Part 10

"I appreciate, more than I can say, the kind proposition concerning myself, which you make in your letter. I owe it to our friendship to tell you quite frankly that I feel, and have long felt, how great an honour it would be for any woman to be in a position so to administer your household as to set you completely free for your great intellectual pursuits.

"But marriage would mean more than this, and our long friendship emboldens me to say that I should grieve to see you--owing perhaps to pressure or advice from others--burden your life with family ties for which you surely do not yourself feel any special inclination.

"And, now, my friend, I must not close my letter without telling you how great a happiness has come into my lonely life. I am about to marry a man whom--" Miss Charteris paused, and looked through the open window to the softly moving leaves of the old mulberry-tree. A gleam of amusement shone in her eyes, curving her lips into a tender smile. The Boy seemed beside her, slapping his knee and rocking with merriment at the way she was about to bewilder Miss Ann and the Professor--"a man whom I have known and loved for over twenty years.

"I am sure you will wish me joy, dear Professor.

"Believe me, always, "Gratefully and affectionately yours, "CHRISTOBEL CHARTERIS."

She rang the bell, and sent the answer to the Professor's letter, by Jenkins. She could not wait for the slow medium of the post. She could not let him remain another hour in the belief that, in order to save her from disappointment, he was compelled to marry Christobel Charteris.

She stood at the breakfast-room window, and watched Jenkins as he hurried down the garden with the note. Going by the lane, and taking a short cut across the fields, he would reach the Professor's rooms in a quarter of an hour. Until then, life was somewhat intolerable.

The proud blood mantled again over the face, the strong sweet beauty of which the Boy so loved. Her letter to the Professor had not been easy to write. She had had to be true to herself, and true to him, in the light of what she knew to be his real feeling in the matter; bearing in mind that before long he would almost certainly learn from Miss Ann that she had replied to his proposal after having read his sentiments on the subject, so candidly expressed on the first page of his letter to his sister.

To relieve her mind, after this intricate whirl of cross-correspondence, she took up the _Daily Graphic_, and opened it, casually turning the pages.

Suddenly there looked out at her from the central page, the merry, handsome, daring face of her own Little Boy Blue. He was seated in his flying-machine steering-wheel in hand, looking out from among many wires. His cap was on the back of his head, his bright eyes looked straight into hers; his firm young lips, parted in a smile, seemed to say; "I jolly well mean to do it!" It was the very picture she had seen in the Professor's _Daily Mirror_, in her dream of the night before. Below was an account of the flight from Folkestone which he was about to attempt.

Then she remembered, with a shock of realization, that the flight across the Channel, round Boulogne Cathedral and back, was to take place on that very day. His telegram, of the night before, had said: "I am going to do a big fly to-morrow. Wish me luck." Ah, what if it ended as she had seen it end in her dream: great broken wings; a mass of tangled wire; and the Boy--_her_ Boy--with matted hair, and wounded head, asleep beneath the sailcloth!

Her heart stood still.

With their perfect joy so near its fulfilment, she could not let him take the risk. Was there time to stop him?

She looked at the paper. The start was for 2 p.m. It was now eleven o'clock.

She remembered his last words: "When you want me and send--why, I will come from the other end of the world."

She never quite knew how she reached the telegraph-office. It seemed almost as dreamlike as her flight from the top to the bottom of the Folkestone cliffs. But it was not a dream this time; it was desperate reality.

Why do people always break the points of the pencils hanging from strings in the telegraph-offices? Surely it is possible to write a telegram without stubbing off the pencil, and leaving it in that condition, for the next person in a hurry.

She flew from compartment to compartment, and at last produced her own pencil, and wrote her telegram in the final section of the row, independent of official broken points.

"_Do not fly to-day. Come to me. I want you._

"_Christobel._"

She addressed it to the hotel from which he had telegraphed on the previous day; but added to the address: "If not there, send immediately to aviation sheds." She had no idea what to call the places, but this sounded well, and seemed an intuition, or an unconscious recollection of some remark of the Boy's.

She handed it over the counter. "Please see that it goes through at once," she said.

The clerk knew her. "Yes, Miss Charteris," he replied. He began reading the message aloud, but almost immediately stopped, and checked the words off silently. He glanced at the clock. "It should be there before noon, Miss Charteris," he said.

He did not look at her, as he passed her the stamps. He had long thought her one of the finest women who stepped in and out of the post-office. He had never expected to see her hands tremble. And fancy _any_ woman--even _she_--being able to tell Guy Chelsea not to fly! He had a bet on, about that flight, with an enthusiastic backer of Chelsea's. He was glad he had taken the odds against its coming off, before seeing this wire. But--after all! It is easy enough to _ask_ a chap not to fly; but----

He took up a copy of the _Daily Mirror_, and looked at the brave smiling face. "I jolly well mean to do it!" the young aeronaut seemed to be saying. The clerk laughed, and shook his head. "Hurry up that wire," he called to the operator. Then he jingled the loose change in his pockets. "I wonder," he said.

* * * * *

During the hours which followed, Christobel Charteris knew suspense.

Perhaps that strong, self-contained nature could never have fully sounded the depths of its own surrender, without those hours of uncertainty, when nothing stood between her and the man she loved, but the possibility that her telegram would fail to reach him; that he would carry out his dangerous flight; that disaster and death would overtake him and wrest him from her, and that he would die--Guy Chelsea would die--without ever knowing of the cup of bliss she was now ready, with utterly loving hand, to hold to his lips.

Having sent her message, there was nothing more she could do, and the burden of inaction seemed almost too great a weight to carry, during the hours which must elapse, before his coming could turn uncertainty into assurance; restlessness, into peace.

It did not occur to her, as a possibility, that Guy Chelsea would elect to fly, after receiving her request. She knew her slightest wish would be law to the Boy's tender loyalty; and though he knew nothing of her cause for anxiety, nor of the complete change of circumstances since he left her, not forty-eight hours before, she felt sure he would not fly; she felt certain he would come--if--_if_ the message reached him in time.

At two o'clock it came to her, with overwhelming certainty, that her message had not reached him, and that he had started on his flight. She seemed to see the great wings mounting--mounting; then skimming over the sea. She almost heard the hum he had so often described--the hum of the giant insect on which the bird-man flew.

Her own Little Boy Blue was flying through space. O God, what might not any minute be bringing! He had said: "One never expects those things to happen, and when they do happen, it's over so quickly that there is no time for expectation." Was it happening now? Was it going to be over so quickly, that her cup of bliss would be dashed from her lips untasted? Was she to lose her all, because of a cross-current or a twisted wire?

She was walking up and down the garden now, and paused beside the chair in which she had sat when he had said, only seven days ago: "It was always you I wanted; not your niece. Good heavens! How can you have thought it was Mollie, when it was you--you--just only you, all the time?" And she, half-laughing at him, had asked: "Is this a proposal?"

"My ALL," she said. "Oh, Boy dear, my ALL. If I lose you, I lose my ALL."

She walked on slowly, moving to the repetition of those words. It seemed a comfort to repeat the great fact that, at last, he was this to her. Surely it would reach him, by some sort of wireless telegraphy through space. Surely it would control cross-currents, keep propellers acting as they should; steering-gear from twisting.

"O God, he is my ALL--he is my ALL!"

* * * * *

The afternoon sun began to glint through the trees.

The jolly little "what-d'-you-call-'ems" lifted pale anxious faces to the sky.

Clocks all around chimed the hour of four.

Suddenly her limbs weakened. She could walk no longer.

She sank into a chair, beneath the mulberry-tree.

In a few minutes Jenkins would bring out tea. Would Martha have arranged a tea such as the Boy loved, with cups for two, hot buttered-toast and explosive buns?

What a boy he was, at heart--this man who had won her; what a gay, laughter-loving boy!

She lay back, very still, under the mulberry-tree, and lived again through each of the Boy's days, from the first to the sixth.

She kept her eyes closed. The sunlight, glinting through the mulberry leaves, fell in bright patches on her white gown, and on her soft golden hair.

The garden was very still. All nature seemed waiting with the heart that waited.

"_Little Boy Blue, come blow me your horn!_"

"I shall blow it all right on the seventh day," the Boy had said; "and when I do, you will hear it."

This was the seventh day.

Suddenly the horn of a motor tooted loudly in the lane.

She rose, her hands clasped upon her breast, and stood waiting

A shaft of golden sunlight streamed down the garden, and seemed to focus on the postern gate.

Then the gate swung open and the Boy came in, slamming it behind him. She saw him coming up the lawn toward her, bareheaded; the sunlight in his shining eyes.

"I couldn't wait for trains," he shouted. "I came by motor. And I jolly well exceeded the speed-limit all the way!"

She moved a few steps to meet him.

"Boy dear," she said, "you always exceed all speed-limits. It is a way you have. Exceed them as much as you like, so long as I am with you when you do it. But--oh, my Little Boy Blue!--don't fly again; for, if you fall and break your wings, indeed you will break my heart."

In a moment she was sobbing on his breast, her arms flung around him. There was nothing broken or limp about his strong young body, pulsating with life.

He put his arms about her, holding her in a clasp of close possessive tenderness.

He did not yet understand what had happened; but he knew the great gift he desired had been given him. He waited for her to speak.

She lifted her face to his.

"Guy," she said; "ah, take me, hold me, keep me! I am altogether your own. I will explain to you fully, by and by. The stone was very great; but lo, as we reached it, the Angel of the Lord had rolled it away.... No other man has a shadow of claim over me. I am free to say, to the only man I have ever really loved: Take me; I am yours. Oh, Boy! I am altogether yours."

He bent over her.

The sweet proud lips were parted in utter surrender, and lifted to his.

He paused--just for one exquisite moment, of realization.

She waited his kiss with closed eyes, so she did not see the radiance of his face, as he looked up to the blue sky, flecked with fleeting white clouds. But she heard the voice, which from that hour was to make the music of her life:

"Thank the Lord," said Little Boy Blue.

Then--he kissed her.

* * * * *

"_And the evening and the morning were the seventh day._"

_List of_

MRS. BARCLAY'S NOVELS

By FLORENCE L. BARCLAY

THE ROSARY

Over One Million Copies Sold

_Translated into French, German, Norwegian, Swedish, Polish, Finnish, Dutch, and Spanish._

"The sentiment is never mawkish; it rings true, and throughout the whole story there is a vein of elevating emotion which should attract lovers of wholesome fiction."--_Times_.

THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE

"A youthful sentiment, fresh and romantic, flows through Mrs. Barclay's new book, and gives to the story some of the delicate odour of lavender and jessamine, and old-fashioned flowers."--_Daily Graphic_.

THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR

"A worthy successor to 'The Rosary.' It has the same charm and grip, whilst the plot is again unusual and clever...."--_Evening Standard_.

THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE

"It is a book to turn over in a sunny garden, under shady trees, when one might look up from the clear print and see a happy prince coming in through the green gate to lead one's own self to fairyland."--_Manchester Guardian_.

THE BROKEN HALO

"It is the record of the saving of a soul by charity. The end represents the triumph of mortal kindness."--_Standard_.

THE WALL OF PARTITION

"A brisk, readable story with a strong plot, full of incident and sure of a wide appreciation."--_Globe_.

THE UPAS TREE

"The book is full of that mixture of humour, feeling, and religion that gain for Mrs. Barclay so wide a popularity."--_Church Family Newspaper_.

RETURNED EMPTY

"This is certainly the most arresting tale that the authoress has produced since her first huge success."--_Daily Mail_.

SHORTER WORKS

Seven of Mrs. Barclay's Shorter Stories now collected for the first time into one volume, and including one which has never before been printed in book form.

THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER

3s. 6d. net.

Mrs. Barclay's Last Long Novel.

"It has tenderness, it has a story which never flags, above all it has humanity."--_Observer_.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, Ltd.,

24 Bedford St., Strand, London, W.C. 2, & New York

_SOME PRESS OPINIONS ON THE LATE_

FLORENCE L. BARCLAY

"A writer who appealed to and won the affection of so many of her fellow countrymen and women is no negligible quantity. Indeed there is reason to think that Mrs. Barclay understood the tendency of her age better than many contemporary novelists whose technical skill exceeded hers."--_Times_.

"Mrs. Barclay's death will be regretted by many thousands of readers."--_Morning Post_.

"'The Rosary' and nearly all her other books were inspired by true religious feeling, which she always managed to infuse into the imagination of her readers."--_Sphere_.

"From the highest to the lowest she commanded an attentive public."--_Liverpool Daily Courier_.

"There was a purpose behind all she wrote that lifted her books above the common, and enabled her to reach readers who would turn away from the 'typical best-seller' in disgust."--_Sunday Times_.

"Mrs. Barclay was not merely a popular authoress. The ideals she preached were high and noble and tended to elevate her readers."--_Church Family Newspaper_.

"The underlying quality of Mrs. Barclay's literary art was her wonderful gift of depicting home life, and it was this characteristic which made her name loved in countless homes all over the land."--_Lady_.

"She gave wholesale enjoyment to countless thousands, while she was also one of the comparatively few popular authoresses who are in themselves as good as the very best of their books."--_Glasgow Herald_.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, Ltd.,

24 Bedford St., Strand, London, W.C. 2, & New York

_BY FLORENCE L. BARCLAY_

THE ROSARY THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE THE UPAS TREE THE BROKEN HALO THE WALL OF PARTITION THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER RETURNED EMPTY SHORTER WORKS

_BY ONE OF HER DAUGHTERS_

THE LIFE OF FLORENCE BARCLAY

End of Project Gutenberg's Through the Postern Gate, by Florence L. Barclay