The Miracle Man by Frank L. Packard

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At moments most unexpected, as now when motoring with Thornton in the
car that he had brought back with him on, his return to Needley, when
laughing at the Flopper's determined pursuit of Mamie Rodgers, when
engaged in the homely, practical details of housekeeping about the
cottage, there came flashing suddenly upon her the picture of Mrs.
Thornton lying on the brass bed in the car compartment that night, every
line of the pale, gentle face as vivid, as actual as though it were once
more before her in reality, and in her ears rang again, stabbing her
with their unmeant condemnation, those words of sweetness, love and
purity that held her up to gaze upon herself in ghastly, terrifying
mockery.

It stupified her, bewildered her, frightened her. She seemed, for days
and weeks now, to be drifting with a current that, eddying, swirling,
swept her this way and that. How wonderful it was, this life she was now
leading compared with the old life--so full of the better things, the
better emotions, the better thoughts that she had never known before!
How monstrous in its irony that she was leading it to _steal_, that she
might play her part in a criminal scheme for a criminal end! And yet,
somehow, it did not all seem sham, this part she played--and that very
thought, too, frightened her. Why was it now that Madison's
oft-attempted, and as oft-repulsed, kiss upon her lips was something
from which she shrank and battled back, no longer from a sense of pique
or to bring him to his knees, but because something new within her,
intangible, that she did not understand, rose up against it! Why did she
do this--she, who had known the depths, who had known no other guide or
mentor than the turbulent, passionate love she had yielded him and in
her abandonment had once found contentment! Was her love for him gone?
Or, if it was not that--what was it?

What was it? A week, another, two more, a month had slipped away since
Thornton had returned, and there had been so much of genuineness crowded
into this sham part of hers that it seemed at times the part itself was
genuine. She had come to love that little room of hers, love it for its
dear simplicity, the white muslin curtains, the rag mat, the patch-quilt
on the bed; those daily duties of a woman, that she had never done
before, that she had at first looked at askance, brought now a sense of
keen, housewifely pride; the gentle patience of the Patriarch, his love
for her, his simple trust in her had found a quick and instant response
in her own heart, and daily her affection for him had grown; and there
was Thornton--this man beside her, whose companionship somehow she
seemed to crave for, who, in his grave, quiet manliness, seemed a sort
of inspiration to her, who seemed in a curious way to appease a new
hunger that had come to her for association, for contact with better
thoughts and better ideals.

What was it? Environment? Yes; there must be something in that. It was
having its effect even on Pale Face Harry and the Flopper. What was it
that Harry, a surprisingly lusty farmhand now, had said to her a week or
so ago: "Say, Helena, do you ever feel that while you was trying to kid
the crowd about this living on the square, you was kind of getting
kidded yourself? I dunno! I ain't coughed for a month--honest. But it
ain't only that. Say--I dunno! Do you ever feel that way?"

Yes; there must be something in environment. The old life had never
brought her thoughts such as these, thoughts that had been with her now
almost since the first day she had come to Needley--this disquiet, this
self-questioning, these sudden floods of condemnatory confusion; and,
mingling with them, a startled thrill, a strange, half-glad,
half-premonitory awakening, a vague pronouncement that innately it might
be true that she was not what she _really_ was--but what all those
around her held her to be--what Mrs. Thornton had said she was--and--

Her fingers closed with a quick, fierce pressure on the arm-rest of her
seat--and she shifted her position with a sudden, involuntary movement.

Thornton, a road-map tacked on a piece of board and propped up at his
feet, raised his head, and, self-occupied himself, had apparently not
noticed her silence, for he spoke irrelevantly.

"I hope you won't mind if the road is a bit rougher than usual for a few
miles," he said; "but you know we decided we didn't like the looks of
the weather at tea-time, and according to the map, which labels it
'rough but passable,' this is a short cut that will lop off about ten
miles and take us back to Needley through Barton's Mills."

"Of course, I don't mind," Helena answered. "How far are we from
Needley?"

"About thirty-five miles or so," Thornton replied. "Say, an hour and a
half with any kind of going at all. We ought to be back by nine."

Helena nodded brightly and leaned back in her seat. Rather than
objecting to the short cut that Thornton had begun to negotiate, the
road, now that she gave her attention to it, she found to be quite the
prettiest bit she had seen in the whole afternoon's run, where, in the
rough, sparsely settled north country, all was both pretty and a
delight--miles and miles without the sign of even a farmhouse, just the
great Maine forests, so majestic and grand in their solitude, bordering
the road that undulated with the country, now to a rise with its
magnificent sweep of scenery, now to the cool, fresh valleys full of the
sweet pine-scent of the woods. They had explored much of it together in
the little 'run-about,' nearly every day a short spin somewhere; to-day
a little more ambitious run--the whole afternoon, and tea, a picnic tea,
an hour or more back, in a charming glade beside a little brook.

"Oh, this is perfectly lovely!" she exclaimed; and then, with a
breathless laugh, as a bump lifted her out of her seat: "It _is_
rough--isn't it?"

Thornton laughed and slowed down.

"I don't fancy it's used much, except in the winter for logging. But if
the map says we can get through, I guess we're all right--there's about
an eight mile stretch of it."

It was growing dusk, and the shadows, fanciful and picturesque; were
deepening around them. Now it showed a solid mass of green ahead, and,
like a sylvan path, the road, converging in the distance, lost itself in
a wall of foliage; now it swerved rapidly, this way and that, in short
curves, as though, like one lost, it sought its way.

A half hour passed. Thornton stopped the car, got down and lighted his
lamps, then started on again. The going had seemed to be growing
steadily worse--the road, as Thornton had said, was little more indeed
than a logging trail through the heart of the woods; and now, deeper in,
with increasing frequency, the tires slipped and skidded on damp, moist
earth that at times approached very nearly to being oozy mud.

Silence for a long while had held between them. It was taking Thornton
all his time now to guide the car, that, negotiating fallen branches
strewn across the way, bad holes and ruts, was crawling at a snail's
pace.

"'Rough but passable'!" he laughed once, clambering back to his seat
after clearing away a dead tree-trunk from in front of them. "But
there's no use trying to go back, as we must be halfway through, and it
can't be any worse ahead than it's been behind. I'd like to tell the
fellow that made this map something!"

And then upon Helena, just why she could not tell, began to steal an
uneasiness that frightened her a little. It had grown suddenly,
intensely dark--quicker than the slow, creeping change of dusk blending
softly into night. Sort of eerie, it seemed--and a wind springing up and
rustling through the branches made strange noises all about. They seemed
to be shut in by a wall of blackness on every hand, except ahead where,
like great streaming eyes of fire, the powerful lamps shot out their
rays making weird color effects in the forest--huge tree-trunks loomed a
dead drab, like mute sentinels, grim and ominous, that barred their way;
now, in the full glare, the foliage took on the softest fairy shade of
green; now, tapering off, heavier in color, it merged into impenetrable
black; and, with the jouncing of the car, the light rays jiggling up and
down gave an unnatural semblance as of moving, animate things before
them, a myriad of them, ever retreating, but ever marshalling their
forces again as though threatening attack, as though to oppose the car's
advance.

What was there to be afraid of? She tried to laugh at herself--it was
perfectly ridiculous. A little bit of rough road--the forest that she
loved around her--even if it was very dark. They would come out
eventually somewhere on the trunk-road to Barton's Mills--that was all
there was to it. Meanwhile, it was quite an experience, and she had
every confidence in Thornton. She glanced at him now. It was too dark to
get more than an indistinct outline of the clean-cut profile, but there
was something inspiriting in the alert, self-possessed, competent poise
of his body as he crouched well forward over the wheel, his eyes never
lifting from the road ahead.

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.

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