Part 41 (1/2)
”Come, come, Jacqueline, you must wake up, please! I have no time to waste.”
She rubbed her eyes, yawning. ”Let me alone, Phil! I'm half dead with sleep.--Heavens, where am I? Why are you so cross? Oh, Phil,” she gasped, memory returning in a flood. ”How is he? Is he conscious yet?”
”Who, Channing? Extremely conscious, I should say, and very much ashamed of himself. He is making an excellent breakfast in the next room.”
His stern voice caused her to hang her head. ”I suppose you're dreadfully mad at us, Reverend! Were you anxious?”
”Fortunately I didn't miss you till the school-teacher's messenger woke us with the news that you and Channing had been found lost in the woods somewhere. I've brought your clothes. It is a wonder you did not take pneumonia, wandering about half-dressed!”
She winced, and put out a wheedling hand, ”My wrapper is just as warm as a dress, and--and it looks almost like one. See! it's--it's quite long, too, Phil!--I don't think he even noticed that my stockings weren't on.”
”No?” He looked at her searchingly, and his face softened. The gaze that met his was deprecating and embarra.s.sed, but frank as a child's.
”Still,” she admitted, ”it was a dreadful thing to do.”
”It was a very silly thing to do, and as it turned out, very dangerous.
These mountaineers are a wild lot, especially with a little moons.h.i.+ne in them. You might very well have been shot, instead of Channing.”
”I wish I had been--oh, I _wish_ I had been!” Her lip quivered. ”You're so cross to me,” she wailed, ”and I've been through _such_ a lot!”
He relented. ”I don't mean to be cross, little girl. But you must see that I can't take the responsibility of such a madcap any longer. You will have to go back to civilization.”
Her face fell. ”Oh, Phil! You don't mean that you are going to give up the missionary expedition because of what I've done?”
”I do not,” he said crisply. ”I came to accomplish certain things up here, and I shan't leave till they are done. But I shall have to manage without my choir. You are going back to Storm, you and Mr. Channing.”
”When must we go?” she asked meekly.
”To-day. At once.”
”Oh, but Philip, we can't! Mr. Channing couldn't be moved so soon. His poor leg--”
”I'm afraid he will have to risk that valuable member for the good of the common cause. He is going to need much attention, that is plain, and we can't impose on this school-teacher.”
”Oh, _he_ won't mind!” interposed Jacqueline, eagerly. ”He's as good as a doctor, and a perfect dear.”
”'Dear' or not, he is a busy man, and we have no claim on his time.
Channing himself wants to go down to the neighborhood of genuine doctors, I fancy. He seems to be alarmed for fear of blood-poison developing.” Despite himself, Philip's lip curled a little.
”I don't believe you're one bit sorry for Mr. Channing!”
”Now that you mention it,” murmured Philip, ”I don't believe I am. It serves him d.a.m.ned right!” He turned on his heel and left the room.
But later when she came out to him, dressed and abjectly penitent, he spoke more gently. ”Jacky dear, I've got to interfere once more in something that is perhaps not my business. How do matters stand between you and our author friend? Has he decided yet whether he wants to marry you?”
The hot blood rushed into her cheeks. ”Why--why, I don't know,” she stammered, ”He never--Philip Benoix, that certainly is _not_ your business! The idea!”
”Whatever is your mother's business I make mine,” he said quietly.