CHAPTER IV

THE END OF THE WORLD

Four days had passed, four days of glorious sunshine. Every day the whole party had been for a trip in the Argenta. They never landed anywhere, however, for Sir John was still jealous of his secret; he wanted to test her in every kind of weather—he wanted to leave nothing to chance, so that finally her worth could not be questioned.

It was nothing for them to circle over the Outer Hebrides in the morning, come home for lunch, and then run over as far as Paris before dinner. Scarcely any motion was to be felt in the boat.

Alan had made arrangements with Sir Christopher Somerville to accompany the expedition to Kalvar. Desmond was to stay behind and look after Mavis, who intended staying at Dalmyrnie until her baby was born. Her fingers were busy fashioning tiny garments for the little newcomer, whose arrival was expected very soon.

“What shall we do to-day?” asked Sir John. “Mavis, my dear, would you like to rest? You look very tired.”

“No, nothing does me as much good as a sail in the Argenta, Uncle John. Let us go up after lunch for a couple of hours.” There was a curious stillness in the air, as the Argenta climbed up to six thousand feet,—hardly a breeze, in fact.

“Oh I’m stifling,” said Mavis.

“My poor darling,” murmured Desmond lovingly. “Are you sure you are not overtiring yourself? Your fingers never seem still. Always working at something or other, aren’t you?”

She blushed prettily. “I can’t let—him—come into the world and find we’ve not prepared for him, can I?” and she hid her face on her husband’s shoulder.

“You’ve made up your mind it’s to be a—‘him’—?” he laughed.

“Of course, Dez. I must have a son first.” He laughed at her naïve remark.

“Well if you feel tired be sure and tell me, darling, that’s all.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm later,” remarked Masters. “Although the sky is clear, there is the curious oppressiveness that usually precedes a storm.”

“Then let us get back,” said Mavis. “I am terrified at thunder.”

Majestically the Argenta sailed, gracefully she skimmed along the sky. Now above the level of the clouds, now close down above the waters of the Atlantic.

“How beautiful the islands look, dotted about in the water,” said Alan. “It is indeed a pearl-studded sea.”

Hector came up to Sir John with a puzzled frown. “I don’t quite like the look of the weather,” said he. “The compass won’t work, and the altimeter is frisking about in a most unaccountable manner. There’s a bad storm brewing, and I think we shall be wise to turn her nose round and go back.”

“If you think it is best,” agreed Sir John, and as he spoke the sun burst out in all its glory from behind a fleecy cloud. At the same moment, away on the horizon, where angry blue-black clouds had gathered, came a vivid flash of lightning.

“Oh!” cried Mavis as she covered her eyes, “what a terrible flash.” In a few minutes the sky was black and gloomy, the wind rose suddenly to a hurricane, and the big craft was spinning and twisting in a most unsafe manner.

“We’ll go back, sir,” said Hector. “Now go inside, Mrs. Forsyth. Believe me, there’s no danger.”

Then followed a most awful experience. The lightning never ceased, but lit up the ship from end to end, the thunder crashed and the Argenta rocked violently. Gradually they steered her round, and to the accompaniment of a most vivid flash of lightning and a deafening roar of thunder, the ship started on her homeward journey. At last they came safely to anchor outside the hangar and Mavis, always nervous in a storm, was now in a state of semi-unconsciousness. Desmond lifted her tenderly out of the ship and carried her to the cottage. Her nerve had completely gone.

That night a son was born to Desmond, and old Dr. Angus, who had been fetched in haste by Alan, spoke very gravely of the chances of saving both mother and child. The slightest shock would be fatal to her, he announced, as he took his leave.

“I’m glad you had a nurse in the house,” he added, “a very wise precaution when so many miles separate doctor and patient.”

“You’ll come again?” said Desmond hoarsely.

“I will be round again in the morning.”

Desmond, white faced, his hands twitching convulsively, stood on guard outside his wife’s room. The ordeal was terrible, and the perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead. Once he heard a tiny cry, then stillness. He dared not knock—there was a nurse behind that closed door, and he knew he could trust her. Still—.

A hand touched him. “Go to bed, Desmond, and try to get a little sleep.” It was Alan. “I’ll watch for you, and I’ll give you my word I’ll call you if you’re wanted.”

“No, no, Alan. I’ll stay here. If she wants me, I want to be near.”

So the hours wore on, and no sound came from the sick-room. Dr. Angus motored up, and without a word disappeared within. An hour later he came out and saw Desmond’s haggard face.

“You may go in for two minutes only,” said he. “Both your wife and son will live.”

It was a white-faced Mavis who greeted him. Her face was lined with pain; her hazel eyes were sunk deep into her head. In her arms she held a bundle, a little bundle that was everything to the man and woman beside it. “Dear, he’s like you,” whispered Mavis weakly, and then, with an almost roguish smile, “I said it would be a boy.” Her eyes closed, and with her husband’s hand in hers, she gave a contented sigh and fell asleep.

“Whew!” said Sir John, a few days later. “I wouldn’t go through last week again for a king’s ransom.”

“Thank God she has pulled through,” said Alan fervently. The two men were sitting at breakfast, the first square meal they had had for a week.

“Any news?” asked Sir John, as Alan was devouring the _Post_.

“Not much, Uncle John. There was a new Housing Bill brought up in the House last night. The Government seems very rocky. There are hints of a General Election. H’m. H’m—A bad earthquake in South America, I see. Five thousand people killed. Oh, and a landslip or something in New Zealand. How shocking,” he went on, “ten thousand casualties there. Why, it’s as bad as a war!”

“No, it’s the States where the earthquake is,” said Sir John who had unfolded the _Scotsman_.

“No, South America,” contradicted Alan. “Listen—

“A tremendous earthquake has been felt at Lima, Valparaiso, and Buenos Aires. These three cities have suffered great damage. Over five thousand people have been killed outright, while the casualty list is considerably greater. The shock was felt in Bermuda, New Guinea and even as far north as Kentucky.”

“Then there has been one in the States as well,” said his Uncle. And he read from his paper

“The Meteorological office at Pimenta states that a serious earthquake has occurred in New Jersey.”

“Later.

“News has now come through that Tennessee and Vermont have suffered considerable damage also. The loss of life is comparatively small considering the damage done to property. The tallest buildings have toppled over, shaken from their foundations. The electrical supply is cut off, and in many places severe fires are burning.”

“It seems all over America,” said Alan lightly. “I am glad we don’t go in for those merry little sideshows in this country.”

“Your time is growing short,” said Sir John with a sigh. “I shall miss you very much, my lad.”

“I shall miss you too, sir. But of course I am rather looking forward to the expedition.”

The weather had been quite settled since the time when the Argenta had encountered the terrible storm, on the day preceding the birth of Desmond’s son. Slightly sultry, perhaps, but an occasional cool breeze tempered the heat.

The next day all the papers were full of the epidemic of earthquakes that were occurring in different parts of the world. Work in many places was disorganized, and a fear was expressed that influences were at work round Southern Europe which might mean that the earthquakes would be felt nearer home.

Alan was due to sail in two days, arrangements had been made for him to leave Scotland the following morning, when a wire came from Sir Christopher Somerville. “Postponing departure of _Cavalier_ indefinitely. Fear unsafe to sail south. Awaiting favourable report from Greenwich. Will advise you at earliest of arrangements.”

“Well, it gives us a little more of your society, my boy,” said Sir John, and there was a pleased look in his eyes.

Alan picked up the paper. “My God!” said he suddenly, and his face blanched.

“Following the news of the disastrous earthquakes that have been scourging America and the islands of the South American coast,” he read, “come accounts of further appalling phenomena. In all parts of America, after violent cyclones, the land has in many places opened up, and swallowed men, animals and buildings. The loss of life is abnormal—rough estimates are given as high as 900,000 lives. Internal rumblings and coastal waterspouts in Tasmania have caused a panic among the population. The sea is too rough for even the largest boat to sail upon. Natives are rushing hither and thither with no real idea of where to go for safety. Volcanic eruptions are taking place in districts where for thousands of years the volcanoes have been extinct. Scientists are at present unable to account for this extraordinary outbreak of nature. As we go to press, news has come through that Sydney has disappeared entirely. San Francisco is in ruins. The whole of Cape Colony has sunk below sea level—and the water has poured over the whole country, sweeping everything before it. A later edition of this paper will be issued at noon, and at intervals during the afternoon and evening with news as it comes to hand.”

“It is the worst scourge nature has ever given us,” said Sir John.

“What I cannot understand,” said Alan, “is why it is in so many places at once. Different latitudes seem to have suffered and different lands.”

All that day a deep depression had taken hold of the occupants of the little cottage, and they were all very quiet. “Masters, motor over to Arroch Head,” said Sir John, about six in the evening, “and if you can get no further news, ring up the offices of the _Scotsman_. Tell the Editor you are speaking for me. He will give you the latest news, I am sure.” Masters was back within the hour, his face blanched, his hands trembling.

“Well?” asked Sir John. “Is it as bad as all that?”

“It’s terrible,” replied Masters. “It’s coming nearer home. Rome has gone entirely—so have Naples and Athens. Spain and Portugal are under water. Authentic news is hard to get, as telephonic and cable communication in many places have failed. Some air scouts were sent to investigate, and witnessed the destruction of Spain. The air disturbances were so great that it was with the greatest difficulty they managed to reach England in safety.”

“Do they think this visitation will reach us?” asked Desmond, the picture of his wife and child coming before his eyes.

“The _Scotsman_ says that so far the Meteorological Office reports no disturbances within eighty miles in all directions of our coast. They hold out a hope, that being an island, we may escape,” said Masters brokenly.

There was no sleep for any one that night; but the morning came and brought with it a blue sky and a gentle wind. There was not even a hint of disaster in the clear atmosphere. Hector got the big Napier out, and all but Desmond motored in to Arroch Head. He stayed behind with Mavis, to keep all breath of disaster from her ears. The little village street was full of white faced men, women and children, children frightened because their parents were frightened, yet realizing nothing of the danger ahead.

“Any news?” asked Sir John, of old Weelum McGregor, the hotel keeper.

“Aye, sir, an’ it’s no verra guid. Paris is on fire the noo. There was an internal explosion in the neighbourhood of Versailles yestere’en, and soon the roads were running with molten lava. Paris caught fire, and every one is powerless to suppress it.”

Three days passed. England and Scotland were isolated—entirely cut off from the outer world. They had just to wait and pray that their time of tribulation would not come. The night was extraordinarily dark, the wind moaned and rose in mighty gusts. The rain came down in torrents. The thunder rolled in the distance, and occasionally flashes of lightning lit up the horizon.

Mavis was very restless. “Is anything the matter, Dez?” she asked, as he sat by her bedside.

“Why, dear?”

“You look worried. You make me feel anxious.”

“I’ve been worried about you, my darling, that’s all,” and he lied glibly to the sick woman.

Then there suddenly rose on the air a terrific sound, worse than the loudest peal of thunder, and the room was brilliantly lighted from without as though by a mighty fire. Mavis rose up in bed; her limbs were shaking and she drew the sleeping babe still closer to her breast. “What is it, what is it, Dez? No, no, don’t leave me,” as Desmond was about to leave the room. He put his arms about her and crooned to her as if she had been a baby. The noise was terrible—one long, mighty roar. The room shook with the vibration, and the light from without grew brighter and brighter.

Sir John entered. “Mavis, my dear, you mustn’t be frightened. Hector and Masters are launching the Argenta—we are going to take you up in her.”

“What is happening?”

“I don’t quite know, my dear, but Ben Lawers has broken out in flames. Schiehallion and Ben More in the distance are belching out heavy, dark smoke—I think it’s volcanic action. Now, we’ve talked the whole matter over, and we feel that the safest place is inside the airship.”

“But listen to the wind—could it live in such a storm?”

“It is the safest place,” said Sir John firmly. “We will carry you and baby down in a hammock. Nurse has already packed you a goodly store of clothes, and then we’ll all sail away to a more healthy spot.”

“Are you sure there’s no danger?”

“No, my dear! It’s a magnificent sight to see the grand old Ben belching out smoke and flames. Lava is pouring down his sides into the Tay, and Killin is lighted up so that you can see the houses as if it was day.”

Gently Mavis was carried to the ship, and tenderly lifted aboard. There was no time to waste. Sir John had only told half the truth to the invalid. The lava from Ben Lawers was already spreading towards Dalmyrnie. The hot ashes were being carried on the mighty wind, and the men were scorched and burnt while they were launching the airship.

Feverishly Masters hauled aboard packages, and bundles, hasty provisions to supplement those on board. A crash sounded behind them—the pine woods at the rear of the cottage had caught fire! It was an unearthly sight. Ben Lawers roared and hissed and spluttered, the pine trees crackled—the whole countryside was lit up with flames. In the distance the surrounding peaks and Bens were beginning to show signs of fire, and the whole scene was like a page of Dante come true.

“Everything aboard?” asked Sir John hoarsely.

“Yes,” said Alan.

“Where’s Nurse? Isn’t she coming?”

“No! I tried to persuade her, but she wanted to get to Arroch Head to her mother. I told her to take the runabout—she’s a fairly good hand with the car.”

The flames drew nearer. Already their cruel tongues were licking round the house. The hangar was smouldering. Suddenly there came on their ears a deafening explosion—the reserve petrol had caught fire! The heat was unbearable. “It’s no good,” panted Sir John. “Let’s leave the rest and get off.”

“Please God we shall soon be out of here, and shall be able to land in safety,” said Alan.

Scorched, blackened with smoke, Masters made one more superhuman effort. He shipped his whole cargo in safety! He swarmed up the ladder, the grappling iron was drawn in, and the great ship slowly moved, travelling upward with her human freight.

The Argenta pitched and tossed, but Masters and Hector worked steadily at the delicate levers. Now they headed her right, now left; now she climbed above the average ten thousand feet, now dropped low to avoid the nasty air patches. Mavis was in her bed, her eyes wide open in terror. Above the roaring of the engines, came claps of thunder, deafening and awe inspiring.

“I don’t understand,” she moaned. “What is happening?”

“It is impossible to say,” said Desmond. “But I feel we are safer here than we should be on earth to-night.” And the night of horror passed.

Below, as they hovered to and fro, the whole country was blazing. Dawn came, but an angry dawn. Dark clouds scudded across the sky; the thunder grumbled in the distance, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the angry heavens.

“Where are we?” asked Sir John.

“Over Edinburgh,” answered Masters from the other end of the ’phone, “we have scarcely moved for the last four hours.”

“What?”

“The engines seem disinclined to work. I can’t make it out at all.”

The ship suddenly swerved to one side—a terrific explosion filled the air, and they saw the Castle Rock suddenly shiver, crumple up, and fall a shapeless ruin on to the railway line beneath. In a few minutes, Edinburgh, the Modern Athens, Edinburgh the Fair, was a mass of flames! They watched the populace, mad with fear, running aimlessly along the streets. “This is awful,” muttered Alan. “Make south if you can. Let us get away from this desolation.”

With a great amount of patience and skill, Masters at length managed to get the engines to work. But they came upon havoc and destruction whichever way they went,—indeed, the whole world seemed to have turned upside down. They circled London, but the first metropolis of the world had been the first English city to suffer from the terrible scourge. Blackened, charred, lifeless, London was a city of the dead.

As they swung in space over the dead London, they tried to pick out the familiar landmarks, but in vain—The Houses of Parliament were but a mass of bricks and dust; gone was the Abbey of Westminster, levelled to the ground was the mighty Tower of St. Edward, belonging to the Catholic Cathedral—gone was the Tower of London. There was not a sign of life in the once great city.

Aimlessly they flew in all directions. The whole of England was a flaming mass. They headed for the Continent. It was true, Paris had gone; Brussels was no more; there was not a city left. Denmark was wiped out,—and the sea washed up noisily and angrily over a barren rock that had once been Norway. At short intervals terrific explosions rent the air, and the vibration caused the Argenta to perform many nerve-racking aerial gymnastics.

“Head for the Atlantic if you can,” cried Alan in despair. For ten days they had hovered over dead cities, dying lands, and waste voids. Navigation was almost impossible, the hurricanes drove the craft this way and that; now forcing her high, now bringing her low. It was all very fearsome, very terrifying. Mavis was up, and with her baby in her arms she followed the men about, a forlorn pathetic figure. Landing was impossible—there was no place where they could land. They had plenty of water, plenty of provisions, but they ate mechanically, scarcely realizing what it was that Hector placed before them with unvarying regularity.

They watched Europe sinking—the vast Atlantic was slowly but surely washing over lands and countries that had once been great empires.

The Argenta was wonderful; no matter what the atmospheric disturbances were, she always righted herself. The heat, at times, was terrific, and the Argenta was forced to climb out of the reach of the burning wastes below. Then the water of the ocean seemed to rise like steam—the Atlantic itself was boiling, and as it grew hotter and hotter, the ocean seemed to grow less in size.

The heat was so intense that the Argenta rose to a great height and remained among the clouds. After some days she descended, but seemed to be in a new world altogether. There was a large tract of barren land stretched out before them—gone was the Atlantic in its vastness. Dead bodies lay strewn about—the remains of great ships were embedded in the earth. Animals, humanity, fish, lay mixed together in that arid waste.

Suddenly Alan spoke, very reverently. “And the sea shall give up its dead.”

“The Atlantic?” whispered Sir John.

“I think so,” answered Alan.

And as they watched there came a mighty sound, greater than any they had heard before. The whole world shook, and for one moment was a living ball of fire. Then it shivered violently, split into a thousand pieces, and from its gaping wounds belched forth smoke and flames. Once more came the terrible sound, the sound of a world’s death cry; there was a mighty crash, the flames went out and where the world had been—was nothing.

All was black, all was gone; the earth had returned to its original state; the sea had disappeared entirely; shapeless, dark,—the earth was dead! And in her last convulsive hold on life, she shook the very heavens. The Argenta was whirled round and round in a maelstrom of agony, and then was shot into space.

With a mighty effort Masters released the shutters, and filled the intervening cavity with the ether. It was his last conscious act. On, on went the Argenta, at a terrific speed. The fury of the heavens seemed let loose, and the atom in the firmament was like a wisp of wool in its grasp. Turning, twisting, rolling, the Argenta was borne on the bosom of the whirlwind, and carried with its seven souls of Terra; seven souls that had escaped from, but had witnessed The End Of The World.