"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?"