As We Forgive Them

by William Le Queux

For some minutes I struggled with all my might to hold the unconscious girl’s head above the surface, yet so strong was the swirling flood, with its lumps of floating ice, that all resistance seemed impossible, and we were both swept down for some distance until at last, summoning my last effort I managed to strike out with my senseless burden and reach a shallow, where I managed by dint of fierce struggling, to land and to drag the unfortunate girl up the frozen bank.

I had once, long ago, attended an ambulance class, and now, acting upon the instructions I had there received, I set at once to work to produce artificial respiration. It was heavy work alone, with my wet clothes freezing stiff upon me, but still I persevered, determined, if possible, to restore her to consciousness, and this I was fortunately able to do within half an hour.

At first she could utter no word, and I did not question her. Sufficient was it for me to know that she was still alive, for when first I had brought her to land I believed that she was beyond human aid, and that the dastardly attempt of her low-born lover had been successful. She shivered from head to foot, for the night wind cut like a knife, and presently, at my suggestion, she rose and, leaning heavily upon my arm, tried to walk. The attempt was at first only a feeble one, but presently she quickened her pace slightly and, without either of us mentioning what had occurred, I conducted her up the long avenue back to the house. Once within she declared that it was unnecessary to call Mrs Gibbons. In low whispers she implored me to remain silent upon what had occurred. She took my hand in hers and held it.

“I want you, if you will, to forget all that has transpired,” she said, deeply in earnest. “If you followed me and overheard what passed between us, I want you to consider that those words have never been uttered. I—I want you to—” she faltered and then paused without concluding her sentence.

“What do you wish me to do?” I inquired, after a brief and painful silence.

“I want you to still regard me with some esteem, as you always have done,” she said, bursting into tears, “I don’t like to think that I’ve fallen in your estimation. Remember, I am a woman—and may be forgiven a woman’s impulses and follies.”

“You have not fallen in my estimation at all, Mabel,” I assured her. “My only regret is that the scoundrel made such an outrageous attempt upon you. But it was fortunate that I followed you, although I suppose I ought to apologise to you for acting the eavesdropper.”

“You saved my life,” was her whispered answer, as she pressed my hand in thanks. Then she crept swiftly and silently up the big staircase and was lost to view.

Next morning she appeared at the breakfast-table, looking apparently little the worse for her narrow escape, save perhaps that around her eyes were dark rings that told of sleeplessness and terrible anxiety. But she nevertheless chatted merrily, as though no care weighed upon her mind. While Gibbons was in the room serving us she could not speak confidentially, but as she looked across at me, her glance was full of meaning.

At last, when we had finished and had walked together across the great hall back to the library, I said to her—