never be hers—and her sister’s love would be lost to her for ever.
“Oh, Markham! grant me a respite,—let me be happy a little time with her before she hates me—a few days—a week.”
“Be it so! A week!” replied Markham; and he turned his face from her towards the long beams of golden cloud, which rested on the horizon, through which the sun was sinking into the sea.
“Only a week, Mr. Markham! Must you leave us so soon?”
“You are very good, Mrs. Manson, but the truth is, I ought to have gone directly up to town on my landing.”
“Not to begin business yet! I’m certain your health is far from being restored.”
“The directors are very pressing to see me; indeed, I received an urgent letter this morning. I think if I am well enough to enjoy myself here, I have no right to delay a very obvious duty.”
“You will come to us again?”
“Thank you, I can scarcely promise myself that pleasure, my engagements are so very uncertain. I believe, in a short time, when things are rather more settled, I shall have to return to my post in India.”
“India!—your health is not fit for that;—your friends ought never to allow you.”
“It’s my livelihood, you must recollect.”
There was a pause in the conversation. For a few moments, Mrs. Manson bent her head over the work-frame, and appeared to be busily engaged in her work.
“Mr. Markham, I know you will not misunderstand me, but when you talk of leaving us and not coming again—I feel there is something I ought to say—I know I should never forgive myself if I were silent. There is one person who will be very sorry when you go away. Now mind, it’s not from any conversation between us, I give you my honour—but I can see better than words can tell—my sister loves you!”
Markham shuddered.
“Circumstances,” said he, “have certainly thrown us together—but I have never observed—”
“Ah! you must trust to us women; in these matters we are the best judges. Why, the simple fact of her mentioning your name so seldom in conversation; but, besides this, I can see how much her character has altered since she went away. As a girl, though she had many excellent qualities, she was rather too fond of grandeur and show, for I will be frank with you. But that, I am sure, is all changed—she seems to cling to me for love, she’s half spoiled my boys in this short time. I fear her marriage was not very happy—Colonel Vincent was a kind, good man, but far older—and there must exist a sympathetic feeling, if I may call it so, to render marriage perfectly happy.”
Markham’s eyes were fixed on the ground, and he heard her voice falter at the last sentence.
“Recollect that she owes her life to you! I know, years ago, when she used to laugh and joke about people being in love, I’ve said, ‘Ah, Pauline, with that fixed purpose of yours, when you really love, it will be a matter of intensest joy or sorrow—’”
“Mrs. Manson,” said Markham, interrupting her, “this announcement is totally unexpected. Without questioning whether you have rightly interpreted your sister’s feelings, it is proper for me to tell you at once, that this affection, supposing it to exist, can never be returned.”
“The fault will be mine,” said Mrs. Manson, sorrowfully.
“Why so?”
“For speaking so prematurely; but what could I do when I found you were going to leave?” She rose from her chair, greatly agitated.
“Edward Markham, I have a right to speak to you: you owe me something. I transfer all that to my sister;—if you loved her, I could forgive the past. Maybe, it was prudent in you to give up that engagement which seemed so hopeless; but on the night of that fourteenth of June we had sworn to one another to be true, and wait patiently,—and yet in three short months!—well, no matter now. I returned you your letters, all but one.”
“You returned me all my letters,” said Markham, his iron resolution tried to the very verge.
“No, not that last letter; I could not return it then.”
By the utmost effort governing her trembling hands, she unlocked her desk, and drew out a little packet.
“I read that letter twice, only twice, and then I sealed it up with this black wax. I have never read it since—no need; every word is stamped in my heart. They must have dragged me to the altar, but for that.”
She forced the packet into his hand.
“There, Edward, I can forgive it all, forget all those words, if you make her happy. I live very happily now, very happily.”
Only a few words, and she would know the truth—know that he had been faithful to his pledge; but he stifled the words which were rising to his lips, and clenched his teeth hard.
She stopped him for a moment as he was about to leave the room—she had in some degree recovered her self-possession.
“Mr. Markham, I shall never speak on this subject again; but I bid you think well before you throw away a loving heart.”
He was tempted more than falls to the common lot of mortals. He must have yielded, had the temptation fallen on him unawares; but before he left Calcutta, he had resolved to see her once more, and through the long voyage, and in many a restless night, he had weighed the chances of their meeting, and armed himself at all points for resistance.
*****
“Markham, have you told her?”
“No, Pauline.”
She could not speak for the moment, she could only clasp his hand.
“She is never to be told!”
“This is noble beyond thought! Oh, Markham, I promise you I will strive to the utmost to atone for the past—anything is easy if I possess her love. But your goodness—I can never repay that.”
“Wait awhile, Pauline. Weigh my words—she is never to be told.”
