Whilst the enraptured Diana, all life and glee, bowled along with
Lady Shafto, anticipating the delight of once more seating herself at
the elbow of Pembroke Somerset, Mary Beaufort, relieved from a load
of ill-requited attentions, walked out into the park, to enjoy in
solitude the "sweet sorrow" of thinking on the unhappy and far-
distant Constantine. Regardless of the way, her footsteps, though
robbed of elasticity by nightly watching and daily regret, led her
beyond the park, to the ruined church of Woolthorpe, its southern
boundary. Her eyes were fixed on the opposite horizon. It was the
extremity of Leicestershire; and far, far behind those hills was that
London which contained the object dearest to her soul. The wind
seemed scarcely to breathe as it floated towards her; but it came
from that quarter, and believing it laden with every sweet which love
can fancy, she threw back her veil to inhale its balm, then, blaming
herself for such weakness, she turned, blushing, homewards and wept
at what she thought her unreasonably tenacious passion.
The arrival of Miss Dundas at the Lodge was communicated to the two
young men on their return from traversing half the country in quest
of game. The news drew an oath from Shafto, but rather pleased
Somerset, who augured some amusement from her attempts at wit and
judgment. Tired to death, and dinner being over when they entered,
with ravenous appetites they devoured their uncomfortable meal in a
remote room; then throwing themselves along the sofas, yawned and
slept for nearly two hours.
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