Sound of the Trumpet (24 page)

And now there were footsteps along the corridor, coming from the upper end, the end toward the offices. She had hoped to escape through that exit if this first door failed her. Coolly she turned the key at last, swung the door open, and slipped out, just in time. Some men were coming from the other building carrying some frames between them. Those would be frames for the next set of castings. If she had met them, they certainly would have challenged her and put her under arrest until she could explain her presence there.

Out into the yard she came, like a shadow. The stars were dim and far away. The sky was still dark. Dawn was yet to come.

Clutching her bundle firmly, she made her way to an outer gate she knew she could get through if the night watchman was not about. She could listen in the dark to make sure of that. If she only knew what time it was!

Just then the city hall clock struck—one, two, three! Ah, there was still time. She could get to Mr. Weaver’s rendezvous before it was light enough for many to be abroad. If she could do that, she could take the train and get to New York, where for a time at least she would be safe. It would not do for her to be found in this city. Not yet. She must have a perfect alibi.

She hurried along the dark street, her clumsy shoes stumbling at a rough stone. How glad she would be to get rid of these garments and be clothed again in her own things. If she pulled this off in good shape, perhaps she would have money enough to get out of this kind of thing, live like a human being and not like a spy. But would she be content without excitement? After all, she had been raised to it. And if she did give it up, would she want to marry Victor? Of course he was wealthy enough, and a fairly good sport in some things, but he was such an awful sap! There were other men in the world, and now that she had money enough to dress as she should, it would be easy to find them. But after all, why bother? She had Victor right where she wanted him and could get anything from him she desired. Well, she would see, once she got away with this affair. And after all, she could carry on her life work just as successfully if she were a married woman.

She thought of all this while she was going stealthily through narrow, dark streets where no life seemed to be, vanishing into blackness. At last she came to a little door in a wall. She pressed a button, and the door swung inward softly and then closed behind her after she entered. A soft light blurred down a passage, and she followed the way as she had been directed.

The room she entered was plain and bare, as any rooming house might have been, and presently Weaver approached from a partly open doorway where he had been able to watch her coming.

“Well, what success?” he asked, looking at her sharply. He was not yet fully sold on this girl as their main spy for this important case.

For answer Erda handed him the roll of blueprints. The grim man unrolled and studied them for a moment, then, his expression relaxing, he lifted keen eyes toward her.

“Is this all?” he asked in his severe voice.

“If that had been all, I should not have returned so soon,” she answered haughtily. After all, this man must be made to understand that she was slick. She always got what she went for. She took chances with her life sometimes, but she brought back the booty. She reached inside her blouse and pulled forth the coveted, bright, steel object. “This is what you wanted,” she said coldly and laid it in his hand.

“Ah!” he breathed with a look of gloating in his eyes. “You have brought it. And are you sure this is the one, the
right
one?”

“There are the blueprints, Mr. Weaver,” she said loftily. “You can study them at your leisure. As for me, I must catch my train to New York.”

Weaver looked up with quick apprehension.

“Of course,” he said and brought out a roll of bills, handing them to her. “Have you a place to keep this safely?”

“Certainly,” she said crisply.

“Then you will go out the same passage by which you entered and you will find a car parked just outside the door. To the left. The key is in it, and it is being guarded by one of our men, but you will not see him unless there is some warning to give you. You will drive back to the Forty-Third Street station. Get out of the car and someone will immediately take possession of it. You go into the station and find your train. Here are your tickets. You will find a reservation in the Pullman, but you must enter it carefully. They would probably not permit you in the Pullman in that garb if you were seen. You have your other clothing?”

“Yes,” said the girl. “I’ll change on board, of course.”

“Very well. Now you better hurry. You haven’t too much time to spare, and the next train would be awkward, because it will be getting daylight. Here are directions, what to do about returning, and my telephone number. Now go, quickly. You have done well so far. Be careful not to spoil it all.”

“Of course not,” she said with a little cocksure smile, and hurried away.

W
hen Lisle lay down to sleep that night, it was with a wonderful sweet peace upon her. Even the thought that John Sargent was gone away and that she would not be likely to see him again for a very long time because no one could know how soon or how far the soldiers would be sent, could not dampen her joy. It was as if some great gift had been given her. Something that no distance or parting or contingency of life could ever cloud for her. She felt that now she knew him. His hands had held hers, his lips had touched hers, his arms had been about her and drawn her close. That made them happy in one another in a very special way.

She didn’t stop to reason about it, nor think if it was a wise friendship, or any worldly thing like that. She just glorified in the sweetness of it without trying to reason it all out. The fact that he had gone far away somehow set the whole matter as a thing apart from ordinary happenings, took away all objections that others might raise, all plans for the future. There just seemed to be the now, the today, with its precious knowledge that he cared for her. How did she know that, she questioned herself? Why, his eyes had said it plainly as they looked into her own; his lips as they clung to hers had told her. And he had called her “Dear” as he left her. Not the silly “Oh, dolling!” that people were flinging about today, but gravely, sweetly “Dear!” That seemed to have more meaning than the common endearments that were not really endearments at all, only imitation ones with no meaning behind them. And he belonged to her Christ, whom she was beginning to love and serve. That gave her great joy and peace. That meant there could be no question about him. Even her mother, when she came to know everything about it and understand, could not but approve. But that was something that could wait. He was gone away, and she could keep it for herself, unless there would come a time when her mother could know him for herself.

She found herself suddenly contrasting him with Victor in a new way. She thrilled with pride over him that he had gone as a soldier. It was hard to have him gone, and there was fear and peril in the thought, yet rejoicing, too, because it showed what kind of a brave, loyal man he was. No hiding behind a safe, pleasant job at home for him, even though it had been easy. He wanted to feel that he was doing the right thing. He wanted to fight for his country. He had had a safe defense job and could have stayed, but he had heard the “sound of the trumpet” in his soul and he had answered it. Oh, he was one to be proud of, her John, her Christian soldier boy!

And once again as she drifted off to sleep, she felt the thrill of his kiss on her lips, the holding of his arms about her, and his voice saying, “Dear!” Oh, there was no room now for Victor in her heart, for Victor had heard no sound of a trumpet in his life, or if he had, he had not answered it. He had listened to the blare of trumpets that called him to please himself. Victor, the little playmate who had always had everything he wanted and never wanted things for other people, not even for his country, but only for himself.

And with the thought of her young lover’s kiss thrilling on her lips, she fell asleep and dreamed of clouds of glory and a cause of righteousness that was serving their Lord. The glory of the Lord and the sound of the trumpet!

But when Lisle awoke in the morning and recalled the joy and the thrill of the meeting with her new friend, it seemed to her all like a wonderful dream, and she wondered if it could have been only a figment of her imagination, or just a wishful vision.

Till suddenly the memory of that precious kiss thrilled across her consciousness, and she knew it had been real. And then a joy she had not dreamed existed swept in and enveloped her whole being.

She went down to breakfast with a light in her face, a joy in her eyes, that her mother noticed at once. She had not seen that look in her girl’s face since she was a happy, carefree little girl playing around all day long. It was something real, and her mother studied over it while they ate and talked of trifling matters. She decided that the cause must in some way be connected with Victor. For Victor had been her childhood companion, and they had seemed so happy together. Somehow Victor must have done something to make her happy about him again. At last she said, “Have you been seeing Victor these days while you were away from the house?”

“Victor?” said Lisle with a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes. “No, I haven’t seen Victor anywhere. He doesn’t frequent the places I’ve been lately. You wouldn’t catch him even so near an army as the canteen amusing the soldier boys. Victor is enjoying himself somewhere. He is a slacker!”

“Oh, my dear! I don’t think you ought to say that,” said her mother. “His mother tells me he is very much interested in his work, and you know it is most important, what the Vandingham plant is doing. Sometimes he cannot spare time to come home for his meals. He feels he is needed at the plant, and he sends out for a sandwich and a cup of coffee.”

Lisle gave her mother an unbelieving look.

“I’m afraid Victor’s mother doesn’t know all about her son,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I’m afraid she believes everything he tells her.”

“My dear! You don’t think Victor would lie, do you? Not lie to his mother!”

“Yes, I’m afraid he would,” said the girl gravely. “He used to do it when he was a kid. Tell her he felt sick when he simply wanted to stay home from school. Tell her yes, he had worn his boots, when I knew he hadn’t thought of it. When I knew he’d flung them back in the closet after she had returned to the dining room after telling him to wear them. He used to say he had done an errand for her when I knew he hadn’t even gone near the place. And I don’t believe Victor has changed much since those days. Not for the better, anyway.”

“Oh, my
dear
! You seem so bitter against your old friend. Don’t you think perhaps you have a duty toward him, to help him to better things? How would it be if you were to ask him over to dinner tonight and spend a happy evening with games and music the way you used to enjoy yourselves? I believe you could make him happy again and make him want to stay around among the right kind of people. His mother is quite worried about that girl he has for a secretary. She wants him back associating with you. She feels he is terribly hurt about you, and the reaction has turned him toward that awful girl. His mother feels that girl is terrible, though the only time I ever saw her, she seemed a rather pretty child. A bit too sophisticated, perhaps, for Victor and his family traditions, of course, but not
bad
. Not really bad. I told Mrs. Vandingham I thought she was a little too hard on the girl and was sure Victor’s upbringing would tell in the end. He wouldn’t be led by any but the right type of girl. I’m sure that girl isn’t so bad.”

“If you had seen her at the party, Mother, I’m afraid you would have thought so. She was rather unspeakable.”

“Oh, well, at the party. I suppose the poor child has never been out much to the right kind of party and wouldn’t know quite how to act.”

“No, Mother! It wasn’t that! Oh, you don’t understand! You wouldn’t have liked her actions, her dress, anything about her.”

“Well, try to feel as kindly as you can toward her, dear. She probably won’t trouble your life at all if Victor comes around all right. And I do think it is your Christian duty, dear, to try to be nice to Victor. Try to lead him back to his old self. To better things. Don’t you think you might, dear?”

“No!” said Lisle quickly. “I don’t think there is
anything
I can do for Victor. I’m done with him, Mother, utterly done. He disgusts me. Lying around in a pretty office with a pretty secretary, taking her out to lunch and to dance and to night clubs half the night, while other men are either in training or at the battle front.”

“But my dear, you don’t know many other young men, do you? You have been so exclusively with Victor during the years that you really are quite to yourself now. I blame myself for that. You haven’t enough friends. I should have seen to that!”

Lisle laughed joyously.

“Oh, you dear little mother. Don’t go and worry about a thing like that. I have friends galore. Fine friends. You ought to see some of the splendid fellows we have coming to the canteen nights when they are in town. They are
real
young men.”

“But you don’t know them, my dear. You never went around with them. They may be much more slackers in their hearts than you think Victor is.”

“No, Mother, you’re mistaken. Some of these fellows are true Christian young men, with real purposes in life. You’d be surprised. Someday I want you to come down with me and meet some of them. Perhaps I’ll bring them home for an evening, if you don’t mind.”

“Why, of course, child. I suppose that would be a patriotic and benevolent thing to do, to show them a good time when they are away from home, and I’ll be glad to help entertain them. But that isn’t like old friends. You surely wouldn’t rate absolute strangers ahead of an old friend.”

“Why, Mother, they are not absolute strangers. I’ve met them again and again. I know what some of them are. You and Father couldn’t help approving of them. Some of them have left fine prospects to go to war because they think it is right. Some are fliers, some are artillery men, some are officers.”