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The fit of repentance was upon him, and he tossed and turned from side
to side upon his uneasy bed. But, toss and turn as he would, he could
not undo his night's work. There remained nothing for him but to carry
it out, and make the best of it; and he strove to deceive his conscience
with the hope that Lucy Tempest, in her girlish innocence, had not
understood his hinted allusions to her becoming his wife; that she had
looked upon his snatched caresses as but trifling pastime, such as he
might offer to a child. Most unjustifiable he now felt those hints,
those acts to have been, and his brow grew red with shame at their
recollection. One thing he did hope, hope sincerely--that Lucy did not
care for him. That she liked him very much, and had been on most
confidential terms with him, he knew; but he did hope her liking went no
deeper. Strange sophistry! how it will deceive the human heart! how
prone we are to admit it! Lionel was honest enough in his hope now: but,
not many hours before, he had been hugging his heart with the delusion
that Lucy did love him.


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