For an instant Kendal looked at the housekeeper in amazement.
"What of Dorothy?" he repeated, breathlessly.
"She has disappeared too!" returned the housekeeper, faintly, adding:
"She did not go with Iris, as you may imagine."
"No?" he echoed, faintly, inquiringly.
"No," she responded; "she went alone. She said to Katy, last night, 'If
you wake up on the morrow, and do not find me here, do not weep. I shall
be where I will be better off. No one will miss me--no one will know or
care whither I have gone.' Katy thought them idle words, and paid little
heed to them; but this morning, when she awoke and found that Dorothy
was not in her room, in the greatest of alarm she came to me and told me
what had occurred. At that moment I was just smarting under the blow of
Iris' elopement, and words fail to describe my feelings at this second
and most terrible catastrophe, for I realized how it would affect you,
my poor boy."
Kendal had sunk down into the nearest chair, white as death, and
trembling like an aspen-leaf.
He could hardly grasp the meaning of her words. "Dorothy gone--Iris fled
with another!" His lips twitched convulsively, but he uttered no sound.
"I made diligent search for Iris and Dorothy," Mrs. Kemp went on,
tearfully. "I found my niece had been married at the rectory, and had
taken the first train to the city with her newly made husband; they
intend starting on the steamer which leaves New York for Europe to-day.
So, of course, there was nothing to be done in Iris' case, so I turned
my attention to Dorothy. But, as I remarked before, it was useless. I
think she must have gone to New York City, and if she has, trying to
find her will be like hunting for a needle in a hay-stack. I was shocked
that she should have left to-day, because she well knew that this was
the day on which the will was to be read, and that concerns her so
vitally. Ah! here is the lawyer now," and before Kendal could frame a
reply the gentleman was ushered into the old-fashioned library.
He greeted both Mrs. Kemp and the young man gravely, and they knew by
his demeanor that he had heard what occurred.
His very first words assured them of that fact, and he went on to say
that Dorothy's disappearance, however, would make no difference in the
reading of Doctor Bryan's will, which was set for that day and hour.
"As my time is rather limited," he continued, "you will, I trust, pardon
me if I proceed to business at once."
He looked sharply from one to the other, and, as they both bowed assent,
he opened the satchel he had brought with him, and proceeded to take out
the document which meant so much to Kendal, unfolded it with great
precision, and in his high, metallic voice he read it through slowly and
impressively.
Kendal had quite imagined that the old doctor would leave him a goodly
share of his vast estate--perhaps something like a hundred thousand or
so--indeed, he would not have been surprised to have learned that the
doctor had left him a quarter of a million dollars.
To his unspeakable horror he found that he had been cut off without a
dollar; all had been left to Dorothy, without reserve or condition, save
one, and that condition was a most important one: that she should marry
Kendal six months after his decease, or relinquish the fortune
bequeathed to her.
"I may as well explain to you my old friend's idea in making this will,"
said the lawyer, turning to the young man. "He wished Miss Glenn to
marry you, and thought this the most expedient and effectual way of
bringing about the marriage of two young people whose interests he had
so deeply at heart. Had he lived long enough to have made a new will, I
am sure it would have been entirely different."
But not one word of all this did Harry Kendal hear. His brain was on
fire. He only realized one thing--that he was a beggar on the face of
God's earth; and, to make matters worse, he had by his own rash act
driven Dorothy from beneath that roof, thereby cutting off his own
chance of marrying her and being master of Gray Gables.
He clinched his hand and ground his handsome white teeth together in
terrible rage.
There was but one thing to do, and that was to find Dorothy ere the
fortnight waned, and marry her at once--that is, if he could ever
persuade her to forgive him.
He had parted from her in bitter anger, and said words to her that women
never forgive when uttered by those whom they love. The worst part of
the whole affair was, their quarrel had been over another girl.
"No steps will be taken until the fortnight has elapsed," said the
lawyer in his metallic voice; "and at the expiration of that time, if we
do not congratulate you, Mr. Kendal, upon your marriage to Miss Dorothy,
we shall have to make great changes at Gray Gables. Allow me to wish you
both a very good-morning."
With these brief words the brisk little lawyer took a hasty departure.
Mrs. Kemp and Kendal stood looking at each other long after his
departure with faces pale as death.
It was the housekeeper who broke the silence.
"I am sorry for you, Mr. Kendal," she said. "It is a terrible thing to
have one's hopes dashed after that fashion--and when one doesn't deserve
it, either. You were always so good and faithful and true to Dorothy,
sir; even keeping your promise with her through the most terrible
affliction that ever could have befallen her--that of blindness. It is
dreadful to think that the moment she regained her sight, and believing
herself to be the possessor of a great fortune, that she should show
every one so plainly that she thought you were not good enough for her
to marry by running away from you, Mr. Kendal!"
Every word she so innocently uttered cut him like a sharp sword.
"Not good enough for her?" he echoed, crushing back the imprecation that
sprang to his lips. His blood boiled at the construction which she put
upon the matter. It was a terrible blow to his pride, yet he dared not
utter the truth until he should know whether or not he should be able to
find Dorothy and marry her within the allotted fortnight.
Without a word Kendal turned on his heel and quitted the room, slamming
the door after him with a decided bang.
Before the sun set that night he was in New York City again and
searching for Dorothy.
It meant a fortune for him. He _must_ find her. He dared not think of
what failure would mean to him--of the ruin that would stare him in the
face.
The idea suggested itself to him that in all probability Dorothy would
seek out her old companions of the book-bindery. He felt that it would
be rather daring to go there, where he would meet Nadine Holt, after his
so abrupt desertion of her; but his anxiety over Dorothy overcame all
scruples, and late that afternoon the girls of the Hollingsworth
book-bindery were astonished at the door being flung suddenly open and
seeing the handsome young man whom they had known as the street-car
conductor and Nadine Holt's lover standing on the threshold.
His eyes ran rapidly over the scores of girls at their tables, resting
at length upon a fair, pale thoughtful young girl standing nearest him.
He remembered having often seen her with Dorothy. He recollected, too,
that her name was Nannie Switzer. He stepped up to her and raised his
hat with that courteous bow that was always so fascinating to young
girls.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but, finding myself in your vicinity, I
dropped in to look up my old friend. I refer to the young girl with whom
I used to see you so much--Dorothy Glenn."
To his utmost surprise, the young girl burst into a flood of tears.
"Oh, sir, you can not tell how your words affect me!" she sobbed.
"Why?" he asked, surprisedly.
The girl hung her pretty head, and her blue eyes sought the floor in the
greatest embarrassment.
"Will you tell me why?" he repeated, earnestly. "It is my right to know,
is it not, Miss Nannie?"
"Well, you see, sir," she stammered, confusedly, "we have not seen or
heard anything from Dorothy Glenn since Labor Day and every one
hereabouts thought that--that _you_ knew where she was."
He flushed a dark crimson and gave a guilty start.
"I am so glad to know that our suspicions were groundless," she
breathed, thankfully; adding: "I am indeed sorry that I can not tell you
where Dorothy is; we would all give the world to know, I assure you."
He could not help asking next, in a low, husky voice:
"What of Nadine Holt? Where is she?"
Again the girl's face clouded.
"She has worked right along here with us up to a week ago," she
answered, "and then Nadine went away suddenly, without saying so much as
good-bye to any of us." She could not help but add: "She has changed so
greatly that you would never know her. She is no longer the dark-eyed
beauty whom you remember; she looks ten years older. She never smiles
now, and there is a horrible look in her eyes--like the cunning gleam
one sees in the eyes of the insane; and, oh! sir, let me warn
you--_you_, of all men--for the love of Heaven, do not cross her path!
Remember, I--I warn you."