The bonfire snapped, sending up a long tongue of flame and a shower of sparks that were reflected from the myriad bright surfaces of the row of automobiles ranged along the embankment.
“Oh, the coffee, Allan!” cried a girl’s voice from the nearest touring-car. “The fire, dear––”
The man feeding the flames with bits of twig nodded placidly. Down the dark line a group of singers were sending a popular song out over the empty Long Island fields; waking would-be sleepers in other machines, adding one more sound to the constant pant of arriving automobiles and the hum of many voices, one more burden to the gasoline-scented acetylene-freighted atmosphere.
“Fearless, Fearless,” rose the monotonous chant of the guides who piloted their charges to a reserved meadow beyond the white line of the race-course.
“Dartford, Dartford,” summoned those of the next space allotted.
“Dearie, Dearie,” sang the chorus blatantly.
“That’ll do; good-night,” called a derisive auditor.
The chorus broke for an instant.
“Grafters! Dead ones!” loudly retorted a singer.
“You’ve sung enough; thanks.”
“We’ve got a right. Come over, grafters.”
Silence temporarily. The girl in the red car laughed again, and stepped out on the running-board, showing a fair, mirthful face in the firelight.
“Why do they call the people over there that, Allan?”
“Because they are out in the fields and have not paid for a place, as have we who are inside the fence.”
The explanation was given with the leisurely care that characterized all Allan Phillipse said or did. The girl nodded amusedly and surveyed the scene with wide brown eyes.
“At dawn the race,” she mused aloud. “The flying cars, the crowding people, flags fluttering; and then––what? What is it to the racers, I wonder? A perilous rush, a blaze of color; then victory or defeat, and silence?”
“I dare say,” assented Allan serenely.
“Very well expressed,” approved a voice from the car on the other side of the fire; a gleaming French limousine with a sleeping chauffeur in the front seat.
The girl looked that way, startled, but smiled immediate recognition of the speaker's privilege.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged.
The birdlike, white-haired old gentleman with the bright black eyes nodded further approval.
“Very right; when one is sixty, one can say what one thinks. I am very tired of sitting alone and trying to sleep; I have been watching you two for an hour. You see, this is my first automobile race.”
“Mine, too,” she laughed. “Mama declared that it was absurd for me to contemplate sitting up all night on the course. But I wanted to go so much that I ran away with Allan, and left a note of explanation on my pincushion. Allan wanted to take me; he has attended every race for four years.”
The old gentleman glanced doubtfully at the third member, who still idly fed the fire.
“Your husband––”
“Oh, pardon; I am not married.”
“You––”
She dimpled into a rosy deprecation of his surprise.
“I am Flavia Phillipse; this is my brother Allan. And––and will you not come sit by our fire and share our coffee?”
He descended from his car in an instant, saluting her charmingly.
“I am enchanted. My name is Carew, Geoffry Carew. You are kind to relieve the distressed, Miss Phillipse. It is ridiculous, of course, but I really was extremely lonely.”
She stepped down, a slim figure in her long coat, and gave him her hand. Her brother languidly dragged himself erect and also shook hands with the guest.
“Have a blanket, sir,” he drawled. “At least, I don't mean to wear, but to sit upon. Ground's damp; it has been raining. They will have a wet track to-day.”
“That is good—lays the dust?”
Allan looked twice to see if a jest was intended, then shrugged a shoulder.
“The drivers will be jolly likely to break their necks.”
“How extraordinary! I know nothing of these things. That”––he waved a hand toward the limousine––“that is my first automobile. I––er––never fancied it would be so interesting.”
Allan's eyes went in that direction.
“Nineteen-nine machine,” he remarked laconically.
“Yes. I bought it yesterday.”
“Coffee,” invited Flavia, carefully passing the cup. “Allan dear, what time is it?”
“Quarter to four. If you don't mind, I think I'll roll up and have a nap.”
“Roll,” directed his sister, setting down the coffee-pot. “Oh, I wish it was morning, and I wish the course was not wet.”
Mr. Carew regarded her meditatively. Allan wound himself in his blanket and reclined by the fire like an Indian, propping his head on his arm.
“You mean you do not wish to see an accident?” the old gentleman inquired.
“Yes. It is too appalling to know that the drivers may be killed to amuse us, Did you ever see one of them; how young they are?”
“Never.”
“I did,” said Flavia, and lapsed into silence.
A damp wind came sighing across the meadows, bringing its alien freshness among the thousand lights and sounds of the strange carnival. Down the line a party of professional car-demonstrators were loudly holding forth on the tricks of their trade. Up and down the course travelled the automobiles seeking their places or choosing points of view; ancient one-cylinder types suggesting donkey-engines, taxicabs and huge glittering touring-cars, lithe roadsters; their license cards showing visitors from far and near.
“There is really an element of romance in all this,” observed Mr. Carew, after a time. “It is absurd, but I wish I had understood sooner the fascination in these machines. I see now that to drive them must be––er––bewildering.”
Flavia moved a trifle nearer on her blanket.
“Yes,” she assented warmly. “When we came in this evening, one of the racers passed us in his car. He is younger than Allan, I am sure. Just for a moment I saw his grave, dark profile against the pale gray sky. I wondered why he looked so serious; every other time he was laughing.”
“Every other time? You know him, then?”
She hesitated, glanced at the dozing Allan, then smiled into the twinkling black eyes opposite.
“I have seen him,” she confided. “Last spring, while I was visiting Aunt Julia up on the Hudson, the racers were practising near Briarcliff. Several times when I was out riding I met this driver, and reined aside to let him pass. He always bowed acknowledgment, and he was always laughing. He seemed to laugh as he breathed, so naturally; all his face sparkled and gleamed and was young. But last night he looked different, although he smiled when he saw me.”
“He saw you?”
She nodded, half mischievously, half triumphantly.
“Yes; and I hope he wins.”
“These chauffeurs are not––er––exactly of our class,” suggested Mr. Carew delicately. “Mine uses bad grammar, my dear. Your description reminds me of some one very different. Really, it was very good of you to rescue me from that lonely car.”
“I am so glad you spoke to me. See how Allan sleeps. How lonely I should have been!”
“Half past four!” called a voice down the embankment.
“Put out your lights!” vociferated the whole row, as a car swung into place opposite, bringing its glaring white searchlights into focus upon those across. “Put out your lights! We want to sleep over here. Lights! Lights!”
Bursts of ironic applause greeted the compliance with the command.
“To go to a Cup race once is an experience; to go twice is––foolishness,” drawled Allan, aroused to bitter epigram. “And it's commencing to shower again.”
Flavia tilted an empty coffee pot and shook her head.
“Poor boy,” she began, then stopped.
Far down the course s burst of cheering had started, passing from group to group and rapidly nearing. A vibrant, explosive roar, a succession of snapping reports. Flavia sprang to her feet as the first of the arriving racers sped up the dim track, wrapped in scintillating violet flame.
“Ah, Allan! Allan!” she cried excitedly.
The man in the car turned his head toward the three so clearly visible in the ruddy light of the fire: Flavia, erect and vivid, and the two others, who had half risen. In the darkness the driver himself was only a blurred shape, past as soon as seen. The wave of cheering followed him, leaving murmuring silence behind.
“An American car; Bertie driving,” shouted one of the professional demonstrators near-by.
“Bertie nothing! That was Dorian,” contradicted a comrade.
“Bertie––”
“Dorian––”
“Who is right?” questioned Mr. Carew interestedly. “To appreciate the race, I suppose I should know something of such things?”
“It isn't necessary,” Allan reassured, without a quiver of visible irony. “You will have a programme. It's so dark yet that I could not tell who this was, or what car. But it's drizzling rain again; won't you stroll over to the tent at the grand-stand, and we'll hunt up some coffee?”
The old gentleman actually colored, a faint gratified pink. Flavia divined that something in the sans façon invitation had pleased him very much, as she watched.
“Could we both leave your sister?” he doubted.
“Please do,” she urged. “Indeed, I am quite safe here. See all the people around, and your chauffeur over there. I will get in our car”—illustrating the words. “No one can see me or that I am alone. Please go; I will take a nap, perhaps.”
“Of course,” said Allan placidly. “She is all right. Come on, Mr. Carew.”
Flavia waved gay dismissal and nestled back among the soft rugs and cushions. As the two men vanished in the mist, she took off her cap and shook back her bright curls with a sigh of content. The first train from the city was in and a motley stream of people poured down the course; laughing, chattering, commenting freely upon the automobiles ranged along the embankment in a solid row. Leaning back in her shadowed seclusion, the young girl gazed out at the shifting panorama. By and by another racing-car shot through the dividing crowds.
“It is a carnival night, a night of the permitted unusual,” said a pleasantly serious voice. “I wonder, since it is for once and only for a moment––I wonder if you would listen to me.”
Flavia turned to encounter the brilliant dark eyes of a man in a long coat, who stood bareheaded beside the car.
“You are the man who races!” she recognized amazedly.
He smiled frankly and delightfully; he indeed looked decidedly younger than Allan, at close range.
“Yes. And because I race in a very brief hour, I wish you would let me speak. Because I really have a purpose and not an impertinence in approaching you; because when I saw the lady of Briarcliff bere in the firelight with a certain old gentleman, I just had to come.”
It was all part of the unreal night, as he said. Quite naturally and simply Flavia rested her arm on the back of the other seat in order to face him as she replied:
“Why should I not listen, since you are in earnest? You know Mr. Carew?”
“I ought to,” he returned composedly. “He is my father.”
She had known the answer before it was given; she knew now why she had liked the old gentleman and invited him to coffee; it had been because his black eyes were so familiar.
“But you––you drive––” she exclaimed.
“One has to live, mademoiselle. Besides, I love it.”
“A quarrel?” she hazarded uncertainly.
“N’no; a challenge, rather. We both have too strong a sense of humor to quarrel very badly. But once he told me to take care of myself for six months; and I have been doing it ever since.”
“He lets you do this?”
“He doesn't know anything about it. You see, chance threw me into this life––I used to drive my own carh––and after I started I could not bear to stop. Every Christmas I send him a box of his pet cigars with a card of good wishes inside. It is just a joke, all this; he loves a joke.”
“Every Christmas! Why, how long––”
He paused to consider.
“How long? I was twenty-two when I started out; now I am nearly twenty-five.”
“Three years.”
“But I have been busy––too busy to think. And I knew if I went back, he would laugh. He laughs at everything. If you understood him, you would not look at me so reproachfully; he never had a sentimental hour in his life. He almost laughed all sentiment out of me. Not quite, or I should not be here.”
He regarded her tentatively. Flavia, returning the gaze, read something beneath his changing animation of expression; something of the gravity she had surprised in him the evening before as they entered the speedway.
“You laughed at Briarcliff, but to-night you do not,” she said. “If I can help you, please let me.”
His lashes fell.
“Thank you. It is nonsense, what I meant to say.”
She waited in a silence full of sympathy, and presently he lifted his eyes with a boyish directness of appeal.
“It is all most familiar to me, this scene and race. I am no novice at this, here or abroad. Yet to-night there is a difference; all night there has been with me a sense of finality, a feeling of doing each accustomed act for the last time. Absurd, unreasoning; yet it seems to me that I never again will find dawn summoning me to the white track.”
“You mean––”
“Do you remember the old tradition among the English highwaymen: that never one of their number passed his seventh year at the game without death or capture?”
“I remember.”
He turned his head to gaze absently at the passing stream.
“I have been a fairly successful driver for several years, with the curious record of not one accident. My comrades have laughed, marvelled, envied, and finally warned. ‘It will come all at once,’ they declared. ‘Better to have it our way; a little at a time.’ I laughed at the fact and them, until tonight. I am not superstitious, but I almost believe my ‘seventh year’ is to-morrow.”
She gave a stifled exclamation.
“And we others come to watch you risk that! To be amused!”
He smiled, but his dark eyes welcomed the earnestness.
“Of course you do; what would we do without our audience? I only meant to say that I am serious enough to wish I had used my days more thoughtfully. My father sent me out as a jest, as a jest I accepted the challenge; but I am afraid there was a good deal of obstinacy about my part, too. Now, if anything goes wrong this morning, what will he think of me?”
“He will come back with my brother; you can see him.”
“And tell him I am going to race? Impossible.
“If I could take a message––”
“I came to ask that; you see, I took it for granted that you would help me. If you will say”––he hesitated, framing the thoughts.
Flavia watched him, waiting, herself quite pale with agitation and interest. The bonfire was dying to embers; a faint gray crept through the atmosphere with a promise of future light. The rain had ceased, but a few shining drops still glinted on his bent head among the boyish waves of dark hair, and sparkled on his coat; the coat beneath which she caught a glimpse of the close-fitting driving costume.
“I must go; I suppose there is a panic of searching for me, by this time,” he mused. “We are going to have a wet track.”
Allan's earlier remark rushed back to her memory.
“Oh, why do you drive? How can you when you doubt the safety?” she exclaimed vehemently. “Why should you? Go home with him—do not race to-day!”
He turned a surprised, vivid face to her, shaking off the darker mood like a cloak.
“Not race! Flinch from my ‘seventh year,’ desert my car and its owners? You are playing, or laughing at my late superstition. Why, I would not miss this race, the contest and struggle and danger, for all three fates with their thumbs down or a thousand premonitions crying cave! I love all this. Ah!”
Another lithe racer shot by, interrupting him. Tramping feet, shouts, throbbing motors, the sea of sound surged back and forth around them.
“The message?” she reminded. “If you will go, what shall I say to him?”
He brought his shining eyes back to her.
“That was my closest rival––a French car. I must go. The message If you will be so very good, say nothing while all goes well; after the run I will go to him myself. And all will go well, of course; what nonsense I have been talking. But if anything should go wrong, please tell him that it has taken me three years to outgrow an overdeveloped sense of humor, and that when I did I meant to go back and fix my part of the trouble.”
“Only that?”
“I am afraid he will laugh at even so much sentiment. It is growing lighter; would you shake hands for good-by? And––I am Leslie Carew––”
She gave him her hand willingly; a firm, frank little hand, like a nice boy’s.
“I am Flavia Phillipse; I am here with my brother Allan. I hope you win, indeed, indeed. Your father––I am sure he will not laugh.”
“Thank you for everything. I’m coming to find you after this is over. I’ve been hunting for you ever since Briarcliff, you know.”
His gay ardent face questioning her, his warm clasp––and the space by the car was empty.
“For I really hate to leave you, Honey-boy!” chanted the chorus.
It was not long before Allan and Mr. Carew came pushing through the throngs.
“Such a crowd,” panted the old gentleman gleefully. “Man overturned a cup of coffee upon my coat––a most ridiculous affair. Imagine all these people coming to see an auto race, Miss Phillipse, when they never can hope to own so much as a wheelbarrow.”
He was leaning on Allan’s arm, happy and somewhat dishevelled. As Flavia met his eyes, he added a confidence.
“It is very pleasant to go out with a young man again. I have been alone a good deal of late.”
“I’m all used up, getting through the mob,” observed Allan. “The sun is going to come out; I think I’ll sit out here and smoke.”
“Come in with me, Mr. Carew,” Flavia urged. “Please let us chat a little while. I––I believe I once met your son.”
“My son?” The black eyes widened, startled, then he smiled whimsically. “Is it possible? A charming fellow, my son.”
She drew aside the rugs and he climbed in beside her.
It was not difficult to lead him to the subject. In the brightening sunrise, amidst the joyous and noisy preparations for the race, Flavia heard the rest of the comedy.
“Leslie? He had so much energy that he finished college by the time he was twenty-two, just to get it out of the way. He lived to drive an automobile. It is absurd, but I had a prejudice against these machines––then. They––er––cost a good deal of trouble. Leslie was frequently in trouble; I enjoyed watching very much. But after a while he began to get arrested for overspeeding. First I paid fines and laughed; then I paid fines without laughing. I paid for dogs, chickens, a pig. He only smiled and kept on. He said it was a joke on me; we both liked a joke. I am afraid I trained him to that.”
“He said––something of it.”
“Yes? Well, on the final occasion I was guilty of losing my temper. He had been arrested in New Jersey, and it cost me a tidy sum to keep him out of jail. When I got him home, ‘Leslie,’ I said, ‘this is quite enough. I––er––I am tired. The next time you are arrested, you may go to prison. I shall not interfere, really.’
“‘Really, sir?’ he echoed sweetly, dangling his goggles by the ribbon and smiling at me; he had a pretty manner.
“‘Yes,’ I answered. I meant it then, and he saw that I did.
“He was irreproachable for three months––all summer. Then one September evening he called me up on the telephone.
“‘I am under arrest in Connecticut, sir. Were you really serious last spring?’
“Of course I was not angry by that time, but the joke was too excellent to miss.
“‘Really, yes,’ I replied. ‘Moreover, after you get out, why do you not try earning your own living for six months, just to learn the value of money?’
“‘All right, sir. Good-by.’ I heard him laugh and he rang off.”
“You did not let them keep him in prison!” Flavia cried.
Mr. Carew nodded sagely.
“He was driving a six thousand dollar car; I fancied he could gather up his fine. Next day I took a trip out there, and found he was gone. He had coaxed the local authorities into good humor, pawned his speedometer to pay a twenty-five dollar fine, and departed. I expected him home that day; when he failed to appear I saw that he was going to try the six months. That was three years ago, and he has never come home since. Oh, I hear from him once a year; it is only a jest. He was never sentimental. But I miss him, do you know?”
Wordless lest she should say too much, Flavia sat gazing at him. Presently he looked up again, with a droll smile that was half a wince.
“And after all he had not been arrested for speeding. The cords had broken and he had lost his license number off the rear of the car. It was not his fault at all.”
“He did not tell you?”
“No. It was his part in the farce to let me find out. The house is very quiet. I actually bought this automobile and came here because I fancied I might meet him.”
“I'm getting hungry,” announced Allan, from the ground. “Come on out, Flavia.”
They had breakfast; a weird, picnic meal drawn from the hampers of the two cars. With the end came the uproar that saluted the opening of the race, bringing all three to their feet.
Not until Allan had put a pink programme into the excited Flavia's hands, not until she vainly searched the list of cars and drivers for a sign of Leslie Carew, did she remember that she had not asked his racing name. And as the first car sprang roaring from its place, she saw that the drivers were utterly unrecognizable under their masks.
“Alan, how does one tell who is who? Allan, do listen.”
“Number on the car, number on the bulletin,” he explained succinctly. Georgia got off at eight one, Strong at eight two––there goes Dorian. Keep your score, child.”
But Flavia was beyond the keeping of scores. Standing on the seat, clutching Allan’s sleeve for support, she saw the scarlet flag flutter on the distant white hill, saw the first car leap over the summit, flash around the curves, and shoot roaring past on the narrow track.
“Georgia! Georgia!” shouted the demonstrators nearby. “Keep off the course,” as the crowd pressed out over the road to watch for the next car.
“He will look this way, surely he will look,” thought Flavia. But before long she realized that the drivers had no attention to give. The eager swarming people left barely room to pass, the scanty lane gave no place for a careless turn. The sun was shining brilliantly across a scene all color and animation.
“It’s a twenty-mile course,” Allan was explaining to the interested Mr. Carew. “That is why there is some time between the cars. Strong hasn’t come around yet; must be having trouble.”
Flavia clenched her small hands in quivering nervousness and unwilling exhilaration. The cheering people, the shouting venders, the rushing passage of the cars, were all bewildering.
“Car coming, car coming,” ran the warning down the line each time the flag rose. Get off the course; car coming.”
Odd fragments of news or rumor floated to her ears. The French car had killed a boy on the Turnpike; number thirteen had tire trouble; Vauxhall’s car had caught fire and singed its owner’s mustache and eyebrows. Some of the cars failed to come around. One burst into flame before their eyes––only to be hurried to the compound, extinguished, and sent plunging on.
But gradually three names became heard on all lips; Flavia learned that the race lay among them. Bertie, Dorian, Small––these were the favorites. Remembering the dispute when the first car arrived in the night, she watched the first two named. The excitement around was at fever point, as men stood watches in hand. It was the last lap for those three, Allan said.
Flavia stood up to watch for the winning car. Her eyes were blazing, her cheeks scarlet.
“I hope you win, I hope you win,” she thought.
The wait seemed very long; people murmured and stirred restlessly.
“He twice made the round in nineteen minutes; now he’s had twenty-four.”
“Tire trouble––”
“A smash up––”
Flavia touched Allan’s shoulder.
“Who is it?” she asked.
He looked up at her.
“Dorian’s Lozelle. You’re getting too much excited, girlie.”
“Car coming!” rang the cry.
“It’s him!”
“It’s not!”
“It’s sixteen!”
Down the line swept the news: sixteen, sixteen. The crowd broke into a great roar:
“Bertie! Bertie! Bertie boy!”
Singing, cheering, waving handkerchiefs and flags, the welcoming tumult rose to delirium as the winning car flashed past.
“Allan, take me to the grand-stand-–I must see who,” implored Flavia desperately.
“Car coming,” came the cry again.
The people halted, drew back, and the second car went through.
“Small! Small!” was the gay welcome.
“Dorian’s had his smash,” one of the demonstrators asserted. “It’ll be his first, too. I bet it’s a good one.”
Flavia sank down upon the seat.
“Allan, help me find him. Hush––Mr. Carew will hear. Do not look so; Dorian is Leslie Carew. He was here this dawn.”
“Flavia!”
“It is true. Leslie Carew raced as Dorian. What shall we do?”
“Dorian!” he echoed, stupefied.
A man passing caught the name and volunteered information.
“Dorian ditched his car on the other turn to avoid killing a man on the track. It’s a blame shame the bunch won’t keep off the course. I guess he’s all in.”
“Mr. Carew, get in my car and let the chauffeur take yours home,” he directed. “We will back through the fence to that road and get out. Flavia has something to tell you. And I dare say there has been a lot of exaggeration.
It was noon when their search ended and Flavia waited by a hospital bed to meet the unclosing dark eyes.
“I gave your message,” she said quiveringly.
There was a long strip of courtplaster over his temple, his right arm was in splints, and there were other things not visible, but Leslie’s smile flashed out irresistibly.
“You are awfully good. But it is rather a joke, for I am decidedly alive yet. That premonition didn’t count, either; nothing would have happened if I had not chosen to do it myself.”
She silenced him with an appealing gesture.
“He did not laugh,” she whispered, and looked past him.
Leslie slowly turned his head and saw who stood on the other side.
“You are coming home,” said the old gentleman grimly. “It was a magnificent race, Leslie; but when you are strong enough I shall take you home in my car.”
“Your car! Oh”––again his eyes danced as he laid a bandaged left hand in the one extended––“I am very willing to go home, sir, if you can forgive me three years of over-speeding. It––it has been a farce.”
“Please do not laugh,” Flavia begged. “You might have died––”
Leslie turned to look at her, his gaze steadfast and warmly bright.
“I’m not going to die; I’m going to try and get married,” he explained sweetly. “May I?”