He had never felt the sting of failure
until he stood in the Yorkshire orchard that chill October evening, and
pleaded in vain to Clarissa Lovel. She was little more than a schoolgirl,
and she rejected him. It was us if Lauzun, after having played
fast-and-loose with that eldest daughter of France who was afterwards his
wife, had been flouted by some milliner's apprentice, or made light of by
an obscure little soubrette in Moliere's troop of comedians. He had neither
forgotten nor forgiven this slight; and mingled with that blind unreasoning
passion, which he had striven in vain to conquer, there was an ever-present
sense of anger and wrong.
When Clarissa rose from the bench, he rose too, and laid his hand lightly
on her arm with a detaining gesture.
"If you knew how long; I have been wishing for this meeting, you would not
be so anxious to bring it to a close," he said earnestly.
"It was very good of you to wish to tell me about poor Austin," she said,
pretending to misunderstand him, "and I am really grateful. But I must not
stay any longer away from my party."
"Clarissa--a thousand pardons--Mrs. Granger"--there is no describing the
expression he gave to the utterance of that last name--a veiled contempt
and aversion that just stopped short of actual insolence, because it seemed
involuntary--"why are you so hard upon me? You have confessed that you
wanted to escape the noise yonder, and yet to avoid me you would go back to
that.
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