Part 18 (1/2)
”That reminds me,” he said, averting his gaze; ”the work on which I am engaged in Branchville is the case of a man named Hardy. I'm glad he was not your uncle.”
Her face took on the hue of death. Her lips moved, but for a moment made no sound. Then, with an effort, she replied:
”You're glad--but--why?”
”Because,” he replied, with a forced smile on his lips, ”the man up at Branchville was murdered.”
She made no sound.
She simply closed her eyes and swayed toward him, weakly collapsing as she fell. He caught her quickly against his breast, a heavy, precious burden that he knew he must love, though the angels of heaven accuse her.
”Dorothy--Dorothy--forgive me,” he said, but her senses were deaf to his voice.
CHAPTER XII
A DISTURBING LOSS
Garrison, holding the limp, helpless form in his arms, gazed quickly about the room and saw the couch. He crossed the floor and placed her full length upon its cus.h.i.+ons.
She lay there so white and motionless that he was frightened. He felt it impossible to call the Robinsons. He needed water, quickly. He knew nothing of the house. His searching glance fell at once on the vase of roses, standing on the table. He caught it up, drew out the flowers, and was presently kneeling at Dorothy's side, wetting his handkerchief with the water from the vase and pressing it closely on her forehead.
She did not respond to his ministrations. He tore at her dress, where it fastened at the neck, and laid it wide open for several inches. On the creamy whiteness of her throat he sprinkled the water, then sprang to the window, threw it up, and was once more kneeling beside her.
The fresh breeze swept in gratefully and cooled her face and neck. She stirred, slightly turned, opened her eyes in a languid manner, and partially relapsed into coma.
”Thank G.o.d!” said Garrison, who had feared for her life, and he once more applied his wetted handkerchief. He spoke to her, gently:
”Forgive me, Dorothy--it's all right--everything's all right,” but her senses accepted nothing of his meaning.
For another five minutes, that seemed like an age, he rubbed at her hands, resprinkled her throat and face, and waved a folded paper to waft her the zephyr of air. When she once more opened her eyes she was fairly well restored. She recovered her strength by a sheer exertion of will and sat up, weakly, pa.s.sing her hand across her brow.
”I must have fainted,” she said. She was very white.
”You're all right now--the heat and unusual excitement,” he answered rea.s.suringly. ”Don't try to do anything but rest.”
She looked at him with wide, half-frightened eyes. Her fears had returned with her awakened intelligence.
”You mustn't stay,” she told him with a firmness he was not prepared to expect. ”Please go as soon as you can.”
”But--can I leave you like this? You may need me,” he answered. ”If there's anything I can do----”
”Nothing now. Please don't remain,” she interrupted. ”I shall go to my room at once.”
Garrison realized she was in no condition for further questioning.
Whatsoever the status of the case or his doubts, there was nothing more possible, with Dorothy in this present condition. He knew she very much desired to be alone.
”But--when shall I see you? What shall I----” he started.
”I can't tell. Please go,” she interrupted, and she sank back once more on the cus.h.i.+ons, looking at him wildly for a moment, and then averting her gaze. ”Please don't stay another minute.”