“I went out never to return. I will never return! I will never return, Mr. Webster—I—I—have not strength—”
“My poor, poor girl,” said Webster, very pityingly.
“And now will you leave me, Mr. Webster?” went on May, who was trembling in every limb; “I—I am better now—good-by.”
“I will not leave you,” answered Webster, quietly and firmly. “I will stay with you until I see you in some safe shelter. I do not wonder at your decision not to return to Mr. Temple, and it is natural that just at first you should shrink from seeing those that you have known. But Fate has thrown me in your path, and it is my duty to watch over you. Turn with me now; I have a cab waiting at the other end of the bridge, and we can settle as we drive where you shall go.”
“Oh! I can not go, I can not go!” moaned May.
“You must,” said Webster; “do you think I would leave you alone in the miserable, desperate state you are in? I do not ask you to go back to Pembridge Terrace, or to see your father or Mr. Temple; all I ask you to do is to come with me, and I will take the best care of you that I can.”
“And—and you will tell no one where I am?”
“I solemnly promise I will tell no one where you are, if in return you will promise to do nothing rash. Miss Churchill, no man is worth it,” he added, half bitterly. “But come, now, let us go back to the cab.”
But by this time May’s trembling limbs had well-nigh failed her. She tottered on for a few minutes more, clinging to Webster’s arm for support, and then a deadly faintness suddenly overcame her, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Webster held her in his arms.
But when he saw her condition, he at once made up his mind. He called a passing cab; he lifted May in.