When Lucinda and Romney arrived at the brook they gazed at the brawling
water blankly. Lucinda remembered that she must not speak to Romney
just in time to prevent an exclamation of dismay. There was no tree!
There was no bridge of any kind over the brook!
Here was a predicament! But before Lucinda could do more than
despairingly ask herself what was to be done now, Romney answered--
not in words, but in deeds. He coolly picked Lucinda up in his arms,
as if she had been a child instead of a full grown woman of no
mean avoirdupois, and began to wade with her through the water.
Lucinda gasped helplessly. She could not forbid him and she
was so choked with rage over his presumption that she could
not have spoken in any case. Then came the catastrophe.
Romney's foot slipped on a treacherous round stone--
there was a tremendous splash--and Romney and Lucinda Penhallow
were sitting down in the middle of Peter Penhallow's brook.
Lucinda was the first to regain her feet. About her clung
in heart-breaking limpness the ruined voile. The remembrance
of all her wrongs that night rushed over her soul, and her eyes
blazed in the moonlight. Lucinda Penhallow had never been
so angry in her life.
Pages:
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166