The Tidal Wave by Ethel May Dell (mobi reader TXT) 📖

to my friend Gregory Mountfort to come and see me. He is my doctor."
She looked up at him quickly. She was sitting on her doorstep and the August sunlight was on her hair. There were wonderful glints of gold among the dark curls.
"Shall you go away, then?" she asked.
"I may--soon," he said.
She was silent, bending over some work that she had taken up. The man looked down at the bowed head. The old look of perplexity, of wonder, was in his eyes.
"What shall you do?" he said abruptly.
She made a startled movement, but did not raise her eyes.
"I shall just--go on," she said, in a voice that was hardly audible.
"Not here," he said. "You will be lonely."
There was an unusual note of mastery in his voice. She glanced up, and met his eyes resolutely for a moment.
"I am used to loneliness," she said slowly.
"But you don't prefer it?" he said.
She bent her head again.
"Yes, I prefer it," she said.
There followed a pause. Then abruptly Durant asked a question.
"Are you still sorry for me?" he said.
"No," said Molly.
He bent slightly towards her. Movement had become much easier to him of late.
"Molly," he said very gently, "that is the kindest thing you have ever said."
She laughed in a queer, shaky note over her work.
He bent nearer.
"You have done a tremendous lot for me," he said, speaking very softly. "I wonder if I dare ask of you--one thing more?"
She did not answer. He put his hand on her shoulder.
"Molly," he said, "will you marry me?"
"No," said Molly under her breath.
"Ah!" he said. "Forgive me for asking!"
She looked up at him then with that in her eyes which he could not understand.
"Mr. Durant," she said, steadily, "I thank you very much, and it isn't--that. But I can only be your friend."
"Never anything more, Molly?" he said, and he smiled at her, very gently, very kindly, but without tenderness.
"No, sir," Molly said in the same steady tone. "Never anything more."
* * *


"Well," said Gregory Mountfort on the following day, "this place has done wonders for you, Hugh. You're a different man."
"I believe I am," said Hugh.
He spoke with his eyes upon a bouquet of poppies and corn that had been left at his door without any message early that morning. It was eloquent to him of a friendship that did not mean to be lightly extinguished, but his heart was heavy notwithstanding. He had begun to desire something greater than friendship.
"Physically," said Mountfort, "you are stronger than I ever expected to see you again. You don't suffer much pain now, do you?"
"No, not much," said Durant.
He turned to stare out of his open window at the sunlit sea. His eyes were full of weariness.
"Look here," the doctor said. "You're not an invalid any longer. I should leave this place if I were you. Go abroad! Go round the world! Don't stagnate any longer! It isn't worthy of you."
Hugh Durant shook his head.
"It's no good trying to float a stranded hulk, dear fellow," he said. "Don't attempt it! I am better off where I am."
"You ought to get married," his friend returned brusquely. "You weren't created for the lonely life."
"I shall never marry," Durant said quietly.
And Mountfort was disappointed. He wondered if he were still vexing his soul over the irrevocable.
He had motored down from town, and in the afternoon he carried his patient off for a thirty-mile spin. They went through the depths of the country, through tiny villages hidden among the hills, through long stretches of pine woods, over heather-covered uplands. But though it did him good, Durant was conscious of keenest pleasure when, returning, they ran into view of the sea. He felt that the shore and the sand-dunes were his own peculiar heritage.
Mountfort steered for the village scattered over the top of the cliff. Durant had persuaded him to remain for the night, and he had to send a telegram. They puffed up a steep, winding hill to the post-office, and the doctor got out.
"Back in thirty seconds," he said, as he walked away.
Hugh was in no hurry. It was a wonderfully calm evening. The sea looked like a sheet of silver, motionless, silent, immense. The tide was very low. The sand-dunes looked mere hummocks from that great height. Myriads of martens were circling about the edge of the cliff, which was protected by a crazy wooden railing. He sat and watched them without much interest. He was thinking chiefly of that one cottage on the shore a hundred feet below, which he knew so well.
He wondered if Molly had been to the summer-house to look for him; and then, chancing to glance up, he caught sight of her coming towards him from the roadside. At the same instant something jerked in the motor, and it began to move. It was facing up the hill, and the angle was a steep one. Very slowly at first the wheels revolved, and the car moved straight backwards as if pushed by an unseen hand.
Hugh realised the danger in a moment. The road curved sharply not a dozen yards behind him, and at that curve was the sheer precipice of the cliff. He was powerless to apply the brakes, and he could not even throw himself out. The sudden consciousness of this ran through him piercing as a sword-blade.
In every pulse of his being he felt the intense, the paralysing horror of violent death. For the first awful moment he could not even call for help. The sensation of falling headlong backwards gripped his throat and choked his utterance.
He made a wild, ineffectual movement with his hands. And then he heard a loud cry. A woman's figure flashed towards him. She seemed to swoop as the martens swooped along the face of the cliff. The car was running smoothly towards that awful edge. He felt that it was very near--horribly near; but he could not turn to look.
Even as the thought darted through his brain he saw Molly, wide-eyed, frenzied, clinging to the side of the car. She was in the act of springing on to it, and that knowledge loosened his tongue.
He yelled to her hoarsely to keep away. He even tried to thrust her hands off the woodwork. But she withstood him fiercely, with a strength that agonised and overcame. In a second she was on the step, where she swayed perilously, then fell forward on her hands and knees at his feet.
The car continued to run back. There came a sudden jerk, a crash of rending wood, a frightful pause. The railing had splintered. They were on the brink. Hugh bent and tried to take her in his arms.
He was strung to meet that awful plunge; he was face to face with death; but--was it by some miracle?--the car was stayed. There, on the very edge of destruction, with not an inch to spare, it stood suddenly motionless, as if checked by some mysterious, unseen force.
As complete understanding returned to him, Hugh saw that the woman at his feet had thrown herself upon the foot brake and was holding it pressed down with both her rigid hands.
* * *


"Yes; but who taught her where to look for the brake?" said Mountfort two hours later.
The excitement was over, but the subject fascinated Mountfort. The girl had sprung away and disappeared down one of the cliff paths directly Hugh had been extricated from danger. Mountfort was curious about her, but Hugh was uncommunicative. He had no answer ready to Mountfort's question. He scarcely seemed to hear it.
Barely a minute after its utterance he reached for his crutches and got upon his feet.
"I am going down to the shore," he said. "I shan't sleep otherwise. You'll excuse me, old fellow?"
Mountfort looked at him and nodded. He was very intimate with Hugh.
"Don't mind me!" he said.
And Hugh went out alone in the summer dusk.
The night was almost ghostly in its stillness. He went down the winding path that he knew so well without a halt. Far away the light of a steamer travelled over the quiet water. The sea murmured drowsily as the tide rose. It was not quite dark.
Outside her cottage-door he stopped and tapped upon the stone. The door stood open, and as he waited he heard a clear, low whistle behind him on the dunes. She was coming towards him, the great dog Caesar bounding by her side. As she drew near he noticed again how slight she was, and marvelled at her strength.
She reached him in silence. The light was very dim. He put out his hand to her, but somehow he could not utter a word.
"I knew it must be you," she said. "I--I was waiting for you."
She put her hand into his; but still the man stood mute. No words would come to him.
She looked at him uncertainly, almost nervously. Then--
"What is it?" she asked, under her breath.
He spoke at last but not to utter the words she expected.
"I haven't come to say, 'Thank you,' Molly," he said. "I have come to ask why."
"Oh!" said Molly.
She was startled, confused, almost scared, by the mastery that underlay the gentleness of his tone. He kept her hand in his, standing there, facing her in the dimness; and, cripple as he was, she knew him for a strong man.
"I have come to ask," he said--"and I mean to know--why yesterday you refused to marry me."
She made a quick movement. His words astounded her. She felt inclined to run away. But he kept her prisoner.
"Don't be afraid of me, Molly!" he said half sadly. "You had a reason. What was it."
She bit her lip. Her eyes were full of sudden tears.
"Tell me!" he said.
And she answered, as if he compelled her:
"It was because--because you don't love me," she said with difficulty.
She felt his hand tighten upon hers.
"Ah!" he said. "And that was--the only reason?"
Molly was trembling.
"It was the only reason that mattered," she said in a choked voice.
He leant towards her in the dusk.
"Molly," he said. "Molly, I worship you!"
She heard the deep quiver in his voice, and it thrilled her from head to foot. She began to sob, and he drew her towards him.
"Wait!" she said, "Oh, wait! Come inside, and I'll tell you!"
He went in with her, leaning on her shoulder.
"Sit down!" whispered Molly. "I'm going to tell you something."
"Don't cry!" he said gently. "It may be something I know already."
"Oh, no, it isn't!" she said with conviction.
She stood before him in the twilight, her hands clasped tightly together.
"Do you remember a girl called Mary Fielding?" she said, with a piteous effort to control her voice. "She used to be the friend of--of--your _fiancee_, Lady Maud Belville, long ago, before you had your accident."
He nodded gravely.
"I remember her," he said.
"I don't suppose you ever noticed her much," the girl continued shakily. "She was uninteresting, and always in the background."
"I should know her anywhere," said Durant with confidence.
"No, no," she protested. "I'm sure you wouldn't. You--you never gave her a second thought, though she--was foolish enough--idiotic enough--to--to care whether you did or not."
"Was she?" he said softly. "Was she? And was that why she came to live among the sand-dunes