“Margaret, what is the meaning of this?”
“I have no lover except you. I never wronged you in thought, or word, or deed; never, never, never!”
“Dear Margaret, I have not charged you with wronging me.”
“But I have no lover; do you hear, Ralph? I never have had one! I never should have so desecrated our sacred engagement.”
“Poor Margaret, you are distracted! Much grief has made you mad! You no longer know what you say.”
“Oh, I do, I do! never believe but I know every word that I speak. And I say that my heart has never wandered for an instant from its allegiance to yourself! And listen farther, Ralph,” she said, sinking upon her knees beside that grave, and raising her hands and eyes to heaven with the most impressive solemnity, “listen while I swear this by the heart of her who sleeps beneath this sod, and by my hopes of meeting her in heaven! that he with whom my name has been so wrongfully connected was no lover of mine—could be no lover of mine!”
“Hold, Margaret! Do not forswear yourself even in a fit of partial derangement. Rise, and recall to yourself some circumstances that occurred immediately before you became insensible, and which, consequently, may have escaped your memory. Recollect, poor girl, the admissions you made to your father,” said Ralph, taking her hand and gently constraining her to rise.
“Oh, Heaven! and you believe—you believe——”
“Your own confessions, Margaret, nothing more; for had an angel from heaven told the things of you that you have stated of yourself, I should not have believed him!”
“Oh, my mother! Oh, my God!” she cried, in a tone of such deep misery, that, through all his own trouble, Ralph deeply pitied and gently answered her.