The Sky Pilot in No Mans Land | Page 6

tremor.
"There's plenty to tell about Canada," he said, "but not now. What started me? Oh, democracy. Yes, it was you that began it. Democracy? After all, it is worth while that the people who are one day to fill this wide land should be truly democratic, truly free, and truly great."
Once more the light began to burn in his eyes and in his face.
"Ah, to have a hand in that!"
"And you," she said in a low voice, "you with all that in you, are only a preacher."
"A missionary," he corrected.
"Well, a missionary. Only a missionary."
Disappointment and scorn were all too evident in her voice.
"ONLY a missionary. Ah, if I could only be one. A missionary! With a mission and a message to my people! If only I had the gift of tongues, of flaming, burning, illuminating speech, of heart-compelling speech! To tell my people how to make this country truly great and truly free, how to keep it free from the sordid things, the cruel things, the unjust, the unclean, the loathsome things that have debased and degraded the older nations, that are debasing and degrading even your young, great nation. Ah, to be a missionary with a tongue of fire, with a message of light! A missionary to my people to help them to high and worthy living, to help them to God! ONLY a missionary! What would you have me? A money-maker?"
He turned swiftly upon her, a magnetic, compelling personality. From the furious scorn in his voice and in his flaming face she visibly shrank, almost as if he had struck her.
"No!" she breathed. "Nothing else. Only a missionary."
Silent she stood, as if still under the spell of his words, her eyes devouring his face.
"How your mother would have loved you, would have been proud of you," she said in a low tone. "Is--is there no one else to--to rejoice in you?" she asked shyly, but eagerly.
He laughed aloud. "There's dad, dear old dad."
"And no one else?" Still with shy, eager eyes she held him.
"Oh, heaps," he cried, still laughing.
She smiled upon him, a slightly uncertain smile, and yet as if his answer somehow satisfied her.
"Good-bye," she said impulsively, offering her hand.
"But you are not going! You're staying a few days!" he gasped.
"No, we're going. We're going right away. Goodbye," she said. "I don't want those others to see. Goodbye. Oh, it's been a wonderful morning! And,--and--a friend is a wonderful discovery."
Her hand held his in a strong, warm grasp, but her eyes searched his face as if seeking something she greatly desired.
"Good-bye. I am sorry you are going," he said, simply. "I want to know you better."
"Do you?" she cried, with a sudden eagerness in her voice and manner. Then, "No. You would be disappointed. I am not of your world. But you shall see me again," she added, as if taking a new resolve. "We are coming back on a big hunt, and you and your father are to join us. Won't you?"
"Dad said we should," said the youth, smiling at the remembrance.
"And you?" she said, with a touch of impatience.
"If things can so arrange themselves--my work, I mean, and dad's."
"But, do you want to? Do you really want to?" she asked. "I wish I knew. I hate not to understand people. You are hard to know. I don't know you. But you will come?"
"I think so," said the young man. "Of course a fellow's work comes first, you know."
"Work?" she cried. "Your work? Oh, your missionary work. Oh, yes, yes. I should like to see you at it. Come, let us go."
Mr. Cornwall Brand they found in a fever of impatience. He had the trip scheduled to a time table, and he hated to be forced to change his plans. His impatience showed itself in snappy commands and inquiries to his Indian guides, who, however, merely grunted replies. They knew their job and did it without command or advice, and with complete indifference to anything the white man might have to say. To Paula the only change in his manner was an excess of politeness.
Her father, however, met her with remonstrances.
"Why, Paula, my dear, you have kept us waiting."
"What's the rush, pater?" she enquired, coolly.
"Why, my dear, we are already behind our schedule, and you know Cornwall hates that," he said in a low voice.
"Cornwall!" said Paula, in a loud voice of unmistakable ill temper. "Does Cornwall run this outfit?"
"My dear Paula!" again remonstrated her father.
She turned to him impatiently, with an angry word at her lips, caught upon Barry's face a look of surprise, paused midway in her passion, then moved slowly toward him.
"Well," she asked, in an even, cold voice, "what do you think about it? And anyway," she dropped her voice so that none heard but himself, "why should you halt me?