Dorothy Dale's Camping Days Part 25

"Oh!" screamed Tavia. "We must run, or hide! It is that dreadful man!

That--other--that lunatic!" and she clutched the arm beside her, and dragged the frightened girl to the edge of the roadway.

Mortimer Morrison, with his big, rough, mountain stick, was about to pa.s.s!

CHAPTER XXI

AT THE SANITARIUM

When Dorothy recovered consciousness she lay on a white cot, by an open window, and the strange nurse sat beside her.

"Where am I? What am I here for?"

"Your doctor is away, he will be back to-morrow--soon," the nurse corrected herself. "Then perhaps you--may go out."

"But why am I here? This is a hospital, and I am not ill."

"No, not exactly ill," and Mary Bell had her own very serious doubts about the condition of the young patient--never had she seen a demented girl so perfectly sane. "But it is best for you to await your own doctor's orders," she finished.

"My own doctor? What is his name, please?"

"Dr. Ashton. Do you remember him?"

"I have never heard the name before," replied Dorothy, looking about her anxiously at the sanitary appointments of the white room. "I suppose this is a sanitarium for nerves."

"You have been here long enough to know that much," said the nurse with a smile, "but you seem to have a new kind--of nerves."

"I have only been here a few hours, I should judge, but it did seem an eternity. Are they not going to send for my friends? They will be distracted. I have been away from them for so long."

Again that uncertain look came into the face of the nurse. Surely if this girl had been demented she must now be very much better. Her talk was entirely rational.

And Dorothy was thinking: "Surely if they believe I am crazy they must be crazy themselves! The sounds around here are enough to shake any one's nerves."

Some one was singing. The shrill voice rent the air like some weird cry from a lost mind. It made Dorothy s.h.i.+ver.

"You think I am--demented," she asked finally. "But there is some great mistake. I am Dorothy Dale of--Dalton. I was camping at Everglade--and I have had a dreadful time of it since I fell, and was picked up by that old farmer."

Dorothy's eyes were full. She had made up her mind, since her escape from the Hobbs house, that she must wait--wait until those around her saw their mistake. At any rate, it was something to be among intelligent people, if they were nurses and doctors, and as they plainly believed her to be an escaped patient she must wait until some one came to identify her. But now it was very hard, and she was very, very lonely, and very nervous with those poor demented people singing, sighing, laughing and calling from all over the place.

"I am sorry Miss Bennet had to go away, before I saw you," said the nurse, vaguely. "It would have been better----"

"Miss Bennet?"

"Yes, your regular nurse."

"I never had a nurse since I had the measles," said Dorothy, and she really felt inclined to laugh. "Would you mind if I sat up at the window? I feel perfectly strong now, and I want to remember what the blessed world is like."

"Of course you may sit by the window," replied Miss Bell, a.s.sisting Dorothy into a robe. "And I don't blame you for wanting to see out of doors. Sometimes I hate being a nurse."

"I should think you would. It is enough to turn one's own head. Oh, I do wish some one who knows me would come! My father and all my folks will be frantic. Is there anything more dreadful than being lost in the Maine woods!"

"You are the strongest sick girl I ever saw," declared the nurse. "I hope I have made no mistake."

"Well, indeed you have," replied Dorothy. "I tell you I am not and have never been a patient at any inst.i.tution. I thought there was some test of mentality--the eye, isn't it?"

"But nurses cannot make tests," answered Miss Bell. "We have to wait for the dear professional, all-powerful doctors to do that. This is my first day here, and I think I am going to be almost as lonely as you are."

"I am sorry for you, but _you_ may _leave_ if you wish. It is quite different in my case!"

"My dear, if you can only be content to-night, I promise you some one will come to-morrow. They have sent for your mother--Mrs. Harriwell."

"Oh, the mother of the lost girl? Well, she will know. But I must stay all night in this dreadful place--all night?"

"I promise not to leave you. They will send another nurse to relieve me, but I will decline to go. Somehow you have almost convinced me there is a mistake."

"Thank you," replied Dorothy. "Perhaps it will be best not to complain."

She was looking out at the beautiful grounds and thinking of the dear ones whose hearts must be torn with anguish for her. If only she could telegraph!

"Do you think I could send a message?" she asked, "to my friends--to my cousins, at Everglade?"

"I am afraid not--until after the doctor sees you. You see, some other patient--a man named Morrison--is blamed for having helped you to escape."

"Morrison?" repeated Dorothy. "That is the name of the man who is to blame for all this trouble; that is, we blamed him for inducing a friend of mine to leave our camp."

"He has a faculty for inducing people to leave," said Miss Bell. "We hope we will soon be able to catch him--then it is not likely that he will get another chance to exercise that faculty. Three patients left the day that you did."

"The day that _she_ did," corrected Dorothy. "Well, nurse, since you are so kind to me, we must be friends, and I must not make you any unnecessary trouble."

"One has to be kind to you," said the nurse, putting her cheek close to Dorothy's. "I must comb out your hair. It has been neglected."

"Yes, but that will be easily fixed up again. Such matters seem scarcely to trouble me now. There are so many bigger things to think of."

The nurse got comb and brush, and started to smooth out the long, light tresses.

"What is that scratch?" she asked, stopping to look at a mark on Dorothy's neck.

"It may have been the mark left there by Mrs. Hobbs' parrot," said Dorothy, "or it may be one of the scratches I got when I fell over the cliff. You see, I have been having a dreadful time. But when it is all over I will have something worth talking about, to tell at camp. I hope you will call upon us there. You would not be lonely if you knew our boys."

"But if you are not Mary Harriwell, what can have become of her?"

asked the nurse with sudden conviction. "And I was sent to find her!"

"But you were directed to find me, were you not?" said Dorothy, in her quick way of helping one out in distress. "I do not see how you could be held responsible."

"But the girl--if she is still at large, she may be dead or injured,"