“Not even a hope!” exclaimed Guy Fawkes, “after what he has done. Viviana, I cannot understand you. Does gratitude form no part of your nature?”
“I hope so,” she replied, “nay, I am sure so,—for I feel the deepest gratitude towards Humphrey Chetham. But gratitude is not love, and must not be mistaken for it.”
“I understand the distinction too well,” returned the young merchant, sadly.
“It is more than I do,” rejoined Guy Fawkes; “and I will frankly confess that I think the important services Humphrey Chetham has rendered you entitle him to your hand. It is seldom—whatever poets may feign,—that love is so strongly proved as his has been; and it ought to be adequately requited.”
“Say no more about it, I entreat,” interposed Chetham.
“But I will deliver my opinion,” rejoined Guy Fawkes, “because I am sure what I advise is for Viviana's happiness. No one can love her better than you. No one is more worthy of her. Nor is there any one to whom I so much desire to see her united.”
“Oh, Heaven!” exclaimed Viviana. “This is worse than the torture.”
“What mean you?” exclaimed Fawkes, in astonishment.
“She means,” interposed Chetham, “that this is not the fitting season to urge the subject—that she will never marry.”
“True—true,” replied Viviana. “If I ever did marry—I ought to select you.”