Speaker 1: 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