“It won't injure him,” said Brigit. “Have no fear at all. And if you went to see him, as you say, you must have had the best of reasons for doing so. You may rely, I am sure, on his keeping your name a secret. You were kind to tell me—for he certainly would not have told me—without your consent. We never see each other now, and we never write to each other.”
Her voice trembled for the first time.
“How does he look?” she asked, after a sharp struggle between her pride and a desire to hear more.
“He looks ill and worn. He over-works.”
“He will suffer at Lord Reckage's death.”
“But he hides his feelings. He is always reticent.”
“O, to see him and talk with him—that would be such a joy for me.”
“You must be very sad, often,” said Sara, coldly.
“Yes, often,” answered Brigit. “And I was so happy during the short time we were together that now it seems no part of my life—no part of it. I say this because I wish you to know that nothing can make us love each other less—that all this misery and separation—which may last as long as we live—has made no difference and can make no difference to us. And if I never see him again, or speak to him again, he will always be certain that I am his—unalterably, for ever his.”