Speak. Ay, she might have done so. One word from her lips would have sufficed to lift the cloud of shame from her brow, and to crown her with an aureola of glory; would have averted the storm of calamity gathering darkly over her head, and restored her, a cherished daughter, to the protecting arms of her father; an honored maiden to the esteem of friends and companions; a beloved bride to the sheltering bosom of her bridegroom. A word would have done this; yet that word, which could have lifted the shadow from her own heart and life, must have bid it settle, dark and heavy, upon the grave of the dumb, defenseless dead beneath her feet. And the word remained unspoken.
“I can die for her; but I cannot betray her. I can live dishonored for her sake; but I cannot consign her memory to reproach,” said the devoted daughter to her own bleeding and despairing heart.
“Margaret, can you explain the meaning of these letters, these meetings in the woods, on the river, in your own chamber?”
“Alas! I cannot. I can only endure,” she moaned, in a voice replete with misery, as her head sunk lower upon her breast, and her form cowered nearer the ground, as if crushed by the insupportable weight of humiliation.
It was not in erring human wisdom to look upon her thus, to listen to her words, and not believe her a fallen angel!
And yet she was innocent. More than innocent. Devoted, heroic, holy.
But, notwithstanding this, and her secret consciousness of this, how could she—in her tender youth, with her maiden delicacy and sensitiveness to reproach—how could she stand in this baleful position, and not appear overwhelmed by guilt and shame?
There was a dread pause of some minutes, broken at length by Ralph, who said:
“Margaret, will you return me that betrothal ring?”
She answered: