The career of Lizzie (whose surname may perhaps be guessed by the
intelligent reader) was short, and her end untimely; but even so she
served her part in the inscrutable purposes of Fate.
It came about in this wise.
Archibald had formed quite a habit of calling for his lady, not only on
fine afternoons after five, but sometimes in the balmy spring nights
after dinner, when all the world meandered two by two, occupying the
benches in the little park opposite Joan's house, and filling the roads
with a streaming procession of motors and traps and buggies, of anything
that went on wheels; even perambulators.
Joan rather enjoyed being part and parcel of this murmuring, meandering
community. She liked to feel in touch with the people about her, like
any Miss Gracie or Miss Ella with a beau--particularly when it cost no
effort. She had but to lend her company, and Archibald would do the
rest. He asked no more from her than her presence.
Each time he came for her, Lizzie had acquired some new elegance;
dust-covers, a side-mirror, a voice that sounded like a Packard's, at
least. Not a car on the road exhibited brighter brasswork than hers. If
the chariot was not altogether worthy of the lady, it was through no
fault of Archie's. Lizzie, like her owner, strove to please.
Sometimes, if they started in the afternoon, Effie May would insist upon
providing one of the little picnic lunches that were her
specialty.--"So's you won't have to come home till you get good and
ready," she explained, twinkling at Archie. It was perhaps a little
ungrateful of him not to meet her overtures half way, since it was
evident that she suspected his secret and was deliberately aiding and
abetting him.
But Archie cared nothing for her aidings and abettings. Hope did not
enter into his calculations at all. He entertained no false illusions.
All he asked was to be allowed as much as possible of Joan's company,
for as long as she was willing to grant it.
His present streak of luck could not last, he knew. Some fellow would
come along soon with a larger, finer car, or perhaps with a
saddle-horse, or a coach and four--at any rate with something more
suitable than he, Archie, had to offer. But meanwhile there was now; and
if she was never allowed to suspect the inner state of his feelings, the
glorious now might be prolonged indefinitely. Archibald was nothing if
not an opportunist.
So he was very careful. And Joan was very careful. No more hair blew
into eyes. They remained matter-of-fact and chummy and impersonal, even
when they picknicked together under a twilight sky, one on either side
of a spread napkin, as if they had set up housekeeping together in the
wilderness--a situation which, as people know who are far less wise than
Effie May, is usually provocative of results. Nothing occurred, however:
until the day that marked the passing of Lizzie.
They were on their way home in the gray of a late evening, Archibald
driving, with half an eye on the whiteness of certain hands as they
deftly stowed away the remains of tea in the picnic-box. Which may have
been the reason that when he came to a railroad crossing, he was less
careful than usual.
It was a switching track on which a freight train stood, heavily
panting. Lizzie safely negotiated this, and was going on to a second
track beyond, when something jerked Archie's eyes around in time to gaze
full into the headlight of an approaching passenger train. He had not
enough speed on to cross the track ahead of it. He had too much to stop
where he was.
"Gee!" he grunted; and with a powerful wrench of the wheel, turned into
the track just ahead of the rushing engine.
Joan meant to scream, but forgot in sheer excitement. Behind sounded a
frantic grinding of brakes, a hiss of steam, and the locomotive let out
shriek after shriek.
"Oh, I hear you!" muttered Archie. "I'll get out of your way the minute
I can, old top! None too soon to suit yours truly."
He stared into his side-mirror. Down the ties pounded willing Lizzie at
thirty, forty, fifty--with a pop a tire blew out.
"Get that door open," he shouted at Joan, above the hissing steam.
"Don't jump till I say the word. Trying to make a flat place. You hear?"
Joan nodded. There were deep gullies on either side. She glanced over
her shoulder. The engine seemed almost on top of them--But Archie kept
his eye on his mirror.
"Can't make it," he said suddenly. "All ready? Now! Jump!"
To the after mortification of her entire life, Joan could not move. She
understood the necessity, her head was quite clear and calm, but her
limbs refused her bidding.
The next instant he had seized her, tossed her out like a bundle, she
was falling--falling....
There came a crash, the splintering of glass and iron.
* * * * *
Long after she was able to, Joan dared not open her eyes. She fought
back the coming of consciousness, tried not to think.
She was on a moving something--a wagon perhaps, or a train. There was
murmuring of voices near her. She strained her ears. The voices were
strange.
She wanted to pray, but could not remember God's name.
She was lying on some sort of lounge--a leather lounge. She lifted her
lids very, very slowly. She was in the smoking-compartment of a
train--alone! Where was he? She tried wildly to sit up--to call out--
And then something moved beside her on the edge of the couch. It was a
head, a bowed, curly head which she recognized and which belonged to a
figure that knelt beside her in an attitude of utter despair.
"Oh, Archie, Archie!" she whimpered. "Then you _aren't_ killed!"
The head jerked up. The next instant she was in his arms, her face
against his. She was being kissed and kissed again--eyes, lips, cheeks,
hair--whatever he could reach. She could not stop him. She did not try
to stop him. Indeed there was something consoling, comforting in those
frantic kisses, all wet with tears, and fiercely tender with the passion
of one who has brought his treasure single-handed out of the jaws of
death.
"My God! My God! My God!" said Archibald; and nothing else.