‘The drawing-room, my lord. She’s there now.’
Zamorna left the room.
Softly unclosing the drawing-room door he perceived the lady by the hearth. Her back was towards him, but there could be no mistake. The whole turn of form, the style of dress, the curled auburn head: all were attributes but of one person. He closed the door as noiselessly as he had opened it and stole forwards. Her attention was absorbed in a book she had picked up. As he stood unobserved behind her he could see that her eyes rested on the flyleaf, where was written in his own hand:
Holy St. Cyprian! thy waters stray
With still and solemn tone;
And fast my bright hours pass away
And somewhat throws a shadow grey,
Even as twilight closes day,
Upon thy waters lone.
Farewell! If I might come again,
Young as I was and free,
And feel once more in every vein
The fire of that first passion reign
Which sorrow could not quench nor pain,
I’d soon return to thee;
But while thy billows seek the main.
That never more may be!
This was dated ‘Mornington, 1829.’
The duchess felt a hand press her shoulder and she looked up. The force of attraction had its natural results and she clung to what she saw.
‘Adrian! Adrian!’ was all her lips would utter.
‘Mary! Mary!’ replied the duke, allowing her to hang about him; ‘what brought you here? Are you running away: eloping in my absence?’
‘Adrian, why did you leave me? You said you would come back in a week, and it is eight days since you left me; do come home!’
‘So you actually have set off in search of a husband,’ said Zamorna, laughing heartily; ‘and been overturned and obliged to take shelter in Pakenham’s shooting-box!’