given. Her heart
was nearly breaking, but she could not bear the idea of parting in
bitterness with the being whom, perhaps, she loved best in the world.
She stopt, she called his name in a voice low indeed, but in that
silent spot it reached him. He joined her immediately, but with a slow
step. When he had reached her, he said, without any animation and in a
frigid tone, 'I believe you called me?'

Venetia burst into tears. 'I cannot bear to part in anger,
Plantagenet. I wished to say farewell in kindness. I shall always pray
for your happiness. God bless you, Plantagenet!'

Lord Cadurcis made no reply, though for a moment he seemed about to
speak; he bowed, and, as Venetia approached her aunt, he turned his
steps in a different direction.

CHAPTER XVI.

Venetia stopped for a moment to collect herself before she joined
her aunt, but it was impossible to conceal her agitation from the
Countess. They had not, however, been long together before they
observed their friends in the distance, who had now quitted the
palace. Venetia made the utmost efforts to compose herself, and not
unsuccessful ones. She was sufficiently calm on their arrival, to
listen, if not to converse. The Countess, with all the tact of a
woman, covered her niece's confusion by her animated description of
their agreeable ride, and their still more pleasant promenade; and in
a few minutes the whole party were walking back to their carriages.
When they had arrived at the inn, they found Lord Cadurcis, to
whose temporary absence the Countess had alluded with some casual
observation which she flattered herself was very satisfactory.
Cadurcis appeared rather sullen, and the Countess, with feminine
quickness, suddenly discovered that both herself and her niece were
extremely fatigued, and that they had better return in the carriages.
There was one vacant place, and some of the gentlemen must ride
outside. Lord Cadurcis, however, said that he should return as he
came, and the grooms might lead back the ladies' horses; and so in a
few minutes the carriages had driven off.

Our solitary equestrian, however, was no sooner mounted than he put
his horse to its speed, and never drew in his rein until he reached
Hyde Park Corner. The rapid motion accorded with his tumultuous mood.
He was soon at home, gave his horse to a servant, for he had left
his groom behind, rushed into his library, tore up a letter of Lady
Monteagle's with a demoniac glance, and