“Honor, I know you will pity me,” he began at last, “pity me, when I tell you that I must say ‘No.’ I must face this life alone. God bless you, and give you a double share of happiness—your own, and what might have been mine. I have lately learnt something”—and his pale face grew ashy grey—“that will prevent my ever calling any woman ‘wife.’ The sacrifice I am bound to make is bitter; yes, bitter as death. I am not going to sacrifice you; you must forget me, darling. You have all your young life before you; put me out of your mind—gradually, sorrowfully, tenderly—as if I was dead.”
“I shall never do that, Mark. Tell me; may I write to you?”
“No!” was the most unexpected and chilling reply.
“But yes, as your sister?” she pleaded, boldly.
He shook his head.
“I could never come to think of you as my sister.”
“At least you will give me your address? Once, we were to have spent our lives together; now, I may not even know where I am to think of you as spending yours.”
“You had much better not think of me at all,” he answered, with a tremor in his voice.
“I must, and I shall. Be quick and tell me.”
“My father calls himself Mr. Jones; he lives beyond Hawal Ghât, about forty miles away, and I must be with him before dark. By-the-by, I have kept your fan; it may seem an odd notion, but you will understand. And now I must go.”