THEY WHO PURSUED
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 hotel _en 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.