They were united at last. By the shores of the surging sea, the desolate night around them, they stood together, and at first, so overpowering were the emotions that swept over the man's soul, he could think only of this—that they were together, that she was in his arms, safe from harm and danger—that once more he was gazing into her face—a face so calm and pure that even in this moment Maurice cursed himself for not having understood better the strong purity, the beauty, the loveliness of the soul it revealed.
After the delirium which had so nearly been fatal a great calm had fallen upon Margaret. With the touch of Maurice's hand, with the encircling of his arms, the unrest seemed to have fled. She did not look up, apparently she did not know him; but her eyes closed, her breathing became soft and regular, she lay back in his arms contentedly, like a weary child that has found its resting-place.
In times of intense feeling a life seems to be condensed into a moment. Scarcely more than a moment had Maurice been holding her to his throbbing heart before he recovered from his stupor to a knowledge of the necessity for immediate action.
The winds of the wintry night were beating about his darling. She was ill, unconscious, it might be dying. Her clothes were drenched with the sea-foam that had besprinkled them in their wild flight, her hair, damp with the night vapors, was clinging about her face, the shoes in which she had started from the cottage had been carried out to sea, the delicate lavender dress and soft lace ruffles with which she had adorned herself that she might look fair in the eyes of the husband she had gone out to meet in her delirium, were torn in the struggle that had taken place, were bespattered with mud and sea-sand. It was not in such a plight as this that Margaret had thought of presenting herself to the long-absent. But when does anything in this world correspond with those same dreams and ideas of ours? In Maurice's eyes she was fair—perhaps all the fairer for her weakness. Hastily he took off his fur-lined cloak and wrapped it round her, then he raised her in his arms to carry her up the road.
This time the horse had been tethered. Maurice had caught sight of the light dresses in the moonlight just at the moment when Adèle had succeeded in arousing Margaret from the dangerous sleep, and there had been a moment's hesitation. Totally unprepared for the impetuous rush upon the sea, he had taken the precaution, before following the fugitives on foot, of tying up the horse, that it might be ready for any emergency.
He was glad he had done so, for the emotion of that evening seemed to have affected his physical power. Under the weight of his wife, his recovered treasure, he staggered and almost fell.
Margaret remained unconscious, and Maurice fervently hoped that for the moment she would continue in the same state. He was fearful of the effect upon her mind of a sudden awakening in his arms: but it was not to be. Just as they reached the point of junction between the path and high-road a faint tremor convulsed her; she opened her eyes and turned them on the dark face that was stooping over her.
Maurice was afraid the delirium was about to return; but gazing at her anxiously he saw, to his astonishment, that there was no bewilderment in her eyes; only, as she met her husband's gaze, she glided from his arms, and before he knew what she meant to do she was kneeling at his feet on the moonlit road. Her hands were clasped, her pale face looked haggard in its earnestness. "Maurice! Maurice, forgive me!" she cried.
At the sight of her husband the memory of that one moment of weakness had flashed over her soul with such a bitter force that until his forgiveness had been gained, she could not forgive herself.