Lord and Lady Bazelhurst, with the more energetic members of their
party, spent the day in a so-called hunting excursion to the hills south
of the Villa. Toward nightfall they returned successfully empty-handed
and rapacious for bridge. Penelope, full of smouldering anger, had spent
the afternoon in her room, disdaining every call of sociability. She had
awakened to the truth of the situation in so far as she was concerned.
She was at least seeing things from Shaw's point of view. Her resentment
was not against the policy of her brother but the overbearing, petulant
tyranny of her American sister-in-law. From the beginning she had
disliked Evelyn; now she despised her. With the loyal simplicity of
a sister she absolved Cecil of all real blame in the outrage of the
morning, attributing everything to the cruelty and envy of the despot
who held the purse-strings from which dangled the pliable fortunes of
Bazelhurst. The Bazelhursts, one and all--ancestors thrown in--swung
back and forth on the pendulum of her capriciousness. Penelope, poor
as a church mouse, was almost wholly dependent upon her brother, who in
turn owed his present affluence to the more or less luckless movement
of the matrimonial market. The girl had a small, inadequate income--so
small it was almost worth jesting about.
Here was Penelope, twenty-two, beautiful, proud, fair-minded, and
healthy, surveying herself for the first time from a new and an entirely
different point of view. She was not pleased with the picture. She began
to loathe herself more than she pitied her brother. Something like a
smile came into her clouded face as she speculated on Randolph Shaw's
method of handling Evelyn Banks had she fallen to him as a wife. The
quiet power in that man's face signified the presence of a manhood
that--ah, and just here it occurred to her that Lady Bazelhurst felt the
force of that power even though she never had seen the man. She hated
him because he was strong enough to oppose her, to ignore her, to laugh
at her impotence.
The smouldering anger and a growing sense of fairness combined at length
in the determination to take her brother and his wife to task for the
morning's outrage, let the consequences be what they might. When she
joined the people downstairs before dinner, there was a red spot in
each cheek and a steady look in her eyes that caused the duke to neglect
woefully the conversation he was carrying on with Mrs. Odwell.
Dinner was delayed for nearly half an hour while four of the guests
finished their “rubber.” Penelope observed that the party displayed
varying emotions. It afterwards transpired that the hunters had spent
most of the afternoon in her ladyship's distant lodge playing bridge for
rather high stakes. Little Miss Folsom was pitifully unresponsive to the
mirth of Mr. Odwell. She could ill afford to lose six hundred dollars.
Lady Bazelhurst was in a frightful mood. Her guests had so far forgotten
themselves as to win more than a thousand dollars of the Banks legacy
and she was not a cheerful loser,--especially as his lordship had
dropped an additional five hundred. The winners were riotously happy.
They had found the sport glorious. An observer, given to deductions,
might have noticed that half of the diners were immoderately hilarious,
the other half studiously polite.
Lord Bazelhurst wore a hunted look and drank more than one or two
highballs. From time to time he cast furtive glances at his wife. He
laughed frequently at the wrong time and mirthlessly.
“He's got something on his mind,” whispered Odwell in comment.
“Yes; he always laughs when there is anything on his mind,” replied Mrs.
De Peyton. “That 's the way he gets it off.”
After dinner no one proposed cards. The party edged off into twos and
threes and explained how luck had been with or against them. Penelope,
who could not afford to play for stakes, and had the courage to say so,
sat back and listened to the conversation of her brother and the group
around him. The duke was holding forth on the superiority of the Chinese
over the Japanese as servants and Bazelhurst was loudly defending the
Japanese navy.
“Hang it all, Barminster, the Japs could eat 'em up,” he proclaimed.
“Could n't they?” to the crowd.
“I'm talking about servants, Cecil,” observed the duke.
“And shoot? Why, they're the greatest gunners in the world. By Jove, I
read somewhere the other day that they had hit what they shot at three
million times out of--or, let me see, was it the Prussians who fired
three million rounds and--”
“Oh, let's change the subject,” said the duke in disgust. “What's become
of that Shaw fellow?” Penelope started and flushed, much to her chagrin.
At the sound of Shaw's name Lady Bazelhurst, who was passing with the
count, stopped so abruptly that her companion took half a dozen paces
without her.
“Shaw? By Jove, do you know, I'd completely forgotten that fellow,”
exclaimed Cecil.
“I thought you were going to shoot him, or shoot at him, or something
like that. Can't you get him in range?”
“Oh, I was n't really in earnest about that, Barminster. You know we
couldn't shoot at a fellow for such a thing--”
“Nonsense, Cecil,” said his wife. “You shoot poachers in England.”
“But this fellow is n't a poacher. He's a--a gentleman, I daresay--in
some respects--not all, of course, my dear, but--”
“Gentleman? Ridiculous!” scoffed his wife.
“I--yes, quite right--a ridiculous gentleman, of course. Ha, ha! Isn't
he, Barminster? But with all that, you know, I couldn't have Tompkins
shoot him. He asked me the other day if he should take a shot at Shaw's
legs, and I told him not to do anything so absurd.” Penelope's heart
swelled with relief, and for the first time that evening she looked upon
her brother with something like sisterly regard.
“It did n't matter, however,” said Lady Evelyn sharply. “I gave him
instructions yesterday to shoot any trespasser from that side of the
line. I can't see that we owe Mr. Shaw any especial consideration.
He has insulted and ignored me at every opportunity. Why should he
be permitted to trespass more than any other common lawbreaker? If he
courts a charge of birdshot he should not expect to escape scot free.
“Birdshot wouldn't kill a man, you know, but it would--”
But Penelope could restrain herself no longer. The heartlessness of her
sister-in-law overcame her prudence, and she interrupted the scornful
mistress of the house, her eyes blazing, but her voice under perfect
control. Her tall young figure was tense, and her fingers clasped the
back of Miss Folsom's chair rather rigidly.
“I suppose you know what happened this morning,” she said, with such
apparent restraint that every one looked at her expectantly.
“Do you mean in connection with Mr.--with Jack-the-Giant-Killer?” asked
her ladyship, her eyes brightening.
“Some one of your servants shot him this morning,” said Penelope with
great distinctness. There was breathless silence in the room.
“Shot him?” gasped Lord Bazelhurst, his thin red face going very white.
“Not--not fatally?” exclaimed Evelyn, aghast in spite of herself.
“No. The instructions were carried out. His wound in the arm is
trifling. But the coward was not so generous when it came to the life of
his innocent, harmless dog. He killed the poor thing. Evelyn, it's--it's
like murder.”
“Oh,” cried her ladyship, relieved. “He killed the dog. I daresay Mr.
Shaw has come to realize at last that we are earnest in this. Of course
I am glad that the man is not badly hurt. Still, a few shot in the arm
will hardly keep him in bounds. His legs were intended,” she laughed
lightly. “What miserable aim Tompkins must take.”
“He's a bit off in his physiology, my dear,” said Cecil, with a nervous
attempt at humour. He did not like the expression in his sister's face.
Somehow, he was ashamed.
“Oh, it's bad enough,” said Penelope. “It was his left arm--the upper
arm, too. I think the aim was rather good.”
“Pray, how do you know all of this, Penelope?” asked her ladyship,
lifting her eyebrows. “I 've heard that you see Mr. Shaw occasionally,
but you can't be his physician, I'm sure.”
Penelope flushed to the roots of her hair, but suppressed the retort
which would have been in keeping with the provocation.
“Oh, dear, no!” she replied. “I'm too soft-hearted to be a physician. I
saw Mr. Shaw just after the--ah--the incident.”
“You shaw Saw--I mean you saw Shaw?” gasped Bazelhurst.
“She sees him frequently, Cecil. It was not at all unusual that she
should have seen him to-day. I daresay he waited to show you his wound
before going to a surgeon.”
Penelope could not resist the temptation to invent a story befitting the
moment. Assuming a look of concern, she turned to her brother and said:
“He is coming to see you about it to-morrow, and he is coming armed to
the teeth, attended by a large party of friends. Mr. Shaw says he will
have satisfaction for the death of that dog if he has to shoot everybody
on the place.”
“Good Lord!” cried the duke. There was instant excitement. “I believe
the wretch will do it, too.”
“Oh, I say, Bazelhurst, settle with him for the dog,” said De Peyton
nervously. He looked at his watch and then at his wife. The entire party
now was listening to the principal speakers.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lady Evelyn. “He won't come. It's all bluster.
Don't let it frighten you, Cecil. I know the manner of man.”
“I wish you could have seen him this morning,” murmured Penelope,
thoroughly enjoying the unexpected situation. Her conscience was not
troubled by the prevarication.
“By Jove, I think it would be wise to send over and find out what he
valued the brute at,” said Cecil, mopping his brow.
“Good. We'll send Penelope to act as ambassador,” said her ladyship.
“She seems to be on friendly terms with the enemy.”
“To act as ambassador from Cowardice Court?” questioned Penelope,
loftily, yet with cutting significance. “No, I thank you. I decline
the honour. Besides,” with a reflective frown, “I don't believe it is
diplomacy he's after.”
“I say what the deuce do you suppose the confounded savage has in mind?”
exclaimed the duke. “I 'Ve heard of the way these cowboys settle their
affairs. You don't imagine--” and he paused significantly.
“It looks like it's going to be a da--rather disagreeable affair,” said
De Peyton sourly.
“Good heavens, what are we to do if he comes here with a lot of
desperadoes and begins to shoot?” cried Mrs. Odwell, genuinely alarmed.
“I've read so much of these awful mountain feuds.”
“Don't be alarmed. Lord Bazelhurst will attend to the gentleman,” said
Lady Evelyn blandly. His lordship's monocle clattered down and the ice
rattled sharply in his glass. “To--to be sure,” he agreed. “Don't be in
the least worried. I 'll attend to the upstart. What time's he coming,
Pen?” A door banged noisily near by, and every one jumped as though a
gun had been fired. While the “ohs” were still struggling from their
lips, Hodder, the butler, came into the room, doing his best to retain
his composure under what seemed to be trying circumstances. “What is it,
Hodder?” demanded her ladyship.
“The cook, your ladyship. She's fallen downstairs and broken her
leg,” announced Hodder. He did not betray it, but he must have been
tremendously surprised by the sigh of relief that went up on all sides.
Lord Bazelhurst went so far as to laugh.
“Ha, ha! is that all?”
“Oh, dear, I'm so glad!” cried Miss Folsom, impulsively. “I was
frightened half to death. It might have been Mr.--”
“Don't be silly, Rose,” said Lady Bazelhurst. “Where is she, Hodder?”
“In the laundry, your ladyship. There are two fractures.”
“By Jove, two legs instead of one, then--worse than I thought,” cried
Bazelhurst, draining his glass.
“Send at once for a doctor, Hodder, and take her to her room. Is n't it
annoying,” said her ladyship. “It's so difficult to keep a cook in the
mountains.”
“Don't see how she can get away without legs,” observed De Peyton.
“I'll come with you, Hodder. Perhaps I can do something for her,” said
Penelope, following the butler from the room.
“Don't take too many patients on your hands, my dear,” called the
mistress, with a shrill laugh.
“Yes; remember to-morrow,” added the duke. Then, suddenly: “I believe
I'll lend a hand.” He hurried after Penelope, rather actively for him.
Lord Bazelhurst visited his wife's room later in the night, called there
by a more or les: peremptory summons. Cecil had been taking time by
the forelock in anticipation of Shaw's descent in the morning and was
inclined to jocundity.
“Cecil, what do you think of Penelope's attitude toward Mr. Shaw?” she
asked, turning away from the window which looked out over the night in
the direction of Shaw's place.
“I didn't know she had an attitude,” replied he, trying to focus his
wavering gaze upon her.
“She meets him clandestinely and she supports him openly. Is n't that an
attitude, or are you too drunk to see it?”
“My dear, remember you are speaking of my sister,” he said with fine
dignity but little discrimination. “Besides, I am not too drunk. I _do_
see it. It's a demmed annoying attitude. She 's a traitor, un'stand me?
A traito-tor. I intend to speak to her about it.”
“It is better that you should do it,” said his wife. “I am afraid I
could not control my temper.”
“Penelope's a disgrace--a nabsolute disgrace; now many legs did Hodder
say--”
“Oh, you're disgusting!” cried Lady Evelyn. “Go to bed! I thought I
could talk to you to-night, but I can't. You scarcely can stand up.”
“Now, Evelyn, you do me injustice. I'm only holding to this chair to
keep it from moving 'round the room. See that? Course I c'n stan' up,”
he cried, triumphantly.
“I am utterly disgusted with you. Oh, for a man! A man with real blood
in his veins, a man who could do something besides eat and drink at
my cost. I pay your debts, clothe you, feed you--house your ungrateful
sister--and what do I get in return? _This!_”
Lord Bazelhurst's eyes steadied beneath this unexpected assault, his
legs stiffened, his shoulders squared themselves in a pitiful attempt at
dignity.
“Lady Bazelhurst, you--you--” and then he collapsed into the chair,
bursting into maudlin tears. She stood over by the dressing-table and
looked pitilessly upon the weak creature whose hiccoughing sobs filled
the room. Her colour was high, her breathing heavy. In some way it
seemed as though there was so much more she could have said had the
circumstances been different.
There came a knock at the door, but she did not respond. Then the door
opened quietly and Penelope entered the room, resolutely, fearlessly.
Evelyn turned her eyes upon the intruder and stared for a moment.
“Did you knock?” she asked at last.
“Yes. You did not answer.”
“Was n't that sufficient?”
“Not to-night, Evelyn. I came to have it out with you and Cecil. Where
is he?”
“There!”
“Asleep?” with a look of amazement.
“I hope not. I should dislike having to call the servants to carry him
to his see. Poor old chap!” She went over and shook him by the shoulder.
He sat up and stared at her blankly through his drenched eyes. Then, as
if the occasion called for a supreme effort, he tried to rise, ashamed
that his sister should have found him in his present condition. “Don't
get up, Cecil. Wait a bit and I'll go to your--”
“What have you to say to me, Penelope,” demanded Evelyn, a green light
in her eyes.
“It can wait. I prefer to have Cecil--understand,” she said, bitterly.
“If it 's about our affair with Shaw, it won't make any difference
whether Cecil understands or not. Has your friend asked you to plead
for him? Does he expect me to take him up on your account and have him
here?”
“I was jesting when I said he would come to-morrow,” said Penelope,
ignoring the thrust and hurrying to her subject. “I could n't go to
sleep to-night if I neglected to tell you what I think of the outrage
this morning. You and Cecil had no right to order Tompkins to shoot at
Mr. Shaw. He is not a trespasser. Some one killed his dog to-day. When
he pursued the coward, a second shot was fired at him. He was wounded.
Do you call that fair fighting? Ambushed, shot from behind a tree. I
don't care what you and Cecil think about it, I consider it despicable.
Thank God, Cecil was not really to blame. It is about the only thing I
can say to my brother's credit.”
Lady Bazelhurst was staring at her young sister-in-law with wide eyes.
It was the first time in all her petted, vain life that any one had
called her to account. She was, at first, too deeply amazed to resent
the sharp attack.
“Penelope Drake!” was all she could say. Then the fury in her soul began
to search for an outlet. “How dare you? How dare you?”
“I don't mean to hurt you, I am only telling you that your way of
treating this affair is a mistake. It can be rectified. You don't want
to be lawless; you don't understand what a narrow escape from murder you
have had. Evelyn, you owe reparation to Mr. Shaw. He is--”
“I understand why you take his side. You cheapen and degrade yourself
and you bring shame upon your brother and me by your disgraceful
affair with this ruffian. Don't look shocked! You meet him secretly, I
know--how much farther you have gone with him I don't know. It is enough
that you--”
“Stop! You shall not say such things to me!”
“You came in here to have it out with me. Weil, we'll have it out. You
think because you're English, and all that, that you are better than I.
You show it in your every action; you turn up your nose at me because
I am an American. Well, what if I am? Where would you be if it were not
for me? And where would _he_ be? You'd starve if it were not for me. You
hang to me like a leech--you sponge on me, you gorge yourself--”
“That is enough, Evelyn. You have said all that is necessary. I deserve
it, too, for meddling in your affairs. It may satisfy you to know that
I have always despised you. Having confessed, I can only add that we
cannot live another hour under the same roof. You need not order me
to go. I shall do so of my own accord--gladly.” Penelope turned to the
door. She was as cold as ice.
“It is the first time you have ever done anything to please me. You may
go in the morning.”
“I shall go to-night!”
“As you like. It is near morning. Where do you expect to go at this hour
of night?”
“I am not afraid of the night. Tomorrow I shall send over from the
village for my trunks.” She paused near the door and then came back to
Cecil's side. “Goodbye, Cecil. I'll write. Good-bye.” He looked up with
a hazy smile.
“G'night,” he muttered thickly.
Without another word or so much as a glance at Lady Bazelhurst,
Penelope Drake went swiftly from the room. The big hall clock struck
the half-hour after eleven. Some one--a woman--was laughing in the
billiard-room below; the click of the balls came to her ears like the
snapping of angry teeth. She did not hesitate; it was not in her nature.
The room in which she had found so much delight was now loathsome to
her. With nervous fingers she threw the small things she most cherished
into a bag,--her purse, her jewels, her little treasures. Somehow it
seemed to her as if she were hurrying to catch a night train, that was
all. With her own strong young arms she dragged the two huge trunks
from the closet. Half an hour later they were full and locked. Then she
looked about with a dry, mirthless smile.
“I wonder where I _am_ to go?” she murmured, half aloud. A momentary
feeling of indecision attacked her. The click of the balls had ceased,
the clock had struck twelve. It was dark and still, and the wind was
crying in the trees.
“She won't go,” Lady Bazelhurst was saying to herself, as she sat,
narrow-eyed and hateful, in her window looking out into the night. “Life
is too easy here.” The light from the porch lanterns cast a feeble glow
out beyond the porte-cochère and down the drive. As she stared across
the circle, the figure of a woman suddenly cut a diametric line
through it, and lost itself in the wall of blackness that formed the
circumference. Lady Evelyn started and stared unbelievingly into
the darkness, striving to penetrate it with her gaze. “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. “I--I should not have let her go like
this.”
Even as she reproached herself, a light broke in upon her understanding;
a thought whirled into her brain and a moment later she knew where she
could go! “How simple I am. Shaw will welcome her gladly. She's with him
by this time--his doors have opened to her. The little wretch! And I've
been trying so hard to pity her!” She laughed again so shrilly that his
lordship stirred and then looked up at her stupefied, uncertain.
“Hullo,” he grunted. “What time is it?”
“Oh, you're awake, are you?” scornfully.
“Certainly. Have I been dozing? What's there to laugh at, my dear?” he
mumbled, arising very unsteadily. “Where's Pen?”
“She's gone. She's left the house,” she said, recurring dread and
anxiety in her voice. A glance at the darkness outside brought back the
growing shudders.
“What--what d' ye mean?” demanded he, bracing up with a splendid effort.
“She's left the house, that's all. We quarrelled. I don't know where
she's gone. Yes, I do know. She's gone to Shaw's for the night. She's
with him. I saw her going,” she cried, striving between fear and anger.
“You 've--you've turned her out? Good Lord, why--why did you let her
go?” He turned and rushed toward the door, tears springing to his eyes.
He was sobering now and the tears were wrenched from his hurt pride.
“How long ago?”
“An hour or more. She went of her own accord. You'll find her at
Shaw's,” said her ladyship harshly. She hated to admit that she was to
blame. But as her husband left the room, banging the door after him, she
caught her breath several times in a futile effort to stay the sobs,
and then broke down and cried, a very much abused young woman. She hated
everybody and everything.