THE PROTECTORATE ABANDONED.
Dorothy is recovering; already she has moved, and it is evident that
the influence of the drug, whatever it may have been, is wearing away.
The jolting of the carriage may have something to do with her coming
back to her senses, for they have not yet struck the boulevard pavement
of Michigan Avenue, and the street is in bad order.
“Oh, where am I?” she suddenly cries out.
“With friends, I trust, Miss Dorothy,” says Craig.
They pass an electric arc--she bends her eyes upon his face, and an
exclamation announces that she has recognized him.
“You? I thought it was that terrible Turk. What have you done this for,
Mr. Craig?” and he is delighted to discover a tremulous undertone to
her voice--it tells of anxiety.
“I see you fail to understand the situation, Miss Dorothy. Compose
yourself. You are now on the way home. My friend and I chanced along
just in time to put the Turk and his followers to flight, to the
amusement of the crowd. We knew no other course to pursue than to
engage a carriage and take you both home.”
“And Mrs. Merrick--was she injured?” eagerly.
“I am here, my dear, and unhurt,” purrs the companion, her manner
reminding Craig of the house cat that has sheathed her claws.
“Oh, it has been indeed fortunate! Then again we owe you a debt of
gratitude, Mr. Craig. How strange!”
“How delightful!” he echoes cheerily, desiring to arouse her to
something like her old self.
“You are very kind. What could it all mean? I am so puzzled. That
odious Turk with the eyes that make me think of a rattlesnake--what did
he mean to do with me?”
“I can only hazard a guess, Miss Dorothy. In his country they have
strange customs, you know. Wives are bought, not wooed. Sometimes
they are stolen and the settlement made later on. Perhaps this pasha
has imagined he can bring his heathen habits over to America. He has
evidently fallen in love with you, and desires you for his wife.”
“The wretch! Why, they have a dozen or two. I have seen the inside of a
harem at Algiers,” she says indignantly.
“That is very true; but, looking at things from his standpoint, he was
probably offering you the highest compliment he understood.”
By degrees he manages to interest her in other subjects. She does not
seem to suspect that it was Mrs. Merrick who held the handkerchief over
her face, and robbed her of her senses, but believes the Turk himself
did this.
It is a strange ride. Wycherley has been introduced, and manages to put
in a word now and then, though unusually quiet for him. Perhaps he is
thinking of how near he came to occupying the position the Canadian has
taken--or it may be he speculates on the possibilities of his great
deal for the morrow.
At length they cross the State Street bridge and reach the North
Side of Chicago, but quite a stretch still intervenes, for the old
speculator has his mansion out near Lincoln Park, being one of the
favored few whom fortune allows to gaze upon the magnificent lake from
his library windows.
Dorothy has become reserved. She realizes that this gentleman, who
has several times been of such assistance to her, must look upon
her escapade of the night with curiosity at least. True, she is not
responsible for what occurred on the Ferris wheel, or near the exit
of the Midway; but somehow her participation in such scenes reflects
upon the wisdom of a young lady attending the Fair at night with only a
companion of her own sex.
Her lips are sealed with reference to a certain subject, and she
evidently does not suspect that Craig has seen her in company with the
young miner.
On his part Craig feels a genuine regret to remember what the Colorado
sheriff told him in connection with John Phœnix, whose downfall is
bound to suddenly occur. Perhaps, when he comes to know her better, he
may be able to learn what peculiar bond there is between these two--who
can tell the vagaries that flit through the mind of a bachelor in love.
If this young fellow has won her regard, and his true character comes
out with his arrest for embezzlement, perhaps--well, hearts have before
now been caught in the rebound.
At length he forces himself to speak again upon the subject of her
return. Perhaps she might not like to drive up to her father’s house?
She laughs for the first time since entering the carriage, and it
pleases Craig to hear her.
“If you knew me better, Mr. Craig, you would never suspect me of being
afraid in anything that concerns the dear old governor. He idolizes
me. If I say I’m going to Japan to-morrow he would never throw an
obstacle in my way. Though a bear to others, he’s the dearest and best
man in the world to me. That is why I have dared to undertake this
task--through love for him.”
He wonders what task, but is not rude enough to ask. They roll between
elegant mansions on Dearborn Avenue, and will soon be at their
destination.
“Then you will alight in front of your door?”
“If you please, sir.”
No more is said, each being busy with thoughts that come unbidden into
the mind. The driver has been coached and knows where to turn. At
length the carriage stops. Dorothy looks out.
“It is home,” she says quietly.
Immediately the gentlemen are out to assist the ladies. One glance
Craig gives at the huge pile of masonry and he has impressed the
location of the princely mansion on his mind. It rather staggers him
to think of this young girl, the sole heiress to great wealth, having
passed through such singular adventures on this night. Craig is a
Canadian, and, in a measure, accustomed to English ways. He wonders
what his people would think of such an escapade, and smiles at the
recollection of his austere aunt, so proud of her blue blood and of an
unblemished name. It is the destiny of Canadians to draw nearer the
American, while separating from the English, and the younger generation
feel this more and more in the drift of commerce.
So Aleck, while brought up with a keen perception of the proprieties,
can even pardon such a breach of the same under certain circumstances.
Somehow he lays much stress on the personal declaration that her
motives are governed by sacred purposes. Not that he can understand
it--he does not attempt to do so--but there is a charm in Dorothy’s
presence that makes him believe whatever she may say.
’Twas ever thus. A man in love is fain to pin his faith on the goodness
of the ethereal being who has charmed him. All others may be false,
deceptive, and born flirts, but this one bright, particular star is an
exception. That is the subtle glamour love dusts in the eyes of his
votaries. Whom the little god would secure in his net, he first makes
blind.
“I cannot thank you for your kindness, Mr. Craig. Perhaps by to-morrow
night I shall be in a better condition to talk upon this subject. I
feel that an explanation is due you,” she says, giving him her hand.
“I don’t know about that, Miss Cereal,” he says.
“But you will come?” she adds eagerly.
He tries to keep his feelings in subjection by remembering the strange
companion with whom Dorothy sauntered about the Midway, and who
certainly took upon himself all the airs of a lover. Only in this way
can he subdue the sudden spasm of exaltation that sends the hot blood
leaping through his veins at the solicitude of her voice.
“I promised, and unless something prevents me I shall be there, glad of
the opportunity to meet your father.”
Then she says good night, and runs up the steps. A light burns in the
hall. Mrs. Merrick lingers a minute to say a few words.
“I will keep my promise, depend upon it, young sir. Some time you may
know my story, and perhaps you will believe I have not been wholly
actuated by a love of money.”
Then she follows her young mistress up the steps. A servant has just
opened the heavy door, and Aleck can see the handsome hall.
The young reveler on the seat beside the driver has reached the
pavement.
“Beg pardon, gents, but is there room inside for a chap of my size?
Devilish hard seat up there, you know. Here, driver, 's your pay,”
handing him a bill with the air only a royal prince or a roysterer half
seas over can assume.
Under these circumstances what can Aleck do--objections to the stranger
paying would be useless, and possibly stir up his fighting blood, for
men in his condition are exceedingly touchy. He feels an interest in
the fellow, since he came to their relief in time of need, so they all
enter the vehicle, giving the name of the hotel at which they stop. It
chances that Aleck names the Sherman House, and the stranger bursts out
with:
“My hotel--singular coincidence--something of a pleasure. Glad to know
you, sir. Wake me up when we arrive, kindly. Good. Find shares sixteen
above par--Hecla two hundred and three. Oceans of money--no cares--a
jolly life--see you later perhaps----”
And he sleeps the fitful slumber that follows over-indulgence in drink.
Aleck manages to settle him in a corner, and seats himself beside the
actor, who has been regarding the scene with something like amusement.
“Pretty far gone, aint he?” remarks Wycherley.
“Disgusting. What a shame; looks like a bright young fellow, too.”
“Well-loaded with long green,” asserts the actor.
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand.”
“I mean smartly heeled.”
“I’m still in the dark.”
Wycherley laughs.
“I forgot you were from over the border and not up to our professional
terms. What I would imply is that he is a man of means, of money.”
“How do you know?”
“He took the bill from a great roll. The driver’s eyes stuck out of his
head at the sight.”
“It’s a shame, then, that he puts himself in a condition to be robbed.
Judging from his talk I should say he was from the West.”
“Singular we should run across so many persons from that quarter. And
this isn’t Colorado day, either. There’s the sheriff, then Phœnix, who
is wanted out in Denver, and finally this young chap.”
“Phœnix! yes, I know him,” utters the man in the corner, as if the name
has caught his ear, deaf to all other sounds.
“Talk lower, Claude. Where do you put up?”
“Oh, I have a room,” carelessly.
“Won’t you stay over with me at the Sherman to-night?”
“Couldn’t think of it, my dear boy. Very fussy about my quarters;
cranky bachelor, you know. Have to be just so.”
“Oh, I see! and a room in a hotel is a cheerless waste in comparison. I
can see the cozy chair, the papers and magazines at hand, pipes on the
tables, in fact, a comfortable _den_.”
“That’s it; you just describe the very thing, Aleck. Nothing like home
comforts. Only apt to unfit us for the rough experiences of life;
that’s the only fault I’ve got to find. Here’s the Sherman--take care
of the young chap--and good-night.”