Chapter 12

They appeared to be going a little faster now, too--undoubtedly the road was getting better. What was there to be afraid of? It didn't make it any more pleasant for Thornton, who was probably reproaching himself rather bitterly for having been tempted by the "short cut," to have her sit and mope beside him!

She began to hum an air softly to herself--and then laughingly sang a bar or two aloud.

Thornton shot a quick, appreciative glance at her and nodded, joining in the laugh.

"By Jove!" he said approvingly. "That sounds good to me. I was afraid this beastly stretch, bumping and crawling along in the dark, was making you miserable."

"Miserable!" exclaimed Helena. "Why, the idea! What is there to be miserable about? We'll get through after a while--and the road's better now than it was anyhow, isn't it?"

"Better?"

"You're running faster."

"Oh--er--yes, of course," said Thornton quickly. "I wasn't thinking of what I said. I--"

He stopped suddenly, as Helena lifted her hand to her face.

"Why, it's beginning to rain," she said.

"Yes; I'm afraid so," he admitted. "I was hoping we would get out of here before it came."

"Oh!" said Helena.

"And the worst of it is," he added hurriedly, "there's no top to the car, and you've no wraps."

"Perhaps it won't be anything more than a shower," said Helena hopefully.

"Perhaps not," he agreed. "Anyway"--he stopped the car, and took off his coat--"put this on."

"No--please," protested Helena. "You'll need it yourself."

"Not at all," said Thornton cheerily. "And that light dress of yours would be soaked through in no time."

He held the coat for her, and she slipped it on--and his hand around her shoulder and neck, as he turned the collar up and buttoned it gently about her, seemed to linger as it touched her throat, and yet linger with the most curious diffidence--a sort of reverence. Helena suddenly wanted to laugh--and, quick in her intuition, as suddenly wanted to cry. It wasn't much--only a little touch. It didn't mean love, or passion, or feeling--only that, unconsciously in his respect, he held her up to gaze upon herself again in that mocking mirror where all was sham.

They started on--Thornton silent once more, busy with the car; Helena, her mind in riot, with no wish for words.

The rain came steadily in a drizzle. She could feel her dress growing damp around her knees--and she shivered a little. How strangely wonderful the rain-beads looked on their background of green leaves where the lamps played upon them--they seemed to catch and hold and reflect back the light in a quick, passing procession of clear, sparkling crystals. But it was raining more heavily now, wasn't it? The drops were no longer clinging to the leaves, they were spattering dull and lustrelessly to the ground. And Thornton seemed suddenly to be in trouble--he was bending down working at something. How jerkily the car was moving! And now it stopped.

Thornton swung out of his seat to the ground.

"It's all right!" he called out reassuringly. "I'll have it fixed in a minute."

It was muddy enough now, and the ruts, holding the rain, were regular wheel-traps. Apart from any other trouble, Thornton did not like the prospect--and, away from Helena now, his face was serious. He cranked the engine--no result. He tried it again with equal futility--then, going to the tool-box, he took out his electric flashlight, and, lifting the engine hood, began to peer into the machinery. Everything seemed all right. He tried the crank again--the engine, like some cold, dead thing, refused to respond.

"What's the matter?" Helena asked him from the car.

"I don't know," Thornton answered lightly. "I haven't found out yet--but don't you worry, it's nothing serious. I'll have it in a jiffy."

Helena's knowledge of motor cars and engine trouble was not extensive--she was conversant only with the "fool's mate" of motoring.

"Maybe there's no gasoline," she suggested helpfully.

"Nonsense!" returned Thornton, with a laugh. "I told Babson to see that the tank was full before he brought the car around--he wouldn't forget a thing like that."

Thornton, nevertheless, tested the gasoline tank.

"Well?" inquired Helena, breaking the silence that followed.

"There is no--gasoline," said Thornton heavily.

Neither spoke for a moment. There was no sound but the steady drip from the leaves. Then Helena forced a laugh.

"Isn't it ridiculous!" she said. "That is what one is always making fun of others for. I--I don't think it's going to stop raining--do you? And we're miles and miles from anywhere. What _do_ people do when they're caught like this?"

Thornton did not answer at once. Bitterly reproachful with himself, he stood there coatless in the rain. If it had been a breakdown, an accident that was unavoidable, a little of the sting might have gone out of the situation--but _gasoline_! This--from rank, blatant, glaring, inexcusable idiocy. Not on his part perhaps--but that did not lessen his responsibility. They were miles, as she had said, from anywhere--four miles at least in either direction from the main road, and as many more probably after that from any farmhouse--he remembered that for half an hour before they had turned into the "short cut" they had seen no sign of habitation--and what lay in the other direction, ahead, would in all probability be the same--they were up in the timber regions, in the heart of them--she couldn't walk miles in the rain with the roads in a vile condition, and growing viler every minute as the rain sank in and the mud grew deeper. And then another thought--a thought that came now, sharp and quick, engulfing the mere discomfort of a miserable night spent there in the woods--the clatter of busy, gossiping tongues seemed already to be dinning their abominable noises in his ears. And that he, that he--yes, it seemed to sweep upon him in a sudden, overmastering surge, the realization that the delight and joy of her companionship through the month that was gone was love that leaped now into fierce, jealous flame, maddened at a breath that would smirch her in the eyes of others--that _he_ should be the cause of it! "What _do_ people do when they're caught like this?"--in their innocence there seemed an unfathomed depth of irony in her words, but as he unconsciously repeated them they cleared his brain and brought him suddenly to face the immediate practical problem that confronted them. What was to be done?

"Shall--shall I get out?" she called to him, a hint of reminder in her tones that she had spoken to him before and received no answer.

Thornton moved back to the side of the car.

"Miss Vail," he said contritely, "I--I don't know what to say to you for getting you into this. I--"

"I know," she interrupted quickly, leaning over the side of the car and placing her hand on his arm. "Don't try to say anything. It's not your fault--it's not either of our faults. Now tell me what you think the best thing is to do, and, you'll see, I'll make the best of it--there's no use being miserable about it."

"You're a game little woman!" he said earnestly, quite unnecessarily clasping the hand on his arm and wringing it to endorse his verdict. "And that makes it a lot easier, you know. Well then, we might as well face the whole truth at one fell swoop. We're up against it"--he laughed cheerfully--"hard. It's miles to anywhere--we don't know where 'anywhere' is--and of course you can't walk aimlessly around in the mud and rain."

"N--no," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose there's no sense in that."

"And of course you can't sit out here in the wet all night."

"That sounds comforting--propitious even," commented Helena.

"Quite!" agreed Thornton, laughing again. "Well, you wait here a moment, and I'll see if I can't knock up some sort of shelter--I used to be pretty good at that sort of thing."

"And I'll help," announced Helena, preparing to get out.

"By keeping at least your feet dry," he amended. "No--please. Just stay where you are, Miss Vail. You'll get as much protection here from the branches overhead as you will anywhere meanwhile, and you'll be more comfortable."

She watched him as he disappeared into the wood, and after that, like a flitting will-o'-the-wisp, watched his flashlight moving about amongst the trees. Then presently the cheery blaze of a fire from where he was at work sprang up, and she heard the crackle of resinous pine knots--then a great crashing about, the snapping of branches as he broke them from larger limbs--and a rapid fire of small talk from him as he worked.

Helena answered him more or less mechanically--her mind, roving from one consideration of their plight to another, had caught at a certain viewpoint and was groping with it. They were stalled more effectively than any accident to the car could have stalled them--they were there for the night, there seemed no escape from that. But there was nothing to be afraid of. She had no fears about passing the night alone with him here in the woods--why should she? _Why should she!_ She laughed low, suddenly, bitterly. Why should she--even if he were other than the man he was, even if he were of the lowest type! Fear--of _that_! A yearning, so intense as for an instant to leave her weak, swept upon her--a yearning full of pain, of shame, of remorse, of hopelessness--oh, God, if only she might have had the _right_ to fear! Then passion seized her in wild, turbulent unrestraint--hatred for this clean-limbed, pure-minded man, who flaunted all that his life stood for in her face--hatred for everybody in this life of hers, for all were good save her--hatred, miserable, unbridled hatred for herself.

And then it passed, the mood--and she tried to think more calmly, still answering him as he called from the woods. She had seen a great deal of Thornton lately--a great deal. He had been kind and thoughtful and considerate--nothing more. More! What more could there have been? Love! There was something of mockery in that, wasn't there? Everything she thought about lately, every way her mind turned seemed to hold something of mockery now. Of course, Mrs. Thornton's words expressing the wish that she and Thornton might come together had been often enough with her--mockingly again!--but Thornton could have known nothing of that--so, after all, what did that matter? She had snatched at every opportunity to motor with Thornton despite Doc's protests, protests that had grown sullen and angry of late--snatched at the opportunities eagerly, as she would snatch at a breath of air where all else stifled her--snatched at them because they took her out of herself temporarily, away from everything, where everything at times seemed to be driving her mad. Hate Thornton! No, of course, she didn't hate him--she had thought that a moment ago because--because her brain was--was--oh, she didn't know--so tired and weary, and she was cold now and quite wet. She didn't hate him, she even--

"All ready now--house to let furnished"--he was calling out, laughing as he came thrashing through the undergrowth--"excellent situation, high altitude, luxuriant pine grove surrounds the property, and--and"--he had halted beside the car and opened the door--"what else do they say?"

Helena caught his spirit--or, rather, forced herself to do so. It wasn't quite fair that one of them should do all the pretending.

"Flies," she laughed. "They always speak of flies in Maine."

"None!" said Thornton promptly. "There hasn't been one since the house was built. Now then, Miss Vail"--he held out his arms.

"Oh, but really, I can walk."

"And I can carry you," he said--and, from the step, gathered her into his arms.

And then, as she lay there passively at first, she seemed to sense again that curious diffidence, that gentleness, like the touch upon her throat of a little while ago, though now he held her in both his arms. How strong he was--and, oh, how miserably wet--her hand around his shoulder felt the thin shirt clinging soggily to his arm. Yes; she was glad he hadn't let her walk--it wasn't far, but she would have had to force her way continually through bushes that scattered showers from their dripping leaves, and underfoot she could hear his boots squash through the mud. And then suddenly it happened--the trees, just a yard or so from the fire, were thick together, tangled--she bent her head quickly, instinctively, to avoid a low-hanging branch as he for the same reason swerved a little--and their cheeks lay close-pressed against each other's, her hair sweeping his forehead, their lips mingling one another's breaths. He seemed to stumble--then his arms closed about her in a quick, fierce pressure, clasping her, straining her to him--relaxed as suddenly--and then he had set her down inside the shelter he had built.

Quick her breath was coming now, and across the fire for a moment she met his eyes. His face was gray, and his hands at his sides were clenched.

"I'll--I'll get the seat out of the car," he said hoarsely. "It will help to make things more comfortable." And turning abruptly, he started back for the road again.

Helena did not move. Mechanically her eyes took in the little hut, crude, but rainproof at least--branches heaped across two forked limbs for a roof; the trunk of a big tree for the rear wall; branches thrust upright into the ground for the sides--the whole a little triangular shaped affair. The fire blazed in front just within shelter at the entrance; and beside it was piled quite a little heap of fuel that he had gathered.

He came back bringing the leather upholstered seat, shook the rain from it, and dried it with the help of the fire and his handkerchief--then set it down inside the hut. His face was turned from her; and as he spoke, breaking an awkward silence, his voice was conscious, hurried.

"I'm not going to be gone a minute more than I can help, Miss Vail. It's mighty rough accommodation for you, but there's one consolation at least--you'll be perfectly safe."

Helena seated herself, and held her skirt to the fire.

"Gone!" she said, a little dully. "Where are you going?"

"Why, to get help of course," he told her.

"Help!"--she shook her head. "You don't know where to find any--you only know for a certainty that there isn't any within miles."

"I know there's a house back on the main road," he said. "I noticed it as we came along."

"That's seven or eight miles from here," she returned. "And it's raining harder than ever--mud up to your ankles--it would take you hours to reach it."

"Possibly two, or two and a half," he said lightly.

"Yes; and another two at least to get back. I won't hear of you doing any such thing--you are wet through now. It's far better to wait for daylight and then probably the storm will be over."

"But don't you see, Miss Vail"--his voice was suddenly grave, masterful--"don't you see that there is no other thing to do?"

"No," said Helena. "I don't see anything of the kind. I won't have you do anything like that for me--it's not to be thought of."

Thornton stooped, placed a knot upon the fire, straightened up--and faced her.

"It's awfully good of you to think of me," he said in a low tone; "but, really, it won't be half as bad as you are picturing it in your mind. And really"--he hesitated, fumbling for his words--"you see--that is--what other people might say--your--reputation--"

With a sudden cry, white-faced, Helena was on her feet, staring at him, her hands clutched at her bosom--a wild, demoniacal, mocking orgy in her soul. Her reputation! It seemed she wanted to scream out the words--_her reputation_!

Thornton's face flushed with a quick-sweeping flood of crimson.

"I'm a brute--a brute with a blundering tongue!" he cried miserably. "You had not thought of that--and I made you. I could have found another excuse for going if I had only had wit enough. I was a brute once before to-night, and--" He stopped, and for a moment stood there looking at her, stood in the firelight, his face white again even in the ruddy glow--and then he was gone.

Time passed without meaning to Helena. The steady patter of the rain was on the leaves, the sullen, constant drip of water to the ground, and now, occasionally, a rush of wind, a heavier downpour. She sat before the fire, staring into it, her elbows on her knees, her face held tightly in her hands, the brown hair, wet and wayward now, about her temples. Once she moved, once her eyes changed their direction--to fix upon her sleeve in a strange, questioning surprise.

"I let him go without his coat," she said.

--XVIII--

THE BOOMERANG

It was early afternoon, as Madison, emerging from the wagon track, and walking slowly, started across the lawn toward the Patriarch's cottage. He was in a mood that he made no attempt to define--except that it wasn't a very pleasant mood. Before Thornton had returned to Needley it had been bad enough, after that, with his infernal car, it had been--hell.

Madison's fists clenched, and his gray eyes glinted angrily. His hands had been tied like a baby's--like a damned infant's! Helena was getting away from him further every day, and he couldn't stop it--without stopping the game! He couldn't tell Thornton that Helena belonged to him--had belonged to him! He couldn't even evidence an interest in what was going on. He had to put on a front, a suave, cordial, dignified front before Thornton--while he itched to smash the other's face to pulp! Hell--that's what it was--pure, unadulterated hell! He couldn't get near Helena alone with a ten-foot pole, morning, noon or night--she had taken good care of that. And he wanted Helena--he _wanted_ her! It was an obsession with him now--at times driving him half crazy,--and it didn't help any that he saw her grow more glorious, more beautiful every day! Of course she knew she had him--had him where she knew he couldn't do a thing--where she could laugh at him--go the limit with Thornton if she liked. But, curse it, it wasn't only Thornton--that was what he could not understand--she had begun to keep away from him before ever Thornton had come back.

Madison was near the porch now, and, raising his eyes, noted a supplicant going into the shrine-room--a woman, richly dressed but in widow's weeds, who walked feebly. The game went on by itself, once started--there were half a hundred more about the lawn! Like a snowball rolling down hill, as he had put it at the Roost. The Roost! If he only had Helena back there for about a minute there'd be an end of this! She'd go a little too far one of these days--a little too far--it was pretty near far enough now--and then there'd be a showdown, game or no game, and somebody would get hurt in the smash, and--

He lifted his eyes again, as some one came hurrying through the cottage door. It was the Flopper. And then to his surprise, he found himself being pushed unceremoniously from the porch and pulled excitedly behind the trellis.

"What's the matter with you!" he demanded angrily. "Are you crazy!"

"T'ank de Lord youse have showed up!" gasped the Flopper. "Say, honest, I can't do nothin' wid him--he's got me near bughouse."

"Who?"--Madison scowled irritably.

"De Patriarch, of course. He's noivous, an' gettin' worse all de time. He won't eat an' he won't keep still. He wants Helena, an' he keeps writin' her name on de slate--he's got me going fer fair."

"Well, I'm not Helena!" growled Madison. "Why doesn't she go to him?"

"Now wouldn't dat sting youse!" ejaculated the Flopper. "How's she goin' to him when she ain't here?"

"Not here?" repeated Madison sharply. "Where is she?"

The Flopper looked down his nose.

"I dunno," said he.

Madison stared at him for a moment--then he reached out and caught the Flopper's arm in a sudden and far from gentle grip.

"Out with it!" he snapped.

"I dunno where she is," said the Flopper, with some reluctance. "She ain't back yet, dat's all."

"Back from where?"--Madison's grip tightened.

The Flopper blinked.

"Aw, wot's de use!" he blurted out, as though his mind, suddenly made up, brought him unbounded relief. "Youse'll find it out anyhow. Say, she went off wid Thornton in de buzz-wagon yesterday, an' I put de Patriarch to bed last night 'cause she wasn't back, an' dat's wot's de matter wid him, she ain't showed up since an' he's near off his chump, an'--fer God's sake let go my arm, Doc, youse're breakin' it!"

A sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize Madison. He was perfectly calm, he felt himself perfectly calm and composed. Off all night with Thornton--eh? Funny, wasn't it? She'd gone pretty far at last--gone the limit.

"Why didn't you send me word this morning?"--was that his own voice speaking? Well, he wouldn't have recognized it--but he was perfectly calm nevertheless.

"Fer God's sake let go my arm," whimpered the Flopper. "I--I ain't no squealer, dat's why."

Madison's arm fell away--to his side. He felt a whiteness creeping to his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms.

"Mabbe," suggested the Flopper timidly, "mabbe dere was an accident."

Madison made no answer.

The Flopper shifted from foot to foot and licked his lips, stealing frightened glances at Madison's face.

"Wot--wot'll I do wid de Patriarch?" he stammered out miserably.

And then Madison smiled at him--not happily, but eloquently.

"Swipe me!" mumbled the Flopper, as he backed out from the trellis. "Dis love game's fierce--an' mabbe _I_ don't know! 'Sposin' she'd been Mamie an' me the Doc--'sposin' it had!" He gulped hastily. "Swipe me!" said the Flopper with emotion.

Madison, motionless, watched the Flopper disappear. He wasn't quite so calm now, not so cool and collected and composed. He must go somewhere and think this out--somewhere where it would be quiet and he wouldn't be disturbed.

A step sounded on the path--Madison looked through the trellis. A man, with yellow, unhealthy skin and sunken cheeks, his head bowed, was passing in through the porch. It caught Madison with fierce, exquisite irony. Why not go there himself if he wanted quiet--the shrine-room--the place of meditation! Well, he wanted to _meditate_! He laughed jarringly. The shrine-room--for him! Great! Immense! Magnificent! Why not? That's what he had created it for, wasn't it--to meditate in!

He stepped inside. The woman, whom he had seen enter a short while before, was sitting in a sort of rigid, strained attitude in the far corner; the man, who had just preceded him, had taken the chair by the fireplace--they were the only occupants of the room. There was no sound save his own footsteps--neither of the others looked at him. There was quiet, a profound stillness--and the softened light from the shuttered window fell mellow all about, fell like a benediction upon the simplicity of the few plain articles that the room contained--the round rag mats upon the white-scrubbed floor; the hickory chairs, severe, uncushioned; the table, with its little japanned box and book.

Madison's eyes fixed upon the japanned box, as he leaned now, arms folded, against the wall--a jewel, even in the subdued light, glowed crimson-warm where it nested on a crumpled bed of bank-notes--a ruby ring--the last contribution--it must have been the woman who had placed it there. Madison glanced at her involuntarily--but his thoughts were far away again in a moment.

Anger and a blind rage of jealousy were gripping him now. _Accident!_ The thought only fanned his fury. Accident! Yes; it was likely--as an excuse! There would have been an accident all right--leave that to them! Thornton perhaps wasn't the stamp of man to seek an adventure of that kind deliberately--perhaps he wasn't--and perhaps he was--you never could tell--but what difference did that make! _Helena was that kind of a woman_--though he'd always thought her true to him since he'd known her--and Thornton, whatever kind of a man he was, wouldn't run away from her arms, would he?