He bent over her as though he would fain kiss away the fast falling tears; but she shrank from him.
"Do not touch me, Vane!" she cried; "I am not worthy. I had forgotten; in the happiness of loving you, and knowing that I was beloved, I had forgotten it—my own deed has dishonored me! We must part, for I am not worthy of you."
He took both her hands in his own, and his influence over her was so great that even in that hour she obeyed him implicitly, as though she had been a child.
"You must let me judge, Pauline," he said, gently. "You are mine by right of the promise you gave me a few minutes since—the promise to be my wife; that makes you mine—no one can release you from it. By virtue of that promise you must trust me, and tell me what you have done."
He saw that there was a desperate struggle in her mind—a struggle between the pride that bade her rise in rebellion and leave him with her secret untold, and the love that, bringing with it sweet and gracious humility, prompted her to confess all to him. He watched her with loving eyes; as that struggle ended, so would her life take its shape.
He saw the dark eyes grow soft with good thoughts; he saw the silent, proud defiance die out of the beautiful face; the lips quivered, sweet humility seemed to fall over her and infold her.
"I have done a cruel deed, Vane," she said—"an act of vengeance that cuts me off from the roll of noble women, and dishonors me."
Still keeping his hold of the white hand, he said:
"Tell me what it was—I can judge far better than you."
It seemed to her fevered fancy that the song of the waves died away, as though they were listening; that the wind fell with a low sigh, and the birds ceased their song—a silence that was almost terrible fell around her—the blue sky seemed nearer to her.