“It is a question I cannot answer,” she replied, becoming ashy pale.
“Your looks speak for you!” he vociferated, in a terrible tone,—"you do! His name?—his name?—that I may wreak my vengeance upon him.”
“Your violence terrifies me,” returned Viviana, withdrawing the hand he had seized. “I must put an end to this interview.”
“Pardon me, Viviana!” cried Chetham, falling on his knees before her—"in pity pardon me! I am not myself. I shall be calmer presently. But if you knew the anguish of the wound you have inflicted, you would not add to it.”
“Heaven knows I would not!” she returned, motioning him to rise. “And, if it will lighten your suffering, know that the love I feel for another—if love, indeed, it be,—is as hopeless as your own. But it is not a love of which even you could be jealous. It is a higher and a holier passion. It is affection mixed with admiration, and purified from all its grossness. It is more, perhaps, than the love of a daughter for her father—but it is nothing more. I shall never wed him I love—could not if I would. Nay, I would shun him, if I did not feel that the hour will soon come when the extent of my affection must be proved.”
“This is strange sophistry,” returned Chetham; “and you may deceive yourself by it, but you cannot deceive me. You love as all ardent natures do love. But in what way do you mean to prove your affection?”
“Perhaps, by the sacrifice of my life,” she answered.
“I can tell you who is the object of your affections!” said Chetham. “It is Guy Fawkes.”
“I will not deny it,” replied Viviana; “he is.”
“Hear me, then,” exclaimed Chetham, who appeared inexpressibly relieved by the discovery he had made; “in my passage across the river with him last night, our conversation turned on the one subject ever nearest my heart, yourself,—and Guy Fawkes not only bade me not despair, but promised to aid my suit.”