Bringing his horse to a stop, he sped back to where she was standing, and on reaching her side he was startled to see that the face but a short interval before so radiant had blanched to a deathly pallor.
“My aunt!” she whispered in a frightened tone. “Something terrible has happened to her!”
If Lucy entertained any doubts as to whether he would aid her in the present emergency she had either cast them aside or was determined to ignore such a possibility, for she held the door open with the obvious expectation that he would follow her into the house.
A year ago, a month, nay—a week, he would never have consented to cross the Webster threshold, let alone offer any assistance to its mistress; but the siren who beckoned him on had cast such a potent spell over his will that now without open protest, although with a certain inward compunction, he followed her through the hall into the kitchen.
Upon the floor was stretched Ellen Webster—crumpled, helpless, inert—her eyes closed 191 and her stern face set as in a death mask. How long she had lain there it was impossible to tell. If she had called for succor it had been to empty walls.
As with mingled sensations Martin stood looking down upon her unconscious form, Lucy threw herself upon her knees beside the woman and gently touched her wrists and heart.
“She isn’t dead,” she murmured presently. “She must either have had a fall or some sort of shock. We must get her upstairs and send for a doctor.”
The “we” told Martin that the girl had not even considered the chance of his refusing to come to her assistance.
“Tony is in the village,” she went on, “and I don’t know what I should have done but for you. How fortunate that you were here!”
Was it fortunate? Martin asked himself.