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Updated: May 18, 2025
Those few words were Clarence's first approach to confidence with me, but they led to more, and he knew there was one person who did not believe the defect was in the bent of his will so much as in its strength.
Mordaunt was gazing with vacant yet earnest eye upon the waters beneath; and so intent was either his mood or look that he was unaware of Clarence's approach. Tears fast and large were rolling from those haughty eyes, which men who shrank from their indifferent glance little deemed were capable of such weak and feminine emotion.
Clarence's mother did not pay many visits and Millicent fancied she had some particular object in coming. She sat down where the sunlight fell on her gentle face and silvery hair, her delicate white hands spread out on her dark dress. "Busy, as usual, my dear," she said, glancing at the sketch. "That's very pretty."
"Forgive me, Richard," said Montagu, "forgive me thy death; had I not so blindly believed in Clarence's fatal order, the savage Edward had never passed alive through the pass of Pontefract." "Blame not thyself," replied Warwick. "We are but the instruments of a wiser Will. God assoil thee, brother mine. We leave this world to tyranny and vice. Christ receive our souls!"
Clarence's hesitating hand dropped to his side, and with a light reckless laugh and a half sense of providential relief he galloped away. What happened immediately thereafter during his solitary ride to Santa Inez, looking back upon it in after years, seemed but a confused recollection, more like a dream.
Let them have the letters, let them buzz we'll be miles away, and we won't care! And in a year or two, Greg, we'll come back, and they'll all flock about us you'll see! That's the advantage of a name like the Gregory name! Why, who among them all dropped Clarence on Paula's account, or Rachael on Clarence's?" "Your going to see her has certainly complicated things," Warren said reflectively.
The clock had just struck the hour of twelve when a knock at the door announced a visitor. Steps were heard on the stairs and presently a tap at Clarence's room-door. He unlocked it and the Duke of Haverfield entered. "I am charmed to find you at home," cried the duke, with his usual half kind, half careless address.
Peyton, coldly polite to Clarence's former COMPANION, but condescendingly gracious to his present TENANT and retainer, did not notice it, preoccupied with the annoyance and pain of Susy's frequent references to the old days of their democratic equality. "You don't remember, Jim, the time that you painted my face in the wagon, and got me up as an Indian papoose?" she said mischievously.
No prevarication, sir, he added, as the only too familiar look of consternation and bewilderment came over Clarence's face. 'You are doing your brother no good by conniving at his conduct. Speak truth, if you can, he added, with more cruelty than he knew, in his own suffering.
But there was one part of Clarence's account of the last night to which the philosopher paid a still deeper attention, and on which he was more minute in his advice; what this was, I cannot, as yet, reveal to the reader.
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