“He said truly—Arthur Phillips said truly; but O, I loved you then, Amy, loved you still in my heart; and when I returned to England, ignorant of all the changes which had taken place, I came to throw myself at your feet.”
Amy trembled as he spoke, trembled at the thoughts of the happiness there would have been in this; but respect for herself, gratitude to her lord, womanly, wifely pride stepped in and restored her former self-command.
“And what did you say then to Arthur Phillips?” asked the Countess.
“I thought you cared more for my position, for my presumed wealth and prospects, than for myself alone,” said Lionel. “Why did you interfere in my private affairs? why make those inquiries concerning my relationship with Richard Tallant, or my doings at the Ashford Club?”
“It brooks little now how much I loved you, Lionel; and an explanation of my motives can do no good, seeing that neither of us can restore the past; but Heaven knows I grieved that your station was so much higher than that of the girl who loved you so well. And still I could not bear to see you fall, to hear of your noble nature lowering itself to the level of the base and the mean, to have it sullied by contact with gamblers, and——”
“There was no thought of self in this? no jealous watching over my expenditure? no worldly speculations of the future?” said Lionel, hurriedly interrupting her.
“For shame!” exclaimed the Countess, rising; “for shame! If this is how you interpreted my weak conduct—if this is how you estimated the homage of my poor girlish heart—thank God, Lionel Hammerton, you and I are parted for ever! Had my love been blessed with your acceptance, this discovery would have been like a curse upon it—it would have broken my heart.”
Lionel bowed his head before this storm of womanly indignation.
“Never talk of love again, Lionel, unless you can believe that woman’s love has nothing of self in it; that it is above the world almost as much as the angels are; that it is self-sacrificing, meek, lowly—content to be trodden upon by the living idol which it sets up for worship. This is true woman’s love: in my love for you there was, indeed, the worldly leaven of pride; the inborn spirit of my race, I suppose. But for this I should have sunk under your neglect and withered and died. With pride came the desire for revenge; and the love that was scorned and neglected, I plucked it out of my heart, trampled upon it as you had done, and in its place, Lionel, I planted Ambition. As fate would have it, your brother came in my way, and I am his wife. I have sworn to honour, love and obey him, and I will to the end. His kindness, his devotion, have already made me deeply grateful to him; and love, the love of devoted friendship—not that passionate love of past days, but constant considerate love—will come with time. And now you know all my secret.”
“You can never forgive me,” said Lionel; “I can never forgive myself.”