Part 16

Here both men noticed in a careless way, a movement of the shoulders of the girl in front of them when a hand went nervously to her face. And it so happened that the Rose Cold's next words were the expression of her own thoughts when he said:

"The bad's a vool!"

"No," said the younger man; "he's not a fool. He has done a lot of figuring over it,--and experimenting. You see his machine is too good to be true. It can shoot through space at the same rate as electric waves, or waves of light."

"And how vasd is thad?"

"About a hundred and eighty thousand miles a second."

"Doe!"

"Yep."

"And you really believe id?"

"Sure."

"Id's sibly imbossible."

"I don't blame you for thinking so. But that's just why Alton likes it. If it was possible it wouldn't interest him. Miracles are his daily food. Gad, he's a wonder!"

"A hundred and eighty thouzand biles a zegond! Doe--thad's doo buch vor bee."

"No wonder you don't believe it. It surely is going some. Beats oxen."

"Aboud how log would id taig him to ged there ad thad rade?"

Here came a silence while the younger man did some figuring. "About five seconds. But of course no human being, even in an air-tight cylinder, could keep his head--or anything else, at that rate. He allows about twelve hours to get there."

"Dwelve hours! Vorty-eight billion biles in twelve hours! Why zo zlow?"

"Well, he's got to go slow through the six or seven miles of our atmosphere. Then, he doesn't know what sort of atmosphere surrounds Mars. So that'll take time like entering an unknown harbor. To be really safe he'll have to jog along slowly--on an average of four or five million miles an hour."

The Rose Cold laughed. "Beads vairy dales, doesn'd id?"

"To a frazzle."

"But the bravesd bad in the world gan'd go all day withoud breathig."

"True enough. But Alton has the same system of oxygen cylinders as the U-boats--only better. More condensed and lasts longer. Uses same air more times without deteriorating."

"Well, whadever habbens, he busd be glever."

"Clever! He beats the devil."

"Will he ever gum bag, Jibby?"

"Dunno."

"I subbose the gradest danger is in being hid by a medeoride. I understand those rogs are always shoodig about in spaze."

"Yep; and all the way in size from a liver pill to a state house. But that isn't what'll knock him out."

"Berhabs dod, bud I shouldn'd gare do be there iv one habbened to hid him."

"Right you are. He'd have about as much show as a bottle of ginger ale colliding with a locomotive. But astronomers say they are not so very numerous. What he's most afraid of himself is some sudden electric disturbance in his own machine that will put his own nervous system out of commission. You see nobody really knows what is going on in space. And if his nerves or lungs or brain go back on him, in anyway--Ping!--he's a goner."

After a pause the Rose Cold spoke in a more serious tone.

"Well, I taig off my had to him. It's a big thig, thad zord of gourage."

"I should say! And he knows himself there isn't one chance in a hundred of his ever touching this little earth again."

Here the attention of both men was drawn to the girl in front of them, who suddenly started from her seat--with both hands pressed hard against her face. She stood for a moment as if in pain, or under some mental disturbance. Then, sinking back into her seat, she appeared to be looking quietly out of the window during the short remainder of the journey. Although her action caused them no further interest, nor curiosity, it served to divert their talk from Cyrus Alton--a subject apparently exhausted--to other matters of no interest to Ruth Heywood.

XX

ANOTHER MESSAGE

When Ruth left the train and took the stage for Longfields her spirit was in revolt--in revolt against herself, against Cyrus and against the progress of the vehicle. But any vehicle, however fast, would have been too slow on that afternoon. She left the conveyance at Cyrus Alton's driveway. This was her first visit to the Alton's home since her sudden departure, so many years ago. And now, as she walked toward the house, almost every foot of ground, every object in the spacious yard, the old maples and the house itself, seemed accusing her of treason and of heartless murder. From every side, however, came pleasant memories of bygone days,--like flowers in a forsaken garden. And all of Cyrus! Never was a yard so full of history. And now that Cyrus was gone--gone forever, driven from the world by her own cruelty,--her over sensitive spirit writhed beneath the stings of conscience. Every recollection seemed to increase her guilt. Hardest to bear, in all this vista of the past, was the clear, undying fact that the cherubic, sleepy eyed little boy always stood between herself and trouble.

These memories overwhelmed her. There was the old maple in whose shade she and Drowsy played keeping house. They pretended Zac was President of the United States who had dropped in for dinner. Only gingerbread and sour grapes were served and Drowsy gave her the biggest half of the gingerbread because she, also, was a guest. Zac, always loyal, ate one or two of the green grapes just because Cyrus did. And the stone wall that saved their lives;--at least, she thought so when Mr. Randall's horse came snorting toward them across the field, on the other side. He seemed close at their heels when Cyrus boosted her up and pushed her over before he climbed up himself. He pushed so hard--against that part of the body on which we sit--that she landed on her face, and the short, stiff blades of grass that had just been mowed, cut the inside of her nose. She tried to smile as she remembered, with a gulp, that although he was badly scared himself he was the last to climb over the wall. Yes, he always gave her first chance at everything--in peace or war!

And there the well, where she and Susie Jordan had a quarrel one Sunday after Church, and Susie threw a dipperful of water on Ruth's head. It spoiled her new hat and she burst into tears. Then Cyrus walked up to Susie--Ruth could see him now as if it were yesterday--made one of his lowest bows, as if to apologize in advance, then slapped her hard on both cheeks. After slapping her he backed away a few steps and made yet another profound obeisance, as a judge, after performing a painful duty, might salute a prisoner of high degree.

But now she was in too great haste to linger long over memories, or anything else. She hurried on to the house. Tearful, smiling, but on the very edge of sobs, she rang the door bell. Too impatient to wait she entered and walked into the sitting room. The same old sitting room, and changed but little since she saw it last. On the walls the same green paper, just a little more faded, perhaps, at certain places where the morning sun had loitered. Almost covering the center table were books, papers and magazines.

Joanna entered. The greetings were cordial. Then, for a few moments they sat facing each other, Ruth in an arm chair, Joanna on the old sofa.

In a casual way, Ruth remarked:

"I suppose Cyrus is out in the old barn, hard at work on his new machine."

"Not now. It is all finished."

"Is it there now,--the machine?"

"No, he went away in it."

"When did he go?"

"Last night."

"Where has he gone?"

"I don't know."

Ruth leaned back in her chair and the color left her face.

"Oh, Miss Ruth, are you ill?"

"No, no! I am not ill. But didn't he say when he was coming back?"

"He said he might not be back for some days. But he has often done that."

Ruth suddenly jumped from her chair, began walking about the room, and exclaimed:

"He's a contemptible thing!"

"Not Cyrus?"

"Yes, Cyrus. And what a fool! Oh, what a fool!"

Into Joanna's placid, serious face came a look of amazement.

"You don't mean to say, Miss Ruth, that, Cyrus--is a--contemptible--thing and--and a fool!"

"That's just exactly what I mean. He's a fool--a contemptible, weak, half-hearted, easily discouraged, stupid fool!"

Ruth was clearly excited. She spoke rapidly and with vehemence, marching to and fro as if lashed to fury by some strange obsession. As Joanna watched the little figure she could hardly believe that this was the ever gentle Ruth Heywood of her acquaintance.

Ruth went on: "Not a speck of perseverance! And what a coward! I never suspected he was such a hopeless coward!"

"Cyrus a coward! Oh, but--Miss Ruth, you really----"

"Of course he's a coward! Why has he run away? Do brave men run away? No. Cowards run away. A mean, contemptible thing. That covers it. A contemptible cowardly act by a contemptible, cowardly man. And so ungrateful! Even as a boy he was ungrateful."

Now, to Joanna, who had known Cyrus intimately since the age of seven, he was the one perfect thing in creation. Morally he was an example for the angels; mentally the wonder of the age. So, being a somewhat literal person, these words came like stabs from a dagger and struck deep into her own heart. But she answered--more in sadness than in anger:

"I really can't imagine anybody thinking Cyrus ungrateful."

"Well, I do! He has no real love for anybody but himself. He thinks only of himself; only of himself!"

"Why, Miss Ruth, when Mrs. Eagan was laid up for nearly a whole summer, years ago, Cyrus took her a bowl of ice cream himself, every Sunday, after our own dinner. We had ice cream once a week. He was nothing but a boy then, but he----"

"Of course he did! Why not? Any boy would carry ice cream--just for the sake of holding it."

Joanna shook her head. "No. All boys are not like that."

Here Ruth turned fiercely upon her. "And how do you know he did? He probably ate it himself before he got to Mrs. Eagan's. He would tell you he didn't, of course. He's an awful liar and always was. You know that, Joanna, as well as I do."

"Liar! No, no, Miss Ruth! You don't know him. He got entirely over that, years ago. He's as truthful as anybody. Long ago, before he went away to school, his father made him ashamed of his lies and----"

"Oh, for a time perhaps! Bad boys don't become good over night."

"But, Miss Ruth, please listen. You only knew him when you were both very young. He really cured himself. He has not lied since. He was too young to know better. But even with his lying he was always a good boy."

"A good boy! Ha! He was not a good boy. I knew him better than you did. He was like all other boys and no boys are good. They are nothing but little pirates, prize fighters, screaming, noisy Indians, because they are savages themselves. They have no honor. They worship criminals and always want the criminal to escape, because they are criminals themselves. And Cyrus was just like the others. Good indeed! He was always evil minded."

"Evil minded! Cyrus evil minded!"

Ruth stopped, and stood before Joanna. "I tell you he's bad--just bad. As a boy he was bad, as a man he is bad--treacherous, cowardly, mean spirited and absolutely dishonorable. And that's why I hate him!"

For a moment, with angry eyes and quivering lips she stood looking down into the other woman's puzzled face. Then, dropping to her knees, she buried her face in Joanna's lap.

"Oh, I am so unhappy! So unhappy! Let me die!"

Joanna understood. Although unemotional herself she knew how to sympathize with the passion torn woman at her knees. Her own calm spirit and soothing words had their effect, and Ruth was soon herself again.

"And now, dearie," said Joanna, "I am going to bring you a cup of tea."

Alone in the green sitting room Ruth seated herself beside the center table. This table held, with other things, several books and papers, one or two mechanical drawings, some magazines and books. One of these books was lying open, just before her. A paragraph at the top of one of the open pages was marked in pencil. Being a scientific book Cyrus must have marked it. At that moment any thought of interest to him appealed to Ruth as something sanctified by his absence, a special message to herself. Besides, that the book should be lying open at this particular page seemed to her over wrought spirit as if placed there by Cyrus himself for her to read.

Had she stopped to think she would have known the open book was accidental, as she was the last person whom Cyrus could expect to visit him. But Fate and Providence do stranger things than fiction dares invent.

Carefully she read the marked passage, in a reverent spirit, as she would read a farewell message from a departed friend. It said:

"All sounds from earth are drifting forever into space. A strain of music will reach, in time, the most distant star. The music of the spheres is not an empty phrase. We know that wherever light will travel those waves that carry light through space will carry sound. Messages from other planets, for all we know, are reaching us to-day, but we are not attuned to hear them. Our own little song, or prayer, may reach the farthest star, but for its reception the sender and recipient must be in true accord."

With quivering hands she clutched the book, held it up before her eyes, and read the words again. Then she dropped the book upon the table and started up. In her eyes was a new light.

"But for its reception," she repeated, "the sender and recipient must be in true accord!"

In true accord! Yes, she and Drowsy were in true accord, even as children. If there was one person in this world specially endowed by Providence to receive such a message, surely it was Drowsy; he who received even the unspoken thoughts of others! She recalled her wonderment as a child when her whispered message was understood by him, at his own home, nearly a mile away. It seemed to her then,--and now--a supernatural gift. And if this author were correct no distance, however vast, would be an obstacle.

When Joanna returned with the tea she found her patient again in a state of excitement, but excitement of another kind. This time it was the thrill of a new hope; the exhilaration of a great joy.

* * * * *

Late that night, when this world--and other worlds, it seemed--were silent, Ruth went out into the darkness. Down at the further end of the long garden, she stood, for a time, looking up into the heavens. The storm had passed. Slowly, from the west, great clouds were drifting across a black but starry sky. She shuddered at the thought of a human being far out in that frigid, infinite waste, a helpless wanderer,--dead perhaps,--and driven by her own act!

Her eyes sought vainly to delve into the solemn spaces between the stars. Who could believe a human voice or a thought could penetrate those black, appalling depths? But she remembered the sentence,

"All sounds from earth are drifting forever into space."

Then, looking up toward the ruddy planet, and putting her one absorbing thought into fewest words, she said in a low voice, but clearly spoken:

"Cyrus, come back. I have always loved you."

Three times she repeated it; and each time with an overflowing heart.

* * * * *

If, among the undiscovered forces between other worlds and ours, there moves, like waves of light, a psychic power intensified by human love, repentance and devotion, then this woman's message should reach the uttermost limits of celestial space. Her very soul was in it.

XXI

ABOVE THE CLOUDS

Ruth's first night on duty at the hospital, ten days later, was eventful.

She had the care of two patients, each in a room by himself, with an open door between. One of these patients was a man with a broken arm, a displaced rib, a bandaged head and wandering brain. He made no trouble and was perfectly quiet, except an occasional mumbling to himself.

The other patient, the one who appealed more strongly to her sympathies, was a boy about fifteen. Both legs had been broken in an automobile collision and he was suffering from internal injuries. In spite of constant pain his courage never weakened. He was always in good spirits and trying his best to smile. His gratitude for any attention went straight to the heart of his nurse:--"That pretty little nurse with the sad face" as one surgeon described her.

Ruth was much impressed by Dr. Gladwin, a tall, heavy man, with a bushy head of the whitest hair. His eyes were threatening, his glance warlike, all in amusing contrast, however, to his friendly, cheerful voice, his gentle manners and his unfailing sympathy. He said to her that evening, after giving his instructions:

"We have not been able to define precisely this boy's injuries. The constant pain about his chest is a bad sign, but we are hoping for the best. His legs will be as good as ever."

While these words were spoken Ruth looked across the room toward the patient. His eyes were closed. The round boyish face was drawn with pain. At that moment his eyes opened and he returned Ruth's look with a smile. It was a smile of friendliness and courage, the resolute, pathetic courage of youth clinging to life. The look itself and the tale it told brought a sudden moistness to the eyes of the new nurse. Then she followed Dr. Gladwin into the adjoining room.

Standing by the bedside of the other patient she looked down upon a man whose eyes were partly covered by the bandage about his head. The pale face had the somewhat disreputable appearance that goes with a scrubby, unshaven chin.

"This man," said the doctor, "has, as you know, a broken arm and rib, with an injury to his head. He remains unconscious. The first few days he made no effort to speak. But now he murmurs something at intervals; always the same words, I am told. The effort to speak is a favorable sign in this case, as it indicates a returning memory. He will probably recover."

A few further instructions as to her own duties, and he departed.

Ruth found the boy more greedy for companionship than the unconscious patient--which was not surprising. No human being could be braver than this boy. Yearning for sympathy he liked to have his hand held by this new nurse. As the night wore on he told her in a fragmentary way, between periods of pain, of his parents in San Francisco, of his ambitions, if he ever recovered. He also gave details of his accident last Saturday, just how he was thrown from the motor when they collided with the other car.

But the new nurse did not neglect the less interesting patient in the next room. He seemed like one in a deep, unending sleep, except for the occasional smile that came to his lips and the muttered words--whatever they were.

About two o'clock in the morning the boy closed his eyes and he, also, slept. Ruth arranged the covering about his neck and shoulders then stepped gently into the adjoining room. For a moment she stood at the bedside of the unconscious man with the scrubby chin. He lay motionless, and in a slumber so deep, so silent, that it seemed to Ruth he could easily pass away and none be wiser. Then, for a time, she stood at the open window, looking out into the peaceful summer night and up at the stars. Her thoughts, when alone these days, were always in the past, and they were heart breaking. To-night, even the rising moon, although in its fullest beauty, seemed a perfect symbol of her own future--a world of dust and ashes.

At last, with a sigh of resignation--a sigh of despair and buried hopes--she left the window. Again she stood beside the unconscious and less interesting patient; he of the bandaged head and scrubby chin. As she was turning away she noticed a movement of his lips--the beginning of the periodic smile. She felt a sudden curiosity to hear the coming words. If, as the doctor said, they were always the same, they might be a message he had wished to send, important to wife or parents, that could lead to his identification. Besides she had a strong desire to learn what words or what thought behind the words--could bring so much happiness, even momentarily, to a half conscious spirit.

The light in the room, while softened by shades, was clear enough to reveal the uncovered portion of his face. And, as she looked more carefully, the face was less "common" than she had judged from the unshaven chin. She leaned over the bed, her face not far from his, and listened. Through the open window came no sound from the sleeping city; only the pale light from the rising moon; that cold, dead world of dust and ashes. It may have been the solitude and the silence of the hour that brought to Ruth a feeling of awe--almost of guilt at this intrusion upon the privacy of another's thoughts; secrets, perhaps, of a defenseless brain. As she was wondering what sort of accident had brought him there the blissful smile became more pronounced. Although his eyes were partly covered by the overhanging bandage it was clear that the dormant spirit within was stirred by memories of a supreme happiness, of a transcendent joy that no physical pain could extinguish.

Further still she bent over, until her face was near his own.

Then, through every nerve of brain and body, she felt a sensation of mingled awe, of terror, of bewilderment, as if she were suddenly in touch with another world, when she heard, hardly above a whisper:

"Cyrus, come back. I have--always--loved you."

* * * * *

Breathless, as in a trance, Ruth gazed at the lips, where lingered--but slowly fading, as if reluctant to pass away--the expression of a great content. The brief liberty of a rapturous thought. Then back into the darkness.

* * * * *

Needless to say that Cyrus Alton was not neglected during his convalescence. And Dr. Gladwin's prophecy was correct. Cyrus not only recovered but his recovery, after once regaining consciousness, was surprisingly rapid. So rapid that the "little nurse with the sad face" threw aside her sadness, as if waking from a dream, and became the happiest and most inspiriting person in her vicinity.

On a certain afternoon, when the convalescent was first allowed to talk as much as he wished, he told his story. And no better audience could be desired than the one then seated on the bed beside him, and quite near the speaker--perhaps to save him the effort of raising his voice. The day was warm, the windows open. Faintly through the closed blinds came the murmur of the city, from beyond the spacious grounds of the hospital.

The story was simply told. He started at night for the red planet. He got there and he landed. The air seemed much like ours. But he found himself in a world quite different from his own. All was architecture; temples, towers and enormous viaducts fading away into the horizon, as far as the eye could see. And everything was tall and slender. The trees were very high with branches pointing upward like poplars, and always formally laid out in avenues, or in geometric patterns. And the color! It was like looking at an endless city through orange glasses. The few people he saw had larger heads than ours, more like children, but like children with very short legs. They were surprisingly light on their feet. He was surprised at their high jumps until he remembered that a man who weighs two hundred pounds on the earth weighs but seventy-five pounds on Mars. He really saw but little, however, for although he had tested the atmosphere he found, after looking about him a moment, that the air, while pleasant enough to breath, was affecting his nerves and brain, almost like laughing gas. Then, as he stood there, and began to realize his danger, the wonderful thing happened!