One hour, two hours, three hours, passed, and the messenger had not returned. Restless and impatient, Clarence walked back to his inn, and had not been there many minutes before a servant, in the Westborough livery, appeared at the door of the humble hostelry, and left the following letter for his perusal and gratification:-- WESTBOROUGH PASS. Sir,--The letter intended for my daughter has just been given to me by Lady Westborough. I know not what gave rise to the language, or the very extraordinary request for a clandestine meeting, which you have thought proper to address to Lady Flora Ardenne; but you will allow me to observe that, if you intend to confer upon my daughter the honour of a matrimonial proposal, she fully concurs with me and her mother in the negative which I feel necessitated to put upon your obliging offer. I need not add that all correspondence with my daughter must close here. I have the honour to be, sir, Your very obedient servant, WESTBOROUGH. TO CLARENCE LINDEN, Esq. Had Clarence’s blood been turned to fire, his veins could not have swelled and burned with a fiercer heat than they did, as he read the above letter,--a masterpiece, perhaps, in the line of what may be termed the “d--d civil” of epistolary favours. “Insufferable arrogance!” he muttered within his teeth. “I will live to repay it. Perfidious, unfeeling woman: what an escape I have had of her! Now, now, I am on the world, and alone, thank Heaven. I will accept Aspeden’s offer, and leave this country; when I return, it shall not be as a humble suitor to Lady Flora Ardenne. Pish! how the name sickens me: but come, I have a father; at least a nominal one. He is old and weak, and may die before I return. I will see him once more, and then, hey for Italy! Oh! I am so happy,--so happy at my freedom and escape. What, ho! waiter! my horse instantly!” CHAPTER LIII. Lucr.--What has thy father done? Beat.--What have I done? Am I not innocent?--The Cenci.