That beautiful child, too—that dainty, graceful, golden-haired fairy, with her mother’s delicate features and her father’s eyes; yes, they were strikingly like Sir William’s own—she had tried to cheat her out of her heritage, and thus the grand old house at Heathdale was childless and was likely to remain so until this brave, determined woman came to demand justice, and to claim for her daughter the respect and honor that had been denied her as a wife.
She knew that she would do it if she lived; those quiet, resolute tones still rang in her ears, and she fell back upon her pillows weak and faint, heart-sick and terrified, and, for the moment, filled with remorse for the sin of the past.
She fully realized at last the enormity of her treachery and wickedness—the hardness of her heart, the selfishness of her nature.
She had been utterly heartless when she had attempted to crush the lovely girl whom her brother had won, and now the basely wronged woman had turned and heaped coals of fire upon her head. She had nobly put aside all sense of injury, and, knowing full well that she was serving an enemy, had saved her life and then given her kindest attention and tenderest care during her illness.
Lady Linton knew that she should carry a burdened heart to her grave on account of it.
Fired with sudden impulse, she started up and sharply rang her bell.
The woman of the house came to her almost immediately.
“Where is she?” demanded the invalid, wildly.
“Who?” asked her attendant, surprised by her excessive agitation.
“The lady who has been so kind to me. Call her back! Call her at once!”