Chapter 13

No one sought to bar her way from the dining-room. Perhaps no one there felt equal to the task of explaining, on the moment, the intricacies of a very unusual transaction, for no one had quite expected the bolt to fall so sharply. She paced the floor of her room angrily, bewailing the fate that brought her to this fortress among the rocks. Time after time she paused at the lofty windows to look upon the trees, the little river and the white roadbed far below. There was no escape from this isolated pile of stone; she was confined as were Bluebeard's victims in the days of giants and ogres and there were no fairy queens to break down the walls and set her free. Each thought left the deeper certainty that the people in the room below were banded against her. An hour later, Lady Saxondale found her, her flushed face pressed to the window pane that looked down upon the world as if out of the sky.

“I suppose, Lady Saxondale, you are come to assure me again that I am perfectly safe in your castle,” said the prisoner, turning at the sound of her ladyship's voice.

“I have come to tell you the whole story, from your wedding to the present moment. Nothing is to be hidden from you, my dear Miss Garrison. You may not now consider us your friends, but some day you will look back and be thankful we took such desperate, dangerous means to protect you,” said Lady Saxondale, coming to the window. Dorothy's eyes were upon the outside world and they were dark and rebellious. The older woman complacently stationed herself beside the girl and for a few moments neither spoke.

“I am ready to hear what you have to say,” came at last from Miss Garrison.

“It is not necessary to inform you that you were abducted--”

“Not in the least! The memory of the past two days is vivid enough,” said Miss Garrison, with cutting irony in her voice.

“But it may interest you to know the names of your abductors,” said the other, calmly.

“I could not miss them far in guessing, Lady Saxondale.”

“It was necessary for some one to deliver you from the villain you were to marry, by the most effective process. There is but one person in all this world who cares enough for you to undertake the stupendous risk your abduction incurred. You need not be told his name.”

“You mean,” said Dorothy, scarcely above a whisper, “that Philip Quentin planned and executed this crime?”

Lady Saxondale nodded.

“And I am his prisoner?” breathlessly. “You are under his protection; that is all.”

“Do you call it protection to--” began Dorothy, her eyes blazing, but Lady Saxondale interrupted firmly.

“You are his prisoner, then, and we are your jailers. Have it as you will.”

Lady Saxondale proceeded to relate the history of Philip Quentin's achievement. Instead of sailing for New York, he surrendered to his overpowering love and fell to work perfecting the preposterous plan that had come to him as a vision in the final hour of despair. There was but little time in which to act, and there was stubborn opposition to fight against. The Saxondales were the only persons to whom he could turn, and not until after he had fairly fought them to earth did they consent to aid him in the undertaking. There remained to perform, then, the crowning act in this apparently insane transaction. The stealing of a woman on whom the eyes of all the world seemed riveted was a task that might well confound the strategy of the most skillful general, but it did not worry the determined American.

Wisely he chose the wedding day as the best on which to carry out his project. The hulla-balloo that would follow the nonappearance of the bride would throw the populace and the authorities into a state of confusion that might last for hours. Before they could settle down to a systematic search, the bold operator would be safely in the last place they would suspect, an English lord's playhouse in the valley of the Alzette. Nothing but the most audacious daring could hope to win in such an undertaking. When Mrs. Garrison's coachman and footman came forth in all their august splendor on the night of the wedding, they were pounced upon by three men, overpowered, bound and locked in a small room in the stables. One of the desperadoes calmly approached the servants' quarters, presented a bold face (covered with whiskers), and said he had come for Miss Garrison's trunks. Almost insane with the excitement of the occasion, the servants not only escorted him to the bride's room, but assisted him in carrying two trunks downstairs. He was shrewd enough to ascertain which trunk was most needed, and it was thrown into a buggy and driven away by one of the trio.

When the carriage stopped for the first time to permit the masked man to thrust his revolver into the faces of the occupants, the trunk was jerked from that same buggy and thrown to the boot of the larger vehicle. Of course, having absolute control of the carriage, it was no trick, if luck attended, for the new coachman and footman to drive away with the unsuspecting bride and her companions. It is only the ridiculously improbable projects that are successful, it has been said. Certainly it was proven in this case. It is not necessary to tell the full story, except to say that the masked man who appeared at the carriage door in the little side street was Quentin; that the foot-man was Dickey Savage, the driver Turk. In the exchange of clothing with the deposed servants of Mrs. Garrison, however, Turk fell into a suit of livery big enough for two men of his stature.

The deserted house was beyond the city limits, and had been located the day before by Turk, whose joy in being connected with such a game was boundless. Other disguises, carefully chosen, helped them on to the Grand Duchy, Quentin as the gray-bearded man, Savage as the old woman. The suffering of Dorothy Garrison during that wild night and day was the only thing that wrung blood from the consciences of these ruthless dare-devils. Philip Quentin, it must be said, lived years of agony and remorse while carrying out his part of the plan. How the plot was carried to the stage where it became Lady Saxondale's duty to acquaint Dorothy Garrison with the full particulars, the reader knows. It only remains to say that good fortune favored the conspirators at every turn, and that they covered their tracks with amazing effectiveness. Utterly cut off from the eyes of the world, the captive found herself powerless to communicate with the hysterical people who were seeking her in every spot save the right one.

“Now that you have finished this remarkable story and have pleaded so prettily for him, may I ask just what Mr. Quentin expects of me?” asked Dorothy, cold, calm, and entirely the mistress of herself and the million emotions that Lady Saxondale's disclosures aroused.

“He expects you to give him your heart,” said her ladyship, slowly. Dorothy fell back against the wall, aghast, overcome by this crowning piece of audacity.

“Dorothy, a week ago you loved Phil Quentin; even when you stepped inside the carriage that was to take you to the altar you loved him better--”

“I did not! I hate him!” cried Dorothy.

“Perhaps, now, but let me ask you this question: When you were being dragged away by those three men, when they were putting miles and miles between you and your friends, of whom were you thinking? Ah, your face, your eyes betray you!--You were thinking of Philip Quentin, not of Ugo Ravorelli. You were praying that one strong arm might come to your relief, you knew but one man in all the world who had the courage, the love, the power to rescue you. Last night, when you entered this dismal place, you wondered if Philip Quentin--yes, Philip Quentin--could break down the doors and save you. And then you remembered that he could not help you, for you had thrown aside his love, had driven him away. Listen! Don't deny it, for I am a woman and I know! This morning you looked from yon window and your heart sank with despair. Then, forgetful again, your eye swept the road in the hope of seeing--of seeing, whom? But one man was in your mind, Dorothy Garrison, and he was on the ocean. When you came into the breakfast room, whose face was it that sent the thrill to your heart? Whose presence was it that told you your prayers had been answered? Whom did you look upon as your savior, your rescuer? That big American, who loves you better than life. Philip Quentin had saved you from the brigands, and you loved him for it. Now, Dorothy Garrison, you hate him because he saved you from a worse fate--marriage with the most dissolute hypocrite in Europe, the most cunning of all adventurers. You are not trying to check the tears that blind your eyes; but you will not confess to me that your tears come from a heart full of belief in the man who loves you deeply enough to risk his honor and his life to save you from endless misery. Lie where you are, on this couch, Dorothy, and just think of it all--think of Phil.”

When Dorothy raised her wet eyes from the cushion in which they had been buried, Lady Saxondale was gone.

Philip Quentin stood in the doorway.

XXIII. HIS ONLY

In an instant she was on her feet and struggling to suppress the sobs that had been wrung from her by the words of Lady Saxondale.

“Dorothy,” said Quentin, his voice tender and pleading, “you have heard what Lady Saxondale had to say?”

She was now standing at the window, her back to him, her figure straight and defiant, her hands clenched in the desperate effort to regain her composure.

“Yes,” she responded, hoarsely.

“I have not come to ask your pardon for my action, but to implore you to withhold judgment against the others. I alone am to blame; they are as loyal to you as they have been to me. Whatever hatred you may have in your heart, I deserve it. Spare the others a single reproach, for they were won to my cause only after I had convinced them that they were serving you, not me. You are with true friends, the best that man or woman could have. I have not come to make any appeal for myself. There will be time enough for that later on, when you have come to realize what your deliverance means.”

She faced him, slowly, a steady calm in her face, a soft intensity in her voice.

“You need not hope that I shall forgive this outrage--ever--as long as I live. You may have had motives which from your point of view were good and justifiable--but you must not expect me to agree with you. You have done something that no love on earth could obliterate; you have robbed my memory of a sweet confidence, of the one glorious thing that made me look upon you as the best of men--your nobility. I recognize you as the leader in this cowardly conspiracy, but what must I think of these willing tools you plead for? Are they entitled to my respect any more than you? I am in your power. You can and will do with me as you like, but you cannot compel me to alter that over which I have no control--my reason. Oh, how could you do this dreadful thing, Phil?” she cried, suddenly casting the forced reserve to the winds and relapsing into a very undignified appeal. He smiled wearily and met her gaze with one in which no irresolution flickered.

“It was my only way,” he said, at last.

“The only way!” she exclaimed. “There was but one way, and I had commanded you to take it. Do you expect to justify yourself by saying it was the 'only way'? To drag me from my mother, to destroy every vestige of confidence I had in you, to make me the most talked-of woman in Europe to-day--was that the 'only way'? What are they doing and saying to-day? Of what are the newspapers talking under those horrid headlines? What are the police, the detectives, the gossips doing? I am the object on which their every thought is centered. Oh, it is maddening to think of what you, of all people, have heaped upon me!”

She paced the floor like one bereft of reason. His heart smote him as he saw the anguish he had brought into the soul of the girl he loved better than everything.

“And my poor mother. What of her? Have you no pity, no heart? Don't you see that it will kill her? For God's sake, let me go back to her, Phil! Be merciful!” she cried.

“She is safe and well, Dorothy; I swear it on my soul. True, she suffers, but it is better she should suffer now and find joy afterward than to see you suffer for a lifetime. You would not listen to me when I told you the man you were to marry was a scoundrel. There was but one way to save you from him and from yourself; there was but one way to save you for myself, and I took it. I could not and would not give you up to that villain. I love you, Dorothy; you cannot doubt that, even though you hate me for proving it to you. Everything have I dared, to save you and to win you--to make you gladly say some day that you love me.”

Her eyes blazed with scorn. “Love you? After what you have done? Oh, that I could find words to tell you how I hate you!” She stopped in front of him, her white face and gleaming eyes almost on a level with his, and he could not but quail before the bitter loathing that revealed itself so plainly. Involuntarily his hand went forth in supplication, and the look in his eyes came straight from the depths into which despair had cast him. If she saw the pain in his face her outraged sensibilities refused to recognize it.

“Dorothy, you--you--” he began, but pulled himself together quickly “I did not come in the hope of making you look at things through my eyes. It is my mission to acknowledge as true, all that Lady Saxondale has told you concerning my culpability. I alone am guilty of wrong, and I am accountable. If we are found out, I have planned carefully to protect my friends. Yet a great deal rests with you. When the law comes to drag me from this place, its officers will find me alone, with you here as my accuser. My friends will have escaped. They are your friends as well as mine. You will do them thejustice of accusing but me, for I alone am the criminal.”

“You assume a great deal when you dictate what I am to do and to say, if I have the opportunity. They are as guilty as you, and without an incentive. Do you imagine that I shall shield them? I have no more love for them than I have for you; not half the respect, for you, at least, have been consistent. Will you answer one question?”

“Certainly.”

“How long do you purpose to keep me in this place?”

“Until you, of your own free will, can utter three simple words.”

“And those words?”

“I love you.”

“Then,” she said, slowly, decisively, “I am doomed to remain here until death releases me.”

“Yes; the death of ambition.”

She turned from him with a bitter laugh, seating herself in a chair near the window. Looking up into his face, she said, with maddening submission:

“I presume your daily visits are to be a part of the torture I am to endure?”

His smile, as he shook his head in response, incensed her to the point of tears, and she was vastly relieved when he turned abruptly and left the apartment. When the maid came in she found Miss Garrison asleep on the couch, her cheeks stained with tears. Tired, despairing, angry, she had found forgetfulness for the while. Sleep sat lightly upon her troubled brain, however, for the almost noiseless movements of the maid awakened her and she sat up with a start.

“Oh, it is you!” she said, after a moment. “What is your name?'

“Baker, Miss.”

The captive sat on the edge of the couch and for many minutes watched, through narrow eyes, the movements of the servant. A plan was growing in her brain, and she was contemplating the situation in a new and determined frame of mind.

“Baker,” she said, finally, “come here.” The maid stood before her, attentively.

“Would you like to earn a thousand pounds?”

Without the faintest show of emotion, the least symptom of eagerness, Baker answered in the affirmative.

“Then you have but to serve me as I command, and the money is yours.”

“I have already been instructed to serve you, Miss.”

“I don't mean for you to dress my hair and to fasten my gown and all that. Get me out of this place and to my friends. That is what I mean,” whispered Dorothy, eagerly.

“You want to buy me, Miss?' said Baker, calmly.

“Not that, quite, Baker, but just--”

“You will not think badly of me if I cannot listen to your offer, Miss? I am to serve you here, and I want you to like me, but I cannot do what you would ask. Pardon me if I speak plainly, but I cannot be bought.” There was no mistaking the honest expression in the maid's eyes. “Lady Saxondale is my mistress, and I love her. If she asks me to take you to your friends, I will obey.”

Dorothy's lips parted and a look of incredulity grew in her eyes. For a moment she stared with unconcealed wonder upon this unusual girl, and then wonder slowly changed to admiration.

“Would that all maids were as loyal, Baker. Lady Saxondale trusts you and so shall I. But,” wonder again manifesting itself, “I cannot understand such fidelity. Not for £5,000?”

“No, Miss; thank you,” respectfully and firmly.

“Ask Lady Saxondale if I may come to her.”

The maid departed, and soon returned to say that Lady Saxondale would gladly see her. Dorothy followed her down the long, dark hall and into the boudoir of Castle Craneycrow's mistress. Lady Jane sat on the broad window seat, looking pensively out at the blue sky. There was in the room such an air of absolute peace and security that Dorothy's heart gave a sharp, wistful throb.

“I'm glad you've come, Dorothy,” said Lady Saxondale, approaching from the shadowy side of the room. Dorothy turned to see the hands of her ladyship extended as if calling her to friendly embrace. For a moment she looked into the clear, kindly eyes of the older woman, and then, overcome by a strange, inexplicable longing for love and sympathy, dropped her hands into those which were extended.

“I've come to beg, Lady Saxondale--to beg you to be kind to me, to have pity for my mother. I can ask no more,” she said, simply.

“I love you, dear; we all love you. Be content for a little while, a little while, and then you will thank Heaven and thank us.”

“I demand that you release me,” cried the other. “You are committing a crime against all justice. Release me, and I promise to forget the part you are taking in this outrage. Trust me to shield you and yours absolutely.”

“You ask me to trust you. Now, I ask you to trust me. Trust me to shield you and to--”

“You are cruel!”

“Forgive me,” said Lady Saxondale, simply. She pressed the hands warmly, and passed from the room. Dorothy felt her head reel, and there was in her heart the dread of losing something precious, she knew not what.

“Come up into the tower with me, Dorothy,” said Lady Jane, coming to her side, her voice soft and entreating. “The view is grand. Mr. Savage and I were there early this morning to see the sun rise.”

“Are you all against me? Even you, Lady Jane? Oh, how have I wronged you that I should be made to suffer so at your hands? Yes, yes! Take me to the tower! I can't stay here.”

“I shall ask Mr. Savage to go with us. He will hold you. It would be too bad to have you try to fly from up there, because it's a long way to the crags, and you'd never fly again--in this world, at least. I believe I'll call Dickey, to be on the safe side.”

There was something so merry, so free and unrestrained about her that Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. With a new sensation in her heart, she followed her guide to the top of the broad stairway. Here her ladyship paused, placed two pink fingers between her teeth, and sent a shrill whistle sounding down between the high walls.

“All right!” came a happy voice from below. There was a scramble of feet, two or three varied exclamations in masculine tones, and then Mr. Savage came bounding up the stairs. “Playing chess with your brother and had to break up the game. When duty calls, you know. Morning, Miss Garrison. What's up?”

“We're just on the point of going up,” said Jane, sweetly. “Up in the tower. Miss Garrison wants to see how far she can fly.”

“About 800 feet, I should say, Miss Garrison. It's quite a drop to the rocks down there. Well, we're off to the top of Craneycrow. Isn't that a jolly old name?”

“Chick o' me, Chick o' me, Craneycrow, Went to the well to wash her toe, When she got back her chicken was dead--chick o' me, Chick o' me, chop off his head--What time is it, old witch?”

“Who gave the castle such an odd, uncanny name?” asked Dorothy, under the spell of their blithesome spirits.

“Lady Jane--the young lady on your left, an' may it please you, Miss,” said Dickey.

“Bob couldn't think of a name for the old thing, so he commissioned me. Isn't Craneycrow delightful? Crane--that's a bird, you know, and crow is another bird, too, you know; isn't it a joy? I'm so proud of it,” cried Lady Jane, as she scurried up the narrow, winding stone steps that led to the top of the tower. Dorothy followed more sedately, the new-born smile on her lips, the excitement of a new emotion surging over the wall of anger she had thrown up against these people.

“I wish I could go out and explore the hills and rocks about this place,” said Dickey, wistfully.

“Why can't you? Is it dangerous?” queried Dorothy.

“Heavens, no! Perfectly safe in that respect. Oh, I forgot; you don't know, of course. Phil Quentin and your devoted servant are not permitted to show their faces outside these walls.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, we're in America. Don't you understand? You're not the only prisoner, Miss Garrison. Behold two bold, bad bandits as your fellow captives. Alas! that I should have come to the cruel prison cell!”

“I had not thought of that,” said Miss Garrison, reflectively, and then she looked upon Dickey with a new interest. They crawled through the trap door and out upon the stone-paved, airy crown of the tower. She uttered an exclamation of awe and shrank back from the sky that seemed to press down upon her. Nothing but sky--blue sky! Then she peered over the low wall, down upon the rocks below, and shuddered.

“Hello, Phil! Great, isn't it?” exclaimed Dickey, and Dorothy realized that Quentin was somewhere behind her in the little rock-bound circle among the clouds. A chill fell upon her heart, and she would not turn toward the man whose very name brought rage to her heart.

“Magnificent! I have been up here in the sun and the gale for half an hour. Here are the newspapers, Lady Jane; Bob's man brought them an hour ago. There is something in them that will interest you, Dorothy. Pardon me, but I must go down. And don't fall off the tower, Lady Jane.”

“Don't worry, grandfather; I'll be a good little girl and I shan't fall off the tower, because I'm so afraid you'd find it out and beat me and send me to bed without my supper. Won't you stay up just a wee bit longer?”

“Now, don't coax, little girl. I must go down.”

“See you later,” Dickey called after him as he disappeared through the narrow opening. Dorothy turned her stony face slightly, and quick, angry eyes looked for an instant into the upturned face of the man who was swallowed in the darkness of the trap hole almost in the same second.

“Don't fall off the tower, Lady Jane,” came the hollow voice from the ladders far below, and, to Dorothy's sensitive ears, there was the most devilish mockery in the tones.

“I can forgive all of you--all of you, but--but--never that inhuman wretch! Oh, how I hate him!” cried she, her face ablaze, her voice trembling with passion.

“Oh, Dorothy!” cried Lady Jane, softly, imploringly.

“I wish from my soul, that this tower might tumble down and kill him this instant, and that his bones could never be found!” wailed the other.

“There's an awful weight above him, Miss Garrison--the weight of your wrath,” said Dickey, without a smile.

XXIV. THE WHITE FLAG