Orlando,upon leaving his brother's room,did not stop to deliver that brother's message directly to Doris;he left this for Truda to do,and retired immediately to his hangar in the woods.Locking himself in,he slightly raised the roof and then sat down before the car which was rapidly taking on shape and assuming that individuality and appearance of sentient life which hitherto he had only seen in dreams.But his eye,which had never failed to kindle at this sight before,shone dully in the semi-gloom.The air-car could wait;he would first have his hour in this solitude of his own making.The gaze he dreaded,the words from which he shrank could not penetrate here.He might even shout her name aloud,and only these windowless walls would respond.He was alone with his past,his present and his future.
Alone!
He needed to be.The strongest must pause when the precipice yawns before him.The gulf can be spanned;he feels himself forceful enough for that;but his eyes must take their measurement of it first;he must know its depths and possible dangers.Only a fool would ignore these steeps of jagged rock;and he was no fool,only a man to whom the unexpected had happened,a man who had seen his way clear to the horizon and then had come up against this!Love,when he thought such folly dead!Remorse,when Glory called for the quiet mind and heart!
He recognised its mordant fang,and knew that its ravages,though only just begun,would last his lifetime.Nothing could stop them now,nothing,nothing.And he laughed,as the thought went home;laughed at the irony of fate and its inexorableness;laughed at his own defeat and his nearness to a barred Paradise.Oswald loved Edith,loved her yet,with a flame time would take long to quench.Doris loved Oswald and he Doris;and not one of them would ever attain the delights each was so fitted to enjoy.Why shouldn't he laugh?What is left to man but mockery when all props fall?Disappointment was the universal lot;and it should go merrily with him if he must take his turn at it.But here the strong spirit of the man re-asserted itself;it should be but a turn.A man's joys are not bounded by his loves or even by the satisfaction of a perfectly untrammelled mind.Performance makes a world of its own for the capable and the strong,and this was still left to him.He,Orlando Brotherson,despair while his great work lay unfinished!That would be to lay stress on the inevitable pains and fears of commonplace humanity.
He was not of that ilk.Intellect was his god;ambition his motive power.What would this casual blight upon his supreme contentment be to him,when with the wings of his air-car spread,he should spurn the earth and soar into the heaven of fame simultaneously with his flight into the open.
He could wait for that hour.He had measured the gulf before him and found it passable.Henceforth no looking back.
Rising,he stood for a moment gazing,with an alert eye now,upon such sections of his car as had not yet been fitted into their places;then he bent forward to his work,and soon the lips which had uttered that sardonic laugh a few minutes before,parted in gentler fashion,and song took the place of curses -a ballad of love and fondest truth.But Orlando never knew what he sang.He had the gift and used it.
Would his tones,however,have rung out with quite so mellow a sweetness had he seen the restless figure even then circling his retreat with eyes darting accusation and arms lifted towards him in wild but impotent threat?
Yes,I think they would;for he knew that the man who thus expressed his helplessness along with his convictions,was no nearer the end he had set himself to attain than on the day he first betrayed his suspicions.
XXXIV
THE HUT CHANGES ITS NAME
That night Oswald was taken very ill.For three days his life hung in the balance,then youth and healthy living triumphed over shock and bereavement,and he came slowly back to his sad and crippled existence.
He had been conscious for a week or more of his surroundings,and of his bitter sorrows as well,when one morning he asked Doris whose face it was he had seen bending over him so often during the last week:"Have you a new doctor?A man with white hair and a comforting smile?Or have I dreamed this face?I have had so many fancies this might easily be one of them.""No,it is not a fancy,"was the quiet reply."Nor is it the face of a doctor.It is that of friend.One whose heart is bound up in your recovery;one for whom you must live,Mr.Brotherson.""I don't know him,Doris.It's a strange face to me.And yet,it's not altogether strange.Who is this man and why should he care for me so deeply?""Because you share one love and one grief.It is Edith's father whom you see at your bedside.He has helped to nurse you ever since you came down this second time.""Edith's father!Doris,it cannot be.Edith's father!""Yes,Mr.Challoner has been in Derby for the last two weeks.He has only one interest now;to see you well again.""Why?"
Doris caught the note of pain,if not suspicion,in this query,and smiled as she asked in turn:
"Shall he answer that question himself?He is waiting to come in.
Not to talk.You need not fear his talking.He's as quiet as any man I ever saw."The sick man closed his eyes,and Doris watching,saw the flush rise to his emaciated cheek,then slowly fade away again to a pallor that frightened her.Had she injured where she would heal?Had she pressed too suddenly and too hard on the ever gaping wound in her invalid's breast?She gasped in terror at the thought,then she faintly smiled,for his eyes had opened again and showed a calm determination as he said:
