“No! no! you do not! You never will! very well! be the consequences on your own head.”
“Amen. I pray for no better.”
“Heaven pity me!”
“My dearest, most capricious love! I do not know the motive of your strangest conduct; it may be that you only try the strength of my affection—try it, Marguerite! you will find it bear the test—but I do know, that if I doubted the truth of yours, I should disengage your hand at once.”
There followed words of passionate entreaty on her part, met by earnest deprecation and unshaken firmness on his; but the spell was over her, and the scene ended as it had done the day previous; Philip was the victor, and the engagement was riveted, if possible, more firmly than before. Again Philip departed rejoicing; Marguerite, almost raving.
Yet Marguerite loved no less strongly and truly than did Philip.
Later in that forenoon, before going out, Nellie went into Marguerite’s chamber, where she found her friend extended on her bed, so still and pale that she drew near in alarm and laid her hand upon her brow; it was beaded with a cold sweat.
“Marguerite! Marguerite! what is the matter? You are really ill.”
“I am blue,” said Marguerite.
“Blue! that you are literally—hands and face, too.”