Her eyes suddenly changed. "When I have hurt you," she went on, "it has been _so_ hard to do it--so hard!" She was the woman now; a mist had suffused the blue.

He came towards her, he sank down at her feet. "I am not worthy," he murmured, in real self-abas.e.m.e.nt.

"No, you are not. But--I love you."

He sprang up. "I _will_ be worthy. You shall do all you think right, and I--will help you."

"Yes, help me by leaving me."

"For the present--I will go."

"For always."

"Margaret, do not be hard. And now, when I know--"

"You _do_ believe me, then?" she interrupted, with winning sweetness.

"Yes, I believe you! It makes me tremble to think what it would be if we were married; they _say_ people do not die of joy."

She came out of her trance. Her face changed, apprehension returned--the old fear and pain. She rallied her sinking courage. "We will not talk of things that do not concern us," she said, gently. "All my life--that is, the peace of it--is in your power, Evert, now that you know the truth about me. But I am sure I have not put faith in you in vain."

"Don't you remember saying to me 'Do you wish me to die without ever having been my full self once?' So now I say to you, Margaret, do you wish to die without ever having lived? You have never lived yet with anything like a full completeness. I am not a bad man, I declare it to you, and you are the most unselfish of women; you have a husband who has no claim upon you, either in right or law; Margaret, let us break that false tie. And then!--see, I do not move a step nearer. But I put it before you--I plead--"

"And do you think I have not felt the temptation too?" she murmured, looking at him. "When Lanse left me, over there on the river, don't you remember that I went down on my knees? It was the beating of my heart at the thought of how easily after that I could be freed--freed, I mean, by law--that was what I was trying to pray down. To be free to think of you, though you should never know it, even that would have been like a new life to me."

"Take it now," said Winthrop. He grasped her hand.

But she drew it from him. "Surely you know what I believe, what all this means to me--that for such mistakes as a marriage like mine there is, on this earth at least, no remedy."

"We'll _make_ a remedy."

Again she strengthened herself against him. "Do you think that a separation--I will use plain words, a divorce--is right when it is obtained, no matter what the outside pretext, to enable two persons who have loved each other unlawfully to marry?"

"Unlawfully--you make me rage! _Lanse_ is the unlawful one."

"That doesn't excuse me."

"Don't put the word excuse anywhere near yourself when you are talking of Lanse; I won't bear it. And nothing is wrong that we cannot possibly help, Margaret; any one would tell you that. If it is something beyond our wills, we are powerless."

"Against my love for you I may be powerless--I am. But not against the indulgence of it."

"You are too strong," he began, "_I_ couldn't pretend--" then he saw how she was trembling.

From head to foot a quiver had seized her, the lovely shoulders, the long lithe length of limb which gave her the step he had always admired so much, the little hands, though she had folded them closely as if endeavoring to stop it, even the lips with their sweet curves--the tremor had taken them all from her control; she stood there helpless before him.

"I can't reason, Margaret, and I won't; in this case reason's wrong, and you're wrong. You love me--that I know. And the power for good of such a love as yours--you magnificent woman, not afraid to tell it--that power shall _not_ be wasted and lost. Have you I will!" It was more than a touch now; he held her white wrists with a grasp like iron, and drew her towards him. "I hold you so, but it won't be for long. In reality I am at your feet," he said.

She had not struggled, she made no effort to free herself. But her eyes met his, full of an indomitable refusal. "I shall never yield," she murmured.

Thus they stood for a moment, the two wills grappled in a mute contest.

Then he let her hands drop.

"Useless!" she said, triumphing sadly.

"Though you love me."

"Though I love you."

"It's enough to make a man curse goodness, Margaret; remember that."

"No, no."

"Oh, these good people!" He threw his arm out unconsciously with a force that would have laid prostrate any one within its reach. "You are an exception--you are going to suffer; but generally these good people, who are so hard in their judgment of such things,--they have never suffered themselves in the least from any of this pain; they have had all they wish--in the way of love and home, and yet they are always the hardest upon those who, like me, like you, have nothing--who are parched and lonely and starved. They would never do so--oh no! they are too good.

All I can say is, let them try it! Margaret"--here he came back to her--"think of the dreariness of it; leaving everything else aside, just think of that. We are excited now; but, when this is over, think of the long days and years without anything to brighten them, anything we really care for. That breaks down the best courage at last, to have nothing one really cares for."

She did not answer.

"I could make you so happy!" he pleaded.

Her face remained unmoved.

"I long for you so!" he went on; "without you, I don't know where to turn or what to do." He said it as simply as a boy.

This overcame her; she left him, and hurried through the grove on her way to the house, he could hear her sob as she went.

Dr. Kirby's figure had appeared at the end of one of the orange aisles; when he saw Margaret hurrying onward, he hastened his steps. Winthrop had now overtaken her, her foot had slipped and he had caught her. Both her hands were over her face, her strength was gone.

The Doctor came panting up. "My dear Mrs. Harold--" he began.

But she seemed to hear nothing.

The Doctor put his hand on her pulse. "Will you go to the house for help to carry her in?" he whispered. "Or shall I?"

"I can carry her myself," said Winthrop. He lifted her. Unconsciousness had come upon her, her head with the closed eyes, her fair cheek, the soft ma.s.s of her hair lay against his shoulder.

The Doctor went on with them for some distance; he was not sure that Winthrop's strength would hold out.

But Winthrop's strength appeared to be perfect.

"I will hurry forward then, and warn them," said the Doctor. And he set off at a round pace.

Winthrop walked steadily; at last he reached the end of the white-blooming fragrant aisles, the path entered a thicket that lay beyond.

The fresher unperfumed air brought Margaret to herself. She stirred, then her eyes opened; they rested uncomprehendingly on his face.

Beyond this thicket lay the garden, where they would be in full view; he was human, and he stopped. "You fainted. The perfume of the grove, I suppose," he said, explaining.

Then everything came back to her, he could see remembrance dawn in her eyes, her fear return.