Chapter 38

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_ CHAPTER XXXVIII When Dorothy fled so precipitately from the room, she fairly ran into the arms of a man who was crouching at one side, listening intently. With a muttered imprecation, he drew back, and it was then Dorothy saw his face. "Hush! On your life, don't dare to make an outcry!" cried the harsh voice of Harry Kendal. Before she could utter the scream that welled up from her heart, he had seized her in his strong arms, thrown a dark shawl over her head, dashed out into the street with her, and into a cab in waiting. Too weak to struggle, too weak to cry out, her head fell backward upon her abductor's shoulder, and she knew no more. When she awoke to consciousness of what was transpiring about her, she found herself still in the coach beside Kendal, and the vehicle was whirling along through the sunshine and shadow of a country road with alarming rapidity. "Dorothy--my darling Dorothy!" he cried, clasping her hands and showering kisses upon her upturned face. "Oh, Dorothy, my little bride that is to be, why did you fly from me so cruelly the morning after the great ball at our home in Yonkers?" "Do not speak to me! Stop this coach immediately, and let me get out!" she cried. "How dare you attempt to thrust your unwelcome face in my way again? Go back to Iris Vincent, for whom you left me; or to Nadine Holt, whose heart and whose life you have wrecked. I know you for what you are, and I abhor you a thousand times more than I ever imagined I fancied you." "Do you mean that you do not wish to go back to the Yonkers home and marry me?" he demanded. But before she could find time to reply, he went on: "You were terribly foolish to grow so jealous of Iris Vincent as to run away from me. Why, I--I was merely flirting with her because she was pretty. "Why, she is married now, and at the other end of the world, for aught I know or care. I can only add that, from the moment I learned of your disappearance, I have been searching for you night and day. Oh, Dorothy, now that I have found you, do not treat me like this, I beseech you! Let us kiss and make up. We are driving direct toward the parsonage, where we are to be married. "Few men would care for you so much upon making the terrible discovery that you had fled from home and directly to the arms of an old lover, remaining under his roof until you were cast out from it by that lover himself. I do not know even what your quarrel with him was about. I do not ask to know. The object which took me there, I do not mind telling you. I had a quarrel with your lover, Jack Garner. We were to meet early this morning to settle the affair of honor; but as he did not show up to make the arrangements, I forced my way into his house, in order that I might not miss him. I heard him turning you from his door. Then amazement held me spell-bound. I shall take this into account when--when I have my settlement with him, later on. Any indignity offered to you shall be my affair, as your husband, to settle." Dorothy had drawn back from him listening with horror to the words that fell from his lips. "The duel must be averted at any cost," she told herself; yet she could not--oh, she could not!--marry him. "I must think of some way out of this," thought Dorothy, in the wildest agony. "I must save myself, and save him, too." But in a moment, while she was pondering over the affair, the vehicle came to a sudden stop, and, looking out, she saw it was standing before the wide entrance-gate of a parsonage. "Here we are!" cried Kendal, holding out his hand to her. "I have not said that I would marry you," she cried. "How dared you bring me here?" "That fact was settled between you and me so long ago that you surprise me by your words," he said, angrily. "There is such a thing as a person changing her mind," said Dorothy, as she leaped from the carriage, and stood facing him under the trees. "Surely you do not mean that you have changed yours?" retorted Kendal, knowing that his best policy was to temporize with her. "I have, indeed," declared the girl; "and you will therefore oblige me, Mr. Kendal, by re-entering your carriage and driving along." "Do you think I would leave you here, Dorothy," he said, in his most winning voice--"here, at this strange parsonage? I should say not! If you object to marrying me now, I know it is only through pique; but still I say that I shall await your own good time; and, as the song goes, 'When love has conquered pride and anger, you will call me back again.' Do get in, Dorothy, darling; do not make a scene here. See! they are watching us from the window. Get in, and we will drive on to Yonkers. It is only four miles farther up the road. I promise you you shall have your own way. Mrs. Kemp is at the old home. You will be welcomed with open arms." "Take your hand off my arm, or I shall scream!" cried the girl, struggling to free herself. Quick as a flash he seized her, and, with the rapidity of lightning, thrust her back into the coach. "Drive on--drive on!" Kendal yelled to the driver--"you know where!" and despite Dorothy's wild, piercing cries, the coach fairly flew down the white, winding road, and was soon lost to view amid the dense trees. It soon became evident to Dorothy that she was only losing her strength in shouting for help. Kendal was leaning back in his seat, with the most mocking smile on his lips that ever was seen. "It is a pity to waste so much breath on the desert air," he sneered. "I would advise you to stop before you become exhausted, as there is no one to hear you and to come to your aid." But Dorothy did not heed, and renewed her cries the more vociferously. He had said thoughtlessly, that her cries would startle the horses, never dreaming that this would indeed be the case. But, much to his alarm, he noticed that their speed was increasing with every instant of time. It broke upon him all too soon that they were indeed running away, and that the driver was powerless to check them. In great alarm, Kendal sprang to his feet and threw open the door. That action was fatal; for at that instant the horses suddenly swerved to the right, and he was flung head foremost from the vehicle; the wheels passed over him, and the next instant the coach collided with a large tree by the road-side, and Dorothy knew no more. Up this lonely path walked a woman, young and very fair, but with a face white as it would ever be in death. And as her despairing eyes traveled up and down the scene they suddenly encountered the white upturned face of a woman lying in the long grass. With a great cry she reached her side. "Dead!" she whispered in a voice of horror, as she knelt beside the figure lying there, and placed her hand over her heart. But no; the heart beneath her light touch beat ever so faintly. "Thank God! this poor creature is not dead," murmured the stranger, fervently. _

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