The fresher unperfumed air brought Margaret to herself. She stirred, then her eyes opened; they rested uncomprehendingly on his face.
Beyond this thicket lay the garden, where they would be in full view; he was human, and he stopped. "You fainted. The perfume of the grove, I suppose," he said, explaining.
Then everything came back to her, he could see remembrance dawn in her eyes, her fear return.
She tried to put her hand up. But it fell lifelessly back.
This sign of weakness struck him to the heart,—what if she should die! Women so slight in frame, and with that fair, pure whiteness like the inside of a sea-shell, were often strangely, inexplicably delicate.
Her eyes had closed again. He held her closely; but now, save for the holding, he would not touch her. For it seemed to him that if he should allow himself to yield to his longing wish and put his lips down upon hers, she might die there, after a moment, in his arms. It would be taking advantage; in her present state of physical weakness her will might not be able to help her as it had helped her before; she was powerless to resist, and she loved him,—oh yes, he knew it fully now, she loved him. But as soon as she should become conscious that she had yielded, then the reaction would come. Between her love and her sense of duty, this proud will of hers had held the balance. It seemed to him that if he should break down by force that balance, her life might go as well.
He went on therefore, he bore her through the garden towards the house. Her face in its stillness had now an expression that frightened him, it was like the lassitude of a person who has struggled to the utmost, and then given up.
The Doctor and Celestine were waiting at the lower door.
Winthrop refused their aid, he carried Margaret up the stairs to her own room, and laid her down upon the bed.
"I will wait below, Doctor. Come and tell me, please, what you make out."