Agatha, pale as death, lifted up her eyes and looked at her.
"Not that," she said; "do not tell him that. I—-" she grew whiter and whiter, but she was true to herself and her own heart to the last—"I love Dr. Dillwyn."
"Agatha!" Mrs. Greatorex rose, and stood before her, filled with wrathful horror. To tell the truth, she was genuinely shocked. Her narrow prejudices could not conceive such a thing as this.
"When he has never spoken to you—never—-"
"I know. It is—it sounds dreadful," said the girl wildly.
"But"—folding her hands upon her breast—"he will speak. He will."
There was silence.
"I trust not. I believe not," said Mrs. Greatorex at last. Here tone was cold, and there was a certain element of disgust in it that hurt the girl to her very soul. Why—why had she spoken? And yet to deny him! She would suffer for it, but hers was the nobler part, and in the end she would be placed above shame. But if he never spoke! A cold wind seemed to creep over her, chilling her through and through. It was her one doubt of him, and it died at birth, but she always repented herself for it. "In the meantime, Agatha, you must permit me to say that I am horrified beyond words at your confession."
"I shall never marry Dr. Darkham," said the girl slowly, miserably, but with great courage. "Let me leave you, Aunt Hilda. Let me go out in the world as a governess. I could make my own way, perhaps—and—-"
"Don't talk to me like that, Agatha. You—my niece! Do you think I am going to have you spoken of by the people here as a paid person? No, you shall stay here." She rose to her feet and pointed imperiously to the door. "You shall stay here and marry Dr. Darkham, and thank God for your good fortune. Now go; leave me." She pointed again to the door, and Agatha, sad and sick at heart, went out of the room.