Thus, half meditating, half moralizing, and drawing, like a true lover, an omen of fear or hope from occurrences in which plain reason could have perceived neither type nor token, Clarence continued and concluded his day’s journey. He put up at the same little inn he had visited three years ago, and watched his opportunity of seeing Lady Flora alone. More fortunate in that respect than he had been before, such opportunity the very next day presented to him.
CHAPTER LXVII.
Duke.—Sir Valentine! Thur.—Yonder is Silvia, and Silvia’s mine.
Val.—Thurio, give back.—The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
“I think, Mamma,” said Lady Flora to her mother, “that as the morning is so beautiful, I will go into the pavilion to finish my drawing.”
“But Lord Ulswater will be here in an hour, or perhaps less: may I tell him where you are, and suffer him to join you?”
“If you will accompany him,” answered Lady Flora, coldly, as she took up her portefeuille and withdrew.
Now the pavilion was a small summer-house of stone, situated in the most retired part of the grounds belonging to Westborough Park. It was a favourite retreat with Lady Flora, even in the winter months, for warm carpeting, a sheltered site, and a fireplace constructed more for comfort than economy made it scarcely less adapted to that season than to the more genial suns of summer.
The morning was so bright and mild that Lady Flora left open the door as she entered; she seated herself at the table, and, unmindful of her pretended employment, suffered the portefeuille to remain unopened. Leaning her cheek upon her hand, she gazed vacantly on the ground, and scarcely felt the tears which gathered slowly to her eyes, but, falling not, remained within the fair lids, chill and motionless, as if the thought which drew them there was born of a sorrow less agitated than fixed and silent.
The shadow of a man darkened the threshold, and there paused.