Danger! and Other Stories

  VIII. HOW IT HAPPENED

  She was a writing medium. This is what she wrote:--

  I can remember some things upon that evening most distinctly, and othersare like some vague, broken dreams. That is what makes it so difficultto tell a connected story. I have no idea now what it was that had takenme to London and brought me back so late. It just merges into all myother visits to London. But from the time that I got out at the littlecountry station everything is extraordinarily clear. I can live itagain--every instant of it.

  I remember so well walking down the platform and looking at theilluminated clock at the end which told me that it was half-past eleven.I remember also my wondering whether I could get home before midnight.Then I remember the big motor, with its glaring head-lights and glitterof polished brass, waiting for me outside. It was my new thirty-horse-power Robur, which had only been delivered that day. I remember alsoasking Perkins, my chauffeur, how she had gone, and his saying that hethought she was excellent.

  "I'll try her myself," said I, and I climbed into the driver's seat.

  "The gears are not the same," said he. "Perhaps, sir, I had betterdrive."

  "No; I should like to try her," said I.

  And so we started on the five-mile drive for home.

  My old car had the gears as they used always to be in notches on a bar.In this car you passed the gear-lever through a gate to get on the higherones. It was not difficult to master, and soon I thought that Iunderstood it. It was foolish, no doubt, to begin to learn a new systemin the dark, but one often does foolish things, and one has not always topay the full price for them. I got along very well until I came toClaystall Hill. It is one of the worst hills in England, a mile and ahalf long and one in six in places, with three fairly sharp curves. Mypark gates stand at the very foot of it upon the main London road.

  We were just over the brow of this hill, where the grade is steepest,when the trouble began. I had been on the top speed, and wanted to gether on the free; but she stuck between gears, and I had to get her backon the top again. By this time she was going at a great rate, so Iclapped on both brakes, and one after the other they gave way. I didn'tmind so much when I felt my footbrake snap, but when I put all my weighton my side-brake, and the lever clanged to its full limit without acatch, it brought a cold sweat out of me. By this time we were fairlytearing down the slope. The lights were brilliant, and I brought herround the first curve all right. Then we did the second one, though itwas a close shave for the ditch. There was a mile of straight then withthe third curve beneath it, and after that the gate of the park. If Icould shoot into that harbour all would be well, for the slope up to thehouse would bring her to a stand.

  Perkins behaved splendidly. I should like that to be known. He wasperfectly cool and alert. I had thought at the very beginning of takingthe bank, and he read my intention.

  "I wouldn't do it, sir," said he. "At this pace it must go over and weshould have it on the top of us."

  Of course he was right. He got to the electric switch and had it off, sowe were in the free; but we were still running at a fearful pace. Helaid his hands on the wheel.

  "I'll keep her steady," said he, "if you care to jump and chance it. Wecan never get round that curve. Better jump, sir."

  "No," said I; "I'll stick it out. You can jump if you like."

  "I'll stick it with you, sir," said he.

  If it had been the old car I should have jammed the gear-lever into thereverse, and seen what would happen. I expect she would have strippedher gears or smashed up somehow, but it would have been a chance. As itwas, I was helpless. Perkins tried to climb across, but you couldn't doit going at that pace. The wheels were whirring like a high wind and thebig body creaking and groaning with the strain. But the lights werebrilliant, and one could steer to an inch. I remember thinking what anawful and yet majestic sight we should appear to any one who met us. Itwas a narrow road, and we were just a great, roaring, golden death to anyone who came in our path.

  We got round the corner with one wheel three feet high upon the bank. Ithought we were surely over, but after staggering for a moment sherighted and darted onwards. That was the third corner and the last one.There was only the park gate now. It was facing us, but, as luck wouldhave it, not facing us directly. It was about twenty yards to the leftup the main road into which we ran. Perhaps I could have done it, but Iexpect that the steering-gear had been jarred when we ran on the bank.The wheel did not turn easily. We shot out of the lane. I saw the opengate on the left. I whirled round my wheel with all the strength of mywrists. Perkins and I threw our bodies across, and then the nextinstant, going at fifty miles an hour, my right front wheel struck fullon the right-hand pillar of my own gate. I heard the crash. I wasconscious of flying through the air, and then--and then--!

  * * * * *

  When I became aware of my own existence once more I was among somebrushwood in the shadow of the oaks upon the lodge side of the drive. Aman was standing beside me. I imagined at first that it was Perkins, butwhen I looked again I saw that it was Stanley, a man whom I had known atcollege some years before, and for whom I had a really genuine affection.There was always something peculiarly sympathetic to me in Stanley'spersonality; and I was proud to think that I had some similar influenceupon him. At the present moment I was surprised to see him, but I waslike a man in a dream, giddy and shaken and quite prepared to take thingsas I found them without questioning them.

  "What a smash!" I said. "Good Lord, what an awful smash!"

  He nodded his head, and even in the gloom I could see that he was smilingthe gentle, wistful smile which I connected with him.

  I was quite unable to move. Indeed, I had not any desire to try to move.But my senses were exceedingly alert. I saw the wreck of the motor litup by the moving lanterns. I saw the little group of people and heardthe hushed voices. There were the lodge-keeper and his wife, and one ortwo more. They were taking no notice of me, but were very busy round thecar. Then suddenly I heard a cry of pain.

  "The weight is on him. Lift it easy," cried a voice.

  "It's only my leg!" said another one, which I recognized as Perkins's."Where's master?" he cried.

  "Here I am," I answered, but they did not seem to hear me. They were allbending over something which lay in front of the car.

  Stanley laid his hand upon my shoulder, and his touch was inexpressiblysoothing. I felt light and happy, in spite of all.

  "No pain, of course?" said he.

  "None," said I.

  "There never is," said he.

  And then suddenly a wave of amazement passed over me. Stanley! Stanley!Why, Stanley had surely died of enteric at Bloemfontein in the Boer War!

  "Stanley!" I cried, and the words seemed to choke my throat--"Stanley,you are dead."

  He looked at me with the same old gentle, wistful smile.

  "So are you," he answered.