What delicious revenge to marry Lionel’s brother, and to make the chance of a coronet for him all the more remote!
And yet, how she had loved this man! How fervently, how fondly? Did he know how much? She asked herself the question, and then blushed at the remembrance of a hundred little acts in which she had disclosed it to him.
Had he encouraged her love? She asked herself that question, too; and then she recalled softly whispered compliments, and delicately hinted regrets that society should not welcome beauty into its ranks without requiring that it should be backed with ancestry. And above all, she remembered a time when he told her a simple narrative, how the brother of a noble earl had loved a beautiful maiden, a farmer’s daughter, and how when he had made a name beyond that which mere rank could give, he came back and married her; and how, upon that occasion, he had kissed her and pressed her hand, and left her bathed in tears of joy and fear.
And yet, without a word he had left her; without even telling her that he loved her; not even giving her the consolation of hope. She had been too confiding, weak, silly, and he had treated her accordingly: he should see how Amy Tallant would requite him.
She was walking to and fro, with her earnest eyes looking out into the new, strange future, when a servant brought her the card of Mr. Arthur Phillips.
“Tell him I will see him. Show him into the library.”
Arthur began to apologise for calling at such a time, but Amy silenced him at once by telling him she had desired to see him; and, full of her own purposes and feelings, she said:—
“Have you heard from Lionel Hammerton?”
“I have,” said Arthur.
“Pray excuse me if I appear inquisitive or rude. I have ample reasons for going a little beyond what may seem courteous under the circumstances. Does he mention me in his letter?”