The Yellow Dove

To her left the gray streaks were nearer—west by north her compass said, and she steered for them. Soon she made out distinctly contours of large masses of gray against the black—water and land. The air was milder and she sniffed the salt. She went down to three thousand feet to get her bearings, ever watchful for the dragon-flies and ready to soar again at the first flash of a searchlight. She had already learned to avoid the planes where the lights were grouped—the colonies of glow-worms that here meant danger.

Had she crossed the Belgian line? She had been to Antwerp, to Brussels, and tried to remember what they had looked like on the map. There was water near Antwerp—she remembered that, inland bodies of water which led to the sea. Now she could see beyond the bodies of inland water to a wide expanse of gray beyond the dark—uninterrupted gray—the ocean! She bore to her left until her course was due west. A searchlight flashed upon her for a second and was gone. By the way the contours were changing she knew that her speed was terrific. And slowly but more and more certainly as she neared the sea, a problem presented itself—her goal! Where was it, and how to find it in the dark? Cyril had said that they must land back of Ypres. But where was Ypres? Beyond Ostend and inland—thirty—forty miles. She knew that much from the war maps that she had pored over with her father. But how to find it?

She was over the sea now. The Yellow Dove felt a new breeze and the wheel tugged under her hand, but the machine lifted at the touch and wheeled like a gull to speed down the coast. Ostend! The Kursaal! If she could get a sight of it! It was dangerous, but she must go lower—three—two hundred feet from the sea, where she might make out familiar profiles against the sky.

The waves rose to meet her, reflecting the starlight, and just below her to the left the surf rolled in lines of white upon the beach. Dunes, dunes interminably, with here and there a collection of huts. A dark shape moved in the water ahead of her, another– Warships? Destroyers. She wheeled out to sea and flew above them, but before they had time even to get their searchlights ranged upon her, the danger was past. She would win now. The Yellow Dove was invincible.

A dark irregular mass ahead of her rose above the monotony of dunes, buildings, and a bulk she seemed to recognize—a round dome iridescent like a soap bubble in the moonlight. The Kursaal! Ostend! She was nearing her destination—the end of the German lines. Friends were near—Belgians, French, and English. Twenty—thirty miles beyond Ostend and then inland somewhere back of Ypres she would find the English. The English lines were thirty or forty miles long, she remembered. It should not be difficult to find them. She must be sure to go far enough—but not too far—not to where the French army joined the British forces. Cyril’s papers must go to the English, to General French himself. He had said so.

She had no way of judging distance except by the passage of the minutes. At the speed she was flying she must turn inland in fifteen minutes. She had no watch and she tried counting the seconds. She had counted sixty—four times—when a battery hidden among the dunes along the shore opened fire on her. She was half a mile from shore, flying low, but the flash of light startled her and the shell burst beyond. She rose quickly, moving further out to sea, frightened, but still self-possessed. It would not do to fail now with the goal in sight.

The compass gave her course southwest by west. She counted again, guessing at the time she had lost, and then, making a wide spiral out to sea and rising to three thousand feet, she drove the Yellow Dove inland. Searchlights were turned on her and shots fired, but she went higher, trying to make out if she could the lines of the opposing armies. Red and yellow lights were displayed below to her left, and far to her right were tiny clusters of lights, but there seemed to be no order in their arrangement—no lines that she could distinguish even at this height. Her keen eyes, now inured to the darkness, made out a monoplane against the starlight ahead of her—but she swerved to the right, the greater power of the Yellow Dove enabling her to rise and elude it. She flew for what seemed ten or fifteen minutes, going steadily to the south and west, when she drove for a spot where there were no lights and then shut off the throttle and dove.

She knew that this was perhaps the greatest moment of her great adventure. A landing place in the dark in a country she did not know, where a church steeple, a telegraph wire, the limb of a tree, would bring her and her precious freight to disaster. With the sudden shutting off of the power, a silence that bewildered her, a silence broken only by the whirr of the wind against the planes. Her ears ached from the change of pressure in her swift descent. She eased her wheel back gently, trying to make out objects below. Dark patches—woods—to be avoided, the roof of a house—another—lights here and there, small, obscure, which she had not seen. She avoided them all, planing down in a spiral toward what seemed to be unobstructed space.

She breathed a prayer as the earth came up to meet her. Death–? Whatever came—Cyril, too.... She stared straight before her, feeling out the wind pressure on the planes, gliding as near the horizontal as she dared. An open field! Thank God! A gentle shock and the springs responded. The Yellow Dove rebounded slightly and ran along the ground smoothly upon its wheels—then stopped. She tried to get up, but could not. Her hands seemed fastened to the wheel. She heard the sound of men’s voices shouting and saw lights, but she could not seem to make a sound. She was shivering violently, also laughing a little, but she had no sense of being cold. She seemed very weak somehow, and very helpless. And then, just as the lights grew brighter—they went out.

CHAPTER XXIII

HEADQUARTERS

“A woman!” she heard a man’s voice say at her ear. She was lying upon the ground, and strange faces were bending over her. “Well, I’m damned!”

English!

“And the other?” she heard again. “Dead as a ’errin’!”

Doris sat up, staring at them wildly.

“Wait! There’s a flutter ’ere yet.” She heard the other man say. “Come, Bill. Let’s have ’im over to the ’ouse.”

Doris managed to find a whisper. “A surgeon—for him,” she said to the man supporting her. “He will not die. He is only wounded.”

It was her obsession. It would not leave her.

She saw them carrying Cyril toward the house, and when they wanted to take her, too, she said that she would walk. Though deathly weak, she managed to reach the house where they had carried Cyril. They gave her a drink of something and she revived.

It was a Red Cross station, they told her, and the doctor would be here in a moment. But in the meanwhile first aid was administered, and at her place at his bedside she saw Cyril struggling faintly back to life.

“He will not die,” she repeated quietly when the surgeon had examined him gravely.

“I hope not—but he’s bled a good deal. We’ll see.”

They cut away his coat and wanted to send her away, but she pleaded to remain and in a moment she heard Cyril’s voice whispering hoarsely—“Papers—coat pocket—Sir John French.”

“All right,” said the surgeon cheerfully. “We’ll see to that.”

“Doris.”

“Here, Cyril.”

“Rippin’ fine—of you—no mistake—old girl–”

His whisper trailed off into silence and at the surgeon’s orders they led her away from his cot, but she would not leave the room until she got the papers out of the pocket of his jacket. An orderly led her to a young officer with his arm in a sling who sat at a table in another part of the building. He listened to her story attentively and read the documents carefully, his lips as he read emitting a thin whistle. He glanced at his watch and for a moment left the room.

“It is arranged. You shall go,” he said when he came back. “A machine will be here in a moment.” He paused, examining her doubtfully. She was spattered with grease and oil, but the pallor of her face beneath its grime showed that her strength was near its end. “Wouldn’t you trust those dispatches to me? It’s ten miles to headquarters and rough.”

“No—no, I will go. I promised.”

But he ordered some hot coffee and bread, and thus fortified, when the motor came around she was driven upon her way. The young officer sat beside her, eagerly listening, while she gave him a brief outline of their adventures.

“Amazin’!” he said from time to time. “Most amazin’!”

And then as she went on, he said quietly:

“You’re goin’ on your nerve, I think. Better save your strength until we get to headquarters. It isn’t far now.”

She tried to keep silent, but it seemed as though she must go on talking. That seemed to give her strength to complete her task, for when she sank back in her seat and tried to relax she only grew weak thinking of Cyril lying back there, hovering between life and death. And then she heard herself saying aloud, “He will not die. He has gone through too much to die now.”

The man beside her glanced down at her and smiled gently.

“No, he isn’t going to die. Bullets don’t kill nowadays—unless they kill at once.”

“Yes—yes,” she assented. “That’s it. If he had been going to die, he would have been dead now, wouldn’t he?”

She laid her hand eagerly on the young officer’s arm and he put his hand over hers.

“Palmerston is the best surgeon along this part of the line. He’ll pull him through. Don’t you worry.”

“I won’t—I’ll try not to—you’re awfully kind. Would you mind telling me your name?”

“Jackson. Second Leinster Dragoons. And yours?”

“Mather—Doris Mather. I—I don’t want to forget your name. You’ve been very good to understand everything so perfectly.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. There are reasons—I’m on Headquarters Staff, you know.”

That was one reason. But another one was that there was a girl at home just as much worried over his wound as Miss Mather was over Hammersley’s.

They passed from the rough roads between gates into a smoother one which was bordered with poplars. At the end in front of her she saw lights and reached a doorway, where an orderly opened the door of the machine and saluted her companion. Their arrival, it seemed, was expected. Captain Jackson took her by the arm and led her indoors, for her courage or her nerves seemed to be failing her again, down a quiet hall into a room where an officer with a gray mustache sat before a lighted lamp at a table covered with papers. She recognized him at once from the many portraits that had appeared in the weekly papers. He spoke to her and she tried to reply, but she could not. She seemed only to have strength enough to thrust the papers forward into his hand, when her knees gave way under her and she sank in a heap upon the floor.

Gentle hands lifted her and laid her upon a couch in the corner of the room. She tried to get up, but could not. She heard the voices of the officers in the room as from a great distance, and then a woman came and two men carried her upstairs and put her to bed. She realized that she was talking incoherently of Cyril, of the Yellow Dove. They gave her something to drink and her nerves grew mysteriously quiet. She seemed to be sailing smoothly through the air—higher, higher—Cyril’s fingers were pointing upward. She was tipping the wheel toward her—ever toward her, and they rose higher. They had reached the region of continuous and perfect day. Cyril turned his head and looked at her, and then he smiled.

It was broad daylight when she awoke, for the sunshine was streaming in at the window. A woman sat near her, knitting. She was an old woman of many wrinkles, kindly wrinkles which seemed to vie with one another to express placidity. As Doris rose in her bed the old woman rose, too, and came forward briskly, speaking in French.

“Ah, Mademoiselle is awake. Bon. She is feeling better?”

“Yes, better—but a little tired.” And then, as she realized where she was, “Could you tell me–? General French—could I see him?”

“All is well, mademoiselle. Monsieur le General—he is not here now. But he will be back after a while. He will see you, then, but first it is proper that you have breakfast and a bath. Mademoiselle needs a bath—I think.”

Doris glanced at her hand, which lay upon the white coverlid. It was black. “Yes, I will bathe. But first will you tell me–?”

The old woman smiled as she interrupted, “I was to tell you that Monsieur yonder is better. That is what Mademoiselle wished to know, is it not?”

Doris sank back upon her pillow in a silence which gave the full measure of her joy. Cyril would recover. She had been sure of it. She had told them last night. God was good.

The news gave her strength, and the coffee and eggs that were brought revived her rapidly. Her nerves still trembled in memory of what they had passed through, but when she was bathed and dressed in clean linen garments, much too large for her, a surgeon brought her medicine, and what was better than medicine, news that Cyril was conscious and was asking for her.

But they would not let her go to him. Tomorrow perhaps. Meanwhile the doctor would be glad to take a message. Doris colored gently. The message that she would have liked to send was not to be transmitted by this means.

“Tell him,” she said at last quietly, “that I am well—and that I will see him when I have permission to do so.”

The officer smiled, gave some directions to the old woman and went out.

It was not until late in the afternoon, when dressed in her own garments, which had been carefully cleansed and brushed by her nurse, that she was admitted to the office of the Field Marshal. She was shown into his room and he greeted her with unmistakable cordiality, offering her the chair next his own and congratulating her warmly upon the success of her achievement and Cyril’s.

“You know,” he asked quietly, “the contents of these documents?”

“Yes. Their importance made it necessary that I should.”

“Then of course you realize the necessity for the utmost secrecy?”

“I do.”

The General smiled at her and brought forward a copy of a recent issue of the London Times.

“Did you know that for the past three days England has actually stopped criticizing me to talk about you?”

“About me?” she asked.

“Yes, read,” he said smiling, and she took the paper from him, skimming the headings of a news item he pointed out to her:

MISS MATHER STILL MISSINGMYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE STILL UNACCOUNTED FORLADY HEATHCOTE TELLS STRANGE STORYJOHN RIZZIO, THE FAMOUS COLLECTOR, A GERMAN SPY

And then in the news item below:

Allison Mather, of Ashwater Park, believing that his daughter is still alive, today offered a reward of five thousand pounds to anyone–

She stopped reading and put the paper down.

“Poor Daddy!” she whispered. “O Sir John, will you let him know–?”

“I have already done so, child. He knows that you are safe.” And then with a laugh, “The five thousand pounds—I think are mine. I need a new hospital corps.”

“Oh, he’ll give it, I’m sure.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

He took her hand and rose in the act of dismissal. “We have supper at six. I hope you will be able to join us.”

“But, General–” She paused at the door.

He smiled at her softly.

“If all goes well—you shall see him tomorrow.”

She colored prettily. Everyone seemed to know, but she didn’t care. The world, in spite of its terrors, was a garden of roses to Doris.

She did not see Cyril the next day or the one following. His temperature had risen, and while the danger of a relapse was not acute, they thought it safer that she be kept away. She had worried, fearing the worst, but the frankness of the head surgeon reassured her. The bullet had drilled through him, just scraping the lung. He would recover. But why take a chance of complication when all was going well? There was no reply to that, so Doris waited at headquarters, thankful and trying to be patient, sending two penciled scrawls which were delivered to the wounded man.

It was not until three days later that she received word that she would be permitted to see him. His cot had been carried into a small room at the front of the building, and she entered it timidly, the nurse, with a smile and a glance at her watch, both of which were eloquent, withdrawing. He was propped up on pillows, and though pale from the loss of blood, greeted her with his old careless smile. She sank into the chair by the side of the bed and caught his hand to her lips.

“O Cyril,” she murmured. “Cyril, I’m so glad. But I knew you wouldn’t die—you couldn’t after getting safely through everything else.”

“Die! Well, hardly. I’m right as rain. Jolly close shootin’ that of Rizzio’s, though. Pity he had to go—that way.”

She hid her face in her hands.

“Don’t! Let’s forget him.” And then, “Have you suffered much?”

“No. The bally thing burns a bit now and then—but the worst of it is, they won’t let a chap smoke.”

She laughed and he caught her hand closer.

“How did you do it, Doris? How did you?” he questioned.

“I had to, Cyril,” she said. “It wasn’t anything—except knowing where to come down. That bothered me. I guessed at Ypres. The rest was luck.”

“More than luck, old girl. Just courage and intelligence. I felt myself failin’, up there, but I saw you knew your way about and then I—I seemed to go to sleep. Silly of me, wasn’t it?”

“Silly! You fainted, Cyril.”

“Rotten time to faint.”

“You might have died up there. Once I thought you had died. Oh, that dreadful moment! I wanted to go, too—with you. I was a little mad, I think. I wanted to take you in my arms and go with you—down—down. My hands even left the wheel. The Yellow Dove toppled—but I caught her.”

“Poor child!”

“After that I seemed to grow all cold with reason and skill. I forgot you. I looked beyond, over your poor head. I had to succeed, Cyril—that was all.”

His hand pressed hers tenderly.

“You’re the only girl in the world who could do it. I’m glad—proud–” He broke off. “My word, Doris! There’s no use tryin’ to tell you what I think of you. I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

“I understand. You’re just—yourself. That’s enough for me.”

“You were a trump up there in the Thorwald—to stay with poor old Udo, but I had to go. It was the only way. I never thought we’d make it.”

“But we did.”

“You did. It was the Dove, Doris—the good old Dove. Isn’t she a ripper?”

“I never had a fear—once she rose. How did you happen–”

He laughed.

“It was to be a surprise. I’d been workin’ on her for a year—tryin’ her out on the moors. Nobody knew—until the war came—and then I told Udo, who told von Stromberg. I tried a flight to Windenberg and made it comfortably. Awf’ly easy thing. I stayed at Windenberg in October, flyin’ over the English lines, droppin’ bombs.”

“That was where you were–!”

“But I never hit anythin’. Wouldn’t do, you know. Then when I came back I told the War Office. They sent me for the papers. You know the rest.”

“O Cyril, I’m so glad it’s all over. You’ll go to England now and rest.”

“For a while.” And then, “Will you marry me, Doris? Soon?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Whenever you want me.”

“Here? Now?”

“But, Cyril–”

“There’s a parson chap about here somewhere. I saw him browsin’ in here the other day.”

“Isn’t it a little–”

“Say you will, there’s a dear.”

“Yes, if you wish it. But–”

“What?”

“Clothes.”

“Nonsense. You’re jolly handsome in those togs—handsome no end,” he repeated. “Marry me tomorrow, Doris. There’s a dear.”

She leaned her face down upon his hand.

“We’re already married, Cyril. Up there I felt it. Even death couldn’t have separated us.”

“Thank God! Kiss me, Doris.” She obeyed.

“I’ll see Jackson,” he whispered. “He’ll manage it. Resourceful chap, Jackson. He’ll get us a chaplain like pullin’ a rabbit out of a hat.”

She laughed.

“I don’t suppose I’d ever have known you, Cyril, over there in England. You always did wonderful things carelessly, Cyril.”

“But not this wonderful thing–” and he kissed her.

“It is a wonderful thing,” she whispered. “So wonderful that I wonder if it can be true.”

“I’ll prove it to you–”

But she had straightened and kissed his hand.

“No more now—I mustn’t stay. I hear them in the hall.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Jackson?”

“Yes.”

The nurse knocked discreetly and entered. “Five minutes. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said Hammersley, with a sigh.

Three weeks later they stood side by side at the rail of the Channel boat on the way to Ashwater Park for the parental blessing. The shores of France were already purple in the distance. They had looked upon Death with eyes that did not fear, but the sight of it together had made the bond of their fealty and tenderness the stronger. There was a sadness in his look and she knew instinctively of what he was thinking.

“Germany, Cyril,” she said aloud. “I love it because a part of it is you. But I love England more, because it is you.”

Hammersley watched the receding shores beyond the vessel’s wake, her hand in his.

“They’re followin’ false gods, Doris. Gods of steel and brass–!”

“They must fall, Cyril.”

“They will.” And then, “But you can’t help admirin’ the beggars! Poor old Udo!”

“I think about him, Cyril. Do you think he got away?”

“Well, rather! I cut his bonds with a huntin’ knife before we went down.”

She looked up into his face in amazement. “You dared do that?” He laughed.

“You wouldn’t have let him be more generous than me.”

“And he let us go?”

“He didn’t think we could go. He left things to Destiny.”

“Good old Udo!” she repeated. And then dreamily, “Destiny! You were not meant to die, Cyril.”

“Not yet.” He said slowly: “But I must go back—over there, Doris.”

She shivered a little and drew closer to him.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “But you’ve earned–”

“I couldn’t ever earn what I’ve got,” he broke in quickly.

“Nor I–”

“I’m not much of a chap at pretty speeches and all that sort of thing, but you’re a rare one, you know, the rummiest sort of a rare one—the kind a chap dreams about but never gets—and yet I’ve got you— Oh, hang it all, Doris,” he broke off helplessly. “You know–”

She smiled at him and slipped her arm through his.

“Yes, I know,” she said.

“Good old Doris,” he muttered. “Silly ass, aren’t I?”

But she wouldn’t admit that.