The evening brought a lull in the excitement and busy labour. The Countess, attended by Felicia, had gone to the Palace on royal invitation. Clarice sat on the terrace, her eyes fixed on the river which she did not see, her hands lying listlessly in her lap. Though she had heard nothing, that unaccountable conviction of another presence, which comes to us all at times, seized upon her; and she looked up to see Piers Ingham.
The interview was long, and there is no need to add that it was painful. The end came at last.
“Wilt thou forget me, Clarice?” softly asked Piers.
“I ought,” was the answer, with a gush of tears, “if I can.”
“I cannot,” was the reply. “But one pain I can spare thee, my beloved. The Lady means to retain thee in her service as damsel of the chamber.” (Note 1.)
If Clarice could have felt any lesser grief beside the one great one, she would have been sorry to hear that.
“I shall retire,” said Sir Piers, “from my Lord’s household. I will not give thee the misery of meeting me day by day. Rather I will do what I can to help thee to forget me. It is the easier for me, since I have had to offend my Lady by declining the hand of Felicia de Fay, which she was pleased to offer me.”
“The Lady offered Felicia to thee?”
Sir Piers bent his head in assent. Clarice felt as if she could have poisoned Felicia, and have given what arsenic remained over to the Lady Margaret.
“And are we never to meet again?” she asked, with an intonation of passionate sorrow.