That Which Hath Wings: A Novel of the Day
startlingly like Saxham's. A sense of Destiny oppressed her. She felt
as one stifling in a vacuum--drowning for lack of air. Her prayers had
rolled back upon her soul unanswered. The sense of spiritual desolation
intensified her desperate loneliness. No good to pray and cling until
you broke your nails to that great Rock that upholds the Crucifix.
Better let go, and be carried away by the torrent. Signs and wonders
are not wrought in these days!--said that other Patrine within
Patrine--and if any were, there would be no miracle. You fool, you
fool, to dream of one!
She was sorry for herself as she sat there waiting. This little duty
done, she would rise and obey that sinister summons from the outer
darkness. Nothing on earth nor in Heaven could help or prevent. The
sudden tinkle of the bell came at this juncture. The call was in Sir
Roland's well-known voice.
"Halloa! ... Is that you, Saxham?"
"Halloa!" she called back in that voice so strangely like _his_ and
unlike her own.
"Good! Well, my true friend and faithful coadjutor of old time," said
the crisp voice, shaken a little as though by some irrepressible emotion
or excitement, "some news has been communicated to us by Wireless that
will lift up your heart and your wife's. Are you listening? ... To-day,
about six P.M., near Langebeke, north-west of Ypres, at the moment of
the White Flag ruse that cost the Deershire Regiment two hundred men, a
two-seater Taube, flying low, as though something were the matter with
her engine, came wobbling over the British lines. Nobody shot at
her--she had just given our side sufficient reason for consideration by
dropping a highly-effective bomb on a wasp's nest of German
machine-gunners--and she crashed to ground behind a battery of First
Corps R.F.A. Her German pilot had been frightfully wounded. His
passenger, who sat in his lap to steer--and dropped the bomb!--escaped
with a shake-up. You've got the story? Then, here's the tag of it.
WE'VE GOT YOUR BOY! Bawne was the lucky fellow who only got a shaking.
He arrives at Charing Cross to-night at twelve sharp!"
He added, as a stifled cry travelled over the wire:
"Congratulations with all my heart, to you and Mrs. Saxham. And to Miss
Pat, though I'm afraid she pays, poor girl, in sorrow for your joy.
There is a report that Sherbrand's Bird of War No. 2 has been shot down
by a Zeppelin he encountered returning to the Front from England to-day,
to supply the place of an R.F.C. pilot--killed while on
observation-service near St. Yves--for Callenby's Cavalry Corps."
There was a stifled sound of interrogation or an exclamation. The Chief
continued:
"He had no bombs. It was madness to attack with only a Maxim and their
magazine-revolvers, but glorious madness worth a thousand sane,
reasonable acts. As it is, the Zeppelin--supposed to have been on her
way from Ostend to bomb St. O--was badly crippled and compelled to turn
back. It was a shell from one of her Q.F.'s that exploded Sherbrand's
petrol-tank and set the Bird on fire. The machine was seen to fall in
flames near Dixschoote--held by the Germans. Sherbrand and his observer
must be prisoners--that is, supposing they're alive. Hard luck! Break
it gently to the poor girl! Good-night!"
There was no answering Good-night, only a faint thud and rustle. Sir
Roland did not guess what he had done as he rang off and hung the
receiver up. And Lynette, coming into the consulting-room, noiselessly
as a pale moonbeam, found a big galumphing girl she loved lying huddled
between the chair and table, with her white face pressed against the
spot worn threadbare by the Doctor's feet.
Coincidence, you say, perhaps. Well, but what is Coincidence? Is it a
Dust-wind careering over the Desert in the neighbourhood of the
Pyramids, playing with straw and twigs and dead locusts' wings, and one
stray fragment of printed paper, as a Mounted Division of the British
Expeditionary Force encamped upon the slope not far from Gizeh, ride out
with the dawn to exercise their horses on the plain that is partly
flooded by the Nile? Or is it the ragged quarter-sheet torn from an
English newspaper, that wraps itself about the spurred ankle of the big
blond young Englishman who rides the vicious chestnut mare?
Long lines of horses marching in threes for miles, black and
coffee-coloured natives in flowing jubbehs mixed up with tanned young
British Centaurs in sun-helmets and khaki shorts--and the rag of paper
clings to the leg of the one man there whom its news concerns. She who
is dearer than all save Honour is once more a free woman,--and his faith
and constancy are to meet their reward. His letter lies before me; a
sentence pencilled more blackly than the rest stands out upon the
yellowish paper:
"_If this be accident it is incredible. If Design, it is miraculous.
And I had rather thank Heaven for a miracle vouchsafed than owe even
such happiness--to Chance._"
When the deep swoon gave place to semi-consciousness, the pale lips
uttered nothing but broken words. Locked away safely behind them was
the glorious news that would have changed two people's lives. Thus
Lynette was still ignorant of her own great happiness, when having
helped Patrine upstairs to her room and put her tenderly to bed, she
dismissed Mrs. Keyse to her own slumbers, and took her place beside
Patrine's pillow, listening to the sighing breaths that were growing
deeper and fuller, keenly alert for the sound of the Doctor's latch-key
and the Doctor's step in the hall.
It was close upon the smallest hour. Something had detained Saxham.
Sitting in the darkened room beside the long prone shape beneath the
coverings, Lynette was free to lean her head against the back of the
chair she sat in and yield herself to the bitter sweetness of memories
of her lost boy.
What the sorrow of Shakespeare wrought in deathless lines no halting pen
like mine dare strive to portray. Enough that the beloved little ghost
that haunted the woman whose heart was breaking, was closer than ever to
Lynette on this night. All day the sweet obsession had thrust itself
between Bawne's mother and solid, tangible things. The red-gold sheen
of the boyish head, the gay blue challenge of the laughing eyes, the
coaxing tones of the treble voice had tortured the senses they deceived.
She had thrust him away with both hands, for ordinary, commonplace
duties claimed, and yielding led the way to madness. He had come back
again and again, to be driven away once more. Now that her hands lay
idle in her lap--now that she was withdrawn from the world and its
realities, the beloved little ghost returned and had his will with her.
Sitting in the haunted gloom, a strange conviction came to Lynette.
This was not Grief, travestying in the figure of the absent, but a
visitation from the World Unseen.... Bawne was dead, and had been
dragged back from the threshold of the Beyond by her own unbridled
yearnings. Could there be a punishment more terrible than this? Only
those who have loved and lost, and clinging to their faith in a Future
Life, strive to bear patiently the burden of bereavement, can comprehend
the torture of this woman in this hour.
The Presence grew more torturingly tangible. The empty shell of the
house that had been Bawne's home was full of his callings, his
movements, his play, his laughter. She heard his quick soft breathing
behind her chair in the darkness. Once she could have vowed that a hard
little boyish hand brushed against her cheek. Then she was alone once
more, except for the unconscious sleeper. And then the torture began
all over again.
Bawne was coming home, late, from the Hendon Flying Ground. The long
months of misery--the horror of the War--had been a dreadful dream. She
heard the long _br'r'_ of the electric hall-bell under the impetuous
insistent finger--the small scurry of his entrance, a squawk from the
maid who answered night-calls--a whispered word or two, and the clumping
of the heavy little brogues upon the stairs. Would he trip at the
corner where he always stubbed his toe? she wondered--and she plainly
heard him stumble. Then her hair stiffened upon her head, and a long
shudder rippled through her. The little clumping brogues had stopped
before Patrine's bedroom door.
"_Mother!_"
His voice called, and his well-known thump came on the door-panel. The
handle clicked. She controlled her shuddering and forced her stiffened
tongue to speech.
"_Come in, my own!_"
The tall door swung slowly inwards. A wedge of brightness from the
lighted landing threw his shadow over the white-enamelled door-post....
The darkness of the room soaked it greedily up. Then the doorway was a
square of radiance with a little ghostly figure framed in it. All the
light was behind him. She could not see his face, but she felt his eyes
upon her.... Then the voice that her ears were sick for said with a
quaver in its treble:
"It's dark, but I can hear you breathing! ... Mother, why didn't you and
Father come? I thought when I got there I'd be sure to see you! ... But
amongst all those faces and faces not one was yours--and--Man alive!--I
wanted to blub a bit! I'm not quite sure that I didn't, you know!"
She stretched her arms to the beloved little ghost, whispering:
"My poor, poor love, my baby, my treasure! Mother knows how much it
hurt. But be patient a little longer. Soon--soon--your father and
I----"
The woe-wave rose and swelled in her bosom, tears began to run over her
stiff white face. The clasped hands she stretched to him were
quivering, but she controlled them like the trembling of her voice.
"Go back to Paradise, my little son! Wait patiently, my love, my Angel!
I have been wrong, but I will grieve no more! I will be patient:--O!
believe----"
A man's footsteps sounded on the staircase and the great shadowy figure
of the Doctor appeared behind Bawne's little shape. With a swift
movement Saxham caught up the bewildered boy, made one long stride
across the threshold, and put the warm, living treasure into the
mother's outstretched arms...
Once again big black-lettered contents-bills shrieked from the railings
and were worn after the fashion of heralds' tabards by the vendors of
newspapers, and the editions were snapped up as fast as they came out.
Here are some of the headlines:
"THRILLING ESCAPE OF KIDNAPPED BOY SCOUT FROM THE HANDS OF THE HUN.
YOUNG HERO OF NORTH SEA ADVENTURE LANDS BEHIND BRITISH LINES AT
LANGEBEKE IN TAUBE WITH A BOCHE PRISONER. FULL STORY OF HOW SCOUT WHO
SAVED THE CLANRONALD PAPERS BOMBED THE GERMAN MACHINE-GUNS. DECORATION
OF SCOUT SAXHAM WITH 'GOLDEN WOLF' BADGE BY ROYAL PRESIDENT AT
ASSOCIATION HEADQUARTERS. PROBABLE TESTIMONIAL FROM BRITISH PUBLIC.
AFTERNOON TEA WITH THE WAR MINISTER AT WHITEHALL. EXPECTED INVESTITURE
WITH EDWARDIAN ORDER OF MERIT. WHAT YOU GET BY BEING PREPARED!"
And again:
"SPLENDID PLUCK OF BRITISH AVIATOR. FIGHTS ZEPPELIN ON WAY TO BOMB
BRITISH HEADQUARTERS. AIRSHIP CRIPPLED. SHERBRAND R.F.C. KILLED. FALLS
IN FLAMES OVER GERMAN LINES. HEROIC END OF SOLE REMAINING HEIR TO
PENINSULAR WAR EARLDOM, AND INVENTOR OF THE HAWK-HOVERER THAT SOLVES
PROBLEM OF STABILITY. WILL WAR OFFICE ADOPT GREAT INVENTION, EMPLOYED
BY ALLIES' FLYING SERVICES?"
Three days later:
"SHERBRAND R.F.C. RECEIVES POSTHUMOUS HONOURS FROM FRANCE AND BELGIUM.
CROIX D'HONNEUR AND ORDER OF LEOPOLD. WHY NOT BRITISH D.S.O.?"
*CHAPTER LXX*
*A LOVER'S JOURNEY*
The crossing--in this Arctic April weather when all of Britain and
Belgium and North-West France lay under snowdrifts--had been calm and
smooth enough for the worst sea-stomachs on the steamer. The tall young