But the young girl trembled as she spoke, there was so intense a sadness in Margaret's face.
She raised her head from the pillow, and throwing back the long waves of yellow hair from her face and eyes looked wildly at her companion. And then she laughed—a low hollow laugh that made Adèle shiver.
"In bartering love, God's love, for man's!" she cried, and leaped from the bed, for the madness of fever was on her. "And what is worse, I do it still," she cried. "Yes, I would barter my soul—my soul, do you hear?—only to see him once"—from a shriek her voice sank into plaintive wailing—"to feel his hand upon my hair as in the old days—to hear him call me love, wife. Oh, Maurice, Maurice!"
Adèle was frightened, but she would not call for assistance. Her tears falling fast, she threw her arms round her friend and tried by gentle force to make her lie down again.
But at first Margaret resisted. "Let me alone," she cried; "none of them understand, for men cannot love like women. I must go myself and tell him or he will never know. He might have done wrong—I should have loved him still. Dear, I could never have left you for these long years without a word, a sign; and what had I done?" Her voice sank, she fell back on the bed. "It was God's will. I loved him more than Heaven—more than goodness."
The paroxysm had exhausted her. Adèle covered her feet with a shawl. Margaret closed her eyes and fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted about half an hour. When she awoke the room was in darkness, only the white moonlight streamed in under the raised blind, and there was the sound of bitter weeping by her bed. She put out her hand: "Adèle, are you there? What is it, dear?"
"I thought you were fast asleep;" and the young girl choked back her sobs courageously.
"But what has happened, Adèle? what makes you cry like this?"
"Don't ask me, please, but try to sleep again."