The hot blood swept in wrathful waves over her face, just now paled by affright and her fit of syncope. Anger made her draw her slight figure up to its full height; and when Captain Desfrayne turned and addressed some trifling remark to her, she replied with a frigid coldness that struck even herself as being ungrateful and ungracious.
Blanche was more than ever persuaded that there had been a stormy quarrel, and that even yet neither chose to advance one step toward reconciliation.
It was a relief to the three when hurrying footsteps and the sound of excited voices showed that help was at hand.
In a few minutes several men servants, headed by the rough-pated boy who had gone in search of them, were pressing into the chapel. One carried shawls and wraps, and another some wine, in case the young ladies and their deliverer should be faint.
“Oh, dear!—oh, dear!—oh, dear!” cried Blanche, with a great sigh. “What will mama and Lady Quaintree say? How I shall be scolded and cried over! It has been my fault entirely.”
“We were both to blame,” answered Lois.
“No; I planned our escapade, and persuaded you, and forgot to make our boat fast.”
“The boat would have been of no use to you, Miss Dormer, in such a storm,” said Captain Desfrayne.
“True. It has been a most unlucky affair altogether,” sighed Blanche.
“I presume you are now quite safe in charge of these good people,” said the young man. “There will be no impropriety in leaving you, I trust—you and Miss Turquand?”