IN WHICH WE FIND LOVERS OF TWO KINDS AND MEET WITH A POIGNANT
INVENTION
"What we want," the Director said, "in particular, is young men and
young women to be enthusiastic about these songs and dances and get
them spread about;" and lunching with Naomi at her father's, and
finding there Dollie Heathcote and with him the young woman to whom,
after various flirtations with others, he has become engaged, I
endeavoured to kindle them. But to little purpose. Dollie, like all
young men with good education and no particular bent, is just now,
having given up his mild liaison with the law, thinking of selling
motor-cars, and to such a character folk-song and dance has no more
attraction than a nut-food luncheon to a company promoter. His line
of music is that purveyed at the Gaiety and the Halls; and all he
would say in commendation of our simple pleasures was that if we
could do anything half as good as "In the Shadows" we might count on
him to whistle it. His fiancée, a Miss Ann Ingleside, was hardly
more promising as regards the songs, but was quite willing to come to
one of the dance classes and see if it was good enough fun to go on
with; and that is something gained.
Why these young people should be engaged is not patent to the
ordinary observer, for each seems to be an adept at independence, and
they give no signs of tenderness or even affection. But among the
leisured classes the devout lover has gone out. They were talking at
lunch about the afternoon's plans. Dollie was for a matinee; Ann for
a hockey final at Richmond. They were selfish enough to refuse each
to give way to the other, but not sufficiently detached to wish to be
alone. Such conflicts naturally end in victory for the stronger,
since there is no spontaneous giving way, and of course that was Ann.
So Heathcote had to forego his matinee. Personally I think I would
like to see some colourable imitation of turtle-doving come in again.
It was very silly, no doubt, for young couples to be so publicly
fond, and yet it was rather pretty too; whereas the new ostentation
of cool self-sufficiency can be almost ugly.
Yet there are still the profounder tendernesses. Let me tell you a
story:
The man had become very ill--could hardly move from where he lay; and
she, who loved him, and was to have married him, and spent all her
waking hours in thinking what she could do for him, persuaded him to
have a telephone installed and brought to his bedside so that he and
she could talk, and he could talk with others, too. Every night he
rang her up and they had a long conversation; many times in the day
also. Nothing, as it happened, could have saved his life, but this
modern device lightened his last weeks.
His death, although it blasted her hopes, made no difference to her
devotion. She merely installed his memory in the place of his rich
personality and loved that. He, almost more than ever, was her
standard. What he would have liked, she did; what he would have
disliked, she left undone. Although dead, he swayed her utterly; and
under his dominion she was equable and gentle, although broken at
heart. She took all things as they came, since how could anything
matter now that everything that mattered was over?
One perplexity only had power to trouble her, and that was the
wonder, the amazement, the horror, not only that so much knowledge
and kindliness and sympathy and all that made for the world's good
and happiness should be so wantonly extinguished; but that no touch
of the vanished hand should be permitted to the one soul (now left
behind) with whom his soul had been fused. This she could neither
understand nor forgive. Religious she had never been in the ordinary
sense, although such religion as must sway a true idealistic lover
was hers; but now she broke even from such slender ties as had held
her to orthodoxy. She threw off the creed of her parents as
naturally and simply as if it were a borrowed garment, and sank into
her sorrow, which was also her solace, without another thought of
here or hereafter.
So it went on for a year or so, during which time his house had
remained empty, save for a caretaker--for she (who was rich) could
not bear that anyone else should live there--and his room exactly as
he had died in it.
One evening she dined out. Her next neighbour on one side was a
young American engineer, and in their conversation they came in time
to the topic of invention and the curious aptitude for inventiveness
shown by the American race. It was a case, said the engineer, of
supply following demand: all Americans required
time-and-labour-saving appliances, and they obtained them. Where
servants abounded and there was no servant problem, as in England and
on the Continent, the need for such contrivances was not acute. And
so on. The conversation thus begun reached at last specific
inventions, and the engineer told of a remarkable one which had come
under his notice just before he left New York.
"You will probably not believe me," he said; "the thing sounds
incredible; but then who would have believed once that there could be
a telegraph, and still less a telephone? Who would have believed
that the camera would ever be anything but a dream? I will tell you
what this is. It is a machine in which you insert a portion, no
matter how small, of a telephone wire, and by turning a handle you
compel this piece of wire to give back every message that has ever
passed over it."
She held her heart. "This really exists?" she forced herself to ask.
"Actually," said the engineer. "But when I left home the inventor
was in a difficulty. All the messages were coming out all right, but
backwards. Naturally the reproduction would be from the most recent
to the less recent. By writing down the words and then reversing
them the investigator could of course get at what he was wanting--I
may say that the invention is for the New York police--but my friend
is convinced that he can devise some mechanical system of reversing
at the time which will make the messages read forward as they should.
Just think of the excitement of the detective, listening through all
the voices and ordinary conversations on the wire for the one voice
and the one sentence that will give him his long-desired clue!--But
are you ill?"
"No, no," she said, although her face was a ghastly white, "no; it is
nothing. The room is a little hot. Tell me some more about your
inventive friend. Is he wealthy?"
"Indeed, no," said the engineer. "That is his trouble. If he had
more money, or if he had some rich backers who believed in him, he
might do wonders."
"I should like to help him," she said. "This kind of work interests
me. Could you not cable him to come over and bring the thing with
him? I would gladly finance him. I want some sporting outlet like
that for my money."
"Cable?"
"Yes, cable. There are things that one does by impulse or not at
all. The butler here will get you a form."
It was a few weeks later that she went to the empty house with an
employee of the telephone company, and they extracted a foot of the
precious wire. That night she held it in her trembling fingers and
placed it in the machine. Then she carefully locked the door and
drew the heavy curtain over it and carried the machine to the
farthest corner of the room. There, with a sigh of relief and tense
and almost terrible anticipation, she sat down and placed her ear to
the receiver and began to turn the handle.
His voice sounded at once: "Are you there?" It was quite clear, so
clear and unmistakable and actual that her hand paused on the handle
and she bowed her throbbing head. She turned on. "Are you there?"
the familiar tones repeated. And then the reply, "Yes, who is it?"
in a woman's voice. Then he spoke again. "Ernest," he said. "Is it
Helen?" Again her hand paused. Helen--that rubbishy little woman he
had known all his life and was on such good terms with. She
remembered now that she had been away when the telephone was
installed and others had talked on it before her. It could not be
helped: she had meant to be the first, but circumstances prevented.
There must be many conversations before she came to her own; she
would have to listen to them all. She turned on, and the laughing,
chaffing conversation with this foolish little Helen person repeated
itself out of the past now so tragic.
To other talks with other friends, and now and then with a tradesman,
she had to listen; but at last came her own.
"Is that you?" she heard her own voice saying, knowing it was her own
rather by instinct than by hearing. "Is that you? But I know it is.
How distinctly you speak!"
"Yes, it's me"--and his soft vibrant laugh.
"How are you, dear?"
"Better, I hope."
"Have you missed me?"
"Missed you!"
And then the endearments, the confidences, the hopes and fears, the
plans for the morrow, the plans for all life. As she listened the
tears ran down her face, but still she turned on and on. Sometimes
he was so hopeful and bright, and again so despairing.
She remembered the occasion of every word. Once she had dined out
and had gone to the theatre. It was an engagement she could not well
refuse. It was an amusing play and she was in good spirits. She
rang him up between the acts and found him depressed. Hurrying home,
she had settled down to talk to him at her ease. How it all came
back to her now.
"Are you there, my dearest?"
"Yes, but oh, so tired, so old!"
"It is a bad day. Everyone has been complaining of tiredness to-day."
"You say that because you are kind. Just to comfort me. It's no
use. I can see so clearly sometimes, I shall never get
well--to-night I know it."
"My darling, no."
And then silence--complete, terrifying.
She had rung up without effect. He had fainted, she thought, and had
dropped the receiver. She was in a fever of agony. She leaped into
a cab and drove to his house. The nurse reassured her; he had begun
to sob and did not want her to know it, and now he was asleep.
But there was no sleep for her that night. What if he were right--if
he really knew? In her heart she feared that he did; with the rest
of her she fought that fear.
As she listened, the tears ran down her face, but still she turned on
and on. She sat there for hours before the last words came, the last
he was ever to speak over the wire.
It was to make an appointment. He had rallied wonderfully at the end
and was confident of recovery. She was to bring her _modiste_ to his
room at eleven o'clock the next morning with her patterns, that he
might help in choosing her new dress. He had insisted on it--the
dress she was to wear on his first outing.
"At eleven," he had said. "Mind you don't forget. But then you
never forget anything. Good night once more, my sweet."
"Good night."
She had never seen him again alive. He died before the morning.
She put the machine away and looked out of the window. The sun had
risen. The sky was on fire with the promise of a beautiful day.
Worn out, she fell asleep; to wake--to what? To such awakening as
there is for those who never forget anything.
* * * * * * *
Every night found her bending over the machine. She had learned now
when not to listen. She had timed the reproduction absolutely, and,
watch in hand, she waited until the other messages were done, and her
own voice began. There was no condensing possible; one must either
each time have every conversation or stop it. But how could she stop
it before the end?
Locking the door and drawing the heavy curtain, she would sit down in
the far corner and begin to turn. She knew just how fast to turn for
others; so slowly for herself. When the watch gave her the signal
she would begin to listen.
"Is that you? Is that you? But I know it is. How distinctly you
speak!"
"Yes, it's me"--and the soft vibrant laugh.
"How are you, dear?"
"Better, I hope."
"Have you missed me?"
"Missed you!"