She waited a little while, thinking he would
return, peeped out of the door, looked down the broad carriage drive as
well as the increasing darkness would allow, saw a hastily retreating
shadow melt into the general gloom, came in again, waited a little
longer, then went up to her room, bolted herself in, threw herself on
her bed and cried as if her heart would break.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Terrence Malone and the lieutenant, Fernando's rival, were
rowing toward Duck Island fire or six miles away. The island was
reached. It was a dismal affair little more than an elevated marsh. When
the tide was out on Duck Island, its extended dreariness was potent. Its
spongy, low-lying surface, sluggish, inky pools and tortuous sloughs,
twisting their slimy way, eel-like, toward the open bay were all hard
facts. Occasionally, here and there, could be seen a few green tussocks,
with their scant blades, their amphibious flavor and unpleasant
dampness. And if you chose to indulge your fancy, although the flat
monotony of Duck Island was not inspiring, the wavy line of scattered
drift gave an unpleasant consciousness of the spent waters and made the
certainty of the returning tide a gloomy reflection, which sunshine
could not wholly dissipate. The greener salt meadows seemed oppressed
with this idea and made no positive attempt at vegetation.
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