Silver Wings (19 page)

“Well, you talk a great deal!” snapped his wife. “But I haven’t noticed you hobnobbing with the chauffeur. And you seem to enjoy being waited upon as much as I do. Besides, you wouldn’t want Caroline or Doris to be friends with Christine, you know you wouldn’t.”

“Fat chance I’d have of getting them to do it, if I did want it,” snapped the father. “Caroline and Doris are queens of all the snobs I know. Perhaps I wouldn’t want them to spend their time playing tennis with Christine, because she’s earning her living working for you, but I certainly would like to see them show a little human kindness to another girl who lives under the same roof with them. This morning I heard Caroline giving Christine a terrible going over for not picking up some garment Caroline had left on the floor, and it was the most unkind line of words I’ve ever been witness to. It’s time you spoke to those two daughters of yours about treating the servants decently.”

“How about you doing it? They are your daughters, too, aren’t they?”

They wrangled on, looking with unseeing eyes at a marvelous panorama of valley and hill and mountain, and finally wandered into the woods to hunt up the various groups of young people and see how things were going.

Down in the woods there was a stream, still and beautiful, under trailing hemlocks, and there were canoes that could be hired. Most of the young people had divided into groups and were off in canoes. John Dunleith and Neddy had been upstream as far as it was navigable, down again to the falls, and now were coming up once more. Neddy had persuaded John to let him paddle stern, and John was paddling at the bow with swift silent strokes that hardly made a ripple in the smooth surface, nor disturbed the little water bugs that were waltzing on its sheen. As they rounded a great moss-covered rock that bulged out into the water, they heard voices just above them on the bank, angry voices, and the sound of a brief struggle. Then swift feet running down the hillside, stepping on the little crackling twigs and starting small stones rolling down to the water. A moment more and they came where they could see her.

It was Diana, looking like a wood nymph, dressed in leaf brown, a little brown cap on her gold hair. She looked angry and excited and had apparently not expected anyone along just then. She was twisting her white fingers and walking restlessly along the bank, coming toward them.

“Steer up to the bank, pal, and take her in. She needs us, don’t you see?”

Neddy obediently turned toward the mossy rock between the girl and the canoe.

“Won’t you ride with us, Miss Dorne?” asked Dunleith pleasantly. “It’s much nicer than walking.”

Diana stopped and a smile bloomed out on her lips.

“I’d love to,” she said, with a furtive glance back and up the hill.

“Hang on to that tree trunk, pal, and hold the canoe steady there. Now, Miss Dorne, if you will give me your hand and just step down to this seat, so. Are you comfortable? Want a cushion? Heave that cushion back here, Neddy boy! Now, are we all set? Let’s go!”

Diana leaned against the backrest and drew a breath of relief.

“This is nice!” she said, looking up at the arching trees that nearly met overhead. “I’m fed up with this picnic. I hate picnics anyway, don’t you? I ran away from—them—all!” she added with another furtive glance back.

They drifted on down to the falls a little way and turned upstream again, and when they returned to the rock where Diana had gotten into the canoe, there stood Barry, uncertainly, balanced on the slippery moss, frowning, and blinking at her in wonder.

Diana flung him one defiant glance and turned her back on him, and in a moment they were gone on around the great rock and out of sight, with strong quick silent strokes of the paddles, so that she breathed freely again.

They did not talk much. Now and again John Dunleith would call attention to some bird or lovely creeping vine covered with bright red berries. He stopped and gathered one for Diana, careful not to break off the berries, taking it up by the roots, and she swathed it just as carefully in her handkerchief. She seemed like a new little girl now, just having a good time, and not at all like the Diana of the house party who flirted with every man she met and had her way whenever she liked.

They went up as far as they could, to where little rapids rippled over mossy stones, and a row of stepping-stones crossed the stream. They lingered in a little bay or notch beneath a group of dripping hemlocks that hung their fronds down to the water.

“It is lovely here,” said Diana. “I would like to stay here. How it rests one. I’m awfully tired of things, aren’t you?”

“Why, no!” said John with a smile. “I think life is interesting. But I like this, too. I could enjoy staying here awhile.”

“I wish you would tell me something,” said Diana after a pause, during which she broke off several small twigs of hemlock to sniff their fragrance.

“Gladly, if I can,” said the young man, shifting his paddle carefully lest it should drip on the passenger.

“Well, I wish you’d tell me why you sent me that strange chapter in the Bible to read! It didn’t have a thing to do with what you had been talking about in church, and it certainly didn’t seem to have a thing to do with me. It sounded as if it were meant for someone being tried in a court of justice.”

John Dunleith smiled. “That was the sixth chapter of Romans, wasn’t it? So you thought that had nothing to do with you? But you’re mistaken. It has to do with every person on this earth.”

“But how?”

“Didn’t you know we were all sinners?”

“Are you calling me a sinner?” asked Diana, sitting up stiffly and speaking with a crisp offense in her voice.

“I didn’t call you a sinner. God called us sinners because we have all broken His law.”

“I’m not a sinner!” said Diana, offended. “You may call me that if you like, but I don’t feel that I’m a sinner!”

“Perhaps that was just the reason I gave you that chapter to read. I wanted you to learn that you are a sinner, because until you understand that, there is no hope for you. But the very last verse gives you hope, right along with the condemnation. ‘The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ Read further and see what it says. ‘There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.’ ”

Suddenly into the midst of his words there came a thundering sound of automobile horns, three or four of them tooting together. It was the sound that had been agreed upon to call the party together when they were to leave, and it came with startling, almost insulting clearness, breaking into their talk.

“I don’t want to go back,” said Diana, pouting. “I want to stay here and talk. Let’s don’t go back. Let’s stay here till they’ve gone. They’ll leave a car for us. They didn’t intend to leave before seven, and it’s only six.”

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be quite square,” said the minister, his paddle already in position for action. “There may be some reason for their going so soon. We’d better answer the call. Then if they are willing to leave a car we can come back.”

He lifted his face suddenly and looked above.

“Ah!” he said sharply. “There’s the reason! Look how black the sky is getting! There is going to be a big storm. We shall have to hurry to make it before the rain comes.”

“Oh, bother!” said Diana, looking up at the black sky. “I was having the first nice time today.”

Dunleith gave her one of those penetrating glances that seemed to pierce beneath the surface and wrench the truth right out of her heart.

“I was!” she assured him, smiling. “I never had such a nice time in a canoe before.”

But a deep roll of thunder gave a second warning, and the horns took up their call again frantically.

Suddenly Dunleith shipped his paddle for an instant and putting up both hands, answered in a long musical shout then began to paddle again with long, driving strokes that brought them soon to land.

There was no sign of Barry anywhere and they hurried up the hill, a hard climb with the wind driving down through the trees and twisting them like writhing creatures, so that it seemed every moment as if one of them would fall.

One car had already started down the drive, a second pushed out as they came in sight, and the third was only lingering to give a message.

“Where is Blaine?” shouted Mr. Whitney, leaning out of the car window. “He’s got to drive that car. We’re taking the chauffeur with us. Wasn’t Blaine with you? He didn’t go in any of the other cars.”

“He was just down the hill,” said Diana, looking startled. “I think he’s not far away.”

“Well, he’d better hurry up!” We’re driving to the Blue Goose Inn for dinner, everybody. It’s only three miles from here. Blaine knows the way. Better hurry up, the storm’s upon us.”

Diana stood hesitantly, looking back toward the woods, great drops of rain beginning to splash in her face, the lightning cutting vivid gashes in the blue-black heavens.

“Get in!” ordered Dunleith. “Quick! You’ll get soaked!”

“But I ought to go back for Barry, perhaps,” said Diana, cringing as another flash of lightning was followed by a terrific crash of thunder.

“Get in, quick!” ordered Dunleith again, taking hold of her arm firmly and fairly pushing her inside the shelter. “Hop in, pal. You stick by the ship, and I’ll run back for Blaine. He ought not to be far away.”

“But you’ll get soaked!” said Diana with surprising unselfishness. “And—wait! Perhaps I ought to go! He may not come for you! He’s sometimes very mulish!”

“I’ll bring him!” said Dunleith, slamming the car door shut and bolting for the woods.

Whatever methods the minister used, they were effective, for Diana, watching anxiously, quivering with fear at every fresh flash of lightning, presently saw two drenched figures running through the torrent, collars turned up, heads bent to the driving wind.

They were both wet to the skin, of course, but they climbed into the front seat, and Barry started the engine without looking back at the girl who had left him an hour before.

Dunleith, sitting beside him, watched his handsome, sullen face and pondered.

The roads were abominable, and the driver did not seem to care what happened to his car. Sometimes it skidded almost off the road, but in due time they arrived and found the rest of the party already at dinner, as merry as if there were no storm raging outside.

It did not take Dunleith long after he entered the place to discover that it was no spot he would have chosen. Glancing over at the corner where the little secretary had taken refuge, he saw that she, too, was unhappy. But there was no escape at present while the storm raged, and they must make the best of it. The food was delicious, but the wine was flowing freely, and Dunleith noticed that Barry was taking his friends’ advice and filling himself up with it, “to prevent taking cold.” Dunleith himself drank a cup of good hot coffee and let it go at that. This was not the first time he had been wet to the skin. There had been worse things in France and Russia and Siberia than a thunderstorm at a picnic.

But the two wet ones had time enough to dry out thoroughly before there came relief, for the storm raged with great violence for nearly three hours, one storm succeeding another, and each more violent than the preceding one.

When they finally decided that it was safe to start home, everyone was tired and cross.

Dunleith would have liked to make suggestions about arrangements, but there seemed no opportunity.

So he stuck to the boy, who by this time was one succession of yawns, and bored to extinction. “What do they see in all that dancing idea!” he growled. “And getting themselves all tanked up! It’s the limit! But say, pard, did you take notice, Diana Dorne didn’t drink tonight? She usually whoops it up with the best of them. Mebbe that’s ’cause she had a fight with Barry. Or mebbe she’s really fell for you, pard!”

“Oh, nothing like that, kid,” Dunleith said, laughing. “Perhaps she’s trying to help Barry. Perhaps she’s worried because he drinks so much.”

“Aw, she never worries about anybody but herself!” announced the wise child. “Say, where do we get stowed?”

“Wherever we are put, I guess, kid.”

But it appeared that some of the party had already gone, and at the door stood a car with Caroline and Fred in the backseat and Barry at the wheel.

“Diana’s going in here,” said Barry in gruff tones, cupping his unsteady hands to light a cigarette.

Diana came out and looked around. The only other car was full.

“Get in here, Diana,” said Barry gruffly, as if he had the right.

Diana hesitated and drew back, annoyed, and quick as a flash, Dunleith swung open the back door, jerked down the middle seat, and almost shoved her into it, pushing Neddy after her into the other middle seat. Then he swung into the front seat himself by Barry and slammed the door.

“Who told you you might do that?” growled Barry. “What do you think you are doing, anyway?”

But Dunleith paid no heed to the rudeness, and presently Barry started his engine and they were off.

The roads were still in terrible condition. The storm was by no means over. The night was black as pitch. Occasional distant rumblings and startling illuminations over the whole sky showed that there might be another downpour at any moment.

Barry showed almost at once that he was not himself. He broke forth into song, and he lurched into the ditch at the side of the road. He recovered the crown of the road and steered straight toward a tree. When the girls shrieked and protested, he steered the car from one side of the road to the other, just to annoy them.

Dunleith sat stern and quiet beside him, watching his every movement. He saw Diana cower and catch her breath. Once they skidded and turned almost completely around, and Barry began to curse the night and the storm and the roads.

When they came to the crossroads, Diana begged Barry to take the longer, right-hand way.

“That hill will be awful tonight, you know,” she said. “It’s bad enough at any time.”

“You think I can’t drive down that hill tonight!” railed Barry. “I’ll show you what I can do.” He turned sharply left, dashing down into a narrow, steep cut whose condition was seldom good, and tonight was really treacherous. A wild torrent of water had cut a deep gully to the right of the road, down which the torrent was still madly rushing. There were three sharp curves in succession, with a gorge at the side fifty feet deep.