Spencer Meyrick went forward to the smoker. Aunt Mary, weary of life, slid gently down to slumber. Her unlovely snore filled the dim car.
How different this from the first ride together! The faint pink of the sky grew brighter. Now Minot could see the gray moss hanging to the evergreens, and here and there a squalid shack where human beings lived and knew nothing of life. And beside him he heard a sound as of a large body being shaken. Also the guttural protest of Aunt Mary at this inconsiderate treatment.
Aunt Mary triumphed. Her snore rose to shatter the smoky roof. Three times Minot dared to look, and each time wished he hadn't. The whole sky was rosy now. Somewhere off behind the horizon the good old sun was rising to go to work for the passenger department of the coast railroad.
Some sense in looking out now. Minot saw a shack that seemed familiar—then another. Next a station, bearing on its sad shingle the cheery name of "Sunbeam." And close to the station, gloomy in the dawn, a desiccated chauffeur beside an aged automobile.
Minot turned quickly, and caught Cynthia Meyrick in the act of peering over his shoulder. She had seen the chauffeur too.
The train had stopped a moment, but was under way again. In those brown eyes Minot saw something wistful, something hurt,—saw things that moved him to put everything to a sudden test. He leaped to his feet and pulled madly at the bell cord.
"What—what have you done?" Startled, she stared at him.
"I've stopped the train. I'm going to ride to Jacksonville as I rode to San Marco—ages ago. I'm not going alone."
"Indeed?"
"Quick. The conductor will be here in a minute. Here's a card and pencil—write a note for Aunt Mary. Say you'll meet them in Jacksonville! Hurry, please!"
"Mr. Minot!" With great dignity.
"One last ride together. One last chance for me to—to set things right if I can."
"If you can."
"If—I admit it. Won't you give me the chance? I thought you would be game. I dare you!"
For a second they gazed into each other's eyes. The train had come to a stop, and Aunt Mary stirred fretfully in her sleep. With sudden decision Cynthia Meyrick wrote on the card and dropped it on her slumbering relative.
"I know I'll be sorry—but—" she gasped.
"Hurry! This way! The conductor's coming there!"
A moment later they stood together on the platform of the Sunbeam station, while the brief little train disappeared indignantly in the distance.
"You shouldn't have made me do that!" cried the girl in dismay. "I'm always doing things on the spur of the moment—things I regret afterward—"
"I know. You explained that to me once. But you can also do things on the spur of the moment that you're glad about all your life. Oh—good morning, Barney Oldfield."
"Good morning," replied the rustic chauffeur with gleeful recognition. "Where's it to this time, mister?"
"Jacksonville. And no hurry at all." Minot held open the door and the girl stepped into the car.
"The gentleman is quite mistaken," she said to the chauffeur. "There is a very great hurry."
"Ages of time until luncheon," replied Minot blithely, also getting in. "If you were thinking of announcing—something—then."
"I shall have nothing to announce, I'm sure. But I must be in Jacksonville before that train. Father will be furious."
"Trust me, lady," said the chauffeur, grinding again at his hooded music-box. "I've been doing stunts with this car since I saw you last. Been over a hundred miles from Sunbeam. Begins to look as though Florida wasn't going to be big enough, after all."
He leaped to the wheel, and again that ancient automobile carried Cynthia Meyrick and the representative of Lloyds out of the town of Sunbeam. But the exit was not a laughing one. The girl's eyes were serious, cold, and with real concern in his voice Minot spoke:
"Won't you forgive me—can't you? I was only trying to be faithful to the man who sent me down here—faithful through everything—as I should be faithful to you if you gave me the chance. Is it too late—Cynthia—"
"There was a time," said the girl, her eyes wide, "when it was not too late. Have you forgotten? That night on the balcony, when I threw myself at your feet, and you turned away. Do you think that was a happy moment for me?"
"Was it happy for me, for that matter?"
"Oh, I was humiliated, ashamed. Then your silly rescue of my gown—your advice to me to marry Harrowby—"
"Would you have had me throw over the men who trusted me—"
"I—I don't know. I only know that I can't forgive what has happened—in a minute—"
"What was that last?"
"Nothing."
"You said in a minute."
"Your ears are deceiving you."
"Cynthia—you're not going to punish me because I was faithful— Don't you suppose I tried to get some one in my place?"
"Did you?"
"The day I first rode in this car with you. And then—I stopped trying—"
"Why?"
"Because I realized that if some one came in my place I'd have to go away and never see you again—and I couldn't do that I had to be near you, dear girl—don't worry, he can't hear, the motor's too noisy—I had to be where I could see that little curl making a question mark round your ear—where I could hear your voice—I had to be near you even if to do it I must break my heart by marrying you to another man. I loved you. I love you now—"
A terrific crash interrupted. Dolefully the chauffeur descended from the car to make an examination. Dolefully he announced the result.
"Busted right off," he remarked. "Say, I'm sorry. I'll have to walk back to the garage at Sunbeam and—and I'm afraid you'll have to jest sit here until I come back."
He went slowly down the road, and the two sat in that ancient car in the midst of sandy desolation.
"Cynthia," Minot cried. "I worship you. Won't you—"
The girl gave a strange little cry.
"I wanted to be cross with you a little longer," she said almost tearfully. "But I can't. I wonder why I can't. I cried all night at the thought of never seeing you again. I wonder why I cried. I guess—it's because—for the first time—I'm really—in love."
"Cynthia!"
"Oh, Dick—don't let me change my mind again—ever—ever!"
"Only over my dead body!"
With one accord they turned and looked at that quaint southern chauffeur plodding along through the dust and the sunshine. It did not seem to either of them that there was any danger of his looking back.
And, happily, he didn't.
THE END