Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


 
   How It Happened


    She was a writing medium. This is what she wrote:

    I can remember some things upon that evening most  distinctly,  and  others
are like some vague, broken dreams.  That is what makes it so difficult to tell
a connected story. I have no idea now what it was that had taken me  to  London
and brought me back so late. It just merges into all my other visits to London.
But from the time that I got out at the little country  station  everything  is
extraordinarily clear. I can live it again - every instant of it.
    I remember so well walking down the platform and looking at the illuminated
clock at the end which told me that it was half-past eleven. I remember also my
wondering whether I could get home before midnight. Then  I  remember  the  big
motor, with its glaring headlights and glitter of polished brass,  waiting  for
me outside. It was  my  new  thirty-horse-power  Robur,  which  had  only  been 
delivered that day. I remember also asking Perkins, my chauffeur, how  she  had
gone, and his saying that he thought she was excellent.
    "I'll try her myself," said I, and I climbed into the driver's seat.
    "The gears are not the same," said he. "Perhaps, sir, I had better drive."
    "No; I should like to try her," said I.
    And so we started on the five-mile drive for home.
    My old car had the gears as they used always to be in notches on a bar.  In
this car you passed the gear-lever through a gate to get on the higher ones. It
was not difficult to master, and soon I thought that I understood  it.  It  was
foolish, no doubt, to begin to learn a new system in the dark,  but  one  often
does foolish things, and one has not always to pay the  full  price  for  them.
I got along very well until I came to Claystall Hill. It is one  of  the  worst
hills in England, a mile and a half long and one in six in places,  with  three
fairly sharp curves. My park gates stand at the very foot of it upon  the  main
London road.
    We were just over the brow of this hill, where the grade is steepest,  when
the trouble began. I had been on the top speed, and wanted to get  her  on  the
free; but she stuck between gears, and I had to get her back on the top  again.
By this time she was going at a great rate, so I clapped on  both  brakes,  and
one after the other they gave way. I didn't mind so much when I felt  my  foot-
brake snap, but when I put all my  weight  on  my  side-brake,  and  the  lever
clanged to its full limit without a catch, it brought a cold sweat out  of  me.
By this time we were fairly tearing down the slope. The lights were  brilliant,
and I brought her round the first curve all right. Then we did the second  one,
though it was a close shave for the ditch. There was a mile  of  straight  then
with the third curve beneath it, and after  that  the  gate  of  the  park.  If
I could shoot into that harbour all would be well, for  the  slope  up  to  the
house would bring her to a stand.
    Perkins behaved splendidly.  I  should  like  that  to  be  known.  He  was
perfectly cool and alert. I had thought at the very  beginning  of  taking  the
bank, and he read my intention.
    "I wouldn't do it, sir,"  said he. "At this pace it must  go  over  and  we
should have it on the top of us."
    Of course he was right. He got to the electric switch and had it off, so we
were in the free; but we were still running at a  fearful  pace.  He  laid  his
hands on the wheel.
    "I'll keep her steady," said he, "if you care to jump and chance it. We can
never get round that curve. Better jump, sir."
    "No," said I; "I'll stick it out. You can jump if you like."
    "I'll stick it with you, sir," said he.
    If it had been the old car I should have jammed  the  gear-lever  into  the
reverse, and seen what would happen. I expect she would have stripped her gears
or smashed up somehow, but it would have been  a  chance.  As  it  was,  I  was
helpless. Perkins tried to climb across, but you couldn't do it going  at  that
pace. The wheels were whirring like a high wind and the big body  creaking  and
groaning with the strain. But the lights were brilliant, and one could steer to
an inch. I remember thinking what an awful and yet  majestic  sight  we  should
appear to anyone who met us. It was a narrow road, and we were  just  a  great,
roaring, golden death to anyone who came in our path.
    We got round the corner with one wheel  three  feet  high  upon  the  bank.
I thought we were surely over, but after staggering for a  moment  she  righted
and darted onwards. That was the third corner and the last one. There was  only 
the park gate now. It was facing us, but, as luck would have it, not facing  us
directly. It was about twenty yards to the left up the main road into which  we
ran. Perhaps I could have done it, but I expect that the steering-gear had been
jarred when we ran on the bank. The wheel did not turn easily. We shot  out  of
the lane. I saw the open gate on the left. I whirled round my  wheel  with  all
the strength of my wrists. Perkins and I threw our bodies across, and then  the
next instant, going at fifty miles an hour, my right front wheel struck full on
the right-hand pillar of my own gate. I heard the crash.  I  was  conscious  of
flying through the air, and then - and then - !
    When I became aware of  my  own  existence  once  more  I  was  among  some
brushwood in the shadow of the oaks upon the lodge side of the drive. A man was
standing beside me. I imagined at first that it was Perkins, but when I  looked
again I saw that it was Stanley, a man whom I had known at college  some  years
before, and for whom I  had  a  really  genuine  affection.  There  was  always
something peculiarly sympathetic to me in  Stanley's  personality,  and  I  was
proud to think that I had some similar  influence  upon  him.  At  the  present
moment I was surprised to see him, but I was like a man in a dream,  giddy  and
shaken and quite prepared to take things as I found  them  without  questioning
them.
    "What a smash!" I said. "Good Lord, what an awful smash!"
    He nodded his head, and even in the gloom I could see that he  was  smiling
the gentle, wistful smile which I connected with him.
    I was quite unable to move. Indeed, I had not any desire to  try  to  move.
But my senses were exceedingly alert. I saw the wreck of the motor  lit  up  by
the moving lanterns. I saw the little group of  people  and  heard  the  hushed
voices. There were the lodge-keeper and his wife, and one  or  two  more.  They
were taking no notice of me, but were very busy round the  car.  Then  suddenly
I heard a cry of pain.
    "The weight is on him. Lift it easy," cried a voice.
    "It's only my leg," said another one,  which  I  recognized  as  Perkins's.
"Where's master?" he cried.
    "Here I am," I answered, but they did not seem to hear me.  They  were  all
bending over something which lay in front of the car.
    Stanley laid his hand upon my shoulder, and  his  touch  was  inexpressibly
soothing. I felt light and happy, in spite of all.
    "No pain, of course?" said he.
    "None," said I.
    "There never is," said he.
    And then suddenly a wave of amazement passed  over  me.  Stanley!  Stanley!
Why, Stanley had surely died of enteric at Bloemfontein in the Boer War!
    "Stanley!" I cried, and the words seemed to choke my throat - "Stanley, you
are dead."
    He looked at me with the same old gentle, wistful smile.
    "So are you," he answered.

    1913

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