Everything was forgotten in that moment’s supreme pleasure. She had conjured up visions of the ocean, fed by pictures she had seen; but no canvas could ever portray the boundless dignity, the majesty, the rippling beauty of the sea as it appeared to Margery on that October afternoon.
Margery gazed and gazed, her wonderment growing greater as she looked, and her mind flew back to the afternoon when Stuart had spoken of the sea, dwelling on its beauties so lovingly that she thought she had realized it in all its grandeur and majesty. Now she knew that not even his tongue could convey a true idea of its mightiness. She sat very silent, watching the rolling waves; the song without had ceased, and Pauline had retired to the further end of the room. Suddenly the weird sadness of the sea’s music struck a chord in her heart. It seemed to be singing a dirge, and her mind woke again to its load of sorrow. For the first time the real facts of her marriage came home to her. A look of despair gathered in her eyes, her thin white hands were pressed to her lips. Enid—dear, sweet Enid—was gone! The brief friendship, strong as though it had been cemented by years, was broken, and she was alone, alone with her husband, a man whom she had pitied, respected, liked, but a man whom she could never love, to whom she must ever wear a mask, for love was dead within her to all but one, and for that one it lived as strongly as of yore. What had she done? Bound herself for life, given a sacred vow, while every pulse in her thrilled for that other man, despite his cruelty and his humiliating insults! Oh, that she had spoken openly to Lady Enid! This marriage then would never have taken place. But her silence had produced this result; the sister’s tenderness, the friend’s affection, had prompted the dead woman to speak her wish, and at such a moment Margery had yielded. She did not regret her promise to Enid. The thought that her marriage had soothed the dying came almost as a gleam of pleasure. It was for her husband’s sake she sorrowed, and for her own. Could aught but misery follow such a hasty union? Would not they both repent in bitterness and despair?
Margery rose slowly from her seat, feeling weak and wretched. The spirit of the sea, entrancing at first, had brought with it a host of sad thoughts that destroyed its beauty, and made her shudder at its music.
Pauline had retired quietly from the room. Margery did not notice her absence; and, as she regained her feet and put one hand on the chair to steady herself, she said, faintly, with half a smile:
“You must help me, Pauline. I am very foolish; but——”
A hand clasped hers—not Pauline’s, but a firm, strong hand. It was her husband’s.
Lord Court drew the slender, white-robed figure gently to his arms.
“It is not Pauline, my darling; it is I. Nay, do not look so frightened! You are still very weak, my poor one! Pauline came to bring me the good news that you had recovered your memory, and I hastened to you at once—my wife—my sweet one!”
Margery rested quietly in his arms—she had not strength to move—but a tumult of thoughts surged in her brain. Now she must speak, must tell this man of her weakness, of her love. It must be done now in the beginning of their married life; she must not delay; it would be so difficult afterward. And he must know the truth—know that for Enid’s sake she had uttered words that should never have been spoken, that would be as emptiness in her eyes.
“I wish to speak,” she murmured, faintly; but the words did not reach her husband’s ears. She was nervously excited, and her strength was already spent.