"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, hoa.r.s.ely.

"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 n.o.bility.

I recognize you as the leader in this cowardly conspiracy, but what must I think of these willing tools you plead for? Are they ent.i.tled 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 G.o.d'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 a.s.sume 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.