“There is no jest in this business,” said Amy. “I fear you do not know all. Before Mr. Tallant died it was discovered that I, whom you knew as Amy Somerton, was his daughter, and that the lady you knew as Miss Tallant was, in truth, the bailiff’s daughter. I was Christopher Tallant’s heiress, and I am now your brother’s wife, the Countess of Verner.”
Lionel sunk into a chair and covered his face with his hands as Amy, in a clear, firm voice, spoke these words. And this was what he had come from India to learn. Was he in some hideous dream? He looked up only to be the more convinced that he was a victim to cruel fate.
“And now, Mr. Hammerton, if you ever loved Amy Somerton, respect her as your brother’s wife; and if you value his happiness or mine, guard as a sacred secret the memory of that love which you once professed for her. Now is the time to prove the sincerity of a passion which you once professed, and which was the joy of that poor girl, until neglect and indifference stepped between her and hope, and gave her hand to another. For my sake, for your own, for your brother’s, leave this house as soon as possible; whilst you do remain, blot out that memory of the past—crush it out as I have crushed it—and never let Earl Verner’s peace be disturbed even by a suspicion of anything more than a mere acquaintanceship between yourself and his wife. As you fulfil these my wishes, so shall I gauge your love.”
She left him as she said this, and when he raised his head he looked for her in vain. The twin brothers in the “Comedy” were not in a greater maze of bewilderment than was Lionel Hammerton. Though the light broke in upon his mind during that cold resolute explanation, it seemed like an ugly dream. He was like a man paralysed by a sudden blow of misfortune, against which he struggled ineffectually. To fall from the sunniest height of anticipated bliss into a Stygian gulf of misery like this, was enough to unnerve a stronger man than Lionel Hammerton. Pride, self-love, hope, fortune, happiness—all were struck down when most they should have flourished. It had flashed upon him, at first sight of Amy, that her friend, the Countess, had confessed all with regard to his (Lionel’s) love, and that his generous brother had concocted a delightful plot to surprise him. But for Amy’s fixed, cold look, he would have been at her feet imploring her forgiveness, and blessing her for coming there, that he might not lose a moment in asking her to be his wife. And now she had slipped from him for ever, and Fate mocked him with her as his sister-in-law! Was it true? Was there hope yet? He would go out and walk; there was virtue in fresh air. He took up his hat, and went forth into the old ruin; he clambered up the rotten stone steps, and stood upon the moss-grown battlements, where men-at-arms had defended the garrison hundreds of years before; he looked round upon the glorious scene, mellowed with a thousand tints of autumn; he watched the blue wreaths of smoke, mounting up in tall ethereal columns from the old hall chimneys; he saw those purple hills in the distance, beyond which he first met Amy Somerton. Then he remembered the enumeration of her wishes so recently expressed—wishes that were a command to him—a command by the observance of which she would gauge his love.
“She shall have no reason to complain,” he thought, as he came back again to the hall. “There may be some cruel plot of punishment for my neglect at the bottom of all this; it is a slight hope, a weak plank in the ocean of my disappointment, but I will cling to it for this day at least.”
“Why did you run away?” said his lordship, when Lionel returned. “Did the Countess frighten you? We are waiting for luncheon. Cornington dines with us; he has just taken her ladyship in—come along, come along!”
And the brothers, arm-in-arm, entered the luncheon-room, where Lord Cornington was just handing Lady Verner to her seat.
The Countess never looked better than she did this morning, and she led the conversation in her best manner; her racy, humorous repartee reminded the Earl of his first introduction to her at Barton Hall. Lord Cornington thought her one of the most brilliant women he had ever met. Lionel Hammerton watched her, and replied to her sallies now and then with undisguised astonishment. Lord Verner was delighted with his wife, proud of her wit, proud of her beauty, proud of himself that she was his wife.
None of them saw that weary, haggard look which Amy saw an hour afterwards in the glass, when she had retired to her room. She was a fine actress, and she knew it; but the effort now was a severe strain upon her nervous system. She had hoped until yesterday that she would not be called upon to act again for a long time to come. Gratitude and respect had been ripening into love for her husband; but she would never be herself so long as Lionel Hammerton remained. She was beset with fear and alarm; fear lest her husband should discover the love that had once existed between herself and his brother; fear arising from her own conscience, burthened with the knowledge of the revenge she had sought and obtained; alarm lest she should fall in the estimation of her husband. This was the greatest fear of all; the idea of losing one jot of that love and admiration which he had lavished upon her, was torture. Her own fidelity and truth were safe; she never for a moment doubted her strength to maintain her own self-respect as Earl Verner’s wife; but there was a wretched spell upon her, with Hammerton in the house, which made his presence a torment far greater than she could have dreamed of. All those first passionate feelings of triumph and revenge which had supported her during that time of Lord Verner’s courtship, had vanished long since, and now she only prayed for peace.
When the soft mellow gong, which announced dinner, resounded through the halls and corridors of Montem Castle, Lord Verner, who had been sitting with his wife in her own room, brought an excuse for her absence. She was not at all well this evening, he said, and so Lord Cornington and Lionel Hammerton and the Earl dined together, and Lord Cornington re-echoed Earl Verner’s hope that her ladyship might come down to tea. Meanwhile Lady Verner wrote to her dear friend Phœbe, begging of her to come and stay a few days with her at Montem, and telling her that Arthur Phillips should have an invitation to dinner as long as her stay lasted.