“Quite sure, sir. What shall I do? Run through the village and chance the river, or turn up the bank?”
We knew the village—one long, narrow street crowded with excursionists, with vehicles of all descriptions, with little children playing about. At the end the road gave a sharp turn close to the water’s edge. On the other hand the bank was high and steep, and in some places covered with flints.
Father looked round, and his face whitened, but he said firmly:
“We will not risk other lives besides our own. If that is the choice, run her up the bank, Johnson!”
“Right, sir!” said the chauffeur.
It all happened in a moment, but it seemed like hours and hours. The machine shook and quivered, and turned unwillingly to the side. The bank seemed to rush at us—to grow steeper and steeper; to tower above our heads like a mountain. My heart seemed to stop beating; a far-away voice said clearly in my brain, “This is death!” and a great wave of despair rolled over me. I turned instinctively towards Will, and at the same moment he turned towards me, and his eyes were bright and shining.
“Una, Una!” he cried, and his arms opened wide and clasped me in a tight, protecting embrace. There was a crash and a roar, a feeling of mounting upwards to the skies, and then—darkness!
The next thing was waking up feeling heavy and dazed, staring stupidly at my coat-sleeve, and wondering what it was, and how I came to be wearing such an extraordinary night-gown. Then I tried to move the arm, and it was heavy and painful; and suddenly I remembered! I was not dead at all, not even, it appeared, seriously hurt. But the others? I sat up and glanced fearfully around. The motor lay half-way up the bank, a shattered mass. Father was on his knees beside mother, who was moaning in a low, unconscious fashion. Will was slowly scrambling to his feet, holding one hand to his back. Rachel lay white and still as death, but her eyes were open, and she was evidently fully conscious. The chauffeur was dreadful to look at, with the blood pouring from his head, but he, too, moaned, and moved his limbs. Nobody was dead! It was almost too wonderful to be believed. I dragged myself across to mother, and she opened her eyes and smiled faintly at the sight of our anxious faces. Her dear hands were terribly cut; she winced with pain as she sat up, and was evidently badly bruised, but it was such bliss to see her move and hear her speak that these seemed but light things. Father rushed to the motor, managed to extricate a flask from the scattered contents, and went round administering doses of brandy to us all in turns. He had ricked his knee, and hobbled about like an old man. Will had a bad pain in his back, and a cut on his forehead. My left arm was useless. Rachel seemed utterly stunned, and unable to speak or move, and the poor chauffeur was unconscious, having fallen on his head on a mass of flints.
By this time the accident had become known, and the village people came trooping up the hill, bringing stretchers with them, for, as they afterwards explained, they expected to find us all dead. The chauffeur and Rachel were carried in front, but the rest of us preferred to hobble along on our own feet, mother leaning on father’s arm, Will and I, one on each side, never once glancing in the other’s face. It was awful to be alive, and to remember that last moment when we had forgotten everything in the world but our two selves. I felt like a murderess when I looked at Rachel’s still face, and hated myself for what I had done. Yet how could I help it? When you face death at the distance of a few seconds, all pretence dies away, and you act unconsciously as the heart dictates. I wanted Will—and—Will wanted me! Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to think of! All these months when he has avoided me, and I thought he liked me less, has he really been loving me, and trying to get over it in loyalty to poor, dear Rachel? And was that what it meant when he called me “Una!” and his voice lingered over the word?