“You are too young to talk thus.”
“I speak as I feel.”
Valerie said no more. Shortly afterwards Lord
Doningdale approached them, and proposed that they
should make an excursion the next day to see the ruins
of an old abbey, some few miles distant.
“If I should meet thee
After long years,
How shall I greet thee?”—BYRON.
IT was a smaller party than usual the next day, consisting
only of Lord Doningdale, his son George Herbert, Valerie
and Ernest. They were returning from the ruins,
and the sun, now gradually approaching the west, threw
its slant rays over the gardens and houses of a small,
picturesque town, or, perhaps, rather village, on the
high North Road. It is one of the prettiest places
in England, that town or village, and boasts an excellent
old-fashioned inn, with a large and quaint pleasure-garden.
It was through the long and straggling street that
our little party slowly rode, when the sky became
suddenly overcast, and, a few large hailstones falling,
gave notice of an approaching storm.
“I told you we should not get safely through
the day,” said George Herbert. “Now
we are in for it.”
“George, that is a vulgar expression,”
said Lord Doningdale, buttoning up his coat.
While he spoke, a vivid flash of lightning darted
across their very path, and the sky grew darker and
darker.
“We may as well rest at the inn,” said
Maltravers: “the storm is coming on apace,
and Madame de Ventadour—”
“You are right,” interrupted Lord Doningdale;
and he put his horse into a canter.
They were soon at the door of the old hotel.
Bells rang dogs barked—hostlers ran.
A plain, dark, travelling post-chariot was before
the inn-door; and, roused perhaps by the noise below,
a lady in the “first-floor front, No. 2,”
came to the window. This lady owned the travelling-carriage,
and was at this time alone in that apartment.
As she looked carelessly at the party, her eyes rested
on one form—she turned pale, uttered a
faint cry, and fell senseless on the floor.
Meanwhile, Lord Doningdale and his guests were shown
into the room next to that tenanted by the lady.
Properly speaking, both the rooms made one long apartment
for balls and county meetings, and the division was
formed by a thin partition, removable at pleasure.
The hail now came on fast and heavy, the trees groaned,
the thunder roared; and in the large, dreary room
there was a palpable and oppressive sense of coldness
and discomfort. Valerie shivered—a
fire was lighted—and the Frenchwoman drew
near to it.
“You are wet, my dear lady,” said Lord
Doningdale. “You should take off that
close habit, and have it dried.”
“Oh, no; what matters it?” said Valerie
bitterly, and almost rudely.
“It matters everything,” said Ernest;
“pray be ruled.”
