O. HENRY MEMORIAL AWARD
PRIZE STORIES
of 1919
CHOSEN BY THE SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS
1924
CONTENTS
ENGLAND TO AMERICA. By Margaret Prescott Montague
"FOR THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO." By Wilbur Daniel Steele
THEY GRIND EXCEEDING SMALL. By Ben Ames Williams
ON STRIKE. By Albert Payson Terhune.
THE ELEPHANT REMEMBERS. By Edison Marshall
TURKEY RED. By Frances Gilchrist Wood
FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD. By Melville Davisson Post
THE BLOOD OF THE DRAGON. By Thomas Grant Springer
"HUMORESQUE." By Fannie Hurst
THE LUBBENY KISS. By Louise Rice.
THE TRIAL IN TOM BELCHER'S STORE. By Samuel A. Derieux
PORCELAIN CUPS. By James Branch Cabell
THE HIGH COST OF CONSCIENCE. By Beatrice Ravenel
THE KITCHEN GODS. By G.F. Alsop
APRIL 25TH, AS USUAL. By Edna Ferber
INTRODUCTION
On April 18, 1918, the Society of Arts and Sciences of New York City
paid tribute to the memory of William Sydney Porter at a dinner in
honour of his genius. In the ball-room of the Hotel McAlpin there
gathered, at the speakers' table, a score of writers, editors and
publishers who had been associated with O. Henry during the time he
lived in Manhattan; in the audience, many others who had known him, and
hundreds yet who loved his short stories.
Enthusiasm, both immediate and lasting, indicated to the Managing
Director of the Society, Mr. John F. Tucker, that he might progress
hopefully toward an ideal he had, for some time, envisioned. The goal
lay in the establishing of a memorial to the author who had transmuted
realistic New York into romantic Bagdad-by-the-Subway.
When, therefore, in December, 1918, Mr. Tucker called a committee for
the purpose of considering such a memorial, he met a glad response. The
first question, "What form shall the monument assume?" drew tentative
suggestions of a needle in Gramercy Square, or a tablet affixed to the
corner of O. Henry's home in West Twenty-sixth Street. But things of
iron and stone, cold and dead, would incongruously commemorate the
dynamic power that moved the hearts of living men and women, "the master
pharmacist of joy and pain," who dispensed "sadness tinctured with a
smile and laughter that dissolves in tears."
In short, then, it was decided to offer a minimum prize of $250 for the
best short story published in 1919, and the following Committee of Award
was appointed:
BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS, Ph.D.
EDWARD J. WHEELER, Litt.D.
ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD
ROBERT WILSON NEAL, M.A.
MERLE ST. CROIX WRIGHT, D.D.
It is significant that this committee had no sooner begun its round
table conferences than the Society promised, through the Director, funds
for two prizes. The first was fixed at $500, the second at $250.
At a meeting in January, 1919, the Committee of Award agreed upon the
further conditions that the story must be the work of an American
author, and must first appear in 1919 in an American publication. At the
same time an Honorary Committee was established, composed of writers and
editors, whose pleasure it might be to offer advice and propose stories
for consideration. The Honorary Committee consisted of
GERTRUDE ATHERTON
EDWARD J. O'BRIEN
FANNIE HURST
JOHN MACY
BURGES JOHNSON
MRS. EDWIN MARKHAM
ROBERT MORSS LOVETT
JOHN S. PHILLIPS
WILLIAM MARION REEDY
VIRGINIA RODERICK
WALTER ROBERTS
CHARLES G. NORRIS
EDWARD E. HALE
MAX EASTMAN
CHARLES CALDWELL DOBIE
MARGARET SHERWOOD
HAMLIN GARLAND
JAMES BRANCH CABELL
STUART P. SHERMAN
WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE
STEPHEN LEACOCK
MAJOR RUPERT HUGHES
EUGENE MANLOVE RHODES
The Committee of Award read throughout the year, month by month, scores
of stories, rejecting many, debating over others, and passing up a
comparative few for final judgment. In January, out of the hundred or
more remaining, they salvaged the following:
1. The Kitchen Gods, by Guglielma Alsop (_Century_, September).
2. Facing It, by Edwina Stanton Babcock (_Pictorial Review_, June).
3. The Fairest Sex, by Mary Hastings Bradley (_Metropolitan_, March).
4. Bargain Price, by Donn Byrne (_Cosmopolitan_, March).
5. Porcelain Cups, by James Branch Cabell (_Century_, November).
6. Gum Shoes, 4-B, by Forrest Crissey (_Harper's_, December).
7. The Trial in Tom Belcher's Store, by Samuel A. Derieux (_American_,
June).
8. April Twenty-fifth As Usual, by Edna Ferber (_Ladies Home Journal_,
July).
9. The Mottled Slayer, by George Gilbert (_Sunset_, August).
10. Dog Eat Dog, by Ben Hecht (_The Little Review_, April).
11. Blue Ice, by Joseph Hergesheimer (_Saturday Evening Post_, December
13).
12. Innocence, by Rupert Hughes (_Cosmopolitan_, September).
13. Humoresque, by Fannie Hurst (_Cosmopolitan_, March).
14. The Yellow Streak, by Ellen La Motte (_Century_, March).
15. The Elephant Remembers, by Edison Marshall (_Everybody's_, October).
16. England to America, by Margaret Prescott Montague (_Atlantic_,
September).
17. Five Thousand Dollars Reward, by Melville D. Post (_Saturday Evening
Post_, February 15).
18. The Lubbeny Kiss, by Louise Rice (_Ainslee's_, October).
19. The High Cost of Conscience, by Beatrice Ravenel (_Harper's_,
January).
20. The Red Mark, by John Russell (_Collier's_, April 15).
21. The Trap, by Myra Sawhill (_American_, May).
22. Evening Primroses, by Anne D. Sedgwick (_Atlantic_, July).
23. Autumn Crocuses, by Anne D. Sedgwick (_Atlantic_, August).
24. The Blood of the Dragon, by Thomas Grant Springer (_Live Stories_,
May).
25. Contact, by Wilbur Daniel Steele (_Harper's_, March).
26. For They Know not What They Do, by Wilbur Daniel Steele (_Pictorial
Review_, July).
27. La Guiablesse, by Wilbur Daniel Steele (_Harpers_, September).
28. On Strike, by Albert Payson Terhune (_The Popular Magazine_,
October).
29. The Other Room, by Mary Heaton Vorse (_McCall's_, April).
30. They Grind Exceeding Small, by Ben Ames Williams (_Saturday Evening
Post_, September 13).
31. On the Field of Honour, by Ben Ames Williams (_American_, March).
32. Turkey Red, by Frances Gilchrist Wood (_Pictorial Review_,
November).
Although the exiguity of the vessel forbids inclusion of all these
stories, yet the Committee wish to record them as worthy of preservation
under covers. Publishing by title, therefore, carries all the honour
attached to publishing the complete story.
Awarding the prizes proved difficult. No title stood first on all the
lists: rated best by one judge, any story lost rank through lower rating
by another. But the following held from first place to fifth place on
the separate final lists: "La Guiablesse," "England to America," "For
They Know not What They Do," "Evening Primroses," "Autumn Crocuses,"
"Humoresque," "The Red Mark," "They Grind Exceeding Small," "On Strike,"
"The Elephant Remembers," "Contact," and "Five Thousand Dollars Reward."
It will be observed that three of Wilbur Daniel Steele's narratives
appear. If the prize had been announced as going to the author of more
stories rated first, he would have received it. But by the predetermined
conditions, it must fall to the author of the best story, and according
to a recognized system of counts,[A] the best is "England to America";
the second best, "For They Know not What They Do." The first award,
therefore, goes to Miss Margaret Prescott Montague; the second to Mr.
Wilbur Daniel Steele.
[Footnote A:
Since there were five judges, the system used was the following:
A story of place 1 was given 5 points
" " " " 2 " " 4 "
" " " " 3 " " 3 "
" " " " 4 " " 2 "
" " " " 5 " " 1 point.]
The Committee were remarkably unanimous in answering the question, "What
is a short-story?"; but they differed, rather violently, over the
fulfilment of requirements by the various illustrations. Without doubt,
the most provocative of these was Mr. Steele's "Contact." Three of the
Committee think it a short-story; two declare it an article; all agree
that no finer instance of literature in brief form was published in
1919.
Their diverging views, however, challenged curiosity: what did the
publishers think about it? The editor of _Harper's_ wrote:
"Contact" was written by Mr. Steele after a personal visit to the North
Sea fleet. It is a faithful portrayal of the work done by our destroyers
and therefore falls under the category of "articles."
And the Author:
I am not quite sure what to say. The piece, "Contact," of which you
speak, was in a sense drawn from life, that is to say it is made up of a
number of impressions gained while I was at sea with the U.S. destroyers
off the coast of France. The characters are elaborations of real
characters, and the "contact" told of was such a one as I actually
witnessed. Otherwise, the chronology of events, conversations, etc.,
were gathered from various sources and woven to the best of my ability
so as to give a picture of the day's work of our convoying forces in the
War.
These data reconcile, in part, the conflicting points of view, or at
least show the tenability of each.
In addition to the first requisite of _struggle_, "the story's the
thing," the judges sought originality, excellence in organization of
plot incidents, skill in characterization, power in moving
emotions--and, again, they differed over their findings. One member
would have awarded the prize to "La Guiablesse" on its original motif--a
ship is jealous of a woman--on its masterful employment of suggestion,
unique presentation of events, and on all the other counts. Another,
while recognizing the essential bigness of the tale, regards it as
somewhat crudely constructed and as extending the use of suggestion into
the mist of obscurity.
Or, take characterization. Mary Hastings Bradley's "The Fairest Sex"
represents, in the climax, a reporter's fiancee betraying the
whereabouts of a young woman who is, technically, a criminal. One of the
Committee held that, under the circumstances, the psychology is false:
others "believed" that particular girl did that particular thing.
Best narrative always compels belief: the longer the period of belief
the greater the story. This business of convincing the reader requires
more labour than the average writer seems to care about performing. Any
reader is willing to be held--for a time. But how many stories compel
recollection of plot and characters as indubitably a part of all that
one has met?
Too frequently the writer neglects the value of atmosphere, forgetful of
its weight in producing conviction. The tale predominantly of atmosphere
(illustrated in the classic "Fall of the House of Usher"), revealing
wherever found the ability of the author to hold a dominant mood in
which as in a calcium light characters and arts are coloured, this tale
occurs so rarely as to challenge admiration when it does occur. "For
They Know not What They Do" lures the reader into its exotic air and
holds him until he, too, is suffused, convinced.
... The Committee were not insensible to style. But expert phrasing,
glowing appreciation of words and exquisite sense of values, the texture
of the story fabric--all dropped into the abyss of the unimportant after
the material they incorporated had been judged. No man brings home
beefsteak in silk or sells figs as thistles.
The Committee accepted style as the fit medium for conveying the
matter....
Since the Committee confess to catholicity of taste, the chosen stories
reveal predilection for no one type. They like detective stories, and
particularly those of Melville Davisson Post. A follower of the founder
of this school of fiction, he has none the less advanced beyond his
master and has discovered other ways than those of the Rue Morgue. "Five
Thousand Dollars Reward" in its brisk action, strong suspense, and
humorous denouement carries on the technique so neatly achieved in "The
Doomdorf Mystery" and other tales about Uncle Abner.
The Committee value, also, the story about animals: universal interest
in puzzles, in the science of ratiocination, is not more pronounced than
the interest in rationalizing the brute. "The Mottled Slayer" and "The
Elephant Remembers" offer sympathetic studies of struggles in the animal
world. Mr. Marshall's white elephant will linger as a memory, even as
his ghost remains, longer than the sagacious play-fellow of Mr.
Gilbert's little Indian; but nobody can forget the battle the latter
fought with the python.
For stories about the home the Committee have a weakness: Miss Ferber's
"April Twenty-fifth As Usual," cheerfully proclaiming the inevitableness
of spring cleaning, might be published with the sub-title, An Epic of
the Housekeeper.
They were alert for reflections of life--in America and elsewhere. The
politics of "Gum Shoes, 4-B"; the local court of law in "Tom Belcher's
Store"; the frozen west of "Turkey Red" seemed to them to meet the
demand that art must hold the mirror up to nature.
In particular, the Committee hoped to find good stories of the war. Now
that fiction containing anything of the Great Struggle is anathema to
editors, and must wait for that indefinite time of its revival, it was
like getting a last bargain to read "Facing It," "Humoresque,"
"Contact," "Autumn Crocuses," and "England to America." In these small
masterpieces is celebrated either manhood which keeps a rendezvous with
death.
The Committee accepted style as the fit medium for conveying the
matter....
Since the Committee confess to catholicity of taste, the chosen stories
reveal predilection for no one type. They like detective stories, and
particularly those of Melville Davisson Post. A follower of the founder
of this school of fiction, he has none the less advanced beyond his
master and has discovered other ways than those of the Rue Morgue. "Five
Thousand Dollars Reward" in its brisk action, strong suspense, and
humorous denouement carries on the technique so neatly achieved in "The
Doomdorf Mystery" and other tales about Uncle Abner.
The Committee value, also, the story about animals: universal interest
in puzzles, in the science of ratiocination, is not more pronounced than
the interest in rationalizing the brute. "The Mottled Slayer" and "The
Elephant Remembers" offer sympathetic studies of struggles in the animal
world. Mr. Marshall's white elephant will linger as a memory, even as
his ghost remains, longer than the sagacious play-fellow of Mr.
Gilbert's little Indian; but nobody can forget the battle the latter
fought with the python.
For stories about the home the Committee have a weakness: Miss Ferber's
"April Twenty-fifth As Usual," cheerfully proclaiming the inevitableness
of spring cleaning, might be published with the sub-title, An Epic of
the Housekeeper.
They were alert for reflections of life--in America and elsewhere. The
politics of "Gum Shoes, 4-B"; the local court of law in "Tom Belcher's
Store"; the frozen west of "Turkey Red" seemed to them to meet the
demand that art must hold the mirror up to nature.
In particular, the Committee hoped to find good stories of the war. Now
that fiction containing anything of the Great Struggle is anathema to
editors, and must wait for that indefinite time of its revival, it was
like getting a last bargain to read "Facing It," "Humoresque,"
"Contact," "Autumn Crocuses," and "England to America." In these small
masterpieces is celebrated either manhood which keeps a rendezvous with
death, womanhood which endures, or the courage of men and women which
meets bodily misfortune and the anguish of personal loss. Leon Kantor of
"Humoresque" and the young Virginian of "England to America" will bring
back, to all who read, their own heroes. It is fitting that Miss
Montague's story should have received the first prize: poignant, short
in words, great in significance, it will stand a minor climactic peak in
that chain of literature produced during the actual progress of the
World War.
* * * * *
In the estimation of the Committee the year 1919 was not one of
pre-eminent short stories. Why? There are several half-satisfactory
explanations. Some of the acknowledged leaders, seasoned authors, have
not been publishing their average annual number of tales. Alice Brown,
Donn Byrne, Irvin Cobb, Edna Ferber, Katharine Gerould, Fannie Hurst and
Mary W. Freeman are represented by spare sheaves. Again, a number of new
and promising writers have not quite attained sureness of touch;
although that they are acquiring it is manifest in the work of Ben Ames
Williams, Edison Marshall, Frances Wood, Samuel Derieux, John Russell,
Beatrice Ravenel and Myra Sawhill. Too frequently, there is "no story":
a series of episodes however charmingly strung out is not a story; a
sketch, however clever or humorous, is not a story; an essay, however
wisely expounding a truth, is not a story. So patent are these facts,
they are threadbare from repetition; yet of them succeeding aspirants
seem to be as ignorant as were their predecessors--who at length found
knowledge. For obvious reasons, names of authors who succeed in a
certain literary form, but who produce no story are omitted.
Again, some stories just miss the highest mark. A certain one, praised
by a magazine editor as the best of the year, suffers in the opinion of
the Committee, or part of the Committee, from an introduction too long
and top-heavy. It not only mars the symmetry of the whole, this
introduction, but starts the reader in the wrong direction. One thing
the brief story must not do is to begin out of tone, to promise what it
does not fulfil, or to lead out a subordinate character as though he
were chief.... Another story suffers from plethora of phrasing, and even
of mere diction. Stevenson believed few of his words too precious to be
cut; contemporary writers hold their utterances in greater esteem.... A
third story shows by its obvious happy ending that the author has
catered to magazine needs or what he conceives to be editorial policies.
Such an author requires a near "Smart Set" sparkle or a pseudo-Atlantic
Monthly sobriety; he develops facility, but at the expense, ultimately,
of conventionality, dullness and boredom.
According to the terms which omit foreign authors from possible
participation in the prize, the work of Achmed Abdullah, Britten Austin,
Elinor Mordaunt and others was in effect non-existent for the Committee.
"Reprisal," by Mr. Austin, ranks high as a specimen of real short-story
art, strong in structure, rich in suggestion. "The Honourable
Gentleman," by the mage from Afghanistan, in reflecting Oriental life in
the Occident, will take its place in literary history. Elinor Mordaunt's
modernized biblical stories--"The Strong Man," for instance--in showing
that the cycles repeat themselves and that today is as one of five
thousand years ago exemplify the universality of certain motifs, fables,
characters.
But, having made allowance for the truths just recounted, the Committee
believe that the average of stories here bound together is high. They
respond to the test of form and of life. "The Kitchen Gods" grows from
five years of service to the women of China--service by the author, who
is a doctor of medicine. "Porcelain Cups" testifies to the interest a
genealogist finds in the Elizabethan Age and, more definitely, in the
life of Christopher Marlowe. The hardships of David, in the story by Mr.
Derieux, are those of a boy in a particular Southern neighbourhood the
author knows. Miss Louise Rice, who boasts a strain of Romany blood,
spends part of her year with the gypsies. Mr. Terhune is familiar, from
the life, with his prototypes of "On Strike." "Turkey Red" relates a
real experience, suited to fiction or to poetry--if Wordsworth was
right--for it is an instance of emotion remembered in tranquility. In
these and all the others, the story's the thing.
Some of them, perhaps, were produced _because_ their creators were
consciously concerned about the art of creation. "Blue Ice," by Joseph
Hergesheimer, proclaims itself a study in technique, a thing of careful
workmanship. "Innocence," by Rupert Hughes, with "Read It Again" and
"The Story I Can't Write" boldly announce his desire to get the most out
of the material. "For They Know not What They Do," an aspiration of
spirit, is fashioned as firmly as the Woolworth Tower.
Just here it may be observed that the Committee noticed a tendency of
the present day story which only the future can reveal as significant or
insignificant. It is this: in spite of the American liking for the brief
tale, as Poe termed it--the conte, as the French know it--in spite of an
occasional call from magazines for stories of fewer than 5,000 words,
yet the number of these narratives approaching perfection is
considerably less than that of the longer story. Whether the long
short-story gives greater entertainment to the greater number may be
questioned. To state that it is farthest from the practice of O. Henry
invites a logical and inevitable conclusion. He wrote two hundred
stories averaging about fifteen pages each. Whether it may be greater
literature is another matter; if it escapes tediousness it may impress
by its weight. If the Committee had selected for publication all the
longest stories in the list of thirty-two, this volume would contain the
same number of words, but only half the titles.
The Honorary Committee expressed, some of them, to the Committee of
Award certain preferences. William Marion Reedy wrote: "I read and
printed one very good story called 'Baby Fever.' I think it is one of
the best stories of the year." John Phillips, though stating that he had
not followed short stories very closely, thought the best one he had
read "The Theatrical Sensation of Springtown," by Bess Streeter Aldrich
(_American_, December). Mrs. Edwin Markham commended Charles Finger's
"Canassa" (_Reedy's Mirror_, October 30). W. Adolphe Roberts submitted
a number of stories from _Ainslee's:_ "Young Love," by Nancy Boyd; "The
Token from the Arena," by June Willard; "The Light," by Katherine
Wilson. He also drew attention to "Phantom," by Mildred Cram (_Green
Book_, March). That the Committee of Award, after a careful study of
these and other recommendations, failed to confirm individual high
estimates is but another illustration of the disagreement of doctors. To
all those of the Honorary Committee who gave encouragement and aid the
Committee of Award is most grateful.
There remains the pleasure of thanking, also, the authors and publishers
who have kindly granted permission for the reprinting of the stories
included in this volume. The Committee of Award would like them to know
that renewal of the O. Henry prize depends upon their generous
cooperation.
BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS.
NEW YORK CITY, February 29, 1920.
_O. HENRY MEMORIAL AWARD PRIZE STORIES 1919_
ENGLAND TO AMERICA
By MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE
From _Atlantic Monthly_
I.
"Lord, but English people are funny!"
This was the perplexed mental ejaculation that young Lieutenant
Skipworth Cary, of Virginia, found his thoughts constantly reiterating
during his stay in Devonshire. Had he been, he wondered, a confiding
fool, to accept so trustingly Chev Sherwood's suggestion that he spend a
part of his leave, at least, at Bishopsthorpe, where Chev's people
lived? But why should he have anticipated any difficulty here, in this
very corner of England which had bred his own ancestors, when he had
always hit it off so splendidly with his English comrades at the Front?
Here, however, though they were all awfully kind,--at least, he was sure
they meant to be kind,--something was always bringing him up short:
something that he could not lay hold of, but which made him feel like a
blind man groping in a strange place, or worse, like a bull in a
china-shop. He was prepared enough to find differences in the American
and English points of view. But this thing that baffled him did not seem
to have to do with that; it was something deeper, something very
definite, he was sure--and yet, what was it? The worst of it was that he
had a curious feeling as if they were all--that is, Lady Sherwood and
Gerald; not Sir Charles so much--protecting him from himself--keeping
him from making breaks, as he phrased it. That hurt and annoyed him, and
piqued his vanity. Was he a social blunderer, and weren't a Virginia
gentleman's manners to be trusted in England without leading-strings?
He had been at the Front for several months with the Royal Flying
Corps, and when his leave came, his Flight Commander, Captain Cheviot
Sherwood, discovering that he meant to spend it in England, where he
hardly knew a soul, had said his people down in Devonshire would be
jolly glad to have him stop with them; and Skipworth Cary, knowing that,
if the circumstances had been reversed, his people down in Virginia
would indeed have been jolly glad to entertain Captain Sherwood, had
accepted unhesitatingly. The invitation had been seconded by a letter
from Lady Sherwood,--Chev's mother,--and after a few days sight-seeing
in London, he had come down to Bishopsthorpe, very eager to know his
friend's family, feeling as he did about Chev himself. "He's the finest
man that ever went up in the air," he had written home; and to his own
family's disgust, his letters had been far more full of Chev Sherwood
than they had been of Skipworth Cary.
And now here he was, and he almost wished himself away--wished almost
that he was back again at the Front, carrying on under Chev. There, at
least, you knew what you were up against. The job might be hard enough,
but it wasn't baffling and queer, with hidden undercurrents that you
couldn't chart. It seemed to him that this baffling feeling of
constraint had rushed to meet him on the very threshold of the
drawing-room, when he made his first appearance.
As he entered, he had a sudden sensation that they had been awaiting him
in a strained expectancy, and that, as he appeared, they adjusted unseen
masks and began to play-act at something. "But English people don't
play-act very well," he commented to himself, reviewing the scene
afterward.
Lady Sherwood had come forward and greeted him in a manner which would
have been pleasant enough, if he had not, with quick sensitiveness, felt
it to be forced. But perhaps that was English stiffness.
Then she had turned to her husband, who was standing staring into the
fireplace, although, as it was June, there was no fire there to stare
at.
"Charles," she said, "here is Lieutenant Cary"; and her voice had a
certain note in it which at home Cary and his sister Nancy were in the
habit of designating "mother-making-dad-mind-his-manners."
At her words the old man--and Cary was startled to see how old and
broken he was--turned round and held out his hand, "How d'you do?" he
said jerkily, "how d'you do?" and then turned abruptly back again to the
fireplace.
"Hello! What's up! The old boy doesn't like me!" was Cary's quick,
startled comment to himself.
He was so surprised by the look the other bent upon him that he
involuntarily glanced across to a long mirror to see if there was
anything wrong with his uniform. But no, that appeared to be all right.
It was himself, then--or his country; perhaps the old sport didn't fall
for Americans.
"And here is Gerald," Lady Sherwood went on in her low remote voice,
which somehow made the Virginian feel very far away.
It was with genuine pleasure, though with some surprise, that he turned
to greet Gerald Sherwood, Chev's younger brother, who had been,
tradition in the corps said, as gallant and daring a flyer as Chev
himself, until he got his in the face five months ago.
"I'm mighty glad to meet you," he said eagerly, in his pleasant, muffled
Southern voice, grasping the hand the other stretched out, and looking
with deep respect at the scarred face and sightless eyes.
Gerald laughed a little, but it was a pleasant laugh, and his hand-clasp
was friendly.
"That's real American, isn't it?" he said. "I ought to have remembered
and said it first. Sorry."
Skipworth laughed too. "Well," he conceded, "we generally are glad to
meet people in my country, and we don't care who says it first. But," he
added. "I didn't think I'd have the luck to find you here."
He remembered that Chev had regretted that he probably wouldn't see
Gerald, as the latter was at St. Dunstan's, where they were re-educating
the blinded soldiers.
The other hesitated a moment, and then said rather awkwardly, "Oh, I'm
just home for a little while; I only got here this morning, in fact."
Skipworth note the hesitation. Did the old people get panicky at the
thought of entertaining a wild man from Virginia, and send an SOS for
Gerald, he wondered.
"We are so glad you could come to us," Lady Sherwood said rather hastily
just then. And again he could not fail to note that she was prompting
her husband.
The latter reluctantly turned round, and said, "Yes, yes, quite so.
Welcome to Bishopsthorpe, my boy," as if his wife had pulled a string,
sand he responded mechanically, without quite knowing what he said.
Then, as his eyes rested a moment on his guest, he looked as if he would
like to bolt out of the room. He controlled himself, however, and,
jerking round again to the fireplace, went on murmuring, "Yes, yes,
yes," vaguely--just like the dormouse at the Mad Tea-Party, who went to
sleep, saying, "Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle," Cary could not help thinking
to himself.
But after all, it wasn't really funny, it was pathetic. Gosh, how
doddering the poor old boy was! Skipworth wondered, with a sudden twist
at his heart, if the war was playing the deuce with his home people,
too. Was his own father going to pieces like this, and had his mother's
gay vivacity fallen into that still remoteness of Lady Sherwood's? But
of course not! The Carys hadn't suffered as the poor Sherwoods had, with
their youngest son, Curtin, killed early in the war, and now Gerald
knocked out so tragically. Lord, he thought, how they must all bank on
Chev! And of course they would want to hear at once about him. "I left
Chev as fit as anything, and he sent all sorts of messages," he
reported, thinking it more discreet to deliver Chev's messages thus
vaguely than to repeat his actual carefree remark, which had been, "Oh,
tell 'em I'm jolly as a tick."
But evidently there was something wrong with the words as they were, for
instantly he was aware of that curious sense of withdrawal on their
part. Hastily reviewing them, he decided that they had sounded too
familiar from a stranger and a younger man like himself. He supposed he
ought not to have spoken of Chev by his first name. Gee, what sticklers
they were! Wouldn't his family--dad and mother and Nancy--have fairly
lapped up any messages from him, even if they had been delivered a bit
awkwardly? However, he added, as a concession to their point of view,
"But of course, you'll have had later news of Captain Sherwood."
To which, after a pause, Lady Sherwood responded, "Oh, yes," in that
remote and colourless voice which might have meant anything or nothing.
At this point dinner was announced.
Lady Sherwood drew her husband away from the empty fireplace, and Gerald
slipped his arm through the Virginian's, saying pleasantly, "I'm
learning to carry on fairly well at St. Dunstan's, but I confess I still
like to have a pilot."
To look at the tall young fellow beside him, whose scarred face was so
reminiscent of Chev's untouched good looks, who had known all the
immense freedom of the air, but who was now learning to carry on in the
dark, moved Skipworth Cary to generous homage.
"You know my saying I'm glad to meet you isn't just American," he said
half shyly, but warmly. "It's plain English, and the straight truth.
I've wanted to meet you awfully. The oldsters are always holding up your
glorious exploits to us newcomers. Withers never gets tired telling
about that fight of yours with the four enemy planes. And besides," he
rushed on eagerly, "I'm glad to have a chance to tell Chev's
brother--Captain Sherwood's brother, I mean--what I think of him. Only
as a matter of fact, I can't," he broke off with a laugh. "I can't put
it exactly into words, but I tell you I'd follow that man straight into
hell and out the other side--or go there alone if he told me to. He is
the finest chap that ever flew."
And then he felt as if a cold douche had been flung in his face, for
after a moment's pause, the other returned, "That's awfully good of
you," in a voice so distant and formal that the Virginian could have
kicked himself. What an ass he was to be so darned enthusiastic with an
Englishman! He supposed it was bad form to show any pleasure over praise
of a member of your family. Lord, if Chev got the V.C., he reckoned it
would be awful to speak of it. Still, you would have thought Gerald
might have stood for a little praise of him. But then, glancing sideways
at his companion, he surprised on his face a look so strange and
suffering that it came to him almost violently what it must be never to
fly again; to be on the threshold of life, with endless days of
blackness ahead. Good God! How cruel he had been to flaunt Chev in his
face! In remorseful and hasty reparation he stumbled on. "But the old
fellows are always having great discussions as to which was the
best--you or your brother. Withers always maintains you were."
"Withers lies, then!" the other retorted. "I never touched Chev--never
came within a mile of him, and never could have."
They reached the dinner-table with that, and young Cary found himself
bewildered and uncomfortable. If Gerald hadn't liked praise of Chev, he
had liked praise of himself even less, it seemed.
Dinner was not a success. The Virginian found that, if there was to be
conversation, the burden of carrying it on was upon him, and gosh! they
don't mind silences in this man's island, do they? he commented
desperately to himself, thinking how different it was from America. Why,
there they acted as if silence was an egg that had just been laid, and
everyone had to cackle at once to cover it up. But here the talk
constantly fell to the ground, and nobody but himself seemed concerned
to pick it up. His attempt to praise Chev had not been successful, and
he could understand their not wanting to hear about flying and the war
before Gerald.
So at last, in desperation, he wandered off into descriptions of
America, finding to his relief, that he had struck the right note at
last. They were glad to hear about the States, and Lady Sherwood
inquired politely if the Indians still gave them much trouble; and when
he assured her that in Virginia, except for the Pocahontas tribe, they
were all pretty well subdued, she accepted his statement with complete
innocency. And he was so delighted to find at last a subject to which
they were evidently cordial, that he was quite carried away, and would
up by inviting them all to visit his family in Richmond, as soon as soon
as the war was over.
Gerald accepted at once, with enthusiasm; Lady Sherwood made polite
murmurs, smiling at him in quite a warm and almost, indeed, maternal
manner. Even Sir Charles, who had been staring at the food on his plate
as if he did not quite know what to make of it, came to the surface long
enough to mumble, "Yes, yes, very good idea. Countries must carry on
together--What?"
But that was the only hit of the whole evening, and when the Virginian
retired to his room, as he made an excuse to do early, he was so
confused and depressed that he fell into an acute attack of
homesickness.
Heavens, he thought, as he tumbled into bed, just suppose, now, this was
little old Richmond, Virginia, U.S.A., instead of being Bishopsthorpe,
Avery Cross near Wick, and all the rest of it! And at that, he grinned
to himself. England wasn't such an all-fired big country that you'd
think they'd have to ticket themselves with addresses a yard long, for
fear they'd get lost--now, would you? Well, anyway, suppose it was
Richmond, and his train just pulling into the Byrd Street Station. He
stretched out luxuriously, and let his mind picture the whole familiar
scene. The wind was blowing right, so there was the mellow homely smell
of tobacco in the streets, and plenty of people all along the way to
hail him with outstretched hands and shouts of "Hey, Skip Cary, when did
you get back?" "Welcome home, my boy!" "Well, will you _look_ what the
cat dragged in!" And so he came to his own front door-step, and, walking
straight in, surprised the whole family at breakfast; and yes--doggone
it! if it wasn't Sunday, and they having waffles! And after that his
obliging fancy bore him up Franklin Street, through Monroe Park, and so
to Miss Sally Berkeley's door. He was sound asleep before he reached it,
but in his dreams, light as a little bird, she came flying down the
broad stairway to meet him, and--
But when he waked next morning, he did not find himself in Virginia,
but in Devonshire, where, to his unbounded embarrassment, a white
housemaid was putting up his curtains and whispering something about his
bath. And though he pretended profound slumber, he was well aware that
people do not turn brick-red in their sleep. And the problem of what was
the matter with the Sherwood family was still before him.
II
"They're playing a game," he told himself after a few days. "That is,
Lady Sherwood and Gerald are--poor old Sir Charles can't make much of a
stab at it. The game is to make me think they are awfully glad to have
me, when in reality there's something about me, or something I do, that
gets them on the raw."
He almost decided to make some excuse and get away; but after all, that
was not easy. In English novels, he remembered, they always had a wire
calling them to London; but, darn it all! the Sherwoods knew mighty well
there wasn't any one in London who cared a hoot about him.
The thing that got his goat most, he told himself, was that they
apparently didn't like his friendship with Chev. Anyway they didn't seem
to want him to talk about him; and whenever he tried to express his warm
appreciation for all that the older man had done for him, he was
instantly aware of a wall of reserve on their part, a holding of
themselves aloof from him. That puzzled and hurt him, and put him on his
dignity. He concluded that they thought it was cheeky of a youngster
like him to think that a man like Chev could be his friend; and if that
was the way they felt, he reckoned he'd jolly well better shut up about
it.
But whatever it was that they didn't like about him, they most certainly
did want him to have a good time. He and his pleasure appeared to be for
the time being their chief consideration. And after the first day or so
he began indeed to enjoy himself extremely. For one thing, he came to
love the atmosphere of the old place and of the surrounding country,
which he and Gerald explored together. He liked to think that ancestors
of his own had been inheritors of these green lanes, and pleasant mellow
stretches. Then, too, after the first few days, he could not help seeing
that they really began to like him, which of course was reassuring, and
tapped his own warm friendliness, which was always ready enough to be
released. And besides, he got by accident what he took to be a hint as
to the trouble. He was passing the half-open door of Lady Sherwood's
morning-room, when he heard Sir Charles's voice break out, "Good God,
Elizabeth, I don't see how you stand it! When I see him so straight and
fine-looking, and so untouched, beside our poor lad, and think--and
think--"
Skipworth hurried out of earshot, but now he understood that look of
aversion in the old man's eyes which had so startled him at first. Of
course, the poor old boy might easily hate the sight of him beside
Gerald. With Gerald himself he really got along famously. He was a most
delightful companion, full of anecdotes and history of the countryside,
every foot of which he had apparently explored in the old days with Chev
and the younger brother, Curtin. Yet even with Gerald, Cary sometimes
felt that aloofness and reserve, and that older protective air that they
all showed him. Take, for instance, that afternoon when they were
lolling together on the grass in the park. The Virginian, running on in
his usual eager manner, had plunged without thinking into an account of
a particularly daring bit of flying on Chev's part, when suddenly he
realized that Gerald had rolled over on the grass and buried his face in
his arms, and interrupted himself awkwardly. "But, of course," he said,
"he must have written home about it himself."
"No, or if he did, I didn't hear of it. Go on," Gerald said in a muffled
voice.
A great rush of compassion and remorse overwhelmed the Virginian, and he
burst out penitently, "What a brute I am! I'm always forgetting and
running on about flying, when I know it must hurt like the very devil!"
The other drew a difficult breath. "Yes," he admitted, "what you say
does hurt in a way--in a way you can't understand. But all the same I
like to hear you. Go on about Chev."
So Skipworth went on and finished his account, winding up, "I don't
believe there's another man in the service who could have pulled it
off--but I tell you your brother's one in a million."
"Good God, don't I know it!" the other burst out. "We were all three the
jolliest pals together," he got out presently in a choked voice, "Chev
and the young un and I; and now--"
He did not finish, but Cary guessed his meaning. Now the young un,
Curtin, was dead, and Gerald himself knocked out. But, heavens! the
Virginian though, did Gerald think Chev would go back on him now on
account of his blindness? Well, you could everlastingly bet he wouldn't!
"Chev thinks the world and all of you!" he cried in eager defense of his
friend's loyalty. "Lots of times when we're all awfully jolly together,
he makes some excuse and goes off by himself; and Withers told me it was
because he was so frightfully cut up about you. Withers said he told him
once that he'd a lot rather have got it himself--so you can
everlastingly bank on him!"
Gerald gave a terrible little gasp. "I--I knew he'd feel like that," he
got out. "We've always cared such a lot for each other." And then he
pressed his face harder than ever into the grass, and his long body
quivered all over. But not for long. In a moment he took fierce hold on
himself, muttering, "Well, one must carry on, whatever happens," and
apologized disjointedly. "What a fearful fool you must think me!
And--and this isn't very pippy for you, old chap." Presently, after
that, he sat up, and said, brushing it all aside, "We're facing the old
moat, aren't we? There's an interesting bit of tradition about it that I
must tell you."
And there you were, Cary thought: no matter how much Gerald might be
suffering from his misfortune, he must carry on just the same, and see
that his visitor had a pleasant time. It made the Virginian feel like
an outsider and very young as if he were not old enough for them to show
him their real feelings.
Another thing that he noticed was that they did not seem to want him to
meet people. They never took him anywhere to call and if visitors came
to the house, they showed an almost panicky desire to get him out of the
way. That again hurt his pride. What in heaven's name was the matter
with him anyway!
III
However on the last afternoon of his stay at Bishopsthorpe, he told
himself with a rather rueful grin, that his manners must have improved a
little, for they took him to tea at the rectory.
He was particularly glad to go there because, from certain jokes of
Withers's, who had known the Sherwoods since boyhood, he gathered that
Chev and the rector's daughter were engaged. And just as he would have
liked Chev to meet Sally Berkeley, so he wanted to meet Miss Sybil
Gaylord.
He had little hope of having a tête-à-tête with her, but as it fell out
he did. They were all in the rectory garden together, Gerald and the
rector a little behind Miss Gaylord and himself, as they strolled down a
long walk with high hedges bordering it. On the other side of the hedge
Lady Sherwood and her hostess still sat at the tea-table, and then it
was that Cary heard Mrs. Gaylord say distinctly, "I'm afraid the strain
has been too much for you--you should have let us have him."
To which Lady Sherwood returned quickly. "Oh, no, that would have been
impossible with--"
"Come--come this way--I must show you the view from the arbor," Miss
Gaylord broke in breathlessly; and laying a hand on his arm, she turned
abruptly into a side path.
Glancing down at her the Southerner could not but note the panic and
distress in her fair face. It was so obvious that the overheard words
referred to him, and he was so bewildered by the whole situation that
he burst out impulsively, "I say, what _is_ the matter with me? Why do
they find me so hard to put up with? Is it something I do--or don't they
like Americans? Honestly, I wish you'd tell me."
She stood still at that, looking at him, her blue eyes full of distress
and concern.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she cried. "They would be so sorry to have you
think anything like that."
"But what is it?" her persisted. "Don't they like Americans?"
"Oh, no, it isn't like that--Oh, quite the contrary!" she returned
eagerly.
"Then it's something about me they don't like?"
"Oh, no, no! Least of all, that--_don't_ think that!" she begged.
"But what am I to think then?"
"Don't think anything just yet," she pleaded. "Wait a little, and you
will understand."
She was so evidently distressed that he could not press her further; and
fearing she might think him unappreciative, he said, "Well, whatever it
is, it hasn't prevented me from having a ripping good time. They've seen
to that, and just done everything for my pleasure."
She looked up quickly, and to his relief he saw that for once he had
said the right thing.
"You enjoyed it, then?" she questioned eagerly.
"Most awfully," he assured her warmly. "I shall always remember what a
happy leave they gave me."
She gave a little sigh of satisfaction, "I am so glad," she said. "They
wanted you to have a good time--that was what we all wanted."
He looked at her gratefully, thinking how sweet she was in her fair
English beauty, and how good to care that he should have enjoyed his
leave. How different she was too from Sally Berkeley--why she would have
made two of his little girl! And how quiet! Sally Berkeley, with her
quick glancing vivacity, would have been all around her and off again
like a humming-bird before she could have uttered two words. And yet he
was sure that they would have been friends, just as he and Chev were.
Perhaps they all would be, after the war. And then he began to talk
about Chev, being sure that, had the circumstances been reversed, Sally
Berkeley would have wanted news of him. Instantly he was aware of a
tense listening stillness on her part. That pleased him. Well, she did
care for the old fellow all right, he thought; and though she made no
response, averting her face and plucking nervously at the leaves of the
hedge as they passed slowly along, he went on pouring out his eager
admiration for his friend.
At last they came to a seat in an arbour, from which one looked out upon
a green beneficent landscape. It was an intimate secluded little
spot--and oh, if Sally Berkeley were only there to sit beside him! And
as he thought of this, it came to him whimsically that in all
probability she must be longing for Chev, just as he was for Sally.
Dropping down on the bench beside her, he leaned over, and said with a
friendly, almost brotherly, grin of understanding, "I reckon you're
wishing Captain Sherwood was sitting here, instead of Lieutenant Cary."
The minute the impulsive words were out of his mouth, he knew he had
blundered, been awkward, and inexcusably intimate. She gave a little
choked gasp, and her blue eyes stared up at him, wide and startled. Good
heavens, what a break he had made! No wonder the Sherwoods couldn't
trust him in company! There seemed no apology that he could offer in
words, but at least, he thought, he would show her that he would not
intruded on her secret without being willing to share his with her. With
awkward haste he put his hand into his breast-pocket, and dragged forth
the picture of Sally Berkley he always carried there.
"This is the little girl I'm thinking about," he said, turning very red,
yet boyishly determined to make amends, and also proudly confident of
Sally Berkeley's charms. "I'd like mighty well for you two to know one
another."