“Yes, yes, I do weigh them: they seal that forgiveness which was freely given me at the hour of death.”
“Pauline, I must have it on your honour, that you will never tell her.”
“On my honour!” She repeated the words hastily, but she was somewhat perplexed at his meaning, and looking on his face, she saw that same expression, as it were, the very soul flushing the countenance, which she remembered so vividly when she knelt at his feet in the hovel. “Never tell her, Markham?”
“Never!”
“Not if I were at the point of death?”
“Not even at that time—you are bound evermore to silence.”
She had passed through the agonising fear of death; she recollected her troubled prayers; she recollected there was no gleam of hope in her breast till he had forgiven her—then only she had found peace for her soul.
“Oh, Markham, do not bind me to this—nay, let me speak out now; let me suffer any pain now, so that she forgives me at the end.”
She would have left the room: he drew her back.
“I cannot free you: it is not to me you are bound. I dare say you went with a feeling of triumph to that grand wedding when your sister became Mrs. Manson. In all probability those awful words of the marriage-service made no impression upon you at the time, and most likely you have never thought upon them since: ‘Let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’ You might have spoken then, but now those words bind you for ever.”
She listened to him with her head depressed, her hands covering her face.
“When I found that your sister had been really true to me, my feeling towards her, which was that of utter contempt, turned back to old love, and I resolved to see her once more. Believe in my good faith—only to see her, and part for ever. I calculated my strength of will. I thought I was very strong—let no man trust to his strength in such a case! Since I came to this house, I have walked through the fire of temptation. Listen well to me, Pauline, and hear how strongly you are bound to silence. I saw that she was not happy—as to his love for her—”
“Mr. Manson is very proud of her,” interrupted Mrs. Vincent.
“Yes,” he replied, bitterly, “and he is very proud of his fine horses. If he does not absolutely ill treat her, she lives utterly without sympathy or affection. I dare not tell you what I have felt; but I tell you my resolution was so utterly weakened, that at one moment it was only the sight of how she clung to those children of hers—how all her happiness was centered there—”
“I understand your meaning, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Vincent, proudly. “My sister would under all circumstances have recollected her duty.”
“It might indeed be as you say. Do you know this letter?”
Breaking the black seals, he placed the false letter in her hand. She gazed at it with a sort of fascination, and in low tones said, “I thought it was burnt at the time—she told me so—it was not with the other letters she gave me to send back.”
“You would have taken care of that,” he replied, with a withering glance.
“When did you receive it?”
“An hour ago—your sister gave it to me, reproaching me for having broken my plighted faith.”
“Am I to bring a curse on this house?” she cried in terror, falling at his feet. “God save us from this shame! Oh, Markham, I trusted to your honour when I brought you here.”
“You forget, Pauline, that I have already told you she does not know the cruel and shameful history of that letter. We will take it, as you say, at all costs she would have been faithful to her duty; but think of the terrible struggle—think of the long suffering—if she ever does know the truth. Why should she suffer? She has done no wrong. We are bound to silence in mercy to her. Mark these words, Pauline—the evil and sorrow rest on your head, if you ever break that pledge of silence.”
She made him no answer.
“You forgave me once,” she murmured.
“God forbid I should retract those words! It is possible to forgive, but it is impossible to absolve you from the consequences of your guilt.”
Markham went back to India.
He had displayed great originality and skill in the construction of a certain railway-bridge across a rapid river, under circumstances of great difficulty. In addition to its engineering merits, the bridge happened to form the last link in a trunk-line of railway communication which promised to be of the highest value in developing the resources of the country. All classes were deeply interested. There would be a grand ovation to the engineer on the opening of the bridge. The day appointed for the ceremony had arrived.
“Not ready to start, Markham! You’ll be late,” cried the assistant engineer.
“I’ve written to say I can’t be there.”
“Bless me! it’s one of the grandest days in your life.”
“The fact is, I’ve just received a letter from England—”
“Not a loss in your family, I hope?”
“No; but still containing very melancholy intelligence.”
“Well, Markham, I think you ought to come, nevertheless; your services demand public recognition.”
“You know me, old boy—I don’t care twopence for that sort of thing—and, as for the bridge, I’ve got twice as good a plan in my head at this moment. Let them stick the laurel into your turban. Off with you, or you’ll get a wigging for being late.”
Markham was alone all that day. The letter he had received lay open before him. It was from a clergyman. The portion he read over oftenest ran thus:
