The first person Sara encountered on her return to Sunnyside was Jane Crab, unmistakably bursting to impart some news.
“The doctor's going away, miss,” she announced, flinging her bombshell without preliminary.
“Going away?” Sara's surprise was entirely gratifying, and Jane continued volubly—
“Yes, miss. A telegram came for him early in the afternoon, while he was out on his rounds, asking him to go to a friend who is lying at death's door, as you may say. And please, miss, Dr. Selwyn said he would be glad to see you as soon as you came in.”
“Very well, I'll go to him at once. Where is Miss Molly? Has she come back yet?”
“Come and gone again, miss. The doctor asked her to send off a wire for him.”
“I see.” Sara nodded somewhat abstractly. She was still wondering confusedly why Molly had failed to put in any appearance at Greenacres. “What time did she come in?”
“About a quarter of an hour ago, miss. She missed the early train back from Oldhampton.”
Sara's instant feeling of relief was tempered by a mild element of self-reproach. She had been agitating herself about nothing—allowing her uneasiness about Molly to become a perfect obsession, leading her into the wildest imaginings. Here had she been disquieting herself the entire afternoon because Molly had not turned up as arranged, and after all, the simple, commonplace explanation of the matter was that she had missed her train!
Smiling over the groundlessness of her fears, Sara hastened away to Selwyn's study, and found him, seated at his desk, scribbling some hurried motes concerning various cases among his patients for the enlightenment of the medical man who was taking charge of the practice during his absence.
“Oh, there you are, Sara!” he exclaimed, laying down his pen as she entered. “I'm glad you have come back before I go. I'm off in half-an-hour. Did Jane tell you?”
“Yes. I'm very sorry your friend is so ill.”
Selwyn's face clouded over.
“I'd like to see him again,” he answered simply. “We haven't met for some years—not since my wife's health brought me to Monkshaven—but we were good pals at one time, he and I. Luckily, I've been able to arrange with Dr. Mitchell to include my patients in his round, and if you'll take charge of everything here at home, Sara, I shall have nothing to worry about while I'm away.”
“Of course I will. It's very nice of you to entrust your family to my care so confidently.”
“Quite confidently,” he replied. “I'm not afraid of anything going wrong if you're at the helm.”
“How long do you expect to be away?” asked Sara presently.
“A couple of days at the outside. I hope to get back the day after to-morrow.”
Denuded of Selwyn's big, kindly presence, the house seemed curiously silent. Even Jane Crab appeared to feel the effect of his absence, and strove less forcefully with her pots and pans—which undoubtedly made for an increase of peace and quiet—while Molly was frankly depressed, stealing restlessly in and out of the rooms like some haunting shadow.
“What on earth's the matter with you?” Sara asked her laughingly. “Hasn't your father ever been away from home before? You're wandering about like an uneasy spirit!”
“Iaman uneasy spirit,” responded Molly bluntly. “I feel as though I'd a cold coming on, and I always like Dad to doctor me when I'm ill.”
“I can doctor a cold,” affirmed Sara briskly. “Put your feet in hot water and mustard to-night and stay in bed to-morrow.”
Molly considered the proposed remedies in silence.
“Perhaps Iwillstay in bed to-morrow,” she said, at last, reluctantly. “Should you mind? We were going down to see the Lavender Lady, you remember.”
“I'll go alone. Anyway”—smiling—“if you're safely tucked up in bed, I shall know you're not getting into any mischief while Doctor Dick's away! But very likely the hot water and mustard will put you all right.”
“Perhaps it will,” agreed Molly hopefully.
The next morning, however, found her in bed, snuffling and complaining of headache, and pathetically resigned to the idea of spending the day between the sheets. Obviously she was in no fit state to inflict her company on other people, so, in the afternoon, after settling her comfortably with a new novel and a box of cigarettes at her bedside, Sara took her solitary way to Rose Cottage.
There she found Garth Trent, sitting beside Herrick's couch and deep in an enthusiastic discussion of amateur photography. But, immediately on her entrance, the eager, interested expression died out of his face, and very shortly after tea he made his farewells, nor could any soft blandishments on the part of the Lavender Lady prevail upon him to remain longer.
Sara felt hurt and resentful. Since the day of the expedition to Devil's Hood Island, Trent had punctiliously avoided being in her company whenever circumstances would permit him to do so, and she was perfectly aware that it was her presence at Rose Cottage which was responsible for his early departure this afternoon.
A gleam of anger flickered in the black depths of her eyes as he shook hands.
“I'm sorry I've driven you away,” she flashed at him beneath her breath, with a bitterness akin to his own. He made no answer, merely releasing her hand rather quickly, as though something in her words had flicked him on the raw.
“What a pity Mr. Trent had to leave so soon,” remarked Miss Lavinia, with innocent regret, when he had gone. “I'm afraid we shall never persuade him to be really sociable, poor dear man! He seems a little moody to-day, don't you think?”—hesitating delicately.
“He's a bore!” burst out Sara succinctly.
Miles shook his head.
“No, I don't think that,” he said. “But he's a very sick man. In my opinion, Trent's had his soul badly mauled at some time or other.”
“He needn't advertise the fact, then,” retorted Sara, unappeased. “We all get our share of ill-luck. Garth behaves as if he had the monopoly.”
“There are some scars which can't be hidden,” replied Miles quietly.
Sara smiled a little. There was never any evading Herrick's broad tolerance of human nature.
It was nearly an hour later when at last she took her way homewards, carrying in her heart, in spite of herself, something of the gentle serenity that seemed to be a part of the very atmosphere at Rose Cottage.
Outside, the calm and fragrance of a June evening awaited her. Little, delicate, sweet-smelling airs floated over the tops of the hedges from the fields beyond, and now and then a few stray notes of a blackbird's song stole out from a plantation near at hand, breaking off suddenly and dying down into drowsy, contented little cluckings and twitterings.
Across the bay the sun was dipping towards the horizon, flinging along the face of the waters great shafts of lambent gold and orange, that split into a thousand particles of shimmering light as the ripples caught them up and played with them, and finally tossed them back again to the sun from the shining curve of a wave's sleek side.
It was all very tranquil and pleasant, and Sara strolled leisurely along, soothed into a half-waking dream by the peaceful influences of the moment. Even the manifold perplexities and tangles of life seemed to recede and diminish in importance at the touch of old Mother Nature's comforting hand. After all, there was much, very much, that was beautiful and pleasant still left to enjoy.
It is generally at moments like these, when we are sinking into a placid quiescence of endurance, that Fate sees fit to prod us into a more active frame of mind.
In this particular instance destiny manifested itself in the unassuming form of Black Brady, who slid suddenly down from the roadside hedge, amid a crackling of branches and rattle of rubble, and appeared in front of Sara's astonished eyes just as she was nearing home.
“Beg pardon, miss”—Brady tugged at a forelock of curly black hair—“I was just on me way to your place.”
“To Sunnyside? Why, is Mrs. Brady ill again?” asked Sara kindly.
“No, miss, thank you, she's doing nicely.” He paused a moment as though at a loss how to continue. Then he burst out: “It's about Miss Molly—the doctor bein' away and all.”
“About Miss Molly?” Sara felt a sudden clutch at her heart. “What do you mean? Quick, Brady, what is it?”
“Well, miss, I've just seed 'er go off 'long o' Mr. Kent in his big motor-car. They took the London road, and”—here Brady shuffled his feet with much embarrassment—“seein' as Mr. Kent's a married man, I'll be bound he's up to no good wi' Miss Molly.”
Sara could have stamped with vexation. The little fool—oh! The utter littlefool—to go off joy-riding in an evening like that! A break-down of any kind, with a consequent delay in returning, and all Monkshaven would be buzzing with the tale!
For the moment, however, there was nothing to be done except to put Black Brady in his place and pray for Molly's speedy return.
“Well, Brady,” she said coldly, “I imagine Mr. Kent's a good enough driver to bring Miss Selwyn back safely. I don't think there's anything to worry about.”
Brady stared at her out of his sullen eyes.
“You haven't understood, miss,” he said doggedly. “Mr. Kent isn't for bringing Miss Molly back again. They'd their luggage along wi' 'em in the car, and Mr. Kent, he stopped at the 'Cliff' to have the tank filled up and took a matter of another half-dozen cans o' petrol with 'im.”
In an instant the whole dreadful significance of the thing leaped into Sara's mind. Molly had bolted—run away with Lester Kent!
It was easy enough now, in the flashlight kindled by Brady's slow, inexorable summing up of detail, to see the drift of recent happenings, the meaning of each small, disconcerting fact that added a fresh link to the chain of probability.
Molly's unwonted secretiveness; her strange, uncertain moods; her embarrassment at finding she was expected at Greenacres when she had presumably agreed to meet Lester Kent in Oldhampton; and, last of all, the sudden “cold” which had developed coincidentally with her father's absence from home and which had secured her freedom from any kind of supervision for the afternoon. And the opportunity of clinching arrangements—probably already planned and dependent only on a convenient moment—had been provided by her errand to the post office to send off her father's telegram—it being as easy to send two telegrams as one.
The colour ebbed slowly from Sara's face as full realization dawned upon her, and she swayed a little where she stood. With rough kindliness Brady stretched out a grimy hand and steadied her.
“'Ere, don't' take on, miss. They won't get very far. I didn't, so to speak,fillthe petrol tank”—with a grin—“and there ain't more than two o' they cans I slipped aboard the car as 'olds more'n air. The rest was empties”—the grin widened enjoyably—“which I shoved in well to the back. Mr. Kent won't travel eighty miles afore 'e calls a 'alt, I reckon.”
Sara looked at Brady's cunning, kindly face almost with affection.
“Why did you do that?” she asked swiftly.
“I've owed Mr. Lester Kent summat these three years,” he answered complacently. “And I never forgets to pay back. I owed you summat, too, Miss Tennant. I haven't forgot how you spoke up for me when I was catched poachin'.”
Sara held out her hand to him impulsively, and Brady sheepishly extended his own grubby paw to meet it.
“You've more than paid me back, Brady,” she said warmly. “Thank you.”
Turning away, she hurried up the road, leaving Brady staring alternately at his right hand and at her receding figure.
“She's rare gentry, is Miss Tennant,” he remarked with conviction, and then slouched off to drink himself blind at “The Jolly Sailorman.” Black Brady was, after all, only an inexplicable bundle of good and bad impulses—very much like his betters.
Arrived at the house, Sara fled breathlessly upstairs to Molly's room. Jane Crab was standing in the middle of it, staring dazedly at all the evidences of a hasty departure which surrounded her—an overturned chair here, an empty hat-box there, drawers pulled out, and clothes tossed heedlessly about in every direction. In her hand she held a chemist's parcel, neatly sealed and labeled; she was twisting it round and round in her trembling, gnarled old fingers.
At the sound of Sara's entrance, she turned with an exclamation of relief.
“Oh, Miss Sara! I'm main glad you've come! Whatever's happened? Miss Molly was here in bed not three parts of an hour ago!” Then, her boot-button eyes still roving round the room, she made a sudden dart towards the dressing-table. “Here, miss, 'tis a note she's left for you!” she exclaimed, snatching it up and thrusting it into Sara's hands.
Written in Molly's big, sprawling, childish hand, the note was a pathetic mixture of confession and apology—
“I feel a perfect pig, Sara mine, leaving you behind to face Father, but it was my only chance of getting away, as I know Dad would have refused to let me marry for years and years. He neverwillrealize that I'm grown-up. And Lester and I couldn't wait all that time.
“I felt an awful fraud last night, letting you fuss over my supposed 'cold,' you dear thing. Do forgive me. And you must come and stay with us the minute we get back from our honeymoon. We are to be married to-morrow morning. “—MOLLY.
“P.S.—Don't worry—it's all quite proper and respectable. I'm to go straight to the house of one of Lester's sisters in London.
“P.P.S.—I'm frantically happy.”
Sara's eyes were wet when she finished the perusal of the hastily scribbled letter. “We are to be married to-morrow morning!” The blind, pathetic confidence of it! And if Black Brady had spoken the truth, if Lester Kent were already a married man, to-morrow morning would convert the trusting, wayward baby of a woman, with her adorable inconsistencies and her big, generous heart, into something Sara dared not contemplate. The thought of the look in those brown-gold eyes, when Molly should know the truth, brought a lump into her throat.
She turned to Jane Crab.
“Listen to me, Jane,” she said tersely. “Miss Molly's run away with Mr. Lester Kent. She thinks he's going to marry her. But he can't—he's married already——”
“Sakes alive!” Just that one brief exclamation, and then suddenly Jane's lower lip began to work convulsively, and two tears squeezed themselves out of her little eyes, and her whole face puckered up like a baby's.
Sara caught her by the arm and shook her.
“Don't cry!” she said vehemently. “You haven't time! We've got to save her—we've got to get her back before any one knows. Do you understand? Stop crying at once!”
Jane reacted promptly to the fierce imperative, and sniffingly choked back her tears. Suddenly her eyes fell on the little package from the chemist which she still held clutched in her hand.
“The artfulness of her!” she ejaculated indignantly. “Asking me to go along to the chemist's and bring her back some aspirin for her headache! And me, like a fool, suspecting nothing, off I goes! There's the stuff!”—viciously flinging the chemist's parcel on to the floor. “Eh! Miss Molly'll have more than a headache to face, I'm thinking!”
“But shemustn't, Jane! We've got to get her back, somehow.”
Though Sara spoke with such assured conviction, she was inwardly racked with anxiety. Whatcouldthey do—two forlorn women? And to whom could they turn for help? Miles? He was lame. He was no abler to help than they themselves. And Selwyn was away, out of reach!
“We must get her back,” she repeated doggedly.
“And how, may I ask, Miss Sara?” inquired Jane bitterly. “Be you goin' to run after the motor-car, mayhap?”
For a moment Sara was silent. The sarcastic query had set the spark to the tinder, and now she was thinking rapidly, some semblance of a plan emerging at last from the chaotic turmoil of her mind.
Garth Trent! He could help her! He had a car—Sara did not know its pace, but she was certain Trent could be trusted to get every ounce out of it that was possible. Between them—he and she—they would bring Molly back to safety!
She turned swiftly to Jane Crab.
“Come to the stable and help me put in the Doctor's pony, Jane. You know how, don't you?”
“Yes, miss, I've helped the master many a time. But you ain't going to catch no motor with old Toby, Miss Sara.”
“No, I don't expect to. I'm gong to drive across to Far End. Mr. Trent will help us. Don't worry, Jane”—as the two made their way to the stable and Jane strangled a sob—“we'll bring Miss Molly back. And, listen! Mrs. Selwyn isn't to hear a word of this. Do you understand? If she asks you anything, tell her that Miss Molly and I are dining out. That'll be true enough, too,” added Sara grimly, “if we dine at all!”
Jane sniffed, and swallowed loudly.
“Yes, miss,” she said submissively. “You and Miss Molly are dining out. I won't forget.”
Selwyn's pony had rarely before found himself hustled along at the pace at which Sara drove him. She let him take his time up the hills, knowing, as every good horse-woman knows, that if you press your horse against the hill, he will only flag the sooner and that you will lose more than you gain. But down the hills and along the flat, Sara, with hands and whip, kept Toby going at an amazing pace. Perhaps something of her own urgency communicated itself to the good-hearted beast, for he certainly made a great effort and brought her to Far End in a shorter time than she had deemed possible.
Exactly as she pulled him to a standstill, the front door opened and Garth himself appeared. He had heard the unwonted sound of wheels on the drive, and now, as he recognized his late visitor, an expression of extreme surprise crossed his face.
“Miss Tennant!” he exclaimed in astonished tones.
“Yes. Can your man take my pony? And, please may I come in? I—I must see you alone for a few minutes.”
Trent glanced at her searchingly as his ear caught the note of strain in her voice.
Summoning Judson to take charge of the pony and trap, he led the way into the comfortable, old fashioned hall and wheeled forward an armchair.
“Sit down,” he said composedly. “Now”—as she obeyed—“tell me what is the matter.”
His manner held a quiet friendliness. The chill indifference he had accorded her of late—even earlier that same day at Rose Cottage—had vanished, and his curiously bright eyes regarded her with sympathetic interest.
To the man as he appeared at the moment, it was no difficult matter for Sara to unburden her heart, and a few minutes later he was in possession of all the facts concerning Molly's flight.
“I don't know whether Mr. Kent is really a married man or not,” she added in conclusion. “Brady declares that he is.”
“He is,” replied Trent curtly. “Very much married. His first wife divorced him, and, since then, he has married again.”
“Oh——!” Sara half-rose from her seat, her face blanching. Not till that moment did she realize how much in her inmost heart she had been relying on the hope that Garth might be able to contradict Black Brady's statement.
“Don't worry.” Garth laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently back into her chair again. “Don't worry. Thanks to Brady's stroke of genius about the petrol—I've evidently underestimated the man's good points—I think I can promise you that you shall have Miss Molly safely back at Sunnyside in the course of a few hours. That is, if you are willing to trust me in the matter.”
“Of course I will trust you,” she answered simply. Somehow it seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders since she had confided her trouble to Garth.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Now, while Judson gets the car round, you must have a glass of wine.”
“No—oh, no!”—hastily—“I don't want anything.”
“Allow me to know better than you do in this case,” he replied, smiling.
He left the room, presently returning with a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses.
“Oh, please—I'd so much rather start at once,” she protested. “I really don't want anything. Do let us hurry!”
“I'm sorry, but I've no intention of starting until you have drunk this”—filling and handing one of the glasses to her.
Rather than waste time in further argument, she accepted it, only to find that her hand was shaking uncontrollably, so that the edge of the glass chattered against her teeth.
“I—I can't!” she gasped helplessly. Now that she had shared her burden of responsibility, the demands of the last half-hour's anxiety and strain were making themselves felt.
With a swift movement Garth took the glass from her, and, supporting her with his other arm, held it to her lips.
“Drink it down,” he said authoritatively. Then, as she paused: “All of it!”
In a few minutes the wine had brought the colour back to her face, and she felt more like herself again.
“I'm all right, now,” she said. “I'm sorry I was such a fool. But—but this business about Molly has given me rather a shock, I suppose.”
“Naturally. Now, if you're ready, we'll make a start.”
She rose, and he surveyed her slight figure in its thin muslin gown with some amusement.
“Not quite a suitable costume for motoring by night,” he remarked. He picked up one of the two big fur coats Mrs. Judson had brought into the room. “Here, put this on.” Then, when he had fastened it round her and turned the collar up about her neck, he stood looking at her for a moment in silence.
The whole of her slender form was hidden beneath the voluminous folds of the big coat, which had been originally designed to fit Garth's own proportions, and against the high fur collar her delicate cameo face, with its white skin and scarlet lips and its sombre, night-black eyes, emerged like some vivid flower from its sheath.
Trent laughed shortly.
“Beauty—in the garment of the Beast,” he commented. Then, briskly: “Come along. Judson will have the car ready by now.”
Sara stepped into the car and he tucked the rugs carefully round her. Then, directing Judson to drive the Selwyn pony and trap back to Sunnyside, he took his place at the wheel and the car slid noiselessly away down the broad drive.
“The surprising discovery of the doctor's pony and trap at Far End to-morrow morning would require explanation,” he observed grimly to Sara. She blessed his thoughtfulness.
“What about Judson?” she asked. “Is he reliable? Or do you think he will—talk?”
“Judson,” replied Garth, “has been in my service long enough to know the meaning of the word 'discretion.'”
Trent drove the car steadily enough through town, but, as soon as they emerged on to the great London main road, he let her out and they swept rapidly along through the lingering summer twilight.
“Are you nervous?” he asked. “Do you mind forty or fifty miles an hour when we've a clear stretch ahead of us?”
“Eighty, if you like,” she replied succinctly.
She felt the car leap forward like a living thing beneath them as it gathered speed.
“Do you think—is it possible that we can overtake them?” she asked anxiously.
“It's got to be done,” he answered, and she was conscious of the quiet driving-force that lay behind the speech—the stubborn resolution of the man which she had begun to recognize as his most dominant characteristic.
She wondered, as she had so often wondered before, whether any one had ever yet succeeded in turning Garth Trent aside from his set purpose, whatever it might chance to be. She could not imagine his yielding to either threats or persuasions. However much it might cost him, he would carry out his intention to the bitter end, even though its fulfillment might involve the shattering of the whole significance of life.
“Besides,”—his voice cut across the familiar tenor of her thoughts—“Kent will probably stop to dine at some hotelen route. We shan't. We'll feed as we go.”
“Oh—h!” A gasp of horrified recollection escaped her. “I never thought of it! Of course you've had no dinner!”
He laughed. “Have you?” he asked amusedly.
“No, but that's different.”
“Well, we'll even matters up by having some sandwiches together presently. Mrs. Judson has packed some in.”
Sara was silent, inwardly dwelling on the fact that no least detail ever seemed to escape Garth's attention. Even in the hurry of their departure, and with the whole scheme of Molly's rescue to envisage, he had yet found time to order due provision for the journey.
An hour later they pulled up at the principal hotel of the first big town on the route, and Garth elicited the fact that a car answering to the description of Lester Kent's had stopped there, but only for a bare ten minutes which had enabled its occupants to snatch a hasty meal.
“They've been here and gone straight on,” he reported to Sara. “Evidently Kent's taking no chances”—grimly. And a moment later they were on their way once more.
Dusk deepened into dark, and the car's great headlights cut out a blazing track of gold in front of them as they rushed along the pale ribbon of road that stretched ahead—mile after interminable mile.
On either side, dark woods merged into the deeper darkness of the encroaching night, seeming to slip past them like some ghostly marching army as the car tore its way between the ranks of shadowy trunks. Overhead, a few stars crept out, puncturing the expanse of darkening sky—pale, tremulous sparks of light in contrast with the steady, warmly golden glow that streamed from the lights of the car.
Presently Garth slackened speed.
“Why are you stopping?” Sara's voice, shrilling a little with anxiety, came to him out of the darkness.
“I'm not stopping. I'm only slowing down a bit, because I think it's quite feeding time. Do you mind opening those two leather attachments fixed in front of you? Such nectar and ambrosia as Mrs. Judson has provided is in there.”
Sara leaned forward, and unbuckling the lid of a flattish leather case which, together with another containing a flask, was slung just opposite her, withdrew from within it a silver sandwich-box. She snapped open the lid and proffered the box to Garth.
“Help yourself. And—do you mind”—he spoke a little uncertainly and the darkness hid the expression of his face from her—“handing me my share—in pieces suitable for human consumption? This is a bad bit of road, and I want both hands for driving the car.”
In silence Sara broke the sandwiches and fed him, piece by piece, while he bent over the wheel, driving steadily onward.
The little, intimate action sent a curious thrill through her. It seemed in some way to draw them together, effacing the memory of those weeks of bitter indifference which lay behind them. Such a thing would have been grotesquely impossible of performance in the atmosphere of studied formality supplied by their estrangement, and Sara smiled a little to herself under cover of the darkness.
“One more mouthful!” she announced as she halved the last sandwich.
An instant later she felt his lips brush her fingers in a sudden, burning kiss, and she withdrew her hand as though stung.
She was tingling from head to foot, every nerve of her a-thrill, and for a moment she felt as though she hated him. He had been so kind, so friendly, so essentially the good comrade in this crisis occasioned by Molly's flight, and now he had spoilt it all—playing the lover once more when he had shown her clearly that he meant nothing by it.
Apparently he sensed her attitude—the quick withdrawal of spirit which had accompanied the more physical retreat.
“Forgive me!” he said, rather low. “I won't offend again.”
She made no answer, and presently she felt the car sliding slowly to a standstill. A sudden panic assailed her.
“What is it? What are you doing?” she asked, quick fear in her sharply spoken question.
He laughed shortly.
“You needn't be afraid—” he began.
“I'm not!” she interpolated hastily.
“Excuse me,” he said drily, “but you are. You don't trust me in the slightest degree. Well”—she could guess, rather than see, the shrug which accompanied the words—“I can't blame you. It's my own fault, I suppose.”
He braked the car, and she quivered to a dead stop, throbbing like a live thing in the darkness.
“You must forgive me for being so material,” he went on composedly, “but I want a drink, and I'm not acrobat enough to manage that, even with your help, while we're doing thirty miles an hour.”
He lifted out the flask, and, when they had both drunk, Sara meekly took it from him and proceeded to adjust the screw cap and fit the silver cup back into its place over the lower half of the flask.
Simultaneously she felt the car begin to move forward, and then, quite how it happened she never knew, but, fumbling in the darkness, she contrived to knock the cup sharply against the flask, and it flew out of her hand and over the side of the car. Impulsively she leaned out, trying to snatch it back as it fell, and, in the same instant, something seemed to give way, and she felt herself hurled forward into space. The earth rushed up to meet her, a sound as of many waters roared in her ears, and then the blank darkness of unconsciousness swallowed her up.
“Thank God, she's only stunned!”
The words, percolating slowly through the thick, blankety mist that seemed to have closed about her, impressed themselves on Sara's mind with a vague, confused suggestion of their pertinence. It was as though some one—she wasn't quite sure who—had suddenly given voice to her own immediate sensation of relief.
At first she could not imagine for what reason she should feel so specially grateful and relieved. Gradually, however, the mists began to clear away and recollection of a kind returned to her.
She remembered dropping something—she couldn't recall precisely what it was that she had dropped, but she knew she had made a wild clutch at it and tried to save it as it fell. Then—she was remembering more distinctly now—something against which she had been leaning—she couldn't recall what that was, either—gave way suddenly, and for the fraction of a second she had known she was going to fall and be killed, or, at the least, horribly hurt and mutilated.
And now, it seemed, she had not been hurt at all! She was in no pain; only her head felt unaccountably heavy. But for that, she was really very comfortable. Some one was holding her—it was almost like lying back in a chair—and against her cheek she could feel the soft warmth of fur.
“Sara—beloved!”
It was Garth's voice, quite close to her ear. He was holding her in his arms.
Ah! She knew now! They were on the island together, and he had just asked her if she cared. Of course she cared! It was sheer happiness to lie in his arms, with closed eyes, and hear his voice—that deep, unhappy voice of his—grow suddenly so incredibly soft and tender.
“You're mine, now, sweet! Mine to hold just for this once, dear of my heart!”
No, that couldn't be right, after all, because it wasn't Garth who loved her. He had only pretended to care for her by way of amusing himself. It must be Tim who was talking to her—Tim, whom she was going to marry.
Then, suddenly, the mists cleared quite away, and Sara came back to full consciousness and to the knowledge of where she was and of what had happened.
Her first instinct, to open her eyes and speak, was checked by a swift, unexpected movement on the part of Garth. All at once, he had gathered her up into his arms, and, holding her face pressed close against his own, was pouring into her ears a torrent of burning, passionate words of love—love triumphant, worshipping, agonizing, and last of all, brokenly, desperately abandoning all right or claim.
“And I've got to live without you . . . die without you . . . My God, it's hard!”
In the darkness and solitude of the night—as he believed, alone with the unconscious form of the woman he loved in his arms—Garth bared his very soul. There was nothing hidden any longer, and Sara knew at last that even as she herself loved, so was she loved again.
Sara stirred a little and opened her eyes. Deep within herself she was ashamed of those brief moments of assumed unconsciousness—those moments which had shown her a strong man's soul stripped naked of all pride and subterfuge—his heart and soul as he alone knew them.
But, none the less, she felt gloriously happy. Nothing could ever hurt her badly again. Garth loved her!
Since, for some reason, he himself would never have drawn aside the veil and let her know the truth, she was glad—glad that she had peered unbidden through the rent which the stress of the moment had torn in his iron self-command and reticence. Just as she had revealed herself to him on the island, in a moment of equal strain, so he had now revealed himself to her, and they were quits.
“I'm all right,” she announced, struggling into a sitting position. “I'm not hurt.”
“Sit still a minute, while I fetch you some brandy from the car.” Garth spoke in a curiously controlled voice.
He was back again in a moment, and the raw spirit made her catch her breath as it trickled down her throat.
“Thank God we had only just begun to move,” he said. “Otherwise you must have been half-killed.”
“What happened?” she asked curiously. “How did I fall out?”
“The door came open. That damned fool, Judson, didn't shut it properly. Are you sure you're not hurt?”
“Quite sure. My head aches rather.”
“That's very probable. You were stunned for a minute or two.”
Suddenly the recollection of their errand returned to her.
“Molly! Good Heavens, how much time have we wasted? How long has this silly business taken?” she demanded, in a frenzy of apprehension.
Garth surveyed her oddly in the glow of one of the car's side-lights, which he had carried back with him when he fetched the brandy.
“Five minutes, I should think,” he said, adding under his breath: “Or half eternity!”
“Five minutes! Is that all? Then do let's hurry on.”
She took a few steps in the direction of the car, then stopped and wavered. She felt curiously shaky, and her legs seemed as though they did not belong to her.
In a moment Garth was at her side, and had lifted her up in his arms. He carried her swiftly across the few yards that intervened between them and the car, and settled her gently into her seat.
“Do you feel fit to go on?” he asked.
“Of course I do. We must—bring Molly back.” Even her voice refused to obey the dictates of her brain, and quavered weakly.
“Well, try to rest a little. Don't talk, and perhaps you'll go to sleep.”
He restarted the car, and, taking his seat once more at the wheel, drove on at a smooth and easy pace.
Sara leaned back in silence at his side, conscious of a feeling of utter lassitude. In spite of her anxiety about Molly, a curious contentment had stolen over her. The long strain of the past weeks had ended—ended in the knowledge that Garth loved her, and nothing else seemed to matter very much. Moreover, she was physically exhausted. Her fall had shaken her badly, and she wanted nothing better than to lie back quietly against the padded cushions of the car, lulled by the rhythmic throb of the engine, and glide on through the night indefinitely, knowing that Garth was there, close to her, all the time.
Presently her quiet, even breathing told that she slept, and Garth, stooping over her to make sure, accelerated the speed, and soon the car shot forward through the darkness at a pace which none but a driver very certain of his skill would have dared to attempt.
When, an hour later, Sara awoke, she felt amazingly refreshed. Only a slight headache remained to remind her of her recent accident.
“Where are we?” she asked eagerly. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Feeling better?” queried Garth, reassured by the stronger note in her voice.
“Quite all right, thanks. But tell me where we are?”
“Nearly at our journey's end, I take it,” he replied grimly, suddenly slackening speed. “There's a stationary car ahead there on the left, do you see? That will be our friends, I expect, held up by petrol shortage, thanks to Jim Brady.”
Sara peered ahead, and on the edge of the broad ribbon of light that stretched in front of them she could discern a big car, drawn up to one side of the road, its headlights shut off, its side-lights glimmering warningly against its dark bulk.
Exactly as they drew level with it, Garth pulled up to a standstill. Then a muttered curse escaped him, and simultaneously Sara gave vent to an exclamation of dismay. The car was empty.
Garth sprang out and flashed a lamp over the derelict.
“Yes,” he said, “that's Kent's car right enough.”
Sara's heart sank.
“What can have become of them?” she exclaimed. She glanced round her as though she half suspected that Kent and Molly might be hiding by the roadside.
Meanwhile Garth had peered into the tank and was examining the petrol cans stowed away in the back of the deserted car.
“Run dry!” he announced, coming back to his own car. “That's what has happened.”
“And what can we do now?” asked Sara despondently.
He laughed a little.
“Faint heart!” he chided. “What can we do now? Why, ask ourselves what Kent would naturally have done when he found himself landed high and dry?”
“I don't know what hecoulddo—in the middle of nowhere?” she answered doubtfully.
“Only we don't happen to be in the middle of nowhere! We're just about a couple of miles from a market town where abides a nice little inn whence petrol can be obtained. Kent and Miss Molly have doubtless trudged there on foot, and wakened up mine host, and they'll hire a trap and drive back with a fresh supply of oil. By Jove!”—with a grim laugh—“How Kent must have cursed when he discovered the trick Brady played on him!”
Ten minutes later, leaving their car outside, Garth and Sara walked boldly up to the inn of which he had spoken. The door stood open, and a light was burning in the coffee-room. Evidently some one had just arrived.
Garth glanced into the room, then, standing back, he motioned Sara to enter.
Sara stepped quickly over the threshold and then paused, swept by an infinite compassion and tenderness almost maternal in its solicitude.
Molly was sitting hunched up in a chair, her face half hidden against her arm, every drooping line of her slight young figure bespeaking weariness. She had taken off her hat and tossed it on to the table, and now she had dropped into a brief, uneasy slumber born of sheer fatigue and excitement.
“Molly!”
At the sound of Sara's voice she opened big, startled eyes and stared incredulously.
Sara moved swiftly to her.
“Molly dear,” she said, “I've come to take you home.”
At that Molly started up, broad awake in an instant.
“You? How did you come here?” she stammered. Then, realization waking in her eyes: “But I'm not coming back with you. We've only stopped for petrol. Lester's outside, somewhere, seeing about it now. We're driving back to the car.”
“Yes, I know. But you're not going on with Mr. Kent”—very gently—“you're coming home with us.”
Molly drew herself up, flaring passionate young defiance, talking glibly of love, and marriage, and living her own life—all the beautiful, romantic nonsense that comes so readily to the soft lips of youth, the beckoning rose and gold of sunrise—and of mirage—which is all youth's untrained eyes can see.
Sara was getting desperate. The time was flying. At any moment Kent might return. Garth signaled to her from the doorway.
“You must tell her,” he said gruffly. “If Kent returns before we go, we shall have a scene. Get her away quick.”
Sara nodded. Then she came back to Molly's side.
“My dear,” she said pitifully. “You can never marry Lester Kent, because—because he has a wife already.”
“I don't believe it!” The swift denial leaped from Molly's lips.
But she did believe it, nevertheless. No one who knew Sara could have looked into her eyes at that moment and doubted that she was speaking not only what she believed to be, but what sheknewto be, the ugly truth.
Suddenly Molly crumpled up. As, between them, Garth and Sara hurried her away to the car, there was no longer anything of the regal young goddess about her. She was just a child—a tired, frightened child whose eyes had been suddenly opened to the quicksands whereon her feet were set, and, like a child, she turned instinctively and clung to the dear, familiar people from home, who were mercifully at hand to shield her when her whole world had suddenly grown new and strange and very terrible. . . .
On, on through the night roared the big car, with Garth bending low over the wheel in front, while, in the back-seat Molly huddled forlornly into the curve of Sara's arm.
A few questions had elicited the whole foolish story of Lester Kent's infatuation, and of the steps he had taken to enmesh poor simple-hearted Molly in the toils—first, by lending her money, then, when he found that the loan had scared her, by buying her pictures and surrounding her with an atmosphere of adulation which momentarily blinded her from forming any genuine estimate either of the value of his criticism or of the sincerity of his desire to purchase.
Once the head resting against Sara's shoulder was lifted, and a wistfully incredulous voice asked, very low—
“You are sure he is married, Sara,—quite sure?”
“Quite sure, Molly,” came the answer.
And later, as they were nearing home, Molly's hardly-bought philosophy of life revealed itself in the brief comment: “It's very easy to make a fool of oneself.”
“Probably Mr. Kent has found that out—by this time,” replied Sara with a grim flash of humour.
A faint, involuntary chuckle in response premised that ultimately Molly might be able to take a less despondent view of the night's proceedings.
It was between two and three in the morning when at length the travelers climbed stiffly out of the car at the gateway of Sunnyside and made their way up the little tiled path that led to the front door. The latter opened noiselessly at their approach and Jane, who had evidently been watching for them, stood on the threshold.
Her small, beady eyes were red-rimmed with sleeplessness—and with the slow, difficult tears that now and again had overflowed as hour after hour crawled by, bringing no sign of the wanderers' return—and the shadows of fatigue that had hollowed her weather-beaten cheeks wrung a sympathetic pang from Sara's heart as she realized what those long, inactive hours of helpless anxiety must have meant to the faithful soul.
Jane's glance flew to the drooping, willowy figure clinging to Garth's arm.
“My lamb! . . . Oh! Miss Molly dear, they've brought 'ee back!” Impulsively she caught hold of Garth's coat-sleeve. “Thank God you've brought them back, sir, and now there's none as need ever know aught but that they've been in their beds all the blessed night!” Her lips were shaking, drawn down at the corners like those of a distressed child, but her harsh old voice quivered triumphantly.
A very kindly gleam showed itself in Garth's dark face as he patted the rough, red hand that clutched his coat-sleeve.
“Yes, I've brought them back safely,” he said. “Put them to bed, Jane. Miss Sara's fallen out of the car and Miss Molly has tumbled out of heaven, so they're both feeling pretty sore.”
But Sara's soreness was far the easier to bear, since it was purely physical. As she lay in bed, at last, utterly weary and exhausted, the recollection of all the horror and anxiety that had followed upon the discovery of Molly's flight fell away from her, and she was only conscious that had it not been for that wild night-ride which Molly's danger had compelled, she would never have known that Garth loved her.
So, out of evil, had come good; out of black darkness had been born the exquisite clear shining of the dawn.