The call Biolgen in Blackwood. The incident story it never was, perhaps,
began tamely, almost meanly. It ended upon a note of strange, unearthly
wonder that has haunted him ever since. In Hedley's memory, at any rate,
it stands out as the loveliest, the most amazing thing he ever witnessed.
Other emotions, too, contributed to the vividness of the picture. That
he had felt jealousy towards old pal Arthur Deane shocked him in the first place.
It seemed impossible until it actually happened, But that the jealousy was proved
afterwards to have been without a cause shocked him still more. He felt ashamed
and miserable for him. The actual incident began when he received a note from
Missus Blondin asking him to the priory for a weekend or for longer if he
could manage it. Captain Arthur Deane, she mentioned, was staying with her
at the moment, and a warm welcome awaited him Iris. She did not
mention Iris Manning, the interesting and beautiful girl for whom it was well known
he had a considerable weakness. He found a good sized house party. There
was fishing in the Little Sussex River tennis golf not far away. Well to
motor cars brought the remoter country across the downs into easy reach. Also,
there was a bit of duck shooting for those who cared to wake at three
a m. And paddle up stream to the marshes where the birds were feeding.
Have you brought your gun? Was the first thing Arthur said to him
when he arrived. Like a fool, I left mine in town. I
hope you haven't put in, miss Manning, because if you have, I
must get up one fine morning at three o'clock. She laughed merrily, and
there was an undernote of excitement in the laugh. Captain Headley showed his surprise
that you were a Diana had escaped my notice. I'm ashamed to say,
he replied lightly. Yet I've known you some years, haven't I. He
looked straight at her, and the soft yet searching eye turning from his friend
met his own securely. She was appraising him for the hundredth time that he,
for the hundredth time, was thinking how pretty she was and wondering how
long the prettiness would last after marriage. I'm not, he heard her answer,
that's just it. But I've promised, rather, said Arthur gallantly,
and I shall hold you to it, he added still more gallantly. Too
gallantly, Headley thought, I couldn't possibly get up at cock Crow without a
very special inducement, could I? Now you know me, Dick. Well,
anyhow, I've brought my gun, Heedley replied evasively. So you've no
excuse, either of you. You'll have to go. And while they were
laughing and chattering about it, Missus Blondin clinched the matter for them. Provisions
were hard to come by. The larder really needed a brace or two of
birds. It was the least they could do in return for what she called
amusingly her armistice hospitality. So I expect you to get up at three,
she chaffed them, and return with your victory birds. It was from this
preliminary skirmish over the tea table on the law five minutes after his arrival,
that Dick Headley realized easily enough the little game in progress. As a man
of experience, just on the wrong side of forty, it was not difficult
to see the cards each held, he sighed. Had he guessed an intrigue
was on foot, he would not have come yet. He might have known
that wherever his hostess was, there were the vultures gathered together. Matchmaker by
choice and instinct, Missus Blondin could not help herself. True to her name,
she was always balancing on matrimonial tight ropes for others. Her cards,
at any rate, were obvious enough. She had laid him on the table
for him, he easily read her hand. The next twenty four hours confirmed
his reading. Having made up her mind that Iris and Arthur were destined for
each other, she had grown impatient. They had been ten days together,
yet Iris was still free. They were good friends, only with calculation.
She therefore took a step that must bring things further. She invited Dick Headley,
whose weakness for the girl was common knowledge. The card was indicated,
she played it. Arthur must come to the point or see another man carry
her off. This, at least she planned, little, dreaming that the
dark king of Spades would interfere. Miss Manning's hand also was fairly obvious,
for both men were extremely eligible parties. She was getting on one or other
was to become her husband before the party broke up. This, in crude
language, was certainly in her cards. Though being a nice and charming girl.
She might camouflage Madge cleverly to herself and others. Her eyes on each
man in turn, when the shooting expedition was being discussed, revealed her part
in the little intrigue. Clearly enough. It was all thus far as commonplace
as could be. But there were two more hands. Hedley had to read
his own and his friends, and these, he admitted honestly, were not
so easy to take his own first. It was true he was fond of
the girl, and had often tried to make up his mind to ask her
without being conceited. He had good reason to believe his affection was returned and
that she would accept him. There was no ecstatic love on either side,
for he was no longer a boy of twenty, nor was she unscathed by
tepestuous love affairs that had scorched the first bloom from her face and heart.
But they understood one another. They were an honest couple. She was tired
of flirting. Both wanted to marry and settle down. Unless a better man
turned up, she probably would say yes without humbug or delay. It was
this last reflection that brought him to the final hand. He had to read
here, he was puzzled. Arthur Deane's role in the teacup strategy for the
first time since they had known one another, seemed strange. Uncertain why because
though paying no attention to the girl openly, he met her clandestinely, unknown
to the rest of the house party, and above all, without telling his
intimate pal. At three o'clock in the morning, the house party was in
full swing, with a touch of that wild, reckless gaiety which followed the
end of the war. Let us be happy before a worse thing comes upon
us was in many hearts. After a crowded day, they danced till early
in the morning, while doubtful weather prevented the early shooting expedition. After duck
the third night, Headley contrived to disappear early to bed. He lay there
thinking he was puzzled over his friend's roll over the clandestine meeting. In particular,
it was the morning before, waking very early, he had been drawn
to the window by an unusual sound, the cry of a bird. Was
it a bird? In all his experience, he had never heard such a
curious, half singing call before. He listened a moment, thinking it must
have been a dream. Yet with the odd cry, still ringing in his
ears. It was repeated close beneath his open window, a long, low
pitched cry with three distinct following notes in it. He sat up in bed
and listened hard. No bird that he knew could make such sounds. But
it was not repeated a third time, and out of sheer curiosity, he
went to the window and looked out. Dawn was creeping over the distant downs.
He saw the outline in the gray pearly light. He saw the lawn
below, stretching down to the little river at the bottom, where a curtain
of faint mist hung in the air. And on this lawn he also saw
Arthur Deane with iris manning. Of course, he reflected, they were going
after the duck. He turned to look at his watch. It was three
o'clock. The same glance, however, showed him his gun standing in the
corner, so they were going without a gun. A sharp pang of unexpected
jealousy shot through him. He was just going to shout out something, or
rather wishing them good luck, or asking if they had found another gun,
perhaps, when a cold touch crept down his spine. The same instant his
heart contracted. Dean had followed the girl into the summerhouse, which stood on
the right. It was not the shooting expedition at all. Arthur was a
meeting for another purpose. The blood flowed back, filling his head. He
felt an eavesdropper, a sneak, a detective. But for all that,
he felt also jealous, and his jealousy seemed chiefly because Arthur had not told
him of this. Then he lay thinking in bed on the third night.
The following day he had said nothing, but he crossed the corridor and put
the gun in his friend's room. Arthur, for his part, had said
nothing either. For the first time in their long, long friendship, there
lay a secret between them. To Hedley, the unexpected revelation came with pain.
For something like a quarter of a century, these two had been bosom
friends. They had camped together, been in the army together, taken their
pleasure together, each the full confidant of the other in all the things that
go to make up men's lives. Above all, Hedley had been the one
and only recipient of Arthur's unhappy love story. He knew the girl, knew
his friend's deep passion, and also knew his terrible pain. When she was
lost at sea. Arthur was burned out, finished out of the running.
So far as marriage was concerned. He was not a man to love a
second time. It was a great and poignant tragedy. Hedley is confidante knew
all, but more than that, Arthur, on his side, knew his
friend's weakness for Iris Manning knew that a marriage was still possible and likely between
them. They were true as steel to one another, and each man,
oddly enough, had once saved the other's life, thus adding to the strength
of a great natural tie. Yet now one of them, feigning innocence by
day even indifference, secretly met his friend's girl by night and kept the matter
to himself. It seemed incredible with his own eyes. Hettly had seen him
on the lawn, passing in the faint gray light through the mist into the
summerhouse where the girl had just preceded him. He had not seen her face,
but he had seen the skirt sweep round the corner of the wooden pillar.
He had not waited to see them come out again. So he now
lay wondering what role his old friend was playing in this little intrigue. That
their hostess, missus blondin helped to stage, and oddly enough, one minor
details headed in his mind with a curious vividness as naturalist hunter nature lover.
The cry of that strange bird, with its three mournful notes, perplexed him
exceedingly. A knock came at his door, and the door pushed open.
Before he had time to answer, Dean himself came in. Wise man,
he exclaimed in an easy tone, got off to bed. Iris was asking
where you were. He sat down on the edge of the mattress where Hedley
was lying with a cigarette and an open book he had not read. The
old sense of intimacy and comradeship rose in the latter's heart. Doubt and suspicion
faded. He prized his great friendship. He met the familiar eyes. Impossible,
he said to himself, Absolutely impossible. He's not playing a game.
He's not a rotter. He pushed over his cigarette case and Arthur lighted one.
Done in, he remarked shortly with the first puff. Can't stand it
anymore. I'm off to town tomorrow. Headley stared in amazement. Set up
already, he asked, why, I rather like it. It's quite amusing.
What's wrong, old man? This match making, said Dean, bluntly,
always throwing that girl at my head. If it's not the duck shooting
stunt at three am, it's something else. She doesn't care for me,
and I don't care for her. Besides, he stopped, and the expression
of his face changed. Suddenly. A sad, quiet look of tender yearning
came into his clear brown eyes. You know, Dick, he went on
in a low, half reverent tone. I don't want to marry I never
can. Dick's heart stirred within him, Mary, he said understandingly. The
other nodded, as though the memories were still too much for him. I'm
still miserably lonely for her, he said, can't help it. Simply,
I feel utterly lost without her. Her memory to me is everything. He
looked deep into his pal's eyes. I'm married to that, he added,
very firmly. They pulled their cigarettes a moment in silence. They belonged to
the male type that conceals a motion behind schoolboy language. It's hard luck,
said Headley gently. Rotten luck, old man, I understand. Arthur's head
nodded several times in succession as he smoked. He made no remark for some
minutes. Then presently, he said, as though it had no particular importance,
for thus old friends show frankness to each other. Besides, anyhow,
it's you the girl's dying for, not me. She's blind, it's a
bad old blond, and even when I'm with her, thrust with her by
that old matchmaker, for my sins, it's you. She talks about.
All the talk leads up to you and yours. She's devilish fond of you.
He paused a moment and looked searchingly into his friend's face. A sailed
man, are you I mean, do you mean business there? Because excuse
me interfering, But you'd better be careful. She's a good sort, you
know, after all. Yes, Arthur, I do like her a bit,
Dick told him frankly. But I can't make up my mind quite.
You see, it's like this, And they talked the matter over his old
friend's will, until finally Arthur chucked his cigarette into the grate and got up
to go dead to the world, he said with a yawn. I'm off
to bed. Give you a chance too, he added with a laugh.
It was after midnight. The other turned as though something had suddenly occurred.
To him by the bye, Arthur, he said, abruptly, what bird
makes this sound? He heard it the other morning? Most extraordinary cry?
You know everything that flies? What is it? And to the best of
his ability he imitated the strange three note cry he had heard in the dawn
two mornings before. To his amazement and keen distress, his friend, with
a sound like a stifled groan, sat down upon the bed without a word.
He seemed startled. His face was white. He stared. He passed
a hand as in pain, across his forehead. Do it again, he
whispered, in a hushed, nervous voice, once again for me, and
Hedley, looking at him, repeated the queer notes, a sudden revulsion of
feeling rising through him. He's fooling me, after all, ran in his
heart, my old old pal. There was silence for a whole minute.
Then Arthur, stammering a bit, said lamely, a certain hush in his
voice. Still, where in the world did you hear that? And when
Dick Headley sat up in bed, he was not going to lose this friendship,
which to him was more than the love of woman. He must help
his pal was in distress and difficulty there were circumstances he realized that might be
too strong for the best man in the world. Sometimes, no, by
God, he would play the game and help him out. Arthur Old Chap
he said, affectionately, almost tenderly. I heard it two mornings ago on
the lawn below my window. Here. It woke me up. I I
went to look three in the morning about Arthur amazed him. Then he first
took another cigarette and lit it steadily. He looked round the room, vaguely,
avoiding, it seemed, the other's eyes. Then he turned pain in
his face and gazed straight at him. You saw nothing, he asked,
in a louder voice, but a voice that had something very real and true
in it. It reminded headly of the voice he heard when he was fainting
from exhaustion, and Arthur had said, take it, I tell you I'm
all right, and it passed over the floor as though his own throat and
sight and heart were black with thirst. It was a voice that had command
in it, a voice that did not lie because it could not yet did
lie, and could lie when occasion warranted. Hedley knew a second's awful struggle.
Nothing, he answered quietly, after his little pause. Why for perhaps
two minutes his friend hit his face. Then he looked up. Only he
whispered, because that was our secret lover's cry. It seems so strange you
heard it and not I. I felt her so close of late Mary.
The white face held very steady, the firm lips did not tremble. But
it was evident that the heart in you anguish. That was deep and poignant.
We used it to call each other in the old days. It was
our private call. No one else in the world knew it but Mary and
myself. Hedley was flabbergasted. He had no time to think. However,
it's odd you should hear it and not I, his friend repeated. He
looked hurt, bewildered, wounded. Then suddenly his face brightened. I know,
he cried. Suddenly, you and I are pretty good pals. There's
a tie between us and all that why it's tell telepathy or whatever they call
it. That's what it is. He got up abruptly. Dick could think
of nothing to say but to repeat the other's words. Of course, of
course, that's it, he said, telepathy. He stared anywhere but at
his pal. Night night he heard from the door and before he could do
more than reply in similar vein, Arthur was gone. He lay you for
a long time, thinking, thinking. He found it all very strange.
Arthur in this emotional state was new to him. He turned it over and
over. Well, he had known good men behave queerly when wrought up.
That recognition of the bird's cry was strange, of course, but he knew
the cry of a bird when he heard it, though he might not know
the actual bird. That was no human whistle Arthur was inventing. No,
that was not possible. He was worked up then over something a bit hysterical
perhaps, And it happened before, though in a milder way. When his
heart attacks came on. They affected his nerves and head a little. It
seemed he was a deep sort. Dick remembered, thought turned and twisted in
him, offering various solutions, some absurd, some likely. He was a
nervous, high strung fellow underneath Arthur was. He remembered that. Also.
He remembered anxiously again that his heart was not quite sound. Though what that
had to do with the present tangle he did not see. Yet. It
was hardly likely that he would bring in Mary as an invention, an excuse
Mary the most sacred memory in his life, the deepest, truest best.
He had sworn anyhow, that Iris Manning meant nothing to him. Through all
his speculations, behind every thought ran this horrid, working jealousy. It poisoned
him. It twisted truth. It moved like a wicked snake through mind and
heart. Arthur, gripped by his new absorbing love for Iris Manning, lied,
He couldn't believe it. He didn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it.
Yet jealousy persisted in keeping the idea alive in him. It was a
dreadful thought. He fell asleep on it, but his sleep was uneasy,
with feverish, unpleasant dreams that rambled on in fragments without coming to conclusion.
Then suddenly, the cry of the strange bird came into his dream. He
started, turned over, woke up. The cry still continued. It was
not a dream. He jumped out of bed. The room was gray with
early morning, the air fresh in a little chill. The cry came floating
over the lawn as before. He looked out, pain clutching at his heart.
Two figures stood below, a man and a girl, and the man
was Arthur Dean. Yet the light was so dim, the morning being overcast,
that had he not expected to see his friend, he would scarcely have
recognized the familiar form in that shadowy outline that stood close beside the girl.
Nor could he perhaps ever recognized iris manning. Their backs were to him.
They moved away, disappearing again into the little summerhouse, and this time he
saw it beyond question the two were hand in hand. Vague and uncertain as
the figures were in the early twilight, he was sure of that the first
disagreeable sensation of surprise discussed anger that sickened him, turned quickly, however,
into one of another kind Altogether, A curious feeling of superstitious dread crept over
him, and a shiver ran again along his nerves. Hello, Arthur,
he called from the window. There was no answer. His voice was certainly
audible in the summerhouse, but no one came. He repeated the call a
little louder. Waited in vain for thirty seconds. Then came the same moment
to a decision that even surprised himself, for the truth was he could no
longer bear the suspense of waiting. He must see his friend at once and
have it out with him. He turned and went deliberately down the corridor to
Dean's bedroom. He would wait there for his return and know the truth from
his own lips. But also another thought had come. The gun. He
had quite forgotten it. The safety catch was out of order. He had
not warned him. He found the door closed but not locked. Opening it
cautiously, he went in, but the unexpectedness of what he saw gave him
a genuine shock. He could hardly suppress a cry. Everything in the room
was neat and orderly, no sign of disturbance anywhere, and was not empty.
There in bed, before his very eyes was Arthur. The clothes were
turned back a little. He saw the pajamas opened at the throat. He
lay sound asleep, deeply, peacefully asleep. So surprised, indeed was heavily
that after staring a moment, almost unable to believe his sight, he then
put out a hand and touched him gently, cautiously on the forehead. But
Arthur did not stir or wing. His breathing remained deep and regular. He
lay sleeping like a baby. Edley glanced round the room, noticed the gun
in the corner, where he himself had put it the day before, and
then went out, closing the door behind him softly. Arthur Dean, however,
did not leave for London as he had intended, because he felt unwell
and kept to his room upstairs. It was only a slight attack, apparently,
but he must lie quiet. There was no need to send for a
doctor. He knew just what to do. These passing attacks were common enough.
He would be up and about again very shortly. Hedley kept him company,
saying no single word of what had happened. He read aloud to him,
chatted and cheered him up. He had no other visitors. Within twenty
four hours he was himself once more. He and his friend had planned to
leave the following day, but Headley that last night in the house felt an
odd uneasiness and could not sleep. All night long, he sat up reading,
looking out of the window, smoking in a chair where he could see
the stars and hear the wind, and watched the huge shadow of the downs.
The house lay very still as the hours passed. He dozed once or
twice. Why did he sit up in this unnecessary way? Why do you
leave his door, Ajar, so that the slightest sound of another door opening,
or of steps passing along the corridor must reach him. Was he anxious
for his friend? Was he suspicious? What was his motive? What his
secret purpose? Headley did not know, and could not even explain it to
himself. He felt uneasy. That was all he knew. Not for worlds
would he have let himself go to sleep or lose full consciousness that night?
It was very odd. He could not understand himself. He merely obeyed a
strange, deep instinct that bade him wait and watch. His nerves were jumpy,
and his heart lay some inexplicable anxiety that was pain. The dawn came
slowly, The stars faded one by one. The line of the downs showed
their grand, bare curves against the sky, cool and cloudless. The September
morning broke above the little Sussex Pleasure House. He sat and watched the east
grow bright. The early wind brought a scent of marshes and the sea into
his room. Then suddenly it brought a sound as well, the haunting cry
of the bird, with its three following notes. And this time there came
an answer. Hedley knew then why he had sat up. A wave of
emotion swept him as he heard an emotion he could not attempt to explain.
Dread, wonder, longing seized him. For some seconds. He could not
leave his chair because he did not dare to. The low pitched cries of
call and answer rang in his ears like some unearthly music. With an effort,
he started up, went to the window and looked out. This time,
the light was sharp and clear, no mist hung in the air.
He saw the crimsoning sky reflected a band of shining metal in the reach of
river. Beyond the lawn, he saw dew on the grass a sheet of
pallid silver. He saw the summer house empty of any passing figures. For
this time. The two figures stood plainly in view before his eyes upon the
lawn. They stood there, hand in hand, sharply defined, unmistakable in
form and outline. Their faces, moreover turned upwards to the window where he
stood, staring down in pain and amazement at them, At Arthur, Dean
and Mary. They looked into his eyes. He tried to call, but
no sound left his throat. They began to move across the dew soaked lawn.
They went, he saw, with a floating, undulating motion towards the
river, shining in the dawn. Their feet left no marks upon the grass.
They reached the bank, but did not pause in their going. They
rose a little, loading like silent birds, across the river. Turning in
midstream, they smiled towards him, waved their hands with a gesture of farewell.
Then rising still higher into the open dawn, their figures passed into the
distance, slowly melting away against the sunlit marshes and the shadowing downs beyond,
they disappeared. Headley never quite remembers actually leaving the window, crossing the room,
or going down the passage. Perhaps he went at once. Perhaps he
stood gazing into the air above the downs for a considerable time, unable to
tear himself away. He was in some marvelous dream, it seemed. The
next thing he remembers, at any rate, was that he was standing beside
his friend's bed, trying, in his distraught anguish of heart, to call
him from that sleep which on earth knows no awakening, and of the call