THE YELLOW DOVE
She laughed with a greater confidence than she felt.
“You surely can’t believe that my absence from England will pass unnoticed. Do you think that my father—that Lady Heathcote”
She paused bewildered.
“They will merely know that you rode late at night to Ben-a-Chielt and that your horse was found riderless on the moor.”
She buried her face in her hands and a sob broke from her throat. It was true. They would think her dead. For the first time she really was able to think of things in their true aspect.
“It’s cruel,” she gasped. “How could you!”
He was too wise to touch her or even by his manner to show too deep a sympathy.
“I am sorry,” he said coolly, “awfully sorry. As you know, I would have had things different. You may still doubt me when I say that what I have done is the hardest task that I ever undertook in my life. But that is true. You were the only person in England who jeopardized my existence there. I had to take you away. I regret the necessity of having to use force. I shall do what I can here upon the Sylph to counteract the unpleasant impression of my brutality. I am not a bully and a woman-baiter. I am a spoke in the wheel of destiny which you had clogged. By all the rules of the game you should have died. Reasons which I need not mention made your death at my hands an impossibility. So I merely removed you to a place of safety. No harm shall come to you, I pledge my honor.”
“Thanks,” she said dully, struggling up, her face away from him. And then dauntlessly, “Small a thing as it is, I must be content with that.” She had risen
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