Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 258, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 October 1920 — Fate at the Wheel [ARTICLE]

Fate at the Wheel

By FREDERICK HART

«a. 1920, by McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) When Arthur Stanley awoke to consciousness of things around him he realized two things: one was the pain that beat with maddening insistence ■t the back of his head, the other was the presence of a soft hand that rested lightly on his brow and a soothing voice that spoke words of pity in his ear. 6e opened his eyes painfully but found the glare of the sunlight too much for him and closed them again. Desperately he tried to reconstruct the Incidents that led to his present state. There had been a long stretch of white road —he remembered that perfectly—that had challenged the young blood in his veins and the sixty-horse-power under his hands to their utmost Yes, and he had responded to the challenge; he remeihbered seeing the number 65 crawl into sight in the little oblong opening of the speedometer;. 65-76-73; could he make 75? And then .... He seemed to remember a slight turn in the road —such a turn as he was accustomed to look at with contempt. But there was a little sideslip somehow —and then he. didn’t remember any more, strive as he might He groaned at the futility of his effort. “Does it hurt so much?’’ The soft voice was speaking. The voice surely had no part in his recollections. He opened his eyes again and this time forced them to stay open despite the pain it caused him. And he told himself, shaken as he was, that it waa worth the trouble. He was lying on a miraculously smooth greensward that was as soft as a mattress to his aching limbs, and under his head was a smooth white arm, while a slim hand kept up its soothing ministrations. And very near to his own face was a tender pair of eyes and a gently , curving mouth that expressed all that ministering angels are supposed to be. This miraculous apparition was kneeling by him and comforting him. He tried to struggle Into a sitting posture and. almost shrieked at the sudden stab, of pain that the effort cost him. And then he was aware of another presence—a masculine presence on the other side, who spoke gruffly the while it delved in a little black bag that clinked ominously. The stabbing pain repeated itself and despite his efforts he moaned. The masculine presence was speaking again.

“We can’t move him like this,” it said. "Wait a minute.” Arthur Stanley saw a hand holding, a handkerchief pushed under his note, smelt a sickish-sweetish odor, took a couple of convulsive gasps and—knew no more. When he awoke he was in a cool, white bed to a cool, white room, and the divinity of a few minutes—or was it hours?—before was bending Over him. “Wh-where am I?” he queried weakly. “And how—how did I get here?” “Sh-SV The doctor said you musn’t He was tn a mood to lie still, as the slightest' movement racked his body, with strange and unaccustomed pains, and he listened motionless as she told him how she had been sitting on the piazzareading when she had heard a fearful Crash and saw his body corqe hurtHng through the hedge that divided her .place from the road; how she had bten alone at the time except for an old gardener who pottered around the place; how she had sent him on a run for the doctor while she ministered guch first aid as she could, and SiOly how she had had him moved to a. room in the house Instead of to the hospital when examination had disclosed no necessity for an operation—merely a setting of some broken bones and complete rest, “But—but where am I? And who "are you?” He seemed to be striving to bring a halting memory within the bf his control. _£he laughed deliciously. “I knew you wouldn’t remember nle,” gfce said. “We met last winter at the Dalrymple’s ball at the Ritz —but I was only a little ‘flapper’ then, and I was awfully glad to get a chance to dance with you—oh, yes, I knew you then—by reputation—but you didn’t know, me. Don’t you remember Constance Whitney?” =• It came back to him, in great lantern* flashes—Jh® glittering ball, the round of dances with girls he knew and cared nothing for, and the one dance that had stuck in his memory—a waltz with a dreamy-eyed little girl who danced as though she were the spirit of the music, itself—a little girl classed’ only as a “sub-deb,” but who had made more Impression on him than any of the other girls he had, met that nigiit. He remembered how he had inquired about her, only to find out that her family had taken her oft to Europe fbr the season; and then she had slipped his mind until—” “What happened tb the car?” he afraid there’s nothing much left Of it but junk. Ton were very reckless”—this last with a pretty air of proprietorship—“to drive so fast. It* all smashed.” L _ . _ 4“I don’t care a hang If there’s nothing left but the tail Ught»” he announced vigorously, “I was pretty lucky—” In his eagerness bp tried to sit up. and sank back with a groan. JCba pretty, smiling face opposite

changed in an instant to one of the gravest concern. • “You mustn't move at all,* she declared, “and Tve talked heaps too much to you already. Pm going to leave you. Briggs will bring you your dinner in an hour." And despite his weak protests she % left him. But there were other afternoons—afternoons when his gradually Increasing strength permitted him to sit up and talk for hours together to her. He met her father —a gray-haired example of the old school gentleman — and her mother, a prim, smiling old lady who made much of him as mothers will who have no sons —but most of all he enjoyed the long, quiet afternoons spent with her, listening to her rippling voice as she- talked to him or read aloud from some book or other. It was a gala day when at last he was allowed to go outdoors. He was carefully carried down In a huge chair ’ which was set on the lawn in the’ late afternoon sunlight. He drew in a deep lungful of the tingling air and exhaled it gratefully. “Gad!” be exclaimed. “It’s good to see the sky again!" Constance was with him, tucking the rug about him, giving him a little heap of letters and telegrams —messages from his friends, congratulating him on his recovery. He read them eagerly, hungrily. IK was good to have so many people inquiring about him. Suddenly it came over him what a great sacrifice the girl who was sitting beside him had made for him. In a wave of tenderness and gratitude he caught her hand. “My dear Constance, how can I ever thank you? You must have ruined your summer waiting on me. I—l didn’t deserve it. Why, you gave up .everything! You shouldn’t have done it" He still held her hand, and it came to him that she made no effort to release it He looked at her face and saw the tears in her eyes. “It—it wasn’t anything,” she said, turning away to hide her tears. “I—l just couldn’t help It I —l wanted to—more than anything in my life.” She was frankly sobbing now, and trying to free her hand. But he clung to it and drew It toward him.

“Why, Constance, dear —Constance —I didn’t know —I didn’t think you cared like that Dearest girl. I’ve wanted to tell you all along, but 1 thought you only pitied me.” “Oh, it ‘ was more than that,” she cried. “Ever and ever so much more — so much more that —” But it was so much more that she couldn’t say it. Her arms around his neck told him.