"Oh, it _was_ cruel!" She smiled, however, in
retrospection.
An hour later they stood together on the broad porch, looking out over
the green, glistening hills. The warm fresh air filled their lungs and
happiness was overcrowding their hearts. In every direction were signs
of the storm's fury. Great trees lay blasted, limbs and branches were
scattered over the ground, wide fissures split the roadway across
which the deluge had rushed on its way down the slope.
But Penelope was warm and dry and safe after her thrilling night. A
hot breakfast was being prepared for them; trouble seemed to have gone
its way with the elements.
"If I were only sure that nothing serious had happened to Cecil," she
murmured anxiously.
"I'm sorry, dear, for that screech of mine," he apologized.
Suddenly he started and gazed intently in the direction of the haunted
house. A man--a sorry figure--was slowly, painfully approaching from
the edge of the wood scarce a hundred yards away. In his hand he
carried a stick to which was attached a white cloth--doubtless a
handkerchief. He was hatless and limped perceptibly. The two on the
porch watched his approach in amazed silence.
"It's Cecil!" whispered Penelope in horror-struck tones. "Good heaven,
Randolph, go to him! He is hurt."
It was Lord Bazelhurst. As Shaw hurried down the drive to meet him,
no thought of the feud in mind, two beings even more hopelessly
dilapidated ventured from the wood and hobbled up behind the
truce-bearer, who had now paused to lift his shoulders into a position
of dignity and defiance.
Pages:
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410