O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920 Part 6

"Will you please tell him--will you please tell him that I say--'Contact'?"

"Contact?" He had stood smiling down at her, ironical and tender.

"Ah, what a race! That is the prettiest word that you can find for Jerry? But then it means to come very close, to touch, that poor harsh word--there he must find what comfort he can. We, too, in aviation use that word--it is the signal that says--'Now, you can fly!'

You do not know our vocabulary, perhaps?"

"I know very little."

"That is all then? No other message? He will understand, our Jerry?"

And Janie had smiled--rather a terrible small smile.

"Oh, yes," she told him. "He will understand. It is the word that he is waiting for, you see."

"I see." But there had been a grave wonder in his voice.

"Would it----" she had framed the words as carefully as though it were a strange tongue that she was speaking--"would it be possible to buy his machine? He wouldn't want any one else to fly it."

"Little Janie, never fear. The man does not live who shall fly poor Peg again. Smashed to kindling-wood and burned to ashes, she has taken her last flight to the heaven for good and brave birds of war.

Not enough was left of her to hold in your two hands."

"I'm glad. Then that's all--isn't it? And thank you for coming."

"It is I who thank you. What was hard as death you have made easy. I had thought the lady to whom Jeremy Langdon gave his heart the luckiest creature ever born--now I think him that luckiest one." The grave grace with which he had bent to kiss her hand made of the formal salutation an accolade--"My homage to you, Jerry's Janie!" A quick salute, and he had turned on his heel, swinging off down the flagged path with that swift, easy stride--past the sun-dial--past the lily-pond--past the beech-trees--gone! For hours and hours after he had pa.s.sed out of sight she had sat staring after him, her hands lying quite still in her lap--staring, staring--they had found her there when they came back, sitting where Rosemary was seated now. Why, there, on those same steps, a bare six months ago--Something snapped in her head, and she stumbled to her feet, clinging to the arm of her chair.

"I can't _stand_ it!" she gasped. "No, no, it's no use--I can't, I tell you. I--"

Rosemary's arm was about her--Mrs. Langdon's soft voice in her ears--a deeper note from Rosemary's engineer.

"Oh, I say, poor girl! What is it, dear child--what's the matter? Is it the heat, Janie?"

"The heat!" She could hear herself laughing--frantic, hateful, jangling laughter that wouldn't stop. "Oh, Jerry! Oh-h, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!"

"It's this ghastly day. Let me get her some water, Mrs. Langdon.

Don't cry so, Janie--please, please don't, darling."

"I c-can't help it--I c-can't----" She paused, listening intently, her hand closing sharply over Rosemary's wrist. "Oh, listen, listen--there it comes again--I told you so!"

"Thank Heaven," murmured Mrs. Langdon devoutly, "I thought that it never was going to rise this evening. It's from the south, too, so I suppose that it means rain."

"Rain?" repeated Janet vaguely. "Why in the world should it mean rain?"

Her small, pale face looked suddenly brilliant and enchanted, tilted up to meet the thunderous music that was swinging nearer and nearer.

"Oh, do listen, you people! This time it's surely going to land!"

Rosemary stared at her blankly. "Land? What _are_ you talking about, Janie?"

"My airplane--the one that you said was the fat Hodges boy on a motorcycle! Is there any place near here that it can make a landing?"

"Darling child--" Mrs. Langdon's gentle voice was gentler than ever-- "darling child, it's this wretched heat. There isn't any airplane, dear--it's just the wind rising in the beeches."

"The wind?" Janet laughed aloud--they really were too absurd.

"Why, Mrs. Langdon, you can hear the _engines_, if you'll only listen!

You can hear them, can't you, Mr. Bain?"

The young engineer shook his head. "No plane would risk flying with this storm coming, Miss Abbott. There's been thunder for the last hour or so, and it's getting nearer, too. It's only the wind, I think."

"Oh, you're laughing at me--of course, of course you hear it. Why, it's as clear as--as clear as--" Her voice trailed off into silence.

Quite suddenly, without any transition or warning, she knew. She could feel her heart stand perfectly still for a minute, and then plunge forward in mad flight, racing, racing--oh, it knew, too, that eager heart! She took her hand from the arm of the chair, releasing Rosemary's wrist very gently.

"Yes, of course, it's the heat," she said quietly. She must be careful not to frighten them, these kind ones. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Langdon, I think that I'll go down to the gate to watch the storm burst. No, please, don't any of you come--I'll promise to change everything if I get caught--yes, everything! I won't be long; don't wait for me."

She walked sedately enough until she came to the turn in the path, but after that she ran, only pausing for a minute to listen breathlessly. Oh, yes--following, following, that gigantic music!

How he must be laughing at her now--blind, deaf, incredulous little fool that she had been, to doubt that Jerry would find a way! But where could he land? Not in the garden--not at the gates--oh, now she had it--the far meadow. She turned sharply; it was dark, but the path must be here. Yes, this was the wicket gate; her groping fingers were quite steady--they found the latch--released it--the gate swung to behind her flying footsteps. "Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" sang her heart. Why hadn't she worn the rose-coloured frock? It was she who would be a ghost in that trailing white thing. To the right here--yes, there was the hawthorn hedge--only a few steps more--oh, now! She stood as still as a small statue, not moving, not breathing, her hands at her heart, her face turned to the black and torn sky.

Nearer, nearer, circling and darting and swooping--the gigantic humming grew louder--louder still--it swept about her thunderously, so close that she clapped her hands over her ears, but she stood her ground, exultant and undaunted. Oh, louder still--and then suddenly the storm broke. All the winds and the rains of the world were unleashed, and fell howling and shrieking upon her, she staggered under their onslaught, drenched to the bone, her dress whipping frantically about her, blinded and deafened by that tumultuous clamour. She had only one weapon against it--laughter--and she laughed now--straight into its teeth. And as though h.e.l.l itself must yield to mirth, the fury wavered--failed--sank to muttering. But Janie, beaten to her knees and laughing, never even heard it die.

"Jerry?" she whispered into the darkness, "Jerry?"

Oh, more wonderful than wonder, he was there! She could feel him stir, even if she could not hear him--so close, so close was he that if she even reached out her hand, she could touch him. She stretched it out eagerly, but there was nothing there--only a small, remote sound of withdrawal, as though some one had moved a little.

"You're afraid that I'll be frightened, aren't you?" she asked wistfully. "I wouldn't be--I wouldn't--please come back'"

He was laughing at her, she knew, tender and mocking and caressing; she smiled back, tremulously.

"You're thinking, 'I told you so!' Have you come far to say it to me?"

Only that little stir--the wind was rising again.

"Jerry, come close--come closer still. What are you waiting for, dear and dearest?"

This time there was not even a stir to answer her; she felt suddenly cold to the heart. What had he always waited for?

"You aren't waiting--you aren't waiting to go?" She fought to keep the terror out of her voice, but it had her by the throat. "Oh, no, no--you can't--not again! Jerry, Jerry, don't go away and leave me--truly and truly I can't stand it--truly!"

She wrung her hands together desperately; she was on her knees to him--did he wish her to go lower still? Oh, she had never learned to beg!

"I can't send you away again--I can't. When I sent you to France I killed my heart--when I let you go to death, I crucified my soul. I haven't anything left but my pride--you can have that, too. I can't send you back to your heaven. Stay with me--stay with me, Jerry!"

Not a sound--not a stir--but well she knew that he was standing there, waiting. She rose slowly to her feet.

"Very well--you've won," she said hardly. "Go back to your saints and seraphs and angels; I'm beaten. I was mad to think that you ever cared--go back!" She turned, stumbling, the sobs tearing at her throat; he had gone several steps before she realized that he was following her--and all the hardness and bitterness and despair fell from her like a cloak.

"Oh, Jerry," she whispered, "Jerry, darling, I'm so sorry. And you've come so far--just to find this! What is it that you want; can't you tell me?"

She stood tense and still, straining eyes and ears for her answer--but it was not to eyes or ears that it came.

"Oh, of course!" she cried clearly. "Of course, my wanderer! Ready?"

She stood poised for a second, head thrown back, arms flung wide--a small figure of Victory, caught in the flying wind.