PEACE IN THE GARDEN: THE PARACHUTIST AWAKES

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18352, 24 August 1929, Page 9

PEACE IN THE GARDEN: THE PARACHUTIST AWAKES

By J. B. MORTON.

In an orchard that might have strayed, by some magic or other, from the uplands of Eden, a girl lay upon the grass under the strong sunlight of a June afternoon. Her head was shaded by one of those large picture hats that seem already to belong to a past of level lawns and dignity and leisure. AUd, indeed, she herself appeared not only to draw contentment from that happy orchard, but even to impart to the fresh green boughs, the warm grass, and the old wall something of her own full serenity. She raised her eyes from the book that was open on the grass before her and looked up for a moment at the blue sky between the branches. Some sentence in her reading, some romantic turn given to a phrase, had awakened an echo in her heart. She looked up almost expecting to see the faint frontier of fairyland. What she did see was hardly less strange. A large grey bird was dropping to earth. There was no movement of its wings, and as it drew nearer it seemed to be huddled and shapeless, as though it had already died a violent death. The girl shaded her eyes, and half started to her feet when the bird assumed the form of a man. Fear and astonishment struggled in her mind, until the parachute landed at the end of the orchard, and the stranger crawled from entangling ropes and fastenings, and stood up unsteadily in the long grass.

She too stood up, walked slowly towards him, and stopped. And then he saw her first, in the sunlight, with the green leaves about her. Neither spoke any word, but into his eyes, so heavy with sleep, came a look of perplexity, and then of happiness. And her eyes answered his, giving him—though she did not know it—assurance, and an answer to a question which he had not consciously asked. The sacramental moment passed. She moved. She spoke. She said, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said. “Only terribly tired.” “Were you—did your aeroplane go wrong?” “I wasn’t in an aeroplane.”

“You were not —in an aeroplane?” “No. It’s rather difficult to explain. I was shot out of a sort of cylinder by Professor Tarrant, not so far from here. I’m awfully sorry, I’m afraid I’ll have to go to sleep.” He stumbled unsteadily forward.

“Just here—on the grafes,” he said. “And then—l shall wake up into all this, and you will be here.” “I shall be here,” she said, very gently, “when you wake.” And she knew that never in all her life had words of hers been so charged with meaning. “They shot me out of the cylinder thing,” he said, “straight at Mars. The parachute was to get back by. It’s made of stuff—l forget the name—tliat is attracted earthwards when you open it out. I opened it soon after I was shot out because I had a sort of dream the night before. I knew I should land here. It sound odd—” His voice grew sleepier and sleepier. She pillowed his head on a cushion, and he stretched himself out. “Sleep,” she said to him. “Sleep now.” In her voice he heard all the world’s lullabies. And in that orchard, full of sunshine and shadow, and the murmur cf bees, he fell asleep, while she sat, with her chin on her hand, watching him. and waiting for the awakening that was to begin their story. Professor Tarrant, watching through his gigantic telescope, saw the young man’s flight arrested, saw him begin to fall earthwards again; and he cursed and swore. “Anyhow,” he said to his assistant, “it was a record. But I wonder what went wrong?” “Perhaps he just got frightened,” said the young chemist, Smallcraft. “We must find him,” said Professor Tarrant. “I should judge that he will land near here, somewhere in Herefordshire.” “Or Worcestershire,” said Smallcraft. “No. Herefordshire,’*» reiterated the Professor. “I’ll ring up Clifford, the parachute man,” said Smallcraft. “He’ll be interested.” “Yes. Tell him we’ll let him knew by telephone as soon as we’ve tracked our man. You might get on to old Lethbridge too.” “It Is c. sort of record, in spite of everything,” said Smallcraft. “Nobody’s ever do-'e it like that before. And proba!:', .obedy’s even been so nigh.” “That's what we’ve got to make the Press see. I was counting on a go.xl Press. Which reminds me. Ring up

the papers, and also that publicity man, Fellowes. I’m going to get the car out. By the way, you must get into touch with the county police up around Hereford.” “I hope he landed safely,” said Smallcraft. “I hadn’t thought of that,” said the Professor. “It’s most important. He might have another shot.” “You mean, we might have another shot,” said the professor, with dry humour, remembering the compulsion of the young man from the cylinder. There are occasions when a great deal may depend upon the actions of a simple village policeman. Constable Pascoe was one of the few human beings who, on that lazy afternoon in June, noted the descent of the strange bird iiito the garden of Mr Richard Slade, the explorer. He saw the bird become a man and he thought no more of it. It was a parachute stunt, such as he frequently saw on the films in the nearest market-town. But when he went off duty, telephone inquiries had been sent out from Hereford to all stations, and he was able to give useful information. The story of what he had seen was quickly, passed on to Professor Tarrant and his friends. The Herefordshire police congratulated themselves on their efficiency, and Constable Pascoe was complimented.

Old Mr Slade, ignorant of what had occurred, was called to the telephone, and was pardonably surprised when a local reporter asked him if the man with the parachute was still in his garden. He was still more surprised when Professor Tarrant, whom he had never met, rang up to announce that he would be along in half an hour. But he was utterly flabbergasted when a loud and vulgar voice said:— “Fellowes speaking. Publicity man. Don’t give ’im any food or sleep till I’ve fixed up a ’photo of ’im in the last stages of exhaustion.” The London newspapers were beginning to ring up when Tarrant and Smallcraft arrived. They demanded to be taken straight to the parachute. “I really don’t understand what you gentlemen are talking about,” said Mr Slade, in his timid, puzzled way. “Is it possible?” said Tarrant, incredulously. “Why, the fellow must be out there in the garden now?” “What fellow?” said Mr Slade, a trifle angrily. “The man we shot at Mars.” replied Tarrant. “You must have read about it in the papers.” “I didn’t connect this disturbance with that attempt,” said Slade. “Well, well,” said Smallcraft. “By the way, your are an explorer, are you not?” “That is the only humour in the situation,” retorted Mr Slade. “I suppose you want to see this man. For all I know he may have been smashed to pieces. I’ve heard nothing and seen nothing.” He led the way down a passage, into a bright room, and flung open a French window. As he did so, the girl hearing the sound, turned and walked towards him. When she saw two men with him she came out of the or-

chard, closed the gate, and stood with her back against it. “My dear,” said Mr Slade, “is there a man—have you seen a man ” “He is in the orchard,” she said. “Is he hurt?” asked Tarrant. “He is not hurt,” she said. “He is asleep, and must not.be disturbed. He was exhausted, and it would be dangerous to wake him.” “We must see him, young lady,” said Smallcraft. “There he is,” she said, pointing to where he lay. covered with the rug she had fetched for him from a summerhouse. “He must not be disturbed.” The two men were nonplussed, and .might have retreated, had not the maid entered the garden at that moment, accompanied by a tall man with a grey beard. He was gesticulating as he approached the group. “Where’s the parachute?” he said. “Damn it, the papers will say it was faulty, and it wasn’t. I’ve been telling this reporter”—and he beckoned to a small man in a blue suit, who had followed him—“l’ve been telling him that it was based on Franmpton’s experiments, so as to descent in a spiral curve. It had an upper rim of stegnite.” “The point is,” said Tarrant, “we’ve got to find out from him what happened.” He looked at his watch. “I wonder how long he’ll sleep. Have you

seen his parachute, Miss Slade?” The girl said she had not seen it, but that she thought it was at the end of the orchard, in the long grass. They could get to it by going along outside the fence, and coming in at the bottom gate, so as not to awaken the sleeper. She herself led them to the place, where a new argument broke out. They were all talking at once, and she glanced anxiously at the man on the grass. He, however, did not stir. “How on earth did it happen?” asked her father. “He just landed,” she answered. The telephone was ringing intermittently. Slade went in, and came back looking worried. “We shall have the house besieged if we are not careful,” he said. “Reporters and professors and every kind of person.” And indeed the upper garden was filling with strange figures, who, piloted by the girl or her father, joined the group near the parachute. “The great question," boomed the bearded man, “is—was it a record? How high did he go? Did he beat Lepervier, who saw stars bigger than the sun? The parachute tells us nothing. It really is too tiresome.” They all turned, as though by an instinct, and looked towards the place where the man lay beneath the trees. There was nothing between them and

their quarry but this vaguely puzzled man and his daughter. But they did not move. The scorn on the girl’s face did not escape them, even in their excitement. During a lull in the arguing, old Lethbridge, a Doctor of Dynamics, said in his slow drawl: — “The sun is going down. What are we going to do?” “You will appreciate, I am sure,” said Mr Slade, “that your numbers and the unexpectedness of your visit make it impoossible for me to offer you full hospitality. If you will step into the house, I will see that refreshment is served.” There was a shamefaced murmur. They seemed reluctant to hove out of sight of the sleeper. “We must be called the moment he wakes,” said Tarrant. “I am afraid, Mr Slade, our behaviour may seem impolite and unconventional, but I am sure you, as an explorer, will be the first to realise the importance to science of these experiments. It is essential ” At this point a demented man dashed out of the French window, and made for the group. It was Fellowes, the publicity man. “Got ’im?” he shouted, ignoring Mr Slade. “Er—Mr Slade, and—er—Miss Slade,” said Smallcraft. “Glad to meet you. Now, then. Let’s get down to it. Is he ’ere all right?” “He is—er —here,” said Lethbridge. “Fact is,” said a reporter, “we’re being bilked of the biggest story of the year.” “Bilked? ’Ose bilkin’ you? You ’aven’t fed ’im?” He glared at Slade. “He’s had nothing to eat. He’s not awake yet.” “Not awake? Oh, my Gawd, you’ve not gone and let ’im go to sleep? ’E’ll wake up all refreshed, and where’s my big stuff about exhaustion after battling with the elements?” “Could you all talk a little less loudly? You will wake him.” The girl spoke in a clear voice, and those who had forgotten her presence looked at her curiously. “I’m afraid, Miss Slade,” said Tarrant, “you don’t quite appreciate what is at stake. This young man may have created a record.” "That is a matter,” said the girl, ‘ about which you can wrangle in your own homes.”

Her father gave her a look which said, “What on earth is this young man to you? Why not let them wake him and get it over?” But he saw determination in her fact, and was silent.

They moved in a body towards the house, and even though the girl was so conscious of the change that had come upon her as swiftly as an arrow pierces the heart, she found time to smile at this ludicrous scene; this babel of harsh voices in the quiet orchard; all the gesticulation and grumbling. They ate sandwiches and drank whisky or sherry, and it was decided that they should go to the inn, which might be able to house a few of them for the night. But the reporters arranged to hang about, since the man might wake at any moment, and they explained that they must, of course, be on the scene.

One of these men, a neatly dressed impudent youngster, stopped the girl as she was going back into the orchard. He held out a few pinned sheets of manuscript, and she read the title: “My Trip to Mars.”

"I want him to sign this when he wakes up,” said the man. “It’s quite all right. It’s just his adventures. Perhaps you could get him to glance through it. Of course he can alter anything he doesn’t quite like.”

“I’m afraid it’s nothing to do with me,” she said. “And now, I must ask you to go, if you don’t mind.” “Sut I had my orders to hang round,” said the young man. “So long as you are in this house,” she replied, “you will take orders from my father or myself. Has it not occurred to you that this is a private house, and that —bluntly—you are in the way?”

“Sorry,” said the young man, grinning widely, “but you don’t understand journalism.” She saw that is was no use arguing, since he could see nothing monstrous in his conduct. So she left him in the big room and walked into the garden again, towards.the orchard. The sun was now sinking rapidly, and the level rays reddened the trunks of the trees. The evening was still and warm, and the faintest haze hung over the distant woods in the valley. As she leaned upon the sundial, half-way to the orchard, and spelt out the motto, O AXE CRUX SPES UNIOA, a voice spoke behind her. “What have you to do with time, young lady?” said the voice. "What can the creeping shadows mean to you?” She turned to face white-haired Lethbridge, the Doctor of Dynamics. “I hope you will forgive me,” he said. “I have lingered In this peaceful garden instead of going to the inn with the others. I wish I were that young man, and could wake into—all this.” He made a sweeping movement with his arm, as he so strangely echoed the words spoken by the sleeper.

“Dynamics,” he said, and smiled. *1 have studied violence all my life. Why, I don’t think I have exer looked at a garden before.” “I am afraid.” she said, “it has not been very restful this afternoon. All these people, the journalists and the rest—r- What does it all matter — this record, I means?”

“Nothing—to you,” he said. “Supposing they get to Mars?” “Then they will want to go somewhere else.” "It seems stupid to me.” “It ought to seem stupid to you.” She looked towards the orchard. “Are you, too, waiting for him to wake?” she asked.

“No. I have lost interest in the business. I think this garden has bewitched me. Somehow that man has disarmed us all by landing hen.” “Not the others, sir,” she replied. “There are reporters in the house, and hanging about outside In the road. At any moment I expect people to burst out again—and I expect he will be waking soon.” Again she looked towards the appletrees, and at the figure which lay motionless upon the darkening grass. The old man gazed at her a long time without speaking, and then he said in his slow, gentle voice:

“Go to him now. When the sun Is down, and the air grows colder, he will wake. I will go up to the house and tell them some story or other. One does not want reporters and professors and publicity men disturbing the peace of this garden on such an evening. Perhaps I may be able to put l hem off the scent.”

He took her right hand in both of his, but without sentimentality, and patted it. Then he turned and went slowly up the garden towards the open windows of the house. She heard his soft footsteps on the path, and the splash of soda being squirted into a glass, and the loud vulgar -augh of two men who were standing close to one of the windows. Then she wulked out of the garden and through the gate into the orchard ami knelt in the grass by the side of the sleeper. A moment later he signed, opened his eyes, shivered, and sat up. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, like a boy; saw her. gazed at her incredulously, and then remembered. He rose and took her arm. and slowly, side by side, they paced between the trees in the twilight, talking in low tones of those things that were in their hearts. And when they came up to the house, the reporters, who were still waiting got a better story than they expecied.