The Squire's Daughter. Hocking Silas Kitto
filled the leaf again and raised her head.
"Try to drink this," he said. "I'm sure it will do you good." And she opened her lips and drank.
He filled the leaf a third time, and she followed him with her eyes, but did not attempt to speak.
"Now, don't you feel better?" he questioned, after she had swallowed the second draught.
"I don't know," she answered, in a whisper. "But who are you? And where am I?"
"You have had an accident," he said. "Your horse threw you. Don't you remember?"
She closed her eyes and knitted her brows as if trying to recall what had happened.
"It was close to Treliskey Plantation," he went on, "and the gate was shut. You told me to open it, and I refused. I was a brute, and I shall never forgive myself so long as I live."
"Oh yes; I remember," she said, opening her eyes slowly, and the faintest suggestion of a smile played round her ashen lips. "You took offence because – "
"I was a brute!" he interjected.
"I ought not to have spoken as I did," she said, in a whisper. "I had no right to command you. Do – do you think I shall die?"
"No, no!" he cried, aghast. "What makes you ask such a question?"
"I feel so strange," she answered, in the same faint whisper, "and I have no strength even to raise my head."
"But you will get better!" he said eagerly. "You must get better – you must! For my sake, you must!"
"Why for your sake?" she whispered.
"Because if you die I shall feel like a murderer all the rest of my life. Oh, believe me, I did not mean to be rude and unkind! I would die for you this very moment if I could make you better! Oh, believe me!" And the tears came up and filled his eyes.
She looked at him wonderingly. His words were so passionate, and rang with such a deep note of conviction, that she could not doubt his sincerity.
"It was all my fault," she whispered, after a long pause; then the light faded from her eyes again. Ralph rushed to the stream and fetched more water, but she was quite unconscious when he returned.
For a moment or two he looked at her, wondering whether her ashen lips meant the approach of death; then he gathered her up in his arms again and marched forward in the direction of St. Goram.
The road seemed interminable, while his burden hung a dead weight in his arms, and grew heavier every step he took. He was almost ready to drop, when a feeble sigh sounded close to his ear, followed by a very perceptible shudder.
He was afraid to look at her. He had heard that people shuddered when they died. A moment or two later he was reassured. A soft voice whispered —
"Are you taking me home?"
"I am taking you to St. Goram," he answered "I don't know where your home is."
She raised herself suddenly and locked her arms about his neck, and at the touch of her hands the blood leaped in his veins and his face became crimson. He no longer felt his burden heavy, no longer thought the way long. A new chord had been struck somewhere, which sang through every fibre of his being. A new experience had come to him, unlike anything he had ever before felt or imagined.
He raised her a little higher in his arms, and pressed her still closer to his heart. He was trembling from head to foot; his head swam with a strange intoxication, his heart throbbed at twice its normal rate. He had suddenly got into a world of enchantment. Life expanded with a new meaning and significance.
It did not matter for the moment who this fair creature was or where she lived. He had got possession of her; her arms were about his neck, her head rested on his shoulder, her face was close to his, her breath fanned his cheek, he could feel the beating of her heart against his own.
He marched over the brow of the hill and down the other side in a kind of ecstasy.
He waited for her to speak again, but for some reason she kept silent. He felt her fingers clutch the back of his neck, and every now and then a feeble sigh escaped her lips.
"Are you in pain?" he asked at length.
"I think I can bear it," she answered feebly.
"I wish I could carry you more gently," he said, "but the ground is very rough."
"Oh, but you are splendid!" she replied. "I wish I had not been rude to you."
He gave a big gulp, as though a lump had risen in his throat.
"Don't say that again, please," he said at length. "I feel bad enough to drown myself."
She did not reply again, and for a long distance he walked on in silence. He was almost ready to drop, and yet he was scarcely conscious of fatigue. It seemed to him as though the strength of ten men had been given to him.
"We shall be in the high road in a few minutes now," he said at length; but she did not reply. Her hands seemed to be relaxing their hold about his neck again; her weight had suddenly increased.
He staggered hurriedly forward to the junction of the roads, and then sat down suddenly on a bank, still holding his precious charge in his arms. He shifted her head a little, so that he could look at her face. She did not attempt to speak, though he saw she was quite conscious.
"There's some kind of vehicle coming along the road," he said at length, lifting his head suddenly.
She did not reply, but her eyes seemed to search his face as though something perplexed her.
"Are you easier resting?" he questioned.
She closed her eyes slowly by way of reply; she was too spent to speak.
"You have not yet told me who you are," he said at length. All thought of rank and station had passed out of his mind. They were on an equality while he sat there folding her in his arms.
She opened her eyes again, and her lips moved, but no sound escaped them.
In the distance the rattle of wheels sounded more and more distinct.
"Help is coming," he whispered. "I'm sure it is."
Her eyes seemed to smile into his, but no other answer was given.
He looked eagerly toward the bend of the road, and after a few minutes a horse and carriage appeared in sight.
"It's Dr. Barrow's carriage," he said half aloud. "Oh, this is fortunate!"
He raised a shout as the carriage drew near. The coachman saw that something had happened, and pulled up suddenly. The doctor pushed his head out of the window, then turned the door-handle and stepped out on to the roadside.
"Hello, Ralph Penlogan!" he said, rushing forward, "what is the meaning of this?"
"She got thrown from her horse up against Treliskey Plantation," he answered. "Do you know who she is?"
"Of course I know who she is!" was the quick reply. "Don't you know?"
"No. I never saw her before. Do you think she will recover?"
"Has she been unconscious all the time?" the doctor asked, placing his fingers on her wrist.
"No; she's come to once or twice. I thought at first she was dead. There's a big cut on her head, which has bled a good deal."
"She must be got home instantly," was the reply. "Help me to get her into the carriage at once!"
It was an easy task for the two men. Dorothy had relapsed into complete unconsciousness again. Very carefully they propped her up in a corner of the brougham, while the doctor took his place by her side.
Ralph would have liked to ride with them. He rather resented Dr. Barrow taking his place. He had a notion that nobody could support the unconscious girl so tenderly as himself.
There was no help for it, however. He had to get out of the carriage and leave the two together.
"Tell William," said the doctor, "to drive round to the surgery before going on to Hamblyn Manor."
"To Hamblyn Manor?"