WHEN THE HEART SUFFERS A BLOW
What says the body when they spring
Some monster torture-engine's whole
Strength on it? No more says the soul.
_Count Gismond._
Flying is no sport for the sluggard. The calmest hours of the
twenty-four are often those before the dawn, and the earnest aviator
must be ready to turn out of his warm bed at six, five, four, even
three o'clock in the morning, whether in the pleasant summer, or in the
correspondingly unpleasant winter. He may then have to spend long hours
at the 'drome waiting for the fog to lift, or the rain to clear, or the
wind to drop; and in the end, as like as not, he may have to go home,
wet, chilly, and sleepy, without having flown a yard. Decidedly not the
sport for a sluggard.
Six A.M. in mid-October, and bitterly cold. There was a gray
sky, ripple on ripple of quilted cloud with never a gleam, and a small
icy wind that blew persistently from the north. The coarse bice-green
of the marshes was all discolored; the sedge, biscuit-pale, was clotted
with mud from the September floods; the brimming dikes were ruled by
the wind into long ripples, hard and black against the dawn. The dawn
itself, how wan and threatening! Denis, surveying the signs of the sky
as he unlocked the hangar, exerted himself to remark to Simpson that
it looked like rain. Simpson, expert mechanic and latter-day Grimaud,
assented with his civil grunt. His uncivil grunt he did not use on
Denis, who had once been his officer.
Like every worker who spins his stuff out of his own brain, Denis at
times "went stale." For the past ten days the flying boat had been
laid aside, and he had been tinkering at the monoplane by way of
relaxation. Never losing sight of the function for which she had been
built, that of a small fast scout in the war which he expected, he
was always adding small improvements. Thus, after his experience in
the Birmingham race, he had fitted her with self-starting gear, which
enabled the pilot to get away at will, independent of outside help. Now
he was working at a brake. Landing is still one of the chief dangers in
cross-country flying, especially in England, where fields are small,
and there is often a web of overhead wires. At that time (1913) there
were not a dozen aerodromes in the kingdom, and not one aëroplane in
ten had a brake of any sort.
Theoretically, Denis's new design was all it should be; practically,
of course, it might upset the machine and kill the pilot. Not that
Denis ever believed he would be killed. "The airman hath said in his
heart, Tush, I shall never be cast down, there shall no harm happen
unto me." He believed other people might be killed, however, and for
this reason had severely snubbed Simpson when he offered to take on the
trials. Simpson, faithful dog, bore no resentment. He had been watching
the events of the past few weeks, and had come to the conclusion that
'e (in Simpson's mind Denis was always 'e) wasn't to say accountable
just now. "You'd 'a' thought 'e might 'a' took warning by Muster
Wandesforde," he reflected. "'E's a nice gent spoiled by the women, if
ever there was one. But no. Jane! JANE! 'Ave you got that stooed steak
on yet? You ain't? Then it'll be as tough as your shoe again. 'E ain't
complained? 'E lef' the lot at the side of 'is plate last time, and if
that ain't complainin' I dono what is. Now you get it on at once and
let's hear no more chat. Seems to me you ain't good for anything, 'cep
that bein' so deaf you can't gossip. Women," added Simpson, knocking
out his pipe against his boot, "they're the devil!"
After some preliminary "taxi-ing" on the ground, Denis rose, circling
over the marshes. The country was asleep; pillars of smoke rose from
cottage chimneys, but not a soul was abroad except the milkman, with
his rattling silver cans, and a solitary cyclist, spinning down the
road towards Dent-de-lion. The cyclist waved a greeting; the blasé
milkman did not so much as glance up. Denis sailed over them, over
the roof of his house, turned into the wind, "flattened out" (_i.e._
brought level the nose of his machine, which had been gliding down
a slant) and grounded on the turf without a jar. The brake acted
perfectly. Simpson ran up, almost enthusiastic. He and Denis stood
together talking shop (which was the sum of Simpson's talk) with zeal
(Simpson supplying the zeal).
"Hi!"
Denis turned, screwing up his short-sighted eyes. At sight of the
approaching figure his jaw dropped; he spoke one curt imperious
sentence over his shoulder to Simpson, seized the new-comer's arm,
dragged him back to the house, thrust him into the parlor and locked
the door upon him, all without a word. Gardiner was left gasping. Here
was a reception! But in a minute Denis was back, pushing open the door
with a tray of breakfast crockery and the inevitable sausages. He
deposited his burden on the table, which was already laid, and turned
to lock the door again.
"What on earth possessed you to come here? I've shut up Simpson, and
he'll hold his tongue, but I'd not answer for Miss Simpson, if she saw
you. You must be mad!"
"Mad?--to come here? I'm not running from the police, my good Denis;
did you think I was?"
"I understood your brother to say--"
"Oh, you've heard from Tom, have you?" Gardiner's tone was a shade less
confident. "Yes, I admit I did do a bunk from Woodlands; they took me
by surprise, and I wasn't ready for 'em; I had two-three things to
finish off--among others, I wanted a word with you. Which is why I'm
here. But as soon as I've swallowed the sausage which I trust you're
going to offer me I'm off to Margate to surrender to the minions of the
law."
"I thought you couldn't stand prison," said Denis. "I thought it was
the one risk you weren't prepared to face. However, it's no business of
mine. If you can face it, I certainly think you're wise to. Mustard?
Oh, I forgot, you don't take it, do you?"
He poured out a cup of Miss Simpson's rich, muddy coffee for Gardiner
and another for himself, but he did not drink; he went to the window
and stood looking down the road. Gardiner, who was famished, drew up
his chair; but his eyes kept straying to that silent figure. There was
something in the wind that he did not like. Denis was utterly unlike
himself, unlike any self his friend had ever had a glimpse of. He was
so unapproachable that Gardiner knew not how to broach the errand that
had brought him there. Presently, however, he turned to attend to
Geraldine, who was winding round his boots and opening her little pink
mouth in soundless mews of ecstasy. As he rose from putting down the
saucer, he caught Gardiner's eye, and smiled faintly.
"Sorry, Harry. 'Fraid I've rather let you down over this business.
Anybiddy else would have made a better hand at it. But I'm not much
good at dissembling, and tell a lie I cann't--any babe could see
through it. Else I'd have done my best."
"My dear chap, I don't want you to tell lies for me!" said Gardiner
hastily. He was more than surprised; he was appalled. "In point of
fact, I'm not sorry it has come out. I've had no peace of my life
these last two months, with Mrs. Trent going about like an unexploded
bomb. I knew she'd never rest till she harried me into the dock." He
perceived, as he spoke, a certain change in the atmosphere. Denis had
been sufficiently far away before; now he seemed to recede to the
North Pole. There was a snapshot of Dorothea in her flying kit on the
mantelpiece. Was _this_ the explanation? Surely not! Surely she was
the last woman in the world to attract a man like Denis! Gardiner, be
it remembered, had never met that eager child who had learned to fly.
"It's about her I want to speak to you," he broke the ice determinedly.
"Here's the point. Do you, or do you not, remember what Trent said in
that last speech of his, just before I let fly at him?"
"I'm hardly likely to forget it."
"No, no, not the sense, the words; the actual phrasing he used. Do you
remember that?"
He took a moment to think. "Perhaps not. No, not to swear to."
"Good! Then it's all plain sailing. Tell everything that happened
up till then; be as discursive as you please about my share in the
business; but say, and swear, and stick to it that you can't remember
that last speech, and at any price don't let it be dragged out of you."
"Very well."
"At any price, you understand?"
"At any price?"
"Yes; absolutely without reserve, at any price."
"I understand."
"That's off my mind, then," said Gardiner with a breath of relief. "I
had to see you, to make sure we should both be in the same tale. Now
I'll be off to Margate while the iron's hot."
"Wait a moment," said Denis, detaining him. "Before you go into this
quixotic business I think you ought to see what it means. Of course
I know you've been making light of it to spare my feelings, but I
don't believe you yourself realize what it is you're up against. It's
serious. I'm afraid they're going to make it a perjury charge. I had
the police up here for hours yesterday--they wanted to run me in too--"
"You? Oh, my God, Denis! They're not going to do that?"
"No, I don't think so. What's the matter with you?"
"I never dreamed of that," said Gardiner, holding his head in his
hands. "I swear I never dreamed there was the remotest possibility of
that! To drag you, of all men, into this filthy mess--" He dropped
his hands and looked up, speaking fast and free: "Of course you're
right. I have been humbugging. I know I'm in for a stiff sentence. I'd
never thought of perjury as a possible charge. But I give you my word,
Denis, if I'd ever had the faintest idea there was the faintest risk
of involving you, I'd have--I'd have blown my brains out first. Oh,
Lettice was right; it is a fatal thing to be a coward."
"Lettice?"
"I went to her on my way. Yes, I did mean to bolt in the first
instance; I've got my rig-out strapped on my bike at this instant. It
was she stopped me. She does know how to sting up your conscience! But
they can't really drag you in, Denis, can they? You never did actually
say one syllable beyond the truth. Did you make them see that?"
"I think so," said Denis. "I don't think they'll take it any further.
And if they did, they couldn't convict. It's all right. I don't know
what you're putting yourself about for."
"Perjury, Denis? It's not a pretty charge."
"No," said Denis. "Still, I don't know that it much matters."
How quietly he spoke! At Grasmere he had shrunk from the slightest
innocent contact with the story; but here was the stain black on his
own honor, and it moved him no more than did his friend's remorse.
Gardiner had once said it would go hard with Denis if his idols tumbled
off their pedestals. This indifference was worse than his worst fears.
Would he ever find his way back? Or was there some hidden mischief,
some deadly internal injury at which Gardiner could only guess? What
had Dorothea done--what had she killed when she struck her blow? There
grew on the young man, watching, a sense of disaster....
Denis had drifted back to the window and stood there, absently
whistling his one tune:
"C'est difficile de voir voler Orville;
C'est bien plus dur de voir voler Wilbur--"
Suddenly he broke off and bent forward in quick attention.
"Anything up?" said Gardiner.
Denis wheeled and swiftly pushed him back from the window.
"The police."
"What, have they come to pump you again?"
"No, it's you they're after."
"Nonsense, man! How can they know I'm here?"
"Evans has told them."
"Who's Evans?"
"The man who brings the milk. He was at the door when you arrived. He's
coming up the road with them now."
"But how the deuce should Evans--"
"Your description's out, and a reward. Five hundred pounds. He must
have gone straight off to the police station."
"Five hundred pounds!" Gardiner was as white as his shirt. "Who offered
it?"
Denis would not answer or look at him. There was no need; Gardiner knew
well enough who had offered it, and the shock made him sick. Did she
indeed hate him so much as all that?
"Well, they'll save me the trouble of going to Margate," he said as
lightly as he could, and moved towards the door. Denis stopped him.
"Wait. Think. If you're taken now, like this, you'll not be allowed
bail. You'll be in prison till the February Assizes."
"--Break me in by degrees!" said Gardiner in a sort of gasp, still
pressing towards the door. Denis still held him back.
"_Will you cut it?_"
"How can I?"
"Quite simple. The monoplane's out at the back--I told Simpson to have
her ready. He'll swear anything I like to tell him, and Miss Simpson
never saw you at all. You've only to say the word, and I'll set you
down in France within the hour."
"You, Denis? You advise me to run?"
"Why not?" said Denis. "I think the point-of-honor stunt is overdone.
It doesn't pay."
Gardiner's ideas of right and wrong were all tumbling about his ears.
That Denis should advise such a thing! It went more than half-way
towards making it seem right. It showed, too, that he dreaded the
ordeal of the witness-box, and lent a specious color of unselfishness
to the plan. And in those last moments of liberty Gardiner, like the
prisoner of the Inquisition, seemed to feel the flaming walls sliding
together, contracting, closing in upon his life to drive him into the
pit.... "_If you're afraid of a thing_"--That voice again! There was
the touchstone.
"No," said Gardiner. "No, I'm _damned_ if I will!"
He walked out and threw open the door to the police.