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Perils of Pauline (dramatic reading)

<h1 id="id01784" style="margin-top: 5em">CHAPTER XVII</h1> <h5 id="id01785">PALMER COMES BACK</h5> Harry had just hung up the receiver of the telephone and had turned to Pauline with feigned disappointment. "My office is calling me," he said. "I'm needed there at once. I shan't be able to go to the wedding." The sight of the happiness fading from her flowerlike face filled him with shame. It was the first time in his life that he had lied to her and he was half sorry now that he had done so. But he must go through with it now, and if there was apology in the kisses he pressed on her reproachful eyes it was not confessed. "I am going to the wedding just the same," declared Pauline. "Of course, you are," he agreed heartily. "Farrell will be back with the car by five o'clock." "But who will chaperon me?" she objected, woman-like, to her own decision. "It would look absurd to take Margaret, and Owen isn't invited." "You will not need a chaperon going over—provided Farrell gets back," he said as he took his hat from the table. "You mean you don't believe Farrell will get back!" she exclaimed. "You are treating me like a child. You don't want me to go to the wedding just because you can't go." "Now, don't, don't," he pleaded, as she started to leave the room. "I don't mean anything of the kind. I mean Farrell is the only man who can drive the large car or the roadster safely. There is no reason in the world why he shouldn't get back." "And how am I to come home?" she demanded, turning again toward him. "I will call for you in the runabout on my way from New York. Perhaps even I shall be able to arrive in time to greet the happy pair," he added cheerfully. "You'll make my excuses." Owen, who was listening at the door, had just time, to glide away before Harry hurried out. The young master of the house had driven far toward the station before the secretary returned to the library. This time he entered and pretended to be hunting for a magazine. Pauline's disconsolate face gave him the excuse he desired. "Why, Miss Marvin, has anything happened?" he asked in a tone of concern. "Oh, everything has gone wrong," she cried, almost in tears. "What do you mean?" "Harry is called to the city just when we are invited to Sophie McCallan's wedding, and Farrell has taken the limousine for some silly repairs. They'll not get back; I know they'll not. They never do." "But, Miss Marvin?" "Oh, don't try to apologize for him. He cares more for his old business than he does for me. He makes automobiles himself, and yet I can't have enough for my own personal use. I'm sorry I forgave him," she flared. "You are right, Miss Marvin; it is an outrage." She looked at Owen in astonishment. It was the first time she had ever heard him venture a critical word against Harry. "I think it is your fault," she declared. "You are the one who should see that I have cars and drivers—everything I want." "But you know the machines have not come from the town house, Miss Marvin. They will be here tomorrow." "Well, Owen, it isn't for you to say that what my brother does is an outrage. He does everything for the best." "Miss Marvin, Harry is lying to you," he said quietly. "He and your chauffeur have formed a plot against you. Your car will not be back this afternoon at all." She sprang to her feet, furious. "Owen, be still! How do you dare to say such things?" Raymond Owen had found his great moment, His enemy had set his own trap and Owen would see that he should not escape easily. The opportunity to break forever the bond of faith and affection between Harry and Pauline had come. His voice rose as he poured out his revelations and denunciations. Pauline was leaving the room, when he thrust himself before her. "You must hear me. I know what I say is true. It hurts me as deeply as it will hurt you, but you must hear it. I believe I have discovered —by the merest accident—the cause of all your perils. The plots against you have been arranged at home." "You are mad. I will not listen to you. Let me pass." "Not until you have heard," he declared firmly. "I was passing the door of the garage only a few moments ago," he went on in a rapid whisper. "I saw Farrell at the telephone. He called the private house number—the number of this phone on the table. You and Mr. Marvin were sitting here. I was so surprised that I stopped and listened to Farrell's words. I could see Mr. Marvin listening at the phone here. Farrell said: 'Mr. Marvin, you are needed at your office. Come at once.' Then he hung up the receiver and came out, laughing. He got into the limousine and drove off towards the city. If he could drive the limousine to the city, could he not drive it to the McCallan's for you?" Pauline put her hands to her ears with a protesting cry. "It isn't true," she whispered. "It is only a scheme of Farrell's to get an afternoon off." "It is a scheme of Harry's to keep you from the wedding—for what purpose only he knows. It is one of many schemes that have held your life in constant peril. I saw their plan arranged. I saw your brother hand money to Farrell at the door of the garage and they parted, laughing." Pauline's mind whirled. "I won't believe it! I can't; I can't!" she cried. Doubt and fear and fury mingled in her breast. Weeping tumultuously, she rushed past Owen and up to her own room. Two hours later, the struggle over, she called Margaret, who bathed her hot temples and dressed her for the wedding. Harry Marvin, in town, tried his best to make good use of the time he had stolen. But the thought of his well-meant chicanery was heavy on his mind and it was not unmixed with apprehension. After all, Pauline might find a way to go to the wedding. Might he not, instead of having averted a danger, simply have absented himself from the scene of danger when he was most needed? His nervousness increased. He found himself incapable of work, and at three o'clock, to the surprise of his clerks, who had thought his unexpected visit must mean an important conference of directors, he called a taxicab and started for Westbury. But he had no intention of going to Castle Marvin unless it was necessary. He meant to telephone from Westbury and learn whether or not Pauline had gone to the wedding. If she had not, he would remain away until late. A few minutes before four o'clock, Farrell, with his pretty wife whom he had called to share his plot and his holiday, drove up to a rural telegraph office. They were both laughing as Farrell handed this message to the operator: Miss Pauline Marvin, Castle Marvin, Westbury. Blow-out. Can't get back this evening. George Farre "You—don't want to say what kind of a blow-out it is, do you?" grinned the operator, glancing out of the window at the spic and span machine. "If you don't see everything you look at, you'll save your eyesight," replied Farrell cheerfully. At the next town he telephoned to the Marvin office in New York. He came out of the booth with a worried look. "The boss has left in a taxi for home," he said. "Wonder what that means. Guess we better sort of travel along towards Westbury. He might need me." They changed their course and had driven for some time at an easy rate through the smiling country when the sound of a machine coming up speedily behind caused Farrell to look around. The passenger in the open cab waved his hand and Farrell, saluting, slowed down. The cars stopped, side by side. Harry raised his hat to the young woman. "You're not going home, are you, Farrell?" he said. "I heard you'd left the office and I thought something might have happened, and I'd be near enough so you could get me quick." "Nothing has happened. I'll get along nicely with this cab. You'd better keep a good distance and not come home until tomorrow morning." "Very well, sir. That suits us fine." Farrell grinned. The taxi started on and Farrell turned off at the next crossroad. "He's a great boss, but a queer one," he said to his wife. "It's a queer family all around. I wonder what's being cooked up now." As the time of Farrell's expected return drew near Pauline's despair and anger increased with every moment. When four o'clock struck she arose and walked nervously out to the garage to ask if any word had been received from Farrell. She found Owen there. As she turned toward him, after her futile questioning, Pauline's grief suddenly mounted to anger. "It is after four, and Farrell has not returned," she exclaimed. She had come out to the yard in the exquisite white gown that she was to wear to the wedding, a flashing jewel at her white throat, her hair done regally high. Now, in her anger, she was a picture of fury made beautiful. Her outburst was interrupted by a messenger boy with a telegram. She opened the message with nervous fingers. "Blow out. Can't get back this evening," she read. She tore the message into pieces, dropped them and, stamped upon them with her white slippers. "It's true, it's true!" she cried, turning desperately to Owen. "I am terribly, hopelessly sorry—but I knew that it was true," he said solemnly. At this moment along the drive came the new gardener wheeling a barrow of fresh mold, his rake and hoe lying across it. "Palmer!" Pauline cried. The man let fall the barrow as if he had been cut with a whip lash. He looked up and for an instant his dazed eyes seemed to brighten. Then he picked up the barrow as if no one had spoken and went on. Pauline followed him. "Bring out the roadster," she called over her shoulder, and, as she stopped beside the gardener. The garage men, bewildered, but used to the kindly vagaries of their pretty employer, sent the machine down driveway. "Can you drive an automobile, Palmer?" asked Pauline. This time the man's eyes did not brighten. He looked at her respectfully, but dully. She drew him to the car and repeated the question. He only grinned foolishly and kept on shaking his head. "Wait," she said, and, running back to the house, reappeared directly wearing her hat and flowing white wrap. "Come, Palmer, you must drive me to the wedding," she declared. She made him get into the car and take the wheel. As she got in beside him, his hands fumbled aimlessly with the lever. "Palmer! Palmer!" she dinned his forgotten name into his ears. "Don't you remember the race, the road, the flying cars, the speed, the speed! Don't you remember the man who was in the lead—the man the crowd cheered for? That was you, Palmer, the greatest of all the drivers." She leaned forward in the seat, arms outstretched as if holding a tugging wheel, eyes set straight ahead, slippered feet threading imaginary levers, graceful body swerving. He watched her, frowning. A vague purpose seemed to animate the hand groping with the levers. "Wake up, Palmer! It's time for the race—the Vanderbilt Cup. Kirby and Michaels have started. There's Wharton coming to the line. Don't you see the crowds? Can't you hear them cheering? Palmer! Palmer! * * * Yes, we're coming! * * * Palmer is coming back. * * * Way there!" He found the self-starter; the engine sounded. He found the clutch and gears. His eyes were shut. The car started slowly and he opened his eyes. Pauline sank back in the seat, laughing and clapping her hands, half hysterically. "Bravo, Palmer!" she exulted. The astonished workmen saw them glide through the outer gate. Raymond Owen from his window saw them and rubbed his hands pleasantly. Fate indeed seemed to be favoring his deadly work today! The car swung into the highway. "Drive faster," commanded Pauline. The listless hands hardened on the wheel. She saw him bend over and fix his vision on the road. She thrilled at the miracle she had wrought. More speed, and the wind blew her cape from her shoulders; the dust beat in her face. She merely tightened her veil and sat silent. "Take the first turn to the right," she called in his ear as they neared the crossroad. He did not slacken the speed. "It's a sharp turn; slow a little," she cautioned. He did not seem to hear her. She placed her hand sharply on his arm. He drove past the crossroad, the speed to the last notch. Pauline tried to stand up in the seat and seize the wheel. He thrust her back with one hand, not even looking at her. He was leaning far over the wheel now, his eyes blazing. She could see the beat of blood in his temple. "Stop! Stop! You are on the wrong road. You will kill us both!" she screamed in his deaf ears. She tried again to wrest the wheel from him, but this time he held her fast after he had flung her back. She had raised up a Frankenstein for her own destruction. She was being driven by a madman. As they took the curve outside Westbury village another car filled with men and women fairly grazed them. The women screamed and the men shouted wildly after them. But they flashed on. Down the hill at Gangley's Mills the pace grew even greater. From the west prong of the road fork at the bottom a taxicab shot into view. There was a shout of warning, a rattle and creak as the taxi swerved, safe by inches. On the skirts of Clayville a group of farmers and a constable were arguing a roadside dispute. Pauline could see dim figures leap into the road waving arms; she could hear them shouting. The figures jumped to either side as Palmer drove through the group. They sprang back into the road, cursing and shaking their fists, only to be routed anew by the rush of the taxicab following. The roadster straightened out on the ledge of Scrogg Hill. In spite of the curve and the precipice Palmer held his speed. His daring, his utter mastery, stirred a kind of admiration in Pauline and the death she saw looming stirred anew her courage. She wrenched her arm free from his grip. She stood up and swung her weight against the man, rasping for the wheel. The car swerved toward the cliff, but he jerked it back, striking at her brutally with his free hand. She fell in the seat, but returned, desperate, to the encounter. She caught the wheel. She tried to command it, but his strength drew the other way. The machine shot toward the abyss. There was a crackle as the wooden guide fence splintered under the wheels. There was a crash! Harry, leaning from the taxicab behind, uttered a groan. The roadster had gone over the cliff. Fifty feet down the rock-gnarled hillside they took Pauline from the clutch of the dead driver. His fall had broken hers and it was only from fear that she had fainted. Harry, pressing the taxi driver's flask to her lips, saw her eyes open and his cry was like a prayer of thanksgiving. When Harry lifted Pauline to carry her to the taxicab, to his abasement he felt her hands press him away. He thought she had not yet recovered, that she believed herself still in the grasp of the madman. He set her on her feet and looked at her questioningly. Without a word she turned from him and started up the road. "Pauline!" he cried. "What do you mean? Don't you know me? It's Harry." She kept on without turning. He caught her by the arm. "Don't you know me, your brother?" he pleaded. She turned, tremblingly. "You are not my brother," she blazed. "And I did not know you until today." "You are hurt and ill, dearest. Come, let me take you home." She walked on up the road. "But where are you going?" he demanded. "I am going to the wedding. You tried to keep me away by your base trick but you can't do it." Now he understood. "I know; I know," he groaned. "It was the meanest and most useless thing. But I did not think it was safe for you to go to the wedding. I am sorry to the bottom of my heart." "Goodbye," she said coldly, walking on. "But you can't go like that," he exclaimed, pointing to her torn and draggled clothes, her unfastened hair. "It is better to go to friends whom I can trust," she said coldly, and moved on. As gently as he could he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the taxicab. Placing her in the seat he followed, and as the machine started began to pour out his repentance. She would not even answer, but sat with averted face, weeping and trembling. At last she became quiet. He drew her tattered wrap closer about her shoulders and put his arm around her so that her head rested against his breast. A moment later, looking down, he was surprised to see that she was smiling like a tired child. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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