CHAPTER XVI
BURKE MAKES A PROMISE
Burke, dozing over the fire in his so-called office, was aroused fromhis dreams by the appearance of a vision. For a moment he blinked at itdoubtfully. Then into his eyes came a dawning intelligence, slightlytinged with reproach.
Burke was an unimaginative man, who did not like to be jarred out of hisroutine. Already that day several unusual incidents had occurred; andthough, like popular tales, they ended happily, they had been almost toogreat a stimulus to thought. Now here was another, in the form of agirl, young and beautiful, and apparently blown into his presence on thewings of the wild storm that was raging.
Somewhat uncertainly, Mr. Burke arose and approached the vision, which,standing at the threshold of his sanctum, thereupon addressed him inhurried but reassuring human tones.
"I've had a blow-out," the lady briefly announced. "Will you put on a'spare,' please, and take a look at the other shoes?"
This service, she estimated, would take half an hour of the proprietor'stime, if he moved with the customary deliberation of his class, andwould, of course, make superfluous any explanation of her wait in thegarage, and of her nervousness, if he happened to be sufficientlyobservant to notice that.
It was really fortunate that the blow-out had occurred. Surely withinthe half-hour Laurie would have rejoined her. If he did not, she franklyconceded to herself, she would go mad with suspense. There was a limitto what she could endure, and that limit had been reached. Thirtyminutes more of patience and courage and seeming calm covered the lastdraft she could make on a nervous system already greatly overtaxed.
Burke drew his worn office chair close to the red-hot stove, and wasmildly pained by the lady's failure to avail herself of the comfort thusoffered. Instead, she threw off her big coat, and, drawing the chair tothe corner farthest from the stove, seated herself there and with handsthat shook took up the local newspaper which was the live wire betweenBurke and the outer world. Her intense desire for solitude was apparenteven to his dull eye.
Burke sighed. In his humble way he was a gallant man, and it would havebeen pleasant to exchange a few remarks with this visitor from anothersphere. Undoubtedly they would have found interests in common. This, itwill be remembered, was January, 1917, three months before America'sentry into the world war, and women able to drive motors werecomparatively rare. Any girl who could drive a car in a storm like this,and through the drifts of country roads--Mr. Burke, having reluctantlyremoved himself from the lady's presence, was now beside her car, and atthis point in his reflections he uttered an exclamation and his jawdropped.
"It's the lad's car!" he ejaculated slowly, and for a moment stoodstaring at it. Then, still slowly, he nodded.
It was the lad's car, which, only a short time before, he himself hadput in perfect order for a swift run to New York. Now this girl had it,but 'twas easy to see why. He had been wrong in his college-pranktheory. Here was something more serious and much more interesting. Herewas a love-affair. And, he handsomely conceded, it was going on betweena pair of mates the like of which wasn't often seen. In her way the girlwas as fine a looker as the boy, and that, Mr. Burke decided, was "goingsome, for them both."
As his meditations continued he was cursorily glancing at the tires,looking for the one that had sustained the blow-out. He was not greatlysurprised to find every tire perfect. There had been plenty ofmysteries in the lad's conduct, and this was merely another trifle toadd to the list. Undoubtedly the lady had her reasons for insisting on ablow-out, and if she had, it was no affair of his. Also, the price forchanging that tire would be a dollar, and Mr. Burke was always willingto pick up a dollar.
Whistling softly but sweetly, he removed a rear shoe, replaced it withone of the "spares" on the car's rack, and solemnly retested the others.The task, as Doris had expected, took him almost half an hour. When itwas completed he lounged back to the lady and assured her that the carwas again ready for service.
The lady hesitated. There was no sign of Laurie, and she dared notleave. Yet on what pretext could she linger? With the manner of one whohas unlimited time at her disposal, she demanded her bill, a writtenone, and paid it. Then, checking herself on a casual journey toward thebig coat, she showed a willingness to indulge in that exchange offriendly points of view for which Burke's heart had longed.
The exchange was not brilliant, but Burke made the most of it. No, hetold her, they didn't often have storms as bad as this. One, severalyears ago, had blocked traffic for two days, but that was very unusual.He hoped the young lady knew the roads well. It wasn't easy drivingwhen you couldn't see your hand before your face. He hoped she wasn'tnervous about getting back; for now he had discovered that she wasintensely nervous about something.
With a gallant effort at ease, the lady took up the theme of the stormand embroidered it in pretty colors and with much delicate fancy. Whenthe pattern was getting somewhat confused, she suddenly asked a leadingquestion.
"Which shoe blew out?"
Burke stared at her. He wished he knew what was expected of him. Did shewant the truth, or didn't she? He realized that momentarily she wasbecoming more excited. He had not missed her frequent glances throughthe window, up the road, and he knew that for the past five minutes shehad been listening for something wholly unconnected with his words. Inreality Doris was in the grip of an almost unconquerable panic. What hadhappened? Why didn't Laurie come?
Burke decided to let her have the truth, or part of the truth. She'd getit anyway, if she examined the replaced "spare" on the car's rack.
"There wasn't no blow-out," he stated, defensively.
"There wasn't! What do you mean?"
He saw that she was first surprised, then startled, then, as somesudden reflection came to her, actually appalled.
"I mean that there wasn't no blow-out."
"No blow-out? Then--then--what did I hear?" She asked the question ofBurke, and, as she asked it, recoiled suddenly, as if he had struck her.
"P'raps you got a back-fire," he suggested, reassuringly. "You come downthe steep hill up there, didn't you?"
Doris pulled herself together, shrugged her shoulders, and resolutelysmiled at him. She knew the difference between the sound of a blow-outand the back-firing of an irritated engine. But some abysmal instinctmade her suddenly cautious, though with that same instinct her innerpanic developed. _What had she heard?_
"I put on a 'spare,' anyway," Burke was saying. "The rear right looked alittle weak, so I changed it."
He was tacitly explaining the bill he had submitted, but Doris did nothear him. _What had she heard?_ Insistently the question repeated itselfin her mind. She turned dizzily, and went back for the coat. As she didso she heard Burke's voice.
"Why--hel-lo!"
Even in that moment she observed its modulation. It had begun on a noteof cheery surprise and ended on one of sharp concern. Turning, she sawLaurie.
He had nodded to Burke, and was obviously trying to speak naturally.
"All ready?" he asked.
The remark was addressed to them both, but he looked at neither. Therewas an instant of utter silence during which they took him in, Burkewith insistent, goggling eyes, Doris with one quick glance,soul-searching and terror-filled. Burke spoke first.
"What you been doin' to yerself?" he gasped.
The question was inevitable. Laurie was hatless and disheveled. His coatwas torn, and across one pallid cheek ran a deep cut, freshly bleeding.
"Fell," he said, tersely.
He was breathing hard, as if he had been running. He had not yet lookedat Doris, but now he abruptly swung into the little office and emerged,bringing her coat. Without a word, he held it for her. In equal silence,she slipped into it. He retrieved the cap from the pile of discardedgarments still lying on the office floor, put it on, and indicated thewaiting car.
"Get in," he commanded.
She obeyed and he followed her, taking his place at the wheel.
"You're hurt," she almost wh
ispered. "Shall I drive?"
"What you been doin' to yerself?" he gasped]
"No--Burke!"
The word was like a pistol shot.
"Y-yessir!" Burke was stammering. In his excitement he was hardlyconscious that another bill had found its way into his hand, but hishand had automatically reached for and closed on it.
"Keep your mouth shut."
"Y-yessir."
"Keep it shut till to-morrow morning. You haven't seen anything oranybody at all to-day. Understand?"
"Y-yessir."
"After to-night you can talk about me all you like. But you're to forgetabsolutely that you ever saw the lady. Is that clear?"
"Y-yessir!"
"Thank you. Good-by."
He started the car and swung it out into the storm. As it went Burke sawthe girl catch the boy's arm and heard something that sounded partlylike a cry and partly like a sob.
"Laurie!"
"H-ush!"
The car was tearing through the storm and drifts at fifty miles an hour,and this time it was headed down the road for New York.
Burke's eyes followed it, as far as he could see it, which was not far.Then he retreated to the "office," and, dropping heavily into his deskchair, stared unseeingly at a calendar on the wall.
"That lad's been up to somethin'," he muttered. "I wonder what my dootyis."
It was a long moment before he remembered to open his hand and look atthe bill he was holding. As he did so his eyes widened. The bill was alarge one. It amounted to much more than the combined value of the billsdropped into that willing palm during the day. Briskly and efficientlyit solved the little problem connected with Mr. Burke's "dooty." With aquick look around him, he thrust it into his pocket.
"I ain't really _seen_ nothin'," he muttered, "an' I ain't sure ofnothin', anyhow."
* * * * *
"What has happened? Oh, Laurie, what has happened?"
For a time Laurie did not answer. Then she felt rather than saw his faceturn toward her in the darkness.
"Doris."
"Yes."
"Will you do something for me?"
"Yes, Laurie, anything."
"Then don't speak till we reach New York. When we get to your studioI'll tell you everything. Will you do that?"
"But--Laurie--"
"Will--you--do--it?" The voice was not Laurie's. It was the harsh,grating voice of a man distraught.
"Yes, of course."
Silence settled upon them like a substance, a silence broken only by theroar of the storm and the crashing of wind-swept branches of the treesthat lined the road. The car's powerful search-lights threw up inghostly shapes the covered stumps and hedges they passed and the massesof snow that beat against them. Subconsciously the girl knew that thisboy beside her, driving with the recklessness of a lost soul, was merelyguessing at a road no one could have seen, but in that half-hour she hadno thought for the hazards of the journey. Her panic had grown till itfilled her soul.
She wanted to cry out, to shriek, but she dared not. The compelling soulin the rigid figure beside her held her silent. Her nerves began to playstrange tricks. She became convinced that the whole experience was anightmare, an incredible one from which she would wake if that terriblefigure so close to her, and yet so far away, would help her. But itwouldn't. Perhaps it never would. The nightmare must go on and on. Soonall sense of being in a normal world had left her.
Once, in a frantic impulse of need of human contact, she laid her handon the arm nearest her, over the wheel. The next instant she withdrew itwith a shudder. For all the response she had found she might havetouched a dead man. Something of the look of a dead man, too, was in theboy's face and eyes as he bent forward, motionless as a statue, hisfeatures like stone and his eyes as unhuman as polished agate, staringfixedly at the road before them.
A low-bending, ice-covered branch whipped her face and she shrieked,fancying it the touch of dead fingers. Several times huge shapes fromthe roadside seemed to spring at them, but their progress was too swifteven for spectral shapes. Or was it?
It was on a stretch of road through the woods that the obsession in hermind took its final and most hideous form. Close behind them, andringing in their ears, she fancied she heard a cry in the voice of Shaw.It was not Shaw's human voice. She would not have known it in a humanworld. It had passed through the great change; but it was recognizable,because she, too, had passed through some great change. Recognizable,too, was the sound of Shaw's running feet, though she had never heardthem run, and though they were running so lightly on the top of thesnow.
He was just behind them, she thought. If she turned she knew she wouldsee him, not as she had known him, plump, sleek, living and loathsome,but stark, rigid, and ready for his grave, yet able to pursue; and thenew, unearthly light of his bulging eyes seemed burning into her back.
She groaned, but the groan brought no response from the tense figurebeside her. The only sounds were the howls of the wind, the frenziedprotests of the tortured trees, and the fancied hail of a dead man,coming closer and closer.
The Girl in the Mirror Page 16