The Miracle Man Part 26

"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 b.u.t.toned 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 pa.s.sion, 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, pa.s.sing 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 l.u.s.trelessly 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 rea.s.suringly. "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 pa.s.sing 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, G.o.d, if only she might have had the _right_ to fear! Then pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed at every opportunity to motor with Thornton despite Doc's protests, protests that had grown sullen and angry of late--s.n.a.t.c.hed at the opportunities eagerly, as she would s.n.a.t.c.h at a breath of air where all else stifled her--s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 alt.i.tude, 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.