As she stood undecided what to do next, Robert Vavasour came forward; she had not noticed him in the dim uncertain twilight.

"Can I a.s.sist you, Miss Neville?" he asked. "What is it you look for?"

"I was looking for the 'Bradshaw,' which is usually kept on this table; but it is gone."

"It is here," he replied, taking it off a chair, where it had been hastily left by Mr. Linchmore in the morning. "Allow me to find out what you wish, this book is a puzzle to most people."

Amy explained her wishes. "You are going away?" he asked.

"Yes; but only for a short time, a fortnight at the furthest."

"It is a long time--to me," he said, gently; then lit the taper, and busied himself with pen, ink, and paper, and the 'Bradshaw;' while Amy stood by, wishing she had not come down, but had sent Mary, or one of the children instead.

After dotting down the times of the trains as they arrived and left the different stations, he closed the book; still he did not look up, or give her the memorandum.

"Thank you," said Amy, "that will do very nicely."

"You cannot leave the Standale station before the 9.10 train," he said presently, "that is express, and will take you with less delays on the road than any other, and will only detain you some twenty minutes or so, when you join the ordinary train. I will write this time table out better and more clearly for you, and let you have it before you start."

"Do not take that trouble. What you have written will be quite guide enough for me. Good-bye, Mr. Vavasour," and she held out her hand.

He hesitated a moment, then took it in both his, and held it fast.

"I cannot say good-bye, Miss Neville." All the love he felt for her was welling up into his heart, and striving to be heard. He must speak. "I cannot let you go thus," he said, "had you remained it would have been otherwise, and I would not have opened my heart to you yet; but, as it is, I cannot help myself. Miss Neville, I never loved any woman till I saw you--never thought I could do so. I had but a poor opinion of your s.e.x. Had not my mother deserted me, and was not that enough to fill my heart with hatred and bitterness? There is a mystery shadowing my birth, which seems to me to be growing darker and darker every day. I have no claim even to the very name I bear, and cannot tell you who my parents are; perhaps this silence is better than the knowledge that they live, and are ashamed to own me. I thought I was too proud to ask any woman to overlook that, and vowed I never would; but then I trifled with them all, even with you. Do you remember the flower I sent by f.a.n.n.y? how many a sleepless night has the remembrance of that folly cost me? But, knowing all I have now told you, all that at times drives me to the solitude of my lonely home, and distracting thoughts, will you come and comfort me,--pity me--love me? Amy, I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?"

He could not see her face, the light was too uncertain, and she stood in the shade; but he felt that she trembled as she withdrew her hand from his.

Yes, it was even so. Amy was quite prepared when he began, to say she did not love him; but he claimed her pity, and her woman's heart felt for him at once.

"Will you let me love you, care for you, Amy, as never woman was loved or cared for before? Speak to me, Amy, say one word--one word of hope."

But Amy could give none. "I am sorry," she replied, falteringly, "believe me, deeply sorry; but hope? Alas, Mr. Vavasour, I can give you none."

"You do not love me?" he asked, sorrowfully.

"I like you, have always liked you. You have been so kind to me, the only one almost who has; and I have felt grateful for that--it would be strange if I were not; but I do not love you," she said softly, fearing the pain she was causing.

"I have been premature in asking your love, I know. I have had so little opportunity of winning it, how could I expect you would love me with scarcely any wooing at all. May I ask you one question, Miss Neville? I feel I have no right to ask it, and it may be a death-blow to my hopes?"

"Yes," replied Amy. How could she refuse, and he so sad and heart-broken.

"Forgive me; but has another claimed your love?"

"No. No other has ever spoken to me of love, or loved me," she said sadly.

"Thank you, Miss Neville. Then I will--must hope. Why should I not win your love, when I love you so very dearly; how dearly you know not? I will wait patiently; but strive to win you I must. In my dreary, sad life it is the one bright star to lead me on to better things. I have trifled away life--hated it at times; but now I will begin to live. You are going home, Miss Neville, let this tale of my love be as if it had never been. I will be content to take my chance with others; let us be friends again, as. .h.i.therto. I promise no word of love shall ever pa.s.s my lips. When you know me better, and, perhaps, judge me better than you do now, then once again I will ask you to be my wife; and then, if you reject me--well. Then we must never meet again; but while your heart is free I must hope. Shall it be so?" he asked.

Alas! what could she say? She could not tell him her love was another's unasked and unsought for, when she was striving to shut it out of her heart for ever. She could only murmur that she did not love him, and could give no hope. While he, thinking her love yet unwon, believed it might be his in the end, and that he had told her of his love too soon.

"You will not refuse my request, Miss Neville, will you?" he asked, sorrowfully.

"I do not like to refuse," she replied, "and yet I doubt if I ought to grant it. It will only make both you and me unhappy, because it can lead but to the same result as now."

"I dare not think so," he said. "Surely G.o.d will be more merciful than to leave my life an utter blank. No mother's love have I ever known; mine has been, and is a dreary, unloved lot. Is it a wonder my heart clings to you, loves you so madly? and yet you will not even let me try and win you; but would shut out all hope. If you loved another; then--then indeed I would not plead; but, as it is--it is scarcely kind, Miss Neville; forgive me for saying so."

"Believe me, I do not wish to be unkind," faltered Amy. "I think my decision would have been the kindest in the end. But enough; it shall be as you wish, only you must not blame me hereafter."

"Neither now nor ever!"

And so they parted, both sorrowful at heart, both feeling the future which seemed to loom so gloomily for each; neither daring to look beyond the shadow even now flitting across their path.

Little did Frances Strickland think while loitering in the school-room awaiting Amy, that the very meeting she had come to prevent had taken place.

Just as she was growing impatient, and wondering at the unwonted delay, Miss Neville entered.

"I have been waiting to make my adieux," she said, "having heard you were going away, and I did not like you should go without a word of farewell."

Amy was quite unprepared for this, and looked her surprise.

"Do we part friends, Miss Neville?"

"I can scarcely say yes," replied Amy, "our acquaintance has been but short, and--and--you have never liked me, Miss Strickland; if you recollect you almost told me so once."

"Ah, you have not forgotten that stormy interview. But I was angry and pa.s.sionate. I have regretted what I said then ever since. Even you must know I never carried out my threats."

"I cannot tell," replied Amy. "I know I feared them, and the thought of what you had threatened--the shame--made me ill. No, Miss Strickland, we can never be friends."

"And why not?"

There was a slight touch of hauteur in her tone, do what she would to hide it. Amy saw it, and felt more than ever convinced Miss Strickland did not like her; never would like her. Why should she so persistently wish to be friendly now, after all her anger and rudeness Amy could not divine, but she suspected Frances, and thought some motive lay hidden deep in her heart. She answered coldly,

"Our paths in life lie so very wide apart, that being friends is simply impossible."

"Not so," replied Frances. "Our lives may be nearer knit together than you think; you will not be always teaching."

"As yet I see no reason to think otherwise, and as I think I told you once before, I am reconciled to it, or I trust nearly so." And Amy felt she was growing more ungracious every moment.

Perhaps Frances saw it too, for she held out her hand as she said, "Do we, or rather are we to part friends, Miss Neville?"

"I do not wish we should part as enemies. Good-bye, Miss Strickland."

She wished she could thank her for coming, but she could not.

"Well, good-bye, I think you will be sorry some day for refusing my friendship. I suppose you will not come down this evening; so this is a final leave-taking."

She turned as if to go, then stopped. Her anger at Amy's refusal got the mastery over her wise resolutions, and her eyes flashed fire as she said,

"There can be no middle course, Miss Neville; if you will not have me as a friend, I can be a bitter enemy."