For though that ever virtuous was she,
She was increased in such excellence,
Of thewes good, yset in high bounté,
And so discreet and fair of eloquence,
So benign, and so digne of reverence,
And couthé so the poeple’s hert embrace,
That each her loveth that looketh in her face.
CHAUCER.—The Clerk’s Tale.
Hugh returned to Mrs. Elton’s, and, in the dining-room, wrote a note to Euphra, to express his disappointment, and shame that, after all, the count had foiled him; but, at the same time, his determination not to abandon the quest, till there was no room for hope left. He sent this up to her, and waited, thinking that she might be on the sofa, and might send for him. A little weary from the reaction of the excitement he had just gone through, he sat down in the corner farthest from the door. The large room was dimly lighted by one untrimmed lamp.
He sat for some time, thinking that Euphra was writing him a note, or perhaps preparing herself to see him in her room. Involuntarily he looked up, and a sudden pang, as at the vision of the disembodied, shot through his heart. A dim form stood in the middle of the room, gazing earnestly at him. He saw the same face which he had seen for a moment in the library at Arnstead—the glorified face of Margaret Elginbrod, shimmering faintly in the dull light. Instinctively he pressed his hands together, palm to palm, as if he had been about to kneel before Madonna herself. Delight, mingled with hope, and tempered by shame, flushed his face. Ghost or none, she brought no fear with her, only awe.
She stood still.
“Margaret!” he said, with trembling voice.
“Mr. Sutherland!” she responded, sweetly.
“Are you a ghost, Margaret?”
She smiled as if she were all spirit, and, advancing slowly, took his joined hands in both of hers.
“Forgive me, Margaret,” sighed he, as if with his last breath, and burst into an agony of tears.