And their souls drank that beauty. They were glad, as never yet. At last Stern spoke.
“It’s more like a dream than a reality, isn’t it?” said he. “Too wonderful to be true. Makes me think of Alfred de Musset’s ‘Lucie.’ You remember the poem?
“‘Un soir, nous etions seuls, J’etais assis pres d’elle …’”
Beatrice nodded. “Yes, I know!” she whispered. “How could I forget it? And to think that for a thousand years the moon’s been shining just the same, and nobody—”
“Yes, but is it the same?” interrupted Stern suddenly, his practical turn of mind always reasserting itself. “Don’t you see a difference? You remember the old-time face in the moon, of course. Where is it now? The moon always presented only one side, the same side, to us in the old days. How about it now? If I’m not mistaken, things have shifted up there. We’re looking now at some other face of it. And if that’s so it means a far bigger disarrangement of the solar system and the earth’s orbit and lots of things than you or I suspect!
“Wait till we get back to New York for half a day, and visit the tower and gather up our things. Wait till I get hold of my binoculars again! Perhaps some of these questions may be resolved. We can’t go on this way, surrounded by perpetual puzzles, problems, mysteries! We must—”
“Do nothing but rest now!” she dictated with mock severity.
Stern laughed.
“Well, you’re the boss,” he answered, and leaned back against the oak. “Only, may I propound one more question?”
“Well, what is it?”
“Do you see that dark patch in the sky? Sort of a roughly circular hole in the blue, as it were—right there?” He pointed. “Where there aren’t any stars?”
“Why—yes. What about it?”
“It’s moving, that’s all. Every night that black patch moves among the stars, and cuts their light off; and one night it grazed the moon—passed before the eastern limb of it, you understand. Made a partial eclipse. You were asleep; I didn’t bother you about it. But if there’s a new body in the sky, it’s up to us to know why, and what about it, and all. So the quicker—
“The quicker you get well, the better all around!”
She drew his head down and kissed him tenderly on the forehead with that strange, innate maternal instinct which makes women love to “mother” men even ten years older than themselves.
“Don’t you worry your brains about all these problems and vexations to-night, Allan. Your getting well is the main thing. The whole world’s future hangs on just that! Do you realize what it means? Do you?”
“Yes, as far as the human brain can realize so big a concept. Languages, arts, science, all must be handed down to the race by us. The world can’t begin again on any higher plane than just the level of our collective intelligence. All that the world knows to-day is stored in your brain-cells and mine! And our speech, our methods, our ideals, will shape the whole destiny of the earth. Our ideals! We must keep them very pure!”
“Pure and unspotted,” she answered simply. Then with an adorable and feminine anticlimax:
“Dear, does your shoulder pain you now? I’m awfully heavy to be leaning on you like this!”
“You’re not hurting me a bit. On the contrary, your touch, your presence, are life to me!”
“Quite sure you’re comfy, boy?”
“Positive.”
“And happy?”
“To the limit.”
“I’m so glad. Because I am, too. I’m awfully sleepy, Allan Do you mind if I take just a little, tiny nap?”
For all answer he patted her, and smoothed her hair, her cheek, her full, warm throat.
Presently by her slow, gentle breathing he knew she was asleep.
For a long time he half-lay there against the oak, softly swathed in his bear-skin, on the odorous bed of fir, holding her in his arms, looking into the dancing firelight.
And night wore on, calm, perfumed, gentle; and the thoughts of the man were long, long thoughts— thoughts “that do often lie too deep for tears.”
CHAPTER V. DEADLY PERIL
PAGES on pages would not tell the full details of the following week—the talks they had, the snaring and shooting of small game, the fishing, the cleaning out of the bungalow, and the beginnings of some order in the estate, the rapid healing of Stern’s arm, and all the multifarious little events of their new beginnings of life there by the river-bank.
But there are other matters of more import than such homely things; so now we come to the time when Stern felt the pressing imperative of a return to the tower. For he lacked tools in every way; he needed them to build furniture, doors, shutters; to clear away the brush and make the place orderly, rational and beautiful; to start work on his projected laboratory and power-plant; for a thousand purposes.
He wanted his binoculars, his shotgun and rifles, and much ammunition, as well as a boat-load of canned supplies and other goods. Instruments, above all, he had to have.
So, though Beatrice still, with womanly conservatism, preferred to let well enough alone for the present, and stay away from the scene of such ghastly deeds as had taken place on the last day of the invasion by the Horde, Stern eventually convinced and overargued her; and on what he calculated to be the 16th day of June, 2912—the tenth day since the fight-they set sail for Manhattan. A favoring northerly breeze, joined with a clear sky and sunshine of unusual brilliancy, made the excursion a gala time for both. As they put their supplies of fish, squirrel-meat and breadfruit aboard the banca and shoved the rude craft off the sand, both she and he felt like children on an outing.
Allan’s arm was now so well that he permitted himself the luxury of a morning plunge. The invigoration of this was still upon him as, with a song, he raised the clumsy skin sail upon the rough-hewn mast. Beatrice curled down in her tiger-skin at the stern, took one of the paddles, and made ready to steer. He settled himself beside her, the thongs of his sail in his hand. Thus happy in comradeship, they sailed away to southward, down the blue wonder of the river, flanked by headlands, wooded heights, crags, cliffs and Palisades, now all alike deserted.
Noon found them opposite the fluted columns of gray granite that once had borne aloft the suburbs of Englewood. Stern recognized the conformation of the place; but though he looked hard, could find no trace of the Interstate Park road that once had led from top to bottom of the Palisades, nor any remnant of the millionaires’ palaces along the heights there.
“Stone and brick have long since vanished as structures,” he commented. “Only steel and concrete have stood the gaff of uncounted years! Where all that fashion, wealth and beauty once would have scorned to notice us, girl, now what’s left? Hear the cry of that gull? The barking of that fox? See that green flicker over the pinnacle? Some new, bright bird, never dreamed of in this country! And even with the naked eye I can make out the palms and the lianas tangled over the verge of what must once have been magnificent gardens!”
He pointed at the heights.
“Once,” said he, “I was consulted by a sausage-king named Breitkopf, who wanted to sink an elevator-shaft from the top to the bottom of this very cliff, so he could reach his hundred-thousand-dollar launch in ease. Breitkopf didn’t like my price; he insulted me in several rather unpleasant ways. The cliff is still here, I see. So am I. But Breitkopf is—elsewhere.”
He laughed, and swept the river with a glance.
“Steer over to the eastward, will you?” he asked. “We’ll go in through Spuyteu Duyvil and the Harlem. That’ll bring us much nearer the tower than by landing on the west shore of Manhattan.”
Two hours later they had run past the broken arches of Fordham, Washington, and High Bridges, and following the river—on both banks of which a few scattered ruins showed through the massed foliage—were drawing toward Randall’s and Ward’s islands and Hell Gate.
Wind and tide still favored them. In safety they passed the ugly shoals and ledges. Here Stern took the paddle, while Beatrice went to the bow and left all to his directing hand.
By three o’clock in the afternoon they were drawing past Blackwell’s Island. The Queensboro Bridge still
