"I promise it, Miss Neville, most faithfully."
"Thank you! thank you; then all will be right."
"I wish, oh! how I wish it could be otherwise," sobbed Amy, as he left her; "but I must not murmur, I must be thankful,—thank God it is no worse than it is; but how can he think that I love him?"
Amy felt utterly miserable. Did she deny Vavasour's being the cause of her fainting, would not Mr. Linchmore naturally enough wonder what had been the occasion of it? or perhaps in the end guess of her love for his brother, even as he had supposed it to be for Mr. Vavasour? No, rather let him think anything than that! a thousand times rather.
Mr. Linchmore had promised she should see Mr. Vavasour—there was some comfort in that; she could appeal to him, he would be reasoned with, would listen and believe her even if he loved her—if?—Amy began to think there was no need of a doubt, and that it was true he loved her. Why should Mr. Linchmore be deceived? All the latter's warnings, and Mr. Vavasour's kindness were accounted for now; but love her as he would, she could not be his wife. No—even if she had never had a thought for another, it could not have been, and now?—now she would never be any man's wife.
Alone? Yes, hopelessly alone. Alone with that one secret love in her heart, that no one must know or guess at, not even her mother. Yes, it was hard, very hard. Was she not striving hard to forget him? Perhaps she would die in the struggle, she felt so hopelessly unequal to face the storm; perhaps it was best she should die. But then her mother? Yes, she must live for her, and forget him. It would not be so difficult, seeing he loved her not, would perhaps never see her again. She was glad he had not known of her fainting. And who could have told Mr. Linchmore? Was it Frances?