Microengineering MEMS and Interfacing A Practical Guide 1st Edition Danny Banks
Microengineering MEMS and Interfacing A Practical Guide 1st Edition Danny Banks
Microengineering MEMS and Interfacing A Practical Guide 1st Edition Danny Banks
Microengineering MEMS and Interfacing A Practical Guide 1st Edition Danny Banks
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Author(s): Danny Banks
ISBN(s): 9781420015416, 1420015419
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 8.65 MB
Year: 2006
Language: english
27. W
XVI
THE SOUL OF A SONG
ITHIN, at one side of the room, a group of forty sisters,
more or less, sat listening to the song. The room was
spacious. Against its white walls hung various paintings by
old masters. The further wall, facing the western windows, was
partly covered by an enormous tapestry representing Esther and her
handmaidens before King Ahasuerus. The king was on a throne,
amid the splendors of his court. Now, at this hour, its colors were all
aglow at the touch of the sinking sun. Between the three long
windows stood growing plants in massive pots of Siena marble.
Across the room, facing the sisters, stood Madame Francesca;
and, not far away, the accompanist with her harp.
The various members of the little audience were affected by the
song in different ways and in different degree, according to
temperament. Some, enraptured by her voice and art, leaned
forward in æsthetic joy. Others, with moister eyes and quicker
breath, gave out their hearts to the deeper meaning of the song.
Madame Drusilla, an older woman whose two young sons had fallen
in the war, sat always, on these occasions, with head bent low, her
face in her hands. But all the others kept their eyes upon the singer.
28. For the personality of Madame Francesca—as she wished to be
called since her retirement from the world—possessed in itself an
irresistible charm. Now, standing in her light gray uniform, in the
flood of golden light from the great windows, she seemed
transfigured—a celestial being from another sphere.
The song itself was the outpouring of a mother's love. And it was
rendered with a pathos, a beauty and a depth of feeling that stirred
the heart of every listener. It seemed to the sisters a marvel of
dramatic art that a woman, however great an artist, could so touch
the hearts of others when not herself a mother. And they marveled
that a woman whose physicians forbade excitement could so move
an audience and not be overwhelmed herself by emotion.
The song ended. As the fingers of the harpist moved gently
across the strings, in the last notes of the accompaniment, Madame
Francesca stood for a moment with closed eyes. Her breathing and
the color in her cheeks showed a degree of feeling which Sister
Lucrezia, the physician, did not approve.
Then came a climax to the song—a climax far transcending any
singer's art. In this short, somewhat solemn silence that followed the
song, there appeared in one of the long windows that opened to the
floor, a figure rarely seen within the convent walls. It was a man.
And the man was neither workman, priest, grand duke or king.
Neither was he old. Men visitors were rare, and the few that entered
were usually middle aged or churchly. This visitor was young,
hatless, his hair in disorder. He wore a checkered suit and leather
leggings, and he was in no way ecclesiastical. His manner was eager,
—somewhat excited, with eyes fixed earnestly on Sister Francesca.
He paid no attention to the other sisters. If such a thing was
possible he was ignorant of their presence. As for the sisters they
were too surprised to speak, or move. They merely sat and stared.
Cyrus stepped within, slowly, as in a trance. Slowly he advanced
toward Madame Francesca. She, as surprised as any of the others,
regarded him in silence until he stopped before her. As they stood
facing each other, the western light on both their faces, the
spectators—including Ruth, now at the open window—began to
29. marvel. Fear began to mingle with surprise, for many in the
audience knew that famous beauties could be tormented by crazy
lovers. But fear, in turn, gave way to wonder, for it proved a strange
interview, never forgotten by those who saw it. No words were
spoken. No words were needed. In the eyes that looked into his own
Cyrus read their greeting as clearly as in an open book. And she, as
clearly, looked deep into his heart—as she had looked into the heart
of his father. Now in his responsive, eager face she saw the
confirmation of his father's letters, that she had bequeathed to her
child her own extraordinary faculty. It brought a sudden joy, this
assurance of a perfect understanding. Each received, in full, the
other's message. In the face of Cyrus—with his grandfather's drowsy
eyes—she saw his happiness in this meeting. He was telling her in
unspoken words of his childhood yearnings; how he had thought
and dreamed of her from early boyhood; that he had prayed and
hoped for this meeting. And now—here, had come the fulfillment of
all his dreams, his hopes, his prayers! And he, as he fathomed to
their secret depths the tragic but tender eyes, found love and a
heart-expanding welcome.
The little audience, however, saw nothing but the outward, silent
greetings. To them was not revealed the greater happiness, the
imperishable bond.
But this silent meeting, with its overwhelming joy, was the
prelude to the drama—its silent overture. The curtain had risen on
the Diva's final triumph, the Immortal Opera with its happy ending.
To the amazement of the audience she drew the young man's
face to hers and kissed him on either cheek. Then, overcome by
emotion, as it seemed, her head fell slowly forward on his breast.
Without his supporting arms she would have sunk to the floor. The
sisters saw, and hastened to her side. Cyrus, with their help, carried
the fainting figure to a nearby bench, where they laid her, with a
cushion beneath her head. Sister Lucrezia, the physician, bent
anxiously over the unconscious form. And so sudden was it all that
her hearers could hardly believe her when at last she arose, and
30. solemnly announced that the spirit of Madame Francesca had risen
to another life.
She spoke in Italian but Cyrus knew its meaning. His head
drooped and he stood motionless, crushed, as if his own spirit and
that of the sleeping figure on the bench were still together.
It was the Diva's long sleep. The last notes of her enchanting
voice had died away; the curtain was down, the orchestra gone, the
lights out. The audience had vanished. No more in the empty house
would be heard the clapping of hands, the cries of enthusiasm, the
bravos and encores.
But there are memories that never die. And now, to those who
looked upon the tranquil face, it seemed as if memories of conquest
and of triumph—or of something higher—still lingered in her heart.
For the face was more than peaceful. There was a smile upon the
lips that bore witness to a perfect contentment beyond the touch of
death.
Cyrus was recalled to himself by the voice of the Mother Superior,
a tall, gray-haired, kind-faced woman. She approached him, and in a
voice of sympathy addressed him, in Italian. He understood the
meaning of the message; that she shared his grief, but the presence
of men was forbidden; the rules were strict, and she begged him to
go. He expressed his gratitude by a respectful inclination and a few
words in English. Then he walked over to the silent figure. Upon her
folded hands he laid one of his own and stood, for a moment,
looking down upon the face. The rosy light from the western sky
seemed to bring the flush of life to the Diva's cheeks. He knelt
beside the bench. Reverently he touched his lips to the sleeper's
forehead.
He arose and moved toward the terrace. Near the window he
stopped, and to the watching sisters he bowed. In this obeisance he
told his sorrow and his profound respect. Then he turned and went
out as he came.
31. The Mother Superior, still apprehensive, asked Ruth to
accompany him to the gates and make sure of his departure. But
Cyrus did not walk toward the gates. He walked toward the spot
where he and Ruth had met, then beyond among the trees. During
this walk neither spoke. As Cyrus was obviously in deepest sorrow
Ruth refrained from words. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she
suddenly realized that she was approaching an unfamiliar object.
This unfamiliar object, a thing about twenty feet in length and a little
taller than a man, might pass for some unknown monster of the
deep, or a minor whale. It seemed to be of iron with a trap-door in
the side just large enough for a man to climb within. Its color was a
dull gray.
"Look!" she exclaimed. "What on earth is that?"
"My flying machine. That is what I came in."
"You came in that?"
As she looked up at him he nodded, slowly, and made no other
reply. The light was fading, but she could see that a change had
come into his face since they stood together at the garden wall. This
new expression showed a side of his character that she had
forgotten. She now remembered that it was the same look that had
come into his face when he vanquished the Tormentor in the
Unitarian Church, years ago; when the good natured, easy going
boy became, of a sudden, a reckless gladiator, the fearless defender
who fights—and dies, if needed—for a sacred cause; his God, his
Country, or—on that occasion—for his girl. It told deep emotions, of
strength of purpose and the courage that has no respect for
obstacles. Yet the slumbrous eyes were friendly as he said:
"Come, Ruth. Come home with me. I will make you happier than
you will ever be in this place."
"No, Cyrus. No. I cannot."
"Do you mean that you will stay here all your life, from a sense
of duty?"
"No—not wholly. Oh, why begin all over again? Please be
reasonable, Drowsy. Please go away quietly."
32. His voice was gentle, but there was something in his face that
recalled the boy of long ago, the boy who vanquished giants. Now it
was the man—who might defy the gods. She was afraid:—of what,
she knew not. But she took a backward step, a hand to her breast as
if to calm a nervous heart. There was reason to be afraid. For then
happened the unforgivable thing—doubly unforgivable when applied
to a woman of sensibility and pride. He bent forward, to pick up
something at her feet, she thought. Then, without warning, and all
too sudden for escape, she felt an arm behind her knees, another
across her back, and she was lifted from the ground. Before she
could protest, or even struggle, he pushed open the door of the iron
monster with his foot and passed her within as if she were a child.
Gently he placed her on the floor and climbed in himself. She found
herself sitting in front of him, her shoulders held firmly between his
knees. He shut the little door at his side and all was dark. A button
was pressed, one or two small levers manipulated, then a buzzing
sound, a slight quivering of the car and through the port hole in
front she saw that they were rising above the tops of the trees.
Then, high into the air.
34. S
XVII
"I MEAN IT"
IX hundred miles an hour, to old-time travelers, might seem
fast. High up in the air, however, some miles above the earth
with nothing beneath but the Atlantic Ocean, it seems a
moderate pace. There are none of the usual landmarks to gauge
one's speed; no telegraph poles, houses, or towns. The few ships
one passes, seen far below, are movable objects with no definite
relation to your own progress. Also, in a practically air tight
conveyance no wind can beat against your face.
While three hours may seem brief for a transatlantic passage it
must be remembered that the time Cyrus lost in going Eastward he
gained in going West. The surface of our little earth moves eastward
about a thousand miles an hour; so, with North America rushing
forward to meet him he could easily make the journey of five
thousand miles and more in the four hours, and almost without
hurrying. There is a startling difference in celerity between an
automobile and a yoke of oxen; more still between a steamship and
a cannon-ball: and Cyrus' device was capable of any speed that he
dared to travel. The only delays were in starting off, and in
approaching his own Coast. Once above Massachusetts, however, he
could easily find Longfields. The landmarks were familiar.
35. During this journey very little conversation took place between
his passenger and himself. Sitting on the floor in front of him, her
shoulders between his knees, he could not see her face. She made
no acknowledgment of his speeches and gave no answer to any
questions. He was correct in his belief that she was both alarmed
and angry. But he did not know at the time that her anger far
exceeded her alarm. This he realized, however, when he helped her
from the car at the door of her aunt's house in Longfields.
For a moment she leaned against the door, weak, trembling,
dazed, her hair disarranged, her cheeks hot. No words had been
spoken during the last two hours. This long silence he was the first
to break.
"You will forgive me, Ruth, won't you?"
It was too dark to see each other's faces, but this time had her
eyes met his there would be nothing to conceal. Her anger and her
dislike were deep and sincere. She answered in a low tone, but the
tone and manner revealed a repugnance of whose existence there
could be no doubt.
"Do not speak to me again; ever. Do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear."
"I mean it."
With a quivering hand she turned the knob, entered the house
and shut the door behind her.
That Ruth meant all she said was soon made clear to Cyrus—very
clear indeed. Two days later—after giving her time to recover—he
came to her aunt's house with a little bouquet of flowers, hopefully
gathered by his own hands in his own garden. With it was a note, an
eloquent little plea for forgiveness, so humble and so sincere as to
soften a heart of granite. He knocked at the front door, and waited.
At last—it might have been a year that he waited—the door was
opened.
"Good morning, Stella."
"Good morning, Cyrus."
36. Stella was the daughter of Abner Phillips, the harness maker, and
she and Ruth and Cyrus had been playmates together in the old
days at the red school house. The little harness business had
suffered—even more than other things—with the decline of
Longfields, and had finally expired. Stella had been out at service for
the last few years. She was an angular maiden with thin lips and
sharp eyes.
"Will you please take this note and the flowers to Ruth, Stella,
and ask if I can see her?"
"Yes, of course, won't you come in?"
"No, thank you. I'll just wait here."
On the doorstep he waited, but not long; Stella quickly returned
with the note and the flowers.
She seemed embarrassed. "Ruth says she—she——"
"Out with it, Stella."
"She says she won't see you."
"Won't see me! Is that just what she said?"
The maiden hesitated. As a friend of both and strictly neutral, her
position was awkward.
"Why—yes."
"Just what did she say, Stella?"
"She said, give him back his flowers and his note and tell him not
to come again."
This was clear to the dullest lover. And the words cut deeper still
as he saw in the face of the sharp eyed ambassadress an
impressible gleam of pity—or exultation—he could not tell which.
Cyrus blushed like a girl. For a moment his drowsy eyes gazed
blindly at Stella, then at the flowers and the note as if trying to
realize what had happened. The effort was painful. The flowers
seemed to be jubilant in their gayety, and jeering at him. He had
believed, until this moment, that he was prepared for the worst. He
had also believed, from his knowledge of women in history and
fiction that they changed their minds with ease—in short, that
honest lovers never need despair. This blow seemed to paralyze his
37. senses. But Pride came to his rescue. It made him realize the
degradation of appearing a fool before Stella. So, collecting his
scattered wits he raised his head and smiled upon the waiting
maiden. There was a quivering of the lip, however, as he said in a
manner laboriously offhand—and, of course, unsuccessful:
"Oh, well, I must try again. Thank you, Stella. Good-by."
As he reached the gate she saw him toss the flowers to the
ground.
His state of mind as he walked blindly along the village street,
beneath the arching elms, could not be described in articulate
language. Sorrow, anger, humiliation, all struggled for control.
Resignation was not among them. So Ruth was really in earnest. If
she hated and despised him, why live? This tumult within, while it
numbed his senses—and might lead to tragedy—provided mirth for
others. Just in front of the store a group of children ran across his
path. They were followed, slowly, by a large Newfoundland dog, a
well-known character in the village. He officiated, as is customary
among dogs, as guardian and boon companion to children, all of
whom he loved. His name was Major. He belonged to little Jason
Howard, but he was on terms of intimacy with every child in
Longfields. Major happened to stroll across the sidewalk just in front
of Cyrus. The discarded lover, blind to outward things, collided with
him. Always a gentleman and never forgetting his manners, Cyrus
stopped, and—Ruth being the only thing in his mind—he raised his
cap and bowed politely.
"I beg your pardon. It was my fault. Excuse me."
And all with a sober face. The children laughed, supposing Cyrus
was being funny for their amusement. But never in his life had Cyrus
felt less like being funny. Soberly he walked away not even hearing
their laughter.
After this interview with Major he at once relapsed into the
Cañon of Despair. For his was the agony of a man of honor who
feels he has committed a disgraceful act, and has lost, for all time,
the respect and good opinion of the being whose affection he valued
above all other things.
38. It seemed but a moment after leaving Major that he found
himself standing before two women and saying "how do you do"—or
something equally significant. With a mighty effort to ignore the past
—and the future—he recognized the two elderly maidens as Miss
Fidelia Allen and Miss Anita Clement. They had stopped and were
passing the time of day with him. He realized, blindly, that Miss
Clement had opened a book and was telling him about it. Miss
Clement had the faculty of expressing a barren idea in a wealth of
language. So, while the listener's drowsy—and now dreaming—eyes
rested on the speaker's lips he was seeing, not Miss Clement's face,
but a face more threatening, yet of greater interest. As to the effect
of Miss Clement's well chosen words on the listener's far away mind,
the sound from her lips might have been the murmuring of pines.
And as for The Only Woman in the world, if other women had
changed their minds why not this one? He recalled the look in her
eyes when——
"Do tell us what you think of it—just how you feel about it,
Cyrus?"
As the wild horse of the prairies is suddenly jerked to earth by a
lasso, so came back Cyrus.
"Oh—oh—very well, indeed, thank you. Never better."
"I meant about this new thought from the Orient. Just how
deeply it impresses you. Just where, among the great thinkers, you
would place Rub-a Shah Lagore."
"That's it exactly! Rubbish galore! Couldn't express it better.
Somebody described all that stuff as transcendental flim-flam." And
he smiled his most winning smile—a smile of sympathy, of fine
intelligence and a lively interest in the conversation.
But Miss Clement stiffened a little, and frowned. "Do you feel that
way?"
"Possibly you don't know Rub-a Shah Lagore," said Miss Fidelia,
more gently.
"Know him? Oh, yes," said Cyrus. "I know him. That is, I think I
met him. Was it in Cambridge?"
39. "I doubt it," said Miss Clement, "as he died about fifteen
hundred."
"Fifteen hundred!" Cyrus smiled, nodded and tried to appear at
ease. "Still I may have met him in a previous incarnation."
Then, apropos of incarnations, Miss Clement discoursed on the
Oriental mind, on matters psychic, philosophic, mystic and occult.
And as she talked, and drifted hither and thither on a sea of words,
Cyrus floated off in his own direction, and was recalling once again
the look in Ruth's eyes—that mingling of anger and contempt when
Miss Clement again suddenly brought him back to the village street.
"Don't you think so yourself?"
Cyrus pulled himself together. "Er—well—perhaps I don't quite
understand you."
"Do you know of any richer period in human thought? Any
greater age?"
"Any greater age? No, certainly not. You mean fifteen hundred
years? It certainly beats all records. That is, of course, all human
records. Elephants, parrots and turtles, I believe, live to a green old
age, but nothing like——"
Just what happened after that Cyrus did not remember. He found
himself walking home with clear memories of Ruth, intermingled
with blurred but painful impressions of two maiden ladies, frowning
in surprise and annoyance as they said good-by and turned away.
Of one thing only was he certain: that in the utterance of
senseless words he had surpassed all previous records, ancient or
modern.
41. A
XVIII
THE CAÑON OF DESPAIR
S to human wisdom, the best that can be said is that some of
us are less crazy than others. Also, that the habitually foolish
person, he who is foolish by preference—or by unalterable
Fate—is less disturbing than your usually sensible friend who
suddenly becomes fatuous.
This was realized by Joanna during the next few days. Cyrus
caused her serious alarm. On his new and larger air craft he worked
with such feverish haste that he forgot to eat or go to bed until
reminded of those habits. In the matter of eating he seemed to have
lost all memory as to when or how to do it. He poured tea instead of
maple syrup on his rice cakes; he recognized no difference in flavor
between salt and powdered sugar, marmalade or mustard. Joanna's
strawberry shortcake, the very best in the world—and his favorite
dish—he regarded with unseeing eyes and forgot to eat it. His reply
to nearly all her demands for information on whatever subject, was a
smiling "Certainly, of course."
But these were trifles. In his cup of bitterness there still were
dregs: and sleepless Fate had not forgotten them. The cup was to
be emptied. Late one afternoon, three days after the rebuff to his
42. note, his flowers and himself, he was returning from Springfield
alone in his motor. About a mile from Longfields, where the road ran
through some woods, he saw a figure on ahead, walking toward the
village. It was a female figure, short, slight, erect, and moving with a
light and rather jaunty step. It wore a continental hat, a white shirt
waist and a white skirt. He recognized this person at first glance, ran
his car ahead of her a short distance, then stopped at the side of the
road, got out and walked back to meet her. This time there was no
elaborate salutation à la Grande Monarch. It was a simple raising of
his cap and a tentative, humble minded greeting.
"Good day, Ruth."
"Good day, Cyrus."
She smiled, but the smile brought no sunshine to his heart; a
perfunctory smile of duty and good manners, such as might have
greeted any other human animal. And as she stood there, against
the dark background of the woods, calm, cold, beautiful, and oh! so
far away!—he saw aversion in her face and in every line of the rigid
little figure.
In a low, uncertain voice he spoke. "So you will never forgive
me?"
For a moment she looked away, beyond him, along the road
toward the village. "I forgive you a great deal. I forgive your taking
me by force and against my will from a welcome refuge where I was
looking forward to a peaceful, happy life. But the greater wrong you
have done me, the irreparable injury—that is harder to forgive."
"Irreparable injury? What do you mean, Ruth?"
Her eyebrows went up. "Indeed! You really do not know what I
mean?"
"On my honor I do not."
"I mean my reputation—the loss of my good name."
"Oh, Ruth! Why you—oh—don't say that!"
Calmly, but with an obvious effort at self control she answered:
"Do you think there is no gossip in Longfields, no comment on
my unexpected arrival? Do you think an unmarried woman can travel
43. about the world alone with a young man as I did, and keep her good
name?"
"I never thought of it—in that way. On my honor—I did not."
"Do you know of any other respectable young woman of your
acquaintance who has done anything like it?"
"But it was all my doing. You couldn't help it. Don't they all know
that?"
"No. Why should they know it? Will they believe that you, whom
they have known from boyhood, whom they respect and like, would
carry me off by force, entirely against my will?" Then with a bitter
little laugh: "Oh, no! They are not so simple! And some woman has
started a story that we——" Her face became crimson and she
covered it for a moment with her hands—"Oh, I can't bear to think
of it."
Cyrus closed his eyes. His head drooped. "I never thought of all
that. I was stupid. I can see it now. I don't blame you for hating
me."
Ruth went on, speaking with nervous haste. "A pleasanter bit of
scandal never happened in this village. I could not bear to live here.
It would kill me to live here."
"You are not going away!"
"Indeed I am!"
"Where?"
"To Worcester, to earn my living as a nurse."
"Listen, Ruth. Let me do something, no matter what. Let me take
you, or send you back to the Convent."
"The Convent! The Convent!" she repeated, and her cheeks
reddened. "Do you think the Convent a refuge for women who leave
it as I did?—for women who elope with—oh! It's for better women
than that! They would never allow me within its gates."
"Then let me atone in some way."
"Indeed! And how?"
"In any way you say—there's all my money—take some of it—all
of it. Not as a gift, but in some business way. Let me buy something
44. at a——"
"Clever thought! Regild my reputation with Cyrus Alton's money!"
"Then marry me. Be my wife, only in name. I swear to you—I—
will never see you if you wish it. Or—or trouble you in any way. Only
let me do something. I had no idea of—of what—of what all this
meant to you."
"Your wife!" she laughed a scornful, tragic, broken-hearted little
laugh. "Never in this world. Never! Never that!"
She turned and walked away.
He walked beside her. "Please listen. I will do anything you say. I
know I deserve it all, but that afternoon at the convent I was not
myself. After what happened I was all wrought up. My brain——"
She stopped, turned about and faced him.
"Yes, there is one thing you can do. Leave me now. And let us
not be seen together again—ever."
For a brief moment they stood confronting each other. And Cyrus
looked deep into the eyes that once had been his guiding stars; the
friendly eyes in whose depths his boy heart had sought—and never
in vain—encouragement, or consolation. Now, he was finding in their
contemptuous beauty only the cold ashes of their childhood
devotion.
Then, once more, she turned her back upon him. Erect and with
decisive steps, the little figure departed. He stood watching her as
she walked—walking out of his life. In his brain and in his heart was
a numbing pain—the knowledge that his highest hopes were dead—
killed, and by himself!
There and there he made a decision, a decision of vital import to
himself. And why not? Who in the world, except Joanna would
mourn, or even miss him? If there be such a thing as consolation
when hope is dead, he found it in a great resolve.
As he passed her in his car he raised his cap and murmured
"Morituri te salutamus."
46. R
XIX
A YOUNG MAN TALKS
UTH was in earnest when she told Cyrus of her intention to
become a nurse. Some experience in that line, while in
Europe, had fitted her for the work and she found little
difficulty in securing a position in a Worcester Hospital. Possibly her
prepossessing appearance was a help. The Superintendent, being
human, was not immune, perhaps, to the influence of an interesting
personality, especially in combination with an attractive face and
voice and figure.
After this interview at the hospital, about the middle of the day,
she took a return train for Springfield.
When she entered the car at the Worcester Station, and found a
vacant seat, she gave no special attention to the two men in the
seat just behind her own. She merely noticed that the carefully
dressed young man nearest the aisle had an intelligent wide awake
face, and that his companion—next the window—was suffering from
a cold in the head of aggravated dimensions. His aqueous eyes and
swollen nose, his sneezes and his busy handkerchief told the familiar
and unromantic drama of a mucous membrane at war with its
owner.
47. The weather this day—a week or so after the interview with
Cyrus—was cloudy, damp and otherwise depressing. She felt, of
course, gratification in the success of her mission at the hospital. Her
thoughts, however, were not entirely rosy as she looked from the car
window on this homeward journey, gazing absently on the sunless
landscape. She had much to think about, and often, during this little
journey from Worcester she tried vainly to escape from unwelcome
memories. At the mention of a familiar name, however, these
wandering thoughts were centered suddenly on the conversation of
the two men in the seat behind her.
"Alton, Cyrus Alton. Guess you've met him."
"Yez, I thig zo. Kide of sleeby eyes, hasn'd he?"
"Yep. His eyes are sleepy, but, gee whiz! He does things."
"Whad thigs?"
"Oh, anything—if it's impossible."
"Didn'd he bake a lod of bunny all of a zudden?"
"Bet your life he did! Made it while you wait."
"How budge?"
"God knows."
"How did he do id?"
"God knows that too:—He and Alton. You can hear anything.
Some say a rich widow, others, a pirate's cave. Perhaps it's just a
friendly tip from his Partner."
"Who is his bardner?"
"The Almighty."
"You bead he is bious?"
"Nixy not! He's a scientist, and science and piety don't seem to
cuddle much. He has discovered—or his Big Partner has told him—
some secret of electricity that is just the humpingest thing out of jail.
It's going to revolutionize the whole human outfit; business, travel,
transportation. As to little things like manufactures in peace and
wholesale destruction in war, why, we've got to begin all over again.
You just can't digest it. And it's so simple that you laugh when you
think of it."
48. "Doe! Really?"
"Yep; that's no exaggeration."
"Thad's inderesdig. I have heard vague rubers aboud id bud
nothing like thad. Just whad is id?"
"Just what is it. Well, that's an easy question to ask. When he
blabs his secret then we'll all know. But he says it's so simple that
it's sure to be discovered some day."
"I spoze you doe him breddy well."
"Yep, in a way. He orders his electric stuff through us. A year ago
when he was so poor he used to foot it to save trolley fare the boss
trusted him for twelve hundreds dollars' worth of radium."
"Good for the boss! He was a zpord. Did he ever get his bunny
bag?"
"Twice over. Oh, Alton didn't forget it. He's as straight as a
string."
"Well, he bay be all ride in sub ways bud he busd be jusd aboud
grazy to sdard on thad jourdy."
"Oh, I dunno. He has done some big stunts already. And he's
pretty level headed."
"Yez, bud id seebs like suizide to be. How var away is Bars,
eddyway?"
"Oh, just a step. I believe the astronomers call it about forty-
eight millions of miles."
"Vorty-eight billions of biles? Whew!"
"No, forty-eight millions—not billions."
The Rose Cold tried to laugh. "Yez I doe id iz—but with thiz
invernal drouble I gan'd prodounce by ebs."
"Of course; beg your pardon."
"Thad's all ride. But dell be, is he really goig to dry vor id?"
"Sure thing. He may have started already."
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
49. 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."
50. 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
51. 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.
53. W
XX
ANOTHER MESSAGE
HEN 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
54. 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.
55. 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——"
56. "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."
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