"After midnight, Uncle George, and miles from anywhere, so do please
hurry."
These were parting words to an uncle as he started back to the nearest
house--perhaps a quarter of a mile away--to get gasoline for his motor.
Alone in the car, the waiting woman began to realize the extraordinary
darkness that enveloped her. Along the road, in front, the two head
lights sent their beams of light. But elsewhere, on either side, behind
her and above, the black air seemed almost threatening in its silence.
So solemn was this silence that she began to imagine herself the only
living creature in England. Her own home was in another country, and
the invisible scenery on either side was all a mystery. It might be
open fields or densest forest--or both. But the damp air that came
slowly against her face seemed laden with odors of yet darker places,
of deep ravines or sunless caves.
Was this hideous gloom a regular habit with English nights? Being
in a foreign land this darkness was, perhaps, more terrifying than
darkness in a more familiar country. In the heavens above were no signs
of light, either of light that had been or of light to come. And it
seemed, in this tomb-like silence, as if the very universe were dead:
as if she had drifted into space--the infinite space of her astronomy.
From this sable silence she sought relief in watching a portion of the
road that lay before her, now illumined by the two lanterns of the car.
These beams of light seemed a cheerful, human bond between life and
death.
From the gloom, on her right, came the hopeless hoot of an owl. It
seemed a voice from the sepulcher--a summons to despair.
A hundred feet, or more, in front of her, where the farthest rays of
this light began to lose themselves and mingle with the darkness, she
saw a rabbit jump into the road, and speed across it. She wondered what
had frightened him. Also, she was inclined to blame him for not being
safe at home with his family instead of roaming about the world on such
an evil night. To a woman yearning for a sign of life 'twas a welcome
sight; but this rabbit, although a thing of life, was as noiseless and
unreal as the ghostly world about him. With his half dozen silent leaps
through the bar of light he seemed a phantom creature, "of such stuff
as dreams are made of."
From his nervous haste she judged that he was frightened. It was
possible, of course, that he was a fearless rabbit and merely taking
exercise for his health. But this theory was not accepted, and she
watched with interest to see what sort of a pursuer, if any, might
appear. Being in that state of mind when almost any imaginings might
come true, she would not have been surprised had the pursuer been a
real phantom.
But these speculations became less trifling, of a sudden, and were
transferred to quite a more serious object. From the same place, in the
same ghostly manner, but more slowly than his predecessor, stepped the
figure of a man. Shading his eyes with a hand, he stood for a moment in
the stream of light as if taking his bearings, or dazed by the glare
of the lanterns. Then he scraped, with his foot, a line in the road at
right angles to it, piling up a little mound of earth. The witness, in
the car, supposed he was marking for future guidance the spot at which
he entered from the blacker world. At last, and always with a hand
before his eyes, he came toward the blinding headlights. The invisible
spectator had straightened up and her dreaming eyes had opened wider.
For the figure was a strange one. On its head was a curious cap, which
seemed to be of leather. There were pieces at the ears standing up like
wings, as on some ancient helmets she had seen in pictures. The rest of
his attire also resembled leather, with high leggings reaching above
his knees. Around his waist a wide metallic band, something wider and
more important than a simple belt, glistened as he moved. The girl,
in alarm, stood up, looked back and listened for the absent uncle. She
heard nothing, and could see nothing. She sat down again, and waited.
The man, of medium height and slender figure, appeared to move
unsteadily, as if weak, or dizzy. He walked slowly, and stopped, once
or twice, as if to balance himself on unreliable legs. The unseen
spectator thought he might be ill, or injured in some way. When, at
last, he passed from the glare of the headlights and came into the
darkness, beside the car, she could discern him, dimly--or rather felt
his presence--as he stood there. And she knew that he was trying, and
probably in vain, to form some idea of the seated figure before him. At
last he spoke.
"Can you tell me, sir, where this is; what place?"
With these words the girl's fears departed. For, not only were they
uttered in a gentle, well modulated tone, but the voice itself had a
pleasing quality.
"I don't know, sir. But my uncle will be here in a moment. He can tell
you."
She could see that he took a step backward, and stood further away.
"I beg your pardon, madam. One can't see much in this light. Could you
tell me what--er--what state this is?"
"What state?"
"Yes--if you please."
This was a yet harder question. Did he mean some administrative
division of the country which she had never learned. Being unfamiliar
with English political geography, she answered simply.
"I don't know."
This time it was the questioner who was surprised. But, even more
gently than before, he inquired:
"You don't know what state we are in?"
"No, sir."
There was a short silence.
"Could you tell me," he inquired, always deferentially, "the name of
the nearest town?"
"Droitwich. I think we are in it now."
"Droitwich?"
"Yes, Droitwich."
He repeated the name as if hearing it for the first time.
"It must be a small place," he said.
"I think it is."
"What is the nearest town of importance;--the nearest city?"
"Worcester."
"Oh, Worcester! Thank you. I know Worcester. But I never heard of that
other place,--this place,--Droitwich. How far are we from Worcester?"
"About six miles, I think--six or seven."
"Oh, really!" He seemed relieved. There was happy surprise in his tone.
"Thank you. I am very much obliged. Good night."
He walked away, out into the stream of light. Slowly he walked,
carefully and with uncertain steps. A few yards away, however, he
stopped, hesitated, then turned, came back and again stood beside her.
"I beg your pardon for being so persistent, but may I ask you one more
question, even more foolish than the others? This city of Worcester is
in the State of Massachusetts, is it not?"
"In the state of Massachusetts?"
"Yes--that Worcester is the one you mean, is it not?"
Now if this conversation had occurred in the United States the girl
might have answered wisely, for she was more familiar with that country
and knew something of its geography. But when such wide-of-the-mark
questions were propounded in the heart of England they brought
bewilderment. Moreover, they indicated an unbelievable ignorance or a
wandering mind--or impertinence.
Her frown, although invisible in the darkness, seemed to reach the
traveler.
"I beg your pardon, but I really have no idea where I am. Would you
mind just telling me what part of the country we are in? Are we in
Massachusetts?"
His manner was earnest. The sincerity of his tone again inspired
confidence--and awakened her sympathy. "I don't quite know how to tell
you, but we are very far from Massachusetts."
"Then what state _is_ this?"
"I don't know just what you mean by state. The only state of
Massachusetts I ever heard of is in America."
"Isn't this America?"
This question so far transcended, in foolishness, all its predecessors
that her fears returned. She made no reply. What traveler, in his
senses, could be so far astray? Was he a wandering lunatic escaped from
his keepers, preferring darkness to light? Or was he merely amusing
himself at her expense? As she recalled the lateness of the hour, and
his strange appearance on the scene, her fears once more returned. Her
impulse was to stand up, turn about and see if her uncle was in sight.
But she dared not stir. Such action might offend him. For lunatics are
often sensitive, and easily enraged. The figure in the gloom, however,
came no nearer, but remained at a proper distance. When next he spoke
it was slowly, and yet more earnestly. And the girl knew from his
manner as well as from his words that he suspected the impression he
was making.
"I don't blame you, madam, for whatever thoughts you may have. I have
traveled so fast and so far that I am really dazed. But if you will
kindly tell me where we are, in what country, state, province or
territory,--anything--it will be doing me a great service."
In a constrained voice, and in a tone which made it reasonably clear
that this conversation was affording her little pleasure, she replied:
"We are near the city of Worcester, in England."
For a moment he stood in silence. Then, with a certain weariness in
his voice, "Thank you. I hope you will pardon my disturbing you."
"Certainly."
Again he moved away.
This man's voice stirred memories. But these memories--of some far-away
past--were dim and elusive. Vainly she tried to recall either when or
where she had known the voice. Just as he was turning from the bar of
light to disappear into the outer gloom, there came to her a gleam of
memory from the distant past. Quickly she stood up in the car, her
lips parted to call aloud. But she hesitated. A mistake, under present
conditions, might prove more than awkward. So she uttered no sound.
The stranger, however, as if responding to the unuttered words--to
the thought itself--turned about and came toward the car. He walked
quickly, but with the same unsteadiness as when he first appeared; and
always with a hand before his eyes to shut out the blinding glare of
the headlight. When alongside the car, again invisible in the darkness,
he said:
"Yes, I am Drowsy. Who calls me?"
She was startled as she realized, in a kind of terror, that the
unspoken message must have reached him. However, she answered, simply:
"Ruth Heywood."
With an exclamation of surprise and joy he opened the door, climbed in
and seated himself beside her.
"Oh, this is too good!"
In the darkness he groped about and they managed to shake hands.
"Why, Ruth, this is hard to believe!"
It was, indeed! Many questions were asked, and answered. And they
talked of earlier days at Longfields, of Longfields people, of what
sort of men and women their playmates had become. More than all else,
they talked of their old friendship and their various adventures
together. And both laughed in recalling how Ruth in that distant period
was mother, sister, aunt, governess and best girl to Cyrus. This
revival of the old intimacy had reached a stage where the enshrouding
darkness was almost forgotten.
"But tell me, Drowsy," she demanded, "how came you here and why did you
ask all those crazy questions? I should be sorry to think you had been
dining too well."
"Dining too well! No, my wabbly course just now was owing, partly, to
not having dined at all:--and with neither lunch nor breakfast either."
"You poor thing! Then why pretend you didn't know you were in England?"
"There was no pretending. I really didn't know until you told me."
"Indeed! And where did you think yourself? In Australia?"
"I had no idea. If you had told me I was in Australia I should have
believed you. I have been traveling so high above the earth that the
upper ether went to my head--and legs."
[Illustration: "----FAR AND FAST, EVEN FOR A BIRD MAN"--_Page 181_]
"You must have been fast and far, even for a bird man, if you didn't
know on which side of the ocean you had landed."
There was a silence:--a silence of doubt and of budding suspicion in
the woman's mind.
"Listen, Ruth. I _have_ been far and fast, even for a bird man. I will
tell you all about it later, if you don't mind. If I told you now, you
would think me crazier, if possible, than when I asked those questions.
And I shouldn't blame you. My story would seem as fantastic as if I
had been around the world in a night, or to another planet. What I
have done--where I have been is--is--so impossible that you would
be a very credulous person to believe it. But later I will tell you
all--everything--please consider me in my right mind."
"In your right mind! Why, Drowsy, you were never in your right mind!
So I should believe anything you told me--unless it was something easy
or natural, like other people. You were always doing impossible things
and thinking impossible thoughts--a most disturbing boy. I remember I
always felt responsible for you. You wanted the moon--even then."
"And now, a full-fledged lunatic, I have just come from the moon!"
"I have no doubt you think so. And you were always reaching up to pick
a star. Yes, you _were_ a trial."