A NEW SENSATION
Ralph Penlogan's first impulse was to rush off into St. Goram and rouse
the village; but on second thoughts he dropped on his knees by the side
of the prostrate girl, and placed his ear close to her lips. For a
moment or two he remained perfectly still, with an intent and anxious
expression in his eyes; then his face brightened, and something like a
smile played round the corners of his lips.
"No, she is not dead," he said to himself. And he heaved a great sigh of
relief.
But he still felt doubtful as to the best course to take. To leave the
unconscious girl lying alone by the roadside seemed to him, for some
reason, a cruel thing to do. She might die, or she might return to
consciousness, and find herself helpless and forsaken, without a human
being or even a human habitation in sight.
"Oh, I hope she will not die," he said to himself, half aloud, "for if
she does I shall feel like a murderer." And he put his ear to her lips a
second time.
No, she still breathed, but the rivulet of blood seemed to be growing
larger.
He raised her gently and let her head rest against his knee while he
examined the wound underneath her auburn hair. He tried his best to
repress a shudder, but failed. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his
pocket, and proceeded to bind it tightly round her head. How pale her
face was, and how beautiful! He had never seen, he thought, so lovely a
face before.
He wondered who she was and where she lived.
The horse whinnied a little distance away, and again the question darted
through his mind, What was he to do? If he waited for anyone to pass
that way he might wait a week. The road was strictly private, and there
was a notice up that trespassers would be prosecuted. It had been a
public road once--a public road, indeed, from time immemorial--but Sir
John had put a stop to that. In spite of protests and riots, and
threatened appeals to law, he had won the day, and no man dared walk
through the plantation now without first asking his consent.
"She can't be very heavy," Ralph thought, as he looked down into her
sweet, colourless face. "I'll have to make the attempt, anyhow. It's
nearly two miles to St. Goram; but perhaps I shall be able to manage
it."
A moment or two later he had gathered her up in his strong arms, and,
with her bandaged head resting on his shoulder, and her heart beating
feebly against his own, he marched away back over the broken gate in the
direction of St. Goram. Jess gave a feeble whinny, then followed slowly
and dejectedly, with her nose to the ground.
Half a mile away the ground dipped into a narrow valley, with a clear
stream of water meandering at the bottom.
Ralph laid down his burden very gently and tenderly close to the stream,
with her head pillowed on a bank of moss. He was at his wits' end, but
he thought it possible that some ice-cold water sprinkled on her face
might revive her.
Jess stood stock-still a few yards away and watched the operation. Ralph
sprinkled the cold water first on her face, then he got a large leaf,
and made a cup of it, and tried to get her to drink; but the water
trickled down her neck and into her bosom.
She gave a sigh at length and opened her eyes suddenly. Then she tried
to raise her head, but it fell back again in a moment.
Ralph filled the leaf again and raised her head.
"Try to drink this," he said. "I'm sure it will do you good." And she
opened her lips and drank.
He filled the leaf a third time, and she followed him with her eyes, but
did not attempt to speak.
"Now, don't you feel better?" he questioned, after she had swallowed the
second draught.
"I don't know," she answered, in a whisper. "But who are you? And where
am I?"
"You have had an accident," he said. "Your horse threw you. Don't you
remember?"
She closed her eyes and knitted her brows as if trying to recall what
had happened.
"It was close to Treliskey Plantation," he went on, "and the gate was
shut. You told me to open it, and I refused. I was a brute, and I shall
never forgive myself so long as I live."
"Oh yes; I remember," she said, opening her eyes slowly, and the
faintest suggestion of a smile played round her ashen lips. "You took
offence because----"
"I was a brute!" he interjected.
"I ought not to have spoken as I did," she said, in a whisper. "I had no
right to command you. Do--do you think I shall die?"
"No, no!" he cried, aghast. "What makes you ask such a question?"
"I feel so strange," she answered, in the same faint whisper, "and I
have no strength even to raise my head."
"But you will get better!" he said eagerly. "You must get better--you
must! For my sake, you must!"
"Why for your sake?" she whispered.
"Because if you die I shall feel like a murderer all the rest of my
life. Oh, believe me, I did not mean to be rude and unkind! I would die
for you this very moment if I could make you better! Oh, believe me!"
And the tears came up and filled his eyes.
She looked at him wonderingly. His words were so passionate, and rang
with such a deep note of conviction, that she could not doubt his
sincerity.
"It was all my fault," she whispered, after a long pause; then the light
faded from her eyes again. Ralph rushed to the stream and fetched more
water, but she was quite unconscious when he returned.
For a moment or two he looked at her, wondering whether her ashen lips
meant the approach of death; then he gathered her up in his arms again
and marched forward in the direction of St. Goram.
The road seemed interminable, while his burden hung a dead weight in his
arms, and grew heavier every step he took. He was almost ready to drop,
when a feeble sigh sounded close to his ear, followed by a very
perceptible shudder.
He was afraid to look at her. He had heard that people shuddered when
they died. A moment or two later he was reassured. A soft voice
whispered--
"Are you taking me home?"
"I am taking you to St. Goram," he answered "I don't know where your
home is."
She raised herself suddenly and locked her arms about his neck, and at
the touch of her hands the blood leaped in his veins and his face became
crimson. He no longer felt his burden heavy, no longer thought the way
long. A new chord had been struck somewhere, which sang through every
fibre of his being. A new experience had come to him, unlike anything he
had ever before felt or imagined.
He raised her a little higher in his arms, and pressed her still closer
to his heart. He was trembling from head to foot; his head swam with a
strange intoxication, his heart throbbed at twice its normal rate. He
had suddenly got into a world of enchantment. Life expanded with a new
meaning and significance.
It did not matter for the moment who this fair creature was or where she
lived. He had got possession of her; her arms were about his neck, her
head rested on his shoulder, her face was close to his, her breath
fanned his cheek, he could feel the beating of her heart against his
own.
He marched over the brow of the hill and down the other side in a kind
of ecstasy.
He waited for her to speak again, but for some reason she kept silent.
He felt her fingers clutch the back of his neck, and every now and then
a feeble sigh escaped her lips.
"Are you in pain?" he asked at length.
"I think I can bear it," she answered feebly.
"I wish I could carry you more gently," he said, "but the ground is very
rough."
"Oh, but you are splendid!" she replied. "I wish I had not been rude to
you."
He gave a big gulp, as though a lump had risen in his throat.
"Don't say that again, please," he said at length. "I feel bad enough to
drown myself."
She did not reply again, and for a long distance he walked on in
silence. He was almost ready to drop, and yet he was scarcely conscious
of fatigue. It seemed to him as though the strength of ten men had been
given to him.
"We shall be in the high road in a few minutes now," he said at length;
but she did not reply. Her hands seemed to be relaxing their hold about
his neck again; her weight had suddenly increased.
He staggered hurriedly forward to the junction of the roads, and then
sat down suddenly on a bank, still holding his precious charge in his
arms. He shifted her head a little, so that he could look at her face.
She did not attempt to speak, though he saw she was quite conscious.
"There's some kind of vehicle coming along the road," he said at length,
lifting his head suddenly.
She did not reply, but her eyes seemed to search his face as though
something perplexed her.
"Are you easier resting?" he questioned.
She closed her eyes slowly by way of reply; she was too spent to speak.
"You have not yet told me who you are," he said at length. All thought
of rank and station had passed out of his mind. They were on an equality
while he sat there folding her in his arms.
She opened her eyes again, and her lips moved, but no sound escaped
them.
In the distance the rattle of wheels sounded more and more distinct.
"Help is coming," he whispered. "I'm sure it is."
Her eyes seemed to smile into his, but no other answer was given.
He looked eagerly toward the bend of the road, and after a few minutes a
horse and carriage appeared in sight.
"It's Dr. Barrow's carriage," he said half aloud. "Oh, this is
fortunate!"
He raised a shout as the carriage drew near. The coachman saw that
something had happened, and pulled up suddenly. The doctor pushed his
head out of the window, then turned the door-handle and stepped out on
to the roadside.
"Hello, Ralph Penlogan!" he said, rushing forward, "what is the meaning
of this?"
"She got thrown from her horse up against Treliskey Plantation," he
answered. "Do you know who she is?"
"Of course I know who she is!" was the quick reply. "Don't you know?"
"No. I never saw her before. Do you think she will recover?"
"Has she been unconscious all the time?" the doctor asked, placing his
fingers on her wrist.
"No; she's come to once or twice. I thought at first she was dead.
There's a big cut on her head, which has bled a good deal."
"She must be got home instantly," was the reply. "Help me to get her
into the carriage at once!"
It was an easy task for the two men. Dorothy had relapsed into complete
unconsciousness again. Very carefully they propped her up in a corner of
the brougham, while the doctor took his place by her side.
Ralph would have liked to ride with them. He rather resented Dr. Barrow
taking his place. He had a notion that nobody could support the
unconscious girl so tenderly as himself.
There was no help for it, however. He had to get out of the carriage and
leave the two together.
"Tell William," said the doctor, "to drive round to the surgery before
going on to Hamblyn Manor."
"To Hamblyn Manor?" Ralph questioned, with a look of perplexity in his
eyes as he stood at the carriage door.
"Why, where else should I take her?"
"Is she from up the country?"
"From up the country--no. Do you mean to say you've lived here all your
life and don't know Miss Hamblyn?"
"But she is only a girl," Ralph said, looking at the white face that was
leaning against the doctor's shoulder.
"Well?"
"Miss Hamblyn is going to be married!"
The doctor's face clouded in a moment.
"I fear this will mean the postponement of the marriage," he said.
Ralph groaned inwardly and turned away.
"The doctor says you must drive round to the surgery before going on to
Hamblyn Manor," he said, speaking to the coachman, and then he stood
back and watched the carriage move away.
It seemed to him like a funeral, with Jess as the mourner, limping
slowly behind. The doctor hoped to avoid attracting attention in St.
Goram. He did not know that Jess was following the carriage all the way.
It was the sight of the riderless horse that attracted people's
attention. Then, when the carriage pulled up at the doctor's door,
someone bolder than the rest looked in at the window and caught a
glimpse of the unconscious figure.
The doctor's anger availed him nothing. Other people came and looked,
and the news spread through St. Goram like wildfire, and in the end an
enterprising lad took to his heels and ran all the distance to Hamblyn
Manor that he might take to Sir John the evil tidings.