When Gertrude Athol entered her own room, after her return from the reception, she sat down and tried to calmly review the recent scene between her discarded lover and herself, and to consider what influence it was likely to have upon her future.
"I believe I can truly say that I am glad to be free," she said after a while, with a sudden proud uplifting of her head. "I have known from almost the first of our acquaintance that Philip Wentworth is a weak and selfish man; but he is a handsome fellow, entertaining, and well versed in all the little courtesies of life and possessing strong mesmeric power, and I believe that he was fond of me. I foolishly imagined that, because of this supposed fondness, I might be able to help him overcome his faults and arouse within him an ambition to cultivate the best there is in him; but I know him now for a treacherous villain—for a coward, and almost a murderer. Oh, yes; I am glad that I am free, and I shall not grieve for him; though, of course, any woman would naturally be keenly stung to discover that she has only been made a tool of—simply held in reserve in the event of the failure of other plans!"
Her cheeks grew crimson, and her eyes flashed indignantly at the thought, while two tears fell upon her jeweled hands. She flung them off with an impatient gesture.
"They are not for him!" she cried scornfully; "they fell only for my own wounded pride; and they are the last I shall ever shed for that. The hurt is not so very deep, thank Heaven! and will soon heal. So he has been in love with Mollie Heatherford 'all his life?' Well, she certainly is one of the dearest and loveliest girls I have ever met, and she has shown good judgment in her choice of a husband, for Clifford Faxon is worth a dozen men like Philip Wentworth."
A little later, after her acquaintance with Mollie had ripened into a strong and enduring friendship—when she learned how Philip had played fast and loose with her, according to the changes in her circumstances—her contempt merged into positive repulsion for the young man; and before the season was over her acquaintance with a son of the British ambassador, whom she met that evening for the first time, developed into a strong mutual attachment which bade fair to result in an early marriage.
Upon their return from the reception, Clifford lingered a while with Mollie before proceeding to his lodgings, and it was, therefore, quite late when he reached home. He was somewhat surprised to find a carriage standing before the house where Squire Talford boarded, while the coachman was assisting his former employer up to the door, the man groaning at every step.
"Here, sir!" called the cabman, as he espied Clifford, "will you lend a hand here, please? The gentleman has sprained his ankle, and he is more than I can manage."
"Certainly," Clifford cheerfully responded, as he sprang forward with alacrity to render what assistance he could.
"Here is his latch-key, sir," the driver continued, passing it to the young man, "If you'll open the door, we'll make an armchair and carry him up to his room, as easy as snapping your thumb and finger."
Clifford did as he was requested, and then the two clasped hands, making the squire sit upon them, with an arm around the neck of each of his helpers, and in this way he was borne up two flights of stairs and deposited upon a chair in his own room, which was little better than a closet at the back of a hall.