"It was she--Penelope," she cried, coming to her feet. "She's really
gone--she meant it." For many minutes she peered out into the night,
expecting to see the shadow returning. A touch of anxious hope
possessing her, she left the window and hurried down the corridor to
Penelope's room. What she found there was most convincing. It was
not a trick of the lanterns. The shadow had been real. It must be
confessed that the peevish heart of Lady Bazelhurst beat rather
rapidly as she hastened back to the window to peer anxiously out into
the sombre park with its hooting owls and chattering night-bugs. The
mournful yelp of a distant dog floated across the black valley.
The watcher shuddered as she recalled stories of panthers that had
infested the great hills. A small feeling of shame and regret began to
develop with annoying insistence.
An hour dragged itself by before she arose petulantly, half terrified,
half annoyed in spite of herself. Her husband still was sitting in the
big chair, his face in his hands. His small, dejected figure appealed
to her pity for the first time in the two years of their association.
She realized what her temper had compelled her to say to him and to
his sister; she saw the insults that at least one of them had come to
resent.
"I hope that foolish girl will come back," she found herself saying,
with a troubled look from the window. "Where can the poor thing go?
What will become of her? What will everyone say when this becomes
known?" she cried, with fresh selfishness.
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