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Authors: Philip Wylie
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where in the shadows were the stuffed birds and animals Henry had collected. "I--"
McCobb pulled out a chair.
"Sit, down, Stephen. You're overwrought. Jack--bring a drink of whisky."
Stone swallowed the spirits. He began to talk.
"I've read it all. It will be dry soon--and then the rest of you can have it. It taught me--something. It taught me a great deal. It taught me that my coming here--was criminal.
It was criminal to you and to Jack--but I had discounted that. It was criminal to my son--
but I had an alibi for that.
"It was criminal to myself." Henry gave back the words he had been told so often.
"Why--father--you know it was an accident. The ship was in bad shape and you needed water and you smashed up here--and why blame yourself?"
"It--"
Stone began and McCobb, terrified lest the boy who was so nearly a man be told the truth, held up his finger and spoke heartily.
"You couldn't help it. It's nothing."
Stone avoided the eyes of his son. They were very bright and speculative at that instant. He cleared his throat.
"But it's my fault. I took too great a risk. And I stranded all of us here."
"Fiddlesticks!" said McCobb.
"You are plumb out of your haid," Jack said.
"When they need me," Stone continued. "When they need me. They need me in America today. They'll need me more tomorrow, if I am any reader of signs. I had a dt.lty greater than any other and I ran away from it into this cloying wonderland. I'm a fool!"
"Stephen--"
"Father--"
"A fool, gentlemen."
Stone stalked from the room. No one followed him for several minutes and then Jack stepped from the shadows.
"I think I'll just run along behind to see that everything's all right."
McCobb nodded. "Go ahead, Jack. Thanks. And take this."
He held out a revolver.
Jack stuck the gun in his belt. It pulled his trousers tight enough to reveal in relief the blade and handle of a butcher knife secreted along his thigh.
Silence, descended in the house.
McCobb poured himself a drink from the whisky bottle.
Henry stared at his feet. His face was covered with a fine, golden down. His chin was like his father's. His hands were lean and powerful. He stroked the down.
"Of course," he said softly to McCobb, "I've always known it wasn't--an accident."
McCobb dropped his glass.
"Steady there, son," the Scot murmured.
"I don't mind--much."
McCobb began the speech to which Henry had been long accustomed:
"It was a bad night--"
Henry interrupted, in a low, forceful voice:
"I don't mind a great deal. At first--it was just a feeling. When I was little I experienced it. No one ever talked about how we got here. No one ever talked about why the voyage was made. That wasn't natural. So I just felt that our shipwreck was intentional.
"But gradually--" Henry's eyes expanded as he spoke--"I began to think. You taught me about engines and about engineering. I looked at the wreck down on the beach.
I dove around it. The propeller had snapped. That, of course, wouldn't happen under accidental conditions--would it?" The Scot drank again. This recital of the powerful blond youth who sat idly in the chair was more harrowing to him, in a way, than the afternoon's disaster. He said nothing. "I don't mind. I know father did it."
"Henry, my lad--"
"Don't worry. I'll never accuse him of it. He'll never guess that I know."
"Good man!"
"Or that I know why."
McCobb's scalp prickled.
" Why? he repeated stupidly.
"Why. It was--on account of a woman."
He did not raise his eyes to ask for confirmation.
Instead he rose and poured McCobb's third drink, which he took from limp hands, back into the bottle.
"Let us take a walk, too," he said, with a smile that was poignant and charming and that McCobb always accounted afterward as a sort of miracle.
It was the second time that day that Henry had saved McCobb from intolerable emotions.
They went out into the sunlight together.
Chapter Seven: THE YEARNING
IT WAS 1917. The
McCobb pulled out a chair.
"Sit, down, Stephen. You're overwrought. Jack--bring a drink of whisky."
Stone swallowed the spirits. He began to talk.
"I've read it all. It will be dry soon--and then the rest of you can have it. It taught me--something. It taught me a great deal. It taught me that my coming here--was criminal.
It was criminal to you and to Jack--but I had discounted that. It was criminal to my son--
but I had an alibi for that.
"It was criminal to myself." Henry gave back the words he had been told so often.
"Why--father--you know it was an accident. The ship was in bad shape and you needed water and you smashed up here--and why blame yourself?"
"It--"
Stone began and McCobb, terrified lest the boy who was so nearly a man be told the truth, held up his finger and spoke heartily.
"You couldn't help it. It's nothing."
Stone avoided the eyes of his son. They were very bright and speculative at that instant. He cleared his throat.
"But it's my fault. I took too great a risk. And I stranded all of us here."
"Fiddlesticks!" said McCobb.
"You are plumb out of your haid," Jack said.
"When they need me," Stone continued. "When they need me. They need me in America today. They'll need me more tomorrow, if I am any reader of signs. I had a dt.lty greater than any other and I ran away from it into this cloying wonderland. I'm a fool!"
"Stephen--"
"Father--"
"A fool, gentlemen."
Stone stalked from the room. No one followed him for several minutes and then Jack stepped from the shadows.
"I think I'll just run along behind to see that everything's all right."
McCobb nodded. "Go ahead, Jack. Thanks. And take this."
He held out a revolver.
Jack stuck the gun in his belt. It pulled his trousers tight enough to reveal in relief the blade and handle of a butcher knife secreted along his thigh.
Silence, descended in the house.
McCobb poured himself a drink from the whisky bottle.
Henry stared at his feet. His face was covered with a fine, golden down. His chin was like his father's. His hands were lean and powerful. He stroked the down.
"Of course," he said softly to McCobb, "I've always known it wasn't--an accident."
McCobb dropped his glass.
"Steady there, son," the Scot murmured.
"I don't mind--much."
McCobb began the speech to which Henry had been long accustomed:
"It was a bad night--"
Henry interrupted, in a low, forceful voice:
"I don't mind a great deal. At first--it was just a feeling. When I was little I experienced it. No one ever talked about how we got here. No one ever talked about why the voyage was made. That wasn't natural. So I just felt that our shipwreck was intentional.
"But gradually--" Henry's eyes expanded as he spoke--"I began to think. You taught me about engines and about engineering. I looked at the wreck down on the beach.
I dove around it. The propeller had snapped. That, of course, wouldn't happen under accidental conditions--would it?" The Scot drank again. This recital of the powerful blond youth who sat idly in the chair was more harrowing to him, in a way, than the afternoon's disaster. He said nothing. "I don't mind. I know father did it."
"Henry, my lad--"
"Don't worry. I'll never accuse him of it. He'll never guess that I know."
"Good man!"
"Or that I know why."
McCobb's scalp prickled.
" Why? he repeated stupidly.
"Why. It was--on account of a woman."
He did not raise his eyes to ask for confirmation.
Instead he rose and poured McCobb's third drink, which he took from limp hands, back into the bottle.
"Let us take a walk, too," he said, with a smile that was poignant and charming and that McCobb always accounted afterward as a sort of miracle.
It was the second time that day that Henry had saved McCobb from intolerable emotions.
They went out into the sunlight together.
Chapter Seven: THE YEARNING
IT WAS 1917. The
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