"No," she replied, "never. I should never have told you but that I hoped to save you from a dreadful fate—and it would have been a dreadful fate for you to have married him; he would have broken your heart."
"It is broken now," she said, gently. "Yet it comforts me to know that no reproach will be heaped on Aubrey's memory."
"You will get better," observed Pauline, hopefully, "and then there will be happier days in store for you."
"There will be no happy days for me," returned Lady Darrell, sorrowfully. "You see, Pauline, I loved him very dearly—more dearly than I knew. I had never loved any one very much until I saw him. I could more easily have checked a raging fire than have restrained my love after I had once given it. My life had in some way passed into his, and now I do not care to live."
"But you have so much to live for," said Pauline.
"Not now. I do not care for aught about me. I have tried to remember Darrell Court and all my wealth and grandeur, but they give me no pleasure—the shadow of death lies over all."
And it was all in vain that Pauline tried to rouse her; Lady Darrell, after her unhappy love, never cared to be roused again. Lady Hampton would not think seriously of her illness—it would pass away in time, she said; but Miss Hastings shook her head gravely, and feared the worst.
The time came when Pauline told some part of her story to the governess. She did not mention Aubrey's crime—that secret she kept until death—but she gave a sketch of what had passed between her and Lady Darrell.
"Did I do right?" she asked, with that sweet humility which had vanquished all pride in her.
"You acted worthily," replied Miss Hastings, while she marveled at the transformation which love had wrought in that once proud, willful girl.