“Call him not by that name, I beseech you, reverend sir,” she rejoined. “Humphrey Chetham will never be other to me than a friend.”
“It may be,” answered Dee. “But your destiny is not the cloister.”
“For what am I reserved, then?” demanded Viviana, trembling.
“All I dare tell you,” he returned, “all it is needful for you to know, is, that your future career is mixed up with that of Guy Fawkes. But do not concern yourself about what is to come. The present is sufficient to claim your attention.”
“True,” replied Viviana; “and my first object shall be to despatch a messenger to Humphrey Chetham to prevent him from coming hither.”
“Trouble yourself no further on that score,” returned Dee. “I will convey the message to him. As regards the funeral, it must take place without delay. I will be at the south porch of the church with the keys at midnight, and Robert Burnell, the sexton, and another assistant on whom I can depend, shall be in attendance. Though it is contrary to my religious opinions and feelings to allow a Romish priest to perform the service, I will not interfere with Father Garnet. I owe your mother a deep debt of gratitude, and will pay it to her husband and her child.”
“Thanks!—in her name, thanks!” cried Viviana, in a voice suffocated by emotion.
“And now,” continued Dee, “I would ask you one further question. My art has made me acquainted that a plot is hatching against the King and his Government by certain of the Catholic party. Are you favourable to the design?”
“I am not,” replied Viviana, firmly. “Nor can you regard it with more horror than myself.”
“I was sure of it,” returned Dee. “Nevertheless, I am glad to have my supposition confirmed from your own mouth.”