Lighted Windows, page 22
Millicent Hale had been right. She had pursued Bruce. His smile, the touch of his hand, the rich tenderness of his voice had drawn her half across the world. Had she loved him all these years deep down in her heart? Did he care for Millicent? Millicent couldn’t have him. Tatima had boasted, “I keep w’at I have an’ get more an’ more an’ more.” She would keep what she had of Bruce’s—she couldn’t call it love—affection and get more and more and more.
A touch on her shoulder. She started to her feet. A sob of relief tore up as she looked into Ned Paxton’s grimy, weary face.
“How did you get back?”
“After you threw the door on the fire we didn’t need that log. Crawled back. There is a pink light in the east. The wind has changed. It’s blowing the smoke away. They will find us soon. Meanwhile—” he cleared the huskiness from his voice to suggest practically, “let’s sit on the log. You may feast on that broken cracker. I’ll smoke the last cigarette.”
She smiled at him tremulously. “Ned. I like you better than ever before. You seem so—so different!”
His mouth was grim. “Different! I have been different since you told me that I bought everything I wanted. Don’t care for that word ‘like’. I want your love, Jan.”
She laid her hand on his. Could she make him understand?
“I love Bruce Harcourt.”
The undisciplined spirit of the man to whom she had been engaged flamed in his voice. “He can’t have you. Think what I can give you. Jewels, travel, sables, homes anywhere you want them.”
“A home means more than a house, Ned. Somehow I’ve learned that in these last weeks. I feel terribly old and wise tonight. A home is built by mistakes and struggles as well as by love. It means mutual sacrifices, mutual responsibilities, spiritual companionship. You can’t buy a home.” She felt the hand under hers clench. “I didn’t mean that you were trying to buy my love now, really I didn’t. You will believe me, won’t you?”
He looked down at the scorched, bruised fingers. His haggard eyes met hers. “I believe you. We’ll have no tarnish on the memory of this night, Jan.”
“Tarnish! It will shine as clear as—as that sliver of silver moon on the brook.”
“Jan darling, I can’t let you go!”
A creepy wail rose from beyond the fire. Paxton released the hands he had caught tightly in his. Said with an attempt at lightness:
“A timely reminder that we are still chaperoned. Let’s smoke and eat.”
XXI
Bruce Harcourt looked down at Chester lying on the cot in the cabin which had been built for Janice. Were they really back at headquarters or was this a continuation of the nightmare of the last hours? No. Stephen Mallory bending over the unconscious man was real, so was the smell of antiseptics in the air. The coast missionary gave a final touch to the bandaged arm and straightened.
“He’ll be stiff for days, but nothing more serious unless inflammation sets in. I would feel better if he were under the care of a surgeon. The gashes were ugly but not deep. I’ve treated the Eskimos for bear wounds. They are everlastingly paddling round ice-floes in their kayaks, on the chance of finding what you and Chester found, and they’re just as everlastingly getting mauled as they attack the bears with spears and knives. Lucky you had a rifle. Better get to bed, Harcourt, you look all in.”
“All in! You don’t know the half. I’ve had hair-raising adventures and escapes since I came into this north country but nothing equal to the hell of these last hours. Came down twice on the shore. Had to risk it, though I knew if my self-starter went on the blink I was done for. Radio wouldn’t work. Compass useless. Chester half dead, I thought. Good Lord! Why am I living over that? It’s behind me. If you are sure Jimmy is all right, I’ll turn in.”
“I’ll stay with him.”
Harcourt’s tired eyes narrowed as he stepped out upon the board walk. Lights, voices in the dormitories at this time of night! What had happened? Grant had not met him when he had come down in the flying-field. Pasca and an Indian had come running at sound of the plane. He had been intent on transferring Chester, on getting hold of Stephen Mallory, who was as much of a doctor as he was a minister, to take care of his wounds. The sky was clear, spangled with stars. Moonlight dappled the sparkling water with silver. What did he miss? Paxton’s yacht! Gone! Janice!
He flung open the door of the H house. In the fan-back chair, shoes on the rug beside her stockinged feet, sat Martha Samp. Her face was deeply lined, her eyes seemed to have been pushed back into her head with a sooty finger. The black cat brushed against her skirt. His purr and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds in the room. She rose as he caught her arm.
“Where’s Janice? Where’s Grant? What’s happened?”
She patted the hand on her sleeve. “Sakes alive, Mr. Bruce, don’t get scared yet.”
“Scared! What do you mean? Where’s Janice? Has she gone with—with—are you here to tell me?”
He dropped his head on an arm outflung on the mantel. Martha Samp explained quickly:
“She’s gone with Paxton, if that’s what you mean, but not the way you think. That’s better. Your eyes are gettin’ alive. They was so dull when you came in, I was frightened.”
“Where is Janice? Where the devil is Grant? I left him in charge here.”
“He’s gone in the launch huntin’ for Kadyama. That sneaky Indian is out in his kayak an’ Mr. Tubby is sure he knows somethin’ about the shootin’. Paxton took M’s. Hale, Mary and Janice out for a sail. They were goin’ to get as near that belchin’ volcano as they safely could. It was a beautiful day when they started. Along about four a storm came up, sudden. There was a great rumblin’ an’ then a wave which seemed mountains high swept up. Almost reached this plateau.”
“Go on! Go on!”
“Sakes alive, boy, give me a chance to draw breath. Even then we didn’t get anxious about the boat, ’tis such a big one. About two hours ago the radio station picked up a message from the Captain.”
The color went out of her face. Her fingers picked nervously at his sleeve.
“Well? Well?”
“He said that the yacht was all right an’ M’s. Hale an’ Mary, but that he was cruisin’ round to pick up the launch.”
“The launch! The Modern Mariner’s launch! Who was in it?”
“Janice and Paxton and two native pilots.”
“That message came two hours ago! Pasca!”
The Eskimo swung open the kitchen door in answer to his shout. His beady eyes bulged in their slanted slits. His bronzed face was curiously colorless. “Fuel the Sikorsky. Quick! Be ready to take-off with me.”
“Yes sirree. Meester Grant say to tell you he out huntin’ for Kadyama, the minute you come. I see Meester Chester near dead. I forget.”
“Get a hustle on.”
“Yes sirree, I hustle.”
The swing-door closed with a force which brought a yelp of pain from Tong who was passing through. He stopped to lick his tail before he jumped on Harcourt in effusive welcome.
“Down! Down, Tong! Miss Martha, I’m going for Janice. Have everything ready here in case—she’s—she’s chilled or—or hurt.” He pulled off his wet jumper. Went into his room for a fresh one. Martha Samp followed him to the door.
“Now, Mr. Bruce, don’t you worry. You won’t find anything the matter with her, that child has a head on her shoulders even if her imagination does get to gallopin’ at times. She thinks she’s a terrible ’fraid-cat. I think she’s the spunkiest little thing I ever saw. Don’t know why I call her little. she isn’t, it’s something ’bout her makes you feel’s though you couldn’t keep from puttin’ your arms round her.”
She wiped away two big tears. Sniffed. “Sakes alive, I didn’t know I could feel so sentimental. Got all worked up ’cause Mary didn’t come back. Now I know she’s safe I’m kinder crackin’-up. I’ve got hot chocolate on the stove at the Waffle Shop. You can’t fly right if you don’t take care of yourself. You stop there an’ have a cup. I’ll fill a thermos bottle and pack a basket with food. When you find Janice, she’ll be hungry as a bear, prob’ly. Now don’t you worry. Remember there’s a gate in every wall.”
A gate in every wall. Harcourt repeated the phrase over and over as the amphibian climbed. It kept at bay thoughts which almost drove him mad. The overturned launch! Janice hurt. Janice suffering. Janice on some lonely shore with Paxton.
“You fly up play tag with stars, yes sirree.” Pasca’s guttural voice came through the ear-phone in warning. “Gettin’ day quick. Look—see. We fin’ dem now.”
“Watch the shore for signs of a fire, Pasca.”
The rising sun was tinting the cloud, delicate as malines, unsubstantial as a colorful dream, which trailed along the far horizon. In its midst a pale star flickered and went out. Below, the white yacht steamed slowly, like a fabled bird floating on the breast of the water. Still searching. From a volcano-top in the east a column of smoke rose languorously, as though the force within the mountain was too exhausted from its orgy to do more than send out a puff of hot breath.
“Look! See!”
Harcourt leaned over the side to follow Pasca’s shaking finger. Listed at a precarious angle, a launch was piled up on a beach under a cliff. He sent the Sikorsky wing-slipping down for a closer view. The launch from the Modern Mariner! Each foam-tipped wave set the contents awash. Life preservers floated out with the receding tide. The staff from which flew the Stars and Stripes was broken off short, the flag rose and fell with the motion of the boat.
Harcourt strained his eyes till they seemed starting from their sockets, flew low over it. Not a sign of life. No smoke rising from the woods near. That wrecked boat didn’t mean necessarily that Jan had been in it when it struck. Paxton might have thought it wise to go ashore before. Paxton! He visualized the man’s intense blue eyes, heard his incredulous laugh, his voice.
“I am the man she was to marry. Is to marry. Just who are you?”
“She’s safe! I know she’s safe!” Harcourt told himself savagely and climbed into the air. On toward the mountain. Pasca, who had been leaning over, looking down, clutched his arm. Pointed. Above a clearing on the shore hung a blue haze. Wood smoke! No mistaking that. He leaned over. Shouted directions to the Eskimo. Could he land on that shore? He must. The great winged creature obeyed his lightest touch, came down and settled on the water with the ease of a mammoth swan. On the edge of the shore Harcourt touched the control which released the landing wheels. It taxied smoothly up the sloping beach.
He flung helmet and goggles to the seat before he climbed out. Revolver in hand, he gave a few curt directions to Pasca. His voice cracked from the strain.
“I do w’at you say. Your face white as crater-top. You fin’ ’em pretty quick now. All fine an’ dandy. Yes sirree.”
Harcourt nodded. His throat ached unbearably. If Janice were under that smoke haze she would have heard the plane. She would have rushed to the shore long before this. Perhaps she was hurt. Paxton could have come. Paxton! He’d better keep him out of his mind. Footprints in the mud along the side of the brook! He was on their trail. What a racket the rushing water made! Had every bird in the Alaskan world suddenly burst into song? If only they would be quiet, so that he could hear voices. The underbrush had been trampled, crushed. He leaned close to the ground. Footprints of animals. Wolves.
Horror clutched at his throat, he stumbled into a clearing. Stopped. Caught at a scorched spruce to steady himself. Were those real persons on the threshold of that blackened shack? Their clothes were scorched brown, their faces smooched as stokers’. The girl’s head rested against one side of the door-frame which leaned like the Tower of Pisa. The man was huddled against the other. Were they— Before his parched tongue could formulate the word, he had his hand on her shoulder.
“Janice! Janice!”
Paxton lifted heavy lids. Closed them. Mumbled sleepily: “Damn you, Saki. What’d you wake me for?”
He tumbled over flat as the girl sprang to her feet. She held out her hands. Sobbed.
“Bruce! Bruce! I knew you’d find us.”
He caught her close in one arm. His hand tightened on his revolver. “Look up at me, Jan.”
She leaned her head back against his shoulder. The grime about her mouth was dented with dimples, laughter shone through tears in her sleep-clouded eyes.
“Look at you! You don’t have to growl that command. I never was so glad to look at anyone in all my life.”
“Thank God!”
His heart swelled in a passion of gratitude. She was living, safe, unharmed. He slipped the revolver into its holster. The arm which held her tightened. She pressed her face against his breast before she confided with unsteady gaiety:
“I hate to seem grossly material at this climactic moment, but you don’t happen to have a broiled live lobster or sea-food Newburg up your sleeve, do you?”
Harcourt’s voice shook. “Nothing up my sleeve, dear, but eats in the cockpit.”
“And smokes?” Her voice broke betrayingly. “Ned has suffered untold tortures since his last cigarette. He has been wonderful, Bruce, but he is so exhausted I was frightened. Thank God you’ve come. You’re so—so staunch, so brown, so—so heartwarming.”
XXII
Bruce Harcourt tapped on the door of Janice’s room. No answer. He glanced at his wrist-watch. Ten o’clock. He tapped again. Dead to the world probably, tired child. Immediately upon landing on the flying-field soon after dawn, she had gone to the H house, two of the men had rowed Paxton out to his yacht. He hated to waken her but the Commissioner wanted to push the investigation. Chester was up, bandaged, grim-lipped, ashen. They needed Jan to take stenographic notes. He lifted the latch, entered the room. A breeze from the two open windows swayed the chintz hanging, sunlight emphasized certain color values, subdued others. The rose brocade spread had been folded on a chair. He could see the outline of the girl’s body under the blanket. She lay as in a rosy cloud, bare arms outspread as if she had flung herself face down in utter exhaustion. Her hair which waved to the shoulders of her orchid pajama blouse still showed damp traces of shampoo. Her hands were scratched and burned. On one a circlet of diamonds emitted tiny sparks. His ring. What did it mean to her? Dark lashes like a shadow on one colorful, smooth cheek. She was so still that he bent nearer to make sure she breathed. He touched her shoulder.
“Jan!”
With a sudden surge of love and longing he pressed his lips to her bare arm. He spoke softly twice before she stirred. She opened the one visible eye, gazed up at him unseeingly, as though her spirit were struggling back from a far country, sat up with a start. A delicate flush spread to the little damp curls at her temples.
“Bruce! What are you doing here?”
He felt his color mount to match hers. “I knocked and knocked. You didn’t answer—so—I walked in. The Commissioner wants you to take notes. Feel equal to it?”
She was pulling on a satin coat colored like a Persian amethyst. “Equal to it! I? The silly season must be on when you ask me such a question. I’ll be with you in just ten minutes.” As he lingered at the foot of the bed, she added crisply, “that is unless I’m detained by callers.”
He laughed. “I’m going.” He stopped on the threshold. “Come to the Samp cabin. We took Jimmy Chester there last night.”
“Do they still think he did it?”
What would she do if he kissed her troubled eyes? “It looks black for him. Come as soon as you can. Let’s get it over.”
As he strode along the board walk he relived the few moments before the charred shack, when he had held Janice in his arms. Did her emotion at seeing him come from any deeper feeling than relief at being rescued? Evidently she had emerged from the terrifying experience with a new-born respect for Ned Paxton. Would that respect flame into love again?
The question lay like an undertone in his mind as he conferred with the Commissioner and his deputy in the Samp living-room. The Hessians on the hearth, gold sabres drawn, everlastingly on the march which got them nowhere, the open Bible on the table, the heaped-up work-basket, the melodeon in the corner, the black cat curled in the sunny window in the precarious proximity to the flower-pots, he had seen hundreds of times. Was it the presence of the livid-faced man with closed eyes leaning against the pillows on the couch which made them seem strangely unreal and unfamiliar? Jimmy Chester appeared unconscious of the black-robed woman beside him who clutched at his hand with its dark seal-ring. The Commissioner sensed her appealing loveliness if Jimmy didn’t, Bruce Harcourt told himself, as he noted the official’s furtive glances in her direction. The eyes of Martha Samp were on the same business, as she sat stiff-jointed as a marionette in the wing-back chair. Miss Mary, in a low rocker, was darning a sock. She looked up as Janice entered in a navy blue frock with collar and cuffs of exquisite fineness.
“My dear! My dear! I lived centuries last night. I didn’t know how you had grown into my heart—until—until—” she wiped her eyes. “Martha was right when she said where you were was home for her and me.”
Janice left a kiss on her soft gray hair before she took the chair with a broad arm which the deputy fussily placed for her. He tiptoed back to his superior, confided in a hoarse whisper:
“All set.”
“Where’s Grant? He’s got information for us. Why in time can’t people be prompt?” The door opened. “Here he is with his witnesses. Let’s get going. Quick!”
Grant pushed Pasca and Kadyama into the room ahead of him, backed up against the closed door. Chester’s face hardened into a chalky mask. Millicent Hale looked at the Eskimo and the Indian with terrified eyes, laid her other hand over her brother’s. Had Jimmy told her the truth, Harcourt wondered. Martha Samp’s mouth settled into grimmer lines as she frowned at Kadyama.
