XXII. CASTLE CRANEYCROW
Dorothy staggered into the arms of Lady Saxondale, choking with a joy that knew no bounds, stupefied past all power of understanding. She only saw and knew that she was safe, that some strange miracle had been wrought and that there were no terrible, cruel-hearted robbers in sight. It was some time before she could utter a word to those who stood about eagerly—anxiously—watching the play of emotions in her face.
“O, you will never know how glorious you all look to me. How is it that I am here? Where are those awful men? What has happened to me, Lady Saxondale, tell me? I cannot breathe till everything is explained to me,” she cried, her voice trembling with gladness. In her vast exuberance she found strength and with it the desire to embrace all these good friends. Her ecstatic exhibition of joy lost its violence after she had kissed and half crushed Lady Jane and had grasped both of Lord Bob's big hands convulsively. The young men came in for a much more formal and decorous greeting. For an instant she found herself looking into Quentin's eyes, as he clasped her hand, and there was a strange light in them—a bright, eager, victorious gleam which puzzled her not a little. “O, tell me all about it! Please do! I've been through such a terrible experience. Can it be true that I am really here with you?”
“You certainly are, my dear,” said Lady Saxondale, smiling at her, then glancing involuntarily into the faces of the others, a queer expression in her eyes.
“Where is mamma? I must go to her at once, Lady Saxondale. The wretches were so cruel to her and to poor Uncle Henry—good heavens! Tell me! They did not—did not kill her!” She clutched at the back of a chair and—grasped Quentin's arm as it swept forward to keep her from falling.
“Your mother is safe and well,” cried Lady Saxondale, quickly. “She is in Brussels, however, and not here, Dorothy.”
“And where am I? Are you telling the truth? Is she truly safe and well? Then, why isn't she here?” she cried, uneasily, apprehensively.
“It takes a long story, Miss Garrison,” said Lord Bob, soberly. “I think you would better wait till after breakfast for the full story, so far as it is known to us. You'll feel better and I know you must be as hungry as a bear.”
There was a troubled, uncertain pucker to her brow, a pleading look in her eyes as she suffered herself to be led to a chair near the end of the table. It had not struck her as odd that the others were deplorably devoid of the fervor that should have manifested itself, in words, at least. There was an air of restraint almost oppressive, but she failed to see it, and it was not long until it was so cleverly succeeded by a genial warmth of manner that she never knew the severity of the strain upon the spirits of that small company.
Suddenly she half started from the chair, her gaze fastened on Quentin's face. He read the question in her eyes and answered before she could frame it into words.