Cowardice 
Cor urt 
By 
GEORGE BARR M’CUTCHEON 
Copyright. 1906. Dodd Mead & Co. 
[CONTINUED.] 
“1 was jesting when [ said ne wowa 
come tomorrow,” said Penelope, ignor- 
Ing the thrust and hurrying to her sub- 
ject. “I couldn’t go to sleep tonight 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 fight- 
ing? 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 
ean 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?” 
“7 don’t mean to hurt you. I am 
only telling you that your way of treat- 
ing this affair is a mistake. It can be 
rectified. You don’t want to be law- 
less; you don’t understand what a nar- 
row escape from murder you have had. 
Evelyn, you owe reparation to Mr. 
Shaw. He is’— 
“T understand why yeu take his side. 
You cheapen and degrade yourself and 
you bring shame upon your brother 
and me by your disgraceful affair with 
this ruffan. Don’t look shocked. You 
meet him secretly, I know. How much 
further 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. Well, 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 
l**se a leech—you sponge on me—you 
earca wanrcalf’?_ 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
@Panicr. 
“You'd starve if it were not for me.” 
“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 con- 
fessed, 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.” Pe- 
nelope turned to the door. She was as 
cold as ice. 
‘Tt is the first time you have ever 
done anything to please me. You may 
go in the morning.” 
“JT shall go tonight!’ 
“As you like. It is near morning. 
Where do you expect to go at this 
hour of the night?” 
“T am not afraid of the night. To- 
morrow I shall send over from the vil- 
lage for my trunks.” She paused near 
the door and then came back to Cecil’s 
side. “Goodby, Cecil. I’ll write. Good- 
by.” He looked up with a hazy smile. 
“G’night.’’ he muttered thickly. 
Without another word or so much 
as a glance at Lady Bazelhurst, Pe- 
nelope Drake went swiftly from the 
room. The big hall clock struck the 
half hour after 11. Some one—a wo- 
man—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, 
Some- 
her jewels, her little treasures. 
tee ne 
“his face in his hands. 
how 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, haif aloud. A momentary 
feeling of indecision attacked her. The 
click of the balls had ceased, the clock 
had struck 12. It was dark and still, 
and the wind was crying in the trees. 
* * * * * x * 
“She won't go,” Lady Bazelhurst 
was saying to herself as she sat, nar- 
row 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 cochere and down the 
drive. As she stared across the circle 
the figure of a woman suddenly cut 
a diametrie line through it and lost it- 
self in the wall of blackness that form- 
ed 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 
jnto the night, expecting to see the 
shadow returning. A touch of anxious 
hope possessing her, she left the win- 
dow and burried 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 Bazel- 
hurst beat rather rapidly as she has- 
tened back to the window to peer anx- 
iously out into the somber park with 
its hooting owls and chattering night 
bugs. The mournful yelp of a distant 
dog fioated 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 hus- 
band still was sitting in the big chair, 
His small, de- 
jected 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 in- 
sults that at least one of them had 
come to resent. 
“IT 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 every 
one say when this becomes known?" 
she cried, with fresh selfishness. “I 
—l should not have let her go like 
this.” 
Even as she reproached herself a 
light broke in upon her understanding; 
or oa 
