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.