ALASTAIR

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8178, 3 May 1919, Page 3 (Supplement)

ALASTAIR

By DOROTHY BAIRD.

Author of : “A Permanent Post,” “The Passing of the Maestro,”. " The Road to “Fame,” “A Young Man’s Slave,”

etc., etc.

(Published by Special Arrangement.)

Copyright. “Go out! It is just like you, Beatrice, to suggest such a thing on a morning like this. You know it would half-kill mo to go out in this peeking damp. “I did not mean now, mother,” came the reply, in. strong, patient tones, a telling contrast to the shrill fretfuJness of the invalid. “The mist will lift later, and then.it will be very warm. Shall I order the chair? Some sunshine would do you good.” “The mist is not going to lift. If sunshine is to do me good I’ll have to wait for it. Go out yourself if you like being soaked: I hate damp.”

. Beatrice Garford was not slow to avail herself of the insinuated permission. Her thanks were swift and decisive, and she took- care to be beyond recall before her mother's caprice should waver. Beatrice held up her head and drew her. breath in deep gasps of le'ief. ; It was certainly damp. The reek of a clinging sea-mist . enveloped the land in a white pall, making a patter under tho trees as if from a sharp shower, and causing tiny unseen runnels to sing among the chalk of hillside and roadway. Beatrice cared little for damp. Her face showed the tan of one accustomed to all weathers, and her clothes, though becoming, were thick and sportsmanlike.

The mist held no bewilderments for her. She knew every sitone of the way, for she had been born in the old grey house which nestled under the Downs. Her keen, beauty-loving eyes looked almost dreamily into the fog. To her it was Like life —one step revealed, tlie rest shrouted in mystery—mercifully shrouded. Yes, thank God! she could rank the puzzles of life among 'its mercies. Knowledge would surely cow the most courageous soul. She threaded her way through the long, sleepy village - street, straight ,to tlie shore. The tide was low. The everlasting murmur of the sea came through the mist almost like a whisper, as if its message was a mystery, too. Beatrice did not go to the water’s edge. Instead, sho turned aside and walked on to the rocks under the cliff till she came to a tiny recess Then, sho sat down, and drew off her (gloves as if she were at home.. Tliis recess she always considered as peculiarly her own. Here Alastair had first appeared to her, a radiant vision of youthful strength and beauty, with his curly brown hair, and large brown eyes, where she declared, the sunshine always bid, even on the greyest of days. Here, too, she had said good-bye to him at the end of the brief summer holiday. Beatrice set her lips more firmly. Was her life always to be so grey and monotonous? Was sho to be cooped up here for ever with a querulous invalid, whose one occupation was the discovery of grievances? In her present mood it seemed to her that it needed more courage to live a life like that with patience than to face a stricken field. Looking back, the knew that if she could have foreseen these long grey years, the gay departure of sister after sister, leaving her alone to cope with their wayward, fretful mother, she could not have bidden Alastair good-bye as she did. She could not have sent him away to fighu for has .ambition, telling him to have no thought for her till lie had accomplished his aim. “T adore beauty,” she had said. “I shall not lx? dull. I don’t know why, but even in this, tiny place, it seems that life itself would be too short-a time in which to igrasp and realise al lits beauties and enjoy them to .the full.” She had meant what she said. Later on she comprehended the meaning c f her love of beauty, and found that within her burnt the everlasting flame of poetry. But at that far-rway time, neither had understood. Alastair had laughed and talked of the time when lie should have shaken free from office bondage, of his 'craving for airmnnshin. cf his confidence that lie. could invent a craft that would surmount every per! of the air, an engine that should never fail. “And when it is done, and mv machine has won fame, I shall come heck to you Some day you will see me overhead, hovering above you like a 'bird, and then T shall circle s!owlv down, till I 'and on that strip of sand; Then you will come down to me, your eyes blue in tlie sunshine—your eyes always change with the sky, you know. They are grey to-day, like those clouds—and T shall help you to your plac e beside me. and we will fly up and up to a world of our own. You will not he afrai/d, Beatrice? You will trust me?” “1 shall not be afraid. T shall trust you,” she had answered. And through all these years she had trusted and watched, wondering, always wondering how fared tho world with Alastair. The papers were silent about him. Had he succeeded.? Hnrl he failed? Was his love but a boyish fancy, his ambition but. a lad’s wild scheme? Had lie read her poems, and realised her soul’s ideal? Had he kept Ids life bright and unsullied for her sake? But to all questionings fare showed her naught but grov mist. Only she stayed herself with hope that was almost faith in Alastair. Never in all the years had either written to the other. No message, no casual mention by mutual friends had bridged the gulf of silence. They had agreed not to write, since relations on both sides deemed their attachment too youthful and hopeless to survive six months of separation. On her side it had survived ten years, what l had it done for his?

A wild longing for sight or news of him possessed her. ft was not want of faith. It was simply fidelity, almost overwhelmed in the dreary waters of hopeless monotony, yearning towards fuller joy. If only she could see him in the vividness of dreamland she won id b'O mare content. But in all the years she had only dreamed of him twice—visions that still had power to fill lu-r with shuddering terror. In tlie first* lie had come hack in all tho pride c/ success to fulfill li is promise. But the tide was high up to the foot of the cliffs, and sho could only stand on the landing slip and hold out. her arms to him Ho flew dose to her, his eyes full of never-dying regret', and, as the aeroplane fled swiftly past, he turned to call “good-bye.” Tim words echoed like a knell in her heait, as she woke with a bitter sense of final parting. Another time she dreamed she saw him coming, high up in the western sky. Nearer, ever nearer he came, sunbeams gijding the wide wings of his machine. ‘Sho rose to meet him. her whole being flooded with a. joy such ps she had never known before. But, as she watched, the aeroplane dived swiftly and suddenly down, falling, falling, not with the grace of a planned descent, but with the speed and terror of calamity. '«.b? tried to close her eyes, and could not. she tried to cal lhim, but she was dumb, lie fell aill her feet, and for a 'brief moment of horror she saw him. the sunshine gono from his eyes for ever, his brave

limbs crumpled beneath his machine. That dream-glimpse of his dead face haunted her waking moments like a Nemesis. Were those dreams really sent her as an omen of hopelessness and sorrow to come ?

She pulled herself together. In her opinion, superstition was a form cf madness. If God willed that she and Alastair should never meet again, she must fur ever treasure in her heart tlie golden days of happiness they had known as boy and girl, and so, keep brave to the end.

Tlie mijst lightened, and turned into n golden veil. Glints of blue shimmered here and there overhead, the plash of the sea came more clearly on the breeze. Mystery was slowly evolving into vivid fact, the whisper of the sea to a strong and sturdy ripple—of laughter, it seemed to her fancy. And there was another sound in the air, rising and falling with the wind, a throb and whirr which surely never motor made along the hard cliff road. Its direction varied, now east, now west. What—what, could it be? Was it really .ns it sounded, hi’.gh above her head? She rose to her feet. Tlie mist was flying northwards in long, tangible shapes, through which the cliffs shone faintly like fairy pictures. The nearer waves were, glinted with sunbeams o’er a stretch of firm yellow sand. And high, high overhead hung something like a gigantic dragon-fly. An neron'ane! the first that had ever visited this lonely village which seemed to creep down a fold oT the Downs to the sea.

Beatrice c'asped her hands. Was it some airman, touring round the coast, or was it, could it lx*—Alastair? A strong gust of wind drove away the last shred of mist and made the whole scene stand suddenly out with startling clearness. Tlie aeroplane began to circle round and round, each revolution bringing r lower, lower yet, until at last it came to rest upon the stretch of yellow sand.

Beatrice hesitated no longer. Fact had given tlie Ue to one of her dreams. That was the absurd thought that filled her mind as sho climbed the rocks towards the sand. Sunshine was flooding the world, turning it to Paradise as she stood ot last Ibeside the quivering machine. It was in Alastnir’s eyes as he leant over towards her

“Can you climb up?” he called. “I daren’t get out just here to help.”

For answer she raised her hands and grasped as he directed. It seemed bub a moment and she was on a level with him, and hands met in a clasp that bridged the years, and made their parting seem but as yesterday. “You are not afraid?” lie asked. Bub she only laughed as she took her place behind him. Just yet she could not Trust her voice.

“There is a shawl for you." he said. “Wrap it close round. It is cold up there, in spite of the sun.” . He helped her without moving from his seat. To Beatrice it was .as if his love enfolded her, warm and secure from every change and chance.

“Now,” he called. A slight, imperceptible movement, a gliding sensation which sent the blood rushing through her veins, and then a sudden rush upward. It was as if the earth dropped away from tliem, a cumbrous thing, and left them free for evermore. Beatrice was eonsicous of wondering why people are ever afraid of flying, it seemed so safe, so wondrously easy. All other emotion was drowned in an ecstasy that was almost (benumbing. After a while she looked down at what appeared like a sea of gold, only the billows rose and fell more softly than tho waves of any sea. “It is the mist,” she said, and then laughed softly. They were the first words she had spoken. “No,” laughed Alastair back. “It is a c'loud.”

A swift feeling akin to that experienced when we dream that we are floating down long flights of stairs. The golden sea seemed to rise up and meet them and melt into grev, chill and clinging Downwards still and they were in a som'bre world above a sullen sea, whoso roar came to them, soft yet ominous.

“Oh, Alastair,” she cried, “take me up into the sunlight again, for pity’s

Up, up once more, soaring, so it seemed, beyond the frets and dangers of the world, into the blue and gold of heaven. Beatrice, gazing into the sapphire dome above her, could think of nothing but the words of the collect

“ So we may also in heart and mind thither ascend and with Him continually dwell.” It was like a benediction. He showed her the far shores of France, fair and blue with distance, and then lie turned towards home, flying inland.

“ I telegraphed to farmer Briggs to iet me have his big barn for to-night," explained Alastair. “Shall I land you on the shore, or will you mincl a walk over tho Downs?”

Beatrice glanced at her watch. “It must be the Downs. The tide is halfway over the sand by now.” But her eyes shone with delight. J.t was more unreal than any dream—tho landing ,the stowing of tho great machine within the barn, the wa’k together over the Downs. And yet it was real beyond all doubt, real as only happiness can be. Before they left the barn -Alastair pointed to a little red volume bound to the steering wheel.

“My mascot,” he said, and then lit added softly, “They have guided mv life.”

It was the hook of her poems. So Beatrice Garford knew joy for her own. Her past life had gone like the mists of the morning. After this hour nothing would ever l>o the same again. At the gate of her home they parted. “You will come in?” she asked. “To-morrow. To-day is for ourselves

alone.” was his answer. But as she closed the gate and walked across the well-kept lawn, a sudden oppression fell upon her. Her duty lay here, in this prim house, with her lonely. fretful mother. She had no right to enter the Paradise which Alasta r opened before her. That was tlie thought that grew to conviction during the long hours of patient reading to her irritable and irritating charge ; i,t repeated itself through all the phrases of the book, it sang in every fitful gust of wind. As night, dosed in the capricious squalils settled into a steady gale, and her oppression

grew to panic. There was A last air's happiness, too. That wool 1 ho wrecked with he * own. Sho might not lease the trust which fate had imposed upon, she could not ask Alastair to share her present life. Wlmt but hopeless paring remained ? Tho gale increased in fury with each

slow hour of the night. Beatrice tried to still her own anguish with frenzied nravers for those in peril on the sea. With Ibe dawn came the boom which tells of distress far out on the waves, the answering crack and screech of the rocket.

J3ho rose and dressed. Her wardrobe contained equipment' for storms such ;. a these, rind her mother would not need h»r for two hours vet. Perhaps her own distress would find solace in battling with the gale. Every mood of nature has its message to the poet mind. She struggled to tho cliff, and took her stand somewhat apart from the group of watchers. Tlie sea was wild • i.ido and wind were in fierce conflict.

Here, where they stood, a bluff sheltered them from the full force of tlie gale. What must it be out there—where the ship in distress fled helpless before the tempest. It was a mere wreck. To its one rending mast dung helpless, shuddering figures—so near the shore, and yet so far. Suddenly she became aware of a fresh sound. Above the roar and shriek of the storm came a throb .and hum, as of some gigantic bee; midway between shore and wreck, an aeroplane slowly fought its way, rising and falling with the gusts, now blown aside, now steering a straight course. Beatrice held her breath—numbed with terror. Surely such craft were never meant to face such wind as this. For she understood The rocket had failed to reach the wreck, and Alastair, her Alastair, was carrying the rope. Instinctively she reconstructed the scene. The machine must have been dragged down from the farm under the lea of the bluff, and he must have started from the cliff at a point farther west, whence he could make an oblique flight to the wreck with the wind behind him. She endeavoured to slay her mind with the knowledge that the machine was his own invention, the most stable yet known to man ; the engine the most reliable which had ever passed the tests. For the outward journey ,at least, pray God, he was safe, but how would he win hack in the teeth of that gale? Tlie remembrance of that nightmare, of long ago filled her with unspeakable dread over and, above tho actual dangers of the situation.

Alastair was sailing over the wreck. In spite of the wind and tide, the thousand and one chances against him, he laid the rope aright, and eager hands made it tight. Now the cradle was sliding out on its first errand of rescue. Humanly speaking, those huddled figures upon the mast were safe. But how for the brave soul who had brought them salvation? For sheer terror, Beatrice left her ‘post qnd joined the little gtpitp of. watchers. Aln&tair mounted at first, before i.e essayed to turn, and Beatrice’s spirits rose. He would fly liefore the gale, mounting up ancl up, till tho clouds were a sea of gold before him and lie could turn without fear, and win slowly back to a safe landing. “He can’t do it,” said a man beside her. as if in answer to her thoughts. “His petrol’s low. It’ll barely 'bring him borne.”

“He didn’t expect to get home,” said another. “He said ‘hotter one than ten.’ Tlio.se were his very words.” They did not notice Beatrice. If they had. none knew her friendship with the brave airman, who now was trying to turn. They were chiefly summer visitors. Tlie men of the place were at tho ropes . “Well done!” Tlie murmur became a cheer as the aeroplane headed for shore —a cheer which stirred the heart of Beatrice to its utmost depths. Living or dead, Alastair was hers, and he was a hero in his daily, commonplace life, a hero at the call of emergency and danger. “Magnificent! It’s a record!” cried a youth close to Beatrice: while an older man echoed. “God bless him!” S'lowlv, slowly 3 Alastair fought hack to land, never higher than the cliffs, making for the sheltered valley, down which the village crept to the sea. “He’ll land on the green 1” came the shout, and the group started to run towards the supposed landing-place. But the fight had been too long, the meagre supply of petrol gave out almost within reach of safety. As they rail, the engine stopped, the wind caught the machine. For a while it was tossed to and fro, tlie mere sport of the gale,, and r,t last it was oast, a crumpled mass cf wreckage, upon the Downside beyond tho village. When Beatrice reached the little crowd around the fallen aerolpane, an improvised stretcher had been made, and Alastair lay upon it. His face was very white, his eyes closed, but something told her he was not dead. Her dream, and yet—thank God! the horror was not so great as that. • -

“To the Gray House.” she commanded. “He is a friend. 1 will go on and tell my mother.” Two hours later she met the doctor coming from Alastair’s room. “He will live,”'said he in answer to her look; “but he will never fly again.”

People wonder why Beatrice is eontent, nay, happy, to live with two invalids. Sho never explains. It is between Alastair and herself alone that the knowledge lies. If one invalid is like the fret of an underground river, the other is like the full shining! of God’s Run. For the sunlight has not died out of Alastair’s brown eyes, and ir. floods his wife’s life with joy ibeyond her wildest imaginings. “It is too good to be true,” she says sometimes. “You—and the children. It is like a story-book ending to my life.”

But Alastair always .laughs. “A storybook would never have ended so well," he says. “The author would have smashed me up on tlie last page and left you with nothing to look forward to but the Crack of Doom.” And Beatrice can but laugh, though a hint of sorrow creeps into her eyes as she looks at his maimed limb and the arm that hangs so helpless by his side. So Alastair grows grave and draws her close with his other arm. “Don’t fret, dear wife. We had qn rt flight together. Was there not joy enough crowded into that to ou+fivT a lifetime of woes?” (The End.) Next Week: — AT BALGARDIE CLIFFS, By Ottwell Binns.