O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920. Various

he had smiled—with his lips, not his eyes.

      "I should be dull indeed if that I did not know. I am Philippe

       Laurent, Miss Abbott."

      And "Oh," she had cried joyously, "Liane's Philippe!"

      "But yes—Liane's Philippe. They are not here, the others? Madame

       Langdon, the little Miss Rosemary?"

      "No, they've gone to some parish fair, and I've been wicked and stayed home. Won't you sit down and talk to me? Please!"

      "Miss Abbott, it is not to you that I must talk. What I have to say is indeed most difficult, and it is to Jeremy's Janie that I would say it. May I, then?"

      It had seemed to Jeremy's Janie that the voice in which she answered him came from a great distance, but she never took her eyes from the grave and vivid face.

      "Yes. And quickly, please."

      So he had told her—quickly—in his exquisitely careful English, and she had listened as attentively and politely, huddled up on the brick steps in the sunlight, as though he were running over the details of the last drive, instead of tearing her life to pieces with every word. She remembered now that it hadn't seemed real at all—if it had been to Jerry that these horrors had happened could she have sat there so quietly, feeling the colour bright in her cheeks, and the wind stirring in her hair, and the sunlight warm on her hands? Why, for less than this people screamed, and fainted, and went raving mad!

      "You say—that his back is broken?"

      "But yes, my dear," Liane's Philippe had told her, and she had seen the tears shining in his gray eyes.

      "And he is badly burned?"

      "My brave Janie, these questions are not good to ask—not good, not good to answer. This I will tell you. He lives, our Jerry—and so dearly does he love you that he will drag back that poor body from hell itself—because it is yours, not his. This he has sent me to tell you, most lucky lady ever loved."

      "You mean—that he isn't going to die?"

      "I tell you that into those small hands of yours he has given his life. Hold it fast."

      "Will he—will he get well?" "He will not walk again; but have you not swift feet to run for him?"

      And there had come to her, sitting on the terrace in the sunshine, an overwhelming flood of joy, reckless and cruel and triumphant. Now he was hers forever, the restless wanderer—delivered to her bound and helpless, never to stray again. Hers to worship and serve and slave for, his troth to Freedom broken—hers at last!

      "I'm coming," she had told the tall young Frenchman breathlessly.

       "Take me to him—please let's hurry."

      "Ma pauvre petite, this is war. One does not come and go at will. God knows by what miracle enough red tape unwound to let me through to you, to bring my message and to take one back."

      "What message, Philippe?"

      "That is for you to say, little Janie. He told me, 'Say to her that she has my heart—if she needs my body, I will live. Say to her that it is an ugly, broken, and useless thing; still, hers. She must use it as she sees fit. Say to her—no, say nothing more. She is my Janie, and has no need of words. Tell her to send me only one, and I will be content.' For that one word, Janie, I have come many miles. What shall it be?"

      And she had cried out exultantly, "Why, tell him that I say—" But the word had died in her throat. Her treacherous lips had mutinied, and she had sat there, feeling the blood drain back out of her face—out of her heart—feeling her eyes turn back with sheer terror, while she fought with those stiffened rebels. Such a little word "Live!"—surely they could say that. Was it not what he was waiting for, lying far away and still—schooled at last to patience, the reckless and the restless! Oh, Jerry, Jerry, live! Even now she could feel her mind, like some frantic little wild thing, racing, racing to escape Memory. What had he said to her? "You, wise beyond wisdom, will never hold me—you will never hold me—you will never—"

      And suddenly she had dropped her twisted hands in her lap and lifted her eyes to Jerry's ambassador.

      "Will you please tell him—will you please tell him that I say—'Contact'?"

      "Contact?" He had stood smiling down at her, ironical and tender. "Ah, what a race! That is the prettiest word that you can find for Jerry? But then it means to come very close, to touch, that poor harsh word—there he must find what comfort he can. We, too, in aviation use that word—it is the signal that says—'Now, you can fly!' You do not know our vocabulary, perhaps?"

      "I know very little."

      "That is all then? No other message? He will understand, our Jerry?"

      And Janie had smiled—rather a terrible small smile.

      "Oh, yes," she told him. "He will understand. It is the word that he is waiting for, you see."

      "I see." But there had been a grave wonder in his voice.

      "Would it——" she had framed the words as carefully as though it were a strange tongue that she was speaking—"would it be possible to buy his machine? He wouldn't want any one else to fly it."

      "Little Janie, never fear. The man does not live who shall fly poor

       Peg again. Smashed to kindling-wood and burned to ashes, she has

       taken her last flight to the heaven for good and brave birds of war.

       Not enough was left of her to hold in your two hands."

      "I'm glad. Then that's all—isn't it? And thank you for coming."

      "It is I who thank you. What was hard as death you have made easy. I had thought the lady to whom Jeremy Langdon gave his heart the luckiest creature ever born—now I think him that luckiest one." The grave grace with which he had bent to kiss her hand made of the formal salutation an accolade—"My homage to you, Jerry's Janie!" A quick salute, and he had turned on his heel, swinging off down the flagged path with that swift, easy stride—past the sun-dial—past the lily-pond—past the beech-trees—gone! For hours and hours after he had passed out of sight she had sat staring after him, her hands lying quite still in her lap—staring, staring—they had found her there when they came back, sitting where Rosemary was seated now. Why, there, on those same steps, a bare six months ago—Something snapped in her head, and she stumbled to her feet, clinging to the arm of her chair.

      "I can't stand it!" she gasped. "No, no, it's no use—I can't, I tell you. I—"

      Rosemary's arm was about her—Mrs. Langdon's soft voice in her ears—a deeper note from Rosemary's engineer.

      "Oh, I say, poor girl! What is it, dear child—what's the matter? Is it the heat, Janie?"

      "The heat!" She could hear herself laughing—frantic, hateful, jangling laughter that wouldn't stop. "Oh, Jerry! Oh-h, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!"

      "It's this ghastly day. Let me get her some water, Mrs. Langdon.

       Don't cry so, Janie—please, please don't, darling."

      "I c-can't help it—I c-can't——" She paused, listening intently, her hand closing sharply over Rosemary's wrist. "Oh, listen, listen—there it comes again—I told you so!"

      "Thank Heaven," murmured Mrs. Langdon devoutly, "I thought that it never was going to rise this evening. It's from the south, too, so I suppose that it means rain."

      "Rain?" repeated Janet vaguely. "Why in the world should it mean rain?"

       Her small, pale face looked suddenly brilliant and enchanted, tilted

       up to meet the thunderous music that was swinging nearer and nearer.

       "Oh, do listen, you people! This time it's surely going to land!"

      Rosemary stared at her blankly.