He made no answer. She looked up at him with tearful eyes.
"Speak to me, Vane. It is hard, I know—but tell me that I am right."
"You are cruelly right," he replied. "Oh, my darling, it is very hard! Yet you make her a noble atonement for the wrong you have done—a noble reparation. My darling, is this how your vow of vengeance has ended—in the greatest sacrifice a woman could make."
"Your love has saved me," she said, gently—"has shown me what is right and what is wrong—has cleared the mist from my eyes. But for that—oh, Vane, I hate to think what I should have been!"
"I wish it were possible to give up the appointment," he remarked, musingly.
"I would not have you do it, Vane. Think of Lady St. Lawrence—how she has worked for it. Remember, it is your only chance of ever being what she wishes to see you. You must not give it up."
"But how can I leave you, Pauline?"
"If you remain in England, it will make but little difference," she said. "I can never leave Lady Darrell while she lives."
"But, Pauline, it may be four, five, or six years before I return, and all that time I shall never see you."
She wrung her hands, but no murmur passed her lips, save that it was her fault—all her fault—the price of her sin.