Through the Postern Gate Part 17

She stopped short. The Professor had found what he wanted, and was fumbling for his purse.

The bookseller turned quickly to a pile at his elbow, took up a paper-covered book, and placed it in her hands. "The very latest," he said. "Published yesterday. You will find in it all you want to know." Then, as he handed the Professor his change, "Allow me to place it to your account, Miss Charteris," he said.

Experiencing a quite unaccountable sense of elation and fresh interest in life, Christobel, armed with her book on aviation, re-entered the four-wheeler. The Professor, absorbed in his own purchase, had not noticed her private transaction. He followed her into the cab, and made three ineffectual attempts to close the door. Just as the driver was slowly beginning to prepare to climb down, Mr. Taylor came across the crowded pavement, to their rescue; released the Professor's coat-tail, shut them in, and signed to the cabman to drive on. With a good deal of "gee-up" and whip-flouris.h.i.+ng, they re-commenced to trundle. Mr. Taylor was not merely a provider of literature; he was also a keen observer of life, and of human nature. As Christobel leaned forward to acknowledge his help, and to smile her farewell, his expression seemed to say: "A four-wheeler, Professor Harvey, and the latest work on aviation! An unusual combination." "Very unusual," she said to herself, and smiled again. Then it seemed to her that her friend of the bookshop had said: "You will find what you want, on page 274." She knew he had not, as a matter of fact, mentioned any page; but the figures came into her mind. She opened the book, and glanced at page 274. It was headed: "Fine performances by Mr. Guy Chelsea."

She shut it quickly. There was no room for the actual presence of the Boy in the Professor's four-wheeler.

They lunched at a depot of the Aerated Bread Company, close to Cannon Street station. While Christobel was struggling with a very large plateful of cold tongue, she suddenly remembered that one of the Boy's many plans had been to take her to lunch at his favourite restaurant in Piccadilly; where she would be able to order any dish she fancied, and find it better served than she had ever known it before; or to dine at the Hotel Metropole, where Monsieur Delma's perfect orchestra would play for her any mortal thing for which she chose to ask, and play it better than she had ever heard it played.

These memories, and a really excellent cup of coffee, helped Christobel in her struggles with the round of cold tongue; and she looked across the little marble-topped table brightly at the Professor, and spoke with a cheerful hopefulness which surprised herself.

But something, other than his own plate of cold tongue, seemed weighing on the Professor. He had become preoccupied and distrait.

When they reached the Folkestone train, Christobel found out the cause of his preoccupation.

"My dear Ann--I should say Christobel," remarked the Professor, hurriedly, as he put her into an empty compartment, and hesitated in the doorway. "I am always accustomed at this hour to have my pipe and a nap. Should you object, my dear Ann--er--that is, Christobel, if I sought a smoking compartment?"

"Oh, _please_ do!" she exclaimed, eagerly. The idea of two hours of freedom and solitude suddenly seemed an undreamed of joy. "Don't think of me. I am quite happy here."

"I will provide you with a paper," said the Professor, and hailed a pa.s.sing boy. He laid the paper on her lap, and disappeared.

The train started.

Christobel looked out of the window as they slowly steamed across the bridge over the Thames. She loved the flow of the river, with its constant procession of barges, dredges, boats, and steamers; a silent, moving highway, right through the heart of the noisy whirl of London street-traffic. They ran past old St. Saviour's Church, now promoted to be Southwark Cathedral; out through the suburbs, until streets became villas, woods and meadows appeared, and the train ran through Chislehurst--peaceful English resting-place where lie entombed the bright Imperial hopes of France--then on through Sevenoaks, into the bowery green of the Kentish hop-gardens.

After pa.s.sing Sevenoaks, she took up the Professor's paper and glanced at it. Somehow she had felt sure it would be the _Daily Graphic_. It was the _Daily Mirror_! She had never held a halfpenny ill.u.s.trated paper in her hands before. No doubt it was an excellent paper, and met the need of an immense number of people, to whom an additional halfpenny a day would be a consideration. But, that the Professor, when providing her with one paper, should have chosen a halfpenny instead of a penny paper, seemed to hold a curious significance, and called up sudden swift memories of the Boy. He would have bought _Punch_, the _Graphic_, the _Ill.u.s.trated_, the _Spectator_, and a _Morning Post_, plumped them all down on the seat in front of her; then sat beside her, and talked, the whole journey through, so that she would not have had a moment in which to open one of them.

(Oh, Boy dear! Don't look at this _Daily Mirror_. You might misjudge the good Professor. With your fifty thousand a year, how can you be expected to understand a mind which _must_ consider ha'pence, even when brides and wedding journeys are concerned. _Do_ keep away, Boy dear.

This is not your wedding journey.)

Then she opened the _Daily Mirror_, and there looked out at her, from its central page, the merry, handsome, daring face of her own Little Boy Blue!

He was seated in his flying machine, steering-wheel in hand, looking out from among many wires. His cap was on the back of his head; his bright eyes looked straight into hers; his firm lips, parted in a smile, seemed to be saying: "I jolly well mean to do it." Beneath was an account of him, and a description of the flight he was to attempt on that day, across the Channel, circling round Boulogne Cathedral, and back. He was to start at two o'clock. At that very moment he must be in mid-air.

Oh, Little Boy Blue! Little Boy Blue! You have a way of making hearts stand still.

The boarding-house proved to be a place decidedly conducive to the taking of a fresh-air cure; because n.o.body remained within its four walls, if the weather could possibly admit of their going out.

As soon as Christobel and the Professor had taken tea, and replied to Miss Slinker's many questions, they went out to walk on the Leas until sunset. It was a radiant afternoon, and the strong wind which had suddenly arisen, blowing, in unexpected gusts, from the sea, acted as a tonic to weary heart and brain. Christobel, holding on her hat as she walked, battled her way beside the Professor, up a cross street, into the Sandgate Road.

There they went to the telegraph office, and sent Miss Ann news of their safe arrival, and of the extreme comfort they felt sure of experiencing at Miss Slinker's delightful abode. (This was the Professor's wording.)

They looked in at Parson's Library _just_ to order a book Miss Ann wanted; and, on a little farther, _just_ to match some crewel silks for a tea-cosy Miss Ann was making.

These commissions duly executed, they were free to make their way to the Leas parade, whence they would look down upon the beach, and enjoy a distance view across the Channel. They took the side street which brought them out upon the esplanade, close to the lift by which people continuously mounted or descended the steep face of the cliff.

A considerable crowd lined the esplanade railing, looking over eagerly.

Apparently there was some object of particular interest to be seen below.

Christobel and the Professor advanced to the railing, and also looked over.

She saw a strange thing floating in the sea, between the promenade pier and the harbour. It seemed a huge insect, with broken wings. Its body was a ma.s.s of twisted wires. Around this, a little fleet of rowing-boats had gathered. They looked black, on the blue wind-swept waters, like water-boatmen on a village pond. They darted in and out and round about the wreckage of the huge wings and twisted wire, and seemed waiting for a chance to help.

A man stood next to Christobel and the Professor; a man who talked to himself.

"Ah, poor chap," he said; "poor chap! So nearly back! So nearly broke the record! Such a sport!"

"What is that thing in the water?" inquired the Professor.

The man turned and looked at him.

"An aeroplane," he said, slowly, speaking with a sort of stolid deliberation. "A wrecked aeroplane. Caught in a cross-current, worse luck! Just accomplished one of the finest flights on record. Started from up here; skimmed over the Channel to Boulogne; circled round the cathedral--such a clear day; we could watch the whole flight with field-gla.s.ses--came gaily back without a stop; was making for the cliff again, when a cross-current caught him; something went wrong with the steering-gear; and down it goes, with a plunge, head first into the sea."

"And the--er--occupant?" inquired the Professor.

"The aeronaut? Ah, he didn't fall clear, worse luck, or they could soon have fished him out. He stuck to his seat and his wheel, and fell smash in among his wires. They are trying to extricate him now. Bad luck, poor chap! Such a sport."

"Do you know his name?" asked the Professor, peering down at the waiting crowd which lined the beach.

"Guy Chelsea," said the man. "And I give you my word, he was the finest, pluckiest young amateur we had among the airmen."

Then Christobel's heart began to beat again, and her limbs seemed to regain the power to move.

"He is mine," she said. "I must go to him. He is my own Little Boy Blue." And she began to run along the Leas toward the stone steps which zigzag down to the sh.o.r.e.

She heard the Professor running after her.

"Ann," he called, "Ann! Stay! This is--most--unnecessary!"

She flew on.

"At least take the lift!" bawled the Professor.

She hurried on and reached the steps, pausing an instant to glance back.

The Professor had stopped at the lift, and was waving to her with his umbrella.

She could never remember running down those steps. In what seemed but a moment from the time she reached them, she found herself stumbling painfully down the steep slope of s.h.i.+ngle to the water's edge.

The lift, bearing the Professor, had just begun to crawl down the face of the cliff. She could see him gesticulating through the gla.s.s windows.

The crowd on the sh.o.r.e, chiefly composed of rough men, was thickest round the base of a wide stone breakwater, jutting out into the sea.

On this break-water stood an empty stretcher. A coast-guardsman marched up and down, keeping the crowd off the breakwater.

Christobel reached the outskirts of the crowd, and could get no farther.

"Please let me through," she said. "I belong to him. He is mine."