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Updated: May 22, 2025
He had a strange protective feeling about that girl, not as if she were like the other girls he knew; perhaps it was a sort of a "Christ-brother" feeling, as the minister had suggested. But to go on with the list of mothers wasn't there one anywhere to whom he could appeal? Gila's mother? Pah! That painted, purple image of a mother! Her own daughter needed to find a real mother somewhere.
Courtland, coming just behind with the maid of honor, one of Gila's feather-brained friends, lolling on his arm, felt that he ought to be inexpressibly thankful to God that he was only best man in this procession, and not bridegroom.
Bonnie in soft, white garments sitting beside the bed, watching. A strange contraction of fear and hate passed over her face as she looked, and she spoke in an insolent, sharp little voice, weak as a sick bird's chirp. "Who sent you here?" she demanded. "God," said Bonnie, gently, without an instant's hesitation. A startled look came into Gila's eyes. "God! What does He want with me?
Never had he seen such fear in human face. Gila's skin grew gray beneath its pearly tint, her whole body shrank and cringed, her eyes were fixed upon him with terror in their gaze. "Papers haven't come in yet, Mr. Aquilar," called the clerk, affably. "Train's late to-night. Be in pretty soon, I reckon!"
If so, there must be depths to Wittemore's nature that were worth sounding. He drew his handkerchief from his inner pocket, and as he did so a whiff of violets came remindingly, but he paid no heed. Gila's letter lay in his pocket, still unread. The antiseptics were at work upon his senses and the violets could not reach him.
There was a little stiffness in Bonnie's last words, and a cool withdrawal in her eyes that brought Courtland to his senses and made him remember Gila's insinuations. "Look here!" he said, calming down and taking his chair again. "You don't understand, and I guess I ought to explain. In the first place get it out of your head that I'm acting fresh or anything like that.
Gila's voice sounded as if she were almost there herself. She flung along by his side with a vindictive little click of her high-heeled boots and a prance of her whole elaborate little person that showed she was fairly bristling with wrath. But Courtland's voice was sad with disappointment. "Then you didn't feel it, after all! I was hoping you did." "Feel what?" she asked, sharply.
"I'll go right down to her old place and see if she's there," he told the nurse. "She has probably gone back to her room. Certainly I will insist that she return to the hospital to-night." As he hung up the receiver Pat touched his elbow and pointed to a messenger-boy waiting for him with a note. It was Gila's violet-scented missive over which she had wept those angry tears.
Courtland hastened earnestly to impress her with the fact that Miss Brentwood was a refined girl of good family, and that it would be an insult to offer her second-hand clothing; but when he gave it up and yielded to Gila's plea that he drop these horrid, gloomy subjects and talk about something cheerful, he had a feeling of failure. Perhaps he ought not to have told Gila, after all.
There's got to be a pipe-organ some day, and Bonnie will play it!" Pat always glowed when Courtland spoke of Bonnie. He never had ceased to be thankful that Courtland escaped from Gila's machinations. But that very afternoon, as Courtland was preparing to hurry to the train, there came a note from Pat, who had gone ahead, on an errand: DEAR COURT, Tennelly's in trouble. He's up at his old rooms.
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