’ll not run out of salutations for you this side of heaven—no, nor t’other. I adore the serene70 grace with which you ignore the ravishing Liane. Haven’t you any curiosity at all, my Sphinx? No? Well, then, just to punish you, I’ll tell you all about it. She’s married to the best fellow in the world, a liaison71 officer working with our squadron—and she worships the ground that he walks on and the air that14 he occasionally flies in. So whenever I run up to the City of Light, en permission, I look her up, and take her the latest news—and for an hour, over the candles, we pretend that I am Maurice, and that she is Janie. Only she says that I don’t pretend very well—and it’s just possible that she’s right.
“Mon petit c?ur et grand trésor, I wish that I could take you flying with me this evening. You’d be daft about it! Lots of it’s a rotten bore, of course, but there’s something in me that doesn’t live at all when I’m on this too, too solid earth. Something that lies there, crouched72 and dormant73, waiting until I’ve climbed up into the seat, and buckled74 the strap75 about me and laid my hands on the ‘stick.’ It’s waiting—waiting for a word—and so am I. And I lean far forward, watching the figure toiling76 out beyond till the call comes back to me, clear and confident: ‘Contact, sir?’ And I shout back, as restless and exultant as the first time that I answered it: ‘Contact!’
“And I’m off—and I’m alive—and I’m free! Ho, Janie! That’s simpler than Abracadabra77 or Open Sesame, isn’t it? But it opens doors more magical than ever they swung wide, and something in me bounds through, more swift and eager than any Aladdin. Free! I’m a crazy sort of a beggar, my little love—that same thing in me hungers and thirsts and aches for freedom. I go half mad15 when people or events try to hold me; you, wise beyond wisdom, never will. Somehow, between us, we’ve struck the spark that turns a mere78 piece of machinery79 into a wonder with wings; somehow, you are for ever setting me free. It is your voice, your voice of silver and peace, that’s eternally whispering ‘Contact!’ to me—and I am released, heart, soul, and body! And because you speed me on my way, Janie, I’ll never fly so far, I’ll never fly so long, I’ll never fly so high that I’ll not return to you. You hold me fast, for ever and for ever.”
You had flown high and far indeed, Jerry—and you had not returned. For ever and for ever! Burn faster, flame!
“My blessed child, who’s been frightening you? Airplanes are by all odds80 safer than taxis, and no end safer than the infernal duffer who’s been chaffing you would be if I could once get my hands on him. Damn fool! Don’t care if you do hate swearing; damn fools are damn fools, and there’s an end to it. All those statistics are sheer melodramatic rot; the chap who fired ’em at you probably has all his money invested in submarines, and is fairly delirious81 with jealousy82. Peg83 (did I ever formally introduce you to Pegasus, the best pursuit-plane in the R. F. C.—or out of it?) Peg’s about as likely to let me down as you are! We’d do a good deal for each other, she and I; nobody16 else can really fly her, the darling! But she’d go to the stars for me—and farther still. Never you fear—we have charmed lives, Peg and I—we belong to Janie.
“I think that people make an idiotic84 row about dying, anyway. It’s probably jolly good fun, and I can’t see what difference a few years here would make if you’re going to have all eternity to play with. Of course you’re a ghastly little heathen, and I can see you wagging a mournful head over this already—but every time that I remember what a shocking sell the After Life (exquisite phrase!) is going to be for you, darling, I do a bit of head-wagging myself, and it’s not precisely85 mournful! I can’t wait to see your blank consternation86, and you needn’t expect any sympathy from me. My very first words will be, ‘I told you so!’ Maybe I’ll rap them out to you with a table-leg!
“What do you think of all this Ouija Planchette rumpus, anyway? I can’t for the life of me see why any one with a whole new world to explore should hang around chattering88 with this one. I know that I’d be half mad with excitement to get at the new job, and that I’d find reassuring89 the loved ones (exquisite phrase number two) a hideous90 bore. Still, I can see that it would be nice from their selfish point of view! Well, I’m no ghost yet, thank God, nor yet are you—but if17 ever I am one, I’ll show you what devotion really is. I’ll come all the way back from heaven to play with foolish Janie, who doesn’t believe that there is one to come from. To foolish, foolish Janie, who will still be dearer than the prettiest angel of them all, no matter how alluringly91 her halo may be tilted or her wings ruffled93. To Janie who, Heaven forgive him, will be all that one poor ghost has ever loved!”
Had there come to him, the radiant and the confident, a moment of terrible and shattering surprise—a moment when he realized that there were no pretty angels with shining wings waiting to greet him—a moment when he saw before him only the overwhelming darkness, blacker and deeper than the night would be, when she blew out the little hungry flame that was eating up the sheet that held his laughter? Oh, gladly would she have died a thousand deaths to have spared him that moment!
“My little Greatheart, did you think that I did not know how brave you are? You are the truest soldier of us all, and I, who am not much given to worship, am on my knees before that shy gallantry of yours, which makes what courage we poor duffers have seem a vain and boastful thing. When I see you as I saw you last, small and white and clear and brave, I can’t think of anything but the first18 crocuses at White Orchards, shining out, demure94 and valiant95, fearless of wind and storm and cold—fearless of Fear itself. You see, you’re so very, very brave that you make me ashamed to be afraid of poetry and sentiment and pretty words—things of which I have a good, thumping96 Anglo-Saxon terror, I can tell you! It’s because I know what a heavenly brick you are that I could have killed that statistical97 jackass for bothering you; but I’ll forgive him, since you say that it’s all right. And so ghosts are the only thing in the world that frighten you—even though you know that there aren’t any. You and Madame de Sta?l, hey? ‘I do not believe in ghosts, but I fear them!’ It’s pretty painful to learn that the mere sight of one would turn you into a gibbering lunatic. Nice sell for an enthusiastic spirit who’d romped98 clear back from heaven to give you a pleasant surprise—I don’t think! Well, no fear, young Janie; I’ll find some way if I’m put to it—some nice, safe, pretty way that wouldn’t scare a neurasthenic baby, let alone the dauntless Miss Abbott. I’ll find——”
Oh, no more of that; no more! She crushed the sheet in her hands fiercely, crumpling99 it into a little ball; the candle-flame was too slow. No, she couldn’t stand it—she couldn’t, she couldn’t, and there was an end to it. She would go raving100 mad—she19 would kill herself—she would—— She lifted her head, wrenched101 suddenly back from that chaos102 of despair, alert and intent. There it was again, coming swiftly nearer and nearer from some immeasurable distance—down—down—nearer still—the very room was humming and throbbing with it, she could almost hear the singing in the wires. She swung far out over the window edge, searching the moon-drenched garden with eager eyes; surely, surely it would never fly so low unless it were about to land! Engine trouble, perhaps, though she could detect no break in the huge, rhythmic103 pulsing that was shaking the night. Still——
“Rosemary!” she called urgently. “Rosemary, listen—is there a place where it can land?”
“An airplane. It’s flying so low that it must be in some kind of trouble; do come and see!”
Rosemary came pattering obediently toward her, a small docile figure, dark eyes misted with dreams, wide with amazement.
“I must be nine tenths asleep,” she murmured gently. “Because I don’t hear a single thing, Janet. Perhaps——”
“Hush—listen!” begged Janet, raising an imperative105 hand—and then her own eyes widened.20 “Why—it’s gone!” There was a note of flat incredulity in her voice. “Heavens, how those things must eat up space! Not a minute ago it was fairly shaking this room, and now——”
“Perhaps you were asleep, too,” she suggested humbly107. “I don’t believe that airplanes ever fly this way any more. Or it might have been that fat Hodges boy on his motorcycle; he does make the most dreadful racket. Oh, Janet, what a perfectly ripping night—do see!”
They leaned together on the window-sill, silenced by the white and shining beauty that had turned the pleasant garden into a place of magic. The corners of Janet’s mouth lifted suddenly. How absurd people were! The fat Hodges boy and his motorcycle! Did they all regard her as an amiable108 lunatic, even little, friendly Rosemary, wavering sleepily at her side? It really was maddening. But she felt, amazingly enough, suddenly quiet and joyous and indifferent—and passionately109 glad that the wanderer from the skies had won safely through and was speeding home. Home! Oh, it was a crying pity that it need ever land; anything so fleet and strong and sure should fly for ever! But if they must rest, those beating wings—the old R. F. C. toast went singing through21 her head and she flung it out into the moonlight, smiling—“Happy landings! Happy landings, you!”
The next day was the one that brought to White Orchards what was to be known for many moons as “the Big Storm.” It had been gathering110 all afternoon, and by evening the heat had grown incredible, even to Janet’s American and exigent standards. The smouldering copper21 sky looked as though it had caught fire from the world and would burn for ever; there was not so much as a whisper of air to break the stillness—it seemed as though the whole tortured earth were holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Everyone had struggled through the day assuring one another that when evening came it would be all right, dangling111 the alluring92 thought of the cool darkness before each other’s hot and weary eyes; but the night proved even more outrageous112 than the day. To the little group seated on the terrace, dispiritedly playing with their coffee, it seemed almost a personal affront113. The darkness closed in on them, smothering114, heavy, intolerable; they could feel its weight, as though it were some hateful and tangible115 thing.
“Like—like black cotton wool,” explained Rosemary, stirred to unwonted resentment116. She had spent the day curled up in the largest Indian chair22 on the terrace, round-eyed with fatigue117 and incredulity.
“I honestly think that we must be dreaming,” she murmured to her feverish118 audience; “I do, honestly. Why, it’s only May, and we never, never—there was that day in August about five years ago that was almost as bad, though. D’you remember, Mummy?”
“It’s hardly the kind of thing that one is likely to forget, dear. Do you think that it is necessary for us to talk? I feel somehow that I could bear it much more easily if we kept quite quiet.”
Janet stirred a little, uneasily. She hated silence, that terrible empty space waiting to be filled up with your thoughts—why, the idlest chatter87 spared you that. She hated the terrace, too—she closed her eyes to shut out the ugly darkness that was pressing against her; behind the shelter of her lids it was cooler and stiller, but open eyed or closed, she could not shut out memory. The very touch of the bricks beneath her feet brought back that late October day. She had been sitting curled up on the steps in the warm sunlight, with the keen, sweet air stirring her hair and sending the beech119-leaves dancing down the flagged path; there had been a heavenly smell of burning from the far meadow, and she was sniffing120 it luxuriously121, feeling warm and joyous and protected in Jerry’s23 great tweed coat, watching the tall figure swinging across from the lodge122 gate with idle, happy eyes—not even curious. It was not until he had almost reached the steps that she had noticed that he was wearing a foreign uniform—and even then she had promptly123 placed him as one of Rosemary’s innumerable conquests, bestowing124 on him a friendly and inquiring smile.
“Were you looking for Miss Langdon?” Even now she could see the courteous40, grave young face soften125 as he turned quickly toward her, baring his dark head with that swift foreign grace that turns our perfunctory habits into something like a ritual.
“But no,” he had said gently, “I was looking for you, Miss Abbott.”
“Now will you please tell me how in the world you knew that I was Miss Abbott?”
And he had smiled with his lips, not his eyes.
“I should be dull indeed if that I did not know. I am Maurice Laurent, Miss Abbott.”
“But yes—Liane’s Maurice. They are not here, the others? Madame Langdon, the little Miss Rosemary?”
“No, they’ve gone to some parish fair, and I’ve been wicked and stayed home. Won’t you sit down and talk to me? Please!”
24 “Miss Abbott, it is not to you that I must talk. What I have to say is indeed most difficult, and it is to Jeremy’s Janie that I would say it. May I, then?”
It had seemed to Jeremy’s Janie that the voice in which she answered him came from a great distance, but she never took her eyes from the grave and vivid face.
“Yes. And quickly, please.”
So he had told her, quickly, in his exquisitely127 careful English, and she had listened as attentively128 and politely, huddled129 up on the brick steps in the sunlight, as though he were running over the details of the last drive instead of tearing her life to pieces with every word. She remembered now that it hadn’t seemed real at all; if it had been to Jerry that these horrors had happened could she have sat there so quietly, feeling the colour bright in her cheeks, and the wind stirring in her hair, and the sunlight warm on her hands? Why, for less than this people screamed, and fainted, and went raving mad!
“You say—that his back is broken?”
“But yes, my dear,” Liane’s Maurice told her, and she had seen the tears shining in his gray eyes.
“And he is badly burned?”
“My brave Janie, these questions are not good to ask; not good, not good to answer. This I will25 tell you. He lives, our Jerry—and so dearly does he love you that he will drag back that poor body from hell itself, because it is yours, not his. This he has sent me to tell you, most lucky lady ever loved.”
“You mean—that he isn’t going to die?”
“I tell you that into those small hands of yours he has given his life. Hold it fast.”
“Will he—will he get well?”
“He will not walk again; but have you not swift feet to run for him?”
And there had come to her, sitting on the terrace in the sunshine, an overwhelming flood of joy, reckless and cruel and triumphant. Now he was hers for ever, the restless wanderer, delivered to her bound and helpless, never to stray again. Hers to worship and serve and slave for, his troth to Freedom broken—hers at last!
“I’m coming,” she had told the tall young Frenchman breathlessly. “Take me to him—please let’s hurry.”
“Ma pauvre petite, this is war. One does not come and go at will. God knows by what miracle enough red tape unwound to let me through to you, to bring my message and to take one back.”
“What message, Maurice?”
“That is for you to say, little Janie. He told me, ‘Say to her that she has my heart; if she needs26 my body, I will live. Say to her that it is an ugly, broken, and useless thing; still, hers. She must use it as she sees fit. Say to her—no, say nothing more. She is my Janie, and has no need of words. Tell her to send me only one, and I will be content.’ For that one word, Janie, I have come many miles. What shall it be?”
And she had cried out exultantly130, “Why, tell him that I say——” But the word had died in her throat. Her treacherous lips had mutinied, and she had sat there, feeling the blood drain back out of her face, out of her heart—feeling her eyes turn black with terror while she fought with those stiffened131 rebels. Such a little word “Live!”—surely they could say that. Was it not what he was waiting for, lying far away and still, schooled at last to patience, the reckless and the restless? Oh, Jerry, Jerry, live! Even now she could feel her mind like some frantic132 little wild thing, racing133, racing to escape Memory. What had he said to her? “You, wise beyond wisdom, will never hold me—you will never hold me—you will never——”
And suddenly she had dropped her twisted hands in her lap and lifted her eyes to Jerry’s ambassador.
“Will you please tell him—will you please tell him that I say—‘Contact’?”
27 “Contact?” He had stood smiling down at her, ironical and tender. “Ah, what a race! That is the prettiest word that you can find for Jerry? But then it means to come very close, to touch, that poor harsh word—there he must find what comfort he can. We, too, in aviation use that word; it is the signal that says—‘Now you can fly!’ You do not know our vocabulary, perhaps?”
“I know very little.”
“That is all then? No other message? He will understand, our Jerry?”
And Janie had smiled—rather a terrible, small smile.
“Oh, yes,” she told him. “He will understand. It is the word that he is waiting for, you see.”
“I see.” But there had been a grave wonder in his voice.
“Would it”—she had framed the words as carefully as though it were a strange tongue that she was speaking—“would it be possible to buy his machine? He wouldn’t want any one else to fly it.”
“Little Janie, never fear. The man does not live who shall fly poor Peg again. Smashed to kindling-wood and burned to ashes, she has taken her last flight to the heaven for good and brave birds of war. Not enough was left of her to hold in your two hands.”
28 “I’m glad. Then that’s all, isn’t it? And thank you for coming.”
“It is I who thank you. What was hard as death you have made easy. I had thought the lady to whom Jeremy Langdon gave his heart the luckiest creature ever born—now I think him that luckiest one.” The grave grace with which he had bent134 to kiss her hand made of the formal salutation an accolade135. “My homage136 to you, Jerry’s Janie!” A quick salute137, and he had turned on his heel, swinging off down the flagged path with that swift, easy stride past the sun-dial, past the lily-pond, past the beech trees—gone! For hours and hours after he had passed out of sight she had sat staring after him, her hands lying quite still in her lap—staring, staring—they had found her there when they came back, sitting where Rosemary was seated now. Why, there, on those same steps, a bare six months ago—— Something snapped in her head, and she stumbled to her feet, clinging to the arm of her chair.
Rosemary’s arm was about her, Mrs. Langdon’s soft voice in her ears, a deeper note from Rosemary’s engineer.
“Oh, I say, poor girl! What is it, dear child—what’s the matter? Is it the heat, Janie?”
29 “The heat!” She could hear herself laughing; frantic, hateful, jangling laughter that wouldn’t stop. “Oh, Jerry! Oh-h, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!”
“It’s this ghastly day. Let me get her some water, Mrs. Langdon. Don’t cry so, Janie—please, please don’t, darling.”
“I c-can’t help it—I c-can’t——” She paused, listening intently, her hand closing sharply over Rosemary’s wrist. “Oh, listen, listen, there it comes again—I told you so!”
“Thank Heaven,” murmured Mrs. Langdon devoutly139, “I thought that it never was going to rise this evening. It’s from the south, too, so I suppose that it means rain.”
“Rain?” repeated Janet vaguely140. “Why in the world should it mean rain?” Her small, pale face looked suddenly brilliant and enchanted141, tilted up to meet the thunderous music that was swinging nearer and nearer. “Oh, do listen, you people! This time it’s surely going to land!”
Rosemary stared at her blankly. “Land? What are you talking about, Janie?”
“My airplane—the one that you said was the fat Hodges boy on a motorcycle! Is there any place near here that it can make a landing?”
“Darling child”—Mrs. Langdon’s gentle voice was gentler than ever—“darling child, it’s this30 wretched heat. There isn’t any airplane, dear; it’s just the wind rising in the beeches142.”
“The wind?” Janet laughed aloud; they really were too absurd. “Why, Mrs. Langdon, you can hear the engines, if you’ll only listen! You can hear them, can’t you, Mr. Bain?”
The young engineer shook his head. “No plane would risk flying with this storm coming, Miss Abbott. There’s been thunder for the last hour or so, and it’s getting nearer, too. It’s only the wind, I think.”
“Oh, you’re laughing at me; of course, of course you hear it. Why, it’s as clear as—as clear as——”
Her voice trailed off into silence. Quite suddenly, without any transition or warning, she knew. She could feel her heart stand perfectly still for a minute, and then plunge143 forward in mad flight—oh, it knew, too, that eager heart! She took her hand from the arm of the chair, releasing Rosemary’s wrist very gently.
“Yes, of course, it’s the heat,” she said quietly. She must be careful not to frighten them, these kind ones. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Langdon, I think that I’ll go down to the gate to watch the storm burst. No, please, don’t any of you come; I’ll promise to change everything if I get caught—yes, everything! I won’t be long; don’t wait for me.”
31 She walked sedately144 enough until she came to the turn in the path, but after that she ran, only pausing for a minute to listen breathlessly. Oh, yes—following, following, that gigantic music! How he must be laughing at her now, blind, deaf, incredulous little fool that she had been, to doubt that Jerry would find a way! But where could he land? Not in the garden—not at the gates—oh, now she had it—the far meadow. She turned sharply; it was dark, but the path must be here. Yes, this was the wicket gate; her groping fingers were quite steady; they found the latch145, released it—the gate swung to behind her flying footsteps. “Oh, Jerry, Jerry!” sang her heart. Why hadn’t she worn the rose-coloured frock? It was she who would be a ghost in that trailing white thing. To the right here; yes, there was the hawthorn146 hedge—only a few steps more—oh, now!
She stood as still as a small statue, not moving, not breathing, her hands at her heart, her face turned to the black and torn sky. Nearer, nearer, circling and darting147 and swooping148; the gigantic humming grew louder—louder still—it swept about her thunderously, so close that she clapped her hands over her ears, but she stood her ground, exultant and undaunted. Oh, louder still—and then suddenly the storm broke. All the winds and the rains of the world were unleashed149, and fell32 howling and shrieking150 upon her; she staggered under their onslaught, drenched to the bone, her dress whipping frantically151 about her, blinded and deafened152 by that tumultuous clamour. She had only one weapon against it—laughter—and she laughed now, straight into its teeth. And as though hell itself must yield to mirth, the fury wavered—failed—sank to muttering. But Janie, beaten to her knees and laughing, never even heard it die.
“Jerry?” she whispered into the darkness, “Jerry?”
Oh, more wonderful than wonder, he was there! She could feel him stir, even if she could not hear him; so close was he that if she even reached out her hand, she could touch him. She stretched it out eagerly, but there was nothing there—only a small, remote sound of withdrawal153, as though someone had moved a little.
“You’re afraid that I’ll be frightened, aren’t you?” she asked wistfully. “I wouldn’t be—I wouldn’t—please come back!”
He was laughing at her, she knew, tender and mocking and caressing; she smiled back, tremulously.
“You’re thinking, ‘I told you so!’ Have you come far to say it to me?”
Only that little stir; the wind was rising again.
33 “Jerry, come close—come closer still. What are you waiting for, dear and dearest?”
This time there was not even a stir to answer her; she felt suddenly cold to the heart. What had he always waited for?
“You aren’t waiting—you aren’t waiting to go?” She fought to keep the terror out of her voice, but it had her by the throat. “Oh, no, no, you can’t—not again! Jerry, Jerry, don’t go away and leave me; truly and truly I can’t stand it—truly!”
She wrung her hands together desperately; she was on her knees to him—did he wish her to go lower still? Oh, she had never learned to beg!
Not a sound, not a stir, but well she knew that he was standing154 there, waiting. She rose slowly to her feet.
“Very well—you’ve won,” she said hardly. “Go back to your saints and seraphs and angels; I’m beaten. I was mad to think that you ever cared—go back!”
She turned, stumbling, the sobs tearing at her throat; she had gone several steps before she realized that he was following her—and all the hardness and bitterness and despair fell from her like a cloak.
“Oh, Jerry,” she whispered, “Jerry, darling, I’m so sorry. And you’ve come so far—just to find this! What is it that you want; can’t you tell me?”
34 She waited tense and still, straining eyes and ears for her answer—but it was not to eyes or ears that it came.
“Oh, of course!” she cried clearly. “Of course, my wanderer! Ready?”
She stood poised155 for a second, head thrown back, arms flung wide, a small figure of Victory, caught in the flying wind.
And, “Contact, Jerry!” she called joyously into the darkness. “Contact!”
There was a mighty156 whirring, a thunder and a roaring above the storm. She stood listening breathlessly to it rise and swell157, and then grow fainter—fainter still—dying, dying—dying——
But Janie, her face turned to the storm-swept sky, was smiling at the stars which shone behind it. For she had sped her wanderer on his way—she had not failed him!
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收听单词发音
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1
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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18
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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26
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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27
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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28
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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29
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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30
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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31
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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32
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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33
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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34
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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35
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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40
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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42
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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propellers
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器( propeller的名词复数 ) | |
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49
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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50
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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51
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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52
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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53
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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54
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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55
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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57
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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60
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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61
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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62
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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63
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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64
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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65
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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66
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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67
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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68
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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69
dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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70
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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71
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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74
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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76
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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77
abracadabra
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| n.咒语，胡言乱语 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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80
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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81
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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82
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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83
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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84
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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85
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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86
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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87
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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88
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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89
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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90
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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91
alluringly
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| 诱人地，妩媚地 | |
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92
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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93
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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94
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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95
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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96
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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97
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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98
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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99
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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100
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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101
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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102
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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103
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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104
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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105
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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106
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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107
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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108
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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109
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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110
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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111
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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112
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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113
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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114
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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115
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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116
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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117
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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118
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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119
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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120
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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121
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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122
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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123
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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124
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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125
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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126
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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127
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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128
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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129
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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130
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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131
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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132
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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133
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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134
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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135
accolade
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| n.推崇备至，赞扬 | |
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136
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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137
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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138
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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139
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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140
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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141
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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142
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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143
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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144
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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145
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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146
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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147
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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148
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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149
unleashed
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| v.把（感情、力量等）释放出来，发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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151
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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152
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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153
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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154
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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155
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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156
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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157
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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