Here I am back in my own room; at least, I suppose it is me. I have been staring at myself in the glass, and I look much the same. No one who didn’t know would guess what had happened to me during the last few hours, and that to myself I feel all new and strange—a Una Sackville who was never really alive until to-day.
I ought to be desperately miserable, and I am, but I am happy, too; half the time I am so happy that I forget all about the past and the future, and remember only the present. To-morrow morning, I suppose, I shall begin worrying and fighting against fate, but for to-night I am content—so utterly, perfectly content that there is no room to want anything more. I’ll begin at the beginning, and tell it straight through to the end.
We started off for our ride at twelve o’clock this morning in the highest of spirits, for the sun was shining, the sky was a deep cloudless blue, and, better than all, Vere had taken her first walk across the floor, supported by father on one side, and Jim on the other, and had managed far better than any of us had expected. She and Jim had arranged to have lunch together in the garden, and she waved her hand to us at parting, and cried airily:
“Perhaps I may stroll down to the Lodge to meet you on your return!”
Father and mother looked at one another when they were outside the door, so happy, poor dears, that they hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry, and then out we went into the sunshine, where the motor was throbbing and bumping as if it were impatient to be off. When I invent a motor I’ll make one that can be quiet when it stands. I’m not a bit nervous when once we are started, but I hate it while we are waiting, and the stupid thing behaves as if it were going to blow up every moment.
Rachel was waiting for us, and flushed to the loveliest pink when Will appeared and she discovered that he was to be one of the party. Father, mother and the chauffeur sat on the front seat, Rachel and I on the one behind, with Will in the middle, and the luncheon-baskets were packed away behind. I had a mad turn, and was quite “fey,” as the Scotch say. I kept them laughing the whole time, and was quite surprised at my own wit. It seemed as if someone else was talking through my lips, for I said the things almost before I thought of them.
We rushed along through beautiful country lanes, through dear, sleepy little villages, and along the banks of the river. The motor behaved beautifully, and neither smelt nor shook; it was quite intoxicating to fly through the air without any feeling of exertion, and Rachel herself grew almost frisky in time.
At two o’clock we camped out, and had a delicious luncheon; then off we started again, to take a further circuit of the country, and have tea at a quaint old inn on the way home. All went well until about four o’clock, when we began to descend a long, steep hill leading to a riverside village. Father told the chauffeur to take it as slowly as possible, but we had not covered a quarter of the way when—something happened! Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the machine seemed to leap forward like an arrow from a bow, and rush down the hill, more and more quickly with every second that passed. We all called out in alarm, and the chauffeur turned a bleached face to father, and said shakily:
“It’s gone, sir! The brake has gone. I can’t hold her!”
“Gone? Broken? Are you sure—perfectly sure?”