On a height before him stood a
house, which he believed to be that he sought; he had written down
its unrememberable Basque name, and inquiry of a peasant assured him
that he was not mistaken. Having his goal in view, he stood to
reflect. Could he march up to the front door, and ask boldly for
Miss Elvan? But--the doubt suddenly struck him--what if Rosamund
were not living here? At Mrs. Coppinger's her sister was governess;
she had bidden him address letters there, but that might be merely
for convenience; perhaps she was not Mrs. Coppinger's guest at all,
but had an abode somewhere in the town. In that case, he must see
her sister--who perhaps, nay, all but certainly, had never heard
his name.
He walked on. The road became a hollow lane, with fern and heather
and gorse intermingled below the thickets on the bank. Another five
minutes would bring him to the top of the hill, to the avenue of
trees by which the house was approached. And the nearer he came, the
more awkward seemed his enterprise. It might have been better to
write a note to Rosamund, announcing his arrival, and asking for an
interview. On the other hand that was a timid proceeding; boldly to
present himself before her would be much more effective. If he could
only be sure of seeing her, and seeing her alone
For a couple of hours did he loiter irresolutely, ever hoping that
chance might help him. Perhaps, as the afternoon grew cooler, people
might come forth from the house.
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