He made no reply. He dared not, for fear that it should be an angry retort; and content that he had certainly for the present frustrated Rockley’s machinations, he walked to his side, and, seeing that his temple was bleeding, he knelt down by him, took out his handkerchief, and bound up the cut, furtively watching Mellersh the while as he stood by the other prostrate figure on the turf.
Linnell longed to go to her and kneel there, holding her little hand in his, but he was too heartsore; and, telling himself that there was more dignity in keeping aloof and playing the manly part of ceasing to care for one whom he believed to be unworthy of his love, even if he rendered help when there was need, he contented himself with deputing the care he would gladly have bestowed to another.
It had grown darker during the past few minutes, a thicker cloud having veiled the sky, when, as Linnell rose from where he knelt, he heard a sigh which went through him.
“She is coming round,” he muttered. “Poor girl! Poor, weak, foolish girl! I—”
“Why, Dick!” cried Mellersh in a sharp, angry voice. “Come here!”
“What is it? There is no danger, is there?” cried Linnell, hastening across the road.
“Danger? No,” cried Mellersh angrily. “Whom do you suppose we have stopped here?”
“Whom? Miss Denville, of course, and—Good Heavens!—Miss Dean!”
“What is it? Where am I? You—Mr Linnell!—Colonel Mellersh!” said Cora confusedly, as she struggled up into a sitting position.
“At your service, madam,” said Mellersh, with a peculiar bitterness in his voice.