Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow: A Novel

by C. Despard

But Maurice! If an angel had knelt to him he could scarcely have been more astonished. In his agitation he seized her almost roughly, and raising her from the ground pressed her once more to his breast, while the hot tears fell on her face and neck.

"Margaret, you will kill me! Beloved, it is I who should kneel—I who should make my life one long repentance."

Then she twined her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his shoulder, but she was not altogether satisfied. To the craving of her weakness his answer was like an evasion: she persisted in her demand: "You are good to me, dear, but you have not answered. Tell me, tell me! Is my miserable folly forgiven?"

"Margaret, for pity's sake—" he began.

But she stopped him, and in her look and tone there was some of the wildness of disease. "I see how it is," she moaned; "he is too kind to say it, but I know my folly was beyond forgiveness. Have I not felt it? O God! O God! pity!" Her voice sank into a moan. Her head fell heavily on her breast: she began to cry plaintively, like a child that has been crossed in its whim.

They were close now to the spot where the horse had been tethered; the moon shone brightly above them; their dark shadows made a blot on the whiteness of the moonlit road. Maurice paused a moment, and the drops of agony stood on his brow.

He felt the urgent necessity for getting her home with as little delay as possible, but in the state in which she was he dared not put her out of his arms. He bowed his head over her till his cheek touched hers: "Be comforted, my wife, my own—mine now and for ever. Forgive you?—yes, yes." And then looking up he turned his pale face to the skies, as if calling Heaven for a witness to his extremity: "I have forgiven her—I who wronged her, who tortured her, who vexed her pure soul by mistrust! God preserve my reason!"

But Margaret took his answer to her heart. She smiled again, the wildness left her eyes, and a deep, restful calm took its place. She said no more, but for the first time since their meeting by the waters she pressed her lips to his.

Without demur she allowed him to lift her into the saddle and to support her with his one hand, while with the other he took the bridle and led the horse at a quick walk to the cottage, which was about half a mile distant from the little path that led down to the sea.

Before they had gone very far Margaret had relapsed into total unconsciousness, and Maurice was obliged to mount the horse himself, taking her before him on the saddle.