Neither he nor any man could have realized what she felt as her uncle talked wildly—­and she had been put up for sale.  She used none of the resources of reason.  All her body was hot with the same flush of shame which burned in her face.  In her passion of disgust and anger, she hurried out into the storm.  The chill of the east wind was friendly.  She gave no other thought to the wind-driven rain, but ran through the woods like a wild thing, all virginal woman, unreasonable, insulted, angry as a child is angry—­even her uncle was forgotten.  She ran upstairs, the glory of her rain-soaked hair in tumbled disorder, and in her room broke into the open speech which passion confides to the priest solitude.

“Oh, John Penhallow, how could you!  That ends it—­a man who could—­and oh, John Penhallow!” She cried a little, wailing in a childish way, and then with some returning sense of anxiety put herself in condition to go downstairs, where she learned that her uncle was in bed.  She went back to her room.

CHAPTER XXXII

A half hour later John sat alone in the library.  He had much to disturb a young man trained to obey and at need command, and was feeling the responsibility of an unusual position.  At last he wrote a note to his aunt and sent it up to her by a maid.  In a few minutes Ann Penhallow appeared.

“What is it, John?  I cannot leave James alone long.”  She sat down.  “Now don’t keep me.”

“I need not detain you long, but I feel that you ought to know, Aunt Ann, that I have had a talk with Tom McGregor and have sent a telegram to Dr. Askew desiring him to come at once and see my uncle.  I ought to hear to-morrow.”

She rose to her feet.  “You did this, John, without a word to me and knowing that your uncle has over and over said he would not listen to anything of the kind.  You have taken a great liberty—­I shall telegraph for your doctor not to come.  James is always better after these attacks.”

Much surprised, he said, “These attacks—­has he had them before?”

“Oh, twice—­very slight.”

“But, aunt, do you not understand how serious this one was?”

“He is better already—­much better.  There should not be any need to remind you that you are not the head of this house.  I shall telegraph at once, in the morning, and stop him.”

“It will be too late, aunt.”

“Then your doctor may go back.  I will not see this doctor if in spite of my telegram he should come.  You will understand, John, that this ends it.  I certainly will not have James constantly irritated.  I shall telegraph now—­at once.”

“You will do, aunt, as it seems best to you.”  He saw the telegram written and heard her order to send it to the Westways office.

His aunt, having settled the matter, went upstairs, an angry and indignant woman, leaving in the library a man resolute not to accept defeat.