WAS SHE DEAD WITH ALL HER SINS UNREPENTED?
Cecil was very fortunate, for he rose uninjured from the ground, with
the exception of a few bruises.
But he trembled with dread when he saw Amber lying as still as death on
the pile of rocks where she had fallen.
Oh, horrors! was she dead? It was more than likely, for her face was
death-like, her eyes closed, and there was a bleeding wound near her
temple, where it had struck in falling upon a sharp rock.
The poor pony lay among the shafts of the overturned phaeton, as he had
fallen, and Cecil surmised that he had broken a limb; but he had no
time to investigate, for Amber needed instant attention.
It seemed like a merciful provision of Providence that the accident had
happened just in front of a neat, pretty cottage, and the inhabitants
had witnessed it from their windows. A woman and a little girl hurried
out, and helped Cecil to carry Amber into the house.
“Oh, the pretty lady; she is dead!” whimpered the child, as the
death-white face of Amber rested among the pillows of the sofa.
Cecil feared that she was right, and he hastily unfastened her heavy
fur jacket, and threw it back to place his hand on her heart. As he
did so, the hidden letter slipped from its concealment and fell to
the floor. He noticed it, but went on with his investigation, feeling
anxiously for the pulsations of Amber’s heart.
“Does it beat?” asked the woman of the house, anxiously.
“Very faintly, I think. This may be only a deep swoon. Will you bring
some water and bathe her head, please?”
The frightened woman obeyed, and then Cecil said, courteously:
“I will go for a doctor if you will direct me to the nearest one.”
“There is one two miles away, sir----” and while she was giving
explicit directions, the little fair-haired girl crept up timidly with
the letter she had picked up from the floor.
“The letter, sir, that dropped from the lady’s jacket.”
“Don’t pester the gentleman, Millie,” said her mother, reprovingly, but
Cecil patted the little sunny head kindly, and took the letter from her
hand with a careless glance at the superscription.
He gave a start of surprise, and his heart leaped stranglingly into his
throat.
The letter was addressed to himself in the beautiful, beloved, familiar
writing of his lost Violet!
He comprehended that Amber had lied to him and kept back this letter,
the mere touch of which made his blood whirl in dizzy waves through his
throbbing heart.
But there was no time to read it now. Thrusting it against his heart,
he dashed out of the door, and hurried in quest of the doctor.
Within half a mile he encountered the person he was seeking, riding
rapidly toward him on horseback, followed by the gardener from Golden
Willows.
“Doctor Perry, I was just going in quest of you. Miss Laurens has been
thrown from her phaeton half a mile back from here, and seriously
injured, I fear,” cried Cecil.
But the old physician answered, brusquely:
“My God, man, I can’t stop! I have been summoned post-haste to Judge
Camden, who has been very strangely seized, and is thought to be dying.
Let Tom Smith here ride back for my neighbor, Doctor Jenner,” and the
old physician galloped past like the wind toward Golden Willows.
“Will you bring the doctor for Miss Laurens, Smith, as I am on foot,
and should make poor progress?” asked Cecil, anxiously.
“Certainly, Mr. Grant, and glad to oblige you,” answered the gardener,
turning his horse’s head and galloping back in the direction he had
come.
Cecil walked quickly back through the high wind and flying snowflakes
to the cottage, where he found Amber still wrapped in deep
unconsciousness, despite all the efforts the mistress of the cottage
had put forth for her recovery.