Henderson Daily Dispatch

Wings of Youth
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

WHEN SARAH ANNE finally went to sleep that night on which Bob Kennedy had passed her in the corridor with such a curt goodby, she didn't dream. She knew, subconsciously, that she was tired, that she wanted to stay in the bed, between the cool linen sheets, for a long time. She knew, too, after a while, that someone was trying to waken her, to take her away from the island of peace where nothing was important.

"Sarah Anne darling," she heard Judith saying. "Sarah Anne, won't you wake up? Sarah Anne, dear—"

She opened her eyes then. A new Judith stood at the foot of her bed. A Judith whose hair was shining as an aureole and whose eyes were deep and dark and amber. There was a quiet radiance about her face. Now she sat down on her own twin bed, across from Sarah Anne, and spoke quickly.

"We're going to be married, Jack and I. Now—tonight."

"Now? Oh, Judy, then everything's all right?" Everything's all right. It was comforting to know that for someone the tangled threads were straight again.

"Everything is glorious. Get dressed, honey. You and Bob are going to be our witnesses or attendants or whatever it is."

"But Bob left, hours ago. He said goodby." She could see that tall figure swinging down the narrow hall, hear that brief laconic farewell: "Happy landings!"

"He intended to, but he couldn't because Jack wasn't at the hangar. We were getting a license and looking up a minister. Now everything's ready. Do you want this pink dress, Sarah Anne? Pink is for bridesmaids, isn't it?" She was removing a dress from a hanger, stockings and a slip from Sarah Anne's traveling case.

Outside it was raining. A slow, steady downfall that would last through the next day and on to the next. Sarah Anne shivered a little under the cool sheets. The moon had been yellow and warm when she had gone to sleep. And suddenly her excitement again left her. Why pretend to be joyful for a few hours? Why look at Bob, speak to him, laugh with him, and come back to remember and remember words that were useless?

But she must go. Judy and Jack were going to be married.

The ride down the road to a little white church in a flower yard was quiet. Rain beat on the top of the rented car. No one was on the road. Nothing was said about the manner in which Jack and Judy had made up. Nothing was needed. Two people who loved each other very much had found out in time, that was all.

Sarah Anne, shivering in her new gray polo coat which she wore over the frivolous pink dress, realized that whatever of selfishness there might be in Jack's nature, Judy could conquer. This tall man with the sea and the wind and the sky in his eyes was a little lonely. Heights were no good unless shared. He knew it now. Yes, Judy and Jack would be all right.

But some place in the night Corrinne tossed restlessly, and on this dark road in the south she rode by the side of a man who had refused to trust her.

The driver stopped the car next to the parsonage and the party went up to the door. Then Judith spoke to the minister's wife.

"Would it be asking too much if we might be married in the church? Only one light would be enough, and we won't stay a minute—"

Couples, seeking marriage at midnight, seldom cared where the ceremonies were performed. In fact, only one or two people had set such a late and unexpected hour in the long years of the minister's service. Now his wife said, with a sudden rush of romantic fervor:

"It will be lovely. I have a lantern. I'll light the way. The minister will join us in a minute."

So they walked under the low-spreading trees, down the white cobbled-stoned path, to the little church, and Bob put his hand on Sarah Anne's arm to steady her. Once he brushed a low-hanging branch away from her brown head.

The church was warm, and the altar lights shone on the white wooden pews and the flowers which had been arranged for Sunday.

Suddenly Sarah Anne realized that this was Saturday night. She and Judith were not due anywhere until the next Tuesday. Judith could have a honeymoon.

As for herself—she wondered what Bob would do. Take a train somewhere, of course. And why not? Hadn't she told him that he could never matter to her? Told him, and meant it for all time?

Now the words of the ceremony were beginning, in the minister's rich, low voice, and his wife was touching deep chords on a little organ as a backdrop which shut away the gentle beat of the rain outside.

"Dearly beloved, we have come together . . ."

When they left the church they became very merry, very happy, and now and again Sarah Anne looked away quickly from Judy's shining eyes. Only Bob was quiet, though he made efforts to be light and gay and it was he who engineered the wedding supper at an inn several miles away.

Then, in some strange fashion, Jack and Judy were gone. Judy, in kissing Sarah Anne goodby, had said: "I'll be back Monday some time, Sarah Anne. It's a brief honeymoon, but it's going to be marvellous! We'll finish our season—Jack's busy anyway—then I'll be making a home. Oh, Sarah Anne, a home, not a house with a lot of furniture!"

As Sarah Anne expected, they wanted the airplane, but since the storm was growing heavier, they gave it up and rented the car which had driven them to the church.

Watching the tail light disappear, Sarah Anne reflected that those two, made for heights, were finding them now in a bumpy car on a rough road, and never knowing the springs were bad, and the road punctured with holes.

She said goodby to Bob, who smiled at her, and held her hand a moment longer than was necessary. Or maybe she imagined it, she told herself. The little hotel was in shadows, save for the one light over the desk. The clerk was asleep in his inner office. Bob was leaving early in the morning. This was goodby.

But, in her room, she was not sleepy. Judy's bed, unslept in, looked lonely. Her own no longer was intriguing. She sat by the window but the rain came in, so she tip-toed down to the lobby. There was an alcove where she could watch the street lamps shine across the trees and maybe an occasional flash of a light where a car went onward in the night. She wanted human sympathy.

She arose and went to stand in the shadow. How long she had been there, leaning against the window frame, when she became aware of a long shadow on the other side of the wall, she did not know. Maybe someone else couldn't sleep. She turned her head curiously. A dim light was reflected from the green light on the night clerk's desk and left the features of the man faintly outlined.

"Bob?" she asked curiously. "You're restless, too?"

The rain came harder. It beat against the windows. The light flickered on the desk, in the far distance, struggled, and died away. A ragged string of lightning cut the sky, then the world was black.

But Sarah Anne was not afraid. When Bob came toward her, when he put his arms around her gently and kissed her, she was not surprised. It was the natural, the only thing to do, at that moment. In this dream world where she moved life had changed its pattern. Maybe tomorrow the sun would shine, the streets would forget the black, shining night, and reality would be sharp and clear. Not tonight—

"I'm sorry," Bob said then, but he did not leave her abruptly. He drew her by the hand toward a big chair, and then pulled up another for himself. "Sarah Anne, why don't you like me?"

"I do like you," she answered, troubled.

"Because it's your Christian duty as a minister's daughter?" His voice was laughing a little.

She flushed in the dark. How could this man be so dense? How could he tell her that she was a bad influence for her sister, believe she had gone gladly to spend an evening—at least an evening—with Lynn Rhodes—and accuse her of having written some silly letters? How could he do all of these things and then ask, so quietly, so convincingly, if she wouldn't try to like him?

(To Be Continued)