CHAPTER XII.
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 suspectthat 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 obstaclein 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 thesteps. 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 comfortableden.”
“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.”