Jane Clermont rode on, humming an air, looking curiously at the various vehicles that passed her on the smooth, well-travelled road, thinking with triumph of the man she had seen riding to Bagnacavallo. She had guessed the object of Shelley’s trip to Venice, but the knowledge had not at first stirred her natural and self-absorbed indifference. It was a malicious afterthought, a gratuitous spice of venom springing more from an instinctive maleficence than from any deeper umbrage, that had inspired that parting visit to the convent. The impulse that had led her to assure herself of Gordon’s fruitless journey was distinctly feline.
A mile from the town her reflections were abruptly broken. She spoke to the driver and he stopped.
A sweating horse was approaching. Its trappings were of an ostentatious gaudiness. The face of the man it carried was swarthy and mustachioed and his bearing had the effect of flamboyant and disordered braggadocio.
“Trevanion!” she exclaimed, with an accent of surprise. She had not seen him for two years. As she watched, her face showed a certain amusement.
He would possibly have passed her by, for his gaze was set straight ahead, but when he came opposite, she leaned from the carriage and spoke his name.
His horse halted instantly; a hot red leaped into his oriental cheeks, a look fierce and painful into his eyes. He sat still, looking at her without a word.
“I thought you were in England,” he said at length.
“So I was till last fall. Since, I’ve been at Pisa with the Shelleys. But I find the continent precious dull. I see you haven’t been caught yet for deserting from the navy. Is that why you don’t stay in London? Tell me,” she asked suddenly; “where is George Gordon now?”
“In Venice.”
“Really!” Her voice had a kind of measured mockery that did not cloak its satire. “And yet I hear of his doings in many other places—Lucca, Bologna, all the post-towns. From the descriptions, I judge he has changed, not only in looks but in habits.”