O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920. Various
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Название: O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920

Автор: Various

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

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isbn: 4064066180850

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. "Land? What are you talking about, Janie?"

      "My airplane—the one that you said was the fat Hodges boy on a motorcycle! Is there any place near here that it can make a landing?"

      "Darling child—" Mrs. Langdon's gentle voice was gentler than ever—"darling child, it's this wretched heat. There isn't any airplane, dear—it's just the wind rising in the beeches."

      "The wind?" Janet laughed aloud—they really were too absurd.

       "Why, Mrs. Langdon, you can hear the engines, if you'll only listen! You can hear them, can't you, Mr. Bain?"

      The young engineer shook his head. "No plane would risk flying with this storm coming, Miss Abbott. There's been thunder for the last hour or so, and it's getting nearer, too. It's only the wind, I think."

      "Oh, you're laughing at me—of course, of course you hear it. Why, it's as clear as—as clear as—" Her voice trailed off into silence. Quite suddenly, without any transition or warning, she knew. She could feel her heart stand perfectly still for a minute, and then plunge forward in mad flight, racing, racing—oh, it knew, too, that eager heart! She took her hand from the arm of the chair, releasing Rosemary's wrist very gently.

      "Yes, of course, it's the heat," she said quietly. She must be careful not to frighten them, these kind ones. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Langdon, I think that I'll go down to the gate to watch the storm burst. No, please, don't any of you come—I'll promise to change everything if I get caught—yes, everything! I won't be long; don't wait for me."

      She walked sedately enough until she came to the turn in the path, but after that she ran, only pausing for a minute to listen breathlessly. Oh, yes—following, following, that gigantic music! How he must be laughing at her now—blind, deaf, incredulous little fool that she had been, to doubt that Jerry would find a way! But where could he land? Not in the garden—not at the gates—oh, now she had it—the far meadow. She turned sharply; it was dark, but the path must be here. Yes, this was the wicket gate; her groping fingers were quite steady—they found the latch—released it—the gate swung to behind her flying footsteps. "Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" sang her heart. Why hadn't she worn СКАЧАТЬ