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Read Ebook: The Yellow Dove by Gibbs George
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Ebook has 2636 lines and 92363 words, and 53 pages
FACING PAGE "'Not that,' he whispered hoarsely, 'for God's sake--not that.'" 80
"Her lips ... were whispering words that she hoped could follow him into the distance." 128
"The truth, and he becomes an honorable prisoner of war. Silence, and he is shot tomorrow. Speak." 218
THE YELLOW DOVE
PRELUDE
Rifts of sullen gray in the dirty veil of vapor beyond the reaches of dunes, where the sea in long lines of white, like the ghostly hosts of lost regiments, clamored along the sand....
A soughing wind, a shrieking of sea-birds, audible in pauses between the faraway crackle of rifle-fire and the deep reverberations of artillery--familiar music to ears trained by long listening. A shrill scream of flying shrapnel, a distant crash and then a tense hush....
Silence--nearly, but not quite. A sound so small as to be almost lost in the echoes of the clamor, an impact upon the air like the tapping of the wings of an insect against one's ear-drum, a persistent staccato note which no other noise could still, borne with curious distinctness upon some a?rial current of the fog bank.
And yet this tiny sound had a strange effect upon the desolate scene, for in a moment, as if they had been sown with dragon's teeth, the sand dunes suddenly vomited forth armed men who ran hither and thither, their hands to their ears, peering aloft as though trying to pierce the mystery of the skies.
The sounds were now clearly audible and to the south a series of rapid detonations shivered the air.
A hoarse order rang out from the trenches behind them--and the men ran for cover. The fog lifted a little and a shaft of light touched the leaden gray of the sea like the sheen on a dirty gun-barrel. The nearer high-angle guns were speaking now--fruitlessly, for the sounds seemed to come from directly overhead. The fog lifted again and a shaft of pale sunlight shot across the line of entrenchments.
The expletive in a final tone of disgust for the fog had fallen again, completely obliterating the air-craft and its pursuers.
"Garn!" said the one called Bill. "'E never 'its anythink but the dirt an' 'e cawn't 'elp that."
"'Tayn't 'cos 'e don't try. 'Ear 'em? Nice droppin's fer a dove, ayn't they?"
"Dove?" said the newcomer.
"Tawb, yer blighter."
"And cawn't they catch 'im?"
"Catch 'im--? Bly me--not they! A thousand 'orse-power, they say 'e 'as--flies circles round hour hair squad like they was a lot o' bloomink captivatin' balloons."
"Moves too fast--'ere an' gone agayn, afore you can fill yer cutty. They do say 'as 'ow when Yaller-belly comes, there's sure to be big doin's along the front."
"Aw! Wot's the hodds? Dahn at Copenhagen, 'e flew abaht same as 'e's doin' now."
Bill paused.
"And what happened?"
"You'll 'ave to arsk Sir John abaht that, me son," finished the other dryly.
"We was drillin' rear-guard actions, wasn't we, Bill?"
"Aye--the 'earse, Bill."
"Wot 'earse?" asked the newcomer again.
The sounds of firing rose and fell again. The fog thickened and the last crashes of the high-angle guns echoed out to sea, but the rush of the flying planes continued. Three machines there were by the sound of them, but one grew ever more distinct until the sounds of the three were merged into one. Closer it came, until like the blast of a storm down a mountainside, a huge shadow fell across the dunes and was gone amid a scattering of futile shots into the fog which might as well have been aimed at the moon.
Bill, the prescient, straightened and peered through the fog toward the flying plane.
"A 'earse," he muttered. "That's wot it was--a 'earse."
SHELTERED PEOPLE
For all her dynamic energy in a variety of causes, most of them wise, all of them altruistic, Lady Betty had the rare faculty of knowing when to be restful. Tired Cabinet ministers, overworked lords of the Admiralty, leaders in all parties, knew that in Park Lane there would be no questions asked which it would not be possible to answer, that there was always an excellent dinner to be had without frills, a lounge in a quiet room, or, indeed, a pair of pyjamas and a bed if necessary.
But since the desperate character of the war with Germany had been driven home into the hearts of the people of London, a change had taken place in the complexion of many private entertainments and the same serious air which was to be noted in the mien of well-informed people of all classes upon the street was reflected in the faces of her guests. Her scientists were engrossed with utilitarian problems. Her literary men were sending vivid word-pictures of ruined Rheims and Louvain to their brothers across the Atlantic, and her Cabinet ministers conversed less than usual, addressing themselves with a greater particularity to her roasts or her spare bedrooms. Torn between many duties, as patroness to bazaars, as head of a variety of sewing guilds, as president of the new association for the training and equipment of nurses, Lady Heathcote herself showed signs of the wear and tear of an extraordinary situation, but she managed to meet it squarely by using every ounce of her abundant energy and every faculty of her resourceful mind.
Many secrets were hers, both political and departmental, but she kept them nobly, aware that she lived in parlous times, when an unconsidered word might do a damage irreparable. Agents of the enemy, she knew, had been discovered in every walk of life, and while she lived in London's innermost circle, she knew that even her own house might not have been immune from visitors whose secret motives were open to question. It was, therefore, with the desire to reassure herself as to the unadulterated loyalty of her intimates that she had carefully scrutinized her dinner lists, eliminating all uncertain quantities through whom or by whom the unreserved character of the conversation across her board might in any way be jeopardized. So it was that tonight's dinner-table had something of the complexion of a family party, in which John Rizzio, the bright particular star in London's firmament of Art, was to lend his effulgence. John Rizzio, dean of collectors, whose wonderful house in Berkeley Square rivaled the British Museum and the Wallace Collection combined, an Italian by birth, an Englishman by adoption, who because of his public benefactions had been offered a knighthood and had refused it; John Rizzio, who had been an intimate of King Edward, a friend of Cabinet ministers, who knew as much about the inner workings of the Government as majesty itself. Long a member of Lady Heathcote's circle, it had been her custom to give him a dinner on the anniversary of the day of the acquisition of the most famous picture in his collection, "The Conningsby Venus," which had, before the death of the old Earl, been the aim of collectors throughout the world.
As usual the selection of her guests had been left to Rizzio, whose variety of taste in friendships could have been no better shown than in the company which now graced Lady Heathcote's table. The Earl and Countess of Kipshaven, the one artistic, the other literary; their daughter the Honorable Jacqueline Morley; Captain Byfield, a retired cavalry officer now on special duty at the War Office; Lady Joyliffe, who had lost her Earl at Mons, an interesting widow, the bud of whose new affections was already emerging from her weeds; John Sandys, under-secretary for foreign affairs, the object of those affections; Miss Doris Mather, daughter of the American cotton king, who was known for doing unusual things, not the least of which was her recent refusal of the hand of John Rizzio, one of London's catches, and the acceptance of that of the Honorable Cyril Hammersley, the last to be mentioned member of this distinguished company, gentleman sportsman and man about town, who as everybody knew would never set the world afire.
No one knew how this miracle had happened, for Doris Mather's brains were above the ordinary; she had a discriminating taste in books and a knowledge of pictures, and just before dinner, upstairs in a burst of confidence she had given her surprised hostess an idea of what a man should be.
Lady Betty's laughter disconcerted her and she paused.
"And that is why you chose the Honorable Cyril?"
Miss Mather compressed her lips and frowned at her image in the mirror.
"Don't be nasty, Betty. I couldn't marry a man as old as John Rizzio."
Lady Betty only laughed again.
"Forgive me, dear, but it really is most curious. I wouldn't laugh if you hadn't been so careful to describe to me all the virtues that Cyril--hasn't."
Doris powdered the end of her nose thoughtfully.
"I suppose they're all a myth--men like that. They simply don't exist--that's all."
Lady Betty pinned a final jewel on her bodice.
"I'm sure John Rizzio is flattered at your choice. Cyril is an old dear. But to marry! I'd as soon take the automatic chess player. Why are you going to marry Cyril, Doris?" she asked.
A long pause and more powder.
Doris Mather eyed her hostess reproachfully and moved toward the door into the hallway.
"Come, Betty," she said with some dignity, "are you ready to go down?"
All of which goes to show that matches are not made in Heaven and that the motives of young women in making important decisions are actuated by the most unimportant details. Hammersley's good fortune was still a secret except to Miss Mather's most intimate friends, but the conviction was slowly growing in the mind of the girl that unless Cyril stopped sitting around in tweeds when everybody else was getting into khaki, the engagement would never be announced. As the foreign situation had grown more serious she had seen other men who weighed less than Cyril throw off the boredom of their London habits and go soldiering into France. But the desperate need of his country for able-bodied men had apparently made no impression upon the placid mind of the Honorable Cyril. It was as unruffled as a highland lake in mid-August. He had contributed liberally from his large means to Lady Heathcote's Ambulance Fund, but his manner had become, if anything, more bored than ever.
Miss Mather entered the drawing-room thoughtfully with the helpless feeling of one who, having made a mistake, pauses between the alternatives of tenacity and recantation. And yet as soon as she saw him a little tremor of pleasure passed over her. In spite of his drooping pose, his vacant stare, his obvious inadequacy she was sure there was something about Cyril Hammersley that made him beyond doubt the most distinguished-looking person in the room--not even excepting Rizzio.
He came over to her at once, the monocle dropping from his eye.
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