Still Amy did not speak. It was not because she was unwilling to confide entirely in Aunt Martha, but there was something she did not wish to say to herself. Yet suddenly, as if lifted upon a calm, irresistible purpose—as a leaf is lifted upon the long swell of the sea—she said, with her heart as quiet as her eyes,
“I do not think Lawrence Newt loves me.”
The next moment the poor leaf is lost in the trough of the sea. The next moment Amy Waring’s heart beat tumultuously; she felt as if she should fall from her seat. Her eyes were blind with hot tears. Aunt Martha did not look up—did not start or exclaim—but deliberately threaded her needle carefully, and creased her work with her thumb-nail. After a little while, during which the sea was calming itself, she said, slowly, repeating Amy’s words syllable by syllable,
“You do not believe Lawrence Newt loves you?”
“No,” was the low, firm whisper of reply.
“Whom do you think he loves?”
There was an instant of almost deathly stillness in that turbulent heart. For a moment the very sea of feeling seemed to be frozen.
Then, and very slowly, a terrible doubt arose in Amy Waring’s mind. Before this conversation every perplexity had resolved itself in the consciousness that somehow it must all come right by-and-by. It had never occurred to her to ask, Does he love any one else? But she saw now at once that if he did, then the meaning of his words was plain enough; and so, of course, he did.
Who was it?
Amy knew there was but one person in the world whose name could possibly answer that question.