Read Ebook: Forever is Not So Long by Reeds F Anton Orban Paul Illustrator

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Ebook has 111 lines and 6971 words, and 3 pages

He was almost within one of the gaping doorways, the doorway to old Ploving's study, before his keen eyes caught the faint glimmer of yellow light from a single crack at the foot of the cellar stairs. Light meant human beings who could tell him the things he dreaded to hear yet must know. Running down the steps he tried the door and, finding it locked, beat upon it with his fists.

The crack of light suddenly expanded and through the partially opened doorway Darville saw the ugly snout of an automatic trained at his ribs. His eyes followed the uniformed arm upward to the insignia on the shoulder and to the stiff, tired face of the young officer who eyed him questioningly. The automatic waved him inside and the door was shut quickly behind him.

Within the smoke-filled room several men, all in uniform, sat about a table. Together they turned to stare at the newcomer. But it was the facd of the lanky major with the shrapnel scar jagged across a cheek, that held Stephen Darville riveted. The major's lips were opened, as if to speak, and his eyes dilated strangely.

Darville watched the man shake his head to clear away the sudden paralysis; saw his eyes soften.

"Sorry," the major said, rising. "Terribly sorry. But fact is, you look remarkably like a chap I soldiered with in Flanders. Died the last night of Dunkirk. Blown to bits. Shame, too. A brilliant fellow. Scientist of promise, I believe, before the war. You're a good ten years or so younger of course, but the resemblance is uncanny."

The lanky major hesitated awkwardly.

"I say, you couldn't be--But no, I remember he was an only child."

The tension had broken. A stubby fellow in captain's uniform turned to his superior officer.

"You don't mean Darville, do you? Steve Darville?"

The major nodded.

"Funny," the captain said. "I never met Darville, you know. But last fortnight I bumped into his wife. Ploving her name was. Plucky. Air warden in the Dover area. Caught hell there. Lost an arm eight months ago, but do you know, she wouldn't quit. Not her. Back on duty and one of the best they've got."

Steve Darville stumbled blindly to the door and up the steps. Out on the path he did not turn to look back at the shell of the manor, black and gaunt and desolate against the sky.

His hands shook as he reset the dial readings and pulled the control. He saw the needles sway and dance. He was hardly aware of it when they ceased swaying. Numbly he reached for the door latch.

Inside the workshop was the bright glow of bulbs. A stiff breeze blew in at the open window. Instinctively, Darville glanced at his wrist watch. He had been away, in that future that was not his future, for less than three-quarters of an hour.

Professor Ploving's eyes met his, read the frustration there. The older man said nothing, but put a hand out to the smooth surface of the tube and buried his face in his arm.

Darville slipped quietly out of the workshop and up the familiar path, moonlight-flooded between the orchard trees. At the orchard's edge he halted; stood listening to the gay abandon of the music and the voices, searching that blob of light and color for Jean. She was standing at the edge of the lawn, a little apart from the others.

Stephen Darville went to her quickly, smothered her cry of pleased surprise with a quick kiss and led her to the jerry-built dance floor. Together they caught the tom-tom rhythm, moved into the circling stream of the dancers.

"Steve," she said, her voice eager, "do you have to go back tonight?"

"Not tonight or ever," he said.

"Steve!"

"From now on, young one, I have time only for you."

"Steve," she cried. Her arm pressed him, her hand squeezed his. "We'll be the happiest people in the world, Steve. The happiest, gayest, most in love two people in the world. And we'll go on being that, Steve--forever."

Two trumpets were taking a hot chorus, unmuted, their notes sharp and high and quivering.

"Forever," he said.

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Mrs. Clifford might have said that Horace himself had been as much trouble as the baby; but she was too kind to wound her little boy's feelings.

It was certainly a very happy party who met around the tea-table at Mr. Parlin's that evening. It was already dusk, and the large globe lamp, with its white porcelain shade, gave a cheery glow to the pleasant dining-room.

First, there was cream-toast, made of the whitest bread, and the sweetest cream.

"This makes me think of Mrs. Gray," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "I hope she is living yet."

"She is," said Margaret, "but twelve years old."

Grace looked up in surprise.

"Why, that's only a little girl, aunt Madge!"

"My dear, it's only a cow!"

"O, now I remember; the little blue one, with brass knobs on her horns!"

"Let's see; do you remember Dr. Quack and his wife?"

"O, yes'm! they were white ducks; and how they did swim! It was a year ago. I suppose Horace doesn't remember."

Horace bent his eyes on his plate, and did not look up again for some time.

There was chicken-salad on the table. Margaret made that--putting in new butter, because she knew Mrs. Clifford did not like oil.

There was delicious looking cake, "some that had been touched with frost, and some that hadn't," as grandpa said, when he passed the basket.

But the crowning glory of the supper was a dish of scarlet strawberries, which looked as if they had been drinking dew-drops and sunshine till they had caught all the richness and sweetness of summer.

"O, ma!" whispered Grace, "I'm beginning to feel so happy! I only wish my father was here."

After tea, grandpa took Horace and Grace on each knee, large as they were, and sang some delightful evening hymns with what was left of his once fine voice. He looked so peaceful and happy, that his daughters were reminded of the Bible verse, "Children's children are the crown of old men."

"I think now," said Mrs. Clifford, coming back from putting the baby to sleep, "it's high time my boy and girl were saying, 'Good-night, and pleasant dreams.'"

"Aunt Madge is going up stairs with us; aren't you, auntie?"

The happy children kissed everybody good-night, and followed their aunt Madge up stairs. Now, there was a certain small room, whose one window opened upon the piazza, and it was called "the green chamber." It contained a cunning little bedstead, a wee bureau, a dressing-table, and washing-stand, all pea-green. It was a room which seemed to have been made and furnished on purpose for a child, and it had been promised to Grace in every letter aunt Madge had written to her for a year.

Horace had thought but little about the room till to-night, when his aunt led Grace into it, and he followed. It seemed so fresh and sweet in "the green chamber," and on the dressing-table there was a vase of flowers.

Aunt Madge bade the children look out of the window at a bird's nest, which was snuggled into one corner of the piazza-roof, so high up that nobody could reach it without a very tall ladder.

"Now," said aunt Madge, "the very first thing Grace hears in the morning will probably be bird-music."

Grace clapped her hands.

"Why, Horace dear, we have to put you in one of the back chambers, just as we did when you were here before; but you know it's a nice clean room, with white curtains, and you can look out of the window at the garden."

"But it's over the kitchen!"

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